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attapullman · 6 months

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Domesticated | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: On a lazy Sunday morning with Robert Floyd and your twin girls, you're reminded exactly how well he takes care of your family. And you.

Word Count: 3.6K

Warnings & Notes: Robert “Bob” Floyd x f!reader, 18+ ONLY as always, smut, unprotected p in v, creampie, daddy!kink, children, reader has given birth, mentions of pregnancy, food mentions, slice of life vibes, unrealistic depiction of toddlers. This is repurposed and heavily edited from another fic of mine, so if you recognize it...glad to see we're enjoying the same fandoms. Daddy!Bob makes me so damn feral...Lewis has been giving dad vibes this fall...so this is sooooo entirely self indulgent. Sorry not sorry.

The early sun seeps through the thin curtains you bought last summer, the ones you assured your husband would keep the bedroom dark. You were wrong, but he’s never corrected you. Soft cotton rustles beneath you as you turn to your side, burrowing your head in Bob’s chest to enjoy these last few moments of quiet. Enjoying the way his fingers trace along your back as your breaths fall in sync. His eyes flit to the clock on the nightstand, disappointed it’s already six.

As if on cue, the patter of tiny feet sound across the hallway toward where your husband holds you.

The bedroom door flies open and in come your twin girls. Alice and Iris bound into the room, giggles following their every step. You and Bob exchange looks before shutting your eyes, focusing on evening your breathing to mimic sleep. If they fall for your trick they’ll go back to their room to play on this sleepy Sunday morning.

No such luck.

Iris launches her body onto your husband, and Bob flies up in surprise, nearly launching the toddler into space. He catches her in midair and the two exchange matching shocked expressions in their blue eyes. Her sister clambers on her father as well, hoping to join this “hop on pop” game he’s unknowingly created.

From your position still pretending to sleep, you admire Bob. Robert Floyd is everything you could want in a life partner. As a husband, he is attentive and sweet, willing to work through the good and the bad. As a father, he is loving and involved, prioritizing his daughters as much as possible while gunning for admiral. In the five years since you said “I do” he has done nothing but improve your life. It was the best decision you’ve ever made.

Aware of your attention, he catches your barely open eyes and smiles. His hair sticks up in the back from the pillow, and a thick chunk of sun-washed blonde falls over his forehead. He raises a hand to push it back, but the strands are stubborn without product. Bleary cobalt eyes are rubbed before he reaches across the nightstand for his glasses. Once Bob can clearly see he holds the toddlers and bounces them lightly on his knees. Fatherhood is second nature to him, taking to the bumps and joys like he was born for them. Your heart soars with love for the three special humans sat before you.

Knowing your sleep facade is over, you fake a big yawn and sit up, scooting closer to your family. Arms outstretched, Alice clambers into your lap, her bedhead tickling your chin. You smooth down her hair, a soft press of your lips to her crown before leaning over to peck another onto Iris’s cheek.

Bob looks at your expectantly, left out from your affection. The tiniest of pouts on his lips. You lean forward over both girls to leave a chaste kiss on your husband’s lips. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, gorgeous.” The smile doesn’t leave your face until well after your children have dragged you out of bed in search of breakfast.

Once in the kitchen, you lean a hip against the butcher block counter, glancing over the oatmeal packet in the midst of deciding if you want to boil water or use the convenience of the microwave. Two hungry mouths make the choice. As you pop two bowls in the small appliance you feel a presence behind you.

“May I have breakfast too?”

He’s giving you his best puppy eyes, those bright blue bespectacled eyes hopeful. Food always tastes better prepared by his wife. Strong hands wrap around you, squeezing your hips. You’re immediately helpless. “If you sit at the table like your daughters I can possibly make you something to eat. Eggs sound good?”

Your smiling husband nods his agreement, already heading to the kitchen nook where the twins are drawing the images inside their minds. He settles into a sturdy wooden chair, his jean clad legs spreading out under the table, the faded Navy recruitment t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders as he grabs a crayon to make his own scribbles. Well, scribbles in the way crayon can depict only so much of a fairly detailed Super Hornet he’s been working on all week.

The microwave beeps as you finish up the eggs, completing the four breakfasts as you bring them over. A fresh cup of coffee in your spot from when he noticed you were low.

“I knew there was a reason I married you.”

His cheeks blush dusty rose as he dips toast into the runny yolk of his egg. Some days he can’t believe you agreed to marry him, that you wear his ring and bore his children and make sure he leaves each morning with a kiss and a reminder of how much you love him. He’s the luckiest man alive.

Breakfast is enjoyed amongst the chatter of your toddlers. Silence is rare in the house. If there isn’t a fictional tale they’ve fashioned about a toy, it’s continuous questions about inanimate objects and things they’ve seen. Once Bob fell asleep watching the music channel and the girls found themselves watching old KISS videos for an hour.

It was a personal hell mixed with a nightmare hearing them describe everything in graphic detail to Bob’s parents during Friday night dinner.

As you finish your eggs, the twins prattle on about the latest nursery school drama. You’ve never met Connie, but she sounds like a right ol’ jerk for a three year old. Bob nods along passionately, giving his full attention over his nearly empty coffee mug. You have no doubt he will be bringing this up at the next school conference.

With breakfast out of the way, there’s only one other responsibility on a lazy Sunday in the Floyd household. Grocery shopping.

Alice makes a big deal of wearing the socks with a red trim, one of which seems to be missing, and the next half hour is dedicated to Bob and you crawling around the second bedroom peering under furniture. Bob pleads with her to wear any other sock to no avail. No socks if she wants. Thankfully you locate the lone article under some books. How did that get there?

Bob pushes a jacket onto your shoulders with a soft kiss to your cheek as the family trudges out, two toddlers in tow and a long grocery list between your fingers. You turn to give him a proper peck, feeling the slight upturn of his lips as you linger a second longer than necessary.

Once in the store, twins strapped in the cart that their father pushes, you compare the list to the surrounding aisles. Concentration broken by tiny hands pointing out anything shiny or brightly coloured, their favourite characters on the packaging. Bob isn’t much better, subtly adding specialty trail mixes into the cart. You remind the group there’s a list - an agreed upon list - but try saying that to three pouty faces with their hearts set on crackers shaped like planes. “Just like Daddy’s!”

How could you say no to that??

As the car pulls into the driveway of your home, the rear mirror reveals two small faces fast asleep. Alice’s thumb is lodged between her lips, a habit she can’t seem to break, while her sister looks angelic with both hands tucked beneath her head with pouty lips. They look so much like Bob when they sleep, not a care in the world upon their smooth brows.

“Looks like we have two down,” you whisper to Bob. He looks back at them and has to stifle a laugh.

“If you put away the groceries, I’ll get them down for a nap.” You open your mouth to protest. It’s a lot to handle both. “You do all of this yourself when I’m deployed. Give me this.”

Robert Floyd continually makes you fall in love with him.

Car doors open and shut before he’s laden down with a child in each arm. The sight sets off something in your stomach, and you focus harder on grabbing the bok choy that rolled out of one of the bags.

You’ve busied yourself putting groceries in their respective places when you feel hands wrap around you for the second time today. “Thank you for putting away the groceries, my beautiful wife.”

His face is buried in your neck, nose tracing the junction of your shoulder as he breathes in your scent. Those strong arms, veiny under a coat of sun-lightened hairs, tighten around you. He’s missed afternoons when it was just you two, galavanting around the house without little ears to hear.

You twist in Bob’s arms, intertwining your own arms around his lithe waist. Any space between you gone - just two hearts beating as one as you gaze into each other’s eyes. One dexterous hand slides up your back before weaving its way into the strands of your hair. The other slides down to settle above your bum. His fingers twitching to stroke along the seat of your jeans. The desire you felt earlier raises its head again as your eyes trace along his smooth, strong jaw and kind eyes.

“You know, the girls are asleep.”

He chuckles. “Yes?”

“They’ll probably be asleep for another 45 minutes. Maybe an hour if we’re lucky.”

“What are you thinking, sweetheart?”

You widen your eyes and pout your lips ever so slightly. Run your finger down the front of that sexy faded shirt he only wears on the weekends. “I need some adult time with you…Daddy.”

As if a switch has been flipped, Bob’s eyes go from a soft blue to indigo, his grip on you tight. Lips descend upon yours. As your bodies collide, already so little space between you, a moan is trapped between, its owner impossible to identify.

Time sensitivity leads to urgency, and he’s backing you out of the kitchen toward the bedroom, his hand refusing to leave your ass. Steady kisses to your lips and jaw leave you in a trance as you wind your way down the hall. The door closes and you pounce, wrapping your legs around his waist as those strong arms show their strength.

Your mouths are hot and wet, tongues battling for dominance as you commit this feeling to memory. His hands around the back of your thighs, thin lips slotted against yours, the breathy moans when you play with the hair at the back of his neck. The pressing need to be as close to him as possible, soaking in his essence in the short time allotted before having to share him again.

“Daddy, I need you.” Your voice is breathless and needy, mouth glossy as he nips along your neck. Hips roll into yours as he groans against your skin.

Bob has always been dominant in your relationship. He spends enough time letting others call the shots, but in the bedroom he makes the rules. But his Daddy kink didn’t rear its head until you showed him the pregnancy test with the two little lines. It was the tension in his shoulders when you whispered he was going to be a daddy. The little moan when you said it again later that night while he kissed along your thighs. Ever since the term of horny endearment got him hot and bothered in seconds.

He gently pushes you onto the bed, standing between your thighs as he hungrily admires the mother of his children, his wife, the hot girl in the bar his squadron watched him moon over before finally making a move. The erection straining behind his jeans twitches as bespectacled eyes trace over the swell of your breasts.

“I love your body.” His voice is almost soft as he runs his fingers over your top. “It’s so sexy.”

You chuckle through your moans, enjoying the delicious feeling of him stroking your nipples through layers of fabric. When he pushes the hem up your stomach, eyes intensely focused on every inch of exposed skin, you sit up and pull the offending fabric from your body. Nimble fingers slip over your back as the hook of your bra is undone, a sigh of relief leaving you as your breasts are freed.

“The best part of you having kids? Your tits got huge.” His hands cover the flesh, expertly kneading his favourite part of you impatiently. “They barely even fit in my hands anymore.”

A gasp forces itself past your lips as he tugs a nipple sharply.

Soft lips wrap around the bud he isn’t teasing, wetting the skin before pulling back to blow air across your hot skin. You whimper at the sensation, thrusting your chest toward his mouth for more. He offers you an unsympathetic smirk before switching his torture to the other side. Your jean-clad hips buck up against his as quiet, strangled cries fill the air as he plays with you at his own whim.

A glance at the clock reminds him that he can’t enjoy you as he’d like. Leaning back on his haunches, he treats you to a little striptease as your chest heaves in a desperate bid for more attention.

His arm reaches behind his head, pinching the fabric of his shirt. Your mouth fills with saliva, desperate to lick along the vein that protrudes along his bicep. He pulls the shirt over his head, revealing milky skin tantalizingly slow, revealing his strong chest and those broad shoulders that you’ve spent many a night thinking about. You gulp as images flood your brain of sitting on those shoulders as he tongues fucks your pussy.

Your underwear is thoroughly soaked by now.

He lowers himself against your body, sponging kisses along every inch of skin he can reach.

“What do you want, baby girl?” His nose bumps you as lips tease your ear. You mumble a response, desperate for anything to soothe the burning beneath your skin. “What’s that?”

You wail as he rubs your covered cunt. It feels so good, but you want more. You need more.

“I-I need you to fuck me.” The words are breathless as they escape your panting mouth. Lips brush your ear again as he whispers Ask nicely against your skin. “Please fuck me, Daddy.”

The groan that escapes Bob’s mouth is so sexy it’s surprising you don’t orgasm on the spot. Especially when you glance between your legs to see he’s pulled down his faded jeans and briefs to reveal his cock hard and ready, his hand stroking along the thick length as precum beads at the shining head.

Desperate hands explore his skin, warm and calloused in all the right spots. The scar along his shoulder from a childhood accident. The freckle on his side right where he’s ticklish. The hair on his forearms you daydream about. From that first night at the bar when he approached you, nervous but friendly, you’ve found it hard to not jump his bones. And now with him between your thighs, on display in the sunlight through the curtained windows, you’re dizzy with attraction.

Lips attach to your chest, smattering spit slicked kisses and soft nips in no particular pattern. Loud moans erupt from you at his attention. Bob smirks against your skin. “Shhh, baby. You need to be quiet. Can you be quiet for me?”

You nod furiously and lust-filled eyes narrow at you. “You sure? Last time you were pretty loud.”

Shit, you had forgotten about last time. Your orgasm out of control as you moaned for him, letting your husband know how well he handled your body. The stars that sparkled before your eyes as ecstatic cries floated to the ceiling. Only to be brought down the next morning when your children worried about scary noises in the night. The desire in your gut outweighs worry as your hands wind around his shoulders.

“I promise I’ll be quiet. I’ll be a good girl, I promise.” The words are but a whisper, pleading for your Daddy to be merciful to you.

Strong calloused fingers explore between your bodies as he twists open the button of your jeans. Rough fingers skimming soft skin as he slides them down your thighs, dragging the flimsy fabric of your underwear down with them. You do the rest of the work, kicking denim from your body, the telltale thump showing they’ve made their way to the floor.

A satisfied hum vibrates through Bob as he dips his fingers through your folds, arousal coating each digit as he thoroughly inspects. “Mmm, my good girl is all wet for Daddy, isn’t she?”

You nod enthusiastically. His fingers feel incredible, but you want nothing more than the slightly curved cock occupying your thoughts. He tucks a hand under your chin and brings your eyes to his. Loving smiles exchanged before he settles into the task at hand and confirms your desires. “You ready for me, baby?”

Agreement barely passes your lips before he tilts his hips, slowly ramming that thick cock into his favourite place in the world. Allowing you time to adjust while still pushing deeper, knowing you enjoy the stretch. Your bodies rock together in a a rhythm only you know, skin flushed with the shine of sweat. His lips dip into the hollow of your throat as he sinks deeper, sucking and licking like your skin holds all the answers to the world.

Your fingers tangle themselves in his hair as you hold him to you, addicted to the way your bodies fit like a puzzle, perfectly seamless. Your husband, your Daddy, your Bob, custom fit for you. He nips the spot below your jaw and you tug at his hair desperately, ripping a growl from his chest.

“Oh, you want to play that game? Let’s see how you like my game then.”

He pushes up to rest on his haunches, using his strength to handle your body as he desires. Guiding your hips up to meet his raised hips, he spares you one devilish grin before slamming back into you. Sharp thrusts that shake your body, malfunctioning your brain with pleasure. One hand snakes its way to your breast, squeezing the flesh as he rolls his hips harder and deeper into you. You’re so close to the edge that one extra touch and you would surely come undone.

"That's a good girl, tell Daddy how much you like it when I fuck you."

A hand flies to your mouth as he plucks your hardened nipple between his fingers, delighted in the obscene sounds you emit as he uses your body for both your pleasures. Your other hand finds your clit, sighing as you careen into the beginnings of an orgasm.

Your legs shake around his hips, his thrusts slowing as he focuses on filling you deep. Making you feel as full as possible. His rough thumb swiping over your nipple as he whispers, “Cum for me, sweetheart.”

Your brain turns into white noise as you cum for your Daddy, spasming around him while your fingernails make half-moon indents along his skin. The pent up pleasure escaping through every pore as you hold your moans behind closed lips. Your body collapsing to the cushions as sense returns to your limbs.

Smiling with half-lidded eyes of lust, Bob leans over you to press a sweet kiss to your lips. His hips still rutting into you as you whisper how good he feels against his lips. Begging him to fill you up. He remembers a day when he could last rounds before giving you his spend. But after a week without your body, your orgasm has triggered his and quickly his thick cum coats every inch inside of you as he whispers his love into your ear.

Shaky, shallow breaths and hushed I love yous are the only sounds as Bob rolls off you, sinking into the pillows as he wraps an arm around you to bring you to his chest. His fingers tap against your shoulder as he steadies his heartbeat. A glance at his watch shows there’s still fifteen minutes alone before little feet interrupt.

“Honey?”

You hum in acknowledgement and roll your neck to gaze at your handsome husband. He looks every bit post-fuck with his hair at every angle and his glasses still slightly fogged on the edges, his chest glistening with a light sheen of sweat. You can’t resist dragging your fingers through the light trail of blonde hairs between his pecs. He is so handsome.

He takes the hand resting on your shoulder and shifts you both, facing each other with half-lidded, happy eyes. Legs tangle together and his arm loops around your head to support your neck as he gazes into your eyes. He always has and always will give the best cuddles.

A soft flush reddens his cheeks as he goes through with his question. “Do you think…d’you think we just made another baby?”

Your eyes widen as you take in his question. Quite possibly. You weren’t on the pill, and sex was so infrequent with two toddlers in the house the practice of finding a condom wasn’t commonplace anymore. It hadn’t even crossed your mind to ask him to pull out.

“We might have.”

He nods slowly and strokes a hand over your hair, deep in thought.

“Is it bad that I’m kind of hoping we did?” He’s embarrassed to say it out loud.

You smile and press a kiss to the closest skin available. “Not at all. I’m kind of hoping so too…Daddy.”

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sweetsweetjellybean · 15 days

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

Masterlist Listen to Clumsy Here

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

WC: 11646 beta'd by @superblysubpar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

His grip on you loosens as his eyes fall away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dare I ask?” You flutter your lashes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Steve-”

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

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

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

“I want to give you everything–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Was that–" Steve asks, eyes widening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ace,” Steve chides.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll finish the articles.”

“And then?”

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

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

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

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

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

“Can you try for me?” he pleads.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you can manage–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Missed Call – Eddie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your head tilts to the side, your expression unwavering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you, if you could return

Don't let it burn

Don't let it fade

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

Is that the way we stand?

Were you lying all the time?

Was it just a game to you?

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

Oh, I thought the world of you

I thought nothing could go wrong

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

But I was wrong, I was wrong

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

Things wouldn't be so confused

And I wouldn't feel so used

But you always really knew

I just want to be with you

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

And I'm in so deep

You know I'm such a fool for you

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

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

You got me wrapped around your finger

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

Do you have to let it linger?

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

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

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

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

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

For updates follow @tornupdates

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

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rogueddie · 9 months

Text

Part one, Part two

Steve feels conflicted about the groups plan for the day. They seem confident though, reassuring him that the arcade is fun and he's going to love it.

Nancy is the only one who isn't happy about the plan- though, judging by her complaints, it's more that she's the one stuck on babysitting duty than actually going to the arcade.

"This is a bad idea," Steve tries to warn them, once they get to the arcade. "Miss Nancy, can't I wait out here with you?"

"You should go inside. It'll be fun," she insists. "Just remember to stick with the boys, they'll make sure you're ok."

"I don't want to," Steve pouts. "I wanna stay out here with you. I can be quiet and good!"

"Steve-"

"Hey, Steve!" One of the boys yells back, waving him over- Lucas. "Come on! Dustins getting candy!"

"Go," Nancy gently nudges him.

Reluctantly, he shuffles towards the arcade, where the group waits for him. They're friendly, encouraging- Lucas even wraps an arm around his shoulders, holding him close and keeping him in the middle of the group.

It only makes the inside of the arcade slightly more bearable.

The lights are bright, flashing, and colorful. The noises from the machines almost sounds fun, Steve thinks- if only the people weren't so loud.

"There you are!" Someone yells, bouncing over to them. She grins when she spots Steve. "Holy shit! He's so small."

El is behind her, holding hands. "Hello, Steve."

"Hello, El," Steve awkwardly waves.

"This is Max," Lucas says, pointing to the new girl. He steps away, so he can hug her, asking her something that Steve can't hear over a sudden burst of noise.

Steve only looks round for a second, but when he turns back the group is already moving- and fast. He has to jog to catch up with them.

"Still second!" Max taunts, once they get to digdug. She flicks Dustins cap.

"What's it about?" Steve tries to ask, straining to see the machine. It's too high for him to see much, even on his tiptoes.

No one answers him. Steve assumes they don't hear him over the noise. They're already too focused on the game, anyway. He's sure he'll get it by watching.

Someone bumps into him, glaring at him when he tries to apologize.

"Get out the way, kid!" They snap at him.

There's no where else for him to stand, if he wants to stick with the group. He tries to press himself closer to the machine, to stay out the way.

But then, swearing and yelling, the machine gets kicked. The group are complaining, Max taunting Dustin again, Lucas laughing, Mike yelling to be heard, and the machine blaring noise, and the lights flashing in his eyes, bright and sharp, the people shuffling around the room, making the space feel small, pressing in on him-

He runs, shoving his way through the crowd.

Thankfully, the car isn't locked, so he's able to dive onto the backseats.

Nancy screams, almost jumping out the car, before she recognizes him.

"Steve?! What the hell-" she pauses, noticing how her raised voice only makes him curl up tighter. "Steve?"

"I's not fun," he bemoans.

"What happened?" She shifts, turning completely around so she can see him better. "Steve? Steve, breathe. It- you're ok."

She stares at him for a moment, confused and uncertain, before getting out so she can sit in the back with him. She can't tell if he's struggling to breathe or quietly sobbing.

"Hey," she whispers, gently putting a hand on his shoulder. "Steve-"

She freezes, surprised at how suddenly he launched himself at her. His arms feel so small, curled around her neck. When she finally pulls herself together, returning the hug, she notices how much he's shaking.

"It's ok," she repeats. "You're ok."

She's not sure what else to say, how else to comfort him. Mike never turned to her if he was this upset and Karen is always the one taking care of Holly.

He calms down, slowly, after a painfully long moment. He stays glued to her, seeming to find comfort in the contact- so she holds him a little tighter, and hopes it's enough.

"I'm sorry," he eventually says, voice cracking.

He tries to pull away. She curls her arm around him tighter, holding him there.

"You don't need to apologize," she says. She almost sighs in relief when he slumps back into the hug, finally relaxing. "I'm just worried about you. Did the boys do something to upset you?"

"No..."

"No?"

"They didn't do anything wrong. They were playing. It just... the whole place." He sniffs. "It was so much. Too much."

"You mean the noise?"

"And the lights. And the people. It- it felt like the room was- was closing in and-"

"Hey, hey, hey," she rubs his back, cooing. "It's ok. And I'm sorry. You tried to tell me it was a bad idea and I didn't listen."

"Tha's not your fault," he huffs, poking her side, giggling when she yelps, gently patting his arm in retaliation. "I'm a big boy now. I need to learn and I can only do that by, um... ex... exposing me to that stuff."

"Who told you that?"

"Mama. She said she had problem with things being too much and she, like, pushed through it."

"That's not a good thing, Steve. Getting used to things that make you overwhelmed or uncomfortable might help, I don't know, but... I don't know. This doesn't feel like a good thing, does it?"

He's quiet for a moment, considering, before quietly admitting; "no. It feels... not nice."

"Maybe we can go slowly, so you don't get overwhelmed again."

"You- would you do that, for me?" He leans back, eyes wide and sad, and...

Oh no, Nancy thinks, I'm screwed.

"Of course I would. I will." She promises, without second thought.

Part four

tag list for those who asked (if you want taking off lmk x) : @songbird-garden @str4wb3rry-guy @badcaseofcasey @lioniheart @irethsune @starry-eyedlune @newtstabber @messrs-weasley @vesme @penny00dreadful @ratboybubs @ocapmycap @ellietheasexylibrarian @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @little-trash-ghost @lazyavenuewhispers @paintsplatteredandimperfect @mightbeasleep @anaibis @sleepyboosstuff @thesuninyaface @morpheusmunson @fandomcartographer @tentativeghost @notfrogsunderatrenchcoat @novelnovella @stqrconnrs @tartarusknight @spectrum-spectre @hotluncheddie @malicia62 @tencents121 @lightwoodbanethings @steddie-steddie @dragonmama76 @i-less-than-three-you @weirdandabsurd42 @lenathegay @theequeervibes @7shrewsinatrenchcoat @g4ys0n @subversivecynic @bleedingoptimism @amerikanskaya-krassavitsa @amerikanskaya-krassavitsa @eyesofshinigami

#stranger things #steve harrington #nancy wheeler #ficlet #baby steve is my new beloved and I love him #also I think some of the tags are broken? sorry if yours is

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jobean12-blog · 1 year

Text

Always Be My Baby

Pairing: Eddie Munson x reader

Word Count: 2,061

Summary: When you’re talking on the phone with Nancy, Eddie overhears you say something that gets him thinking.

Author’s Note: This little meme pops up here and there with various characters and it’s always so cute and makes me smile and I’ve been wanting to do an Eddie one for a while! Hope you enjoy, thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the sweet @wannabehamlet thank you love🥰

Warnings: Soft and sweet fluff, small angst because Eddie gets clingy (but it’s so cute), kisses, Steve and his excellent advice (ha)

The original picture for this is NOT MINE: I just added the pic of Eddie, credit to the lovely person that originally made this and thank you! 🥰GIF NOT MINE (below the pic): Credit to @rosetico thank you sweets🥰

Eddie Munson Masterlist

You roll over on your bed and twirl the phone cord around your legs as you lift them up. Nancy continues her rant on the other end of the line and you don’t hear Eddie as he bounds up the steps.

“Hey sweetheart,” he chimes when he walks into your room.

You sit up with a smile and cover the bottom end of the phone.

“Hi,” you whisper. “It’s Nancy.”

He nods in understanding and drops himself onto the bed with a bounce. You stifle your giggle and make a noise of agreement so Nancy knows you’re still listening.

Eddie shimmies his way closer to you and crawls up your body with a mischievous grin. He pushes your shirt above the waistband of your jeans and dances his calloused fingertips along your skin.

You give him a playful glare that quickly melts into a blissful expression when his lips trail over your stomach.

“Eddie,” you whisper shout. “I’ll be off in a minute.”

“Mm hm,” he mutters, continuing with his kisses.

As he moves higher his thumb caresses your lips, gently dipping between to part them. A shiver runs down your spine and he traces the outline of your softness, urging you closer with one hand wrapped around the back of your neck.

Nancy grumbles loudly into the phone.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes!” you say with far too much energy! “Of course, I am!”

She’s silent for a moment. “Is Eddie there?”

“No…”

“I promise I won’t keep you too much longer,” she sighs, but you can almost hear the small smile in her voice.

“Don’t worry Nance. I’m here.”

You give Eddie a quick peck on the lips and shoo him off you.

He relents with a dramatic sigh and rolls off you before sliding from the bed and grabbing his backpack. He rummages through his things and pulls out his D n D book.

You sit up and bring your knees to your chest, nodding and giving Nancy the occasional reassuring sound. You reach over and grab your stuffed black bat (named Eddie of course) and slip it between your knees, holding it close in a hug.

Eddie lifts his eyes from his book and makes a kissy face causing you to giggle. He continues making silly faces until you grab a pillow and chuck it at his head.

It hits him in the chest and he presses his hand over his heart, toppling over with a flurry of movements. When he sits up again you launch the stuffed bat his way but he easily catches it and sits it between his spread legs, patting its head and pretending to scratch its ears.

It makes you smile wide as you listen to Nancy finish her story.

“NO WAY NANCE!” you screech. “He did not!”

Your mouth hangs open in shock before you grit your teeth.

Eddie stares at you with peaked interest.

“Ugh! I hate men,” you say in commiseration.

Your eyes lock with Eddie’s after you say the words and you wince at his changed expression.

His soft brown eyes are wide and round and his lips part in distress.

Your features soften and you give him a small smile. “I’ll explain in a minute,” you say quietly.

Nancy ends the call and you promise to check in on her later. You place the phone back in the cradle and move it to your nightstand, untangling yourself from the wire.

“Baby,” you coo as you slide into Eddie’s lap, his face still crumpled.

He’s quiet as you study him.

“Not you baby. Light of my life. I love you.”

“What happened that made you say that?” he asks, resting his head against yours.

“It’s all a mess. Nancy and Jonathan are in two different places and neither of them is ready to admit that maybe it’s not working out so they are lashing out at each other and I think it’s because Nancy is confused about her feelings for Steve and…ugh!”

“You’ve never said that about me, have you?” he asks, his eyes even bigger than before if possible.

“Of course, not Eddie! Why would I ever say anything like that!”

“I don’t know…I know I can be a pain in the ass sometimes.”

“Hardly,” you smile. “You’re too cute anyway.”

The corner of his mouth turns up into a halfhearted smile and you take his face between your hands.

“You’re my favorite. Ever,” you state.

He cracks a full smile and brushes his lips to yours.

“I never did get my hello kiss,” he whispers.

~Later that day at the Arcade~

“Why are you following your girl around like a lost puppy?” Steve asks, hands folded across his chest.

“Me?” Eddie asks, having the audacity to appear shocked by Steve’s question.

“Uh yeah,” Steve asks, his hands now moving to his hips. “You’re acting clingy.”

Eddie narrows his eyes and opens his mouth to say something sassy but his shoulders slump and he falls back against the wall.

“She said something yesterday…”

Steve raises his eyebrows and waits.

“I’m not sure I should share…”

“I won’t say anything,” Steve promises, resting a reassuring hand on Eddie’s shoulder.

Eddie sighs and relents.

“She said ‘I hate men.’”

Steve sucks his teeth. “Was she talking to you?”

“No, but…”

“Well if she wasn’t talking to you was she talking about you?” Steve continues.

“No, but…”

“Then I don’t see the problem here Munson.”

“Well, she was talking to a friend and they were talking about boys and I’m sure I’ve annoyed her before and she could say that about me.”

“Boys…?” Steve smirks.

Eddie blows a raspberry while rolling his eyes. “Come on Harrington. I’m suffering here.”

“Are you really though?” Steve asks with a challenging tilt of his head.

Eddie huffs in frustration but before he can defend himself Steve goes on.

“Listen, when I asked her out all those months ago she said no because she wanted you…and all the girls want me, so…”

“Is this supposed to be making me feel better Harrington?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah,” Steve scoffs. “DUH. She picked you dude!”

Eddie hangs his head, his expression hidden by his mess of curls.

“Well let’s just hope she keeps picking me,” he mumbles.

You’re smashing the buttons to Super Sprint and trying to beat Dustin’s ass when strong arms wrap around your waist.

“Hey sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs in your ear.

“Hi baby,” you giggle, jerking to the left with your motions. “I’m about to wipe the road with Dustin.”

“No way dude. I’m gonna kick your ass!” Dustin cheers.

“Language!” both Steve and Eddie admonish as Steve stops by and watches.

You fly over the finish line and let out a victorious whoop before turning in Eddie’s arms and kissing him.

“I WON!” you say excitedly. “Nice try Henderson.”

Dustin mumbles in defeat as he pulls his hat down and walks away to find someone else to play a game with.

“You wanna get going?” Eddie asks you, pulling you closer. “I’d love to get you all to myself.”

Steve rolls his eyes exaggeratively and follow Dustin.

“Let’s go,” you purr and grab his hand. “But can we stop at the store on the way back? I want to get snacks!”

“Of course sweetheart, whatever you want.”

~At the grocery store~

“Should I get Big Stuff Oreos or the Star Wars cookies?” you ask Eddie as you swing your entwined hands and peruse the cookie shelf.

“Star Wars definitely,” he says and reaches up to grab a box with his free hand.

“Do we need Pudding Pies?”

You tap your chin with the question and then reach up to grab a box without waiting for his answer.

“What about something salty?” he says, tugging you toward the popcorn.

“Ooo good thinking!” you answer.

You reach the right aisle and see the box of popcorn you want. You try and tug your hand free of Eddie’s but he doesn’t let go.

“I don’t wanna let go,” he says.

“How are we gonna get the popcorn?” you ask with a smirk.

“Um…,” he starts and reaches up for the box with his free hand that’s now holding the Star Wars cookie box.

He tries to get his fingers around the wide popcorn box but he can’t quite get them to fit and he just keeps pushing it away. Since he has a death grip on your hand you can’t even get it free to help him as you watch in slow motion as he pushes too far and several of the boxes come tumbling down onto your heads.

You stand there and stare at the pile of boxes on the floor and then at him before bursting out into a fit of laughter.

“Eddie. Just let go so we can carry this stuff.”

“But…but what if you don’t want to hold my hand anymore. What if this is just the beginning. Next it’s no hugs…then kisses….AND THEN BEFORE YOU KNOW YOU’LL HATE ME AND BREAK UP WITH ME!”

His last burst of words comes out in a rushed breath and his voice rises higher with each one. With a frantic look in his eyes, he drops the Star Wars cookies and grabs your shoulders before tugging you into his chest.

You wrap your arms around his middle and carefully shift around the fallen boxes.

“Eddie,” you whisper with some hesitance. “Why don’t we get a cart?”

He dips his head and buries his face in your neck. “That’s a good idea,” he mumbles.

You walk hand in hand to get a cart then come back to the mess and clean it up. After filling the cart with more snacks and checking out, all while still holding his hand, you take your things to the van and unload them but now that you have to get into the vehicle you have to let go.

He opens your door and helps you in then looks down at your joined hands.

Without saying a word he let’s go and shoots around the front of the van, hops into the driver’s seat and holds his hand out for yours. You take it and give it a squeeze. He turns on some music and starts the van.

You pull his hand onto your lap and trace your fingers over his ring then his knuckles, making the soft motions over and over. He drives the whole way home with one hand, the other held tightly in yours.

After you put all the snacks by the bed and change into one of Eddie’s tee shirts you crawl on top of the sheets and watch him tune his guitar.

“You wanna talk to me?” you ask him quietly.

He looks up with a pained expression before sighing heavily and putting down his guitar.

“You think I’m crazy don’t you?”

He sits on the edge of the bed and you crawl into his lap, brushing the curls from his face and lifting his chin.

“No. I’m thinking how lucky I am that you love me so much,” you tell him.

His eyes meet yours, shining with emotion. “You don’t think I’m clingy? Steve said I’m acting clingy.”

“Steve said huh?” you smile. “Steve’s a butthead.”

“I won’t argue with that,” he answers and smooths his hand up your back.

“I hope you want to hold my hand forever,” you whisper.

“I’ll never let go sweetheart.”

His fingers stop at the base of your neck and he winds them around your throat, tucking his thumb under your chin and tilting your head back so his lips can trail across your jaw.

He moves slowly downward, peppering kisses along your neck while adjusting your legs so you’re straddling him. His hand slips under your shirt and he brushes his knuckles over your skin, the drag of his rings a soft caress that makes you shiver in his arms.

With a gentle tug on his hair, you pull his lips away, smiling at his whine of disapproval but winking when it quickly shifts into a satisfied hum as you push on his chest until he falls back onto the bed and slowly lift your shirt over your head.

His hands dance over your skin with reverence before he tugs you down to his lips and holds you so close you can feel his heart beat with yours.

@dreamlessinparis @hiddles-rose @goldylions @blackwidownat2814 @buckysdollforlife @ysmmsy @luna-munson83

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfiction #joseph quinn #eddie munson x you #joseph quinn x reader #eddie munson x female!reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fic #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson stranger things

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brittscafe · 3 months

Note

Hehe hello I'm new to this request thing.

Can I request a kenpachi x fem reader, scenario where Kenny is sparing with his s/o and they make a game out of sparring? How would he react to her cutting off his clothes piece by piece like a game? 👀

And kenpachi has a size kink and bitting/marking kink pretty please 🙏

omgggg hiiii!!! this literally took me forever to get out, I'm sooo sorry for getting it out so late 😭😭

Sparring with Kenpachi is a everyday thing, but there are days when it can get boring, so you decide to make a game out of it. So, here you are standing in the middle of the woods, getting ready to spar.

You wear a devious smirk across your face, holding your sword with such grace as Kenpachi has no idea what is coming.

"You want to play a game, huh?" Kenpachi asks, a smirk growing along his face. You smile innocently and nod your head.

"Yes," you reply.

"Let's play then," Kenny growls out, his deep voice ringing throughout your eardrums. Your eyes shift down to his chest poking out from his uniform, glistening sweat.

You bite down on your bottom lip as Kenpachi swiftly launches towards you, swinging his sword. You bring up your own sword, deflecting his attack.

The tip of your sword slices straight down through Kenpachi's black kosode and his eyes widen. Kenpachi lets out a low, threatening chuckle and shrugs his kosode off.

It softly falls into the soft grass below and Kenpachi's abs are now on full display. His black hakamas hang low on his waist, a little trail of hair leading down to what's hiding inside of his boxers.

You run your tongue over your bottom lip and Kenpachi huffs out heavily.

So, one by one, you cut off each piece of clothing he's wearing until he's left in his boxers. The two of you are mere inches away from each other as you ended up on top of him, panting messes and swords tossed to the side.

Kenpachi wears a devilish smirk across his face. He admires you for having the strength and guts to get on top of him.

"I see what kind of game you're playing now, y/n," Kenpachi speaks with a deep voice and you wear an innocent expression across your face.

You can feel his hard cock in his boxers pressing against your clothed cunt. You quickly remove the uniform and the wind feels good on your hot skin.

Your hands plays around the waistband of his boxers until you pull them down, his cock springing up and slapping his lower stomach.

To ride the beast below you was a task, but it's task that you're going to relish doing.

After all, his cock is going to rearrange your guts.

You wrap your fingers around his cock, stroking it a few times.

You let out a shaky breath as you start to sink down on his hard, thick length. His cock fills up your pussy to the brim and Kenpachi wears a proud grin across his face.

"Does that feel good?" Kenpachi asks, cupping your cheek and his thumb grazes over your skin.

"You have no idea," you whisper, bending over and leaning your head down into the curve of his neck. Placing soft, wet kisses along Kenpachi's throat you start to lift your hips up and down.

Kenny groans loudly, feeling your walls squeeze around his hard, thick cock. Your lips suck on his sensitive skin and he clenches his jaw, his grip on your bare body tightening.

His eyes admire the way your body bounces on top of his, the tip of his cock hitting that soft, sweet spot inside of you. The way your pussy is hugging his cock and your breasts are bouncing.

You run your warm tongue along his skin and glance at the mark left on his throat.

His hands grip onto your waist as you start to pant heavily, a burn spreading in your thighs as you continue to struggle to ride the beast below you.

Kenpachi easily lifts your hips up and down, slamming you back down on his cock. You throw your head back, letting out a loud moan as pleasure ripples through your body.

A ring of precum starts to form along the base of Kenny's hairy cock and his fingers dig into your flesh. Each time his cock slides in and out of your gushing cunt, sloppy wet sounds are created.

You lean over, pressing wet kisses along his chest and sucking on his skin. Your lips feel so good and hot sucking on his skin, making his cock twitch inside of your stuffed cunt.

Kenpachi runs his hand up to your throat, grabbing onto it and squeezing it. A whimper leaves your lips and you clamp around his length, lifting your head up and meeting his strong gaze.

He lets out a breathy groan and forces you up and back down onto his cock. Your body hunches over as sweat starts to gather on your forehead.

Kenpachi's the only thing holding your exhausted body up, a series of moans leaving your lips as his fat tip presses right where you need him the most.

The sweet, deep ache inside of you starts to build up. You press your palms onto his built, plush pecs, holding yourself up.

"You started this and now you're making me do all the work, doll. So pathetic," Kenpachi sighs out, thrusting his hips up into yours.

"I-i'm sorry," you moan out, barely able to form words and you try and keep your balance on top of him.

You become a whimpering, panting mess as Kenpachi drills his cock inside of you until you're oozing your cum all over him. He chuckles deeply and a crazed look forms inside of his eyes.

His cock twitches inside of you and he drives his hips up, groaning loudly as he releases his seed inside of you. He breathes heavily, keeping his hips pressed up against yours as his cum fills up you.

"Let's play this game next time," Kenpachi huffs out, giving your throat a light squeeze and you nod your head.

Tags: @kr0wu

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sluttywoozi · 2 years

Text

Daydreaming || seonghwa x f!reader

requested by @whatudowhennooneseesyou

dom!Seonghwa + corruption kink + praise kink

Rating: M (MINORS DNI)

Word Count: ~1800

warnings: ...corruption and praise kink, pet names, nipple play, biting, marking, fingering, oral (f receiving), mentions of edging, mentions of him holding reader down, unprotected piv sex, mentions of cum swallowing, slightly possessive seonghwa but not in a gross way in a hot way (to me at least)

Seonghwa is doing his best here.

Honestly!

He is sincerely trying his best not to watch how your pencil trails along your bottom lip as you work on your lesson plan. He’s truly attempting not to linger on the skin exposed by your short pajama shorts, and the way your thighs gently bounce with the tapping of your foot. He’s making a herculean effort not to let his eyes trace over the curves of your breasts, clear through the worn out shirt you wear.

His shirt, fuck, of course.

But it’s getting harder and harder. Literally.

Seonghwa was just trying to work on his legos while you finish up your homework, was just trying to be a good, supportive boyfriend.

A good, supportive boyfriend who doesn’t dream of crawling under your desk and spreading your thighs and edging you until you finish your assignment. A good, supportive boyfriend who doesn’t think of you, late at night, shyly telling him that you don’t have much experience and that he’d have to be patient with you.

And Seonghwa can be patient, Seonghwa is a master of patience, but he can’t control his thoughts any better than you can control the shiver that rolls down your spine when he calls you a good girl.

It was innocent, at first.

It started last month, when you ran over to his apartment and launched yourself into his arms as soon as he opened the door, your exam paper squashed between his body and yours, a bright red A blazoned at the top. He really didn’t mean anything by it when he hugged you tight and breathed, “That’s my good girl,” into your hair. But you shivered, and he felt your face flush against his neck, and you pulled away with your lips bitten between your teeth. It took everything in Seonghwa not to lean in and suck that bottom lip between his own, bite down on it until you whimpered, soothe the ache with his tongue, discover where else you’d let him leave his mark.

You asked him to be patient though, so he ignored it and offered you a celebratory dinner. Luckily, he’d already gotten your favorite takeout, though he had no idea you were getting your exam back that day, and you were adequately distracted from your shyness and from the hardness that had grown in Seonghwa’s jeans, so it was a win-win.

But after that first time, Seonghwa just couldn’t stop. He calls you a good girl when you finish sorting his legos (you like to copilot his building and he thinks it was adorable). He presses a kiss to your cheek and says, “Great job, sweetheart,” every time you cook him something, even microwave popcorn. He pulls you into his arms, exhales a pretty princess into your neck before every date. He shoots you an indulgent smile every time you expertly mitigate Wooyoung’s brattiness, mouths sweet baby at you, grins at the way you immediately look away, knowing you can feel the heat flooding into your cheeks just like he did that first time.

Seonghwa’s pretty sure you think it’s innocent, that he just loves you and wants you to know (which is true!) but really, he’s after your reactions. He’s content to wait for sex until you’re ready, and this is how he tides himself over.

It was working, but not anymore.

Seonghwa’s hands hover above the pieces as his mind wanders, suddenly caught up in what he’s seen every night for weeks.

He won’t pressure you, wouldn’t think of it, always removes his hands as soon as you start slowing down, and gathers you up into your favorite cuddling position so you don’t think for even a second that he’s upset.

It’s just that he can’t stop thinking about everything he wants to do with you, to you. Everything he wants to show you. And all this time waiting has led to quite the buildup of ideas, so much so that he literally dreams about it.

Seonghwa dreams about laying you down on his bed, spreading you out, kissing and licking and nipping his way down your body, stopping at your breasts to press his face into them, sucking your nipples into his mouth until you squirm, pinching them with his fingers until they’re hard and swollen, until you’re begging him to keep going.

He dreams about painting your stomach and hips in his marks, marks only you and him know about, little spots of tenderness that remind you of him, that he can press his fingers into, that make you think about him leaving more.

He dreams about smoothing his hands up your thighs, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh, spreading his hands over them and holding them down to the bed, keeping you open and exposed for him. You might feel shy at first, but he’ll make sure you know how much he loves the view, tell you with your clit in his mouth and his fingers deep inside, stroking at the spot that he just knows will make you gush.

He dreams about how your hips will buck up, and how he’ll have to sling an arm over your waist and dig his fingers into your skin, make sure you take everything he’s dying to give you, make sure you feel it all.

Sometimes Seonghwa dreams about making you cum like that over and over, until you’re crying and writhing on the bed, trying to get away from his mouth, and he’ll pull away to check on you but you just cry louder, begging him not to stop. In those dreams, he doesn’t give you his cock no matter how much you ask for it, knows you’ll be too sore the next day, but he does let you jack him off and catch his cum in your mouth, and the way you swallow it and hum, smiling up at him with your lips painted a translucent white is usually enough to wake him up, throbbing and leaking precum into his boxers.

Most of the time, he dreams about pulling away right before you cum, right when your cunt is starting to seize up around his fingers, right when your clit is starting to pulse under his tongue. You don’t get why he stops, at first, but by the third time around you know that you’ll cum when he decides you deserve it. But even in his dreams, he’s weak for you and can’t hold out when you start really crying, pleading for him to just let you cum god please please please Seonghwa please

That’s when Seonghwa climbs up, hitching your legs in the crook of his elbows, folding you in half and leaning in close as he slides home, his eyes drinking in every expression that plays across your face. There’s a stretch, even though he’d just been three fingers deep, and you whimper when he bottoms out but your hips are rolling, your pussy trying to suck him in further, and he smirks down at you, chuckling and grinding out through gritted teeth, “Can’t get any deeper baby, you already took me all the way, so fucking perfect for me.”

You always ask him to move, but he makes you wait for it, holds off until you’re clenching around him and whining, brows pinched together and mouth stuck open, gasping for breath because he’s just so fucking big inside you. He takes pity on you, cooing, “Aw, my pretty baby wants me to fuck her?” and if you sense the smugness and condescension in his voice, you ignore it, nodding with teary eyes, whimpering, “Please, Seonghwa, please.”

But that’s not enough for him, he needs to hear it from your lips, hear his sweet, innocent girlfriend ask him to fuck her. Beg him to fuck her. He won’t be too mean, not until you’re ready for it, but he’ll allow himself this.

“What do you want me to do, sweetheart?” Seonghwa asks slowly, nose to nose with you and eyes half lidded, dick throbbing just at the thought.

You always pout, nervous to say the words, but dream you seems to know he’ll reward you and powers through the shyness to answer, “Seonghwa, I want you to f-” you hiccup in a breath and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to squirm underneath him, “I want you to fuck me, please Hwa, please just fuck me already.”

And reward you he does, staring deep into your eyes, pressing his open mouth to yours, whispering, “That’s my good girl,” into your lips. You swallow his words, your pussy fluttering around him, and when you get tighter, your muscles bearing down on his cock, he thrusts in deep.

A punched out gasp leaves you, right into his mouth, and he starts moving in and out of you, slowly at first, not too hard. When you moan and buck your hips up, Seonghwa knows you’re ready for more and fucks into you harder, faster, rising up onto his knees and tugging your hips into his lap, jackhammering in and out. He can get deeper in you like this, realizes he was wrong when he said you’d already taken it all, and that last inch lets him hit a patch of nerves deep inside that makes your pussy weep around him.

Seonghwa still hasn’t let you cum and you’re getting close already, but he won’t stop you this time. This time, he wants to feel it, knows you deserve it, plans to give you many more, and when you start to break, your cunt squeezing around his dick, your hands clawing at his back, your thighs shaking against him, your whimpers of his name sounding out into the room, it’s all he can do not to cum with you.

In his dreams, you get vocal, crying out, “Seonghwa, fuck, I’m- I’m-”

“Finished!” You sing, turning to him with a beam and your lesson plans gathered up in your hands, tapping them against the table to get them all straightened out before hole punching and adding them to your binder.

Seonghwa feels lightheaded, dizzy, his cock hard in his sweats and his ears ringing, and scrambles to pull the instruction booklet over his lap so you don’t see.

“Dinner?” you ask, pulling your phone out to scroll through delivery services, brows scrunching as you try to decide what you’re hungry for.

Seonghwa tries to speak but finds his voice is stuck in his throat, still tight with arousal, and just nods, trying to appear calm and collected. He thinks he’s gotten away with it until you flounce over, pulling the sleek paper from his lap and sitting right down on his dick, grinding your hips against his a little. He can feel the warmth between your thighs through your little pajama shorts and swallows down a groan.

Draping your arms around his neck, you send him an evil little smirk, devil horns practically growing before Seonghwa’s very eyes, and ask, “So, what were you thinking about?”

an: eee thank you for my first non-svt request! i only recently got into ateez bc my bestie is evil (i allowed it tho to be fair), but seonghwa has me in a chokehold already and i was super excited to write for him!!

Part Two

#ateez smut #seonghwa x you #seonghwa smut #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa #ateez #✨emily writes✨#atz smut #atz seonghwa #ateez seonghwa #kpop smut #seonghwa scenarios #seonghwa fanfic #seonghwa x y/n

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cinnaminyoons · 1 year

Text

STAR THEORY !!

!! jjk x m!reader

!! wc | 6.8k

!! tags | dilf!jk + dilf!reader (obv), non-idol au, lil age gap (jk’s 25, reader’s at least late 20s), reader lived in america for some time + reader is a chef (food comfort & domesticity i love u), reader’s children and dog are named, reader had a wife and also has a hip tattoo

[ event masterlist ]

dilf/dilf

pets are in love and so are they

“we are... incredibly close right now.”

the bedroom door bursts open.

"appa!"

it's too early for this.

"appa," she pants, little feet bouncing across the carpet until a weight begins to tug erratically at his blankets. "appa, get up, get up, there're new people!"

jungkook pulls a pillow over his head.

she puffs her cheeks out and launches herself onto his bed; she elbows him in the bony front of his leg. he groans in pain as she scrambles over his legs and grabs his pillow with both hands.

"get up, appa! i wanna go see!"

blearily, jungkook lifts his head, groping for the blinds past his bedside table. he leans uncomfortably far out into the cold of his room before he latches onto the chain and gives it a good pull.

the wooden blinds clatter up, dousing the room with pale morning light – the white bang that birthed the universe. she giggles and slides down from the bed, crawling up to the window and pressing her knuckles against the cold glass.

on the street below are a man and a little girl. another girl! she delights herself with fantasies of having a best friend – maybe they'd go play on the playground, and with their combined strength, they'll knock down the mean queen bee from the monkey bars.

they carry boxes into the neighbouring house, assisted by movers. a fridge, a mattress – they manoeuvre them through the gates leading around to the side of the house, entering through the glass sliding doors. she watches them, fascinated, as the visible kitchen begins to fill with cardboard boxes.

she cranes her neck, pressing her forehead against the glass until it stings her skin. nobody else comes through, and she knows who the hired help are because they wear bright orange shirts.

she squints at the man's left hand when he rests it against the column of the alfresco, speaking to the little girl. he's like her appa – he doesn't wear a marriage ring.

"what's so interesting?" he combs his fingers through his messy hair.

she glances over her shoulder with big brown eyes. "nobody's lived in that house for ages. d'you think they'll be nice?"

"i'm sure they are. c'mere, miri – you'll get a cold."

she skips over, lifting her arms dutifully. jungkook pulls a small pink jersey from his closet and tugs it over her head, helping her arms into the sleeves.

"where are your socks?" he asks with a groggy frown. he's always been slow to wake. "your toes will fall off."

"bam took them."

"he what?"

"bam took my socks," she says helpfully.

he sighs, rising to his feet. "okay. up we go, then."

he heaves her into his arms, settling her against his hip as he shuffles out of his bedroom and down the stairs. she's more than capable of walking on cold floors on her own – maybe it'd be a good lesson to teach about letting the dog take one's socks – but jungkook admits to himself that it's mostly for him. babies turn into children so quickly, and he finds he misses having her little warmth holding onto his shoulder.

bam meets them at the foot of the stairs, barking his good morning greeting. miri smiles and waves hello, and bam's tail wags faster as he follows them to the back door – he darts out with a bark, leaping into a run for freedom around the large yard. he shuts the door.

"right – here we are." he places her on the mat in the kitchen, in front of the sink. it protects her feet from the tiles. he feels somewhat more awake. "any requests for breakfast, miri? the fruits are still fresh – would you like some yoghurt and banana with your cereal?"

"with strawberries, too, please," she requests, watching him move towards the fruit bowl.

"how many strawberries?"

she opens her mouth. she frowns. carefully, she raises five fingers. "five."

"five? you must be hungry today," he comments, placing a banana on the chopping board next to the knife and leaning over to the fridge to fish out the tray of strawberries. he bends over. "on three. one."

he scoops her up under his arm, holding her like rolled carpet. she hums as she chooses her strawberries, placing them on the blue chopping board. she shoves a sixth in her mouth and giggles as jungkook rolls his eyes at her with a fond smile, setting her down. "go grab your cereal, okay? i'll be done in a minute."

"okay!" her cheek leaves jungkook's palm as she whisks away to a lower cupboard, taking her pick of the different cereals in easy-pour containers.

he pushes the sleeves of his sweatshirt up to his elbows. he sets to work with the knife, chopping wedges out of the tops of the strawberries and slicing them in half. beside him, miri cautiously measures out her cereal on her own red child-sized table, tipping the container a few degrees at a time to control the flow.

a thump outside. he glances up. bam stops barking.

he sets down the knife and strides over to the door, dropping the wet handtowel on the edge of the bench. he leans out into the chilly air. "bam?"

no response. jungkook slips from his indoor slides to his outdoor ones and hurries outside, worry forming a knot in his stomach. "bam, come here!" he whistles, short and sharp.

he peeks behind the bushes, where a collection of toys have gathered as bam's treasure trove. no dog.

"shit," he mutters, eyes widening as he spots the open fence door by the side of the house. he hurries through it, grabbing the edge of the door. "bam!"

a bark by his feet. he startles ten feet into the air and a curse slips out of his mouth.

kneeling on the stone path and staring up at him is a little girl in a thick purple jacket. she looks about miri's age. bam had his head resting on her legs before they were so rudely interrupted.

he swallows another bad word and softens his voice. "hey. i don't think i've seen you around here before."

she stares up at him for a moment longer, rubbing bam's ears slowly. "me and papa came here today."

"oh! you must be our new neighbours." the moving truck is gone. he glances over the fence, before lowering himself to her level. "do you know where your papa is?"

"in there." she points at the house. she says nothing more, her eyes narrowed slightly mistrustfully.

"does he know you're here? i don't want him to be worried about you. come on – i'll bring you over."

she recoils from his offered hand, hugging bam's neck. the usually active pup seems unusually calm.

"i just want to walk you over, that's all. it's cold out here, and those pebbles can't be comfy."

she glances over him, then nods with as much dignity as she can muster and rises to her booted feet, brushing off her knees. bam stands as well, and jungkook gives him a pat.

he smiles at her, discreetly pulling his sleeves down over his sleeve tattoos. they might not make the best impression of his character. "so, you moved here today? what do you think of it?"

she shrugs, following him. "it's a lot colder. but papa says he got a good job here and can take care of me."

"really? do you know what his job is?"

"he's a chef! he makes really good food. do you like carrot cake? his carrot cake is the best. you should try some."

he smiles down at her as they approach the front door. "thank you for the offer. we'll see what happens."

he raps his knuckles against the front door firmly. he wonders if it sounds too aggressive, but there's nothing he can do about it, and there's an out-of-breath man standing in front of him. a very attractive out-of-breath man.

his eyes widen as he notices the girl beside him. "anya! what are you doing out there?"

she crosses her arms, defiant. "exploring."

"i – i told you to stay inside, didn't i? anya, neither of us knows our way around! you could've gotten lost if you hadn't—"

his eyes flicker up to jungkook's. he clears his throat and the girl shuffles over the threshold, grabbing onto his pant leg and burying her face in it. "hello. i am so sorry about my daughter – really, it feels like locks just fall apart around her. thank you so much for retrieving her. i left her in the hallway for two minutes to set up her bed, and then—"

"she escaped containment?"

the man cracks a frazzled smile. "yeah, suppose you could say that. ah—i'm ln yn. this is my daughter, anya. say hi, bub."

"hi."

"jeon jungkook," he introduces, feeling rather self-conscious about his pyjamas and socks-with-slides combination. he nods towards anya with a small smile. "how old is she?"

"five, this year." you smooth down her hair with a palm. she watches bam sniff around the perimeter of the fence. "she'll be starting school here soon and she's been really excited. she's a bit of an artist, you see, and the school's renowned for its arts program."

"oh! you mean—?" he gestures down the road. you nod. he brightens. "my kid goes there, too! she's the same age as yours, but she's more interested in trying every single extracurricular sport they offer than anything they're actually famous for. my genes at work, i guess."

you smile, leaning against the doorway. you nod at the dobermann by the succulents. "and that one's yours, too, i'm guessing?"

"oh – yeah! that's bam." he turns. "bam, come here!"

he perks up, trotting over.

"sit."

he sits.

"good boy." jungkook scratches behind his ears. "i'll keep him inside the yard, so you don't have to worry about holes in your garden or anything."

you chuckle. "thanks. so, what's to like around here? in particular, anything a five-year-old would enjoy?"

"the park's a two-minute walk that way." he points behind him. "it's not that big, but it has a swing and a slide and a rope cobweb thing. there's a fireman pole, too.” he smiles. “i know it's bad enough trying to move when you're alone, so having a kid with you must be pretty rough."

you share a laugh. the girl pouts into your leg.

he tucks his knuckles into his sleeves, trying not to show how fast his heart is beating. "i could watch her while you get settled today. i-if you want! i'd bring my daughter over and they could, uh, keep each other busy."

he knows you're wary. he can see it in your eyes and the way you pull her into your side.

good. he would be, too.

"that would be wonderful," you say eventually with a small smile. "but it's quite early – i'll be here when you're, well, ready."

he glances down at himself and bursts into embarrassed flames. "ah, r-right! yeah! sure, yeah, i'll be back in an hour. it was nice meeting you," he smiles down at her, "and you as well, anya."

"you, too," you reply, and your grin makes jungkook's heart race. he wills his blush down.

"goodbye," calls anya, watching him retreat from their door. "i like your puppy!"

bam trots at jungkook's side, tongue lolling out and collar clinking. jungkook lets him into the backyard again, this time through the side door, and latches the door shut firmly after himself. he's got no idea how it came loose the first time; it might've been the wind rattling the latch.

he shrugs to himself as he returns to his kitchen. if it happens again, he'll get a proper lock.

"appa!"

she crashes into his knees. he hums and smooths down her fringe. "hello. i'm sorry for disappearing on you like that – i got worried about bam, and then i met our neighbours."

she recoils, betrayal etched all over her face. "without me?"

"i wasn't expecting to."

"but you did! you could've come tell me!" she stomps her foot, huffing. "i hate you."

"miri..."

she ignores him, stalking off to grab her stool and dropping it firmly in front of the kitchen sink. she puts her bowl inside silently and stomps past him to play with bam outside, and jungkook doesn't bother trying to get her to change out of her pyjamas.

he sighs in his empty kitchen, thunking his head backwards on his fridge. he draws a hand down his face and his mind whirls with a thousand thoughts a second, but it only sticks firmly to one.

his neighbour. his unfortunately handsome neighbour. his unfortunately handsome neighbour with an amazing laugh and lightning-strike smile.

i'm fucked.

—

after a few days, a black labrador appears out the front of your yard, chasing a yellow rope bone that it brings back to anya. jungkook's walking bam, having just dropped miri off at school, and doesn't expect to have his arm yanked off by an overexcited pet.

"bam! what's gotten into you?" he struggles against the leash, acutely aware of the other dog on the other end of bam's attention. "calm – calm down."

bam stills, panting and alert as the black lab stares back, half-poised to drop the bone at anya's feet.

jungkook loosens the leash cutting into his hand, and it's the wrong decision. bam tears off towards the other dog.

jungkook swears as the leash slices out of his grip. he stumbles after him, dread and panic slurring together for a split second – but confusion cuts through the mess as the two dogs pause, watching each other very closely.

bam barks. the labrador glances back at the house, as if to check for permission—

and drops the toy in front of bam.

it lays down, placing its head on its paws, and gnaws at the end of the bone. every so often, it glances up at bam, blinking in that sweet puppy way.

bam lays down beside it, his flamingo-coloured leash trailing over his back. both dogs' tails wag in comfortable excitement.

"hi, miri's papa."

jungkook tears his stare off the dogs. "hey, anya. where's your dad?"

"inside."

"okay. thanks." he glances at the dogs; the toy is now in bam's jaws. "uh, are you cool with watching over him? i'll be quick."

she nods, full of purpose and determination. as he reaches for the door handle, however, she raises her voice with innocent curiosity:

"do you love papa?"

the door handle shears a layer of skin off his knuckles. he chuckles uneasily, clutching it. "what? no."

she tilts her head, playing with her laces. she did them herself this morning. "really?"

"o-of course. why would i love him? more importantly, why do you think that?"

she purses her lips as if it's obvious. "you look like you love papa."

he runs his thumb over the flap of skin. no blood, but it stings.

"you sound like you love papa."

he tilts his head. "what are you talking about?"

"you make faces and your voice gets all weird when you talk to him." she turns back to the dogs, stretching her stocking-clad legs out from her seat on the driveway. she yawns until her jaw cracks. "you're just like all the other ladies who love papa. but i don't think they like me." she glances up. "you're nicer than them."

"other ladies?" he whispers to himself with a frown. slowly, he returns to her, bobbing down to sit next to her. she stares up at him with big eyes, expectant. "anya, if i may... what happened to your mother? it's okay if you don't want to answer."

she shrugs, kicking her feet. "i don't know. i live with papa now. i like it better this way – he doesn't get angry at me like she did, and he makes better food." she rubs her nose. "they fought a lot before we moved. papa pretends like they didn't, but i know they did. i could hear them."

"yeah?" jungkook says quietly. "was that back in america?"

she nods, playing with the blades of grass. she peels them in half, drops them in a pile on the concrete, then picks another one and does the same. "mhm. they decided we'd live with papa."

"huh." he pauses and tilts his head. "wait, 'we'?"

"anya! dad's done, are you hungry?"

a girl leans out the front door. she's older, wearing braids, and her familiar eyes snap to jungkook's with abrupt alarm. she slips into the shoes by the door and hurries over, grabbing anya by the shoulder and pulling her away. "who are you?"

anya whines, wriggling out of her grip. "this is mister jungkook! he loves papa."

he stands too quickly; the older girl steps back. "no. no, i don't, anya. i'm just a friend – i live right there."

"uh-huh," says the older girl, putting anya's hand in her own. "let's go, okay? dad's waiting."

"papa made carrot cake," anya insists. "you should come!"

"you can't just invite strangers—"

"but papa knows him—"

"doesn't matter, i don't know him—"

a new voice, familiar and gentle. "girls, everything alright?"

jungkook turns with a leap of his heart. you wear jeans and a grey v-neck sweater rolled up at the sleeves to reveal the stiff cuffs of a white dress shirt. the collar pokes out over the sweater.

you're dressed like any other man on the street, some form of business casual, but jungkook's heart acts as if he's seen you naked. he'd love to. god, he'd love to. would you like him?

focus!

"good morning," he greets, dusting off his black joggers. "how goes things?"

you glance over him and he covers his bare biceps self-consciously. your lips quirk up. "hey, jungkook. things are great. i see you've met ellie."

"ellie," he repeats. he gives her a small, sheepish smile and offers a hand. "hi. i'm sorry for worrying you. maybe we can make amends?"

she glances down at his hand. her eyes flicker to you, and after receiving a certain look, she sighs and begrudgingly takes his hand, giving it a firmer-than-necessary shake. "yeah, sure. whatever."

she pulls anya into the house with her and you give her another look – this one meaning we'll talk later – before heading out to the driveway to speak with jungkook.

"i'm sorry about her," you huff. "twelve-year-olds..."

"don't worry about it. her heart's in the right place," jungkook hums, glancing up at you with a soft smile. his hands have taken much of his attention. "so, two?"

"yeah. she just arrived last night – i promise she isn't usually so grumpy." you jerk your head towards the house with a grin, hands in your pockets. "i heard them arguing about you. if you think my decision holds more weight than theirs, you're welcome to come in. i made carrot cake – my own personal recipe, tried-and-tested with the kids." you wink. "you know it's good when children willingly eat vegetables. any allergies?"

"i'd love to," he replies, his cheeks warmer than usual. "and no, i don't."

your smile widens, blindingly bright. you turn to the dogs and pat your thigh, reaching out for the labrador that trots over with an excited bounce. "you can bring bam in, too. they seem to get along – no reason to break them apart, right?"

"are you sure? bam's pretty easily excited, and he's a lot bigger than he thinks he is."

"hey." you take his hands, stopping him from picking obsessively at the cuticles. it's a bad habit he can't seem to shake. "we've had callus since he was ten weeks old. i know exactly what you're talking about, and my offer still stands."

"callus?" he asks, his brain too full of the thought of your warmth to do much else.

you roll your eyes fondly. "i hate the name, but ellie chose it and trained him to it, so it's stuck ever since. so – you coming in, or are you just gonna hold my hands for the next hour?"

"what?" he says. oh, fuck, you've loosened your grip but he hasn't. he's holding your hands. he's still holding them. he drops them. "a-ah, i'll come in!"

you laugh, and jungkook's heart squeezes tight in a red fist as he follows you to the front door. "alright, jungkook. don't tell the girls, but i'll give you a bigger piece of cake, okay? it'll be our secret."

"okay," jungkook breathes, and feels like a teenager all over again.

however, he might have forgotten to factor in the feelings of a certain five-year-old girl.

"you saw them again!"

"i know, i'm sorry," jungkook pleads, "but you were at school! hey, look, i even saved you some of yn's cake, alright? it's really good. he invited us – both of us – over to his place tomorrow. you can meet him and his daughters, and have a lunch better than i could ever make. how about it?"

miri pouts, kicking her feet on the couch. her schoolbag sits by the end of the sofa. "fine."

"oh, good," he sighs, relieved.

"but," she raises a finger, "you can't fall in love with him."

he whips around faster than light. "you, too? why am i not allowed to?"

"you're not allowed to be his wife."

"i'm a man, miri. it doesn't work like that."

"yes, it does."

"it doesn't."

"it does," she insists, "ellie said—!"

she slaps a hand over her mouth and falls backwards on the sofa.

jungkook pauses, his hands hovering over a cucumber on the chopping board. very carefully, he continues slicing long ovals out of it. he asks calmly, "have you met each other before?"

"no." she sits up, long black hair falling over her shoulders. "only to play with the dogs..."

"then you shouldn't be so upset that i did the same thing, right? does yn know you played with his daughters?"

miri, with as much gravitas as a five-year-old can muster, replies: "no."

he shakes his head with a huff of laughter, using the back of the knife to scrape the cucumber in a container. "alright. is that where you found this rumour? did they tell you?"

"appa, it's not a rumour if it's true," she argues, rising to her feet on the sofa. she leans forward against the backrest. "i've seen it with my own eyes! you talk about him like – like – not a friend! i never saw you talk about anybody else that way."

"uh-huh. and what do you know about being in love, miri? what does ellie know? she's twelve, and you've only just learnt how to tie your hair in a ponytail. very messily. no standing on the couch."

she falls back behind the edge of the backrest with a huff, vanishing from jungkook's sight. "you'd be a bad wife."

he carves the store-bought roast chicken, sawing through the thighs and shaving smaller slices off the body. he digs through the breast to stab at the herbed stuffing. a lock of hair falls loose from his low ponytail and he tosses his head to get it out of his eyes. "do i dare ask why?"

he's terribly competitive – whether it's a good or bad trait, he doesn't know. while he may never be a wife, being called bad at something – by his own blood, no less! – sets fire to something he tried to bury back in university.

"because you're mean and not funny and never wake up before twelve o'clock."

he gapes, putting down his serrated knife to scoff at the couch. "i am funny, thank you very much. why should you never eat a clock?"

"um, because it's made of metal and plastic?" miri answers.

"it's time-consuming," he snickers.

her head pops up over the backrest, pinched into a frown. "that isn't funny, appa."

"you don't appreciate my effort, miri. i'm hurt."

"you know who would, though?" her gaze intensifies. she points through the walls to the house to their left with the neat lawn. "he would. which makes it even worse, because then you'll love each other, and then i'll have to hear two bad jokes instead of one. it'll be in – in – insuff'rable. i learnt that word today, did you know?"

"it's 'insufferable', miri."

"you proved it! you're mean. anyway, ellie said she'd hate it if you and her appa got together."

out of protectiveness? or something learnt and cruel?

miri disappears behind the sofa again only to reappear beside it, moving towards the kitchen and leaning against jungkook's left leg.

"appa, it smells really good."

jungkook grabs a set of chopsticks and hooks out a chunk of meat. he crouches and offers the meat, holding a hand beneath her small chin to catch anything that doesn't make it to home base. nothing falls, and he draws away.

"here," jungkook murmurs. "can you set the table, please?"

"mhm."

she skips off with the cutlery in hand. jungkook carries the large bowl with the carcass and places it in the middle of the dining table, petting miri's hair on the way back to the kitchen.

he's always worried about how others perceive him. always. he's twenty-five with a school-aged kid and no mother in sight, and he makes fucking video games for a living – he's not even something respectable, like a doctor. at the very least, he could've been a nine-to-fiver, a suit amongst identical suits, and with that, his image would be inoffensive.

but video games? being a concept artist, an animator? for even a big triple-a kind of company, it's not a great reputation to kick off with: he draws colourful lines and makes things move. even though he earns a salary comfortable enough to keep his little family afloat, his name is one of hundreds as an optional post-credits roll, and it's not on the first page.

still, the way you beamed at his mumbled description of his job... it made things a little lighter to bear.

"come eat up, bub," he says. "maybe you'll entertain the idea of my future marriage once you realise how boring my dinners are."

—

pacific rim rumbles through the sound system. rather surprisingly, neither of the five-year-olds mind its big, scary battles. jungkook chalks up miri's fascination with the robots and monsters with a general nonchalance towards violence and gore. she watched train to busan when she was three – which was not jungkook's fault; she wasn't supposed to be awake and sitting spookily in the darkness on the stairs – and shrugged off most of the blood and guts as simply fake.

he should have been paying more attention to his surroundings than his laptop screen and the accident he'd sired in motionbuilder, he realises now, but a good consequence is that miri avoids frozen and its brethren like the plague. he doesn't think he'll be able to keep his sanity if he hears any movie three times consecutively.

ellie plays animal crossing on the switch, cross-legged between you and jungkook with her head against your shoulder. a leopard-print blanket wraps around her shoulders and pools in her lap. every time something explodes or crashes, she glances up, fixated for a moment, before returning to her village.

miri and anya are fast asleep on jungkook's thigh. another blanket, this one blue with thin pink stripes, covers them both, and jungkook's arm lays gently across their shoulders. he'd turned the volume right down for them and the two dogs cuddling in the labrador's bed, though his 5.1.4 speaker setup retains enough boom in the subwoofer to keep him immersed.

eventually, ellie's body droops, and the switch falls from her hands into her lap as her hair flops across her face. three quarters into the movie, you gently take her into your arms and tuck her into bed, and jungkook watches over the remaining two, tucking a silky lock of hair behind miri's ear. his leg is going numb and the tingling is growing uncomfortable, but he'll be damned if he wakes them.

you return. there's a pop-art picture of a sea dragon made of sushi on your shirt, and jungkook smiles at the sight. you slip your arms beneath anya's body and she shivers as the blanket slips off, curling deeper into your chest.

"today's been tiring for them all," you murmur as jungkook scoops miri up in the blanket. "they'll be knocked clear out until tomorrow."

the two will share a bed for the night, and they'd been gleefully planning their sleepover itinerary the entire day, whispering to each other about staying up past their bedtimes to chat about everything. you press a kiss to anya's forehead, brushing her hair off her cheek, and jungkook tucks miri's wrapped-up body beneath the duvet.

you shut the door with a quiet click. it feels final, as if you've signed a legal form, and when your gaze flickers over to jungkook, you find him already staring back with an unreadable expression, a mess of emotions warring over his doe-like features. it smooths over a split second after your eyes meet.

you tilt your head towards the kitchen with a smile. "still awake? i can break out some bourbon. i also have some red wine, if that's more your style."

"i'll take the wine, if it's not too much trouble," he replies softly. "i've already had a drink tonight and i have work in the morning."

"of course." with the girls asleep, you're free to do as you wish. you take his hand in your own, and his breath hitches. your thumb brushes over his jawline. "i'll steal a glass as well."

jungkook likes to pretend he has everything under control. his heart, however, is under a different jurisdiction, and you prod it with your smile and warm touch until it quivers, naked and bare.

then, you are gone. his pulse pounds hotly in his ears as he shuffles after you, almost afraid of what he might spill under the wine.

he'll only have a glass, he promises himself. nothing will come of it.

"i wanted to tell you this before, but we had company. your pyjamas are cute," you tell him as you set down his glass, holding the newly-opened wine bottle in the other hand. you gesture to his inked arms. "and those are gorgeous."

"thank you," he murmurs, taking the stem between his fingers. he rubs his thumb over the swell of the glass and tucks his feet behind the barstool's legs. "you ever looking to get something done?"

a smile tugs at your lips. "i already have."

his eyes widen behind the glass. he sets it down, trying to keep his prying gaze discreet. "really? what of?"

"it's here."

to his scandalised pleasure, you grab your shirt and the waistband of your sweatpants, pulling them apart to reveal a curved tattoo along your hipbone. his starved gaze roams the exposed skin, the sliver of stomach and the dangerously-low slant of your pants.

he burns with painful desire. it stings at the back of his eyes, and his back teeth grind down on nothing as he swallows harshly, lifting a hand casually to his face to hide it.

"'s pretty," he rasps, clearing his throat. his knuckles whiten around the wine glass. "when did you get it?"

"as soon as i was old enough. i was always a romantic, you see," you joke, letting go of your clothes. they fall back into place and he mourns the loss. at least he has a new fantasy to bookmark. "i thought it was cute, and she liked it, so i kept it."

she.

jungkook's heart tumbles to the pit of his stomach at the reminder of what he is – and what he isn't. he chugs the wine and chases the buzz of intoxication.

"you don't... really talk about before," he says quietly. "i-i mean, it's personal, why would you? we met last month—"

"it's been the best month of the last few years," you interrupt, filling his glass again. you reach up to bring down one for yourself and he leans forward, his mouth dry as he catches a slit of skin as your shirt rides up.

it's almost funny how desperate he is.

"y-yeah?"

"yeah." you set the glass on the bench, opposite jungkook. you reach for his hand and he watches with bated breath as you link your fingers lazily with his. "moving has always been a hard experience, especially with those two troublemakers to keep an eye on, and you've been amazing to me – to us – all this time. jungkook, you made it easy to fall into a routine i enjoy."

"oh." he grips your fingers. "so... her, huh? are the kids hers?"

"yep."

"were you ever married?"

"for a while."

it pops out before he can stop it. "what happened?"

"okay..." you offer him a tight smile, unlinking your fingers to fill your glass higher than it's supposed to be.

last page, the end. that part of you will not be touched again.

"i'm sorry, yn-ssi—"

"'hyung'," you interrupt. "you can call me 'hyung', jungkook. our dogs are in love – i'd like to think we're closer than those formalities."

he nods, a little uncertain. it shows in his eyes, flitting about your kitchen as if searching for the nearest door. "if you think so, hyung."

you smile, and this one is looser, easy to enjoy. "better. what about you – would you ever think of finding someone?"

he laughs breathily, briefly pressing the back of his thumb to his lower lip. "ah, well. you know how it is. i've got miri to worry about."

"and a girlfriend wouldn't adore her, too? that spells trouble."

his mouth twitches in some semblance of a smile, small and wry. "i hear that's your biggest problem. anya mentioned that you're pretty popular, but that she's a deterrent."

you sigh, rounding the bench and taking a seat near him at the dining table. you rest an arm over the back of the chair. "what can you do, right? there's nothing to be done except wait and hope that the perfect one will come along sooner or later. other friends always tell me that i don't need anyone, that i'm doing really well."

you rub the back of your neck, and jungkook follows the tendons leading down past your collar. you smile up at him, warmer than usual. "but i've always been selfish."

"it wouldn't only be a girlfriend," jungkook says suddenly. he grabs the bottle of wine and tops up his glass far more than a single standard drink. "i'm, uh, you know... kind of into everyone. but i'm loyal. if there's one thing that i am, that's it."

"would you like to go on record with that for the company's diversity initiative?"

he turns, and you grin a little dorkily back at him, a wine-touched buzz in your veins. he rolls his eyes and huffs a laugh, raising his glass. "sure, if it gets me someone nice to talk to. fuck, i can't remember the last time i just... went to a bar and didn't give a shit. let loose." he sighs. "i was terrible in university – god, it physically pains me. i've known miri since she was a baby, but sometimes i wonder if she was the only one, you know?"

you reach out and push his thigh with a chuckle. "hey, no frowning; it's bad for your skin. it's not good to dwell on possibles, jungkook. you have miri. you have me. those are certainties. agonising over what might be does nothing for anyone."

as he turns on the stool, his tongue runs over his lower lip. he grips the seat between his thighs, one knee bouncing. "but what if—"

"jungkook, the more you stress over it, the less you're present with miri. she's a sweet girl – please don't neglect her for uncertainties."

your hands cup his, reassuring and warm, as you pull your chair in. his head bobs in a small, slow nod.

"i guess you're right," he mumbles. "hey, hyung... were you always a chef?"

you laugh. "no. i had ellie when i was pretty young and i jumped from job to job for some time. i made decks for a while – carpentry. did other contract jobs. i only went to culinary school a few years ago when i had the funds for it."

"how did you know?" he asks softly. "how did you know it was all gonna be okay?"

you shrug. "i didn't. i just took it one day at a time, one week at a time, one month at a time, and eventually, i got here." you rest your chin over his knuckles and hum, gazing up at him. "don't think. just do. you'll be alright, jungkook. my door is never closed to you, even if you just want to drink all my wine and eat all my cereal."

he laughs, barely more than a soft giggle. "thanks, hyung. that... actually made me feel better, weirdly enough."

"good. i don't like seeing you upset." you squeeze his hands. "you're looking rather pink. you should slow down with the wine."

he glances at his empty glass and the nearly-empty bottle. he can't remember drinking so much. his cheeks are hot. "yeah. yeah, i probably should." he begins to rise. "sorry for—"

your arms wrap firmly around his waist as he stumbles. he blinks harshly, his horizons tilting dangerously.

"did you spike that?" he jokes half-heartedly. "shit, i'm regressing to a lightweight..."

"you drank three-quarters of the bottle in the time it takes me to have a shower. that's called being an idiot, not a lightweight."

your palm cups his cheek. it's cool and soothing against jungkook's burning skin, and it burns hotter when he realises he can feel your heartbeat through his own ribs. his traitorous hands are already placed on your sides.

"we are... incredibly close right now," he whispers.

your eyes flicker down to his lips, pink and parted. "i don’t mind."

you take the point of his chin between your thumb and forefinger, tilting his head up from his flushed downcast gaze. his hands hover over your ribs, his own cracking with the force of his heart, and he slides them over your chest to grasp the back of your neck, his thumbs stroking the slope of your jawline.

"jungkook," you murmur against his warm lips, "we should do this tomorrow. when your mind's clearer."

"tomorrow i might not do anything. i'm a coward, hyung. please... just once? so i can remember what it's like?"

he leans in again, and you don't stop him. his lips mould with yours, the sweet, dark flavour zinged with a slight bitterness. he hums softly as your arms tighten around his slender waist.

when you finally part, you're both gasping for air, and jungkook offers a giddy smile.

"man," he pants, "that's a lot more fun than i remember."

"i think you just have to find the right person to do it with." you laugh quietly and he drops his head onto your shoulder, hiding his blush.

"would you be mine?" he asks, allowing a fleck of hope to plague his voice. "would you be my boyfriend, yn-hyung?"

you brush a lock of his hair out of his eyes. "ask me again tomorrow. i want to be sure you'll remember what you've done – it'd be pretty awkward if you forgot and i came up and kissed you."

he huffs. "i'm not that drunk – look, i'm a little tipsy. maybe a bit more than tipsy. whatever the case, i'm not gonna forget this." he runs his tongue over his lower lip slowly, as if to savour something. "i'll ask again in the morning – with one condition."

you tilt your head, eyes gentle. "and what might that be?"

"a goodnight kiss. doesn't have to be on the lips, but it would be nice—"

you shut him up. he melts into it, tilting his head to deepen it, and he presses his whole body into yours, as if he can open up your skin and step inside, as close as close allows.

here is someone who understands him – here is his heart, here are his lungs, here is the flesh and bone that forms love. he loves love, and the carrot cake that love cuts for him, and the peaceful sleeping puppies resting their heads on each others' backs in love's living room.

he kisses you again, and his touch is the blinding supernova of a promise.

#jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook x male reader #jeon jungkook x male reader #jungkook x reader #bts x male reader #bts x reader #kpop x male reader #x male reader #male reader #m!reader #i want so badly to watch tlou if u cant tell #bonus points if you can tell who the 5yos are named after #1k event

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neontheweenie · 2 months

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Princess

Hello! This is my first story on here and my first time writing smut (for others to see), so please tell me what you think and give me feedback! I try to add a little plot in here to make it interesting! I do not give the MC a name, race, height, or any other defining features other than She/Her pronouns for ambiguity and inclusivity.

{Disclaimer- I own only the characters I create, do not own any part of the WWE, and am merely writing this for entertainment.}

{Warnings- Semi-public sex, use of the 'princess' nickname, praise kink, oral sex, fingering, dirty talk, and aftercare.}

"Your heart and my heart are very, very old friends."

-Hafiz

There's blood on my teeth. It's thick, hot, and sticky in a way that reminds me of syrup doused on a stack of pancakes.

When Rhea said she wanted to spar, I thought she meant playful, almost gentle jabs filled with flirty commentary like we usually have. Not... this. For some reason, she is ticked off today and won't tell me why.

You know it's bad when you won't even tell your best friend of the past 20 fucking years.

My fingers smear the hot drip of blood cascading down the front of my lip, the sticky substance shoving itself into my fingerprints. The ring's initial squish has worn off, allowing me to feel all the hard springs press up and into the thin skin of my knees.

"What's got your panties in a fucking bunch today?" My hands shake a little as my fingers wipe the dribbles of blood away. I can feel it, still oozing into my mouth, staining my teeth, and tainting my tongue with the taste of iron.

"Nothin'." What a load of bullshit. Something is up, and she will tell me what it is.

"Uh-huh. And I'm just going to believe you socked me in the face for funsies." Her lips curl into a sneer, her hands on mine to help me up. With one tug, I am on my feet, launched so close to her that I can feel her breath on my lips.

"We are sparring. I am supposed to sock you in the face, princess." Her Australian twang crawls under my skin, her word choice making the hairs of my neck stand.

I won't lie. I love her a lot. I like being called a princess by her a lot. She has always called me that ever since she had to push Ahmed Okonkwo off the swings in the fifth grade for me to get a turn.

"Yeah, but..." I pout a little, anger sparking in my chest. Usually, she treats me like I am special, and refuses to hit me too hard. She treats me like a princess.

But if she wants to be a bitch, she'll be getting the special bitch treatment. "Whatever." I push away from her, missing the crackling tension before putting my legs in a wide stance.

Rhea circles me, her blue eyes trickling over every inch of my sweats with eager interest. She isn't wearing any makeup, but her face's sharp angles shine under the ring's yellowish lights.

Sweat emanates from every surface in here, tainting the air with a gnarly smell and making everything two shades darker than it should be. Even the air seems dimmed from shadows, making it seem like a noir film.

I bounce on the floor, feeling the circular springs press on my socked feet.

"Come on, princess," She entices, getting close to my back until I feel her breath rushing down my neck. Her hands rushed along the curve of my waist, and I found myself wanting to know why she was being all touchy-feely again.

That is when I felt it. Her hands were trying to sneak under my arms so that she could pick me up and slam me down without my knowing it. Why is she being such a bitch today?!

All my life for as long as I can remember, Rhea has been a part of me, and we always got through our moods and stages together. I don't like this bitchy mood. I even preferred her fuckboy stage over this.

Once I can feel her shit-eating grin over my shoulder, indicating that she thought her plan worked, I shove my foot into her shin and spin out of her hold. When I turned, one of her legs was hoisted up to her chest and she was bouncing on the other.

"I can't believe that you were going to try and distract me!" I whine, returning to my wide stance on the other side of the ring. The synthetic material of the ring's ropes scratched against my shoulder and made my skin itch.

Rhea is still bouncing around on one foot, her bottom lip clenched between her sterling white teeth. Something about that view made me go hot under the collar, seeing how the subdued grime of the gym made her shine.

"It was working, wasn't it?" Through the pain, her Australian accent was exemplified. I grimace at her words, watching her put her foot down and stand before me. She doesn't look like she is trying to play offense or defense. She just looks tired.

"Dude, seriously, what the fuck crawled up your ass? Did I do something?" I ask, genuinely concerned that I may have done something to irk her. She usually tells me flat out if she hates something I did, but maybe I did something really bad this time.

"You did do something!" She chuffed, and I have to admit that I was surprised by her answer.

"Is this about the cake pop?" I know I ate her cake pop the other day, but she stole my french fries at lunch before that! It was a cake pop for a french fry, and it was a brutal hostage situation!

"No, this isn't about the goddamned cake pop!" She snips, her hand flying up in the air in pure frustration. "It's you, princess!" Her hand slaps back onto her thigh, the resounding smack echoing in the completely empty gym. The reason that Rhea and I picked this gym, even with its grime and old equipment, is because no one goes here.

"What do you mean me? Did I say something or do something you didn't like?" I get closer to her, not daring to touch her, but just close enough that I can feel her breath on my face. I stare directly into her eyes, the cold blue shards amongst the stormy gray making me realize how intricate she truly is. How human she is.

"No, you just... you are too much for me." Is she calling me a handful?!

"What do you mean too much?" The question comes out too stern like I am demanding a reply instead of requesting one. Our whole lives, Rhea has been fidgety about her emotions and thoughts, never truly coming to terms with how deeply she feels them and tries to hide them away from even herself.

But never, ever, in a bajillion years did I think she would have the nerve to call me 'too much.'

"Sit." She demands, tugging me until we are on the edge of the ring. I can feel the heat coming off her body, and our thighs are almost touching as we sit. Almost. "I need you to take this seriously and not make fun of me for this."

"Yeah, of course." She hasn't been this serious since she lost her match against Charlotte Flair. Anxiety balls in my stomach and jams itself in my throat like a thick ball of sludge, refusing to move but making me feel sweaty and impatient for it to leave.

"You have too much muchness for me. That muchness is what fucked me over here. That muchness is what makes you too good for me in every way." Her fingers trickled onto my sweatpants-covered thigh as her eyes dashed slightly over my head to avoid my gaze. "I love you. I love you and I love your muchness."

I feel that ball of sludge forming even bigger. Rhea motherfucking Ripley loves me? Me?! My 'muchness' is what made her love me like I have been wanting her to for years?

My cheeks are so hot that the bloody residue from earlier has baked onto them, forcing them to be crispy and cracked and annoyingly itchy.

"I have loved you for a really long time but it wasn't until recently that I realized it wasn't the kind of love I thought it was, princess." My eyes are so wide that owls must be jealous of me. She looks so scared to be admitting this, her normal bravado and confidence scrubbed away from her.

Her hand hasn't left my thigh, and the tattoos there have become the object of my attention. That is, until it moves to my jaw and pulls my gaze to her pleading, scared eyes. "Princess, I am admitting the most terrifying thoughts of my entire life right now. I need you to fucking look at me."

Her voice was gravelly and deep and heavenly. It was also really hot, but we don't need to mention that right now.

"I love you too," I whisper, voice shaky as I do so. I always have loved her too. I was just conscious about what kind of love it was and where it came from. Do I love her platonically? A million times yes. Do I love her romantically? A bazillion times yes.

"Really?" I have never seen her so scared. She is so precious.

"Yeah, really." In all honesty, I am just relieved that she wasn't calling me a handful. I think if that happened, I would literally snap her in half right now.

"Oh, thank you." Her head hangs on her shoulders, and the tight grip that was on my thigh loosens. Her fear is seemingly gone, with every ounce of it washed away like it was never there. Her confidence comes back, glowing through her toothy smile.

"I should be thanking you." My voice is soft as I rub my hand over her shoulders until I am draped over her, "You did what I haven't been brave enough to for years."

In one split second, her lips were on mine, her teeth nibbling on the edge of my bottom lip. Her hand forced my head to turn at an uncomfortable angle until she could consistently keep us connected. My neck ached as I strived to keep up with her fast pace and keep my head how she wanted it.

My chest was fizzing with every riotous emotion that I knew kissing her would result in. We have flirted before, (what pair of best friends haven't flirted with each other?), but it never felt as good as this.

We don't have to worry about being ridiculed or gawked at because the old man working the front desk is the only other person in here, and he is fast asleep. His snores are small, almost inaudible amongst the chatter of Audrey Hepburn's voice that is streaming from his small T.V.

"Come here, princess." She pats her lap, and I move so that my legs are on either side of our hips. At this angle, I have to lean down to kiss her, but it lets me dig my fingers into the roots of her black hair.

She tastes like vanilla chapstick and pineapples, but her hair smells like sea salt and feels smooth as silk. Her hands race all over my waist, touching and pulling as much fabric as she could into her greedy hands.

With every push of my lips, she leans farther back into the ring ropes, the tough material digging into her muscular back. Her hands hook on the tops of my sweatpants, igniting a fire deep in my belly from how good this all feels.

Her lips pull away from mine, and I whine from the loss. "Get into the dressing room." Her finger points to the small room as her demand leaves her perfect lips. "Now."

I crawl off her lap, making a proper show of it as I do by allowing my fingers to teasingly run down her thighs, and walk to the dressing room.

The door leading in is black and foreboding of what is to come, but the dressing room itself is nicer than the rest of the gym. It is recently remodeled, with 1 stall on the back wall and green benches amidst the tiny lockers. The floor is clean, white tile, contrasting the dark green of the benches and the navy blue of the lockers, and it reeks of lemon cleaner in here.

Altogether, it's not the most romantic hookup spot in the world but oh-fucking-well.

I hear the lock of the door click solemnly before I feel her lips on the nape of my neck. Her hands find purchase on my hips, digging into the skin with a pinching need.

She is devouring me, absorbing every inch of skin with little nibbles and even tinier kisses. I can't help the breathy moans that escape my lips, or how my hands reach back to hold the loose fabric of her t-shirt.

Her lips touch the rim of my earlobe, leaving behind traces of her chapstick. "Be a good girl and take off those sweatpants for me." She whispers, her body fluidly trickling out from behind me to sit on a bench. She leans against the lockers, using one hand to cover her mouth and the other to support her elbow.

"You want me to do a fucking strip tease for you?" I ask, my tone indicating how incredulous the idea sounds.

My hands are already pulling the material down my thighs. Once they are off, I leave them in a discarded pile on the floor and pull my shirt over my head. I don't feel like I am being sexy enough, but I just want her to see what she wants and make her happy.

I don't take off my bra or panties, though. I leave those on and scuffle back over to her pondering gaze. I reach out to touch her again, but she stops me with a hand on my wrist.

"Do I really have to ask you to take those off too?" Her eyebrow is cocked, daring me to object.

"No. I guess not." Does she care that I like being bossed around? No.

With a slight pout, I unclip the light pink bra, feeling the lace brush my sensitive breasts before it's gone. The undies come off too, and I thank myself for forgetting to do laundry so I couldn't wear my 'comfy' undergarments today.

"Goddamn, you are so fucking pretty, princess." She mumbles, ripping my body down until I am straddling her sitting form. It isn't gentle or calm, but it makes me so wet that I feel like a fucking river down there.

Her lips find mine again, and my hands go back to her hair. She rakes her fingers over my left breast, stopping only momentarily to tease by pulling my pebbled nipple, and then continues down to my stomach.

At this point, I am groaning into her mouth, my hips shuffling above hers as the air in here cools the slick between my thighs. It all feels like too much and not enough all at the same time.

I get bold enough to jam my hands under the bottom of her shirt, feeling the tense muscles of her stomach and the hard bones of her pelvis. It's her turn to groan, even if her hands are still sliding around the lower part of my torso.

"Switch me." She demands, and I clamber to get off of her. She stands, stripping herself of her t-shirt and shorts until she is only left in her sports bra and undies. The more I see the more I want.

She pushes me back so that I am lying down on the bench, splayed in front of her and allowing her to see every inch of me. She looks like some kind of Greek statue, all muscle, and imposing angles.

Her lips smooth over my neck and chest until she is at eye level with my pelvis. She kisses the skin of my stomach, gently sucking to create hickeys only she will see.

Her hand travels up to support my slightly craning back while the other spreads my legs farther apart until her shoulders can fit between them. I am a sweaty, blushing, moaning mess but I can't stop to compose myself.

"Rhea, please?" I breathlessly mutter, the friction between my legs becoming too much to bear. I need her, and I need her quickly.

"Please what, princess? What do you want me to do?" I can feel her hand ghosting over my folds, teasing me and making me whine.

"Don't tease!" I beg, but she doesn't care. She likes this, the little sadist. "Just, p- oh fuck." Halfway through my thought, her fingers jammed themselves up to rub at my clit. They weren't rubbing hard or fast, they were slow and smooth, which made me feel every racket of pleasure even more.

If I could have done anything other than hold my breath, I would have screamed in pleasure. But, instead, I sucked in the air until my chest felt like it would explode and dug my nails into her shoulders. I know that crescent moons formed on her skin from my nails, but I don't think either of us gave a flying shit about it.

She took her fingers away for one moment, wiping the slick that was on them onto the skin of my thigh. All the air I was holding deflated from my chest in a whine.

"Rhea! You are teasing again!" This time, I am lucky enough that she lets me finish my thought before literally fucking me with something.

Just after I finished my whining, her tongue cruised over my wet folds before lightly racing over my swollen clit. I could feel the hot metal of her tongue piercing, and she somehow managed to use the metal ball on the end to add pressure wherever she wanted to.

Spasms of pleasure forced my legs to jitter around her head, and her hands pushed the insides of my thighs as open as they could be.

"You taste just as good as I thought you would princess." Oh.

"Thank you?" I squeak out, moaning when her fingers easily slip inside of me. The intense pressure that has been building in my stomach feels dangerously close to imploding, and I chase it with all my might. My hips buck up to meet the rapid, bruising pace her fingers set, but her shoulders don't let my thighs clench like they want to.

She brings her tongue back to the party, teasing me by lapping at my clit and looking up at me with her sharp blue eyes. She is a sight to see, her determination plastered over her face.

All this playing and toying and teasing got me so close to the edge that I could taste the overwhelming pleasure. Tiny rockets of explosive euphoria alight in my brain, and I just need a little push.

She pulls away, taking away one of the major sensations. I huff, my head leaning up to look at the dressing room's ceiling in pure annoyance and shock that she actually took something away from me.

Rhea, of course, looks mighty satisfied with herself for edging me like that.

"Rhea, please, I was so close." I turn to begging when her fingers set a slow pace and her tongue hasn't come back yet. She almost looks like she is going to cave and give me what I want, but then her evil little smirk comes back.

"OK. I'll give you the princess treatment, but just know that princesses have to deal with a lot all at once." Wait. What does she mean?!

I can't ponder the thought any further as her fingers return to their fast pace and her tongue is doing what her tongue does. How the hell does she make me feel this good?

The metal ball on her tongue ring swivels around my clit in a way that forces my back to fully arch and my hips swivel to accommodate the onslaught of pleasure. Her hand moves from supporting my back to pinning my hips down to the bench.

"Rhea, I'm gonna-" I trail off, feeling my hips shake and the tiny sparklers in my stomach turn into lit fireworks.

She pulls away for one second to mumble, "Fucking do it, princess." Her tone is dipped in desire and double-fried in lust, and it makes me pop my top.

Every muscle, joint, and bone in my body is on fire and tight with too much goodness. I feel like I am suffocating, holding my breath as I frantically moan and try to stop squirming. It's so overstimulating and so much to handle.

Oh. That's what she meant by a lot all at once.

Once the waves of pleasure calm themselves and my body relaxes, she kisses her way back up slowly, stopping at the previous hickeys she placed to make them even darker.

"I love you." She whispers into my ear, both of us sitting up on the bench. I am sticky with sweat, among other things, and looking at her reveals that she is just as much of a blushing mess as I am.

"I love you too," I mumble back. Her shoulders are littered with crescent moons, her chest is rapidly moving with short, deep breaths, and her hair is fluffed up and poofy. I lay my head on her shoulder for a few minutes, simply sitting there and absorbing her.

She stands after a long while, washing her hands and gently maneuvering my thighs to clean me off with a wet paper towel she got from the dispenser. Not only is she still a total smoke show, but now she is taking even better care of me than when we were 'just friends', and it makes me smile.

"I hope you aren't smiling because you think it is over. I still have so many things I have been dying to do to you, princess." She says, throwing her shirt and pants back on.

"I know it's not over, you little dork." I tease, following suit and getting my clothes back on. "And who said you get to have all the fun tonight?"

She laughs, grabbing my hand in hers and carrying both our gym bags.

"Let's go home, princess." We walk out of the gym, not daring to wake the front desk man, but our routine of walking out seems different. Better, in a way.

It might be just because I got my brains fucked out, but goddamn it I love tonight and I love her and she loves me. It's all I have ever wanted, and I finally have it.

---

Fin.

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wolfpackss · 9 months

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Second request in a row but this is too cute and I will forget. As I'm snacking on my grapes this morning my 2 toddlers in class(a 1.5 yr old and an almost 2 yr old) are standing there asking "more please" whenever I eat one grape(1 for me then 1 for each of them). It's too stinking cute and I thought I could see Jake with twins asking the pack for bites of their food. 😂😂😂

YES PLEASE 🫣!

I love you

“Jawod, mowe pleese.” You walk into Emily’s living room to see your 18 month old son sitting on his uncle’s lap, waiting for him to feed him more berries. “Momma looks, bewwies!” His twin sister wobbles inside, holding one of Paul’s fingers. Her other tiny hand is holding two small berries, squished berries with how tightly she’s gripping on to them. You hear the door open and close as your husband walks in from Patrol. “Dada!” The twins run towards Jacob as he kneels down and picks them both up. “Hello my loves!” Jacob kisses both their cheeks and cuddles them close. Our daughter pulls away from him and shoved her hand in front of his face. “Look dada, bewwies!” Jacob nods with a big smile on his face. “I see that princess, did uncle Paul give you those?” He rubs her tiny cheek with his palm and she smiles at him as she nods her head, her tiny pigtails on the top bouncing with her movements. You walk over towards Jacob and your daughter and lean up to kiss your husbands cheek. “Missed you” you mumble against his skin. “Momma nooooooo, my dada!” Your daughter launches herself towards her father as he catches her skillfully in his arms. “Yes baby, your dada.” I run my fingers over her forehead, brushing away some hairs that got loose from her pigtails. You look over to where your son is pressed up against his uncle Jared’s chest as they count the berries that are still in his bowl.

Later that night as you are all sitting down for dinner, the twins in their high seats, your son of course next to his super hero uncles as your daughter never lets go of her daddy’s hand. “Mowe pleese.” Your son grins at his uncles at the sight of the beans on Paul’s plate. “You are seriously Jacob’s mini.” Jared ruffles your son’s hair and puts more beans in front of him. “Come on princess, daddy has to eat too.” You try to wriggle her little hand out of Jacob’s hand with no success, she’s gripping it tightly, afraid if she lets go he’ll disappear. “I’m okay babe, I’ll manage” Jacob kisses the side of your head and tries to eat with the hand that’s not in a death grip.

“Dadaaaaa, mommaaaaaa” two little voices can be heard in the middle of the night screaming for you and your husband who is curled up beside you in bed. He lets out a groan as the twins continue to cry. “I’ll go babe, you go back to sleep” he softly kisses your forehead, rubs the sleep out of his eyes and gets out of bed. He shuffles towards the twins’s room, walks in and puts on the light. Your son is standing in his crib, glaring at the closet door as your daughter sniffles behind her blanket, clutching her teddy bear. “What’s wrong?” Jacob sits down near your son and rubs his head. Your daughter crawling over closer to her dad so she can hold his hand. “Montah” your son point towards the closet and wildly shakes his head. “A monster? Oh no! I’ll get the monster spray and we’ll scare the monsters away together ,kay?” Jacob walks to the closet to get the “monster” spray, which just contained water and puts it on the floor. He gets the twins out of bed and slowly walks them over towards the closet. Four little hands grip the bottle as Jacob opens the closet door. The entire bottle gets sprayed into the closet and the twins are squealing with glee. “kay, the monster is gone, now it’s time for sleep, yeah?” Jacob puts the twins into their cribs and kisses their foreheads. “Goodnight my loves” he smiles as he walks to the door.

“Dada?” Your son looks up at his dad,

“Mowe pleese…” and point to his forehead.

#twilight imagine #jacob black x reader #jacob black angst #jacob black smut #jacob black imagine #jacob black x you #jacob black x female reader #jacob black fluff #jacob black

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gimmethatagustd · 2 months

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venor (4) | kth + jjk

The barista at the university’s café keeps telling Jungkook not to come back, but Jungkook is too busy daydreaming about kissing the beauty marks on his face to be paying attention to his warnings.

○ Pairing: Tiger!Taehyung x Bunny!Jungkook

○ Rating: Explicit/18+

○ Genre: Hybrids, predator/prey, college au, strangers to lovers, slow burn, fluff, light angst, eventual smut

○ Word Count: 5,275

○ Warnings: None

○ Notes: Did Jai get tired of making the messaging graphics and is now just doing plain text? Yes. Are we gonna talk about it? No.

○ Post Date: February 25, 2024

○ Masterlist | AO3 Cross-Post

○ What was Jai listening to? The series playlist

Series Masterlist

vante95

what’s up?

“Suyun! Suyun! Suyun!”

Jungkook launches himself from his seat and bolts to the opposite side of the room, where Suyun is still drawing her scary equations and chemistry things on the whiteboard. He shoves his phone in front of her face and waggles it until she grabs his wrist to hold him in place.

“Calm down, young man.” She glares at Jungkook, but it’s not at all menacing, and they both know it.

It would be nice, but Jungkook can’t calm down. Every vein in his body jitters with something terrifyingly electric, like he stuck his finger in an outlet and tried to walk through the aftershocks. It makes him feel like he might pass out, but in a good way.

Maybe Jungkook needs to chill out.

Maybe Jungkook isn’t worried about that, though. What’s so bad about having a little crush? Jungkook has never actually had one, not a real one, so he thinks it might be nice to lean into it. Suyun encouraged him to reach out to Taehyung anyway. Jungkook would argue that he can’t be held responsible.

“What should I say?” Jungkook bounces on the balls of his feet, and he’s glad his shirt is long enough to hide his tail because it might be wiggling. Perhaps. No one needs to know.

“Oh no, I’m terrible at this,” Suyun hands Jungkook his phone. She pouts with a shrug. “I don’t even know how I got Jackson to date me. I’m terrible at small talk and flirting.”

Looks like Jungkook is on his own.

He plops in his seat, homework assignments forgotten. With his chest pressed against the edge of the table and his arms stretched out in front of him, Jungkook lets out a long, pitiful groan.

jkookie

Just studying with my friend 😊 What about you?

vante95

that’s cute

i’m taking a break at work

yknow at my job at a cafe for predators only

jkookie

🫠 I don’t think it’s fair to ban prey from going! The donuts are so good

vante95

so the donuts are why you keep showing up

that the only reason?

jkookie

... Yes

vante95

mhm

interesting

jkookie

Is it?? They’re good! I love the powder sugar ones and the sprinkles

vante95

i would’ve thought you’d like the striped ones

jkookie

I’ve never had the striped ones before

vante95

lol

cute

anyway

if you’re gonna keep being difficult about this at least promise me something

jkookie

👀 What?

vante95

only come during my shift

jkookie

Why?

vante95

so i can make sure no one eats you

“Oh, that’s kinky,” Suyun announces over Jungkook’s shoulder. “Tell him you want him to eat you.”

“Suyun!” With a gasp, Jungkook turns in his chair to stare at Suyun, wide-eyed and innocent.

“I don’t know. It seemed like a logical next step. He kind of lobbed it to you, right?” Suyun shrugs and returns to the whiteboard. “Make the basket, Jungkookie.”

Suyun has definitely been spending too much time with Jackson.

jkookie

Am I supposed to believe that your being there will matter?

It’s a risky text to send. Jungkook worries he comes off rude, especially when it takes a bit longer for Taehyung to respond than it did for his other texts. Before he can get too worked up about it, Jungkook reminds himself that Taehyung is at work. He might be slow to respond because he’s busy — which technically Jungkook is, too, but he decides that taking a little break from homework is needed.

Taehyung’s following text message comes a few minutes later, and Jungkook lets out a little groan because why is Taehyung’s level of cockiness so attractive? It shouldn’t be a surprise; Taehyung carries himself confidently, which was apparent from when Jungkook first met him.

vante95

i’m kind of a big deal

jkookie

What are you, their alpha??

vante95

did you really just ask that

jkookie

I have to go now

Bye

vante95

lol

see you tomorrow bun

Cheeks aflame, Jungkook slips his phone into his pocket and tells himself that he will not, under any circumstances, look at it until later tonight, after he’s finished his homework and gotten dinner with Yoongi. It’s their night to cook together once Yoongi gets home from work.

It doesn’t take long for Jungkook to finish the work that requires his immediate attention. He’ll deal with the other assignments later, like the Art History assignment Professor Jung referred to during class. Jungkook still hasn’t settled on a topic for that one yet. It isn’t that he’s slacking; in reality, he has many potential project topics he’s interested in and is having trouble narrowing down the list. Perhaps he’ll find time to stop by Professor Jung’s office later in the week to ask for help.

Saying goodbye to Suyun, Jungkook braves the dying evening heat to head to the train station. There isn’t a grocery store within walking distance of the university with all the ingredients he and Yoongi need for dakgalbi, so Jungkook has to travel a few blocks south to reach the neighborhood grocery store.

Jungkook doesn’t mind the commute or having to meander through aisles looking for red chili paste, shishito peppers, and cooking wine. Growing up with overprotective parents meant Jungkook spent much time trailing behind them, running errands, and learning about adult responsibilities. Time spent alone or with kids his age wasn’t a luxury he got to experience often, though he cherished those moments when he got the opportunity to.

So, Jungkook enjoys searching for groceries. He likes the colorful products lining the shelves, the slightly stale smell of some older grocery stores, and the dark markings of rubber-soled shoes smudged on the linoleum. Lately, errands like this have made him miss his parents, but not enough to truly consider himself homesick. His drive for independence prevents him from getting too nostalgic.

Hunger encourages Jungkook to finish up his grocery shopping quickly. He forces himself only to buy what’s needed and manages to fit most of the items in his backpack. With the wine in a grocery bag looped through his fingers and his backpack sitting on his lap, Jungkook watches the neighborhoods blur on the train ride back to campus.

The train isn’t separated by predators and prey like the university is. Most of the public isn’t, at least not legally. Jungkook has noticed that prey tend to flock together, rarely intermingling with predators unless necessary. It’s hard in an oppressive society where predators are always on top, even in a progressive city like Seoul.

Jungkook never thought about how predators and prey interact until he moved. Now, though, he notices so much more — like the group of predators who enter his train car a few stops before they reach the university. He recognizes a few of them, particularly the wolf hybrid from Taehyung’s friend group. The group doesn’t pay Jungkook any mind, quickly shuffling past him toward the back of the car, where there are more seats.

Disappointment uncoils inside Jungkook when he doesn’t see a messy head of copper curls follow the wolf hybrid when he walks past where Jungkook sits, but he reminds himself that Taehyung is at work.

It’s for the best that Jungkook has no distractions on his way home. Poor Yoongi will be waiting for him.

The third time Jungkook visits Venor Cafe, Taehyung is working behind the counter. He stands with his hip propped against the edge of the counter and talks to the snow leopard hybrid while she counts money at the register. The bills make a papery sound as she flips them between her fingers with practiced precision. She doesn’t look up when the bell over the front door rings, but Taehyung does.

Taehyung easily maintains his conversation with his coworker while his sharp feline eyes stalk Jungkook to the counter. The look on Taehyung’s face is nothing short of predatory, but all Jungkook can focus on is his comforting scent. He wonders whether Taehyung’s scent spiked when Jungkook entered the cafe or if it’s all in his head.

“Give us a sec,” the snow leopard gestures to the open register drawer when Jungkook approaches.

Jungkook nods and gives himself a moment to check out his surroundings. A handful of other customers are scattered around the cafe, none that catch Jungkook’s attention. He only has eyes for the tiger behind the counter, and Taehyung definitely has his eyes on him, too.

“Bun.” Taehyung leans his forearms on the counter, bringing him closer to where Jungkook stands just half a step back.

“Hi,” Jungkook says with a cheerful smile that isn’t returned. “How are you doing today?”

The snow leopard snorts, and Taehyung’s pretty mouth twitches at the corners. His dark eyes flit to the backpack slung over one of Jungkook’s shoulders, and Jungkook notices that Taehyung is wearing thin, black eyeliner, making his expression pointed.

“I’m assuming you plan on staying in here?”

He ignores Jungkook’s question about his day. It’s rude, but Jungkook will let it pass because Taehyung looks exceptionally fluffy today, and it’s doing something to his chest.

“Yup. I’m starting a new routine.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm, this is my time to decompress after class before my shift at the library starts.”

Taehyung bites the inside of his cheek, eyes flashing with something Jungkook can’t read. He straightens up to let his coworker pass, taking her apron before she disappears into the backdoor marked for employees only.

“That’s nice,” Taehyung comments, tone flat and almost bored. “Listen, bun, you’re gonna do me a favor and sit right there.” Dipping his head, Taehyung gestures to the large couch and well-worn leather armchairs directly across from the register.

Jungkook turns around to look at the seating arrangement. The chairs surround a glass coffee table stacked with old university event fliers and a few tiny potted succulents. The furniture looks comfortable, and Jungkook spots an outlet nearby.

“Why?” Jungkook asks, turning back to face the counter.

“I already told you.” Taehyung’s eyes travel down Jungkook’s body, pausing where his crop top exposes a hint of his midriff. “Gotta make sure nobody eats you.”

Blinking rapidly, Jungkook hurriedly breaks eye contact with Taehyung as a flush spreads up his neck and across his face. Never has he felt so attuned to his instincts as he does now, his entire body prickly and on edge. Taehyung makes Jungkook want to run.

No, Taehyung makes Jungkook want to be chased.

Shaken by that realization, Jungkook jerks into action. He gives Taehyung a quick nod and turns to the leather couch. On his way to getting settled, he nearly knocks over the succulents and sends a few fliers shooting into the air and fluttering to the floor like autumn leaves.

“Sorry, sorry,” Jungkook murmurs, snatching the papers and trying to ignore the low chuckle coming from behind the counter, eventually drowned out by the sound of the espresso machine.

Despite the unexpected start to his “Decompress Time,” Jungkook finds his rhythm rather quickly. The leather couch is worn but comfortable, with plush cushions that form to Jungkook from years of being well-loved by loyal customers. He rests his tablet on the arm of the couch to prop it up at a comfortable angle so he can work on his comic.

A busy schedule has prevented him from progressing much, but Jungkook has learned not to shame himself for moving slowly. Hobbies are meant to be fun; there’s no use making himself miserable over something that should bring him joy.

Perhaps Jungkook enjoys it a little too much, getting lost in the colorful worlds he creates with furrowed brows and a stylus gripped in one hand. After a while, the rest of the world grows fuzzy and desaturated, like the unfinished background of a lesser scene in Jungkook’s comic. He doesn’t notice the figure looming over him until his backpack is pushed to the side on the glass coffee table.

“One iced mocha latte.”

“But…” Jungkook watches Taehyung place the drink on the coffee table in front of him. “I didn’t order anything.”

Taehyung gives Jungkook a blank expression for half a beat before turning his back on Jungkook’s confusion and returning to the register as a few more customers trickle in. There’s no use in calling after him; Jungkook would prefer not to draw attention to himself, and he wouldn’t want Taehyung to get in trouble — since it mustn’t be allowed, right? To give away free drinks?

It’s hard to ignore the fuzzy feeling Jungkook gets in his chest when he picks up the drink and gives himself a moment to process that Taehyung remembered his order from weeks ago. Jungkook has seen the cafe during busy hours; he’s sure Taehyung has far too many customers to remember orders, yet Taehyung remembered his.

The drink is in a disposable paper coffee cup. Disappointment nips Jungkook in the heart when he realizes Taehyung has put his drink in a to-go cup as if to subliminally tell him to leave. Jungkook twists the cup in his hand and notices something scribbled with a permanent marker on the side — a small cartoon bunny with floppy ears and large, starry eyes. Underneath the drawing in messy handwriting is the simple greeting, Hi, bun.

Jungkook isn’t sure how much blushing he can take today. His body is heating up so severely that he’s worried his scent might start spiking from embarrassment in the middle of a predators’ hangout.

Taking a deep breath, he risks looking at the counter. Perhaps there is a different edge to Jungkook’s scent, or Taehyung has an uncanny sixth sense, but his eyes immediately lock with Taehyung’s. Like before, Taehyung’s expression is unreadable. Their connection is broken with a blink, and Taehyung focuses on tending to the next customer in line to order. Only the twitch of his striped ears give a hint that he might still be paying attention to the bunny across the room.

Jungkook takes a sip of his drink to stop himself from grinning.

Over the next few weeks, Jungkook visits Venor Cafe fairly regularly. He doesn’t come in during all of Taehyung’s shifts; Yoongi thoroughly explained how creepy that would make Jungkook seem. Jungkook doesn’t see the harm in it, but he trusts his hyung to know about these things — even if Yoongi tends to overthink quite a lot.

Besides, Jungkook knows that Taehyung enjoys having him around. Why else would he continue drawing adorable bunnies on Jungkook’s cups and leaving little messages on his napkins?

Sometimes, Taehyung is too busy to talk to Jungkook. On those days, Jungkook receives even more hidden messages accompanied by drinks and snacks that Jungkook doesn’t order but appear on the coffee table anyway.

From what Jungkook has observed, most of the employees are college students who aren’t the most ambitious and don’t always take their jobs seriously. They aren’t like Taehyung, who works hard and is attentive to his customers, no matter how tired he may seem. It’s admirable, and Jungkook likes how the more he gets to know Taehyung, the more he proves those terrible stereotypes people feed about predators wrong.

Even the other predators at the cafe don’t seem too bad. By now, Jungkook has spent hours on the leather couch that always seems free, even when the rest of the cafe is crowded, and he has never been treated poorly by the other customers. He’s starting to think everyone is overreacting. What are they seeing in the world that Jungkook can’t?

Considering he has no other predator friends, Jungkook figures he may as well ask Taehyung all his questions. But, first, he has an important matter to settle.

“So, why are you in a prey class?”

“I can’t talk to you, bun. I’m working.”

“You were behind the counter texting someone not even five minutes ago,” Jungkook challenges with a toothy grin, “Answer my question.”

Looking up from where he’s wiping off one of the tables, Taehyung gives Jungkook a long stare. His hair is pushed away from his face today, held back by a black bandana to match his all-black outfit. Nothing should be so attractive about a black t-shirt and jeans, especially not all-black Air Forces, yet Jungkook can’t get over how pretty Taehyung is.

What’s even more adorable is how the two of them probably look together, staring each other down in the back corner of the cafe, Taehyung in all black and Jungkook in pastels.

“I thought bunnies were supposed to be timid,” Taehyung finally comments with an arched brow.

“I’m not like most bunnies.”

Jungkook regrets his response the moment he gives it and internally cringes. Taehyung’s laughter makes it worse.

“Cute.” Taehyung smirks, the tip of his striped tail flicking from where he tucks it in the string ties of his apron. The placement keeps his tail out of the way as he works. Earlier, Jungkook almost stepped on it while following Taehyung around the cafe, and he isn’t particularly interested in finding out what an angry tiger looks like.

“I’m taking it because the timing for our class session conflicted with my schedule, and I needed to take this one now since I want to graduate a semester early. Trust me, I wouldn’t take a class with prey if I didn’t have to. No offense.”

“Why not?”

Taehyung rolls his eyes. “You’re something special, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am,” Jungkook agrees with more confidence than he should have for someone unsure if Taehyung’s comment was a compliment.

With a shake of his head and a laugh that’s a rush of air through his nostrils, Taehyung fights the urge to smile as he resumes cleaning the messy table. Jungkook should probably return to his seat, but he’s having more fun bouncing on the balls of his feet while Taehyung scrubs at a sticky spot on the table. Part of that fun might be because the veins in Taehyung’s forearms become more defined as he scrubs harder and his bicep bulges against the tight cuff of his t-shirt.

“Bun.”

Blinking, Jungkook looks up to meet the heartstopping smirk on Taehyung’s face.

“Um, yes?”

Taehyung gestures to the side of his head, grin growing wider when Jungkook lifts his hand. One of Jungkook’s ears has fallen from inside his bucket hat, exposing it to the whole cafe. Jungkook quickly shoves it back inside the hat, having sworn he’d tied both back adequately, stress radiating from his trembling body.

“Hey, hey,” Taehyung’s warm fingers encircle Jungkook’s wrist and pull his hand away from his head. “It’s okay.”

“I’m not—”

“Can I tell you something?” Taehyung interrupts. He waits for Jungkook to nod before continuing, “It doesn’t matter if you hide your ears or tail, bun. We all know what you are, even without seeing them.”

“What do you mean?” When Jungkook’s face scrunches with confusion, Taehyung taps the tip of Jungkook’s wiggly nose with his index finger.

“Our senses are sharper than yours. Prey smell different.” Taehyung slips the cleaning rag into his apron’s pocket. He looks amused, as though there’s a secret joke to what he’s said that Jungkook doesn’t understand.

Unsure of how to respond, Jungkook stands with his fingers nervously tapping against his thighs and waits with bated breath as Taehyung plucks his hat from his head.

“I like your ears. They’re cute,” Taehyung murmurs just quiet enough for Jungkook to hear. He holds the hat out for Jungkook to take, then turns on his heel without another word, leaving Jungkook flustered — not for the first time, and certainly not for the last.

At some point, Suyun starts hanging out with Jungkook at Venor Cafe. The first time she visits the cafe is with Jackson, who Jungkook is surprised to learn is friends with Taehyung. Considering how tall and athletic they are, the fact that the two predators play on the university’s basketball team makes sense to Jungkook. A fox hybrid, Jackson moves elegantly and is quick on his feet, bouncing around as he playfully tussles with Taehyung before the start of his shift. The obnoxious display of predatory behavior makes Suyun roll her eyes, though her cheeks grow pink whenever Jackson smiles at her from across the cafe.

It’s disgusting couple behavior in the kind of way that Jungkook thinks he would quite literally die to experience himself.

Luckily, Jackson doesn’t frequent the cafe — not that Jungkook doesn’t like him. It’s merely that Jungkook enjoys spending time with Suyun, and it’s easier when Jackson doesn’t serve as a distraction.

Suyun argues that Jungkook gets distracted by a particular employee, but she doesn’t tease him too badly about it. Jungkook is grateful for that, considering someone else does enough teasing.

“Two spooky pumpkin cinnamon donuts with chocolate drizzle.”

Taehyung places two small plates on the coffee table in front of the leather couch — which has become Jungkook’s couch at this point. He has yet to arrive at the cafe to find it already occupied. What strange luck.

“We didn’t order—”

“Shhh,” Taehyung interrupts Suyun with a finger to his lips. “It’s officially autumn, and Jungkook has never had striped donuts.”

A wink is Taehyung’s goodbye as he returns to his work duties, leaving the pastries behind. They look delicious, and having tried the cafe’s other donuts, Jungkook is confident they won’t disappoint. He picks one up and cups his other hand underneath it to catch the cinnamon crumbles that might fall from it when he takes a bite.

“Jungkook,” Suyun whispers as she watches him chew.

“Hmm?”

“He gave you an orange donut with brown stripes.”

Jungkook nods with a little hum of appreciation. The donut is really good.

“Do you not get it…?” Suyun’s eyes widen, and her large, round ears perk up. She smacks Jungkook on the thigh with her whip-like tail when he doesn’t say anything, making him yelp. “Orange with stripes! Jungkook! The tiger just fed you an orange donut with brown stripes.”

Jungkook’s entire body shivers with realization. “Ohh…”

“Yeah,” Suyun scoffs, shaking her head. “Yeah."

“I mean, it’s just a seasonal donut. It doesn’t, like, mean something.” Jungkook gestures to the cafe’s large front windows as if to point out the trees' changing color and the skittering leaves along the sidewalk. “Right?”

Suyun shrugs and reaches for her own donut. “I don’t know… Is it normal for him to give you free food like this?”

Jungkook nods, and something weird inside him makes his stomach flutter when Suyun hums in surprise.

“Well… That’s… I mean, that’s interesting.”

Setting his tablet and stylus on the coffee table, Jungkook turns on the couch to face Suyun. “What do you mean? What’s interesting?”

When Suyun shakes her head, Jungkook musters up the most pathetic pout he can come up with.

“Suyun, please tell me. I don’t understand.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she mutters with a roll of her eyes. “It probably doesn’t mean anything at all. It’s just that sometimes gift-giving is a, um, it’s a component of—”

Before Suyun can finish her botched explanation, Taehyung appears beside the couch. He’s engrossed in something on his phone and no longer wearing his apron.

“Scoot over, bun. I’m taking my break,” Taehyung demands as he wiggles in between Jungkook and the arm of the couch.

Startled, Jungkook scrambles to the middle of the couch, giving Taehyung more room. He’s reminded of how big Taehyung is, with spread thighs and broad shoulders that brush against Jungkook’s. Today, they’re both in jeans, though Jungkook is wearing an oversized v-neck sweater, whereas Taehyung is in a plain t-shirt. It’s getting cold outside, but Taehyung’s body seems to run hot.

This is the closest they’ve ever been, and Jungkook feels like he can’t breathe.

“Is that me?”

Suyun smacks Jungkook on the arm, bringing his attention to Taehyung’s gaze. Following it, his stomach overturns with nausea when he realizes what Taehyung is looking at.

“What? No!” Jungkook snatches his tablet and holds it to his chest like a teenage girl who has had her diary read. “Why would it be you?”

Taehyung rests his elbow on the arm of the couch and holds his chin in his hand. His boxy mouth curves into a small smile, though Jungkook isn’t fooled. The giddy look on Taehyung’s face is mocking.

What can he expect, really? Taehyung has just seen the portrait Jungkook has been drawing of him.

“Let me see it.”

“No.”

“If it’s not me, why can’t I?” Taehyung’s grin is sharp, canines glinting in the natural lighting.

Jungkook thinks about how Suyun said he should let Taehyung eat him.

“It’s not good…” Jungkook makes up an excuse. The portrait is good; Jungkook has been working on it for weeks. He told himself he needed a break from working on his comic and wanted to practice realism.

Really, he just likes looking at Taehyung.

“Y’know, bun, I’m majoring in Museum Studies and Studio Art,” Taehyung speaks casually as though he isn’t at all phased by the fact that some prey hybrid who thrust himself into his life has been creepily drawing him while he works. “I know a thing or two about good art.”

Jungkook knew this. He was surprised when he first learned that Taehyung wanted to work as a curator or exhibition designer in a museum. It was a cool career aspiration that Jungkook had never considered, probably because his mind was always clouded by the financial stability entering the tech industry could bring him. Now that he knows more about what’s out there in the world, he sometimes has his regrets.

“That makes me want to show you even less,” Jungkook mumbles, sneakily turning off the tablet and returning it to the coffee table. “Maybe some other time.”

Jungkook doesn’t know why he pseudo-promises a future where Taehyung may see his artwork, but he can’t help it. Maybe it’s the enthralling look in Taehyung’s eyes when he realized the drawing was of himself. Maybe it’s the warmth of Taehyung’s tail resting on Jungkook’s thigh.

Maybe Jungkook is actually losing his mind.

“I’ll hold you to that, bun,” Taehyung says with a grin. His eyes roam Jungkook’s face like he’s committing it to memory or searching for something amongst the scar on his cheek and the beauty mark under his bottom lip.

The bell above the cafe’s front door rings, drawing Taehyung’s attention away from Jungkook. A group of predators enters, led by the wolf hybrid Jungkook has unfortunately run across far too many times lately. It’s odd to see the same person so often, especially in such a large city as Seoul.

“Hoseok hyung!” Taehyung waves at one of the men. For a moment, Jungkook fears that Taehyung is calling over the wolf hybrid, but instead, a snake hybrid breaks off from the group to weave through the tables.

“Taehyungie, what’s up? Are you not working today?”

Jungkook doesn’t miss how Hoseok eyes him and Suyun. However, he doesn’t know how to interpret the snake hybrid’s expression. The slitted eyes throw him off.

“Nah, I’m just taking a break. You guys still going over to Byungchul’s later?”

When Hoseok nods, the white scales that contour his face and collarbones glitter.

“Are you?”

“Of course. I need a fucking break,” Taehyung groans, leaning his head back on the couch.

“Bringing your… friends with you?” Hoseok’s eyes sweep over him and Suyun, again hard to read.

Taehyung shifts slightly, and Jungkook tries to scoot over to give him more room. Taehyung stops him by wrapping his arm around Jungkook’s shoulders and gently drawing him into his side. Rather than be startled by Taehyung’s sudden out-of-character behavior, Jungkook melts into his embrace. Taehyung’s body is warm and firm, and his scent is so calming that Jungkook feels like he can fall asleep from how comfortable he is. He doesn’t even bother wondering why Taehyung is acting this way.

“Oh! I’m hanging out with Jackson’s family this weekend,” Suyun turns to give Jungkook an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, I completely forgot to tell you.”

As part of their Art History class final project, they’re supposed to visit a new ancient Egyptian art exhibit at the National Museum of Korea. Jungkook and Suyun had plans to go together over the weekend.

“It’s okay,” Jungkook reassures her with a small smile. He doesn’t mind going to the museum alone.

Taehyung squeezes Jungkook’s shoulder. When Jungkook turns to look up at him, he still has his eyes on Hoseok. It’s a nice view, though. Jungkook can admire the curl of Taehyung’s pretty eyelashes and the jut of his plump lips. He has to fight the urge to nuzzle into his neck.

“He better not fucking bring any prey.”

Jungkook feels Taehyung tense as the wolf hybrid saunters to stand beside Hoseok. There’s something slimy about him, even beyond his gross comments toward Jungkook on his first day of school.

“That’s no way to speak about your hyung, Byungchul.” Taehyung’s response is clipped, a tone Jungkook isn’t familiar hearing from him.

Byungchul crosses his arms against his chest as if to puff himself up. He’s more muscular than Taehyung, but he isn’t as tall or broad, and he looks silly, forcing himself to seem bigger than he really is.

“You’ve already tainted the only predator cafe in the neighborhood by letting them in,” Byungchul gestures to Jungkook and Suyun, who frowns at him in a way she probably thinks is intimidating. “There’s no way you’re ruining our hangouts, too.”

The words don’t necessarily sting because Jungkook doesn’t know Byungchul, but they make him uneasy. It seems like a threat, something Jungkook has never experienced before. He’s never experienced any kind of discrimination before.

Standing up, Taehyung gets in Byungchul’s face, though Byungchul doesn’t back down.

“If you have a problem with them being here, you can leave.”

Jungkook, Suyun, and Hoseok watch silently as the two predators size each other up. Clearly, neither wants to back down, but Taehyung has an advantage over Byungchul because of his age and the fact that he works at the cafe. Eventually, Byungchul backs away with a glare in Jungkook and Suyun’s direction.

“Fine,” Byungchul grunts. He’s quick to turn his back on the group and shoulder through the front door, flinging it open hard enough that it’s loud when it slams closed behind him.

“What a little shit,” Hoseok says with a cackle that shows all his teeth. They’re pointy, too. Never has Jungkook been around so much danger. “He’ll never survive in the real world.”

Taehyung isn’t as amused. He motions for Jungkook and Suyun to get up once Hoseok has fallen into the line at the register.

“Can you please leave?” Taehyung asks with a weary sigh. Jungkook knows he and Suyun don’t have a say in the matter.

On another day, Jungkook would be sad, but he feels relieved to leave the cafe when Taehyung asks. He and Suyun don’t bother looking back when they slip out the front door like teens sneaking out of the house, careful not to draw attention to themselves.

“What bullshit,” Suyun huffs once they’re out of earshot of the cafe. She kicks a stray pebble on the sidewalk and watches it ricochet off a nearby tree.

“Do you have to deal with that kind of stuff a lot? Because of Jackson?” Jungkook asks quietly. He’s still shaken up, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.

Suyun shakes her head. “Most of his friends are pretty chill. Byungchul has something wrong with him.”

Clearly, Jungkook thinks as they make their way to the library. Maybe some predators are rotten apples.

Series Masterlist

Disclaimer: All my writing is fictional and for entertainment purposes only. None of these characters are meant to actually represent the real people mentioned in the stories.

All rights reserved © @gimmethatagustd - Do not copy, repost, modify, or translate any of my writing. Do not use my writing for any AI purposes whatsoever. Do not use my fics for anything aside from reading and commenting on them. My fics will only be posted on this Tumblr and on AO3 (gimmethatagustd &daddytaehyungie). Request an AO3 account here.

#taekook #taehyung x jungkook #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts fluff #venor #jai writes #gimmethatagustd

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ddejavvu · 1 year

Note

hi mei i love your work and wanted to requests something for modern eddie where he and his gf go to pride because she’s bi and he’s the best supporter ever!!

Eddie's brow scrunches as he examines himself in the mirror, tongue poking out of his mouth as he concentrates. Then he makes up his mind, "More purple."

"It's not pigmented enough," You lament miserably, jamming the lip gloss's applicator wand back into its tube and bending it to try and smear excess product off of the side. Eddie takes the wand from you when you pop it back out of the tube, you puff your lips out so he can paint their midsections in the purple gloss.

He pays extra attention so that he doesn't encroach on the pink stripe to its left, nor the blue one to its right. The flag-inspired markings of your lips are pressed carefully and abundantly all over his face, leaving him with a barrage of bisexual over his skin.

He takes little care in stuffing the wand back into its tube, already eagerly turning his cheek so that you can stamp more kisses over him.

"Ready," He chimes, long lashes fluttering shut as you take his face in your hands. It's hard to kiss his cheek and leave a perfect mark there, because the second your lips hit his face, a smile grows on his own.

"Eddie," You murmur into his skin, the word coming out warbled because you can't move your lips, "Stop."

There's a quip on the tip of his tongue, you just know it. But before he can release it, cheeks moving as his lips form the words, messing up your kiss mark, the doorbell rings.

You finally back away from his face, leaving behind a pink-purple-blue striped stamp against what's almost his chin. He rewards you with one of his own sticky kisses, much less colorful than your own, right against the bridge of your nose, then runs for the door.

"Buckley," Eddie greets, bowing dramatically to greet her at the door, "Happy pride."

"Where's your girlfriend?" She barges past him, and Eddie is left bent double in front of Steve, who seems to be carrying all of Robin's accessories.

"Gimme one," Robin launches herself onto the couch beside you, the cushions bouncing as she bares her cheek. You paint her face with a firm kiss to the apple of her cheek, and she glances into the handheld mirror, nodding appreciatively.

"Rob," Steve fumbles with her bag, "Uh, you- you have water in here somewhere, right?"

"Why is he holding your stuff?" You glance warily at the plethora of items Steve's wrestling with in the doorway, still unable to locate her cell.

"I told him if he was a real ally then he wouldn't mind carrying my stuff," She shrugs, "'Got him good."

"I'm gonna turn homophobic if you forgot water," Steve narrows his eyes at Robin, "It's, like, 400 degrees out there."

"We've got bottles here," Eddie placates Steve, grabbing one from the fridge and stuffing it into the man's hands, then draping your jacket over his shoulder "Hey, does that mean you gotta hold Y/N's shit, too?"

"No," Steve huffs, slinging Robin's bag over his shoulder once and for all and tossing the jacket over Eddie's head, "Means you have to, Munson."

"Don't- smudge my face!" Eddie yanks the fabric away from his precious paint job, looking at you with wide, indignant puppy eyes, "Y/N, did he mess it up?"

"No, baby," You stand, clasping Robin's hand in your own and making your way to the door. You lean up to give him a consolation smooch, right over his own lips that stains them faintly like your own, "You look perfect."

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson scenario #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson one-shot #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson headcanon #eddie munson headcanons #eddie munson hc #eddie munson hcs #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson dialogue #eddie munson fluff

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sweetsweetjellybean · 7 months

Text

In a city the size of Chicago, Eddie should be easy to avoid. Or maybe the city isn't as big as you thought?

Masterlist Listen to Sour Girl Here

WC:6558 beta'd by @superblysubpar

Plink.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

The old wooden frame of your window groans against the track, burdened with too many layers of paint to make the slide smooth. The swirls of creamy pinks and oranges have faded hours ago into the star-lit summer sky. The boy is below, standing in your backyard, fist full of pea gravel taken from a neighbor's garden. A smile twisting his lips lifts his cheeks, putting dimples on full display as he looks up at you from the darkness below. You raise a finger, signaling for him to wait before you turn away. Tossing a few things in your empty backpack, you take a pillow from your bed, and your comforter is wrestled free from the mattress. With careful footsteps, you creep down the stairs, stopping in the kitchen. The light from the fridge casts a triangle across the floor as you take a few Capri Suns to add to your bag. Leaving through the slider, the end of your blanket trails behind you through the grass that was trimmed that morning. You slip off your flip-flops, leaving them beside a pair of larger, well-worn sneakers with a chain wallet tucked inside the right shoe. Eddie bounces on the trampoline, his sock-covered feet launching him into the air, arms stretched for balance. You toss everything on before climbing on with him. With a final bounce, he lands on his butt beside you, grinning.

“I got it,” you tell him, tossing the pillow behind you.

“Nah-uh.”

"My dad took me to Tower this afternoon." Rummaging in your pack, you pull out a Discman and over-the-ear headphones with the cord in a tangled mess. "I could only get two. I had to choose between Rage," you begin, ticking off album titles on your fingers, “Soundgarden, STP, and Pearl Jam.”

“And?”

Taking out the CDs, you press them against his chest, letting go as soon as his fingers go around them. His brown eyes widen as he examines what’s in his hands as you pick apart the knotted cord.

“Songs from the Vatican Gift Shop AND Down on the Upside? You haven’t even opened this one.” He holds up the Soundgarden CD before using his teeth to rip open the cellophane covering the plastic case.

“I waited for you.” You smile.

His face softens. “You’re a doll.”

He lies back, his head nestling into your pillow, hands clasped behind his head, gazing up at the sky. After putting the CD into the player, you follow him, pulling the comforter over you both and resting your head on his bicep. The headphone speakers are flipped out, tucked between you, as Chris Cornell's melancholic voice begins to seep into your ears, velvety and dark like the night itself.

"Listen to this transition," he insists, his voice filled with the same awe that it always does when he talks about music, "The shift from acoustic to electric guitar is seamless."

“I wish I could hear it the way you do.”

As you gaze skyward, a slender branch sways in perfect rhythm with the chords, green leaves fluttering with the bass. The stars multiply and shimmer as if they’re caught up in the flow of the song.

“You do,” he says, his head turning toward you, “You’re the only one I know who loves it as much as I do.” He studies your face, his eyes locking with yours. The music building until it’s too intense, and he looks away. “It’s lyrics that hook you. You’ve always got so many words floating around in that big brain of yours.”

The disc spins, and you both listen, the scent of lilacs wafting in on the breeze, and fireflies painting the sky with their gentle glow. Time passes in the slow way it only does for kids on a cool summer night.

“Eddie?”

“Hmm?” He answers, eyes closed.

“Are they fighting again?”

He doesn’t talk about it, but everyone knows—an ugly secret festering on an otherwise picture-perfect street. No one wants to get their hands dirty by getting involved.

“Why won’t she leave him?” A simple question in a world of black and white.

“I want her to,” his adams apple bobs as he swallows, “She says she loves him.”

“Just stay here with me tonight, okay?” Rolling to your side, you wrap your hand across his chest, offering him the only protection that you can.

“Yeah, okay.”

When you wake the following morning, the songs and memories you were reacquainted with last night have faded to a dull throb–much like the martinis. But remnants of their lyrics persist, crawling under your skin, irritating like an itch, a tune hummed without the words to accompany it. Your phone’s screen lights up with an incoming text, the short burst of vibration sending it skittering across the surface of your nightstand. It takes a moment for your bleary eyes to focus on the notification on your lock screen.

Unknown: I admit last night could have gone better. Let me make it up to you. Coffee?

After tapping in your passcode, you open the message app to reply.

You: Wrong number

Darkening your screen, you let your phone slip from your hand onto the bed beside you. With a sigh, you lean back, staring at the ceiling, seeking answers that remain elusive. The scent of brewing dark roast and toasting bagels rises up the stairs with the sounds of Steve moving around the kitchen. A cup of coffee (or five) and a shower is what you need to wash away the past and leave it firmly where it belongs– in your rearview.

It's the bottom of your second cup when Steve walks into your massive walk-in closet with a towel wrapped around his waist, fresh from the shower, his hair still damp, the freckled skin of his chest looking golden in the soft glow of the elegant pendant lights.

“Is that what you're wearing to work?” He asks.

“Um, yeah.” You finish buckling the strap of your chunky mary-janes. “Something wrong with it?” you ask, catching sight of yourself in the mirror, dark distressed jeans and a band tee recut into a fitted v-neck.

“Of course not,” he sighs, running his hand through his hair before sitting down heavily on the leather bench. His shoulders slump as he looks across to the cherry built-in shelves holding the rows of tailored suits hung by progression of color. “You always look beautiful.”

Taking your watch from the marble top of the large center island, you wander over to where he’s seated. He hooks a finger into one of the large holes in your jeans, tugging you over to stand between his legs, his big hands wrapping around the backs of your thighs.

“Guess I’m just missing the days of wearing jeans and a jersey to work,” he says, his smile not smoothing the faint crease in his brows.

“You traded that in for a car service and a big fat paycheck,” you point out, kissing the top of his head and moving back to your side of the closet to select a blazer.

“How else am I going to keep spoiling you?” He stands, dropping the towel and picking up the black Tom Ford boxer briefs he set out before his shower.

“Steve, I don’t need all of this,” your hand sweeps in the air, gesturing to the lit shelves holding more clothes and shoes than you could ever need. “Just take me to a concert every once in a while.” Your voice trails off as notification chimes on your phone.

Unknown: Nice try, doll. Robin gave me your number.

“Can you imagine if we were still in that cramped apartment in Lincoln Park?” He scoffs, pulling on a light gray pair of suit pants. “We were tripping over all our stuff.”

Steve found the three-bedroom, three-bath brownstone on a tree-lined street in the ritzy Gold Coast neighborhood just after he got promoted from Metro, marking the beginning of his rise up the ranks in Second City Media. He spent a year and a chunk of his trust fund on a meticulous renovation before the two of you moved in. It is beautiful—large air rooms with lofty ceilings adorned with pristine white crown molding and wainscotting throughout, giving a modern but classic feel. Living with so much space is lavish in a city of this size. But you would be just as happy back on that ratty couch in Lincoln Park, drinking beer straight from the bottle and eating pizza without the fuss of plates, working on your laptop while he watched a Cubs game. Steve is driven–determined to be a success, and he is, but with the money came the stress. And it’s taking a toll.

Your finger hovers over the block button, but you press add to contacts instead. “Hey,” you change the subject, slipping your phone into your jacket pocket, “Did you ever look into that sailing charter you wanted to book out at the lake? We could do that this weekend?”

“I wish I could, Ace. I’ve got those weekend meetings about the streaming radio we're trying to launch. Pick out a tie for me?” He asks, pulling off a starched black button-up from its hanger.

“Sure.” You walk over and spin the rack holding up dozens of ties on shiny brass hooks.

“What do you have going on today?” The well-defined muscles of his sculpted shoulders, earned from never skipping a day at the gym, flex before disappearing into his shirt sleeves.

“Not a lot.” You pull the silky slip of deep maroon fabric off its hanger. “Lola is put to bed for this year. I just have an album review to finish up and a meeting with my editor today. Maybe a series on the Fall tours?” You propose, mostly to yourself, as you bring him his tie.

“Maroon, huh?” One brow raises with the question, “I would have picked black.”

“I know.” The corner of your lips turn up in a sly smile before you rise to your toes and place a kiss on his mouth, “I’m gonna go.”

“You want my driver to drop you off?” He asks, looking in the mirror and adjusting his tie.

“Nah, I’ll drive myself. Argyle and I are going to the Subterranean for drinks. Santigold is performing. Do you want to come?” You throw out, picking up your ancient army green messenger bag you can’t bear to part with, straining with the fullness of your laptop and notes.

“I’ll pass. Not really my scene.” As he fastens his gold cufflinks, they catch the gleaming light.

“You never come to shows with me,” you sigh.

“I know, I know. I’ll try and catch the next one,” he says, sliding his feet into shiny Italian leather shoes. “I’m meeting Robin for lunch. You want to join us?”

“No. I’ll let you have your girl time.” You blow him a kiss before heading out the door.

“See you tonight, okay?”

“Love you. See you tonight,” he calls after you.

Passing through rooms decorated with rich creams and calming moss greens, you yell over your shoulder, “Tell Robin I said we don’t have any more room for paintings of flowers that look like vaginas.”

“They’re a good investment,” his voice fades as you jog down your stairs, grabbing your keys from the stained-glass bowl on the table beside the door, ignoring the buzz coming from your pocket.

The world is full of cliches. Many become so ingrained that we accept them as unwavering truths. Every cloud has a silver lining. Don’t judge a book by its cover. Actions speak louder than words. A rotten apple will spoil the bunch. Don’t spit into the wind. Well, that last one is just good advice, but there is one that has stuck with you. Love what you do, and you’ll never work a day in your life. Music is your deity, and working at Stax is where you worship at its altar, spreading the Gospel of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. It’s a place where your lifelong obsession is not only validated, it’s celebrated. Your journey leading up to this point feels like destiny, like the universe conspired to harmonize your two greatest loves—the lyrical power of words and the soul-stirring magic of music. Each day within these walls is a new chord, a different tempo, and you revel in the ever-changing rhythm of your life. One spent intertwined with the music and the people that create it. The magazine's pages are your stage, your canvas, and with every keystroke, you paint the stories of the music, offering them to those who care to listen.

Without taking your eyes off your laptop screen, you reach for your coffee mug only to knock over the tittering tower of CDs that you had stacked on the corner of your cluttered desk. The plastic jewel cases meet the cement floor with a shattering crash, the noise echoing off the walls of the open industrial space that houses the offices for Stax Magazine in the heart of Fulton Market District. Clapping comes from other desks as you chase the discs rolling on their sides in all directions. Pausing, you bend into a dramatic curtsey, earning chuckles as the applause dies out. The perpetual chaos of your desk has become an ongoing punchline in the office banter. Your phone begins to ring at the same time an IM pops on your screen - both from your editor, the enigmatic J. Hopper.

“Art Garfunkel’s house of pizza,” you say by way of greeting, trying to get the CDs back in their cases and toppling a pile of mail in the process.

“Where are you? Why aren’t you here? We had a meeting at 2,” comes the gruff voice of a man who's clearly not amused.

“It’s only one forty,” you reply.

“Get your ass in here now,” he yells, disconnecting.

Hopper's bark has always been more bluster than bite. The towering, older man has been a fixture in this building since its days as a "hard-hitting" newspaper. While the city has evolved and transformed, Hopper and this old brick building have remained resolute, like an immovable rock in the ever-shifting stream of time. He possesses zero patience, holds a disdain for people, and dismisses any music created after 1978. You love him as much as your own father. He offered you a position fresh out of college when other magazines wouldn’t take a chance. He's pulled out your best work, often sending you back to your desk like a pouting child, making you the writer you are today. The wisdom he’s imparted is beyond the reach of any professor or workshop, and for that, you’ll always be grateful.

With a gentle rap of your knuckles against the frosted glass, you step into Hopper's office. He's seated behind a substantial oak desk, buried beneath a mountain of paperwork. A hint of cigar lingers in the air, though you've never been able to catch him smoking. He remains engrossed, squinting at his desktop screen with a furrowed brow. Settling into one of the vintage leather club chairs, you wait for his acknowledgment, your gaze drifting across the framed magazine covers and photographs lining the walls. One of a much younger Hopper clad in a tattered flak jacket catches your eyes. His face smeared with dirt and grit, standing amidst the ruins of a war-torn Kosovo street, a city reduced to chaos.

"Where’s my album write-up?" He asks without looking up.

"I emailed it to you before lunch," you reply, confirming on your phone.

He pushes back from his desk, propping up his feet on the edge, and offers you a soft smile from under the bushy mustache covering his lip, "How are you, kid? Everything okay? Harrington treating you, right?"

"Of course, Hop. He knows he'd have to answer to you otherwise. What about you?" You ask, leaning forward, "Is Joyce looking after you? Making sure you're watching that cholesterol?"

"Yup, she's got me eating all these organic vegetables, no booze, no smokes. Kinda takes all the fun outta life." He laces his hands behind his head, stretching out his back.

"Oh yeah, does that include that bottle hootch you got stowed in your bottom drawer?"

He sits up with a quick move, pointing his finger in your direction. "You don't know anything about that. Are we clear?"

The only one who can scare Hopper is Hopper's wife.

"I don't know. What are you going to do if I give Joyce a call? Seems to me that's something she'd want to know," you tease, crossing your arms over your chest.

"You'd be out on that sidewalk before you hung up the call. Don't test me." He shakes a finger at you, "Now, what are you pitching me?"

"Well, I'm going to a club tonight, so I'll have a live performance review. And I was thinking of a piece on the bands touring this Fall. Kind of like a road map that the readership could follow and hit all the good shows."

"Those sound good, kid, but I got a feature for you to cover." He leans forward, narrowing his eyes, "You know this Eddie Munson character?"

The blood drains from your face. "No. Not-not really," you stammer, "we're from the same town, but I haven't seen him in years."

"Well, it's time to get reacquainted. I want a series chronicling the opening of CursedSound Recordings, and I want you to write it."

A featured series is something that other journalists fight over, and usually, you'd jump at the chance, but not this time. Not this series. Not Eddie Muson.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you say, looking down at your lap.

“You don’t think–”

“Give it to Miles.”

“I’m giving it to you. Morales is busy with–”

“I don’t want it,” the words burst out of your mouth before you think better of it. Less than twenty-four hours after seeing Eddie, your world is spinning out of control.

Hopper's face turns to steel as he plucks the pen from behind his ear and throws it down on the desk. “I think that you’ve forgotten how this works. I give you an assignment. You write it.”

Your lips part before the protest in your brain is fully formed.

“If you’re about to tell me no again, it better be followed by a damn good reason.”

His eyes are locked on yours while he waits for a response, one brow raised in challenge.

“Listen, kid,” he picks up a stack of papers, shuffling through them as he talks, “I’ve looked into this Munson character. He has a good reputation in L.A. His name is in the credits for over half the multi-platinum releases in the last five years. And word is, his studio is booked out with big names for a year in advance.” He pauses for a moment to be sure his words sink in. “Establishing a good relationship with him is in the magazine's best interests. And what's good for the magazine is good for you. Are you hearing me?”

“Yes, Hop,” he answers for you when you remain quiet.

“Yes, Hop,” you repeat.

“Good,” he says, lacing his fingers together. "The printed word isn’t worth what it used to be. Everything's gone digital, the never-ending twenty-four-hour news cycle. The competition's cut-throat out there. Trust me, our friends over at Spectrum would eat this up for Chicago Lifestyles. Frankly, I’m surprised at you. I thought you’d be all over this. Especially since it was proposed by corporate. I figured you went around me and pitched it to Harrington directly.”

The mention of Steve’s name sets your teeth on edge. He hadn't breathed a word about this assignment earlier, and now he's reaching out to Hopper, painting a picture as if you're disrespecting your editor and exploiting your personal connections to secure a story.

“I would never do that,” you shake your head.

"Alright then. Call Byers at Metro," Hopper instructs, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. "Bring him with you. His assignment is just wrapping up."

You nod, your blood boiling and your mind racing. Taking a deep breath to compose yourself, you finally reply with an outward calm, "Okay."

Hopper's eyes remained fixed on you, his brow furrowing slightly. "Now, why are you still here wasting my time? Get out."

You don’t need any more prompting. Swiftly, you rise from your seat and make your way out of Hopper's office, formulating plans to murder your fiancé.

With a heavy sigh, you sit back down at your desk. The Stax logo bounces off the edges of your laptop screen. Your phone lights up with a photo of Steve. You let it ring a few times before sending it to voicemail. A few colleagues linger nearby, mugs in hand, their idle chatter blending with the hum of printers and the rhythmic clacking of keyboards. Your to-do list sits on your desk with strike-throughs on only half the tasks, but the priority of the ones remaining isn’t enough to capture your attention.

Reaching down, you tug at the handle of your tightly packed bottom desk drawer. It sticks, protesting the overload. The bright yellow color of the Sony Sports Walkman stands out from among the other clutter. You hesitate when reaching for it, the beginnings of the ache already tightening your chest. But you can’t resist, your hand closes around it, pulling it and the headphones coiled around out from under a pile of old concert passes attached to lanyards.

Swiveling your chair away from the desk, you face the windows and slip the headphones onto your ears. A gentle press of your thumb produces a satisfying click, and a soft crackling sound fills your ears as the capstans start to whir.

The crystal blue of the cassette is dulled behind the transparent black window, but you can still make out the handwriting on the yellowed label.

For when you miss me.

“Did you ever listen?”

Everyday.

A bird's eye view of the stage is perfectly spaced in your viewfinder, with Santi downstage dominating the mic, her other arm outstretched to the fervent crowd. Your finger clicks the shutter as a text pops on the screen.

Eddie: Seems this city isn’t so big after all.

With a huff, you close the screen, pocketing your phone.

“What’s going on with you?” Argyle shouts over the crowd, handing you back your drink as you both lean over the black-painted railing on the balcony at The Subterranean.

"Nothing," you reply, your gaze returning to the stage where Santigold is Chasing Shadows.

“You’re moody,” he accuses, leaning closer to your ear to be heard over music.

“No, I’m not.”

“It’s true,” he shakes his head. “You’re moody. Moody dick.”

The corners of your lips lift as you roll your eyes.

“This wouldn't have anything to do with mister dark and handsome sound engineer guy from last night, would it?” He probes as someone bumps into you from behind, throwing you off balance.

Your eyes narrow as he steadies you with a hand on your elbow.

“Hey, I know things,” he says, sipping his drink and looking back out over the crowd.

“Oh, yeah?” You ask, turning and leaning on the banister to face him, “What do you know?”

He turns his head toward you, his thoughtful brown eyes connecting with yours. “I know you looked freaked the fuck out when he showed up for drinks and even more so when he said he was staying. And I’ve seen you tell off enough people to know that’s what was going on at the bar when you walked away from him last night,” he says, looking back toward the stage, gesturing with his hands, “Now we're here, with my future baby mama killing it on stage, and you’re sucking all the energy out of the room.”

The song ends with the crowd erupting in applause. “I love you!” Argyle shouts toward the stage with his hands cupped around his mouth as the bass starts back up with the opening of High Priestess. Santi looks up, throwing him a wink, her voice low and fast as the reverb vibrates under your feet.

“Future baby mama?” You laugh.

“Yeah. Do you think you could use your press pass to get us backstage?”

“No. I don’t think you need to add to the population tonight.”

"See, you're no fun,” he complains, sticking out his lower lip, “So you really used to crush on that guy?

Chewing on your lip, you throw him a sideways glance.

“Yeah, you did. You crushed hard,” he laughs, “So, tell me, what happened?”

“I don’t like talking about it,” you say, scrubbing your face.

“Keeping everything all bottled up ain’t good for you, little mama,” he pokes your arm, letting you know he’s not going to drop this, “I’m your boy. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”

“Circle of trust,” he says, stirring the air between you with two fingers when you don’t respond.

You lean against the rail, considering. “Alright, but this stays between us,” you threaten him with a pointed finger. His head nods as his fingers slide across his mouth like a zipper.

“There’s not much to tell,” you say, looking down at the sticky floor. “I had a crush, and he didn’t feel the same way.”

“I get it. The fury of a woman scorned. What did you do, go full bunny boiler?”

“No,” you chuckle, “Nothing like that. That part didn’t even really bother me. He was my best friend, my only friend for a long time. I thought there was something between us, that he cared about me. Maybe not the same way I cared about him, but you know, I thought we were close. I must have built it all up in my head because one day, he just takes off.” You swallow the sharp pain pressing into your chest, “He never even said goodbye.”

“Nooo,” Argyle’s eyes widen.

“It broke me,” you admit.

“Harsh,” he agrees, “And he never called you? Or gave you an explanation?”

“Not until yesterday. He asked me to lunch. You know, he actually had the nerve to say that Steve has me on a tight leash.”

“Typical.” He shakes his head, swallowing the last of his drink.

“What do you mean?” You ask, swirling the last of your ice into your watered-down drink.

His face turns serious as he explains, “It’s like surfing. We all want that wave that’s just out of reach. Especially if someone else is riding it.”

“How did you get so wise?” You ask.

“I don’t know. Must be all the weed,” he says with a hand on your shoulder, turning you toward the bar. “Let’s go get another drink.”

“You never told Steve any of this?” He asks as you join the crowd of people that constitutes the line.

“No,” you sigh.

“No?” He repeats in surprise, “This is bad news, man. Why wouldn’t you tell him? What are you going to do, just going to keep it a secret forever?”

“I guess. It doesn’t really have anything to do with him.”

“This is going to get messy.” He shakes his head as you move up in line.

“Well, I’m not real happy with him either right now. He went behind my back to Hopper, deciding that I’m going to cover Eddie’s recording studio's opening. He completely humiliated me in front of my boss. I look totally unprofessional.”

“Well, that's not cool,” Argyle sympathizes as he takes the plastic cup from your hand and tosses it into a trashcan tucked beside the bar.

“No, it was very not cool,” you agree, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Wait," he looks at you with sudden revelation, “Technically, isn't Steve your boss?"

“That’s not the point–”

“And isn’t your job to write about major happenings in the city, like when fancy L.A. sound guys open up studios?”

“You're not helping, Argyle.”

His hand lands on your head, offering a comforting pat like you're a child before the line begins moving again. "Cheer up, Bernstein," he quips with a grin, "I'll buy the next round."

Your anger hasn’t abated when you walk through the front door of the brownstone. Steve is already in bed, shirtless with the taupe velvet coverlet pulled up to his waist, glasses perched on his nose, not looking up from his laptop as you enter the room.

“Hey, Ace, how was your day? Did you write me–”

“Anything you want to tell me about, Steve?” You ask, your voice already coming out more heated than you intended.

He looks up at you, brows pulling together. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say, dropping your bag onto the blue slipper chair in the corner of the room, “Maybe about how you went behind my back?”

"What?” He questions, slamming his laptop shut.

“The story, Steve,” you huff, leaving the room through your closet. You’ve just put your shoes away when he appears in the doorway, padding across the carpet in his bare feet, wearing just his boxers.

“Munson’s opening, that’s what you’re mad about?” He demands.

“You totally blindsided me,” you complain, pulling a hanger off the rod and hanging up your blazer with enough force to have the other clothes swinging. “Why didn’t you say anything this morning?”

“Because I hadn’t thought of it this morning.” His hands run through his hair, tugging in frustration.

“So what, it just came to you in a flash of brilliance?” Popping the button on your jeans, you tug them down your hips, kicking them into the corner instead of putting them in the basket.

“No, it didn’t, and I hate it when you’re sarcastic. Robin wanted to stop by and see his studio. We had lunch nearby,” he informs you, crossing his arms over his broad chest, the gold chain he wears glinting in the low light.

“So the two of you just decided what I was going to be writing? Maybe that’s something you should be discussing with me.” You lay a hand on your chest before pulling your shirt over your head and giving it the same treatment as your jeans. “You know, your fiancée, not some old buddy that sold you weed a few times back in Hawkins.”

“The content Stax puts out is directly under my approval, just like Metro and the Newsdesk and every other division.” His voice, which has been steady and even until now, begins to rise, “I’m not going to call you and ask for permission every time I make a decision. Eddie and I have kept in touch. How do you think we landed that interview with Radiohead last year when they wouldn’t even sit down with Rolling Stone?”

“That’s another thing you kept from me. I had no idea Eddie was your best friend.” Your eyes narrow as your fingers yank at the delicate clasps of your jewelry and watch.

Steve's eyes roll in frustration as he shakes his head. "He's not my best friend. He’s a business contact. I know him through Robin. They were is band together, you know this."

"That feels like a lifetime ago, Steve," you remark, the clinking of your jewelry against the marble island adding a discordant scrape.

"Well, some people aren't embarrassed about where they came from," he accuses.

"I'm not embarrassed," you scoff and begin to pace as if you can outrun his words.

"Oh, please," he says, taking a seat on the bench, his knuckles turning white as he grips the edge, his gaze tracking your restless movements. "You cut off anybody we still know living there. You won't even go to visit your parents. They always come here."

“You never listen to what I’m saying. This has nothing to do with Hawkins or my parents.” You halt your steps, your hand slices through the air, punctuating your statements. “It's about you making me look like a fool in front of Hopper. Like I’m trying to go around him to corporate to get assigned the big stories. Like I’m sleeping with the boss. I’m not ruining my reputation so you can give free advertising to your friends.”

“You're being crazy right now,” he yells, wincing with regret as soon as the words leave his mouth. He stands, moving closer, making an effort to control the tone of his voice, “I gave you this assignment because you know Eddie, and it will make for a better story, not because I’m fucking you. We’ve been together since the day you started at Stax. We’ve been engaged for two years. If anyone was going to think that, they already would’ve.”

Your head shakes, rejecting his rationale. He throws up his hands in frustration. “I can't have a conversation with you when you’re like this.” He starts to walk back toward the bedroom but stops abruptly, spinning on his heel and pointing his finger in your direction. “But I'll tell you one more thing—you are going to write this story.” He waves a hand toward the bathroom. “Now, go wash your face.”

Your teeth cut into your bottom lip as you walk into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you.

A sliver of gold from the streetlights outside pierces the tiny gap in the curtains. You’ve been lying on your side staring so long that you can see its warm hue behind closed lids whenever you start to drift. You burrow your arm deeper beneath your pillows while your feet shuffle, searching for a cool spot on the sheets. Steve’s breathing hasn’t changed behind you. He’s having the same trouble falling asleep. He turns over, his weight rocking the mattress. He’s much closer now. You can feel the comforting warmth from his chest, filling the space between him and your back.

“Baby.” His breath caresses the spot just behind your ear before the wet press of his lips traces a path along your neck, latching on to the apex when it meets your shoulder. A gentle bite follows the swirl of his tongue as he moves even closer. The rough pads of his fingers glide over your shoulder and down your arm, coaxing the thin strap of your tank with them.

“Please,” he whispers between kisses, his fingers finding their way under the bottom edge of your tank top, the light scrape of his blunt nails against your ribs sending shivers across your skin. Your breathing is picking up, the fire from your argument morphing into a new kind of heat. His hips flex against your ass, his cock hard and ready. When you turn your head, his lips are there, a wet slide over your mouth until they pull back, floating just above you, lingering with a question. And when his hand cups your shoulder, urging your body to turn towards him-–you answer.

The sultry feminine voice drifts from the speakers in your bedroom, her smoky timber weaving through the air like dark tendrils intertwining with the high piano notes. Your hips rise with the flow, a slow, unchanging cadence, the stretch of his cock creating delicious friction against your velvet walls. You move higher until he almost leaves you before you start your descent, the angle finding all the hidden places that light you up beneath your skin.

"M' sorry," he murmurs.

Your eyes flutter open at his words as they carry you away from the depths.

"Hate telling you no." He gazes up at you with heavy-lidded eyes, his hair pushed back from his face, and a flush across his skin.

"I don't wanna talk about it." Your hands cover the ones wrapped around your thighs, guiding them up your body. His warm, rough fingers are eager to map out every contour. Your head falls back when they find their destination, cupping your breasts with a possessive grip.

The song shifts, the new baseline a drawn-out pulse lining up with your movements. The lyrics are raw and a little filthy, fueling the urgency of your rolling hips, your clit grazing the short hairs at his base.

"Don't like telling you what to do," he mumbles even as his hands drop to your hips, attempting to hold you still as he bucks up from underneath. "Just wanna take care of you."

"Steve," his name passes your lips in a low moan as you lean forward, taking his hand from your hips and pressing them into the pillow, "Stop talking."

Sitting up, you shift your position, leaning back, bracing your hands behind yourself on his hairy thighs. You set a new pace, bouncing harder, driving him deeper, taking what you want.

“Jesus, fuck, baby,” he groans, eyes hitting the back of his head while his hands slide across the sheets seeking any purchase as you ride him. The music surges, its tempo rising in perfect sync with the wet intimate sounds of your bodies coming together, the rhythm repeating over and over.

"So close…please," his fingers slip between you, adding pressure to the sensitive bundle of nerves that he finds there, "Need you to cum."

"No," you rasp out breathless, pushing his hand aside, your eyes locked on his as you bring your own fingers to your mouth. With a swirl of your tongue, you coat them with wetness before sliding them down to touch yourself, controlling your own pleasure.

The muscles in his neck strain with effort, his gaze darkening, fixated on you. “Goddam, so sexy like this,” he murmurs.

Your body tightens, taut like a bow-string, the tension building until the crescendo crashes over you. The music washes over your senses as you reach your peak, your legs trembling with the intensity. You push your body further over the edge, succumbing to the euphoria lost in the wave of sensations.

Floating back down, your eyes open to the sight of your ceiling, your body still arched, catching your breath. His fingers tighten on your ribs, reminding you he's there. Sticky wetness dripping between you is evidence that he reached his own climax. His hands gently urge your forward to collapse into his chest.

"Wow, that was…" He strokes the sweat-slicked skin of your back. "I’ve never seen you like that before. What got into you?"

"I think you did," you say, placing a kiss over his heart as your fingers smooth through the hair covering his chest. He chuckles, holding you closer.

The gentle croon of the music fills the quiet space between you as you lie entwined, drawing closer to sleep's embrace. With a fumbling hand, Steve reaches for the remote on his nightstand, silencing the stereo, returning the room to a restful hush. He places a final tender kiss on your temple, his eyes closing as his features turn peaceful. But for you, even in this stillness, another song lingers in your mind, its lyrics echoing like a secret.

AN: Thank you for reading and rebloging. Your comments are what keep me at my keyboard plugging away at this story. Please keep sending me your songs and asks! They have inspired so much of what's to come. xoxo- Jelly

Read Song 3 Here

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