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assortedseaglass · 1 year ago

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Talk Refined - Chapter One

Michael Gavey x Reader

[Masterlist]

Summary: When Michael Gavey unwittingly insults a fellow Oxford student, they enter into a game of intellectual cat and mouse.

Content Warnings (this chapter in bold): Language, Smut, Saltburn Spoilers

Pool was never your forte. Truth be told, you were more of a darts girl. There was something though, in the soft click of the balls knocking together and the damp thunk of them landing in the pocket that scratched an itch on your over-worked mind.

Hilary term was coming to an end, and with it brought the dread that your extended essay title had been submitted. ‘“For the sake of some colour;” women as decoration, in response to Turner’s High Street, Oxford (1810)””. No going back now.

You’d escaped the January madness that had descended on your best friend, Esme. Like most other courses, she had exams at the start of the new year and spent her days in the library and nights in the pub. Much like now, come to think of it.

“You’re up,” you called to your friend as you missed potting a red. “Esme!”

“Sorry! Sorry,” she shimmied between the pool table and a few pub patrons, taking her cue in hand and leaning over the felt green. Click, thunk. A yellow sank into the corner pocket.

“Who were you talking to?” You indicated a man in his early twenties, eyeing up Esme’s backside as she leant over the table to reach another yellow.

“Bartender,” she missed the ball and passed the cue back over the table. You took it and swiftly potted a red. “Nice one. Just borrowing this,” she lit her cigarette with a metal lighter. When she was done, she tossed it back to the bartender and he winked.

The two of you’d met at a humanities and arts, inter-college social less than two weeks into your first term. Dress as your subject and be ready for a night of frivolity even Elagabalus couldn’t imagine. You’d found some of silk scarves in a charity shop, bought cheap pearls from Primark and gone as the Girl with a Pearl Earring. Outside the Blenheim was where you first spotted her. Dressed in a bedsheet draped as a peplos, she had climbed a lamppost and was swigging wine straight from the bottle. That is a girl I want to be friends with, you’d thought, and promptly beelined for her and begged for the bottle.

“You doing philosophy?” You asked after chugging the cheap merlot.

“Classics. And you, I’m guessing history-”

“History of art, yeah.”

The next morning, you’d woken in her dorm room at Brasenose, the autumn sunlight blinding and your breath smelling as if something had crawled inside you and died there. Esme didn’t mind. Her mouth was stained red from the wine and a hickey the size of Brazil adorned her neck. You’d been inseparable ever since.

“Bollocks,” you missed potting a red and, as Esme swept to grab to pool cue, the pub erupted in song.

“RUBY RUBY RUBY RUBY!”

“Ahah ahah ahaaaaaaaah!” Esme sang the refrain in your ear as she twirled you round, the cue discarded on the table.

“DO YA DO YA DO YA DO YA!?”

“Fuck’s sake,” It was hard not to smile despite your best efforts. You felt like a twat but no-one was looking at you. All were too busy singing to notice the two tipsy girls dancing by the pool table. In any case, the only person whose opinion mattered to you was the one spinning you in her arms. One wayward spin and bumped you into the pool table. Giggling, you opened your arms to be embraced once more-

“Oh shit,” Esme whispered hastily, suddenly standing straight and flattening her hair. “Got any lip gloss?”

“Erm,” you patted your pockets. “No sorry.”

“Damn,”

“Who’ve you seen?” you smirked, standing by your best friend’s shoulder and following her line of sight. Well, it could have been any number of students in the packed pub. There were some rugby lads, double polos with both collars popped. Pretty boy Felix Catton and his posse of poshos. It could have even been that girl Eleanor, now greeting a friend at the bar. Esme and Eleanor hooked up at the Brasenose Christmas party. Esme said it was “unexpected” and “not her usual flavour”, but you’d met her once after tutorial, and the way she looked at her tutor’s bottom as it wiggled down the corridor in her Peacock’s pencil skirt was not one of envy. “Well?” You asked impatiently. “Who is it?”

“There, blue check shirt, dark hair.” Esme pointed at the bar where such a man was standing. Two pints of lager in hand, he turned and seemed to look around the pub. “Cute, isn’t he? He’s at Brasenose too, doing English I think.”

“Oh right.” As a Wadham girl, you had never seen this boy before. You supposed he was quite good-looking, in a boy-next-door sort of way. You thought perhaps he would be bonny, were it not for the solemn expression on his face. He meandered through the crowd to a small table at which sat another boy.

The two were starkly different. Where Esme’s boy was dark haired, the other was fair. Esme’s boy was stocky, but even sat down the other was gangly, and while Esme’s boy clearly wasn’t an avid reader of Esquire, the blond boy looked like he’d rolled around Oxfam’s bargain bin in total darkness and worn whatever stuck; a pair of baggy cargo shorts pulled up far too high and cinched tightly with a black belt, a pair of Merrell trainers and a novelty tshirt. THIS IS HOW I ROLL. Below the wording was an anagram and equation.

If it weren’t for the middle-aged glasses and frankly atrocious haircut, he’d be quite good looking too. Two Oxford virgins; Trinny and Susannah’s wet dream.

“What’s his name then?”

“Oliver, I think.” Esme was licking her lips and fussing with her bangles.

“You look great,” you swatted at her hand. “And the other one?”

“No idea. They’re always hanging around together. Oliver,” she said his name with some uncertainty. “Oliver never says anything, the other one’s always talking a mile a minute but I haven’t really seen him about. Doesn’t go to any parties.”

“Him and the girl with-”

“Agoraphobia.” You said in unison. The characters of Esme’s college were more vivid to you now than those in a Dickens novel.

“I bet he does maths,”

“I told you, he does English.”

“No,” you tut. “The other one.”

“I reckon it’s physics.”

“Put a pint on it?”

“You’re on,” Esme smacked your hip. “Come on, there’s a table by the bar.”

Following the plume of her cigarette smoke, Esme led you to the sticky wooden table and ordered you a pint of Thatchers. She, a pint of Stella. At the table beside you both, Maybe Oliver and The Other One were talking quickly. Well, the maths-slash-physics boy was. Maybe Oliver was staring distractedly towards the other end of the pub. You looked over your shoulder. Felix Catton was settling down with another round of beers, his stupid eyebrow piercing gleaming in the low pub lights.

“Swap with me,” Esme whispered.

“What?”

“Swap with me so I can look at Oliver.”

You sighed and stood up, shuffling round the table to sit parallel to Oliver. Esme smiled at him as she sat down and he smiled back. When she giggled, you kicked her under the table. Now across from maths-slash-physics, you could see him clearly.

This close, you stood by your assessment that he could have been handsome. His light eyes were framed by not just those hideous glasses but thick, dark lashes. He had a jawline and cheekbones that would make Agyness Deyn jealous. His lips, though strangely curved were plump, and he had a distracting habit of frequently wetting them. But there was something so distinctly and undefinably creepy about him. He talked like a snake, quickly with hissed “s”s and “t”s. You noticed with unease that he barely blinked as he watched for any minutia in his friend’s reaction, and he moved with an almost jerky stiffness. All elbows and angles. This strange combination of beautiful and revolting made him impossible to ignore. Like catching yourself in the mirror after dying your hair. A strange feeling of the uncanny.

He caught your eye, sensing you staring at him, and you quickly glanced at Esme. Shit. She’d been talking to you about something.

“-of course, it’s easy to compare the Iliad and the Aeneid, but really they’re very different.”

Aha. She was trying to impress, hoping Maybe Oliver would hear. “Oh yes?” You leant forward on your arm and wiggled your eyebrows at her. “Tell me more.”

Esme was clearly delighted that you’d cottoned on to her plan. Brushing her hair from her shoulders and leaning forward too, she continued. “Well, you have to start with the language. One is Greek and one is Latin. Now, we go through this in linguistics. Everyone has to get up to speed with their Greek and Latin so we’re all on the same level-”

You giggled and she kicked you under the table. Esme knew you already knew this and didn’t care. You knew that Esme was just showboating. When you kicked her back she got the giggles and glanced at Maybe Oliver. His eyes were still trained on the back of the pub, and she sighed, taking a gulp of beer. In perfect symmetry, you drank your cider and in the lull you admired the lengths your friend went to flirt with a seemingly average boy.

“-Jameson spends the whole time staring at her tits, completely ignoring the fact she can barely do her times tables.”

Esme choked a little on her drink and your eyebrows shot upwards with barely contained glee. This was far more interesting. You and Esme watched each other, communing telepathically about the intriguing conversation between the boys next to you.

“-times tables, Oliver!”

“Told you it was maths!” You whispered at Esme. Without a word, she got up with a smile to buy you another pint.

“-just fuck off and do history of art, love, save us all the trouble!”

You stilled in your seat, cider halfway to your lips. Did he just-? You ran the sentence over in your mind. “Fuck off and do history of art, love, save us all the trouble.” It wasn’t the first time you’d encountered snobbery about your selected study. Friends from school deemed it “hoity-toity,” and even your parents had worried about your career prospects.

“But what can you actually do with a history of art degree?”

You’d thought Oxford would be different. Surrounded by other young minds, eager for knowledge and an appreciation of the world around them, freshly opened up like your first bottle of champagne; long-awaited, exciting and with a little bit of bite. Just for the adults.

“Excuse me?” Your heart was pounding in your chest as you leant over a little and smiled at the pair of boys. You were proud of your subject but that eagerness to prove its, and your, worth was impossible to ignore. Oliver and Maths Boy looked at you. “Do you,” you cleared your throat. “What’s wrong with history of art?”

The gangly boy scoffed and turned rigidly in his chair to face you. Like most other nerds, you’d expected him to shy away from anyone outside of his carefully selected circle. This boy, however, seemed to take up an enormous space in your mind. He was confident. Already taken aback by his vicious comment, that threw you even more.

“What’s wrong with it? It’s an easy option that’s become an elitist haven for the middle class.” He pushed his glasses up his long nose with a bony finger. “You ever met any of those ‘students’?” He put air quotes around that last word and you flinched, neck bristling with anger. You doubt he’d have noticed if you put your top over your head and did the Cupid Shuffle; he continued as if nothing happened.

“Load of public-school wankers spouting their useless opinions on aristocrats lounging about in gilded frames, just so they can justify getting a job in daddy’s gallery. It’s an irrelevant, niche subject for people who think their view of the world is superior to us mere plebs’.”

“Michael,” Oliver murmured. He turned to you, not quite looking you in the eye. “Sorry-”

“Here’s your pint,” Esme placed another Thatchers before you. Both you and “Michael” ignored your friends.

“You think it’s irrelevant?” You took a swig of cider without taking your eyes off him. Angry little prick, this fella. You knew the like; maths, physics, economics, law. The students were all the same. Thinking they were better than everyone else because they could swan off into the sunset with £40k job straight out of uni and reap the benefits that the arts provided them without any need to know better. The designer clothes and fast cars, the beautiful buildings they worked in, the nails on the woman ripping open the condom wrapper…

“What’s irrelevant?” Esme said brightly. She held out her hand for Oliver. “Esme, hi.”

“Oliver-”

“History of art, apparently.” You said haughtily.

“Ouch. Who said that?” Esme sat down beside you, still smiling at Oliver.

“Michael.”

“Who’s Michael?”

“Michael Gavey.” The man in question announced himself by extending a long arm in Esme’s direction. She shook his with slight shock and raised her eyebrows at Oliver. He lowered his head in shame.

“Our girl here’s a history of art student.” Esme patted your hand. If you, Esme and Oliver expected this to soften Michael, it didn’t work.

“Ah,” he smiled, mirth lighting his eyes. “That’s why you’re so tetchy. Which school was it then? Cheltenham? Roedean?”

“She went to state comp actually,” Ever your champion, Esme came to your defence.

“Scholarship student?” Michael sneered.

“No,” you rebuffed quickly.

“What’s wrong with that? Me and Oliver here are.”

“Nothing You were the one trying to get me to say it was.”

Michael smiled with satisfaction and an awkward silence fell between the four of you. The clink of glasses and drunken chatter continued around you. This wasn’t the first charged student encounter that had happened in this pub, nor would it be the last.

“I suppose you think maths is superior?” You folded your arms and raised an eyebrow. A challenge. Prove it then.

“Of course it is,”

It was your turn to scoff. “Why can’t there be room for both?”

“There is room for both. Mathematics is just more important.”

“Jesus,” Oliver rubbed his hands over his face.

“Mathematics is the foundation for everything. The modern world as we know it wouldn’t exist without it. Technology, healthcare, finance, governance, everything. It prevents chaos. Without mathematics, society would collapse.” He fidgeted in his chair to turn more vividly towards you, his hands excitedly grasping for something in front of him that didn’t exist. Maths, probably. “We create predictions and complex design systems so that life as we know it can exist, and continue to exist.”

He looked at you as though you should have been impressed. You supposed his excitement was quite sweet. In truth, you knew maths was important. History of art student though you were, you weren’t an idiot. You were at one of the world’s top universities for God’s sake.

“But what’s the point of existing if there’s nothing to enjoy? To live for?”

“Pardon?” What had he expected? For you to roll over and kiss his feet? Take him round the back of the pub for a quick knee tremble? “Oh yes, Michael, tell me more about Fermat’s conjecture! More! More!”

“Art is what makes life worth living for. Its history helps us understand politics, religions, societies and peoples of the past.”

“All that from staring at a Bruegels?” Michael looked at Oliver with a laugh, hoping for back up. Oliver was tearing up a beer mat.

“Yes!”

“Well, it’s never done anything for me.”

His arrogance and ignorance was astounding. This final comment was the drop that sent you overflowing with exasperation. “Yes it has,” you snapped. Michael glared at you. “Aside from what I literally just said, art has done everything for you. Take today for example.”

At this, Michael sat forward. He couldn’t resist a reasoned argument with concrete evidence.

“You woke up this morning at Brasenose, is it?” He nodded. “At Brasenose, in a dorm with Carol Vorderman posters on the walls, posters designed by graphic designers who studied art. Those posters line the walls of a building almost five hundred years old. From barely known architects to Powell and Moya, each added to its history with their extensive understanding of art and beauty. For some reason you then got up and decided to put on that God awful tshirt which, although many would believe otherwise, was designed to be aesthetically pleasing or visually arresting. The latter it certainly is. There you go. Art.” You were on a role.

“I’m assuming you had lectures or tutorial today? The book you read? The covers were made by, you guessed it, artists. You came here with Oliver and decided to get a craft beer because you’re a pretentious prick, and got the darker of the two because, and I agree with you here, the label is prettier. You’re gonna go home in an hour or two when you’ve had one too many pints and ogled that pretty girl at the bar,” you pointed at Eleanor. “Whose thong caught your eye above her low rises. Fashion? That’s art by the way and extremely influential on society ‘as we know it’.” You quoted him back and loved the way his lips quirked into a tight line.

“And thinking of her and her pretty thong, you’ll whack out ZOO mag and whack out a swift one over some big-titted page three girl in a pair of lace knickers that were designed by someone with a fashion degree. Art.”

Esme and Oliver stared at you. A manic, self-satisfied smile was plastered on your face, and when you downed your pint to cool down from the warmth that outpouring had exerted, Oliver actually smiled. Michael said nothing. Did nothing. He was entirely, utterly unreadable. You wanted to smack him.

He glanced from you to Esme, to Oliver and at last to his pint. Like you had done, he picked it up, finish it in three gulps and placed it back on the table. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus.” What the fuck was he talking about? He spoke to his friend as if you and Esme had ceased to exist. “Going for a slash. Get me another pint please, Oliver? Thanks.” He stood from his chair, unfurling like a stick insect, and made purposefully for the gents’.

Your mouth fell open. Esme chuckled nervously. “He’s a charmer,” she said to Oliver.

“Yeah, ‘scuse,” he muttered, shuffling awkwardly to the bar.

You both sat in your chairs, baffled silence befalling of you. “Well, no double dates for us then.” Esme said.

You laughed. “No date for you fullstop.”

“Yeah,” Esme glanced at the bar where Oliver was now waving at someone. You watched as he made his way over to Felix Catton and his friends. “Bit dull, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Oliver sat down as the rest of the posho’s table cheered. “Though if he’s friends with Felix Catton…?”

“Didn’t realise you were so shallow?” Esme teased.

“I’m not! But the parties, Esme, the parties!”

“I know, I know, I’ll remember that Christmas one forever. Oh God, here he comes,” Esme shrank in her seat. Michael was weaving through the crowd back towards the table.

“Why isn’t he going to sit with Felix and Oliver?” You whispered. “He better not be coming back here.”

You and Esme watched as his approached slowed, faltering when he noticed Oliver and his pint were missing. He glanced around, looking at his feet as if to find Oliver on the floor. It was painful. Watching the realisation dawn on his face. You and Esme knew it before he did.

A hand raised in the air; he had spotted Oliver at Felix’s table. You watched, with pity and embarrassment, as Michael waved and Oliver turned away.

“Shit,” Esme said.

Hand moving to push up his glasses, Michael, with head hung low, left.

“Shit,” Esme said again. “Bet you feel like a bitch for shouting at him now.”

And despite his pomp and arrogance, his cynicism and creepiness, you really did feel awful.

Notes: The amount of research I did for this was wholly unnecessary. Added some links because 2006/2007 was quite a place. The script hit me like a fucking train. It says, “Back with Michael: CRUSHED.”

Many thanks to @thecruel for their help with the transcript of the Saltburn pub scene, and to @ewanmitchellcrumbs for the Michael Gavey inspo, your headcanons are always spot on.

Tags: @lexwolfhale* @theoneeyedprince @lovebittenbyevans @fan-goddess @ellrond @very-straight-blog @arcielee @tsujifreya @liv-cole @myfandomprompts @annoyingkittydetective* @elizarbell @solisarium @thekinslayersswordhand @nightdiamond8663* @slowlysparklyninja* @kate-to-the-ki @bellaisasleep @xxxkat3xxx @lacebvnny @moonriseoverkyoto @ewanmitchellcrumbs @moonlightfoxx @pendragora @aemonds-holy-milk @st-eve-barnes @sapphire-writes @babyblue711 @targaryenrealnessdarling @slytherincursebreaker @bottlesandbarricades @valeskafics @anjelicawrites @exitpursuedbyavulcan @barbieaemond @chattylurker @itbmojojoejo @humanpurposes @cyeco13 @heimtathurs @in-a-mountain-pool

*could not tag

#ewan mitchell #michael gavey #michael gavey x reader #saltburn #saltburn 2023 #ewan mitchell x reader #emerald fennell

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headkiss · 1 year ago

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become the sun

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: figuring out how to move on from life in hawkins, steve takes a trip to the beach, where he meets you, who becomes his tour guide and maybe more than that.

word count: 14.5k

warnings: fluff, teeny bit of angst, strangers to friends to lovers, and some kisses!!!

a/n: hiiii i am so excited to finally have beach steve done for u guys!!! it’s inspired by true blue by boygenius (if u couldn’t tell by the title)!!! i put a lot into this one and i hope u like it <3

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

The beach is an interesting place. It changes with the seasons, the population shrinking as the leaves fade from green to brown.

There’s the crowds that come through from the months of June to August, the people that occupy summer homes, the tourists stopping by, the sand stuck to skin, the coconut smell of sunscreen. It’s when everything is bright, saturated with sunlight and people.

And then, there’s winter. The cooler weather driving away the summertime residents, turning things into a quiet town where the locals all know each other. Snow falling on the beach in January, hands tucked into jacket pockets.

For Steve, it was exactly what he needed. A getaway, room to grow, something away from Hawkins where he felt stuck, still.

For you, the beach is home.

You’ve lived in True Beach your entire life, in one of its classic blue houses with white trimming and accents. You’ve watched the town grow, watched people come and go with the seasons.

The town sits on the east coast, tucked away and—when it isn’t in the heat of summer—small.

You’ve been working at the cafe for years, floating between positions. Baking in the back, ringing people through, cleaning tables. Mornings are spent in the cafe, then, when you’re off, you’re trying to soak up whatever summer has to offer.

Today, you’re heading out the door with your swimsuit on under a sundress, tote bag on your shoulder.

“Have a good one, sweetie!” Macy, your boss (more like a mother figure and friend by now) calls from the counter as the bell above the door jingles with your exit.

“Bye, Macy!”

The heat hits you as soon as you step out the door, your eyes squinting in the sun as you try to fish your sunglasses from your bag.

Your walk to the shore is easy, the steps nothing but muscle memory by now. You cross main street, head towards the path worn into the sand by foot traffic, over the small dunes until the sound of waves crashing onto sand hits your ears. It’s mixed with laughter, conversation, the sound of kids playing.

It’s pure summer.

Towel laid out, you settle in a spot a bit further from the shoreline, enough so that there isn’t anyone else sitting in close proximity to you.

Soon enough, you’ve got your dress pulled off and tossed into your bag, a layer of sunscreen applied, and a book in your hand. You’re laying on your stomach, propped on your elbows, ankles crossed. You’re so wrapped up in the words in front of you and the heat of the sun on your back that you don’t notice the boy setting his things nearby and jogging towards the water. Not until he comes back.

A droplet of water splashes your page, and you look to the side to find the culprit. Your heart stutters at what you see: a boy shaking out his wet hair the way a dog does, all clumsy and cute.

You’ve never seen him before. This boy with brown hair falling over his forehead, eyes crinkling in the sunlight, freckles in a constellation across his skin, a sunburn kissing the bridge of his nose and his cheeks. He’s pretty. You’re glad your sunglasses can hide the way your eyes trail down to his chest, the smattering of hair there, the sand that sticks to his damp skin.

In this part of True Beach, you know pretty much everyone. The locals, the people who stay for the summers, but not him. You’d remember him if you did.

“Good swim?” You speak up.

Steve’s head lifts, his eyes finding you easily, laying on your tummy, sun setting a glow across your skin. He scans you, the curve of your back, the book in your hands. You’re the first person who’s spoken to him so far in True Beach, and for a second, he thinks he might’ve dreamt it.

“Yeah,” he says. He wants to say more, ask your name, something, but the words seem stuck. “It’s beautiful here.”

“First time here?” You push yourself up to sit, book set on your towel, your hands propped behind you.

“First time anywhere, really.”

A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, flickering across your face.

“I hope it’s a good one, then.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair, pushing it from his face, he slings his towel over his shoulder, “I do, too.”

With that, the boy picks up his bag and heads off, and you can’t help but watch him leave, the freckles that dot his back, the muscles that sit there, too. You hope that you’ll see him again.

You hope that maybe, maybe this summer will be different than the rest.

Steve’s staying in a condo down by the beach. A white building with scratched paint and faded accents of greens, yellows, and blues. He’s on the ground floor, his small patio a step away from the sand. Coral Condos, it’s called.

He’d found True Beach on a whim, staring at a map and waiting until something jumped out at him. This town did.

For Steve, Hawkins was becoming too much. A reminder of everything that’s ever happened to him, of things he doesn’t know he’ll ever accomplish. His friends were all moving on, moving away, and he was just there.

First it was Nancy and Jonathan going out of state for college, then it was Eddie moving to Indianapolis for his music. What hit him the hardest was when Robin was off to school, too. When he was working shifts in Family Video alone, with his thoughts and the hum of the TV.

He needed to get out, away from the house that served as a reminder of the absence of his parents. He needed the room to change, to let himself be known as who he is now and nobody else.

So he’s here, spending his summer in True Beach to try and figure things out.

Steve’s been worried about his decision, wondering if it was too much, if he was doing the right thing. Robin had reassured him plenty, but after being in a single town for pretty much his entire life, this trip seems bigger.

Then, you spoke a couple of words to him on the beach, and he thought that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Even with big sunglasses covering your eyes, there was a kindness there, the beauty of someone not having any preconceived notions about him. Here, King Steve doesn’t exist.

Not to mention that you spoke to him, sunlight bouncing off your skin, lips moving around your words in a way that caught him.

His walk back to his condo is full of replaying your short conversation, the small smile that had spread over your face. Why the hell didn’t he ask your name?

Steve hopes to see you again, to feel the way he did when you talked to him. Like a person, someone worth speaking to, someone without a reputation that follows him despite being long gone, someone he wants to be.

Yeah, he really hopes to see you again.

Soon enough, you’re back at the cafe, working your morning shift and glancing up every time the bell above the door jingles. You’d never admit it, not even to yourself, but you’re looking for someone specific. Looking for the boy from the beach.

It’s odd, the little spark of hope you get whenever the door opens. You don’t even know his name.

Instead of facing this strange pull you feel towards a total stranger, you try to focus on work. Your customer service smile, making coffees, bagging sweets. You’ve been doing it long enough that it’s all subconscious, a routine that’s easy to fall into.

Then, only an hour before your shift is meant to end, the boy walks in, hair messy on top of his head.

Unsure if he even remembers you, you try to act natural. “Good morning!”

Steve follows the sound of your voice, finding you at the counter by the register, welcoming smile on your face. He recognizes you right away. It’s the same face he’d seen on the beach, the one he’s thought about since.

“Hi,” he says, stepping up to the counter across from you. He glances down to your name tag, pinned to the strap of your canvas apron. It suits you, he thinks. “Makes more sense than ‘girl from the beach.’”

“Sorry?”

“Your name, I mean.” He shifts a little on his feet. “I’m Steve, by the way.”

Steve. A piece of him you won’t have to wonder about anymore. Today, Steve’s wearing a linen button up shirt, the first couple buttons undone, his chest hair peeking out.

“Well hi, Steve. Boy from the beach,” you smile softly, a shared memory floating between you. “What can I get for you?”

If he’s being honest, Steve had sort of forgotten what he came into the cafe for once he saw you standing behind the counter. He looks at the menu on the wall behind you, skimming over the words.

“Um,” he looks back at you, his indecisiveness written in a small wince on his face, “have any drink recommendations?”

“Coming right up.”

You turn to make his drink, the coffee machine whirring behind you, the sound of things brewing a constant background to your day. You pour some ice into a cup, and soon enough you’ve got his drink mixed and poured, too.

You grab a cup sleeve, scrawling a small message on it before you can overthink it, and then slip it onto the cup, turning back to the counter where Steve is waiting, hands tucked into his pockets.

He watched you bounce between things in the cafe, hands moving like it’s second nature to you.

“Here you go,” you say, setting the cup onto the counter.

“Thanks.” Steve picks it up, dropping a bill onto the counter with his other hand.

Again, he finds himself wanting to say more to you, to stretch out the conversation. Instead, he heads to a table in the corner of the cafe and takes a sip of what you’ve made him. Of course it’s good, he thinks. You don’t look like someone who would mess these things up.

Right when he’s about to set the cup back down, he notices the sharpie scrawled onto the sleeve, lettering angled and curved to fit in the empty space. It could only be your writing, the words sweet and simple.

‘Welcome to True Beach :)’

Steve smiles at his cup, at the hint of something friendly, something kind, in a place so new to him.

He really should talk to you more this time, he knows it. Because he regretted not doing it once and he doesn’t want to do it again. So, when he finishes his drink, he walks up to the counter all over again.

“You’re back,” you say, though he never really left. He’d been in the cafe the whole time, your eyes always finding their way back to him.

“Yeah,” he sets his now empty cup down on the counter gently, “can I get another?”

“You liked it?” You smile a little, feeling a zip of success, of some sort of accomplishment.

“I mean, it’s refill worthy, so,” he shrugs like the answer is obvious, shoulder to his sunburnt cheek.

You make him another, the same way you made the first, his eyes on your back, your hands working on autopilot. The recipes make themselves by now, written into your memory.

You still can't really believe Steve’s here, that the boy from the beach walked in when you’d been thinking about him since you spoke. You wonder if it’s some sort of sign, hands of fate pushing him into the cafe.

Either way, you decide to take a chance.

“So,” you hand him his drink, and he hands you another bill and refuses the change, “if you wanted to meet some people, there’s this bonfire tonight at the beach. You should come.”

“Really?” He checks, because there’s no way you’d invite him somewhere after such small conversations, right?

“Yeah, really,” I want you there, you’d say if you had the courage. “You can get to know a bit about True Beach. Being a newbie and all.”

So far in his stay, Steve hasn’t been inclined to seek things out. He’s been alright keeping to himself, going to bed early enough. Now, he’s thinking that it’d be good to get out, to meet people, to explore the way he told himself he would here.

Maybe to see you again, too.

“I’d like that,” he nods, a shy smile on his lips. “You’ll be there?”

In all honesty, you’ve yet to attend a bonfire this summer. You’ve never been a huge fan of them, really. But if he’s going, so will you.

“I’ll be there,” you confirm. “It’s down by the docks. Sort of hard to miss.”

“I’ll see you later then, girl from the beach.”

“Later,” you smile, and a mirrored expression spreads on Steve’s face. “Boy from the beach.”

He turns and leaves, the bell above the door ringing yet again with his exit. For once, you spend what remains of your shift eager for the day to pass, for it to be nighttime with a fire crackling nearby and the boy from the beach as company.

Steve doesn’t know what it is about you, doesn’t know how or why, but somehow, you’ve made him feel like he’s in the right place. Like leaving Hawkins wasn’t this big huge mistake the way he’d worried it would be.

He needed to get out, he knows that, and he’s done it, but he’s yet to move on. Maybe tonight could be a step towards that, a step towards new friends (though he’ll always have those from Hawkins), a new environment, a new beginning.

He thinks about it all on his walk back to the condo. His past, what could be his future. He doesn’t know what it looks like, and maybe he never will, but he knows that the sun warming his skin and the salt in the air is something he could get used to. Something he could love, if he could just let himself.

And when Steve eventually throws away his cafe cup, he makes sure to keep the sleeve with your handwriting on it. A souvenir as good as any.

Maybe a sign, too. A promise of some sort.

Your hands are covered by the sleeves of your sweater as you walk over to the bonfire, bright orange casting a glow over the sand, the warmth of the flames hitting you as you draw nearer.

It’s early enough that hints of the sun remain in the sky, a stripe of orange on the horizon, fading into blue as you look up. It’s a really nice night, the stars and moon bright above you, the breeze still warm enough to wear shorts. Even so, you can’t help but be nervous.

You haven’t been to one of the bonfires in a long time, and though you see these people often in town, it’s never like this. Never all at once.

Plus, there’s Steve. You hadn’t told him a time, but he said he’d come and despite barely knowing him, he seems like the kind of guy who means what he says. The anticipation is what gets you. What you’ll say when you see him, how to act.

You’ve never wanted to get to know someone the way you do with him, the instant sense that he’s a person you’d like to have in your life, and that’s intimidating in itself.

“Look who decided to show up!” It’s Steph’s voice, your longtime friend, forever neighbor.

“Hey,” you give her a small smile, happy to see her and apologetic all at once. “Sorry it’s been so long.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she tosses an arm around your neck, “come on!”

Steph guides you to the group standing around the fire, people you’ve known forever, people who cheer at your appearance (though the enthusiasm is hugely influenced by their various states of being drunk).

It’s Mason who works at the record store, Vic that busses tables in the diner like no other. It’s everyone who makes True Beach what it is and you’re glad to be a part of it, even if your mind continues to drift elsewhere.

You keep looking towards the path that leads to the beach, hoping to see a silhouette coming through, the boy from the beach. Steve.

It’s unusual, the way you wait for him to show up. It’s been a long, long time since you’ve had this sort of eagerness, the excitement of meeting someone new, of feeling this pull.

Steph seems to notice your eyes drifting again during your conversation, and she’s quick to ask, “what’s over there?”

“Huh?” You look back at her face, and you don’t exactly love the accusing look on her face.

“You keep looking at the path,” then, she gasps, like she’s discovered something amazing, “are you waiting for someone?”

“What? No.” You shake your head when she nudges her shoulder into yours. “Just thought I saw something.”

“Sure you did, babe.”

All you can do is shake your head again. She’s already gotten the idea in her head, you won’t be getting it out. Besides, even if you won’t say so, she is right, after all.

The night continues on this way, your eyes constantly flicking towards the path, thinking that the person arriving is Steve. It never is, though.

Your hope is shrinking smaller and smaller as the time goes by, thirty minutes, an hour, another hour. Still no sign of him. You’ve only just met, and yet, the disappointment strikes you hard, a sinking in your gut, a thump in your chest. You really thought he’d come.

You shouldn’t be surprised, you think. Or upset, really. You’re a total stranger inviting him to a beach at night, you’ve probably scared him off, freaked him out.

Eventually, you find yourself sitting in the sand by yourself, everyone wrapped up in conversations, laughter ringing behind you.

You stare at the waves, the steady rise and crash onto the shore. You stare and stare and stare until you figure it’s too late now, Steve’s not coming, and you should just go.

So, with an embarrassing lump in your throat, you stand and dust off the back of your shorts and head towards the path, glad that nobody notices your departure, that you're able to force away the tears that have no business being there in the first place.

Where he is, Steve blinks his eyes open gradually, waking up to a dark condo and a kink in his neck. After a day in the sun, he’d accidentally crashed on the couch, falling asleep with the hum of the TV in the background.

At first, he’s just confused, disoriented as he checks the clock and sees the time. 12:26 AM. Then, it hits him. The bonfire, the ‘see you later,’ you.

Fuck.

He scrambles to get up, shoving on his shoes and heading out the door without a thought about how he must look right now. His hair a total mess from being pushed against the couch cushions, his eyes bleary from sleep. That’s not what matters.

Steve’s basically sprinting to the beach, running until he sees the docks, sees the fire still burning nearby. There are still people, too. Maybe I can save this, he thinks, maybe she’s here and I’ll explain and we’ll just laugh about it.

You’re the first person he’s really spoken to here, the first one to make him feel like True Beach was a good idea, and he’d be a fucking idiot to lose the whisper of a friendship before it’s gotten the chance to form. A total fucking idiot.

Breathing heavily from his rush to get here, Steve walks over to the first person he sees, a girl with a can in her hand, her hair in braids that have become loose with time.

“Hey, sorry,” he says, getting her attention.

Steph’s the one he’s addressing, though he has no idea who she is. She turns towards him and smiles politely, because she’s got no idea who he is, either.

“Hm?” She hums.

Steve says your name, the name that’s been in his head since he’d read it on your apron. “Have you seen her?”

“Oh! You’re the one she must’ve been waiting for.” Steph looks around, her eyebrows scrunching, “ummm, she was here. Guess she left.”

You’re the one she must’ve been waiting for, she was here, guess she left.

Steve’s stomach drops. You’d been waiting for him, and he’d practically stood you up like an asshole. Sure, he was asleep and it was unintentional, but you don’t know that, and he feels awful. The things you must’ve been thinking, how you felt.

He feels like the biggest jerk ever.

Steve forces a smile, though he’s sure it’s an awful facade. “Okay, thanks anyway.”

With that, he turns away from Steph and heads back towards the path, his head down, shoulders a little slumped because this isn’t how things were supposed to go.

He was supposed to show up, to talk to you and learn more than your name or where you work, to plant the seed of something between you. Friendship, maybe. More, if he’d been lucky.

“Hey,” Steph calls before Steve gets too far. He turns around. “She’s got a shift tomorrow. Seven AM.”

He nods, and heads off again. He’ll fix this. Somehow, he’s going to fix this and it’ll work. It has to, he thinks, because he needs to know you.

Steve barely sleeps that night. For one, there was the nap that was long enough, and then—of course—there’s you. He spent hours laying on his back, watching the ceiling fan whirl above him, trying to figure out what to say.

In the end, he scraps every idea he has and decides to wing it the best he can. Not a great plan, but it’s all he has, so it’ll have to be enough.

Your friend said you started at seven, so Steve shows up at the cafe at exactly 7:02 AM. He's got mismatched socks on his feet, sandals on top of those. He’s sure his eyes are puffy, too, the lack of sleep evident on his face.

Despite that, he opens the cafe door, the bell ringing above his head. He spots you right away, leaning over a table, wiping it down with the towel in your hand, your walkman clipped onto the pocket of your apron, headphones on your head.

There’s someone else at the counter this time, an older woman with crinkles by her eyes and a kind smile. But, Steve came here to see you, so he heads over to the table you’re cleaning.

You can’t hear him coming, you only catch him walking over in your peripheral, his hands shoved in his pockets. You straighten, leaving the towel on the table and pausing your music, pushing your headphones down to rest around your neck.

“Steve. Hi.” You’re sure the surprise is in your voice. You really hadn’t been expecting to see him again.

“I’m so sorry about last night,” is what he says, needing to get it out, unsure of how else to start.

He surprises you a second time, his words are written on his face, the sleepiness in his eyes, the tiny frown on his mouth, the worried scrunch in his brows. It’s impossible to deny his sincerity.

“Oh.” You twist your fingers in the wire of your headphones. “It’s totally fine, you don’t have to apologize to me.”

“No, I do.” Steve pulls his hands from his pockets, and they move as he speaks, like he can’t help it. “Listen, it’s gonna sound made up, but I swear to you, it’s not. I fell asleep.”

“Steve-”

“I did. I got back from the beach and I fell asleep. As soon as I woke up I went to the bonfire, but you’d already left. I’m sorry for making you wait like that.”

You were never angry or upset with him to begin with. It was more towards yourself, the disappointment. You’d built up an expectation of him, of the night, in your head, and it’s your own fault. Still, the explanation has your chest feeling lighter.

“It’s okay, Steve. I mean, I’m a total stranger inviting you to this thing. It’s weird.”

“It’s not! It’s not weird, I promise.” He’s quiet for a second, then, his voice softer than before, he says, “I really did wanna go.”

You’re not sure what it is that gets you, maybe the way his brown eyes seem to melt a little, or the way his voice slows with the last few words, like he really wants you to hear them, but either way, any lingering negativity of the night before seems to fade away.

“You didn’t miss much, really.” You lean your hands behind you on the table. “Just a bunch of people getting drunk and slipping around in the sand.”

“I’m still sorry I didn’t go. I told you I would.”

“Steve, seriously, it’s okay.”

“Thanks for, you know, letting me explain.”

“Stop worrying about it, ‘kay? We’re good.”

Steve wonders if there’s a reason this place jumped out at him when he’d read the name. If some sort of divine intervention led him to True Beach. Because he’d found you here, and though you’ve only spoken a couple of times, he knows that people like you are rare. The sort of kindness that feels refreshing, the easiness of being around you.

He wants more of it, wants to know if maybe there’s a reason he feels like he was meant to meet you.

“I do want to know True Beach,” he says, “being a newbie and all.”

Your words from the day before coming from him make you smile. The thought that he’d remembered what you said well enough to repeat it back. Not everyone listens like that.

“I could show you around, if you wanted? You know, the best spots, the good food.”

“You’d do that?”

“Yeah! It’s an excuse for me to do more than just be lazy on the beach. Plus, It’d be fun.”

He smiles, this time it’s not hidden or pushed back, it’s a beam of light, sunshine peeking out from behind a cloud. “I’ll take you up on it, then.”

You smile, too. “I’m off at one, if you wanna meet back here?”

“Yeah, yes, that’s great. I’ll be here.”

Steven turns to go, but you call out, “don’t fall asleep this time!”

He faces you again, heads towards the front counter saying, “maybe I should get a coffee. Just to be safe.”

You shake your head with a grin, one that stays on your face even when you turn away and continue to wipe down the tables. Not even 8 o’clock in the morning and it feels like a good day.

Macy’s the one who served Steve his coffee this time, and once he leaves, the cafe now mostly empty, she walks over and leans a hip against the table, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyebrows raised at you.

“So, who was that?”

“His name is Steve.”

“Steve, hm? He’s a cutie.”

“Macy! He’s only here for the summer. And we only just met, alright? It’s nothing.”

Somehow, her eyebrows go even higher, the look on her face one you always get when she knows something. Or, when she thinks she knows something.

“Okay, okay. But I saw your smile just now.” She pokes your cheek, “I know you, sweetie. That wasn’t nothing.”

“I’m just gonna show him around. He’s new here, that’s it, I swear.”

She holds her hands up, “fine, but I will be saying ‘I told you so’ if that changes.”

“I’d expect nothing less, Macy.”

Macy likes to try and play matchmaker with you often, but her tone is usually much more joking than it is now. Though it’s still light, still teasing, it’s different. You wonder if maybe she was seeing something you couldn’t, something you didn’t want to see.

You don’t know this boy, not really. You know he has a way of saying things that make them feel true, that he has the softest eyes you’ve ever seen, that he’s able to pull smiles from you without even trying.

No, you don’t know him, but maybe you could. Starting today.

This time, Steve doesn’t leave you wondering. He shows up five minutes before your shift is set to end, and Macy, noticing him walking into the cafe, leans over to you, “looks like your boy is back, sweetie. Go ahead and get out of here.”

You shake your head and let it slide, knowing that she’ll believe whatever she wants no matter how much you fight her on it. You lean your head on her shoulder long enough to say: “thanks, Mace.”

Then, you’re heading out, tugging the bow on the back of your apron loose and slipping it over your head to hang it up on its hook on your way to the back room where you grab your bag. You pause at the mirror by the employee cubbies, smoothing back some baby hairs and brushing stray coffee grinds from your cheeks.

Steve stands to the side of the entrance, somehow looking more sun kissed than he’d been this morning, and he waves when he spots you walking towards him. “My tour guide.”

“That would be me.” There’s a small smile on your face already. There always seems to be one when you talk to him. “You ready to go?”

He moves to open the door, gesturing with his free hand, “lead the way.”

The summer heat hits you as soon as you walk through the door, the sun shining on the side of your face. You twist your head away from the sun and towards Steve, who’s fallen into step beside you, his strides matching yours.

“I thought we’d stay downtown, show you the shops and stuff.” Steve looks at you as you speak, even with the sun making him squint. “Sound okay?”

“Sounds perfect. I trust you.”

He steps around you, tugging your wrist gently to place you on the inside of the sidewalk, and himself closest to the road. It’s a small thing, one that could easily be meaningless, but your heart stutters the slightest bit, your steps slowing before forcing yourself to keep up with him.

The walk is short, filled with small talk that doesn’t feel forced or exhausting. It feels natural, the kind of ‘how are you?’ you get from a friend rather than a stranger. And you suppose he isn’t a stranger, you know just enough for him to be more than that.

Your hands brush between you, knuckles skimming against each other just once. A spark zipping up your arm, the same electricity traveling in his, too.

You ignore it (try to, at least), and before long, you’re at your first destination of the day. You stop walking, turning towards the awning of the store, “here we are.”

Steve stops with you, his eyes set on your face as you gesture towards the building. He looks away when you catch him, looking up at the sign hung above the door, a wave that fades into music notes, the words ‘Splash Records’ layered on top of that.

Now, it’s you who’s looking at his face, looking for a reaction. “It’s a gem, I swear.”

He turns to you again, his eyes, lighter in the sun, set on yours, “like I said, I trust you.”

“Okay,” you open the door for him this time, light blue paint flaking onto your hand when you twist the knob, “after you.”

Walking in, the record store is packed, but not in a way that feels stuffy. It’s full, music streaming through the store’s speakers, surrounding the space. There’s crates of records set on tables in the middle, shelves of them lining the walls.

Then, straight ahead from the door at the back, there’s the counter, the register sitting atop it, a record spinning behind it.

You wave to the boy standing there, “hey, Mason!”

Mason waves back, smiling at you, “hey! Need help finding anything?”

“We’re only browsing. Thanks, though.”

“No problem, cafe. You let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

The local workers in True Beach have developed this habit of calling each other by their jobs, hence why you’re ‘cafe.’ It’s silly, and you’re all well aware of everyone’s actual names, but it started and stuck ever since.

“Sure will, record store.”

Steve, for some reason, has this dull, punched-in-the-gut kind of feeling. He shouldn’t, he really, really shouldn't, but he does. Seeing the boy smile at you, seeing you share an inside joke.

And then, you’re wrapping a hand around his wrist so softly and leading him into the store and the ache is gone, replaced with this warmth. Warmth that blooms and grows into his chest.

“So, Steve, beach boy, what kind of music do you like?”

Just like that, the ache is forgotten.

“Take a guess,” he says.

You walk towards one of the crates at the front of a table, the letter A attached to the front. He follows, watches you flick through the records.

“Hmmm,” you stop and tug one out, facing Steve and holding up ABBA’s Arrival. “This one.”

“Come on!” He laughs, mostly because you’re right, and you seem to know it.

“You’re totally a ‘Dancing Queen’ kind of guy.”

He shrugs, a closed-mouth smile with mischief laced behind it, and turns to a different crate. And then, ever so softly, he starts humming the tune to ‘Dancing Queen.’

You smack his arm lightly, jaw dropped, soon spreading into a grin of victory. “I knew it!”

You continue on with your guesses, Steve following behind you with a sort of brightness in his eyes. He feels like you’re showing him more with each minute you spend together, your personality shining through with every smile or laugh he’s lucky enough to get from you.

The next album you pull is by Wham! and Steve huffs a laugh and shakes his head, “you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I’m right again, aren’t I?”

“No comment.”

“I’m so good at this.”

By the end of it, you’ve added a-ha and Tears for Fears to the pile, and though Steve will end up buying every single one, he looks at the stack in your arms and sighs.

“Have you been stalking me?” He asks, because you’ve yet to be wrong with your selections.

“Yeah, right. You wish,” you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fumbling a little with the records in your hands. “I am just really, really skilled. Plus, you just give off the energy for it.”

“You aren’t making me seem very manly, you know?”

“Who said anything about manly?” Your eyes are kind, Steve thinks they sort of sparkle when you say, “good music is good music. Who cares what it says about you?”

He’d been joking, of course he had, because you’ve been right all along and he sort of stopped worrying about music taste when he started hanging out with Robin, who’s favorite genre is musical soundtracks, and Eddie, who never stopped liking what he did no matter what Hawkins thought of him.

And then, he thinks, Eddie would like you. Would like the way you spoke about music.

Steve’s not sure what to say, not sure how to thank you without sounding like a total idiot. But he doesn’t have to, because you speak before he can, like you’d known he needed you to. “Anyways, you ready for our next destination?”

“I’ll go wherever you go.” The words are soft, and they feel like so much more than simple when he says them. They aren’t more, you know that, but they sound like they could be. “You’re the tour guide.”

Steve buys the records, and with the bag in his hand, he follows you out the door and walks beside you—again, closest to the street—without question.

A couple of stops later (one being the sunglasses shop, where you and Steve handed each other pairs to try on, giggling behind hands, posing into the mirror of the other person’s lenses) you’re leading Steve into the diner on main. It’s classic, vinyl seating, checkered floors, the light blue of the shallow parts of the ocean serving as the pop of color in the place.

You grab a booth, Steve sliding in across from you. It’s by the window, a street of sandals smacking the ground, towels slung over shoulders, and beach bags covered in sand on the other side of it.

It doesn’t take long before a familiar face strolls up to your table, and you give her a little wave as she walks up, “hey, Vic! Busy today?”

“I’ve seen worse, cafe.” Her eyes flick over to Steve, her eyebrows raising when she looks at you again. “And who’s your friend?”

“This is Steve, he’s staying for the summer and roped me into being his tour guide.”

“Hey,” he says, an awkward, but always kind, smile on his face.

“Well, welcome to True Beach.” Vic pulls out her notepad and pen from her pocket. “What can I get you?”

You both order, and Steve listens to you chat with Vic some more, the interest you show in what she tells you, the way you pay attention to her story about a strange customer. He thinks about the way you’ve greeted every shop employee so far today by name, the way they all greet you with the same recognition.

He thinks about how nice it must be to be a part of something like that, a steady unit in a town that sees different faces constantly.

“Sorry about that,” you say to Steve after Vic walks away. “She likes to tell stories.”

“Don’t be. I was eavesdropping, anyway.”

You laugh, quick and sunny, and Steve soaks it up, letting it warm him up. He’s sort of captivated by you, the way you move, the things you say, the way he feels around you. It’s something totally new to him, no matter his history with girls. This is on its own, special and rare, he thinks. Or, maybe, he wishes.

“So, Steve…”

He fills in the blank. “Harrington.”

“Steve Harrington. What brings you to True Beach?”

“Ummm. Vacation?” Steve asks rather than says, because he really doesn’t have an answer. At least, not one that he thinks makes any sense. Self-discovery? Escape? Didn’t want to be the last of his friends stuck in Hawkins?

All of the above, maybe.

“No!” Your foot nudges his under the table. “I mean, like, really. What’s your story? What led you right here?”

Steve likes the way you say what you mean, how you don’t seem to be afraid to ask something more personal. The list of things he likes about you seems to keep growing.

“I grew up in Hawkins, Indiana. Small town, been there my whole life. I was sort of an ass in high school. Hanging around with the wrong people, you know?” He scratches at the hair at the base of his neck, nervous. Less so when he sees your gentle smile and nod. “Anyway, then I met better people. My best friend, Robin, this dork Eddie, and these kids that I care about a lot. Sort of became their babysitter—minus the pay—and, yeah.”

You notice the way he lightens up when he talks about these people, the whisper of a smile on his face as he does. It makes you smile, too, knowing that he has people like that. People that can ease him with a simple memory.

“My parents were never really around. Work trips all the time, stuff like that, but it forced me to learn a lot. I worked at this movie rental place for a few years, and then all my friends were moving on, going to school, taking control of their lives. I figured I’d do the same.”

“That’s why you’re here?”

“Hm?”

“To move on. Take control of your life.”

“I guess so. I wanted to go somewhere. I’ve never ventured out-of-state until now. Saw the town on a map and that was it.”

“I think that’s really cool.” You reach across the table and squeeze Steve’s hand, his eyes flicking up from his lap when you do. “It takes a lot of bravery to come somewhere new, especially alone.”

“I don’t know about that.”

Steve’s quick to brush things off. He didn’t grow up being called things like brave, and though the expression on your face is clearly honest, it’s hard to accept a compliment. Doesn’t mean his heart doesn’t expand a little, though. Like an extra puff of air blown into a balloon.

“Don’t fight me on this, Steve Harrington.”

He’s not sure he could fight you on most things. He’d rather let you win.

“Alright, fine. What’s your story, then?”

“You sure you wanna hear it? It’s pretty boring.”

I want to know everything about you, Steve thinks. He won’t say it, though, won’t risk freaking you out when this has only just begun.

“You got mine. It’s only fair.”

It’s been a long time since you’ve met someone new, since you’ve had to do the whole getting to know each other thing. Usually, it’s awkward for you, the stress of good impressions. Now, with him, it’s easier for some reason. It feels like you’ve known him far longer than a few days. There’s a familiarity there.

“Okay, okay. My family moved here when I was like five, so it’s pretty much all I remember. We’ve lived in the same house since, blue shutters and chipped paint, but I love it. It’s home.”

You don’t feel very different from how you feel now when you think of home. Comfortable, at ease, like you’re not meant to be anywhere else.

Steve Harrington. You’re glad he chose True Beach.

“I started working at the cafe when I was sixteen, I think,” you continue. “Macy—that’s my boss, but she’s more like family—she gave me the job and I just never left. She wants me to take over one day.”

“Will you take over?”

“I love that place. I don’t really see myself anywhere else,” you shrug, hands fiddling with the napkin in front of you. It’s something not everyone approves of, like you’re wasting away there. “I know it’s not all that impressive.”

“Hey, if you love it, isn’t that what matters?” The toe of his shoe pushes yours gently, your eyes catching his. “Not everybody gets to say they love what they do. And you do. I think that’s impressive.”

“Really?”

“Really. I think it’s great, honey.”

Steve lets the name slip, but when he sees the bashful smile on your face, the way you duck down a little, he can’t bring himself to feel bad about it.

Honey.

If you didn’t have a crush already, you’re absolutely done for now.

Day by day, you and Steve grow closer, and you’re now far more comfortable calling each other a friend rather than a stranger.

You show him a little bit more of the town each day, and a little bit more of yourself, too. He does the same, and you’ve found that Steve is an easy person to talk to, to trust. It’s a friendship born over rented bicycles and hands-free riding down a hill, brunch at the cafe during your breaks, and Steve lending you his baseball cap when you forget your own.

It feels completely natural, like you’ve known him a lifetime rather than a week. It feels like something you didn’t know had been missing.

Steve doesn’t feel much different. There’s a little bit of guilt in him, because he’s never felt this way while in Hawkins; like he belonged. He loves his friends, and that had nothing to do with them, but it sat with him nonetheless. A weight on his chest.

The weight seems to be forgotten when he’s with you, when you’re smiling at him as you show him your home like you’re welcoming him, like he could stay. It’s when he’s alone that he thinks about what this could mean, what he should do.

Right now, though, he isn’t alone, so there’s no heaviness there.

You’re taking him to a ‘super great surprise location,’ as you’d called it, your sandals leaving patterns in the sand, the sun bouncing off your bare shoulders. Steve walks the slightest bit behind you, not far enough that you can’t talk to each other, but enough so that you’re definitely leading the way.

Steve’s honestly too distracted to pick up on where you’re headed. The curve of your spine, the way your hair seems to change color under the sun, the pattern of your strides. It isn’t until you tilt your head and point upwards that he catches on.

He lets his head fall back to match yours, looking up at the lighthouse that sits on a rocky part of the beach.

“The lighthouse?” He checks, “Isn’t that, like, against the rules?”

“Aw, Stevie, since when do you care about the rules?” That’s something you’ve been doing lately, calling him Stevie. He likes it more than he should. “Besides, I won’t let us get caught. Don’t you trust me?”

You’re facing him now, walking backwards, a smile full of mischief on your face. Steve can’t help but be honest, “yeah, I trust you.”

“Well then, let’s get climbing, Harrington.”

You don’t have to tell him again. Steve follows you without another question, like it’s really that simple. He follows you up and up the lighthouse until you’ve made it to the top, out on the metal balcony that overlooks the beach, the water.

You sit down, legs dangling over the edge, arms leaning on the bottom part of the railing. And though Steves not fearless by any means, he sits beside you, position mirroring yours.

“You bring all your tourists up here?” Steve teases, his knee brushing yours.

Vulnerability is scary, and you don’t usually share much about yourself with people, preferring to keep your cards close, but things are different with Steve. It’s scary and incredible all at once. He’s different.

So, you reply seriously, your voice quieter, “I’ve actually never brought anyone up here.”

Steve looks away from the view to look at you, your confession unexpected but welcomed. Like he’s thought since he’d met you, he really wants to know you. Every single thing.

“Really?” He asks, gently poking for more.

“Yeah,” you nod, your eyes focused on the way the waves look from up here, the shades of blue. It’s less scary to talk this way, without looking at Steve and his eyes that you just fall into.

“I always come up here alone,” you continue. “To think, mostly. Like, when things feel really big and awful, coming up here and seeing how small everything is helps. I kinda find comfort in the insignificance, you know? Nothing I do will ever really be that big of a deal, and that’s peaceful, I think. Does that make any sense?”

He finds he can’t look away from you right now, the sad—maybe even nervous—twist of your mouth, your hair messy from the wind. He wonders if he should tell you that he doesn’t think you’re insignificant at all. At least not to him.

“It does,” Steve says, blinking away from you and turning to look at the water, too. “I think that’s part of why I came here. It’s nice to be unknown, to not have to worry about every move I make because of how people will react. Things feel a little lighter.”

You nod, looking down at where your legs touch, your feet hanging over the edge of the balcony. You hadn’t meant to get so serious. Tour guides should be fun, right? So, you add, “the view’s nice, too.”

The sun’s setting now, the sky becoming a blend of pinks and oranges, the rays on your skin turning golden. Still, Steve finds himself looking at you again when he says, “yeah, it is.”

You turn your head at his tone, the gentleness of it. Your eyes find his, the brown almost bronze in the sun, the color melting and swirling and you can’t break eye contact. He’s reeled you in like nobody has before, like he’s been on the opposite end of a string that ties you together, and he’s the only one who could pull it.

“I’m really glad you picked True Beach.”

Steve’s gaze flicks to your mouth, then your eyes, and your mouth again. “I am, too, honey.”

Then, you’re closer to each other, your shoulders leaning together, the warmth of his arm pressed against your own.

You aren’t sure who leans in first, and neither is Steve, all you know is his nose nudges yours, and when you tilt your head in response, you’re kissing. First, a tender press of his lips on yours, and that’s all. But it isn’t enough.

Subconsciously, without a thought, you chase his mouth when he pulls away ever so slightly, and it’s all he needs before he’s kissing you again. Before he’s really kissing you.

Steve’s hand finds your cheek, gently tilting your face for him so he can kiss you the way he wants to. He’s not sure what he’d been thinking before this, all he knows is that this feels too good to stop, too good to be the wrong thing to do.

Your hand is hooked in the neckline of his shirt, knuckles brushing his bare skin beneath it, keeping him close. The other rests on the balcony between you, holding you up, letting you lean towards him.

You haven’t been kissed many times, but you know that for it to feel like this is a rare thing, something delicate that you won’t look into just yet. Right now, this is enough. The sparks that seem to fly around you, burning through you.

Even when you do pull away, nothing feels broken. No, Steve simply uses the hand on your cheek to guide your head to his shoulder, and it’s comfortable, your cheek squished against him, his hand grabbing yours from his collar and holding it in his lap.

You stay that way for what could be minutes or hours. As if you’ve been just like this hundreds of times before.

Steve offered—more like decided, really—to walk you home from the lighthouse, the sun sinking lower and lower with every step. You took the long way, sand beneath your feet, breeze growing cooler against your cheeks.

Neither of you have said anything about the kiss, and you haven’t felt the need to. If anything, it feels natural, like this pink haze brought on by the kiss is meant to be there; there’s nothing to be said.

Maybe that’ll change tomorrow, but it’s today and that’s what matters.

At some point during the walk, after knuckles brushing and sparks fizzling between them, Steve had wrapped his pinky around yours, which then turned into holding hands, fingers intertwined, palms pressed together. The warmth of it spread up your arm, a tide rising up and up and up.

It’s dark by the time your house comes into view, weathered paint and blue accents, the porch light glowing warmly in the night. That’s another thing about True Beach: porch lights stay on.

You stop at the end of your driveway, swinging your hands between you. “This is me.”

“Well,” Steve’s fingers flex in yours, his thumb running over your knuckles just once. “Thanks for showing me your spot, honey.”

You look down at your hands, smiling at the way he says it. Honey. Like you’re as sweet as the real thing, like he really believes that.

“Thanks for trusting me to take you there.”

“It was a good one. How you gonna top it next time?”

“I don’t like to reveal my secrets. You know, like a magician.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He gives your hand a squeeze, eyes finding yours, something written behind them that you can’t pick out. “I’ll see you tomorrow, magic tour guide.”

“See you, Steve.”

You’d spoken the entire walk back to yours, but it feels different now. Thicker. The way it did at the top of the lighthouse just before you’d kissed. You squeeze Steve’s hand back before turning to walk up your driveway.

Steve holds onto your hand until he can’t anymore, his arm stretched out ahead of him, yours behind you, only dropping when you’re out of reach. It’s something that has your hearts beating in tandem, like they miss the contact.

When you get onto your porch, the doorknob in your hand, you turn back and wave to Steve again, who lets a smile spread across his face as he waves back. Once inside, you lean against your closed door, head falling back against the wood.

What the hell are you gonna do when summer’s over and he has to go home?

Steve’s thoughts aren’t much different, because somehow, you’ve made this place feel more like home than Hawkins has in a long time. He’s not always worried about things—though he still worries more than he should—and it’s gotta mean something.

He kicks a pebble the whole walk back to the condo, dragging his feet and hoping that walking slower will make his mind move quicker.

It doesn’t really work, and once he’s back in his place for the summer, he figures that he should

probably call the only person who’ll know just what to say to him (with the addition of some jabs).

He grabs the phone from the wall in the living room and dials Robin’s number.

“Hello hello?”

Steve relaxes a little at the sound of her voice, because she’s his best friend in the entire world and he misses her. A lot. Where Hawkins felt heavy, Robin was the one to make things better, but with her and the group away, the weight got to him.

“Hey, Rob.”

“Steven! How’s your trip going?”

“I told you not to call me Steven.”

He actually doesn’t mind it that much, because it’s something only Robin calls him, and as silly as it is, he won’t really stop her.

“Don’t care. Tell me about your summer. Where are you staying again?”

“It’s called True Beach.”

“And?”

Steve can picture Robin waving her hand in the air as she says it.

“It’s actually really nice,” he says. “The beach is beautiful and the weather’s great and there’s a bunch of cute shops on the main street. I met this girl in the cafe and she’s been showing me around.”

“Oh, really? A girl?” She’s probably wiggling her eyebrows now, Steve thinks.

“It’s only friendly, Rob.” He opts out of telling her about the kiss just yet. Maybe because he knows what she’ll say, something about him

having feelings for you. And maybe Robin would be right about that. “But it’s been really fun so far. Went to the record store, this diner, the lighthouse. I got you some presents.”

“Aw, Steven! You shouldn’t have!”

“Don’t act like you don’t want the presents, Buckley.”

“Whatever, Harrington. Have you been taking pictures? And who’s this girl! You can't just gloss over that, dingus.”

“I have some, but my skills don’t really match up to Jonathan’s.” Steve leans his shoulder against the wall where he stands, twisting the phone cord around. “And she’s great, seriously. We’re friends, okay? You’d like her.”

And Steve believes that, because ever since meeting Robin and finding the sort of once in a lifetime friendship with her, he can only see himself around people that she’d like, too.

“I bet I would, Steven.”

“Anyways, how are you? What’s been going on?”

As Robin updates Steve on things—her crush that she’s never spoken to before, what Eddie said he was working on when she spoke to him last, what she had for breakfast—he listens, letting himself get distracted from his thoughts of you.

Not that the thoughts are bad in any way, but they’re confusing, they’re something he hadn’t been prepared for when he’d decided to take this trip. He finds that even though he spends a lot of his days with you, he’s still thinking about you once he’s alone.

Steve’s not quite sure how to face that, but for now, he won’t. He’ll listen to Robin, talk to her until they’re both too tired to continue. He’ll enjoy having you as his tour guide and his friend.

Whatever else you could become, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he doesn’t want you to be a stranger again.

Tomorrow has come and you haven’t been able to get Steve out of your head.

First it was the stuff that had you shoving your face into your pillow last night. The way his hand felt on your cheek when he kissed you, the way it felt in yours when he walked you home, the way he held on as long as he could when you parted ways.

Now, it’s the kind of what-ifs that have you worrying about what will happen when you see him again today. Will he act like nothing happened, will he want to talk about it, will he hold your hand again?

You’re excited to see him, it’s hard not to be when you like him so much, but you’re nervous, too. Probably for the same reason.

All you can do is go about your shift and hope that it distracts you enough to ease the small twist in your gut, the unknowns eating at you just a bit. If Macy notices something’s bothering you (which she does) she doesn’t say anything, opting to let you ride it out because when Macy believes something’s right, it usually is.

She feels that way about you and Steve.

Steve, who’s been tossing around in his bed all morning trying to sleep in and avoid thinking too hard. So far, no luck. Instead, he’s been wondering how to go about today with you. Because what he wants is something he’s afraid is too far out of reach, something he’s scared of, and he doesn’t know if it even remotely lines up with what you want.

Eventually, it gets too late for him to keep twisting himself up in the sheets, so he gets up and gets himself ready. Steve chooses not to drink coffee this morning, feeling jittery enough as it is.

His walk to the cafe is different today, because even though he’s still excited as ever to spend time with you, there’s a little weight in his chest that makes him nervous. He decides to walk quickly, whether it’s because he’s eager to see you or to get whatever will happen over with, he’s not so sure.

He doesn’t want you to be a stranger again.

Eventually, with a big breath in, Steve tugs the cafe door open. He sees Macy before he sees you, knowing it’s her because of the name tag.

“Hi there,” she says, her smile crinkling her eyes a little. “Steve, right?”

He’s surprised that she knows his name. And then, the idea hits him like a small punch, his mind getting hopeful with it; you must’ve talked to her about him. You care enough to talk about him with Macy, who you’d said is like family to you.

“Yeah,” he says, walking the rest of the shirt way to the counter where she stands. “And you’re Macy?”

“That’s me!” She seems to notice the way Steve’s eyes search the small cafe, and she smiles as she speaks, “she’s in the back. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

It’s not even a minute later that you’re walking out from the back and towards Steve, tote bag slung over your shoulder, sunglasses on top of your head.

“My guide,” he says as you meet him by the counter. “What’s on the agenda today?”

“You’ll see soon enough.” You fish your car keys from your bag, and they jingle in your hand when you find them. “Ready to go?”

“Sure am.”

As you and Steve head towards the door you hear Macy call, “bye, sweetie! Have fun!”

You turn to face her and send her a wave. In return, you get a wink and an eyebrow raise and you just shake your head. She might be onto something, though.

Soon enough you’re in your car, Steve in the passenger seat, driving out to the lookout because it’s usually quiet this time of day and you want him to see it that way. The waves crashing onto sand below, the endless stretch of sky.

You chat as you drive, and you’ve found that you didn’t need to be so nervous, because he’s Steve and something about him makes everything seem easy, natural. You’ve fallen into the same spot you were yesterday on the walk home, this bubble of pink and sweet and more surrounding you.

Steve asks you about how your shift went, how busy things have been, what you had for breakfast. Simple things that draw you back into simply feeling the glow of being with him. It’s like he soaks up sunshine and spills it out, warm and bright.

When you turn your head to glance at him quickly, you’re stuck on the way the sun hits his face, the freckles that have appeared on his nose from his time spent at the beach. He looks like he belongs here, you think. A boy with summer written all over him.

And when you make it to the lookout, Steve reaches across the center console for your hand, and your fingers lace together just like they had last night. It feels like the softest click of puzzle pieces fitting together, right where they’re supposed to be.

Steve hadn’t been thinking when he did it. It was his hand reaching out on instinct because it wanted to, because it felt empty where it sat in his lap beforehand.

You keep talking for a bit, back and forth and back and forth and all you can think about is how maybe (definitely) this is more than a crush. That maybe you don’t ever want to see him go.

After the lookout you and Steve still have plenty of the day left. You can only look at a view for so long, really, so you decide to head to the beach, which you’ve yet to do, surprisingly.

It’s the main attraction of the town, so you figure you should include it on your tour, even if you know he’s already been. It’s where you met, after all.

You lead him to a spot further down the beach, where crowds dwindle and a line of rocks sort of secludes it from the rest. Of course, it’s not empty. It never is during summer, but it’s as calm as it can get.

A bathing suit is usually hidden under your clothes during the months of May through August, so, with your towels laid out, a cooler that you’d had in your car set in the sand, and bags tossed beside it, you slip your sundress over your head.

Steve watches you pull the fabric up, the hem getting higher and higher until your dress is gone and he’s trying not to stare too hard. Your skin glows with the sun, and he has to tug his own shirt over his head to pull his gaze away. Fabric pulled in front of his eyes to snap him out of it.

Your sunglasses sit on the bridge of your nose, your eyeline hopefully hidden because Steve’s there and you can’t exactly look away. Dusting of chest hair over sun kissed skin, freckles and moles a constellation you’d reach out and trace if you could.

Blinking away, you shift your sights to the ocean, the waves cresting, whitecaps sliding onto the shore. You breathe in the salt air, the breeze warm against your skin.

Soon enough you and Steve are both settled on your towels, light chatter from other groups mingling with the sounds of the waves.

“Boy from the beach,” you say, lulling your head to the side to look at him. “Funny seeing you here.”

“What a coincidence.” Steve likes that you’ve got this thing, something shared between just the two of you. “Girl from the beach.”

“How’re you liking your trip so far?”

“Well, I’ve got this great tour guide. She’s been showing me all the spots,” Steve leans back onto his hands, while you’re laid down fully, peering up at him through your sunglasses. “I think you might know her.”

You grin, butterflies in your stomach. Your hands rest over your tummy, like you’d be able to feel them floating in there. It’s just so easy with him, so natural. You feel like you were always meant to meet each other, it was just a matter of when.

“She sounds familiar,” you play along.

“Yeah. Super kind, works at a cafe, really pretty.”

Really pretty. He’d added it on like a fact, like to him, there’s no questioning that. Your fingertips push against your stomach a little, trying to shoo away the butterflies.

“Pretty, huh?”

Steve’s always thought so, and he didn’t even realize he’d said it until you repeated it back. He doesn’t regret it, though. Because he thinks it every time he looks at you. That you’re pretty.

“Yep. Ringing any bells?”

“I don’t know about that, Steve.”

“I do, honey.”

Your eyes flick between his, his eyes squinted because he’d forgotten his sunglasses, but all you find is that softness that seems to live in the brown of his iris.

He’s looking at your face, at the curve of your mouth and the slope of your nose. It’s getting harder and harder to ignore the way he feels, the way he’s felt. He really fucking likes you.

You breathe in deep and turn your head to face the sky, nervous under his gaze, unsure of how to read things. He’s leaving at the end of summer, and you’ll be here. What if that’ll be all you ever see of him? His couple of months here, and then, the end.

The moment seems to pass, Steve changing the subject to something about a new music release he wondered if you’d listened to.

The feelings linger, though.

Worries shoved down and stomach flutters warded away (mostly), you and Steve talk like friends, which you’d take over strangers any day. It hasn’t been too long, but it’s been long enough that you know each other, that you can talk or be quiet and have it be comfortable.

Eventually, with sunbeams warming your skin and your early shift weighing on you, your eyes grow heavy and you're lulled to sleep by the sound of Steve's voice and the sea.

He’d been telling you a story, something about the first time he’d gone to see Eddie play at the Hideout and how surprised he’d been. When he’s done, he waits for a reply, only to be met with silence.

Peeking over at you, Steve notices your head rolled to the side, your chest rising and falling with steady breaths. As delicately as possible, he reaches over and lifts your sunglasses to find your eyes shut, and he realizes you’ve fallen asleep.

There’s a smile worming its way onto Steve’s face as he pushes your glasses back into place. A smile brought on by how cute he thinks you look right now, pout on your lips and hair messy from the wind.

A smile turning just a little bit lovesick because you feel comfortable enough with him to be asleep right now.

It’s only twenty minutes before you’re blinking your eyes open again, shifting and breathing in deep as you wake up. The breeze has died down, the heat having your forehead a little damp, your body uncomfortably warm.

“Morning, sleepy.”

You groan and turn towards Steve, sitting up and stretching your arms out in front of you before responding. “Hi. Sorry. I didn’t mean to sleep.”

“Don’t apologize. You’ve been working and dragging me around every day. I’d be tired, too.” He’d pulled the cooler to serve as a backrest while you were asleep, you notice. “Good nap, though?”

“Yeah. Guess I needed it.”

You’re feeling warm, almost too warm, so you fan yourself with your hands. Steve notices. “You feel okay?”

“Just warm. Probably shouldn’t have slept in the sun.” You wipe your forehead with the back of your hand, which you’re sure is unappealing, but Steve only seems concerned for you, never judgemental.

He twists to open the cooler set behind him, digging out a can that’d been buried in the ice, condensation dripping from it as he lifts it out and shuts the cooler. Steve scooches himself closer to you on the sand.

“Here,” he uses his free hand to move your hair out of the way, pressing the can to the back of your neck with the other.

Your head tips backwards, the cold can pressed to your heated skin immediately cooling you down, easing your discomfort. Still, you feel warm inside—this time, in a good way—because Steves attentive and so, so sweet.

“Thank you, Stevie. That feels really nice. Maybe you should be a nurse.”

“If nursing equipment was a cooler, maybe,” he chuckles. “That feel better?”

“Mhm. Much.” You’re feeling plenty awake now. Plenty alive. “You know what would feel even better, though?”

“Tell me.”

“A swim.”

Then, you’re pushing yourself up from the ground, sand sticking to your palms, and running towards the water. Tossing the can aside, Steve’s quick to

follow, chasing your laugh, grains kicked up behind his heels.

You’re waist deep in the water by the time he catches up, water shifting around him, warmed by sun rays and refreshing all at once. You twist around to face him, walking yourself backwards into the water slowly, Steve following you the way he seems to do.

He thinks he might go anywhere if you were leading the way.

Eventually, you stop, the water up to your chest now. Steve stands close, within reach, waves licking at his skin. You tilt your head at him, “hi.”

“Hi.” Steve runs his fingertips across the water, but his eyes are on you, how the sun is a halo of light behind you.

“Next on my tour: the ocean,” you hold your arms out, like you’re introducing the water to him. “What do you think?”

“Beats the lake back in Hawkins by a long shot.” Lover’s Lake is fun, but it’s nothing special. Mucky waters and grass rather than sand. But this, here, it feels special. “It’s great.”

“Yay! So, since it’s great, you won’t mind if I do this?”

You’re pushing water at him before he can respond, splashing him and giggling when he faces you, jaw dropped.

“You did not.”

“Figured you wouldn’t mind, since the water’s so nice and everything.” You shrug, “sooo much better than at home-”

You’re cut off by Steve’s retaliation. He’s gentler than you were with it, but you’re sprayed with water all the same and you can’t help but laugh a little.

“Oh, you’re on, Stevie.”

And then, you’re splashing him, and trying to swim away, and he’s chasing you and splashing you back, a mess of laughs and taunts, a play fight that’s free and fun and you don’t remember the last time you’ve felt this way.

It’s not long before Steve catches you, though, long limbs pushing him through the waves until his arms are wrapping themselves around your waist to tug you back to him.

“Gotcha,” he says, his head bent to speak into your ear.

You’re not laughing anymore, your heartbeat picking up in your chest, Steve’s arms seeping warmth into your skin and your stomach. You spin in his grip to face him, but his arms don’t move. “How’re you so fast?”

“I was co-captain of the swim team. We even won trophies and shit.”

“That was an unfair advantage.”

Steve’s hands spread wide, palms on your waist, thumbs dragging over the skin above your bikini bottoms. He sees the way your chest moves with your breaths, quickened and heavy. He’s not playing anymore. Not since he’d gotten the feeling of your skin beneath his hands.

“So, what do I win?”

“A free tour guide?”

“I already have that, honey.”

It’s hit you how close he’s gotten, his nose so close to brushing against yours. It’s like it’d been at the lighthouse, a shift, breaths mingling between your faces, a pull.

“Okay,” you say. You’re not sure if you’d been responding to what he’d said or if you’re answering a question he hasn’t asked out loud.

His eyes search yours, and when you lift your chin for him, he can’t help himself. Steve kisses you for the second time, his fingers digging little indents into your skin, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

You don’t think you could even if you wanted to. Instead, your hands find his shoulders, and Steve groans so softly into your mouth. Just from your hands on him.

It grows quicker, a little more heated, your mouths moving, heads tilting, and somehow you end up with your legs around Steve’s waist, one of his arms holding you to him, the opposite hand splayed between your shoulder blades.

The current seems to move with you both, waves hitting your shoulders, dancing around you. They push your bodies closer.

Steve can’t believe he’s kissing you again, he can’t believe he’s got you wrapped around him and your lips on his and that it’s real. That it feels so much like a wave rolling over and crashing, breaking something down, creating room for something more.

He forgets that you’re in public, that there are people around—though, not too many, thanks to the spot you’d chosen—and that time doesn’t simply stop when he kisses you. Because it sort of feels like it does.

The world goes quiet, and all he feels is you, you, you.

This time, when you pull away, after however long has passed, your hands slide from his shoulders down to his arms. You smile at him, almost bashful in a way, a tease still lingering behind it, “was that an okay prize?”

Steve’s got no idea how he’ll go back to Hawkins after this.

It’s been hours since Steve got back to the condo, and he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about you. You’d stayed on the beach until the sun set, and Steve walked you home, and he held your hand just like he did after the lighthouse.

And again, he finds himself reaching for the phone and dialing Robin’s number.

“Robin speaking,” her voice sounds after a couple rings.

“Hey, it’s Steve.”

“Steven! Hi! How’s it going over in beach land?”

He doesn’t even bother with the use of ‘Steven,’ because he’s just relieved to hear her voice, to know that he’ll always have her, to talk to his best friend.

“Yeah, it’s good.” He leans his shoulder against the wall, his free hand scratching lightly at his arm. “Really good. How are you?”

“You worried about me?”

“Rob.” I always worry, is what he means to say. Of course, Robin knows him well enough to know exactly what he means without having to say it.

“I’m good, Steve. Seriously! Except Keith keeps calling me to pick up shifts at Family Video and I don’t even work there anymore!” She huffs, and Steve laughs. “Don’t giggle, dingus. This is a serious problem.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll get bored eventually,” he says. “Why do you think Keith has had like five jobs in the last three years?”

“Whatever. Tell me about what you’ve been up to. Oh! How’s the girl?”

If she were here right now, Steve thinks Robin would be shaking his shoulders, demanding every detail. He’d held off on talking about you fully last time, but now, he needs advice and though Robin technically doesn’t have any experience to help him, she’s the only one he wants to tell right now.

“She’s incredible, Rob. I really like her, think you would, too.”

“Mhm, what happened to ‘it’s just friendly,’ huh?”

“We kissed. Twice, actually.”

“What! Steven, you can’t just drop that on me. What happened? Oh my gosh, is she your girlfriend?”

“Slow down. I’ve only known her for a couple of weeks, okay?” Robin makes a noise on the other end, and Steve can practically see the face she’s making. Something that says ‘whatever.’ “You know the last time I called you? We actually kissed that day, at the lighthouse.”

She gasps, “and you’re only telling me now?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Ugh, just keep talking.”

He shakes his head. Steve doesn’t really know how to put everything into words. How he feels, the way things happened. He tries anyway.

“Then today. We hung out at the beach, and we went for a swim, and we were playing around and then we were kissing. I don’t know. I like her a lot and I’m not really sure what to do. Or how she feels.”

“Okay. Okay, tell me about her. About the beach, too.”

“She’s really nice. Like, she says ‘hi’ to everyone when we go places, and she’s been showing me around after she works all morning.” Steve doesn’t realize that there’s a smile spreading over his face the more he talks about you. “It’s just so easy with her. It feels like I’ve known her for years with how we talk and everything. I don’t know. It sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t sound stupid, Steve,” Robin’s voice is a little softer, like she wants him to know she means that. “And the beach?”

“It’s so great here. I like the atmosphere, the smell of the ocean in the air all the time and the people and even the condo is nice.”

“Can I say something that might scare you?”

“You’ll say it anyways, won’t you?”

“I will. Here it is: you sound really happy there, Steve. Like, happier than I’ve seen you in a long time.”

His stomach twists, almost guilty that he could be so happy someplace where he’d started fresh. Like he’s betraying Hawkins and all of the good that he’d found there, even when so much was bad.

“I really miss you, Rob. I miss everyone.”

“I miss you, too, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be happier where you are.”

Her words sort of punch him in the chest, air sucked from his lungs, his heart feeling heavy in his chest. Because when he thinks about it, like really thinks about it, Steve is happy here. Happy is a big thing.

“When did you become so wise, Buckley?”

“I’ve always been wise, Harrington.”

His head falls against the wall with a small thump, his thoughts weighing him down a little. Steve really likes it here, and he really likes you, and he misses his best friend. He’s not sure where to go from here.

“What am I gonna do?” Steve’s quiet, but Robin hears him.

“You’re gonna do what’ll make you happy, Steve. For once in your life, be selfish, do something for yourself, not anyone else.” Robin knows Steve better than anybody knows him, and she knows why this is hard for him. “You know I’ll always be here. It doesn’t matter where you are. Besides, True Beach isn’t so far. I’ll visit and annoy the shit out of you. Plus, I need to meet this girl. She’s clearly a good one, if she’s got you like this.”

Because she knows him the best, Robin already knows that what he should do is stay. Stay where he sounds happier than ever, unrestrained in a way he never could be in Hawkins. Stay with you, who’s brought it out of him.

“Love you, Rob.”

“I know. Love you, too, dingus.”

Steve’s eyes are stinging, though he’s not really sure why. Maybe he’s overwhelmed with how quickly things can change, sad that this feels a little bit like a goodbye even though he knows it isn’t, maybe even relieved that Robin’s supportive of him no matter what. Maybe it’s everything all at once.

“What about the presents I got you?” He asks.

“Well, Steven, there’s this thing called postal service, where you can put things in the mail.”

Steve laughs welty, eyes misty, grateful for how easily Robin manages to brighten the mood. For the rest of the conversation, he feels a little lighter.

Now he’s just got to tell you how he feels.

It’s crazy how people can take root into your life, plant themselves there and grow like ivy spreading wide over a house until there’s more green than brick.

Steve Harrington proved that when he’d shown up in True Beach mere weeks ago and dug a spot for himself in your life, in your heart. He came barreling in, a stream of sunlight sneaking through a gap in curtains, and you’ve chased the warmth, basked in it as much as you could.

In so little time, Steve’s become one of your absolute favorite people in the world. A stranger to a friend to something toeing the line of so much more. You’ve kissed twice, and it’s been enough to tell you that your feelings are undeniable. They’ve taken root just as he has, buried deep.

With those feelings, though, has come the painful realization that he’s leaving soon.

Last night, after your kiss, you hadn’t been thinking about what would happen next or what it could mean. No, you were blinded by the day of sunlight that is Steve. You’d forgotten that sooner or later, the sun has to set.

Now, it’s your day off and instead of sleeping in, you’ve found yourself overthinking at the lighthouse.

You’re worried about what will happen when Steve goes home, whether you’ll keep in touch, whether he’ll forget about you, if he’ll ever come back. On top of that, you’re worried about your feelings, how strong they’ve grown in a short time, if he, by any chance, feels the same.

Sat on the balcony, chin resting on your bent knees, staring out at the morning sky, all you do is think.

Steve’s conversation with Robin last night was the push that he needed, the reassurance that he can do this and have everything be okay, that he’s allowed to make this decision for himself. That doesn’t make it any less scary, though.

He decides that he has to tell you as soon as he can, while he’s got the momentum to do it.

It’s still early when he heads to the cafe in hopes of finding you, and while the place is open, there’s nobody inside when he walks in. Well, nobody except Macy.

“Hi there, Steve,” she says, a gentle smile on her face.

“Hi, Macy,” Steve then says your name, and Macy’s smile shifts to knowing and fond. “Is she here?”

“She’s not in today, dear. But I have a good idea of where you’ll find her if she isn’t home.”

“I do, too.” The lighthouse. “Thanks, Macy.”

“And Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m happy for you two.”

Macy speaks like she already knows how this will turn out. For the sake of optimism, Steve chooses to nod in thanks and head out. Macy seems like someone who’s right more often than wrong, and he hopes that it works for him this time.

He heads to the lighthouse right away, because he remembers what you’d said about being up there, how it helped you put things into perspective. Plus, he’s got a feeling. That pull to you guiding him.

While Steve feels good about his decision, hopeful, even, he’s still afraid. You might think this is all too soon, too fast. Worse, you might not even feel the same at all. But then, what if the worst doesn’t happen? What if you want him, too?

Those what ifs are enough to take the chance, he thinks.

Steve finds you at the top of the lighthouse, chin propped on your knees, arms wrapped around your bent legs. “Hey, honey. Want some company?”

You lift your head at the sound of his voice, turning to find him standing in the doorway to the balcony with his hands tucked into his pockets, his hair messy from the wind, eyes still a little puffy from sleep. He really is pretty, and you wouldn’t dream of denying his company. Not even when he’s part of your worries.

“Hi, Steve. Yeah, sure.”

He takes the few steps over to you, crouching to sit next to you, his shoulder touching yours.

“I went to the cafe to find you,” he says.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Then, you weren’t there, so I figured this would be a good place to look.” He nudges you lightly, “and I found you.”

“You did.”

“I wanted to tell you something, if that’s okay?”

If that’s okay, like you’d ever deny him.

“‘Course it is.”

“Okay,” he takes a big breath, because Steve knows there’s no going back after this. He’ll say it and he won’t take it back. “I really fucking like you. I thought we could be friends after we kissed the first time, like a blip, you know? And if you just wanna be friends, that’s okay. I want you in my life, however that looks. But I’d like you to be more than that ‘cause I have pretty big feelings for you.”

Your chest rises and falls quicker, his words making your heart pump faster, because he wants what you want and he’s telling that to you and it feels so good. Too good.

“Really?”

You turn your head towards him, finding him already facing you, your eyes locking like magnets. He’s smiling so softly at you, nerves and sincerity, patience and fondness. You want to kiss him all over again.

“Cross my heart, honey.”

“I really fucking like you, too, Stevie.”

And just like that Steve knows this was the right call, that you’re the right call, because there’s a sweet, closed-mouthed smile on your face that he put there and it’s all he could ever ask for.

He dips forward to kiss you, once, twice, three times. Small pecks before pulling back.

“What’s gonna happen when you leave?” You ask, worrying out loud, eyes searching his.

“About that,” Steve reaches for your hand, weaving your fingers together and giving it a squeeze. “I love it here. A lot. I feel like I could really belong here, and I have this pretty tour guide to thank for that… Um, I was thinking I’d extend my stay.”

You squeeze his hand back, fluttering in your stomach at the relief of him wanting to stay, at the thought that you’d had a part in that.

You think he could really belong here, too. He’s meant for summer and sand and the sun. Meant for lighthouse sunsets and every season by the ocean. He’s summer in a boy.

“Yeah? For how long?”

“However long you’ll have me.”

Steve wonders if now’s a good time to tell you that he’s fallen in love with more than just True Beach.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

thank u so so much for reading!!! if u enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment/reblog and letting me know what you thought! it helps and means so much <3

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melluvsuu · 2 months ago

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“ 𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐋 . ”

CHAPTER 01 ──── GOOD ASSISTANT ! ‹3

characters : gojo, makima, megumi, nobara, yuji

context : you start to meet this strange lady, odd enough she takes interest in you, and this random white haired guy too. sooner or later you a 'jujutsu sorcerer' and meet sukunas vessel. twins!!

authors notes : this better blow up or im crying...

warnings : ooc, male!reader, male pronouns, reader referred as 'you', chapter takes place in ep 1 of jjk, plus extra non canon stuff, mistakes probably..

,, 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐓. 𝜚

UNKNOWN LOCATION

JANUARY 7 , 2009 04:32:18

You wake up to the cool sensation of grass beneath your fingers, soft and damp from the night air. It’s dark—so dark that you can barely make out your surroundings. A thick, inky blackness stretches out in every direction, swallowing the horizon. The sky above has doors—different shapes, sizes, and colours, each standing upright without walls or frames to support them. Some are tall and imposing, carved from dark wood with intricate patterns.

“[Name]-kun.”

You blinked, trying to process the voice. “Who is this?”

A figure stepped into view, you can’t make out the details. It’s human, or atleast looks human. Feminine body, and glowing spiral yellow eyes, “My name is Makima. I assume you're [Name]? Correct.”

You narrowed your eyes, “Yes… Where are we.?”

“My ‘domain’. Hell. There’s really nothing here but us, don’t worry about that white albino paintbrush listening in. Let’s chat!”

She sits down near your head as your body automatically seem to get closer to her lap. She rests her hands on your hair, gently stroking it.

“Let’s make a contract–binding vow, shall we? We’ll discuss this topic at a different time, but for now we can just get to know one another.”

You considered her words, the weight of the offer sinking in.“Alright.”

TOKYO METROPOLITAN CURSE TECHNICAL COLLEGE

JUNE 14, 2015 , 07:27:02

“Wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey~!” The white-haired, blindfolded man exclaimed, turning toward you with a playful grin.

Who is this guy? You thought, feeling the tight ropes binding you and surrounded by a chaotic mix of talismans. As your vision slowly cleared, you studied him closely—he seemed oddly familiar. Why?

“Why am I here?” You managed to ask, still trying to regain your bearings.

The blindfolded man flashed an infuriating smirk, ” Great, just what I needed…” You thought, annoyed.

“For your execution, of course!”

“My execution?”

“Yup, yours! But…”

“But?” you echoed, your confusion deepening.

You watched as he stood up, crossing his arms with a confident air. “You won’t be executed if you agree to be my assistant, [Name]-chan.”

“What—who the hell are you?” You asked, tilting your head slightly to get a better look.

“It’s me, Gojo Satoru. If you accept my offer, you can live. What do you say, hm?”

You sat in silence as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “I really need a strong assistant, [Name]-chan.”

“Ugh, fine! Just don’t touch my ear, you weirdo,” you replied, instinctively leaning away from him.

“Fantastic!” he exclaimed, his excitement palpable.

YOKOHAMA , SANKEIEN GARDEN

JUNE 5, 2018 21:48:29

BANG—!

You stepped down hard on the curse’s head, the sickening crunch echoing in the stillness of the night. Disgust twisted your features as you felt the remnants of the creature’s essence ooze beneath their boot.

“Gross.” You spat. You glanced up at the sky, now draped in deep shades of indigo and very few shades of orange.. It was a beautiful scene, the upcoming stars twinkling like distant memories. You could enjoy this scene…

“[Name]-chan, look here!” Gojou shouted.

Nevermind.

“Gojo-sa—”

“Call me Satoru, silly!” he interrupted.

With a resigned sigh, you replied, “Satoru-san, why did you let me exorcize such a weakling?” They removed their black coat, using it to wipe the blood splatter from their face, feeling both exhilarated and slightly exasperated.

“Well, I like seeing you like this!” he said with a smirk, his eyes glinting with mischief.

Noticing a streak of the curse’s blood on Gojou’s cheek, You pointed at it, a playful glint in their eye. “Something wrong, [Name]-chan?”

Gojou looked at the finger pointing at his cheek, and it suddenly clicked for him—you wanted a kiss! Of course, who wouldn’t want to kiss the great Satoru Gojo? He leaned down, dramatically pressing his lips against the spot, a teasing grin on his face. “Is that what you wanted?”

Annoyance flashed in your eyes as they rolled them. “No. There was some blood on your cheek.” You wiped the blood away, their voice steady. “And we have another ‘mission’, we found Sukuna's finger.”

“Well then, let’s get going! Ooh! I also want to stop by a famous mochi restaurant on our way!” Gojo exclaimed, grabbing your wrist and leading them away with an eager tug.

As you walked toward the train station, you felt a sudden presence behind you. A familiar weight settled as someone clung their arms around their neck.

“[Name]-kun,” Came the sultry voice, dripping with irritation. You recognized it instantly—Makima, she was not pleased. “Why did that man kiss you?” She rested her head against his shoulder.

“I… didn’t expect him to do it, so shut up...” You mumbled, swatting her away with a half-hearted gesture

JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL

JUNE 5, 2018 22:02:01

“Under Jujusten Regulation, Itadori Yuji, I will exorcise you as a curse!” Megumi declared.

“Hold up, I’m fine!” Yuji replied, raising his hand in a gesture of reassurance. “Besides, both of us are kinda beaten up,” he added, glancing down at his body where the tattoos—symbols of his connection to Sukuna—began to slowly fade away, like shadows dissipating at dawn.

“We should go to the hospital,” Yuji suggested, his tone shifting to one of concern.

Megumi hesitated, his mind racing, ‘I can’t tell if it’s really him or if it’s the special grade object influencing him, he thought anxiously. Damn, what should I do?’

Just then, a white-haired figure appeared seemingly out of nowhere. “What’s the situation?” he asked nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t just materialised from thin air.

“Gojo-sensei? [Name]-sama? What are you both doing here?” Megumi stammered, momentarily caught off guard.

Gojo chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eyes, although hidden by the blindfold, you could sense it. “Well, I heard from a little birdie that Sukuna’s finger was in the area,” he explained, his tone teasing as he reached for his phone.

He was interrupted as you snatched the device from his hands. “Plus, the higher-ups wouldn’t stop nagging about a missing special-grade object!” Gojo continued, unperturbed. “And I dragged [Name] along while I was out sightseeing. By the way, did you manage to find it?”

“Uh… I ate it,” Yuji confessed sheepishly.

A stunned silence fell over the group. “For real?” You and Gojo echoed simultaneously, eyes wide in disbelief.

“For real,” Yuji and Megumi parroted back.

Gojou strode over to Yuji, bending down to examine him closely. “Hmm, you really did merge with it?” He chuckled as he straightened up, clearly amused by the situation. “Is there anything wrong with your body?”

“Nope,” Yuji replied.

“Can you swap out with Sukuna?” You interjected.

“Sukuna?” Yuji’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Yeah, the curse you ingested,” You clarified.

“Oh, right! I think I can do that!” Yuji said, giving a thumbs up.

“Alright, give him about ten seconds, then take control back,” You instructed, offering a half-hearted smile to lighten the mood.

“But—” Yuji started, but you cut him off.

“Don’t worry; I’m the strongest,” Gojou smirked, his trademark bravado eliciting groans from both you and Megumi.

“Megumi, hold this!” Gojou tossed a bag into his hands.

“What’s this?” Megumi asked, perplexed.

“Kokufuku from Kikusuian! It’s Sendai’s specialty, and it’s absolutely delicious! I highly recommend the Zunda and Cream flavour!” Gojo exclaimed, his excitement palpable.

As Gojo continued to yap on about his trip and the delicious treats, [Name] couldn’t resist the urge to snag a piece of his Kokufuku. It was every bit as good as he’d claimed, the flavours dancing on your tongue.

“Hey! [Name]-chan, don’t eat my food! That’s really rude!” Gojo whined, eyes wide in faux betrayal.

“Hey, behind you!” Megumi shouted, you pulled him back by his collar just as a special grade cursed spirit lunged at Gojo. You instinctively tensed, knowing all too well how this would end—Gojo would emerge victorious once again because, as he liked to remind everyone, he was ‘the strongest.’

“Look, that kid is still alive after being thrown into a building,” You said sarcastically, feeling the exhaustion seeping into your bones.

“Yeah, it’s about time,” Gojou replied, as if on cue.

As if in response to Gojo's words, Yuji’s tattoos faded once more, his body slumping as Megumi let out a sigh of relief. “Colour me impressed!” Gojou exclaimed, hovering above Yuji. “You can really control it!”

“Yeah, but he’s kind of annoying,” Yuji muttered, aggressively patting his own head, “I can hear his dumb voice in my head.”

“It’s a miracle that’s all he’s doing,” Gojou remarked casually, poking Yuji’s forehead with two fingers, which caused him to immediately pass out.

“What did you do?” Megumi asked, his tone a mix of exasperation and curiosity.

“He knocked him out, Megumi-kun,” You replied, leaning back against the nearby railing, fatigue washing over you. “Can I go home, please? I’m tired.”

“Not just yet, [Name]-chan. If he isn’t possessed by Sukuna when he wakes up, he might have potential as a vessel,” Gojou said, the seriousness of his tone cutting through the lighthearted banter.

“I have a question for you! What should we do with him?” Gojou turned to Megumi, his expression contemplative.

After a moment of thought, Megumi replied, “If he is a vessel, Jujutsu regulations demand that Itadori be executed. However, I don’t want him to die.”

“Is that a personal opinion?” Gojou raised an eyebrow, his smirk fading slightly.

“Yes. It’s a personal opinion. Please do something about it,” Megumi insisted, the weight of his words hanging in the air.

“Well, if it’s a request from a precious student, leave it to me! Now, someone carry Yuji. It seems my beloved future husband has fallen asleep!” Gojou declared with exaggerated enthusiasm.

Megumi turned to you, noticing that you had indeed succumbed to fatigue and drifted off, your head lolling to the side. You must have been really tired—or just really lazy.

“—Wait. Future husband? [Name]-san doesn’t even like you,” he deadpanned, disbelief etched across his face.

“Nuh-uh! He does! He let me kiss him before we came here,” Gojou retorted proudly, a goofy grin plastered across his face. Megumi’s frustration bubbled beneath the surface, and he couldn’t help but feel a strong urge to punch Gojou right then and there.

additional notes : if it has mistakes idc,, uhm yeah woohoo

word count : 1.7k

dont steal or repost my stuff that makes me go crazy!

#❛　　𝒞　　⏖　　melluvs writing.　　𝜚　　𓈒 #jjk x male reader #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #jjk x ftm reader #jjk x gender neutral reader #jjk gojo #jjk yuji #jjk x csm #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu itadori #jujutsu gojo #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu nanami #chainsaw man #chainsaw man x reader #chainsaw man x male reader #csm makima

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violetsiren90 · 9 months ago

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Evergreen | Bang Chan/Reader

Pairing: wolf hybrid!Bang Chan x human!f!Reader

(A Nothing But You universe fic)

Genre: hybrid AU; one-shot; established relationship; domestic fluff; slice of life; mountain living; pregnancy

Word Count: 1689

Summary: Seasons change, life moves on - but some things stay the same.

Content Warning: PG-13 for themes but my page and all its content are 18+ (minors, dni); wolf hybrid rut; mentions of knotting and marking; mentions of rut symptoms that include insomnia and lack of appetite; deep emotions; the use of "your" and "belonging" in the sense of committed love NOT ownership; pregnancy; mentions of different states of undress; domesticity and shared domestic responsibility; homesteading; Chris being the sweetest and most caring 😭💕; Chris chopping wood 😳; mentions of food and eating; implications of sexual intimacy, parenthood

Author's Note: I guess I went and fell in love with these two. This is a companion one-shot to Nothing But You. This one-shot is a different flavor, not as soft and cozy all the way through - there are more notes here, I think. Some sweeter, some sharper, but in the end, it's still them. I wanted to peek into their lives and see how they lived and loved. 🥰

If no one has told you yet today, please know that you are so loved, and so worthy of love! 🧜‍♀️💜

~January~

Snow burdens the branches of the pines, the bitter North wind whistling between the trees, through the darkness, and over the blanket of fresh powder shrouding the forest floor. The mountains are sleeping, but your wolf is awake.

He nearly collapses, sinking to his knees as he shuts the cabin door. You spring up from your place by the fire to rush to him, but he holds up a hand, a growl rumbling low in his chest. You freeze. Panting, he slowly raises his face. Snowflakes cling to his lashes and dust over his head and shoulders. The dusky circles under his brown eyes speak of weariness, yet their expression is dark and wild. His nose is flushed from the chill. Beads of sweat quiver on his brow.

The fever still hasn't broken.

It appeared two days ago, with other sudden changes. Christopher has grown restless and short-tempered, and won't sleep in your bed. He smells intoxicatingly of cedar wood and amber.

You've been through it all before, his annual rut at the end of winter - four days of watching him endure the throes of primal agony. He would steal away at night, to hunt, your proximity far too overwhelming for his heightened senses and desires. Unchecked he would fail to stop himself. He would take you, mark you, knot you.

He hadn't in the four years you'd shared a bed and the comfort of the other's flesh. You'd spoken of the mating rites, but he always held off, afraid to break you. So protective of you always, and without a second a thought to himself.

You respected his space, his wishes, attempting to help him navigate the torment of his natural longings as best you could.

But this year it had taken him like a wild fire. The fever wouldn't break. He wouldn't sleep or eat. And now, here he was, half frozen and shivering on the floor.

No more.

You slowly cross to pull him up against his weak protesting. You peel away his frost-damp clothes and drag his heavy frame to rest upon the bed. With his last strength he tries to push you away, but you slip under the blankets beside him, pulling him into your arms.

His eyes flutter shut as he curls against you and nuzzles into your neck, whimpering that when he wakes it will be too hard for him to hold back.

You tell him not to try.

You tell him that you need him, want him - all of him. This part too, with all the others. You assure him softly that you're not afraid, nor should he fear to make you his...you already belong to one another, after all.

You whisper that you love him.

Christopher exhales, tears trickling down his cheeks to mingle with the sweat and melted snow. You hold him to your breast, brushing soft kisses into his hair.

Cedar wood and amber.

~April~

You shake out a flannel shirt, crinkled and bunched from wringing to hang it on the line that stretches from the side of the cabin to a young yellow birch within the clearing. You smile as you fasten it with clips. He had worn it on the first day he visited the diner. It was faded then, and it has grown more timeworn still. But the fabric is thick, the seams hand-sewn, and if the dye has begun to abandon the thread it is only ever the softer.

Strong and soft, like him.

The warblers are singing in the branches of the white pines as they busily fashion their nests. You stroke a hand down over the little bump of your belly, musing over the nesting that has started to change the trappings of your own little home. There's still plenty of time, but Christopher's excitement has poured forth in the form of hard work, and you're certain that when your time comes he'll have stored by enough for the next three winters yet.

You hear the rumbling of his truck a ways off. He left in the wee hours, the bed loaded down with wares to sell to suppliers in town. By the time you've strung up the last piece of washing he's already at the mouth of the trail, his arms laden with flowers and parcels wrapped in brown paper. The light wash of his denim shirt brings out the early kisses of the spring sunshine on his honeyed skin.

You follow him into the house where he puts your wildflowers into a vase and insists that you sit while he tends to lunch. Unwrapping the brown paper packages you find a set of pretty maternity pajamas, a box of chocolates, and the goat's milk soap you like.

He's already eaten half his sandwich when he sets yours down, and you tug his wrist, pulling him into a chair to prevent him from setting out to work yet again.

When the dishes are cleared you won't let him leave. He'd work every second of every day and well into many nights if you let him. But today you want him to rest. It's a mild and lovely afternoon and the chores are done. Other things can wait.

You sit across his lap on the porch swing he built two summers before. Your arms encircle one of his as you rest your head on his shoulder.

His lips brush your forehead as his thumb caresses the little curved scar where the slope of your shoulder meets your neck. The one that means you belong to him and no one else.

The birds sing and the swing creaks. 

~July~

He calls you from around the other side of the house. You draw an arm over your dripping brow and struggle up from where you're crouched to spread a batch of plump, ripe blackberries between the screens of the drying rack. There are still so many. Some you'll turn into jam. Christopher will eat the rest. He loves them. You rest the colander still half-full with berries against the full swell of your belly, wrapping an arm about the rim to keep it in place.

You're hot and uncomfortable these days. But, when the morning's work is through, you'll go down to the lake together to shed the day's heat in the cool, still waters. You'd been every afternoon that week. Christopher was a strong swimmer, and would stay in far longer while you sat on the shady bank with a book. When he finally quit the water yesterday, he'd never found his clothes - instead he'd pressed you back into the lush green grass and made you sigh his name.

As you round the far side of the cabin your eyes catch his form. He stands under the sweltering sun, stripped down to pair of fitted khaki work pants and thick suede boots. His muscular chest is slicked with sweat and he stands, panting, with his weight pressed into his right hip. He holds an axe in his hand.

His mouth pulls up at the corner and his tail swishes at the site of you. You tuck yourself against him wrapping your free arm around his damp waist. Oh how you want to swim. To hold his strong body in the dark water.

He gestures with the axe at what he's fitted together with stripped pieces of soft pine. A little cradle. He nudges it with his foot, setting it to rock. You bring a blackberry to his lips and he accepts it.

You kiss him.

Salty skin and summer fruit. 

~October~

Your eyes flutter open to the sound of little cries. You sit up and stretch, blinking in the softness of the early autumn light.

You inhale deeply. Cinnamon and hickory smoke.

Outside the air is growing crisp and the leaves of the deciduous trees are blushing and abandoning their hosts, covering the floor of the wood in their pageantry. Fruit and game have begun to grow scarce as the forest prepares to enter the long slumber of the colder months. Nights require fires more often than not.

There is a small fire crackling now. A little black cauldron hangs over the flames, and you can smell the porridge simmering within. The man you love sits in a rocking chair near the warmth, a little bundle in his arms. He looks up at you as you rise and he smiles. He's been all smiles lately. In fact, you don't think the little dimple has left his cheek since he met the tiny she-wolf in his arms two weeks ago.

He says she looks like you, but all you see in her beautiful little features is Christopher. She has two tiny fuzzy ears and a darling little tale.

You reach down to stroke her fat cheek and your heart aches.

It aches from love, so much of it.

When the doctor placed her in your arms a part of your heart that you hadn't known existed burst to beating. You thought you loved the man who had knitted her inside you as much as you were able, but you had been ignorant in that respect as well. When he took your daughter in his arms and looked down on her face you thought that there wasn't room in your chest for things so vast, so deep.

You named her Hannah, for the sister her father had lost. It meant "grace".

So fitting, you think.

You move your fingers into Christopher's curls and he looks up at you. His brown eyes are soft and warm. The lovely eyes you saw that first day at the general store - the same through every changing season.

The maple and the birch will wax and wane, but not the cedar, not the pine.

Some things will remain.

And he is evergreen. 

-Fin-

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anna-scribbles · 10 months ago

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thirteen update 🌿👩🏼‍🌾🏚️🫢

chapter 4: January

chapter summary:

He pictured her face the last time he’d seen it, cheekbones peeking through smooth skin, smile taut over bone-white teeth. They would tell him, right? If something happened?

excerpt:

The thing about haunted houses is that “haunted” is a really vague descriptor, and it’s passive, which is just bad writing, honestly. There’s no indicator as to who’s doing the haunting, and how often, and why. There’s no real criteria for what “haunting” even means. A person can be haunted by a ghost, or their past, or the memory of eating bad sushi. A house can’t remember its past. It certainly can’t eat sushi. And Adrien’s not even confident that ghosts are real. (If you’d asked him that question about ten years ago, he’d have said no. But finding out that magic is real—and that you’re not—has a way of dampening your certainty of such things.)

Anyway, haunted houses are stupidly and imprecisely named. And if Adrien wanted to use an edgy metaphor to conceptualize the way his past won’t un-sink its twelve-year-old-molars from his throat, he’d just go back to thinking about forced heirship again.

(“—it’s non-negotiable,” the woman from the city had explained. “Property is passed down automatically to biological offspring upon death. You have been the primary owner of the estate since the previous owner, Emilie Agreste, died in—”)

Mostly, the house is just damp and cold and musty. Mostly, it’s just a monument to how excessively wasteful one absurdly rich and evil family can be. No delusions of haunting can be blamed for that. Adrien doesn’t even want to guess at how much money was poured into this place, only for it to get dilapidated by years of moisture and infamy.

(Ten-year-old paintings shouldn’t be sticky when you touch them. Layers of finely-detailed brushstrokes shouldn’t flake off and smear away at the brush of your fingernails, especially when there isn’t even anything underneath.)

It was always a terrible place for art, this house. His parents were collectors more than appreciators of any of it, buying up pretty things just to own them. Hang them here, where no one else would see. And it seems now that water damage has picked up where his parents left off, ensuring that no one else will ever enjoy them again.

(Of course there was nothing underneath. There’s never anything underneath, no matter how deep he digs. He should know that by now.)

read on ao3

#ml #miraculous ladybug #ml fic #thirteen #my art #adrien agreste #emilie agreste #DONE IT'S DONE #okay I HAVE to go do hw now #happy february it's january etc etc #the feb chapter WILL be done earlier I can feel it in my bones. I just know

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veryinnovative · 11 months ago

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@jegulus-microfic | january 2, prompt: fire | word count: 1.575 featuring older ceo regulus black and younger intern james potter

“A truffle wagyu burger with hand-cut fries? What does that even fucking mean?!” James shouts into the receiver as he winds through the busy masses of bodies crossing the roads, the traffic light across blinking for him to hurry. “Can’t I pick up something for him from Burger King or something? You know, like a normal human being?”

On the other end of the line, Barty snorts a derisive sound. “Yeah, you try feeding him cheap chain franchise slob and see how that plays out for you. The fucker thinks Versace is a low-class brand, James. He probably doesn’t even know what the inside of a Burger King looks like. Besides, that place is fire. They have good shit.”

Groaning, James picks up the speed and sets out for a sprint, having missed the bus to Howick and resorted to the most reliable way of transport—his two sets of healthy, always moderately trained legs.

“Are you running? You better not be fucking running, Potter. You’re going to come back all sweaty and with creases in your cheap-ass button-up and then I’m going to be the one getting shit for not driving you and ruining the image of Regulus Black’s executive assistant—”

“Suck a dick, Barty,” James bites back after barely evading a car, its tires screeching at him in warning. He throws the driver an apologetic smile.

“I’m serious. You meal-prepped, Potter! Asked where the fucking office microwave is, are you out of your mind? Lunch is on company credit, for fuck’s sake. You’ve got an image to uphold now you’re working for Black Enterprises!”

“The cafeteria is too rich for my taste. Besides, I like meal-prepping. It’s calming.”

“Your fucking tuna stinks up the place.”

“Maybe that’s just your big bullshitting mouth.”

“Listen here, you piece of—”

“Oops, entering a tunnel, hear that?” James cups a hand over the receiver and makes a low, grating sound—mimicking the static rasp of a bad cellular connection. “See you!”

He tucks away the phone before entering Beauxbatons, the restaurant Barty had told him to go to because Regulus was craving his guilty snack, which, to James, sounded like an item right off a witch’s menu. Then again, he was a poor twenty-three-year-old who had just had a gap year fresh out of university, lived in a run-down apartment tucked in Southern London, and knew nothing of the expensive tastes a man like Regulus Black possessed. Thirty-something years old and not a single skin blemish. Must be all the fucking truffle and caviar and whatever Boiron guava puree he eats.

“Welcome,” one of the employees asks. Of course, all of the staff are also wearing pristine clothes and have perfectly sleeked-back hair.

“Hi,” James answers, now all too conscious of the developing sweat marks below his armpits and the dampness cooling on his back. “I’m, uh, here to pick up lunch? Sorry, I forgot my order so let me have a peek at my messages…”

The employee blinks like James has grown a second head. “Take-away? Sir, this is a dine-in restaurant.”

Good thing James has come prepared. He shuffles through the contents of his bag, phone in the other hand and tip of his tongue peeking out in full concentration. “Oh, that’s alright. I brought something to carry it with me. I also got some Tupperware if you don’t mind rinsing it beforehand.”

“No, sir, it’s not a matter of containers,” the employee starts, her lips pursed into a tight line. “We don’t do takeaways.”

James stops and frowns, bag half slung over his shoulder. “Isn’t this Beauxbatons?”

“It is.”

“My boss sometimes has people pick up his lunch here.”

“You must be mistaken… We do not lend any type of service like that.”

James sighs. Great. Amazing. Just what he needed. “Right. Do you mind if I make a call? I’m sorry, there must have been a mistake then.”

The employee, undoubtedly taking pity on him and his disorderly state that suggests he’s been running the past ten minutes, nods. “Of course.”

Heaving a sigh, James scrolls through his contact list and taps on ‘Regulus’, never mind that he has been firmly instructed to only call him during emergencies. But considering the sort of day he’s been having, he considers this one.

Regulus picks up after the third ring. “Potter?”

It’s been two weeks and he still won’t fucking call him by his name, going off on tangents about formal office conduct and etiquette. Potter this, Potter that, bridling when he’s called by his first name for a change in an environment that would kiss the soles of his feet if he’d ask. “Hi, I’m at the place you sent me the address of but they don’t do takeaways so I wanted to know what you want to eat. You cool with Wagamama?”

There’s a pregnant pause—all too telling of how Regulus is probably taking a deep breath and doing the thing where he either pinches the bridge of his nose or rubs his eyebrows. “Have you mentioned the takeaway is for me?”

“No, I haven’t.” What difference would it make, James wants to ask. But in a world where Regulus Black is pretty much revered, he is confident it would make a little difference at least.

“Do that, Potter.”

James rolls his eyes before returning his attention to the employee. “He wants you to know his name is Regulus, by the way.”

Her eyes widen. “Reg—Do you mean Mr. Black?”

James clicks his tongue. “That the one.” The employee doesn’t look convinced and James holds up his hand just above his chest. “About this tall? Curly black hair? Probably in one of today’s morning tabloids, not hard to miss. I could put him on speaker if you’d like?”

There’s the frantic wave of her hands, head shaking vigorously. “Oh! You should have told me from the start, Sir. Please, what would Mr. Black like to eat for lunch? I—I’m sorry. We are very exclusive in our service and are most honored Mr. Black has once again chosen our humble establishment—”

“Just,” James sighs, skimming over the menu laminated standing on an easel by the entrance, not possessing the energy to listen to someone go off on tangents about his boss again. Not like he does so internally at night, anyway. Absolutely not. “A truffle wagyu burger with hand-cut fries.”

“Not fries, a salad—” Regulus reminds him over the phone, but James has decided that he will just about eat whatever James decides on.

“Potter—” Regulus tries again and James flat-out hushes him. To his surprise, Regulus actually shuts up.

The employee nods, over-excited. “Oh, of course, an excellent choice. How would Mr. Black like it to be cooked?”

James shrugs. “I don’t know, on a grill?”

There’s a faint garbled noise coming from Regulus that James will definitely tuck away in his memory.

But the employee is too thrilled to be serving someone as pompous as Regulus to notice the lack of culinary terminology James possesses. “Oh, I meant the cook of the meat!”

“The cook of the meat?” James repeats. “I don’t know, whoever is on shift? Regulus, who do you want to cook your burger?”

The employee makes a high-pitched sound at the same Regulus sighs in a very exaggerated, exhausted manner. “Just tell them medium rare.”

“Medium? What is this, a video game difficulty?”

“Medium rare!” the employee chirps, her smile wry. Strands of hair stick out of the previously perfectly pulled-back bun like the situation has created plenty of static to dishevel her updo. “One medium rare wagyu—”

“Don’t forget the fries,” James adds, unable to fight off the grin cleaving his face. This, he loves most—fucking with rich people. ‘Who do you want to cook your meat?’ he’s a genius for that one, an absolute innovative mastermind. Make him head of corporate next at this rate.

“You had to call me for this?” Regulus asks him as James watches the poor girl scurry off to the back, undoubtedly to ring in the order and gush about the perfect, rich, hot-looking Regulus Black on the phone by the restaurant’s hallway.

“It was an emergency. I get you the wrong order and you, I dunno, bite off my head like Miranda Priestly.”

“I don’t know a Miranda Priestly.”

“No? Shame. Would’ve loved her, a real feisty woman that one. She works in the fashion industry, though.”

“Potter.”

James tries not to bark out a laugh. He can’t help it, Regulus is just too easy. “Yeah, I’ll get you your overtly expensive A3-grade cut of meat that could pay for my weekly rent. Didn’t take you for the type of man to get burgers, by the way.”

“That’s why I’m asking employees of a lower tax bracket to pick them up for me.”

Okay, that’s kind of funny. Regulus Black can be fucking funny if he wants to, he just rarely chooses to. James barely masks his snort at it. “Got me there, boss.”

“Get a cab back to the office. And stop calling me boss.”

“My bad, Sir,” James drawls, knowing that Regulus reacts particularly well to this specific formality.

A second of silence that stretches on for a little too long. James clears his throat, wondering if the line cut off. “Regu—”

“See you soon, Potter,” Regulus speaks, faster than usual, almost like he’s flustered, and with a strange pitch to his words before he hangs up.

#jegulus #james potter #regulus black #jegulus fanfiction #marauders #marauders au #jegulus microfic #starchaser #sunseeker #this one is for mil bc she plotted this w me so extensively #and also for cass <3 bc they synced w my brain today #ino microfic tag!

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hischierswhore · 3 months ago

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FOR THE BETTER | chapter 1

✰ warnings: cursing, mentions of cheating, mentions of violence, if i missed anything please please please let me know

✰ nat’s note: hellooo everyone! i’m finally back after a bit of a hiatus, and i finally have motivation to write again! i hope to stay consistent with this series. if you have any suggestions as to what you’d like to see in this AU, send it to my inbox!

✰ masterlist

january 30th

Betrayed. That's exactly what you felt as you scrolled through the messages between your boyfriend and his ex-girlfriend. The conversation was a thread of addresses, heart emojis, and plenty of pictures. Oh, how you wished you hadn't scrolled.

You were just supposed to text yourself a picture that he took of you from his phone while he was in the shower. You scrolled through his messages app, trying to find your contact when you stumbled across one with the name "D ❤️". You thought it was a bit weird so you clicked on the message, ultimately regretting your decision.

You felt the tears well in your eyes, your vision suddenly becoming blurry as you heard the bathroom door open. You refused to make eye contact with the man you loved, choosing to stare at the ground instead.

"Y/n? What's wrong?" Trevor asked as he ruffled the towel through his damp hair. When you didn't respond, he grabbed your arm in hopes of getting your attention.

"Earth to Y/n?" He waved his hand in front of your face, thinking that you were just lost in thought.

"How long?" You looked up at him, tears slowly beginning to trickle down your face.

"How long what? What are you talking about?" He visibly appeared confused.

"Don't act stupid, Trevor. How long have you been texting Dixie?" Those were the last words he expected to hear come from your mouth.

"I'm not-" He tried to speak before you interrupted him.

"Don't even lie. I saw the messages. Now answer my question: how long?"

"5 months..." He was the one to look down now, ashamed.

"So... you've been cheating on me for the majority of our relationship? So for 5 out of the 8 months we were together you were also with Dixie?"

"Yeah..."

"Why? Why keep me around if you were sneaking around with someone else? Do you understand how disgusting that makes me feel? Hell, you don't even seem like you're sorry!"

"I am sorry, I just don't know what to say"

"There's nothing to say anymore, Trevor! When we first got together, you knew damn well that there was nothing I hated more than a liar & a cheater, and you turned out to be both, so congratulations to you for losing the one person you could rely on" You yelled as you stood up from the bed, the thought of being in the same room as him disgusted you, nonetheless on the same bed as him.

"Where are you going?" Trevor followed you throughout his apartment, watching as you grabbed your suitcase and your keys.

"I'm leaving, I'm done. I can't be with someone who doesn't respect me. Have a great life with Dixie. Wishing you both the worst"

And with that, you walked out of Trevor's apartment and his life. The downside to this decision? You had nowhere to go; you weren't from California. You were visiting Trevor for 2 weeks, and unfortunately, your trip was cut short due to your now ex-boyfriend's choices.

Not knowing what to do, you called Quinn, hoping he would know what to do.

"Y/n? It's 9:30 pm on a Friday, and you're in Cali. Is everything okay?" Quinn spoke through the phone.

"Quinn me and Trevor just broke up and I'm in the middle of LA and I don't have anywhere to go and I don't know what to do" You rambled to your older brother, hoping he could help you out.

"Woah woah woah calm down. Take a deep breath. For starters, call an Uber to LAX. I'll book you the first flight out of there to New Jersey. Secondly, what happened?"

"I found out Trevor was cheating on me for 5 months with Dixie" You whispered, almost as if you were afraid to say it louder. You heard a commotion on the other end of the phone.

"I'll fucking beat his ass next time I see him. Whether it be on the ice or off" You could tell Quinn was seething on the other end of the line simply based on his tone.

"I'll be okay, Q. I just want to be home" Tears started falling once again.

"You'll be there soon, I promise. Just go to LAX, get on the flight and I'll tell Jack & Luke to pick you up. I'll come visit as soon as I possibly can, okay? I love you, Y/n/n" Poor Quinn's heart ached for you. He knew you'd need all the love & support you could get, seeing as this was your first serious relationship and unfortunately, your first major heartbreak.

"Love you too, Q. I'll see you soon, thank you" You wiped the tears from your eyes as you called an Uber to the airport.

february 1st

2 days had passed since you & Trevor broke up. You were completely isolated from everyone within those 2 days. The only times you came out of your room were to eat and go to the bathroom. You didn't want to tell your brothers what had happened because both of them were close with your now ex-boyfriend. You knew you'd end up having to tell them because Quinn was on his way and you knew it would truly suck if he told them before you did.

About 30 minutes later, Quinn arrived and settled himself into the guest bedroom. Jack & Luke knew he was coming, but the reason being unknown. It was now or never, you thought to yourself. You inhaled as you exitted your room and made your way to the living room where your 3 brothers were sitting. They appeared to be mid-conversation when you walked in, all 3 of them immediately directing their attention to you.

You sat on one of the single-seater couches, trying hard not to have a full breakdown infront of your brothers.

"I think it's best we address the elephant in the room" You started, looking up to see all 3 of the boys nodding their heads in agreement.

"I wasn't supposed to be back from Cali for another week or so, but my trip got cut short, and I don't think I'll be going back anytime soon" You watched as Jack & Luke's eyebrows scrunched and they tilted their heads; you could see the gears trying to turn in their heads.

"But Trevor?" Luke managed to get out, still not fully comprehending what you were saying. You sighed heavily.

"There's no more Trevor. I uhm- I found out he was cheating on me with his ex..." You fiddled with your fingers, trying to avoid eye contact with them.

"What?" Jack was shocked. He couldn't process what was being said right now.

"How'd you find out? You don't have to say if you don't want to" Quinn asked, already knowing the basics but not the details.

"It's alright. He told me to go on his phone and send myself the pictures he took of me earlier in the day. I looked through his messages trying to find my name and I saw one that looked odd so I clicked on it. I saw more than I would have liked. He admitted to cheating for 5 out of the 8 months we were together" You watched as Quinn got up from his spot and came over to give you a big hug, one you desperately needed.

Jack and Luke both sat in silence, mouths agape as they tried to take it in.

"Y/n/n, we're so sorry" Both boys said in unison as they too joined in the hug.

"I'll be okay eventually. It just really sucks. But I promise I'll be fine" You reassured the boys, holding onto them tighter before letting them go back to their original seats.

"So what've you been doing since you got back?" Quinn asked, trying to start a semi-normal conversation.

"Writing. Lots of writing. Decided to scrap the original songs I had planned for the album and started fresh. Got 3 songs written so far, just gotta record"

"That's good. Are they bangers or like super depressing songs?” Luke piped in.

“So far it’s a mix. One is kind of a ballad and the other 2 are more upbeat” You shrugged. Jack sat in his spot, still in shock.

“You okay, Rowdy?” You checked in on your older brother, bringing him back to reality.

“Oh yeah, I’m good. I’m still just trying to process that Z would do that, especially to you of all people”

“Just know that all 3 of us will be fighting him both on & off the ice. We do not care” Quinn added, hoping to get a laugh out of you, which he did successfully.

“Well thanks guys. I really appreciate it. I’ll try to not be so mopey anymore, I promise”

“As long as you let us go with you to the studio!” Luke loved going with you to the studio. He thought it was the coolest thing ever.

“Why not? All 3 of you can come with me”

✰ taglist: @lovelynikol16

✰ nat’s note: if you’d like to be added to the taglist, send a reply & i’ll add you on :)

#✎ natalie writes #hughes!sister #hughes!reader #trevor zegras angst #jack hughes fluff #quinn hughes fluff #luke hughes fluff #jack hughes angst #luke hughes angst #quinn hughes angst #nico hischier angst #nico hischier fluff

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greendest1ny · 15 days ago

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here you go guys have a preview of the fic that's been taking all of my attention away from beautiful boy (darling boy)

tw: grief, injury description, smell of a corpse described... freshly revived garmadon himself should be a warning /hj

preview

Lloyd sighed, the tension leaving his shoulders as he sat on the stairs leading up to the temple, his dao sword perched beside him. The surrounding canal chilled the already freezing early January air, and the remaining dampness on Lloyd’s skin and hair didn’t help that, gooseflesh rising on his arms.

It was over. His father remained to enjoy his eternal rest in the Departed Realm, and the Sons of Garmadon were on their way to be interrogated and then locked away in Kryptarium Prison for the foreseeable future.

Then, why did he feel like it wasn't over? There were no more loose ends to tie up, and there was nothing left to account for except where they should hold the celebration party for their victory. It was finished, and onto the next villain, wasn't it? That’s how it had been for the past five years of Lloyd’s life.

Lloyd jolted upright as Kai gingerly placed a hand on his shoulder. His face flushed a light lavender as he stood up and turned to face his brother in all but blood.

“You coming with, buddy?” Kai asked, his lips upturned into a small, sympathetic smile as he gently squeezed Lloyd’s shoulder. “We're gonna go back to the bounty, get some food from Chen’s, freshen up, and hopefully sleep if the Sons of Garmadon decide to go peacefully.”

Lloyd opened his mouth to reply. It sounded like exactly what he needed; greasy food, his family, and his bed. There was nothing left for him here, these villains had been successfully thwarted just like the rest. But something still felt so indescribably wrong here. “I just... I need to make sure that he's definitely not here. I know we stopped the ritual and everything, but..” Lloyd paused, rolling his shoulders and making a vague gesture. “You know?”

Kai nodded. “Well, I’m not going to let you go alone.” The brunette told him, rising to his feet and already walking in the direction of the temple of resurrection. Lloyd could tell from Kai’s relaxed gait that he knew that Garmadon couldn't return. He was probably only doing it to soothe Lloyd’s worries like he had a thousand times before.

“Wait, Kai.” Lloyd blurted, walking to be beside Kai as the man stopped to listen, an eyebrow cocked. “This is..” Lloyd’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish’s as he searched for what to say. “This is something I think I need to do alone.” He finished, busing his hands by messing with the sleeves of his hoodie.

Kai scrunched his nose and pursed his lips. “Kid, what if there are any Sons left in there? I don’t want you to be ambushed. And I know what you’re like with your communicator.” Kai said, not unkindly.

It was true, out of all the ninja, Lloyd had broken and lost his communicator the most. Lloyd shifted his weight from foot to foot, fixing his gaze on the floor. He knew he was right, he just didn’t want to admit it. “I was irresponsible back then, Kai. I can take care of myself for the most part now.” Lloyd reminded him. Maturity and responsibility were important qualities in any ninja, but especially the green ninja. He couldn’t continue being chaperoned by his big brother his whole life.

Kai sighed, rubbing his temples. “That’s… True.” The fire elemental admitted, looking down at his little brother again. “But you promise your communicators working, and if anything goes south -- and I mean anything -- you’ll haul ass and get out and call me?”

Lloyd nodded dutifully, reaching a hand up to his ear and tapping the small communicating device that sat there. “You can hear me through this, right?” Lloyd tested, to which Kai nodded.

“Yeah, yeah.” Kai hummed, and then poked his brother in the chest “Just don't do anything stupid, okay? And be back before half-ten. This place is way too creepy.” Kai groaned, cringing at the temple looming before them

Lloyd couldn't help but chuckle, a small grin plastering his features. “Okay, Mom.” Lloyd rolled his eyes playfully, yelping a little and then relaxing as Kai pulled him into a bear hug, wrapping his arms around Kai’s torso in return.

Kai huffed humourfully, and then pulled away, ruffling Lloyd’s hair. “I’ll bring the bounty ‘round, just let me know when you’re coming up.” Kai said fondly, walking back to join the other ninja.

Kai was right about one thing, the temple of resurrection was pretty off-putting. Lloyd sighed, and he walked into the temple again. The strange, spinning floor mechanism had long since stopped, and the portal to the departed realm had shut before his father could pass through.

There was no reason to be here, not unless he wanted to wallow in his sorrow, which in all fairness, maybe he did. Once he reached a place secluded enough, where none of his fellow ninja could catch him, he let his emotions run wild for the first time since his father died. His hands balled up into fists, and a shuddering breath left his chapped lips as his face began to dampen with hot, salty tears.

First master, he missed his father. He missed his father so much. Some part of him had hoped that the Sons of Garmadon would have succeeded in bringing his father back, just so Lloyd could be with him again. Even if he truly was as evil as the Sons claimed he would be, Lloyd would've been able to bring him back to the light. He’d done it before, and he’d do it a hundred times over again if it meant he could have his father back.

He thought he was over it. Over the constant emptiness and rage and misery that consumed him whenever he thought about his father and the fate that had befallen him far too soon after Lloyd had gotten him back. Though, in all honesty, even if his father had to sacrifice himself after an eternity spent with Lloyd, it still would’ve been far too soon.

But Lloyd wasn't over it. He never really would be. The grief would never leave him. It had just become a part of him, like being a ninja had, like being a student at Darkley’s had.

It was a vicious cycle with seemingly no end in sight. He’d be fine, doing something mundane and insignificant, something totally and utterly unrelated to his father, and then he'd think of his dad, and he'd be crippled by grief.

It was hard to think of the good memories, not because there weren't many, but because every time Lloyd thought of his father he'd just drown in his sorrow, in his eternally persevering love that had nowhere to go.

Worst of all, some part of him, the childish, idiotic part of him, was angry. He was angry that his father wasn’t selfish enough to let another serpentine war play out, because Lloyd would’ve fought that war again and again and again if it meant that his father could be by his side. He was angry that his father was so willing to die, to leave him behind again, even if he was sacrificing himself for not only the world at large but his son. He was angry at Destiny for the shit hand it had dealt his family.

He was angry at Chen for instigating the first serpentine war, and the traumas it must’ve caused his father. Lloyd may have been a child at the time, but he knew that his father didn’t wake up screaming some nights because of any normal nightmares. He knew that normal nightmares didn’t leave you shaken for the next couple of days and unable to return to sleep until exhaustion caught up with you and forced you to. He knew that these traumas, Garmadon’s ineffable love for him, and his unending desire for redemption were what made his father so determined to stop another serpentine war from occurring.

But mainly, Lloyd was angry at himself. He’d said such horrible words to his father, just moments before his father condemned himself to the cursed realm. He’d wasted precious time reminiscing on the past when he should’ve been focused on the present. He was angry at himself for not finding another way to stop the rampaging anacondrai cultists.

Just that last gripe alone had left him with countless sleepless nights, thinking up a thousand alternative ways to defeat them. A reforged flute? A technique they still needed to learn? Setting the cultists against each other?

Some part of him also knew none of it would work. Destiny doesn’t compromise nor stop for anyone.

Lloyd didn't know how his uncle did it. He'd known Garmadon for his entire life, he’d grown up alongside him. But he supposed that living thousands of years made you rather experienced in grief, didn’t it? But still. No matter how many times he'd asked Wu how he was so okay, his only response was ‘It gets easier.’

Yet, it felt like it never would.

After a moment, Lloyd unclenched his fists and wiped his tears away, taking deep breaths in a useless attempt to soothe himself enough to focus again. He sniffled and stood up straight. Lloyd opened his eyes again and tried to ignore the searing misery.

The temple was far colder than the rest of the remains of the palace. It was freezing to the point that Lloyd could see his breath, and Lloyd was genuinely unsure if it was so cold because it was so close to water, or if it was because it was night, or even because of the dark magic that had been committed there. He continued to walk around the temple grounds, his eyes flitting around to search for anything that might just look like his father.

He still felt that hope. That incessant desire for his father's return. Lloyd knew there was no point in feeding into it, into the wishes of a selfish child who was not acting like the ninja master he was supposed to be. There was no point in being here.

His father was dead, and it was going to stay that way.

Lloyd turned to leave, but the sound of rocks falling caught his attention. He looked around before he spotted what had made the noise. The pedestal upon which Harumi had placed the necessary items for the ritual, had been cracked open, leaving it in two halves. Lloyd’s hand drifted to the hilt of his dao sword from where it hung from his hip, cautiously approaching the area.

The smell of rotting flesh swiftly assaulted Lloyd’s nose, and all he could do in response was rest his hands on his knees, hunch over and gag involuntarily. He didn’t know how he knew it was rotting flesh, but he supposed that was the sort of thing you knew as soon as you smelt it. Lloyd sucked in a few deep, shuddering breaths and swallowed back the spit that had accumulated in his mouth. He continued over to the stone table, his sneakers tapping quietly along the stone floor.

The teenager peered down at the broken pedestal, looking inside of it and placing a hand on one half of the stone to brace himself. The hollow base of the pedestal was stained with ash and pebbled with debris, but most concerningly, purple blood was splattered across the stone and left in a puddle within the rubble. An uneasy mix of hope and terror settled into Lloyd’s bones. Lloyd only knew of three people whose blood was indigo: himself, Master Wu, and his father.

It was then that the Lloyd smelt the wafting smoke, seemingly coming from every direction, as the canal’s air did little to negate it. It clouded his vision slightly, adding to the overwhelming sense of dread that pooled in Lloyd’s stomach. Any smoke from any fires that the Sons of Garmadon would’ve lit would not be this thick after so long.

Lloyd backed up, adrenaline rushing through his body as his hands began to tremble. He turned to run, only for him to run into a wall that seemingly hadn’t been there before.

It didn't feel like a wall. It felt like metal. Cold, hard metal. But metal didn't breathe, metal didn’t stink of the ozone-like stench that clung to one's skin after travelling between realms, and rotting flesh.

Lloyd took a step back, and then another, and he looked up from the stone floor.

Grassy green eyes were met by fiery red.

Garmadon was frozen where he stood, and Lloyd was in a similar position.

His father was wearing the garb of a samurai, locks of white hair peeking out from beneath the kabuto. His visage was almost identical to how he’d appeared while the Great Devourer’s venom was infecting him. He looked like an oni, the villains in old Ninjargon folktales. He had four arms again, along with those unnaturally long and curved canines that never left no matter what form his father took. His skin was stygian with ivory markings along it. Just from a guess, Garmadon was easily eight feet tall, as he looked like he’d tower over a fully grown Master Wu with ease. A tail with a large tuft of white hair on the tip whipped around behind him, and his legs and feet were more like that of a feline.

Most concerningly to Lloyd however, there was a gaping hole in his father's chest. It oozed violet blood and ran so deep into the oni’s chest that Lloyd could easily see the alabaster of his father’s ribcage, and the porous, mauveish-grey of Garmadon’s lungs, and how they shuddered, expanded, and then deflated cyclically with the effort of breathing.

Garmadon was dead silent, staring down at Lloyd as if he were nothing. Like he didn’t even know who the boy before him was.

Lloyd gazed up at his father, eyes wide and full of love, longing, and uncertainty. “Father?” Lloyd uttered quietly, almost reverently. This had to be some cruel, demented fever dream. He must’ve collapsed after the Sons of Garmadon were arrested, and this was some sort of delusion. This just.. couldn’t be real. Could it? His father was standing before him, alive and breathing. His father.

Garmadon seemingly snapped back to reality, his eyes narrowing as he pushed past Lloyd, nearly knocking the boy over. “She... Calls... Me...” He hissed out, his voice gravelly and low. It was devoid of any warmth or affection his father used to regard him with when he spoke, it sounded more like he was talking to one of his many incompetent lackeys from his time as a villain, or even to one of their enemies during his time as a ninja master.

Lloyd quickly recovered and his confusion only grew. “What do you-” Lloyd paused. Harumi. Harumi was calling him, wasn’t she? She just couldn't leave his family alone, could she? “Father, wait! Don't listen to her!”

Garmadon seemingly ignored him, continuing to walk in that stilted, off-kilter manner. Like the reanimated corpse he was. His movements were unnatural and stiff. He smelt almost like chlorine bleach and rotting, burning flesh.

“Just wait a minute! Let me talk to you!” Lloyd pleaded again, grabbing one of Garmadon’s lower arms. “Please, father!”

#ninjago #lego ninjago #lord garmadon #garmadon #lloyd garmadon #ninjago lloyd #emperor garmadon #sons of garmadon #ninjago season 8 #ns8

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talulajones-stories · 3 months ago

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Klonnie Week - First Kiss

Southern Louisiana only has two seasons. Summer and Almost Summer. Summer lasts nine months of the year with a reprieve from the sweltering heat lasting only three months. Almost Summer, that cool part of the year consisting of December, January and February, is when the temperature drops down dramatically to the tepid seventies and people come out their shaded rooms and from under their ceiling fans to engage with one another without fear of heatstroke to picnic and visit their neighbors and sleep on their screened-in porches.

In the middle of September all of this is a distant fantasy.

Mosquitoes bite at the back of Bonnie's legs and the fleshy part of her arms, and she listens to cicadas string a symphony, an ode to heat, and looks out over the entire back yard of the Farmhouse, where Klaus has brought her, and everything is green, green, green. Technicolor green. Green everywhere. Even the pond where Klaus has begun her tutelage and is telling her to walk across is green.

"You can't be serious," Bonnie says, turning up her lip, because even though Klaus may call this grassy hole in the ground a pond, from where she stands on the rickety wooden landing, she can't see the bottom.

"We begin with the basics," he declared, stopping abruptly. "Concentration is key. You'll accomplish nothing if your mind is scattered.," He smirks, "Now come on with it, Bonnie. Walk across the pond." He states annoyed with her reluctance.

He leaves her without the encouragement he had shown her previously when it came time for her to display her magic and she feels a little slighted and insecure despite all the growth she had achieved for herself on her own last night.

Pulling at the laces of her boots, she tosses them to the side, bracing herself at the edge of the water in the clothes he picked up out of the nearest Walmart. Acid wash shorts and a thin t-shirt with the slogan, "Girls Rule, Boys Drool" in bright pink across her bra-less breast.

You’ve set a man on fire, Bonnie, you can do this. You can do this, she repeats in a loop while chiding herself for the childish want she has for Klaus to come over and hold her hand.

He yells at her not to take all day.

She closes her eyes, one-foot hovering over the water when he bellows from the opposite side of the pond, and she sinks. Straight to the bottom, water filling her nostrils and over her head.

She flails about, splashing around, she kicks and kicks, and a white hand darts in her watery vision, and grabs her by the collar.

She gasps. Sputtering water and turning to her savior.

He had jumped in, swimming them both to the bank, “We must add swimming lessons to your training,” He says, as they both trudge through the mud to the high dry grass.

She's annoyed and angry.

"You knew I couldn’t do it." Soaked, she wrings out her hair, her shirt clinging to her breasts and taut stomach, her shorts, damp and dirtied from sitting on the ground next to him. "I can’t walk on water."

Klaus lies back on his elbows, casually picking at the grass while admiring the way her clothes cling to her. “That was the Nazarene, love. I want you to levitate over the water.”

She eyes him, noticing his red mouth curled into a smirk. “Levitate, huh?” she says, glancing back at the pond.

“Connect to your magic.” He urges, taking a blade of grass to gently stroke her arm.

She looks down at him, remembering how the night before she had bodied her would-be kidnappers. “Those men were trying to kill me, I was scared and full of rage, is that where my magic lies?”

He sits up, cavalier in his response, “It was the strongest emotion for you to tap into then, but it’s not the only source,” Klaus explains, his voice softening, his mischievous mouth tender in describing, “A witch’s magic has three access points.” He places a finger gently at her temple. “Her mind,” he says, trailing his hand down to the center of her chest, “her heart,” and then, with a sly grin and a raised eyebrow, his eyes lower suggestively, “and from the very source of life itself.”

She likes the way he looks in this moment, his face close to hers, his strong brow relaxed and smooth. It's as if being here with her is the only thing that matters, and she feels warmth spread inside her that has nothing to do with the sun. Without warning, she kisses him—a quick press of her lips to his, a smile almost dancing across her mouth as she does it, knowing she has caught him off guard.

The suddenness startles Klaus; there’s an imperceptible flinch that he quickly recovers from, a glint of surprise and something more in his eyes. Her smile deepens against his lips, and he kisses her back—less playful, more hungry. She responds with a soft moan as his tongue slides into her mouth, his hands pulling at her waist, urging her closer, until she’s almost beneath him.

Needing to catch her breath, Bonnie pulls away slightly, still close enough his lips brush hers. “Okay, I’m ready to levitate over water,” she smiles, determined.

Klaus laughs softly, his voice a low rumble. “I’ll be here to pull you out if you drown again, love.”

#klonnie #klaus mikaelson #bonnie bennett #klonnieweek2024 #resurrection drabble

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sukipershipper · 3 months ago

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Your Darling Irish Rose - SWTD Oneshot

(TW: lots of swearing and something sliiightly naughty but nothing too much lol, have fun!) -----

Cillian…Seems like it’s been so long since I last held you.

I keep looking out the window, expecting you to be coming home, just like you always do. But each day leaves me feeling more disappointed than the last.

I know you’re working hard though.

I know you’re doing your best and that’s what I know is important.

I just wish I could be back there with you.

But…you know better than any that fate is a cruel mistressIf she weren’t, we wouldn’t be apart

I really hope the rig allows you home for Christmas…I miss you more and more each day…I’ll be waiting every day for you…waiting until I can hold you in my arms again and hear your beautiful voice, mo ghrá…

Please don’t forget to write…love…your darling Mary

P.S you better have shaved your face when you get back mister, I know you love your stubble but it looks horrid on you <3

The little scribbled heart at the bottom of the page made his heart flutter. He rolled his eyes as he let out a low laugh, his lips barely touching as he read the paper once more. This would’ve been the 10th time he had read it. The letter itself was sent a month ago but it was the last letter he got from Mary. He loved reading her latest tellings of the day, so he felt saddened that he hadn’t gotten a letter from her recently. But he held onto hope that she was just busy and had forgotten. The two had always been busy bodies. From the small coffee shop they ran together in the streets of Dublin, which she now ran with her sisters, to the work they did together on the Beira. Mary was a very beloved face on the rig. She was one of the few doctors on board. Though her profession was hindered slightly due to poor equipment provided by Cadal, she still managed to do it with relative ease.

She had many good friends onboard, minus Addair. Hell, even Rennick liked her, thought she was the sweetest thing to roam the earth. And, of course, O’Connor adored her so. The nights they weren’t busy he’d take her into his arms and they’d waltz under the stars to a tune playing in the crew lounge, only barely audible through the walls but a beautiful melody that would envelope them both as they swayed together.

He longed for her touch as much as she did for his.

Yet, like she had stated, fate was cruel and had separated them. Come the start of the year, Mary found it harder for her to continue her work, and had asked to go back to the mainland until further notice. Rennick, of course, was understanding for her. But with him it was another story. He had barely been allowed to utter the first sentence before being told “Fuck off, ye have a job tae do here, get on it!”

To say that fucked him right off would be an understatement. Mary was quick to reason with him that he is the head of the Pontoon team and no-one could run around down there with such ease as he could. Didn’t ease the separation by much but her promise of letters back and forth helped settle his mind for the time being.

That was back in January. It was now August and he still waited until her next letter or at least a call from Rennick who she had promised updates for every fortnight. Still, nothing.

Ah well, she was probably just tired was all. He sat himself up and made his way to the canteen, brushing past a damp spot of the floor that made him roll his eyes, turning his gaze upwards to where a small leak had begun to drip in his room. “Swear, Rennick better fix tha’ shite…” he grumbled, chucking on a warm jumper for the morning before making his way to fix himself some breakfast. He passed a few friends and workmates along the way, eventually stopping at Finlay who was hopping down from fixing the lights above. “Mornin’ Lass!” he quipped, resulting in a light kick and an indignant smirk on her face. “Ye better watch yer mouth! Callin’ me lass, bloody hell…” she chuckled, giving him a shove. “What wuid Mary say, hm?”

“Oh, pipe down, she’d be ‘avin’ a gaff too!” he chortled. Finlay rolled her eyes with an exaggerated groan as she accompanied O’Connor down the hallway. “Thought ye had fixed tha’ part already?” O’Connor asked, gesturing to the light fixture behind them. Finlay huffed, “Ah did! But Ah swear, is like one thing breaks after the other!” she exclaimed, “Ah tell ye, Cilly,” she spoke - using the nickname Mary often used for him, making him smile slightly. “This rig…is a fuckin’ pile of shite it is…Rennick needs tae put calls through tae get this fixed o’herwise we ain’t gonnae get tae drillin’ at all…Ah mean, look at yer room!” “Ach, I know…” O’Connor grumbled again, “...Swear, it’s like as soon as Mary left this shit started happening…” the thought made him chuckle, “Heh, i-is like she was the ray of sunshine keepin’ this rig together!” he laughed, getting a brief chuckle out of Finlay, “Team effort then, she does all the hopin’ and wishin’ I do the maintenance, hah!” she joked, sending both into a fit of laughter as they descended the stairs.

As they entered the hallway that led to the canteen, the echos of their workmates rang out loudly, followed by the sound of crashing cutlery and their cook, Roy, yelling at one of the crew, followed by a chorus of laughter as they made their way through the door and into the canteen.

“MUIR! FOR FUCK SAKES, STOP IT!” Roy yelled, watching as one of the deckhands, a rugged figure with an oddly slim face, danced around on the tables, being egged on by his friends.

O’Connor laughed at the sight of Muir, laughing even more at Innes who seemed to be egging him on the least but still thoroughly enjoyed the sight (though to O’Connor, Innes also seemed to be enjoying the view from where he stood, Muir’s body turned to face away from him left ample opportunity for Innes to stare at the lads ass) and at their newest cod, Caz who was dancing with Muir, albeit on the ground. He loved the vibrant camaraderie of the crew here, and the way that everyone seemed to laugh and smile along with any of the hijinks that one group may get up to. It helped to lighten the load and lessen the burden he felt of being alone without his beloved, although it didn’t help the twinge of sadness he felt not seeing her in the fray, dancing and jumping along with the rest.

The man had very little time to ponder it as a loud banging of a ladle from Finlay got them all to settle down as her voice boomed “A’RICHT YA LOT! SIT DOWN AND FILL YER GOBS! NO MORE PRANCIN’ AROUND, C’MON, C’MON!” O’Connor laughed heartily, his respect for Finlay shooting through the roof as he sat down at a table with Caz, Innes, Muir and his two other close mates, Trots, and his best mate from before he even worked on the rig, Gibbo. The two had met when O’Connor took on a chance fishing job on a small boat off the coast of Scotland nearly 10 years ago. It was a good chance for O’Connor to get used to the water's motions and make a good connection to help work on the rig when it was ready to be placed. Granted he wait for that was a whole 8 years after the fact but it worked for him.

“Took ye long enough!” Innes joked, getting a laugh out of O’Connor once again. “What kept ye?” “Probably gawking at that letter from Mary, hm?” Caz asked. O’Connor nodded, “Just reading her words in her voice makes all the pain and worries of the day just go- WOOSH!” he exclaimed, his hands flying out beside him to punctuate his words.

“Ye get any new letters from her yet, lad?” Muir asked. O’Connor sighed, “Nae,” he explained, “But hey, there’s always tomorrow…” he spoke, though his voice was a bit uncertain.

As he sat down, Gibbo slid him a plate he had made for him earlier, hashbrowns, toast, eggs and some delicious strands of maple bacon, before he could even put the fork in his mouth, Trots instantly began yammering on. “The state of this crew, someone needs tae keep ‘em in check!” he began, earning an instant groan from Gibbo. “Christ, not again-” “From the rags on the floor to the parties, ye’d think we were in the states! No care, no rules, no order! Just a big ole, messy pile of fucken’ shi-” “WE GET IT, TROTS,” Gibbo groaned, “Chill out, Cillian’s just sat down! H-He doesnae wanna hear yer nonsense!...Right?” the other man asked, turning his gaze to O’Connor, who sat peacefully eating. He took notice of Gibbo’s expression, one that pleaded with him not to let this go on. O’Connor gave a coy smile, however, “Oh, well, actually…” he began, resulting in wide, horrified eyes from the stocky man beside him.

O’Connor leaned in close to the Union Rep, “I remember you telling me about a bit of mould in one of the rooms that ne’er got addressed, but I forgot what it was ye saw! Care tae tell me?” “Well, as a matter of fact-” Trots began, his sentences turning into a flurry of rambles as O’Connor sat contently, eating his grub and listening to Trots, all while Gibbo shot him a look of ‘Fuck you’.

The Irishman simply sat and finished off his plate while Trots yabbed on. The minutes ticked by as he ate, and still, all he could think about was his Mary. He ate absentmindedly, clearing his plate just before Trots finished his rambles. He looked at the clock on the wall and moved to stand. “Well, thanks fer the story, Trots my boy!” he spoke, “I’m sure Gibbo here would be more than happy to listen to ye now-” “Prick” Gibbo muttered through gritted teeth. “But, I best be off,” he continued, about to grab his plate, “Ye know how it is, Rennick needs me in-” *BZZT*

‘O’CONNOR! MY OFFICE! NOW! NO DAWDLING, MOVE IT!’

*CLICK*

The whole canteen went silent, eyes turned to O’Connor who simply blinked in shock at the mention of his name. It was very rare that O’Connor ever got called up to Rennick’s office, so either he was needed for a new task or he royally fucked up something. Either way, he set his plate back down and sighed through clenched teeth, looking back towards the table as he mouthed ‘Wish me luck’ to them. After a few minutes of darting across the deck and up to the crew lift where he could reach administration, he knocked on the titular door that opened to the office of Davey Rennick. He took a deep breath and pushed it open, forcing a smile. “Mornin’ Sir,” he began, aiming to continue until he saw… “‘Ello, Cilly” Addair spoke lowly, though oddly, not in his usual vicious tone as he leaned against one of the filing cabinets. O’Connor felt his eyes narrow and how fists clench as he stared daggers into the British fuck beside Rennick. “What’s ‘e doin’ ‘ere?” O’Connor snarled, his accent noticeably thicker.

“He’s here tae help me, that’s why,” Rennick replied shortly. It wasn’t an unknown fact that O’Connor despised Addair with a burning passion. The two had always butted heads and competed to see who could a job better or win at pool. Rennick was very aware of this, often having to scold the two from on the deck just beside his office if he ever saw them in a fight. He knew this was a very risky meeting but for a reason beyond Rennick’s comprehension, Addair had insisted on sitting in on this. So he allowed to go on, but he could see it would require a lot of standing in between the two men as Addair instantly puffed out his chest, standing up off of the filing cabinet and making his way around to meet O’Connor, who instantly straightened up and did the same thing back.

“Fuck are ye here for, eh?” O’Connor growled, “Ye ‘ere te watch me get tha’ boot, huh? Oh, I bet ye were the one who lied and said I fucked somethin’ up, ay?” “Fuck off, cunt,” Addair snarled back, “Trust me, if I wanted to watch you get thrown off this boat, O’Connor…I’d throw you off myself,” he whispered that last part, his sombre expression slightly fading and giving way to his usual snake-like tone. The comment prompted a low growl out of O’Connor and before he knew it, his hands flew to Addair’s chest and he gave him a firm shove. “YA FUCKIN’ PRICK!”

Addair retaliated with a shove of his own and the two got into a big shoving match, their hands catching each other as they tried to push the other down. Rennick slammed his fists on his desk, “SIT THE FUCK DOWN, CILLIAN!!” he yelled. The two men stared at each other before O’Connor huffed and took a seat. Addair returned beside Rennick as the boss sat back down and sighed.

“Look,” Rennick began, “No one’s ‘ere because ye got the fuckin’ sack, a’richt?” he spoke, his voice much softer than O’Connor had ever heard it. “Addair is here because he got a letter incorrectly addressed to him…it was meant tae go tae ye…” he explained. O’Connor’s face scrunched up in suspicion.

‘Conveniently’ the person he hated the most got his letter? Yeah right. Rennick either read his thoughts or saw his expression because he immediately began to explain again. “I get it, ye two hate each other’s guts, Ah wuid be suspicious too…but believe me, this is the truth…Addair?” he spoke, gesturing for the Fat fuck to speak. “Look, I think yer the biggest waste of space on this rig, and I know ye’d rather want me burned in a furnace than talking to ya…but…” he paused, his hand going to his head.

O’Connor’s expression softened as he watched the body language change and the mood of the room seemed to shift.

“This…this was sent from the hospital in Aberdeen…” he explained, “...Me ex is in there…she sent a letter to me filing for divorce…which I still think is bullshit-” “Get to the point, Addair,” Rennick interrupted. Addair scoffed, handing O’Connor the letter. The latter simply stared, “W-Why would I be getting a letter from the hospital?” he asked, his voice no longer carrying his accent, hinting at the vulnerability he felt in that moment.

“It’s not directly from the hospital itself, but from the address…” Addair continued, “...I uh…admittedly…I had a read of it-”

“Ye read my mail?” O’Connor asked, his voice raising in volume. “Yeah…is from your broad, Marianne, whatever her name was…” Addair responded, “...somethin’ stupid I reckon…” he scoffed resulting in a growl from Rennick. He took over the conversation. “Addair thought it best if ye read it…Mary had sent it personally for ye…” “Ye read it too, Rennick!?” O’Connor yelled, standing up. Rennick stood up with him, “Listen, I’m given’ this tae ye fer ye tae read in yer own time, but I ken ye’ve been waiting ages for Mary to right back…this is why it’s taken so long…” “W-What’s that supposed ta mean!?” “JUST-” Rennick paused and took a deep breath, “Read it, O’Connor…”

The man simply stared in horror at the thought of what was in this letter. Trembles began to take over his body as he opened the letter, his eyes wide as they scanned the page. It didn’t take him long before he found the part that had thrown the whole mood of the office.

One word that now engraved itself into his mind.

‘Leukemia’

O’Connor felt his knees buckle, he tried to adjust his footing, his hands on Rennick’s desk barely managing to catch him as he felt his weight overpower him, his body shaking slightly and his eyes wet, brimming with unshed tears that he didn’t want to let fall. He couldn’t even read the rest of the letter. He simply held it in his hands as he took shaky breaths, trying to hold back his sobs. “Sh…S-She…She can’t!” he whispered. Rennick shook his head, “I’m sorry, Cillian��she’s a lovely lass…which is another reason why I needed tae give this tae ye…she found out a few months back apparently…”

O’Connor was in paralyzed horror. The woman he loved, his Irish Rose…was battling the worst thing he could imagine. Hospitals would be hard on her, he knew it, her treatment would be difficult. She would be in that hospital suffering and getting last at every amount of treatment she required. The thought sickened him. But what hurt more was the realization that dawned on him…she was alone.

He was out at sea here, no way to get off with his rostered hours…and she was stuck in a dingy old hospital room by herself…she was alone and he couldn’t be there for her.

The thought was horrible and he could only stare with wide eyes between the two men before him. Rennick sighed, “Ah’ve let the Mainland team ken…but…it’s unlikely they can get a bird out ‘ere for ye before the Holiday Shift…trus’ me, Ah’m as pissed off as ye right now about it…Ah’ll ‘ave another call for ye, but I cannae promise ye’ll be going back…Ah…Ah’m sorry…” the man spoke, his voice soft and almost trembling itself as Rennick sank into his seat. “Yer…yer free to go…both of ye,” he spoke.

With that, Addair walked out first. O’Connor took longer to go, but once he did, his eyes were fixed on the floor, He didn’t dare look up, his thoughts swimming in a pool of shock and disbelief. He then felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He looked to see Addair, staring at him with sincerity. “I don’t believe to be what makes us friends…I doubt we ever will be…” he said in a low voice, “...but…I’m sorry this is happening…despite how much of a prick ye are to me…and how much I am to ye…doesn’t mean ye deserve this…you or her…Write back to her when ya can…let her know how much ya love her before ye can’t…”

With that, Addair headed back down to Engineering, a sigh of disbelief escaping him. O’Connor stayed there for a while, still processing everything.

The journey between the walk from the office to the canteen was a blur and O’Connor felt as though he wasn’t even there. The room was empty with no one else but him, Roy and Finlay who were gabbing on in the background. O’Connor barely saw their forms, only hearing their muffled voices in his mind.

It was only when Caz’s voice rang out that he jumped back to reality and saw himself surrounded by his friends. Caz and Gibbo knelt directly in front of him, Trots on his left side and Roy on his right as Innes and Muir stood in the back together and Finlay stood with Brodie on the other side behind Gibbo. “Ye a’richt?” Caz asked, his eyes searching O’Connors face for an answer.

O’Connor didn’t answer right away, simply staring down at his hands.

“O’Connor?” Finlay called, tapping the man gently on his cheek with her knuckle, trying to pry a response from him. Still nothing.

Gibbo shuffled a little closer. ‘Cillian…Cilly…” he murmured, “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Did Rennick give ye a boot?” Muir asked, a little insensitively but in his genuine way nonetheless. “Did ye want me tae punch him?”

O’Connor shook his head with a laugh. “No…no…” he mumbled, “...I’m fine…It’s not me I’m cryin’ o’er…” he explained. He showed the letter in hand. “Oh, Mary got back?” Roy asked. O’Connor nodded, no verbal response from him, however.

“Lad, ye’re worrying us,” Trots spoke softly, holding O’Connor’s hand. “Are ye okay? Is Mary okay, what happened?”

It took a few seconds but soon, soft whimpers escaped him, followed by his shoulders trembling and shaking with pent up sobs. His eyes pooled with tears that were threatening to spill at any second as his whimpers grew louder and more pained. And all at once, the floodgates opened as soft sobs escaped him, he clung to himself holding his elbows tight as he doubled over. Trots leaned on him, giving him comfort in a supportive embrace while Gibbo tried to get O’Connor to look at him, being gentle as his hands tried to cup O’Connor’s face and get him to look.

“Cillian, look at me- Its a’richt, it’ll be a’richt” he tried to assure him, but it was to little avail as the tears continued to fall and the sobs grew louder and more desperate. “IT’S NOT ALRIGHT!” O’Connor wailed, gripping onto Gibbo tightly who instinctively threw his arms around him in return, “IT’S NOT FAIR…She’s back on the mainland alone, she’s f-f-fighting Leuk-kemia alone a-and I can’t even h-help her…!” He sobbed. The mention of the condition sends everyone into varying states of horror.

“M-My darling, Mary…” he trembled, his body shaking even more as deep sobs escaped him, even louder than before. “O-Oh god…M-Mary…MARY!!” he cried, heaving into Gibbo’s shoulder, the latter only able to close his eyes as he held his friend, the reality of what he faced weighing even heavier on him.

“I’m so sorry, Cillian…” Gibbo spoke, his own eyes growing misty as he held his friend. Trots, seeing that more of the crew were coming in, knew that this was a matter best dealt with in privacy. He shared a look with Gibbo and the two stood and led him to the accommodation, settling him into Gibbo and Dobbie’s room. O’Connor’s shaking had subsided but the tears still poured.

Gibbo allowed O’Connor to lean into him, Trots offering a comforting side hug, albeit quite awkward, giving some comfort as O’Connor let out a shaky sigh.

“I’m sorry, Cilly,” Trots spoke, “That’s something a couple should ne’er go through…that ain’t fair…it ain’t fair at all…and Cadal ain’t lettin’ ya go to see her?” “R-Rennick is tryna sort it out but…h-he reckons there’s no point in getting my hopes up…he was so nice to me about it too…” O’Connor explained, prompting a chuckle from Gibbo, ‘That’s a first, aye?”

O’Connor smiled slightly as he added to Gibbo’s joke. “Nah, what’s a first was Addair bein’ nice to me, fer once…” he commented, resulting in audible gasps from Trots and Gibbo on both of his sides. “No fucking’ way”

“Are ye pulling me tits right now?”

“Gibbo-”

“What?”

O’Connor laughed, feeling a little bit of levity as he sat there. He held the letter in his hands still, though it was a bit crumpled due to how hard he held it. “I…I hadn’t even read the whole thing…” he explained, “I-I got to the mention of…it…and I stopped…I couldn’t finish it for her,”

Trots looked at him with an eye of curiosity. He held out his hand at O’Connor with a smile, “May I?” he asked. O’Connor stared for a second, simply looking back and forth between Trots’ face and his hand, but he soon handed the paper to his friend and Trots unfolded the crumpled sheet and began to read it aloud for him.

As he read, O’Connor imagined Mary’s voice speaking to him as he had done every day before now.

“My darling Cilly…

…I’m sorry I haven’t written back in so long…fuck it’s been hard to want to do anything now…

…I feel bad having to explain to you this way but I have no choice do I?...I have Leukemia…I got diagnosed back in July…it wasn’t easy, but rest assured, I have been given the best doctors…I believe one of them may know your mukker, Cameron…she’s been talking my ear off nonstop about her man, can ya believe?”

That part made O’Connor laugh again, imagining Caz’s wife Suze babbling on to his poor Mary in her bed. The thought was as hilarious as it was comforting to him, knowing she was being treated well.

“...I had struggled trying to put this into words…in fact I didn’t even write this myself, Ms McLeary did! I just…I missed you so much…but I never wanted to burden you with this…I know treatment for someone like me…like either of us would usually be hard…we’ve never had it easy…but Suze is different…this place is different…it’s looking up for the both of us……We’re gonna be fine, I can feel it…just promise me you won’t get yourself hurt or put into a tizzy by that Addair fella…and for the love of all things holy when and if you visit you had better shave that stubble, or no snuggles for ye once I’m better!”

“Better get on it then!” Gibbo joked, the three men all laughing in response before settling down so Trots could continue reading.

“In other news, the shop is doing well back home, Daisy and Lilliane are taking care of it, and yer old friend Finnegan even popped by for a visit here! He gave me some flowers and told me to tell you not to leave his wellies lying around in the ground, the dogs got em last night and he had to walk in socks and slippers, ha!”

There it was. Her trademark sunshine personality, her golden, bright and peppy attitude made him always smile whenever he saw her. He could practically feel her warmth around him despite her situation and he loved how she could always see the bright side of everything no matter what.

“I can’t talk for too much longer, but this is just to say, I’ll be okay…we’ll be okay, don’t fret too much about me…I know you’re doing your best and I don;t need anything more than to know that you’re happy…I love you mo ghrá…Come visit me soon so I can hear your darling, bassy voice and feel your arms around me again…my strong, handsome man…my O’Connor

Grá mo chroí thú, Tá mo chroí istigh ionat Mo chuisle

Lots of love, from your darling irish rose

Sincerely

-Mary O’Connor”

O’Connor felt his eyes well up with tears once again, but this time they weren’t of sadness, but of love and longing. He felt the same painstaking feeling of want as he did before, but this time there was a sense of relief, of comfort, knowin that she was okay.

Hearing her words were like a lifeline to him that he didn’t know he needed and he smiled as he leaned into his friends embrace, feeling a sense of comfort he hadn’t felt in a bit.

She was right…She was always right…

They were going to be okay…

#swtd #still wakes the deep #swtd O'Connor #O'Connor #fic #long fic #Gibbo #Trots #Muir #Innes #Finlay #Brodie (mentioned)#Roy #Caz #Cameron McLeary

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h8ani · 1 year ago

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Christmas was always your favorite holiday and filled with so many memories, this year your boyfriend wanted to make sure to make this holiday extra special. Enjoy decorating, drinking cocoa and having some much needed laughs this Christmas.

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: just my attempt at fluff 😭, pet names (babe), angst if you squint, fem! reader

I so happily was the secret santa for; @the-witch-of-one-piece 🫶🏼 I hope you like this Christmas piece I did 🥹 I had so much fun doing it!

Christmas was always one of your favorite holidays. Something about seeing the snow fill up your yard as a kid while wanting to sprint out into it and feel what you thought was plush, soft cotton from the sky to quickly realize all you got was cold, easily melted snow, it brought up fond memories even when you remember how sick you got early January every single year.

You loved the happy times with your family, making those cookies that had a picture of Santa and a Reindeer on them, putting up Christmas lights on the tree only to get them tangled up, and even making snow angels once you were finally in proper winter clothes to go outside. You just loved Christmas.

It was the happiest time of the year, all of the memories of when you were a child making those cookies with your favorite cousin, getting to be the one to put the star on top of the tree and even getting to choose the movie on Christmas Day when everyone gathered in the living room as the night settled down, it was always How The Grinch Stole Christmas every single year you got to choose.

Thinking back on these memories is why it was such a bittersweet feeling. This was your first Christmas alone ever since moving to Japan, you were presented with a job opportunity you just couldn’t pass up thus, here you are. You were supplied with a lovely home for relocating, a higher position in your work and you even made some friends and met some very special people along the way which you wouldn’t change for anything. So, if being alone on Christmas was the only downside, so be it.

You sigh, allowing yourself to be swallowed up in the mountain of blankets you have covered yourself with on the couch, you shiver underneath them all, no matter how many you’ve brought downstairs you still can’t seem to shake the chill in your home.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

A groan vibrates your chest while you sink further into the couch, blankets falling over your head in the process. Maybe if you ignore who it is they’ll go away.

Knock. Knock. Knock… Knock. Knock. Knock… KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

“Y/n! Open up! It’s cold out here!”

You jolt up once you hear his voice, blankets now flung to the floor and your jacket of warmth now gone. The quiet padding of your feet against the cold tile floor is heard as you make your way to the door. You swing the door open to see your boyfriend, hoodie and sweatpants clinging to his body like the snow that’s clinging to the top of his beanie. You can see small snowflakes slowly melting on each braid of his hair while he shakes in front of you. “What are you doing here? You should be-”

“With you, why didn’t you tell me you were going to be alone today?” Ran walks in, squeezing past you and your dumbfounded expression while dropping a box you didn’t even notice he was carrying, the jingle of trinkets and items catches your attention. Closing the door quickly you turn to see your damp boyfriend pulling out a bundle of ornaments, his body slightly shaking as the snow on his body had now melted into nothing but cold water.

You lightheartedly sigh while taking the ornaments from his hands. “There’s spare clothes of yours in my room, go change before you get sick.” A small ‘thank god’ leaves his lips before he runs upstairs, the heavy thuds of his footsteps stopping once he makes it to your room.

You glance in the box, rummaging through everything Ran had brought. Ornaments, a big gold star, twinkle lights, everything to decorate a Christmas tree. You pout slightly seeing everything he had brought. “I don’t even have a tree this year…”

“I brought a tree.” You feel him kiss your shoulder, you didn’t even hear him come downstairs. You spin around to face him.

“What?”

“I brought a tree.” Ran smiles at your expression, your eyes widen upon hearing his words and he can’t help but let a chuckle leave him. He leans past you while motioning to the box, he grabs two different sets of ornaments. “Anyways, do you like gold or silver more? I brought both in case you didn’t like one of them, but I have some red ones back at my place and I can have Rindou-”

“You brought a tree.” You say matter-of-factly while still looking at him as if he had a second head. Ran looks over his shoulder and motions with his chin towards the window where his truck was parked on the street outside of your house.

“Yes I brought a tree.” he says while looking at the ornaments again, “Anyways, gold or silver babe.” He turns to hold them up and sees you now tugging your boots on, winter coat barely around you, and earmuffs in hand. A smile creeps up on his face once he sees the excitement on your own, the inner child in you showing. Seeing you like this warmed his heart, the elation you showed without a single care over just a simple holiday.

Ran knew that you moved to the city for a job promotion, you just decided to leave out the part about how far away your family was and how you were spending all holidays alone now, aside from when he’s been there with you. He was never the one to celebrate any holidays but that changed shortly after he met you, the anticipation you felt just watching the fireworks in the sky made him realize that he wouldn’t mind seeing the big smile form on your face once again, especially if he could be the one to make you smile.

That's why today needed to be special, he wanted to make it special for you.

He saw you run out of the house and down to his truck where the tree was strapped up to it, he chuckled once he saw you bounce up and down in excitement, the smile you gave him as you turned to see him through the window was all he wanted to see this Christmas.

~~~

The tree wasn’t huge, but it was big enough to fit one pack of ornaments all around; you and Ran decided on picking the gold pack - “it feels more Christmas-y” you had told him.

You’re admiring the tree while wrapped up in the thick blankets you had once abandoned earlier, it was the perfect way to end a once lonesome holiday.

The fireplace was finally lit, all thanks to your lovely boyfriend for bringing extra wood and lighting it. The cold chill from earlier was finally gone and a newfound warmth was dancing around your home.

The subtle scent of chocolate wafted through your nose as Ran came back with two steaming mugs intricately labeled His and Hers. “You like hot chocolate right?” He says as he carefully hands you the mug while leaning down to kiss you. His lips tasted like the beverage he oh so sneakily sipped already. You hum into the kiss, silently answering his question and pulling away to smile. “I love it actually.” You say.

He settles in next to you on the couch, one hand firmly grasping the mug while his other pulls the blankets over the both of you, soon grabbing the tv remote and scrolling through the various Christmas movies on display.

“Hey babe?” You speak up, quickly sipping your hot cocoa before continuing. “Shouldn’t you be with Rindou today? It’s Christmas after all.”

A chuckle escapes his lips before glancing at you. “Don’t worry, Rin will be over shortly.” You nod and set your mug down, soon cuddling into his side.

It was nice like this, just the two of you even though holidays for you have always been something of a spectacle, you could find yourself finding peace in the solidarity of the both of you if every holiday could be like this.

“This should be our tradition from now on.” He says suddenly. “Picking a tree, decorating it, hot chocolate, and movies, I’d like that.” You tilt your head up, seeing the light tint of pink graze his cheeks as he speaks, his eyes still on the tv screen avoiding your own. “If you’d like-”

“I’d love that…” you quickly answer, killing any uncertain thoughts in his mind. “Thank you for everything today, it meant the world to me.” His eyes catch your own, cheeks deepening in color. The sudden pull you feel towards him feels tense in the air while he slowly leans down, lips barely brushing against your own, eyes fluttering shut when the quiet click of your front door is heard followed by a loud THUD.

You jolt back as the door swings open and a blur of green runs in and stops. “Ran, you son of a bitch…” the green furry man says, you gasp once realizing—

“Rindou! You’re the-”

“I was told it was a costume party!” Rindou exclaims, finally turning around and revealing the grinch outfit he so willingly wore.

“Ah come on Rin,” Ran beams. “This is gonna be the start of a new tradition.” He snickers while you can’t help but laugh out loud, both of your giggles and laughs meshing together as your favorite Christmas movie starts to play in the background.

Maybe some new traditions would be just what you needed this year.

@enchantedforest-network

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ace-race-ace · 6 months ago

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Legacy AU - Part 1 - First day back

Prologue - Next part

It’s mid-January when Lance gets called into the factory for the pre-season. He’d spent the last few weeks spending time with his family and friends, snowboarding to his heart’s desire. The snow, despite being unmistakably cold, felt like warmth and comfort to him. A way to recenter himself, a reminder that no matter what, he can always come back to this feeling when things get hard. It also gave him time to reflect, to think more clearly without the constant stress of the next race looming over his head.

The same couldn’t be said about the damp, gloomy weather of England.

Thick rivulets splash against the car window, the gray clouds above showing no indication of clearing up anytime soon. Lance sighs as he presses his forehead on the cold glass. Soft music plays through his headphones as the dark rolling hills whizz by, obscured by the downfall. He can’t help but feel a bit lost, sitting alone in the backseat, the driver hidden by a separating panel. It felt a little like riding in a car possessed by an unknown spirit, leading him to his inevitable doom. Damn, he needs to get back to his senses. He’s here because he wants to. He wants to get working on the car, log in hours in the simulator, get the thrill of barreling through a circuit at 300 kilometers an hour. He wants to win, and make everyone proud, his family, his friends, and himself.

But most of all, Fernando Alonso.

Unsurprisingly, his thoughts this winter break often drifted to Fernando, his new official boss. Lance knows he needs to tread carefully. The rules have changed now. His advances, his flirting, his need to be close to the Spaniard has to be more measured. But the truth is, he isn’t sure he can hold himself back.

It was innocent, a little silly at first. Sure, he noticed from the start how his stomach would flip whenever Fernando would laugh or smile at his suggestive jokes, but he convinced himself it was just nervousness. Yet as the years went by, there was no denying the pull he had towards his fellow driver. Fernando became a person of comfort, of safety away from home. An island of peace and understanding within the raging storm that is being an F1 driver. The Spaniard opened himself to Lance, listening to his gripes about the team, the car, or his own performance, giving advice or support any way he could. Fernando would also offer physical comfort, pulling him into a tight embrace to calm him down after a hard day. Lance became used to feeling his head rest against the older man’s chest and letting the slow heartbeat cradle him to sleep.

Could he really be blamed for his wires starting to get crossed? Lance had never been cared for like this by anyone else. Sure his father gave him anything he wanted but sometimes, all Lance needed was to be held and heard. The fact Fernando is also undeniably handsome and a racing legend didn’t help his poor head getting tripped up. Admittedly, he’d let his selfish desires take over his moral compass a bit too often. In hindsight, begging to suck off your teammate after a win was a bit too extreme, but he’d seen the desire reflect in those brown eyes. If there was a way in, Lance would fight for it.

There was also the matter of the celebration party after Brazil. Fernando had been caught up the whole night by the throngs of people wanting to talk to him, party with him, congratulate him, it was no surprise Lance didn’t see much of him. He spent most of the night with Esteban, downing a few fancy drinks paid for by Lawrence’s tab. A few people came to congratulate him on the team effort but didn’t linger long before looking for the champion. Of course, Lance was happy for Fernando but he could help the twinge of jealousy. The car was a championship winning car yet he’d only secured fourth, missing out on the podium which was instead filled by the two Ferrari drivers, Verstappen and Leclerc. Towards the end of the season, Ferrari and even McLaren had started shaping up, nearly catching up which can only spell trouble for the next season. Aston Martin had the jump on everyone this year but the other teams were now ready to bring back the fight, their fancy, efficient facilities in tow. Lance felt apprehensive, and no amount of comfort from Esteban, whom he’d been ranting to all night, helped the situation. The Frenchman knew how down on himself Lance could get but he could tell the conversation wasn’t going anywhere so he made his excuses and left him at the bar, promising to catch up later. Lance let him go, even if it meant standing at the counter alone. Some people tested their luck trying to strike up a conversation now that Esteban was gone, but he wouldn’t give them even a passing glance. If stories about him being an asshole pop up in the media tomorrow, he can easily blame it on being drunk, celebrating too hard.

Just about when he was going to call it a night, Lance felt a pair of strong hands wrap around his waist from behind.

“Cariño, I have not spoken with you all night. I need to thank you again, my victory is all thanks to you.”

There is no mistaking Fernando’s voice no matter how slurred it is. Lance turned to face him and caught the older driver’s blissed out smile. His hair looked drenched, sticking up wildly. Lance didn’t dare check if it was from sweat or champagne - probably a nauseating mix of both.

“Fernando, you know that’s not true. I made too many mistakes that could have lost us the constructors. And those close calls that nearly crashed us both out.”

The Spaniard made a show of rolling his eyes and waving a hand as if he were batting away the words.

“I don’t care about that Lance. We won is all that matter. And next year, you become champion, and we win again!”

Lance laughed and shook his head.

“You really think that will happen?”

Fernando pulled the younger driver closer, their hips now flush against each other. Lance gasped as his arms got trapped between them.

“I promise I make you champion next year.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Fernando.”

The older man lifted a hand to Lance’s face, cradling his cheek. His thumb started slowly rubbing back and forth. Lance can’t help but snuggle ever so slightly into the hold, which makes Fernando smile.

“I promise. I believe in you, in us.”

Lance has to laugh at how those words would have sounded in a different context. If things were different. Suddenly, he felt Fernando tighten the hand around his face and pull him down. Their lips met in the middle in a soft kiss, Lance feeling the rough scratch of his beard against his skin. It takes a few moments for both of their consciousnesses to kick in and realize what had just happened. They both pull away from each other, remaining silent. Fernando met his gaze, his brown eyes reflecting the same affection and uncertainty in Lance’s own. He makes a vague gesture, clears his throat and walks away from the younger driver, leaving him once again alone.

There was something there, Lance knows it. Was it worth risking everything he had? Everything his father and him had worked towards? Lance knows the rational answer, but every time he thinks of Fernando, his strong hands, his sweet and caring manner, he can’t help but want more. He hasn’t seen Fernando in person since the party, communicating only through sparse work emails. Lance already hates this new dynamic. They were never just coworkers, and now he’s supposed to become Fernando’s docile employee that only works on success and productivity? Forget everything about how his lips felt against his? Fuck off.

Lance is broken out of his thoughts as the car stills. The familiar window bay isn’t as inviting under the downpour but at least the car has pulled up under the canopy. He thanks the driver and pulls the door open. A chill settles in his bones as he makes his way through the front door, the wings of the Aston Martin logo looming above.

Thankfully, it is much warmer inside. The receptionist greets Lance with a smile, indicating where the meeting would be taking place. He bumps into a few mechanics along the way, striking up an easy conversation in his usual nonchalant tone. It’s obvious the factory has been hard at work again, people jogging from place to place, the ringing sounds of machines throughout the building, interns slipping by with coffee, not a single still moment. Lawrence is the first one to pull Lance into an embrace as he enters the room, smiling brightly at his son and gesturing for him to sit. Others come to greet Lance but keep their contact minimal, most learning the hard way that the Canadian doesn’t enjoy physical contact. With exceptions of course.

He leans back in his chair and lets his resting pout come onto his face as he waits for the meeting to start. Everyone else seems engrossed in conversation, passionately discussing the upcoming season. Lance is thankful no one tries to strike up a conversation with him as he stares out the windows to the gloomy Silverstone track. No driving there today, that's for sure. Today is for all the boring bureaucratic details that Lance doesn’t care to remember but has to pretend to care about for the team. Looking at the rolling curves also reminds him of the expectation placed on him to win Silverstone this year, bringing in Aston Martin’s home race. In the past few years, both he and Fernando have failed to do so. Whether it be failed upgrades, tricky conditions, or crashes, they’ve never been able to pull it together. Lance feels dejected about his chances of ever winning here or anywhere else for that matter.

Finally, the door opens once more and conversations go quiet. Lance whips his head around faster than he is willing to admit.

Fernando looks categorically normal. Which for him of course means a perfect beaming smile, an undeniably handsome face, and energy that thrums through the room. He goes around greeting everyone with simple pats on the back or handshakes. Lance feels himself still in anticipation of his touch as he makes his way around the room. The conversations have started up again, people already throwing questions at Fernando who easily brushes them off and promises to address them all in a minute. As he passes by Lance, he is still turned towards an engineer. Fernando doesn’t say anything to Lance but squeezes his shoulder tightly before moving on. Lance hates how such a simple gesture sends shivers down his spine.

Fernando gets to the front of the oval table, still grinning widely. Lawrence shakes him lightly before taking a seat.

“Thank you everyone for being here. I am excited to start this new season with everyone here and everywhere else in the factory. We have a lot to go through today, so let’s get right into it.”

Lance tries to focus. He really does. He jots a few notes on the first few slides about the few rules and regulation changes. New changeable aero front wing mechanism, Mgu-k development, bla bla bla. Lance loses the thread pretty soon, especially when he is transfixed by the way Fernando moves his hands as he explains everything. The older man exudes confidence as if he’d been Team Principal for years. He answers questions with ease, not once looking unsure of his answer and inviting others more knowledgeable in specific aspects to share more. As teammates, Lance has never once heard Fernando talk about the car parts in such detail, it was as if he’d suddenly gotten 3 engineering degrees in a couple of months. Lance never thought the explanation of how piston positioning affects the motor efficiency would make him hot under the collar but the smooth Spanish accent that came along with it seals the deal.

Eventually, they move on to the less technical aspects of the seasons. Which tracks would suit the car, how the competition is looking, and what they need to develop. And most importantly, how they are going to win. Fernando hasn’t looked at Lance once this entire meeting but when he mentions the possibility of another world championship, he crosses his gaze and winks. Lance feels a blush come on his cheeks as he looks back down to his notebook, covered in nonsensical scribbles.

The presentation is over, and Fernando opens the floor for more questions. It’s at this point Lance actually notices his new teammate Felipe Drugovich has been here the whole time. The Brazilian peppers questions at Fernando, about the car handling, the sim work, changes to the steering wheel, all things Lance should have thought of as well. Instead, Lance sinks deeper in his seat as he watches Fernando smile at Felipe, reminding him he’d be here for advice and support throughout the season.

At long last, Lawrence declares the meeting over and ushers everyone back to work. Lance gets up slowly, his body having relaxed a bit too much into his seat. As he is about to leave the room, he feels a hand around his bicep.

“Lance, stay a bit? I want to talk to you.”

Lants. The way Fernando says his name never fails to get to him. He stills and watches everyone else filter out of the room. Once alone, he turns around to face his…boss. The grip on his arm hasn’t left as it burns through the fabric of his shirt.

“Thank you, Lance. I just wanted to check in, and make sure you are ok?”

Lance gives him a flat smile.

“Yep. Totally fine.”

Fernando sighs and chews on his lip.

“Are you sure? It seems today you were…distracted. Didn’t ask any questions, was very quiet.”

“I’ve been driving for a while. I know how it goes, I just didn’t have anything to say.”

The hand resting on his arm squeezes a little tighter.

“Of course, I know. But if we are going to make you world champion…you need to fight for it too. Drugovich is not strong enough for it, you are the only hope.”

Lance rolls his eyes and tears his arm from Fernando’s grip.

“Yeah because that’s what it’s all about. Making a champion. You don’t care about me, you only want to keep your job. Build your legacy.”

Fernando furrows his brows at the younger man before taking a step closer into his space.

“That is not true Lance. I care a lot about you. More than I should. But there are things to do, for the team. Lawrence wants the team to stay on top and I’m going to do everything to make it happen but I cannot do this without you.”

Lance swallows, looking down at Fernando’s face. It looked truthful, pleading. No matter how stubborn he can be, there is no refusing the older man’s soft gaze. The young driver sighs and chews on the inside of his cheek. He wants to believe Fernando, but there is such uncertainty that lies ahead. The other teams are no longer playing catch up, articles about their ongoing car development are released every day. Lance will be competing against drivers with over ten times more winning experience than he has. It’s become impossible to feel any kind of hope. A year ago, he would have shared his thoughts freely with Fernando, the older man probably pulling him into his chest as he listened, but that comfort could no longer happen. At least that is what he convinced himself.

“I’ll try my best Fernando.”

The Spaniard smiles and places a hand on his shoulder, his thumb rubbing small circles. Lance closes his eyes at the soft touch.

“That is all I ask. I will handle the rest.”

Fernando’s other hand comes to grasp the dip in Lance’s waist, the place that never fails to make the younger man melt, a soft sound makes its way out of his throat. Fernando seems to immediately regret his action as he pulls away completely. He brings his hands to his face and turns away.

“Joder. Sorry, Lance. I…I shouldn’t have. Please have a good rest of your day.”

Lance’s pout comes back onto his face as he opens the door and steps out of the room. Was this how it would be? Is Fernando restraining his touches towards him? The uncomfortable knot in Lance’s stomach was only going to get worse over the season if it continued like this. He feels pathetic, but he needs the older man’s touch.

Anger takes over his senses as he starts down the hallway. It’s not fair. Fernando was the only reason he’d pulled through last year, how will he do it this year?

He only makes it a few paces down the hall before Felipe lifts off a wall to trail next to him.

“Hey Lance! What did Fernando want with you? Anything important?”

Lance sighs and starts to walk a little faster.

“None of your business.”

Felipe’s face falls and Lance feels a little bad and slows his pace.

“Look Felipe, this season is going to be a bitch. Last year was a fluke, we were lucky to get our car working within the new regulations, but the others will have caught up now. It means every man to himself.”

Felipe frowns his eyebrows. The rookie has waited years for his chance to finally come, probably idolizing the whole experience but Lance is never one to make false pretenses for anyone.

“Isn’t that why we should work together? If all the teams have a fighting chance, we can maximize points by sticking together and helping each other out, no?”

“Maybe in a regular season. But no matter what Fernando and others have been telling you, we aren’t going to have the best car. And we aren’t the best drivers. So don’t keep your hopes too high, you’ll only be disappointed.”

With that, Lance picks up his pace once again, leaving his teammate stunned to silence.

He makes his way to the sim room, his first scheduled session of the season only moments away. The engineers catch him up on a few changes, mostly to the steering wheel configuration and movable aero developments. Today isn’t about performance but getting a real feel for the car, which Lance appreciates. The snug seat that squeezes his sides is a welcomed comfort as well. The lights turn off, and he is left alone in the dark room, illuminated only by the screen in front of him. Lance feels like he can finally breathe easily for the first time all day.

The laps start off slow, the car is still quite unstable and needs to be adjusted after every lap. The low drone of the engineers going through the fixes continues to relax Lance’s mind, the familiarity comforting. He gives a bit of feedback here and there but most of the work has to be done behind the controls. Finally, the car starts to respond better to his inputs, the cornering much smoother than before. Lance starts to push a bit harder, breaking late, changing the racing line, switching gears more aggressively, and unfortunately, the result is quite mediocre. The engineers remind him this is only the first day, that it will get better but Lance can’t help but feel a bit frustrated. By lap 124, his pace has barely improved, despite increased power. The car is too twitchy, registering slight accelerations as slamming the pedal to the floor, causing it to spin out wildly. The brake has the complete opposite problem, Lance has to use the force of both of his feet in the high braking zones, throwing off his rhythm. The team scrambles to understand the issues but nothing is working. The communication that was a comfort just a few hours ago is now nagging and annoying to Lance’s ear. He responds in short, angered phrases, unwilling to stop and regroup. His hands squeeze the wheel too hard, causing cramps in his hand but when offered a break, he only restarts the simulation. Everyone on the line is trying to get him to stop. They weren’t making any progress and tiring himself out for no reason wasn’t going to help. Lance ignored their words, eyes fixed on the screen in front. Suddenly the chatter stops.

“Lance, please stop. Come out of the simulator.”

The tires screech as Lance finds himself in the wall. His heart is pounding, his throat feels dry. How long had he been here? His legs shake as he pulls himself out of the seat. The light switches back on dimly and he turns towards the control center. Fernando holds a headset to his ear, his face etched in concern. Lance gives him a half-hearted thumbs up before walking out.

Fernando isn’t in the control room anymore by the time he gets there. They pull up a chair for him and start going through the data. The engineers’ discomfort is obvious, speaking slowly and hesitantly to Lance. The data is just as discouraging, showing no consistency and a lack of reliable speed on the straights. They promise Lance that this won't be reflected in the actual car but he can tell how unsure they all seem. Eventually, Jessica arrives to do some of her own sim work so he has an excuse to slip away. He passes by medical for a quick health check-up and the tailors take the opportunity to measure him for the new suit as well.

After all is done, he walks out into the cool evening, burying his nose into his scarf as he takes in some fresh air. His phone pings in his pocket, so he reaches for it. Fernando’s name floats at the top.

“I hope you are taking good care of yourself, Lance.”

Lance shuts off his phone and enters the black car that pulls up for him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

60,674 likes 215 comments

astonmartinf1: First day back at the factory for everyone! Lance and Felipe are getting ready for testing in a few weeks time! 👏👏

Inspiring words from our team principal Fernando Alonso:

2027 is going to be an interesting season. All the work we have put in as a team will pay off as long as we continue to work together and push forward. We keep moving!

Any bold predictions for this year?👀 Leave them in the comments👇

Nandolol: omggg everyone looks great😁😁

Racinggod24: lol they really think they can win with Stroll 💀💀 what a joke

fernandoalo_oficial: Go team!

F1_forlife: Fernando as team principal is either the best or worse decision ever made 🤣

felipedrugovich: Can’t wait to hit the track 🙌

Toofast: please make a fast car 🙏

Mclaurence: no chance against the Papaya team ✴️✴️

Redrarri: Leclerc WDC even Antonelli clears Stroll and Drugovich 🤭

Aston_Ace: WOOO MY CHAMPIONS

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Red Bull Racing, Ready to be back!

……After a two year absence, the Milton Keynes based team is ready to come back and fight for wins! Their development has been on-going throughout their ban (for cost-cap infringement) and the team feels confident in their ability to pick up where they left off!

However, their line up is quite different, Verstappen signing onto Ferrari in 2026, RedBull have had to look elsewhere for their drivers. Thankfully, a trove of drivers were available for their picking, settling on signing Yuki Tsunoda alongside Liam Lawson…..

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Ollie Bearman resigns for Haas

….. “the truth is, most of the big teams don’t have any seats open. Haas has made great strides these past few years so I am happy to stay with them for now and see what we can accomplish. Who knows what the future holds.”

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Mercedes’ Andrea Kimi Antonelli expresses concern over new FIA rules

….. Controversially, the FIA has ruled that teams must disclose their development details more publicly, in hopes to tighten competition. However, this likely means development over the year will be lessened, as teams will prefer to keep big discoveries for future seasons. Antonelli worries this will cause boring racing, cars being unable to gain dominance over others.

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Hope we like it so far :)

I will be switching “perspectives” every other part or so (still in 3rd person but getting the inner thoughts of one if that makes sense)

I can also make a full “grid reveal” for this story if people are interested

Sorry this took ages to come out 😅😅

#f1 #formulaone #fanfic #strollonso #fernando alonso #lance stroll #ls18 #fa14 #legacy au

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