#chicago faucets
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Patio - Traditional Patio
Example of a huge classic backyard patio kitchen design with a gazebo
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Chicago Transitional Kitchen
Example of a small transitional galley cork floor enclosed kitchen design with a drop-in sink, gray cabinets, marble countertops, white backsplash, subway tile backsplash, paneled appliances, no island and shaker cabinets
#open storage#under cabinet lighting#pied a terre#open shelving kitchen#chicago condo#wall mounted sink faucet
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Contemporary Powder Room in Chicago
An illustration of a medium-sized modern powder room with flat-panel cabinets, gray walls, dark wood cabinets, an undermount sink, and gray countertops.
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Avantel Plumbing of Chicago IL
Website : https://chicagoplumber.avantel.net/
Address : 1000 West Harrison St, Chicago IL 60680
Phone : +1 (312) 265-2745
Avantel Plumbing Drain Cleaning and Water Heater Services of Chicago IL provides quality plumbing and exceptional service to our customers in the Chicago Illinois Metropolitan area. We work all types of projects including residential, commercial, or industrial, and our types of service include water heaters, toilets, sinks, faucets, sewer, main line and drain cleaning, toilet back ups, bathrooms sinks & bath tubs, garbage disposals, shower drains, floor drains, septic tanks, bio clean maintenance treatments, water lines, water softeners and filtration, backflow testing, frozen pipes, drain repairs, sump pumps, gas lines, repipe, and other home services. We are serving metro Chicago for all your plumbing needs. Give us a call at (312) 265-2745.
#Plumber Chicago IL#Drain Cleaning#24 Hour Plumber#Emergency Plumber#Residential Plumber#Commercial Plumber#Water Heater Repair#Pipe Repair#Water Line Repair#Leaky Faucet Repair#Garbage Disposal Repair#Gas Line Repair
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Kitchen Dining in Houston
Eat-in kitchen design with a mid-sized, contemporary u-shaped slate floor, an undermount sink, flat-panel cabinets, white cabinets, soapstone countertops, a white backsplash, a ceramic backsplash, stainless steel appliances, and no island.
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Eclectic Basement in Detroit
Inspiration for a mid-sized eclectic look-out basement remodel with multicolored walls and a brick fireplace that features black flooring and porcelain tile.
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Sauna Bathroom Chicago
Remodeling ideas for a sizable transitional sauna with a white tile and stone tile floor, a flat-panel sink, dark wood cabinets, marble countertops, an undermount tub, a one-piece toilet, and gray walls.
#kohler purist brushed nickel widespread faucet#chicago bath remodel#burr ridge master bath remodel#restoration hardware chandelier#abt electronics#kallista bubble massage under mount bath#carrera marble tile
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Bathroom Master Bath (Chicago)
#Inspiration for a large transitional master white tile and marble tile marble floor and white floor bathroom remodel with recessed-panel cab#white cabinets#white walls#marble countertops and white countertops benvenuti and stein design build#chicago bathroom remodel#chrome faucets#wet room#white bathroom#drop in tub
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I've been able to neither read nor write stories in a long time. Poetry too, for the most part. I guess what I mean is that the art of the written word has become a stranger to me.
I hate what poetry classes did to my writing. Yes, the Wikipedia poems, but they are easier because they're not my own words, and I have gotten so many comments on those saying they are powerful pieces of art, but for me personally they're a way of hiding from the awfulness of trying to assemble my own words into poetry.
I hate the poems I wrote in poetry classes. I hate the version of me I showed others in those classes. I hate the way poetry classes taught me to draw from my own experiences and thoughts for poetry. I hate everything I learned about how to interpret poetry, the eye with which I learned to read poetry, and the vocabulary I learned to talk about poetry, and ultimately, I hate "literary" poetry.
"Literary," by the way, is the category of art that has more meaning, value and legitimacy than the "other" category, which is not "literary." A "literary" poem is published in special, fancy "literary" magazines and almost invariably written by a person with a MFA or PhD in poetry.
You could say that the distinguishing feature of "literary" art is its overwhelming sense of legitimacy. A "literary" poem is a poem in the same way that a nonprofit organization is charitable, that a CEO is rich, or that an SAT score demonstrates your academic prowess. It is a poem completely immune to the possibility that someone will think it sucks. It expects to be absorbed, analyzed, studied, and discoursed upon because something feels "official" about whatever designates it as Good Art.
Literary poems are not only written by and for a special subset of people that have been formally taught to read and interpret poetry, they are written exclusively for audiences that will automatically assume they are Good Art; beautiful, meaningful, and worth interpreting. Because of this, most literary poems are literal incomprehensible nonsense.
Just take this one:
Say I climb the ladder of wheat/and at the top there is a faucet dripping beads of water/but the water takes a year to turn into an eagle/and the sky's forty-three shades of gray pierce/the first inflection of my heart, the point where the signals/throw grass into the river. Say the river sags/and the horizon sucks the lance out of the ghost's hands/like the moment of being born, the point where a shadow's/tongue slides through the faultline./Grace. Sunlight, cherries.
(it continues like this)
And conceptually, I love art as collaboration between the creator and viewer, where abstract, indeterminate and murky things are forced to take shape through the participation of the viewer as they interpret and associate things that stand out to them in the work! The "aliveness" of art in the abyss between what the artist attempts to communicate and what the viewer feels is the coolest thing to me!
But this philosophy of art is incompatible with the idea that there is an elite category of art that is worthy of interpretation, analysis, and reverence. I can fuck around with this random word generator and get something that is roughly as meaningful as the above. I don't mean that as demeaning to the poem, I mean that I feel demeaned by the poem, because its linguistic play and experimentation is something that everybody can do, that everyone should try doing, but this poem has been designated as something exceptionally meaningful and worthy and its writer teaches writing at the University of Chicago. You can click through that website for hours and not find a single soul without a MFA or above in poetry or creative writing.
For me, the world of "literary" writing was like a room with a splatter of vomit across the floor that no one else would acknowledge. The ability to formally study poetry in college was a privilege, but I was constantly aware of privilege, and the thing about privilege is the more you have, the less you think about it. What of the ability to pursue a PhD in poetry? What small fraction of people could expend so much time and money on something that didn't really have a career associated with it? And of that fraction, which fraction would be seen as "good enough" to publish poetry books and to teach? With poetry this indeterminate, how were the "good" poets selected at all?
Literary writing excludes poor people, and the existence of published literary poets who are immigrants or minorities doesn't negate this. Increasingly, published writing in general excludes poor people. A LOT of popular authors graduated from very elite schools!
But literary poetry I hate especially, because it puffs itself up on unlocking the universe and human experience and pain, as if insight into those things is a seldom-appearing gift instead of something many people have, except they don't have the time and money to train themselves into expressing it in a way that appears Literary.
The "literary" vs. "non-literary" paradigm had an inescapable rottenness to it. I couldn't stop thinking about the luminous conversations I'd had with people who lacked the formal training to express ideas in a "literary" manner, but still showed me something vital about the universe.
I've been bitching about literary poetry for like two years now, and really, I just hate what studying all that shit has done to my own writing style. It's so frustrating that the joy and playfulness won't come back.
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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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Trailer park Steve AU part 54 (12.1)
part 1 | part 53 | ao3
cw: angst
Chapter 12
Steve drives to Chicago.
He wakes up to an empty bed and a sticky note by the kitchen phone, words scribbled over so the only legible thing left is the word sorry underlined in jagged black, and his breath sticks in his chest and he can't be here anymore. Epiphany ringing like a gong, sending ripples through his marrow, because the walls are closing in and Eddie decorated those walls — splattered himself over every inch of this place, and now he's just the newest haunt in a line of ghosts that Steve can't shake. He thought he’d gotten rid of them, but now he hears them louder than ever. In the hiss of the faucet, in the buzz of the fridge; they’re moaning in his bad ear and rattling his bones, and he can't be here alone with them he can't be here he can't—
So he drives.
Gets in his car with nothing but a spare jacket and a crumpled pack of cigs. If ever there was a time to pick the habit up in earnest. Eddie’s van is gone, and Steve’s heart is bruised; it's bleeding out inside him, pumping fresh hurt with every beat, so he lights a cigarette with shaking hands and heads north. Takes the back roads to the on-ramp of I-65, drives for hours; drives for years, speeding down empty stretches of highway with nothing but roadkill for company.
At some point he rolls the windows down until the icy wind makes his cheeks burn, but he can't really feel them. Can't feel his face, or his fingers, or his heart.
All the world is snow and asphalt, and Steve Harrington is alone.
He tries to drown it out with music. The radio mocks him with swooning quartets love songs — 'put your head on my shoulder' and 'life could be a dream' — and all the tapes he can reach belong to Eddie, so he pulls over on the narrow shoulder of an overpass bridge and screams and screams and screams while he chucks the cassettes over the edge.
Fuck Eddie.
Fuck him.
"FUCK YOU!!" he shouts to the foggy nothingness.
The words dig in sharp; pocket knife twisting in the space below his kidneys.
The fog doesn't respond.
Back in the car, his thoughts turn to his mom. Because he's driving to her, he knows — knew it in his splintering bones and haunted blood the moment he left town. He's driving back to his first ghost, as if confronting the original will somehow exorcise the rest.
Miles pass in silence, and Steve paints over the canvas of what-ifs again and again, oily streaks in the underpainting as he tries to set the scenes just right: quiet, tearful confrontations in his aunt's formal living room, graceless screaming matches out on the front lawn. In one version he never makes it past the guard at the front gate, and in another he just eggs the stupid lion statues leading up to the house while his mom silently weeps from the top of the stairs.
He doesn't know if his mom would laugh at that.
He doesn't know her much at all.
And that fucking hurts; that sits like acid in his lungs, because his mom was his first friend. When he was little — before the housekeepers and nannies, before his mom started tailing his dad on business trips like a trained dog on a leash — they spent so much time together. Trips to the playground, to the library, to the pool. He'd perch himself on her vanity when she got ready in the mornings, use her hairbrush as a microphone to sing along to 50s doo-wop, and she'd giggle and call him her little superstar, so he'd come up with stupid dance moves just to make her smile more.
He misses that. The script, the routine. How he'd spin around in his socks on the slippery bathroom tile and look up at her with her big hair full of rollers and her big eyes full of stars, and he'd say, "Hey! How come your eyes are all twinkly?"
And she'd grin and pinch his cheek and give the same answer every time: "Because you're the light of my life."
"I wish I knew what you'd say now," he whispers to the empty car.
For a moment he envisions that she's sitting there with him, that she's filling the blank space where the boy who broke his heart should be, but he can't remember her cadence well enough to mimic it; can't put words in her mouth when he no longer knows her lines, and with something a bit like horror and a lot like despair it occurs to him that he can't remember what she looks like. There's an apparition in his blind spot, but it's formless and unstable. The shade of its hair keeps changing; the texture, the length.
When he tries to make it speak, it shrugs and dissipates.
—
part 55
tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)
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Fall Into You
Pairing: Kevin Atwater x Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader
Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. SMUT. PWP, cursing, PIV, oral (female and male receiving) teasing/mocking, cum play, size kink, dirty talk, praise kink, all consensual. Slight power imbalance, Kevin is a landlord and reader is the tenant. No sexual favors being exchanged.
Summary: Hoping to beat the storm, Kevin comes over to fix your sink. However, the power goes out and you get to know your new landlord a little better.
Word Count: 7,402k
AO3 Link
A/N: Hello, my loves. This has been on my brain for a while and a special gift for @babybratzmaraj. I guess I should stop apologizing for writing so much, the story gon' need what it needs. ONE SHOT. Please, please consider commenting and reblogging to help support writers! And please put ages in bios! Or get blockt!
Taglist: @planetblaque @browngirldominion @we-outsiiiide @iv0rysoap @thecookiebratz
The doorbell tore you from your thoughts as you looked out of your window. The TV stated that the storm was only getting started. Only getting started…
You inwardly groaned and fixed your glasses, heading to your door and checking the peephole. Kevin Atwater stood on the other side and your heart fluttered just seeing him. You stepped back, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
“Kevin! Thank you! You didn’t have to come today. This storm looks nasty,” you said.
Kevin smiled and shook his head. He wore a black puffer jacket zipped up and carried a small toolbox. “No problem, I promise. Chicago’s seen worse and you need a working sink,” he said.
You stepped back and let him inside, hoping that your glasses didn’t fog up from the sheer sexiness that entered your apartment.
“Huh, you decorated since last time,” he said.
You looked around at the cozy space. The walls were standard, plain cream, but you made sure to dress it up with paintings in soothing blue and ocean pieces that reminded you of your hometown. The boxes had been cleared away since the last time Kevin was over to fix your bedroom door.
“Yeah, had to make it look like I actually live here,” you said with a giggle.
Kevin laughed with you. He placed the toolbox on your small, round kitchen table and took off his jacket. You busied yourself with tidying up your clean apartment. You picked up the bowl of fruit just to…put it right back down on the sink.
You had to look anywhere but at the deep burgundy button up he wore. Or the peek of a black tank underneath. His bulging arms or the way his hips sloped just so. You had to look away so that he wouldn’t see the neon “horny” sign on your forehead.
You could not crush on your landlord. It was several kinds of wrong. But how could you not? He was so tall, charming, funny, and sweet. His juicy pink lips have been the star of multiple fantasies lately.
“...help you with that,” Kevin was saying.
“Huh? Sorry…” you said and gave him a sheepish smile. Your mind tended to go on little vacations. Especially where Kevin Atwater was concerned.
He smiled at you and began rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “I said what did you do with the boxes? I told you I could help you with that,” he said.
You waved him off and dropped down into a nearby kitchen chair. “You already do so much for me, Kevin. I really should be paying you,” you said.
“Rent’s just fine with me. I told you to call me for whatever you need,” he said. His eyes lingered on you a second too long before he licked his lips and started rummaging around in his toolbox.
You were incapable of thinking anything but dirty thoughts when he spoke. Whether he meant it that way or not. He brought the toolbox closer to your sink. He flipped the faucet and the pipes groaned. A loud, groaning sound as if there were ghosts dancing in the pipes.
He flipped it back off and gave you a look. “You ain’t tell me it was making that kind of a noise,” he said.
“I told you it was a noise,” you said. You shrugged your shoulders and he chuckled, licking his lips as he went back to looking at the sink.
“I was thinking it was a small noise. Like something just needed some WD-40,” he said. “That…sound bad, right?” He asked.
“You’re asking me?” You shook your head dramatically. “If I knew anything about fixing sinks, I wouldn’t have asked you here during a storm.” You still felt guilty about that. You told Kevin that you could wait until it passed, that running water wasn’t that important in the grand scheme of things. You had bottles of water and the bathroom sink worked just fine to wash your hands.
As your mind wandered, you weren’t paying attention to Kevin getting closer. You didn’t notice as he stood in front of you and dropped down to a squat to look you in the eye. You shrieked when you finally saw him as he seemed to have teleported from the sink.
“There is no way in hell I’ma let my favorite tenant live here with no running water. So no more need to apologize, right?”
His raspy voice made you lose all coherent thought. You twiddled your fingers since he was too close and you gave him a light, nervous giggle. “Stop. I’m not your favorite tenant. I’ve seen the way Mrs. Brennan looks at you. Like you hang the moon,” you said.
Kevin chuckled and stood up, going back to the sink with the toolbox in his hand. He hummed. “I helped her out with something and now she keeps trying to set me up with her granddaughter,” he said.
“Oh? Does Kevin Atwater have trouble meeting women?” You teased.
He laughed as he opened the cabinet underneath. You hadn’t had a chance to get to the store for proper cleaning supplies. So far, all you had was bleach and Pinesol, a small bucket, and a pack of sponges. It was on your long, long, long list of things you needed in order to feel settled in this place.
The wind roared outside and it shook the windows. It howled. The heater was on but did little to combat the chill in the air. You would never feel settled here. The winters were a different breed. Designed to freeze you to the toes and wrack your body with uncontrollable shivers.
“I meet plenty of women. But timing and circumstances are never there,” Kevin said. He settled onto his back and turned off the water to the sink. He began working, leaning forward to grab a tool and then use it under the sink.
His shirt rode up revealing a soft middle that you wanted to sink your teeth into. He was solid and stocky, built for sturdiness.
“What do you mean by timing and circumstance?” You asked.
“Well, I did have a thing with someone but wasn’t exactly healthy. She didn’t like that I’m a cop,” he said.
“Hate to break it to you, but you’ll find that a lot of people won’t like that you’re a cop,” you said. For you, it was always, “fuck cops”. After meeting Kevin, now it was, “want to fuck that cop in particular”.
You looked useless sitting there at the kitchen table, but what else were you supposed to do? You still had some unpacking to do but you didn’t feel right leaving him alone. The place didn’t feel like yours yet. Your manners prevented you from leaving him to it as if he were some servant only here to do a job.
“That’s fair. But can’t stop me from trying,” he said.
“That’s the spirit. Are you a romantic?” You asked. You heard the words after you spoke them and shook your head, not that he could see. “Sorry, that’s rude. You don’t have to answer that.” You pushed your glasses back up your nose and blew out a quiet sigh.
“Nah, it’s cool. I guess, yeah, I would say I’m a romantic. Just waiting for the right girl. How ‘bout you come help me? Hand me that wrench,” he said. He pointed to something in his toolbox.
You stood up and got closer to him, getting down to your knees and sitting back on your legs. You picked up the nearest wrench and handed it to his outstretched hand. You shared a look with him as he took it from you and began loosening a bolt on the pipe.
“You? You into the whole thing about romance?” He asked.
“Uh, yeah. I believe it exists. How anyone can find love here when you’re freezing your ass off is beyond me,” you said.
“It’s all about layers. Undershirt, thermal, overshirt, sweater, hoodie, jacket. You’ll be warm enough,” he said.
You giggled. “Warm enough? I’d be sweating worse than…” You successfully caught yourself before mentioning sex. You bit the corners of your mouth to prevent you from giggling about that. Something about Kevin Atwater turned you into a giggling mess like some kid with a crush.
“Worse than what?” Kevin asked.
You glanced at him. His pink tongue poked out between his lips as he worked on the bolt. The screeching from the metal grated a bit and you winced.
“Worse than a sauna,” you finished lamely. He flicked a glance at you as if he knew that wasn’t what you were going to say originally. He left it alone as he hummed and returned to the bolt.
“You get used to it,” he said.
“This type of cold? No thanks,” you said.
Kevin chuckled. He sat up from the sink and fixed his shirt, lowering it over the glimpse of his stomach. He looked at you and smiled. “There’s more to Chicago than just the winter time. We have the best pizza. Everybody friendly, they just loud about it. Tell you what, why don’t you finally take me up on my offer to take you to Molly’s? It’s run by a couple of friends. They’re nice people, we’d all protect you, and you’d be able to get out and enjoy some things around here,” he said.
“A bar full of cops, doctors, and firemen? I’d feel so intimidated,” you said. You shook your head and giggled.
“Don’t. You need to get out,” he said.
“Pot, meet kettle. How many times have you been out this week?”
“Fair. But if you go out, I will too,” he said.
You held his stare and bit the corners of your mouth again. “I have so much to do here already,” you said. You didn’t like that you kept turning him down but the thought of meeting that many people at once? You wouldn’t survive it.
You knew Kevin would be nice and show you around but being at the center of attention was unbearable.
“One day I’ll get you to say yes. If you’re gonna be here, you may as well make some friends. I think you’d get along with Stella. You remind me of her,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, tough, no nonsense, funny, sweet,” he said.
“Please,” you said and giggled. Was this Stella single? Did they have something going?
Kevin opened his mouth to say something else when the wind howled louder, tearing your gaze to the window. The window shook and the lights began to flicker before they spasmed out. You shrieked as you were shrouded in darkness.
The pale, white glow of the outside gave your apartment a blue and gray tint. Like waking up in the morning and the sun was still hiding behind clouds. You stood up and went to the window but you weren’t sure what you were looking for. Only that the snow and hail seemed to fall harder, peppering the ground.
“Shoot,” you said.
Kevin stood up and moved behind you, placing one hand on your hip while he leaned behind you to look outside as well. His warm hand scorched your skin as he looked one way and then another.
“Let me see if it’s just us. Lock this door behind me,” he said.
You’d never seen this side of him yet. The kind that took charge. A new authority entered his voice, one that did not entertain disobedience. He turned and walked out and you followed behind to close and lock the door.
You paced your kitchen as you waited. You didn’t know why. Lights went out all the time. He was perfectly safe going to the basement to check the circuit breaker. Minutes passed while you piddled around, cleaning up runaway socks on the floor around the hamper.
Still had things to unload in the bathroom, but without light, you couldn’t see what you were pulling out of the box. It was too awkward holding your phone’s flashlight and the items.
A knock on your door made you jump but then you checked the peephole. Kevin stood there with his hands in his pockets, glancing around. You opened the door and let him back inside.
“Power’s out on the whole block. I already put in a call with utilities. With this kind of storm, there’s no telling when they’ll get out,” he said.
You sighed. “Oh, Kevin, I’m so sorry!” You said. You should have pushed him harder to stay home. To fix it another day.
“Hey, what did we say about apologizing?” He asked.
“Sorry! I just feel so bad. Oh! I said it again, sorry,” you said. You slapped a hand over your mouth as you couldn’t stop apologizing for trapping him here. Now what were you going to do? He couldn’t fix your sink in the dark and there was no power to cook so you couldn’t offer him a meal.
Kevin crossed towards you, invading your personal space. “No more apologizing. It’s okay,” he said.
“Well, I was going to save these until after. Since you’re stuck with me, we have cookies to hold us over,” you said.
“If I had to be stuck anywhere, I’m glad it’s with you,” he said.
You smiled and tugged on the sleeves of your purple shirt. Now that the power was out, that meant your heater was too. “Shit,” you said, realizing.
You told Kevin and he nodded. “Have you unpacked something to drink? I’ll show you how us Chicagoans stay warm,” he said.
“That’s the first thing I unpacked,” you said. You left his overwhelming presence and went to your kitchen. The plate of cookies were wrapped on the short sink so that he wouldn’t have seen it. You wanted to surprise him with gratitude for all the hard work he did around your place.
You opened a cabinet and grabbed two glasses. They clinked together as you placed them on the sink and went to a small pantry, taking out a bottle of whiskey. Kevin joined you in the kitchen to help and he whistled at the bottle. “Basil Hayden?” He asked.
“Did you expect something girly?” You asked.
“No ma’am, just didn’t take you for a whiskey type,” he said. He grinned and joined you at the table.
“Now, we don’t want to get wasted but the goal is to keep a steady drink going to stay warm. So how ‘bout some questions to get to know each other? Since we got all this time,” he said.
“Is this an interrogation?” You asked with a giggle.
“Naw, just two friends getting to know each other. So we either answer truthfully or take shots. Up for it?” He asked.
“I’m game if you are,” you said. Kevin took the lead by pouring tiny shots for you both in each glass. He pushed your glass towards you.
“You can go first,” he said.
You tapped the glass and thought about a good question to ask. “I’ll go easy. What’s a secret you’ve never told anyone?”
“That’s easy?” He asked.
You nodded. You pointed to his glass. “You can always drink up if that’s too hard on you,” you said.
He smirked. “A secret I’ve never told anyone…I once met my celebrity crush at a mall signing. She signed a poster for me. I…still have it,” he said and smiled.
“Who! Who’s your secret crush?” You asked.
“Aht, it’s my turn. Worst heartbreak?” He asked.
“Easy questions, huh?” You asked.
He shrugged. “You don’t become friends by finding out each other’s favorite colors.”
You thought about it and nodded. You told him about your worst heartbreak and how you dealt with it. How difficult it was to move on from it.
You went back and forth asking safe, but deep questions that required more than yes or no answers. You learned more about him and if it was possible, you fell for him even more.
“How in the world are you single?” You asked when it was your turn again.
Kevin chuckled and played with his glass. So far, you had taken a few shots too nervous to answer the questions he asked. He had only taken two. One for when you asked about his parents and one when you asked about his first love.
“I wish I knew. I date; you make it sound like I hide in my house after work. The shit I see every day, sometimes I just need to get it out of my head. Dating on top of that just seems cruel,” he said.
You nodded. You could respect that. You had no idea what it was like being a cop. Seeing the worst humanity had to offer and still have to come up with hope for the people who survived. Dealing with the press and the community painting cops as modern day boogeyman. Still. He was too sweet and strong to not have someone. It was criminal.
“How come you don’t have anyone?” He asked.
You fixed your glasses and shrugged. “May be a surprise to you but guys these days are…nasty. They send unsolicited dick pics, they can’t hold a conversation, and think women owe them something for buying them a drink. Like…I didn’t ask for the drink so why does that mean I have to open my legs or suck them off? Especially when they won’t even go down on a woman!”
Kevin’s surprised face made you suddenly feel the alcohol loosening your limbs and warming you up. It definitely loosened your tongue. You groaned and rubbed your forehead. “Sorry, that’s TMI,” you said.
“I would say take a drink every time you apologize, but then this bottle would be gone.”
The word was on the tip of your tongue and you bit it to keep from speaking it. He smirked at your attempt and you rolled your eyes. “You don’t know everything,” you said. Well, the door was open…
“What is your ideal woman?” You asked.
“Ideal? Shit, I just want someone I vibe with. That thinks like me. Has goals,” he said.
“Beauty? Brains?” You asked.
“Why won’t you go to Molly’s with me?” He asked.
You smiled, remembering that it was only one question per person. “I don’t know anyone. Meeting new people sucks. I don’t have the personality for great first impressions,” you said.
“You know me,” he said. “I would make sure you’re good. And you are great at first impressions. I wouldn’t have rented to you otherwise.”
“You are just being nice like always. Why is it important for me to go to Molly’s?”
“I want you to feel welcome here. Feel like you belong so you can stay,” he said.
You ducked your head, playing with your glass. The soft slide of glass on the table was the only sound in the room. Outside, the wind continued to howl as the storm carried on. You shivered, despite feeling toasty from the whiskey. Your skin felt icy. “I moved here, Kevin. That’s about as permanent as it gets.”
Kevin scooted closer. He had to spread his legs wider to accommodate your chair. The smell of him invaded your senses. The smell of whiskey on him made your head fuzzy. He brought his hand up to caress your cheek. He gently turned your head to look at him.
“This may be the drink talkin’, but you feel this too, right? Between us? If I’m imagining it, let me know now,” he said.
You looked at his lips and then back up to his eyes. He caught the movement and did the same, his gaze drifting down your face and then back up again.
“You’re not imagining it,” you said.
Kevin leaned over and captured your lips in a sweet, tender kiss that warmed you up quicker than the whiskey. You returned the kiss, sighing, tongues dueling with each other.
“Hmm, knew you’d taste sweet,” he said. He pecked your lips once, twice, and then lingered on the third time humming.
Emboldened by his actions, you leaned out of your chair. You climbed into his lap, wrapping your hands around his shoulders. Kevin sighed and put his hands on your hips, squeezing every so often.
“You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” he said.
You smiled and kissed him again, rolling your hips. He groaned and his hands went lower to grab your ass. He gripped and massaged your ass, squeezing painfully enough to make you cry into his mouth. He growled hearing the sound, kissing you with more passion after each kiss.
“I want you, Kevin Atwater,” you said against his lips.
“Are you sure?” He asked. He leaned back and looked into your eyes. “If you’ve had too much to drink–”
“Shut up,” you said with a grin and kissed him.
You had been playing this subtle game between each other for weeks as you signed your lease and moved in. The first time you called him to tell him about your stuck doors, he showed up the next day he was free. He made conversation easy as he fixed the doors. He immediately put you at ease.
He found that your closet door was stuck too but he didn’t have time to fix it at the time. He told you that he would be back and again, he made it so easy to talk to him and time flew by when he was around. It was like you didn’t have time to think about being nervous when he was telling you about must see attractions to Chicago. He kept talking about the pizza and promised to bring one over.
He made moving there for work not feel so lonely. You were worried if you would find friends outside of work. No matter what, work friends were not true friends.
You kissed him again, your hands drifting down to start unbuttoning his shirt. The alcohol wasn’t affecting you in the way he thought. It only lowered your natural anxiousness about being bolder. Funner. More open. Going after what you wanted.
Now that you knew you weren’t crazy, that he wanted you as well, a dam broke. Kevin matched your desperateness to get your clothes off as well.
“I know another way to stay warm,” you said.
Kevin chuckled. “I told you I can help with whatever you need,” he said. “I keep my promises.”
You finally got his shirt loose and pushed it off of his shoulders. He had huge muscles, showing off a physique that made you lick your lips in anticipation. His thighs bunched underneath you and you moaned, rolling your hips against his pelvis.
His erection was thick against his jeans. Kevin grabbed the edges of your shirt and pulled it off you, revealing your bra. He moaned and kissed around your chest. His hands traveled up and down your back, warming it up just like he promised.
The black tank he wore underneath looked damn good on him but it had to go. He stopped kissing your chest long enough to let you remove it. Your hands explored his chest while he put his mouth over your nipple through the fabric.
You moaned, throwing your head back and giving him better access. He took the opportunity you presented and sucked on your titty until the fabric was soaked with his saliva. Your nipple became increasingly sensitive under his attention. You were hissing and shaking by the time he finally let go and admired his handiwork.
He switched to your other nipple, giving it the same love and attention as the first. You squirmed in his lap, unable to stop moving. Your hands moved to the back of his neck and held him to you. He groaned and continued to tug and suckle on your nipple until it was sensitive as well.
As a big girl, it was not easy to feel small. Dainty. Delicate. But you felt like that in Kevin’s capable hands. You felt worshiped. Adored. The soft light coming from outside made the room feel like a bubble. Like time stopped somewhere outside and you were free to explore. To breathe. To cherish this moment with Kevin.
He licked the swell of your breast outside of your bra and you moaned. He kissed up your neck until his lips found yours. Until he was nibbling on your lips and licking away the sting. He sucked on your bottom lip and you felt the tug in your pussy.
You were uncomfortably wet. You felt your arousal dampening your panties. You didn’t know how much longer you would hold out. Or survive.
“You squirming a lot there. You feelin’ good?” He asked.
“Yes,” you moaned.
“What I’m gon’ find when I take them panties off?” He asked.
“Me, excited. Ready for you,” you said.
“Ohh, you a little naughty on top of being sweet?”
You didn’t have time to answer. Kevin stood up, holding you, cupping your ass so you didn’t slip. He kissed you while he held you. But your heart was thumping. Thundering. “I got you, don’t you even worry,” he whispered against your lips.
The apartment was small so he crossed the space in a few steps to get to your bed. He gently laid you down and stepped back to admire how needy you were. How you stretched out on the bed and made a sublime vision of wantonness.
He bit his lip with a smirk as he unbuttoned your jeans and tugged them off your hips. Your breathing was rapid, out of control. Your chest rose and fell in quick succession. Your skin felt alive and electric. Like he needed to enter you right this second or you’d spontaneously combust.
“Look at you. Needy little thing,” he commented. His hands spanned the expanse of your thighs, rubbing and kneading.
“Oh, Kevin,” you moaned.
“So you ready for me, huh?” He asked. You watched through slitted eyes as he tilted his head. How could he be in control right now? Had it been that long for you?
You were too busy packing and saying goodbye to family and friends to worry about getting your rocks off. You were too busy working and unpacking in Chicago to worry about finding someone to relieve the pressure. The past few weeks, it had been you and Roman the Rose.
“I’m so ready,” you said, making him chuckle.
He took off his shoes, socks, and jeans and you watched him unveil parts of his body you imagined. Lusted over. Pictured way too often to ever tell him the truth.
“Mhm, we gon’ see,” he said. He joined you on the bed. Kneeling on it, the bed groaned under his weight and you smiled. Your bed had been previously unprepared for someone of his size. He dropped his lips to your chest slowly. When his breath fanned over your nipples, you moaned and twisted away from him.
He completely covered you, however, so there was no place to go. He licked the swell of your breasts again, glancing up at your reactions. You were mesmerized by him. Under his spell. One of his hands slipped up your thigh and you twinged. Goosebumps pebbled your skin but you felt like you were on fire.
He pressed a thumb over your panties and pushed in, digging the fabric past your pussy lips and groaned at the wet glide of it already. “Oh shit,” you moaned.
“Hm, look what I found,” he said against your skin.
His fingers played with your pussy over your panties and you kept moving, twisting, writhing against your bed and underneath him. Every so often, his thumb would grace your pussy lips. That hint of skin to skin contact made you hiss and roll your hips against his hand.
Kevin used his teeth to drag down the cup of your bra. He grinned finding your dark nipple and then he latched on, swirling his tongue around it in a way that let you know he’d do the same to your pussy when given the chance.
Your breaths were choppy. Belly flipping. Pussy throbbing. Hands clutching your sheets and yanking.
Your orgasm was tearing through you, stealing your breath like a thief. Stars exploded behind your eyelids as rippling pleasure traveled throughout your body. Kevin hummed through it all.
“Look so damn pretty when you cum. Gon’ look even better when I get in there. I bet you’re gonna feel good ridin’ this dick,” he said. His raspy voice was its own brand of magic. Your nipples were still sensitive under his ministrations and the painful tug felt delicious.
You whimpered. He used his teeth to drag down your other cup and gave it attention as well. His tongue flicking across the dark areola. “Shit!” You moaned.
“Mhm, let me hear it,” he said. His warm breath fanned across the wet spots he left behind and you shuddered.
“Kevin, please,” you begged.
“Naw, that beggin’ shit don’t work on me,” he said.
You whimpered once more as he rolled your nipple between his teeth. His hand went back to rubbing your pussy but this time, he finally slipped underneath. His thumb teased the area around your clit, never quite hitting it and teasing you with no mercy.
“Oh fuuck,” you moaned. You turned your head to the side and bit your sheets, turning distraught at the realization that he was going to take his time with your body. He was an explorer. He was a master conductor fine tuning your body and learning the sounds you were capable of producing.
He sucked hard on your nipple and your back left the soft sheets, arching away from the bed. “Augh,” moaned.
At the same time, he dipped a finger into your entrance getting his finger wet up to the knuckle. “Nice and fuckin’ wet. Fuck,” he moaned.
You hissed as he moved his finger in and out. His thumb continued to tease your clit, never directly touching it. It was a dual sensation that drove you insane and contracted on his finger.
“You gon’ feel this good squeezing on my dick?” He asked.
“Uh-huh,” you said and nodded. Hell yes you would. He just needed to believe you and get inside you already. You moved your hips against his finger and he hummed in appreciation.
“Oh, impatient too. You wanna cum again?” He asked.
You nodded. “Yes, please, I wanna cum,” you whined, your voice tinny and weak.
“Good girl, using your words without me having to tell you. A’right, I’ll let you cum,” he said. He pushed a second finger inside you and then began pumping in earnest. His thumb moved to rub circles around your clit and you came instantly, shouting and twitching.
“Shit, shit, shit,” you moaned as you came, eyes rolling into the back of your head. Kevin placed kisses along your chest as you did so, keeping up his particular brand of torture. He slowed down as your breathing returned to normal.
“Hmm-mm,” I can get used to that,” he said.
You struggled to your elbows and looked at him. “Fuck,” you panted.
He grinned and stood up. He slipped his fingers out of you and then licked them one by one. He moaned, closing his eyes. Fuck. It was the hottest thing you’d ever seen. He licked his fingers like runaway scoops of brownie mix left on the spatula.
You were getting worked up looking at him. He was distracted. You smirked as you leaned forward and pressed kisses to his stomach. He tensed up at the contact and you looked up at him.
He grinned at you, grabbing you by the throat. Your eyes fluttered closed. He hummed. He pulled you into a kiss. A wet, sloppy, loud one that made you hiss and scoot closer to him. You were dripping, soaked. Every movement you made called attention to the fact that you were wet as hell.
“I got somethin’ for you, but I wanna eat first. We didn’t get to them cookies you baked,” he said.
Your eyes turned watery. “Please, let me touch you, Kevin,” you said.
He planted another kiss on your lips, lingering to swipe his tongue around your lips and diving inside. Your pussy ached. You’d never felt so empty in your entire life. “You’ll get your chance to make sure my dick wet for you. I don’t wanna hurt you when I finally fuck you,” he said.
You sighed painfully through your nose. Your vision swam with tears. You were beyond horny. You didn’t think you were this insatiable. You had two orgasms already but you wanted more. You wanted more from him.
Kevin licked his lips and removed his hand from your neck.. He rubbed your lips with his thumb and then gave you a sweeter kiss this time around. “Now lean back and let me get to eatin’,” he commanded.
You needed no further encouragement as you flopped back onto the bed. He peeled your panties off, cooing at the dripping mess you were. “Hm-mm,” he sighed. He kissed your thighs as he slipped your panties off. He licked your calf. He threw your panties somewhere behind him and it landed with a soft, wet plop.
You would have felt embarrassed usually. But there was nothing but pure, uncut lust. You could taste it in the air. Feel it burning you inside and out.
Kevin hummed, stroking himself through his briefs. He spread your legs and watched as your arousal slowly leaked out of you. You felt it roll down the crack of your ass and shivered. Cool air blasted from somewhere. The wind continued to howl, adding to the soft orchestra of sounds you were currently making.
Kevin knelt down slowly and got into position between your legs. He put them over his shoulders and yanked you down to the edge of the bed. His arms hooked underneath your legs and spread you open for his meal.
He blew slowly across your wet clit and you shivered. The anticipation was worse. You couldn’t stop moving, shaking, yearning. Kevin laughed and kissed your clit. He hummed. “Taste so fuckin’ good already. You’re so wet, baby,” he said. “Gonna drown in this pretty pussy.”
“Fuck, Kevin!” You shrieked.
He chuckled. “Calm down, what you cussin’ for? I ain’t even do nothin’ yet,” he said.
You whined, rolling your hips. “Please, please, please,” you begged. You couldn’t take this teasing. You weren’t used to it. Had you even had sex before this? You thought you had decent lovers before. Men who knew what they were doing and had you screaming until the cows came home.
But Kevin? Kevin eclipsed any man that came before. You were a virgin all over again. This was your first time and your partner was an expert. A sex demon sent straight from hell.
“The more you beg, the longer I take,” he said. He licked outside of your pussy lips. He went as far as the seam and pulled back, licking down ‘till he reached your entrance. His tongue just crested the surface of it.
“Okay, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” You yelled and huffed.
Kevin continued to tease you, drawing curses and screams and yells as he explored your body. Your thighs shook violently. Tingles turned to pinpricks against your legs the longer he held them open.
Wave upon wave of desire flooded your system. Your hands played in his hair as he worked, savoring you. He hummed every so often when you tugged on his hair or made a sound that sounded like you were near death. Near leaving this plane of existence forever.
You stopped trying to plead with him. You become engrossed in the pleasure he was giving you. You and it were one and you surrendered to the feel of him. He finally pushed in further, drawing his tongue close to your clit.
“Auhh,” you croaked.
Kevin kept going, swirling his tongue. His sloppy, loud eating was seduction personified. He sucked so hard that he made noises with your pussy.
You couldn’t say anything to let him know that you were enjoying yourself. You couldn’t encourage him to keep doing what he was doing. Your mind was gone. Gone on a different trip this time.
He sighed against your pussy and then flicked his tongue on your clit. It was your undoing. You cried out, pupils blown wide as you came and came and came. Shivers wracked your body. Kevin held you down in his powerful arms, helping you weather the tempest rushing through you.
Your fingers dug into his wild hair and pulled. It didn’t seem to faze Kevin. He continued to eat you out as if searching for the next meal course. He ate you on the way down from the high. You moaned and bit your lip, hoping pain would help dull this type of ecstasy. It did not.
Kevin smacked his lips as he slowly stopped, rolling his tongue one more time. He leaned back and surveyed his work. You heard him smacking his lips. “Makin’ such a big mess for me,” he whispered. He kissed your pussy and then leaned back.
Your eyes found his. He smirked. His beard dripped with your essence. Entire lower jaw was wet and you saw trails of your slick in his beard. He rubbed it in, moving his hand to work in what you left on him.
“How you feelin’, gorgeous?” He asked.
“Like I died,” you said.
He chuckled. “Well, now you got some work to do. Get this dick wet,” he said.
He helped you into a sitting position. You yelped, feeling the giant pool you made on the edge of the bed. You were definitely going to have to wash these immediately. He grabbed your throat, tearing your thoughts away from the bed and back onto him.
He leaned down and kissed you. Fuck, you tasted good on him. You smelled yourself and it only turned you on more. He sucked on your bottom lip and then swiped his tongue up. He made out with you and you somehow dripped more. You were a veritable slip and slide at this point. If he entered you, he’d face no resistance.
He pulled back and you smiled goofily at him. He smiled back. “Even better than I been dreamin’,” he said. He leaned back and let you go. You watched as he removed his briefs. Your eyes widened at the size of him.
He was long and thick, a deadly combination. Maybe all the prep time was more from necessity. Had he tried entering you without lube or without foreplay, that shit would hurt. You were no punk though.
You fixed your glasses and greedily took him into your mouth. You were not as nuanced as he was. You did not have time for games. You had been desperate to touch him, taste him, and explore him in the same way he did to you. You sucked the tip of him and he hissed, hands going to the side of your face.
You pushed past his hands, sucking as much of him down as you could. You used your hands on the area you couldn’t get to. You spat on his dick and used it to let your hands glide better.
“Sweet fuck,” he moaned.
You sucked on him, remembering to breathe through your nose so that you didn’t pass out doing this. Your pussy throbbed as he continued to moan and throw his head back, rolling his neck. Your drool slipped past your lips and coated his shaft. You flicked your tongue across his tip and he jerked his hips forward.
His hands on the side of your head gripped you harder and pushed you down on his dick. Deeper than you would normally take someone. You had been worried that you would puke or something. However, you relaxed your throat and worked together to soak his dick with your saliva and make sure that he wouldn’t hurt you on entry.
“Fuck, right there. Right there,” he moaned.
You moaned right back, loving the way he took control of his pleasure and used you. “Let me cum in that pussy, baby,” he said.
You looked up at him and he licked his lips. You nodded. “Yef,” you said around his dick.
He slipped out of your mouth and you sucked in deep breaths. Your head was light. Floating. Soaring. You licked your lips and rubbed your cheeks to get the ache out. But Kevin grabbed you roughly and flipped you over on the bed.
“Ouee, shit,” you groaned. You sniffled. Fuck, he was ruining you for any other guy. You would never be able to have sex with anyone else ever again! Was it too early to propose? Was it too early to ask him to move into this tiny apartment with you and deliver this every night on demand? Would that scare him away?
His large hands wrapped around your waist and pulled you back. One hand left as he guided his dick to your entrance. You sighed. There was no reason to beg him not to tease you. He wouldn’t listen either way.
Kevin shoved inside in one hard thrust that brought those stars back to your mind’s eye. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuh,” you moaned.
As suspected, he slipped in easily thanks to the foreplay and you sucking him off. He groaned as he was fully seated and began rolling his hips, giving you long, deep strokes. He grinded in your pussy and you began to shake and shiver on him.
“Throw that shit back like you want it,” he said.
You listened, throwing it back. He was stroking so hard that you couldn’t brace yourself. You dropped down to your elbows and raised your ass higher. He moaned as he stroked deeper, hitting your sweet spot and making your toes curl.
“Kevin, Kevin, Kevin,” you chanted.
“Yeah, I know I’m hittin’ that shit. Bounce it back,” he said.
You moved your hips faster, matching his pace. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked back. Your head snapped back, a bite of pain on your scalp. “Auh, auh, auh,” you croaked.
His thrusts made your ass clap on him. “Mhm, gripping that shit,” he moaned. He twisted your hair again, yanking your head back a little more and stroking into you with precision.
“Oue, baby, I’m gonna cum,” you moaned. “I’m cumming, baby.”
“Cum on then. Cum on this dick so I can nut in this pussy,” he said.
You cried. You exploded. You were ripped apart as the orgasm burrowed through your system. Your legs shook and twitched. Your pussy gripped him tight, making him snug as he pounded.
Kevin continued stroking until he groaned and busted inside of you. Hot pulses of cum signed his name in the crevices of your pussy and you moaned with him.
He slammed inside of you two more times and stilled, panting. He slowly worked his way out of you and you groaned. You immediately flopped onto the bed. Strength left you. Your energy was gone.
Kevin’s quiet huffs let you track him through the apartment. You heard water running and then he was back, cleaning you up. You whined, crying and pushing away from him. He cooed at you and gently cleaned you up.
Sleep tugged at you. You yawned. Kevin returned. You were putty in his hands as he moved you away from the mess you made. “I know another way to warm you up too,” he said.
“Hm,” you sighed.
He chuckled as he got you out of the puddle. You sighed, curling up now that you were in a dry spot. Kevin placed something onto the wet spot and then got in bed with you, pulling your back into his chest. He spread out covers over you.
You had just enough thought to take off your glasses and put it on the nightstand next to you.
His hand came around to rest against your titty, still clad in your bra. He threw one leg over you and your body instantly warmed up. He was a space heater. You snuggled into his warmth and were out like a light, with a giant smile on your face.
The END.
The Secret Kevin Atwater Files
#Megaminds Secret Files#The Secret Kevin Atwater Files#Kevin Atwater x Black!reader#Kevin Atwater x Black reader#x Black reader#Kevin Atwater x Fem!reader#Kevin Atwater x Fem reader#Kevin Atwater x reader#x reader#Kevin Atwater x you#Kevin Atwater imagine#Kevin Atwater fanfic#Kevin Atwater fan fic#Kevin Atwater fanfiction#Kevin Atwater fan fiction#Kevin Atwater smut#Chicago PD#Chicago P.D.#Chicago PD fanfic#Chicago PD fan fic#Chicago PD fan fiction#Chicago PD fanfiction#Chicago PD smut
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Impulse Control
For @steddiemicrofic's May prompt "top" and for Monsterfucker May || 510 words || Rated E || Tags & Warnings: Possession, demons, demon!steve, monsterfucking
"I think I met something in Chicago, Eds. Or something met me, but I... It's..."
"Show me."
The room is dim, the only light filtering in from evening sun. It paints Steve in yellow-gold as he peels his top off, revealing that same hairy chest Eddie has loved for years, that he lusts after even in dreams.
No, not the same. Inky black crawls up Steve's body, just under his skin. When Eddie places a tentative touch on his belly, the black concentrates around the warmth of his hand and pulses beneath it. Steve moans, and Eddie jerks away.
"That hurt?"
"No, it…" Trembling, forehead shining with sweat, Steve hesitantly pushes down his joggers. Black extends even there, crisscrossing his cock like climbing vines, undulating. Steve's hard as a rock, pre-come coming out so fast—too fast—that it drips onto the floor like a broken faucet. Eddie slides his hand slowly down Steve's body just to watch the ink react.
"Oh fuck." Steve's knees give, and he half-falls against the wall, hips bucking into nothing. His eyes flutter shut as Eddie's hand glides across his hip, and when he opens them again, there's only blackness there, a moonless night on the deep ocean.
"We want you," Steve says, and his voice is legion, punctuated only by a soft rhythmic drip, drip, drip onto the hardwood.
Eddie should say no. If he had any fucking sense of self-preservation, or if Steve wasn't always a huge blind spot for him in terms of being sensible, he'd say no. He'd call in their friends, and they'd try to figure out what this was.
But Eddie doesn't have those things.
What he has is impulse control about as strong as uncooked spaghetti plus a lifelong love and rampant horniness for Steve Harrington that has all manifested in a gold band on his ring finger and a body that screams yes.
So what Eddie says instead is, "How?"
Steve reaches for Eddie's other hand and puts that on him too. Eddie holds his waist, petting his sides. Groaning, Steve nearly knocks him unconscious when he lets his forehead fall against his, breath heating the air as Eddie stares cross-eyed into the dark, watches it fade into hazel-brown, watches it go black again.
"Sorry," Steve says. "I'm being rude." And he gets a hand on him, jerking Eddie hot and fast inside his pajamas.
Everything falls away, dissolving into familiar pants and moans. Into unfamiliar Other tones leeching into Steve's voice. The ink crawls from Steve's hand into Eddie's skin, and Eddie can feel it too, something bone-deep and clawing and so fucking good that he feels like the universe just before the big bang.
"I'm…" Steve's voice pitches high, free hand finding its way into Eddie's hair.
"Yeah," Eddie rasps. Because he is too, and he does. And so does Steve, but not before massive wings unfurl, dripping black down the wall as milky white paints Eddie's skin.
Fuck, Eddie should call someone. He really should.
Instead he hugs Steve close and watches the ink run.
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If it hasn’t been asked yet, I’d love to see what you come up with for the “I’m not gonna yell at you” prompt!
Thanks so much for sending this, I hope you like it!
“I’m not going to yell at you.”
Prompt taken from here
Read on AO3
TW: abuse is alluded to
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The sound of smashing glass and a startled yelp caused Beca to look up from her phone and frown.
She shoved it into her pocket and entered the kitchen, where she saw Chloe picking shards of glass up from the floor.
“What happened?” Beca asked, causing Chloe to jump which then caused the shard of glass to slip in her hand and slice into her thumb.
“Shit,” Chloe muttered as blood began to well up in the cut the glass had left.
“Oh crap, I’m sorry,” Beca said.
Chloe shook her head and turned on the faucet before sticking her thumb underneath the running water. “It’s my fault,” Chloe said. “I was being careless, I’m sorry.”
“Are you… apologising for cutting yourself?” Beca asked, her brows pulled together in confusion.
“No,” Chloe said. “I’m apologising for breaking one of your glasses.”
“Oh,” Beca said. “It’s fine, it was an accident. I’m more worried about you, are you okay?”
“I should have been more careful,” Chloe said as if Beca hadn’t said anything. “You were kind enough to let me stay with you and here I am smashing up your stuff and-”
“Chloe,” Beca said, placing her hand on Chloe’s arm. “It was one glass. All my shit is Ikea, it isn’t expensive. And even if it was, it’s not like you did it on purpose.”
“I just don’t want you to be mad or yell or something,” Chloe said, turning off the faucet and gingerly inspecting her cut thumb.
“I’m not mad, and I’m not going to yell at you,” Beca said, handing her a paper towel. “I’d never yell at you.”
Chloe pressed the paper towel against her thumb. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, but it still stung. “I know that,” she said. “Logically, I know that.” She sighed. “He’s still rattling around in my head.”
Beca pulled her teeth across her bottom lip and exhaled through her nose.
She didn’t need to ask who Chloe was talking about.
“Of course he is,” Beca said softly. “After everything that happened, how could he not be?”
“What he did… I know you’d never do that to me,” Chloe said. “I know that. It’s just… Sometimes I forget that it’s all over.”
“I wish I could fix it for you,” Beca said. “Undo all the damage he did.”
“I know,” Chloe said, giving Beca a smile so small it was hardly there at all. “You can’t fix it, but you are helping.”
“Yeah?”
Chloe nodded, and her smile grew just a fraction.
Beca smiled back at her. “Good,” she said. She grabbed the dustpan and brush from the cupboard under the sink and shooed Chloe backwards and away from the shards of broken glass. “You wanna go pick a movie to watch with dinner? The pizza should be here soon,” she asked, sweeping the shards of glass into the dustpan.
“You hate movies,” Chloe said.
“Yeah, but you don’t,” Beca replied. She tipped the glass into the trash and dusted her hands against her jeans. “I’m willing to do a lot of things for you, Chloe Beale, and watching movies is definitely one of them.”
Chloe grinned, kissed Beca on the cheek, and headed into the living room.
Once Chloe was out of sight, Beca gently touched the spot on her cheek which felt like it was burning. She sighed, closed her eyes, and then shook herself out of it.
She grabbed the vacuum cleaner from the hall closet and vacuumed the spot where the glass had smashed. She tried to hold onto that brief glimpse she’d gotten of the old Chloe - the Chloe who wasn’t so nervous, and jumpy, and unnecessarily apologetic.
She tried to ignore the memory of the Chloe who’d arrived at her apartment last month. Shaking and crying and apologising for turning up in the middle of the night. She couldn’t ignore it though. The memory came back to her during every quiet moment. She was sure she’d never forget it as long as she lived.
“Please can I stay? Chicago, he’s…”
“Bec?”
“Huh?”
“You’ve vacuumed that same spot like ten times, I think the glass is gone,” Chloe said, leaning against the doorway to the living room.
“Right,” Beca said, shaking her head slightly and forcing out a chuckle. “Did you pick something?”
“I seem to remember you telling me you’d never seen Sister Act, and I think that we need to fix that,” Chloe said, tapping the remote control against the heel of her hand. She opened her mouth to say more, but the apartment buzzer went off and she jumped, sending the remote control clattering to the floor.
“I’m sure it’s just the pizza guy,” Beca said. She pressed the button on the intercom and asked who was there.
“Alfredo’s,” a bored voice replied. “Got an order for Beca Mitchell.”
“I stand corrected,” Beca said. “It’s the pizza gal. I’m gonna grab it, the elevator’s still out and I don’t have a tip big enough for them to climb four flights of stairs. Will you be okay?”
Chloe, who had been staring into space, focused her eyes on Beca, and she gave a tight-lipped smile and nodded.
When Beca left the apartment, Chloe forced herself to take a steadying breath.
She was getting tired of this. The jumpiness, the anxiety, it was all so exhausting.
She just wanted to feel like herself again.
She wanted to go back in time so that the last two years hadn’t happened.
She wished she’d made a different decision that final night of the USO tour.
Chloe was still staring into space when Beca returned.
“They need to fix that elevator,” Beca said, shutting the door behind her with a huff. “I almost had to stop halfway and set up base camp.”
Chloe laughed, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Plate or just out of the box?” Beca asked.
“Box is fine,” Chloe replied.
Beca nodded and carried the box through to the living room. “Come on,” she said. “I hear we have some singing nuns to watch.”
Beca was almost asleep when the credits rolled, and Chloe lifted her head from Beca’s shoulder to hit stop.
“I gotta admit, that was pretty good,” Beca said, yawning and stretching.
“Told you,” Chloe replied.
“I’m gonna call it,” Beca said, checking her watch. “I have to be at work crazy early tomorrow for some big meeting.”
As Beca was about to stand, Chloe put her hand on her arm to stop her.
“Chlo’?”
“I just… I can’t thank you enough, Beca. For everything you’ve done… Everything you’re doing… I’ll never be able to repay you for it.”
“You don’t have to repay me,” Beca said. “And you don’t have to thank me. I just wish I’d known sooner. I wish I’d seen it before…” Beca trailed off, that image of Chloe crying at her door floating back into her mind. “I’m sorry that I didn’t see it.”
“You’ve got nothing to apologise for,” Chloe said. “You literally saved my life.”
Beca let out a quick breath through her nose and ran a hand through her hair, shaking it out as she tried not to let her eyes fill with tears. “I’m so glad you’re here, Chloe. I don’t ever want you to think otherwise.”
“I’m glad I’m here too,” Chloe said, allowing Beca to pull her into a hug. They stayed like that for a while until Chloe spoke again. “I’ve been having nightmares,” she said. “I think that’s why I’ve been so clumsy, I haven’t been sleeping well. Do you think… Could I stay with you tonight?”
“You don’t even have to ask,” Beca said.
Chloe let out a breath of relief and hugged Beca even tighter.
“Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Luckily you’ll never need to find out.”
#bechloe#bechloe fanfic#bechloe fic#bechloe fanfiction#bechloe prompt#bechloe hurt/comfort#pitch perfect fanfiction#pitch perfect fanfic#fanfic#fanfiction#beca mitchell#chloe beale#pitch perfect#beca#chloe#no matter the timeline
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How are you?
An old ask but I wanted to use it for my holiday fic.
They can Wait
Jonah Hauer-King x first person reader
Warnings: anxiety, sexual situations, not proofread
“You sure we’re not going to wake them?” Jonah whispers before we even set foot on my parents porch.
“No, definitely not.”
“Maybe we should get a hotel for the night.”
Our breath clouds in the crisp fall air, illuminated by the moon and the ruddy orange street lights that line my parents street. I’ve been living in England for the past few years with my boyfriend, Jonah. And tomorrow, or rather today is Thanksgiving.
“I already told my mom before we boarded in Chicago that we’d be in very late, Jonah. I promise they’re asleep and we won’t wake them. Trust me.”
Jonah stands by the car, his hands shoved in his pockets as he bounces on his heels, his usual tell that he’s nervous.
“What’s wrong, babe? You’ve met my parents before.”
“I don’t know,” he says with that adorable British accent.
“My parents love you, they’re excited to see you.” I walk over to him and wrap my arms around his puffy coat. “Come on let’s get inside and get warm and go to sleep, okay?”
“Okay,” he concedes, craning his neck down to give me a quick kiss.
I grab his hand and locate the key under the rock my parents have always hid it under and unlock the door. It’s dark in their house but I can smell the food my mom started cooking early.
“Come on up the stairs,” I whisper leading Jonah.
“I feel like a teenager sneaking into my girlfriends house while her parents sleep.”
I laugh quietly. “Well there’s a few things wrong with that statement. Number one we aren’t teenagers and number 2 my parents are very aware of your being here.”
“I’m sleeping with you, right?” Jonah asks as we round the corner to my room.
“Unless you wanna go sleep with my parents?” I tease. “Yes of course you’re sleeping with me.”
“You’re parents won’t find it…unsavory that we’re sleeping together? Like in the same bed?” Jonah asks shutting my door as quietly as possible to my room.
I throw my bags onto my old bed and turn to face him. “Jonah, they’re pretty much aware that we’re together and have been for well over a year now. We’re also both adults and not 17. I think they’d find it odd if we didn’t sleep in the same bed.” I slide my shoes off. “Why are you so nervous?”
“I dunno,” Jonah runs a hand through his already disheveled hair. “I think I’m just a bit jittery from the plane.”
I walk over to him and slide my hands up his shirt. He tenses immediately. “Why don’t we take this off then and get you into bed so you can relax.”
“Y/n…” Jonah whispers. “Maybe I should sleep with clothes on.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “You never sleep with a shirt on…at this point I don’t want you to sleep with a shirt on.” I roll my eyes. “Just relax, Jonah.” I stand in my tip toes and kiss him. I press my lips against his and automatically I want more. I open my mouth to deepen the kiss but Jonah stops me.
“What?” I whisper.
“You know what that kind of kiss leads to.”
“Yeah…and?”
“We can’t have sex in your parents house!”
I scoff and change into my oversized shirt I always sleep in, and crawl into the bed. I’m too lazy to brush my teeth I just need sleep. The jet lag is going to hit me hard tomorrow. Jonah enters the bathroom that connects to my room and I hear the faucet turn on and the toilet flush. Eventually, he crawls into bed with me and I’m happy when I feel that he decided to take his shirt off. He pulls me into him, and scoots against me, his arm holding me as he laces his fingers with mine.
“I love you,” he whispers.
I start to turn in the bed and be loosens his grip on me so he can hold me the whole time.
“I love you too.”
The next morning, I wake up and Jonah is already out of the bed. I’m shocked to see that he’s not even in the bathroom. I hear laughter downstairs and head in that direction. The smell of coffee hits me as soon as I open the door. I throw on the jeans I had on yesterday and throw my hair up into a messy ponytail.
I make my way downstairs hearing more laughter and…I’m pretty sure that’s Jonah talking.
“No see in England, we call them ‘indicators’.”
“Indicators?” My dad says and laughs. “Well I’ll be damned.”
I make my way down the last step and somehow draw both their attention to me.
“Good morning darling,” Jonah says from the sofa next to my dad.
My dad gets up and holds out his arms. “Y/n!” He pulls me into a tight hug and kisses the top of my head. “Nice guy you’ve got here,” he says to me.
“Yeah I like him a little.”
He lets me go and Jonah’s arm is already outstretched on the sofa for me to sit in front of.
“How’d this happen?” I whisper to him before kissing his lips quickly.
“What?”
“You being all chummy with my dad. Last night you were nervous wreck.”
My dad laughs loudly from the kitchen as he pours 2 cups of coffee. He sets mine down and sits on the recliner across from us. “You should have seen him this morning. He was looking for the shower and walked straight into mine and your mom’s room. Only thing was I was headed out so we smacked right into each other!”
Jonah laughs and shakes his head sheepishly.
“And me, totally forgetting you and your boyfriend would be here, I almost killed the guy! Had him in a headlock and all!”
“Oh my god, dad!”
“Luckily your mom saved him. Reminded me you and your boyfriend were probably here…I almost crushed his windpipe.”
I look at my dad mouth wide open and can’t help but laugh. “Jesus, dad.”
“Hey I may be old but your old man can still kick some ass…even if he is 6’1 and 20 years younger than me.”
My dad gets back up and goes back into the kitchen. “Jonah… you should have woke me up…”
“It’s fine really, I think he likes me.”
“He almost killed you.”
“But he likes me! And your mom said I was handsome,” Jonah blushes.
The rest of the holiday played out perfectly. My parents both love Jonah and asked us to extend our stay through the rest of the weekend. Jonah immediately said yes without even talking to me first.
My parents to go bed early and Jonah and I are washing up the dishes before we head to bed ourselves. I’m elbow deep in dish water when I feel Jonah directly behind me. He wraps his arms around the front of my body and pulls me back against him. His lips go to my neck and he’s kissing me so softly.
“Jonah…”
“What?” He says against my neck. His breath tickles my skin.
“You’re supposed to be drying the dishes,” I whisper this because his hand travels down my stomach then down my pants. My back arches into him as I feel his fingers against my panties.
Jonah hums into my neck. “Can’t focus on that right now.” His finger slips into my underwear and straight to my clit. “Already so wet for me,” Jonah whispers.
I shudder at the immediate pleasure that radiates through my body. My hands grip the counter as he traces delicate circles against my clit. My breath comes out in quick spurts and I desperately want to move my hips with the rhythm of his finger, but I know that’ll send me over the edge. I grab his wrist and pull his hand out of my pants. I turn to face him before he has a chance to protest. My eyes immediately go down to the evident bulge in his pants. It takes everything out of me not to get on my knees and suck him off. I can’t not here in the kitchen.
“Last night you were too worried to kiss me and now you’re fingering me in my parents kitchen?” I raise an eyebrow at him.
“I didn’t think you’d mind,” Jonah smirks.
He’s got me there. I want more.
“What’s gotten into you? I’m not complaining I’m just curious.”
“I think I was just so anxious I couldn’t focus on anything else than being anxious. Now all that is gone I’m just really…really-”
Cutting him off, I grab Jonah’s hand and lead him upstairs.
“What about the dishes?” He asks now whispering as we pass my parents bedroom.
“They can wait.”
Tags: @danielabetancourth @luna2034 @wandamaximoffbaewrites @twinkledinkleg-blog @justagirlwholovedtoread @nonsensical-nonsence @paramorelvrr @thedonswife13 @miniemonie2001 1 1 @jonahhauer-kingg @crazyyynyyyy
#Jonah hauer king#jonah hauer king fan fiction#jonah hauer king x y/n#jonah hauer king imagine#jonah hauer king one shot#jonah hauer king fanfic#jonah hauer king fanfiction#jonah hauer king x reader#jonah hauer king gifs#Jona
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the way to his heart: part two
— part three
——
The evening sky gradually cloaks Chicago in a vivid hue of ripe persimmons. Dapples of sunlight dance across the uniform houses, their roofs splashed with hazy, golden rays. A breeze swirls throughout the local park and elementary school, stirring mini tornadoes of fallen leaves that skim along the tree-shaded sidewalks. The neighborhood campfires crackle with embers, sending ash and smoke toward the clouds above. It's a wistful ambience that settles into the bones of autumn dearest.
As the temperature dips into the lower fifties, the birthday celebration comes to a close. People slowly but surely leave with tinfoil-covered leftovers and sleepy children in their arms. Crepe-paper streamers and remnants of a demolished rainbow piñata are scattered on the lawn. An abundance of tissue paper and gift wrap is crumpled in a gigantic trash bag, along with disposable plates and utensils smeared with buttercream frosting. The bounce house is deflating under the setting sun, abused and glistening with moisture.
You've been carrying handfuls of decorations into the house for the past ten minutes, each time scanning the emptying kitchen for Carmen. Throughout the party, you had watched him duck in and out of the connected garage to grab food or catering supplies (which were actually moments cleverly disguised as smoke breaks), before returning to his makeshift station and serving the guests with his admirable competence.
It's not unusual for him to vanish from a situation; he's the textbook definition of the Irish Goodbye. Yet a disturbing sense of concern gnaws away at your heart. He’s brawling with demons hidden from you and everyone else, and you fear the day he spins out of control before heading straight into an deep hole.
You desperately want to fix him but getting scorched in the process is inexorable. If you trigger the tripwire, everything will misfire.
"Dad, have you seen Carmen anywhere?"
Your dad is hunched over the sink washing dishes, the faucet running so hot that steam rises toward the ceiling. The clanking of cookware, along with the dim lighting in the kitchen, puts you at ease as you check your phone while waiting for an answer. You find no messages from Carmen. The last text he sent was a week ago when he asked you about catering details. If you were to scroll further back to older texts, that's where it reaches dangerous territory. Sporadic Love you's and miss you's, too precious to be deleted. Frequent working late's and don't wait up for me's. And, your weakness, risqué send me something’s.
"Can't say that I have, kiddo," says your dad while scrubbing a pan with a tattered sponge. "He better not have left, though, because my chip dip needs some pointers. Only half of it went!"
Damn. You twist your lips nervously and begin to aimlessly check every room in the house — bathroom, living room, bedroom, even the basement. He's nowhere to be found.
Eventually, you venture outside and head toward the front of the house, where a scarce number of vehicles are still parked in the driveway and along the winding suburban road. The sounds of barking dogs and gossiping neighbors flutter around you, as does a subtle autumn chill that pokes and prickles your cheeks.
There's a familiar vehicle you easily spot, Carmen’s rusting vintage Honda Civic that you've seen him drive seldomly. Even though you aren't in a relationship with him anymore, you always offer to drive him to work, but he insists on walking through the bustling downtown streets of Chicago, where honking and rumbling engines are the city's alarm clock. You like to imagine an alternate universe where you walk alongside him as the sunrise paints the sky with shades of burnt oranges and romantic pinks. Holding hands, feeling the cold sweat of them, then kissing him goodbye before going your separate ways.
It's a life you missed out on, but you've accepted the reality that fate is beyond human reach. It's also bullshit.
From your distance across the road, you see Carmen through the translucent driver's-side window. His forehead is slumped against the steering wheel, the denim baseball cap on his head tilted wonkily, and his left hand rubs just below his collarbones. If he weren’t moving, you'd think he was dead. A lit cigarette droops from his lips, the smoldering end burning the leather material of the wheel. You sigh, equal parts relieved and trepidatious, then walk closer while tugging your cardigan tighter around your figure.
Raising your dry, reddened knuckles up to the glass, you knock twice. Carmen reacts by sucking in a lungful of air and jerking his head toward you, his eyes a particularly devastating shade of turquoise. He blinks a few times before manually rolling the screechy window down all while coughing up the smoke caught in his throat.
"I've been looking for you everywhere," you say, noticing his shaky hands when he plucks the cigarette from between his teeth and stamps it out on the dashboard. It's riddled with dozens of other dark, circular marks, and the entire car reeks of ashes and a trace of his treasured cologne. You notice leftover sandwiches wrapped and messily piled in the backseat.
It's all him, and it consumes you to the hilt.
"Sorry," Carmen replies hoarsely, taking his hat off. "Just can't really breathe right now."
"And you thought the best solution was to cloud your lungs with poisonous chemicals? With the windows closed?" you remark, trying to sound as gentle as possible. His detrimental coping mechanism is going to be the death of you. Probably him, too, in a more literal sense. God, that's morbid.
He grimaces and tilts his head back against the headrest. "I gotta go home. I gotta— I'm sorry for ditching the whole scene, but my chest started aching and I got overwhelmed."
You nod hastily, eyebrows slanted with concern. "It's okay. Hey, let me drive you to your apartment. You need a break."
"Nah, I'll be fine."
"Actually, that's the wrong answer." You open the car door and nudge his jean-clad thigh with your fist. "Scoot over. I'm driving."
Carmen, your stubborn sweetheart, stares directly at you until it becomes quite intimidating. "No," he says firmly. "How are you gonna get back?"
"The bus or whatever. Doesn't matter. Move."
"No."
"Um, yes."
"Stop worrying about me so much. I'll survive."
You touch his taut shoulder with calm reassurance and whisper, "Carmy. Please?"
The nickname used to work like a charm, and you're hoping there's a part of him that still weakens when you say it. A part that will still accept your tender loving care. Unhurriedly, he maneuvers his body over to the passenger seat. You climb in behind the wheel and regard the anxious, melancholy state of him with his wild, lion-like hair and fidgeting movements. The rigidity of his muscles is upsetting — if only he had the means to see a chiropractor. No, scratch that. A therapist could work wonders.
Leaning over the half-open console that's littered with empty cigarette packs and gum wrappers, you use your hand to rub Carmen's back. The curvature of his spine and the tight knots you feel beg for a deep tissue massage, but for now, you just soothingly knead his sore muscles in an intimate silence, hoping you're nourishing the roots of his pain, even if it's only physical.
Camren's throat bobs from a thick swallow. As his bloodshot eyes flutter shut, delicate lashes sweeping downward, you caress the hardened groove of his bicep and position your forehead onto his own. His skin is sickly warm. Breathing uneven. Heart heavy — so heavy that you can almost feel the wrenching weight. The cross he bears is nailed to his back.
"Breathe."
He listens and blows out slow, steady breaths. The slope of your nose fits under the arch of his, and your lips twitch into a smile when the pungent cigarette smoke invades your senses. Memories fly past in your brain, snapshots of tobacco kisses and wandering hands. Squeezes, nips, groans. New York thrills. Love on autopilot. Everything fast. Speeding, burning, plummeting until the inevitable crash.
Time taken for granted is a cruel thief.
"There you go," you murmur encouragingly, lips barely brushing his own. "Focus internally. Nothing outside matters right now. Just your breathing."
His body relaxes with each exhale. He's winding down, and when his eyes open again, they're spacey and locked onto your hand still resting on his bicep, your fingers splayed over his 7 7 3 tattoo.
"Feeling better?" you ask.
Carmen rolls his neck, the harmless crack making you wince. "Thank you... for that. I'm good now."
"Good." The key is already dangling from the ignition, so you turn it, the engine sputtering to life and then lowly purring. "I'm taking you somewhere. Hope you don't mind."
——
Oak Street Beach is nearly deserted at dusk.
Skyscrapers glimmer in the distance, the indigo sky reflecting off their pristine glass windows. The blur of headlights flash past with the comedown of rush hour. Ring-billed gulls screech by the Lake Michigan shoreline while devouring discarded food. Waves lap the trodden sand, washing away stranger's footsteps.
Even though the water is far too frigid to comfortably wade in this time of year, the unparalleled thing about beaches is that they are beautiful enough to simply look at.
You fall into step with Carmen at a leisurely pace, the wind whispering through your hair. Goosebumps rise over your arms and cause you to shiver, your sundress doing little to ward off the brisk weather — it probably dropped twenty degrees since noon. Nonetheless, fall is in the air, and the lush elm trees that stretch along the roadside strip of lawn are changing from their natural green to an elegant golden-yellow. They color the city, bright and bountiful.
As you plant your feet close to the shore, a warmth envelops you from behind. Turning your head, you find Carmen draping his wool jacket over your shoulders. The raw fabric instantly heats your skin, and when you put your arms through the sleeves, they sag past your fingertips. You smile softly and gaze at the water again.
Carmen stands beside you, his hands stuffed in his pockets, staring ahead with an expression of mystery. You never can tell what he's thinking about. He's a wall with chips and cracks only you can loosely decipher. For all you know, the current blankness on his face could be contentment.
"I know you like it here," you say while creating a miniature crater in the sand with the tip of your shoe.
"It's the only place where I can catch my breath," he replies, adjusting the bill of his hat.
When his brother unexpectedly died, Carmen migrated back to Chicago from New York with you trailing behind. You remember it in painful, jagged bits and pieces. There was a three-day gloom that smothered Chicago. The Beef, once alive with passion, was abandoned. A funeral with dazed humans. Carmen, guilt-ridden and irrevocably crushed. Wounded and detached. Your bleeding boy.
"Can I tell you something?" he asks, deep in thought.
You sink down onto the ground, knees bent, and Carmen does the same. Resting your cheek on your outstretched arm, you say, "Mm-hmm. Go ahead."
He sniffles, his nose slightly red from the cold, and picks at his nails. "I, um— I've been thinking about going to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. Sugar has been pushing me to go for ages, and I always resisted. But now, I don't know, maybe it'll help me sort some things out. It might help me unpack my grief since I don't know what the fuck I'm feeling half the time."
Your heartbeat scampers momentarily. The word seeps into your mind and expands like ink on wet paper. Alcoholic. You think back and try to recall any warning signs. Yes, he drank and smoked in your presence, but it never reached an alarming state until everything hit. Maybe you were too blind to it and became used to the cigarettes and liquor bottles. You grieved, too. Mikey was so easy to love, and then he was suddenly gone. Drowning in distractions was the only way to steer off the course of misery. Man, it's all a blur.
One clear memory is the sad, pathetic breakup during the aftermath. Side by side on the bed, eleven p.m., no more than a few sentences spoken to each other that entire day, two hemorrhaged hearts begging to heal. When the ache grew too much to bear, you suggested time apart, and Carmen agreed at once like he was waiting for you to drop the bomb first.
And now here you both are, souls having found each other again, bruised and bandaged but on the mend despite every arrow in the flesh.
You don't even realize a single tear has escaped until your voice comes out shaky when you say, "That makes me so happy. Thank you for telling me."
He scratches his forehead with his thumb, almost seeming embarrassed by his brave and self-serving choice. "Nothing to cry over. I'm only really doing it to get my sister off my back."
"Don't say that. You're doing it because you love her. She worries about you just as much as I do — definitely more."
Carmen's lips slant with a slight smile as his eyes shift over to you. There's a rare, lovely glint in them, like when someone splits open a precious gemstone. "It's honestly a close call," he says, quietly laughing to himself.
You wipe away the wetness under your eyes using your sleeve — Carmen's sleeve, rather. The brief and familiar whiff of him you get from the fabric makes you want to cry even more. "I'm serious," you tell him. "She’s lost one brother already. It would be devastating if she lost you too."
Sometimes broaching is the only way to get him to open up. A gentle pry can lead to a glimpse inside.
"I know, I know. Can we talk about something else?"
You place your cheek on his sturdy shoulder and breathe in serenely. "Like what, Carmy?"
He's silent for a bit, nothing but the sound of waves weakly lapping the shore before he speaks again. "Don't laugh, but would you wanna come with me to the meeting?" His face twitches with a tiny wince. "Or, I guess, could you? Please?"
Laughing doesn't even cross your mind. "For moral support?" you clarify.
"Sure, yeah. Only because the thought of going by myself and sitting in a cramped room with a bunch of fucking strangers makes me nauseous." He exhales heavily. "If I had a face I knew, it would help a lot."
"Why not your sister?"
Carmen shrugs indifferently. "She's busy all the time. And talking about serious shit in front of a sibling is humiliating."
"Heard," you reply. He smirks at that. "So... you want me to go instead? May I ask why?"
He doesn't ask much of you — never has. He’s a giver by nature, and yet he doesn't believe what he gives has value.
"You're one of the only good things I have left," he admits, picking at the frayed denim of his jeans. "My brother is gone, and my job stresses me out ninety percent of the time. I don't talk to my mom or stepdad. There's Richie, but he's dealing with his own shit."
"I understand," you say. “I'll go with you. I'm glad you recognized your issues and took a big step into fixing them."
"I don't think it's possible to fix a basket case."
You study the horizon as well as his words, the sky darkening any last sight of sunlight. The air is fresh in your lungs, the sand soft beneath your palms. If you could freeze time, it'd be during this very moment. Nothing else matters. Nothing else exists.
"You're not a basket case. You’re trying your best. Life is painfully long and burdensome, yet we all try our best for the sake of merely surviving. And that's something to be proud of, as depressing as it sounds."
Carmen slides a hand down his face before stretching his arm out. "C'mere," he murmurs softly.
You happily fall into his secure embrace, letting him hold you like old times. Snuggling close, you say, "Love you. You don’t have to say it back. I just want you to know."
The love never left, truth be told. In fact, it swelled significantly with time apart. You're not one for clichés, but absence really does make the heart grow fonder. The both of you are pure, solid proof.
"I do know." He chastely kisses your temple, hovering his mouth there. "And I do love you. More than you know because I never tell you enough. I never tell anyone anything enough."
"You should work on that."
"Yeah, I should."
You turn your head to look at him, admiring his sincere and thoughtful expression that looks back at you. In your field of vision, you're close enough to count his scattered beauty marks. Trace his sculpted jawline. Memorize his boyish lips. Further down, feel the ridges and veins of his neck. Touch the scars and burns and rough callouses on his hand. He's exquisitely flawed, but that's the lure of loving someone like him so fiercely.
There's longing in his eyes when your gaze travels upwards again. So close. So familiar. If you move another inch, it'll be a cliff dive into a sea of bad decisions.
"I should drive you home now," you say above a whisper.
Carmen wets his lips, clears his throat, then strikes down your cowardliness with a confident question.
"What's the other option?"
——
#carmen berzatto#carmen berzatto x reader#carmen berzatto angst#carmen berzatto fluff#the bear fanfic#the bear#the bear fx#jeremy allen white
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