#built-in acoustics

[abi-acousticboardindia]

Our auditorium and stadium chairs are designed to offer superior comfort, durability, and acoustic performance in large venues. These chairs feature ergonomically contoured seating, robust metal or wooden frames, and noise-absorbing upholstery that enhances sound quality by minimizing echo and reverberation. Perfect for auditoriums, stadiums, lecture halls, and performance spaces, they support clear audio transmission by integrating acoustic materials within their structure. Options include fixed, foldable, or tip-up seating with customizable colors, armrests, writing tablets, and cup holders. The chairs are crafted using fire-retardant and eco-friendly materials, ensuring safety and sustainability. Designed to meet the demands of both aesthetic appeal and acoustic efficiency, our seating solutions help transform any large venue into a comfortable and acoustically optimized environment for audiences. Trust our high-performance chairs to improve sound clarity and create a seamless audio-visual experience.

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🌐 Website: https://acousticboardindia.com

[devilish-parrot]

ive been playing guitar for about a month and the song sex, drugs, rock 'n roll is actually really easy to play :D

[brainrotcharacters]

I get so emotional that the transition between Get in the Water and Six Hundred Strike is a fade out followed by Odysseus's motif

[roasted-oolong]

i wish i had it in me to be supervillain evil. those big industrial buildings and machinary look so damn cool. i want to design an evil lair 🥲

[whydoilovesomanyvillains]

The best c!dream fan song out here is Oblivion by halfy and winks the way I ate that shit up when it first came out and completely based my opinions on c!dream because of this song dear god its so good

[mikeysbride]

I think a lot of us have that one house you lived in as a child that has always stuck with you - the one that will always feel like home to you, even if you didn't spend your whole childhood there. I definitely have a house like that from my childhood. In fact, I still drive by to see it when I'm back in my hometown and have time. I have often wished I could go to the door and just ask to look around, so when I first heard this song, I struck a strong chord with me. Still now, every time I hear this song, that house comes to mind.

[edge-oftheworld]

this song got teeth (sunk into the bone, i took an L and i won't go home)

How to I channel the ideas I came up with for Red Desert into Teeth? It’s repetitive, I know that, as much of a banger it is: the verses are fine, but the chorus is played six times and there’s only so much variation you can put into that. I’ve written a flittery countermelody already. But is it edible? I don’t know. It should be. Idk, I wrote it before I saw what I was trying to do, to imagine a bit of Sierra's influence into this song? I'll try to follow that train of thought but now back to what I was thinking at the time. What time? I don't know. Whenever I last worked on this. I was thinking about eating music? Checks out tbh. Even the wrong chord I put in sounds right, see?

In order to decide how to write something edible, I return to the chords. The dratted chords. I still don’t know what they are. I arranged this song entirely by ear, listening to the RAH performance and copying the string parts and building the rest around it. I’m not sure I put any chords into this song at all. I can use the ones I found online, I tried to, but whatever I wrote in for the pre-chorus and the bridges works, somehow, in a way the chords that are supposed to be there kinda don’t? Either that or the chords I wrote I didn’t fully delete and had one instrument play them while another played the actual chords and no wonder it sounded like a cacophony. Time to check. But I think the problem with this song is that it’s built around a two-bar riff. It doesn’t really have chords, chords just go on top of it so it doesn’t sound the same every two bars. All I know is there are a lot of E’s. and E’s are in an awful lot of chords. And the ‘late night devil put your…’ run sounds nice and minory and exciting in a dark way, like it should. This song has teeth. Every two bars, a new tooth. Every two bars, a new chord? I still don’t know.

[escapismsworld]

The Ancient Theatre of Epidaurus in Greece is a remarkable testament to ancient Greek artistic prowess and classical architecture. Built in the 4th century BCE, this meticulously designed amphitheater features exceptional acoustics, allowing even faint whispers to be heard from the highest seats. It was primarily used for Greek tragedies and comedies, highlighting the cultural significance of theater in ancient times.

📸: Dimitrios Pallis

[thewaltcrew]

Director Kirk Wise, screenwriter Linda Woolverton, and actor Robby Benson on casting the Beast [x]

They gave me an incredible amount of freedom. I didn't want Beast to be a cartoon character. I played it as though I were doing a Broadway show. As if this was a living person. And I wanted him to be funny. By funny, I don't mean shtick or one-liners. I am talking about real comedy. When real comedy works, and is truthful, especially with the Beast, it comes out of the fact that he is so pathetic. For some reason, I really understood that. Ha! Because of that, they gave me a lot of leeway. [x]

My first audition was recorded on, of all things, a Sony Walkman. As a musician, I had branched out into recording engineer and loved to play with sound. When I saw the Sony Walkman I knew it had a little condenser microphone in it, and if I were to get too loud, the automatic compressor and built-in limiter would 'squash' the voice— and there would be very little dynamic range to the performance. I did a quick assessment and wondered how many people who had come in to audition for the part were making that error: playing the Beast with overwhelming decibels, compressing the vocal waveforms. I decided to give the Beast 'range.' Because of my microphone technique, and an understanding of who I wanted Beast to be, they kept asking me to come back and read different dialogue. After my fifth audition, Jeffrey Katzenberg the hands-on guardian of the film, said the part was mine…

Beauty and the Beast was so refreshingly fun and inventively creative to work on that I couldn't wait to try new approaches to every line of dialogue. Don Hahn is one of the best creative producers I have ever worked with. The two young directors, Kirk Wise and Gary Trousdale, were fantastic and their enthusiasm was contagious. I not only was allowed to improvise, but they encouraged it. It never entered my mind that I was playing an animated creature. I understood the torment that Beast was going through: he felt ugly; had a horrible opinion of himself, and had a trigger-temper. Those are things that, if done right, are the perfect ingredients for comedy. Painful and pathetic comedy— but honest. The kind of comedy I understood...

In the feature world of Disney animation, the actors always recorded their dialogue alone in a big studio, with only a microphone and the faint images of the producers, writers, directors and engineer through a double-paned set of acoustic glass. Paige O'Hara and I became good friends; it was her idea that for certain very intimate scenes, such as when Beast is dying, we record together. We were able to play these scenes with an honest conviction that is often absent in the voice-over world...

The success of this film was the culmination of a team effort but I must say, the honors go to the animators— and for me (Beast), that's Glen Keane — and to Howard Ashman and Alan Menken. This was the perfect example of a crew who 'cared'. And the final results (every frame) of the film represent that sentiment. [x]

[ryes-brownies08]

feature me [jay x male reader]

"You really killed it out there." Jay spoke, almost taunting. "You really think so?" You asked, reciprocating his energy. "I know so. Because I watching the entire time."

NSFW - If you're a minor, i literally do not care. Just dont let ur mom catch u or whatever 🤷‍♂️

Requested by: Anonymous

˙⋆✮ genre: SMUT ˙⋆✮ roles: top! jay, bttm! mreader ˙⋆✮ word count: 3.7k words ˙⋆✮ inspo: feature me - flo

SYNOPSIS: Jay and M/n. Two fierce performers in their respective categories, and a surprisingly good fit for one another. Their label knew what they were doing when they arranged for the two to perform a cover song together. What the two musicians hadn't known, though, was how attracted they'd be to each other, and how they weren't just impressed with one another's talents. As Jay and M/n entertained their mutual attraction, they found themselves caught in a night they'd never forget.

WARNINGS + TAGS: flirting, music industry, rough unprotected sex, swearing, insensitive at times, guitarist jay, fingering, intense sex, tension ;))), depictions of any irl character here does not reflect who they are irl this work is purely fictional, etc

The stage is set. The room holds its breath with anticipation. You stand in the middle of darkness as you stare out into the audience of the acoustic lounge you're in. You can see them, but they can't see you.

It's somehow nerve-wracking given you've performed in a lot of places for a lot of different people before. Maybe it’s different now because this acoustic lounge had pretty skilled instrumentalists in it, and you never really performed with a live band before. That means you have to match their performance with the only tool you have, your voice.

Then it hits. The kick and closed hi-hat. The signature sound of the song you were covering, aside from the notable guitar; ‘Feature Me’ by FLO.

The lights fade in, and you barely manage a 'singer-model expression' before it gets illuminated. The hi-hats of the intro shuffle complexly, matching the rhythm of your tense heartbeat. God, this live set makes you so nervous. That didn't matter now, it was time to do what your fans loved best; sing and move your body. After all, you know that this performance, much like any other, would definitely be recorded and posted.

Your makeup glistened as the light rose, reminding you of your look. A light streak of blue and white glitter, spread across either cheekbone like glossy freckles. Silver piercings in your ears, small but intricate - you can't remember them too well. Light blue denim jeans, well-fit at the thighs and gradually loosening at the calves, paired with a sleeveless denim vest of the same color, buttoned up except for the top button, showing off your collarbone.

Your arms were also out, and while they weren't built at all, sometimes your biceps flexed, and it felt like the stylists made the right choice. Maybe that dreadful gym was proving to pay off more than you thought.

You’re set up for success, and can't make this all for nothing.

You hold the mic stand firmly as you do your best to look confident. You’ve got to sing your first line as the intro comes to an end. "Not what I usually do, but I've been peeping you." You sing. Not bad, albeit a bit breathy for how you'd prefer to sound.

"I'm tryna play it cool but it's too much, yeah." You follow, your free hand slithering up to your collarbone. Still getting used to everything, you wonder if that move was too much. Your hands weren't really free in your other performances, always busy with a handheld mic or doing a dance, so you thought to pull that sensual move.

"Got me breaking the rules; there ain't no second to." You take a breath, a sharp inhale which could have been avoided if you managed your breath better. "He's my forbidden fruit, yeah." You do a good job at the latter half, your tone rich with vibrato.

Then, the bass kicks in, and an ambient light from behind you casts a warm, orange glow on your (S/c) skin. The hall is acoustic and cozy, but quite modernized as well, and it excites you. The keyboardist plays a vibey tune, followed by the guitarist playing the signature sound of the amorous, seductive R&B anthem. What surprises you though, was the electric take on the originally acoustic guitar. It made everything more sensual and interesting.

You take the mic from the stand, and walk around slowly, the crowd lightly cheering as you become comfortable. You gotta move and give this performance some flavour; you were always about adding a bit of zest into the things you did, which made you as authentic as you were.

A nod from the drummer, a grin from the keyboardist, but one instrumentalist in particular catches your eye. The guitarist. Amongst them all, he's someone you know. Not personally, but you're a pretty big fan of. You've liked almost every post of his, despite having a load more followers than him.

Park Jongseong. Or better known as the attractive guitarist Jay. Beautiful and talented, seductive by just doing his thing. He was an actualisation of a very interesting concept, his visual sleek, polished and upper-class, whilst his aesthetic and marketing was edgy, sexualised and so seductively masculine.

He catches you looking at him, and you see that look in his eye. Slender and strapping. He’s biting his lip in concentration, his eyebrows knit tightly together as he focuses on his guitar. But something about that gaze feels partially reciprocal, with undertones of tension. That’s the sexy look you’ve been dying to see up close – as a fan, all you’ve done so far is fantasize about him in ways not appropriate for everyday conversation.

You change your trajectory and strut up to him, as you sing the lines of the chorus, now being able to balance your voice against the volume of the live band. "Set the scene and feature me. Touch on me, get on your knees. I'll take the lead." You smile as the audience around you warms up with your performance. He plays the guitar, bopping his head as he vibes to the beat.

You approach him, and the two of you are standing before each other. You're testing the waters, and it doesn't seem like he minds at all. The crowd cheers; loud enough to be appreciative and quiet enough to be respectful of your show.

To look casual, you swagger over to the other band members, trying not to look hyperfixated over Jay. But it's clear that when you waltz over to them, it's more supportive than when you and Jay stand before each other. It's like pitting a growing flame against a gentle daisy; intense tension against a friendly, platonic support.

As you reach the bridge and the song gets closer to its end, you find yourself drawn back to the centre stage. You roll your body just a little, and the crowd loves it. You've performed expertly, and subtly but effectively seductively.

"Are you receiving the signs? I'm speaking on my mind." You sing, and it comes out like velvet and thunder; you're not just singing, you're inviting him. And when you look back at him, he's biting his lips and shredding that guitar. He's definitely not minding the signs.

"I just want you to come through. I've already set the mood; I'll tell you what to do to me, yeah, yeah." You sing, hitting the high note of the song. Grand and demanding in it's tone - rich yet sultry enough, wavering healthily with vibrato.

The crowd erupts in a full blown cheer, some hands in the air, some jaws knocked right open, and unseen tongues tied for sure. You can see the instrumentalists truly feel it from your peripherals, appreciative of your high note as they continue to do their thing. But again, you come back to Jay.

In a surge of confidence, you place a hand on Jay's free shoulder, gyrating your hips slowly as you wink at him, and he looks at you with a bold smile, dimples forming on either side of his cheeks. The crowd goes wild as you follow up with some ad-libs and riffs in honour of your inspiration trio, FLO.

The last post-chorus feels danceable, and you don't have to do so much at all. You repeat a simple "oh-oh~" over and over and that takes you to the end. But just before the song finishes, you walk behind Jay, and as you sing the finishing line, "I'll take the lead," you slither a hand up on his shoulder. The crowd delivers a round of applause, and you let out a breath of amusement and gratefulness.

The band members look at each other in reverence, and you smile at the audience gratefully. You, alongside the rest of the crew, bring your hands together as you applaud each other, and you and Jay spare a glance at each other. His is firm, his smile stoic and a bit more than just platonically appreciative. Flustered, you chuckle and break the eye contact, drawing a laugh from him.

You turn to face the audience, placing the mic back in the stand. They cheer and have faces full of smiles. It takes a moment, but it dawns upon you; you did well.

After giving the audience a few words of gratitude, you and the rest of the members leave the stage.

The rest of the crew vanishes elsewhere, whilst you walk backstage, catching a breath as you grab your water bottle from your desk in the dressing room. Everyone is gone by now, and the night feels like it's coming to an end. It's nice to have a moment to yourself knowing you didn't do that bad at all on stage.

You hear the door creak and shut lightly. It doesn't alarm you, but someone else just entered your dressing room. "I'm not interrupting, am I?" You hear from behind you, and already know who it is.

You whip your head back, and you're met with the sight of exactly who you expected. Your favourite guitarist, in a silk white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the top with his sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, with black slacks that fit his legs delectably.

"Not at all. What's up?" You respond before thinking. It's quite casual for who you are, but you can't undo the trajectory of the conversation now.

He lets out an expensive chuckle. It's like fine wine, or cigarettes after sex, or a hybrid of both - it calls out to you. "It's M/n, right? I mean, I just wanted to say that you killed it out there. Every part of that." He smiles nonchalantly as he puts his hands in his pocket and leans on a hip. In your opinion, he didn't need those pants.

"Awh..." You manage, your fingers running through your collarbone sheepishly. It was a little penchant of yours, and a weird contrast to how you'd touch it on stage. Maybe it just looked charismatic, but was you trying to comfort yourself. "I'm actually a big fan. I follow your page." You admit.

"For real? Appreciate it man." He says, tilting his head a little before placing right back to a neutral position. How seductive. You weren't that type of guy, but Jay was so attractively masculine. Grounded, sexy, dominant, and enough of a tease to get you going without pissing you off.

"No, you're great! Tonight, too; and the guitar was electric, so I was so surprised. Cause the guitar of 'Feature Me' is acoustic, if I'm not wrong?" You cross your arms and lean on your hip, comfortable and enjoying his company.

Jay shrugged, hands still in his pockets. "I dunno, I just followed the sheet. Glad you liked it. But really," Jay spoke, his voice with an undertone of implication. "You really killed it out there." It was like a taunt. It was prying something out of you, the way he took no more than half a step closer to you. Not yet implicit enough to be brass-necked, but audacious enough to be exciting.

The air in the room shifted, and you knew exactly where this was going. There was no more room for the cute chitchat, things were taking a turn. "You really think so?" You ask, reciprocating that energy. But to be fair, that was just you; led easily into submission and ready to serve. In your experience, it felt like that nature about you excited the more assertive type, the trait acting like a beacon to people like Jay.

"I know so. Because I watching the entire time." Jay replies, the tone in his voice no longer a question. His hand reaches out to gently grab your chin, vigilant for any signs of discomfort.

You look up to meet his gaze. It's everything you want. Assertive, strapping, lustful, sly. Undeniable.

"Well," Your eyelids relax as your expression, once eager, submissive and excited, was now sedative, alluring and lustful. You want him bad. "What happens now?"

He can't help but grin, letting out a playful scoff. He doesn't say anything, letting the silence speak for itself as you stare in each others eyes, as you realise the two of you are much closer to each other than before.

TIME SKIP

The sound of moist squelching fills up the now locked dressing room, and the air around you is still except for the whirr of a nearby fan. You're out of breath, panting helplessly as you're now certain that your face is red through your (S/c) skin. The leather couch in the dressing room feels cold against your bare ass, your legs spread on either side as Jay kneels in front of you, two slender and skilful fingers deep in you.

Your leg twitches, hips locking as if shifting between becoming free of tension and tense again as he does so. You're a whimpering hot mess beneath him. He pushes his fingers in deep, admiring your face as he fingers you. The only clothing on you now was your unbuttoned denim vest, revealing your slender body.

"Jay... fuck..." You bite your lip, trying your best to hold back your moans.

He just chuckles in response. It makes you feel weak in the knees, and slightly embarrassed. "You're so cute, M/n." He leans closer, face to face with you as his fingers remain sunken deep inside you, making you squirm and arch up as your shoulder blades press against the back of the couch. "You're gonna feel so good around my cock."

You melt, and you can't keep the eye contact with him. He looks so sure, so ready, and it makes you feel completely at his disposal. He smirks and leans in for a kiss. Gentle at first, then gradually more demanding. His tongue slides into your mouth, swift, slippery and expertly taking charge. Alongside the slurping, squelching sounds of your lips, you can still audibly hear him still finger you, rubbing against your prostrate every now and then.

He then bites your bottom lip. Hard. But not hard enough to draw blood. You gasp, and hold onto him out of reflex, needing support. He lets out another chuckle against your lips, finding you adorable. You blush every time, more and more bashful of your reactions while you're just entranced by the sexy and dominant man he is.

With a few more kisses and strokes to the inside of your tight hole, he pulls his fingers out. Sharp enough to make you wince, but gentle enough to feel pleasurable.

You take a breath, and it comes out shaky and frazzled, then watch him as he undoes his zipper, bringing something solid out of the confinements of his pants. "Alright, M/n. You ready for this?" He asks, and his sly gaze is something you realise you'll never get over.

You nod in response.

"Nuh-uh." He tuts. "I wanna hear you say it." Jay replies, pulling a sizeable erection out of his pants.

"Jay, please fuck me..." You respond, flustered, your own erection hardening at the thought of sex with him.

And just as you expect he would, he lets out another chuckle. "God, M/n." Jay spoke, getting up for a moment as he took off his shirt. He reaches for the lube you have in your bag, and pours a sizeable amount onto his shaft, unzipped and free from the restraint of his pants. He doesn't bother to take his pants off fully, letting them hang below his v-line. Then, he begins leaning over you, fists buried in the couch above either of your shoulders.

Jay looks down at your legs, spread wide open, making him lick his lips at the thought of fucking your pert ass. His tip teases your entrance as he tries to line the two up, hitting your perineum every now and then.

But then, when he's aligned perfectly, he enters you unmissably. It's swift, rough, and intense. He's prepped you up real good, and you can feel him inside you, his well-rounded size and thickness pleasuring you without even thrusting.

"Fuck!" You whine, letting out a wet moan. Jay growls as he enters, his cock surrounded by your walls.

"Shit, M/n." He lets out an eager, husky chuckle. "Still so tight after all that prepping, huh? I'm gonna enjoy this." He begins to pick up some momentum, and you can feel his pubic hair tingle against your leg every now and then.

Watching him like this was a treat; everything about him is perfect. His abs are lit up perfectly, the light behind him making him look ethereal. His arms are also well defined, and his thigh muscles flex with every thrust. Everything from his face, to his muscles, to the hair on his body; it's all gorgeous. But you don't have as much time to think about that as you'd like, given the way he furiously pumps into you.

Each thrust was raw and primal, going to lengths you hadn't known were possible. "Ah.. fuck... Jay..!" You moan exasperatedly, feeling an ache in your inner thighs and hips from being in the strenuous position for so long.

"Yeah, baby. Keep moaning for me. Don't you dare fucking stop." He replies, a hand reaching out to grab your face, squishing your cheeks. Jay is the epitome of hot, and you love being made into his plaything. You truly are all his tonight. And of course, you don't dare stop, no matter how shy you get. That's why Jay locked the door before any of this happened, so you can let as loose as he needs you to.

He thrusts hard into you, propping one of your legs over your shoulder. The pain is beautiful, hurting in the way you need it to every single night, in every single place.

"Jay.. f-fuck! P-Please..!" You beg. You don't know what for, but you do anyways. After all, the way his member slides in and out of you so perfectly, like a sensual caress to your insides and a roar of pleasure at the same time, you don't care about anything except for him right now.

Jay looks up at you, a tense grunt escaping his lips as he gasps, eyes rolling backwards for a split second before he regains composure. "Fuck, M/n. You're so fucking beautiful... I'm gonna fucking cum..." He growls, leaning in to meet your lips in a wet, sloppy kiss.

"Cum inside me, Jay. P-Please.." You moan, and in response, you get one back from Jay. It's a mix of submissive and dominant, yet still so strapping and masculine. Whatever it is, it makes your cock twitch with anticipation and arousal. It builds up an intense passion and longing for him, and you either need to hear that sound again or need to cum right now, because he's making you so horny.

"Oh, I'll fucking cum inside you alright. You just sit there and take it like the slut you are." He replies, delivering a firm slap to your lean ass. You let out a loud moan, and wonder if anyone heard. But truly, you don't care. You just have to reach to your climax.

"Oh fuck, M/n...!" Jay groans, delivering a few more thrusts with a newfound intensity as what must be adrenaline kicks in. You wince as he pounds into you, feeling a pain in your lower back as he essentially starts folding you.

Then before you know it, you and Jay start releasing at the same time. Frantically. Intensely.

The both of you moan into each other, gasping and grunting as you juice each other out as best as you can, lips tangling in a flame that seals the passion of the moment just minutes ago.

Jay places a few more kisses, less lustful, and more romantic, on your lips after you finish. He hunches over you, trying his hardest to catch his breath as he pulls out.

You relax, legs finally free of tension as they quiver from your tryst. That was fucking incredible.

"You know what, M/n?" Jay asked as he sits on his knees in fatigue, still in between you.

"Y-Yeah...?" You ask, still regaining composure.

"You're still so fucking beautiful." He says, flashing that same iconic smile of his. You let out a flustered scoff.

"Thanks. That was... that was pretty good." You reply.

"I know, right?" Jay smiles, the two of you breaking into soft laughs. "We should do this more often, huh?"

"Like... hook up?" You ask.

"Uh... well, I meant collabs." Jay chuckles, a bit caught off guard.

"Oh shit. No, no, I didn't mean to-" You start, another blush rising to your cheeks.

"No, no. Calm down. I was actually gonna suggest the hookup thing after I said we should collab." He smiles, holding your forearms to reassure you.

"Oh." You reply, throwing your head back in a wry, exhausted, but nevertheless content relief.

"Yeah." Jay laughs, eyes slim with glee. "Alright, let's get the fuck up." He declares, helping you up.

You get up, a wince escaping your lips as your ass begins to feel extremely sore. You didn't even wanna think of how it'd feel tomorrow.

"Pass me my shirt." Jay asks, holding out a hand as he put his now softened cock back in his pants. Like you thought before, he didn't need them at all.

As the two of you get dressed and laugh about how you surely have to shower when you get home, you see how the whole venue at this point is basically empty. When the time for you two to go your separate ways arrives, you exchange numbers, and Jay rakes your body just once more with his eyes as you head off.

"Catch you round, 'kay, M/n?" He holds a hand up as a greeting.

"For sure." You nod, offering a small smile before you walk off. You did well today.

As you walk out the venue, and the cool air of the pitch black sky hits you, you're able to take a breath and reflect as you make your way to your car.

What a fantastic fucking night.

[jedisupernova]

life with choi subong (thanos)

notes minors dni contains life before games, fem and aged up reader (same age as subong), always written with plus size reader in mind but truly anyone can read, a lot of made up lore to fill in gaps & build dynamic between subong and reader, smut (no distinct section. it is imbedded throughout; sexting, dirty talk, oral f and m receiving, vignettes of sub!subong, handjob, p in v, non-protective sex (don't be stupid,) public sex, foreplay, squirting), angst (lying, deception, miscommunication, arguing and gaslighting: cursing, pushing each other, one body shaming remark, a lot of name calling, insults, mentions of death, just being mean; this does not having a happy ending), toxic dynamic, mentions of drinking, drug use, problematic reader if you squint, i don't know how crypto works so don't yell at me, blatantly problematic subong, reader deserves better, a lot of dumbassery and some typos.

requested? no, this is an original idea! this is also my very first post, and i want to show what i can do! this is really long. like, really long. this is my interpretation of the character, i hope you like it and please be nice!

he was the nail that chipped the day after you painted them; the incessant promotional email that never filtered to the spam folder; the fly you repeatedly missed when swatting; the shoelaces that always came undone; the built up phlegm after a particularly nasty cough; the shirt that shrunk when you left it in the dryer too long. but what could you say? the dick was too fucking bomb ...

you met on the night of your friend's birthday. some time past eleven thirty pm on a saturday night at some dimly-lit nightclub in itaewon, you nursed a margarita, chatting with your friends and paying no mind to the re-arranging happening on the small stage some feet away from your table—a couple of speakers and a mic stand—nor did you look when the club manager made a half-assed announcement, followed by his exit and an old school hip hop instrumental filling the acoustics of the club.

subong was performing that night after begging the manager for weeks on end. it was a particularly difficult feat, considering the rap battle night he and seven other underground artists were part of two months prior ended in a fist fight after a set of insensitive bars about subong's opponent's family lineage spewed from his mouth without remorse. oh, can't forget the time he stole three bottles of cuervo tequila, or when he got so high he squirted someone in the eye with lime because they looked at him funny, or when he left such a monstrous shit in the toilet that he ended up flooding the bathroom when trying to flush.

alas, alas ... the melon streaming numbers spoke for itself (over 95k streams in total for his most recent mixtape), he just reached 10k followers on instagram, and all attention is good attention if you know how to work it ... and subong did, considering bookings went up when he announced he'd be performing this weekend prior to getting approval, cornering the club manager into a checkmate.

you noticed the slight commotion reverberating through the crowd when the music blared, but not enough to divert your attention wholly. when his set finished, he snuck into the crowd, snagging a rogue bloody mary from the bar and downing it without hesitation, turning his head sharply when someone from your party shouted his name.

your friend's boyfriend went to high school with him and hadn't seen him in years. with the way subong reacted, you would've thought they saw each other last week and were the best of friends, slinging his arm around his shoulders and capturing the attention of your table in a flurry. he was overtly charismatic, slowly coming around to your side of the table, eyeing you up and down without an iota of shame. he liked what he saw—his tongue running over his bottom lip.

he looked a bit try hard-y, in his loose fitting clothing, singular golden chain, and his black hair in an awkward stage of a grown out buzz cut—but admittedly he was fine. then you saw the layer of sweat shining on his tan skin ... oh ... he's fine.

"you like what you saw?" he shouted over the music, placing his hand on the table, inching towards you. he gestured to the now empty stage with a subtle flick of his head, leaning in to hear you. "that was you?" you said back. "i'm sorry, i wasn't watching!"

subong smirked, thinking you were joking, but his ego inflated nonetheless. "i—i rap!" he shouted, laying his palm against his chest. "i don't!" you quipped back with a grand smile, shaking your head. he had no idea his dick could get hard that quickly. "i work at a firm!" you say.

it could have been the sight of your glossed lips .. or his big brown eyes .. or your curvy hips .. full thighs .. his tattooed hands .. or the way his lips brushed against your earlobe for you to hear him .. or how your fingers brushed his hair back so he could hear you .. but next thing you know, his lips caught yours, and the next thing after that, his knees were on the porcelain tiles of the bathroom stall, head caught between your plush thighs, eating your pussy like a man starved.

subong's arms held your waist in place, not stopping your back from arching or your hands grasping onto either the wall or his hair, your breathy moans making his jeans feel as if he was wearing tight spandex. when you came—and you came hard—he pulled his phone out of his pocket and shoved it into your hand, "number. now."

"fucking christ, i just came." you said, breathing labored. "hold on." when he stood up, you reached down, pulling your underwear up. you eyed the time on his phone whilst adding your number to his contacts, sending yourself a text. you caught sight of his bulge when you gave his phone back. "you'll have to take care of that yourself. i have to go." you say, running your hands through your hair in an effort to not look too disheveled, even if your friends were smart enough to put two and two together.

you noticed subong take a prolonged look at you. he read your mind: "taking a mental photo for later." he explained, inhaling sharply through his nose. a smirk tugged at your lips. "oh yeah? i'll make it 4d." you palmed his bulge. he nearly lost balance, his gasp sounding more vulnerable than he would've liked—"f-fuck—ngh!" he bit his bottom lip, planting his forehead against yours. your touch was slow and calculated but firm, applying enough pressure to make his vision go fuzzy. "you're f-fucking crazy," his voice shook pathetically, eyebrows contorted in deep pleasure. "y-you f-fucking—ngh!—crazy bitch!"

you stopped abruptly, grabbing subong through his pants harshly. he mewled pathetically in pain. "call me that shit one more time and see what happens." "i'm s-sorry! f-fuck, i'm sorry! i'm sorry! please!" his breath hitched. "oh my fuck—please, baby, i'm so sorry!"

you gradually began palming him again, feeling his deep breath brush against your skin as his forehead returned to yours. his lips eventually latched onto yours, and you couldn't help your thighs rubbing together from how long and slender he felt in your hand.

your phone started to ring in your purse, which hung off the hook at the top of the bathroom stall door, undoubtedly a friend looking for you. you broke the kiss and ceased your touch, stepping around him and fishing your phone out before slinging your purse over your shoulder. "you better fucking call me." you say, kissing his lips again. "i will, will."

you eye his tent. it looks like it hurts and the zipper could break off. you didn't even realise you were biting your bottom lip until your phone rang again. "best dick i'll ever have." subong heard you mutter as you walked away, his cocky smirk stretching across his face in no time. he bit his lip when he saw the wet spot on his jeans. unbeknownst to either of you, this night would become the defining vignette of your relationship.

he called you the very next day. when you didn't answer—because your phone was charging on your nightstand whilst you showered—he sent a dick pic with the bottom half of his face visible in the upper left corner with the accompanying text: Like what u see? he chuckled reading your response: should have kept it a surprise

from that point on he spent his spare money (he didn't have much to begin with) on e-cigarette refills, pills, eyebrow threading appointments (he swore you to secrecy), and, perhaps his most beloved purchase, condoms. he always kissed the wrapper before putting one on.

subong tries to give the impression of someone who fucks but the reality is .... well .... he wonders how he got so lucky whenever he's stood at your apartment door, waiting for you to open it after he's knocked. it's been a lot longer than he'd ever admit under sworn oath, but his erratic thrusts gave it away so quickly it was concerning.

don't get it twisted, it felt ... fine. maybe okay on a good day. he filled you up at the very least! but if only it could last longer ... and didn't feel so ... jabby ... and if only you didn't have to keep in your laughter when his forehead fell to your shoulder ... after he came so hard his vein bulged out of his temple and his breathing was deep enough to power a fucking windmill .. only for you to glance at the time on your phone when a notif popped up and think to yourself ... has it really only been four minutes?

so when he's thrusting into you from behind one night, panting like someone's choking him and drilling into you feverishly, you take his temporary halt to catch his breath as your moment. "subong..." your voice ruminates with lust, aided by the intoxicating feeling of his cock resting inside you. you look over your shoulder at his glistening body, illuminated even in your dimly lit bedroom. "you feel so good, baby." you half-lie, internally cringing. either way, he can't tell, he's too fucked out.

"but how about we ... go a little slower? so we can last longer? hm?" you say. his breath hitches when you roll your hips slowly, his palms laying against either globes of your ass lifelessly. you were struggling to keep it together, eyebrows contorted and mouth agape, stretching yourself out on him.

"like this, yeah?—mmf!" you bite your lip. this is the feeling you've been wanting ... you've been aching for. "it'll feel so much better, subong ..." "yeah, yeah ..." he was breathy. his palms slid to either side of your hips, pulling himself in slow and deep. you gasp, "yes! like that! start slow, then go faster ..."

the moans and whimpers that escaped your lips ran every single porno he's ever seen into the ground. he pounded into you when you told him to, feeling the gumminess of your tight walls hug his cock so divinely that he felt for a split second that maybe, just maybe, the cross he always wore served a different purpose than carrying his stash of pills. subong, unsurprisingly, did not last long, but for the first time, you didn't either. "b-baby! f-fuck—i'm gonna, i'm gonna!—" you clenched around him, and he saw white. subong thought he had transcended ... what better way to go out ... death by the best pussy ... he came so hard and so much that he felt himself drip down his thigh.

you first started calling him over on sundays. then he started to come on fridays ... then staying the weekend ... then he came by on wednesdays for a mid-week fuck .. and slowly, but surely, he essentially lived rent free in your apartment. it was a major plus for him. he'd just been floating from one friend's couch to another. your studio apartment was small as is, barely enough for someone a few years into the workforce and even less on affordability—you barely scraped by on groceries. you'd have to make a wish on a shooting star if you ever needed repairs or healthcare. subong, on the other hand? he finally got to sleep in a bed again, and he gets to not only bum it out on another couch, but also eat pussy, get his dick sucked, and fuck on it. 10/10 no notes from him

and christ did you fuck ... one ankle on the coffee table whilst the other rests atop the couch, him pounding into you deep and deliberately, his eyes boring into your face as yours rolled back, mouth agape. once he found his rhythm and knew your body more, it was over. by the grace of the universe, his stamina heightened, too. he thought about reading war and peace and the meticulous process of the seasonal fermentation of various vegetables to thwart his orgasm from coming too quickly, but fell into a mumble of incoherent whimpers and profanities when he heard your beautiful voice tell him to "h-harder, s-subong, harder," or the cacophony of stuttered grunts leaving both of your chests; sexual pleasure in its rawest form.

one friday evening he was sat at the top of your now shared bed with his back against the wall, legs spread and looking up at you with his mouth hung open and eyebrows furrowed in inexplicable pleasure, watching you bounce up and down in fucked out bliss. you had a bullshit ass day at work—something about being denied a raise or being unfairly told off at a meeting—he didn't remember or really care, all he knew was he suggested you use him to relieve frustration, and you obliged. "that's it b-baby. give it all to me, u-use this dick." he bit his bottom lip, squeezing the side of your thigh as you slammed down onto him. "give all your stress to—ngh!—me. your subongie will help you relax." his hands trailed up your waist and kneaded your breasts, making you gasp. you rolled your hips to catch your breath, biting your lip.

you put your hands on his chest for support. "such good dick." you said breathily. "all mine." "that's right." he affirmed. one hand stationed beside your knee, the other reached to the nightside table for his e-cig, bringing it to his lips. you opened your eyes when the cloud of smoke brushed against your cheeks, filling your nostrils with the faint scent of strawberry.

"fuck you and your fuckass puff bar." you said, trying to take it, but he raised it in the air with a shit-eating grin. "what? are you jealous? hm? is my baby jealous?" he jutted out his bottom lip mockingly, chuckling when you swat the e-cig out of his hand. "the fuck would i be jealous about you destroying your lungs for?" you retort. he rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "you think you're too good to be fucked by me that you needed to take the edge off." you say, throwing the e-cig onto the floor and ignoring his protests, only for them turn into sharp sucked-in breaths when you rolled your hips again. "th-that was my—shit!—my b-best fucking one," subong shuddered. "you want your best puff or pussy? hm?" you said sharply. with a whimper, he said "my best p-pussy." "i thought so. now say you're sorry until i believe you." you said, hearing him let out a wall-shattering moan when you began riding his long cock again. he would never admit to this in a million years, but this was his favorite way to fuck.

you were in denial for a long time that things had become more romantic and vulnerable. since it was unspoken between you two when he inconspicuously moved in (as irresponsible it is) ... to when he started calling you "my baby" two months in and him "your subongie" a couple weeks later ... to when steamy makeouts before bed remained just that, even through the hushed whimpers and dry humping ... to when he'd smoke a cigarette on the balcony after you routinely complained about the smell, him having you sit on his lap because "the cigarette doesn't hit the same," only to end up sucking the life out of his cock or him rutting into you from behind ... to when you'd wake up with his arm slung lazily across your waist and his head tucked into your neck ... he'd run verses by you and you'd unironically compliment them ... he unironically started going on grocery runs with you, and picking out your jewelry ... and to when sunday mornings became a lot more quieter than they used to be, you two sat on the small couch together, clad in nothing but your underwear, drinking stale black coffee as one of four channels you have play on your dinky tv. it might be due to the limited space, or something more, but his hand lay on your knee whilst yours mindlessly traced the tattoos on the back of his neck, or toyed with his cartilage piercing.

you couldn't kick the question out your mind anymore. "subong?" "hm?" he responded, eyes glued to the tv. "what are we?" he didn't budge. you nudged his shoulder, earning his attention but with a flutter of irritation. "huh? what'd you ask?" "i said what are we?" his eyebrows furrowed. "what do you mean?" you raised your eyebrows, losing patience. "you know exactly what i mean."

he takes a moment to rack his brain, and then gets it. "you're my girl. my señorita." his face fell when you scoffed and pushed him away. "talk to me when you want to be serious." "i am being serious!" he says defensively. "look, you're my girlfriend. we're together." he sets his coffee down, pulling you in for a kiss. he kept kissing you until you cracked a grin, which took all of two tries. he wields his big brown eyes like katanas looking into yours, raising a finger heart and pressing it against his lips. "i like you." he says, unable to hold back his smile when you moved his hand away.

subong leaned in closer, the tip of his nose feeling the warmth of your cheek. "do you like me, too? hm? you can tell me. i promise i'll keep it a secret. i won't tell anyone." he knew your answer, but teased nonetheless, shaking his head in affirmation. you shushed him gently, actively trying to thwart how flustered you've become. he only pushed more, pressing a purposely deep and obnoxious kiss onto your skin. "i'll be the best and sexiest boyfriend ever."

it felt so wrong that your heart beat a little faster. "i'm only saying okay so that you shut up." you muttered. a knowing grin stretched across subong's face. he placed a kiss on your neck and above the valley between your breasts, laying his temple on your chest, slinging his arms around you. he smirked when you wrapped your arm around his shoulder some minutes later, his eyes fluttering closed when your lips found the top of his head.

you made him start coughing up his earnings from gigs to go towards rent. considering he wasn't being paid much, bookings weren't predictable, and he'd sometimes try to hide his earnings from you (which resulted in him sleeping on the couch, and if he did it again, you threatened he'd be out on the balcony without a blanket) his contribution wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. you shut down any chance of retaliation from him with a look he's since named "period projection" or, depending on his mood, "viagra."

when a lot of time passed between gigs, subong was woken up by a notebook and pen thrown onto his chest. "if you don't have five songs written by the time i get back from work, you're pussyless for a week." you said, slinging your purse over your shoulder. he grunted, barely opening his eyes but sitting up, the notebook and pen falling onto the bed. you grabbed his face, pecking his cheek before heading out the door.

subong talked himself up if you were being particularly hard on him, or really, just not as delusional about his success. "baby, one day you won't have to worry about shit. i'll have us partying in mykonos by next valentine's and in switzerland to see the first snow." he said one morning, standing stupidly in the middle of the apartment with nothing but his briefs and a graphic tee that had stains you didn't want to know about. "book the flights when you stop eating week old beef and using my moisturizer." you mutter, shoving the vacuum cleaner in his hands, gesturing for him to hand over the shirt before heading to the basement of the building to do laundry.

if work permitted, you went to see him perform at whatever nightclub in the city. subong found you in the crowd after his set, giving you a sloppy kiss and wrapping his sweaty arms around you no matter if you came straight from work, still clad in business wear, or in something that made you look like the rapper girlfriend of his dreams. an air of added cockiness ruminated off him when you two tag-teamed hounding the club manager whenever they tried to lowball his pay. more often than not, they caved in and gave what was agreed to and then some after you shouted said your piece. either way, you end up on the dance floor wrestling with your tongues or him pounding into you from behind in a bathroom stall. everybody wins!

when you're at work and subong's at home, he films tiktoks and posts on his instagram to get his name out there. he also tries to start beef on various naver cafés, especially when he's bored. or texting you: Did u eat the last tico?; Hi baby I have a threading appt at 5 i will meet u at your work before we go to dinner; Highh as sht88df thikning about ❤️You girl❤️❤️❤️❤️; [insert photo of him flexing in the bathroom mirror] Come home for lunch

speaking of photos on his phone, he has quite the array—advertisements at the train and bus stations he finds funny; various hair colors from the department store he wants to try; mirror selfies of him either flexing or trying on shoes; a photo of his hand squishing your cheeks when you two were waiting in line for cheap street food for lunch; another photo of you looking rather disheveled in the kitchen when you two were unfairly woken up at 6 am one saturday morning by nearby construction, an adorably annoyed look on your face because he was standing in the way of the fridge; one selfie of him in bed hitting his e-cig; the next taken six minutes later with your tit in his mouth, his eyes looking at himself. if you didn't keep tabs on him, he would've made the latter the cover of his next mixtape.

some of your friends thought you were crazy for still being with him, someone who was barely scraping by and, from an outsider's pov, was a moocher. you'd shake your head, "you guys don't get it. i know what i'm doing. you don't need to worry." and you certainly did, considering whenever you came home to subong's big brown eyes, towering height, and his smooth, low voice asking "how was your day, baby?," or when his fingers traced a fresh hickey on your neck, or when he announced his presence by placing his hand teasingly low on your waist ... oh, you were just about ready to make him a father .... even if it would lower the nation's life expectancy rate.

you've caught yourself staring at him at night when you couldn't sleep, watching the way his lips parted every time he exhaled, or how his arms were sprawled out before him after he fell asleep with them crossed. you fought the fluttering of your heavy eyelids to just .... look at him. sometimes you succumb to slumber, pressing a gentle kiss onto his cheek before drifting off. but one night you were simply plagued by him, looking at subong as if he was a riddle to solve, until you realized with wide eyes that you were projecting: oh fuck no. i love him.

it terrified you, that strong feeling. but not enough to sit idly by if someone became a little too flirty with him at the club, or to slow your speed walk to the bathroom after a work conference to send him a picture after he sent one that morning—lowering your volume and pressing your phone to your ear, listening to the audio message he sent in response, subconsciously rubbing your thighs together: "god, you're so fucking hot baby. how did i get so lucky .... what am i supposed to do, hm? you made my dick so fucking hard .... and it's not even eleven am yet ... is this what you wanted, hm? to get me riled up first thing in the morning?" his voice was low, sleep still fresh in his tone, followed by wet strokes. "it's sad that you're at work for so long. leaving me here—f-fuck, yeah, just like th-that—all alone ... and so needy ..."

you fucked good and hard when subong got a spot in the rap battleground competition, landing him in a position to not only put his name out there, but possibly win some money that would make a difference. you were elated enough to go condom-less. "wanna make you feel good, baby," you murmured breathily, ass pushing against the kitchen countertop, subong standing between your warm thighs. "i'm just so—mmf!" you sucked in a breath when his lips and tongue found your neck. "s-so proud of you, subongie." oh. subong just knew something was up. but he wasn't stupid enough to question it, not when he knows he's about to enter the gates of heaven. "gonna let me fuck this tight pussy raw?" he muttered in that low voice of his, continuing his slow, wet kisses on your neck to avoid melting into a puddle of his libido. his voice quivered when you didn't answer, hidden well by your moan: "hm? gonna let me ruin this pussy—" "yes!" you whimpered.

in a moment of weakness, he bit his bottom lip. he grabbed your face with one hand, making you look him in the eye. even in his attempt at dominance, you saw the flickers of awe in his eyes. nothing filled the kitchen besides the sounds of your shaky breaths, his face studying yours. could this ... could he have just realized that ... he loves you, too? subong leans in closer, the tip of his nose brushing with yours. you try to lean in, but his hold on your face stops you. you don't know what to make of his feelings with his next words, but with how his other hand comes up and combs your hair out of your face, and his forehead touches yours, its perhaps the most intimate moment of your relationship thus far: "you're finally gonna let me fuck what's mine?" he whispers. you nod silently.

subong bottomed out that night, cumming all over your stomach and back. your back arched like never before when he was pounding into you from behind, taking him deep into your gummy, warm walls. your fingernails clawed at your pillowcases and bed sheets, jaw hung open and eyes rolled back whilst his heavy balls hit the bottom of your stomach. your cunt suffocated his dick every time his palm smacked either globe of your ass—"take that fucking dick. take that fucking dick, just like that, yeah," he panted, palm rubbing over your hot skin before smacking it again. his voice cracked, "f-fuck! o-oh my god! fuck!" he squeezed your hips so hard you sucked a breath in through your teeth. his thrusts momentarily slowed, blinking hard when his vision began to blur at the sight of the creamy ring at the end of his cock. the noise was obnoxious, wet, and loud. you're everything he could ever hope for. in missionary, he tried so hard not to be a babbling mess, through his purposeful strokes. his hands held your head in place, his thumbs pressing into your temples, but his gaze failed to leave his cock fucking you. "give me that fucking puffy pussy." he murmured. he held his bottom lip between his teeth, groaning. "give me that puffy fucking—o-oh! ngh! f-fuck, you always know how to make me feel so f-fucking good, baby!"

you showered afterward together, momentarily forgetting about the water bill when your arms wrapped around subong's neck, your lips molding together. the kiss was soft and sensual. his hands massaged the same globes his palms set fire to whilst the remnants of his lust washed off your body and down the drain. he slept the best he had in weeks that night. a couple weeks later, you helped him dye his hair a deep purple a few days before the competition, just in time for him to adopt his new stage persona after becoming insufferable since watching "endgame," thanos.

the competition came and went, and he placed as a runner-up. he actually listened when you said you didn't want to head to the club since you had work early the next day, settling for a nice dinner and a bottle or two of soju instead. a group of fans of the show came up to him in the checkout line, and not only did you watch with an admiring grin, but your eyes widened surprise when he introduced you as his girlfriend after you were handed their phones to take a photo, harmlessly mistaken as a bystander. not only were you then asked to join the photo, but subong laughed heartily on the walk home upon hearing one of the girls' face dropped hearing the news that he's taken.

the bottles emptied on your coffee table, you ended the night rolling your hips atop his, holding onto his shoulders as his hands held onto either globes of your ass, looking up at you whilst you rode his cock. your dress pants for work were discarded on the floor, panties pushed to the side for his condom-less dick, biting your bottom lip when his palm massaged your breast through your blouse. nothing was in the room besides your breathy gasps, his low groans, the squeak of sweaty skin against the cheap faux leather of the couch, and his whispers . . . "you look so beautiful, baby. so fucking sexy." subong's eyebrows furrowed deeply, glancing at your swiveling hips before looking back up at you, despite your head being thrown back. "taking this cock so good...f-fuck ... know how to make me feel good, yeah? always know just how to squeeze me, how to make this big, fat cock cum, yeah? tell me, baby."

all you could muster was a whimper and your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt on his shoulders, but that was more than okay with him. his hand trailed up the side of your neck, bringing your head forward. "come here, come here my beautiful baby. my beautiful fucking woman." his lips kissed yours, molding them together repeatedly. his tongue toyed with yours, picking up the speed of your hips, making him grunt into your mouth every time your inner thighs clapped against his lower stomach. you held onto each other tighter, the kiss becoming feverish, only to be broken when his thumb found your clit. you came in what felt like seconds, and before you knew it, the words slipped out: "i love you!" you whimpered, riding out the high of your intense orgasm, subong having pulled out and spilling onto his thigh. "i love you, i love you!" you repeated breathily. through the pounding of his temples, he heard. through your laborious breathing, you didn't register that he said nothing back.

subong loved you too. he's known for a while now. but that was precisely the problem—he knew, and he wasn't going to say shit. what was the reason? perhaps it was a fucked up way of protecting you by stonewalling that part of him, perhaps it was selfishness, perhaps it was the inferiority complex making him feel like he didn't deserve someone as patient, as transformative, and as loving as you, and he questioned every day why he hadn't been kicked to the fucking curb yet, even after a year and a half together. or maybe ... it was that fucking mg coin ...

he started watching that fuckass man a couple months before the rap battleground competition after a friend tipped him off about crypto. you peered over his shoulder after settling into bed, hearing parts of a youtube video through his phone speaker. "i stopped trying to understand that shit when they told me a picture of an ape is somehow currency." you muttered, making him laugh. "yeah. you're right, hm?" he let out a yawn, clicking his phone off before taking you in his arms, falling asleep with your head on his chest.

but then, it was like a flip switched. subong saw something you didn't (delusion), and seemed to be watching myung gi's videos at what felt like any chance he had. he watched him in the morning, sat at the small dining table in the kitchen as he ate leftover kimbap from dinner the night previous, already annoying you at barely 10 AM whilst pouring yourself cereal, sitting across from him on this rare saturday off. you eyed his phone, "i thought you dropped that shit." you said between chewing. his eyes stayed glued to his screen, putting another slice into his mouth. "i don't know, baby. i think he has a point. people are getting rich quick off this crypto shit. i might have to play my hand, y'know?" before you could respond, he reached over, wiping a rogue drop of milk that slipped from the corner of your mouth, sucking it off his thumb before pressing 'skip ad'. you reached over, clicking his phone off and turning it face down. "hey!—" "you talk like you routinely pay for this wifi." you said, looking into his eyes. "you talk about 'playing your hand' when you don't have the decency to spend 5,000 won on wired headphones so i don't have to hear this shit all day?"

his lip twitched in annoyance, eyes widening. "don't get smart with me!" he exclaimed. you scoffed and waved your hand dismissively, eating another scoop of your cereal. "i'll go get some headphones after i eat if that's what you really want, damn!" "if you invest in something invisible, you do it with your own money so you reap the punishment." you say. "i will." subong rolled his eyes, eating his last slice of kimbap, but irritably. "he knows his shit. says the coin'll blow up." he mumbled, glancing at you when you got up. you held his face, leaning down and pressing a kiss onto his cheek. "that's what they all say, subong." you collected his and your dishes, bringing them to the sink and beginning to wash.

he funneled money into that coin behind your back no problem. every time a check came in, the slice that went to investing got larger and larger. he kept it hidden by putting aside just enough to not cause suspicion. and turning off notifs at specific times. he said he'd transfer a few months worth of the rent when the money hit his account after rap battleground and a couple of scheduled gigs he won as well, but it was a half-baked lie. he told you the money hit way after it actually did, giving you what he promised but keeping a large sum for himself, because he surprisingly got a return on his investment.

he kept going and going, the high of it all rivaling his pills. he bought limited edition shoes, a pair of earrings you'd been eyeing for a while for your anniversary, and got a couple new tattoos. all of it was hidden well behind his coincidentally coinciding success of his music in the wake of the competition ... damn ... he could get used to the universe dickriding him this hard ...

until it all came crashing down that night on the couch. the same night you confessed, he got a notif from one of his crypto apps that he had lost 30 million won. he bolted out of bed, leaving your sleeping, clueless form behind to smoke a cigarette outside, pacing back and forth in the street, trying to calm himself down at 2:30 in the morning. he stared at those numbers like they were going to change, ultimately convincing himself that it was a mere fluke and that money would come again in no time, stomping his cigarette into the asphalt and heading back upstairs.

it was like a routine: watch myung gi, take notes, invest. watch myung gi, take notes, invest. subong took it to heart when he said viewers would be foolish not to bet. he resented being made to feel stupid. even when the returns were slimmer with each swipe up to refresh, he kept going. he looked you straight in the eyes with an admiring grin on his face, lying through his teeth saying everything was okay. what you didn't know couldn't hurt you, right? right. but it ate away at him. subconsciously, then viscerally.

your confession hung at the back of subong's head for weeks. he tried to avoid it, even attempted to put that frustration into his music, but nothing was satisfactory. his inner turmoil flooded to the surface—avoiding your kiss in the morning before you headed to work, landing your lips on the corner of his mouth before he pecked yours without much thought. you didn't say those three words again, but he saw them on display in the softness of your eyes gazing up at him. he couldn't bare it. it was so easy for him to lie to your face about his whereabouts, how much of a fucking coward was he to not say three words back? especially when he felt them, too?

you noticed the change as well. he'd be gone for longer hours, only texting you back in the later evening. his hand stayed to hisself on sunday mornings. kisses were quick and choppy, not sensual and slow. sex was more rough and rushed. it made you feel so deeply embarrassed, like a teenaged girl made to feel silly and begging for her boyfriend's attention. you hated the feeling, but hated the fact that you let that confession slip more. you always felt he wasn't one to open up like that, but a girl can dream, can't she?

then it descended into utter madness. you came home from work later than usual, having to finish last minute assignments for someone who didn't show up. you nearly exploded at the haze of smoke filling your apartment, dropping your purse on the floor. there were bottles of soju and half-eaten food littering the kitchen counters and floor, the fridge left wide open, sure to have spoiled the rest of your leftovers. your eyes then found subong and his friend, a stranger to you, so fucking high that drool leaked out of the corner of their mouths.

"out!" you yelled, enraged. "get the fuck out!" neither of them moved until the piercing sound of the soju bottle you threw at the wall, shattering into pieces, jolted their senses awake. you grabbed the friend by his tank top, yanking him out of his seat like a fucking rag doll, and shoved him out the door. "the fuck! get ... get your—tell your bitch to fucking chill, bro!" the man's words slurred, only for him to nearly stumble down the stairs when you hurled another bottle at him. "don't ever fucking come back here!" you yelled.

"jesus fucking christ, you're so fucking loud." subong muttered, now standing and rubbing his fingers against his temples. "what the fuck is wrong with you! you've never done shit like this before!" you yelled, paying no mind to his wincing. "the fuck are you talking about? i get high, you know this—" "yeah, i do! but never like this. in our fucking house, subong!"

it was then that you saw the syringe and tinfoil on the coffee table. even in your blistering anger, you took his wrists in your hands, looking over his arms. "since when did you do hard shit? huh?" you muttered. his eyebrows furrowed, looking over to the table with hooded eyes. "what? i...i don't." his words slurred, a low burp gurgling out from his lips, shaking his head. "my friend fucks around with that. not me. i stick to pills and vape, baby. i swear."

you let go of his wrists, running a hand through your hair and pacing. the smoke had cleared. you turned around, seeing him laying his temple against the fridge, mouth hung open and eyes closed. you slowly walked up to him, not sure where to begin, your hands reaching up and holding his face. "baby." you said, him grunting in response. "i don't ... i don't know what's going been going on with you lately. you've been so distant and ... and cold. and then coming home to this ... subong, you're—you're scaring me a little."

he groaned weakly, chin sinking downward before you caught him, holding his face up whilst looking into his hooded eyes. your heart felt punctured. "is it ... is it because i said i love you? is it because of that?" his eyes opened, making way for his frustrated grimace. he shook his head, lip curling in what you mistook as disgust, when in reality he was outwardly sickened by himself. "you don't know fucking shit about anything, bitch."

your face fell, eyes watering. you let go of him, his cheek flattened against the fridge, barely stabilizing himself against it. you took a step back. a million thoughts ran through your mind, but one prevailed amongst all of them: what i've been avoiding has shown itself to be true. a tear escaped your waterline, but your voice was stable. "get out." you sniffled, wiping your cheek. "get out, subong."

"huh?" he mumbled, gradually opening his eyes. "i said get the fuck out of my house, subong." "what? i'm not going—" he burped again. "i'm not going fucking anywhere." he wagged a finger in your face. you swatted his arm away, grabbing him by the hem of his shirt and yanked him with all of your might, pushing his back, shoving him out the door even after he tripped over your purse. you slammed the door and locked it before he got to his feet again. "hey!" he yelled. he inhaled sharply through his nose. "open the damn door, you fucking bitch!" he pounded on the door with his palm. "come back when you stop acting like a fucking child!" you yelled, hitting the door back repeatedly. "and not turn my place into a fucking trap house, you piece of shit!"

"what about all that money i gave you, huh!? for rent? and your fucking groceries? give me those fucking earrings you have on, you never fucking deserved them anyway—" "fuck no!" you shouted over him. "this is the least i fucking deserve after your fucking pennies, you cheap piece of shit! if you're so loaded, then fuck off!" subong pressed his mouth to edge of the door, seething. "throwing your boyfriend out like this? when i'm making it big, huh? you'll come to regret this—" you bursted out laughing almost maniacally, a very strange mixture of anger, frustration, and hilarity brewing in your chest. he could be so fucking ridiculous. "m-making it big?" you repeated, laughing so hard you clutched your stomach and wiped tears from your face. it was cathartic. "i-if you're 'making it big,' subong, then���then i'm a lost member of the royal fucking family!" you exclaimed. "how's the fund for greece, huh? still plan on taking me for valentine's? or are you going to continue to clog my toilet because you're still too cheap to buy fresh meat?" "shut the fuck up!" he roared, slamming his palm against the door and wiggling the doorknob.

a neighbor opened their door, avoiding eye contact and stepping around the broken glass to take out their trash, visibly not wanting to be caught in the firestorm taking place in the hall. subong grew embarrassed, turning back to the closed door with a new plea to avoid the atomically sinking feeling. "open the door. please, baby. let's talk this out." he spoke, trying to keep his voice level, wiping his nose with the side of his thumb. when you didn't answer, he kept going. "i'm sorry for all the trouble, baby. let me make it up to you, yeah? just open the door, and we can talk this out. c'mon, baby, the neighbors'll hear—" "let them fucking hear!" you yelled, making him flinh. you leaned closer to the edge of the door, directly parallel to him. "what's that bullshit you always say, huh? any attention is good attention, if you know what to do with it? well, eat your fucking words then, subong! be a man for once in your stupid life!" his eyes widened, vein popping out of his temple. "fuck you, you fucking whore!" he slammed the door repeatedly, the two of you creating a cacophony when you started hitting it, too. "fuck you too, dumbass!"

it was eerily silent that evening in your apartment. you, alone, cleaning up the mess he left behind. carefully sweeping up shattered glass, plastic bags, food wrappers, washing the dishes, cleaning out the fridge, etc. subong was universe knows where. you didn't have the energy to think about him, not even bothering to look around on your walk to the convenience mart to buy ramen for dinner. the emotional turmoil sank into your chest when you sat at the same kitchen table where chaos unfolded at mere hours ago to eat. you barely swallowed the first mouthful before you sank into tears, shoulders shaking, pressing the back of your hand to your lips to console yourself. how could everything have fallen apart so quickly?

you and subong didn't speak for three months. he called and texted those first couple weeks, but that fizzled out, and you didn't answer at all. you didn't owe him anything, especially after the shit he put you through. the wound was still felt too fresh, sensitive enough to do anything but wallow in the silence, heading back out to bars with your friends on the weekends.

none of your friends dared to say much. you were offered apologetic words, but a fool wouldn't notice the air of i told you so in their tone. even with you ceasing caring to cover the healing hickies, being much more subdued on nights out, or your eye bags deepening in the wake of the break up, you were mainly left to wallow in your own grief. you felt it was half deserved and half fucking rude.

but as more time went on, you felt hurt by the fact that subong didn't show back up. not once. not even a mean note on your door, or sign of attempted entry. did he really not fucking care that much? he was just a man, after all ... but then again, not every man is reduced to grateful tears after eating pussy. or looks at you like a renaissance painting come to life when you're retouching his fucking hair dye. when you got home one night, a little tipsy from the cocktails you had, you clicked on those unread text messages— ranging from Baby i'm sorry please talk to me; Stop being so fucking stubborn; ileft my keytthere I dont wantt it back u fknng cnutt; to I don't deserve you i fucked up please baby—and listening to those voicemails.

one resonated with you, even in your inebriated state: "hi ... um, it's been, like, four days since we ... and i, uh—i feel weird. and i don't like it at all. i know you're at work right now but i can't bring myself to show my face and i fucking hate it. i don't like being a coward. but you ... you're ... you're just ... you need to stop. you can't keep doing this to me. you make me feel things i've never felt and it fucking scares me. and you cut me off before i could even say my bit. how is that fair? you can't just come into my life like that and walk away before i get a say. you can't change my life and me and then just throw me away. i know ... i know i'm not the best guy. but even i don't deserve to be thrown out like—" he was cut off and did not call back. "oh my god. what a fucking idiot." you murmured, rubbing your temple with your fingers.

but the universe loves to throw curveballs, because you saw him two weeks later at a bar a few blocks down from the club you first met at. subong saw you long before you saw him that night. he'd spent so much of the last four months feeling a spectrum of emotions, coping with his frustration by daydreaming about what he'd say the next time he saw you—all of the insults to suffice for his anger, all of the things he'd say to make you feel bad for how you treated him—all cogs in his self-deflection apparatus. but when he actually saw you, sat alone at the bar with no friend group in sight, drinking what looked to be martini, he was at a loss for words. even his emotionally daft ass was aware enough to sense something was different about you. more muted, more subdued. that's what she fucking gets. his inner monologue was unforgiving, only for him to peer over a tall strangers shoulder to keep his softened eyes on you. but she ... she can't be alone. not here.

subong was really good at blending into the crowd, until he got too close, and by chance you glanced up and saw him. he was close enough to hear you suck in a breath through your teeth, and see your eyes widen in panic the same time his did. without thinking, you got up from your seat, grabbing your purse hanging on the back of your chair, forgetting you hadn't even taken a second sip of your overpriced drink. subong stepped out of the crowd, "don't go." he said gentler than anticipated, before remembering he was supposed to be livid. his expression hardened, lips tightened, hand grabbing for your arm. "we need to talk."

"i don't have anything to fucking say to you." you say sharply, not looking at him, keeping your voice low to not cause commotion. "yes the fuck you do." he bit back. you tried to pull your arm out of his grip, failing. "let me go or i'll throw my drink in your face." "really?" he smirked. "i didn't take you to be so careless with your money." you look up, eyebrows raised, meeting his eyes for the first time in months. "oh, that's funny. do you still think you're up and coming? or have you come to terms with the fact that you're an illiterate fuck who steals IP just to still write shit fucking bars?"

subong closed much of the remaining gap between you. "shut your fucking mouth, you bitch." he seethed through gritted teeth. you look him dead in the eyes, "see what i mean? you still can't come up with anything new, and you've had all this time." you pulled at his grip again, but he was strong. "let me go." "you didn't listen to me before, so you're going to listen now." "like the fuck i am!" you looked at him like he was crazy. you pulled again, finally freeing your arm. you grabbed your drink, purse in your other hand. "now leave me alone." you say. "or i'll throw this drink right in your fucking eyes."

you turned and walked deeper into the dimly lit bar; just anywhere that was not where he was. you found an empty booth, sitting down with a huff, taking a hefty swig of your martini. you shot up when you saw him walk over, putting your arm in position, only for subong to put his hands up, one hovering over your drink. "don't throw it! don't!" "do you not know how to fucking listen!?" "you don't know how, either!" he shot back. "why did you never respond to my texts or calls?" "don't ask me that with that stupid look on your face like it's as bad as you bringing a fucking stranger and hard drugs into my home!" you exclaimed. "which, by the way, in all of your rambling voicemails and texts, you've never once apologized for." "so you did read them?" "that's not the fucking point, subong!" "yes, it is! to me!" "and what? you don't think it matters to me that you never said 'i love you' back? that i felt like a fucking teenage girl, waiting at her boyfriend's beck and call to care about her?"

people were starting to stare, but your sense of decorum was long gone. he got up in your face, and you took him up at that challenge. "i care! i fucking cared!" he stared into your eyes in frustration, pushing his fingers into his chest in a desperate gesture. "well, you didn't do a good job of showing it. because at some point, i felt my loneliest even when you were beside me, snoring like fucking pug and dutch ovening the blanket."

subong, at a loss for words, too choked up on his anger and long-suppressed complicated feelings boiling to the surface, turned to what he knew best: low hanging fruit. after a moment, he collects himself. a smug smirk stretches across his face, taking a step back and glancing at the dated wall art behind you. he shook his head, looking down at the floor with a chuckle. "and here i was, thinking you were secretly pregnant with my kid or something." he said. your eyebrows furrowed, deeply confused. this was stupid, even for him. "what?" you shook your head. "what the fuck are you talking about—" "—it makes sense that you wouldn't want to tell me. too much for you too handle. but then i saw you tonight, and you looked more bloated than usual, so i thought i was right. but then you were drinking—" he yelped when the cold gin splashed in his face, flinching at the glass bouncing off his chest, shattering next to his foot. gasps erupted throughout the room. subong hastily wiped his eyes, feeling them burn. "fucking bitch!" "your children would be lucky to never know their deadbeat of a fucking father."

you stormed off, heading into the nearby women's bathroom. heartbeat in your throat, you turned on a sink, rinsing the alcohol off your hands. you didn't look up when the door hit the wall, or when subong yelled "fuck off!" to the other three women in the room, causing a brief scurry of heels out the door. he pushed you out of the way, rinsing his eyes. "i should go and file a fucking police report on you." he mumbled. he looked up at you, expression angry, even with his squinting eyes. "i should've written 'sex slave' on my tax forms, too, with how you treated me!"

you pushed him right back, collecting a handful of water from the running sink with your palm, and throwing it at his face. "when was the last time you paid your taxes? hm!?" you exclaimed. "do you even know where your bank is? did you ever buy a new toothbrush after the one you had became a clump of bristles and i had to get one for you like a fucking mother!?" you yelled, using both palms and throwing more water; some hitting the floor, some splashing on yourself, but most wetting his face and clothing. "hey!" his voice boomed. he took a step forward, slipping, but caught himself on the edge of the sink. he turned the water off, landing your hand atop his in a failed effort to stop him. "you don't get to speak to me like that!" he yelled. "i can speak however i want to!" you yelled louder, making him wince, cursing under his breath. "you lost your chance when you made me feel crazy for loving you. i don't know how i could've even liked you!"

"hey!" subong's voice echoed off the walls. "your voice is so fucking shrill! you're giving me a fucking headache!" he pushed his fingers into his temple. he pointed at you, unwavering when you smacked it away. "don't act like you're fucking innocent, either—let me fucking finish!" you closed your mouth, crossing your arms over your chest. "see, this is what your problem is. you don't let anyone speak, or want to do anything i like. all those times you laughed in my face, didn't take me seriously, or tossed my career away like it was garbage, like some fucking fly you couldn't swat away." he waved his hand in front of his face, mimicking the gesture. "well, i'm sorry i put a roof over your head when you were piss poor broke." your voice was eerily leveled, staring so hard into his eyes you could've burned holes into his retinas. "and didn't act like you were nominated for grammys in fucking return."

"'laughed?' 'didn't take seriously?'" you repeated his words, eyebrows furrowing. "who dyed your stupid fucking purple hair? who reminded you to write songs? who pushed you to call clubs? who yelled at pervert managers to get you fair pay!?" your voice escalated. subong's eyes drifted to the tiled floor, head hanging lower than before. you took a breath. "subong, i—" he met your eyes at the mention of his name. "i invented you."

his expression soured, hating that you were right and faced with his own cowardice once again. but he would rather give himself up to his loan shark than show it. "invented is the right word." subong spoke lowly, nodding. his hand came up to his head, making a screwing gesture. "false ideas—you have false ideas of who i am. you played with me like a toy." you were in disbelief. "p-played you? like ... like a toy?" you began to stutter through this newfound upheaval of anger, something that made your face feel hot and stomach churn, increasingly irritated with each second you couldn't get the words out. "you!—you!" you hit your palm on the edge of the sink, sending your purse to the floor. "you came so hard that i thought i had to go to urgent care to get you an oxygen mask!" every word sounded more strained than before. you inhaled deeply, running against a ticking timer in your head to when he'd open his mouth next. you gestured at a bathroom stall door, but in your head, it was a memory. "you held onto me so tightly after your performances or at home or—or eating dinner to the point where i had to eat with one hand!" you closed the gap, your pointer finger brushing against the tip of his nose. "at some point, you couldn't fall asleep unless you felt my fucking heartbeat, motherfucker!"

"and you did all of that," you gestured around you. "just to fuck me over, and make me realize i've wasted my time loving someone who doesn't give half a fucking shit whether i live or die!" "i care!" his voice boomed. "how many times do i have to say that!?" "until your last goddamn breath." you retort without hesitation. "and with how you live, that should be right around the corner." "are you saying i should die?" "what? no, subong. of course not." you shook your head. "that's not what i—that's not what i meant." "so what did you mean?" "what i mean was—no, stop distracting. you know exactly what i meant." with your next look at him, you saw them: his manicured hands, equipped with different colors on all fingernails. oh, you hated how quickly your mind shifted gears, how quickly the worries of the imaginary teenage girl clouded your logic and best judgment, but none more than this being what your eyes began watering over. "who ... who did that?" you asked, your suddenly quieted voice catching subong off guard.

"what?" he asked, confused. his eyes followed your gaze, landing at his hands, eyebrows raising at the realization that this was his chance at getting the upper hand: "someone i saw." he lied. it wasn't wholly untrue, but dubiously framed; the nail tech was a woman, so he did see her, just not in the way he just purposefully vaguely implied. he needed something to jab at you, to knock you down a peg like it was a schoolyard fight, but even he couldn't smirk at the hurt on your face. in fact, he regretted those words the moment he said them. "who is she?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper. subong had never seen you look so devastated like this before. it made him feel an instinct that straightened his posture, unaware of what to do next, standing awkwardly. he attempted to say these next words with venom, but he couldn't even believe them himself, almost sounding as subdued as you: "it's none of your fucking business."

your heart drops. you feel nauseous. if subong had blinked, he would've missed your curt nod. you didn't bother wiping the tear trailing your cheek, his eyes watching as you pick up your purse from the floor, ears perking at your sniffle. "okay." you whispered, but you were so quiet that your voice nearly blended with the air vent. you started walking, fully intending to never turn back around, until his hand on your wrist stopped you. "wait—" "stop!" you said sharply, yanking out of his grip before he could close his fingers entirely. you held your hands in the air before circling around, your eyes landing on his. his face fell. you looked perishable, drained of an essence he couldn't fathom you without. oh, he'd really done it this time.

you lunged forward, nail of your pointer finger scratching against his nose. "you don't get to do this to me, s-subong!" you exclaimed, trying to keep your voice steady, but the tears stifle the effort. you couldn't contain the sob. he was mortified at the sight. "it's ... it's not fair." you whispered meekly. your hands trailed to his chest, balling into fists as you cried. he stood there, frozen, mouth agape like a fool. subong raised his hand, petting your hair with a light, unsure touch. "it's fi—" he sucked in a surprised breath through his teeth when you started swatting his chest, pushing and shoving at him in a pitiful tantrum. subong took it silently, putting his hands up, face contorting uncomfortably at the sound of your cries. his bottom lip started to quiver as time went on. he couldn't tell what he hated more: the fact he lost the fight, or the fact he cared about that to begin with.

"that's enough. hey—" subong inhaled sharply through his nose. he grabbed both of your wrists, holding them in place. "that's enough." he hoped to whatever higher power you didn't hear the quiver. he swallowed, resting his forehead against yours. your hands went limp. he let go, feelings your palms trail up to his face. "you're mine." you spoke weakly. his mouth fell open, staring at your lips whilst you begged for his eyes; earning you such when your hand on his cheek guided him to your gaze. "do you hear me?" you whispered. "you're mine, subong. no one elses." you shook your forehead against his, your tragic desperation ailing him. "mhm." his hands trailed your waist. "i'm yours, baby. all yours."

with a shaky hand, your fingers ran through his hair, thumb so close to his lips he pressed a skeleton of a kiss onto it. "i'm sorry i threw my drink at you." you cry, voice stuck at a whisper. "i'm so sorry, subong—" "stop." his low voice shushes you, nose nestling beside yours, slowly trailing to your neck. he inhaled your scent, eyes rolling back when your fingers brushed past his cartilage piercing. "i had it coming." his nose found its way back to your cheek, pressing kisses onto the warm, wet skin. "why didn't you come home, subong? i .. i've been waiting for so long." his bottom lip quivered again, but his voice was utmost steady: "you never asked."

"i—i shouldn't have to!" you swatted at his chest. "you idiot!" "i know, i know. i've been really fucking stupid." his voice cracks. subong leans in, but you turn away. "i can't. it's not good for me." "can't you see we're dying without each other?" he pleads, his hands turning your head to look at him. "look at me, look at you! just one, baby. please." his breath brushed against your cheeks, his hands holding either side of your face. "i can't ... i can't go on without you."

with a shaky breath and fresh tears falling down your cheeks, you closed the gap. a guttural moan rumbled through your chest, subong whimpering desperately. his arms wrap tightly around your waist, your hands holding his face for dear life—the kiss slow and purposeful, making up for lost time, a conversation no words could say. subong's palms made way to your ass, acting on pure muscle memory. he angled his head, introducing his tongue into the equation, having to quickly bend his knees to catch your fidgety form. "i'm not going anywhere." he unintentionally stifled the most heavenly moan he's ever heard from you. you broke the kiss for air. subong wasted no time, returning to his favorite spot on your neck, holding you in place firmly. your head fell back, letting him do whatever he so pleased—your hand on the back of his head wielding the power of casting a centuries-long trance.

he sucked and licked with precision, like a day hadn't gone by. he even hummed in concentration, mouth popping off of your soft skin until the bruise was to his liking. "s-subong." you whined, needing his lips back, your fingers messily carding through his hair. "i'm almost done." he was gentle, even if he was ignoring the concrete fucking lump in his pants and starting to sweat over your warmth against his. he latched off, fingers tracing the bluish-red spot with satisfaction. "come here, pretty girl." his slightly swollen lips made your eyebrows furrow pathetically, the kiss felt sticky, your lips sown with his. "i need you." you murmured. "i need you." "stall. the bathroom stall."

you grabbed his hand, rushing to the closest one, pulling him inside. neither of you think to close the door, letting it bang against the wall after swinging it open. subong's lips returned to yours, but his hands pat his pockets, feeling his phone and wallet, unsure: "i don't—i don't have a condom." "it's okay, it's okay." you assure truthfully, hurriedly kissing him as if he'd disappear if you let go. "it'll be just like how we used to, hm?" "turn around for me."

you do, placing your hands on the bathroom stall wall to hold yourself up. subong pulls your pants down to your ankles, unbuckling his belt and pulling his pants down just enough to grind his hardened cock against your ass, leaving nothing to the imagination, even with the barrier of his briefs and your underwear. "s-subong!" you gasped, back arching, pushing your ass farther onto him, feeling his cock closer to your aching pussy but not quite there yet. "how could you take this away from me?" he whispered into your ear, breath hitching vulnerably as he tried to keep himself composed, the plush of your round ass making his mind mush. "from us?" subong's hands snuck past the hem, grabbing at the powdery softness of either globes of your ass. his bottom lip suffered between his teeth, watching his hands work underneath the fabric, squeezing firmly. your nails clawed at the wall, eyes fluttering closed whenever his cool rings cinched around your hot skin. "stop teasing." your cheek collided with his nose, not realizing how close his face was to yours.

subong kissed your supple skin like instinct. "you'll take this dick like a good fucking girl, right?" he was so close to your ear the tip of his nose smushed against the stall wall. "y-yes!" you helplessly paw at the wall. his hand pulled down your underwear, rutting himself against your bare ass. his fingers maneuvered between your legs, middle finger sinking between your folds and encircling, keeping you steady between him and the wall. when he finds that sensitive bundle of nerves, he feels faint, cursing under his breath as your guttural grunt that bounced off the walls. "s-subong—" your voice sounded dry from the earlier arguing and succumbing to your illustrious libido. "i know, baby, i know." his fingers were unrelenting. christ, you were so fucking wet. "just wait for a little longer, and i'll fuck this pussy like the good boy you know i fucking am."

his fingers came to a gradual halt. whilst your chest heaved, he sucked on the tip of his middle finger, licking it clean. "i'm getting on my knees. don't move." he pulled your underwear down, peering up at the puffy lips he has to thank for opening his third eye. you cover your mouth, his warm tongue delving between your folds, scared of what you might sound like if you let go. for the next minute, all that fills the bathroom are the lewd sounds of his tongue nursing your sweet pussy and your muffled whimpers. a crude smack on your left globe followed by a harsh squeeze was the unspoken: let me fucking hear you. "o-oh!" you cried out. "o-oh my fucking god!"

you pushed your ass onto his face, your eyes crossing over the vibrations of his satisfied moan against your clit, squeezing them shut. he lapped your hole repeatedly, swallowing, taking a breath before adjusting his knees on the floor. subong's thumbs spread your lips apart, latching his mouth onto your clit and sucking. the curvature of your back deepened, head thrown back, a cry of pure lust brewing out of your diaphragm, heartbeat stuttering when his tongue lapped the bundle without mercy. "r-right there! just, just—ngh! hngh!—just l-like that!" "where? here?" he asked knowingly, tongue replaced by his finger, rubbing your clit mercilessly. his other hand fished his cock out from his briefs, beginning to stroke himself.

it was a cacophony of wet slick, choked moans, and squelching heat. nothing could deter it, not even the pair of friends that walked in the bathroom, chatting away and completely unaware, only to quickly back out of the room widened eyes and whispers of "oh my god, did you see them?" and "on a tuesday?" it was a sight to behold: your ass in his face; a mixture of his saliva and your slick trailing down his chin, quickly wiped by the back of his hand when he took a breath, but smearing nonetheless; his precum leaking onto the floor; your moans so delicate and raw any erotic film director would beg on their knees to cast you; and subong's affirming mhms and thats rights as he sucks and laps your clit.

subong knew you were close when your thighs began to shake. "give it to me." his hand ceased pumping his dick, both thumbs separating your puffy lips farther than before, running his tongue over your clit. "give it to me, mama," your moan made his dick twitch, eyebrows deeply furrowed, fucked-out gloss coating his eyes. "give it to me, baby, come on—" "ngh!" your body squirmed, nails scraping against the wall, one hand reaching for the top, thighs clenching around his head as your orgasm took over your body. subong was stubborn—his palms pressing your back down further, tongue unrelenting through your high, swallowing whatever you gave him. he slowed when your breathing leveled, suckling one last time before rising to his feet.

he pushed your shirt up, kissing the top of your spine, then the back of your shoulder. "hey," he said gently, hearing your shaky breaths. "still with me?" "mhm." you nod, bottom lip caught between your teeth, trying your best to remain standing. his lips kissed your temple, "everything okay?" "mhm," was all you were able to muster. "f-felt really good. needed it." "me too. i dreamt about you, baby." he whined, lips pressed to your skin. "i dreamt about you so much." his breathing became ragged, tip of his cock red and angry. "tugged at my dick so much and i never came as good as when i was with you. now you made me cum just from eating your pussy. do you see what you've done to me? do you see what you've done to your precious subongie?"

you feel dizzy, lifting your head for air. "put it in." you whisper. you push your ass into him, moaning at the feeling of his cock rutting against you. "put it in, subongie." he slowly pushed his tip in, eventually enveloped by your gummy walls. his face contorted—"how're you so much tighter than before!?" his voice was notably higher, barely moving his hips, slowly inching out of you. "h-haven't had anyone else," you sucked in a tight breath. "b-been waiting for you—hngh!" oh, you were so back ... you couldn't help the satisfied smile that stretched across your face, ears filled with his needy whines and blubbering incoherently about how much he missed you, and his girthy cock stretching you out in the way you deserve. "fuck me, subongie," you said breathlessly. "fuck me the way you dream about." "i won't last, you're so fucking tight!—" "—be the good boy you said you'd be!"

with that, he got to work. his pelvis hit your ass, not rapidly, but with reverberating force, moaning and whining like it was the last thing he'd ever do. your mouth fell open, body shaking with every thrust, eyes squeezed shut. you gasped when his hand reached into your bra, holding your left breast, biting your lip as your nipple hardened against his palm. you looked over your shoulder, catching sight of your jiggling globes every time he thrusted. "faster," you said. "faster and harder, s-subong. i—fuck!—i n-need you so b-badly!" he grabbed either side of your hips, pounding into you through his intensifying blurry haze, balls slapping against you so unapologetically that, if someone got close enough, it could've been heard from outside the door. subong wasn't showing off; he wasn't outdoing himself, to him, this was making love. here he was, fucking the woman of his dreams (he got her back!!,) hearing those moans he was so afraid would escape his memories, and fortunate to be feeling and fucking her divine pussy. talk about a jackpot.

"a-agh! f-fuck!" he cried out, hips stuttering as you began fucking him back. he looked down at the sight, watching his creamy cock disappear and reappear at your volition, his indescribable pleasure displayed on his face, envied by empty canvases wishing to capture such raw human emotion. "n-no, no!" he gasped, feeling your pussy clench around him, that knot forming in his abdomen. "y-you're killing me, baby," he panted. "b-baby—ngh!—s-stop, need to f-fuck you. m'gonna cum s'quick if you—if you, f-fuck!" you stopped abruptly, slamming against his pelvis with a shaky breath. "i'm almost there, too." you said. you sunk a little lower, pushing your ass against him. "k-keep going, my love. you're doing so good. always know how to fuck this pussy so good, hm? yeah? best dick i've ever fucking had." you whine, feeling his cock pulsate in your cunt. you look over your shoulder, feeling his hand squeeze your left asscheek, "wanna cum in me?" wanna cum in me so much that i make you a daddy? yeah?" a wall-rattling gasp shattered out of your lungs when he thrust into you hard, once. then twice. "you're going to be the fucking death of me."

subong pounded into your tight pussy mercilessly, brushing against that spongy spot deep in your cunt with little effort at the angle you were in now. "right there, right t-there! o-oh my god, f-fuck—fuck! s-subong—subong! keep going! you feel so f-f-fucking good!" your whorish mewls were no match for his. he was a goner; bottomed out; becoming lightheaded. he kept going, kept hitting that spongy haven, but it wasn't a knot in your abdomen that fleshed goosebumps across your skin, embarking on its unravel—it was deeper, more carnal than that—but before you could register it, your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and your leg felt wet. "o-oh—oh my g-god—" you were a mumbling mess through this indescribable orgasm, wholly aware of your body but lost in your lustful haze. subong knew exactly what was going on. it brought him over the edge. "f-fuck! fuck! fuck!" warmth coated your walls, chock-full of his cum, trailing down your thigh with your squirt. he slowed his thrusts, moving so delicately it was as if his cock was made of glass.

he stopped moving, cock resting inside your warm cunt. you were in your own world, weakly holding onto the wall, ears ringing, temples pounding. your senses cleared albeit minutely with his hands holding your shoulders, helping you stand up better. you raised your arm, planting it before you and resting your forehead against it, taking deep breaths. subong pulled out, tutting softly hearing your quiet gasp, palm tracing your lower back as a silent i know, i know. his chest heaving, subong's hand reached over, trying to tuck your hair behind your ear to talk to you, but stops when he sees your earrings—the ones he gave you all those months ago; the ones he said you didn't deserve during that explosive argument. unexpectedly to him, his eyes started to water, quickly pressing a kiss onto the back of your shoulder, mouth muffled against the fabric of your top. in the midst of your labored breathing, you don't overhear: "i love you," he whispered. he pressed another kiss. "i love you."

after a few moments, you stood up steadily, making subong lift his head. your hand aimlessly reached behind you for him."you made me ... you made me—" "—i know, i know." he spoke gently. your senses found him when his arm wrapped around your waist, lips pressing a kiss to your temple and staying there. your hand reached up, coaxing your fingers through his hair. "have we ... have we ever done that before?" "i don't think we did." "yeah ... i figured." your eyes were still closed, slowly opening when his lips peppered kisses on your jaw. "i don't—" you swallowed, mouth dry. "i don't know if i can walk straight." both of you couldn't help but laugh, his forehead resting against your temple. "you know," he cleared his throat. "i think someone came in when i was eating you out." "oh god." you murmured. "did they say anything?" "i was kinda busy to notice if they did." he chuckled lowly. "right, right."

the heat of your apartment woke you up in the middle of the night, lazily tugging the duvet of your sweaty body. subong's light snores became background noise after a press of a button, the air conditioning kicking in. in your sleepy state, you squinted at the time on the oven: 4:27 AM. shuffling to the bathroom, you emerged a few minutes later, filling a glass of water from the kitchen tap. after taking a sip, you walked to the ac unit, eyes closed whilst you cooled down, wind flowing modestly through your hair.

feeling refreshed enough, you headed back to bed. you carefully slid your glass onto the nightside table, hoping there was a enough space on the already small and cluttered surface—equipped with yours and subong's charging phones, hair ties, ibuprofen, whatever else you were too lazy to properly put away, and not lit since there was no room for a lamp—but guessed wrong, accidentally sliding both phones off. a loud clatter rang throughout the apartment, "shit!" you cursed under your breath, quickly eyeing subong. he didn't flinch, snoring peacefully. you picked the phones up, plugged his back in, and set them onto the table securely. a notif came up on his screen. by chance, your eyes glanced over. what was a mere peek became a full on stare.

it was from a crypto app. you didn't have to be a genius to know; the word was in the name of the fucking app. you read the notif before his screen went dark: You have an update on your investment. Tap to view. you have got to be fucking kidding me. you thought to yourself. without thinking, you unplugged his phone, tapping his screen to see it again. but the notif was now hidden, requiring his face id or passcode to view. is his passcode still the same as before? you wondered, thinking of those times he'd let you use his phone to connect him to the wifi, or send yourself photos from dates he'd always forget to. you look over your shoulder at his sleeping form, clueless. forget ethics, forget respecting privacy, forget trusting your partner; your brain was in overdrive. this better fucking work. you swipe up, typing 6969—it works. you tap the notif, the app loads quickly. your eyes run over an interface filled with lingo you don't know or care for and usernames that should be put on a watchlist, but then you find it: his profile. you click the icon on the bottom right corner, seeing the Investments tab with an encircled 1 next to it, clicking it, waiting for the screen to load. it only took a couple of seconds, but it was long enough to make you nervously gnaw at your bottom lip and tap your foot. then it loaded.

-850 MILLION KRW — in unmissable red at the top of the screen, above a graph you could only guess illustrated the fluctuation of his money, and other bullshit you couldn't comprehend in the moment. you stared. in silence, numb. before you knew it, the number changed: -1.19 BILLION KRW. your thumb acted before your brain could, scrolling, finding the extensive histories of his investments. he was betting hourly during the day with money he certainly did not have, losing thousands. you scrolled even deeper, finding investments from before you broke up. 50,000 krw here, 5 million there, 30 million another day .... he'd been lying that entire time. selfishly keeping more for himself, all the while consoling your crying state from not being able to make rent in time, even with what you suspected to be all he had ("i'm so sorry, baby. you don't deserve this. we don't deserve this. i'll fight your landlord for you, don't worry.") what utter bullshit.

it was all lies. it was all deception. and now he was back in your bed, peacefully asleep like everything was okay. you let him back into your life, thinking everything was going to be fucking okay. you squeeze his phone in your hand, arm shaking. your other hand sinks your fingers into your knee, as if to prevent from screaming; trying to find another outlet for the anger—fuck it! irate, you grab your glass of water and rush to his side of the bed, throwing it onto his face. he shot up immediately. you paced back and forth, eyes rolling at his coughing fit. "wha—what?" his voice was gravely, wiping his eyes. "was that—was that water?" he asked stupidly. "yes it was fucking water!" you spoke loudly, irritated at the sight of his barely opened eyes."what're you yelling for?" his voice was lower than usual, clouded by looming sleep. "it's, like, four in the morning, baby."

"don't you fucking 'baby' me." you muttered, marching up to him. you showed him his screen. "the fuck is this? hm?" "what?" he asked, wiping water off his forehead. you threw his phone onto his lap. "check your fucking investments." he picked up his phone and scrolled. he didn't say a word. you continued to pace like a madwoman, back and forth, nothing filling the air but the skid of the heels of your feet against the floor. you mentally cursed and screamed, thoughts so scrambled that if you opened your mouth all that would come out would be jibberish, so you paced. and paced. and paced. it could've been anywhere between five or ten minutes when you stopped. "well?" you asked sharply, arms crossed over your chest. "how much money did you fucking make?"

"why'd you look at my phone?" asked subong. he was trying so hard to avoid openly showing his shame; his pride prevailing. "that's—" you stuttered. "that's seriously what you're asking right now?" "yes, that's what i'm fucking asking right the fuck now." he looked up at you, meeting your eyes with an unreadable expression. "you just threw water in my face. i get to ask questions." "you're a billion in debt!" you whisper-yelled, afraid your eyes would water if you were any louder. you trudged to his side of the bed, eyes wide and finger to his chest. he stared at you blankly, a twitch of his eyebrow outed his mounting frustration at his stifled shame. "you're a billion in debt, subong. where did you ... where did you even get all that money?" you swallowed, taking a step back, eyes looking everywhere but him to thwart the mounting glossiness. "why did you lie to me? all those times, all those times where i felt like it was the end. where i felt like i was at a dead end." you gestured to the couch with your hand, staring at him. "and you ... you lied. you were selfish, and didn't want to help. i ... i saw everything, subong. i know you kept on lying about your earnings when we were together."

another beat of silence. "subong, why did you put so much money into—" "—why'd you look at my phone? hm?" he interrupted, eyes wide. "why couldn't you just mind your fucking business?" "you're a billion in debt—" "i didn't owe you anything!" subong suddenly yelled, catching you off guard. he ripped the duvet off, marching up to you, finger in your face. "i didn't owe you fucking anything." he repeated, breathing hard through his nostrils. "what was it you said to me? hm? that it's my money, my punishment to have? so let me fucking have it." "you owed me everything!" you yelled, smacking his hand away. "you owed me the fucking truth!" he turned around, walking to the window leading to the balcony, hands roughly rubbing his face and hair. "why didn't you just tell me? why did you hide—" "—i did it all for you."

your eyes widened and jaw fell, appalled. "oh my god." you muttered to yourself, but he overheard. "i'm going fucking crazy. i'm going fucking crazy." you ran your hands through your hair, pacing. "i know you did not just ... i know you did not just say that." you shook your head. "how could you be so fucking stupid. how could i be so fucking stupid?" subong whipped his head around. "hey! don't call me stupid!" he walked up to you, growing angrier with your ignoring him. "hey!" he exclaimed. "don't call me stupid! i'm not stupid for taking initiative, or, or doing shit because i care about you!" his arms flailed.

"oh..." you shook your head, facing him. he felt like a first grader being told off by his teacher, frustratingly shifting his weight between his feet, unsure of where to put this uncomfortable energy. "oh no, subong. this isn't caring. this is being a complete and utter dumbass." you said, eyes porous in realization. tears were no longer in the realm of possibility. now, it was just pity. "there's no coming back from this." you made sure he knew. "you're fucked." "i know that!" he yelled, vein tight in his temple. "you don't think i fucking know that!?" subong's eyebrows furrowed. it was his turn to avoid crying. he looked away hastily, cursing repeatedly under his breath as if it'd ward off his blurring vision. he blinked hard—"i ... i tried everything." he muttered, bottom lip quivering. "i ... made deals with dangerous p-people." he cleared his throat. "i slept on benches. my own mother wouldn't pick up my calls. i've disappointed her too many times. and you ... you," he cleared his throat again. "you weren't an option." he shook his head, a tear landing on his arm. he inhaled sharply through his nose. "but ... but i have this one last chance—"

"—you're hopeless." you cut him off. "you're the worst person i've ever fucking met." subong looked at you, silently pleading to take those words back. "no." he sounded wounded. "you don't ... you don't mean that." "i do. i mean every word." you nodded. "i must have done something really horrible in a past life to be cursed with loving someone as hurtful as you." "no ..." he shook his head, his palms flattening his hair. "you don't mean what you're saying." "i do!" you yelled, voice cracking, heartbeat in your throat. a shaky breath left his lips, eyes staring at the ceiling and blinking fast, waterline feeling heavy. "no ... no, no." he muttered to himself. he took your face in his hands, eyes darting around your features, making them out even in the meek lighting of the slowly emerging sunrise. you stared blankly at the floor, emotionless between his palms.

"you don't mean those words. i know you don't." he spoke aloud, trying to convince himself. "you don't mean them." his fingers combed your hair out of your face. "i've been trying so hard. i'm so fucking scared, baby." subong shook his head quickly, but it didn't halt his falling tears. "i f-fucked up so bad." he whispered, lips quivering. he pressed kisses to your supple skin, attempting to fill the eerie silence. "but i promise—" his lips peppering your face. "i promise i'm going to fix all of this. i have a plan." subong tasted something salty, seeing a tear having fallen down your cheek. "no, no." he tutted gently, kissing it away. "don't cry. you're too beautiful to cry over a loser like me, baby." he kissed that same spot. "no, no. don't cry. here, let me hold you. come here." his lips trailed to the back of your jaw, arms wrapping loosely around your waist. even in his desperation, he was unsure. his eyes glanced at the glimmer of your dainty diamond drop earrings. "the earrings look good on you. you've always had good taste." he muttered against your shoulder. you didn't move. nor say a word. the silence was killing him. "i've been scared for so long." he whispered. your shoulder felt wet. "please ... please hold me."

he said no apology. no "i'm sorry," no "i regret this." it was a tale as old as time: redirected sympathy; a murky, multi-layered distraction, him avoiding taking full responsibility. you sympathized with his pain, you felt his hurt and the monstrous circumstance, but at some fucking point, there is only so much you could do. there is so much strength one could muster; so much mercy a heart could offer. this wasn't your problem, and you weren't going to go out of your way to make it yours. it was time to draw the line. right here, right now. you didn't recognize the man before you. he was a stranger: "subong?" "yes?" he responded quickly, a hint of hope in his tone. "when were you going to tell me about your debt?"

subong was silent, but you spoke for him. "when i get a promotion? when i get laid off? when there's an eviction notice on my door? after we elope at the courthouse, or when i tell you you're the father of my baby? hm? when were you going to tell me?" your voice was unexpectedly gentle. his shoulders started to shake, quietly sobbing. "when, subong? when?" "forgive me." he pleaded. "forgive me. please, baby—" "—get off of me." you pushed him away, slipping out of his embrace. he wiped his face with the back of his hand. "you're—you're the best thing that's ever happened to me." "you're the worst!" you exclaimed. "it's exhausting loving you! it's torture! i'm decaying from the inside!"

you took a breath, looking at this pathetic form. "i've forgiven you too much." you shook your head. "you've made me a stranger to myself. you take, and you take, and you take. i share my home, i let you fuck me, i let myself think you respect me—" "—i d-do, baby, i do! i lo—" "—i let you into the deepest, darkest pits of who i am, and you let me cry over your fucking nail polish while you were throwing away millions into something that isn't even fucking real. and you have the audacity to say it was for me?" you gesture to yourself. "as much as i tried to fix you, stupidity is in incurable disease. you're the dumbest person i've ever fucking met. you're not even smart enough to say 'i'm sorry.'"

"i never want to see you again." you turn around, your back facing him. "you don't know me. i don't know you. get out." this was it. you didn't move your eyes from the kitchen floor tiles as you heard him collect his things—the clinking of his belt; his shallow breaths; his heavy, stuttered footsteps; the clean swoosh of his pants as he put them on; over-pronounced inhales; his shoving of his feet into his sneakers—punctuated by the slam of the door. you slowly turned around. the oven read 4:53 AM. you sat on the couch, the silence heavy, only moderately cut through by the sporadic chirping of the birds outside. you sunk into the cheap cushions, hands coming up to your face, chest convulsing.

subong didn't know how long he'd been walking for. he was numb; eyes wet, cheeks swollen, snot dried, sneakers carelessly dragging against the sidewalk. the sun had risen. he could hear the taxis driving by, or catch in his peripheral vision the sight of people hurriedly leaving their apartment buildings as the morning commute commenced, but his gaze never shifted from aimless. he was wandering; nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. his chest heaved and his heart pounded in his temples, feelings buried in an overly complicated web that made his ears ring. subong's tongue was dry from breathing through his mouth, but he was so out of it he didn't bother to close his jaw.

it was the ring of a pedestrian's bike bell that temporarily took him out of this trance, stumbling a few steps to the right, letting them pass. "i'm sorry." he muttered weakly. it was only then that he looked at his surroundings, realizing he was walking along a bridge. seeing the water flow below him without issue made him feel so inconsequentially small, almost as if the car driving by or the subtle whispers of the leaves rattling in the wind told him that no matter what he did, or what he went through, or what he said, nature will be there before and after. "excuse me, sir." a voice said. subong's head felt heavy, but he turned it nonetheless. it was the man in the suit from a week ago. "i forgot to give you this after our game last week." he handed subong what looked to be a business card. "my sincerest apologies. i kindly ask that you forgive me, sir." with that, he walked away.

you woke up on the couch in the late morning, having slept through your phone alarm. you had the day off, so that wasn't exactly a concern, only to jolt awake from seering pain on side of your neck and lower back from falling asleep in such a cramped, awkward position. it was hot in the apartment again. you gradually stood on your feet, carefully stretching. "fuck." you mutter under your breath. you moved to the bathroom. you peeled your clothes off, throwing them mindlessly into the hamper. before you stepped into the shower, the glimmer of your earrings caught your sight. you tucked your hair back, staring hard into the mirror. memories of the night previous came rushing back. your quivering lip made you mad all over again, quickly taking the earrings off, throwing them into the trash bin without second thought.

you did errands. you went to work the next day. you quit your job three months later, having landed a better paying one on the opposite side of the city. a year later, you were longed moved out of your small studio and into your one bedroom abode, equipped with an in house dryer and washer. you had new friends. you had a new life. in the end, you really did get your wish of never seeing subong again.

[steddieas-shegoes]

pop goes metal

for @corrodedcoffinfest prompt 'alternate universe'

rated t | 964 words | cw: language | tags: famous corroded coffin, pop star steve harrington, flirting, getting together

🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤

"No fuckin' way are we working with him," Eddie argues with their manager. "You're always so worried about our image and then you go and have us doing a song with a fuckin' pop artist?"

The manager, Anthony, rolls his eyes. "It'll broaden your fanbase. You know who spends money on shit? Women. You know who likes Steve Harrington? Women."

"Does he even write his own shit?" Gareth asks.

"Does it matter?" Eddie turned to him with a glare. "Even if he writes it, it's not our style."

"Maybe we could at least hear what he's trying to work with us on?" Jeff, always the calming presence, asked towards Anthony.

"He sent over a sample before we sign any agreements."

Eddie sat down in the chair furthest from everyone else, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Now, this isn't an official recording. Just what he did on his phone on his tour bus with his acoustic guitar. He arranged the bass already for Frankie, too, but said he's open to whatever Gareth feels is right for the drums." Anthony pressed play on his phone and the room was filled with strumming and a surprisingly raspy voice singing what was clearly a chorus.

Eddie could pretend he hated it, and maybe the guys would agree with him and they'd never have to speak of this again.

He couldn't hide his reaction fast enough, though.

His jaw dropped as he listened to the lyrics, surprised to find that they weren't just about going to a club and dancing or being in love.

Steve's voice broke at the end before there was shuffling and the recording stopped.

Eddie felt everyone's eyes on him. He closed his mouth and looked down at the floor, tapping his fingers against his arm.

"It's not bad," he finally said. "Not sure why he needs us, though."

"Apparently, his brother is a huge fan of you and suggested he try to work with you."

"I think we should do it." Jeff said, a note of finality in his tone that Eddie knew he wouldn't try arguing with.

"Yeah, can't hurt." Frankie shrugged.

"If he's giving me creative freedom on the drums, how can I say no?" Gareth smirked.

"Guess we're working with the pop diva, then."

****

Steve Harrington was nothing like what they expected.

He showed up to their studio in sweats and glasses, holding a tablet and a bottle of Tylenol. They started to introduce themselves as he found a spot on the couch.

"I'm really glad you guys were willing to work with me," he said after he shook everyone's hand.

Eddie stared.

"My uh, my brother, Dustin, he's kinda why I wrote this song and I know it means a lot that you agreed to be on it," Steve continued. "So, thanks. Hopefully it doesn't ruin your vibes or anything."

Eddie felt every wall he built crumbling with every word Steve spoke. God dammit, this man just had to be sincere and hot and talented, didn't he?

"Nah, we're gonna sound great together." Eddie smiled at Steve's wide-eyed look. "You wanna show us the whole song?"

Steve nodded, pulling something up on his phone. Another recording, this one more professional and included an electric guitar.

"Robin was the stand in for the electric while I did bass."

"So you can play bass?" Frankie asked, leaning in.

"Yeah, but my preferred instrument is piano. I just don't do a lot of slow songs. Guitar is what gets the women interested, or so they tell me," Steve smiled awkwardly. "But feel free to change some things up. I'm totally open to suggestions."

But really, it was damn near perfect as it was. Frankie made one tweak during the bridge, but Steve ended up loving it more than the original and told him so with a grin.

"You're a fuckin' genius!" He exclaimed.

Gareth started messing around on the drums while Steve and Eddie worked on the first couple of lines.

"Something still doesn't feel right," Steve mentioned.

"Maybe we change the rhyming pattern?" Eddie suggested. "You've got ABAB. Might work better to do AABB. Some of these words can be moved around to make that work."

Steve stared at the notes app for a moment, then looked back up at Eddie, beaming smile making his eyes squint.

"I could kiss you!" He shouted. As soon as he realized what he said, he blushed, looking back down at the phone. "I mean, thanks. That's a great suggestion."

Eddie searched Steve's face, coming to the conclusion that there was probably a good reason why Steve didn't care about what women liked when it came to his music.

"I have a pretty strict rule about kissing people I work with," Eddie said slowly, quietly so they wouldn't be overheard.

"Yeah, no, that makes sense. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or-"

"But we won't be working with each other for long, right?" Eddie continued, letting his hand rest on Steve's thigh. God, he was muscular.

"Um. No I guess not."

"Rain check, then. Until we've finished our professional relationship." Eddie couldn't believe he was suggesting this. Showing interest in a pop star. What's next? Dating one? Marrying one?

"Are you saying you wanna kiss me, Munson?" Steve suddenly sounded more confident.

"I'm saying we've got work to do before I can get my hands on you." Eddie tapped his thigh before pulling away. "So let's get to it."

"Dude! I got it!" Gareth yelled, interrupting their moment.

"Be right there!" Steve yelled back, not looking away from Eddie. "Might break a record for fastest recording time ever just so I can kiss you," Steve added quietly to Eddie before standing and walking over to Gareth.

"Well, fuck." Eddie sighed, smiling to himself.

[getouyuri]

a house, a home, and a studio

pairing: producer!geto x rhythmist!reader x frontman!gojo

author’s note: a poly stsg x reader drabble for my special grade band au. just wanted to write a little bit of fluff (and procrastinate on everything else…) so I vomited this out into my notes.

writing © getouyuri. dividers © bronzewasp.

suguru had a home studio built into his place long before he finally started dating you and satoru.

the space is dimly lit by pendant lights that slash a warm ambient glow along the acoustic foam and shelves, with two plush chairs, one for himself and one for his clients, seated at the desk where his mixing board is stationed. there’s a thick glass panel above it that separates the control room that he sits in from the live room that the artists that he works with make magic in. lining the walls is state-of-the-art equipment, from the high-end speakers to the glass cases housing his instruments. uzumaki, the rhythm guitar he used when he was a member of SPECIAL GRADE, gleams the loudest and the brightest.

some days suguru’ll reenter the room to find all his audio files still pulled up and a track queued on the days that he works nonstop and barely leaves the room aside to get food and take a leak. on others, he’ll slip in after days of avoiding the siren call of music, and he has to lean down and shake his mouse to coax the monitor of his computer back to life.

it’s a nice studio and it has everything that he needs to get the job done. that’s all he requires. it’s simple. convenient.

but it’s made much cozier when you and gojo move into his little house in kyoto.

(even if both of your boys would drown out all the lingering misery that steeps your space, you don’t want to subject them to the sterile, cold loneliness of your apartment that you lived in for a decade. from your college days spent with your head in your books while satoru and suguru took to the stage, to your brief era of stardom as a solo swinging popstar, and to the then and now where you’re SPECIAL GRADE’s rhythmist… too many conflicting memories cling to it.

and satoru’s of the same mind. he had no interest in making his penthouse a permanent home for himself, nor for you and suguru. it’s well-decorated, but not at all lived in. it reeks of all the bad decisions that he almost always made at 2am and his groupies that he unfeelingly ‘entertained.’ a little bit like strawberry-flavored throat drops, too. merely stepping inside is enough to make satoru’s skin prickle with discomfort. it’s never been his real home— the hotels that you, yuki, sukuna, and satoru crash in while touring are more familiar to him than this place is.

so when suguru subtly hinted that he’d love for you two to shack up with him while staring way too intensely at the crossword puzzle he’d been working at, the tips of his ears rosy, you and satoru jumped to pack your bags.)

it’s unanimously decided that suguru’s studio is now your studio, a space for the three of you to unscramble your crazy minds and do what you do all best— make music. it’s also become a place of comfort.

but with only two chairs at the desk and no other surfaces to sit on that wouldn’t not make suguru sigh (every time you or satoru perched yourselves on the edge of the desk, suguru’s soul dramatically withered away just a little more), clearly, some renovating needed to be done so that all of you had a seat and a place to kick your feet up.

and renovate it you and satoru did.

what once was a dim, dusty corner that suguru swept every now and then is now ‘the nook.’ just above is a sprinkling of fairy lights, with a few transparent plastic clips fashioned onto the wire that hold your memories between their fragile teeth—

polaroids of the trio during their high school and college days, dazzling parties where you’re stupidly grinning despite the exhaustion in your eyes, suguru’s buzzed but staring at the camera as if daring it to make him blow on a breathalyzer, and satoru’s wearing those stupid new years party sunglasses with the year sitting atop the frames; of the trio shortly after graduation, shots of satoru and suguru tuning their instruments on tour, you being carted around on satoru’s back, suguru dozing with his head in your lap and the corner of the frame slightly obscured by satoru’s peace sign; of the trio spending the last year in a polyamorous relationship, all three of you flushed and curled up in bed like a litter of kittens, suguru’s birthday dinner where you and satoru kissed both of his cheeks for the photo, all of you cooped up in your car, the top down, at a drive-in-movie with the snacks that satoru bought strewn across all three of your laps. there’s even some pictures of you three in this very studio. everything’s immortalized in your precious 3.0635 x 3.125 polaroids.

there’s one massive, overstuffed bean bag that sags like a soup dumpling into the fuzzy rug below in ‘the nook.’ usually, it’s you and satoru sitting there, his legs slung over your lap or you lying entirely atop him with your back to his chest. suguru mans one of the chairs and you and satoru both settle into the bean bag for a long recording session.

on rare occasions, suguru sits there— like when satoru has a new song to surprise you both with. he steals suguru’s chair, clapping his hands for both of your attention. “welcome to gojo satoru’s music class,” he crows, “hosted by the illustrious, handsome, goliath of a rockstar, who has a massive—“

you usually cut him off by that point and tell him to get to the chase. satoru always amusedly rolls his eyes before strumming the nearest guitar, softly singing some song that has no business being on SPECIAL GRADE’s next pop-rock album. a song for just you and suguru. to you and suguru.

when you look up from the bean bag, the fairy lights and polaroids blur together into one happy bunch. the walls of ‘the nook’ are adorned with framed album covers and gold records, a testament to all three of your successful careers, together and separate. there’s even a mini-fridge tucked in next to the bean bag. satoru insisted that it was necessary— something about keeping all your yummy drinks and treats close. as if the kitchen isn’t just down the hallway from the studio.

long gone is the suffocating depression that used to dog each corner, scald suguru’s hands with cigarettes then frostily bite at the calloused skin with bottles of overpriced champagne. suguru may have had a home studio built into his place long before he finally started dating you and satoru, but you and satoru are what makes it feel like home and not just a studio. like a place made for work, for play, making memories and constructing silly but adoring love ballads, and stealing the sweetest of kisses from each other.

perma tags: @libr4sonsa @spirit-kat @kaitospo @m1nrrva @enchantinghonymoon @shokogasm @dairyfaerie @pvmpkingod @skz8stay @floriophrastus @originalsaucy @loyalguma @wormplant @amane1271 @oporotheca @teachmehowtodokiaye

[melit0n]

Something that always confused me when I read TPOTO was why The Phantom chose box five out of all the private boxes to be his.

Out of all the seats in the house, box five is among the worst and would be (and still is) sold cheaply (average 65 francs at cheapest in 1880, now sold a between 10-25 euros nowadays) on general sale. A higher profit would've been made from a year-long booking, especially since there are multiple seats, so it would be 65 francs per person on a yearly booking no matter how many people are in there at once, but still not as much as other seats.

Visual wise, a good chunk of the left side of the stage is cut off and parts of the performance that would occur in the higher wings would be completely unseen, so, why choose it? Isn't the main point of going to go watch an Opera is to actually see the performance?

(A screenshot from the Palais Garnier's seat listing stating the best seats for viewing and the view from the box five via this video)

Having been there myself in late May, I found an answer to my own question and I'm gonna share it with you guys because maybe someone else was asking the same thing!

Although yes, the stage is half cut off, it's one of, if not the, best seats acoustic wise. You're a perfect distance from the orchestra as well as the stage for everything to sound just right. As much as The Phantom would've loved the operatic performance, I don't doubt he would've been more focused on the music itself as well as the vocals, and, mainly, Christine.

Further, although going to the opera was more of a social thing than an entertainment thing, so the boxes were built for aristocracy to be seen above all things, you can disappear from public view quite easily in that box. There are two to three rows of seats going backwards to the door, so all one would have to do to disappear from sight of anyone on stage or in the audience would be to just move a seat backwards (which means he wouldn't have been able to see the stage at all, but would still be able to hear everything perfectly well).

Plus, the box is located right at the end of the row of private boxes, as well as very close to entry and exit stairs, both public ones and private ones meant for stage hands and general workers.

All in all, those three reasons are why the box was chosen and kept in high priority for The Phantom, because he could quite literally disappear, like a ghost, by just moving himself in the box, as well as disappear out of the box and hear Christine almost perfectly.

[bumblebeeswrite]

how about

“I’m too tired to fight anymore” with Eddie 🥹🥹

Static & Silence | Eddie Munson

summary: you’re left behind in Hawkins while Eddie lives his dream.

Word count: 2,956

CW: smut, angst, burn out, emotional exhaustion, relationship strain, fame, physical distance, hurt/comfort, loneliness, anxiety, breakdown

this has been done a hundred times before but enjoy anyway, also hated the bottom half of this but spent hours on it so enjoy 🎉😭

Hawkins felt suffocatingly quiet tonight. Not the eerie quiet of past dangers, but the hollow silence left by absence. Your shared apartment- the one you'd finally been able to afford after Corroded Coffin's advance came through, the one that was supposed to be your haven- felt cavernously empty without Eddie. His spare guitars leaned silent in the corner, his collection of horror movie posters seemed to mock you from the walls, even his perpetually messy pile of D&D manuals felt like a monument to life pausing while he was gone.

Eight months. Eight months since the band had exploded, and eight months of him living out of a tour bus and cheap hotels, chasing the dream across state lines while you stayed here, tethered to the life you'd built together, now feeling frayed at the edges.

You glanced at the clock on the microwave. 11:17 pm. Which meant it was.. what? 9:17 in Denver? Maybe 8:17 if they were further west already. Keeping track of the time zones had become a dizzying chore. He was supposed to call after their soundcheck, before the show tonight. That had been three hours ago.

Your stomach twisted with a familiar knot of anxiety and resentment you hated feeling. You were proud of him, fiercely proud. Seeing videos from fans posted online of him commanding stages, unleashing that wild, magnetic energy that you adored- it filled you with so much joy. But the joy was increasingly replaced with the sharp ache of loneliness and the frustrating static of disconnection.

Phone calls were rushed, often interrupted by roadies shouting or his manager needing something. Conversations felt like navigating a minefield of exhaustion on his end and carefully suppressed neediness on yours. You tried to be understanding, you really did. This was everything he ever wanted. But god, you missed him. You missed the easy intimacy, the shared jokes, the feeling of his hand instinctively finding yours in the dark. You missed Eddie, not the increasingly distant rockstar whose voice sometimes sounded like a stranger's over the crackling long distance line.

The phone finally rang, startling you out of your melancholy moment. You snatched it up before the second ring finished. "Eddie?"

"Hey," his voice came through, rougher than usually, muffled slightly by a low thrum of background noise; muffled music, indistinct chatter. He sounded far away, not just geographically.

"Hey," you replied, trying to keep your tone light, pushing down the 'three hours late' comment bubbling forward on your tongue. "How was the soundcheck?"

"Loud," he said, a familiar tired refrain. "Fine. Whatever. Guitars sounded okay."

There was a pause. Usually, he'd launch into some crazy story, some complaint about the venue's acoustics or a joke about Gareth's latest mishap. Tonight, just.. static. Figurative and almost literal.

"You okay?" you ventured, the question feeling fragile. "You sound.. wiped."

A heavy sigh crackled through the line. "Yeah. Just. Long day. Long week. Long fucking month." He didn't elaborate.

"Did you eat anything?" You asked, falling back on caretaker questions because you didn't know what else to say.

"Uh, yeah. Think so. Some pizza backstage. Cold." Another pause. Then, "How's, uh.. how's Hawkins?"

The question felt obligatory. "Quiet," you said, the word tasting bitter. "Same old. Steve swung by yesterday, asked if you'd beamed back from outer space yet." You tried for a lighthearted tone, hoping for a chuckle, some spark of the old Eddie.

Instead, he grunted. "Right."

Frustration finally won over, hot and sharp. "Eddie, what's going on? You sound like you're on another planet. You were supposed to call hours ago. Are you even listening to me?"

"Jesus, what do you want?" He snapped, the sudden anger in his voice making you recoil a few inches from the phone. "I'm calling now, aren't I? I'm fucking trying. There was some shit with the lighting rig and Jeff needed to go over the setlist changes again, and I had to do some bullshit local radio interview that ran late. Sorry if my entire goddamn life doesn't revolve around Hawkins time anymore!"

"This isn't about time zones!" You retorted, tears stinging your eyes unexpectedly. Damn, you had tried not to cry. "It's about us! It feels like we're drifting apart, Teddie! Like I'm just some.. optional part of your life you check in with when it pleases you to remember I exist!"

"Optional?" His voice rose, laced with disbelief and hurt. "Are you kidding me? Everything I'm doing here, busting my balls day in and day out, dealing with all this insane pressure- you think that's optional? This is for us, fuck! I told you that! So maybe you could try being a little fucking supportive instead of making me feel worse than I already do!"

"Supportive? I am supportive!" You cried, the tears finally springing free and dripping down your cheeks. "I'm here, holding down our life while you're gone! I cheer you on from thousands of miles away! I listen to you vent about the band and the stress! But what about me, Teddie? What about how lonely it is here without you? What about the fact that I feel like I'm talking to a ghost half the time?"

There was a heavy silence on the line, broken only by the background noise on his end and your own choked breaths. You could picture him perfectly, running a hand violently through his hair, pacing whatever cramped backstage room he was in, jaw tight, eyes flashing with anger and exhaustion.

When he finally spoke, his voice was terrifyingly flat. Devoid of anger, devoid of energy.. just empty.

"I can't do this."

Your blood ran cold. "Do what? What are you saying?"

"This," He clarified, his voice barely a whisper. "This.. fighting. Constantly feeling like I'm failing. Failing the band, failing you. Trying to bridge this fucking distance all the time. Trying to make things okay when they're clearly not." He took a ragged breath, and the next words shattered the remaining piece of your composure.

"I'm too tired to fight anymore."

It wasn't a threat to end things. It was a confession of depletion. A white flag waved not in surrender of the relationship, but in surrender to the crushing weight of trying to maintain it across miles while drowning in the demands of his new reality. He sounded broken. Utterly and terrifying.

The anger drained out of you instantly, replaced by a wave of cold dread and empathy. This wasn't your rockstar boyfriend being neglectful; this was the man you loved buckling under an impossible strain, feeling isolated despite being surrounded by noise and people, and convinced he was failing the one person who mattered most.

"Eddie.." you whispered, your own voice trembling. "Oh, honey.. no. Don't say that."

A choked sound came through the phone, something painfully close to a sob. "It's true." I'm so tired. I miss you so fucking much it physically hurts. But then I call and I'm exhausted or distracted, or I say the wrong thing, and we end up fighting. And I.. I just can't keep doing it. I feel like I'm screwing everything up."

"You're not screwing anything up." You insisted, sinking onto the floor, leaning against the cabinets, clutching onto the phone like a lifeline, like you could somehow summon him out of it by holding it tight enough.

"You're just.. overwhelmed. You're burning out, Eds. This pace is insane."

"Then what's the point?" He asked, the question raw with despair. "What's the point of chasing this dream if it costs me.. this? Us?"

"Hey," you said softly but firmly, forcing what little strength you had left into your voice. "Don't talk like that. We're stronger than this. You're stronger than this. We just.. we need to figure it out. Together." You paused, taking a deep breath, the frantic energy of worry settling into your chest.

"Okay- look, what if-.. I can take some time off work. Maybe try and fly out next week-. Where are you playing next?"

"What?" He sounded stunned. "No! You can't just-"

"Yes, I can." You interrupted gently. "Let me come see you. Just for a few days. We need to see each other. Properly. Not like this."

There was a long pause on the line, filled only by the sound of his unsteady breathing. "You'd really do that?" He asked, his voice thick with disbelief.

"In a heartbeat." you promised. "Just tell me where to go."

He told you- Salt Lake City, six days from now. The relief in his voice was obvious, a tiny flicker of light in the oppressive darkness that was now his life. You talked for a little longer, the conversation softer now, navigating the logistics, the earlier anger replaced by a fragile tenderness. He had to go- the call for stage time was approaching. But the goodbye wasn't strained this time, it held a promise.

Six days later, you were standing nervously outside a non-descript hotel near the Salt Lake City airport, your small duffel bag at your feet. Your heart hammered against your ribs. Seeing him walk out of the automatic doors, looking even more tired in the harsh daylight than he sounded over the phone, made your breath catch.

He stopped dead when he saw you, his eyes widening slightly, as if he couldn't believe you were real and not a figment of his imagination. He hadn't changed much- ripped jeans, band shirt under his own denim vest, messy hair tied back loosely behind his ears. But the exhaustion was carved into his features, deep lines around his eyes and mouth.

Eddie didn't say anything. He just started moving, covering the distance between you in a few long strides, and then you were wrapped in his arms, crushing you against him with a force that spoke everything that words never could. You buried your face in his chest, inhaling that familiar sent of peppermint gum and cigarette smoke. He tangled one hand in your hair, holding your head against him, while the other arm banded around your waist like steel, holding you as though he was afraid you would float away.

"You came," he murmured into your hair, voice cracking slightly.

"Told you I would." you mumbled back against his shirt.

He held you there for a long moment, just breathing each other in, taking time to finally understand there were no longer thousands of miles between you. When he finally pulled back, his hands came up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks, his brown eyes roaming your face with a tenderness you'd almost forgotten entirely.

"God, I missed you." he whispered, swallowing down a small cry.

"I missed you too." You replied, leaning into his touch, pressing a soft kiss to the palm of his hand.

He didn't let go, just steered you into the hotel, through the bland lobby, and into the elevator, his arm secured around you the entire time.

The silence wasn't awkward; it was heavy with emotion, with the sheer relief of physical presence after months of strained phone called and lonely nights.

Inside his equally bland hotel room, clothes spilling out of a suitcase, guitar case leaning against the wall, room service tray from breakfast still on the desk- the closed the door and turned to you. Now there was an intensity to his gaze. But this time it wasn't frustration or tiredness. It was need. Undisguised need.

He stepped closer, framing your face with his hands again. "This," he said, his voice low and rough. "You, here. This is what I needed. What we needed."

And then he kissed you. It wasn't hesitant like your first reunion kiss might have been under other circumstances. It was deep and hungry, almost desperate- a kiss that poured out all the loneliness, the frustration, the fear, and the overwhelming relief of finally being together again. You responded with equal hunger, your arms looping around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer, trying to erase every mile that had ever separated you.

His mouth slanted over yours, tongues tangling in a dance you had craved for months; both comfortable and electric. His hands slid down your back, one mapping the curve of your spine while the other dipped lower, pulling your hips flush against his.

Clothes started coming off, shed with an urgency born not just of lust, but of a need to eliminate every barrier between you. Buttons were fumbled with quiet laughter, zippers lowered hastily, fabrics pooling around your feet on the generic hotel carpet. The cold air hit your skin, but the heat radiating from Eddie, the fire in his eyes as he looked at you, it was enough to have you flushed.

He backed you towards the bed, his gaze locked with yours, never breaking eye contact. He lowered you onto the mattress- thankfully less lumpy than you had expected, and followed you down, his body covering yours, a warm and solid weight that felt like coming home.

"Eddie," you breathed, reaching up to undo the hair tie that kept his hair behind his head. It fell down over your fingers, and you tangled them in it to pull his face back down to yours.

He kissed you again, slower this time, but no less intense. His hand moved between your legs, fingers finding your heat through the thin barrier of your underwear. You gasped as he began to rub gentle circles over your clit through the material, the friction sending shockwaves through you after so long without him. He groaned, the sound vibrating against your lips.

He broke the kiss, trailing we and open mouthed kisses down your throat, across your collarbone, murmuring your name like a prayer. "Need you, pretty girl," he rasped against your skin. "Need this. Need us."

He was quick to pull off the underwear separating you. His finger immediately finding your slick folds, slipping inside you easily. You whined against his shoulder, the sudden intimacy almost overwhelming after so much time apart. He moved his fingers with a knowing touch, rediscovering your body, relearning what made you gasp and writhe.

Eddie watched your face, his own expression soft with need and tenderness. Seeing your pleasure seemed to ground him, pulling him slowly from the vortex that had been consuming him. He was entirely present in the moment. With you.

"Please, Eds." you gasped out, reaching for the waistband of his jeans, needing to feel him inside you.

He helped you shuck off his jeans and briefs before quickly settling between your legs again. He paused, looking down on you with so much emotion it made your breath catch. Then, with the care and love you'd been so desperately craving, he pushed inside.

Your head fell back against the pillows as you clutched at his shoulders. When he filled you completely, he stayed still for a moment, buried deep; letting you both savor the feeling of reunion, of rightness. His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm on your skin. "I love you." He whispered, making your eyes open slowly to gaze up at him.

"I love you. Always." You promised. He began to move, a slow deep rhythm that felt like worship. One of Eddie's strong hands caught the back of your knee, pushing it back and over his shoulder, his rings cold on your skin.

Each thrust was deliberate, possessive, reclaiming. It wasn't just sex; it was communication, a physical conversation making up for all the static and silence. He poured his longing, his fear, his love into every movement.

You met his rhythm, moving with him, hands exploring the familiar territory of his back, his shoulders, his hair. You kissed him, deeply, fiercely, trying to pour everything back to him, just as he was doing for you. The world outside the hotel room door- the band, the tour, the demands, everything ceased to exist. There was only this bed, this moment, his body moving with yours, the shared breaths, the low groans, and soft cries mingling in the quiet room.

The pace quickened, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, driving your body closer to the head of the bed. There was no hint of exhaustion within him now.

His head dropped onto your chest and between the grunts he kissed your anywhere he could reach.

"Eddie!" you cried out as the climax slammed into you, stealing your breath, making your body arch and convulse around him. Your release triggered his own; with a hoarse cry of your name, he surged into you one last time, finding his own shattering release deep inside you.

Afterward, you lay tangled together, slick with sweat, hearts pounding in unison. He didn't pull away, just collapsed beside you, gathering you into his arms, holding you tightly against his side. He buried his face in your hair, his breathing slowly evening out.

The silence that followed was peaceful, intimate. The fight wasn't over, not really. The distance, the pressures – they were still real challenges you’d have to face. But here, now, wrapped in his arms, the static felt cleared. You had found your way back to each other through the noise.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Thank you for coming," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and emotion. "Needed this. Needed you."

"Me too," you whispered, closing your eyes, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your back. It was the most comforting sound in the world. You didn't know how you'd navigate the coming months, but you knew you'd face it together. The fight wasn't over, but for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel like he was fighting it alone. And right now, that was everything.

[spookcy]

A house I built for my personal gameplay to explore the new pack. Has 3 bedrooms and attached nursery along with an office that can become another room :) There's also a big backyard with the new round pools !

Lot Info:

Placed on the “Avenida de la Eternidad” lot in Ciudad Enamorada

Lot Type: Residential

Lot Size: 30 x 30

Lot Traits: Romantic Aura, Convivial, Great Acoustics

Extra Info:

No CC

You can also find it on the gallery under ID: spookcy

Place with bb.moveobjects on

Tray Files: HERE (google drive) HERE (sfs)

(to add this to your game, download the files, unzip them, then add to your tray folder)