#Live laugh love team whirl

[matrix-of-leadership]

Whirl when Ultra Magnus threatens to arrest him for the 8 billionth time :

[pierregazly]

simply a joke ꨄ lewis hamilton

lewis hamilton x assistant!reader

warnings: smut, unprotected sex, oral (f!receiving), lewis was pining and reader was oblivious [1.6k words]

request: 🌶 I would request for Lewis Hamilton and [20. “I’m gonna fuck you so good you forget all about that bastard.”]

The bill was placed down on the table, the waitress giving you a sympathetic look as she openly asked whether it would be cash or card.

“You don’t mind paying right? I’ll forward you the money, just forgot my wallet of course, such a lapse of memory sometimes,” he said, an arrogant smirk on your blind date’s face while he waited for your response.

Humming in acknowledgement, you muttered that it would be on card to the waitress. 

You didn’t give him much of a chance to say anything further, bidding him a farewell the moment the bill was paid, and a denial to a second date. The shock on his face made your smile grow when you whirled around, making the trek towards your car while you contemplated how your life had even got to this point.

A quick text sent off to the only person you actually wanted to see was met with an easy ‘I’ll leave the door unlocked, see you soon’, prompting you to direct your car in the opposite direction of your own home.

Lewis was always happy to have you over, saying more than once you may as well just move in with him with how often you were there anyways. Always shrugging the comment off, you would just laugh and remind him the two of you see each other enough during the week and that you were pretty sure Mercedes would be unhappy with a driver and his team-assigned assistant living together.

“I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what they would want, actually? Full access for both of us, love,” Lewis practically had the response memorized, a shove to his shoulder the only answer he ever received to it.

Huffing as you flopped down on the couch next to the Brit, Lewis quirked a questioning eyebrow at you, silently imploring as to what could possibly be creating your current set of emotions.

“I’ve just come back from a date, what an absolute nightmare, Lew. I’ve never met someone who managed to talk about themselves more than that guy. Don’t think I even got a word in,” you complained.

A small chuckle fell from Lewis’ lips, his hand gently patting your knee with a sympathetic expression falling across his face.

“Like… am I the problem, Lew? Be honest, because I’m going insane here, I don’t think I’ve even had sex in months. I genuinely think I’m on the verge of insanity,” you said, practically begging for a response from the Brit.

Huffing, Lewis turned his gaze onto you. Looking you up and down, you felt yourself heat under his gaze. You would never admit it aloud, but you couldn’t deny that the Mercedes driver was borderline gorgeous. 

“I think if all you’re looking for is sex, going on a date in the outfit you’re wearing right now… well it’s not doing you any favours, really.”

Pouting at him, you looked down at your outfit while trying to decipher what was wrong with it.

He continued, “before you start, there’s nothing wrong with the outfit. You look gorgeous, really. But you’ve got the buttons up all the way to the top, the pants aren’t formfitting at all, and you’ve got incredible legs, you just refuse to wear shoes that accentuate them. You’re dressed like you’re going to a business meeting, not like you’re going on a date with the intention of being taken home after.”

He emphasized his words by coming closer, flicking open the top four buttons, allowing the top of your breasts to peak through, the lacy bra you were wearing visible to the open-eye. 

“You don’t get it, Lew. Sure, I could wear a shirt that shows off my breasts, pants that accentuate my ass… but I don’t just want sex. Sure, yes, I want sex… but I want to be taken seriously, I want to be taken on a real date and actually enjoy myself.”

“I could give you both, but you keep denying my offer,” he shrugged his shoulders, turning his attention back towards the television.

Trying to wrap your mind around his words, “You act like your offer is ever serious, Lew. We both know it’s a joke.”

“You’re the one who says it’s a joke and that I’m not being serious. Not sure what else I’m really meant to say that’s going to make you believe me, love,” he said.

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. He had been making jokes like this for years. It was easy to assume they were comments he made with everyone, his personality naturally flirtatious.

Your body moved on instinct, pressing yourself closer to him as you contemplated your next words.

“Can I kiss you, then?”

He didn’t give a response before he was pressing his lips to yours, his hand instantly pressing to the back of your neck, tugging you closer to his body. His lips were soft, his tongue wet as it pressed gently at your lips, begging for an entrance. 

A soft moan fell from your mouth when Lewis pulled your body on top of his, your legs encircling his waist. You ground your core against his, a rumble of a groan falling from Lewis’ own lips, his head falling back against the couch behind him.

“God, baby. I’m gonna fuck you so good you forget all about that bastard, about fucking all of them, I swear.”

The whimper that fell from your lips was unintentional, your body subconsciously grinding down against the hardness growing between his legs; the pit in your stomach growing, the desire for him so prevalent in your actions.

You had never realized how much you truly wanted this, how much you wanted those comments you thought to be jokes, to be real.

“That better not be a joke, Lew,” you moaned, his lips pressing to your neck as he guided your hips back and forth over his lap. 

You felt your back hit the couch, Lewis’ body crawling over top of yours as he began kissing down your body. The buttons on your shirt having come undone at some point making it easier for the Brit to continue his ministrations across your skin.

Looking up at you imploringly, his tattoo-covered hand tugged gently at the waistband of your pants, a silent question in his eyes. You nodded eagerly, lifting your hips slightly so he could tug the offending material off.

He lightly nipped at your hip, pressing a kiss to sooth the heated skin before continuing his actions to the other side. Small love bites, kisses, short presses of his tongue to your skin as he continued to move down your body. Lifting a leg to press a gentle kiss to the inside of your thigh, you moaned at the action.

It didn’t take long for your panties to join the discarded pants, his eyes hungrily taking in the display. You couldn’t help the self-conscious thoughts, your legs instinctively closing around his body. 

“Nuh-uh, none of that, pretty girl,” he said, his hands pushing your legs open.

A finger gently pressed to your core, parting your lips as he ran a finger through them, collecting the wetness that was seeping from you. A tiny whimper departed your lips as you watched Lewis bring the finger to his mouth, sucking the collected juices from the digit.

It was like watching a man possessed as he got in between your legs, your hands finding their way to his head as the first press of his tongue resonated throughout your body.

There was no surprise that he was skilled with his tongue, the same way he was skilled with his fingers; the same way he was skilled when he put his mind to anything else he desired success in.

His fingers moved in tandem with his tongue, pressing against the spot inside your core that had you practically keening for him, your hips pressing up against his face; the only thing keeping his mouth from drowning in your wetness was the hand he had pressed to your pelvis, pushing you back down against the bed.

A loud moan fell from your lips as Lewis sucked at your clit, a third finger joining the other two inside you, a squelching sound vibrating throughout the living space as you felt yourself hit your peak.

Your orgasm crashed through you, your legs shaking as Lewis’ fingers and tongue slowed down, allowing you to ride out your orgasm. Your head was still thrown back when you heard the sound of more clothes hitting the floor, your eyes peaking open to a view that had your mouth practically watering.

It was common knowledge that Lewis was an incredible sight. From his hardened muscles, to the pops of ink that covered his body, everyone knew he was gorgeous. But his cock? All you wanted to do was wrap your lips around it, which in time, you knew you’d be able to.

But for now? All Lewis wanted to do was press inside you, feel the way your walls pulled him in, the way your wetness coated him, the way you’d stretch so lovely around him.

“On your knees, pretty girl. I wanna’ see this lovely arse when I push inside you for the first time, been thinking about it lots.”

You were quick to do as he demanded, flipping your body over so you were on your knees, resting on your elbows as you felt the couch dip behind you.

A low whimper fell from your lips as you felt him run his length through your wetness, coating his cock in your juices before pressing the tip inside. The stretch was delicious, your body pushing back against his, begging for more.

Obliging, his entire length pushed forward, your lips wrapping around him, the wetness dripping from your core making it easier for him to slide inside.

“Gonna fuck you so good, make you never wanna leave, baby. Can’t wait to feel you cum all over my cock, been wanting to feel that for ages,” he whispered in your ear, biting at the lobe as he pulled away.

Moans and grunts fell from your lips with every thrust of his hips, his body seeking the release he knew yours could give him. The way he made you feel, the feelings his body evoked from yours; it made you insatiable, made you crave the feeling more and more. Made you regret ever believing his comments were simply a joke.

anyways. i got carried away. please enjoy (reader has a hand kink specifically for lewis as i also do sorry!!! bye!!!)

[ventismacchiato]

O4 stuck with you — screaming and fighting !

scaramouche x gender neutral reader

You and Scaramouche were dragged backstage and away from prying eyes, faces flushed and chests rising as the adrenaline from the argument on stage had yet to wear off. The dressing room was still, only filled with you both throwing insults at one another. The rest of your group members shared sheepish looks with one another, deciding to let you both get it out of your system.

As soon as the door was tightly shut you whirled around to face Scara.

“You just always have to get the last word, don’t you?” you asked, stepping closer to him.

“You’re the one who started yelling at me, I was just defending myself,” Scaramouche replied, his tone equally heated, but his posture was much more composed than you. 

“You’re the one who told me to give up,” you accused. 

“Yeah, give up the trophy so I could hold it,” Scara sighed.

“Yeah, as if you deserve to hold it.”

“Now that you mention it, I do deserve it more than you.” 

“You don’t know what it’s like to actually work for something,” you glared, voice laced with contempt, “You probably get everything handed to you by your mom.”

He glanced away, abruptly uncomfortable. “You shouldn’t talk. Your voice is even more unpleasant when you’re whining.” 

Naturally, you kept talking

“That’s the only reason you’re even here with the rest of us,” you continued, letting your jealousy cloud your senses, “I can’t be the only one who thinks that.”

Scaramouche’s face hardened. He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he muttered, shoving his way past you to leave the dressing room before turning around one last time.

“Nobody even knew she was my mother until I became a trainee. I used a different name on the application forms. But if hanging onto that little fact makes you feel better about being so pathetic then be my fucking guest.” 

And with that he slammed the door behind him.

You hated the way he could make you inexplicably self-conscious. It used to be a foreign sensation, one left behind long ago in insecure adolescence.

You stood there, breathing heavily, as the door swung shut. The room was silent, everyone stunned by the intensity of the confrontation.

Lumine stepped up and placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, slowly guiding you outside to cool off. 

“We’re also gonna head back,” Aether awkwardly laughed, grabbing Childe and Kazuha by their collars and dragging them out.

“So, that just happened.”

“Shut up, Venti.”

“We really need to broaden your vocabulary, Y/n. Your insults could be better.”

“You too, Fischl! Zip it!”

stuck with you!

masterlist — prev | next

begging u guys to let me use ur usernames as fans in this au pls let me make u a crazy stantwt user xx but pls comment on the masterlist so i see it

also everyone saying scara keeps eating yn up w insults is sending me 😭😭

title from the way i loved you by ts it suits scarayn so well

synopsis — after the disaster that was the live award show, where you and scaramouche got into an argument on stage after both of your groups got a tie for top artists, your guys' PR teams have been in shambles trying to scrape up your mess. that's when the idea to send you both off with some other idols to a remote location for a survival dating show to mend your public image comes up. before you know it your bags are packed and you’re on a plane to a remote island. the only obligation is you need to end up with scaramouche at the end of the show, whether you end up liking him or not doesn’t matter to your managers as long as the show’s ratings stay high. whatever you do in between to get there is up to you!

notes — 👍 leave me comments and asks instead of begging for updates pleek i need motivation to post more

taglist — @na1lea @cindywasneverhere @lunavixia @aestherin @mlaakai @camvrin @retiredmommylover @iheartpieck @jangyung @cartierfiles @loveariel @silly-ez @mochipls @pomeiu @chuuismylife @flowerypesky @creammpuff @justanothertiredreader @boxdisappeared @kissmiere @kissingkzuha @webbywill @kazusboyfriend @s3xpistolss @pjsucks @bunns-wonderland @lordbugs @localgirlywithnolife @kosumos @danfelions @featuredtofu @pinxeajin @herebyaccident0 @haeunoo @scaradooche @pglt19 @chemiru @childesbabygirl @simonisferal @shutingstar @vxcmx @domimiki @ttalgi @esuz @tokkishouse @kitsuvil @scarasmood @ihearttori @nomurahayami @starringyau @androxphobic

[postracehair]

say again

george russell x reader | 3.9k

three times george curses. or, a beginning, a middle, and a future.

cw: george cursing. a few scrapes and a little bit of blood, some kissing, and a love confession to boot.

a/n: this kind of ran away from me, especially in the middle but every time george russell says fuck an angel gets its wings. written ages ago but posting in honor of Las Vegas.

---

YOU'VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME

The door buzzes and you let yourself into the building.

You've only been here a few times, but a match day spent with your coworker and some of her friends is better than sitting on your couch alone, right? Wine and cookies in hand, you trudge up two flights of stairs to her flat. By the time you reach the landing, you can already hear the chatter and the TV.

No one seems to hear your knock so you push the door open and gingerly step in. The kitchen is on the other side of the flat, and you assume everyone is somewhere between there and the television.

But when you pass the living room where the TV actually is, there's just one guy on the couch. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees watching a penalty get called.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he says to no one.

You snicker. He whirls around. "Hello," you say.

"Sorry," he says, standing immedietly. Wow, he's tall. "Sorry, hello."

Oh, and he's familiar. You know him, kind of. He's -- god, he races cars, right? Shit, what is his name? Your coworker has social connections you barely understand so it's not really a surprise to find someone who is probably famous in her flat.

"It is just you, then?" you ask. He laughs and runs a hand through his hair. Dressed in jeans and a team jumper, his casual outfit is at odds with the severe cut of his jaw, his cheekbones. He just looks expensive.

"No," he says. "No, everyone is putting plates together. I'm afraid I might be the one most interested in watching the match."

"Not going well?" you say lightly.

He rounds the sofa, hand out. "Could be better," he says. "I'm George."

You readjust the items in your hands to shake his and tell him your name. He repeats it, and you smile.

"Let me go put these down," you say, "and then, um. Do you want some company, George?"

Honestly, you're not sure where that came from. But, though you came here to escape the smothering loneliness of your own flat, something about him makes you want to stay here rather than go into the kitchen with everyone else.

"'Course I do," he says. "I promise to tighten up my language. Won't do for that to be my first impression."

You wave him away though your cheeks feel a little hot and head for the kitchen.

Your coworker brightens at seeing you and takes your hostess gifts with ease.

"The match is on in the other room," she tells you, "but most of us are drinking in here."

"I saw," you say. "I met George."

She hears something in your tone that turns her expression something between amused and calculating. "You did, did you?"

You just nod, loading up a plate with the various nibbles. "How do you know him, anyway?"

She shrugs. "Oh, you know." No, you don't, but she plows on. "What did you think?"

"Taller than he seems on TV," you mutter. "But very polite. He shook my hand."

That gets her to laugh. "Oh, of course he did. Well, don't stand around in here with us. Go chat up a Formula 1 driver!"

George is back on the couch when you return, arm stretched over the back of it, brows furrowed.

"Has anything exciting happened?" you ask him, sitting down with a perfectly responsible distance between you.

He grimaces. "Nothing good. Wolverhampton, bless 'em, are quite bad."

That might explain why no one is watching this match with him, but you keep that to yourself.

"I see," you say, solemnly. "But loyalty is loyalty, I suppose, if they're your club."

"Exactly," George says. "It's suffering but it has to be done." Someone on the screen triggers a free kick and George leans in until it's over. He starts talking about one of the players being traded, or his contract being renegotiated, or something. You nibble on your plate and just watch. He's animated, this man. Fringe falling over his forehead the more he gestures, blue eyes wide and serious. It's all very endearing.

"Sorry," he says suddenly. "I'm being so rude. You don't want to hear about all of this, do you?"

You smile at him. "I don't mind. I came over for some company more than anything else."

He sinks back into the couch a little, hand running through his hair again. "Well, lucky for me that you did," he says.

Your face feels hot and you don't want to mistake this for flirting if it's not. He is a world-famous athlete, after all, but here you are on the couch next to him. "Lucky for you, indeed."

He laughs, delighted.

OH, SHIT!

This is not how you saw your life going, but maybe that's just the nature of it. Big moments happen just the same as small ones and we have to handle them regardless. The trajectory of your life shifted just a little bit when you sat down on someone else's couch to watch a football match with a stranger.

Because that stranger -- George -- is now much more than that. He asked for your number that day before he had to leave earlier than everyone else, and has been speaking to you ever since. Texts, phone calls, FaceTimes. And, when he's not driving hundreds of miles an hour halfway across the world, he likes to spend time with you.

They're dates, you know they are. But things are still casual, immensely so. Coffee, dinner, long walks through the park. It's probably past due that you ask him what he'd like out of this, but your friends tell you to just have fun for the time being. You've learned a lot about him in the last month or so, both from him directly and by doing your research.

You'd watched a few Grand Prix before meeting him but not with any kind of rapt attention. Now, obviously, you watch with purpose. See him zip around the track, read his radio messages, hope desperately that he'll be alright. He's a big mix of things, George Russell. Witty but determined, thorough but reactionary, polite but intense. You want to keep getting to know him on a personal level and measure that up to how he appears to the world.

Today, you're on one of those long walks. George is recounting the last race at your request. It's always more interesting to hear him talk about what happened than watching it, though you're really growing to love that part, too.

It's a bit chilly and he's got a scarf on in addition to a nondescript hat pulled down low over his eyes. You're used to this by now, though you wish you could see his face more fully.

"And then -- well, I'm sure you saw this bit -- he turned right into me like I wasn't even there!"

"But you avoided it," you remind him. "I saw that, too." A cold wind blows down the path and you shiver a bit.

"You alright?" he asks. "Nippy, huh?" He stops walking and turns to you, his huge hands coming to rest on your shoulders before he rubs them up and down your arms.

"A bit," you agree, a little breathless. God, you really need to talk to him about what this is. You're thinking about him all the time, which is a bit of a nuisance, as you're not sure he's feeling the same. But, a small voice in your head tells you, you can't be too far off in thinking that it might be based on the way he's looking at you right now.

Even under the cap, you can see the soft set of his brow, the way his eyes are shining. The gentle quirk up of his mouth. What would it be like to kiss him? Would he let you?

George stops his warming efforts, catching your hands in his. "Better?"

All you can do is nod. He grins, looking a bit too pleased, and starts walking again, you in tow. This is something else you've learned about him -- he really can be a cheeky bastard. He must have more than some idea as to how he affects you and enjoys it. It's somewhere between a game and a challenge.

You're thinking about ways you can get him back, ways you can flirt mercilessly. His hand is in yours and he's half a step ahead of you when suddenly your fingers are ripped from his and you find yourself on your hands and knees with a gasp.

George is immediately there with you.

"Oh, shit," he says. "Are you alright?"

"I--" You're a bit too stunned to say anything. George rarely curses, which is funny given how you met, but it unsettles you a little bit as much as it warms you. "I think I tripped?"

"Let me see your hands," he says, gently tugging at your wrists with his long fingers. He sucks on his teeth when he sees your palms. "Not too bad, but a little scratched."

You rearrange yourself so you're flat on your bum, legs in front of you. Your hands might be alright but your knees are another story. The fabric of your jeans isn't ripped but you can see the bloodstains already.

"Oh," you say. You look up at George, feeling a bit pathetic. "This is embarrassing."

He scoffs. "No, it's not," he says. "I do think we should get you cleaned up, though."

"We can go to my place," you suggest. The sting sets in a little more, but mingles with your chagrin and you just set your jaw. "Help me up?"

"Brave girl," George says. He presses his lips to the base of your wrist and stands, tugging you up as he goes. "Have you got first aid things at your flat?"

You nod, running through the contents of your bathroom in your mind. It occurs to you that George has not been to your place before, and you did not mentally prepare yourself to bring him there today.

George gently says your name. "Let's get a cab, shall we?"

It takes no time at all to flag one down. George removes his hat in what you can clearly see as an effort to get the cabbie to hurry along a bit, but it seems to work. He takes one look at you, one more at George, and steps on it.

"Let me get your belt," George mutters, making quick work of the buckle.

"I don't think I've ever worn a seatbelt in a cab in my life, George," you reply. He just pats your thigh.

"Think we've had enough injuries for one day, don't you?"

George and the cabbie chat about the race season, about how hot it really is in Singapore, about one of George's recent podiums. He keeps you tucked into his side the whole time -- he's ignored his own seatbelt, you notice -- hand on your thigh. You keep your palms turned up on your knees and wonder how on earth you got here.

The city flies by and you lean your head on his shoulder. You can feel something shifting between you, something clicking into place that wasn't entirely settled before. It's scary, it's exciting, it's big. It's something you're going to have to talk about.

George pays the driver in some large bills and helps you out of the cab and up the steps of your building.

"Where are your keys?" he asks.

"Front right pocket of my jeans."

"Pardon my reach," he jokes, and lightly rests on palm on your hip and slides the other into your pocket to find them. He tugs the keyring out and winks at you before unlocking the door. Up the stairs, into the flat. Shoes toed off, coats on the hook after George helps you out of yours.

"I'm not an invalid, you know," you tell him. He clicks his tongue.

"We don't want blood on this nice coat of yours, do we?"

You roll your eyes. George glances around your flat and smiles. "This is very you."

Dishes on the counter, the pillows a mess on the couch, your books and trinkets on every flat surface -- you suppose he's right.

"Thank you?" you say. He taps your chin with his knuckle.

"It feels like a home, I mean." Your cheeks feel warm and your heart sighs. God, the things he says.

"Oh," you breathe. "That's kind."

"And does this home have a first aid kit?" The reminder brings the dull sting of your scraped skin back to the forefront of your mind.

"Bathroom cabinet," you tell him. George nods.

"I'll get that. Why don't you change into something loose so I can get to your knees?"

In your room, you tug carefully tug on some sweatpants, mindful of your palms, and let yourself marvel at how today has gone. You expected to have George here someday, but certainly not like this. Will he want to see your bedroom? You shove some dirty laundry into the hamper and thank past you for making the bed this morning.

"I think you should sit on the counter," George calls. "Whenever you're ready."

You pad out to meet him in socked feet. It's quite the sight, him in your kitchen. He's bent over your sink, washing his hands. His sweater has been tossed over a chair and you can see the lines of his back under his t-shirt.

"Do you need help getting up?" he asks. You nod. Together, you get yourself on the counter, making you about eye level.

"Hello," you say. His hat is gone, too, so his fringe falls across his forehead in slightly curled strands. When you've cleaned yourself up, maybe you'll work up the courage to run your hand through them.

"Hello yourself. Right hand, please." You hold out your palm and George gets to work. He cleans it, getting all the bits from your skin, and then uses an alcohol wipe.

"Do you have a special interest in first aid, or something?" you ask to distract yourself from the sting. His thumb strokes your pulse point as he works.

"I guess you get beat up a bit in karting when you're young," he says. He wraps one palm in gauze and moves onto the other. "I suppose i just like knowing how to take care of people."

"God," you groan. "Is there anything wrong with you?"

He looks at you then, hair falling into his blue, blue eyes. "Oh," he smirks. "Plenty, darling." He finishes up on your other palm and holds it in his for a moment longer than you expect. Then he slowly brings your hand to his mouth and kisses the bandage.

You might gasp, You're not entirely sure, eyes glued to his lips like nothing else exists. Then he kisses the other palm. Your gaze flicks up and George is looking right at you.

"Knees," he says, voice a little hoarse. "Alright?"

"Alright," you breathe. You stick one leg out just to see what he'll do. You're learning that he rises to the occasion, and that's exactly what happens. He cups your ankle, places your foot on his thigh, and slides your sweatpants up above your joint.

"That's gnarly," he says, breaking the tension. You laugh and tap his leg with your other foot. "You ready?"

"I'm ready."

He makes quick work on it. One hand on your calf, the other gently cleaning and bandaging. The silence is comfortable, familiar, though you've not been in this situation before. It's not until George is almost done with your other knee that he speaks.

"You know," He says, lightly. "If you wanted me to touch you, all you had to do was ask. The tripping wasn't entirely necessary."

"George!" you gasp. He squeezes your calf.

"I'm just saying, darling."

He ties off the gauze and rolls down your pant leg. You widen your knees and he steps between them immediately, hands resting gently on your thighs. It's absolutely electric -- going from shy, appropriate touches to being in your flat together, his hands all over you. How are you going to go back?

Maybe you can't.

George's eyes rake over your face. You inhale his exhales, feeling them on your lips. His pupils dilate.

"What is this, George?" you whisper. His fingers press into your thighs a little harder.

"Well," he says, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "What would you like it to be?"

"I don't know," you say, honestly. He is not dissuaded, does not back away. He must know that this is hard for you -- his life is so different from yours. As it is, you avoid social media so you don't see pictures of you splashed across gossip accounts. It's impossible to totally stay away from it but you try, because you really like being with him.

"Shall I tell you what it is for me?" George says.

You nod.

He cups your face in his hands, thumbs stroking the delicate skin under your eyes.

"Every second I am not with you I am thinking about when I'll see you next," he says. "I store up things to tell you and take photos to show you and I have a bag full of things I've bought you but been too afraid to give you. Beautiful things, things that remind me of you."

"George--"

"I worry about fucking up your life," he continues, and you fall silent. "This is a lot. I am a lot. My life is not simple, and you've already seen that. But I want you in it. I want you in it however you want to be there, though I have my suggestions. I promise that if you let me, I'll treat you so well, because you deserve everything, and --"

Your heart is going to explode if he goes on any longer, so you close the gap between you and kiss him. Finally.

It's just the press of your lips against his for a few seconds, your eyes fluttering shut, before George catches up to what's happening and angles your faces a little bit to make it deeper. Your bandaged hands rest on his elbows and you swallow a sound from deep in his throat, something that lights a fire in your belly.

"Blimey," George says, leaning your foreheads together.

"What, no curse for me?"

His eyes sparkle and he wrinkles his nose at you. "Fuck," he says. "I've been thinking about that for weeks."

You press your lips to the corner of his mouth. "That's more like it."

BLOODY HELL

What the fuck was that? Is he serious? Keep focused, George. This is fucking ridiculous. Head down.

It's a bad day. Not as bad as it could be -- George does not end up in the wall. But he ends up way further down the pack than he should, barely scraping together a few points. It's the car and everyone knows it. The bouncing, the drag, the understeer. A showing far too poor for this late in the season.

And George is pissed. It's not often that you see him this way -- he's fairly levelheaded, even when things get tough. Something about him causes conflict to lull, things to fall into place, but even that can't fix the silver arrow.

You slip out of the garage during the last lap to sit in his driver's room and wait.

This isn't your first race. Far from it, by now. Things got official halfway through the season after that day in your flat, and you've been coming to as many as you can. It's a rush, really, to see him work. Scarier than anything, but when it's good? It's amazing. You love the energy of the garage and everyone seems to have taken to you, too.

So much so that they know to send George right to his room before the media pen so you can calm him down.

You sit on the bench and wait.

He comes in, closing the door firmly but never slamming it, and sighs. All the tension melts from his body and he looks defeated. Sweaty, annoyed, and defeated.

"Hello," you say, lightly.

He smiles wryly. "Shit day, huh?"

You love how George looks after a race. Hair a mess from his helmet, skin beaded with sweat. He unzips his race suit and lets it hang at his hips and you can see the outline of his muscles through his fireproofs. It's genuinely swoonworthy, even with his visibly bad mood.

"Are you alright?" you ask. He shrugs, rolls his shoulders, and winces.

"Bloody hell," he curses. "My back is killing me."

"What can I do?"

"Nothing," he says automatically. "You're perfect just as you are."

It's a reflex he has -- not to ask for things. You're still working it out, poking and prodding to find the cracks. Maybe, with time, he'll loosen this grip he has on his desire to make your life as comfortable and wonderful as possible without thinking of himself. There are moments when it's best to just let him fuss, but right now you think you can push back a little.

"George," you sigh. "Come on."

He hides his face behind a sweat towel for a breath, then tosses it aside. "Alright," he says. "Just sit with me for a bit."

You scoot over on the bench and he flops next to you, head back against the wall and eyes closed. His hand fumbles around for yours, pinching your thigh when he overshoots, which makes you laugh. He cracks a smile and opens one eye just enough to see your grin before settling back into his rest.

He breathes deeply, fingers entwined with yours. The line of his jaw is pronounced in the awful lighting of the room and the shadows under his eyes look worse than usual. A few more races and then he can rest. What will you do in the off season? Maybe a vacation. Hopefully a vacation. You imagine George in swim trunks on a beach somewhere, dozing in the sand. Rubbing sun tan lotion on his back and his shoulders and his nose, reading books for hours until he convinces you to run into the water. Lazy days on a balcony or in a bed with all the windows open, never being far from each other --

Someone knocks on the door.

"Christ," George mutters. "Let's ignore it."

"You need to go to the pen, darling," you whisper back. He squeezes your hand and presses your legs together.

"Just a few more minutes," he says. "Eventually they'll just come in."

"If you say so."

You press a kiss to his tacky cheek and lean your head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

George takes a deep breath. "I love you," he says.

The words stretch into the silence that comes after, the moments it takes for you to process it. They fill the small room, sneak their way into your bloodstream, your lungs, all the way to your heart.

Part of you is waiting for the follow-up. I know it's too early, I know it's a lot, You don't have you say it back. But George doesn't deal in excuses. He feels it, so he says it.

You lift your head to look at him and find him already staring at you. Not expectant, just looking to look.

"I love you, George," you say.

He grins bigger than you've ever seen, bigger than after your first kiss, than the days when he's on the podium.

Someone knocks on the door again.

"Oh, piss off," he mutters and leans in to kiss you.

[themuseofaphrodite]

you put me on and said i was your favorite ✧ OP81  

summary: it’s been seven years since you fell in love with oscar piastri, but time has not been a friend to your relationship. oscar has been focusing on his burgeoning racing career, succeeding in karting and progressing to formula one; meanwhile, you have been concentrating on graduating university with the highest honors. after you see him again for the first time in almost three years, the memories wash over you like a tidal wave.

trigger warnings: angst, suggestive content, swearing, mentions of alcohol

note: italics are flashbacks

word count: 2.8k

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

You were surprised to receive the invitation in the mail. A crisp off-white square tucked inside a gilded envelope, addressed to none other than “Y/N L/N”, and sent by McLaren Racing Limited – Oscar Piastri’s Formula One team. Maybe it was just for decorum, and it didn’t mean anything. Yet you knew Oscar, and nothing he ever did was for nothing. 

The invitation itself described a gala being held the first of March, marking the beginning of the Formula One season. It was black-tie attire, meaning that you would have to go shopping for a fancy dress…if you were to accept. The image of Oscar dressed up in a tuxedo, his messy hair gelled and combed back, flashed through your mind. Fuck, how long had it been since you last saw him?

The answer entered your mind in an instant. December, three years ago, right before he got the call to join Formula One. 

How could time have passed by so quickly?

Without a second thought, you pulled out your phone and filled out the form to reserve a spot at the gala. It might have been a foolish decision, but you knew you would not regret it. Oscar Piastri was worth any humiliation, times a thousand.

Three weeks later and you found yourself in the middle of a large ballroom, your heels sinking into the soft carpet and your heart pounding like you had run a marathon. It had been an hour since you arrived, yet there was still no sight of Oscar. Hundreds of people pressed around you, chattering animatedly about a variety of topics, all dressed up to the nines. You felt underdressed, as you had selected to wear a modest black dress and some gold jewelry, whereas every other woman looked like they were about to go on the runway. 

A hand wrapped around your bare shoulder, and you stuttered out a gasp at the sudden cold touch. Whirling around, you made eye contact with the person. Dark brown hair, bright amber eyes, freckles dusting pale cheeks as if they were miniature stars. It was none other than Oscar Jack Piastri, your first love – and your first subsequent heartbreak.

“Y/N,” he greeted politely, his lips sloping in a soft smile. He looked like he hadn’t aged a day but somehow a hundred at the same time.

“Oscar.” His name tumbled from your mouth shakily, betraying your shock. “How – How are you doing?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s been well.” You forgot the lilt of his Australian accent, the smile wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. So many priceless details embedded themselves in your mind. “How have you been?”

“University has been difficult, but I just graduated a few months ago. I’m looking for a job right now, but there’s not been many offers. I’m sure something will open up,” you babbled, common sense evaporating as soon as you laid eyes on Oscar. “Anyways…” You blushed. “I’m sure you don’t want me to talk your ear off.”

“No, please continue.” Oscar beckoned at you to keep speaking, and your eyes widened. “Trust me, anything you have to say is leagues better than what anyone else here would talk about. I almost just died from boredom because an old man tried to explain to me what the different kinds of car tires are used for in races.”

You laughed, the sound pealing in the room. “And you’re a Formula racer. How embarrassing.”

“Exactly. So, please enlighten me on what little Y/N L/N has been doing for these past few years. You don’t live a public life, so I’ve been wanting to know how you are.” Oscar looked at you, his eyes meeting yours and sending all your carefully constructed walls tumbling down.

You dropped your gaze immediately, the heat of his gaze burning a hole straight through you. “Let’s sit down first.”

He nodded and followed after you as you went to find a spot to sit. Once you had sat down, smoothing a napkin over your lap and leaning in closer to the table, he tipped his head. “Time to start, Y/N.”

“Well, there’s really not been anything, except for my studies. I’m majoring in business, which is relatively vague, I know, but I was hoping I could find a career in journalism. I like writing, and it pays decently well.” You sighed. “But there’s been no replies to my applications yet, and I’m starting to worry.”

Oscar tsked under his breath. “I know McLaren is looking for a new PR manager. Lando has been going through them like nobody’s business because he’s such a hassle. I think he’s too wild for those uptight pricks, but you’d do a good job handling him.”

You stifled a chuckle at the sound of Oscar swearing. “Maybe. It would be nice to travel around as much as you do. I’d like to see the world instead of staying cooped up in a dusty old library, cramming for an exam.” Oscar bobbed his head in agreement, a smile growing on his face. It was endearing, how easily you two fell back in a rhythm, but deep down you knew it would last as long as this gala did. Soon enough, both of you would go your separate ways, just like three years ago.

It was pelting rain, lightning arcing through the stormy gray sky and sending jolts of fear through your body. You hated the lightning, the unpredictability that came with it, since no one ever knew where it would strike next. Oscar was standing close to you, yelling over the wind, tears intermingling with the rainwater lashing down his face. “Come on, Y/N, don’t do this!” he cried, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. “I love you. I’m sorry that I can’t give you everything you want, but that’s just the way life goes sometimes!”

“I’m not asking for the world, Oscar. I’m asking for you!” You wailed, choking on your tears and wishing that you could turn back time. “I refuse to let you go, I refuse to end things between us. You’re more than just a chapter in my life, you’re the whole book.”

Oscar shook his head angrily. “And I refuse to hold you back from your dreams. What’s the point of my success if you can’t achieve everything you’ve desired, because I stopped you from it? What kind of a boyfriend would that make me?”

“It would be worth it if it meant I could keep you.”

He scowled at you, frown lines marring his beautiful face. “Don’t talk like that, Y/N.”

You brushed back the flying strands of hair away from your face. “Oscar, I need you. I need us. Just give it a chance, please.”

“Don’t you think this is hard for me too? Throwing away everything we had? This is the fucking biggest loss of my life, and I have to pretend like I don’t care. I do. I care so fucking much, baby, but I need you to go on without me. There is a better man for you out there, I know there is. He’d carry the weight of the world on his shoulders for you like Atlas.” Oscar retorted. “I never wanted to do this. It was never my intentions to hurt you like this, but it has to be like this. My life will only get harder from this point on, and I’ll be coming home at later and later hours. I won’t be able to give you the attention you deserve. That’s a crime on its own, and I won’t let it happen.”

“Oscar…” You whispered, the word barely perceptible over the gale. 

“Y/N, I’m sorry it had to end like this.” Oscar stepped forward, caressing the crook of your jaw in his palm. “But soon you’ll understand why.”

You forced back the memories that stung the back of your throat, making tears well up in your eyes. It had been years since that day, and you’d both changed. Oscar was a grown man, risking his life every weekend in a race car. It was destined to always be the right person, but at the wrong time. No amount of pleading could ever change that.

“I wanted to congratulate you on rising to Formula One,” you made yourself say. Oscar’s eyebrows shot up. “I never told you how happy I was for you.”

“It’s nothing,” he responded gently. The tension was palpable between you two for a moment until he said, “You should look into that position, Y/N. It would be nice seeing a friendly face around.”

“Are you saying Formula One is as cutthroat as the tabloids make it?” you inquired, absentmindedly fidgeting with the rings on your fingers. Oscar bit his lip. “Not fully, but yes. It’s a game within a sport.”

“Like chess.”

“But on a grander scale, with more risks.” You nodded thoughtfully. “Interesting.”

It was just like your relationship – two birds, one stone.

“Just one date,” Oscar wheedled, running a hair through his already mussed hair. “I’ll take you to the bookstore and you can buy any books you want, on me. Please, Y/N. One chance.”

You tapped your fingers on your chin, pretending to think. “No, Piastri. I’ll pass.” You turned your back on him and kept walking, shouldering the straps of your backpack and praying that he’d leave you alone. He had been assigned as your partner in history class last week, and it became glaringly obvious that he had a crush on you. Quiet, shy Oscar, who was somehow the most popular boy in the year. He was tagging along after you as if he were a little puppy.

“Why not? I know you think I’m cute, I heard you talking about it to Lottie.” He grinned when he saw your expression. Traitorous Lottie – your best friend could not keep a secret. “So why won’t you let me shoot my shot?”

You growled, annoyance boiling in your gut. “You shot your shot and I said no. Leave me alone, Piastri.”

“We’ve got this good academic rivals to lovers arc going, and I think it’s time we became lovers. Or even just friends with benefits.” He glanced over at you as you rolled your eyes. “Or we don’t have to put a label on it at all. Why can’t I take you out?”

You spun around, finally cracking under his pressure and giving in. “Fine! One date, Piastri, but if I don’t like it, I won’t go on another one. Happy?”

“Yes!” he cheered. “I’ll see you Tuesday after school. Got it?”

You resisted the urge to smack his smug, beautiful face. “Yeah. Got it.”

“You won’t regret it, Y/N. I promise I’ll show you how worthy I am.” Oscar beamed from ear to ear, and you couldn’t help but smile back at his eagerness.

You swirled the glass of wine in your hand, the hum of the substance sloshing around a distraction to the way your body felt when you were around Oscar. He was a magnet and you were being pulled into his orbit, colliding into him and leaving a permanent mark on the both of you. He was comfort and pain and what-ifs all rolled up into one stunningly gorgeous man. It couldn’t be denied – Oscar Piastri was breathtaking, with his bunny teeth and muscular frame. You had known him ever since you were sixteen, but now there was a grown twenty-three year old man in front of you, and it was hard to reconcile this new image with the one seared into your mind.

“Look, it’s time I cut to the chase,” Oscar said suddenly, bringing you back to the present. He steepled his hands, pinning you with a serious stare that sent shivers down your spine. “The reason why I invited you to this gala is because I want to give us another go.”

The wineglass dropped out of your hands, the red-colored liquid falling onto your lap and staining your napkin with a large darkened blob.

Another spin around the merry-go-round of the love you shared. Because no matter how many years passed, it would always lead you back to the same spot.

You slung your arm around Oscar’s shoulder, drawing him closer to you and savoring the warmth that spread through your body at the contact. It was November fifth, also known as Bonfire Night, and you had been in a steady relationship with Oscar for almost three months at this point. Your breath plumed out in front of you, the frosty air chilling you to your core. “When do the fireworks start?” you murmured.

“Soon,” he promised you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “If they don’t start in five minutes, we can head back to the dorms and I’ll heat you up a cup of hot chocolate. Sound good, baby?”

You angled your head down. “Yeah, I guess. I was looking forward to this, but it’s so damn cold.”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

“There’s nothing you can do about it,” you said. “Unless you can control the weather. In which case, please make it at least a few degrees warmer because I feel like I’m about to turn into an icicle.” Oscar rubbed his hand on your back, massaging you. “Strange. I thought you were really hot.”

You huffed out a breath. “Ha, ha, Oscar.” “You know you love me,” he teased.

A bright display of sparks arced across the night sky and you oohed at the variety of colors. Purple, pinks, vibrant reds and goldens all flaring brightly for just a heartbeat. “Thanks for taking me here,” you told Oscar a few minutes later when the fireworks died down. “I love you so much.”

“I love you more, Y/N.”

Oscar leapt up from his seat, springing into action in a second’s passing. He dabbed at your dress with his napkin, which bled a dark maroon color after a few seconds. “Fuck!” he cursed. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I shouldn’t have done that out of the blue.”

“It’s OK,” you stammered out, though only the opposite was true. Your world had tilted on its axis in the span of ten minutes, despite the fact that you knew Oscar had an ulterior motive for inviting you to the gala, whether you wanted to admit it or not. “I just…I was taken aback.”

“I understand,” he assured you. “You don’t have to answer. I’m sorry.”

You twisted your lips in consternation. “It’s fine, Oscar. I’m sorry for causing a scene.”

“It’s not your fault,” Oscar replied.

“I don’t know. I want this to work out between us. I hate the distance that we’ve gathered over these past few years, but I’m really unsure. Your schedule is busy, and if I took that job at McLaren, I’d be working with Lando, not you.” You cocked your head, analyzing the situation.

Oscar splayed his hand over yours, intertwining your fingers like a woven braid. “Arrangements can be made.”

“Oscar…” You thought aloud, a maelstrom of thoughts spinning through your brain at a thousand kilometers per hour.

“Please,” he said, his voice cracking, revealing how affected he was by you. You were so tantalizingly close, the promise of eternal forever hanging in the balance of your decision. “Remember the pact we made? That even if we stumbled off the path, we’d find our way back to one another?” He tightened his grip on your hand. “I remember. And I’m not calling us quits, not when I could be with you for the rest of my life. I never want you to become a stranger again.”

“I agree,” you conceded. “But this is all so fast.”

“We can take it slow, I promise, and build us back up from the start. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Being near you is enough for me. Will you please let me earn back a spot in your heart?”

Your breath quickened in your chest as you realized how unwilling you were to give Oscar up; his proximity to you after all these years showed that you were never over him, and would never get over him. 

He was not the boy who would sacrifice a once-in-a-lifetime love for his potentially insurmountable aspirations. He was the man who would burn down the world to ensure her happiness. 

With a firm tone and a light heart, you declared, “Yes, I will.”

The verdict was like seeing the Sun after being denied its warmth for centuries. Oscar tucked you into a tight embrace, and the rest of the ballroom faded into a hazy, radiant bliss. You were where you belonged, a puzzle piece that found its rightful spot. 

It was inevitable. 

It was infinite.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

[achilles-rage]

Prove It

summary: when you see chris flirting with a girl at the bar, you get jealous and leave with street, ranting to him all night about it. then, he gives you an idea on how to get over your anger with chris.

word count: 2.5k

request: @toessssw -Hey can u write a chris alonso smut with the reader being mad at her because she was flirting with a girl at the bar then you coming at her work place with the sexyest fit ever then u guys yk in the breakroom.

a/n: this is my first fem x fem smut, so i hope i did okay!! i also love the silly little chris x street x reader dynamic lol. enjoy<33

warnings: smut, street being a menace, no use of y/n, fem!reader, plus size!reader, race inclusive!reader

MDNI- 18+ Only!

You’re out with 20 squad after a long day at work. Drinks are flowing, and you can barely hear each other over the music as you all talk about the various updates in your lives. Your side is pressed firmly against Chris, and she has an arm around your waist and a hand placed on your hip while the other hand holds her drink firmly in her hand. 

You haven’t been dating long, and since you work together, you’ve decided to keep it pretty low profile, especially because of the playful rivalry between 20 squad and 50 squad, your team.

With the addition of alcohol into the mix, however, it was hard to keep your hands off of each other. No one seems to notice how close you are, as you’re generally pretty loving with all of your friends, so no one bats an eye at your body pressed tightly to hers.

Except Street.

When Chris finally separates herself from you to get herself another drink, Street slides over to you, falling into a hushed conversation as Luca talks to Deacon, and Tan talks to Hondo.

“You and Chris seem close.” is all he says. You can’t fight the defeated sigh that escapes you, and you give him a sheepish smile as you shrug. His jaw drops as he stares back at you, a smile forming on his face.

“How long?” he asks, and you look around you two at the rest of your friends, shushing him quickly.

“A couple months. And don’t say a word.” you tell him sternly, pointing a finger at his chest. He raises his hands in surrender, but then smirks as his gaze moves from you to the direction of the bar.

“I won’t. But, you might wanna see that.” he nods over to the bar as he speaks, the smirk still on his face. He loves to stir the pot.

You whirl around with furrowed brows, and you tense when you see what he’s referring to. Chris is standing at the bar with a pretty blonde woman, who’s just a little too close for your liking. Chris is leaning against the counter in feigned nonchalance, but you can see the smirk on her face that lets you know she’s enjoying the attention. 

You try not to get too upset, but you can feel your blood boiling as your jaw clenches. She doesn’t even look your way as the blonde leans in to whisper something in her ear, and Chris throws her head back as she laughs; you seemingly completely forgotten about.

“What are you gonna do?” Street asks as he looks at Chris over your shoulder, leaning closer until his chin is almost resting on your shoulder.

You look over at him, huffing as you shake your head.

“I’m going home.” you reply, downing the last little bit of your drink before storming out of the bar. Street’s eyes widen, and his gaze darts between you and Chris until you’re out of sight. 

He didn’t mean to cause all this, not really, although he’s sure you’re glad that he directed your attention to Chris.

It’s only when you’re out of his sight that he snaps out of his daze, and he walks over to Chris, saying a quick sorry to the blonde before dragging her a few feet away from the stranger.

“Should you really be flirting with that girl right now?” Street asks, and Chris’s brows furrow in confusion before it dawns on her.

“How did you-?” she begins while her eyes scan the room for you, and she lets out a sharp breath when she doesn’t see your plush figure in the crowd anywhere.

“Where did she go?” she asks. She feels guilt creeping up her neck and making her skin hot as she thinks about it. Truthfully, she wasn’t exactly flirting with the woman. Sure, she was pretty, and she was definitely flirting with Chris, but Chris was merely talking to her until the bartender came back with her drink.

“She went home.” is all Street says, and Chris huffs, ready to go after you.

“I wouldn’t. She seemed really mad.” he informs her.

“Can you just go check on her, please? Make sure she gets home safe?” she asks in a desperate tone. She wants nothing more than to go to you and reassure you that she only wants you, but she knows you, and she knows that it may do more harm than good to push you.

“I’m on it.” Street says before he’s out the door and looking around for you. 

He sees you standing on the sidewalk outside the bar, phone clutched in your hand as you wait for an uber. You huff when you see him, rolling your eyes.

“I’m not going back in there.” you tell him in a cold voice. You know you shouldn’t be rude to him; he didn’t do anything, but you can’t help it.

“She just wanted to make sure you get home safe.” he tells you in a soft tone, giving you a hopeful smile. You sigh, nodding slowly as you turn your head back towards the road.

When you get back to your house, you and Street continue your little pity party. You grab two shot glasses and a bottle of tequila and slam them on your coffee table before you sit down beside him, ready to forget about your problems.

A couple hours later, you and Street are leaning back on your couch, bottle forgotten on the coffee table as you babble on to each other about Chris.

“You know what you should do?” Street says after a few minutes of silence. You barely have enough energy to reply, and your eyelids are struggling to stay open when you lull your head to the side to look at him. “Show her what’s at stake.”

“What?” Your brows furrow at his words, and with all the alcohol coursing through your veins, you can hardly make out what he’s alluding to.

“Make her jealous. Then she’ll realize what she did wrong.” he says with a shrug. You hum softly, turning to face to look in front of you again as you think. You’re not sure you want to do that; although you’d love for her to feel the same way you do right now, and you’d love to see how good she’d look with jealousy flowing through her. Then, an idea comes to you, and you smirk to yourself. You know exactly what to do; something that will make you feel better and prove that Chris only wants you. You’re just glad that you have the day off tomorrow and they’re on call, so you won’t have to wait long.

The next day, 20 squad inevitably gets called to work, but luckily for them, it’s not until later in the day. 

You text Street and ask him to let you know when they’re back from their takedown, and then you start getting ready. When you finally get the text, you’re in your car and on your way to your work.

When you walk into the building, you see Street first, and he smirks when his eyes trail down your body. He knows exactly what you’re doing.

Chris is the next to see you, and her eyes widen when her eyes drag down your body, taking in the jeans that you know drive her crazy and your low-cut top. She’s in front of you in an instant, trying to keep her eyes off of your curves, looking into your eyes with a desperate expression.

“We need to talk.” you say before she can get a word out. She snaps her mouth closed, nodding quickly before she mumbles a quick “yeah, okay.” and follows you to the break room.

“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have talked to her.” she says once the door is firmly closed behind her. You turn and face her, crossing your arms over your chest and pushing your breasts up just slightly, but Chris notices anyway. She’s fighting the urge to cross the distance between the two of you and pull your body against hers, even though she knows this conversation is necessary.

“Are you sorry you did it or sorry you got caught?” you ask her, your voice remaining stern. Chris sighs, shaking her head as she takes a step closer to you.

“Both, but I’m mostly sorry that I did it. I know it was stupid, okay? I’m happy with you, I don’t know why I even did it. She came up to me and I just went with it, but I’d never let it go any further than just talking to her.” she explains, and you chew the inside of your cheek as you listen intently to her.

“Good. How would you feel if you saw me flirting with a random person at a bar?” you ask her after a moment, voice much less stern now.

“With you dressed like that? I’d probably wanna drag you out of the bar and back home.” she tells you seriously, eyes trailing down your plush figure again, momentarily focusing on your wide hips. You fight back a smirk, inhaling a long breath.

“Good answer.” you tease as you fight back a smirk, stepping closer to her.

“You came here to tease me, didn’t you?” she asks, eyes narrowing as the smirk finally makes its way onto your face. You shrug, taking another step.

“Maybe I wanted to show you what you missed out on last night.” you tell her in a low voice, your eyes darting towards the door for a split second.

“I’m not gonna make that mistake twice.” she whispers, mostly to herself before she closes the distance between you. Her hands land on your cheeks as she pulls you into a smoldering kiss, pushing you back until your lower back hits the counter behind you.

“You’re the only one I want, baby, I swear.” she whispers against your mouth before her tongue slips past your lips. You feel her hands moving down your sides until they find their way to your hips, and you let out a shaky breath as you kiss her back with equal fervor.

“You gonna prove it?” you ask, pulling back for a moment to look into her brown eyes, her pupils dilated and lips puffy. She smirks before she pushes her hips harder against yours, firmly pinning you against the counter and holding your head back as her lips attach to your neck.

You try to bite back moans as she moves down your neck, but it’s hard when her hands move up your sides and to your tits, pushing them together and squeezing roughly as she kisses the skin not covered by your low-cut top. 

When she finally pulls back from your hot skin and looks back into your eyes, she can see the desperation, so she wastes no more time in moving her hands to the button of your jeans. She kisses you eagerly as she fiddles with the zipper, then once your jeans are completely undone, she dips a hand under the waistband of your panties and easily finds your clit. 

She swallows your quiet moan as her fingers trace circles around your sensitive spot, moving so slowly that it has you bucking against her desperately. 

She pulls back from your lips when she finally pushes her fingers into your dripping core, watching as you bite your lip and your eyelids flutter. She smiles as she begins to pump her fingers, using her other hand to cup the side of your neck.

“Keep your eyes on me. You’re so pretty for me.” she purrs, and her words paired with the quickening pace of her fingers has you mewling as you try not to tilt your head back in pure bliss. 

You’re barely even worried about where you are right now, but the potential of being caught is clear enough in your mind. You know it shouldn’t, but it makes what she’s doing to you even hotter, knowing that she couldn’t keep her hands off of you long enough for you to drive home. 

She has to cover your mouth when her thumb finds your clit, making you moan loudly as she keeps moving her fingers quickly inside of you. 

She lets out a quiet laugh at your moan before her lips are back on yours, murmuring a “gotta be quiet” as she keeps up her movements. 

You can feel the familiar sensation building in your lower belly, and she smiles against your lips when she feels you shudder. She knows you’re getting close.

“You gonna cum for me? In the middle of the breakroom?” You nod quickly as she pulls away from your lips, looking at her with hooded eyes as you keep your hands firmly gripping the counter on either side of you. You’re afraid that if you let go, your legs will give out completely, even though you’re desperate to touch Chris. 

“This is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it? Get me all worked up at work as pay back?” she murmurs, although her last sentence sounds like more of a statement than a question. 

You’re about to answer with a half assed reply, too focused on your pleasure to think of a real answer, when she curls her fingers against that spot inside you, which makes you throw your head back. Her hand on the side of your neck forces your face back down so you look at her.

“You’re beautiful. I only want you, honey, you know that.” she whispers, and all you can do for a moment is nod.

“I know.” you whisper, and after a few more pumps, you're cumming all over her fingers. She smirks as she works you through your orgasm, and you close your eyes as soft moans escape your throat. 

Once you open your eyes again, your breathing is slowing down and you’re coming down from your high, and she pulls her hand out of your jeans. You watch as she raises her hand to her mouth and licks your release off her fingers, moaning softly as your taste hits her tongue.

“Now, do you want to finish what you started here, or do you want me to take you home first?” she asks in a smug tone, watching the way you watch her so intently. 

“Take me home, please.” you tell her, and her smirk widens. She reaches down and re-buttons your jeans, and you can’t even bring yourself to care about the mess between your thighs as she grabs your hand and leads you out of the room and towards the parking lot. 

You don’t even notice Street watching you both with a smirk as you leave, and although he’s happy you’re finally not mad at Chris anymore, he’s even more relieved that he no longer has to steer anyone away from the break room now that you’re gone.

click here for my masterlist!

click here to be added to my taglist!

click here to read my request rules!

taglist: @sherlocksbaby2323 @essienoe @p14th0mps0n @celestixldarling @brooke0297 @zelfanswhenshecan @sarahsmi13s @avengersgirllorianna @bingbongsupremacy @nishinoyahhh @alyssanicole01 @outof-spite @supernatural-bangtanboys @sporadicmakerwerewolf @x0xchristine @pear-1206 @swanshells @tpwkstiles @lulubelle14 @cannibalhellhound @odetolocksmiths @rafecameronsloverrrrr @charlie-winchester94 @hollandxxmix @evysian @buckandeddiesverison @starbyun92939798 @maxinish @theking-mustdie @daeswash @911varietyposts @superlock-in-the-tardis @lilsquatch7898 @hufflepuff-spidey @starboygf @wnbweasley @damndirtylitch @eva-tts5 @alexxavicry @tatyhend @sammiejane22 @boybandbaby @toessssw @tryingtograspctrl @azkza @rosey1981 @cryedye @dreams-encapsulated-in-glamour @emilysuperswag (if you interacted with my taglist post and are not on this list, make sure your blog is visible in seatched, otherwise i can’t tag you! + more in comments)

[abibliophobiaa]

right where you left me;

chapter two: can i be close to you?

summary: steve harrington is unlucky when it comes to matters of the heart. for years he’s been in love with his best friend, but circumstances have made it impossible for him to make his feelings known. fate seems to have other plans, when you ask him to help you escape your wedding day, with nothing but his hand to hold and a car to drive off in. you suddenly find yourself headed back to hawkins, back to the place that feels so unfamiliar now — back to the place where you first fell in love.

warnings: 18+; smut in later chapters; alcohol mentions; class differences; financial insecurities; purposeful vignette-like/short scenes to cover a larger span of time in this mini-series (11k words).

steve harrington x f!inexperienced!reader || best friends to lovers, mutual pining, second chance romance with the town handyman who lives in a cabin in the woods.

masterlist | previous chapter

——

Those first few days pass in a blur.

You wake, often in Steve’s arms, your bodies coming together like moths to a flame. Like magnets. Neither of you says anything on the matter, merely brushing it off as the typical nature of your friendship.

He readies for the day, you watch him dress and go, and you take it upon yourself to clean up around the cabin in the woods. It’s odd, being that it’s the first time in a few years you have responsibilities like this. If you can call them that. Really, you only want to feel like you’re contributing something to the place you’re currently staying at.

Steve’s been kind enough to uproot his life for you, so it’s the least you can do. And when he comes home later in the evening, he cooks and you sit on the kitchen countertops, talking to him about his day. Soaking up the fact you can spend all this time with him now, without the societal pressures, parties, and social events to weigh you down.

About a week in you decide you want to contribute something. A fact which Steve laughs at, reminding you, “If you’ve forgotten, I want you here. Don’t feel like you need to do that.”

Both of you walk side by side on the sidewalk, him in a sweater and jeans, and you in a pair of newly purchased jeans and a dark knitted sweater. Wind prickles against your cheeks, the puffer vest you’re wearing doing very little to block out the cold. Leaves crunch as you walk, dancing along the streets as people pass on by, kicking them up as they go.

The Hideout comes into view, dim lighting highlighting the ‘Now Hiring’ posted hanging in one of the windows. “It’s like the universe is sending me a sign!” You giggle brightly, hand wrapping around Steve’s wrist like a bracelet, dragging him into the restaurant behind you.

It’s different than you remember. Still that darker interior — all wooden floors, wooden bar, wooden walls. Against the side wall is a sprawling bar top, with steel stools full of patrons sipping on drinks. There are some bent low in conversation, others looking like they’re on first dates, all blushing cheeks and bashful smiles. Others are cheering, wearing jerseys of whatever team they support, likely coming home from a football game.

The dining area is different than you remember too. Wooden chairs around wooden tables, beautiful lighting hanging from above, the room cast in an ethereal glow. From where you're standing you can see families and couples, friend groups and bachelorette celebrations occupying the spaces. Smiling servers and wait staff weave in and out of the aisles, before your gaze swivels to the hostess at the front booth, asking how many in your party.

“Two, please!” you say, leaning into Steve’s shoulder excitedly, giving his hand a squeeze as the woman leads you toward a table near the back of the restaurant, your mind still whirling a bit at how successful Eddie’s place has become. Once seated, you whisper, “This restaurant is insane. Can’t believe this is the same bar.”

Steve nods. “He really did a great job with the place —”

“Says the guy who put together a good chunk of the furniture here,” Eddie teases, placing menus on the table in front of you both. “Fancy seeing you two here. Thought you’d still be holed up in the love shack. Rob's going crazy.”

“I could only take off a few days for the wedding,” Steve reminds him, shoving the older man lightly. “We’re seeing her tomorrow, if you must know.”

“Good, because she’s been parked on my couch the past few nights and Abi and I haven’t had any alone time,” Eddie says with a grumble, but you know there’s no malice there. “Get whatever you want — it’s on the house. My ‘welcome back to Hawkins treat.’”

Eddie moves to leave, but you stop him with a hasty, “The door. It says you’re hiring.”

The man in question turns back around, arms crossing over his chest. His eyes travel up and down your form, a question burgeoning in his gaze, “Yeah, I’m in need of waitresses for the busy season. You keep your tips. Why? Do you need a job?”

You swallow. “I don’t want to mooch off of Steve the whole time I’m here. And I don’t really know what I want to do long term, but I figure I need money to do anything. So…yeah?”

“Then you’re hired.”

Steve grins, but you shake your head. “No, no. I don’t want you to just give me a job. I want an interview, just like anyone else.”

“Okay…” Eddie glances Steve’s way briefly. His best friend only shrugs. “Do you have any customer service experience?”

“I worked at a clothing store in Starcourt?” Before it burned down, obviously.

“How long was that for?” Eddie asks, pulling out a free chair and settling in front of you.

“Few months,” you tell him, and then blurt out, “I also babysat for the Sinclair’s for a bit!”

“You babysat the younger Sinclair?”

“Yeah,” you say, a little quieter this time, not quite sure what he’s getting at.

Erica had been nothing but lovely to you in all the time you babysat her; if not quite a bit sarcastic and oftentimes blunt, but given you’ve spent years in the company of Steve Harrington and Dustin Henderson, it was never anything you couldn’t handle.

“And survived?” Eddie asks.

Steve nods rapidly. “She —”

“Quiet, she’s interviewing.” Eddie raises a hand to silence Steve.

“I…survived…” Your words are quiet, and Eddie leans backward against the frame of the chair, contemplative.

“Abi makes the schedule on Sunday usually.” Tomorrow, then. “I’ll ask her to put you on for Monday, and then we’ll go from there. How does that sound?”

You swallow, a little miffed, brows knit high on your forehead. “That’s…that’s great. Yeah. Monday is good.”

He claps you on the shoulder and ruffles Steve’s hair, grinning at a server that passes by as he shoves his chair back into place with a loud screech against wooden floors. And then he’s off, leaving you to stare across the table at Steve, trying to hide the smile that creeps along your lips at the realization of what just happened seconds ago.

“So…” Steve takes a sip of his drink, grinning ruefully, “that happened. How are you feeling? First job in a few years, yeah?”

“I…I have a job.” Steve bursts out laughing as you nearly topple over the table in pursuit of wrapping your arms around his next. “I have a job!”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he chuckles, sliding a hand over the small of your back, grinning into your cheek. “I'm so proud of you. Think we should order a bottle of wine and celebrate a bit?”

That’s exactly what you end up doing.

——

In the mornings, you and Steve share coffee and breakfast. You’ll take turns cooking. Some days he’ll wake you with coffee in bed, Garfield lounging across your thighs. Others, he’ll stumble into the kitchen, eyes bleary and in search of the coffee pot, while chocolate pancakes cook on the stove.

Those mornings are your favorites, because you’ll often hear him murmuring to himself how much he loves you — and you try to deflect that feeling that crawls up from deep within you, the part of you that craves for him to mean it in the sense that he’s in love with you.

Later, he parts for work and you ready yourself for shifts at Eddie’s restaurant. Which is a learning curve, to say the least. Abi, Eddie’s soon-to-be wife, only laughs as you drop another plate filled with water cups in the back, landing on your butt in the process. A huff pours out of you, just as some of the cooks grin your way, offering condolences for your likely bruised tailbone, and Eddie’s head pops into view, all the dark curls that resist staying put in an elastic spilling around his face. He’s grinning but you’re frustrated, on day seven of utterly making a mess of things.

“It’s really not that bad,” Abi reassures you later that afternoon, your apron draped over your shoulder, punched out for the day. There’s a glass of wine in front of you, but you haven’t really had any of it. “It takes time. You’ll get it.”

“It shouldn’t be this hard.”

And yet it is. For years you’ve lived a life of luxury, shuttered away from society. Work was some lofty idea, left behind after you fled Hawkins. You want to pick up on things, want to be good at them, to make Steve proud. Yet you still struggle, still find yourself doubting your capabilities, wondering what it is Eddie saw in you when he hired you.

That night, Steve and you sit around the coffee table in his living room. You’re wearing a pair of cozy sweatpants and an equally comfortable hoodie and he’s there in that yellow sweater of his you told him to never get rid of. The one that has some holes in it now around the edges, but looks great on him all the same. A puzzle rests on the table in front of you both, the pieces scattered all around the wooden surface. Garfield snoozes on Steve’s lap, curled up onto a tight ball, his purring mixing with the crackling of the burning fire mere feet away.

“I’m proud of you,” Steve says, sipping at the beer on a coaster in front of him. The label is long scratched off, condensation dribbling down in little rivulets against the glass. Confusion pricking, your head tips to the side. “Eddie says you’re doing well at the Hideout.”

“He’s lying to you,” you deadpan, pushing another edge piece into place. “I’m struggling. But Abi says it just takes time. It’s definitely not like working at my old clothing store over at Starcourt.”

An edge of darkness flitters across Steve’s features at the mere mention. It shudders and ripples in the spaces between the two of you. Neither really talks about it all that much, especially now that he and you both had been in extensive therapy for it. And even then, the remembrance stings a bit. The reminder of what that day meant for your friend group. Hadn't then at all really to your detriments, when everything happened as it had. Instead you’d both pushed it away and hopped into Steve’s car some days later, with nothing but a map and some money pooled between the two of you.

But it had been enough. It had been everything. The road. The warmth of summer. The escape. The boy.

Steve’s not a boy now. Hasn’t been for a while, you realize, sitting there and peering into those hazel eyes that almost look like molten honey when the fire dances within their swirling depths. Your fingers reach over and twine with his. Just as they have countless other times, just as they always do. Seeking him. Craving the nearness of him. Comforting him, but also yourself.

A cheek of his twitches. Curls a bit with the softest of smiles. Steve Harrington’s smiles are your favorite. Have always been. They’re the kind that a picture can’t capture, an artist can’t form the likeness of. The only way to contain them is to see them, to bottle them up, to store them away in your heart. Sometimes, when you were younger, you imagined they were special. Meant only for you.

Still do now, if you’re being honest with yourself.

“Nothing is quite like working at Starcourt,” he teases, diverting to humor. You wince a bit at it, fingers around his twitching lightly. “Not everyday someone gets possessed, and you get abducted by Russians, huh? Bet the Hideout will feel like a walk in the park soon in comparison.”

“I hope so,” you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else. “I just don’t want to sit around while I’m staying here. Maybe I’ll…start saving up for my own place? For the time being, at least.”

“Or you could just stay here,” Steve says evenly, free hand stroking over Garfield’s fuzzy head, “I did say you could stay as long as you like. I didn’t just say that to say it. I like having you here. It feels…normal. It feels good. Really good.”

There’s a little rasp to his voice. A brokenness that clings to the edges of his speech. Your fingers tighten further, crawling up onto your knees to settle down at his side, shoulder bumping his as you reach over to place another puzzle piece down in the proper position. He leans his head against your shoulder, forehead shaking back and forth against the fabric of your clothing, and you just know he’s smiling without even seeing his face.

“Okay, okay. But the moment you get sick of me I’m giving you permission to kick me out —”

“Won’t happen,” he assures you, chuckling a bit.

“How can you be so sure?”

“For one, I’ve known you for years already. You clean up after yourself. You’re crazy loud, but we match each other in that, so it’s fine. You’re not bad to share a bed with — although you go all starfish on me in your sleep —”

“I do not!” you exclaim shrilly, cheeks burning up at the notion.

“You do,” he laughs, dragging you closer to him with an arm around your shoulders, “woke up with your drool on my chest the other day.”

“Yeah, because you’re a human furnace!”

“Doesn’t seem like you mind, seeing as you end up on top of m —” He pauses, the puzzle piece you playfully threw at him bouncing off of his cheek and onto the floor with a clatter. Garfield scampers off to eat, likely rolling his eyes at your antics as he goes, the sound of his collar bell jingling drowning out the silence in the room. “You just threw a puzzle piece at me.”

“I did just throw a puzzle piece at you,” you repeat slowly, bursting out into loud, shrieking laughter as Steve rolls you over onto the blankets scattered beneath him on the floor, body caging yours in place.

His fingers twitch along your sides, your body writhing and rolling beneath him, a frantic jostle of your stomach that has his face crashing into your shoulder, his smile warm against the skin of your collarbone.

You’re children again, you think, as your fingers slip under his sweater and pinch at his sides, earning a loud howl from the man. “Geez, not the pinchy fingers.”

“Mercy?”

“Mercy,” he pleads, his fingers pinning your hands at your sides, chest rising and falling rapidly in a direct mirror to your own.

“You look different from this angle.”

As in, your blood heats with it. Heart clangs at the proximity of your hips in relation to his. The way your mind itches and races to know what he’d feel like if he lowered himself a bit, the cradle of your thighs a home to him. He’s breathing heavy, his laughter joyful on your ears, eyes dark as they clash with yours.

“Different how?”

“Not a bad ‘different.’”

Not at all. He looks older now — is older now. His clothes fit differently now. He’s always been fit from basketball and baseball throughout the years. But he fills out his shirts and sweaters differently now. His chest broader, the stitching on his sweater hugging his biceps as they ripple around you — as you’ve seen them in the days since you’ve come back to Hawkins. Working as a carpenter seems to have had its benefits, and you try to not dwell on the fact you’re reaping them now.

His hazel eyes slide over your form searchingly. His chest still rising and falling as your fingers pinch in the yellow sleeve of his sweater, pulling at a thread that spills free from a stitched seam. The sudden shift of your form has your back flaring, right in the middle of your shoulder blades, a wince crossing your features before you can mask it. Worriedly, Steve rolls over onto his side, asking, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

No. Never. “No. Just…not used to carrying as much as I have the past few days, it seems. Pretty sad, isn’t it?”

He rolls his eyes at your self-deprecating remark. Sits up against the couch so his back is against it and pats the ground between his thighs. “Come here.”

“What…?”

“Come here,” he repeats, a little impatiently.

You return his eye roll with one of your own, clambering up and off the ground and into the space between his thighs. There’s little time to worry about the proximity of your spine to the muscular wall of his chest before his fingers are pressing into the curves of your shoulders, rubbing at the tensely corded muscles there.

It’s easy to relax like this. Can’t really think of a time when you last felt so relaxed. Usually you’re under the judgemental stares of dozens of eyes. Those who think they know you, understand you, and yet don’t. Defined by a name you had no name of being born to. It was only by circumstance. But you’ve always felt like yourself around Steve. No need to put on airs, to hold yourself to a certain standard, to lift your head a certain way or say all the right things.

He’s only ever wanted the fullest version of yourself. Probably has been one of the only people to ever understand you in the way you wished others did as well. For years you wondered if people knew you, really knew you, they wouldn’t like what they saw. But sitting here, in this cabin, with this man? You realize you don’t even care. Throw away the rest of the world, and leave Steve behind, and you’d have everything you ever wanted.

“Does this hurt?” he asks, thumb swiping along the top of your spine, right at the dip below your skull, before swiping in an arch along each curve of your shoulders. “I’ll stop if it does.”

“N-no,” you sigh, languid against his frame. “Although, I’m feeling mildly jealous of all those who may have benefited from a massage by Steve Harrington.”

A chuckle rumbles against your back. “Only you, really. In case you forgot, Eddie got me a cat to keep me company.”

A part of you, a very selfish part, rejoices inwardly over his confession. A little victory dance, sending giddy sparks throughout your bloodstream. That giddiness burns molten as Steve pushes the neck of your oversized hoodie down a bit, fingers wrapping around the fullness of your shoulder, tips of them dipping below your collarbone.

It’s a not at all sensual touch — and yet it has heat pooling between your thighs, has you biting back a quiet moan that inches up your throat, reminding you of the mere fact that it’s been a couple of years since being with anyone sexually coupled with the fact you’ve spent the past few days pressed up against the only one you’ve ever been in love with at night.

That’s all it is. The only thing that has you melting further against him, humming pleasantly as elusive sleep tugs you closer and closer into its comforting embrace. After a while, you’re not sure how long really, Steve’s arms start to slide around your waist, his chin against your shoulder, the sound of his comforting breathing a welcoming metronome against your ear. Your fingers reach up and slide into the holes of his sweater, brushing along the dark hairs you know line his forearms, lulling you and him into further rest. To anyone else, you know what the scene looks like: two people, intimately knowing one another, cuddling. Broken away from the rest of the world and into one of their own. To you, you know it’s another normal afternoon with the man.

And yet, your eyes lock with the dying embers crackling in the fireplace, wondering if it could ever be different. If only one of you were brave enough to broach the conversation, to see if the feelings are reciprocated, if now is finally the time to take a chance. A leap. To dare to dream a little. A silly, childhood dream that seems so insurmountable. Still, you crave it more than anything else.

You breathe in deeply, Steve’s arms tightening around your waist. His heavy, rhythmic breathing lets you know he’s fallen asleep now. Your fingers stroke along his arm again, a comfort to him but also you, and you finally close your eyes.

You rest, that question in your mind dying with the firelight.

——

“Monster Mash” blares from a speaker somewhere in the distance. Drowns out the chatter of those downstairs as you put on the finishing touches of yours, El’s and Max’s Halloween costume.

“Wednesday Addams again?” Max muses, pointing to the costume you managed to put together in a couple of hours, not knowing until the last minute you were going to a party to begin with. You’d also been Wednesday the last time you’d been living in Hawkins for the holiday.

You’re presently smudging red lines near the bottom of her jaw, adding little droplets of blood when and where needed. El is beside her, looking very much like a mummy.

“Hey?” Steve appears in the doorway. The hottest Danny Zuko you’d ever seen. You’d never admit that, though. “I don’t mean to interrupt but, uh —”

“Just finishing up,” you tell him softly, smiling appreciatively at the way his eyes roam your form swathed in black, “we’ll be down in a minute.”

Steve smiles and jogs down the stairs, leaving you standing in the bathroom once more with the girls, chewing on your bottom lip and likely smudging the dark lipstick you’d slapped on.

“I guess some things never change,” Max adds, beaming mischievously when your fingers stutter over her jaw, “still pining over Harrington.”

“I do not pine!”

“You pine,” Max giggles, blue eyes sparkling in her mirth as they glances to El for support, “She pines, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah,” El mutters, a bit more shyly than her best friend, “you pine.”

“Well I didn’t take Max Mayfield and El Hopper to be gossips,” you snark, dabbing a little red lipstick on Max’s pouty lips, voice taking on a higher pitch.

“It’s been, what? Almost ten years of you pining after him?” Max wiggles her shoulders, smirking when you glare at her.

“You were practically an infant then,” you balk, cheeks burning along with your chest, “not even in Hawkins.”

“Yeah…but…” El begins, tucking a hair behind her ears, “it’s kind of…obvious?”

“You two are lucky you’re my favorites of the children.” Though now, with them graduating this year, it feels weird to call them that.

“He pines too,” Max adds. “Right?”

El grins. “Definitely.”

“Is that so…?” You grin, a little rueful, hope blooming in your chest. “Tell me m —”

“Well look at this little band of creepy folk,” Argyle drawls from the doorway, shiny hair falling down around him in a halo, his Michael Myers mask dangling from his hand. “Don’t wanna interrupt this little gathering, but you know…”

——

As the Halloween buzz dies down around work and town, the frigid streets become full of the changing seasons. Leaves fall everywhere you go. Bursts of orange, yellow, red and gold swirl around busy side streets, packed with those investigating local farmer’s markets and slipping in and out of family owned businesses to purchase gifts to get ahead of the holiday season.

The Hideout becomes busier in those weeks. Countless patrons fill your stations, back screaming and head spinning by the time you end your shifts. That day in particular, you stand behind the bar with Abi, chugging down a glass of water she poured you before stripping your apron from around your hips.

“Did well in tips, it looks like,” she points out, gesturing to the wad of cash you promptly stuff into the pocket of your jeans. “Told you you’d get better.”

It also helps that you had multiple larger parties that evening, all of which were more than happy to pay a little extra once they’d gotten a second and third round of beer in them. Though you didn’t really appreciate the way one in particular had slipped his phone number, writing ‘for a good time call.’ You’d chucked that into the garbage with a huff, making sure to toss a wide grin over your shoulder as they later slipped out of the restaurant and he waggled his fingers near his ear in the shape of a telephone, as though you were going to run home and reach out.

“I told Steve I was going to make us dinner since he’s working late on a job, so I’m going to head out.” You huff out a breath, staring up at the clock that reads seven. “Though I think I’m going to need to grab caffeine. I don’t think I sat down once today.”

“Get out of here!” Eddie shouts, sneaking over to loop an arm around Abi’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to her temple. Something like longing bubbles up in your stomach at the sight, the craving for what they have simmering with it. “Or else you’re fired. You’ve worked late every day this week. If you get sick, that’s on you.”

“Fine!” Your hands wave in front of you in defeat, waving to the two of them as you slip out the front doors of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk.

At this time of evening, those wandering the streets are quieter. Bags full of goodies from their excursions. You tug your jacket tighter to yourself as you slip on by, waving to those who have started to become normal faces once more over the weeks in Hawkins. They wave back, grinning like they used to. Greeting you like you hadn’t been gone for three years.

It's strange to think of being gone now.

Strange to think of leaving again.

You find you don’t want to leave again.

And fortunately, no one from home has tried to make an effort to bring you back to the city kicking and screaming. Part of that is by design — leaving no way for them to contact you in the first place. No one knows you’re staying with Steve. No one really even knows where Steve is these days, given he’s not been in contact with his family since they left in 1986 as it is.

You want to keep it that way.

Smiling to yourself, you slip in through the front door of Hawkin’s Brew, a little family run coffee shop that sits a few doors down from your job, smelling like cinnamon and spices, and the freshly brewed coffee you can see percolating over the countertop.

A new barista lifts her head up over the counter. All wavy blonde hair that reminds you of a mermaid and sparkling green eyes around a pair of thick lashes anyone would die for. Gorgeous, she’s absolutely gorgeous and you definitely would have remembered her face if she’d been there before.

“Hiya!” she greets, beaming widely, revealing a glowing set of white teeth that flash in your vision. “You look confused. My mom, Mary Jo, is usually here with my dad. But mom wasn’t feeling well, and I’d finished up at the preschool, so I’m here to help. I don’t think I’ve seen you around. I’m Lucy!”

You offer your name and a soft ‘hi,’ still a little startled by the exuberant greeting. “Nice to meet you, Lucy. Sorry to hear about Mary Jo. I hope she starts to feel better soon.”

Lucy leans her elbow against the counter, and you can’t help but admire the cream colored chunky knit sweater she’s wearing with a flowing skirt to finish off the look. It looks effortless on her.

“What can I get you today?”

“A hot coffee, cream two sugars please,” you tell her, and she gets to work behind the counter.

Out of the corner of your eye you notice Steve’s truck he uses for work, the back full of leftover lumber.

“Oh, Steve’s here?” Lucy says, sounding a little faraway. Contrast to the ball of excitement she’s been since you walked in. “You know, he’s a confusing one, that guy.”

“Is he?” You laugh, watching as he rummages around his front passenger seat.

“Ever since the earthquake, he’s been giving up so much of himself. Charity, taking up the basketball team at the high school, helping out around town. Did you know he helped my parents build a shed last summer? By hand?” Her voice trails off, and that smile of hers grows once more, like she’s stuck in a far off memory. “And he’s handsome. Single. Yet he doesn’t date. Not really. It’s so…strange? But whoever he marries — they’re gonna be a lucky one.”

“Yeah…” Your brows furrow at her words.

Steve, your Steve, is something of a hero to these people. He’s your hero too, but it twinges in your chest hearing it from someone else. For so long he’d been yours, but now, it seems, he’s needed around here. Admired. Loved. And you’ve missed so much of it in running away. Time you’ll never get back.

He’s changed. You just never realized how much. An ache builds in your heart, wondering if maybe you’re too different now from who you both were years ago.

The man in question hops out of the vehicle, fingers carding through his hair as he gazes into the coffee shop, immediately lighting up when he sees you.

“Do you know him?” Lucy asks, voice raising in pitch as she hands you your coffee and you toss your bills onto the counter.

“Yeah,” you say, sipping at the coffee, “he’s been my best friend for years. I’m staying with him for the time being, actually.”

“Oh!” Lucy perks up, chewing her bottom lip. “So you’re the one he’s so —”

As your mouth opens to ask what Lucy means, Steve walks in. He immediately commands the attention of the shop, both yours and Lucy’s stares drawn to him as he slides an arm around your waist and tugs you against his side, oblivious to what he’s interrupted.

“I was going to grab you some coffee,” he says, fingers squeezing a bit at your side. He notices Lucy then. “Hey, Luce.”

Luce.

Familiar.

Jealousy burns. You try to tamper it down, to pretend the unspoken words between them don’t matter to you. But there are a thousand new questions that burn in your mind, with no words or standing to ask them.

Lucy waves in greeting, those pretty green eyes of hers glimmering in the moonlight spilling in through the front windows of the shop. “Always good to see you, Steve.”

“You too,” he agrees, head lowering closer to yours as he then asks, “Ready to head out?”

He’s leading you to the door, and you spare a glance over your shoulder to the woman you’ve just met moments ago. There’s a look you can’t quite place on her features, a furrow of her brows, a slight downturn to her softly parted lips.

You wave your goodbye, and try to push all of whatever that might have been into the depths of your mind.

——

Steve tosses and turns behind you. A fitful rest that has you rolling over onto your side, fingers brushing along the clenched planes of his cheeks. You can practically hear his molars smashing against one another, can feel the rapid thump of his heart in his chest as your fingers splay against his sternum.

At the touch, his face softens in the slightest. A low moan pours from him, a whine of ‘no, don’t’ cleaving your heart right down the middle.

“Steve?” It’s a whisper. A plea for him to come back to you in the waking world. He reaches out in his sleep and clutches at your tee shirt, clutching the fabric tight. Another whine. A whimper of a cry. “Steve, I’m here. I’m here.”

Sweat pools along his skin, despite the chill in the air. The tips of your fingers press to his forehead, running along the wrinkles forming high up on the skin there. His name is a whisper over and over again on your lips, a soft beckoning into wherever his dreams have taken him — a tether for him to grip onto, if only so you can reel him back in.

You’re no stranger to nightmares. They plague you, too. Dark, weaving things that sneak into your mind at night, tendrils clinging to the innermost workings of your mind. That day at the mall, watching as that monster loomed, dark and imposing in a colorful explosion of light. Billy, being ripped into over and over again. The spray of black blood, the cries of Max. The moments that came after, where Steve practically demanded an EMT to look over your ribs, despite the fact there was nothing one could do if they were broken anyway. And then there had been those images on the news — of classmates fallen to Vecna. Memories of the splintered down, the gaping holes in the earth, the spaces where many had disappeared into. Endless faces of the lost, declared dead or missing.

So much turmoil. More than some kids and teenagers were ever meant to see in a lifetime.

“Let go!” Steve shouts into the night, rolling over again so his back faces you.

“Steve,” you whisper, running a hand along his spine, “it’s me. Come back to me. I’m here.”

He rolls over again and his eyes open, locking on your features. Broad palms come up to cup your face, forehead descending upon yours. He mutters your name a little brokenly, moving to press his head into the space beneath your chin, arms looping low around your waist.

“I’m here, Steve,” you remind him.

There for one another, as you’ve always been.

In a world where people come and go, where you can’t rely on anyone, he is your rock and you are his.

“Shhh.” Your fingers thread into his hair, smoothing the messiness left in the wake of his endless tossing and turning. His breathing tapers off. Slows. Starts to deepen. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

But you fear the day he may no longer need you.

——

Steve’s…liked by most. Sought after. Desired. He’s popular, in a way that you’ll never be. With his friends, with his teachers, with women. Though he was your first kiss, you’re not even delusional enough to believe he’s only saving his lips for you.

He doesn’t do relationships often. He goes on dates and you watch him from afar. Can see the glow of his bedroom window, the hurt that burns like a knife when he sneaks a girl in while his parents are gone. Your curtains always shut when they kiss, when things start to feel like a betrayal to the foolish unrequited feelings you harbor.

It becomes a thing. Wishing and wanting your best friend as he loves everyone else around you.

Luckily, they’re always short dalliances. Flings. Dates that lead nowhere. And even though it hurts, there’s some comfort in the fact these things never last long.

That is, until Nancy Wheeler steps in. And you make yourself scarce. She’s smart and lovely and beautiful. She’s everything you could ever want for Steve — and she’s not you.

Just like everyone else he sneaks into his bedroom.

Because why would Steve Harrington ever look your way like he does theirs?

And therein lies the problem.

——

A month. You’ve been in town nearly a month and things are more or less exactly as they’ve always been. Platonic and full of yearning. At least, on his part. He’s not quite sure what to make of your feelings lately — and he’s never been one to push the envelope with you.

He needs a sign. A sign from up above or something just to show him that all his efforts have not been in vain.

It comes that afternoon. Sweat pools along his chest and stomach. Along his back as it ripples with each swing of the ax, splitting piece of wood after piece of wood. The plaid shirt he wears is long unbuttoned, stomach fully on display as he pauses a moment to reach down and sip some of his water set on a wooden stool nearby.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

He’s so caught up in the monotony of the task, the methodical way he swings down and splits the wood, that he fails to hear your arrival. Only notices your form out of the corner of his eye, hiding behind a tree.

Or, at least, it looks like you think you’re hidden.

He can see the way your chest rises and falls rapidly, your fingers covering your heart, like you’re terrified he’ll hear it. The boots on your feet are pinched tight together, likely having stopped abruptly once you noticed you could potentially be caught.

And there’s that bottom lip of yours, tucked between your teeth. Biting back any noises that might slip out.

He doesn’t miss the way your eyes trail along his abdomen. How they linger on the newer muscles there, hewn by countless hours spent working as a carpenter. You look downright guilty — like a child with their hand caught in the cookie jar.

He adores it.

“I don’t mind if I have an audience, you know?” He muses, grin growing wider as you stumble a bit in the leafy pile at your feet.

His amusement grows as you tilt your head up to the sky, as if searching for something. Unfortunately for you, it’s a cloudy day, and there is nothing to see up above other than an endless gray sea.

“Steve…” you warn, still not meeting his eyes.

You’ve always been endearing. Sweet, in a way he finds adorable. And this sudden shyness when you’re typically so sure? It reminds him of those moments when he first kissed you, all those years ago. Your heart was like a hummingbird’s wings against his chest that evening, fingers trembling against him, unsure of what to do with yourself.

“Here,” he chuckles, walking over to curl a hand around your wrist and putting you out of your misery. He walks you over to where he’s splitting wood, “wanna try?”

“I mean, sure. How hard could it be?” you tease, back stiffening as he slips in behind you, sweat-slicked skin pressing against the curve of your spine before relaxing into him.

He’s already placed a new log on the block, the rest of his split pieces lying on a rack near the side of his home. Wide palms come to wrap around your hands, sliding them into place on the handle of the ax. One near the top for grip, another near the bottom for powering through the stroke. “Grip it nice and tight. Both hands.”

“Okay, like this?” you ask, looking over your shoulder at him, and his breath immediately hitches. Throat cleaning, he gives your shoulder a quick squeeze and steps back a little.

“Spread your legs a little. Shoulder width apart. Yeah — just like that.”

You’re a little sheepish as he steps over to the side, trying to put enough distance between you and him to feel safe enough. A cold breath puffs out of his lungs, the cloud billowing in the air before him as you glance down at where your hands are firmly grasping the handle, deep breaths to center yourself echoing in the forest.

“Now you’re going to pick a point on the wood and focus on it, raise the ax and strike through, focusing on that spot.”

“Sounds easy enough,” you nervously murmur, doing exactly as he instructed, the ax rising above your head.

As you swing downward, the ax wedges into the wood, and you stumble to the ground, kicking up leaves as your bottom slams against the forest floor. Steve stumbles forward to check if you’re okay, but when your sides start trembling with uncontrollable laughter, his face breaks out into a grin.

He loves you, and he aches with it. More — now that you’re living with him.

“Guess you don’t want me helping you on any jobs, huh?”

A couple days later, however, you do exactly that.

Mr. Gerry Jones is an older man in town, and in desperate need of a new paint job for his living room before he tries to sell his home. Steve agreed to help weeks ago, and when his partner comes down with the flu, decides to ask you if you want to come along. He finds you laying on the couch that morning with a book, and he hardly expects you to say yes with the amount of hours you’ve been working at the Hideout, but you quickly jump to attention with a nearly shouted ‘yes.’

Now you sit beside him on the floor, admiring the freshly painted wall, taking a moment to breathe before starting the next one. You’re wearing a pair of overalls, a ratty old tee shirt tied up beneath, revealing the curve of your side, a patch of skin that Steve’s been trying to not stare at for the past few hours.

His heart clenches as your head tips over your shoulder, a little splatter of olive colored paint across your cheek. Reaching out, he cups your cheek and wipes it away, warming as you lean a bit into his touch.

Neither of you dares to acknowledge the tension burning in the room. The way it feels like time seems to slow to a halt when you’re there, shuffling up onto your feet, moving over to the next wall. Steve only talks. Begins prattling on about anything and everything, trying to keep himself distracted from the feeling swirling in his gut — the desire that has only grown every day to see what might happen if he just dared to try. To close the gap between your lips and put to bed all the questions.

But he doesn’t. Instead he gazes ahead, mouth dropping open when he asks about what your relationship with Clark was like — in what feels like an attempt to torture himself — and you utter that you’d never really done anything with him.

“Or anyone…for that matter,” you add slowly, your bottom lip pushing between your teeth, voice a little quiet.

“Like…?”

“I’m not a virgin, Steve,” you bark out, eyes rolling a bit in your skull. “But I’ve really only been with one guy. And it wasn’t even good or anything.”

“You’re joking.”

“Steve.”

“I’m not making fun. I’m just…”

“Shocked at how pathetic I am?” you drawl, taking a step backward. Away from him.

“No — I just —”

“It’s not like the movies either. All of the explosions and fireworks.” You frown, and Steve grimaces at your words. At the sadness lining your features. “I just — I don’t know. It wasn’t like how you’d always talked about it. We barely even kissed during it and I didn’t…”

“Honey…” he sighs, taking a step forward. “Clearly, he wasn’t the right guy. The right guy would have made it extra special, because you’re special, and definitely would have made sure you finished before he did. And I’m sorry but he didn’t deserve you, because you deserve all the explosions and fireworks.”

“Yeah?” You sound so hopeful, eyes a little narrowed, mouth parting softly.

“I mean…hypothetically…” he steps a little closer.

He catches your slow swallow. The way your chest heaves on a breath, eyes trailing his form. Heat burns in the atmosphere as your eyes narrow a bit, staring at him like you had in the woods. Appreciatively, and not at all like a friend. How long had he missed those looks? How long had he not noticed the slow simmering desire beneath the surface? Suddenly he’s back in that closet and a teenager again, only now instead of your jean shorts, his finger curls into the pocket of your overalls, chest brushing yours. Cornered, your back bumps against the presently dry wall behind you.

“If it were me —” He stops. Thinks better of it.

“N-no,” you splutter out, voice a rasp, breath puffing, “go on. Hypothetically, obviously.”

“Well, for starters, I’d start by getting down on my kne —”

“Hey, kids!” Mr. Jones calls into the room, and you both jump like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t be. “Could one of you help me sort through some boxes? I don’t want to be a bother, but my back just isn’t what it was, you know?”

You throw a hand up in the air. “I’ve got it.”

Steve inwardly groans, his jeans suddenly a little too tight at what he’d been imagining doing to you only moments before — what he’d been imagining doing to you for years, if he was being honest.

You glance away, rushing over to Gerry, embarrassment rolling off your form.

And you’re gone, following the older man from where he came.

Conversation…over.

——

The window next door glows with lamplight. It’s after the earthquake that you see it. The earthquake that has you hiding in the doorway, holding onto the frame as the earth shudders and groans beneath you, pictures of your family now shattered frames scattered into a million pieces on the ground.

You grab a few things. Bandages, clothes, some water bottles. You can’t really tell how many people are over there, so you grab a pack. And when you ring the doorbell and Robin answers, looking stricken and covered in an inch of dirt, your heart groans too, because the look on her face is grim.

Steve throws his arms around you when you enter his bedroom, a whisper of, “You’re safe,” against your head. Reverently. Like he can’t quite believe it, like he wasn’t sure what he would find when he came back.

Your hands slide up and along his back, his body jolting at the contact, your fingers coming back a little stained with what looks to be fresh blood. “Steve, you’re hurt. I brought bandages.”

“He’s worse,” Steve utters through gritted teeth, “take care of him first.”

And there on the bed is Eddie Munson, with Nancy Wheeler there to rest a cloth against his head, whispering to the man under her breath. Soothing him, soothing those wrinkles that line his forehead — deep set in his pain.

With Nancy’s help, you get to work. Trying to cut him out of his clothes, careful to not agitate the wounds any further, apologizing for every whimper. Every broken sob of the man who fought to save a town that would have killed him on their own had they been given the change.

And later, after you’ve scrubbed your arms raw to try and rid yourself of the remnants of Eddie’s blood, Steve slides in beside you in the bathroom. Curls a hand around your head and tugs you against him, kissing your temple. Whispering something against your skull that you can’t quite make out. Steve’s not religious, but you swear he thanks someone for keeping you safe.

“You’re next,” you mutter, wiggling out of his hold, peering up at the dirty face of the man you love. “Strip.”

“See, in a different context, those words coming from your lips —”

“I’m not joking,” you sing-song, tugging at the bloodied shirt he’s wearing. “Off with it.”

“I can’t,” he winces.

“You’re getting modest with me now? I’ve seen you half naked more times —”

“I think it’s a little stuck,” he groans, turning around and peeling off the outer jacket. It falls to the ground and you can see what he’s talking about. The injuries, freshly reopened, cling to the fabric like a second skin.

You whistle on an exhale, and he laughs darkly. “It’s not so bad. Just looks like one area got a little angry. If you get in the shower, I can run a little water on it to loosen it up.” You lift the edge of his shirt a bit, noting the swath of bandages around his waist. “Who did these? They look pretty good.”

“Nancy.”

“Good,” you say, a little softly, “now into the shower, Harrington.”

You’re trying. Trying to make light of a terrible night. But you can see the pain in his form that runs deeper than the scratches on the surface. Can see it in the tension on his form as he slips out of his jeans and climbs into the tub with nothing but a pair of boxers.

Neither of you speaks for a while. As you turn on the water and try to soak his shirt. As you eventually peel the shirt away and whisper you’re sorry over and over when he hisses and bites back against the pain. Nor as you run a damp towel over the wounds to clean them, careful to not agitate his mangled flesh further.

But then you hear it. The sniffle. The shudder of breath.

“Steve,” you whisper, threading your fingers in his hair, feeling him tremble against your touch, “what happened tonight?”

He cries. Folds his face into his hands and cries.

You toss the cloth aside and climb in to hold him, because you’ve known physical pain, but this pain hits differently. Twists in you like a knife. You can handle your own pain, but seeing Steve break, seeing your hero crumble, is a pain that cuts to your marrow. Shatters and scatters your heart into a million pieces.

But you have to stay strong.

For him. For all the times he’s done the same for you.

He clings to you, fingers fisted into your shirt, and you don’t let go.

——

You don’t talk about that moment in Mr. Jones’ home. Neither of you bring it up for days. And yet — it’s all you can think about. The way he looked your way, the timbre of his words, the way heat had crawled up your spine. How it also pooled low, throbbed in your core in a way that was unfamiliar to you.

Was this passion? Desire? Lust? All feelings that seem so foreign, and yet you don’t fear them. You just ponder the new questions that arise. The curiosity of what this might mean — if it could lead to more.

On that particular day, both of you were off of work. Decided with Thanksgiving swiftly approaching, it was about time you went pumpkin picking. Pumpkin picking turned into a whole day event, where you and Steve took turns arguing over which pumpkins were suitable for the front of his porch, and which were suitable for decoration for the potluck gathering with some friends that upcoming weekend.

And after spending half the day drinking warm apple cider, sharing donuts on a hayride while bundled up in comfortable clothing, and racing each other through a corn maze, you’d decided the last thing on your itinerary for the “full Hawkin’s experience” was to carve pumpkins.

“In case you didn’t know,” Steve jokes, his knife poking out a hole for an eye in his pumpkin, “Halloween was a few weeks ago.”

“So what? We were busy and didn’t get to do this sooner,” you bemoan, cutting open the top of yours and moving to stick your hand inside.

“You’re just going in like that — bare hand and all?”

“What’s a little guts, Steve?”

“It’s gross,” he says plainly, eyes narrowing, “and messy.”

“What’s wrong with a little bit of mess?” Your tongue pushes out between your lips as you get to work, pulling out handful after handful of pumpkin guts into the garbage pail you set up beside the table the two of you worked on.

“I happen to not mind a little mess,” he teases, coming to stand over your shoulder, the heat of his chest at your back. “What are you making?”

“A Garfield pumpkin,” you tell him, scooping more of the inside out into a trash can. “I happen to be quite fond of your kitten. Maybe more than you.”

“Really?” he asks playfully, stepping a little closer to hook his chin over your shoulder.

“Are you jealous?” you muse, circling around.

Like this, your chests nearly brush, his palms come up to rest beside your hips, caging you in against the table. Heat pools low again at the look on his face. The firm line of his lips, the curve of his jaw, the round depths of his hazel eyes. There’s a look in them you can’t quite place — a look you’ve never seen in Steve’s eyes, or anyone’s for that matter. But you know you like it, thighs bumping a bit off of the table as you crawl up onto it, legs swinging beneath you.

Fingers come up to curve along your cheek, Steve’s thumb brushing the line of your jaw with a pinky. Delicately, like you’re precious. Like you might break. “You got a little something on your face.”

“Oh,” you whisper out, swallowing as he leans in closer, as his hips slide into the space between yours. “Steve…”

He steps closer once more. Hips brushing against the cradle of yours. There’s a heat from him that seeps into you. Grows as his forehead rests against yours and you both breathe in the same space, neither of you speaking, because there’s nothing this moment requires other than a nearness. His nose glides down the side of yours, one hand of his coming to curl around your hip, squeezing the curve of it. Your mind screams at you he’s going to kiss you, and your heart leaps because you want it.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, and it’s a loaded question.

You’re thinking you want to erase the space between the two of you. You’re thinking there’s a chance this doesn’t quite mean to him what this means to you. You’re thinking that you’re scared to allow Steve to see inside the part of you that you’ve kept from him all these years. But you’re also thinking if you’re going to play with fire, there’s a knowing chance you may get burned.

“I’m thinking…” you exhale, chest pushing further into his as your back arches a bit, propping yourself up onto your hands. Only, as soon as you do so, pain flares in the center of your palm, gasping breath coming out with a, “Shit!”

Steve’s there in a flash, fingers curling around your offended wrist that you show him. Blood pools up from the wound, the bloodied knife skittering beside it onto the forest floor when he shoves it out of the way. You hadn’t even remembered it was there, too caught up in the moment.

“Honey…” he sighs, thumb brushing along the curve of your wrist, glancing down at the cut, “let’s get you inside. You might need stitches.”

“No hospital,” you tell him, pinching your bottom lip between your teeth, “you’ve patched enough people up. This should be a walk in the park, right?”

“Yeah but this is you,” he says, and before you can ask him what he means by that, he’s helping you off of the table and steadying you when you land on the leaves below.

The bathroom is dimly lit by this time of day, even with Steve flicking the light on as soon as you enter. The edge of the tub is cool against your leggings, chilling your skin even through the fabric, as Steve rummages around in his cabinets for a first aid kid. And then he gets to work, sitting across from you on the toilet seat, making sure to irrigate your wound before dressing it.

“Not deep,” he says finally, inspecting the shallow cut that slices the center of your palm, “gonna disinfect it.”

A hiss pours from you as he does, pain flaring in the wound. Your free hand whips out to clutch at his pant leg, pinching the denim tight in your fingertips until the burning ebbs into a throbbing sting that beats in tandem with your heart.

“What did you mean before?” you ask as he starts to dress the wound, winding a bandage around and around your palm. “The whole ‘but this is you.’”

Steve pulls out a piece of medical tape and presses it to the end of the wrapping around your palm, his thumb rubbing along the inside of your wrist. “I can handle my pain, but I could never handle yours.”

You swallow, because you understand. You know first hand what he means — have experienced it yourself. Watching the man you love throw himself into harm's way and injure himself in the process. Having to mend his wounds, to see him hurting without a way to stop it, when all you wanted was to ease the pain.

“There you go,” he whispers, fingertips teasing along yours, before letting your hand fall back against your thigh. “No more pumpkin carving for you.”

“Thank you.” Your lip twitches as you climb off the lip of the bathtub, following him down the stairs.

“Steve, back there, I…”

“Come on, let me cook us dinner.” He pauses, stopping himself once you both realize you speak at the same time. “Wait — what were you going to say?”

You swallow thickly, the nervousness choking your words and drying them in your throat where they live and die instantaneously.

Not the time.

“N-nothing.”

——

“Don’t think I didn’t see how the two of you walked in together.” Robin twirls her drink around in front of her, brows arching as a smirk creeps along her features.

You sip your red wine, smiling to yourself over the rim. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Although you do. You arrived at Jonathan and Nancy’s new home with a freshly baked apple pie in hand, and Steve’s hand against your lower back, keeping you close to him. Clearly it hadn’t gone unnoticed, the evidence apparent in the look Robin was sending your way.

Out of the corner of your eye you notice Lucy struggling to open a wine bottle in the kitchen, and excuse yourself from Robin’s side to greet the woman. She’s beautiful today, in a pair of black jeans, and a brick red sweater. Effortless again, with endless wavy hair and those glowing eyes of hers.

“Here — let me,” you offer, helping her to get the cork out of the bottle.

Once it’s open, you pour the two of you new glasses of wine and clink your glass with her’s, peering out over the kitchen island to take in the sights around you.

Nancy and Jonathan went all out. They lined up multiple tables around the kitchen, making room for friends and family alike. Their parents sit at one table, while Steve, Robin, Eddie, Abi and Argyle talk amongst themselves. Holiday music filters in through the radio, as Nancy and Jonathan carve into the giant turkey resting against the table covered in Thanksgiving themed plate wear.

It’s been a long time since you’ve had a holiday like this. This is warm and inviting. Back in the city your parents would rent out restaurants and have wait staff take care of your evening. You’d always resented the thought that, while you spent time in a cold environment under the guise of “Thanksgiving,” those employees missed out on time they could spend with their own loved ones.

And when Steve looks over, you almost feel like you could fit in here. Almost allow yourself to dream big — to imagine a world where when he lifted his hand and waved as he is now, it would be full of love, full of the newness of relationship.

“So you and Steve…?” you can’t help but to ask, turning so your back rests against the kitchen counter, offering Lucy a soft smile.

She returns it a little tightly. “We…dated for a bit.”

“Oh.”

You weren’t expecting that. Had witnessed a little something passing along their features when you’d bumped into her weeks ago, but never thought to chalk it up to them dating. On paper it makes sense. She’s a teacher, they work together, she’s gorgeous, vibrant, bubbly, interesting. She’s here. She’s been here. And she belongs here.

And you — you don’t know what you’re doing most days. You’re living with Steve, but for how long? You want to stay, or think you want to, but what does that entail? There’s also the lingering doubt. The fear that you don’t quite belong as you once did. Can see it in the looks from people as you pass. Those who haven’t seen you in years now regard you as a stranger.

“Yeah, we’d gone on a few dates. He was always such a gentleman…but it just…” she exhales, and you watch as her eyes trail his form, “he always seemed kind of…detached? He didn’t want to commit. Sometimes we’d be spending time together and he just…didn’t seem all there? But it all made sense when I saw you two at the coffee shop that one day.”

“What?” you splutter, red wine dribbling down your chin at the suddenness.

“He lit up when he saw you. I’d never seen him look at me that way,” she admits softly, sipping her own wine. “I kind of wanted to hate you for it, but you were so nice and he deserves to be happy.”

“Oh — we’re not — it’s not —”

“Not yet,” she teases, giving you a little eye roll. “He’s happy. And he’s present. Both are things that have changed within him since you’ve been here. I don’t think that’s mere coincidence.”

Her words settle within you as you later join Steve at the dinner table, leaning into his shoulder as he scoops your requested dinner options onto your plate. They linger even as the kids arrive for dessert and the group ends up playing endless card games, laughter lyrical and swirling around the room, growing louder as the drinks continue to pour into awaiting cups.

And later, as you sit on Steve’s couch in no more than a pair of leggings, a comfy hoodie, and knitted socks you ponder Lucy’s words again while a fire crackles in the fireplace.

“What’s on your mind?” Steve asks, fingers kneading into the arch of your foot, your head against the armrest, eyes closed in contentment.

“Lucy is really pretty…”

“She is,” Steve agrees, his fingers pushing in again, drawing a deep sigh from within you.

“She works with kids, she’s bubbly, she’s established. All things that you’d normally go for.”

“Okay…”

“I’m just…I’m — I guess I'm trying to figure out why you two didn’t work out then.”

Steve pauses in his ministrations, shifting a bit on the couch to look at you. “Honey…you know why.”

“No,” you retort, feeling anxiety bubble up within you, “I really don’t.”

“There’s always been someone else.”

“I’m not understanding…”

With a sigh, Steve scoots closer. Tugs you up and onto his lap to get you even closer, your knees thumping onto the couch cushion at each side of his hips. He grips your hips and stares up into your eyes. There’s an unspoken question. A whisper behind his stare. Begs for you to look deeper, to see him, to see his heart.

“No.” You shake your head, anger welling. Replacing that anxiety. “I’ve looked at you my whole life and you never noticed. Now? Now you decide you —”

“It’s always been.” His strangled voice breaks your heart.

“Then why didn’t you say anything? All this time, all these years —”

“I tried,” he interjects, fingers winding tighter around your hips.

“When?”

“First time I visited you after you moved away.” He sounds somber. Heartbroken in a way that’s foreign to you. “You’d gone inside and your dad and I had a drink out back. Remember?”

You nod, swallowing thickly, fingers running along the hair at his temple. He gives you a little squeeze, forehead resting against yours.

“He…I told him about my feelings for you. And he…well, he wasn’t supportive.” He exhales a wobbly breath. “He had his points. I had no money. He was right about that. I worked at a dead end job and was going nowhere. I had nothing to offer you. He…painted a picture of us in a few years from now. Asked me how I’d be able to keep you happy…keep our family happy. And I thought maybe he was right.”

“Bullshit. Everything he said to you is bullshit,” you snap, climbing off of his lap. “I never wanted any of that. If I had you, Steve, then I would have everything.”

“I know that,” he cries, jumping to his own feet, looping an arm around your hips. “I know that now. I’ve seen you here the past few weeks and you fit here. With me in my life. I want to stop wasting time pretending you’re just my best friend because that’s all I ever thought you could be. I want you here. I want you in my bed every morning and night, I want to touch you and, I don’t know, hold you while we cook dinner together. I want to kiss you just because I can. I want to hold your hand. I want all of that.”

He tugs you close, your chests thumping. His heart throbs against your sternum and you raise a palm to settle there, to push him back, but you find you can’t. He sucks the air out of the room when he’s that close — when his mouth is mere centimeters from yours, and all you want is to close the distance.

“I never felt good enough for you,” he breathes against your lips, his breath a shaky exhale. Lips graze against lips, your fingers slide up further, along his chest, over the curve of his neck, the slope of his jaw.

“You’ve always been good enough for me, Steve,” you whisper back, forehead nuzzling forehead. “I don't need all the money. I don’t want fancy dinners or cars, I don’t need the newest clothes, shoes, pocketbooks. I’ve only ever wanted you.”

He slides a palm up against your cheek. A thumb draws a soft line across the curve of your jaw. “And now? What do you want right now?”

“I want you to kiss me.”

——

sorry about the delay. i’ve basically been sick since july, and wasn’t planning on having so many of my ‘bad’ days the past couple of weeks. the next chapter will be long, and i mean long. can’t wait to hear about what you think about this one! likes, comments, reblogs — all of that is such an encouragement to creators and means the world, so please consider 🤍

[riordanness]

wildest dreams - [p.jackson]

pairing: percy jackson x reader

wordcount: 1.3K

warnings: none

requested: yes!! (anonymous)

“In your wildest dreams, Jackson,” I scoff, staring down the boy fiercely. My sword in hand, my battle armour on, I was easy to beat this stupid son of Poseidon once and for all.

He grins at me, his smile slightly lopsided. “Okay, Red,” he teases. “Bring it on.”

I roll my eyes at the nickname. He’s been calling me it ever since he came to camp, two years ago. Ever since he found out I was the daughter of Ares, and I lived in a big ugly red cabin with a terrible paint job. I mean, I hate the cabin’s decor as much as the Aphrodite kids, but that doesn’t mean Percy Jackson gets to insult me.

I yell, and charge at him, our swords meeting in midair with a clang. I whirl, aiming for his unprotected side, but he blocks me, sidesteps, jabs at my stomach.

I stumble back, slashing at him, as anger flashes through me. I want to beat him. I have to beat him. This has been going on long enough, and I need to get my revenge.

Two years ago, Percy Jackson came to Camp Half-Blood. On his first proper day here, he tried to drown Clarisse, my older sister, and two of our other siblings. He made a fool out of Ares cabin. Then, later that summer on his stupid lightning bolt quest, he fought our father, the god of war himself, and somehow, he won. He ruined Ares’ reputation completely.

Ever since, I’ve wanted to turn Percy into a Poseidon pancake.

“Come on, y/n!” Adam, my favourite brother, cheers from the side of the arena. “Beat Jackon’s ass!”

“I’m trying!” I shout back, as Percy manages to catch the hilt of my sword in his. He’s stronger than me, and taller. He pushes down, fighting against my strength. Then, as he’s pushing his sword down, he suddenly twists, and I’m forced to let go. My weapon clatters to the ground.

There’s silence from the bleachers. Every camper there, who came to watch us duel, has no idea what to say.

I have a lump in my throat, and I don’t know how it got there. A sudden, overwhelming feeling of defeat grips me, and I send a tearful glare in Percy’s direction.

“I hate you.”

I shove past him, hoping my final words sting him as much as my loss to him stings me.

“You should let this go, you know?”

I glance up in surprise. Leah and I are on stable cleaning duty today, which is an absolutely awful job, in case you were wondering.

“Let what go?” I ask.

She waves her hand aimlessly in the air. “This whole… Percy Jackson thing.”

I raise my eyebrows, disbelieving. “You want me too, what? Forgive him?” I make a sound in my throat that’s almost a gag, almost a growl. “Hell no.”

“Come on!” Leah pleads. She’s the daughter of Athena, with pretty dark skin, dark braids, and warm dark brown eyes. She’s shorter than me, but way smarter and prettier. We arrived at camp almost the same time, three years ago. I’m still not sure why she likes being my friend, but I love Leah.

“Look,” she sighs, leaning against her broom. “I hate Poseidon as much as the next girl, and Jackson isn’t exactly my favourite person.” She grimaces, probably remembering the time Percy messed up and made her team lose at Capture the Flag. I’d won that day, so maybe I should thank Percy for his service.

“But,” Leah continues, “he’s not really a bad person. Like, yeah he’s a total dumbass and annoying and way too cute for his own good–”

“What?” I half groan, half laugh. “No he’s not.” I try to believe it myself.

Leah ignores me. “He’s not worth making your enemy.”

I sigh. “I guess you have a point…” Even saying that feels wrong. I want to hate Percy; I want to get my revenge and prove for once and for all that Ares isn’t lame, that we can be great.

But, Leah is right. There are bigger things to worry about now. There are rumours; Kronos is rising. Luke Castellan is making an army. Camp Half-Blood will be going into war.

I realise my grip on my pitchfork is so tight that my knuckles have turned white. I let go of the pitchfork, watching it fall into the straw on the stable floor and almost disappear.

“Go.” Leah gives me a little shove. “I saw him doing paperwork sorting for Chiron on the porch a little while ago.”

I give her a quick nod, brace myself, break into a sprint, running towards the Big House.

I spot Percy long before I reach the Big House porch. As I near, my footsteps slow to a walk, and I have to force myself to take a deep breath, striving for calm. My temper isn’t easy to control.

“Hey,” I call, taking the front steps two at a time.

Percy half-glances up, looks back down at his pile of letters and documents, then double takes at me. “Y/n?”

I try for a smile, waving at him with my fingers. “What’s kicking?”

“Uh–paperwork,” he replies, looking at me in slight confusion, probably wondering what I’m doing here. “For Chiron?” he adds quickly, then scrunches his nose in a way that almost makes me want to agree with Leah about Percy being cute. Almost.

I nod. “Sounds like torture to me.”

Percy grins wide. “Tell me about it.” He waves the stack of papers in the air as he gets to his feet. He’s only standing half a metre away from me now, closer than we’ve ever been without trying to beat each other up. “I never remember how much I hate being dyslexic until I try doing this.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, suddenly having no idea what to say. Percy seems to notice the awkward pause, and frowns uncertainly at me. “Why are you here, y/n? I doubt it was for just a chat.”

I let out my breath slowly. “Uh—yeah. I came to make out—I mean up! Make up.”

Percy tries to hide his smirk, and fails. I feel my jaw ache from clenching it. All my old hatred for this boy bubbles almost out of control, but I fight it, like I fight everything, and this time I win.

“Okay…” Percy muses. “Y/n, the daughter of Ares, god of war, wants peace.” He stresses the last word. “Not to mention I humiliated both her older sister and her father, when I was twelve.”

I grit my teeth and glare at him. “Do you want me to pulverise you, Jackson? Because I will.”

“Oh really?” Percy has an eyebrow raised. “But I thought you came to make up? Or was it out?”

“Why did I let her convince me to do this,” I mutter, already ready to just make a run for it. But no. Leah was right, albeit pretty frustrating and exasperating and extremely embarrassing. I did need to end this somewhat ridiculous rivalry with Percy. And I guess it was now or never, right?

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out before I can change my mind. “I’ve been stupid and selfish and I’m sorry.” I hold my hand out to him. “Friends?”

Percy stares at me, then my outstretched hand for a count of three. At first, I was almost certain he was going to leave me hanging. That would be so like him! But then, he grins, that adorable, dumbass smile I’ve known for so long now.

“I don’t want to be friends, Red,” he says, his words solemn and his tone teasing. “I’m in love with you.”

[jumpywhumpywriter]

ANOTHER list of some of my favorite quotes and short scenes from my OC named Shadow, a morally gray anti-hero who is the snarkiest, whittiest, most sarcastic and badass person in my in-progress fantasy trilogy. I just love her brutal personality so much!

Let me know what all of your favorites are! 😁

(Other list of snarkiness can be found HERE)

1. "Embrace the pain. Only through the darkness will we find the light. Unless of course, you're like me, and you prefer the dark." Shadow smirked wickedly, flaring her wings out for emphasis. "Or something else wise-sounding along those lines," she added sheepishly.

   2. Thomas: *accidently runs into Shadow's wing when she stops abruptly*

Shadow *whirls on him angrily* "One day my patience will run out, and I will punch you. In the face. VERY HARD," she growled.

Thomas: *internally traumatized*

   3. **Shadow's team playing fun game of 'how do you think you will die?'**

Thomas: "Honestly, my death with probably be caused by ticking Shadow off at the wrong time," he laughed heartily.

Shadow, with a deadpan expression: "My death will probably be caused by being sarcastic at the wrong time."

   4. **Shadow, in a grumpy mood after Tanner tries to tell her the 'when life gives you lemons' optimistic approach** -- "Life has never given me lemons. It has given me anger issues, anxiety, and a serious dislike for stupid people. But not lemons."

   5. "There's a reason I told Tanner you were an idiot... STOP PROVING ME RIGHT!!" Shadow threw her hands up uselessly, glaring at Thomas.

6. "Shadow, I'm sorry."

   "I'm starting to think ‘Shadow, I'm sorry’ is my actual name, considering how often you say it to me."

7. Shadow, after accidently causing some casualties: "I admit, some mistakes were made--"

Thomas: "Murders."

Thomas: "Some murders were made."

8. "I believe in hate at first sight." --Shadow

9. "You know what sucks? Everything."

10. "What is WRONG with you people?!" Shadow yelled at the team.

11. "What was that?!" Thomas yelped at the sound of a loud crash from the other side of the enemy-filled room.

"The sound of the tables turning," Tanner laughed in relief.

*Shadow aggressively appears and tears the enemies apart*

12. "Uh, Shadow? I need some assistance," Thomas called out.

"How unfortunate," Shadow replied, not pausing her sharpening of blades.

13. "Ugh, My head hurts," Thomas grimaced.

"That's your brain trying to comprehend its own stupidity," Shadow offered oh-so-helpfully.

14. "That doesn't look very 'alone' to me," Shadow growled, glaring daggers at the man standing next to Tanner.

15. "Who is he?" Thomas squeaked fearfully, staring at the tall, imposing figure across from him and Shadow.

"Just a hunch, but I'd say he's the bad guy," Shadow snorted.

16. "Ah, yes, so we live to die another day." -Shadow

17. "Is 'no' an emotion because I feel it."

18. "A penny for your thoughts seems a little pricey, don't you think?"

19. "Admit it. Life would be boring without me," Shadow grinned. (And we can all agree with that statement, right everyone??)

20. Thomas: *is gushing sentences hysterically because something traumatic just happened to him*

"Shhh.... no one cares," Shadow cut in.

21. "You want nice? Or honest?" Shadow raised a meaningful eyebrow.

22. "You’re not really stupid. You just have bad luck when you think."

23. "Yes. I understand what you’re saying. I’m just not going to do it." -- Shadow turning Thomas down on a request.

24. "I’m not sarcastic. I’m just intelligent beyond your understanding," Shadow yawned dramatically.

25. "This is my opinion of your opinion." *Shadow spends next hour telling Thomas exactly how wrong he is*

26. "First of all, no. Second of all... still no."

27. "It's a beautiful day to leave me alone."

28. "If you need anything from me, reconsider."

29. Tanner: "Good morning!"

Shadow: "What's so 'good' about it?"

30. "Hmm... my common sense is tingling."

31. "My alone time is sometimes for your safety."

32. "I can use a single word to describe what's wrong with you, Thomas: everything."

33. Shadow tilted her head to the side, looking genuinely puzzled. "Not sure if you're trying to be funny or if you're just an idiot."

34. "What essential oil makes you go away?"

35. "The stuff you heard about me is a lie, I'm way worse."

36. "My level of sarcasm has gotten to the point where I don't even know if I'm kidding or not," Shadow admitted sincerely.

37. Shadow: "Relax, he died of natural causes!"

Thomas, horrified: "You flew him higher than a skyscraper and dropped him on concrete!!"

Shadow: Gravity's natural.

38. "If you don't like my attitude, quit talking to me."

39. Tanner, eating grapes: "Shadow, you want some?"

Shadow, wrinkling her nose with distaste: "I have to decline. I'm not used to consuming wine in pill form."

40. Thomas, trying to talk Shadow out of going out and murdering an enemy that recently ticked her off: "Why seek revenge? Karma is going to get the bastard anyway."

Shadow, baring her teeth angrily at him. "Exactly. I AM THAT KARMA."

41. "Truth is I did escalate things," Shadow snickered.

42. "Sorry, slight tone delivery problem."

43. "Huh. This would be a cool way to die."

44. "Great plan, I love the part where I almost bled to death," Shadow remarked with an eye roll.

45. "If you're too open-minded, your brains will fall out," Shadow growled.

46. "Friends come and go but enemies accumulate."

47. "Wreaking havoc is my personal specialty."

48. "I have boundary issues. You better respect them." Shadow narrowed her eyes warningly.

49. "People need to start appreciating the effort I put in to not be a serial killer," Shadow groaned in exasperation.

50. "Well I'm so sorry my facial expressions don't know how to use their inside voice!" Shadow sneered.

51. "I’m actually not funny, I’m just mean and people think I’m joking."

52. "Thomas, I will LITERALLY ignore you so hard you will start doubting your existence."

53. "It’s okay if you don’t like me. Not everyone has good taste."

54. "I don't keep secrets, I just keep people out of my business."

55. "Sorry for being late. I got caught up enjoying my last few minutes of not being here."

56. "Don’t worry about what people think. They don’t do it very often."

57. "Have a nice day, somewhere else."

58. "That sounds like a ‘you’ problem. Not a ‘me’ problem."

59. "Aaaaand we've officially reached peak bonkers."

60. "You are more disappointing than an unsalted pretzel."

What doesn't kill you gives you a set of unhealthy coping mechanisms and a dark sense of humor, as you can tell from this list. 😂 poor Shadow! She's been through so much, but she's still the funniest, snarkiest character ever through it all!

Masterlist #1 - all my main whump stories

Masterlist #2 - all stories specifically involving Shadow and Thomas

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222

[i-am-church-the-cat]

After watching 2024 ISU Montreal, Logan as a figure skater has been on my mind for the longest time.

god...aaaa...im rolling on the floor rn, i can't handle it

the years of my life invested in YOI and figure skating aus is unstoppable, i can't hold it back, i must type-ity-type

Logan's father introduced him and Dalton to ice skating through hockey. Even living in Florida, they had been fans of any and every sport. Football was a favorite, of course, as was basketball, baseball, soccer, lacrosse, sailing, surfing, skiing, and golf. High-contact sports were the most compelling to boys of their age, so when they learned that there was a sport where guys slammed into each other with knives on their feet, they had to check it out.

But starting hockey wasn't what made Logan fall in love with the ice. The first time he'd ever skated had been with his mother on a lake by her childhood home back up in Ohio. He'd been so small, stuck to her side like a barnacle, a mama's boy since the beginning.

The smooth glide of his feet across the clear surface was revelatory. The weight of himself was no longer holding him down, gravity was easier to fight on skates instead of shoes. The thin white lines they left behind them were entrancing. Logan never worried about getting lost because he always knew where he'd been.

Hockey was fun but it wasn't what Logan wanted. The ice wasn't made for chipped teeth and blood-soaked spit. Something that was safety and grace, as dangerous as it was beautiful, deserved more respect than that.

There was a kid on the team between his and Dalton's, Lance. He was cool in a weird sort of way and didn't care that Logan never knew when to speak and when to stay silent. They didn't hang out often and they've fallen out of touch since, but it was his fault that Logan became who he was.

Or, more accurately, his sister's.

Chloe wasn't very graceful but she was an artist and she loved the ice. If Logan got to practice early enough, he could watch the tail end of her figure skating practice. Mr. Stroll always rented out the entire rink for Chloe and her private figure skating coach, only the best for his daughter. So a lot of the times it would be just her, dancing on the ice, her coach, shouting critiques over her chosen music, and Logan, sitting lonely and enraptured in the stands.

It took him almost a month of watching Chloe before he got up the nerve to try out some of the things he had seen. The choreography wasn't that hard, though Logan's rhythm wasn't the greatest at nine years old. But the jumps were hard, and the jumps hurt, and he couldn't figure it out.

But something always made him get back up and keep trying. He couldn't stop once he got something stuck in his mind and the leaps and twists of figure skating jumps were stuck like flies in amber.

The first jump he ever landed was a toe loop. Not that he knew what it was called at the time, and he barely finished a whole rotation, but he stayed standing which was better than he had done in the couple weeks he'd been trying any time he could steal some ice time. When Logan had hit the ice, wobbling but not falling, he'd let out a shocked, delighted laugh. Instead of being sated, his fascination with figure skating just wanted more.

"You're a little old to not be landing singles."

Logan whirled around at the unexpected voice. He'd thought he was totally alone, the rink on the edges of closing. But there was Chloe Stroll's figure skating coach, looking at him with calculating eyes. Logan tried to hold himself up taller, to look more secure than he felt.

"I- I've never tried before," Logan had admitted. He'd felt embarrassed and then felt mad for feeling embarrassed. The coach had looked considering.

"Have you ever tried ballet? You might want to start there."

Logan, even at nine, had recoiled at the idea. It had taken all his courage just to practice figure skating in private, in steps and moments he could steal. But ballet was- his dad would never want him to do that. Dalton would laugh at him, the couple friends he had would think he's weird. He couldn't do ballet.

But he couldn't give up the ice, either. Even when his hockey season ended, Logan was at the rink every day, begging his mom to take him after school. He was older than most kids were when they started and he didn't have a coach or any proper training. If he wanted to do the kind of things Logan wanted to do on the ice, he'd have to push himself further, train his body more, practice for hours on end. A few hours every week wasn't enough.

It was nearing the summer time when Logan worked up all the courage in his little body to ask for ballet lessons. He'd done research, used the family computer to look up ballet teachers in the area, ones that specialized in training athletes for other sports. He had his arguments, his bargaining chips, his promises and dreams all held in the palm of his head.

Logan worked up the courage to ask.

And his father had laughed.

So had Dalton. The only one who didn't laugh was his mother, who saw the heartbreak Logan tried so hard to hide with his fake laughter. Of course, he was only joking. That was the only possibly explanation for why he would say such a thing.

Logan's dreams died that night. He resigned himself to copying jumps he saw on YouTube, stolen moments in the ice rink that felt safer than his own home sometimes.

But the next week, when his mom was taking him to the ice rink, Logan realized they'd made a wrong turn. When he mentioned it to his mom, she'd just shushed him. He'd been left in confusion all the way up to the small, squat building. He'd picked out the words on the sign in front of him like a crow picking out gems from the refuse.

Ayliah's Ballet School

Logan's dad was mad when he found out about the lessons a few months later. In response, Logan had brought all the figure skating magazines he'd been hoarding down from his room and showed them to his parents. The pages he'd bookmarked, the sketches he'd made to try and figure out a skater's pose, the torn-out descriptions of an intricate step sequence. He'd looked up at his dad with big, desperate eyes, willing him to understand the inextricable draw figure skating had at him.

By the time he started fifth grade, Logan had a ballet teacher and figure skating coach. By the end of fifth grade, he had landed his first triple jump.

--

At 19, Logan was the most anxious he could ever remember being. He was also more excited than he thought physically possible.

It was his third year in the senior series, and for the first time, he'd been invited to two ISU grand prix. He had an actual chance at the world championships, something he hadn't had since he won the junior series at 16.

Logan's choreography that year was good, really good. He'd put way more work into his presentation after what an opposing skater had said to him at nationals last year.

"Your jumps might have won you one championship, but everyone can jump in the senior series. Stand out, Logan, or get out."

For Logan, who had never cared much what music he had or what step sequences he did as long as it got him enough points, it was a rough wake up call. He was proud of his jumps, the technical perfection he'd spent years and years honing. He could now land the the quad toe loop, quad salchow, and quad Lutz consistently in competition. But his artistry left something to be desired, and it hurt his program scores in the long run.

He'd changed that this year. He'd worked with his choreographer for months to find the right music, the right transitions, the right spins and steps. Logan had even reached out to a figure skater he'd skated with in the junior leagues who always had the best costumes about his stylist.

The first thing he'd noticed about the ice was that it was a canvas, a glistening field just awaiting someone to paint it in soft white stripes. He'd fallen in love with the danger of it, the allure, but he had neglected the emotional appeal. Madame Ayliah would surely be disappointed if he saw him.

But not this year. Not with a short program as bold as the one he had this year, not with a free skate this spellbinding. Logan had even started drafting ideas for a exhibition state, caught in the draw of expressing his emotions on the ice. He was never good at being vulnerable but this year, the ice demanded it of him. He demanded it of himself.

The US could send three men's figure skaters to the World Championships. Three out of thousands. Logan was going to show why he deserved to be one of them.

One day, Logan would lay on the ice, bleeding and broken, and know its cruel love had run out. But today, it welcomed him home.

[tabl3]

you guys remember the oneshots i drew pictures for forever ago? here's the kaz and oil one //tw for homophobia and interrupted f slur

Kaz & Oliver (pre-Decimation)

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“It’s gray and disgusting.”

Kaz spat a little laugh. Oliver animatedly whirled around to shoot him a look.

Kaz waggled his fingers at him.

Oliver huffed, turning forward again.

Kaz grinned, kicking pebbles as his feet thumped on the sidewalk. 

It was a beautiful day, in fact. Cool, breezy, lively as well. Everyone was out it seemed. Parents pushed strollers, people paused to pet dogs being walked, and kids kicked soccer balls in Centium City Park. 

Kaz dodged the peanuts thrown at him in his regular routine. A lovely lady, Mrs. Dabney, held a grudge against him for accidentally scaring birds off that she was feeding a week after he arrived. This was their sweet little exchange whenever Kaz entered the park.

“I love you,” Kaz skipped over the light filtering through the trees. They were cutting through the park to get to the comic store that wasn’t nearly as good as the Domain but sufficed in its absence.

“No you don’t,” Oliver grumbled, folding his arms. 

Kaz laughed again.

“Do you want me to buy another one?”

“You can’t fix this,” he sniffed.

Kaz shrugged, continuing to trail behind his best friend.

“Buddyyyy,” Oliver ignored him.

What atrocity had he committed? Eating the last Philly Cheesesteak sandwich Chase had bought them a few nights ago because they made passing comments that they missed them. Bought was a light word. He’d gotten into a jet, casually flown to Philidelphia, and popped in an hour later with authentic sandwiches for the two boys.

Eating the last sandwich, yes. And he’d stained his polo, broken his lamp, read his feelings journal, and used his toothbrush. Silly things.

“C’mon,” Kaz poked his shoulder obnoxiously. “Commemorative “I Kazzed this up photo”?”

“No.”

“Ooh-kay,” Kaz shrugged. “I love youuu.”

“I know where you sleep.” 

Kaz snorted. He looked up at the sun for fun, squinting as long as he could.

“Hey!”

Both boys startled.

“Yeah?” Kaz turned. He flopped onto the nearest bench.

There was a group of four men. They gave Kaz a strange look.

“You’re Elite Force?”

“Yeup,” Kaz clicked his tongue. Oliver stood behind the bench, not forgiving Kaz for the slight but also not that thrilled about fans. He was far more reserved now than when he was younger. “Resident super-” Oliver planted a firm kick to his calf. “Bionic heroes.”

Murmurs. 

“So you are a sissy,” one of them said, curling his lip under his ratty baseball cap. His eyes unmistakably went to the rainbow flag patch that Skylar had ironed onto his jacket months ago.

Silence.

Kaz smirked.

“Bree’s the only sister, actually,” he shrugged. This would be fun. 

“You’re one of them.”

“I’m on the team, yes.”

They seemed to get frustrated with Kaz’s indignance, which was his exact plan.

“You slimy fa-”

“Hey!” 

Oliver’s eyebrows scrunched up angrily. Kaz’s smirk widened. The man who had almost let that word fly out of his mouth paused, looking at him. 

Oliver normally wasn’t a scary individual. He had soft swoopy blond hair and a face full of freckles. He typically preferred to have one of his teammates do the talking, sticking to the side and observing. It was very rare for him to raise his voice the past couple of years. Still, he began yelling all the same.

“What the hell makes you think you have the right to talk about someone like that?” Oliver demanded, jabbing a finger toward the group. “Do you seriously have no shame?”

The one he primarily addressed wrinkled his nose. “What, you his boyfriend or somethin’?”

“Oh god, no,” Oliver gagged. “I’d rather die, to be honest. It takes a special person to put up with him.”

“I’m telling Chase you complimented him-” Kaz whispered. Oliver drove his pointer finger into a pressure point on Kaz’s neck. “OW!”

“Anyway,” he refocused on the group. “You need to grow a damn pair and understand that us endangered heterosexuals can coexist with other people, jackass!”

Kaz giggled at their reddening faces, sitting back.

“I don’t want one of them protectin’ my city-”

“Move out, then,” Oliver firmly put his arms around Kaz’s shoulders from behind. “He might be an asshole, but he’s my favorite asshole, and that’s saying something because I know a lot of assholes! At least he isn’t bigoted and a public embarrassment at like… what are you guys, forty?”

The four men reddened further. They muttered more unkind words, kicked at twig at Kaz, then shuffled off.

“Yeah, keep walking,” Oliver waved. “Buh-bye.”

Kaz cackled. “Wowzers, Oli,” he looked up at him. “I’m gonna buy you Loopy-Loops.”

“With your sugar-boyfriend’s money,” Oliver quipped, stepping back so Kaz could stand up. 

“Do you want them or not?”

“Yes please.”

Kaz smiled, fishing his phone out of his pocket. He motioned for Oliver to follow him, headed toward their favorite grocery store. It was on the way to the comic shop, anyway.

Oliver started a step behind him when the phone was picked up.

“Hey, baby. What’s your card pin again?” Kaz hummed.

A beat of quiet on the other line.

“...What did you do?” Chase inquired, already sounding exasperated.

“Little ol’ me?” Kaz put a hand to his chest. “Nothing.” he slowed to be at pace with Oliver, reaching up to ruffle his hair. “Oliver deserves a sweet treat because he’s such a sweet boy.”

Oliver rolled his eyes, but his slightly upturned mouth corners gave him away. 

“Not even going to ask. Just get home without wrecking the city, okay?”

Kaz’s phone beeped with the texted pin. 

“No promises.”

He slung his arm around Oliver’s shoulder, strolling inside the sliding doors. 

[hellcifrogs]

Sorry for dumping an entire essay on ya, I just got really excited about someone having a similar-ish au to me

- Link

No way! It was totally my bad, I wanted to post it properly, but other asks kinda pilled up on top of it haha I swear I was gonna get back to it sooner or later

That being said I found this super interesting, it is long, but please check it out:

My favorite parts are in bold and my own comments in parenthesis ->

"I see your exiled Minato post Naruto-birth and Kurama’s sealing. I raise you, this fuckin’ thing.

The time line continues as sorta normal. A gag order ensuring no one tells the children that Naruto holds the nine tails but to add to it, no one is allowed to tell the children that Minato couldn’t kill the nine tails. That he sealed it away instead. The former hokage took the hat again and banished Minato for causing ‘unjust harm’ to the hidden leaf village.

Kushina told Minato of Kurama, the angry furball that resides in her stomach. Of the old stories of her clan that once Kurama protected and resided on the many islands of Uzushio. How they worshipped not only death, but the strongest chakra beast. That foxes where resided with great respect for their trickster nature and playful demeanor. Minato gained a respectful feeling toward the fox that desired the same as his wife, the ability to run amongst the water and waves of Uzushio once again. The watch the glittering city decorated with seals and protected by the whirling pools. (I love when Uzushio is mentioned and actually used for impact with the Uzumaki's past!!)

He could not kill Kurama, not just because Kurama could not be killed, but because he knew that this was not the Kurama that his wife spoke of fondly. This was a beast under the control of a being far more evil.

Naruto is raised by none, all hate him for what he contains. The civilians peacefully unaware that Kurama was sealed, but not chained. He heard the words of the fools that roamed the village. He whispered softly to the blonde child, to trick and take what he needed to live and survive.

Naruto still struggles in school, like his mother before him. The school and teachers are not understanding to the fact that Naruto’s massive reserves of chakra do not allow him to sit still for hours at a time, that his mind does not understand like the rest. The seals that have all been woven into his blood do not allow for this teaching style to work. Iruka does his best but his position does not allow for him to speak out, all he can do is try his best but his best can only do so much for a child who physically cannot learn like the rest.

Naruto is a child with the hair and eyes of his father but everything from the shape of his eyes to the very blood that corses threw his veins to the chakra that nearly explodes out of him at every opportunity is truly, his mother’s. (MOMMA'S BOY!!)

Minato’s former team member (yes pls) feeds Naruto a dish that his mother loved nearly as much as her husband. The former team member laughs loud and heartily as the child wolfs down enough to make even the Akimichi look concerned. But the old man does not even blink, he’d seen Kushina in action. All that Chakra comes from somewhere. What ever that made up ramen had the Uzumaki addicted to it, and the older man was happy to feed the love of ramen to the uzumaki child left behind by the village.

Kakashi is truly a shell of his former self, only Gai is the reason he wakes up now a days. The man keeps Kakashi on his feet with the one day promise of his almost dad returning, that one day he can finally meet the boy that was supposed to be like a little brother.

The day that Naruto steals the seal, Kakashi should be more surprised but deep down. He’s not really all that shocked. Gai laughs after learning of the news, soon rushing off to make his team train more. As if a scrawny pre-genin could steal the most secure scroll in all the village then he needed to step up the training of his little youthful students. Iruka is hospitalized and Naruto learns the truth, the truth that deep down Naruto already knew to and extent at least. He knew he was different in more way then being the only bright blonde in the village. Naruto had stared blankly at the hokage before telling him “your security is shit” just after being told a suppose to be demon resides in his guts. The ANBU had a hard time not snorting at the face the old man made upon being told by a 10 year old that his seal where terrible and the scroll wasn’t all that impressive. Though Naruto did end the night learning a clone jutsu that he could actually use, the shadow clone. What a wonderful little reward.

The day Kakashi meets Naruto, he obtains an erase filled with chalk dust to the face. When the smoke screen is batted away he sees the blond with a fox like smile laughing, the pink haired civilian raised girl is yelling at Naruto for his immaturity while the last of the Uchiha couldn’t care. His eyes neutral to the scene but ever watching and ever taking in every detail. But Kakashi expected nothing less of Uzumaki boy and the Uchiha. He grew up with Kushina as a mother figure with her stories of her childhood and stories of her clan’s antics and her laugh like a fox as well as Itachi and Obito, both Uchiha just a step or two behind him always watching his every move even without their clan’s eyes.

Finally the day of the wave mission arrives, a C rank. Not all that eventful, not a goon or unexpected surprise. At least for the rest of the team, Naruto is pulled aside by and old man. His hair grey and his hearing going but his eyes as sharp as a tack. He’s told of the blond man who protects the land of waves, that he lives far out on the old islands of uzushio. That every month more people board the boat the man sails to come to the islands. The tale of beautiful grey eyes of baby’s who toss of the blankets before their parents tuck them away again. Of giggling children with pet dogs that are a bit too off to truly be dogs. Of the crates and crates of supplies that’s taken to the islands not only from wave but from dozens of other small nations. Ones that won’t tell the major nations with ninjas of the silently rising power of a man who had nothing less to loose but all that much to gain. (Hell. Yeah!)

Naruto is told he looks nearly just like the blond man.

Naruto is told the man has already came to shore this month, but next month he could meet the man. That the nation hidden in the whirling tides would gladly allow the boy who never felt at home in the dirt and trees could finally belong.

Things to note:

Naruto can’t read, Kurama is essentially a second internal voice that reads to Naruto. (this is so funny to me I love it)

Naruto still wears mostly orange

Strange dogs are foxes and otters (chef's kiss)

The people going to Uzushio are uzumaki and other escaped clans of Uzushio, they just hide their appearances.

Naruto sneaks out of the village to go back to wave to meet the man (Minato)

Minato intentionally made the seal looser so Kurama could have more freedom within the seal as the hidden leaf would never allow Kurama to go free once again.

No one realized that the seal was loose because Pervy sage doesn’t know what the seal is supposed to look like in the first place. He learned from non-Uzumaki sources. Minato learned from his beautiful wife

Enjoy my minor essay -Link"

[arickaandherfictionalothers]

Aricka’s new apartment in Avenger’s Tower

(Aricka and Steve; Aricka and Tony.)

(Tony shows Aricka her new floor in Avengers tower.)

(^^^ the Pinterest board I made for Aricka’s living quarters!)

Aricka was watching a movie in the team communal living room when two hands covered her eyes. “Tony….” She says, knowing from the callouses and the warmth that it was her surrogate big brother who was blocking her vision. “What are you doing?” Her tone was fond and gentle, full of affection for the “man of Iron” as Thor called him.

“Well, I was gonna show you your new living space but if you’re gonna give me attitude…” He drawled; and she jumped up, whirling to face him, blue eyes wide as plates.

“I’ll behave! I’ve been waiting all weekend so patiently-!”

He laughs, offering her his hand as he leads the way to the elevator. “I’m just teasing, calm down- don’t get yourself all twisted up.” She rolls her eyes, taking his hand and leaning into his shoulder. “One condition- close your eyes.” She tilts her head. “What-? It’s a surprise. I wanna see your first reaction to every part of the new living area.”

She giggles, rolls her eyes fondly and complies, feeling two calloused hands cover her own. “Not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that- I don’t want anything to spoil this surprise,” he says, one arm wrapped around her, the other merely covering her face. “JARVIS, take us to Aricka’s floor.”

“Yes, please JARVIS,” Aricka echoes.

“Of course, Miss Rogers.” The elevator doors shut with a whoosh, and the ascent began.

“I think JARVIS likes you more than me; and for once I agree with his taste,” Tony quipped; making Aricka giggle again. “Steve is gonna join us once we’re up there. Honestly, it’s like he doesn’t trust me with his baby sister’s living arrangements. Me? Tony Stark, unable to be trusted. Can you imagine? I gotta say kid; you definitely are the more agreeable twin. Tell him to loosen up once in a while; yeah?”

Tony’s usual rambling manner did wonders to relax and distract her from her anxious anticipation of what she was awaiting.

The elevator came to a smooth stop; and JARVIS once again spoke, “we have arrived. Miss Rogers, may I be the first to say, welcome home.” The girl blushes, whispers a soft,

“Thank you,” and steps off the elevator with Tony’s assistance. Carefully he maneuvered her to the center of what was her new living room.

“You ready, Twinkle Toes?”

“Ready Tones,” came the response. Tony took his hands away; and hers fell to her side as she took in the room around her.

The walls were a soft, lavender purple with pink accents. There was a purple throw rug under a plush L-shaped lavender couch, which had several purple and white pillows adorning it. On the far left wall was a salmon pink chair with a matching footstool, with a cream colored pillow on top.

Tony had perused his own remaining art collection and found several pieces he knew she would love; and tastefully decorated the walls with them. A white chandelier hung from the middle of the ceiling; and fairy lights decorated the space casting a golden glow across the room.

The kitchen connected to the living room; and Tony stepped back to let Aricka explore at her own pace.

“This looks like the one from home,” Aricka whispered as she opened the fridge- stocked full of her favorite cold treats and drinks. Tony had found several purple cooking gadgets and made sure to display them and the uses of them where Aricka could easily find them. “A purple mixer-!” She giggled at the object.

“Hey- why have a boring black mixer when you can have a totally awesome purple one that works just as well?” Tony commented.

The cabinets and shelves were also full of Aricka’s favorite snacks and ingredients for her favorite foods and desserts. Tony had noticed that gift giving was one of her love languages; and he knew she loved feeding people to show she cared; just like he did.

“This is all for me-?” She asked, a look of wonder and pure awe in her eyes. Tony nods,

“Only the best for my surrogate little sister,” he says. The term made her blush and duck her head,

“Tony…”

“I mean it,” he said. “You and Cap have been through a lot in a short time. If I can lighten the load- I want to.”

They stare at each other for a moment, before Tony claps his hands, rubbing them together. “Alrighty; let’s check out the bedroom, shall we?” He opens the door, makes a grand, sweeping bow. “Ladies first.”

Aricka tips her head back and laughs; sounding a lot like her older brother in that second. She shakes her head and walks through the door, gasping softly as she takes in her surroundings.

Tony knew how much she loved fairy tales, and decided to make her bedroom look like it came straight off the pages of her favorite book- Sleeping Beauty.

The walls were once again painted a soft purple and pink; with fairy lights and soft yellow light lamps all over the space. A huge canopy hung over the bed- four poster and elegant- and purple comforters and sheets covered it. A huge stool covered the length of the bed at the edge, with even more blankets for Aricka’s personal use. He had found a perfect stencil and had Steve paint “Once Upon a Dream…” on the right wall of the room.

Several bubble chairs hung from the ceiling, bean bags covered the left side of the room, except for the space the bed covered. A hammock was set in the corner by where the stencil was, also filled with stuffed animals and pillows.

A white gift box was sat on the bed, and Aricka’s curiosity enticed her to draw closer to it. “Oh yeah- definitely open it,” Tony says, stealthily pulling his phone out to record her reaction for the others.

Steve didn’t even know he’d found this. Tony had completely discovered the find on his own.

Aricka pulled off the blue ribbon and the lid of the box, and removed the matching blue tissue paper to reveal- no. It couldn’t be- she left this behind before she became a super soldier-

“Oh my gosh,” her eyes filled with tears as she pulled out a soft brown teddy bear wrapped in a blue shirt. “You- you found my Bucky bear-?” She pulled the bear close to her chest, looking at Tony with wide; teary blue eyes.

“I found him with my aunt Peggy’s stuff,” he said. “Apparently you mentioned it to her- she found that old apartment and found him in a box of things about to be discarded. She grabbed him and took him with her everywhere- patched him up when he started looking raggedy and- OOF-!” He couldn’t finish his sentence because Aricka threw herself at him, crushing the bear between them and hugging Tony tightly.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Tony froze at first, because - hello, warn a guy first- but then, he relaxed, wrapped his arms around the girl. “You’re welcome,” he says just as quietly.

The moment lasts for a while; then Tony says, “Did I mention I made you a library and a music room-? Cause I totally did both those things.”

She laughs and pulls away from him, but grips his hand. “Show me everything.”

——————-

The music room was the next stop on their tour. Tony had found various instruments and recording equipment for Aricka to use, displaying them as carefully and lovingly as he could.

Aricka drug a finger down the strings of a light purple acoustic guitar, gently stroked a plush violin case, settled a pair of headphones over her ears. “Tony….” She whispered. “This is- it’s too much- I- can’t thank you enough.”

“I think it’s just enough for a girl who’s saved the world several times over,” he said. “If it’s too overwhelming just take it a step at a time. You don’t have to use everything all at once.”

The library was their next stop; and Aricka spent several moments running her fingers over the covers of books, down soft spines of stories, flipping books open to skim the pages. There were once more several plush chairs and blankets scattered around the space; and glow in the dark stars were decorating the ceiling.

“Tony I love this-!” She gushed softly. “You- you did all this for me-?”

“And for everyone else staying here: just unique to their interests.” She grins and turns to face him again.

Aricka crosses the room; and he already had his arms open in anticipation of the arrival of another Aricka hug. “Thank you,” she whispered softly.

“No need to thank me,” he said. “It was a big tower, I had the space.” He was definitely getting used to the idea of a sister- someone who supported him, teased him, made sure he didn’t set himself on fire.

It was nice.

“…. Steve isn’t coming to see my room - is he.”

“Nope. He didn’t even know it was ready- he’s actually getting settled on his own floor.” They take a moment to laugh together, Aricka pressing her face into his shoulder.

“I love you Tony,” she says suddenly, and while he was expecting it to happen, he still froze momentarily.

“…. You’re not so bad yourself, kiddo.” He squeezes her tightly. “You, too.”

———————————-

@astralshipper @rosieshipper @hyperionshipping @yeehawselfshipping @letsgofoletsgo @tsundere-selfship @callsign-revenge

[nancypullen]

Maple Tea and Murder

I had an interesting afternoon. I spent an hour in the conference room at Adkins Arboretum with women who love murder. Okay, maybe they don't love it, they just love reading about it. For $5 I attended Crime and a Cuppa.

Join mystery maven Kathleen Wilson for an hour of intrigue, humor, and thrills as she discusses her favorite crime novels set in the great outdoors. Brace yourself with a cuppa in the face of murders, kidnappings, some twists, and many laughs. You'll leave with a solid list of titles to see you through the winter months.  When I arrived I was welcomed by Ms. Wilson and invited to partake of the scones, cookies, and many flavored teas available. I chose Maple Cinnamon tea and a gingersnap. Perfect for a fall day.

The speaker was absolutely delightful, we covered four pages of recommended murder mystery books in just an hour. Lots of laughs, plenty of good information, and a room full of women who decided to spend their Tuesday afternoon compiling a reading list for the coming winter. Good stuff.

But, and you knew there'd be a but, I don't really read fictional murders. I prefer coverage of real crimes, the unraveling of a case via smart detective work, pivotal moments, etc. I like to be able to do a little internet research after finishing the book, and discover everything from old interviews and photos to the murderer's death row meal request. I felt like a poser as the attendees bantered about their favorite authors and series. I'd never read a single book they mentioned. I may or may not read anything from the list I received today, but it was still just really fun to be in a room full of crime readers. I just felt a smidge more bloodthirsty than them. They talked a lot about "cozy mysteries" - where the quaint town and quirky characters play a big part in the plot. That all sounds delightful to me, but is that as interesting as the woman who killed her husband by putting Visine in his tea? Or the guy who started the whole slow death by antifreeze trend? How about the gal out in Washington who replaced her husband's Excedrin tablets with cyanide (she planted additional bottles on store shelves to cover her tracks, killing two other people). When it comes to crime, fiction doesn't hold a candle to reality. People are crazy. It was still a delightful talk, a really nice crowd, and I probably will try something from the list. It seemed like most of the series were built around game wardens with broken hearts, or sassy female crime busters with an angsty back story who has to team up with said hunky game warden/park ranger. I normally need more depth in my books, but I'm no snob. I love a good story and there's always a time and place for a light read. I'll probably pick up a couple at the library and give them a whirl. On other news I'm doing a little giveaway over on my PrissyHippie Facebook page. I'll be sending some lovely person a bunch of earrings just for being nice enough to follow my page and comment.

Honestly, I steer clear of Facebook anymore, at least my personal page. I'm so over it. But I enjoy interacting with the handful of folks who have found my Prissy Hippie page. They're so congenial. Same with The Happy Bookers, a wonderful collection of women who share good reads and funny book memes in a friendly space on Facebook. The rest of it can rot. Aren't we all a little burned out on social media culture? Kind of weird that I'm saying that as I post to Tumblr. I suppose it's the mean-spirited, self-important, aggressively opinionated crowd that I avoid, Not the nice folks here. I want to live in a bubble of kindness. I have grown weary of this mean ol' world. Oh well, it's time for this bookworm to wander upstairs and run a bubble bath. Maybe I'll start one of those cozy mysteries. Bet I can download one from the library tonight. Sending out loads of love tonight, I hope you feel it and it warms you. Let's all be good to each other. It's really all that matters.

I've written on this blog since 2007. It used to be more interesting, certainly a lot funnier, but life changes and so do we. Some of you have been reading my silly snippets since the beginning, some of you I've never met but consider you a friend, many of you are family and friends in "the real world". Thank you all for walking with me. What lovely company. Stay safe, stay well. XOXO, Nancy

[mactavishwritings]

Hey, first of all I love your writings and your way of telling Storys. And secondly could u write a oneshot wit Alejandro x reader (y/n) when they are on a mission to locate a human target so the bomb team can drop a missile on them. The problem is that they are not gonna make it out of the area where the bomb is gonna hit. So they are gonna spend their last minutes together

i haven't really done angst yet!! i love it <3

tw: death

The two of you knew that there was a possibility that you wouldn't make it out. you came to terms with it, but Alejandro was trying to remain optimistic. "You see, preciosa, after this, we should run away together." he shouted over the loud whirling of the helicopter blades.

You rolled your eyes as you jumped in, "and where would we run off to?" Alejandro got in after you, closing the door and putting his headset on so the two of you could hear each other. "I have a safe house. We could get married and you would look just...divina...pregnant." Alejandro laughed. "In your dreams, Colonel."

The mission had gone sideways. Alejandro had gotten shot and was bleeding out very quickly. You were struggling to drag him to the evac site when you heard Price over the comms. "(Y/N)! There's a missile. We managed to hack into it, but we have to redirect it somewhere. What do you see?" You surveyed the area around you. The town had been evacuated due to the ongoing war so the likelihood of innocents were slim to none. "The town. Place it here. I see a building and I'm hoping it's far away enough." Your voice was rough as you pulled Alejandro towards the building that you saw. It looked empty, but you made quick work to take out the few enemies that remained.

"Mi amor. You and I both know this won't be far away enough." Alejandro groaned as you placed him against a stack of boxes in the building. "Don't say that. I can't carry you further out. This is our best bet." Your back was turned away as you grabbed blankets to try and shield you two the best you could. "He's right, (Y/N). You two are too close to the blas-" You were quick to cut Price off.

"You two stop. I am not leaving him here. We will be just fine." You were in denial. You thought you had come to terms with what faced you ahead, but now that it was happening, you panicked. Alejandro reached out for you. "C'mere. Need you with me. Don't reject a dying man's wish." You finally faced him with glossy eyes, moving to sit beside him. "Going dark, Captain. Was a pleasure from both of us." Alejandro coughed into his comms before during his off. You reached down, going to do the same. "Love you Price. I'm sorry. Going dark." You waited for his response.

"We thank you for service you two. I love you kid. Rest easy." You could tell by his voice that your captain was crying. You turned your comms off and leaned your head against Alejandro's shoulder. "Can we still run away together?" You asked quietly, causing the man to chuckle. "Anything you want. I'd pay for everything."

You giggled and looked up at him. "I'm sorry for never actually going on a date with you. I did want to." Alejandro reached up and placed his thumb on your chin. "It's okay, mi corazón. I flirted enough with you to last you three lifetimes." You two tearfully laughed, resting your foreheads against each other.

"Do you think the missile will kill me or the gun shot?" Alejandro asked, wincing in pain. You looked down at his stomach, seeing that his shirt was getting more and more red. "I don't know, but don't die before me. I can't live a second without you." You felt your body start to panic, desperately grabbing at his shirt. "Mi corazón, breath for me." Alejandro soothed you, kissing your forehead. "I promise you I will find you in the next lifetime. Nothing will keep me from you." You looked up at him, eyes full of tears. You felt the ground start to rumble and your body sent you into a panic attack.

Not wanting to waste another moment, you pulled Alejandro close and connect your lips. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, kissing you back with the same level of desperation and pain. The kiss last 30 seconds as the missile hit the two and destroyed the building you two occupied, killing the two of you instantly.

The next morning, Price and the rest of 141 went to find your bodies. They wanted something to burry at least. Price had shut down, loosing the only person he considered his next of kin; his baby, his child. You were his kid, not genetically, but metaphorically. He wanted to burry you and Alejandro. All they could find were your dog tags and your guns, so Price kept both your dog tags. He didn't want to separate you two.

The funeral the group had for the two of you was emotional. They had it at Alejandro's ranch and Price burred your guns. He continued to wear your tags and kept Alejandro's in his pocket, always near by. He blamed himself for not being there to protect the two of you, but knew that you died in Alejandro's arms. At least you weren't alone.

[writingintheshadowsforever]

Stop or I'll Shoot Kate Bishop x Villain! Reader

Kate swore under her breath as her arrow disappeared in the poof of black smoke. You left behind when teleporting away to dodge her attack. Her eyes scanned the parking lot waiting for you to reappear. There was no way she was letting you get away from her again this time. Yelena and Clint would never let her live it down. If she returned to the Compound empty handed for the fourth time in just five days.

You came out of nowhere behind her slamming a knee into her back. The blow sent Kate sprawling forward but she managed to catch herself from falling to the ground. She whirled swinging her bow in a upwards arc, but you leaned back and teleported again.

"Oh come on y/n this isn't fair and you know it" Kate cried out frustrated. How was she supposed to beat someone who had teleportation and super reflexes in a fight.

This time you reappeared on her left side so close she could your breath on her neck. "I'm the villain sweetheart being unfair is in my job description" you whispered into her ear. She threw her elbow out catching you in the nose. You grunted in pain stumbling back but just as she took aim. You had manage to recover and was gone before Kate could fire the arrow.

She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled trying to keep her cool. The more worked up she became the easier it would be for you to outsmart her and get away. The only real advantage Kate right now as that you were arrogant and for some reason loved to play around with her before making your getaway. You weren't on the top of the list for bad guys the Avengers wanted to bring down, but you were enough of a nuisance. That you had your whole file in the database, and was the perfect assignment for Kate, after she begged them for a real one. In the beginning you only used your powers for petty crimes, the occasional prank, and to cause public disturbances. Like pickpocketing, cutting to the front of the Starbucks line, getting free rides on the Subway, and just overall messing with people. Until finally you got tired of the small league and decided it was time to upgrade to big time. You pulled off four massive bank robberies before Damage Control reached out to the Avengers.

Around the time Kate had been training with Clint and Yelena for a few months, and was begging for a real challenge. So it was decided she would be the one to bring in, and so far things weren't going to well. That was a week ago and the only thing she has accomplished is becoming a laughing stock on the internet. Some of your escapes ended up being recorded and put all over the place. The public was starting to question if Clint made the right decision in training her to take his spot on the team. Clint told her not to think too much about all the things being said about her, and it was easy for people to make judgements. About situations they were on the outside of and would probably never experience in their life. Yelena told her she was being too nice when trying to take you down.

Just a couple of days ago she hit you with an electrocution arrow. It shocked you till the point you were lying on the pavement unable to teleport. Every time you tried to push through your body would convulse a little bit. Kate fist pumped the air in excitement before running over ready to put in the specialized handcuffs. Clint gave her to subdue your powers, but your eyes were widened pain, and her heart clenched in her chest. When you whimpered in pain with every tiny shock.

She knew the arrow was the only thing keeping you from getting away. But she figured by now you were weakened enough and keeping the arrow turned on would just be cruel. Not to mention even if you did summon the energy to teleport. You wouldn't be able to get far in your condition. It never occurred to her that she should put the handcuffs on then remove the arrow. The second you were free from the electrifying arrow your foot kicked out connecting with her gut with just enough force to knock her back. Then you were gone in a blink of an eye after Yelena saw the video. She criticized Kate for being easy to fool and for showing mercy. The blonde told her next time she got you in that predicament to go ahead and knock you out.

Eventually you would slip up and make a mistake, or do something predictable. When it happened this time she was determined to capitalize off of it. And not let up once she had you no matter what. You reappeared by the bag of money that you dropped on the ground. When you exited the bank to find Kate waiting in the parking lot. "You know princess this has been fun and all, but I think its time to take my leave."

Kate swung around arrow notched and ready to fly on a moment’s notice. "Don't you dare y/n I'm taking you in today."

"You know your unwavering confidence is one of the things I like about you. The most make sure you never lose it no matter how many times you lose to me." You said raising a hand to wave goodbye.

"I'm serious y/n just stop now or I'll shoot" Kate demanded.

"And you'll miss-" You said cutting yourself off short to teleport mid-sentence. Her eyes lit with joy knowing this was one of your favorite tactics to mess with her. If she knew you at all you were about to reappear on the other side of the parking lot about ten feet away. Ready to finish your dig before actually making your escape without thinking about it. Kate turned and released the arrow in that direction. The arrow went sailing through the air and it was as if time slowed down as she watched waiting for you to reappear.

A second later the arrow disappeared into a puff of black smoke you were emerging out of it. A cry of pain filled the air as you wailed when the arrow embedded itself into your knee. There was a loud thud as you dropped to the ground gripping your leg in pain. "What the hell Kate?" You blurted out in anger.

Kate was a bit taken back at the fact you actually knew her real name. After all this whole time whenever the two of you faced off. You always used pet names for her while she used your real one. She saw you were attempting to stand, and ran over. But the arrow was still stuck in your knee making it impossible for you to get up. Every time you grabbed a hold of the arrow to pull it out a wave of agony would wash over you. By the time Kate covered the distance you had given up instead you were laid back on the ground with your knee bent. Your hands were covering your face to hide the irritation you was feeling. "I can't believe you shot in the knee you brute" You told her your tone annoyed.

At first Kate was just excited that she had really won this time, and you couldn't getaway. But your comment threw her off making her want to defend herself. "Hey I warned you to stop or I would shoot" she argued.

"Please heroes say stuff like that all the time, but they never actually do" You shot back.

"Well yeah because we're being nice and trying to give villains the chance to do the right thing."

"We're villains how are y'all really surprised when we call your bluff and take advantage of it." You said with a light chuckle dragging your hands down your face. So she could see how ridiculous she sounded to you.

"And eventually heroes get tired of being nice and watching you make the wrong choice over and over again. That's when we stop bluffing its not our fault y'all can't tell the difference" Kate replied with a light shrug.

"Ahhh I don't care just pull your arrow out before my leg falls off." You exclaimed slamming both of your hands down on the pavement.

Kate jumped a bit before dropping down to one knee reaching for the arrow. "Okay just calm down your leg is going to be fine." Both of her hands were wrapped around the arrow when she paused to think.

"Ow come on that hurts" you complained.

Kate leaned over to catch your eyes "promise me you won't teleport away. The second I take this arrow out."

The only thing you were focused on at the moment was the blinding pain coming from your knee. Escaping wasn't even on your mind until she brought it up, and while you wanted nothing more than to take advantage of. Her kindness to getaway again this was the first serious injury you had suffered since starting your life of crime. You didn't know how to take care of a injury like this, and wasn't comfortable with treating it yourself with. The help of a couple of Youtube videos and Google suggested articles. What if it got effected and you really did lose your leg.

"Kate you have my word I won't try to escape if you pull the arrow out. Okay let's just call this a truce for now take the arrow out, and I'll let you take me in. As long as I get medical attention and maybe a shot at some reform program or something."

"Well of course you're going to get medical attention. We're not savages y/n-" Kate stopped talking when she truly realized what you had at the end. She broke the shaft of the arrow leaving the arrowhead in, and then started wrapping your injured knee. It wasn't until she was done that Kate scooted over to sit beside you placing her bow on the ground. "What do you mean reform program?"

"Well to be honest I'm not interested in jail or being taken by Damage Control, and I know I'm the bad guy so I don't really get a say in what happens to me. But what I do know is that I know I'm not at the top of the villain food chain. I mean yeah I robbed banks but its not like I've actually hurt people in the process. I'm not trying to take over the world or anything either. I just feel like that should count for something you know, and I mean I could use my powers for good to you know. If I had the right influences or whatever."

Kate listened to your reasoning in silence with an occasional nod at the most. She waited for the punch line but one never came and your voice didn't waver at all. You sounded honest enough and she couldn't hear a lie. "Why go down this path at all if you wanted to do good?" she asked.

You hesitated at that knowing your answer could change everything. The last thing you wanted her to think was that you were trying to trick her again. Even though the thought did cross your mind. "I'm a selfish person Kate that's what happens when you grow up in the world I did. You don't sit around dreaming about making a world a better place, and thinking oh if I had all this power I could save the people. The only thing you think about is yourself and what can you do to make your life better. These powers were the key to a better life for me. I didn't think robbing banks would put me on the Avengers radar, and even after I ended on your guy's hit list. I still couldn't back down I only needed a few more successful jobs-"

Kate held up a hand making you pause. "What do you mean a few more jobs?"

You tried to sit up all the way but winced when pain flared up in your knee forcing you to settle for elbows propping you up. "This was going to be my last job the endgame in mind was to just have enough to getaway for good. You know I didn't want to rob banks for the rest of my life."

"Is this whole reform proposition like a survival tactic?"

You gave her a light shrug along with a nod. "Yeah a little bit I figure it's the only way to keep myself out of jail. But if it's any consolation I do like you enough to be willing to try for real."

Kate turned her head away to hide the red tint on her cheeks. "Okay I'll take you back to the Compound and talk to my mentor. He might be able to help you out, but you know you're going to be kept on a tight leash right?"

"As long as its you on the other end holding it princess I fine with the idea" You told her with a smirk.

"Okay well let's get going" Kate said with a nervous chuckle bending down to throw one of your arms over her shoulder. She rose to her feet bringing you with her. It was a hassle but the two of made it back to her car where she helped you lay down in the back. She was expecting you to teleport away at any second, but you stayed the whole drive to the Compound.

Maybe you really did want to change.

Tag List: @danveration @romanoffomixam @xxromanoffxx @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @lizlil @mellowladyangel @yelenabelovasgf @be-missed @jokertgkk @natashasilverfox