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curiositydooropened · 3 months

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Hell Hound • Part One

Being FWBs with metal rockstar, Eddie Munson, is all fun and games until a dozen red roses show up at your door with a warning: Stay Away from The Devil or you will die. Despite your protests, Eddie appoints his personal bodyguard to keep an eye out for you.

Pairing: bodyguard!Steve Harrington x photographer!Reader, rockstar!Eddie x Reader

Wordcount: 10, 712

Warnings: unrequited love, slowburn, jealousy, angst, hurt/comfort, violence, gore, weapons, fighting, death threats, stalker *This chapter also contains allusions of voyeurism, sex, drinking, recreational drug use, religious elements

This blog is 18+ only. I do not give permission for any of my fics to be duplicated, reposted, or put into AI. Thank you!

Navigation • Masterlist

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Moodboard • Fic Masterlist • Part Two

The interior of the L never looked that beautiful, at least not through Steve’s eyes. Every experience he’d had was tainted by Bears fans or teenagers filming videos on their phone, or God, don’t remind him about St. Patty’s Day. No, the seats were too small for his shoulders, the windows too short, and the whole thing smelled like plastic bags.

Your perspective was vastly different. You were just the right height to catch the sunlight as it filled the train car with that golden glow. The city whirred by, a kaleidoscope of bright lights and reflections off the glass. You positioned poles and handholds just so with satisfying symmetry.

No, the city had never looked as beautiful to him as it had through your lens.

Steve said that to Robin once, and she wretched over the line and made him promise he’d never repeat it to you. He hadn’t, but he’d also never let one of your photos go un-complimented.

He enjoyed the roll of your eyes, the sink of your teeth into your bottom lip as you soaked in the praise and pretended to be shy, to be embarrassed, that you hated your craft.

He’d seen that look dozens of times tonight, timid gratitude that poured out of you and onto every surface in this little gallery space. You’d caught his gaze a handful of times, reassured him with a smile that you were okay, great even, oozing with sheepish pride. He’d just nod and go back to admiring another of your photos.

“You know, we used to live in that apartment…” An elderly woman told you, bony hand clung to your forearm.

“Really? Which one?” You humored her.

“That one, just there, our first year of marriage,” the woman nodded. “Fifth floor.”

“Fourth floor!” Her husband corrected from your other side.

“It was the fifth floor, now don’t argue with me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the man winked at you, and your eyes lit with mischievous delight. You nodded along, conspiratorially while the woman rambled on about the neighbors’ cat meowing and another neighbor practicing saxophone into the wee hours.

“It was so romantic,” she clutched your hand to her chest.

“It was so annoying,” the husband grinned back at you.

Fed up with her husband’s antics, the woman shot him a rueful look. Then, she patted your hand and told you how lovely your work was before asking for the powder room.

When she’d been properly directed, her husband leaned to your ear and asked how much for the photo.

Steve lingered nearby, waiting for the transactional handshake before he stepped in. “Mind if I inquire about this piece?”

You sucked your cheeks between your teeth and sidled up beside him. His bicep tingled where your skin brushed. “What questions do you have about this one?”

“Where was it taken?”

You shot him a look, and he tried not to let the smile split his face. The photo you were currently staring at was a portrait of a mom and daughter looking at their reflection in The Bean.

“How’s it going?” He elbowed you, glancing once more around the room at the patrons to your first gallery showing. He’d agreed to come run point for your opening, soft-pitching the idea for Munson to hit out of the park.

“Amazing,” you sighed, the delight on your face swooping at his stomach.

“Told you.” He grinned, and you swatted his arm and told him to shut up. He really could watch you for hours, the micro-expressions on your face prettier than any photo you could take, though your talent came up a close second.

“I thought he couldn’t make it,” you gasped, staring just past Steve’s shoulder and out the gallery’s front window.

Steve blinked once, twice. The rapid flash of headlights cast your cheekbones in shadow. He spun on his heel to find his employer and friend, Eddie Munson, slipping out of the backseat of a tinted-windowed SUV. He cursed under his breath and excused himself, shouldering through a confused crowd to meet the rockstar at the door.

“Harrington,” Eddie pushed his sunglasses through his curls, pupils blown, and flashed a wolfish grin.

“Thought you couldn’t make it.” Steve responded, glancing down alleyways for any paparazzi. He knew once Eddie was spotted in public, they’d come in droves.

“And miss this? Nah, wouldn’t dream of it, Sugar.”

You’d followed Steve out into the rain, slipping through party guests to greet Eddie. The rockstar wrapped studded-leather arms around your slender waist and greeted you with something salacious whispered into your ear. Steve knew because of the shocked look stretched over beautiful features, and the way you’d swatted at Eddie’s shoulder as if he’d said something bad enough to curl your toes.

“We should get inside,” Steve grit his teeth. “Don’t want to alert the paps.”

“Come on, Sugar,” Eddie dipped into a low bow to let you enter first. “Give me the grand tour.”

—

“I think I’ll buy all the ones left,” Munson quipped with a lazy arm tugging you back into his chest.

You snorted, and shook your head. “Then no one else will be able to buy them, which is kind of the point of a gallery.” You gestured around at the carefully placed frames on carefully designed walls.

“Well, good. Maybe I want you all to myself.”

Steve’s eyes ached to roll. He collected plastic flutes and discarded trays of half-eaten vegetables and tossed them into large, black garbage sacks.

“Are you coming over tonight?”

“I just had my gallery opening,” you barked a laugh, pulling away to help Steve with the table you were leaning on. “I need to sleep.”

“You need to celebrate,” Eddie rationed, tugging you back into him. You yelped, your thumb going into a rogue slice of cake. With waggled brows, Eddie pulled your thumb into his mouth, licking it clean.

Steve thought he might be sick. He turned his back and held open the bag in front of him, just in case. Unfortunately, he could still make out your reflection in the windows out front. Your meticulously picked-out slacks hugged your curves, and Munson’s ringed fingers slipped over the breadth of your backside to squeeze you closer to him.

“Anything else you need help with?” Steve’s voice tasted awkward, a little too loud, too scratchy.

You separated from Eddie and dumped your haul into Steve’s bag. “I think that’s it. Thank you for everything, Steve. Really. And I’m serious about paying you.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening.” He said, twisting the bag closed with a knot.

You shot him another look and said, “Eddie, tell Steve to let me pay him.”

“You don’t take money from her, you don’t take money from me, pal.”

Steve did roll his eyes this time, and glared over your shoulder at the rockstar zipping and unzipping his leather jacket. “Yeah, we have a contract, dumb ass.”

“I’ll have my lawyer sue your lawyer.”

“Your lawyer is my lawyer.”

Eddie grinned. “He’s got me there, Sug.”

You scoffed and snatched the bag from Steve’s hand. “Fine, I’ll have to come up with some other way to repay you.”

Steve was thankful for mood lighting and the late hour. His face heated another twenty or so degrees, and he scratched at the hairs prickling on the back of his neck. “Eds, you need me to call you a car?”

“Would you mind, Stevie-dearest? Sugar, I gotta take a piss. Care to show me the can in this place?” Eddie stood up and adjusted the crotch of his tight jeans for show.

“You’re a class act, Eddie Munson. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” You gripped the hefty garbage bag in one hand and took Eddie’s hand in your other as you led him back into the office space of the warehouse. Before the heavy door closed, both of you made eyes at Steve, one friendly, the other randy.

Steve’s stomach churned, and he pulled out his phone to call a car.

Working with Eddie had been tedious, but simple. Call him a car, shield him from paparazzi and groping fans alike, bring him his hangover cure breakfast, ask beautiful women to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement before his plethora of one-night stands.

You were the toughest pill to swallow, a beautiful girl at a hometown gig.

Hometown gigs meant rowdy afterparties, venue-catered alcohol and executive-catered drugs. It meant too-lax security checkpoints and easily-bribed security detail, and after months on the road, Steve wasn’t in the mood for anyone’s bullshit. So he posted himself at the Green Room door, one eye on the metal detector, one eye on the front man who’d hired him, and prayed the ache between his shoulders would go away soon. Eight more hours and he’d be at home in bed for a long awaited and much needed vacation.

Eddie was two water bottles in, and his hand still trembled when he introduced himself to some recording mogul.

Steve snapped his fingers at some kid and told him quickly to hand Munson another bottle of water and get him a towel.

When the items had been delivered to a thankful rockstar, Steve turned back to the collection of items being tossed into plastic trays on the outside of the metal detector: a cell phone, keys with a neon carabiner, a leather wallet, a DSLR.

“Whoa, whoa,” he stopped the attendant from picking up the camera. “There’s no press on the guest list.”

“No press, just freelance,” you said from across the metal threshold. You wore a well-loved leather jacket, softened and faded with time and an expression that toed the line between compliance and try me.

Steve swallowed, shook the stars from his eyes, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Sorry, this is a camera-free zone.”

You narrowed your eyes for a moment before stepping back over the threshold and against the current of waiting party-goers to fiddle with the camera.

“Here,” you cupped something in an outstretched hand, waiting patiently for Steve to accept whatever gift you had to offer.

With caution, he accepted the tiniest of SD cards, bright blue.

“Call it insurance?” You smiled, tongue behind your canine in a way that made him itch under the collar. “Find me before I leave and give it back?”

Munson had found you first, dragging Steve with clammy hands to meet his “dream girl”. He gave the signal for Steve to start pulling up the contract on his phone as he made his way down a long, concrete hallway.

You hadn’t flinched, just cocked a brow and signed your name on the dotted line with a, “Thanks, Steve. Have a great night.”

He kept your SD card. He didn’t even tell Robin that it rested on the corner of his dresser next to a picture of Dustin on his graduation day.

He assumed he’d never see you again, but Munson had grown a fondness for you, and soon you were a regular part of Chicago meet-ups. Every hometown gig became a room full of you.

Steve heard giggling from the office, that soft melodic bounce of your laugh against the bass of Eddie’s voice. This was the worst of it, catching you two in compromising positions around parties or Eddie’s ornate penthouse, and pretending like it didn’t kill him inside that it wasn’t him with his hands on you, making you laugh, smelling the warmth of your throat.

His phone buzzed in his hand.

Robin: How was the gallery opening? Did you tell her you’re in love with her yet? We on for our FaceTime date tonight?

Steve: Eddie showed up. Yup. See you in 10 hours.

Robin: Shit. I just sent you money. Buy yourself a fifth and we’ll drink it together.

A car rolled up outside, blinding him with strong headlights.

“Munson, car’s here!” He called, praying you could both hear him.

There was the shuffle of a few things in the back, and with the clack of Eddie’s boots, you both returned. You looked a little more windswept than before, and Eddie’s sunglasses has been pulled back over his eyes, despite it being nearly midnight.

“Steve,” you breathed, approaching him with arms outstretched for a friendly embrace. “Thanks again for all of your help tonight. You have no idea how much it means to me.”

He gave the tightest squeeze he could under supervision and let your hand fall into his to give you one more gentle squeeze. “Anytime. It was really no problem. Do you need a ride home?”

You shook your head, smile wedged between your teeth. “I guess Eddie wore me down.”

“Yeah I will.” He snorted, and you shushed him.

Steve nodded and started for the door. “Cool. Well, have fun, you two. Be safe.”

“Thanks, man,” Eddie knocked knuckles with his friend, rings sharp against Steve’s scarred fists. “I’ll call tomorrow.”

Steve swallowed and glanced over his shoulder to bid you one last, weak smile.

You waggled you fingers, and he stepped out into the cool night air.

—

“You are the most embarrassing person I know in real life.” Even Robin in lag was brutal.

Steve sipped his coffee and rubbed at tired eyes. He hadn’t slept much. Mostly, he scrolled and wondered exactly what you and Eddie were getting up to, wondered why it wasn’t him.

“You asked if she needed a ride home?”

“I was being polite,” he grumbled. He took a banana off its tree and began to peel. They had all begun to brown.

“You’re so sweet, Stevie. Like a little lost puppy dog.”

“Oh fuck off, Robin. Remember you and that girl in Buchapest?”

“Bucharest,” she corrected his pronunciation. “And she was merely a fleeting crush.”

“You cried over her for like three weeks.” He shot his best friend a look over the screen.

The lighting was horrible in her Istanbul flat, internet connection worse. Steve told her he’d pay for anything better, but she argued that he needed to quit babying her and let her live the nomadic experienced she’d always dreamed of.

“Okay, okay,” her connection stuttered in and out, face pixelated as she ducked out of frame and back. “So you’re going to be alone forever. That’s not so bad.”

“At least I have you.” Steve nodded, mouth full of squishy sweet banana.

He nearly choked when his phone began to ring in his hand, your name and photo popping up on the display screen. “Robin, it’s her.”

“What?”

“She’s calling me.” He held his phone to the camera on his laptop to prove a point.

“Speaker phone!” Robin squeaked.

With a sigh, he answered, phone pressed to his ear to respect your privacy. Robin glared.

“Hello?”

“Steve?” The worry in your voice had his heart kicking up in his throat.

“What’s wrong?”

Robin echoed his sentiments until he snapped his fingers and put his finger to his lips to quiet her.

“Nothing, it’s um… could you… are you busy?”

“Nope. Not busy at all,” he said. Robin threw a silent fit on her end. “What’s going on?”

“Could you just… come down to the gallery? I need your help with something.”

“Yeah,” he frowned, walked the rest of his banana to the garbage can. “Like, later today?”

“Or right now. Could you come right now? As soon as possible?”

His stomach dropped to his feet. “Yes. Yes, I will be right there. Keep the door locked until I get there.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

He hung up and rushed to the door to get his shoes on. His keys and wallet were in his pocket before he heard another voice echo throughout his kitchen.

“Harrington!? Hello!? Earth to Dingus!”

“Shit,” he sidled up to his laptop. “Robin, I am so sorry.”

She managed a knowing smirk and a laggy nod. “Yeah, you owe me, big time Harrington. Text me everything that happens.”

“I love you,” he agreed.

“See you next week!”

“In real life!” He hung up before she had a chance to blabber on, and he was out the door.

—

The worry etched across your beautiful features was devastating.

Steve yearned to wrap you into his arms and promise he’d protect you, to kiss the frown lines from between your brows, to tickle at your ribs until you smiled again.

Instead, he stood three feet away, inspecting a bouquet of three dozen red roses that had been delivered to the gallery that morning with a note attached.

Roses are Red

Beauty is You

Stay away from the Devil

Before he kills you

A printed photograph was pinned to the card, a pap photo from a gala you and Eddie had attended together a few weeks ago. Eddie’s shoulders were squeezed into a rhinestoned blazer, flash reflecting off his sunglasses. Devil horns and a tale had been crudely drawn over his features in red ball point pen. You stood beside him, hand-in-hand, curves standing out in a black silk dress. One small strap was dangling off your shoulder. The same pen was used to etch slash marks through your exposed throat, so hard it had ripped through the page.

“Is this… like Eddie wouldn’t do this, right?” Your voice shook, hand trembling against your cheekbone. You balled a tissue into your fist.

“No! God no,” Steve ran a hand through his hair. “I mean, Jesus, I hope not.” He muttered under his breath. “Have you called him?”

You shrugged, nodded. “I tried, and texted. He was still asleep when I left.”

Steve cleared his throat with a nod, remembering you’d gone home with the rockstar. You probably slipped out of black silk sheets and into the black and grey marbled shower. You probably toed around in front of the massive high-rise window, searching for various garments that had been removed on every inch of the house. Maybe you’d made yourself a latte, with a splash of lavender like you like it, wearing an oversized black hoodie that smelled of weed and cigarettes and some cologne Steve couldn’t afford.

“I can try again,” you fished your phone from your back pocket and dialed.

Steve plucked the card from the roses for any indication of a delivery service or floral company, but the card was blank, ivory, high-quality. “Who delivered these?”

“Old guy, balding, green vest,” you shrugged.

Steve nodded.

“Hey, Sugar,” Eddie’s voice rasped over speaker. “S’matter. Did you leave something here, or d’you just miss me?”

“No, um…” You changed your balance from one foot to the other. “Eds, did you send me roses?”

“Fuck, you want me to eat you out and send you roses?” The rockstar chuckled.

Steve swallowed and didn’t dare look at you directly. He felt the heat radiating off of you as you frantically turned off speaker-phone and held the device to your ear, covering your face with a hand.

“No, babe, Jesus. I got a delivery of roses today with a um…” Your voice trembled again.

Steve brushed delicate fingers to your arm and held out his hand to take the phone.

You gave it willingly.

“Eddie, hey,” Steve sighed.

“Harrington? What is going on? Am I still asleep?”

“No, dude, she called me when she couldn’t get ahold of you. Listen, there’s this big bouquet of roses here with a death threat attached. You didn’t have anything to do with this, right? It’s not some kind of prank?”

“A death threat? What do you mean? A prank? Jesus, how shitty of a person do you think I am? Is she okay? I’m coming down there.”

Steve winced around the shuffle of bedsheets and the sound of Eddie clomping around his bedroom.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, dude. Here, let me send you a picture.”

Steve took his own phone out to take and send a photo, rifling past a barrage of text messages from Robin.

You’d propped yourself on the reception desk, eyes darting between the flowers and outside. The morning light poured in, hollowing your cheekbones and painting your walls pink.

Steve reached for your elbow, running his thumb over the bit of skin there to pull your focus back.

You offered a sheepish smile and squeezed his wrist.

“Oh what the fuck?” Eddie yelled through the phone, startling you both.

“Yeah, it’s bad,” Steve agreed, rubbing at tired eyes.

“Is she okay? Let me talk to her. Wait, Harrington, do you think it’s Carver?”

Steve’s blood ran cold.

Jason Carver was a religious zealot from a small town with a vendetta for Eddie Munson and “demons like him”. Two years ago, his army of his cronies marched to a Corroded Coffin show in Milwaukee and set the place on fire. They managed to get everyone out of the bar before the roof collapsed. More Molotovs were thrown before the cops arrived.

Since Carver wasn’t in attendance and denied any involvement in inciting the riot, he received a slap on the wrist and no jail time. The band did manage an airtight restraining order, but Steve doubted that looped in contact with Munson’s hook-ups.

He cursed under his breath.

“Yeah, fuck is right. Let me talk to her. Don’t let her leave your sight. I’ll pay you triple if I have to. Twenty-four hour surveillance. You hear me?”

“Don’t worry about the cash, man,” Steve shook his head. “I won’t leave her. I’m going to call the delivery company and see if they can give me any more information on the purchase, and then I’ll call Joyce and see if she can’t get her written into the restraining order.”

“Thank you, man. I want you to take her home to get her stuff and then bring her over here. If it is him, he can’t get to her here.”

Steve hated that he was right.

“Put her on for me. Thanks again, bro.”

With a resigned sigh, Steve slipped the phone back into your trembling hands.

He overheard Eddie’s tone slip into something softer, “Sugar, how’re you doing? Are you alright? I’m so so sorry this happened to you, my sweet girl.”

You gave Steve’s hand one more squeeze before you wandered off across the gallery for some privacy in your phone call.

Steve opened his browser to began searching for the delivery company’s number with a pit in his stomach and an unfillable ache in his chest.

—

Robin: OMFG that’s so scary. Is she ok? Are you ok? Is Eddie ok? I’m going to be there in a week, plz don’t get murdered.

—

Your keys clicked in the lock, and you toed open the door to your little apartment. Light poured in through large windows, casting warmth on the small space that the dark hallway hid. You stepped in first, and Steve followed with trepidation.

He’d never been to your house, and when he walked over the threshold, he was overpowered by how you it felt. The whole place smelled of you, of your shampoo and the perfume you spritz on special nights. Your little kitchen table was scattered with stacks of old mail and rolls of film. A laptop sat open on a squishy futon sofa. Beneath your television were a handful of films he knew you loved.

“How long um… how much should I pack?” You squinted, pinching at the bridge of your nose. “I’m sorry,” you sighed. “This is a lot, and I don’t know how to handle it.”

Once again, he felt the ache to pull you into him, to whisper sweet words into your hair. Instead he gestured to a bar stool. “Take a seat. Take a breath. I’m going to check the house, if that’s alright.”

He winced as your face flooded with realization, and fear.

“It’s probably fine. I just want to be safe.” He tried to sound nonchalant, shoving his hands into his pockets.

You swallowed, nodded, gestured for him to go ahead. “Sorry it’s a mess.”

He waved you off with a knowing smile and started down the hallway, relieved when he turned to see you sitting as instructed. You’d been on your feet all day, making arrangements with the gallery owners to have someone take your shift for the evening and tomorrow. When you weren’t on the phone or emailing buyers, you were staring out the windows, a far-off gaze in your eye. You held that now, looking down your living room windows at the busy downtown street below.

Steve took the first door to the left and found a small bathroom. Some tiles in the corner were cracked, and the sink was scattered with the remnants of a makeup bag, a toothbrush. The bathtub’s curtain was pulled back to reveal a loofah dangling from the faucet.

Your bedroom waited at the end of the hall. His fingertips pushed the door open, breath shallow, face warm.

Sage green linens were crumpled on your bed with three overstuffed pillows. Dirty clothes littered your floor in piles leading to and from the closet. That black satin dress topped an armchair, the strap snapped.

Steve swallowed.

A hefty dresser sat to the right of the door, the top scattered with trinkets and photographs. He was surprised to find his own image scowling back at him, arms crossed, black t-shirt on, leaning against a concrete wall. The sun hit him just so, framing his eyes like a superhero mask, the rest of him cast in shadow. God, all of the world really was better through your lens.

“All clear?” Your soft voice startled him.

He cleared his throat, cheeks warm, to find you at the doorway, hugging your arms to yourself. He smiled. “Clear. I’ll just wait in the front room.” He gestured to slip past you.

“Actually, do you mind hanging out? It’ll only take a second.” You gestured for him to sit on the bed before you scampered about your room, picking up the dirty clothes and depositing them into the hamper.

He remained standing in the doorway, arms crossed like they were in the photo. “Get enough for a couple of days if you want, but we’re going to get this figured out.”

You wore your anxiety like a jacket, hunched shoulders and furrowed brow, a shell of the vibrant woman he knew.

He took a few steps forward, halting your frantic shoving of clothes in a backpack.

You blinked back up at him, eyes wide, hands trembling.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

You laughed then, a manically sound that didn’t meet your eyes. “Steve, am I just insane? Or stupid? Am I the dumbest person in the entire world?”

“What?” He tried not to focus on the way your hair haloed around your face, light pouring in through gossamer curtains.

“I knew the novelty of sleeping with a rockstar would wear off eventually, but I was thinking like he’d cheat on me with a super model or maybe I’d get a curable STD, but not this.” It was the most you’d spoken all day, your old self sinking back into your voice.

Steve smiled, itched at the back of his neck, shrugged. “Eddie’s a very charming man.”

You rolled your eyes. “I mean, okay, Eddie’s good, but he’s not death-threats good.”

Steve felt a little surge of excitement at this knowledge, maybe a bit of competition sparking in him again. “Sure, but he’s a good guy. He really likes you.”

“I think he calls me ‘Sugar’ because he forgot my real name and got too embarrassed to ask.”

Your confession had Steve’s jaw on the floor, and when you laughed, he felt light as air. This time your laugh met your eyes, met your mouth, your cheeks. You swatted at his chest.

“Steve, you were supposed to tell me that’s not true.”

Steve snickered and merely shrugged.

“Ugh, I’m so stupid.” You pushed past him and to the bathroom to start collecting your toiletries. The anxiety was temporarily snuffed and replaced with the ease of routine, of being in your space surrounded by your things, and Steve felt himself relax a bit knowing you were comfortable.

—

Joyce: Got it taken care of, sweetheart. Hop says he’ll file a report and to let him know if you need an extra hand. Dinner next weekend? Steak and potatoes? Take care of yourself.

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—

Munson pulled his ragged hair up into a bun with a hair tie he kept around his wrist. Steve often wondered if it was yours, or if the rockstar pulled it from the locks of some groupie on the road, long nights spent in truck stops and blues houses. The tie had lost some elasticity over the years, and tendrils managed to fall into the man’s eyes, and even still, he looked cool, casual, calm.

He was anything but calm. His knee bounced as he took a glass of water from Steve filled for him. “What did I do wrong, man?”

Steve sighed and sat across from him, back to massive windows overlooking the city lights. He kept his mouth shut, not wanting to be caught in the middle of this tiff you were having.

“I mean, I just want to keep her safe. I’m the one that got her in this mess in the first place.” Eddie extended an inked arm toward his bedroom door. You’d been in there for over an hour now, having excused yourself to bed for the night.

You’d made a point that you were going to bed alone.

“Should I not have told her how I feel?”

Steve pinched at this bridge of his nose, eyes tired and struggling to focus in a room of black velour upholstery and gold trim.

The spat started when Eddie informed you he’d booked your ticket to join him in England for the next few months while Corroded Coffin records their next album. It ended when Eddie, on bended knees, hands gripping your ribcage, told you he loved you.

Steve watched the entire exchange awkwardly from the kitchen, trying to blend in with white marble countertops.

Apparently, today was a day for firsts. He’d never seen you as nervous as he had in the gallery that morning, and he’d never seen you as angry. You were the silent type, but he felt the rage radiating off of your frame, the clench of your jaw, the subtle brush of Eddie’s hands from your waist.

He caught your gaze when you exited the room, and your demeanor shifted to apologetic, embarrassed maybe. He managed a tight-lipped smile and a wave.

“Harrington,” Eddie snapped his fingers. “Come on, you’re good with women, right? Help me out.”

Steve snorted. He’d been good with women, sure, but not since you waltzed into his life with your SD card and that smirk.

“How do we make up?” Munson’s shoulders were hunched, face fraught with worry.

With another drawn out sigh, Steve shrugged. “Give her space, man. She had a really scary day. You remember your first death threat, right? She needs time to process and not for you to demand she be shipped off to another country for two months.”

Eddie nodded, too much, too exuberantly. “Okay, okay. You’re right. That makes sense. I just…” He lowered his voice. “I just don’t want to lose her.”

That emotion, Steve understood. It was a fear that prickled at the base of his neck anytime Eddie winked at another girl in the front row, anytime he had his arms looped over two women backstage, anytime his phone sat on the coffee table between them with Sugar blowing up the notifications, neglected. Didn’t Eddie know what he had in you?

“We won’t.” He shook his head.

Eddie nodded. “You’re a good man, Steve Harrington. I’m sure going to miss you.”

Steve frowned at that, arms crossed over his chest. “Miss me? The hell are you talking about?”

“When I’m in England,” Eddie explained, reaching forward for the tin lunch box he kept tucked under the coffee table. The lid hid the glass with a clang, and he reached in for rolling papers, a lighter, and a ziplock bag full of weed.

“Are you firing me?” Steve wasn’t following.

Munson snorted, rolled a neat joint, licked it closed. “Harrington, it’s a good thing you’re pretty.”

Steve warmed, as he often did when someone complimented him, and frowned. “Cut the crap. What’re you talking about?”

“You’re going to stay here, with her.” He nodded your direction and lit up, flame glowing in big, brown eyes while he took a drag. He held onto it for a minute, shoulders going slack, knee stopping its bounce. He tilted his head against the back of the couch and released a large billow of smoke skyward, casting the room in a sickly sweet haze.

“She’s right, man,” he continued. “It’s not fair of me to take her from her gallery. She worked too hard for this.”

He sat up, offered the joint to his friend. Steve declined, head already starting to spin.

Eddie shrugged and took another hit. “I need you to protect her.”

Steve nodded. That was the easiest thing his friend had ever asked him to do.

“While I’m away, think you could do me another favor?

More smoke billowed from the man’s pink lips, that familiar Munson charm tugging at the corners of his mouth until his teeth were bared in that irresistible grin he was so famous for. He leaned forward then, gesturing for Steve to meet him at the center of the coffee table.

Steve leaned forward, and then a little more when the gesturing didn’t stop, rolling his eyes. “What now?”

Eddie’s smile fell to something far more serious, concern etched in his features, Adam’s apple bobbing, eyes big like a baby deer in the headlights. Steve had only seen him this scared a handful of times. “I need you to use those killer wingman skills of yours to make her fall in love with me.”

Steve’s mouth almost fell open. He had to clench his jaw to keep from doing so, blinking across the six-inch gap at his friend. He could taste the weed on the other boy’s lips, the sweat off his brow.

“Please, man. I can’t lose her.”

—

Robin: You said yes!? How much do you actually hate yourself, Harrington?

Steve: You don’t want me to answer that, do you?

Robin: Was it the baby deer eyes?

Steve: Obviously.

Steve thanked Becky at the front desk with a wink, desperate the ego stroke he got every time she smiled at him like he hung the moon on a string.

Mood boosted, he balanced the coffee order in one hand and his phone in the other and ducked into the nearest elevator that would take him to the penthouse.

Steve: What do we think of Front Desk Becky?

Robin: You leave that sweet girl out of this.

Sufficiently deflated by his wise best friend, Steve keyed in the code to Eddie’s penthouse and let himself back in. Your sneakers remained on the entry rug, camera bag discarded on a nearby table.

Eddie’s bedroom door was open, satin sheets crumpled and pillows stacked to accommodate one. Upon quick glance, the ceiling mirror reveled the room to be empty.

Steve frowned. He hoped he hadn’t woken you.

He pressed forward down the hall and into the open living space, setting the cardboard coffee carrier on the kitchen island before turning to find you pressed against the glass, silhouetted in pink morning sunlight. Eddie’s face was buried into your neck, hands unseen, and your eyelids were heavy, pink lips bowed in ecstasy.

Steve froze. He knew he should look away, leave the room, make a noise, but his gaze lingered on the soft skin of your thigh hitched up Eddie’s leg, the curve of your calf, the point of your toe.

He could hear his heartbeat thundering, breath held, desperate not to make a sound or to scream and run.

Eddie dipped to his knees, mouth finding purchase lower on your chest.

Steve caught your gaze. Your eyes widened, and you shoved Eddie away from you and scrambled to cover bare skin with an oversized black hoodie.

“Steve,” you breathed, and Jesus it was dizzying. “I’m so sorry. I thought you left.” You pulled the hoodie down in a vain attempt at covering your thighs, looking everywhere but at the bodyguard in the kitchen.

He felt his own face warm, tapping fingertips to the countertops. His throat felt tight, a loss for words. His pants felt tighter.

“I ordered us coffee, Sugar,” Munson recovered the quickest, taking your hand to help himself off the floor and lead you into the kitchen.

You resisted his pull, taking a few steps back to say, “I’m going to get ready.”

“Need help?” Eddie waggled his eyebrows, grinning like a dog. Steve tried to ignore how wet the man’s lips looked.

You shook your head, venturing a glance Steve’s direction and looking immediately away when you were caught. Then you slunk off back to the bedroom from whence you came.

When he finally heard the click of the door, Steve frowned at his employer. “Guess I should’ve knocked.”

Eddie waggled his brows at Steve, too, taking his cup from the carrier and managing a sip.

Steve was ready with an ice water to cool the man’s burned tongue. “Does this mean you made up?”

Eddie shook his head fervently, tonguing at his water like a dog. “Hell no. She told me she’s going to the gallery today because, and I quote, she ‘can’t be held hostage in this velvet prison forever’.”

Steve grinned over his own steaming coffee and shrugged in commiseration to his friend.

Eddie nodded, took a gentler sip of his own coffee this time. “Had to shut her up when she started telling me to ‘have fun in the UK’ and maybe I should look up some old friends while I’m there.”

Steve swallowed and nodded. “I mean, Lizzie.”

“Don’t make me pin you to that window, Harrington,” the rockstar warned, inked finger extended with a scowl.

Steve followed his point to the window, wherein he could just make out the smudges of four distinct handprints, two much smaller than the others. There was also the faintest of smudges where your ass had been pressed against the glass. Steve coughed at the saliva gathering in his mouth.

“Eds?” You called upon reentry, voice echoing off concrete floors. “I’m leaving. I’ll… call you or something.” You were dressed and you had a tube of lipgloss in your hand, uncorked.

Eddie scrambled for you, scooping you up in his arms.

You stiffened, glancing up at the bodyguard keeping watch in the corner.

Steve swallowed, made himself look busy.

“Sugar, Steve’s going to keep an eye on you, just until we figure this death threat thing out, okay?” Eddie cleared the hair from your face.

Steve glanced back up to see you roll your eyes.

“I don’t need a babysitter. No offense, Steve.” You held a hand up to him.

“He’s not a babysitter,” Eddie snapped, “and he’s going to keep you safe. I can’t lose you. You hear me?” He pulled your gaze back to him, cupping your small jaw in large hands. “I love you.”

“Eddie,” you winced, tugging at his wrists.

The rockstar dropped his hands, shoulders hunched in defeat, and he turned to give Steve a pleading look before he turned back to you. “Alright, Sug. I’ll see you in two months. I’ll call as often as I can.”

“Okay,” you nodded and allowed him to press a sweet kiss to your lips.

—

Your lipstick stained the lid of your lavender latte, peachy pink. Your nails were freshly manicured for the gallery opening, and you always wore that delicate gold ring on your middle finger.

You set your cup on the countertop and didn’t look up from your laptop to say, “If you’re bored, you don’t have to stay here. I promise I’ll tell Eddie I never left your sight.”

Steve smiled over his own cup. “I’m not bored.” To appear occupied, he settled onto the desk behind yours and pulled out his phone.

The first image on his feed was yours, something you’d managed to snap of the old woman and her husband from the opening. They stared at the portrait of their apartment building, hand-in-hand, and you’d taken it at just the right instant, when the husband was smiling down at his wife.

Mr. and Mrs. Edgar Jones • Chicago

The gallery opening was everything I’d ever hoped for. Thank you to all sponsors and patrons who attended and to everyone who helped pull this together. If you’d like to check out my work, please drop by the gallery and say hello.

Steve hummed to himself, double-tapping, and typed a comment.

sharrington: Best gallery opening I’ve been to.

“Steve,” you scolded, “quit commenting on my shit. I’m standing right here.” It was the first smile he’d seen since yesterday.

“Oh, sorry,” he grinned, crossing his arms over his chest again to say, “Yours was the best gallery opening I’ve been to.”

That beautiful smile tugged even higher on your cheeks, despite your eye roll. “It was the only gallery opening you’ve been to.”

“You don’t know that,” he feigned offense.

You cocked a brow, bursting his facade until you were both snickering a laugh.

“Okay, but come on,” he pushed himself off the desk and strolled out into the open gallery. Egg shell white walls were naturally lit by skylights and the fourth glass wall of the small space. “This place was packed with people obsessed with your work, myself included.”

“Yeah?” You smiled, but remained behind the shelter of your desk. “Which one’s your favorite?”

A bubble of giddy excitement kicked in his chest, and he turned to face your artwork. The sunlight reflecting off the lake was good, the streak of streetlights in the rain, a collection of big, red brick buildings: all of these were his favorite. You’d managed to capture his city in unique and beautiful ways.

He pointed at each one and glanced back to see you shaking your head, eyes brightening and mouth failing to hide that smile.

Finally, he found that photo of the L he was admiring that night and wrapped his knuckles near it. “This one. You managed to capture no plastic bags.”

You rolled your eyes, but let his gesture pull you from your desk. “You can’t see it, but there was one caught around my ankle when I took the shot.”

Steve laughed. “Now that’s something I’d pay to see.”

You sucked your cheeks in a pout and glanced down the row at all of your photos, your accomplishments on display. “Steve,” you muttered. “Can I… vent for a second?”

“Of course,” he nodded, turning to face you, giving you his undivided attention.

You turned your body toward him as well, hands tucked under your arms. “It’s about Eddie.”

Steve felt his brow raise, but he nodded, miming the zip of his lips and extending you the key.

You chewed around another smile and extended your hand for him to place the invisible key into and wrapped your beautiful fingers around it. Then, you looked back at your photograph and chewed on your words.

Steve leaned forward to catch your gaze, pull your focus back on him.

You sighed, shrugged. “It’s just… Eddie’s used to having women fall at his feet and do whatever he says, isn’t he?”

Steve tried to keep his expression stoic, but it was hard when he thought of all the bras he’d kicked off of a stage, all of the groupies Eddie fingered in the wings, all of the women he’d had to call a ride share for to ensure they got home safely, too wobbly on their legs to drive.

You barked a laugh. “I know he is because I’m one of them.” You didn’t seem amused.

Steve frowned, shook his head. You deserve more credit than that. You weren’t like the others, not by a long shot.

“He came to my opening, right? He saw how important this was to me. Hell, he told you to help me run it because he had faith in me that it was going to be big.” You gestured around wildly as you spoke, frustration building in your tone. “And yet, he expects me to just pack up everything and fly to England for two months?”

Steve swallowed, chewing on his own words now.

“I know, it’s because he’s worried about me, and I do appreciate that, but it’s also like… I feel like he didn’t know what he had in me until he saw me get spooked, and now he’s trying to lock me down.” You frowned. “I can’t be broken. I’m not a horse.”

Steve nodded.

You paused a moment longer before looking into his eyes again. “If I ask you something, you promise to be honest with me?”

He nodded again, slowly. He’d do anything for you.

“Do you think he’s really in love with me?”

Steve’s heart shattered at the hope that lingered in your voice. He swallowed, remembered his promise to Eddie, and nodded.

You let out another strained laugh, as though you couldn’t believe it, and centered yourself before asking another. “Do you think he’s going to sleep with other women while he’s away?”

Again, Steve steeled himself with a deep breath, and shook his head. Eddie wouldn’t if he knew what was good for him, and what was good for him was you.

You cocked a brow, unbelieving of this answer, and toyed with another question in your mind for a moment. “Do you think I should go with him to England?”

Steve furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head, gesturing around at your beautiful gallery. Two months with Eddie Munson wasn’t worth giving all of this up. If he was serious, and he really did love you, he’d prove it to you when he got back.

Your lips ticked upwards at that answer. “Hey, this zipped-lip Steve thing is kind of fun. I should have made you shut up a long time ago.”

Steve rolled his eyes and snorted at your delight.

You reached your hands out to grab his, swinging them back and forth between the two of you. Your hands were warm and and small and soft. “Hey, Steve, is there something you really, really want to tell me, but can’t? Because you can, you know.” You smirked. “This is a safe space. We’re all friends here.”

Sunlight poured in through the windows, casting your face in a golden glow. Your eyes sparkled, cheeks round, lips that soft, peachy pink.

There were so many things he wanted to say to you, he didn’t know where to start. So he caressed the backs of your hands with his thumbs and nudged you ever-closer.

The toes of your sneakers touched. Your eyelashes batted. You tilted your face skyward to look up at him. You licked your lips.

God, he wished he could kiss you. He wished he could taste the lavender of your latte and the length of your throat. He wished he could press you to the glass and let the world know you were his. He wished he could tell you every day for the rest of his life how beautiful you are, how talented you are, how perfect you are.

The smile fell from your face. You released one of his hands to brush hair from his forehead.

He held his breath.

You searched his gaze for something, your own features filled with worry, and you nodded. “You’re really scared about this Jason Carver guy, huh?”

Steve blinked. He’d forgotten entirely about the roses, the death threat, the reason he’d been paid to spend time with you, to watch over you, to protect you.

He cleared his throat and looked down at your hand in his. He brushed the back of it again with his thumb. His throat was tight, voice raw. “I just want to keep you safe.”

A bell rang, putting a few feet between you. You adjusted your hair and straightened your top before shooting him a ‘wish me luck’ look and stepping away to greet your newest buyer.

—

Hopper: No leads on that delivery. I’ve got Callahan asking around. Powell’s looking into Carver. Keep me posted on other developments.

Steve tapped nervous fingers to the deli’s glass countertops, craning his neck for a vantage on your gallery windows.

You’d practically forced him out, insisting this was your favorite sandwich place in town and nothing else would suffice. When he offered to pay for delivery, you reminded him how uncomfortable you felt with deliverers right now and promised you’d lock the door behind him. He wished he could have convinced you to join him.

“Dude, we’re going as fast as we can,” the sandwich artist snapped, cutting pastrami into thin slices.

Steve frowned back at him, confused for a moment, before taking his hand from the glass and shoving it into his jeans pocket. “Oh, sorry.” His foot tapped instead.

An 80s love ballad played over the speakers, and the whole place smelled of cold cuts. A small line had formed behind the counter of people going about their day-to-day.

Steve looked at each one of them as a suspect. Though, he was pretty sure Babushka in the headscarf wasn’t eliciting death threats to beautiful girls via three dozen red roses. She felt more like the cast-a-spell type.

He snorted and glanced back out the window just in time to see a black car pull up to the gallery. A man stepped out.

“Forty-five?” The deli employee called out.

Steve took a few steps toward the window, squinting against the glare to see a tall man with white hair approach the glass. He wrapped two knuckles on the front door. You met him there.

“Dude, your sandwiches!” The guy behind the counter called, and Steve cursed, grabbing them with a thanks and a nod.

He glanced up just in time to see you unlocking and opening the gallery door, and he began to run your direction.

“Hey, man! You forgot your pickles! Asshole…”

The wind whipped at his ears, and he nearly ran out in front of a moving vehicle. The driver honked and flipped him off, and Steve waited for him to pass before checking both ways and crossing to get to you again.

He made a mental note of the black car’s license plate: GCCF and swung open the gallery door with a ring of the bell.

The man stood beside you, tall and lanky, with broad shoulders and a haircut that hadn’t changed since the early 70s. He wore a grey suit, and a black tie, and a smile as he admired your photos.

You smiled at Steve from across the space and waved.

Relief warmed Steve’s spine, and he toed to the desktop to place the sandwich bag, careful not to make any noise so he could overhear bits of your conversation.

“That sounds like an amazing opportunity,” you said, even-keeled, though Steve knew you were bursting inside. “I’m honored for the invitation.”

“I’m glad you agree,” the man chuckled. “Your talent really is a gift to this city, and we’ll be proud to display your work in our halls.”

You were beaming. Steve’s stomach flipped.

“Now, our guests usually love to speak with the artists featured in the auction. Are you free Friday evening? Could I coax you to attend?” The man turned to face you now, reaching into his inside pocket for something.

Steve took two steps forward.

The man extended you a small, white slip of paper.

You read it over with a tight-lipped nod. Then you smiled. “I would love to go.”

“Excellent,” the man nodded. “It is black tie. Could I give my assistant the name of a plus-one?”

You swallowed before answering. “Sure, Steve Harrington.”

Steve felt his face warm, and he nearly tripped over a power cord stepping back behind the desk.

The man you were speaking to nodded with a knowing smile and glanced down at his watch. “Well, unfortunately I must be going. I have a lunch meeting to attend. Good timing too, it seems as if your lunch has arrived, and it smells delicious.” He ventured a glance Steve’s direction, and the bodyguard squared his shoulders.

“Thank you so much for dropping by, and for your business. I look forward to the event.” You smiled, extending a hand for the stranger to shake.

He reciprocated your gesture. “Thank you for your work, my dear. It is breathtaking. Expect that deposit by end of day, and we’ll see you Friday evening. Have a great day.”

“You too.”

Steve watched you watch the man walk to the door and get into his car. Your chest was still, breath held until the black car was started and began to drive.

Then, you began to jump up and down, screaming, like a teenaged girl who had just been asked to prom.

Steve frowned, shaking his t-shirt to dry the sweat that clung to his back. “What’s going on?”

You grinned and did an adorable little skip and hop back to your desk, sliding two pieces of paper across for him to read. Then, you broke into the sandwich bag.

Steve peered down at a stark white business card with grey lettering, and a matching invitation.

Martin Brenner

Founder and CEO

Gifted Children of Chicago Foundation

Annual Gala and Live Auction

“So, this guy, Brenner or whatever,” you explained, peeling the parchment paper from your bread, “just came in and bought my entire playground collection. Can you believe it? All nine photos. He said he’s going to hang them in the halls of his school.” The sound that came from your lips exceeded dogs’ hearing in pitch.

Steve bit back a smile to let you continue.

You took a huge bite of your sandwich first, olive oil clinging to the corner of your lips and dripping down the back of your hand.

Steve shook a napkin from the paper bag and handed it to you.

You thanked him, mouth full, and swallowed before mopping your face. “Then he says he wants to offer up another one of my pieces in their annual live auction.”

Steve snapped a photo of the two cards and sent them to his contacts in the police force for some background information, nodding to let you know he was listening.

“Do you own a tuxedo, by the way?” You asked, cheek chipmunked.

Steve frowned back at you. He’d been head of security for Corroded Coffin for upwards of six years. He’d been to more award shows than he could count. Of course he had a tuxedo.

“What?” You feigned innocence, cracking into one of the sodas you’d pulled from the vending machine while you waited for Steve to return. “If you have to be my new bodyguard, I can’t go to this gala alone.”

He sighed and began to neatly unfold his own sandwich, lettuce falling every which way. “Yes, I have a tuxedo.”

“Really?” You grinned. “I should bring my camera.”

He shot you a look. “You going to tell me why you unlocked the door for a random stranger while I was picking up your lunch?”

You swallowed. “He sent me an email?”

Steve maintained eye contact while he popped the tab on his own soda, shoulders squared. He felt like a dad every time he interrogated Eddie for late nights out with no correspondence. The stance didn’t translate well to Robin over text.

“I figured I could take an old man,” you shrugged.

Steve cocked an eyebrow.

You sighed. “Okay, I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.”

Satisfied, for now, Steve took a bite into his sandwich and stared back down at the business card on the tabletop, hoping this guy didn’t have any ties to Carver or whoever it was that sent you that note.

“No pickles?” You frowned, peeking into the mostly empty paper sack.

—

1 Voicemail

Hey, kid. It’s Hopper. Brenner’s one of Chicago elites, but as far as we know he’s harmless. He runs that school for gifted kids. Real pillar of the community type. Could be mob ties, but who the hell in this city doesn’t have mob ties?

Couldn’t find anything on the delivery company, and no florists in town filled orders that big. Something’s definitely off. Powell spoke to Carver’s assistant, but he was out of the office. Keep an eye out.

Joyce wanted me to invite you and the girl to dinner. Stay safe, kid. Let me know if anything else comes up.

Lucas: All safely on the plane and ready for take off. England won’t be the same without you, man. Take care.

Eddie: Ready for take off. Thanks for taking care of my girl, big man. See you in two months.

Robin: You’re sitting in your car watching her apartment? You’re a creep, Harrington. Please tell me you don’t know the color of her bra tonight.

Steve groaned and rubbed at tired eyes.

He hated that he knew your bra was a soft, stone grey. He’d seen the strap slip down your arm. You’d caught it and pushed it back up, mid-conversation with a browser this afternoon.

He glanced up from the glare of his phone at your open front window. He couldn’t see anything substantial from this vantage, just the shadows cast on dimly lit ceilings as you moved around your home.

Maybe Robin was right, maybe he should go home and rest. No more threats had been issued today, that he knew of. You seemed to be less afraid than you were the day before, and with Eddie gone, maybe you weren’t in as much harm as you had been. Still, something gnawed at him.

Steve startled when his phone began vibrating in his hand. Your name, and a photo of you grinning back at him, filled his little car with light. He answered. “Hello?”

“I can see you.”

Steve gulped and shifted to look back up at your window. You stood there in an oversized sweatshirt, waggling your fingers.

“Come inside, please.”

“What?”

“Bring your fedora and binoculars and come on up. I’ll buzz you in.”

You met him at the door in baggy clothes with two glasses of wine in your hand. You waited for him to step out of his shoes and shrug off his jacket before handing him one glass, and then you led him to the little futon propped up into a sofa near a loved coffee table.

A few candles burned, casting everything in flickered shadows. The place smelled of lavender and honey and smoky amber.

“So,” you raised an eyebrow, sipping from your glass. You pulled your legs up to be crossed and tilted yourself to face him. “Tell me about this Carver guy.”

Steve frowned, stretching an arm across the back of the couch to appear comfortable.

“Well, if it’s serious enough that Eddie’s got you staking out my apartment, I need to know who I’m up against.” You frowned, taking another sip from your glass, the legs spilling from your sweet lips and back into the liquid.

Charity events attracted a diverse crowd, metal bands and church groups converging for the greater cause, their own positive PR. Knocked elbows at the start of the night often led to knockouts once the open bar started flowing. The mob made connections and burned bridges and somehow, the world kept turning.

One such event, Steve had eyes on Munson from across the room. The rockstar was flirting with some senator-to-be or another, a good friend of the Obamas, if he remembered correctly. Sinclair had eyes on the other band members at other tables. They all seemed happy, buzzed, low-key despite studded tuxedos.

Steve clocked the approach before Eddie had. A blonde man in a white suit caught sight and B-lined from near the stage.

Steve crossed to intercept him, stopping the young man with two fingers to his chest before he could get around the final linen-covered table. “Can I help you?”

The stranger’s face split in a menacing grin that sent chills down his spine. Never in his life had Steve felt something so cold. All his instincts went on high alert, fight or flight. One fist clenched at his side.

“I was just hoping for a little tête-á-tête with Mr. Munson,” the man gestured a hand out.

Steve dropped his hand, noticing the steel tie pin in the shape of a cross. “He’s busy at the moment, but let me take down your information, and we’ll see if we could find time for you at a later function.”

“Are you his secretary or his babysitter?” Still with the grin, dead between the eyes.

“Why? You looking for a playdate?” Steve squared his shoulders, inches taller than the other man.

“I’m just looking to ask one question.”

“Shoot,” Eddie approached from behind Steve, shoulders squared in the same manner as his bodyguard.

The other man tucked his hand into white jacket, and Steve stuck his hand in front of Eddie, just in case, until Carver retrieved his business card and handed it over. Sleek, white, with grey lettering.

Reverend Jason Carver

Faithful Servant of Christ

“Do you, Mr. Munson, take responsibility for casting yourself and all of your followers to the very depths of Hell to burn for an eternity?”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off of Carver, but he could feel Eddie’s grin growing beside him.

“You’re damn right I do.”

Carver seemed just as pleased with this answer as the rockstar had been. He nodded, an odd twinkle in his eye, and said, “Thank you so much, Mr. Munson. I hope you and your hell hound have a lovely evening.”

That was the one and only time Steve had met the man, and he’ll never forget the weight of his presence.

You’d set your wine glass on the coffee table beside his, and you were curled closer now, frown creasing your sweet brow. “And then he burned that place down in Milwaukee?”

Steve sighed, playing with a loose thread on the futon, fingertips dangerously close to your shoulder. He wished he could sweep your hair back, kiss the crease from your forehead, reassure you he wouldn’t let anything happen to you.

“Well, first, he had all of the funding pulled from that almost-senator, set her up for public exposure, basically ruined her entire life. When asked to comment, he said ‘jezebels and harlots get what they deserve’. Fucking asshole.” Steve scoffed.

There was a far-off look in your eye, like you were considering the weight of those words when compared to you.

Without a second thought, Steve brushed his knuckles against your cheek, pulling your focus back to him. “Hey, you know I’ll never let anyone hurt you, right?”

You surprised him by leaning into his touch, nodding. You released a shaky laugh, your voice caught in your throat. “I was really trying to be brave.”

Steve smiled, and opened his mouth to tell you you were, to tell you you were beautiful, to tell you he’s been in love with you from the moment he met you because you were all of those things.

Your phone began ringing, loud and incessant, a vibration from the coffee table that lit up the room with a photo of Eddie’s face.

You ducked away from Steve’s touch and patted at warmed cheeks, reaching for your phone. “I should probably get this.”

Steve nodded, cleared his throat, reached forward to take a long swig of alcohol. It went down dry.

“I actually think I’ll go to bed.” You silenced your phone and stood up, backing slowly from the living room. “You don’t mind the futon, right? Here are some extra blankets and a pillow.” You gestured toward a little wicker basket beside the sofa. “Use whatever you’d like in the bathroom.”

Steve stood to mirror you, hoping his smile seemed more reassuring than he felt. “Sleep tight. If you need anything…”

You nodded, smiled. “Thank you. Goodnight, Steve.”

“Night.”

Halfway down the hallway, you answered your phone, sweet nothings murmured for someone else.

---

Moodboard • Fic Masterlist • Part Two

[A/N: So yeah, this just kind of... came out of me. It's been cooking since February, but I've sat down like three times over the last week and spewed out 10k. And I got too excited to wait to post it, so here you are. Please give me all your thoughts and feelings. Is bodyguard!Steve my new favorite Steve? Is rockstar!Eddie my new favorite Eddie? Maybe so. xoxoxo]

#steve harrington fic #steve harrington x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fluff #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #bodyguard!steve harrington #rockstar!eddie munson #steve harrington #hell hound wip #hell hound fic

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frenchkisstheabyss · 27 days

Text

♱ ＣｉｔｉｅｓＩｎＤｕｓｔ ♱

♱ Pairings: vampire!hyunlix x chubby!fem!vampire!reader, vampire!bang chan

♱ Genre: vampire au/horror/angst/fluff

♱ Summary: After their lover’s taken by vampire hunters, Hyunjin and Felix are willing to do anything to get her back but finding her is only the beginning of a journey down a twisted, blood soaked path where they find there are much scarier things in the world besides them and the biggest threat of them all may be closer than they think.

♱ Word Count: 3.9k-ish

♱ Warnings: vampires, blood, violence, expressions of pain/loneliness/heartbreak, some fluffy kisses. this chapter’s more emotionally driven than ultra bloody (future chapters will for sure get a lil gory), & that’s all

♱ A/N: I’m literally so nervous posting this. It’s the first fic I’ve written in a while and moody vampires are my happy place so I really hope this finds the people who love them too and you guys enjoy it.

I'm also thanking @anyamaris for giving me the confidence to post my writing and for always taking the time out to read my stuff🖤

A vampire can meet her end in any manner of ways. She might find a sharp object driven through her chest, the bones of her ribcage fractured around her faintly beating heart.

Or she could find herself cast out into the sun for a minute too long where she’d roast fiercely from the inside out until she was nothing more than ash in the wind.

The list goes on, if only briefly, and every hunter knows these methods like a prayer. But there’s another list. One that only certain hunters hold knowledge of. Not a list of ways to kill a vampire but of ways to make them wish you had.

You had the misfortune of coming across the latter. For you there was no archaic wooden post whittled into a stake, no afternoon spent sunbathing in the park. Locked away in the mausoleum of a dead man you've never met, you’re as alive as you’ve ever been.

Alive but paralyzed by the deprivation of the only two things that made eternity worth living. The taste of blood, warm and sweet on your tongue, and the euphoria of a love whose absence has rotted a hole in your heart.

100 days you’ve been here, turning to stone like the angelic statues that guard your tomb, and the pain grows impossibly deeper as the next approaches.

But you’ll not have to suffer another night in this hell. You’ll be free, you’ll taste blood again, feel truly alive. Your loves will see to it.

Standing at 712 ft tall, the Žižkov Television Tower looms above the romantically gothic city of Prague. It’s breathtaking beneath the night sky. Endless miles of beauty in every direction begging to be admired.

Most humans couldn’t dream of ever reaching the heights necessary to indulge but one man’s found himself lucky enough to take it all in. Maybe dangling upside down by your leg doesn’t technically count as luck but it’s all about perception.

“Please! Just let me go!” the bloodied man begs, the wind cold and sharp as it whips his tears back against his red cheeks. All of the blood’s rushed to his head and his view of the horizon has blurred into something reminiscent of watercolor painting.

“Let you go?” Hyunjin giggles, perched atop a platform. “That’s a really bad choice of words but okay.”

The dark haired vampire loosens his grip on the man’s ankle, reveling in the cry of desperation that leaves the man’s lips. Hunters are always this way when you catch them. So very pathetic. So weak.

“Wait! No! No! Please!” the man cries in the split second before his ankle’s secure in Hyunjin’s grasp again. “I don’t know where she is. I swear to God.”

“You swear to god when you lie?” a deep voice questions, unamused with his hypocrisy. “Do you not claim to do his work? And you take his name in vain?”

Hyunjin looks to the blond haired companion at his side, “Felix, are you telling me you don’t believe the words of this upstanding gentleman?”

“I’m telling the truth!” the man insists, his nose beginning to snot, turning him into a blubbering mess. “I don’t know where they put her. After we took her…”

Felix’s eyes pulse a deep, electric red at those last four words. After we took her. “So you took her! Where?” he shouts, his voice near animalistic as he reaches down, grabbing the hunter by the neck.

It’s dizzying for the man to find himself upright for the first time in what seems to be an eternity but there’s no time to breathe a sigh of relief. Indeed, he can’t breathe at all. Felix’s hand is tight around his neck, crushing his windpipe at a torturously slow pace.

When he saw these creatures cloaked in back, their elegantly sharp features forming in the darkness of his apartment, he knew what they were and what they wanted. Who they wanted. And death inevitably lay before him.

Truth or lies? Would either change his fate? He hasn’t come to decide and there’s little time now for contemplation.

“You need to calm down” Hyunjin cautions, razor sharp nails drumming against the metal railing.

“Calm down?” Felix snaps, his fangs glinting in the moonlight, “You heard him. They took her. He took her! Why aren’t you angrier? Or do you even care?”

In the blink of an eye Hyunjin is on his feet, his hand hovering near Felix’s throat, prepared to choke him the way he does the poor limp man he dangles like a ragdoll.

“Bad things happen when we let our anger get the best of us and we don’t want that. Do we?” Hyunjin warns through gritted teeth.

His gaze still locked on the man, Felix’s rage calms barely enough to sense. Hyunjin rests his hand against the porcelain skin of Felix’s neck, violence melting into its own strange form of empathy as he pats it gently.

They came here for the same reason and the success of this, like all they’ve ever done in their afterlife, depends entirely upon their ability not to kill each other. But other people? Well, that’s a different story.

“One last chance. Where’d you take her?” Hyunjin presses the man, knowing every second spent here is a second wasted.

With two sets of immortal eyes burning a hole through his very soul, the man makes a decision on his life. A decision he regrets in an instant.

“Don’t r-remeber” he croaks out.

“Yikes” Hyunjin hisses, disappointed but almost equally excited to finally be rid of this scumbag, “Wrong choice of words yet again. Seems to be your thing.”

Felix frees the man from his grasp, tossing him out into the night like garbage. It’s been said that when you fall from a building you black out before hitting the ground but there’s much more that happens before that final moment.

A fear so overwhelming you find yourself going borderline insane. Collapsed blood vessels. Rupturing cells. All before you hit the ground and become a piece of abstract art to be washed away in the morning. Messy, messy stuff.

As the hunter’s screams fade into the distance below, the two vampires are left in an uncomfortable silence heavy with the weight of questions unanswered. They dropped everything to come here, chased down every lead possible, and now their most promising one is hurling towards the ground at 120mph.

“I know she’s here somewhere” Felix sighs, breaking the silence, “I can feel her. She’s so alone, Hyunjin. She thinks we forgot about her. I can’t let her think that.”

Felix’s voice begins to crack, the heartbreak almost bringing him to tears. 101 days and every single one of them has been like a living hell. Getting closer was supposed to make things better but the closer they get the more the pain clouds their vision, thickening like fog until it’s impossible to see beyond it.

Hyunjin can only wish for the words that will make this all better. Anything at all to cool the pain searing through their chests. Even with Felix’s eyes almost pleading for him to say something that will make him feel less alone—less like he’s the only one hurting—Hyunjin can’t manage to let the wall down. Building it was all he could do to keep from burning this city to dust and any chance of finding his love right along with it.

“Right. Why do I bother? Why don’t you go back home, Hyunjin? Go rot with all your paintings. You always did like them better.”

Hyunjin parts his soft, rosy lips to issue another passive threat but, as quiet as his next breath, Felix disappears, abandoning him to a new brand of silence. The kind that leaves Hyunjin’s mind to race uninterrupted, sending memories washing over him so viciously he can’t resist being swept away.

Painting by moonlight.

Hyunjin has done it countless times in the last 300 years and it never loses its charm. There’s something so romantic about it. So relaxing. Tonight’s hunt had demanded a brutality of him that he seldom likes to reveal but with every stroke of the brush against canvas the beast within him calms, lulled back to sleep by the sound of water rushing from the ornate fountains of the back garden.

The subject of Hyunjin’s painting sits peacefully in the distance. A sprawling English manor that he’s called home for the past 50 years. Despite an external appearance that might have one think people were once beheaded on these grounds by some temperamental tyrant—they likely were—it emanates a sense of warmth from within and the source of it just sped past in a blur of light, nearly knocking his painting over.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” you apologize, stopping to catch your breath. Carefully straightening the canvas back out on the easel, another blur whisks by, knocking you into the grass.

“Tag! You’re it now!” Felix declares gleefully, his limbs intertwined with yours as you struggle to sit up.

“I can’t be it if you break my back.”

“Your enemies don’t care if they break your back, my little flower” Felix hums, picking blades of grass from your hair.

Hyunjin rolls his eyes, turning his attention back to his painting as he mouths every word that Felix says next.

“You have to keep your endurance up. Never let anyone get the advantage. Life may seem sweet behind these walls but trust me…”

You let out a giggle at the faces Hyunjin makes as he mimics a dead serious Felix. It isn’t that you don’t take Felix seriously. He’s lived much longer than you have, gone through things you couldn’t imagine. All he wants to do is protect you, it’s more than anyone ever did for you in your mortal life, but sometimes you wish he’d stop worrying. For his own sake.

Felix frowns, your giggles drawing his attention to Hyunjin. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Making fun of you?” Hyunjin gasps, crossing his legs. “I’d never make fun of you baby brother.”

“Baby brother? You’re older than me by 5 months!”

Hyunjin grins, never bored with his ability to get under Felix’s skin. “5 months and 26 days. Can’t forget the 26 days.”

As much as you adore their trademark bickering, the grass is itchy and your back actually hurts. You’re hardly in the mood for this tonight.

Grabbing Felix by the collar, you kiss him before he can take Hyunjin’s bait. You only intend for it to be the faintest peck, just enough to shut him up, but he wastes no time pulling you on top of him and enveloping you in his arms.

The kiss deepens as his fingers massage the fullness of your figure through the plush cotton of your dress. His touch makes any bit of pain you feel melt away, replacing it with a tingling sensation that spreads throughout your entire body.

You forget in this moment that anything else exists in the world. There’s only the feeling of his lips pressed against yours, your hearts matching each other’s rhythm as the heat grows between you.

Hyunjin can feel it too. Every sensation Felix takes in. It snuffs out his own senses, replacing the feeling of the carved wooden brush in his hand with the sinfully tempting softness of your flesh. He can taste you on his tongue, smell the delicate floral scent of your perfume. It’s everything he wants and nothing he needs right now.

“I guess I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it. Go hurl myself into the sun or something.”

Hyunjin makes no attempt at hiding his irritation as he walks off, leaving his things behind.

“Is that jealousy I sense?” you tease, appearing in front of him with an innocent pout on your face.

He shoos you away, offended at the accusation that he’d ever waste his energy on such an insignificant human emotion.

“No. Just bored” he lies, attempting to step around you.

You block his way, placing a hand on each of his cheeks to keep his eyes fixed on you. “You’re both very special to me. I love you and I never want you to get so…bored that you forget that.”

It’s silly to imply that your love is something he could ever question. There are many things he’s come to question in this world but the day will never come where that’s among them.

No matter how close he finds himself teetering on the edge of that thing called jealousy. Just having you near him, staring at him with stars in your eyes like he’s the center of the universe, is enough to bring him back from it.

Hyunjin takes you by the waist, pulling you closer and into a kiss much deeper than the last. He has a way of enchanting you so completely that you’d swear you were under a spell. A spell cast on your soul, laced within his kiss, and sealed with the fingertips that trail their way up your spine. If there’s a way to break it may that secret remain buried for the length of eternity.

“I love you too” he whispers, sending all of the blood from your last meal rushing to your cheeks.

“Good because you…are…it!” You tag him on the shoulder and disappear into the surrounding forest, cloaked by the shadows of the trees.

Felix hops to his feet, knowing Hyunjin’s competitive streak won’t let him sit this one out. “Do I get a head start?”

Hyunjin laughs, baring his fangs, “Just shut up and run.”

Felix follows your lead and Hyunjin wastes no time taking off after the two of you. Suspecting that you’ve found yourself a hiding space by now, Hyunjin focuses on who he senses closest to him. Maneuvering through the trees with a graceful swiftness, Hyunjin zones out the symphony of the night to isolate the sound of Felix’s breathing.

Felix has managed to make it imperceptible enough that a less experienced vampire may not know he was breathing at all. Picking up speed, he circles around Felix, slamming into him as he jumps to perch atop a branch.

Felix hits the ground with a thud, rolling through the dirt and into a small pile of leaves.

“I really have to learn how to fall.”

Hyunjin helps him to his feet but not without rubbing it in.

“All these years and you still can’t outrun me.”

Felix shrugs, dusting himself off, “Maybe I just wanted to slow you down.”

“Betrayal!” Hyunjin gasps, “You’ll pay for this later.”

He turns to chase after you, determined not to let you get one up on him, but Felix grabs him by the arm, a look of concern painting his face.

“Do you smell that?” Felix frowns, sniffing the air.

His nostrils are assaulted by the bitter smell of something burning nearby. He takes a few steps back towards the house and the air grows thicker with the scent of wood burning like kindling for a campfire. But it’s more than that.

Hyunjin picks up on it too, glancing back to spot flames dancing in the windows of the place you call home. Without thinking, they race back through the forest, effortlessly closing the distance between them and the burning manor.

They make it to the backdoor in time to see it engulfed by flames that climb the side of the building, torching the rose vines you spent all summer tending to.

“Stay back here!” Felix shouts, already charting an alternate course into the house, “I’ll go around front and find another way in!”

Hyunjin watches in shock as the windows of the top floor shatter, sending glass cascading to the ground. The way the fire’s burning, it doesn’t make sense. There’s no pattern. No source. Something’s not right.

And that’s when the true panic sets in. The realization that something’s missing. Someone’s missing.

“Where is she?” he asks, his heart sinking.

The question stops Felix where he stands and his eyes drifts back to the forest. He may nag you about the need to sharpen your abilities but you’re the most perceptive vampire he’s ever met. If they picked up on the scent of smoke you would’ve too. You’d be here by now.

A new possibility opens up, turning his stomach. You wouldn’t have gone back into the house. You couldn’t have. He shakes it off, venturing back into the garden to find you.

Hyunjin has the same worry but can’t bring himself to quiet it. Taking a few steps back, he closes his eyes and hurls his body through a first floor window. His body slams against the floor, dislocating his shoulder. The pain is blinding, shooting through his right side like a jolt of electricity.

Flames roar around him, swallowing up everything he ever held dear and none of it means a thing. There’s only one thing he cares about and he’ll lose himself before he loses you. Crawling to his feet, cuts littering his once perfect face, he calls out to you but is met with only silence.

Outside Felix has abandoned the garden to search for you in the woods where the only creatures returning his cries are those of the woodlands. They scream for you until their throats are raw. Beg for any sign you’re there until tears sting their eyes and stain their cheeks. Until the flames eat the walls like acid and the forest becomes a black barren sea.

They search for you, weep for you, but you’re gone—ripped away from them—and the pain they feel now is nothing compared to what’s to come.

Flowing through the city’s center, the Vltava River is said to be a place where one can find peace. Amongst all the lights and buzzing tourism, this spot on the bridge was supposed to be soothing but, unfortunately for Felix, he can only muster up annoyance and something he’s yet to recognize as a drop of envy.

Below him private yachts and ferry boats float their way up and down the river. They’re brimming with humans laughing and partying. Their joy permeates everything, giving the city a feeling of lightness that he promptly rejects.

A few months ago he might’ve found this city charming, maybe even smiled at the simple joys humans seem to find in life, but now all that’s beautiful feels tainted.

“It doesn’t have to be,” a friendly voice reassures him.

Felix jumps back, startled by the sudden appearance of a young man not much older than he is. Dressed in all black designer clothing from head to toe, he still manages to carry himself with the laid back energy of the type of guy who’s everyone’s best friend. But there’s something off about him and it makes Felix’s skin crawl.

He extends a hand to Felix, a peace offering of sorts before the war has even begun.

“It doesn’t have to be what?” Felix asks, staring at his hand as if it were laced with poison.

“Tainted. Darkness and beauty can coexist, yeah?”

“How’d you…”

The man’s eyes pulse red, answering Felix’s question in an instant. Another vampire? He recognizes that accent. It’s similar to his own. This one’s not from here.

“I’m from Australia. Name’s Chris. Nice to meet you, Felix.”

Felix’s skin’s no longer crawling, it’s crawling off.

Chris keeps his hand out, a sugary sweet grin stretched across his lips. He’s immovable and something tells Felix if he doesn’t give in now they’ll be here all night.

He cautiously shakes his hand, trying to assess the vampire’s intentions without giving too much away. Mind reading isn’t a gift all vampires have. It’s a power said to fall to the eldest or craziest amongst them and it’s much too early to say which to file this one under.

“A vampire who can read minds,” Felix sighs, unimpressed. “I’ve never met one of you before. So is this what you do? Just go digging around in people’s minds without their permission? I already hate it.”

“You’re sassy. I like you” Chris laughs, taking a moment to admire the view. “Too uptight though. It won’t kill you to unwind a little. Take in some of the sights. Ever been to Olšany Cemetery?”

“A vampire hanging at the cemetery?” Felix scoffs, turning back to the river. “A bit cliche, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. Would you risk being cliche if it meant finding her?”

Felix’s blood runs cold, rage melding with confusion. Chris pats him on the shoulder, a superficial display of familiarity for the blissfully ignorant humans walking by.

“Probably wanna rip my head off now, hmm? But you can’t” he taunts, “Not in front of all these people and even if you tried to fight me I can assure you that you’d lose and your little Hyunjin would be left all alone in the world again. How depressing.”

Felix grabs him by the wrist, threatening to crush it as he peels his hand away from his shoulder. “What are you talking about?”

Amused by the whole ordeal, Chris sees no reason to hold out. That isn’t why he came here after all.

“In Olšany Cemetery there’s a mausoleum. It’s guarded by two marble angels. An architect’s buried there” he trails off in thought, pretending to forget where he was going with this, “Oh yes, but he’s not there anymore. There’s somebody else.”

“Somebody like who?”

Bone should be splintering right now from the force of his fingers contorted around Chris’ wrist but nothing’s happened. It hurts like a pinch from a child, barely enough to bat an eye at, let alone inflict genuine pain. Maybe this vampire isn’t older or crazier than he is. Maybe he’s both.

“The girl you’re searching for. Go there and you’ll find her but be careful…” Chris warns but his words fall on deaf ears as Felix shoves past him, having heard everything he needs to abandon the unpleasantness of this interaction.

There’s nothing about this stranger that he trusts. In fact, he’s never met anyone he disliked so much so soon but this isn't a lie. There’s no logic for it, no sound reasoning to justify why he’s digging his phone out to find the fastest way to some old cemetery on the edge of the city.

He knows nothing of the vampire’s motives or how, even with his abilities, he knows all that he does. They’re questions whose answers will have to wait until he finds you and nothing in the world, not even his own doubts, can stop him.

“I was just gonna tell you to be careful. She’s not who you think she is anymore” Chris mumbles to himself. “Actually I think she’s something far better.”

#stray kids x female reader #stray kids x you #stray kids x reader #stray kids angst #stray kids fluff #stray kids au #hyunjin x female reader #hyunjin x you #lee felix x female reader #lee felix x you #stray kids x chubby reader #chubby reader #hyunjin angst #hyunjin fluff #lee felix angst #lee felix fluff

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kkanabel · 16 days

Text

caffeine addiction ❃ cut off ❃ chapter 2

Bakugou Katsuki x Reader / Coffee Shop! AU / Fashion? AU

directory/m.list

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You returned to the café a couple mornings in a row after that. While Bakugou did have regulars, not many of them stayed at the café and sat there for hours like you did. Actually, none of them did. There was only one of them who sat there for hours like you did on a regular basis, and he only came once a month to sit down with a cup of coffee and his journal, writing away until Bakugou saw his hand cramp up. The customer would shake his hand and continue regardless of his cramped hand, but he’d just keep writing. Maybe you were writing, too? Perhaps you were doing coursework?

Either way, it was somehow nice being in the company of another person when he was working alone in the mornings, even if the other person was a complete stranger.

Plus, it was fun seeing what you’d be wearing the next day. It was as if Bakugou was a teenage girl watching a social media influencer’s OOTDs religiously. He couldn’t blame himself–with his upbringing being so deep into the fashion industry, it was a given. Especially because you’d be strutting into his quiet café wearing full designer brands every day. Anybody without a trained eye wouldn’t be able to notice–you hardly ever wore gaudy logos all over your clothes like others. Because Bakugou grew up around designer brands, he instantly recognized your clothes to be from the runway or a couple seasons before.

Bakugou wondered if you were just some rich girl who’d either been there to court him or one that’d fallen in love with his coffee and was ready to drop a fortune on his café (by buying many cups of coffee or buying out his entire café altogether, he wasn’t sure). He wouldn’t be complaining about either option, but neither of them seemed correct. When you came into the coffee shop, the only interaction you had with him was a “Good morning”, “Hey”, or a “How are you?” in greeting. Your responses to his greetings were kept brief, so it didn’t seem like you were trying to flirt with him (sadly).

Also, he noticed that you spent your money on the less expensive parts of his menu. These were also all the drinks that were highly efficient in caffeine–it was always some variation of an espresso drink.

This was until the one day when you two had a longer interaction that was deeper than a transactional conversation. It happened a couple days into your regular appearances at the café. Some of those appearances were only to grab some coffee. Much to Bakugou’s disappointment, you left the café right after grabbing your to-go cups. Probably meeting up with someone, he thought.

But today? You looked the exact same as the way you did when you first entered his coffee shop. Sleep deprived. Disheveled. Dead inside. He found himself worrying before he could stop himself.

“A quad, please.” You handed him your credit card with a blank face. It’d only been three minutes after he opened-- 5:33 AM. He didn’t blame you.

He raised an eyebrow in curiosity but didn’t ask any further questions. He never did. He didn’t want to pry into the life of some stranger who’d find it annoying. And seeing you in this state-- you’d definitely find it annoying.

Bakugou Katsuki quickly realized that you always put some sort of effort into your outfit no matter how tired you looked. Even though you were wearing sweatpants (“Kindeki again? This girl must be rolling in it,” he thought.) and a hoodie, the hoodie was layered underneath a trench coat, creating a put-together look.

As he was waiting for his espresso to brew, he did a quick Google search on Kindeki. He looked specifically at the pieces you’d been wearing and saw that the pair of sweatpants you were wearing went for ¥100,000 (approx. 712 USD) a pop. It was normal in the fashion industry, but Bakugou hardly ever saw any of these types of pieces on people who went to his café. If they did, then the items were reused. Things like purses or a nice coat. They were… regular. But this girl seemed to have a closet full of these.

He was pretty confused. In his past experiences with girls who wear tons of designer brands, they would normally buy the more expensive options on his café menu. The caramel macchiato was especially popular among those types, and it made him a lot of money. It was also the drink that the women that flirted with him would always buy the most. The men that would flirt with him were pretty varied in drink order.

So, were you spending so much of your money on luxury and designer brands that you had to save on money when you got here? No , he thought. That can’t be it . He took a quick glance at your face and saw the dark circles beneath your eyes. No, she’s here to drink coffee for one reason: as a replacement for sleep.

Bakugou turned his nose up at pieces that didn’t have much thought or creativity in design. Especially if they were charging ¥100,000 for it. But when he looked at the description and found out that the outer lining was made from 100% recycled alpaca fur, he changed his mind completely. This girl had… morals. And extremely expensive taste.

And the closer he looked, the more he found out that the design was one of the most ergonomic sweatpant designs he’d ever seen in his life. There was a hidden adjustable elastic on the cuffs, meaning you could change up the look of the pants easily. You had it scrunched up for the signature sweatpant look. The design was made specifically in mind to accentuate the waistline and the hips without sacrificing comfort. A pair of sweatpants.

He was impressed. Since his father mostly designed extravagant formal wear and office wear, he wasn’t well-versed in brands that focused themselves on comfort. Either way, Kindeki sounded very familiar. Not in the way that designer brands normally sound, but in a way that seemed… personal, almost.

He shook his head and passed that thought to the fact that he grew up learning the names of fashion designers. That’s probably it, he thought.

An hour after Bakugou’s rush hour, the row of short, transactional interactions between the two of you ended.

Maybe taking up a freelancing job the day before a huge assignment’s due was not a good choice.

You sat in your favorite café, rethinking all of your decisions in life before getting back to the assignment at hand. Your eyes were extremely heavy. The four shots of espresso helped, but most of what it did was pump up your heart rate and make your hands shake so much that they felt like they were going to fall off. At least it was delicious. You held the mug in your hands and chugged the remaining liquid.

(Unbeknownst to you, from the counter, Bakugou watched in horror as you downed an entire espresso shot as if it were a Friday night at some trashy frat party.)

Finding this café was like finding a true gem. The coffee is absolutely heavenly, the café itself smells good and has a super cute interior design, and the barista you saw every time was also absolutely gorgeous. But the coffee? It was unlike anything you’d be able to make at home. You tried to emulate the espresso that this rando dude made, but there was something about your espresso that was always off.

Each time you went to this café, you always tossed on at least a decent outfit for fear that your aunt would be walking by and lecture you on, “Your aunt is an esteemed fashion designer! Why would you be wearing trash like that?! Wear the clothing I gifted you!”

It happened too often in your early days. She’d somehow see you out in the open and then criticize your clothing choices. Not the way they looked, but the fact that they didn’t come from big names or better, from her designs. Especially because your aunt was opening up a store in the area, the chances you’d come across her were bigger, and you did not want to deal with that again.

You just wanted to find a place to do your procrastinated assignments without having to be lectured about wearing Gildan for once. You still wore those thread earrings almost every day, though. They’re just too pretty…

Your head slumped down and you immediately woke up, startled. Your assignment was still sitting in front of you, half-finished. You had to finish this as soon as humanly possible. Before you fell back asleep.

Heading back up to the front café counter, you were faced with the extremely handsome barista who you saw wearing Masaki-branded items every time you saw him. You’d recognize those two signature dots placed strategically on their clothes anywhere. He had on blue-light glasses that were Masaki. The loose button-up he was wearing was Masaki. The combination of the two fit him extremely well. Almost like he was born to wear them. Like the outfit was made exclusively for him.

You wondered why a rich kid was working at some café, but you ignored it in favor of ordering more espresso. “Double shot over ice, please,” you said, holding out your credit card to him before he’d responded.

You saw an eyebrow of his shoot up again for the second time today. “I’m gonna have to cut you off after this.”

“Cutting me off? This isn’t a bar,” you said, continuing to wave the credit card in front of him before he took it.

He gave a quick nod to your hands, which were shaking more than an electric toothbrush after women find another use for them. “Yeah, but this is an establishment that cares about our customers’ health.”

You furrowed your brows in response, knowing he was right. You were still mildly sad that you couldn’t get more of the delicious espresso he makes. You just wanted your caffeine. As you stood at the counter, waiting for your drink while simultaneously taking a break and watching the man work his magic. You saw him whip something else up, which appeared to be some variation of a lemonade. Is he making a drink for himself or something?

When he finished, he placed the two drinks in front of you. You looked up at him with clear confusion in your eyes. Woah- he’s way taller than you’re used to. He always sits while talking to you, but now, you realize that this guy was blessed by whatever higher power is up there. Scratch that-- seeing how blessed this man is, he might be the higher power we’re talking about.

“Peach lemonade instead of more coffee. It’s got sugar, and the lemon kicks your ass. You should be able to wake up with these two. Let me know if you want a cup of water.” He says, turning to sit back down at his stationed spot at the register.

Your brain, running on sheer adrenaline and 4 shots of espresso, lagged for a moment. “B-But-”

“It’s on the house.” He cut you off, opening up a laptop and appearing to look busy. You couldn't fight him. You didn’t even think to say “thank you” in your surprise, and just went back to your seat with two drinks in hand.

You’d finished your espresso quickly, making sure it was still fresh by the time you ingested it. Still delicious as always. You were starting to feel the drowsiness again, so you picked up the peach lemonade and took a swig of it before coughing and feeling the sweetness and acidity hit you like a truck.

He looked at you from the register with worry, but then saw you holding the lemonade and started smirking. “You’re right,” you said, “this definitely kicks my ass.”

He responded with a laugh and softened eyes. This man is both beautiful and amazing at making drinks. Whew. He really is a god.

Before he turned his attention away, you caught his attention again. “I forgot to say this, but thank you. Your drinks are amazing. And this lemonade–I’ll start replacing some of my caffeine with it.”

“A pleasure to serve ‘ya,” he said, smile wide on his face.

You had to clear your throat and try to clear your mind of the image of his extremely handsome face beaming at you like that.

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