#hands.......i burn i pine i perish

[madebycloud]

pt 5 | Not Even at All

jinx/powder x female reader — 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬⠀𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

summary: vi is off limits until her sister gets a date that doesn't end within the first ten minutes. eager to date vi, a certain girl approaches you with a proposal. date jinx. win her over. and for your efforts, she's willing to be generous. (10 Things I Hate About You AU) warnings/themes: fluff and slight angst, enemies to finally lovers yey, highschool, modern au, kat!jinx, patrick!reader words: 5.5k notes: i burn, i pine, i perish! it's finally the last part hehe �� ✩ part one, part two, part three, part four, part five

Jinx glares at the blank sheet of notebook paper in front of her. Sitting at her desk in her room, she grips her pen tighter and tighter. It's a miracle it doesn't snap.

Just write it. Just get the assignment over with. Do the damn assignment, she mentally tells herself, but her mind won't let her focus.

She's thinking about you.

And nothing else.

You.

How long has she been sitting here? An hour? Two hours?

She glances at her phone. And then the paper again. Back and forth. Groaning, she slumps back in her chair, dropping the pen onto the desk.

The stupid assignment can wait. All the noise in her mind can't be quieted.

She grabs her phone off her desk, checking the notifications. Nothing.

You haven't called her today. Or yesterday. Or the day before. Nothing for days.

But why?

She doesn't care.

She doesn't. Why should she? You did what you did, and that was that.

Jinx's head is spinning with thoughts. Anger, confusion, hurt, frustration. She's angry.

She's angry at herself for falling for your stupid words.

She's angry at herself for believing the stupid lies you told her.

She's angry at you for everything. For making a fool out of her, for lying to her face.

What an idiot.

She is such an idiot. Trusting you, caring for you, even liking you. You of all people.

You were just like all the others, but this time it hurts more.

It hurts a lot more.

Maybe if she never trusted you. Maybe if she'd just been more careful, listened to her gut more, then she wouldn't be in this whole mess.

She wouldn't be so mad.

And frustrated.

And angry.

Maybe she wouldn't be sitting in her room staring at her phone hoping to see one notification from you. Maybe she wouldn't feel like her heart was stabbed.

Jinx's fingers itch.

She wants to call you. To tell you off, to scream at you, to curse at you.

But what good will that do?

None, of course.

She's just wasting her time.

A knock at her door interrupts Jinx's thoughts. “Jinx?” she hears, recognizing her sister's voice. “Can I come in?”

Jinx huffs, spinning to look at the door. “Yeah, come in,” she mutters, turning back to her paper. She feels the door open, the floor creaking with each of Vi's footsteps.

Vi has a warm smile on her face and a steaming cup of coffee in one hand. “Want one?” she asks, holding out the mug.

Despite everything that's happened lately, Jinx manages a smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. “Thanks,” she says, taking the mug in her hands.

“No problem.” Vi takes a seat on Jinx's bed. “How's prom?”

Jinx grimaces, taking a sip of the coffee. It's still hot, but at least it's good. “It's fine.”

“Just fine?”

”Yeah.” Jinx shrugs, setting the mug down on her desk. “Fine.”

Vi furrows her brow at Jinx's response.

Jinx gets up from her desk and plops onto the bed beside her sister.

“I know what happened.” 

Jinx stiffens at her words. She doesn't look at her sister, refusing to meet her eyes as she picks at a loose thread on her bedsheet.

“I know something upset you,” Vi continues. “You think I don't know you? you're my little sister. I can tell when something's up.”

This isn't what Jinx wants to talk about right now. Everything is still too fresh. “I don't want to talk about it.”

Vi places a hand on her back, rubbing small circles. Not saying anything, Vi waits patiently.

“You're annoyingly good at getting me to talk,” Jinx mutters.

“It's my sisterly intuition.”

Jinx rolls her eyes, then looks up at the ceiling. This is Vi. Her sister. Jinx feels comfortable with Vi. Her sister's done so much for her.

She knows she should tell her what happened eventually. Sooner rather than later, but she just can't deal with it right now. Not yet.

“Is it about that girl?” Vi asks.

…

The silence in the room is answer enough.

“Ah, I see.”

Jinx sighs. “It's…” There are a million words that flash through her brain. Stupid. Idiotic. Infuriating. “Complicated.” 

“I thought you two were doing good. What happened?”

Jinx hesitates. How can she explain what just happened? How can she put into words the hurt, the anger, the betrayal she's feeling?

She looks down at her hands, toying with her fingers. “I thought we were too. Things were going well. I really thought, sis. I really thought-” Her voice cracks, and she immediately stops. “...it hurts, Vi.”

Vi's eyes soften. “Oh, Pow.” She wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “Hey, hey, it's okay. It's alright.”

It's not alright. It's not alright at all.

She wants to cry. Scream. Hit something. Anything to make this feeling go away.

But all she can do is lean into her sister's embrace, feeling her sister's hand rubbing her arm. “Why does it hurt so much?”

“Well, it's because you really cared about this girl.”

Maybe she did. Maybe she cared too much.

Everything was going well. She felt happy.

But it was all fake.

“She was... she made me feel good,” Jinx says. “I—I thought she liked me, y'know? like, really.”

She really thought that. Despite everything in her mind telling her things couldn't possibly be true, that it was all a lie, a fantasy, she let her guard down, letting herself feel things she thought she'd never get to feel.

And it felt good. It felt great, actually.

Vi sighs. “Maybe. But I saw the way she looked at you. And that... wasn't fake.”

It was hard to miss the way you looked at Jinx. How you looked at Jinx during the drive when you couldn't keep your eyes off her in the rearview mirror. She's seen the way you look at her, how your eyes linger too long on Jinx's every move. And she's not dumb. She was also there during the party, and she saw how you looked after Jinx, how you cared for her.

Vi knows.

“Can I give some sisterly advice?”

And there it was. The advice. The sisterly wisdom. The “words of the wise” moment.

Normally, she'd roll her eyes. Normally, she'd make comments, tease her sister.

Instead, Jinx nods.

Vi continues. “You know I worry about you. You know I just want you to be happy, yeah?”

Jinx nods again. Vi has been there for her since they were kids. After everything Jinx has gone through, Vi's been her rock and her source of comfort.

“I know you really like this girl,” Vi says. “So I'm not going to tell you that everything happens for a reason and all that mumbo jumbo bullshit people say to make themselves feel good.”

Good. She doesn't want any of the positive bs. She hates those phrases people use to try to comfort someone.

“Instead, I'm going to tell you the truth. You're hurting over this. It's going to hurt for a while. Maybe a long while. You feel betrayed, angry, sad, and hopeless, and feeling those things is okay. You shouldn't feel guilty for having emotions. Let yourself feel every feeling. You're not just angry. You're not just sad. You're angry and sad and helpless, and-”

“And stupid,” Jinx interrupts.

“And stupid,” Vi adds. “But don't bottle it up. Talk about it. Vent. Scream. Cry. Scream at a pillow. Cry into that pillow. Let it all out.”

Jinx is quiet. She lets her sister's words sink into her head.

“It's not going to feel good. And at first, you're going to wonder why you're hurting so much, and how you could have been so stupid. But one day, you're going to wake up, and instead of hurting, you're just going to be angry and sad.” Vi gives her a squeeze on the shoulder, and she speaks slowly. “Over time, the anger and sadness will start to fade, and then, only when you least expect it, you're not going to feel any of it anymore. And you'll wonder when you stopped feeling it. It just happens one day… it just happens.”

Her sister's words only serve to further confirm what she already knows—she's going to hurt, she's going to feel like crap. But someday it won't matter anymore. Someday it'll just fade away. It would just happen.

But she refused to hope.

Not this time.

You fooled her. You tricked her good enough.

And yet, the words her sister said made her feel lighter, like a little of the pain had lifted away.

—

Caitlyn looks around, looking for a specific bright blue-haired and then-

“Jinx.”

Jinx pauses in the courtyard, slowly turning around to look at Caitlyn. She glances at her before looking away and adjusting her backpack.

“Can we talk?”

Jinx says nothing, instead keeping her gaze on the side.

Caitlyn continues anyway. “I know it looks bad-”

“You think?” Jinx snaps. “You think it looks bad?”

“I didn't mean for you to get hurt.”

“Oh, you didn't mean to, did you?” Jinx steps forward. “You just thought you could throw money at someone and have your way like you always do. You thought nobody would get hurt.”

“I know… I messed up, and I'm sorry,” Caitlyn replies. “But I only did what I did because I care about Vi, and I wanted to-”

Jinx scoffs, dropping her backpack. “You wanted what?” she sneers. “Was it your plan to send me straight to the damn therapist?”

“Wh-No!” she stammers. “No! Nothing like that. I-” Caitlyn stops. The courtyard is eerily silent. She looks around, noticing how many people are watching.

Jinx could hear them whispering. Whispers of “oh my god” and “what's happening?” and “is that really Caitlyn?” and more.

“Caitlyn, what are you doing here? …and Jinx?”

They pause at the familiar voice. Caitlyn and Jinx turn their heads to the voice that interrupted them... Cassandra Kiramman.

Mrs. Kiramman makes her way over to the girls, looking at the crowd of eyes around them before ushering them inside.

“Office. Now.”

The two girls have no choice but to oblige.

—

Mrs. Kiramman folds her hands on her desk and looks at the two girls in front of her. “I never thought you would do something like this, Caitlyn.” 

“Yes, I did it! Okay?!” Caitlyn exclaims. “I'm the shitty person here. I just… wanted to date Vi, and I paid someone to take her on a date so I could get closer to Vi. And yes, that makes me the most horrible, evil person on the planet.” She turns to Jinx. “I really, really messed up. I shouldn't have done what I did to you. I'm sorry.”

“This is not a conversation I expected to have with you, Caitlyn.” Mrs. Kiramman shakes her head. “This is a serious case of... emotional manipulation, I would almost say. You should be old enough to know better.” Mrs. Kiramman's eyes turn from Caitlyn to Jinx. “Do you have a response to all of this?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. I guess, like...” Jinx's hand twitches. “Am I supposed to feel better now? or do I have time to, like, think about it?”

Mrs. Kiramman purses her lips together. “You should feel offended. And you should be upset.” She looks at Caitlyn. “And you should feel upset, too.”

Caitlyn nods. “I do feel upset,” she says. “I feel really awful. Incredibly, awfully awful.”

“You should,” Mrs. Kiramman replies. “Hopefully that means something to Jinx. But I want Jinx to say something.”

Jinx's looks at Mrs. Kiramman to Caitlyn, then to the floor. She scowls at the ground. “I am… upset,” she mutters. “I guess. I mean... yeah, I'm pissed.” She looks at Caitlyn. “I'm pissed.”

“Jinx-”

“NO! Don't try and talk me out of being mad or upset about being used. Because I am mad. I'm extremely pissed, actually.”

Mrs. Kiramman holds up a hand. “That's good,” she replies, stopping the two girls from snapping at each other. “It's good that you're mad. And you have every right to be, Jinx. Caitlyn has been... extremely selfish.”

“Mom…”

“Don't mom me,” Mrs. Kiramman replies sternly. “You know I'm right, and I'm not going to be soft on you. You were incredibly selfish, and you should never do this again to anyone else. Ever.”

Caitlyn winces but nods. “I... I won't.” 

Mrs. Kiramman leans in on her desk. “Jinx?” She waits for Jinx to look at her before continuing her question. “Is there anything you'd like to say to Caitlyn?”

Jinx looks at Caitlyn. The other girl looks like a kicked puppy. Caitlyn at least looks guilty, though she feels like her guilty look only proves her manipulation.

She wants about a thousand things to say to Caitlyn. She wants to rip her head off and shove it up her ass. She wants to scream, to punch, and to kick until she's in tears. But for now, one sentence will do.

“Stay away from my sister.”

“What? No, I-”

“Stay. Away. From. My. Sister.” 

Caitlyn sputters. “Jinx, listen-”

“You listen! You were willing to pull this bullshit on me. So if you seriously think I'm going to stand by and let you anywhere near Vi after this, you're out of your goddamn mind.”

“Jinx, please-”

“I'm going to tell you once and only once: Stay the hell away from my sister and stay the hell away from me.” Jinx stands up. “I don't know what sort of twisted fantasy you've cooked up in your head, but I'm sure as hell not going to be a part of it.”

Caitlyn looks stricken. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I'm serious!” Jinx snaps. “I'm not a piece in your stupid game of chess, and I'm damn sure not going to be something you play with just to get close to my sister. I don't know if you know this, but my sister means a lot to me. So if your goal was to get in my bad graces, congratulations. You've succeeded with flying colors.”

Caitlyn flinches and looks more stricken than before. But Jinx doesn't care about how bad she feels right now. This is Caitlyn's own damn fault. Caitlyn didn't think that there'd be any negative consequences from her actions. Jinx isn't going to make this easy on her.

—

You walk through the hallway, past students laughing and chatting with each other. Some talk amongst themselves, and you overhear snippets of conversation. But it's all just noise to you.

Nothing matters.

Without her, nothing matters.

You stop in front of your locker, but your eyes linger a few steps away.

Just down the hall is her locker.

It's the same as every other locker, painted white. The only things different are the crude doodles and the pink and blue stickers scattered across the metal door.

It's been a few days since the incident, a few days since she ran away, a few days since it all went wrong.

You haven't seen her since.

After what happened, after screwing things up so badly, you can't even bring yourself to say anything to her. You didn't call. You didn't send texts. You avoided places in the school you know she hangs out in. You didn't do anything.

You can't face her.

You can’t even think about facing her.

Because how could you?

How could you after what you did?

But that doesn't mean you don't think about her. You can't think about anything else.

You are not who I thought you were.

Those words.

They echo in your head.

Those words, over and over, and over.

You keep seeing her in your head. The look on her face, betrayed, heartbroken. You hear her voice, the way it cracked as she spoke. You remember the sting in her eyes that wasn't quite tears, but close enough.

You caused that.

You did that.

So many things replay in your head, and all end with the same conclusion. What you did sucks. It sucked, and it hurt Jinx. It hurt her, and it's not fair. Not one bit.

You open your locker, staring unseeing at the mess of books and notes inside.

But… you're just staring. You were supposed to take out a book for your first class, but you forgot which one you're supposed to grab. You forgot.

Or maybe your mind just can't think of anything that isn't her.

You can picture the way she looks when she laughs. You can hear her voice in your head, talking to you, asking or saying something, but not loud enough for you to make out what the exact words are.

You can just picture it, her smiling wide, showing teeth. A laugh breaking out on her face, and she laughs because of you. You were the one to make her laugh that way. Not because of a prank or some stupid joke. No, you actually made her laugh.

Sometimes you think you spot her in the distance, but it turns out to be someone else. Then something else reminds you of her. A song that plays from a speaker, some colorful drawings on the wall, blue hair amongst a sea of people.

But you're not ready to face her.

You don't know when you will be.

The bell suddenly rings, and you jump slightly.

Right.

Class. You have a class.

Shaking off the thoughts, you pull out the books you need from your locker and throw them in your bag. Slamming your locker door shut, you head down the hall.

You shove past other students in the hallway, not caring about how rough you are. People give you weird looks, maybe even whisper behind your back. But why should you care?

The only person that you should have cared about… hates you.

Hates you. That's the harsh truth of this, isn't it?

You reach your first class, sitting in your usual seat. You toss your bag onto the ground and lean your head on your hands.

Jinx is already here, but she doesn't look up.

You watch her out of the corner of your eye. She's leaning her head on one hand, the other one propping open a notebook. Her eyes and fingers are reading the page, but you doubt her mind is actually focused on the text. You doubt she's even reading it.

Mr. Salo enters, and he does a double take. He looks stunned to see you in class on time. “I assume everyone's had some time to finish up their poems.” He clears his throat. “Would anyone volunteer to read their poem aloud?”

No one responds.

Then-

A voice speaks up suddenly. “Um. I will.”

Your head snaps upwards. Jinx has her hand raised.

Mr. Salo looks surprised, but he recovers quickly. “That's… quite unexpected. I was sure I'd have to force someone to volunteer, but-” he gives Jinx a pleasant smile. “Thank you, Jinx.” He gestures to the front of the class, motioning for her to come up. “Please proceed.”

Jinx stands up, pushing her chair back. Then she makes her way to the front of the room. She looks around, looking at everyone before her eyes drift towards you. She quickly looks away, down at her notebook, and begins to read.

I hate the way you talk to me

And the way you cut your hair.

I hate the way you drive my car.

I hate it when you stare.

She pauses for a moment, swallowing down something before continuing. You can see she's gripping the paper on her notebook rather tightly.

I hate your stupid, dumb Madonna CD

And the way you read my mind.

I hate you so much it makes me sick.

It even makes me rhyme.

Her eyes flick to you again, and then she looks away.

I hate it...

I hate the way you're always right.

I hate it when you lie.

I hate it when you make me laugh,

Even worse when you make me cry.

Her voice cracks, and a tear starts to stream down her face.

I hate it when you're not around

And the fact that you didn't call,

She pauses, taking deep breaths to keep herself from crying.

But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you,

She finally looks up, looking straight at you.

Not even close

Not even a little bit

Not even at all.

Her poem ends there, and her voice quiets. For the first time since she began, there's silence in the room. Everyone else seems to notice, glancing at the other.

But you're stuck staring at Jinx. Your eyes meet hers. Nothing is said, but the moment is enough.

She closes her notebook, turns around, and walks out the door. The rest of the class is dead silent.

You remain seated, your eyes glued on the door where Jinx had left. Seeing her cry like that... 

You couldn't turn back time, no matter how much you wanted to. But you made your bed, and now you need to lie in it.

You have to do something to try and make it right.

—

After the last bell rings, students hurry out of the school carrying backpacks and sports equipment. Classes were over for the day, and thankfully, so was her stupid english class. 

Reading that damn poem in front of the entire class was a relief. She got it all out without having to talk to anyone else. It was so embarrassing having everyone know about her stupid thoughts and feelings, but if they made fun of her for it, they would get a punch to the face. At least this school year will end soon. 

Jinx walks to her car, parked in a corner of the parking lot. She opens her backpack and digs through it, her fingers searching through papers and pencils and other stuff until her hand closes around her car keys. She lifts it up, the keyring rattling.

When she's about to stick the key in the door, she notices something is off.

The driver's side window is down.

Confused, she leans down to look inside the car. She saw something.

Warlock guitar. Sitting in her seat. It was the same one she had been dreaming about. The same one she had been eyeing in the store. The one she could never justify the price or reason to buy. And now, it's right in front of her. 

—

You watch as Jinx picks up the guitar carefully, studying every inch of it.

“Pretty nice, right?”

Jinx gasps. She spins around to see you standing behind her, grinning widely.

Her eyes flit between the guitar and you. “Is it for me?” She sets the guitar back in the passenger seat before closing the door.

You nod your head. “For you, and only you.”

“...why?”

“Uh, well, I thought you could use it. You know, when you start your band,” you reply. “Besides, I had some extra cash.”

She narrows her eyes at you. “Why'd you do it? Why the guitar?”

“I… I want to apologize and please—please listen to me just this time.”

She raises an eyebrow at your words but says nothing yet.

You hold up your hands as she glares at you. “Okay, okay,” you start. “You're right to be angry with me. I did something really, really shitty and stupid. And I'm sorry for it.” You look down, avoiding her gaze in shame. “I shouldn't have taken Caitlyn's money. I shouldn't have done it, just for a stupid cash for a stupid deal. I was being selfish and not thinking about how you'd feel.”

You glance up, expecting her to be scowling and yelling at you.

But she isn't. She's just listening.

It gives you the courage to continue. “I—I should have just been honest with you about everything. I knew it was wrong, and yet I still... and I didn't stop myself. No matter how many times I tried to, I just…” You pause, struggling to say how you feel. “I couldn't stop myself from falling in love with you.”

You look at her again, and the corners of her lips twitch as she tries to keep the grin from spreading across her face. “Really?”

You weren't one to stay serious for too long, were you? you step closer to her, your eyebrows shot up, a smirk on your lips. “It's not every day you find a girl who blows up a classroom with fireworks just to get you out of detention.”

She covers her face with her hands and groans as she tries to hide the growing smile on her face. “Oh, God.”

You tried to soak in every inch of her face. If someone had taken a picture of her then, you could easily have stared at it for hours. She's beautiful—truly beautiful when she smiles.

You reach out and place your hand over hers, pulling it away from her face. Her smile fades, but she doesn't struggle with your touch as she looks at you.

“But it was pretty damn awesome, wasn't it?” you add.

You lift your hand and push a strand of her hair behind her ear before leaning in and pressing a kiss to her lips.

She lets you kiss her, closing her eyes and pulling you close. But it doesn't last long as she pulls away suddenly, her brows furrowing. “You can't just buy me a guitar every time you screw up.”

You grimace. “Yeah... I know. But then we can go to a drum set. Or a bass. And, eventually, a tambourine.”

You lean in for another kiss, but she breaks away, continuing to talk. “And don't just think you can-”

You don't allow her to finish. You shut her up with a kiss, your lips muffling her complaint.

Jinx's eyes widen for a second before she closes them. Her hands grip your shoulders. She's not pushing you away—she's pulling you closer. She melts into the kiss, letting her tongue slip out as her hand threads through your hair. 

You move your hands down her sides, tracing the curve of her waist, holding her.

Her other hand cups your face, fingers stroking your cheek.

You back her up against the driver's side door of her car, pinning her between the car and your body. You pull away to let her breathe, a thin string of saliva connecting your bottom lips with hers.

Jinx's face is flushed and her lips are swollen. She's panting, her hands tangled up and gripping your shoulder. “I'm still…” she says breathlessly. “I'm still mad at you.”

You chuckle and kiss the tip of her nose. “I know.” You take her hands in yours, fingers tracing over her knuckles. You bring her hand up, kissing the back of her hand. “I'll make it up to you.”

Jinx looks down at your entwined fingers, then back up at you. “As you should.”

—

“1, 2, 3, CHEESE!”

Click.

The camera flash goes off, and you press a kiss on her cheek. Your arm rests across her shoulders, and she's clinging onto your hand, grinning at the camera. She giggles, and you feel her nuzzle herself into your side.

Vi smiles behind the phone. “You two are nauseatingly cute,” she says as she puts her phone down.

You glance over at Jinx. The years have passed, and she's graduated. Now she's wearing an academic cap and a black gown, with her diploma in her hand.

Your heart swells with pride. Seeing her achieve her dream made you happy.

Jinx looks just as happy as you are. She held the diploma tightly, her fingers delicately holding the edge of the paper. “Can't believe I did it,” she whispers to herself. 

You give her hand a squeeze, offering silent reassurance.

You remember how hard she worked to get to this point. Late nights spent studying, long hours spent in the library, the stress and anxieties she dealt with.

But she did it.

She did it because she worked her ass off, and she earned it.

You're so proud of her.

You give Jinx a kiss at the temple. Then, you take your arm off her shoulders while you pull something out of your pocket. “I have something for you.”

“Mhm?” She tucks the tassel back under her cap and turns to face you. “What is it?”

You grin as you hold up a...

“A ticket?” she asks, confused.

You hand the ticket over to her. She furrows her eyebrows, then opens her mouth to ask, but then notices something. She looks back at you, then down to the ticket in her hands. She scans over the details, her eyes widening.

“Sweden?”

“Sweden,” you confirm. “And.” You pull out a second ticket from your pocket. “All expenses are paid for. Including the flight, the food, and the hotel room we're staying in.”

Jinx can't form any words, stunned into silence. She just stares at the ticket, flicking the corner of the ticket with her finger.

“I remembered that you said you wanted to see the northern lights. So I thought this…" You motion at the two tickets, “would be the perfect graduation gift.”

“You… you're serious?”

You nod and take her hands in yours. “I wanted to give you the world,” you say, running your thumb across her knuckles. “But seeing as I can't, I settled for the next best thing.”

Jinx says nothing. She's still staring at the tickets. You expect her to have a big, happy smile on her face, but instead, you're surprised to see her eyes beginning to fill up.

You're starting to worry she doesn't like the gift. Did you mess up? “I can get you a different gift if you don't like it,” you say hastily. “If you-”

You're cut off by Jinx throwing her arms around your shoulders, nearly tackling you in a hug. She buries her head in your neck, her arms wrapped around your torso. Her fingers grasp the back of your shirt, holding on tight. Her body trembles, and you feel tears wetting through your shirt.

“Oh.” You're taken aback, but you relax and return the hug. One hand comes down to rest on her back, holding her close to you, and your free hand finds its way to her head. You thread your fingers through her hair while you rub soothing circles across her back. “What's wrong? Did I-”

Jinx shakes her head, her sobs slowly subsiding into quiet sniffles. “N-no, no, it's n-not that...”

“Then… what-”

She raises her head, and when you look at her, you see she's now a mess of runny makeup. “It's the best present I've ever got.” She takes a breath, and you wipe some of the tears from her face. “It just… it means so much to me that… you remembered what I said that day.”

“Of course I remember everything you say.” 

Jinx closes her eyes as you use your thumb to wipe the smeared mascara under her eyes. “I love you so much,” she chokes out.

“I love you too.” Your other hand comes to her face, where you wipe the rest of the lingering teardrops and rub your thumb underneath her eye.

Vi lets out a cough, drawing both of your attention to her. You had been so caught up in the moment, you entirely forgot she was there. “Well,” Vi says with a smile. “...that was cute.”

Jinx looks like she's ready to cry for a whole new reason. She gives you a final squeeze before releasing her arms from around your shoulders and stepping away. She straightens her cap.

“Don't.” You reach out and fix her cap, adjusting it on her head.

Jinx lets out a watery chuckle and smacks your hand away. “Quit babying me.”

“Never,” you reply, and you steal a quick kiss.

Then, Jinx turns her head to her sister. “Vi, we're going to see the northern lights,” she tells her.

“Yes, I heard,” Vi says.

“Look!” Jinx shoves the ticket into her face. “We're going to Sweden. We're going to see the northern lights.”

“I know,” Vi replies, taking the ticket and looking down at it. She grins. “Congratulations, Pow. You deserve this.” She puts the ticket back into Jinx's hand. “You better appreciate that gift,” she teases. “Not a lot of people get such an awesome gift.”

“I do,” Jinx says. “I appreciate it a lot.”

“Good.” Vi looks between the two of you, then gives you a stern look. “Keep spoiling her. And I won't punch you.”

“Got it,” you say with a nod.

Jinx hugs the tickets to her chest, already imagining the sights. The northern lights, the snow, the cold temperatures, Sweden.

It's going to be amazing.

“This is going to be the best trip of my life.”

You smile at how excited Jinx is. You look at Vi, who's watching the two of you. Vi's expression softens. She smiles and nods approvingly, and you can see how much she loves her sister, how much she loves seeing Jinx happy.

“Well, I hope it lives up to your expectations,” you tell Jinx, wrapping an arm around her.

“No matter what, I'm spending it with you, so it already will be.”

End.

notes: OH HOLY GAH DAMN WE'VE FINALLY REACHED THE END!! I want to give an enormous, heartfelt thanks to each and every single one of the wonderful people who were supporting me, leaving likes, and most importantly, taking the time to comment! Your feedback honestly fueled my caffeine-driven writing sessions. Now, I love these two ladies way too much to say goodbye to them that easily, so i'll be writing some side stories to keep my stupid brain happy.

taglist: @axolotl-arsonist, @crvcified-kinx, @axoluxy, @dyslexic-dreamer, @urdeadpoet, @iluvshifting, @shootingc, @freementallyillkid, @tr3nzit444s, @powderbomb-jinxed, @chickennuggetsaresootasty, @multiliker, @rick-grimes-girl, @angelsglitch, @blobfishyy @writtenbyhollywood

[awriterinthenight]

10 Things I Hate About You-Luke Castellan Au, Part 1

words: 1223

warnings: language, uhhhh I don't know about anything else, but I will add new ones for new chapters. This is mostly just the set up, more of the plot will be in the next chapter, and I kept the last name Stratford and made the sister's name Bianca cause it was easier than creating new names, plus I really liked sticking those names cause I love the movie

summary: 10 Thing I Hate About You au with Luke Castellan. Chris a new camper comes into the Hermes cabin and him and the Stolls are on a mission to get you to allow your sister Bianca to date, and who else besides Luke Castellan would be willing to do it.

The Stratford sisters were known for being off limits. They were also quite the anomaly, having two different dads, but the same mom. Usually one god had one kid with one mortal then bounced, leaving them on their own. But not the Stratford sisters. The older one Y/N was a child of Hades, while the younger one, Bianca, was a child of Apollo. Quite the opposites, but they were everything to each other.

But the other thing was that neither of them dated. Ever. Y/N just wasn't into people, and would rather eat rocks than date "the unwashed miscreants" (in her words) at camp. Bianca was longing to go out with a guy, but her sister didn't let her since she didn't trust anyone, and her sister followed her rule, not wanting to disrespect her.

Y/N knew this rule wasn't the best, but she'd rather have her sister be annoyed at her than have her dating some guy that treated her like shit. No one was able to date either of them no matter how hard they tried. Y/N was rather rude to people and annoyed, so no one wanted to be near her let alone date her, but everyone wanted Bianca.

***

When Chris arrived at camp he was claimed as a Hermes kid, and quickly introduced to the Stoll brothers who showed him around.

"Hi, I'm Chriss, Chiron said you would show me around," he greeted, a but nervous.

They nodded, ushering him out of the cabin, "Yup, that's our job. I'm Connor, this is my older brother Travis," he said, introducing him and his brother.

Chris nodded following the brothers on the tour around camp. "Alright to break it down, over here is the Big Three, Zeus, Poseidon, Hades, but there's only a couple of those kids, and I advise you to avoid the Hades kid," he said, pointing out each cabin. Now he started pointing at groups of people and some cabins, "Those are the Aphrodite kids, don't talk to them unless they talk to you first," Connor warns.

"Is that their rule or yours?" Chris asks out of curiosity.

Connor sighs saying, "Watch," now turning towards the Aphrodite kids, "How's it going."

Which just got him a lot of dirty looks and side eyes, and some rude replies.

"Bite me."

"Ugh, as if."

Travis put his hand on Chris' shoulder, "See what I tell you. Alright over here we have the Demeter kids. Super into plants and the environment, but mostly they-" Travis says, before getting cut off.

"Smoke a lot of weed," Chris finishes.

Connor nods, "Yes. Now here's Clarisse and the Ares kids, now unless you want your ass handed to you I advise that you stay away. Hephaestus kids, mostly dweebs, but they're rather nice people. The Dionysus kids are drink snobs, only drink artisanal shit, you know that type," he says, moving towards a table of people.

"Hey guys, how's it going," he says, but everyone just closes their books and turns away from him. Sighing, Connor turns away from them and back towards Chris.

"We pull one prank and suddenly they hate us," Travis says, his arms crossed. Chris had stopped paying attention when he saw Bianca walk by.

"I pine, I burn, I perish," he said, looking at her in amazement.

Connor shakes his head at Chris' antics, "Nope, sorry she's off limits. It's well known the Stratford sisters don't date, especially her," Connor explains, having to close Chris' jaw for him.

Chris stumbles over his words, before getting out, "Wha- what do you mean she doesn't date," he asks confused. How could someone like her not date?

"Her sister is a bit whacked, she won't let her date. Plus, she's not as deep as you think she is, listen," he says, moving Chris to hear Bianca's conversation.

"See there's a difference between love and love. I like my yellow converse, but I love my Tiffany bracelet," she explains to her friend.

"But, I love my Converse too," her friend says, a bit bubbly and confused.

Bianca shrugs, "Well that's cause you don't have a Tiffany bracelet," she says, a bit bluntly.

The Stolls steer Chris away from Bianca, "See you have no chance, sorry to break it to you, but put her away in your fantasies and say goodbye," Travis says, patting Chris' shoulder.

"No you're wrong. Well not about the fantasies part, but I can have a chance," Chris says, trying to hype him and the brothers up.

Connor sighs saying, "Alright you can try. She's looking for a Latin tutor if that helps."

"That's perfect," Chris exclaims.

The brothers give him a weird look, "You speak Latin?" they ask, confused since not many people know Latin.

"Well no, but I will," Chris says, excited that he might have a chance with Bianca.

***

1st Person Y/N

I was at sword fighting practice led by one of the Ares counselors.

"Alright I want everyone to partner up and try what I just demonstrated," he says, letting everyone off to practice.

I roll my eyes, "I wish he'd actually teach us something besides the same two defenses," I complain, getting into a fighting stance.

Unfortunately he overheard me, "What did you say?" he asked, annoyed by my presence in general.

I scoff, "I said, why can't we learn something useful? We learn the same two skills basically every week," I tell him.

Before he can tell me off, Luke walks into the lesson asking, "So what did I miss?"

"This asshole is not teaching us anything new," I complain, annoyed by both of them.

"Great, keep up the good work," he says, before running off.

"Hey, get back here," he yells at Luke, "Whatever, you can go to Chiron if you have a problem," he tells me.

I roll my eyes, picking up my bag and sword, "Sure, whatever," I say, leaving the arena.

***

3rd person

It was the end of the day and everyone was heading to dinner. Chris was watching Bianca walk to dinner with her siblings, and some Ares kid was doing the same, but in a more lustful way.

"That's out of reach even for you, Joey," one of his friends said.

Joey just shook his head, "No one's out of reach for me," Joey said, rather confidently.

"You wanna put money on that?" his friend asked, wanting to make a bet.

"Nah, this I'm gonna do for fun," he said, scheming a plan.

Joey walked up to Bianca and her friend, putting his arms around them. Connor was walking with Chris and wasn't paying attention when he walked right into Y/N.

"Remove head from sphincter, then walk," she said, aggravated at Connor's lack of surroundings. She walked off with her friend Eva from the Iris cabin.

Chris ran over to Connor asking, "Hey, you okay?"

Connor nodded, "Yeah, just a minor encounter with the shrew," he said bitterly, "That's your girlfriend's sister."

"Sister? But aren't they in different cabins?" Chris asked, confused.

Connor nodded, "Yeah, but they have the same mom, it's a whole thing. Don't worry about it," Connor said, walking off towards dinner. Unfortunately for him, he tripped and ended up rolling down a hill. But, he was okay and stood up, spreading his arms out in victory of surviving.

[suguwu]

MOON EATER I THREE

"But truly, Master Diluc—why am I here?"

"I would wed you," he says, flexing his hands in his lap. "If you are amenable to it."

minors and ageless blogs do not interact.

masterlist

pairing: diluc ragnvindr x f!reader

notes: i've been sitting on this chapter for a while, so i'm excited to send it out in the world!

content: marriage of convenience, politics, some manipulation, pining, jealousy, some jeanlisa if you squint.

wc: 4k

The winery is almost entirely empty when Diluc steps inside after you. Jean is corralling the few stragglers, giving quiet orders to the remaining knights, her blue eyes as gentle as the summer sky. She’s in ceremonial wear and it hones her; he thinks of a sheathed blade. 

“Jean,” he says. “You don’t need to do that.” 

She turns to face him, a soft smile curling up on her lips. There’s a faint blush on her cheeks, the color of the pearly dawn. It’s the one she gains when she’s caught doing something she knows she shouldn’t.

(“Father,” Diluc said, innocent as a newborn fawn as Jean and Kaeya shifted at his side.  “You wanted to see us?”

His father eyed them with a raised brow. “I don’t suppose the three of you know anything about the pie that went missing from the kitchen.” 

Kaeya fidgeted with his sleeve, his slender fingers working at the cuff of it. Diluc elbowed him in the ribs subtly. “No, Father,” he said.

His father studied each of them carefully. Out of the corner of his eye, Diluc saw the blush rising to Jean’s cheeks, a soft pink that was slowly darkening. 

“Jean?” his father asked.

“I’m sorry!” she cried out, and Diluc groaned.)

“I was just helping—”

“Jean. You don’t need to help.” 

She bites at her lip and Diluc softens. He’d forgotten how much she needed to feel useful. But this close, he can see the bags under her eyes, the deep blue-gray of a stormcloud. “My staff has it under control,” he says. “And you’re a guest.” 

“But—”

“Go home and rest.” 

“I can still—”

“Jean.” 

“Alright,” she says quietly. “I just need to give a few more orders, that’s all.”

He nods and starts to step away.

“Diluc?”

When he turns to face her, he takes a sharp breath. There’s something like sorrow shining through her expression, something bone-deep carved into the curve of her mouth.

“Is this really what you wanted?” she asks. Her voice is gentle, but she’s watching him carefully, her gaze a comet streaking through the sky, the blue of it cutting through the heavens’ tender underbelly. It cuts through him, too.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says after a moment.  

Jean smiles, starshine at dawn, a slow fade of light. “I thought you might say that.”

Diluc stays quiet, meeting her gaze steadily. 

“You’re as stubborn as ever,” she says, shaking her head, but her voice is fond. 

“Master Diluc? Stubborn? Perish the thought,” Lisa says as she joins them, wrapping her shawl around her pale shoulders. 

Jean heaves out a beleaguered sigh, but she can’t quite hide the twitch of her lips.

Lisa laughs, light and tinkling, looping her arm through Jean’s. “Come on, darling,” she says. “Let’s let the newlyweds have their night, yes?” She throws Diluc a bold wink. 

Heat scorches across his cheeks, a supernova burn. He’s able to disguise his choke as a cough at the last second, though from the glimmer in Lisa’s jade eyes, he hasn’t hidden it well enough. 

“Lisa!” Jean scolds.

The mage laughs again. She’s every inch the cat who got the canary, her lips curling into a delighted little smile. 

“Goodnight, Diluc,” Jean says, all but dragging Lisa away. Lisa lets herself be led, snuggling in close to the blonde as they leave. It smushes some of the roses in her hair, but she doesn’t seem to care that she’s leaving a trail of petals behind. Diluc sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry about her,” you say as you join him. “She’s a handful.”

“I’m aware.” 

You laugh, picking a cecilia out of your hair and rolling the short stem between your palms. The bloom whirls with it, a ballerina’s tulle skirt, a light dusting of pollen floating down from it to tint your fingers gold. It catches the light as you raise your hand to cover your yawn.

Diluc frowns. “You should go to bed,” he says. “It’s been a long day.” 

You hum. “It has been,” you say. “I don’t suppose you intend to sleep soon?”

“I need to speak with Adelinde.” 

“Alright,” you say. “Good night, then.”

“Good night.” 

He watches you go upstairs, the hem of your dress flowing behind you, a silken spill of moonlight. 

You don’t look back. 

He turns on his heel. Finding Adelinde is easy; she’s in the midst of giving orders to some of the staff. She hands off a mostly-empty platter of tiny, delicate golden-brown pastries to Hillie when she sees him.

“Master Diluc.”

“Adelinde,” he says. “How is the clean up going?”

“We’ll be done with the food soon. The rest can wait until morning, I believe.” 

“Good.”

Adelinde pauses. She looks at him for a moment; her jade eyes have a knife’s edge to them, her gaze an autopsy cut. Her lips draw tight, a wound of a mouth. “You mean to go out tonight.”

“Yes.”

“If I may, Master Diluc,” she says, “you now have a wife.”

“That has no bearing in this. The Knights will be lax tonight, lulled into complacency by the celebration. I heard a few mention continuing at Angel’s Share after they return to the city. I cannot leave Mond unprotected.” 

Adelinde does not frown. Instead, her face smooths out into an impenetrable mask, porcelain breathed to life. “Very well,” she says. “At least wait until she’s asleep.” 

“The sooner I leave—”

“At least wait until she’s asleep,” she says, voice sharp. “It is your wedding night.”

“When she’s asleep,” he allows.

Adelinde nods. “Goodnight, Master Diluc.”

“Goodnight, Adelinde.” 

He goes upstairs quietly. There’s a soft light filtering from under the door to your room. He sighs and heads into the master bedroom, settling at the small desk in front of the windows. He lights the candles with a flick of his wrist; the flames devour the wick, leaping high before settling into a low, sweet glow. He’s just beginning to shuffle through a few papers when one of the hallway floorboards groans, a warning song.

“Diluc,” you say from the doorway. The candlelight barely reaches you there; it casts you into shadows, a new moon’s outline against the velvet of the sky. “May I come in?”

He stands. “Yes,” he says. “What is it?”

You step inside. The cecilias are gone from your hair, but you’re still wearing your dress. Your smile is a bit sheepish, but there’s a secret tucked up in the corner of it. “My dress,” you say. “The maids are all so busy. Can you undo the top few buttons for me?”

“I—what?”

“It’s hard to undo them from this angle,” you say. “Please?”

He takes a breath. “Alright.” 

You turn as he steps closer, the delicate train of the dress swirling at your feet, a whirlpool of silk. It exposes the line of buttons marching down the back of your dress, rigid against the soft flow of the fabric. 

The buttons are tiny things, pearls that shine like little moons even in the low light. He bites back a curse as they slip against the leather of his gloves. He tries again, gently tugging on a button, but it refuses to come out of the loop holding it tight. He changes the angle, but it’s no use; he runs afoul of the slick surface again and again. He huffs in annoyance and bites at the tip of his index finger to peel off his glove, letting it drop to the ground.

He tries again and finally, the button slips free of the little loop. The fabric separates. His fingertips—rough, heavy with scars from burns and blades alike—brush against the cool slope of your back, skin against skin. He goes still. 

You glance at him over your shoulder. You’re still shadow-kissed, but your eyes gleam in the dim.

(“Forgive my forwardness,” you said. “But there is the small matter of lovers.”

Diluc coughed. He glanced at you and saw no hint of a joke. “I beg your pardon?”

“Lovers,” you said, that rosebud smile rising to your lips, petals yet unfolded. “If you should take one, I only ask that you be discreet. I would do the same, of course.” 

Something in Diluc’s chest went cold. It was bone-deep, as if the Dragonspine winds were cutting through him. “You would take a lover?”

“I do not know the future,” you said. “But if I should, I would be discreet, as I said. Is that alright?” 

Diluc took a deep breath. “If you wish it, I would hardly stop you.”

You inclined your head to him with a little smile. You moved on to another topic like a river current, slow but inexorable. Diluc barely heard any of it, your voice muffled, as if you were speaking underwater. He only came back to himself as you gathered your things and bid him farewell. 

“Master Diluc,” you said at the door. He glanced up at you, your features softened in the light streaming in through the windows. “I should mention that I would not mind you in my bed instead of a lover.” 

Diluc choked.

By the time he recovered enough to speak, you were already gone.)

He undoes another button. Then a third, and a fourth, each little pearl slipping from its loop with ease. His thumb traces over the salt of your skin until it slips just beneath the fabric. He pulls just enough for the gap between the fabric to widen. He drags his thumb along the crescent moon sliver of revealed skin; a callus catches against you. You take in a sharp breath.

Diluc pulls back as if burned.

“There,” he says, clearing his throat, his cheeks hot. He knows they’ve gone scarlet, that there’s a deep flush painted over his whole face. “They’re undone.”

“Thanks,” you say, glancing over your shoulder once more. Your lashes catch the shadows like a spider’s web. It only serves to better illuminate your eyes. He swallows. 

“You’re welcome.”

You study him for a moment before you smile, as soft as the breaking dawn. “Goodnight,” you say.

“Goodnight.” 

The door clicks shut behind you. Diluc listens as your quiet footsteps fade away; there’s a distant thud as the door to your room closes too. He sighs, leaning down to pick his glove up off the floor. He slides it back on as he crosses to his closet. The night is still young and he knows what he must do.

When he’s dressed, he opens the secret compartment to his desk. He stares down at the owl mask that’s ensconced there. It gleams in the low light, the severe point of its beak a wicked hook. Diluc tucks it away under his cloak before he opens the window. 

With the lush vines clinging to the winery walls, it’s an easy climb down. He looks up when he reaches the bottom. There’s still a light glowing faintly in your window. His chest aches, as if a ribbon is tightening around it, but he ignores it and slips on the mask.

He has work to do.

—

Morning comes far too soon.

Diluc’s room is still steeped in blue, but the promise of morning is apparent on the horizon where golden fingers of light are reaching into the sky, scraping their way through the darkness. The birds are just beginning to stir, their chirps still subdued, a few plucked notes before the melody. 

It feels like Diluc has just only collapsed into bed, but the stars that had been watching over him when he stole back into his room have gone out, fading beneath the dawn. He sits up and scrubs a hand over his face, wincing as it pulls at the fresh set of lilac bruises blooming on his right side. He prods at them carefully. 

The ache sinks its teeth in as he brushes his fingertips along the biggest of them. It’s still darkening, a galaxy caught under his skin. It remains tender as he gets ready for the day; it takes effort to not compensate for it in his movement. 

By the time Diluc heads downstairs, the winery is already stirring to life. A few maids scurry past him; he can hear the vineyard workers starting to make their way through the vines, checking them after the harvest. But most of the activity is centered in the heart of the winery, where the remnants of your wedding reception are. He watches as two of the servants unhook a floral garland from the rafters, petals raining down beneath them. The petals whirl through the air like snowflakes, thick and white, and Diluc brushes one off when it lands on his shoulder. He’s in the middle of plucking another out of his mass of crimson hair when the floorboards whisper your arrival. 

“Oh,” you say. “They’re taking them down already? A shame.”

He glances at you. “I am sure Adelinde would be open to keeping them up, should you wish it.”

“It’s fine. I just thought they might keep them up a little longer while they’re fresh.” 

“I see.” 

You reach out and let a petal drift into your hand. It’s a little bruised at the edges from being shaken loose, but you don’t seem to mind. 

“Do you think I could have a few for my room?” you ask.

“A few—”

“Flowers,” you say. “I’m sure many of them are still intact even after the garlands are taken down.”

“Of course. Any that you would like.” 

“Thank you.”

“No thanks needed,” he says, adjusting his cuff. “It’s—this is your home too, now.” 

You pause. When you look at him, he can’t quite make sense of your expression. “Yes,” you say quietly. “I suppose it is.”

“I hope you will be comfortable here.”

You smile, the slow rise of a crescent moon. “I’m sure I will be. Though I intend to return to Liyue soon.”

“Of course. Do you know when?”

“I expect that I’ll return within the week.”

“Oh? That’s later than I expected.”

“So eager to be rid of me?”

Diluc flushes, the heat of it spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “No, I—”

“I’m only teasing,” you say. “I haven’t been back to Mond in a while. There are some things I should handle in person.” 

“I see.”

You examine him for a moment. Whatever you see must satisfy you, for you glance back at the workers, still diligently undoing the reception decor, autumn come indoors, the flowers stripped away to reveal bare wood. A petal flutters down into your hair; Diluc thinks of the gentle fall of snow. He starts to raise his hand to pluck it out but you shift and the petal drifts to the ground. He halts before tugging at his glove instead.

“Now,” you say, turning back to him, “I need something to eat. Will you be joining me for breakfast?”

Diluc shakes his head. “The vintners asked for me today,” he says. “The earlier I can speak with them the better.” 

You hum. “Okay. Have a good day.”

“You as well.” 

You flash a small smile before inclining your head to him. “Husband,” you say. You dart off before he can respond. He watches you disappear, the moon dipping below the horizon. 

Husband, he thinks. 

He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to that.

—

The days roll by. Diluc buckles down to work, caught up in the hubbub of the end of the harvest season. He oversees the grape crushing, the little fruits popping beneath the press until they’re must, all pulp and juice. A few small buckets of grapes are set aside for the children of the workers; they’ll stomp them to their hearts’ content, their chiming laughter drifting through the vines as they cling to each other for balance, their little feet dyed dark.

(“C’mon, Luc!” Kaeya cried, already scrambling towards the tub filled with ruby-red grapes. His eye was shining, starlight bright, a grin spread wide across his face, his usual reticence washed away. Diluc knew it was his favorite time of year; the other boy loved every moment of the harvest season and all that came with it.

 “Hurry up!” Kaeya called. He had already rolled up his pant legs and stepped into the tub, his face lit with joy, a summer sun in the autumn chill.

Diluc huffed but climbed in after him. The grapes popped beneath his weight, squishing up between his toes, a pulpy mess of skin and seeds. He stomped once, twice, and felt more of them burst. 

Kaeya reached for his hand; Diluc twined their fingers together and held on tight as the scrawny boy started to jump in place. Kaeya laughed wildly, the sound picked up by the wind and carried away like seeds. He jumped again and almost slipped. Diluc caught him at the last minute, hauling him up with a giggle. They joined hands again and began to twirl in a circle, stomping away as they went.

They laughed as they spun around together, holding on tight to each other as juice started to gather beneath their feet. Their skin went purple with it, a galaxy splashed up to their calves. The golden afternoon sun shone down on them; sweat gathered on their brows. But they kept going and going, unrelenting until the last of the grapes had burst beneath their feet.

They panted as they climbed to the side of the tub. Kaeya sat on the edge of it, swinging his feet as the maids went to gather towels for them. He was incandescent with delight, a shooting star streaking across the night sky, and Diluc grinned. 

“Good work, boys,” his father said, coming down the path. He’d clearly met the maids halfway; there were towels slung over his broad shoulder.

Diluc puffed up with pride; next to him, Kaeya smiled, shy but pleased. His father handed them the towels and watched as they wiped their feet clean.

“Ready for the next step?” his father asked. 

Kaeya nodded eagerly, but Diluc balked.

“Can’t we stomp more grapes?” he asked.

His father laughed, as warm as the sun. “Maybe later,” he said. “But now you need to learn what happens next.”

Diluc sighed.

“C’mon, Luc,” Kaeya said, bumping his shoulder against Diluc’s. “There’s always tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Diluc said. “There is.”)

Diluc sighs, nodding to Connor as he takes his leave. He heads back to the winery; a few of the workers call out greetings, but no one tries to stop him.

Adelinde appears as soon as he steps inside the winery. She inclines her head to him, her hands clasped in front of her. “Master Diluc,” she says.

“Adelinde,” he greets. 

“Is everything in order?”

“Yes,” he says. “Everything is ready for processing. It was a good harvest.” 

“That’s good to hear.”

“I’ll take some of Elzer’s work with the Wine Guild so he can concentrate on processing. If you see him, please let him know.”

Adelinde purses her lips. “Master Diluc, Elzer is perfectly capable of handling both. You have enough on your plate.”

“My decision is final, Adelinde.”

She examines him for a moment, her jade eyes sharp, a flaying gaze. “You don’t need to make amends for your absence,” she says. “That is the past.” 

Diluc flinches. Adeline watches him steadily, her face impassive, but her eyes have softened, have crinkled around the edges, sweetly fond. He flexes his hand, searching for words, but his tongue is leaden in his mouth.

Adelinde takes pity on him. “The vineyard workers are starting the fertilization process today and tomorrow,” she says. “Is there anything you wish to let them know?”

“No. I trust them.”

“Good.”

Diluc adjusts his cuff. “Is that all?”

She smooths her hands over her uniform skirt, as if erasing wrinkles that aren’t there. “Your wife’s travel arrangements are complete. She means to leave tomorrow.” 

He nods. “Where is she now?”

“She went to the Dandelion Sea, I believe.”

“By herself?”

“She has an escort. One of the knights. Though it is my understanding that the knight would not be able to return with her due to a patrol.” 

Diluc rolls his shoulders, trying to loosen the broad line of them. “When did they leave?”

The corners of Adelinde’s lips creep upwards, an ivy tendril curve, barely noticeable. “A few hours ago.”

He nods curtly. “Thank you, Adelinde.”

“Of course, Master Diluc.” She disappears, light on her feet despite her heels, barely a whisper of sound to accompany her.

Diluc leaves the winery to head to the stables.

—

The Dandelion Sea stretches vast, the flowers rippling in the breeze like waves lap at the shore. The sun is high in the sapphire sky, a halo burning bright, the dandelions stark white under its kiss. There are seeds floating through the air, faintly glowing, scattered like falling stars. 

Diluc ties his horse to a tree, leaving her to graze on some long grass, and begins to make his way into the Sea. More seeds come loose, dancing around him like snowflakes; they settle into his mane of hair, the crimson of it bleeding to something darker against the soft white of them. They catch on his jacket, too, dotting the ebony cloth until it’s a glittering night sky. 

It doesn’t take him long to find you. He can see faint figures at the edge of the Sea, where the trees cast shadows, a sweet pool of shade. He heads towards you as the breeze picks up. It carries a peal of laughter to him, bright as the sun, swirling around him. 

“Oh,” you say as he draws close, standing up before he can stop you.

The knight you’re with comes to attention—far too late. “M—Master Diluc,” he stammers. 

Diluc clicks his tongue. The knight goes shame-faced, glancing away from his thunderous visage. 

You smile, a glaze lily unfolding under the moon’s tender touch. You touch the knight’s vambrace lightly before turning to Diluc. His gaze stays on where you’re touching the knight still, your fingertips lingering against the metal of his armor.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” you say. “Is something wrong?”

Diluc blinks, vermilion eyes flickering back to you. “No.”

You pause, as if waiting for something. Diluc blinks again. Your smile flickers, a guttering candle. The knight shifts in place.

Diluc turns his attention to him. “You can go,” he says curtly. 

“But—”

“You have patrol soon, don’t you, Anselm?” you ask. “You should head out.” 

Anselm glances at you. “Oh. Of course.”

“Thank you for accompanying me today,” you say. “It’s appreciated.”

The knight nods, a slight flush rising to his cheeks. He gives you the Ordo’s salute. “Let the wind lead,” he says before turning to leave.

Diluc doesn’t bother to watch him go; he keeps his gaze on you. That rosebud smile blooms on your lips again, as inevitable as the sun’s rise. “Poor Anselm,” you say. “You have quite the scowl, Master Diluc.”

He doesn’t rise to the bait. “Was he going to leave you here alone?”

You sigh. “It’s perfectly safe here.”

“So he was.”

“You’re here now,” you say. “So it hardly matters.”

Diluc bristles. “It matters to me. The Knights have their duties—”

“They cannot attend to every single civilian. The roads to the Sea have been clear for weeks, anyway. Or did you see something on your way?”

He furrows his brow and sets his jaw. “No.”

“The Knights aren’t as incapable as you think,” you say softly. You peer at him through the fan of your eyelashes, the shadow cast by them soft against your cheeks. “And besides, as I said, you’re here now. I know you’ll keep me safe.” 

Diluc takes in a sharp breath. He tugs at his glove and glances away.

You don’t seem to notice. Your attention has returned to the Dandelion Sea. The meadow sways gently in the wind, a honey-slow shiver. You trace a finger over a dandelion; it stays whole despite your touch, the Anemo energy holding it together brightening for a breath before it fades again, a firefly glow.

But when you flop into them, the dandelions puff up, the seeds scattering like starfall. They yield to you like a blessing, giving you everything they have. The seeds catch in your hair, your clothing, your eyelashes. You turn your face up to the sky, the sun bathing you golden.

It strikes Diluc that you are pretty. 

(Burnished by the light, you were lost amid the golden leaves of the sandbearer tree. You climbed and climbed until you were shining bright in the cerulean sky, a sun all your own. Diluc watched from the ground, mouth agape.

When you glanced down, the shadows crossed your face in bold strokes. It softened you, blurred the edges of you. Except for your smile. Your smile cut through the shadows like a single stark slash of a sun-bright knife.

Diluc looked up at you, at that smile, and suddenly, he knew what pretty meant.

It meant you.)

It’s not the first time he’s realized it, but it feels new. It’s in the curve of your back, a cathedral nave of muscle and bone; it’s in the way the sun filters through the leaves to touch you like a lover, a stained-glass kiss. The dandelion seeds catch on your eyelashes like moonlight, and it hits him again: you’re pretty. 

And you’re his.

He pushes the thought away. You might be his, but it’s in name only. He knows better than to assign meaning to it. There’s nothing between the two of you aside from a certificate with your signatures upon it. 

But that’s fine.

That’s all he needs it to be.

[angellesword]

BAGGAGE l JJK (02)

Summary: Drowning in debt and blood, Jeon Jungkook knows he's better off alone, lest he brings people down with him.

But one drunken night changes everything.

In a blink of an eye, Jungkook found himself drowning not only in debt and blood, but also in dirty diapers and judgmental stares from you, a.k.a his long-lost love and the guardian of the son he didn't even know existed.

Genre and warnings: best friends to lovers, co-parenting, idiots in love, slow burn—really slow burn, mutual pining, angst, fluff, implied smut, kissing, minor character death, slight getting back together, cursing, blood, stabbing, loan sharks, OC cusses excessively so watch out

Pairing: dad! Jungkook x adoptive mom!Reader

Word Count: 2.6k

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******

Eight Years Ago; 2015

Jungkook couldn’t lie. Life at Port Mafia was exhausting him down to the bones, but he felt an onslaught of energy rush through him when he saw you leaning on your car while waiting for him.

“Oho~ Perfect timing. My best friend is here to pick me up~.” Jungkook said in a sing-song voice as he happily skipped down your car. Unfortunately, you didn’t mirror Jungkook’s glowing mood.

“Yeah, I’m here to save your shitty ass from perishing. Here—” You pushed a paper bag into Jungkook’s chest before opening the passenger’s door and shoving him inside.

Normally, Jungkook whined about how roughly you treated him, but he couldn’t ignore the savory aroma wafting from the paper bag anymore. Jungkook had no time for drama when his stomach was growling this loud.

“Crazy bastard. When was the last time you ate!?” You scowled as soon as he entered the car.

Jungkook ignored your question. His eyes glistened with crystals when he saw a container full of crab spring rolls. His favorite! He happily uttered your name and asked, “Are these for me? Can I eat them all?”

A scoff escaped your lips when Jungkook stuffed five spring rolls in his mouth in one go. His question did not need a response, but you answered anyway: “You’re the only one I know who eats spring rolls like there’s no tomorrow. Of course, you can eat them all. I made them for you.”

“Aw, aren’t you a sweetheart~?” Jungkook licked his fingers before extending his arm to demand, “Now give me a drink.”

Room-temperature bottled water touched Jungkook’s hand.

“Huh?” Jungkook didn’t accept the water and looked at you with confusion. “Why are you giving me this bland drink? I want banana milk!”

“Shut your trap!” You unscrewed the bottle cap and forced Jungkook to drink it. “You don’t eat in time and even refuse to drink water. You really wanna die, huh?”

Jungkook’s lips puckered. He breathed, “I agree on the last part, but you got something wrong. I do drink water! I just prefer it with flavor. Jimin-hyung and I had coffee earlier. Although, it’s too bitter for my liking..”

A pause.

Jungkook shut his mouth when he noticed your frown deepen. There was a limit to his jokes, and Jungkook knew this. You and Jungkook had been friends since you were five. You might curse and beat him, but you cared for Jungkook. You really lived up to being his best friend.

“You haven’t eaten all day, and your precious hyung made you drink coffee? Very good,” you said sarcastically.

Jungkook let out a breath, “Hey, it’s not like that, okay? We were busy at the office all day. You know we’re a start-up business.”

Start-up, my ass. The words died down in your throat. Some things didn’t need to be voiced out for them to be valid. One look at Jungkook, and your chest tightened. The bags under Jungkook’s eyes were deep and black. If you argued now, Jungkook would be more exhausted. You didn’t have the heart to watch your best friend suffer. You just wanted to bring him home.

“Right.” You gulped and leaned closer to Jungkook to help him buckle his seatbelt. The move invaded Jungkook’s personal space. He could feel your hot breath on his neck.

You owned a secondhand car that Jungkook helped you pick. The previous owner said it was fully depreciated, but you thought it worked perfectly fine—except maybe the seatbelt. Jungkook always lost his temper every time he fastened this ridiculous thing.

You had to do it for him.

Normally, it took two seconds or less to fasten one’s seatbelt, but for some reason, you took a long time helping Jungkook buckle up, almost as if you wanted to stay in this position for the rest of your life.

“Take care of yourself, alright?” Click. The seatbelt was locked in place. You straightened your back and drove the car.

Present; 2023

Nostalgia hit Jungkook in the face like torrential rain.  As of the moment, you, although allowing Jungkook to sit in the passenger seat of your car, had no intention of getting close to him or whatever.

Jungkook heaved a deep sigh.

It was too cold inside your car. Everything had truly changed. Jungkook often complained about the broken air conditioning of your cheap vehicle back then. However, you were driving a top-of-the-line car now.

The atmosphere was awkward. If someone were to tell Jungkook that he’d one day sit inside your car in silence, he would surely call that person crazy.

There was never a dull moment when he was with you. Currently, the only sound that could be heard was the seatbelt warning signal.

Jungkook hadn’t fastened his seatbelt. It was unknown if he had forgotten about it or lost his mind, thinking he had traveled back to when you still fastened his seatbelt.

Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen again. The only thing you could do was remind him about it.

“Buckle up,” you clenched his jaw. ‘Buckle up’ was the second thing you had said to Jungkook after many years of not seeing each other. You two were at the facade of The Guild earlier. Jungkook was rooted on the ground for a long time, thinking he had gone insane to imagine you waiting for him just like before.

But when he returned to his senses, you were still standing before him, and then you opened your car door, gesturing for Jungkook to hop in.

Jungkook didn’t know what kind of demon (presumably the greedy one) had possessed him to enter your car.

Blame it on his brain that short-circuited, relying only on what happened years ago. He didn’t even hesitate. He just got the hell in, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

What was unnatural was how he tried to fasten his seatbelt. He was a bit drunk, after all. His brain was working slower than usual. Jungkook buckled up while wearing the thick yellow Ronald McDonald gloves.

It took him seven tries before realizing that he should remove the gloves, but before he could, you had already leaned closer, buckling the seatbelt for him.

So much for not helping Jungkook, huh?

Since you were close, your unfamiliar scent assaulted Jungkook’s nose. Gone was the soft fabric conditioner that usually stained your clothing. It was replaced by something expensive that seduced someone instead of overwhelming their senses.

Jungkook suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe. In all honesty, it wasn’t just him. The strong smell of alcohol on Jungkook terrorized you—instantly turning your mood sour.

“You are drunk.” You moved away, focusing on driving once again. Your hand clenched the steering wheel tighter.

Jungkook didn’t speak. He knew how much you hated it when he drank. It brought you pain and memories from the past you’d rather forget.

Jungkook trembled just thinking about those harrowing memories. Meanwhile, despite your apparent anger, you still turned on the car’s heater when you noticed Jungkook shivering; this awakened another memory.

Once, Jungkook couldn’t stop complaining about how hot it was inside your old car, so you, completely crazy over him, brought out a folding fan to help Jungkook cool down.

It was ridiculous and sweet at the same time. Imagine driving with one hand while using the other to fan the annoying person in the passenger seat. Jungkook didn’t have the heart to see you suffer like this, so he snatched the folding fan from you and fanned himself. Besides, it was dangerous.

Looking back, you had always risked many things to make him happy. Jungkook’s heart throbbed at this realization.

So many years had passed, but you still found a way to care about him.

Jungkook found that he couldn’t take it. He wanted to get away right now. 

“Where are we going?” He asked. Only now did he realize how stupid he was to get into this car.

You opened your mouth to speak, then closed it again. You wanted to say something but changed your mind at the last minute.

“Where do you live? I will bring you home.”

“No need.” Jungkook turned you down in a heartbeat. Who would have thought you would clench your jaw and disagree?

“You are drunk. I am bringing you home.”

Jungkook inhaled sharply. There must be something wrong with his head when he wished to see you. Your relationship was severed years ago. You two no longer understood each other. Just look at you—even your way of speaking changed. Jungkook’s tooth ached while listening to you talk formally.

But in the end, Jungkook told you the way home—just not his exact address.

“I’ll be okay here. The streets going to my apartment are narrow. Your car won’t be able to get in.” This wasn’t a lie. Jungkook lived in the poorest area of the city. Going there would only burden you, especially because many gangs waited there. They did not appreciate newcomers. Besides, your car was too flashy. You might end up walking home with a stab wound.

Thinking about that ugly scene, Jungkook shivered again. “Seriously. Just drop me off here. I’m not that drunk, okay?”

It was meant to be a reassuring statement, but your face turned ashen upon hearing that. The rims of your eyes even went red.

Jungkook touched on a sensitive topic that made your heart beat like a drum. He expected you to lash out just like before, but contrary to Jungkook’s thoughts, you simply pursed your lips like you were enduring something painful.

And then you finally stopped the car.

“Contact me.” You handed a calling card to Jungkook. The latter hesitated to receive it because for what? Why did you two need to contact each other again?

You sensed his hesitation. Your grip on the calling card constricted. You almost pushed it to Jungkook’s chest.

“Give me yours,” you demanded as if you knew your former best friend would never call you.

Jungkook held his sneer. He didn’t have a business card. Nobody would want them, so what’s the purpose of printing?

“I’ll call you.” Jungkook snatched the business card and hastily opened the door. He got out in the blink of an eye.

You were stunned but didn’t stop him.

“Thank you for the ride. Happy New Year. See you around.” A lie. He would not see you ever again.

It was too embarrassing. Jungkook was not used to feeling his heart beat crazy again. He was an old man now. He couldn’t handle intense emotions.

Seeing you after a long separation opened wounds he thought had already healed.

He fooled himself. He was a clown.

Literally.

Jungkook went straight to the comfort room of his apartment. His system really knew how to cooperate, huh? He was only vomiting now that he was out of your judgmental stares.

But really, could he blame you? Jungkook also looked at his reflection in the mirror, judging his clown self. He wished the brown patches in the mirror could cover it whole.

He didn’t want to see his face—didn’t want to think that he really met you while wearing the Ronald McDonald mascot costume.

Jungkook: “...”

Jungkook punched the mirror. 

And then let out an animalistic groan.

Jungkook hated physical pain, but he had a rush of dopamine seeing his hand bleed.

His thought of wanting to die was unleashed. He suppressed his pain and anger for years but couldn’t hold on any longer.

Just for today, Jungkook wanted to let it out. It was New Year, after all. He swore this was the last time he’d cling to his past.

And so he punched the mirror one more time. It hurt. It hurt so much that he wanted to cry or die.

Jungkook collapsed on his bed, breathing heavily.

Breathed in.

A tear fell.

Breathed out.

More tears.

He couldn’t die, so he just cried until he fell asleep.

***

Jungkook was jolted awake the next day by the banging on his apartment door. The sound was piercing, perfectly and annoyingly matching his pounding head.

A groan escaped Jungkook’s lips. He had to drag his heavy body to open the door. His eyes were still bleary from having woken up, and before he could properly look at the person in front of him, a knife had already penetrated his skin.

“Good morning, Jungkook-ah. I’ve come collecting debts~” The person who stabbed Jungkook had a saccharine voice, but the killing intent mixed in it was apparent.

Jungkook touched his aching stomach, unable to pay attention to the intruder. He looked at his hand; two colors were mixed together, giving an illusion of something hopeless and terrifying: reddish-brown, the color of dried blood from punching the mirror last night, and now fresh red blood stained his fingers.

Jungkook had been stabbed and was pushed to the ground before he could groan in pain.

“Why the long face, Jungkook-ah? Aren’t you happy?” The intruder mocked.

Jungkook was familiar with this intruder. He was Lee Sung. This man collected debts on behalf of Jang Min, his master.

“Eh? You’re not answering me? Jungkook-ah, it’s New Year. Where’re your manners? Haven’t you learned anything?” Lee Sung sneered, hauling Jungkook to his feet only to slam him against the wall.

Jungkook cursed internally: Bastard, yes, it’s fucking New Year. Won’t you give me a break!? But as usual, he couldn’t voice out his indignation. He didn’t have the energy and power to do so.

Powerless people had no voice. If there was one thing Jungkook learned in life, it was to act according to what the one in power wanted. It would make his life easy because he didn’t see the point of fighting when he knew he would lose from the start.

“You promised to pay eleven thousand yen for this month’s interest. Where’s the money~?”

Jungkook screwed his eyes shut. He lost track of the amount of interest accumulating in his debt. He didn’t even know how much the principal amount was. How could he remember? He was drowning in debt. Would you care how many times the waves hit you? No, right? You would only think about surviving or grasping for a life jacket.

His current life jacket amounted to nine thousand yen, so that’s exactly what he said.

“I have ₩9000 with me,” Jungkook’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. Cold sweat slid down his spine. “Can I...pay the remaining amount next week? I swear I—”

Lee Sung slashed Jungkook’s exposed collarbone with a knife, possibly to get him to stop bargaining.

“Of course, Jungkook-ah. I’m a generous man, don’t you know?” The lunatic with a weapon slashed another layer of Jungkook’s skin. “But I’m afraid I must cut your skin twice. One for each won you cannot pay today. Seems fair?”

Without waiting for an answer, Lee Sung already hurt Jungkook. The latter didn’t fight back. By the time the intruder was done, he had spat on Jungkook’s face and then pushed him.

The wooden floor creaked as Jungkook’s trembling body fell down.

“See you next week. Prepare the money, or I’ll have to cut your throat the next time we meet.” And then Lee Sung was gone.

Jungkook gritted his teeth, clutching his bleeding stomach. He had to call for an emergency before he lost consciousness. Unfortunately, his phone was on the bed. He struggled to crawl just to reach for his phone.

Perhaps the universe saw how helpless he was that he was granted exceptional luck: he had managed to call for help before his hand lost all power, dropping his phone as darkness clouded his vision.

***

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A/N: Please leave a like or comment if you enjoy reading this fic. It motivates me to write faster. Thank you ~~

[its-jaytothemee]

Until I Met You - Chapter 30

Chapter 30: Fairytales

Pairings: Halsin x Tav

Word count: 5,071

Rating: Currently M, will be Explicit in later chapters.

Read on AO3

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Summary: Tav and Halsin try to work through the confusing nature of their relationship before setting out on a quest to wake Art Cullagh. Part 30 of the slow burn fic. Tav and Halsin POVs.

Tags: Slow burn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual love confessions, eventual smut, angst, implied past rape/non-con and abuse, graphic description of injuries, brief suicidal thoughts.

A/N: Have a bit more fluff before we get into the angst again.

Halsin awoke on the floor of Last Light to the sound of Tav’s soft breathing on the bed next to him. He must have drifted off into a trance at some point while trying to conjure up ideas to wake the Fist, who still remained lost in sleep.

Slowly, he rolled himself up off the floor, groaning at every crack of his back at the movement.

I might be too old to sleep on wooden floors anymore.

While his body caught up with his mind, he took a moment to check on Art Cullagh from his seat.

Still no change.

He was still singing the same nonsensical tune, and Halsin could still feel the dark claws of the Shadowfell gripping his mind.

Before he could stand up, he heard a sharp breath from Tav.

“Halsin?” She bolted upright and looked around the room frantically for him.

“I’m here, Tav,” he called out. The look of relief when she met his gaze caused his heart to skip a beat. “Sorry, my friend. I seemed to have dozed off.”

“You could have just asked me to scoot over,” she teased.

Her small jest brought a smile to his face. At least her sense of humor seemed to be intact.

“And deprive Lunari of her sleeping space? Perish the thought.” He nodded toward the wolf sleeping at the foot of the bed.

Tav sat up slowly, pushing runaway hairs out of her face and stretching her arms.

“I have to admit,” she yawned before continuing, “it was nice to be in a bed for a night. Even an old and musty one.”

“I wish I could say the same. It’s incredible that the softness of dirt underneath one’s back makes such a noticeable difference.”

“Like I said,” Tav snickered as he carefully brought himself off the floor, “I could have shared.”

“Or if I had been thinking, I would have simply grabbed one of the other empty ones.” He meant the words as a joke, but he saw Tav’s face fall at his words. “Oh…”

You useless turnip.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that I wouldn’t want to share with you, it’s just…” he let out a frustrated grunt.

“It’s okay,” a small smile came back to her face, “I just thought after last night that maybe…we could…maybe…” she stammered as her hands started running through her hair.

“I meant what I said, Tav,” he assured her as he sat back on the edge of the bed.

“I just thought that if you feel that way, we could still be…closer.” She looked away from him, cheeks and ears flushing a bright shade of red.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, erm,” she stuttered to find the words, “even if you did, uh, share, we wouldn’t have to…do anything.”

Her hands were shaking as she continued using them to detangle her hair, and she still wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“That is a very kind, and tempting, offer,” he admitted. She finally turned to look at him again.

He sighed heavily. Gods how he didn’t want to look into those eyes and see disappointment clouding them.

“I wish I could explain my hesitations in a better manner, Tav. But know that I appreciate the thought, and I will keep it in mind,” he assured her.

“You don’t have to explain, Halsin. If you’re not ready for a relationship, that’s okay.”

He started to respond but stopped himself. He was reasonably certain that his views on relationships were quite different from her own. It was often said that any courtship between high elves and wood elves was doomed from the start. Wood elf communities were known to reject monogamy, jealousy was seen as a childish emotion in their eyes. The same could not be said of high elves.

He didn’t want to add any worries to her already troubled mind. However, if Tav had feelings for him, she deserved to know his thoughts on the matter.

“Well,” he drummed his fingers on the mattress as he tried to find the words, “my opinions on relationships are a bit…different from traditional views.”

“Oh?” She turned on the bed to face him. “How so?”

“Some treat their relationship like a walled garden – tidy, tamed, cut off from the world. That is their right, of course, but it…it is not for me. I do as nature does, and let my heart run wild. Desire flourishes wherever it finds purchase.”

Tav’s brow furrowed as she listened to him, lost in thought. “So, that’s to say you don’t believe in monogamy?”

“I believe it’s the right choice for some people, but not for me. Even in nature it has its place. The wolf mates for life, but the bear roams free, partnering where its instincts dictate.”

He felt a sudden spike of panic with his words, realizing how fitting they could possibly be for the two of them. To his surprise, she just smiled at him.

“You sound like Tev,” she said with a wistful laugh.

“Do I?” Halsin couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.

“He never was one to believe we have one person out there for us and one person only. And after our time with our family,” she let out a heavy sigh, “I suppose I started to agree with him.”

“What makes you say that?”

“We uh,” she gulped, “we grew up in the Upper City of Baldur’s Gate. Everything there is a game, including ‘love.’ And our father, well…”

“You…you’re from one of the great houses?” he asked, trying not to pry too much.

“Not exactly,” she wrung her hands in her lap, “but our father was obsessed with gaining more power, more influence. We’d attend any party or gathering we could, he’d try to secure alliances by promising a marriage…to me.”

Halsin listened intently, reaching out to take one of her hands. Something in the tone of her voice told him there was more to it than that, but he didn’t press her.

“When I was younger, I was so naïve and hopeful. I thought that one of these arranged marriages could be a good match for me, that I would get to be the noble lady of a great house, managing the affairs of my family with a loving partner at my side. I thought I lived in a fairy tale for so long, that as long as I listened and acted the part of a graceful, amiable lady, I would get my happily ever after. And I was more than happy to play my part at first.” She took a shaky breath.

“Eventually I grew wise enough to see what my father was doing. Training me to be the ultimate tool of seduction on his behalf. To lure allies to his side promising me as a prize. Despite his empty vows, I always knew he had no intention of following through. Looking back on it now, it’s pathetic how often it actually worked.

“He gained confidants, political alliances, and more wealth than we ever would have needed. I gained…” She gave a derisive snort. “Well…I gained nothing pleasant.”

“Tav, that…that’s awful.” Hearing her recount her time in the city made his heart ache for her all over again.

“It could be at times,” she smiled as tears welled in her eyes, “but I always held out hope that if I went along with him, if I made my father happy and proud that maybe I’d get to choose my own path. That I’d have a say in my future…but that was just the hope of that same naïve little girl, wanting a fairy tale as her life.”

He squeezed her hand as she struggled to catch her breath.

“I stopped believing in those fairy tales the day I met Noravi.”

“Who’s Noravi?” he asked as he stroked her hand.

“The only person my father made a betrothal agreement with, a real agreement.”

“Not a pleasant arrangement, I assume?”

“I’ve yet to meet anyone worse,” she sniffled. “His family are slavers.”

She spat the words with a particular venom that he had only heard her use once before. In the Underdark.

“Grymforge…” he whispered. She averted her gaze.

“I have reason to believe his family was involved with those slaves, yes.”

“That’s why you were particularly obsessed with wiping that fortress out.”

“I wouldn’t say obsessed, committed maybe but…” Her light teasing eased some of the pain he felt on her behalf.

“The night I met him is the night Tev first ran away. He nearly broke Noravi’s jaw when he…” her lips trembled, and she was unable to finish her sentence. “I told him to run. I knew my father wouldn’t take the slight lightly.”

“What do you mean?”

“He had already threatened to have Tev sold to one of the great drow houses, or to have Noravi’s family ship him off somewhere. He didn’t appreciate Tev always stepping in and ruining his plans.”

Tav kept talking, but he found himself unable to listen at the mention of the drow houses. For someone to threaten to sell their own son in that manner? He had a hard time imagining what could twist someone into such a cruel state of mind. Halsin knew all too well the fate of surface-dwelling elves that found themselves in cities such as Menzoberranzan, especially the men.

“Halsin?” Tav nudged him.

“Hm? Apologies, I was just…caught off guard.” He forced himself to concentrate once more.

“I’m sorry, I know this is a lot to take in.” She looked embarrassed.

“It’s quite alright,” he assured her. “How did you and Tev’aron find yourselves reunited?”

“He came back for me, even after he had escaped our family’s clutches on his own. Said he couldn’t stand the thought of me being married off to someone like Noravi. We ran away together, and we haven’t spoken to anyone from our life in Baldur’s Gate since.

“Tev saw through our father’s plans long before I did. He tried to convince me, tried to get me to run away for years. But no matter what happened, he was always there to intervene when things got out of hand. He spent his evenings starting fake brawls with drunken noblemen, making sure their hands didn’t wander too far. He took every opportunity to block them from a dance, just to give me a break from my flirtatious mingling. I think I’ve missed that the most, knowing he was just out of view, ready to step in on my behalf.”

“He sounds like a good man,” Halsin said softly.

“The best. He could have left on his own any number of times. He could have stayed away once he finally broke free.” Tav had a fond smile on her face as she reminisced about her brother.

“He stayed for me. He came back for me…” Her smile faded. “And now he’s gone.”

Halsin didn’t know what to say, so he just pulled her into a hug.

“I wish I could have met him.”

Tav chuckled and pulled away from him. “He would have liked you.”

“What makes you so sure?” he teased her with a light nudge.

“Because you’re good to me. You treat me nicely and I’m happy around you.”

“That’s it? That seems like a rather low standard by which to judge me.” He started to tease, but saw the sad, distant look on her face.

“You’d be surprised.” The sudden hurt in her voice caused his breath to catch.

“Regardless, I consider it a privilege to be someone who makes you happy, Tav. I hope I can continue to do so.”

His words caused a genuine smile to return to her face.

“Can you do me a favor?” she asked as her fidgeting fingers picked at the blanket beneath her.

“Of course, anything.”

“Can you…can you not tell the others? That I grew up in the Upper City? It’s just…” she trailed off with a sigh, “It’s just that the people that live there are notoriously disliked by everyone else. I uh, I don’t want that warping their opinion of me. I left the city so long ago, it doesn’t even feel like my home anymore.”

“Your secret is safe with me, my friend.” He hugged her tightly once more, hearing a breath of relief as she relaxed in his arms.

She nodded against him, taking deep breaths.

“I think I’ve distracted you enough,” she said as she wiped her eyes, “have you thought of any way to wake him?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid,” he refocused his mind to the task at hand.

Tav stood up and went over to her bag, fishing out the letter they had found on the Fist.

“Well according to his assignment, he was supposed to be at the House of Healing. Maybe we could check there? You never know, we could find another letter, an old backpack, something that could at least find us a next step.”

It was the only possibility they had. Although, how much longer could she put off chasing the Absolute before–

Wait.

Halsin got an idea as he listened to Tav read the letter over and over.

“That’s it!” He jumped up to examine Art Cullagh again, causing a startled yelp from Tav. This time he was looking for any distinguishing physical features that could help them. Signs of any activity that could help give his mind a jolt, a way to help him remember.

“Halsin? What is it?” Tav asked once she had recovered from her fright.

“If he was able to escape the Shadowfell, then he managed to keep his spirit from being consumed – not all of it, anyway,” Halsin explained eagerly. “We need to unlock whatever’s left of him, trapped in his mind. Something to trigger him – a word, a memory, an item.”

Art had plenty of scars, but that wasn’t out of place for a Flaming Fist or someone who spent one hundred years fighting for their life in the Shadowfell. Perhaps there was a preferred weapon he used, or maybe…

Halsin’s eyes fell on the man’s fingers. Calloused on just the tips, as if from strumming a lute or a lyre.

“There,” he lifted the man’s hand gently to show Tav, “look at these callouses. He likely played a string instrument of some kind. If we can find it and play it for him, we might be able to wake him up.”

“Why don’t we just get Alfira when she wakes up? Have her play a tune to see if it helps?” Tav suggested.

“Unlikely, for it to take effect, the instrument would have had to be owned or at least treasured by him,” Halsin guessed. Tav gave a decisive nod.

“Then it sounds like we’re going to the House of Healing today.”

***

Tav watched Halsin pace around the Flaming Fist, hands gesturing all around as he muttered to himself. She started to feel remorse creep into the back of her mind. Regardless of his support, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth about her family, about who she was. Still, it had been nice to get some of that off her chest.

Their conversations played over and over in her head. Halsin’s words had given her even more to think about.

I care about you, Tav.

But in what way? The light kiss he left on her lips was quick but brimming with affection. And the way he looked at her after made her dizzy just thinking about it. Such a loving expression that was new to her, but not unwelcome by any means.

I do as nature does, and let my heart run wild. Desire flourishes wherever it finds purchase.

Did that mean she would be just another notch on his bedpost? He didn’t seem like the kind of person who only looked for a quick lay before moving onto the next. If that were the case, he would have already slept with her and moved on…right?

A small, hateful voice once again crept into the back of her mind.

You simply aren’t enough to tame that wild heart.

The quiet squeaking of the mattress startled her out of her speculations as Halsin came to sit with her once more. He was still muttering under his breath as he kept a watchful eye on Art Cullagh.

“Once the others get here, we’ll head straight for the House of Healing,” she assured him with a smile, trying to hide the hurt feelings caused by her own nasty, selfish thoughts.

“I don’t deserve you, my friend,” he said with a relieved laugh. The hopeful smile on his face made her chest feel warm and chased away some of the grief clouding her mind.

“To think…” Tav said as she watched the Fist’s chest rise and fall with each breath, “after all these years we could see the sun here again.”

“Yes, I wish I could describe the joy that the mere prospect brings me.” He turned to face her. “I can’t thank you enough for your help.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she snorted, “we still don’t know what we’ll find at the House of Healing, but this is at least…something.”

Halsin took one of her hands. “It’s everything, Tav. Do not sell yourself short. I have felt more hope in the short time I’ve known you than in decades before. Thanks to you, I have a real chance at making that hope a reality.”

He reached over and pulled her into another hug, holding her so tightly she was sure her spine might break. The gesture burned her hateful thoughts away.

Perhaps his roaming heart needed to run wild, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t find a home to come back to every now and then. It didn't mean he couldn't care for her.

“That looks like good news!” Karlach’s cheerful voice carried through the quiet inn. She sauntered into the room with the rest of their party in tow.

“We think we found a lead on getting rid of the curse,” Tav explained as she walked over to greet them.

All of her companions perked up at her words…except Shadowheart.

“So, we’ve just dropped all thoughts of going after the Absolute now?” she snapped back. “Need I remind you of the parasites residing in our brains?”

Tav felt her lip twitch up in a snarl before calling on her parasite to connect with Shadowheart’s. They both wriggled with excitement before falling still once more.

“Sort of a hard thing to forget.” Tav glared at her.

“Must you?” Shadowheart shook off the brief mingling in her mind.

The two of them pulled faces at each other before Gale stepped in.

“Come now,” he stepped between them, holding both hands out, “surely we can take a morning to investigate a lead for a couple of our friends?”

“Friends is a rather generous term, wouldn’t you say, Tav?”

“Associates of circumstance is a fairer description, I think,” she agreed.

“Look at that!” Gale clapped his hands. “Already getting on better than we were just a moment ago. I say we take some of this newfound camaraderie and channel it into our adventures for the day.”

He made a couple more back and forth movements with his arms as Tav and Shadowheart continued staring daggers at one another.

“I think we can spare the time,” Wyll offered his negotiating skills into the conversation. “I feel it wouldn’t do well to leave this land in such a state if we can do something to help.”

Shadowheart mumbled a few curses under her breath before breaking off her glare.

“Any help would be most appreciated, thank you.” Halsin gave a small nod of his head as he launched into a summary of what he learned from studying the Fist throughout the night.

“Where we off to then?” Karlach’s chipper demeanor hadn’t been dampened in the slightest by Tav and Shadowheart’s little spat.

“The House of Healing,” Tav answered. “He was sent there on assignment according to this letter.”

“What exactly are we looking for? If he’s been trapped in the Shadowfell for one hundred years, what can we hope to find on this plane?” Wyll’s question was reasonable enough, but it sowed small seeds of doubt in her mind.

“Anything that can be linked back to him. When he was whisked away to the Shadowfell it would have been unlikely that any material objects would have been taken with him,” Halsin explained. Tav caught the smallest glimmer of doubt cross his expression as well.

“Halsin thinks he may have played a string instrument of some kind based on the calluses on his fingers. If we could find that instrument…” Tav trailed off.

“It could be just the jolt he needs to recover what is left of his mind,” Gale finished as he rubbed his chin.

“Precisely,” Halsin let out a small sigh.

“This is absurd,” Shadowheart scoffed, “we’re wasting time that could be spent chasing down the cure to our tadpoles rather than the whims of two people–”

Karlach and Wyll cut Shadowheart off and pulled her aside.

“Come on, Shadowheart, Tav just lost her brother. She needs this,” Karlach tried to whisper, but still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it.

“They’re chasing a lie,” Shadowheart hissed back. “Halsin claims the ‘spirit of nature’ was taken from these lands? I hardly believe that. Lady Shar has no need for such a spirit, why in the nine hells would she have taken him?”

“We weren’t here that day, Shadowheart. Perhaps he was more involved than we know,” Wyll offered quietly.

“I can still hear you all,” Tav called out, not bothering to hide her aggravation. She gathered up her hair in a high tail so she could braid it while they had their not-so-quiet argument.

Karlach and Wyll exchanged a look, Shadowheart rolled her eyes.

“Listen…” Tav started with a heavy sigh as she let her finished braid fall over her shoulder. “I realize this is a lot to ask of you. I’ve said it so many times before, but we make these decisions as a group. If…”

She trailed off, fighting the tears stinging her eyes.

“If you tell me that you can’t join me in this, I understand. I won’t force anyone to come with me.” Tav looked up to see Halsin with a pained look on his face.

“But I will ask, as your friend, for your help. These shadows came from Ketheric Thorm. If we find out how to rid this land of them, we might just gain an advantage against him. We might be able to learn more about him, find a weakness. Or we might not. We may find nothing, and we’ll have simply wasted the day.” She felt her tears start to run down her cheeks.

“I won’t deny that my personal feelings cloud my judgement right now. But I truly believe that bringing Thaniel back and restoring balance to this land can help us take down Ketheric.”

Karlach was the first one to walk up next to her.

“I’ll be right there with you, soldier.”

“Helping a friend is hardly a day wasted, Tav.” Wyll smiled as he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Astarion asked as he twirled a dagger between his fingers. “Let’s go hurt someone.”

Tav let out a relieved sigh. “Thank you.”

One by one, the others gathered around as well. Shadowheart stayed in place, a frown on her face and her arms wrapped tight around her torso.

“Shadowheart?” Karlach cocked an eyebrow at her. Tav held back her glare as best she could.

“I–” Shadowheart cut herself off as she gripped the Shar-bound wound on her hand, hissing in pain. “I cannot aid you in this. You’re talking about working against Lady Shar. I…” She looked down at her hand once more.

“I cannot be part of it.”

Tav felt her nostrils flare and her heart rate quicken. Karlach’s quiet disappointment was obvious as Shadowheart shuffled away from them, flexing her wounded hand at her side. Halsin came over and placed a hand on Tav’s arm. She leaned into him before Karlach started pulling her out of the room.

“You coming, Halsin?” Karlach turned to ask him.

“I think I should stay here with Art, make sure there are no changes to his condition that require my immediate attention,” he replied, giving Tav an apologetic look.

“Suit yourself, let’s go sis.” Karlach shrugged and looped an arm around one of Tav’s.

Tav looked back over her shoulder, but Halsin had turned his attention back to Art Cullagh, once again lost in thought.

Please gods let this work.

*

Tav stood frozen in place looking at the corpse-strewn battlefield before her. She held her bow in front of her in a rigid grip, the single arrow she had notched still resting on its string, unfired.

Their group had been ambushed by another group of shadow-cursed Harpers. The moment she tried to fight, terror seized her muscles, dragging her back to the previous evening. Every face had warped into Tev’s and she found herself once again unable to act.

Her companions had barely been able to keep the shadows and cursed Harpers away from her. There was a vague memory of an arrow grazing her arm, but she still felt numb to the pain.

“Tav?” Astarion startled her out of her grief-driven paralysis.

She jumped away from him, drawing her bow once more.

“Whoa! Hey!” he yelled as he held his hands up in front of his face.

“Shit,” she hissed and immediately lowered her weapon. “I’m sorry…I…I don’t know what happened…” As she spoke, she realized she had been crying. Thin streaks dampened her cheeks, cooling her skin as the wind blew past her.

Everyone exchanged concerned glances.

“Tav, we agreed to do this for you, the least you could do is be here and present for us,” Lae’zel snapped. Wyll whipped around to face her.

“Lae’zel, perhaps that’s not the best–”

“No Wyll, she’s right.” Tav cut him off. “I’m sorry, I thought I could do this. I thought if I had a distraction, I could move forward but…”

“Tav, it’s been less than a day since you lost your brother. It’s quite alright if you need more time,” Gale tried to assure her.

“No…” she trailed off and choked back the tears clouding her vision. “No, it’s been over a century, Gale. I’ve grieved his loss over and over again, it’s time to move on. You’re all taking a great risk on my behalf, the least I can do is be helpful in completing this task. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

She received a few nods and weak smiles in response.

Karlach came up and took her arm in tight grip as they resumed their walk.

“You okay, soldier?”

“I’m fine, really,” she responded, leaning against her friend. “It’s still a little hard to grasp, but…deep down I think I always knew he was gone. And now…”

She trailed off, not wanting to give her grief anymore leverage against her for the day.

“And now at least you know for sure.” Karlach finished her sentence before hugging her to her side.

“Thanks, Karlach.”

The shadows somehow seemed heavier as they made their trek across the cursed land. Tav found herself much more jittery than before. Every little curl and wisp of shadow caused her to flinch.

It’s not as if you can find him again.

She knew that Tev was gone, buried just outside of their camp. Yet around every corner, in every pocket of darkness, she still saw him.

After what felt like an eternity, they arrived at a large, domed building close to the center of town. A bronze plaque, streaked with blue and green from weathering the elements, hung on the stone that made up the stairs leading up to its doors.

The House of Healing.

Tav ran her finger over the worn metal. This building had been the pride and joy of the Thorm family. Ironic that it could also hold the key to their demise.

Fear threatened to paralyze her once more, but she forced herself to keep moving forward. Her heart pounded with a thundering rhythm as she took the first step across the threshold of the building.

The smell of death and decay greeted them in an overwhelming haze, heavier here than any other part of the shadows. Beds lined the walls on either side of the room. Bloodied rags and medical instruments littered the ground and every table in sight. Bottles filled with unidentifiable fluids and organs rotted away on the shelves.

“This has to be one of the creepiest places we’ve visited in our time together,” Karlach said as she pinched her nose shut. “And we cleared out an old crypt before talking with an undead skeleton man.”

“Keep your guard up, there could be other cursed beings here as well,” Tav warned.

She took note of the rags that looked to be covered in fresh blood, rather than the old, dried blood she saw streaking other piles. One of the corpses nearby looked to be only a few days old, and they didn’t appear to have died from the shadows.

Right on cue, she heard some mumbling from a nearby room. She motioned to everyone to follow carefully as she opened the door. The old wood and hinges creaked and groaned with the movement, adding to the unnerving ambiance of their surroundings.

In the next room, she saw what looked like a nurse of some kind, but she was strangely distant. Touched by the shadow curse, yet she somehow maintained some semblance of self. She had bandages wrapped around the top of her head, obscuring her eyes. Her tattered apron and clothing was dirtied and streaked with blood. Fresh blood.

She didn’t seem to notice their approach despite the old door announcing their arrival. Tav scanned the room, searching for any others. When her eyes finally landed on the bed in front of the undead caretaker, she let out a sharp gasp. Multiple other huffs of shock and disgust followed from her companions.

Two tieflings laid in adjacent beds, their bodies cut open, their blood seeping into the mattresses beneath them. Their familiar, unmoving faces twisted into looks of pain, hands reaching out toward one another.

Arabella’s parents.

[shieldofiron]

One subby billionaire Steve please with dom blue collar worker Billy

Oh coming right UP! CW: We're doing a little daddy dom, light bdsm (they're just getting started.)

Steve doesn't take off the suit until Billy tells him. He doesn't do anything until Billy tells him, but he especially doesn't take off the suit. Billy's fingers, tipped with callouses, burn through the layers of expensive fabric, and Steve whimpers. His blood feels like it's on fire, his head is feverish, and he burns, he pines, he perishes.

Billy taught him that. Billy, who reads Moliere and giggles in the bath, who moved in and brought his box of books and bright clothes and color and life to Steve's sad sterile penthouse. Billy, who makes him groan and cry and laugh and delights him beyond belief.

"Fuck, so good for me, angel, were you waiting long?" Billy whispers in his ear, moustache tickling. He smells like motor oil and cigarettes and the detergent that Billy swears works better than Steve's fancy stuff.

Steve whimpers, "No, daddy."

Billy's laugh tickles along Steve's back where Billy's chest is pressed, sends goosebumps scattering across his skin.

"Long day?" Billy whispers.

Steve has a tension headache between his brows, and he groans, leaning back into Billy's chest, "Yeah. Just... yeah."

"Poor little angel, not enough workers to exploit?" Billy shakes his head.

"The charity set up is taking longer than I expected, and I'm just... fuck... Daddy, please?"

"Okay, I'll quit teasing ya," Billy nuzzles his nose against Steve's neck, "Let me wash up."

"Can I-?"

Steve trails off and he can feel Billy stare at him, "You want to come with me?"

Steve nods, "I'll wash your hair, maybe?"

Billy smiles against Steve's cheek, "Yeah, baby? You gonna take care of me?"

"Yes, please. Always."

Billy digs his fingers into the knot of Steve's tie, tugging at his clothes, "Fuck, angel, you're being so good for me."

"I could be bad," Steve whispers longingly, following as Billy tugs them into the bathroom.

"No," Billy laughs, pulling at Steve's Italian wool jacket, "Not you. Never you."

Steve warms to the compliment, burns under Billy's hungry gaze as he strips Steve and asks him to draw them a bath.

"Got so many ideas Angel," Billy smiles, sitting on the edge of the tub, "Get in and grip the sides. Don't move, okay?"

Steve complies, realizing only when he grasps the sides of the tub that his hands are shaking, he's hot all over and gasping already.

"Good boy," Billy coos, "Now, let's take the edge off, Princess."

Steve intends to say more, but then Billy turns on the handheld shower head and flips it to the massaging function. His hands are stained with motor oil, and he dips the shower head under the water, pressing it to the underside of Steve's half-hard cock. Steve jerks, letting out a wailing gasp.

"Don't move, angel," Billy corrects, leaning over Steve and pressing an indulgent kiss to Steve's forehead. The steam makes Billy's curls curlier, and his eyes are heavy lidded, sliding down Steve's body like the water.

Steve tries to hold still, thighs trembling, while the water pulses along his cock. It's unlike anything else, too much and not enough all at once.

"Oh, I'm sorry baby," Billy moves the shower head and it pulses right against the head of his cock.

Steve jerks, splashing water up against Billy's mechanic's shirt, plastering it to his chest.

"Relax, Angel," Billy whispers.

"Kiss," Steve gasps, trying with all of his power to still his hips, "K-Kiss, please-"

Billy leans in and parts Steve's lips, kissing his lower lip slowly and then slipping his tongue inside. He tastes like cigarettes and hot wet skin and Steve melts into it, muscles going lax and weak.

As soon as he relaxes into it, he realizes he's so close, embarrassing close.

"B-Billy," Steve whimpers pressed against Billy's lips.

"Do it, angel," Billy's voice is harsh and rough, "Fucking do it, we have all night."

Steve doesn't take off his suit until Billy says, and he sure as hell comes when Billy says. The water seems to pulse right to the core of him, and he groans, hips jerking, lips seeking up for Billy's. He can feel tears burning hot behind his eyes, the rasp of Billy's fingers where they cradle Steve's head at the nape of his neck, the water, lapping against him hothothot.

He comes to a moment later, cum swirling in the water and Billy's indulgent chuckle in his ears.

"Good for you Angel?"

"Get in here," Steve whispers, head lolling weakly.

"Don't need to tell me twice," Billy's mustache twitches.

[theearlgreymage]

“Arrogant…” Levi grumbles, turning away from Erwin to focus on the task at hand — kneading a fresh loaf of bread for them. He punches and folds the dough roughly. “Hey,” Erwin tries to sooth over his misstep. Entering Levi’s space and placing his hands over Levi’s biceps in a comforting gesture. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I know that this world can be cruel.” Levi tenses, but doesn’t shake Erwin’s hands off of him. “Yeah? And just what do you know of the cruelties of this world?” “I know what it’s like to never know one's own history — to be the cause of another’s death.” “Stop speaking in riddles, I’m in no mood for your cryptic enigmatics.” “My mother perished while delivering me,” Erwin’s voice is a ghost of a whisper against Levi’s ear. The admission eases Levi’s kneading of the dough, Erwin’s hands sliding down to his forearms. “I never knew my father.” “My father was put to death because of my actions…” Levi can hear the strain in Erwin’s voice as he unravels his tale. He can feel the way Erwin’s heart staggers against his spine with how close they’re pressed together. “He was a scholar, but he wanted to say goodbye to her, my mother. Nothing nefarious, nothing evil, he simply wanted to let her know that she could rest easy. That we loved her and that he would protect me.” Levi bites his lip at the admission. Communing with the dead is dangerous — even if the intent is whole and good. “I was excited to talk to my mother, mentioned it while in the market. The royal guards were on our doorstep the next day, and they strung my father up in the gallows.” Erwin’s hands are now on Levi’s own and Levi finally relents on his working of the dough. He knows Erwin doesn’t worry about filth in the same way he does, so he simply spins around in Erwin’s hold. It forces Erwin to drop his hands from Levi, but Levi places his own flour covered fingers to Erwin’s jaw. “Don’t blame yourself. Those people, the masses,” Levi swallows, he’s never been good with words. He’s brilliant with the ancient tongues that summon power from his core, but he’s shit when it comes to talking to people. “They never understand. They always fear what they can’t see. Only trust what those pious lot in the church tell them about the unknown.” Erwin let’s Levi’s words pull at the corners of his lips, but the look in his eyes is still downturned. “They burned my mother,” Levi confesses. “She was an herbalist, but that didn’t garner enough to put food on the table. So she had other clients in the evenings. One asked for too much…” Levi swallows, emotions he’s never quite faced bubbling in his stomach. They’re sour and acrid, and leave a rancid taste of sulfur on the back of his throat. “They asked for me, and she…She told him no.” Levi is shaking now, using his hold on Erwin and the counter behind him for support as he remembers that night. The way his mother had screamed at the man. He’d torn her dress, and she’d ripped out a chunk of his hair as he’d made a move towards Levi. She’d yelled at Levi to run, but he’d been too afraid to move — he’d cried for his mother, begging her to make the bad man leave. In the end, she’d thrown a vial of giant hogweed sap at him. The glass shattered against the back of his head, glass digging into his neck and ear while the burning extract seeped into the pores of his skin. He’d screeched in agony and called Levi’s sweet mother a witch. “The village burned her that very night.” “Oh Levi…” Erwin wraps his arms around Levi’s slim waist. “Oh my sweet Poppy.” Levi allows the contact, slipping his arms further up and around Erwin’s neck. He buries his face against the soft skin of Erwin’s throat and breathes in the scent of pine and leather and musk. He doesn’t see the way Erwin’s grin turns nefarious above his head.

The amazing @gravesecret and I teamed up for an exciting Halloween Collab, and it has been a ton of fun working with them. They're so gosh talented it is insane, and the art they created for this one-shot is stunning. It took my breath away from the very first rough-sketch. The final piece left me absolutely floored.

Make sure you go give the artwork a like and reblog here on Tumblr or over on X. And give them a follow on the new haven that is Bluesky.

Read "My Poppy Witch" here on AO3

Rating, Tags, and Summary Beneath the Cut ✂

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Shigeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Author Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: Levi Ackerman/Erwin Smith, Levi Ackerman & Erwin Smith

Characters: Levi Ackerman, Erwin Smith. Hange Zoë

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magic, Witch Levi Ackerman, Alchemist Erwin Smith, Demonic Possession, Demon Summoning, Demon Deals, Witchcraft, Manipulative Erwin Smith, Ackerbond | Ackerman Bonding (Shingeki no Kyojin), Top Erwin Smith, Bottom Levi Ackerman, Bottom Levi Ackerman/Top Erwin Smith, Dubious Consent, Messy, Fingerfucking, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Coming Untouched, Loss of Virginity, Gay Sex, poppy flowers

Summary: It becomes easier, after the events at the riverbank, for Levi to trust Erwin.

Erwin never gets in Levi’s way, letting him perform his spells and rituals out in the open without judgment. He doesn’t pry, doesn’t ask to be taught, but instead observes and only offers to help where he can. Levi is appreciative of Erwin’s regard for his space, and finds himself slowly growing accustomed to having another person with him in the solace of his woods.

Levi has an affinity for plants, Erwin discovers. He watches as Levi heals the delicate stems of baby’s breath and coaxes stubborn lilacs to bloom. Under the light of a full moon, Erwin is granted the privilege of observing Levi’s protection rituals around the forest. He finds himself mesmerized by the fireflies and moths that flock to Levi’s hands, accepting droplets of magic like rain before fluttering back into the woods — depositing magical charms throughout the glen.

It’s more than Erwin could have ever imagined, hoped, to find in a witch.

[rwprincess]

Can i request a Fred benson x reader where theu are both pining idiots for eachother and one day reader accidently fall asleep on his shoulder and the poor guy panics but eventually they end up cuddling ? i hope that makes sense 😭 ♡

I never forgot you, anon! I know it has been a long time but I wanted to craft something I felt was worthy.

“I burn, I pine, I perish”

-Shakespeare, Taming of the Shrew

Those little brushes to the forearm, those small smiles, those hints of something left unsaid behind your eyes. Fred cherished each and every one of these instances. Fleeting moments that gave him hope that you could see him in the way that he saw you: ethereal, breathtaking, and as so much more than a friend. But he had difficulty believing he'd ever be that lucky. He had hope, sure, but he wasn't betting on it. 

Conversely, Fred made you nervous. While you felt the crushing weight of desire to be more than friends with him, you couldn't actually fathom it. Any time you seriously thought about the implications of realizing your romantic feelings towards Fred, your heart hammered in your chest in a way that was likely not healthy. But keeping his company was an addiction you couldn't deny, so you sought to spend time with him any way you could, even assigning the most banal (or even hated) tasks to be spent with him. At least it gave you some glimmer of joy. 

Fred, of course, felt at ease when you asked him to help you cram for your math test. "C'mon Freddie, I'll fail without you!" you whined. 

Internally, he was shoving down a smirk at the thought that you needed him, that you were begging for his help, his time, his attention. Outwardly, however, he rolled his eyes, "What are you, five? You don't have to whine. And I'm sure you can do it without me." 

You shook your head vigorously in response. "You and I both know I don't know what the hell is going on in that class. And I need someone to quiz me and make sure my answers are right. I can't trust my own answers."

"I'll think about it," he replied, even though he knew he'd say yes. He was just stringing it out to tease you. 

"I'll feed you!" You burst out and he started laughing, "C'mon. My house, free snacks. Plus, my company." You grinned deviously, joking that that was your selling point. However, for Fred, it was all that actually mattered and he was sold long ago, before you'd really even asked him.

"Okay, okay, fine. You've convinced me." He pretended to let you win, as if he wasn't already wrapped around your finger. 

Studying together. That's something that normal friends do, right? Even if it was at night…all alone in your house together. Right?

The nerves were getting to you despite this fact. Fred had been to your house plenty of times and while you outward tried to 'play it cool,' you actually spent hours planning, cleaning, and preparing any time he came over. Everything was just-so but also perfectly curated to look nonchalant. You tried your best not to let him know that your palms were sweaty or your heart was racing any time you thought of him. 

You welcomed him into your home, snacks already set, and thanked him profusely for his time (you tried to hide your feelings, but you weren't really any good at it). "You really don't have to keep thanking me," he mused, "I'm already here. Not going anywhere." 

"Right, yeah," you felt an embarrassed blush hit your cheeks but shoved it down as quickly as possible. 

He put you at ease by focusing on the task at hand and forcing you to study, mercifully he didn't bring up your heightened state. Eventually, you fell into a rhythm and talked both about the math at hand, but also about the broader aspects of life. Soon, you were more focused on that part of it and became distracted from the math goals you had laid out. Joking with Fred and relaxing more, pushing him playfully and enjoying his smiling response. It became late rather quickly and you noticed your eyes tiring to the point that you had to put forth effort to keep them open. Fred finally steering you back to boring studies didn't help, either. 

"Hey!" He snapped his fingers in front of your face, welcoming you back to a drowsy haze. "You can't fall asleep! We're only like, halfway through this chapter!"

"I am not falling asleep… I'm just resting my eyes," you said and he gave you a deadpan stare at your cliched excuse. "No, really! They're burning from reading so much."

"Uh-huh," he replied in a tone that indicated disbelief, "I can't believe you're quitting on me already."

"I'm not. Jeez!" You stood up and stretched, then plopped back down next to him. "There. All jazzed up now. Continue," you prompted, tapping the book in front of him. 

Your magic wake up 'cure' lasted all of three minutes. You could feel your thoughts becoming disjointed and you were missing words from Fred's sentences as he spoke. Your responses started to become muted "uh-huh"s and agreeing, grumbling moans. Before long, you'd completely nodded off, head drooping down onto Fred's shoulder. 

Luckily for Fred, you were totally zonked, because he sat up rigidly, panicking at your closeness. "Y/N?" He asked in a normal tone, before changing to a hissing whisper to repeat it. When you didn't stir, his thoughts immediately reeled; what was he to do? Part of him wanted to nudge you awake. Surely this was a mistake on your part and you'd loathe him when you woke, wondering why he didn't rouse you sooner. You'd probably both be embarrassed and then you'd have to take a huge step back in your relationship and everything would be awkward. And you wanted to pass this test, and he had vowed to help you. He couldn't just let you sleep through it, right? 

However, the stronger part of him that won out screamed at him to let this last as long as possible. You'd never been this close before, and he didn't mind being your pillow when you looked so …sweet. You looked peacefully innocent, lips slightly parted to let your gentle breath through, warming the soft wool fabric of his sweater vest. He had resolved to let you sleep, (he justified it by saying that you must need the rest, or at least a break, if you were falling asleep on him!) but he didn't really know what to do with himself. He was afraid to keep skimming the book and jostling you awake. So, for a few moments, he just sat under the weight of your head and sweated bullets from his nerves. But watching the steady rise and fall of your chest while inhaling your scent, the languidness was contagious and he felt his eyelids getting heavier. Soon, his head started to carry the weight instead and he unconsciously laid against the top of your head, giving in to the comfort of sleep.

[upismediacenter]

LITERARY: Hanahaki

Seed The first interaction was truly divine. I gave you flowers for you to appreciate, Was lost for words, everything inside me was not fine. I never thought that I would be the one to initiate. The shame in me bloomed to a whole new level, Yet when I interacted with you, you made me feel special.

Bud I patiently wait every day to see you walk by, With a gift in hand, I’m holding onto so tight. When you receive the flowers, I get an all time high. This excitement is enough to keep me up at night. You now have a token of all my affection, Oh, I almost can't control this emotion!

Pollination I see color on your cheek, brings forth a feeling I'll have with no other. It's present, I notice, every time you look my way. What is sunlight to a flower? Is it the same as your smile to my everyday? Is my love now supposed to be buried with shame? Or is it right to assume you also feel the same?

Blossom Would my love even suffice? I am entrapped by the thought of a love that blooms free from woe, A love where everything, just for you, I will sacrifice. But I am not prepared to be my own foe For all that I can offer is a bouquet from my very core, But alas, what you want is so much more.

Fall Another person arrives, more in his hand than just a rose. I watch as you fall for his big gestures and eyes of umber brown. Perhaps, that’s why he’s the one you chose? My lungs begin to sting and vivid petals start falling down. Is this the punishment for plans I never pushed through? I now cough up floras that were meant only for you.

Drought My deep fondness for you continues to burn red, As scarlet blood trickles down my lips, making my head float Would love really lead me to perish instead? Though made of velvet, lingering petals leave rips in my throat. A disease so beautiful, I hoped for glory—but offered only gasps for my last breath, Didn’t know that a fight for love, was a fight to the death.

Wilt It’s not the flower that wilts, but I. Regardless, my stubborn heart continues to pine. My throat constricts as there, a garden lies. Just admiring you from afar, elicits an emotion truly sublime. During my last breaths, I gather the petals of my unrequited intimacy. In the end, I still had flowers, but now they’re for me.

[ahumblenipple]

(Don't mind me, just going overboard in my obsession with greek mythology)

Tell me, oh Lords of wine dark sea, which ages have forgotten and broken on waves meant to deter even mighty Poseidon, of the lost children of Miranda. Those who were hated and loved as terribly as the dawn loves the day, but whose own forms could not have been kept in mighty temples lest their own worshippers be lost to their jaws. And lo! Tell me truly, tell me sweet, of the blessed father lost to the whims of the goddess herself. For none so war torn and ravaged by the fates themselves was banished to those cursed lands as he. 

Now listen to me, dear friends, you who have taken to the oracles and brought gifts to the altar, even you solemn worshippers would not believe the weavings of the Moirai. I sing to you now of the fate of all of those poor souls, but especially the father himself. He who was deigned to die that day by the hands of the goddess herself, yet found light even in the gates of Hades. For in his heart was an equal love and desire for righteousness, that even the gods themselves might envy. And though his eyes were taken, his hands bound and his name lost to the waves, he could not perish by the hands of the unjust. Bound and frightened as he was, his own sword was still lashed by his side, and the memory of his home fires still burned in his heart. 

So as his foot fell onto that cold archipelago, where the cursed children of Miranda slumber, no danger came to him. He stumbled in his blindness ever forward and thrashed against the bones of those sent before him, killed by the hands of Miranda’s children and doomed to remain lost from the pyres of their ancestors. But a strong heart sang in his chest, and fear could not slow his strides as he sought any shelter amidst the shadows that now filled his world. And shelter he did find, for a large cave was centered in this island, and great crowns of pine and cypress towered above it all that not even the sun could reach the earth. And in this cave dwelled Miranda’s child that was the most dangerous of them all. A Gorgon -one whose very look would turn the poor watcher to stone in an instant- called it his haven against the wrath of the villagers of the mainland. 

He was a monster through and through. Cursed by the might of Miranda for questioning her strength, and shifted into the creation that he was now. Where once was a mighty blacksmith and creator of fine metals, now stood a beast. Long gray hairs whipped instead as living snakes and writhed too and fro across his shoulders. All the scars of life were now echoed ten fold against his skin from the countless fighters that had been sent to him, and each slash and cut showed against his dark gray toga. Long claws and fangs were his weapons as much as his gaze, and many had fallen to his might. Two pairs of wings curved from his back, and the final sign of the beast that he had become was the tail that thrashed about with his ire. 

The father strode through without recognizing the den which he entered, but the protection of the cave was enough that he knew he should be safe from the rays of Apollo and the winds that rolled off the sea. His hand pressing against the cold stone of the walls was the only sight he could rely on, but even that failed him as spikes of stone rose from the very earth and dripped from the tops of the cavern, keeping his steps faulty and uncertain as he wandered in the darkness. 

Before too long, the sound of the intruder reached the ears of the Gorgon, for he was familiar with the efforts of the heroes and their missions from the goddess. He was a curse. A plague. A challenge for those who craved the immortality of the songs and tapestries created by the village artisans, and so yet another threat was to be expected. As the father stepped further into his lair, the creature was able to watch and study the man where he wandered through the field of stones long before he would be seen. 

The father was truly strong as well, and built of form to rival fleet-footed Achilles. Though more slender than the broad chest and shoulders of the Gorgon, his figure was still that of a warrior, and muscle clung strong to his pale skin. A fine white tunic was draped over by a short cloak that matched the green mosses of the hillsides, and a rich bronze helmet covered his face. Yet another sent to kill him, the Gorgon saw in an instant, and he made his choice to strike.

The father must have heard him, for he turned at the last moment with his hand out and his sword tight in his grasp. It was an easy feat to swat it away, and the Gorgon forced the weapon to the ground while he pinned the man in place. 

He sneered down at the attempted assassin before he growled out deep and cold. “So what are you? Another of her worthless heroes?! You who can’t even look me in the eye? Come on, show me what you’re made of.” 

The eyes beneath the helmet were obscured in the darkness, but no matter. He would resolve the distance and see the fool that sought to kill him, and the helmet gave way easily as he wrenched it from the man’s shoulders. 

“Look at me. LOOK AT ME.”

As soon as the metal was torn free, he saw the truth beneath him. The father’s eyes were wrapped tightly in bandages while freshly dried blood still pooled on his cheeks. There would be no looking this man in the eyes, no curse of stone to befall the doomed hero. 

“What? You’re blind….” A strange pain gripped his heart then, knowing full well that no man would have chosen this for himself, let alone allow the affliction before battle. A blind man would never have reached this place without aid either, and too easily did he see the guidance of Miranda in the cruelty enacted before him. “She really wanted you dead, huh,”

The man beneath him grunted and reached blindly off to his side, no doubt trying to grab his sword again but only managing to grasp the blade and draw his own blood. “Let me go-” he choked out even as his hand was pinned back by the grip of the Gorgon, and any hopes of using the weapon were dashed in an instant. 

“I don’t think so. I’m not exactly in the mood to be stabbed,” the Gorgon chuckled. He settled his weight back down on the man as he studied his face. Even injured, the man was beautiful and noble looking, truly the kind that great songs and stories would be inspired by. And yet here he was, blinded and trapped in the cave of a monster. Curiosity was always his curse as well, and he felt more questions form as he looked down at the one he should really just be killing. “What brought you here, hero? A desire to kill the Gorgon? Hmm? Loyalty to the goddess and her temple?” 

“No,” the man spit out. “Never to her. Miranda- Miranda told the temple guards my wife was unfit to serve her anymore and threw her in the prisons. Miranda was the one who stole my child, and claimed her to be a servant of the temple. And Miranda was the one who took my eyes and sent me out here to die when I questioned that choice, and whose head I will cut off and emblazon on my own shield if ever I manage to reach back home again!” 

The force of the words startled the Gorgon, but he felt a connection grow even as the rage showed bright on the stranger’s face. “Then you and I share the same desire. I too was forced here against my will, and was condemned to an eternity as something hated. But perhaps, you and I could manage to change our stars together.” 

“Elias,” the man grunted out. “My name is Elias, and I would appreciate it if you remove yourself from my chest.” 

The Gorgon laughed, deep and hearty before leaning even closer to Elias’s face, allowing a few snakes to brush against the man’s cheeks as he did so. The gray scales of each serpent were nearly black when compared to the fair skin and golden hair of the man beneath him. Truly an interesting one. “I suppose I will, Elias. But tell me, do you not fear me? For surely, you know the stories of my siblings and I.”

Elias was silent for a moment as his gaze stayed ever caught behind his wrappings. “I would know your name before I would judge you, stranger.” 

The Gorgon chuckled and finally leaned back, pleased as he watched the man beneath him suck in a lungful of air as his chest flushed. “You may call me Kyril. I suppose if I am to help you in this impossible quest to fight the goddess, I should help you heal a bit first, hmm?” 

Elias laughed as well, a ghost of a thing, but it was there nonetheless. “I do not think you would be able to return my sight, Kyril.” 

“No, I most likely would not. Even when I had a forge, there was a limit to my own creations, and none of the helmets I created ever claimed to be able to see for themselves. I would help wash you though, and make sure you were fed before we seek out what must be done. In that way I would do what I can to aid you, as well as lend my own strength by your side.” 

It was an easy pledge to make in that moment, even knowing the Sisyphean task before them. The man beneath him seemed so sure, and every piece of Kyril’s hope had been worn down over the years until only a small spark remained. Yet Elias was enough to churn it further into a flame, and that was a miracle that deserved to be tended and pursued until it either burned gloriously or was snuffed out for good. 

“Then I will fight by you, Kyril, and if the fates were ever kind, they will guide our hands.”

“They were never kind, Elias,” Kyril said as he finally stood. He lifted the man beneath him into a standing position with barely a tugging on his arm, and was quick to catch him in a strong embrace rather than let the man topple over back onto the stone. “But when has any part of this world been kind?” 

Elias was silent then, simply breathing as Kyril held him close in the dark of the cave. Unseeing, unknowing of the true form of the monster before him, but understanding well enough that his own future was being handled more cautiously than he had expected. Perhaps once, he had entertained the idea of fighting the four monsters of the Cyclades, but that had long been brushed off once his daughter was born. And now, being given a chance at justice and returning home to his family, he understood which monster was the true threat to them all, and it was certainly not the man before him.

re8 greek myth. au continues. Ethan’s first encounter on the islands (follow-up soon?)

in this au ethan meets the lords in reverse order to the game, having teamed up with karl from the start. Karl keeps him hidden in his domain for months while he heals (karl has remedies against any inflammation/infection in ethans eyes (with how much he gets accosted by warriors all the time he has to know)), they become deeply attached to each other and plan to get revenge over miranda/athena who put them both there.

[kikuism]

kikou ft. hands bc i am weak and this is my brand...

[thebirdandhersong]

lots of tension between the desire to let good things come in due time and the desire to 1) kiss mr knight on the cheek whenever he is being the Cutest (which is often) & 2) take his hand and kiss his knuckles whenever he passes my chair (which is a SERIOUS temptation guys)

[leiakenobi]

21 for the behind the scenes ask for...how about 'in the sirens and the silences'?

21. What is something you didn't expect people to notice or gravitate towards in this fic?

Okay first of all I went to look at it again to remind myself how people reacted and I forgot you wrote me a freaking masterpiece of a comment wtf 😭

I think this was one where I was more heavy-handed than I usually am about the themes of the story and the dynamic between the characters, so there wasn't much that really surprised me about what people were drawn to? Like I was pulling pretty hard hehe.

Buuut I will say that on this one as well as many of my other poe/rey fics, one of the reactions I got was about how well they see each other without trying, and I think that one always surprises me, just a little bit? Not because it's not a part of the fic, but just because it's so integral to how I see the relationship that I never really expect people to comment on it, ya feel.

Behind-the-Scenes Fic Asks

[andessence]

His brow furrows and his lip curls into a soft grimace. He could have come for you. Do you hate him for it? "It is not so simple as that, Daniel."

He wishes to force through the barrier between them the years of worshipful love, the centuries of pining idealization, the sudden confusion and betrayal... He wishes he could make Daniel understand how it had been both the gravest insult and the most righteous truth for Marius to take him in his arms and tell him he loves him. But none of this can pass between their severed minds. It can scarcely show in Armand's eyes, which are still dulled with a certain tired shock.

He shakes his head, laying his hand over Daniel's, which still clutches his sleeve.

"I never told it to you myself because I couldn't. There was that other reason which you know - that I regarded the knowledge of what I am as a peril to you. Yes, that too, but even still I simply didn't know how. I still don't. I cannot make sense of the past to explain it to you, Daniel. It's what I've always said. All of that is a mystery to me."

He remembers events, not reasons, not answers. Ask him the day the palazzo burned; he knows it. Ask him the length of the cell he was confined to in Rome; he knows it. Ask when he knew he would kill Claudia to have Louis, and how many seconds it took for her and every other victim he saw burned to perish; he knows it all. But even the events are not without fault in his memory. He is not sure how much of what really happened he can remember, nor how much of what he remembers to have happened is real. There are the great swaths of lost time in his childhood, and in the brothel, of course, but fever, passion, and desperation have just as surely warped as many moments beyond faithful recounting. He knows, for instance, that he heard Marius's voice calling to him as he starved in that prison in Rome, but knows that to be impossible, that a fledgling should hear the mind of his Maker.

Some certainties are not true. Others can't be spoken.

Armand's eyes flicker away, roused, sharp enough now to show embarrassment. His voice comes more quietly, only a murmur. "No more lies, Daniel, nor refusals, I promise you that. These may be our last days. Likely you and I will never live to regret honesty. But I cannot make you understand, only tell you what I know. But tell me first, Beloved..." Those eyes, which had been unable in their stupor to meet Daniel's for hours and are now merely unwilling, fix on the touching of their hands. His questions, which might have been accusatory, are merely curious. "Do you hate him? From what you have read of him? From your brief glimpse?"

Uncertainty infects his lover. so rarely daniel has seen it, and never like this. it takes too long for armand to meet his eyes. he misses, suddenly, the lurking presence of armand in his thoughts.

“ yes, I can guess. I can keep guessing, but why would you want me to? I already know more than you intended me to either way, but it’s not been from you. ”  

all daniel has ever done is guess until lestat’s revelations enlightened him. a shard of armand’s existence that armand would have died sooner than give daniel from his own tongue. amadeo. a previous self, and daniel does not know him at all. and how could daniel have guessed that his maker, that haunting unknowable secret armand never budged on, has been living in echoes between them this entire time? he should feel more about it than he does, but perhaps it is delayed. a surreal, adrenaline cushioned realization. it would have eaten him alive if he were still alive.

tell me.

he thinks it, briefly forgetting or not caring whether armand can hear him.

tell me anything. I wonder if I’ve ever even known you.

“ do you hate him for it? or, can you tell if you do? because he could have come for you. ”

[bird-inacage]

SKY x PRAPAI Love Language | Sky Cradling Prapai’s Face

Sky develops this cute little gesture which is sort of a hybrid between a pinch of the cheeks and a cradle of Prapai’s jaw with his hands. When he does this, you can tell he’s being super gentle and fond.

Like - I BURN, I PINE, I PERISH.

[curiositydooropened]

Domesticity

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

Pairing: Steve Harrington x female!Reader

Wordcount: 16,490

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

Navigation • Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the hell, dude?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Make out with me,” you hissed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready, Marce?”

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

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

“Love you, honey.” 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, you know her?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve nodded, leaned in to indulge her. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled, cocked a brow. 

“I love her very, very much.” 

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe what stuck?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

“I need you to kiss me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You rolled your eyes and took two steps back, releasing his hand from yours. “Ugh, fine. But we do need to go grocery shopping for the week.” 

He sighed, relief flooding through him knowing you weren’t going into that house alone, and he nodded. “Will you help me find my keys?” 

—

Public spaces were complicated in this context. He hated pretending with you, hating the gnaw of guilt when your hand swung in his and made his throat tighten. But pretending at the house was harder, a switch that always flipped the moment that door closed was forever in the upright position. It was murky waters, hearing you call him baby but not knowing if it was okay to sweep you up into his arms. But in public? In public it was encouraged.

The grocery store, on a Sunday evening in Suburbia was hectic. You and Steve stuck out like sore thumbs, comfy clothes, shrugged sweaters and mussed hair, agnostics in sea of Christianity. You slumped lazily behind Steve, hiding your face in his back to avoid stares, and he tugged at your hand to pull you down another aisle, basket getting heavy in his hand. 

“We should’ve gotten a cart,” he huffed when you rounded to the cereal aisle, staring at the assortment of bright colors as though you weren’t just going to pick Honeycombs again. 

“I’ll carry it, big baby,” you teased, pulling a family sized box of Honeycombs into your arms. He hadn’t realized how small you looked until now, and he noticed you were wearing his sweater, the one from the other night. 

His heart thud in his ears, short circuited. Shit. Dead puppies, Christmas lights, that sliver of skin when you… 

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” You smiled, swatting at his chest. 

He blinked, coughed, switched the basket into his other hand. 

“What’s wrong?” You were so damn pretty, lips split as you looked both ways down the empty aisle. 

“That’s my sweater.” 

You looked down at yourself, and he saw the duck of embarrassment as you fiddled with the hem. “I thought it might…” Make you more believable.

He nodded. “It does. Nice touch.” He met you in the center of the aisle and tugged at your sleeve, loose from days of wear. “Could’ve washed it first.”

You looked up at him then, all alone in the cereal aisle, a backdrop of colors, and he leaned in to press his lips softly to yours. He felt the box settle into his chest between you, and you let out a soft noise of indignation that made him pull away. Your lashes fluttered open, and you gave him a look. Perhaps in warning. 

Careful, sailor boy, you’re blurring the line. He swallowed and barked a wry laugh. “I’m getting a cart.” He mumbled and hurried off in search of a better vehicle for the groceries, and maybe a six pack.

—

Steve was tucked into the armchair nearest the front window, thumbing through the latest issue of Sports Illustrated, which you’d tossed into the grocery cart alongside a few girly pop culture magazines, an olive branch. Night had broken, slowly reflecting his own visage in the window by lamplight. A windstorm came in, blowing through the trees in the park and undoing his handiwork from the weekend, but he didn’t mind the task if it meant something to keep himself occupied. 

You were partway through your next book, a thriller that hadn’t yet been adapted into film, and you slipped from the living room and into the kitchen for a glass of water. He glanced at the little space in the doorways, watched the way your hips swayed against the countertop while you hummed to yourself. He quickly looked back at his magazine as you returned. 

“Steve,” you voice was soft, and he looked back to see you in the doorframe, fingers wrapping at the wood. 

He raised his eyebrows in response, folding his magazine closed. 

“The laundry’s done.” You explained, chewing at the inside of your cheek.

He smiled and pushed off from his chair, following you through the kitchen and down the rickety staircase into the basement below. 

You’d been terrified of the basement from the beginning, which he absolutely understood. Unfinished, a mess of wires and support beams. The boiler, probably made of lead, made strange hissing noises depending on the time of day. And at this time of night, with the singular dangling bulb casting haunting shadows into the darkest corners, he couldn’t blame you for being scared. 

Steve unloaded the dryer into a basket on top, everything warm and soft, his sweater right on top. He smiled and switched items from the washer to the dryer, and carried the basket back upstairs on his hip to meet you. 

“You ready for bed?” You asked, hand on the kitchen light switch. 

He nodded and waited at each doorway for you to check the lights and lock the doors, and then he climbed right behind you all the way to the little bedroom at the top. He dumped the clothes onto the bed and began to fold, while you busied yourself around the little room, picking up a stray sock here or t-shirt there and depositing them into the hamper in the closet. And then you joined him, hips bumping, bending deep to reach for a matching sock on your pillow. 

“What do you do when I’m not here?” He asked, first as a tease and then with mild curiosity.

You smiled back at him, pink lips and shrugged shoulders. “I do things.” 

“Like…?” 

You sighed, folding one of his shirts against your chest. “Like… read. And clean and just… think.” 

“What do you think about?”

You looked up at him then, soft and sweet, and said, “Home.”

He thought of home too, all the time. He thought of Dustin and Robin, both yelling at him to quit being an idiot. He thought of his mom, wine drunk and curled under a throw blanket. He thought of his dad and Eddie and Hopper, but mostly he thought of you. He tried to remember moments of you before battle, moments in the school hallways or at the video store or at Bradley’s, any sliver of time spent in your presence that he wished he could just rewind and replay over and over again, cling to. 

“I think about you a lot,” you confessed, and he could have sworn he heard your voice catch just a little, folding a towel into thirds. “I wish you were here so I had someone to talk to.” You shrugged, but quickly snapped to look at him. “Don’t let that go to your head.” 

He snorted, shook his head. “No, I know what you mean. I feel like we used to talk a lot, before…” During training, hours spent getting to know you, falling in love with you, like he was supposed to, like he wasn’t supposed to. 

“Yeah, we really did.” You smiled. “Now we’re just so busy.” You expression turned rueful as you held up the two remaining socks, unmatched.

Steve snatched them and tossed them into a drawer before throwing himself down onto his side of the bed. The mattress bounced under the weight of him. “So, what do you want to talk about?” 

“What?” You chuckled, prodding him off of your clean, folded laundry. 

“Married couples talk, right? So talk to me. Tell me what things you want to talk to me about when I’m at work.” 

“Okay, um…” You disappeared into the closet momentarily to put your things away, and when you returned, you slumped onto the mattress beside him. “On Friday morning, a bird flew into the house. I had to chase it out with a broom.”

Steve smiled at the idea of you frantic, ducking, broom handle raised. “What kind of bird?”

Your face screwed up in thought, and you shook your head. “I don’t know. A small one?”

“Fascinating.” He grinned, and caught your hand as you swatted his chest. 

You stopped then, and he caught something in your gaze, squeezed your fingers between his own. “Steve?”

“Hm?”

“We are going to be okay, right? We’ll get her?” 

“Yeah,” he nodded, resolute. “We will.”

—

The sun dipped real low to the west, casting honeyed amber across the vast field, fog rolling in from the trees just beyond, settling on the river just past that. The ground squished under Steve’s sneakers, a slog of damp soil and the slush of sun-soaked gourds. The whole place smelled Earthy and spiced, like too many hands had spilled too many vats of mulled cider onto the grounds. He didn’t mind the mud on his soles or the tickle in his nose though, when he felt the tug of your arm and watched the quirk of your brow.

You’d convinced him to take you pumpkin-patching over dinner, slurping homemade soup that made him sleepy, mind-blowingly better than anything Campbell’s had to offer. You explained that Halloween was only a week away (was it? How did that happen so fast?), and that your little home was the only one on the block that lacked decorations. And if he wanted Trick-or-Treaters, he better drive you on down to the patch before it closed for the night. 

Neither of you finished your soups, exchanging spoons for jackets and car keys, windows rolled down clear to the farm. Steve dutifully paid for your warm styrofoam cup of cider, and held it for you as you traipsed through muddy remnants of smashed pumpkins looking for the perfect one. 

You wore your hair in braids, which he’d teased you for, tugging on the curled ends until you offered him a warning glare, and you were all bundled up, scarf and coat and gloves. You put the honeyed taste of autumn back where it belonged, having been replaced by ashes and dust all these years. You were sweet and spiced and warm where he’d been empty and hollow and dry. 

“You might have to toss out that cider,” you commented, reaching the far end of the field. The sky was starting to pinch purples and blues. 

“What do you mean?” He asked, peering into the cup to watch the amber slosh, powdered with cinnamon.

“I mean,” you grinned, hands on your hips. “I just found the perfect ones, and they’re fucking massive. You’re going to need two hands.” 

Steve cursed and chugged the rest of your drink. It was sticky sweet, and had gone lukewarm in his hands. He threw it back with a cough and deposited the empty, crumpled cup in the pocket of his jacket.

You had gone ass up, bent low to the ground to remove the stem from your ideal find, and Steve felt his pants tighten at the hug of your jacket to your waist and over the swell of your behind, and he squeezed his eyes tight against the thoughts that reared their ugly heads. Dead puppies, Hopper naked, the feel of your body pressed against his, the breeze tossing the thin sheet around you, pebbling your skin beneath his hand…

“Steve,” you groaned. 

His eyes fluttered opened to see you stood before him, a round, orange pumpkin cradled just over your abdomen, the swell of which you were struggling to hold aloft. His ears rang, heat crawling up from the collar of his sweater.

“This is going to fall and break!” You cried as the sides slipped in your grasp.

“Shit,” he hurried to you, pulling the hefty thing from your hands. It was heavy, but hollow, and he hiked a knee up to hitch it higher in on his hip, like a toddler. 

“I’ll grab the other one,” you grinned, and you turned again to procure the other gourd that made your face light up that way. 

He’d seen you this happy a handful of times. A genuine grin, sparkling eyes, melodious laughter coursing through him like a freight train because you’d gotten what you wanted. The first time you’d convinced him to pick up Honeycombs, that was like that. And once, in Hawkins, the night before the mission, when you’d all shared beers at Hop’s cabin. You were talking to Eddie and to Robin, and Steve watched you from across the dilapidated room, knowing he was already too far gone to ever come back. Knowing he’d do anything to see you smile like that again and again forever.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” You asked, holding up your other find, this one much smaller and far less round, but still a vibrant orange. This one, you could manage, shifting it onto your own hip and wiping your gloved hand against your thigh. Somehow, you’d managed to coat your face in soil, a wash of freckled brown that reminded him of soot and ash, the aftermath of battle in Hawkins.

“Oh, you’ve got…” he gestured to your face.

You blew up your bangs in vain, face all screwed up, and he laughed, closing the distance to wipe the dirt from your soft cheek with the flat of his thumb. It wasn’t until you were mostly clean, streaks of brown on your forehead, and across your upper lip, that he noticed a boundary may have been crossed. 

You looked up at him from under long lashes, eyes dark, something behind them he didn’t recognize. He brushed his knuckles against your cheekbone, licked his lips. The sounds of crows tearing into the flesh of pumpkins faded into the background, the white noise of his heart replacing them in his skull. 

And then his imagination took over, or at least, he thought it was his imagination. You leaned up on your tip-toes, hand to his chest, leaving freckles of soil there on the lapels of his jacket. The pumpkin on your hip bumped his. Your breath, warm and spiced, fanned his lips.

“You kids want a wagon?” And all at once, the spell was broken. You stumbled backward, foot squishing down into ripe flesh, and Steve hoisted the pumpkin further on his hip. You cursed, and he turned to see the approaching farmer, all overalled and waved arms. 

“Please,” Steve smiled, crossing a bit of field to meet the man and his little red wagon, the interior of which was wracked with hay and pumpkin seeds. Steve heaved his into the cart and waited for you to join to set yours down as well. 

“Thank you, sir,” you smiled at the old man.

He shrugged. “Figured you didn’t want to carry these puppies back in the dark.” He slapped at the skin of the fat one. It made a hollow thud. “Any more for you or shall I haul ‘em back to check out? We’re about closed for the night.” 

“We’re done here,” you confirmed, crushing dirt beneath your feet and Steve’s heart in your hands. 

The air in the car had shifted, the smell of soil wafting from the trunk, and Steve felt as though something had been lost, like he’d forgotten his toothbrush for a long trip and have to get a new one. It was something intangible yet unsalvageable. Especially when you finally opened your mouth to remind him of tomorrow night’s poker game.

“I’d like to know more about Chip’s electricity.” You sat up straight, all business, all mission. “For Amie. Asked her about it over the phone, and she thinks she ought to go into the basement and look at the breaker. But I don’t want her going by herself.” 

Steve gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “I said I’d talk to him.” 

“I’m just reminding you.” You sighed, pressed your forehead to the passenger’s side window.

After brushing the spices from your tongue and wiping the soot from your face, you climbed into bed together. You said goodnight, flicked off the lamp, and remained on the far edge of the bed. Steve sighed and stared at the shadows of the ceiling, trying to block out the sight of you with the giant round pumpkin for a belly.

—

You were competitive. He’d known it for months, saw the way you picked off demobats with a tennis racket, keeping count for every one you mashed, yelling for him to keep up. He saw it at target practice, the way you fired ceaselessly at the three circles until your trigger finger ached and you hit the very center. He saw it when you sat across from him in the boardroom, Dustin between you with flashcards, quizzing you on your backstories. Your face would split into a proud grin whenever you answered more correctly than him, which was every damn time. And apparently, you were competitive at poker. 

When he arrived home from his car dealership job (his dad would have been so proud), to find you bent over the oven to remove the casserole, he expected explicit instructions on letting it cool and hopefully a kiss goodbye. But when he shrugged out of his blazer and counted the seats around the table, something didn’t add up. Further more, you’d cracked open two beers from the bottom drawer of the fridge, tapping the neck of his with the neck of your own before you prepared yourself for a night with the boys.

Steve made loud protests until the guys arrived, and then you’d cast your charm, asking to be taught how to play. “It’s PTA night, boys. Your wives are out having fun without me. Can’t I have a little fun with you?” You pouted, and Jesus Christ, the shirt you wore exposed the soft lavender of your bra as you leaned over to dish the casserole for everyone. 

You’d won $725 with the swell of your breasts alone. Another $83 was taken when you’d passed out cigars and blatantly peaked at everyone’s hand, and yet none of the men around the table had a lick of disdain for you. No, instead it was all praise. Your dinner was delicious, dessert was delightful, and oh boy, Steve was sure they couldn’t get enough of the view.

“Steve-O, your wife is a piece of work,” Chip flashed you a grin, picking at his teeth with a toothpick you procured from a kitchen drawer. 

“Tell me about it,” Steve rolled his eyes, picking at the corner of his hand of cards with his thumbnail. 

“You’re a lucky man,” Jimmy agreed, smoke swirling his dark hair. “My wife hasn’t cooked me anything that wasn’t out of the frozen section in years.”

You swatted at the man’s arm. “Oh shush, that is not true. Marcie’s a great cook.” 

“I think James has a point,” Ron Hubbard coughed around the cigar under his bottlebrush mustache. Ron was a portly man, VP of operations for Chip’s dad’s company. “Our wives are too scattered these days, always running to PTA meetings or book clubs or knitting circles - stitch and bitch, I call them. God forbid they have jobs as secretaries and the like. It’s refreshing to see a woman where she belongs.” 

Steve blinked back at him, reached under the table for your hands that he knew were clenched into tight fists, but you shrugged him off. 

“Speaking of jobs,” you smiled through your teeth. “Chip, Amie tells me you’ve been having some electrical issues. Can’t you call someone in there to work on the wiring in that big ole house?” 

Steve’s heart pounded in his chest, and you refused to make eye contact, instead shooting fluttered eyelashes across the table to Chip Lafferty. You had this look of pride he’d seen a thousand times before. You’d won.

Chip smiled back at you, tongue between his molars. He shrugged. “Big ole houses like that are bound to have buggy wiring sometimes, sweetheart.”

“You know, Steve’s uncle used to be an electrician. He apprenticed with him in high school, could probably give it a once over for you.” You offered the lie, slick, nonchalant. Steve squeezed at your thigh too hard, a warning. You squirmed away, pushing out of your chair to gather plates to take to the sink.

“Didn’t realize you were an electrician, Steve-O,” Chip made eyes at Steve, a threat for your curiosity, eyes dark. 

“Oh, you’d be surprised. My husband’s always been good with his hands,” You sealed the deal, pressing your hand to his trap to lean over him for his plate. You halted in front of his face, offering a smile, and Steve watched the other man’s eyes slide from yours, to your lips, and down the front of your blouse.

“I fucking fold,” Steve tossed his cards to the tabletop.

To add insult to injury, you called for Chip to “be a dear” and help you with the dishes while Steve walked the other fellows out. Ed Blansett, from the dealership, looked pale, having lost his savings for a down payment, and Steve sighed and forked some of your winnings back into the man’s hand when the others weren’t looking. Ron left commending Steve on his excellent breeding skills, skeevie as Hell, and Jimmy left with a clap to Steve’s shoulder, a look of woe etched across his dark features.

“Steve-O, how you holding up?” 

Steve ran a hand down his tired face, itching at the scruff of his jaw. “I’ve been better.” 

“I feel you, man,” he nodded, lighting a cigarette on the front stoop. “Marriage is hard work. Somedays you just want to give up, somedays you just feel like a fraud.” 

Steve bristled at his words, swallowed, the smoke-filled air thick on the brick path. 

“But if you love her, really love her, the things you do that hurt each other won’t matter.” 

Steve swallowed. He wasn’t sure where this was coming from, or what it meant, but he felt uneasy. The cigar smoke had gotten to him, made him dizzy, paranoid. Jimmy gave him a two-fingered salut and stumbled his block home. 

Steve almost forgot the straggler until he stumbled, exhausted, back to the amber light of the kitchen, where he found you pressed against the countertop, clutching at Chip’s shoulders with sudsy fingers, while the man whispered something into your ear. 

“What the fuck?” The words spilled out before he could take control, and he watched Chip slowly peel himself from you, turning to face Steve with a smirk across his smug face. Steve could punch him. He felt his jaw and fist tighten in tandem. 

“We were just talking about what a creep Ron is,” you offered with another punctuated giggle. 

“I told her she may belong in the kitchen, but I have a secretary position opening up if she’s interested.” Chip grinned.

“What happened to your last one?” Steve knew the answer before he asked, and nearly growled at the smirk that curled its way onto Chip’s thin lips. “Alright, Chip, maybe it’s time to go.” 

“Steve,” you admonished, less about him being rude and more about not finishing the task. 

“No, no,” Chip wiped his hands dry on a hand towel before raising them in surrender. “Steve-O’s just a bit sore I cleaned him out on that last round. No hard feelings.” 

He pulled his blazer from his folded chair at the card table and pulled something from it, extending the small slip of paper across the counter toward you. “I’m serious about that position though. If you ever get tired of making casseroles.” 

You giggled behind your hand.

“Can I walk you out, Chip?” Steve gestured toward the front door. 

Chip flashed you a knowing smile and a wink, before taking the necessary steps down the hall to the foyer so Steve could let him out. It took every bit of restraint not to slam the door in his face.

“Thanks for the fun night, Steve-O,” instead, the man extended a hand. “Gained more than I expected.” 

Steve gave him a firm handshake, teeth hurt from clenching his jaw so tightly. 

“Listen,” Chip leaned in, cigar smoke and beer on his breath. “Your wife was right, my house has pretty shitty wiring. It’s over a hundred years old, and I can’t get Amie to shut the hell up about it. Would you care to come take a peak?” 

This was exactly what you’d hoped for. Maybe you had won this competition after all. Steve offered the other man a curt nod.

“Meet me there tomorrow afternoon. Around 2? Might even pay you back what I snatched from you tonight.” His grin was malicious, too toothy. 

Steve said nothing, and the other man seemed satisfied with that, whistling to himself while he twisted his keys around his pointer finger. He waved and turned on his heel to walk down the driveway toward his shiny Mercedes. Steve lingered on the porch until the man sped away, leaving a cloud of exhaust and the frigid October air.

—

Tomorrow it’d all change forever. The thought tickled at the base of Steve’s skull as he sloughed up the stairs, leaving you to turn off the lights. He couldn’t even look at you, couldn’t imagine the screaming match that he felt bubbling inside of him. He felt disgusting, like the grime and soot of the Upside Down clung to his shirt with the cigar smoke and the taste of Chip groping you on his tongue. 

He couldn’t get the image out of his head. Even as he stripped of his t-shirt and closed the bathroom door: your fingers bubbled with soap, wetting the top half of Chip’s collared shirt, your wedding ring discarded atop the window sill for safe keeping. He hated seeing another man pulling those sounds from you, hated the way it made him nauseas. 

He turned the shower on hot, let the steam fill the room as he stripped from his slacks and socks and boxers. He stood for a moment, glaring at his own reflection in the mirror as it fogged around the edges. He looked as pitiful as he felt, shoulders slumped, scars lining his lower abdomen like vicious pockmarks, memories of a pain he’d feel again and again if it meant never having to lose you. Pitiful.

He toed under the scalding flow, letting the heat satiate the tense muscles of his shoulders and back. He tried not to think of you climbing the staircase, of you stripping out of your low-cut blouse and jeans, of you slipping on that soft night shirt. He tried not to think of the countless nights this week he’d woken with his fist entangled in that shirt, your face pressed to his chest, your thigh high on his hip. 

He cursed and turn to scrub his face, letting the flow sting at the soft skin of his cheeks, his chest. The shower threatened to drown him, and it honestly felt better than the idea of breaking the news to you that tomorrow’s the day. He’ll go to the mansion, and if your theory is right, she’ll be there. Fifteen. And once she’s taken in, this little game will be over. You can go back to Hawkins, back to your normal lives, not having to pretend anymore.

The air in the bathroom was cold once he’d turned off the faucet and dried his freshly shampooed hair. He brushed his teeth alone, allowing the steam of the mirror to dissipate. He felt fresh, but still not ready to face you. The hot water made him lethargic, and his head had begun to pound something fierce, just behind his eye sockets. He was used to the occasional migraine, enough concussions’ll do that to you. 

Wrapping the towel around his waist and flicking the bathroom light off, he took a deep breath before opening the door to the adjoining room. You were sat up on your side of the bed, reading beneath the honeyed lamplight, knees high, nightshirt fallen away to expose the stretch of your thighs. You set the book down when you heard him come out.

“Steve,” you started in immediately, hopping off the mattress and crossing to him.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to contain the dull thud that just grew louder with your approach. He wasn’t ready to talk to you, wasn’t ready to have this conversation. He was still in a towel, for Christ’s sake.

“What’s wrong?” Your tone wasn’t half as combative as he expected, but worried. He felt a gentle hand to his bicep.

And then he heard it. Ear-piercing, the dull knocking in his brain turned to a ring in his ears, louder than he’d ever heard it. He’d experienced this before, the tingle at the back of his neck like he was being watched. He never knew what it was, was never sure, until this very moment. He was being watched. You were being watched. 

Frantic, he opened his eyes to look at you, and your head was tilted in confusion, eyes soft, lips softer. And he panicked. He panicked because you were being watched, remotely viewed, and he was sure he’d done something to screw it up, and he didn’t know how to save you. So he thought back to your training, to your protocol, and he closed the distance between you and pressed into you with a passionate kiss.

You made a muffled noise of surprise, but sunk into his touch, fingertips scraping the hairs at the back of his neck, which stood on end. He felt your soft waist beneath the silky fabric of your shirt, pressed his fingertips into your hips and walked you backwards into the closet door for some sort of stability.

He poured everything he had into that kiss, those kisses, the material of your shirt slipping in his hand until he met bare skin. Your hands were frantic against his shoulders, the backs of his arms, holding him to you, impossibly close. You hiked your thigh up his leg, and the towel would have dropped had he not pressed his pelvis into yours, pulling another low groan from your lips. 

He pulled away from you to catch his breath, headache made worse from the dizzy light-headed feeling of blood leaving his brain. You pressed your cheek to his, your own chest rising and falling to the rhythm of his as your fingers pinched at the flesh of his arms. 

“Steve,” you breathed, a question maybe, needing an explanation. 

He squeezed his eyes closed and he could feel Her, just there in the recesses of his mind. He nuzzled your ear with his nose, the soft skin of your neck smelling of your shampoo and cigar smoke and lavender. He took a deep breath before he whispered. “She’s watching.” 

He pulled away and the look you gave him flashed pure terror, confusion, and then understanding. You swallowed, licked the plump, pink swell of your lips, and nodded. “Okay.” 

“What?” 

“It’s okay,” you nodded again. You were consenting. You were agreeing to take on the role of a married couple under the protocol. You were signing your body away to him under the guise of this faked marriage bullshit. 

Steve thought he might throw up. With shaky hands, he released you, backed away slowly, watched the rise and fall of your chest as your tiny, bare foot found the wood panels of the flooring again. He scrubbed at tired eyes, the headache not subsiding, and his other hand kept the towel aloft.

“Steve?” You whispered. He heard the floor creak as you took a step toward him.

He shook his head, held a hand out to you. “I can’t. I’m sorry. This is too fucked.” 

You didn’t say a word as he searched the walk-in for a t-shirt and shorts, the dull ache never leaving the base of his skull, or the spot where your nails had scratched into his skin. His hands shook, another product of his concussions, and his teeth chattered, and he didn’t know if he wanted to cry or punch a hole through the wall or relieve his stomach of the pit that continued to grow there. 

You stood in the closet doorway, shoulders slumped, confusion in your eyes. 

Steve sighed, rested a trembling hand to your side to gently nudge you out of his way. “I’m sleeping on the couch.” His voice was hoarse from the catch in his throat. 

You didn’t argue. You didn’t follow him. 

The stairs creaked beneath his feet, the entire home still and dark save for the lamplight coming in through the parlor windows. He curled himself onto the sofa, stuffing the cushion under the pounding between his temples, and he crossed his arms over his chest. He tried to regulate his breathing as he stared at the popcorned ceiling, these shadows vastly different than the ones upstairs. The house was quieter without your soft breaths, emptier with the heartbreak filling his lungs. He drifted to sleep with the image of your big, consenting eyes, and the grit of his teeth.

—

The morning autumn sun was hotter than he expected, pooling in through thick glass in the parlor like a magnifying glass, and Steve was the ant. His migraine had subsided to more of a hangover, and he rubbed the crusted sleep from his eyes and stretched his limbs. His neck was stiff from the sorry excuse for a pillow that had tumbled to the floor at some point in the night. 

The sounds of meal prep from the kitchen pulled him upright, and his joints clicked through the entry way and down the hall. You were fully dressed, nylons and skirt, blouse hugging your curves, and when you turned and spotted him, you gave a tight-lipped nod. Tension hung thick in the air between you.

“Making leftovers,” you shoved a steaming plate of casserole his direction.

“Where are you off to today?” He asked, sidling himself up to the countertop. 

“I have a job interview with Chip.” You stated, tone clipped, matter-of-fact.

“Jesus Christ,” he ran a hand through his hair. “No. Absolutely not.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, Steve. I’m going. We can’t keep letting this drag on. She knows who we are. You said yourself she was watching us last night. It’s go-time.” All the pleasantries of protocol had lifted, now that you knew he had an insight into being watched. The facade had left your shoulders, any soft, whispered sweet-nothings gone from your glossy lips.

Steve looked around the small house, this little home that was made of lies. The photo of the two of you on your fake honeymoon sat atop the window sill, right next to the sparkling diamond of your fake wedding ring. “I’m not letting you go alone.” 

“You have to. You’re going to his house, remember?” You slid the business card across the counter to sit beside his lunch. The little black numbers stared back up at him.

“How did you…?”

“I was eavesdropping,” you waved him off flippantly. “Doesn’t matter. I’m going to distract him long enough for you to go into the house without him. I’m almost positive they’re running some sort of experiment. He’s being way too cagey.” 

“How are you going to distract him?” Steve sneered, really unable to catch anything else you’d said.

You rolled your eyes, shoved a fork into his casserole, it folded sideways, clattering to the rim of the dish. “Like you care.” You mumbled under your breath, almost inaudible, but Steve heard every syllable. 

“Of course I fucking care,” he snapped. “You’re going into the den of someone you think is holding experiments with fucking Fifteen. As in, same group of super powered freaks as Eleven and Henry fucking Creel and you don’t think I care about your safety? In case you forgot, I had to save your ass from that Demo-Whatever the night you set yourself on fire.” 

“Okay, that,” you shoved a finger into his chest. “I had covered, thank you very much. And this, I have covered too! I can handle Chip fucking Lafferty. In case you forgot, I was peeling skid marks like that douchebag off of my miniskirt for years before you came around.”

Steve’s skin crawled at the thought. Back in the Hawkins Lab boardroom, late one night and a couple passes of tequila in, you’d manage to rattle off a few names of your past rendezvous, all assholes, all people Steve had wanted to punch in the face. A few of which, he had. 

“I will handle Chip. You,” you shoved your finger into his chest again. “You take your nailed up bat, and go check out the house. You’re the brawn, I’m the brains, remember?”

And that fucking hurt. Steve knew he was dumb, knew he was a fucking idiot for every falling in love with you, for ever accepting this gig, for ever thinking this could turn out the way he wanted it to, for ever thinking he had a say in what happened and how it went down. You were the planner, the admiral, he was just a little sailor boy. 

“Eat,” you shoved his food closer to him. “And get dressed. It’s almost noon. I need you to give me a ride.” 

—

The nurses had cleaned most of the soot from your skin, but black smudges still caught in the wrinkles of your forehead and around your eyes and nose, the corners of your lips, turning the oxygen mask a little grey with each fogged breath. 

Steve had roused from another cat nap, the beeping and busy calls from the nurses station in the hall keeping him from sleeping too deep. He had a crick in his neck from the chair, and the stitches on his left cheek were sore. He glanced around the room, leaned forward on his knees, mumbled your name softly.

He did it every so often, checked the various machines for any blip in your vitals each time he spoke, hoped for more than Max had given them months before. You had been conscious when you arrived, air lifted to a military hospital a few miles from Hawkins. Steve had ridden the helicopter with you, your hand clenched in his, tears streaking white lines down your soot-blackened face. 

God, you were brave. That’s all he could think, as he threw an oxygen mask over his own face, hauled his ass into that burning building with firefighters to pull you out. You screamed his name when you saw him, clawing fingers, a rage tearing through you that had torn those motherfuckers apart. You were so God damn brave. 

Eddie was there too, down the hall, Dustin and Mr. Munson keeping him company. Robin was off in Vickie’s room. Nancy and Jonathan sat bedside to Will. That one hurt, but Steve was just so grateful they were all alive, safe, mostly unharmed. Just a handful of stitches, broken bones, smoke inhalation seemed to be the worst of it. 

But you had no one, no one but Steve Harrington who sat by your bedside for three days now, muttering your name under his breath every few minutes to ensure you were alive. 

The coughs started first, a sputter of sounds that wracked through your frame. Steve pushed to his feet, saw your eyes blink open, hands frantically groping for the tubes on your face, attached to your arms. 

“Whoa, whoa,” he placed a firm hand on your shoulder to hold you in place. “Don’t struggle. Just breathe. You’re okay. We’re at the hospital. Here…” He searched for the nurses button behind the bed and pushed. 

Your eyes adjusted, pupils blown and irises deep red, and you squinted at him, seeming to relax under his gaze. 

“Hey, killer,” he smiled, brushing sweat-stuck hair from your forehead.

“Steve?” You wheezed, starting another coughing fit.

A nurse strolled in, shoved him out of the way, and he waited against the far wall as the woman did a few tests, removed your mask, got you an oversized cup of water with a bent straw. She helped you sit up, slowly. Steve listened for your wheezes, for the strain in your throat. He bounced on the balls of his feet, ready to help if needed. He wasn’t sure how, but he was ready.

“You her boyfriend?” The nurse turned to him with a pointed finger.

“Me?” He felt the tips of his ears heat, and he glanced back at you with a sheepish smile. “No.” He coughed. “Just a good friend.” 

The nurse seemed unimpressed. “Well, she seems to be doing much better. We might be able to let you out of here soon. I’m calling the Big Boss. If she starts to cough again, push that button.” 

“Thank you,” Steve gave an awkward salute, and the woman rolled her eyes before leaving the room. The door clicked behind her, casting silence on stark white walls. It was just you and him, and the air between you. 

You sipped water through your bent straw, lips parched and cracked, a large black split scarred the lower. 

Steve took measured steps toward you. “Boyfriend, huh?” He smirked. 

You sputtered, water trickling down your chin. “You fucking wish, Harrington.” You croaked and coughed. “Ow.” 

“Kind of nice not having to hear you talk anymore.” He grinned, tossing himself back down into the uncomfortable chair. 

You responded with a fresh middle finger, tonguing for the tip of the straw until it was back in your mouth. 

He felt… warm. It was that feeling of hope, that feeling that finally, after years of chaos, everything was going to be okay. He was safe. Nancy was safe. You were safe, all curled up under stark white blankets, sipping water through a bendy straw, your chest rising and falling beneath your hospital gown in scattered breaths. He felt… 

Steve swallowed, glanced out the west facing window at the sky-full of smoke from Hawkins, from the fire that you started, from the battle you ended. Had something sparked for you, more than admiration? He glanced your direction again. 

You had followed his gaze out the window, greyed skies casting shadow against your soft features, sunken and tired, yet brave and… beautiful. He thought of your jests at him on the battle field, of the swing of your tennis racket, of the jabs to his ribs, your face split into a grin just before you hauled yourself into that building, fire blazing. An ember sparked within him. 

“Knock knock,” Dr. Sam Owens knuckled the door as it sprung open, and he pulled himself into the small room. “How are Hawkins heroes doing today? Glad to see you’re up.” 

You glanced from the man to Steve, eyebrows furrowed. 

Steve offered Owens a soft smile, heart still racing with the thoughts of you in his mind. 

“Have either of you considered a career with the US government?” 

That was the worst moment of Steve’s life.

—

The small windows of the Lafferty’s basement reminded Steve of your own, little boxes at ground level that filtered light in through dusty cobwebs. The dryer rattled in a similar place, banging sheet metal against the washing machine so hard Steve could taste it. No, that was the iron of blood filling his mouth. He counted his teeth with his tongue, a molar in the back split. His ears rang, loud like they had the night before, that throbbing ache just behind his eye sockets, and grunted through the pain, eyes adjusting to the damp dark of the basement. 

“Baby,” someone cooed beside him. “Baaaaaby.” 

He rolled onto his back to view the shadowed face of the girl across from him. Blonde hair pulled back, tight, into a high ponytail. She had sharp features, intense, and she slumped forward on her metal lawn chair with bony limbs. It took him five seconds to clock the blood tracing her upper lip and the scar on the inside of her left wrist. Steve spat a mouthful of blood at her feet, red soaked the concrete floor and splattered black patent leather.

“That’s no way to treat a lady, baby,” she sneered.

“Shut up,” he groaned, out of breath, something stung in his ribcage, a familiar, tight pain. His own words echoed in his head, behind his eyes.

Upstairs, muffled by wooden floors and feet of dirt and dust, the doorbell rang. Steve stared past the dangling light fixture, watching dust sprinkle from the rafters with soft footfall. He heard a friendly exchange, and then the soft pitter-patter of children running. There were kids in this house. 

Amie wasn’t here when he got here. He’d let himself in. That means she came home at some point while he was unconscious. And now, by the sound of high-pitched chatter, Marcie had brought her kids to play. Jesus Christ. 

He lifted himself onto his elbows, peering at the woman holding him captive. She seemed alarmed by the noises, frightened even, knocked off her game. He reached one hand out to grab her wrist, hoping to pull her off her feet, but immediately he felt the sting of pins-and-needles as he lost control of his motor functions, instead being catapulted backward into a load-bearing beam. It quaked under his weight, the sturdiness knocking the wind from his lungs. A cascade of dust fell into his hair, onto his shoulders. 

Fifteen was squared to him, hand outstretched, blood dripping from her left nostril. She looked weak, tired, like it took everything in her to lift Steve, and when she finally released, he felt himself slump to the floor again, sputtering coughs and sneezes and desperate to fill his lungs. The ache in his rib made it harder to take in a deep breath. 

She collapsed back into her chair. “Down, boy.” She breathed.

“Why are you doing this?” Steve huffed, clutching at his side.

Fifteen leaned toward him, mopping at her nose with her thumb. “I could ask you the same thing. You and little wifey. Thought Brenner would have sent someone with a little more… sparkle.” She twirled her fingers his direction, and Steve flinched out of the way. Nothing happened.

He coughed, and fuck, it hurt. Another mouthful of blood trailed, sticky down his chin, sticking his t-shirt to his chest. “Brenner’s dead.” He groaned.

This got her attention. “Liar.” 

Steve glared at the girl. “Why would I lie about that?” 

She rolled her eyes, but hugged wiry arms into herself, contemplating his words. 

Steve took the initiative to keep talking, maybe keep her distracted. He hoped she didn’t notice as he surveyed the room, hoping for an out. The dryer still had a half-hour’s worth of time. He wondered if Fifteen had started it to dull any noises from the basement. It racketed into the washer with the same, harsh rhythm. “Sam Owens sent us. We’re part of a mission to retrieve any living of Brenner’s projects.” 

“There are others?” Fuck, shouldn’t have said that. 

Steve swallowed, banged his head backwards against the pole, and groaned when the dull ache returned between his eyes. “We want to rehabilitate you, give you a better life.” 

Fifteen barked a laugh. “I don’t need rehabilitation. I have a good life.” She looked down her nose at him, blood crusting dry at the frilly cuff of her blouse. 

“Oh yeah?” Steve scoffed. “Chip hiding you in his basement, only bringing you out for special occasions. You know, when his wife’s out of town.” He gestured around to the rat poison on the wall, the hamper of dirty laundry, a cot in the corner, the breaker… Bingo. 

“Chip loves me.” Fifteen snarled, but Steve felt the heartbreak through it. His eyes snapped back to the girls, and that’s really what she was, probably no older than him, big brown eyes, the twist of anguish behind them. 

He shook his head. “This isn’t love.” 

“Oh, and you would know?”

The ruckus got louder upstairs, running footsteps, cackled laughter. The beat of the dryer echoed his thunderous heartbeat in his ears. Steve licked the iron from his split lip, spat a patch of blood near his hand, and moved himself into a crouched position against the pole. He thought of her question, thought of his own knowledge on love, and it tasted just as bad on his tongue. 

He squeezed his eyes closed past the pain, and shrugged. “I guess I would. Because the girl I love, I’d do anything for her. Absolutely anything. I’d buy her favorite cereal, even though it’s pure sugar. I’d go into scary ass basements, even though I’m guaranteed to get my shit kicked. I’d go to the hospital every day to make sure that the moment she woke up, she’d have someone there that cared. Hell, I’d let her have a fucking gaggle of kids if they were as pretty as she was, and I sure as hell wouldn’t lock her, alone, in a stupid basement, to hide from the world. Because I’m proud of her, I’m so damn proud of her. She’s brave, and she’s beautiful, and I love her. And I don’t see why you don’t deserve the same God damn courtesy.” 

He didn’t know where it all came from, this violent word vomit, the dribble of blood onto his shirt, and the slow and steady motion upward, until he teetered on two feet, slumped against the beam that quaked under his weight. 

“Touching,” Fifteen sneered, but her hand was raised, and the hanging light began to crackle again. 

Steve took his chance, dove in the direction of the breaker, for some sort of distraction, but before his body made contact with the wall, the basement door flung open, and they were soon ambushed by a swat-team of agents. Jimmy Jones and his wife, Marcie, were wrapped in bullet proof vests. Jimmy had a large device that reminded Steve of Russians and underground labs and sent a shiver through him, and that device was quickly shoved through Fifteen’s neck. Her knees gave way, and Marcie caught her lithe body. 

“What the…?” Steve started, but you were there, wrapping your thin hand around his wrist, asking if he was alright. His head pounded, muffling the sounds around him. You led him upstairs, a wash of too-bright lights and a swimming skull. Your hand was soft in his, and the sirens were too loud. 

He could just make out the soft sounds of children from the kitchen, little Christopher’s voice coming through the mist, “Mommy, what’s going on? I’m scared.” 

—

Hawkins succumbed to winter in a flurried mess of fallen snow, run-through with bikes and station wagons. Rotting pumpkins on stoops were replaced with conifers and the smell of spices replaced with peppermint as everything bit crisp and bitter in the air. Slush lay over roots and soil, chased into clogged gutters. Fog clung to the insides of car windows and heated the panes of Steve’s new prescription glasses as he paced the aisles of the grocery store, souring at gaggles of kids chasing one another through the frozen food section on a Friday evening.

Maybe Robin was right, maybe he’d grown crotchety in his old age, or maybe seeing other people happy just miffed him, or maybe seeing kids reminded him of that future that, one again, slipped right through his blood-stained fingers. 

Steve lifted at the wire on the bridge of his nose to rub at tired eyes. His basket grew heavier, a fistful of TV dinners, some stovetop popcorn, marshmallows in a bag. He promised Robin a movie night, only because she’d bullied him out of the house, and he promised he’d pick up snacks on the way. He tossed boxed butter in, having memorized Robin’s favorite cereal-based dessert recipe years ago. All that was left were the Rice Krispies. 

Four aisles down, he found the cereal aisle, a mess of technicolor boxes, athlete’s and mascots illuminated in florescent light, and three-quarters of the way down, he saw you. He stopped, rubber soles squeaking against the linoleum, heart thundering in his chest, roaring in his ears. He hadn’t seen you in months, not since Fifteen was captured, not since Owens awarded you both hearty pats on the back and promises of a call for another mission somewhere. 

To be fair, Steve wasn’t sure he was really seeing you now. He’d imagined you all around town, every one of Eddie’s gigs at the Hideout, he saw you pass the window. Every morning chauffeuring Dustin to Hawkins High, he saw you walking side roads, winding through the woods. He imagined you on Halloween, passing out candy to trick-or-treaters, black hat ears looped through your hair. He imagined you at Thanksgiving, serving pumpkin pie and a massive dollop of whipped cream. Just yesterday, he imagined you staring into a toy storefront, a gaggle of kids around you, promising things that Santa would bring. 

The squeak of his shoe must have alerted you, because you turned your head to caught his gaze, and it was you. Your face split into that soft smile, the one that warmed him from deep in his stomach to the apples of his cheeks. His feet moved of their own volition, like you were a powerful magnet, and he a paperclip, all crumpled on itself, cowering in shame. 

“Hi,” you breathed as he approached. From this distance, you looked as tired as he felt, like months of pretending had drained the life from you both, aged you. Even tired, you were beautiful. His heart clenched. 

“Hey,” he felt the smile tug at his cheeks. 

“I like the glasses,” you smirked, and he shied a bit. He felt like a fucking dork in the glasses, but he could see, and Robin and Dustin were constantly reminding him how important that was. The headaches went away too. “You look like a dad.” 

That one fucking hurt. He peeled his eyes from you then, focused back on the task at hand. Looking beside you, he found the familiar Honeycomb mascot smiling back at him, taunting him. He scoffed, rolled his eyes. “Just buy the fucking Honeycomb.” 

“Excuse me?” You sputtered. 

“Every God damn time, we’d come into this aisle and have this big debate about it, and I know it makes you sad because it was your brother’s favorite, but it’s your favorite too, and when you eat it, you get this big nostalgic smile across your face. And you can’t admit it, but it makes you happy because it gives you the sugar rush you need with your coffee in the morning, apparently. Makes you the fucking Energizer bunny.” Steve ran a hand through his hair, and he hadn’t realized he said too much until he felt the heaviness of his own breath, the way you stared back at him, wide-eyed.

“I… didn’t realize…”

Steve shrugged, dumping a heavy box of Rice Krispies into his own basket. “You didn’t realize a lot of things.” He grumbled.

“What?” 

He turned to you, then, hugging your stupid box of Honeycombs, eyebrows twisted into a crease just above your nose, perfect in every stupid way, and the flood gates open. “I love you.” A weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He stood taller, squared to face you head-on. “I am in love with you. I think I have been since the moment you killed the demo bat with that tennis racket. And pretending to be in love with you? When I was actually in love with you? That sucked. That really sucked.”

“Steve,” you breathed.

“And I’m sure it was easy for you, I mean, it seemed easy. But then you’d kiss me, or you’d make these loving little comments, and Jesus Christ, don’t even get me started on the baby onesie. That still haunts my nightmares.” 

“Steve.” 

“But you didn’t even trust me enough to tell me that Jim and Marcie were in on it? And then I get my shit rocked by a freaking Number, and you just brush me off, leave me to dry? I’ve spent months pining over you, and I didn’t even hear a word?” 

“Baby,” you chided. 

Steve’s throat dried, warmth prickling the tops of his ears. You took a step toward him, reached up to pick at the tear in his jacket, the one he never bothered to fix because it reminded him of you. “Yeah?” He croaked.

“Will you shut up?” Your eyes sparkled. 

“Make me,” he challenged. And you did, standing on tip-toe to press your sweet, soft lips to his. Your hands clutched his lapels, sparks tickling his spine. He dropped his basket at your feet to wrap his arms around your waist, and you laughed into him as your feet left the ground, that stomach fluttering sound. He kissed your soft cheeks, the curve of your jaw, the soft skin of your ear.

“Baby,” you laughed, swatted at his shoulders until he let you down. You pulled him to your level, and he felt the hum of your lips against his own before you said. “I want all of my babies to be as pretty as you.” And he knew he was a goner. 

---

A/N: As promised, Stevie in glasses, pining helplessly for the woman he loves. I had a lot of fun with this story, and I hope you did too. Thanks, so much, for reading and for all of your support. Much much love. xo-Amanda

Edit: Read the follow up autumnal drabble here.