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userlando · 11 months

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the love we left — carlos sainz jr

carlos sainz jr x fem!reader [8.8k] summary: you weren’t aware that your family’s worry had extended so far that they’d brought in the heavy artillery, it being carlos sainz of all people. the very same person who’d turned you into someone you didn’t recognise in the mirror anymore. warnings: 18+ explicit smut & language, very angsty, mentions of alcohol abuse and drug use, heartbreak, childhood friends, brother's best friend, public sex a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts, unfinished for a whole month so I went back and thought that it deserved a second chance. and voilà, here you have it! my very first carlos fic!! i'd love to hear your thoughts on this, because I love how this turned out. happy reading my lovelies!! x

The music was pounding, borderline rupturing your eardrum with good music that had you bobbing your head gently to the intimate beat. Everywhere you looked were bodies, moving in unison and hands roaming sweaty skin.

The bartender poured drinks like his life depended on it, and you watched him pour you another shot of tequila without a verbal request from you, shooting you a friendly grin and side stepping to help the next customer. You downed your shot, pulling a small face at the rancid taste as you made your way to the dance floor.

You didn’t know when you’d become this type of person. The person who’d spend their weekends in clubs, dancing the nights away until they got blisters on their feet and most likely woke up with their head in a toilet bowl. It had started out as something you and your girlfriends did, sneaking into clubs when you’d just turned legal, but then you’d started going alone because you found out that sitting in your apartment alone with your thoughts was way too much for you to handle.

You weren’t strong enough to deal with your emotions, preferring to find people and alcohol to distract you. It had worked out quite well for you and the multiple shots you’d taken over the span of two hours were starting to settle in your bones, buzzing right beneath your skin and giving you enough courage to seek out the dance floor.

Your body moved like it was an entity of its own, face tilted up to the ceiling and eyes closed as you felt the music. It rattled your bones and settled in your hips, the bottom of your heels sticking to the floor with every step you took.

I’ve never seen someone look so at home on a dance floor, he’d once said. The words came sneaking into your mind, unbidden. You could still remember the party, how your brother had bought the whole gang shots and you’d taken to the floor with laughter and happiness in your bellies. The DJ hadn’t been very happy when your brother and the man of the hour stepped up to the booth and completely took over with their non-existent experience of manning a DJ booth, but he’d relented when your brother had drunkenly explained that this man right here? He’s gonna be racing cars professionally, cabrón.

You were so far gone in your head, not even flinching at the pair of hands sliding over your waist and pulling you into a body. The person smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, and it made something roll in your stomach at the mix of it in your nostrils but you couldn’t pull away. He was yet another distraction from your messed up life, and you welcomed it in all forms.

If you let yourself take a step back and think of exactly why you allowed a complete stranger to touch you the way they were, you’d come to the conclusion that the reason was because the feeling of hands on your hips reminded you of him. That one damned night that changed you, that made you into this.

He’d cornered you against the wall, claimed your lips in a bruising kiss that left you panting and his hands. Fuck. His hands had gripped your hips so tight that you’d had bruises for a whole week after that encounter.

You’d thought that finally, finally the both of you would be together after years of pining; Spending your awkward teenage years wishing that your brother’s best friend would look at you as a girl he could imagine kissing, and not as his best friend’s sister and a family friend. But then he’d acted like nothing happened, leaving you in the dust with little to no explanation as he went to kickstart his career.

Bile rose in your throat as your brain entered dangerous territory, and you blinked your eyes open against the lights. It was blurry, and it took a few moments for you to realise that there were tears welling up in your eyes. You’d stopped crying long ago, but sometimes the tears managed to sneak up on you when you were vulnerable and drunk.

The hands on your body were suddenly too much, and just as you were about to run, someone grabbed you and yanked a little harder than you had been prepared for. You stumbled, a wordless shout leaving your lips when you were pulled to the side of the dance floor, legs struggling to keep up. It took a second for you to realise that someone had grabbed you and was in the process of dragging you off the dance floor, away from the sweaty and dancing bodies, away from the man who you’d danced with. Your eyes were scanning your surroundings, feeling too drunk to think of a good plan to escape so you settled for the only thing that would hopefully get someone’s attention.

Before you could open your mouth and scream, a hand settled right on your lips and muffled the sound, your eyes flickering up to the man in front of you in the hopes that you could shoot him the most pleading look through your eyes.

You found yourself looking into round and dark eyes, so eerily familiar that it made your stomach violently turn and you took a stumbling step back like shock itself had shoved you, turning around to promptly retch into a nearby trash can. You heaved and clutched at the edge of the bin with your hands, moaning miserably until it finally stopped.

“Come on, let’s get you outside.” His voice sounded somewhere behind you, somehow overpowering the pulsing music.

His hands grabbed at you, helping you steady yourself and you didn’t bother to spare him another glance as you weakly shoved his hands away. He didn’t fight you, nor say anything when you walked straight out of the club, legs feeling incredibly weak and hands shaking; like you were two seconds away from breaking down.

And you were. What the fuck was he doing here? Why would he come back?

The chilly air was welcomed when you pushed the back door open, stumbling out into the alley and breathing in, in an effort to sober up. You ignored your trembling hands as you dug around in your purse for gum, anything to get rid of the sour taste in your mouth but you doubted it would do much to settle the nausea roiling in your stomach.

You heard a scuffle behind you, causing you to freeze because you’d been hoping that it was all just your drunken mind playing tricks on you; Because it happened sometimes. It had happened in your dreams, and once when you’d smoked a dodgy rolled up joint and hallucinated him being there. But no, he was standing there when you turned around, eyebrows pulled together in that annoying frown he always wore whenever he disapproved of something. His face was passive though, eyes not giving away anything and it was so infuriating.

He’d always played the older brother, acting like he had some kind of right to decide over you just because he was your brother’s friend. But his feelings had been anything but fraternal, he’d made that very clear when he decided to fuck you and leave.

You swallowed, feeling nauseous as you stood staring at him.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, cursing yourself quietly when your voice shook. But you sounded stern, even in your drunken state and something about your tone made the man grit his teeth.

“I was worried—“

No. You didn’t need to hear the same old spiel again. He didn’t get to be worried about you, not anymore.

“What are you doing here, Carlos?” You cut him off, making him cringe at the way you said his name, sharply and angry - so differently from how you used to say it.

“Your family is worried about you.” He replied slowly.

The way he talked reminded you of someone who spoke carefully as to not scare away a skittish animal. It was very bizarre, the feeling so unreal that you had a hard time believing that your fucked up mind hadn’t decided to conjure him up on a random Sunday night. A few moments passed as you stared, and stared. He was truly there in the flesh.

You were aware that your mother had been worried, calling you every day to check up on you and you gave her the same old answer because what else was there to say?

You just weren’t aware that your family’s worry had extended so far that they’d brought in the heavy artillery, it being Carlos fucking Sainz of all people. The very same person who’d turned you into someone you didn’t recognise in the mirror anymore.

“I wanted to check up on you, see how you are doing.” He broke the drawn out silence, stuffing both of his hands into the pockets of his jacket like he didn’t know what else to do with them.

You remembered the odd habit he used to have, where he’d wring his hands whenever he felt out of place. It was such a minuscule detail that barely anyone took notice of, but you did. You always did.

Your eyes dropped to follow the movement, noting the casual jeans and the red hoodie under his black jacket. You quickly looked away, refusing to think about how good he looked.

“Well, now you have. So you can go.” You shot him a smile with no real joy behind it, turning around and walking down the alleyway in the direction of your apartment.

You knew that he wouldn’t leave you alone, and a big part of you wanted him to. But you couldn’t deny that one percent that wanted, needed him to stay.

The sounds of his footsteps let you know that he wasn’t far behind and you jumped like he’d burned you when you felt his fingertips touch your arm. Just a quick touch that lit your body on fire. Your eyes found his and you took a big step back, feeling your chest go tight at the slight downwards tilt of his lips, like he hadn’t expected you to react negatively.

“Nena, please. Let me walk you home, at least.” He said and your throat tightened up at the familiar pet name he’d called you since you were children and so incredibly naive.

“Don’t call me that.” You sniffled, bringing a hand up to rub at your nose. “You don’t get to show up here after two years and play the hero. I don’t need one, and I certainly don’t need you.”

“Lo sé.” He said, but he really didn’t know, did he?

You didn’t say a word, taking two steps before glaring down at your shoes. They had been a pain the whole night and now that the alcohol wasn’t doing its job of numbing the pain, your feet were starting to hurt from being pinched for the past few hours. You balanced yourself with a hand on the wall, slipping your heels off with a quiet grumble and shoving the offending footwear into the man’s chest. Carlos grunted at the unexpected force, hands coming up to catch the heels before they dropped and raising both eyebrows at you.

You weren’t looking at his face, but you could tell that he was baffled by your actions and it made you feel just a tad bit smug. If he was going to show up and insist on pestering you, he might as well make himself useful.

The concrete was uncomfortable to walk barefoot on, but it felt freeing and you took comfort in that feeling. Anything to not think about exactly who was walking a few steps behind you, feeling his eyes on you like hot coal on your skin.

“Do you live far from here?” He asked, tone cautious like he didn’t want to say the wrong things or set you off.

“No, why?” You turned your head to look over your shoulder and found him walking way closer to you than you thought. “Is the neighbourhood not up to your standards?”

You knew you were being petty now, playing unfair and it clearly annoyed Carlos as he looked away to avoid your cold gaze. It wasn’t his fault that he’d gone and got himself an even more lavish lifestyle where he raced cars for a living and got millions out of it. You’d always been proud of him, one of his biggest supporters before everything transpired and although you didn’t want to admit it out loud, you’d always keep tabs on him.

There weren’t enough fingers on your hands to count the amount of times you’d struggled to not pick up your phone and text him after he’d won a race, or if he did badly. The urge to comfort him and to be happy for him was still there, even years later.

“I live down the road.” You said, desperate to break the tension. “You can go.”

Carlos fell into step beside you, not sparing you a glance as he nodded.

“I know.” He said, but made no effort to leave you alone.

The two of you walked in relative silence, interjecting with small talk every now and then to fill the unbearable quiet that had blanketed over you. It took a few minutes for Carlos to relax, shoulders dropping like the tension was slowly seeping out of his body when he realised that you were beyond your anger now, speaking softly rather than the tone you’d carried a few minutes earlier. He didn’t like how you sounded though, mellow and short, like you’d given up on caring. It made something ugly swirl in his stomach to the point where he started to feel nauseous.

He was starting to spiral in his thoughts, trapped inside his head and just as he opened his mouth to speak, you beat him to it.

“How’s Ferrari treating you?” You asked and his head snapped to you. You weren’t looking at him, staring straight ahead with your mouth in a thin line. “You’ve been doing well lately.”

Carlos didn’t know if you were trying to act nonchalant and if you were, you were doing a piss poor job because he could see how you struggled to maintain a neutral expression on your face. He didn’t want to point it out though because his mind had finally caught up to your question, teetering along the edge of she’s keeping tabs on me.

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse and he hurriedly cleared his throat. “It’s been good, felt like a dream when I signed the contract.”

You could still remember when he started karting, how he’d plead with his parents to buy him merchandise with the Ferrari logo poorly pressed onto the material. It had always been a dream of his, and something about him achieving it made you smile.

“I bet it was.” You said softly, glancing at Carlos to find him staring at you; eyes wide and searching, like he was taking in your smile. You hurried to look away, suddenly uncomfortable with the rush of old emotions storming back and taking residence in your entire being.

“How have you been?” He asked, genuine and curious.

You considered ignoring his question, not knowing how to answer him without making yourself out to be the most pathetic person to grace the earth. How could you tell him how you’d been in a downwards spiral for the past years? Could you even admit to the things you’d done, how you’d drank yourself to oblivion in hopes to numb yourself and worked dead end jobs to keep yourself afloat?

“I’ve been fine.” Your tone was flat, letting him know that you weren’t in the mood to delve deeper and thankfully he respected your wishes, keeping silent. “Well, here we are.”

You nodded up at the apartment complex you’d stopped in front of, suddenly feeling awkward as you found yourselves staring at each other with no idea how to proceed.

Carlos fidgeted as you stared at him, looking as anxious as you felt and it made you a little sad because you’d been better than this, once upon a time. You’d never known awkward silences or odd looks, but you’d somehow managed to go from close to whatever the fuck this was. Strangers. Ex-lovers. But could you even dub him as an ex-lover when you’d only slept with him once?

You took in the sharpness of his jaw, the stubble growing on it fitting him as well as you remembered but there was a certain edge to him that hadn’t existed last time you saw him. He looked fully grown up, like an adult who didn’t have time for children’s games and torrid love affairs.

Homesickness bloomed in your chest the further your mind delved into the past, suddenly wishing that things were different. Wishing that you’d swallowed your pride and picked up your phone.

Would he have answered? Did he change his number?

You swallowed excessive saliva in your mouth, trying not to grimace when it felt like swallowing gravel as your eyes traveled down his arm that he’d successfully managed to free from his pocket, hanging by his side. Your eyes latched onto the space between his thumb and pointer finger, where the tan skin was white and raised in a small bump. A healed scar that brought such a rush of memories that the words tumbled out of your mouth before you overthought them.

“Do you wanna come in?” You asked and Carlos couldn’t manage to hold his surprise in, eyebrows shooting up and jaw going a little slack. “Just… for a while.”

It probably sounded wrong, like you were inviting him with ulterior motives and you weren’t. Really. Just the thought of him touching you made bile rise in your throat and you realised that you weren’t ready. For any of this. But then again, would you ever be ready?

Whatever inner monologue you were running through in your head was halted when Carlos exhaled, glancing at the apartment building before nodding twice.

“Me encantaría.” He said, voice gentle.

You hurried to get your keys out of your purse, hands shaking a little and you didn’t know whether it was from your nerves being shot or the unhealthy amount of alcohol you’d consumed not even an hour ago. The door gave way when you turned the key and pushed it forcefully with your shoulder, stepping inside and flicking the light on.

It wasn’t much. A one bedroom apartment in a safe enough neighbourhood. Your brother had scowled and made his displeasure known when he’d helped you move in, even offering to find you a better place to rent out but you refused. Mostly because this was further away from your family and because it was yours. It had its defects and flaws, but you loved it from the moment you stepped foot inside.

Your brother and Carlos were like one person in two bodies, so you almost expected him to get his two cents in when he stepped in behind you and closed the door; Eyes roaming around and taking in the place. His face gave nothing away, as always, but then his brown eyes landed on you and his lips twitched.

“I like it.” He said, like you’d asked.

You gave a nod, secretly pleased but then you scolded yourself because why the fuck did you even care what he thought? Mierda.

“Glad to know you approve.” You muttered, annoyance pricking your heart and you didn’t know why. “Make yourself comfortable, I’ll just be a minute.”

You left him to his own devices, standing in the middle of the living area looking a little lost while you sought out the comfort of your bedroom. The door closed with a click and you hurriedly changed your clothes to something more comfortable, snatching your makeup wipes where they’d fallen on the floor to wipe at your face. Your makeup was smudged, embarrassingly so but you couldn’t bring yourself to care when your heart was racing a mile a minute, thinking of the man on the other side of the door.

There was a moment of panic where you felt that shit, you shouldn’t have invited him in because this apartment was the only place he hadn’t touched, soiled with his fake promises and lies.

The memories of you in his bed came back with full force, thinking of how you’d woken up in the middle of the night with a smile on your face that got wiped as soon as you touched the cold side of his bed. He’d been nowhere to be found, and you’d contemplated staying and hoping that he’d come back in the morning but then you’d found his contract on the kitchen counter and the packed suitcases you’d somehow skimmed over when you were wrapped up in him.

It had felt like a gut punch and it still did as you stared at yourself in the mirror, swallowing against the nausea swirling up from your stomach to your throat. Your eyes welled with tears, and you gave yourself a moment to silently cry before you wiped angrily at your eyes, reaching for your toothbrush.

You thought back on your younger self, how she’d been so happy to have finally caught the eyes of her brother’s best friend. After years of pining and hoping that he’d see her as something more than his sister. How he’d once wiped a thumb under her eye when she’d first started experiencing with makeup in her teenage years, and he’d softly said that you don’t need so much of it. You’re beautiful, nena.

You deserved better, but you didn’t know what better was. Was it in the arms of a man or the bottom of a shot glass? It was a terrifying revelation, to realise how fucked up your life had become and it was all your fault.

Closure. That was what you needed, wasn’t it? But you didn’t want to move on from him, because despite it all, you still loved him.

Carlos had his back to you when you came out of your room, staring hard at the frames on the wall and you briefly wondered if he noticed how you’d deliberately left out the pictures with him.

“I remember this day.” He said quietly without looking at you. His finger pointed at a framed picture of you and your best friend, at an animal sanctuary with your hands stretched out, feeding a giraffe. “You were so happy to finally see giraffes, no one could pull you away from them.”

You wanted to smile at the memory, but it was hard when emotion was still clogging up your throat. You embraced yourself and sat down on your sofa, making a small hum of acknowledgement instead. Carlos turned around at that, sweeping his eyes across the small area before settling on you.

“Things change.” You said, because they really did.

“Sí.” He sighed, taking a seat in the ottoman. The seat furthest away from you, you noted. “I have that picture in my driver’s room. Not that one, but a similar one where you’re by yourself.”

You knew what picture he was referring to and it made you frown. Why would he confess to that?

“Why?” You asked, because that was the question, wasn’t it? Why, why, why?

Carlos inhaled through his nose, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Reminds me of how simple life used to be.” He said, like it answered the million questions in your head.

You didn’t ask him to elaborate, because you didn’t want to hear it. It must’ve been difficult to lead such a fast paced life, hopping from one country to the other and spending hours on driving cars. You’d imagine that it got a little too much at some point, rendering you homesick and yearning for a simpler life. But it didn’t work like that. Life rarely went the way you wanted it to.

“Why are you really here, Carlos?” You asked, the question so sudden that it cut through the false sense of security the both of you had managed to build.

He stared at you, eyes unmoving and it was so unnerving that you looked down in your lap, pulling the sleeves of your sweater over your hands.

“I miss you.” He said, and you barely managed to hold in the scoff. Barely. “I miss us.”

“There was no us.” You interjected, spitting the word out like it was venom.

It might as well have been because Carlos hands curled into fists where they stayed in his lap, something he always did to reel his frustration in. Somehow, that angered you. You weren’t the one who walked out. You weren’t the one who left him behind.

“I kno—“

“No, you don’t!” You hissed, fury finally unfurling in your chest. “El problema es usted no sabe mi dolor o mi vacío. You just walk back into my life like I’m supposed to welcome you with open arms.”

Your breathing was picking up, chest heaving with the lack of air you were heaving in and it did nothing to stop the pricks of tears in your eyes as you raised your head to glare at him. Carlos looked taken aback, hands slack from the previous fists and his eyes looked… Sad. Regretful. It was so pitiful that you couldn’t help but laugh wetly and humourlessly, bringing a sleeved hand to wipe at your nose.

“I don’t know what to say.” He admitted after a painful silence.

You looked away, sniffling as tears started falling traitorously, tracking your cheeks and you hated yourself for it. The last thing you wanted to do in front of Carlos was cry, but it seemed like your heart disagreed.

“I don’t know what you want from me.” You said, quietly. “You’ve already had me and it wasn’t enough.”

“It was enough.” His voice was more forceful than you expected, making your stomach drop. “It is enough. The fault was never with you, it was me.”

“Cállate.” You shook your head. “Don’t do the it’s not you, it’s me bullshit.”

Carlos sucked his teeth in exasperation.

“You know I’ve always loved you, nena.” He said and it made you look up.

Love? For a moment, your heart stopped beating in your chest as hope flared in every crevice of your body. But you reeled it in just as quick, because if he called fucking and dumping love, then you were better off. You might’ve been damaged but you still recognised that you deserved better.

“I don’t know.” You set your jaw. “You have a funny way of showing it, if you do.”

He sat up in the ottoman, ignoring the groan of protest it gave under his weight. The both of you stared at each other for a second and it felt like the longest hour of your life.

“That night…” He began, trailing off like he wasn’t sure how to put his thoughts into words. “Nena, I didn’t do anything that I regretted, and I still don’t. The only thing I regret is leaving you the way I did because you deserve so much better.”

Something wet touched your throat and you hurried to wipe at it, realising that tears were still rolling down your face. It irked you.

Carlos sighed heavily, like the conversation was too much to bear and you agreed with that sentiment, for once.

“Then why did you? Leave?” Your voice was quiet, broken and you hated the sound of it.

Carlos pulled a small face like it pained him to hear you so broken down, and it sent a small zip of satisfaction through you. You wanted him to hurt like you’d hurt.

“Because I was scared.” He confessed. “I was scared about everything. Your brother, this new life that I got pushed into. It was too much and I was panicking that night. I just wanted to feel normal again.”

“So… you slept with me and left?” You laughed bitterly.

Carlos cut you a stern look that still, to this day, shut you right up. He’d always had the face for it, the round and wide dark eyes and the bushy eyebrows. He could look intimidating when he wanted to, not that he ever scared you but you knew when to shut up.

“No. I sought you out because you were the only person who feels safe, who feels like home.”

He said feels. Not felt. So did that mean you still felt like home to him? You weren’t sure what to think or believe, feeling nauseous and lost all of a sudden.

“I realise that I went about it completely wrong.” He continued when you still hadn’t spoken. “I have a lot of regrets in my life, nena. But leaving you in my bed is the biggest of them all.”

The confession felt heavy, riddled with underlying emotions and confessions that you weren’t really ready to confront nor unpack. It was exhausting, all this new information invading your every sense and Carlos must’ve sensed how overwhelmed you’d suddenly become, because he palmed the tops of his thighs and sucked his teeth.

“Do you wanna get out for a bit?” He asked and you raised your eyebrows in slight bewilderment.

“It’s two in the morning.” You replied slowly and that prompted a smile from Carlos.

The sight of it was so unexpected and beautiful that it felt like a sucker punch, making you look away before you started staring.

“That never stopped you before.”

Before. Before when you’d sneak out of the house with your girlfriends to meet up with other friends and go to the most obscure parties. And Carlos would always be the one to catch you in the act, whenever he stayed over the house. He’d never berate or rat you out, just smirk and tell you to stay safe. To call if you ever needed him.

“Fine.” You relented, standing up and making your way over to the hallway. “Do you have a car?”

“Yeah, I parked it not too far from here.” He regarded you silently when you reached for your shoes, slipping them on. “Are you going to go out like that?”

It didn’t sound judgemental, only curious and that’s why you shot him an amused stare instead of picking up a fight out of annoyance.

“Yes.” You said, short and sweet.

He gave you a long stare before nodding, and that was that.

Fifteen minutes later and you were sitting in the passenger seat of a Ferrari, speeding down the deserted highway. There was no clear destination in either of your minds, but you cracked open the window and let the wind whip your hair, closing your eyes for a moment.

The radio was playing quietly in the background, almost drowned out by the roar of the engine, but it was comforting all the same.

Carlos hadn’t said a word since he started the car, only hitting you with a do you want seat warmers on? to which you’d shook your head. But he was good company, silent and comforting, just like he used to be.

“I love this song.” You said softly when the voices on the radio drifted off, the familiar tunes of Lovers Rock filling the relative silence.

Carlos didn’t say anything, just reached a hand out to turn the sound up a few bars, shooting you a glance that you felt in your core. It was amazing how he still made you feel like that, like someone had reached down your throat and fisted your heart violently. It was a sickening feeling, one that was so addicting and dangerous but you still yearned for it.

You were still mad at him, but you could also see a clearer picture now that he’d given you his side of the story and apologised. It wasn’t that you forgave him - that would take time - but you weren’t holding a grudge as strong like before.

It was hard though, to not acknowledge how he still made you feel like the wide eyed teenage girl who’d once saw the stars and moon in his dark eyes, who’d feel sick with love and admiration for him.

Because love can burn like a cigarette,

and leave you alone with nothing.

There was an irony to the lyrics, one that seemed to fit your current life like a glove. Carlos cleared his throat.

“Are you hungry?” He asked, breaking the silence.

Your stomach still felt unsettled from the drinks you’d had and from him showing up and upending your life, so you shook your head in the negative and turned your head to look at him.

“No, thank you.” You whispered.

Carlos didn’t take his eyes off the road and you took the chance to look at him, taking in the sharpness of his jaw and his strong nose. His hair was longer than last time you saw him, floppy and soft without any product in it and it should’ve annoyed you how beautiful he looked. Like something straight out of a romance movie.

There were a slight shadow under his eyes though, looking a lot like a person who carried the weight of the world on their shoulders and you fisted your hands in your lap to avoid reaching out to swipe a thumb over the bags of his eyes. You’d been so swept up in your anger that you’d failed to realise that Carlos was probably hurting just as much, he just couldn’t show it or self-destruct.

“Estás mirando, nena.” His voice, paired with the pull of his mouth made you look away.

Warmth spread all over your body when you realised that you’d been caught staring, for far too long to play it off.

“Where are we going?” You asked, in desperate need to change the subject and Carlos noticed it, because his nose flared as he tugged his bottom lip between his teeth; Like he was trying to hold his smile off.

“La playa.” He said.

The air had chilled considerably when you stepped out of the car, the wind whipping your bare legs and you pulled your sweater over your hands to find some comforting warmth as you gazed out over the beach.

It was dark, completely deserted even by the boardwalk and it was perfect for you, not in the mood to run into anyone who might know the man who was currently walking a few steps behind you.

The sand found its way into your shoes but you paid it little to no mind as you hurried your steps to the shoreline, far enough that the water wouldn't reach you, but close enough to hear the ominuous sounds of crashing waves.

"It's cold." Carlos said and you turned around, taking in the scrunch of his nose as he glanced around.

"Es perfecto." You said, waiting until Carlos looked over at you to give him a tentative smile. There was something in his face that changed at the sight of your open and vulnerable expression, but you didn't stop to think too hard on it.

Instead, you reached for your oversized sweater and pulled it clean off your head, ignoring Carlos' sounds of mortified and confused protest. His voice climbed in octaves when you kicked your shorts off, toeing your shoes away before you began walking backwards toward the ocean.

"Ay, what are you doing?" He asked, taking a step forward like he wanted to stop you. "You're gonna get sick!"

You ignored him, only breaking eye contact when the current carried up the shore, frothy water licking your calves and it was so cold that you felt it in your entire being. A sharp gasp left your lips, but you were determined to get a dip in just to clear your head.

It had been a long night, and getting sick was the last thing on your mind as water enveloped you.

Carlos watched silently, though his heart was pounding against his ribcage whenever he lost sight of you for a mere second. You'd always emerge from the water, smiling like you were in your own world and that's probably what stopped him from stalking right over and yank you out of the bed of water.

You looked so free, the complete opposite of how you'd looked the entire night and he selfishly didn't want that look on your face to diminish. Granted, you weren't smiling out of joy nor were you directing it at him, but the burden on your shoulders looked a little lighter when you finally started walking out of the water.

He tried hard not to stare at your body, the skimpy lingerie doing absolutely nothing to hide the most private parts of you. Carlos didn't know if he was just imagining things, but you'd truly grown into yourself since he last saw you.

You were shivering when you reached him, arms embracing your upper body like they were going to provide the warmth you needed to not send yourself into shock. He shrugged his jacket off without thinking when you hurriedly redressed in your sweater, water still dripping down your hair and body.

Carlos was ever the worrier, sitting you down on the sand and draping his jacket around your shoulder. You didn't protest, happily accepting it with a stuttered thank you that had his chest squeezing.

"You've always been good at surprising me." Carlos said when a few minutes had passed. He smiled when you gazed at him, trying not to react when you shifted and accidentally bumped your thigh against his.

You pulled away slightly, looking out into the darkness.

"How long are you staying?" You asked, quietly and slowly like you weren't sure if you wanted to hear the answer.

You knew realistically that he couldn't stay, he wouldn't. Carlos had a whole other life to live and a job to tend to, but you'd foolishly believed that maybe he'd stick around.

Carlos had a crease between his eyebrows that told you otherwise though, and you knew what was coming out of his mouth before he even said the words.

"Two days." He replied quietly, the sound almost getting swallowed up by the rushing waves in the distance. "I'm supposed to be in Italy by now but I wanted to see you."

You smiled despite yourself, a small graze of the lips that had Carlos inhale through his nose.

"I'm glad you came." You confessed out loud, the very same words you'd been scared to utter for the past hour.

Now they were out in the open, and Carlos was staring at the side of your head like he'd maybe heard wrong.

"Me too." He said softly, watching you shift as a breeze blew by.

Your thigh grazed his and this time, you didn't move away, letting the warmth of your flesh seep through his jeans.

"I'm sorry for everything." Carlos pulled a leg up to rest his cheek on the knee, head turned towards you. "I wish I could take it all back."

"I know." You said quietly.

You looked at each other in silence and you took in the slope of his nose and the tanned skin. The apples of his cheeks were a little sunburnt, lips dry but oh so full and inviting. You stared at them, thinking back to how they'd tasted that one fateful night.

Carlos cheeks went a little pink at your scrutiny and you quickly looked away, feeling yourself flush warmth all over at being caught staring so obviously.

"Come with me." He said and you blinked, confusion marring your face when you turned back to look at him. "To Italy. Just to get away for a bit. You can meet my friends and watch me race."

You hesitated, feeling lost all of a sudden because you weren't sure if you were ready for it yet. But a small part of you wanted to go with him, to let go of this life of destruction you'd managed to envelop yourself in.

Carlos hesitantly touched your hand that you had in your lap, fingertips against the palm of your hand and that one small touch was so electrifying that you filled your belly with air, holding your breath until it hurt your chest before exhaling.

"Charles has a girlfriend who I think you'd get along with well. She’s very much like you." He continued, sounding an awful lot like a salesman and it made you smile. “You’d love her, I think.”

You didn't know who Charles was, but the name rang a bell and you took a shot in the dark that it was his teammate.

"I probably would." You replied slowly and Carlos pinched eyebrows relaxed a tad bit when you finally broke your silence, like your silence had built some anxiety. "Can I think on it? I just —"

"Yes." He interrupted you, like he completely understood. "You don't have to explain yourself. I'll be around for two more days so you can take your time."

You thought about your brother, wondering if he knew what had spiralled that night before Carlos left to start his career. Did he have a hunch or did Carlos tell him? All you really knew was that your brother had flown out plenty of times to attend races, so you knew that they were still in contact, and by the looks of it, good friends. He’d invited you along the first few times, only stopping when your polite no’s had turned into snapping.

“What are you thinking about?” Carlos voice brought you out of your thoughts and you realised he’d been looking at your face the entire time, trying to read your thoughts when your eyebrows furrowed.

“Does he know?” You asked and Carlos looked confused for exactly two seconds before his eyebrows smoothed out, a humourless smile twitching his lip as he gazed out at the ocean in front of you.

He pulled up both legs, resting his forearms on his knees and clutching his hands together.

“Yes.” He said and your stomach dropped a little. “He came to a race in Miami a year ago and I felt… guilty. He was talking about how you should come to a race sometime and how concerned he was for you.”

Your eyebrows jumped. Your brother knew. How much did he know? He hadn’t even brought it up with you, not once.

“I told him.” He let out a laugh with no real joy behind it. “He punched me, called me a motherfucker and left.”

Your mouth gaped open as you took in the new information, eyebrows raised so high that you were scared they’d get stuck in your hairline but you couldn’t bring yourself to relax.

You had never really been that close to your brother, close enough to spend some time in the same circle of friends whenever it was called for but you weren’t sit down and talk about your feelings close. It shouldn’t have surprised you that he hadn’t reached out to you and spoke to you about how you’d fucked his best friend, but he hadn’t treated you any different the past year. He still called and texted to check on you, expressing his worry whenever you gave him the old I’m fine reply. Now you knew why he’d been so gentle with you.

“I deserved it.” Carlos said after a stretch of silence, looking at you.

It made you sad for him then, and a little ashamed of yourself that you’d never stopped to consider how Carlos had felt in all of this. You’d always thought that he ran because he couldn’t deal with turning you down gently, but looking at him now? He was clearly struggling as well.

“You didn’t.” You said and Carlos pulled a face like he didn’t believe you. “I’m just a little horrified that my brother knows I slept with his best friend.”

The both of you smiled at each other.

“It’s not his business, anyway.” Carlos said, leaning his weight to one side so he could bump his shoulder against yours. “Just you and me, ¿verdad?”

“Sí.” You smiled like the words he was saying didn’t turn your stomach inside out.

Carlos looked straight ahead, and you scooted closer to him with a shiver, still cold and wet. He didn’t even hesitate to put his arm around you when your sides pressed together, leaning your head against his shoulder and basking in his warmth when a breeze blew by.

Your stomach was doing somersaults, twisting with nerves and a sense of giddiness and you really hoped that he couldn’t hear the harsh pound of your heart against your rib cage when he turned his head to press a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Te amo, nena.” He whispered, faint and intimate but it still felt like he’d reached into your bones and rattled them with a violent shake.

Hearing the quiet love confession come from his mouth stunned you, hope blooming in your chest as you picked your head up to take a look at his face. He was close, so close, and the inviting pout of his lips made it all the more difficult to resist pressing your lips against them.

Carlos inhaled sharply through his nose when you grazed your lips against his, a whisper of a touch that electrified you to the core. The arm around you tightened, pressing you closer as your noses brushed.

“Kiss me.” You whispered and Carlos did exactly that.

The press of his lips made you warm all over, hands coming up to clutch his hoodie when he pried your lips open; the touch of tongues making you push harder. It felt a lot like coming home, like universe had aligned itself, and you basked in the feeling of it all.

“Nena.” Carlos murmured when the kiss reached its end, lips touching yours as he spoke. He pushed his forehead to yours, eyelashes laying so pretty on the tops of his cheeks as he closed his eyelids. “I want you, I’ve wanted you for years. But maybe we should take things slow.”

You nodded, though you couldn’t resist stealing another kiss that he was all too eager to respond to. A groan rumbled in his chest when you placed both hands on his wide shoulders, letting him guide you to lay down on the sand.

It wasn’t as dark as it had been when you first arrived, but the faint light cast an almost beautiful shadow to his face as he hovered above you. His eyes were dark pools, staring into yours while his hand brushed wet strands of hair from your face. He crooked them behind your ear, cupping your cheek to bring you up for another kiss that had you whimpering for more.

Take things slow. Wasn’t two years enough? How much longer were you supposed to wait?

Carlos must’ve shared that sentiment, trailing his lips down your jaw to your throat in sucking kisses. He licked your skin, tongue warm against your flesh as he tasted the saltwater and you squirmed at the touch.

“Need you, Carlos.” You murmured when he pulled away.

He laughed breathlessly like he couldn’t believe the words you were saying, a hand travelling down your body with his eyes fastened on yours. You didn’t even dare to blink, staring at him until his hand found its way into your shorts and underwear, brushing his finger against your clit. Your eyelids fluttered shut, mouth going slack when he swiped his fingers through the mess of wet, bringing them back to circle your clit.

You grabbed him with terse hands, gasping and moaning while he brought you to a quick climax. It was sudden and fast, absolutely earth shattering when you climbed up to the edge and toppled right over. Carlos silenced your moans with his mouth, not kissing, just slotted over yours as he stole your breath and sounds.

“You sound beautiful, nena.” He murmured, fingertip nudging your sensitive clit just to see the way your mouth dropped open in a shivered gasp. “Missed that look on your face.”

“Carlos.” Your voice sounded pleading, hand sliding to the back of his head to bury your fingers in his hair. “Want you right now. Please.”

He let out a shuddered breath, pulling his hand out of your shorts to unbutton his jeans and zip them down far enough to fish himself out. You struggled to not stare down between the two of you as you kicked your shorts and panties off, marvelling in the sounds he made as he spit in his hand and jacked himself off; slicking himself up generously.

There was a moment where you looked at each other, unblinking and silent. His cock slid against you, slicking himself up further before his head caught where you were clenching in anticipation. It was stupid and reckless, to not use protection and to even do it so publicly but you needed him.

You couldn’t wait for another hour, and neither could he, judging by the way he slid inside with a gasped breath. Your eyes clenched shut as the intrusion locked your body up, finding comfort in his hands as he brushed your face and pressed kisses to it. You relaxed, feeling the girth of him stretching you out the further he pushed inside.

It had been a while since someone had stretched you to your limits like he currently was, but you were eager to feel every inch of him and you made it clear by wrapping your arms around him, spreading your legs further like an invitation.

Carlos let out a breathless laugh, pushing his lips against yours in a loving kiss and you lost yourself in it as he began thrusting. He hit you deep, kissed your spot with the head of his cock and the coarse hair of his groin rubbed deliciously against your clit.

It wasn’t romantic, not something you’d see in movies, but it was intimate and perfect for you. He conveyed so much in the movement of his hips, eyes stuck on you like he didn’t dare to look away in fear of missing every twitch and movement of your face.

You got a hand between the two of you, moaning and gasping when your second orgasm crept up on you. It made your head spin, how fast you’d been brought to the edge yet again and you clenched around him, screaming out your climax. Carlos wasn’t far behind, all kinds of curses streaming from his lips as he pulled out and came on your lower abdomen.

The stark contrast of his warmth against your cool skin made you shiver, still struggling to come down from your high. Carlos let out a drawn out groan that screamed of sudden exhaustion, grabbing the sleeve of his jacket to wipe the come off your skin before he dropped down; Half on top of you and half on the sand.

“Where are you staying?” You asked, voice a little raspy from how dry your throat was.

“My parents house.” He replied, eyes taking in the slope of your nose and the pout of your bitten raw lips.

You turned your head to smile at him, eyes fluttering as he pushed forward to kiss your mouth.

“You can stay with me.” Your voice was timid, a little shy and it made Carlos smile.

“Bueno.”

Carlos’ hand found your collarbone, stroking the pads of his fingers against the raised bone. His eyes caught on the glimmering necklace around your throat, heart stopping for a split second when the pendant caught the light and he realised what he was looking at.

The number 55 was staring up at him, so small but so glaringly obvious that he wondered how he’d failed to notice it.

You must’ve sensed his body language shift, eyes flicking over his face where it remained unmoving.

“I wanted to keep you close to my heart.” You whispered and it was like gospel to Carlos’ ears. “I never stopped loving you.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, face softening even more.

“Neither did I.”

He thought of the years he’d lived through without you, thinking of the missed time and opportunity he could’ve had with you if he had just picked up the phone. But it didn’t matter now.

Carlos gazed at your face, at the stars reflected in your eyes, and made a vow to himself to never let you slip away again.

#carlos sainz jr #carlos sainz x female reader #carlos sainz jr x female reader #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz fic #f1 fluff #f1 smut #f1 fic #carlos sainz angst

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lamentationsofalonelypotato · 3 months

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You Call It Madness But I Call It Love

Chapter 5: The Man, The Myth, The Legend

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: When the reader left Payback 40 years ago after a falling out with her childhood best friend she never looked back, but when two men show up to her apartment and start asking her questions about the past, the reader begins to think those things can’t stay hidden and starts to question what’s real and what’s fantasy. This is a re-telling of The Boys Season 3, where the reader is a supe who's known Soldier Boy since 1927. The chapters will fluctuate between past and present. This is chapter five of my "You Call It Madness But I Call It Love" series. (I'm so bad at summaries please forgive me!)

Word Count: 2.5K

Warnings: References to sex, Cursing (a few times), Drinking, Drug Use, Soldier Boy might be, is, really, absolutely, a little OOC, Possible spoilers for season three.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. Reader is described as "curvy" occasionally. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal Monologue is in first person and is in italics

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

*************************

Present Day

"Hey'ya Kitten!" Legend smiles wide when he opens the front door of his apartment. "Where have you been baby? How's retirement?" He leans forward for a kiss and you turn your cheek to the side.

Always the flirt.

"Exciting. Is it alright if I come in?"

"Of course! I always have time for my favorite hero." He ushers you into his home.

It was one day after Agent Butcher and Hughie had dropped by your apartment looking for information on Soldier Boy. One sleepless night later you realized that the only way you were going to find Countess was through Legend. And despite his flirtatious attitude, you liked your former handler.

The apartment looks the same as it always has. Memorabilia from what he thought was the good old days hangs on the walls, a black leather couch sags in the center of the living room, and a red faded high backed armchair stands in the corner like a silent guardian. The smell of old cologne, pot, and alcohol soaks through the air and into your nose as you turn to examine the inhabitant.

Legend looks decidedly older. Sometimes you forgot that you didn't age the same way other people did, but then you'd meet someone from the past and it would remind you all over again. He's wearing the same smoking jacket with patched elbows, sunglasses, and ascot, that you saw him wearing over ten years ago. But Legend was classic.

"You hurt my feelings by not calling." He breezes having a seat on one of the couches, and fluffing more of the offensive smell through your nose, but you don't make a face. "What's it been ten years?"

"Something like that." You smile tightly and sit down on the armchair.

It wasn't that you didn't like seeing Legend. He might have been a crazy son of a bitch, but he was a good handler. He knew everything about everyone and he helped you get through Ben's death, not to mention he helped you create your new life when you broke away from Payback.

"You want some?" Legend holds out a mirror where a single white line of cocaine sits. "Or are you still sober?"

"I never did cocaine. And yeah, I'm still trying to stay on the wagon."

"Don't know how you do it."

"Me either." You say it partly to yourself, because it was true. You didn't know how you got through the past 40 years without a drink. Before, it wasn't that you partied as hard as Ben or the others did. It was more the drinking than drugs you imbibed in. Yes, you'd smoked the occasional blunt, but you didn't want to lose control if you tried anything stronger. You didn't like losing control, you prided yourself on keeping it together.

Ben had lost control more than once, and each time he'd show up at your apartment just like he had when he was a kid and he was hiding from his father, falling asleep beside you like nothing had changed. You never understood how he could be so vulnerable when it was just the two of you, but when he was in public he was different. Sometimes you hated that, because in those quiet moments you saw the boy you fell in love with, but when you were out in public you saw the man he became.

You remember all the times he lost control. The worst was when he threw a car through a house when trying to stop some kids in the street and killed an older man. Ben hadn't gone to the funeral, but you had. You sat on the back pew and watched the family mourn. Only a little boy in the front row had noticed you, and you had offered a kind smile, before walking back through the streets and leaving an envelope of cash in the family's mailbox. You knew the money couldn't replace the person they lost, but you couldn't think of anything else to do.

"So, are you here because you want to come out of retirement?" Legend snorts the line on the mirror without looking up. "Might be a good thing."

You laugh to yourself. "I like retirement too much to go back to Vought. Too wild out there nowadays with the supervillains and all that Compound V bullshit." You lean back in the armchair, crossing your legs in front of you.

"I could make you a star!" He looks up at you. "You're still as sexy as ever."

"And you're still a dirty old man." You tease, rolling your eyes at him and earning a chortle from Legend. "I don't think my powers are cutesy enough for television. I’m not like Starlight.” You snort thinking about the current blonde member of The Seven that had become America’s Sweetheart, a title that you were happy you never wore.

"Who said anything about your powers babe? It's all about the body."

"Legend-"

"Fine, fine." He shakes his head. "I saw your last art show, very nice. Bought something for the country house."

"That's very kind of you." You smile with pride. Your last show had been a series you titled "Moods of the Forest," which meant that you had camped out under the stars for a solid month up North drinking in the silence of the woods. It was a nice way for you to clear your head and catch up on your reading, but it had done little to ease the thoughts of the past. "Those were some of my favorites. It was hard to part with them."

"You're very talented." He compliments.

"Thank You. I'd hope so. I've been painting for almost 90 years." Your memory flashes back to when Ben gave you paint for your birthday and the months that followed as you practiced. All the days you spent painting in the park and along the streets of Philadelphia, sometimes with Ben following behind and teasing you, but you knew he loved how much you were painting, loved how much you enjoyed the gift. The happiness and warmth of the memories is doused by a bucket of cold water as you remember the last time you saw him. The echo of the last words you spoke to him and the words he shouted at you ringing in your ears.

The chill sobers you and makes you remember why you were here talking to Legend.

"I have something important to ask you." You look up at Legend. "Do you know where Crimson Countess is?"

Legend doesn't answer immediately. The spike of his pulse with the mention of Countess' name is loud in your ears. "Did you want a scotch? I think I need one." He avoids your gaze.

"Legend-"

He stands from the couch and moves over to the table in the corner that has a collection of multicolored bottles that you wish you could drink from, but you restrain yourself. You hear the sound of the glass being poured and as he turns he takes a sip as if rousing the courage to tell you.

"Y/n if this is you finally going after her, now might not be the best time." He swirls the glass in his hand, the amber liquid sloshing against the sides. "I thought you were past all that-"

"It's not like that I-“ Your lips press together in a tight line, considering your next words. "Some men came to my apartment the other day looking for me. They were asking me about Ben."

"You told them you were dead right? The story we came up with?" Legend looks worried.

"Yeah. Don't think they bought it." You shrug.

"Did they give you their names?"

"They said they were with the CIA. Agent Butcher and a guy named Hughie-"

"Butcher? Dark hair, British accent, asshole?" Legend's glass pauses half-way to his mouth.

"Yeah. How did you-"

Legend sighs. "He used to be with the CIA, was on a task force that was used to hunt down supes. I helped them find a few over the years."

"Hunt them down?"

"Butcher's got a bone to pick with supes. Homelander especially." Legend sits back on the couch nursing his scotch.

At the mention of Vought’s most popular hero you pause. You didn’t know too much about Homelander, just that he emerged as Vought’s Golden Boy a few years after Ben died and he was supposed to be indestructible. You wondered if he was as indestructible as you.

“Homelander?”

“Did something to his wife.” Legend waves a hand like it doesn’t matter. "But they were asking you about Soldier Boy?"

"Yeah, they wanted to know about the relationship I had with him and how he died-" You foot taps against the ground, fighting the urge to pour yourself a drink.

Legend looks worried. "Maybe you should get out of town for a few days-"

"What?"

Can Butcher really be that dangerous? He didn't seem like much the other day and I'm pretty sure he wouldn't be able to handle me. Most supes couldn't.

"Not because of Butcher, he's a dick, but I mean everything with Soldier Boy." Legend takes a sip from the glass. "If you start thinking about him again, you're going to be in the same place you were last time."

Deep down you know he's right, ever since Butcher and Hughie showed up on your doorstep, Ben was all you thought about. The hole you dug yourself into when you and Ben fought and then he died was deep and dark, and it was already beginning to open under your feet.

You didn’t know if talking to Countess would help close it, but maybe you needed closure, maybe you needed to hear it from her how he died. The last thing you wanted was to go to Stan Edgar. He'd already shown up once, but you thought you had convinced him with your story. Occasionally he would show up to one of your art shows, browsing through the canvases, and asking you about the inspiration of them. You never liked when he showed up in your life, because after all these years he hadn't changed, he was still a snake obsessed with power and being on top.

"I know." You sigh, clutching your hands together in your lap. "But I want to talk to her. Maybe it's time. There was always something that unsettled me about how Ben died and she's the one who saw it. Plus Noir isn’t very talkative these days, Gunpowder is dead, and I’d rather drink cyanide than listen to those two TNT idiots.”

Learning that Gunpowder was dead was a shock. You'd lost contact with him, but you thought it was suspicious that he died so soon before Butcher and Hughie came to see you. You knew that Gunpowder was still doing his rounds in the gun expos and conventions, boasting about the good all days and preaching about the dangers of gun control.

It was ironic for him to be against it when you'd personally seen him kill several people who pissed him off and for no good reason.

If anything he shouldn't be allowed near a gun.

When you knew him he was still a kid, but even then he was already adopting the ridiculous macho attitude that Ben had.

Must have stuck.

"I still don’t think it's a good idea." Legend finishes his glass of Scotch. "But let me find it.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me kitten. I don't think I'm doing you a favor." He grunts moving through the apartment, while your eyes trace the photos. Several of them were of Ben at movie premieres, another showed the whole Payback team, and finally just Ben and Legend. He was wearing his ridiculous helmet, the one you used to tease him about. You always thought it was a shame that they covered up his handsome face.

You had a box of photos under your bed that held similar images, but most of yours were of Ben and you not wearing your supe suits. The ones from your childhood needed to be handled with care, but you enjoyed looking at them, before you saw the hardness in Ben's eyes and the set of his jaw. Those early photos showed you the boy you fell in love with.

"Here." He hands you a slip of paper that holds his untidy scrawl as you stand from the chair.

"Thank you." You turn to go, but stop. "Should I be worried about Butcher?"

"I'd stay out of his way. He kills supes for fun."

"But if Ben's already dead then what does he want?"

Legend shrugs. "Can't be good."

"Great."

"Just be careful." Legend puts his hand on your shoulder. "I know that everything that happened with Soldier Boy really threw you-"

"I know. But I have to know. I have to hear what she has to say." You sigh looking up at him. It touched your heart that he cared so much. Legend never got close to his clients in the past, but for some reason he was always more willing to help you. It was him that talked you out of the hole when Ben died.

"Okay."

"It was good to see you. Take care of yourself." You try not to see the weariness in his eyes, the way the wrinkles have grown and stretched over the years, how the gray of his hair has spread. One listen with your supe hearing meant that you could hear his blood pumping through his veins, but it wasn’t at the same vigor as it once was. It was difficult to see age on the people you knew, the day that you and Ben both figured out that you weren't aging anymore had been bittersweet. You were happy that Ben wouldn’t die either, but it meant you’d lose your family. However, Ben’s inability to age meant that you weren't alone.

You frown to yourself. Sometimes you’d thought that meant something, that the universe finally threw you a bone and it was some cosmic sign that you and Ben were supposed to be together-

What a crock of shit.

But despite his death the past few years you hadn't been alone even though you had expected it.

"Good to see you too kitten. Don't be a stranger."

When you finally make it to the street below, you kick your leg over your motorcycle, but pause.

I could just go home and work on my pieces for my next show. Go home and pretend those men never showed up and forget all about Ben. The guilt and anger that rises with his name is familiar, but you brush it away. This might be the only chance I have of finding out what happened to him. You think about Countess and the scrap of paper in your pocket. But it won't be easy.

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Thank you so much for reading! Likes and reblogs are always appreciated, but not required. Please let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series :)

Taglist: @roseblue373 @anundyingfidelity @cheynovak @cassiecasluciluce @muhahaha303 @deans-spinster-witch @kayleighmeister

#jensen ackles soldier boy #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x y/n #the boys fanfic #jensen ackles #the boys amazon #soldier boy #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy/ben #soldier boy fic #the boys series #the boys season 3

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fortheloveof-sebastian · 1 year

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Sebby

Pairings: Sebastian Sallow x GN!Reader

Summary: Anne accidentally lets slip one of Sebastian’s childhood nicknames.

Warnings: fluff, some teasing, talk about bullying, suggestive dialogue near the end

Word Count: 1.8k

A/N: This idea first popped in my head because I may or may not have named a stray cat who hangs around my house Sebastian. I called him “Sebby” one day and then this idea grew legs and decided to run away from me much like the feline namesake of this oneshot. (I love stray cats more than they love me, apparently)

Typically, only very young wizards play Gobstones. This, you understood after overhearing several of your classmates mock Zenobia for her obsession; you'd only played the game once, but never thought about it as childish. You weren't proud of it, but the opinions of your classmates had swayed you into dismissing the game altogether.

That is, until you discovered that Anne loved gobstones and since you visited her in Feldcroft with Ominis and Sebastian, you were roped into playing as well. You didn't mind, actually. It allowed you a small peek into Sebastian's life before you entered it, and you secretly adored the mock squabbles between Ominis and Sebastian as they argued over who won or not. Anne seemed happiest while playing, too, so you indulged in a weekly, hour round with friends.

A putrid smell infiltrated the space, caused by one of the Gobstones bouncing out of the circle. Ominis coughs and sputters, waving away the smoke. You, Sebastian, and Anne all laugh.

"Warn me next time," Ominis chokes out.

Sebastian grins, tilting his head like a puppy who chewed your favorite slipper and knows exactly what they did. "Where's the fun in that?"

“Go on, it’s your turn,” Anne prompts.

At times, you find it hard to believe that her and Sebastian are twins. But then one will do something that will remind you so violently of the other (in this case, Anne’s impatience) that sometimes it makes your chest ache — how terrible it must be to have someone so deeply entwined in your soul plagued with an irreversible illness.

The game ends, rather unceremoniously, as Sebastian triumphs over the other players, and the Gobstones are tucked neatly away into a velvet pouch that Anne uses to store them in. Sebastian grabs them from her, to which she casually supplies, “Thanks Sebby.”

You and Ominis both freeze.

Sebastian freezes too, but for an entirely different reason. A dark blush colors his cheeks.

“S-Sebby?” Ominis repeats.

His voice quivers as he struggles to suppress his laughter. It’s only this that alerts Anne that anything is wrong, as she didn’t notice her slip of tongue, and had been absently counting the Gobstones. Her head snaps up, and she locks eyes with Sebastian.

His gaze turns from that of a startled puffleskein to undeniably murderous.

“Oops,” Anne says.

“Oh, Merlin’s —” Sebastian starts, but the rest of his words are drowned out in the waves of uproarious laughter from you and Ominis.

“Sebby!” You cry, your face splitting into a grin.

“Thank you, Sebby!” Ominis joins in.

“Oh, you’re so welcome, Sebby.”

“Sebby, you’re too kind.”

You and Ominis relentlessly volley back and forth, completely ignoring the look of utter devastation from the Slytherin. His protests quickly die out. Anne tries to talk over you, inventing excuse after lame excuse — “It was a mistake! I don’t call him that!” — but neither of the Sallow siblings are a match for you and Ominis, who are quite like a dog with a bone.

“I have no qualms disowning you both,” Sebastian declares once your laughter begins to subside. It’s almost certain that you would’ve continued but your cheeks hurt from smiling, and your stomach was starting to hurt.

Ominis swipes at an imaginary tear. “Oh, Sebby, we know you wouldn’t dare.”

This earns a snicker from you. “Yeah, Sebby.”

“I detest you,” Sebastian says, this time to Anne.

His sister regards him sheepishly. The hint of a smile flickers on her mouth. “Sorry.” Anne pauses. With an insertion of tremendous comedic timing, she adds, “Sebby.”

This time, the three of you elapse into another fit of laughter. Ominis lays on the ground, clutching his stomach, while Anne giggles behind her hand. Sebastian’s features screw up in anger. It’s only when he storms out the door, throwing it shut behind him, that you feel an inkling of guilt.

“Should we go after him?” You ask.

Ominis, still chuckling, waves a hand. Anne has pulled his head into her lap, where they sit reclined against the sofa. “Oh, he’ll mope about and lick his wounds but he’ll be back.”

You stand up and brush off your knees. Ominis tries to tell you that Sebastian will be fine, but you find yourself propelled out the door and into the night. The moon washes over Feldcroft. It takes a moment for your vision to adjust but you spot Sebastian just in time, before he rounds a row of hedges and disappears.

You trot after him. It wasn’t a secret that Sebastian had a nasty temper, and you wanted to give him enough time to simmer. You follow the path to the row of hedges — at first, you think that he’s just outright vanished. The familair crown of artfully messy hair, the slope of his broad shoulders, are nowhere to be found. But then your notice a movement beneath the willow tree, it’s branches blowing lazily in the breeze, and realize that he’s sought shelter beneath it.

Making no effort to disguise your footsteps in the case that he needed to collect himself — you were always horrendously concerned about others — you approach the willow tree and use one arm to sweep back the long branches.

Sebastian leans against the trunk, one foot propped up. His arms are crossed.

You step forward hesitantly.

“What? Done having a jolly good laugh at my expense?” Sebastian asks, tone bitter. “Don’t let me stop you.”

You cringe slightly. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, go ahead. You were going off brilliantly before,” he all but snarls.

The sharpness in his tone could peel flesh from the bone. Your hands form into fists at your side. “It was all in good fun,” you tell him. You had come out here to apologize, not to be berated.

“Really? I didn’t find it all that funny.”

“What’s wrong with you? It’s not like you haven’t poked fun at us before,” you remind him.

Even in the darkness, you can see his eyes narrow. Sebastian was an excellent duelist, and he tended to treat each verbal altercation with the same degree of savagery, no matter his perceived opponent. It’s perhaps why he ended up in detention more times than not.

“You wouldn’t get it,” he fires back. “You just don’t know when to stop.”

Your molars grit together. “It was a joke.”

“Hmph,” he says. He actually says it: hmph. You thought it was a word only made up by authors, but apparently it could very well be said.

You try for a different approach, intentionally softening your voice. “Please come back. I’ll make them promise they won’t bring it up again.”

“No.”

“Sebastian —”

“You don’t know what it’s like.” His voice, barely lifting above a whisper, nearly gets lost in the rustle of the willow branches. In fact, you’re not even certain that he said anything at all, but you stay quiet nonetheless. You’re grateful for this decision, as it evidently prompts him to continue. “You’re so great at everything you do. And everyone adores you.” His icy composure cracks slightly. “I mean obviously but…it’s never been like that for me.”

You frown. “I don’t believe you. You’re infuriatingly charming and quick to learn.”

“Thank you,” he smugly replies. His shoulders heave as he sighs, and then he wilts before you like a flower deprived of the sun. “Anne used to call me Sebby a lot, back in primary school. She was too young to understand that it only gave the schoolyard bullies more fuel.”

“Oh.” It sounds silly leaving your lips, but you find that it’s the only thing you can think to say. “I didn’t know.”

Sebastian avoids your gaze but shrugs. “You couldn’t have. Anyway, it just reminds me of what they would say. How they would mock Anne and I, and our family — how we were poor, our clothes, the likes.”

A frisson takes shape in your chest, threatening to crack open. “That’s awful.”

“I shouldn’t have let it consume me so.”

Sebastian gestures for you, and your feet carry you closer. It’s frightening, sometimes, how unquestionably you listen to him.

But you don’t care.

He draws his arm around you and pulls you into his side, your head fitting into the curve of his shoulder like a puzzle piece snapping into place. His lips are warm on your skin in contrast to the night air, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

Sebastian liked to apologize just as much as he liked to lose a duel.

“No, I’m sorry,” you say. “We should’ve stopped when we noticed you were uncomfortable.”

“Eh, I was being a proper twat.” Sebastian’s mouth curves into a grin. “I suppose I deserve a ruthless teasing after a reaction like that.”

You smack him. His stomach is taunt, muscled beneath your hand, reminding you traitorously of how he looked beneath his school attire. Mercifully, it was dark, and Sebastian was unable to see your blush from this angle.

“No you don’t.” You hook your hand in his, your fingers lacing together. “Sebby.”

He exhales sharply, but you can sense that he’s smiling. “Blimey that’s going to take some getting used to.” Sebastian gazes at you, at your entwined hands. “Although I suppose there’s no way I can convince you and Ominis to forget it.”

“Oh, absolutely not.” You laugh. “Ominis has an aggravatingly permanent memory. Especially when it comes to bugging you.”

Sebastian laughs too. “Fair enough.”

You lapse into silence. As your conversation subsides, the sounds of the night sharpen: the rustle of the leaves in the wind, crickets, somewhere in the distance a mother calling out for her child. Sebastian is warm besides you. Familiar and reliable and lovely. You’re overly aware of his breathing, the way his chest rises.

In fact, you’re annoyingly aware of everything about Sebastian.

“Should we go back, Sebby?” You ask. If you had a choice, you would’ve stayed beneath the willow tree all night. But fatigue had begun to settle in your bones, and you would much rather prefer to be nestled up next to Sebastian in bed.

Sebastian surprises you, and you cry out — like a dance, he spins you, using the momentum to pin your entwined hand over your head and your body under his. Heat rushes between your legs.

“Depends,” he mumbles in your ear. His lips graze over your earlobe, the sensitive skin of your neck beneath.

All clarity deserts you in moments such as these, when you would appreciate it most.

“On what?” You stammer back.

His answer causes your stomach to dip, the way it does when you drop too quickly from your broom.

“On whether or not you’re going to say my name…my real name…when you scream out for me tonight.”

#fanfic #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #ominis gaunt #harry potter #fluff #sebastian sallow x reader #writers #writers on tumblr

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envies-writing-corner · 1 year

Text

Missing Your Scent

Genre: (F)

Includes: Luxiem, Iluna boys

Word Count: 744

TW: None

Title: Scent HC, what each member smells like

--------------------------------------------------------------

Ike Eveland:

- Ike would smell of old book pages, not the must and dustiness, but the crisp scent of parchment, as if sitting in an old library by an open fire, enjoying a nice cup of tea or coffee, along with the bold strokes and notes of ink.

- A smell that reminds one of their younger days where everything was simpler, where a story would take one away into a world of joy and bliss.

- Bath and Body Works scent: Fairytale mixed with a soft musk

Luca Kaneshiro:

- A commanding yet relaxing scent, one that you’d find on a knit hat or scarf, casting away from the small yet harsh wind, a crisp cold filling your senses. One perfect for a distant memory.

- A warm embrace type smell that continues to linger even after many washes, something that screams sophisticated and important but not cocky. A gentle smell that doesn’t overpower the world yet will remain in ones mind for days or weeks to come.

- Bath and Body Works scent: Sweater Weather

Vox Akuma:

- All attention would be whisked away at the mere thought of the remembrance, a dark undertone fit for a monster but not for one who looks so much like an angel. A distant world filled with respect and covered in flame, so distant that one can not be sure if it’s hell or the world they currently inhabit.

- Something about the smell is bitter, as if withholding thousands of painful memories, yet it’s a comfort as much as a reminder. It is truly the scent a leader would carry, a scent fit for a demon.

- Bath and Body Works scent: Sweet Whiskey

Mysta Rias:

- A bustling city, every smell, every sight mixing together except for the man in orange, his cologne wafting off him in waves through the chilly wind, a tender scent that can only speak of importance. A cavern building as the man further vanishes from sight.

- Despite the hustle and bustle of busy streets, you know there’s only one who would remind you of such dark despair, and you won’t lose him again, not after the years apart.

- Bath and Body Works scent: Smoked Old Fashion

Shu Yamino:

- A smell that can bring one to a whole different dimension, a world they’ve never seen or experienced, yet continue to linger as a deja vu type of muse. The scent is trapped within your mind, a far forgotten face that smiles as you dance, sweeter notes mixing beautifully with the earthier tones.

- A scent that rejuvenates a soul, one that can only be done with magic. Yet, no matter where it came from, you’re sure it’ll never leave, at least not for a long while.

- Bath and Body Works scent: Japanese Cherry Blossoms

Kyo Kaneko:

- Although found within a sterile environment, one can’t help but smile at the faint strawberry smell, a breath of life in a seemingly dead room. Following the breeze into the night sky, it’s a scent that one begins to long for, to meet the one who is so far yet still so close.

- A tone of lovely relief, enchanting the mind as you wish to waltz the stars, wondering if the one you’re searching for resides under the same moon as you.

- Bath and Body Works scent: Your The One

Aster Arcadia:

- A distant smell that is warm, one that continues to remind those of another’s presence. Not too powerful but one that seems fit for a person who is shrouded by mystery. Someone you’ve never seen yet feel safe with.

- A type of scent that calms your woes and worries, similar to that of a childhood detergent that feels so familiar, yet one you can never seem to properly place. A far off feeling that continues to return, no matter how long it’s passed.

- Bath and Body Works scent: Among The Clouds or Cloud Nine

Ren Zotto:

- A world unknown to the source, a scent just as unfamiliar. It’s a type of lull that screams ‘find me’ one in which you can feel yourself fall deeper into as days pass. It’s only time that separates the wishes of the human heart that beats steadily through the flow of life.

- A whole new dimensional scent, one that’s hard to place but matches so well to the lost being that holds it. A dream wishing to become reality as he follows in the worlds long forgotten path.

- Bath and Body Works scent: Clean Slate

--------------------------------------------------------------

Authors Note: Was this just an excuse to write about the Sweater Weather bath and body works lotion, yes. It reminds me so much of Luca that I needed to write these HC, it was dire.

#nijisanji en #Luxiem #nijisanji iluna #ike eveland x reader #vox akuma x reader #luca kaneshiro x reader #shu yamino x reader #mysta rias x reader #kyo kaneko x reader #aster arcadia x reader #ren zotto x reader #Nijisanji EN HC #luxiem hc #illuna hc

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fourmoony · 1 year

Text

𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐨

𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐮𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

⭒⭒⭒

𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞. 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐭. 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠'𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐠𝐨.

𝟏.𝟒𝐤 - masterlist

because apparently, the only thing i know how to write is angst. enjoy this shortie with barely any context.

⭒⭒⭒

“It’s over, isn’t it?”

The sun is setting into the horizon, sea gulls flying low to the water. The tide has come in, leaving only a small stretch of dry sand that you both occupy. Further down the beach the fire roars on soundly, the strum of a guitar sounds out, broken choruses and laughter, the inability to remember all the words. Without the weight of conversation – of reality – the scene is quite beautiful. Now, though, it all feels too painful. Like something you should be enjoying, but it’s just out of reach.

The air smells like smoke and seaweed and sun cream, days spent on the beach enjoying what the Dover sun has to offer. It smells like the dying barbeque and warm cider, cigarettes and weed. It smells like summer.

His hair falls around his chin, now. It hadn’t last summer. Last summer, he’d hated the idea of it growing past the tops of his ears – a reminder of his childhood, of things expected of an heir, to be properly presentable and demand respect. He hasn’t mentioned why he’s let it grow. You haven’t asked. He’s looking out at the water, the push and pull of the waves, steady, never changing, always consistent. It’s been different for a while, now. He’s been different. Things, the world, school, friends, everything’s changing. It’s a natural part of growing up.

But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“I think so, yeah.”

The words taste bitter, like bile. It’s the end. The end of whirlwind love, chaste kisses, heavy hands, soft eyes, and whispered words. It’s the end of midnight dances and lazy Sundays tucked away in dorm rooms. The end of blinding adoration, hopeless devotion, high highs, and low lows. Of loud fights, harsh words, spit fire tempers and broken ornaments. The end of salty tears, things that can’t be taken back, broken promises, silent treatments, make-up kisses, and repeating the cycle.

He flinches as though even though he’d known the answer, he’d expected something different. It hurts all the same. It hurts so much it’s like setting your own heart on fire. It’s like swallowing glass or bleeding out. Like you’re drowning and the surface is millimetres away.

“How long?” He asks. His eyes never leave the water, the sea foam waves, the safety of not meeting your eye in fear that it’ll break him.

Things have been different for a while, really. But how can one pinpoint the realisation of falling out of love with someone they’d been sure they would spend their life with, at one point? When do toe curling kisses turn to chaste pecks of greeting? When do meaningful conversations become stunted and filled with secrets, pieces of information that just don’t feel that important to share, anymore? When does dancing in the common room turn to dancing around one another at the breakfast table? When do arguments turn to silence, preferring to fume alone than at one another? When does your greatest love turn to dust before your very eyes?

The sand is still warm to touch from the day’s sun. It’s grounding. It reminds you of where you are, what the purpose of this trip is. To enjoy, to savour, to let the last weeks of youth take their course before the future arrives. Everyone is growing. Growing into their own person, with goals and careers to chase, lives to live and people to love. You’re not the wide-eyed group of kids you once were, struggling to find a place in the world, clinging to each other for comfort.

No, this is the beginning of adulthood. The beginning of letting go. The end of clinging on.

“A while,” a sharp inhale. “March, maybe. Around the time we had the fight about N.E.W.T. Electives for seventh year.”

Recognition floods his features, stormy eyes reminiscent of the night he’d said many things he couldn’t take back. Defence had better prospects, you shouldn’t be wasting time with classes like Care of Magical Creatures or History of Magic. He feels rotten about it, like the argument and his words have taken a part of his soul he’ll never get back. Maybe they have, in that really, when he thinks about it, that’s the fight that ended it all. He's no idea where his words came from. Your interests, your kind heart, the way you went about your education were some of the things that made him fall so heavily in love with you in the first place. Your futures look different, though. He wants the glory of sitting high in the Ministry’s Auror office, you’d like to own some kind of book shop, live a quiet life, away from prejudice and the chaos of Wizarding Britain.

And he can’t argue with that. But you’re both smart enough to know that such different desires in life won’t work.

“Yeah. Yeah, me too, I s’pose.”

You close your eyes, allow yourself to imagine a future in which you’re not in his arms, being loved by and in love with him, fighting, making up, making out, crying, laughing, dancing, singing, living. Every step of the way for the last six years, you’ve done it together, been in love for two, and it’s ending. It’s a bittersweet feeling.

Another song starts by the campfire, and you’re there again.

Still beside him, closer than strangers, farther than lovers. Still loving, not in love. Not giving up but letting go. It’s run its course, the relationship. It hurts, it’s burning and suffocating, and you feel like you might be dying a little bit. But then your eyes meet for the first time since you’d found him, taking a moment away from everyone, and you realise he’s not the boy you fell in love with.

He’s not the broken boy who came from an abusive home, the boy who would get onto the train every summer skinnier than he’d left it months before, and with several new scars to show. He’s not the same boy who was quiet in his first year, reserved in his second, rebellious in his third.

He’s everything you fell in love with, rebellious, loud, funny, loving, caring, broken, pieced back together, resentful, angry. But he’s different now, in so many ways. He’s happy. He’s himself. He’s living no crosses bared, no secrets held, no regrets and you refuse to stand in his way, be a reason he second guesses himself, be the reason he doesn’t follow his dreams. He’s a boy who grew up in a miserable home, with a hard and horribly cruel life, and you want him to break the cycle of toxicity. You both know you were good for each other at the time, but not for the long run.

“I’ll always love you; you know?” He asks, tears in his eyes.

There’s stubble on his chin, and his face isn’t so gaunt and sharp as it used to be. He’s a man, now, older, and wiser, ready to start the next chapter of his life.

“I know. Me too.”

A seagull dives headfirst into the water, there’s a cheer from around the campfire, the water reaches your toes now, the sun is long gone. But the memories remain, the blinding love, the conversations, soft touches, chaste kisses, record player dances, and Sirius Black.

The walk back to your friends lifts a weight off of your shoulders, and it's obvious that the conversation has done the same for Sirius. He looks lighter, happier, and less like he's drowning in regrets. Everyone looks up at once. James stops strumming the guitar, Peter and Remus' off key rendition of an acoustic Ziggy Stardust falls short. The group takes a collective inhale. They know. They've known probably longer than you and Sirius.

The sand feels too hot, the fire burns your skin, the smoky air is too thick to breathe. What now? Will they think they have to pick sides?

But Sirius looks at you, grey eyes and the shining bright light of fire. He smiles, the boyish smile you haven't seen in so fucking long. You smile back when he leans forward, presses a kiss to your forehead and then claps his hands.

"Right, Prongs, start from the beginning," He takes a seat beside Marlene in the sand, leaves the last available camping chair for you, "Moony and Wormy are absolutely abysmal, need to show them how it's done."

And if your heart soars a little at the man's ability to help you blend into a crowd, just like it used to, well, that's no one's business but yours.

⭒⭒⭒

requests open.

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shoyoist · 1 year

Note

rekha :(((( just to torture ourselves what kind of angsty scenario do you imagine would bring hanma to tears if he’s in a relationship with you? sobs or is it only the death of those few he cares about that can break a man like him :(((( bye i’m so sad over him now pls

content: fem!reader (feat. my selfship content), established marriage, papa! shuji, angst. accidental pregnancy. mention of not wanting kids, family-related insecurities. thank you for indulging me rivvy<3

note: ok listen! i've been thinking about this all day. shuji isn't much of a crier, but when he does cry, it's over the people he loves.

shuji always says to you that he doesn't wanna have kids. and hey, you're cool with that. you don't need kids to make a family and a home with him.

just the two of you is plenty enough<33

but you get one accidental pregnancy after the other, and you find yourselves with two or three kids that shuji ends up loving more than life itself.

he jokes to you every now and then about how he doesn't know why he was so apprehensive about the idea before.

he's so happy! he loves his little kids, they share his and your features so evenly, their bubbly giggling at his silly faces are so adorable, taking care of them is so fun and god, he's just so full of love and joy.

until he's painfully reminded of why he didn't want to have kids— when they grow older and their personalities start clashing with his.

as a father, shuji jumps from too easygoing to too overprotective real quick. he finds something like their secret cigarette stash, that they've been drinking at parties, or they miss a curfew or two and it gets him irrationally mad at them — and when shuji's angry, he yells </3

he's just concerned for his kids because he knows full well what a reckless, dangerous childhood is like. and while he wants to be the chill parent so bad, he gets scared sometimes.

and his fear for his kids' safety comes out as anger and yelling. and his kids take after him, so his anger only makes their tempers flare up — which often results in a shouting match between father and children.

and while shuji tries to stay kind, sometimes, his kids say the meanest things at him.

(credits to my gf for these lines btw! this is actually from my selfship 🤭) one time, shuji is trying to confiscate his son's phone and ground him for a bit for staying out of the house a whole day and night after a prior argument, and it goes like this ↓

“give me your phone”

“what the fuck, you're not serious- i'm a grown ass adult!”

“give me your phone. you're not fucking grown. you're grounded, and i'm keeping tabs on you from here on out. now hand it over or i swear to god, i will take it from you”

his tone is threatening enough, and your son has no choice but to hand over his phone and shuji shuts it down and pockets it.

your son hisses under his breath like “this is bullshit”

and shuji retorts with a “this is how being a parent is”

and then his son says, in the meanest tone he could muster— “yeah, because you and mom were sooo smart for having so many fucking kids while being world's most wanted.”

and for a tense moment, there's a silence before shuji just heads to the front door and his shoes on, takes helmet and jacket and storms out, slamming the door shut behind him. he drives somewhere like yokohama wharf and just. breaks down and cries. all by himself. imagine ;( </3

he lights himself a smoke for the first time in years, tears rolling down his cheek and hanging for a moment at his jaw before they fall and stain his jeans with tears, and he's just wondering if he's a good father at all in the end.

he cries and cries and cries— and when he finally comes home to you late at night after everyone else has gone to bed, his eyes are puffy and red, and his hair is dishevelled. he looks so sad.

and when you hold out your arms for a hug, this big, 6'6 (because he was 6'4 at age 16. he's grown at least a couple of inches since then!) tall man, smelling of cigarettes and tears in his leather jacket and ripped jeans just slumps into you, his wife that he loves so much and just wants to be good to.

he's silent as you lead him to bed and help him undress, and while you're in bed, wrapped up in eachother's arms under the blankets, he asks you in a raspy, hoarse whisper, “am i... am i a good father to the kids, baby?”

and god, you kiss him, kiss his forehead and his face and his hair and you tell him yes, yes shuji you're such a good father to our children, and you're so good to me! so good to me and so good to the kids, shuji. you're okay.

he can't help but cry again after he hears that. he cries quietly but he sobs out loud, body racking and shaking your shoulders along with his own each time he takes a ragged breath in.

shuji knows he's not a family man. but god, god he wants to be one so bad. he wants to be good, for you and for his children that he loves so fucking much. and it makes him cry, whenever his fear overtakes him and convinces him that he may not be enough.

#‶｡ଘ.*+ — [ loveletter ].#‶｡ଘ.*+ — from : [ river! ].#OOPS THIS GOT SO LONG! HAHA 💀#okayy since it's my selfship i'll turn off rbs #but yes! i hope you enjoy the read river 😭💖#hanma x reader #hanma angst #tokyo revengers angst #tokyo revengers x reader

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smuttyaf · 7 months

Text

SouthSide Serpent

Word Count: 4.8k

Rating: R

features; childhood friends to lovers, loverboy ashton, literally ashton has been pining for y/n, & sum good old smut :)

a/n: idek what to say but hi! i’ve been in retirement for like 4 years and rediscovered this account. i got nostalgic & decided… shit why not write again?

please cut me sum slack tho! i wrote this on my notes app & it’s been years since i’ve written so i would love to hear feedback!

& yes i am hella descriptive and like to build suspense! i can’t help it >.<

also! y/n is heavily based on serena from mtv downtown ( i love her ) & this picture of ashton ( xx )

The crisp October breeze blew through your hair as the dull taste of your cigarette burns on your tongue; your forefinger and middle finger clenching the nicotine filled paper and pressing it against your lips, drawing in the vapour.

Your head nods along to the music playing before you just two doors down on the opposite side of your street. There was Ashton and his band, either playing covers of their current favourite songs, oldies, or new ones that they’ve all come together and created.

The usual guitar flow and drum beat of Maps by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs blasted through the speakers in the garage as the sound of Luke’s voice sang along on top of the tune.

You hum along to the lyrics as you glared in the direction, your lips peeling away from the filter and letting the smoke settle in your lungs before releasing it. The four boys were all dressed in their usual attire: white shirt, black trousers, beat up old chunky Doc Martins, and their signature SouthSide Serpents leather jackets.

As the wind picks up again you let your free hand tear away from your windowsill and tug the flying strays of your hair in front of your face behind your ear, the chipped black polish on your almond nails coming into view as you remind yourself you needed to get them done.

The bridge of the song is now blaring down the street, causing you to raise your cigarette back to your lips and think to yourself, what a coincidence this song is playing; the lyrics, the time frame, and the memories that all come flowing back as you hear the familiar melody.

It was 2009 and Ashton had invited you over during Christmas break to play Garage Band since Santa gifted it to him because that was the only thing he asked for on his wish list. You were both 8, banging on the drums and singing songs that you both were too young to know or remember from when your parents would play them on the drive home from school. But, for some reason this is the song that stuck with you both the most. Maybe it was the easy lyrics or the amazing beat but from then on it had you hooked to this alternative sound.

Now fast forward to a year ago, your now ex boyfriend Xavier was laying on your bed, finger pads heavy weight on your skin as he drew sloppy hearts on your hip. The wire of the headphones tangled between your shoulder and his wrist as you both listened to his playlist. The familiar intro notes to the song beginning to ring throughout the buds and the tug of your maroon lined lips turn into a smile.

“Already like the song?” He asked, brown eyes rested on top of dark circles scattered with freckles as he smirked down at you.

“I love it.” You sheepishly said.

The wind knocks you back into reality as it pushes through your window again, only making you remember how much you loved October; the weather changing, leaves blooming, smell of the rain just before it hit the concrete, the sound of the leaves dragging along the pavement, and the endless horror movie marathons that would run on AMC.

The orange, brown, and green leaves spin in the breeze and rustle along the branches as the sun stood brightly among the houses along the horizon. From your view on the windowsill you can see houses upon houses before you see the local water tower and old plazas that scream they need new merchant signs and fresh cement.

Your eyes flick to the lonesome string popping out of your black long sleeve before the sound of your phone’s text tone goes off, your eyes darting to the message running across the screen.

Stop watching me

Ashton’s text read, making you roll your eyes before placing them on the dark hair boy who had a goofy grin on his face from your view, his drum sticks were stuffed in one had and the other held his lit up phone.

With a smile on yours, you let the hand that rested in the crook of your neck tear away from the warm flesh and your middle finger stand in the air as a response.

Clothes were thrown in every direction of your room as you let your eyes drag along your frame in the mirror, your loose knitted black sweater hung off one of your shoulders as low waisted charcoal jogging pants rested on your hips. Your hair was in its loose waves as your curtain bangs swept against your temples, your fingers curling into themselves in frustration as you tried to not stress over how you look.

You didn’t want to over enhance your appearance to see Xavier since he wanted to meet up to get “closure” -even though he was the one who called it off despite your many pleas- but you wanted to make him feel bad for even deciding to drop you.

A frustrated sigh left your wine stained lips before turning around and sticking your feet into your ruined Converse. The low muffled sound of Xavier’s Prelude is heard out your window and you feel your heart drop.

You never understood why you always felt this way about him and why you couldn’t just get over this stupid boy who likes to break up with you every other month, a new reason every single time. The constant tears, text threads, and blocking to unblocking seemed to never get exhausting to you because you were always back in the same place, wondering if you overdressed to see your ex for closure.

The chime of Xavier’s specific text tone rings through your room and you already know what it says, so without checking you twisted your foot into your shoe to fit perfectly before you reach over and grasp your phone in your hand and tug your way to the window sill. Fingers pressing the frame up and letting the fall air sweep into your room before crouching down and fitting yourself through the frame and safely scale down the roof, onto the sturdy vine wall filled with dead clematis that prickled on your palms the way down before your feet landed on the short cut grass.

As you turned away from the wall and begin tugging your feet towards the black coupe, your eyes catch on the tall frame standing on their front step as an amber light glows slightly illuminating his face. You already know this is Ashton, so with a slight smile you let your index finger rest against your coated lips, a gesture to him to be quiet.

The only response he gives is his head nodding off to the side with smoke trailing out of his mouth.

The smile quickly falls as your fingers clench the car door handle and tug it open, the smell of him crashing down on you as you sit in the familiar leather, the hum of the engine vibrating under you as the car peels off.

The tinge of tequila burned on your buds as you felt the room spinning, the sound of chatter and shouts are heard from below you as the bass of Destroy Lonely’s song can be heard in the room you barged into when you gave up on waiting for Tabitha; who said she wouldn’t be long with the curly haired new kid in her history class.

Red solo cup was loosely clenched in your right hand as left was lazily running through your hair at random moments as you laid against the cottage floral bed sheets.

Here you were, back in the same spot you always found yourself in: drunk, heartbroken, and thinking about a boy who doesn’t even care about you. The constant routine of wanting him, then wanting to be far away but craving him every other second burned into your heart. The comfort and familiarity of him that you missed always overlooked every excuse he gave you whenever he broke things off.

Last month he said he needed time to himself, this month he told you that he was confused and didn’t know what he wanted; frankly he lost feelings for you, at least that was what he says now. Those words kept on replaying in your mind as if that was your favourite song. The way he sounded emotionless yet unsure that, that was what he really wanted.

And just with those thoughts, tears were flowing down your temples. Eyes blurring as the voice replayed in your head, the memory of him sitting beside you and saying that, to then recollect memories of how sweet and endearing the boy you loved in the beginning grew cold to your touch and looked into your hopeful eyes with detached ones.

The popcorn ceiling was fuzzy in your sight as the tears spill over your waterline and beads down the sides of your face. You already knew your cheeks were heated up, the liner and eyeshadow that was occupying your bottom lashes was smudged and probably slipping away with the liquid as a sniffle wrinkled through your nose.

God you hated this; the empty feeling of missing someone who you know you shouldn’t want but yet crave so badly. Why him? Why you?

As you were deep in thought you hear the rustle of the door knob before it turns and the music that pours from outside reaches into the empty depths of the room, the sound of footsteps halting and a sharp intake of breath being heard, but you don’t dare look away at the ceiling. Frankly, you could care less about who sees you crying your eyes out on this outdated duvet with ruined make up.

“Fuck my bad!… Wait Y/N?” The recognizable voice of your childhood friend is heard before the door is closing shut.

The weight of him sinks next to you on the bed as you let your eyes close and the final stream of tears leave your eyes.

“I look desperate don’t I.” You state, voice raspy from the strain in your throat as the usual feeling of a ball is formed.

“I think you look sad,” He points out, making you snort as the hand that was lazily playing in your hair tears away and feels the sheet below you.

“No shit,” You mumble before letting your eyes peel open.

“You and Xavier broke up again?” Ashton questions, the sound of his zippers clashing from his jacket as he shuffles around.

You only hum in response before you let both of your arms sit you up on the bed, your back standing straight as your hands cradle the solo cup. Your eyes stare down at your ruined pantyhose beneath your mini lace black skirt before they flicker to look at the hazel boy.

Eyes connecting with yours, you hear his breath hitch as he draws in your appearance. Cheeks with a glow of cherry red sweeping the bones under your eyes that are damp with black eyeshadow, your eyes were still puffy and red rimmed as they batted slowly up at him.

“He doesn’t know what he wants,” You let out, your eyes rolling before letting your plum coloured lips take a sip of the warm mixture of Pepsi and tequila.

“Oh?” He says in confusion, bushy eyebrows coming together trying to figure out how that could be since he saw you two together three nights ago.

“I’m so sick of being with these screwed up guys all the time,” You state, hand tearing away from the cup to dig your nails into the rips of your stockings.

“Really?”

“I have such crummy luck or taste? What is it with girls like me? All a guy has to say is, he can’t express his feelings or he listens to Deftones and it’s like my head tips right over and my brain start to slip out of my ear.”

Ashton lets out laugh, the beer bottle he’s holding by the neck resting on his knee as he stares down at you. “So which one is Xavier?”

“Both,” You scoff while sticking out your tongue in disgust.

“You know… if you wanted to, I’m sure you could have a different great guy to go out with every night,” Ashton assures, a smirk tugging on your lips as you decide to ignore the glint of promise in his eyes.

“No way, I’ve always been a mess. Remember Cleo?” Your second boyfriend that seemed to be stuck on your hip but ironically found someway to cheat on you every weekend yet you still dumbly went back to him every. single. time.

The feeling of your sheer button up rubs against your arm as you let your hand fall against your hip and feel your black crop top tight to your skin.

“Maybe you just need to talk to someone who isn’t your usual type,” Ashton points out. Your head nods a few beats as your thick wedged heeled boots run over the wooden flooring.

“Maybe I’ll be luckier if I tried dating someone nice for a change,” Voice hopeful as your eyes dart away from the bubbly dark liquid into Ashton’s brown hues.

“Nice guys,” Ashton says with a smile, both of his hands tearing away from his knees as if to gesture to himself in this equation.

A laugh escapes your lips before your eyes run over Ashton’s frame from head to toe.

“What are you getting at Irwin?” You say with a pointed brow, playing stupid to the implication.

“Oh nothing..” He sings while tearing his eyes from yours, toothy smile still spread on his lips before he takes a swing of his beer.

You shake your head with annoyance before your hazy eyes look down at your lap, your hands resting on the cup and drumming a random tune.

“Honestly Y/N… I think you’re a really great girl and…. I just think maybe…” His words a scrambled mess and trailing off. You smile to yourself before turning to look back at him.

“Mm?” You question, the fifteen percent liquor coursing through your bloodstream and giving you confidence as you lean into this chest, eyes never tearing away from his. Because if Ashton was going to give you hopeful eyes and stuttering speeches you might as well put the ‘nice guy’ to the test and see if he was really about what he said.

That only made his lips break into a smirk, his tongue sneakily gladding along his bottom lip to wet it before looking into you daringly.

That only made you squish your plucked eyebrows together in question. How did the stuttering boy from just a view seconds ago all of a sudden turn cocky and confident? How many drinks did he have? Or was it the weed that clung to his jacket that gave him the boost.

“I think you should give me a chance,” He nips back, and before you can even respond to him, you watch his neck crane down and press his lips against yours.

The crisp taste of his beer stung your lips as they opened and immediately danced along with his tongue. White liquor and brown meeting together to taste each other and leave an acquired flavour in your mouths.

You hummed along to the feeling of his tongue circling against yours before peeling away and molding your lips to sink against each other. Your heart was beating through your chest, nails now digging into your plastic cup and head ducked back as you continue to press your mouth against his.

The feeling of his cold hand pressing against your neck caused you to shudder and tear away from his lips for a second, your eyes peeling open as they look in front of you. Black hair loosely falling on his forehead, the smell of his husky cologne clogging your senses, and the feeling of his fingers now dancing along the back of your neck.

“What are we doing Ash?” You breathe against his lips.

“Something that I’ve always wanted to do,” He says, making your heart launch. You bite down on your bruised lip and tear your eyes away from his, your stomach twist as you try and gain some self control as you almost fling yourself on top of him.

Something that he always wanted to do? You never really found yourself desirable to the point we’re men would see you in that type of light? But maybe what Ash said was just a simple lie, just so he can get what he wants and frankly you don’t even care. You’ve heard lies your whole entire life when it came to boys and this wasn’t any different, maybe you should just let your mind shut off from your stupid ex and just be in the moment for once.

So with that final thought, not having a care in the world, you drop the red cup in your hand and let your lips launch back onto his. Ashton follows your movements and the sound of the nearly empty beer bottle drops onto the hard wood, his right hand now resting along your neck as you both kiss each other.

Warm breaths, beating hearts and the sound of music is the only thing heard in the room as you lick into each others mouths. Soon you feel the weight of Ashton nudging you to lay back on the bed as he lies on top, you feel the cold zippers from his jacket press against your skin and all you can do is moan.

The feeling of his left hand tears away from the hairs on the nape of your neck and dance down your collar bone before letting it cup your breast in his hand, kneading the soft tissue which only makes another moan slip through you.

He pulls away from your lips and begins to suck and press kisses along your pulse, your hands that lie by your side now running up the sleeves of his jacket and into his hair.

A whimper spills out as you feel his hand tug your tank down and free your naked breast, he engulfs it in his cold palm making you let a shaky breath escape before you’re curling your fingers in his hair, the feeling of him twisting your nipple makes you bite down on your bottom lip. The pleasurable pain you feel running up your spine making your shoulders slightly buck off the bed.

“Hmm…” Ashton hums in your neck before tearing away, his eyes once such a light brown and green hue, now a chestnut and forest green colour filled with lust.

Your fingers tug away from his hair as he now descends down your body, his warm lips pressing kisses to your exposed skin as you let your hands tear your blouse and tank off. Your eyes never leaving his as he watches you undress. His lips now press against your pieced belly button as his fingers tear away from your chest and roughly takes your skirt by the band and peels it down your hips, your stockings following soon after.

Not wasting a moment he lets his mouth press against you covered core, lips pressing small kisses against your heat making you quietly moan. You wanted so desperately to tug Ashton into you and make him start devouring you right there but instead you let your hands trail back into his hair and play around with his locks.

Small kisses soon turn into open mouth licks, his wet muscle running up and down your clothed slit that it had your head digging back into the sheets, your legs spreading wider and whimpers endlessly trailing out.

“Ash.. please..” The words slip out so quiet that you assume he didn’t hear from the pulsing music below you, but instead your met with the feeling of his finger pulling your panties to the side and his tongue finally meeting you were you desired.

It circles around your clit gently before you feel his lips suck it into his mouth, a moan drawls from your throat due to the sensation. Soon enough, he’s letting his mouth discover the way you taste which only elects a moan from him. His tongue now dipping in between your two lips and curling around your insides.

“Oh my,” You moan as your fingers dig into his hair, eyes closing shut as you begin to slowly move your hips to the movement of his tongue.

The feeling of his right hand breaks away from your thigh and flows to your hips, his nails leaving small indents as you feel his other hand move away from your panty and rub against your clit.

The feeling of him humming against you sends a vibrating pleasure down your back as he continues to lick you, this only made your toes curl and your hands to fall out of his hair and onto his leather shoulders.

“Fuck,” You moan, your hands tugging him gently away from you as you feel your climax about to overcome your nerves.

And just as you feel it on the tip of your toes, the mouth between your legs pulls away beginning to press wet kisses up your thigh, his hand that once laid against your heat now meeting with the other at your hips.

A groan leaves you as your eyes tear open and look down at him. He mischievously looks up at you, his kisses now run up your stomach once again to lead to your neck.

“Upset?” He teases, only making you shudder at the rasp in his voice.

“I want you Ash,” You say breathlessly, turning your head to knock his out the way and look him in the eyes. “Please,” You utter, fingers now leaving his shoulders and brushing against his rip cage covered by his white tee.

Without any hesitation, Ashton is pulling away from your embrace and leaning back. He shrugs off his jacket, tugs his shirt over his head, his fingers going to the back of his baggy jeans to pull out his wallet to dig through before you see a gold package flash. If your cheeks could burn any brighter they differently would.

The mixture of his clothes and yours are strung through out the room, both of your shoes kicked to the bottom of the bed as he now shuffles his way back up to his original position.

Without question your hand meets the band of his boxers as you begin to inch them down his waist, wanting to return the favour.

“I think that can wait love, I rather be in you right now,” He breathes against your neck, only making your heart stutter. A sheepish smile tugs at your lips as you feel him twist around and lay on his side, his hands laying on your hips, turning you into the same position.

Your head rested on his arm as your back laid against his chest, hips aligned with each other as the feeling of his smell overcomes you. His knees prop up your legs as you hear the tearing of the condom package.

Deciding to distract yourself you let your eyes fall looking at Ashton. His black hair a tossed mess from your fingers, hazel eyes drawn to wear you both meet as he begins to run his member against your heat.

A whimper leaves your lips as you close your eyes when you feel him push inside, his hand now propping up your thigh as he eases into you.

He nudges your head forward and begins sucking kisses down the expanse of your neck, the feeling of his heart beating against your back and the smell of his sweat mixed with his cologne was filling your nose.

“Feels so good,” He mumbles against your skin, his arm that rested under your head turning slightly as he runs his hand against your wrist and takes your fingers into his, lacing them together as you continue to feel him stretch you out.

You never expected Ashton to have a thick piece but you also didn’t expect to be in this exact position right now, literally. Your childhood friend having his way with you while you were both drunk off each other and the alcohol in your systems.

His hips meet your backside before drawing back and pushing back in, your walls expanding with each thrust as you feel him begin a good pace. Moans begin to fall from your mouth, your eyes fluttering open every few seconds as your skin burns from the bruises soon to appear on your pulse from the black haired man beside you, skin still stuck to his lips.

“You’re moans are so pretty,” He breathes against you, his hand that was holding up your thigh runs up your hips to your chest, letting your leg fall as he takes one of your breasts and squeezes it gently.

All you can do is hum at his words because you’re too overstimulated to speak. The feeling of his thickness drawing in and out of you so heavily has you nodding off at the sensation, his fingers intertwined with yours beings to squeeze them together as the hand that was on your breast meets with his head at your neck.

“You like me fucking you,” He says into your ear as his hand squeezes your throat gently.

You nod your head as you feel your eyes slip close, and you were completely wrecked. He was so dirty yet gentle with you, peppering you with kisses yet digging into you so devilishly that it had your mind distraught.

“You like the way I feel inside you,” He continues, his hand growing more tight around your throat.

“Ash…” You say breathlessly, as your hand that rested against the bed sheets rises up and places it against the one making you breathless but encouraging your climax.

“Mm I like the way you feel around me,” He eggs on, and that makes you cry out, your back pushing pack and meeting his hips.

The feeling of your stomach twitching and legs quivering to close makes your head tip back even more against Ashton as you feel your orgasm on the brink.

That has him taking his hand away from your throat and slips it to lift your thigh back up as he continues to thrust into you, his lips press more kisses against your neck.

Your toes curl as the knot in your stomach expands and releases, the satisfying sensation washing over you as you let a deep breath break through your lips with a moan.

“Fuck,” Ashton hisses as he feels you twitch around him, the contractions from your high throwing him into his; his hips stutter before rocking back into you slowly, teeth gently digging into your skin, his breath being blown over the expanse of it.

The thickness of him slips out which causes your eyes to open, his hand dropping your thigh to wrap around your hips as his head buries into your neck.

The room is quiet for a moment as the only thing that can be heard is your hearts calming down and the chatter from down below.

“I would give you more kisses but I’ve made a mess on your neck,” His voice vibrates against you, that only makes you let out a broken laugh.

“I don’t even wanna know what it looks like,” You reply, your hand that rested on the duvet linking with his that rest along your stomach.

This felt nice, the amazing sex and cuddling session after. The room just being quiet and the only thing that can be heard is your breaths and beating hearts. This was so spontaneous that you still can’t even wrap your mind around what happened.

“How would you feel about doing this more often?” Ashton says after a few minutes, his chest moving as he pulls his head away from your neck to lie back against the pillows.

Having casual sex with him? You ponder on the idea. It was definitely one of the best you have ever had, he felt amazing and checked off every box when it came to how to please you. You couldn’t even lie and say that you didn’t find Ash attractive, you are also now officially single, free to due what we you wanted, so fuck it.

“Like… Friends with benefits?” You say, your thumb running against his hand still linked with yours by your head.

“Yeah, friends with benefits,” He confirms.

You let your head swish from side to side as you feel the burning sensation of his love bites strain against your neck as you let out a sarcastic hum to yourself as if you’re thinking it over.

“I wouldn’t mind that.”

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xxgoblin-dumplingxx · 1 year

Note

Doting husband Bruce and meeting the parents?

"You really don't have to do this," you tell him. "They just want me to fix... whatever it is that's broken."

"I feel like I should probably meet them eventually," Bruce said, adjusting his sleeves as he watched you pull a tool box from the back of your car with a soft grunt of effort. "We live together-"

"Don't say I didn't warn you," you sigh, leaning against the door and looking up at your childhood home. Just outside the city. Not quite a suburb. In the vast stretch of nothingness that hadn't been encroached upon by city yet. An old subdivision built on coopted farm land left to fallow in the 30's. It was the worst kept house. Not crumbling but in disrepair.

"Y/N-"

"Careful where you step," you warn him. "Dad's got a thing for ferrets." And before you can run away- trying to avoid the demons you aren't fond of revisiting, you trudge up the steps.

And Bruce has no choice but to follow.

He makes his way up the steps after you, remembering to watch his feet. The smell of wood shavings and animal mixed with cigarette smoke hit his nose. And ferrets tumbled on the floor. Getting into things, scattering out of the way of unfamiliar people.

The disrepair on the outside mirrored on the inside.

"The dishwasher is leaking," he hears a woman say. Not looking up from a tablet.

"Mom this is-"

"Not now, honey," she said, "I'm about to win big-"

"Mom," you say slightly louder, your voice slightly sharper making her look up.

"Oh you brought a repair man," she said, "That's-"

"This is Bruce," you tell her, giving her a meaningful look, presumably reminding her to use her manners. "Bruce this is my mother Rayanne"

"Pleased to meet you," Bruce said, feeling awkward. Not sure what to do. She hadn't looked away, but she hadn't moved to return his handshake either and he took his hand back feeling awkward.

And like lights finally came on, he found himself awash in... he wasn't sure what. Alfred would probably call it prattle. But it was a vastly different experience from the woman he'd heard shouting at you on the phone.

He half turned to see if you were going to help him, only to find that he was at her mercy. That you'd disappeared somewhere into the sea of ferrets and cobwebs to see what you could fix.

He tried to focus and answer the questions, listening to see if you needed help- distantly he could hear tools and muffled swearing. But, he found out quickly that Rayanne didn't need much encouragement to keep talking. A discordant piece.

She didn't seem to care what the answer was. She seemed intent on LOOKING like she was doing all the right things. Saying all the things one would expect a mother to say. Twice she left trying to ply him with drinks and snacks- which he took to be polite. But only once did he hear her talk to you. And even then it was to snap at you to move your tools.

It felt weird. It was uncomfortable. And now he understood why you hadn't wanted him to come. Why you kept putting this off. And it hurt. Even worse was when you came around the corner. The dishwasher running in the back ground. And all you got was, "What took so long, sweetie?"

"Sorry," you answer. Your face bland. If it stung, it was hard to tell. "We'll get out of your hair, mom. Don't want you to miss out on your win."

"Oh alright," she sighed. "Too busy for me I see how it is."

"I'll see you next week. "Bruce are you ready to go?"

"You're my ride," he said smiling. Trying to cover how awkward he felt. "Unless I want to walk, we'd better get going."

And like the lights went off, Rayanne went back to her tablet. And you picked up your tool box to go. Leaving Bruce unsure of what to do expect follow you.

#Bruce Wayne x reader #Bruce Wayne #doting husband!bruce #ask answered #minors dni #reader insert

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valentinedaughtler · 6 months

Text

Tainted Opal (Part 9)

Kaz Brekker x fem!reader

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

T/Ws: violence, romantic feelings, blood, mild spice scenes sometimes, fem!reader and she/her pronouns, sexual abuse/trauma (not explicit)

Synopsis: You truely recall the time you and Kaz crossed paths as young teenagers. How you fled from your pirate ship into the dark streets of Ketterdam, only to find a scoundrel to scar.

REQUESTS: OPEN✅

____________________________________________

9 - His Eyes of Hatred

"We met before, haven't we?" I try to keep my voice calm, but the tone was desperate; a consuming curiosity brewing in the cauldron of my mind. It began to bubble over as the existence of silence grew. The sliver of sunlight left in the day cast a long shadow across Kaz, exaggerating the sharp parts of his face; the dark lines left from a life in the Barrel. It is a constant reminder of who he is and what he will always be. The Bastard of The Barrel.

"Life isn't fate driven, Y/n," Kaz finally mutters while tapping the metallic crow head of his cane with a long, gloved finger. My eyebrows crease in annoyance, I'm not going to get a direct answer out of him. I sigh softly and lean against a barren tree. The sharp bark still pierces my skin through the thick jacket wrapped around me; Kaz's jacket. A blanket of heavy silence draped over us as the moon became the only source of light. I close my eyes and attempt to sift through the old, painful memories from my arrival into Ketterdam.

✶ ♧ ✶

The thick smoke of the endless line of boats had filled my lungs. I surepressed coughs that tried to escape my cracked lips. The smoke and fog masked my clumsy escape off of the wooden ship; off of home. I looked back for longer than I should have, soaking in the remnants of my childhood.

I trudged past bellowing merchants at makeshift stands filled with stealable goods and promising services. The voices of the bustling streets meshed together into a white noise more crackly than the sea I was used to, and diverse smells wafted through the air; food, dirt, death.

My stomach growled like a starved beast, my muscles felt strained and tight. My hungry gaze had landed on a man selling fresh fruits and breads; a strange assortment, but an appetizing one. He was younger, but old enough to have to avoid taxes illegally. His dark skin and curly hair contrasted pleasantly with his orange button up. He had been calling out to possible customers; the walking wallets that roamed the streets. I shifted my demeanor and softened my expression; an attempt to look sweet and desperate. Do what your mother taught you, I had told myself. I took long, elegant strides toward the stand, clasping my hands together as he looked at me. A glint of intrigue sparkled in his deep, dark eyes as he rested his elbows on the wooden counter. It was covered in apples and grapes, as well as warm baked goods.

I greeted him with an innocent smile as he spoke to me, "Ah, what can I do for ya' miss? Maybe a pear, a biscuit... a date?" He had winked and flashed me a dimpled smile. I giggled softly and batted my eyelashes. It felt so embarrassing— so degrading at the time.

"Well, maybe a loaf of bread and an apple?" I requested with my honeydew voice, which poured into his ears with a pleasurable vibration. He nodded with another wink and placed both into a cloth bag. I searched in my pockets, calm at first, but then frantic, a false panic spreading across my face. "My wallet! Oh no, I think someone stole my wallet," my lip quivered as I looked at the shop man with desperation. His expression was unfazed, he even huffed with a deep chuckle.

"You're not from here, are ya', little miss?" He rested his soft-edged face in his hands, amused with how naive I seemed. I had blinked a few times, cocking my head in confusion. He sighed as tears began to pool in my eyes, wiping them away with a calloused finger. "I'll give em' to ya' for free, but next time you come around, take me out for a nice meal," he smirked and extended his hand towards me. I accepted the bag of finessed foods from his outstretched palm, thanking him excessively.

I had whisked my way through the tight crowds until the outdoor markets became scarce. The streets were darker now, oiled lamp light more haphazard the further I walked. The way people took up space was different here. Before, in the markets, pedestrians had grand attires, with even grander ambitions. The cramped space was borrowed by anyone who took it, and the attempt was abundant.

But here, it contrasted immaculately. Those who roamed visibly tried to take up as little space as possible; small slivers of rotting life in the decaying world around them. Most people hadn't wandered openly, instead choosing to slip through the cracks of the city.

These seemed to be the rules of those who lived here, except for a handful of daring strangers I saw lingering outside a packed bar, a few chuckling loudly, drunkenly swaying with the leaning buildings. The rambunctious group had begun to make their way down the street, following a tall man with a cane that clacked against the cobblestone roads. He looked old, or maybe just worn, from his intense angularity and sharpened points. Though, further inspection had proved otherwise, showing the man's— er, boy's- cheeks puffed slightly on his angled face and hard expression. His soft jaw had seemed to be the only way to know he was young. He had actually appeared to be my age.

As the gang passed me with animated motions, I gave a quick wink to one that peered at me for far too long. My eyes were welcoming; entrancing. They were an enticing trap; a siren song that lured in those who thought too little about importances and too much about lust. The man whistled at me and even stopped, turning in my direction. I scanned him for any riches I'd need for future purchases or predicaments. A pocket watch had caught my eye. It dripped out from his chest pocket by a chain, which adorned his tailored suit that had been mishandled from the bar.

His mates had stopped, one making a groan of frustration. "You cannot hit on every pretty gal who acknowledges ya', Big B," a man slurred with a drunken scowl. The broad man, apparently Big B, strutted his way to me, towering over my body with a sly grin.

"You alone in the Barrel?" His words slipped on the sharp constants and bubbled in his deep voice. The Barrel? I remember being confused by that statement. I looked away bashfully for a moment before offering him batting eyes and a small smile. He took both with haste, his gaze narrowing as I had stepped closer to him. Big B's friends behind him protested, a few stumbling towards him to drag him away. Shit, time for the emergency plan B, I had thought to myself, anxious to snag him watch and sell it to the nearest pawn shop for much too little.

I tripped over the uneven cobbles in the road as I shrunk the space between Big B and I, my hands falling in front of my tipping body onto his chest, right by his pocket.

"I am so sorry, sir, really, I didn't mean to-," my nervous pleas and apologies were stopped shortly by a deep, throaty laugh from the muscular man.

"Doll, no worries at all," he said. I had clutched my hands over my chest, the golden watch trapped between my palms. Shortly after, a few dirtied hands grabbed the thick arms of Big B before dragging him away from where I stood. I made a quick escape to a nearby alley as the men squabbled with one another. I slipped the watch into my pocket as I heard the enraged yells of Big B; he hadn't been able to find his watch for some reason. The roars faded and meshed with the voices of Ketterdam as I climbed my way up to the rooftops of the city.

The night had ticked away on the watched I clutched, my eyes filled with greed and satisfaction with every tik and tok it made. I had found myself my very own sliver of Ketterdam to hide in, an indent of a building that was covered with a dirtied sheet and stacked crates of spoiled produce.

My dreams of freedom and riches were halted by the familiar sound of a cane hitting cobblestone, followed by an unfamiliar noise of a cane hitting me in the arm, not hard enough to break it, but enough to leave a large bruise soon; a warning. I had yelped and contorted my body around the cloth roof of my shelter, lunging at the shadow of a figure; a diversion, as my father taught me, an eye catcher, as my mother had said. The attacker smacked me in the stomach with force, their cane causing my ribs to vibrate like a xylophone. I ignored the intense throbbing pain— another trick I had learned on the boat- as I rolled part of the sheet up. With a few flicks of my wrists, the wrung cloth was tightly around the neck of my current opponent. I squeezed tighter as I stared at them.

Before me had stood a reddening face— suffocation has that affect on people- of the sharp, dark boy from earlier. The ring leader of his own gritty circus. He once again used his cane to hit me in the leg, but I used this falling opportunity I had felt to smack my forehead into his. This along with the chokehold I had him in caused the boy to fall back, his well-groomed, dark hair covering his eyes a bit. He was strangely beautiful now that I had noticed it, in an intense sort of way.

Time was ticking away as I observed him, so I shoved him into the alley wall, where an eroded brick cut his lower lip. I ran with haste into the slick street as rain began to pour down in large globs. My hair had stuck to my skin, along with my wet clothes, where the gold watch was pocketed.

✶ ♧ ✶

My chilly hands fumble through my pants pockets, finding the signature time-teller of mine; a—now quite scratched- good pocket watch that hung from a thin chain. I held it in my palms, the sharp cold nipping at my finger tips. Kaz's eyes were glued on the small clock, his lower lip twitching. I toss it to him, and he unsurprisingly catches it with a single gloved hand.

"Maybe there is some fate," I finally melted the silence with a warm voice. I chuckle softly, looking at Kaz, his round cheeks and soft jaw were long gone, and he seemed to have become sharper and harder over the two years that past, the Barrel chipping away at his humanity with greediness to destroy a boy. His lower lip had a scar that ran down the center, an immortal reminder of the time a former pirate girl got a leg up on Kaz Brekker, no one got a let up on Kaz Brekker.

"Or maybe Ketterdam is too small for those with such high ambition," the oddly attractive boy responds with a rasp.

"I think that may be the nicest thing you've ever said to me," I reply with a light laugh. Kaz doesn't say anything, but he met my gaze with eyes that weren't completely filled with hatred.

________________

Word Count: 1889

________________

I took a quick break from writing to allow my creative drive to return, thought it's better to write better than write more.

-Valentine

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curiositydooropened · 2 years

Text

Domesticity

After the final Battle of Hawkins, Steve Harrington has been recruited to find all of Brenner's "experiments" that didn't perish under Henry Creel's hand. Undercover in Suburbia, with you under his arm playing the role of dutiful wife, Steve uncovers more truths about himself than he bargained for.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x female!Reader

Wordcount: 16,490

Warnings: fake marriage au, slowburn, angst, pining, canon typical violence, one tiny mention of infertility, but several mentions of trying to have babies

Navigation • Masterlist

---

Suburbia succumbed to fall in a tattered mess of fallen leaves, run-through with bikes and station wagons. Floral arrangements on stoops were replaced with pumpkins and the smell of barbecue replaced with chimney smoke as everything bit crisp and bitter in the air. Fog crawled over roots and soil, chased rainwater into clogged gutters, clung to the insides of windows as children cackled and adults sipped wine around leaf-in dinner tables.

Steve’s polos had been replaced with cozy sweaters that pulled on the hair of his chest and warmed his cheeks. Or maybe that was the red wine he’d barely drank. He had to stay sharp, and the tart berry undertones reminded him too much of his mother. Or maybe it was you, sidled up beside him, chatting away as you sipped the wine in your own glass, one hand floating down his arm, resting on his thigh, your lips stained a deep plum.

“And what about you two, hm? You planning on joining the PTA with us anytime soon?” Marcie Jones waggled her eyebrows, cigarette smoke circling her harsh features. The chandelier shadowed her eyes, making her look even more of a tired skeleton than normal. You’d told him about Marcie’s fucked up childhood, her eating disorder, her husband Jimmy’s affair. Marcie and Jimmy’s five-year-old had to be held back in kindergarten for stabbing another kid.

“Oh, believe me, we’re trying.” You punctuated that fact by raising your glass high in the air, wine legs reflecting honeyed light.

The room whooped and hollered, but Steve’s entire body buzzed. “We are?” He choked out, heart stuttering in his chest. Not only was a pregnancy impossible to fake, as far as he was concerned, but the idea of you running around with a brood of Harringtons was something that crossed his mind on a nearly daily basis, along with the idea of making a brood of Harringtons with you. His sweater felt excessively tighter, like the tentacles of a bat wrapped around his throat.

A loud thud of a strong hand to his shoulder pulled him back into the room, raucous laughter. Chip Lafferty gave his shoulder a shake. “Looking a little green around the gills there, Steve-O.”

Steve managed a half-hearted smile and turned to look at you. You were giving him that big, bright, fake smile that screamed “play along, damnit”, and he licked his lips, pulling his glass to take a long gulp. The wine was too sweet and too tart and dried on his tongue. He winced and set the glass back down.

“God, men do not listen, do they? In one ear, out the other.” You rolled your eyes, but you leaned into him, patronizing tone turned lovey and sweet. You planted a wet kiss to the stubble growing on his jaw. “Guess the ‘why’ or ‘how’ isn’t that important as long as you’re enjoying it. Huh, baby?”

Steve swallowed, familiar hunger burning in his chest, tightening his jeans, and he was thankful for the second loud eruption at the table thanks to your words.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Chip and Jimmy high-fived.

Chip’s wife, Amie, tossed her napkin at you from her lap. “Girl, you are bad.”

You shushed her with a giggle that poured around your slender finger held to your lips. You hiccuped and tilted your head all-the-way back to finish your glass of wine, the last drop spilling onto your tongue blood red.

“Okay,” Steve muttered, wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin one final time before resting it on the tablecloth. “I think it might be time to get the Missus home.”

“Yeah it is,” Chip waggled his eyebrows. Chip and Amie Lafferty were Suburbia’s sweethearts. Amie worked at the local high school in the administrators office and Chip’s dad owned all of the business parks on his side of the Mississippi. They were perfect in every way, and yet you’d managed to uncover everything about Amie’s dark past, abusive father, Chip’s affair. Jesus, these guys were assholes.

Steve snorted, managed to fake a smile, and pushed off from his chair. “Shall we, dear?” He placed a hand on your chair.

“If you insist,” you offered the girls a wink, and they cackled like they were in on the joke.

You wiped your lips, spotting the ivory napkin pink, and allowed Steve to pull you upright. You stumbled into him, masking your giggle behind a shy hand as Steve caught you around the waist. You were so warm, sticky sweet. Your hum buzzed through his chest. “M’a little tipsy, baby.” God, that pet name would haunt him until the day he died.

“That’s the best way to do it,” Amie crowed, pushing off from her own chair. “That’s how Christopher was conceived.” She winked at Steve, and he felt his stomach plummet to the floor.

“Oh fuck yeah, that was a great night.” Chip waggled his eyebrows, staring over at his wife with darkened eyes. “Niagara Falls.”

“Chicago,” she sat him a look of utter disdain, any romance falling dead on the table between them.

You started planting wet kisses along the column of Steve’s jaw, and he squeezed your arm so hard he hoped it hurt.

“Great dinner, Marcie. Thanks so much for having us.” He offered the woman a tight-lipped smile.

Marcie blew out her last smoke cloud and waved it out of her face as she stood from the table. “Oh, my pleasure. Thanks for the excuse to put the kids to bed early.”

“Our house next time,” you dangled your fingers for her to take.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow around 10.” Marcie nodded, tickling your fingertips with her own.

“What’s tomorrow?” Steve placed a hand on your back and walked you toward the coat rack in the entryway. You stumbled a little in your heels.

“Marce is taking me to her book club.” You explained, helping him pull your jacket over your arms. You pulled your hair out from the collar, and his jaw clenched at how that made him feel.

“You can read?” He smirked, tugging down the sleeves of his sweater to pull himself into his own woolen coat.

“Shush,” you swatted at him, but the smile that clung to the corners of your mouth was worth every tease, made his knees weak.

“It’s a brunch book club. My friend, Doris, hosts once a month.” Marcie explained. “Scrambled eggs, French toast, Mimosas.”

“Ah, there it is,” Steve sighed, and you nodded excitedly.

“Well, you two walk home safe now,” Marcie pressed dry lips to his cheek, reeking of cigarettes and sadness. She gave the same to you, claws gripping your dainty hands.

Steve shook hands with the men, both of which gave him dog-ish smirks and waggled brows, and Amie offered a shy smile and wave before he opened the door and led you out into the chill of autumn. Fog coated the streets like a night at the junk yard, and he tucked you tighter under his arm as your frame wracked with a shiver.

“Goodnight!” The party called as the two of you stepped onto the sidewalk. You turned and waved, and Steve led you a block down to your perfect little house. The hedges out front needed a trim, and the lawn was littered with leaves from the large oaks that lined the park just to the south of the little lot.

Bright white columns flanked the oversized door, and you rolled your ankles in a stumbled walk all the way up the brick walkway. You leaned into him while he fumbled with the keys, lock a little old, a little janky, but eventually the door popped open and he helped you inside. You crossed to the entry lamp and shrugged out of your coat, and he closed the door behind himself.

“What the fuck was that?” He rounded on you, his jacket caught on the shoulders of his sweater, and he tugged until something tore.

“Steve, come on,” you rolled your eyes, toeing off your heels and massaging the balls of your feet.

“So now we’re trying to have kids? What does that even mean? How are we going to fake something like that?”

You ignored him, breezed past him out of the foyer and into the kitchen, any stumble or stagger or feigned drunkenness removed from your walk. The light cast soft shadows against the staircase and through the hall.

He ran a tired hand over his face and kicked off his shoes. He set his keys on the entry table, just beside the photo of you both, arm in arm, madly in love. Like every other staged photo scattered around the house, taken over the span of a week, made to look like years of a happy marriage. He heard the water running and cursed under his breath, following you into the kitchen.

You were pressed against the counter, downing a glass of water, and then two. The soft light cast sunken shadows in your features, highlighted the column of your throat, the staggered up and down of your chest with each breath. You set your glass above the sink, catching him in the reflection of the kitchen window, and you turned to face him, arms crossed over your chest.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, crossing to pull a glass from the cabinet above your head, turning on the faucet beside you to fill himself a glass. He avoided your gaze. “I do trust you. I guess I’d just appreciate a little warning before you change our entire narrative.”

“I’m not changing the narrative. We’re a married couple in our twenties. We’re going to want to have kids.” You explained, walking to the pantry to look for something. He didn’t know how or where you had room for more food after that lasagna. “So, we’re trying. Doesn’t mean we’ll succeed. Maybe we’re having fertility issues. That’d be a believable bit of gossip to tell the girls. It’d probably make them like me more.”

Steve scoffed. “That’s so fucking twisted.”

You shrugged. “It’s that or you have an affair.”

He drank his water and considered your words. He knew you were right, you were always right, but it didn’t hurt any less. Christ, he could picture it now, you poking around in the pantry like you always did, returning with a half-eaten Ding Dong, belly swelled three feet in front of you, that mischievous grin on your face. He’d swoop you into a kiss, force you to sit down, press his face against you and murmur sweet nothings about how beautiful you are, how in love with you he is.

“I’m going to bed. Gotta be up early,” you waved off the pantry, coming up empty handed.

Steve pushed off from the counter, discarding his cup beside the sink. “Yeah, what’s this book club thing? You think she’ll be there.”

She. Number Fifteen. That’s what this was all for. He had to remind himself. You were just pretending, he was just pretending, a mission you’d been sent on together to find the missing patients of one Dr. Martin Brenner, all the ones that hadn’t died under Henry Creel’s hand.

You shrugged. “It’s possible. If not, it’ll give me a few more connections. Did Chip tell you anything when you guys were in the garage?”

Steve shook his head, flicked off the kitchen light. He followed you back into the foyer, climbed the stairs behind you, forced himself to look anywhere but the crux of your thighs beneath your dress. “No, he just bullshitted us about the business. Bunch of bullshit about more warehouses and the stock exchange? I don’t know. You know I zone out when that shit starts coming out of them.”

You flicked on the bedside lamp, bathing the little bedroom in more honeyed light. You shook your head, brushed your hair off your shoulders to one side and backed to him for assistance unzipping your dress.

He held his breath, closed his eyes. He’d done this a million and one times by now, but it never got better. He never got used to the soft skin of your spine against his fingertips, never got used to the slope of you beneath the dress, the soft waistband of your panties just at the base of the zipper, the dimples of your hips. He didn’t release his breath until you thanked him and stepped away, peeling the sleeves over your shoulders and exposing your back before you disappeared into the closet to change.

He squeezed his eyes together and tried to think of dead puppies, demogorgons, Max in a coma. With grit teeth, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his socks.

“You really have to get him talking,” you chided from the closet, voice muffled by the clothes hung up around you.

“Yeah, I know,” he grumbled, gripping his sweater around the neck and pulling it off. He was relieved by the coolness of the room around him, and he pulled his white t-shirt back down around his torso. He tossed his sweater to the bed beside him and stood to remove his pants.

“Amie’s convinced he’s sleeping with someone new, and if it’s Her…” You entered the room for a split second before exiting into the en suite. You were slipping your night shirt over your head, and in the soft lamplight, Steve could just make out the swell of your breast before the gossamer fabric fell around your hips and thighs.

He heard the water running and swallowed, elected to keep his pants on a little longer. Dead puppies, Dustin’s mom, Dustin himself.

“I mean, maybe he could like introduce you?” You poked your head back out, toothbrush dangling from the corner of your mouth, foam removing the wine stains from your tongue, your teeth.

Steve nodded and crossed to you, reaching across the counter for his own toothbrush. He dolloped toothpaste and ran it under the water. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll figure something out. Maybe I’ll have an affair of my own, like you said. I’ll ask for advice.”

“Maybe you’re terrified of having kids.” You waggled your eyebrows in the mirrored reflection, bending over to spit foamy mint down the swirling drain.

Steve didn’t respond, just scrubbed as you rinsed. You turned the water from cold to hot and washed your face with a warm cloth, mascara running in black smudges along your cheekbones. He spit and rinsed with hot water, and you rinsed the suds and grime from your face. It was your routine, night-after-night side-by-side. You slunk to your side of the bed and he followed, like a lost pup. He finally kicked off his pants when you flicked off the light, and he slid beneath the duvet beside you like he did every night.

“What’re you doing tomorrow?” You hummed, back to him.

He sighed, watching the shape of your shoulders in the moonlight that poured in from old window fixtures. “Think I might trim the hedge.”

You yawned, snuggled further into your pillow. “Good. See if you can get Berta from across the street to offer you lemonade. That old broad knows more about the neighborhood than anyone else.”

Steve rolled onto his back, stared at the ghastly shadows cast along the high ceilings. He listened as your soft breath turned to soft snores, and he closed his eyes and fell asleep as he did every night, to thoughts of you with a kid on your hip, your lips to his throat, your fingers in his hair.

—

Steve woke late the next morning to the sun pouring in and the smell of your shampoo lingering in the air. He groaned and stretched and slipped into something comfortable before taking the stairs downward, two at a time, to the little kitchen. You were hunched over a book at the countertop, knees pulled onto your chair with you, face screwed up in adorable concentration.

“What’re you reading?” He asked, his voice raw from sleep.

You startled, pointed your spoon in self-defense, and clutched at your chest. “Jesus fucking Christ, don’t do that to me.”

He laughed and found his mug, bright blue with anchors, something you’d found at the mall and purchased for him because it made you laugh out loud to think of. He rolled his eyes and used it every day since. “This coffee fresh?” He pointed to the maker.

You nodded, unamused, and turned back to your book.

He poured himself coffee and found a bowl for cereal, and when his breakfast was prepared, he pulled up the seat beside you and tipped the edge to look at the front cover, The Shining. Top heavy, the book closed in front of you, effectively losing your place, and you rounded on him.

“What the hell, dude?”

He snorted. “It’s a horror brunch book club?”

“Yes, and I was just getting to the good part.” You groaned and leafed your way back through the novel to find your spot again.

“You know what happens. He chases his wife with the ax and then the kid does the footprint thing in the snow and then Jack Nicholson is in the picture.” Steve shrugged, taking in a mouthful of Honeycomb. It crunched, not soggy enough, and didn’t go down as easy as he wanted it too. He frowned and stirred the cereal to let it soak a little longer.

“Yeah, but the movie’s trash compared to the book.” You tutted, seemingly finding your spot.

Steve opened his mouth to protest, trying to procure all of the Kubrik-based trivia Robin had fed him over the years, when the front door swung open, startling you both. You were so surprised that you threw your hand out, rocketing his bowl of cereal across the countertop and onto the floor with a crash.

“Helloooo?” Came a call from the foyer. Marcie had let herself in.

“Does she fucking knock?” Steve grumbled, making to pick up the mess of cereal and milk you’d made of the small kitchen.

“Make out with me,” you hissed.

He blinked back at you, saw you’d climbed onto the countertop and spread your legs, gesturing wildly for him to join you. “What?”

There was that look again, Play Along Damnit. “Just get. Over. Here.” You hissed, and before he could reach you, you gripped at his shoulders and forced yourself on him, thighs wrapped around his waist, hands in his hair, tongue slipping between his teeth. He groaned and threw you back against the countertop for balance, gripping at the belt loops of your jeans for dear life, a life raft in a swell of emotions.

You moaned into his mouth, hands moved to fist the front of his t-shirt as your hips ground upwards to meet his.

And fucking Christ, he knew it was just for show, knew you were displaying your perfect marriage, full of passion and morning sex for snoopy ass Marcie, but he raked his fingers up your ribcage and prayed you could feel how bad he had it for you. He put that devotion into every kiss. Every front door peck goodbye before his morning commute, every not-so-secret make out in the hedges during a party where you’d both had to pretend to be drunk, every kiss to your temple, your knuckles, the crook of your elbow. He needed you to feel it, to know without knowing. Maybe it’ll seep in somewhere, this delusion of osmosis that he hoped would someday trick you into feeling the same way. He knew you didn’t.

“Hello? Oh holy FUCK,” Marcie exclaimed, entering the small kitchen.

Steve felt your hands pawing at his biceps for release, shoving him off of you, and he rolled back onto the countertop with heavy breaths, mouth swollen and tingling from the love bite you’d given him. He could hear your gasps, the ruffle of your clothes, just under the thundering of his pulse in his ears.

Marcie flashed you both a knowing smirk, before allowing her eyes to linger down Steve’s front to where his pants were tightest, and she flashed her gaze back to him, impressed.

He blushed, turned back around to you, gave you a warning look.

“I am so sorry, Marcie,” you flattened your hair, licked at cherry stained lips. “I didn’t hear you knock. Bit… busy.” You flashed your canines in a proud grin.

“I can see that,” she cooed. “Morning, Stevie.”

He gave her a two-fingered salute, adjusted his pants. Dead puppies, Hopper, the Upside Down.

“Baby,” Fuck. “I’ll be home in a few hours. There’s stuff to make sandwiches in the fridge. Please do not cut your finger off with the trimmers, okay? I’m going to need them all.” Oh Jesus Christ, you were trying to murder him.

Marcie whistled, and you flashed a grin as you hopped off the counter and scooped up your book.

“Ready, Marce?”

“As long as you are, sweet cheeks.” She waggled her eyebrows Steve’s direction one last time, and he offered a weak wave, light-headed.

“Love you, baby.” You squeezed his cheeks together in one hand, leaning forward for another kiss, long, languid, still putting on that show. He smacked your ass, squeezed the meat of it tight on one hand. Two could play that game. You pulled away with a warning glance, and he grinned.

“Love you, honey.”

—

He didn’t have try hard for Berta from across the street to wave a handkerchief his direction and demand he join her for lemonade. The leaves had been raked into a pile, and the hedge was trimmed. Steve tried focusing on the tasks at hand instead of the dizzying morning make out or the daydreams of children throwing themselves into the leaves. He waved at the old woman, set his trimmers and gloves down, wiped at the sweat beading his brow, and crossed into the old woman’s yard.

“Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy.” He smiled, accepting the small glass cup full of pale yellow lemonade. He took a sip, tarter than he hoped for, and swallowed back a wince to manage a soft smile, licking his lips.

“Your wife said you’d love it.” The old woman wagged a crooked finger and made about pulling things down from her cupboard. The kitchen mirrored yours, all these houses built by the same architect a hundred years ago, but hers had life to it, years of memories tacked to walls, staining the wallpaper. The photos displayed on Berta’s fridge weren’t posed: recipes, graduation announcements.

“It’s delicious,” he croaked around the sting in his throat.

“So tell me, young man, what’s new in the neighborhood?” You weren’t kidding. This old bird thrived on gossip. “Saw you two walking to the Jones’s the other night again. You seem to be getting on well.”

She placed a sleeve of fig cookies on the table, half-eaten, and he sighed, diving in for one to be polite. Hard as a rock.

“Yeah, Jim’s a good guy, and it’s nice for um…” He swallowed. “My wife to make friends around here. She’s glad to have Marcie and Amie.”

“Amie Lafferty?” Berta’s crone brows creased.

“Yeah, you know her?”

“Of course I do! Practically raised her. She’s the same age as my little Debbie.” Berta extended a finger to a photo of a homely looking girl with a baby on each hip, two more young ones crowded the front of the frame, missing most of their teeth.

Steve reached for the lemonade to quench the dryness in his throat.

“That Chip though…” Berta tutted her tongue against the back of yellowed teeth.

“What about him?” Steve leaned forward, trying not to cough up the sour drink.

“Well, I’m not one to gossip.” She waved him off.

He smiled at that, went for another cookie, further back in the sleeve in hopes of a thread of moisture. It was softer, sweeter against his molars.

“Oh alright,” she caved, pulling into the seat beside him and grabbing herself a treat. “They live just behind me, over that fence, you know,” she thumbed the direction of her back garden. He could just make out the fence line from her kitchen window, and the Lafferty’s brownstone mansion behind that.

Steve nodded, leaned in to indulge her.

“The other night, I heard giggling in the yard. So I peaked over, saw Chip showing someone the water feature. A woman. Not Amie.”

Steve’s heart picked up pace in his chest. “What did she look like?”

Berta shrugged, tore her cookie in two. “Oh you know, really pretty like. The kind of girl that would appreciate a guy like Chip for his money and not much else. The kind of girl you should watch out for.” She gave him a warning look, pressing her fingertips into his forearm.

Steve swallowed, shook his hair from his eyes. “What else did you see?”

The old woman shrugged, stuffed the rest of the cookie into her mouth, and then half of another. “Something’s off with their electrical. With all that money, you’d think they could pay to fix their damn lights.”

Steve felt his entire stomach sink into the wooden floor. “What do you mean?” He managed.

She shrugged, fluffy eyebrows creased in agitation. “Oh, a few nights this week, I look over and the whole house is going haywire, lights flickering from the bottom floor to the top. It’s only a few seconds before it stopped, but I damn near thought I was having a stroke.”

Jesus Christ. Steve downed the rest of his lemonade, thumping his chest with a fist to swallow it down, and he pushed off from his seat. “Mrs. Kennedy, thank you so much, but I better get that yard cleaned up before uh… before the Missus gets home.” God, why was it so hard to say it every time?

Berta stood and chased him to the front door, clapping her hands. “Come again anytime, my sweet boy, anytime.”

His mind raced over everything he said, and just before he left, he turned back to the old woman. “For the record, you don’t have to worry about me.”

She smiled, cocked a brow.

“I love her very, very much.”

Berta pressed a wrinkled hand to his cheek. “I know you do, and it’s lovely to see.”

—

You didn’t come home all day. Warm midday turned to pink afternoon turned to frigid evening, and the fog rolled in but you hadn’t. Steve sat at the living room window, a book open in his lap for appearances, but he spent an hour staring out the window not glancing at the book once. His leg bounced, pages flitting with every movement. Cars drove by, slow for kids at play, coming back from the grocery store or leaving for Saturday evening dates.

Anxiety clawed up his esophagus. Berta’s words echoed in his mind. He kept his eyes looking from the drive to the back of Chip’s house just in the distance. Where were you?

He stood abruptly, made for his coat in the hall and his keys on the entry table when the door burst open. His keys went clattering to the ground, and he heard the loud shuffle of bags and boxes as you, Marcie, and Amie all pushed past him with armfuls of shopping bags.

“Hey, baby,” you called, dumping your haul into the little parlor.

“Stevie, you’re going to want to work an extra shift this week,” Marcie cackled. “Your wife went a little ham.”

“Why didn’t you call?” He tried to relax, heart thundering.

“Sorry, baby,” you stood on tiptoe to press a chaste kiss to his lips, pulling his anxiety from them. He relaxed into you. You pulled away with wide eyes, play along. Your gaze flitted to his shoulder, and you picked at something there, tutted. “And now I wish I would have. I didn’t know you ripped your coat.”

He glanced to his shoulder where your dainty fingers attempted to mend the seam, and he sighed and shrugged out of it to replace on the coat rack. “It’s fine, honey. Did you girls have a good day?” He stepped beside you into the little living room where Marcie and Amie were organizing their purchases. The whole room was full of tissue paper and bright colors, like Christmas morning.

“We sure did,” Amie cooed, picking up the tiniest package of the bunch to shake your direction. “Show him.”

You swatted at her and hid the little bag behind yourself, flashing him a smile that had something behind it he didn’t recognize.

He swallowed, took a step toward you. “Show me what?”

“Okay, don’t be mad.” You held a hand to his chest, fingertips right over his heart, and he could never be mad at that. He watched the way your ring sparkled in the lamplight. “I was just really excited, alright? And the girls made me do it. And you know, maybe it… stuck.” You offered, and he was so confused he glanced over at the other girls who were positively beaming to see his reaction.

“Maybe what stuck?”

“This morning,” Marcie offered with a quirked brow.

“Last night,” you corrected, sucking your cheeks in to fight back a smile.

Oh. Steve felt his face heat at the charade. He’d been so worried about you, he’d forgotten the rendezvous in the kitchen, forgotten the conversation over the last moments of dinner.

“So… you wanna see what she got?” Amie prodded her forward.

He looked you over, tried to decipher that unfamiliar look in your eye, was it regret? Apology? Disdain? He nodded, and you pulled the bag between you, stared into the tissue for a moment too long, before your dainty hand went in and plucked out the sweetest, tiniest little baby onesie he’d ever seen in his entire life. It was soft gray, and he didn’t dare touch it, but the way you held it between your fingers made it look so soft. The tiniest of blue whales was embroidered in the very center.

“Do you…” He cleared his throat. “Do you really think this was the best idea?” He said it through his teeth, careful not to sound unkind, the heart of something that never was, never will be, wracked through him.

You shrugged, pain flashed in your eyes that mirrored how he felt. He pressed his fingertips into the soft skin of your forearm.

“Oh don’t be mad, Steve-o. We practically forced it on her.” Amie stood to your defense, tucking the little onesie back into its bag.

“Truly, we dragged her into the store. She didn’t want to go.”

You swallowed, nodded. “And like I said, maybe something stuck.” Your voice cracked at the end.

“And if it didn’t, we got this,” Marcie cackled. Steve turned to see her holding up a piece of lavender lingerie, barely any material with too many bells and whistles, and he heard ringing in his ears. Amie scolded the other girl, but you all laughed in tandem at some inside joke you’d come up with at the mall.

Steve felt sick, dizzy, too warm, this little house too crowded with all of the girls and the bags and the information he’d gleaned from the little old woman across the street. He ran a hand through his hair and winced at the headache forming in the lamplight.

“Baby, are you okay?” You slipped your fingers into the hair at the back of his neck, and a shiver shot down his spine at the tug of your fingernails.

He backed away from you, stepping out of your reach with outstretched hands, keeping you at a distance. “I’m fine. I just… had a long day. Think I’m gonna go to bed.” He grumbled. “Excuse me, ladies.” And he sidestepped out of the room. He took a deep breath to the tune of rustling tissue before climbing the stairs, hand clenched on the wooden railing.

“What’s his deal?” He heard whispered below.

“Yeah, sorry. I really didn’t think he’d be mad.”

“It’s fine, guys.” You comforted. “He’ll get over it.” His heart clenched and he closed the bedroom door with a groan.

—

He wasn’t sure how long he’d laid in bed, staring at the shadows of the ceiling while your chatter continued downstairs. It felt like hours. Finally, the rustle of bags and the air flow of the open door signaled your friends’ departures, and you called out to them a little too-loudly before closing the large door with a slam that rattled the light fixtures. You took the stairs quickly, lithe hurried footsteps before you swung open the bedroom door.

Steve sat upright, brow furrowed, ready to argue. He pushed off from the bed towards you. “What the hell was that ab-“ But before he could get his words out, you’d launched yourself at him, wrapped your arm around his shoulders and buried your face in his neck, your breath hot and shaky against his skin. He stumbled backwards a moment before relaxing into you, pulling you up by your waist, sinking his face closer to yours, cheek-to-cheek.

“She was there.” You whispered into his ear, and his blood ran cold. He froze. He could feel both of your heartbeats against his ribcage. “At brunch. I wasn’t sure, but we reached for the butter at the same time and she has a scar on her wrist.”

Steve swallowed, eyes darting around the room. “You think she’s spying on us?” Remote viewing. You had a protocol for this, training you underwent. Steve prayed every night you wouldn’t have to enforce it.

“I don’t know,” you whispered. He sagged under your weight and you pulled away, hands at the base of his neck, your beautiful eyes full of something, fear maybe. “I didn’t think so, but when Doris asked where we were from, I said Chicago, and Marcie piped in with a ‘isn’t Steve from Indiana?’ And that might have blown our cover.”

Steve cursed, ran a tired hand down his face. That was his own damn fault, accidentally spewed it in your first ever conversation with the Jones’s. All that training, and still managed to spill where he grew up.

“It’s okay,” you breathed, ducked your head to hold his gaze. “We know what to do.”

Fucking A. Remote Viewing protocol meant she could be watching in at all hours of the day. It meant never lifting the veil, never exposing their true selves, loving husband and doting wife at all hours of the day, at least until they took her down. They couldn’t risk Fifteen watching them talk-shop, couldn’t risk her finding out about their plans to take her in.

Steve tugged your hips back into him, took a deep breath, spoke a little louder. “Berta told me Chip’s electrical’s out of whack. Billion year old mansion like that? Doesn’t surprise me he has faulty wiring.”

Your eyes widened. “Amie didn’t mention any of that to me.”

He shrugged under your hands. “Maybe it’s not happening when she’s around.”

You nodded in understanding and let out a shaky breath, pressing your forehead to his chest. He brought up a hand to rub between your shoulder blades and breathed in the soft scent of your shampoo.

“Tell me about your day,” he offered, voice a little hoarse. He took a step back from you, giving you space, preparing himself to speak in code for the unforeseeable future, preparing to have his heart ripped into shreds with every brush of your hand or your lips.

Your smile was weak, and you ran a tired hand down your face, making for the bathroom to start brushing your teeth. He joined you, waited for you to spread the paste to your brush before he did his own. “It was fine. Long. Met a bunch of bitches who thought the movie was better than the book.” You rolled you eyes.

Steve smiled, foaming poking from the corner of his mouth. You elbowed his ribcage. Maybe this wouldn’t be so different.

You washed your face, changed from sweater and jeans in the closet, came out in that oversized nightshirt. You turned off the lamp, bathing the room in moonlight, and you climbed into bed beside him.

He wasn’t sure what to do next, if Fifteen would be watching even in the nighttime hours. He didn’t know if real married couples spooned or if that was just on television. Did you expect him to kiss you goodnight? He cleared his throat, kicked his legs around in the duvet until his ankle hit yours. You tapped the top of his foot with your toes.

“Goodnight, Steve.” You yawned, back still to him.

“Night.” He sighed, stayed still in his spot until your soft breaths became soft snores, and then he turned back to his back and fell asleep, thinking of that tiny onesie and the Honeycombs smattered on the kitchen floor.

—

He’d never forget the first time you kissed. It was in an oversized boardroom at Hawkins Lab, overlooking the parking lot and tree line just beyond. His wounds had barely begun to heal, stitches tugging at his left cheek, just beneath his eye. You wheezed when you talked, lungs healing from smoke inhalation, and you had that cut on your bottom lip.

Owens had left you alone to get comfortable, for hours, he’d lock you in the conference room, force you to talk. Steve was ninety percent sure he was watching you, red eye of the camera in the corner glaring your direction. You sat on the table sipping nasty black coffee, and Steve hunched just past arms’ reach, his own arms crossed over his chest like a shield. You talked interests and asked about his, mostly you commiserated over how fucking annoying Eddie Munson was now that he was alive again.

“Hey, Harrington,” you coughed, wincing at the strain of your voice.

“Yeah?” He cocked an eyebrow, wondered how he’d been conned into this gig, wondered what the hell made him the best candidate.

“I need you to kiss me.”

He swallowed, blinked back at you. “What?”

You leaned over to tug at the sleeve of his polo. “If it’s gonna be believable, you’re going to have to start kissing me now. It’s gotta be comfortable, like we’ve been doing it for years. I don’t want our cover blown because you’ve never kissed a girl.”

“Fuck off,” he said with a laugh, but when you gave him a pointed look, he glanced around the large room again. “What, now?”

“Now or never, dickhead. Chop chop.” You swung your legs and pat your thighs as if telling him to saddle up, and his throat went dry. But he didn’t want you to think he was a bad sport, so he slid himself between your legs and brushed a lock of your hair from your eyes. “How romantic.” You sucked your cheeks in to mask a laugh.

“Shut up.” He chuckled, nerves tingling all the way up his arm.

“Make me.” You challenged, and he did. You winced as your lip split, and he tasted warm iron against his teeth, but you didn’t pull away, coaxing your thighs higher up around his hips and your fingertips scratching at the hair at the base of his neck, sending fireworks through his entire body. Oh God, this was something he could get used to.

Only he never did get used to it, every kiss driving him deeper and deeper into this web of lies that sugarcoated his lungs. The demo-whatever may not have killed him, but you surely would.

“Baby,” you cooed from your perch atop the counter, shoveling cereal into your perfect mouth with little slurps.

He looked up at you from over his newspaper, the perfect portrait of a married couple.

“Do you wanna call the boys and see if they want to play poker one day this week?”

“Poker?” He winced, taking a sip of his coffee. God, you made it so good.

You shrugged. “Or something. I just think you should really talk to Chip. Amie’s getting really worried.”

All the subtext steeped into him, and he nodded, glancing back at the sports section. “Okay, hon. I’ll give him a call.”

“And I might go to Amie’s today.” You said it matter-of-factly, tossing the rest of your bowl into the sink with a clatter.

Steve closed the newspaper, sat up to look at you. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” He thought of the lights, of the potential of another Vecna situation.

You avoided his eye contact, shrugged, left the room. He followed quickly on your heels, called your name.

“She left a bag,” you held a shopping bag aloft as explanation. “And you know, if they’re having electrical issues, I’ll give her the name of a good electrician.”

“I’m coming with you.” He stated, searching for his keys on the side table, but they weren’t there. “Did you take my keys?”

“No, I didn’t take your keys and no, you don’t need to come with me, baby, it’s fine. I can handle it.” You shrugged off a shaky laugh. “It’s just Amie’s. I mean, Christopher’s a little shit, but I can handle a bunch of shit kids, right?” The look you gave him pulled him home a little, and he softened.

He took a cautious step closer, tucked two fingers into your hand. “Can you just… wait until I talk to Chip?”

You were staring down at your hands together, avoiding his eye contact.

He took another step closer, inches away, and he pulled your chin up until you looked at him, a bit of fire behind your eyes, indignation. “What if Amie found something out, huh? Don’t want you going over there and walking into World War III. Not without me there you save you. You know that’s what I’m here for.” You were the brains, he was the brawn. He understood the dynamics from day one.

You rolled your eyes and took two steps back, releasing his hand from yours. “Ugh, fine. But we do need to go grocery shopping for the week.”

He sighed, relief flooding through him knowing you weren’t going into that house alone, and he nodded. “Will you help me find my keys?”

—

Public spaces were complicated in this context. He hated pretending with you, hating the gnaw of guilt when your hand swung in his and made his throat tighten. But pretending at the house was harder, a switch that always flipped the moment that door closed was forever in the upright position. It was murky waters, hearing you call him baby but not knowing if it was okay to sweep you up into his arms. But in public? In public it was encouraged.

The grocery store, on a Sunday evening in Suburbia was hectic. You and Steve stuck out like sore thumbs, comfy clothes, shrugged sweaters and mussed hair, agnostics in sea of Christianity. You slumped lazily behind Steve, hiding your face in his back to avoid stares, and he tugged at your hand to pull you down another aisle, basket getting heavy in his hand.

“We should’ve gotten a cart,” he huffed when you rounded to the cereal aisle, staring at the assortment of bright colors as though you weren’t just going to pick Honeycombs again.

“I’ll carry it, big baby,” you teased, pulling a family sized box of Honeycombs into your arms. He hadn’t realized how small you looked until now, and he noticed you were wearing his sweater, the one from the other night.

His heart thud in his ears, short circuited. Shit. Dead puppies, Christmas lights, that sliver of skin when you…

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” You smiled, swatting at his chest.

He blinked, coughed, switched the basket into his other hand.

“What’s wrong?” You were so damn pretty, lips split as you looked both ways down the empty aisle.

“That’s my sweater.”

You looked down at yourself, and he saw the duck of embarrassment as you fiddled with the hem. “I thought it might…” Make you more believable.

He nodded. “It does. Nice touch.” He met you in the center of the aisle and tugged at your sleeve, loose from days of wear. “Could’ve washed it first.”

You looked up at him then, all alone in the cereal aisle, a backdrop of colors, and he leaned in to press his lips softly to yours. He felt the box settle into his chest between you, and you let out a soft noise of indignation that made him pull away. Your lashes fluttered open, and you gave him a look. Perhaps in warning.

Careful, sailor boy, you’re blurring the line. He swallowed and barked a wry laugh. “I’m getting a cart.” He mumbled and hurried off in search of a better vehicle for the groceries, and maybe a six pack.

—

Steve was tucked into the armchair nearest the front window, thumbing through the latest issue of Sports Illustrated, which you’d tossed into the grocery cart alongside a few girly pop culture magazines, an olive branch. Night had broken, slowly reflecting his own visage in the window by lamplight. A windstorm came in, blowing through the trees in the park and undoing his handiwork from the weekend, but he didn’t mind the task if it meant something to keep himself occupied.

You were partway through your next book, a thriller that hadn’t yet been adapted into film, and you slipped from the living room and into the kitchen for a glass of water. He glanced at the little space in the doorways, watched the way your hips swayed against the countertop while you hummed to yourself. He quickly looked back at his magazine as you returned.

“Steve,” you voice was soft, and he looked back to see you in the doorframe, fingers wrapping at the wood.

He raised his eyebrows in response, folding his magazine closed.

“The laundry’s done.” You explained, chewing at the inside of your cheek.

He smiled and pushed off from his chair, following you through the kitchen and down the rickety staircase into the basement below.

You’d been terrified of the basement from the beginning, which he absolutely understood. Unfinished, a mess of wires and support beams. The boiler, probably made of lead, made strange hissing noises depending on the time of day. And at this time of night, with the singular dangling bulb casting haunting shadows into the darkest corners, he couldn’t blame you for being scared.

Steve unloaded the dryer into a basket on top, everything warm and soft, his sweater right on top. He smiled and switched items from the washer to the dryer, and carried the basket back upstairs on his hip to meet you.

“You ready for bed?” You asked, hand on the kitchen light switch.

He nodded and waited at each doorway for you to check the lights and lock the doors, and then he climbed right behind you all the way to the little bedroom at the top. He dumped the clothes onto the bed and began to fold, while you busied yourself around the little room, picking up a stray sock here or t-shirt there and depositing them into the hamper in the closet. And then you joined him, hips bumping, bending deep to reach for a matching sock on your pillow.

“What do you do when I’m not here?” He asked, first as a tease and then with mild curiosity.

You smiled back at him, pink lips and shrugged shoulders. “I do things.”

“Like…?”

You sighed, folding one of his shirts against your chest. “Like… read. And clean and just… think.”

“What do you think about?”

You looked up at him then, soft and sweet, and said, “Home.”

He thought of home too, all the time. He thought of Dustin and Robin, both yelling at him to quit being an idiot. He thought of his mom, wine drunk and curled under a throw blanket. He thought of his dad and Eddie and Hopper, but mostly he thought of you. He tried to remember moments of you before battle, moments in the school hallways or at the video store or at Bradley’s, any sliver of time spent in your presence that he wished he could just rewind and replay over and over again, cling to.

“I think about you a lot,” you confessed, and he could have sworn he heard your voice catch just a little, folding a towel into thirds. “I wish you were here so I had someone to talk to.” You shrugged, but quickly snapped to look at him. “Don’t let that go to your head.”

He snorted, shook his head. “No, I know what you mean. I feel like we used to talk a lot, before…” During training, hours spent getting to know you, falling in love with you, like he was supposed to, like he wasn’t supposed to.

“Yeah, we really did.” You smiled. “Now we’re just so busy.” You expression turned rueful as you held up the two remaining socks, unmatched.

Steve snatched them and tossed them into a drawer before throwing himself down onto his side of the bed. The mattress bounced under the weight of him. “So, what do you want to talk about?”

“What?” You chuckled, prodding him off of your clean, folded laundry.

“Married couples talk, right? So talk to me. Tell me what things you want to talk to me about when I’m at work.”

“Okay, um…” You disappeared into the closet momentarily to put your things away, and when you returned, you slumped onto the mattress beside him. “On Friday morning, a bird flew into the house. I had to chase it out with a broom.”

Steve smiled at the idea of you frantic, ducking, broom handle raised. “What kind of bird?”

Your face screwed up in thought, and you shook your head. “I don’t know. A small one?”

“Fascinating.” He grinned, and caught your hand as you swatted his chest.

You stopped then, and he caught something in your gaze, squeezed your fingers between his own. “Steve?”

“Hm?”

“We are going to be okay, right? We’ll get her?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, resolute. “We will.”

—

The sun dipped real low to the west, casting honeyed amber across the vast field, fog rolling in from the trees just beyond, settling on the river just past that. The ground squished under Steve’s sneakers, a slog of damp soil and the slush of sun-soaked gourds. The whole place smelled Earthy and spiced, like too many hands had spilled too many vats of mulled cider onto the grounds. He didn’t mind the mud on his soles or the tickle in his nose though, when he felt the tug of your arm and watched the quirk of your brow.

You’d convinced him to take you pumpkin-patching over dinner, slurping homemade soup that made him sleepy, mind-blowingly better than anything Campbell’s had to offer. You explained that Halloween was only a week away (was it? How did that happen so fast?), and that your little home was the only one on the block that lacked decorations. And if he wanted Trick-or-Treaters, he better drive you on down to the patch before it closed for the night.

Neither of you finished your soups, exchanging spoons for jackets and car keys, windows rolled down clear to the farm. Steve dutifully paid for your warm styrofoam cup of cider, and held it for you as you traipsed through muddy remnants of smashed pumpkins looking for the perfect one.

You wore your hair in braids, which he’d teased you for, tugging on the curled ends until you offered him a warning glare, and you were all bundled up, scarf and coat and gloves. You put the honeyed taste of autumn back where it belonged, having been replaced by ashes and dust all these years. You were sweet and spiced and warm where he’d been empty and hollow and dry.

“You might have to toss out that cider,” you commented, reaching the far end of the field. The sky was starting to pinch purples and blues.

“What do you mean?” He asked, peering into the cup to watch the amber slosh, powdered with cinnamon.

“I mean,” you grinned, hands on your hips. “I just found the perfect ones, and they’re fucking massive. You’re going to need two hands.”

Steve cursed and chugged the rest of your drink. It was sticky sweet, and had gone lukewarm in his hands. He threw it back with a cough and deposited the empty, crumpled cup in the pocket of his jacket.

You had gone ass up, bent low to the ground to remove the stem from your ideal find, and Steve felt his pants tighten at the hug of your jacket to your waist and over the swell of your behind, and he squeezed his eyes tight against the thoughts that reared their ugly heads. Dead puppies, Hopper naked, the feel of your body pressed against his, the breeze tossing the thin sheet around you, pebbling your skin beneath his hand…

“Steve,” you groaned.

His eyes fluttered opened to see you stood before him, a round, orange pumpkin cradled just over your abdomen, the swell of which you were struggling to hold aloft. His ears rang, heat crawling up from the collar of his sweater.

“This is going to fall and break!” You cried as the sides slipped in your grasp.

“Shit,” he hurried to you, pulling the hefty thing from your hands. It was heavy, but hollow, and he hiked a knee up to hitch it higher in on his hip, like a toddler.

“I’ll grab the other one,” you grinned, and you turned again to procure the other gourd that made your face light up that way.

He’d seen you this happy a handful of times. A genuine grin, sparkling eyes, melodious laughter coursing through him like a freight train because you’d gotten what you wanted. The first time you’d convinced him to pick up Honeycombs, that was like that. And once, in Hawkins, the night before the mission, when you’d all shared beers at Hop’s cabin. You were talking to Eddie and to Robin, and Steve watched you from across the dilapidated room, knowing he was already too far gone to ever come back. Knowing he’d do anything to see you smile like that again and again forever.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” You asked, holding up your other find, this one much smaller and far less round, but still a vibrant orange. This one, you could manage, shifting it onto your own hip and wiping your gloved hand against your thigh. Somehow, you’d managed to coat your face in soil, a wash of freckled brown that reminded him of soot and ash, the aftermath of battle in Hawkins.

“Oh, you’ve got…” he gestured to your face.

You blew up your bangs in vain, face all screwed up, and he laughed, closing the distance to wipe the dirt from your soft cheek with the flat of his thumb. It wasn’t until you were mostly clean, streaks of brown on your forehead, and across your upper lip, that he noticed a boundary may have been crossed.

You looked up at him from under long lashes, eyes dark, something behind them he didn’t recognize. He brushed his knuckles against your cheekbone, licked his lips. The sounds of crows tearing into the flesh of pumpkins faded into the background, the white noise of his heart replacing them in his skull.

And then his imagination took over, or at least, he thought it was his imagination. You leaned up on your tip-toes, hand to his chest, leaving freckles of soil there on the lapels of his jacket. The pumpkin on your hip bumped his. Your breath, warm and spiced, fanned his lips.

“You kids want a wagon?” And all at once, the spell was broken. You stumbled backward, foot squishing down into ripe flesh, and Steve hoisted the pumpkin further on his hip. You cursed, and he turned to see the approaching farmer, all overalled and waved arms.

“Please,” Steve smiled, crossing a bit of field to meet the man and his little red wagon, the interior of which was wracked with hay and pumpkin seeds. Steve heaved his into the cart and waited for you to join to set yours down as well.

“Thank you, sir,” you smiled at the old man.

He shrugged. “Figured you didn’t want to carry these puppies back in the dark.” He slapped at the skin of the fat one. It made a hollow thud. “Any more for you or shall I haul ‘em back to check out? We’re about closed for the night.”

“We’re done here,” you confirmed, crushing dirt beneath your feet and Steve’s heart in your hands.

The air in the car had shifted, the smell of soil wafting from the trunk, and Steve felt as though something had been lost, like he’d forgotten his toothbrush for a long trip and have to get a new one. It was something intangible yet unsalvageable. Especially when you finally opened your mouth to remind him of tomorrow night’s poker game.

“I’d like to know more about Chip’s electricity.” You sat up straight, all business, all mission. “For Amie. Asked her about it over the phone, and she thinks she ought to go into the basement and look at the breaker. But I don’t want her going by herself.”

Steve gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “I said I’d talk to him.”

“I’m just reminding you.” You sighed, pressed your forehead to the passenger’s side window.

After brushing the spices from your tongue and wiping the soot from your face, you climbed into bed together. You said goodnight, flicked off the lamp, and remained on the far edge of the bed. Steve sighed and stared at the shadows of the ceiling, trying to block out the sight of you with the giant round pumpkin for a belly.

—

You were competitive. He’d known it for months, saw the way you picked off demobats with a tennis racket, keeping count for every one you mashed, yelling for him to keep up. He saw it at target practice, the way you fired ceaselessly at the three circles until your trigger finger ached and you hit the very center. He saw it when you sat across from him in the boardroom, Dustin between you with flashcards, quizzing you on your backstories. Your face would split into a proud grin whenever you answered more correctly than him, which was every damn time. And apparently, you were competitive at poker.

When he arrived home from his car dealership job (his dad would have been so proud), to find you bent over the oven to remove the casserole, he expected explicit instructions on letting it cool and hopefully a kiss goodbye. But when he shrugged out of his blazer and counted the seats around the table, something didn’t add up. Further more, you’d cracked open two beers from the bottom drawer of the fridge, tapping the neck of his with the neck of your own before you prepared yourself for a night with the boys.

Steve made loud protests until the guys arrived, and then you’d cast your charm, asking to be taught how to play. “It’s PTA night, boys. Your wives are out having fun without me. Can’t I have a little fun with you?” You pouted, and Jesus Christ, the shirt you wore exposed the soft lavender of your bra as you leaned over to dish the casserole for everyone.

You’d won $725 with the swell of your breasts alone. Another $83 was taken when you’d passed out cigars and blatantly peaked at everyone’s hand, and yet none of the men around the table had a lick of disdain for you. No, instead it was all praise. Your dinner was delicious, dessert was delightful, and oh boy, Steve was sure they couldn’t get enough of the view.

“Steve-O, your wife is a piece of work,” Chip flashed you a grin, picking at his teeth with a toothpick you procured from a kitchen drawer.

“Tell me about it,” Steve rolled his eyes, picking at the corner of his hand of cards with his thumbnail.

“You’re a lucky man,” Jimmy agreed, smoke swirling his dark hair. “My wife hasn’t cooked me anything that wasn’t out of the frozen section in years.”

You swatted at the man’s arm. “Oh shush, that is not true. Marcie’s a great cook.”

“I think James has a point,” Ron Hubbard coughed around the cigar under his bottlebrush mustache. Ron was a portly man, VP of operations for Chip’s dad’s company. “Our wives are too scattered these days, always running to PTA meetings or book clubs or knitting circles - stitch and bitch, I call them. God forbid they have jobs as secretaries and the like. It’s refreshing to see a woman where she belongs.”

Steve blinked back at him, reached under the table for your hands that he knew were clenched into tight fists, but you shrugged him off.

“Speaking of jobs,” you smiled through your teeth. “Chip, Amie tells me you’ve been having some electrical issues. Can’t you call someone in there to work on the wiring in that big ole house?”

Steve’s heart pounded in his chest, and you refused to make eye contact, instead shooting fluttered eyelashes across the table to Chip Lafferty. You had this look of pride he’d seen a thousand times before. You’d won.

Chip smiled back at you, tongue between his molars. He shrugged. “Big ole houses like that are bound to have buggy wiring sometimes, sweetheart.”

“You know, Steve’s uncle used to be an electrician. He apprenticed with him in high school, could probably give it a once over for you.” You offered the lie, slick, nonchalant. Steve squeezed at your thigh too hard, a warning. You squirmed away, pushing out of your chair to gather plates to take to the sink.

“Didn’t realize you were an electrician, Steve-O,” Chip made eyes at Steve, a threat for your curiosity, eyes dark.

“Oh, you’d be surprised. My husband’s always been good with his hands,” You sealed the deal, pressing your hand to his trap to lean over him for his plate. You halted in front of his face, offering a smile, and Steve watched the other man’s eyes slide from yours, to your lips, and down the front of your blouse.

“I fucking fold,” Steve tossed his cards to the tabletop.

To add insult to injury, you called for Chip to “be a dear” and help you with the dishes while Steve walked the other fellows out. Ed Blansett, from the dealership, looked pale, having lost his savings for a down payment, and Steve sighed and forked some of your winnings back into the man’s hand when the others weren’t looking. Ron left commending Steve on his excellent breeding skills, skeevie as Hell, and Jimmy left with a clap to Steve’s shoulder, a look of woe etched across his dark features.

“Steve-O, how you holding up?”

Steve ran a hand down his tired face, itching at the scruff of his jaw. “I’ve been better.”

“I feel you, man,” he nodded, lighting a cigarette on the front stoop. “Marriage is hard work. Somedays you just want to give up, somedays you just feel like a fraud.”

Steve bristled at his words, swallowed, the smoke-filled air thick on the brick path.

“But if you love her, really love her, the things you do that hurt each other won’t matter.”

Steve swallowed. He wasn’t sure where this was coming from, or what it meant, but he felt uneasy. The cigar smoke had gotten to him, made him dizzy, paranoid. Jimmy gave him a two-fingered salut and stumbled his block home.

Steve almost forgot the straggler until he stumbled, exhausted, back to the amber light of the kitchen, where he found you pressed against the countertop, clutching at Chip’s shoulders with sudsy fingers, while the man whispered something into your ear.

“What the fuck?” The words spilled out before he could take control, and he watched Chip slowly peel himself from you, turning to face Steve with a smirk across his smug face. Steve could punch him. He felt his jaw and fist tighten in tandem.

“We were just talking about what a creep Ron is,” you offered with another punctuated giggle.

“I told her she may belong in the kitchen, but I have a secretary position opening up if she’s interested.” Chip grinned.

“What happened to your last one?” Steve knew the answer before he asked, and nearly growled at the smirk that curled its way onto Chip’s thin lips. “Alright, Chip, maybe it’s time to go.”

“Steve,” you admonished, less about him being rude and more about not finishing the task.

“No, no,” Chip wiped his hands dry on a hand towel before raising them in surrender. “Steve-O’s just a bit sore I cleaned him out on that last round. No hard feelings.”

He pulled his blazer from his folded chair at the card table and pulled something from it, extending the small slip of paper across the counter toward you. “I’m serious about that position though. If you ever get tired of making casseroles.”

You giggled behind your hand.

“Can I walk you out, Chip?” Steve gestured toward the front door.

Chip flashed you a knowing smile and a wink, before taking the necessary steps down the hall to the foyer so Steve could let him out. It took every bit of restraint not to slam the door in his face.

“Thanks for the fun night, Steve-O,” instead, the man extended a hand. “Gained more than I expected.”

Steve gave him a firm handshake, teeth hurt from clenching his jaw so tightly.

“Listen,” Chip leaned in, cigar smoke and beer on his breath. “Your wife was right, my house has pretty shitty wiring. It’s over a hundred years old, and I can’t get Amie to shut the hell up about it. Would you care to come take a peak?”

This was exactly what you’d hoped for. Maybe you had won this competition after all. Steve offered the other man a curt nod.

“Meet me there tomorrow afternoon. Around 2? Might even pay you back what I snatched from you tonight.” His grin was malicious, too toothy.

Steve said nothing, and the other man seemed satisfied with that, whistling to himself while he twisted his keys around his pointer finger. He waved and turned on his heel to walk down the driveway toward his shiny Mercedes. Steve lingered on the porch until the man sped away, leaving a cloud of exhaust and the frigid October air.

—

Tomorrow it’d all change forever. The thought tickled at the base of Steve’s skull as he sloughed up the stairs, leaving you to turn off the lights. He couldn’t even look at you, couldn’t imagine the screaming match that he felt bubbling inside of him. He felt disgusting, like the grime and soot of the Upside Down clung to his shirt with the cigar smoke and the taste of Chip groping you on his tongue.

He couldn’t get the image out of his head. Even as he stripped of his t-shirt and closed the bathroom door: your fingers bubbled with soap, wetting the top half of Chip’s collared shirt, your wedding ring discarded atop the window sill for safe keeping. He hated seeing another man pulling those sounds from you, hated the way it made him nauseas.

He turned the shower on hot, let the steam fill the room as he stripped from his slacks and socks and boxers. He stood for a moment, glaring at his own reflection in the mirror as it fogged around the edges. He looked as pitiful as he felt, shoulders slumped, scars lining his lower abdomen like vicious pockmarks, memories of a pain he’d feel again and again if it meant never having to lose you. Pitiful.

He toed under the scalding flow, letting the heat satiate the tense muscles of his shoulders and back. He tried not to think of you climbing the staircase, of you stripping out of your low-cut blouse and jeans, of you slipping on that soft night shirt. He tried not to think of the countless nights this week he’d woken with his fist entangled in that shirt, your face pressed to his chest, your thigh high on his hip.

He cursed and turn to scrub his face, letting the flow sting at the soft skin of his cheeks, his chest. The shower threatened to drown him, and it honestly felt better than the idea of breaking the news to you that tomorrow’s the day. He’ll go to the mansion, and if your theory is right, she’ll be there. Fifteen. And once she’s taken in, this little game will be over. You can go back to Hawkins, back to your normal lives, not having to pretend anymore.

The air in the bathroom was cold once he’d turned off the faucet and dried his freshly shampooed hair. He brushed his teeth alone, allowing the steam of the mirror to dissipate. He felt fresh, but still not ready to face you. The hot water made him lethargic, and his head had begun to pound something fierce, just behind his eye sockets. He was used to the occasional migraine, enough concussions’ll do that to you.

Wrapping the towel around his waist and flicking the bathroom light off, he took a deep breath before opening the door to the adjoining room. You were sat up on your side of the bed, reading beneath the honeyed lamplight, knees high, nightshirt fallen away to expose the stretch of your thighs. You set the book down when you heard him come out.

“Steve,” you started in immediately, hopping off the mattress and crossing to him.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to contain the dull thud that just grew louder with your approach. He wasn’t ready to talk to you, wasn’t ready to have this conversation. He was still in a towel, for Christ’s sake.

“What’s wrong?” Your tone wasn’t half as combative as he expected, but worried. He felt a gentle hand to his bicep.

And then he heard it. Ear-piercing, the dull knocking in his brain turned to a ring in his ears, louder than he’d ever heard it. He’d experienced this before, the tingle at the back of his neck like he was being watched. He never knew what it was, was never sure, until this very moment. He was being watched. You were being watched.

Frantic, he opened his eyes to look at you, and your head was tilted in confusion, eyes soft, lips softer. And he panicked. He panicked because you were being watched, remotely viewed, and he was sure he’d done something to screw it up, and he didn’t know how to save you. So he thought back to your training, to your protocol, and he closed the distance between you and pressed into you with a passionate kiss.

You made a muffled noise of surprise, but sunk into his touch, fingertips scraping the hairs at the back of his neck, which stood on end. He felt your soft waist beneath the silky fabric of your shirt, pressed his fingertips into your hips and walked you backwards into the closet door for some sort of stability.

He poured everything he had into that kiss, those kisses, the material of your shirt slipping in his hand until he met bare skin. Your hands were frantic against his shoulders, the backs of his arms, holding him to you, impossibly close. You hiked your thigh up his leg, and the towel would have dropped had he not pressed his pelvis into yours, pulling another low groan from your lips.

He pulled away from you to catch his breath, headache made worse from the dizzy light-headed feeling of blood leaving his brain. You pressed your cheek to his, your own chest rising and falling to the rhythm of his as your fingers pinched at the flesh of his arms.

“Steve,” you breathed, a question maybe, needing an explanation.

He squeezed his eyes closed and he could feel Her, just there in the recesses of his mind. He nuzzled your ear with his nose, the soft skin of your neck smelling of your shampoo and cigar smoke and lavender. He took a deep breath before he whispered. “She’s watching.”

He pulled away and the look you gave him flashed pure terror, confusion, and then understanding. You swallowed, licked the plump, pink swell of your lips, and nodded. “Okay.”

“What?”

“It’s okay,” you nodded again. You were consenting. You were agreeing to take on the role of a married couple under the protocol. You were signing your body away to him under the guise of this faked marriage bullshit.

Steve thought he might throw up. With shaky hands, he released you, backed away slowly, watched the rise and fall of your chest as your tiny, bare foot found the wood panels of the flooring again. He scrubbed at tired eyes, the headache not subsiding, and his other hand kept the towel aloft.

“Steve?” You whispered. He heard the floor creak as you took a step toward him.

He shook his head, held a hand out to you. “I can’t. I’m sorry. This is too fucked.”

You didn’t say a word as he searched the walk-in for a t-shirt and shorts, the dull ache never leaving the base of his skull, or the spot where your nails had scratched into his skin. His hands shook, another product of his concussions, and his teeth chattered, and he didn’t know if he wanted to cry or punch a hole through the wall or relieve his stomach of the pit that continued to grow there.

You stood in the closet doorway, shoulders slumped, confusion in your eyes.

Steve sighed, rested a trembling hand to your side to gently nudge you out of his way. “I’m sleeping on the couch.” His voice was hoarse from the catch in his throat.

You didn’t argue. You didn’t follow him.

The stairs creaked beneath his feet, the entire home still and dark save for the lamplight coming in through the parlor windows. He curled himself onto the sofa, stuffing the cushion under the pounding between his temples, and he crossed his arms over his chest. He tried to regulate his breathing as he stared at the popcorned ceiling, these shadows vastly different than the ones upstairs. The house was quieter without your soft breaths, emptier with the heartbreak filling his lungs. He drifted to sleep with the image of your big, consenting eyes, and the grit of his teeth.

—

The morning autumn sun was hotter than he expected, pooling in through thick glass in the parlor like a magnifying glass, and Steve was the ant. His migraine had subsided to more of a hangover, and he rubbed the crusted sleep from his eyes and stretched his limbs. His neck was stiff from the sorry excuse for a pillow that had tumbled to the floor at some point in the night.

The sounds of meal prep from the kitchen pulled him upright, and his joints clicked through the entry way and down the hall. You were fully dressed, nylons and skirt, blouse hugging your curves, and when you turned and spotted him, you gave a tight-lipped nod. Tension hung thick in the air between you.

“Making leftovers,” you shoved a steaming plate of casserole his direction.

“Where are you off to today?” He asked, sidling himself up to the countertop.

“I have a job interview with Chip.” You stated, tone clipped, matter-of-fact.

“Jesus Christ,” he ran a hand through his hair. “No. Absolutely not.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, Steve. I’m going. We can’t keep letting this drag on. She knows who we are. You said yourself she was watching us last night. It’s go-time.” All the pleasantries of protocol had lifted, now that you knew he had an insight into being watched. The facade had left your shoulders, any soft, whispered sweet-nothings gone from your glossy lips.

Steve looked around the small house, this little home that was made of lies. The photo of the two of you on your fake honeymoon sat atop the window sill, right next to the sparkling diamond of your fake wedding ring. “I’m not letting you go alone.”

“You have to. You’re going to his house, remember?” You slid the business card across the counter to sit beside his lunch. The little black numbers stared back up at him.

“How did you…?”

“I was eavesdropping,” you waved him off flippantly. “Doesn’t matter. I’m going to distract him long enough for you to go into the house without him. I’m almost positive they’re running some sort of experiment. He’s being way too cagey.”

“How are you going to distract him?” Steve sneered, really unable to catch anything else you’d said.

You rolled your eyes, shoved a fork into his casserole, it folded sideways, clattering to the rim of the dish. “Like you care.” You mumbled under your breath, almost inaudible, but Steve heard every syllable.

“Of course I fucking care,” he snapped. “You’re going into the den of someone you think is holding experiments with fucking Fifteen. As in, same group of super powered freaks as Eleven and Henry fucking Creel and you don’t think I care about your safety? In case you forgot, I had to save your ass from that Demo-Whatever the night you set yourself on fire.”

“Okay, that,” you shoved a finger into his chest. “I had covered, thank you very much. And this, I have covered too! I can handle Chip fucking Lafferty. In case you forgot, I was peeling skid marks like that douchebag off of my miniskirt for years before you came around.”

Steve’s skin crawled at the thought. Back in the Hawkins Lab boardroom, late one night and a couple passes of tequila in, you’d manage to rattle off a few names of your past rendezvous, all assholes, all people Steve had wanted to punch in the face. A few of which, he had.

“I will handle Chip. You,” you shoved your finger into his chest again. “You take your nailed up bat, and go check out the house. You’re the brawn, I’m the brains, remember?”

And that fucking hurt. Steve knew he was dumb, knew he was a fucking idiot for every falling in love with you, for ever accepting this gig, for ever thinking this could turn out the way he wanted it to, for ever thinking he had a say in what happened and how it went down. You were the planner, the admiral, he was just a little sailor boy.

“Eat,” you shoved his food closer to him. “And get dressed. It’s almost noon. I need you to give me a ride.”

—

The nurses had cleaned most of the soot from your skin, but black smudges still caught in the wrinkles of your forehead and around your eyes and nose, the corners of your lips, turning the oxygen mask a little grey with each fogged breath.

Steve had roused from another cat nap, the beeping and busy calls from the nurses station in the hall keeping him from sleeping too deep. He had a crick in his neck from the chair, and the stitches on his left cheek were sore. He glanced around the room, leaned forward on his knees, mumbled your name softly.

He did it every so often, checked the various machines for any blip in your vitals each time he spoke, hoped for more than Max had given them months before. You had been conscious when you arrived, air lifted to a military hospital a few miles from Hawkins. Steve had ridden the helicopter with you, your hand clenched in his, tears streaking white lines down your soot-blackened face.

God, you were brave. That’s all he could think, as he threw an oxygen mask over his own face, hauled his ass into that burning building with firefighters to pull you out. You screamed his name when you saw him, clawing fingers, a rage tearing through you that had torn those motherfuckers apart. You were so God damn brave.

Eddie was there too, down the hall, Dustin and Mr. Munson keeping him company. Robin was off in Vickie’s room. Nancy and Jonathan sat bedside to Will. That one hurt, but Steve was just so grateful they were all alive, safe, mostly unharmed. Just a handful of stitches, broken bones, smoke inhalation seemed to be the worst of it.

But you had no one, no one but Steve Harrington who sat by your bedside for three days now, muttering your name under his breath every few minutes to ensure you were alive.

The coughs started first, a sputter of sounds that wracked through your frame. Steve pushed to his feet, saw your eyes blink open, hands frantically groping for the tubes on your face, attached to your arms.

“Whoa, whoa,” he placed a firm hand on your shoulder to hold you in place. “Don’t struggle. Just breathe. You’re okay. We’re at the hospital. Here…” He searched for the nurses button behind the bed and pushed.

Your eyes adjusted, pupils blown and irises deep red, and you squinted at him, seeming to relax under his gaze.

“Hey, killer,” he smiled, brushing sweat-stuck hair from your forehead.

“Steve?” You wheezed, starting another coughing fit.

A nurse strolled in, shoved him out of the way, and he waited against the far wall as the woman did a few tests, removed your mask, got you an oversized cup of water with a bent straw. She helped you sit up, slowly. Steve listened for your wheezes, for the strain in your throat. He bounced on the balls of his feet, ready to help if needed. He wasn’t sure how, but he was ready.

“You her boyfriend?” The nurse turned to him with a pointed finger.

“Me?” He felt the tips of his ears heat, and he glanced back at you with a sheepish smile. “No.” He coughed. “Just a good friend.”

The nurse seemed unimpressed. “Well, she seems to be doing much better. We might be able to let you out of here soon. I’m calling the Big Boss. If she starts to cough again, push that button.”

“Thank you,” Steve gave an awkward salute, and the woman rolled her eyes before leaving the room. The door clicked behind her, casting silence on stark white walls. It was just you and him, and the air between you.

You sipped water through your bent straw, lips parched and cracked, a large black split scarred the lower.

Steve took measured steps toward you. “Boyfriend, huh?” He smirked.

You sputtered, water trickling down your chin. “You fucking wish, Harrington.” You croaked and coughed. “Ow.”

“Kind of nice not having to hear you talk anymore.” He grinned, tossing himself back down into the uncomfortable chair.

You responded with a fresh middle finger, tonguing for the tip of the straw until it was back in your mouth.

He felt… warm. It was that feeling of hope, that feeling that finally, after years of chaos, everything was going to be okay. He was safe. Nancy was safe. You were safe, all curled up under stark white blankets, sipping water through a bendy straw, your chest rising and falling beneath your hospital gown in scattered breaths. He felt…

Steve swallowed, glanced out the west facing window at the sky-full of smoke from Hawkins, from the fire that you started, from the battle you ended. Had something sparked for you, more than admiration? He glanced your direction again.

You had followed his gaze out the window, greyed skies casting shadow against your soft features, sunken and tired, yet brave and… beautiful. He thought of your jests at him on the battle field, of the swing of your tennis racket, of the jabs to his ribs, your face split into a grin just before you hauled yourself into that building, fire blazing. An ember sparked within him.

“Knock knock,” Dr. Sam Owens knuckled the door as it sprung open, and he pulled himself into the small room. “How are Hawkins heroes doing today? Glad to see you’re up.”

You glanced from the man to Steve, eyebrows furrowed.

Steve offered Owens a soft smile, heart still racing with the thoughts of you in his mind.

“Have either of you considered a career with the US government?”

That was the worst moment of Steve’s life.

—

The small windows of the Lafferty’s basement reminded Steve of your own, little boxes at ground level that filtered light in through dusty cobwebs. The dryer rattled in a similar place, banging sheet metal against the washing machine so hard Steve could taste it. No, that was the iron of blood filling his mouth. He counted his teeth with his tongue, a molar in the back split. His ears rang, loud like they had the night before, that throbbing ache just behind his eye sockets, and grunted through the pain, eyes adjusting to the damp dark of the basement.

“Baby,” someone cooed beside him. “Baaaaaby.”

He rolled onto his back to view the shadowed face of the girl across from him. Blonde hair pulled back, tight, into a high ponytail. She had sharp features, intense, and she slumped forward on her metal lawn chair with bony limbs. It took him five seconds to clock the blood tracing her upper lip and the scar on the inside of her left wrist. Steve spat a mouthful of blood at her feet, red soaked the concrete floor and splattered black patent leather.

“That’s no way to treat a lady, baby,” she sneered.

“Shut up,” he groaned, out of breath, something stung in his ribcage, a familiar, tight pain. His own words echoed in his head, behind his eyes.

Upstairs, muffled by wooden floors and feet of dirt and dust, the doorbell rang. Steve stared past the dangling light fixture, watching dust sprinkle from the rafters with soft footfall. He heard a friendly exchange, and then the soft pitter-patter of children running. There were kids in this house.

Amie wasn’t here when he got here. He’d let himself in. That means she came home at some point while he was unconscious. And now, by the sound of high-pitched chatter, Marcie had brought her kids to play. Jesus Christ.

He lifted himself onto his elbows, peering at the woman holding him captive. She seemed alarmed by the noises, frightened even, knocked off her game. He reached one hand out to grab her wrist, hoping to pull her off her feet, but immediately he felt the sting of pins-and-needles as he lost control of his motor functions, instead being catapulted backward into a load-bearing beam. It quaked under his weight, the sturdiness knocking the wind from his lungs. A cascade of dust fell into his hair, onto his shoulders.

Fifteen was squared to him, hand outstretched, blood dripping from her left nostril. She looked weak, tired, like it took everything in her to lift Steve, and when she finally released, he felt himself slump to the floor again, sputtering coughs and sneezes and desperate to fill his lungs. The ache in his rib made it harder to take in a deep breath.

She collapsed back into her chair. “Down, boy.” She breathed.

“Why are you doing this?” Steve huffed, clutching at his side.

Fifteen leaned toward him, mopping at her nose with her thumb. “I could ask you the same thing. You and little wifey. Thought Brenner would have sent someone with a little more… sparkle.” She twirled her fingers his direction, and Steve flinched out of the way. Nothing happened.

He coughed, and fuck, it hurt. Another mouthful of blood trailed, sticky down his chin, sticking his t-shirt to his chest. “Brenner’s dead.” He groaned.

This got her attention. “Liar.”

Steve glared at the girl. “Why would I lie about that?”

She rolled her eyes, but hugged wiry arms into herself, contemplating his words.

Steve took the initiative to keep talking, maybe keep her distracted. He hoped she didn’t notice as he surveyed the room, hoping for an out. The dryer still had a half-hour’s worth of time. He wondered if Fifteen had started it to dull any noises from the basement. It racketed into the washer with the same, harsh rhythm. “Sam Owens sent us. We’re part of a mission to retrieve any living of Brenner’s projects.”

“There are others?” Fuck, shouldn’t have said that.

Steve swallowed, banged his head backwards against the pole, and groaned when the dull ache returned between his eyes. “We want to rehabilitate you, give you a better life.”

Fifteen barked a laugh. “I don’t need rehabilitation. I have a good life.” She looked down her nose at him, blood crusting dry at the frilly cuff of her blouse.

“Oh yeah?” Steve scoffed. “Chip hiding you in his basement, only bringing you out for special occasions. You know, when his wife’s out of town.” He gestured around to the rat poison on the wall, the hamper of dirty laundry, a cot in the corner, the breaker… Bingo.

“Chip loves me.” Fifteen snarled, but Steve felt the heartbreak through it. His eyes snapped back to the girls, and that’s really what she was, probably no older than him, big brown eyes, the twist of anguish behind them.

He shook his head. “This isn’t love.”

“Oh, and you would know?”

The ruckus got louder upstairs, running footsteps, cackled laughter. The beat of the dryer echoed his thunderous heartbeat in his ears. Steve licked the iron from his split lip, spat a patch of blood near his hand, and moved himself into a crouched position against the pole. He thought of her question, thought of his own knowledge on love, and it tasted just as bad on his tongue.

He squeezed his eyes closed past the pain, and shrugged. “I guess I would. Because the girl I love, I’d do anything for her. Absolutely anything. I’d buy her favorite cereal, even though it’s pure sugar. I’d go into scary ass basements, even though I’m guaranteed to get my shit kicked. I’d go to the hospital every day to make sure that the moment she woke up, she’d have someone there that cared. Hell, I’d let her have a fucking gaggle of kids if they were as pretty as she was, and I sure as hell wouldn’t lock her, alone, in a stupid basement, to hide from the world. Because I’m proud of her, I’m so damn proud of her. She’s brave, and she’s beautiful, and I love her. And I don’t see why you don’t deserve the same God damn courtesy.”

He didn’t know where it all came from, this violent word vomit, the dribble of blood onto his shirt, and the slow and steady motion upward, until he teetered on two feet, slumped against the beam that quaked under his weight.

“Touching,” Fifteen sneered, but her hand was raised, and the hanging light began to crackle again.

Steve took his chance, dove in the direction of the breaker, for some sort of distraction, but before his body made contact with the wall, the basement door flung open, and they were soon ambushed by a swat-team of agents. Jimmy Jones and his wife, Marcie, were wrapped in bullet proof vests. Jimmy had a large device that reminded Steve of Russians and underground labs and sent a shiver through him, and that device was quickly shoved through Fifteen’s neck. Her knees gave way, and Marcie caught her lithe body.

“What the…?” Steve started, but you were there, wrapping your thin hand around his wrist, asking if he was alright. His head pounded, muffling the sounds around him. You led him upstairs, a wash of too-bright lights and a swimming skull. Your hand was soft in his, and the sirens were too loud.

He could just make out the soft sounds of children from the kitchen, little Christopher’s voice coming through the mist, “Mommy, what’s going on? I’m scared.”

—

Hawkins succumbed to winter in a flurried mess of fallen snow, run-through with bikes and station wagons. Rotting pumpkins on stoops were replaced with conifers and the smell of spices replaced with peppermint as everything bit crisp and bitter in the air. Slush lay over roots and soil, chased into clogged gutters. Fog clung to the insides of car windows and heated the panes of Steve’s new prescription glasses as he paced the aisles of the grocery store, souring at gaggles of kids chasing one another through the frozen food section on a Friday evening.

Maybe Robin was right, maybe he’d grown crotchety in his old age, or maybe seeing other people happy just miffed him, or maybe seeing kids reminded him of that future that, one again, slipped right through his blood-stained fingers.

Steve lifted at the wire on the bridge of his nose to rub at tired eyes. His basket grew heavier, a fistful of TV dinners, some stovetop popcorn, marshmallows in a bag. He promised Robin a movie night, only because she’d bullied him out of the house, and he promised he’d pick up snacks on the way. He tossed boxed butter in, having memorized Robin’s favorite cereal-based dessert recipe years ago. All that was left were the Rice Krispies.

Four aisles down, he found the cereal aisle, a mess of technicolor boxes, athlete’s and mascots illuminated in florescent light, and three-quarters of the way down, he saw you. He stopped, rubber soles squeaking against the linoleum, heart thundering in his chest, roaring in his ears. He hadn’t seen you in months, not since Fifteen was captured, not since Owens awarded you both hearty pats on the back and promises of a call for another mission somewhere.

To be fair, Steve wasn’t sure he was really seeing you now. He’d imagined you all around town, every one of Eddie’s gigs at the Hideout, he saw you pass the window. Every morning chauffeuring Dustin to Hawkins High, he saw you walking side roads, winding through the woods. He imagined you on Halloween, passing out candy to trick-or-treaters, black hat ears looped through your hair. He imagined you at Thanksgiving, serving pumpkin pie and a massive dollop of whipped cream. Just yesterday, he imagined you staring into a toy storefront, a gaggle of kids around you, promising things that Santa would bring.

The squeak of his shoe must have alerted you, because you turned your head to caught his gaze, and it was you. Your face split into that soft smile, the one that warmed him from deep in his stomach to the apples of his cheeks. His feet moved of their own volition, like you were a powerful magnet, and he a paperclip, all crumpled on itself, cowering in shame.

“Hi,” you breathed as he approached. From this distance, you looked as tired as he felt, like months of pretending had drained the life from you both, aged you. Even tired, you were beautiful. His heart clenched.

“Hey,” he felt the smile tug at his cheeks.

“I like the glasses,” you smirked, and he shied a bit. He felt like a fucking dork in the glasses, but he could see, and Robin and Dustin were constantly reminding him how important that was. The headaches went away too. “You look like a dad.”

That one fucking hurt. He peeled his eyes from you then, focused back on the task at hand. Looking beside you, he found the familiar Honeycomb mascot smiling back at him, taunting him. He scoffed, rolled his eyes. “Just buy the fucking Honeycomb.”

“Excuse me?” You sputtered.

“Every God damn time, we’d come into this aisle and have this big debate about it, and I know it makes you sad because it was your brother’s favorite, but it’s your favorite too, and when you eat it, you get this big nostalgic smile across your face. And you can’t admit it, but it makes you happy because it gives you the sugar rush you need with your coffee in the morning, apparently. Makes you the fucking Energizer bunny.” Steve ran a hand through his hair, and he hadn’t realized he said too much until he felt the heaviness of his own breath, the way you stared back at him, wide-eyed.

“I… didn’t realize…”

Steve shrugged, dumping a heavy box of Rice Krispies into his own basket. “You didn’t realize a lot of things.” He grumbled.

“What?”

He turned to you, then, hugging your stupid box of Honeycombs, eyebrows twisted into a crease just above your nose, perfect in every stupid way, and the flood gates open. “I love you.” A weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He stood taller, squared to face you head-on. “I am in love with you. I think I have been since the moment you killed the demo bat with that tennis racket. And pretending to be in love with you? When I was actually in love with you? That sucked. That really sucked.”

“Steve,” you breathed.

“And I’m sure it was easy for you, I mean, it seemed easy. But then you’d kiss me, or you’d make these loving little comments, and Jesus Christ, don’t even get me started on the baby onesie. That still haunts my nightmares.”

“Steve.”

“But you didn’t even trust me enough to tell me that Jim and Marcie were in on it? And then I get my shit rocked by a freaking Number, and you just brush me off, leave me to dry? I’ve spent months pining over you, and I didn’t even hear a word?”

“Baby,” you chided.

Steve’s throat dried, warmth prickling the tops of his ears. You took a step toward him, reached up to pick at the tear in his jacket, the one he never bothered to fix because it reminded him of you. “Yeah?” He croaked.

“Will you shut up?” Your eyes sparkled.

“Make me,” he challenged. And you did, standing on tip-toe to press your sweet, soft lips to his. Your hands clutched his lapels, sparks tickling his spine. He dropped his basket at your feet to wrap his arms around your waist, and you laughed into him as your feet left the ground, that stomach fluttering sound. He kissed your soft cheeks, the curve of your jaw, the soft skin of your ear.

“Baby,” you laughed, swatted at his shoulders until he let you down. You pulled him to your level, and he felt the hum of your lips against his own before you said. “I want all of my babies to be as pretty as you.” And he knew he was a goner.

---

A/N: As promised, Stevie in glasses, pining helplessly for the woman he loves. I had a lot of fun with this story, and I hope you did too. Thanks, so much, for reading and for all of your support. Much much love. xo-Amanda

Edit: Read the follow up autumnal drabble here.

#steve harrington fic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #fake marriage au #steve harrington fake marriage au #stranger things fic #stranger things #steve harrington #joe keery #domesticity

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secretsandwritings-blog · 18 days

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First kisses with the CK Adults

Kim Da-Eun - she’s definitely mean and direct on how she feels on the needs of kissing you. she would also tell you what you’re doing wrong while kissing you and it honestly feels like she’s being a sensei more than a lover. you tell her that she’s need to be more gentle, because it feels like your jaw is going to break then, she takes a moment to realize. after stating that she is much more gentler on you and making sure you’re comfortable.

John Kreese - he smells like smoke and maybe, some Jäeger (Jäegermeister - german herbal liqueur) as well. that’s the first you notice when you’re approaching him before he give you a raspy and dry kiss. it’s clear that this man doesn’t wear any type of lip balm or chapstick due to the cracks you can feel on your month. he lifts your face with a finger or two underneath your jaw before sharing the kiss. he gives you a smirk before giving you two more then, he gives you a small one right on your nose or cheek.

Amanda LaRusso - she smells like a heavy perfume which she put on just for you to smell nice, it’s rich and floral also a bit sweet in a way. it’s kind of obvious that she reapplied her lipstick which stains your lips as she gives you kisses all over your mouth. after the two of your done she brings your foreheads together to bring you into a “Eskimo kiss” which is essentially the two of you rubbing your noses together. she gives you one last kiss on your nose so, her lipstick is mostly smeared on the bottom portion of your face.

Daniel LaRusso - he’s pretty shy about when it comes to kissing, but he says he knows how to lay down a pretty mean one if he says so himself. he just prefers not to do them anymore unless you’re wanting to do them with him, but he was assuming that he didn’t want him to do one with you. you pinch his arm before stating that he should ask you what you want before assuming things. you two share little kisses and honestly, it reminds you of experimenting with a friend from childhood, anyway it’s way better than that because it’s not awkward. the kissing is kind of fast paced which is fine and gives you all the satisfaction you need. after getting done kissing, you lips feel waxy and found out that he applied some of his lip balm on which makes you laugh that he even considered it.

Johnny Lawrence - he has been waiting for this moment to happen he just wanted it to be perfect for the two of you and your kiss. he would tend to knot his hands into your hair also, he’s not very confident or it seems like he’s overly confident for this kiss. he keeps fiddling with his knuckles before the moment comes and lets out a sigh of relief because he didn’t overdo the kiss. which is quite funny to even think about - ‘how could you overdo a kiss?’ who really knows how could someone overdo it but in the end, you both enjoyed it.

Terrence “Terry” Silver - he’s definitely a little cocky bastard when the two of you kiss. he teases you so you could be rattled up and be mean to him. he takes great pleasure when someone is mean especially, if it’s you. you know you’re not the one who gets rattled up by him, because there’s also Daniel LaRusso which Terry also likes being a little asshole toward. you know this by seeing the two in the store’s bakery and seems to be fighting over some bagels but, you know that’s not the truth. he smells a bit of whiskey, cigar, and an intense cologne. when it comes to kissing you, he throws you down on his bed essentially pinning you down so you don’t squirm away from him. he covers you top to bottom with his kisses and some have slobber, some don’t, some are mean, some are sweet. you knew this already before he even started the kissing. he unpins you to go grab a towel to clean his slobber off your mouth then, he sends you to the room next door to get changed in the pajamas he had laid out for you, because you’ll be staying the night at his place. he doesn’t want to let you out of his sight just yet and he has something else planned for the two of you later.

Chosen Toguchi - he seems very ecstatic for this to be happening and even says to you that he hopes all that practice he’s done pays off and hopefully, it’ll satisfy you. you’re puzzled by his words of “practice” but you shrug it off and wonder why he has no shirt on. he never seems to have one every time you come over… coincidence? mm, not likely… the two of you just share the most werid but amazing kiss. he didn’t said anything afterward he just stared at you while you did the same to him before re-engaging into more kissing.

— [ SAWB; KG “If you want to suggest some headcanons feel free to send them in because suggestions are opened until December 26 so choose anyone from any fandom!! ✨ ] —

#secretsandwritingg’s work #personal headcanon #character headcanons #cobra kai headcanons #cobra kai #the karate kid #kim da eun #john kreese #amanda larusso #daniel larusso #johnny lawrence #terry silver #chosen toguchi

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me-uglypretty · 2 years

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letters to your lover

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x F!Reader

Summary: Letters to a dear friend, promises made with part of each other to safe-keep, and the bloody secrets only known to two.

Warning: 18+ (G), au, kinda cult-ish wanda and reader, blood, killing, dead bodies, violence, mention of knife, brief mention of smut | 5200 Words

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Dear Wanda,

After receiving the devastating news of your husband’s passing, I had shared my grief to the pastor and prayers to the almighty, our lord and saviour. We are nothing but the common people with voices hoping for better days, the God above must’ve listened.

My reasons for this lengthy letter to you; a promise that I shall visit soon and offer a shoulder for your head to rest. A promise that you may leave your sorrow for me to hold as we sit and drink your favourable tea. I hope you still favour your Sokovian tea cold.

Wanda, I know how your love for him was great and he was a kind man. Those time together would be treasured.

However, this letter has excited me for my visit to your dear home of Sokovia.

And— I saw the moon tonight. She was thriving in the night sky. Glowing so beautifully and I felt her touch my skin. I hope the sun was bright enough for you.

Wanda…I am so happy to see you again.

- Your dearest, sunshine.

February—1866

The morning mist engulf your body with chills, winter’s tease leaves a huff of translucent cloud of smoke from your mouth. Nothing transforming had occurred in Sokovia since your stay, approximately five years ago. Leaving your childhood home was your utmost conclusion. By the reasons of which leaves you in a puddle of tears.

While those memories fade into the past, your body felt lighter as you walk down your treasured town. The once horrid scene at Uncle Tony’s Bakery doesn’t gnaw at your heart anymore nor does the reminder of a kiss that spew sickness from your previous night’s dinner.

He wasn’t the one, you had assured yourself at first. Vision was simply a puppet. The flawless textbook of a man that her family glorified. His family lived a glorious life; helpers was scattered around his mansion, gold lining on porcelain plates and cutleries, clothes pressed neatly, and his parents were pronounced dead after a hideous case of the flu.

Sadly enough, Vision survived. Among the various estates that was now threaded with his name, he didn’t leave Sokovia or travelled the world. It wasn’t his town nor was it yours.

But you knew it better.

When you last saw her in immaculate condition, however, you didn’t expect for your feet to lead you back to her house. Not the highest building in town, but her decaying home once housed her parents and her twin brother. A memorable landmark for a quarter of your childhood when first met with hers.

Taking attentive steps in direction of the timeworn wooden door, your fingers twirls the lock of hair seized by a scarlet ribbon. You often held on to the last precious part of her, the silky bronzed strands that dejectedly doesn’t smell like her anymore. But the touch rattles your insides. Wanda’s hair still holds her essence in your possession.

Your free hand slides across tattered wood, a hallow sound of knocks emits and the distance sound of steps inside. Deep breaths, and the door unlocks to reveal her.

“Wanda…” you gasped, flinging your body into hers and the recognizable arms around your body solidifies your mind from worries. “I miss you, my moon…” and you hear her murmurs of response, the tender fingers bruising your heart when she touches your skin.

Wanda laughs, parting from your body slightly as to see your face and her hands grasps your face. Her lips quivers and eyes glossy, “I got your letters, all of them.”

Her voice loops around your throat and you couldn’t utter a word after, only nodding your head as her forehead leans against yours. When eyes shut close, rejoice flushes in different shades behind your eyelids and her body flush with yours, influences your mind as she easily steers you into her home.

To watch her, feels as though seeing a well composed orchestra. The strings from instruments far too expensive for you to own, but enough to pilot your heart’s desire and she is that; assembling music in clear air, emerald eyes twinkling as she speaks and pleasantly reaching for your hands, how candle light flickers at every instance of her silvery voice, and your heart plummeting from her mere gaze.

“I don’t have anything, but you are all that I know,” Wanda confessed, round cheeks glistering from fallen tears. “You can’t leave me anymore,” she pleaded as she clutches to your hands.

Undoubtedly, your hands lift her hands to your mouth and press a tender kiss on her skin. The poised of your words and action was plenty for her heart to understand. Wanda doesn’t worry and neither do you, not when your hand guides her forward.

“They would never come between us,” you promised.

Wanda gleefully hauls your body into hers, and when lips meet—your felt the earth rumble beneath your feet, clouds shifting in the sky, the colours around seems so evolve as her tongue traces your bottom lip, and she invites herself into your mouth. It will always be perfect, with her, with you.

Dear Wanda,

I’m sadden by my sudden departure.

But I hope you understand my reasons for leaving our dear town. It wasn’t easy for me to finally accept my family’s proposal to live in the new city. Please tell me how you feel, Wanda.

I heard you wedded him. Does he treat you like your romance novels? Please let me know. I will talk to him if he doesn’t treat you as that, a beautiful princess. You had always dreamed of a fairy tale love.

My afternoons are dull here. So are my mornings and nights. Nothing excites me anymore. I miss our daily tea and cakes. Do you still bake? I miss the taste of your irreplaceable food. I would cheerfully author a book to explain my love for your scrumptious food and your kind heart. Wanda, my dear friend, your heart is immense with kindness, of magnificent love, and you are always so helpful.

I must end this letter here as father request my attendance. Everyone misses you. But I miss you the most. Never dare forget that.

I hope we meet soon.

- Your dearest, sunshine.

December—1844

The twins celebrated their birthday last month. A wonderous bread was feasted at dawn. Wealth wasn’t threaded with their names to allow them more. Wanda doesn’t summon her brother after their family’s petite celebration as Pietro was happily chatting with his friends after the split of bread between their four family members. The Maximoff were everything kind, but not filthy rich as compared to their children’s close friend, Vision.

Wanda doesn’t dwell in their underprivileged life either. The unmeasurable love blessed within her family was enough. She doesn’t allow the show of expensive dresses to ache her heart as the others seems to believe objects were more treasurable. Additionally, her friends or just one, partakes a significant piece of her livelihood.

Few houses down, opposite Miss Agatha’s store, a modest home for a family and where her timid friend lives. You were different, awfully quiet, traceable where you step, and certain when surrounded in your element. Wanda liked you from the first greetings between families, and how you were gracious as you waved at her. A generous offer for your last candy was the ultimate seal to a marvellous friendship.

But there was always a horrid cloud hovering over your frame when Vision stepped into her sight and at once, you bid farewell. Excuses that fell upon her wasn’t your truth.

And she knew better.

At age eleven, Wanda was exceptionally smatter than most. Regardless of their interpretation on a woman’s intelligence. That was when she discovered you were the same. Equally observant, tendencies of mischief if kept out of peering eyes, and a want for knowledge. Adventure was there too.

“I’m going for a walk!” Wanda yelled, trying to peer into the window of your house. “I know your parents aren’t home.”

She was correct when the wooden door screeched open. You stand behind, folding your arms over the nightgown that swallows your body. It was a passed down gown from cousins. The silence nudges her forward as she steps into your house and you closed the door, quietly following her.

“You have been avoiding me, sunshine” Wanda pointed her forefinger accusingly at you. “Please explain, what did I do wrong…” she breathed out, her accent fluttering at every word as a wave of tears washes over her cheeks and you dived to wipe her tears.

“No, no, don’t cry,” you pleaded as she wheezed, and you instantly embrace her. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I’m sorry, please don’t cry. I can’t see you in sadness.”

There was a distinguish shift on innocent friendship after that night. A thread of forever in tender hands as young hands grasp a seamstress’ scissor, owned by Wanda’s mother, and wordlessly borrowed. Round eyes watch as the silver blade wedge between lengthy hair, the clink sounded sacred in young ears and a smile spread upon your face as she ties the lock of her hair with a scarlet ribbon.

“A part of me will always be with you,” Wanda presses the lock of hair on your palm. “Promise me, it will always be us?” her hands trembles in yours and you nodded your head.

“Always us,” you promised, smiling widely as she presses her forehead on yours.

The messily knotted yellow ribbon secures your lock of hair. Part of you with her, part of her with you, and the rest wouldn’t know the extent of devotion between two friends.

Dear Wanda,

I found someone. I know, you must laugh at my abrupt confession. But please read before you burn this letter. I know how you must be upset to know this.

He promised me an enormous wedding if I was to say yes. I don’t know what to do. Oh Wanda, I hope you were here to help me. You always knew what was right.

But you are married and occupied with your wife duties. I wish our friendship was still lively as it was when we were young. Has it really been two years since we last met? I miss you dearly, my Wanda.

Remember when we ran away from home? Remember how it felt as we dash past the large trees and hear squirrels in the far edges of the forest? Remember the lake that we bath for one night? Remember how the stars were like crystals in the sky?

I don’t think I could ever feel as happy without you. I miss you, Wanda.

Why was faith so cruel to us— but I hope you are happy with your new life. I am trying with my dull life.

Should I say yes to him? Will that solve my aching heart? Wanda, please tell me what to do. I wish you were here to hold me and tell me. Letters would never fill the empty space in my heart for you.

I must end my letter here. I am sure you don’t wish to read a letter drenched in my tears. Wanda, I miss you. I long to see you again.

- Your dearest, sunshine.

January—1861

A bird chirps by your window at dawn, other flutters their feathery wings around the balcony till your shadow reveal from behind grey curtains. They linger for a moment before passing to another space, and you stay there, pondering their next visits. A wish pooling at your throat to fly away freely as them than stay in a secluded life.

The looming year closes in sorrowfully, your body clutching onto nothing, but the dusty cloth used by many before you. Sounds of young women ushering the others, grumbles here and there, while you remain as solemn as any other portrait painted of a woman.

She would had loved this, you thought when you first stepped into New York City. Exploring the streets, grumbles of dusky clouds from developing industries, frequent stops to greet horses leading their carriages, and her silvery voice persuading you to release the ropes that pulled them according to a human’s pleasure.

And you would had listened, like a student wishing to please their teacher. Happiness clouding your eyes as you near her request, willing to harm yourself for her own glow to cast over you.

But she wasn’t there with you.

While you last saw her before your departure—an abrupt decision made by your father and obediently followed by your mother, neither allowing you the opportunity to speak your stand—and that was exactly a year ago, much had changed, but not your memories of her.

Walking in your assigned room hasn’t felt like home. The single bed held by rusty frame, clothes still neatly tucked in your russet coloured luggage bag, the wallpaper peeling painfully slow, leaks that platters exactly at the hour your eyes seek for rest, and the ambience so strange in your hands, trying to familiarize with a changed life.

Breathing the air of a bottomless pit, you trudge down the hallway as any other day, following the distinct sound of children mumbling. By mind’s work, your hand reach for the precious part of your belongings, the pad of your finger traces the seams of a scarlet ribbon then feeling the silky strands of bronzed hair. A calming essence immerse in your chest, and you feel as if, her body glides by your side. Ensuring you away from worries.

You often find yourself flourishing in daydreams from the innocent view of children. Tumbling down your own path, a child or two, perhaps twins. While wealthy parents’ requests for nannies to nurture their offspring, you wish to care for your own and see their life ahead, weaving little hearts in heaps of affection.

“My dear, you look ravishing today.”

The subtility of your hand grasping a pencil, brittle wood scratches your palm. A scorch of fire ignites in your chest. His voice so malicious in your ears, rotting the sounds of her that echoes freely in your mind. Interruptions of your fantasy were surely the least of your problem, if close to her.

“Mr Wilson,” you greeted forcefully, mustering an attempt of a friendly smile. A proper young woman, the kind your family adores as your persona sewn their mouth shut from questioning your future. “Where is your lovely son?” and said question, garnered a thunderous laughter.

“By your concern, it seems that you wish to mother my beautiful son,” he offhandedly presumed, taking a step forward and closer into your space.

To watch him, flowering your route with promises of wealth, and endless bliss—hasn’t graze your heart the way she does, like how you felt utterly consumed by freedom when your body was perched against hers, and you could breathe into her sweet scent. You could stare into an empty space, as if a theatre was showing their most famed play, and fantasise days with her, so clear enough to notice the speckles of dust drifting in air freely.

Wanda, her liveliness blooms in your chest, and when her firm lips press on your hand, it was unlike any gentleman’s attempt of politeness. When she twirls you around, giggles warming your chest, bare feet following a muddy trail into the hidden forest. Admiring the moon’s glow on her face, how the sun’s glimmer makes her eyes vivid as thought the forest were veiled around her pupils, and when stars scattered in the night sky as her head rest on your shoulder or her finger pointing at puffy clouds, designating each of them to an animal.

And she was there with you, hands clasping warmly together. Your dear Wanda, her smile was always so bright, and you wonder from time to time; was she the one to morph the earth’s light with her own magical glint, a smile worth more than crystal like stars in the sky.

“No,” you sternly denied. “I am promised to someone else,” and the hush words of hers, only hers.

The sheer poised of your words, his face inching with unwarranted irritation for your constant denial, and her laughter emits in your head. What a man, she would had mocked as your body stumbles into hers, bones and skin adjacent together, and the muffled sound of a hopeless man.

She was there, you were there, and there was immerse trust. Promises layered with sacred strands kept with you and her, fingers enclosing around the other, trickles of red where devotion meet, and whispers that tickles your cheek warm.

A woman so far, and yet, she holds you so close.

Dear Wanda,

This will be my last letter to you, at least till the war settles in the earth’s core. I am sorry for starting this in such a sorrowful way. But I cannot lie for my sake or pretend to feel that I am okay with this.

My hope is wearing thin for us to meet. I think faith has decided the most horrid of future for us— but you are happy. My dear friend, you have found happiness.

And Vision treats you well as he promised me, and I am simply…alive. I am happy for you, I promise.

Wanda, I promise to live as happy. Though, I would never find peace here. The city is congested with people. All finding new land to brood their family. Sometimes, I wish I was like them too. Don’t you wish that for me?

I know you would agree. Our seeds of dream were planted in moist ground, just waiting for the precise time to mature and bloom with flowers. I think I missed the moment it did. I think I missed many moments with you.

I miss you dearly, my only friend.

I hope I am not late….for everything.

If this letter does reach you; don’t forget to kiss the sun for me.

— Your dearest, sunshine

December—1862

The war, an unavoidable human fault. Where treasured landmarks met their blows, and Wanda grief of those who had blessed her days. Father, mother, brother, various friends and family, faced the greys of life while she lived on. How she profoundly wishes to hear Pietro’s laughter as her mother scolds him and her father ushers her into the house with a promise of her favourite dessert. The Maximoff was humble, grateful and happy, even when melancholy fell remorseful on them. Her family could never compare to that love of her husband, Vision.

Wanda obediently abide to her husband’s wish of relocating to America. He doesn’t reveal more than adorning her shoulder with an expensive shawl, forging grief at her lost as he swiftly guided her from her family’s grave, and she instantly carried herself. A sturdy married woman who prosper fortunately by her husband’s side.

It takes them days or weeks to arrive, she hasn’t counted the days in fear of accumulating the time away from a land she knew. Away from her family.

Vision was different when he guided her through a crowd of brash people, his hold on her arms were harsh as compared to those firm hands always persistence to ensure she was comfortable. A mansion hails her sight when he finally releases his hold on her. Where she stood still, without him clutching onto her like she was his sole treasure.

However, there was a dreadful spark hanging between them, awaiting a blaze to ruin what happiness she came to know from him. Where Vision speaks of visiting another state more than once a week. His family’s business was at the verge of worldwide success. Excuses fell from his mouth, accompanied by expensive gift and she offered her best wishes for him.

But she wasn’t a senseless woman.

By the third week of the month, Wanda had gathered enough knowledge of her husband’s constant office visits. His absent permitted her little walks down the street, observing those cowering by their husband’s scowl, and young woman happily chattering away, their hands free from commitment under the oath of a wife.

She thought of you too; kind-hearted, passionate, loving, and sweet. Her own gleam of sunshine. The first friend to grace her space, and how her heart gnaws for you, to hold you close and feel the warmth of your skin next to hers, how your teasing smile would ignite an everlasting bliss within her chest.

As the memories of you spread her solemn state, something in her mind nudges her head forward than retrieving back to her quite house. Soft edges irises seemingly stare ahead, a glint restored in pupils widening by the seconds that pass. Her heart throbs achingly when she first met the sight of you—so flawless and perfect. Multitude of people passes through, some cursing under their breath and bumping into her shoulder, but you were there, steps away from her.

“Sunshine,” Wanda whispered, her hand hovers over her mouth while the other press on her lower neckline. A noticeable lump rest there of a promise made at eleven. “My sunshine,” she cried, tears flow freely down her cheeks and clings onto the coldness of the morning air.

On the other end, you felt something. As if there was a warm hand enclosing firmly on your wrist, your heart seems to halt, and you held onto your breath, twisting your body to follow the pleas ahead. And you see her there, a sight that swells your heart, eyes burning of unshed tears.

“My dear Wanda?” you gasped, and your body jerks forward.

A momentous change in a tedious life, where you take the first step forward then the next was hers. Each step fuels hearts with desire, flashing with sweet memories and the bitterness that clogs throbbing hearts. The thread of forever tying together as you reach her, and she smiles, the kind that makes your knees weak.

“A part of me left with you,” Wanda confessed, her hand reach for yours so eagerly and you let her. “It was always us, wasn’t it?” her hand trembles in yours, grasping so tight and you felt the outlines of her bones against yours.

“Always us,” you breathed out, lips curling with a wide smile and it felt different. “I miss you so much,” and you couldn’t stop the various confession that fell from your mouth when she embraces your body.

The messily knotted ribbons around two locks of hair meeting the other again. Parts of her and you were lost, till you were together after years apart. A devotion between two friends that never flatter. Where your cheeks flushed warmly, her fingers press on your skin as she traces the years missed of your skin on hers, the subtle look in her eyes urging you to leave your promised day ahead and follow her. The answer met when your lips press firmly on her cheek and you felt her hand pulling you to the opposite direction.

Daylight fades into the night’s luminosity, as her soft voice compels you into her trance and she so helplessly held onto you, fingers crawling on skin and the once quiet house, gleams scandalously. Best friend, a festering promise when reach their ears, because you knew her truth as she knows you, every inch of your skin to the edges of your thoughts.

The ominous thoughts whirling mindlessly, where pastors blubbered to their dear god, where she reaches for your hand and kiss you bare, and the subtle draw of breath before reality befall upon those saved souls. Wanda’s hand messily drawing lines on brittle ground tainted in crimson. Excuses for her first time while yours were precise, the loops always round and edges sharp, and she loved that about you. So perfect, so soft, so nice, so everything that she needed.

First, second, third, and more, the loads of self-fulfilment that flushes her cheeks as she sees your eyes wide. An old book sprawled on your lap while her fingers kneads your shoulder, soft lips moulding into the deep of your neck, then lips meet hungrily and your mouth parting to allow her tongue to taste your words.

“My moon,” you blew your words into the air, breathing unreservedly.

The sun and the moon. The friends and the lovers. The forbidden fruits that was devoured by two. The life that was made—after she had you, at ease and free.

“I miss you,” Wanda panted, spreading your thighs apart as her mouth latches to your throbbing heat. And you hear her promises, I love you, I love you, I love you…

Dear Wanda,

I dreamed of tea and your cakes today. My mouth is watering as I write this. The taste of sweetness is a narrow reminder in my mouth, invading my tongue and tainting it for anything— that dare try to taste the same way.

My hands tremble achingly in rival to my limited options. No, I could never break our promise. Remember, I am your sunshine. I will never forget. You cannot dare forget me either. Best friends, remember?

But I do crave more of sweet and sour. The pull of my teeth on harsh candy. My eyes tearing as I taste the first pleasurable bite then another, and another, and that my greediness will drown me happily. My skin warm as I immerse my body in pure bliss.

But it’s different here. The sweetness doesn’t linger at the roof of my mouth. I spat out the foul taste when mouth first touch. But I needed to feel somewhere close to home. I am a fool, I know. But I am only listening to you, my dear Wanda. I will never disobey the promises made.

You must know by now that defeat is bitter sometimes, or sweet as a forbidden fruit. God bless us, the pastor often said, and I agree too. God blessed us.

And you were wrong, Wanda!

A wife and yet, I had proven you wrong. The juice of berries takes a day to completely drain while you said two! Perhaps, I made a mess without you guiding me. But I would like to assume I did good by my own.

How is life in your glorious mansion? Did Vision tell you about the city’s rise in businesses? The world’s truly changing. I wish for you to see this too.

I miss you, my dear Wanda.

I must hurry now. I hope this letter find its way to you.

— Your dearest, sunshine

February—1863

Life changed irrevocably, curling at your throat with laughter, and glossy eyes so apparent beneath amber light. Life is tender. Favouring your notion than the voices outside your humble paradise. And Wanda was undoubtedly wrong, but how heaven like was her laughter as her eyes trails along the way you prove her wrong, and how hellish it was when the horrid cries echoes down the stairwell.

The stumbles of bodies on her marital bed and those foul-smelling ones beneath where fools lie. Her tongue warm in your mouth and spiteful when hearing their devious screams. Her fingers trace the curves of your body, following every hitch of breath, and so hungrily she plummets into you, savouring you as though the holy bread—or whatever that was proposed as the god’s offering. You never cared for their religious fascination nor does she. They were the real evils in aspects of influence, and influence was only appealing when shared between two.

The dearest of them all, her husband noted. It was simply a sweet gesture on his side after coming home to behold his wife and her best friend huddled together, trying to learn embroidery. The odour of another woman’s perfume on him and you were abundantly grateful. He was awful at keeping his affairs a secret. It sickens you to know that she hid the truth from you.

But you were her sunshine.

While you expected her to completely condition herself over his mistakes, however, you didn’t expect for her bare breasts to press nonchalantly on your back or her hand to clamp around your breast while the other trails the cold iron on your skin. Wanda solidifies your mind from seething in anger, and gifts you the knife in your hand.

The first spill of unwarranted dew was blessed by your moon’s kiss on your blissful cheek of her sun’s shine. Her hand grasps yours, fluttering away about a book she found and that was the first of innocent hearts finding purpose unlike the kind forced onto them. That same excitement flourishes in your chest, tainted so beautifully, and quite as you were when she first saw you.

Your hand pushes the wooden door of his office, a creek itches your ears and worse when he groans with annoyance. Finally, you smiled, and he lifts his head to meet your taunting gaze.

“Vision,” you greeted him, the knife hidden behind as you prance teasingly into his room and Wanda follows behind you quietly. “I think we have an important, very grave matter to speak of! But…I am jaded with your sophisticated words, ugh, so many useless words. Wanda, my moon, how did you survive?”

Wanda laughs, her arms folding around your waist and her chin resting on your shoulder. “I simply fantasise for a day like today, my sunshine.”

Her voice dreamy in your ears and wonderous when you knife plunge into his chest, like a stake into the heart. Vision was foolish and unaware. He couldn’t safe himself than scream helplessly of infidelity and betrayal, while his blood splatter on your face and your tongue licks the corner of your mouth. A frown on your face as she shakes her head. Wanda whispers of something sweeter than his bitter blood. You listened, extracting your knife from his body after the numerous stabs left.

Wanda takes the knife from your hand then strokes his face with the same bloody blade. Her lips quivers, forging sadness at his lifeless body before laughter echoes in his room. You watch her intently. The leading actor of a profound theatre play, her emerald eyes like the forest green shimmering under white light, and she speaks her script so efficiently as the knife that passes through his throat.

“You are marvellous,” you confessed, gaze solely focus on her. “You are perfect.”

Everything was perfect. His head dangling by his golden hair like a useless ornament between her fingers. Her kiss muddled on your lips as she speaks of forever, and your knees weak. You watch her build an altar for the recent offering. A god, a priest, a leader, a woman who you would happily kneel and abide by her every word.

And she smiles so sweetly, like a kid being offered candy. How you love the taste of her in your mouth and when droplets of her blood smear on your lips, and yours on hers, an addition she promised upon life itself.

Together, Wanda wouldn’t have to worry about you, and you wouldn’t have to dream about finally seeing her. Because she will always stay by your side as you will stay by hers. A promise made at eleven, and forever.

#spookyweek22 #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff imagine

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