#he was small but that only meant he was closer to hell

[writer-in-theory]

There was a fire at Starcourt Mall, and Maggie Harrington had no idea where her son was.

News from Indiana typically didn't make the morning reel in Chicago, much less news from their quaint hometown of Hawkins. Maggie had grown up there just as her parents before her had, and nothing was ever so noteworthy as to hit the national newsroom. It was all new stoplights and the upcoming games of the Hawkins Tigers. There was nothing in their small town to garner the attention of the rest of the country.

Except for a mall fire that required not just local crews, but apparently was bad enough that the United States government got involved.

A fire at the mall where Steve worked.

A fire. Steve.

The first attempt to call the house phone went unanswered. The same was true for the second and third.

It wasn't until the fifth attempt that Maggie's hands shook so badly that the phone slipped from her grip completely.

Why wasn't Steve answering?

"Honey, we have to get back to Hawkins. Steve isn't answering the phone," Maggie said when her call to Robert's office phone was picked up. Even the secretary had sounded surprised when Maggie rang—everyone was aware that Robert Harrington was not bothered during his very important work days.

But this was no ordinary day. This was a day after a mall fire, and their Steve wasn't picking up the phone. He always picked up the phone when she called.

Even in the face of losing their everything, Robert managed to sound annoyed by Maggie's interruption of his workday. "He's probably passed out drunk with that Hagan boy again. I won't miss another important meeting over a hangover."

"But what if he was in the fi—"

"That ice cream shop of his doesn't stay open that late. Nothing in the mall does. He's fine, Maggie. You're overreacting, and we'll be able to laugh at this later."

Fifty minutes. That's how long Maggie managed to listen to Robert's advice before she threw clothes in the first bag she could find and hailed a taxi to the airport. It was the most disorganized plan she'd ever come up with in her life, but all she could think about was her Steve, trapped somewhere within the rubble remains of the building, unable to let anyone know he was still there.

That was the only explanation, the only reason she wouldn't have heard anything yet.

It's not until that afternoon that Maggie arrived in Hawkins. Though closer in miles, her mind still failed to focus on anything other than her son.

What if the worst had happened?

There was so much time missing. The moment Steve had been old enough to take care of himself for a weekend, Maggie had chosen to follow Robert along on all of his business trips. It was easier that way, to pretend as though he wouldn't be betraying her if she hadn't accompanied him. Besides, Steve had always been a good kid. He was fine on his own, always. He told them he never minded it, that it meant he could have a couple of friends over without worrying about keeping too quiet. It was better this way.

Somehow, along the way, a weekend turned into a long weekend, and then eventually a week. And, as their son approached adulthood, Maggie recalled more nights spent calling him to check on him versus being able to hear it straight from him in person. Even then, those calls slowly got shorter until she barely heard more from him than a quick "I'm fine, promise."

God, what she wouldn't give now for all of those years back. Maggie would throw all of it away for one swim meet, for one junior prom, or even one more family dinner spent without yelling about responsibilities and high expectations of the Harrington name. What the hell did a family legacy mean anymore, if it all lead to their Steve being in the mall when it burned down?

All she needed was for Steve to be anywhere but underneath the ruins of Starcourt Mall.

Except, the more Maggie Harrington looked for answers, the more it seemed to be headed for the worst.

Steve wasn't at the house. Nor did Tommy Hagan or Carol Perkins know where he was. In fact, they were quite clear that they never knew where he was nowadays, considering how he'd cut them out of his life entirely.

And that, well, that didn't sound like the Steve that Maggie knew at all. He'd been friends with the two of them his entire life, ever since Bruce Hagan and Robert had introduced their sons to each other as toddlers.

Maggie knew that Steve had a rough go of it after that poor girl went missing at one of his parties, but did that really warrant cutting off all of his friends?

The police station wasn't any help to Maggie, either, stating that there was too much chaos right now, given the recent loss of their chief, Jim Hopper. He'd been a rather brusque man, but he certainly didn't deserve the fate he'd been given. Maggie couldn't grieve for the man yet, though—not until the weight pressing against her chest was lifted. Not until she knew Steve was okay. Oddly enough, though, they did say there had been a handful of kids and some mall workers at the fire site. They didn't know who, though, just that they'd all said Chief Hopper had saved them.

Maggie spent the rest of the day moving from place to place in town, searching for anyone who might have seen her son. There was no one, though. Nothing could help her except for the one place she'd been trying all afternoon to avoid.

By the end of the day, there was no choice but to face the truth. Maggie approached Hawkins Memorial Hospital cautiously, eyes sweeping the lobby as if she might find her son sitting there waiting for someone else.

"How can I help you, ma'am?" the woman at the front desk asked. It wasn't until the third time she asked that Maggie registered the question and was able to force the words out of her mouth.

"Do you have a patient here by the name Steve Harrington?" The words tasted like ash on her tongue and felt heavy on her lips. Even still, she couldn't tell what she wanted the answer to be. A yes, and it meant her poor boy was hurt badly enough to be admitted. Yet, a no meant she still had no idea what happened to him, or if he actually was anywhere near the mall when the fire occurred.

For all she knew, Robert could have been right, and he was simply off nursing a bad hangover with his new friends that didn't include Tommy Hagan. What Maggie wouldn't give now for that to be true. She'd never yell at him for throwing his life away like this ever again if it meant he had a life. God, they'd been too hard on him, and now that could mean that he was here. Did they put their own son here?

"Yes, ma'am, we do. It looks like he was brought in last night by EMS. Are you family?"

The woman's words were simple, matter-of-fact, but hit Maggie's chest like solid blows.

Steve. EMS. Last night.

"Was he—was he in that mall fire?" Maggie's voice had never sounded so small, so unsure. "Is he alive? I need to see him."

"Are you a family member?"

"I'm his mother." Her voice cracked around the word as the tears she'd held back all day finally slipped from her eyes. Maggie Harrington did not break under any pressure placed on her shoulders, and certainly would never do so in public, and yet now she stood in the middle of the hospital lobby with fresh tears carving tracks down her face. "Why wasn't I informed of this? I am his mother, I should know when he gets hurt. I should know when he needs an ambulance, I should know when he's in a goddamn mall fire because I'm his mother! Why didn't I know?"

"Mrs. Harrington, please," the woman at the desk spoke, stern though revealing a hint of sympathy as she watched Maggie crack. "I understand you're upset, but his medical team followed his wishes. They called his emergency contact as soon as he was stabilized."

Stabilized, implying that at one time, Maggie's son had not been in stable condition. He could have died last night, and she wouldn't have known.

At this rate, Maggie was going to pass out in this hospital lobby.

"I didn't get any calls last night," Maggie insisted.

The front desk woman hesitated before clarifying, "We didn't call you last night, Mrs. Harrington. Steve Harrington's emergency contact is a Mrs. Sue Sinclair."

Sue Sinclair? Maggie ran through the other people in Hawkins, thinking through each of the parents she knew who had kids Steve's age. No one by the name of Sue Sinclair came to mind, so what the hell was this woman doing as Maggie's son's emergency contact?

"No, this must be a mistake. I've always been his emergency contact. I'm his mother."

Steve had gotten hurt, and it hadn't been her that he wanted to call. Maggie's stomach turned over and over in her abdomen, and though she hadn't eaten anything since seeing the news on her TV, she could feel the sick growing. What if something worse had happened? Would they have even thought to call her?

Would she have ever known if the Chicago news station hadn't thought to air the news?

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Harrington, it's all right here on file. But I can take you to see him if you'd like. You just have to promise me to be quiet; visiting hours are technically over already." The front desk woman was a saint. Maggie would never be able to thank her enough for this, didn't really have the words to anyway. So she nodded and followed silently through the halls of the hospital.

The entire walk was spent trying to prepare for the state of her son she was about to see. They hadn't told her much, only that he'd needed an ambulance ride and that he had in fact been in the fire. Maggie was expecting large swaths of painful burns to cover her son, or for him to be hooked up to countless machines doing the work of living for him.

Maggie Harrington's first thought when she saw him was that there had to be a mistake, because it didn't look like Steve was in a fire. It looked more like he'd been beaten, considering all the wrapped-up cuts and swollen bruises covering him. Steve was asleep, it looked like, though only IVs of what looked like fluids were connected to his arm and the monitor that emitted a gentle beep with every beat of his heart.

Steve was okay. He was hurt, but he wasn't burned beyond recognition. He was okay.

He also wasn't alone.

There was a little girl asleep on the little couch in the room, head in the lap of the woman who had to be her mother. Both she and the man next to her looked like they'd been woken up to be here, dressed in rumpled clothes and looking downright exhausted.

Maggie didn't recognize them, but they were here for her Steve, and that was good enough for her.

"Are you Steve's mom?" the woman asked after a few moments of Maggie standing in the hospital room without saying anything.

She longed to hold her boy, to wipe away the pain he must be feeling now, even as he slept. She couldn't move, though, couldn't do anything but stand in the doorway feeling more helpless than she ever had before.

"I'm sorry, yes, I am. Maggie," she introduced to the woman, glancing away from Steve for only a moment, to glance back at the woman. "Pardon me, but how do you know Steve?"

There wasn't anyone his age in sight, though she supposed one of his friends could have been hurt too. Wouldn't this family want to be with their own kid, though, if he were hurt too?

"We don't, not really but..." The woman sighed and picked the little girl's head up so she could stand. She walked closer enough to Maggie to hug her, gentle at first but tighter when Maggie leaned into it.

God, she'd been alone all day. No one had cared enough to hug her, but this woman had. Not even Maggie's husband could be here.

"Steve saved our little girl's life tonight," the woman said after pulling back enough to grip onto Maggie's elbows, as if to keep her standing. Only another mother who'd been here before would know she needed that strength right now. "Erica told us everything, how he'd sacrificed himself to get her out of that building safely."

Sacrificed. The word sent bile into Maggie's throat, but one look at her son safe in his hospital bed was enough to settle her fear.

"We've been wanting to speak to his parents, after last year," the man spoke, standing up and moving over to her too. "To thank you, for raising such a fine boy."

What? Maggie thought back to last year, trying to recall anything that had been out of the ordinary. They'd been traveling more, but Steve hadn't told them about anything happening.

"What happened last year?"

"He didn't tell you?" the woman seemed confused, and as surprised as she was.

"Steve was babysitting our son, Lucas, and all of his friends," the man explained. "Lucas told us about how he defended him against another boy, one who was...," the man paused, clearly too overcome with anger at the situation to say it aloud, "who was the exact sort of person we warn our kids about."

"We brought him here, too, back then," the woman was quick to reassure, but the words did nothing but settle something icy and cold in Maggie's chest. "We made sure he got the attention he needed. Steve told us he would call you to let you know he was okay, I assumed..."

"He didn't. He never told me," Maggie practically gasped, watching these two parents look upon her son so fondly. Steve hadn't even told her that he'd been in the hospital last year. These two people had been there when she wasn't.

She wasn't there.

Where had she and Robert gone so wrong that when their boy was in the hospital, it was this woman that he wanted to call first instead of them?

"You're Mrs. Sinclair, aren't you? The nurse outside told me you were called for him first."

"Please, it's Sue," the woman said. "This is my husband, Charles. Steve told us you have to travel for work a lot. When he asked us if we would be his emergency contact, he said it was because we were in town and could be here quicker. I assumed he was telling you all of this. I never wanted to impose..."

"Thank you," Maggie breathed out quickly, though the sharp pain in her chest never eased. "Thank you for being there for him. I'm glad Steve's had someone looking after him."

Even when she'd disappointed him, Steve had always defended her. Traveling for work, he'd told the Sinclairs, as if he didn't figure out the truth of why she always went on his father's business trips years ago.

A small noise from Steve halted the conversation. It was high-pitched and whining as he began to move about in the bed. He was in pain, Maggie realized with a startled gasp. Her son didn't wake up fully, though the noises only continued every once in a while.

"Aren't they giving him anything to help?" Maggie asked, sure she was looking a little wild-eyed at the Sinclairs when no one on staff came into the room to check on him. "He's in pain."

"I—" Sue began, though she cut herself off and looked to her husband as if for help.

The way the man's expression darkened considerably did nothing to ease Maggie's nerves.

"They won't tell us much about what happened," Charles started, voice low as though sharing a secret. "But we all know injuries like that don't happen from a fire."

Exactly like Maggie had thought when she'd first seen Steve.

"It's all strange. There was a man here, a Dr. Owens. He said he's from the federal government. He said—"

"What? What did he say?" Maggie pressed when Charles paused, looking at her with clear hesitation.

"He said they can't give Steve any pain medications right now. He was, Steve was drugged with something, some kind of experimental drug, and they don't know how anything will interact with it. There's nothing they can do to help him right now."

The only comfort Maggie had was that Charles and Sue Sinclair appeared as livid about the situation as she felt.

"Drugged?" Maggie gasped, looking between Charles and her son's unconscious form as if waiting for the admission that this was all some cruel joke.

It never came.

"So this Dr. Owens's story is that my son was drugged with some unknown drug and somehow ended up looking like he was beaten in a mall fire? That the federal government is interested in a simple mall fire? That's his story?"

Even as she spoke, Maggie could feel the rage building up in her, warming all of her limbs that she'd previously lost feeling to in the wake of seeing her son like this. How dare this man, this Dr. Owens, try to tell them such blatant lies? Did he think that they wouldn't care enough to search for the answers? Did he think that Maggie wouldn't go to the ends of the Earth to protect her son?

Dr. Owens had another thing coming if he did.

"Something strange is going on in this town," Sue agreed, looking back to where her little girl, Erica, slept soundly on the couch. "Erica wouldn't tell us anything, but obviously she knows what happened."

"You said you have a son, Lucas. Does he know what happened?"

"I think so," Sue said. "He and his friends were there. So were Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers. They said the fire killed Chief Hopper too. I tried asking Joyce Byers what happened but she was acting strange too, just kept saying it was a fire. I don't even understand what they were all doing there at the mall after close anyway."

Joyce Byers. Maggie went to school with Joyce, and had felt terribly when she heard that her youngest had gone missing a couple of years ago. But if this woman knew what Maggie's son was involved in and wasn't saying anything?

"We deserve answers," Maggie stated then. "We need to know what happened to our kids."

"How do you suppose we do that?" Sue asked, looking back at first Erica and then Steve.

"We have to find this Dr. Owens, and we won't take no for an answer this time."

Maggie Harrington may not have done right by her son before. There may have been so much done wrong, so much that she missed, but she would not let this slide anymore. Not when the Sinclairs had done so much, and even still, they were given the same lies. Not when Steve had been drugged and beaten, and all he had to show for it was lying in a bed in pain because the only people who knew what happened refused to help.

Something sinister was happening in Hawkins.

The Sinclairs and Maggie Harrington would find out what.

To be continued (if yall want)

[spicyy-fox]

𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧 ☂️ | 𝟏𝟗𝟒𝟎𝐬!𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

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🌧️ Title: 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧 💃 Pairing: 1940s!Bucky Barnes x Reader 🎶 Vibe: Flirtation, swing dancing, stormy kisses, good old-fashioned swooning, no hurt only comfort 📜 Summary: It’s a summer garden party in the ‘40s. The storm hits—and Bucky doesn’t run. He just grins and grabs your hand. “Dance with me,” he says. 🕊️ Warnings: Nothing but tooth-rotting fluff, light rain, wet clothes, and one dramatic dip.

💌Authors note: Sometimes you just need a palate cleanse from all the angst, enjoy this fic and listen to the legendary Americano - By our queen Lady Gaga.

✨Word count: 1.1k

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Music is blaring from a record player on a makeshift outdoor dance floor, it was a small garden party, a simple neighborhood get together - summer night, strung-up lights swaying in the light breeze, people laughing, talking, drinking, dancing and having fun, a record crackles as it spins. You, Bucky and Steve stand on the edge from the crowd, tension between you and Bucky buzzing lowly.

Then - the storm hits. Sudden. Hard rain. Americano starts blaring from the record as it starts pouring down. Everyone runs for cover, squealing, covering their heads with jackets and plates of food. But not him

Not bucky.

He turns to you grabbing you by the wrist, already soaked, hair slicked back, shirt clinging to his chest like second skin - and just grins. That dammed grin. The song starts picking up, building up the tension as the sky cracks above with lightning.

"Dance with me," he says not letting go, but his grip wasn't tight

You're breathless and shocked but don't pull away

"in this?!"

Bucky shrugs still smug as hell

"C'mon doll, you're not scared of a little rain are you?"

He pulls you i, his other hand now on your waist, the interlude of the song plays. Your steps at first are hesitant - playful. You let him spin you slowly, water catching in the air like glitter.

"You're mad," you laugh

"Always have been," Bucky says, that gleam in his eye catching brighter than the lightning cracking behind him.

*Right after the first -Americanooo...-*

Then the music kicks in. Hard. Bucky grabs your hand again, pulling you back in closer, this time his grip firmer on your hand. He leads - confident, bold.

A spin.

A dip.

He ducks under your arm as you twist. Water splashes with every one of your movements, your soaked dark red dress clinging to your legs as he lifts you slightly into a jump twist. His footwork is agile, joyful and fast. Bucky smiles his dripping wet hair now sticking to his face and neck. His hands feeling warm on you as he held you, a contrast to your soaked through dress.

The chorus of the song comes up, high energy swing. He twirls you in place, your wet hair whipping around you, both of you laughing by now. Your heels slightly slide with each pivot, you slip lightly, But bucky is there, steady hands on your waist as he catches you from the slip.

"You're showing off," you shout over the down pouring rain and the blasting music

"You love it," he grins, and pulls you into another spin towards himself, wrapping his arms around you.

The first chorus ends - emotions deepening, crowd not pulling their eyes away from you two. You both now completely soaked to the bone, your dress skirt now completely clinging to your legs, his sleeves sticking to his arms, suspenders darkened with rain. But there's no hesitation now. Just that look in his eyes - Like you are the only thing good in this god forsake world.

-I will fight for, I have fought for how i love you...-

He spins you again, lightly pulling you closer, leaning in, lips near your ear, voice rough with feeling, breath heavy as he keeps moving to the rhythm

"I'll go twelve rounds with god if it meant staying like this forever,"

He doesn't care that your hair is now plastered on your cheeks, your makeup runny from the rain or that his shoes are now half-sunk in the mud, his socks soaked wet.

"I've seen men loose everything," he murmurs, "but if i get to keep this, I'll go through any kind of hell smiling"

He twirls you again, slightly faster this time. His hand lingers at your back, fingers curling just slightly into your dress. And then he pulls you close again, your noses almost brushing, his smug grin still plastered on his face.

The song reaches its peak - electric, unstoppable, magnetic by now. The beat is pounding now - your bodies moving like the rain itself - wild, fearless, alive and free.

-I don't speak your...-

You spin again - your dress clings to your legs again, water flying out with every twirl. He ducks under your arm, pops back up behind you and slides one hand down your waist with a small wolfish grin.

-Jesus Christo... Americano...-

His smile is feral - playful but intense. His grip on you is firm, and yet every move felt like you are flying free.

You loose yourself in the rhythm, the storm, him- until you're breathless, soaked, your heart pounding in your chest, loud enough to rival the thunder.

-Don't you try to catch me...-

Your feet stomp into the muddy floorboards with power, matching Bucky beat for beat, your heels clicking loudly as the music hits that rebellious, theatrical stretch. He mirrors you - quick steps, sharp turns, nearly slipping, but catching you in a dramatic pull that makes the crowd gasp.

He mouths the words along with the record: "I'm living on the edge of the law, law, law..."

-Don't you try to get me...-

He twirls you once, twice-

Then pulls you into a deep, movie-worthy dip.

One arm around your back, the other catching your thigh as your leg lifts slightly, soaked skirt of the dress unsticking from you for a moment. Rain still pouring heavy, catching the string lights in the glittering sheets.

You both grinning like you both lost your god damn minds.

And then-

He kisses you.

Hard.

Breathless.

Like you two are the only ones in the world.

The record scratches slightly as the song ends. You both snap upright, breathing heavy and laughing in each others faces.

"We are soaked to hell!" you laugh wiping the rain from away from your eyes.

"Worth it," Bucky says as he grabs your hand.

You take off running - squelching boots, squeaking floorboards under your feet, slipping slightly as you sprint under the covered patio. The crowd was cheering and whistling like it was the best show they saw in years, as you get to cover where everyone was hiding from the rain. Someone makes a quick run to grab you both towels as others keep egging you on for the performance. Someone shouts

"Get a room!"

While another one adds laughing

"The love birds are at it again!"

Steve was clapping then grabs a cup to take a drink as he grins into it

"You two are ridiculous," he mutters, but there is pride in his eyes.

You and bucky collapse onto a bench, soaked, breathless and shivering, but smiling so hard it hurts. He throws an arm over your shoulders, pulls you close.

And with your heart still racing, the rain still pouring, and the music echoing in your brain-

Bucky leans in and whispers

"You still up for round two later?" his tone teasing

You swat his chest laughing.

The night continues as the storm eventually eases down.

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✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: Thank you for reading! :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧ Reblog + scream in the tags if this gave you serotonin 💃 ✨ Masterlist ✨ | AO3 link soon!

[redacted-anon]

Can’t be Friends

Pairing: Aaron Pierre x Reader Theme: Inspired by "Can’t Be Friends" by Trey Songz

TW: Angst, heartbreak, complicated feelings

The weight of silence between you and Aaron was suffocating. He stood by the window, hands shoved into his pockets, staring at the city lights below. His reflection in the glass was just as conflicted as you felt.

You sat on the edge of the couch, hands clasped tightly together as if trying to hold your own pieces in place. The echoes of Trey Songz’s voice drifted softly from the speakers—“The way it felt, no faking it…”—a cruel soundtrack to the unraveling of everything you thought you had with him.

“It wasn’t supposed to be this,” you murmured, barely audible.

Aaron turned slowly, his broad frame illuminated by the dim glow of the room. His eyes, deep and unreadable, locked onto yours with a weight that made your heart ache. He sighed, running a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away the tension etched into his features.

“I know,” he finally said, voice low, almost broken. “It wasn’t supposed to be anything at all.”

Maybe we were moving just a little too fast…

The words stung, though you knew what he meant. You were never supposed to fall for him, and he—he wasn’t supposed to let it happen either.

You laughed bitterly, tears threatening to spill over. “So what, Aaron? What now? Do we just pretend? Like it didn’t happen? Like—”

“Like I didn’t feel everything every time I was around you?” he cut you off, his voice rising. He stepped closer, and the fire in his eyes was impossible to ignore. “Like every look, every touch didn’t set me on fire?”

But what we've done we can't take it back…

Your breath caught as he closed the distance between you, his presence overwhelming. You wanted to reach out, to touch him, but you stopped yourself. You’d already crossed too many lines.

“But we can’t go back,” you whispered, shaking your head. “We can’t... and I don’t even know if I want to.”

Now I'm sittin' here halfway crazy…

Aaron knelt in front of you, his hands hovering close, as if he wanted to grab yours but was afraid to. His voice was softer now, but the pain behind it was unmistakable. “And we can’t go forward either. Not like this. Not with everything at stake.”

The room felt too small for the two of you, the unspoken tension, the uncontainable feelings. You could hear the strain in his voice, see it in the way his shoulders trembled, just barely.

'Cause I know she still thinks about me too…

“I thought I could handle it. Thought I could separate you from... this,” he gestured vaguely between you, frustration evident. “But I can’t. And now I don’t know how to stop wanting something I can’t have.”

And it ain't no way in hell…

You swallowed hard, tears finally spilling down your cheeks. The song swelled in the background, the words piercing through you.

That I can be just friends with you…

“I wish we’d never started this,” you admitted, voice cracking, even as your heart betrayed you with the truth.

And I wish we never did it..

Aaron looked at you like the words had knocked the wind out of him. He stood abruptly, backing away as if distance could dull the sharp edges of what you’d just said. But you knew it wasn’t the full truth. It never would be.

And I wish we never loved this…

“Do you really mean that?” he asked, his voice unsteady.

And I wish I never fell so deep in love with you…

You hesitated, because you didn’t. Not really. But it didn’t matter. What you felt, what he felt—it wasn’t enough to fix the damage, wasn’t enough to rewrite the rules of the lives you both lived.

and now it ain't no way we can be friends…

“It doesn’t matter if I do,” you said finally, looking away. “We can’t be friends, Aaron. Not after this. Not after what we’ve done to each other.”

And all I can say is…

He nodded slowly, as if he’d expected the answer but still hoped for something else. Something impossible.

La-la-la la la la la

The song ended, leaving only the sound of your quiet breathing and the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.

When Aaron left that night, you didn’t stop him. And as the door closed behind him, you knew it was the end of something beautiful, something tragic. You both had no choice but to walk away, even as the memories lingered, refusing to let you forget what could never be.

[r66dusthewriter]

Spring into summer

a/n: I’m back! Bear with me, I haven’t written in a long time.

Warnings: yearning lol

Contains: fluff and angst. No gendered pronous were used for the reader.

Wordcount: 1.2k

Frail rocks crumbled beneath your boots, each step landing with the weight of exhaustion as gravity pulled you mechanically towards your destination. Your body screamed in protest, muscles seizing with pain but you pressed on like a machine, only fueled by sheer will. Your mind flickered at the edges and lucidity slipped like smoke between your fingers yet your eyes stayed open, barely, eyelids held apart by the familiar trail you followed but with every step closer, sleep clawed deeper, an insistent pull that threatened your purpose.

You were still a day or two from Alexandria, fully aware that this detour will cost you but so could your state if you continued, so you walked to Oceanside. In a rare moment of calm, you closed your eyes and tilted your head toward the sky, letting the sun bathe your skin with the same warmth you hoped your weary feet would lead you to. You inhaled deeply, letting salty air flood your lungs like a drug you were desperate to grow addicted to.

The birds chirping were so loud that they almost drowned out the sound of something emerging from the woods, a single dry branch splitting, a mistake that snapped your eyes forward as dread bloomed fast, certain that your exhaustion had finally led you to a premature death. The crossbow aimed at your heart was slowly lowered to his side, no arrow had been shot but your heart staggered all the same. As if it had just been pulled from the brink and strangely so, its beat echoed the same rhythm as his laugh once did. Perhaps you had mistaken the snap for the little breaks in your souls.

You ran, so fast you doubted your feet even touched the ground and suddenly, your chest was against his. His hands found you instantly, gripping, skimming, desperate to confirm you were real and not some cruel vision conjured by hope and misplaced grief. He pulled back just enough to see you, his striking blue eyes searched your face like they were memorizing you again. One hand stayed at your waist while the other rose, his thumb traced your cheek, soft and reverent as if you might vanish if he pressed too hard yet stared too long either way.

“Ya’ cut yer hair” He muttered, voice low and gravel-thick, just like you remembered. 

He could’ve said anything else… pointed out the new cuts on your skin, how hollow your eyes looked, how you swayed a little like you might pass out right there in his arms. Hell, he could've shoved you away and barked at you for disappearing like you expected but he didn’t. He stood there, fingers twitching with selfless devotion and eyes darting over your face like every second he got to look at you might be the last.

You let out a soft chuckle through the tears. “You didn’t yours”

“Yeah, well…m’ hair stylist quit” he sassed, the corner of his mouth twitching like he almost meant to smile. You laughed, broken but bright and he reached up, rough fingers brushing away your tears like they didn’t belong. You realized then that that was as much disappointment as you’d get from him, your rehearsed apologies now gone in the wind. No lecture, no anger, just that quiet acceptance that cut deeper than yelling ever could and a joke slipped through clenched teeth. Oh how you wished he loved you a little less sometimes.

After picking up the crossbow he had let fall to his feet, the two of you walked side by side towards Oceanside. Neither of you spoke, but you kept stealing glances at each other, uncertain if there were still lines left to cross or if two winters had buried them deep. You thought you’d tread lightly but you were dropped right where you left off. He practically snuck you in, pulling you from the small welcoming crowd with the same rude gentleness he always had. You followed, helplessly, almost instinctively, like a magnet pulled to its pair. 

The cabin he was staying in felt very much like a passing place but even so, you could still tell what was his, small signs but very familiar things. 

You stared while he rummaged in the bathroom, cursing under his breath and slamming doors in search of something.

The floor creaked beneath you as you stepped towards the bedside table, there wasn’t much on it, just a candle and an old picture of you that you felt drawn to. The edges were worn, soft from being handled but the image was clear. Kept. 

Then suddenly, it was taken from your hand. Daryl was right behind you, quiet as ever, slipping it into the inside pocket of his vest like it was some kind of secret.

“Nobody teach ya not t’ touch what ain’t yers?” he muttered.

You raised a brow at his deadpan expression, your lips twitching upwards “Excuse me?”

He scoffed, already opening the first aid kit in his hands “Mhm I forgive ya. Now sit” he said nodding toward the bed, his eyes locked on the dried blood staining the back of your shirt.

“I can do it myself.”

He hummed, low and dismissive. “Ya always could. Never changed a damn thing”

You sat cross legged on the bed, back to him, unbuttoning your shirt with quiet, shaky fingers. The fabric slipped from your shoulders and he moved in behind you, the mattress shifting under his weight. His skilled fingers hovered just above your skin, cool and hesitant and the silence between you felt like it was holding its breath.

“...Can i?” he asked, voice quieter now, stripped down to something real.

The question sent goosebumps racing across your skin, a shiver pulling through you. You’d bared yourself to him once, in more ways than one and you wondered if he knew you would again, without hesitation, if only he’d have you.

You simply nodded.

As the sting of alcohol met your skin and his rough hands softened with care, you felt the need for more pain rise. The urge to dig in, to say something sharp, something that could tear at your new wounds before they’d even had a chance to heal, to tip off a bandage that hadn’t even been placed yet.

“I’m sorry” you whispered, voice barely holding. You bit back the flood, how looking for people worth saving had dragged you farther and farther from home and how you’d let it. Your breath shook as you prepared to force the next words out but he was faster.

“For wha’?” he asked after a pause. You could feel his gaze settle on the side of your face. “Doin’ yer job?”

“You know what.”

He hummed low in his throat as he worked on the wound “Only stayed ‘cause I knew if ya saw me out there lookin’ for ya, I wouldn’t’ve heard the end of it…Wouldn’t have, if I thought ya weren’t comin’ back at all”

At that, you turned—just enough to meet his eyes. Your heart pounded so loud, so hard, you wondered if he could hear it. Hell, you wondered if he was qualified to check it. You didn’t say anything and neither did he. Your grip on the shirt at your chest loosened, arms falling slack as tears welled. Because even now, this love you both had, carried across seasons and miles, still warmed your skin more than any burning sun ever could.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Dandelion

pairing: pedro pascal x pop star best friend

trope: friends to lovers

word count: 1,566

song: dandelion by ariana grande

Pedro had mastered the art of playing it cool.

Press junkets. Film premieres. Award shows. All a breeze. He could handle intense directors, press rumors, even the chaos of a Star Wars Comic-Con crowd. He knew tonight would be hard. Not because of the flashing lights or the thousands of screaming fans echoing through the stadium. Not because he hated crowds or being in the spotlight.

But he could not, for the life of him, handle you.

You weren’t just his best friend. You were the one person who could disarm him with a single glance. The woman he’d been in love with for years, secretly, hopelessly, completely.

And now here he stood backstage at your sold-out concert, dressed in all black, trying to blend into the shadows, knowing you were about to perform your brand new song the one you told no one about. Not even him.

Then he saw you step out onto the stage.

Pedro’s breath caught in his throat.

The black corset. The thigh-high boots. The soft curls falling over your bare shoulders. You were a vision. Confident, untouchable. Every inch of you was a tease like something he’s never seen before had taken over your body and was staring right at him.

The beat hit. You gripped the mic with one hand, dragging it sensually toward your lips. And then you sang:

“Mean what I say, say what I mean

Not one to play, I am as you see

I give my word…”

Pedro’s heart stopped.

“These other boys, they’re one in the same

I’m tryna say, I want you to stay…”

You were looking right at him.

Your voice was seductive but soft laced with truth. With confession. You moved like every lyric came from deep in your bones, like this wasn’t just a performance but a revelation.

“I got (got)

What you need

I’m thinking you should plant this seed

I get this sounds unserious

But, baby boy, this is serious…”

Pedro shifted uncomfortably. His jaw clenched.

Because he was bricked up. Bad.

And not just because you looked like sin wrapped in velvet.

Because he knew without a doubt that this song was about him.

“And, yes, I promise

If I’m being honest

You can get anything you’d like

Can’t you see I bloom at night?

Boy, just don’t blow this

Got me like ‘what’s your wish list?’

You can get anything you’d like

I’ll be your dandelion, mmm…”

His mouth went dry.

Your body moved like temptation. The sway of your hips, the flick of your wrist, the way your fingers dragged up your thigh it was hypnotic. And your eyes never left his.

“You like how I pray

The secret’s in me

‘Cause, boy, come what may

I’m here on my knees…”

Pedro groaned. Actually groaned.

He had to adjust himself behind the curtain. Your lyrics, your voice every damn movement was driving him insane.

And it wasn’t just sexual. It was emotional. Personal. Like you had cracked your heart open in front of the entire world but only he could see the real message.

“These other flowers don’t grow the same

So just leave it here with me

Let’s get dirty, dirty…”

His knees nearly buckled. Jesus Christ.

“Boy, just don’t blow this

Got me like ‘what’s your wish list?’

You can get anything you’d like

I’ll be your dandelion, mmm…”

When the last “mmm” hit, Pedro was already moving.

You didn’t even have time to step offstage before you felt a hand on your wrist, pulling you gently but firmly behind the curtain.

Pedro.

His pupils were blown wide, lips parted, breath ragged. He looked at you like he’d just seen heaven and hell in the same five minutes.

“You wrote that about me,” he said hoarsely.

You tilted your head, a small smile forming. “Took you long enough.”

He ran a hand through his curls. “You… you meant every word?”

You stepped closer, voice soft but sure. “Mean what I say. Say what I mean.”

He groaned, grabbed your waist, and kissed you like he’d been starved for years. His hand tangled in your hair, yours slid beneath his shirt, desperate to touch, to claim.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead to yours. “You’re evil for doing that on stage.”

“You liked it.”

“I’m in love with you.”

You smiled. “Good. Then plant the seed.”

Pedro blinked. “What?”

You smirked. “Your words. Or mine, technically.”

He kissed you again. And again.

And from that night on, he could no longer play it cool. Not when the world knew that dandelion was about him and he’d never let you float away again.

The roar of the crowd still echoed in your ears, adrenaline still coursing through your veins when Pedro pulled you into your dressing room and shut the door behind him with a quiet click.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t need to.

Because the second the lock turned, his hands were on you urgent, hungry, reverent. His lips crashed into yours with a force that nearly knocked the air from your lungs, and you melted into him like you’d been waiting your entire life for this moment.

He spun you, your back pressed to the vanity, the cool edge digging into the backs of your thighs as he stepped between them.

“You don’t get to do that,” Pedro murmured against your jaw, peppering kisses down your neck, “look like that, sing like that, and stare at me like you own me.”

You smirked, breath hitching. “I do own you.”

His grip on your hips tightened. “Yeah. You do.”

Your lips found his again, and this time it was slow deep. Messy. Tongues dancing. Teeth grazing. He kissed you like he was starving, like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

And then he pulled back, just far enough to look you in the eye.

“You meant that song.”

“All of it,” you whispered. “Every word. Every line.”

His hands slid down, fingers brushing the hem of your corset dress. “You want me to show you what it did to me?”

You nodded.

But he needed to say it. So he leaned in, voice hot against your skin.

“I’ve wanted you for years, cariño. You don’t know what it did to me hearing you say it. Seeing you own it like that on stage like you weren’t afraid of anything.”

“I was,” you admitted softly. “I was afraid you didn’t feel the same.”

Pedro’s mouth crashed into yours again, rougher this time his answer written in the bruising press of his lips, the way his hand slid up your thigh, the reverence in his touch.

He kissed down your neck, over your collarbone, down to the top of your chest. He dragged his nose along your skin like he was memorizing your scent. Then he dropped to his knees in front of you.

You gasped as he pulled you toward the edge of the vanity.

“Pedro—”

He looked up, his eyes dark and reverent. “I told you. I’ve got everything I need. Right here.”

And then he kissed the inside of your thigh.

Your head fell back with a moan.

The lights above the mirror flickered softly, casting golden halos around both of you. His hands gripped your thighs as he leaned in, worshipful, slow, savoring every second because he wasn’t just here to take.

He was here to devour.

Your hands scrambled for purchase behind you, knocking over makeup brushes and compacts, but neither of you cared. The only sounds in the room were your gasps, the whisper of his name, and the deep, quiet hum of a man finally tasting what he’d dreamed about for years.

And when you finally came undone beneath his mouth, shuddering, trembling, clinging to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to earth he kissed your thigh, then your stomach, then stood slowly, reverently as if he was afraid to break the spell between you. But the look in his eyes was something different now. Wild. Tender. Completely undone.

Your lipstick was smudged. His curls were a mess from your hands. Neither of you cared.

He cupped your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “You know I love you, right?”

You blinked, your chest heaving. “Yeah?”

He smiled softly, forehead pressed to yours. “Yeah. Always have.”

You grabbed his shirt, pulled him close again. “Then don’t wait anymore.”

He kissed you slow this time. Deep and warm, his hand sliding over your back as you clung to him like a lifeline. The world outside the door didn’t exist. Just you and Pedro. Your bodies pressed together, the air thick with heat, love, and everything that had gone unspoken for far too long.

Eventually, he whispered, “Let me take you home.”

You nodded. “You’re already home.”

He kissed you again, then helped you off the vanity, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips brushing your flushed cheeks. And as you both stumbled out of the dressing room into the quiet of backstage, hand in hand, there was only one thing Pedro was certain of

He would never hear “Dandelion” the same way again.

Because it wasn’t just a song.

It was a confession. A promise. A beginning.

And this?

This was just the start.

[devilscheck]

BABE. The word hits hear ears and instantly causes a blush to appear. Usually she was more composed, better at hiding the BLATANT way a comment like that could turn her into a puddle on the floor. It always depended on who said it, the way his low voice ran through her ears was something she could get used to. Truthfully, she was ALREADY used to him too; like this was the first of many uses of that word.

"I know I didn't," words cooed, the smile peaked onto her lips. "But, I usually like to show all my cards when I'm going all in." Jennifer meant it, too. Frequently she had given out fake numbers, apologized later if they bumped into each other that she had written down the one to look like a seven by accident, whatever could fix the story. But not now, no. Now she wore her heart on her sleeve, the sort of thing that she couldn't help but feel a little nervous about.

That was until he was nuzzled into her neck, her hand moved like second nature to run her fingers through his hair. It all felt natural, as simple as breathing. "That or I'm doing my makeup. A very sacred part of my day," Jennifer hummed, a sigh of satisfaction fell shortly after to the kiss against her neck. Her head cants just right to press a kiss to the top of his hair, taking a moment to breath in his scent again.

How ordinary it all felt, but dangerously so. It was the ORDINARY feeling that this could be every day, that all of these moments between them could become the future. It was only dangerous in the theory that she already liked how it made her feel, how so easily she could see him fitting into her day to day. She'd never made that space for someone before, never even THOUGHT of it as a possibility.

As his phone moved to the desk, her body readjusted to their own slice of privacy again. Legs moved to lazily wrap around his hips a little tighter as her back pressed against the wall. Gentle fingers ran through his hair, her finger lightly twisting small pieces of brunette locks around them as he spoke.

"It's in the MIDDLE of nowhere," an accurate description, the town felt as vacant as the depths of the waterfall. "There's this super old park there with a waterfall that's supposed to have no LOGICAL end. People say it goes to hell and thus," a short shrug. "I think that's why I like boiling hot showers. Feels closer to home." Okay, a bad joke, but she smiles anyways. "There's not a lot there. Sort of the reason I wanted to get out. It felt... Claustrophobic."

"Nah- nah, you don't look like that," He's quick to argue, laugh laced words as fingers strung through his hair, mumbling off the rest of his argument

some girls don't wanna give random guys their number. That's totally cool, totally fine. Don't feel pressured! It's really okay!

It's no use, as the argument is null and void. She's quite obviously interested, and any further argument would just be useless because she's proving him wrong as they speak. Though, if he hadn't gotten to know her, he would have more firm assumptions. She looks the type, but she doesn't act the type. She's much softer, more genuine and candid about intentions, and if she wanted to put her number in- she will. And she is.

As eager as he had been, she had mirrored it as well. The way her fingers finely manicured took his phone and began tapping audibly that phone number into his contact list, there is no doubt they are on the same page. Only makes his smile grow wider. Even added her last name, too. Unnecessary, but adorable as she explains it away.

"No, I believe you, babe," slips, but it's fine. She's earned that name. And with last name in mind, he would be looking her up- if only for curiosity's sake. He wants to pry deep into her, learn every facet of her. She's offered up the information, he deserves to pry. Like baby photos when you first introduce them to your parents- which Jennifer would be able to see, at this rate.

And to double down on it, her phone rings, and his eyes roll as his hand sweeps across his brows. "Jesus, Jen- ya didn't have to do all that... but cool." He lifts head, watching her as she sings along to some song he's unfamiliar with. Sounds childlike but not in the Blues Clues way- in the way that Marvel Cartoons sound, comforting and nostalgic. Like Saturday mornings and captain crunch on the couch.

She leans in for a photo, he's quick to adjust. His own lips pursing up to give the faintest ghost of a kiss to her. Photo is blurred, but it adds to the charm. Stills sacred on his phone, will be something to send home to mom when she leaves. Just the thought has his cheeks growing warm, and so he nestles himself into her neck and shoulder, thin scruff no doubt scratching at her skin in his best attempt to hide. "Now if you don't answer, I know you're just avoidin' me," another tease, passing remark as he lips head to kiss her neck so delicately.

Each of their movements are rapid, each kiss blurring together, the minute one withdraws, the other leans forward, then repeat. Addicted to each other's scent and taste. Like home. Like Saturday morning cartoons and a bowl of captain crunch- with your best friend.

Faint silence falls for only a moment, then his head perks up as he reaches to take his phone and drop it on the desk by his bed. "So... tell me about Devil's Kettle... I've never heard of it. Small town?"