#Bittersweet ending

[luvrgreyy]

WHAT GOOD IS SORRY?

ex husband!leon x f!reader

word count: 3.3k summary: why does one wound those they love so deeply? masterlist | taglist | ko-fi

18+ MDNI. mentions of divorce, cheating/infidelity, awkward leon stuff, guilt, yearning, leon and reader have a child together — and i named her denise for whatever reason, getting stood up by a date, drunk texting, kissing, oral(r!receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, bittersweet ending(?) i guess.

a/n: old wip,, this was supposed to be super gut wrenching and angsty but for some reason, my brain didn’t want to cooperate and decided that this would be the ending. also, i’ve been contemplating whether to address this or not and even tho its not a big issue, PLEASE interact with my posts. it’s the only way i’m able to know that you guys actually like the stuff i write, and ever since i’ve started writing on here 7 months ago, i’ve been noticing a decrease in interactions. im honestly losing motivation to write because i truly don’t know if people actually read my shit and like it. anyway, enjoy my mediocre writing ^___^

leon regrets everything he’s done up to this point. running into ada on a mission, going to the bar with her afterwards, and the kiss. the stupid kiss that eventually led up to this.

the divorce.

it all felt wrong, so wrong. yet here he was, driving his car to your doorstep, his stomach in knots despite having done this several times before.

for the sake of your daughter, the two of you had decided that shared custody would be the best option.

he stands at the door, hesitating before knocking, his knuckles hovering anxiously. clearing his throat, he gently raps his knuckles against the door, hoping for an answer. he's already second-guessing himself, wondering if he should have texted or called first.

your door eventually opens, and he's met with a familiar face. you.

you greet him with a civil smile, pressing a kiss into your daughter’s hair before ushering her inside.

he fidgets, adjusting the brim of his leather jacket nervously as he takes in the sight of you.

you reach to shut the door, catching a glimpse of him awkwardly hovering over you porch.

“you okay?”

he tries to find his voice. "yeah, i just, uh... i was just thinking..”

he looks down at his feet, kicking the ground with the side of his scuffed boot, as if trying to buy some time or maybe just willing the floor to swallow him up. when he speaks, his voice is low and sheepish. “when i was— last night, i thought… uh, do- do you remember when.. shit. are you free this weekend?”

”what?” you muse at his question. “leon, i really don’t wanna have this conversation with you again,”

he winces at the rebuff, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets as a defensive measure.

leon’s adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows hard, his ears burning at your words. he looks anywhere but at you, his eyes darting over the porch railing, the foliage, the sky — anywhere but your eyes. oh, those eyes he adored so much.

"no, wait, hear me out,”

"listen..." he takes a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever fallout this might bring, knowing he's already on shaky ground. “i just wanna talk.. to you.”

he shifts his weight, glancing up at the roof of the house as if the heavens themselves could offer a solution. when he does meet your gaze again, his eyes are pleading, his jaw clenched with a mix of anxiety and something akin to desperation.

“i’m sorry, leon. i’m busy,”

he scoffs and his face scrunches up, a pained grimace contorting his features as he cuts you off. “c’mon, please?” he's standing too close now, invading the personal space he once knew so well. “i.. i know it isn’t what we do anymore but—“

“no, seriously. i literally can’t. i have something up.”

“oh.” he deflates slightly at your dismissal, shoulders slumping in defeat. a soft, regretful sigh escapes his parted lips, and his eyes drop, gaze wandering aimlessly. "can- can you can you cancel? is it really important? what about on sunday-? i’m sure we can..“

“leon.” it's not a question this time, you stare at him with the tiniest hint of pity. “i have a date.”

ouch. he freezes, his chest constricting as if he's been punched. a date? the words echo in his mind, each syllable like a dagger to his pride, his ego, his everything. a muscle in his jaw twitches, his hands clenching and unclenching in his pockets. leon swallows hard, his throat suddenly parched.

"oh," he repeats, the sound barely above a whisper. he takes a shaky breath, trying to calm the storm brewing inside him.

he rubs a hand over the back of his neck, jaw working in agitation as he grapples with the blow of your words. a snarky retort rises in his throat, a cutting remark to deflect the sting, but it withers on his tongue, a futile attempt at salvaging pride he knows is misplaced.

leon swallows hard, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he finally finds his voice, laced with a wry bitterness. “yeah, no worries.. guess that's that," a bitter, hollow chuckle escapes him as he shifts his weight. his tone is flippant, trying to mask the sting of rejection, but the defeat is palpable as he turns to leave. he starts down the porch steps, his boots thudding against the wooden slats.

you finally close the door on him, standing by the door, hand on the knob, unease prickling along you skin like a thousand tiny needles, each one stinging with the weight of guilt. you sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose as she tries to process her feelings. guilt, regret, a twinge longing — it's all so confusing, so messy.

the weight of his pleading eyes, the desperation in his tone — he had no right acting like a dejected puppy after he cheated on you.

you shake your head, face between your hands. he made his choices, just as you had, and now it was time to move on. you squared your shoulders, took a deep breath, and stepped away from the door, determined to let go of the ghost of what was and focus on the life you were building. for you, and your daughter.

but it’s not really easy.

not when you’re sitting alone at a restaurant, waiting for a date that never bothered to show.

your phone buzzes and you hold your breath. hoping for some sort of confirmation, but it's quickly snuffed out.

‘hey, sorry i couldn’t make it. something important came up’ the simple text reads. the same stupid excuse. every. single. time. your heart sinks, a dull ache forming in the pit of your stomach.

a bitter, derisive chuckle escapes your lips. serves you right. you knew he was trouble from the start. yet, your heart aches, a dull throb of pain and disappointment. you feel so foolish, sitting there, waiting for someone who never shows. though, it isn't really new.

now you lay in your bed, having already kicked off your heels and changed out of the uncomfortably tight dress you wore.

you pull the blankets up to your chin, suddenly feeling cold. you toss and turn, brooding and wallowing in misery, and it seemed like you’ve been doing it for hours till you’re startled out of your fitful doze by the buzz of your phone.

it's a text from leon, of course it is. it’s another one of his ‘where are u? i miss u’ ‘can’t stop thinking about you. please let me c u’ meltdowns.

he's drunk again, you can tell by the sloppy caps and the desperate pleas. every time he has a rough night, he always thinks coming over will magically fix everything. and you always refuse, knowing he’s only drunk and alone. but tonight, you feel particularly lonely.

your thumb hovers over the keyboard, and before you know it, you're typing. ‘come over.’ you hesitate, then send the message.

by then, he’s already halfway out the door, stumbling out and nearly falling as he trips over his own feet in his haste. he takes the stairs two at a time, a goofy, shit-eating grin plastered on his face. when he reaches your door, he pounds on it with a fist. his breath comes out in short puffs as he waits, anticipation making his heart race.

click.

the door creaks open a fraction and his eyes lock onto you, looking all soft and domestic in a robe. leon's breath catches in his throat as his eyes drink you in.

he tumbles in, arms outstretched as if he's about to catch something. he's immediately in your space, arms around you in a tight, needy embrace. his face buries itself in the crook of your neck, breathless with relief and something else, something suspiciously like love.

“leon—“ he smashes his mouth against yours, tongue pushing past your lips, the taste of beer and regret in his breath. his hands roam, sliding up your back, gripping your hair, fingers splayed wide as if to assure himself you're real. a low, desperate sound escapes him, half-groan, half-moan as his body presses against yours. he's desperate, sloppy, but undeniably passionate. when he finally breaks for air, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes glassy with drink and longing.

“missed you s’ much, baby,” he presses a kiss to your neck, tongue tracing the pulse point with a reverence that borders worship.

“let me make it up to you, please,” he looks up at you with those big, puppy-dog eyes, an expression so pathetic it’s comical. yet, the desperation behind them makes it anything but.

his hands skim down your sides to your hips, fingers digging in as if to keep you anchored to him. his face buried in the crook of your neck as his hands knead the meat of your ass, claws digging in through the fabric of your robe. his breath hitches as he nuzzles into you, inhaling deeply as if committing you to memory.

he trails a string of open-mouthed kisses down your neck, pausing to nibble on your collarbone before continuing his journey south. his hands never stop moving, roaming over your body with an insatiable hunger.

you let out a soft whimper, arching into his touch. "bedroom," you breathe out, and he happily obliges.

once inside, he kicks the door shut behind him and spins you around, backing you up against the bed. he begins to undo your robe with shaking fingers, your heavy breathing and the rustling of silk the only sounds in the charged silence between you. when the robe falls open, he pushes it off your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet.

the thin, sheer fabric of your nightgown offers little resistance as he practically rips it off you. a shaky breath escapes his parted lips as he reaches for you again, fingers grazing your skin as if he's not quite trusting his own touch.

he guides you to the bed, pushing you to sit on the edge. he immediately drops to his knees before you, face between your legs.

“these ‘re pretty,” he slurs out, before he fucking tears your underwear off.

“leon!”

he chuckles at your reaction, a low, rumbling sound in the back of his throat. “sorry,” he murmurs against your inner thigh, his hot breath causing goosebumps to rise in its wake. “gonna buy you new ones,”

his stubble scrapes against your sensitive skin as he slowly trails open-mouthed kisses up your thigh, savoring every inch of you that you’re willing to give him.

he buries his face between your legs, licking and sucking with a single-minded devotion that makes your toes curl and eyes roll back in your head. his scruffy cheeks hollow as he sucks a hickey into the soft flesh of your inner thigh.

god, it’s been so long. the feelings practically foreign.

his tongue begins to lash at your slit, long and flat, with a dexterity that belies his level of inebriation.

“you still mine?” he huffs. “‘course you are, ‘m the only one that can get ya this wet,”

slurp, smack, suck, repeat.

his tongue is relentless, probing your entrance, swirling around your clit with increasing fervor. he's sloppy, uncoordinated, but it only serves to heighten the intensity of it all. every time he pulls back, you can hear his heavy breathing, feel the vibrations of his moans against your most intimate flesh. your fingers thread into his hair, tugging him closer as your back arches off the bed. a keening whimper escapes you, the sound muffled by your clenched teeth as you struggle to maintain some semblance of control.

“fuck, leon—” your words trail off into incoherent mumbles as he drives you closer to the edge, tongue darting in and out with a pace that’ll make a grown woman go crazy. “d-denise, were gonna wake her up,”

a low growl rumbles in his chest as he responds to your whine. there's a hint of accusation in his gaze, but it quickly morphs into a look of raw, desperate need. “don’t matter,” he's relentless, persistent, refusing to back down even as you tremble and writhe beneath him.

he grunts, his attention snapping back to you, blue eyes squinting as he looks up from between your thighs. his tongue is a damn metronome, lapping and smacking with a relentless rhythm that has you chasing the edge of oblivion.

it's like every drunken fantasy he's ever had is being poured out onto you. messy, uncoordinated, desperate. and you’re eating it up. “gonna make you forget all about that stupid date," he mutters through slurred words. "’m the only man who can make you feel this good,"

he's not wrong. the way he's attacking you with his tongue, it's like he's trying to prove a fucking point.

"leon, please," you gasp out, and he takes it as an invitation to continue. your entire body is wound up tight, a taut string ready to snap. he slips a finger in, then two, curling them just right so that they’re pressing against that spongy spot that has you seeing stars.

your legs wrap around his head, fingers threading into his hair as you pull him in as close as humanly possible. his name is a chant on your lips, a prayer to the gods of pleasure. "leon, leon, leon,". denise could come in right now and catch you like this — legs splayed, back arched, eyes squeezed shut in bliss. he's that good. or maybe that bad. you dont know. and you don’t care to find out.

"yeah, just like that," he praises, voice a low, gravelly growl. "love my fingers in this greedy little cunt, don't you?"

your thighs clench around his head, heels digging into his back as you ride out the pleasure. "gonna cum, leon, please—“ yours words trail off into a wail, a keen of pure, unadulterated euphoria.

your back arches, toes curl, and your fingers dig into his hair, holding him to you as the wave crashes over you. he tugs you down to the edge of the bed, practically burying his face in your groin. he laps at your slit, in and out, in and out, until the last bit of resistance melts away.

he lifts his face from between your legs, eyes hazy and unfocused as he fumbles to unbuckle his pants. once he has it off, he's back, pushing your legs apart as he kneels between them. the thick of his length throbs against your lower belly, and you can feel his racing heartbeat through every inch of him that's in contact with you.

he notches the head of his cock at your entrance, pressing in just enough to make you feel the pressure, gathering your juices before giving a long, slow stroke up and down, coating himself in you. he's throbbing, pulsing with need, and you can practically taste the desperation in your mouth.

he presses in, just the tip at first, then a bit more. slow, shallow strokes, in and out. his hips rock against yours, the motion slow and languid. one of his hands cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your closed eyelids to check if he was dreaming. the other hand palms the small of your back, fingers digging in as if to anchor himself. your legs wrap around his waist, ankles locking behind his back as he slowly sinks into you.

he's quiet for a moment, just holding you, his heart racing in his chest as if he's trying to communicate something without using words. his hips move, the action slow and lazy, as if he's trying to spoon you into submission.

he pulls out, just to the tip, before pushing back in. the motion is slow, sensual, a deliberate teasing that has you whining and writhing beneath him.

sweat beads on his brow, tracing down the lines of his face, but he doesn't slow. if anything, he's driven by a desperate need to make up for lost time, to prove himself worthy of you. your back arches, hands scrabbling for purchase on the sheets as he pistons in and out, the force of his thrusts rocking your entire body. he's not gentle, not soft, but rough and demanding, just like he always used to be when he was trying to stake his claim.

he nips at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh before he sooths it with his tongue. “fuck, feels so good,” he gasps out, his words punctuated by the slap of skin against skin. “can't believe i ever let you go.”

"leon," you whimper, the name a plea, a prayer. his lips find yours in a sloppy, frantic kiss. he's drinking you in, devouring your mouth, your moans, your gasps, trying to consume every ounce of you.

he's sweating, hair a mess, face scrunched up in concentration, but those blue eyes remain locked on yours.

you're lost in the sensation, every nerve ending on high alert, screaming for friction, for relief, for release. "leon, leon, gonna cum," you pant, your voice raw, your throat dry. "please, i—" but your pleas are swallowed by his next thrust, his cock dragging against your sensitive walls.

he leans forward, his forehead pressing against yours, noses nearly touching. his hot breath mingles with yours, the scent of his beer-soaked breath and the musk of his arousal mingling together in the most intoxicating way. "love you," he suddenly whispers, the words a quiet, a desperate confession that hangs in the air between you.

“love you, love you, fuck—“

the way your walls squeeze him when you cum drags his own orgasm from him. for a long moment, he stays frozen, buried to the hilt, his chest heaving against yours as he tries to catch his breath.

the heat of your body seeps into his skin, chasing away the chill of the night air. he collapses against you, a boneless heap of satisfied male. his cock throbs, pulses, and drips onto the bed between your legs as he tries to catch his breath. the room is silent, save for your joint heavy breathing, and the occasional groan as his softening length slips out of you. eventually, he rolls off, lying on his back beside you, one big hand coming to rest on your stomach, thumb stroking in a slow, idle pattern. his eyes are hazy, unfocused, but they find yours and hold. a small, sheepish smile tugs at his lips.

"sorry," he slurs out, the word garbled and slightly off-kilter. "i shoulda been better, should’ve tried harder, i... i‘m gonna make things right, i swear,"

he peppers your neck with soft kisses, his stubble rasping against your tender flesh. he's warm, solid, and comforting. gentle and tender, a stark contrast to the desperation that drove him mere moments ago.

he's not reaching for grand gestures or flowery declarations. he's asking for something simple, intimate, and achingly human. a chance to hold you, to sleep beside you, to maybe, begin to rebuild something from the rubble of what once was.

and for a moment, you let yourself believe that he’ll be different this time. that he's not just trying to relive past glories, but genuinely wants to make amends, to start anew.

tags: @crowleyco @withonly-sweetheart @fanilkychae

[justaz]

battle of camlann but merlin wasn’t ancient as shit. he blasts the warriors around arthur away and arthur turns to see a glowering, golden-eyed merlin. he tightens his grip on his sword but isn’t able to raise it. the inconceivable notion that merlin has betrayed him runs through his mind but he cant quite grasp it. his father is screaming in his head to kill the wretched sorcerer but all arthur can see is his friend wearing a face that looks too much like morgana’s. merlin glances up at arthur and the expression of rage fizzles into one tinged with fear and concern - all too confusing for him to unpack in the midst of battle. merlin is slow to approach his side and even then he keeps his distance. before either of them can say anything, mordred appears, sword in hand, glaring at arthur.

merlin tries to draw the former knights attention away from arthur, tries to goad him into fighting merlin instead, but mordred is deadset on fighting arthur. he calls morgana over instead and says emrys’s fight is with her while his is with arthur. with the extra seconds of back and forth, arthur isn’t as shocked when he raises his sword against mordred’s. morgana and merlin blast each other great distances until they’re far away from modred vs arthur and land on the front line between the two armies. both armies back off and watch the light show as morgana and emrys battle until morgana’s army uses the distraction to close in on camelot’s army.

three battles occurring at once until morgana gets a lucky hit in and merlin goes flying. he lands next to a gwaine who is currently bleeding out. he smiles when he sees who’s next to him “merlin!” which sounds so much like his greeting every time they ran into each other before gwaine became a knight. he reaches out and heals gwaine’s wound and leon just looks up at him for a moment before going “you’re always full of surprises, aren’t you merlin?” merlin grins and goes “i got one more” he stands up on surprisingly steady legs and calls on kilgharrah. in for a penny, out for a pound. arthur is already fuming at him, might as well rip the bandaid off right?

kilgharrah attacks morgana’s army while merlin orders aithusa to stand down. camelot’s army is able to march through the charred army and bring down those who remain, mordred is loosing but persevering through rage and spite alone, morgana is screaming (like she always is nowadays). merlin and morgana battle once more until mordred and morgana’s armies have fallen. merlin makes a tactical retreat to arthur who is still staring at him wearily (and definitely irate). he requests permission to kill morgana which is baffling but she is his sister and he’s always cared for her even after her betrayal so he supposes it makes sense. once he gives it, their fight doesn’t last longer than a minute. emrys was always stronger than her, he was just buying time.

camelot emerges victorious though they don’t seem all that excited about it. the other warriors cheer and clap each other on the back, but arthur is just watching merlin. the knights watch them uneasily. merlin returns arthur’s gaze. “is that the fucking dragon i killed?” merlin looks up at kilgharrah who is needlessly burning the remains of morgana’s army. merlin turns back to him “yes.”

[aventurineswife]

A kinda specific and maybe long but fun idea i had for a req:

Essentially, {and bare w me, i’m half asleep writing this lol} Reader x Sunday, and Reader is a childhood friend of his, who he loved, and someday when they were older, Reader was tragically killed in an incident. Sunday however, in a grief stricken state, decides to rebel against his original goal for the sweetdream paradise (penacony arc reference) and decides to shape it into a dream instead where he’s happily married to Reader, although for the sake of the dream he’s altered their memories. ending is essentially up to you!

{some additional ideas i had if you wanted to, were things like an argument between gopher and sunday, or robin and sunday, in whichever points of the story you wanted}

alternatively, a different Aventurine version would be interesting, mostly w the same set up but Sunday met Reader during Aventurine’s mission on Penacony, liked them, and Aven has to basically fight off the dream and Sunday.

but yeah, that’s pretty much it, everything else is up for creative liberties! i hope this one is at least somewhat interesting lol xx and srry if some of it doesn’t make sense 😓🤍

“Sometimes, the hardest part of letting go is realizing that the dream was never real”

Summary: In the idyllic yet hollow world of Sweetdream Paradise, Sunday crafts a perfect life with you—his lost love, altered memories and all—to escape the sorrow of reality. But as others begin to break through his illusion, and you start to remember fragments of a different fate, the dream begins to fracture. Torn between love and the harshness of truth, Sunday must finally face the choice to let you go, or remain forever in his self-made paradise.

Tags: Sunday x Reader, unrequited love, grief, loss, dreamscape, bittersweet ending, altered memories, memory manipulation, moral dilemma, angst, hurt/comfort, alternate reality, surrealism, slow unraveling, denial of reality.

Warnings: Grief, themes of manipulation, psychological trauma, implied death of Reader, reality distortion, emotional conflict, bittersweet resolution, morally ambiguous decisions.

A/N: Don't worry, anon! I appreciate all the details, the more details the more I can try to understand what you want exactly! Though I probably changed some bits of it here 😪

Sunday had always been proud of his role within Penacony, the creator of Sweetdream Paradise—a place where sorrow could be stilled, where suffering dissolved into an endless realm of serene dreams. It was a comforting reality he believed people needed, a soft oblivion to cradle them. Yet, in the depths of his mind, his peaceful philosophy hid a darker purpose, shaped by the ache of a loss he could never endure.

You had been his friend, a constant light in his youth, a companion who grounded his dreams. For as long as he remembered, you were there, with laughter that melted his worries and eyes that could see through his layered philosophies. But the day you were lost, taken too soon in a tragic incident, the world itself had hollowed out for him. The pain of your absence haunted him like a shadow, feeding a grief so deep that he was willing to defy his original purpose. In that moment of desolation, he turned Sweetdream Paradise into something far more personal—a realm where you still lived, where you loved him just as much as he had loved you.

In this new dream, Sunday made alterations. He reshaped your memories, softened the sharp edges of reality, and wove a seamless history where you had married him, where together, you built a life free of tragedy. In this dream, he could protect you eternally, shielded by his crafted illusion.

You woke to sunlight filtering through the windows, lying beside Sunday as the golden morning glow danced over his features. His eyes opened, catching you with a familiar warmth, and he reached over, brushing his fingers across your cheek.

"Good morning." he murmured, voice low and rich, as if savoring the simplicity of that greeting.

Every day was like this—a gentle, perfect rhythm that never seemed to break. You didn’t remember a world outside of this home, this life with him. And as you looked at him, you felt safe, loved, yet there was always a faint unease, like a fragment of something forgotten.

But the days went on, filled with laughter and love. Sunday seemed devoted to making sure you never doubted this world, his every word a reassurance that here, you were whole and happy.

One evening, as Sunday worked quietly at his desk, a visitor shattered the peace of his dream. It was Robin, standing just inside the doorway, her expression dark with a kind of wary sadness.

“Brother, you need to stop this,” she said, folding her arms. Her gaze fixed on him, seeing through the veneer of the dream. “This isn’t right. This… this paradise you’re keeping isn’t reality.”

Sunday straightened, his face hardening at her words. “Who are we to deny people peace, Robin? Haven’t we seen enough pain? Haven’t they?” His voice broke slightly, the facade slipping as he glanced toward where you sat by the fire, unaware of the intensity in his voice. He softened, as if trying to protect the dream from any trace of discord.

“You’re keeping people trapped. Yourself included. And for what? A fantasy? Is that really what they would have wanted?” Robin’s voice grew more urgent, her frustration showing. “They’re gone. You have to accept that.”

Sunday’s fists clenched at her words, every fiber in his body resisting the truth. “How could you understand?” he whispered. “In this place, they’re alive. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m giving them peace. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Robin stared at him, her gaze a mix of pity and sorrow. “At what cost, Brother? You’re keeping yourself from moving on, holding them hostage in a world that isn’t even real.”

In an alternate version of Penacony, Sunday’s paradise faced an even stranger twist. Aventurine, the cunning Stoneheart known for his strategic mind, was on his own mission in Sweetdream Paradise, seeking information that only Sunday could provide. But as he delved into the fabric of this dreamscape, he found himself questioning the reality around him, the shimmering dream where Sunday lived an idyllic life with you.

Aventurine confronted Sunday one night, his tone half-amused, half-concerned. “Interesting setup you have here,” he remarked, eyes gleaming with curiosity as he took in the flawless surroundings. “I almost believed it myself… almost. But what happens when the dream can’t hold itself together anymore?”

Sunday’s gaze narrowed, his protective instincts flaring. “What do you mean by that?”

Aventurine shrugged, his gaze flicking to you, sitting quietly, oblivious to the tension. “Everyone in this place… it’s all too perfect, isn’t it? You’re clinging to a memory, one that doesn’t belong here.”

In a rare flash of anger, Sunday stepped forward, his eyes darkening. “This isn’t any of your concern, Aventurine. Leave.”

Aventurine met his glare, his smirk slipping. “You think you’re the only one who’s loved and lost? Reality has its flaws, Sunday. It’s messy, painful… but it’s real. This—this is just a prison you’re keeping yourself in.”

Sunday’s voice trembled, caught between anguish and fury. “Better a beautiful dream than a brutal reality.”

Aventurine’s gaze softened for a brief moment, though he couldn’t abandon his sardonic tone. “But at least in reality, they would have remembered you for who you are, not a god in a gilded cage.”

In the end, it was you—within the dream—who finally confronted him, feeling the intangible pull of memories you didn’t recognize. “Sunday… something doesn’t feel right,” you whispered one night, as he sat beside you. “I keep… remembering pieces of something different, something that feels like it wasn’t supposed to end this way.”

Sunday’s face grew pale, fear creeping into his eyes. “No, you don’t have to worry about that. You’re here. We’re together. Isn’t that enough?”

But as you searched his eyes, you could feel the truth breaking through, the dream trembling under the weight of reality. “Sunday, what are you not telling me?”

He looked away, his heart shattering as he realized he couldn’t keep you here forever. Slowly, he whispered, “I… I just wanted to keep you safe. To give us a life that didn’t end in sorrow.”

With a trembling hand, you reached out, brushing a tear from his cheek. “It’s okay to let go. You have to keep going… even if it means letting me go.”

Sunday’s shoulders shook, the dream beginning to unravel around them, pieces of the illusion fading as he looked into your eyes one last time. “I… I don’t know if I can.”

But in the final moments, he felt your hand slip away, leaving him alone in the vast silence of his own grief. And as he awoke from his dream, Sunday found himself in a world still plagued by loss, his heart hollow yet somehow freer. Though you were gone, he understood, at last, that he had to face reality, no matter how painful it was.

And in that pain, he found a fragile hope—a sliver of light breaking through the dark.

*cutely posts all my drafts that have been dying to see the light* 😇💖

[coffeebanana]

It felt eerily familiar, kneeling ghost-like beneath a vermillion sky. Doom crept though Antichat's chest, as thick as the acrid smoke scorching his lungs. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. There was a weight in his arms—an inexplicable solace. And yet…  Suddenly it didn’t weigh as much as it should. No.  His eyes flicked downwards. No, no, no, no— All he held was a pile of ashes, moulded into the shape of a girl.

Some nightmares refuse to fade.

***

[Read the full fic below the cut or on Ao3!! CW: panic attacks, dissociation, depression]

It felt eerily familiar, kneeling ghost-like beneath a vermillion sky. Doom crept though Antichat's chest, as thick as the acrid smoke scorching his lungs. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. There was a weight in his arms—an inexplicable solace. And yet…  Suddenly it didn’t weigh as much as it should. No.  His eyes flicked downwards. No, no, no, no— All he held was a pile of ashes, moulded into the shape of a girl.

Please, no.

Chat squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head to rid himself of a sudden, blinding panic pounding through his skull. But it was too late. Ladybug’s slate-stained image was seared into his mind, her face frozen in pain, devoid of everything that had once painted comfort across his soul. 

Her mask was half-torn, such that Marinette's bare cheek was cradled closest to his chest. Like maybe he'd tried in vain to protect her from the blast.

From his own destruction.

A choked sound ripped itself from his throat, a painful lump following in its wake. He had no way to fix this, nothing to do but pull her in closer. To tighten his arms around her precious, fragile remains.

Another mistake. 

She crumbled in his grip; ashes floated up like a mosaic, blinding his vision. Frantically, he pawed at the air—trying to gather her fragments, to force her back together. If he caught enough, perhaps he could papier-mâché her likeness. He could use his tears as glue.

But there was no time for that before a fiery breeze tore through the street. Marinette’s remains were swept away, and only Chat’s strangled cries could follow. 

The further away they fled, the more he came undone. There was nothing left to tie his mind together, to keep his pain from exploding like a supernova.

Nothing to keep the world from collapsing in on him.

“What did you expect?” Nightormentor’s voice sliced through the smoke. “You’ve always been poison to the ones you loved most.”

NO!

With a frigid gasp—one that curdled his tar-slicked insides—Adrien awoke. Once again, there was a darling weight in his arms. Only this Marinette was warm and solid. Her limbs were tangled in the blankets she'd pulled to her side of his bed, and one of her hands curled slightly into his T-shirt as her breath tickled the fabric.

She was alive.

Adrien just wasn't sure his heart still knew how to beat.

He was too hot and too cold all at once, both drenched in sweat and trembling. His chest felt like someone had trampled it, and every attempt to breathe sliced further into the wound. 

When he closed his eyes, the world was still on fire.

Stomach lurching, he carefully rolled Marinette’s weight off his chest. He couldn’t stay here, couldn’t listen to the even sounds of her breath without hearing echoes of his own sobs slip between them. 

The room spun around him as he stumbled to the bathroom; the world still appeared as though through smoke—muted and unreliable, the air too thick to breathe. He collapsed to his knees in front of the toilet, his empty stomach convulsing, only to realize the sickness inside him wasn’t the kind he could expel.

He remained there, braced against the toilet seat, until his limbs eased their shaking enough for him to crawl away. Even so, he barely made it to the wall beside the sink before one of his arms gave out, and his cheek slammed a little too hard into the handle of one of the cupboards he twisted into a seated position. Hissing in pain, he let his face press against the wood there, shuddering at the way the cold surface shocked some life inside of him.

Time ceased to make sense after that. One moment, his chest was burning, pain reverberating through his back as he struggled to fill his lungs. The next, it seemed he’d become a giant cloud. A numb expanse of icy droplets, ready to fall at a moment’s notice.

Light gradually awakened the room, a subtle warmth flickering near the edge of his awareness. He only fully realized the day had come when, somewhere beyond the door he’d left ajar, the bed creaked.

“Adrien?” Marinette called. Her voice was gentle, but pierced through him all the same. “Everything okay?”

No.

Panic set in anew as footsteps approached. He swore he could somehow taste the blood pounding in his ears, and he clamped his mouth shut to keep from crying out. To keep from breathing, even.

He didn’t want to be found. Maybe, if he held his breath until his lungs screamed again, he’d remain concealed in his lifeless fog.

But ironically, it was harder to keep from breathing when that was his actual goal. He sucked in sharp breaths, timed to his heartbeats, and hid his face in his hands.

“Oh, Chaton...” Marinette’s slippers scraped across the bathroom tiles, coming to a stop within his sight. Too close. “Did it happen again?”

He managed a nod, bottom lip quivering as he bit back a sob.

A long exhale piqued his attention; it started as a noise from above and ended as a warm breath against his cheek. Kneeling at his side, Marinette rubbed her hands against her thighs.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

Adrien shifted his jaw from side to side, guilt hooking its talons into his gut. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

It wasn’t a lie; he felt plenty bad about inadvertently dragging her here every night. She deserved the comfort of her own bed, regardless of whether he could actually get any sleep without her. So the least he could do was actually let her get enough rest.

But it wasn’t the truth, either.

And as she took his hand, carefully smoothing his fingers over hers, he had a feeling she knew it.

“Adrien…” She tugged his arm upwards, pressing a kiss to his fingertips. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

Biting his lip to keep from disagreeing, Adrien squeezed his eyes shut. With one less sense at his disposal, he was all too aware of the way she lifted his hand further, unfolding his fingers to press against her cheek.

“See?” she whispered, breath tickling the inside of his wrist. Her head twisted to the side, lips planting a kiss on the heel of his palm. “Everything’s fine.”

He swore he could feel the remnants of destruction prickling against her cheek. It took everything he had not to jerk his hand away.

Nothing was fine.

No matter how he’d come into this world, and no matter how much he despised the fact, Adrien would always be—in some way or another—his father’s son. Sometimes he swore he saw a glimpse of the man when he turned too fast in the mirror. Other times, a flash of fury would seize him; with a sickening sense of satisfaction, he’d know what it might felt like to be a villain.

Even worse, he was his mother’s son. His very existence had killed her.

He’d killed both his parents, in the end. 

So no matter how much Marinette tried to console him, Adrien knew the voice of his nightmares had a point. He was a danger to her, to himself, to the world.

It might not even end up being his choice. All it would take was someone finding out what he was, and stealing the two rings he still couldn’t stand the sight of.

He was, at most, a liability. And Marinette deserved more than that.

She never agreed with him on that point.

“Look at me,” she said now. An edge crept into her voice, one that shocked him into listening.

His heart jumped at the blue of her eyes—filled with all the warmth that the fiery world of his nightmares had failed to hold. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking. 

“No, no, no. I don’t want you to be sorry. I just…” Tears filled her eyes. “I love you, okay?”

Adrien couldn’t say it back. He couldn’t find enough truth to shove into the sentiment—not when that was all buried beneath his own misery. It was like he’d returned to his nightmare, with smoke charring his throat and one all-consuming fear.

Just the tiniest wrong movement could ruin everything.

But if he didn’t give some kind of response, Marinette would only worry. So he tugged on her hand—maybe a little too hard considering her yelp of surprise—and guided her to sit between his legs. She moved readily into place, and Adrien forced himself to ignore the fear spiking through his veins, hugging her back to his chest.

Once settled, she twisted around and tried to crane her neck upwards, reaching a hand half-blindly up to his cheek. Heart squeezing in his chest, he tightened his grip around and pressed a kiss to her head. 

She remained tense for a moment too long, but finally sighed and melted back against his chest. Her hand trailed lazily back down to her side, and her breath spilled into a hum of contentment. With her gaze fixed firmly ahead, Adrien could finally breathe again.

He didn’t want her to see the few tears he’d finally let slip down his cheeks—even if she’d no doubt hear his sniffles or feel the way the cries rumbled in his chest. And he didn't want her to examine him to deeply, to discover what he already knew.

One day, he would surely disappoint her.

[steviewashere]

In the Fire of the Sun

Rating: General CW: A dementia fic, that's as much of a warning as I'll offer Tags: Established Relationship, Married Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Future Fic, Wedding Anniversary, Steve Harrington Has Dementia, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Falling in Love Over and Over Again, Yearning, Pining, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet Ending, Inspired by The Notebook (2004)

For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is a fire that never goes out." (in the most metaphorical sense possible)

💕—————💕

Eddie shuffles through the carpeted hallway of this center once more. He comes in right as it opens for visiting hours. Eight in the morning, sharp. Every single day. And has been doing so for the last few years.

Why?

Simple. Steve’s there.

Has been, actually, for the same amount of time Eddie’s been visiting. They’re both in their late seventies now. Time has treated them nearly equal. Aching limbs. Wrinkled and spotted skin. Grey hair. Crows feet. Though, time gave Steve one extra thing that Eddie will fight God about.

Dementia.

It’s ravaging him little by little. And Eddie bears witness. Began with the minor forgetting, always soothed by words and gentle touches, the praise. And then it was bigger things. Confusion and getting lost and mood swings that were almost unmanageable. It all felt so rapid, even if it was slow. But Eddie was there. For every moment of it. And still is there, just…Not in the same house anymore.

He hates coming through the center, though. It’s so clinical and sterile and depressing. Well, technically it isn’t. The rooms are done all nice, filled with furniture and soft blankets and beautiful fake plants that Steve can water if he feels the need to. But it’s not their house, which was painted by the people they love, filled with knick knacks of their lives, photos of their child and their grandchildren and all their friends. Though, Eddie supposes he shouldn’t complain, if Steve is mostly comfortable here. There’s a few things for Steve to interact with, hobby wise. A piano, some knitting circles, board games, but mostly music. It’s nearly poetic, to Eddie, that music is what dementia patients seems to cling onto the longest. It’s especially poetic considering Steve fell in love with a musician.

Sometimes, while Eddie is here, he’ll play music for everybody. The nurses and doctors and patients alike. Still able to share his gift, even in the face of something so…not dark, exactly, but challenging. Because any moment with Steve is pleasant—even if he doesn’t remember most of the time.

Eddie gets his visitor badge. A little sticker for his shirt. He’s taken up to Steve’s room and waits in the doorway for permission to go in. It could be a bad day, but based on the soft smile received from the nurse, it’s one of the better days. Meaning, Steve’s less irritable, still long term forgetful, but lovely.

Steve looks over to him. The hazel eyes that Eddie fell in love with nearly sixty years ago, soft and glistening. His forehead prominently wrinkled. Hair thin, but mostly there, a light silvery grey. He’s got better hair than Eddie—that can be admitted, his hair is just like Wayne’s now, gone with the wind. At least time hasn’t taken Steve’s beauty.

“Hello,” Steve greets, polite and sweet. His voice is slightly garbled, deep and velvety.

“Hello,” Eddie parrots. He holds out his right palm for Steve to take. Smiles softly when he does so. “I’m Edward,” he introduces, “though you can call me Eddie.” He taps his sticker. Loves the way Steve’s eyes still track his every movement, even with something so simple and mundane. The nurse hangs by Steve’s shoulder, nodding at Eddie when they lock eyes. Eddie smiles bigger at Steve, letting their hands drop. His palm tingles from Steve’s ever glowing warmth. “You must be the Steven Harrington I’m always hearing about,” he says.

Steve visibly grimaces, which is a good sign. A great thing. He groans. “That tastes awful in my mouth,” he states. “Though I can’t—How come that tastes bad?” He looks over to his nurse, but doesn’t get an answer.

“Oh,” Eddie mutters. “I’ve heard some people call you Steve, does that sound okay? Shorten your name like mine?”

He nods. Relaxing. “That sounds great.” Steve smiles. And Eddie is like a sunflower in the face of the sun. Yearning to reach out, to touch, to feel and hold. But he knows that he can’t, or at least shouldn’t. “So…Eddie, you’re a visitor?” His finger taps on Eddie’s chest, on the white word: VISITOR. Eddie blossoms. “You came to visit me, I’m assuming. What are we going to do today?”

Eddie bites back his grin. Steve’s finger is still on his chest. He wonders if Steve even remembers putting it there, part of him hopes that he’s doing it on purpose. He hums, thinking. Though he’s got planned, “We’re going to take a walk outside, if that’s okay. I brought some music for us to listen to while we look around. It’s a pretty day outside, a little chilly, but the sun is bright out there. What do you think?”

“I like that,” Steve enthusiastically says. Which makes the good day even better. “Though I don’t know who you are, you have really good ideas. You seem like a really nice guy.”

“Y’know, I’ve heard that before. From somebody you might know,” Eddie says, offering out his hooked arm. Almost dances in place when Steve wraps their arms together. “He’s a good guy, too. Really good looking. Very kind. Think you’d like him.”

“You should bring him with next time,” Steve says. They make their way down to the front doors of the center. Arm in arm.

“Maybe I will,” Eddie says, even though the guy is already there. “I will if it’s a good day.”

The day really is beautiful. Leaves littering the ground, browns and dark greens, many of them bright yellow. A good color. Everything is just…good. There’s a little concrete path on the side of the center. Nestled really nice to a small creek. It’s quiet.

Steve is a comfortable weight at his side. They step in tandem. Feet matching each other. Eddie makes them stop at the end of the path, walking out to a grassy clearing, standing out watching the subtle ripples in the creek.

“It’s pretty,” Steve murmurs. “Reminds me of fish. For some odd reason.”

“Mm,” Eddie hums. “Makes me think of fish, too, funny enough. The guy I told you about?” Steve nods beside him. The slow up and down bobbing of his heavy head. He’s still got glasses after all these years, they’re kind of crooked. Eddie itches to fix them. But Steve stares ahead of himself, at the water, a little crinkle between his eyebrows. An instinct in Eddie says, Soothe. But knows he shouldn’t. Knows he can’t kiss that away, not anymore. He takes a deep breath to reground himself. “Well,” he begins. “That guy is my husband. Or…No, he still is. He really likes to go on adventures. Loves doing things in silence. And when my dad—“ He means uncle, but that doesn’t matter. “—when my dad was still alive, we’d go out and fish. My husband and I, we’re too old to fish comfortably now, but he was always better than me. Earned him my dad’s respect, tell you that.”

“Your husband sounds fun,” Steve says, smiling with it. “Y’know, I have this friend—“ Eddie perks up at this. Usually, there’s nobody that Steve talks about. But if he’s willing. “—She has a wife. I don’t remember much about her, but I’ve heard she’s sweet.”

Robin, Eddie knows. Of course. He can’t wait to go home and call Robin to tell her all about this. “I’ll have to meet them some time.” He moves his palm from where it hangs loose at their hooked arms, brings it up slowly, and settles it on Steve’s bicep, squeezing. Steve doesn’t move away, thankfully. “Do you want to listen to some music?”

“Sure,” Steve mutters. “I just hope you have good taste.”

Oh I have the worst, Eddie thinks, you’ve told me that before. He walks them over to a nearby bench, still staring out at the water. It’s glistening ripples, the few birds that swoop down to rest, some stray leaves. Pulls out his phone, looks at their playlists he’s left the same over the years. Finds Steve’s. And clicks shuffle. “I think you’ll like this one, actually,” he says.

The first song to play is Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are”, their wedding song. 

Beside him, Steve hums, settling back into the bench. His eyes are closed peacefully. A small smile to his lips. Face soft in the glow of the sun. Eddie is a sunflower, a sunflower, a sunflower. He aches so bad to trace his fingertip down the bridge of Steve’s nose, on the curve of his lower lip, to kiss him and dance with him and hold him like there’s no tomorrow. Like there’s no tomorrow where he comes back, a stranger.

“I’ve heard this before,” Steve whispers. His eyebrows furrow. He’s still smiling, but he’s focusing somewhere on something. And Eddie wants to comb his fingers through Steve’s brain, pet over the diseased areas, pat the memories, nestle the good that Steve remembers. “I see a face in my head,” he says. Asks, “Can I tell you what I see?”

“Sure,” Eddie whispers as soft as possible. “Tell me all about this face.”

Again, Steve settles. Shimmying further into the bench, taking Eddie with him. They lean back. Like sitting on their couch, watching reruns, eating Chinese takeout, gossiping about their neighbors, gazing at their daughter painting messy pictures of their love—pink and yellow splatters on the coffee table. (Eddie thinks about how those dried paint stains never left. How he never cleaned them. How Steve never complained. He’ll go home tonight and look at them. He will weep.) 

“It’s a man,” Steve starts. “He’s white. Clean shaven. Got this bulbous nose and pretty pink lips. Kind of pouting,” he murmurs, chuckling to himself. Eddie snorts beside him. His eyes burn a little. “Dark, dark brown hair. Wavy around his face, kind of frizzy. But it looks like it’s been styled back into a bun, his bangs curled inwards.” Steve takes a deep breath, sighing dreamily. “His eyes…Wow, Eddie. These eyes are probably my favorite thing I’ve ever seen. So deep, big, almost like a deer. They’re shiny with tears. But he smiles at me, I’m warm.”

Eddie squeezes at Steve’s bicep again. He takes a stuttering breath. “The way you describe him…He sounds like a—“

“A painting,” Steve finishes. “He says something to me. Calls me Stevie. Calls me baby. That…I like that.” His eyes flutter open. And he swings his head to the right, looking directly into Eddie’s. “I like that, but there’s also a number there.”

“What’s that?” Eddie kindly asks.

“Fifty. I don’t really know why—Hey, wait a minute,” Steve rushes. He sits forward slightly. His eyes widen. The arm still wrapped with Eddie’s squeezes in a vice grip. “Your eyes…I’ve seen your eyes before.”

Eddie perks up. It’s happening again. Doesn’t occur all that often, especially in the last few months. But sometimes, sometimes his belly flips and his chest flutters and he’s taken back to the clearing that Steve confessed his love in—twenty years old, his eyes alight with passion, hair flopping all over the place. Him beautiful and peaceful. And, yeah, that’s what Eddie sees in front of him now.

“I’ve seen them before,” Steve whispers. He raises a hesitant palm to the side of Eddie’s face. Landing gently. Cupping, warmth radiating from him. He’s still a furnace. He’s the same. The Steve that Eddie fell in love with, he’s here and still inside there, he’s in the palm and in Eddie’s chest. He’s here. Steve inhales sharply. Clarity in his eyes. How he tells a story with just his pupils, the quick darting, the tears that pool in his waterline—Eddie will never know. “Eds?” Steve calls out.

A part of Eddie crumbles to his feet. He hasn’t heard that nickname in so goddamn long. He bites back the sob that wants to tear through him. Instead, places his free palm over the back of Steve’s. Thumb tickling his knuckles. “Hi, Stevie. Hi, baby,” he murmurs back. “How are you, love bug?”

“Eds,” Steve breathes. “I—What are—You look different.” He chuckles, it’s congested, it’s wet. “Is it our anniversary? Please, is it—“ Eddie nods in the hold. Steve sighs, crying slightly with it. There’s so much ache here, it hurts in the sweetest way possible to even have his simple touch. “God,” Steve softly sobs. “I’m sorry that I forgot. Please don’t be mad at me. I promise I tried to remember.”

Eddie squeezes where he’s still touching Steve. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he breathes truthfully. His chest seizes, that sob yearning, creeping. “Just sitting here with you for our anniversary is enough.” I’ll always be here to help you remember, he doesn’t say.

The way Steve relaxes, the relief rushing through him is enough for Eddie. Every single day with Steve is enough. Even in the moments where he’s completely lost in the world, somewhere dark and cold and lonely. Even when he gets angry and lashes out, slamming his palms on Eddie’s chest. Even if every time it makes Eddie physically pulse and hurt. He hurts. He’s a sunflower, a sunflower, a sunflower.

“Okay,” Steve rasps. “Okay, Eds. Okay.” He leans into the warmth of their bodies, sides a single line. Connected. Stitched together by everything, the matter of the universe. “Happy anniversary,” he whispers.

“Happy anniversary, love,” Eddie murmurs.

They’ve got maybe five minutes before Steve is gone again. Back to Steven. To the stranger in his room. A guy who sees brown eyes in his sleep and is unsure who they belong to. They’ve got five minutes, but Eddie will treat them like lifetimes.

He’ll come back tomorrow. And they will remember. And he will ache. But he will love.

“I love you,” he says.

And with the last thirty seconds they have together, Steve sighs, all the emotions under the sun (and Eddie is the sunflower soaking up all that is Steve), “I love you, too.”

💕—————💕

[nburkhardt]

“I’m sorry, but I don’t like you like that”

He doesn’t know what hurts more, this or the memories of ‘our love is bullshit, you’re bullshit’ in his ears as he ignores the burn of his eyes. Ignores the stares and the silence.

He faintly wonders if maybe this is a curse, if he’s destined to be alone and that everyone he’ll ever love just can’t love him back.

Maybe it really is him?

Before anything else is said, he leaves. He doesn’t hear the shouts, doesn’t hear the apologies or the waits. Can’t handle being there anymore.

His eyes are burning, his heart is gone and he’s done.

Hawkins is a curse, all it holds for him is hurt and pain. He needs to leave, needs to be away. Wants to leave, wants to be away.

He feels the hand of someone on his arm and he doesn’t remember stopping, blinks hard to see past the tears. It takes only a few minutes to find Robin standing there, also with tears in her eyes. Her mouth is moving but his ears aren’t working, still buzzing with “I don’t like you like that” and a faint “you’re bullshit” ringing along side it.

Shaking his head, shutting his eyes tight. He leans his head against her shoulder and shakes, cries and feels her pull him close. Holds him tight and he curls his arms around her, trying to stop the tears and sobs.

“Oh, Stevie, I’m so fucking sorry. I’m here, I know it hurts.”

He clutches her tight and he sobs. This isn’t how this was supposed to go. He could’ve sworn- he really thought- really thought this was it. This was it, he thought he had a chance. Really.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“It’ll be okay, I swear. You’ll find someone, someone who loves you just as much as you love them. And I love you so much, Stevie. You are everything to me and you deserve it”

He shakes his head, it’s not true. He did find someone and they tore his heart out and called it bullshit and stomped all over it. He found another and they picked his broken heart up and decided to toy with it before ripping it to shreds with a simple “I don’t like you like that” and it’s so, it’s so juvenile.

“Yeah, yeah it is. And you know what? Fuck him, fuck him and everything about it. You can do so much better, I swear. Okay? Do you hear me, Steve? Do you?”

That’s when it slams into him, he was speaking out loud in between sobs and Robin was speaking to him. He nods and thinks hard at what she said, “I can’t Robs, I can’t do this anymore” he whispers and maybe even whimpers a bit, “I- It hurts so fucking much, I can’t be here anymore”

She pulls away and cups his face, his vision is still blurry but he can see that her face is red with tears too, “then we leave, we’ll leave. Okay? We can go anywhere. We can- we can just say fuck Hawkins and find something new- something bright and colorful. Find somewhere, where you can shine”

He can’t help but choke on a laugh and a sob, tries to shake his head. Stopped only because Robin holds him still, “We- I can’t do that to you-“

“You aren’t, Steve. I’m doing this for you.” She smiles and pulls his head closer to place a kiss to his forehead, “All this town has given you is pain and heartbreak, I’m calling it. We’re leaving”

“Isn’t that just- just running away?”

She shakes her head and pulls him close into a hug, “Even if it is, you deserve to run. We’ll pack up all of our things, either say goodbye or don’t, but we’re leaving. I can’t stand around and watch you break again. I can’t let you stick around longing and hoping that maybe fucking Eddie Munson decides to change his mind. I will not let him break you again”

There’s nothing he can say to that, he just hides his face in her shoulder. Holding onto her to keep himself from falling even more apart, listening to her hum and sway him to help him calm down. To stop from breaking even further, she whispers and promises him that she’s here. She’s not going anywhere.

And he believes her. She is his soulmate but he’s still hurting. He doesn’t know when it will stop, if they leave tomorrow it’ll still be broken. He’ll still faintly hear the “I don’t like you like that” mixed in with “you’re bullshit” in the back of his head. Doesn’t know if when he’ll not hear those phrases, doesn’t know if he’ll ever get their faces out of his head when they said it out either.

It hurts and his heart is in shreds. Being held together by his soulmate and maybe with her it’ll be protected.

~~~~

I’m sorry 🥲

[gelatina-destroyer]

Simon and Betty's Song | Cake and Fiona

"You were a wonderful experience"

"You were...everything"

[zootopiathingz]

A Promise in the Dead of Night

“I’m scared…”

Her voice is but a whisper, that Alastor barely registers her words at first. When he does, he feels himself tightening his arms around her, his mind already preparing to shield her from danger that he’s not made aware of.

Something’s been off about Charlie’s behavior and he hasn’t been able to determine the reason. From the moment she stepped in his room, he’s known she hasn’t been in her usual perky mood. It’s not unlike her to pay him a visit in the dead of night. Hell, it’s practically become routine for them. If he doesn’t end up falling asleep with her in her own bed, he can expect to find her hours later in his room, quietly requesting that she stay. And he never refuses. How could he possibly turn down such a request from the radiant, smiling princess of Hell?

But tonight, that gorgeous smile of hers that normally greets him when she enters a room was absent from her face. Her piercing eyes that could read all the secrets of his soul were puffy from tears she must have dried before coming to see him. She hasn’t uttered a word until now. She simply opened the door and walked over to join him on the sofa he sits on and crawled her way into his arms. He hasn’t questioned her, but he finds it odd that she had been so quiet. Not even a laugh, or even a breath. Has she been holding her breath the whole time?

Alastor brings his hand up to the back of her head that lays against his chest, raking his long claws through the soft strands of her golden hair. “Of what, dear?” He asks, his voice only slightly louder than hers.

She doesn’t answer. Not with words, at least. Instead she just further nuzzles her head against him, burying her face into the fabric of his coat like she’s trying to hide from something. Alastor swears he hears a faint whimper escape her—a sound that not only catches him off-guard, but fills him with rage. Several thoughts run through his mind like a herd of deer. What could have happened to her that would send her into such a fragile state? Who hurt her…?

Before jumping to conclusions, he decides to continue with his gentle approach. He shifts slightly, taking her chin between his fingers to lift her head away from his chest, her gaze instinctively meeting his. He’s met with the most heartbreaking look of vulnerability she’s ever displayed. He doesn’t like it one bit.

“What’s troubling you, my darling?” He questions her again, his thumb tenderly caressing the soft, milky skin of her face.

Charlie sniffles and briefly shifts her gaze downward as she struggles to answer in a way that makes sense. “I.. I don’t know.” She sighs shakily. She knows it’s a pathetic response, but she doesn’t know how to explain the hell-storm wreaking havoc in her mind.

Alastor stays quiet, only giving her a look that urges her to go on. And when she looks at him again, she does, however reluctantly.

“Oh Al.. I don’t know why, but I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach and no matter what I do, it won’t leave me alone.” Charlie lets out a small hiccup of a breath, leaning her head forward slightly, longing to lay on his chest again. “I keep having these horrible dreams. They play out differently, but they all end the same way…something bad happens, or someone attacks us, and one way or another, you get taken away from me. I don’t know what happens to you after. I always wake up before I can find out, but I’m afraid that it means you were…”

She pauses, not wanting to actually finish the thought aloud. She knows she doesn’t need to, anyway. Alastor can easily fill in the blank.

His signature smile, sealed by his lips at the moment, tightens at the corners. Charlie doesn’t see it, but his blinking eyes go wide for just a moment. It may be just a coincidence, it had to be. But what are the odds that they were both struggling with bad dreams about losing the other to some unknown force of darkness? Alastor hasn’t let it affect him like Charlie clearly has, because to him it shouldn’t have meant anything.

But to know that his princess was facing the exact same troubling phenomenon…that was a cause for alarm.

He doesn’t tell her of this. No, he refuses to worry her any more than she already has been. It’s his job to ease her worries, not increase them. It’s a burden he’ll bear for them both. What’s one more, anyway?

He pulls her in close to him as she snuggles into his arms. “Oh Charlie, you must not fret over something like night terrors.” He assures in a calming tone, trailing his hand up and down the length of her back. “They’re just dreams, after all. They cannot hurt us.”

“That’s the thing. What if they’re not just dreams?” Charlie argues, her body growing slightly tense at this thought she only just now realizes she has. “What if..it’s a warning?”

Alastor doesn’t even want to entertain the idea. He doesn’t want to imagine that that’s the reason behind their shared unconscious terrors. No, he won’t give into the fear. It will only consume them, and then they will be doomed to face it.

“You shouldn’t think like that, dear.” He says, leaning his head down, resting his chin atop of her head. “It will do you no good. You mustn’t let your fear control you.”

Charlie closes her eyes, her voice reverting back to its pitiful hushed tone. “I can’t stop it.”

There’s a brief moment of stillness between them. Neither dares to move from the warmth of the other’s touch. The air grows quiet, with only the cackling flames of the fireplace providing any source of sound. That is, until Alastor slowly lifts his head and pulls her back to face her again. The look in his eyes takes her aback. His grin is as wide as always, but there’s a subtle glimmer of sadness in his gaze that she’s never quite seen before. She’s not sure if she should feel touched that he’s grown so comfortable to express such vulnerability in front of her, or horrified of the meaning behind it…

“Then tell me what I can do to make it go away.” He raises his finger up to brush her bangs away from her forehead, before resting his hand against the side of her face, cupping her face in his palm. “Whatever it is, it will be done. Just name it.”

Charlie frowns softly, staring at him quietly for the longest minute. She’s not sure there’s anything he can do to make this all disappear. Alastor may be a powerful overlord, wielding immense power that has left even her impressed. But sadly, he can’t just snap his fingers and rid her of her fears like he wishes. Miracles like that weren’t possible down here in Hell.

There’s one thing he can do, though. As simple as it may be, it’s what she needs him to do.

Charlie leans her face into his palm, bringing her own hand up to hold his wrist as she looks deep into his eyes. “Just..promise me that no matter what happens, if anything happens, that nothing will tear us apart from each other.” She says, her voice trembling more and more with each word. “Whether these are just stupid dreams or not, I cannot lose you, Alastor. So please.. promise me now.”

Alastor gives her an incredulous look, raising his brow a little, just before he leans in, inching his face closer to hers.

“Charlie..my princess,” He speaks firmly, his voice lacking any static or filter that it normally carries, “I swear on my damned life, I will never let anything take you away from me. Not Heaven. Not Hell. Nothing is ever going to keep us apart. Do you understand?”

She nods slowly, and as she blinks the tears she’s been fighting back threaten to burst like a broken dam. Alastor kisses her, the tender touch of his lips bringing her a warm sense of comfort. He then pulls her back into his reassuring embrace, and at last the woman crumbles down. She cries into his shoulder, clinging onto him like she may lose him for good if she even thinks of letting go. He doesn’t say anything, knowing he’s said all he can to bring her solace and all he can do now is simply be here with her.

But they both know his words held nothing but truth to them. Charlie’s been the one good thing to ever happen to him in a long, long time. And he would sooner die again than ever let something rip that away from his grasp. He will hold onto her and use everything in his power to fight for her, and he will do it all with a smile on his face.

It’s alright, my love. Is his immediate thought when he hears that dreadful sound of her sobbing. He hugs her as close as he possibly can, letting his eyes fall shut as his face presses onto the mess of hair on her head. The shadow that resembles his shape looms over the pair, hovering its claws protectively over the woman in Alastor’s arms.

Anyone who tries to take you from me will be faced with a fate worse than death…

[ginnsbaker]

Maybe You Were The Ocean

Summary: Wanda was... an open-ended chapter in your life.

Word count: 6.3k+ | Tags: Heavy Angst, Character Death, Bittersweet ending

Ship: Wanda Maximoff x Gender Neutral Reader

Requested by @gingiesworld:

Y/N and Wanda have been together for a while and Pietro calls Y/N one night, needing a lift home from a friends party. On that night they get hit by another drunk driver and Pietro dies on impact. As time goes on and the other driver is arrested, y/n still blames themselves for Pietro's death. Even though Wanda continuously tries to tell them otherwise but they won't listen. They then yell at her "why don't you blame me? You should hate me for your brother dying." Before walking out. Can be either a happy or sad ending buddy. Whichever you decide

Author's note: I changed some minor details in the request, hope you don't mind Gingie. Thank you for this gut-wrenching monster, it allowed me to practice writing in past tense (so out of my comfort zone lol). Title is from "black flies" by ben howard, listen to that as well when you read ;)

Masterlist

-

Now

You haven't been to something like this in what seems like ages.

That something being a wedding.

And if you were to keep count, you'd realize you've been to more funerals than weddings in your lifetime so far.

Your best friend looks like a goddess in her white dress—and anyone with eyes can see that the groom is the luckiest man on earth.

You’re fixing your hair in front of the mirror when she approaches, wearing a smile that you’ve never seen on her, a smile you’d never be able to put on her lips yourself. It’s a smile reserved for him—that lucky bastard.

She gently taps on your shoulder. “You’re going to make me cry if you keep looking so stunning,” she teases, her voice light with laughter.

You chuckle, your eyes meeting hers in the mirror. “It's your day, and nothing can overshadow how beautiful you look.”

“Promise me something,” she says suddenly, her bright eyes locking onto yours.

“Anything,” you reply without hesitation.

“Promise me that you won’t stop looking for this kind of happiness. Promise me you'll find someone who puts that same smile on your face,” she whispers.

Your throat tightens, words caught somewhere between heartache and hope. “I promise.”

Then

You were eight years old when you moved to a new neighborhood.

At that age, it felt like the scariest thing that had ever happened to you. Your parents divorced, your mother got full custody, and once the judge made that call, she packed up everything familiar and moved you to a new state: New Jersey.

It was what she could manage back then. This place was nothing like the spacious suburbs you remembered, and your new apartment building seemed no bigger than your old living room back in California. The place had just one bedroom, and it was hard to tell where the dining area stopped and the kitchen started.

You resented her in the way a child might, not fully grasping responsibility or consequences. You were upset she took you away from your friends and the comfort of your old life. You didn’t see back then the bruises hidden beneath her shirt, the ones your father left. You only learned about them when you turned eighteen. By then, your resentment had faded long ago.

A week after moving into that aged building, you encountered the twins next door, Pietro and Wanda Maximoff. Initially, you met Pietro when his mother sent him over with some food to welcome you and your mom to the neighborhood. It wasn't until you and Pietro became inseparable friends, spending every possible moment together, that you met Wanda.

When you did meet her, you weren't fond of her. She seemed aloof and mostly kept to herself. Unlike her expressive brother, Wanda seldom voiced her thoughts, making conversations with her feel uninspiring. 

You and Pietro often clashed with Wanda over the television. You both wanted to play video games while Wanda preferred her sitcoms. Pietro would let Wanda watch her shows briefly before forcefully switching channels just to annoy her. Eventually, Wanda would retreat to her room in tears, and Pietro would steel himself for a reprimand when their mother returned home.

You would give Wanda a piece of chocolate because you felt bad, but you never asked Pietro to stop, fearing he might stop being your best friend. In return, Wanda would lend you her pocketbooks you’d never quite finish.

You hadn't realized it back then, but that dynamic would continue well into your teen years. With Pietro stirring up trouble left and right, you being caught in the middle, and Wanda, from a distance, observing you with cautious interest—perhaps wishing it had been her who brought the welcoming food instead of her brother.

Now

The wedding isn’t going to start for another hour. There have been delays due to the weather.

With the archways and open corridors adorned with blooming flowers and drapes, the venue looks nothing short of magical, even with the looming clouds. From where you stand, you extend your arm, letting the light drizzle kiss your skin. Each droplet feels like nature's way of playing with the day's emotions—adding both melancholy and charm.

Someone nearby remarks, “You know it's considered good luck when it rains on one's wedding day.”

You merely smile politely in response.

“Are you a friend of the bride’s or the groom's?”

“The bride,” you reply.

“Oh, fantastic! Maybe you can convince her to finally see she’s way out of his league!”

You shake your head at the joke. It’s not even the first time you've heard it today.

Then

It wasn't until you were fifteen and Pietro, seventeen, that the troubles you found yourselves in became more serious. 

It had also been a few months since Pietro introduced you to drugs other than weed. At first, it was just an occasional joint passed around at a party or behind the school building. But Pietro wanted to try riskier substances. You weren't as keen but didn't want to be left behind by your best friend.

One evening, after trying something a bit harder than usual, you and Pietro were wandering the streets, laughing way too loud. In his intoxicated state, Pietro suddenly swung at a parked car with his bat, smashing it. Almost immediately, patrol lights shone bright, and stern police voices could be heard from almost everywhere. Pietro got cornered, but sheer panic made you bolt. Ditching your best friend felt terrible, but the terrifying thought of jail—especially knowing the mess it'd be for your already stretched-thin mom—made you keep running.

Still shaken, you made your way to Pietro's apartment, knowing you had to be the one to tell his mother. Her reaction was a storm of emotions—anger, fear, desperation. She demanded you stay with Wanda while she went to confront the nightmare at the police station.

“I think I'll just head home,” you murmured to Wanda, not wanting to impose any further.

She glanced at you, her eyes searching. “Have you had dinner?”

You hesitated, then lied. “Yeah, I ate earlier.” The truth was your mom had been away for work for three days, and the fridge was almost bare. 

The small home you came to know felt overwhelmingly spacious as you sat alone, burdened by the guilt of having left your best friend behind. But mere minutes after sinking into your worn-out couch, a knock came at your door. Opening it, you found Wanda, a bowl of steaming paprikash in her hands and a soft smile on her lips.

“I thought you might be hungry,” she said.

Your face lit up in relief at the sight of the food, more grateful than you could express. Just as you were about to thank her, your stomach betrayed you with an embarrassingly loud growl. Wanda let out a genuine laugh, and for a brief moment, you felt like a burden had been lifted.

“Guess I was right,” she teased, handing you the bowl.

As you eagerly began eating, Wanda settled opposite you, her expression growing serious again. “What were you two even thinking tonight?” she asked softly.

Swallowing, you sighed, “I tried to stop him, Wanda. But I couldn't talk him out of it.” 

Wanda looked down, her fingers playing with a loose thread on the couch. “I don't blame you,” she finally said, her voice gentle, “I never do. In fact, I sometimes wonder how much worse he might've been without you around.”

A moment of silence hung between the two of you before Wanda whispered, more to herself than to you, “I'm so worried about next year.”

Curiously, you looked up from your food, "What do you mean?"

“Pietro's turning eighteen. He was supposed to get a baseball scholarship, but with this run in with the police, that’s probably hanging in the balance now…” she trailed off.

Your heart sank. You had known Pietro had big dreams tied to that scholarship, dreams that now seemed to be teetering on the brink. "And what about you, Wanda? What's your plan?"

Wanda took a deep breath, and her face lit up slightly, “I got accepted into Columbia. It's amazing, really. But…” She sighed, looking down, “Even with the scholarship they offered, I can't afford it. Plus, with everything going on, I think I need to be here, help Mom out, you know?”

“That's tough,” you whispered, feeling a pang of sadness for the bright future she might be putting on hold.

She nodded, “I'm thinking of starting work and maybe attending community college for a bit. It's not Columbia, but it's something.”

“That's... that's just unfair,” you whispered, setting down your bowl, your appetite momentarily forgotten. “If there's anyone who deserves to be at Columbia, Wanda, it's you.”

Wanda looked up, her eyes filled with something you didn’t recognize.

“I wish things were different,” you continued. “I've always thought of you as one of the most intelligent people I know. And not just smart, but kind... genuinely kind.”

She took in your words, the distance between you two closing slightly. “Thank you,” she murmured, her gaze never leaving yours.

Then, with a flash of resolve, she inched closer. “There's something I want to do,” she began, her voice a whisper. “Something I've wanted for a long time, but it never seemed right. I don't think there'll be another perfect moment, another chance. Not after tonight.”

Before you could process her words, she was leaning in, the space between you disappearing. Your eyelids dropped, and for a heartbeat, everything else melted away as her lips met yours.

For the longest time, nothing made sense to you. That was, until Wanda Maximoff kissed you.

Now

Your best friend's walk down the aisle feels like the longest part of the ceremony–at least to you. The sight is so magical that time seems to stand still. When you snap back to reality, the priest is asking if there's anyone in the crowd who wishes to object to the marriage.

Nobody breaks the silence which lasts a mere two seconds. It's a rarity these days for anyone to object. They only happen now in movies. Modern weddings are more intimate, almost closed-door affairs. The guest list is meticulously curated, ensuring anyone with a complex history with the bride or groom remains absent.

You watch the ceremony unfold, every word, every shared glance, making you feel more trapped by the promise you made earlier. You'd promised to chase that very kind of happiness, the kind that was unfolding right in front of you. Yet as you watch, there's this nagging feeling at the back of your mind, asking if you ever really will.

What they have feels like a world apart from where you're seated. 

You try to be genuinely happy for your best friend, and on many levels, you are. But you–you’re the last person to believe you deserve even a fraction of such a miracle.

Then

The kiss, as Wanda had promised, never happened again.

At least not for the duration they remained neighbors. Soon after, she and Pietro moved to another town for their studies. As for you, you and your mother also moved shortly after their departure, to a nicer neighborhood that’s closer to Manhattan where you also transferred schools.

For five years, you didn't see either of them. No calls. Nothing on social media. But that didn't stop them from occasionally drifting into your thoughts. Especially that memory of your first kiss.

That was until one night, while dining alone in a midscale Soho restaurant, you looked up to find Wanda as your server.

She wore a simple black uniform that most servers donned, but she carried it with an elegance that made her stand out. For a moment, you thought she didn't recognize you, as she professionally presented the menu and described the evening's specials without missing a beat. But then, as she was turning to leave your table, she paused and looked directly into your eyes.

“It's been a long time,” she said, her voice becoming more familiar as she shed her professional facade.

You nodded, struggling to find the right words. “Yeah, it really has. I didn't expect to see you here.”

She smiled, a little sadly. “Life takes us to unexpected places sometimes. I... well, I needed a job while I finish my degree.”

You both chatted briefly, catching up on lost time, but Wanda was called away to attend to other patrons. As she bustled about, you found it difficult to focus on your meal, your gaze repeatedly drawn to her fluid movements around the room.  Every so often, your eyes would meet, and she'd offer a fleeting smile, a touch of color rising to her cheeks.

After a while, you signaled for the check. Wanda was quick to bring it over, her fingers brushing against yours as she handed it to you.

“How's Pietro?” you asked tentatively.

Wanda hesitated, her eyes betraying her composure. “He was released from prison about a month ago,” she began, taking a deep breath. “It was tough, but he's doing better now. Trying to change, you know? And he... he misses you.”

Baseball never happened for him. College too. You wished you hadn’t lost your connection together. Perhaps you could have made a difference.

“I'm sorry,” you murmured. “Life just... took over.”

Wanda nodded with understanding, but remained silent.

As you prepared to leave, Wanda slipped a note along with your bill. It read, “It was good to see you again. Maybe we shouldn't wait another five years?”

Beneath these words, Wanda had also written down her phone number.

-

You waited a total of three days to call Wanda.

Wanda was... an open-ended chapter in your life. It wasn’t that you hadn’t been with other women since she stole your first kiss, but she remained a persistent afterthought in every relationship of yours that ended. 

It didn't help that you'd left a bookmark in her chapter, aware that revisiting it had the potential to alter the trajectory of everything.

The line rang twice before a familiar voice answered, “Hello?”

“Hey, it's me,” you hesitated for a moment, wondering if she would recognize your voice after all these years, “From the restaurant, the other night?”

There was a brief pause, then her tone softened, “I hoped you'd call.”

You were grinning so hard that it didn’t occur to you that you hadn’t responded to her in a while when she gently teased, “Took you long enough.”

“Three days isn’t that long,” you defended with a slight chuckle.

“Well, in the grand scheme of things, no. But in the context of us? It felt like an eternity,” she admitted.

And it truly felt that way. Finding Wanda over the past several years hadn't been impossible or even especially hard. Yet, both of you had consciously let things drift. You had navigated through college, and Wanda, well, she'd been engaged in whatever endeavors she had pursued.

But that night, it felt right to call her. And you hadn’t realized you were waiting to find her again.

You and Wanda scheduled to meet some time during the week and the conversation should’ve ended there. But neither of you wanted to hang up, and Wanda quickly asked about your college experience and the new neighborhood you'd settled into after their departure. By the time you both ended the call, nearly two hours had passed, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

It was evident; the bookmark you'd placed hadn't lost its page and it was easy to ease once more into its pages.

Now

The sun has set when the newly-wedded couple finally arrives at the reception.

You're seated at a table filled with strangers, but your best friend made sure to place you next to a woman she's been raving about—one she's suggested more than once you should date.

Her name is Natasha and she’s gorgeous beyond words. She's so striking that you find yourself wondering if she's even your type. Typically, you've steered clear of people who seem universally more attractive than you, a defense mechanism to sidestep lingering insecurities from over the years.

But as she leans into your personal space, you can’t help but respond to every question and laugh at every joke she throws your way.

Maybe it’s safe to let yourself enjoy this, even just for tonight.

Then

It was scarcely two weeks since that encounter with Wanda at the restaurant, and there you were, in her bed.

It was cramped and the air conditioning kept failing many times during the day. 

But you didn’t care. 

You had known this woman for almost your entire life, and you'd waited just as long to be in her bed like this: with your arm growing numb under her weight, her head resting on your chest, and your nose buried in her hair.

She stirred slightly, her fingers tracing patterns on your chest. “Did you ever think...?” she began, voice hesitant.

“Think what?” you prompted, adjusting slightly so you could see her face.

“That we'd end up here, like this?” she whispered, her eyes searching yours.

You smiled, thinking back. “I don't know if I let myself think about it. But I hoped.”

She chuckled softly, her breath warm against your skin. “I had a feeling you'd say that.”

The sheets beneath you were thin and had seen better days, but it didn't matter. The world outside, with its faint hum of city life, seemed so far away. Yet, the world outside seemed irrelevant. All that mattered was the rhythm of her breathing syncing with yours and the warmth of her body next to you.

Every so often, she'd shift, mumbling half-formed sentences that would make you chuckle.

“Is the penguin wearing a bowtie?” she murmured in her half-asleep state.

You laughed softly. “What penguin?”

“The one in my dream,” she mumbled, snuggling closer to you. “He's quite the gentleman.”

“Sounds like a classy penguin,” you teased.

She smiled faintly, her eyes still closed. “He reminds me of you, in a way.”

“Oh? So, I'm a penguin now?” you quipped, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

“In the best way,” she whispered, pulling you closer. “My dapper penguin.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Only you would dream of something like that.”

“And only you,” she murmured, lips against your chest, “Would be there in that dream with me.”

-

While Wanda seamlessly reintegrated into your life, with Pietro, however, things weren't as straightforward. His past, speckled with run-ins with the law and a battle against addiction, made you and Wanda wary of him, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You could tell he was on the mend though, especially when six months into your relationship with Wanda, Pietro was able to hold a job for that same duration. Yet, his living situation with Wanda was far from ideal. Their apartment was snug, to say the least. His room was barely big enough to fit his bed. 

You wished you could help, but with college expenses looming over you, your hands were tied. The thought of asking Wanda to move in with you played on your mind constantly. It seemed like the ideal solution: she would have a more stable environment, and Pietro could fully occupy the apartment, giving him some semblance of independence.

“What do you think about moving in with me? I know it's soon, but…” you asked her one night in the quiet confines of your dorm room.

“I don’t think I’m allowed to live here with you,” Wanda said, a bit amused at your suggestion.

“I didn’t mean here,” you replied. “I meant finding an apartment for the two of us.”

“That’s just adding more expenses, Y/N. I can’t let you do that when you can stay here without any costs,” Wanda countered.

You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck. “It's not about the money, Wands. It's about... us. Having a place of our own. And it would also give Pietro the whole apartment.”

Wanda's eyes met yours, searching for a hidden meaning. “Are you saying that because of Pietro? You think he's a burden?”

You quickly shook your head. “No, no, it's not that. I just... I see how much you worry about him.”

Your fingers found hers, lacing together as you both sat on the edge of your bed. “I get it,” you began, exhaling softly, “But I thought about Pietro too. He’d have the apartment all to himself. More space, more independence.”

Wanda's eyebrows knit together in concern. “And what if he…” she hesitated, searching for the right words, “Relapses or needs me?”

You tightened your grip around her hand. “We wouldn't be too far, Wanda. And maybe giving him that space and trust will help him more than you think.”

She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I know you're thinking of what's best for all of us, but Pietro's situation has always been so... fragile.”

Wanda looked at you, her eyes filled with emotion. “I'll think about it,” she whispered.

“Take your time,” you replied, pressing a soft kiss on her knuckles. “Whatever you decide, I'm with you every step of the way.”

“Promise me,” Wanda said, her eyes hardening, like she’s on the verge of tears or something worse. “Promise you’ll be with me always.”

You leaned in, brushing a soft kiss on her forehead. “Always.”

Now

“It’s not everyday you find the person you’ll be spending the rest of your life with.”

Short and sweet, but that's your whole speech, cliches and all.

“I never thought I'd see the day,” you start, nodding towards the newlyweds with a smirk. “But hey, miracles happen.” You raise your champagne glass. “To two people who finally figured it out. Cheers.”

Your best friend laughs, rolling her eyes affectionately at you. “Trust you to keep things real,” she murmurs, clinking her glass with yours.

And that’s when you see her, amongst the cheering crowds.

In the middle of all the people, she stands out. Always has. It doesn't matter where or when, you can always spot her. Your heart skips a beat, just like it always does. It's like everyone else fades a bit, and she's the only one in focus.

Wanda Maximoff. 

Pristine in a scarlet trumpet gown, her hair pulled into a tight, strict bun. A few stray tendrils of hair have escaped the bun, framing her face in a way that gives her an almost ethereal quality.

As you take a moment to really look at her, you notice the fine details. The way the light catches the small diamond earrings she wears, making them shimmer just so. The delicate curve of her collarbone, revealed by the gown's off-the-shoulder design. And her eyes—always her captivating eyes–that hold an entire galaxy, scanning the room until they land on you.

The shock in her eyes mirrors yours, and for a moment, everything else blurs. Your legs wobble, threatening to give way beneath you. The room's atmosphere grows thick, or perhaps you're just struggling to catch your breath.

Beside you, the bride and your best friend, Maria, notices your sudden change in demeanor and follows your gaze to its source. 

“Are you okay?” she asks.

You manage a shaky head shake in response, pushing through the crowd to escape the room. But you can hear Maria, not too far behind, calling after you.

Then

“So, Maria,” Wanda began once your friend had left and it was just the two of you in the cafe. You had been so keen for the two of them to meet. But with Maria spending a whole semester in Germany as an exchange student, their only prior meeting had been a brief video call that interrupted one of your dates with Wanda.

“How did you two get so close?”

“Did I never tell you about that?”

Wanda shook her head, taking a sip from her now lukewarm cappuccino.

“Freshman year. We were looking for this book and it only had one copy in the school library, and believe it or not, we reached for it at the same time,” you recounted with a wistful smile.

Wanda's face shifted ever so slightly, a change you didn't quite catch.

“We both really needed it badly, so we promised to take turns using it, and we ended up studying together for weeks.”

“That sounds like something out of a movie,” Wanda mused, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup.

“It kind of felt like that,” you admitted, laughing softly. “From bickering about who would get the book on Mondays to sharing our notes and coffee breaks. Before we knew it, we were inseparable.”

Wanda hummed, her eyes flitting restlessly around you.

“What is it?”

Wanda shrugged. “Nothing.”

You frowned slightly, knowing her well enough to see past her facade. “Wands, come on,” you coaxed. “Talk to me.”

She looked away for a moment, collecting her thoughts. “It's just... it's hard sometimes, hearing about these memories you shared with someone else, when I wish I had been there with you.”

“Wanda,” you began gently, “There are moments in your past that I wasn't a part of. But what matters is now. Right here, with you.”

She sighed, her posture deflating a little. “I know. It's silly, isn't it? To be jealous of a close friend of yours.”

“If it makes you feel this way, then it's valid, no matter how silly you think it might be,” you assured her.

She leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. “Growing up, our worlds were confined to that same apartment building. The people, the routines, everything was predictable. And now... being out in the world, seeing you connect with others, it's just... intimidating. And, honestly, a little scary.”

You paused, smirking a bit. “You know,” you began, but Wanda cut in, “What?”

“It's just...Do you even know how happy you make me?” you said, a bit sheepishly.

She looked like she was about to say something, but you quickly added, “Seriously, Wands.”

Wanda blinked, clearly taken aback. “You have this strange way of turning things around,” she said with a soft chuckle, her face turning a shade pinker.

“Because I love you.”

Neither of you had said it up until now. And it’s quickly evident that it was the right thing to say, at the right moment.

She took a deep breath, her fingers fidgeting with her cup. “You always jump in headfirst, don't you?” Then, looking up into your eyes, she added softly, “I love you too.”

You grinned, feeling a weight lifted. “Took you long enough.”

Now

The grand ballroom doors open with a soft whoosh, the muted melodies of a string quartet drifting into the cool night. You step out quickly, breathing in deep gulps of fresh air, your heart pounding against your ribcage. Memories of Wanda Maximoff, which you've tried hard to keep buried, surge to the forefront of your mind.

Maria, noticing your abrupt exit, quickly follows you out. “Hey,” she calls out softly, her heels clicking on the stone path as she reaches you. “Are you okay?”

“Why is she here?” you exclaim, the pitch of your voice inching towards a sharp octave.

Maria gently grabs your arm, offering solace. “I had no idea she'd be here. I promise. She must be someone’s plus one.”

You swallow hard, trying to steady your suddenly spinning surroundings.

“Y/N?”

“I'm okay, Maria,” you say, forcing a weak smile. “Sorry about this. It's your wedding, and you shouldn't be out here with me. Go back, enjoy your day.”

She looks conflicted, torn between staying by your side and going back to her new spouse and guests.

After a moment, Maria steps forward, enveloping you in a tight hug. “Promise me you'll be okay?”

You nod, hugging her back. “That’s too many promises in one day. But yeah, I’ll be okay.”

It’s just Wanda, you tell yourself.

Just the girl who could always bring out that special smile in you—the same one Maria had when she said, “I do.”

Then

The call came unexpectedly in the middle of the night.

You and Wanda had been dozing in her room for a few hours, following a particularly exhausting fight that concluded with even more exhausting—and mind-blowing—make-up sex.

“Hello?”

“Y/N!” You instantly recognized Pietro’s voice. “Hey, listen, can you pick me up? I'm at a bar,” Pietro said, his voice tinged with guilt and slight slurring. “I... I swear I didn't do anything. I got promoted to store manager and I treated a few colleagues to celebrate. I'm a bit tipsy so I... I'm sorry to bother you.”

There was a pause, and you ran a hand through your hair, exchanging a glance with Wanda who now sat up with a worried look.

“Which bar?” you asked, trying to keep yourself calm.

“Mike’s Tavern,” he mumbled, sounding embarrassed.

Taking a deep breath, you grabbed your keys from the nightstand. “Alright, I'm on my way. Stay put.”

Wanda frowned, her gaze conflicted. “I want to come with you,” she said, her brows furrowing together in concern and sleepiness.

“You should stay,” you said, sliding into your jeans. “It's a bit of a drive to New Jersey. You've had a long day, and you need to rest. I'll handle this.”

She bit her lip, torn, but finally nodded. “Please be safe. Call me if anything happens, okay?”

“I will,” you said, leaning down to give her a brief kiss on the forehead before making your way out.

-

You didn't call Wanda on your way back from New Jersey, but not because nothing occurred.

Rather, something did happen, and you weren't conscious enough to make the call.

-

You and Pietro made it to the hospital.

Wanda was an emotional wreck, grappling with the challenge of dividing her attention between her brother in ICU and you being wheeled into a separate ward.

An hour later, she didn't need to decide any longer.

Pietro Maximoff's time of death was called just as you started regaining consciousness.

-

The days following Pietro's death were a blur. You'd wake up, immediately feeling the weight of the world pressing down, your every moment drenched in guilt in the form of alcohol and, sometimes, your own vomit. 

Though you weren't close to Pietro anymore, he was slowly turning his life around. And while a drunk truck driver caused the accident, your own haste to get back to Wanda made you reckless. 

That choice haunted you daily.

That choice made you believe that Wanda hated you in secret.

You began avoiding Wanda, her presence a haunting reminder of the brother she lost and, in a twisted way, the brother you felt responsible for losing. The relationship you cultivated turned into something that only existed as a label. Otherwise, it didn’t exist at all. It faded, just like the gash on your face that you acquired from the accident.

Nights blurred into days, and sometimes, it was hard to tell which was which. Friends would find you in bars or on the rooftops, looking worse for wear, lost in your thoughts. Yes, Wanda grieved, but she was also lost without you by her side. She yearned for your comfort, your grounding presence; instead, all she got was your voicemail.

The breaking point came on an evening when she didn’t hear from you for two weeks. On a hunch, she decided to visit your dorm room. The last thing she expected was to find Maria there. While the situation was innocent enough, to Wanda's overwhelmed and grieving heart, it felt like a betrayal. Maria, sensing the rising tension, made a hasty exit, leaving the two of you alone.

Wanda's eyes glittered with rage and sadness. “Is this it?” she demanded. “Is this how we handle grief? You shut me out and bring her in?” 

You looked away, the walls you had put up to protect yourself now seeming like a prison. “It's not about Maria,” you murmured, your voice empty, almost lifeless.

Wanda's red-rimmed eyes searched yours, looking for a glimmer of the person she loved. “Then what is it? Why do you keep pushing me away?”

“Why don't you blame me?” you suddenly screamed, tears blurring your vision. “You should hate me for your brother dying!”

For a few moments, there was a deafening silence, interrupted only by your quiet sobs.

Wanda's hands cupped your face, forcing you to meet her eyes. “I've never blamed you. Not once.”

You remained quiet, refusing to let Wanda lift your chin from your chest.

Wanda continued, “Life is a series of 'what ifs' and 'maybes'. You can't control everything. And neither can I. We both lost him, Y/N. I don’t need more loss by losing you too.”

“Maybe you already have,” you whispered, finally looking into her eyes.

Wanda's voice cracked, “You can't be serious. What are you saying?”

You felt drained, worn out. “I don't know how to be us anymore, Wanda.”

She looked devastated. “So you're just walking away? Because we're hurting?”

You just wanted to be able to breathe again. You just wanted all of the pain to end, even if it meant letting her go.

Wanda's face crumpled, her voice rising. “So, that's it? You're just giving up?”

You could barely muster the strength to speak. "I just think... maybe it's easier this way."

“Easier for whom?” Wanda yelled, unable to hold everything back any longer. “I don't need easy, Y/N. I need you. But if you're so set on this, then be honest with me.”

You took a deep breath, your throat tight. “I think we need space, Wanda. A break.”

For a moment, it looked like Wanda might collapse. She took a step back, her gaze cold and hard. “You think a break will fix this? Fine. But don't expect me to be here waiting when you come around.” 

Without another word, she turned on her heel and left.

The last image of Wanda Maximoff etched into your mind as you closed her chapter.

Now

You half-expect her to seek you out after you left the reception. So, when the familiar scent of Wanda’s perfume wafts over, you keep your back turned, taking a long drag from your cigarette rather than acknowledging her arrival.

“Can I bum one?” she asks, her voice softer than the last time you heard it.

You hand her a cigarette without a word, watching her closely as she lights it. Her fingers, slender and pale, bring the cigarette to her lips, and she takes a long drag, exhaling with a sigh.

She looks so different, yet so achingly familiar.

Her hair is red—a detail you missed earlier. But now, standing this close to her, you can pick out everything that’s changed about her.

And you hate how good you are at doing just that.

For a few minutes, both of you stand in silence, letting the smoke swirl around in patterns before it gets carried away by the wind.

Wanda breaks the silence. “It's been a while.”

“Did you know it was Maria’s wedding?” you ask, finally gathering the courage to look at her.

She hesitates, exhaling a plume of smoke before admitting, “Yes, I did. But explaining to Steve our... complicated history and why I'd refuse to be his plus one seemed harder than just going with it.”

“Steve?”

She looks down, taking a moment before murmuring, “Steve’s my fiancé.”

Your eyes instinctively flit to her left hand, landing on the glimmering diamond ring. It's large and hard to miss, and you almost want to laugh that you hadn’t noticed before.

There’s a long pause between you both before you find your voice. “Congratulations, Wanda.” And to your own surprise, you genuinely mean it. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, an action you still find so endearing after all these years. But you’re not supposed to find anything about her endearing anymore. They’re not supposed to make your heart race. They’re not supposed to make you feel light-headed with desire.

It hits you painfully just how possible it is to stand mere inches from someone, yet feel oceans apart.

Wanda takes a deep breath, releasing it shakily. 

“You know,” Wanda says, her voice soft, “I never really got to apologize for how things ended between us.” She shakes her head slowly, tears forming in her eyes. “I was angry, hurt... lost. And when you tried to come back, I was already seeing someone else. By that time–”

“–so much has happened and I’ve hurt you too much,” you finish for her, a pained smile on your lips. “I’m sorry too.”

Wanda's breath hitches, and for a moment, she's transported back to your dorm room. She's spent a long time wondering what might have happened if she had stayed. But that choice belongs to a different timeline, a version of her that might have been braver than she feels now.

You pause, glancing at your hands before meeting her eyes. “Are you happy, Wanda?” A part of you hopes she's found happiness, yet another selfish part wishes she hasn't—because if she hasn't, maybe there's still a space for you in her life.

Wanda meets your gaze, her eyes shining with a clarity you hadn't seen in years. “I am happy,” she confirms softly.

The unexpected rush of emotion tightens your throat, and your eyes mist over. But you fight it, forcing a big smile that wrinkles the corners of your eyes. 

“That's great, Wanda,” you say. Your heart aches a bit, thinking how happiness can feel like a double-edged sword.

Reading your expression, she asks, “What about you? Are you happy?”

You promised Maria you won’t stop looking for the kind of happiness that brings people together. 

So, now you hang onto the hope of that promise. 

“Getting there,” you answer, the corners of your mouth lifting ever so slightly, “I will be.”

[stardustloki]

To be Remembered

You are replaceable.

This is the first lesson that CT-4729 ever remembers learning.

They are all going to die, even if they make it off Kamino, and what will be left? What will there be to remember them by? What marks will there be to prove they ever existed?

-

Teen, No Archive Warnings, Original Clone Character(s), Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Remembrance, Implied/Referenced Character Death

Read it on ao3 here or below the cut.

-

You are replaceable.

This is the first lesson that CT-4729 ever remembers learning.

Clones are not important, they have been bred to die, and when they do another number will step up and take their place.

Some of his brothers like the fact that they are ‘the same’, clinging to their similarities as if that makes them special, as if that will keep them safe. And perhaps this is true, ‘29 thinks as he watches ‘28 get taken away by a Kaminoan who has spotted his aversion to bright lights and loud noises, an aversion that has no place on a battlefield. ‘28 doesn’t return.

‘31 dies in a training accident. There is a fault in ‘26’s genetic structure.

Each night ‘29 holds them in his heart, tries to remember them, but the memories become fuzzy, overwritten by watching the same identical faces day after day after day, until he cannot be sure of what was real and what was imagined.

A sense of panic starts to settle into his bones, like an itch that can’t be scratched. They are all going to die, even if they make it off Kamino, and what will be left? What will there be to remember them by? What marks will there be to prove they ever existed?

‘29 is not important. He knows this, he is told this every day, but there is an ache inside of him that longs to be, that longs to matter beyond his worth as a cog in the machine that will be the GAR.

It is this more than anything that has him taking out his training knife and scratching his number into the wall above his bed. He knows it’s a stupid idea, even as he makes the first mark, but he can’t stop. This bed is his, it is where he sleeps, it belongs to him (even as nothing is meant to belong to them, everything should be interchangeable). Carving his number seems to prove it.

I was here, he thinks, finding himself calmer and less desperate as he stares at the jagged lines, barely recognisable as Aurebesh. I was here and I won’t be forgotten.

It is an aberration, a defect, and when a maintenance droid informs the Kaminoans they are not pleased by his attempts to be an individual. They summon one of the trainers, who seems to take a great deal of pleasure in hurting him, of reminding him of his place, before dragging him off by his hair as ‘29 struggles to keep his feet underneath him. There is nothing special about you, Clone, he says, you’re not important enough to matter to anyone, and when they decommission you no one will bother to remember you.

Despite the feeling of anguish that is crushing him, ‘29 cannot bring himself to regret his actions, not even as he curls into a ball in the isolation pod, waiting for the long-necks to kill him. Everyone dies, perhaps now he will be remembered too.

It is a surprise when they let him out. His batchmates tell him he was in there for three days, under blinding bright lights that left him shaky and delirious, unable to rest, sure he would go mad.

Still, he has been given a second chance, and he knows he must be smarter this time.

He carves notches into his armour, scratches a line into the bottom of his DC-15, digs a little indent into the underside of the table where he eats. Small things to show he was there.

His batchmates call him ‘Scratch’.

And Scratch will die, he knows this, but at least the little marks he leaves prove he had once been alive. That he had been a living breathing human being, and his life had meant something, even if it was never supposed to.

The itch under his skin eases a little.

-

Scratch is deployed, and he finds himself on a ship, far away from the surveillance of the Kaminoans.

He carves his name onto the wall beside every bunk he calls his own, his name joins others etched into bar tables at 79s, he makes scratches on rocks and fence-posts, and on crates of ammo.

A few months in, he wins a holo-recorder in a sabaac game. Its owner, Brew - who has a wide smile and intricate patterns shaved into his close cropped hair - dies a week later due to an anti-tank missile. But Scratch has a picture of him, and a video of him losing badly at cards two days after he’d lost the holo-recorder. He is gone, but not forgotten.

Scratch takes pictures of everything - his brothers, their antics, the planets they visit, the people they meet, the food, the bad karaoke nights, the art on the LAAT/i's - and as he does the terror that had gripped him for so long seems to fade. He makes a blog on the holonet, and starts creating an archive of everything that wouldn’t give their position away to the Separatists.

He stands over the bodies of dead shinies and wonders, is there anyone left who remembers them, is there anyone that knows their names?

The months draw on and his archive lengthens, but then so too do his doubts. Most of the brothers who started this war with him are gone, replaced by an ever turning carousel of new faces. The Clones are the only ones who would ever care for his memories, and before long every last one of them will be dead - the war cannot end in Republic victory with casualty numbers this high.

“Thank you,” Tis says to him, tears streaming down their face as they watch a vid of their now-dead vod’ika pulling stupid faces into the holorecorder. “Thank you for remembering him.”

Scratch sighs. Perhaps this is all for nothing, perhaps it won’t matter in the end, but it matters now, and that has to count for something.

He shuts his eyes, opens them again, and takes a breath as he watches the Separatist-held planet of Parto come into view. He clutches the stone he’d picked up from Orisc in his hand, as he brushes his thumb over the scratches he’d etched into it, he allows their rough edges to sooth him.

Whatever would happen, Scratch knew he had lived.

-

Two hundred years later, the sun shines high over the fields of Parto. The debris of battle, the corpses, the landmines, all gone, replaced by carefully tilled plots of burmillet. Nothing about these fields would tell you a war had ever taken place here, nothing would tell you the scale of the slaughter, when even the jagged craters, the vestiges of the explosions that had claimed Clones and Droids alike, have been smoothed over to make harvesting the grain easier.

Almost nothing.

Ti Yar, eight years old and with the gait of a child who hasn’t quite figured out what to do with all four limbs yet, comes tromping through the tall burmillet, brushing the stems out of his way - an explorer chopping through the undergrowth to reach his destination.

Despite his imaginings, he remains surprised when he stumbles over something on the field, his ankle twisting slightly as his foot falls off something solid. Scowling, he looks down to see the cause of his interrupted game. His eyes widen.

It’s a stone, sure, but way better than the red-grey rocks that litter their soil. This one is a deep blue-back, with lighter streaks in it that almost seem to glow in the light of the sun, like crystals set in marble. Ti doesn’t know what it is, he doesn’t know which planet it was from (though he has a sneaking suspicion ‘not this one’ might be the correct answer), but what he does know, as he gazes at the smooth rock with open-mouthed astonishment, is that he has found his treasure.

His fingertips brush over the rock’s surface as he starts to examine it in greater detail, and his thumb presses down on a section at the back that seems almost sharp. He turns it over.

There are notches carved in the stone, jagged letters in aurebesh: 

Scratch

CT-4729

12.8.4345.7.87643.

He frowns at the last part. A holonet address, perhaps?

After Ti arrives home, the stone clutched firmly in his hand, he logs on to the holonet and meticulously types the address in.

It does take him to a holonet site, the design of which seems weird and old, and takes so long to load that Ti almost gives up. The caption at the top declares that the owner of the blog is called Scratch, which is kinda a weird name, but then again everyone who comes from another planet has a weird name.

There are lots of pictures and videos, all of Scratch and his brothers. They all look pretty similar (then again all humans do) but they cut their hair in funny ways to set themselves apart. He knows they’re soldiers, because they all wear bright white armour with different green patterns on it, and sometimes Scratch has posted training videos.

He stays up, scrolling through the blog, for long after he should have gone to bed, hiding his datapad under his pillow when his parents come to check on him. There’s something exciting about this, about the feeling that he’s found something that no-one else knows about. He’s learnt now that there was an entire army of ‘Clones’ on this planet, but he’s never heard about this before from anyone. He wonders if his grandparents know about it.

He watches vids of Scratch laughing, playing pranks on his brothers, singing songs that contain words he’s pretty sure none of his family would want him to hear. They talk funny, like in old holonet dramas or the recordings played in the history lessons he tries not to fall asleep in, but he likes them all the same, and finds himself grinning along with them. Another strange thing is the pictures on the walls beside some of their beds, of beings without all their clothes on. Ti doesn’t get it, and prefers the walls that have ancient ship designs pasted to them, but he supposes that people in the past did weird stuff.

Late the next morning, his parents help him research the ‘Clone Wars’.

He’s heard about the fall of the Republic at school, about how it became an Empire, about how it hurt people and destroyed Alder… something, and that there was a Jedi hero called... Luka Skywalker, but that was old stuff, stuff that happened way before anyone he knew was even born, and it has never seemed to matter.

This does.

This stuff, Scratch’s smile as he gives Ti a tour of the ship’s mess-hall, this is real. This matters.

There is a part of Ti that wonders why Scratch lost the stone, hopes that he’d just dropped it out of his pocket, or left it for someone like Ti to find. Maybe he did this on every planet?

His parents have searched the holonet for him, and have found no other records of CT-4729.

But there’s another part of him that knows what happened, a part that he finds hard to face. If he scrolls up to the top of Scratch’s blog, the very last holo-image is one of Parto, taken through a transparisteel window. If he focuses hard enough, Ti can see a pale reflection of Scratch outlined on top of the red plains below.

Ti looks down at the stone and grips it tightly in his palm, rubbing his thumb over the smoothed and weathered aurebesh lettering, and wonders if he and his family are the only people alive that remember him.

-

Next week, at the village school, they are asked to create a three-minute presentation about an important historical figure.

Before, Ti would have reluctantly thrown something together that would maybe have lasted half that time. Now, he puts more effort than he has into anything he’s ever done for school in his life, and tells the class about the creation of the Clones and the fall of the Old (but not the Oldest) Republic, and about what Scratch’s favourite ration bar was.

As kindly as possible, the teacher stops him after he hits the 10 minute mark.

-

And Ti grows and changes, but the stone on his bedroom shelf, sat beside a holo of Scratch and his brothers remains.

-

30 years later, Dr Ti Yar the renowned historian, stands before a crowd inside the National Museum of Parto, ready to open a new exhibition.

If you were to walk past him, and turn the corner to look inside, you would see hundreds of flickering holos, the ones captured by Scratch along with others that have been donated or found in archives around the galaxy. The captions beside them tell the story of the Clones, and dotted around the room are surviving sets of armour and other objects from the war that Ti has picked up over the years.

In a glass case in the centre, the blue-grey stone stands. Beneath it lies a plaque, etched into it are the words;

In Memory of Scratch. CC-4729. 31 - 19 BBY. You are eternal.

[greentea13666]

UPDATE:Well, I got done reading 'Twist and Shout' excruciatingly late last night, and to say I have cried would be an understatement. To prove it, I have texts from my sister @ivyclawthewolfski who heard me break down into absolute tears. (She knew I was reading it by the way) I CRIED again this MORNING, just thinking about how it ENDED.

But I will say- beautifully written in the most tragic way possible. Very in depth and not afraid to keep it real. (A little too real for my fragile heart, but OkAy. ) The perpetrator was my Pinterest feed for giving me references to the fanfic. There's so much to unpack as well. But real tear-jerker. If anybody is so willing to let me rant about it to them, I'd be forever greatful. But then again, I understand because this fanfic is traumatic and a bit of a hazard to itself. It's been a while since I cried like that, but it felt good. This fanfic had a way of just sweeping you into a vicarious experience. I AM NOT THE SAME.

[monokyubey]

Catching his eyes

Denji angst time!!!

The soft light filters in through the nearby window, casting pillars of light onto his soft blonde hair. His expression is surprisingly tranquil as he sleeps, his eyes closed and his mouth hanging open lightly. Although this reveals razor sharp teeth, it seems unthreatening in this morning light. Seeing Denji this peaceful almost makes it worth it. Almost. 

When he came to you in the middle of the night to lament to you about his suffering, you found it almost impossible to turn him away. As always, you would be his comfort when he had nowhere else to turn. You wanted to help him, after all, you knew how hard he always had it. He had once told you that you were similar to his old dog, whom he could share his dreams with. That you would always listen to him. That’s what you wanted to be for him. But it was so damn hard. Afterall, these dreams of his always starred a girl he could never quite get, and one you could never quite be. 

Makima. 

“Makima.” 

As you said it quietly to yourself, even the name felt wrong on your tongue. It felt like poison, a slow working but fatal poison. Perhaps that is what it was to your relationship with the confused boy in front of you. As he slept on your couch, you could almost imagine that her name would never cross his lips again. But of course, you doubted when he actually rose for the morning that it would take more than five minutes for her name to be brought up by the excited boy. Sometimes you wondered if it was actually love in his heart for the red haired woman, or he simply didn’t know how to express his true feelings. Despite all the time he had spent pouring out his heart to you, you still weren’t quite sure.

When had this happened to you? When had you allowed yourself to fall into this confusing chaotic relationship that would never be a relationship? Afterall, Denji was unaware of your feelings. Even if he knew, he was eager for romance so he might accept even with no feelings of reciprocation. The flame in his heart would always burn bright for the girl with the golden eyes. Before Denji, you had never seen Makima in this way. In your brief interactions with her, she had always seemed untouchable, but not unkind. She seemed to still care for her job and the people around her. Yet now, Denji had put a filter over your eyes. Sometimes you could see what he saw, you could see why she was so perfect. Still untouchable, but now she was worthy of adoration, worthy of worship. It was true, you could see why Denji had easily fallen for her. And yet the pain in your heart whenever she came into your gaze remained. 

Perhaps it wasn’t just seeing her. It was seeing him. His expression. His adoration. He was usually so loud, so obnoxious, so uncaring about others’ opinions. Yet around her, he grew silent. Respectful. This was a phenomenon you had never seen Denji experience with anyone else. 

Its not that you wanted that with him. You didn’t want Denji’s worship. Even asking for his love felt too much. Perhaps you just wanted his consideration. Just wanted to be in the running for his affection. 

Sometimes you could imagine it was there. When he came to you late at night, and you would offer him tea made with way too much sugar (just the way he likes it), a piece of toast with his favorite jam, and a patient ear; you could just barely see it. Just hardly there, glimmering below the surface, you could see something. Some emotion in his eyes. You didn’t quite know what it was. You didn’t want to give yourself false hope, but just like him, you liked to dream. 

Afterall, there had to be a reason he came to you. There had to be. Something inside of you refused to accept his reason of “Power would make fun of me” or “No way I’m talking to Topknot, he’s my rival!”. You never considered yourself an egotistical person, but you had to be special. Denji wouldn’t have chosen you otherwise. You were his confidant, a role you took with honor. You would always be there you this strange boy who had wormed his way into your heart. 

Beep! Beep! Beep!

The sound of an alarm startled you from your thoughts, even startling Denji awake as well. As you walked over to click it off, you heard him groan lightly. 

“Ugh, thanks for setting an alarm for me. Aki would be on my ass if I was late again”. 

There it was again. You didn’t think you’d heard him say “thank you” to anyone else but you. And of course, Makima. But that had to mean something, didn’t it? 

“No problem. Do you want some breakfast before you head out?”

 Your eyes dragged over his tired frame. He was still dressed in his public safety uniform, although much more disheveled now. His tie was undone, his shirt was half unbuttoned, and everything he was wearing was wrinkly. If you had more time, you would offer to fix his clothes for him, even going as far as to get out your rarely used iron, sitting forgotten in your closet. However, you knew he was under a time crunch, so his heavily creased clothes would have to do. His eyes, though they looked tired, lit up slightly at the prospect of food. A fleeting thought crossed your mind about how you wished he would look at you like that. How pathetic you are. 

“Hell yeah! But it’ll have to be pretty quick or I won’t have time to get back to Aki’s before work.” He grinned as he spoke though, clearly more excited about breakfast than worried about what Aki would do to him if he was tardy. You turned your back to him, rummaging through your cabinets to find the baked goods you had procured yesterday. Although giving them to Denji would require you to go out again for food sooner than you expected, it would be worth it. Despite the fact he would probably never reciprocate your emotions, you would still always yearn to keep him happy and healthy. You would remain on the sidelines for him, if it meant you could see his delighted smile become a constant. 

As you turned back to him, that very smile was on his face, his eyes aglow with happiness. Even if it wasn’t for you, you’d take it. You knew Denji would continue to come as long as you’d let him, seeking someone to listen to and in turn help him understand his complicated emotions. And you intended to always be there when he looked. You just wished he was looking at you for a different reason. And some part of you, would always wish to be the girl with the red hair and golden eyes. 

[truly-twirls]

takeout or duffle bags? - c. beomgyu

Word Count: 1,328

Warnings: Slight food mention, Relationship issues idk

Characters: Choi Beomgyu, Choi Soobin

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet(?) Ending

AO3 Link

🌱🌱🌱

You wanted to leave. Right here, right now.

You couldn’t stand feeling like a shadow that he walked past every single damn time. It was insulting at this point.

There was a point in time when you truly believed that your relationship was strong enough to get through thick and thin.

Beomgyu made you believe that, anyways.

Lately, you’ve seen him maybe twice a week if you’re lucky. But that was well after midnight and you were already in bed, few words were exchanged as he fell asleep immediately after changing.

He stopped leaving notes or texts for you to wake up to in the mornings, no updates throughout the day unless he was going out of town.

To be fair, you weren’t much different. You stayed in your office several hours a day, seven days a week. It used to be due to major projects coming in where you would take the lead on. Now, it’s because you couldn’t stand to sit alone in that apartment longer than you needed to.

How the hell did we get here?

Both you and Beomgyu used to text each other often, expressing each other’s excitement to share a meal, or meet each other for multiple dates throughout the month.

Nothing is ever planned anymore. Everything is last minute, quick, and most painfully: quiet.

You yearned to hear Beomgyu’s laugh, or his teasing, just something. Anything had to be better than this standoff between the two of you that seemed to have no clear beginning nor end.

However, you were not the only one suffering. You could feel it. Beomgyu was also feeling the heaviness of the atmosphere within your two-year relationship.

Beomgyu has been shutting himself in his studio, his only company being instruments and speakers at full blast. But he was rarely able to come up with anything tangible, just simple beats or verses that went nowhere.

He felt like he was slowly trickling into a puddle far below him, unable to do anything about it but watch. Words left him any time he saw you, and he watched as what the two of you built together crumbled apart.

The other members tried to reach out and understand how he was feeling but Beomgyu gave them nothing.

He gave you nothing.

He lost the ability to go to you with his worries some time ago. He wanted to come across it again, he missed being able to.

At this point in time, it appeared that neither of you had anything else to give to each other. Just solemn silence.

“Are you two going to end things?”

That was a question you heard from the members, your friends, and quite literally anyone who knew of the situation.

Of course you didn’t want to end things, that was the last thing you wanted. And you hoped Beomgyu felt the same, but your options were beginning to disappear.

Plus you weren’t sure if your heart could bear much more of this. Very few threads still connected the two of you.

You could pack a bag. You could stay with your parents for a while. You can see how life would be like without this. Without Beomgyu.

It’s not like there’s much left to miss.

“What are you doing?”

A low voice startled you from your speeding train of thought, eyes focused on the clothes that were half stuffed into a duffle bag. You looked up to see your boyfriend standing in the bedroom door frame, with a bag of takeout food in one hand and in the other was his phone, open to the text messages between the two of you.

The contact photo was a selfie Beomgyu took of the two of you a while back, he surprised you with a kiss on the cheek right as he clicked the ‘capture’ button. Recalling that memory only made your heart ache more. How could he look at that photo and still be unable to say more than ‘goodnight’ to you?

“Y/N, what’s with the bag?” This time, your boyfriend’s voice was softer, as if he was beginning to understand what he was witnessing.

~

You were halfway correct about the photo Beomgyu had selected for your contact. He adored that photo, he looked at it more times throughout the day than he’d like to admit.

Soobin caught him today looking at the photo, he could hear Beomgyu’s sobs from outside the studio’s door.

“You’re not getting anywhere looking at their photo when Y/N is at your apartment right now. They likely miss you as much as you miss them,” The sound of the leader sitting on the couch quickly fled Beomgyu’s ears as he sighed.

“It’s all I keep telling myself. They’re right here. I can’t help but feel pathetic for being like this..”

Silence filled the room for a moment, but of course, the question weighing heavy on Soobin’s tongue was obvious.

“What exactly has been—”

“I don’t think I can give Y/N more. I am all that I can be, and I don’t think that’s enough for them,” Beomgyu covered his teary eyes with his forearm, letting himself feel the weight of the world on his chest. “I can see us being together for so long, but at the same time I can see them being unhappy and never telling me.”

Beomgyu’s mind flashed back to when the two of you picked each other up from the lowest of times, wondering if you were true to your word that you’d always be there, and that you were more than happy to do so.

Soobin sat in front of Beomgyu, resting his hands on the younger member’s shoulders. And then proceeded to shake the living hell out of them.

“Wake up!! You’ve been in this spiral for how long? You know what you can do, you know that you’re able to fix this. You’re scared, Choi Beomgyu. You’re scaring yourself into isolation.”

“I don’t think I can get them back, Soobin..”

“…You should go to them. Just sit with them, because personally Beomgyu? I think you’re running out of time,” Soobin spoke up about the very fear Beomgyu, and you as well, had been dwelling on for the past weeks.

~

The bag of takeout crinkled from how much Beomgyu’s hand was shaking. He processed one thing at a time.

There was an open duffle bag on the bed. That bag had clothes in it, your clothes. And you. You were looking at Beomgyu with desperation and guilt.

“Are you done, Y/N? Is this it? Are we done? I mean… What is this?…”

“Beomgyu.. I..” You ran a hand through your hair, huffing.

“It’s the last thing I want. But how much longer could we have done this?”

“I didn’t mean for this to go on so long, I needed time to think and.. I don’t know—”

“What did you think I needed? The silence? The isolation? I just wanted you, Beomgyu!” Tears were threatening to start rolling down your face, you just felt so angry at this point. Any other emotion was exhausted by you throughout the past weeks.

“Y/N. I’m sorry. I truly am… Do you want to talk now? Over some good food?” A somber smile met Beomgyu’s cheeks as he lifted up the bag of takeout that is likely to be cold soon.

Your mind was going between the tied plastic bags and your duffle bag, going between how you’re night was going to go.

Are you truly ready to talk about everything?

You finally met Beomgyu’s eyes, the tension was thick and the stakes were high. This was a relationship you both cherished and wanted to fix, tonight is just the first step into reaching the comforting endearment the two of you have shared for so long.

You walked up to your boyfriend, taking the takeout bags from his hands, and made your way to the living room for a late-night dinner.

🌱🌱🌱

[st4rvfx]

Sunrise

Chloe price x reader

﹒⪩⪨﹒| you and chloe always watched the sunrise together at the light house. until one day you have to watch it alone.

﹒⪩⪨﹒| takes place in the ending where you sacrifice Chloe | romantic | Mentions of death | mentions of vomit/throwing up | Smoking | reader is going through it | bittersweet ending | Reader never moves on |

“The sunrise looks super pretty today” You comment while staring at the slightly pink but mostly blue sky. Chloe nodded as she let out a long breathe.

“I have to go soon. I have important shit to deal with. We can meet back here for the sunset if you want to.” She asked while giving you the damn soft smile. You give her a smile back, the last smile you would ever share with her.

you nodded as she stood up from the bench, punching your shoulder softly before making her way down the hill. You smile as you watch the rest of the sunrise. You suddenly felt weird, like something wrong was going to happen but you brushed it off.

if only. If only you knew what she was dealing with. You went home and spent the rest of the day waiting for her text. nothing. Weird? not even something to say she won’t be able to make it. You told yourself maybe she was just super duper busy and had more things to do she didn't mention.

you hated being left in the dark so you go to her house. Nothing. not until david came home. He looked like he knew something he wish he didn’t. He sat everyone down before explaining what had happened. different emotions splattered his face as he stuttered over the words and took long pauses before finally getting the words out.

as the three words you were always afraid of hearing slipped from your mouth, you felt your whole world come crashing down in a matter of seconds. Chloe was dead.

just hearing that made you want to throw up. You knew Chloe did some dangerous things. You always scolded her and she would just brush it off saying she would deal with it. Her way of dealing with things always got her in more trouble.

You didn’t know how to properly respond to it. You told your parents you wouldn’t be home and asked joyce if you could stay the night. She could see how hurt you looked, The way your eyes seemed dim so she allowed it.

You didn’t know how to go about this, Walking up the steps without her boots following after you. Opening her bedroom door to be hit with the smell of the blunt she had smoked before leaving. Her desk messy and covered in different papers.

you laid in her bed, the same bed you guys shared endless conversations talking about leaving and random topics, shared each other’s deepest darkest secrets, took 3 hour long naps in. Now you were all alone.

it hit you like a ton of bricks as you realized how many things would change. No more waking up early and sneaking off to chloe’s house in the middle of the night, Hearing her complain about david’s antics that day before she would listen to you rant about your day, no more watching the sunrises and the sunsets together it was all gone.

As you sat on the cold feeling bench, all alone as you stared at the sky you could feel the tears heating up in your eyes. Was she really gone? surely this was a bad dream. Maybe you would wake up and she would be next to you on the comfort of the bench.

You hadn't come to terms with the whole idea of Chloe being dead, it didn't seem right in a way. Yes, she was reckless but the thought of her being dead was just something that made your mind spin and your throat get dry.

The days leading up to her funeral were absolute pure hell. You spent most of your days looking at the photos of you two that you had saved on your phone. You tried to smoke but the feeling was weird without her. You forced yourself to go dress shopping with Joyce to bond some more. Yesterday you slept all day in her bed, clinging at the sheets that started to smell more like you then her.

her bed. cold and empty. Her body wasn't there to keep it warm, and you were left with a broken heart as the tears pooled down your face when you laid in her bed.

You looked down at your watch as you took in a deep breath, nearly it was time. You stood up from the bench before jumping at the sight of Max standing there.

"Sorry! You looked so peaceful, and I didn't wanna disturb you" she said while you gave her a sad smile. You knew a good thing or two about Max due to Chloe talking about her a couple of times. She always sounded so excited to talk about when Max when would come back.

"It's okay, I was just about to leave. I'm assuming you're also going...to the funeral" You say while looking down at your shoes. Max nodded before taking in a deep breath. "I feel bad for not being here all this time." Max said as she turned to look at the sky.

"Chloe used to think you left her and would never come back for her. but I always told her to have some hope and one day you would show up" You said.

if only Chloe could find out Max was here all this time. The two of you stood in silence as you started at the sky. "We should go soon" Max spoke up as she placed a gentle hand onto your shoulder. You looked at her with a gentle nod as the two of you made your way down from the lighthouse.

You offered to drive Max since you had recently gotten Chloe's truck. She always said that if one day something happened to her, she wanted you to get the truck. It was weird to sit in the seat the both of you guys once ate food, talked and napped in.

It stilled had the smell of her cheap cigarettes, The sound of her laughing and overall, everything about her. touching the wheel was weird. you broke down into tears when you first sat in the truck the day you got it and took a nap in it just like the two of you used to do.

You told max small things about Chloe as you drove the both of you to the cemetery. The way you spoke about Chloe made Max realize that even when she was gone, Chloe had someone with her. as you neared the cemetery, you could see people slowly walk up the hill.

You felt hot, you wanted to pull off and leave but you knew Chloe would want you to be there. You parked her truck as turned it off before sitting there and collecting yourself. Max gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze as she opened the truck door and climbed out.

You took in a deep breathe before opening the door and stepping out. Slamming the door as you took tiny steps. You couldn't bring yourself to even think about the fact you were about to bury your girlfriend.

It didn't seem real. It couldn't be real. Max took your hand and gently guided you. Each crunch of gravel brought you back to reality. This was really happening, you were about to your final goodbyes to a box.

You had zoned out that you didn't even realize how close you were until you saw Joyce and David. You looked over before your bottom lip started to shake and quiver. That casket held your girlfriend. You wanted to cry but barely any tears came out.

Joyce instantly noticed you as she frowned and opened her arms wide for you. You gently let go of Maxs hand before crashing into Joyce as the Tears finally fell overboard. You sobbed in her arms, you couldn't hear anything, not a single peep from anyone. you wanted this to be over.

You sat on the ground next to her gravestone. Everyone else left to go to Joyce's for a repast. "I'm so mad at you" you said, Voice raspy from the crying. "I told you shouldn't be doing all this dumb shit" You added while leaning your head on the stone. It was silent again as the only sound being the birds chirping and the crunch of grass from squirrels hopping across the land.

You used to watch and feed squirrels with Chloe whenever you brought trail mix with you. "David never told me how you died...but i found out eventually. Fucking Prescott I don't think I'll ever forgive him for what he did." You said while balling your hands into fists as you shook your head.

"And then Rachel...oh god. You never found out but...I'm sure wherever you are...the two of you are together." You said with a small smile before it dropped as you brought your knees to your chest and rested your head on top of them.

A blue butterfly fluttered down, landing right on the tip of your shoe. You payed no attention to the insect as you checked your watch. You should head over to Joyce's...but you also didn't wanna leave. your eyes looked at the sunset, the bright orange and pinks clashing together. "We never watched the sunsets together...only the sunrises..." You smiled as you unballed your hands, placing them on the ground as you slightly rock your knees side to side, The butterfly flying off your shoe and instead landing on the gravestone.

"Hey Chloe...I'll always come down here...and we can watch the sunrise together still. Just like old times" you said while looking at the gravestone before placing a hand on it, patting it and putting your hand back down. You sighed before standing up.

You looked at her one last time before blowing a kiss towards the grave before making your way down to where you left the truck.

You made sure that every day you went down to her grave. sometimes you would get caught up with work or even finding it hard to get out of bed in the morning, but you always made an effort to see her in the morning.

You would sit down and tell her your plans, then would light a blunt or cigarette depending on how you felt that morning before sitting in silence as you watched the sun come up.

Once you were done, you stand up, blow her a kiss goodbye and make your way back to the truck. You never changed anything about it. You slowly came to terms with her being gone. You made new friends, helped Joyce out at the diner and grew closer to max. But you never started to date anyone again.

You barely thought about dating anyone else as you couldn't see yourself with anyone but Chloe, nobody could give you what she gave you.

you always looked for Chloe in the sunrises, knowing she made them pretty just for you.

[r0-boat]

One off headcannon concept:

Deity/God of love x ace/aro spectrum!reader

Cw: angst, unrequited love, one-sided love. Enemies to one-sided love, never returned one-sided affection.

(reader is on the Aro/Ace spectrum, And they are still finding themselves)

This God has no name so it can be interpreted in a lot of ways!

Hi I am on the aroace spectrum. This is from my point of view please don't kill me aroace community.

Coming back into the mortal world blends into society All his brothers sisters aunts and uncles have done this already.

So, the rumors are true? Humans do not need us? Some of his kin have blended wonderfully into human society and become highly successful. I mean, it's pretty hard not to. They are gods, after all. But He isn't so willing to submit his godlike title.

He was quite an arrogant fellow. So when he found out his powers didn't exactly work on you, he was not happy... He had heard of mortals with the power to be resistant to his weapons no matter how dangerous, no matter how potent. You are the first he had seen and possibly the first of many... So he studied you... It was not hard, especially when He overheard you trying to find a roommate, and he applied.

You hated him... Anyone would. At least he pays his bills on time, but you cannot stand how he would set you up with dates!

A lot of the dates were bland but not bad. And as time went on the two of you started to get relatively close... Underneath his confident, cocky arrogance that made you scratch up walls, he was pretty chill.

The last straw was when you went out with one of the people he picked, and they treated you horribly. He had a big smile coming to pick you up, only to see you crying on the sidewalk. His heart felt heavy when he saw you, knowing he had helped you prepare for that date. Hell, the two of you even had fun...

The car ride was silent on the way home. Usually, you yelled at or told him how the date was, but this time, you were silently staring at your phone, your eyes red from crying.

That's when he decided to give up on finding you dates. He finally learned that love isn't something you force. And even then, he comes to terms with the truth that some mortals are not capable of experiencing sexual and romantic love. But he decided to stay in the human world only because he liked your company.

All is well from a lot of talking and a lot of apologizing and a lot of silence, Your relationship is slowly repaired. And after that, all was okay. The two of you honestly were attached to the hip partners in crime your group of friends would call you.

But then things started to get weird. He would feel this ache in his heart when guys or girls would come up and talk to you. It felt wrong. He felt protective, possessive, and jealous.

What was not to love about you? Every little thing you did made him smile. But what took his heart You were awkward at first (even more endearing in his opinion) but once you broke out of that shell to him you were like gold. you are funny. And you were a natural people magnet. Everyone liked you. You are sweet and caring, You had strong morals yet, You were not opposed to learning more and changing your opinions. He could go on and on... Even the little things you did that was normal for mortals He was captivated by because the small ways you did it was so interesting. You are not perfect, no human is. But it somehow just made you more attractive.

Once he realized that he was the one who fell in love. It wasn't something out of happiness or confusion but fear and sadness and immediate acceptance. To him he knew 100%, that he fall in love with someone who could never love In the same way in return. He is desperate for the hide feelings because if you find out, he's afraid you might never talk to him again. But at the same time, he wants to support you and do everything for you because he loves you and wants to see you at your best. And he wants to be there for your worst. He generally cares for you, And he won't let his selfish feelings get in the way of that.

So he will continue to stand beside you. It hurts. But that's okay. He's content with this.

[steviewashere]

Birthday Blues

Rating: Teen and Up Pairing: Steve Harrington & Steve Harrington's Parents, Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson CW: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Emotional Abuse, Brief Mention of Child Abuse, Brief Mention of Financial Abuse, Brief Mention of Secondary Original Character Death Tags: Post-Canon, Post Vecna, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington Has a Stepdad, Steve Harrington Has a Good Mom, Steve Harrington's Father Being an Asshole, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Emotional Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington's Mom is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington's Birthday, Steve Harrington is Loved, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Hopeful Ending, Bittersweet Ending

Based on my own experience with my stepdad and uh...yeah, that's it, basically. Be kind, I guess? 🤷‍♂️

Also on Ao3 because this shit is long.

🫂————————🫂 He thought his twentieth birthday would come with more fanfare. Maybe not the whole calvary. But something simple. A cake, maybe. A card, possibly. Even just a simple “Happy Birthday.” That would’ve sufficed.

And the problem isn’t with his friends. No. They’ve sent him messages over the walkie since the clock hit midnight on June 29th. Made plans for the next few days. Promised birthday gifts tonight. He wondered if everything was supposed to be a surprise: the gifts and cake and plans. But Robin had already reached out, promised him that she already spoke with everybody, made sure to tell them how he doesn’t like surprises; not after Vecna, not after his ankle had been grabbed.

The issue is with his mom’s boyfriend. His ‘stepdad.’

Nobody really knows much about him. Not really. Nothing above: “He’s an asshole. I don't like him.” Which is…a way to make an impression. But he doesn’t really enjoy talking about him.

The boyfriend came into the picture when Steve was seven. When he was naive and confused about the world around him. When he was used to it just being him and his mom for a while. His birth dad had passed on really young—nothing that could’ve been prevented, but it wasn’t any sort of accident, and Steve doesn’t like talking about it; so he just doesn’t. But the boyfriend came along after so much nothing. After a life half-lived.

He was kind, at first. Interested. Capable. Made Steve’s mom happy. Took her out for dates—which left Steve with a babysitter; then on his lonesome when he turned thirteen—he bought her things, promised the moon, was at her beck and call. He even cared about Steve. Introduced him to the world of Spiderman comic books and baseball games and driving with the windows down. Had been there for home baseball games, Steve’s first piano recital, and for the first handful of birthday parties. He helped, when there was nothing. He helped, even when they had everything.

Then came the alcohol.

Steve remembers it clear as day. The vacation they all took together. They’d taken a plane from Indianapolis to Seattle. And it was sort of cool, Steve figured. The hotel with the indoor pool and the double-wide beds and the really nice view over the tops of tall apartment buildings. It was the first of many trips; one of the last Steve went on. What came with the nice hotel, though, was a bar and grill down at the lobby.

And sure, it was a time for celebration. Of sorts. They were heading out for Disneyland, Steve had been wide awake since the night before, his mom had bought them matching shirts so that nobody got lost. It was ideal, fun, what say you. But then the boyfriend came upstairs, a cup of something sticky in his hand, and a glaze to his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“We’re celebrating,” he had slurred, “it’s alright, just for the night. Let’s have some fun.”

It didn’t stop there, though. Steve hadn’t known why at first. But then came the arguments over the next couple months after that decision. When the recycling bin was full of more beer bottles than empty containers of yogurt. When Richard was slurring his words earlier and earlier in the evening. When he’d sleep a good amount of the day, try and right himself from work, barely talk to anybody when he came back, and already had a bottle in hand by the time conversations started. The arguments were unrelenting, though. He could hear them through the floor of his bedroom: “Laura!”, “Richard.”. A few tense moments would pass after Laura, Steve’s mom, would say that name. Steve would leave his bed, in all the right spaces to make sure it didn’t creak, and settle himself by his bedroom door—where he could open it a crack just to hear, just to know, in case something happened and he had to go down there. Then, she’d speak again. Quiet and wet and calm, “I wish you would stop. If not for me, do it for Steven.”

Steve would hold his breath. Waiting. His mom never called him that, not unless he was in trouble, not unless she was serious. And his stomach turned at the thought of it. She’d call him Stevie otherwise, all soft and sweet and soaking—akin to the sugary butter at the bottom of a freshly made cinnamon roll. He liked that. He loved her. He loved Richard, despite all of this.

Until, finally, Richard spoke. “Is that supposed to make me care?” He questioned with ire. “He isn’t mine,” he eventually spat. And then he stormed to their bedroom—downstairs on the first floor, just off of the living room—slammed the door.

His mom wept that night, Steve could relay if asked. And he had been too tied up in his own awful sadness to go downstairs and comfort her. It wasn’t the last time. Wasn’t the last slammed door, or argument, or soft cry; for either of them. At least Mom loves me, he had thought, at least she’s mine.

With the alcohol and that understanding of absent love and those arguments, Steve would instigate them, too. He’d pick fights if only to get Richard to leave the house quicker. He’d scream and spit and stomp his feet, if only to get time alone. He’d even get fussy with his mom. Because if he could be an ass, get them both to be angry at him, maybe Richard would stay off of her for a little while. Maybe he wouldn’t drink so early. Maybe he’d have to have a conversation about “Steve’s antics.” It only made him more distant. It only made him angrier.

And with all of that in mind, he stopped the birthday celebrations. He stopped caring. He stopped saying “I love you,” when Steve went to bed. He stopped being a dad.

Because Steve wasn’t his. And he wanted to make sure the whole world knew it.

In comes his twentieth birthday, though. And he thought, maybe, that Richard would care. That he’d do something similar to when Steve was a kid. Make pancakes and wake him up with a soft knock to his door and sing the birthday song. He supposed, though, that that was all so foolish. That he wasn’t a little kid, so why would Richard do any of that? Maybe to prove himself, that’s something. Maybe care at all.

His mom had said something at midnight. Then again at nine in the morning. Then again over scrambled eggs and bacon. Made plans. Ushered a card full of cash and the Duran Duran album he didn’t have yet, Notorious, on cassette into his hands. He thanked her, kissed the top of her head, and put his things away upstairs. Richard still had said nothing. In fact, he was snoring through the wall. And the evidence of his latest binge had been scattered across the kitchen countertops before making it to the recycling bin; Steve should know, he had to put them in there and his hands came away smelling of cheap beer—it’s not even the good stuff, how can he drink this shit, he asked himself.

But he couldn’t find it in himself to care anymore. Sure, his chest caved in something funny. And his throat sort of went dry. He went to his car, though. And he drove off to where Robin had told him to go. To Eddie’s new double-wide trailer, a damn replica of his old one on the outside. Where everybody was already parked and waiting. Hanging out outside, sodas and…beer in hand.

He took a steadying breath and forced his way over to them. Let them shout ‘Happy Birthday’ at him. And then he took a seat by Eddie. He was in a pair of loose black basketball shorts, a white t-shirt, and barefoot. His hair was piled up. And he was drinking. 

“Hey baby,” Eddie greeted. He leaned over the side of the sofa they were on, dug around in what Steve assumed was a cooler, and held out a weeping beer can. “Technically, it’s not legal, but I’m not going to tell anybody.”

Steve eyed it for a few long seconds. Enough that Eddie’s hand wavered, the beer threatening to fall to the floor. He looked back up. “No—uh—no, I don’t want that. Can…I’m going to sound like a dick, but can I make a request?”

Eddie put the beer away with a sidelong glance. He furrowed his eyebrows. “It’s your birthday, Stevie. Of course you can make a request.”

“Can we put the beer away? I don’t…It’s making me uncomfortable.”

Another odd glance to Steve, Eddie gave. His mouth pinched. He swished his near empty can in his hand. How many has he had, Steve wondered briefly, some weird pulse of panic in his belly. “Sure,” Eddie agreed slowly. “You going cold turkey or something? Could’a sworn you had one the other day when I saw you?”

He watches Eddie stand up briefly, pour out his beer over the side of the porch, and then place it in a clear garbage bag that’s been tied to the railing. There’s already three or four beer cans in there—Steve knows that’s what they are, they all say Miller and the cans the kids have are bright red or green. He looks back to Eddie’s face when he settles down again, an arm thrown over the back of the couch, hair falling loosely from his bun, sweat on his brow, sweat or beer on his upper lip.

“I just don’t want people drinking today, please.” And he feels kind of silly. Having to explain himself.

But Eddie’s hand curls down from the back of the couch, dangling loose at the back of Steve’s neck. Fingers trailing over the top notches of his spine. “You got it, sugar. I’ll have Robs put it away inside, okay?” Steve nods loosely, lets Eddie holler out, and relaxes into his side.

The rest of the day went by pretty smoothly. There were gifts: hairspray from Dustin, some artwork from Will, a new basketball from Lucas, matching shirts from Robin, a book he’d asked for from Eddie, and cards from the others who couldn’t find something in time or afford anything. He’s thankful for it all because it’s more than he expected. And there’s cake, his favorite, German chocolate with Ferrero Rocher candies on the borders; “Nance and I made it,” Robin explained and he gave her a knowing look.

It was all so normal. So good. So sweet.

Just like it had been last year. Even the year before that. And the years prior, when it was his mom and Tommy and Carol and Nancy. And the years before that, when it was Richard and his mom.

He really wants to cry about it.

When the party dwindles down, it’s just him and Eddie. Eddie’s putting out the last of the recycling and cleaning up some dishes, to which he adamantly refused to let Steve help with. And so Steve takes advantage, using the new phone.

He dials his house number and waits as it rings for his mom to pick up.

“Harrington household, Laura speaking,” she greets, her voice…nasally. Unusually so.

“Hey Mom,” he greets back, “it’s…Well, you know it’s Steve. Just called to…wanted to check-in. How’s everything going?”

She shuffles on the other end. Clears her throat. Sniffs. “He’s not going to say it, Stevie, I’m sorry,” she says, voice unreasonably apologetic. “I tried to get him to at least call this number you gave me, you know for your Eddie friend. And he…he just scoffed at me. Said some things, you know how he is.”

“Oh,” he mutters. His voice must do something weird, because Eddie’s slowing his wash on the dishes, leaning further into the counter edge to look at Steve. “Are you okay?”

“It’s the usual, Stevie. It’s just—“ She sighs, a great heaving thing. “—Just the usual. He’s already out to the store. Took the last bit of my cash for it; he spent all his own. Left me here with microwaved leftovers. Might turn in early.”

“I can give back the bit of cash you gave—“

“No,” she rushes. “No, Stevie. That’s your money. If it came back to me, he’d probably take it anyway. Don’t worry about it, alright? Just…If your friend can let you, I think you should stay the night there. Richard’s…he’s got the whiskey out from the den. Just stay with Eddie for now. I’ll take you out tomorrow for cake, okay? We’ll make a little date out of it. Just us. Like it was…Like it was before.”

He stands still for a moment. The phone cradled in his hands by his ear. Her words ringing out so loud, yet so soft. He really wants to cry about it.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters in his silence, “I’m sorry he ruined this for you.” She shuffles again. Probably got one arm wrapped around her waist, stepping to the side in her slippers. Like she always does when she has to call her sister about…him. She sighs again. “I’d leave him if I could. God, Steve. I would create whole galaxies for just us to live in if I could. I wish I knew how to fix this. I’m sorry I can’t fix this.”

“It’s alright, Mama,” he whispers, utterly broken. “’T’s alright. We’ll do cake tomorrow, yeah? I’ll pay for us to get milkshakes for old times sake, right? Like…” He swallows. Murmurs, “Like before.”

Just off to the side, Eddie’s inched closer. The dishes completely abandoned now. Steve doesn’t want to look at him, thinks he’ll break down if he does. But his body heat is welcoming, wrapping around him like a warm hug.

“Like before,” she echoes. Sniffs. “Just heard the car outside. I’ll…Call me in the morning, okay? I’ll let you know how tonight went. I love you, Stevie. I love you, don’t forget that.”

He takes a breath, it stutters like the skip over a scratch on a record. “I love you, too,” he breathes out. “Be safe,” he murmurs, “you have the address if you need to get away. Or…call me if you need me to get you.”

“I’ll be okay,” she mutters, a wisp of a smile to her voice. “Now, you go have fun. Tell Eddie I said hi. And that…Tell him I say thank you for keeping you.”

They share their goodbyes almost hastily. Right as her words fall through the receiver, the front door seems to open, and the phone is hung up before he can chance anything else. The dial tone is blearing in his ears. He keeps the phone cradled close, like maybe she’ll reach a hand out through the speaker and caress his face. Kind of wants her to.

And he doesn’t have the chance to stop himself from crying. Trembling where he stands. Tears streaking hot and fast down his cheeks, over his jaw. He doesn’t make a noise, but it’s a near damn thing.

“Baby?” Eddie calls softly. He takes a hesitant step forward. And he’s closer than Steve thought. Right at his left side. His hands reach out and take the phone from Steve, hanging it back up. He wraps his palms over Steve’s biceps, barely turning him. “Sweetheart?” He calls out again, softer this time. Bending down just a little to make them stare at each other. He moves up to Steve’s face, cupping his cheeks, thumbs working over the tears. “’S everything alright?”

He sobs something little at that. Closing his eyes so he can’t see Eddie. “He’s so selfish,” he manages to cry out, “Why doesn’t he care?”

“Who, sweetheart? Who’s ass do I need to…” Steve finally stares back. And whatever it is that’s there, Eddie seems to understand. “Oh,” he coos, “oh baby.” In a flurry of movement, Steve is pulled in tight and close. Haphazardly dragged back to the sofa and plopped down almost unceremoniously, if Eddie weren’t holding him so carefully. There’s a palm at the center of his back and one on his head. Both of them firm and welcomed and warm.

“He—Just—He just doesn’t,” Steve hiccups between breaths, “Never—Never cared.”

Eddie shushes him gently. Leans back against the armrest behind him, and pulls Steve on top. His face is tucked into Eddie’s left shoulder, where it’s awkwardly stuffed between the armrest and the backing, and he just cries.

There haven’t been a lot of moments where Steve’s cried over this. Maybe once or twice when he was in high school, but that’s about it. Otherwise, he was getting it out through anger or ignoring it altogether or trying to talk it out with his mom. So many conversations and so many arguments and so much just shoved inside his chest. He thinks if he weren’t getting it out right now, soaking the fabric of Eddie’s white shirt, he’d probably burst at the seams, maybe teeter, fall right off the deep end into something murky and thick. He’d probably die from it. Have a heart attack, maybe, like his dad did.

When there’s nothing more to cry out, he just breathes hot and heavy and choking over Eddie’s shoulder. “I’ve got you, baby,” Eddie murmurs, fingers petting through Steve’s hair, “we’ve got nowhere to be right now, okay? You can fall apart here, I’ll still catch you.”

He sniffs. “I just…I just want him to love me,” Steve admits quietly, “To think of me as his kid and to want to do better and to just be somebody I wanna be around.” His arms wrap snuggly around Eddie’s waist, pushing himself further into the hold of their bodies.

“Can I ask something?” Eddie asks gently.

“You just did,” Steve murmurs, voice crackling with the joke. It’s almost hollow coming out of his mouth.

But Eddie snorts anyway. “Okay…Fine. Two questions. Does this have anything to do with the whole beer thing earlier?”

Steve stiffens, brain fighting to find an excuse, but he figures it’s best to just be honest. Even as shameful as it seems to be some days. “Yeah,” he sighs, giving in. Swallows harshly, his jugular moving over Eddie’s shoulder, the sharp outline of the joint against his neck. “Yeah, it does. He drinks like everyday. Sometimes he…some days he doesn’t, claims he’s stopping for good, says he won’t pick it back up. But then he’s doing it the next day and I—“ He shrugs where he can move. “I just don’t get it, I guess. And I…I try so hard to not think of him badly, y’know? He’s probably got shit he’s working through. But it’s almost everyday, Eddie. He’s almost always drunk. Always arguing with my mom. I can hear him through the floor of my room,” he admits. “I want to feel bad, but the way he treats me—the way he treats my mom—“

“How does he treat you? Just focus on you right now, Steve.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes a harsh sigh through his nose. He can’t bring himself to pull his head up, to look Eddie in the eyes. “I want to feel bad,” he repeats slowly. “But he’s so awful. He’s not a good person when he’s drunk, Eddie. He just riles me up, argues with me, tears me back down. That sort of shit.” Steve shifts, rolling his head over onto Eddie’s chest. The depth of his breath under Steve’s ear.

“He told me to go fuck myself the other night,” Steve murmurs, “I don’t know why, but that like…It solidified in me the fact that he doesn’t love me. I don’t know why I expected him to tell me happy birthday today. Why he’d choose this year out of ‘em all to finally be the person I expected him to be. Just my stupid brain, I guess.”

Eddie’s arms tighten around him. Hands petting over where they rest. “It’s okay to be disappointed, Steve,” he carefully states. “You wanted the best for him and he let you down, tore you apart in the process. You needed him to be your dad and he’s made no effort, it’s not…You’re not stupid for wanting that love.”

“He used to be so nice, Eds. I used to love him. I want to love him, but he makes it so hard. God, that makes me sound like such a terrible person, to admit something like that out loud.”

“No, Stevie,” Eddie immediately says. “You’re not a bad person for wanting to love somebody. And you’re not a bad person for refusing yourself to love them. He’s hurt you, Steve. And you’re allowed to feel how you need to.

“And…” Eddie’s hands clasp over the middle of Steve’s back. Heavy and sure. “From experience,” he musters, “with my dad, sometimes you just gotta let go of that love. Sometimes you just gotta tell yourself that it’s not possible. Because…honestly, in some ways, it is impossible. My dad had every opportunity, and yet he chose alcohol and drugs and crime over me.

“I miss who he was…Before my mom died. I miss his laugh and his hugs and our inside jokes. Miss the way he used to play guitar and the late night drives we’d go on. I miss when he taught me good things, like catching lightning bugs in our palms and how to make a good smash burger and how to tell entertaining stories.

“I don’t miss him now, though,” Eddie confesses quietly. The words almost lost in Steve’s hair. “He hurt me in irreparable ways. Mentally and…and physically. But what got me through the worst of it, before I came here, was knowing there were other people out there who’d love me. Who love me and continue despite who I am or what I’ve experienced. Like Wayne. And my grandma, at the time. My friends; Corroded Coffin especially.

“I could spend a million lifetimes unloved by my dad, but at least it’s the real love I was surrounded by. Sometimes people are so damaged that they like it, they like the cracks they can trace and the anger in their blood, they almost enjoy it—they usually don’t get better. My dad was that way. Even when he quit the couple times he did, he always found his way back to that alcohol, those drugs.” Eddie’s fingers absentmindedly trace over the notches of Steve’s spine. His breath a little heavier, a bit raspier. And Steve is absorbing the words. “Sometimes people want to get better and they don’t know how. And that’s when help is needed, outsourced hands, intervention, that kinda shit.”

“We’ve tried,” Steve breathes heavily. “My mom and I have tried so damn hard, Eddie.”

“What’s he usually say in response to that help?” Eddie asks quietly.

Steve takes a deep breath. Sighs, “That he doesn’t want it.” He slowly brings his left hand to Eddie’s chest, tracing figure eights over his shirt. “I wish he’d want it. I—He was my dad for a little while. Now I just live with a stranger.”

“I’m sorry, Steve,” Eddie murmurs, “for what it’s worth. I’m sorry you’re going through this. That you’re still going through this.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not, Stevie. Things don’t have to be this way.”

“It has to be fine,” Steve mutters, “there’s no other way right now. I can’t leave my mom. And my mom can’t leave him. And he won’t stop.”

Eddie takes a careful breath. “You can leave, though. Steve, you’re an adult, you can go,” he softly states.

“I’m not leaving my mom,” Steve snaps lightly. He sniffs, the last of those tears and snot receding. “Sorry,” he breathes. “I just can’t do that to her, Eds. She wouldn’t do it to me. I’m not gonna do it to her.”

“Okay,” Eddie murmurs, “then, look at me, sweetheart.” Slowly, careful of the slight tension in his neck, Steve raises his head and stares down at Eddie. There are tear tracks on Eddie’s cheeks. A sheen to his eyes. And Steve begins to reach up, but Eddie holds him down tightly. “You, Steve Harrington, are loved by people who want to do right by you. You, Steve, will have love in so many corners of your life. The love that Dick has isn’t for you and it definitely isn’t for your mom.

“I love you, you hear me? And Wayne does. Hopper does. There, that’s two dads. Your mom loves you, too. She loves you with her whole soul. And you’ve got your friends, Robin and Dustin especially. And you’ll have more, Stevie,” Eddie explains gently, his fingers going back to trace along the edges of Steve’s spine. “I can’t fix things, I’m sorry. And I’m not sure how things turn around. But they will some day. I know it because I lived it. We can’t figure it out right now, but we’ll find our way some time down the line. Focus on the people you’ve got right now, though, Stevie. Not him. He ain’t worth a rat’s ass.”

Steve snorts wetly. His lips tremble and his eyes ache something fierce. He’ll cry forever at this rate, but at least Eddie’s hands move to his cheek, at least he wipes the tears away. “I love you, too,” he breathes. “And I’m sorry that you have to know all this shit. That you had to go through that.”

“I’ll figure out a way to know how to get you through it, too,” Eddie murmurs, smiling softly, his eyes moments away from leaking. “But you’re loved. He ain’t worth it. Don’t go searching for something you ain’t gonna find.”

He drops his head back down and burrows under Eddie’s chin. At least he found this. “When I’m ready to go, will you have space for me?”

“Always and forever,” Eddie rushes to answer. “Remember, baby? You fall and I catch you. You come knocking on my door, I’m gonna answer it. And if you climb in bed with me, I’ll hold you close and never let go.”

Steve nods gently, pushing himself in further. He sighs. “Thank you,” he mutters. Eddie squeezes him in. “My mom said hi and thank you, by the way. Remind me to call her in the morning? I wanna make sure I get her before he wakes up.”

“You got it, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs, “now let’s get ourselves to bed before we fall asleep on this couch. Gotta be comfortable, don’t we?”

He huffs. “But you’re comfy.”

Eddie snorts. “I love you and I don’t want you to be sore. Come to bed with me?”

Steve wriggles. “Okay,” he relents. “Because I love you and I also don’t want you to be sore.”

And, he supposes, because he's loved.

🫂————————🫂 Sorry if this sucked, I wrote this with a raging migraine and have no grasp on how shit it is. Whoops.