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headkiss · 1 year ago

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fall right into me

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: when something happens to your apartment and you need a place to stay, steve, your best friend, is quick to provide it for you. your prolonged proximity forces you both to realize some things.

word count: 13.6k

warnings: childhood bffs to lovers, absolute idiots in love, mentions of a negative relationship with parents, probably inaccurate descriptions of some things but it’s (say it with me) for the plot!!!

a/n: i know it’s been a LONG time since i’ve posted a long fic so thank u guys for ur patience <3 i had so much fun getting back to it and writing these two, and i hope it’s at least a little bit worth the wait!!! ily :,)

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Your shoes are still wet as you dial the first number that comes to mind: Steve’s.

He picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Steve.”

“Hi,” you can imagine him on the other side of the phone, leaning casually against the wall, an easy smile on his face, “what’s going on?”

You’re not quite sure where to start.

Coming home from work earlier, you’d been excited to shower and change and lay around for the rest of the evening, your book hanging open in your lap and some mindless TV filling the silence.

The day seemed to have other plans for you, though, because as you walked down the stairs to your apartment—one in the basement of a sweet, older couple’s house who just never used the space and converted it—the carpet had made an ugly squelch as soon as you stepped on it.

You looked down at your shoe against the carpet, at the way its color was darker than usual from whatever water had gotten into it. Looking up, you found a complete mess. A piece of the ceiling hanging open right above your bed, water still dripping in steady drops from the gap, your bedding ruined among many other things.

You don’t know how long you stood there, hand over your mouth, eyes flickering over the damage like you were hoping it would vanish, like it was only something you imagined.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

The couple who owns the house came down when they heard you shout for them, unsure of what else to do. They’d both gasped when they came down, and began apologizing for something that really wasn’t their fault before one ran up to call whoever it was they needed to call to fix this and the other comforted you with a gentle “we’ll take care of it, sweetie.”

You nodded, eyes still roaming your space that was now uninhabitable.

It’s an old house, something was bound to happen at some point, you only wished it wasn’t so inconvenient for you. A small leak, you could have handled, but the ceiling practically caving in?

Yeah, it was a complete fucking mess.

Hours later, with the damage assessed and set to take a few weeks to fix up, you’re on the phone with the one person you’d known would pick up.

You fill Steve in on what happened, and his first response is a sigh of, “Shit.”

“Yeah, shit,” you agree. “And now I’m gonna have to live with my parents for a while and I don’t know how I’m gonna go back into that house, Steve.”

If you’re being honest, the couple you live with now was kinder to you than your parents were. You suppose that’s one of the many things that you and Steve have bonded over.

“Just come live with me, instead,” he offers without hesitation.

Steve says it like it’s obvious, a no-brainer, and you guess it should be, since you’ve slept over at the Harrington’s house countless times before. Only, this is different because you’d be staying for a while, because you’d be needing his help, which makes you feel all awkward and guilty.

He’s been your absolute best friend for as long as you can remember, and you’re one hundred percent sure you’d offer the same thing if the roles were reversed, but that doesn’t make it any easier for you to accept, not when you’re already frazzled from the events of the day.

“No, Steve, I’m sorry I’m just being dramatic,” you say, twisting the phone’s cord around your finger. “I’ll be fine, really. It’s just a month, or so, and I don’t wanna be in your way or-”

“When have you ever cared about being in my way, angel?” The pet name he’s called you ever since your ninth grade Halloween party slips out naturally, the way it always does. “Besides, this house is too fucking big for me as it is, and you know my parents won’t be around to care, either.”

“I can’t ask you to let me move in, Steve.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing you’re not asking. I’m offering. It’ll be like that one week when we were twelve and you stayed over for spring break, only longer. It’s perfect!”

There’s a small smile ghosting across your face as you recall the memory he’s talking about. A blanket fort in their spacious living room, sleeping bags and pillows piled inside it along with two flashlights.

You can picture the way he looks on the other end of the phone, his hair a bit messy from running his hands through it during the day, one strand rogue against his forehead, his shoulder leaned carelessly against the wall the way it usually is when he stands. Like he can’t be bothered to hold himself up, like there’s constantly a weight on him.

“Are you sure about this, Steve? It’s really okay if you’re not. I swear I’ll be fine.”

“As if I’m letting you spend multiple weeks back in your parent’s house. You’re staying with me, alright?” His voice is insistent, yet kind, letting you know that he’s being honest, that he means it. “We’ll order pizzas and watch shitty romcoms, ‘kay?”

“You can call romcoms shitty all you want, but we both know you get teary at every single one.”

“Don't change the subject, angel. Also, fuck off,” he says, though you can hear the smile in his voice. “So, you’re living with me, yeah?”

You don’t think you could say no to him even if you wanted to.

“Yeah, alright, Steve. Thank you so much.”

“None of that. I know you’d do the same.”

There’s something beautiful about the kind of trust and ease that comes with a friendship as long as yours. One where you’ve watched each other grow up, awkward phases and all, and stuck together the entire way. There’s no questioning whether or not you’d be there for each other if you were in need.

It’s known, felt. Like a fact.

“Now,” he continues, “I’ll pick you up, okay? Ten minutes, tops.”

“Okay.”

“You need me to bring boxes for your stuff?”

“I’m not sure how much is worth keeping. It’s pretty ugly in there.”

Your voice goes small at the end, because the gravity of it all is really sinking in. You’ll have to replace a lot of stuff. Stuff you don’t have money for right now.

But, you haven’t let yourself cry just yet, so you swallow it down.

“I’ll bring some anyway, then. We’ll figure it out, angel, don’t worry.”

“Thanks again, Steve. See you soon.”

“Ten minutes,” he assures you, then the line clicks.

True to his word, Steve arrives in under ten minutes, which isn’t surprising considering the size of Hawkins, but feels reassuring all the same.

You’re sitting on the curb in front of the house when Steve’s BMW pulls over on the other side of the road, and you stand just as he climbs out and shuts his door, rounding the car and jogging over to you.

His keys jingle as he tucks them into the pocket of his faded jeans, his opposite hand coming up to squeeze your shoulder, “You okay?”

The warmth of his palm seeps through your work shirt that you’ve yet to change out of, and you let your eyes fall shut just for a second before looking at his face, “Guess so,” you nod. “Maybe ask me again after all of this?”

Steve’s arm winds itself over your shoulders, tugging you into his side and dropping a kiss to the top of your head, simple as an instinct. “I’ve got you. We’ll get through this, angel.”

We’ll, he says. A team.

You reach up and squeeze his hand and nod, guiding him to the side-entrance leading to your basement apartment.

“I hope you didn’t wear your good shoes for this,” you say.

Steve looks down at his feet and shrugs, “Shoes can be replaced.”

He lets you lead the way down the stairs, his footsteps close behind yours. You wince when you look at the damage again, even though you’d seen it minutes ago. You can't bring yourself to look at Steve, to see the reaction on his face, because you think it’ll just make it all more real.

He mouths the word ‘fuck’ while you aren’t looking, then claps his hands once. “Okay, let’s figure out what we can save, yeah? Where do you want me?”

You’re grateful for his gentle guidance at what to do. “Maybe the bathroom? Everything in there should be fine, so it just needs to be packed.”

“‘Kay. I’ll just go grab some boxes from my car,” Steve says. He squeezes your hand once before heading up the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”

You decide to tackle the worst spot first. Though the place is more like a studio, the side that houses your bed and your closet is the most affected, so you head over there and try to tune out the squish of the carpet beneath your feet.

You’re opening the sliding doors to your closet when Steve comes back, dropping a stack of boxes by your feet and running his hand down your arm softly before heading over to the bathroom to pack for you.

Even his presence seems to be making things a little bit easier for you, and each time he finds a small way to touch you or speak to you, to remind you that he’s there, you’re glad for it.

Half of your closet is a gross, wet mess, but some things are salvageable, which you take as a win. Things might be damp, but at least it’s only water, you suppose. A cycle in the dryer and most things will be wearable again.

Your dresses that are hung get the worst of it, soaked and smelly, and you decide that it’d be easier to get a couple new ones than to try and save what’s there.

Steve checks in every now and then, poking his head out of the bathroom’s doorway to look at you and make sure you’re doing alright, giving you a thumbs up when you look over to him.

You’re not sure how you’d be managing this if you were alone, and you’re thankful that you don’t have to.

The next time he checks on you, you’re by your nightstand.

Sitting atop of it is a framed picture of you and Steve from summer camp when you were around ten years old, maybe younger. Only now, the picture’s stained with water and the frame you’d decorated all those years ago at camp is a splotchy mess.

Where yours and Steve’s handwriting used to be, is now a blur from the water seeping into the wooden frame, the marker’s colors muddy. You frown, picking it up and running your thumb over the edge.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re tearing up, frustrated and sad and tired. Memories like this one are the most special to you, the ones that have kept you going for so long, and just like that, the picture that’s sat on your nightstand since being taken is gone, and it fucking sucks.

“Hey, angel?” Steve calls.

When all you do is sniffle and mumble an “mhm?” in response, he sets the box he’d been packing on the bathroom counter and walks over to you.

He comes up behind you, resting his hands on your upper-arms and peering over your shoulder at the ruined picture.

“It was my favorite one,” you say, voice breaking a little. You wipe your tear away as it trails down your cheek, your own fingertips too harsh against your skin.

Although it’s soaked and splotchy now, Steve knows which picture it is. The one where you’ve both got your neon summer camp t-shirts on, the one where his cheeks and nose are completely sunburnt and you’re both grinning up at the camera from your seats on the ground.

Steve’s clutching a stick in his hand for some reason, and you’ve got your fist tangled in the sleeve of his shirt.

It feels like no time and forever has passed since then.

Steve grabs the picture and pries it gently from your hands, setting it back onto the table and turning you around in his grip to face him.

“We can fix it,” he tells you, his brown eyes all soft as his hands come up to cup your face, thumbs swiping your tears away.

“But the frame-”

“We’ll fix it, angel. I’ll find a way, okay? We can pack it in one of the boxes and figure it out.”

“Steve-”

“Look at me,” he urges you when your gaze flickers to the ground. You listen. “This fucking sucks, I know it does, but you’re strong and I’m here, and we can handle this.”

His voice is quiet, but sure. You search his face for any trace of a lie and find none. He really believes what he’s saying, and he really believes in you.

“Thank you for being here.” You take a deep breath and drop your forehead against the collar of his shirt. “I’m sorry for crying. I know it’s kinda stupid. Most of this is replaceable, it’s just-”

“It’s not stupid,” he says, letting his chin rest atop your head. “You’re allowed to cry. Hell, I’d probably be kicking and screaming on the floor like I'm back in the terrible twos.”

You laugh wetly into his shirt.

“Now,” he says, pulling back and putting his hands on his hips, “the quicker we pack, the quicker we go home. I’ll even let you wear a pair of my good fuzzy socks.”

A smile tugs at your mouth. “Deal.”

Steve wouldn’t let you do much of the work after that.

Instead, he simply held up items for you to assess from where you’d been leaning against the wall and packed it into a box if it was a ‘yes,’ or tossing it aside dramatically just to try and get you to laugh if it was a ‘no.’

Once things were sorted through and packed, you loaded everything into Steve’s car—which wasn’t a whole bunch, considering how much you had to leave behind.

You’d refused to let Steve carry the boxes all on his own, though he tried, but he still managed to open the doors for you whenever you made it to his car, even when his own hands were full, too.

By the time you were finished, you were drained. It felt like you’d lived multiple days in the one. An eight hour shift opening at the store, then coming home to a wrecked apartment. All you wanted to do was shower and lay down and not get back up.

Steve knows you well enough to be able to tell when it’s time to fill the silence and when it isn’t, and on the drive back to his place, while your head was leaned against his window, he knew to stay quiet and give you a bit of space.

He turned the radio on, but not too loud, letting the songs hum through the speakers. At every stop sign, he reached over and gave your thigh a light squeeze. Reassuring, kind, somehow exactly what you needed at the moment. Nothing more, nothing less.

You were no stranger to the Harrington’s house, having been there countless times since you were little, but it feels more intimidating now, knowing you’ll be staying. You feel silly for being worried, but you are. Asking for help makes you feel like a burden.

Steve, however, doesn’t let you entertain that thought for long, parking in his driveway and jogging around to open the passenger door for you. “Honey, we’re home!”

“Dork,” you say, though you accept his hand and let him tug you up out of the car.

Grabbing the first couple of boxes, Steve leads you inside and upstairs, right to the guest room across the hall from his own bedroom. The closest one to him.

The house has at least two guest rooms, though you suppose with how little Steve's parents are around, you could consider there to be three. Three spare rooms and Steve puts you up in the nearest one possible. It makes your heart squish in your chest, how caring he is. He doesn’t even have to try, really, the goodness in him shows even when he tries to keep it hidden.

It only takes a few trips down to his car and back before all of your boxes are stacked against the wall. You decide you’ll deal with them later.

Steve runs over to his room and grabs a set of pajamas that you’d left there, and hands them to you. “I figured you’d wanna wash up.”

“You calling me smelly, Harrington?”

“Shut up, I think you smell nice. Usually.”

“Hey!”

“I’m teasing, angel.” He ruffles your hair. You swat his hand away. “You know where the bathroom is, and there should be soap and stuff in the shower already. Just yell if you need something, okay?”

You do know where the bathroom is. You have your own toothbrush in a cup by the sink, a set of travel-sized skin care products in the cupboard behind the mirror for whenever you end up staying over.

It’s funny, you’ve always felt more at home here than at your own parents house, and though he hasn’t said it to you, Steve much prefers this house when you’re in it. There’s a warmth that comes with your presence that makes him ache when it’s not around.

You nod, “Thank you again for letting me stay, Steve. I won’t be in the way, promise.”

“I want you in the way. You know you’re always welcome. This is no different.” He shrugs, “Plus, it’ll be nice having you around. Place always feels so empty when it’s just me.”

“Maybe I’ll just stay forever, then,” you say, tone light and joking.

Steve, completely serious, says, “I’d let you.”

There’s a zip that goes through you when he says it, quick as lightning, something you’ve never felt—or noticed, rather—around him. It throws you off just a little.

“Anyways,” Steve cuts your thoughts short, “I’ll let you get settled. Pizza will be waiting for you when you’re done.”

He leaves the room before you can thank him again, his footsteps retreating and heading downstairs.

You’ve been to his house a million times, so you don’t really feel the need to ‘get settled’ but you desperately need a shower so that’s where you go.

You stay in for longer than you need to, letting the too-hot water run down your neck and back.

When you finally do step out of the bathroom, now clad in your pajamas, and head downstairs, Steve’s sitting on the couch in the living room, the romcoms he owns sitting out in front of the TV for you to choose from, your favorite blanket resting on your side of the couch, and pizza boxes on the coffee table just as promised.

It’s the best thing in the world, you think, to have a friend like Steve.

You’ve been staying at Steve’s for a couple of days already, and time seems to fly by a little quicker when you’re there, especially when you’re around him.

He’s taken it upon himself to have coffee ready in the pot for you every morning, one of your favorite mugs already next to it on the counter. You’ve cooked breakfasts together (pancakes one day, where you’d done most of the work, or something simple as toast when you both have to get to work), ordered dinners, and Steve comes home from his shifts with a new movie to watch almost every day.

It’s been so nice. Almost perfect, actually.

This morning, the first day where your shifts happen to be at the exact same time, he’d even insisted on driving you to work. It was an easy yes, considering it wasn’t out of his way at all.

After a short stint of working together at the grocery store in ninth grade, and your subsequent firing from the job after a month of constantly distracting each other on the clock, Tim, the grocery manager, took it upon himself to warn Hawkins not to hire the both of you together.

Eventually, you’d taken the closest you could get which resulted in you working at the arcade and Steve next door at Family Video.

You share a parking lot. Steve already drives you to work most days. You like to put up a bit of a fight just to annoy him.

Though you haven’t worked together in years, and he isn’t far away by any means, you miss having Steve around on days like this. Where the arcade is quiet save for the sounds of the games in the background, where you’re simply babysitting the desk and cleaning things multiple times to try and make the hours pass by.

If Steve were with you, he’d make stupid jokes that you don’t wanna laugh at but do, or coerce you into playing the games while on the clock with the change you find whenever you’re cleaning.

He’d probably trash talk you, and bump your hip with his while playing pinball, and be a sore loser, and for some reason you want him around so bad.

You chalk it up to getting used to spending hours and hours with him, every single day, these past couple of days. Staying with him has made you miss him more, you think.

That’s it.

Meanwhile, over at Family Video, Steve isn’t feeling too different from you.

He’s spent the morning stocking shelves, memories popping into his head whenever he’d come across a movie you loved or watched together, while Robin’s been manning the desk.

Then, when his cart was empty and put back into the back room, he sat on the chair behind the front desk, spinning around until Robin stopped him with her foot and asked what he was thinking so hard about.

Steve caught her up on what had happened with your apartment (you’d told him he could tell her, because she’s your friend too and would find out sooner or later) and how you’d ended up staying with him in his house.

She raised her eyebrows and hummed in a way that was automatically suspicious, because Robin isn’t very good at hiding things.

“What?” Steve asks.

“Nothing.” When Steve only gives her a pointed look, Robin continues, “Well… are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Now, Robin is one of Steve’s closest friends, and him one of hers, and she supports him in pretty much everything that he does even when she teases him relentlessly along the way, but she cares about both of you and doesn’t want to see anyone hurt.

She can read Steve better than he can read himself, probably, because to Robin, it’s clear that he feels more than friendly towards you. And he doesn’t even know it.

When they became closer, it was clear to Robin, even before meeting you, just from the way Steve spoke of you, that there was a spot reserved for you in his life that couldn’t be filled by anyone else.

He would say it’s that of ‘best friend’ but Robin would call it something even bigger than that. Still, even though she thinks he’s an absolute dingus, she’s trying to let Steve figure it out for himself.

Clearly, it’s taking fucking forever.

He looks confused at her question, “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?”

Robin sighs and resists the urge to drop her forehead against the desk and decides on, “You know what they say: become friends with your roommates, don’t become roommates with your friends.”

“Whoever they are, they’re dumb as shit,” Steve says. “She’s been over, slept over, hundreds of times. It’s not any different, just longer.”

“I guess so,” she settles on. “The rules of the world never really seem to apply to you two.”

“That’s because the rules of the world are also dumb as shit.”

“How would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever tried following them.”

“‘Cause I’m a rule breaker, Robs.”

Steve wiggles his eyebrows. Robin shoves the rolling chair he’s sitting on with her foot, sending it into the other side of the desk with a thud.

“Don’t think that smoking weed in your backyard is enough to call yourself a rule breaker, dingus.”

That night, your routine was pretty much the same.

Steve was already waiting for you in his car when you left the arcade, a smile spreading onto his face when he saw you making your way across the parking lot to him, your skirt swishing a little with the breeze.

Rather than go straight home, you made a stop at your apartment to talk things over with the couple who owned the home. They’d met with a builder and plumber about getting everything fixed and wanted to walk you through it all.

Steve came with you and held your hand, and both of them cooed at him and pinched his cheeks and called him a cutie before getting to the important stuff.

After going over what had to be done (rip out the carpet, replace it, fix the pipes and make sure no others were at risk, replace the ceiling, and more you couldn’t even remember already), they’d assured you that they would be taking care of it all. Covering the entire cost.

You probably would’ve argued if not for how little money was in your bank account, and how stubborn you knew these people to be. Instead, you’d squeezed them both and thanked them while your eyes grew misty with tears.

Steve’s hand stayed in yours and squeezed when you sniffled.

He knew, because he knew pretty much everything about you, that these people were kinder to you than even your own parents. That, if this had happened at their house, they would’ve found a way to blame you for it.

You feel lucky to have found that kind of parental love elsewhere, sad that you didn’t know exactly what it felt like beforehand.

After giving the couple Steve’s phone number to call in case they needed you and giving them both another hug, you and Steve headed back home.

Home, you call it. Like it’s yours.

Sometimes it feels like it is.

Later, after you and Steve have both showered and had dinner and gotten comfy in your sweats, you’re back in the living room, Steve shows you the movie he’s brought back this time.

“Gremlins?” You ask, smiling and shaking your head.

“Hell yeah, angel. It’s a classic.”

Steve sets everything up, joining you on the couch after pressing ‘play’ on the movie and adjusting the volume with your guidance.

“So, how was work?” Steve asks during the opening credits. The two of you have a hard time being next to each other and not talking. It’s why you get dirty looks whenever you go to the movies.

“Weekdays are so boring, Steve,” you say, letting your head fall against the back of the couch. “You’re so lucky you have Robin to entertain you during the day. I think I dusted like, ten times at least.”

“Robin is a pain in my ass.” He says. He doesn’t really mean it, because even when she is, he’s glad to have her around. A different kind of gladness than he feels with you. “She kept pushing me every time I sat in the rolling chair. There’s probably a dent in the desk.”

“That’s because you were probably hogging the chair, Steve.”

“What the fuck!” Steve’s smiling when he says it, lacking any sort of anger. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Your smile mirrors his, the way it always does. It’s contagious, you think, the way his eyes crinkle at the corner.

Shrugging, you say, “I don’t know, I’d wanna push you around on that chair too, I think.”

“You’d spin me too much. I’d get sick all over you and then nobody’s happy.”

“Don’t talk about barf while I’m eating, Harrington.”

You throw a piece of popcorn at him. It bounces off his cheek and lands on his lap, and he doesn’t even flinch. Steve just picks it up and pops it into his mouth.

When the bowl’s empty, you lean forward and set it on the coffee table before sinking back into the couch, Steve's shoulder brushing yours. You let the warmth seep through your clothes and shut your eyes.

It’s a little more than halfway through the movie when Steve realizes you’re asleep. You’d been quiet, sure, but Steve only thought that meant you were paying attention to the movie.

That was, until your head slipped and rested against his shoulder.

He looked down at you, at the hair falling across your forehead (he smoothed it away gently, so it wouldn’t be in your eyes or your mouth), your eyebrows relaxed and free of any worry, your chest rising and falling with steady breaths.

He thinks of how tired you must be, after everything. Your apartment and dealing with the aftermath both emotionally and physically, working long shifts most days to keep your bank account full.

Steve, though he doesn’t let himself look too deep into it, also thinks of how beautiful you are. Now and always.

Not wanting you to get a kink in your neck from the position, Steve decides to rouse you from sleep as gently as possible. He slips a hand under your head to keep it steady and maneuvers himself to kneel in front of you.

“Hey, angel,” he almost whispers, thumb dragging across your cheek. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

Your nose scrunches and you grumble, but after some coaxing, you blink your eyes open and squint at Steve. You blame your half-asleep mind on the way you nuzzle into his palm. “Hmm?”

“You fell asleep.”

“Oh, sorry,” you mumble.

Steve laughs softly. “Don’t be sorry, I just didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

The warmth of his hand leaves your cheek as he stands and holds his hands out for you to grab. He pulls you up off the couch and starts leading you towards the stairs.

You knuckle at your eyes on the way, a tiny smile gracing your face at how sweet Steve’s being. As if you haven’t fallen asleep on his couch plenty of times before.

Still sleepy, you stumble a little on the stairs, but Steve catches you easily with an arm around your waist and a small “Careful.”

He leaves his arm there the rest of the way to what’s become your bedroom, guiding you over to the bed and lifting the covers for you.

Tomorrow, you’ll regret not brushing your teeth or washing your face before climbing in bed. But today, you don’t feel like risking not being able to sleep again if you wake yourself up further.

You’re practically asleep again by the time you’re settled with your head on the pillow as Steve tugs the blankets over you.

You’re just awake enough to feel the light press of his lips on your forehead and a soft “Goodnight, angel” against your skin before he leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.

On a random Thursday that you and Steve both have off, he convinces you to let him take you to the mall.

“We should go shopping,” he says when you walk into the kitchen. It’s a little later in the morning, having slept in since it’s a day off, the sun slipping through the window in warm beams.

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Like, groceries?”

“No, like shopping shopping. You know, the mall?”

You lean against the kitchen island, the countertop cool on your back where it touches the sliver of skin between your tank top and sleep shorts. Steve has his shoulder against the fridge, his arms crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his t-shirt tight against his muscles. Not that you’re looking.

You squint at him, trying to find his motive on his face. “You literally buy whatever the mannequins are wearing to avoid shopping.”

“That’s what they’re there for!” The sass in his voice has you biting back a smile. “You need new clothes,” he continues, “and I need to get out of this house.”

“We can do something else, Steve,” you say. “I thought you hated shopping.”

“Well, I don’t hate you.” There’s a pause, Steve’s eyes lowering to that sliver of skin above your shorts. He flicks them back to your face quickly, hoping you didn’t notice, because even he’s not sure what compelled his eyes to wander. “Plus, Eddie called me a hermit the other day and I really can’t stand for that, can I?”

“Ohhh,” you ignore the way your skin suddenly feels warm beneath his gaze, “so you need to make a public appearance to prove Eddie wrong?”

“Exactly. We’ll replace some of the things you lost and restore my reputation. Two birds, one stone, right angel?”

So that’s how you’d ended up at the mall. After Starcourt burnt down, the closest place was a couple towns over, and Steve (as always) offered to drive.

He lets you pick the music the entire way, sings along when you hold your water bottle by his mouth like a microphone, even attempts to harmonize with you which just ends in laughter because neither of you sounded that great.

You’re a couple of stores in, and Steve’s been complaint-free so far—which makes sense, since this was his idea, but you’ve caught him side-eyeing some things, so you know he’s got some remarks in his head he just hasn’t said out loud—and follows you around as you browse. You try not to take too long, because you can’t imagine that this is any fun for him.

“How about that one?” Steve asks, pointing at one of the dresses hanging along the store’s wall.

He’d seen your apartment, though that was a bit ago, and he remembered what you’d lost the most of, along with the type of stuff you like. He pays attention like that, in small, quiet ways that you think mean the most.

He knows you. He cares enough to know you.

“Yeah, that’s really pretty, actually,” you admit.

At your approval, Steve grabs one in your size (which he also just happens to know) and adds it to the couple of things he’d already been holding for you. Every time you picked something up, he was quick to snatch it from you, telling you it was ‘too hard to browse with your hands full.’

After making your way through the rest of the store, you decided to head back to try things on, holding out a hand for the stuff Steve’s holding. “You can wait out here, I’ll be quick.”

“Hold on,” he says, holding the hangers out of your reach. “Why do you think I’m here, angel? I wanna help you pick.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. Give me a fashion show, yeah?”

“Oh my God,” you mumble, letting him follow you to the fitting rooms.

They’re hidden behind the back wall of the store, a hallway painted bright blue with pink changeroom doors on one side, and white benches along the other.

“Hi there,” an employee with auburn hair greets you both, her smile wide and kind, though you know it’s a practiced one. Customer service smile. “How many you got there, darling?”

“Oh, um,” you turn back towards Steve, who’s counting the hangers in his hand. “Five.”

“Perfect!” The girl takes the key hanging around her neck and unlocks one of the rooms for you. She takes the clothes from Steve and hangs them up inside for you, then turns to the two of you and says, “Your man can have a seat right here. We call them the ‘boyfriend benches.’”

“He’s not my-”

“Thanks,” Steve says, cutting off your correction because for some reason he didn’t want you to correct her.

Did he… like the idea of being your boyfriend?

Fuck. No. He just didn’t want you to have to explain the whole situation in your rambly way. That’s all.

The redhead smiles again, “Holler if you need anything,” she says before walking off.

You stand there for a second, something like confusion on your face. Did it look like you were boyfriend and girlfriend?

“Come on,” Steve says, snapping the both of you out of whatever that was. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“I can't believe you’re making me do this,” you say, walking into the fitting room and shutting the door.

You try on a couple of sweaters first, and Steve feels the fabric both times, making sure that it’s not scratchy on your skin. Then, there’s just some basic t-shirts that aren’t all that exciting, but Steve says they look nice anyway.

Finally, you get to the dress he picked out.

It really was pretty. A midi-length with a ruffled hem and straps that tie into little bows on your shoulders. You don’t always feel good in your clothes. Sometimes you wish you could crawl out of your skin when you look into the mirror, but right now, you don’t hate what you see.

You actually like it.

“Well?” Steve calls softly from the bench.

In response, you open the door and step out so he can see you.

Steve’s seen you in plenty of dresses—hell, you went to prom together—but for some reason this one makes his heart beat just a little bit quicker. Maybe it’s simply the fact that it looks great on you, or the way you’re smiling shyly as he looks you over.

Or, maybe it’s because he’s the one who picked it.

He stands up, spinning his finger in the air in a gesture for you to twirl. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, and he can’t take his eyes off of you. The hallway of fitting rooms isn’t very big, so with both of you in it, you’re standing toe to toe, the gold flecks in the middle of Steve’s eyes and the faint freckles that dot his nose are visible from where you stand.

As if he can’t help it, Steve lifts a finger and dips it beneath the strap on your shoulder. Not moving it or undoing it, just gliding along your skin where it sits.

“You look beautiful,” he says. His voice goes all quiet and soft when he says it, and his eyes widen a tiny bit, like he hadn’t meant it to slip out that way. It sounded… more than friendly. He clears his throat and steps back as much as he can in the small space, his finger leaving your skin. “I have great taste. Clearly.”

You blink at him, then shake yourself out of it as much as you can. “Yeah. Don’t let it get to your head.” You lift the tag where it hangs by your armpit and look at the price. You gasp and swat Steve’s arm. “Steve! Why would you let me walk into a place so expensive?”

You probably should’ve looked at the tag beforehand, but here you are. Steve, shrugging exaggeratedly, says, “I didn’t know!”

“Okay, I’m gonna change before she comes back. We can make a run for it.”

“We’re not stealing.”

“I know, but they look at you all judgemental when you try stuff on and don’t buy something. Trust me.”

You turn and go back into the fitting room to put on your own clothes, taking a look at the dress in the mirror one last time before shaking your head at yourself.

Steve, however, takes the opportunity to leave you and head back out into the store. He finds the dress easily and grabs another one in your size from the rack and heads to the cashier.

He’s just finishing up, bag in hand, when you walk out and meet him at the front of the store.

“For you,” he says, holding out the bag for you to take.

“Steve…” You grab it and look inside. Your chest aches when you see the dress, your heart suddenly too full and your stomach fluttering stupidly. “You didn’t have to do that. I would’ve been fine with something from the Gap.”

“I know that,” he says, a hand lifting to scratch at the back of his neck. It’s a nervous tick of his, and the thought of him being nervous right now makes you melt even more. “I wanted to get it for you. You looked too pretty in it not to have it.”

Your eyes catch his, and again, something passes between you that you don’t think you’ve ever felt before. A fizzle, a spark.

You rock back on your feet, looking down at the ground before meeting his eyes again. They’re so fucking soft it makes you wonder how lucky you have to be to have him in your life. Being your best friend, driving you to work even when he doesn’t have a shift, offering you a place to stay, buying you a dress.

He’s the sweetest boy you’ve ever known.

“Well,” you twist the straps of the bag around your fingers just to keep them busy. “Thank you, Steve. This is really nice.”

His knuckle traces down your arm just once, featherlight. “You’re welcome, angel.”

You don’t buy anything else after that, instead stopping at the food court for fries, stealing from each other’s baskets, smiling and slapping hands away.

It’s the best day you’ve had in a while.

You don’t think anything you do will convey just how grateful you are that Steve has been so kind to you. Always, but especially now. Letting you stay with him and refusing to let you pay rent. (“I don’t even pay rent, and I live here all the time.”)

But, this morning, you’ve decided you’re gonna try.

Steve’s favorite meal of the day happens to be breakfast, which is funny, considering he usually eats something as simple as cereal. He’d told you once that it was because, as a kid, breakfast was the most peaceful of meals, his parents too busy getting ready for work or wherever they were going that he’d have the kitchen table to himself.

Lunch was usually spent at school, and Steve was never a fan of school to begin with. Then there was dinner, which his parents (when they were home) still wanted to have all together. They’d ask him questions and make backhanded comments about every single answer he gave. He never won at dinner.

So, breakfast was, and has remained, his favorite.

You made sure to get up early enough to give yourself time to get everything ready before he wakes up. Steve’s usually the one making the coffee in the morning, and you figured the least you could do was give him a break.

Yesterday, while Steve had been at work, you went over to the Wheeler’s and asked Nancy if you could borrow their waffle maker. She’d directed the question to her mother, who went and grabbed it for you and handed it over with a smile. You promised to take good care of it and have it back in a couple of days.

By the time Steve walks into the kitchen, you’ve already made the batter and set out the toppings—berries, maple syrup, whipped cream—like a buffet. However, he just so happens to come in as you’re swearing at the waffle maker.

“Stupid fucking thing,” you mutter, trying to open it.

Steve smiles to himself before saying, “Morning, angel.”

You jump at his voice, not having heard him walk in. When you turn around, your heart beats for a different reason.

Steve’s still only in his pajama pants, plaid and soft, hanging low on his hips. And he’s shirtless, his chest smattered with hair and his skin a little tanned from the sun. He’s got beauty marks all over, like a constellation you could chart, and his abs are just visible beneath the soft of his stomach. A trail of hair leading to the waistband of his pants and disappearing beneath them.

You’ve seen Steve shirtless plenty of times. Swimming and sleeping over in the summer, in high school when you used to go to his practices, but it hits you harder for some reason this time.

The way his hair is still a mess from sleep, his eyes a bit heavy. The way it feels to be greeting him in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. Intimate. Domestic.

You clear your throat and turn back around to pry the waffle maker open, revealing a slightly burnt but otherwise good-looking waffle. “I’m making breakfast. Coffee’s already in the pot, too.”

He walks over, his chest close to your back as he grabs a mug from the cabinet above you before heading over to pour himself a cup. He looks at the spread you’ve prepared, “Waffles, huh? What did I do to deserve all this?”

“Just wanted to do something nice for you,” you say as Steve walks over to lean against the counter next to you, his hip barely touching yours. “To thank you, in a way. For letting me stay and the dress and-”

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop thanking me?” He says, though his voice is soft and still a bit rough from sleep. “I like having you around.”

“So you don’t want the waffles then?”

“Oh, I want the waffles. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything for me. It’s not some debt you’ll owe me, angel.”

“Want you to know I appreciate you is all,” you say, pouring a new scoop of batter into the waffle maker.

Steve, unsure of what exactly possesses him to do so, dips in and presses a kiss to the apple of your cheek, his lips a whisper away from your skin when he says, “I appreciate you, too.”

Then he pulls away and moves to set the table. Like it was natural.

And it was, in a way. How you moved around each other in the kitchen. You leaning out of the way when he needed to reach something you were blocking, him putting a hand on your lower back when he walked behind you so you knew he was there.

Your cheek still tingles from where he’d kissed it when you bring the plate of waffles to the table, your skin somehow even warmer under his gaze, like he’s still remembering exactly how it felt, too.

You sit in the chair beside Steve, not noticing the way he tugs it a bit closer to him with his foot before you sit down. Soon enough, both of you are digging in. Steve’s got more whipped cream on his plate than waffle (you tell him as much) and you’ve got your berries on the side the way you always do.

Neither of you work until later in the day, and it’s nice knowing that you can take your time. Steve tells you about the advice he gave Dustin about how to be ‘cooler’ in school (he’d told him that being cool is completely overrated, he knew from experience, and that being himself is the most important). You’d told him he was going soft with age.

You talk about anything at all. How Keith somehow manages both of your places of work, how he also somehow does both terribly. The way he says ‘if you have time to lean, you have time to clean’ while literally having Cheeto dust on his fingers. Laughing at each other’s impressions of him.

What the new highscores were at the arcade, what people were renting from Family Video.

You wonder what it’ll be like when you have to leave. When you’re living alone again.

Logically, you know you’ll still see Steve frequently, because he’s your favorite person and you can’t remember the last time you went longer than a few days without hanging out. Still, it’ll be different than right now, waking up in the same space and sharing breakfast and brushing your teeth side by side in the mirror.

You’ll miss it, you think.

Trying not to dwell on something that’s still a few weeks away, you take another bite of your waffle. Steve catches your chin and wipes off a bit of whipped cream from the corner of your mouth, then pulling away and sucking it off his thumb.

He goes back to his own plate without a thought. Like touching you just now was an instinct.

Then, he teases you, “These are a little crispy, angel. Maybe you should stick to letting me make breakfast in this household.”

You kick his leg under the table. “That’s a funny way of saying ‘thank you,’ Harrington.”

He kicks you back, much gentler than you’d been. “Thank you.”

“That’s what I thought.”

When you look at him, there’s an easy, boyish smile on his face.

A similar one stretches across your own lips.

Steve has had the thought pop up into his head a couple of times, that maybe he should’ve just asked you to live with him before you ever bought that apartment. Because having you around feels the most right things have ever felt in his house.

And though the circumstances of your moving in with him (temporarily, he has to remind himself), were far from ideal, he can’t lie and say that he isn’t glad that you’ve ended up sharing his space.

The room across the hall will always be yours, even when you move back to your place.

He knows that you feel indebted to him for all of it, but if anyone owes the other something, he feels like it’s him. For everything you’ve ever done for him. Sticking around even when he was an asshole in highschool, defending him to his parents whenever you’d cross paths, simply being the kind of friend he needed.

Even when you’re not around, he can picture your face, the way your smile spreads slowly until you’re fucking beaming. Worse, the way you cried into his chest that day at your apartment.

He remembers the crack in your voice when you spoke about that picture frame from summer camp. Though he hasn’t seen you cry since, or even bring it up, he’s decided he wants to fix it. He’d told you he would.

Dustin wound up roped into his plan: find a similar frame, decorate it the exact same way, and scour the photo albums in Steve’s room for his copy of that same picture.

When he was younger, the photo albums pissed him off, because they were purely for show. Pictures of his family that were all fake smiles. Now, he’s glad for them, because at least he has some good memories to look back on. To know it wasn’t always all bad.

Steve probably should’ve thought that one through, because when they looked through his albums, he was on the receiving end of relentless teasing from Dustin. (“Dude, you have an insane boogie in this picture.” “I was four!”)

He hopes it’ll be worth it.

Dustin was the one who found the picture they’d been looking for, and he cheered and waved it in Steve’s face as if they’d been racing.

Now, after driving Dustin back home, decorating the frame the way the two of you did as kids, trying to make his handwriting look like it did back then (which wasn’t too difficult, ‘cause Steve’s writing still isn’t that neat), he’s waiting for you to come downstairs before giving it to you.

He’d picked you up after your shift at the arcade not too long ago, but he knows you like to shower and change as soon as you get home from work, so he’d taken the opportunity to wrap the frame and have it ready for you.

Steve can hear you singing in the shower, and he knows you’re done when it goes quiet. A few minutes later you’re walking down the stairs in a baggy t-shirt and silky sleep shorts.

His eyes, for some reason, linger on your legs for a second.

He stands up, frame in his hand, when you walk over. “I have something for you.”

“Steve! Stop buying me things. Seriously.”

“This thing was free, so you can’t even be mad,” he says, smiling almost sheepishly.

Your eyes search his face, flickering between his own and dipping down to his lips and his nose and back to his eyes. He looks… nervous.

Steve’s never nervous around you.

“Okay,” you say, shuffling on your feet. “What is it?”

“Here,” he hands you the poorly-wrapped frame. “Open it.”

You scrunch your brows at him once, because you have no idea what it could be. It isn’t your birthday, or any sort of holiday at all. With zero guesses, you look down at the light yellow wrapping paper in your hands and slowly tear it open.

What you find makes your eyes grow misty, tears pooling at your lash line but not quite falling.

It’s your favorite picture, the one of you and Steve in those stupid neon shirts with messy hair and dirt on your hands. Only now, it’s not water damaged, and the frame is new, but decorated just like the old one. You run your thumbs over the glass lightly, smiling down at little you and little Steve.

When you look back up at him, he’s already looking at you, his brown eyes all warm, his smile kind but also worried, waiting for your reaction.

Seeing his face springs you into motion, jumping forward and wrapping your arms around his neck tightly with the frame still in your hand. “Thank you,” you say into his skin.

Steve’s arms move to hold you around your waist without a thought. A reflex. They squeeze you close to him, his nose pressed into your damp hair, smelling your shampoo.

“It’s not perfect,” he says. “But I know how much you love that picture, and I wanted to fix it.”

“Steve. Shut up. It is perfect.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he says, his thumbs running back and forth against your back.

You hug for what could’ve been minutes, but neither of you moves to pull away first. You’re not sure if it’s still considered friendly to stand in each other's arms, breathing each other in, for so long, but you don’t care at the moment.

This is probably the nicest thing anyone’s done for you in a long, long time.

When you finally do pull away, you don’t go far. Your arms stay slung over his shoulders, Steve’s hands framing your hips. His thumbs still dragging those sweet patterns against you.

“I’m keeping it forever,” you tell him.

“You sure?” he asks.

“Certain. You’ll always be my best friend, Steve.”

“You’ll always be mine too, angel.”

Then, your eyes both move to each other’s lips, yours flick back up in a second, startled at their wandering.

Steve, however, is a bit transfixed. He looks at the slope of your cupid’s bow, the way your lips are shiny from your lip balm. He thinks it quickly, like a gust of wind that can’t be stopped: I really wanna kiss her right now.

Fuck. He wants to kiss his best friend.

He blinks a few times, clearing his throat and pulling back, letting his hands fall from your waist as yours slide off his shoulders. He misses the feel of your touch immediately, but he’s too freaked out and confused to do anything about it.

“What are you in the mood for tonight?” he asks, cutting off his own thoughts. “I brought back a horror and a comedy. Take your pick.”

“Mmm,” he picks up two tapes from the coffee table and holds them up for you to choose from. “Horror. Unless you’re too scared?”

“You’ll just have to hold my hand, then, won’t you?”

“I guess I will.”

You look back at the picture while Steve puts the movie into the player. You smile at it every time you see it, because you can still see parts of Steve in him now that were in him then.

His eyes, always kind, the way he smiles when he laughs, and about a half hour into the movie, the way he holds your hand and squeezes it when he’s scared.

You’re having one of those nights. The kind where sleep seems to be fighting you.

You worked a closing shift at the arcade, which usually lasts until late considering how long you’re open plus all of the cleaning you have to do afterwards. Today was no different, and despite how much later you finish than him at Family Video, Steve waited and drove you home. He hung out in the arcade with you until close, actually.

You’d think that after such a long day, the second your head hit the pillow you’d be out and breathing steadily. Today, that is not the case. You fell asleep for maybe an hour before a nightmare woke you up. You can’t quite remember what happened, only that you’d been yelling for Steve and he wasn’t there.

Groaning quietly, you rub your eyes and toss the blankets away. You stand up and head down to the kitchen in the dark, hand trailing along the walls to make sure you don’t bump into anything.

Just as you’re pouring yourself a glass of water, you hear the shuffle of sleepy footsteps coming into the kitchen.

“Holy shit,” he says, walking over to grab a glass, one hand on his bare chest. “I thought you were a ghost or something just now.”

You shift out of the way to let him get some water just like you did, taking the second that he’s distracted to look at him. His hair a mess, wearing nothing but his boxers. You take a big sip from your glass.

“I feel like I should be offended right now,” you say, “if you think I look like a ghost.”

“Shut up,” he says, dragging out the second word. His voice being rough from sleep makes his words sound much warmer than they are. “My eyes aren’t awake yet. Nothing to do with you, angel.”

You shake your head, though there’s a soft smile on your face the way there always seems to be when you try to be annoyed with Steve. You tilt your head at him, asking, “Couldn’t sleep?”

He shakes his head. “Been tossing and turning. Just can’t get comfortable, then I got pissed ‘cause I couldn’t get comfortable and only made it worse.”

“You would get pissed at that. Probably slapped your pillow like it was at fault.”

He folds his lips inwards and blinks at you. Because he did smack his pillow and call it a dipshit. “Why do you know everything? Spying on me?”

“Hate to say it, but you’re getting predictable, Harrington.” You shrug, then move to put your now empty glass in the dishwasher. “I know you too well.”

He looks at you, your hair falling across your shoulders, your pajama shorts riding up a little as you bend down. The moonlight slipping through the window seems to hit you perfectly. Like a halo.

Fitting, he thinks. You’re his angel, after all.

“Yeah, you do,” he agrees. Then, “What about you? Why’re you up?”

“Nightmare. Been forever since I had one.”

“You okay?” he asks, trailing a knuckle over your shoulder, pushing your hair behind it.

“Yeah,” you say, skin tingling where he’d touched you. “I can't even remember most of it, but now my brain won’t let me sleep.”

Steve wishes he could’ve protected you from whatever haunted you in your sleep. It’s silly, he knows, to think he might be able to ward away anything that hurts you, but he wants to, nonetheless.

He thinks about how comfortable he is whenever you cuddle during movie night. Your head on his shoulder or his chest, his hand on your back or waist.

So, he blurts, “Why don’t you sleep over?”

You furrow your brows at him, “Um, I’ve been sleeping over. A couple of weeks now, actually.”

“No, I mean, like in my room with me,” he says, suddenly shy at the idea. He’s grateful for the darkness, because he can feel his cheeks warming up. “A proper sleepover.”

You’ve done it before. Shared a bed a bunch of times, but for some reason your heart jumps when he says it. Your stomach swirls as you say, maybe a little too quickly, “Okay.”

Steve’s eyes widen like he’s surprised, just for a split second, before a soft smile takes over his face. He holds out a hand for you to take, “C’mon.”

Soon enough, Steve’s lifting his navy bedspread for you, letting you slip into bed next to him. He stays further away at first, letting you settle and lay on your side the way he knows you always do.

You blame sleepiness—or, maybe, the lack thereof—for the way you reach behind you for his arm and tug him closer, draping it over your own waist.

He obliges, of course, his arm securing itself across your stomach, palm spread out and warm against your sleep shirt. His chest is only a breath away from your back, though he keeps his lower half a little more distanced.

His thumb runs circles over your shirt, once, twice, three times before stilling, his forehead pressing to the back of your neck.

“Goodnight, angel,” he says into your hair.

Your hand splays itself on top of his. “Night, Steve.”

And suddenly your eyes grow heavier, and sleep doesn’t feel like much of a battle anymore.

You wake up the most rested you’ve felt in a while. There’s warmth surrounding you, but not the uncomfortable kind. The kind that feels safe.

Somehow, you and Steve are even closer than you’d been when you fell asleep. His arm is still around your waist, his other outstretched and tucked beneath your head like a pillow. His chest is flush to your back, and you can feel it expand with every breath he takes.

Most differently of all, however, is the way his hips are snug against the curve of your butt. And you can feel him hard against you.

Your skin feels even warmer than before when you notice.

Steve hasn’t woken up yet, you don’t think, because the faintest snores are getting puffed out against your shoulder where his face is tucked. His hand on your stomach has worked its way beneath your shirt, though, and his fingertips press against your skin, like he’s fighting to keep you close.

As if you’d go anywhere even in your sleep.

His knee is tucked between your legs, and you’re quickly realizing that it’d be pretty impossible to get out of bed without him noticing. You’re completely tangled together, a knot of limbs somehow fitting together just right. Like two puzzle pieces.

In his sleep, Steve’s mouth presses against the back of your shoulder, and only when you involuntarily shiver at the contact, does he stir.

It takes Steve a bit to really wake up, mumbling words that don’t make sense, scrunching his eyes shut even further before blinking them open. He’s met with the sight of you right in front of him. Body curved perfectly against his.

“Steve? You awake?” you ask, checking.

“Mhm,” he hums.

Then, something that has his cheeks flushing pink, he registers the feeling of his boner pressed against your ass. He shuffles them back enough so there’s space between you. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say. Because he can’t control the way his body reacts while he’s asleep.

“I didn’t think-” he cuts himself off, because he’s not quite sure how to say I didn’t think about the whole morning wood factor or that I’d fucking plaster myself to you when I suggested a sleepover without sounding stupid. Instead, he just repeats, “I’m sorry.”

You twist yourself around to face him, sheets crumpling and twisting as you move. When you settle back onto the pillow and look at his face, at the redness on his cheeks and the tips of his ears, you squeeze his hand that’s now laying between you.

“It’s okay, really,” you say. “It’s, like, anatomy. You’re human, Steve.”

“I don’t want you to think I invited you to sleep in here for some pervy reason,” he says, scrunching his nose when he says it.

“I don’t think that at all,” you tell him. You squeeze his hand again. “We’ve shared a bed like, a hundred times by now. If anything I’m surprised this hasn’t happened already.”

“Oh my God,” he groans, shutting his eyes and pushing his face into the pillow.

“Steve,” you drag out his name, fighting a giggle at the way he’s acting. He’s got a reputation, after all, and how shy and embarrassed he seems to be doesn’t reflect the things you heard about him in high school. He’s changed a lot since then. “It’s seriously fine. We can pretend it never happened. Promise.”

Steve pulls his face from the pillow, eyes catching yours as his fingers squeeze yours back in appreciation. He lets his eyes wander a bit, at the messy bits of your hair around your face from sleeping, the marks in your cheek from the pillowcase, the way your sleep shirt has fallen off your shoulder.

He feels lucky to get to see you this way, right after you’ve woken up. Vulnerable, unguarded, beautiful.

It’s during this small stretch of silence that you realize how close your faces are now. You’re sharing a pillow, his nose not even an inch from yours. Shift forward the slightest bit, and they’d be touching. Your eyes trail down to his mouth, to the visible patch of chest hair and the freckles that dot his skin. He’s already looking right at you when your eyes flick back upwards.

You know Steve, could tell what he’s feeling just from the look on his face, but this is one you’ve never seen before. At least, not directed at you.

Steve moves first, his eyes a little darker than usual, shifting forward slightly, then looking at you. Daring you to make the next move.

“What if we didn’t forget about it?” he says. Quiet and scratchy.

You don’t have time to think before you move forward a bit, too. Your noses brush. “What would that mean?”

Steve doesn’t answer with words. Rather, he moves forward the final bit and brushes his lips against yours in a question mark of a kiss, giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, the hand of yours that isn’t still holding his comes up to the back of his neck, gently encouraging him to do it again. His free hand tightens at your waist as he dips in a second time.

It isn’t as tentative now that you’ve urged him on. His lips meet yours more sure, more firm, but still soft against you. Neither of you cares one bit about morning breath, or about what this might change. As if the morning’s haze slows time, minds still a little sleepy.

You’re simply acting on instinct. And this feels too right to stop.

Soon enough it grows more heated, Steve shifting to hover over you, his elbows pushing into the mattress to hold himself up, his tongue sneaking out to lick against the seam of your lips for permission.

Just as you open up for him, the blaring sound of Steve's alarm cuts you off, pulling back with a gasp. He simply leans up on one arm and slams the snooze button—and you laugh, you laugh, at how hard he hits it—before diving back into you.

You feel hot all over, where one of Steve’s hands has moved to cup your jaw, his thumb running delicately against your face as his mouth moves against yours, practically devouring you. Where the blankets are still over your lower halves, trapping in heat. When he pulls back, looks into your eyes, fucking smiles all dopey and pretty, and then kisses you again.

It’s so good, you’re almost angry at yourself for not kissing him sooner.

You kiss until his alarm goes off again and Steve's forced to pry himself away from you, groaning about being on his ‘last tardy warning’ from Keith.

Still, he takes the time to kiss your forehead on his way out, Family Video vest slung over his shoulder, calling a sweet, “bye, angel,” on his way out. His hair’s still a mess from your fingers, and he doesn’t even seem to mind.

You stay in his bed longer than you probably should, blinking up at the ceiling, fingers pressed against your lips like you’re searching for physical proof that everything was real.

What the fuck just happened?

It’s been a couple of weeks, and Steve can’t stop thinking about that kiss. He doesn’t know it, but you can’t stop thinking about it either.

Neither of you have brought it up, and things have faded back to normal as if it had never happened. But you and Steve are both thinking the same things without knowing it. How good and natural and easy it felt, how, every now and then, you think about doing it again.

You talk and joke and watch movies and eat meals together the same way you always have, and it’d be so easy to stay that way, to never kiss again. But then, what if you could stay that way and kiss? Wouldn’t that be something close to perfect?

You lay awake thinking about it every few nights. Because, when you really reflect on your life and how intertwined it is with Steve’s, you realize that you’ve sort of always acted like a couple, minus the kissing and sex aspect. You go on what could easily be classified as dates—the movies, lunch or dinner—you cuddle on the couch almost nightly, and you’ve never shied away from physical touch with one another. Held hands, a palm on your back.

You haven’t brought it up with Steve because you haven’t even come to terms with it yourself. Feelings are so fucking confusing and messy and you’d like to have a better idea of what’s going on in your own head before asking him about his.

Meanwhile, Steve has allowed himself to come to terms with it. He’s in love with you.

He’s pretty sure he has been for a while. Months, maybe even years.

It hadn’t come easily, though. It was nights spent similarly to yours, running through interactions you’ve had and the way he felt that one time in senior year when you went on a date with some guy from your math class. Even then, a part of him felt wrong about it, that pit in his gut.

Then there were his shifts with Robin at Family Video where he’d practically spilled everything just to get her opinion. She looked up and sighed “thank you” before saying that it was nice of him to finally catch on.

Had he really been that obvious? All this time? And had he really been that oblivious to his own feelings?

Steve can’t answer those questions. He can’t say when his love for you changed from platonic to romantic, he just knows that it has and he doesn’t think he’ll ever come back from it.

You’re his best friend in the entire world, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, and he can’t picture himself loving anyone but you so wholly.

He’s fucking terrified of losing you, but he’s also terrified of never telling you how he feels and testing that what if.

So, like a desperate idiot, he knocks on the door to Eddie’s trailer.

Eddie opens it after a minute and what sounded like him stubbing his toe, “oh, hey Harrington. More weed?”

“No, shut up. I need your help.”

“You,” Eddie points at Steve, then at himself, “need my help for something? Are you ill?”

“Okay,” Steve, dramatic and bitchy as usual, sighs and mutters something about this being a stupid idea and turns to leave.

“Come on,” Eddie laughs, “I’m just joking. What’s up?”

Soon enough, Steve’s sitting on Eddie’s couch, Eddie pacing in front of the coffee table like this is a very serious matter, and telling him pretty much everything. Your kiss, the train of thought it sparked.

“Basically I’m in love with her and I have no clue what to do,” Steve finishes, sinking back into the couch cushions. It squeaks as he shifts.

Eddie pauses, tugging at his bottom lip between his fingers, then looks at Steve and says, “You know I’ve never dated anyone in my life, right?”

Steve groans into his hands, “Why do all of my friends have to be losers with no dating lives.”

Eddie ignores that, because he can tell how affected Steve actually is by all of this. How much he cares. He walks over and sits down on the opposite end of the couch. “Have you ever thought of, I don’t know, telling her how you feel?”

Steve rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and letting his head hang for a moment before picking it up. “Of course I have, but I’m fuckin’ scared.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Um, she could reject me and not feel the same way and everything would be awkward because I ruined it and I’d lose my best friend in the entire world.”

“What if she does feel the same?” Eddie asks.

He’s both yours and Steve’s friend, he’s been around the both of you together. He’s seen the way you look at each other. Eddie might not be an expert, but it’s always looked a lot like love to him. He’s pretty sure the chances of you feeling the same are quite high.

“What do you mean?”

“What if she does feel the same and you never figure it out because you’re too afraid?” Eddie says. “Man, don’t you think that risk is worth taking?”

Steve thinks about it, and as much as he hates to admit it, Eddie’s right. He’d hate to always wonder, to lose out on the chance to really be with you when he knows it could be so good.

You are worth the risk to him.

“When the fuck did you become so wise, Munson?”

“Dunno,” Eddie shrugs. “Wanna smoke?”

Steve laughs, “Yes I do.”

With Steve gone at work and you off for the day, there’s been too much room for your thoughts to creep in. Too much silence.

You’ve already been thinking about things so much. Thinking about him so much, that in his absence, your mind seemed to work overtime to fill in the gaps.

You thought about the day he picked you up from your apartment, how quick he was to drop whatever he’d been doing and come over and help you and take you home with him. The day he took you shopping and bought you a dress because he thought you looked pretty in it, the way his fingers fiddled with the strap on your shoulder when you tried it on for him.

The day he gifted you a remade version of your favorite picture from summer camp because he knew how much it meant to you, the way you held on to each other afterwards.

How you’d been waiting for him to get home that night he went to Eddie’s, just to make sure he was okay. How when he came in, he smiled at the sight of you curled on the couch, and he kissed your cheek when he walked by like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Your brain knew he was high, you could smell the weed mingling with his cologne on his clothes when he leaned in close, but your heart didn’t care about that. It thumped in your chest the second he leaned in closer, even worse when his lips touched your cheek.

The realization hits you now like a shock, a quick zip of electricity running through your system. You fucking love him.

Sure, you’ve loved Steve practically your whole life, but this was different. You love him, love him. Like, you want to kiss him when he comes home from work and in the morning. You want him to introduce you as his girlfriend and to be able to call him your boyfriend.

You feel stupid for not realizing it sooner, because looking back on things now, knowing how you feel, you can see it written throughout your entire friendship. Holding hands and kissing foreheads and hands pushing hair away from faces.

For a second, you’re purely happy, because you get to be in love with your best friend and it feels as warm and sweet as sunlight. Then, the fear creeps in, and you’re scared. Scared of losing him, of making things weird, of change and doing the wrong thing.

So scared that you start to panic and pack up some of your things in your bag like you’re running away.

Truthfully, you’re not sure what else to do. You’ve never been in love before, you’ve never known it this way—so kind and unconditional. And your parents sure as hell didn’t set a good example for you. They’d fight, and someone would leave with the slam of a door, and then they’d be back and the cycle would continue.

You’re scared and confused and your instincts are telling you to run away even though the only place you really wanna be is with Steve. In his arms.

You’re stuffing clothes into your bag just to keep your hands busy, breathing hard and fast, when you hear the front door open and close. Steve’s quick to find you, his eyes scanning your room and then looking at you. “What are you doing?”

You feel like you might cry just looking at him. His brown eyes worried but warm as always, his hands stuffed into his pockets like he’s nervous.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be home until later,” you say, hoping he can’t hear the shake in your voice.

“It was dead, so Keith let me off early. I-” Steve furrows his brows, “are you leaving?”

You nod. “I’ve been in your way long enough.”

“I told you, you’re never in my way.” Steve knows you, and he loves you, and he can tell that there’s something going on. That you’re panicked and trying to get away from whatever it is. He cares too much to let that happen. “I want you to stay.”

You want to stay, too. You just don’t know what comes next, and that unknown, the lack of control, of familiarity, it makes your hands shake.

Your mind doesn’t work the same when you’re afraid.

“Give me one good reason why I should stay, Steve. I’ve been taking up your space for weeks and-”

“Because I love you.” Steve cuts you off. He hadn’t planned on telling you this way, he wanted it to be romantic and perfect but he can’t wait any longer. Especially not when you’re trying to run away. “I’m in love with you. And I want you here.”

You immediately stop in your tracks, blinking up at him like you’re not sure you’d heard him correctly. “You- what?”

“I love you. Romantically. And I think I have for a really long time.”

“You’re not high again, are you?” You ask, your eyes a little misty.

Steve walks over to you and grabs both of your hands in his, making sure you’re looking at him, at the sincerity written all over his face, when he says, “Completely sober. I fucking love you and I want you to keep living with me, because this house doesn’t really feel like home unless you’re in it.”

“What about when my apartment is ready?”

He squeezes your hands. “Stay then, too. Stay forever.”

You look up at him, his hair falling over his forehead, his eyes so honest, a tentative smile on his mouth. The only boy you’ve ever loved.

You feel silly for trying to escape this when this is how it’s turning out. Steve had been brave just now, telling you he loves you and he wants you to stay, so you decide to be brave, too.

It’s easier than you thought it would be to say: “I love you, too, Steve. I feel the same. I only just realized it and freaked out. I’m so scared of losing you, is all.”

“You won’t. Not ever.”

You tip your chin up to kiss him after he says it, because you can. You pour your feelings into it, and Steve returns your kiss as if it’s one he’s known for years. It’s slow, and deep, and sweet, and so full of love you’re practically overflowing with it.

The two of you only pull away when you need a breather. Steve doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours.

“So what happens now?” You ask.

“Well, we’ve been acting like a couple for a while, I think, so we stay the same. Mostly. Except now I get to call you my girlfriend-”

“Um, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to ask me first.”

He lets go of one of your hands and pushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckle running lovingly across your cheek. “My angel girl, will you be my girlfriend?”

Your grin is wide and lovesick and cheesy and you don’t care one bit. “Yeah, yes I will. Boyfriend.”

“And, being your boyfriend means I get to do this.”

He kisses you once more. And you don’t ever want to not be kissing him again.

𝜗𝜚

thank you guys so much for reading!!! it would mean a whole bunch if you would consider leaving a comment or a reblog and letting me know what you think!! it helps more than you know <3

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flopsxii · 9 months ago

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tokyo revengers boys with their crush (aka you!) <3

feat. sano ‘mikey’ manjiro, ryuguji ‘draken’ ken, hanagaki takemichi, baji keisuke, matsuno chifuyu, hanemiya kazutora, mitsuya takashi, inui seishu && kokonoi hajime

notes: first time writing for so many characters and some for the first time :0 i hope it isn’t ass!!! sorry if some characters i haven’t written for before are ooc and inaccurate! ALSO I HATE SQUID GAME BUT TRANS BADDIE.

— i will release a part two soon :)

sano ‘mikey’ manjiro

ꪆৎ i think mikey would be somewhat upfront with you about his crush. of course, he wouldn’t outright confess until he knew you shared the same sentiment. however, he’d make it fairly obvious that he thought highly of you and how he loves spending time with you over anyone else.

ꪆৎ he’d definitely ‘kidnap’ you from classes, begging you to leave because it’s an “emergency”, but really he just wanted to spend time with you. you’d scold him after, reminding him about the importance of school, but he’d just stand there with a love struck smile on his face. it didn’t matter wether you were lecturing him or ignoring him, being in your presence was enough to bring him happiness.

ꪆৎ his crush is blankly obvious to all of toman and probably other gangs in the near vicinity. no one dared to talk to you in a negative way, a bonus of having mike’s affections. and suddenly, if anyone was mean to you, it didn’t happen anymore… sometimes you wondered why but mikey would shush you immediately. “maybe they just realised that bringing down such an amazing person was a reflection of themselves, y/n-chan!”

ꪆৎ would love it when you accompany him on foodie ‘dates’, rides on his motorbike and even accompanying him to toman’s meetings. it genuinely shocked everyone when mikey would interrupt himself to stick his tongue out at you just to make you giggle. truly toman’s royalty!

ꪆৎ also would most likely pitch up at your house at random points of the day. even as ‘friends’, he’d want to nap together and just hang out alone where he wouldn’t have to maintain his reputation as the ‘invincible mikey’. with you, he could just be manjiro.

ꪆৎ in terms of confession, i think mikey would let it slip out when he’s most vulnerable. either when he’s super sleepy or just generally having a rough time. small whispers of how much he appreciates you and likes you would fall from his lips. once he realised what he had done, it was most likely too late to take it back. he just hoped you shared the same feelings.

ryuguji ‘draken’ ken

ꪆৎ unlike his best friend and captain, draken would keep his feelings to himself and it probably would stay that way for a while. it’s not because he doesn’t wanna be with you, in fact, it’s the opposite! he’d most likely think that a relationship with him would come hand in hand with people jeopardising your safety. so more likely than most, he’d stick to being your friend (a very close friend) until he knew you’d be safe.

ꪆৎ probably would trail behind you whilst you’d go shopping, a unreadable expression on his face but instead, his mind was overwhelmed by the thought of you! how adorable you looked as you pointed out cute things, making a mental note of items to buy you for your birthday.

ꪆৎ definitely would be the first one at your door if you came down with any sickness. even if it was a common cold! he’d remind you that sickness could get worse if left untreated and you should ‘stop denying him and just accept his help.’

ꪆৎ he’s immensely protective over you, even if he doesn’t necessarily need to be. other toman members would try and remind draken that he doesn’t need to be worried over your safety, after all the whole of toman would take care of you!

ꪆৎ i also feel like draken would be the type to pick you up and drop you off before and after school. even if the walk was 10 minutes and under, he’d remind you it could be dangerous alone! it’s purely just an excuse to spend more time with you even if he does act like it’s a chore.

ꪆৎ would probably confess to you if there’s imminent danger towards you or it would slip out without him realising. he’d definitely have to take a couple moments to compose himself if it was the latter, a furious blush erupting over his cheeks causing you to giggle.

hanagaki takemichi

ꪆৎ he’s so so shy around you! however, no matter how much he makes a fool of himself in front of you, he just can’t stay away. it’s like he’s in a constant state of fluster whenever he’s in your presence.

ꪆৎ definitely walks you to and from school, holding your hand if you initiate it first. he would probably also try carry your school books for you, even if you remind him that your arms work just fine. he just wants to help you in anyway he can!

ꪆৎ would also 100% feel awful when he sees the sad expression on your face whenever he turns up with new bruises and cuts covering his face. his heart would break when you graze your fingers over the wounds, asking a meek “do they hurt, michi-kun?”

ꪆৎ also the type to try show off to you whenever he can but fail miserably. although, if he sees that amazing smile, the humiliation he feels is always worth it! even if he ends up hurting himself, he won’t mind if you make sure he’s okay after. maybe a hug wouldn’t hurt also…

ꪆৎ speaking of hugs, he’d probably malfunction the first time that your arms wrap around him. even if you were doing it out of worry for his wellbeing, he cherishes the moment for the rest of his life.

ꪆৎ he doesn’t confess… it’s actually you who tells him how you feel. it’s a heartfelt conversation you two share after you see the boy beaten to a bloody pulp so that his friends would be alright. his loyalty and tenacity being one of the few reasons why you adore him so much!

baji keisuke

ꪆৎ honestly, he’s the definition of whipped. even chifuyu is surprised when he sees how baji acts in your presence. it’s so impossibly clear how much baji likes you to anyone else in the room, except you!

ꪆৎ he’d probably start fancying you if you helped with his studies and actually persevered with him despite how difficult he tried to make it. initially, he’d deny your help, grumpily saying he can handle it and to leave him alone. however, when you sit across from him and start reading through your notes and helping him correct his wrong answers, he’s floored. any other person would’ve left after his shitty response but you stayed.

ꪆৎ would act like your best friend but to anyone else, they view you as baji’s partner (albeit unofficially). is fiercely protective over you and if anyone makes you upset (even a little bit) are met with baji’s anger and very soon after, his fists. of course, you lecture him for jumping into action without consulting you but the fact he cares so much makes your heart beat impossibly faster.

ꪆৎ would definitely invite you over to his house to hang out, just so he could have some time alone with you. even if it’s just you reading and him silently laying beside you, it’s almost heaven to baji. if it was heaven, you’d be spilling your undying love for him but he thinks he wouldn’t be so lucky.

ꪆৎ would also end up sometimes bringing you to toman meetings if he absolutely has no other choice. but you’d stick by his side the whole time and if he’s not available for some reason, chifuyu is there to stand in!

ꪆৎ much like takemichi, you’d have to confess to baji first or you’d be playing cat and mouse with him for the rest of eternity. even his mum knows how he feels but he’ll deny every accusation. however, she’s just happy her hot headed son has someone he cares about and she’s so happy it’s you!

matsuno chifuyu

ꪆৎ chifuyu is definitely the type to crush on his best friend! someone he shares such a deep bond with and trusts on an immensely deep level. i doubt he’d fancy someone he knows on a surface level, he doesn’t know them well enough. however, he knows you inside and out, it never feels awkward around you (despite the constant blush on his cheeks that he hides everytime).

ꪆৎ he’s definitely protective over you, along side baji who will take care of you if chifuyu isn’t around. if he sees anyone hassling you, he’s the first to jump in and defend your honour!

ꪆৎ he always invites you round to his house just to see you cuddle peke j. furthermore, he’ll take you to the zoo, aquariums or just pet shops to hang out since you both share the same sentiment towards animals. it’s one of the reasons he’s fallen so hard for you.

ꪆৎ his mum adores your ‘friendship’ with her son, she’s never seen him so happy (in a romantic way!). she will buy food specially for you to share and even sometimes drop devious hints in your ears about her sons feelings; you don’t take it seriously at first.

ꪆৎ he probably doesn’t initiate physical contact with you too much, it makes his brain overload. but, the option is there… he will without a doubt wrap you in a bear hug; savouring the feeling for as long as possible.

ꪆৎ chifuyu is definitely the type to try reenact scenes from his favourite mangas then make a complete fool of himself. however, he doesn’t know that you appreciate him trying nonetheless, no matter how silly he looks doing so.

ꪆৎ following his shoujo manga’s ideology, he’d confess in a subtle but heartfelt way. i think either using peke j as a messenger, a small note tucked into his little collar. or he’d tell you up front and be as sincere with his words as his silly brain would allow.

hanemiya kazutora

ꪆৎ it’s likely that no one knows that kazutora has a crush on anyone, most of all you. i think he wouldn’t interact with you that much in public, instead opting to spend time with you in private when he could truly be himself.

ꪆৎ the amount of times kazutora has to cover his raging blush on his cheeks each time you hang out is insane! he never knew that compliments he hears on the daily about his appearance could make his heart beat so fast, until they came out of your mouth.

ꪆৎ he definitely visits you if you have a job, sneaking in and surprising you with a huge smile on his face! he’s also the type to stay until your shift ends and make sure you get home safely, wether you ride on his motorcycle or not.

ꪆৎ he may also sometimes slip you unexpected gifts, only small ones though that have sentimental value. maybe it’s cinema tickets from the time you dragged him out after his release from juvie.

ꪆৎ he doesn’t want you involved with any gang activity so it’s quite unlikely that you find out he’s still involved with that stuff. however, he would tell you flat out if you heard any rumours about him and would reassure you that he’d keep you seperate.

ꪆৎ it’s unlikely he’d confess, liking things how they are, no matter how much he wishes your relationship could progress. either he’s worried you’d see him as a monster, due to things he did in the past and in the present or he just wouldn’t know how to say it so it’s better left unsaid anyways. it would have to be you to lay your feelings out for him to see and decide what to do next.

mitsuya takashi

ꪆৎ i think mitsuya would be one of the most upfront about his feelings on this list without saying it directly. toman can clearly see the sentiment he shares for you, even girls in his class and sewing club know that he’s essentially spoken for!

ꪆৎ he loves inviting you along to his days out with his sisters. not only because he loves spending time with you but also because the two girls adore you as much as he does! one of his favourite photographs is the four of you on one of your days out, a scarf he made wrapped around your neck.

ꪆৎ speaking of clothes he’s made; mitsuya definitely surprises you with new pieces every so often. even if you’d try refuse, telling him he should try sell them as they’re just that good, he’d remind you that he’d much rather see them on you and wants no payment in return (no matter how much you insist).

ꪆৎ gentleman mitsuya always gives you a ride no matter where you need to go! even if you mention in passing that you’re going shopping in the coming days, he will insist that he’s your ride! after all, he can’t stand by whilst you lug heavy bags home.

ꪆৎ once mitsuya is certain about your feelings reflecting his, he’d be direct with his words. “i have feelings for you, y/n-chan.” a simple statement that gets the biggest weight off his chest. he can only hope you accept his confession…

inui seishu

ꪆৎ you’re most likely a childhood friend to seishu, i find it unlikely he’d fancy a classmate or a passing stranger. perhaps, a childhood friends sibling? that way, he’s able to determine wether you actually like him for who he is.

ꪆৎ alongside kokonoi, he trusts you immensely. i highly doubt he’s able to form romantic feelings for anyone without the formation of trust. you’re his confident and he’s yours, and it has always been that way. at this point, seishu is unable to see himself confiding with anyone else the way he does with you.

ꪆৎ when he first started gaining feelings for you, i think he probably would give you the cold shoulder, not understanding how he feels. but, he’ll make things right with you once his minds less foggy!

ꪆৎ if you don’t exactly share the same interests, such as how he’s very interested in motorbikes and mechanics, he will try very hard to get into your hobbies so you can spend more time together. however, it means an immense amount to him that you’ll sit there and let him ramble about his favourite bike that shinichiro worked on, even if it was so long ago.

ꪆৎ he would probably confess when everything has settled down in his life. that includes his involvement with gang activity. he would hate to put someone so close to his heart in jeopardy. however, if you can’t wait, you could always confess yourself…

kokonoi hajime

ꪆৎ it would take him a long, long time to actually acknowledge his feelings for you. he would probably feel like moving on was a betrayal to akane but there came a point where he couldn’t ignore those feelings anymore.

ꪆৎ he would treat you amazingly, even if he’s battling with the thoughts inside his head about you and akane. he’d offer you money if you needed it (you will most likely hand it straight back), buy you gifts and happen to forget the receipt…

ꪆৎ even after several talks that you like spending time with him because of who he is and not what he can do for you, kokonoi still finds it hard to accept. he probably will see some resemblance to akane in that sense and would probably think she’d want him to be with someone like you.

ꪆৎ one of his favourite things about you is that even if he isn’t in a sociable mood, you will still sit with him and enjoy his company. not to mention he’s floored by how amazing you look everytime he sees you!

ꪆৎ he also loves going on day trips with you and seishu, finding every different place the three of you visit special.

ꪆৎ his confession would be sincere and precise. he would lay his feelings out and would promise to treat you amazingly and of course, take care of you in anyway you’d need.

#mikey x reader #draken x reader #takemichi x reader #baji keisuke x reader #chifuyu x reader #kazutora x reader #mitsuya x reader #inupi x reader #kokonoi x reader #tokyo rev x you #tokyo rev fluff #tokyo revengers x y/n #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo rev x reader

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roanofarcc · 1 year ago

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LIKE MOTHER LIKE FATHER LIKE DAUGHTER

pairing. tyler owens x harding!reader - part 2!

summary. you had made a name for yourself in the storm chasing game; it was in your genes, being the daughter of famous chasers jo and bill harding. tyler found your knacked for knowing just what the storm’s thinking a little infuriating and incredibly impressive.

warnings. fem!reader, reader gets injured, mentions of blood and injuries, probably inaccurate meteorological info & medical info, angst & fluff, some hurt/comfort on this fine Tuesday night.

word count. 3.7k || masterlist

a/n. twister has been my favorite movie FOREVER so here's a little homage to the og storm chasers <3

You were ten when you went storm chasing for the first time. Growing up, you’d heard your parents' stories every time there was a shift in the weather. Instead of the typical childhood fear of storms, you had always been fascinated by them; your dad, Bill Harding often joked it was in your genes, the lack of fear. With some light convincing of your mom, Dr. Jo Haring, she agreed to take you storm chasing for your tenth birthday.

The twister had been small, barely an EF1, but it was wondrous. There was something dangerously beautiful about it that drew you in just as it had your parents when they were younger. From that point on, you knew you wanted to be just like them, chasing storms up and down Tornado Alley.

And with the stubbornness passed down by your mom, that is exactly what you did. You were damn good at it to.

“It’s lookin’ like a big one to the southeast,” a member of your team said, slugging an arm around your shoulder as she looked up at the sky, squinting slightly at the sun. “But the radar says we’ve got another brewin’ west. She's pickin’ up speed but it’s still developing.”

You hummed in response, gazing up at the sky too, judging which one was your best bet by observing the clouds in either direction. “Let’s hang back and go for the one to the west, I like her chances better.” Your teammate, Frankie, grinned as she nodded and headed off toward the other three members of your small, but mighty team.

As you waited for the storm to flesh out a little more, you sat on the bed of your truck, dangling your legs off of the tailgate. The fresh air filled your lungs and the faint smell of incoming rain brought a smile to your lips. Every time you got ready for a chase, you felt ten years old again, giddy and excited for the thrill of the storm. You thought back to the photo albums you’d looked at a hundred times over of your parents and their numerous storm-chasing adventures. They never pushed you into storm chasing, as it was a dangerous line of work, but from a very young age, it was clear that your fascination with storms wouldn’t be quelled with a simple meteorology degree and a job behind a desk.

Storm chasing was in your blood, and your knack for it was known among other storm chasers.

“Well, if it isn’t the doctor herself,” a familiar voice filled your ears, belonging to the one and only Tyler Owens. He approached your truck, hands on his hips and a certain cockiness that excited you. You liked a challenge, and you loved showing cowboys up. Tyler was good at what he did, but you were just a little bit better, and it both irritated and impressed him.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” you said, earning a light chuckle from him.

“You don’t look in a hurry. That storm to the southeast won’t last forever.” You shrugged and he narrowed his gaze just slightly. “You’re not going after that one, are you?”

“Damn,” you sighed. “You’re getting harder to trick, Owens.”

He laughed, light and sweet. It was easy to see how he garnered such a large online audience. Tyler was easy on the eyes, drove straight into tornados with a grin on his lips, and had the knowledge of storms to back up his insane behavior. You’d never admit it aloud, but he did impress you, even if you thought some of his actions were reckless even for a storm chaser.

The two of you had an interesting rapport. It toes the line between rivals and friends, the odd territory in between. You loved teasing him, and he tried to outsmart you even if it never worked.

“Maybe you’re getting too predictable,” he said, a teasing tone in his voice.

“Och.” You faked hurt, placing a hand over your heart. “What is it you always say? If you feel it, chase it. If you think the one to the southeast is gonna show her face, go for it.”

Tyler studied you for a moment, contemplating what kind of game you were playing with him. All you did was smile at him in return, which led him to roll his eyes. “Unfortunately, you’re rarely wrong,” he sighed.

“It’s a blessing and curse.”

“You’re impossible,” he said. “But the west it is. It better not let me down, Dr. Harding.” You only used that title in more professional settings. That had been a condition of your mother. She had gotten her PhD and believed you could too. It was tough, but you earned it; only, you didn’t expect some cowboy to use it to lightly mock you when you proved him wrong.

“You have my word,” you said.

And you were right. The storm to the west produced a beautiful tornado. You and Frankie got close while the rest of your team hung back. Rain pelted the windshield as you grew closer, watching the dark funnel tear through the expanse of fields, picking up speed on the ground. Somewhere along the way, Tyler’s unmistakable red truck ripped past you, heading into the heart of the twister, which you rolled your eyes at.

“She’s a beauty!” Frankie hollered, holding her camera at the ready.

It was a great chase, but the thing about tornados that was both thrilling and dangerous was their unpredictability. You knew the storm would be big, and the closer you grew the more power you saw that it had. The other truck carrying the rest of your team had communicated the growing intensity of the storm via the radio. But it looked to be on a steady path west, so you saw no issue tailing it while Frankie snapped pictures.

The rain only grew heavier and heavier, almost completely obstructing your view. It wasn’t until a tree crash landed directly in the middle of the road did you realize the tornado had changed directions suddenly. A startled scream torn from Frankie lips and you slammed on the breaks, narrowly missing the tree.

“Holy shit,” she whispered, leaning up against the dash and trying to see through the rain wrap. “It’s right there. It’s right there! We gotta go!”

You quickly threw your truck in reverse and backed up, but you didn’t get far. A lone semi that had been traveling skidded to a stop just a couple hundred feet behind you. The way they had stopped at the sight of the tornado left its trailer sideways across the road before it was abandoned by the figure hunkering down in the ditch that lined the backroad.

You hissed under your breath, trapped between two objects and a tornado that shook your truck. There wasn’t enough space to fly around the semi. The ditches on either side of the road were too deep to take quickly and another minute trying to maneuver around the semi would only lead to your truck getting swallowed by the storm, picked up, and tossed around like a rag doll.

Your parents had prepared you for a kind of situation like that, but that didn’t shake your panic. With a rapidly beating heart, you put the truck in park and yelled at Frankie to get out. You both stepped out into the storm as the tornado loomed closer and closer. Wind whipped all around you along with debris. You grabbed Frankie’s hand and together you sprinted toward the ditch.

Frankie lay on her stomach, and you lay beside her, covering her head the best that you could. Whatever happened, you had always told yourself your teammates' safety came first. You were the one who talked them into storm chasing with you. So, when danger arose, you felt the responsibility of keeping them safe.

The screeching of winds was so loud in your ears that it almost disoriented you enough to miss the sharp piece of debris that swooped down at the tornado that passed along the field just opposite of the ditch, not directly over top of you but much too close for comfort. Something smacked against the back of your head, but you closed your eyes and held onto Frankie in hope of shielding her from any other flying objects.

You weren’t sure how long you two lied there, but it felt like a lifetime until the tornado traveled further away. The winds died down but your heart beat stayed quickly pounding against your chest.

Sitting up, you felt the sharp sting settling in the back of your head, but you ignored it at the sight of Frankie’s cut leg.

“Shit,” you muttered, grabbing her knee to examine the clean slice down the back of her shin.

She wiped back the wet pieces of her hair and let out a shuttered breath. “Holy shit, that was crazy.” You pulled off your sweatshirt and wrapped the wet fabric around her shin. “What’re you doing?”

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s fine,” she said, trying to brush it off, but you heard the pain in her voice, along with the tremble of lingering fear at your close call. You knew the dangers of storm chasing and the possibilities of injuries, but it always felt different to you when it was a member of your team, one of your friends.

A couple minutes after you tied your sweatshirt around her shin and helped her up from the ditch, the truck carrying the rest of your teammates rolled up, hooting and hollering at the size of the storm until they saw the state the two of you were in.

“Take her back to the motel. If the bleeding doesn’t stop take her to the hospital.” Frankie opened her mouth to protest, but you cut her off. “I’m serious.”

“What about you?” another member of your team asked.

You looked down the road at your overturned truck, sighing sadly to yourself as the pain in the back of your head throbbed. “I’ve gotta call someone for my truck. I’ll meet you back at the motel later.”

They were hesitant to leave you but eventually agreed. Down the debris-littered road, you hobbled back to your truck. It had been a gift from your parents after you graduated college; it was special to you, but it was totaled thanks to the tornado.

With a groan, you heaved open the door and tried to gather your belongings, but a wave of dizziness washed over you. You staggered backward, reaching up to touch the tender spot on the back of your head. Something wet coated your fingers and when you pulled your hand back, it was painted red. Frustrated, you tried to take a deep breath and calm yourself down enough to find your cell phone. Unfortunately, the cut was a little worse than you wanted to admit, and you felt blood drip down the back of your neck.

Dizzily, you sat down on the road, blinking back the pain and wooziness. A slow creep of panic started to take hold as the pain intensified and the world started to spin just slightly.

With one hand placed firmly on the back of your head, you rubbed your temple with your other, trying to think clearly but it became increasingly more difficult. You missed the hum of an engine nearby, but a slam of a door startled you.

“Harding!” Someone yelled and you blinked slowly, keeping a hold on the back of your head as you looked up to see Tyler Owens bee-lining right toward you. He kneeled in front of you, brows furrowed and lips pulled in a small frown. “Hey, are you all right?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, once again trying to push away the dizziness that plagued you. “I’m, uh, just looking for my phone. I gotta call someone for my truck.” The words felt heavy in your mouth, which couldn’t be a good sign. Whatever struck the back of your head hit it hard and the blood that leaked from the wound wasn’t helping.

He studied you for a moment, his gaze landing on your hand pressed against the back of your head. “You hurt?” You started to shake your head, but that only caused little black dots to temporarily pepper your vision. Tyler wasn’t an idiot; he reached up and carefully pushed your hand back, stopping when he saw the blood that started to drip down your arm. He cursed under his breath and yelled something at whoever sat in the passenger seat of his truck.

“Hey.” His voice became soft, comforting even. “We’ve gotta get you to a hospital.”

“I’m fine,” you inisted, even though every thing you felt inside your body proved that to be untrue. You just hated not being able to do something yourself; you hated needing help. Your father said you interited that from your mother, while she said you got it from your father. Truth was, they both had their air of stubbornness and you was born with double.

Tyler shook his head. “No, you’re not.” He stood to his feet and gently tugged on your arm in an attempt to help you stand. Begrudgingly, you let him help you. Standing up, the world spun faster and you felt panic swell uncomfortably in your chest. You swayed catching yourself on Tyler’s arms as they grabbed your shoulders. “I’ve got you,” he said. Maybe it was your slightly disoriented state, but his assurance and hands firmly holding onto your arms made some of your panic recoil. As much as you wanted to be okay, you knew that was not the case.

He knew that too, and helped you into the passenger seat of his truck before he instructed one of his fellow Wranglers to keep pressure on the back of your head with whatever they could find in the backseat. You winced as a crumbled up shirt was held against your head, but the moving truck overwhelmed you with dizziness that made the physical pain of your wound the least of your worries. You didn’t want to pass out but your eyes felt heavy.

Tyler noticed it too, and placed a hand on your knee, giving it a squeeze and a shake. “You gotta stay with me, okay? You gotta stay awake.”

“M’trying,” you muttered.

“You were right about the storm,” he said. “But aren’t you always?”

A pained smile fell across your lips. “Was that a compliment?”

He laughed, driving quickly down the road with one hand gripping the wheel tightly. “Yeah. You’re hard to say something bad about. You know your stuff, better than me, that’s for sure.”

“My parents taught me,” you said, desperately trying to keep yourself consciousness, but it grew more difficult by the minute.

“Do they still chase?” he asked.

“Not much anymore. Sometimes if a storm’s close, they’ll take a drive. But they always say they’ve had their fun.” They also said they shared enough close calls to know it was time to hang it up. You know they worried you’d find yourself in one too, but you’d always been careful and rarely got yourself into a situation you couldn’t get out of, until now, that was.

Darkness encroached on your vision, threatening to force your eyes closed. Some the backseat, you heard one of the Wrangles call Tyler’s name. He turned his head, but you couldn’t see the concerningly red-soaked shirt that made his stomach churn and caused him to press down on the gas harder. Your head lulled to the side and your eyes fluttered close. Vaguely, you heard Tyler call your name and felt him shake your knee, but you couldn’t open your eyes or open your mouth. Everything fell dark.

Tyler had spent his fair share of time in hospitals. He’d been bucked off a bull more than once, resulting in his mother dragging him to the hospital and threatening to make him quit. Eventually she held to her threat when he shattered his nose and gained a nasty concussion.

Being at the hospital for himself was one thing, being there for you made him realize why his mother used to be drenched in worry. He nervously drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair in the hospital room. You were asleep, a fresh bandage wrapped around your head and with a minor concussion. The cut on the back of your head required a couple stitches; you were lucky, all things considered, but Tyler really hated seeing you like that.

To him, you’d always been unreal. A second generation storm chaser so accomplished. Not only did you know your stuff, it was clear how much you enjoyed it. You lit up at the sight of storms, and Tyler couldn’t help but be in awe. There was a competitive nature to storm chasing and as much as he wanted to be annoyed by you always being two steps ahead of him, he couldn’t. He was just impressed.

Tyler wasn’t sure how or when that admiration turned into something that teetered on affection, but it felt more than it had been before seated at your hospital bedside. He’d never felt his stomach drop like that before, when you passed out in his truck, Boone holding a bloodied shirt to you head. Even after the doctor said you’d be just fine, he felt on edge.

The door to your room was pushed open by a nurse who led in two more people, who he instantly recognized: The Hardings.

He stood up quickly and watched as your mom rushed to your side, brushing a hand across your cheek with a deep frown. “Oh, baby girl,” she sighed.

The nurse offered your concerned parents a polite smile. “As the doctor said, the concussion was minor so all she need is some rest for the couple of days to a week. She should wake up soon and we'll see how she’s doing, then the doctor will let you know when she can be discharged.”

You dad rubbed your mom’s back like he was trying to ease the heavy worry that shined in her face, but he too looked just as worried with a crease across his forehead.

Tyler lightly cleared his throat, gaining your parents’ attention. "Hello, ma'am, sir," he greeted them.

“You must be the one who brought her in,” Jo said, and Tyler nodded in response. “Thank you. We’d been trying to call her, after we saw that storm, but she never answered and I…I just had a bad feeling.”

Bill rubbed the light stubble on his chin. “No wonder she’s knocked out; I don’t think you’d get here otherwise. Stubborn, that kid.”

A found smile spread across Tyler’s lips. “She kept saying she was fine until she nearly passed out on me. We only got a couple miles before she did pass out; scared the life out of me,” he said, running a stressed hand through his hair freed from his hat. The second you passed out in his truck, he nearly broke every traffic law. He wasn’t sure he’d never been quiet that scared, which was something he wasn't sure how to feel about.

Your mom furrowed her brows at Tyler’s words, something glinting behind her eyes until it shined in recognition. “You’re that storm chaser she’s always talkin’ about,” Jo said. “The one online.”

“Oh, yeah,” Bill said, nodding in Tyler’s direction. He couldn’t tell if it was disdain or indifference in the man’s voice, but Tyler was too hung up on the fact that you talked about him to care much. He didn’t know that filled him with an odd sense of pride and warmth. You two weren’t exactly friends but you were more than acquaintances. It was more like a nice, workplace rivalry that he enjoyed a lot more than he’d admit.

A small groan sounded from the bed, and everyone turned as your eyes fluttered open. Your mom was quick to your side, speaking quietly under the hum of fluorescent lights.

You started to mumble something about your truck that Tyler couldn’t quite make out, but your dad seemed to understand immediately. He said he’d take care of it, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before he headed out into the hall with his cell phone in hand.

Tyler felt like he overstayed his welcome; you were in better hands with your parents there. He collected his things from the chair, garnering your attention.

“Tyler,” you said, pushing yourself to sit upright. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “No problem, doctor. I couldn’t let one of the best chasers be out of the game, now could I?”

“So you admit it? I’ve got you beat.”

“I said one of,” he joked. “But you may have one or two legs up on me. Not for long though. I’ll catch up.”

Something in your smile made him want to sigh in relief, but he held it back. “Not a chance.”

“Then you better rest up; I’ll see you back out there.”

Bonus!

It took a little longer for you to bounce back, but the second you felt like yourself again, you were right back at it. Morning was supposed to bright a slew of storms to Kansas, so you and your team hightailed it to the state, finding a cozy little motel already occupied by other storm chasers. You spotted Tyler’s truck instantly, followed by a strange turn of your stomach.

You hadn’t seen him since you woke up in the hospital, slightly surprised that he stayed with you until your parents arrived. Since then, your mom had managed to bring him up at every opportunity, not so subtly hint at what a pair the two of you would be. You brushed her off, but a small part of you wondered what would happen if you hung around the cowboy a little more.

“Look who’s back!” Tyler’s voice sounded the second you hopped out of Frankie’s beat-up but sturdy truck; you were saving up for a new one, something even nicer that you could doctor up for chasing.

He approached you with a beaming smile, flashing his teeth. “I just couldn’t stay away,” you replied. “I didn’t miss anything too crazy, did I?”

Tyler shook his head. “It seemed like mother nature saved the good ones for you. They’re talkin’ some big ones tomorrow.” The giddy feeling that accompanied storm filled your chest, and the company of Tyler heightened it, strange and new but not completely unwelcome. Maybe it was time you gave into his charm a little more.

#tyler owens #tyler owens x reader #tyler owens x you #twisters #twisters 2024 #glen powell #twisters fanfic #glen powell fanfic

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thelastoflosers · 2 months ago

Text

cowboy like me

cowboy!ellie williams x texan!reader

you meet ellie while traveling across 1800s western america and she shows you a thing or two about how to survive, cowbgirl style.

after meeting your first masc lesbian you'll never love again.

wc 3.8k

warnings probably horribly inaccurate depictions of cowboys. guns, briefly. dry humping/thigh riding (woohoo) (both!receiving). fingering (r!receiving). unresolved ending (sorry).

the first time you saw her, she was barely visible beneath her wide-brimmed hat. you had thought she was a man. the leader of her group, who you now know to be joel, had stopped yours. you remember your father telling you to go wait with the other women. you should have been scared. a pack of armed, skilled riders approaching a cattle-wielding group usually meant robbery. but you weren’t listening to your father or feeling afraid because at the same moment she was pulling the bandana from her nose and tucking it under her chin.

instead of harsh lines and facial hair, she was soft. a sloping nose and full lips. it was hard to make out the fine details of her face, still partially shielded with her hat but you had seen enough to be intrigued.

you listened, but not listened, to your father and joel exchange conversation. joel’s offer to help herd your cattle for a price, your father recalling how your group was headed north from texas. when they came to an agreement you deemed it safe to approach the girl.

you led your horse towards her, breaking the invisible barrier between the groups.

“you’re a woman.” you pointed out.

“yes, ma’am.” she replied, she rested her hands on the horn cap of her saddle. her twangy accent matched your own.

“but you’re wearing men’s clothin’.” your eyes drifted from her face, taking in the way her work shirt and chaps clung to her frame.

“yes ma’am.” she was grinning now. up this close you could see the green in her eyes. the freckles that splattered her face.

“why?” there was no malice in your question, just curiosity. back in the city there were no women like her, it would be blasphemous.

“well, wearin’ skirts and such makes my job harder than it needs to be.”

you looked down at your own blush colored attire. you’d never considered there was a solution to your struggle of riding in a dress. “you’re a cowboy?”

she nodded, “you’re a city girl?”

you nodded, “but we’re goin’ to build a cattle farm in wyoming, so i suppose i’m not anymore.”

“well, city girl, how much do you know about cattle farmin’?”

“nothin’.” you admitted.

you watched as her eyes slowly slid down your body and back up to meet your own. you made a point to sit a bit straighter in your saddle, “since i’ll be hangin’ round for a while, why don’t i teach you some?”

“i’d like that.”

joel called out to her, motioning for her to come join in the conversation he was having

“my name’s ellie.” you repeated it back to her and you told her your name. she steered her horse towards the group. “i’ll see ya round, city girl.”

the next week was blistering hot, the confinement of your corset and skirts made the heat almost unbearable. the group had to take many, many breaks to water the cattle and horses. it was during one of these breaks ellie decided you should know how to shoot a gun. in case bandits come, she’d whispered teasingly in your ear as she led you away from the group.

so the two of you stood in a clearing downstream. ellie had instructed you to aim at a lone, dead tree.

you held the pistol out in front of you. “like this?”

“if you wanna get knocked on your ass. it’s small but it has more kickback than you’d expect.” she comes up behind you and gently guides your left arm up so it can reinforce the gun.

“use two hands. you have more control that way.” you can feel the tickle of her breath hitting the side of your neck.

you readjust your hold on the weapon and you feel her palms rest on the small of your waist.

“now, put one foot out in front of you so you’ll be able to absorb some of the impact.”

you do as she says, inching your right foot slightly in front of your body.

“good. fire it when you’re ready.”

it takes a second to build up the courage but you press down on the trigger and watch as a hole seemingly appears in the tree. the blow is more intense than you would have thought and you stumble back into ellie. her grip on your waist tightens and she’s catching you before you really fall.

“well look at that!” she giggles into your ear. “you’re practically a real-life cowboy.”

you turn around, laughing. impressed by yourself and doubtful of her comment. “not a real cowboy, yet. you still need to teach me how to actually herd cows.”

you hand over her pistol and her fingers brush against yours as takes it. the touch makes you feel tingly all the way up to your shoulder.

“i will, one day.” she looks back at the river, then at you. she has a mischievous look that you’ve come to recognize means trouble. “how ‘bout now we go swimming?”

you nod, feet already moving towards the water.

when you reach the riverbank ellie is making quick work of her heeled boots and hat. then her shirt. then her pants.

you feel your face heat. not because of the temperature. she was naked in front of you, milky skin almost glowing in the sunlight. the freckles that decorated her face covered her body. her shoulders and back. her thighs.

the water must be cold because her nipples are perked up. your eyes slide down her chest to her abdomen, then further. you don’t realize you’re staring until she calls out to you.

“havin’ a hard time gettin’ undressed?” her tone is teasing, she’s squinting in the midday sunlight. caught.

“i’m comin’! i have a lot more layers to take off than you.” your hands work at the strings of your dress and then your underclothes. once you’re bare you step into the river. the water is freezing.

“it’s cold.” you grumble.

when you look up ellie is up to her shoulders. “c’mon, i know you’re not that soft.”

you puff something under your breath that she can’t quite hear and slowly trudge out to her.

you’ve almost reached her and smile, “i made it. you happy now?”

she smirks and swims back a few feet, “nah you’ve got a bit to go.”

“ellie!” you paddle out to her and she swims back again.

“you’re too slow, you gotta be faster.” she’s still facing you, just leisurely pushing the water back with her arms.

“you’re so annoying!” the two of you go back and forth for a while, she swims away while you chase her. eventually you get close enough to grab her ankle, and with strength that surprises her a bit, you yank her towards you.

“hey!” she giggles.

“stop swimmin’ away from me!” you complain half-heartedly.

she laughs at your pout, “but you’re so much fun to tease.”

you go to shove her but she catches your hand. this time it’s her who’s pulling you closer. you’re in each other’s space, you could count the freckles on her face from here. you can feel her breath on your lips. she’s flushed but you tell yourself it’s probably just a sunburn.

her eyes flicker between your own. you swear you see them dart down to your mouth for a beat before returning to your eyes. she’s so, so close. you want to devour her. or maybe for her to devour you. you’re not sure but you’re aching for her. you lean in just a bit, just to see if she’d pull away. when she doesn’t, your eyes meet her again. silently asking permission. she nods and you’re closing the gap when you two hear your names.

you separate an inch, startled. joel’s on his horse on the edge of the water, “girls we’re gonna get goin’ soon. better come back now.”

ellie nods, “we’ll be right there, joel!” he nods and turns back towards the group. if he saw what was happening he thankfully didn't let on.

ellie’s still got a grip on your hand, “we should get dressed.”

“yeah.” you croak out.

the walk back to the group is silent, but you’re too busy watching the way water droplets from her hair soak into her shirt to care.

the next day you’re looking up at the sky, watching a flock of birds flutter by when you hear her voice all honey-like, “what’s so interestin’ up there?”

“the birds.” you smile, “can you imagine? just getting to go anywhere you want? any time you want?”

“yeah, i can, actually.” her horse falls into step with yours as you both giggle.

the silence between you two is comfortable. the wind blowing in your hair and horse hooves on the ground help to sooth some of the giddy, anxious feeling you have being in her presence. neither of you make a move to talk about your swim yesterday.

“y’know i was thinkin’, if you want to really learn how to herd cattle we might have to get you a pair of trousers.” when you turn to her in excitement you see she’s already watching you. her big, hopefully eyes staring into yours.

“really?” you ask.

“yeah, i mean, with a group this size i’m sure we can find a pair that would fit. and while we’re looking for them we can see if anyone’s got a pair of boots i can borrow.” she lifts of her foot from the stirrup so you can see the sole of her shoe partially fallen off.

“you have ulterior motives! usin’ me for your own good.” you pretend to scoff and cross your arms.

“i’d never!”

you and ellie make it your task for the day, find you trousers and her new boots. wandering next to families, asking if they have pants or shoes to spare. you get many, many weird looks but eventually you’re successful.

you see ellie’s horse walking towards you and you meet her halfway. “any luck findin’ pants?” she asks.

“no,” you pull a pair of skillfully made boots from behind your back, “but i found you some boots!” you toss them to her and she catches them midair.

she takes a moment to admire them, then says, “so sweet bringin’ me presents. almost makes me think you like me.”

“well we can’t have that. give ‘em back.” you tease.

“i got you somethin’ too.” she passes you a pair of pants and you feel your grin growing.

you wait for the group to stop during a watering break to change. ellie lends you one of her workshirts and you’re rushing to put the outfit on to show her.

“what’dya think?” you twirl for her. your outfit is not “fully cowboy” by any means, your boots are not as heeled as ellie’s and the pants feel foreign.

she laughs, “you don’t look like a city girl anymore.”

“now i just need a hat!” you muse.

ellie takes her own from her head and plops it onto yours. you dip it and lean over in a mock bow. “thank you, ma’am.” you lay your southern drawl on thick, so it’s closer to ellie’s.

“c’mon, let’s go herd those cows.” she spins away from you and toward your horses to hide her smile.

the two of you trot your way to the back of your group, towards the cattle.

“hey, kiddo.” joel spots ellie.

“hi, joel,” she nods her head to you, still wearing her hat, “my student for today.”

he chuckles a little, “you girls be careful.”

ellie is riding past him and shouts out, “always! you know i’ll shoot any robbers before they shoot me!”

you watch as the old man shakes his head.

“that girl is the reason for all this grey.” he points to his hair, “keep her in line for me.” he winks.

“i’ll try my best.” you tell him and follow ellie.

the two of you follow behind the cattle, ellie tells you this part is easy, just hang back and don’t let any cows wander from the group.

so that’s what you do, watching the cattle. all day. it turns out to be incredibly fucking boring to watch cows walk but you did it with ellie. she tells you she’s technically an orphan and met joel when she was fourteen. she says that he’s taught her everything she knows.

that night was warm, not like the overbearing heat that suffocated you but pleasant, balmy.

families stayed out past dark, gathered around campfires. you spotted a lone campfire, far from the others and knew it was ellie. you made your way over, pants rustling in the tall grass.

her head was tilted back to look at the night sky when you approached and she jumped when you said, “don’t you get lonely out here by yourself?”

“nah, i like the quiet.” she patted the ground next to her, motioning for you to sit.

“am i disturbing your quiet?” you lowered yourself next to her. your knees brushed hers when you adjusted your position.

she shook her head, “i was thinkin’ about you anyways.”

“oh,” you felt a smile creep onto your face, “what’dya thinkin’ about?”

“nothin’.” she was grinning and breathless when she said it.

she looks up again, “d’you think there’s somethin’ out there?”

you follow her gaze up to the stars, “in the sky?”

“in space. like people, i mean.” she whispers.

“i dunno. maybe,” you pull your gaze away from the stars and back to ellie. you trace her profile with your eyes. her thick brows, the right one scarred (you note to ask her how she got it). mossy green eyes that are still watching space. the slope of her nose that leads to full pink lips, the ones that you got so close to tasting.

“i do.” you watch her lips as she speaks, how they move around her words, “i’m gonna go up there some day.”

you giggle, “what? how?”

“my horse! shimmer and i are gonna find space people!” she chuckles and finally her eyes meet yours. or they would have if you weren’t still looking at her lips. when you realize you were caught staring you meet her eyes. you feel your face heat up, the tips of your ears burning. before you can apologize her lips are grazing yours.

it’s a light, barely-even-there, kiss but it makes your belly flutter. you lean in and connect your lips further. ellie lets out a shaky breath. you pull away an inch, checking to make sure she’s okay but her hands are catching your face and pulling you back in. you gasp into her mouth, she takes your bottom lip into her mouth sucks. it makes you ache, heat pooling between your legs. you grab the sides of her face and pull her in even closer. you brush your tongue against her mouth and she opens for you. it’s messy, all teeth and tongue.

you’re still sitting next to each other and the positioning is awkward, top halves of your bodies twisted and lower halves facing forward. you move so you’re straddling one of her thighs, your own leg sliding in between hers. you thank whatever higher power is out there for the trousers you were wearing.

the two of you are shameless, you grinding down into her and her hips bucking up into you. her lips leave yours and move down to your neck. at the same time your hands go wandering down to her chest. you brush your hands against her pebbled nipples and her mind goes fuzzy, whining into the crook of your shoulder.

“oh my god.” you’re gasping when she moves her thigh and it grazes your clit just right.

you’re still groping her tits when her mouth moves to your ear, lips brushing against your skin when she whispers, “please let me touch you.” her accent is thicker right now, all rasp.

you nod, your hands already reaching for the button on pants. she helps you to lay on the ground and positions herself on your thigh. you feel her grind down on your leg as she sticks her hand down the front of your pants. her fingers are calloused from years of outdoor labor but gentle as she brushes them against your clit. you wrap a hand around her wrist, not stopping or guiding her, just needing something to hold on to.

her hips are still moving against your thigh and she’s panting as she grinds down on it. her fingers drift further down to your entrance.

“i can?” she asks into your shoulder.

“yeah- please.” and you arch as she works them in so, so slowly. she uses her palm to keep friction on your clit as she curls her fingers inside.

your own hands find their way to her back, digging into the skin there. you kiss your way up her neck, sloppy and uncoordinated now.

“harder, please.” you whine and she obliges.

her grinding speeds up and you can feel the heat from between her legs through your pants. “gonnacum.” she says fast and jumbled.

you moan in response and it seems to push her over the edge. her hand stalls for a moment, too lost in her own pleasure before regaining the pace she had. her head rests on your shoulder as she gasps.

you feel your own peak building, the pressure behind your clit becoming almost too much.

“ellie! i-” the words get lost, turning to mush in your brain.

“i know, i know.” her lips graze you collarbones.

and that familiar blinding bliss washes over you, overpowering your senses. your thighs squeeze her hand as they twitch. your chests heaving into teacher as you both try to catch your breath. it takes you a moment to come down and when you do you’re looking up at the stars.

“am i invited?” you ask, voice a little hoarse from overuse.

“what?” she lifts her head up from your shoulder.

“when you go to space with shimmer. can i come too?”

she’s chuckling, her eyes look like they’re full of stars, like the sky above you, “yeah you can come, baby. we’ll start a cattle farm on the moon.”

summer comes and goes. the sun is no longer beating over you and you arrive in wyoming, in a small settlement called jackson. joel and ellie help your family build a home and barn for your farm. you’re sitting under a tree in your new backyard watching joel and your father chop wood for winter.

ellie’s head rests in your lap, she’s going on dinosaurs, telling you how they roamed earth millions of years ago just like she does. one her hands holds yours and the other traces your fingernails and knuckles.

“y’know, you don’t have to roam.” you watch her fingers, how they stop moving on your hand.

“what’dya mean?” she asks.

“you could stay here. in jackson. with me.” you brush a stray hair from her face, “help me raise cattle. harden me up to be a cowboy like you.”

she’s quiet for a while, her eyebrows scrunch a bit and you have the urge to smooth the line between them. “you know i can’t do that.”

“well why not?”

“because,” she sits up, “it’s just not me.”

“what’s not you?” you feel your own brows tug towards each other.

“settlin’ down. stayin’ in one place.”

“maybe it could be.” you shrug, “you’d be doin’ the same thing out there that you are here. herding cattle, breeding horses.”

she shakes her head, “you don’t get it.”

“no, i don’t. how’s it any different?” you want her to explain it, you want to understand but she scoffs and stands up.

“i just- i don’t belong here, you hear the way people talk about me.” sure, you’d heard some of the women–prim and proper in their tightly cinched corsets–calling her names, saying awful things but what did they matter?

“who cares about them?”

she shakes her head, leaving you sitting at the tree. she walks to where joel stands, still chopping wood, says something to him and pushes past one of the newly built fences. he looks to you with a frown and it stings.

you don’t see much of ellie after that, quick glimpses when she thinks you’re not around. seeing her groom horses on your way back from trading. watching her finish building the stables from your bedroom window.

one day your father tells you joel and ellie left town, gone back to texas to meet more cattle farmers to bring north.

TEN YEARS LATER

you’ve dug up just about every square inch of your room looking for some book your mother needed right this moment. in a last resort you duck your head to see under your bed. trunks of old notebooks, clothing, and other clutter. What catches your attention are a pair of old boots. her old boots. covered in ten years of dust but just as you remember them, sole still falling off one of the toes. you think of her now, her auburn hair, the freckles like stars, splattered over her body, gentle hands. so different from anyone you’d known before. who you’d probably ever know.

you hadn’t seen her since she walked off your ranch all those years ago. you wonder about her now, was she still herding cows? was she killed by bandits? had she settled down?

that night you sit by the candlelight at your desk, pen and paper in hand...

dear, ellie,

i know this letter will never reach you. even if i had a place to send it i’m not sure you’d open it. i still feel compelled to write to you.

i think about you, still out on the open lands riding shimmer. i think about you wielding your pistol, too arrogant to think anyone could ever touch you. sometimes i worry you were too cocky and found yourself in trouble you couldn’t get out of. shamefully, this isn’t what troubles me most. my biggest fear is that you might have stopped cowboying and now live under one roof with another girl. that i was the reason you left, not jackson or settling down.

i think about you when i look up at the stars. when i collect water from the river. when i hear hooves trotting through town.

sometimes i’m glad you left. if you stayed, i know i would forever be distracted from my chores. i’d use all my energy to make you laugh, to see you smile. sometimes i’m glad i get to keep the ellie i knew in my head. i don’t have to see turn grey from your own children as joel has with you or wither away in old age.

i’m always hoping for your return, though. always hoping i’ll see you when i walk into town to trade. hoping i’ll see the top of your hat approaching the house from my window. hoping i’ll walk into the saloon and hear you singing with joel.

forever waiting for you,

your city girl

TAGLIST @darkdanixoxo @sabrinathewitch982 @sillypuppy77 @ravyaryn @getoe1s @vampirebrewsss @soldemiel @queenofconeyisland222 @pxgeturner @carefullyominouslegacy @slutforabbyanderson @porcelainmystery

#ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x female reader #ellie x reader #ellie x fem reader #ellie williams the last of us #ellie the last of us #the last of us #ellie williams smut #ellie smut #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams angst #ellie angst #ellie williams fluff #ellie fluff #ellie fanfic #ellie fic #wlw #lesbian

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salem-s · 5 days ago

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01 — THE HANDS THAT MEND — BUCKY BARNES (18+)

SYNOPSIS Bucky hates being touch after all these years living as a human experiment, being poked and prodded and broken beyond repair. That is, until your hands are the ones that give him the opportunity to not live in constant pain, the hands that heal his scars and slowly mend his shattered mind back together. Despite your abrupt disappearance, you’re the only thing he never forgets. Years later — when he’s no longer the Winter Soldier and attempting to assimilate back into society — suddenly you’re there, and he refuses to let you go again. SERIES MASTERLIST

WORD COUNT 10k. apologies because this is more description than dialogue, oops? there will be more talking later. trust.

WARNINGS & NOTES graphic and violent language, mentions of death and torture and wounds. 18+ MDNI. literally im so sorry bucky?? and reader??? also apologies because this is mostly descriptive, he doesn't talk much obviously, also probably inaccurate winter soldier lore below (tried my best?) and inaccurate russian probably. yell at me if im wrong. also this is an au where infinity and endgame never happened becaaaaaause i said so. channeling healer katara as reader. enjoy winter solder!bucky x healer!reader. not edited.

When Bucky fell, he was relieved to be found.

He'd spent a long time in the snow, freezing into a catatonic tomb with a dull ache on his left side that he only remembers fragments of. All he could see was white. Flashes of red. Pinches of the midnight colored boots that soon were buried under slopes of white. The pain wasn't there, not really, at least not physically. Sure, he could tell by the way his vision waved in and out and how there was a concerning amount of crimson bleeding into the powder-fresh snow that something was wrong.

But the pain was all in his head.

Because he'd never felt so alone lying there in the canyon, looking up at a sky that only blinded him and wishing, hoping, praying someone would come, Steve would come, hell, even the enemy would come just so he didn't have to die alone. It was too bright. Too blinding. No sense of comfort, no warmth. He always hated being alone, there was never a dull moment with siblings and friends always warming his house with a love he loathed not experiencing. And he knew that if he died like this: cold, scared, alone, his body would be buried underneath the snow and never to be seen again, never to be mourned, forgotten amidst the war.

Now, Bucky realizes that dying in the snow would've been mercy.

If only he knew what was in store for him, if only he had the capacities to laugh at his augmented hope when he realized someone had come for him, if only he could scream at himself to play dead, to be dead, to prevent all of this from happening. He hadn't realized that the enemy that found him was much bigger than what the world knew it as, especially when he was dragged through the white, a trail of red in his wake, into a bunker-like building, and out of the light that he suddenly missed like an old friend.

That was the last he'd seen of the snow for a long time.

And that was the last time he remembers feeling like himself.

From there on, it was tests. Experiments. Trials and errors. Some more poking and prodding. Some more analysis to test new features they'd injected into him. Only to get poked and prodded even longer. Electrocution. Shocked into complicity. Fights in rings to weed out the runts. Programming words that awoke another person inside of him, someone who took control of his motor functions while his consciousness, Bucky's consciousness, saw everything. Lived everything. Yet couldn't do anything about it.

Bucky learns very quickly to hate being touched.

Granted, there's nothing he can do about it. He should be used to it at this point as it's practically routine: get sent out on a covert operation, report back and list the failures of his mission, get poked and prodded and slapped and shocked only to have his memory wiped once more. Every time they do so, a small piece of Bucky dies every time, replaced with more of him. Yet each time he feels like a sliver of himself again, he's always being touched. Constantly. And the hands that do so never do any good. Only harm. Only hurt. He instantly associates touch with pain. Touch with terror. Touch with everything synonymous to bad.

Until you.

You come into the picture years later. Decades? He's lost track of how long he's actually been around. Every time he's sent out on a new mission, society looks a little more different than he remembers. More advanced. Free. A place he'd like to be a part of someday to learn all that's been invented, written, experienced. Yet he's the one contributing to the regression of global growth. He's only doing what he knows how to do: how to comply, how to harm, how to do everything that's expected of him so maybe he stops getting touched all the time. (Spoiler, he doesn't.)

It's a mission gone sour, one that leaves him practically incapable of healing at a fast pace. Bucky handles the pain well, with a badge of stoicism because if he even hints at being in a sliver of discomfort, he'll be touched. Poked. Prodded. Experimented on. And today, especially today, he doesn't want that.

When they throw him in the chair for his mission debrief, Bucky makes the mistake of wincing.

And immediately they're checking to evaluate his injuries. They're bad, given the grimace on Pierce's face and the look of astonishment and horror from Zola, and the way the faux-surgeons' hands shake as they attempt to clean the wounds as best as they can. Yet they're not gentile, they never are, pressing hard on his scars that have reopened and doing everything in their power to make this as uncomfortable for him as possible. Normally, Pierce would throw him in his holding cell and let the serum heal over time, but something about his urgency to speed up the process makes Bucky think that's he's needed for another immediate mission, the Asset is needed. They need their Winter Soldier prepped and dressed and ready for complicity. As soon as possible. Now. And Pierce isn't someone who likes waiting, especially when there are means to speed up the process.

Pierce waves off the surgeons with a subtle flick of his wrist, a simple action yet one that makes them all freeze immediately, holding their breaths for the next course of instruction. They look to him in anticipation, almost fearfully, as Bucky silently hopes the order is to simply let him bleed out and die as himself (the small, minuscule fraction that is still him).

"Get the girl," is all he says before giving Bucky's wounds one last up-and-down, and leaving the room.

Bucky barely has the time — nor mental capacity — to comprehend Pierce's request as he watches everyone scramble to leave the room, momentarily leaving him alone in this cold, dark, bunker, strapped to a chair and bleeding out onto the concrete floors. He prays to bleed out faster so he doesn't have to find out what's coming next, to slowly go to rest like he's been dreaming of doing for a very long time. Every second that he's in the chair, he dreams of the snow, and how he wished he could've stayed there, especially with the anticipation of whatever's about to happen.

But instead of a machine, or more needles, or some sort of new torture device that comes out every week, it's just...you.

You're holding nothing, instead fidgeting with the rings on your fingers and cautiously stalking across the lab, eyes never leaving his. They hold edge. Nerves. But also a sense of softness that makes him put his guard up immediately, because while it's a relief on one hand, his mind thinks it's a trick, something to give him false hope just to have it ripped away. He's had that happen one too many times. He's stopped trusting everyone in this building, even the ones he thought were nice. Bucky learns very quickly that no one is nice in this building.

When you continuously get closer, his heart is racing, especially at how you're suddenly standing right beside him, looking down at his injuries. The frown is permanent on your face, but instead of disappointment or resentment, it's etched with concern — something no one has ever felt for him in a very long time — as you sit in the stool next to his chair. Bucky gets a whiff of a scent he remembers. Cinnamon? Apples? An aura of his mother's signature cookies flashes in his mind, but they're gone in an instant.

"Hi," you greet gently, and your voice reminds him of honey he used to take in his tea. "They really did a number on you, huh?"

Bucky blinks at you.

You don't take offense at his silence. "There's no need to worry, I'll make it go away," you continue idly.

When your hands raise as if they're about to press down on his wounds, you pause before you can make contact, eyes flickering up to his bright blue ones.

"Is it okay if I touch you?" You ask softly.

The question settles in the air like a thick fog, lingering and suffocating yet refreshing with a comforting coolness. A sense of ease. But he freezes, panic flickering in chest at the notion of being asked something, as the concept of having a choice is entirely foreign to him and has been for years. And the way you asked so casually, as if he could just give you a simple response, as if he's allowed to.

It feels wrong. Bucky can't answer — literally and figuratively — because the words die in his throat and the fear outweighs the curiosity of answering, because he doesn't want to get in trouble. He doesn't want to be hurt again later for answering without permission, as he's learned very quickly that gets him in a heap of trouble. The panic that floods his chest makes him drown, pulls him into a riptide and further and further away from shore. Is this a test? Is the doctor going to burst through those doors if he responds? Goes against orders?

"Soldat." A voice rings harshly through the static intercom, making you jump at the sudden noise. "You've been asked a question."

There's sandpaper in his throat, but he has to get something out, anything out, to refrain from breaking the rules or stepping out of line. The words feel wrong on his tongue, rough around the edges and so unlike him that he wonders if it's actually him speaking, or the other guy. It has happened before. There's no doubt it'll happen again.

"Yes," he answers robotically, complying.

Your frown is immediate. Etched with frustration.

But Bucky mirrors your frown when it's not directed at him. It's because of them.

"They said they wouldn't interrupt," you mumble quietly, almost sheepish. "I'm really sorry if that scared you. I told them that they can't just—"

You let out a long sigh, a guttural one, as you seem to compose yourself and cut off whatever words will indefinitely get you in trouble, especially when you know they're listening in quite intently. Instead, you let your eyes wander down to his plethora of injuries and let your hands hover over them, ghosting over his skin as he seizes up, mind running through all the possibilities of what's about to happen, of what kind of pain he's going to be in.

"That doesn't matter," you say quickly. "What matters is making you feel better, okay?"

In fear of being yelled at again, Bucky manages the faintest of nods.

It's barely there, but you see it. You understand. And you press your palms down against his chest.

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, muscles tensed up with the anticipation of the impending dread, as it always happens when Pierce brings in new reinforcements like this.

But it never comes. Your hands never electrocute or taze or harm. Nothing shrieks or alarms him of any new pain or anything to be concerned about. Instead it feels...warm? Lighter? Like a weight is continuously being lifted off the parts of his body that seem to always ache the most, like a leech is getting pulled off and he's getting his blood back, like one big, giant fucking relief.

After a moment, he manages to open his eyes in confusion. First he peers down at his chest to see where your bodies connect, where your palms are against his bloodied wounds. Then he sees the magic, where the jagged cuts slowly close themselves up, where the purple and blue inky spots morph into his normal complexion, where there's a very, very faint glow at your fingertips that emulates a kind of warmth he can't describe. He's in awe. He's a little befuddled. He's suddenly feeling... okay?

His confusion must be apparent, because in his peripheral, he sees your lips twitch. When Bucky lifts his gaze, he's met with you blinking at him with a soft smile, almost as if it's reserved for him. Bucky can't remember the last time he's seen someone smile at him.

"I'm sorry if my hands are cold," is all you say.

Bucky frowns.

How could you apologize for something like that when this is the first time in decades he's not feeling any sort of capacity of pain? The constant thrumming in the back of his mind quiets down, the ache in his left shoulder ceases — a pain that's lasted the entire duration of being here, a reminder of his new home and something he's gotten quite used to — and the bruising and bleeding and stabbing pains all...just...disappear. It's refreshing. New. A reminder of what it used to feel like all that time ago before he fell off the train, before he joined the 107th, before he understood what real pain was.

After a moment, you speak.

"It's weird, isn't it?" You hum when you notice his apparent confusion.

But your tone isn't mocking or offended, rather intrigued by his wordless reaction. Not that he'd really speak to you anyway, partly because he has no idea what he could even say to you to make the conversation meaningful, but also to avoid getting in trouble. He isn't even sure if you're allowed to be speaking to him this casually.

When he doesn't respond again, you continue with no problem. "You should be back to normal after a few minutes, your body probably won't understand why it isn't in pain anymore so don't be alarmed if you're super confused. That'll go away in a bit, but I'm all done."

Bucky hasn't realized you finished until you're standing up. When's the last time he felt like this? Normal as it gets? At ease? A flicker of panic burns in his chest at the thought of you leaving, and then he feels a sense of guilt for wanting you to stay longer than you should — why would you want to stick around someone like him? How could he wish for you to do so, knowing everything that he's done? All the people he's hurt? If you're in a place like this, then you know the secrets of the Winter Soldier.

He speaks before he can stop himself. "Done?"

Your brows skyrocket, surprised to hear his voice. Rough like sandpaper as if it hasn't been used in ages. Bucky doesn't even recognize the voice as his own, especially when it's laced with desperation and a hint of fear at the notion of you leaving. Whether you pick up on the nuances of it, you don't comment on it.

Instead, you smile gently again. "Yes, all done. You're no longer in pain, so they'll want me back upstairs."

I'm always in pain, he thinks immediately.

Bucky doesn't have time to figure out a response before the cement door you came out of flies open, and Zola is standing there impatiently, gaze darting between you and him with a sense of skepticism that only makes his heart race. You visibly stiffen, spine straight, and he comes to the conclusion that you're conditioned with the same fear of following the rules as he is. He wonders what they've done to you, hopefully nothing worse than what he's gotten.

"Upstairs," is all the Doctor says.

Your feet move instantly, but as you slowly get further and further away from Bucky, you make the effort of throwing one last glance over your shoulder, a soft one, an expression etched with a sense of gentleness that he's never been on the receiving end of for a very long time.

For a moment, he forgets where he is. Who he is. What he's expected to do next. For a moment, all he thinks about is you. How the circumstances should be different. How bad he feels for you now that you've had to take care of a guy like him.

When he sleeps days later after another tough mission, your face is the last image on his mind. It's the only thing that calms him down.

You haven't been here long. But you've heard all about the Asset.

The war machine. The puppet on invisible strings who will comply with any order given to him, regardless of the morality. The soldier who will kill to the ends of the earth so much without blinking. Flinching. Understanding what he's really doing in the grand scheme of things. People around here talk about him in hushed whispers, because they think he'll hear them through the walls and slit their throats in their sleep. They call him It. Or solely him. Never his name.

Not that he even remembers his actual name anymore, one of the surgeons joked one late night in the medical lab, almost mocking the soldier for having his memory continuously wiped. He's not even a person. Just an asset.

So when you get called to deal with the Winter Soldier, you have no idea what to expect.

A burly man with scars littered across his body. Cold, dead eyes and hands calloused with dry blood. Muscles that could squeeze your throat and cut off your air supply in two seconds flat. A bloodthirsty snarl that says everything he can't, how he wants to hurt everything in his path, how he hates being touched and lashes out on all the doctors that attempt to examine him, how they have to sedate him most of the time to dress his wounds after an incident happened where he kicked a surgeon across the room for having scissors too close to his neck to cut his hair.

But when you get there, all you see is a man. Alone. Scared.

And his eyes aren't cold. They're distant. Blue-grey hues laced with worry and confusion. They're beautiful like a storm, nothing at all what you pictured. When you heal him, your heart breaks that he prepares to be hit, hurt, shocked, probably conditioned so deeply that touch is bad at all capacities. But never with you, which is what he learns quickly, which is what you want him to understand immediately. You're here to help. Always are.

It becomes somewhat of a routine to get pulled from the lab to take care of the Asset.

Sometimes you think the soldier gets extremely hurt on missions purposefully to get fully healed instantly, instead of having to wait for his genetics and the serum to do it itself. The more he understands you aren't here to hurt him, suddenly you're seeing him almost every other day. Each time seems to be worse than the last, as if he's addicted to the pain. It's awful, genuinely, to see him like this, but the only redeeming part is that he seems to visibly relax whenever you enter the room, despite how he's bleeding out onto the floor and strapped into that godforsaken chair like he's a lab rat. You think he's your only friend.

And you talk to him every time.

"I'm not a big fan of the cold," you chirp away one day, one hand pressed to his knuckle and the other on his right bicep. "One day, I want to live right on the water, where the sun never goes away. Maybe I'll have a cat, or something, you know? To keep the rodents away, and all."

All he does is watch you. Like he always does. No words, maybe one or two if he's allowed.

You never push him to say anything. You do all the talking for him. "Sometimes being here, I forget white isn't the only color in nature. Well, white and, like, charcoal grey for the mountains."

There's a sense of longing in your voice, like a verbal phantom ache that you're not outright expressing, but he can feel it in your tone all the same. It's melancholic, but also in your usual lighthearted tone to not give the impression that you hate this place. Because, let's face it, everyone hates this place. You more than most. You're not strong enough to escape and abilities not used up enough to be granted permission to leave.

"I think my favorite color is green," you murmur sheepishly. "The kind of green that shines through the leaves of a tree when the sun hits them just right."

For a moment, you freeze, eyes blinking with a distant gaze as you look beyond him, dreaming of a place far from here. Your hands cease healing as you stare off into space, and he frowns at your sudden mental departure. He wants to ask if you're okay (even though he gathers that you're not). He wants to ask what other kinds of green you like. He wants to know everything about you, because the more you speak, the more time he spends forgetting where he is.

However, your daydream goes as quickly as it came, as you seem to snap back to reality.

You blink once, twice, then send him an apologetic smile as you brace your hands back on his wounds, this time on his shoulder connected with the bionic arm. Because the longer you linger on the world outside of this place, the quicker the tears will spring to your waterline, dreaming of somewhere far from here, because anywhere other than here is considered paradise. You miss the ocean. And the forest. Even the busy streets of the city.

"Sorry." The smile doesn't quite reach your eyes. "I didn't mean to stop."

With delicacy, your fingertips trace the scar where the metal arm meets his shoulder, a series of jagged cuts and scars where they sawed off his arm to replace it with their technology, careless in their endeavors as they left him with the marks to remind him of who he is now. You can't imagine how much this must've hurt. They probably didn't sedate him at the time. He probably felt everything.

You shake away the thought. "I'm feeling a lot of pain in this area. Can I soothe it?"

All he does is stare at you, brow pinched in confusion. Your heart breaks.

"This couldn't have been done by a medical professional," you say low, careful so they don't hear you. "Every time I heal you, this area is always a pin-point, even if you didn't directly hurt it during a mission. It's...a constant. Never treated properly."

Now both hands trace the jagged lines on his shoulder, ugly and blotchy scars. Some look like scratch marks from his own doing, clawing at the machinery to get it off his body. He was clearly unsuccessful in detaching it, instead left with the marks littering his otherwise pretty porcelain skin complexion. But it's true what you tell him, because every time you see him and heal him, this area calls to you in the back of your mind, almost a cry for help, even if he's bleeding out onto the concrete with a life threatening injury. The left shoulder always hurts the most.

"I can't make it go away forever," you add for clarification. "But just for now. For a little while."

"Ved'ma," a harsh voice rings through the static speaker. "Enough speaking. Fix the Asset." (Witch)

A moment of silence stretches between the two of you, bracing for more words over the intercom to get in more trouble. But they never come. And when you realize that they're not going to yell at you again, you let out a quiet sigh, frowning at the ache in your heart and the fact that you're not allowed the basic human decency to speak to him like a person.

"I hate when they call me that," you wince sadly. "It isn't my name."

"What is?" He asks so hoarsely it barely comes out.

But you hear him all the same. And when you tell him, he nods once, understanding.

The two of you don't speak for the rest of your healing session, but you do dull the ache in his shoulder even if he can't ask you to do so, dress the rest of his wounds, and let your hands linger on the back of his knuckles for a moment too long, your version of a goodbye. His steel eyes bore into yours the whole time, never straying, and he doesn't say anything else. At least not verbally. His eyes soften, his version of a thank you, and don't leave you until you're out of sight.

You swear that, as you leave, you hear your name softly spoken against his lips, a hushed whisper almost said in prayer.

And months later — when you learn his name — you repeat it in your head like a mantra.

Today's been particularly difficult, as the Doctor's been working you to the point of exhaustion where you can't really see straight. Your responses are lagged, slurred with sleep, eyes burning as if you haven't blinked all day (you probably haven't). It's been one job after the next, relentless healing and reporting back on what specific parts of the body are in pain, what needs improvements technologically so that the surgeons can do their work, on and on and on again. You think it's been days since you've slept, it's hard to keep count. Especially when the quarters you've been confined to don't have any windows or clocks.

Apparently, you take too long to answer one of Zola's questions. All he does is nod towards his bodyguard, and you're getting a super-soldier-serum powered backhand to the face.

You stay alert from that point on. The throbbing in your cheekbone is a reminder of what happens when you slack off. Even if your hands are trembling with every new recruit you heal back to life, even if your heart breaks when they beg for mercy, beg you to kill them instead. Your left side aches, burns, something mangled under the skin that feels like an itch you can't scratch. Sure, you'll heal on your own, but that takes time that feels stretched to eons. And sometimes, you feel like you deserve to feel all of this pain.

Because you feel all of it.

Every cut. Every stab wound. Every concussion, contusion, break, fracture. Even if it's for seconds, minutes if it's a fatal wound, you feel it all. The spot you heal on someone else burns like a brand against your skin in that very same area, pinching for a few moments before returning back to normal. It's the price you pay for the gift of helping others, but you take it quietly and don't complain. Granted, there are more things to complain about in a place like this, that your little pain problem feels like child's play. You never told the Doctor, because if he knew, he'd probably force you to heal the dead. And then what? You die for seconds? Minutes? A life for a life? Not a bridge you're trying to cross.

So you never wince after a healing session. Never allow others to know your secret. Because in a place like this, secrets are hard to keep. You'd like to have one shroud of dignity left.

After your back to back to back experiments with the Doctor, your bones are heavy, left with a phantom ache of all the pain you've endured all day over the course of seconds, maybe mere minutes, muscles strained and mind running on autopilot. All you dream of is your bed — if you can call it that, a cot is more like it — and at least a few hours of rest, to be able to recharge and feel a little bit more like yourself again. It's hard to forget who you are, who you really are, in a place like this for so long. You can't remember the last time you looked in a mirror.

"Ved'ma," Zola hisses from the other side of the room. "The Asset needs attention."

You blink blearily.

"Immediately," he adds pointedly.

When his bodyguard takes a step towards you in warning, you don't wait around to get manhandled again. Your feet scurry out of the room before your mind can process what you're doing, and back into the familiar concrete cell where it feels like the only space you can actually breathe in, knowing he's there. Their Asset. Their war machine. Their puppet. But to you, he's all you have in here.

You enter the room a little abruptly, staggering balance and blinking thoroughly to stay awake. Although your heart is racing, and it's keeping you up. Especially with the adrenaline of running through corridors to get here, and especially with the way the soldier is staring at you with such a piercing gaze that it makes your stomach flip, but not with fear or discomfort, but something else you can't pin point. Concern, maybe?

His brows are pinched immediately, blue-grey eyes fixated on the left side of your face. You can't imagine it looks pretty: splotchy purple marks and a puffy eye, swollen and bruised and practically growing a heartbeat out of it. A sight for sore eyes, you can conjecture. And given the way his gaze narrows on it, on your wound, it's the first time you've felt squeamish under his stare, which is ironic because all he does is stare.

"Looks worse than it feels," you joke quietly, attempting to send him a reassuring smile, but you're sure it instead comes across as a grimace. "Ow. Okay. Wrong face to make."

He solely looks at you.

Then, after a moment, he speaks. "Who?"

You blink stupidly at him, half stunned he's speaking and half panicked that you're going to get in trouble for ratting Zola's guard out.

"Uh, would you believe I ran into a door?"

No. Clearly he doesn't believe that given the tick of his jaw, how his gaze keeps examining the purple welt on your face.

You see in your bottom peripheral that his fingers flex under where his wrists are caged into the chair, almost a tension release, or him gearing up to do something that will guaranteed get him in trouble, perhaps hurt even more than he already gets. A rise of guilt floods your chest, because the last thing you want is for him to get into muddy water for you. As if he already doesn't have enough to deal with.

"It's fine," you say quickly, trying to mediate. "It was my fault, anyway. I wasn't listening. Counting sheep in my head, or whatever. I wasn't doing what I was told."

"Who?" He repeats, firmer this time.

You swallow thickly, words dying in your throat. There's no way he's dropping this, and granted this is the most he's probably ever spoken to you in a long time, so you know it must be serious when he breaks protocol to ask instead of be asked. Especially when his gaze never falters, never breaks. Because he seems to let his guard down with you, but right now, he's breaking through the cracks, letting slivers of worry etch onto his features and have his feelings let on more than he's saying. More than he can say.

The last thing you want to do is upset him.

So, you relent with a sigh. "Zola's guard. But you have to understand, I was the one out of line—"

"I'll handle it," is all he says, voice hoarse from all the time he's spent not speaking to suddenly breaking out sentences.

Your lip quivers. "I don't want you to get in trouble."

All he does is shake his head, as if he's not even considering that as a possibility. He's firm with the gesture, wordless yet saying all the things he can't. And you understand, which is the insane part, is that you've gotten relatively good at reading his expressions and small movements that indicate his feelings, that speak for him. You see him, you understand him, you feel him, whether you want to admit it or not.

Your heart thumps. You need to change the subject. Immediately.

Avoiding his gaze and examining his body up and down, it's more of the usual wounds. Cuts. Bruises. A rib looking suspiciously out of place. A jagged line on his forehead down to his temple. The blood has dried by now, it's not the worst you've seen on him, but it's the only thing that's consistent about him. How he's always hurt. Always bleeding or bruised or battered. The sight in front of you isn't uncommon, even if you hate seeing him like this every single time you come in here. If he can manage all of that on a day to day basis, you can handle a black eye for a few hours.

"You, on the other hand, definitely were busy," you muse gently, both knowing he was off doing god knows what attached to Hydra's puppet strings. "Let's get that rib back in place, yeah?"

So you get to work, healing his ribcage that makes yours ache, closing up the cuts that feel like small pinches, morphing the bruises back to his original complexion that feel like a kettlebell pressing in each spot on your body. But you never wince, never let him catch on. Because this is about him, his pain, making him feel better. The pain you take from him will pass quickly, quietly, without a problem. In minutes, you'll forget it was even there.

"I haven't seen you in a while," you say after a long time. "I was worried about you."

Of course, he says nothing, eyes darting from your hands lingering on his tied down wrists and back up to your face, almost calculating your movements.

You can't meet his gaze, instead staring down at your conjoined hands and how the pads of your fingertips brush gently over his calloused knuckles, almost in a feeble attempt to soothe your racing heart. Why are you getting choked up? Is it the mere thought of the closest person you have to a friend going missing? Leaving forever? Because, then what? You're stuck here still with people who scare you, and the only one who never made you feel terrified was arguably the most terrifying person in this building, perhaps the whole world.

"I think you're my only friend," you whisper so quietly that you don't think he even hears you.

But he does.

"I think my name is Bucky."

Your body seizes up at the sudden spoken sentence from the super soldier, the most he's ever said in your time spent together. His voice is harsh, jagged in more ways than one, as if the discovery kills him and as if the words are ripped from his throat, spoken in a hurried way as if he'll forget if he doesn't tell you immediately. You were about to continue, about to finish the session with him in pristine condition, not knowing he was sitting on that piece of information the whole time. Maybe if your face hadn't been emulating that of a pod of grapes, he would've said something sooner, but frankly that doesn't matter now, because his words startle you, make you freeze in place, hands frozen in midair as they were just on their way to cradle his jaw and close up the cut.

This is the first time you're seeing him in about two months, the last time you spoke was when you told him your name. By the way there are permanent indents on his temples, you unfortunately think he's been in this chair with the memory wiping device strapped to his head longer than he's been out on missions. You know it's your fault, telling him such a personal anecdote like that. You didn't think it would get him in trouble, if anything it would've just been you. But that's not the way things roll around here.

His blue eyes meet yours, laced with desperation. "I don't want to forget it again."

No matter what, you never think you'll get used to hearing his voice.

Your hands shake as you press a palm experimentally to his cheek, feeling the stubble that's grown there and the subtle tick in his jaw. For a moment, you wait patiently to see if he's going to say anything else, surprise him further, but his lips purse as his eyes dart between yours, sighing quietly through his nose as if he's been holding his breath waiting to tell you, to tell someone, to ensure someone had this knowledge in case he's wiped again.

"I'll remember for you," you respond simply, earnestly.

And for the first time in the duration of your sessions, you're speechless.

When you cradle his face with such delicacy that he hasn't felt in years, he lets his eyes flutter shut, finally feeling able to relax, even if it's temporary. Granted his arms are strapped down to the chair, but if he had free reign, the first thing he'd do is place a hand on your neck, thumb to your pulse point to actually make sure you're real, and not a figment of imagination, a cursed test that Hydra created in his brain to give him a false sense of hope in a wretched place.

"Bucky," you reiterate quietly after a while, almost testing it on your tongue. "It's nice to meet you."

His heart thrums. He really likes the way it sounds coming from you.

When he lets his eyes open after your hands leave his body, he discovers that you're already looking at him so intently that he forgets everything around him, forgets all the horrors within these concrete walls, forgets this place is a prison and this is his life now. And yours, too. But he'd rather stay here forever if it meant the potential chance of seeing you.

You stare at him for a moment, analyzing him. The name suits him, you pointedly decide. It doesn't have to make sense, not right now, but the way it rolled off his tongue and felt safe in yours, you make a vow to never forget it for his sake. You'll say it every night before you sleep, hoping to dream of him, maybe the two of you in your own little paradise in a quaint beach-side cottage, where the sun always shines and there's never a snowflake in sight. Maybe you have a cat or two. Maybe you speak throughout the night, or sleep side by side. Maybe you go for a swim or sit under a tree in the shade.

The fantasies are the only remedies that lull you to sleep.

Bucky teeters between considering his enhanced hearing as a blessing and a curse.

It's a blessing when he can hear you without even seeing you. He catches fragments of your voice behind the concrete door before and after your sessions with him. If he really focuses, he can fixate on the sound of your heartbeat, which is sometimes the only sensation that helps him relax in a place like this. When his mind is too loud, he shuts his eyes and thinks of you, tries to pinpoint where you are in the compound and focus on your voice, heartbeat, footsteps. Anything pertaining to you.

But it's a curse when he hears two guards speaking behind said-concrete doors a few days after he told you his alleged name.

"Doc's pissed," the first voice gossips, as if this whole thing is a game to them. "It's not everyday you find someone who can heal anything instantly, especially when It's needed for two missions in a row."

"So, that's it?" The other one asks irritatedly. "He's gonna go back on that fucking witch hunt to get someone else? How long did it take him to find someone like her?"

The first guard snorts. "Decades. But he said she's gotta go."

A shiver runs down Bucky's spine. Go?

"Why?"

"It was saying her name in Its sleep," he laughs. "Doc said it's too personal now. Something about fucking with Asset's priorities. If It gets attached, then the whole operation goes into jeopardy."

Now he's wide awake, blinking in the darkness as panic rises like bile in his throat.

You're leaving him? Getting booted to the curb because of his fuck-up? Where are they going to take you? What will they do with you? Will they throw you out the front door and leave you to the cold all by yourself? You hate the cold, he remembers. You wouldn't last a day in the snow-cap mountains, not when you dream of a place so far from here. Will they kill you in the crevices of the mountains? Let your body be buried by the snow? Die in a place you hate?

"Yeesh." The other guard whistles low. "That's dramatic."

"Yeah, well, Doc isn't taking any chances," the first guard points out. "They're gettin' rid of her later tonight, I think. While it's sleeping."

Bucky tugs at the restraints on his arms so hard they indent on his skin, a permanent mark. One of these times they're bound to break, right? No, because no matter how hard he does so, he's never freed. His chest heaves, struggling against the confinements. He needs to find you, warn you. Tell you to get out of here before they can hurt you, that is, if they haven't already.

That thought makes him tug harsh against the restraints, and he sucks in a harsh breath when he hears a screw loose.

He doesn't think twice about the repercussions of escaping confinement when his metal arm breaks free, the titanium creaking as he catches the scrap before it can clatter to the floor and alert all the guards. It's late, no one's checking the security feed at this time, as it's normally the only time they allow him to sleep — which he always takes advantage of — but not now. Not when he knows you're about to get hurt.

Moving like floating dust in the darkness, Bucky maneuvers across the room quieter than a mouse, metal hand hovering over the concrete door latch as he takes a moment to close his eyes and focus. Can he still hear your heartbeat? Are you still here? Are you alive? Please be alive.

You are. He hears the heightened pace of your heartbeat, somewhere within these walls. It sounds scared, accelerated, but alive.

Bucky doesn't hesitate to swing the door open, taking out the two guards who inadvertently told him of the Doctor's plans without even knowing. He catches their bodies before they can loudly hit the floor, gently lowering them to not alert anyone else who may be lingering in the area. Waiting one, two beats, he waits for the coast to be clear and quiet before he's moving again, maneuvering through the maze of corridors solely based off the direction of where your heartbeat is.

When it gets quieter, he turns around until he gets louder, like a moth drawn to a flame. He's never been in this part of the building before, not even knowing what to expect or who he'll see, but he stealthily takes out anyone in his path and turns back to his main focus: finding you, getting you out of here, holding you if he has time to do so.

"Soldat!" Pierce’s voice.

The sound echos, throwing off Bucky's focus on trying to find you. He falters for one, two moments before shaking away the sudden chaos of voices that chorus, alerting the rest of the compound that the Asset has escaped. But what no one realizes that he's not trying to escape. He knows he's never leaving this place. He's making sure you get to.

Alarms ring out. Pierce is barking orders. The Doctor's screaming, Zola's panicked tone causing a shiver to run down Bucky's spine. But he doesn't address it, doesn't freeze or falter anymore, because he could care less what happens to him. This isn't about him. This is about you. Finding you. Making sure you get out. You have to, because if you don't he has no idea what he'll do. What else will he have to live for if he knows you're hurt?

Soldiers attempt to get in his way, Bucky takes them down easily. Your heartbeat still rings through in his ears, but it's starting to get masked by something louder, larger, heavier. A constant thrum, white noise. An engine? A plane? It makes his panic skyrocket, knowing what that means. They're taking you somewhere, maybe they'll throw you out of the plane at 20,000 feet, or drop you amidst the mountains to fend for yourself, to die alone in the snow and be buried by nature. No outcome is good for you, he realizes quickly. Not unless he gets to you first.

And Bucky doesn't.

By the time he reaches the runway, you're too far away, hands tied behind your back and getting shoved into a small get-away plane. Even from here, all this distance away, he can make out the ugly bruise still rotting on your pretty face, and something in him pinches worse than any pain he's ever felt.

No, this isn't a stab wound or broken bone, this is his heart, his soul, parts of his body he never thought would feel again. They've been turned to steel for so long, for decades, and you were the only thing that melted away that cold exterior, that made him realize there's more to life outside concrete walls and pain for pleasure. There's love, and kindness, and genuine care that you embody, even when he doesn't deserve a fraction of it. But now that he's felt it, now that he's learned to love the sense of touch when it comes from a place of care, he panics at the thought of being without it, without you.

Bucky shouts your name, he thinks, a mix between terror and a plea to get you to know that he's here! Right here! He's here to save you, get you out of here safely, but he's not. Because he's too far. Too out of reach. Too late. You don't hear him over the plane's engine, or the sound of the door shutting behind you.

That's the last time Bucky sees you.

And when the plane zips past him, taking off, a group of soldiers already have him pinned to the ground, injecting him with a sedative that'll put him out for days. Your name reiterates over and over on his lips, each time more loopy than the last, but the phonetics are there, almost said in prayer like a mantra he has to remember.

In the corner of his eye, face pressed harshly into the concrete, he watches the plane get smaller and smaller, until it disappears into the white sky and behind the mountains you hate, never to be seen again.

Years later, and Bucky still dreams of you.

He's been away from Hydra for a long time, trying to assimilate into society as a functioning member, but it proves difficult when he feels as though something is missing every time he wakes up alone. Sure, Steve and Sam are there as moral support and keep him company whenever they can, inviting him out to dinners and house parties with family and friends to get him feeling somewhat normal again. Sometimes it works, and he forgets all about his past and even finds himself laughing and smiling during the good times.

But when it gets too quiet, too dark, he's reminded of that time spent in the chair, reminded of a time when the only light in his life was you. Your hands. Your words. Your unbridled kindness.

Besides your absence, things are going alright.

Living alone proved too lonely for him at first, so Bucky immediately took in the stray cat that always meowed at his window in the morning. A scrappy little thing, white fur tainted with dirt. He spent a long time cleaning her coat, fattening her up, making her the only company he can tolerate for extended amounts of time. He names her Alpine, coat as white as snow, but also to associate the winter, the cold, the snow, with something good. Something pure. Something pleasant so that whenever he sees the same shade of white that ghosted over those mountains, it's not all associated with pain.

All the words that he's able to speak now, he tells Alpine, imagining you're in the room, too. Saying everything he couldn't at the time. Reiterating his grocery list or recounting the items at the store that were the same shade of green as the leaves when the sun pokes through them. Describing the dog with a ridiculous sweater that you would probably swoon over, how it slobbered all over him and how he couldn't seem to care less, not when he thought you would've enjoyed it. Attempting to make cinnamon cookies with honey tea, using ingredients as a way to emulate scents that reminded him of you. Walking to the beach a few miles away whenever he needs to clear his mind, going for the sake of you and how you used to talk about loving the water. He does it as an honor, almost, to partake in the experiences of life that you can't anymore.

He thinks of you day and night, seeing things in society that you spoke of and understanding its beauty for himself. He wishes you were here to see it, experience it, get to know him for who he is now, not who he was before. Because that wasn't him, not really, anyway.

A casual nudge to his metal arm snaps him out of his daydream.

"That girl at the counter was cute," Sam interrupts suggestively.

Him, Steve, and Sam are all at the corner breakfast spot, their weekly tradition of getting an early morning coffee. The tradition was purely based on pity, mainly on Steve and Sam's end, in order to get Bucky out of the house for a guaranteed amount of time so he can't wallow in self-destruction. Sometimes Natasha will join and keep the three of them in check. Now it's become a thing, and Bucky doesn't necessarily mind it as much anymore now that it's easier to leave his apartment and spend a few hours out and about.

All he does is shrug, sipping his black coffee.

Sam doesn't let it slide. "C'mon, you gonna ask for her number, or what? I can do it for you, it's no big deal. I can ask if she has a friend or two."

"I'm all set," Steve pipes in pointedly. "I'm married, remember?"

"Man," Sam sighs gutturally, "I wasn't talking about you. You think I'm trying to get killed by your redhead? Please. I'm saying: two for myself, the girl at the counter for Buck. It's foolproof."

Shaking his head lightly, Bucky manages an amused smile. "I'm good, thanks. But you seem confident enough, why don't you?" He deflects, taking another sip.

Instead, Steve shrugs. "Couldn't hurt, you know."

"I'm good," Bucky reiterates.

"You're deflecting."

"Not sure the girl at the counter wants to sign up for a man with emotional baggage and trauma the size of a small country."

"How chivalrous of you," Sam deadpans.

All Bucky does is take another sip.

They both know about you. They aided in Bucky's search to find you, coming up short every time. It's like you disappeared off the face of the earth, and you probably have given the way Hydra likes to dispose of things they no longer need. He hates dwelling on it, hates speculating what really happened to you, because the thought of you being alone, cold, and scared makes his heart ache with a pain worse than anything he's ever felt in his life. He likes to think that, if you died, it was quick, painless, and peaceful. He hopes you were laid under big, beautiful trees with the sun shining through, birds chirping to soothe the ache of all the pain you must've felt, but also in the sense that you weren't entirely alone. Not really, anyway.

No one brings you up. Technically, Bucky made them swear not to, but still no one mentions you by name, but everyone knows that's why he won't go up and ask for her number, why he won't channel that charm he once flaunted around like a badge of honor, why he won't try and move on and live some sort of normalcy when it comes to romance.

Because he can't, not when you occupy his thoughts day in and day out.

Truth be told, he still can't fathom anyone touching him. With Sam and Steve it's different, slightly, because he can tolerate it solely for a few seconds before he gets antsy. He misses the comfort of your hands, misses the solace he'd feel when you healed him, misses the way he never had to flinch with you.

"All I'm saying," Sam continues cautiously, "is that it could be good for you."

Bucky considers it for a moment. Oh, how he'd love to be able to open his heart up again, to feel that sense of ease with someone as he did with you, as he still does whenever he thinks about you. But it gets shot down so fast when he realizes how much he'd have to open up when meeting someone new, and that thought absolutely scares the shit out of him. Not only that, but there isn't another you out there, and sometimes, he feels like you were the only one who ever understood him without even trying.

"I'm alright," he responds firmly, marking this as the end of the discussion. "Honest."

Sam doesn't press further, simply taking the loss with a shrug and sigh as he moves onto the next unrelated topic, swerving away from the tension filled concept that is you. Steve chimes into whatever is being talked about now, and Bucky will add his two cents occasionally so that his friends don't worry about him more than they already do, but they know you're on his mind, it's obvious. But they don't pry anymore, knowing Bucky isn't one to really talk about his feelings, or talk much at all. With you, he never had to talk, but you still knew what he was trying to say, anyway.

Truthfully, he's grateful for friends who care about his wellbeing, he really does. But his heart is already broken enough knowing you're gone, and the thought of moving on from you makes his chest feel funny. He refuses to let go, to forget, especially when you were the only source of good in his life at that time. A beacon of hope. A break. A breath of fresh air. Someone he loves without even questioning it, without entirely understanding what it means.

Later that week, Bucky rises with the sun shining through the sliver of his curtains.

Alpine is curled up on his shoulder, purring away the constant ache where his jagged scars meet the metal. She doesn't stir, instead snuggling further as if to tell him it's too early to be starting the day. Part of him agrees with her, but decides to get out of bed anyway, seizing the day and the sunshine. Bucky likes to soak in the sun whenever he can, a small ode to you seeing as you can't do so.

He takes a long walk down by the shore, settling into the atmosphere of the light breeze and rippling waves gently lapping against the sand. It's peaceful, a soothing white noise that puts him at ease as he stares off onto the horizon, seeing where the sky meets the ends of the sea.

Granted, he doesn't really know why he's here, because he feels like he owes it to you to experience the parts of life you missed the most. You talked about the beach a lot, how much you loved it, how much it calmed you down. He comes here when he can and thinks of you. Sometimes he'll speak aloud to himself under his breath, a ghost of a murmur, as if you're standing right next to him. A phantom presence he can never really shake, not that he ever wants to, because sometimes the mere thought of you puts him at ease, even if you're not actually here.

Although, it feels like you are.

Especially right now, when his ears pick up on a sound that makes his heart skip, a familiar noise.

Laughter emerge to his left, and for a second, he doesn't think much of it. He stuffs his hand on his pocket to shield the metal, grateful for the long sleeve he's wearing. He gets less questions, recognized less often, especially with his hair now short to represent a new him, or whatever bullshit Natasha convinced him off when he finally granted her permission to cut his hair. Now, he's relatively incognito. Of sorts. The arm definitely gives him away more often than not.

The sound gets louder, and something urges him to look.

And when he does, the air is ripped from Bucky's lungs.

It's you.

At least he thinks it's you, happier than ever, petting a dog that doesn't belong to you as you chat with the owner holding the leash, unknowing to the revelation of his presence. You ruffle the fur, grinning at the canine and ignoring the sandy paws on your clothes, as if you could actually care less about the dirt. Your hair is different, more fresh and you-like. Your smile is brighter, eyes less tired, more free. You look beautiful. And certainly not dead.

When Bucky's ears finally stop ringing, he decides to do something he hasn't done in a very long time. He focuses on your heartbeat, the deciding factor that will truly tell that it's you, here in the flesh, in his presence after years of trying to find you.

And when he hears it, the familiar syncopated rhythm that brought him comfort in his darkest times without you even knowing, his knees nearly buckle.

Because it can't be true. It can't. All this time he's spent looking for you across oceans and over borders have been fruitless, a ghost of a name and gone without a trace. You practically didn't exist, not in any legal record, anyway. But now here you are, miles away from him in a spot he always came to in hopes of seeing you. It's fucking impossible, he has to be dreaming. Maybe he's still squared away in that four concrete-walled room, chained down and daydreaming so intensely that none of this is real.

The dog and owner eventually walk away, leaving you alone. You don't see him, not yet, watching the canine skip away with a fondness in your eyes that he recognizes, because that's sometimes how you'd look at him. That's how he images you'd look at Alpine, or any other dog you pass on the street, or anything remotely resembling innocence and purity.

Before he can stop himself, he speaks.

Bucky says your name cautiously, and there's the painful reminder of the last time he said it aloud, when he screamed at the top of his lungs yet still masked by the plane engine, how disgusted he was with that bruise on your face. You hadn't heard him then, not turning around as you were pushed up the ramp and sealed behind the doors, never to be seen again and forgotten to the world like snow building atop a peak.

But you hear him now.

You turn around quizzically. When your eyes land on him, you blink once, twice, sucking in a particularly harsh breath as you take in his stature, his shorter hair, the same color of his eyes, the metal hand that pokes out through his sleeve that he'd taken out of his pocket. But he looks taller, less shrunken in on himself, more affirmed and comfortable in his skin. He looks handsome.

"Bucky?"

notes sorrrrrrry for the cliff hanger? my bad? sorry bucky i didn't mean to completely make you suffer in this, oops. hope you enjoyed? part 2 coming soon.

#bucky barnes #salem-s works #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #james buchanan barnes #marvel #winter soldier #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky x female reader #captain america and the winter soldier #the winter soldier #mcu

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5ummit · 2 years ago

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AO3 Ship Stats: Year In Bad Data

You may have seen this AO3 Year In Review.

It hasn’t crossed my tumblr dash but it sure is circulating on twitter with 3.5M views, 10K likes, 17K retweets and counting. Normally this would be great! I love data and charts and comparisons!

Except this data is GARBAGE and belongs in the TRASH.

I first noticed something fishy when I realized that Steve/Bucky – the 5th largest ship on AO3 by total fic count – wasn’t on this Top 100 list anywhere. I know Marvel’s popularity has fallen in recent years, but not that much. Especially considering some of the other ships that made it on the list. You mean to tell me a femslash HP ship (Mary MacDonald/Lily Potter) in which one half of the pairing was so minor I had to look up her name because she was only mentioned once in a single flashback scene beat fandom juggernaut Stucky? I call bullshit.

Now obviously jumping to conclusions based on gut instinct alone is horrible practice... but it is a good place to start. So let’s look at the actual numbers and discover why this entire dataset sits on a throne of lies.

Here are the results of filtering the Steve/Bucky tag for all works created between Jan 1, 2023 and Dec 31, 2023:

Not only would that place Steve/Bucky at #23 on this list, if the other counts are correct (hint: they're not), it’s also well above the 1520-new-work cutoff of the #100 spot. So how the fuck is it not on the list? Let’s check out the author’s FAQ to see if there’s some important factor we’re missing.

The first thing you’ll probably notice in the FAQ is that the data is being scraped from publicly available works. That means anything privated and only accessible to logged-in users isn’t counted. This is Sin #1. Already the data is inaccurate because we’re not actually counting all of the published fics, but the bots needed to do data collection on this scale can't easily scrape privated fics so I kinda get it. We’ll roll with this for now and see if it at least makes the numbers make more sense:

Nope. Logging out only reduced the total by a couple hundred. Even if one were to choose the most restrictive possible definition of "new works" and filter out all crossovers and incomplete fics, Steve/Bucky would still have a yearly total of 2,305. Yet the list claims their total is somewhere below 1,500? What the fuck is going on here?

Let’s look at another ship for comparison. This time one that’s very recent and popular enough to make it on the list so we have an actual reference value for comparison: Nick/Charlie (Heartstopper). According to the list, this ship sits at #34 this year with a total of 2630 new works. But what’s AO3 say?

Off by a hundred or so but the values are much closer at least!

If we dig further into the FAQ though we discover Sin #2 (and the most egregious): the counting method. The yearly fic counts are NOT determined by filtering for a certain time period, they’re determined by simply taking a snapshot of the total number of fics in a ship tag at the end of the year and subtracting the previous end-of-year total. For example, if you check a ship tag on Jan 1, 2023 and it has 10,000 fics and check it again on Jan 1, 2024 and it now has 12,000 fics, the difference (2,000) would be the number of "new works" on this chart.

At first glance this subtraction method might seem like a perfectly valid way to count fics, and it’s certainly the easiest way, but it can and did have major consequences to the point of making the entire dataset functionally meaningless. Why? If any older works are deleted or privated, every single one of those will be subtracted from the current year fic count. And to make the problem even worse, beginning at the end of last year there was a big scare about AI scraping fics from AO3, which caused hundreds, if not thousands, of users to lock down their fics or delete them.

The magnitude of this fuck up may not be immediately obvious so let’s look at an example to see how this works in practice.

Say we have two ships. Ship A is more than a decade old with a large fanbase. Ship B is only a couple years old but gaining traction. On Jan 1, 2023, Ship A had a catalog of 50,000 fics and ship B had 5,000. Both ships have 3,000 new works published in 2023. However, 4% of the older works in each fandom were either privated or deleted during that same time (this percentage is was just chosen to make the math easy but it’s close to reality).

Ship A: 50,000 x 4% = 2,000 removed works Ship B: 5,000 x 4% = 200 removed works

Ship A: 3,000 - 2,000 = 1,000 "new" works Ship B: 3,000 - 200 = 2,800 "new" works

This gives Ship A a net gain of 1,000 and Ship B a net gain of 2,800 despite both fandoms producing the exact same number of new works that year. And neither one of these reported counts are the actual new works count (3,000). THIS explains the drastic difference in ranking between a ship like Steve/Bucky and Nick/Charlie.

How is this a useful measure of anything? You can't draw any conclusions about the current size and popularity of a fandom based on this data.

With this system, not only is the reported "new works" count incorrect, the older, larger fandom will always be punished and it’s count disproportionately reduced simply for the sin of being an older, larger fandom. This example doesn’t even take into account that people are going to be way more likely to delete an old fic they're no longer proud of in a fandom they no longer care about than a fic that was just written, so the deletion percentage for the older fandom should theoretically be even larger in comparison.

And if that wasn't bad enough, the author of this "study" KNEW the data was tainted and chose to present it as meaningful anyway. You will only find this if you click through to the FAQ and read about the author’s methodology, something 99.99% of people will NOT do (and even those who do may not understand the true significance of this problem):

The author may try to argue their post states that the tags "which had the greatest gain in total public fanworks” are shown on the chart, which makes it not a lie, but a error on the viewer’s part in not interpreting their data correctly. This is bullshit. Their chart CLEARLY titles the fic count column “New Works” which it explicitly is NOT, by their own admission! It should be titled “Net Gain in Works” or something similar.

Even if it were correctly titled though, the general public would not understand the difference, would interpret the numbers as new works anyway (because net gain is functionally meaningless as we've just discovered), and would base conclusions on their incorrect assumptions. There’s no getting around that… other than doing the counts correctly in the first place. This would be a much larger task but I strongly believe you shouldn’t take on a project like this if you can’t do it right.

To sum up, just because someone put a lot of work into gathering data and making a nice color-coded chart, doesn’t mean the data is GOOD or VALUABLE.

#ao3 #ao3 stats #psa #my words #fandom #drama in the statistics fandom #I doubt anyone is even going to read this but I needed to get it out of my system and at least try to stop this from spreading #if you know me #you know I get Big Mad about misinformation #don't take anything at face value #do your own research

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star-girl69 · 2 months ago

Text

❦ Buttons

Daniela Avanzini … college!au

Synopsis: It turns out it was never casual.

Feel free to send Dani requests 😘

Warnings: y’all they play strip poker except it’s not poker bc idk how to play. They play strip card. Idk. I think we get the point… but just to make it clear!! Alcohol, reader drinks, probably inaccurate depictions of parties and alcohol (guys I write fanfic I don’t go out.) possessive!dani, jealous!dani, a little bit of angst but a happy ending, lots of making out, some sexual innuendos and such, the usual swearing, lmk if I missed anything!

A/n: this is my first Katseye fic but anyways I think it’s cute lmk what y’all think 😘 this fic is so long. Omg. I’m sorry. ALSO!! This fic is not a real portrayal of anyone mentioned! This is for entertainment purposes only 💗

And also yes I’m using my original side characters from my other fics BC I WANT TO!!!!

Maybe listen to … Buttons by The Pussycat Dolls (or the Dream Academy version 🙈)

—-

Your eyes flick over the elaborate Instagram post, smiling at the shameless picture of your best friend on the second slide, looking at the infographic again.

Another party your best friend is throwing.

This one is supposed to a game night with promises of seven minutes in Heaven, spin the bottle, card games, and stripping games.

You roll over in bed, turning to face your roommate.

“Jackie?”

She’s engrossed in her phone, giggling at something, but as soon as she turns to look at you a wicked smile crosses her face.

“Have you seen my beautiful new instagram post?” She smirks. “Don’t I look so pretty in it?”

You stare her down, the corner of your lips unwillingly turning up into a smile.

“Ugh. Whatever! I’m a grown woman, okay? And, besides, it’s not even my party. It’s Matty’s and his frat’s party, I’m just promoting.”

“When is it?” You relent, slightly curious, feeling a little bit better by the fact it wasn’t technically her party.

“Girl, read the fucking infographic. That shit takes time to make.”

You roll your eyes but look back to your phone anyways.

“Tomorrow. Fun. No way I’m going with one day’s notice to a themed party.”

Jackie quickly stands up at this, crossing the room to throw herself on top of you.

“No!” She shouts, straddling you and pinning your hands to the bed. “You have to come, Y/N!!”

You attempt to push her off you with a screech.

“I literally don’t!!”

“Dani will probably be there…” she says suggestively, wiggling her eyebrows.

Shit.

As soon as she mentions the name of your infuriating friends-with-benefits-situationship-who-you-kinda-want-to-be-more she knew that you would be coming.

An opportunity to see Dani is an opportunity to… do other things with Dani.

“Maybe I’ll come,” you shrug, but your heart beats more just at the thought of her.

“You’re so in love with her,” Jackie teases, light-heartedly.

You quickly stick a smile on her face as she relents, getting up off of you and moving to your shared closet, talking animatedly about an outfit for you to “bag a baddie” whether that’s Dani, or someone to make her jealous.

Maybe your life revolves a bit too much around Daniela.

Sometimes, laying awake in her arms after a hook up, you stare up at the ceiling and try to coach yourself into believing that you’re happy with just this. You’re happy with whatever the hell you two are. You’re okay with not having all of her.

Then you’ll remember what just happened moments earlier.

And you’ll remember the way she makes you feel, that bad habit she has of biting her lip that drives you crazy, the way she tucks your hair behind your ears even when she’s on top of you.

She always finds a way to tuck your hair behind your ear. It’s not in a weird way, and you’ve never asked her why she does it, but you like to think to yourself that it’s just another way to touch you.

Sometimes she lingers.

God, sometimes her fingers stray just a bit too long, and her eyes widen and she catches herself. She’ll tuck her hands behind her back and start biting her lip, like she’s physically restraining herself from touching you.

Holding hands is a bit too platonic. Grabbing your waist is a bit too romantic.

But this, for whatever reason, feels good. It feels right.

You usually lay in bed for a bit longer. Listening to her breathing against you. And every night you tell yourself this is the last time you’ll let yourself pretend she’s your girlfriend. And every time the cycle repeats again.

—-

“Fuckin’ Professor Davis,” you mumble to yourself, angrily zipping your bag up as you sigh heavily. Your last class on Friday is always the worst no matter what it is. So close to freedom yet so far. It didn’t help that Professor Davis was fucking infuriating.

“What are you mumblin’ about?”

Your body tenses up.

“Nothing, Dani,” you mumble.

She easily falls into step beside you, shoulders bumping, and usually her presence would brighten your day- but Jackie was sending you pictures all class of outfit options for the two of you. Now you were stressed out, annoyed by the impossible deadline Professor Davis had set- really? A three page essay due on Wednesday?

“I don’t know why I ever wait for you after your class with him. He pisses you off so much,” she teases.

“It’s not my fault he’s the most idiotic professor to ever teach ever. I mean, seriously-”

She reaches out and tucks your hair behind your ear in a gesture that’s supposed to be calming.

And you’re… kinda in love with her. So it works.

“Calm down,” she soothes. You meet her eyes. She’s smiling at you softly, amusement etched all over her face. You quickly look forward again.

“Fine, whatever,” you mumble.

“Mumbling again,” she scolds jokingly, but thankfully lets it go. “Are you going to the party tonight? I figure you are, since Jackie posted it.”

“Yeah. Are you?”

“As long as you’re there, cariño.”

Her voice drops.

“Can I see you after? Please?”

Everything in your body screams to run to her. But that part of you that is still fighting desperately not to get hurt is screaming at you to run away.

Your heart starts beating faster.

She makes you feel like you’re drowning.

“Maybe,” you say.

“I’ll change that,” she smiles. She gets closer until she’s whispering in your ear. “I’ve missed you so much.”

You fall back into it.

“Maybe, Daniela.” You shoot her a smile. Her eyes light up. This is part of it, for her. The chase thrills her. She’s a little bit like a big lion, or something. She gives off this fierceness and definitely can be, but there’s also this big cuddly side to her. And that part of her that likes to chase you around on a stick.

That’s what it’s like, you suddenly realize.

She’s chasing you around like you’re dangling on a stick in front of her. When really you’re attached to her already.

You stop in front of the door to your dorm.

“I mean, no pressure.” She backtracks. “It’s not like we’re dating. You can do whatever you want.”

And just like that, she breaks the fantasy you were building.

“Oh, yeah, obviously.”

You start walking to your dorm before you can stop and replay the conversation in your head. You don’t notice the way her jaw tightens. The slight change in her voice, like she was forcing the words out. You don’t stay long enough to notice it.

—-

She says all the right things, calls you these Spanish pet names that are ten times better than anything anyone could say in English, and you know the intention behind it is wrong.

It’s not done out of love.

It’s all transactional- she makes you feel special. You fall into her bed. Into her. Again. And… again. And you flirt right back because it feels so good to pretend.

You sigh, cheers coming from the next room over as the already drunk frat boys get the broken speaker to work again. Music starts blaring through the house.

You don’t recognize the song, but it is in Spanish.

You roll your eyes, red solo cup crunching under your tight grip. Of course everything always comes back to her.

Maybe she’ll just always haunt you.

“Fuck,” you mumble, shaking your head as you reach for a bottle of vodka and pour more of it into your shitty drink.

“Y/N,” Jackie says with a bright smile, although the concern seeps into her eyes. “You okay, babe?”

It’s 9pm, the start time Jackie wrote on her infographic. People will start showing up soon, but it won’t actually become a true party until 10.

“Pregaming,” you shrug, knowing she sees right through it.

“Okay, fuck this.”

Her hand clamps around your wrist and she drags you through the mostly empty house until she locks the two of you in the bathroom.

“You’ve been acting all fuckin’ moody lately,” she immediately accuses. Your mouth drops open in shock. “I’m sick of it. Talk to me.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I literally haven’t.”

Sure, you’ve been thinking about Dani a bit more lately, but it wasn’t outwardly noticeable.

“The last time you hooked up with Dani you came home the next morning with some really sexy bruises on your hips to be fair, but also some crazy sad look in your eyes. Then you laid in bed staring at the ceiling hugging a goddamn pillow.”

Her eyes narrow on you.

“Dani is really beautiful, but no friends with benefits shit should make you feel like shit.”

Maybe you did do that.

“It’s whatever, okay?”

“It’s not, though. Not when I can see it on your face, babe.”

She grabs your hand, this earnest look in her eyes that suddenly reminds you she’s your best friend. She’s the girl who hugged you when you would get homesick freshman year. She’s the girl who parties with you and makes sure you’re never alone. She’s the one who listens to you talk about Daniela.

“It just sucks,” you finally relent.

“Yeah?”

“Like, sometimes I want to be more. But I know that would never happen. She’s just so… Dani. She doesn’t really fit with me. She would never want me back. Like ever. So maybe it’s better to just let her go now, you know?”

Jackie draws you into a tight hug that literally fixes every broken part of your soul.

You don’t realize it when a single tear escapes your glassy eyes and rolls down your face, but she notices it.

“I don’t think I want to keep being led on like this.”

It breaks you to say that. You’ve given Dani so much of your time, finally accepting that you were only meant to love her and leave her is harder than you thought.

The thing about Daniela is not only that she’s startlingly beautiful and haunts your every waking moment, but she’s so goddamn charismatic that everyone loves her. It’s why you love her.

Jackie backs away, and you look at yourself in the mirror. Red sparkly top. Jean shorts that were way too short. Your arms wrapped around yourself and a look on your face like you had just survived a war.

“First of all, don’t think like that. You are so gorgeous, and she’s lucky to have you. Also, she’s completely in love with you. I honest-to-God think so.”

You roll your eyes.

“Okay. Why don’t we just have fun tonight? Tomorrow we can talk.”

“I need to get so drunk,” you weakly laugh, wiping the tears from your face.

“I can definitely help with that.”

—-

This is definitely not the best party you’ve ever been to. But you’re so drunk that it certainly feels like it.

It’s 11, the house is now so full of people you just have to push through the crowd and hope you don’t knock someone over. So crowded that saying “excuse me” is pointless.

It’s exhilarating, this many people around, and for a while you really forget about her. Dancing with Jackie until Megan crosses your path on the dance floor.

Dani and her group of 5 other girls are inseparable.

Where one of them is, the rest of them are soon following. If Megan is here, so is Lara, Yoonchae, Sophia, and Manon. And Daniela.

Megan doesn’t see you, but by the way she’s animatedly greeting people, she probably just got here. And, shit, your eyes gravitate towards the door.

You don’t see her come in.

Jackie grabs you, obviously seeing Megan too, pulling you close to whisper in your ear.

“You good?” She asks, shouting slightly so you can hear her over the music and commotion.

You take a deep breath. You’re that perfect level of drunk where nothing can stay in your mind for too long, and all you want is to dance.

You nod.

She smiles.

Daniela appears behind her.

She’ll never want you back.

It keeps repeating in your head like a mantra. It’s written behind your eyes. It’s all you can think about.

“Hi Jackie,” she says, but doesn’t even spare her a glance.

She’ll never want you back.

Dani’s eyes rake their way up your body and you’re sure she can see you visibly swallow.

She really is like a lion. Her eyes are striking, her smile is sharp, everything about her has this sort of quality that makes it seem like she’s hiding razor sharp claws somewhere.

Her eyes are like claws now, stopping specifically around your hips and chest and leaving particularly deep marks.

“Hey, baby.”

Her smile. Your legs feel weak.

“Miss me?” She asks, joking on the fact you just saw each other a few hours ago.

“Obviously not,” Jackie says for you, a joking smile on her face. Her eyes are full of panic, glancing to you, not sure how she’s supposed to react on your behalf.

She’ll never want you back.

“H-hi,” you say back, stupidly. Your brain feels like it’s being sloshed around in a bucket of vodka.

She laughs. “Wow, you are so drunk.”

She steps closer, one hand coming to your waist, too low, fingertips brushing your ass- the other tucking your goddamn hair behind your ear.

You can’t stop staring at her eyes.

Your inhibitions are down. You’re about to make a total fool of yourself, you’re about to literally fuck her on the dance floor.

She’ll never want you back.

Someone squeezes your hand and caresses your shoulder. But it takes you a few seconds to look away from Dani, for everything to come back into focus.

The music starts blaring again. An elbow jams into your back.

She’ll never want you back.

“Y/N,” Jackie says. “I gotta go talk to Matty.”

“Wait, Jackie!” You say, needing to get away from Daniela, but she’s already disappeared into the crowd.

Dani grabs you as you try to run after her.

She’ll never want you back.

“You are way too drunk to be on your own,” she’s slightly teasing, slightly serious, and her thumb is rubbing back and forth from where she holds you by your arms. “You good?”

She’ll never want you back.

“Drunk,” you shrug. Drunk on her. And on vodka, but whatever. “I’m sorry, Dani, I really have to go.” You start trying to pull away, watching her frown.

Dani frowns. “Y/N-”

“No, I-I’m sorry. I gotta get away.”

You don’t stay long enough to see the hurt look on her face.

—-

After another few shots of reassurance, you feel a little better, a little more drunk, and now that you’re away from Dani- your head is clearer.

You would laugh if you could.

You’re so drunk your balance is shot, you can’t even think about what you’re doing, and yet you don’t feel like you’re drowning.

After watching you down three shots, Jackie had sighed, made Matty promise to watch out for the two of you, and quickly caught up.

The two of you like this with dangerously low inhibitions was probably not good… but it was too late to do anything about it.

People had been playing card games all night mixed in with some drinking, placing bets on who would win, but now the party had started to congregate in whatever room this was.

There were two couches, and in between was a small coffee table, low to the ground. There were a few decks of cards and drinks scattered about, but everyone gave the area a wide berth.

You and Jackie watched the unmoving area.

“That’s where he wants the strip poker to happen.”

“Really?” You turn to Jackie, her Instagram post suddenly flashing back to you. “Oh, yeah. Strip poker,” you giggle. “They’re all a bunch of pigs.”

“Could be fun.”

She shrugs, as if what she says is nonchalant.

You lock eyes before she suddenly bursts into laughter.

But something inside of you lights up.

“Wait, let’s do it.”

“What?” She gawks. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not? We’re single…ish. Hot.”

For once, this excitement doesn’t have you thinking about Dani.

Jackie thinks it over.

Matty suddenly comes up behind the two of you, all of you forgetting his earlier promise to watch out for you two, and he’s clearly just as drunk.

“Did I hear you say you wanna play?”

You and Jackie share one last look.

—-

“Ladies and gentlemen, my drunk guys and girls, welcome to another one of my fuckin’ amazing parties!”

The crowd cheers.

You and Jackie are sitting across from each other at the table, being given random kitchen table chairs and told that you’re more than welcome to stand on them. You smile. You’re happy.

“Tonight is our main event. My two beautiful friends, Jackie and Y/N, are going to give everyone a wonderful show of… strip poker!!”

The house literally shakes with how much cheering happens.

“Remember to pay 5 dollars to me if you haven’t!” He shouts, before unceremoniously and rather quickly dealing each of you seven cards. “You draw one card at a time. Whoever gets the lower number has to take something off. Aces beat everything.”

He flashes both of you a bright smile before stepping back.

You’re not nervous. You’re not thinking about her. You cross your legs on the chair, a few boys whistle, and that only makes you feel more confident.

“Ready?” Jackie asks, smiling wide, giddy and excited.

“Yes,” you say, sporting and equally cheery smile.

“3..!” Matty starts counting down.

You grab a card.

“2..!”

Your stomach flips.

“1..!”

You swear you see a flash of something familiar in the crowd.

You both flip your cards.

Jackie draws a 10. You draw a 6.

The crowd erupts into cheers and whistles.

You smile, standing up as you place one of your legs on the chair. You run your hand down your legs before finally slipping your shoe off.

“Nope! Nope!” Matty shouts. “Shoes aren’t technically an item of clothing, but I’ll allow it if you take both off.”

This is met with more cheers.

You’re honestly kinda flattered by how many people want you to take your clothes off. You pretend to pout, when really you feel great. This was the reminder you needed.

So what if Dani didn’t want you back? Someone else in this crowd could take her spot.

You take your other shoe off with the same amount of fanfare before sitting back down.

Jackie loses the next round and takes off her shoes too.

Jackie loses again.

She undoes her belt and throws it to Matty.

You lose.

You don’t have enough clothing to be playing this.

Thankfully you do have a pair of fishnets on, but all of this cheering is kinda getting to your head, so you stand up on the chair. You wobble a bit and the crowd laughs, but you steady yourself by bending over and grabbing onto the back of it. Jackie and the group of people behind her cheer a little louder.

You start rolling down your fishnets, letting them shimmy down your ankles, and finally kicking them off into the crowd.

They were ripping, anyways.

“Spin! Spin! Spin! Spin!” The crowd chants.

You laugh. “You want me to spin?” You shout.

You glance at Jackie, but she only laughs and starts clapping to encourage you.

You twist your hands up into the air, tilting your head back slightly to expose the column of your neck. You do a few spins, looking back down at the crowd. The faces mostly bend together, and it’s mostly boys like Matty in the crowd, clearly enjoying the show.

You feel this sense of headiness that reminds you of when it’s good with Dani. You feel this all rush to your head, this admiration. You may have a giant ego after all of this.

That’s when you see her. When you really remember that she’s there, she’s real. She was almost yours.

But she’ll never want you back.

She’s in the crowd with a few of her friends who are cheering for you and smiling. They’re all sweet, and you wave to them.

Dani’s eyes are dark. She’s practically glaring at you. Her red solo cup is getting crushed in her tight grip.

Good, you think to yourself. You’re not stupid. You’re sure she has a roster. She can find someone else because she’s incapable of choosing you and committing.

You blow her a kiss.

You sit back down, feeling flushed and exposed. But in a weird good way. Maybe you wouldn’t be doing this if you were sober. But you’re drunk, and there’s nothing you can do.

At this point, Jackie has grabbed her cards and started standing on the chair too. You grab one of yours, feeling hundreds of eyes rake over your body the way that Dani’s do.

A drumroll starts.

You flip your cards.

You lose again.

Now you really don’t have anything else to give up.

Jackie throws her head back and laughs.

Your hands find the ends of your shirt, lifting it up over your head, leaving you in your short shorts and a red lacy bra.

The crowd goes absolutely crazy. You can’t stop smiling.

You can’t help but look towards Dani again. She’s facing Manon, her best friend, looking back at your intermittently.

Your heart stutters as you realize she’s angry.

She keeps gesturing to you.

Manon looks to be trying to calm her down. Sophia is holding onto her arm like she had tried to run up to the chair and stop you.

You look away, taking a steadying breath.

The sixth round. Jackie loses and takes off her shirt too, leaving herself in a bra and shorts just like you. At least she still has her tights on.

The last round.

You lose.

You start to fiddle with the buttons on your shorts. There’s two of them, and you have fun unbuttoning them slowly, biting your lip as you do so, sharing a few charged glances with Dani- who can’t take her eyes off of you.

You finally slip them off. Someone whistles so loud it actually kind of hurts your ears. You flick them off onto the floor.

Jackie shrugs before raising her hands in the air.

“I may as well join you!” She shouts, slipping off her own shorts.

She’s two far away to reach, but you suddenly wish you could hold her hand.

After a few more seconds of standing up there, a bunch of boys rush forward to help you off of the chair, one guy actually getting on his hands and knees in front of you as a very ineffective stepping stool. You grab two random hands as you step onto the guys back, before finally stepping off and onto the floor again.

At the bottom of this staircase of men is Dani and her group.

Megan and Lara are laughing hysterically at all of the men reaching for you.

You walk forward, hips swaying. Lara and Megan immediately bow down and grab your hands jokingly.

“Oh my god, you were so good!” Megan says, smiling as she stands up again.

“You are so hot,” Lara compliments simply. “Do you wanna get out of here?” She wiggles her eyebrow suggestively before bursting into more laughter.

“I think I have a very long roster now,” you laugh. “But I’ll add you.”

“Oh thank you Y/N, the amazing sexy Y/N.”

Yoonchae is the next to speak up. She’s an exchange student from Korea, and you smile at the way her cheeks are a little pink from just watching you.

“I’m scared,” she says. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

“We get crazy in America, babe!” Lara shouts.

You finally bring yourself to look at Dani, placing your hands on your waist.

Manon is standing shoulder to shoulder with her. Sophia is smiling at you but holding Dani’s hand tightly.

“Did you guys like it?”

“Um, yes!!” Sophia shouts. “You really put on a show! Are you sure you don’t wanna change your major to theatre?”

“I think I have a boner,” Manon jokes with a shrug.

Dani, who had been silently glaring at you the entire time, finally seems to break at this. While the rest of you erupt into laughter, she breaks out of Sophia’s grip and grabs your wrist.

“You need to come with me. Now.”

“Dani,” you start. Her grip on your wrist is possessive.

“Shut up.”

Her friends all try to interject but she’s suddenly pulling you through the crowd. You’re too surprised to even think about letting you go.

You find yourself in a hallway.

She opens one door. Someone shouts and you get a glimpse of two people on a bed.

“Oh god,” you mumble.

She drags you to the next door.

“Dani. What the fuck are you doing?” You try to tug her to stop, but she quickly rejects that and pulls you forward.

The next door is locked.

“Fuck,” she curses, taking you to the next door.

“Dani!” You shout.

The next door is open and empty.

She pulls you inside. She doesn’t even bother to turn the lights on, but the light to the adjoining bathroom was left on, giving you enough light to see her.

Seeing Dani in the dark is all you’ll ever do. Unless you get out now, you’re stuck in this cycle forever. She told you when you first started this that she’s not ready for commitment. And you respect that, and you love being with her- but you can’t keep pretending that you’re okay with only having some of her.

She unzips her hoodie and puts it over your shoulders.

“Please. You look like you’re freezing.”

“Dani.” You take a breath, zipping up her jacket, not feeling well enough to be completely exposed to her. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Like actually?”

“Um, with me? You fucking blew me off earlier. Next time I see you, you’re getting fucking naked for the entire goddamn party.”

“We are not dating,” you remind her. “And also, don’t slut shame me. I can do whatever I want.”

She leans against the door, her head hitting the back of it. Her neck is exposed, and you think back to the last time you were with her, how you kissed up her neck.

Sadness burrows deep inside you before your anger resolves.

“I can do whatever I want,” you repeat. “You told me this was casual. Besides, I’m sure you’ve been fucking other girls.”

Okay, that wasn’t true. But you’re angry.

Her mouth gapes open in shock.

“What the hell are you talking about?!”

“Don’t be dumb, Daniela. You’re, like, the most popular girl here. You could have anyone.”

“You don’t be dumb. You’re the only girl I’m fucking. Are you serious? Why would I even look at anyone else when you’re right in front of me.”

“Whatever. You wanted this to be casual. Remember that, Dani.”

She jumps off of the door. She grabs your face with one hand, her fingers digging into your cheeks and kisses your roughly. It’s all emotion. It’s all anger, jealously, every ugly emotion that she bares openly to you in this messy kiss.

It feels like fireworks. Like butterflies. Like what all the cliches say it’s supposed to feel like.

She finally lets you pull away. A string of split connects the two of you. Her lipstick and yours is smeared on her face. You’re both breathing heavily, her pupils are dilated, her eyes moving from your lips, pouted due to her tight grip on your cheeks, back up to your eyes.

“I’m changing my mind- no. I have changed my mind, Y/N. I want all of you. I’ve wanted all of you. For a long time. And I wish I told you sooner, because this was the worst night of my life.”

She smiles like that solves anything.

It all starts to click in your head.

“Are you serious?” You push her hand off of your face.

Her smile falters.

“I’m in love with you, hermosa.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What?” She asks, looking genuinely confused.

“You wanted this to be casual. You led me on for months, Daniela. You made me feel like shit. I-I lost so much. So much of my self-respect and my confidence letting you drag me around. I’ve been in love with you since the moment I saw you. And tonight was good for me. It… made me feel good again.”

You didn’t even know you were feeling like this until she was in front of you with your lipstick on her face and you were suddenly shouting at her.

But it’s always been there.

The reason you thought she would never want you back… maybe it wasn’t anything she did. Maybe it was just your own brain making stuff up.

“I don’t think you could ever love me.”

“Herm- Y/N-”

“I think I want to be alone right now.”

“Oh.”

She looks like a kicked puppy.

You want to leave. But you can’t bring yourself to.

“It doesn’t matter that I love you?”

You take a step towards her and the door. You can’t decide which one you’re stepping towards.

“Because I do. I love you. I was literally about to step up there grab you off of that chair myself. I-I was so jealous. Like embarrassingly jealous. I think I discovered things about myself,” she laughs quickly before sobering up again. “And I just… I just want you.”

She steps closer.

“Please just say you love me back.”

“I do love you, Dani.”

Her eyes soften.

“But I need to, like, think about myself for once. Seriously. So I can’t… I can’t do this right now. As much as I want too.”

The silence stretches out.

“Say it one more time,” she whispers, finally looking away from you, eyes fixing on the floor.

It’s easy to say because it’s true.

“I love you, Daniela.”

—-

When you leave the bedroom, tears are streaming down your face. You’re not looking where you’re going, too busy trying to keep mascara from running down your face. It’s no surprise when someone says your name and softly stops you.

“Manon,” you say, taking a deep breath. Dani still hasn’t left the bedroom you were in.

“What happened?” She asks, in a way that tells you she’s not demanding, but simply open to listening.

“How much did you know?”

You’re not sure how much of what you did Dani told her friends.

“I know you guys were having sex,” she says, cautiously.

“Mhm.” You laugh dryly. “And we just confessed our love for each other, so, yeah.”

Her brows furrow. “Wait. Then why-”

A door behind you creaks open and shut.

Manon looks up and you can tell by her reaction that it’s Dani leaving the bedroom. You can feel her eyes on your back.

“I’m gonna go,” you mumble, slipping away from Manon and into the crowd of people. She hesitates but doesn’t stop you.

You lose yourself in the anonymity of the crowd.

Manon draws Dani into a hug, comforting the brunette as she does her best not to cry. “Babe, what happened?”

“She loves me,” is all Dani can think to say. Because that’s all that matters.

—-

You wake up the next morning hungover. Your head pounds, you can hear Jackie throwing up in the bathroom, and you remember everything.

How good it felt playing that game. How good it felt to know that Dani loved you. How much it hurt to know that you needed to step away to love yourself.

You stare at the ceiling, unmoving, listening to Jackie in the bathroom and trying to will away your own nausea. When she comes back, she flops onto your bed which makes your head scream.

“Jackie!” You moan, putting your hands over your eyes.

“What happened with Dani?”

“Damn. No hi? How are you?”

“Girl.”

After the talk with Dani, you had quickly found Jackie and left with her… without some of your clothes. You hadn’t wanted to talk about it last night, but it was obvious something had happened. You felt like you had been drowning, on the brink of death, and had finally been returned to air. All you wanted to do was sit here and breathe… even though you yearned for the touch of the hands that were drowning you.

“Y/N?” She pries, gently. She’s laying on her side, tucked in next to you with her head on your shoulder. “I saw her drag you off. What happened after that?”

You sigh.

“She… told me she’s in love with me.”

“WHAT?!”

“JACKIE!”

You hiss, digging your hands into your temples as she groans too. After a minute of recovery, your headaches have both faded back to their regular dull stabbing.

“Sorry. But what. The. Fuck. I fuckin’ knew it, first of all.”

“Oh, well that’s nice for you,” you remark sarcastically.

“And… why isn’t that good?”

“Because I hated myself when I was with her. You were literally the one who told me that she shouldn’t make me feel like shit.”

“Okay, true. But half of that stuff you were freaking out about was in your head. Babe, it was obvious she was in love with you.”

“Well why didn’t you tell me?!!”

“I literally did.”

“Whatever,” you mumble, not emotionally ready to handle that. “I think it’s pretty over. Or it will be over, once we get over each other.”

“But.. you’re in love with each other? I think you can learn to love yourself while she loves you too. Actually, that may be helpful. Like, I can tell you you’re beautiful, but I am not going to kiss you. Sorry.”

“Rude,” you gasp.

“Like, you’re hot, but Dani would kill me. I saw her while we were playing. She was pissed.”

“She told me she was jealous,” you admit.

“She wasn’t just jealous, she was, like, crazy possessive. She did not stop looking at you the entire time. Except for when she started arguing with Manon. She looked like she wanted to kill everyone in the room and then fuck you.”

She pokes you.

“Girl, that’s kinda hot.”

You stare at the ceiling.

“That’s okay. I know you like it.”

“Anyways,” you sigh, ignoring your best friend’s giggle. “I think I just need some time?”

“That sounds like a question, babe.”

“Because I don’t know!” You sigh. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Okay, well, I guess you should take some time to think. But I am team Dani, just so you know.”

“Thanks, Jackie,” you roll your eyes, wincing when it aggravates your headache.

“You do know you fell asleep in her hoodie though, right?”

You sit up on instinct, looking at the hoodie in shock. It’s hers. The one she put on you in the bedroom.

“Fuck.”

Your stomach turns.

“Fuck.”

“I’m supporting you from over here,” Jackie says as you run into the bathroom.

Dani: I hope ur not too hungover this morning.

Dani: If u ever need anything I’m here. Always

—-

The next time you see Daniela is after your Monday class with Professor Davis. Luckily, he was tame today, because you and Daniela always cross paths in this hallway.

You go the same direction at the same time. She always finds you in this hallway and walks you to your dorm. It used to be something cute that made you feel special. That made it easier to pretend like you were really dating.

When you exit the lecture hall, the first thing you do is look at her. She’s walking down the hallway, but looking straight ahead in an almost unnatural way. You hesitate at the door.

You watch as she finally gives in, sneaking one glance over to your lecture hall as she walks past.

Your gazes lock immediately.

Someone walking out of the classroom bumps into your back. You don’t even acknowledge it.

She looks away first.

Then glances back again.

—-

Matty places a McDonald’s bag on your desk.

“I’m sorry about not taking care of you guys on Friday.”

“It’s ok, Matty,” you say, grabbing the fast food bad from him and smiling at the correct order. “Thank you very much.”

Despite the shit you and Jackie sometimes give him, he really is a good guy. And by frat standards, he’s an angel.

“If it makes you guys feel any better, you were both really sexy.”

“Thanks,” you smile.

“We know,” Jackie says at the same time.

“A few of the guys already asked me if I can throw another party with strip poker again,” he laughs.

“Maybe we should perform again,” you joke.

“For real?” Matty asks, face turning serious.

“No,” you roll your eyes.

“Oh. No, yeah, that’s cool. A few guys asked for your guys numbers, too. But I shut that down.”

“I dunno,” Jackie starts, picking at a throw pillow in her lap. “I think Y/N needs a little something-something.”

“About Dani, right?” Matty asks. “I saw you two getting pretty heated but you disappeared with her before I could get over there.”

“Well,” you sigh, and Jackie lays back in her bed with a loud groan. You ignore her. “You know how we were having sex, right? Turns out we were both in love with each other. But I thought she was just kinda leading me on and I felt like shit, so now I’m like… taking space, I guess.”

“But you’re both in love with each other?” He frowns.

“Not the point. I need to love myself.”

“Sure,” he mumbles. “We are throwing another one this Friday too. We forgot it was the chapters birthday on Friday, or else we wouldn’t have thrown the last one.” He glances at you with a smirk. “Wanna make sure Dani’s there and then pole dance?”

You laugh.

“Sure!”

“Wait, for real?” You roll your eyes at his serious face.

Jackie throws a pillow at him.

“Obviously not, Matty. God, men are so stupid sometimes.”

“Damn, okay. Will you post again, Jacks?”

“Of course,” she smiles. “And Y/N- I think a distraction could be good for you. A one night stand, you know? Either to forget about her or make you realize that you’re meant to be with Dani. I prefer the second option.”

She smiles.

You glare back.

“Whatever. We’ll be there.”

—-

You: hey I still have your hoodie

Dani: keep it

You: Idk if that’s a good idea

Dani: keep it anyways

Dani: I’m not giving up on us

“Okay, so,” Jackie starts, looking up from your phone. “First of all, oh my god that is so hot. Second of all, I don’t think you should say anything else. Leave her wanting more, you know?”

You sigh, taking the phone back from her and looking at the text chain. Not only did she infuriatingly text back 10 seconds after you texted her, like she was just sitting around waiting for you to talk to her again, but her chasing you did feel… kinda good.

You understood why Dani did like a little bit of a cat and mouse game. It feels good to be wanted.

—-

This outfit feels like you’ve accidentally played another game of strip poker, and every time you lost, you had to take a pair of scissors to these tiny shorts and purple top marked with cut outs, showing so much skin you feel like you should pray just for wearing it.

You hug the wall. You’re not drunk enough to feel confident yet, and Dani will probably be here, and you think about her more than you should for someone who just walked away from her.

Jackie finally comes back, handing you two shots.

“Hey!” She scolds, watching you try to pull up and down on your outfit simultaneously. “Stop that. Now drink and be fun again.”

You sigh.

“I probably shouldn’t be using alcohol as a confidence booster.”

“No, probably not.”

You scan the party. Still no sign of Dani or any of her friends.

“You’re looking for her,” Jackie teases. “I can tell.”

“Shut up,” you mumble, hiding behind the now empty shot glass.

“Did you, like, want her to prove that she loves you?”

You toy around with the idea. “Maybe? Is that bad? That I don’t even know why I’m doing this?”

“No, because I know.”

You look towards her with a smile, but her face is serious.

“You’re overthinking it. You were sad when you were with Dani because you thought she would never choose you. Then she chose you, you got scared, but you want her back.”

She leans in closer.

“You need to get out of your head and let her prove that she loves you.”

“Jackie,” you groan, too overwhelmed.

But you know she’s right. You keep staring into the crowd, hoping she’ll pop up again. Remembering how good it felt to know that she wanted you until that self-sabotaging sadness and anger took over. Remembering the way she kissed you. The way she grabbed you. The way she said she wanted to take you off of that chair.

Jackie slaps your ass.

“Come on, girl! You look sexy! Go dance, and I’m sure as soon as she walks in she’ll be sliding all up on you.”

The alcohol is slowly starting to make you feel a little looser…

“I’m not going alone.”

Jackie grabs your hand.

—-

The dance floor is decidedly unsexy. There are green strobe lights making everything look kinda sickly, it’s hot, you’re sweating, and you’re surrounded by a bunch of hot and sweaty people.

It doesn’t help that half of these frat boys are practically seven feet tall and looming over everyone else, either.

Jackie had abandoned you a while ago, but you were okay with that.

You feel good.

You feel eyes on you.

It makes you feel like you did on that chair.

And it helps that you’ve had like 10 more shots.

A body appears behind you, hot skin pressing against your exposed back- you immediately know it’s not her. You turn around only to find some random frat boy with an unbuttoned shirt grinding up on you.

He grins.

You’re drunk and lose your balance, and he immediately swoops in to steady you.

“Remember me? I’m the guy you stepped on last week.”

You do laugh at that.

“That was you? Well, thanks.” Too busy thinking about her to really look at him.

He leans forward, breath hot in your ear.

“Wanna give me a private show?”

You pull back, stomach sinking, awkward smile on your face.

“Thanks,” you start, putting your hands on his chest to slowly try to push him back, his hands remaining tight on your waist. “But no thanks.”

“Come on, you know you want too, sweetheart.”

And the only thing you can think is that it’s not in Spanish.

Suddenly his hands are pushed off of you and replaced by familiar hands, by hands that you would know anywhere, the hands that could drown you and you would still want more.

“No touching,” she says to him, a faux gasp in her scolding tone. Her fingers splay out across your hips. You can practically hear the smirk in her voice.

He looks between the two of you.

“Threesome?”

“Ew,” you automatically blurt out.

Dani hums.

“I’m not big on sharing.” Her arms wrap around you tighter. “You can go now. She’s good here.”

“Whatever,” the guy, who never even told you his name, says before ducking his head in embarrassment and disappearing into the crowd.

But you’re too focused on the way Daniela is touching you. She kisses your neck and your entire body shudders.

“Every time I see you at these parties you’re always getting someone else’s attention.”

She needs to stop whispering in your ear in that tone of voice.

“Dani,” you start, but your voice is breathy. You’re shaking in her arms. You think it’s anticipation. “What are you doing?”

“I told you. I’m not giving up. But I’ll stop if you really want me too.”

You don’t speak.

She smiles and kisses your neck again.

“That’s what I thought.”

You place your hands over hers.

“Dani.”

It’s a warning. To her. To yourself.

“Hermosa.”

You told her not to call you that. But she’s obviously testing your boundaries… and you don’t say anything again.

“I’m sorry,” you suddenly breathe.

You can feel her confusion against you.

“Wh-”

She barely gets the word out before you whip around in her arms, plant your hands on her cheeks, and slam your lips onto hers.

She kisses you back immediately, her hands running up and down your sides like she’s trying to touch as much of you as possible. Like her hands are covered in paint, and the more of you she touches the more that everyone can see you’re hers.

That you never stopped being hers.

Both of you are hungry and the kiss is just as messy as the last one, except this one is so much sweeter because you both know you won’t ever go back to what this last week has been again. You’ll never let her go again. She’ll never let you go again.

She starts kissing your cheek, moving down to your jaw, your neck, mumbling something.

“Espléndida,” she keeps repeating. “Beautiful, hermosa, you’re so beautiful, so beautiful…”

“Dani,” you say, staring into the green strobe light across the room and letting the dots burn across your vision. You would be okay with going blind if she was the last thing you got to see.

She bites down hard on your neck. You gasp but pull her closer, your hands tangling in her curls.

“I want you to be mine,” she says against your skin, kissing the red mark she just made. “Please be mine.”

It hits you.

She’s begging for you.

Daniela has never begged for anyone in her life. Not Daniela, perfect Daniela either her perfect hair and outfits and mouth. With her perfect words and the way she speaks Spanish when she’s losing herself in you.

There are people all around you. You can barely hear her over this loud uptick in the music, and she’s whispering into your ear that she wants you, all she wants is you, her hand curling around the base of your neck.

Another hickey slowly forming.

Someone taps your shoulder.

“What?” You mumble.

“Um, guys,” the voice says, slightly sheepish.

Dani lifts her head from your neck, cheeks flushed with… jealousy?

“Can you not?” She immediately hisses without even seeing who it is.

Megan and Lara stand in front of you.

Megan is at least trying to hide her laugh. Lara is just doubled over hysterically crying.

“I don’t know if you guys noticed.,, but a lot of people are looking at you and you’re basically fucking in front of everyone.”

You finally glance around, nameless faces immediately turning away and staring at anything else.

“Um…” you start, feeling your cheeks heat up.

“We’re clearly busy,” Dani answers for you.

“Okay, damn, Miss Possessive,” Lara laughs, holding her hands up in mock defense. “Nobody is gonna take her from you.”

Dani hasn’t moved her hands from your neck and your waist.

“Just leave us alone,” she groans, throwing her head back, voice slightly whiny. “Seriously, guys.”

“All I’m saying is your car is literally parked outside,” Megan shrugs.

Dani blinks. Grabs your hand.

“We’re leaving.”

Lara stops you, putting her hand on your shoulder.

“Wait, Y/N. Do you feel safe?”

You burst out laughing.

Dani tugs you closer to her.

“Shut up, Lara!”

Her cheeks are red as she drags you through the party, ignoring your laughter, she only stops to let you snatch a mostly empty bottle of vodka you insist on grabbing… sensing you may need some liquid courage to get through this conversation.

But you hope there isn’t a lot of talking.

Dani’s red Mustang is parked a little ways down the street, and you don’t talk the entire way there. You’re trying to hide the bottle of vodka in your jacket, and she’s intently holding onto your hand.

The sun is setting. The sky is painted dark purple and pink.

The car is eerily quiet. It’s definitely different in the light. Without the anonymity of the dark, you feel as exposed as you did during the game. But the way her gaze lands on you- she makes you feel held and loved even when the console of the car separates you.

She makes you feel as heady as you did performing for all those people.

You bring the bottle to your lips and choke down a disgusting sip before handing it to Dani. She does the same.

“Dani,” you start, but your breath hitches when she reaches over and puts a hand on your thigh. Like it’s casual. Like it’s meant to be there.

“Yeah?”

You take a breath. You have to say this now, because everything about her makes you want to climb over and kiss her. Hard.

“I’m sorry.”

She frowns.

“Why? You don’t have to be sorry, baby.”

“Dani-”

“Wait,” she stops you, squeezing your thigh so you look at her instead of your hands. “Can I say something?”

You can’t stop looking into her eyes. Her entire face is full of real, earnest honesty.

You nod.

“You… told me that you felt like you weren’t good enough for me.”

She pauses. Your heart sinks, but you nod again.

“So it’s my fault. I should have showed you I loved you better.”

“No,” you sigh, looking away again. “You didn’t do anything. No- I mean- you did everything right. It was all me being stupid. I was just…” it takes you a second to say the word. “Insecure. Really insecure. And then I got scared when it got real. But I love you, Dani. And I’m sorry I ran away.”

She grabs your chin, softly angling your face toward her. She’s smiling.

“You came back. That’s all I care about.”

“I did.”

You smile.

You lean forward to kiss her, but she leans back, biting her lip.

“I’m not gonna kiss you, baby. Not until you say it.”

“Say what?” You ask.

The way she tucks your hair behind your ear. The way she makes you feel. The way she holds you. The way she kisses you. The way she’s so kind, so smart, so talented. The way she’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of.

“That you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Dani,” you breathe, watching as that feline look crawls its way home onto her face.

“Yeah?”

“I’m yours, Daniela Avanzini.”

Her lips part, corners of her mouth still curled up, and she leans forward achingly slow- then stops.

“Hermosa, I spent a week without you and went crazy.” Her hand moves higher, toying with the end of your jean shorts. “We’re going to need some rules.”

“Rules?” You smile. “Maybe I don’t feel safe.”

She squeezes your thigh like a warning.

“I think you like me like this.”

You don’t respond, and that’s answer enough.

“First of all, clothes like this are for me only.”

She kisses your jaw, lips lingering there.

She’s right. You do like her like this.

“Second, you need to talk to me. I don’t want you to ever feel like that again, baby. You’re mine and I’m yours. I’m not going away.”

You nod. “I will, Dani.”

The way she cares about you makes her even sexier.

“And please, for the love of God, Y/N, don’t ever play a stripping game again.”

You laugh together, leaning forward until your foreheads are touching.

The kiss is sweet and soft. It’s not rough or angry, or charged with insane amounts of desire. It’s the kind of kiss that you don’t have to think about, because you know you’re gonna do it again and again.

She pulls back with a smile before reaching next to her and pulling her seat all the way down until she’s lying flat.

Her cropped shirt leaves her stomach exposed, and you have to tear your eyes away from her.

She pats her thighs.

“Sit, baby.”

You make your way over the console, heart continuing to beat faster and faster until you’re straddling her, her hand resting comfortably on your ass.

She grabs the vodka and hands it to you.

You can feel her watching the column of your throat as you swallow, a drip of liquid trailing down your lips and chin in your haste to get the burning stuff down your throat.

She tucks your hair behind your ear again and this time- she lets her fingers linger. Openly.

She sits up, her tongue darting out onto your sweaty skin, lapping up the trail of vodka until she reaches your lips, leaving one final chaste kiss there.

She grins. She’s like a cat. But she’s yours.

“I think your girlfriend should get one of your infamous shows. Right, mi hermosa?”

“Of course, baby.”

You smile, reaching down to slowly undo the buttons of your shorts.

—-

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