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

[arcanefox207]

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 🧡

[hannahssimblr]

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

[jolalibrary]

cold, biting

frankie morales x f!reader | masterlist

Painting you in it, all varying shades, a masterpiece he thinks he’s came across, but really just became the first to admire.

wc: 1.3k warnings: smut (18+). mentions of smut. keeping warm. jo writing. my spelling. notes: I wrote this on limited sleep, cold, and very much wanting to have some form of body heat next to me. so maybe I should warn about spelling too.

It’s cold, biting.

All wintery breath trying to pierce through, bleed over memories of warmer months.

It makes your skin practically weep if it slithers from under the thick duvet, it trying to kiss you, the air tinged only with bitterness. It’s crawling, climbing—sliding up over surfaces, its icy touch desperate to create steam by meeting something warm.

Seeking, hunting—it wants to wrap its claws around flesh, seep into bone. It wants to nestle down deep inside of you so you carry that chill around all day.

It isn’t able to, because of him.

Him and his broad shoulders, loose curls, summer-kind smile and wiry hair that doesn’t grow in full places along his beard—a little space you trace, pretend it’s a heart. It’s where I kissed you all those years ago, wasn’t it? You would tease. Remembering a time when you were more cowardly than confident, more afraid than unforgiving. You’re thankful that isn’t you now

Yeah, he always says, left a mark on me. It’s always said with warmth, all comforting. Usually, his arms come around your waist, a kiss on your forehead.

You hope he’s aware he’s left marks of his own. Little things imprinted on you, carved in you, perfect places for his favourite colour to go, his favourite song, the things which make a bad day a little easier to get through.

You’d let him in during the spring, what feels like a thousand years ago. The flowers opening, the air warm and the sun shining. But, you fell for him in the summer over a year ago—BBQ smoke and little lanterns, fingers finding the softness of his skin and liking the way brick felt on your bare shoulders when the two of you stole a moment.

In the fall just gone, his things found themselves with yours, merged, a house becoming a home. Surfaces no longer innocent, but a playground, nails scratching, leaving marks of your own against things as he made your eyes head fill with stars and your body thrum with nothing but pleasure.

Winter brings something else.

It brings softer declarations whispered against the soap-sud glass. It brings the hungry look from him when he sees you in his clothes, even handing you a pair of socks just because. It brings longing when the bed feels too big, hand stroking out where he’s supposed to be—his voice down the phone doing nothing to fill the void.

He’s always wanted, practically a necessity, but in the colder months, it’s a demand. There’s room for complaint in the warmer months when his skin is clammy, legs far too desperate to slide themselves around yours. Body letting heat escape, it all rolling out, washing over the room.

But, it’s welcomed in the winter.

Pull me a little closer, you think. Lashes fluttering, smile half-sleepy. And he does, arm coming out, palm on your back, pushing and guiding until you’re more him than you are you. No clear line where the two of you part, just one singular soul.

There’s frost on the outside, and condensation on the inside glass. But the yellowing of the morning is still persevering in blanketing you in natural warmth. You look so beautiful, he whispers—and when he says it you believe him. Staring into his eyes, unwilling to find a single fabrication. Your stomach pooling with heat, a hunger awakening in you—one you have more often than not around him—as you lift your eyes to the incoming morning.

The window has popped, need to fix that, he continues, barely above a whisper, following your eye line, lingering on it.

So, you kiss him. Icy lips against his, feeling warmth bloom in your throat, descend down to your lungs. You lick into his mouth, tasting fire, hoping it fills your stomach, and forces heat to bathe your bones. Smother me, you want to ask, but instead, he makes flames lick up your spine. Pushing fabric to the side, fingers tracing, finding your seam—teasing, taunting. Making toes curl under sheets and fabric, little whispered pleas coat the skin close to his ear. Is this all for me?

Yes.

Always yes.

Frankie is precise, and knows just what to do. Listening to you, trained in doing so, even when words don’t leave your lips. It’s a gift, he smirked once, mouth coated in your slick, tongue flicking out against your core.

You couldn’t argue, he was a treat.

At some stage you’d wondered, practically suspected he’d found a manual for you. Figured out each zone that made you putty—thank fuck he did. He never leaves you wanting, never lets you beg for too long. Too eager to please, too happy to give.

You want my cock, yeah? Your response comes out breathless, more air punched from your lungs when he finally answers himself. So thick, so long—all compact, all you can think about as he stills, as he rubs two circles on your hip in that way he does until you relax around him, allow him to move. So tight, baby.

There are worse things to be than full of Frankie. You’ve experienced a portion of time before it, it doesn't hold a candle to the time that came when he rested his arm on the doorframe, and told you (in the most asking, polite way) that he was going to kiss you. You want to be full of him always, in all the ways it counts—like this, and in your heart, and in your soul.

A need for waffles on Sundays where At Last plays, and Wednesdays when he brings home a bag of takeout and the two of you see how long you’ll make it through the show before you’re on his lap. Insatiable, some would say, but it’s hard not to be when you’re happy.

His hand fans out over your lower back, skating over your skin—murmurs of softness, of perfection. Painting you in it, all varying shades, a masterpiece he thinks he’s came across, but really just became the first to admire.

Never stop.

You’d told him that then when his mouth—chapped and salty from pretzels—slanted over yours that first time. You repeat it now as his hips move, as he slides his hand up and across your shoulder blades.

And it’s not long until you’re panting, until his name forms part of your unconscious narrative. Repeating it, interspersing it with expletives and moans, each he takes, captures, bottles and keeps.

He’s a collector like that, a person who has a drawer solely of things which don’t make up anything on their own—screws, bolts, plugs and cables. You often wonder if he has a drawer for you inside his head, an array of Polaroids, made up from moments like this where he tells you how good you look, how beautiful you are, how perfect you feel hugging his cock, how good your pussy feels—

The room is filled with sinful sounds, wet, skin slapping. Music to the ears.

More, you shout only in the void in your head. Nails gripping, body tense, taunt and coiled.

Then you’re shuddering, blissfully turning to warm lava—spreading out, relaxing, unspooling. Held in place, mouth finding his, writing poetry on his tongue before his movements twitch, break their pattern, and your throat is coated in a moan of your name.

You swallow it, the way he says it. Makes you hate it a little less, and makes you want to hear it over and over—because in the day you prefer the nicknames, but at night you prefer the one on your certificates.

Breath caught, little wisps of air leaving both of you with each pant, he brushes your cheek—skin like a blaze, keeping the shiver from ever gracing you.

Let’s not go anywhere today, you say, sleep-filled and soft. Okay, he responds, sliding against you.

It’s less cold, and less biting.

But that’s because of him, your nose buried into his neck, heart hammering against your side. Then you hear the heating click on—but you still prefer him to keep you warm.

— for @secretelephanttattoo because it’s cold, I adore her and I want to make her smile.

[headkiss]

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

[agentrouka-blog]

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.

[heavenbloom]

🇵🇸 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.

[khuzena]

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. ♡

[sequinsmile-x]

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

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.

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

[sunlightmurdock]

Trouble in Paradise | Epilogue | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Previous Chapter | Masterlist

Synopsis: After the most painful break-up of his life, Rooster is stationed in Hawaii for the next six months. Alone, away from home and hurting, he finds comfort in the arms of a stranger.

Warnings: no use of y/n, age gap (rooster is in his mid-30s, reader is in her early 20s), mentions of sex and betrayal, adultery — this takes place 5 years after 1.8

…

“Honey, are you okay? - You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He has. He’s staring right at one. Suspended in time, he barely hears her speaking to him, his hearing and his vision are tunneled. It’s just you. Centre of the universe, like you always have been to him.

Rooster swallows, his adam’s apple rising and falling in his throat. That ache is back, the hole in his chest that he hasn’t felt in a couple of years, torn open right here and now in front of everyone.

You’re looking right at him. Across the room, sitting at a different table, listening to the same speech.

He has to blink a couple of times. This has happened before. It happened a lot after he left. Seeing your face everywhere he turned, it never being you. But this time it is.

He has had this dream before. Being here, staring at you from across the room. The ache in his chest feels the exact same way it does in those dreams. He blinks and it’s still you. He half wants to pinch himself.

You look different now, shorter hair, he’s never seen you dressed up like this - but Rooster could recognise you anywhere. He looks the same.

“Please join me in raising a toast in memory of tonight’s guest of honour, Admiral Tom Kazansky.”

You turn your head away from him, fighting back the sick feeling in your stomach as you lift your glass. Rooster’s still staring. He watches you raise your glass, then he catches sight of the man at your side.

He’s greying, his hairline isn’t what it once was - Rooster has met that guy before. They worked together for a couple of weeks about a year ago. It takes Rooster a split second to see past his anger that you’re with someone else, to realise that you aren’t here with an older man.

That’s your father. Of course it is, Rooster remembers sitting in the hospital with you, hearing that he was Navy. Rooster thinks back to last summer, working with that man for four weeks in Lemoore, having no idea. You’re nothing like that guy.

He thinks back to that summer. Five years ago. The winter that followed. The ache in his chest since he moved back.

“Honey.” An elbow presses softly into his side.

Rooster turns, disoriented, frowning at the face before him. Sara lifts her glass and hands him his. She smiles, tapping the rim of her glass against his with a soft clink. God, he loves that smile.

He loves her. He watches her take a sip of her sparkling water while his glass of champagne remains stationary in his hand. He drapes his arm across the back of her chair and runs his fingers through the loosely curled ends of her hair.

Sara Bradshaw smiles as her husband leans into her side and kisses the top of her head, before taking a sip of his own drink. She sets her drink back onto the table and rests her hand on top of her rounded stomach. Rooster glances down at her hand.

The engagement ring he put on it, the wedding ring he gave her after that. The pregnant stomach that her hand sits on.

You shoot one more look over there, and your heart sinks. His arm around her shoulder, leaning into her side. She’s pregnant. They look happy. Well, she does. He did, before he spotted you.

You turn your head back towards the stage, taking a long sip from your glass. Five years — you’re ridiculous for thinking that some trace of you, six months from half a decade ago, would be enough for him to have waited. It’s not like you did. There’s a ring on your finger too.

When your father had asked you to come here tonight, there had been a part of you that had hoped Rooster would be here. The other part of you knew that he would be.

He had mentioned Iceman to you once or twice, the Admiral that looked out for him occasionally, invited him up for thanksgiving every year even if it was more of a nice gesture than an actual invitation.

It’s a charity event in honour of Tom Kazansky, you would be lying if you said that you didn’t know Bradley would be here.

You just didn’t expect to see him looking so happy, so moved on. Married and expecting. Like he wanted. You lower your gaze, staring at your hands in your lap, feeling stupid for thinking he would still be stuck on you.

Rooster turns his head once more and looks over.

You aren’t looking at him anymore. Instead, you’re toying with the stem of your champagne glass, staring at the table cloth. There’s a look on your face that Rooster has seen before. He has hurt you before, he’s hurting you now. His instinct is to get up out of his chair in front of all of these people and cross the room. Instead, he stays exactly where he is. With his wife.

“You look so handsome tonight.” Sara whispers, smiling softly as she curls her fingers around his. He turns his head to look at her, his face softening just slightly. He lifts her hand and presses his lips to her knuckles.

“I love you.” He whispers back.

She takes his hand in hers and rests it over her pregnant stomach, smiling as he leans closer into her side. You turn your gaze towards the ceiling and just breathe. You left him. You’re the one who ended it. You’ve been happy without him - he’s happy without you.

It’s wrong to be upset.

And yet, you’re just about ready to drop your head into your hands and bawl your eyes out. He’s yours, it isn’t fair.

There are two speeches right off the bat, and then a brief break for people to mingle. Rooster watches. You’re the first one at your table to stand up, you turn and head right for the door.

“I’m going to head to the bathroom, little guy thinks my bladder is a trampoline.” Sara breathes, giving her husband a soft smile. He turns his attention back towards her and blinks.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll see you in a second, honey - I’m gonna get some air.”

He shouldn’t.

But he does. It’s been five years - he can’t wait another second. His feet carry him in the direction you had left in before his heart’s even on board with the idea, let alone his head.

It took him so long.

That first year without you had been hell. It only seemed fair. Six months making a fool of the woman he was supposed to spend forever with, a year of mourning her.

It was hard seeing Amy again. At first, he had struggled to look her in the eye. Amy had hoped that when she saw Rooster that he would be heartbroken, alone, tormented. He had been. It just hadn’t healed her like she thought it would. Because it wasn’t her taking up that space in his heart.

Rooster moved around a lot in that first year. The first thing he had done when he had gotten back was to end his lease, move out of the apartment he had shared with Amy and into a different place. That had just made it worse.

It was indescribable, the ache in his chest, the hole in his heart — the wound that he kept fresh in case you ever needed a place with him again. His friends hadn’t understood it. Mav hadn’t understood it. He felt like no one was ever going to.

There was one time, he had been drunk and wallowing in his pain. He had text you at three in the morning. Written six texts, maybe a couple thousand words, deleted them all and wrote them out again and again. Eventually settled on ‘I miss you’. He hadn’t ever received a response. That was over four years ago.

Maybe he should have sent the thousands of words, poured his heart out into the little blue bubble. It’s too late for that now.

He met Sara after a year away from you. A pretty girl that worked in an office near his apartment. The girl that smiled at him as she was waiting by the bus stop and he was jogging back to his apartment every evening.

The girl he married. Mother of his daughter, soon to be the mother of his son. The girl that hadn’t ever taken the time to ask exactly who it is that Bradley absentmindedly reached across his bed for in the mornings.

He steps outside and takes a big gulp of air. They’re close enough to the ocean that if he closes his eyes, he’s back there, sitting under the stars. With you in his arms.

He breathes as best as he can. He’s been to his fair share of Lamaze classes by now. In through his nose, out through his mouth — it’s bullshit, none of the people teaching those classes has ever felt what he feels. No one has ever loved and lost someone like you.

Bradley thinks back to the happiest days of his life. His wedding day. Layla’s birth, her saying ‘dada’ for the first times, her first steps. The day up on the cliffs, you sitting in his lap, curled into his side, telling him you loved him.

It’s back again, the detachment in his limbs. The numbness he felt whilst grieving you. Like he’s on autopilot, he lifts his hand and brushes it over his face. He leans his head back and turns his chin towards the stars, exhaling heavily.

It took so long for him to get here. Searching for pieces, covering up the hole you left — thinking he was healing it. The cover’s torn apart and the wound is exposed, he feels like all of those feelings are right here, pouring out all over the concrete under his feet.

Learning to love Sara, to lean into her touch like he had with yours. To stop thinking about how it was when he’s holding her.

He feels the feeling in his throat and swallows the whimper, breathing through his nose once again. He opens his eyes and finds the Orion’s Belt. They’re too close to a city here. Doesn’t look like it did sitting on the hood of your bronco that first summer, when he was just getting to know you.

Nothing’s the same as it was back then.

“Hey, sailor.”

There’s a sadness to the words as they come from behind them. Behind his eyelids, you’re there, standing on the other side of that bar, in that ridiculously short skirt, prepared to change his life forever.

In reality, you’re standing behind him, no longer that girl.

On autopilot once more, because there’s no way he could consciously bring himself to look at you ever again, he turns to face you. His heart leaps up into his throat. He didn’t get it wrong, it wasn’t his imagination. The hole in his heart stands before him, calm.

Baby. The word almost slips his lips, an immediate reaction, like a breath he has been holding in all this time. He wants to hold you, to reach out and wrap his arms around you. He stops himself just in time. Only then, he’s left with nothing in his head to say.

He stands before you, lips parted, brows raised. So much to say and no way of possibly saying it all the way that he wants to.

“Hi.” Rooster breathes out. He almost says that he thought it was you, but there’s no point. There was never any doubt in his mind, he would know your face anywhere.

Even when you look so different now, so matured. No tell-tale short skirt and knock-off sunglasses. Tamed, sea-salt free hair, a long dress and elegant heeled shoes.

He still looks the same, if you forgive the smile lines around his eyes and the stray grey hairs that are peppered around his temples.

“You’re married.” Saying it outloud stings like a fresh cut, for you and for him. Your words draw across his skin and leave him wounded, not an ounce of dishonesty in your comment, but a painful realisation nonetheless.

He looks down at the wedding ring on his finger and nods slowly. Bradley considers what comes next — it feels wrong to fill you in on what his life has become, when it still feels like it should have been with you.

“Yeah,” He confirms gently, lifting his gaze. There’s a sadness in his eyes, almost an apologetic look. Regret, perhaps — you aren’t sure.

It’s too quiet out here, like the world around you has stopped just so that you can hear how quiet he’s being. How ashamed of himself he is. You should probably be happy about that.

You aren’t.

“She’s pretty.” You try.

His eyes on yours, his features soft. Rooster shakes his head softly, not daring to take a single step towards you, feeling like he hasn’t quite earned that yet.

“I’m so sorry.” I wish it was different. I wish I had been different. I miss you, baby.

Your head tilts just a fraction. His heart sinks. The corners of your mouth twitch, pulling up into a soft smile. Reassurance, ‘it’s okay’ without actually saying that. It’s not okay, it hasn’t been for the past five years, and now that you’re standing here in front of him, he’s beginning to realize that it never will be.

“You’re going to be a dad,” You tell him, like he doesn’t already know, like he didn’t spend all of last weekend building furniture for his son’s room. It feels wrong to hear you say it. It feels wrong to have you hear, in front of him, in this life. He stares back at you. “Is this your first?”

He shakes his head slowly. It takes him a while to find the words to give you a real answer, his eyes never once leaving yours — like if he looks away then you’ll be gone for good.

“I have a daughter.” He answers quietly, unsure where to start. “She’s about to turn three. Her name’s Layla.”

About to turn three. You take a small, stumbling step back and then stop. You shouldn’t be upset by this — you’re the one who let him go. You should feel happy that he has moved on, you’re mature enough to know that by now.

You tip your chin just slightly, leaning your head back to look at the sky and breathe softly. Now that you’re not looking at him, he takes a moment to look at you. Really look.

Olive coloured satin, draped against your skin, shoulders exposed other than thin straps. A gold necklace that sits slightly askew between your collarbones. He reaches out for you first. His fingers graze over the skin of your open palm, featherlight and chilled from the sea air.

There’s no knowing what to do in a situation like this. The only certainty left in your head is that you shouldn’t have come tonight, but even that falters. Maybe you should have never let him go.

This is the scary part. His fingertips grazing your skin, those sad brown eyes looking right at you, and you’re putty in his hands. You want to tell him that it’s okay, that you’ve been okay, but that wouldn’t be the complete truth.

He has no idea how to proceed. There’s no way he could possibly explain to you how grateful he is for his wife, and their incredible daughter who reminds him more of himself everyday. It doesn’t even make sense to himself, how he can be so grateful for all of that, and still miss you so much.

His fingers slide across the lines in your palm as you count the stars over your head until it makes you dizzy. His hand in yours, the sky overhead, the sea over your shoulder — familiarity isn’t as nice of a feeling as you had thought it would be.

He touches metal. Quickly, Bradley’s gaze falls down. He takes your hand in his and lifts it slightly. You look ahead of you, right at him, watching his adam’s apple rise and fall in his throat.

“You’re engaged.” He realizes.

Hm. You had almost forgotten about that. He looks back up and meets your gaze — there he is. You catch a glimpse of him for a split second, the same protective Bradley who had dragged you out of a bar and thrown you over his shoulder. His features soften and he’s gone as quickly as he had appeared.

But, he’s still in there. The man that had loved you so fiercely.

“Yeah,” You nod your head slowly. It’s recent, and it’s not that big of a deal, but Caleb insists that you wear the ring. “He’s… nice.”

But he’s not you. Understanding in his eyes. Another glimpse and then it’s gone. It’s an odd feeling, because you do love Caleb — you wouldn’t have said yes if you didn’t, but he’ll never be Bradley.

Caleb is a chef, and he’s kind to you. It took him eighty days and fifteen dates to win you over, but he did it all without a single complaint. He holds you through thunderstorms and rubs your back without you having to ask — he promised to love you for the rest of his life and meant it.

You’ve been together for almost two years.

Bradley’s thumb trails over the ring. It’s a pear-cut opal on a gold band — those aren’t strong enough for everyday wear. It’s not going to last. The rock will be fucked in a couple of years, at most. He wonders if this guy that you’re marrying even knows that.

“Congratulations,” Bradley says softly. He looks up and offers you a small smile. “I’m happy for you.”

That’s not true. His hand remains in yours. He brushes his thumb across your knuckles. In all the days he has spent thinking of you, he hadn’t thought of this — marriage. With someone else. He swallows.

The last time he saw you, the pain in your eyes when you told him that you would never trust him enough to want to marry him. That you’d never be able to give him the future he needed. You’re giving it to someone else.

“Are you?”

Rooster’s polite little smile falters just slightly. He opens his mouth to answer, but you both already know what it is. Call it selfish, but he knows that he could never be happy for you, not unless you were his. His fingers weave between yours, he takes a small step closer to you.

“Honey, they’re about to start—“ Your father’s voice trails, his steps slow until he’s stalled all together. He adjusts the jacket of his uniform. His eyes flicker between you and the man standing in front of you. His hand in yours. The wedding ring on his finger. You pull back calmly and offer Rooster a tight-lipped smile.

“It was good seeing you again. I’ll catch you later.”

Your father’s brows furrow slightly as you step away from this married man and towards him. Rooster’s lips part, he knows how this looks. Nonetheless, he lets you lead the way back inside.

Rooster takes a couple of extra seconds to himself, looking up at the sky. He loves his wife, he loves his family — this is what he wanted. He looks like he belongs with Sara, they’re the same age and they have plenty in common. This is why he gave up a future with you. It’s selfish to want both and he knows that. But god, he has missed being that close to you.

Joe turns his head, watching as the man he had seen outside walks slowly back into the room and slips into his seat next to a pretty-looking woman with brown hair and a rounded, pregnant belly. His head whips around to look at you, seething.

“What did you do?” He accuses, his voice no more than an angry whisper.

You swallow softly and sink down in your seat. It’s still strange being around your father, much less being parented by him. Maybe this would have been more effective when you were a teenager, now that you’re an adult, there isn’t much he can do or say about things you’ve already done.

After his heart attack last winter, Joe has really dedicated himself to getting to know you. He’s been trying, you can’t deny him that. But it’s too little too late for him to start lecturing you.

“I knew him before he got married.” You answer calmly, grabbing your champagne flute and taking a long sip.

Joe scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief, “So, do you make a habit of holding hands with married men?”

“I haven’t seen him in years, he’s just someone that I used to know.” You defend yourself, drinking again and setting your now empty glass back down on the table. You breathe out hard and glance over there, catching his gaze. Sad brown eyes across the room. All he’ll ever be.

The lights go down as you lock eyes with him. Caught, he quickly turns his attention back to the stage.

“He’s too old for you.” Joe mutters bitterly. You scoff.

Heart thudding in your chest, trying to focus in on the voice on the stage. This is going to be a long night. You reach across the table and grab Joe’s glass, bringing it to your lips and knocking it back. He shouldn’t be drinking on his heart meds anyway.

“Oh, holy shit.” Jake splutters over his beer, eyes going round as dinner plates. Chloe spins, craning her neck to get a look at whatever has her husband so spooked. He catches hold of her shoulders and positions her, pointing past her shoulder. “That’s the girl from Hawaii.”

“No!” Chloe gasps, mouth hanging open. Jake nods, wincing as he looks towards Rooster and his wife standing over by the bar. Chloe rests her hand on her stomach, she’s having a girl that’ll be about a month younger than Bradley’s son. Jake’s already gearing up for a lifetime of chasing Bradley’s son away from his kid.

Chloe looks between Bradley and you. “She’s really cute. Do you think Sara knows?”

Engaged. Rooster stares down at his beer, brows furrowed angrily towards the brown glass bottle. You’re fucking engaged. You told him never. He would have fucking waited, he could have —

“Bradley, are you… alright? — You’re being really quiet.” Sara says softly, resting her hand against his arm. He lifts his head and turns to look at her. Really looks. He loves Sara. She’s a fantastic mother to their daughter, her laugh is infectious and when she smiles it feels like his heart could just explode.

Now, faced with exactly what he turned away from five years ago, he’s not so sure. You made him so happy. He could have made you so happy.

“If that asshole doesn’t stop staring over here, I swear to god, I’m going to knock him on his ass.” Joe mumbles angrily, shaking his head and shifting on his feet. You glance across. Bradley’s still staring.

“Joe, stop.” You complain, sipping at your drink. A couple more of these and you’ll stop being bothered by Rooster’s presence all together.

“I told you to start calling me Dad.” Joe bites back angrily. You roll your eyes at the thought. He folds his arms across his chest. “So, what — you dated him or something?”

Another big gulp. “Or something.”

It’s hard to define. A summer of falling in love, a winter of having your heart screwed up, stepped on, and then clumsily pieced back together with someone who is now a stranger to you. He didn’t piece your heart back together right, maybe that’s why you ended things — why it took so long to move on.

“Stop. Drinking.” Joe growls, snatching the glass from your hands. You wobble with the sudden force, taking a deep breath.

You glance across at Rooster, he’s looking at his wife now, his hand resting against her stomach as she leans in to talk to him. You stifle a whimper, forcing yourself to stay upright.

“I feel sick.”

Joe opens his mouth to make a snarky comment. Something along the lines of that being an appropriate response. You don’t get a chance to hear it, brushing past him and hastening towards the ladies room. Jake glances across at Rooster. Rooster watches you leave, concern creasing his features.

“Honey, I’m gonna be right back,” Rooster leans forwards and kisses Sara’s temple, squeezing her bicep tenderly. “Just have to…”

He trails off and shakes his head. He can’t think straight right now. Sara’s brows furrow as her husband takes off again. Jake catches a hold of Chloe’s wrist and stops her from following, shooting her a serious look.

You flinch as the door to the bathroom swings into the tile, eyes blowing wide open. “Rooster, what the fuck?”

“I just need to say a couple of things.” He pushes the door shut behind him and fumbles for a lock, then stops himself. He probably shouldn’t do that. He pulls at his collar, it feels especially tight all of a sudden. You stare at him, leaning back against the counter to the sink.

It’s hard not to soften, knowing that he came in here because he’s worried about you. He watches you relax as he takes a step towards you.

“I missed you,” His voice is quiet, like if he says it too loudly then this will become too much. Like he might scare you off. Your brows raise, just the slightest bit. He takes another step. “I thought about you so fucking much. You said you’d never get married.”

You swallow softly, he’s too close now. Close enough that you could touch him with minimal effort. That you can smell him, intoxicating and familiar. That you’re drawn in, suckered by those soft, brown eyes.

“I said I’d never marry you.” You answer quietly.

Five years later and that still hurts. He steps closer to you, brows creasing. He breathing shallows as he tries not to overreact, standing right in front of you know.

“I wanted to stay, I would’ve stayed.” Rooster breathes out, searching your features, hoping for you to give him the answer he’s looking for. You glance down as he rests his palm against the counter to your side, pinning you between him and the marble.

There’s a long pause, because you don’t know what to say. Sending him away seemed like the right decision, and it probably was, but that doesn’t mean you ever stopped thinking about him.

“You’re married.” You remind him quietly. It goes unsaid, but you’ve both got the same thing on your mind. It’s too late. He’s been wondering for the last five years if it is, he can’t spend the rest of his life not knowing.

He breathes out and takes that final step forwards, pressing his body into yours, cupping your jaw between his index finger and thumb as his lips crash into yours. A surprised hum slips out, you bump into the counter behind you.

You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt and pull him forwards again, pressing your lips to his. He nips at your bottom lip, the taste of champagne on your tongue as it slides against his.

His hands wrap around your waist and trail down to cup your ass, you hum eagerly into his mouth. You’ve missed this. For a couple of seconds, it’s just the two of you, like it used to be. Rooster presses himself into you. You tense up as he grabs your hips and drops you onto the counter, relaxing instantly into his touch.

Rooster lips his tongue into your mouth once again, grabbing your knees and parting them, moving to stand between your thighs. His fingertips trail up along your legs, as far as the slit in your dress will allow him. Not far enough.

Out of breath and growing dizzy, you have to pull back, eyes widening. You breathe hard, staring at the man you loved, wide-eyed. Your gaze falls down to look at his hand on your thigh, the gold band on his ring finger.

As soon as you look back up at him, it’s clear that you’re both thinking the same thing. He swipes his thumb tenderly over your cheek, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Fuck.” It’s not quite a sigh, more of a rushed breath. Your eyes widen whilst his close, he takes a step back. He runs a hand over his face and leans his head back. Frowning, you lean forwards and try again. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

You push yourself down from the counter and press a hand over your mouth. There’s a brief pause, a million thoughts streaming through his head as he tries to figure out what the fuck that was and how the fuck he is making the same mistake again.

Rooster turns his head and looks at you, searching for an answer here and now rather than in the memories he made with you. You swallow softly. It felt the same.

“That was such a dumb mistake, Bradley, I’m so sorry.”

Silenced, he stares at you again. There’s his answer. He nods his head slowly and takes another step back from you. It’s not easy to agree, and so he doesn’t, that didn’t feel like a mistake to him. It probably should’ve.

You can see it in his face, he’s so easy to read and he always has been. He still loves you. There’s a strange, brief sense of triumph that fills you. It’s gone as quickly as it rises when you remember the beautiful woman that he’s here with tonight, who he chose to start a family with.

“I should go.”

“Yeah,” He runs his fingers through his hair and nods for you to leave first. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll… see you around.”

Bradley closes his eyes as you turn away from him.

As your feet carry you off of the tile and into the carpeted hallway, there’s no need to turn around. You’re left with more answers than you were expecting. You had been right about him.

He could’ve never been what you wanted. This was always the future he was meant to have. Your heart settles in your chest, glancing down and fiddling with the ring on your finger. You’d made the right choice.

…

@unordinare

@shawnsthighs

@ycarlii

@alanadetigy

@marvelsvalhalla

@imdeadinsidesiriuslydead

@cherrycola27

@carolfoxs-blog

@thesewordsareallihavetogive

@the-winter-marvel33

@owenniasstars

@fangirlofallthings22

@terrawhitehorn

@tooflef

@lizchi

@krismdavis

@okayyypurrrr

@backinwonderl4nd

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@she-writes-sometimes-too

@ceiling-fann

@mak-32

@cowboybarbie

@perpetuelledaydreaming

@jakexfmc

@hootylou

@throwinsauce

@currentlybradshaw

@saramaple

@belledawnidk

@marantha

@nevermind-42

@teenwolf01

@hawsx3

@jostyriggslover96

@itsmytimetoodream

@midnightanticss

@sadpetalsstuff

@callsign-fox

@jostyriggslover96

@forgiveliv

@loveforaugust

@diamond-3

@shawnsblue

[smallpeniscollective]

Out by the Fire

Daryl Dixon x Reader (18+)

Summary: (takes place in early season 3 in the prison, before all the governor stuff) Daryl and the reader share a sweet moment by the fire.

Minors please DNI !!

Word Count: 2.9k

Warnings: confessions, some cursing, mentions of walkers, sexual content, p in v sex, unprotected sex

*~*~*

The flames of the fire licked the night sky, a thin stream of gray smoke pilfering into the air. With no electricity in this new world, the stars were astoundingly visible. The large yard of the prison felt so empty with just her and Daryl out by the small fire, and the night was only getting colder, but she couldn't leave Daryl by himself.

"Y'know, Daryl, I used to be a vegetarian before everything happened," she said, attempting to start a conversation. She was picking at the squirrel meat from the hunt he had gone on for the group earlier that day.

"Well, that's dumb. Ya gotta eat yer meat. Only way to get protein," he huffed, side-eyeing her barely touching her food with the smallest hint of concern in his eyes.

"Yeah, I, uh... I watched Bambi as a kid, and the scene where the hunter shot his mom made me swear off eating anything with a face," she said softly, smiling lightly to herself as she remembered her normal childhood of Disney movies and DVD players and those huge thick TVs with the staticky screens. "My mom used to scold me for not eating enough protein..." A lump caught in her throat, the memory of her old family being too much to bear. "Bet she's real proud of me now," she attempingly joked, squeezing it out in a choked whisper, tears blurring her vision. She turned, quickly wiping her eyes before any real tears fell down her cheeks.

"Course she's proud of ya, ya made it this far wit' no walkers takin' ya down," he grunted, getting visibly uncomfortable. She assumed that it was because he just hated seeing people cry, but his words did bring her some sense of comfort. She looked over at him to find he was staring hard at the fire, like he just couldn't look her back in the eyes.

"Thanks, that means a lot," she whispered, returning her gaze to the flickering of the fire.

"Sorry 'bout yer family," he stuttered out, as if he was trying to find the right words as he spoke.

"Sorry about yours," she returned quietly. She took a chance to scoot closer to him, telling herself it was because he was radiating such heat in the cold, but deep down she just wanted to be closer. She could see him physically tense up as he sensed her getting close, but he didn't move away. "I like sitting with you, Daryl," she admitted, slowly resting her head on his broad and warm shoulder. "It feels nice."

It feels nice? God, you sound like a schoolgirl with a crush, she thought to herself, chastising herself for the simplicity of her statement, until she heard a gruff response from him.

"Yeah, it does."

Smiling to herself, she let herself finish eating the squirrel meat, ignoring the fact that it used to be a little woodland creature because he caught it for her. And she was grateful for it. For him.

A slight breeze of cold air swept through the prison yard, causing a chill to creep up her spine and her skin to break out in goosebumps. The winter was only just ending, and the spring was starting out just as cold. She was hardly prepared for the cold. Hell, she had nothing, just the summer clothes on her back and the supplies shared by the group. Slightly shivering, she felt her teeth start to uncontrollably chatter embarrassingly loud.

Suddenly, a thick warm arm was thrown around the back of her shoulders. He rubbed the side of her arm in an effort to create warmth for her. "Don't be gettin' sick out here on a count a' me."

"To be honest, Daryl, I'd do a lot of things for you... getting sick is nothing," she chuckled, not realizing she had just confessed a hint of feelings for him. And then she felt his hand stop rubbing her arm. Instead, he was gripping her arm, holding her to him tightly.

She lifted her head off of his shoulder, looking up at his face, attempting to read his facial expression. It looked thoughtful, stoic, as if he couldn't decide what to do or say next. Carefully, he said quietly, "Y/n, I care for this group a lot... but I care for ya even more somehow..."

She grinned unabashedly, tilting her head to bat her lashes. He stared at her face with question, waiting for her response, and glanced quickly at her lips. She noticed this quick glance and returned the favor, asking just above a whisper, "Daryl, can I kiss you?"

She was always the bold one, the one who made the first move, the one who joined him whenever he was alone, the one who initiated their conversations. She knew that Daryl struggled to speak his mind, let alone speak to people at all. She didn't mind, she herself was too impatient to wait for him to make a move.

And he silently appreciated her making the moves that he wanted to, yet at the same time felt insecure in the fact that he could barely bring himself to speak to her, when she was so special to him, so different from the rest. Every time he could just hear Merle in his head calling him a pussy for not taking the several chances she laid out for him. But in this moment, the only thing he could hear was the soft heaving of her breaths from the anticipation of hearing an answer to her question, the crackling fire, the slight breeze in the wind, the ground beneath him crunching after every move he made. It was exciting and panic-inducing and electrifying... but mostly it was peaceful.

For the first time in his life, he chose to not overthink, and to act on his feelings. He grasped the sides of her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks, fingers digging into her soft hair, and he leaned in, pulling her to him. When their lips collided, it felt like time truly stood still and all there ever was was her. Her touch. Her taste. Her sound. He allowed himself to feel peace in her touch and excitement in himself.

Their mouths connected in a hot, soft, fleshy mush, and she noticed the taste of cigarettes and the slight scent of sweat and dirt. Her hands flew to him, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. The kiss that had started passionately quickly grew heated as all of the deep, harrowing loneliness in her that had gone unanswered and untouched in this cruel new world engorged itself into something bigger, something entirely desperate. Their lips moved in rhythm as their bodies slowly pressed together, him moving his hands from her face to wrap around her waist, and she, in return, wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her fingers in his hair, feeling the soft strands on her fingertips.

Needing a breath, she pulled her head back, panting and a little kiss-drunk on the sudden heat of the moment. Giggling, she said, "Damn, Daryl, you sure can kiss."

He went quiet, relaxing from his state of intensity. He looked down to where their bodies were pressed against each other's and couldn't help but notice the swell of her breasts up against his chest. He found himself becoming aroused, unwilling to pull away from her but hoping she wouldn't notice the hardness beginning to grow in his pants.

Of course she noticed. Feeling confident after their shared kiss, she leaned further into his lap with a slight grind against his hips, causing a small groan to escape his lips. She knew she wanted this, needed this, to relieve a deep ache in her core that he awakened the second he pulled her close. Not wanting to take this any further without confirmation, to make sure this is what he wanted as well, she leaned in close to his face and gently placed her palm on his abdomen right above where her hips rested against his. Her lips brushed against his as she whispered with a timid yet pleading tone, "Can I?"

In response, Daryl wrapped his muscular arms tightly around her waist and spoke against her lips assuredly, "Darlin', I been thinkin' about doin' this with ya since I first ever saved yer ass from the walkers."

Immediately, she locked her lips onto his and heavy-handedly palmed him through his worn down pants. He inhaled sharply, pulling her by the waist to turn her around and lay her down beside the fire. She fumbled with his pants zipper, slowly pulling it down and purposefully grazing her hand against the tent in his boxers. He groaned again, harder this time, and ground his clothed erection against her. The pressure sweeping against her loins pushed her arousal further, and she could feel a warm wet patch developing in her panties, and she quickly moved to wrap both of her arms around his neck, fingers spreading through his hair, and kissed him deeper, sweeping her tongue across his lips to invite his own tongue into her mouth.

His fingers slid under the hem of her shirt, brushing against her warm bare skin. The sudden contact from his chilly fingers caused her to breathe in sharply. He slowly slid her shirt up, dragging his fingers against her sides, disconnecting their lips and bodies momentarily to pull her shirt over her head, exposing her little black bra. His eyes locked in immediately on her chest, his erection reaching its peak hardness. She arched her back, her hips rubbing against his to nonverbally remind him to press his lower body against hers once more, and he willingly obliged.

He locked eyes with her once, a slight shimmer in his eyes that said, "God, you're beautiful," without him having to say a word out loud, before dropping his head to attach his lips her neck, sucking on the tender flesh with wet hot lips, making the softest whiny moan slip from her lips. He squeezed her tightly in response, and it excited her, making her feel like in this moment she was entirely and completely his.

His lips moved from her collarbone to down to her chest, and she arched her back high to reached behind her and undo the hooks, loosening her bra so that he could remove it, and he did, pulling the straps quickly down her arms, and got goosebumps from the chilly air hitting her naked chest. His large hands were drawn to her exposed breasts, resting his hands under them and rubbing his thumbs gently over the hardening sensitive buds, which only made her entrance feel warmer and wetter. She heatedly pulled his sleeveless button up over his head quickly, reveling in his broad manly torso.

He pulled himself back to be able to pull her pants off, sliding them down her legs, revealing her drenched panties, and placed his warm hand between her legs, brushing two large fingers against the wetness of her underwear. "Damn," he whispered to himself, admiring her arousal. She gasped at the contact. He hooked his fingers in the sides of her panties and pulled them down, leaving her naked in front of the fire, the view from the prison hidden by the tall grass.

She reached for the hem of his pants, her body aching for more contact, and he pulled his pants and boxers down together, past the brown tuft of body hair, enough to reveal his hard length. She took it in her hand, tenderly swiping her thumb over the slit of the head, using his pre-cum as a lubricant for the tip, eliciting a breathy grunt from him. He wrapped his larger hand over hers, and she helped him guide his length towards her hot wet entrance. Her body's anticipation betrayed her by having a small whine creep out of her throat, signaling to him that she was not only ready for him, but needy for him as well.

The first push hurt a little, her walls stretching out for the first time in a very long time, but the second he was buried to hilt, she had adjusted and all she could feel was how full her lower abdomen felt, drawing a slow and deep moan out of her. She hadn't noticed how big he was in the dim light of the fire, but inside and deliciously stretching her, he felt huge. He started teasingly slow, pulling out of her at a leisurely pace, making her wrap her arms around his neck and pull her to him tightly and burying her face in his neck. He left a gentle kiss on her head as he began pushing in and pulling out at half-speed, sending waves of pleasure through her body. In this moment, their bodies felt like two puzzle pieces designed to connect together, and the euphoric sensation inside of her was setting her nerves ablaze and sending tingles all the way down to her fingers and toes.

By this point, she was a moaning mess, and he thrusted harder with every whimper he heard muffled against his neck. Strings of curse words left her mouth as she felt herself becoming absolutely intoxicated by the pleasurable tightness building in her, tightening her walls around his length. He began to thrust harshly, pounding hard and starting to hit a spot deep in her that had her curling her toes. Her moans became so obscenely loud, he instinctively threw a hand up to cover her mouth. "Darlin', yer gonna have to be a lot quieter than that," he grunted in her ear, his hot breath sending shivers down her spine.

The shivers, the deep pounding, and the spot in her that he hit so right all combined together to send her to the edge, her loud moans turning over to desperate teary-eyed whines, and he removed his hand from her mouth. She tightened on him so hard that he almost finished on the spot, so he teasingly slowed his pace down to an agonizing speed, making her squeeze him tightly with her thighs and grip his hair a little too hard. "God, Daryl, please don't stop," she begged, sounding almost pathetic in her pleading tone.

"Don' worry, sweetheart, I gotcha," he soothed quietly, and snaked a hand down her front, using a hot, thick finger to rub slowly on her clit, and this was it. With the addition of the action on her clit, the building tightness in her abdomen exploded with hot pleasure and tingles, leaving her a shivering, sweaty mess. And with the queue of her finishing, his thrusting picked up speed and he pounded into her once more. She was still so sensitive that his movements felt orgasmic, continuing the waves of explosive pleasure bursting through her until his pace came to a stuttering halt and with a deep groan, she felt a new warmth fill her up inside, feeling it spill and leak out from her entrance still wrapped around his member.

He dropped his body weight on her in a huff, burying his head in the crook of her neck, and she giggled at his exhausted state. They were both panting and weak and so sweaty.

In the most meek she had ever heard his voice, he joked, "Damn, baby, ya sure know how to leave a man weak as hell."

She laughed loudly, feeling blissful and ignorant to the world around them. She dragged her nails up his back softly, giving him a little back scratch for all the hard work he did. He groaned in a peaceful way to let her know it felt good, and for a moment it seemed like they were the only two people in the world.

The fire nearly dwindled out, letting them know it was time to get dressed and head inside. She could feel herself becoming bashful again, now that the hot passion was only lingering, and whispered with a shy smile, "Thank you for that, Daryl... I really appreciate... it."

She mentally slapped herself after that statement. I really appreciate it? Is this a formal exchange? The fuck is wrong with you? she thought to herself, but at the same time thinking it was a little comical that that was her natural awkward response. She put her clothes back on quickly.

He gave a small chuckle as he pulled his shirt back over his head. "Darlin', ya don't have to thank me, that was fer me too."

He put out the remains of the fire, taking her hand to sneak her back in quickly and quietly, as to not alert or wake up any of the group and led her back to her cell.

He gave her a quick kiss before trying to respectfully leave her alone to sleep in her cell, but she grabbed his hand and looked up into his eyes with the softest of pleading eyes and whispered, "Would you stay with me?"

He stopped, looking around worriedly, but ultimately gave into her desire, stepping up to her and sitting her down on the bed. "Sweetheart, I'd do anythin' for ya. Yer my girl now, and I'd never let nothin' happen to ya."

She smiled softly with tired eyes and pulled his hand to lead him onto the cell mattress with her. She faced the wall and he wrapped his warm body around hers, holding her too him, and rested his chin against the back of her head and made a small noise of content.

She giggled, "Y'know, when they find us in the same cell tomorrow, we're gonna have some explaining to do."

And then he said, "Yer my girl now. That's all they need t'know."

*~*~*

A/N: AHHH that was my first little oneshot for you guys, literally feel free to request anything, but I must ask that requests are made for seasons 1-3 bc I’m only just now rewatching after stopping at season 4 and I know a lot of spoilers but I don’t know the details of what happens after season 4, but omg !! Lmk if u guys like it and want more lol

[kiisuuumii]

i just wasn't your type of moth.

it was never a lie that this summer spent with you taught me a lot about myself. much more than what i could have revealed for myself on my own.

it was never a lie that i cared about the wound she had left.

and it is not a lie when i say that i was not enough. i know i was not enough.

i could give you reasons as to why i couldn't give you more. but i think they might sound like excuses to you.

i still gave you what i could, though.

i hope you will believe me when i say that i tried. so many times i tried. i thought i could start new again. i thought i was ready. i really, truly thought. so i tried. please believe me when i say that i tried.

you are the type of person i always thought i wanted to surround myself with. kind. patient. effortful. creative. wild.

but i felt walked all over. i felt smothered. unlistened to. it all felt so forced upon me.

and i think now that maybe i should have told you this.

but i wanted to spare you the damage.

now the damage has been dealt. and i am sorry. and i am sorry when i say that it has felt as if a weight had been lifted off of me since i chose to part ways. to the point where i wonder where i would be in my grief had we not met. i wonder if, had we met now, i would have been farther along in my journey. if i would have already moved on from him.

i hope you take something away from what this winter had been. i hope it doesn't just become a memory that hurts.

but it's okay if it does. i have resigned myself to being the villain in this story. for what i'd done, i think it would be enough repentence.

i hope that the memory of me becomes a reminder of the type of person, the reciprocity, you truly deserve in this life.

but i hope that this also becomes a reminder that, despite how it almost feels as if destiny had led you to a person, place, or thing, sometimes, all something is destined to be is just a person, place, or thing. and nothing more. just another experience in this human existence, for that is why we are here in this life. to just live. and to learn.

this is something that i'm still trying to come to terms with. as the stretch of days grows longer, and more time is put between here and then, between him and myself, it's something i'm still trying to learn.

i will forever be grateful for your presence in my life. for how you shaped my view of it. just as there will never be another him. just as there will never be another her. there will never be another you. none of these are lies.

so take care of yourself, my friend. you have so much to offer this world and the people in it. keep writing. keep being vulnerable. you are a light in and of yourself. you hold a light, despite everything you'd gone through, and that is invaluable. there will be people who really need it.

[nuhahani]

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.

[kayakoto-enterprises]

What does the rain remind you of?

Together alone when everybody hides inside.

POV Julianne's entries in her sketchbook. Short drabble.

Where I'm from the rain never ends. After the dry, merciless reign of the summer sun comes the wet season where storms happen almost routinely every night. Some nights it relaxes you like a rhythmic lullaby, but most times I've worried about flood seizing our home again. Still, I loved the cold weather. The feeling freed me from the heat of responsibility and accountability. Like it was soothing me to return to bed and let myself be cuddled by the world I built for myself.

I couldn't believe I let myself move to the United States. I hated the dry weather. I moved into the hottest city in the West coast only because my old friends were there. As much as I was thankful for the company funded apartments I was assigned into, there's nothing air conditioning can do that could remind me of the rainshowers of home. The sound of hard trickling on metal ceilings. The gloss it gave the grass. The pools that formed in the broken asphalt. The memory of feeling of relaxation and ease some rainy nights made my lonely heart feel.

I've been staying in Woodbrook for 7 months now. I survived and am surviving the last trickling days of winter. It was just a cold air that enveloped the town comfortably enough for people to still be outside. I couldn't understand this climate. I had thought I would like it too but the frost weakened my defenses and caused me to get ill multiple times. I guess I wasn't made for these times. I wish I could romanticize it like so many others.

The sterile blue and mint tiles of the Woodbrook Elementary Faculty Room hid under the shadows and yellow light of a sole lamp in a cubicle. I was working late grading multiple Plates by students in both Kindergarten and Grade 2 as I had put it off to work on other projects months into the new quarter. The harsh airconditioning froze my hands and legs in place. I quickly graded each paper hoping the pile would shorten soon. The coffee I had minutes ago was not helping my poor mind focus. I slumped my way to the water cooler and looked out the window. My conscience returned to me as the familiar patter of water rang from outside. Sure enough the sound of home was waiting outside. It was raining quite hard.

It had been too long. The faculty was completely dark as I ran out with nothing but my apartment keys in my pocket. I stepped out into the dark sky drumming with thunder and rain. The droplets felt like heavy hands against my back. The cold air brushed my fur. I looked up at the starless sky, falling back into the grass behind the building. It was warm again. The feeling of being in motion again. The comfort of being home.

Picture every happy memory you've had. A birthday. Christmas. A night out with friends. A long bus ride. A hot meal. All of those melt into the grass I've fallen into. I won't be home for a while. This is the closest I can be to reaching that blue garden again.

Melting. And melting. And melting.

On the concrete steps of the elementary's entrance I sat down and listened to the sound of the dying storm. I nearly fell asleep on the plantbox when a harsh yellow light cut through the dark road. My ears perked up to listen for police. I immediately sighed in relief recognizing the dusty blue doors. It's you again.

"Are you finally done grading those drawings?"

I looked up and teasingly smiled.

"No. Sorry."

"Again? How many left? Where's your stuff?"

I was just lost in a euphoric feeling of nostalgia that I didn't answer anything, just falling into her arms suddenly.

"Oh, you're wet. What have you been doing this whole time?"

"Sitting out in the rain. I laid down on the field right there when the rain was stronger."

Her expression gloomed into a frustrated, maybe concerned frown but settled back when I held her hand. Maybe it isn't just nostalgia that's clouding my judgement.

"I..I couldn't sleep when it started to rain." Sam whispered "Then I drove to your apartment and your window wasn't open."

"I told you I'd be going overtime."

She urgently pulled me off the plantbox.

"Let's just do this at my house-"

"Wait. Wait. I.." I protested "Can..can we please stay..here for..a little more?"

"Why?"

I don't understand why I was desperately arguing staying under the rain for longer. I let my hand go from her grip to sit back down on the concrete.

"I want to stay. Rain makes me less homesick."

The rain began to disappear into a tickle of water every now and then. What was left was the glistening plants and metal and the smell of the earth. I looked up to the cloudy sky. It was still going to rain. But there's this peaceful hiatus in between. The engine turned off. Sam sat down next to me, restlessly placing her face between her knees.

"I'm sorry." I feel guilty for dragging her into my own whims again.

"You have to promise me you'll take a warm bath when we get to the house. You are going to get another flu."

I nod wordlessly still lost in my own guilt.

"What does the rain remind you of?"

I scoot closer to her to hear better.

"What does the rain remind me of?"

She yawns before placing her arms around me again.

"Yes. I'll give you a pass on this one. It IS the first rain of the year."

The cicadas return to fill in the space the pouring left.

"It reminds me of the place I used to live in. The rain tonight perfectly captures the feeling of the wet season. I like rain when I can stay at home when classes are suspended. When I could watch tapes of Roy G. Biv and Lecker."

"We really couldn't be..ah..anymore opposite..can we.."

I carefully guided her head to rest on my lap. The rain returned slowly, introducing in phases.

"Why? You..you like sunny days more or you.."

"No. The reason I drove to see you is because rain makes me feel stressed. Angry even. I'm not mad at you for liking rain..but i'm too sleepy to..bathe in that kind of rage right now."

"..so, what..what does the rain remind you of?" I cautiously asked.

It took her a while to rehearse an answer perhaps. We sat in silence forever. I brushed her fur waiting for any answer. Even just a push for us to get in the truck now. Our fur and clothes almost see-through and heavy with water.

"..I had..a bad day in the city..last year. A..really bad day. When the murders were happening, I got extremely upset and hid out somewhere in Golden Apple to seek asylum. My friend died and I was being blamed for it."

"..and it was raining."

"Yes, but then at least I was hidden under hundreds of umbrellas."

My ears pulled back. I crouched down and rested my chin on her cheek.

"I..I'm sorry."

"It's nothing."

I felt a pit in my chest hearing that anecdote. I reached for my keys and dangled them a bit.

"Guess that means we should..go home now..?" I softly smiled.

"Wait. I have a happier story for you about the rain."

"Yeah? What..what is it?"

"You know I did a bit of soul searching after college, right? And..so this kind of weather followed me into the most inconvenient places or times. And whenever it did I had no money to get a room somewhere so I was sleeping under flooding soil most nights."

I nodded along listening carefully. She thinks a bit as she collects the details before talking again.

"I went camping with a friend later in the trip. I had taken so many hits so far I didn't feel like myself since my mind kept wandering towards survival rather than anchoring down my identity...like I had promised myself."

"Then he..showed me the stars reflecting on the stream near our camp.." She pauses in between words to breathe, look me in the eyes "..And how those rains or floods aren't adversaries in my journey so far..I just had to live with how natural things flow. And that really let me. Let it all go."

"So when I came back home here it was..raining. Like the rain was waiting for me here. And I welcomed it back."

My arms just naturally wrapped around her waist when she finished. I couldn't articulate properly how happy her stories make me feel sometimes. I feel safe hearing them. It's always so sure. Like everything had a reason to happen.

"It's just a shame that last year had to dampen your feelings about the rain." I said.

"I don't have any particular opinion about the weather. It's just real to me. Not good nor bad."

We stuck around the wet pavement for hours until the sign of light from the horizon reminded us to come home.

I'll probably catch the flu again. Goodbye.

[booksteaandtoomuchtv]

Witchy Woman (7/10)

0.5 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | AO3 | 8 | 9 | 10

LOOK AT THIS STUNNING ARTWORK BY @cocohook38

Summary: When Emma came into her position as Storybrooke Coven Leader, she ended things with the powerful Vampire Overlord, Killian Jones. She’s spent over a decade working alongside him and ignoring the growing tension between them.

During his best mate’s wedding, Killian decides he is done waiting. He is ready to have his mate back in his arms (and bed) again. Emma is not an easy woman to woo, but Killian has never backed down from a challenge.

When Emma’s jilted ex-boyfriend returns to town and Emma goes missing, Killian will stop at nothing to get her back and ensure that nothing can ever separate them again.

Rating: E

CW: Mention of domestic abuse, blood and blood drinking (vampires), threatening situations, minor violence, death, mention of parental death

Entry for Captain Swan Supernatural Summer 2023 (@cssns)

Tag: @anmylica, @deckerstarblanche, @elfiola, @goforlaunchcee, @jrob64, @kmomof4, @pirateswhore, @stahlop, @teamhook, @tiganasummertree, @undercaffinatednightmare, @xarandomdreamx, @zaharadessert (let me know if you want to be added or dropped)

Lifting her gaze from the seemingly endless lines of tiny, irregular text in front of her, she let her eyes rest on the sight of the gorgeous vampire studying a similarly old and yellowed text. He toyed with his pen, cleverly manipulating it between his fingers, as he read unaware she’d stopped her own research. Her heart almost hurt as she took in features too perfect to be real,  his cheekbones had been carved by a particularly gifted angel doing their best work, the perfection of his jaw was highlighted by deep amber scruff, and his eyes were the deep, rich blue of a clear winter sky. 

He was focused, his tongue running under this sharp canine as he read. His fangs weren’t elongated now as they’d been when he ran them along her neck this morning. He had held her tight, thrusting deep into her, as she rocked against him chasing her pleasure. The scrape of his fangs had sent shivers straight to her core. The memory crept up on her all morning in vivid detail while they worked distracting her completely from the dull, ancient texts. 

Emma heard so many things about the bite from a vampire. Connections between vampire pairs and vampires and their mates were deepened by the bite. Some claimed it was the most intimate connection any supernatural pairs could share - and werewolves could communicate telepathically with their mates. Most who were bitten by vampires agreed it was the most pleasurable experience they’d ever had - some even became obsessed, addicted to the bite. Emma wondered how enjoyable it would have to be to cause people to stalk vampires, seeking another hit of the venom. Older vampires were said to cause more pleasure. Killian was one of the oldest she’d ever heard of. What could his bite do to her?

“Does it really…” Emma felt her face heat when those stunning eyes looked up to meet hers. The intensity of his gaze heated her more than the question she had started to ask.

“Does what really what, Swan?” His voice was hardly more than a rumble. When he took in the deep blush blooming on her features, his lips quirked up in a heartbreakingly beautiful smile. 

“Your bite, does it really enhance things?”

“Enhance things?” Killian’s eyes danced with humour. He clearly knew what she was asking and was enjoying her embarrassment entirely too much. 

“Never mind,” she snapped and returned her attention to the book before her.

“Do you want to know what a vampire’s bite is like? Because you can read that in any of your many books on the subject.” Killian asked keeping his voice in that low villainous timbre. His eyes were rolling with that starlight of magic. “Or, are you asking what my bite, specifically, would do to you?” 

“What would make your bite different?” 

Killian’s gaze flicked away as he chewed over his next words. He turned his attention back to her and hesitated for a moment - his tongue wetting his bottom lip followed quickly by his teeth grazing over the spot. Why is he nervous?

“If I were to bite you, Swan, I believe it would transform our relationship completely.”

“Because you’re such a powerful vampire and I won’t be able to stay away from your allure after one bite?” Emma teased. 

“No. Because when a vampire bites their mate, he gives her more of himself. You would see memories some memories as with most bites, but you would also know what I am feeling so long as my venom is in you. Since you are a witch, I expect there would be some exchange of our powers. I’ve heard powerful conduits,” he looked at her pointedly before continuing, “share an even deeper connection with their mates after their bond is solidified in this way.”

“You believe that I am your mate?”

“I know it to be so.”

“How?” Her voice was hardly above a whisper. “Don’t you have to taste my blood before you can be certain?” 

“When your blood is fresh, I can smell it.” His cheeks were rosy at the admission as if it were something embarrassing to admit. “The night before you ended things, you had cut your hand while we were cooking together.”

“You’ve known all this time?” Emma murmured. “We’ve wasted all this time?” 

“What’s a decade or two when you live forever?” He answered with a smile before adding softly, “For an opportunity to hold you again, I would have held out hope for us until we both ceased to exist.”

Tears pricked at her eyes. How did she come to have a love like his? Of one thing she was absolutely certain, she’d spend the rest of their infinite lives showing him that he was loved just as deeply and unconditionally as he loved her. She’d prove to him that his faith in them, his hope over all this time apart wasn’t wasted. 

§§§§    §§§§    §§§§    §§§§

The Supernatural Gala held on the first night of the festivities was, Emma was certain, a form of torture banned by several governments. The dress that Anna had produced for her to wear tonight clung tightly to her form. She supposed it was fashionable and exquisite in its own right, but it made her skin itch and she felt a bit like she was playing dress up with her mum’s clothes, wanting to be the elegant grown-up that the finery suggested she should be.

Anna had transformed the dated ballroom into a scene that rivalled something from the Fae Courts. The high ceiling had become a clear night sky, twinkling with stars. The old wooden columns had been transformed into large, sprawling trees that reached toward the night sky. Their trunks were wrapped with cloth that shimmered as if it were woven from moonbeams. Flowers with petals so deep a blue that they might have been black bloomed on some trees, while others were filled with leaves the colour of freshly fallen snow. Music from an orchestra that Emma could not find drifted into the room and muted the conversations between guests. A few couples were dancing to the music, their movements impossibly complex and graceful. Most of the guests were standing in tight groups exchanging hollow pleasantries while they sipped endless glasses of wine.

“Amphitrite would envy how well you wear her waters.” Killian appeared by her side with a glass of wine and the warmth she hadn’t realised she was missing until his arm was wrapped around her waist. His perfectly tailored suit was the same fathomless blue as the ocean at night kissed by the moon, the same colour as her gown, the colour of his eyes when they darkened with need.

Emma rolled her eyes at him - as if his words and his muscular legs in those tight slacks didn’t affect her - and she plucked the glass out of his hand. She leaned into his side and he tightened his hold, his hook resting on her hip. She sipped at the wine gratefully before resting her head against his shoulder. “I hate these things.”

“I know, love.” He pressed a kiss into her hair. Emma adored that he didn’t press her further, didn’t try to convince her these were fun or necessary events, and didn’t brush off her comment with a dismissive, “It isn’t that bad.” Rather, he stood by her side making the whole stuffy night more bearable with his steady presence (and the wine - of course). 

He took the empty glass from her hand and set it on a nearby table and offered his hand to her. “What do you say, Swan, would you dance with me?” 

Emma smiled, laying her hand in his. “Why not?”

“That’s the spirit.”

She followed his confident movements in a complex dance that many of the other guests seemed to know the steps to as well. She knew the music must indicate the moves that were expected of the guests, but it all sounded like background music to her. 

“It’s a waltz,” Killian murmured, answering her unasked question. 

“Of course, you know how to waltz.”

“Mum was fascinated by balls and masquerades,” Killian spoke softly as he led her in a series of turns and complex steps. “She told Liam and me these fanciful, romantic stories of men and women falling in love as they danced together in ballrooms filled with magic and wonder. She danced with us, her little princes, humming the songs that she overheard from the ballrooms she was never invited into.” 

The sadness behind his eyes at the memories tugged at her heart. She wanted him to know that he was not alone any longer and she was glad he’d shared such a precious memory with her. She wasn’t quite sure how to tell him just that, so she pulled him close to her, interrupting the graceful movements of the dance to kiss him.

He kissed her back as though she were the only thing that had ever mattered. 

A cloud of white haze surrounded them, magic swirling, gently pulling and twisting until it wrapped them up tightly and transported them away from the noisy gathering. Killian raised an eyebrow when he saw the familiar walls of his bedroom surrounding them. Emma smiled back at him with a mixture of pride and mischievousness on her features. “That’s quite a trick, Swan.”

Smile still in place, she wiggled her fingers and his jacket and shirt were tossed carelessly onto the floor. He pulled her to him and kissed her again, nipping her bottom lip and soothing the sting with his tongue. She moaned lowly as his tongue tasted and teased her. He swallowed her moan. “You taste divine.” 

“You’ve never tried a bite,” Emma teased. 

Killian tensed in her arms. “Emma?” The emotion behind that one word cracked his voice as he searched her features for an answer to a question he didn’t dare ask. 

“I want you to.” 

“You’re certain?” He kept his eyes focused on hers, ensuring there were no traces of doubt or hesitation hidden somewhere in them. “Once we do this, we can’t take it back.” 

Emma lifted to her toes to place a chaste kiss on his cheek. His stubble was rough on her lips, but it made her smile. Everything about this moment felt right. Her magic hummed and stirred around them as if it, too, agreed she was making the right decision. The fear she expected to accompany this decision was notably absent. Instead, she was filled with a pleasant hum of anticipation and an absolute certainty that this was going to be a wonderful thing for them to share. “I want to be yours in every way, Killian. That includes the way that vampires are together. I want you to mark me.”

“As you wish.” His voice was more growl, more vampire than she’d ever heard it before. Excitement spread through her - her chest and cheeks flushing a deep red. “You look absolutely delicious when you flush like that for me.” 

Quicker than she could track his movements, he was behind her unzipping her gown and dragging his lips along her neck. The gown flowed to the floor, pooling at her feet. Killian sucked in a breath at the sight of her naked before him. 

“So bloody perfect, Emma.” He told her as he carried her to his bed and laid her down almost reverently. He tugged off his trousers and pants in a quick motion. He kneeled before her. “I love having you laid out before me with your cunt dripping.” His warm breath flowed over her sensitive flesh, pulling a moan from her. “I haven’t even touched you yet, love.”

“Needy witch.” Then, his tongue was on her. He ran the flat of his tongue slowly up her slit, savouring the taste of her. He nipped lightly on her clit before licking and sucking at her folds again. He slipped two fingers into her, stroking her and building the tension up, while he sucked at her clit. Her hips lifted from the bed, desperately trying to reach her peak quicker. 

“Impatient little thing,” he admonished softly, pulling his head away from her as retribution for her trying to take control. He trailed kisses along her thigh, smirking at the whines and curses flowing from her at his cruelty. She grabbed his hair and pulled him back to her centre. A low laugh escaped him, vibrating against her clit in the most wonderful way, and he returned his full attention to pleasuring her with his clever fingers and tongue. 

He twirled his tongue around her clit in a motion that made her buck against him once again “Fuck, Killian.” She could feel him smile even as he continued devouring her. His rough stubble provided her with additional friction carrying her even closer to the edge. 

The tension was almost too much, the release a moment away, when he sunk his fangs into her thigh. Warmth spread through her as he drank, she felt like she was floating away, a blissful haze welcoming her as she shattered around his fingers. 

Pictures flashed through her mind, moments Killian had captured and held dear of them working together of her smiling at him of the yearning he’d felt over the years. Something deep, something eternal flooded her system as he smoothed the wound over with sweet kisses, murmuring praises into her skin as he watched her intently as if he expected her to regret it.

The words rushed out of her before she could think about it and stop them.

“I love you."

[aegon-targaryen]

Zelink Week Day 3 - Letters

read on AO3 | read on FF.net | @zelinkcommunity

Zelda sat at her desk, her only companions the crackling fire and the scratch of her quill against parchment. Shadows stretched long across the room. When a guard appeared in the doorway, he seemed afraid to breach the quiet.

“Forgive me for troubling you, Lady Queen,” he said, twisting his cap in his hands. “It’s likely nothing.”

She raised her eyebrows expectantly. Someone had once taught her the value of silence.

“We arrested a man at the gates. Seemed like some addled beggar at first—he kept asking to see Princess Zelda, as if you haven’t been queen for years. It seemed like he’d go quietly when we turned him away, but then he pulled a sword out of nowhere and knocked Brynn off his feet.” The guard barked a laugh, then smothered it at her look. “Brynn wasn’t hurt, mind you. And then this fellow dropped his sword and surrendered.”

“This winter has been cruel,” Zelda pointed out. “Perhaps he’s desperate enough to trade his freedom for a warm cell and three meals a day.”

“Perhaps, Lady Queen. Anyway—we weren’t sure if you’d want us to charge him. He’s probably mad as a full moon, but…does the name Link mean anything to you?”

Zelda went hot, then cold, then hot again. Her treacherous heart, persisting in the naivete that had cost her dearly in the past, pounded like a war drum. She wished powerfully that Impa was here to tell her she was being a fool.

Alone, Zelda couldn’t stop herself from striding past the open-mouthed guard and through the door.

.

.

.

The sight of her was a spear through the chest, one Link wouldn’t remove for all the world.

Her hair spilled down her black dress, glowing like spun gold in the sunlight that drifted through the cell’s high window. She had grown much taller than that girl he’d left behind in the summer garden so long ago. Link’s memory had glazed over details like her angular chin, the arch of her brows, her small, delicate nose—but he would recognize those wide blue eyes until he breathed his last. Maybe even after that, if the Goddesses were kind.

They weren’t kind, though. And the Zelda he’d fought beside was long out of reach. This Zelda had been allowed a childhood, and Link was a very small part of it: just a boy without a fairy who warned her father against Ganondorf and spent the following years coming and going from the castle, until he ultimately found himself unable to return.

Now he was finally home, and he’d always told himself that would be enough. Seeing her again would be enough, even if she had forgotten him.

The door swung open with a gust of magic that smelled like spring. Zelda stepped inside the cell, her hand glowing at her side, and said, “Link.”

His knees went weak. His back hit the cold stone wall, and he stayed there, pressing a hand to his mouth, because surely moving or speaking would shatter this dream apart.

“Your eye,” she murmured, reaching towards the bandage.

Link flinched on sheer instinct. She jerked her hand away though burned, taking a slow, shocked step backwards, until he burst out, “Zelda.”

She crashed into him, sending them both tumbling to the floor. She was warm and alive and real in his arms, holding him so hard it hurt—the sweetest pain he’d ever felt. He could have died there, quite happily; better that than waking up on foreign soil to realize this was one more cosmic joke.

Link had no notion of how much time passed before Zelda pulled back and said in a hushed whisper, “I dreamed of you.”

“I dreamed of you too,” he murmured. “And…of him.”

Her expression hardened in a way that surprised him, making her look more like Sheik than the gangly fourteen-year-old he’d left behind. “He’s dead,” she replied neutrally.

The other Zelda had stood over her Ganondorf’s crumpled body and called him pitiful. Link had wept when he’d dealt the killing blow. But that day felt so far away, and now all he could muster was relief that it wouldn’t happen again.

“We intended to keep him alive, mostly to maintain peace with the Gerudo,” Zelda continued. “He wasn’t the man you fought, not without the Triforce of Power, and after years in prison…I didn’t see it coming. But he was strong enough to escape one night and assassinate my father.”

“No,” Link gasped, a hot knife of pain sliding through him. I should have been here. This was exactly what he’d wanted to save her from. “I’m so sorry, Zelda.”

She shrugged—shrugged, as if it was nothing—and said, “We subdued him and sent him to the old desert prison to be executed. It was years ago.”

Years? That meant she and the other castle folk were dressed in mourning black for a more recent tragedy. Link had a hundred questions and a thousand apologies; he didn’t know where to start.

“Does your eye need medical attention?” Zelda wondered.

He shook his head. The remains of his eye were hideous, but mostly healed. Though he’d done his best to adjust to a world half in shadow, he certainly couldn’t fight like he once had—for that reason, as well as many others.

That was all well and good until Zelda levelled him with a stubborn stare, and Link—still unconvinced that this was real life—knew he would deny her nothing. “Okay,” he relented.

She smiled tentatively. Much about her had changed: the tall elegance, the air of authority, and something else he couldn’t identify, something not entirely attached to the simple passage of time. But that smile and the way it crinkled up her eyes still matched the memories that had sustained him for so long.

Zelda pulled him to his feet, dusting off her dark skirts. “Why did you get yourself arrested?” she asked with a meaningful glance at the guards on duty, who tried to pretend like they hadn’t been gawking at the scene. “If you had left your name at the gate, I would have seen you right away.”

Link followed her up the stairs, concentrating on placing one foot after the other until he could answer calmly, “I wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” she demanded, halting in her tracks to look back at him with an unfathomable expression.

“I just—I don’t know how long it’s been.”

Zelda resumed the climb as abruptly as she’d stopped, not facing him again until she pushed open the courtyard door. There, in the full sunlight of late afternoon, they studied each other. The realization that he couldn’t read her anymore came with a sudden, breathtaking swell of loss. Could she read him? Did he want her to?

“It’s been over six years,” she said finally.

Link shuddered, trying to make sense of how the time had played out. It was winter now, which made them both twenty—older than he’d been even after waking in the Temple of Time to a kingdom ravaged by Ganondorf.

“You didn’t know my father was dead,” Zelda observed. “You’ve heard no news from Hyrule, all this time?”

He shook his head.

“I see,” came her cryptic response as she turned away to convey a series of requests to a befuddled attendant. Then she led him through the winding castle corridors to her chambers—not the small plush bedroom Link remembered, but the monarch’s full suite, bigger than most peasants’ entire homes.

He had not seen luxury in a long time, and he felt filthy and incongruous in this lacquered study with its fine silk curtains. At the same time, everything screamed so loudly of Zelda—the papers strewn across the desk, the bow hanging on the wall, the flowers in the windowsill—that Link would have recognized her touch anywhere, even if she hadn’t been watching him wordlessly a few feet away.

A grandfather clock ticked in the corner. He swallowed at the sound.

Before either of them found anything to say, a guard delivered Link’s confiscated belongings, and the healer arrived seconds later. To his immense relief, Zelda stepped into her bedroom while the healer poked and prodded at his eye, leaving him with a tin of cream and a dark patch he stared at for a long time before tying another bandage around his head instead.

Zelda returned when dinner arrived, and finally they were alone, sitting on the floor around the low fireside table, as they had when they were children. Link struggled to stay polite in the company of juicy roast Cuccoo and lavish potatoes and those hearty marketplace rolls dotted with rich seeds, but it all tasted so much like home that he found himself wolfing it down. He was halfway done when he noticed Zelda picking listlessly at her own food.

The clock counted down and down, reminding Link that he was the one who had left, the one who owed her answers. Taking a deep breath, he said, “You’re angry with me.”

“I know you,” she replied woodenly. “And I know you were away because you had to be. So I have no reason to be angry.”

“But you are, and I don’t blame you.”

Zelda pulled her knees up to her chest, leaning against the leg of an armchair. Her black dress slid up to reveal her bare feet, making her look far younger than the queen who had ordered her attendants around with such confidence.

“Did you find Navi?” she asked.

“No.”

Her face fell even further. “I understood why you left. There was a grief in you that I was too young to grasp. It was why you had nightmares. Especially the last time you were here.”

The last time had been after Termina. Link tried to keep his gaze off the ticking grandfather clock. He had never told her of those three days with all their cyclic horrors, of how close he had gotten to letting the moon fall just so he could sleep—between that and the Lost Woods, he’d barely gotten home.

I should have learned my lesson, Link thought with fierce bitterness. I should have stayed. All he knew, after years of searching, was that Navi had gone where he couldn’t follow. Zelda was right here, and she’d needed him while he’d been stumbling from one land to the next, lost in every way possible.

“I understood,” she repeated. “But—six years, Link, and not one letter?”

The wariness in her voice broke his heart. Once, she had trusted his every move. Once, as a disguised Sheikah and a boy hero, they had operated like two halves of the same being. But that Zelda had sent Link away, so he’d abandoned this one before she could do the same.

“I wrote you letters all the time,” he said slowly. “I just had no way to send them. I was…in places where no one had even heard of Hyrule.”

“That far?” She tilted her head in confusion—then her eyes widened. “The Lost Woods sent you away?”

The grandfather clock chimed, and even though it sounded nothing like the one in Termina, it struck Link louder than thunder. He resisted the urge to cover his ears, but maybe Zelda could read him after all, because something made her rise and freeze the clock into stillness with one wave of her glowing hand. Then she knelt before Link, her skirts pooling around her like spilled ink, and waited.

“I wanted to come home,” he told her in the silence that followed. “The whole time, I was trying to come home. I can’t tell you how sorry I am that it took so long.”

“I believe you,” Zelda said. “And if it wasn’t by choice, then of course I forgive you, too.”

Link wasn’t sure he deserved that, but relief swamped him all the same. Her hands were curled in her lap, pale against the black silk, and he covered them with one of his own. “Thank you,” he breathed.

Zelda hesitated before taking the scarred ruin of his hand between her palms: the smallest movement in the world, yet it triggered a titanic shift inside Link. A—settling, of sorts. A realization that he wanted to stay.

A knock on the door made her frown. Releasing his hand, she went to open it, asking the newcomer a quiet question.

“Quiet as a lamb, Lady Queen, as always,” chuckled an old woman in reply.

Zelda thanked her, closed the door, and turned back to Link with a baby in her arms.

The room fell silent again. Twisting confusion froze him on the spot. She was just as motionless, watching him over the baby’s head of golden curls. Link had a feeling he knew why the court was dressed in mourning colors, and it took him a long moment to swallow down the cruelty of this world he kept saving, the world that had robbed them of each other.

“What’s her name?” Link asked quietly.

“You know it well.”

“Zelda,” he murmured, for no reason but to say it aloud.

“Yes. I needed allies to secure the throne after my father died. Marriage was the obvious choice. He was a good enough man, but his heart wasn’t healthy—it failed him last month.”

“I’m sorry.” Link could think of nothing else to say. He’d wanted so badly for her to have choices, this time around, but already they’d dwindled away.

She only shrugged. “We were only married a year. We had her, and we loved her together.” Shifting the baby in her arms, she added, “But I couldn’t have loved him, Link.”

“Zelda—”

“I couldn’t have.” Her eyes blazed with a surprising ferocity. “What about you?”

“There was someone,” he admitted. “She helped me. And I helped her. And…”

And that was all. She’d been brave enough to remind Link of his own courage; he would always be grateful for that. But neither of them had harbored any illusions for the future. He had lain awake beside her, thinking of Zelda’s eyes and Zelda’s voice and Zelda’s arms around him, thinking: It should have been her.

“And I couldn’t have loved her either,” he finished. There was a weight to the words, a rightness, that brought Zelda back to settle down at his side. Wordlessly, she lowered her daughter into his waiting arms.

The baby burbled sleepily. She was her namesake’s spitting image. Golden hair. Tiny little nose. Blue eyes; Link would recognize them anywhere. That was when he knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt: “I’m never leaving Hyrule again.”

Zelda’s laugh wasn’t the girlish giggle he remembered from that day they’d met in the garden, but something softer, more cautious, more precious.

And he meant that promise. There were other people who had offered him sanctuary throughout his long, bloody life—the woman he’d just spoken of, Navi, Tatl, so many others who had kept the light burning when it threatened to gutter out. But with every meeting came a parting, and too many of Link’s partings had been permanent.

But not this one. Not ever. Some roots went deeper than any force could unearth, and some flowers bloomed despite the bitter cold. It wasn’t too late: not for Link, and not for Zelda. He could feel that in the way she watched him hold her daughter, a quiet smile gracing her lips.

“Will you tell me more about what I missed?” he asked.

“Yes,” she promised. “And I’d like to hear about your travels, in return.”

Link nodded, and there, with their shoulders pressed together and the baby sleeping between them, they began to trade stories.

.

.

.

[merionettes]

rubicon ask!!

first off I'm so so delighted that I picked up FE3H last summer and that it led me to finding your writing & especially this fic. what an amazing experience, what a treat with every update, I have all these fun memories now of places I was when I got the update email (and screamed internally every time). a little collection of sense memories colored in.

as for the actual question: very curious about your process. did you have an outline going in? I have to imagine yes (or else you're braver than black friday shoppers). how did you go about structuring this, ie did you have a series of Moments in your head that you wrote around and connected, or did you try to build scenes to fit the arcs you had in mind, or a mix of the two? anything and everything you want to share, I'm 🤲

you're killing me!!! man, thanks so much, seriously. 

as for the actual question, indeed. hahaha. ha. i delayed answering this for so long because it kept devolving into an essay about the emotional experience of writing a novel for the first time. well i give up. this is now two posts. one is the actual answer to your question, only ten times longer than it needs to be. the other is an essay about the emotional experience of writing a novel for the first time. so… caveat lector. 

first part under the cut. ← not kidding about the caveat!!!!!!

i've talked a little about the process before, so i'll piggyback on that post and dig a little more into the differences between the original idea and the finished product, including spoilers i couldn't get into when i'd only posted 55k. ("only." god.)

technically this did start with an outline. technically because at the time i was brand-new to fe3h and hadn't written anything but a few friend-ficlets in about 8 years. thought "skating au!!", spent a fevered weekend outlining all the major scenes, started in on the writing, and…. very quickly realized that i was nowhere near competent enough to actually. write it. "intensely frustrating" does not even scratch the surface, lmao, of what it felt like to have this thing in my head and only be able to produce what felt like the worst clumsiest tritest version of it. very apropos for skating, actually. 

looking back on that outline, it had almost nothing to do with the finished product, especially on felix's side. it didn't have the nationals flounce, the timeskip, training in vancouver, the lake, the nhk trophy sports anime climax, the backstory reveal meltdown. (it did have the redemptive healing free skate.) what, critically, it did have was sylvain's personal arc—burned out, desperate to quit, wants to go to college. it ended at exactly the same place as the actual story, with sylvain and dorothea's final skate together. the last line was one of the earliest things i wrote. 

in other words, even though almost everything between the first and last scene changed WILDLY in the process of writing, i always knew exactly what i was working towards and that was invaluable. 

insert two year timeskip here! during which i would occasionally reopen the skating doc, take a stab at another scene, feel this ominous sense of foreboding, and give up lol. you can thank the 2022 winter olympics for making me get serious, specifically 1) yuzuru hanyu going out in a blaze of bittersweet doomed quad axel glory 2) shoma uno losing to some eighteen year old. i believe my exact words were (consults notes) "anyway time to go back to my fic where i control the narrative and i decide who wins." idk what made this attempt different than any of the others—right time, right inspiration, right circumstances—but this time it caught fire. in uh. in a big way. 

so that's when i wrote what i refer to in that post as a skeleton draft and what i've since come to think of as a storyboard on steroids. this is when felix's arc really took shape, beyond "he is sad… he is mad… he is perfectly positioned to see right through sylvain." the fallout from nationals crystallizing, in particular, was one of the things that snapped felix into place and helped determine the tone and focus of the story overall. (that initial outline had much more of a romcom/classic fwb-to-lovers feel.)

the other thing that did this, of course, was sylvain's narrative voice. when i committed to "burnout who is controlling every single word of every thought to avoid admitting that he is burned out" was when this story became what it is. the voice dictated every single scene, the tone, the shape, what was revealed, what was implied, what was never making it on the page. it led me places i didn't anticipate. it made the cuts for me! cute scene you've got in that outline lol sylvain would never. 

i see past me in that post dancing around the length, lmao. well the ""storyboard"", the skeleton, whatever you want to call it, was over 100k. and yet even then, EVEN WITH 100K ON PAPER, there was still so much i had no fucking clue was coming! felix pushing sylvain on what he wants was there, but sylvain never explained what happened. my oc jm gautier (thanks for nothing, three hopes!!!) was an ominous presence, but he wasn't the final boss. there was no memory of the first time sylvain and dorothea met. (<- insane.) there was no glenn skate. i had to write to discover all of that.

so like—i cannot emphasize how much i grew as a writer through the experience of writing this story. prose, structure, character arcs, thematic arcs. i was harder on myself than i've ever been. and if i hadn't had that end goal in sight i don't know if i would have made it through all those iterations—storyboarding, drafting, rewriting, editing. wanting to deliver that moment powered me through any amount of frustration/exhaustion/bewilderment.

wow this post sounds almost normal. nothing about this experience was normal. which is why you're getting a part 2.