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strangerstilinski · 11 months ago

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smoke me out

𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: you and eddie are friends — and really, what's a little shotgunning amongst friends? [ 7.4k ]

𝗰𝘄: friends to lovers, dubcon bc they're high, reader with a vagina & breasts, drug use (weed), smoking & shotgunning, pathetic attempts at dirty talk, unprotected sex, cream pie, and goofy eddie (always)

𝗮/𝗻: the stoner in me came out at the beginning, ngl. this is just a horny culmination of my need to shotgun with eddie and also to rub his sweaty body with my own. and yes, that one part is inspired by the gifs of the hoard scene featuring joe's tight little ass grinding away.

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝟏𝟖+ 𝙚𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝙢𝙪𝙣𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

It's just you and Eddie today.

You're propped up against the headboard side by side, a nest of pillows providing you both with a cushion from the uncomfortable framework behind your bed. The muted sound of James Hetfield's voice floating through your stereo speakers over a heavy clash of drums and guitar has your head bobbing in time with the beat. Eddie has long-since gone from shredding on air guitar to intently staring at the way his own ringed fingers bend toward his palm every time the pitch shifts incrementally, mentally contemplating the chord changes by ear.

Despite the windows thrown open on either side of the room, your small apartment reeks of smoke and weed. The humid Indiana summer air filtering through the curtains is not nearly strong enough to properly air out the cramped space. It's one of those wonderfully warm days — peak summertime. Not overly hot, but enough to have your skin prickling with heat beneath a tank top and cotton shorts.

Eddie is still lounging in a threadbare pair of checkered pajama pants and a cutoff tee, the top half of his hair tied back in a haphazard bun to lessen the weight of the thick curls sticking to his neck.

Eddie is prone to complaining when it's hot. Or when it's cold. And also when it's rainy. Or windy.

Point is, you're not sure why he's yet to complain about the lack of air conditioning in your apartment, but Eddie seems content as ever. It could have something to do with the little glass pipe the two of you have been passing back and forth all afternoon. The bowl on the end had been packed tight, more than enough weed to have both of you thoroughly stoned, well before it's even finished.

The ceiling fan is stirring up the faintest breeze. You've burned yourself thrice on a rogue, billowing flame while trying to light up. The circulating air keeps pushing an errant dark curl down over Eddie's face every time he dips his head to take a hit.. You've combed it back for him four times, already—God forbid he set his hair on fire. Again. You're not sure he's even noticed the way your hand lingers on that smooth strip of skin behind his ear just a little longer each time.

But you can't help it, not with the way everything's gone a little foggy at the edges. Your eyes seem to process your surroundings in near slow-motion, all while the world shines with a barely-perceptible gleam. The last twenty minutes the two of you have spent smoking have done wonders to soften the world around you. Your head is full of air in that familiarly pleasant way that leaves you feeling a bit like you might float away at any second. Like a balloon in the sky. And with the added bonus of Eddie by your side, you're entirely relaxed. Contented.

Weak beneath the lazy weight of your high pressing in on you, you suddenly flop your weight down sideways across the bed, your head landing over Eddie's thighs. You blink slow up at him, hazy gaze focusing on the underside of Eddie's face while he brings his bony knees up from the mattress to cage you a little closer to his chest. The angle would be outrageous were you looking up at anyone else, you're sure, but Eddie..

He's so pretty.

All rogue-ish boy. Unkempt and wild, but still entirely beautiful.

You can't help the way your hand finds its way up, up, up. Your fingertips dancing across the barely-there five o'clock shadow on the edge of his jaw. You trace the hard line all the way from his chin to his ear, his stubble scratchy and wholly soothing when you lightly scrape your nails against the grain of it.

Eddie, on the other hand, has found himself entirely focused on the way gravity has moved your breasts in your new position below him. The awkward angle has carried them up and out, bra-less and soft and hypnotizing. They shift just a little every time your hand moves across his face. The tank top you've chosen to wear today is thin, indecently so, in his opinion. His brown eyes have been glued to the obvious outline of your nipples beneath the fabric since the moment you'd greeted him at the door, and his ogling has only gotten less subtle as his high settled in. He risks another longing glance down past your collar bones, reddened eyes dragging over the shape of your puffy nipples hidden underneath.

You're thumbing softly at the coarse hairs just under his chin when Eddie gives in to impulse and purses his lips to blow a cool breath of air over your neck and chest. You can't help but giggle as your skin reacts, goosebumps spreading down your arms, and unbeknownst to you, your nipples tightening into semi-hard peaks beneath your top.

They're not the only things that are suddenly semi-hard.

Eddie smacks his lips and swallows the drool that he's embarrassed to admit has pooled beneath his tongue. His ring-clad knuckles brush the side of your breast as he reaches to take the forgotten bowl from the blankets.

He attempts to gather himself as he takes another hit. He holds it for a count of five and then exhales a cloud of smoke whilst urging himself to imagine something utterly repulsive.. His uncle in the shower, roadkill, the way his balls itch uncomfortably after he plays a gig at The Hideout in too-tight jeans — anything that might keep him from popping an unwanted boner while you've got your pretty, unassuming head resting in his lap.

Your fingers are now trailing lightly over the light freckles dotting the bridge of Eddie's nose. His skin is a little pink from yesterday's sun, despite the number of times you'd physically dragged him from Steve's pool to apply sunscreen to his steadily-reddening cheeks. The previous day outside has Eddie's barely-there freckles appearing far more visible than usual, speckled along the round tip of his nose, his cheeks, even the crinkles around his eyes. You think they make him look even more handsome, boyish perhaps, but handsome all the same.

Through the warm fog in your brain, you find yourself smiling up at him. A dopey grin on your face as you poke at the soft apples of his cheeks — Like he's your own personal plaything. Your heart ticks excitedly when the corner of Eddie's lips quirk up at you in response, his pupils blown wide, surrounded by a thin ring of molten chocolate. His teeth flash with his sweet little chuckle of amusement, cheeks dimpling beneath the sparsest area of his stubble.

“You've got freckles,” You comment quietly. ��They're cute.” You smack your lips once, mouth dry with dehydration, “I like 'em.. 'nd your stubble, too. Feels nice.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Eddie chuckles, stoned and more than a bit flattered under the weight of your attention. His chest puffs up a little proudly, his words flowing without any real thought behind them, “Made it all myself.. 'S hard work.. But, uh, y'know. Someone's gotta do it.”

He slips his lighter between two of his fingers and holds the bowl off to the side so that he can drag the fingers of his free hand softly, delicately, over your hair where it's fanned out over his lap. He doesn't want to mess it up, especially doesn't want one of his rings to get caught and pull. But it looks so soft, and through the haze, he can't fight the impulse to simply.. touch. So gently.

His attention seems intently focused on the careful motions of his fingers along your hair, and you take advantage of his distraction by finally allowing your gaze to drop to his mouth. Eddie keeps slowly rolling and biting his lips between his teeth. Canines dig into the flesh before he's scrunching his nose and pursing his lips, only to scrape his teeth over them again in a never-ending loop. You doubt he's even aware he's doing it but it's beginning to make his lips swell, the skin darkening to a brighter shade of pink from the abuse.

All at once, your trance is broken when his tongue pokes out to wet his smoke-dry lips. Your mind flashes suddenly with an idea.

The absence of both the Hellfire crew and your other friends was truly a rarity. You hardly ever got to be alone with Eddie like this. You'd tried to ask him out once upon a time- No, not just once. Twice. Twice you'd asked him on a date — both of which had somehow ended in group excursions rather than romantic one-on-one time, how it had happened two separate times, you still weren't sure — and at this point you'd given up entirely. Because maybe it just wasn't meant to be. It was okay, really, you'd almost grown content in your longing.

But, the way Eddie's lips shone lightly after his tongue stroked over them.. It had your brain reeling with possibility. If you were ever going to get his mouth on yours in private, even just for a fleeting moment, it didn't seem possible that an opportunity so seamless would ever present itself again.

It was worth a shot.

“I want another hit.” You tell him, licking at your own lips as brown eyes refocus on your face.

“M'kay, well, you're prob'ly gonna need to sit up for that, sweets,” Eddie points out, entirely unaware of the way your tummy always swoops when the thoughtless pet name falls from his lips. “Unless you were really lookin' t'get a face full'a ash.. In which case, you can definitely keep layin-” A burst of air leaves his nose with a laugh of surprise, repeating his own words to himself with a sweetly boyish giggle, “Sounds like ass. Face full'a ass. Now, that I'd like-”

Normally you'd join in on the joke. Poke a little fun at him for saying such a thing. Freak. You'd say it fondly, with an eye roll to go with it, maybe you'd throw in a half-serious offer involving his face and your backside- But you don't say any of those things. You can't. You're in the middle making the not-so-carefully crafted scene in your head a reality — And, can't he see that? Why is he trying to distract you?

“Ash. Riiight, uh huh. Well,” You pause, feign innocence before your next words. “Maybe.. Maybe you could shotgun it to me n' that way I can stay right here?” You suggest cautiously, before adding as an afterthought, “If you want, I mean.”

Any amusement is immediately stripped from Eddie's expression. He spends a few achingly long seconds blinking down at you with heavy eyelids, gaze hooded and distant. His weed-hazy brain takes a moment to actually process your words, but then, just as suddenly as he'd zoned out, he's nodding and bringing the glass pipe back up to his lips, one hand cupped around the end to shield the flame from the path of the ceiling fan.

The lighter clicks and swishes quietly as he lights up. He lowers the bowl after a long second, ringed hand dipping beneath your head and guiding you oh-so gently to arch your neck upward, until he can lean down and press his mouth down softly against yours.

That first soft brush of his lips has your whole body thrumming. Butterflies begin a rampage in your stomach, so much so that you have to actively remind yourself to part your lips beneath his.

He presses down just a bit more, lips squishing solidly to your own parted ones and sending your heart racing dangerously, but then he's exhaling the smoke into your waiting mouth. You breathe it in as it comes, letting the warmth of it flow from his body and into your own.

He watches you intently as he moves to pull back and sit upright again. Watches the way you seal your mouth shut, lips rolling between your teeth while your lashes flutter against the apples of your cheeks. You allow the smoke to simply sit in your lungs for a long moment before relaxing your chest and exhaling through your nose, releasing the diluted cloud up into the air between you.

Eddie blinks down at you with heavy lids. There's a long moment of silence between you. It's a palpable thing — not quite awkward or tense, but brimming with an unexpected energy that neither one of you can quite decipher. It's charged. Something like static electricity, or the tether between two magnets of an opposite charge. It nearly tingles in the breadth of space between you.

Eddie feels it. He wonders if you feel it too.

“D'you want another hit?” He asks after a minute, his voice scratchy.

You merely nod your head, not trusting your own voice, and the movement has you refocusing suddenly on the soft press of his calloused fingers where they linger against the nape of your neck. You watch with bated breath as Eddie brings the glass pipe in his hand back to his lips again, letting his gentle grip fall from the top of your spine for just a moment so that he can flick the flame of the lighter over the tiny pocket at the end of the pipe once again.

Eddie drops the items in his hands to your bedside table carelessly once he's gotten a good lungful of smoke. He leans down in a faster movement this time than he had done before, his hand dipping back beneath your head in a flash to bring your mouths together again.

His lips are dry against your own, but so soft. You're not sure if it's the high or simply Eddie, but the barely-there scratch of stubble over his upper lip is delicious. It feels so good it makes you a little lightheaded.

Your mouth slips open, inhaling as he exhales. You feel the warmth of the smoke entering your mouth, taste the bitterness of it on your tongue as the two of you fit together like puzzle pieces.

You're preparing to let your craned neck fall back to his lap, to close your lips in an effort to keep the smoke inside of your lungs — but then Eddie is tightening his grip on the back of your head incrementally, and instead of pulling back, he slots your lips together more firmly. Your heart skips in surprise and you can practically hear the blood pumping in your ears. Your brain seems to white out for a moment, unable to focus on anything that isn't Eddie's soft lips moving tentatively against your own.

A thin cloud of smoke escapes into the air around you as your mouths begin to move together in synchrony. You can't hold back a soft gasp of surprise when Eddie's tongue swipes warmly across the seam of your lips. Your heart pounds, your mouth opening beneath his again without hesitation.

The kiss that follows is a frenzied rush of lips and teeth and tongue. Hunger blossoms in the pit of your stomach. But it somehow manages to feel so languid, so sensual beneath the relaxed fogginess of your high.

Your back arches, shoulders lifting from Eddie's thigh to meet him more than halfway. The movement prompts his hands to find your hips and Eddie is tugging you upright in a flash. Suddenly you're wedged between his legs, practically in his lap. Your knees curling around his waist as he leans farther into your space, chasing your warmth until barely any space exists between you.

Your hands slide idly along his body in a slow trail. Each scrape against your palms feels divine. Every inch of him feels like silk under your fingers. The smooth, worn cotton of his tshirt. The tight ringlets of curls at the nape of his neck, a little damp with sweat. The soft give of warm muscle beneath your eager hands on his chest, his arms, his hips. You attempt to memorize every inch of him, your limbs seemingly moving of their own accord, touch-hungry and weightless all at once.

He's so warm and- God, you want to be inside of him. You think you might want to bury yourself beneath his skin and make a home there. He smells like heaven, like sweat and weed and masculine body wash. Your fingertips drag leisurely along the length of his inked arms, inching slow back toward his neck like you have all the time in the world to explore every inch of his body.

Your touch is scorching across his skin, overwhelming and seemingly everywhere at once but simultaneously not enough. It's like all of his wildest dreams have come to life, and Eddie can't fucking believe that this is happening. That you're practically in his lap, your tongue in his mouth, legs draped around his waist, hands tucked beneath the gaping sleeves of his muscle tee to roam freely and grope at the exposed skin of his hips.

Eddie's head cranes just a bit to the side in an attempt to deepen the kiss, licking his way deeper. His own arms curl around your waist, tightening at the curve of your spine to tug your body flush against his. The action has a needy noise pushing its way into his mouth as your tongues explore one another with warm, wet licks. He groans at a particularly slow curl of your tongue, he swears he feels it in his fucking balls.

He's so turned on he thinks his dick might explode. Eddie changes your position in another quick movement, holding you flush to his chest before he's directing you to lie back against the mattress and slotting himself right there between your thighs.

Despite the way your head has gone a little fuzzy from lack of oxygen, you can't find it in yourself to pull away from him. All you can do is slide your hands from Eddie's shoulders and up into his hair. Tingles shoot from your fingertips as they slide into his frizzy curls, yanking some of them free from his bun just to feel the way they tangle around your fingers. A hot flush of arousal pulses in your cunt at the satisfied noise that Eddie lets out when you tug lightly, and that noise alone has you suddenly frantic.

You can't get enough of him; his sounds, his taste, the press of his warm body between your thighs.

The hand he isn't using to support himself against the mattress rubs along your waist of its own accord, his fingertips slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to brush featherlight over your skin. You swear sparks erupt in his wake.

You pull back just enough to murmur his name desperately against his lips, but the syllables are barely out before you're licking into his mouth again with unbridled hunger. Eddie's groan meets your ears in response to your weak plea — what you're begging for, you're not quite sure, but then his hips drop against yours with a slow roll and that-

Oh, that is exactly what you needed.

You can't help the soft whimper that falls into his mouth. The warm line of his half-hard cock pressing against your cunt through the thin barrier of your pajama bottoms has you dizzy. Eddie grinds hips against yours in another slow roll, clothed erection pressing soft into your cunt and prompting the seam on your shorts to nudge at your clit. You both groan in sync, parted lips barely brushing through the breathless sounds.

You also can't help the way you lift your hips in time with each grind of his length against you. The warm weight of his balls squishes against the fabric of your shorts every time his pelvis drags over your own. The thin cotton feels far too thick of a barrier currently between you and his cock.

Ringed fingers sneak up a little farther beneath your shirt, his hand tightening over your naked breast, and you keen at the feeling. He alternates between brushing the calloused pad of his thumb over your nipple and covering the area with his palm to give it a soft squeeze. His lips fall slack against your own, too busy focussing on the way his fingers release and then grope again and again, the kind of distracted intrigue that could only be a result of his high.

A soft whine falls from your lips after a minute of putting up with his lazy fondling. You tug at the hair between your fingers again and nip encouragingly at his lips in a silent plea for a kiss. His mouth finally resumes moving against your own, and you gratefully allow him to direct the kiss. You give him full control of the pace, which turns out to be a give and take of desperate licks into your mouth followed by gentle caresses of his spit-slick lips against your own. Lips smack each time you part, tongues sliding together wetly, heaving breaths rush in and out of your noses as you both attempt to pull as much oxygen in as humanly possible in an effort to not break apart.

Your fingers find the knob of his spine, and you tug on the collar at the back of his shirt in silent question. Eddie answers by pushing back up on his knees to yank the fabric over his head in a quick movement. His tattooed chest heaves with slightly labored breaths and you watch him with rapt attention, your eyes drawn to the tiny patch of hair nestled between his pecs and lightly dusted around his nipples. Then your focus drops to the thicker trail that leads down into the waistband of his pants. The pale skin beneath the hair glistens with sweat, and good God you want to taste it-

But you're only granted a few seconds to ogle his torso before Eddie is dipping back down to catch your lips with his, your mouths immediately separating just enough that he can strip you of your own top.

As soon as your naked chest is exposed to him, Eddie is dragging his lips down your body in a slow trail. He pauses for a moment to kiss a spot just below your ear, his voice raspy when he speaks, “You good? This alright?” He checks quietly.

You reach up to tangle a hand in his hair again, a breathless sigh leaving your lips as you feel the warmth of his mouth pressing against your neck, “Good, yeah. Very, very alright.”

Eddie wastes no time, his lips trailing lower. He leaves a series of wet, open-mouthed kisses to your exposed breasts, relishing in the way you react to his mouth, the way your spine arches up from the mattress at the attention.

“Jesus H. Christ. 's incredible,” Eddie mumbles, his words slurred against your chest as he bites and sucks at the skin on the side of your breast. His head has gone hazy with lust, his fingers slipping beneath your body to grab a desperate fistful of your ass, “Hand to God. I swear, I've never fuckin' seen more perfect-”

You interrupt the filth spewing from his mouth with an entirely unintentional moan, slightly overwhelmed by the influx of sensations. His praise in your ears. The feeling of his fingertips sinking into the plush of your ass. The prominent bulge in his bottoms dragging against you.

Eddie curses under his breath, taking your nipple into his mouth and biting down softly before immediately soothing his tongue over it in apology.

Your brain is a little fuzzy. Sweetly faded and hazy at the edges, but somehow, each touch and sound between the two of you feels heightened — Magnified and all that more intense. As if your high has somehow managed to mute everything on earth except for Eddie.

You release his hair in favor of sliding your hands down his back to grope the globes of his ass over his pajama bottoms while his hips continue to rock forward in a dizzying rhythm. A knead to the flesh there has Eddie whining sinfully against your tongue and your pussy fucking throbs in response.

"Baby," Eddie pants into your mouth, his voice nearly cracking with need, "Take 'em off, please- Baby? c'n we-?"

He doesn't finish the question but you nod, nose brushing against his as your hands slip underneath the waistband of his pants. Your fingers are very nearly trembling while you shove the fabric down below the curve of his ass.

You feel the moment that his cock springs free and you immediately have to crane your neck down to take a peek — The urge to see him is too strong. And God is it a glorious sight.

Flushed red at the tip and achingly hard— Jesus it's thick, gloriously thick. His pubes are dark and untamed around the base, hiding just how big he truly is. It's the most gorgeous cock you've ever fucking seen and it's bumping softly against the crotch of your shorts, wetting the fabric with smeared pre-cum that Eddie's fucking leaked over the head. He's wet with need, same as you, and the thought makes you feel fucking insane.

Which means you ogle perhaps longer than you should.

A needy grumble rises in Eddie's throat that has you snapping out of it suddenly and bringing a hand up into the narrow space between your faces. It takes a moment with the dryness of smoke lingering on your tongue, but you manage to gather enough spit to lick a wet stripe up your palm and fingers, and then you're reaching down to curl your fingers around him.

Half-naked is practically Eddie's default state when he's stoned or drunk, you've drooled over just the outline of him in his underwear more times than you can count, but you're still somehow surprised by the sheer size of him in your hand. The weight of him. Long and curved just a little to the right — so silky and so soft under the slippery glide of your fist. You work your hand slow over him, rewarded with a beautiful little groan of thanks from the man above you, the sound of it guttural as you begin to jerk him with slick strokes.

“Ohhh my god, that- that's, j-jesus-” His voice fucking cracks.

Eddie's hips jump as he fucks into your fist. His eyes roll back, a little delirious just from the sight of your smaller hand wrapped around him. You switch from long strokes in favor of shorter ones where you can focus your attention on his tip, your thumb swiping back and forth over the head of his cock with each flick of your wrist. Eddie doesn't even recognize the sounds leaving his mouth. The combination of his high and the wet glide of your hand is too maddening to care.

You make your own small noise of amazement that has Eddie coming back to himself suddenly. He yanks your shorts down your thighs with an impatient huff, pulling away from you just long enough to discard the last of both of your clothing before he's caging you back against the mattress once again. And then his lips are making their way to your neck, kissing and sucking lightly between these oh-so pretty little groans against your throat, his hips bucking restlessly into your own all the while.

You give an eager cant of your hips, feet pressing into the mattress until the tip of Eddie's cock brushes the seam of your cunt. Eddie makes another sweet little noise of surprise that has you draping an arm around his neck, your face pressing into his shoulder as you repeat the movement with intention.

You want him so bad your pussy fucking aches.

“Ed, can we, please?” You whisper desperately into his skin.

The question is barely out before he's nodding against your throat, bracing his knees and lining himself up with your hole. His hips push forward until just the tip of his cock presses into the wet heat of your cunt, but good lord-

He's so big. It feels a bit like he's splitting you right down the middle, but it's so good. He rocks his hips forward slowly, each little push stretching you wider than you thought possible. Every time you think he can't possibly have more to give you, he slips in a little deeper. He reaches so far inside of you that your eyes roll back, a long, drawn-out moan tearing past your lips at the slow stretch, the dull fullness behind your navel that you can nearly feel in your throat.

“Oh, fuck.” You whine breathlessly, hands scrambling for purchase along his skin. Your nails bite into the sweat-slick muscles of his back before slipping lower still. You find the dimples at the base of his spine, nails raking over the pale white skin of his hips and ass. Your whole body goes lax underneath him as the wiry bush of his pubes finally meets your own.

The noise Eddie releases into the curve of your shoulder borders on a whimper, his breath hot against your skin as he rocks his hips forward again and again. His weight pushes you deeper into the mattress, his cock grinding desperately against the absolute deepest parts of you. He gasps with each nudge of your cervix against the head of his cock, practically humping you through the haze of his high as he tries to give you time to adjust to his size.

“Y'good?” Eddie pants into your neck, words slurred together with need. He feels half a second from fucking begging when your legs spread further, your thighs falling back toward the mattress and allowing him even deeper and holy fucking shit. “Ohh, c'n I move?” He’s all but whining now, “Please. God, please can I-”

“Uh huh, 'm good, 'm good, I-” Your assurances cut off with a wail when he begins to pull back and drive in again with a sharp snap of his hips. Your fingers tighten where his hairy thighs meet his ass, nails biting into taut muscle in an attempt to ground yourself. “Ohmygod.” You whine, eyes glazing over with the heat that pools behind your navel with each thrust.

“Y'feel so good.” Eddie mumbles, slack mouth pressed to the sensitive spot below your ear.

He pushes up on his elbows, but only enough that you can gape up at him with hooded eyes, brows furrowed with just how fucking good he feels.

“Fuucck, y're pretty,” Eddie groans between deep thrusts, his words drawing a moan from your lips. He brings one hand to your cheek, thumb pushing into the plush cushion of your swollen lips before he's covering them with his own in a messy kiss, “Y're so hot. So. fucking. perfect.”

His words are spoken quietly against your lips between thrusts, his nose squishing your own in close proximity, and you draw him back down to your mouth in a hungry kiss, teeth clashing.

The pace Eddie has set is intoxicating, pulling nearly all the way out before slamming his hips forward to fill you up again with deep thrusts. Your moans are loud, wanton and uncontrollable under the haze of your high, only somewhat muffled by Eddie's mouth covering yours.

In a frenzy, you find yourself kissing away the sweat beading on his upper lip. You lave your tongue softly over the light prickle of stubble at his cupid’s bow, but you're only granted a moment to relish in the scratch of it before Eddie is nosing at your cheek and urging you back into a scorching, albeit distracted, kiss. His fingers wrap around your upper thigh to hitch your leg a little higher on his hip, rocking his hips forward again and managing to hit impossibly deeper inside of you. He drives into that spongey spot behind your navel and you writhe-

“Oh-” You gasp into his mouth in surprise, head gone fuzzy as he continues fucking your at the new angle, “Eddie! I, fuck-”

He responds with a groan. His lips leave yours to forge a trail of biting kisses over your skin. He wants to kiss you everywhere. He wishes he could kiss every inch of your skin and still keep fucking you. You're weak to do anything but lie there and take it and it makes Eddie feel dizzy with power. Your arms curl around his shoulders again, head thrown back against the bed in ecstasy.

Eddie's mouth is seemingly everywhere, lips sucking at the underside of your jaw, tongue leaving a wet trail over your collarbones and throat, teeth sinking into the curve of your shoulder. Each new sensation sends another spark of arousal down your spine, sends your brain farther into the clouds.

It’s almost too much. It has you tightening your thighs around his hips and rolling sideways over the bed to switch positions, his cock slipping free as you find yourself straddling his waist with only a slight wobble from the momentum. Eddie makes a quiet noise of surprise and petulance, but it melts into a grateful, high-keening moan when you sink back down onto him. Your hips press flush to his as you set a new, slower rhythm of your own making.

“Oh, Jesus,” Eddie whines in amazement, hands tracing over the curve of your waist and breasts as you rock back and forth onto him, “Shit. You look so good like this.” His praise comes out through heaving breaths.

You rest one hand supportively over the sparse hair at the center of his chest, the fingers of your other hand trailing up the skin of his arm until you can tangle your hands together against the mattress. You grind your hips down harder, deeper, and Eddie groans, his hips bucking up unconsciously to meet you halfway.

Your forearms fall on either side of his head. Your weight pressing down against his chest has Eddie immediately fisting your ass and thighs in a bruising grip to help guide your movements. You lean down to bury your face in his neck as you slide back and forth along his length in a slow rhythm, your legs already aching with exertion even with the help of his strong arms.

The loud slapping of skin meeting skin every time the backs of your thighs meet his own rings loudly in your ears. Your staggered breathing falls against his lightly stubbled jaw, lips leaving distracted kisses in apology for the way your hot breath fans out against his already sweaty neck.

“God, Eds,” You moan into his skin, sucking a mark against his throat while he uses his tight grip on your hips to fuck you down onto himself, “You feel. So f-fucking good-”

You let out a yelp as Eddie twists your bodies again with a grunt, and suddenly his body above yours once more, his hand on your shoulder as he sinks back inside of you.

“Need it faster. Harder.” He pants, “That okay?”

You nod, head rubbing against the mattress, “Yes. Please, yeah-”

Eddie trails his fingers down the back of your thigh and guides you to wrap your legs around his waist, and then he’s fucking into you in quick, punishing thrusts. Your moans only increase in volume at the change of pace, your whole body seemingly flushed with heat. Your hands scrape desperately over Eddie's back as he pounds into you, nails cutting into pale skin.

“Shit,” Eddie groans, his forehead dropping down against yours in an unexpectedly tender movement, though it does little to take away from the sound of your bedframe creaking, the wet squelch every time he drives back into you. “God, 're you close?” He asks desperately.

“Uh-huh.” You confirm immediately, brain hazy and muscles tensing with each hard thrust that brings you closer and closer to your peak.

Eddie's nose rubs soft along your cheekbone as he nods, joining your mouths in a kiss that's more breath and tongue than anything else. You struggle to focus on moving your mouth against his as your orgasm begins to creep into the corners of your vision. Eddie's weight drops down onto one elbow to allow him the stability to reach in between you. His hand settles over your pelvis, his fingers swiping messy over your clit as his quick thrusts grow shakier.

“C'mon, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs against your lips, “C'mon, I really-” He's cut off by the groan that rumbles up his throat when you pulse around him, the sound entirely animalistic. “Goddd. N-need you t' fuckin' cum, baby, please.”

His voice has gone husky with arousal and exertion, the sound has your eyes rolling back. It only takes a handful more thrusts like that, with the help of his fingertips tracing light circles over your clit. Your whole body tenses as your orgasm crashes over you, legs clamping around his hips. You whine brokenly in his mouth, a sharp gasp immediately following as you scrape your fingers down his shoulders, your whole body shaking as you come undone around him.

The increased tightness of your muscles spurs on Eddie’s own orgasm within a few thrusts, and then he's following you over the edge. He buries his face in the curve of your neck as he cums with a whine, hips stuttering twice before burying deep. His weight crushes you to the mattress, your back arching at the warmth of his release filling you. Your eyes water with the strength of your orgasm, Eddie's hips unconsciously grinding into your own as he rides out his own, whimpering into your ear with the aftershocks.

You both remain unmoving for a long minute, sweaty chests heaving as you struggle to catch your breath and come back to yourself. You card gently through Eddie's sweaty hair, his curls having long since broken free from the hair tie that had once held them back from his face. You fingers trail thoughtlessly through the damp tresses while Eddie's hot breath fans out over your neck. His dick twitches inside you when your fingertips scrape softly against his scalp and you struggle to bite back a quiet laugh of amusement. Your muscles tense even with the smothered laugh, and Eddie groans as your cunt pulses around him.

He huffs when he catches the look on your face, entirely dramatic as he begins to roll away, but he only maintains that feigned annoyance for about half a second before he's cackling madly and dragging you into his chest. He nips sharply at your shoulder as he tugs you into his sweaty chest and buries his face in your hair, fingers beginning to trace soft shapes over the skin of your hip.

“You feelin' okay?” He murmurs after a moment.

“Yeah,” You confirm with a sigh, already relaxing into his touch. Your brain is pleasantly dulled from the combination of the lingering high and your orgasm. “Yeah, 'm great.”

“Oh, same, yeah. Super great. I just, uh-” Eddie pauses and you find yourself focussing on the gentle caress of his fingers along your skin, “I wanted to check, y'know.. Make sure you weren't havin' any.. I dunno, just, regrets-”

You're readjusting in a flash so that you can look at him directly, your head settling onto his bicep as your eyes flick between his, “I don't. Regret it, I mean.”

It feels much too serious of a conversation to be having considering how deliriously high you currently feel, the previous strenuous activity did little to clear your head, but you mean it with every fiber of your being. You've been hung up on Eddie for what feels like forever now, the thought of him outright regretting the events of the last hour- It has you feeling sick, stomach sinking and twisting and souring all at once.

Eddie's throat bobs as he swallows, “Just, I mean.. Y're real stoned and- Shit. I, fuck. I probably shouldn't've-”

“Eddie,” You cut him off, feeling desperate with the need to reassure him, “You smoked just as much as I did—probably more. I-I wanted this. I wanted it, like, really bad. Unless..” Your heart drops, “Do.. Do you regret-?”

“No!” Eddie disagrees immediately, and vehemently — With urgency to correct you. “No. No, sweetheart, I do not regret it. Could never regret you. I mean, that was- Shit, I've been wanting to do that since-”

Your hand finds the warmth of his chest, fingers scraping at the small tattoo there, “You have?”

Eddie nods his head against the blankets, sweaty curls sticking up every which way around his head like a messy halo, “Yeah.”

“Does that mean.. I mean, would you maybe wanna do it again sometime? But, like, when we're not high as all hell?”

Eddie's dimpled grin has an embarrassingly wild burst of butterflies erupting inside of you, “Yeah. Yeah, I really do.”

You lay like that for a while, pressed together despite the heat. His fingers wander over your palms, tracing the lines there while you watch the way his rings shift. Your naked bodies separated only by a thin layer of sweat. The ceiling fan pushing light waves of blessedly cool air over your skin.

After a few minutes Eddie suddenly tears himself out of your grip, and he does it so abruptly that your brain is hardly able to comprehend the loss of him. He lets out a quiet yelp of distress and nearly collapses face-first into the blankets in a mad scramble toward your legs. He manhandles you until you're sprawled on your back, pushing your thighs apart before flopping entirely ungracefully onto his belly in the narrow space he's made between them.

As you push up onto your elbows to peer down at him, Eddie is simply stroking his fingers soft up and down the length of your cum-soaked folds. His eyes are alight with wonder while he watches his own spend begin to leak out. One of his thumbs catches it as it falls, and he pulls his hand back for just a moment to get a better look at the pearlescent mixture of your combined cum.

“What're you doing?” You giggle after a long moment of simply watching him.

Eddie's head snaps up with such surprise it looks as if he might've forgotten you were even there, if such a thing were possible.

“Just, uh.. Admiring my handiwork.” He grins like he's all-too pleased with himself, dimples poking into his cheeks.

“It's our handiwork, actually,” You correct playfully, “Half of that's mine, and- No, wait. Actually, 's all mine now.” You tell him triumphantly.

His eyes narrow in confusion and you redirect your gaze pointedly. His attention follows your own, eyes flicking briefly toward his own hand, where the cum has begun to drip slow down his thumb toward the meat of his palm.

“What, this?” He questions in amusement.

“Yes that.” You tell him with a frown, “'s mine.” You have to bite back an honest-to-god cackle at the entirely contrived look of betrayal on his face. “Put it back.” You challenge.

Eddie's eyes roll in irritation as he repeats your words mockingly, his voice thrown high in an exceptionally poor imitation of your own, but he does dutifully drop his hand down between your thighs again to attempt to push the cum back inside you.

He looks pleased as punch once he's done. He looks at your cunt with a dopey grin on his face, cheeks still pink with exertion and hair wild.

“Don't miss me too much, pretty. A'right? I'll be seein' you again real soon.” Eddie murmurs softly, eyes never once leaving your cunt. He punctates his words by pressing a gentle kiss to your mound, just a hair's breadth from your clit.

And then that dumb, dazed smile takes over his face again.

You squint down at him, “Was.. Were you talking to me or my-”

“Was talkin' to this pretty pussy.” Eddie says matter of factly, stroking his hand over the coarse hairs between your thighs in the way one might pet an animal.

“Okay.” You manage, laughter preventing you from saying anything else.

Eddie tugs a large chunk of loose curls across his face and lays his cheek to your upper thigh. He stays like that for a moment, hidden behind the curtain of his hair, big brown eyes blown about as wide as he can manage through his high.

“..Do you still wanna fuck me?”

He pouts. It's ridiculous. It's adorable.

You can't pretend to mull it over for more than a few seconds, your cheeks ache with the need to smile. He makes you so happy you feel borderline deranged.

Your lips quirk up even as you sigh dramatically, “Regrettably? Yes.”

He fucking cheers.

He drums his hands enthusiastically against your thighs and yells so loud in victory that all you can do is laugh and cover your ears until he's finished.

You don't regret it, not a goddamn bit.

Made it this far? Please reblog to show your support! It only takes a moment, and reblogs are so important when it comes to helping share an author's hard work!

#eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson x fem!reader smut #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fic #stranger things fic #stranger things smut #*

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nemo-writes · 2 months ago

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𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter four

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: jack’s feelings for you grew in the dusk. then, a whispered incident shatters the stillness, and he realizes too late that something’s already broken.

⤿ warning(s): none

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 1.8k

Jack first saw you exactly four years ago during shift‑change—him coming in for the ER night grind, you stalking out after twelve hours in Surgical with three lunch boxes stacked like ammo. Two interns are nipping at each other’s heels until you raise a single finger; the quarrel dies in mid‑air. He watches, amused, then watches again a few minutes later when those same interns turn up in the break room wolfing down a mouthful of poppy-seed muffins that smell like pure comfort.

“Who baked that?” he asks.

They point after you with crumbs on their cheeks and fingers: a hard‑headed nurse from Surgical.

He notices you in passing—but the meeting comes much later, high above the noise.

It is barely dawn, once again shift‑change o’clock. As usual, he takes the stairs to the roof for a hit of cold air before plunging into his ER night. You are already there, arms folded on the railing, watching the river steal the first light. He almost turns back, but you don’t glance over, and the quiet feels too good to waste. So he stands a dozen paces away, breathing steam into the sky. Neither of you speaks. Five minutes later the freight elevator clangs below and you disappear down the stairwell, a ghost in gray.

That becomes routine: his night beginning where your day ends, both of you claiming the same ten minutes of sky. At first it is silence—two strangers dividing the dawn. Then a nod. Then, on a morning whipped by sleet, you mutter, “Coffee? Again?” Jack snorts, raises his styrofoam cup, and admits it is sludge. You offer no sympathy, only a sideways grin that feels like permission.

Conversations creep in. You talk about nieces who mail you science‑fair photos, about Jack’s improbable knack for fixing malfunctioning IV pumps, about cilantro storage and the best pierogi on the South Side. He learns you feed residents and med students like stray cats. You learn his leg squeaks in the rain and he deals with it by over‑tightening the socket and cursing under his breath. That way, the roof becomes neutral ground, a borderland between the hospital’s fluorescent chaos and the city’s slow river.

Jack falls for you in increments—not all at once, not with fire, but in the way late sun warms cold bones.

The first time is maybe a dry joke you lob over your shoulder in passing. The second, the way your eyes soften when a helicopter banks in low, shadows flashing across your face as you pause mid-chat. And after that, it’s everything.

He hasn’t let himself feel something like this in a long time. Not since… and even that name, even the memory, doesn’t ache like it used to—but it has left behind a hollowed-out space where nothing has taken root since. There have been flings, sure. Company here and there, something easy and understood, but nothing that lasts beyond the night or the need. He hasn’t wanted anything to last.

Until you, that is.

And so, he begins hinting—carefully. A stupid pun scrawled in the margin of a half-finished sudoku you’ve been grumbling over all day. A couple of lumpia he manages to snag—somehow, without losing a limb—from Princess and Perlah’s fiercely guarded monthly stash. A quiet confession, offered one chilly morning, that sunrise feels less sharp with company. Each gesture small, deliberate, afraid that pressing too hard might crack the quiet, steady rhythm you both come to rely on.

Because the roof has become necessary.

And still, he can’t lie to himself: the feeling scares him. The possibility of caring again, of wanting something that can’t be controlled or triaged or explained—it unmoors him a little. But it also makes him feel alive in a way he hasn’t let himself feel in years. You make the hours between dusk and dawn feel less like a stretch of survival and more like something to look forward to.

And that… that is terrifying. But it is also good. Very good.

Then, four dusks in a row, you don’t show.

On the eve of the fifth night, he types a message he doesn’t plan to send: Haven’t seen you on the roof. Everything okay?

Ten minutes tick by before your reply arrives: I’m alright—just busy. See you tomorrow?

Something is off, and it isn’t the hour. He fills his thermos anyway and snags a terrible slice of cafeteria pound cake—knowing you’ll roast him for it if you ever find out—and promises himself that if dawn doesn’t bring answers, he’ll start asking better questions.

For now, he simply shoots back: Works for me. Sunrise tea?

And you, a simple but earnest confirmation: Sunrise tea.

Jack can be reckless, but war zones and widowhood have taught him this: when the strongest person in the room starts acting skittish and absent, you step closer and keep watch—especially if the room is a rooftop at sunrise, and the person is the nurse who once turns five minutes of shared silence into the best part of his day.

. . .

He arrives at the hospital, stepping through the double doors with his usual resolute gait, one hand hooked casually under the strap of his tactical backpack. His expression is calm, composed, shaded by that habitual, guarded optimism he wears for years.

But something is off.

It’s not loud. In fact, that’s what makes it strange. The usual din of residents bickering over charting, wheelchairs squealing across tile, interns nervously chugging coffee—muted. Not gone, just… held back, like the The Pitt is holding its breath.

Jack’s eyes scan the room, already sharpening beneath the calm. He catches sight of Dr. Ellis—one of his best senior residents—cutting across the ER with purposeful steps. Not rushed, not panicked. But something close to tight. Her face is unreadable, grim where it’s usually brisk.

“Jack,” she says as she reaches him. No Dr. Abbot, no pat on the arm, no idle quip. Just a quiet, urgent gesture for him to follow. “Come with me for a sec.”

His brow lifts, but he doesn’t ask questions. Not when she’s looking like that.

They weave past triage, through a set of doors into the cramped staff room. The door clicks shut behind them, and instantly the world narrows. The light feels a little too bright. The hum of the fridge too loud.

Jack leans against the counter, arms folded, expression even. “Alright,” he says, not unkindly. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

Parker doesn’t answer right away. She shifts, visibly uncomfortable. No sarcasm. No smirk. Just that rare, uncertain edge Jack only sees when things are about hit the fan.

“Something’s wrong up at Surgical,” she says finally. “Trauma Surgery, specifically.”

Jack doesn’t move, but his gaze sharpens. The inside of him goes still. You work Surgical long enough that his mind jumps without permission.

“What do you mean?” he asks, his voice steady. “Is it about a patient? A case?”

Parker shakes her head. “No. It’s personal. It’s… her.”

She doesn’t say your name. She doesn’t have to. The second she says it—her—Jack knows. The knot that’s been building for days, through missed rooftop meetings and clipped, careful texts, cinches tight, pressing into his ribs like a vice.

Of course he’s heard the way people talk. The way the nurses elbow each other when he walks past. Even Parker, just now, had paused like she expected him to flinch at the mention of you.

But Jack doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t correct anyone, either. Let them talk.

It’s not that anything’s happened—not really. Not yet. But something’s there. Has been for a while now. He just doesn’t have the time or energy to pretend otherwise.

His jaw ticks, barely. He fights the instinct to reach for his phone, to scroll through that last short message—just tired—and see if it reads any differently now.

“She’s been dealing with something,” Parker continues, lower now. “Something bad. I don’t know the whole story. Not really. Nobody does, I think. But… word’s spreading fast.”

Jack doesn’t breathe, but he listens.

“She broke down in the middle of her shift. Not just a bad day. Panic—real panic. Security got called in. So did Gloria.”

The weight of it settles hard. He turns his eyes to a crack above the microwave. It’s been there for years, a small fracture in cheap cabinetry, but tonight it looks like a fault line.

“She alright?” he asks.

Parker gives a vague nod. “I think so. But here’s the thing—no one’s talking. I mean, not even the nurses.”

That gets his attention.

Parker goes on. “You know how they are. They could tell you what kind of gum a new hire chewed three floors down before HR finishes onboarding. But this? They’re locking it down. Close. Fierce. Like they’re closing ranks over her.”

Jack runs a hand down his face, slow. Subdued, yes—but not at peace.

“Do you know why?” Jack asks, voice low and even.

Parker hesitates, then shakes her head. “No. Not really. Just bits and pieces. Like I said, no one’s giving the full story. Not even the nurses, and you know how they are—usually you can’t get them to stop talking. But now? Radio silence.”

Jack watches her carefully. She’s being honest. He can tell.

“I can poke around,” Parker offers, almost reluctantly. “Ask some questions, feel out what’s being held back—if you want.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales, slow through his nose, as if weighing what kind of damage that might do. His fingers drum once against the thermos in his hand. Then he shakes his head, once.

“No,” he says. “Leave it. Maybe it’s not for the best.”

That stops her cold. She studies him, really looks—and the silence between them sharpens.

Because Jack never says leave it. Not when someone’s in trouble. And the line of his jaw, the way his shoulders lock down… that’s not calm. That’s containment. Worry wrapped so tight it’s just short of boiling over.

She doesn’t press. Not now.

Jack straightens, but his expression doesn’t change. If anything, it stills into something harder. More focused.

His name hasn’t come up, and that almost bothers him more. If you’d talked to someone—anyone—why not him? And now that’s too late. The missed rooftop meetings, the clipped texts, the careful way you said “I’m just tired.” It all slides into place with a sickening click.

He tugs his backpack strap a little tighter over his shoulder, eyes distant but burning behind the quiet.

“Thanks for letting me know,” he mutters. “Let’s get to work.”

Parker only nods. She doesn’t add or ask another thing.

And when they walk out of the staff room, there’s no storm in his step, no rush in his pace. But the tension radiating off him—quiet, coiled, dangerous—is enough to make two med‑students step out of his way without a word.

Something’s wrong. Someone’s hurt you. And someone else is going to regret it.

divider credit

#fanfiction #fanfic #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt fanfic #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #dr. jack abbot #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x you #female reader #nurse reader #older reader #small age-gap

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ere-the-sun-rises · 10 months ago

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Batfam and the Lazarus Pit

This isn't my idea, and I honestly can't remember if @frownyalfred or @bruciemilf came up with this idea first, but it's been living in my head rent free and I need to get it out.

There are Lazarus Pits under Gotham, even contributing to why the city's so cursed. The Bats have each used a Lazarus Pit at least once (maybe not Spoiler and Signal, but I'm not sure). I'm fairly sure it's also canonical that the more you use it, the more prolonged the effects are and it kinda changes you incrementally but permanently.

Enter the Batfam, who train like crazy and are Olympian-level athletes all on their own, and using the Lazarus to help each other on death's door. (They don't tell each other when they do this, and they think it's never been done to them - except Jason, he can always tell - but they also don't share when they've done it to others.)

As time goes on, everyone gets older, stronger, more proficient at their jobs. Some take on younger teams, some proteges, some fly solo or stick around home. It's one of the OG Leaguers who points it out one day when they're having a civilian lunch - probably Ollie or Hal. In my head Bruce is one of, if not the youngest, OG Leaguers. So it's not crazy when Clark or Barry start to wrinkle around the eyes or get grey in their hair well before Bruce would. Bruce is also a public figure - he's got appearances to keep up.

But then ... Bruce is over 40 and his hair is still as black as it's ever been. His wrinkles are from his scowling and focus, only crinkling around the edges of his eyes and mouth a little bit. Idly, Hal wonders out loud if Bat's eyes have always been so dark, almost like coals. Barry notes that Bruce is way bigger than he used to be, that he bulges the suits he wears to galas with his size. Ollie, who's own beard is greying, bitterly points out that even Bruce's stubble is still black.

And suddenly, Bruce hits 50 and he's still thick-chested and dark-haired. The other Bats only seem to get more and more ... more. No non-meta can spar with them anymore unless they hold back and they seem to have endless stamina and pain tolerance. Clark and Diana think nothing of it, but the other fully human Leaguers start to wonder what's really going on. If maybe Bruce had lied to them. But J'onn swears that in their own minds, all of the Bats fully believe they're human. Aside from the suspicion, there's no reason to believe otherwise. They still bleed and scar, no matter how beautiful they seem to remain. No matter that Bruce keeps going and going and going even after others his age have been retired for years.

Fed up one day, Ollie asks him how he does it. Dermatologists? Botox? Just For Men? Bruce snorts and rolls his eyes. He smirks, "Good genes, I guess."

Bruce is nearly 70 when the grey creeps into his hair and his body starts to slow. His children are still active as ever, and when Tim takes up the Batman mantle, Bruce retires to train new heroes. One young hero complains that Bruce hits like one of the Amazons she trained with but he only responds that he's never stopped being the Bat even with tbe cowl off.

And then ... Leaguers start dying. Gradually, age takes them one by one and they's succeeded by the heroes they've mentored and the children who followed in their footsteps. Grey is starting to creep into Dick and Jason's hair, but they're still as vibrant and lively as ever.

It's only when it's just him left of humans of the original group that he actually considers why. If anyone should have died young, it should have been him. And yet, he's nearing 90 and not nearly as withered as some of them had been when they passed away. The vitality he's always attributed to his genetics and continued activity can't explain why all his children remain as beautiful and capable all their lives as he has. So one day, he gathers his wayward children down in the cave like they used to 50 years ago and asks them to be completely honest with him.

"Have any of you used the Lazarus Pit on anyone here without telling them or reporting it?"

The silence he's met with is deafening.

#Batman #Batfam #Batfamily #Bruce wayne #Justice league #Age slowing #Lazarus pit

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velvetvisionsaurora · 17 days ago

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Synopsis: When talented producer Y/n (known professionally as the mysterious "Celeste") accepts a position at JYP Entertainment to help Stray Kids with their comeback, she expects to focus solely on creating music. What she doesn't expect is the immediate connection she feels with Han Jisung—the group's quick-witted, sensitive rapper and producer who's been following her career from afar.

Pairing: Han Jisung x Reader

Warnings: Angst, Smut, Heartbreak

<<Previous Next>>

Masterlist Ko-fi☕️ <- Want to buy me a coffee?

Chapter 16: Breaking Point

Three days after your date with Jiwoo, the tension in the studio had become almost unbearable. Your initial resolve to maintain professional composure was crumbling under the weight of constant proximity to Han, whose own behavior had shifted in ways you couldn't quite interpret. Where before he had been carefully neutral, now he seemed to alternate between avoiding eye contact entirely and watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle with awareness.

The date with Jiwoo—which you hadn't repeated despite his polite follow-up message—had somehow changed the dynamic, though you couldn't understand why. If Han truly believed his feelings for you had been circumstantial, why would your dinner with someone else affect him at all?

Yet something had shifted, creating a volatile undercurrent that threatened the professional environment you'd both worked so hard to maintain after the breakup. Other members had begun to notice as well, exchanging concerned glances when production discussions between you and Han became clipped and tense, when creative disagreements that would have previously been resolved through collaborative compromise turned into stubborn standoffs.

Today's session had begun normally enough—reviewing the final mix of the title track, making minor adjustments to levels and effects. But tension had been building incrementally, each small interaction between you and Han carrying the weight of unspoken words and suppressed emotions.

"The vocal reverb on the bridge needs reduction," you noted, making an adjustment to the mix without waiting for agreement. "It's muddying the instrumental texture."

Han frowned, reaching to revert your change. "The reverb provides depth. Without it, the transition feels two-dimensional."

"The depth should come from the arrangement, not artificial effects," you countered, your tone more brusque than usual. "The composition is strong enough to stand without excessive processing."

Chan glanced between you, clearly sensing the growing tension. "Maybe we could try a compromise? Reduce the reverb slightly but maintain some of that atmospheric quality?"

"The current level is already a compromise," Han insisted, an edge entering his voice that would have been unthinkable in your earlier collaborations. "Further reduction undermines the emotional impact of the section."

"That's your subjective interpretation," you responded, professional patience wearing dangerously thin. "Objectively, the mix is cleaner and more effective with reduced reverb."

"Music isn't objective," Han shot back, frustration evident in his posture. "It's emotional expression, not mathematical calculation."

"And professional production is about balancing expression with technical quality," you countered, the argument moving beyond the specific issue into broader philosophical territory. "Sometimes that means making choices that serve the overall composition rather than individual preferences."

Changbin exchanged a concerned look with Chan, both clearly uncomfortable with the escalating tension. "Maybe we should take a break," he suggested cautiously. "Get some fresh perspective."

"The perspective is clear," Han stated firmly, his gaze challenging as it met yours across the console. "The reverb stays as is."

Something in his tone—the flat finality, the dismissal of your professional judgment—broke through your carefully maintained composure. "You don't get to make unilateral decisions about this mix," you said, your voice dangerously quiet. "That's not how collaboration works."

"Isn't it?" Han replied, something bitter entering his expression. "I thought making decisions for other people was standard practice around here."

The comment landed like a slap, its meaning clear only to you—a reference to his decision to end your relationship without discussion, to declare his feelings insufficient without giving you a voice in the matter. The sudden intrusion of personal history into professional disagreement crossed a line that had been carefully maintained for weeks.

"That's completely inappropriate," you said, standing abruptly from your station. "And entirely irrelevant to this discussion."

"Is it?" Han challenged, rising as well, the professional pretense crumbling further with each exchange. "Or is it the root of the whole problem?"

Chan stepped forward, alarm evident in his expression. "Okay, let's definitely take that break now. Fifteen minutes, everyone cool down, then we'll revisit this with clear heads."

But the breaking point had been reached, weeks of suppressed hurt and confusion finally boiling over into words that couldn't be taken back.

"You don't get to act like the injured party here," you said, gathering your belongings with trembling hands. "You made your feelings—or lack thereof—perfectly clear. You don't then get to have opinions about how I process that or who I spend time with."

Han's expression flickered with something like pain before hardening again. "I never claimed to have opinions about that. Your personal life is your business."

"Then why the sudden hostility since the date?" you demanded, abandoning professional reservation entirely. "If you truly meant what you said about your feelings not being deep enough, why does it matter to you what I do outside this studio?"

The question hung in the air between you, loaded with implications neither of you were prepared to address directly. Chan and Changbin remained frozen in place, clearly uncertain whether intervention would improve the situation or escalate it further.

"It doesn't matter to me," Han insisted, though his tense posture and averted gaze suggested otherwise. "I'm focused on the music, which is why I'm advocating for the production choices that best serve the composition."

"Right," you replied, disbelief evident in your tone. "This is exclusively about reverb levels, not about you attempting to assert control in one area since you've lost it in another."

The psychological assessment was cutting in its accuracy, causing Han to flinch visibly before his expression hardened into something distant and cold. "Believe whatever you want. I'm trying to create the best possible album, which is what we're all here for, supposedly."

"Yes, it is," you agreed, a sudden clarity washing over you as the full weight of the situation settled in your chest. "And I'm beginning to think my physical presence here is becoming detrimental to that goal."

Chan stepped forward, concern deepening in his expression. "Y/n, that's not—"

"It's true," you interrupted quietly. "The current dynamic isn't sustainable or productive. We need to find a different approach."

Without further elaboration, you turned and left the studio, ignoring Chan's call of your name as the door closed behind you. The walk to your dorm passed in a blur of hurt and clarity, each step cementing the decision that had been forming in your mind since the argument began.

Inside your dorm, you moved directly to your laptop, opening your email with shaking hands but absolute certainty about what needed to be done. The message you composed was professional and straightforward, addressed to JYP's production director with copies to your management team in LA:

Subject: Request for Remote Completion of Contract

Dear Director Park,

I am writing to formally request modification of my remaining contract obligations with JYP Entertainment. After careful consideration, I believe the project would be best served by my completing the remaining production work remotely from Los Angeles rather than continuing in Seoul.

The album is now in final mixing stages, with all major production elements established and approved in yesterday's executive review. The remaining work—final mixing adjustments, mastering supervision, and production notes—can be effectively accomplished through digital collaboration, as is standard practice in many international productions.

My team in LA has confirmed the availability of appropriate studio facilities to ensure seamless continuation of the project, and I am prepared to maintain the established timeline for completion.

I believe this arrangement will provide the most efficient path to completing the album at the quality level JYP expects and deserves. I remain fully committed to delivering an exceptional product and am available for immediate discussion of logistical details.

Thank you for your consideration of this request.

Sincerely, Celeste. Executive Producer

You read through the message twice, verifying that the tone remained entirely professional with no hint of the personal complications driving your decision. Satisfied that it represented a reasonable business request rather than an emotional reaction, you clicked send before you could reconsider.

The solution wasn't perfect—remote collaboration would present its own challenges—but it would provide the distance needed to complete the project without the daily emotional strain that had become increasingly unbearable. Seven weeks of careful professional distance had proven unsustainable; perhaps physical separation would allow both you and Han to refocus on the work rather than the complicated feelings neither of you seemed able to fully suppress.

As the email departed into digital space, a profound exhaustion settled over you, the adrenaline of confrontation giving way to a bone-deep weariness. You'd come to Seoul for a professional opportunity, a chance to expand your production repertoire and work with talented artists in a different cultural context. Somehow, that straightforward assignment had evolved into the most emotionally complicated experience of your career.

The worst part was how much you'd come to care—not just about Han, though that remained a raw wound, but about all of them. Felix with his sunshine warmth and perceptive friendship. I.N. with his endearing combination of youthful enthusiasm and surprising maturity. Hyunjin with his dramatic flair hiding genuine depth. Chan's steady leadership, Changbin's quiet insight, Lee Know's observant calm, Seungmin's thoughtful intelligence.

They had become more than colleagues, more than the subjects of a temporary assignment. They had become something like family, a realization that made your decision to leave prematurely all the more painful. But continuing in the current environment would only damage both the project and the relationships you'd developed.

Sometimes the kindest choice was also the most difficult. Distance, in this case, might be the greatest gift you could offer—to the album, to the group, to Han, and to yourself.

Your phone chimed with a message from Felix: "You okay? Chan told me you left suddenly after an argument."

The concern was touching but also a reminder of how intertwined your personal and professional lives had become here—precisely the complication that had led to the current situation.

"I'm fine," you replied, the standard response when one is anything but. "Just needed space to think."

The truth would come soon enough, once your request was processed and approved. For now, you needed time to begin the mental and emotional preparation for departure, for returning to LA weeks earlier than planned, for saying goodbye to people who had come to mean far more than you'd ever anticipated.

Seven weeks suddenly reduced to days, perhaps even hours, depending on how quickly management processed your request. Time that would now be measured in goodbyes rather than ongoing collaboration, in packing rather than production, in ending rather than creating.

It wasn't what you'd wanted or expected when you'd accepted this assignment. But sometimes the only way forward was to step away, however painful the separation might be.

---

The atmosphere in the studio remained tense in your absence, Han's expression closed and defensive as Chan and Changbin exchanged concerned glances, uncertain how to proceed after the unprecedented confrontation.

"Maybe I should go check on her," Chan suggested finally, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen after your departure.

"Give her space," Han countered, turning back to the console with forced focus. "We can continue working on the other tracks while she processes."

Changbin's expression reflected clear disapproval, though he directed his comment to Chan rather than Han. "Should we reschedule today's session? The energy isn't exactly conducive to creative work right now."

Before Chan could respond, the studio door opened to reveal Manager Kim, his expression uncharacteristically grave as he surveyed the room, noting your absence with a slight frown.

"Chan," he said, gesturing toward the hallway. "A word, please."

Han watched with growing unease as Chan followed the manager outside, the door closing behind them with a soft but somehow ominous click. Something about Manager Kim's expression, the unusual interruption of a production session, sent a chill of premonition through Han's system.

"What do you think that's about?" he asked Changbin, trying to keep his tone casual despite the anxiety building in his chest.

Changbin shrugged, though his expression suggested concern rather than indifference. "Probably related to what just happened here. Word travels fast in this building."

The observation only increased Han's discomfort. If Manager Kim had heard about their argument, about the personal tension that had infected the professional environment, would he make the connection to his earlier warning about inappropriate relationships? Would you face professional consequences because Han had failed to maintain the careful boundaries that were supposed to protect your career?

The minutes stretched endlessly as Han waited for Chan's return, each scenario his imagination conjured worse than the last. When the door finally reopened, Chan's expression confirmed his worst fears—something significant had happened, something that wouldn't be easily resolved.

"What is it?" Changbin asked, voicing the question Han couldn't bring himself to form.

Chan closed the door carefully before turning to face them, his expression a mixture of concern and resignation. "Y/n has requested to complete her contract remotely from LA. Effective immediately."

The news landed like a physical blow, leaving Han momentarily breathless as the implications registered. You were leaving. Not in seven weeks as scheduled, but now. Immediately. Without proper goodbyes or resolution or any of the closure he'd imagined might eventually come.

"She can't do that," he protested automatically, though he knew intellectually that you absolutely could—remote collaboration was standard in the industry, especially for international projects.

"Apparently she can," Chan replied, his tone carefully neutral though his eyes reflected concern as they assessed Han's reaction. "Management has approved the request. She'll be flying back to LA tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow?" Changbin repeated, genuine shock evident in his voice. "That's... abrupt."

Chan nodded, moving to his workstation with a sigh. "The email chain I was just shown suggests she made a compelling case for why remote completion makes sense at this stage of production. Technically, she's right—we're in final mixing, most of the creative heavy lifting is done. But the timing..."

He let the observation hang, the implication clear to everyone in the room. The timing, immediately following a heated argument with Han that crossed professional boundaries, was no coincidence.

"This is because of what happened today," Han said quietly, the reality settling in his chest like a stone. "Because I couldn't maintain professional separation."

Neither Chan nor Changbin contradicted this assessment, their silence confirmation enough. The weight of responsibility pressed Han further into his seat—you were leaving Seoul weeks ahead of schedule, abandoning the close-knit creative environment that had produced such exceptional work, because he had failed to honor the very boundaries he'd established to protect your career.

"We need to tell the others," Chan said finally, reaching for his phone. "I'll call a meeting at the dorm in an hour. Everyone should hear this together."

Han nodded numbly, unable to formulate a response that wouldn't reveal the full extent of his guilt and regret. You were leaving because of him—because of his inability to reconcile his feelings with his actions, because of the tension his deception had created, because continuing in his presence had become unsustainable.

The protection he'd claimed to provide through ending your relationship had ultimately failed, driving you away physically as well as emotionally. The irony was bitter, the failure complete. In trying to shield you from professional damage, he had created a situation so untenable that leaving early had become your only viable option.

Seven weeks reduced to less than twenty-four hours. Whatever slim hope he might have harbored for eventual resolution, for some kind of closure or understanding before your scheduled departure, had been extinguished by his own actions. The realization was devastating in its finality, in the absolute certainty that he had lost something precious through his own misguided choices.

---

The dorm living room was unusually silent as the eight members gathered, the somber atmosphere suggesting Chan had provided some context for the emergency meeting when summoning everyone. Han sat slightly apart from the others, hyperaware of the occasional glances cast in his direction—some concerned, others accusatory, none particularly comforting.

"I've called everyone here because there's been a significant development regarding the album production," Chan began, his leader persona firmly in place despite the personal nature of the situation. "Y/n has requested and received approval to complete her contract remotely from Los Angeles. She'll be flying out tomorrow morning."

Despite the hints Chan had clearly provided beforehand, the official announcement was met with immediate reactions of shock and distress.

"Tomorrow?" Felix repeated, dismay evident in his expression. "But she wasn't supposed to leave for seven more weeks."

"What happened?" Seungmin asked, his perceptive gaze moving between Chan and Han. "This seems sudden."

Chan hesitated, clearly considering how much detail was appropriate to share. "There was a disagreement during today's session that... escalated beyond professional bounds. Y/n feels the project would be better served by her completing the work remotely."

"A disagreement," Hyunjin repeated flatly, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on Han. "Would this 'disagreement' have anything to do with certain personal complications that have been affecting the studio atmosphere for weeks?"

Han met his gaze briefly before looking away, unable to deny the accusation but unwilling to elaborate on the specific exchange that had pushed you to your breaking point.

"This is ridiculous," Felix said, frustration evident in his usually cheerful voice. "She can't just leave without proper goodbyes. Without closure. Without..." he trailed off, the unspoken 'fixing things with Han' hanging in the air.

"Apparently she can," Lee Know observed quietly. "And given the situation, it's hard to blame her for wanting distance."

The pointed comment wasn't directed explicitly at Han, but its target was unmistakable nonetheless. Han remained silent, accepting the implicit criticism as his due. This outcome was the result of his choices, his actions, his failure to navigate the complicated circumstances he'd helped create.

"So that's it?" I.N. asked, his voice small and hurt in a way that made Han's chest tighten with fresh guilt. "Noona is just... leaving? Without saying goodbye?"

The Korean term of affection—the one you'd once mentioned touched you deeply when I.N. first used it—highlighted the personal bonds that had formed beyond professional collaboration. Bonds that would now be severed prematurely, leaving no opportunity for proper farewells or closure.

"I'm sure she'll say her goodbyes," Chan assured him, though his tone lacked conviction. "She wouldn't leave without at least messaging everyone."

"A text isn't the same as a proper goodbye," Hyunjin argued, his usual dramatic flair underscored by genuine emotion. "We should at least have a dinner or something before she goes. A chance to properly thank her for everything she's done."

"I'll reach out and suggest it," Chan agreed, though his expression suggested limited hope for success. "But given the circumstances..."

His gaze flickered briefly to Han, the implication clear—your desire for separation likely extended beyond professional considerations to include distance from Han specifically, making a group gathering potentially uncomfortable or unwelcome.

"This is completely messed up," Felix stated, voice rising with uncharacteristic anger. "She belongs here, with us, finishing what we started together. The album won't be the same without her physical presence."

"The production quality won't suffer," Chan assured him, ever the professional leader. "Y/n is still fully committed to the project, just from a different location."

"It's not about the production quality," Felix countered, frustration evident in his expression. "It's about the creative energy, the collaborative spirit, the family we've become. You can't replicate that through digital communication."

The word 'family' sent another wave of guilt through Han's system. You had indeed become something like family to many of the members—Felix's best friend, I.N.'s surrogate sister, a valued confidant and creative partner to others. Those connections would now be severed prematurely because of his inability to manage the personal complications he had helped create.

"This wouldn't be happening if certain people hadn't made things unnecessarily complicated," Hyunjin observed, not bothering to disguise the accusation in his tone as he looked directly at Han. "If feelings had been communicated honestly instead of whatever game has been playing out for weeks."

"Hyunjin," Chan warned, clearly trying to prevent further escalation. "Placing blame doesn't help the situation now."

"Doesn't it?" Hyunjin challenged, rising from his seat with building emotion. "Because I think acknowledging exactly why Y/n feels she needs to flee the country might be pretty relevant to fixing the problem."

Han remained silent, accepting Hyunjin's anger as justified given his limited understanding of the situation. Without knowing about Manager Kim's warning, about the potential career consequences you had faced, Hyunjin's interpretation was understandable—Han had created complications through his own emotional cowardice rather than legitimate concern for your professional future.

"It can't be fixed," Han said finally, the words emerging with quiet resignation. "Some situations don't have simple solutions, no matter how much we might want them to."

His response only seemed to fuel Hyunjin's frustration. "That's convenient, isn't it? Declaring something unfixable rather than actually trying to resolve it."

"You don't understand the full situation," Lee Know interjected, surprising Han with the partial defense. "There are complications beyond what's immediately apparent."

The comment suggested Lee Know had shared at least some of what Han had revealed about Manager Kim's warning, though clearly not with everyone given Hyunjin and Felix's continuing anger. The realization was both concerning and somewhat relieving—Han wasn't carrying the full weight of knowledge alone anymore, yet the circle of awareness was expanding in potentially dangerous ways.

"Then enlighten us," Felix challenged, his usually warm demeanor hardened by concern for you. "Because from where I'm sitting, we're losing someone important because of unresolved personal issues that should never have interfered with the professional environment in the first place."

The accusation stung precisely because it contained truth—the boundaries between personal and professional had indeed blurred beyond recovery, creating the very situation Han had feared from the beginning. Your career was potentially still at risk, but now from a different angle—the premature termination of your Seoul assignment, the unusual contract modification, the implied interpersonal complications that might raise questions with future employers or collaborators.

Before Han could formulate a response to Felix's challenge, a sound broke through the tense atmosphere—a sob, quickly stifled but unmistakable in the otherwise silent room. All heads turned toward I.N., the youngest member's eyes filling with tears he was clearly struggling to contain.

"It's not fair," he said, voice trembling with emotion. "Noona belongs here. With us. With her family."

The raw hurt in his expression, the genuine distress at your impending departure, broke something in Han's carefully maintained composure. I.N. had formed a special bond with you—the sibling-like relationship that had brought him comfort and guidance throughout your time in Seoul. That connection would now be severed prematurely because of Han's actions, his choices, his inability to navigate the complicated feelings between you without creating a situation that drove you away.

"I.N.—" Han began, though he had no idea what comfort he could possibly offer.

"This is your fault!" I.N. exclaimed suddenly, tears flowing freely now as he rose to his feet, hurt transforming into uncharacteristic anger directed squarely at Han. "You did something to make her want to leave, and now she's going away, and everything is ruined!"

The direct accusation from the usually gentle maknae stunned everyone into silence, the unprecedented outburst highlighting just how deeply your impending departure was affecting the group dynamics. I.N.'s relationship with you had been special—the noona/dongsaeng dynamic giving him a different kind of support than he received from the other members.

"You have to fix it," I.N. continued, voice breaking with emotion but conviction unwavering. "Whatever you did or said, you have to make it right. Noona belongs here, with her adoptive family. She was happy here until... until whatever happened between you two."

The plea was so earnest, so heartfelt that Han found himself unable to maintain eye contact, the weight of I.N.'s disappointment too heavy to bear directly. "It's not that simple," he said quietly, the familiar explanation feeling increasingly hollow with each repetition.

"Why not?" I.N. demanded, surprising everyone with his persistence. "If you care about her—and don't pretend you don't, we all see how you look at her—why can't you just be honest? Why can't you fix whatever broke?"

The simple question cut through Han's complex justifications with brutal efficiency. Why couldn't he just be honest? Why couldn't he trust you with the truth about Manager Kim's warning, about his real feelings, about the fear that had driven his decisions? Was protecting your career worth the pain his deception had caused—not just to you and himself, but to others who had formed meaningful connections with you during your time in Seoul?

"I.N., it's more complicated than—" Chan began, trying to defuse the situation with his usual diplomatic approach.

"It's NOT!" I.N. interrupted, tears streaming down his face now as emotion overwhelmed his usual respectful demeanor. "It's only complicated because people make things complicated! If you care about someone, you fight for them! You don't let them leave without even trying to make things right!"

The raw emotion in I.N.'s outburst silenced even Chan, the leader clearly recognizing that this was something the youngest member needed to express rather than be soothed away. I.N. rarely showed such intense feelings, his usually cheerful or thoughtfully quiet demeanor giving way only in exceptional circumstances.

This, apparently, qualified as exceptional.

"Please, hyung," I.N. pleaded, looking directly at Han with tear-filled eyes. "Please fix this. Please don't let noona leave like this."

The naked vulnerability in the request struck Han somewhere fundamental, breaking through layers of justification and self-protection to the core truth he'd been avoiding: his choices had hurt not just you and himself, but others who cared about you both. The ripple effects of his well-intentioned deception had expanded beyond anything he'd anticipated, creating pain he'd never intended.

"I'll try," Han heard himself say, the words emerging before conscious thought could censor them. "I can't promise it will work, but... I'll try."

The commitment, however tentative, seemed to provide I.N. with some measure of comfort. He nodded once, wiping tearfully at his face before retreating to Felix's supportive embrace, the older member murmuring gentle reassurances as he held the still-trembling maknae.

Han looked around the room, taking in the various expressions directed his way—Hyunjin's skepticism, Chan's concerned encouragement, Lee Know's knowing assessment, Changbin's cautious hope. Whatever happened next, whatever attempt he made to resolve the situation with you, would unfold with these witnesses, these people who cared about both of you in different ways.

The protection he'd sought through deception had failed. The careful distance he'd maintained had crumbled. The professional environment he'd prioritized had fractured despite his best efforts. All that remained was truth—however complicated, however potentially consequential, however terrifying in its implications.

You were leaving tomorrow. His time for careful calculations and protective distance had run out. Whatever happened next would require courage he wasn't sure he possessed, honesty he'd been avoiding for weeks.

But I.N.'s tearful plea echoed in his mind, a simple truth cutting through complex adult justifications: if you care about someone, you fight for them. You don't let them leave without trying to make things right.

The question that remained, the one Han would need to answer before facing you with the truth he'd been hiding, was deceptively simple yet profoundly challenging: what was he fighting for? Your career protection? His own emotional safety? The possibility of a relationship that still faced the fundamental challenge of geographic separation in just seven weeks?

As the group meeting dissolved into smaller conversations, plans for potential goodbyes, and processing of what your early departure meant for various members, Han retreated into silent contemplation of this essential question. The answer would determine his next actions, his approach to the precipice he now faced with time rapidly running out.

You were leaving tomorrow. Whatever truth needed sharing, whatever resolution might be possible, would need to happen before you boarded that plane. The countdown had begun, the moment of reckoning approaching with merciless speed.

Han could only hope that whatever courage he managed to summon would be enough, whatever truth he offered would be received, whatever damage existed could be repaired before time ran out completely.

---

As the meeting disbanded, members drifting off in various states of distress and concern, Chan caught Han's eye with a silent gesture toward the balcony. The leader's expression was unreadable, but the intent was clear—a private conversation was needed, away from the emotional chaos of the group.

Han followed with reluctance, knowing what awaited was likely another well-deserved critique of his handling of the situation. The cool evening air offered little relief from the suffocating weight of guilt and regret pressing against his chest as he stepped onto the small balcony, closing the door behind him.

Chan leaned against the railing, silent for a long moment as he gazed out at the city lights. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully measured, the control of a leader who needed answers rather than emotional catharsis.

"I need the full story, Han. Not bits and pieces, not the sanitized version. Everything."

Han hesitated, instinct still pushing toward protection through selective disclosure. But I.N.'s tearful plea had cracked something fundamental in his resolve, and Chan's steady leadership had earned complete honesty, regardless of how uncomfortable the truth might be.

"Manager Kim called me into his office two weeks ago," Han began, voice low despite the privacy of their location. "Said there were rumors about me and Y/n having an inappropriate relationship. Warned me about the consequences if it was true."

Chan's posture stiffened slightly, but he remained silent, allowing Han to continue uninterrupted.

"For me, it would be disciplinary action, maybe impact on comeback promotions, but nothing career-ending," Han explained, the familiar words bitter on his tongue. "For Y/n? Immediate termination. A formal note in her professional file about contract breach. Blacklisting from JYP and probably other Korean entertainment companies."

"So you ended things to protect her career," Chan surmised, the pieces visibly connecting in his analytical mind. "But you didn't tell her why."

Han nodded, relieved at being understood without needing to justify his actions further. "I was afraid if she knew the truth, she might decide some things were worth the risk. That she might want to continue despite the professional consequences. I couldn't let her make that choice when the damage would fall almost entirely on her."

"So instead," Chan said, his tone sharpening slightly, "you told her what? That your feelings weren't genuine? That it was all circumstantial?"

The accuracy of Chan's guess suggested he'd pieced together more than Han had realized from observation alone. "Something like that," Han confirmed, shame coloring the admission. "I thought a clean break based on fading interest would be easier for her to accept than ongoing risk to her career."

Chan was quiet for a long moment, his breathing measured in the way that those closest to him recognized as controlled anger rather than calm acceptance. When he finally turned to face Han fully, his expression confirmed it—the usually warm, supportive leader was genuinely angry, something Han had rarely witnessed directed at any member, let alone himself.

"Let me make sure I understand this correctly," Chan said, voice dangerously quiet. "Our manager threatened one of my members with career consequences without ever speaking to me. Then that same member made a unilateral decision affecting another team member's emotional wellbeing and our group's dynamic without consulting me. And now we're losing our producer weeks ahead of schedule because both situations were mishandled from the beginning."

Put that way, the failure of communication seemed egregious, the bypassing of Chan's leadership an obvious misstep. Han hadn't considered how the situation might appear from Chan's perspective—not just the personal complications between himself and you, but the direct intervention from management without involving the group's leader.

"I didn't think—" Han began, but Chan cut him off with uncharacteristic sharpness.

"That's exactly the problem. You didn't think. Not about the group dynamics, not about proper channels of communication, and certainly not about what Y/n deserved to know for herself."

The criticism stung all the more for coming from Chan, whose leadership style typically emphasized support and guidance rather than direct confrontation. But the anger wasn't just about Han's decisions, he realized belatedly. It was about Manager Kim approaching Han directly with threats about career consequences without involving Chan as the group's leader and protective buffer between members and management.

"Why didn't you come to me?" Chan asked, the hurt beneath the anger becoming evident in his voice. "When Manager Kim made those threats, why didn't you immediately tell me? That's literally my job, Han—to handle these situations, to protect the members, to interface with management when issues arise."

The question revealed an aspect of the situation Han hadn't fully considered in his panic to protect you—that bypassing Chan might have been perceived as lack of trust in his leadership, an unintended insult to the person who had guided them through countless challenges over the years.

"I was trying to protect Y/n," Han explained weakly, the justification sounding increasingly insufficient with each iteration. "I thought handling it quietly would minimize the risk to her career."

"And instead," Chan replied, "you've created a situation where she's fleeing the country to escape the emotional fallout, the group is in disarray, and our album completion is now complicated by remote collaboration. All because you didn't trust me enough to help navigate this properly from the beginning."

The assessment was brutally accurate, highlighting the cascading failures that had resulted from Han's well-intentioned but ultimately misguided attempt to handle everything himself. He had no defense to offer, no justification that could mitigate the consequences of his choices.

"I'm sorry," he said simply, the words woefully inadequate but genuinely meant. "I should have come to you. I didn't think through all the implications."

Chan's expression softened slightly at the sincere apology, his natural tendency toward forgiveness tempering the justified anger. "No, you didn't. But my real issue isn't even with you right now."

He straightened, a resolute determination replacing the earlier hurt and anger. "Manager Kim had absolutely no right to approach you directly with threats about this situation. That conversation should have come to me first, as the group's leader. The fact that he deliberately circumvented my position to intimidate you individually is completely unacceptable."

The shift in focus surprised Han, who had expected Chan's anger to remain directed primarily at his own failings rather than management's approach. "I didn't think about it that way," he admitted. "I was too focused on the immediate threat to Y/n's career."

"Which is exactly why these structures exist," Chan explained, some of his usual patient leadership returning to his tone. "You were emotionally involved and isolated with this information, making decisions from a place of fear rather than with proper support and perspective. That's on Manager Kim, not just you."

The absolution wasn't complete—Han's choices had still created unnecessary complications—but the sharing of responsibility eased some of the crushing weight he'd been carrying alone.

"What do we do now?" Han asked, genuine uncertainty in his voice. "Y/n leaves tomorrow. There's no time to untangle all of this."

Chan's expression turned thoughtful, the strategic mind that had guided their group through various challenges already formulating approaches. "Here's what's going to happen. You are going to find Y/n tonight and tell her everything—Manager Kim's warning, your real feelings, the actual reason you ended things. Complete honesty, no more protection through deception."

The directive was clear, allowing no room for argument or evasion. "And then?"

"Then you let her make her own informed choice about what risks she's willing to take and what she wants moving forward," Chan continued firmly. "Whether that's maintaining distance, considering options despite the complications, or something else entirely—it has to be her decision this time, not yours."

The approach made sense, even as it terrified Han to relinquish the control he'd maintained through his protective deception. "And what about Manager Kim? The contract clause? The potential consequences?"

Chan's expression hardened with renewed determination. "You let me handle that. As the leader, it's my responsibility to address management overreach and protect my members—all of them, including our temporary producer who has become part of our family."

The confidence in Chan's voice, the certainty of his leadership in this moment, provided a reassurance Han hadn't realized he desperately needed. He wasn't alone in this situation anymore—the burden of protection and decision-making could be shared with someone whose judgment and authority he trusted implicitly.

"What are you going to do?" Han asked, both curious and concerned about potential repercussions for Chan himself.

"Have a very direct conversation with appropriate parties about chain of command and the proper handling of sensitive situations," Chan replied, his tone suggesting this would be no casual discussion. "What happened—approaching you directly with threats, bypassing my position as leader, creating a situation where both you and Y/n have been suffering unnecessarily—violates protocols that exist for good reasons."

Han hadn't seen this side of Chan often—the fiercely protective leader who, despite his usual diplomatic approach, could become immovable when his members' wellbeing was threatened. It was simultaneously reassuring and slightly intimidating to witness.

"You're willing to confront management over this?" Han asked, concerned about potential blowback for Chan's career as well. "Even with the comeback so close?"

Chan's expression made the answer clear before he verbalized it. "I have always prioritized the wellbeing of this team over corporate politics, and I always will. A leader who doesn't stand up when it matters isn't a leader worth following."

The simple declaration, delivered with absolute conviction, reminded Han why Chan had earned their unwavering trust and respect over the years. His leadership wasn't based on position alone, but on consistent actions that put the group's needs above individual interests—including, sometimes, his own.

"What if Y/n doesn't want to hear the truth now?" Han asked, voicing his deepest fear. "What if it's too late? What if she's already decided to move on?"

"Then at least she'll be making that decision with complete information," Chan replied pragmatically. "And you'll both have the closure of honesty rather than misunderstanding."

The wisdom in this approach was undeniable, however daunting the task of complete disclosure might be. Han nodded slowly, accepting the direction from his leader with the same trust he'd shown countless times throughout their years together.

"Tonight," he confirmed. "I'll talk to her tonight."

"Good," Chan said, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he sensed Han's commitment. "And Han? No half-measures this time. Complete honesty, regardless of how vulnerable it makes you feel. She deserves that much after everything that's happened."

The instruction was clear—no more protective distance, no more shielding through selective disclosure, no more decisions made on her behalf without her input. Terrifying in its implications but necessary if any resolution was possible before you boarded that plane.

"I understand," Han said quietly, the weight of the task ahead settling on his shoulders. It would require courage he wasn't sure he possessed, honesty he'd been avoiding for weeks. But Chan's confidence, combined with I.N.'s tearful plea, had created an imperative that couldn't be ignored any longer.

Chan placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, leader and friend in equal measure now rather than disappointed superior. "Remember who you're doing this for—not just for Y/n, not just for the group, but for yourself too. Living with unspoken truth is its own kind of prison, Han. Whatever happens after you speak it, at least you'll be free of that."

The insight struck deeper than Chan likely realized, articulating something Han had felt but couldn't name—the suffocating weight of deception, even when motivated by protection rather than malice. The constant vigilance required to maintain the fiction had become its own form of exhaustion, a burden that had grown heavier with each passing day.

As they returned inside, the conversation concluded but its implications reverberating through Han's consciousness, one truth emerged with undeniable clarity: the time for protection through distance had ended. Only complete honesty remained as a viable path forward, whatever consequences might follow.

You were leaving tomorrow. The countdown had begun. Whatever courage Han could summon, whatever truth needed sharing, whatever resolution might be possible—it had to happen now, before time ran out completely.

With renewed determination tempered by realistic awareness of the challenges ahead, Han began mentally preparing for the conversation that would determine not just his own future, but yours as well. A conversation that should have happened weeks ago, before deception and distance created wounds that might prove impossible to heal.

But Chan believed in the power of truth, even belatedly offered. And Han, despite his fears, had to believe that possibility existed as well—that honesty, however late in coming, might still provide a foundation for whatever came next, even if that was nothing more than understanding and closure before physical separation.

You deserved the truth. And finally, after weeks of protective distance, Han was prepared to offer it—completely, without reservation, regardless of what followed.

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weirdsimsinhistory · 10 months ago

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Did you know you can mute Sims 2 TVs?!

Entering the cheat menu ctrl+c , type floatProp tvVolume [decimal value] and get that bish lowered if you need to! The TVs are set to 0.5 automatically, so I put in floatProp tvVolume 0.0 to have it totally off. But you could also lower in increments of .1 of you just want it lower.....or I suppose put it really high if you are sadistic 😅 (sims working out with the tv and a raging "FLAMBAJAMBA" starts playing lmao)

I've been playing ts2 for 20 years and I'm ngl, I think I am at my limit with hearing every gat dang channel/movie on loop for all eternity.

I don't know why/how I didn't know there was a cheat to lower the volume (or mute completely!) the TVs!

Keep in mind, if your Sim is in the middle of watching TV *when you enter the cheat code*, you will need to turn it off and back on in order for the volume to change. I think I had to do this for each household I play, and/or each time I boot up the game.

Life changing! Ya learn something new every day 🌠✨️

#weird sims #sims 2 cheats #sims 2 tv #it's so peaceful now in my sims' homes

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pneumaticpresence · 15 days ago

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With each incremental turn of one cog, the rest of the system responds. Insects and animals have evolved to time their hibernations and breeding times precisely to small signals from the system: a change in humidity, a lengthening of the light hours of the day, a small rise or fall in temperature.

“When I arrived here in 1963 the dry season was four months. Today, it is six months,” Janzen says. Insects that typically spend four months underground, waiting for the rains, are now forced to try to survive another two months of hot, dry weather. Many are not succeeding.

Alongside the changing seasons are other shifts, such as in rainfall or humidity. “It’s just a general disruption of all the little cues and synchronies that would be out there,” Janzen says. Across the entire clock of the forest, plants and creatures are falling out of sync. In the background, the temperature is rising.

“The killer – the cause that’s pulling the trigger – is actually water,” says Wagner. For insects, staying hydrated is a unique physiological challenge: rather than lungs, their bodies are riddled with holes, called spiracles, that carry oxygen directly into the tissue.

“They’re all surface area,” says Wagner. “Insects can’t hold water.” Even a brief drought lasting just a few days can wipe out millions of humidity-dependent insects.

Some ecologists now believe these declines could mark a new era in which the changing climate overtakes other forms of human damage as the biggest driver of extinction.

“We’re at a new point in human history,” Wagner says. Up until the last decade, “the major drivers of biodiversity losses around the planet were really land degradation and land loss, habitat loss. But I think now that climate change is by far exceeding that.”

---

Today, as well as being an ecologist Wagner feels he has taken on a second role – as an elegist for disappearing forms of life.

“I’m an optimist, in the sense that I think we will build a sustainable future,” Wagner says. “But it’s going to take 30 or 40 years, and by then, it’s going to be too late for a lot of the creatures that I love. I want to do what I can with my last decade to chronicle the last days for many of these creatures.”

Decades on from his months spent bound to the rocking chair, Janzen still watches. He records the yearly data, the shifts in dominant species. But today, there is so much less to see. Once, when he and Hallwachs would type up their notes in the night, they would pitch a tent in the living room to protect their computers from thousands of moths that flocked to the blue glow. Now, they work with the house open to the forest air. “I find myself saying, ‘Winnie! A moth has arrived at the light on my laptop,’” Janzen says. “One moth.”

Elsewhere in their profession, some scientists are starting to look away. “We know quite a number of entomologists who have experience dating back to the 70s, 80s or 90s,” Hallwachs says. “One of our very good friends – he now does not have the emotional courage to hang up a sheet to collect moths at night. It is too devastating to see how few there are.”

#environment #insects #animals

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bonesvoid · 5 months ago

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Girl Next Door

word count: 1.8k

warnings: pining, communication mishaps, fem!reader

summary: in a typical rom-com fashion, jayce falls in love with the girl who moves into the apartment across the hall from his and viktor's.

a/n: nothing much to say, other than enjoy <3 like, comment, and reblog please mwah!

Jayce Talis, the Golden Boy, the Man of Progress is utterly whipped for the girl next door.

A chance encounter, Jayce never thought that you would be the one who moved into the apartment directly across from his and Viktor’s. Their former neighbors–an elderly couple named Nicole and Mathias–were some of the kindest people Jayce ever met. Nicole would bring the duo desserts whenever she baked extras, which was often. Jayce knew she did so on purpose, but never commented. Mathias, on the other hand, was a jolly man who would share stories of his adventures around Runeterra. The couple were like grandparents.

Jayce remembers the day they moved out, the announcement of the birth of their first grandkid spurred the couple on to move in with their daughter and son-in-law to help raise the baby. Nicole left a tray of desserts, ranging from danishes to cookies, for Jayce and Viktor while Mathias gifted each a fountain pen, parting gifts the pair cherished.

The apartment was empty for a few months and Jayce was forced to get used to the lack of laughter and chatter from the other side. He exchanged some letters with Nicole and Mathias, wishing them the best and asking for updates. They asked the same to him, interested in his progress with Hextech and such.

One day, Jayce woke up footsteps outside the door. It wasn’t Viktor, his footsteps were accompanied by the soft tapping of his crutch against the floor. Jayce, in his weekend attire of a muscle tee and gym shorts, opened the door and took a peek. Little did he know, he was about to meet the most gorgeous and amazing girl he ever laid eyes on.

You were carrying an assortment of cardboard boxes precariously, one sudden movement would knock them all down. Jayce couldn’t see your face behind the boxes, but he noticed your T-shirt had the symbol of the Piltovian Angels on it, his favorite sports team.

“You’re a fan of the Piltovian Angels?” his cheerful but bellowing voice startled you, “Oh!” you exclaimed, as the top box tipped over and fell. Jayce caught it just in time and secured the box between his large hands, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You set the two remaining boxes down by the apartment door and offered him a smile, “No worries. I’m just glad you caught that box in time, it has all my dishes and what not in it.”

“Yeah, of-” Jayce paused, your face now on display. His eyes widened, as he examined your facial features. Your eyes sparkled like gemstones, your hair was radiant as sunshine, and your smile was heavenly as the Gods. Jayce felt his cheeks heat up and masked his awe with a cough, “Yeah, of course,” he looked over at the boxes, “Need help?”

“That would be appreciated,” you picked up the boxes from the ground, “Just put that box you’re holding in the kitchen.”

“Gotcha!” the inventor followed inside the apartment. He frequented that particular apartment on many occasions, usually to play chess with Mathias or help Nicole with her cooking. Yet, the apartment was no longer the same. The floral wallpaper was replaced by a buttercream yellow shade, there was a black sectional sofa instead of the blue loveseat, and the walls were adorned with a variety of paintings and photographs.

“You really spruced the place up, huh?” Jayce commented.

“Yeah,” you hummed, “I’ve been moving in at small increments, but changing up the interior design was my first task,” you disappeared around the corner and returned a few moments later with no boxes in hand, “I appreciate the help.”

“Y- Yeah, of course!” Jayce’s voice cracked like a teenage boy in puberty. He mentally scolded himself for it and attempted to save your first impression of him, “I’m here if you ever need help,” he extended a hand out to you, “Welcome to Grover Heights.”

“Thank you,” you accepted his hand and shook it, “Mr. Talis.”

Jayce raised his eyebrows and croaked, “Y- You know who I am?”

“Duh,” you snorted–What an adorable sound, Jayce thought–and added, “Your face is plastered on every blimp in Piltover. I’m not an idiot.”

“I would never suggest that you were,” he chuckled, “But please call me Jayce. We’re neighbors, after all.”

“Okay, Jayce,” you smiled crookedly. Gods, what charm you had, Jayce swooned internally, “Folks call me-” you uttered your name and Jayce swore that he went to the Heavens at the sound, the way it rolled off your tongue was simply delightful.

“A pleasure to meet you.”

“A pleasure to meet you, too.

・・・・☆・��・・☆ ・・・

A year has gone by since you had moved into Nicole and Mathias’s old apartment. Jayce and his partner–“In science!” Jayce elaborated to you–Viktor quickly became your closest friends. Every now and then, you would visit their apartment or vice versa for board games, watching the latest episode of some silly soap opera, or for dinner.

Yet, lately, something seems off about Jayce. Usually an affectionate guy, he always pulls you into hugs or ruffles your hair playfully, but he has since stepped back from displaying such acts. You worry that you had upset him, but you’re unsure as to when an occurrence happened.

By the second week of Jayce’s standoffish demeanor, you finally have enough. You manage to corner Viktor before he enters his and Jayce’s apartment and snatch him up, dragging the inventor into your apartment.

“Oi,” he grunts, “What’s the meaning of this kidnapping?”

You stifle back a laugh at his dry humor, “Sorry about that, but I really need your help,” you gesture to your sofa and Viktor follows you over, the two of you sitting on opposite sides.

“What might your problem be?” he inquires.

“I need to know why Jayce is being such a weirdo,” you answer.

Viktor quirks an eyebrow in response, “He has always been a weirdo, you just now noticed?” to which you huff, “Yes, yes, I know that, but he’s been avoiding me and whenever I manage to run into him, he acts all… I don’t know, awkward and avoidant?”

“Ah, I see,” the Zaunite nods, “I may know why.”

You lean in closer to Viktor, ears open to hear what he has to say. Viktor states aloud to you, “He’s heartbroken.”

“Heartbroken?” you scoff and cross your arms, “Who broke his heart and what does that have to do with me?”

“You did,” elaborates Viktor, “He saw you have someone over many times this month and how you always ended your encounters with a kiss on the cheek.”

“What?” you frown deeply. You go through the filing system of your brain, trying to piece together when those moments have happened, “Oh my Gods,” you let out a laugh, “That’s my sister, Natalia.”

“Oh my,” Viktor shares a laugh with you, “Then you should inform him so. He thinks that the two of you are dating and that he now has no chance with you.”

“No chance?” you question.

“Yes,” replies Viktor, “He has been in love with you ever since you moved in across the hall,” he pinches the bridge of his hooked nose, “It gets quite frustrating when he talks on and on about how beautiful, how smart, how kind, and so on about you.”

“Oh,” your face heats up at the confession. You rack your brain over moments spent with Jayce; you remember the gifts he had given you on random occasions, the way he always hopped into action whenever you needed help, the lingering touches, “Oh my Gods.”

“I have a feeling that you feel the same way,” Viktor stands up from the couch and points the end of his crutch at you like a professor’s pointer stick, “Tell him. You already know that he feels the same. He should be in our apartment right now. I’ll drop my things off and,” he uses air quotes with his free hand,”Go on a walk to the botanical gardens.”

“You’re the best,” you hop up from the sofa and engulf your friend in a hug. Viktor stiffens at the contact, but slowly melts into the embrace. You pull away and sigh, “Wish me luck.”

“I believe in you,” he responds. Viktor leaves the apartment, you watch him enter with his satchel and exit without it, as he makes his way to the apartment complex’s elevator. You take a deep breath and steel your nerves before crossing over to Jayce’s apartment. With a trembling hand, you knock on the door and wait.

Footsteps echo and the door opens, revealing a clean-cut Jayce in his typical presentation suit, “Hello?” he calls out, not seeing you just yet.

“Hi,” you greet him. Jayce’s body freezes and his face goes pale, “Oh- uh, hey there,” he avoids your eyes.

“Jayce,” you place a hand on his arm and he finches. You pull away and pout, “Jayce, I need you to listen to me.”

“I’m sorry, but I need to leave for a meeting soon,” he tries to step out of the doorway, but you block his escape and glare, “Jayce, listen to me.”

He goes silent and doesn’t move a muscle. You let out a huff and stare him in the face, “Look at me.”

Jayce makes eye contact with you, his tanned face tinted a rosy red. You hold back a smile at how cute his face is when flustered, “The person who has been visiting me and who I’ve kissed on the cheek is my sister.”

“What?” the inventor gawks, “Your sister?”

“Yup,” you confirm, “She just moved to Piltover from our home in Ionia. I invited her over a couple times this month for us to chat and have dinner, to help her adjust to this city.”

Jayce’s shoulders droop, “Gods, I’m an idiot.”

“Just a little,” you giggle, “But I have something else to say.”

“What is it?” he asks.

You step closer to Jayce and enter the apartment, the door shutting behind you, “Jayce,” he shivers at the way you speak his name. You grab his collar and pull him down to your height, “I like you, too” you press a kiss to his lips, tender and gentle.

Jayce nearly jumps with glee while you kiss him, returning the kiss with sweet passion. He holds you close in his arms, as the two of you exchange such a lovely kiss. What feels like eons comes crashing down when you have to break the kiss to gather oxygen.

“Wow,” you comment.

“Wow, indeed,” chuckles Jayce.

“Wanna do that again?”

“Absolutely.”

#hexb0nes writes #arcane #league of legends #arcane jayce #arcane viktor #arcane jayce x reader #jayce x reader #league of legends jayce x reader #arcane x reader #league of legends x reader

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becca-e-barnes · 1 year ago

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Last week I had a full 9-5 day of meetings with no break but it really got me thinking about how much more fun that could’ve been with my Bluetooth controlled vibrator 🙈 Especially with someone like CEO!Bucky who has your calendar and knows what a long day you have ahead of you.

You received a message early in the morning telling you to make sure your toy was fully charged and slipped inside you by 9:30 and there was no way you weren’t going to follow that instruction.

The anticipation alone was enough to let the toy slip in easily and you found yourself distracted enough to almost forget it was there by 10am.

Around 10:15 you felt it start up and it almost made you jump. It wasn’t too intense, just unexpected but you could tell you’d kept control of your expression. People probably wouldn’t notice on a video call anyway.

‘That’s nice.’ You send the text off quickly, hardly looking away from the laptop screen.

‘Good. I’m pacing you.’ The reply almost drew a shiver from you. You can just imagine yourself sitting here all day, writhing in desperation by 5pm.

Incrementally, the intensity of the toy creeps up and up over the next hour until it reaches around half its maximum intensity and then it drops off again.

You’re convinced you’re bound to be dripping. Your panties are absolutely soaked through, the insides of your thighs are slick under your dress and you almost whimper each time the toy changes slightly.

‘Still enjoying yourself?’ The text makes you hesitate because you’re almost not sure that you are. Do you need more or less? Any more and you’ll undoubtedly cum and you’ll have to hide it from the people on the screen. Plus, you’re quite confident that your climax won’t be a reason for him to stop. If you ask for less though, you’re stuck here all day, unsatisfied and frustrated.

‘Fuck, yes.’ That feels like the best response you can manage.

‘Good.’ You hardly have a chance to read the notification before the toy ramps up inside you, far more intense than the 50% you’d been getting.

The vibrations are wonderful and within a few seconds, you’ve flicked your camera off so you can grind you hips pathetically, riding out an incredibly overdue high against your office chair.

It’s not long after that the toy drops back down again, slowing to a light buzzing that keeps you dizzy but not overworked.

‘If you turn your camera off again, I might just bend you over your desk and let them all watch while I fuck you myself.’

#becca’s thots #becca writes spice #ceo!bucky #Bucky Barnes smut #Bucky Barnes x reader smut #I can’t lie besties #the Sunday evening scaries have got me #and it’s been a while #probably gonna go have a bath with my new book and try to chill #I’m so tempted to quit my second job rn #I’m just so tired #all the time #and I have so much I want to do but no time to do it

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bullet-prooflove · 4 months ago

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Bad Girl: Terry Silver x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @thedeadsingforme @mia1653 @kimbergoldess @cortmac1989

Companion piece to:

Sick Day - Terry knows something is wrong when you don't pick up his call.

Love Story - Terry questions your taste in literature.

Health Care - Terry takes care of your healthcare siutation.

Recovery - Terry plays an active role in your recovery.

Money Matters - You and Terry discuss your money concerns.

You’ve been a bad girl. Terry finds this out after a meeting with his accountant about the tiny monetary increments that are being added to his bank account month after month. It’s only a hundred dollars here and there, but to you, someone who works two jobs to support themselves, it’s the difference between paying rent and eating.

It infuriates Terry because he explicitly told you he doesn’t want you paying back the cost of your medical care. It was a gift, something he was happy to do because the love of his life was at death’s door and he couldn’t stand the thought of a world without her.

The part that really pisses him off is the duplicity of it, the fact you were able to fly under the radar for so long before he realised what was going on. That’s months of you struggling to make ends meet over some ridiculous perceived debt.

Which is why you’re face down over his lap, your wrists bound behind your back with that pretty silk scarf you were wearing when you breezed in as if you haven’t been picking up your groceries from a food bank so that you can eat.

Your skirt is shoved up over your hips, your underwear tugged up so it dips between your ass cheeks, each one crimson from the back of the silver hairbrush he’s been using to spank you with.

“You’re taking it back.” He says forcefully, his leather gloved palm lightly caresses that perfect peach. The scent of your arousal floods his senses and he wants to bury his face between your thighs, to taste that honey on his tongue but that’s only for good girls.

And you are certainly not being a good girl right now.

“No.” You bite out and Terry growls his response, pinching just enough to make you writhe against his lap.

“Georgia.” He snarls but you’re already tilting your head to look at him over your shoulder with that steely look in your eyes.

“Terry baby, you can spend all night working me up like this and it won’t change a damn thing. I’m not taking back that money.” He spanks you again and you bite your lip holding back the moan that threatens to erupt from your throat as the leather kisses your skin.

It’s unusual that you’re stubborn like this. The two of you don’t disagree on much but there are a couple of things you dig your heels in over and this is apparently the hill you’re making a stand on.

Terry knows when he’s beat so instead of dishing out another punishment he counters with a proposal.

“Dinner with me, four times a week.” He negotiates, already forming a plan to resolve the situation. “You take home left overs so I know you’re eating something other than ramen and cereal.”

His issue is that you’re not eating properly because you can’t afford to, he suspects poor diet is one of the reasons you were susceptible to pneumonia in the first place. You won’t let him pay for groceries but you abhor food waste so if he asks his chef to batch cook a few of your favourite meals you’ll have no choice but to make use of them so they don’t spoil.

“You’ll keep the money?” You ask and he squeezes that sweet peach tightly in his hand as he makes a noise of non-committal.

He will not be keeping that money, what he will be doing with it is investing it for you so that you can build your own nest egg. When the time’s right he’ll return it to you tenfold and then you can cuss him out for manipulating you, the same way that you’ve been manipulating him.

“Do we have a deal?” He asks, his gloved fingertips chasing down between your legs, tracing teasing circles over your clit.

“Yes.” You cry out as he taps it lightly, the impact causing you to arch against him.

“Good girl.” Terry purrs, his fingers snagging the elastic of your panties before he drags them down your thighs. “Now let’s have little fun now, shall we?”

Love Terry? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#terry silver #terry silver x reader #cobra kai

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hyperfixatorofweirdthings · 4 months ago

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Saver of the Haven part 4

(I saw a lot of people doing like tickle reader x ppt so I decided to join) Chapter 4: Giddy tickles

You wake up in your bed surprised. You hadn't realized you fell asleep. You looked around, a orange sticky note was on your phone. You sit up before grabbing your phone. You read the sticky note: You fell asleep while watching TV with the other toys, so Doey carried you to bed. You see a little picture of Dogday, Doey, and a Craftycorn in the corner. You think it's cute that the toys help each other with tasks. You take the sticky note off your phone and check the time, "9:15". At least you didn't sleep in too late.

You get up and see you are still in your jeans and t-shirt. You get up and change. You decide to check your scratch on your leg, still sore and a bit achy but not as bad as before. You walk out wearing baggy pants and a t-shirt with Doey and Dogday on it. (You stole some stuff from the gift shop at Play Co, but who wouldn't?) The second you walk out everyone is already awake and waiting for you to make breakfast. You're greeted with little leg hugs and hellos or good mornings. You try rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you make your way to the kitchen. You glance back and forth looking for any of the "taller" toys. With no prevail. You shrug assuming they are still asleep or doing their own thing. You also find Poppy and certain smiling critters gone. That being a Craftycorn, Bobby Bearhug, and a little Dogday.

You were still trying to learn the actual kids' names; it was hard when there was so many. But the toys didn't mind being called by their toy name, they were used to that anyway. You start making breakfast as some curious toys watch, a KicknChicken, Hoppy Hotscotch, and Catnap watch as you make the bacon. Once you made multiple plates you began handing them out. After a good while everyone, besides the seven toys missing had plates of eggs, bacon, and hashbrowns. You had made yourself a plate and ate it silently watching the toys enter and leave a room bringing certain supplies in and out.

You finished eating making seven more plates for the others. Once you were done you knocked on the door. "Hellooo anyone home? I have breakfast!" Doey answers the door his head peeking out but keeping the door closed tightly. You try to look around Doey but he blocks you well. You look at him repeating yourself, "I have food for you guys do you want me to bring it in or..." "I can take the plates if you bring them to the door?" He says quietly. You grab the plates in increments of 2, you didn't want to accidentally drop one. He was so careful not to let you see what was behind the door it was almost maddening. But non the less you brought the food to the door. He smiled at you before closing the door behind himself.

Kevin thought it was always hilarious the look on your face when he closed the door or blocked your view. Matthew felt bad but was more excited about what was going on. Jackie was just a pure ball of energy he couldn't stop snickering when he closed the door. Little did he know it just made you burn with curiosity.

You grabbed your journal the key hanging on a necklace around your neck. You wanted to make sure no one would steal your journal and key and read your private thoughts. You wrote how you felt about each toy. You wrote how you felt every day. You didn't want the toys seeing that! You wrote in it sitting in the corner so no one could look over your shoulder. The toys stacked their dirty plates by the sink before tapping on you. "We all finished eating mommy!" Your heart fluttered. You couldn't help but smile when they called you mom. You lock your journal putting the key back on your necklace. You wanted to add more little things on the necklace but weren't sure what. Maybe an A to represent Angel? Or the toys? You'd have to worry about it later right now you gotta focus on the dishes.

As you cleaned them a Bubba Bubbaphant walked up to the mysterious door. The door opened you walked over but the second you did the creature yelped causing whoever opened the door to close it. You grumbled loudly before walking away. Again, the door opens for the small blue elephant a pink arm with a yellow hand handing them plates. They walk over to you balancing them carefully before lifting them up towards you. "Thanks buddy." you thank them with a tight smile. Once you finished the dishes you were really getting bored of waiting. You walked over to the door trying to open it before you realized it was locked. Why do they know you so well?! You walk away from the door watching a Picky Pig, walk up to it with bottles of glitter glue in her hands (hooves?). Someone opens the door for her letting her in you try to hurry behind her to see anything, even just a face. But instead, you see an orange arm block your view. You groan so loudly you hear multiple chuckles. He keeps his arm there almost as if to tell you mockingly "You can't see in here!" The Picky Pig slips under a gap below his arm walking past you.

You don't know if you can wait anymore. How long have they been doing this? You have already been awake for three hours and they still won't let you in! You try outsmarting them but every time they seem to be One. Step. Ahead. You wonder if they had a toy telling them everything you did. But how would that work. But you get your answer as you see a certain play-day man's eye slip back from under the door as you turn around. Aha! He was the look out.

He practically panicked when you saw him. Kevin hadn't thought you could turn that fast, even without an injured leg. But of course, you did. Matthew wondered if you'd try anything, even if you did, they would stop you...right? Jackie thought it was just a whole big game (it kind of is).

You pace back and forth in front of the door planning your next "risky move". You had tons of risky moves that's the whole reason you came to Play Co.

Doey knew you were pacing. You always did it when you were thinking. He could hear the soft pidder padders of your socked feet hit the ground. They were close to finishing the project. But.. how long could they keep you out.

You eventually have a small idea. You stop pacing and instead sit on the ground. You stay there for a moment before going with your plan. You lay flat on the ground peeking through the crack on the bottom of the door. You could barely see a Craftycorn talking to Dogday about something. You look slightly over and see Kissy in the corner, Poppy talking to her. Then you see Bobby Bearhug and little Dogday talking to Doey. That's why he was distracted. You hear small words slip out, "plan" "busy" "entertained". The second they walked away Doey walked towards the door. You scrambled up trying to walk away calmly.

Huh. Why was she walking so fast?

Doey noticed you walk away quickly from near the door. Wondering if you were trying to open it. You couldn't even if you tried. They brought your master keys into the room. Yes it was evil but it was also necessary.

Doey walked up to you towering over you as always. "What?" You say quickly as it stares down at you. He was quiet for a minute before responding, "Wanna do something fun?" His smile grew even bigger at the end.

He was trying to keep you busy. If he wanted to keep you busy...ohoho he would.

You smile a devious look on your fast. His smile almost disappears. "Uhh hey pal what's with the look?" He chuckled nervously at the end. "Ohhh nothing. I know a way you could keep me busy though." Your smile grows bigger.

What was she gonna do, tickle us? That's exactly what she's gonna do.

Before he could realize what was going on you jumped on him. Just because he was bigger doesn't mean it's easy to get you off without hurting you. He always told you that. It's his weakness other than the cold.

"Hmm would you be 3x more ticklish because you're three kids?" You wonder aloud before jabbing (softly) both arms into his sides. He tried to stiffle his laugh clamping his mouth shut.

"You think, just because I'm human that I can't tickle you? Ohh well you better get ready Doughman." He panicked when you called him that. You only did that is certain situations. When you had a stupid plan.

You start poking or scratching certain parts of his belly and arms trying to find ticklish areas. He tried pulling you off but couldn't seem to find the strength. You start kneading his belly like a small cat. It let's out splutters of broken English mixed with choked laughs. "H-hey p-pal *squeak* WEHAHE we can TAAHALK about this RIHIHIGHT." Some of his words gained volume as you caught his ticklish spots.

"I never thought you were ticklish." You say it softly almost...mockingly. He was gonna pay for all those times he closed the door and laughed. Oh yes he was. You start moving fast pushing your fingers into him and removing them. You start going up to his armpits. He let out a snort and then a squeak when he realized what you were doing. He tried keeping his arms pinned to his sides. But being play-doh has its disadvantages. Your hands slip in scrambling around causing him to laugh even harder.

Matthew just couldn't contain his laughter even though he tried you always made him break! Jackie was loving this. It was like what his mom used to do. Kevin couldn't hold his laughter, he didn't even try everytime you poked him or scritched him he let out a squeak or a loud laugh.

As you tickle him he let's lose snorts, squeaks, loud booming laughter. He also let's out short pleads. But his laughter always, overtakes them. You could tell he was getting tired but one last thing before you stopped. You took a huge breath as he chuckled softly trying to figure out what you were doing.

You blew a raspberry on his stomach. He could feel the vibrations as he let's out one final really loud streak of laughter. He never expected you to tickle him. But after you snuggle up on top of him half hugging him, half laying on him.

He had a huge smile on his face. He was gonna get revenge. Just...not yet. You hear a door open near you, you scramble to make it for the door. But Doey holds you strong knowing your idea. "Heeeyyy you should let me go, please?" He looks at you shaking his head "Nope!" "Ugghhh. What are you guys even doing in there?" He stares at you wondering if he should respond but instead just let's out another "Nope!" "Th-that doesn't answer my question. Did you even take English class?!" He couldn't help but laugh he's taken English three times.

You grumble before laying back down hugging him harder. He was like a giant soft bean bag. A VERY big bean bag. Eventually you couldn't help but fall asleep. He heard your soft snores before he realized. He smiled you must've been exhausted.

You wake up still on top of Doey but you heard him snoring. His arms had slipped off from on top of you. If you tried hard enough you could get off him without waking him up. The second you moved to swing your leg off, an orange arm grabs you. "Just because I'm asleep doesn't mean you can go wandering off now." He startled you so bad you nearly fell over his arm. Your heart hammering in your chest. "Don't. Do. That." You say between huffs of breath. "Oh..sorry pal didn't mean to scare ya." He frowned when he saw the look on your face.

"Hey it's fine. I'm just... similar to a stray dog, get scared easily." You say, a sort of nervousness on the edge of every word.

Doey keeps his arm over you watching what you were gonna do next. But instead, you sit up still sitting on top of him. "Do I have to sit on top of you though?" You ask him playfully. You watch his face set in a thoughtful expression. "Hmm I suppose you don't have to..." You saw red teeth flicker in his mouth as he said this. Oh no. "Doey..." He sits up picking you up and then placing you in his lap. "DOEY!" You yelp once he "preformed" this act. You look up at him as he looked down at you. You could still see the red teeth when he smiled. "Uggghhh Kevin seriously?" He's shocked at first when you knew it was him, but he realizes his teeth were showing. "Ahem..." he clears his throat looking away from you. '...soooo anything interesting you've done today?" "Hmm." You think for a moment before finally responding, "I wrote in a journal I found... a-and tried to figure out what you seven were doing..." You slowly got quieter as you continued talking.

Matthew right away knew why you got quiet; you were uncomfortable sitting in their lap. He tries to tell Kevin this but is quickly ignored. Kevin didn't mind you being so quiet, he could still tell what you said. Jackie was just his normal self. A ball of chaotic, pure, and childlike energy.

He wondered what you wrote in your journal, so he asked. "What do you write in this journal?" "Just... my private thoughts I can't share aloud." quickly you tried to climb out of his lap. You HATED this, it again made you feel like a small child. He lets you get up but when you walked toward the door he stopped you, dragging you back towards him. He's quiet not wanting to push you. Before he could think of a better way to phrase his next question Dogday walks out of the room.

"Hey. How's it going out here?"

Reinforcements.

"Uhh good I guess." you acknowledged him but said it so sadly. "What's wrong?" He glares at Doey shooting daggers. "WHAT? I didn't even do anything!" "Mhm.. ok dough ball." They always interacted like brothers you couldn't help but smile. Both Doey and Dogday noticed this, so they decided to keep talking to each other. it kept you busy, they also could have a bit of fun. A lot of fun.

"Ok..." Doey pauses before continuing "...fur brain." They were silly insults not meaning to hurt feelings. But it still caught you off guard. You chuckled, before you knew it, they both snapped towards you. "Ohhh, you think this is funny scrawny?" Dogday says to you. You gasp in shock. "Pfft wow for me taking you in you sure know how to insult me." You couldn't help but let lose another laugh. You were completely and utterly shaken by how they were talking. "Angel where are your wings?" Doey asks before laughing his red teeth again poking out. You didn't wanna hurt their feelings, so you paused for a while thinking of a funny get back. Before you could Doey speaks again. "For someone being so slow I'm surprised you survived the facility." Dogday shoots him a look, you couldn't tell if it was real or fake. You stay quiet. You didn't expect a fight to break out...all because of you.

Dogday wasn't mad at Doey. He just thought he went a little far. Kevin always does though, he couldn't say much about that.

While they talked/playfully argued you made your way to the door. You started slowly opening it. It then creaked impossibly loud. "COME ON YOU, STUPID DOOR!" You yell out as Dogday and Doey grab you dragging you away from it. Dogday tsks at you for attempting to squeeze in. Doey just laughed, he couldn't believe you thought you could get away from a dog bigger than you and a 900-pound play-doh man. You were in disbelief even the DOOR was against you. You shook your head in total denial before speaking, "Even the door is against me..." This caused Doey and Dogday to look at you before registering what you said. They started laughing. "HEY! You four boys shut up!" This caused Doey to pause. How did you know! All three boys were laughing at you, it seemed like you could read their mind. Dogday kept laughing even growing in volume when Doey talks, "HOW DO YOU KNOW?!" You started laughing, "Because I'm a mind reader." Wriggling your fingers in an exaggerated way.

Once you three calmed down you see Poppy slip out from the room talking to Doey and Dogday. You try listening in but the second Doey noticed he pushed you away almost making you fall. You groan for what feels like the billionth time and walk off going to do your own thing.

"Is it almost ready?" I ask after Angel was out of hearing distance. "Yeah, we need you and Doey and the rest of the toys to help then we are done." I glance at Doey, they shake their head before walking over and grabbing toys.

You watch Doey walk over leading toys to the room. You watch him and Dogday hoard the toys towards the door letting them in. You didn't try anything. You were too tired. Doey kept an eye on you, frowning when he saw the sad look on your face. He knew it wouldn't last long but it tore at his heart strings. You slumped down against the wall watching the toys walk into the room.

Once everyone was in the room Dogday and Doey slip in after them. You hear a soft click of the door closing behind them.

You hummed softly to yourself as you felt your eyes start to close. You tried fighting it, but it was just too strong.

#doey the doughman #ppt x reader #kissy missy #poppy #smiling critters #doey #dogday

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