#you felt like summer but it's winter now and the memory of you does nothing to warm my bones | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

arcanefox207 · 1 year ago

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The Wolf You Feed (Part 2)

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 5.6k

Part 2 / ? (Ongoing Series) (AO3)

Summary: Set in a fictional New England town, you fall for your handsome, intense and outdoorsy neighbor while renting out your parent's vacant summer home during a brutal winter.

Warnings: No Outbreak, AU but with TLoU characters, Large age gap (Reader is 29. Joel is 50). Pet names but no use of Y/N. Reader is smaller than Joel and has hair he can grab. POV Switching. Series contains Angst and lots of Smut (to avoid chapter specific spoilers you can expect things such as but not limited to Unprotected PiV, Cream Pies, Oral, Masturbation, Dom!Joel, Subby reader, Pining, Infidelity)

A/N: In case you are just jumping in, you can read Part 1 here. Part 2 is more smut heavy! I aim to have Part 3 out much sooner as time allows!

A O 3 | M A S T E R L I S T | N O T I F I C A T I O N S

Comments / Reblogs are so incredibly appreciated and give me the motivation to write 🧡

Without further ado... for your reading pleasure.

It’s late on Saturday morning and you have a pot of coffee brewing while you shower. You stand in the stream of hot water far longer than you need to. Your thoughts shrouded by your evening with Joel Miller. How rough but passionate his touch was. How he made you get on your knees for him. How he tasted and how badly you wanted… needed more of him. Your hands trace over tender spots where he held onto you and you relish the memory.

He tested your obedience and you followed his orders. You hope it turned him on as much as it did you. You liked surrendering yourself to him. Despite his roughness you felt safe with him. You couldn’t explain it yet but you could feel that his burly facade was hiding something softer.

You finally step out onto the cool tile and dry off in front of the mirror. You pat your hair down with your towel and when the steam starts to dissipate you catch how happy you look. An old you that you have not recognized for a long, long time.

You smile to yourself and resolve to put Joel out of your mind for now or nothing would be getting done today.

The coffee helps wake you up enough to plan out your morning. There is a light coating of fresh snow and the sky looks gray and ominous. A big storm is expected to hit overnight so you head into town to pick up some food and provisions. You make a quick stop at Grind when you see Marlene’s car parked in front.

There are a few customers and you are surprised to see Marlene working. By her expression, she wasn’t too pleased to be there.

“Hey!” You greet her as you approach the counter. “You got stuck working today?”

“Yeah, someone called out.” she rolled her eyes. “Don’t feel too bad for me, it’s your turn next.” she jokes. A teenager is busy checking out a customer and another is making a latte. Marlene steps away for a moment to chat with you.

“So…” she prods. “How did it go?” You fail to hide your smile and thoughts of Joel overtake you once again.

“It went… great.”

“When can I meet him?”

You laugh nervously at her question.

“Lets not jump ahead. Right now it’s just something… casual.”

She is skeptical of your reply and stares at you for a moment, trying to will more out of you, but you don’t give in.

“Ok. Whatever you say.” She rolls her eyes again. “I have to get back to work, but you are going to have to tell me sooner or later.” She points at you and furrows her brow.

“Yeah, Yeah.” You joke. “See you Monday!”

You leave the shop and cross the street to the grocery store. The place is mobbed and the shelves wiped out of the most in demand items. You grab a few things and chat with your mom who calls you to check in. Rather, to tell you all about her excursions and gossip about people you have never even met. You don’t mind and just tell her things are going well, you like your job and let her ramble on, not really listening. Mindless chatter in your ears while you shop.

She does catch you off guard when she mentions hearing about the storm and “Joel will plow for us if we ask him to” casually. Your ears perk at the mention of his name but you act cool and collected. You don’t like the way she volunteers his services so nonchalantly. It strikes a nerve in you and reminds you of how she always insinuates you are incapable of being responsible. It makes you feel defensive for Joel, too. Her disregard for his time further illustrating how self centered she is. This was one of the factors that pushed you away for so many years.

“Your father will call him later—”

Absolutely not. You interrupt her sternly mid-sentence.

“Mom. I will take care of it.” The last thing you want is your parents harassing Joel or trying to control you from across the country. This was a string you needed to make clear was not going to be attached to your current living arrangement.

“I have things under control.”

“Oh… ok then.” Her tone is short and then she is off talking about her beach plans again. This goes on for another 10 minutes and by now you are in the checkout line. You say your goodbyes and calculate another week or two before you have to do that all over again.

You hadn’t really considered the snow aftermath but you had a shovel and your car would be good enough to get out of your driveway… probably. You were not going to bother Joel regardless.

The call puts you in a bad mood as you drive home. The spitting snow reminds you of the impending storm. The cheerful start of the day is gone and replaced with a heavy feeling.

You drive past Joel’s house and wonder if he is home and what he is doing. Wonder if you should call him. Wonder why he has not reached out to you either. You don’t want to be that girl. It’s not like you and him are anything. You shouldn’t be expecting anything from him. However, you still feel a faint sting of disappointment. Maybe he had his fun and that was it. Self doubt poisons your mind but you try to swallow it back.

The rest of the day you spend eating junk food and watching movies on Netflix. You fall asleep on the couch early in the night before forcing yourself into bed. The wind and snow has ramped up and your power flickers.

You pull your comforter tightly over you and take one last look at your phone but you already know there is nothing from Joel.

Saturday Night (Joel POV)

Joel sits up in his loft on his worn out couch, strumming his guitar. He takes a sip of his whiskey, neat, and poorly mouths the words to his song.

He plays a few more riffs but feels distracted and unfocused. All attempts to keep busy have been ineffective today. He spent the afternoon preparing his truck and stacking firewood. Once that work was done he had nothing but free time.

The truth is, you have been on his mind. It was hard not to think about you. He had only explored the tip of the iceberg with you and wanted more. He knew it wasn’t right to pursue you for a magnitude of reasons, but the desire was not waning. He felt things with you that he had not felt in a long time. Feelings he was afraid to give in to.

Joel replaces the guitar in his hands with his phone and hovers your name in the recent contacts. This isn’t the first time today he has almost called you.

What are you doing, stupid. He thinks to himself.

He shuts down the moment of weakness and locks his phone. He knocks back the last of his whiskey and heads downstairs. He turns on his TV to the local news and listens to them fuss over the storm. He knew tomorrow would be a busy one for him with his side hustle as the plow guy many locals depended on. Just another thing to keep him busy.

He goes to take a shower before calling it an early night.

The shower is hot and comforting and in no time his mind is wandering back to you. He thought about your brief evening together and how intriguing you were. How bold you were. How tight you were when he was fingering you and how needy you sounded.

He puts a fist against the shower wall to brace himself and hangs his head low so his shoulders block the bulk of the water. He uses his free hand to wrap around his semi-hard cock. He remembers your playful hold on him and gently strokes himself. It doesn’t take very long to get hard as he relives that moment in his mind. His strokes get harder and faster and he wishes he was fucking into you and not his own hand.

He groans as he comes and watches his spend drip down the shower walls and into the drain. His few moments of bliss quickly fade away. He balls his fist in frustration at his unfulfilling release. He needs more. He needs you.

Your Sunday morning begins with anything but peace and calm. You are startled awake by the grinding sound of heavy metal dragging across pavement. You look outside your bedroom window and see the snow has blanketed everything and there are still a few lingering flurries dancing in the sky. The trees are struggling with bent over branches coated in ice and snow.

Leaving your warm and cozy blanket fortress is the last thing you want to do. You lazily grab a hoodie to pull over your oversized shirt you slept in and your pajama shorts and make your way to the front of the house. The floor is cold on your feet but the air is warm. You cranked the thermostat before bed, making you feel rebellious in the moment but it seemed silly and wasteful now.

You look out the front window that faces the driveway. There you see Joel Miller in his truck, plow attached, barreling towards you and crashing into a snowbank he started building up. He looked so serious and professional backing up his truck with an arm stretched across his seat as he looked over his shoulder. He was so focused he was not aware you were watching him and his scowl at work.

It doesn’t take long before that familiar ache between your legs returns. The longing to let Joel have his way with you. A desire that is getting harder and harder to ignore.

The realization that you look like you just woke up from bed hits and you scramble to the bathroom to run a comb through your hair and brush your teeth. You can hear the drag of the plow continue as you finish up and then rush to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. The stove clock reads 7:32am. Way too fucking early for a Sunday morning.

You hear his truck door slam and the sound of crunchy snow under his boots. He is walking with a heavy foot and grabs the shovel leaning by your door.

Joel is shoveling your walkway, weaving a modest path for you to get from your house to your driveway without trudging through the snow. You can hear him grunt as he tosses the heavy snow out of the way. What would have taken you probably an hour takes him just a few minutes.

He plunges the shovel into a snowbank when he reaches the end of the path and leans on it to catch his breath. He looks exhausted and rightfully so. You want to comfort him in whatever way you can. At least offer him some respite to show your appreciation. As much as you hate to admit it, you would have been totally fucked if you had to tackle your driveway with your inadequate self. Joel saves the day, again.

You crack open the front door and call out to Joel, reluctantly interrupting his moment of peace.

“Hey!”

He slowly turns in your direction when he hears your voice. His eyes scrunch as he makes out your figure hanging out the door. He gives a lazy wave of acknowledgment.

“Come inside and warm up? I made coffee.”

He picks up the shovel to return it and makes his way towards you.

“Yeah, ok. Just for a minute” He follows you inside.

Joel closes the door hard behind him and scuffs his boots on the mat to get off any snow. He brushes his hand quickly over the top of his head to knock off any lingering snow and unbuttons his jacket. He empties his pockets and puts his wallet and phone on the end table. He saunters over to you as you hand him a fresh cup of coffee, black.

“Thanks.” He manages a smile. He returns to the living room and groans as he lowers himself to the couch. He recklessly sips his piping hot beverage and seems immune to the searing heat and delighted to have it. He rests his mug on the table and leans back and closes his eyes. His hand comes up to his brow as he pinches his thumb and finger together across his eyes.

You lean against the doorway between the rooms and sip your coffee. You notice how tired and worn he looks. His damp hair is shiny. His heat is melting the last few snowflakes and making him look messy and wet. His jacket is open and disheveled and his flannel undershirt is haphazardly draping on him as he slouches back.

Despite all that he is still as handsome as ever and you like seeing him this way. Vulnerable in this out-of-character state.

“Tired.” He grunts with his eyes closed and it snaps you out of your thoughts. “Been a long morning.”

You take a few steps towards him to close the gap.

“I’m too old for this.” He sneers as he looks at you with lazy, heavy lids.

“You didn’t have to worry about me, you know…” Your voice trails off as you wonder if he was there on his own volition. You can’t help but ask. You need to know.

“Did… did my dad call you?”

“No.” he answers firmly with a suspicion in his tone, almost sounding offended.

“Good. I mean, thank you. That was really nice of you to come over.” You pause and smile at him. You feel guilty, but also have never had someone so capable looking out for you before.

“I was going to shovel it.”

He raises his brow at the ridiculous claim.

“No you weren’t. Wouldn’t have let you if I saw ya out there.”

“Well.. Thank you.”

“S’nothing. I don’t mind… having an excuse to see ya.” His brows raise and wrinkle in the middle. He has a softened expression as he looks into your eyes.

Your heart skips a beat and is heavy in your chest, you wonder if he can hear it beating. Having an excuse to see you. You replay it in your mind. He wants to see you. You feel stupid for getting carried away thinking otherwise.

You put your coffee down next to his and casually walk around to the back of the couch. There is a force compelling you to comfort him. Encourage him to relax. That fluttering feeling in your stomach surges. Joel Miller is exhausted on your couch and isn’t going to be putting up much of a fight if you fuss over him and you want to fuss over him.

You stand behind him and reach your arms down and spread them slowly from his shoulders down to his sides. He lets out a tiny moan as you circle his taut muscles. You pinch and massage them as you go. You lean forward and bring your mouth just behind his ear.

“You don’t need an excuse to see me.” It comes out softly and seductive. You can feel his body tense under your words.

You rake your hands back up to his shoulders and curl your fingers under his open jacket. He halfway cooperates as you tug the jacket off his shoulders and pull it away from him. It's wet and heavy and most of the snow has melted into it by now. You toss it on the back of the couch and return to his shoulders. Your hands massage him and you can feel his muscles tight and knotted under your grasp. His head tilts back into the couch as he lets you tenderly work him.

“Feels good. Really good.” He says in a low, almost inaudible tone. His exhaustion has let his body surrender to you and he isn’t fighting to be in control.

You lean forward again and plant your mouth on his jawline with a sensual kiss. His damp whiskers prickle your cheek as you drag it against him and go to his ear.

“Let me take care of you.”

He makes a deep, throaty sound in response.

His flannel is damp and hot and he looks so uncomfortable and stuffy now that he has been inside a while. You slide one of your hands down to his chest and unbutton his shirt. You are halfway down and he reaches his arm up and curls his fingers behind your neck, pulling you down to his mouth. You can feel the shift in the room, like you woke a sleeping bear.

“Come here.” He uses his free hand to tap his lap and loosens his grip on you.

You walk around to the front of the couch and stand in front of Joel. His legs are spread and he is still lazily slouched back but he motions for you to join him. His half unbuttoned shirt teases you with his thermal undershirt peeking out, still hiding his bare skin. At least you are getting closer.

You step towards him and move to straddle him on the couch. You have a leg on each side and he puts a hand on each hip under your baggy sweatshirt.

His hold is tender but makes you melt when you feel the wingspan his fingers have on you. His thumbs brush over your hip bones and trace down to the soft skin just above the crease of your thigh as he casually dips them along your waistband. His touch sends sparks through your skin.

He lazily stares you down with a narrow gaze over his nose, still resting his head back.

“Keep going.” He closes his eyes as your focus goes back to finish unbuttoning his shirt.

As you get close to his jeans you can feel him hardening and straining against the zipper.

You pop open the button and carefully unzip him. His cock springs loose in his boxer shorts. It teases you behind the cloth barrier and you reach for his waistband so you can grab a hold of him. His fingers dig into your sides and he pushes you back slightly to make you stop. He fights through the laziness and is now fully alert.

“You want my cock?” He grits through his teeth. “Think it’ll fit in your pretty pussy?” He drags one of his hands to your center and grabs you through the fabric. He smirks as he can feel you are wet and damp through your thin sleep shorts. His fingers sneak into the leg hole of your shorts and he teases your clit through your cotton underwear. You clench remembering the stretch from his thick fingers deep inside you just the other night.

“Yes–” your words catch in your throat as he pushes your underwear aside and thumbs over your folds. He barely touches you and opts to tease you instead, deliberately feathering over your swollen clit. You reach down to grab the wrist of his occupied hand and grind into his fingers. Your body craves the friction.

“Fuck me, Joel.”

His eyes darken and with a devilish smirk he takes his hand back and watches as you slide off him to take off your clothes. He looks at your body with a sleazy ferocity. If any other guy looked at you that way you would have slapped him, but not Joel Miller. You want his attention and you like the way it makes you feel when he is eyeing you like a starving wolf.

You pull off your hoodie and shirt and toss them to the piles of clothes building up on the floor. You stand in front of him completely naked. Exposed. Joel brings out a side of you that makes you feel confident and bold. The way he looks at you with intrigue and desire encourages you. You take a brief moment to tease him back and drag your hands over your breasts and one continues down to your cunt.

Joel stirs in his seat. He is so easy to rile up. He pulls off his flannel and kicks off his boots. His thermal long sleeve remains hugging his body in all the right places. He arches forward as his hand grabs his thermal from the back and pulls it off over his head. It makes a prickly, staticy sound as it brushes over his hair. He tosses it to the ground and for the first time you can fully take in his body without so many layers hiding him.

His broad shoulders and chest taper down to a narrowed waist. His body is rugged and defined. For an older man his physique had been well maintained thanks to his lifestyle. His tanned skin and his messy, dark hair with silver streaks sends tingles through you. You have never been so physically drawn into someone before on a level that almost felt primal.

His eyes sweep your body up and down as he drags his thumb along the side of his mouth and rakes his fingers through his scruff on his chin. He bites his lip while he drinks you in.

“Damn, baby.” He curls his thumbs inside the band of his jeans and tugs them down along with his boxers. He kicks them off his legs and reaches towards you, wrapping around the back of your thigh and beckons you to return to him.

“Come ‘ere”

Your eyes gape as you take in his sheer size. It is intimidating but makes you ache with desire.

You are back in his lap straddling him with little coercion needed. You stretch an arm behind you to hold yourself up and the other touches yourself. This position lets him take all of you in; bare, exposed and wanting. Wet and needy for him.

His hand reaches for his throbbing cock. He palms himself with a few labored strokes. He is already beading precome at the tip. You feel a pang of jealousy and wish it was your body wrapped around him. He catches the hungry way you are looking at him. You catch how much he likes it.

“You wanna ride this cock?” He brushes the tip against your opening and you let out a whimper in response and lurch forward. You brace yourself on his forearm and your other hand pushes against his chest to keep yourself upright. His skin is firm as you grip into him. His body hot and radiating like a furnace.

“Haven’t gotten you off my mind since Friday.” He confesses. “Thinking about how tight my cock would fit in you.” He teases you with the tip again. Your whimper grows into a needy moan making him harder. Making him want you that much more.

He crudely spits into his hand and rubs it along his shaft and then he notches it at your entrance. You can feel your body begging to be filled with him and you’ve been wet since you woke up to him in your driveway. You’ve lost count how many times you imagined Joel fucking you. He puts his hands back on your hips with a rough grip and you move your hands to his shoulders as you slowly lower yourself onto him. He helps keep you steady.

“Joel! Fuck–” You moan. His thick cock sears your skin as it stretches you. He is slowly splitting you open inch by inch and you have never felt more full. He lets you control the pace for now, with pained restraint. He searches your eyes to make sure it isn’t too much. He knows he is a lot to take but the slowness is making him go insane.

Joel lets out a grunt as he gets closer to bottoming out inside you. Your walls clench around him and the sweet pain from the stretch subsides as your body adjusts to his size. You slowly ride him up and down until you have him fully sheathed inside you. Your body is so full you don’t even have room to form complete thoughts. You can only focus on his burning hot heat inside you, tearing you open. Every moment before this pales in comparison.

“Fuck. So tight.” he snarls. His grip on you tightens as he pulls your body up and then thrusts into you, hard. He keeps the pace slow but more forceful than you were. He tries to be gentle but you can feel his patience slipping away.

One hand drags to his biceps where sweat is glistening. As he lifts you his muscles flex and contract he makes it seem so effortless to maneuver your smaller frame. Everything about Joel is big and strong and rigid. The epitome of masculinity.

Each thrust up into you makes you dizzy. You can feel yourself on the verge of orgasm, cock drunk and blissed-out. His heavy breathing and hitches in his voice send you over the edge as he pounds up into you. You ride the wave as he fucks you through it. Your arms entangle in each other and your bodies slap together, sweaty and panting. Your incoherent words and moans heighten with each thrust.

He makes you feel alive and pleasured in a way that you have never felt before. It is intoxicating.

As you start to come down from the high you feel him getting close to his own release but he is still reserved and careful with you. Through gritted teeth he tries to keep his pace steady and builds you back up, never quite letting you recover.

“Joel, Don’t… don’t hold back.” You manage to get out of your lips. You stare into him with hooded eyes and can only imagine how fucked out you look. He brings one of his hands up to the side of your face and strokes his thumb tenderly across your cheekbone.

“Ok, baby.”

He leans into you and in a sweeping motion he twists and lays you back into the adjacent couch cushion. It is more of an oversized loveseat and not very ideal. He barely loses contact with your body as he positions himself above you. You can feel his weighty cock press into you and pin you in place as he leans forward, crowding you in the cramped confines of the couch.

His mouth is on yours; rough and messy. He bites at your lip as he pulls away and reigns in his focus. Your legs clamp around his sides and your arms hold onto his neck. Your fingers snake into his hair and you grab hold of him. He slides his hands down your sides so he can hold you close as he resumes fucking into you.

With this leverage, he somehow hits you deeper than before. His cock kisses the deepest parts of you again and again. Your sides bruise as he grips you harder. All his gentle inhibitions have been replaced with raw, unhinged furor.

His pace quickens as you can feel him coming undone inside you. He is in a frenzy fucking you hard and deep and his grunts get louder. The heavy feel of him dragging out of you and shoving back with such force has you crying out his name along with a steady stream of expletives.

You are so close but you beg your body to hold on, you don’t want the feeling to end. You want to live in this moment forever being trapped under Joel and being filled with his cock. You moan out his name as the second orgasm explodes through your body.

“Fuck, baby..” his body quivers as he tries to hold out long enough for you to peak.

He suddenly sits up and groans as he drags completely out of you. You whimper at the loss of him inside you and his wet, leaking cock slaps onto your belly. He strokes himself once with a heavy fist and grunts as hot ropes of cum spurt onto you. You relish being branded in his release. It coats your stomach and drips messily onto your cunt. You revel in the last fleeting moments of your orgasm being shared with Joel’s.

He languidly strokes himself a few more times until he is empty. His chest rises and falls quickly as he breathes shallowly. His muscles weaken as the high from his climax rolls through him.

He leans forward and presses his forehead to yours. The sticky mess spreads between your bellies as his body pushes into you. It's lewd and you love it. You love how filthy Joel makes you feel. All you can smell is sweat and sex and Joel.

He presses a kiss to your forehead and then sits back to catch his breath. Your bodies untangle and he goes back to his original spot on the couch. You stay laying back lazily with a leg draped casually over Joel and the other bent at the knee. You still need a moment for your legs to be in any condition to work properly.

One of his hands rests on your thigh and he grazes it with comforting drags of his fingers. He doesn’t say anything but the gentle contact from him is welcome. The connection you share now is so contrasting to when he was railing you. It is a side of Joel that feels like a privilege granted to you.

The calm is interrupted by a vibration of his phone. Joel reluctantly picks it up to look at the screen and groans with disappointment. He answers it but doesn’t stop rubbing you gently while he conducts his business.

“Fred, I’ll be there in 20.”

You can’t make out the other end entirely but you can detect a man's voice. He doesn’t sound happy.

“Yeah, I’m running behind. Your house is next.” Joel tries to placate him. More chatter and you start to feel bad for holding him up.

You move off of Joel and make your way towards the bathroom to wipe up the mess on your belly and grab your silky bathrobe off the door.

“Ok, Fred. Be there soon.” You hear him hang up and toss his phone down with a grumble. He turns in your direction as he stands up to pull on his jeans.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I gotta’ go.” His tone is solemn now. You pop out of the bathroom and catch him using his undershirt to wipe up his mess. It’s gross but you like seeing him being comfortable being a typical, nasty man in your presence. Points for being resourceful.

“I heard. Didn’t mean to hold you up.”

He glares at you and smirks as you make your way back to him.

“Didn’t mind one bit.” He takes a few steps towards you to meet you halfway and kisses you on the top of your head while he wraps his arms around you. He breathes you in with his embrace and it feels so perfect being wrapped up by Joel. A final moment before it all ends and he pushes away from you, reluctantly.

“And s’not a big deal. Snow aint going anywhere.” He says as he puts his flannel on, sans the thermal, and starts to button back up.

His messy hair is mostly dry now and even more unruly with wild curls. You feel that fire inside you building again. It’s insatiable. You don’t want him to go.

He laces up his boots and gathers his things.

“Ok. I’m gonna hop in the shower.”

“Ok, baby.” You exchange a final look and go your separate ways. You feel his eyes on you as you return to the bathroom.

When you go back to the living room he is gone. All that remains is his dirty shirt and an empty coffee cup.

Sunday Night (Joel POV)

After a few more hours of plowing Joel returns home.

He takes a shower just long enough to wash the sweat and stink of exhaust from his body.

He pours himself a whiskey and collapses on the couch to relax.

His body is weary, but his mind is still firing. It has not stopped. He has to face the reality that he is falling for you, whether or not he should be.

He pulls out his phone and stares at it blankly. Hesitating. He scrolls through his contacts until he finds the one that he has been avoiding. He knocks back his drink and sends the text.

Joel: Tess. We need to talk.

Onward to Part 3!

Thank you to @magpiepills for beta-ing 🧡

Love to my ladies that mean everything @magpiepills @legendary-pink-dot @youandmeand5bucks @exquisiteserotonin @for-a-longlongtime @sparklefarts38 @pink-whiskey-woman @redhotkitchen 🧡

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #the last of us #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #the wolf you feed #tlou

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hannahssimblr · 6 months ago

Text

Winter.

When did this happen? Was I looking away for long enough for the season to change without my notice? I haven’t spent enough time here watching time, from this old velvet seat by the window that overlooks brutalist blocks, each building identical to the next. These utilitarian slabs might stand like this, grey cubes jutting from the asphalt, for five hundred years. I’m here for five months now. Thoroughly settled, used to this place, this apartment with the tarry flavour of cigarettes clinging to the furniture the landlady never took away.

Jonas says she’s strange, this woman who has left all of her old things for us to live around. Her lamps, with sun-faded shades, her record collection, the chenille bedspreads stuffed into a closet, and the ancient television I replaced the day after I landed. I’ve never met her. Sometimes, I slip a dusty bottle from her wine rack in the cellar and serve it to my friends at dinner. Surely, by the time she ever notices, I’ll be long gone.

Through the vignette of condensation, the snow drifts, white flecks, across the beam of the streetlights. Kreuzberg is quiet. Sunday.

I refocus my eyes to look into my face, a mirror reflection in the black window. I look older, perhaps, than in the photographs Jen posted to me in September, the ones from the summer, where the light is hazy and our noses are sun blushed, from that time that feels like another lifetime already, or like fiction. At Christmas, I returned to Ireland, and it rained for two weeks without stopping, and it felt something more like reality.

My grandmother told me that my hair was straggly, and she’s right. It’s been too long since I’ve cut it, but the ends of my hair spent the summer with me. Even though my skin cells have replaced themselves, the parts of my hair touching the collar of my coat and curling around my ears hold the memories that the rest of me is slowly losing.

I haven’t stayed in touch with my friends from there as much as I would have liked. These days are busy, with friends, with college. I draw and paint more than I ever have, lashing out piece after piece, sketchbook after sketchbook, building a tower upon the desk in my cold little bedroom, though the women in my pieces don’t have green eyes anymore. Now, I choose blue.

The door buzzes, and I stand to answer it.

My finger on the button, “Yeah?”

“Hurry! Open up, it’s fucking cold.”

I buzz her in, then stand waiting by the open door as she ascends the stairway. Three floors. I hear her the whole way, the snap of boot heels against tile. There’s an elevator in her building, and I feel acutely guilty about my building’s lack of one, despite being entirely powerless to do anything about it, as I am an art student, not an engineer, and was not yet actually born during its construction.

She appears on the landing, shivering, with snowflakes clinging to her hair, and sitting on the structured shoulders of her trench coat.

“Ugh, oh God, those stairs. I hate them.” She says. She unzips her boot and tosses onto the pile of shoes next to the door, and I notice immediately that she’s barefoot, toes balanced on the tiles like a ballerina.

“You didn’t wear socks?”

She’s not wearing tights either. Her long, pale legs poke, completely exposed beneath the beige gabardine.

“Did you take the U-Bahn like this? It must be five below zero.”

Her second boot hits the tile with a clatter, and she backs me into my apartment. As the door clicks shut, she pulls on the tie of her coat.

She’s wearing nothing but black lingerie.

“Ah,” I am enlightened. This now makes perfect sense to me, in much the same way it does to her. Astrid has a way of bringing me around to her way of thinking.

This was actually an excellent idea.

“I was bored,” she says, which makes sense too. She is always bored. This is why she does what she’s seen people do in films. It’s a way to keep herself entertained. An unwelcome thought flashes into my mind, as I wonder if she has done this specific thing for previous boyfriends. I hop off that path. With Astrid, it is important to dwell only upon the present. Anything before this, now, me, us, is nothing worth worrying about.

I slip my hands under her coat, onto the soft, downy velvet of her skin.

“Nice and warm,” she murmurs.

“Astrid, you shouldn’t have gone out like this.”

“It was only thirty minutes.”

“I know, but,” Her hands are freezing between mine as I heat them with my breath. “It’s too cold.” I’ll have to give her something of mine to wear when she goes home, but begin to worry that nothing is clean. I have been avoiding taking my dirty clothes to the basement since I flew back in ten days ago, too cowardly to face the seizing cold of the communal laundry room and that ever present leak in the ceiling surely turned to an icicle by now.

These are not sexy thoughts.

It’s like she can tell just by looking at me. “The point is, you will heat me up,” she says, a bit slowly, like I’m thick.

I don’t want to be the guy that lacks spontaneity. That would make me anxious. She pulls her hands from mine and pouts at me, as though at a little dog. “Look at you, you’re so nice.”

It’s not intended as a compliment, and I understand I should be doing something a bit wilder, like, I don’t know, taking my own clothes off already. Why on earth haven’t I started to do that?

Ah, because I am nice.

“Okay, fuck your hands then. They can freeze.” Often, jokes are a mistake around Astrid. She rarely laughs at them. In fact, she rarely smiles at all, and only indulges us when she feels like doing it. It’s never to be polite. She knows her own mind. I’m obsessed with her.

I’m obsessed to an ever greater extent now, because, once again, she’s not laughing. She’s not trying to please me. It’s me, always, trying to please her instead. I tug on her coat and it pools to the floor, then I kiss her.

“God, I love you.”

I murmur it, the truth.

I knew it the third or fourth night we spent together, in November, as the last stubborn leaves clung to the branches. She wasn’t like anybody I had ever met before. She reminded me of nobody, and that was the point.

I felt it, that weakness, my molten insides, and the deep fear of it in the early hours of one morning as she lay on the sheets with moonlight spilling across her back. She has a tattoo between her shoulder blades of a heart pierced by three daggers. She says it’s from a tarot card, and she was younger and stupider when she got it. That night, as she slept, I uncovered some kind of symbolism in it that moved me, but in the morning light I had forgotten all the profound thoughts I’d come up with except one: That I loved her. It surprised me. I ignored the tiny pang of sadness I felt, like mourning for a part of my life that was already long gone. It was useless to miss it.

I chose Astrid instead.

I choose her now, love her in the same way I kiss her and touch her and fuck her, by doing what she wants me to do. It’s not a submissive situation. I’m not into that stuff. I am a man clocking in and doing as he's asked, thoroughly, diligently, excelling at his job. Eager to please. Employee of the month.

“Will you put your hand on my throat?” She breathes. Beneath me, her hands claw the bedsheets.

Yes, I think. That would be nice.

I am interested to discover that I like it too. I don’t think the other girls I’ve slept with would have let me try the things that Astrid does. They couldn’t picture themselves doing it, I’m sure, and neither could I. Back then I didn’t think about sex the way I do now, but Berlin has been bringing it out in me.

She comes first. That’s mandatory. Then afterwards, when I have, and thoughts return to my brain, I’ll lay here, haunted by the years I didn’t know about this golden rule, and all the time that I thought I was good at sex but wasn’t. Dwelling on the disappointment I brought upon women and girls will make me spiral a bit, I’ll feel it rising, but I’ll feel better when I fuck Astrid again, in some new, fascinating position, and she’ll tell me I’m pretty good, in fact.

She’ll be loud enough about it that Klaus from downstairs may complain, and point out that such volume levels are forbidden on Sundays. He’ll threaten to raise it with the building management, so I’ll bring up the fact I know it was he who put cat food containers in the recycling bin. Neither of us will do anything, and the cycle will repeat until one of us moves or dies.

“Klaus is a miserable, jealous old fool,” Astrid says. “He probably doesn’t have sex, so he’s furious at people who do. I think it’s basic psychology.”

“He lives with his wife, you know.”

“Oh, that doesn’t mean he’s having sex. Married people don’t do it. Or at least hardly ever. That’s why I’ll never be tied down like that.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“You think Mr and Mrs Klaus are fucking like rabbits down there?”

I scrunch up my face. “I’ve never heard them. Maybe they do it very quietly while I’m out of the apartment.”

“They never do. I bet they hate one another. Surely they sleep in separate rooms and only speak when they have to.” Astrid invents this story with glee. She is describing what is to her an indisputable fact of life. Her parents, and her mother’s relationship with her stepfather, too. I think she believed these things about marriage before meeting me, but the confirmation that my parents are the same has solidified it.

“I don’t like to think about things in such a black and white way,” I say, and hold my palm against hers. Her fingers are long and slender. “Just because a lot of marriages are bad, doesn’t mean they’re all doomed. I believe some people are happy.”

“Trapped,” she whispers. “Like canaries in a cage. Maybe they don’t know any better.”

“If I was married, it’d be because I loved that person completely. I wouldn’t do it unless I was sure, and if I loved someone that much, I think I’d still have sex all the time. I can’t really picture that changing. When would I ever not be doing it, you know?”

She hums gently. “So you would never join a monastery.”

“Ugh.”

“And if you married me, you’d want me like this forever?”

This isn’t a serious question about marriage. That would be ridiculous. This is a test for me to pass, and am about to, with flying colours.

“Yeah, you’re so appealing in every way. I can’t imagine not being completely crazy about you forever.”

“You definitely wouldn’t get over me if I left you.”

“Nah, probably not. In my grief, I might even refuse to sign the divorce papers or some shit.”

She nods, satisfied, and rests her head on my chest. It slots nicely beneath my chin. “I want to go to sleep,” she says.

“Alright, me too.”

I switch off the light and listen to the pitter patter of the snow on the window, drifting slowly away with it.

Astrid shifts, restless.

“Tomorrow, I have a lecture at eight.”

“Unlucky.”

“I don’t have any clothes.”

“Ah, yeah, probably because of the lingerie stunt.”

A pout. “It was a gift for you.”

“And I loved it. I can find you something to wear.”

“To my class? Your clothes? I’ll look ridiculous. Can you get me a taxi to my house so I can change?”

“Yeah, of course. If you wear my clothes in the taxi.”

“I won’t be naked under my coat in front of a strange man, Jude.”

“Okay. Good. I’ll arrange a taxi, then.”

“That’s sweet of you.” She adjusts her position again, and the subtle contact of our bodies sets off a chain of sensation. I rake my nails lightly over her back, and she shudders.

“You’re so pretty,” I say. “Did you know that?” I know she does, but I like the smug way she always says yes.

“It’s okay if I leave my underwear here?”

“If you want to, yeah. Why? Do you think I wanted to carry it around in my pocket or something?”

“So you can wash it for me.”

“Yeah,” I press my lips to the back of her hand. “I’ve been meaning to go to the laundry basement for too long now. I’ll just add them to the pile.”

“No, you need to hand-wash them. They’re made of lace.”

“Oh right. So like, in the sink, or something.”

“I thought you might have known that.”

“Nah, see, in Dublin, we had a cleaner who washed all of my lace underwear for me.”

“Mm…”

“... That was a joke about the lace underwear. We did actually have a cleaner, though.”

“You’ll take care of it? They were quite expensive. It’s not as though I have a lot of that kind, so if it got ruined…”

“I will.”

She slips a hand into my hair and seeks my lips in the dark. She kisses me with such affection that I melt into her. “I love you, Jude. Thank you.”

“I love you too.”

A low chuckle as I bite her earlobe. “You really would never be a monk, would you?”

“Oh, my God. The thought makes me sick.”

I roll over her, and we give Klaus one more thing to complain about.

Beginning // Prev // Next

#lucky boy 2011 #prose is back baby!#sim spice #sims 4 storytelling #sims4 story #sims story #simblr #simblr story #sims 4 screenshots #sims 4 #ts4 #sims community

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heavenbloom · 6 months ago

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🇵🇸 BEFORE YOU READ: DONATE • BOYCOTT TLOU • GAZAN MUTUAL AID MASTERLIST

❆ — 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫

song: the night — lovewave

summary: a letter addressed to abby anderson, twenty years after the two of you parted.

warnings: 18+ mdni, literally straight up angst, letter format, from reader’s pov, set in the future, not proofread.

a/n: this is entirely inspired by moonlit winter (2019). this’ll probably be boring af but i love love that goes beyond time and the physical and i love mundane yet emotional movies <3

The icy air nipped at your fingertips, the chill tracing unforgiving trails from them to the bottom of your soles.

The snowfall was thick this time of year and it painted the small town in hushed tones. The only thing heard in the white noonday was the laboured crunch of your boots and the heave of your breath against your thick woollen scarf.

The cold barely registered, though, as you dipped your hand into your coat pocket. The thin, glossy edge of an envelope crinkled at the contact.

How could something so small and hidden conceal a whole lifetime within it? It felt like it was burning a hole where it sat, yearning to reunite with your being, to settle there and remain a secret.

The sound of your footfalls ceased, and you let out a slow exhale. A plume of air swelled in front of your vision, softening the edges of everything.

The post office box was rimmed with ice. It stood as lonesome as you did, on this drowsy street, in a town you knew so well now, yet not nearly enough as you should have. It was hard to be a part of something when you always had one eye gazing back at the past.

This would hopefully change that. A parting gift. A farewell to somebody you had said goodbye to long ago.

You reached for the letter.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Dear Abby,

It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?

I don’t know if I will send this letter, but I can imagine the look on your face if you ever do receive it. Bushy, furrowed brows and downcast eyes… you never looked up when you were puzzled about something. It was if you had to retreat into yourself in order to make sense of the world around you.

The woman that I see receiving this is youthful and vibrant, forever frozen in the sands of my memory. Lines have begun to etch my features, and with each year that passes by, they deepen. It must be the same for you. It has to be, right? But the image of you, aged, eludes me.

I often imagine what kind of person you are now. Did you ever marry? Have children? Do you live in a house with a garden bursting with the smells of overripe berries and fresh herbs, like the one we fantasised about owning all those years ago? These are the reveries that have teeth, that sink and gnaw at something unspoken within me.

I did know you, once, but I’m unsure I do now. Does the soul change over time, or just the meat and bone that surrounds it?

I’ve experienced more of my life with your absence as opposed to your presence. I moved to a quiet corner of the world and made a life for myself. The summers here are mild and the winters are the never-ending and silent kind that we never saw back home. It’s somewhere that you would despise.

Maybe that’s why you plague my mind so often. This town is a place where I know you’d never find yourself in. Back then, I was running away from you and in a way, I still am. Like visiting an attic that one knows is haunted, I think of you.

I dream of you, too. Mundane, meaningless. Nothing happens in these dreams, but you’re there, shining. A wisp of blonde hair, the starlight of a freckled shoulder… the same.

I guess this sameness is what compelled me to write this. I’ve been walking through my life with my head craned back towards the past, so much so that I couldn’t see where I was headed. Now I’ve stopped, in the middle of it, in this purgatory. It can’t go on, Abby. At some point, I have to turn to face the future. I should have long ago.

I’m made up of regrets, but what good will they do now? Instead of listing the should-haves, I’ll tell you the truth;

This is not the first letter I’ve written that’s dedicated to you, but it will be the first I’ve ever had the courage to send. Let it be the last.

I’m sorry if what we shared has also left you with scars and an endlessness of seeking. I’m sorry that I was cowardly, and that I still am.

Thank you for the sliver of sweetness that you gave to me. Thank you for loving me like you meant it. I hope you know that I meant it, too. Everything I did, every word and every touch, was honest.

But I have lived with its death. Now I must let it rot.

Goodbye, Abby. Be braver than I am.

#is this too niche 🧍#abby anderson x reader #abby anderson #abby anderson angst #abby anderson x you #tlou writing #tlou2 #tlou #tlou fanfiction

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headkiss · 2 years ago

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become the sun

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: figuring out how to move on from life in hawkins, steve takes a trip to the beach, where he meets you, who becomes his tour guide and maybe more than that.

word count: 14.5k

warnings: fluff, teeny bit of angst, strangers to friends to lovers, and some kisses!!!

a/n: hiiii i am so excited to finally have beach steve done for u guys!!! it’s inspired by true blue by boygenius (if u couldn’t tell by the title)!!! i put a lot into this one and i hope u like it <3

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

The beach is an interesting place. It changes with the seasons, the population shrinking as the leaves fade from green to brown.

There’s the crowds that come through from the months of June to August, the people that occupy summer homes, the tourists stopping by, the sand stuck to skin, the coconut smell of sunscreen. It’s when everything is bright, saturated with sunlight and people.

And then, there’s winter. The cooler weather driving away the summertime residents, turning things into a quiet town where the locals all know each other. Snow falling on the beach in January, hands tucked into jacket pockets.

For Steve, it was exactly what he needed. A getaway, room to grow, something away from Hawkins where he felt stuck, still.

For you, the beach is home.

You’ve lived in True Beach your entire life, in one of its classic blue houses with white trimming and accents. You’ve watched the town grow, watched people come and go with the seasons.

The town sits on the east coast, tucked away and—when it isn’t in the heat of summer—small.

You’ve been working at the cafe for years, floating between positions. Baking in the back, ringing people through, cleaning tables. Mornings are spent in the cafe, then, when you’re off, you’re trying to soak up whatever summer has to offer.

Today, you’re heading out the door with your swimsuit on under a sundress, tote bag on your shoulder.

“Have a good one, sweetie!” Macy, your boss (more like a mother figure and friend by now) calls from the counter as the bell above the door jingles with your exit.

“Bye, Macy!”

The heat hits you as soon as you step out the door, your eyes squinting in the sun as you try to fish your sunglasses from your bag.

Your walk to the shore is easy, the steps nothing but muscle memory by now. You cross main street, head towards the path worn into the sand by foot traffic, over the small dunes until the sound of waves crashing onto sand hits your ears. It’s mixed with laughter, conversation, the sound of kids playing.

It’s pure summer.

Towel laid out, you settle in a spot a bit further from the shoreline, enough so that there isn’t anyone else sitting in close proximity to you.

Soon enough, you’ve got your dress pulled off and tossed into your bag, a layer of sunscreen applied, and a book in your hand. You’re laying on your stomach, propped on your elbows, ankles crossed. You’re so wrapped up in the words in front of you and the heat of the sun on your back that you don’t notice the boy setting his things nearby and jogging towards the water. Not until he comes back.

A droplet of water splashes your page, and you look to the side to find the culprit. Your heart stutters at what you see: a boy shaking out his wet hair the way a dog does, all clumsy and cute.

You’ve never seen him before. This boy with brown hair falling over his forehead, eyes crinkling in the sunlight, freckles in a constellation across his skin, a sunburn kissing the bridge of his nose and his cheeks. He’s pretty. You’re glad your sunglasses can hide the way your eyes trail down to his chest, the smattering of hair there, the sand that sticks to his damp skin.

In this part of True Beach, you know pretty much everyone. The locals, the people who stay for the summers, but not him. You’d remember him if you did.

“Good swim?” You speak up.

Steve’s head lifts, his eyes finding you easily, laying on your tummy, sun setting a glow across your skin. He scans you, the curve of your back, the book in your hands. You’re the first person who’s spoken to him so far in True Beach, and for a second, he thinks he might’ve dreamt it.

“Yeah,” he says. He wants to say more, ask your name, something, but the words seem stuck. “It’s beautiful here.”

“First time here?” You push yourself up to sit, book set on your towel, your hands propped behind you.

“First time anywhere, really.”

A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, flickering across your face.

“I hope it’s a good one, then.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair, pushing it from his face, he slings his towel over his shoulder, “I do, too.”

With that, the boy picks up his bag and heads off, and you can’t help but watch him leave, the freckles that dot his back, the muscles that sit there, too. You hope that you’ll see him again.

You hope that maybe, maybe this summer will be different than the rest.

Steve’s staying in a condo down by the beach. A white building with scratched paint and faded accents of greens, yellows, and blues. He’s on the ground floor, his small patio a step away from the sand. Coral Condos, it’s called.

He’d found True Beach on a whim, staring at a map and waiting until something jumped out at him. This town did.

For Steve, Hawkins was becoming too much. A reminder of everything that’s ever happened to him, of things he doesn’t know he’ll ever accomplish. His friends were all moving on, moving away, and he was just there.

First it was Nancy and Jonathan going out of state for college, then it was Eddie moving to Indianapolis for his music. What hit him the hardest was when Robin was off to school, too. When he was working shifts in Family Video alone, with his thoughts and the hum of the TV.

He needed to get out, away from the house that served as a reminder of the absence of his parents. He needed the room to change, to let himself be known as who he is now and nobody else.

So he’s here, spending his summer in True Beach to try and figure things out.

Steve’s been worried about his decision, wondering if it was too much, if he was doing the right thing. Robin had reassured him plenty, but after being in a single town for pretty much his entire life, this trip seems bigger.

Then, you spoke a couple of words to him on the beach, and he thought that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Even with big sunglasses covering your eyes, there was a kindness there, the beauty of someone not having any preconceived notions about him. Here, King Steve doesn’t exist.

Not to mention that you spoke to him, sunlight bouncing off your skin, lips moving around your words in a way that caught him.

His walk back to his condo is full of replaying your short conversation, the small smile that had spread over your face. Why the hell didn’t he ask your name?

Steve hopes to see you again, to feel the way he did when you talked to him. Like a person, someone worth speaking to, someone without a reputation that follows him despite being long gone, someone he wants to be.

Yeah, he really hopes to see you again.

Soon enough, you’re back at the cafe, working your morning shift and glancing up every time the bell above the door jingles. You’d never admit it, not even to yourself, but you’re looking for someone specific. Looking for the boy from the beach.

It’s odd, the little spark of hope you get whenever the door opens. You don’t even know his name.

Instead of facing this strange pull you feel towards a total stranger, you try to focus on work. Your customer service smile, making coffees, bagging sweets. You’ve been doing it long enough that it’s all subconscious, a routine that’s easy to fall into.

Then, only an hour before your shift is meant to end, the boy walks in, hair messy on top of his head.

Unsure if he even remembers you, you try to act natural. “Good morning!”

Steve follows the sound of your voice, finding you at the counter by the register, welcoming smile on your face. He recognizes you right away. It’s the same face he’d seen on the beach, the one he’s thought about since.

“Hi,” he says, stepping up to the counter across from you. He glances down to your name tag, pinned to the strap of your canvas apron. It suits you, he thinks. “Makes more sense than ‘girl from the beach.’”

“Sorry?”

“Your name, I mean.” He shifts a little on his feet. “I’m Steve, by the way.”

Steve. A piece of him you won’t have to wonder about anymore. Today, Steve’s wearing a linen button up shirt, the first couple buttons undone, his chest hair peeking out.

“Well hi, Steve. Boy from the beach,” you smile softly, a shared memory floating between you. “What can I get for you?”

If he’s being honest, Steve had sort of forgotten what he came into the cafe for once he saw you standing behind the counter. He looks at the menu on the wall behind you, skimming over the words.

“Um,” he looks back at you, his indecisiveness written in a small wince on his face, “have any drink recommendations?”

“Coming right up.”

You turn to make his drink, the coffee machine whirring behind you, the sound of things brewing a constant background to your day. You pour some ice into a cup, and soon enough you’ve got his drink mixed and poured, too.

You grab a cup sleeve, scrawling a small message on it before you can overthink it, and then slip it onto the cup, turning back to the counter where Steve is waiting, hands tucked into his pockets.

He watched you bounce between things in the cafe, hands moving like it’s second nature to you.

“Here you go,” you say, setting the cup onto the counter.

“Thanks.” Steve picks it up, dropping a bill onto the counter with his other hand.

Again, he finds himself wanting to say more to you, to stretch out the conversation. Instead, he heads to a table in the corner of the cafe and takes a sip of what you’ve made him. Of course it’s good, he thinks. You don’t look like someone who would mess these things up.

Right when he’s about to set the cup back down, he notices the sharpie scrawled onto the sleeve, lettering angled and curved to fit in the empty space. It could only be your writing, the words sweet and simple.

‘Welcome to True Beach :)’

Steve smiles at his cup, at the hint of something friendly, something kind, in a place so new to him.

He really should talk to you more this time, he knows it. Because he regretted not doing it once and he doesn’t want to do it again. So, when he finishes his drink, he walks up to the counter all over again.

“You’re back,” you say, though he never really left. He’d been in the cafe the whole time, your eyes always finding their way back to him.

“Yeah,” he sets his now empty cup down on the counter gently, “can I get another?”

“You liked it?” You smile a little, feeling a zip of success, of some sort of accomplishment.

“I mean, it’s refill worthy, so,” he shrugs like the answer is obvious, shoulder to his sunburnt cheek.

You make him another, the same way you made the first, his eyes on your back, your hands working on autopilot. The recipes make themselves by now, written into your memory.

You still can't really believe Steve’s here, that the boy from the beach walked in when you’d been thinking about him since you spoke. You wonder if it’s some sort of sign, hands of fate pushing him into the cafe.

Either way, you decide to take a chance.

“So,” you hand him his drink, and he hands you another bill and refuses the change, “if you wanted to meet some people, there’s this bonfire tonight at the beach. You should come.”

“Really?” He checks, because there’s no way you’d invite him somewhere after such small conversations, right?

“Yeah, really,” I want you there, you’d say if you had the courage. “You can get to know a bit about True Beach. Being a newbie and all.”

So far in his stay, Steve hasn’t been inclined to seek things out. He’s been alright keeping to himself, going to bed early enough. Now, he’s thinking that it’d be good to get out, to meet people, to explore the way he told himself he would here.

Maybe to see you again, too.

“I’d like that,” he nods, a shy smile on his lips. “You’ll be there?”

In all honesty, you’ve yet to attend a bonfire this summer. You’ve never been a huge fan of them, really. But if he’s going, so will you.

“I’ll be there,” you confirm. “It’s down by the docks. Sort of hard to miss.”

“I’ll see you later then, girl from the beach.”

“Later,” you smile, and a mirrored expression spreads on Steve’s face. “Boy from the beach.”

He turns and leaves, the bell above the door ringing yet again with his exit. For once, you spend what remains of your shift eager for the day to pass, for it to be nighttime with a fire crackling nearby and the boy from the beach as company.

Steve doesn’t know what it is about you, doesn’t know how or why, but somehow, you’ve made him feel like he’s in the right place. Like leaving Hawkins wasn’t this big huge mistake the way he’d worried it would be.

He needed to get out, he knows that, and he’s done it, but he’s yet to move on. Maybe tonight could be a step towards that, a step towards new friends (though he’ll always have those from Hawkins), a new environment, a new beginning.

He thinks about it all on his walk back to the condo. His past, what could be his future. He doesn’t know what it looks like, and maybe he never will, but he knows that the sun warming his skin and the salt in the air is something he could get used to. Something he could love, if he could just let himself.

And when Steve eventually throws away his cafe cup, he makes sure to keep the sleeve with your handwriting on it. A souvenir as good as any.

Maybe a sign, too. A promise of some sort.

Your hands are covered by the sleeves of your sweater as you walk over to the bonfire, bright orange casting a glow over the sand, the warmth of the flames hitting you as you draw nearer.

It’s early enough that hints of the sun remain in the sky, a stripe of orange on the horizon, fading into blue as you look up. It’s a really nice night, the stars and moon bright above you, the breeze still warm enough to wear shorts. Even so, you can’t help but be nervous.

You haven’t been to one of the bonfires in a long time, and though you see these people often in town, it’s never like this. Never all at once.

Plus, there’s Steve. You hadn’t told him a time, but he said he’d come and despite barely knowing him, he seems like the kind of guy who means what he says. The anticipation is what gets you. What you’ll say when you see him, how to act.

You’ve never wanted to get to know someone the way you do with him, the instant sense that he’s a person you’d like to have in your life, and that’s intimidating in itself.

“Look who decided to show up!” It’s Steph’s voice, your longtime friend, forever neighbor.

“Hey,” you give her a small smile, happy to see her and apologetic all at once. “Sorry it’s been so long.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she tosses an arm around your neck, “come on!”

Steph guides you to the group standing around the fire, people you’ve known forever, people who cheer at your appearance (though the enthusiasm is hugely influenced by their various states of being drunk).

It’s Mason who works at the record store, Vic that busses tables in the diner like no other. It’s everyone who makes True Beach what it is and you’re glad to be a part of it, even if your mind continues to drift elsewhere.

You keep looking towards the path that leads to the beach, hoping to see a silhouette coming through, the boy from the beach. Steve.

It’s unusual, the way you wait for him to show up. It’s been a long, long time since you’ve had this sort of eagerness, the excitement of meeting someone new, of feeling this pull.

Steph seems to notice your eyes drifting again during your conversation, and she’s quick to ask, “what’s over there?”

“Huh?” You look back at her face, and you don’t exactly love the accusing look on her face.

“You keep looking at the path,” then, she gasps, like she’s discovered something amazing, “are you waiting for someone?”

“What? No.” You shake your head when she nudges her shoulder into yours. “Just thought I saw something.”

“Sure you did, babe.”

All you can do is shake your head again. She’s already gotten the idea in her head, you won’t be getting it out. Besides, even if you won’t say so, she is right, after all.

The night continues on this way, your eyes constantly flicking towards the path, thinking that the person arriving is Steve. It never is, though.

Your hope is shrinking smaller and smaller as the time goes by, thirty minutes, an hour, another hour. Still no sign of him. You’ve only just met, and yet, the disappointment strikes you hard, a sinking in your gut, a thump in your chest. You really thought he’d come.

You shouldn’t be surprised, you think. Or upset, really. You’re a total stranger inviting him to a beach at night, you’ve probably scared him off, freaked him out.

Eventually, you find yourself sitting in the sand by yourself, everyone wrapped up in conversations, laughter ringing behind you.

You stare at the waves, the steady rise and crash onto the shore. You stare and stare and stare until you figure it’s too late now, Steve’s not coming, and you should just go.

So, with an embarrassing lump in your throat, you stand and dust off the back of your shorts and head towards the path, glad that nobody notices your departure, that you're able to force away the tears that have no business being there in the first place.

Where he is, Steve blinks his eyes open gradually, waking up to a dark condo and a kink in his neck. After a day in the sun, he’d accidentally crashed on the couch, falling asleep with the hum of the TV in the background.

At first, he’s just confused, disoriented as he checks the clock and sees the time. 12:26 AM. Then, it hits him. The bonfire, the ‘see you later,’ you.

Fuck.

He scrambles to get up, shoving on his shoes and heading out the door without a thought about how he must look right now. His hair a total mess from being pushed against the couch cushions, his eyes bleary from sleep. That’s not what matters.

Steve’s basically sprinting to the beach, running until he sees the docks, sees the fire still burning nearby. There are still people, too. Maybe I can save this, he thinks, maybe she’s here and I’ll explain and we’ll just laugh about it.

You’re the first person he’s really spoken to here, the first one to make him feel like True Beach was a good idea, and he’d be a fucking idiot to lose the whisper of a friendship before it’s gotten the chance to form. A total fucking idiot.

Breathing heavily from his rush to get here, Steve walks over to the first person he sees, a girl with a can in her hand, her hair in braids that have become loose with time.

“Hey, sorry,” he says, getting her attention.

Steph’s the one he’s addressing, though he has no idea who she is. She turns towards him and smiles politely, because she’s got no idea who he is, either.

“Hm?” She hums.

Steve says your name, the name that’s been in his head since he’d read it on your apron. “Have you seen her?”

“Oh! You’re the one she must’ve been waiting for.” Steph looks around, her eyebrows scrunching, “ummm, she was here. Guess she left.”

You’re the one she must’ve been waiting for, she was here, guess she left.

Steve’s stomach drops. You’d been waiting for him, and he’d practically stood you up like an asshole. Sure, he was asleep and it was unintentional, but you don’t know that, and he feels awful. The things you must’ve been thinking, how you felt.

He feels like the biggest jerk ever.

Steve forces a smile, though he’s sure it’s an awful facade. “Okay, thanks anyway.”

With that, he turns away from Steph and heads back towards the path, his head down, shoulders a little slumped because this isn’t how things were supposed to go.

He was supposed to show up, to talk to you and learn more than your name or where you work, to plant the seed of something between you. Friendship, maybe. More, if he’d been lucky.

“Hey,” Steph calls before Steve gets too far. He turns around. “She’s got a shift tomorrow. Seven AM.”

He nods, and heads off again. He’ll fix this. Somehow, he’s going to fix this and it’ll work. It has to, he thinks, because he needs to know you.

Steve barely sleeps that night. For one, there was the nap that was long enough, and then—of course—there’s you. He spent hours laying on his back, watching the ceiling fan whirl above him, trying to figure out what to say.

In the end, he scraps every idea he has and decides to wing it the best he can. Not a great plan, but it’s all he has, so it’ll have to be enough.

Your friend said you started at seven, so Steve shows up at the cafe at exactly 7:02 AM. He's got mismatched socks on his feet, sandals on top of those. He’s sure his eyes are puffy, too, the lack of sleep evident on his face.

Despite that, he opens the cafe door, the bell ringing above his head. He spots you right away, leaning over a table, wiping it down with the towel in your hand, your walkman clipped onto the pocket of your apron, headphones on your head.

There’s someone else at the counter this time, an older woman with crinkles by her eyes and a kind smile. But, Steve came here to see you, so he heads over to the table you’re cleaning.

You can’t hear him coming, you only catch him walking over in your peripheral, his hands shoved in his pockets. You straighten, leaving the towel on the table and pausing your music, pushing your headphones down to rest around your neck.

“Steve. Hi.” You’re sure the surprise is in your voice. You really hadn’t been expecting to see him again.

“I’m so sorry about last night,” is what he says, needing to get it out, unsure of how else to start.

He surprises you a second time, his words are written on his face, the sleepiness in his eyes, the tiny frown on his mouth, the worried scrunch in his brows. It’s impossible to deny his sincerity.

“Oh.” You twist your fingers in the wire of your headphones. “It’s totally fine, you don’t have to apologize to me.”

“No, I do.” Steve pulls his hands from his pockets, and they move as he speaks, like he can’t help it. “Listen, it’s gonna sound made up, but I swear to you, it’s not. I fell asleep.”

“Steve-”

“I did. I got back from the beach and I fell asleep. As soon as I woke up I went to the bonfire, but you’d already left. I’m sorry for making you wait like that.”

You were never angry or upset with him to begin with. It was more towards yourself, the disappointment. You’d built up an expectation of him, of the night, in your head, and it’s your own fault. Still, the explanation has your chest feeling lighter.

“It’s okay, Steve. I mean, I’m a total stranger inviting you to this thing. It’s weird.”

“It’s not! It’s not weird, I promise.” He’s quiet for a second, then, his voice softer than before, he says, “I really did wanna go.”

You’re not sure what it is that gets you, maybe the way his brown eyes seem to melt a little, or the way his voice slows with the last few words, like he really wants you to hear them, but either way, any lingering negativity of the night before seems to fade away.

“You didn’t miss much, really.” You lean your hands behind you on the table. “Just a bunch of people getting drunk and slipping around in the sand.”

“I’m still sorry I didn’t go. I told you I would.”

“Steve, seriously, it’s okay.”

“Thanks for, you know, letting me explain.”

“Stop worrying about it, ‘kay? We’re good.”

Steve wonders if there’s a reason this place jumped out at him when he’d read the name. If some sort of divine intervention led him to True Beach. Because he’d found you here, and though you’ve only spoken a couple of times, he knows that people like you are rare. The sort of kindness that feels refreshing, the easiness of being around you.

He wants more of it, wants to know if maybe there’s a reason he feels like he was meant to meet you.

“I do want to know True Beach,” he says, “being a newbie and all.”

Your words from the day before coming from him make you smile. The thought that he’d remembered what you said well enough to repeat it back. Not everyone listens like that.

“I could show you around, if you wanted? You know, the best spots, the good food.”

“You’d do that?”

“Yeah! It’s an excuse for me to do more than just be lazy on the beach. Plus, It’d be fun.”

He smiles, this time it’s not hidden or pushed back, it’s a beam of light, sunshine peeking out from behind a cloud. “I’ll take you up on it, then.”

You smile, too. “I’m off at one, if you wanna meet back here?”

“Yeah, yes, that’s great. I’ll be here.”

Steven turns to go, but you call out, “don’t fall asleep this time!”

He faces you again, heads towards the front counter saying, “maybe I should get a coffee. Just to be safe.”

You shake your head with a grin, one that stays on your face even when you turn away and continue to wipe down the tables. Not even 8 o’clock in the morning and it feels like a good day.

Macy’s the one who served Steve his coffee this time, and once he leaves, the cafe now mostly empty, she walks over and leans a hip against the table, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyebrows raised at you.

“So, who was that?”

“His name is Steve.”

“Steve, hm? He’s a cutie.”

“Macy! He’s only here for the summer. And we only just met, alright? It’s nothing.”

Somehow, her eyebrows go even higher, the look on her face one you always get when she knows something. Or, when she thinks she knows something.

“Okay, okay. But I saw your smile just now.” She pokes your cheek, “I know you, sweetie. That wasn’t nothing.”

“I’m just gonna show him around. He’s new here, that’s it, I swear.”

She holds her hands up, “fine, but I will be saying ‘I told you so’ if that changes.”

“I’d expect nothing less, Macy.”

Macy likes to try and play matchmaker with you often, but her tone is usually much more joking than it is now. Though it’s still light, still teasing, it’s different. You wonder if maybe she was seeing something you couldn’t, something you didn’t want to see.

You don’t know this boy, not really. You know he has a way of saying things that make them feel true, that he has the softest eyes you’ve ever seen, that he’s able to pull smiles from you without even trying.

No, you don’t know him, but maybe you could. Starting today.

This time, Steve doesn’t leave you wondering. He shows up five minutes before your shift is set to end, and Macy, noticing him walking into the cafe, leans over to you, “looks like your boy is back, sweetie. Go ahead and get out of here.”

You shake your head and let it slide, knowing that she’ll believe whatever she wants no matter how much you fight her on it. You lean your head on her shoulder long enough to say: “thanks, Mace.”

Then, you’re heading out, tugging the bow on the back of your apron loose and slipping it over your head to hang it up on its hook on your way to the back room where you grab your bag. You pause at the mirror by the employee cubbies, smoothing back some baby hairs and brushing stray coffee grinds from your cheeks.

Steve stands to the side of the entrance, somehow looking more sun kissed than he’d been this morning, and he waves when he spots you walking towards him. “My tour guide.”

“That would be me.” There’s a small smile on your face already. There always seems to be one when you talk to him. “You ready to go?”

He moves to open the door, gesturing with his free hand, “lead the way.”

The summer heat hits you as soon as you walk through the door, the sun shining on the side of your face. You twist your head away from the sun and towards Steve, who’s fallen into step beside you, his strides matching yours.

“I thought we’d stay downtown, show you the shops and stuff.” Steve looks at you as you speak, even with the sun making him squint. “Sound okay?”

“Sounds perfect. I trust you.”

He steps around you, tugging your wrist gently to place you on the inside of the sidewalk, and himself closest to the road. It’s a small thing, one that could easily be meaningless, but your heart stutters the slightest bit, your steps slowing before forcing yourself to keep up with him.

The walk is short, filled with small talk that doesn’t feel forced or exhausting. It feels natural, the kind of ‘how are you?’ you get from a friend rather than a stranger. And you suppose he isn’t a stranger, you know just enough for him to be more than that.

Your hands brush between you, knuckles skimming against each other just once. A spark zipping up your arm, the same electricity traveling in his, too.

You ignore it (try to, at least), and before long, you’re at your first destination of the day. You stop walking, turning towards the awning of the store, “here we are.”

Steve stops with you, his eyes set on your face as you gesture towards the building. He looks away when you catch him, looking up at the sign hung above the door, a wave that fades into music notes, the words ‘Splash Records’ layered on top of that.

Now, it’s you who’s looking at his face, looking for a reaction. “It’s a gem, I swear.”

He turns to you again, his eyes, lighter in the sun, set on yours, “like I said, I trust you.”

“Okay,” you open the door for him this time, light blue paint flaking onto your hand when you twist the knob, “after you.”

Walking in, the record store is packed, but not in a way that feels stuffy. It’s full, music streaming through the store’s speakers, surrounding the space. There’s crates of records set on tables in the middle, shelves of them lining the walls.

Then, straight ahead from the door at the back, there’s the counter, the register sitting atop it, a record spinning behind it.

You wave to the boy standing there, “hey, Mason!”

Mason waves back, smiling at you, “hey! Need help finding anything?”

“We’re only browsing. Thanks, though.”

“No problem, cafe. You let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

The local workers in True Beach have developed this habit of calling each other by their jobs, hence why you’re ‘cafe.’ It’s silly, and you’re all well aware of everyone’s actual names, but it started and stuck ever since.

“Sure will, record store.”

Steve, for some reason, has this dull, punched-in-the-gut kind of feeling. He shouldn’t, he really, really shouldn't, but he does. Seeing the boy smile at you, seeing you share an inside joke.

And then, you’re wrapping a hand around his wrist so softly and leading him into the store and the ache is gone, replaced with this warmth. Warmth that blooms and grows into his chest.

“So, Steve, beach boy, what kind of music do you like?”

Just like that, the ache is forgotten.

“Take a guess,” he says.

You walk towards one of the crates at the front of a table, the letter A attached to the front. He follows, watches you flick through the records.

“Hmmm,” you stop and tug one out, facing Steve and holding up ABBA’s Arrival. “This one.”

“Come on!” He laughs, mostly because you’re right, and you seem to know it.

“You’re totally a ‘Dancing Queen’ kind of guy.”

He shrugs, a closed-mouth smile with mischief laced behind it, and turns to a different crate. And then, ever so softly, he starts humming the tune to ‘Dancing Queen.’

You smack his arm lightly, jaw dropped, soon spreading into a grin of victory. “I knew it!”

You continue on with your guesses, Steve following behind you with a sort of brightness in his eyes. He feels like you’re showing him more with each minute you spend together, your personality shining through with every smile or laugh he’s lucky enough to get from you.

The next album you pull is by Wham! and Steve huffs a laugh and shakes his head, “you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I’m right again, aren’t I?”

“No comment.”

“I’m so good at this.”

By the end of it, you’ve added a-ha and Tears for Fears to the pile, and though Steve will end up buying every single one, he looks at the stack in your arms and sighs.

“Have you been stalking me?” He asks, because you’ve yet to be wrong with your selections.

“Yeah, right. You wish,” you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fumbling a little with the records in your hands. “I am just really, really skilled. Plus, you just give off the energy for it.”

“You aren’t making me seem very manly, you know?”

“Who said anything about manly?” Your eyes are kind, Steve thinks they sort of sparkle when you say, “good music is good music. Who cares what it says about you?”

He’d been joking, of course he had, because you’ve been right all along and he sort of stopped worrying about music taste when he started hanging out with Robin, who’s favorite genre is musical soundtracks, and Eddie, who never stopped liking what he did no matter what Hawkins thought of him.

And then, he thinks, Eddie would like you. Would like the way you spoke about music.

Steve’s not sure what to say, not sure how to thank you without sounding like a total idiot. But he doesn’t have to, because you speak before he can, like you’d known he needed you to. “Anyways, you ready for our next destination?”

“I’ll go wherever you go.” The words are soft, and they feel like so much more than simple when he says them. They aren’t more, you know that, but they sound like they could be. “You’re the tour guide.”

Steve buys the records, and with the bag in his hand, he follows you out the door and walks beside you—again, closest to the street—without question.

A couple of stops later (one being the sunglasses shop, where you and Steve handed each other pairs to try on, giggling behind hands, posing into the mirror of the other person’s lenses) you’re leading Steve into the diner on main. It’s classic, vinyl seating, checkered floors, the light blue of the shallow parts of the ocean serving as the pop of color in the place.

You grab a booth, Steve sliding in across from you. It’s by the window, a street of sandals smacking the ground, towels slung over shoulders, and beach bags covered in sand on the other side of it.

It doesn’t take long before a familiar face strolls up to your table, and you give her a little wave as she walks up, “hey, Vic! Busy today?”

“I’ve seen worse, cafe.” Her eyes flick over to Steve, her eyebrows raising when she looks at you again. “And who’s your friend?”

“This is Steve, he’s staying for the summer and roped me into being his tour guide.”

“Hey,” he says, an awkward, but always kind, smile on his face.

“Well, welcome to True Beach.” Vic pulls out her notepad and pen from her pocket. “What can I get you?”

You both order, and Steve listens to you chat with Vic some more, the interest you show in what she tells you, the way you pay attention to her story about a strange customer. He thinks about the way you’ve greeted every shop employee so far today by name, the way they all greet you with the same recognition.

He thinks about how nice it must be to be a part of something like that, a steady unit in a town that sees different faces constantly.

“Sorry about that,” you say to Steve after Vic walks away. “She likes to tell stories.”

“Don’t be. I was eavesdropping, anyway.”

You laugh, quick and sunny, and Steve soaks it up, letting it warm him up. He’s sort of captivated by you, the way you move, the things you say, the way he feels around you. It’s something totally new to him, no matter his history with girls. This is on its own, special and rare, he thinks. Or, maybe, he wishes.

“So, Steve…”

He fills in the blank. “Harrington.”

“Steve Harrington. What brings you to True Beach?”

“Ummm. Vacation?” Steve asks rather than says, because he really doesn’t have an answer. At least, not one that he thinks makes any sense. Self-discovery? Escape? Didn’t want to be the last of his friends stuck in Hawkins?

All of the above, maybe.

“No!” Your foot nudges his under the table. “I mean, like, really. What’s your story? What led you right here?”

Steve likes the way you say what you mean, how you don’t seem to be afraid to ask something more personal. The list of things he likes about you seems to keep growing.

“I grew up in Hawkins, Indiana. Small town, been there my whole life. I was sort of an ass in high school. Hanging around with the wrong people, you know?” He scratches at the hair at the base of his neck, nervous. Less so when he sees your gentle smile and nod. “Anyway, then I met better people. My best friend, Robin, this dork Eddie, and these kids that I care about a lot. Sort of became their babysitter—minus the pay—and, yeah.”

You notice the way he lightens up when he talks about these people, the whisper of a smile on his face as he does. It makes you smile, too, knowing that he has people like that. People that can ease him with a simple memory.

“My parents were never really around. Work trips all the time, stuff like that, but it forced me to learn a lot. I worked at this movie rental place for a few years, and then all my friends were moving on, going to school, taking control of their lives. I figured I’d do the same.”

“That’s why you’re here?”

“Hm?”

“To move on. Take control of your life.”

“I guess so. I wanted to go somewhere. I’ve never ventured out-of-state until now. Saw the town on a map and that was it.”

“I think that’s really cool.” You reach across the table and squeeze Steve’s hand, his eyes flicking up from his lap when you do. “It takes a lot of bravery to come somewhere new, especially alone.”

“I don’t know about that.”

Steve’s quick to brush things off. He didn’t grow up being called things like brave, and though the expression on your face is clearly honest, it’s hard to accept a compliment. Doesn’t mean his heart doesn’t expand a little, though. Like an extra puff of air blown into a balloon.

“Don’t fight me on this, Steve Harrington.”

He’s not sure he could fight you on most things. He’d rather let you win.

“Alright, fine. What’s your story, then?”

“You sure you wanna hear it? It’s pretty boring.”

I want to know everything about you, Steve thinks. He won’t say it, though, won’t risk freaking you out when this has only just begun.

“You got mine. It’s only fair.”

It’s been a long time since you’ve met someone new, since you’ve had to do the whole getting to know each other thing. Usually, it’s awkward for you, the stress of good impressions. Now, with him, it’s easier for some reason. It feels like you’ve known him far longer than a few days. There’s a familiarity there.

“Okay, okay. My family moved here when I was like five, so it’s pretty much all I remember. We’ve lived in the same house since, blue shutters and chipped paint, but I love it. It’s home.”

You don’t feel very different from how you feel now when you think of home. Comfortable, at ease, like you’re not meant to be anywhere else.

Steve Harrington. You’re glad he chose True Beach.

“I started working at the cafe when I was sixteen, I think,” you continue. “Macy—that’s my boss, but she’s more like family—she gave me the job and I just never left. She wants me to take over one day.”

“Will you take over?”

“I love that place. I don’t really see myself anywhere else,” you shrug, hands fiddling with the napkin in front of you. It’s something not everyone approves of, like you’re wasting away there. “I know it’s not all that impressive.”

“Hey, if you love it, isn’t that what matters?” The toe of his shoe pushes yours gently, your eyes catching his. “Not everybody gets to say they love what they do. And you do. I think that’s impressive.”

“Really?”

“Really. I think it’s great, honey.”

Steve lets the name slip, but when he sees the bashful smile on your face, the way you duck down a little, he can’t bring himself to feel bad about it.

Honey.

If you didn’t have a crush already, you’re absolutely done for now.

Day by day, you and Steve grow closer, and you’re now far more comfortable calling each other a friend rather than a stranger.

You show him a little bit more of the town each day, and a little bit more of yourself, too. He does the same, and you’ve found that Steve is an easy person to talk to, to trust. It’s a friendship born over rented bicycles and hands-free riding down a hill, brunch at the cafe during your breaks, and Steve lending you his baseball cap when you forget your own.

It feels completely natural, like you’ve known him a lifetime rather than a week. It feels like something you didn’t know had been missing.

Steve doesn’t feel much different. There’s a little bit of guilt in him, because he’s never felt this way while in Hawkins; like he belonged. He loves his friends, and that had nothing to do with them, but it sat with him nonetheless. A weight on his chest.

The weight seems to be forgotten when he’s with you, when you’re smiling at him as you show him your home like you’re welcoming him, like he could stay. It’s when he’s alone that he thinks about what this could mean, what he should do.

Right now, though, he isn’t alone, so there’s no heaviness there.

You’re taking him to a ‘super great surprise location,’ as you’d called it, your sandals leaving patterns in the sand, the sun bouncing off your bare shoulders. Steve walks the slightest bit behind you, not far enough that you can’t talk to each other, but enough so that you’re definitely leading the way.

Steve’s honestly too distracted to pick up on where you’re headed. The curve of your spine, the way your hair seems to change color under the sun, the pattern of your strides. It isn’t until you tilt your head and point upwards that he catches on.

He lets his head fall back to match yours, looking up at the lighthouse that sits on a rocky part of the beach.

“The lighthouse?” He checks, “Isn’t that, like, against the rules?”

“Aw, Stevie, since when do you care about the rules?” That’s something you’ve been doing lately, calling him Stevie. He likes it more than he should. “Besides, I won’t let us get caught. Don’t you trust me?”

You’re facing him now, walking backwards, a smile full of mischief on your face. Steve can’t help but be honest, “yeah, I trust you.”

“Well then, let’s get climbing, Harrington.”

You don’t have to tell him again. Steve follows you without another question, like it’s really that simple. He follows you up and up the lighthouse until you’ve made it to the top, out on the metal balcony that overlooks the beach, the water.

You sit down, legs dangling over the edge, arms leaning on the bottom part of the railing. And though Steves not fearless by any means, he sits beside you, position mirroring yours.

“You bring all your tourists up here?” Steve teases, his knee brushing yours.

Vulnerability is scary, and you don’t usually share much about yourself with people, preferring to keep your cards close, but things are different with Steve. It’s scary and incredible all at once. He’s different.

So, you reply seriously, your voice quieter, “I’ve actually never brought anyone up here.”

Steve looks away from the view to look at you, your confession unexpected but welcomed. Like he’s thought since he’d met you, he really wants to know you. Every single thing.

“Really?” He asks, gently poking for more.

“Yeah,” you nod, your eyes focused on the way the waves look from up here, the shades of blue. It’s less scary to talk this way, without looking at Steve and his eyes that you just fall into.

“I always come up here alone,” you continue. “To think, mostly. Like, when things feel really big and awful, coming up here and seeing how small everything is helps. I kinda find comfort in the insignificance, you know? Nothing I do will ever really be that big of a deal, and that’s peaceful, I think. Does that make any sense?”

He finds he can’t look away from you right now, the sad—maybe even nervous—twist of your mouth, your hair messy from the wind. He wonders if he should tell you that he doesn’t think you’re insignificant at all. At least not to him.

“It does,” Steve says, blinking away from you and turning to look at the water, too. “I think that’s part of why I came here. It’s nice to be unknown, to not have to worry about every move I make because of how people will react. Things feel a little lighter.”

You nod, looking down at where your legs touch, your feet hanging over the edge of the balcony. You hadn’t meant to get so serious. Tour guides should be fun, right? So, you add, “the view’s nice, too.”

The sun’s setting now, the sky becoming a blend of pinks and oranges, the rays on your skin turning golden. Still, Steve finds himself looking at you again when he says, “yeah, it is.”

You turn your head at his tone, the gentleness of it. Your eyes find his, the brown almost bronze in the sun, the color melting and swirling and you can’t break eye contact. He’s reeled you in like nobody has before, like he’s been on the opposite end of a string that ties you together, and he’s the only one who could pull it.

“I’m really glad you picked True Beach.”

Steve’s gaze flicks to your mouth, then your eyes, and your mouth again. “I am, too, honey.”

Then, you’re closer to each other, your shoulders leaning together, the warmth of his arm pressed against your own.

You aren’t sure who leans in first, and neither is Steve, all you know is his nose nudges yours, and when you tilt your head in response, you’re kissing. First, a tender press of his lips on yours, and that’s all. But it isn’t enough.

Subconsciously, without a thought, you chase his mouth when he pulls away ever so slightly, and it’s all he needs before he’s kissing you again. Before he’s really kissing you.

Steve’s hand finds your cheek, gently tilting your face for him so he can kiss you the way he wants to. He’s not sure what he’d been thinking before this, all he knows is that this feels too good to stop, too good to be the wrong thing to do.

Your hand is hooked in the neckline of his shirt, knuckles brushing his bare skin beneath it, keeping him close. The other rests on the balcony between you, holding you up, letting you lean towards him.

You haven’t been kissed many times, but you know that for it to feel like this is a rare thing, something delicate that you won’t look into just yet. Right now, this is enough. The sparks that seem to fly around you, burning through you.

Even when you do pull away, nothing feels broken. No, Steve simply uses the hand on your cheek to guide your head to his shoulder, and it’s comfortable, your cheek squished against him, his hand grabbing yours from his collar and holding it in his lap.

You stay that way for what could be minutes or hours. As if you’ve been just like this hundreds of times before.

Steve offered—more like decided, really—to walk you home from the lighthouse, the sun sinking lower and lower with every step. You took the long way, sand beneath your feet, breeze growing cooler against your cheeks.

Neither of you have said anything about the kiss, and you haven’t felt the need to. If anything, it feels natural, like this pink haze brought on by the kiss is meant to be there; there’s nothing to be said.

Maybe that’ll change tomorrow, but it’s today and that’s what matters.

At some point during the walk, after knuckles brushing and sparks fizzling between them, Steve had wrapped his pinky around yours, which then turned into holding hands, fingers intertwined, palms pressed together. The warmth of it spread up your arm, a tide rising up and up and up.

It’s dark by the time your house comes into view, weathered paint and blue accents, the porch light glowing warmly in the night. That’s another thing about True Beach: porch lights stay on.

You stop at the end of your driveway, swinging your hands between you. “This is me.”

“Well,” Steve’s fingers flex in yours, his thumb running over your knuckles just once. “Thanks for showing me your spot, honey.”

You look down at your hands, smiling at the way he says it. Honey. Like you’re as sweet as the real thing, like he really believes that.

“Thanks for trusting me to take you there.”

“It was a good one. How you gonna top it next time?”

“I don’t like to reveal my secrets. You know, like a magician.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He gives your hand a squeeze, eyes finding yours, something written behind them that you can’t pick out. “I’ll see you tomorrow, magic tour guide.”

“See you, Steve.”

You’d spoken the entire walk back to yours, but it feels different now. Thicker. The way it did at the top of the lighthouse just before you’d kissed. You squeeze Steve’s hand back before turning to walk up your driveway.

Steve holds onto your hand until he can’t anymore, his arm stretched out ahead of him, yours behind you, only dropping when you’re out of reach. It’s something that has your hearts beating in tandem, like they miss the contact.

When you get onto your porch, the doorknob in your hand, you turn back and wave to Steve again, who lets a smile spread across his face as he waves back. Once inside, you lean against your closed door, head falling back against the wood.

What the hell are you gonna do when summer’s over and he has to go home?

Steve’s thoughts aren’t much different, because somehow, you’ve made this place feel more like home than Hawkins has in a long time. He’s not always worried about things—though he still worries more than he should—and it’s gotta mean something.

He kicks a pebble the whole walk back to the condo, dragging his feet and hoping that walking slower will make his mind move quicker.

It doesn’t really work, and once he’s back in his place for the summer, he figures that he should

probably call the only person who’ll know just what to say to him (with the addition of some jabs).

He grabs the phone from the wall in the living room and dials Robin’s number.

“Hello hello?”

Steve relaxes a little at the sound of her voice, because she’s his best friend in the entire world and he misses her. A lot. Where Hawkins felt heavy, Robin was the one to make things better, but with her and the group away, the weight got to him.

“Hey, Rob.”

“Steven! How’s your trip going?”

“I told you not to call me Steven.”

He actually doesn’t mind it that much, because it’s something only Robin calls him, and as silly as it is, he won’t really stop her.

“Don’t care. Tell me about your summer. Where are you staying again?”

“It’s called True Beach.”

“And?”

Steve can picture Robin waving her hand in the air as she says it.

“It’s actually really nice,” he says. “The beach is beautiful and the weather’s great and there’s a bunch of cute shops on the main street. I met this girl in the cafe and she’s been showing me around.”

“Oh, really? A girl?” She’s probably wiggling her eyebrows now, Steve thinks.

“It’s only friendly, Rob.” He opts out of telling her about the kiss just yet. Maybe because he knows what she’ll say, something about him

having feelings for you. And maybe Robin would be right about that. “But it’s been really fun so far. Went to the record store, this diner, the lighthouse. I got you some presents.”

“Aw, Steven! You shouldn’t have!”

“Don’t act like you don’t want the presents, Buckley.”

“Whatever, Harrington. Have you been taking pictures? And who’s this girl! You can't just gloss over that, dingus.”

“I have some, but my skills don’t really match up to Jonathan’s.” Steve leans his shoulder against the wall where he stands, twisting the phone cord around. “And she’s great, seriously. We’re friends, okay? You’d like her.”

And Steve believes that, because ever since meeting Robin and finding the sort of once in a lifetime friendship with her, he can only see himself around people that she’d like, too.

“I bet I would, Steven.”

“Anyways, how are you? What’s been going on?”

As Robin updates Steve on things—her crush that she’s never spoken to before, what Eddie said he was working on when she spoke to him last, what she had for breakfast—he listens, letting himself get distracted from his thoughts of you.

Not that the thoughts are bad in any way, but they’re confusing, they’re something he hadn’t been prepared for when he’d decided to take this trip. He finds that even though he spends a lot of his days with you, he’s still thinking about you once he’s alone.

Steve’s not quite sure how to face that, but for now, he won’t. He’ll listen to Robin, talk to her until they’re both too tired to continue. He’ll enjoy having you as his tour guide and his friend.

Whatever else you could become, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he doesn’t want you to be a stranger again.

Tomorrow has come and you haven’t been able to get Steve out of your head.

First it was the stuff that had you shoving your face into your pillow last night. The way his hand felt on your cheek when he kissed you, the way it felt in yours when he walked you home, the way he held on as long as he could when you parted ways.

Now, it’s the kind of what-ifs that have you worrying about what will happen when you see him again today. Will he act like nothing happened, will he want to talk about it, will he hold your hand again?

You’re excited to see him, it’s hard not to be when you like him so much, but you’re nervous, too. Probably for the same reason.

All you can do is go about your shift and hope that it distracts you enough to ease the small twist in your gut, the unknowns eating at you just a bit. If Macy notices something’s bothering you (which she does) she doesn’t say anything, opting to let you ride it out because when Macy believes something’s right, it usually is.

She feels that way about you and Steve.

Steve, who’s been tossing around in his bed all morning trying to sleep in and avoid thinking too hard. So far, no luck. Instead, he’s been wondering how to go about today with you. Because what he wants is something he’s afraid is too far out of reach, something he’s scared of, and he doesn’t know if it even remotely lines up with what you want.

Eventually, it gets too late for him to keep twisting himself up in the sheets, so he gets up and gets himself ready. Steve chooses not to drink coffee this morning, feeling jittery enough as it is.

His walk to the cafe is different today, because even though he’s still excited as ever to spend time with you, there’s a little weight in his chest that makes him nervous. He decides to walk quickly, whether it’s because he’s eager to see you or to get whatever will happen over with, he’s not so sure.

He doesn’t want you to be a stranger again.

Eventually, with a big breath in, Steve tugs the cafe door open. He sees Macy before he sees you, knowing it’s her because of the name tag.

“Hi there,” she says, her smile crinkling her eyes a little. “Steve, right?”

He’s surprised that she knows his name. And then, the idea hits him like a small punch, his mind getting hopeful with it; you must’ve talked to her about him. You care enough to talk about him with Macy, who you’d said is like family to you.

“Yeah,” he says, walking the rest of the shirt way to the counter where she stands. “And you’re Macy?”

“That’s me!” She seems to notice the way Steve’s eyes search the small cafe, and she smiles as she speaks, “she’s in the back. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

It’s not even a minute later that you’re walking out from the back and towards Steve, tote bag slung over your shoulder, sunglasses on top of your head.

“My guide,” he says as you meet him by the counter. “What’s on the agenda today?”

“You’ll see soon enough.” You fish your car keys from your bag, and they jingle in your hand when you find them. “Ready to go?”

“Sure am.”

As you and Steve head towards the door you hear Macy call, “bye, sweetie! Have fun!”

You turn to face her and send her a wave. In return, you get a wink and an eyebrow raise and you just shake your head. She might be onto something, though.

Soon enough you’re in your car, Steve in the passenger seat, driving out to the lookout because it’s usually quiet this time of day and you want him to see it that way. The waves crashing onto sand below, the endless stretch of sky.

You chat as you drive, and you’ve found that you didn’t need to be so nervous, because he’s Steve and something about him makes everything seem easy, natural. You’ve fallen into the same spot you were yesterday on the walk home, this bubble of pink and sweet and more surrounding you.

Steve asks you about how your shift went, how busy things have been, what you had for breakfast. Simple things that draw you back into simply feeling the glow of being with him. It’s like he soaks up sunshine and spills it out, warm and bright.

When you turn your head to glance at him quickly, you’re stuck on the way the sun hits his face, the freckles that have appeared on his nose from his time spent at the beach. He looks like he belongs here, you think. A boy with summer written all over him.

And when you make it to the lookout, Steve reaches across the center console for your hand, and your fingers lace together just like they had last night. It feels like the softest click of puzzle pieces fitting together, right where they’re supposed to be.

Steve hadn’t been thinking when he did it. It was his hand reaching out on instinct because it wanted to, because it felt empty where it sat in his lap beforehand.

You keep talking for a bit, back and forth and back and forth and all you can think about is how maybe (definitely) this is more than a crush. That maybe you don’t ever want to see him go.

After the lookout you and Steve still have plenty of the day left. You can only look at a view for so long, really, so you decide to head to the beach, which you’ve yet to do, surprisingly.

It’s the main attraction of the town, so you figure you should include it on your tour, even if you know he’s already been. It’s where you met, after all.

You lead him to a spot further down the beach, where crowds dwindle and a line of rocks sort of secludes it from the rest. Of course, it’s not empty. It never is during summer, but it’s as calm as it can get.

A bathing suit is usually hidden under your clothes during the months of May through August, so, with your towels laid out, a cooler that you’d had in your car set in the sand, and bags tossed beside it, you slip your sundress over your head.

Steve watches you pull the fabric up, the hem getting higher and higher until your dress is gone and he’s trying not to stare too hard. Your skin glows with the sun, and he has to tug his own shirt over his head to pull his gaze away. Fabric pulled in front of his eyes to snap him out of it.

Your sunglasses sit on the bridge of your nose, your eyeline hopefully hidden because Steve’s there and you can’t exactly look away. Dusting of chest hair over sun kissed skin, freckles and moles a constellation you’d reach out and trace if you could.

Blinking away, you shift your sights to the ocean, the waves cresting, whitecaps sliding onto the shore. You breathe in the salt air, the breeze warm against your skin.

Soon enough you and Steve are both settled on your towels, light chatter from other groups mingling with the sounds of the waves.

“Boy from the beach,” you say, lulling your head to the side to look at him. “Funny seeing you here.”

“What a coincidence.” Steve likes that you’ve got this thing, something shared between just the two of you. “Girl from the beach.”

“How’re you liking your trip so far?”

“Well, I’ve got this great tour guide. She’s been showing me all the spots,” Steve leans back onto his hands, while you’re laid down fully, peering up at him through your sunglasses. “I think you might know her.”

You grin, butterflies in your stomach. Your hands rest over your tummy, like you’d be able to feel them floating in there. It’s just so easy with him, so natural. You feel like you were always meant to meet each other, it was just a matter of when.

“She sounds familiar,” you play along.

“Yeah. Super kind, works at a cafe, really pretty.”

Really pretty. He’d added it on like a fact, like to him, there’s no questioning that. Your fingertips push against your stomach a little, trying to shoo away the butterflies.

“Pretty, huh?”

Steve’s always thought so, and he didn’t even realize he’d said it until you repeated it back. He doesn’t regret it, though. Because he thinks it every time he looks at you. That you’re pretty.

“Yep. Ringing any bells?”

“I don’t know about that, Steve.”

“I do, honey.”

Your eyes flick between his, his eyes squinted because he’d forgotten his sunglasses, but all you find is that softness that seems to live in the brown of his iris.

He’s looking at your face, at the curve of your mouth and the slope of your nose. It’s getting harder and harder to ignore the way he feels, the way he’s felt. He really fucking likes you.

You breathe in deep and turn your head to face the sky, nervous under his gaze, unsure of how to read things. He’s leaving at the end of summer, and you’ll be here. What if that’ll be all you ever see of him? His couple of months here, and then, the end.

The moment seems to pass, Steve changing the subject to something about a new music release he wondered if you’d listened to.

The feelings linger, though.

Worries shoved down and stomach flutters warded away (mostly), you and Steve talk like friends, which you’d take over strangers any day. It hasn’t been too long, but it’s been long enough that you know each other, that you can talk or be quiet and have it be comfortable.

Eventually, with sunbeams warming your skin and your early shift weighing on you, your eyes grow heavy and you're lulled to sleep by the sound of Steve's voice and the sea.

He’d been telling you a story, something about the first time he’d gone to see Eddie play at the Hideout and how surprised he’d been. When he’s done, he waits for a reply, only to be met with silence.

Peeking over at you, Steve notices your head rolled to the side, your chest rising and falling with steady breaths. As delicately as possible, he reaches over and lifts your sunglasses to find your eyes shut, and he realizes you’ve fallen asleep.

There’s a smile worming its way onto Steve’s face as he pushes your glasses back into place. A smile brought on by how cute he thinks you look right now, pout on your lips and hair messy from the wind.

A smile turning just a little bit lovesick because you feel comfortable enough with him to be asleep right now.

It’s only twenty minutes before you’re blinking your eyes open again, shifting and breathing in deep as you wake up. The breeze has died down, the heat having your forehead a little damp, your body uncomfortably warm.

“Morning, sleepy.”

You groan and turn towards Steve, sitting up and stretching your arms out in front of you before responding. “Hi. Sorry. I didn’t mean to sleep.”

“Don’t apologize. You’ve been working and dragging me around every day. I’d be tired, too.” He’d pulled the cooler to serve as a backrest while you were asleep, you notice. “Good nap, though?”

“Yeah. Guess I needed it.”

You’re feeling warm, almost too warm, so you fan yourself with your hands. Steve notices. “You feel okay?”

“Just warm. Probably shouldn’t have slept in the sun.” You wipe your forehead with the back of your hand, which you’re sure is unappealing, but Steve only seems concerned for you, never judgemental.

He twists to open the cooler set behind him, digging out a can that’d been buried in the ice, condensation dripping from it as he lifts it out and shuts the cooler. Steve scooches himself closer to you on the sand.

“Here,” he uses his free hand to move your hair out of the way, pressing the can to the back of your neck with the other.

Your head tips backwards, the cold can pressed to your heated skin immediately cooling you down, easing your discomfort. Still, you feel warm inside—this time, in a good way—because Steves attentive and so, so sweet.

“Thank you, Stevie. That feels really nice. Maybe you should be a nurse.”

“If nursing equipment was a cooler, maybe,” he chuckles. “That feel better?”

“Mhm. Much.” You’re feeling plenty awake now. Plenty alive. “You know what would feel even better, though?”

“Tell me.”

“A swim.”

Then, you’re pushing yourself up from the ground, sand sticking to your palms, and running towards the water. Tossing the can aside, Steve’s quick to

follow, chasing your laugh, grains kicked up behind his heels.

You’re waist deep in the water by the time he catches up, water shifting around him, warmed by sun rays and refreshing all at once. You twist around to face him, walking yourself backwards into the water slowly, Steve following you the way he seems to do.

He thinks he might go anywhere if you were leading the way.

Eventually, you stop, the water up to your chest now. Steve stands close, within reach, waves licking at his skin. You tilt your head at him, “hi.”

“Hi.” Steve runs his fingertips across the water, but his eyes are on you, how the sun is a halo of light behind you.

“Next on my tour: the ocean,” you hold your arms out, like you’re introducing the water to him. “What do you think?”

“Beats the lake back in Hawkins by a long shot.” Lover’s Lake is fun, but it’s nothing special. Mucky waters and grass rather than sand. But this, here, it feels special. “It’s great.”

“Yay! So, since it’s great, you won’t mind if I do this?”

You’re pushing water at him before he can respond, splashing him and giggling when he faces you, jaw dropped.

“You did not.”

“Figured you wouldn’t mind, since the water’s so nice and everything.” You shrug, “sooo much better than at home-”

You’re cut off by Steve’s retaliation. He’s gentler than you were with it, but you’re sprayed with water all the same and you can’t help but laugh a little.

“Oh, you’re on, Stevie.”

And then, you’re splashing him, and trying to swim away, and he’s chasing you and splashing you back, a mess of laughs and taunts, a play fight that’s free and fun and you don’t remember the last time you’ve felt this way.

It’s not long before Steve catches you, though, long limbs pushing him through the waves until his arms are wrapping themselves around your waist to tug you back to him.

“Gotcha,” he says, his head bent to speak into your ear.

You’re not laughing anymore, your heartbeat picking up in your chest, Steve’s arms seeping warmth into your skin and your stomach. You spin in his grip to face him, but his arms don’t move. “How’re you so fast?”

“I was co-captain of the swim team. We even won trophies and shit.”

“That was an unfair advantage.”

Steve’s hands spread wide, palms on your waist, thumbs dragging over the skin above your bikini bottoms. He sees the way your chest moves with your breaths, quickened and heavy. He’s not playing anymore. Not since he’d gotten the feeling of your skin beneath his hands.

“So, what do I win?”

“A free tour guide?”

“I already have that, honey.”

It’s hit you how close he’s gotten, his nose so close to brushing against yours. It’s like it’d been at the lighthouse, a shift, breaths mingling between your faces, a pull.

“Okay,” you say. You’re not sure if you’d been responding to what he’d said or if you’re answering a question he hasn’t asked out loud.

His eyes search yours, and when you lift your chin for him, he can’t help himself. Steve kisses you for the second time, his fingers digging little indents into your skin, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

You don’t think you could even if you wanted to. Instead, your hands find his shoulders, and Steve groans so softly into your mouth. Just from your hands on him.

It grows quicker, a little more heated, your mouths moving, heads tilting, and somehow you end up with your legs around Steve’s waist, one of his arms holding you to him, the opposite hand splayed between your shoulder blades.

The current seems to move with you both, waves hitting your shoulders, dancing around you. They push your bodies closer.

Steve can’t believe he’s kissing you again, he can’t believe he’s got you wrapped around him and your lips on his and that it’s real. That it feels so much like a wave rolling over and crashing, breaking something down, creating room for something more.

He forgets that you’re in public, that there are people around—though, not too many, thanks to the spot you’d chosen—and that time doesn’t simply stop when he kisses you. Because it sort of feels like it does.

The world goes quiet, and all he feels is you, you, you.

This time, when you pull away, after however long has passed, your hands slide from his shoulders down to his arms. You smile at him, almost bashful in a way, a tease still lingering behind it, “was that an okay prize?”

Steve’s got no idea how he’ll go back to Hawkins after this.

It’s been hours since Steve got back to the condo, and he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about you. You’d stayed on the beach until the sun set, and Steve walked you home, and he held your hand just like he did after the lighthouse.

And again, he finds himself reaching for the phone and dialing Robin’s number.

“Robin speaking,” her voice sounds after a couple rings.

“Hey, it’s Steve.”

“Steven! Hi! How’s it going over in beach land?”

He doesn’t even bother with the use of ‘Steven,’ because he’s just relieved to hear her voice, to know that he’ll always have her, to talk to his best friend.

“Yeah, it’s good.” He leans his shoulder against the wall, his free hand scratching lightly at his arm. “Really good. How are you?”

“You worried about me?”

“Rob.” I always worry, is what he means to say. Of course, Robin knows him well enough to know exactly what he means without having to say it.

“I’m good, Steve. Seriously! Except Keith keeps calling me to pick up shifts at Family Video and I don’t even work there anymore!” She huffs, and Steve laughs. “Don’t giggle, dingus. This is a serious problem.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll get bored eventually,” he says. “Why do you think Keith has had like five jobs in the last three years?”

“Whatever. Tell me about what you’ve been up to. Oh! How’s the girl?”

If she were here right now, Steve thinks Robin would be shaking his shoulders, demanding every detail. He’d held off on talking about you fully last time, but now, he needs advice and though Robin technically doesn’t have any experience to help him, she’s the only one he wants to tell right now.

“She’s incredible, Rob. I really like her, think you would, too.”

“Mhm, what happened to ‘it’s just friendly,’ huh?”

“We kissed. Twice, actually.”

“What! Steven, you can’t just drop that on me. What happened? Oh my gosh, is she your girlfriend?”

“Slow down. I’ve only known her for a couple of weeks, okay?” Robin makes a noise on the other end, and Steve can practically see the face she’s making. Something that says ‘whatever.’ “You know the last time I called you? We actually kissed that day, at the lighthouse.”

She gasps, “and you’re only telling me now?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Ugh, just keep talking.”

He shakes his head. Steve doesn’t really know how to put everything into words. How he feels, the way things happened. He tries anyway.

“Then today. We hung out at the beach, and we went for a swim, and we were playing around and then we were kissing. I don’t know. I like her a lot and I’m not really sure what to do. Or how she feels.”

“Okay. Okay, tell me about her. About the beach, too.”

“She’s really nice. Like, she says ‘hi’ to everyone when we go places, and she’s been showing me around after she works all morning.” Steve doesn’t realize that there’s a smile spreading over his face the more he talks about you. “It’s just so easy with her. It feels like I’ve known her for years with how we talk and everything. I don’t know. It sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t sound stupid, Steve,” Robin’s voice is a little softer, like she wants him to know she means that. “And the beach?”

“It’s so great here. I like the atmosphere, the smell of the ocean in the air all the time and the people and even the condo is nice.”

“Can I say something that might scare you?”

“You’ll say it anyways, won’t you?”

“I will. Here it is: you sound really happy there, Steve. Like, happier than I’ve seen you in a long time.”

His stomach twists, almost guilty that he could be so happy someplace where he’d started fresh. Like he’s betraying Hawkins and all of the good that he’d found there, even when so much was bad.

“I really miss you, Rob. I miss everyone.”

“I miss you, too, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be happier where you are.”

Her words sort of punch him in the chest, air sucked from his lungs, his heart feeling heavy in his chest. Because when he thinks about it, like really thinks about it, Steve is happy here. Happy is a big thing.

“When did you become so wise, Buckley?”

“I’ve always been wise, Harrington.”

His head falls against the wall with a small thump, his thoughts weighing him down a little. Steve really likes it here, and he really likes you, and he misses his best friend. He’s not sure where to go from here.

“What am I gonna do?” Steve’s quiet, but Robin hears him.

“You’re gonna do what’ll make you happy, Steve. For once in your life, be selfish, do something for yourself, not anyone else.” Robin knows Steve better than anybody knows him, and she knows why this is hard for him. “You know I’ll always be here. It doesn’t matter where you are. Besides, True Beach isn’t so far. I’ll visit and annoy the shit out of you. Plus, I need to meet this girl. She’s clearly a good one, if she’s got you like this.”

Because she knows him the best, Robin already knows that what he should do is stay. Stay where he sounds happier than ever, unrestrained in a way he never could be in Hawkins. Stay with you, who’s brought it out of him.

“Love you, Rob.”

“I know. Love you, too, dingus.”

Steve’s eyes are stinging, though he’s not really sure why. Maybe he’s overwhelmed with how quickly things can change, sad that this feels a little bit like a goodbye even though he knows it isn’t, maybe even relieved that Robin’s supportive of him no matter what. Maybe it’s everything all at once.

“What about the presents I got you?” He asks.

“Well, Steven, there’s this thing called postal service, where you can put things in the mail.”

Steve laughs welty, eyes misty, grateful for how easily Robin manages to brighten the mood. For the rest of the conversation, he feels a little lighter.

Now he’s just got to tell you how he feels.

It’s crazy how people can take root into your life, plant themselves there and grow like ivy spreading wide over a house until there’s more green than brick.

Steve Harrington proved that when he’d shown up in True Beach mere weeks ago and dug a spot for himself in your life, in your heart. He came barreling in, a stream of sunlight sneaking through a gap in curtains, and you’ve chased the warmth, basked in it as much as you could.

In so little time, Steve’s become one of your absolute favorite people in the world. A stranger to a friend to something toeing the line of so much more. You’ve kissed twice, and it’s been enough to tell you that your feelings are undeniable. They’ve taken root just as he has, buried deep.

With those feelings, though, has come the painful realization that he’s leaving soon.

Last night, after your kiss, you hadn’t been thinking about what would happen next or what it could mean. No, you were blinded by the day of sunlight that is Steve. You’d forgotten that sooner or later, the sun has to set.

Now, it’s your day off and instead of sleeping in, you’ve found yourself overthinking at the lighthouse.

You’re worried about what will happen when Steve goes home, whether you’ll keep in touch, whether he’ll forget about you, if he’ll ever come back. On top of that, you’re worried about your feelings, how strong they’ve grown in a short time, if he, by any chance, feels the same.

Sat on the balcony, chin resting on your bent knees, staring out at the morning sky, all you do is think.

Steve’s conversation with Robin last night was the push that he needed, the reassurance that he can do this and have everything be okay, that he’s allowed to make this decision for himself. That doesn’t make it any less scary, though.

He decides that he has to tell you as soon as he can, while he’s got the momentum to do it.

It’s still early when he heads to the cafe in hopes of finding you, and while the place is open, there’s nobody inside when he walks in. Well, nobody except Macy.

“Hi there, Steve,” she says, a gentle smile on her face.

“Hi, Macy,” Steve then says your name, and Macy’s smile shifts to knowing and fond. “Is she here?”

“She’s not in today, dear. But I have a good idea of where you’ll find her if she isn’t home.”

“I do, too.” The lighthouse. “Thanks, Macy.”

“And Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m happy for you two.”

Macy speaks like she already knows how this will turn out. For the sake of optimism, Steve chooses to nod in thanks and head out. Macy seems like someone who’s right more often than wrong, and he hopes that it works for him this time.

He heads to the lighthouse right away, because he remembers what you’d said about being up there, how it helped you put things into perspective. Plus, he’s got a feeling. That pull to you guiding him.

While Steve feels good about his decision, hopeful, even, he’s still afraid. You might think this is all too soon, too fast. Worse, you might not even feel the same at all. But then, what if the worst doesn’t happen? What if you want him, too?

Those what ifs are enough to take the chance, he thinks.

Steve finds you at the top of the lighthouse, chin propped on your knees, arms wrapped around your bent legs. “Hey, honey. Want some company?”

You lift your head at the sound of his voice, turning to find him standing in the doorway to the balcony with his hands tucked into his pockets, his hair messy from the wind, eyes still a little puffy from sleep. He really is pretty, and you wouldn’t dream of denying his company. Not even when he’s part of your worries.

“Hi, Steve. Yeah, sure.”

He takes the few steps over to you, crouching to sit next to you, his shoulder touching yours.

“I went to the cafe to find you,” he says.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Then, you weren’t there, so I figured this would be a good place to look.” He nudges you lightly, “and I found you.”

“You did.”

“I wanted to tell you something, if that’s okay?”

If that’s okay, like you’d ever deny him.

“‘Course it is.”

“Okay,” he takes a big breath, because Steve knows there’s no going back after this. He’ll say it and he won’t take it back. “I really fucking like you. I thought we could be friends after we kissed the first time, like a blip, you know? And if you just wanna be friends, that’s okay. I want you in my life, however that looks. But I’d like you to be more than that ‘cause I have pretty big feelings for you.”

Your chest rises and falls quicker, his words making your heart pump faster, because he wants what you want and he’s telling that to you and it feels so good. Too good.

“Really?”

You turn your head towards him, finding him already facing you, your eyes locking like magnets. He’s smiling so softly at you, nerves and sincerity, patience and fondness. You want to kiss him all over again.

“Cross my heart, honey.”

“I really fucking like you, too, Stevie.”

And just like that Steve knows this was the right call, that you’re the right call, because there’s a sweet, closed-mouthed smile on your face that he put there and it’s all he could ever ask for.

He dips forward to kiss you, once, twice, three times. Small pecks before pulling back.

“What’s gonna happen when you leave?” You ask, worrying out loud, eyes searching his.

“About that,” Steve reaches for your hand, weaving your fingers together and giving it a squeeze. “I love it here. A lot. I feel like I could really belong here, and I have this pretty tour guide to thank for that… Um, I was thinking I’d extend my stay.”

You squeeze his hand back, fluttering in your stomach at the relief of him wanting to stay, at the thought that you’d had a part in that.

You think he could really belong here, too. He’s meant for summer and sand and the sun. Meant for lighthouse sunsets and every season by the ocean. He’s summer in a boy.

“Yeah? For how long?”

“However long you’ll have me.”

Steve wonders if now’s a good time to tell you that he’s fallen in love with more than just True Beach.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

thank u so so much for reading!!! if u enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment/reblog and letting me know what you thought! it helps and means so much <3

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floralblur · 1 month ago

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𝔐𝔬𝔱𝔥 𝔱𝔬 𝔞 𝔉𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢 𓍼ོ

jackie!shauna : SEASON 3 x 08 SPOILERS 𓆦

sfw, teeny bit of gore ♡ wc 1.1k

࿐ྀུ 𖠑

📼 now playing : strangers (ethel cain)

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Shauna mindlessly passes the slices of meat along through the scanner at the store. What store? She doesn’t remember. How long has she been here? Only God knows. All she knows is that this monotonous beep has been dulling out her thoughts for however long she’s been standing here.

“You already scanned that one.” Shauna doesn’t make it her priority to locate the source of this voice. Why does it matter anyway when she has a job to do?

“It’s easier this way,” she retorts to the unknown voice, expecting it to be silenced once and for all.

“Tricks of the trade… huh, Shipman?” That judgy, familiar voice chimes in, snapping her back to her dazed reality. The smirk is obvious, each syllable of her name popping out rhythmically from her lips, held a while to make it last longer. Shauna’s head snaps into focus on the figure in front of her, and of course it’s her. These days, it’s always her.

Shauna’s eyes pan up from her hips, one leg held out to the side, a pastel green dress with a lace trim hugging her figure, paired with a baby pink jumper, scattered with little white bows. All this accompanied by straight brown hair, instead of her usual curly blonde. Her signature heart pendant necklace adorns her neck also. And her face, well what could Shauna say about her face? The entire situation is unreal and yet, Jackie Taylor still looks as fresh as a daisy, her present hazel eyes tracking her every move under her scrutiny, arms crossed in judgement. “Even now when she’s judging me, she’s still beautiful,” Shauna can’t help herself but wonder.

“What are you doing here?” Deep down, Shauna knows the answer. Ever since that first winter, the guilt of the events leading to Jackie’s death have stalked her path and leeched off her sanity like a parasite. Shauna was always Jackie’s right-hand woman, always felt forced to follow her every move, maybe part of her wanted to be her. Or maybe she wanted her. The lines are blurry, as is the one between dreams and reality. In the wilderness, Shauna forged a place for herself, leaving Jackie in the ice, and harshly so. Ever since then, Shauna’s heart has grown colder, unable to be thawed even in the summer’s heat, unable to trust or extend much empathy to anyone. Despite Shauna wanting to let go, she needs Jackie. As told by her before, “I’m the most interesting thing about you.” The guilt and shame clings to her, while she clings onto the memory of Jackie.

“What are YOU doing here?” she cocks her head to the side, with a growing smile that anyone could find endearing. Anyone but Shauna. Jackie’s eyes scan down Shauna, dissecting her in her worker’s clothes, and before she says anything the words are obvious, sighing and disappointed.

“Wow… you really did not pan out huh. So much potential… so little to show for it.” Jackie breaths in, sucking her lips to her teeth and mockingly tutting at her. “Of course you can sit on your high horse and look down at me,” is on the tip of Shauna’s tongue, but she holds back.

Beginning to take in her surroundings, Shauna notes how bleak it is, working at an empty store, with little to no fulfilment, nothing but the remnants of her dead best friend to levy her situation. But maybe after all of this, the loss and pain, the anger and resentment, maybe the normal, boring life is what Shauna wants. Maybe the monotony will aid in assimilating back into society, to cover the lifelong scars of losing her baby in the wilderness, with no one else to hear his cries. She clenches her fists together, nails digging into her palms, as the meat starts to push itself and collide in front of the scanner. Except it wasn’t just slices of meat, and even the smell fills the air. “Look familiar?”

All the packets have transformed into disfigured human hands, blood curdling at the incisions, twenty packets or so piling onto each other from seemingly nowhere. This is the price to pay for her sins. Endless torment from her own mind. What a cruel world.

The shock from the human flesh is momentary as Jackie claps under her nose to get her attention, “HEY SHIPMAN!! Come on. Not gonna make employee of the month like this!” Even in her own afterlife, she couldn't resist getting on her nerves. Maybe in any normal circumstance, Shauna would laugh it off, roll her eyes maybe. But not today.

“Stop calling me Shipman, I FUCKING hate it.” Shauna’s sudden yell causes Jackie to slow down a few paces, eyebrows frowned and eyes wide as if she received a sharp hit to the face.

“Since… when?” Jackie says cautiously, her voice lower now, eyes wide as she swallows hard and looks away apologetically.

“Since always.” So affirmative, so unwavering, as Shauna maintains eye contact once Jackie looks up.

“Why didn’t you say something..” Jackie wonders, as if she can rectify her errors from beyond the cold, but Shauna shrugs off the question, not giving her the answer to why she never stopped her. She’s more concerned with something else. “Is this really what my life is gonna look like?” What if Jackie’s right and her life amounts to nothing of importance once she’s out of the hellhole? No reign of power or terror to keep people in line, no made up system by a group of teenage girls, just the big bad world to handle at full force.

“How am I supposed to know? I’m dead. You killed me.” Crossing her arms again like a petulant child throwing a tantrum. It’s quite a jarring contrast considering the words she’s saying. And to this, Shauna has no dispute. Now she’s the one looking away, with truly nothing to say anymore. That is until the light above her starts to make “zip zap” noises, and once the two girls turn their heads upwards, a few moths repeatedly fly towards the light, self-mutilating but succumbing to their instinct.

“They’re drawn to the light… should’ve known better don't you think?” Suddenly, the moths multiply, the noises of their bodies colliding with the electric light and clouding the cavity reminiscent of screams from the wilderness, crescendoing until the plastic shatters. The visceral cries jolt Shauna awake from her slumber, back into her car, into reality, sweating and breathing heavily. It takes her a minute to recover, until she can think clearly, without Jackie’s voice in her ear. Shauna and Jackie, such an inseparable pair. Like a moth to a flame.

࿐ྀུ 𖠑

first yellowjackets fic yippee!! considering this is a new account, i’m writing quite fast lol. after watching last week’s ep i really wanted to put this scene into words, so here we are! after this week’s episode however . . . i’ll need to hibernate for a few months!

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oldestfriend-invisibly · 3 months ago

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Little Agatha "Can you help me?"

Early on (in the first decade-ish after meeting Rio) Agatha has only ever regressed involuntarily, but part of her wants to be able to enjoy feeling small the way Rio does.

This idea came to me last night and it was all I could think about so I needed to write it. It is extremely extremely self-indulgent, came out twice as long as intended, and is largely unedited... enjoy!!

2.2K words.

Warnings- Agatha is very uncomfortable with her regression at first and so thinks about it very negatively. There are also a couple of brief references to Agatha's childhood but nothing in detail.

The evening summer sunlight painted streaks across the floor of the cabin. Agatha was drying the dishes from that night’s dinner whilst keeping an eye on Rio. The green witch was currently playing in the garden in front of the cabin, and tonight she was acting younger in the way she sometimes did.

In the way both of them did- if Agatha was being honest.

In the few years the two had been living together in the cabin, they had settled into a comfortingly familiar dynamic. Whilst some of the time they were both as they were the day they met- as lovers, at other times their relationship was more similar to what Agatha had observed between the kind women in Salem and their daughters.

Sometimes, her fascinating enigma of a wife liked to let herself feel younger, and Agatha felt herself naturally falling into the role of Rio’s caregiver. She wasn’t even sure if Rio had ever actually been a child, but she said it made her feel secure, and loved, it calmed her when she was overwhelmed, and soothed her during the cold winter mornings when the two would curl up by the fire for warmth.

This was familiar to Agatha, and caring for her little girl made her feel important in a way her mother had once convinced her she would never be.

Not all of Rio’s regression was smooth-sailing and happy, however. Agatha reminisced, wincing at the memories of the cosmic witch crumbling under the weight of her duties, arriving home already in her younger headspace and weeping openly for her Mama. She watched her girl now, Rio’s hands windmilling as the fireflies- beginning to emerge in the fading light of dusk- flickered around her, Agatha’s smile softened.

Though her girl may not always be as happy as she was right now, Agatha, as Rio’s Mama, would always be there to comfort her and remind her how loved she was. Because that’s what Mamas are there for. And because Agatha knows how it feels- how it feels to be small and so so scared.

It was an unspoken rule that they never discuss it after the fact, but occasionally, after a particularly bad nightmare, or an unexpected reminder of the abuse Evanora inflicted on her, Agatha felt her grip on her adult headspace slipping away. And in these instances, all Agatha could seem to comprehend is how badly she wanted her Mami. She’ll babble ‘Mami’ over and over through her tears when all other words fail her, she’ll reach for her with trembling hands, only begin to calm down when she felt calloused fingers card through her hair, and heard soft Spanish reassurances break through the fuzziness in her head.

Agatha absolutely hated that this happened to her. She hated not being in control, how quickly she went from being the powerful and feared witch-killer to being three years old and terrified again. For Agatha, regressing to a younger headspace was humiliating, and she’d never considered trying to do so voluntarily.

Despite her own hesitance, she could never judge Rio for seeking such comfort. Rio was only just experiencing humanity for the first time, and Agatha was more than happy to help her explore anything and everything being a human had to offer.

Gazing back outside at her girl, however, Agatha felt a pang of something unfamiliar. Rio really did seem so happy and unrestrained when she let herself be little like this. She wondered if she could feel like that. Unexpectedly, she found herself yearning to be held, to be read to and gently rocked, and tucked into bed all cozy. If only she were able to choose to hand control over to her Mami.

Shocked with how her thoughts had strayed, Agatha shook her head to clear her mind. Her conflicting thoughts confused her and she decided to quickly stop this train of thought.

After all, it had gotten dark now, and she had a very excitable toddler to try and coax into bed.

…

Agatha didn’t think about the possibility of choosing to be small again until nearly a week later. She and Rio lay side by side in a grassy forest clearing, mostly in silence they had just been enjoying each other’s company. Rio’s hand in hers drew tentative swirls over Agatha’s palm, and the simple comfort of the action brought Agatha right back to her train of thought from the other night.

She was nervous to bring this up with Rio. Their dynamic had already been established, how would Agatha be a good Mama for Rio if she herself needed such care? Would Rio even want to provide it for her?

But Agatha thought back, through hazy memories, to the last time she slipped, after a horrible nightmare. Thought about the way her Mami had pressed soft kisses into her hairline and gently wiped the sticky tears from her cheeks. How she changed Agatha out of her sweaty nightdress and pried Agatha’s thumb from her mouth and replaced it with something smooth and chewy. Agatha sucked in a sharp breath, once again overwhelmed by the thought of wanting her Mami whilst hating her regression.

“What is bothering you, Querida?” Rio turned on her side to face Agatha, and reached to brush away the hair that had fallen over Agatha’s face.

Agatha’s voice came out quiet, tension radiating from her body. “How does it feel when you’re young, Rio? When you choose to be so.”

The question wasn’t new to Rio, Agatha had asked it many times before whenever she wanted to better understand her and how to care for her. Though now, the purple witch's, nervous tone made her wonder if the question was now coming from somewhere more personal.

Rio knew all too well the struggle her lover had talking about the times when she too found herself small, and she understood why. Agatha took great pride in her strength and independence as she’d had to tirelessly forge it for herself after leaving Salem. However, Rio had always worried about how unhealthy it probably was for Agatha to avoid all conversation on the matter.

Her response was measured, she closely observed Agatha, watching for any adverse reactions. She didn’t want Agatha to shut down, sensing the conversation was leading somewhere important.

“Once I’ve decided I want to be small, or realised I need to be, I don’t usually have any trouble allowing myself to fall into it.” Agatha said nothing in response, clearly deep in thought. Rio resumed tracing swirls over Agatha’s hand and continued.

“My head starts to feel a little fuzzy. Not unpleasantly so, not like the nasty buzzing when my senses become overwhelmed, more like the mist settling over the grass on a winter’s morning, or the sound of the running brook washing over pebbles. My thoughts all become simpler, like nothing else in the universe matters outside of you and I. It just feels peaceful, Agatha, really really peaceful.”

Swirls changed to tracing the lines of Agatha’s palm as Rio waited for a response. She could practically hear the moving parts of Agatha’s brain, and refrained from pressing a kiss to her temple so as not to startle her.

“But,” Agatha paused, clearly struggling, “how do you- how did you know you wanted to do it?”

“Agatha?” Rio paused until the other woman turned her head and met her gaze. “Do you want to be small? To be able to choose to be?”

Agatha tensed up again, her internal defenses clearly slammed back up. “No, that’s ridiculous! I’m not- I don’t- that’s not-” her words trailed off and she turned back away from Rio, staring up at the canopy of leaves above, she willed her anxious tears to disappear. Rio remained silent, never ceasing the movement of her fingers across Agatha’s palm. Agatha’s denial of her feelings was one of her favoured defense mechanisms, so Rio wanted to give her time to make sense of what she was feeling.

Eventually, the Purple Witch swallowed heavily, nodded almost imperceptibly, and whispered, “Yes.” then after a moment, “Can you help me?”

…

It was the following afternoon. After arriving home yesterday, they had eaten and gone straight to bed. Both women were exhausted, and decided they wanted to be rested before Rio helped Agatha regress.

They sat together on the living room floor, cross-legged and facing each other. Rio could tell Agatha was still wary and on-edge about it. But after Rio’s repeated assurance that they would go at whatever pace Agatha was comfortable with, and that she was more than happy to be Agatha’s Mami more often, the Purple Witch no longer viewed regression solely as something to be feared.

The reminder that Rio loved every part of her made the thought of giving up control much less scary, after all, she trusted Rio completely.

Rio had to admit that she wasn’t entirely sure how to go about this, but she’d secretly longed to be able to care for Agatha like this for a while now. She had started to run her fingers through Agatha’s long hair, both grounding herself and hopefully providing comfort for the other. This appeared successful as Agatha leaned into Rio’s touch, swivelling round to be able to rest against Rio’s side.

“Is this ok, Love?” Rio asked, voice pitched slightly higher than usual. Agatha nodded.

“It is. Could you carry on?”

“Of course, Cariño.” Over the next few minutes, Agatha relaxed further, melting against Rio until she was virtually sprawled across her. Slowly, as not to startle her out of this sense of calmness, Rio pulled Agatha into a more comfortable position in her lap. In doing so, Agatha’s head, now supported by Rio’s hand, came to rest against the Green Witch’s chest, and she let out a contented little sigh.

“I’ve got you right here, Bunny, you’re doing just wonderfully.”

“I’m doing good?” Agatha asked, staring up, searching Rio’s eyes for any hint of a lie- finding none.

“So good, Agatha, my Little Love. You’re being so brave.”

Agatha broke the eye contact by returning to her prior position- laying back against Rio’s chest. After another minute of Rio silently stroking her hair, she spoke again.

“Think I can feel the fuzzy. Is like the waves from the beach.”

Rio considered it- the small beach on the near-side of the large lake they often visited. How the water lapped over the sand in a constant soothing rhythm. How peaceful it was there. How it felt to stand and gaze across the vast expanse of water and feel so small in comparison.

“That is right, Bunny, just like the beach. We could go back there soon, if you would like to. Would you like Mami to tell you all about it?”

Agatha’s breath got caught in her throat for a moment, and she nodded. “Please?” she added in a tiny voice that made Rio’s heart melt.

“You and Mami will take a quiet walk together through the woods. I will hold onto your hand to make sure you don’t get lost, and I might even carry you for a while if your little legs get tired. Once we arrive, we will eat our lunches. We will have the cheese from the goats, and slices of apple with a little honey, and some of the vegetables and berries from Mami’s garden. After that, you can play all afternoon. You could try and find all the prettiest flowers for Mami to braid into your hair, or you could visit your bunny friends, maybe you could even feed some of our leftover lunch bread to the duckies! Or if my baby gets really tired, maybe I could just hold her, and rock her gently like the leaves floating on the surface of the lake. We would sit so quietly and let the sound of the waves wash away all of our other thoughts, and your Mami would kiss your little head and remind you how much she loves you. Does that sound nice, Cariño?”

Given the lack of audible response, Rio thought for a moment that her baby might have fallen asleep, or that she’d upset the girl, or even that she’d scared Agatha right out of the headspace she’d been teetering on the edge of. The response came eventually though and immediately dispelled her worry.

“Is nice, Mami. Go soon?”

Rio’s smile grew impossibly wider, and she shifted her baby in her arms so she could see her face. Agatha’s smile, by comparison, was shyer, yet was full of joy at the thought of getting to spend such a perfect day with her Mami.

“Yes, Little Bunny, we can definitely go soon.”

“Thank you, Mami! Thank you, thank you!” Agatha promptly flung her arms around Rio, burying her face into her neck.

Rio knew that Agatha’s voluntary regression going forward likely wouldn’t always be this easy. If little Agatha was anywhere near as stubborn as her lover, Rio was in for a tough journey. But for now, all Rio could do was bask in the pure joy of finally holding her baby in her arms.

“You’re so welcome, Baby Bunny, Mami loves you so so much.”

“Love you too, Mami. So so much.”

#This was meant to be 1k at most and it ended up 2k with a planned sequel #-I can't exactly lay out the plot of the Lake fic and then not write it #I have so so many HCs about both Little Agatha and Little Rio #I need to write more for them #Agatha All Along agere #little! Agatha Harkness #cg! Rio Vidal #fandom agere #mine

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agentrouka-blog · 6 months ago

Note

I was wondering if Bran ever think of Sansa? And how much? Because I mostly see people talking about Arya when they discuss Sansa and her siblings.

Actually, he's the sibling with the most compassionate and softest thoughts about her, safe Jon. :)

He doesn't think about her a ton, because he's an unruly little boy whose society encourages this kind of thinking:

Bran had been left behind with Jon and the girls and Rickon. But Rickon was only a baby and the girls were only girls and Jon and his wolf were nowhere to be found. (AGOT, Bran II)

But when he does, he demonstrates an ability to understand her and feel compassion far beyond what Robb is capable of:

When the raven came, bearing a letter marked with Father's own seal and written in Sansa's hand, the cruel truth seemed no less incredible. Bran would never forget the look on Robb's face as he stared at their sister's words. "She says Father conspired at treason with the king's brothers," he read. "King Robert is dead, and Mother and I are summoned to the Red Keep to swear fealty to Joffrey. She says we must be loyal, and when she marries Joffrey she will plead with him to spare our lord father's life." His fingers closed into a fist, crushing Sansa's letter between them. "And she says nothing of Arya, nothing, not so much as a word. Damn her! What's wrong with the girl?" Bran felt all cold inside. "She lost her wolf," he said, weakly, remembering the day when four of his father's guardsmen had returned from the south with Lady's bones. Summer and Grey Wind and Shaggydog had begun to howl before they crossed the drawbridge, in voices drawn and desolate. Beneath the shadow of the First Keep was an ancient lichyard, its headstones spotted with pale lichen, where the old Kings of Winter had laid their faithful servants. It was there they buried Lady, while her brothers stalked between the graves like restless shadows. She had gone south, and only her bones had returned. (AGOT, Bran IV)

He wants to save her and Arya.

"Bran, child, why do you torment yourself so? One day you may do some of these things, but now you are only a boy of eight." "I'd sooner be a wolf. Then I could live in the wood and sleep when I wanted, and I could find Arya and Sansa. I'd smell where they were and go save them, and when Robb went to battle I'd fight beside him like Grey Wind. I'd tear out the Kingslayer's throat with my teeth, rip, and then the war would be over and everyone would come back to Winterfell. If I was a wolf . . ." He howled. "Ooo-ooo-oooooooooooo." (ACOK, Bran I)

Inside Summer he thinks of Sansa and Lady:

These woods belonged to them, the snowy slopes and stony hills, the great green pines and the golden leaf oaks, the rushing streams and blue lakes fringed with fingers of white frost. But his sister had left the wilds, to walk in the halls of man-rock where other hunters ruled, and once within those halls it was hard to find the path back out. The wolf prince remembered. (ASOS, Bran I)

He has memories of being comforted by her that come back to him in a moment of fear.

The footfalls sounded heavy to Bran, slow, ponderous, scraping against the stone. It must be huge. Mad Axe had been a big man in Old Nan's story, and the thing that came in the night had been monstrous. Back in Winterfell, Sansa had told him that the demons of the dark couldn't touch him if he hid beneath his blanket. He almost did that now, before he remembered that he was a prince, and almost a man grown. (ASOS, Bran IV)

He firms counts her as a magical member of House Stark.

Old Nan had told him the same story once, Bran remembered, but when he asked Robb if it was true, his brother laughed and asked him if he believed in grumkins too. He wished Robb were with them now. I'd tell him I could fly, but he wouldn't believe, so I'd have to show him. I bet that he could learn to fly too, him and Arya and Sansa, even baby Rickon and Jon Snow. We could all be ravens and live in Maester Luwin's rookery. (ADWD, Bran III)

Bran is clearly trying to define himself as a Man Grown in opposition to "the girls" and the kinds of feminine-coded subjects Sans cares for, in the same wa Arya rejects them as "stupid" because she stuggles with the confines of the role she was supposed to occupy. Neither of them is right to do so, but it helps to understand why they do it.

Bran did not understand, so he asked the Reeds. "Do you like to read books, Bran?" Jojen asked him. "Some books. I like the fighting stories. My sister Sansa likes the kissing stories, but those are stupid." (ADWD, Bran III)

The relationship of "the girls" (as Bran keeps referring to them) is obviously more prominent because they shared more of their time and space every day (and are meant to illusttrate through their conflict how no woman wins in patriarchy, they are all equally oppressed) while the education of the boys required more time outside and away. But there is a clear indication that Bran cares for Sansa and understands her and she was a gentle older sister to him.

#sansa stark #bran stark #starklings #sibling relationship

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khuzena · 2 years ago

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Seasons.

Itoshi Rin, Michael Kaiser x g/n!reader

Summary: Like how flowers bloom in spring, how flowers bask in the warmth of summer's embrace, their petals fall in autumn and their essence crumbles in winter. Their heart does too, though it still beats for you <3

Warning: Angst, breakup, cheating, drifting apart, hurt just hurt. No fluff, we don't do that weak sh here (kinda but nothing lasts forever).

A/n: life update. Been gone for MONTHS, sorry for no update :(. i fell in love, fell out of love but took me months to get over and now i came back ^^ tho I'll post a full update if any of you still remember me and want to know everrrrything that went on these months i was inactive:>

Listening to: MR. LOVERMAN

Michael Kaiser

I've shattered now, I'm spilling out

Upon this linoleum ground.

The memory still ingrained in the crevices of his heart like a fresh wound.

He remembers it like it was just yesterday.

It was spring when he met you.

His headphones blaring music so loud the world went silent around him as he walked without a care in the world. There you were, some nobody transferee with a dream, three books hugged to your chest as you bumped into him.

"A-ah! Sorry!" The books fell to the ground, kneeling as you tried to grab all your pens that fell too.

Kaiser sips his tea in his balcony, The cacophonic mantra of sorrys of that sunny afternoon still ringing in his ears.

When he also knelt down to your level to help you carry them, he shrugged it off and apologised back.

Your gazes locked, it was new, so exciting. Yet It felt so dangerous.

Then, he swept you off your feet on the summer beach.

There were three things that caught his eyes that day: the endless sea, the ice cream that melted on the sand and you.

"Pfft you— you wasted your ice cream!" That sweet laugh of you still haunting him in his dreams everyday. It was June when he told you -he was lonely- it would be fun if you tagged along in his trip to the seaside.

The soft sand touching your skin and his, as he inched closer to your face. His heart raced, faster than he's ever felt before.

Your lips touching, he expected it would feel like fireworks exploding in new years but no— it felt like home. He was no longer just a man, he was a lover (too).

The sun set and till autumn, every kiss, every hug was straight out of the movie.

It was just the two of you; his eyes never leaving yours, a kiss on his neck or two, maybe even the trickling sweat from his forehead.

Either way, it felt just right.

Autumn, he was tired.

Though he could not leave you, not when he was your loverman.

Not like this.

He may have loved you, but he loved feeling loved more.

A little too much— that he found himself in the arms of another woman.

"It isn't what it seems like, mein liebe please." His fingers gripping your wrist hard, begging you to stay.

How could you? Why would you?

He smelled too much like that other woman.

From a noble, rich, revered professional athlete now turned into an idiotic, dishevelled, weak man. Begging for forgiveness, he got on his knees and sang your name like a prayer but it was no use.

You were no god, it was not your obligation to forgive nor give salvation to those who've sinned.

You couldn't look him in the eye. All your love for him fell in a blink of an eye. Not all of it though.

"I'm sorry, I know you won't forgive me. But please, don't leave me tonight."

It was true when all your love wasn't gone for him, maybe you were selfish too.

That night, you indulged in this sin too. You were a sinner too, maybe even more than him.

You've sinned against yourself, your own morals for your pleasure.

It was Winter when you left.

The morning after that loveless night, he shed his tears in his dreams— he didn't want you to see.

Though you've seen through him.

It was natural to feel hatred, contempt and confusion because of his act of betrayal.

But you didn't.

You cupped his face gently, tracing your thumb over his tear-stained pretty face. He cried again; not in his dreams but in your embrace.

His heart broke more at the sight of you looking at him with such pity.

You've packed your things that day. As you opened the door you were greeted with first, the taxi cab then the gust of strong snow carried off by the wind.

"I guess this is it."

"Yeah"

A man with an ego of god, staring at you with eyes of a believer, still hoping, praying you realise that you can't live without him and run to his arms and stay.

But you didn't.

And you looked back to him one more time, the cold has already frozen your tears.

Then, silence.

'Shit, shit, shit' the thought raced in his head as kept pacing around in the living room.

Though he knows it's for the best. He's a selfish, self-centred, arrogant man.

Though if there's one thing: he loves being loved more than he loves you.

But when you left, he realised he loved you more that he let you go.

He was no longer a loverman, just a man.

Itoshi Rin

The ways in which you say my name, Have me wishin' I were gone

They ways that you say my name, have me runnin' on and on

Not too much, not too little.

How'd he describe his past relationship with you.

It was just right.

Where did it go wrong?

Was it when he stopped saying your name sweetly?

Or was it when you stopped cheering for him in his game?

It wasn't that, he still doesn't know why you both fell apart.

Though as cold as he is, he's as gentle as a flower on the inside.

When you started your midterms, he had a bouquet; the largest in the store possible.

He plopped it on your desk as he saw you tirelessly study your notes. Sighing, he made you some tea to calm your nerves.

"Rinnie, you didn't have to do this," Groggily said as you examined the bouquet to your left, "You didn't have to get me this…"

"But you deserve it."

A flush creeped in your cheeks when he blurted it out with no hesitation, did this loverboy love you to the moon and back this much? Oh how'd you tease him for this a billion times.

The bouquet was still as fresh as when you got them— it was already summer but he took good care of it.

His eyes watching your every move; the clicking sound of your pen, your frown as you tried to absorb the lesson and your oh so pretty eyes.

He could never get enough of this, he's wanted to see this sight every day, every night for the rest of his life.

Maybe marriage would do? But like all stories, not all are fairy tales.

Everyday until autumn he'd take you to a cafe you both liked. It was quiet and it smelled like coffee— the perfect combination.

Like all flowers do, the petals started to fall from the vase.

At this point of the relationship he was too busy to care about getting you flowers, or tending to your needs as he had his to attend to.

But, the relationship was happy… right?

He was oblivious, too naive to notice what was going on.

Though you were there, you wanted to fix things.

You'd bring him tiny trinkets from your work trips, a yummy cake from a nearby bakery or maybe some pair of cleats he was eyeing (though most of the time he already had bought it right after you gifted him one.)

The relationship was getting boring.

It was going nowhere.

Though none of you wanted to go anywhere.

Even though he'd hold you in a tight embrace, it felt cold. Was it the weather? Or was it just him?

The 'I love you's that'd slip from his lips often, stopped. There were no more random compliments or cute nicknames.

An occasional gift or two, though he was an idiot, he gives and gives and doesn't know how to take.

When winter came he was no longer begging you to warm up with him near the chimney or near the Christmas tree.

It was winter, his heart turned cold.

"Lets break up"

Adamancy dripped from his tone, he was serious about it.

"Why?"

Why?

"Because… I don't see this relationship going anywhere."

Your heart shattering into a million pieces, you wanted to punch his stupid face. How could he say that nonchalantly?

Though, it was true.

It wasn't going anywhere.

He knew it was for the better; he loved you too much to trap you in such a boring, loveless relationship.

Maybe one day, it will be spring all over again.

But your hand is holding another man's (or woman's).

He passed by another flower shop, he thinks he should buy you another bouquet again.

Notes: I wrote this at 12 am (it's 2 am now). I apologise for any grammatical mistakes :(( super tired and i have an unfinished sci assignment. I dont wanana live anymoreee. Idk if any of u still remember me tho LOLOLOL.

If u do i'm sorry if i dropped some underwhelming work as a return to the bllk tumblr fandom ehe (no kinktober just heart wrenching angstober ^^)

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡

#blue lock x reader #blue lock ansgt #blue lock fluff #blue lock fanfic #bllk angst #bllk x reader #kaiser x reader #bllk kaiser #itoshi rin x reader #itoshi rin angst #itoshi sae x reader #blue lock angst

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sequinsmile-x · 9 months ago

Note

Well, I adore Sergio, and it got me thinking about when Emily's moving in with the Hotchner's boys, but Aaron is allergic to cats, but he pretends he isn't, cause he doesn't want to upset Emily, however she thinks he doesn't like Sergio, bc he's always avoiding him 😭😂 just a silly little thing :P

hiiiii I love this!!

I hope you enjoy this fic <3 it's fluffy (there's a pun in there somewhere) and a little silly!

-x-

Dander

AKA the one in which Aaron tries, and fails, to keep his allergy to cats away from Emily.

Words: 2.4k

Warnings: None (one warning in notes at the end to avoid spoilers)

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

He was allergic to cats.

It was something he’d known since he was a teenager. Haley’s family pet had been a cat, a giant ginger thing called Pumpkin that seemed to know he was allergic. He’d always curl up in Aaron’s lap, undeterred by his sneezing or how Haley and Jess would try and lure him away with treats or his favourite toy.

It was an allergy that Aaron was able to largely avoid. He and Haley had never had pets and he never spent any time around them, so he mostly forgot about it. The memory of it, and the allergy itself, only ever triggered if he walked into the home of a victim to speak to their family and felt his sinuses start to tingle, a familiar itch in the back of his throat when he would see a cat sitting proudly on the couch.

He was able to avoid it until he started dating Emily.

He knew that she and Sergio came as a package deal and that the cat had been the ‘man in her life’ longer than he had. He never wanted to say anything, never wanted to upset her, so he kept the allergy to himself. He secretly takes antihistamines he’s buying by the caseload over the counter and hopes for the best. At first, it’s not that bad. They split their time between her place, his, and shared hotel rooms across the country when they were on cases. He does his best to avoid Sergio when they are at her place, but again it’s like the cat knows he’s allergic. He seeks him out, curls up on his chest some nights and makes it feel tight. He feels nothing short of disarmed when Emily would reach over and scratch behind the cat's ears, a sleepy smile on her face as she declared that Sergio loved snuggling with him just as much as she did.

Things come to a head when they move in together.

Their brand new home is almost immediately covered in a fine layer of cat fur because the decision to move in on the cusp of spring and summer meant Sergio was shedding his winter coat. The tightness in his chest feels almost ever present but he’s in too deep to say anything now, his opportunity to admit to his now fiancée that he was allergic to her beloved pet had been and gone somewhere in the early days of their relationship.

Emily had, of course, noticed something was wrong. He’d wave her off every time she asked, insisting he was fine - that he had allergies to something else - half convinced that he wouldn’t win if it came down to him vs Sergio in the battle for a permanent place in her heart. He didn’t want it to come down to that. He would fill the house with a hundred cats if it made her happy, his ability to take a deep breath be damned.

He thinks he’s got it all figured out. He’s worked out a routine of protecting the clean laundry from Sergio to try and save his clothes from immediately getting covered in fur. He kept windows open as often as he could, happily wrapping Emily up in hugs and his sweaters if she complained about it being cold, and Sergio slept on Jack’s bed more often than not.

He thinks he’s got it all figured out until one evening when they are sitting in the living room, Sergio curled up in Emily’s lap as they watch a movie. She’s leaning against him, her head on Aaron’s shoulder as she idly scratches the top of Sergio’s head, her smile soft and beautiful as she watches a movie she’d watched a thousand times. Jack was with Roy and Jessica, his annual camping trip with his grandfather that he always enjoyed, so it was just Emily and Aaron for the weekend. A rare opportunity for a couple of uninterrupted days together that they were going to use to wedding plan and simply just be together.

“I love this part,” she says, just like he knew she would, and she turns her head to kiss him through his shirt, sneezing as she pulls back, sniffing as she rests her temple against him. He clears his throat, trying to remove the scratchiness in the back of it, and she looks up, tilting her head slightly, “You okay, honey?”

Aaron nods, clearing his throat again before he responds, but he’s interrupted by a loud bang from the movie they were watching, an explosion reverberating through the speakers that spooks Sergio and has him darting off Emily’s lap, leaving almost a cloud of fur in his wake as he dashes off. Later, Aaron would be unsure if it was just bad timing. A build-up of the allergy he’d been willfully ignoring for weeks ever since they’d moved into the house now his exposure to Sergo was now near constant, or because he’d actually inhaled as much fur as it felt like he had with his mouth wide open, but all of a sudden he can’t breathe.

He tries to suck in a breath but fails, a strange wheezing sound escaping him that immediately draws concern from Emily, her hands scrambling for the remote to turn off the movie, plunging the room into silence except for his swallow breathing.

“Fuck,” she exclaims, shifting so she’s kneeling next to him on the couch, their faces level as she forces herself into his eye line, “Aaron, baby, what the hell is happening?” she asks, her hands on his chest as if she could will him to breathe with nothing but her touch alone, an edge of desperation to her touch that he can feel as she rubs firmly against his sternum, “I need you to breathe for me, okay?”

He nods, gasping as he tries to do what she’s asked, “I’m fine.”

She laughs, a hysterical edge to it as she shakes her head at him and unbuttons the top button of his polo shirt to give him a little more space, “Clearly,” she deadpans, her concern not lessening at all as she shakes her head at him, “Breathe deeply for me, sweetheart.”

It makes him smile, the use of the nickname he usually used on her, and he nods again, not feeling capable of doing much more than that as it slowly but surely becomes easier to breathe, his lungs burning less and less with each inhale and exhale. She encourages him further, her smile soft, her eyes still swimming with worry, as she rubs circles on his chest until he’s breathing normally. They sit like that for a few minutes, her eyes fixed on his chest as she watches it rise and fall, her lips pressed together as she finally looks up at his face.

“I’m going to get you a glass of water, okay?” She says, standing and kissing his cheek as he nods, “Just wait here.” She’s out of the room for a minute at most, not wanting to leave him alone for any longer than necessary. He doesn’t miss the slight shake of her hand as she passes him the water, her jaw tight as she sits back down next to him, “You feeling better?”

He nods, smiling gratefully as he takes another sip of the water, the coolness of it easing some of the remaining tightness in his chest, “Yes. Thank you.”

She hums, “You don’t have to thank me for looking after you,” she mutters, taking the glass from him and placing it on the coffee table, “It’s what you do for the person you love,” she stares at him, her tongue peeking out to lick her lower lip as she waits him out to explain to her what the hell had happened, and as soon as it’s clear he’s not going to she rolls her eyes, “Aaron, what the hell just happened?”

He sighs and reaches out for her hand, squeezing tightly as he presses his lips together, “I…I’m allergic to cats.”

She frowns, “You’re allergic to…” Her eyes go wide as she repeats it outloud, her head turning to look down the hallway Sergio had disappeared and she turns back to look at her fiance. “You’re allergic to cats?”

He clears his throat and nods, “Yes.”

She narrows her eyes at him, “How long have you known that?”

He scratches the back of her head, knowing her irritation with him, for keeping this a secret from her, would only increase, “Since I was a teenager.”

She scoffs and shakes her head at him, lightly slapping his shoulder, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I didn’t want to upset you,” he says, the argument weak to his own ears as he shrugs, “And you love him.”

She laughs disbelievingly, shaking her head at him again, “You know what else I love? You. And your ability to breathe.”

He sighs and places his hand on her thigh, “I’m sorry. I thought I’d get used to it eventually.”

She rolls her eyes, unable to fight her smile as she stands up and leaves the room, “You still should have told me,” she says over her shoulder, only out of the room for a second before she comes back in, her purse in her hands as she roots through it for something, “We don’t keep things from each other.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he says, and guilt floods his chest as he nods, “I just…”

“I know,” she replies, smiling softly at him as she finds what she’s looking for, throwing him an orange bottle of medication, her name and the drug name Allegra on the label, a dose much higher than the version he’d been buying over the counter, “That’s prescription strength,” she says, avoiding his gaze slightly as she sits next to him, “They’ll help.”

He frowns as he twists the lid, “What are these for?” He asks as he tips one into his hand and takes it, swallowing it down with a sip of water. The way she continues to not look at him, her arms crossed over her chest as she scrunches up her nose and bites the inside of her cheek. The realisation hits him in an instant and he can’t stop the chuckle that escapes him as it’s his turn to shake his head at her, “You’re allergic to him too, aren’t you?”

Her silence is answer enough but she sighs and grimaces as she rests her head on the back of the couch, “Yes.”

He laughs, love for her warming him from the inside out, “Em-”

“Before you say anything,” she says, pointing at him before she looks up at him, “Let’s remember which one of us just had an allergy induced asthma attack,” she raises her eyebrow and he relents, nodding his defeat before he tugs her towards him, tucking her against his side as he rests his cheek on top of her head, “Go to the doctor and get a prescription. It really helps.”

He nods and kisses the top of her head, “I will. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“That’s okay,” she replies, turning her head to kiss him, “You don’t have any other allergies I don’t know about do you?”

He shakes his head, “No, I promise.”

“Good,” she says, kissing him again before she rests her head back on his shoulder, her smile hidden from view, “You can keep the meds until you get your own by the way.”

He furrows his brow, “Don’t you need them?”

She hums as she pulls back to look at him, her expression soft, love and something he can’t quite name shining in her eyes, “I can’t take them for a while,” she says, reaching for his hand and linking their fingers together, “You’re not supposed to take them when you’re pregnant.”

It takes a moment for her words to register, her smile getting impossibly wider as she watches realisation hit him.

“You’re…” he starts, the words catching in his throat, his chest tight for an entirely different reason to just minutes ago. She nods enthusiastically and her eyes get impossibly shinier, deep dark pools of joy swimming with tears.

“Yeah,” she replies, her lips shaking as she presses them together, “I had a whole thing planned to tell you when we went to bed,” she says, shifting closer, “The positive test is next to your sink up in our bathroom,” her smile turns wry, “But then you had to go and almost stop breathing in the name of not upsetting me.”

He laughs, the sound wet as it catches in his chest, “Em…” he trails off in awe again, unsure how he got so lucky, how he made it here with her.

“You are happy right?” She asks, an uncharacteristic edge of nervousness to her voice, “I know we only just started trying.”

“Sweetheart,” he says, pulling her in for a kiss, his arms tight around her as he encourages her into his lap, “I’m so happy. How could I not be? We’re having a baby.”

Her smile gets wider, “We’re having a baby.”

He pulls her closer so her head is tucked under his chin, his arms banding around her back, “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.”

He’s lost in thought about trying to research what they could do to make sure she doesn’t have any reactions to Sergio whilst she can’t take her medication, the thought of finding a new home for the cat not even an option. He frowns when a thought occurs to him, “What if the baby is allergic to cats?”

She groans, a sound that turns into a laugh when Sergio walks back into the room, meowing loudly as if he understood their conversation. She looks up at Aaron and sighs, unbelievably grateful that this was the kind of thing they were worried about these days. Not about being hunted by monsters made of flesh and bone, but about their unborn child, still tiny and safely tucked up inside of her, and their potential allergies.

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

-x-

Additional tag: pregnancy

#hotchniss fanfiction #hotchniss fanfic #emily prentiss #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner x emily prentiss #aaron x emily #emily prentiss fanfiction #hotchniss #hotchniss fan fic

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nuhahani · 2 years ago

Text

Hc- Breakup songs

Summary: Your relationship was more than private, the world never knew you were in a relationship until you released your newest breakup song.

Pop star!reader au, Bonten Timeline

Warnings: mentions of drug use, cheating, miscarriage. Angst is you squint really hard.

Ran- bitter ft Trevor Daniel

“So the second verse that Trevor sings is actually the exact text message I got from my ex a bout a month after our split. I sent it to Trevor while we were working on the song and that’s really how his verse came to be.”

“Are parts of you still bitter about the break up?” The interviewer asked holding the mic back out to you. Your hands fiddled with the black sheer bodysuit as you thought about your answer. Normally you loved backstage interviews before award show performances but tonight felt different.

“I feel like some parts are still healing and knowing that he’s been moving on does hurt sometimes.” Your manager queued through your ear piece that you needed to be on stage in five minutes.

“Well thank you so much for stopping to talk with us tonight, we can’t wait to see you and Trevor perform your new song!” The world would be watching your performance tonight and little did you know he would be too, against his new girls wishes of course.

Rindou- escapism

Three years down the drain, three years of giving everything and he still left. Last night replayed in your mind over and over while your friends did lines in the back of the club. He gave you no reason other than he didn’t feel that way about you anymore. You stared at the letter R inked in red on your left ring finger, the same place he had your initial on him. You downed the last of your champagne and headed to the dance floor, your short bodycon dress ride up almost enough to leave nothing to the imagination. You could already see the headlines in mind, what paparazzi would say. ‘Princess of Pop music (Y/n) seen leaving Tokyo club with a new man.’ You knew he wouldn’t see the headline, but you didn’t care. You just never wanted to feel like you did last night when the world came crashing down.

The following morning you woke up in a strangers bed. They were nothing less than attractive but they weren’t him. Your manager had been blowing up your phone as you gathered your clothes and made a break for it before the person next to you woke up. In the mid morning walk of shame to your drivers car, the creativity hit you. You wasted no time getting to the studio and were thankful for the full bathroom and a change of comfortable clothes.

Despite knowing the song is about him, rindou still insisted on playing it in his clubs every night. He knows he messed up, he saw the magazines and trending hashtags about you. He stared at the ring in the little black box, he wanted to marry you but with bonten becoming what it was that just wasn’t possible.

Mochi- midnight rain

“So the song is about my most recent ex who I was in a long term relationship with for the past five years. We had discussed marriage and our relationship many times and I was either never ready to fully settle down or something came up that didn’t allow me to further our relationship. I really love him and I hope for the best for him. He’s truly an amazing man and someone’s going to be beyond lucky to say “I do” with him one day.”

“Now have you ended things on okay terms?” The women asked you. The radio studio you sat in was quite comfortable compared to the past ones you’d been in. Memories of you and Mochi played in your head. Cold winter mornings laying in bed. Hot summer nights when you couldn’t get enough of each other.

“I think we ended on as okay terms as we possibly could. I imagine he thinks I’m a bitch and I don’t blame him for that. At the end of the day we saw our lives going in different directions. It was the least selfish options for both of us.” He watched the interview on the computer in his office, he understood why you couldn’t marry him. He was grateful that you still spoke so highly of him.

“This might be a bit of a reach but it seems like you still have some lingering feelings.” Your face dropped a little at the interviewers comment.

“Yeah, I’m still very much in love with him.” He was also very much in love with you. Just two people madly, deeply in love with someone they can’t have.

Takeomi- hurts like hell

“I don’t want to know who she is.” You rubbed your temples. You had known for sometime that your husband had been cheating, you just didn’t have solid evidence. You were more irritated that he interrupted your work to tell you that he’s leaving you. Sure you wanted to cry but you would never let him have the satisfaction of seeing you like that. You didn’t wait for him to leave instead you walked out of your in-home studio to your bedroom. He didn’t bother to follow you, he didn’t give any explanation just did what he said he would do; leave. You made a few phone calls and within the hour you had changed the locks, listed several of your vacation homes for sale and went straight to cry in the shower. It hurt like hell, you didn’t understand why he did it.

It didn’t take long for outlets like TMZ to notice your wedding band missing. Word spread that you and your mysterious spouse were rumored to be divorced. You kept yourself busy and distracted until your grief turned into anger and you finally wrote your newest single. Takeomi wasn’t the only to hear it on the radio or Spotify playlists. But now those who knew about your relationship all knew what he had done. The harassment from his younger brother was nothing new but now it had been taken to a whole other level. The girl he left you for was no longer with him. She cheated on him not long after the divorce was finalized. You were younger than your ex husband but that did not make you naive enough to reignite your relationship when he enviably came crawling back. You were finally moving on and it brought nothing less than happiness to see him suffering after what he put you through. You guess he should’ve known that how you get them is how you lose them.

Mikey- flowers

“And thats a wrap!” The director yelled. You ran to hug your manager for all the hard work she does. Within the next few days you were watching the video back and you could honestly say it was the most fun you’ve had on set in a while. You filmed it entirely in the house you and your now ex fiancé once shared. He was out of town and was unaware that you were doing more than stopping by to pick up the rest of your things. You couldn’t figure out exactly when the love faded from your relationship. Maybe it was when you won your first Grammy last year. Maybe it was when Bonten struck a million dollar deal for exports and dealings.

You watched yourself dance around the house you once called a home in his favorite lingerie. Your mother once told you that the day he loves you the most is the day you will feel nothing for him at all. She had been right, the relationship grew so toxic. In all honesty you hadn’t wanted to leave him, you wanted to fight for the small spark that desperately clung to life. The breaking point came when you saw him going out of town for business the week of your two year anniversary. You understood that you were both extremely busy but it felt like you were the only one trying in your relationship anymore. You had left long before he got home that day to find your two million dollar engagement ring back in its box on the bed you once shared. He didn’t reach out, he fully understood. You had finally broken, you weren’t coming back.

Just hours after the music video was released a knock on the door of your new penthouse startled you. There was no one through the peephole so when you opened the door to find a giant bouquet of a hundred red roses and your favorite takeout. There was no note but you didn’t need a note to know exactly who they were from. You hadn’t blocked him on any social media but you felt like this, just like your relationship, was a private matter. You chose to simply send a picture of the flowers and take out on your kitchen table with a quick text to him that said thank you.

Mikey stared at the message, he had no intention of replying. There was nothing left to say, he messed up but he was still proud of you and your career. Proud that you put yourself first.

Kakucho- Angels like you

“This next song is the last one for tonight.” The crowd had mixed reactions to the devastating reality that your concert was coming to an end. “I know! I know! But this is an upcoming release called Angels Like You. I hope you guys enjoy it.” Kakucho sat in his private room at the stadium you had successfully sold out in less than ten minutes. The Haitani brothers lounging in the room with him as he listened. You weren’t playing the victim, the lyrics said just as much. You were fully taking all the blame for everything wrong with your relationship. You had no idea he was there but he was more than happy to keep supporting you. He knew you were wrong for each other but he couldn’t help clinging onto the small chance that he was wrong.

Your relationship had never been public knowledge, you knew that everything with him it needed to be private and kept away from the wondering eyes of the public. You knew about his job and what he did. You even had a small letter K tattooed behind your ear. But at the end of the day you had been the problem in the relationship, your ex before Kakucho had done a number on you. He made you beyond insecure, so when you met Kakucho and we’re being treated like the princess he sees you as you almost had a panic attack. But those unresolved self-issues started to shine through three months into your new relationship. Unfortunately, he still stayed but you couldn’t keep letting your problems destroy him. He was truly too good for this world in your eyes.

Sanzu- you should be sad

“Hi, I’m (y/n) welcome to my home!” You spoke softly to the host with his camera crew. You and your band were being featured guest on a streaming segment called ‘Live sessions from home’ where you got to perform several acoustic versions of some of your songs. The three songs you had chosen were from your newest album called Manic. You started off the session with an interview followed by your newest songs Without Me, 3am and You should be sad. The interview itself consisted of background knowledge of the songs themselves such as the inspiration behind them. “So the inspiration for Without Me and You should be Sad are based on the same person. An ex that I recently ended my relationship with. The songs themselves are a back to back response to the same breakup. I really indulged into a more personal look of life in You Should be Sad though. It was really nice to be able to be that vulnerable.

“Can you tell us a little more about the line ‘I’m so glad I never ever had a baby with you,’?” He asked softly.

“That line was the hardest to write actually. I found out about a month and a half before we broke up that I was pregnant. We weren’t planning it, it just happened but unfortunately I had a miscarriage…” You trailed off trying desperately to keep your composure and not cry on camera. Truth is Sanzu wasn’t prepared to be a parent, he can’t love anything unless there’s something in it for him.

Kokonoi- 7 rings

“You know calling her a gold digger is kinda funny since her net worth skyrocketed 20 million above you the second she released her new song.” Takeomi yelled as loud as he could over your new music that Rindou, Sanzu and Ran were blasting through the building. Sanzu had made it a point to twerk on the table in their meeting room.

“I SEE IT I LIKE IT I WANT IT I GOT IT!” The three men yelled. Koko was anything but amused, arms folded across his chest as he glared at the three. He hadn’t meant to let the words slip during the argument but it just happened. He had called you a gold digger and he himself was confused as to why. You had never asked him for anything, you spoiled each other equally, paid for things equally despite him protesting that he never wanted you to pay for anything. He never thought once that you would actually leave him for saying something stupid like that. An argument that started out by you simply asking if him if he wanted to go look at apartments together. Neither of you knew how it escalated to the point of breaking up weeks after deciding you wanted to live together.

Your new album was being released later this week and the argument gave you the final touch to it for one of your biggest hits. In fact the entire album was about Koko, specially your song Imagine. You had written both after the breakup and they were both paying off. 7 Rings was everywhere he went, every club, every store. He couldn’t escape the guilt he felt every-time he heard your voice. He looked over the necklaces in front of him. Diamond, emeralds, and rubies. But the sapphires are what caught his eye. Twenty thousand dollars later he was on his way to apologize. He was still dressed in his suit from work.

He debated turning around and running back to his car when the door swung open. There you were, stunning as you always were in his eyes.

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adhdnursegoat · 4 months ago

Text

Episode 8

Word count: 6.8K

Content Warning: mild descriptions and discussions of sexual assault. I want to make clear here and now that Edward does not ever engage in SA in this story, but other characters may (never in graphic detail).

Pairing: Edward Nashton X OC Romy Winslow

Setting: Pre-Arkham Origins; 2013

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Thursday, January 24th, 2013

The next morning found Edward groaning as he rolled over in bed, a familiar ache settling deep in his neck. He felt the crick there, stubborn and sharp, a reminder of the hours he spent hunched over his desk, poring over his work. Despite his age, despite being in his prime—the youthful, strong age of 30—he had noticed the toll: the stiffness creeping up his spine, the subtle pressure building in his neck and shoulders. Maybe I do need to start taking breaks, he thought, reluctant as the idea was. He frowned, thinking of how Romy would likely have told him, “I told you so.” He had spent so long in his routine that he hardly knew what “rest” felt like, but now, he couldn’t ignore the persistent ache.

With a sigh, he pushed himself up, shifting his shoulders before giving his neck a slow roll. A satisfying pop echoed through the quiet room, easing some of the tension, and he sat there for a moment, letting the relief settle. Twisting, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet meeting the floor. The wood was cold beneath his skin, a chill that bit just enough to remind him of the season. He had always liked the winter, found a strange comfort in the coolth of it, the way the air had a clarity, a bite that kept him sharp.

If he was being honest with himself, it was more than preference. It was just what he was used to. Memories tugged at the edges of his mind once more—the years he spent with his family, bundled in layers as the cold seeped into their apartment, their power cut off more times than he could count. The electricity bill had always been the last priority—his parents too poor, too careless, always managing to let things fall just out of reach, whether by accident or by sheer idiocy. Back then, he had learned how to build up a tolerance, how to sit through the biting cold of winter and the sweltering heat of summer with little complaint. It was a resilience born of necessity, a quiet survival skill that he barely thought about anymore.

But here he was, on a winter morning, feeling the familiar bite of the cold seep into his bones. This time, though, there was no resentment, no bitterness over the chill that greeted him. Instead, there was something unexpectedly comforting about it.

He lifted his gaze to the window above his desk, where soft snow flurries drifted down, silent and steady against the gray morning. From this angle, he could see out to the bay, the water choppy and dark, capped with thin ice at the edges. The view was striking, even to him—someone who rarely let himself pause long enough to appreciate such things.

His apartment was clean, minimalist to the point of sterility, each item in its place, each surface unadorned and bare. Nothing there held any warmth, no remnants of the past, no hints of sentimentality. His life, he realized, was like this space—carefully curated, almost devoid of personality, as if to remind him that he wasn’t meant to indulge in attachments or comforts. They complicated things, created unnecessary distractions.

He exhaled, the sound breaking the quiet, a mist of his own breath lingering faintly in the cool air of his room. Pushing himself up, he shuffled toward the bathroom, his bare feet padding across the cold wood floor. There was a heaviness to his thoughts that morning, a certain stillness in the quiet apartment that felt thicker than usual. He couldn’t quite shake it—the sensation of something unsettled, a small but growing awareness of the life he had built around him: precise, controlled, solitary.

Reaching the bathroom, he caught sight of his reflection and was struck by the faint lines beginning to form around his eyes, shadows of weariness etched into his face. He stared at himself for a moment, feeling an emptiness echo back at him from the silence surrounding him. This was it. The realization settled heavy and cold in his chest. This was why he kept himself busy, why he constantly occupied his mind, filling every quiet space with puzzles and calculations. It was a distraction, a way to keep the loneliness at bay, to avoid confronting the hollow stillness that sat at the edges of his life.

Edward soon stepped into the shower, turning the knob until the water hit him with a near-scalding heat. The sharp sting was comforting, and he let it burn against his skin, as if the intense warmth could somehow wash away the solitude that lingered beneath the surface, giving him a warm embrace he had so long lacked. But as he stood there, the steam rising around him, he became aware of the strange pattern that had emerged in his life—how everything he surrounded himself with was extreme. It was as though he was perpetually swinging from one end of the spectrum to the other, from searing heat to biting cold, from poverty to relative wealth, from isolation to… well, he was still isolated, wasn’t he?

He let the hot water run over his face and body, eyes closed, as he realized there had never been a middle ground for him. There was no balance, no calm, only these opposites he used to fill the spaces of his life. He lived within these small, intense comforts because they were all he had, all he had ever had.

Stepping out, he dried off with a towel that was as crisp and bare as the white walls of his apartment—blank and unadorned, devoid of any mark of who he was. No pictures on the walls, no memories captured in frames, no face to greet him on his phone’s background, no voice on the other end of a call to look forward to. There was no one to share his thoughts with, no one to even ask how his day was.

And that thought, more than anything, felt like a weight settling into his chest. He took a breath, forcing it down, trying to shake off the feeling as he wrapped himself in his towel and headed to the kitchen to start his coffee. As the machine gurgled, filling the space with the aroma of dark roast, he found a bitter comfort in the routine. This was why he worked so much, why he surrounded himself with tasks. It kept him from facing the reality that his life, for all its complexities and achievements, was an empty one.

He returned to his room to dress while the dark liquid brewed.

Edward Nashton didn’t need anyone—never had. It had always been him against the world, a carefully constructed solitude he had come to rely on. People were distractions, unnecessary variables in his life that only complicated things, that clouded his vision. He had always thrived on his own, depended on his own mind, his own abilities. There was a certain pride in that, a satisfaction in knowing he had kept himself self-contained, untethered by anyone else’s presence.

What about her…?

The thought slipped in uninvited, pulling Edward from his hard-earned sense of control as he made his way to the kitchen to pour himself a cup. With a scowl, he gripped his coffee mug tighter, his fingers digging into the ceramic as he glared at the blank, impersonal wall of his kitchen. The question lingered, taunting him. He didn’t need anyone—he’d made that abundantly clear to himself a thousand times over. But somehow, there Romy was, edging into his mind again, sidling into his stream of consciousness with maddening ease. It was infuriating, the way her face, her voice, the faint scent of her perfume seemed to haunt him, returning in stray, unexpected moments even when she wasn’t present.

Then, completely unbidden, his mind drifted to yesterday… to what he did to thoughts of her... The memory struck him, sharp and electric, leaving a dull, persistent hum in its wake. A stirring began in his pants, unwelcome and maddening, a betrayal of everything he told himself he was. Any other man might revel in the thought, indulging in a moment of foolish, self-serving fantasy. But Edward Nashton was not any other man. His teeth gritted, his jaw tightening as he sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, his expression hardening beneath his glasses.

We’re not doing this again today. His internal voice lashed like a whip, but the command felt weak against the memory that lingered, stubborn and unyielding. He’d addressed it—resolved it yesterday. He’d allowed himself that fleeting lapse in judgment, that indulgence, under the guise of catharsis. But now it was back, vivid and all-consuming, taunting him with its refusal to fade into the recesses of his mind.

If she found out what he did to thoughts of her… He’d die. Edward Nashton would rather die than let her discover the truth.

But the bitter chuckle that echoed in his thoughts felt like mockery. His memory, the one gift he’d always relied on, betrayed him now. It was as if it was laughing at his pathetic attempts to erase her.

Edward gritted his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a sharp sigh. The image persisted, dancing at the edge of his thoughts, taunting him with its vividness. And for the first time, he found himself hating the way his mind worked.

Because no matter how much he told himself to forget, he knew this would stay with him.

Forever…

The stirring in his pants intensified for the briefest moment before his disdain overtook it, the anger bubbling up to burn through the unwelcome heat. His lips curled into a sneer, more directed at himself than anything else.

Pathetic.

Edward exhaled sharply, the sound harsh in the quiet room, and adjusted his glasses with a deliberate motion. His hands flexed, clenching and unclenching as if to wring out the irritation coursing through him.

Let it go, he told himself again, though the words felt hollow, insubstantial against the vividness of the memory. He knew better than to dwell. He forced his focus to shift, his eyes narrowing at the off-white wall in front of him. Still, the thought remained, buried but alive, simmering beneath the surface of his mind—a constant, uncomfortable reminder of something he wished he could unsee.

And yet… he knew he wouldn’t forget.

Edward hated it. Hated how the idea of Romy, just the mere presence of her, slipped past his walls, threading itself into his routines, clouding his focus. She was an intruder in his solitude, a disruption he didn’t ask for and didn’t want. Or at least, that’s what he told himself as he stared into his coffee, watching the steam rise, willing it to settle his thoughts. She was just another distraction, he insisted, another unnecessary complication in a life he’d already perfected without anyone else’s interference.

Yes, a distraction, with her stupid, pretty face and irritating self-confident indifference, and enchanting essence.

Edward needed to keep Romy at a distance. He needed to ensure the boundaries they had remained opaque and sturdy.

Today, he would make sure she knew her place in his life, knew her place in his world. She was a silly little girl. She really didn’t deserve his attention.

The entire walk to work was a mental exercise in convincing himself that her presence was nothing but an inconvenience. Each step brought a new reminder of the countless ways she had disrupted his life, how she had twisted his once orderly routines into a chaotic mess. How could one person cause so much disorder? he wondered, jaw clenched as he mentally tallied each offense.

She had brought him nothing but complications and distractions—her involvement with the case had likely ruined his chances with Loeb. If only he had handled the data alone without her meddling interference. Yes, this had to be her fault. And now, thanks to her presence, he had even found himself the target of more of Hartley’s crude remarks, lowering him to the level of common gossip, a situation he found downright humiliating.

As he marched up the precinct steps that Thursday morning, a cold resolve settled over him. This is exactly why I work better alone, he reminded himself. His best work, his most brilliant moments, had always come when there was no one to consider but himself—no other human factors to calculate, no voices other than his own to muddle the clarity of his thoughts. He had built a life of control and solitude, and her presence, her opinions, and especially her allure, were an intrusion on that carefully curated existence. He needed no reminders of how much simpler his work became when he was the only one he had to manage.

He threw his office door open, his irritation mounting as he found her already there—early, again —occupying his space like it was her own. It was as if she were completely oblivious to the disruption she caused, sitting there so casually, her presence infiltrating every part of his office. He could barely stomach the sight of his coat hung next to hers on the rack. The scent of her gentle perfume permeated the air, light and alluring, an irritating contrast to the musty calm he once found here. He clenched his teeth as he stepped inside, determined to ignore her.

But as he walked to his desk, Romy leaned back in her chair with that easy, effortless grace, her gaze tracking his every movement with that calm indifference she so coolly exuded. Then she greeted him, her voice smooth and lilting, like she was trying to disarm him.

“Good morning, Mr. Nashton, sir,” she lilted—as if he were Charlie and she his Angel.

Edward frowned.

How could she sit there so easily, as if she were perfectly at home in his office, in his presence, as though none of this was a disruption to her at all? It infuriated him that she was so comfortable here, so at ease, while he was left with nothing but the seething frustration of her intrusion.

Everything about her pissed him off.

And why are her mornings always good?!

Edward dropped his messenger bag to the floor, near tossing it from his hand before setting his coffee tumbler down with a hard clack . He didn’t return her sentiment. Instead, he sat down, his chair squeaking as he adjusted himself and turned his computer on. He didn’t look at her; he didn’t grace her with his attention. She would be blessed to have his acknowledgment. But she wasn’t that blessed.

He told himself he wasn’t going to indulge her with more attention than necessary. She was pretty, yes, but that was about it. Her looks, while perhaps captivating to others, did nothing for him. He told himself they were superficial, inconsequential, and her charm was little more than a facade. So, he remained silent all morning, focused on his work, determined to keep her in her place as an occasional assistant, nothing more.

When she invited him to lunch, he declined without a second thought, his tone clipped. And, in her time gone, she seemed to take the hint, returning from lunch without a word, settling back into her work without further interruptions. He would admit, if only to himself, that she was perceptive; she knew when to stay quiet, when to be unobtrusive.

Maybe she finally knows her place.

“Mr. Nashton, sir…?”

Or perhaps not. He felt the tension creep back into his jaw, a subtle irritation at her voice breaking his carefully built silence. “What?” he snapped.

“Did you talk to Commissioner Loeb yesterday?”

He kept typing, continuing his work in silence, until he finally uttered a tight “Yes.”

There was another pause, and then she pressed on. “Well?”

Edward’s eye twitched. “Well, what?”

“Well… what did he say?”

“He said he would look into it.”

“‘Look into it’?” she repeated, disbelief lacing her tone.

“Yes.”

“Like, what does that mean?”

He gritted his teeth. “‘ Like ’, it means what I said. He will look into it.”

“And you’re content with that answer?”

His fingers stilled on his keys, his gaze narrowing. Aren’t you? Finally, he glanced at her from the side, catching the determined set of her jaw as she turned in her seat to face him. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and he registered this in his periphery, but he didn’t focus on it. Instead, he tried to hold onto his waning patience.

He rolled his eyes. “Maybe you need to learn some patience.”

“Maybe,” she replied, unperturbed. “But maybe we deserve better. We’ve worked too hard. Built an undeniable case and—”

“ We? ” He scoffed. “Listen, princess, I won’t deny that you’ve provided some modicum of assistance in menial organization, but there is no ‘we.’ ” He gestured between the two of them, making his point clear. “‘We’ are not a thing, you stupid girl.”

“Okay—”

“What happened to being quiet?”

“I—”

“No.”

“But—”

“Uh-uh.”

“Sir—”

“Jesus Christ!” Edward gritted his teeth and slapped his hand on the desk. He looked her dead in the eyes. “ Shut. Up. ”

He took note that she didn’t seem startled by his demeanor or harsh treatment; however, she did quiet down. Silence finally filled the space between them, and he let out a sigh of relief he didn’t realize he was holding.

At last, he thought, some peace.

Edward really couldn’t wait for the end of the semester, and it was only the end of January... This was going to be a long, long semester.

“Mr. Nashton, I’m sorry, but I disagree with all of this. Something isn’t right… Like, I don’t know. I just don’t understand why the Commissioner didn’t accept the case as you presented it. It was airtight.”

His shoulders stiffened. Romy’s words rang in his ears, striking a nerve. “Something isn’t right.” The case was airtight. Every piece of data, every statistic, every trend was undeniable. He knew that—he had checked it himself—and somewhere deep down, he sensed her frustration was valid. But now he couldn’t help but feel like she was questioning him. Questioning his resolve to watch and wait.

He narrowed his gaze, a lick of anger flaring within him. “And who are you to question the situation?”

“Someone who knows what it’s like to have to prove oneself,” Romy snapped, meeting his narrowed gaze with her own.

A sly, calculating expression crossed Edward’s face as he considered her words. “Interesting choice of phrase…. When have you ever had to prove yourself worthy or right of anything?”

She frowned. “…You’ve seen my records.”

Oh. How could he have forgotten?

“Ah yes, those ‘records’ of yours. I’m glad you brought it up.” His mouth curled into a smirk. He turned in his chair, finally facing her with his full attention. “I’m honestly surprised it took us this long to breach your shady academic history.”

Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation passing over her face. “Shady?”

He leaned back in his chair, fingers laced together on his abdomen. “Well, you can’t expect me not to be curious. I believe any respectable boss would… So tell me, did you cheat? Likely cheated all the way up until that point, and you finally got caught, yes?”

Something unreadable shaded her usually cool gaze. “...I didn’t cheat.”

Edward cocked a brow. “The records say otherwise. D to an A?” He tilted his head, his lips pulling to the side in amusement. “Couldn’t you have chosen something more humble like a B? Maybe then you wouldn’t have gotten caught.” He snapped his fingers, pointing at her with assurance. “That’s it… You got greedy, didn’t you?”

Her nostrils flared with the deep inhale she took. Her tone was calm, but he did not mistake the grit of her teeth and the subtle tightening of her lips and jaw. This was the widest range of emotions he had seen on her yet. “You don’t know what you’re talking about...”

“Don’t I?”

“I deserved that grade, asshole.”

“Don’t they all?” His smirk didn’t slip. “I don’t particularly care for cheaters or liars, girl.”

“ Liar ?” To his surprise, she raised her voice. “For your information, that teacher failed me even after he—” But her mouth snapped shut, and her nose scrunched up in disgust as if the words were sour. She clicked her tongue, blinked, and then relaxed her face into that cool, neutral expression, donning her mask with ease. “You know what? You wanna to know why I changed the grade? Look up case number: GC:08SA207. It will tell you all you need to know and then some.”

Taking him completely by surprise, she stood up suddenly, her chair rocking back, precariously close to tipping over. With more spice than he anticipated, she slammed her laptop shut and shoved it into her bag. Following close behind, and with more force than he had ever seen from her, she shoved that ridiculous fuzzy notebook, her coffee tumbler, and water bottle away.

His brows knitted together. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Home.” She didn’t even cast him another glance when she turned on her heel and strode away, her boots clacking against the linoleum.

Edward narrowed his gaze, feeling quite perturbed by the attitude. He glanced at the clock: 12:47 PM. “You won’t get your hours.”

She tore her coat from the old wooden hanger, raking it and his coat to the floor in the process. “I don’t fucking care.”

As a final insult, she slammed the door on her way out.

Honestly, he was surprised by her out-of-character, volatile outburst. But this was the moment he had been waiting for. The moment she would break. The moment she would quit. He had known it was coming. All he needed to do was wait.

But Edward Nashton was not one to let someone have the last word, especially when it was something so disrespectful. He was fine being petty if it meant he won. So, he slammed his hands on the desk and shoved himself to a standing position, quickly making strides to follow her out, to give her a piece of his mind, to put her in her place, and to tell her to never come back. He yanked the door open.

But she was already too far away.

Heat simmered in Edward’s chest as he watched from a distance, crossing his arms and leaning against the frame of his office door. His gaze remained locked on Romy as she stormed out with quick, furious strides, the anger radiating off her in waves. Even in her irritation, there was a grace to the way she moved, each step assertive, her hips swaying just enough to draw the attention of the nearby officers. He frowned, feeling an odd prick of annoyance as a few of them straightened up, sharing amused glances and nudging one another with smirks.

Then, as if on cue, Officer Hartley stepped forward, the same charming, smarmy smile plastered on his face—one that Edward recognized. He narrowed his eyes, watching Hartley intercept Romy, his posture relaxed but his gaze predatory.

Edward’s fingers curled into fists against his tucked arms, the sharpness of his nails digging into his gloves as he watched the exchange unfold. He couldn’t hear the words being spoken, but her body language was clear. Her face was set in a hard line, an annoyed look in her half-lidded gaze as she responded to Hartley, clearly disinterested in whatever he was trying to say. She made a move to walk past him, but Hartley snapped his hand around her wrist to pull her back.

The sight of it—Hartley’s hand gripping her, forcing her to stumble—sent a surge of something volatile rushing through Edward, a dark, hot feeling that bubbled up before he could temper it. His teeth gritted, jaw clenching as he uncrossed his arms, taking a step forward with every intention of intervening and putting Hartley in his place.

Just because he was angry with Romy, irked, irritated, did not mean she deserved to be subjected to Jack Hartley’s idiocy. No one did.

But he stopped as he watched her jerk her hand away, the movement defiant, recoiling to clutch her appendage to her chest.

“Don’t touch me!” Her voice screeched through the bullpen, loud and clear enough for even Edward to hear. The tone was sharp, biting, and left no room for interpretation. She looked at Hartley with wide eyes, her teeth bared in a manner that almost made her look like a caged animal.

Is—is she scared…?

The precinct seemed to freeze, all eyes turning to her. Edward watched as a flush spread across her cheeks, and for a moment, he was taken aback. He had never seen her embarrassed before, never seen that hint of vulnerability in her expression. The sight unsettled him, a pang of unease twisting in his chest as he realized she was genuinely distressed. It was a side of her he hadn’t anticipated.

Maybe she isn’t as Teflon as she presents…

As if sensing his gaze, her eyes met Edward’s, glassy and raw in a way that felt like a punch to the solar plexus. For the briefest moment, she held his stare, and he grimaced, feeling something stir beneath his irritation. There was a shade of shame in her look, something unspoken but undeniably there, and he didn’t like the way it affected him, the tightness that crept into his chest at the sight of her discomfort.

Then, with a final, frustrated shake of her head, Romy turned back to Hartley, glaring with an intensity that Edward recognized as pure, unfiltered disgust. He watched, surprised but grudgingly impressed, as she held her ground, a flicker of admiration stirring within him as she made it abundantly clear that she wouldn’t tolerate Hartley’s advances—in fact, she seemed repulsed by them—frightened by them even. She said something, gritting her teeth, jabbing her finger in the officer's chest.

When she shoved past Hartley, heading for the precinct doors with purposeful strides, Edward found himself rooted in place, stalled in the doorway.

The still-silent precinct seemed to crackle with her frustration, her form tense and radiating fury as she shoved through the doors, not sparing anyone a second glance.

Edward’s arms uncurled, the urge to chase after her fading as he watched her storm away. Whatever he’d meant to say, whatever swift reprimand he’d been ready to deliver to her, felt suddenly irrelevant. She had stood her ground with Edward, and only moments later, she had dealt with Hartley’s idiocy on her own terms, and that realization left him feeling… conflicted. His gaze lingered on the door long after it swung shut behind her, a slight tension still knotting in his chest as he replayed the scene in his mind.

He felt a strange pull as he processed what he had just witnessed. Romy, the pretty girl who garnered attention so effortlessly and spared none of it for anyone who didn’t seem to meet her standards. It was a power he’d expected, yes, but her application of it confused him.

On paper, it made so much sense: a meet-cute with a rugged cop, a bit of harmless flirtation, something both parties could laugh about later. But there had been none of that from her—no humor, no flicker of interest, just sheer, unrestrained frustration. She had turned Hartley down with a clarity and force that left no room for doubt, and somehow, the finality of it resonated with him, stirring something he couldn’t quite identify.

Still standing in the doorway to his office, it wasn’t long after she had left that he finally realized what she had said. The case number was stored in his working memory, and having remembered it, he converted it to short-term. Almost instantly, he computed the serial of digits and letters, knowing the code of Gotham City’s case nomenclature by heart.

GC:08SA207.

Gotham City 2008; SA case number 207. The 207th report that year.

SA.

Sexual Assault.

It was a long time before Edward moved, having sat with the information for a minute. He blinked, then his feet shifted, and he turned back to his office. He strode across the small room, stepping over the fallen coat rack. Soon, he was sitting and maneuvering his chair to face the monitor. His hands raised, pausing above the keyboard, thinking hard about his next actions. He wished he could say he was a more honest man—that he curbed the nosy urge to stimulate and satiate his curiosity.

But the mystery of it all, the mystery of Romy, the mystery of what had happened that had her breaking her so-curated contemporary, cool-girl demeanor in front of him, in front of the precinct, was all too much to bear.

After all, she did tell him it would answer his questions…

In a few clicks, Edward had the report pulled up, the case title standing stark on the screen: DOE, JANE vs. CORREN, JAMES, February 23rd, 2008. The words seared into his mind, and, much to his chagrin, he felt a growing sense of dread as he scrolled down, the details unraveling line by line. Very quickly, he realized he didn’t want to take it in, knew that with his memory, every word would be imprinted, unshakeable. But the need to understand—fully, truly understand—kept him reading.

The summary was clinical, blunt: James Corren, a tenured history teacher at Gotham Preparatory, was accused of coercion and sexual assault. Edward’s stomach churned as he read further. Jane Doe, a student, a senior at Gotham Prep, claimed Corren had assaulted her during a private AP practice session. The words were detached, almost cold, but he could see through them to the reality—the afternoon when the teacher had tried to use his power to back a young female student into a corner. Edward’s fingers tightened over the keyboard: Corren cornering her, leveraging his authority, pushing his advances when she couldn’t escape.

His pulse quickened as he skimmed further, his breath hitching when he reached the details that stopped him cold.

“Pinned to the desk.”“Forcefully undressed.”“Vaginal penetration.”“Digital insertion.”

“Penile insertion.”

The words infected his mind, leaving him feeling heavy and nauseated. Edward’s face contorted in disgust, his anger a raw, visceral thing. He pulled back from the monitor for a moment, jaw clenched, feeling the sickening weight of what the girl had endured.

Edward took a deep breath, forcing himself to continue. Against his better judgment and at the behest of his insatiable need to put the pieces together, he pulled up Romy’s juvenile record, matching the dates. And there it was—her arraignment just weeks after the incident. One month of juvenile detention for hacking and grade tampering. The entire last month of her junior year, a time meant for joy and celebration, was spent in juvie. The anger sharpened as he realized the timeline, the painful irony of it all.

She hadn’t hacked the school’s system out of arrogance or entitlement or because she was cheating.

She had been trying to take back control over a situation that had left her utterly powerless.

And then he saw it: a footnote at the bottom of her record, a casual line that most would skim over. Edward’s gaze hardened as he stared at the screen, the words “Evidence from a related case not permitted in court” sinking into him like a knife. That line—so dismissive, so coldly bureaucratic—hid the truth of what had been done to her. His fingers curled tightly on his keyboard as he absorbed the implications. The system had erased the context, taken her desperate act of survival, and twisted it into a simple “offense,” stripping away the pain, the desperation, the sheer injustice that had forced her hand.

It made his blood boil.

He flipped back to the case report, staring once more at the black-and-white text of DOE, JANE vs. CORREN, JAMES. As he read, a thought occurred to him: she had chosen anonymity, hadn’t she? She hadn’t wanted this part of her life to follow her, to haunt every future decision, every opportunity. She was already dealing with the one black mark in her life as it was. Jane Doe—it kept her hidden, allowed her to walk through the world without this hanging over her head. She had wanted to move forward, to keep this from defining her, to prevent people—people like him—from connecting this case to her if it were to come up.

Finally, he read the case conclusion, and something inside him snapped.

Ruled in favor of James Corren on grounds of lack of evidence.

Just her word against his. No definitive DNA proof had been found since it seemed she had reported it days later—days past the time any DNA would have been viable…

Edward felt the bile rise in his throat as he stared at those words, realizing what they meant, what they had cost her. The man who had hurt her, humiliated her, walked away without consequences because the “evidence” wasn’t enough. Just her word against a tenured teacher, her big truth drowned by the voice of a respected adult. He could picture it—the doubt, the way she must have been scrutinized, questioned, blamed, while Corren had left unscathed.

The injustice of it, the cruelty, knotted in his chest, and for a moment, Edward’s vision blurred with anger. The hacking, the grade change—it wasn’t just an act of rebellion; it was a lifeline, Romy’s way of clawing back some small piece of control in a world that had denied her justice. A bitter, helpless anger built inside him as he thought of it—the loneliness, the desperation she must have felt, trapped in a system that failed to protect her.

Edward leaned back in his chair, his hands motionless, the screen still glowing with the damning text. This wasn’t just about Corren, he realized. It was about every institution, every system that turned its back on her. The school system that ignored her, the courts that dismissed her, the system that took one look and chose to see a delinquent rather than a survivor. She had been reduced to a record in a file, a single mistake used to erase her humanity, to ignore the truth.

His chest tightened, a pressure building that he didn’t know how to release. This wasn’t something he could brush off, not now. The realization gnawed at him, a strange, hollow ache that he couldn’t just ignore. He’d always seen Romy as a nuisance, a spoiled, privileged brat who flaunted her looks and effortless charm, someone who breezed through life without much care for the real world. But that picture he’d formed of her, the shallow, one-dimensional judgment he’d held onto, crumbled as he stared at the damning words on the screen.

She was someone who had endured. Someone who had been betrayed by every system that should have protected her, forced to claw her way back from academic hell, to rebuild herself in a world that stripped her of any fair chance. Despite the injustice, the violation, the betrayal—somehow, she had kept going, kept fighting, kept reaching forward to a future that had once seemed inevitable. He realized, with a discomfort that sat heavy in his stomach, that her resilience was something he had never given her credit for.

Romy wasn’t just a pretty face in his office.

And she wasn’t a victim.

She was a survivor.

As Edward sat there, a dark, simmering anger twisted in his gut, churning with a depth he didn’t often allow himself to feel. This wasn’t the kind of anger that came from annoyance or frustration; it was deeper, sharper, almost painful. He could feel it settling into him, demanding that he confront it. He couldn’t just look away. Not from this, not from the truth of what she had gone through, of who she was. For once, his anger wasn’t a selfish response to a perceived slight. It was for her. For everything that had been stolen from her, for the scars she had to carry, for the path she had been forced to walk.

And then, unbidden, his recent conversation with her slipped to the forefront of his mind, like a mocking reminder of his own cruelty. He remembered his words—how he had accused her of cheating, mocked her need to “prove” herself in the face of Loeb’s dismissal, in the face of him dismissing her academic struggle as an act of entitlement.

But now, knowing the truth, his words felt like a slap in the face. She had been smart—honor roll, perfect marks, a near-flawless record before Corren destroyed it. She had built herself up from scratch, achieved everything with grit and intelligence, until that one fateful year. That failure, that stain on her record—it hadn’t been her fault. It wasn’t a reflection of her capabilities. It was a scar left by a system that ignored her, failed her, twisted her trauma into a simple narrative of delinquency.

She had been a smart kid, from a good family with her whole future ahead of her. And it hit him, how deeply unjust it all was. How Corren’s cruelty, his manipulation, had set off a chain reaction that left her struggling to prove herself to people like Edward—people who never bothered to see the person beneath the mistake, the real story behind the choices she had been forced to make.

He could feel the anger building, burning hotter now. It was a righteous anger, a rare thing for him to feel for someone, usually so wrapped up in his own ambitions, his own need to stay one step ahead. But now, this fury was laced with something else, something unfamiliar and uncomfortable, something that was triggered by Romy and Romy alone. She was always so cool, so easygoing, so funny, so smart, so resilient.

Edward exhaled sharply, the sound lost in the din of the precinct outside his door. His office was quiet, insulated from the chaotic hum of ringing phones and hurried footsteps, but the silence offered no solace. He dragged a hand through his hair, the motion rough and impatient, before leaning back in his chair. The frame creaked under his weight, a faint, deafening sound.

His neck craned back, gaze fixed on the cracked tiles of the drop ceiling. The sickly fluorescents buzzed above him. But Edward’s focus wasn’t on the room around him—it was on the storm in his mind, each thought louder, vivid, more insistent than the last.

What do I know about her?

The question looped in his head, a desperate attempt to impose order on the chaos of his thoughts. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair as he forced himself to catalog, analyze, understand.

She was young. The kind of youth that felt untouchable, invincible, alive . It irritated him, the ease with which she carried it, the sharp contrast to the weight he felt in his own years.

She was beautiful. Infuriatingly so. A kind of beauty that turned heads, that lingered in someone’s eye long after they’d looked away.

She was clever. Too clever. Quick-witted, sharp, always a step ahead in conversation. He hated how often she disarmed him, how often she made him falter in ways no one else had.

She had been a cheerleader. His research had uncovered this—it felt insignificant then. But now, it fit neatly into the mosaic of her. Confident. Agile. Poised.

She had gone to juvie. That initial information being the catalyst for why he had chosen her—and something now a jarring contrast to the polished veneer she presented. Yet, the more he thought about it, the more it clicked. There was an edge to her, a hardness beneath the surface that could only come from surviving something brutal.

She was in a sorority. Yet another piece of information uncovered in his late-night background check. Offsetting and emblematic of how effortlessly she embodied the roles she played. Student and sister.

She was a sexual assault survivor. The heaviest truth of all. It loomed over the rest, casting shadows on every other detail. It complicated everything—his thoughts, his feelings, his understanding of her. He didn’t want it to matter, but it did. It did.

Edward’s teeth clenched, his head tilting forward now, his gaze boring into the scratched surface of his desk. He couldn’t ignore the weight of these truths, the dissonance between what he thought he knew about her and the reality that had been thrust upon him.

And then the final, damning thought rose to the surface, unbidden and undeniable:

She was perfect.

His lips parted slightly, his breathing shallow as the thought settled, unwelcome and yet immovable. The contradictions, the flaws, the maddening complexity of her—they all added up to something he couldn’t ignore.

Despite all this, despite all this private information, despite this big picture he was piecing together today, why did he feel like he still had no idea who she was?

The precinct’s muffled noise outside seeped back into his awareness: a ringing phone, the clatter of an archaic typewriter one of the old crones insisted on using, the distant hum of voices. He closed his eyes briefly, willing the thoughts to fade, to dissolve into the cacophony outside his door.

But they didn’t.

Edward exhaled, his breath shaky, his pulse loud in his ears.

“Fuck.”

Ao3 link here!

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