#King Boxer | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rustedhearts · 1 year

Text

the incident ♡ part i (boxer!steve x librarian!fem reader)

summary: a brutal argument and steve's terrible temper drive you away from your malibu home. steve loses you again, and this time, you're both left wondering: has he lost you for good this time?

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ the king of the ring ✶ part ii, part iii ✶ main masterlist

tags: angst, so toxic, more manhandling (mostly just Steve grabbing her), shoving, brutal verbal argument, Steve is genuinely terrible, also there's like no build-up, we get straight to it lol.

a/n: this is it, folks. this is the incident, the one that changes everything for steve and libby. it's rough to read, and this is your warning now that it's bordering domestic abuse. but once again, i will never write explicit violence against women (as in, he will never hit her).

malibu, california, november 1992

"Every time. You do this every fucking time, Steve."

The back of your head was just as pretty as the front, but Steve hated the sound of your voice when it was yelling at him. He deserved it, of course—he always did. But that sharp, scolding snap—it enraged him. No matter how much he deserved it, no matter how awful he'd been. Steve hated being yelled at.

"Do what? He was askin' for it."

"Asking for it? Do you hear yourself? You knocked him out cold, you fucking prick!"

Steve stopped short in the open doorway of your Malibu home, holding the doorframe. Freshly cleaned, scented of lemon cleaner, a little slick on the floor. He watched you stomp up the carpeted stairs in your little heels, bag swinging with every pound of your feet. You had that pursed, scrunched look on your face he knew all too well.

But when you yelled at him, he just wanted to yell back.

So, he followed suit, quickly closing the distance between the pair of you. He reached the bedroom just as you threw your purse onto the bed, whipping around to head toward the closet.

"So fuckin' what? I'm just supposed to let some creep—"

"—oh my god, Steve! How many more times are we gonna do this? Its-it's fucking driving me insane!" you shrilled, turning to stare at him in exasperation from his position in the doorway.

Steve huffed, stepping into the closet toward his array of black fabrics on the other side. He whipped his shirt off and let it pool on the ground, belt clinking as he slid it from the buckle.

"Yeah, whatever. How d' you think I feel when I see guys like that all over you, huh? I mean, Jesus Christ, he was practically drooling on your tits, Libby," Steve snarled, hands waving in those open, empty gestures that you always rolled your eyes at.

You paused in your pursuit of changing clothes. Comfortability could wait. Steve needed to understand how infuriating it was to be tugged at and shielded like a doll. How enraging it was to be treated like nothing more than his object, something to possess and hold onto.

You felt like a toy in the tight grip of a boy that refused to grow up.

"He wasn't doing anything. We were talking, Steve. Would you have reacted that way if it were a woman?"

Steve rolled his eyes this time, shoving his jeans over his thighs toward his ankles. He kicked them off, reaching for a pair of loose, black Nike shorts that he usually wore around the house.

He kept his back to you as he yanked them over his hips, slung low enough to show the newly cut muscles he'd gained over gruesome training for higher-stake title fights. He'd been training at a rigorous pace that worried anyone not on his payroll—you most of all.

He was always littered in bruises, always sporting some kind of migraine bordering concussion—and most of all, his anger was at an all time high. If it wasn't something you did, it was something you hadn't done. If it wasn't you, it was anyone nearest you that breathed wrong. It was anyone, anywhere, anytime. No one was spared of Steve's wrath.

But you bared the brunt of it.

"No, because a woman wouldn't be slobbering all over you—"

"—we were talking, Steve! Something you and I don't seem to be doing lately. So yeah—"

"—what? What the fuck are you talking about?" Steve's face screwed sideways, body turning to face you finally.

"—yeah, I'm gonna talk to someone who actually listens to me. It's like talking to a brick fucking wall with you lately."

Steve reared back, then jutted forward: chin first, eyebrows furrowed, eyes squinted inquisitively. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He hadn't been listening to you?

"Well, maybe I'm fucking tired after working all day, honey. Maybe I don't wanna hear you whine and complain about how boring it is—"

"—ew, God, did you just say that? Do you hear yourself? You think you're so fuckin' important. So fuckin' high and mighty now that you're in Hollywood, right?"

Steve glared at you, jaw tightening. "You know I don't give a shit about—"

"Oh," you snapped, brows raising. "Oh, you don't? No? No, you didn't throw a tantrum after you lost that fight last year?"

"No—"

"You didn't freak the fuck out when Title didn't cut you 'what you deserved' after the Davidson fight?"

"No, don't twist my fuckin'—"

You were standing toe to toe now, Steve half-clothed and barefoot, the dress you'd been wearing all day still sticking to your skin from Californian heat and a humid gym. Your feet were killing you. Your face was flaming hot. Steve's nostrils were flaring rapidly and his breathing was growing unsteady.

This had been building up. After months of fighting and making up, after weeks of giving silent treatments only to be suckered into his kisses and murmured apologies. Months of picking up pieces of picture frames he broke in outburst, deciding to hang them up without the glass to keep from breaking because you couldn't afford his temper. Weeks of wondering when you'd break, when you'd finally snap and ask what the hell happened to the man that protected you, loved you, made you feel like something special and cherished?

Because the man standing in front of you was nothing like the man you first met. The man standing in front of you, millions of dollars richer and all the worse for it, was a cold, hard shell of who you once knew.

"I know you, Steve. You might think you can fool me by pretending you don't care about Hollywood and money and fame but—I know you, Steven. And all you care about," you stepped closer, glaring up the tip of your nose at the broad, fuming boxer, "is your ego."

It was the one-fingered push to his chest that set him off. You were on your way through the door, heading back into the bedroom to put space between the pair of you. But Steve wouldn't let you have the last word. Steve wouldn't let you be right.

"Oh, but it's my 'ego' payin' for all this, isn't it? Huh? I haven't heard you complainin' about all those diamonds around your neck, right?"

The grip Steve had on your arm was all too familiar, and he used it to yank you back around with a force that made you flinch. His hand burned where it wrung your bicep, and you ground your teeth to keep the tears at bay. You wouldn't cry prematurely. You had every right to scream and rage right now.

And with the way Steve was looking at you right now, all condescending pouts and head tilts, chasing your gaze when you wouldn't give it to him because he wanted to corner you—it made you feel truly insane.

"Yeah, you don't care so much about my 'ego' when I'm fundin' your lifestyle, do you, sweetheart? When I'm buyin' all those pretty dresses and fueling a fuckin' jet." Steve punctuated the sharp snap of his teeth with a tightened grip on your arm, using it to yank you into his chest.

You shoved at his chest, eyes starting to burn. "So fucking take it, Steve. I don't want any of it."

Steve tipped his head again, face too close for your liking. You suddenly didn't find those swampy eyes so endearing. The menacing sneer he wore in the ring wasn't so handsome up close.

"No?—"

"No!" you snapped, shoving him again, glaring up at him with wet eyes. "Take it all back, you fucking asshole! It means nothing to me. I was here for you. I was here because I loved you!"

You were crying now, and you hated yourself for it. Why wouldn't you just be strong, breathe through it? Why did he always have to get the best of you? Why did he always have to make you cry?

Steve was silent this time, and it almost made you feel worse. Since when did he have nothing to say to 'I love you?' With a whimpered grunt building in your throat, you shoved your forearm into Steve's stomach, urging him away. His hand loosened around your other arm just enough for you to rip it away, and with another shove to his chest, you yanked free from his hold and stomped toward the closet.

"Here, take it all back, you fucking dick!"

You hurled your clothes toward the bedroom where Steve was fuming at the end of the bed, glaring at all the items piling on the plush, cream carpet. Dresses, skirts, shoes, purses. When you returned to the bedroom, you yanked the pearl drop earrings from your ears and tossed them toward his looming figure. His eyes hardened when they barely brushed his nose.

"There, have it, Steve," you snapped.

You stomped toward the door, rushing for the stairs. Stepping over the mess you made, Steve was quick to follow, bare feet padding the freshly cleaned wood until they met the carpet of the stairs again. You ignored him, sniffling and wiping at your tears, until he took one large step in front of you. You took one back, bumping into the entryway wall as a result.

Blocking your path to the kitchen, Steve crossed his arms and glared down at you. He had you cornered. "Don't act like you're so fucking innocent here, honey," he sneered.

You rolled your eyes, mirroring his stance and folding your arms. "Yeah, I'm sure you'll find something to dock me for, Steven. What did I do this time, huh? Did I breathe wrong?"

"You always fucking flirt with them. You always flirt with other guys, and you know what that does to me. You do it just to fuck with my head." Steve tapped his temple and you tipped your head back with a groan.

"God, you're still on this? I don't flirt with anyone, Steve! The only man I want to be with is you!" Though you weren't so sure you even wanted that anymore.

You wanted Steve—grumpy but lovable, privately sweet and adorable with a dry sense of humor that always made you giggle even when he wasn't trying to be funny. You wanted the Steve that brought you flowers every time he came to pick you up back home in Indiana. You wanted the Steve that begged to wash your hair because he 'liked how your shampoo smelled,' and the Steve who watched you sleep because 'you looked so pretty.'

You didn't want Steve 'The King of the Ring.' You didn't want the Steve that glared and screamed and treated you like another opponent in the ring.

"Oh, yeah? Well what was so fuckin' funny that you had to caress that guy's arm today? Tell me, baby. Was he just so fucking funny—"

"—Jesus, Steve, shut up!"

The tip of Steve's finger bumped your nose when it came to point in your face. "Don't tell me to shut up."

You smacked his hand away, rivaling his mean stare with one of your own. If stares could slice, Steve's head would be in pieces by now.

"Or what?"

The apple of Steve's cheeks were round and red, and a splotchy trail of heat began to scale the length of his neck. You should have shut up. You should have walked away.

You should've left him months ago when you cut your finger cleaning up another one of his messes and he told you to 'be more careful.'

You shouldn't love a man like this.

"Stop it, Libby," he told you lowly, head shaking. "I don't wanna do this with you."

You scoffed, brushing your hair away from your forehead. It was starting to gather a sheen of sweat. "Yeah, right. You only wanna yell at me when I don't yell back, right? You push, and push, and push, and then call me crazy when I finally explode, right, Steve?"

Steve dropped his arms and placed his hands on his hips. His shoulders shrugged in that cocky, douchebag way that always had you boiling.

"I mean...if the shoe fits."

And it was there that any chance of dropping this argument went out the window. It was there that you truly lost it.

Bobbing your head, you dropped your own hands and used them to shove Steve's chest, punctuating every word with a little nudge. You were only adding fuel to the fire, but you were too enraptured by your own fury to care. Finally you were angry, and finally it felt good.

"Oh, is that right? Well, you know what they say about you, Steve? You're just. Like. Your. Daddy."

The house fell silent. You weren't sure Steve was even breathing. But he was staring at you, eyes void and face blank. The only sound that filled the emptiness was the thump of your own heart, like a gong reverberating in your ears.

The regret didn't have a moment to sink in before Steve lunged back into place and slammed his hands into the wall on either side of your head. You jumped, freezing stock-still between his arms caging you in. Your breathing shallowed, caught in the center of your throat.

"Oh, yeah?" Steve growled, tipping his head to find your eyes again. "That's how you feel, honey?"

"Well," you swallowed, steeling your nerves. Steve wouldn't get the best of you today. "If the shoe fucking fits."

"Shut up!"

The impact of Steve's fist against the drywall felt like a firework in your ear. Earth-shattering, ear-splitting, jolting you so hard you lost your breath for a moment. You felt the whoosh of air when he reared back, felt the boom of his hand breaking the foundation. It crumbled in chunks of shattered plaster, clattering against the hardwood.

The room around Steve seemed to vignette. Shadows gathered around the shape of his face, and the space in your lungs shrunk to a minuscule amount. You suddenly couldn't breathe. There was no room in your body for air. Your ears hurt and your cheeks felt swollen, the way they do when you're about to be sick. That sore, stinging ache that came from the onset of tears gathered behind your eyes.

Steve's face went through a series of shifts in the next few palpable moments of silence. First, contorted in anger: brows furrowed and angled down, lip curled into a sneering scowl, cheeks flushed hot red. Then: the brows softened and knitted together, his cheeks dimmed to a soft pink, and his mouth fell agape. His fingers uncurled from their place in the wall. More plaster fell to the floor in chips.

"Oh...oh, god, baby—"

You were out of there. You were so out of there.

You ducked under Steve's arm, still crowding you against the wall. You sprinted for the door, unconcerned about your purse or any of your belongings strewn around the house. The only thing on your mind was getting away.

"I-I'm taking the car," you stuttered out, though you weren't sure why. Maybe you were talking to yourself, reminding yourself to keep moving, to not stop. You couldn't stop. You had to keep going.

"No, don't take the car, baby—"

The jingle of keys between your fingers sounded miles away. As did Steve's voice, following you out the door with a pleading upturn and a nasally whine. He was crying. In the back of your mind, you registered that. Someplace in your head, you saw his tears, heard his pleading.

But you just kept going.

You slid into the car and slammed the door, immediately encompassed by the thick heat collected inside. The brown leather was warm. The engine rumbled to life.

Steve ran across the driveway, all flat grey stones he had redone. His bare feet collected flecks of dirt, little pebbles lodged in his heels. But he had to get to you. He lunged for the car—his car, with you in the passenger seat leaking a shower of tears he wasn't quite sure you knew you were shedding.

Steve banged on the driver window and winced at the sight of his own hand: swollen, split at the knuckles and seeping hot blood. It trickled down his hand and raced for his wrists. He hated how it stained the glass of the window, how it got all over the handle when he yanked at it.

"No, baby, please. Please, baby, open the door. Please, please, please."

You yanked the car into reverse, fingers unsteady and buzzing with some far off, tingling feeling. Everything felt like someone else's actions, someone else's body. It felt like you were watching from a distance.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, don't go. Baby. I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry."

You were hiccuping and choking on your own breath as you slammed your foot on the gas and whipped the car around. In the rearview, Steve jogged after the car, half naked and bleeding, and you hurried to put it in drive and haul off. You squealed out of the driveway, down the hill, and toward the end of the street, sobbing the whole way.

It was about five minutes later that you managed to get ahold of yourself. You slurped up whatever snot attempted to escape your nose, wiped it with the back of your still-trembling hand, and clicked on the turn signal to go right.

There were only two other people you knew in Malibu. Right now, you needed a friend.

♡ ♡

to be continued...

796 notes · View notes

galactica7071 · 6 months

Text

ugh fine take your punchy boys and leave

#punch out!!#punch out wii #my art #aran ryan #bald bull #don flamenco #doc louis #little mac #great tiger #soda popinski #king hippo #disco kid #von kaiser #yes that's the rando boxer from aran's contender intro #also if you get the references with the kaiser doodle and the kitty cat doodle we are now best friends #I promise ill do disco kid justice someday

174 notes · View notes

homebrewstims · 5 months

Text

Minecraft New Dogs!! (Better Dogs Resource Pack 1.20+)

In order of appearance (alphabetical):

Australian Shepherd

Basset hound

Beagle

Bernese Mountain Dog

Border collie

Boxer

Bull terrier

Cavalier King Charles Spaniel

Corgi

Dachshund

Dalmatian

English bulldog

German Shepherd

Golden retriever

Great Dane

Husky

Labrador retriever

Jack Russell Terrier

Neapolitan mastiff

Pomeranian

Poodle

Pug

Rottweiler

Saint Bernard

Samoyed

Shiba Inu

(this is only ~half the breeds in this datapack jesus chri)

Though this isn't my footage, I took the time to make the gifs. See my terms of use BEFORE you reupload!

**Edit: corrected credits! I accidentally added an extra video I didn't wind up using, but now it's gone.**

75 notes · View notes

hagenwo43 · 5 months

Text

Off season Pt3

69 notes · View notes

bookburners · 4 months

Text

Everybody is wrong actually

Neil: Bard

Andrew: Paladin

Kevin: Wizard

Renee: Monk

Aaron: Cleric

Matt: Fighter

Allison: Rouge

Dan: Paladin

Nicky: Bard

#Neil: Only a bard could come up with insults like that #Andrew: No one takes an oath more seriously #Kevin: Nerd #Renee: The woman doesn’t need knives #Aaron: Pre - med #Matt: Boxer #Allison: I can’t explain it #It’s just the vibe #I’d also except sorcerer for her.#Dan: That women is simply a natural leader who is also THAT BITCH #Nicky: Gay #aftg #all for the game #the foxhole court #the raven king #the kings men #neil josten #andrew minyard #the foxes

51 notes · View notes

lil-black-kitty · 7 months

Text

Can we appreciate the amazing kdramas 2023 has offered us? (⁠*⁠˘⁠︶⁠˘⁠*⁠)⁠.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

57 notes · View notes

speedybeta · 14 days

Text

KENNY WON 🥳🥳

#king kenny #beta squad #Kenny #boxing #boxer #niko omilana #sharky #chunkz #aj shabeel

21 notes · View notes

kirbyfigure · 9 months

Text

121 notes · View notes

beybuniki · 2 months

Note

pls could you share did bakugo get that anklet when he was still awake or was it put on his sleeping body 🙏 i’m trying to set the scene in my mind

asleep :D he wakes up with his and rolls his eyes, but he keeps it

#quickly puts his boots on so no one sees it #and then he tales them off and deku spots it and goes awww #and bakugo tells him to stop looking at his feet like a freak (king of deflecting)#this ALSO reminds deku of the friendship bracelets he and bakugo wore when they were 5 #i made a post about that before we need to get back to thtarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrtttttttttttt #bakugo never wears his but its somewhere in his room #deku also doesnt wear his but he has a little box with things that make him nostlagic #hes a real yearner #bakugo's is somewhere between his boxers #beybunaski

32 notes · View notes

cere-mon-ials · 5 months

Text

2023 in kdramas

*that i finished

**in order of how deep and lasting the brainrot was/is from barely a smidge to stitched to my soul

[12] I figured See You In My 19th Life would be trying when I couldn’t understand why an extraordinary individual in her 18th life—18 incredible lives lived over some of history’s most happening centuries—would fixate on one pesky schoolboy. I bought it because (a) Shin Hye-sun was selling it (b) the show tried to make it clear that while she remembered her past lives, it is not the same as living the one she is in. So when the young Ju-won meets Seo-ha, she is still a 12-year-old who happens to fall for a 9-year-old, except she has heightened emotional maturity.

The plot follows Ju-won, who is reincarnated as Ban Ji-eum, her 19th life after her 18th was cut short in a car accident with Seo-ha. Then, the show fumbles its own logic, unable to choose if the real gift is living in the present or remembering how we got there. We are told that Ji-eum is determined to fix the life she didn’t get to live as Ju-won and because Ju-won’s family and Seo-ha are still alive, that’s who she seeks out. She also finds a dear one from her 17th life. The twist is that the 18th life was meant to be a fated reincarnation of two lovers, who in their time—the first life—were wronged. In the end, when the sins are atoned for, Ji-eum loses the memories of her past lives. She is Ji-eum, smart and talented, daughter of an abusive man and born destitute, free of karmic obligations. But who is this Ji-eum? Who does she love? Why are the memories of everyone who knew her as the extraordinary Ju-won/Ji-eum so valuable and hers isn’t? Milquetoast writing and a genuine lack of interesting characters in the rest of the show.

[11] I didn’t finish the first season of Dr. Romantic because I had a violent reaction (derogatory) to Yoo Yeon-seok’s character. I went straight to the additional episode ft. Kim Hye-soo who is ~flails~ and warmed up to this fantastic ensemble, thanks to a YYS-less sequel. Season 3 is ambitious and follows the raggity crew of overworked doctors in a country hospital now coping with its expansion into an elite trauma centre. The show does neither this premise nor the incredible cast they managed to bring back together (at least four of who could demand three times what they were paid in S2) any real justice. It had all the ingredients and an emotional core that is most pleasing to me. Seriously, it was so good: in reaching for the Michelin stars of healthcare, ostensibly Kim Sabu’s legacy, both he and his colleagues find that they may need to reassess what he taught them. Look at the implications. Doldam is a hospital that has run for two seasons on the strength of close-knit interpersonal relationships in ways (some might accuse) hazardous to professional codes. Something's gotta give.

DRR S3 does not trust the emotional tensions that these ideas can provoke and instead, throws in spectacle after spectacle. A bloodbath on a ship carrying illegal migrants, a raging forest fire, a building collapse. And there are villains, written as yangs to yings, in a main character's father played by an actual trash person, and then groan a politician. I mean, the vagaries of ill fortune and death is right there. Isn’t that enough? Makes you wonder just how did Lee-Shin partnership accomplish what they did with HosPlay. Someone who loves DRR’s characters will sit through it. But it’s junk food.

[10] Lee Bo-young is a force in Agency. It's a tried and tested formula: a brilliant creative person with abandonment issues in fantastic clothes. I enjoyed the snippy dialogues, peppered with refreshing metaphor and irony reminiscent of vintage Hollywood flicks. The writing isn’t confident about what it wants to say about an ambitious single woman in a workplace (and other women too including working mothers, women who find no need in dressing up to do their jobs, expert women who still have to struggle when they want to build something). But perhaps you, like me, can let it pass. It is not ideal to fetch a real answer to women’s struggles amidst capitalist excess.

[9] Our Blooming Youth begins with a cursed prince (Park Hyung-sik) and a noblewoman (Jeon So-nee) accused of murdering her entire family joining hands to free each other. Lurking behind is a national conspiracy spearheaded by several degenerate officials who wish to erase a people and their history—interesting that OBY and My Dearest later in the year featured the most marginalised being branded as traitors. The prince and noblewoman (cross-dressed as a eunuch of course) are joined by four young individuals who feel a sense of duty. I adored this band and their shenanigans. The show is kind to the youth in question, to their capacity to chase freedom and friendship. I was moved by such love for characters in this story about nationhood as an ongoing project.

But enjoying OBY means reading in between the lines because the show doesn’t know what to do with its 20-episode length or the depth of its interest in the scars of unacknowledged genocide. I felt impatient and unfulfilled more times than I’d like. I wish OBY was more meaty because it had the opportunity to be radical and chose to be inoffensive. Hyung-sik, very dear to me. So-nee, GOSH. I have loved her since Encounter (2018) and she fills a frame like nobody’s business. If there is such a thing as female gaze, she’s got it. I caught her in the little I watched of Soulmate (2023) recently. A marvel, just like Kim Da-mi.

[8] One Day Off is whimsical and celebrates the mundane in eight chapters following the wanderings of a school teacher, played by the luminous Lee Na-young. Japanese entertainment does discovering minor joys and its everydayness so well that it’s a genre in itself. I have seen it in a handful Korean variety shows too. As a drama, this is new to me and ODO felt special. It giveth in multitudes taking us to a monastery, an art exhibit, a film festival, a planetarium, many bakeries. At other times, it puts us in the middle of a rainy day and ancestral rites and a bus station where the teacher is stuck with condescending boomers. It's lovely.

[7] King The Land benefitted from low expectations of prestige. Junho lovers were tuning in to see him frolic after his Baeksang-winning performance as King Jeongjo, I can’t speak for Yoon-A lovers. The makers wanted to bank on these beloved actors and there is minimal friction between who they are and what they play on-screen. Junho, handsome, rich, kind. Yoon-A, pretty, hardworking, warm. There is a good chance that this show was part of a joint marketing campaign by Dior and Estee Lauder. And also, possibly, Thailand's tourism department. KTL is classic popcorn, easy on the eyes, easy on the mind (save for that irritatingly stupid arc with the ‘Arab prince’), designed to be innocuous. Here’s the thing, though: the cast and crew were not messing around with that dough. They chose to inject this fan + consumer service with an earnest desire to entertain missers of fluff romance. Lee Junho, permanent resident of my heart.

[6] Going in with low expectations helped when I watched My ID is Gangnam Beauty too. Kang Mi-rae is starting college with a new face, having shed her old one at the surgeon’s table because of life-long bullying at being conventionally unattractive. But Mi-rae now has to deal with gossip and judgement about the extents she has gone for what’s deemed as a vanity project. When Mi-rae says that it matters what people think of her, I can't object. It’s because Gangnam Beauty tells a story about familiar feelings and yet, it is also defiantly about Mi-rae. You can walk with her but you’re aware that not all of us walk in her precise shoes, and it’s not about measuring who’s having it worse either. I loved watching her settle into her skin, remaining compassionate in whatever is the opposite of noble idiocy.

Very sweet romance. I may not have noticed Cha Eun-woo if I hadn’t been derailed to the hilt by him in Island—also a show I finished but you will not find it on this list For Reasons.

[5] I wanted to love My Dearest a lot more. It was promising what with Namgoong Min as the perfect Lee Jang-hyun and Ahn Eun-jin as the perfect Yoo Gil-chae. NGM’s ability to smirk in a way that elicits both a punch and a blush is unparalleled. He owns the role of clever playboy merchant who sees the rules of polite society as impositions and who values human life above platitudes. AEJ's Gil-chae is stubborn and witty and audacious and has no interest in anything that distracts her from her desires. I loved them, and that became one of my problems when Part 1 ended. NGM is the perfect Jang-hyun and AEJ is the perfect Gil-chae but I wasn’t able to root for their romance. I never quite got over how the desire that they shared, which war put a damper on before it got a chance to bloom, gets cheapened at the end of Part 1—please read @elderflowergin's excellent post about this. In Part 2, that conversation isn’t adequately addressed but I was there to watch these two actors earn their Baeksang nominations. I found myself willing to move with the tides when Jang-hyun and Gil-chae let each other in after they learn to devote themselves to the people who make their community.

I cannot fault MD, however, on its commentary about how war disrupts ordinary life. There is nothing more moving in the show than the Joseon slaves in Qing singing their songs and harvesting rice, yearning for home while the King and his scholars commit to preserving standing and write these countrymen off. It’s a sharp critique of an upper class that delude themselves about their importance. MD is courageous enough to say that the nation does owe something to its people and the nation must prove itself worthy of sacrifice before it can demand such a thing. I haven’t stopped feeling the pangs of this love letter to a people and their land. The first seven episodes, set during the invasion and in the early days of the Joseon surrender, is real television. It’s what I watch sageuks for.

What else? Great telling of Crown Prince So-hyeons’s story. Lee Chung-ah is captivating. MD would have risen in my heart and on this list if it were more attentive to Ryang-eum. Double amnesia was comically exhausting to watch but I do feel generous now. The first time round Jang-hyun regains his memory because of a tangible article that proved Gil-chae’s love for him. The second time he traces back the arc of his life that spawned enduring memories of love and dreams. He’s not looking to retrieve what he doesn’t know he has lost. He knows he has lost and he is piecing together what he can. That’s a bold note to conclude on by makers who have risen to question the state of a nation in the hands of incompetence and cruelty and obscene pride. The racism is unsurprising—I wish this meant that I had better tolerance for it. I also wish the story knew better than to push Eun-hye to the sidelines. My favourite scene is Gil-chae finding Jang-hyun clawing to life by a string on a pile of corpses and proceeding to play dead while holding him tight to escape.

[4] I kept tuning in to Moving week after week despite my reservations about high school life, superheroes, and gore because it is a feat of storytelling. A rewarding first act, an absorbing second, and a near perfect third. It’s a compelling story on its own about superhero parents who will go to any lengths to protect their superhero children. But it’s also poignant in how it tackles passive peace.

Critiques of the state’s abuse of power often turn fangless in the face of this idea about national security, the notion that secures our future. Writers fumble because they feel forced to provide an alternative: how else do we protect what we must? Moving kills the question by letting you see past that what (national security) and takes you to a who (our children, our literal future). It dismantles the illusions with its central stage as a highly-surveilled school where undercover secret agents observe and train gifted children. The litmus test isn’t going to be the abstraction of a nation. It’s going to be whether our children can grow up, can learn, can be free to be who they want to be, irrespective of talents they may or may not possess.

A state which can’t imagine freedom as such is a failed state and a failed state resorts to joining hands with those who have every interest in keeping us from seeing that we do in fact want the same things as our neighbours. The real world bleeds in when the story of two Koreas becomes apparent. It’s acutely observed in a way that’s trope-y but perhaps not untrue. But the show is more interested in the shared Koreanness, in their love for their children, and for the unimpeachable desire to make their lives better.

Park Hee-soon had me hugging myself from his first frame to the last. Electrifying performance. Han Hyo-joo, oh my god.

[3] My Lovely Boxer was made for me. It’s about Gwon-sook (Kim So-hye), a boxing prodigy who disappeared from public eye after failing to show up for a championship game and Tae-young (Lee Sang-yeob), a ruthless sports agent at the cross hairs of matchfixing. Tae-young has messes to clean, payments to make, and he finds Gwon-sook to bring her back to the limelight for one final game to lose. Gwon-sook wants nothing to do with the sport and Tae-young promises that if disappearing for good is what she wants, then this plan would work for her too. It’s exactly as angsty as it sounds.

The show works because it doesn’t touch a thing that it isn’t willing to gnaw into. It doesn’t merely dangle matchfixing as plot omen—it explores the emotional and economic damages for the sportsmen with heft. Gwon-sook feels no love for boxing but she isn’t the only boxer in the world and that feeling is hardly universal. One of my favourite characters this year is Ah-reum, the opponent of that championship game for which Gwon-sook didn’t show up. That day, Gwon-sook may have chosen to leave the game for self-preservation but she also took away Ah-reum’s right to fair play. MLB is at its best when it navigates Gwon-sook seeking Ah-reum’s forgiveness because therein lies sportsmanship and what it means to tirelessly push your body for a shot at the ring. It’s an exhilarating journey with these two girls because (a) you want Ah-reum to have her moment (b) you don’t want Gwon-sook to lose and let the matchfixing bookers pocket money (c) you begin to wish Gwon-sook could win because she is too good. The stakes are delicious because the bookers are also a tad bit murderous and the final match had me at the edge of my seat.

Lee Sang-yeob was a shock to my system with his intense stare and a thespian interpretation of a man in shades of grey. Sexy bitch. I want to see Kim So-hye and Shin Se-kyung play sisters one day.

[2] Into The Ring tops my list of kdrama romcoms. Nana is a star and the fact that Se-ra cannot walk straight to save her life makes me giggle. She is blunt in the wrong ways, sharp in the wrong ways, and honest in all the right ways. Her heart is big and she has a sense of service to the people around her as though she really believes she was raised by a village. I loved Se-ra’s parents who reminded me of my own in their warmth and clownery. Park Sung-hoon’s Gong-myung is the dream guy: competent at work, loser in everything else. There’s only one kind of valid workplace romance and it’s this: accidentally becoming an elected representative and your childhood nerd friend volunteering to be your secretary to cover your ass. Perfect, no notes.

I happened to be reading Sara Ahmed’s Complaint! around the same time and I think it made me love the show's take on political action more. This is where Se-ra begins, just her and her complaint diary. That early episode where it dawns on her that she wants this job as much as she needs it got to me. There’s much to love in a show that is okay with however small a population she represents, as long as they are fun about joy and serious about justice.

[1] At the outset, Call It Love sounded like the makjang I avoid—a relationship between a woman and the son of her father’s mistress? Turns out, it's possible to tell that story like an accomplished spare poem with meticulously composed frames overdoing headroom and pared down dialogues. In effect, CIL is beautiful to look at and inviting to spend time with. This is kdrama caviar. Debut writer Kim Ga-eun has a gift for writing loneliness and solitude as not mutually exclusive to being a loved and loving person. She’s drawn comparisons to the extraordinary Park Hae-young who is the master at this sorcery. To my mind, the comparisons hold merit in subject but they operate with different intentions and styles. I hope they meet one day and I get to be a fly on the wall.

I was struck by how Lee Sung-kyung played Woo-joo as the responsible middle child, the one most burdened by the timing of her family’s collapse. The show is about her revenge but often, you see her struggle with the coldness this demands of her. She cannot resist what comes easiest to her and that’s her ability to see people having bad times as a reflection of the times, not the people. It's why she can forgive the aggrieved man who harms her, and why she tidies Dong-jin’s ex’s house while the ex is recouping from the heartbreak of losing the same man she is falling in love with.

No one has gotten the allure of the quiet guy, the shy guy, the good guy who is too awkward to be nice like Kim Young-kwang has. Dong-jin knows he has to work very hard to keep up with the pace of the world. He knows his mind but is afraid to impose it, because he doesn’t think it matters and because he doesn’t want to be a bother. Young-kwang just gets that line between clarity and low-esteem. I will never forget his teary eyes and total submission to loving Woo-joo in the single word he lets out with a hitched exhale. He slouches a lot but he will look you in the eye when he has to say something he doesn’t want to repeat. I loved him for that dignity. Special kisses to him for ditching neck ties.

It is true pleasure to see two male leads, majestic and towering in physique, composed to look tiny and frail. At one point, the costume department steps up Woo-joo’s wardrobe as her feelings intensify and it doesn't come across as a makeover. It is presented as the ordinary consequence of paying attention. I loved everything and everyone. The siblings. The ex-girlfriend, the bad mother and also, the generous & kinda clueless one. The stepfather who lingered, the best friends, the loyal & competent manager lady. Favourite kiss.

I am currently watching four dramas: A Good Day To Be A Dog (cute & fun), My Demon (silly & fun), Park's Marriage Contract (testing my patience), and Tell Me That You Love Me (relishing but for some reason not investing). I missed Not Others and The Eighth Sense when they were airing and they are the two shows from 2023 that I am adding to my watchlist. I am looking forward to 2024 because we seem to be getting at least one release from several greats and beauties. See you then! I hope no one emails you for the rest of the year and you eat well.

#call it love #into the ring #my lovely boxer #disney moving #moving #mbc my dearest #my id is gangnam beauty #gangnam beauty #king the land #one day off #our blooming youth #jtbc agency #dr romantic 3 #see you in my 19th life #kdrama #notes #2023 in review #kdrama in review

40 notes · View notes

rustedhearts · 11 months

Text

the incident ♡ pt ii (boxer!steve x librarian!fem reader)

summary: in the aftermath of your fight with steve, you appear on the munsons’ doorstep in search of shelter and a friendly face. the munsons get a glimpse of the real you—and the version of steve hiding behind closed doors.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ part i, part iii ✶ the king of the ring ✶ main masterlist

the rockstar eddie setlist by @carolmunson

tags: angst, hurt (practically no comfort), stella and libby being besties, violence, a whole lot of crying, talk of domestic abuse-ish stuff.

malibu california, november 1992. the munson residence.

The Mustang's tires squealed over the slick brick of the Munson driveway with a speed that made even you wince. The gear clunked into park by your not-so-gentle hand, still unsteady and covered in snot. You wiped it on the skirt of your dress: billowy, soft pink cotton now stained with tears.

You flung the door open and stomped your feet to the ground, rushing to make it to the door. You weren't sure why you were so frantic. Maybe somewhere in the back of your mind, you were worried Steve would follow. And you weren't sure you could look at Steve right now. You weren't sure you could stomach the sight of him.

Just as you reached the arched doorway of the Munson's looming mansion, lifting your hand to knock, the wood fell away to reveal a bare-chested and wide-eyed Eddie Munson.

"What the fuck is—Libby?"

You dropped your hand, sniffling. "Oh, hi Eddie."

You suddenly felt silly. Standing there in a disheveled, crumpled mess—hair astray, makeup soiled, dress collecting wet spots and wrinkles. Your shoes were strangling your feet. The brown belt around your waist was squeezing your lungs. And you had nothing. No purse, no house keys, no car of your own. Just Steve's brand new Mustang and a wobbling lip.

For a moment, Eddie just stared. His mouth fell agape, arm dropping from the doorway where he'd been preparing to lunge at some sort of paparazzi or other unwanted creep lurking in his driveway, more than ready to serve a stern scolding for streaking his newly-lain brick. But instead, there was you: swollen-nosed and sticky-cheeked, an unkempt version of the joyful girl he was used to seeing. Even when he knew you'd been fighting with Steve, Eddie had never seen you shed a tear or break a pout. You always kept a sugar-sweet poker face on for the public.

You were damn good at it too—nearly as good as his professionally-media-trained fiancée.

Eddie broke out of his stunned stupor at the sound of the latter's footsteps pattering behind him, slipper-clad and unprepared for what she was about to see.

"Ed, who was it?"

"Uh..." Eddie trailed off, stepping aside when Stella appeared beside him in a satin robe, tying the strings around her waist.

Stella, much like Eddie, paused. It seemed as though her entire body seized, like she'd just seen a splattered raccoon on the side of the road—pity and horror, all at once. You let your eyes fall to the stone steps, wiping your cheeks to freshen up a little. God, you felt so silly.

"Well, for god's sake, Munson, invite her in. Jesus, the poor thing's shaking!"

Stella swooped in, slipping her arm around your shoulders to push past her husband and guide you inside. She smelled delicate and expensive, her hand soft against your arm. She shook her head at Eddie, who flushed red as he swung the door closed and slid the lock.

"I'm sorry for showin' up like this unannounced," you murmured meekly, still avoiding their gazes as Stella gently guided the pair of you down on the cream-colored couch in the first living room. "I meant to call on the car phone, I just..."

Eddie carefully took the seat across from you, glancing at his fiancée over your head.

"Don't worry about it," Stella cooed, rubbing your arm, her own still draped over your back.

You nodded, wiping under your eyes. Your finger came away streaked in charcoal and sticky black. You wiped your hands together with a sigh, freshly manicured nails clacking together.

"Is everything okay?" Eddie offered, head tipping to see your face.

You took your lip between your teeth, scraping them over the plush flesh. You sniffled again, and it was as you dropped your head to your hands in your lap that the Munsons realized you were crying again. Eddie's head snapped toward Stella, who glared at him. Nice going, she mouthed over your head, tightening her hold on your frame against her body.

Eyes blown wide and cheeks flaming hot again, Eddie shuffled toward on the oversized armchair. "Fuck—shit, Libby, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"No," you chirped, voice strained with another cry. "Don't worry about, I-I'm okay."

You lifted your head halfway and flashed him a weak smile. Eddie's seemed strained in response—more a grimace than a grin. Stella rubbed your arm again, bringing your hair away from your face where it was beginning to cling to your cheeks.

"Do you want to take a bath? You can borrow some of my clothes, or we can have Tiffany go run out and get you some—"

"Oh gosh," you sighed, head shaking. "I don't want to be a bother. I-I'll take whatever you have."

Stella nodded, standing to her feet. "Alright, come on, I'll get you set up."

Eddie watched you walk side by side toward the double staircase: you a small, trudging, hunched figure and his fiancé a mess of poorly-concealed concern. She looked over her shoulder toward him as you ascended the stairs together, shooting him a look of panic. Eddie only ran his hand over his face and nodded in agreement.

The entire way up the stairs, you murmured more apologies and promised to be gone by tonight.

"Oh hush," Stella soothed as she guided you toward the guest wing. "You're staying. We'll make it a girl's night."

She opened the bathroom door, padding across the marble toward the clawfoot tub. You lingered like a child in the doorway and twisted your fingers behind your back.

"Are you sure—"

"Libby. I'm more than sure. I'll go get you something to wear, just get comfortable."

You stepped into the bathroom, aching to undo the straps on your heels and free your feet from their uncomfortable confines. Stella turned the faucet on, releasing a stream of hot water into the pristine white tub. She flashed you a smile as she headed your way toward the door. She came to a stop beside you, squeezing your shoulder.

"And whenever you wanna talk...I'm here, okay?"

You bobbed your head, matching her smile with teary eyes. Her hand slipped away from your arm, and she disappeared through the door. She returned a few moments later with a fluffy robe (light pink, clearly new, clearly purchased for a guest stay) and a silk pajama set: delicately patterned and embroidered with a designer logo.

You thanked her, set the items on the sink, and shed your body of its bearings. You kicked your heels toward the corner, spiteful and wishing to light them on fire. You dipped your feet into the tub and sank into the steaming water, sighing as it lapped at your bare body.

You rested your head back against the lip of the tub, cushioned with a bath pillow, and closed your eyes.

It was so quiet here. And there was no Steve.

♡ ♡

When you were sure you’d scrubbed all the remnants of your blowout with Steve from your body, you pulled the drain and let the water gurgle down. The pajamas Stella gave you were soft and freshly washed, and though there were sizing differences between the pair of you, they were far more comfortable than what you came in. Anything that didn’t smell like Steve was welcome.

You tied the robe into a ribbon around your waist, feet bare and toes curling across the carpet. You hugged your arms tight over your chest as you pattered down the staircase, still wary and uncertain. You didn’t feel unwelcome, but you certainly didn’t feel at home. Not to mention, Eddie was Steve’s friend. You wondered if he’d even believe you if you told him what happened.

But you didn’t want to talk about Steve right now. Right now, you just wanted to stop crying.

So, eyes still aching and stinging with old tears, you wandered into the living room to find Stella perched on Eddie’s lap, his hand running through her hair.

“Oh hey,” she greeted you, sitting up. “Everything okay?”

You bobbed your head, mustering a toothless smile. “Yeah, thank you.”

“You want something to eat?” Eddie asked, head tipping to find you around Stella.

You shrugged. “I’m alr—“

“Eddie’s got the fridge stocked at all times now that he’s beefing up,” Stella giggled, squeezing Eddie’s firm bicep.

Eddie’s mouth slipped into a grin, half-cocked and charming. “What can I say? I’m giving Harrington a run for his money.”

Your giggle was faux and cracked somewhere in the middle. Stella’s smile slipped, rubbing her fiancé’s arm for a moment more before sliding to her feet. Eddie wished he could swallow the mention of his friend’s name. If the way your face crumbled and your eyes welled up held any indication of what happened between you two—Eddie figured it was best not to mention your boyfriend’s name at all.

“Or,” Stella sung excitedly, looping her arm through yours. “We can go have some of that champagne we just opened.”

You nodded, eyes meeting hers briefly. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

The pair of you headed to the kitchen, Eddie’s big, sweeping steps following suit. You took a seat at one of the leather stools flanking the marble island, placing your elbows on the smooth countertop to play with your nails. Stella clinked around the kitchen, pulling the bottle of Dom from its ice bath, locating two champagne flutes in a cupboard nearby. They clinked against the marble when she set them down.

"Let me open it, honey," Eddie cooed, quickly replacing Stella's hands on the chilled bottle of bubbly.

"I had it, babe," Stella huffed, though her tone had a dash of something gooey to it.

You smiled softly when Eddie leaned over and kissed her cheek, loud and quick. "I know."

Eddie popped the cork off with precision, the loud explosion of air quickly disintegrating, replaced by the 'glug, glug' trickle of champagne filling the flutes. When they were even and spritzing sparks, Eddie fished them from the counter and presented one to each of you.

"Ladies."

You cracked another smile, sniffling as you accepted the drink. "Thank you."

Stella shook her head, affection smeared across her face. She pressed another kiss to Eddie's waiting, puckered lips, and rubbed his bare arm again. "Alright, get outta here, Munson. It's a girl's night."

Eddie didn't argue. Instead, he pressed another kiss to Stella's neck, head tipping to fit the nook, and turned to you with gentle eyes.

"Shout if y' need me, 'kay?"

Stella, beaming despite the eye roll, slid to mirror your stance and rest her elbows on the island. "'Kay."

Eddie shuffled out of the room, and in his absence you sipped your champagne with tiny gulps. Stella pressed hers against her cheek, nails gleaming under the bright white glow of the kitchen chandelier. She watched you awhile, silently pondering. You tucked a strand of wet hair behind your ear as you set the glass down.

"Sure you don't want anything to eat?"

You shook your head, nail tracing the grain of the marble. "No, I'm okay."

"Because," Stella said, setting her glass down and twirling toward the double-doored fridge. "I meant it about Eddie keeping stock. I mean...four pounds of bacon? The man is insane."

The shiny steel doors swung open to reveal—just as Stella said—a fully-stocked fridge. An array of milks, juices, power and energy drinks, sodas, produce, dairy products, and all sorts of snacks revealed themselves to you. And though your stomach hollowed with hunger and sat like an owl's nest in a tree trunk, you couldn't fathom the idea of eating. You worried the taste of food on your tongue would trigger the bile that's been resting in your throat.

"I'm okay," you repeated, another small smile gracing your mouth. "Promise."

Stella gently closed the door until they suctioned shut. She returned to the island with a much smaller bout of enthusiasm. You felt horrible for mellowing the mood. You felt horrible for intruding in their home. You felt horrible for bringing them into this mess—a mess that, at the moment, they still knew nothing about. You wondered if Steve's blood was still on the car.

Taking another sip of her champagne, Stella inched closer to you. "Can I braid your hair?"

Your eyes flittered her way with swift surprise. She flashed a sheepish but hopeful grin, shoulders shrugging under silk.

"Oh, um...sure. That'd be nice."

Setting her glass down again, Stella clasped her hands together. "Okay, I'll be right back!"

She returned with a brush and hair ties, and situated herself behind your stool to approach your hair. The brush whooshed through the strands, scraping your back through the soft, terry pink robe. You suddenly felt like a Barbie. You suddenly weren't thinking of Steve.

She sectioned your hair in two, fingers delicately weaving. The hair ties plucked and snapped, and finally wrapped around the ends of two neat braids falling down your back. Stella smoothed them behind your shoulders and stepped back.

"There."

You swept your hands over the braids, damp and ridged before turning over your shoulder with a smile. "Thank you, Stella."

The other girl nodded, hand returning to her glass once more. "'Course. Now come on, we're watching Sixteen Candles in the screening room."

♡ ♡

You barely stayed awake during the movie. Eyes heavy and aching, fluttering closed between scenes only to snap open ten minutes later. By the time the credits rolled, your champagne had been finished and refilled twice, and you were more than half asleep. Stella, wide-awake and still waning with concern, guided you back to the guest room.

It was there that you snapped from slumber. You stirred in the sheets, cool and clean and crisp Egyptian cotton—but not yours. The pillow beside you was empty, perfectly plump and fluffed and missing the shape of someone's head. Steve's head. The room was void of his smell. That sweet, minty musk of nighttime. That soft, gentle warmth of his body winding down. Your heart wept for it.

And so did you, eyes welling and flooding with tears once again. You buried your face in the pillow to soften your cries and force sleep, but you only soaked the silk and clogged your nose.

You just wanted to call him. You just wanted to hear his voice, those whimpered apologies. You knew he was sorry, of course you did. He hadn't meant to do it. But he did. And he couldn't take that back with more teary-eyed apologies and petulant pouts. He couldn't fix it with flowers or kisses. This was different. He'd gone too far this time.

Worst of all, your body seemed to be in a tug-of-war contest between furious and heartbroken. You weren't sure which would win. The confusion of it all elicited a restlessness like no other.

You kicked the covers off and reached for the robe again. Fastening it around your body, you huffed as you headed toward the door. Quietly brewing and going over every moment of the day in your head, you wandered back to the first floor and into the kitchen. Even encased in the blue darkness of well past midnight, the Munson mansion seemed dauntingly massive.

"Couldn't sleep?"

A sharp gasp shot from your mouth, body jolting at the sight of Eddie's shadowed figure at the island.

Hand over your frantic heart, you sighed and stepped into the room. "God, you scared me."

He cracked a lopsided grin, teeth shining in a sliver of moonlight. "Sorry."

You slid into the stool beside him, wooden legs scraping on the tile. "No, been tossing for hours."

Eddie paused a moment. "Want some ice cream?"

You glanced at him. "Sure."

Eddie pushed away from the island, shuffling to the freezer. He pulled the drawer open and fished out a freezer-burnt tub. "Lucky for you, we've got the real shit now that Stella's off set."

A tub of strawberry ice cream found its way between the pair of you, two spoons forming craters in the frozen treat. For a while, the darkness of the kitchen was quiet. You dug in and swallowed it down with no words to pair it with. You knew your eyes were still wet, that dampness still gathered under your nose. But you just couldn't bring yourself to say it.

Swallowing around his spoon, Eddie pulled it away and licked it clean before letting it clink against the marble.

"Alright," he sighed, heavy and dad-like. "Give it to me straight, kid. What'd he do?"

You turned away, watching the smooth pink cream form a rolling ball with the pull of your spoon in the paper carton. You wanted to tell him; just as badly as you wanted to tell Stella. But part of you worried what might happen if you did. Part of you worried they'd doubt you.

"Hey." Eddie reached out, cold fingers tapping your hand. "You okay?"

You nodded once. Head bobbing in slow jerking successions until it dropped into your hand, palm over eyes. God, you were so sick of crying.

"I don't know," you croaked.

Eddie shifted in his stool, leather creaking under his sweats. "You—I mean...did you get in a fight?"

You sniffled, nodding. You still couldn't bring yourself to look at him. "It was so bad. W-we were saying such h-horrible things."

"Ah," Eddie scoffed, shrugging. "Nothin' you can't take back, I'm sure."

You shook your head, lifting it to swipe away more tears and snot. You were trying your best not to soil the robe. You rolled the sleeves to your elbows to avoid it. "N-no, not this t-time. I don't think s-so."

You could barely breathe. Saying it out loud, holding the entire night on the tip of your tongue and knowing how horrible it would sound coming out—it hit you then. What Steve had really done this time.

Eddie paused, and you reached in with your spoon for another bite of ice cream when Eddie's hand touched your arm. Halting its journey toward the dessert, Eddie's fingers looped around your wrist and brought it across the counter. Gentle but determined, Eddie flipped your arm to reveal the back plain of bone.

"What the hell is this?"

You turned away again. "Nothing—"

Eddie dropped your arm, taking quick steps toward the light switch to flick it on. He moved so swiftly that you barely had time to react before he'd taken your arm again and pushed the pink sleeve up to your bicep. In the white glow of the spotlights, more of Steve's handiwork was clear as day.

You sighed, twisting your wrist in Eddie's palm. "Eddie—"

"Guys, it's one in the morning what are we—ooh, ice cream."

Stella trudged into the room, eyes half-lidded with bleary slumber, clearly still teetering in and out of consciousness. She swiped the spoon from Eddie's place and reached for the carton, holding her robe closed with her other hand—but paused at the sight before her.

"What's going...on?" Her mouth hung open, a spoonful of soupy strawberry cream hovering nearby—but she stopped, taken aback by the fresh, vibrant colors on your arm.

Eddie's eyes were hard, teeth clenched tight. You were frozen in your seat.

"He fuckin' hit her."

You pulled your arm away, tugging the robe down. "No, he...he just—he grabs me too hard sometimes. I-it's not—that's not—that wasn't—"

"Libby," Stella's tone took a new smoothness, coaxing and gentle but sharp-edged with panic. "Did Steve hit you?"

"No," you insisted, eyes flicking between the couple. Eddie's hand swept over his face, leg bouncing beneath the counter. "No, I swear."

Please believe me trembled in the cadence of your voice. Your eyes rounded pleadingly, blurring with more tears that pained to shed. Stella dropped the spoon and rounded the island, placing her hand on your shoulder.

"It's okay, I believe you. Come on, let's sit over here."

Arm looped around your shoulders, Stella steered you toward the breakfast nook: white linen cushions, clean wooden table, a vase of fresh lilies. You gazed over your shoulder toward the abandoned rockstar at the island, and you knew he didn't agree with his fiancée.

"Okay, just...tell us what happened. And we will listen," Stella insisted, glancing pointedly Eddie's way where he still sat hunched and clearly itching to say something. "Without interruption. Right?"

Eddie huffed, whirling around in his stool. He eased against the counter and crossed his arms, shrugging. The "right" he parroted was clipped and tight.

You tried to remind yourself that it was Steve he was mad at.

"Okay, so...earlier today...at the gym...I was talking to another man. About nothing, just...stuff, you know? Just making small talk."

Stella nodded attentively. "Okay."

Eddie looked like he already knew where this story was going.

"Steve gets so jealous," you huffed, eyes rolling. You sounded congested and sad. "So, he hit him. Knocked him out cold for a second—all because the guy made me laugh!"

You pulled the sleeves of your robe down again, wiping at your cheeks. You felt bare with your mistakes worn so clearly on your arm.

"So, I let 'im have it. We fought the whole drive home. Just screaming at each other. And we fought when we got home, too. We both say mean things when we're upset. Sometimes it feels like we're competing, seeing who can hurt each other worse."

You'd never said that out loud to anyone before. For the first time, it felt like you were lending a piece of your life—one you usually kept hidden behind closed doors—to someone else for safe keeping. You felt a little lighter already.

"He called me crazy," you said, fiddling with the terry cloth fabric around your fist. "And...I told him he was just like his father."

Stella furrowed her brows, clearly missing pieces of the story. You glanced at her, anticipating this gap. "Like his father?" she pressed.

You pulled a thread loose on the cuff of your sleeve. "Steve's father was...abusive. To him and his mom growing up."

Stella's nod was slow, understanding. She didn't press any further, and you didn't expand. It wasn't your story to tell. Eddie readjusted his stance, sitting up a little straighter. His poker face reminded you of the days he came to the gym when him and Stella were apart. How desperate he was for release, but refused to let the pain of losing her show.

"I pushed him, you know? I...I was egging him on—I-I shouldn't have said that—"

"Libby," Eddie interjected lowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Tell me he didn't put his hands on you."

You deflated with another sigh. "No, no! He just...he had me against the wall and he...punched the wall. But it wasn't—"

“Hon.” Stella’s hand slid across the table to touch yours. “You know that’s not any better, right? You know that’s just one step away.”

You knew what she meant. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’ve told it to yourself. One day, he’s gonna hit you.

“But I shouldn’t ‘ve said that—“

“It doesn’t matter what you said, Libby. Nothing justifies this. Nothing.”

"This guy is fuckin' rich," Eddie scoffed, shaking his head. "Wait until I get ahold of him. Fuckin' prick."

You wanted to protest. You wanted to tell Eddie it wasn't worth it, that you didn't want to make a big deal of something small. But the words died in your throat. It was worth it, and it was a big deal. You couldn't keep excusing Steve anymore.

Sighing, Stella squeezed your hand and shuffled toward the end of the breakfast nook. "How about we all just try to get some sleep, alright? We can talk more in the morning and...figure this all out."

You nodded. Eddie just crossed his arms again. Stella, giving your hand another comforting pat, slipped out of the breakfast nook. The rubber pads of her slippers whooshed over the tile toward Eddie, the kiss she popped on his cheek delicate. He visibly softened a bit at her gentle affections.

"Off to sleep, kids."

♡ ♡

In the morning, your eyes ached, and a dull, incessant pounding nestled in your temples. Stella woke before you and left a change of clothes on the dresser: something comfortable, something clean. The fabrics smelled like laundry soap and eased your aches.

And the house was...quiet. It felt nice to wake up to quiet. It'd been too long since you had a morning of quiet.

You brushed your teeth with the toothbrush in the guest bathroom, fresh from the store packaging. You trailed downstairs, dreading the conversation that awaited with the couple in the kitchen.

Stella perched on the edge of the island, flipping through a magazine, eating berries from a bowl. Eddie stood at the stove, long raven locks knotted messily at the nape of his neck, flipping pancakes with a shiny silver spatula. They sizzled on the over-buttered pan and filled the room with a hint of hot vanilla.

"Oh, good, you found them! You look cute," Stella pipped, hopping off the counter to greet you.

"Yeah, thanks so much," you replied, tugging at the hem of the shirt.

Eddie peeked over his shoulder, sliding a pancake from the stove to a plate waiting on the counter beside him. The pile stacked high. Three plates and appropriate utensils waited at the breakfast nook. Staying at the Munson residence wasn't too shabby. Still, you couldn't help the stiffness to your limbs, your body's uneasy preparation for an uneasy conversation.

"Mornin', bookworm," Eddie called.

You cracked a breezy grin, trailing toward the bowl of berries. "Morning, guys."

Stella trailed to the fridge and filled three glasses with orange juice. You lingered near the fruit but didn't touch—it felt so strange staying with other people. Staying with people who were all you had right now.

"Hope you're ready for the best pancakes you've ever had," Eddie boasted, spinning around with a plate full of wobbling cakes.

Rolling her eyes and balancing the glasses in her hands, Stella drifted toward the breakfast nook. "He's exaggerating. But they are pretty great."

"You wound me, Rink."

You settled beside Stella on the end, across from Eddie. He slapped two cakes on a two plates for you and Stella, four for himself. Stella wasn't kidding about the "bulking up." As you reached for the syrup, you caught shape of the pancakes: hearts. Or...they were clearly supposed to be.

"Thought they might cheer you up," Eddie said, clocking your pause. "I know how the ladies love 'em." His head tipped toward his fiancée.

You glanced between them, grinning. "Thank you, Eddie."

You cut two pats of butter and poured a river of sticky syrup onto your pancakes, reaching for the fork and knife and getting two bites in before the doorbell rang. Heads turning, the three of you paused.

"Probably just a package—"

The doorbell rang again. And again. Soon, the gongs became interrupted by more pressing. Ding, ding, ding, ding. The pounding came soon after, a heavy fist banging into the glass—by then, everyone knew it wasn't a package.

Eddie tossed his fork toward his plate, table wobbling with the swiftness of his stance. Napkin crumpled and tossed aside, he stalked through the kitchen with intimidating purpose. You turned to Stella, and it only took a split second for her to read through the mask.

You were scared.

"Come on, let's go upstairs."

Skittering away from your barely-touched breakfast, the pair of you rushed the staircase arm in arm. Your heart was in your throat, throbbing with every stomp up the steps. You were inches from throwing up, and it took everything in you to swallow it down past the tears stinging your eyes.

Stella took a sharp turn into the master bedroom, tugging you along with her own look of wide-eyed panic. You whipped around as she reached for the door.

“I know she’s here, Munson. Let me the fuck in.”

Steve’s voice trailed the length of the home, menacing and gruff. You took a step back, and Stella shut the door.

You turned the lock.

635 notes · View notes