#dumbass orange man

[whaliiwatching]

they’re wendy coping with the world rn

[brightclaws5tudios]

I was grabbing a vitamin drink powder thing so I don't die and decided to sing a little song.

🎵time to try some orange powder

doo dah, doo dah

time to try some orange powder all the doo dah day

time to try some orange powder

doo dah, doo dah

time to snort the orange powder

just like cocaine🎵

[boxylocks]

Art trade with @the-sleepysiren

[misshell99]

I love this stupid fucking cat so much

[geee-three]

how do you know my glasses aren’t orange

im hoping im the only person dumb enough to get neon orange glasses

[astonmartinii]

insta au req about reader and charles being best friends and a rift comes between them because of his girlfriend(or whoever!!) and reader and max finally get together and she shades ferrari and charles purrrrr (if not i totally get it queen love u loads)

into the arms of another | max verstappen social media au

pairing: max verstappen x reader

after charles leaves her out in the cold, y/n falls into the arms of another.

part two part three

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, arthurleclerc and 506,823 others

tagged: charles_leclerc

yourusername: dumb and dumber: vacation edition

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user1: they're really just the definition of no thoughts behind the eyes

user2: it's crazy cause we all know you have to be smart to drive an f1 car and she has a literal degree in architecture but they are always in the most insane situations ever

charles_leclerc: that's my private jet don't call me dumb

yourusername: *rented, dumbass

liked by maxverstappen1

user3: they're friendship goals like perfect example of platonic soulmates and male and female friendship

arthurleclerc: so like what does a man need to do for a feature on your instagram?

yourusername: soz arth, step ur aesthetic up x

user4: oh to be besties with an f1 driver

user5: wait so like all the leclercs and their gfs went on this holiday, right?

user6: yeah arthur’s and lorenzo’s gfs have posted about being there

user5: so it’s kinda muggy that y/n refused to post the girls?

user6: not really she’s posted with the girls loads i think y’all just want an excuse to be mad at her

charles_leclerc

liked by yourusername, carlossainz55 and 1,231,907 others

charles_leclerc: summer spent with the best people

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user8: no y/n ....

user9: did yall see that tweet about the girl who met y/n in corsica when charles left her stranded on the beach to walk home on her own

user8: what ???

joristrouche: love you brother

charles_leclerc: best mate

user10: the vibes have shifted, the atmosphere is weird and the absence of y/n is the centre of it

user11: i fear i've seen this film before and y/n is defo getting iced out because charles in back in a relationship

user12: noooooo i thought he'd matured past that after the last time he fucked y/n off for a girlfriend

user13: babes please stop expecting so much from men

liked by yourusername

pierregasly: you look sunburnt calmar, did you leave it at home cause y/n isn't there to remind you?

charles_leclerc: she's here and i have been putting it on the sun just has it out for me

yourusername: i tried pierre, believe me

user14: well this is fucking awkward

user15: charles is not beating the allegations of forgetting about y/n while in a relationship LOL

maxverstappen1

liked by yourusername, danielricciardo and 1,034,667 others

maxverstappen1: simply lovely to win my home race again. the orange army never disappoint and i'm so thankful for all the support here this weekend

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user20: call me a conspiracy theorist BUT he thanked the orange army and the support separately i.e. Y/N Y/LN

user21: now you bitches usually jump to conclusions, but i'm hearing you this time

martingarrix: next set just gonna be super max on a two hour loop

maxverstappen1: i'll be there

user22: i'm sorry i'm new here why is y/n being in max's garage such a big deal? who is she? (gen.)

user23: y/n is charles' best friend, they've known each other since childhood and she's supported him through all levels of karting and single-seaters. though they haven't interacted too much in the public eye, max and y/n have known each other for as long as charles and max have. charles is a bit notorious for dumping y/n to the side for his girlfirend any time he's in a relationship and being inseparable once he's single again. after he ALLEGEDLY ditched her at a beach in corsica over the summer, y/n hasn't been seen with him or interacting with him online and was then in max's garage.

user24: maybe i'm messy but i genuinely want max and y/n to be together

yourusername: the red bull catering was defo worth breaking the cost cap

maxverstappen1: you're welcome any time

user25: can someone please check charles' pulse

landonorris: he looked like a cartoon with steam coming out of his ears earlier

user26: LANDO WHAT?

user27: tbf i think that's just a general side effect of driving the ferrari

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris and 542,987 others

yourusername: hard ball or soft serve

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user28: in my professional shadow identification opinion, i have deduced that it is in fact max verstappen

user29: ur so delusional (i believe you)

charles_leclerc: so that's who you've been getting our vanilla and chocolate cones with

yourusername: i'm not entertaining this argument over the internet charles you know where i live

liked by maxverstappen1

user30: she's so much better than me i'd rip him a new asshole right here right now

arthurleclerc: please come to dinner on sunday, carla can't come and i don't wanna fifth wheel plsssssss y/n

yourusername: sorry chickie i've already got plans but give mama my love

arthurleclerc: noooooo what could be better than mama's sunday lunch

yourusername: i promise i love those dinners but i've had enough experience seventh wheeling you guys and would love time with someone who loves me for me

liked by maxverstappen1

user31: yall i feel like i'm in the family group chat in this comment section this feels illegal to see

user32: max is so sly with the comments he's liking but that's MY petty king

f1

liked by yourusername, alexalbon and 1,304,783 others

tagged: maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc

f1: oops. charles leclerc takes championship leader max verstappen and himself out of the race at the first corner. the two did not mince their words, verstappen saying: "i tried to stay out of trouble but trouble came to me"

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user33: the way i RAN to twitter

user34: i'm not a verstappen fan but that quote goes so hard

user35: i'm all for leaving the drivers' personal lives alone but lord the tea is piping and sky cutting to y/n in max's garage? OOP

user36: no cause someone at sky has been watchign too much drive to survive because putting "charles' childhood friend" on her name banner as she's in max's garage was pure cinema

user37: charles be chatting mad shit for the man at fault

user38: leclerc drove into verstappen and perez and thought he'd manage to get out of the blame again LOL he's such a joker

user39: i think it's a good thing that y/n is skipping that dinner

user40: the way charles' gf wasn't even there this weekend and he was clearly looking for y/n in the garage

user41: the drama is too much for me to keep up with

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri and 603,487 others

yourusername: only 16 years in the making but we finally got a clue

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user42: i'm going into cardiac arrest

maxverstappen1: finally now i can comment freely about my unbelievably sexy, smart and hilarious girlfriend who i love and defo haven't pined over for ten years

yourusername: awwwww maxy, if it makes you feel better i've liked you for that long as well

user43: hmmmm idk this all seems a bit fake

yourusername: babes i still fancied him when he was a lanky, spotty teenager

arthurleclerc: i can confirm this

user44: the way y/n was always so nice and constantly hyping charles and his gf in their comments ... where's charles

user45: tbf she is dating his rival

user44: oh please we all know they never hated each other and have been good friends for years, charles is just being petty

danielricciardo: never thought i'd see the day when max would grow some balls and finally ask you out

yourusername: i thought you were meant to be some great wing man, i didn't see you helping

danielricciardo: i didn't want to get ran over by charles, no thank you

user46: i'm so sad i want bestie charles and y/n back

maxverstappen1

liked by yourusername, martingarrix and 1,409,875 others

maxverstappen1: some girls might want to ride a ferrari but mine wants to ride a red bull

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user47: THE CAPTION? THIS MAN IS SO UNHINGED

user48: mad max returns and in the form of shady instagram captions

yourusername: but you didn't even let me drive :(

maxverstappen1: babe i love you but you don't have a license and that's a very expensive car

user49: wait don't make me depressed didn't charles say in an interview ages ago that he was going to teach y/n to drive? did this never happen?

yourusername: sorry to ruin your day but i'm still illegal on the road

landonorris: so no photo credits? i watched you guys kiss for so long to get that shot

yourusername: i didn't hear you complaining on the day

maxverstappen1: let him be lonely in peace

landonorris: that's really not the save you think it is but thanks mate

user50: i am so happy that y/n is happy but the way charles can't be happy for her relationship like she always is for me is so sad to me

user51: i get that the charles and y/n situ is sad but she's clearly happy with max leave them be

fin.

note: hope you enjoyed my love, i hope this was kinda what you were envisioning, i'm happy with it but would be up for a part two if people want it lol xx

[beezhives]

"I need chocolate."

"yeah, good afternoon to you too, Dynamight," are the groggily mumbled words the pro hero receives from you on the other side of your door.

grumbling, strong arms folding over his chest impatiently, Bakugou Katsuki huffs out a greeting more normal that your brain can register, followed by, "I need chocolate."

sometimes, being the neighbor of a pro hero has its perks. late nights locked out of your own apartment, help fixing random appliances, and (in the case of Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight) unsolicited cooking tips when you just happen to let slip what you're making for dinner that night.

other times, like right now, you're awoken to harsh knocking on your front door at three-something in the afternoon when you just wanted to sleep. all because the damn man wanted... chocolate?

"what the fuck are you staring for? d'ya have chocolate or not, dumbass?"

opening your door fully, a silent invitation for the pro hero to walk in, you pad back through your dark apartment towards your kitchen. "it's too early for this confusion, man..."

Bakugou did not understand what was so confusing about chocolate but he stepped into your apartment anyways, shutting the door behind him and flicking on the light. having an apartment with the same layout as his helped sometimes.

"none of that white or dark chocolate bullshit," he called through the apartment, leaning back against the door. "plain fuckin' chocolate's what I need!"

after rifling through your pantry for a few minutes, setting aside a variety of chocolate bullshit for yourself to eat later, you returned with a small bowl of baking chocolate for the brooding blond in your entryway.

"what has you needing chocolate so urgently?" you ask, handing the bowl over to the man who grumbles while inspecting the selection.

"making shit for Sparky's thing later," he replies, huffing a small breath of satisfaction through his nose. the chocolate you found would work for him.

"cool." leaning around him, you open your front door and motion the pro hero out of your apartment. "next time you need baking chocolate, go to konbini down the street instead of waking me up, yeah?"

Bakugou rolls his eyes, scoffing, as he exits your apartment. he's holding the bowl against his chest like he would a child, hands already warming the chocolate so it can melt sooner.

"yeah but this shit's free," is his reply, offering you a shit-eating grin before turning around and making his way back to his own apartment.

it's then, in the light of the hallway outside your apartment, that you realize there's something green and orange – icing, you assume – smeared on his clothes. you can't help but roll your eyes, both at his comment and the colourful stains, while you close your door.

later, much much later, there is a singular knock on your door. expecting the odd trick-or-treater, maybe a teen or college student who was making a last ditch effort through your complex, you make your way to the door with your bowl of treats to hand out.

what you were not expecting was to see a treat left on your welcome mat. black container with a webbing design on it. your name was scribbled onto a post-it place on top.

inside the container sat a set of perfectly rounded chocolate cake eyeballs, clearly fake and clearly made with care. each one appeared to be made with skilled hands.

and, upon trying them, you could've sworn that they tasted of your own baking chocolate.

♡ late Halloween post. oops. any likes or shares would be appreciated. thank you for reading, see you later. ☁︎

[ohtobeleah]

I think one of the main reasons why the Worst!Logan loves you so much, without putting too much thought into the question, is simply because you ease the burden of being alive. You don’t ‘give him a reason to live.’ He found that on his own when Wade showed up and snatched his old, drunken ass out of his world and planted him here. But you ease the burden. You ease the pain of being alive on days when everything seems so…distressing. But when you plant something, it often grows roots. And that’s exactly what Logan wanted to do with you. 

“Hope, at its very core, can be the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torment of man,” That one. That was the ‘Hook, Line and Sinker’ moment where Logan knew you had him wrapped around your finger like some perverted puppy. “You aren’t just any man, Logan,” He could vividly picture you sitting on his lap while his back pressed heavily into your headboard. “You’re Wade’s boyfriend.” 

“Oh aren’t you just hilarious,” Logan could remember replying to you as you leaned in to place a gentle kiss against his lips. He loved those moments. The quiet ones. Where nothing else in the world mattered except for the time he got to spend in your undivided attention. “Keep that attitude up, I dare you.” 

“You don’t have to threaten me with a good time.” It was the dynamic the two of you had. The banter-filled friendship that crossed the line into friends with immaculate benefits. And under the glow of your bedside lamps, the ones that sent an orange hume across the floor-length curtains and cottage cream walls, Logan knew that the small amount of time you had been in his life…had been the time most lived. 

“You surround yourself day in and day out with a degenerate crew of antagonists, Logan, of fucking course you’re gonna pick up a few traits after a while!” It wasn’t uncommon to see Logan perched up at the bar while you made coffees for the steady trickle of customers who stopped by for their caffeine fix. After all, it was your cafe. “It doesn’t sound like my issue that you called Althea, Blind Al.” 

“It’s not her fucking name, is it?” Logan’s heated. He kinda hates himself a little for it. Mainly because he recognised straight away who he sounded like. Wade fucking Wilson. Secondly, he had enough respect for the old, aging and decaying to know nicknames like that could put senior citizens into early graves. Well, earlier. “You know what, that’s it, I’m not fucking hanging around that guy anymore.” 

Deep down, Logan knew he didn’t mean it. Wade was a genuinely good person. He saw a lot of parallels of himself in the guy. And if it weren’t for Wade… Logan wouldn’t be sitting here right now. Bickering back and forth with the love of his overextended life. You just made him feel like a guy. Just some dumb guy. Simple. Whenever Logan was with you, he wasn’t The Wolverine. He was just James Howlett. 

“Okay one,” You stopped steaming the milk you had in just been working with so you could reply. You turned with a shit-talking snarl ready to go. “You sound like someone who’s beefing with their childhood bestie,” The frown on Logan’s face warned you not to continue, but you weren’t in the mood to pity someone over four times your age. “Two, you fucking live with the guy man?” You pointed out the incredibly obvious logistics of Logan’s dilemma. “What? you gonna sleep on the street?” It was a genuine question you had. “Please, you’re made of metal dumbass, you’ll catch some sort of genetically fucked mutation of pneumonia and die at the young age of two hundred and twenty-something.” 

“You know exactly who you sound like right now?” Logan countered as he sipped his coffee. The same coffee order you made him every damn day. Black, no cream, sugar or milk. No flavoured syrup or sweeteners in sight. Just black. 

“If you point out the fact I sound like my longest-standing friend, I’ll take great pleasure in knowing you can’t die alone, because you can’t seem to die at all!!” 

“Go fuck yourself!” Logan needed this. He needed you to match his energy. You saw him coming from a mile away when he’d come barrelling into the cafe with a glare of despair and in need of some reprieve. 

“Fuck me yourself, asshole.” It wasn’t exactly what Logan had been expecting you to say, but he did take you up on that offer…The second he knew you were off work and at home later that same evening. 

“Logan–” Your needy little whines were a symphony of desire and love. “Logan–yes, baby you feel so good.” The way Logan made you feel, the way he touched you in all the right ways, made you feel drunk on his ecstasy. 

“Ohhhh just like that huh?” Logan wouldn’t dare change a single thing about what he was doing right now. He had you right where he wanted you. He loved you in his position. The one where he had your arms pinned behind your beck. The one where your chest presses right against his. The one where all he has to do is buck his hips up into yours while his heels dig into your mattress. It’s the one where he can whisper the most degrading things into your ear and knows you’re drooling for it. He knows that much because he can feel it dripping down his other shoulder while you mumble incoherent love songs. 

“I could smell you, you know,” Logan growls particularly low as he keeps his pace going. “When you were giving me that fucking attitude in the cafe today,” You know he’s talking, but the way his perfectly enhanced cock is kissing the tip of your cervix with every thrust it keeping your mind from focusing on anything else but chasing that all important high of yours. “Got nothing to say now, have you?” 

“I–” You tried to tell Logan what you want, you know he already knows when the words won’t come out and you can’t keep your eyes from rolling. “Wanna–” 

“Oh please,” Logan nearly begs while he keeps thrusting up into you. He can feel the mixture of his previous load and your arousal mixing at the base of his shaft. “Give me something pretty to look at gorgeous.” 

Logan thought you were the most gorgeous woman to ever grace his life. Inside and out you were truly one of the most kind-hearted, lovely, compassionate people he’d ever known. But right now, in this very moment, all Logan wanted to do was see your gorgeous face when you came around his slicked-up shaft. All he wanted to feel was you clenched him like a vice grip made just for him. 

“Fuckk–Logan!” At your cries, Logan was quick to grab your face with one of his hands. He wanted to look you in the eyes. Wanted to feel every part of your soul connect with his when you came for him. 

“I’m right here,” He cooed, still bucking into you with force and pace. “I’ve got you, come on me, baby.” 

“Ohhhhh–” The way you dragged your nails down his sides made Logan hiss with pure sexual gratification. Your velvet walls paused around his shaft as he kept up the pace, fucking deeper into you. As deep as he could get just to feel you. “Yessss–” 

“I’m the luckiest guy alive,” Logan rolled his eyes with pure unadulterated lust as you came down from your high. He lets go of your face only to crash his lips against yours in a feverish kiss. “Fucking perfect for me.” He gives you a minute to recover. Logan slowly rocks his hips so that he’s never completely still, always admiring your beauty while yours naked on top of him the way you are. 

“Okay big guy,” You sigh, sitting up to straddle Logan. “Your turn.” 

“Gready thing, one not enough for you?” Logan could still feel how full you were from his last load. He couldn’t contain himself, you just had that effect on him. 

“Well, since you’re either sleeping here or on the street tonight, I figured you didn’t have any plans,” You teased as you rocked your hips the way you knew drove Logan wild. His fingers dug into your hips and for a second he released some pressure. Worried that he might leave a few bruises. Or worse…But when you placed your hands on top of his? Logan knew you were alright. “Gonna finish what you started? Or do you need a second to catch your breath?” 

“Oh I’m gonna ruin you–” Logan smiled as he jumped into action. Capturing your lips with his as he flipped the two of you around. Suddenly you found yourself on your back, pressed into the mattress. “You know how I feel about you, right?” It was a gentle moment laced between the lust and the desire. But when Logan caught your eye, so beautiful and kind, he wanted to make sure that you knew this wasn’t just sex to him. 

This was…You were… Everything he ever wanted. 

“I know,” You nodded, making sure to pull him closer. As close as you could get in missionary. “I’ve got you,” Was all you said back before your lips were taken hostage yet again. “I–” You were about to say it but stopped yourself. The L would be just something that wasn’t said that much. 

You knew it was because Logan was afraid to. He was scared if he said he loved you then he’d wake up from this dream. Back in the pub, he wasn’t welcome in. Back in his reality, where the version of you didn’t know him as the best worst version of himself. 

“You mean everything to me.” You settled with as Logan buried himself inside you. Not knowing that in nine months from now, your greatest love of all would carry your love for Logan in her name: 

Ilya: I.Love. You. Always

Ilya

[toxicanonymity]

Imagine Slasher sees a man entering (or leaving?) Kitten's house, while he's stalking watching her. How would he react, what would he do? 👀

Thank you for all this 🖤🖤🫂

sexy back

SLASHER JOEL x f!READER | PLAYLIST | WC: 900

ENTERING! Let's do entering. And you're quite welcome. I hope this rascal makes some of you smile. Love you, Milla. 🖤🖤

WARNINGS: 18+ dark fic. Unsafe/dark sexual behavior, degradation, humiliation, slasher being slasher, cucking, dubcon/noncon but it's okay cause he ain't got no soul.

Joel watches from outside and perks up when your living room light switches off, and a dim orange light in your bedroom turns on. Yeah, let's go. He doesn’t have much of a view, so he creeps around back to the sliding door of your kitchen. And look at that, the door isn’t even locked.

This is big. An opportunity to see you whoring around. Catch you in the act. He’s not gonna blow it: unlike the other times he’s broken in, he doesn’t make a sound. He even takes off his shoes and leaves them outside. 

You little sex kitten…you even left your bedroom door open. He takes a seat on your living room couch which faces away from your bedroom. He rests his elbow over the back of the sofa and angles himself so he can watch. He doesn’t see much, at first. Just the silhouette of some loser awkwardly lying on his side on your bed, presumably facing you.

Then there are kissing sounds. Gross. You must have thought the same. You don’t sound impressed when you stop and ask the poor guy, “Uh, ok. Can we just uh–” 

And then you’re on top of him. Attagirl. That's the kitten Joel knows. You take off your shirt. Well, damn. You look sexy as hell from this angle.

“You’re so pretty,” the guy gushes softly. Joel rolls his eyes. That guy totally has a cuck voice. You lean forward, still with your skirt on, although it’s riding up. Your hips move, a little. He pulls your head down for a kiss. Dumbass. That clearly wasn’t doin’ it for ya before. Your faces connect, and while you’re not looking, Joel sneaks over to your room. He crosses his arms, holding a knife in one hand, and leaning against the doorframe.

You pull back from the bad kisser and he apologizes softly.

Joel has had enough. “Alright, just take your dick out man. That’s all she wants.”

The guy gasps. You turn around with a startle, but you don’t freak out. You're getting used to the break-ins.

“Joel,” you scold a little too calmly. “What the fuck?”

“Take it out,” Joel repeats to the guy. 

“What are you doing?” You demand. 

Joel answers, “Don’t whore around on me if ya don’t want me involved, babe.” 

The guy hesitates, and Joel uncrosses his arms. With his knife still in one hand, Joel gesticulates in front of himself, starting with both hands near his crotch. “Take… your cock…” He lifts his hands and advances them forward. “Out of your pants.” 

The guy is just staring at the knife in Joel’s hand. 

“NOW,” Joel adds, then addresses you. “God damn, I can see what you're so bored about.” 

The guy’s hands are shaking as he unzips his pants. Joel steps forward to take a look, and, well. Lol. 

“You wanna go first or second?” Joel asks. 

“W-What?” The guy stammers. 

“Trainsgiving’s come early,” Joel explains. “Go on, get her while she’s tight.” 

The man asks you, “Do you want me to-”

Joel interrupts with an exasperated sigh, then, starting in a mocking voice, “do you want me to–Shut up and do it,” Joel points at him. 

Joel gets a good look at you. He knows that look on  your face–mortified AND aroused. And when Joel gives you a little smirk, you seem to suppress one of your own. It’s clear in your eyes.  

“Okay fine, just lie there,” Joel directs the guy. “Hold it for her.” Joel turns to you. “Go on, kitty. Don’t stop whorin’ on my account.” 

You look Joel up and down, and when he palms a massive bulge in his jumpsuit, that’s enough to make you do it. 

You’re more cock hungry than anyone Joel’s ever met. Too bad this guy’s not much of a meal. That’s okay. Joel’s here.

You put a condom on the guy, and Joel laughs, “ouch.” 

When you sink down on the man, you’re hoping it’s a test. A test you’ll fail, provoking Joel into a rage.  But no, Joel stands close by and unzips his jumpsuit, staring at where your body meets the cock.

Okay, he’s not that bad, both you and Joel think to yourselves. The guy is frozen.

“What,” you ask the guy, “you don’t want this?”

"No, I do." He looks back and forth between the two of you and asks, “Does he have to be here?”

Joel is now holding the absurd girth of his own shaft and glances down at it before looking the man in the eye. “Someone’s gotta pick up the slack,” Joel complains and adds under his breath, "Make up for what you lack."

You begin to move your hips. 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Joel decides and puts an arm around you, pulling you off the guy. You pretend to fight Joel off.

The guy asks, “Do you need help?”

“She’s fine,” Joel cuts him off. 

“I wasn’t done with him,” you protest convincingly.

The guy whispers,”What the fuck,” as he backs out of the room, still putting his dick in his pants. 

“Why are you ruining my date,” you ask Joel.

“Shut up,” Joel pushes you forward and holds you face down on the bed. He growls in your ear. “You.. filthy.. slut,” then shoves into you brutally. 

There he is, you think as you smile into the pillow and savor the incredible stretch.

[jadedchainsaw]

One Piece men if you ask them to peel you an orange/tangerine

Through the good graces of our girl Nami, she let you have one of her precious tangerines, but you don’t want to peel it so instead you go to bug one of your crewmate’s.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

———————————————————————

Luffy:

“Hey Luffy, can you-“

“Oh thanks, a snack!”

He eats it whole, right out of your hand

You: 😦

“Did you want something?”

Zoro:

Already grumpy that you woke him up from a nap but begrudgingly agrees, holding out his hand

The dumbass tries to split it in two with his bare hands

Gets the juice in his good eye

RIP

Sanji:

(If you identify as a woman)

As if you have to even ask this man

He snatches the fruit out of your hand the second you walk into the kitchen

Peels and plates it fancy, like a rose.

And he makes a tea out of the orange peels (we love a zero waste ship-household)

(If you identify as a man)

“Peel it your damn self.”

Damn

Usopp:

Agrees to peel it for you but now you have to listen to one of his made up stories.

“You know, this reminds me of the time I single handedly saved a city from a vicious orange-a-saurus! What, you’ve never heard of it? Well it’s a savage beast, three times the size of the sunny with razor sharp-“

You get the picture

Chopper:

Agrees to peel it for you, but he can’t quite get it with his hooves

You end up peeling it and sharing the fruit together

Franky:

He makes a little robot to peel the orange for you

Dubs it the “Franky peeler-nator 500”

he and the little robot strike a cool pose

Brook:

He happily agrees to peel it for you

He’ll tell you a story about his old crew and Laboon

“Oh my, this orange juice sure feels sticky! Or it would if I had any skin! Yohoho!

Now, may I see your panties-“

Jinbe:

Of course he’ll peel it for you

He’ll hand each slice to you one at a time as he steers the ship

Kind of like a dad and his kid

Killer:

Agrees, but he’ll slice it instead of peeling it

Still plates it nicely for you

Kid:

You’re better off asking killer but if you’re that determined-

“What are ya’? A fucking baby?”

Does it after some convincing, but he’ll loudly complain about getting it under his nails

Law:

“No.”

Slams the door in your face

You walk away dejectedly but you hear his office door open again and Law heavily sigh, motioning for you to come back so he can peel it for you

[sanguineterrain]

i'll put us back together at heart - s.h.

Summary: It's 1987. You haven't spoken to Steve Harrington in nearly five years. Then Dustin Henderson tells you about a sweet deal he has at Family Video, where he can rent any movie he wants.

Pairing: ex-best friend!Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Word count: 8.8k

Warnings/tags: friends to strangers to lovers. the reader is twenty in 1987 and i technically made steve twenty-one/about to turn twenty-one. s4 happened but eddie's alive and vecna's dead. no earthquakes or anything like that; reader has no idea about what really happened. lots of angst, mentions of billy hargrove (yuck) and steve's s1 asshole friends.

A/N: oh my lord. i don't know where this eighteen-wheeler of a fic came from but here it is. there is a happy ending, not to worry. i'd never do that to y'all <3 feedback and reblogs are always always appreciated!

divider by firefly-graphics

August 1981

"I wish we could stay eighth graders forever."

You lift your head from your orange pool floaty. Steve drifts on the surface of the water. His hair is longer, way longer than you've seen it in the three years you've been friends. He says it's better for styling that way; he's even bought a gel and cream for his hair. You don't understand why he wants to change something that doesn't need changing. 

"Why?" you ask. "I thought you were excited for high school."

He hums. The sound echoes in his backyard. 

"It's bigger than middle school. More kids, more teachers, more work. I like eighth grade."

"I'll help you with your work," you say. 

Steve turns his head and smiles at you. Part of his face is in the water, the image distorted. 

"You'll do great," he replies. "You're so smart."

Steve doesn't say those things to get you to help him like other kids do. Steve means it. 

"You'll do great too," you say. "You're funny and nice and my best friend. People will like you."

"You think?" 

You nod. Steve turns his head and closes his eyes again. 

"We'll stay friends, right?" he asks. 

The floaty squeaks as you move to sit up. You paddle to Steve so you can look at his face. 

"Why wouldn't we?"

"I dunno." His eyes are still closed. "You might make super smart friends. And I'll just be a dumbass holding you back."

You shove Steve's shoulder lightly. 

"You are not dumb, Steve."

One muggy June night had had Steve admit he wasn't thirteen, like you and all the kids in your class, but fourteen. He had been held back in third grade after his parents moved from Illinois. It's why my brain's mush, he'd said. I was born dumb.

He had made you swear not to tell anyone. 

"You're not dumb," you say again. "Say it, Steve. Say you're not dumb."

His frown deepens, but he still won't look at you. 

"Tommy says I am."

"Tommy Hagan is a shithead," you shoot back with so much venom, Steve's eyes fly open. "It's not true, whatever he tells you."

You hate that they've been hanging out more this summer. You can't tell Steve that, because it's not like you own him. He can be friends with whoever he wants. But you can't help that your skin crawls when Tommy and his stupid girlfriend, Carol, drops by and pulls Steve away from you. 

“Promise?” he asks.

“Yes, Steve. I promise.”

“‘Kay.” Steve smiles a little. “Thanks.” 

You nod and lay back on the floaty. 

“Wanna get ice cream after this?” he asks. 

“Just us?” 

“Just us.”

Now. (January, 1987)

You slam the phone back onto the receiver. A girl playing Pac-Man carefully glances at you. 

Whoops. Right. You're still at work. 

You smile and give a thumbs-up. She turns around. You return to your wallowing. 

You’ve called three different video rentals. Jewel Films, which is about to go out of business; More Movies, whose attendant hung up on you before you could say Molly Ringwald; and finally, Blockbuster, which is thirty minutes outside of Hawkins. None of them have a copy of Pretty in Pink. 

And okay. You could just watch another movie. You don't need that specific one. But this year has been shit. You'd thought after starting college, you'd finally break out of the Hawkins forcefield that had limited your social life. You'd thought you'd make friends and not be so terribly lonely. Life is supposed to get better after high school, isn’t it? 

Obviously, whoever said that is a big, fat liar. 

“Dude!” you hear a familiar voice exclaim. “Stop hogging the game!”

Tawny curls peek from under a green and yellow hat. The hat hovers over an older boy who’s glued to the Tempest booth. You go to them. Dustin Henderson lights up when he sees you. You can read his hat now; it says Camp Know Where ‘85.

“Hey, Y/N!” he greets brightly. “This guy has been here for a half hour. I left to get nachos and when I came back, he was still here.”

“I’m this close to beating my score!” the kid insists.

“Come on, guy," you say, one arm on the machine. "You gotta give other people a turn."

The kid, evidently demon incarnate, sneers at you.

“Who’s gonna make me? You?” 

You lean against the side of the game, considering.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” he says.

You snort. 

“Sixteen? And you’re still on Tempest?”

He glances at you. 

“So?”

“Everybody your age is playing Rampage, that’s all.” 

You wink at Dustin. He beams.

“And, uh, I saw a couple girls hanging around Rampage,” you add. 

The kid turns to you. You tilt your head innocently. 

“Seriously?” he asks.

“Seriously. People always flock to the new games.”

Which is true. The girls part is not, but he doesn’t need to know that. With that attitude, he won't be getting many phone numbers anyway. 

You drum your fingers on the game like you have all the time in the world. And sure enough, the kid takes his quarters and heads towards Rampage. Dustin jumps in delight. 

“You’re awesome, Y/N!" 

You grin. “I try. Where are the others?”

Dustin sours.

“They ditched me. To hang out with their girlfriends! Can you believe that shit?” 

“No way!"

He shakes his head.

“I know, right? My friend told me that that’s what happens in high school. People change, y’know? And he’d know, I guess. He’s old like you.”

You scoff. “You make me sound like some kind of ancient. I’m not that old, Henderson.”

“It’s okay, Y/N.” He pats your arm. “In many cultures, the elderly are wise. Now in my experience, this hasn’t been the case. But I think you’re wise.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Dustin smiles like the little shit he is and puts his change in the slot. 

“Well, contrary to what this other friend says, I’m sure it’ll pass,” you say. “You guys will hang out again." 

You swallow your acidic truth. Dustin's a good kid, and so are his friends. You don't want him to turn cynical like you have. He's too young. 

Dustin shrugs, starting the game.

“I guess so. I got a copy of The Lost Boys for us to watch on Friday. They said they’ll be there.”

“Whoa, seriously? That one just came out, how’d you get a copy?”

“My friend,” he says. “The one I mentioned. He works at Family Video and reserves stuff for me.”

“Huh. I thought Family Video was closed."

You'd applied to work there last year and never got a call back. You'd gone by once and it had looked abandoned. Hence why you now work at the arcade across town. 

"It almost did, but Keith took over so now it's barely scraping by."

"Ah. Sweet deal on the movies."

“Yeah,” Dustin agrees, eyes crinkling. “My friend's pretty cool. You'd like him."

"Would I now?"

"Absolutely," he gushes. "He's a total badass too. He won his first fight last year. He used to be a jock but he's recovered." 

"Wow. Impressive."

"Mmhm. I could ask him to hold stuff for you too, if you wanted.”

“You would?”

The game makes a sad game over noise. Dustin sighs and takes a gulp of his slushie.

“Yeah, totally,” he says through a mouthful of blue raspberry ice. “Which one do you want?”

“Pretty in Pink? I missed it in theaters."

“Sure. I’ll tell him to hold it tonight and tomorrow you can pick it up.”

“Cool. Thanks, Dustin.”

Dustin gives you an apple-cheeked grin.

“Gotta stay in good graces with the arcade attendant who lets me play Tempest as long as I want.”

"I don't know what you're talking about," you say, walking away. "Don't get slushie on the game."

"'Kay!"

Dustin only gets a little bit of slushie on the game, but he cleans it up with about a million of the cheap snack bar napkins. When he leaves, he tells you to mention his name at Family. 

"Who do I ask for?" 

"You can talk to either of them," Dustin says. "Doesn't matter. Except Keith. You know Keith, right?"

"Unfortunately.” Keith used to terrorize the arcade before he blessedly moved on. “He works there?"

"Barely." Dustin scoffs. "He's almost never there, so don't worry. And feel free to ask for more movies. They owe me one."

Your sole interactions are with professors and a gaggle of high school freshmen. But now you get to watch any movie you want. Maybe this year won't totally suck. 

The bell rings pleasantly as you step inside. There's a few people on line, so you take your time walking in. There's a movie display with about thirty copies of RoboCop. A cardboard cutout of RoboCop stares back behind his red helmet.

"Can I help who's next?"

You go to the counter. A girl about your age with a choppy haircut smiles at you but it's sort of strained. She has a pin on her green work vest that says Ask me!

"Please don't ask for Adventures in Babysitting," she says. 

"Oh. No, I'm, uh, Dustin's friend?" 

You can't believe you're name-dropping a high schooler. 

She nods in realization. 

"Oh, yeah. God, I keep telling that dweeb not to promise holds."

You wince. 

"Sorry. If it's going to get you in trouble…"

Her brows raise. She smiles a bit. 

"No, it's okay. Usually my coworker deals with it but, well. He's taking an extra long break today. So, what movie was it?"

"Pretty in Pink," you say. 

"Classic," she replies. "John Hughes fan?"

"Somewhat. I didn't get to see it in theaters. I like Molly Ringwald."

She grins.

"Me too. She's pretty."

"Super pretty," you agree. 

The girl considers you, then sticks out her hand. 

"I'm Robin," she says. "Nice to meet you."

You take her hand. "Y/N.”

"Did you go to Hawkins High?"

"I did. Graduated last year."

"Oh, cool. Are you in college?"

You nod. 

"Hawkins State. Twenty minutes from here."

"Sweet! I'm taking a gap year, but afterwards, I’m gonna apply there. It's cheap. College is college, right?"

"College is college," you agree. "But I wish I'd gone away for school."

You don't know why you're telling her this. You've known Robin for all of two minutes. But she seems friendly. And her sense of style is cool. She wears a blue blazer and tie underneath her vest. 

"How come?" she asks. 

"Everybody from Hawkins is there," you say. "And I… I just want a new start."

Robin smiles sympathetically. 

"They're jerks," she says. 

You huff. "Yeah."

You'd turned yourself into a social recluse a million years ago. It's your own damn fault you can't befriend anybody in this town. At least, not anymore. 

Robin types into the computer, then smacks the monitor. She groans. 

"Ugh. Gimme a second," she says. "Stupid technology."

"No problem," you say, smiling. You like her. Maybe you can integrate Family Video into your regular routine, become friends. You can see Robin becoming a good friend. One you wouldn't grow apart from. 

She disappears into the back room. You browse the old releases and stop at Die Hard. This one you saw in theaters. John McClane is a badass. 

You think of Dustin, and his supposedly badass new friend. It's too bad you didn't meet today. Dustin has a good sense about people. If he says so, it's possible you and this friend really would get on. 

The bell rings again. You're slow to look up. The entrance is empty when you do. You keep reading about John McClane's adventures. 

"Have you been waiting long?"

You turn at the new voice. The video slips out of your hand and clatters onto the counter. 

Steve’s hair has grown since you last saw it. He looks different too, though he has yet to break out of his signature church boy polos. There's a smattering of stubble on his jaw. His arms are lean with muscle. He wears a matching work vest like Robin's, name tag printed Steve in blocky font. 

He looks at where you've dropped Die Hard and smiles. 

"This is a good one," he says. "John McClane is a total badass."

You blink.

"Did you want to rent that one?" he continues, meeting your eye. 

"No," you manage. 

"Okay, no problem. Just browsing?" 

He doesn't remember you. 

You stare and stare. Steve leans in, concerned. He's changed, but he hasn't. He's still handsome with his swoopy hair and big, dark eyes, but the Steve you knew wouldn't have been caught dead working at a video store.

And he doesn't remember you. 

"Are you okay?" he asks, sounding genuine.

You take a step back from the counter. The blood roars in your ears. Robin comes back in, Pretty in Pink in hand. She looks at you, then at Steve. 

"Got it!" she tells you. "Computer should work now."

"I have to go," you say. 

You don't look at Steve again, instead focusing on Robin. 

Her brows rise. 

"Oh. Is everything—"

"I forgot my wallet," you blurt. "I can't pay for the movie. Sorry."

"That's okay, we can just—"

You run. The bell chimes over her words. You keep running until you get to the bus stop, three blocks away. 

Only there do you stop to catch your breath. 

And then you cry. 

February 1982

"What do you think about Marie?" 

You look up from your textbook. Steve is doodling in the margins of his notes. You gently prod his arm. He returns to reading but his leg starts to bounce under the table. 

"Marie Iverson?" you ask.

"Yeah." 

Steve glances at you. He pushes his hair back. It had taken him freshman year to get his bearings with all the gels and creams, but now, his hair is a point of pride, always perfectly coiffed. Seniors call him "The Hair" and high-five him in the hallway. You hate it. 

"I don't know. I don't know her that well."

"She's cute." 

"I guess so," you say. 

It's harder to get Steve to focus on homework these days. Last year, he happily made flashcards with you and even bought fancy gel pens to share for your notes. Now, he prefers to talk about girls or—

"I was thinking of asking her out."

The tip of your pencil breaks. You really ought to start using pens, but you don't like being unable to erase. 

"Shit, here. Take mine." 

Steve offers his still perfectly sharpened pencil. You stare at it. 

"Y/N?" 

"Yeah." You take the pencil. "Thanks."

"Sure. So what do you think?" 

"I don't know, Steve. I thought you talked about this stuff with Tommy."

"I would, it's just…" Steve shifts uncomfortably. "He can be rude about it sometimes. He doesn't even get why we're friends, y'know? Doesn't understand why I don't just date you."

Tommy is a moron, but you've said that since last year, and Steve's never listened before. 

"Some people don't get it," you say mildly, because you have an upcoming French test and there's no use in getting upset over Tommy Hagan right now. 

"But you do. And you know about this stuff better than me. Girls and all."

"Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I know what girls are best for you to date, Steve. It's weird to talk about."

Steve deflates. 

"Oh. Yeah, I guess so. Sorry."

You sigh and rub your temple. 

"I thought you knew all about that," you say, extending an olive branch. "Asking girls out and stuff."

"Well, I mean, I've kissed girls but I've never… you're, like, the only girl I really know."

Something like pride swells in your chest. Selfishly, you want to keep Steve. You don't want to help him if it means losing him. Oh, you're so greedy, aren't you? You watch Steve run off with Tommy and Carol and nameless seniors and seethe, because Steve was yours first. Steve is yours.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah." You give him back his pencil and fish for another one in your bag. "Did you ever think about writing how you feel?" 

"Writing?"

"Yeah, like a poem or a letter."

"I'm terrible at writing," Steve laments. "The letters get all jumbled and I never spell a damn thing right."

He'd told his mom once how letters melt into each other, how b's become d's. She'd taken him to get his eyes checked, and when the doctor said Steve was fine, Deborah Harrington had told her son to stop begging for attention. 

"Someone who really likes you won't care about spelling mistakes, Steve," you tell him. "As long as you write from the heart. Don't do that cheesy shit and quote Romeo and Juliet. They're young, impulsive, and they die at the end, and that's not romantic."

Steve laughs, nose scrunched. 

"What!" you demand. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, 's just—of course you'd have something to say about quoting Shakespeare."

"It's overdone," you say, crinkling your nose. "And girls would much rather read your own words." 

"So you think I should write Marie a letter?"

"If you really like her," you say. "Only write letters for girls you really like. Otherwise they lose their meaning."

Steve frowns. "I don't know if I should write her a letter, then."

Don't, you want to say. Don't write any of them letters.

You shuffle your papers into a stack. 

"Can we study now?" you ask.

"Oh, sure, yes. Sorry."

"You don't have to keep apologizing, Steve."

He shifts closer to you. His leg has stopped bouncing.

"Lemme take you out," he says. 

You nearly swallow your tongue. 

"Wh–what?"

"For ice cream," Steve clarifies. "Like we used to. Dairy Queen."

"Oh. Okay, sure. But after we study."

Steve beams. "I'll drive you."

Steve's dad had bought him the BMW as a birthday present this year—not that Richard Harrington actually knows when his own son's birthday is, considering the gift was three months early. Still, it's another point of pride for Steve and about all anybody talks about whenever his name comes up. Steve is the only person in your grade with a car. Junior girls hit him up for rides. You make yourself scarce when they do. 

You don't care. You liked Steve before the car. And the clothes. And the hair. 

Your throat feels tight. You want your best friend back. 

"Just us?" you check. 

You can't tell these days. Steve seems to hang out with everybody but you. You're shocked he'd even asked to study together. 

"Oh, sure," Steve says. "I just have to drop off Tommy and Carol first, okay?" 

You check your watch and close your book. 

"I have class," you lie. "I'll see you later." 

Steve catches your wrist. He looks at you and you're struck by how sweet his face is. It's not like you didn't understand why girls want him but it's Steve. Your Steve, who still sleeps with a nightlight and who framed a picture of a sports car he cut out from a magazine because he'd thought it would make him cooler (it didn't. You still tease him about it.) 

"Please," he says. "For helping me."

Your eyes slit. "I didn't help you to get stuff, Steve. I helped you because you're my friend."

Steve blinks like he's forgotten what it's like to be friends with someone just for the sake of being friends. 

"You're right," he agrees. "You're not like that. I'll tell Tommy and Carol to find another ride. It'll be just us. I promise."

You perk up at that. "Really?"

"Really. You can sit in the front with me and we'll play Bruce Springsteen, like we used to. Please?" 

"Okay, Steve." You ache. You’ve never been very good at telling him no. "I'll meet you in the parking lot."

And maybe… maybe your best friend is still in there after all.

Now

You ask your shift manager if you can work at the snack bar today. It's in the back and you won't have to deal with any game hogs. 

"You didn't put enough syrup in my slushie."

You might have overshot the perks, though. 

Slushie Girl's hair is bleach blonde and hairsprayed to God. You want to tell her that all that hairspray doesn't keep friends. Or brain synapses. 

"I don't make the slushie," you say for the third time. "That's how it comes out of the machine."

She shoots you a mean look. 

"I'm complaining to the manager."

You paste on a smile. 

"You do that. Have a nice day."

She finally walks away, probably on the hunt for your manager, who's definitely smoking a joint outside to avoid this exact situation. 

Dustin comes around the corner and this time, he's with the rest of his party. You smile. 

"Hey, Y/N!" Dustin greets.

Lucas waves at you. Max and Mike are arguing and therefore are in their own world. And there's their newest addition, El, whose story you're still not clear on, as well as Will, quiet as always. 

You lean your elbows on the countertop. 

"What'll it be, gang?"

"Six nachos and six slushies, please. One blue raspberry, three cherry, and two Coke."

You fill up the slushies first. Dustin dances on his toes. 

"So did you pick up the movie?" he asks.

"Oh." You try to smile. "I went there but I couldn't. I forgot my money. Pretty dumb of me."

Dustin accepts this with no argument. 

"Well, you can go back. They'll hold it for a few days."

You're never setting foot in there again, but you don't tell Dustin that. 

He takes his slushie and immediately starts drinking. 

"Slow down, dude. You'll get a brain freeze," you say. 

"You sound like Steve," Dustin informs you. "Doesn't Y/N sound like Steve?" 

Lucas nods. 

"Yup. They're both parents."

You feel queasy. You focus on making the nachos, the cheese pouring out thick and gooey. 

"Did you meet Steve?" Dustin asks. "You probably know him from high school, but he's different now."

"Yes," you say quietly. "I knew him."

"I promise he's different. Even Mike likes him, and Mike hated his guts. Right, Mike?"

Mike pauses in his animated discussion with Max and looks at you. 

"What?"

"I'm telling Y/N about how Steve is cool now," Dustin explains. 

"Oh." Mike shrugs. "He's fine. Much better now that he's not dating my sister."

"He's not?" you ask. "But they were in love. I–I mean, that's what I heard, at least."

"She dumped his ass," El says, and it sounds a little ridiculous in her soft monotone. 

Max scoffs, taking her Coke slushie. 

"Did you live under a rock? It was a huge thing."

"Now Steve is lame," Mike says with a snort. 

"Getting dumped doesn't make somebody lame," you say with an old ferocity you'd thought had disappeared. 

"Okay, jeez." Mike holds up his hands. "Steve's alright. He's different, that's for sure."

"He's our paladin," Lucas says. "A protector." 

Dustin nods eagerly.

You blink. "He protects you guys?"

Max elbows Lucas. You have no idea what that's about. El steps forward and smiles softly. 

"Yes," she says. "He's our babysitter."

"Aren't you guys freshmen? I thought you were too old for babysitters."

"Oh no, Steve doesn't get paid for it or anything," says Mike. "He just does it 'cause he has nothing else to do."

"That's not true!" Dustin argues. Then he shrugs. "Well, it's a little true. But he does like us. He's a good guy. He cares about his friends."

You bite your tongue, not wanting to reply to that. 

"That's great, guys. The girl, Robin? She seems pretty cool too."

"That's Steve's best friend," says Dustin. "She's great."

"Oh." You wince. "Best friend?" 

Dustin huffs. “Yeah. They don’t date. He won’t say why."

"Platonic with a capital P," Max confirms. “It’s obviously because he’s in love with somebody else.”

“Not Nancy!” Lucas protests.

“There are other girls besides Nancy, Sinclair.”

You busy yourself with serving the last set of nachos. The kids pull out crumpled bills and coins in return. You count the money and stack it directly into the register; you know there won't be any change. 

When you turn, they're still there. Dustin has his signature grin on, eyes squinty. 

"Yeees," you drag out. "Can I help you?"

"We need a favor," Lucas says. "Please."

"Hmm." You lean over the counter. "What's up?"

"They're showing Prince of Darkness on Friday," Dustin explains. "But it's rated R."

"So just sneak in. Isn't that what you guys did at Starcourt?" you ask.

"We had an inside man then. They're a lot stricter at the new one," Lucas frowns. "They ask for IDs 'cause some mom complained after her kid snuck in to watch Risky Business." 

"And why can't your babysitter take you?"

You sneer at the thought. Steve spending his Friday nights herding a bunch of adolescent teens into a movie theater. There's a reason you consider Dustin affectionately delusional. 

"He has a stupid date," Dustin groans. "He's a serial dater, Y/N. It's terrible. He gets lucky once and totally ditches us."

Now that sounds like the Steve you knew. 

"I see. I don't really like horror stuff."

"You don't have to stay!" Dustin insists. "You can watch whatever you want after we’re in. I'll pay you back for the ticket."

“This would be so much easier if Steve still worked at Scoops,” Mike grumbles.

You blank for a moment, the image of Steve in a sailor’s hat and those ridiculous shorts whiting your brain.

“Um,” you begin. “You know I don’t have a fancy BMW to cart you guys around in, right?”

“It’s cool. We’ll get there,” Max says.

“So?” Dustin bounces on his toes. “Sooo?”

You sigh. It’d been nice of Dustin to get you the movie, even though you’d chickened out and ran. And it’s not like you have anything better to do.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll get you guys in.”

Dustin pumps his fist. “Thanks, Y/N! You’re my favorite old person.”

You roll your eyes. “Funny. Any funnier, and I might rescind my help, Henderson.”

“Byeeee!”

They all disperse to the arcade. You wonder how on earth Steve got involved with them.

March 1983

“Okay, but if you had to choose.”

“Pass. I would literally rather swallow pennies than kiss Principal Coleman’s bald-ass head, Steve.”

Steve takes a triumphant swig of beer. “So you’re saying you’ve got the hots for Benny the janitor.”

“No!” you insist through giggles. “I don’t. God, you’re gross. Can’t believe I’m being treated like this on your birthday.”

“Exactly! My birthday.”

He rolls onto his side in his deck chair and nearly faceplants on the cement. You reach out, reaction time delayed.

“Steve!” you yell. “Careful.”

“I am, I am,” he mumbles, and rights himself on the chair. “Jus’ wanna see you better.”

“I keep telling you you need glasses.”

“I do not,” he whines. “My vision’s ten outta ten. Could a guy who needs glasses do this?”

He crumples up a Twinkies wrapper and throws it towards the garbage. The wind picks up and sends the wrapped into the pool. 

“Shit,” he says.

You belly laugh in delight.

“Wait, wait, redo. Go fish it outta there.”

“Oh, as if. I’m not going in there. I told you you need glasses. Even Mother Nature agrees.”

"She does not. Mother Nature thinks I'm a doll."

You hum and close your eyes. Alcohol always makes you sleepy. 

The chair scrapes against the concrete. You hear a crinkle of a chip bag. Those are your only warning before you’re crushed by two hundred pounds of drunk boy. 

“Steve!” You wheeze, squirming as his hair tickles your face. “Get off!”

"’M sleepy,” he mumbles.

“Well, don't sleep on me, weirdo.”

“‘S cold.”

“You run, like, a hundred degrees, don’t lie.”

He lifts his head. “So you’re saying I’m hot?”

“I’m saying all that booze cooked your brain,” you reply sweetly.

“I’ve been wounded,” he moans and plops onto your shoulder.

“Ugh.” You resign to your fate and lean back. Steve’s not actually that heavy; even drunk, he has a lot of control over his weight and he’s situated himself so he isn’t crushing anything important. No, you squirm underneath him for a very different reason. 

“Steeeeve,” you whine. “You’re gonna squish me into a pancake.”

“Can’t believe no one else came.”

You still. Steve’s face remains buried in your shoulder. His body is beside yours, and he has an arm slung over your belly.

“I didn’t—didn’t want a party,” he continues. “I always throw parties. I thought I’d do somethin’ different. An’ none of them even wished me a happy birthday. ‘Cept you.”

You rest your hand on the back of his hair. It’s wind-blown and messy from the drinks, free of his heady hair gel. You’ve never loved it more.

“Did you tell them your birthday is today?” you ask gently, even though you know he did.

“Yeah,” he says. “Told all of ‘em. Guess they weren’t listening.”

“I listen.”

Steve looks up at you. His eyes are glassy.

“God, I miss you,” he says.

You feel the wall you’ve built this year crumble, just a little. 

“I’m right here, Steve.”

“I know but—been a jerk lately. I know I have. You’re my best friend, okay? Nothing’ll change that. I–I love you so much.”

Your breath hitches. Steve barrels on, not noticing.

“And I’ll be better. We’ll hang out more. Not–not here, drunk. But for real. We’ll go to the movies. Y’wanna see a movie?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I wanna see a movie.”

“‘Kay, what movie? Anything you want. We’ll get popcorn and Raisinets.”

“You hate Raisinets,” you choke through a watery laugh.

“I’d eat Raisinets anytime with you.”

You lay there, in the dark, the only sound being the pool filter.

“Let’s watch the new James Bond.”

“Hmm, okay. But you’ll have to say the name eventually.”

Your nose crinkles. “I am not calling it by its name.”

His laugh is warm in your neck. 

You don’t tell Steve to get up again. He snuggles into you, leg over yours. You fall asleep like that, curled underneath him.

Now

“Wait.” Max stops. “Shouldn’t we have, like, a game plan?”

“Game plan?” El asks quietly.

“Yeah. Some of us aren’t so great at playing it cool.”

She stares at Lucas.

“I play it cool!” he squawks. “I am so cool!”

“Right.”

“Just let Y/N do the talking,” Will says. “She’s technically the adult so she should act like this is a conscious choice.”

You shrug. “Makes sense to me.”

Dustin beams. “This is gonna be great!”

“Or a total disaster,” Max says.

You go to the counter, the kids trailing behind like ducklings.

“Six tickets for Prince of Darkness, please,” you say. “And uh, one for Dirty Dancing.”

The attendant looks at you, then at the kids.

“Don’t you mean seven tickets for Prince of Darkness?” she asks. “It’s rated R.”

Shit. “Right, yes. Sorry. Seven tickets. And one for Dirty Dancing. We have another friend who’s late.”

“Uh-huh.” 

The attendant, whose bored expression you’ve recognized on your own face after long days in the arcade, hands you your tickets without any questioning. 

“I think we’re in the clear,” Lucas whispers when you enter the concession area. 

You wait for them to buy their snacks. Max persuades Lucas to let her mix M&Ms into their bucket of popcorn. He agrees and shuffles closer so they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder while they share. 

“Okay, last stretch,” Mike says, shoveling a frighteningly large handful of sour worms into his mouth. “We just have to get past the ticket guy.”

Said ticket guy is a kid who can’t be much older than you. You think you might’ve gone to school together, but you’ve made it a point to eviscerate everything about high school from your mind.

“Hey,” you say, trying to act cool. Maybe you’re the one Max should’ve been worried about, instead of Lucas. “Uh, here are our tickets.”

He takes the tickets, then looks behind you.

“Prince of Darkness is only for people seventeen and older,” he says.

“I’m an adult, so I’m with them,” you explain. “I’m, like, their guardian?”

“Yeah, uh—” He hands you your tickets. “No can do. There needs to be an adult for each person under seventeen.”

“Come on,” you cajole. “They’re high schoolers. It’s not like they’re gonna be scarred for life watching some zombies, or whatever.”

He shrugs. “Rules are rules.”

“She’s an adult!” Dustin argues.

“Look, if you’re gonna hold up the line, I’m gonna have to—”

“Yo, Gillespie! That you?”

Dustin turns and lights up. The seven of you part for Steve Harrington and his date, a pretty strawberry blonde you think you had biology with.

“Harrington, man, what’s up!” 

Ticket Prick gets up to slam Steve into a bear hug. You barely resist an eye roll.

“Shit, I haven’t seen you in a year! Where’ve you been all this time? Hey, did you hear about that shit with Munson?”

Steve flinches. It’s a tiny movement, indiscernible to the trained eye. But it’s there all the same.

“Gillespie, c’mon. Don’t bring the party down with that,” Steve says, all sweet charm. 

“Sorry, sorry. Daisy,” he greets the girl attached to Steve’s arm.

“Gil,” she replies with a giggle. “You smell like popcorn butter.”

America’s future taxpayers. Terrifying. 

“Are you gonna let us in or not?” Max interrupts, arms folded. 

You feel a burst of pride.

Gil shoots her a dirty glare and puffs up, ready to fight a fourteen year old. Steve cuts in smoothly.

“Gillespie, listen. I know her.” He points to you. You bristle. “I can personally vouch that she’s just trying to do right by these kids. They wanted to see Prince of Darkness, y’know? Get away from the parents.”

“It’s a sick film,” Gil agrees. “You seen it?”

No, of course Steve hadn’t seen it. He hates horror. 

“Planning on it,” Steve says, the ultimate image of playing it cool. “Look, you remember sneaking into the movies. Fast Times? Ring any bells?”

Max rolls her eyes. You’re inclined to do the same.

Gil laughs dopily, and nudges Steve. “Hell yeah, I do. That was a crazy night, Harrington.”

Steve smiles thinly. “Sure was. So whaddya say? For old times’ sake?”

Gil considers your little troupe. Then he shrugs.

“Why not. Manager’s not here anyway.”

He takes the tickets and tears them to stubs, then gives them back.

“Theater six. On your left. Enjoy.”

The kids stampede into the left theater wing. You hang back with your own ticket. 

“Appreciate it, man,” Steve says, all smiles. “Take care, alright?”

“Hey, you too, Harrington! We gotta catch up!”

Steve and Daisy go in. You expect them to walk right past you, and Daisy does, predictably. But Steve stops.

“I’ll catch up, okay?” he tells her. “Find us some good seats?”

She paws at him a little, then goes, sodas in hand. You stiffen as Steve walks and stops three feet away from you. 

“Hey,” he says. “Sorry about that. Gil’s an asshole.”

“I know. He yawned during my poetry reading sophomore year. And then you guys went to the movies together.”

Steve shrinks. “Your poems were great.”

You’re suddenly exhausted.

“What do you want, Steve?”

“I just… I wanted to see you. Say hi.”

“Okay.” You cross your arms. “Hi.”

“You forgot your movie,” he says. “The other day.”

“I didn’t want it that much.”

“Dustin said you looked everywhere for it.”

“Well, in the end, it didn’t really matter,” you say. “Not enough to stay.”

“Y/N—”

“I think your date’s waiting for you,” you interrupt. “Better get back to her. Wouldn’t want to taint your reputation.”

Steve makes a noise like he’s been wounded. You turn on your heel before you can think better of it. 

“Wait.” He catches your wrist. Steve’s grip is light, like you’re something precious to hold. You wrench your arm away. “Y/N, I want to apologize. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you ask. “For forgetting me? I didn’t expect you to remember, Steve.”

“I didn’t forget you,” he insists. “I could never forget you. I wasn’t—please, can I just explain?”

“I don’t need your explanations,” you snap. The hurt corrodes your tongue like acid. “I know what happened. We were both there. You left.”

Steve’s eyes are huge and dark. He looks like you just stabbed him in the heart, and that makes you feel worse. You’d thought telling him how much it hurts would put you back together, but all it did was break you more.

So you run. Again. 

You slam through a back exit and rip your ticket into a million pieces. The wind is cold and unforgiving. Your eyes sting. 

You call out sick for two days in a row. You kind of expect to get fired, but then again, people have been leaving Hawkins and if you’re not here to serve the masses their slushies, who will be?

So, after lying in bed not thinking about movies and strawberry blonde girls and how sick you are of this town, you get up and put on your arcade vest.

Now it is two in the afternoon. You’d heard it was supposed to snow today.

Robin eyes the snack counter like it holds the next plague outbreak. You don't blame her; you make it a point to wash up to your elbows after work.

"Slushie?"

She looks at you like she’d forgotten you were there. "What?"

You point a thumb at the machine. "Are you here for a slushie?"

"Oh. No, sorry. Red dye makes me insane in the brain. Steve actually—"

Robin stops, grimaces. So he's told her. Probably everything, if the kids had been telling the truth. 

You're honestly surprised she's here. Unless it’s to, like, swirlie you in the vat of artificial cheese. 

"Are you here to drown me in nacho cheese?" you ask.

Robin's eyes go wide as dinner plates. "What? No!"

"Just checking." You lean against the counter. "What can I do for you, Robin?" 

Robin suddenly looks like she's never interacted with a human being before. You like her a lot. Steve probably does too. 

"I came to drop off your movie." She holds the tape over the counter like it's a pool of lava. 

"But I didn't pay for it." You shove your hand in your jean pocket; you only have a couple dollars on you. "I guess I can get you the money tom—"

"It's on the house. For a fellow Molly fan."

Robin wiggles the tape with two fingers. You take it and wait for a catch. There is none. 

"Thank you," you say. "You didn't have to do that."

"Actually, it wasn't me," she confesses. "I'm just the mailman."

You prepare to hand it back but Robin shakes her head. 

"He's not going to pop out of the slushie machine, okay? He's just trying to make it up to you."

"He doesn't need to make it up to me," you bite, except those aren’t the words you mean. "Why does he even care? We're not in high school anymore."

Robin smiles a sad smile. 

"I know," she says. "We’re not. I know he should've known to fix things earlier. He's received a lot of blows to the head, though, so he's still catching up."

The thought turns your stomach. More? More you weren’t there to protect him from?

"He doesn't owe me anything," you say and wave the tape again. "You can take it back and leave it for somebody else."

"Y/N, I know we don't know each other, like, at all. But it's important to me you know that Steve cares about you, because you’re important to him. And you knew him way before I did, and you probably know a lot of stuff I don't, and that's good because he has a friend like me, but he should also have a friend like you too, Y/N."

"I don't want to be his friend," you mumble. 

"Yeah," Robin says. "I figured. But I don't think that's a confession he should hear secondhand."

You look at her, stunned. She's such a clever girl. You hope she treats Steve well.

"If you two are—"

"We're not," she says, like this is a regular explanation she goes through. "Steve and I are friends. Steve has crashed and burned with every single date since his fall from regency. Steve is the best person I've ever met." 

"Yeah, I’ve heard. You and Dustin are his biggest fans."

Robin snorts. "Trust me, I'm not proud of it."

You shake your head. Your eyes feel hot. 

"This town is so shit," you say. 

"Yeah," Robin agrees. "It really fucking is. But I'm not asking you to give this town a second chance. Just him."

"Why are you trying so much?" you ask. "You don't even know me."

Robin shrugs. "No, but you're the one person Steve used to be friends with who's not an asshole, and I think us non-assholes need to band together."

"I can sometimes be an asshole."

"Me too. So are those little dweebs. How about calling ourselves the Semi-Assholes Club?" 

You laugh. "We'll get jackets."

"With partially drawn butts on the backs," Robin says with a giggle. 

You look at the tape in your hand. 

"Does Steve like John Hughes?" 

"He does. He's a total sap for those. He thinks he's in his own coming-of-age movie because he's delusional."

He sounds perfect. He sounds like the friend you loved. 

"I did want to watch this one," you say. 

"It won't hurt you to," Robin promises. 

You suppose not.

December 1984

You don't believe the whispers. All week, the rumor mill spins tales of Billy Hargrove finally pushing the King off his throne. There's no way he'll show his face, a girl at the adjacent lunch table astutes. I sure as fuck wouldn't.

Steve Harrington is a loser. Steve Harrington got dumped for Jonathan Byers. Steve Harrington may as well be dead, and on and on. 

Every line gets you angrier. A boy who sits behind you in chemistry taps his pencil like he always does. Tap, tap, tap. 

Halfway through class, you snap at him to quit it. He does, but not without a tinge of embarrassment. You’re so angry this year. Angry at your loneliness, angry at the unfairness of said loneliness. You might’ve done this to yourself, and that fact only gets you angrier.

You see Nancy Wheeler in the hallways with Jonathan Byers, and the confirmation of that rumor should make you happy. It doesn't. 

A week later, most of the excitement has died down. Everybody’s moved onto the next big thing, which is to deduce who fucked in Vice Principal White's office. One look at V.P. White, and it had been decided that it can't have been White himself. 

You can't care less. Once upon a time you might’ve laughed about it with a friend, but you don't have any more of those, and high school is bullshit with or without them. So.

Steve walks in twenty five minutes into the period. Mrs. Kaplan gives him a downright beastly glare and demands to know where he had been. 

"I'm sorry," is all he says. "If you give me detention, I understand."

There are a few snickers that rub at an old hurt, one that had flared up whenever somebody dared to make fun of your best friend. It doesn't bother me, he'd said, and you'd known it was a lie. 

It bothers me, you’d replied, and Steve had hugged you tight.

Mrs. Kaplan seems more stunned Steve hadn't swaggered past her like a peacock escaped from the zoo and lets him go sit down without a fight. He takes the only empty desk, two rows across from you. You stare. You can't not. 

Half of his face looks like it was mashed in a garbage disposal. It's purple and a sickly yellow. His eye and lip are still swollen. You stare and stare. You feel queasy. 

Billy had done that. You're so angry. You think you might never get past this grief, this loss of a once permanent fixture in your life. 

No one wished Steve a happy birthday this year, you realize out of nowhere.

You stare and stare and stare until Steve looks right back. You're blindsided by thick guilt, like blinking through a milkshake. And then the familiar curl of anger returns because why the fuck should you feel guilty? You aren't the one who fucked everything up, who mascerated this good thing. Steve did this to himself. Steve deserves to walk the halls alone. It's Steve's fault. 

But when you look at him, at his raw wounds, at his bruised knuckles, you know that he already believes he deserves every punch Billy Hargrove gave him. 

You hate Steve Harrington. But you really wish you'd been there to drive him to the hospital. 

Now (And Forever)

The tape sits buried in your drawer for three days. You don’t know what Family Video’s return policy is, but you hope you’re not racking up late fees. You doubt name dropping Dustin will work again.

It’s Saturday when you decide to watch Pretty in Pink. You remove the video from its sleeve. An envelope falls out.

The front has your name printed in squished, loopy script. You remember January at Steve’s house, a stack of thank-you cards courtesy of his mother awaiting the Harringtons’ sign-off. Steve’s hand would cramp and you’d take over while he made grilled cheese for the both of you. Love, The Harringtons, and there was no love in that house, but you think maybe Steve loved enough to make up for it. 

Hi, the letter begins. I hope you’re good. Robin told me you’re going to Hawkins State.

That’s fucking amazing. I’m so proud of you. Are you still writing poetry? I liked that one you wrote about the birds who shared a branch and kept each other warm. I still have it in my notebook in my room.

I’m sorry for the other night. I’m sorry for every night since freshman year, honestly. I’m kind of a dumbass, but you know that, so it doesn’t really excuse anything. I think I’ve actually lost brain cells since we drifted apart.

You crumple the corner, suddenly hot with anger. Who keeps telling him he’s dumb? You want names.

I didn’t forget you, you know. I got scared and I thought maybe I could ease into it, but then you recognized me and… well. I don’t blame you for running.

Anyway. I’m talking too much about myself, when there’s nothing to say. I’m really sorry about what I did, or, actually, what I didn’t do. Somebody told me I was living on autopilot, and that it wasn’t really living at all. I think it was you. 

I’m not living on autopilot anymore. I woke up. And I realized that you’re the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me. I love Robin and the kids and this little family that has apparently invayd invaded your life too. Sorry about that. They never leave and they eat all your food. Good luck. 

But I miss you. I always have.

Shit happened these last few years that I’ll tell you about one day, if you want. I’d rather not, though, because you’ve always been the paranoiac (like that one? Robin said it’s an SAT word) of the two of us and I feel like this would just make you even more of one. But I will tell you, if you want to hear it. I want to tell you everything. I want you to tell me everything too. Like we used to.

I want you to tell me how college is going. Who the annoying jerks in your classes are so I can go beat them up (kidding). I want you to stop by to rent movies so I can lend them for free and you’ll yell at me about taking advantage of fre friendships. 

Fuck, I miss you. It’s always been there, bubbling below the surface. I never stopped missing you. I never stopped loving you. I’m sorry I didn’t write this sooner. I know you said writing is how we express things we can’t say. You were right. You always are. Can’t believe I forgot that. 

It’s okay if you don’t want to be friends. I mean, it hurts, but I respect it. I understand. Most days, I can’t believe people can bear to be around me. But then I hear your voice in my head, telling me that most people are shitheads and that I’m golden and. Well, I don’t know if I believe that, but you were right that most of the people I surrounded myself with were shitheads. Except you, of course. And then I went ahead and fucked that up.

I’ve been working on finding the non-shitheads of the world. I think I’m doing pretty well. And I wrote this because I realized that while I will probably end up buried in this fucking town, you’re going to do something incredible. And nothing incredible ever happens in Hawkins, so I figure you’ll be far away when you do it. 

I didn’t want to miss this chance to write things I never said. So here they are. And you can do whatever you want with them. You’ve always been the best of the two of us. I trust you.

You should watch Dirty Dancing. You’ll like it. I did. I’ll see it again if you want. I’ll watch anything with you.

Did you know there’s another Bond movie coming out in the summer? We could watch that one together too. If you wanted more time to decide.

Sincer

Lo

Your friend,

Steve

You don’t bother ejecting the tape. You run all the way to the bus stop, Steve’s letter in hand. 

You have to see him. No other thoughts register except that one. You have to know if Steve wrote these words because he can’t say them or because you won’t listen.

It isn’t too late when you get to Loch Nora. The neighborhood is dead, which is weird. Steve’s house looks frozen in time: his parents’ car isn’t in the driveway. You wonder if they’ve ever come back since you’ve been gone. You wouldn't be surprised if the answer is no.

There’s a tarp over the pool. The gate is locked with a chain. You can’t sneak in through the fence like you used to. Not that you would. You don’t think strangers can sneak through pool gates.

You knock on the door three times. And wait.

Steve’s car is in the driveway, a duller burgundy than when he first got it. There are a few scratches in the paint. No longer a prized possession. Maybe well-loved instead.

The door swings open. 

Steve says your name like a prayer. You swallow and steel your spine. 

“I got your letter,” you say.

“Oh.” He rubs the back of his neck. His hair is damp like he’s just showered. It curls around his ears. Waves of want hit you. 

“I don’t want to be friends,” you continue before he can speak. “I don’t—I can’t do that again.”

Steve’s mouth draws into the saddest frown you’ve ever seen.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Thank you for telling me.”

“No.” You shake your head. “No, that’s not—I don’t mean it like that.”

His brows knit. “What?”

“I…” You pull out the letter and wave it. “Did you mean it? Do you love me?”

“Yes,” Steve whispers. It’s like a shout in the quiet street. “I meant it.”

“Like a friend?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Will you love me like a friend forever?” you ask. 

“Always.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“I love you as something more,” you blurt, watery. “I have for a long time.”

You hear the door shut. This is it: your heart on the line, all for nothing—

“Then I’ll love you as something more back,” Steve says. “I’ll love you any way you want me to.”

And he holds you the way you’d held him so many times. You inhale and wrap your arms around his neck. You’ve got an iron grip around the letter. Tears slip down your cheeks.

“I missed you,” you confess.

Steve nods against your shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says, and it sounds a little wet. “I missed you too.”

“You were wrong,” you say into his neck.

“Hmm?”

You pull back to look at Steve.

“Incredible things do happen in Hawkins.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve smiles, cheeks blotchy. “Like what?”

“We found each other again.”

[allfearstofallto]

Okie so we've had childe meeting scara's wife, but what about scara meeting childe's wife for the first time? If not can we hear more about the first one?

- 🍓

You are so right strawberry!! My dumbass really forgot that I could write the scenario going the other way!!

Scaramouche Meeting Childe's Wife

Yandere Childe! x reader x Yandere(?) Scaramouche

After almost a year of Childe fawning over you, the look of disinterest his coworker gave you was rather refreshing. The man, only a head shorter than Childe and obviously much more frail looking, had a scowl that could kill. You wondered how long it took to get a look that aggressive, but somehow still elegant on his delicate features.

“And this is my lovely wife!” Childe said rather excitedly and the man merely rolled his eyes.

“It's very nice to meet you,” you muttered softly, he didn't have much in the way to say back. Despite the cold of Snezhnaya he was wearing a shirt that barely went down to his elbows, shorts, and sandals. The cold of Snezhnaya wasn't normal, it felt like the air was biting you. You couldn't even leave the house without a few good layers, yet here he was walking through it with ease, “You're not dressed well for the weather.”

Another glare was shot your way, his eyes colder than the snow, “Skip the pleasantries. I'm here because I have to be. Don't pretend you want to speak with me.”

You didn't even dare look at Childe after the man spoke. He was always so quick to anger, especially when it came to you. Childe had very few loyalties in his life, one of them being the Tsaritsa, the other being you. He often told you how easily he could and would turn on anyone else if needed be, and it seemed this coworker was going to be no different.

“Number six,” you could hear that he was forcing the words through gritted teeth, “Perhaps I wasn't clear when I told you that I love my wife more than anything in this world.”

“You were clear. But perhaps I didn't care,” the man was bold, you'd give him that. And despite how rude he was being he still walked further into the home, taking off the large ornate hat he was wearing and letting you finally see how beautiful his silky, indigo hair was.

Childe followed soon after and the two of them went to talk. You could already tell that he wasn't completely friendly with this coworker, out of the many you'd met. You knew more harbingers than the average person did in a lifetime, more than you wanted to as well, but this one was the first one you'd seen be blatantly disrespectful.

But as they sat and chatted amongst themselves about missions and quite honestly, things you didn't understand, your mind still thought about how underdressed the man was. There was no way Childe would let him stay overnight, not with the way he was acting and Snezhnaya only got colder when the sun was down. You didn't want to just send him out into the elements.

“Could you bring me a spare jacket, and maybe some snow pants and boots,” you asked a maid and she was quick to drop what she was doing to scurry off and find things for you. In less than thirty minutes, everything was handed to you, neatly folded.

The meeting only lasted two hours and both Childe and his co-worker were leaving the office. You wondered if he ever got sick of scowling so much. Or if he ever even showed interest in anything at all.

Childe was walking faster than usual, probably trying to quickly get the man out of the house, but you stopped him, holding up the clothes that you'd acquired. The way both men looked at you made your heart sink to your ass, your orange haired husband had so much fury in his eyes from your kindness to the other, but didn't stop you.

“It's…it’s just cold out there,” you muttered, hoping that Childe would understand your explanation. He allowed the other man to take the clothes, a gentle smirk on his face.

Throughout the whole day, you'd never seen him with anything but his usual frown, you weren't even aware that he could smile, “Such thoughtfulness. I see why number eleven is interested in you,”

The door to the home was opened and the man ushered out. He was still holding the items you'd given him, not wearing them, but you didn't want to tell him to stop. Not while Ajax was looking at you so angrily. You didn't want to cause even more misunderstandings.

“Scaramouche,” he said while still walking out the door. You must've made a noise of confusion because he elaborated, “I'm called Scaramouche. And I'll see you soon.”

[delcakoo]

Coudl you doooo bf!jungwon catching some guy staring at you and tries to scare them off? if requests aren’t open I’m so sorry!

wahaha ur wish is my command nonnie (warning neck kisses? marking)

now who did this guy think he was?

jungwon was in no way blind — unlike you, who seemed much too preoccupied picking a cereal brand to notice the disgraceful, unwanted, horrendously noticeable leer that this young man was offering you from down the aisle.

“—won?”

“huh?” craning back towards you, jungwon cringes in on himself at the concerned expression adorning your features.

“you okay? i just wanted to know which one you’d prefer.” supporting your words, you lift up a box of ‘nesquik’ in one hand, and ‘frosted flakes’ in the other.

in an attempt to not be obvious about his displeasure, he quickly nods to the latter. “we haven’t got frosted flakes in a while.”

the minute you turn around and begin scanning through the grocery list again, jungwon snaps his head back to the man, only to realize he still had his eyes on you. seriously, was he blind too? your very big, strong, kind-of-tall boyfriend was right there!

shoving his fisted-up knuckles deeper into the comfort of his orange hoodie, your cat boyfriend frowns. he wouldn’t just sit around and let that guy drool over you if there was something he could do about it.

even when jungwon wraps his arms around your waist, you don’t flinch at the abruptness of it, which only encourages him to move closer and rest his chin against your shoulder. his warmth is easily welcomed, including the light kisses that he starts gently peppering down your neck (even if such pda — that he usually never has confidence for — bewilders you a bit).

little do you know he most definitely isn’t reading the list over your shoulder — rather, jungwon’s busy glaring at this brown-haired man with the nastiest scowl he can muster. his face practically screams at the man to back off, and the tight grip his fingers find on your waist accentuates his claim further. you don’t fail to notice how his lips feel feathery and slightly wet against your skin, which only worsens as the male begins sucking to leave a mark with no prior notice.

at the ticklish feeling, you quickly shake him off. “yah, what’re you doing? we’re in the grocery store,” you remind in confusion, a slight blush dusting your cheeks. but it seems you’re too late; jungwon is now smiling proudly, and when you spin around to follow his gaze and discover what the commotions about, you’re left with an empty aisle.

“nobody’s here,” you murmur, rubbing your neck furiously. “geez, won. give me your hoodie, you dumbass.”

he obliges, dimples poking through his cheek even while pulling the soft material over his head. “now you wanna cover up my love, jagi?”

“yup. but maybe if you let me give you a matching one later i’ll call it even.”

his eyes can’t help but widen at that. “yoi..” jungwon giggles, pale fingers rising to shyly massage the back of his neck. he may have scared him off.. but perhaps he’d have to thank that guy later.

i missed writing for wonie it’s been so long <\3 also, reqs are closing again soon cuz exams r getting closer :( i’ll be working on the ones in my inbox for the meantime!!

[slayfics]

Explosive Tendencies a slow burn fan fiction about the readers developing relationship with Katsuki Bakugo.

Chapter twenty-three: The School Festival.

Chapter links

Finally, after all that practice the day of the school festival finally arrived. Everyone was running around getting ready for the performance.

"Here you go," Mina said handing you the costume for the performance.

"What is this?!" You asked, looking at the costume horrified.

"It's the outfit we all are wearing for the performance! What's wrong?" She asked.

"These are so cheesy and over the top! I'm not wearing this!" You complained.

"Oh, suck it up! You can change after the performance if you want! Besides- they are orange, isn't that Bakugo's favorite color," Mina said giving you a playful wink and nudge.

"Cut it out!" You yelled as a blush ignited on your face.

"Fine- but hurry up it's almost time!" She urged you as she ran around handing the costumes to the rest of everyone.

Regrettably, you changed into the costume and took a look in the mirror. It looked ridiculous and you hated the thought of walking out on stage in it. You pulled out your phone to check the time- only 10 more minutes before show time- butterflies fluttered in your stomach. You wondered if Katsuki was feeling nervous as well.

You unlocked your phone to send him a quick message.

These costumes are hideous. Can't believe they are making me wear this thing. Ha, you got a uniform too? Yup, bright orange and blinding. Are you feeling nervous? Of course not. You better not be either. We're gonna murder these dumbasses. See you out there. You smiled and placed your phone back in your pocket.

"Alright everyone ready!" Mina called and gathered up the rest of the girls to make their way to the stage.

Your nerves caused everything to be a bit of a blur. Before you knew it Katsuki had let out an explosion that started the performance and you let yourself go on autopilot remembering all the dance moves.

After a while you tried to steal a glance at Katsuki during the performance causing you to slip up on one of the moves.

Mina gave you a pointed glare indicating for you to focus up. You followed through, stopped trying to steal glances, and stayed focused for the rest of the performance. At the conclusion, everyone cheered and seemed overwhelmed by the performance. However, you were just excited that it was over with.

Afterward, you were all helping to clean up the mess from the special effects of the show.

"You did really great up there, Bakugo," you spoke walking up and handing him some ice to explode.

"Tch- thanks... you weren't so bad yourself," he mumbled, causing a blush to form on your face.

"Hey, you two!" Eijiro said excitedly. "I heard there are some obstacle courses and races at the festival! Want to check them out?"

'"Ha! You already know you're not going to be able to beat me shitty hair!" Katsuki said grinning at Eijiro.

"Oh, I'm gonna do my best! Come on, let's go then! We're pretty much all finished up here," Eijiro said waving his arm for you both to follow him.

You joined the two boys and couldn't help but laugh at their competitiveness. The two of them competed on every obstacle course and race there was at the festival. Even the silly carnival games.

"Here-," Katsuki grumbled, shoving a teddy bear into your arms. He beat Eijiro at another carnival game and was rewarded with a plush toy as a prize. "I don't need that," he said before turning away to join Eijiro at another game.

Even though he turned away just as quickly as he shoved the toy into your hands, you didn't miss the pink tint that painted Katsuki's cheeks as he did.

As you three made your way through the festival you came across the haunted house that the general studies class had put together.

"Hey let's go!" You said excitedly, pointing to the haunted house.

"Tch- no way!" Katsuki barked.

"Aw come on it'll be fun!" Eijiro pleaded.

"I said no!" Katsuki yelled.

"What are you scared or something, man?" Eijiro teased his friend.

"HAH? Of course not! I just don't want to risk popping my quirk off by accident dumb ass," Katsuki explained.

You suddenly had a scene play out in your head of Katsuki getting jumped scared and instinctively using his quirk and exploding the whole haunted house. You squeezed the stuffed bear in your arms while you thought of an idea to help Katsuki.

"Here," you spoke and reached out your hand to grab Katsuki's.

Katsuki's eyes widened as he watched you interlace your fingers in his, "What the hell are you doing?!" he said angrily, as a full blush spread on his face. Despite his complaint, he didn't pull his hand away.

"Well, this way you'll have to pull your hand away from mine before using your quirk, and by that time, you'll be able to remind yourself it's not a real threat," You explained.

"Oh, great idea! Come one Bakugo let's go please!" Eijiro begged.

Katsuki's face scrunched up as he looked at your hand holding his, despite his best efforts to look annoyed the blush on his face told a different story. "Fine whatever- if you two want to go that bad let's just get it over with."

You three entered the maze, and to everyone's relief, Katsuki was not agitated into exploding the whole maze. However, while walking through Shinso popped out from the top of the ceiling giving you both a good startle.

You and Eijiro screamed and immediately began to laugh. Katsuki's grip tightened on your hand, and as he was startled, mini explosions came off his fingers before he relaxed again.

"Sorry...," He muttered to you and tried to pull his hand away.

You laughed off his apology and gripped his hand tighter refusing to let him escape your grasp, "It didn't even hurt don't worry about it Bakugo."

"Come on guys I see the end!" Eijiro called excitedly, back to you both.

You both hurried and made your way out of the maze. Eijiro glanced at you two still holding hands, provoking Katsuki to pull his hand away and enticing another blush on both your faces.

"Let me see," Katsuki demanded looking at your hand.

"I said it's fine don't worry about it," you said hiding your hand from him.

"Uh oh- did you accidentally let off an explosion?" Eijiro asked.

"Tch- I told you both it was a dumb Idea! Now don't be so stubborn," Katsuki said agitated, and made a grab for your hand. He carefully inspected your hand in his, and Eijiro made his way over to take a peek.

"I don't see anything," Eijiro said after a moment of gazing at your palm.

"Told you- I barely even felt it Bakugo, stop worrying," you said gently pulling your hand away.

"Fine- are you idiots about done with this dumb festival? The sun's going down now," Katsuki noted.

Eijiro let out a yawn, "Yeah I think that was everything I wanted to do."

You nodded in agreement, "Yeah I'm ready to head back to the dorms."

You three made the walk back to the dorms as the sun began to set. You gripped the teddy bear in your arms the whole walk back playing with the soft ears and arms.

"Awe you gave it to them Bakugo?! That's so sweet," Eijiro said observing you playing with the bear.

"Shut up shitty hair!" Katsuki grumbled stuffing his hands deep into his pockets.

Eijiro laughed at his friend's grumpiness. "Alright alright, sorry~."

You three walked into the common room and Eijiro stopped a moment. "Well, I'm uh- gonna go upstairs then. See you both later," he said awkwardly and tried to make an exit.

"Hu? What the hell are you doing we are going the same way dumb ass," Katsuki said, confused by his friend trying to leave you both behind.

"Oh uh- yeah I know I just thought..." Eijiro said awkwardly playing with his fingers and looking away from you both.

"Thought what? Spit it out Kirishima!?" Katsuki urged.

"I uh- just thought that you two would um- want to say good night without me here," Eijiro answered.

Katsuki's eyes widened and his lips pressed together in surprise at his friend's words.

Eijiro's words had left you frozen as well. Had he noticed something going on between you and Katsuki? Did that mean that Katsuki felt the same way about you that you did about him? Being lost in thought and overwhelmed by this information prevented you from saying anything, and it was too late when you noticed Katsuki anxiously searching your expression for an answer.

He wanted you to speak up and say what he couldn't. No matter how accurate Eijiro's assumptions had been- Katsuki couldn't bring himself to admit it. So, he waited for you to do what he couldn't- until the silence became too much for him.

"Tch- don't be dumb shitty hair," Katsuki said, finally turning away from you "Good night," Katsuki called to you as he walked away. Although it was just two short words- they felt as though they were laced with venom and a deep sadness.

Eijiro looked at you with his puppy eyes expression before he took off following his friend, leaving you alone squeezing the teddy bear in your arms.

"Hey man wait up!" Eijiro called as he caught up to Katsuki.

"The fuck was that all about Kirishima? Why did you have to make that shit so weird!" Katsuki barked at his friend. The hum of the elevator buzzed louder as it made its way up to the boys' rooms.

"I was just trying to be polite! I thought-," Eijiro began to say.

"Well, you thought wrong!" Katsuki said angrily, his hands were tight fists in his pockets.

"Oh, come on, can you blame me? You gave them a cute teddy bear- and held their hand in the maze-"

"SHUT UP!" Katsuki yelled and stormed out of the elevator as it opened to their floor.

"Hey man, why are you so mad about this?" Eijiro asked following his friend.

"Because- it's not like that, you're making something out of nothing," Katsuki said swinging his door open.

"I don't think so man- they were so happy when you gave them that bear," Eijiro argued.

"Tch- then why- never mind good night," Katsuki said and attempted to close his door, but Eijiro stuck his hand out holding it open.

"Why what Bakugo?" Eijiro urged.

"Forget it!" Katsuki yelled.

"Come on man tell me!"

"Ugh- isn't it obvious! They didn't say anything just now because they didn't want you to leave me alone with them. I'm not an idiot." Katsuki exclaimed.

"No man- they were just nervous. Why don't you go back down and talk to them?" Eijiro suggested.

"HAH! Not gonna happen," Katsuki laughed and successfully slammed his door this time.

Eijiro let out a sigh and made his way to his own room.

Tags: @anon-mouse223 @unofficialmuilover @maddietries @sikuthealien @queenpiranhadon @melrs21 @poemzcheng @kazuumii @bakunianadecorazon @ur-crusty-uncle @reads-stuff-quietly @chixkadee @perfectsukii @faetoraa @fem-weeb @nagicats @lees-chaotic-brain @maelibo @zanarkandskylines

Thank you all for reading and following the story! I can’t believe there’s only one more chapter left 🤭~

[thesupreme316]

Aew reacts to you falling asleep in most random places or falling asleep on them

You can choose either one

Orange Cassidy x Fem!Reader, MJF x Fem!Reader, Kenny Omega x Fem!Reader, Hook x Fem!Reader, Eddie Kingston x Fem!Reader, Ricky Starks x Fem!Reader, Christian Cage x Fem!Reader nick Wayne x fem

AEW STARS React to: You Falling Asleep in Random Places/On Them

Pairings: Orange Cassidy x Fem!Reader, MJF x Fem!Reader, Kenny Omega x Fem!Reader, Hook x Fem!Reader, Eddie Kingston x Fem!Reader, Ricky Starks x Fem!Reader, Christian Cage x Fem!Reader, Nick Wayne x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 937

Supreme Speaks: hey yall, i'm keeping my promise. Hopefully this is the start of making up for lost time, sorry for being away. I miss writing tbh. But antiways, thanks for being patient. NOW BACK TO MY SCHEMES. Plz remember that you are loved and appriecated.

Taglist: @hooks-martin @sheinthatfandom @triscillal @cassie0sstuff @eddie-kingstons-wifey @hookerforhook @batzy-watzy @wwenhlimagines

Warnings: slightly proofread, failed comedy, GIFS AINT MINE AGAIN GIFS AINT MINE (rights are to the original creators)

Orange Cassidy (Random place):

He’s not fazed

Homeboy is impressed that you can fall asleep anywhere

In fact, he joins you

He has seen you in every random place in the house

Bathroom, linen closet, the kitchen, and how you fell asleep on the steps of the porch??

He’ll never know

It’s a regular occurrence to play “Where’s Y/N?”

One time Trent and Kris came over and saw the two of you sleeping on the porch steps

He just left a sign beside y’all that said “come back later”

After your neighbor called the police for a wellness check

MJF (Random Place/On them):

He thought you were joking when you said you can sleep anywhere

But was genuinely concerned about how you fell asleep in the laundry room

Makes fun of you on Twitter and uses your pictures to describe other people’s matches

If you fell asleep on him, he would melt

I think he would show off that his S/O is sleeping on him with a smirk

Would yell at someone for disturbing you and would blame the other person for you waking up

“No babe, it was Adam’s dumbass voice that woke you up, not me.”

Will bring you closer if you move in your sleep

But make no mistake, if his cat falls asleep on him, you’re sleeping on the floor

Hook (On them):

I can see this man being stiff as a log when you fall asleep on him

Strokes your hair to keep you calm

Doesn’t eat chips for fear that they will awake you

He woke you up once…and that was enough for him

Only answer his friends if they’re asking yes or no questions (will only nod)

Drapes a blanket over you if you don’t have his hoodie on

Eventually, he will fall asleep with you

But he quickly moves to sleep next to you cause you a wild sleeper

One time you were boxing him in your sleep…and won…

Eddie Kingston (Random Place/On them):

Mans would try out your random sleeping places before waking up and crawling back in the bed

“I don’t know how lil mama does it…that shit hurt.”

However, he made a ranking list and the best place is the dining room floor

Finds it funny yet very disciplining, might use it as a punishment for when he misses workout sessions

Will carry you to bed with him cause again….he aint doin that shit

When you fall asleep on him, he just becomes a big ole teddy bear

If he needs to argue or tell someone off, he’ll whisper yell

Will make sure that you are warm by wrapping his hoodie over you

Once you’re asleep, Eddie will never move you or himself

Ricky Starks (On them):

I feel like as long as you don’t drool you’re fine

Or leave makeup on his shirt

If you do, you won’t hear anything about it until you wake up

“I love you babe, but next time, there will be a paper towel barrier.”

Tbh, depending on how tired he is, Ricky will fall asleep on top of you

I can see him just talking you to sleep per your request

Even after you fall asleep, Ricky still be talking cause why not

Like those above, he will scold people if they disturb you

Will put your phone on dnd

Kenny Omega (Random place/weird positions):

At first, cause he couldn’t find you, he would be in distress

He would look in every single bedroom or cushion-based location

Would feel better once he finds you in the bathroom tub (cause he heard your snoring)

I think Kenny would catch on to your locations very quickly

But if you find a new one, he’ll add it to your location list

Knowing Kenny, he would make this into a bit on Being The Elite (BTE)

Like every time there is a fight or argument, you are seen sleeping in a weird position (like back twisting or somethin)

“Y/N sleeping so we have to fight in slo-mo”

Christian Cage (On them):

MANS WOULD FEEL SO PROUD AND POWERFUL

He would feel so happy that you feel comfortable enough for you to fall asleep on him

Anytime you get sleepy, it doesn’t matter where you are, he will offer his shoulder or chest as a pillow

Places kisses on your forehead while your sleep

He moves a lot tho, not on purpose

But you quickly got use to it and would snuggle closer to him

Would use you sleeping as an excuse not to fight

“You better be lucky that Y/N is sleeping or I- wait, I don’t need to fight anyways. Luchasuarus, get him.”

Nick Wayne (Random place):

I am 100 percent certain that this man is easily influenced

Therefore

He will follow suit with your weird sleeping habits

If he sees you sleeping, he sleeping too so move over

Like Cassidy, he would actually like the random sleeping places

He would fall asleep anywhere

I feel like when’s he stressed, he would just sleep in a random place…even if he’s at work

Christian and Luchasuarus would be like where is Nick

And Nick would be asleep on a ladder

[writefightandflightclub]

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter One (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running? 

Genres: a LOT of angst, some smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings here. Please note this series is NSFW / 18+ and minors or ageless blocks interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written. Posting schedule is here. 

Author’s note: (If you read the original one-shot this slightly amended chapter will already be familiar to you, so I'm sorry for the initial lack of surprises. I promise though - there are many surprises from here!) Some of you may remember that this all started as an angsty smutty one shot, way back in 2020. Let’s just say, some of you really liked that story (thank you!) and a “part 2” was requested so that I could “fix” things for these two idiots (affectionate). Well, I guess part 2 took a while, because now it’s four years later, and I have written 87,000 words (ish). Oops. So, as you might infer through the accidental novel length spew, this series means rather a lot to me. It’s the longest piece of writing I have ever seen through to completion, and so, whilst it’s definitely not perfect, I am pretty proud of it! I hope with all of my little orange heart that you enjoy it, and if you do, any RBs, comments - or anything at all really - would mean the world. These two have lived in my head for four years and I will miss them, but I'm so excited to finally share them with you all! Honestly, I could say lots more, but for now I'll leave you with one more thought, which sums up this whole experience quite frankly: the characters made me do it. 

Finally, I have to thank you all, lovely pocket friends, for being so supportive and encouraging the whole way. It means so much to me! Especially, I GOTTA thank the fabulous @astroboots, who has hyped this project from literally before the beginning and been so encouraging, and @foxilayde, who is an incredible cheerleader for all my hare-brained endeavours. ILY!

Word count: 9.7k for this part (it’s broken down into 3 sections, if you prefer to read in stints!). 

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to the taglist if you are 18+ (or removed!). Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :) 

You love your squad. You really do. However, if you are being honest, it can be tough being treated as “one of the boys”. You know it’s a good thing that they don’t treat you any differently - but sometimes, you have to admit you want to be seen as a woman first and a soldier second. Especially on evenings like this when testosterone and drinks are flowing freely. Evenings when you have an ache in between your thighs that, in your case, calls out for a man. Okay - calls out for Santiago “Pope” Garcia, to be specific.

“I hope you can handle something stiff going down your throat,” you announce crudely to the group, arriving to whoops of appreciation as you slide the tray of hard liquor and beers on to the lofty bar table. 

The squad is celebrating a successful bust, and the relief and revelry in the air after the months-long operation is palpable.

“Cheers to that!” Frankie winks with a dumbass grin, rubbing his palms together with glee. “You’re a saviour – Pope’s taking far too long.” 

Will helpfully conveys the shots and beers around the table, glasses and bottles clinking and jovial smiles rippling through the group as a direct result. Ready for a cold one, you bring the rim of your beer to your lips for an immediate swig, condensation pooling on your fingers and making you realise how close the air is in this buzzing but dingy place.

“Bottoms-up, boys,” Tom directs as he passes you a shot, earning a good-natured side-eye from you. “And bottoms-eth up-eth, Mi’ Lady,” he adds, along with a regal hand wave to match his faux Olde English tone.

“To busts!” you ‘cheers’, clinking your glasses in the centre of the table. The innuendo earns a throaty, gruff chuckle from Frankie who bumps shoulders with you, inviting you to share in the camaraderie. You give-in with a broad smile, unable -as ever- to resist Frankie’s tittering. 

“Oh, hang on,” Frankie says, flitting quickly to a now unoccupied bar stool at an adjacent table (seats are in short supply tonight) and dragging it over to you.

“This for me, Catfish? How gallant.”

He grins. He knows you hate gallant. “It’s actually for Pope and his creaky knees… but you may as well make use of it while he’s pre-occupied,” Frankie chortles. You sit gratefully, your decision to wear heels after months in your beloved combat boots feeling like a definite mistake.

Speaking of mistakes...

“You fucking seeing this?” Tom asks, nodding his head over towards your squad mate, apparently simultaneously in awe of and amused by his current interaction at the bar; the very reason the drinks had been failing to materialise.

Twisting on your perch, you follow his gaze towards Santiago, eyes boring into the back of his head and his wash of grizzled curls. Involuntarily, your eyes trail over his form, the midnight blue button-down taut over his muscled shoulders as he casually props himself against the bar, jeans snug over that impossibly shapely rump. He has the barmaid rapt, eating out of his hand, all batting eyelashes and tongue slack in her mouth. Abandoned, a tray of shots sits unnoticed in front of Santiago as he lingers in conversation with her. All you can do is watch as, next, she leans over the bar brazenly, letting her thick, dark mane cascade across her ample, showcased cleavage. You can’t see Santiago’s expression as he -respectfully, you’re sure- admires her, but you can imagine it. 

Occasionally, you are on the receiving end of those expressions too.

Unfortunately, Santiago has a raw talent for making… connections. Besides off-shore bank managers and corrupt lawyers, that also inevitably extends to hook-ups. He is never short of distractions. Or, apparently, you never can hold his attention for long. When you do, though? When he does notice you, he makes you feel like you are the only woman in the world, his focus so intent and unrelenting you feel like he is viewing you through a sniper scope. Like the attention might end you.

You bristle thinking about his selective interest, the dull ache between your legs intensifying. 

“Never mind that deserter. Let’s celebrate without him,” you encourage to a ripple of agreement. You toss your shot back in-time with the boys and screw-up your face, shuddering in response as the spirit burns down your throat. You stick your tongue out with a “bleuch” as the aftertaste lingers.

However, your distraction doesn’t work for long, as your comrades seem determined to continue gossiping about the object of your desire.

“How does he do it?” Tom asks in disbelief, with more than a side of jealousy. He’d always given off the vibe of envying Santiago, you’d thought. “We’re all good-looking guys, man. But that little shit’s rolling in it.”

“I don’t know what it is. He’s not even tall,” Will snickers, knowing that Santiago hates being teased about his height. 

Frankie interjects. “MaybeFrankie interjects. “Maybe it’s the big dick energy.”

No comment. 

You’ve certainly never had any complaints about his stature. He is large enough to feel sturdy and surrounding, and small enough that you can take control of him when the mood strikes you. Oh, and you’ve certainly never had any qualms about his big dick energy… or his big dick for that matter.

Frankie chuckles again at the good-natured teasing and bumps you with his elbow. You are grateful for his easy, infectious laughter, acting like an umbrella against the moody, Santiago-shaped storm cloud which threatens above your head. 

“For real though,” Tom interjects, leaning forward over the table as if he’s sharing classified intel. “Has he been getting frisky with the informant again?” His eyes travel around the table, meeting each squad member’s gaze in turn. “I feel like he’s definitely got something going on there too. Tell me I’m seeing things.”

“Luci?” Will asks, then whistles in surprise at Tom’s accusation, his brows converging. You’re not sure if he’s surprised by Santiago’s potentially compromising choices, or impressed by his unparalleled ability to pull. “That sly dog.” Perhaps it’s a little of both.

You tense. Santiago getting involved with an informant. A beautiful informant. Sounds entirely plausible, although Santiago has neglected to tell you if it is true. Besides building connections, another skillset of Santiago’s is his uncanny aptitude for mixing business with pleasure. Realistically, he can do whatever the hell he wants with whomever he wants - it is no business of yours - but, in truth, you are tired. Tired of being the one he only picks up when he has no-one else. Tired of going unnoticed the rest of the time.

“Actually,” Frankie leans forward to drop this juicy titbit of gossip into the conversation. “Luci broke it off. Requested a new contact.” He taps the side of his nose as if to indicate that he has his sources too, trying to drum up some air of mystery. “Coincidence? I think not,” he adds, tipping his head towards the continued scene at the bar. 

You stiffen then in cold realisation. That’s why. That’s why he was noticing you earlier tonight. It wasn’t that he finally saw you. It wasn’t you in this dress. It wasn’t you. Yet again, he’d simply run out of distractions.

“Huh,” Tom says, looking a little too pleased with Santiago’s misfortune, swilling the dregs of his beer around absent-mindedly. “Well. He doesn’t seem devastated. It took him all of two minutes to get back on the horse.”

“Come on. You know Santi famously doesn’t get attached,” you snipe, partially serving the sentiment up as a reminder to yourself. 

Santiago does have a... reputation. Honestly, you have no problem with that. There is no shame in having casual sex, after all. So long as it is safe and consensual, what does it matter? You’ve even acted as Santi’s “wing-woman” on a number of occasions. It had never been a problem; that is… it hadn’t been a problem until he started having casual sex with you.

Santiago is loyal almost to a fault in many other areas of his life. He is abundantly loyal to you, and there is no doubt in your mind that Santiago sees you as a friend first. As a soldier second. You know he respects you deeply for your sharp-mind, your humour, your straight-talking, and your lethality in equal measure. And, you also know that Santiago desires you. Or, at least, he does when it suits him. When he is paying attention. These various roles never seem to converge, though. As a friend? You and Santiago go way back. As a soldier? You’ve been on his squad longer than anyone has, since decades before you all went freelance. As a lover, though? Well, that is new. And he can’t seem to reconcile this new role with the rest of the ways he knows you. 

Yes. Sure. Sometimes, Santiago desires the soft parts of you. Sees you as something other than a friend or a soldier. But you wish he would notice all of you, all at once. He sees you in fragments, like shrapnel. You wish he would piece things together. You wish he would notice you consistently. Not only when you’ve been out in the field too long, spending days bunched into hot and confined spaces, too close for comfort. Not only when hails of bullets send him reeling, searching for any kind of foothold on feeling alive. Still, over and over, you let him. You let him dip you back, with urgency - on to a mattress or a roll-mat or simply down on to the jungle floor - to thrust himself into you.

Santiago “Pope” Garcia is the man you crave. He gives it to you good. He makes you feel like a woman. Of course, there is no one particular way to be or to feel like a woman. There are infinite ways. For you though, very specifically, it is simple. It feels like Santiago desiring the soft parts of you which lay secreted under your tactical gear and your tough façade. It feels like him kissing you, soft lips and abrasive stubble. Strong hands and that muscled body writhing in a mess of breath and flesh. In those moments, you are a soldier least of all. Free of any mission, you become unadulterated; reckless abandon. You cease to be clipped and tactical, precise and lethal, and instead you become a soft, fluid thing beneath him.

Every time you arrive back in the city though, distractions abound. Santiago apparently ceases to desire you. Notice you. You had wrongly believed that tonight felt different. Something about the cool but heady night air. The way he was looking at you in this dress during your walk to the bar to meet the rest of the group. The way his hand lingered on your back as he guided you over to the table. But it mustn’t have been so. It must have been wishful thinking, that’s all.

You’ve done an increasing amount of wishful thinking, lately, it seems. 

Too much.

You sigh deeply. You don’t even realise you have zoned out from the group’s banter until Santiago arrives back with the tray of drinks -and no doubt one more phone number in his contacts- by which point, you are riled up enough to grab the shot of tequila right off the tray and down it without thinking, salt and lime be damned. 

“Woah, cariño. Feeling spirited tonight? Not wanna wait for the rest of us?” His smile is broad and easy and annoying as hell and suddenly you are adrift. 

“Nah, I’m done waiting, Santi,” you bite. He doesn’t catch the double-meaning in your words, because of course he doesn’t. Why would he?

Your skin flushes with instant heat as a result of his presence- definitely a recently acquired response. And so, you hastily dismiss your leather jacket, revealing a strappy, red, form-fitting dress beneath. Your appearance even earns a low whistle and murmur of approval from your buddies. 

“Someone’s gonna get lucky in that cute little number,” Frankie says pointedly, even as he’s staring curiously at Santiago staring at you. Maybe he’s on to you two. 

You smile, happy -as ever- to take a little flattery. Plus, you do find it hilarious to watch these guys squirm when they remember that you do, in fact, have a body concealed underneath all your tactical gear. 

“Well I won’t get lucky if you chumps keep staring down every man who looks at me,” you complain, already having clocked the defensive perimeter which has formed around you, simply from the way they have positioned themselves.  

The squad are protective of you, unnecessarily, and you simultaneously chide and love them for it.

“Big men protec’, chiquita,” Frankie teases, puffing out his biceps and chest like a gorilla. He says it knowing fine well you could take out any one of them if you wanted.

You hear the warm rumble of Santiago’s laugh next to you too, chiming in time with yours, his body closer than you’d realised as he dishes the remaining shots out. “Please!” he scoffs, casually slinging his arm around the back of your bar stool, the shot primed in his other hand. “You know damn well she doesn’t need protection!” 

“She’s gonna need protection when she gets laid,” Will quips, causing Tom to almost snort beer out of his nose in amusement and Frankie to high-five him from across the table. You would scold him but you’re laughing too, even as you roll your eyes good-naturedly at their ‘bro’ humour. 

You drop your head towards Santiago as the others continue snickering like a pack of hyenas, the alcohol clearly having gone to their heads already. That’s what they get for drinking on empty stomachs. You and Santiago’d had the foresight to hit up a first rate food truck on the route across town, like sensible people.

“Dance with me, Pope?” you ask, giving him a subtle yet seductive bat of your eyes.

“For the love of God, Pope. Leave some women for the rest of us,” Tom pleads -partially in jest, you’re sure- as Santiago curtly nods, not knowing quite what you’re up to but taking your hand anyway.

“Ok. I hear you. Let’s ditch these losers,” Santiago joshes, smiling as he gets a predictable rise out of his squad.

It isn’t so unusual for you two to dance together when you visit bars, so it doesn’t earn too much suspicion from the group (plus, you’re military - you two have been pretty damn good at hiding your hook-ups, covering your tracks). Dancing with you might undo the careful ground-work Santiago had laid with the barmaid just a moment ago, however. Even so, Santiago opts to follow you into the sweaty throng of people on the floor all the same, your fingers loosely twined with his as you lead him. You find a relatively private spot, away from the prying eyes of the squad, and come to a standstill. 

You turn into Santiago at the last available moment, meaning he ends up disconcertingly close. Almost chest-to-chest with you.

“Put your hands on me,” you command, a little more throaty than intended. You sling your arms around his shoulders, fingertips brushing at the buzzed hair at the nape of his neck. Santiago hesitates, but following a search of your eyes he plants his hands firmly onto the small of your back. You instantly feel the broadness and the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your dress. Those lethal hands. The hands that have pulled triggers and grenade clips. Choked the life out of assailants. Those lethal hands that have traced gently down your back as you laid bare beside him, killing you softly.

You let his hands rove over your body, wherever he wants to put them. Apparently, he wants to put them everywhere he can, like it’s a compulsion to touch you. He trails his hands up and down your back, ghosts them over the globes of your ass, snakes them down to the lip of your dress where his fingertips brush against your bare thighs, tacky with heat. And, after wandering, his hands come to rest low-slung on your hips, exactly where he likes to grab you when he thrusts into you. He gives you a subtle squeeze there, and the feel of him floods back to you. You are reminded of the way, when you’re with him, your own lethal hands are finally occupied by something other than battle. Of the times when you relinquish any preoccupation with victory, in favour of reaching perfect surrender. The times when your heart throbbing in your throat feels like safety instead of danger. 

His hands on you feel... natural. You move together symbiotically. Your bodies are always, easily in sync. On the battlefield, on the dance floor, in the bedroom. Always moving as a team. After so long side-by-side, it would be hard to exist in a manner to the contrary. It would be hard to exist without him at all. 

Will be hard. 

You let Santiago press against you as you sway together on the darkened dancefloor, gyrating and slinking your hips in time with the music. You feel him half-harden against you and his grip on your hips tightens, a feeble but gruff sound involuntarily escaping his lips and causing a coil to tighten in the pit of you. 

You think Santiago looks into your eyes meaningfully then. With something deep and unspeakable. Though that must simply be the wishful thinking you’ve become so practised at, and so, you immediately dismiss the thought, even as you nestle your mouth closer to his ear in order to speak. As your breath fans over the corded column of his neck you could swear he engorges further. And, the ache between your legs becomes almost unbearable at the spike of his cologne in your nostrils, his familiar scent curling within you. 

Santiago doesn’t smell like spice or musk or woodsmoke. Not to you. To you he smells like memories and possibilities - a heady paradox. Like your past and future. His scent inspires a quickening within you. Something under your skin is spurred into motion, tending toward collision. Yet at the same time, his scent curls in you and feels like… a stilling too. Like someone entirely arrived at a place so familiar that they forget ever having arrived at all and can’t imagine leaving. 

You dismiss it. You try. You fracture the moment. You must, before you collide. 

“I hear you’ve had some informant woes? I hope to God we got the intel.” You feel him tense instantly against you.

“Uh-huh. I got it.” Santiago‘s not really listening. Instead, he’s dropping his eyes to your body pressed up against his own, the heels of his hands now kneading into your hips. “You look good.” His voice is a husk in the shell of your ear as he leans into you, ensuring he can be heard over the music.

“Good for Luci, breaking it off though.” You dismiss his compliment, barely able to obscure the animosity in your tone despite all attempts to sound casual. 

He snaps back from you an inch or so, enough to look you directly in the eyes. You think that maybe, he looks almost disappointed. “Jealous?” he probes, ticking-up one eyebrow. 

He knows you far too well. Yet, despite his on-the-mark observation, the question makes you feel called-out and so, your next tack becomes unnecessarily cruel. Vengeful almost. “He’s getting there.” 

“What?” Santiago asks in evident confusion, his hands slipping back-up to the neutral area of your back as the mood slips away too. 

“The tall drink of water at 9 ‘o’ clock. Guy who’s been eyeing me all night. Doesn’t he look like he wants his hands on me instead of yours?” You know that you sound cruel, and petty, and the words feel bitter, like salt and lime in your mouth. You’ve said them all the same though. It’s already done. 

Santiago’s jaw clenches, eyes flicking subtly over as he rotates you to get a better look at your target. 

“He does,” he states, with a thin attempt at neutrality, his neck roped with tension as his eyes skim over the other man. 

“Great. Then thanks for the dance, Wingman. You’re relieved.”

Santiago puffs out air, his jaw clenching and eyes darkening. 

You tick an eyebrow up at him. “What’s wrong? You jealous, Santiago?”

Then, you saunter towards the bar, where the other man is stood. He very blatantly gives you the once over, evidently liking what he sees. You lean in with a flirty smile, letting the image of an aggrieved Santiago dissolve into the throng of people as you allow yourself to be entirely distracted. 

You are done waiting. 

You want to be noticed, and this handsome man in front of you is certainly providing you with his undivided attention. 

***

Later, Santiago watches you prepare to leave with the other man, disgruntled and forlorn. He’s watched you all night via snatched glances through the crowd. Watched the man laugh at your jokes, watched him work up the courage to brush your arm. He watched you eventually move in for the kiss, your eyes turning hungry as you pulled away, teeth biting down on that delicious, pillowy lip of yours. 

The bar having quietened down a little by now, Santiago sits in a booth opposite Tom and Frankie, Will having found his own company for the remainder of the night as well. Santiago’s head is propped on his elbow, a half-empty beer nestled in his other hand. His buddies’ eyes needle him as you toss a casual salute over to the table, your hook-up leading you out by the hand and your eyes shining gleefully. 

“What?” Santiago hisses defensively, as Frankie continues to stare knowingly at him from the opposite side of the table. 

Frankie’s head simply shakes in amusement. “Nothing. Only… when in the hell are you gonna figure out it’s her you really want, huh?”

“She’s just a friend,” Santiago bristles, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, hunching in on himself. 

“And a fuck-buddy,” Tom ventures.

Santiago looks down, taking a masking swig of his beer. “You know about that?”

“Didn’t until just now. But thanks a bunch for confirming,” Tom replies in a self-satisfied tone, earning a chuckle and a bump on the shoulder from Frankie. 

“Well… fuck.” Santiago sighs, his face becoming pinched. 

“I already knew,” Frankie states. “Christ. You’re loud enough, man. Hard to keep the secret that you’re nailing one of the squad when we’re camped out in, like, 3ft of jungle.”

Santiago absent-mindedly picks at the label on his bottle with his thumb. “Don’t talk about it like that, man. It’s not… Fuck.” 

Frankie just looks across at him in sympathy, Santiago’s reaction revealing more than he probably cared to about the true extent of his predicament. 

You’d risen through the ranks together. You’d been through a lot. Everyone on the squad knew Santiago was your ride or die and you his. You had each other’s backs. Had tended each other’s bullet wounds for Christ’s sake. Your friendship and the trust between you both -on the battlefield and off it- was deep and unshakeable.

“And you don’t want more than that?” Tom probes.

Despite being indoors, Santiago picks up his baseball cap from the seat and pulls it down over his eyes then, in an attempt to shield himself from this line of questioning. 

“What ‘else’ is there? There’s not much time for romance in between a hail of bullets.”

“Maybe.” Tom tips his head, contemplatively. “But you’re not getting any younger, Pope. How many years do your Goddamn knees have left in them?” He lets that one simmer for a moment, before nodding pointedly towards the door through which you had retreated. “You could do a lot worse, you know.”

“She could do a lot better,” Frankie interjects, earning a snigger from Tom and causing Santiago to huff, expression turning surly. Frankie holds his hands up defensively then. “Look, you do you, man. I’m just saying... I’m sure you’re having a great time getting your dick wet all over the continent… but if you don’t step up soon? You might regret it.”

Santiago whips his eyes towards his buddy, gaze interrogative and piercing. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing in particular,” Frankie shrugs, searching Santiago’s eyes with equal vigour. Santiago drops his gaze first, feeling exposed. 

Frankie kicks his buddy gently under the table. “Come on, hermano. Use your words. Share your feelings.” 

Frankie’s words may sound mildly taunting, as ever, but Santiago recognises the invitation to open up is genuine. He purses his lips, brows knitting together as he resists it, picking through his choice of words carefully before he allows them out of his mouth. He massages his palm over his roughened jaw and it rasps like sandpaper. “I don’t even know if she wants more.” 

“Are you kidding me, man?” Tom responds in amusement. “The guy who can get information out of a freakin’ stone, make any informant sing, ‘doesn’t know’ if she wants more? That’s what’s stopping you? A fucking intel issue?”

Frankie titters again, narrowing his eyes at Santiago and trying to figure him out. “He’s scared,” the man accuses, before his tone softens involuntarily. “That it?” 

Santiago takes an idle swig of his beer, polishing off the dregs before shrugging his jacket on, jaw twitching in irritation. 

“Oh shit, he’s moping! He’s moping now. Can’t handle the truth,” Tom mocks. 

“Come on, Santiago,” Frankie reasons. “We just want things to work out for you. You two are a good match- any chump can see that. Heh. Except maybe you.” 

Santiago doesn’t respond. Instead, he simply continues his silent preparations to leave, stuffing his wallet and keys into his jean pockets. 

“Plus- there are a bunch of reasons we’d like you off the market,” Tom teases. “More women for the rest of us. Golden opportunity to tease you for being so whipped.” Tom flashes a shit-eating grin up at his friend. 

Nodding gently, lips twisted in a pout and refusing to rise to it, Santiago tips his head towards his squad members. “Gentlemen,” he offers by way of farewell, before starting towards the door. 

“Want me to walk you home safe, chiquito?” Frankie calls.

“I’m not going home.” Santiago turns and gives the two men an affectionate middle finger before beelining toward the exit. 

“You’re not going over to her right now, are you? Pope? Santiago? That’s not what we... She’s gonna be pissed, man. Think this through!” Tom shouts after him, but it’s futile. Santiago has already swept out into the night, leaving Tom and Frankie to exchange helpless glances. 

There is a beat. 

Then: “I bet the bastard gets laid as well,” Frankie snorts. 

“Right?” Tom hums softly in agreement. “If anyone can turn up to a girl’s apartment while she’s banging another guy and still end up getting down? It’s that little shit, no word of a lie.”

There is a moment of silence as the pair sip their drinks and contemplate what Santiago has, precisely, which causes women to become so enamoured with him. 

“Maybe it’s his ass?” Tom offers, finally. 

Frankie clicks his fingers. “Ah. You’re probably right. That ass won’t quit.”

Meanwhile, Santiago steps out into the fresh air, the slight bite of it taking the edge off his alcohol buzz. 

His thoughts are overwhelmed with you. Have been overwhelmed with you. In truth, Santiago is finding it harder and harder to keep this up. Especially whenever it is just the two of you, he finds it harder and harder to resist you. 

It is typically easier in the city, where there are plenty of distractions. He is grateful for it - other people he can tangle with to take his mind off of you. In the city, it is easier to push that side of you out of his mind and to fall back into the clear-cut ways. The way it used to be before the lines had become blurred. Easier to compartmentalise his feelings for you. A friend first. A soldier second. A lover, only intermittently. 

Santiago was determined not to let everything bleed into one, because once those barriers, those delineations fell, he was convinced he would never be able to rebuild them. 

Most of all, he was convinced he wouldn’t want to. 

The thing is... the “distractions”? They never really worked for long. You are the only woman for him, in truth. And for all it might be crazy, he is headed towards your apartment right now to find out if you feel the same way. To find out if you want more. To find out if you see him as more than a friend and a soldier and a lover, or if you see him completely, and all at once. 

To find out if he is everything to you, like you are to him. 

***

There is a loud rap on your door and it tears you, regretfully, from the tangle of limbs you are in. When the knock becomes more insistent, you apologise to the man blissed out beneath you and extricate yourself from his embrace, hastily cloaking yourself in a sheet and traipsing through your temporary apartment – home for the time being. Adrenalin piqued, you peer through the spyhole, relief flooding you when you see who it is. 

“Santi? What the fuck?” you ask, opening the door to him and pressing the sheet to you with your remaining hand.

“Hi,” he says casually, the brim of his baseball cap pulled down over his eyes.

“I’m in the middle of something,” you bite, emphatically. “What in the hell do you want?” you hiss at him, keeping your volume low.

“You,” he says plainly.

Santiago looks you over; your flushed face, plumped lips and blatant post-orgasm glow. His jaw visibly clenches.

“What?!” you exclaim in confusion. 

“I want you.”

You tear his blasted hat off to examine his eyes for sincerity, pushing it into his chest all bunched-up. He hastily stuffs it in his jacket pocket. Eyes narrowed, you appraise him a moment longer, clicking your tongue in disbelief at the nerve this man has before abruptly closing the door on him.

“Bye, Santi.” 

“Wait!” he pleads, jamming his foot in the door and muscling through.

“What in the hell are you doing?!” you hiss again, backing-up and almost tripping over your sheet, which Santiago now has his mucky boots all over.

By this time, your hook-up for the night has heard the commotion and blustered through the dark apartment -in the nude- to ward off your supposed intruder. Your companion is bigger, sure, but he certainly shouldn’t mess with Santiago. He wouldn’t fare well at all. 

You raise your hand to diffuse the situation. “It’s ok, he’s a friend. Sometimes,” you add with a tilt of your head.

Your companion’s face flashes with recognition as Santiago emerges from out of the shadows. “Oh. It’s you, from the bar. Here I was thinking we’d gotten rid of you already.”

Santiago simply glowers with bubbling aggravation at the man, who has the cheek to just stand there with his fucking schlong out, entirely undeterred. Santiago puffs his chest out, making himself larger. 

“Please.” Santiago addresses you, tearing his eyes away from the man. “Can we talk?”

You sigh, unable to believe that you’re being stupid enough to agree to his demands. You turn back to the man you were enjoying being on top of until a moment ago. “Can you give us five minutes? I’m so sorry. I’ll be back.”

“Well - she might not be back,” Santiago suggests, and you glare at him, irritated.

The man looks between you and Santiago in disbelief before addressing you only. “Sure,” he says with a languid, sultry smile, ignoring Santiago entirely. “I’m willing to wait if we get to continue the fun we were having.” 

“Oh he’s a cheeky fuck,” Santiago grates, his whole body tense, and you quickly grab his elbow to bundle him into the kitchen before he can do any further damage.

“You’re the cheeky fuck, Santiago.” Apparently that’s your type. You vaguely wonder why you keep subjecting yourself to this, but you certainly don’t wish to pull on that thread too hard. Not right now. 

As you release his elbow, Santiago comes to face you in the narrow slip of a kitchen.

“Well? What in the hell are you doing here?” you rage whisper at him, folding your arms across yourself and tapping your foot impatiently on the tiled floor. 

Santiago simply squares up to you, his expression formidable, unphased. His dark eyes trail over you again, snagging on the places where the sheet drapes over the contours of you. You are suddenly uncomfortably aware of how naked you are beneath it. “Told you. I want you.”

Normally, those words were enough. But not any longer. You scoff. “I know all about how you want me, Pope. Half-heartedly. You want me when it suits you. When you can’t have me. When there’s no-one else around for you to want.”

It is his turn to scoff now. “Casual is what you wanted. You gonna throw that back in my face now?”

You sigh, tiredly, refusing to get embroiled in this. This is all meaningless. He can twist things and make excuses all he likes, but Santiago is a man of action. If he wanted you? Really wanted you? He wouldn’t let a Goddamn technicality stand in the way. 

You don’t have the energy for excuses. For this conversation. You’ve waited too long for Santiago to even realise there is anything worth talking about. So, instead of fighting back, you let it go. 

“I’m done, Santi. I’m out.”

Your words feel like a relief to you, after bottling this up since you came to the decision. The relief extends through your body as you sag backward to lean up against the cold fridge door, that too relieving on your hot, sheening skin.

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Santi dismisses your assertion instantly. He tended towards tunnel vision about some things. Just because he didn’t want out, he tended to assume that was true for everyone else. He was a connector, an enabler, and these factors combined meant the squad had stayed together a long time; far longer than it ever should have, like this time. He’d pulled his “retired” buddies back in, yet again. 

“I’m for real, Santi,” you say in a small voice. “It’s already done.”

A veil of shock then betrayal passes over his face as the truth of your words sinks in. He takes a step back from you, as if he’s been sucker punched in the gut. His brows knit together and he looks down at the floor. “When?”

“Three weeks.” You figure you may as well rip the band-aid off in one go.

He turns his mouth down at the corners and slowly nods his head, doing an admirable job of containing whatever it is he is feeling, for the moment, while he gathers his intelligence. Mission above emotion, as ever. Santiago looks at the world through a scope sometimes, and he often forgets about the big picture. It always surprises you how a man so perceptive and attentive to detail -when he chooses to apply it- could fail to notice something right under his nose. 

“Where?”

“Home. Desk-job, by the ocean. Private firm and a nice salary too. What’s not to love?” You add the extra information in an effort to detract from the thing you least wanted to face. Home is far. Far from him. 

“Fuck,” Santiago breathes, finally looking up at you. “Because of me?”

You bristle again. “You arrogant piece of....” you sigh heavily, biting your lip and reminding yourself it isn’t worth it to grow aggravated. Plus, there’s a kernel of truth in his question, after all. You gather yourself before speaking again. “I stayed so long because of you, Santi. But I’m leaving for me. I’m tired of waiting.” Maybe he’ll notice you when you’re gone, you think. Maybe he’ll want you then.  

“You can’t go. Someone with your skillset will be impossible to replace at short notice. How the hell am I supposed to keep the operation afloat without you?” 

You shake your head softly, smiling in disbelief, his response confirming so many of your reasons behind going. Always focussed on the mission.

“Frankie’s looking into someone, actually. He knows a guy. He’s not as good as me, of course, but-”

“-You told Frankie?!” You can hear in his voice that the revelation hurts him. He has always been your confidant. But hey, things change, even if Santiago never does. 

“Yeah, well,” you say thinly, through your teeth. “There’s plenty you don’t tell me, Santi.” You look at him pointedly. “Besides, I think you’ll manage. You always seem to find someone to meet your… needs. Don’t you?”

Santiago brings one arm up beside your head, leaning against the fridge with his palm, his dark eyes turbulent and boring into yours. “You’re the one who’s got some guy in there. What do you want from me, huh?”

He crowds you, but you can’t bring yourself to push him back. Instead, you languish more readily up against the fridge door, your grip on your sheet becoming less and less sure.

“Oh! That’s your fucking grand gesture? You came here to ask me what the hell I want from you?” Your passions rise, heart thrumming in your chest. You try and tell yourself it’s entirely from anger and nothing at all to do with his proximity. That it’s certainly not because of that look he’s giving you. 

Speaking of proximity, Santiago’s now close enough to smell the other man’s scent on you. He’s leaning into you, breath ragged and desire clouding his eyes, even as you still bear the signs of being ravaged by another between your legs. Or perhaps… because of it. 

Even as you stand here, like this, signs of another lover temporarily strewn over your person, it’s ludicrous to think another could claim you. You belong to Santiago. It’s Santiago who is indelibly written onto your body, the map of scars telling the story and you and him. The scar on your shoulder from a bullet wound, the scar on your calf from an off-road collision, the marks all over you serve as a reminder of the times Santiago has been there for you. Pressed his lethal hands to you to keep your lifeforce from ebbing away. He is your ride or die, and your body knows it. 

Equally, as he stands there fully clothed, you know that his body similarly hosts a constellation of scars from all your shared moments; in the field, on missions, over continents. One of you could not hope to be read -to be understood- without the other. Your bodies would forever move through the world as a team, as a pair, even if you left his side. 

You were each the key to cartographing each other’s lives. To imagine that the hickey on your neck or the slick between your legs could begin to compare to the way Santiago had marked you as his was almost comical. 

“You really need a grand gesture to know I care about you?” You know what he’s asking. Is running into a hail of bullets for you not enough? Hasn’t he proven himself to you time and time again? 

“Santi. I don’t doubt you care about me. I could never. I just… I don’t feel like you know yet what you want from me. And I can’t wait anymore for you to make up your mind.” You shrug. “I don’t know. I just feel like… like sometimes you don’t even see me because I’ve always been right in front of you.” 

Santiago looks at you, pained, expression weighted, as if he can’t find the words to tell the story of you. But your bodies are not stories. They are maps, and maps are to be understood through being travelled. That’s why, when his hand slips to you shoulder to slowly trace the scar there, it makes sense. It is understood without words as his fingers journey over your skin, a varied terrain of memories flashing through Santiago’s eyes. His touch retracing years in only moments. 

“I see you,” he insists, his voice a husk, his calloused fingertips trailing over your smooth, delicate skin. Making you feel weak. Making you want to become a soft, fluid thing beneath him. Oh, he’s looking at you now. There’s that attention that feels like it might end you. You commune wordlessly, breath quickening, that pulse of desire tending toward collision, the stillness of having arrived home as he touches you.   

“I see you,” he purrs, his hand moving to your sheet, gently tugging it away from your grasp and giving you ample opportunity to protest. But you don’t. You don’t protest. You are symbiotic with him. You move as a team, and you can’t help but want to merge. Maybe that’s why you let him tug the sheet from your grasp, fabric pooling at your feet. Maybe it’s the ache between your legs. Maybe it’s because you know he gives it to you good. 

Santiago exposes you completely to him, eyes then hands hungrily trailing down over your contours. His fingers grip your hips firmly as his mouth sinks into your neck, his hot breath fanning over you as he speaks. 

“I see you, baby.” 

Your arms are still pinned to your sides as you pretend that somehow you can resist your urges, despite being naked and needy and oh so ready in front of him. 

“Fuck you, Santiago,” you breathe, voice trembling, and you know exactly what he’s doing as his lips and his teeth snag angrily over your skin. Reclaiming you. Marking you as his. And instead of pushing him away, you pull him closer to you. Instead of recoiling you arch your body against him, breasts pushing up against him, the cold metal of his chain harsh against your skin. The sturdy mass and heat of him beneath his clothes only highlighting how exposed and vulnerable you feel, your desire entirely on display like a flare in the dark. 

His mouth has already ravaged your neck, your collarbone, his stubble abrasive against you, leaving a pleasant burn in its wake. His cologne is the only scent enveloping you now. Then, his hands rove over you, everywhere, like he’d wished they could in the bar, your skin still cloying, tacky with sweat. He paws at every bit of you as if to reinstate his claim on you. Your breasts, your ass, your hips, your thighs. He isn’t gentle. His hands showing their strength in a way they haven’t with you before now. He tongues your salty skin and the way his mouth punishes you is bitter like lime, foreshadowing his words. 

“Did he make you come?” he asks into your neck, his hand slipping between your legs and finding you wet and welcoming. “Did he?”

“Yes,” you breathe, his voice commanding enough that you want to answer. Your face contorting as if in pain as Santiago continues to grind two girthy fingers over your folds. Your companion had made you wet, but nothing like this. All he’s doing is feeling you, coating himself, and Santiago has you drenched already; you can feel it slick against your inner thighs as you tremble under the weight of yourself, suddenly so heavy with lust that you can barely stand. 

Your arms wind around his neck to steady yourself and he pins you between him and the fridge, your fingers inching up through the buzzed hair at his neck, nails trailing over his scalp and up into his grizzled curls as you finally become molten against him. Your hands fist in his hair and you tug his head up towards your lips, earning a grunt from him as pain needles across his scalp. The sound is growled into your mouth as his snarled kiss crashes against yours.

He’s frustrated, and he’s jealous, and he wants to show you that you’re his. What’s more, you want him to show you. Oh, how you want him to.

You shudder against the sudden blunt pressure of two of Santiago’s fingers at your entrance, your need urgent and a tightness building so immediately in your core. He pushes himself more firmly up against you, pinning you between his taut body and the fridge. His tongue ravages your mouth and your pleas for him to touch you become incoherent sounds that you work into him in return. His kiss is rough, his teeth scathing you, lips on yours in a crush, stubble grating at your chin and cheeks as he opens himself up as if to devour you. Then, he sucks your bottom lip in between his own and clamps his teeth down until you howl against the sting of it, bucking your body against the pain as you cry into his mouth. 

With the bucking of your hips, you grind yourself against his hand, and Santiago barely needs to move as you willingly spear yourself on his fingers. He leaves you wanting though, allowing you just an inch of him when he has so much more to give. Already, the ridges of him against you are providing divine friction, his fingers curling and scissoring inside you, but he leaves you begging for more. Begging him to plunge himself all the way in. 

“Did you think about me when you took him? Did you use him and wish it was me between your legs?” Santiago’s voice is like gravel in the shell of your ear, and his words curl into the depths of you. With them, he thrusts his fingers angrily into your heat, driving himself in all the way to the knuckle. Your eyes practically roll back into your head as he thrusts harshly and asks you again, even more insistent. “Did you?”

“Yes,” you admit, in a broken voice, tugging him closer to you, crushing your lips onto the column of his neck, tugging the collar of his shirt aside until you can bite down into the meat of his shoulder, stifling your moans there as his pace intensifies. His fingers are curling relentlessly towards your sweet spot and your walls are already fluttering against him. The heel of his hand is rocking against your excruciatingly sensitive clit, applying steady rolls of pressure as his fingers delve into you. His watch strap digs into your pubic bone but for some reason it only adds to the heightened sensations coursing through you. 

“Do I make you feel good? Do I make you feel better with my fingers than he could with his whole body, huh?” 

His words practically make you sob into him. It’s dirtier than you’ve ever heard him talk. It’s more intimate and further from friendship than anything you’ve done with him so far. Yes, you’ve fucked but this… this is something else. This is you admitting you are entirely his. This feels simultaneously more like battle and more like surrender than it ever has. And you wholly surrender. 

You moan. You moan out loud despite the fact you shouldn’t. Despite the fact there’s still another man in the apartment who you had underneath you only moments ago. 

“Are you gonna come on my fingers – show me who you belong to?” 

You agree. You agree wholeheartedly. 

Santiago pulls back just to watch you. To see the pleasure play over your face, both the overabundance of it and dearth of it as every touch satisfies yet has you craving more. You see a prideful glow in his eyes that he has you this wrecked, mewling and writhing on him as he adds a third finger into your wetness and pumps himself hard in and out of you. 

“Fuck,” he intones, his voice hollowed-out. “You’re fucking drenched. Wettest I’ve ever felt.” God. You can hear how wet you are. 

In dire need of some relief himself, Santiago presses his clothed, hardened length against your hip as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of you. Even through the substantial fabric of his jeans you can feel the thick, hard promise of him as he begins to grind himself against you, low and guttural moans escaping his sweet lips. The fact that he’s so fucking desperate for you, that you have made him hot enough to get off from only this has a knot tightening in the pit of you as you watch him start to unravel alongside you. 

“Fuck, Santi,” you moan into the air, not even caring that there’s someone else in the apartment. Past caring about anything at all except your need for him to keep touching you, his fingers filling you up so well. 

“That’s it, baby. Say my name, say you’re mine.”

Santiago is still grinding his clothed length against you, even as his fingers overflow with your essence. He dips his head into the crook of your neck and the growl he emits fans over your skin. Makes it sound as if he’s about to lose it too, simply from this. His spare hand dips down to collect one of your breasts and he lifts your nipple into his mouth, sucking and tonguing and biting the peak of you, squeezing you -not gently- as you topple towards your end. 

He continues to grind against you, and the thought of him exploding in his pants for you tips you over the edge, his name tumbling from your lips over and over as you flutter and clench around his fingers. The feeling spreading outward through your body like an explosion, leaving you levelled, a resounding buzz reaching all the way to your extremities and whiting out your vision like a flashbang. Your fingers tangle in Santiago’s curls as you spasm against him, his fingers eking every last drop of pleasure from you - as though he knows his way around you better than anyone could. 

At the feel and sound and sight of you coming undone, his hardened length grinds on you with renewed vigour, a wracked and disbelieving moan stuttering through him as he loses it without you having laid a finger on him. His body becomes stiff against you as he pulses his seed out beneath his clothes. Something about him being so lost in desire for you that he’d make a mess of himself like that has you clenching with deep, generous aftershocks, adrift with the thought of his hardened length pearling with his warm release.  

Santiago’s head settles into the crook of your neck as you both come down together, even as his fingers continue to lazily pulse in and out of you - just to feel you. Your arms lovingly cradle his head, fingers tangling in his curls, your lips finding their way to his hairline to plant gentle kisses there. Your Santiago. In your arms. 

You stay there a moment until your jagged breathing and thrumming heart settle, enjoying him languorously touching you. With a shiver of contentment, he withdraws from your heat, wrapping his unsullied hand around your waist to pull you closer. 

For a moment, everything is in soft focus, like the break of day before an alarm.  You close your eyes against his touch and breathe him in as he whispers lovingly into your neck, planting light kisses where a moment ago his puckered lips left angry bruises. 

“Fuck. I love you. I love you. I adore you. I need you.”

When you don’t respond though, Santiago stills against you, lifting his head to look you dead in the eyes. He finds them tearing in the corners. 

Your voice begins weakly. “You love me, Santi. But do you want a life with me? A life outside of the mission, outside of all of this?”

He brushes his thumb softly over your jawline. “I know I haven’t been all in. But I swear it to you, baby... you’re my end game. It’s just, we’re not there yet. We’re too deep in this shit. If we can get one more of Lorea’s deputies then maybe-”

“-Sure,” you say sadly, the word heavy and the intimacy of the moments prior dissipating quickly. You know fine well what “one more” means. You dip to collect your sheet from the floor and tighten it around yourself, using the motion in a vague attempt to distract both Santiago and yourself from the tears threatening more violently in your eyes now. 

The footsteps you hear approaching the kitchen are a further welcome distraction, and you surreptitiously clean off Santiago’s hand on the already soiled sheet before your first companion of the evening (now fully clothed) pops his head around the doorframe. 

“I’m just gonna leave,”  he interjects awkwardly, and your cheeks flush in humiliation. You’re sure one day, far into the future, this may be a funny story you tell, but, right now? It feels more than a little mortifying. 

“I’m so sorry. I…” You reach for a more robust apology but come up with nothing, far too aware that Santiago’s eyes continue to needle you. What are you going to do? Tell him it was fun? And so, since you opt to leave it hanging, your companion simply pumps his eyebrows once before striding smoothly out of your apartment. You jump slightly as you hear the door slamming shut behind him, evidently feeling a little on edge despite being wrung out so recently by bliss.  

Your eyes linger on the doorframe a little too long, staring at nothing except the now vacated space. You’re not ready to turn your attention back to Santiago quite yet, and you’re much less ready to deal with what will follow. 

It turns out, you don’t even have to look back at him, because your cowardice says it all for you. Instead, a small voice escapes him. 

“You’re still gonna go, aren’t you?”

You look at him then, and you see a sadness blooming in his eyes which is so heart-breaking that you're half-glad when tears gather in your own, blurring-out the sight of him. His pain always was too much for you to look at. 

Your gladness is short-lived however, as your own tears begin to spill out of you. You wipe the deluge away with the heel of your hand, but the tears are coming quicker than you can mop them up. Your chest shakes as you speak your next words. 

“I love you, Santi. Believe me. I love you. But it’s always ‘just one more’.” One more woman. One more mission. One more way to break your heart. “You’re living like... like you can get to the end of the line and wish for one more fucking chance.”

“Don’t go. Please,” he pleads, moving close to you and wrapping his arms around you. His broad, warm hands at your back. “Please. I’m putting it on the line here. I want you. I love you.” 

You smile thinly at him. You know he’s trying and God, you love him too. But this? For you, it’s too little, too late. For him, you guess you’re asking for too much, too soon. He’s not ready to leave this life. He’s not even ready to imagine leaving it. But, oh boy, you are. You are. 

You sniffle and take a deep, steadying breath, giving it everything you have to stay firm, despite every fibre in you telling you to surrender. To just stay with him. It would be too easy to do. 

“It’s a hard out, Santi.”

He senses the finality of your words and nods slowly, his eyes shining with tears, his whole face becoming taut with emotion. His silence is prolonged as he draws in ragged breaths. His hands slip away from your back and the moment slips away with them. You miss the warmth of them instantly. 

“Okay,” he says in a small, curt voice. “Okay.”

He about turns, precise and efficient, swivelling towards the door and tracking along the hallway leading out of your apartment.

“Santi, wait!” you call, traipsing along after him, slowed by the material bundling at your feet. “Santiago Garcia, don’t you dare leave it like this,” you plead. “Not after everything.”

He turns his head back towards you as he swings open your front door. His eyes are cold, face set as he looks at you, his voice monotone. “I’m not the one leaving.”

An anger and a sadness erupt in you at the coldness, the cruelness of his words, and, apparently, not even the sight of the fresh batch of tears spilling down your cheeks can slow his retreat from your apartment.

Santiago “Pope” Garcia turns and swiftly walks out without looking back, leaving the door swinging violently on its hinges. The fucking nerve of this man. 

You start after him; but he’s already making his way down the stairwell and you’re in no position to chase him. Your pain boiling over you yell, voice creaking under the weight of your emotion. 

“I hope your fucking knees give out on the way down, you asshole.”

Your cruel, cheap words carry down the stairwell, yet an echo is all the response you get. Santiago is gone. He didn’t stop for a second. 

He doesn’t know how to stop.

He’s mission over emotion. Near-death over living. He’s seemingly in this until it kills him, but you can’t be in it anymore. You have always been his ride or die, but now is the time for you to live, even if that means you can no longer be side-by-side with him. 

He is the other half of you and no matter where you are to go, your bodies will move through the world as a team, one unable to be read without the other. Santiago is written all over you, and nothing can change that. 

Besides, you know if he really wants to, he can always come find you. He has a map for loving you, if he would ever follow the route it was trying to take him. But he’s not there yet. 

He just has one more mission to go.

And then the next.

And the next. 

And the next.