bellejeanx

[bellejeanx]

THE QUEEN HAS DONE IT AGAIN *chef’s kiss*

Joel Miller X Fem!Reader - Last of Us

A/N: i watched the first episode of Last of Us yesterday and suffice it to say that Joel Miller officially has a chokehold on me and i ain't complaining. Probably going to write a few more chapters, not sure exactly what direction the story is moving in but we'll see! (if anyone has ideas or requests for where they want to see this go, please message me!)

Warnings: dark themes; post-apocalyptic dystopia; death of reader's minor child; probably a lot of non-canon details since I've never played the game; not proofread; spoilers if you haven't seen the show/played the game Word Count: 2402 Abbreviations: QZ = quarantine zone; FDRA "Fedra" = Federal Disaster Response Agency

---

Dying was a way of life in the QZ. Seemed like everyone was dying lately. Fireflies, FDRA, and most of all the people in between. The lost and lonely. 

You met Joel shortly after you died. Your spirit died with your twelve year old son, Gabriel. The docs had told you it was most likely cancer. The fucking irony of that burned you from the inside out until you felt completely hollow. Just a shell of a person, really. Your emotions felt anesthetized, your brain in a perpetual fog. You went about your day from routine and muscle memory. You might as well have been infected. At least then you’d have some sort of purpose. Without Gabriel, you felt utterly useless. He’d brought you a sense of optimism, a reason to at least try and believe in the future. When you’d lost Gabriel’s father Eddie, you’d at least had your son. But without him. Well, without him, there wasn’t any you. You didn’t have a role anymore, didn’t add anything to anyone’s life. You couldn’t think of anything more death-like than waking up day after day to the realization that you didn’t matter to anyone. The night Joel met you, in fact, you had vague plans to drink yourself into oblivion and hopefully not wake up.

But, something changed when Joel ran into you. And he did literally run into you. 

You were walking back from the bus stop after a shift cleaning the killing floor of the poultry planet. A cold, drizzling rain soaked the streets in a fine layer of mist. You crossed your arms over your chest, tucking your head underneath the threadbare hood of Eddie’s old hunting jacket. For a few weeks after Eddie had died in a firefight between the Fireflies and FDRA, the jacket had smelled like him, and you’d taken up wearing it. Damn thing wasn’t too warm, but at least it was decently waterproof. That had been years ago. It was useless now, neither warm nor waterproof, but it was all you had. Everything else you’d sold. 

You were going through the usual calculations in your head, trying to figure out how you were going to scrounge together enough cards to get some hot food in your belly, when something - someone, you realized after he’d hit you - came tearing around the corner of an alley. You weren’t braced for it, and even your reflexes didn’t seem to care enough to break your fall. You hit the damp, cobbled pavement hard on your left shoulder, your head bouncing off the tar and sending stars across your vision. You heard a man’s voice swear as you blacked out…

*****

When you came to, you weren’t in the rain anymore. Your head throbbed and you didn’t dare move in case you vomited. You were resting on something soft, albeit a little lumpy, and there was a blanket wrapped around you. Your head was propped up on a musty smelling pillow and there was a fire crackling nearby. Your shoulder was screaming in pain, and against your better judgment you twisted as gently as you could manage to try and relieve the pressure on your joint. Your gut turned, and you leaned over to wretch as far from yourself as you could. With the first sound of gagging, you felt cold, rough hands grab the hair around your face and pull it away from your mouth as a bucket was shoved in front of your face. 

“Good, you’re awake.” A man’s voice.

You peaked towards the voice through slitted eyelids. The faint, hazy light through a dingy window felt like someone was driving a drill bit into your temple. 

“That’s a shame,” you rasped out, earning a dark chuckle from the man sitting across from you. The laugh didn’t reach his eyes. He had the same thousand-mile stare that most people in the QZ had. You couldn’t guess his age - that was another thing survivors had in common. Nothing ages you like the Apocalypse, Eddie used to say. 

“Pretty sure you’re concussed.” 

You nodded, trying to swallow down the acidic taste of bile-vomit. 

“Pretty sure you concussed me,” you shot back. Another chuckle, this one a bit fuller. 

“Yeah, that’d be me. Sorry about that. I had FDRA on my heels.” You shrugged, trying to push yourself up on the couch. Another wave of nausea tore through your head, but there wasn’t anything to vomit up except saliva. You managed to swallow it down, closing your eyes again to stop the spinning sensation. 

“I’ve got some broth cooking,” the man went on. “I think you should eat a bit. Settle your stomach. You’ve been out for almost 24 hours.” 

You did an idle calculation in your head, automatically tallying up the date. November 29. Not that it mattered, but it was a habit you hadn’t been able to shake ever since the outbreak. 

“Not hungry,” you replied, biting down on your tongue against another spasm in your gut.

“Yeah, but you need to eat. Looks like you don’t do that too often.” You shot the man the darkest look you could muster. You’d learned long ago not to trust men who commented on your appearance. 

“You look sick is all I mean,” your companion added apologetically. He thrust you a bowl with a watery-thin, yellow liquid in it, a curled tongue of steam rising from its surface and an old dented spoon sticking out of the broth. 

“Just try it,” he encouraged you as you eyed him suspiciously. He was big, you realized, tall and strong. One of those QZ guys who lived hard and had the muscles to speak for it. It wasn’t the same kind of physique that people had before the outbreak: lean, toned, all for show. Fitness wasn’t a luxury anymore. It was a necessity for most people in the QZ. Some lines of work required it more than others. And judging by the strong forearm that handed you the bowl, whatever this guy did, it was serious business. 

You accepted the bowl, relishing the warmth of the ceramic between your hands. Your stomach growled as the smell of chicken broth tickled your nostrils. You took a tentative sip, burning your tongue. Your movements were slow and deliberate. 

“Joel.” 

“Huh?” You raised an inquisitive eyebrow at your companion.

“Joel. My name’s Joel,” he clarified. 

You nodded, taking another sip of the broth. Even though moving made you sick to your stomach, your body was reacting hungrily to the taste. 

“Y/N,” you replied after a few moments of silence. Normally, you’d give a fake name. But, what was the point? Even with your real name, Joel didn’t have anything of yours to use against you. There wasn’t anything left to hurt you by. 

“You were Gabriel’s mother, weren’t you?” 

You froze, the spoon halfway to your lips. The sound of Gabriel’s name tore through you like lightning. The heart you’d forgotten you had twisted painfully in your chest.

“What the fuck did you say?” Anger came to the surface first. Your voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Gabriel. Sweet kid. Saw him hanging around the gate a couple times.” If Joel noticed your reaction, he didn’t let on. He was idly poking a burning log in an old, dirty fireplace. 

You didn’t know what to say, couldn’t make yourself speak. Even if you had, you didn’t trust yourself not to dissolve. Joel hadn’t met you before, yet somehow he’d managed to grab onto the only thread of humanity you still had. One tug on that thread and you were unraveling. 

“I’m sorry about what happened to him. Awful shit, cancer. My sister had it, back before… before shit went sideways.” Joel wasn’t looking at you, didn’t even seem to be talking to you. You couldn’t breathe. Gabriel’s name still echoed inside your ears.

“I lost my little girl, too. Sarah. When the outbreak happened. In Texas.”

Joel finally turned to face you. His eyes were empty, and you recognized that emptiness. It mirrored your own. 

“You’ll never get over it, if you’re wondering. Not that you are. Because you already know. I can see it.” Tears dripped off your chin onto the blanket in your lap. You didn’t know how long you’d been crying. 

“I’m sorry,” you sputtered out after a few silent, empty moments. 

Across the room from you, Joel nodded.

“Yeah. Me too.” 

You finished the rest of your broth in silence. It was the longest conversation you’d had with anyone in weeks, and somehow you’d never felt more alone.

*****

You spent the next couple of days in a liminal space between healing and falling apart. Joel’s acknowledgment of Gabriel had broken something loose inside you, and as your head began to clear, you felt the grief all the more. It felt different than before, even right after you lost him. Gabriel’s death had cored the soul out of your body. Now, whatever was happening was infinitely more painful. You hated it, but you also hadn’t realized how much you’d missed feeling things. Even though what you felt was agonizing, it was affirming in a fucked up way to know you weren’t incapable of emotion.

Joel maintained his silence on the subject. In fact, he was generally silent. You exchanged a handful of words here and there, usually in response to him asking about your health. 

How’s the head?

Fine.

Good.

After about a week, the questions took a different quality.

When do you think you’ll be ready to go?

Go where?

Anywhere you need to.

I don’t have anywhere I need to go.

OK. 

You didn’t take offense to his questions, and he didn’t take offense to your responses. There was a companionable bluntness to your interactions. He asked after the basics - did you have what you needed, were you sick, hungry, cold - and you answered simply and honestly. No follow ups, no games, no need to converse on anything. In fact, after the first conversation you’d had about Gabriel and Sarah, you and Joel didn’t talk about anything at all. 

It was the eighth day when you finally felt well enough to stand up and cook. Joel was out - where, you didn’t know - but you thought you’d heat something up for him. An hour before curfew, you moved into the kitchen and started looking through the cabinets. He’d been good about sharing his food with you, and you knew enough of QZ life to know that sparing food wasn’t something everyone would do. And he hadn’t broached the subject of repayment. You doubted he ever would; despite his gruffness, Joel had a core of generosity. You didn’t know anyone anymore who would let a complete stranger spend a week on their couch, no matter how sick they were. 

You found a can of split pea soup in the back of the pantry and an opened package half-full of saltines. You picked out the crackers that didn’t have mold on them while the soup heated over the single gas burner Joel used for cooking. The light was fading outside; curfew was a few minutes away. Right on time, you heard Joel’s key in the lock on the apartment door. A few seconds later, Joel walked into the kitchen.

“What’s this?”

“Dinner,” you replied, gesturing to the two barstools he had tucked up the kitchen counter. He sat, letting out a bone-weary sigh as he threw off his boots, chucking them towards the hall where the door was. 

“Long day?” you asked idly. For some reason, you felt an urge to make conversation that you hadn’t noticed before around him. Maybe it was vestiges of your old life. Memories of entertaining Eddie while you made dinner flicked in your mind. Or maybe it was because something felt different about Joel today.

“Sure,” he replied flatly. You heard the sound of his flask opening, followed by a thick gulp. He drank a lot. You’d noticed that quickly. It didn’t bother you, and he was as generous with the whiskey as he was with his food.

“When are you leaving?” His question was angry. You turned to look at him, not exactly insulted but faintly stung. 

“I told you, I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“That’s not what you said. You said there’s nowhere you need to go, not that there’s nowhere you can go.” You nodded once. Joel was right. The distinction felt accusatory, and you once again had the impression that he was about to speak to a part of you that you didn’t want said out loud. Just like he’d done that first night when he’d talked about Gabriel.

You sucked in a breath before turning to face him, sliding a plate of the edible saltines across the counter. 

“I can leave anytime you need me to,” you said, your voice soft and quiet. “I’m feeling good enough to travel.” 

Joel looked into you for a breath. His eyes looked the same, but you had the distinct impression that they weren’t as empty as the first time you’d seen him. Whatever it was you saw in his gaze, it made you feel ashamed, and you broke eye contact. 

He shifted on the barstool before taking another generous swig from his flask. 

“Good. Tonight.”

You raised your eyebrows at him.

“It’s almost curfew,” you pointed out, nodding in the direction of the window to the street below.

“Fine. Tomorrow then.” His voice was hard as stone.

You nodded, stirring the soup and turning away from him. You didn’t want him to see the rejection in your eyes. You couldn’t say what you’d wanted, but all you knew was this wasn’t it. 

“Tomorrow,” you agreed quietly. 

Joel sat for another instant. You sensed that he was waiting for something: you couldn’t tell if he was waiting for you or waiting for something in himself. Whatever it was he was waiting on, the moment passed. He sighed, frustrated, before he scooted away from the counter and went to the couch. He didn’t say anything when you brought him the soup, and he didn’t say anything when he went into his bedroom, closing the door behind him to drink himself to sleep. You were awake and gone before he came out the next morning, although somehow you knew that he was wide awake, listening to the sound of your departure through the door.

#joel miller #last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller imagine #last of us imagine #last of us hbo #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x y/n

[bellejeanx]

fire on fire | chapter. 04 | morpheus x scarlet witch!reader

pairing: morpheus x scarlet witch!reader (she/her) warning: sm*t, br*eding k*ink, no beta we die like jessamy a/n: you gotta listen to sam smith's fire on fire, i based their entire relationship on that one song lmao aa/n: my sincerest apologies to neil gaiman, please know that i wrote this with alot of love 😭🙏🏽 previous chapters: chapter. 01 | chapter. 02 | chapter. 03

“Fire on fire would normally kill us But this much desire, together, we're winners They say that we're out of control and some say we're sinners But don't let them ruin our beautiful rhythms 'Cause when you unfold me and tell me you love me And look in my eyes You are perfection, my only direction It's fire on fire.” – Fire on Fire, Sam Smith

Your relationship with the King of Dreams and Nightmares has always been a much-disputed subject amongst his siblings with the majority in opposition. If there was one thing, however, to unite them all it was the fact that Morpheus absolutely worshipped you. “Fire on fire, dear Morpheus, will kill you.” He recalled the unsolicited caution from his eldest sibling, voice as soul destroying as ever. Morpheus merely rolled his eyes at the time, petulant and arrogant, but this very moment, as he cradled your face in both hands with his lips in a desperate quest to claim yours, he couldn’t help but agree. You may kill him, indeed. To die between your thighs would be glorious – a life well spent, he thought.

His hands moved to rest on your waist as his lips slithers away from yours to leave a burning trail along your jaw down to the pulse on your neck, barely holding back a shudder from overtaking him at the way you sighed at his attentions. “We are not to be disturbed, Lucienne.” The order came from against your skin, unwilling to move and uncaring to ensure Lucienne gave them the privacy he demanded.

You heard the soft lulling sound of whirling sand before you felt the solid edge of his throne hit the back of your knees. “I thought I would never hold you again.” Morpheus whispered along the column of your throat, a touch of vulnerability overshadowing the deep hunger he felt building in the pit of his stomach. “I feared for humanity – for what I would have done to them.” Though the Endless restrained his whimpers rather well the wetness against your skin gave him away. “This madness you inspire in me would not have been merciful.” You slide your hand over the back of his neck until your fingers were partly obscured by his jet-black hair, tugging slightly at a handful as if to ground him back – back to you.

“For centuries I have denied who and what I am—“ Despair and anger bubbled in your throat in equal measure, “…pushed you away in my fear of the inevitable. Deprived myself of what rightfully belongs to me.” At this your free hand slides over his chest, clawing at the spot where his heart should be. You felt his growl ripple under your hand. “No more.” You murmured, low and airy with lust.

Morpheus truly intended to be gentle at first – but the way your scent, your warmth flooded his senses made it nigh impossible. His lips devoured yours in unrestrained lust, feeding selfishly on the soft, quivering moans that slipped past your lips. Your taste was so decadent and rare that his hunger only grew with each second, fuelling his madness. His fingers gripped the silky materials of your nightdress and with one quick tug had it discarded to the ground without even a single glance.

It thrilled him that you matched his lust, his bites, his growls with your own. Even in his war for dominance over you he couldn’t stop the way his heart swelled with love and delight. It filled him with so much pride that you refused to surrender. You were so beautiful, he thought. Untouched and unsullied for a century. A blank canvas, if you will – and oh how he ached to paint you with his marks again to further solidify his claim over your entire body and soul. There was no hope that this would be a tender lovemaking. He was far too starved for far too long.

The Endless allowed his hands to wander over the newly exposed flesh, growling as he rediscovered how soft and pliable you were. His hands moved up to trace the curves of your waist until they reached the roundness of your breast, his thumbs reaching out to draw teasing little circles over your hardened peaks, drawing out a soft cry from you.

When his ministrations suddenly stopped, he felt as well as heard your disappointment – but the Endless merely gave you a knowing smile before moving his hands to slide down your body, caressing from the dip of your waist to the flare of your hips, down, down, and down he went until he felt the wetness between your legs.

You were so wet. Morpheus could only snarl as the scent of your arousal hit his nose, completely and utterly intoxicating him. He parts your folds, searching for that sensitive little pearl that he knew would drive you to the same madness you rouse in him. He leans down to latch his mouth onto your breast as his fingers prevailed in its quest, circling the little nub until he felt your fingers dig into his shoulders, relishing the thought of your own markings on him. He would make good on his promise this day – fill you until you were full of his flesh and blood.

Morpheus felt his concentration escape him when the tip of his middle finger slipped inside your obscenely wet tightness. The heat of you almost sent him to his knees – no, heat was too mild a word. You were fire, a blazing inferno, and he craved, needed to feel you around him.

“I could scarcely think of little else all these years—” He gasped into your ear. “You feel…” Perfect, exquisite, all consuming, the words were simply far too inadequate to convey the true extent of his sentiment in regard to your sheath like quim. His finger starts its own rhythm, lazily moving in and out of your heat while his thumb amused itself by circling and flicking at your clit. Though he desired to hear your screams he contented himself with the way you seemed to be currently incapable of much else besides chanting his name like a prayer. A whisper at first, then a whine, soon a growl as your hips crashed against his fingers relentlessly as you attempt to chase your release. 

He watched in absolute awe as your face twist with pleasure, eyes fluttering close, swollen, bruised lips parting to let a desperate, wordless scream. Glorious.

Granting you no time to recover, Morpheus spun you both around and sat himself on his throne, pulling you to straddle over him. He needed to see it again lest he truly lose himself to his madness. Needed to see you come undone. On his cock.

“Tell me, my love,” He started with a teasing lilt to his voice, reaching down with one hand to free himself from his trousers, “In the imagined world I found you in, did my proxy please you?” He leans forward, pulling you impossibly closer with his other arm until you were chest to chest.

“Never.” You avowed without hesitation. Though you were deep in your delusions you could never betray Morpheus like that – your magic wouldn’t let you even if you tried. He was not just your paramour; he was one half of you. “But I did pleasure myself, if you were wondering.” At this you smirk, writhing on his lap to adjust yourself and then raising your hips slightly to hover above his cock until you felt the width of his hardness slide between your legs. “I only had to think of you, of our mischief, in this very spot in fact, or at the centre of Stonehenge, even the rather quick one against one of Lucienne’s many shelves,” You teased, eyes dancing with mischievous amusement.

“That was not a ‘quick one’.” Morpheus glared at you for that, taking mock offense at your implication. He did not take his time as he normally would in that particular memory, he admits, but he recalled being so desperate and hungry for a taste of you that he had you up and against a shelf, tomes forgotten on the table, and ate you out like a beggar at a feast.  

You merely chuckled in response, deliberately ignoring his interruption, and continued with your teasing, “My point is—I do not need a poorly made substitute of you to come undone. Just the thought of you is enough to end me.” You felt him harden even more at that – if that was even possible. He could probably leave a dent in your insides in his current state of arousal.

“Put an end to my misery, Y/N.” He begged hoarsely, and you obliged. You raised your hips, one hand sneaking between your bodies to guide his cock inside you. You watched as the King of Dreams threw his head back in pleasure, lips parted, eyes closed, savouring this feeling, this moment of being one with you once more. Inch by inch, taking your sweet time.

Morpheus could feel you twitch and stretch to accommodate his length, and the feeling of it could have consumed him – killed him, as Destiny so kindly cautioned him. Perhaps not quite the context meant, but he could have died happily like this. He felt you shudder when he was finally fully hilted inside you, your cunt rippling and shaping to his cock.

“You, my love, are the embodiment of sin.” The growl came rough and broken, his nails digging into the flesh on your hips, barely holding onto what sanity he had left to fend off the madness that threatened to take you like an animal. He didn’t have to wait long, it seems, as he could see the same desperation in him distorting your features. You tried to tease him and prolong his suffering, but he knew by the way you increased the beat of your movement that you were chasing your high as much as him. Not yet. Not until you’ve ridden him to his satisfaction, a compensation for your mischief.

Morpheus watched his beloved sob in frustration, riding him furiously and wildly, breasts bouncing with your every movement and beguiling him to suckle on a pebbled flesh, causing you to let out wonderful little whimpers. “P-Please, Morpheus—” You begged. At last, he felt you approaching your pinnacle, felt the familiar way your walls tightened around him. He slid one arm around your waist and grabbed a fistful of your hair with the other as he met your enthusiasm with equal fervour.

“Take it, my Queen.” Whether it was the relentless way he was thrusting into you or the sultry, throaty tone in which he uttered your soon to be title, but you came with a strangled cry, gasping and trembling violently. You heard him hiss into your ear as he too came spilling inside you, hissing through gritted teeth before you felt them clamp down on your shoulder. You sink into him, panting and relishing your high.

You heard that familiar sound of sand again and soon you felt the luxurious sensation of velvet hit your naked back. Above you was your lover, only better – without an inch of clothing on him.

“Again.” He demanded darkly; voice low yet no less commanding. The moment of confusion was soon clarified by the way his cock started to stiffen inside you again, as if that too was at his directive. “You will take my seed as many times as it’ll take.” He flipped you over and lured you onto your knees. “Morpheus—” You moaned, eyes hazy and vulnerable, but before you could say more you felt him pull you to the hilt of his cock. Your chanting of his name resumed, bracing yourself on your forearms and widening your stance. Yes, yes, yes, this—this felt like home. You felt his growl more than you heard it; your senses utterly skewed from his unwavering pounding. “You will be positively divine when you are round with our children.” He was incessant, single-minded in his quest to fill you with as much seed as your body could take.

Morpheus held you firmly in place by the hips as he fucked you with deep, claiming thrust, each movement hitting that throbbing bundle of nerves inside you. He would see you ruined for anyone but him. He jerked your head against his chest by the hair as he leaned down to whisper in your ear, “You will make me a father, won’t you, my love?” When nothing came out of you but a strangled moan, Morpheus pulled harder, “Yes?”

“Y-Yes,” He delighted in the clear, wanton desperation lacing your voice, “Let no one doubt I am yours.” Morpheus growled at this, in absolute euphoria at the thought of marking you this way. His pounding slowed, purposeful and deep, grunting each time your flesh slapped against the base of his cock. Once. Then twice. The third one was what ended him, and you, as you both threw your heads back in unison and howled each other’s names.

Dream of the Endless watched his future Queen collapse tiredly on the bed, admiring your body flushed with desire, covered in a sheen of sweat, before gathering you gently in his arms and engulfing you in his warm embrace. He smiled adoringly as you gazed up at him with heavy-lidded eyes and returned the same smile, thoroughly sated.

“I hope it’s a girl.” You said quietly, shyly, then settled back against him with your face pressed against his heaving chest.

Morpheus didn’t think his heart could swell anymore for you, yet as he stared at you for the longest time, he was glad to be proven wrong.

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[bellejeanx]

Hello 🧡 may i make a request for TOP GUN BLURB NIGHT? Bob with the prompt (going to an amusement park, sharing a kiss in the alley way)

Please and thank you!

Bob Floyd x Reader

wc: 824

a/n: thank you for requesting my dear! I hope you like it!!

At first, you weren’t sure what a first date with Bob would’ve been like. You were expecting something quiet like a trip to walk along the sandy beach or a simple dinner and movie where he didn’t have to talk. You didn’t expect a carnival for your first date with the shy wso, and you certainly didn’t expect to learn so much about him in one night. 

You first learned that he was a gentleman, everything a young man should be. He arrived on time with flowers in hand, Bob dressed in his casual clothes alone made you want to invite him inside and skip the event altogether. He never let you open your door, playfully smacking your hand once or twice when you tried out of habit. Your wallet? Forget about it. Bob respectfully told you to put it away. 

“Bob it’s just lemonade, I got it,” you laughed, holding up your wallet. 

He shook his head and pouted his lips, “No, ma’am. Can’t let you do that,” he smirked. Heat rose to your cheeks, but you lowered your wallet and snatched the cash he held between his fingers, murmuring that you’d buy him something before the night was over. 

You then learned he was a little league champion pitcher and that he didn’t respond to the game booth worker's taunts kindly. “They’re assholes, Robby, don’t buy into that,” you told him, holding onto his arm. The dark blond shook his head and walked over, the baseball fitting nicely in his hand. The sight of it made you weak in the knees, you suddenly had a thing for baseball players. 

It was so very hot watching him adjust his glasses and seeing how his arm muscles flexed as he threw the ball. “For you,” he hummed as he held out a small brown bear from the dumbfounded worker to you. You took it gladly in one hand and held his hand with the other. 

“Did you play a lot as a kid?” you asked as you walked, your eyes scanning the happy crowd. 

Bob nodded as his thumb swiped along your hand for comfort, “Y-yeah, played all the way through high school. Some of my wso friends and I get together and play when we’re stateside,” he admitted shyly, obviously, he didn’t enjoy talking about himself, but you loved when he did.  

He talked your ear off, swapping stories as you stood in line for rides and for food. He told you of his childhood and you shared about the town you grew up in. You learned that he had a weak stomach for food smells, one whiff of a turkey leg stand and it cut him off mid-story. You held him up and guided him out of the area, placing him on a lone bench.

“Are you ok?” you asked, searching his face for discomfort. 

“I-I’m ok,” he grumbled while he held his stomach, “That truck just smelled really bad—jus’ got a little nauseous,” he tried to laugh it off. You smiled and rubbed his back before telling him you were going to buy him some water. For once, he didn’t protest which made you smile, happy that you could do something for him.  

You sat there for a while, talking and watching the people pass you. His knee bumped into yours and you didn’t flinch away, his touches were always soft. You assumed physical touch was his love language. His hand always seemed to find yours when in a crowd, he thought himself to be daring by putting his hand on your knee. “Are you feeling better?” You asked. Bob blushed and nodded sheepishly. 

“Much better, I’m sorry we had to take a break.” 

You giggled and took his hand, pulling him up with you. 

He was a boy scout, he told you in line for the Gravitron. “We were earning our camping badge and one of the other kids swore he was a UFO in the sky,” he blurted out, his blue eyes watching the machine spin rapidly. 

“A baseball player, a boy scout, and a weapons systems officer—do you have any more surprises for me, Floyd?” you giggled, nudging him with your elbow. Bob jokingly covered his stomach and let out the prettiest laugh you’d ever heard. 

Bob did in fact have one more surprise up his sleeve: he was the best kisser in the world. The way Bob had you pinned up against the wall with his hands digging into your hips and a knee between your legs had you melting. The alley was dark enough so you wouldn’t be seen but you could still see the bright fluorescent lights on his features. “Robby,” you whined as he pulled back, dragging your lower lip between his teeth. 

“Is this ok?” he asked, his voice low and husky near your lips. 

You nodded eagerly and cupped his face, “Don’t stop,” you whispered before crashing his lips back into yours.

[bellejeanx]

Please read this lovely fic 🧡💕

Inevitable Series

Druig(Marvel/Eternals) X Fem!OC

A/N: this was first posted on my original Tumblr Account which has since been deleted but I promise it’s mine! This was an AU project that I created along with @bellejeanx

Please read the series (11 parts total) on my AO3!

#druig #druig x oc #druig eternals #eternals x oc #druig imagine #druig fanfiction #druig x elena #druig x elena oc #druig au #marvel fanfiction

[bellejeanx]

──𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 [𝐈𝐕.]

summary: “Five hundred years, Wanderer. I do not forget so easily.”

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader

wc: 3.8k+

warnings: angsty (x2), brief violence, Dream is still Dream ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ (this is perm tag just in case you were wondering)

notes: longest chapter & we're really getting in the thick of it now. enjoy!!! and thank you for your support/comments/reblogs/likes!!!

part one | series masterlist | ao3 |

PART FOUR: YEAR 304-521

“You will spend time in the realm of each sibling—you will dream, despair, desire, destroy, delight and otherwise, and, eventually, die—but you were his from the very first page, and only he will read how your story comes out, a long time from now.”

Your cheek rests in your open palm, mulling over the words stored in your murky memories. To this day, you have no idea who imparted them on you—the voice holds no gender, no inflection, no discernable accent. They’re simply words, etched into your existence, laying out a path. 

The Library of Dreams hums around you, a rustling of stories knitting themselves into being and imbuing the dusty air with a million diverging lives and daydreams. A thick leather-bound book lays open on the table where you sit, but you can’t focus on a single word printed, all but lost in your own head.  

“Desire for love, desire for life, desire for belonging. It’s a marvel your own longing hasn’t killed you yet, sweet thing. Or has it?”

Heat pulses beneath your skin at the recollection; deliberate fingers kissing over your chin, a honeyed whisper in your ear. You shudder in your seat, troubled. 

Has it?

“Wanderer… Wanderer!”

You jump, straightening in your chair. Your heart stutters, twisting inside your rib cage to a point of pain. Lucienne stands several paces away, a ledger firm in her hand. A slight frown creases her strong, composed features. She trails her shrewd stare over your slouched figure, seeking some invisible ailment. 

“Oh, sorry, Lucienne. I was daydreaming.”

Perturbed air around her doesn’t dissipate. She ventures closer, turning towards the nearest shelf as she casually inquires, “What about?”

The librarian's fingers trail over the polished wooden shelves, delicate and loving, proud. If there’s one thing you believe to be an absolute, it’s Lucienne’s love for her job and her loyalty towards Dream. Most dedicated, unfailingly reliable no matter what. 

“Nothing in particular. I do have a lot to reflect on, you know?” Playing at repose, you stretch your arms over your head, hearing the popping and cracking that accompanies the gesture. “I’m four hundred and thirty-nine, I’m getting old.”

Your face holds a timeless, unmarred quality about it now. It once made you uncomfortable to see your own reflection. Unsettling, wrong—there are few things more disturbing than looking at yourself and not recognising who is staring back. Human, but also more, debased at the edges. There’s never been any doubt in your mind that it’s the curse morphing you. Here, in the Dreaming, you fit right in. No one glances twice your way twice due to your appearance. But out there, in the waking world…

It always begins with paranoia. Creeping, ravenous sensation that you’re wrong—something that requires removing from this Earth. It only gets worse from there. 

It’s since become impossible to judge how old you were when the curse was first placed on you. You’ve all but given up on trying to figure it out. An adult, once. But now adulthood by human standards is but a speck in your mind. 

Lucienne’s shoulders tense at your words. There’s scepticism in her searching, dark gaze; a silent offer you choose to ignore. “You looked… nevermind. Are you taking that one out?”

She nods towards the open book. You try your hardest not to show your relief she chose to drop the matter. 

“Can I?” you wonder. “I like reading about writers and poets. Is it me or does Dream like them especially?”

“It could be so.” Lucienne jots something in her ledger, moving leisurely along the shelves. She has an entire filing system and her own codex that makes little to no sense to you even to this day. She’s a marvel and you don’t question her methods. If it works, why fix it? “Writers, poets, great artists—they’re all dreamers, you see. Universe’s raw imagination. Their dreams are special. Richest and most fantastical. Their vision shapes the waking world. Inspires others to follow suit. So yes, I suppose it could be said that Lord Morpheus is fond of his artists.”

The realisation is soft, tender in your heart, pulling out a small smile that chases shadows and ghosts away: “They inspire him.” 

But Lucienne is looking behind you. 

“My lord,” she greets with a polite nod. 

A tingle races down your spine, and you shift in your seat with a wide grin. Dream stands between shelves, rolling like a dark, slithering shadow ever closer. His clothes are different to his usual attire but still blacker than the deepest night. He’s strangely regal today; lean frame, piercing, bottomless eyes and cadaverous face. Or perhaps it’s been too long since you’ve last seen each other. It's all too easy to forget how potent the Endless can be in their presence. How intimidating without striving to be so. 

“Lucienne.” A nod back, then his regard pins to you. “Wanderer. You have returned.”

“Hey, Dream.” You gesture towards his uncustomary attire. “Busy as always?”

“I was in the waking world, visiting.”

Your brows lift. “You? Visiting? Was Death walking the Earth today?”

“No,” he replies. “I was meeting with a mortal. Hob Gadling. He professed, rather passionately, that will not die. So my sister granted him his wish. I am observing his journey.”

Lucienne has fallen silent behind you—not a scratch of pen or sigh of breath. Dream’s words digest in your mind, picked apart, then put back together again; over and over, but the conclusion is the same. 

“Death granted immortality to someone?” Your scratchy whisper is the loudest sound in the library. “Just like that?”

What would it have been like? To not be cursed, but instead, stumble upon two Endless who were curious enough to alter your destiny forever? What it would have been like to not experience terror? To not be ripped apart and hurt? Fear, constantly, what you might bring upon others? Anything would be better than this.  

Dream doesn’t react to your strangled tone, impassive as when he first arrived. “Yes. Until he ceases to wish for it.”

And there’s something in the way Dream King articulates his words—apathetic, wilful, condemning. Hob Gadling’s destiny sounds etched into stone on Dream’s tongue; no hope for change, doomed to the torment the no longer mortal man brought onto himself.  

“My lord, perhaps—”

Dream turns towards his librarian, oblivious to the turmoil no doubt visible starkly on your face. 

“What is it, Lucienne?” Dream asks.

You push to your feet, the chair sliding jarringly across the floor. “I’m tired. If you excuse me.”

Neither of them stops you. 

.

“That sure was something.”

The play was held out in the open with a roaring bonfire and dancing amassing everyone’s attention swiftly after its rather bombastic, borderline erotic conclusion. The festivities are long behind you by now, but it was nice to witness such raw joy for a change. Humanity is resilient. Despite economic difficulties, plagues, and wars, out here, on a warm Summer Solstice night, everything is momentarily good.

“Mortals dream,” Dream muses beside you, his tone matter-of-fact. “But they also desire.”

Gathering your skirt, you spin until you’re walking backwards to face him. “Is that bad?”

Silvery moonlight transforms Dream’s already pale skin into pure alabaster. Over his shoulder, in the far distance, the bonfire roars brightly and people, with their arms linked, dance in a circle around it. Homage to this short night, life-giving sun, and whatever gods they worship. 

“No,” Dream responds calmly while you watch the festivities behind him. “Humanity is perplexing. They contradict themselves frequently. They prefer their wars and betrayals. They butcher their own unless they all follow the same ideals. Greed and selfishness drive them—desire for more, desire to consume.”

A small frown tugs your mouth down. “Not exactly a glowing opinion.”

Pleasant breeze whispers across the tall grass, the fields around you spanning sprawling and flat. Aside from your muffled footsteps across the lone dirt path, nothing else stirs in the night. 

Dream is silent for so long that your attention drifts back to him. You find him already gazing at you. With deep shadows pooling around his sharp features, his eyes seem to glow faintly. Like two remote stars in the sky above. An apt thought, because he often does feel just as distant, if not more so. 

“But there is music,” he continues softly when your eyes meet. “There is generosity. There is the kindness of strangers. Love between kin. Friendship. In their dreams, they are all equal. Scared and brave. Full of hope and imagination.”

His low words lull you into a soft, woolly spell. You haven’t realised you’ve stopped walking until Dream halts in front of you. 

“They’ll continue to surprise you,” you inform him. 

There is no doubt in your mind. They’ll grow and expand. They’ve come so far already. Humanity will continue leaping forward, expanding and bettering itself. They will fall and stumble but get back up again. 

Dream is silent for even longer this time. But eventually, he does speak, a simple whisper, nearly lost in the sighing wind: “Not we?”

The implication strikes you like a lightning bolt. 

When have you stopped considering yourself to be human? You look, walk, eat, and feel as they do. But more now, deeper, painfully so. Eternity is carrying every scar on your soul and body and accepting there’ll be no end to it. 

“I…”

Your stomach roils. Heat bubbles from deep within. You’re not certain if it’s fear, embarrassment, adrenaline or something else entirely. Before his fathomless stare, you’re naked and small. 

So you swallow it down. You swallow everything down, leaving it for later, and smile brightly up at him. “Thank you for coming with me.”

Because you didn’t expect him to agree when you offered to come here. Not with how perpetually busy he is. Not with another human companion now on his roster, no less. And, as expected, Dream doesn’t push the subject further. 

“Five hundred years, Wanderer. I do not forget so easily.”

That, somehow, hits you even harder. Deeper. So he knew? He’s aware this night marks five hundred years since he first came across you sleeping in his garden. The knowing way he gazes at you in the darkness implies as much. 

“I just thought…” You’re not sure what you thought. That you don’t matter? That tolerating you is one thing, but this suggests your strange connection is significant to him on some level. His admittance might be somewhat roundabout, but it’s nevertheless there. “Why would it matter? I’m more like a stray. We don’t have a set date like with your friend Hob.”

You hadn’t realised how much his stern face has softened until it’s wiped clean in a blink. 

“My friend?” The temperature drops by several degrees. Dream’s voice is reverberating, deep thunder vibrating through the quiet space between your bodies. “He is but a mortal man who does not understand what he has asked for. He will learn.”

“Is that how you see us, Dream?” Your words are wisps, dancing in the brewing storm that is him. “Fireflies destined to fade, leaving no mark behind? Are we only here for your amusement?”

Dream slants forward, closer, his words pointed despite their softness, “You are no longer like them, Wanderer. You grow a little more like me with each passing day.”

“No, I’m not.” Your smile is as grim as your answer. “Because if I was like you, this won’t be so painful for me.”

Something potent swells at your words, edging him backwards. “Wanderer—”

You pivot with another careless smile, rippling your skirt around your ankles playfully. 

“I did enjoy the festivities though,” you call over your shoulder, light and conversational. “We should come again soon. Just don’t wear the helm this time. I think that poor woman thinks she saw the Devil. They will assume she’s mad.”

The count inside your head reaches eleven before Dream’s footsteps resume, following after you. 

“You should visit during Dreamfall,” he suggests suddenly. 

You slow, but don’t glance behind you. “Dreamfall?” 

“Every five hundred years the universe spins into brief stillness, and all living things taste the Dreaming,” he explains. Your head tips back towards the star-riddled black canvas while you listen to him. “It is one night in the endless void of time I can give every single being good dreams. It is a spectacle unlike no other. Dreams falling from the skies, dancing through stars, washing over our cosmos.”

His expositions are so plain yet so enigmatic and beautiful. You could listen to him forever.

“When is it?” you ask. 

“In twenty-two years.”

What is another twenty-two years for you two? Once it was an entire lifetime. Now it’s no more than a slow, hazy afternoon that lingers suspended, constantly making you question the passage of time. “Oh, well, a few pit stops and I’ll see you in twenty-two years, then.”

“Wan—”

You don’t let him finish. Your skin pinches in a million different places, burning as if it were peeling, and then you’re gone with a crack.  

.

You should have known better. 

It always begins with paranoia. Subtle side stares, insidious murmurs muffled behind weathered hands, abrupt cuts in conversion whenever you arrive. This time you had hoped beyond all hope. Naively let yourself get lulled into a false sense of security. There are no exceptions amongst the living for you. Sometimes the curse mocks you, lingering on the sidelines long enough for you to start foolishly hoping yet again. Sooner, rather than later, the curse will alter them all. Cloud their perception. Poison them against you. 

Stifling, hot smoke curls in your lungs. Once beautiful, beloved home is but a shell, fire devouring everything in sight. 

“Where you go, misery will follow. Where you go, horrors will befall those around you. You will have no home. You will know no peace. Eternity will be your damnation.”

“No, no, stop!” 

Your scream falls to deaf ears as villagers drag you away from the burning hut. Hands squeeze your arms, waist, and legs. No power bubbles in your veins. It never does when you need it most. Whatever wicked power the curse has bestowed on you, it never comes to your assistance when you need it most. 

“Let go off me! Sahsin, please!”

The young woman’s face contorts in a sneer. There’s nothing left of the girl you first met. 

“You did this,” she hisses, grabbing you by the jaw, dirtied finger digging deep into your unguarded flesh. “You killed them!”

The hut roof collapses, sending villagers scattering and screaming. Devil, blood sacrifice, demon.

“I did not hurt them!” you sob. “Please, I loved them. I—”

Her slap sends a jolt through your neck. Her full strength has been packed into the hit. You would have preferred a punch, a kick. This feels so much crueller than either. Degrading. Your ears ring, blood and saliva dribbling from your cut lips and down your numbed chin. Your head gets wrenched upwards by the scruff, your yelp caught in your throat. 

You believed Sahsin and her parents were different. They had been so kind, so good to you despite you being no more than a stranger to them. They shared their bread and their milk. They reminded you what it’s like to laugh and have good company; uncomplicated and human. 

Sahsin’s yellowed teeth rest bared—repulsed by you—while she examines your bruised, tear-stained face. In what you will one day come to recognise as Old Saxon, she utters her contamination: “Witch.”

And there are no dreams, no stardust, and no liberation. Not for what follows. 

.

You land facefirst into the viridescent, pliant grass. 

You’re in too much pain to react past a relieved, choked laugh. The sweetness in the air, the heat prickling your cheek, the faraway roar of the waterfall. At once, you relax. 

The Dreaming. At long last. 

Fiddler’s Green stirs to life at your arrival. Every blade of grass and flower bends in your direction. River water churns, bubbling. Nearby willow reaches its thin branches towards you, tender on your bloodied cheek.

“I’m fine.” Each syllable is a croak. “It’s fine. I’m good. I—”

You can’t move your body. 

“Wanderer!”

You don’t recognise the voice. More join quickly. Urgent, anxious. Everywhere hands brush, pain blooms. 

“—get Lord Morpheus—”

“Not—he—”

And through the chaos, cuts a deep, clear voice, so dearly missed a sob bubbles in your mouth, “What happened?”

Cold, faint touch dulls the throbbing pain in your cheek. 

Your mouth hurts but you smile regardless. “Hey, Dream,” you wheeze weakly. “I’m a b-bit early. Hope you don’t mind…”

Then nothing. 

.

“What is the meaning of this?”

He’s not sure what startles him more: the festivity occurring right in the middle of his throne room, or seeing you up and dancing in the middle of it. 

Days have passed since your disastrous return. Morpheus has barely seen you around the castle or the Dreaming in general since. Lucienne’s updates have all been tight-lipped and morose. Once more, they’ve gotten a reminder of just how deep cruelty could run in humankind. The curse corrupts, but it has no power to form what’s not already present. It enchants the worst and funnels it towards Wanderer. 

Find the ones responsible, get rid of them, Corinthian had suggested mildly, coldly, they have no right.

Morpheus might have been tempted by vengeance had he not doubted Corinthian’s reasoning for suggesting it. Would the nightmare rejoice to see his master succumbing to his lowest impulses? 

“Dream.” Your smile is friendly and wide, bruises not entirely healed unashamedly on show. “We, uh. We’re having a celebration.”

That much he gathered. Numerous dreams have gathered in his throne room. They all hunch as if waiting for his ire to spill, their levity prior to his arrival long forgotten. Dreamfall is months away yet in spirit, this gathering is surely its equal. 

“Celebrating, what, exactly?” he demands. 

Mervyn cringes.

You shrug. “Does one need a reason?” Your hand stretches out, fingers wiggling. “Join us.”

“Kid, that’s not a good idea—”

“Continue if you must,” he cuts Mervyn off, brushing past the small crowd and towards the stairs leading to his throne. A strange, light feeling has enclosed the usually dull space and… “I will not prohibit it.”

He’s never seen so many willingly assembled in his throne room, or being this happy about it. And no such smile—genuinely carefree—has graced your face in a long while. Perhaps after your last outing to the waking world…

Dream settles on his throne without a word, his elbow rests on the stone arm, his hand covering his mouth. A cautious, mild tune picks back up. His subjects are awkward in their attempt to unwind, their enthusiasm dampened but not entirely thawed yet. Minutes in which he does not speak help them forget he is there. This, he can give them. 

You spin Lucienne in an energetic dance who holds onto you and follows in stumbling, slow steps. Your hand squeezes hers encouragingly, your lips moving with the shifting tempo. 

Lucienne is all dogged determination and focus—her frown deep but progress quick. She has always been gifted and tenacious. It’s why he chose her. As the evening progresses, her footwork becomes more intricate, her limbs less stiff. Foreign sensation kindles deep in his chest. Pride? Could it be? 

Jessamy caws quietly, ruffling her feathers while they supervise the small gathering. 

What is he doing? Since when does he permit such revelries? What misplaced, foolish attempt is this? There is no stopping the curse. Until recently he’s never given it more than a fleeting thought. Or considered the sheer damage it inflicts on you. 

A cursed mortal is such for a reason. Your story can only end in tragedy. His sole concern is and should be his domain. 

Then why…

“Do you intend to sit up there forever? Doesn't it get lonely?”

He’s been so caught up in his musings that Morpheus hasn’t noticed others clearing out. They’ve likely endeavoured not to catch his notice and slip away unseen. How is it that you are able to form ties with his subjects with such ease, but not he? 

You love them, but you don’t see them.

Centuries later, those words still echo back in response with the same brutal frankness. 

You sit on the stairs with your back facing him. Some injuries remain half-healed, yet no pain or discomfort showed on your face earlier. If anything, pure elation had dripped from your every laugh and grin while you taught Lucienne how to dance. 

He settles beside you soundlessly. In what would be no more than a blink for you. It’s unusual, this position, but not entirely unpleasant. 

“See, it’s pretty nice,” you say quietly. 

Sweat cools against your brow. Your mouth sits relaxed, your expression serene, slightly dazed. Exhausted. But the good kind. There’s something exceedingly human about you at that moment. Soft and warm and fragile. 

Over five hundred years. 

Perhaps you’re both cursed with misfortune. 

“Wanna know a secret?” you whisper. He peers at you, shoulder to shoulder, silently prompting. “It’s nights like these that I live for. Safe, with my friends, in a land of dreams. No matter how bad it gets out there, I have this. I’ll always have this. What better reason to go on?”

You turn to face him with a close-lipped smile, the skin around your eyes crinkling. When smiling each and every bruise and scrape across your skin becomes so much more apparent. The sheer brutality astounds him. Infuriates him. 

“Why did you not call for me?”

He’s been sitting on that question since they found you in a field of fresh blooms, delirious and bleeding. This is but one instance. How many have there been prior? He recalls your incident in Hell but this is no doubt worse. 

Morpheus silently wonders if the way you’re looking at him right now—sad, diffident, and so uncomfortably loud in your emotions—means anything. Are you this silent, for this long, because you don’t wish to respond? Or because there is no response to give? 

“Because I didn’t think you would come.”

He almost wishes he hadn’t asked. Except, of course, you’re not wrong to assume this. Not so long ago he might not have heeded such a call for aid. Not if the Dreaming needed him more. Because you’re cursed, and therefore cannot be lost. What is one cursed mortal in comparison to the cosmos? 

“Swear to me,” he rasps solemnly. Just you, and him, and this hushed darkness encompassing his throne room. “That if this should ever happen again, you will.”

Your throat bobs, but you don’t look away. “Would you come for me?”

Gently, your head drops against his shoulder, your cheek warm against the fabric of his black coat. You’re only hiding your face, fearful of what his answer might be. He’s well aware this is why you’re bold enough to touch when you've never dared before. Morpheus doesn’t move. Your weight is wholly unfamiliar beside him, so he simply says, “Yes.”

A quiet, tremulous breath wheezes from your lips, followed by a hesitant, “Promise?”

But it’s not until the weight at his side fully relaxes, growing heavier and still, that Morpheus offers the universe his foolish response:

“Promise.”

an: Dream's "it's been five hundred years, I don't forget so easily" is sweet until you remember that he's the pettiest bitch alive, and never forgives or forgets, ever. then, it becomes sweet but also really hilarious.

thank you for reading, be sure to let me know your thoughts, and vvv excited for the next part. things are really ramping up now.

p.s first quote in the chapter is actually taken directly taken from the sandman comic just rephrased slightly. me? repurposing canon lines to fit my out-of-context narrative? it's more likely than you think!!!

[bellejeanx]

Congratulations on your 2K followers, I just got done reading everything on your master list and you are so good at writing Yandere!characters. I just had to follow your blog! 🧡 once again, congratulations 🎈🍾🎉🎊

2K Follower Celebration

We're once again at a milestone! Thanks again for all of the support. I've only had this account for no more than half a year, so I'm truly blessed. I'm glad to have all of the interactions in comments, reblogs, asks, etc, and not to mention, dms.

This being said, to keep it quick, I'm doing a give-away!

1st place : Personalized 6k word fan fiction for any character (hopefully a character I know), and you can specify. It can be anything, from yandere to a wholesome scenario to smut to angst. Whatever you want. All edited.

2cd place : Personalized 4k word fan fiction for any character. Same standards as above (minus smut).

3rd place : Personalized 2k word fan fiction OR head canons. Same standards as above (minus smut).

Make sure that you're a) a follower and b) reblog this post (with tags/a comment so I can see who reblogs Especially tags.). I'll be selecting randomly with a number generator. This give-away will be open for 24-hours!

Thanks again for the support. And congrats in advance to the lucky winners!

#yandere #love you all #celebration #congrats #eddie x reader

[bellejeanx]

Can We Always Be This Close?

Steve Harrington x fem!reader [22.4k] A biggie. Best friends to lovers, summer, childhood, pining, crushes, a kiss that wasn't supposed to happen, the last cherry popsicle and three promises.

When you were both eight years old, Steve Harrington handed you the last popsicle and told you he loved you. 

It was the most innocent kind of talk, from the mouths of kids, fresh faced, summer freckles, ankles dipped in the pool and sunburn on your cheeks. 

You weren’t truly sure you both knew what those words meant back then, the depth and meaning that they held. But you said them back, lemon and sugar on your tongue and he’d beamed at you, brighter than the Indiana sun and that was that. 

And that night, when you were camped out on his bedroom floor, the first day of summer vacation and his bed sheets draped across your heads, he shared his secret stash of twizzlers with you, lips tinted red and pinkie fingers linked. 

His eyes were solemn when he whispered to you, the dulled yells of his parents downstairs acting as his backing track. His mom was slurring a little, his dad laughing mirthlessly and something smashed. You had both flinched, moved closer together between the pillows and stuffed animals.

You remember his mouth brushing up against the shell of your ear, hushed promises falling from his lips, the kind that only an eight year old could make. 

Steve Harrington promised you three things that night:

One, he’d always be your best friend. 

Two, he’d always protect you from everything bad and scary. 

And three, he’d never break your heart. 

He only kept two of those. 

Have I known you twenty seconds or twenty years?

“I think Jessica is coming over,” Steve said as he handed you a can of soda, the cold condensation on it making your fingers slip over his. 

You screwed your face up and rolled your eyes behind your sunglasses - Steve’s sunglasses - ‘cause it was a rare Saturday that you’d managed to get off work together, seventeen and desperate for time to do nothing with your best friend. 

It wasn’t meant, but you let the sound of annoyance slip from your lips, stretching yourself out on one of the Harrington’s sunloungers. Steve looked at you from where he’d sat himself down by the pool edge, exasperated and somewhat fond. You picked at the edge of your bikini bottoms, peachy orange and still damp from the water. 

You scrunched your nose, looking over at him from over the top of his old Ray Bans as he took a sip of his cola, eyes on you, waiting for you to talk. He knew you wanted to say something, could tell from your face, the way you twisted your lips and fidgeted with your swimsuit. 

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” 

If you didn’t know the boy well enough, you’d have thought his tone was condescending, maybe even a little mocking. But when you were both fifteen, he’d stood by your side at the counter of the ice cream parlour, watching your cheeks flush a pretty shade of pink when the older guy behind the freezer had winked at you, handed you your cone and called you ‘sweetheart’.  

Steve had called you the same ever since, never getting tired of the way you lit up at it, all soft and full of affection, lips twisted to hide your smile, nose turning pink. 

“I thought it was just gonna be us hanging out today?” You asked, trying to keep your voice level, casual. 

It was silly the way your chest was hurting, an anxious creep across your bones, making your skin too warm in a way that the sun wasn’t. It wasn’t necessarily because you didn’t like Jessica, you didn’t really know, honestly. 

But you’d been in Steve’s life long enough to know that not many of his girlfriends had liked you. It made hang outs and movie nights awkward, a fresh set of eyes on you, watching the way you and Steve interacted, holding back from the way you’d normally touch him, keeping your head off his shoulder, throwing your legs over the arm of the chair instead of his lap. 

You’d go to the kitchen, the bathroom, bringing back more snacks and a drink only to hear the boy being interrogated about how long had Steve known you, didn’t she have a boyfriend and god, why was she always here?

You’d stand with your back against the hallway wall, a packet of twizzlers crushed to your chest as you listened for Steve’s response. It was always the same, sure and strong and leaving no room for argument. It made you feel warm and a little safer, like you belonged in the Harrington house just as much as him, brought up in the large home with its pool and absent parents together, barbecues in the summer, Christmas in the dining room, mom and dads by your sides. 

“She’s my best friend,” he’d always say, “where she goes, I go.”

Some girls put up with it for longer than others, dirty looks given to you out of the car window when Steve would insist on dropping you home too, a messy press of a kiss pushed to your cheek before he made sure you got in your front door okay. 

There were girls that were done after bumping into you in the school hall, a sweater on your frame, the hem almost covering your shorts and god, they’d think, that looks awfully familiar. They’d sit in whatever class they had next, eyes on the chalkboard but their minds trying to decide if they’d seen that sweater on Steve’s bedroom floor before, thrown lazily over the back of his desk chair. 

You’d find them arguing about it at his car after school, voices clipped and raised, drawing a little too much attention and you’d hear your name said like a curse. Steve would let them walk away, hands rubbing at his eyes and when he’d pull himself onto the trunk, he’d find your gaze across the parking lot and he’d smile, a little soft and a little sad. 

But he’d look at you from the driver seat when he was taking you both home, eyes flickering with something else as they dare to roam across your shoulders, your chest. You’d catch him staring, brows raised and your knowing smile would make him blush but he’d tell you, everytime:

“Looks better on you anyway.”

Steve shrugged, looking a little guilty but swung a leg into the pool, letting the water swish around his shin. 

“I know, but,” another shrug, his gaze on the blue tiles, “she’s my girlfriend.”

You sighed, pushing yourself off of the lounger and walking over to the edge of the pool, chlorine and cedar from the garden filling the warm air. You poked a toe to the boy’s side before sitting down next to him, both feet in the water and the garden slabs sun-warmed against the back of your thighs. 

You nudged a shoulder into Steve’s, fighting a smile when he did it back, shuffling closer so your arms brushed together. 

“We haven’t hung out just the two of us in ages,” you told him, trying to sound annoyed but your words came out a little mournful, huffy even. “It’s been weeks.”

You knew it wasn’t Steve’s fault. Between school and both of you working weekend jobs, it was hard to find time to see each other. And since the startling realisation of finding out there were kids with superpowers out in Hawkins, other worlds that held monsters and magic, you figured trips to the cinema were at the bottom of both of your lists. 

“M’sorry,” Steve said anyway, and you hated the way he sounded, like he really meant it, like it made him sad too. “If the kids didn’t need rides to the arcade all the damn time, maybe we’d-”

You rolled your eyes, fond. “You know it’s not the kids I mind, Harrington.”

And that was true. You and Steve had taken your unofficial babysitter roles pretty seriously, and with six twelve year olds to wrangle together, it would’ve been a hard enough job without the threat of impending doom lurking behind every corner. 

You’d grown up thinking monsters only lived under your bed, hiding behind your closet door, and they could be banished with a flashlight, a kiss from your mother, the promise of chocolate chip pancakes in the morning from your father. 

But you’d grown up too fast, seeing things that weren’t supposed to be real and you hated the way you knew how to butterfly stitch someone's skin back together, how you’d seen too much of your best friend's blood. 

He pressed his nose to your shoulder, warm skin on warm skin and he let his teeth graze you, a playful threat of a bite before he sighed, knowingly, understanding. 

“Jess said she likes you,” Steve offered, hands on the grass as he leaned back, head tilted to the sun. He was watching you from under his lashes, the length of them casting shadows over his cheekbones. “Said you had chem together and you were crazy smart.”

You scoffed, laughed mirthless, because the only reason Jessica Preston knew you had class with her was ‘cause she used you to cheat off of you before you moved seats.  

“I bet she did,” was the only answer you gave, because the garden gate was suddenly squeaking and Steve was standing up, splashing water over your thighs as he greeted the girl in question. 

“Jess, hey!” Steve called out, reaching for her and pressing a kiss to her lips. His came away glossy and a little pink as Jessica reached into her bag, pulling out a tube and quickly reapplying. He gestured to you, smiling, “you two know each other, right?”

You grimaced, holding your hand up in some sort of wave before you pushed Steve’s glasses onto your head. 

“Sure,” you said, not sounding sure at all. You stood up, brushing drops of water and small flecks of gravel from your skin. “Chemistry, Mrs Telford’s class.”

Jessica squinted at you, pretty features twisted in confusion and Steve wanted to jump head first into the pool from the awkward silence that had filled the yard. 

“Right!” The girl finally gasped out, all false smiles and white teeth. “Totally! Of course.”

And then, you were dismissed.  

“Steve, there’s a party tonight,” you heard the girl tell him, stomach twisting as you walked past them, grabbing your shorts from the lounger and dragging them up your legs. “Matt’s parents are gone and,” she tapped a finger on his chest, trailing it down his sternum. “So are mine.”

You wondered if you had too much sun, wondered if the heat was what was making your insides bubble, your chest feeling too tight. You found your way into the kitchen, the open patio door doing nothing to curb the same heat that had leaked in from outside. 

You ran the tap, waiting for it to turn freezing before filling a glass and chugging it, back pressed against the counter so you didn’t have to look out the window. 

You could still hear them though. 

“You can pick me up, right? I’ll be ready at eight and then you can stay over at mine,” Jess was practically purring and it made you slam the now empty glass down into the sink a little harder than you meant to. “We’ll have the place all to ourselves.”

“Uh, actually, we’re having a movie night later,” you froze, turning to look over your shoulder to see Steve gesture to you through the window. Jess followed his hand, lips downturned and eyes holding venom. 

“You’re kidding right?” The girl asked, disbelief spilling from her lips. “I’m offering you a night in my bed and you’re turning me down for Back To The Future with her?”

It was actually The Goonies, you’d wanted to tell her, but Steve was licking his lips nervously, eyes flickering between you and Jess and you really wish you could say something to save him. 

You stepped out the patio doors, arms crossed self consciously over your chest. “Steve, it’s okay, we-”

Steve shrugged and he didn’t look surprised when Jessica stepped out of his embrace, glossy lips twisted in shock and annoyance. 

“We’ve had it planned for a while Jess,” he explained, “movies, pizza and-”

“Well come after,” Jess demanded, like it was simple. “Or better yet, just do your stupid movie night some other time.”

Steve looked confused, staring down at the girl as if he was wondering which part she wasn’t understanding. You grimaced, eyes wanting to fall shut ‘cause you knew what the boy was going to say and god, you wished you could hide from it. 

But then he was explaining to her that you were staying over, crashing at his like you always did, like you had done for years. 

Steve said it so plainly that you almost wanted to laugh. In fact, your lip twitched, the threat of a smile pulling at it and you turned, toeing at the grass as you waited for the impending blow out. The boy had an endearing habit of stating the truth with such a sincerely soft tone, almost oblivious to the carnage his honesty could sometimes cause. 

“I’m sorry,” Jessica stated, voice climbing a little higher in volume and pitch as she took in this new information. “I could’ve sworn you just told me you had another girl staying with you tonight.”

Steve scrunched his nose, mouth parting as he wondered what he was supposed to say to that. He floundered, hands gesturing wildly as he tried to gain some control on the matter. 

“Jess, what? It’s not a big deal, it’s not like that.”

And he was right, it wasn’t. Not yet. 

Nothing had ever happened with you and Steve, not when you were pressed together at night, side by side in his bed, moving closer as you slept, pillow creases on your cheeks, hands close to places you shouldn’t have been touching. 

Nothing happened in the mornings either, when you were both soft with sleep, hair mussed and misbehaving, warm hands and toes pushing into the other's skin as you tried to find the comfort of that lazy feeling in each other. 

You’d never noticed him stare at you when you got out of the shower, skin still damp, hair pushed back from your face and a too big shirt clinging to your thighs. He never realised you held your breath when he pulled his top off at night, body warm and solid beside you, fingers desperate to trace a map of constellations across his back, freckle to freckle. 

Your realisation that your best friend wasn’t just attractive, but was pretty, was a slow burn. It came as you aged, an appreciation growing as you did, Steve too. You noticed the boys in your class as they grew taller, filling out, and you didn’t realise the same was happening to Steve until the summer you both turned fifteen. 

You’d spent school vacation at his parents lake house, watched him laze shirtless on the small motorboat, new muscles flexing, drops of water casting tiny rainbows across the tanned skin it clung to. He’d grown his hair out, chocolate brown strands out of control and messy, boyish as it was pretty. You didn’t know what to do with this new information, new feelings, and when Steve continued to throw you over his shoulder, playing in the shallows of the lake, his wide hands spanning the curves of your thighs, your hips, you ignored the burn his touch left behind. 

Jess huffed out a laugh and it sounded dangerous, a little like a threat. She found your gaze, held it until hers dropped to scan you up and down, doing her best to make you feel small. 

“Whatever, Harrington,” she shoved past Steve, shoulder edging into his chest as she headed for the gate. “Ask your little friend to suck your dick instead.”

You burned at her words, eyes wide as you stared at a crack in the patio, refusing to watch as she stormed through the gate, the hinges protesting loudly as it was slammed shut, leaving you both in silence. 

The trickle of the pool filter was the only sound for a minute, maybe two, then you heard Steve sigh, heavy and world weary. You looked at him, feeling a little guilty. 

“Shouldn’t you go after her?” You asked. 

Steve gave a half shrug, already moving to sit down on the lounger that you’d spent your morning on. You joined him, sitting on the end so you didn’t touch, like you weren’t supposed to after Jessica’s accusation. 

“Nah,” he told you, “it’s fine, it’s… whatever.”

You snorted and the sound made the corners of his mouth lift a little, eyes flitting over to you, always interested in what you were going to say. 

“That’s a new height of romance, Harrington,” you mused, foot dipping into a small puddle of pool water. You drew lines and shapes on the dry concrete with your toe, watching the sun dry them out almost instantly. “It’s whatever?”

“I dunno,” Steve sighed, reaching over to pluck his sunglasses back from the top of your head and pushing them over the bridge of his nose. He looked good with them on, you mused, too pretty, too nice. “Wasn’t like we had that much in common.“

“Then why date her in the first place?” You asked, face twisting with annoyance.

Steve had developed a habit in freshman year of dating girls who gave him nothing more than wandering hands in the back of his car, passive aggressive comments when he missed their calls and whiplash when they found out about you. 

A smirk tugged at his lips, a handsome match with his Ray Bans and messy hair and he turned to you, eyebrows raised. 

“You’re a pig,” you muttered, trying to sound disgusted but Steve was pushing his fingers into your sides, hands dragging over your ribs and you were laughing despite yourself, “get off me!”

You were ignored, unsurprisingly, and you wondered if Jessica had made it back to her car yet, if she’d driven away or if she had heard your shriek of delight when Steve suddenly stood and scooped you up. 

One arm was wrapped around your waist, a wide, rough hand pressed against the skin just under your breast, his thumb grazing the of your bikini. The other curved itself on your thigh, your body held tight to his as he ran with you, hurtling you both to the edge of the pool and you pressed your face into his neck when he jumped, bracing yourself for the cool water. 

Steve didn’t let you go until you both surfaced, his feet planted on the bottom of the pool as he pushed you both to the surface. Your hands were around his neck and you gasped, water dripping from your lashes and lips, hair a wet mess and he was laughing. That soft laugh that made any summer day feel warmer than it already was, a laugh that reminded you of fresh lemonade and bedroom sheet forts. 

He let go of your legs before you waist, letting the lower half of your body slide out of his grasp and slide against his, so you were chest to chest, your abdomens pressed together and you almost lost your footing, chin slipping under the water, eyes gazing up at him despite the way the sun made it hurt. 

Maybe it was the way you pressed a hand to his stomach to ground yourself,  feeling the muscles tense under your touch, maybe it was the way you were looking at him, maybe he just forgot he wasn’t supposed to look at you like that. But something happened and Steve cleared his throat, letting go of your waist and allowing himself to fall backwards and under the water. 

He reappeared a few feet away, hair darker and slicked back, eyes a little wild as he looked at you, like you were suddenly dangerous. 

And I'm highly suspicious that everyone who sees you wants you. 

You weren’t overly fond of Nancy Wheeler, not at first. 

You couldn’t deny that the dislike you felt for the girl stemmed from jealousy and your own inability to get a handle on your feelings but, you had to admit, she was better than most of the girls Steve had dated before. 

Pretty, smart, sharp and with a keen eye. She liked journalism, the quiet and even you. You shared the knowledge of The Upside Down, bonded over the fear you both felt for her brother and his friends and when you passed each other in the hallway, you nodded, civil and overly aware of all the things you’d both seen together. 

You weren’t joined at the hip and you didn’t love how she slid her hand into Steve’s, or how he kissed her at her locker, telling you he’d catch up with you at lunch. You’d spent months telling yourself you weren’t jealous of Nancy, just that you missed your best friend and you resented the way the girl took up all his free time. 

You missed the way he snuck in your bedroom window, a pointless task and waste of his energy, ‘cause your parents would hear him clambering up their drainpipe, eyes rolling, fond and affectionate, ‘cause it was Steve. 

He’d always told you that he did it for the fun of it, to see you smile when his head appeared over the sill and so you’d help him clamber over the window frame. He’d spend the late hours with you, whispering about nothing and laughing about everything, shoulder to shoulder in your bed until you both fell asleep, sprawled on top of the sheets, his shoes in the middle of your floor and his arm slung over your waist. 

You liked it when the sun woke you early, the curtain still opened from when you’d forgotten to close them after Steve’s sudden appearances, the light pink and peach as it leaked into your room. It painted stripes of light and shadow over your walls, over the boy’s broad shoulders and cheek, the other smushed into your mattress, hair a mess and lips parted sleepily. 

You got to admire him like that, when his eyes were still closed and he was so unaware. Steve couldn’t catch you staring, wondering if his lips were actually as soft as they looked, if he knew how pretty you thought he was, if he thought you were pretty too. 

He still picked you up for school in the morning, his BMW sat at the end of your drive but his clothes were sleep creased, hair mussed from spending the night with Nancy instead, sneaking through her bedroom window and not yours. He still smacked a kiss to your cheek when you parted for class but it wasn’t the same, he wasn’t quite just yours anymore and you hated the way it hurt. 

So yeah, you could appreciate that Nancy was a nice person and seemed to be good for Steve - at least, until she wasn’t - but you didn’t have to like her for it. 

When she broke your best friend’s heart, you’d found him sitting on the hood of his car after school, lips downturned and expression sour, nothing but worry beating in your chest ‘cause you hadn’t seen him since the morning before and no one answered your calls to his house that night. 

But then rumours started swirling around the halls, floating over tables in the cafeteria like wildfire and you couldn’t fucking find him. You saw Nancy in the library during your free period, her head bent close to Jonathan Byers as they whispered about something you couldn’t hear, their hands on the table, fingers too close to touching and Nancy had the right to look guilty when her gaze met your own. 

So you’d marched straight over to Steve and he crumbled a little when he saw it was you, slipping off the hood and letting you usher him to the front seat. He didn’t really hesitate when you held out your hand to him, silently asking him to let you take care of him. 

He placed the car keys in your palm, eyes tired, face sad and you were desperate to fix it. You hadn’t seen Steve like that before and you didn’t know what to do, his pain was yours, your heart beating hard against your chest until you felt like your bones were bruised. 

There were talks of the girl cheating on him, wandering around late with Jonathan and you knew they shared the same worries and trauma that you all did when it came to knowing things the rest of the town didn’t, but you didn’t know what was happening between the pair. 

So you drove him home, listened when Steve told you that he loved her, that he didn’t know how to fix it. But then it was and then it wasn’t, a game of on and off, yes and no, that you couldn’t really keep up with. 

It all came to a head on Halloween, after months of leaving your window open for no one. 

Steve climbed in, startling you, hands finding your bedroom floor before his feet did and when he stood, eyes meeting yours, you wanted to be mad at him. 

It had been a week since you hung out, passing in the halls and waving when you could, exams stressing you out and his time taken up by Nancy and all the parties he seemed intent on going to. He’d given up trying to get you to go with him, sick of it all after the second time, a spare part, third wheel, an audience to his kisses with Nancy. 

But he stood by your bed with the most forlorn expression on his face, features soft and watery and you simply pulled back the sheets, shuffling over to the side that had been made yours when you were both seven, so Steve could claim his. 

The boy toed off his shoes, his jacket falling to the carpet as he shrugged it off and you felt like a kid again when he crawled across your mattress, shuffling underneath the covers and pushing himself against you. 

Steve got as close to you as he could without asking for a hug, his pride already seemingly too hurt to put himself out there, even with you. But he didn’t hesitate when you turned into him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into you, your nose pressed into his hair. He smelled like smoke and weed from the party, a little like Steve underneath it. 

He returned your touch instantly, seeking it out with a desperation that almost shocked you, eager to accept it when it was offered. He tugged you in by the waist, arms wrapped around you and his face pressed into the crook of your neck. 

He wished he told you then, that you smelled like summer and afternoons by the pool, like cherry popsicles and promises and home. But he didn’t feel brave enough, not then, not yet. 

“We broke up,” Steve finally mumbled, voice a little broken and muffled by your neck and hair. “She broke up w’me. Called us bullshit.”

You frowned, confused, pulling back a little in the hopes that Steve would look at you and explain but his grip on your waist only tightened and you patted at his hair, smoothed the almost curls at the nape of his neck and whispered his name. 

“Steve, hey, babe, what?” You received a groan in answer but you persisted, shuffling out of his grasp and gripping his chin with your finger, pushing at him a little pleadingly until the boy looked up and met your gaze. 

“What happened?”

Steve didn’t answer until you pulled the sheets over your heads, your own little bed fort that let the dim light of your bedside lamp filter through, soft and warm and hazy. You let go of his chin, your hand smoothing his hair back from his face and he pushed his cheek into your touch as he spoke. 

“Nancy, it’s over,” he told you, a frown pulling at his brow, “she said the whole relationship was bullshit, that I was bullshit.”

You held your breath, letting him talk as you smoothed a thumb over his cheekbone, feeling him relax into you despite the way he was letting his words tumble from his lips, mixing in with his emotions until he was stuttering over himself. 

“She, she said we were just acting like we were in love?” Steve caught your stare, his eyes confused as he looked at you, as if he could find an answer in your gaze but you just gaped at him. “Said that I only thought I was in love with her ‘cause I was too busy tryin’ to pretend I wasn’t in love with someone else, or some shit like that, I don’t fuckin’ know.”

“What?” You whispered, voice full of surprise because what the fuck? 

“Right?” He answered, indignant and wide eyed. “I don’t know what she was talkin’ about, she would answer me, just told me she wasn’t in love with me and god, fucking Byers took her home.”

“Jonathan?”

You screwed up your face, hardly even reacting when Steve groaned again, pushing himself back into you, his face comfortably pressed into your chest, just above the swell of your breast, his mouth warm through your shirt. 

It should’ve startled you, the proximity, the intimacy, especially after missing him for so long. But it was still Steve, your best friend, the boy that promised to be there until the very end. 

“Why’d Jonathan take her home?” You asked, your cheek pressed to the top of his head as you spoke, the sheets fluttering around you both as Steve shifted, arms wrapping around you more, pulling you until you were flush with his body. 

He couldn’t have been touching more of you if he tried. 

“She was drunk,” he mumbled into your chest, lips moving over your shirt, making the material shift across your skin and it lit you up, body electric and the air buzzing. “I told him to. She didn’t want me.”

You sighed, eyes closing at the pained sound in the boy’s voice and you let him hold you, your own hand taking into his hair, scratching at his scalp in a way you knew he liked. 

“Steve,” you murmured, soft and sympathetic. 

He whispered your own name back to you, his tone the same and it made you smile. You could feel his own against your chest, lips lifting, breath coming out in a small huff. 

“You could still talk to her tomorrow, y’know?” You said conversationally. You hated yourself for trying to fix it for him, for attempting to out the girl back between you both but fuck if you weren’t a good friend. “Maybe she just said all that shit ‘cause she had too much to drink.”

You twirled a length of the boy’s hair around your finger, making it curl. “Was it Jack Templeman’s punch? That dude makes rocket fuel in a bowl, she might have been absolutely wasted.”

Steve shook his head before he pulled back, falling into your pile of pillows and gazing at you.  

“Nah, I don’t wanna chase her,” he said and despite the sadness in his voice, he sounded sure. “I don’t wanna be with someone who thinks I’m bullshit. I mean, I know I’m not perfect, but damn, bullshit?”

You shook your head, gaze hard and you wanted to shake him, to make him understand how wrong Nancy was. 

“Steve, you're not bullshit.” He held your stare, lips parted. “You’re the furthest thing from that, I’m sorry I don’t know why Nancy said that, I wish I could-”

He stopped you before you could continue, a small smile lifting at his lips and he found your hands between the tangle of sheets, tugging you over to him and onto his chest. You lay your head there, protesting when Steve’s finger poked at your cheek, fond and soft. 

“I know what you’re gonna say, sweetheart, and it’s fine.” He sighed, sleepy and weighted. “You don’t need to fix everything for me, not this time, anyway.“

You fell silent, thinking about the times Steve was referring to, wondering if this was finally the year he stopped needing you. The thought made your chest hurt, your eyes blur and you sniffed. 

“My dad’ll be home from that conference soon,” he mumbled softly and you could tell without even looking at Steve that he had his eyes closed. “You can come fight my battles for me then, how’s that sound short stuff?”

It was silly, his words. The way they made you feel. Like you were needed again, important. Like he didn’t wanna face the things that scared him without you. It hurt that after all those years, he still felt like that about his own father but it calmed a part of you to know that he didn’t seem as cut up about Nancy Wheeler as he once was. 

“Are you okay?” You asked, tentative, and you made a face ‘cause god, that seemed like a stupid fucking question. “Will you be okay?” You asked instead. 

Steve hummed noncommittally and you craned your neck to look up at him, smiling when you were proven right at his closed eyes. His lashes fluttered against his cheeks as you shifted over him, tucking yourself into his side. 

“I mean yeah, sure,” he murmured, voice dropping lower and rougher as sleep pulled at him. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got you, haven’t I?” 

He turned his face to yours at that, nose nudging at your forehead as he blindly sought out your features, pressing a soft, warm kiss to your temple. 

“M’sorry,” he whispered into your hair and you stilled, swallowing the lump that had caught in your throat. “I’m so sorry I’ve not been around.“

You squeezed your eyes closed at his words, letting them burn until you were sure you weren’t going to cry. 

You wanted to say it was okay, to soothe him, to make Steve feel better but the lie got caught on your tongue and you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him something that wasn’t true. 

You shrugged instead, lips twisted to keep them from turning downwards, his words heavy on you because god, you’d missed him so much. 

“I missed you,” Steve whispered and fuck, it lit you up inside. “Like, really missed you.”

He was soft and gentle with it, words brushing against your temple, breath warm, hands twisting in the sides of your shirt, barely grazing at your skin, head butting at yours playfully. 

He was Steve, he was late nights, long days, summer rainstorms, driving lessons, flunking your test, Saturday afternoon drives, feet on the dash, music too loud, smile blinding. 

He was a little bit yours again. 

“Yeah,” you sighed, feeling a little lighter than you had before, eyes falling shut like Steve’s. “I missed you too, Harrington.”

Steve’s breath was becoming slower, chest falling heavy and lazy and you both curled into each other on instinct, sleep pulling both of you together, the same way it did when you were both ten and piled on the sofa, movie still playing. 

“You still my best friend?” His voice was a soft mumble, and you heard the worry there, hidden behind a crack of humour. 

“Yeah, I’m still your best friend.”

—————

You didn’t see Nancy until a week later, and when you did, you didn’t expect her to corner you at your locker, big eyes wide and asking if you could talk. 

You met her after school, walking to the opposite end of the parking lot from where Steve would be waiting on you, perched on the hood of his car as usual. 

Nancy saw you coming, her face a little nervous as she bid goodbye to Jonathan who’d been standing beside her and you watched as they squeezed each other's hand before he took off. 

You raised your brows as you approached, tugging your headphones to sit around your neck and you wondered what Nancy Wheeler could possibly have to say to you. 

The world wasn’t ending, the kids were all safe and she wasn’t your best friend's girl anymore. 

She squinted at you, trying to work out your mood, your emotions but you remained a little stoned faced, wondering if Steve would be pissed if had to see you here. You knew they’d spoken since Halloween, a chat that Steve had said felt too formal and stilted, but the air was cleared enough that they could cross paths when dropping Dustin, Will and Lucas at Mike’s house, an awkward wave exchanged from the front door to the car. 

“You wanna sit?” Nancy asked, gesturing to a bench that sat by the edge of the school line, shadowed by trees that provided a little coverage from the wind that was picking up now that winter was approaching. You kicked at the leaves on the ground and shoved your hands into your jacket pocket, holding it tighter to your body. 

“Sure,” you muttered, following her across the grass, leftover rain sticking to your boots. 

The sky was still blue, a crisp Fall day that turned your nose pink, numbed your fingers and had you wishing for a Hawkins summer, the smell of sunscreen and cut grass replaced with rain and the promise of snow. 

You sat on opposite ends of the bench, bodies turned to face each other and with the safety of your school bags between you both. You picked a dead leaf off the sole of your shoe, waiting for the other girl to talk. 

“Look, I don’t know what Steve’s explained to you,” Nancy said, voice cracking a little with what seemed like nerves. “You know, when we spoke the other week.”

You shrugged, “I mean, not much,” you answered, “but it’s really not my business to know.”

Nancy nodded at that, appreciative, “I guess but I just want us to be friends, you know? I wanted you to understand why I broke it off with Steve. He’s a great guy but-”

“I know he is,” you interrupted, brows pulled together in confusion ‘cause there was never any debate about that. You softened a little when Nancy smiled at you, lips pulled up and eyes a little knowing. “Sorry, that was rude.”

“It’s fine,” she told you, voice lighter than it had been before. “Like I said, Steve’s great… I guess I just didn’t love him the way I should’ve. And maybe that would’ve been a little easier if I didn’t see the way he looked at someone else.”

You frowned, staring at the girl as she looked back at you, silently willing you to catch on. 

“What?” You asked, “I thought this was about you and Jonathan? You can’t act as if you haven’t been glued to Byers hip since this happened.”

Nancy had the right to look guilty, picking at her nail before looking back up at you. “Yeah, no, you’re right. I didn’t mean for what happened with Johnathan to happen… it just did, but that doesn’t make it okay.”

She brushed a curl from her face, bringing her bag down to her feet so there was less separating her from you. The wind rushed at you both, stinging your cheeks and whipping at your clothes before it settled back down and let Nancy speak. 

“I’m not blaming this on Steve, I’m not, and I shouldn’t have said he was bullshit,” she rushed out, “maybe we were just meant for other people you know? And think that, maybe, Steve doesn’t know that he’s already found his person.”

“I genuinely don’t know what you’re talking about,” you huffed, “but whatever. I’m just glad I don’t have to hear the two of you arguing every other day.”  

Nancy nodded, smiling at the way you were avoiding her gaze, your mind suddenly racing with what she’d said. 

“For what it’s worth,” the girl murmured, foot nudging friendly against yours, “it would probably make it a lot easier on the poor guy if this girl could admit that she was in love with him too.”

“Alright, yeah,” you stood up suddenly, cheeks flushed and your head a little scattered. “I think you’ve got it twisted Wheeler, but, uh, good talk.”

The girl hid a laugh, pressing her lips together as she watched you gather your bag, eyes shining. Nancy nodded, looking up at you as you stood a little awkwardly. You raised a hand in a goodbye, a small smile lifting at your lips in what seemed like an amicable agreement. 

You stopped before you got too far, the sun in your eyes as you squinted back at the girl who was still sitting on the bench. 

“Hey, Nancy?” She looked at you, eyes surprised. 

“Yeah?”

“Are you happy?” You asked and she was taken aback at how genuine you sounded. She paused, eyes flicking over to where Jonathan’s car was parked, engine idling as he waited for her. 

She nodded, resolute. “Yeah, I am,” she answered quietly and confidently. 

You nodded too, surprised at how it warmed you to hear that. You never wished ill on the girl, you just didn’t like how she broke your best friend, leaving you to put him back together again, piece by piece. 

“I’m glad Steve’s got you, you know,” she called back before you could start to walk away again and her words made your heart stumble. You swallowed, looking at her with parted lips. “He’s lucky to have you.”

And well, wasn’t that a statement to behold?

When you finally clambered into Steve’s car, bringing the chill and some stray leaves from the outside, Steve was frowning softly, concerned by your lateness. 

He looked at your flushed cheeks, pink nose and glassy eyes from the sharp wind and cranked up the heat, pointing his vents to your side too. 

“Where’ve you been?” He asked, voice worried, “I was gonna call in the kids, start a search party.”

You laughed, a little strained after the conversation you had, rubbing your hands together for warmth and you shrugged, noncommittal. 

“I was uh, just catching up with a friend.”

Can I go where you go? 

When Steve got a job after graduation at Scoops Ahoy, it was supposed to mean free ice cream and catching a late showing at the cinema after his shifts. 

It brought you Robin Buckley, Steve in a sailors hat, a new flavour of ice cream every month and fucking Russians. 

You thought dimensions and demogorgons were about as much as you could handle but Dustin came back from camp with a new gadget he’d built, some kind of high tech radio that looked like it was held together with duct tape and paper clips but the thing actually worked. 

It worked well enough to pick up secret codes from underground labs, translated by Robin and well, fuck. Suddenly you were trapped in an elevator that wasn’t actually supposed to be an elevator and Erica Sinclair was going to miss her Uncle Jack’s party. 

You knew Steve wasn’t happy with you, you could tell by the way his jaw was set, the way that he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention, and his lips twisted and his gaze dropped when you tried to catch his gaze. 

It made the air in the elevator crackle and buzz, tension on top of tension as you moved around each other, looking for a way out, hardly touching, hardly speaking. Robin twisted her lips, sympathetic, when she caught your gaze, your face flushed with annoyance. 

He’d told you not to come. 

Not out of meanness, or because you had fallen out, simply because he didn’t want you in harm's way. You’d ended up yelling at each other, a hundred feet below the mall and trapped in a metal box because why did it matter when Robin and the kids were stuck there too?

Steve, of course, cared that he had another friend, a thirteen year old and a ten year old to keep safe and he had every intention of doing so. But he couldn’t help but feel sick, his stomach rolling, at the thought of you being put in a dangerous situation. 

You’d told him that he was being stupid, that you weren’t leaving him. You thought you’d seen all the dangers Hawkins had to offer, you could handle yourself, you could help him. 

His worst fears came true when you all got split up, Dustin and Erica hopefully somewhere above you all, on their way for help, for something, anything. 

But then a man came, tall and dressed in uniform, badges adorning his chest, and he took one look at the way Steve stood in front of you when he entered and swung for the side of his head. 

The boy fell backwards, dazed, groaning at the shock and pain of it all before pulling himself off of the floor, body slow and sluggish. He lifted his head in time to see the same man gripping you by the back of your neck, hair fisted painfully in his grasp as he pulled you out of the room. Robin was yelling, swearing as she tried to get a grip on you, her hand wrapped around your ankle from where she was on the floor but you were pulled from her easily, a swift kick sent to her stomach for the audacity of her trying. 

Steve felt his heart leave his chest, plummeting to his stomach, his blood running cold and everything around him slowed down. His vision was fuzzy but he could see the panic on your face, lips parted in a gasp as you tried to get to grips with what was happening. 

Russians. A lab. Under Starcourt Mall. 

He couldn’t move fast enough and he wanted to yell out, he wanted to run. But it was like being trapped in a bad dream, body damp, sheets tangled around his limbs as he tried his best to scream, to move, but nothing fucking happened. 

The door slammed shut before the ringing in his ears could stop and he could taste blood in his tongue, metallic and horribly warm. He made his fists bleed from pounding on the door, knuckles cracked and bruised, voice wrecked from yelling your name. 

He only stopped when the man came back, pulled him from Robin's side and threw more hits to his face, his body. His skin was littered with angry bruises, almost black, skipping the shades of lavender and pink, turning inky within minutes. 

Between each punch, Steve spat out blood and asked where you were, groaning as he spoke. He was ignored, time and time again, until he lost it completely, tried to lash out, fists swinging, legs thrashing and he wasn’t sure if he was crying, or it was just blood dripping down his face but he wanted to sob, desperate for you. 

He was thrown to a chair, tied back to back with Robin as some guy in a white coat threatened him with surgical equipment that looked like it didn’t belong in a hospital and when his eyes fell shut with the weight of his injuries, he wondered if he’d ever see his best friend again. 

You were finally gathered up in what could’ve been hours later, maybe one, maybe five. A guard tugged at your wrists, taped together and red raw from where you’d tried to pull them apart and suddenly you were pushed through the same door they’d taken you from, thrown at Steve’s feet and the yelling continued. 

Who did you work for, who did you work for, who did you work for?

It didn’t end until people were dead and Starcourt Mall was on fire. 

Alarms had gone off, Dustin rushing in with an electric cattle prod of all things, weidling it like battleaxe and telling you all you had to run. You weren’t sure who was supporting who as you all tumbled back to the surface, dripping blood and tears onto the mall floor as Steve gripped your hand with a fierceness you’d never experienced from him before.

But then there were guns, El broken but still fighting, the rest of your friends, concern and confusion written on their faces ‘cause when you had all been fighting Russian Soviets, they’d been fighting Billy, the evil inside of him turning him into something different from the boy you’d seen in the school halls.

You’d held Max when he fell, body bloodied and ripped open, eyes glassy like he’d known what was coming. You left the mall that night with a new fear of loud noises, of fireworks that cracked and snapped in the sky. You knew what burning flesh smelled like, you knew that there was more to be said about monsters, more danger in the world than just the creatures that lurked in the cracks of the earth.

You knew that evil could come in the shape of a man, a familiar face, behind a uniform, a doctor's white lab coat. 

You were tired, beaten, a little bloodied and bruised and your throat was raw after you’d screamed for Steve, fists beating on the door as you went ignored. You heard him from behind the steel walls, his voice as wrecked and panicked as your own and you sobbed when you heard his yells turn to groans, sickening wet thumps of bone hitting bone, breaking up the sound of him calling out your name. 

You sat beside him in the ambulance, hands still clutching each other tightly, fear of being torn apart again ripping through you both. The medic wanted to take him to hospital, to make sure his cheekbone wasn’t shattered, that you both weren’t suffering from shock or concussion but Steve refused, just wanting to go fucking home.

The sky was angry, red and crying, plumes of black and crimson smoke billowing from the broken building and you didn’t know what to do. People were dead and the whole world seemed to be burning. 

But Steve took you by the hand, pulled you to his side as you made sure everyone was okay, as well as they could be considering the circumstances and the boy stood a little numb as he watched you drop to your knees and fold Max into a hug, tears streaking through the blood and dirt on your cheeks when you pressed a kiss to El’s forehead. 

Everyone was a little broken, barely standing, barely breathing and it didn’t seem difficult to continue the lie to your parents, calling them from a pay phone to say that you were okay, you had seen the news but it was fine, you had been at Steve’s the whole time, you’d be home in the morning.

You let Jonathan bundle you both into the back of his car, one of his old jackets thrown around your shoulders as Nancy sat in the front, Steve beside you, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. He dropped you both at Steve’s front door, little to be said between the hour of you as shock and tiredness tugged at your bodies, your heads. Hands were pressed to shoulders, squeezing softly, telling each other everything you all needed to say but couldn’t - not then, not just yet.

Thank you, I’m sorry, I’m glad you’re okay, I’m happy you’re safe.

The Harrington house was empty, as expected and the rooms felt darker and colder than they had before, empty and too big, your harsh breaths rattling too loudly and you could feel a panic building inside you, clawing at your chest. 

It grew when you looked at Steve’s face, dried blood and dark bruises making him look like he was about to fall apart and when you squeezed your eyes closed, you could hear the way he yelled your name, raw and broken.

A sob bubbled from your throat, spilling from your lips and you’d barely taken a breath before Steve was in front of you, arms pulling you into him, a hand around your neck, foreheads pressed together. It was supposed to ground you - and it did, in a way - but the cries still came, stuttered and broken, the heavy kind of sobs that made your body heave with the exertion of it all. 

Steve held you through it, both of you swaying unsteady on your feet in the middle of his hall, shoes streaking dirt across Mrs. Harrington’s white tiles. Neither of you could ask the other if they were okay, ‘cause the answer was obvious but when your tears finally stopped, your face wet and your head sore, the boy took you by the hand and led you up the stairs. 

He walked past his bedroom door, the little slice of heaven you most wanted at that moment in time, the only place in the large house that truly felt like home to you both. It was a surprise when he nudged open the door to the main bathroom, rarely used due to all the ensuites that were accessed through bedrooms but the large corner tub there suddenly looked like a gift from above. 

You felt like a spare part when Steve let go of you long enough to turn the taps, filling the bath with hot water and a mixture of his mother’s expensive soaps and bath milks, sweet smelling bubbles and steam filling the room. 

You found a first aid kit underneath the sink, pushed to the back of the cupboard, unused and when you motioned to the boy to sit on the closed toilet seat, he did without arguing. He spread his legs for you without you needing to ask, standing between his knees with a bottle of antiseptic and some cotton balls, more tears slipping down your cheeks as you mumbled out apologies, dabbing the stinging liquid into his skin.

Steve simply held onto your legs, eyes closed and his hands wrapped around the back of your knees, his thumbs stroking over the sensitive skin there as he whispered back, telling you it was okay, it’s fine, I'm fine sweetheart. 

The cuts on his face didn’t seem as angry, as severe, when you wiped away the blood that crusted around them but the dark bruises seemed mean and vicious against the pale cast of his skin, shock seeping out all the colour from his cheeks. 

He let you press a kiss to his forehead, clutching at the sides of his head, fingers buried in his damp, messy hair and the push of your lips was fierce, conveying everything you wanted to say but couldn’t, because fuck, you didn’t know how to tell your best friend that you think you were falling in love with him. Because how else could the thought of losing someone hurt so fucking much?

Steve left you alone to bathe, skin stinging as you stripped down to your underwear, your body and bones lazy as you pulled at your jeans and shirt. You gave up when you got down to your underwear, cotton pants and lacy bralette mismatching in a clash of cherry print and forest green and they both stuck to your skin as you slid into the hot water. 

You drew your knees to your chest, eyes closed and head pressed there as you let the heat nip at you, cuts and scrapes protesting but it was good to feel something when your head felt numb, your chest hollow. You weren’t sure how long you sat there for but you could've sworn someone was calling your name, a knock on the door echoing on the tiles and your mouth felt too fuzzy to answer. 

Steve could only hear the slow, steady drip of the tap and panic rose in his chest when you didn’t answer him and he had thoughts of you unconscious and slipping beneath the bubbles. 

So he knocked once more, heart racing before he turned the handle and pushed at the door a little, calling out your name. 

He heard the water splash at the sides of the tub, movement at least. But then he heard you sniff, the noise turning to soft sobs and it gripped at his heart, crushed it a little and before he knew it, he was in the bathroom, bare feet on the tiles and staring down at you, tucked into the smallest ball you could amongst the bubbles.

Neither of you spoke as Steve pulled off the shirt and cotton sweats he’d changed into, his own eyes glassey as he left his boxers on, stepping into the water with you, sitting down in the space behind you.

It felt like the most natural thing in the world when he spread his legs and pulled you into them, your back to his bare chest as he wrapped his arms around your knees too, holding you to him. He let you cry like that, head bent over yours, the two of you curled into the water together, steam licking at your skin. You think you felt a tear drop from his eye, warm as it slid through your hair and onto your cheek and the feel of it made you search for his hand, scrambling desperately under the hot water and foam so you could link your fingers through his.

Your grip on each other was as tight as it was when he’d pulled you to your feet after Dustin saved you from pliers and scalpels, the same way it had been when a six year old Steve had helped you up from the playground, knees scraped and front tooth missing after falling from the monkey bars. It was the same touch you granted him when you were twelve and he had to go to the emergency room, his arm broken after falling off of his bike. You’d begged to ride in the ambulance with him and his mom, his ink stained fingers reaching for you, not Mrs. Harrington. 

When you had no tears left to give and the water was turning lukewarm, Steve turned the tap again, let the hot water fill the room back up with steam and soothe your tired bodies. He grabbed a sponge, tapped at your knee until you turned to him, face to face and unbelievably vulnerable. 

But you let him smooth the sponge over the bare skin that he could see, up your arms, wiping away the soot from the fire, the stubborn dried blood that didn’t want to leave. He squeezed warm water over your chest, looking at your eyes and definitely not your bra, the pretty, green lace turning darker against your skin.

He pressed a kiss to your hair when you let your head fall into him, too tired to sit up and when you couldn’t hear the far away whine of sirens in the distance anymore, he helped you stand, the water that was light pink with blood swirling down the drain. He wrapped you both in towels, murmuring the whole time that you were okay, he had you, it was gonna be fine. 

You pulled your favourite shirt from underneath his pillow, tugging it on and falling into his bed, the smell of Steve and home surrounding you in the same way that the sheets did, soft and comforting. The boy clambered in beside you, body stiff and pain settling in his bones but you glued yourself to his side, hands intertwined and pressed between your chests and you couldn’t close your eyes until Steve leaned into you, breath warm and smelling of mint as he pressed his lips to your ear as he told you: “Remember when I promised you that I’d protect you from everything bad?”

You nodded, remembering that cherry flavoured popsicle and the way Steve’s pool looked so much bigger and deeper back then. “We were eight, Steve.”

He hummed in agreement, forehead rubbing fond against your own and you revelled in the fact that you both smelled like the same cotton and lemongrass body wash. 

“We were,” he agreed, voice a soft whisper, cracking a little from the yelling that had ripped his throat apart. “But the promise still stands, sweetheart.”

You opened your eyes to look at them and he looked a little fuzzy as you teared up. But Steve shook his head gently, hand tightening around your smaller one.

“No more tears, please babe,” he sniffed too, as if the entire night suddenly hit him, “I got you now, yeah? I’m never gonna let anythin’ happen to you, promise.”

You slept then, a little broken and fitful, but every time you shifted in your sleep, the boy followed, bodies traversing across the mattress and between the sheets. When you woke in the morning, you had your head on Steve’s chest, a leg thrown over his own, your thigh hitched high over his and his arms were a vice grip around you, his face pressed to the top of your head. 

The sheets were on the floor, a pillow by the door as if it had been kicked and the sun was shining through the gap in the curtain, bright and warm and mocking. The world felt a little different after that night, and so did your friendship with Steve Harrington. 

I've loved you three summers now, honey, but I want 'em all. 

Working at Family Video with both Robin and Steve meant that you got to spend a lot more time with your friends. It also meant that Robin was more privy to watching how you and Steve interacted with each other and it had the girl taking notes on your relationship with the boy like her new favourite science experiment. 

“Look, I’m just saying, he’s not really dated since Starcourt and the boy lost it over you that night.” 

You rolled your eyes, still putting away the videos that were stacked in your arms as Robin followed you up and down the aisles. The store was quiet, a Tuesday afternoon giving you little to do but you’d graduated after you fought a monster and survived the soviets, so applying for colleges wasn’t all that high on your to do list. 

Your parents had taken that news better than Steve’s, both couples perplexed at their kids' choices to stay in Hawkins and work for the summer but at least your Dad had threatened bodily harm against you when you’d told him. 

You eyed Steve who was on the other end of the store, leaning lazy against the counter as he ticked off the delivery list. He looked a little older, like you did, but the stubble on his jaw and the broadness of his shoulders made your lips part every time you chanced a look. 

He was still Steve, but he was a little taller, a little stronger. He was still late night drives and sneaking through your window, mixtapes on your birthday and cherry popsicles in his backyard during the summer. Maybe he flirted a little more with you, comments suggestive and compliments coming easier but you tried not to think about it. When you did, late at night and alone in bed, it made your head spin, your lips part, your eyes close. 

You sighed, turning to Robin to tell her with an exasperated whisper, “we’ve been best friends since pre-k, of course he was upset that I was dragged away by a fucking Russian Soviet, Robin.”

She rolled her eyes at you, stumbling over her own foot as she tried to keep up. Steve glanced up at you both at the noise, brows furrowed as you both froze, eyes a little wide and you waved, hands raised awkwardly in unison. 

“What’re you both doing?” He called out, suspicion lacing his voice and you felt heat travel from your chest to your cheeks. 

“Nothing,” Robin called out at the same time you told him you were fixing the horror section. 

Your voices piled over each other and you wanted to groan, because Robin couldn’t lie to save herself and now you both looked like idiots. But Steve just smiled, fond, and turned back to his stack of papers. 

“I'm telling you,” Robin continued, voice a little lower now, “Steve likes you, like, he likes you, likes you. Why can’t you see that?”

You stopped and turned at her last words, truly taken aback at how sincere she sounded, how confused she seemed. 

‘Cause Steve was still Steve and you were still you and nothing in the world could really change that. Steve had promised you that he’d always be your best friend, and at nineteen, that still seemed like a pretty sweet deal. 

You shrugged, pushing the last copy of Nightmare On Elm Street onto the shelf and you crossed your arms over your chest, suddenly feeling far too exposed at her interrogation. 

“It’s not like that,” you told her, whispering still, “it’s never been like that with Steve.”

She huffed, swiping a finger along the row of videos and blowing away the dust she’d collected. Robin turned, an eyebrow raised. “Would you want it to be like that? ‘Cause seriously, dude, I still can’t believe that, in like, sixteen years of friendship, you’ve never even kissed once.”

You shrugged again, holding back on telling the girl that sometimes you thought the same. 

When you were fourteen, you thought that Steve was going to be your first kiss. Looking back, you weren’t sure why, you just did. Maybe it was a feeling, maybe it was hope, maybe it was just inevitable. 

‘Cause you grew up beside the boy and never once did he feel like a brother, and that had to mean something, right? He held your hand when you watched scary movies, when you crossed the road on Main Street, when it was rush hour, just like your parents had told you to when you were seven. He never dropped your hand, he never kicked you from his side of the bed when the movies you watched together became too much. 

You went through middle school and high school still the same, joined at the hip, still sharing secrets, still holding hands when things got too hard. 

But then one summer, Hayley Collins had a birthday party and you’d been sick, too ill to attend but Steve had still stood underneath your bedroom window, features twisted with conflict as you told him it was fine, he could go without you. You remember telling him to have fun, and to bring you back some candy. 

He did. He brought you back fistfuls of sweet stuff, bags of M&M’s and pop rocks but you didn’t expect him to bring his lips to your ear and tell you a secret you never expected. 

Steve had had his first kiss. A game of spin the bottle in Hayley’s basement with her cousin who was from out of town. A girl a year older, a girl who had pretty blonde curls and a reason to wear a real bra. 

You remembered the feeling when your heart sank and the pop rocks stopped fizzing on your tongue. You wondered why the sugar tasted bitter, why your eyes were suddenly pricking with hot tears and when the boy asked if you were okay, a grin slipping from his lips, you lied and told him that you still felt sick. 

You turned to Robin, a fake smile pulling at your lips as you tried to act casual, as if her words weren’t kickstarting a feeling in your chest that you had been trying so hard to ignore for the last five years. 

You furrowed your brow, turned to the cart that was still full of videos no thanks to your friend, and picked up another pile. You stacked them until they reached your chin, until they gave you a reason to walk to the other side of the stands and take a deep breath.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” you lied, and it felt heavy on your tongue, tasting too sweet and sinful. Because of course you had. “It’s not something that’s crossed my mind.”

Robin saw right through you and you could tell by the way her brows rose and she hid her smile behind a press of her lips. 

“Sure,” she said, voice too light. “Humour me then. What do you think would happen if you did let it cross your mind?”

You stared at her, mouth agape, because what the fuck was the girl getting at. 

She grabbed some of the videos you were holding, The Exorcist close to slipping from its slot underneath your chin and she started stacking them beside you, completely out of alphabetical order, but that was a problem for another day. 

“Just listen,” she said and you hated how she sounded excited. “What do you think would happen if you asked Steve to kiss you?”

She dropped a box, cursing when the corner of it hit her toe but she bounced back up, bright eyes still brimming with all the thoughts that were swirling round her head at once. 

“Cause you know he would, right? Like the poor guy can’t say no to you, he’s never been able to.”

You made a sound of protest, heart hammering in your chest because Steve was still right there, fingers running though his hair, pen between his lips and so completely fucking oblivious. 

But Robin suddenly stopped and spun to face you. She wrapped a hand around your wrist, soft and warm and you could tell she was choosing her words carefully before she said them, a sure fire way to tell that the girl was being serious. 

“There’s a reason that none of his girlfriends have stuck around, babe,” Robin murmured, sincerity lacing every word. “It’s ‘cause he always picks you, every time.”

—————

It had been a week since Robin had cornered you at work, whispering to you about Steve and kissing and god, you couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

You thought about it when he gave you a ride home after work, sun setting, the day turning pink and casting indigo shadows over his face, the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. 

You thought about it when he pushed himself into you during Saturday morning shifts, his body lazy as he leant against you, his chest to your back and his head on your shoulder. It felt softer and intimate than when he’d done it before, your mind running wild with the idea that if you turned around and kissed him, right there in the middle of Family Video, he might kiss you back. 

You thought about it when you were lying by his pool, his parents gone, the kids and Dustin’s new friend Eddie starting water fights on the lawn. You’d watch the way Steve watched you, jealous eyes and lips pouted when Eddie soaked you with a water balloon, skin damp, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. You watched how he softened and lit up again, your attention on him when you shook your wet hair over his bare chest and you couldn’t help but notice how his gaze followed the movements you made when you bent to slide your shorts back up your legs. 

So maybe it was for those reasons that you turned to him one Friday night, when it was just the two of you out in his backyard, and asked him why he’d never kissed you. 

It could’ve been the joint you’d been sharing making you feel braver, or maybe the shadows that you were hiding in, the spaces that the pool lights didn’t quite reach. 

Maybe it was the way Steve had been looking at you each time you took the joint from his lips and put it between your own. Hair a little messy, eyes hooded, jaw slack. 

Maybe it was because of all of it. Maybe it was because you were nineteen and growing impatient. Maybe it was sixteen years of build up. Of wondering, wanting, waiting. 

The air smelled the same way it did when you were eight, chlorine and cedar from the trees, that afternoon's sunscreen mixing with weed and smoke. Your tongue was stained red from the popsicle you’d had, Steve’s blue and there were new freckles on both of your faces, noses a little pink from lying out in the sun all day. 

And when the afternoon faded into evening and the sky was lilac, Steve produced a joint with a grin, a wiggle of his brows and suddenly you were lying on the deck together, the pool filter trickling in the background and laughing soft as you blew smoke into the night. 

There was a buzz of insects from the forest that stood behind the house, the faint hum of someone’s music that played from a couple of yards over and you felt the warmth radiate from the boy from where he lay beside you. 

Your bare feet pointed to opposite ends of the pool, one of yours dipped into the water and your heads were touching, cheek to cheek. If you turned to look at him, you knew your lips could slip over his easily and the thought of it made your body fizz. 

He had just plucked the joint from your mouth, thumb grazing clumsy over your top lip, fitting pretty into the dip of your Cupid’s bow when you tilted your head, cheek resting on the patio, the slabs still warm from the afternoon sun. 

“Hey, Harrington,” you sounded quiet and lazy, like you didn’t have a care in the world. But god, your heart was in your throat, pulsing like a warning. “You ever thought ‘bout kissing me?”

If Steve was shocked, he didn’t show it, not really. His eyes widened slightly, joint hanging slack from his lips and he stubbed it out on the concrete before swallowing, hard. 

He turned to you, noses almost brushing and you watched the way his gaze settled on your lips. 

“Why d’you ask?” His voice was a hush, warm and rough. 

You shrugged, boldness faltering because he hadn’t answered your question but holy shit, he was still looking at your mouth, the way your tongue snuck out to wet your bottom lip before you spoke. 

“Just something Robin said,” you told him, nose scrunched. 

Your words made his lips part, nodding in understanding because of course Robin was involved and the girl had been at him too, hounding him in the stockroom at work, calling him out on his obvious crush on your over old, dusty videos. 

But all the boy could say was, “oh.”

And then there was silence, for a second, maybe two. It felt like minutes, like an hour, like the sky was suddenly crashing down on you, as if lavender clouds and the stars were going to bury you were you lay but then-

“I have,” Steve said, quietly sure. You looked over at him as he blew out a breath, “course I’ve thought about it. ‘Bout kissing you.”

“Oh,” it was your turn to keep silent, his admission washing over you like a tsunami sized wave, one that you weren’t sure you’d be able to keep your head above. 

You sat up suddenly, shocking Steve and he leaned up onto his elbows with wide eyes, watching as you turned to face him, legs crossed and knees knocking into his thighs. 

“Why haven’t we?” You asked, bemusement colouring your tone and you couldn’t help but press your hand to his where it lay on the deck. Your fingers brushed over his, a new kind of touch. “Why haven’t we ever kissed?”

You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat, if it was rattling against your ribs as loud as it seemed to be. You held your breath as Steve sat up too, mirroring your pose and crossing his legs until you were knee to knee and looking like a couple of innocent kids again. 

He shrugged, blowing out another breath and he tugged a hand through the front of his hair, making it stand on end. He looked a little wild, like you short circuited him, like you were half way to ruining him. 

The boy’s voice cracked a little when he tried to answer and you wondered if this was okay, if you should’ve asked but then Steve was speaking, his thumb drawing absentminded circles over your bare knee.  

“I’m not really sure,” he said and he spoke soft and quiet, like he was telling you a secret. “I suppose I just didn’t wanna lose my best friend.”

It was the answer you expected. Best friend first, the prospect of a girl to kiss in the background of his mind. You should’ve been happy, you should’ve felt loved, but the idea of never having Steve in the way you realised you wanted him was becoming more crushing by the day. 

“Or maybe,” he suddenly continued, “I guess… I guess I didn’t realise I was allowed to.”

Your lips parted at that, a small bomb dropped in the middle of the Harrington’s backyard. You waited for the pool to empty, for the small wave to hit your back, for the sky to light up but nothing came and Steve was watching you, waiting. 

“You’re allowed to,” you whispered and oh my god, you didn’t feel high enough for this, but you continued, tummy dropping and skin electric. “You’ve always been allowed to.”

You heard Steve’s breath hitch and it only felt natural when his hand came up to cup the back of your neck, thumb pressed to the spot behind your ear and god, he was leaning in and so were you. 

“I just don’t know if we should,” he was telling you but he was still moving into you and his hand never fell away from your face. 

“It’s just a kiss,” you told him, voice shot, lips falling apart and you could smell his aftershave, the leftover chlorine that stuck to his skin and he was summer, he was cherry and smoke and god, he was forbidden, he was yours. “Friends can kiss, doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“It’s really just curiosity, right?”

His nose was bumping against yours, both of your eyes fluttering closed at the feel of the other's breath falling across your lips and you wondered if he’d taste like his popsicle, blue raspberry, sugar and fizz. 

You nodded at his question, too gone to speak and the movement made your top lip brush against his. Sparks against your skin, electric, dangerous and it made you sigh. 

“Steve?” You whispered, eyes squeezed shut like you were seven again and making a wish beside your birthday cake, candles making your skin glow.

He hummed, thumb still pushing against that spot on your neck, “yeah sweetheart?”

“Will you kiss me?”

And fuck, maybe Robin was right because the boy didn’t say no. In fact, Steve didn’t say anything, he just moved into you until your nose was pressed into his cheek and his lips were plush against yours and oh my god you were kissing your best friend.  

He still tasted like raspberry, like you thought he would. Like summer and promises and pool days and a little smoke and Steve. 

It was a slow push of his lips to your own, mouths slanting over each other’s, soft and languid like you both knew this was your only chance. You thought you heard him moan, a soft, low noise that made your chest hurt and when the kiss lingered, you brought your hands to his cheeks, fingers splayed over his jaw as you tugged him a little closer, greedy. 

And when his tongue licked at the curve of your bottom lip, his hand travelled to tilt at your chin, asking you to open for him, you did, no questions asked. You sighed, blissed out, when his tongue slid over yours, a hand falling to fist in his t-shirt, soft cotton crumpled in your hand because you felt like you were going to float away. 

Then Steve was pulling back, chest heaving, forehead pressed to yours and eyes still slammed shut as he gave you another secret, pressed to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the curve of your neck. 

“I always thought you were gonna be my first kiss,” he said it like a confession, like something holy. “M’sorry you weren’t.”

And then he was back on you, lips melted between your own and you knew that the pretty noises that you pulled from him would play like a record in your dreams for months on end. Steve was grasping at your hip, the material of your dress bunched under his hand, making the cotton hitch higher up your thighs. 

You were in his lap, wide hands on your sides, guiding you as you kissed him, lovesick, eyes closed, body buzzing and you fell across his knees, thighs shifting apart to cage him underneath you and oh my god. 

Fuck. 

You sat a little higher than him, knees planted on the deck and his head was tilted back to kiss you as you crowded him. One hand was on your jaw, thumb rubbing against your cheek as he kissed you deeper now, a little dirty and when he pulled a small moan from you, his hand clasped at the back of your thigh, skin on skin. 

You could feel him hard underneath you and it made your head feel fuzzy, your body pleading with you to drag yourself along the length of him, hips rolling, chest heaving. 

When you pulled back, panting, the reflections of the pool were bouncing off your faces, ripples of light dancing across the boy's features, hitting his eyes and turning them caramel. You felt golden when he touched you, skin lit up, the air around you both crackling like a storm was coming. 

Maybe it was still the weed, maybe it was a new found courage, maybe it was just teenage hormones and the thought of seeing each other naked for the first time since you were both four, but when Steve asked if he could take you inside, you didn’t hesitate to say yes. 

It felt different in his bedroom when you both tumbled in, colliding with the dresser as you kissed each other like you meant it, like you’d never do it again. The room felt smaller, darker, softer, more intimate than it had ever been for you and suddenly you felt like a girl at the end of date. 

Steve touched you like you were more than just his best friend and it made your stomach roll, your thighs rub together and you couldn’t quite get over the way his hand spanned the width of your cheek, fingertips grazing your hairline whilst his thumb managed to pull at your bottom lip, eager for more of you. 

It all got a little wild after that, loose change and bottles of aftershave cologne clattering off of the drawers, falling to the floor as Steve picked you up and slammed you on top of it, legs spreading for him to fit in between. Hands roamed up your thighs, pushing at the soft skin there until he hitched a knee up and over his hip, pressing himself into you. 

Your dress came off first, his shirt following, a mix of colours on the carpet and he pressed his lips to the skin he uncovered, mouth over lavender lace and delicate straps. 

It felt desperate, you felt desperate. And when he sucked a bruise into the column of your throat, you keened, high and needy. It made the boy groan, mouth vibrating against your chest as he kissed over the lace triangles covering you, his gaze flicking up to watch you nod at him before he was pushing one aside, tongue smoothing over a nipple. 

It made you grab at his hair, fingers delving deep, tugging in appreciation and you were prepared for the sound it pulled from him, low in the back of his throat and it made his eyes flutter shut. 

“Sweetheart,” Steve huffed out, hands skimming up and down your sides as he pressed his forehead to yours, “I’m gonna come in my pants if you keep that up.”

He sounded wild, unravelled and sharp around the edges. It made you feel full of power, pretty lips and lace and soft skin, and you pressed the softest kiss to Steve’s mouth, his breath coming in harsh pants and before you could ask, you were being manhandled again, legs around his waist and his hands on your ass. 

He sat you both on the bed like that, spread out pretty on top of him, knees pushed into the mattress as you pulled at his belt, holding yourself up as he shuffled out of his jeans. He sucked tiny bruises on your collar bones as your bra was peeled off, nothing but your underwear separating you both and you felt his hands drag down your back, a touch that was so affectionate and soft that it took your breath away. 

Then night seemed slower after that, like time paused for you both, just for you to remember every touch. Like the world stopped spinning on its axis just for you two, just so you would both remember the way the other felt, ‘cause fuck, you had a feeling this wouldn’t happen again. 

“We don’t have to go any further,” Steve gasped, lips barely leaving yours as pushed and pulled at your hips, helping you rock over him, body rolling across his lap. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

But you were ready to climb him, your hands grabbing at his hair to tug him back to you, kisses swallowing his words and telling the boy that you wanted exactly the opposite. 

It was strange how natural it felt, to tug the length of him out of his boxers, the feel of him hot and hard in your hand. You shuffled in Steve’s lap as he palmed you over the lace of your underwear, breath uneven. It didn’t take long for him to tug them down your legs as he slid on a condom, your foot kicking purple lace to his bedroom floor and you suddenly felt like you were underwater; body moving lazy and slow as you lifted yourself onto your knees, Steve’s hands strong and reassuring as you took him in your hand and sunk down onto him.

Neither of you moved, bodies tangled and still as you fit perfectly in his lap, arms wrapped around each other as you panted heavy into parted lips. Steve whispered your name, like a prayer, soft and broken before he pushed his lips to yours, head tilted into you so he could catch your lips deep and slow.

He grunted in surprise when you tightened around him, body clenching on his at the touch of his tongue across your bottom lip and you whimpered, hips beginning to wiggle. This was more than you’d felt before, more than wandering hands in back seats, more than a quick and fast hook-up in a party bathroom, more than fingers under skirts in your bedroom when your parents were asleep across the hall. 

“Can I move?” You ask, quiet, your hands grappling desperately at Steve’s shoulders palming over the muscles there. “I need to move, Steve, please.” If you were begging, you didn’t care, because you felt so full, so tight around him and you couldn’t help but admire the way the boy looked underneath you. 

But Steve didn’t have you waiting long, any teasing long forgotten about ‘cause he felt like he was wound too tight and you felt like fucking heaven around him. You didn’t know your eyes were wet until his thumb smoothed over your cheekbone, breath stuttering and you both gasped and swore when you lifted yourself up, just to rock yourself back down.

He moaned your name so prettily, lips glossy from your kisses and his eyes were hooded, gaze set on you, jaw slack, hands roaming across the expanse of your back as he held you to him. 

You moved over him with purpose, Steve answering with low groans and he pulled soft whimpers from you, your hand catching his face so you could look at him, gazes heavy and hot, pinned to each other. Your thumb found the curve of his bottom lip, tugging a little and Steve moaned when the pad of it slid over the edge of his teeth. “Steve,” you gasped, hips moving messy and the boy grabbed at your ass, helping you ride him a little faster. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, tell me, tell me what you want and I’ll give you it,” he pressed his lips to yours as he spoke, words slipping over your lips, your tongue and god, they tasted sweet. “I’ll give you anything.”

“More,” was all you could manage, breath hitching, eyes slamming shut ‘cause Steve’s hand dropped between you both, skin slick and he pressed his thumb over your clit; quick, hot circles that made stars flash behind your eyelids. “Close?” Steve asked, voice rough and you nodded, moving a little wilder over him, the boy reciprocated, hands holding your hips still so he could thrust up hard into you until you were biting down on the muscle on his shoulder, thighs tensing, eyes tearing up. 

Steve whispered your name when he came, arms tight around you, head buried in the crook of your neck, eyes squeezed shut, hoping and praying that he’d always remember the way you felt around him.

He kissed you one last time that night, bodies still naked and stretched out between his sheets and you didn’t say anything to each other as you caught your breaths, eyes wide on each other. There was a part of you that wished you could have the excuse of alcohol, too messy after some party to remember. You couldn’t blame the weed either, the half smoked joint still stubbed out in the backyard, hardly enough to do anything than let you both share a buzz. 

In the morning, you pulled on your clothes, wrinkled on Steve’s bedroom floor, still smelling of smoke and the boy. You tiptoed around his room, searching for your underwear, your shoes, all while the boy lay on his bed, face down, hair mussed and the white sheets barely covering his waist.

You wish you had it in you to let yourself drop back down into bed with, to have the courage to press a kiss to the freckle on his right shoulder, smooth a soft hand down his spine. But the sun was coming in through the window and your lips were still swollen from your best friend’s kisses and everything was starting to taste like a mistake. 

You didn’t know it, but Steve was awake as you left, eyes open and face pressed into the pillow that still smelled like your shampoo, heart beating wild in his chest but he didn’t move, didn’t call out to stop you. And well, that was that. 

My heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue. 

You didn’t talk about it. 

A week passed and neither did Steve and before you knew it, you were a month down the line, the feel of your best friend's lips on your skin feeling like a fever dream and you didn’t know if you’d ever be able to forget the feel of him moving against you, inside you. 

It hurt to look at him, for a while. It got worse before it got better, stilted conversations and awkward eye contact, the taste of regret in both of your tongues and all the things you wanted to say to each other were left unsaid. 

But it was fine. 

Steve asked you round for a movie one Friday, videos stacked on the coffee table in his living room, your favourite sweater of his lying out on the arm of the sofa along with red vines and the good kinda popcorn. 

You didn’t push yourself into his side like you normally would and you didn’t know if that disappointed him or not, but when he dropped you off home later that night, the sky was a dark, rosy pink, the lingering smell of rain in the air and he smacked a messy kiss to your cheek before you climbed out of his car. 

It was fine. Until it wasn’t. 

Steve started dating again, one girl, two girls, three girls. Lucy on Saturday, Matthew David’s cousin Paula the next Friday, Cindy from last year's cheer squad the week after. 

You didn’t ask about it and he didn’t tell you, just poking an affectionate finger to the apple of your cheek when he told you he’d see you the next day. You were his best friend, again, still, only. 

It was fine until one Friday shift, when you disappeared into the back room a little earlier than the store closed. You came back out in a new dress, short and pretty, with blush on your cheeks and a gloss on your lips. Robin had wolf whistled, Steve had frowned. 

“Where are you going?”

His tone of voice cut you in half, accusatory and a little shocked. Steve leaned over the counter, a finger picking delicately at a lock of hair that you’d spent too long trying to get to sit nicely. 

“A date,” you told him, voice soft, gaze lowered as you tried to cram lip gloss tubes and perfume bottles into your bag. 

“With who?” Was the instantaneous response, that same tone of voice. 

You saw Robin’s gaze flitting between the pair of you, not privy to the events that took place a month prior, but not for a lack of trying. The girl was perfectly aware that something happened. She just didn’t know what and neither your or Steve had told her anything. 

“Nate Owens,” you told him and god, why was it so hard to meet his eye? “You know, he was on the team with you.”

Steve pulled his brows together, bewildered at your answer. “Yeah, I know him, why the fuck are you going on a date with Owens?”

You heard Robin’s sharp intake of breath and she watched as you squinted at the boy, annoyance on your features. Knowing what was to come, she grabbed the last of the returns and made her way to the other side of the empty store, leaving you two alone.

“What?” You huffed out, exasperated already. Your stomach was tumbling and you hated the way you didn’t know why. Maybe it was first date jitters, maybe it was the way Steve was looking at you, maybe it was because you knew you had absolutely no interest in dating anyone that wasn’t your bet fucking friend. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Steve grappled for something to say, stuttering over excuses until he tutted and grabbed the stapler, carelessly turning it over in his hands as he told you, “you’ve got nothing in common with him, like, at all.”

You scoffed, pulling at the hem of your dress and smoothing out imaginary creases, you were annoyed, something burning and twisting inside of you. “Sure Harrington, I forgot you choose all your dates based on compatibility and shared goals for the future.”

“He’s a douchebag,” Steve tried again, “he’s only after one thing.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I am too,” you said loftily and you didn’t look for Steve’s reaction, you didn’t want to. You moved from behind the counter, leaving a cloud of perfume in your wake and headed for the door. “Robs, I’ll call you later, ‘kay?”

Before the girl could answer, Steve was tailing you, moving across the store with that stupid stapler still in his hand and he called out your name, making you stop and turn.

“He’s just gonna hurt you,” the boy explained and you hated how his voice had turned a little softer. “You can do so much better than him.”

“Yeah?” You turned fully, chin raised and shoulders set as you locked eyes with Steve. “Who should I date then, Steve? Who’s good enough?”

The air felt electric, fully charged as the boy stared back, lips parting, chest barely moving as if he was holding his breath. If Robin was still there, you didn’t know, your mind only registering the way the boy was still silent in front of you. 

“That’s what I thought,” you eventually muttered, hot tears threatening to prick at the corner of your eyes. “Don’t wait sixteen years to start taking an interest in my love life Harrington, I’ve got by just fine without your advice.”

You’d opened the door by the time Steve replied, voice hot and clipped with anger and something else, a tone you’d never heard him use with you before. “Yeah, well, don’t come fucking crying to me when he turns out to be a dick.”

You laughed humorlessly, your back turned to him as you faced the night outside, the cool air nipping at the heat on your cheeks. You wanted to go home, to chance a look at Robin and silently ask her to clamber into bed with you, if she’d let you cry onto her shoulder as you ate pizza and watched reruns of Charlie’s Angels.

There was also a part of you that wanted to turn to Steve, glassy eyed and confused, to ask why it suddenly felt like you were fighting for the first time since middle school. 

But you didn’t.

You walked out into the night and let the door slam shut behind you. 

If you’d hung around, you would’ve heard Robin slam down the copy of Stand By Me that she was holding, eyes a little angry and disappointed as she looked at the boy and said: “You’re a fucking idiot.”

‘Yeah,’ Steve thought, ‘he knew he was.’

----------

You hated that Steve was right, you hated that Nate Owens was a pig, you hated that he did nothing but look at your chest over the dinner table, you hated that he tried to lean in for a kiss the minute you both got back into his car, you hated that he got pissy with you when you didn’t let him push his hand up your dress, you hated that he told you to put out or get out.

You hated that he left you on the side of the road, a little out of town, at a restaurant that you didn’t really know, dinner paid for with his daddy’s money.

You hated that when you finally found a payphone at the side of a dark gas station, you punched in Steve’s number. You hated that you started to cry when you heard his voice, you hated that he told you was coming to get you. 

Steve found you easily despite your awful directions, and when he asked if you were okay, voice quiet and gentle, you choked out a little sob, feeling pathetic and Steve told you to stay put, that he would be there as fast as he could.

He definitely broke some laws to get to you, flashing through amber lights faster than he was supposed to and when he pulled into the station only twenty minutes later, his heart ached at the way you leaned against the brick wall, half in shadows with your arms wrapped around you, the slight wind picking at the hem of you dress, lifting it from you thighs.

Steve got out of the car before you could move, pushing yourself off of the wall and he hated that your eyes were glassy, that you seemed embarrassed. You let him tug one of his sweatshirts over your head, one he specifically grabbed for you before rushing out of his door, ‘cause he watched you leave work without a jacket and if he’d been in a better mood when you were going on your date - if you’d have been going on a date with him - he would’ve teased you about being cold later.

Steve opened the passenger door, waiting for you to fold yourself into the front of his car and when he got back in, the only light coming from the old neon sign that was flashing red, telling customers that the store was open. 

He wrapped his hands around the steering wheel, squeezing it until his knuckles turned white and he glanced at you, expression almost unreadable.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked.

“No,” you shook your head, and it was true. You’d thrown an elbow into the Nate’s chest when he tried to push you too far, too fast, the sharp point of your arm catching him just below his throat and he’d turned on you, telling you to get the fuck out. “The only thing hurt is my pride, but I guess that’s on me, huh?”

Steve sighed at that, turning fully in his seat so he could face you, his hand coming up to press into your cheek, his thumb running gently under your eye, catching the tears there before they fell.

“Sweetheart-” Steve started, but you were overwhelmingly emotional, everything from the night and Nate and Steve suddenly becoming too much and god, you just wanted to yell with it. 

“What? Is this the part where you say I told you so?” You tried to sound biting, but the words hitched in your throat, fresh tears springing to your eyes. “Why’re you even here Steve?”

You knew why. 

“Cause you asked me,” he answered, simply and that was all there was to it, wasn’t there? “And I’m not gonna tell you shit, I’m… I’m sorry I acted like that early, I dunno what was wrong with me.”

You wanted to press further, you wanted to ask him if he truly didn’t know the reason he acted like an asshole. You wanted to ask if he was jealous, if he wanted you the way you wanted him, if he missed you, if he thought about you when he went on all these dates, if he wanted to kiss you again, if he thought about it all the time, the same way that you did. 

But Steve was still talking, fingers slipping from your face to pick at a stand of hair, playing with the end of it absentmindedly. The car felt too small, too warm and too dark, and you were sure that the last time you were both this close, you’d been in Steve's bed, wrapped around him as he made you come. 

“He didn’t deserve even an hour of your time,” he told you, brows knitted together in a frown. “And you deserve better than Nate fucking Owens, you’re too good for him,” he repeated his statement from earlier and it made you chest ache, your tummy tumble over because god, you wanted to be brave.

“Who’s good enough then, Steve?” You breathed it out, voice almost a whisper because you were so close to losing it, to grabbing the boy by his face and telling him how you felt, how’d fallen in love with him fuck knows how many years ago and you’d only recently let yourself believe it.

He started, wide eyed, lips parted and waiting, the same reaction he’d had back at Family Video. But you didn’t walk away this time, you let out a huff of laughter, no humour in it as you sat back in the seat and started out of the windscreen. The gas station was deserted, the night creeping into a new day, the clock ticking closer to midnight and the light was still flickering. 

It painted you both crimson, eyes brighter than they should’ve been, cheeks rosy. You pushed a foot to the dash, dress slipping up your thigh and gathering in the crease of your leg, showing off way too much skin but you didn’t care.

“I grew up with all the other guys in our grade knowing that I was Steve Harrington’s best friend,” you told him, voice hushed and cracking, “all of them too scared to touch me ‘cause your stupid ten year old ass always threatened to beat them up.”

He was still staring, lip twitching as if he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to laugh or not because it was true. But then he watched a tear slip down your cheek and it caught the light, a flash of ruby before it got caught on your top lip and you licked it away.

“Then in high school, I was a challenge, ‘cause I was still Steve Harrington’s best fucking friend. Boy’s would either be terrified to talk to me or treat me like the best prize they could win. They thought I was off limits, some thought I was your girlfriend and god, Steve, fuck…”

You swallowed, hard, breath catching in your chest and the car was so silent, the boy watching, listening. 

“I never thought that I wanted that, to be anything more than your friend. I didn’t,” you tried to sound convincing, but even to your own ears, your protests sounded weak. “But then you kissed me.”

You looked at him from under your lashes, hands twisted nervously in your lap, his sweater fisted between your fingers and you hated the way it smelled like him, like mint and cedar and smoke and suddenly, it was all too much.

“I know I asked you to,” you blurted out, eyes brimming with tears again, spilling over the line of your lashes and suddenly, you didn’t care about what you said anymore. “But fuck! Robin said that you never say no to me, that you’d do anything for me and god, I just wanted it once, I didn’t know it would go that far that night… I don’t regret it,” you rambled, words falling clumsily over the next and you chanced a look at him, his eyes full of shock but there was a softness behind it, familiar and fond. “I don’t regret it at all, I just-”

You sucked in a breath, let your head fall back onto the rest and let your eyes fall closed before you admitted another secret.

“I just can’t stop thinking about it.”

You kept your eyes closed as you kept talking, the words, the confessions, falling so much easier now that you’d started. The dark made you feel a little bolder, the silence of the boy encouraging you to just keep spilling your heart out, no interruptions.

“I thought that maybe you would feel the same, that you’d say something first, ‘cause you’ve always been braver but then you started dating that girl, then the other one. And maybe I was just stupid, maybe I was wrong,” you sighed, gazing to the side to catch Steve’s eye, a warmth blooming over your entire body, embarrassment, adrenaline and the feeling that you were throwing yourself off a cliff surging over you. “But there was a part of me that thought you’d maybe figure out you loved me too.”

You didn’t know what you expected, really. There was such a large part of you that still believed you were only going to ever be friends, that if Steve wanted more, he would've told you by now. That part told you you were imagining things, that sleeping together was nothing more than an experiment, a product of being high and bored with your best friend. It told you to ignore the way you thought he looked at you, the way that sometimes, you were so sure his touch lingered for longer than it needed to. 

But then there was a voice in the back of your head, a shit, it sounded a little like Robin’s and it told you that the boy before you would do anything for you, anything you asked. And wasn’t that why he was here now? It told you that friends didn’t look at each other like that, that friends didn’t have to untangle themselves from each other's arms each morning, that friends didn’t kiss like you had both done. 

Steve whispered your name then, a hand reaching out to catch yours. 

“You know I love you,” he whispered, voice a little shocked, a little awed. He sounded broken too, like he didn’t know what he was supposed to say, like he was terrified of saying the wrong thing. “I’ve always loved you, you’re my best friend.”

Your heart fell. 

“I- I don’t wanna lose you,” Steve said and he was rambling, falling over his words as his eyes searched your face for something he wasn’t going to find. The softness you’d held in your features was gone. “Babe, you’re my best friend, I can’t lose you-”

“Don’t call me that,” you choked out, your heart racing, your stomach twisting. You thought you might be sick. “Fuck, shit, take me home.”

You pulled your hand away from where the boy held it, your demand sounding harsh and too loud in the quiet of the car. You couldn’t look at him. The red light was still flashing, flickering and it suddenly felt like it was splitting your head in two, like it was pulsing to the same beat as your heart. 

Steve said your name again, pleading, his hand on your arm, silently begging you to turn, to look at him. 

“Can you let me explain? Please, god, I didn’t mean it like that, you have to understand-”

“Take me home, Steve, please.”

But he ignored you, tugging the keys out of the ignition and leaning forward, a hand tilting at your chin to try and a catch your gaze but your cheeks felt too hot and the burn at your eyes told you that you were going to start crying again and all you could think about was the list of boys who were too scared to make you theirs, too happy with a quick fuck in the back of their shitty cars and you never used to care because you were only ever happy with one boy. 

You knew you should’ve let him talk, that you owed him his chance to speak but the burning sensation of embarrassment and rejection was creeping up your spine like poison and you hated it, you couldn’t stand it. 

You panicked. 

You pulled at the door handle, fingers clumsy as you pushed the door open, clambering out with Steve’s sweater still swamping your frame and you could hear the boy calling your name even after you slammed the door shut. 

You made a start for the alleyway behind the gas station, somewhere the car couldn’t follow and by the time you made it a few streets over, you realised Steve wasn’t coming for you anyway. 

You got halfway home before the rain started falling, a pathetic spit that misted into the air and soaked you through. It made your hair stick to your cheeks, Steve’s sweater damp and hanging heavy on your body and by the time you reached home, it didn’t smell like him anymore. 

Good, you thought. 

Because when you were eight years old, Steve Harrington was the first big to tell you he loved you and then he promised you three things:

One, he’d always be your best friend. Two, he’d always protect you from everything bad and scary. And three, he’d never break your heart. 

It took almost twelve years, but shit, the boy finally broke one of them. 

Take me out, and take me home. 

It took Steve twelve years to break his promise to you, but only four days to fix it. 

Which was impressive really, when he spent the first three days agonising over what to say to you. You’d been avoiding him like the plague, worse than the plague, quite frankly. 

He expected you at work the next day, chest sore from holding his breath as he watched the door, eyes tired from staying up all night.

 He’d stayed in that gas station parking lot for too long after you’d left, eyes wide as he watched you leave, disappearing behind the alleyway almost instantly. 

Steve had slammed his hands on the dash, overwhelmed with everything you’d said, admitted to him, with glassy eyes and he fucking hated how he’d made your bottom lip tremble, your breath hitch and stutter as you tried not to cry. 

He’d panicked. 

And you’d left. 

He’d driven home slowly, trying to catch sight of you on the sidewalks that led home, rolling down the streets that looked unfamiliar to see if you were there, trying to find shortcuts. When the rain had started, he’d cursed, no sight of you anywhere and by the time he’d pulled up outside your house, he was relieved to see your bedroom light on, a sign you’d made it home safely. 

He wanted to knock on the door, to climb into your bedroom window and try to make you smile again, to stop you crying because he couldn’t fucking stand it when you cried, especially because of him. 

But the window was shut, a rare sight and he knew it was a hint, a very obvious clue for him to stay the fuck away. He watched your light flicker off, the house bathed in darkness and he’d sat, pushing the heels of his hands to his eyes and cursing himself. 

He should’ve told you, he shouldn’t have been so fucking scared. 

You didn’t show up at work and when he asked Robin if she’d heard from you, the girl had told him that you were sick, had called in early and spoke to Keith. 

“She’s put in a line for the entire week, actually, said it’s a bad bug,” Robin had told him knowingly. “Whatever you’ve done, Harrington, I suggest you fix it.”

Steve didn’t ask how Robin knew, didn’t press her for any more details, ‘cause he knew her too well, knew she wouldn’t tell him shit so he just slammed a video he was supposed to be rewinding on the desk, and sighed, heavy and tired. 

“I know.”

You didn’t answer his calls. With your parents visiting family out of town, there was no one in the house but you and you made a point of refusing to pick up the phone at all. 

Robin would visit, not bothering to knock as she slipped into your house, huffing and humming to herself as she climbed your stairs, barging into your room unannounced. 

She set a careful gaze on you, a lump underneath the duvet, as she dumped your favourite snacks at the foot of your bed. 

“You’re not sick, are you?” You hated how it didn’t even sound like a question, just an accusation. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

And you did, you told her everything from the joint, to your kiss, the entire night. You told her about Nate, about your confession, about the way Steve looked at you when you told him that you thought he loved you too. 

Robin listened, curled up by your pillows beside you, your head on her shoulder and her cheek resting on yours, a bag of Reece’s Pieces between you both. 

“I know that this probably isn’t what you wanna hear right now,” the girl began, patting your hand with her own, “you know, with you being all heart broken and what not.”

You huffed. 

“But I don’t believe for a second that Steve doesn’t love you, that he isn’t in love with you.”

“Robin, please,” you groaned, shoving your face into her arm, because she was right, you didn’t wanna hear it. You’d spent too long trying to convince yourself that she was right, Steve was in love with you, only to blurt out your feelings for him and have him look at you, sheer panic on his face, in return. 

She sighed, knowing it was useless trying to make you see her side of things, so she pushed her nose to your temple, blew a raspberry to the side of your head and stole another Reece’s Piece. 

“Have you spoken to him?” She asked, voice unusually quiet. 

You shook your head. 

“Have you let him try?” The girl said knowingly. 

You shook your head again. 

Another huff, a somewhat affectionate butt of her head to yours and then she turned, shuffling against the pillows until you were face to face. 

“He’s really broken up about this,” she told you and her words made you wanna cry again. “You need to let him explain.”

You sniffed, eyes watering and despite the ache that still lived in your chest, you nodded. 

“‘Cause I don’t think you said things right, y’know?” Robin squinted at you, trying to make sense of what you’d told her Steve had said that night. “He’s a guy, shit, he’s Steve. Communication isn’t his strong point.”

“I don’t know what’s more clearer than ‘you’re my best friend, I can’t lose you’. Idiot or not, he made it pretty obvious that we’re never gonna be anything more.”

The movie that you had both hardly been watching was over, the screen fading to black and the credits rolling. A love song started to play, soppy and too cheery and you grunted, searching for the remote between the sheets before angrily pressing the off button. Silence fell over you and Robin snorted, flinging herself over your lap and looking up at you with a small smile. 

She pressed a finger to the tip of your nose and you scowled. 

“Ever think that maybe he’s just scared?”

Your frown deepened and you stared down at your friend, lips parted at the absurdity of her question. 

“What?” You scoffed. “I’ve watched him take down a demogorgon with a baseball bat, Robin, the boy isn’t scared of much anymore-”

“He also got his heart broken by the first girl he told he loved,” Robin interrupted. “He dates girls that he isn’t really interested in, that are the complete opposite of you. His folks are never around, he’s made his own family out of his friends.”

You swallowed, throat suddenly feeling thick, your chest tight. 

“You're probably the most constant thing in his life, y’know,” she mused, voice unbearably soft. The girl brought a hand up to tuck a stand of your hair behind your ear, the gesture fond. “He’s always had you, maybe he’s just scared to fuck things up and lose you.”

You couldn’t say anything. You didn't want to. ‘Cause that stupid burn was scratching at your eyes again, at the back of your throat and you were so done with crying, you were so over pushing your face into your pillow to dry your face.

Robin sat up suddenly, stretching and bending down to pull on her shoes. She popped another piece of chocolate in her mouth before smacking a kiss to your cheek and you were still silent, bundled up between pillows and blankets in bed. 

“Talk to him, babe,” she told you, heading for the door without any other goodbye, “ I’m sure he’s got a lot to say.”

Fuck. 

You picked and put down your phone six times before you decided to pull on your shoes and start walking. It didn’t take long to walk from yours to the Harrington’s, but you moved at a snail's pace, playing tightrope along the edge of the sidewalk before you stopped at the corner of Steve’s street, heart suddenly ready to burst from your chest. The sun started to set as you waited, hesitating. The sky turned from blue to lilac, tangerine and peach and the air became still. 

You walked up his front path, hand raised, ready to knock. 

It was a sparkler between your ribs kinda feeling, jump off a cliff kind of feeling, take a shot of tequila kind of feeling, risk fucking everything kind of feeling. 

You’d walked away from the boy, his words stuck in his throat, your name dying on his lips and now you were ready to make it up to him. ‘Cause Steve was right, whatever either of you felt, you couldn’t lose him either. 

The idea of rejection hurt, but not having Steve Harrington in your life hurt even more. 

So you knocked. 

Once, twice, three times, but no one answered. His car was in the drive, no parents to be seen and you took a deep breath before you plucked up the courage to open the door like you normally could. 

Your footsteps echoed in the large hallway and the only sound you could hear came from the backyard, the tinny sound of music playing from outside. You found him there, spread out lazy by the edge of the pool, shirt off, one leg dipped into the water and his hair messy from swimming and the leftover heat from the day. 

 Shadows from the tree branches above fell over him, cutting through the gold light, streaks of pink and rose painting his skin pretty and you stood for just a second, watching through the open patio doors. 

You tugged anxiously at the tagged hem of your shorts, the T-shirt you’d tucked into it suddenly feeling too constricting and you wanted to pull at the collar, you wanted to take off running again, because the sight of him hurt. 

Before you could step out into the last patch of sun, Steve sat up, muscles flexing, pool water swirling and he froze, lips parted and staring at you. 

It had only been four days since you’d last seen him, but it felt like far too much time had passed. You hadn’t gone that long without him in years, not since your parents told you that they were taking you to Utah to spend a summer with your grandparents. They’d cut the trip short by two weeks, aggravated and done with their fifteen year old daughter who didn’t shut up about how much she kissed her best friend. 

Yearly trips to the lake house with the Harrington’s resumed the summer after that. 

The boy whispered your name as if he’d scare you off and he sounded tired, sounded a little broken, just like Robin had said. 

You lifted your hand in an awkward wave, stepping out into the yard and into the streak of sun that stretched across the patio. It warmed you, skin lit up, a golden glow slanting over both of you and even from where you stood, Steve’s eyes looked like honey. 

“Hey.”

He stood, a hand raking through his still damp hair, making it even messier than usual and he mimicked you, hand raised, wingers waggling shyly, as if you hadn’t known each other for seventeen years. 

“I was just coming to see you,” Steve admitted and he sounded as nervous as you felt. “I tried calling you. A lot.”

You nodded, feeling guilty and it burned at your chest. “I know, I’m sorry.”

Steve nodded, bare foot scuffling against the slabs and you wanted to crawl back into your bed, already feeling defeated. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this with Steve. 

“I was gonna come round, you know,” Steve started again, gesturing to you, he looked lost, a little helpless. “Before now I mean… I just- I didn’t wanna upset you and you didn’t answer the phone so I just,” he shrugged, looking at the pool instead of you. “I didn’t wanna upset you any more.”

Almost silence; the trickle of the pool filter, the buzz of insects, the sway of the wind in the tree branches. 

And then, “I’ve missed you,” Steve said, voice softer than before. “A lot.”

You let out the breath you didn’t know you’d been holding then, feet moving forward and you let yourself fall into one of the loungers, a space beside the pool that was so overly familiar. 

You looked at the boy then, and god, he was the last cherry popsicle, he was sunshine, he was summer, he was full of promises and all your secrets, he was late nights and early mornings, first crushes and last kisses. 

“I’ve missed you too,” you told him, voice hurting with sincerity. 

It seemed to be all the boy needed to surge into action, because he relaxed at your admission, moving to the other lounger so he could sit across from you, bare knees almost bumping and he was leaning forward, invading your senses and he smelled like chlorine and sunscreen, mint and cedar and boy and summer and Steve. 

“Why’d you leave?”

“I’m sorry,” you told him, eyes suddenly filling with tears because you were so embarrassed by it all. From your outburst to your storming away, leaving the boy sitting confused after he’d come to get you. “I just- I couldn’t sit there and handle the rejection, I never should have said anything, it was so stupid of me-”

You were stopped by his hand reaching out and covering your own, that familiar warmth of his fingers twisting between yours, a wide, rough palm, calloused on your own. 

You looked at him, cheeks warm with your ramblings and he sighed, affection radiating from him as he gazed at you. He didn’t look confused this time, or panicked. Maybe a little bit scared but there was something else there and it shone a little brighter. 

“Sweetheart, I never once tried to reject you,” Steve huffed out a soft laugh, “shit, I don’t think I could if my life depended on it.”  

“What?” You froze, brows knitting together as you replayed the same conversation you both had in the car and you shook your head, confused. “You literally told me I was your best friend, Steve, that you couldn’t lose me.”

“And that’s true!” He burst out, “you just never let me finish!”

He sighed, using his free hand to scrub over his face and he took a deep breath before he faced you again. 

“I panicked.” He said it so simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m so sorry babe but I fuckin’ panicked. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear those words from you, you can’t even fucking imagine how long. I just didn’t wanna mess it up, I couldn’t. I couldn’t risk not having you.” 

A sound of surprise left your lips at his words and you wanted to laugh at the irony of them, ‘cause yes, yes could imagine. But you kept quiet, letting the boy speak, making up for how you didn’t last time. You squeezed his hand instead, hoping it was reassuring enough. 

You watched him lick his lips as he thought about his next words and your brows rose when he suddenly moved, kneeling in front of you and tapping at your knee, silently asking for you to spread your legs and let him in. You did, almost embarrassed by the lack of hesitation on your par but Steve moved into the space tour created for him, suddenly too close. 

You exhaled a little slower, could count the new freckles on his nose, could see the small scar that cut through his brow, the one you gave him when you were seven and pillow fights got too boisterous. 

He smoothed his hands up and down your thighs, a touch that brought comfort and he took another deep breath, readying himself for what he wanted to tell you. 

“I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen,” he said slowly, each word dropping like an atom bomb and you wondered if the earth was shaking. “Maybe longer, I was probably too stupid to work it out before then.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh and Steve grinned at the sound. 

“It took me a little while,” he admitted, gaze lowering as if he were suddenly shy, “I didn’t know the difference between loving you and being in love with you. You’ve been in my life for as long as I can remember.”

His fingers found the frayed hem of your shorts, twisting the strands between his fingers absentmindedly. 

“I remember Nancy telling me that, uh,” he cleared his throat, words catching on his lips with nerves and hesitation, “she uh, told me that I didn’t love her like I thought I did. That I was in love with someone else.”

You inhaled sharply, remembering the girl telling you something similar that day on the bench. You’d been confused and a little irritated at her, defensive maybe, now that you looked back on it. You remembered the way she twisted her lips to hide a grin that she didn’t want to annoy you with, eyes all too knowing. 

“I kinda realised then,” Steve nodded, eyes finding yours from under his lashes and god, you wondered when his face had moved so close to yours. “She was totally right, I just didn’t really wanna admit it.”

“Why not?” You asked, voice a little sad, ‘cause that had been years ago, and you felt overlooked, like so many missed opportunities had passed you both by and god, were the two of you really that stupid?

“I was stupid!” Steve burst out and you laughed, a little sad with watery eyes but shit, you were too. “So I kept dating random girls, anyone, really. Tried to take my mind off you, tried to forget about you in my bed.”

God, the memory made you burn. 

“I didn’t know what to do,” he whispered, still leaning into you, eyes closed like he was at confession. “Asking you out on a date seemed so ridiculous when I already know you better than anyone else.”

Your nose grazed Steve’s, and you let out a small sigh because as much as you were hurt by it all, you understood. You and Steve had seen every movie there was to see, had taken trips out of town to every concert, spent too many evenings at burger joints and ice cream parlours. You probably wouldn’t have guessed you were on a date with the boy unless he was in a tux and there was a chandelier above you. 

And that seemed like a big ask. 

“I would’ve loved to go on a date with you,” you said anyway, cause the idea of Steve pulling up outside your door with flowers in his hand gave you butterflies, tugging at your heart in a way that made you warm. 

“Yeah?” He smiled, blinding and it only widened when you nodded. 

He moved impossibly closer still, cheek to cheek so he could find your ear with his lips, hands moving to your thighs, thumbs rubbing circles on the inside. 

“I spent so long tryin’ to work up the courage to ask you to be my girlfriend,” his admission sounded like his biggest secret yet and you held your breath as he whispered it to you. “So long that years passed and we got older and suddenly the word ‘girlfriend’ didn’t seem enough.”

It was strange, but you knew what Steve meant. The word seemed too arbitrary, too normal, to describe the relationship you had with each other, how you felt about the other. 

“I know,” you told him, voice just as soft and quiet as his. “I’d still like to be yours though.”

His grin was contagious, warmer than the sun that was starting to set, brighter than the rays on the pool and you swore the world was spinning a little faster in excitement, as if the planets and the moon were just as happy as you were. 

“Yeah?” He asked, low and rough, nose pressing to your cheek, lips just brushing yours. 

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed, waiting, wanting.  

“Can we always be this close?” Steve asked, and you melted a little at the question, at that soft sincerity he always managed to give you. 

“Yeah, god, please,” you answered and your voice sounded a little husky, a little pleading because you couldn’t imagine anything else. “Can you kiss me, now?”

The boy swore under his breath, the curse mixing with a huff of laughter and he smiled against you, mouth pressing happy to your cheek and you beamed at him, lashes tickling his skin, both of you warm against the other. 

“Could never really figure out how to say no to you, y’know that?” He whispered, as if he was giving away a secret. Steve let his lips hover over yours, his hands wrapping around the small of your back, fingers playing with your belt loops, pulling you flush with him. Your hands smoothed over his bare chest and around his neck, skin hot with the sun, with being near you. 

“Can I take you on a date?” 

Something bloomed inside of you, wildflowers between your ribs, a new day of summer, a heatwave in your chest. 

“If I say yes, will you kiss me?” you asked, a little bratty, a little teasing. You’d waited so long for both, you didn’t know what you wanted first.

But then Steve was pushing into you, lips pressing down onto your own, his hand along the underside of your jaw as he used his thumb to push a little under your chin, tilting you up to his mouth so he could lick into you, adoration pouring into you. You felt the way he loved you, like the way everyone else saw it. It still felt new, his lips on yours, new in an exciting way, new in a ‘god, I could get used to this’ way.

“Lemme take you on a date,” he said again, a smile on his lips, pressing it to yours and his voice was sunshine but rougher, even warmer and it made you smile that cheek hurting kinda smile.

You nodded. 

“You still my best friend, Harrington?” 

Steve pulled back to look at you, eyes shining. “That and more, sweetheart.” And when he said that, it felt enough. ‘More’.

“You still gonna protect me from everything bad and scary?” You nudged the tip of your nose to his, voice sweet. 

“With everything I have in me,” he answered honestly, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, catching your laughter. “Baseball bath and all.”

“Promise you won’t break my heart?” You asked, forehead to kiss, eyes full of every emotion you felt. Love, excitement, fear, hope, nervousness, adoration. 

“Promise you won’t break mine?” Steve whispered back, a hand on your cheek, thumb grazing over your lip. 

“I promise,” you told him, hands gripping right at his shoulders, running across the nape of his neck, diving into his hair. 

“I promise,” he repeated, and shit, you believed him. 

[bellejeanx]

lost.soul

Prompt: “I care about all the lost souls here.” 

Summary: Being an interdimmential being sometimes other worlds cross your path, occasionally other people cross your path. All of them are lost, and you care for every single one of them. 

Pairing: Henry Creel x F! Reader (romantic) 

Notes Eleven’s name is Elaine in this. | Based on Beyond the Aquila Rift | Also this may not be the best nor is it proofread I am so tired atm. enjoy?

trigger warning: Mentions of death, spoilers for Vol 2, sex

Keep reading

[bellejeanx]

Born Asleep - Epilogue

Part of the Druig x Elena AU (see full AU list here) Joint project with @bellejeanx

Characters: Druig x Fem!OC (Elena)

Summary: Druig and the other Eternals are forced to put aside their fears about Elena’s unexplainable condition to fight Tiamut and stop the Emergence. Author's Note: this is IT y'all! WOW! so emotional to think this project concludes here and now. If you have read to this point, THANK YOU FROM THE BOTTOM OF OUR HEARTS!!!!

Warnings: major canon divergence

Read Chapter I here Read Chapter II here Read Chapter III here Read Chapter IV here Read Chapter V here

*****

It wasn’t until Druig felt himself fall onto the cold, hard floor of the Domo that the spinning stopped. Seized by anxiety, Druig looked to his left where Lyla sat, similarly toppled by the force of their journey. She looked tired but unhurt, and when Druig met her gaze she beamed at him, a triumphant grin. 

Druig felt the anxious coil in his stomach loosen ever so slightly, but it wasn’t until he heard a familiar voice singing his name.

“Druig?”

Before he’d even looked up at Elena, peering down at him with a dazed look in her eyes, he’d broken into enormous, rib-breaking sobs of relief. He heard Elena rocket off the hospital bed, the heart monitor screeching in warning as she wrenched the EKG leads off her chest. He felt her wrap him and Lyla in her arms, and he breathed in her familiar scent. Her hair was soft and stuck to his tears, her skin was soft and warm, and her laughter ricocheted around the room like a peeling bell. Lyla was squealing in delight, crying “Momma!” over and over again as the three grabbed each other, swapping tearful kisses as the reality of their reunion settled in their minds. 

For the first time in months - no, years - Druig felt like he could really breathe. As the sounds of their crying and laughter swam through the Domo, he heard his companions begin to spill into the room. Each one met the scene with a different exclamation of relief, joy, and disbelief. Phastos almost crumpled to his knees on the spot, tears streaming down his cheeks as he swept up Elena and Lyla in a bone-crushing hug. Druig felt Makkari’s sinewy arms squeeze his shoulders and neck from behind. 

Druig wasn’t sure how long they all spent celebrating. Druig recounted for them all - Elena included - the events of her rescue as best he could. He was surprised to feel his throat close with emotion as he told them all about Galen. Elena smiled sweetly at him, running her palms reassuringly over his forearms. They hadn’t allowed any separation between them since she’d returned, always touching somehow, as the few remaining shreds of fearful disbelief at their long-awaited reunion began to evaporate. 

After Druig finished, Elena told them all, shakily and with much difficulty, what little she remembered of the preceding few months. Her memories were fractured and anachronistic, but Druig felt his chest swell with pride at her bravery and strength. To think she’d been literally carrying Death around her neck for almost a year. He marveled at her, drinking in the sight, sound, smell and feel of her. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d allowed himself to hope for her salvation. He found he could hardly go a minute before he saw her from a different angle, heard her laughter strike a new tone, or unearthed another memory of their time together, and all over again he was falling aimlessly through pure, unfiltered bliss. Next to him, Lyla snuggled against his rib, alternating between his arms and Elena’s. 

After Elena finished her tale, Phastos spoke. He filled in the missing pieces for the others about the Death Stone and about what they’d witnessed at the Emergence. Sersi added her own recounting of her exchange with Arishem. Although there were moments of quiet and darkness still - breaking the news of Ikaris’ death was a particularly difficult one - the hours they all spent together were some of the best of Druig’s life so far. 

He wasn’t sure how long they all spent, crowded together in the sterile medical room on the Domo, swapping stories and reacquainting themselves. By the time they all emerged, the sun was setting over a peaceful ocean. They still hadn’t left the small island where Tiamut had almost succeeded in breaking Earth open like an eggshell. Druig felt a delicious exhaustion wash over him as he, Lyla, and Elena all made their way to their chambers. They didn’t bother changing their clothes before sinking into bed, Lyla between them as Elena and Druig clasped their hands over her. Lyla fell asleep quickly, her breath deep and even. 

Druig looked up at Elena, a gentle smile on her lips and a dreamy glaze in her eyes. 

“I missed you,” Druig whispered after a while. He wished he could have found more profound words, but his mind fought against him as it slid towards sleep. 

“I missed you,” Elena replied, squeezing his hand tightly. She blinked, and her eyes stayed close for a breath. Druig smiled, letting his own eyes soften and close. 

Right before sleep claimed him, he heard Elena murmur something. 

“What, love?” he asked, voice thick with sleep. 

“I am alright,” she said, her whisper a fraction louder so he could hear.

He opened his eyes, looking at her quizzically. What did she mean? 

She chuckled softly at his confused expression. 

“I am alright, Druig. That was the first thing you said to me when we met. You said ‘you’re alright’. I didn’t know it then, but I know it now. I am alright. With you. As long as I’m with you…” 

Druig let his mind chase itself back to the memory of their first meeting, at a memorial service in Sokovia. He remembered how she’d looked when he’d seen her that day. She’d been dressed in all black for the occasion, and she’d been limping towards him in the chaotic aftermath of an anti-Avenger riot. He’d seen her hazel eyes first, and almost like stepping through a one-way door, the rest of Druig’s life had pivoted in the span of a second. Every moment from then onward had been saturated with Elena, with his love for her. It was perfect. She was perfect. Not in a superhuman way, but in a poignantly human way. She was raw, unfinished, and incredibly precious. Druig hadn’t ever felt that he’d neglected to appreciate her, but after having come so close - so desperately close - to losing her, he committed himself to never take her for granted, or the peace that she brought him. 

With that intense feeling of gratitude and serenity weaving through his mind, Druig gave himself over to a deep sleep, tangled up in his wife’s arms with their daughter slumbering peacefully between them…

[bellejeanx]

Born Asleep - Chapter V *FINALE*

Part of the Druig x Elena AU (see full AU list here) Joint project with @bellejeanx

Characters: Druig x Fem!OC (Elena)

Summary: Druig and the other Eternals are forced to put aside their fears about Elena’s unexplainable condition to fight Tiamut and stop the Emergence.

Warnings: major canon divergence

Read Chapter I here Read Chapter II here Read Chapter III here Read Chapter IV here

“Druig, you need to get in there.” Phastos wiped sweat from his brow, trailing some of Elena’s blood across his forehead. He’d been working for hours to stabilize Elena’s condition, and he’d only recently been able to prevent her from seizing. Druig stood, rigid and rooted to the ground next to her, his expression contorted in pain and his face unnaturally pale. His eyes burned but they weren’t able to create any more tears. 

He managed to shake his head weakly at Phastos’ plea. “I can’t, Phastos.” His voice was watery-thin and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Elena’s face. He barely recognized her anymore, and he was terrified that each *blip* on the monitor Phastos was using to monitor her heart rate would be her last. He couldn’t risk getting trapped in whatever was left of her mind at a time like this. He wanted to run - to bolt from the room, from the Domo - and just keep running until his body gave out. But he wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t let her die without being here, right here, next to her. 

He felt Makkari’s slender, strong hand rest on his bicep. Druig flinched at her touch. He knew she was going to try and convince him to go along with Phastos. All of them - Sersi, Thena, Gilgamesh, and Makkari - had all been pleading with him for the better part of an hour. Phastos was insistent that Elena needed healing from the inside out and Phastos could only do so much. 

“I won’t do it,” Druig said, his voice louder but sharp like cut glass. He just wanted them all to leave, to let him be alone with Elena. He knew she was dying, how could she not. She looked like a corpse already. Her skin was sallow, her body wasted away to a bag of bones, her hair brittle and stiff. The only proof of her fragile life was her shallow, fast breathing and the incessant beeping of the heart monitor. All Druig wanted was to be alone with her, one last time, and let the weight of his grief crush him like a vice. 

“Druig, please! She’s dying, for Arishem’s sake! I can’t do anything else!” Phastos’ face was taut with exhaustion and his rage was palpable. His hands shook at his sides and he stared at Druig, his friend’s refusal incomprehensible. 

“You don’t understand,” Druig whined, resting his hands on the edge of Elena’s bed and hanging his head. “If I go in there, I might get stuck. I almost did last time, and that was before… Before…” Druig struggled to put into words exactly what they’d all just witnessed during the Emergence. Phastos had been rambling nonsensically about some other Infinity Stone with the power over death since Makkari had brought him back to the Domo. Tiamut was gone, apparently killed by some sort of malignant cloud parasite (which Phastos insisted was the essence of death?) that had taken control of Elena and then spat her out when the deed was done like a used up husk. Druig’s head felt like it was splintering. There weren’t any words for whatever had happened, so he just gestured wildly towards the outside of the Domo. 

“We won’t let that hap-”

“YOU CAN’T STOP IT FROM HAPPENING!” Druig’s bitter shout cut off Thena’s weak protest. She jumped back from him, startled at his outburst. The usual fiery glitter in her eyes when challenged was completely gone, replaced by a look of pity that made Druig want to vomit. 

“None of you can help me once I get in there! And I can’t help her if I can’t get out!” Druig’s voice cracked as he raged against the incessant pleas of his friends to save Elena. As if that wasn’t his only wish, as if he wouldn’t trade his entire existence for that ability. But he knew just like he knew his own bones that he couldn’t do it. And he refused to let Elena die without being next to her, holding her hand, kissing her gently to make sure her last moment on Earth was saturated with love. After that… 

There was no after, Druig realized. His future ended the instant Elena died. He hoped he’d die too, and easily. Maybe his body would just give up, collapse in on itself like a dying star. He doubted he’d be so lucky. He’d have to convince one of the others to do it. He cast a desperate glance around the room as this realization settled in his mind. No one here would do it. His best bet was probably Kingo. Druig gritted his teeth at the idea of having to travel to India to track Kingo down. The journey was longer than he wanted to keep hanging around this godforsaken ball of rock in the universe without Elena there to make it a place worth being, but he had to do what he had to do. 

With a sigh of frustration and disgust, he turned back to face Elena. Her eyes were dancing rapidly under her paper-thin eyelids. Phastos had assured him that this was just a function of her erratic brain activity, but Druig preferred to think maybe she was dreaming. He smiled - a twisted, broken smile of grief as his eyes burned with impotent tears - and stroked the side of her face. 

Something about that mangled smile seemed to seal the deal for the other Eternals. He felt a collective exhalation of defeat as they all gave up on trying to argue with him. He heard footsteps receding from the chamber as they dispersed back to their chambers, no doubt to grieve the events of the day in their own fashion. Seconds dragged into minutes, until the only person left was Makkari. Druig could feel her mind rippling at the edges of his consciousness. Her thoughts were foaming with grief and despair as she wept silently in the corner of the dim room. Elena’s heart monitor beat erratically for a moment, and Druig’s heart squeezed in agony as he held his breath, wondering if this was it. After her heartbeat regulated - the result of an automated medicine drip that Phastos had crafted in the last few hours - Druig’s shoulders fell and he let his lungs deflate. His breath felt stale with anguish. 

Makkari eventually left, and the room fell quiet. Druig let his mind wander aimlessly as he tried to commit Elena’s features to his memory. Even in her feeble state, he couldn’t help but find beautiful pieces of her. The curve of her upper lip, the line of her shoulder, the constellation of freckles on the back of her right hand. He refused to let any inch of her avoid his gaze, fully aware that this would be his last opportunity to soak her in with his eyes. 

After a time - minutes, hours, he wasn’t sure - he felt a small, soft hand come to rest atop his. He startled. His daughter - their daughter - was standing next to him, her eyebrows knitted in fear but a calming steadiness in her eyes. She had her mother’s eyes, and Druig was grateful to see that familiar shade of hazel once more. 

He wasn’t sure what to say. His mouth opened and closed futilely a few times as he wrapped an arm around Lyla’s shoulders. She looked down at her mother with that same odd serenity in her eyes. Then, suddenly, she looked up to him, sparing him the burden of finding words. 

“I’ll help you.” 

At first, Druig didn’t understand her meaning. He felt a flash of annoyance at having to deal with riddles at a time like this, but that emotion quickly died down as he remembered that not only was he losing his love, but Lyla was losing her mother. She just wanted to save her mother. What did a child know about death, anyways? Not this kind of death. What did any of them know about this kind of death, truly. He felt a new wave of tears prick at his eyes as he pulled her in for a firm hug. 

Lyla, however, fought his embrace ever so slightly. This time, it was her turn to be annoyed.

“We don’t have much time, Daddy,” she chided him. He pulled back, fixing her with a quizzical look. 

“We need to help Mommy. She needs us.” Lyla’s voice was steady and strong, and laced with such conviction that Druig felt his heart leap at the hope she held onto. He shook his head, preparing to protest, but before he could, he saw Lyla move her hands onto his chest. He felt her presence, her mind, close to his. It was awash with a soft, warm, golden light. The same light that he’d felt in her mind when she’d healed Ben’s knife wound almost six months ago. 

Her palms pressed firmly against his chest near his heart, and he could feel an intense heat from her palms through the material of his armor, which he hadn’t taken off since the battle the day before. He searched her eyes, the smallest flicker of uncertainty in his mind. 

“It’s OK,” Lyla reassured him. She sounded so much older - so much wiser - than her years. Her confidence was deeply soothing, and through the hot press of her palms he felt a strange sensation emanating into his chest, slowly spreading all over his body. It felt like putting aloe on a burn. The raw edges of his emotions slowly dulled and softened. His pounding headache receded, the knot of fatigue in his shoulders relaxed, and even the deeper wounds - the loss, fear, anguish, and rage - felt doused and quenched by the heat from Lyla’s palms. 

Druig breathed deeply, letting himself relax into this healing energy for a few breaths. The warmth continued to do its work. When Lyla eventually retracted her hands, Druig felt renewed, as if he’d slept a week in the last few seconds. The grief was still there, a deep and bottomless sadness over Elena, but it wasn’t crushing him anymore. There was a smooth quality to his pain now. It didn’t feel sharp and acidic like before, and he felt like he could touch it now without ripping himself apart. 

“Better?” Lyla asked innocently, an airy smile on her lips. He nodded, speechless. 

“Good. It’s Mum’s turn.” She tilted her head significantly toward Elena. Druig wasn’t sure how he knew, but he finally understood Lyla’s meaning. And he felt ready to do it, to do whatever it took to save Elena. Somehow, that crippling fear of leaving her alone at her last moment had been caged and put aside. He could still feel it, beating its wings like a trapped bird against the bars of its prison, but it wasn’t clouding his vision or rooting him to the spot anymore. 

He nodded purposefully. Lyla interlaced her fingers with his as Druig’s eyes glowed gold for a moment as he crossed the barrier between his mind and Elena’s.

*****

When Druig arrived, he felt himself in the middle of a dark and vast expanse. It was the same sensation he’d had the last time he’d stepped into Elena’s mind. Only this time, he wasn’t alone. He felt Lyla’s small hand in his, her palm still unnaturally warm from using her powers a few moments ago. And standing there, as if waiting for them, was Galen. 

Druig had seen a few photos of Galen before. He was a tall man - taller than Druig - with olive skin, dark wavy hair, and a dazzling smile. Druig could see why Elena had fallen in love with him. He looked like it would be easy to be happy with him. He had a relaxed and gentle way in his smile, and Druig knew that Lyla had inherited her dad’s radiantly joyful spirit. 

But the Galen he saw now wasn’t the one he’d seen in pictures. It was the way Galen had looked the last time - the only time - that Druig had seen him. Druig knew he should be shocked, or startled at least, but for some reason the realization that he had actually met Galen before didn’t feel so unnatural after all. 

Galen was in mint nursing scrubs. His Sokovia Central Hospital ID tag hung from his breast pocket, next to a pen and a small flashlight. His clothes, face, and hair were covered in a thick layer of dust, obscuring the shade of his skin and hair beneath a veneer of ashy gray. Smeared across his forehead was the unmistakable red shade of blood. 

From the back of Druig’s memory, he saw an image of a young nurse who’d stumbled upon him in the rubble after the Avengers had leveled the city of Sokovia. That nurse had freed Druig’s trapped leg from underneath a slab of concrete, and just before a building had collapsed on the very spot where Druig had been. That nurse was Galen. 

“Druig.” Galen’s voice was warm and honeyed. It sounded like he’d been expecting Druig, and there wasn’t a moment’s hesitation in his address. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Properly.” He extended a hand towards Druig. Druig clasped it, surprised to find the experience so visceral. Usually when he was inside human’s minds, it was a more ephemeral experience, like a foggy dream. But this felt so real, so concrete and tangible. He could feel the press of Galen’s strong grip on his hands, he could detect the acrid gasoline and smoke smell that he remembered from that fateful day in Sokovia almost 10 years ago. 

“Galen.” Druig smiled at his rescuer, a strong feeling of destiny gripping his chest. Galen returned his smile, and there was no mistaking him. He looked just like the beaming man from Elena’s pictures. 

“Dad?” Lyla stepped tentatively towards Galen. Druig had almost forgotten she was here with them - how, Druig had no idea - but there she was, as if in flesh and blood. 

The expression in Galen’s eyes was indescribable: a poignant and pure mixture of elation and heartbreak. Druig watched as Galen crouched down, his dark brown eyes level with Elena’s hazel ones. 

“Hello Miss Lyla,” he said softly, marveling at her as tears carved paths through the layer of ash on his cheeks. Carefully, he took Lyla’s hands in his own, a small chuckle of wonder escaping his lips. 

Lyla smiled back, seeming to soak in the moment just as much as him. After a few moments, she threw her arms around his shoulders, earning a laugh of joy from her father. With her arms still laced around his neck, Galen looked up at Druig. 

“Thank you,” he said fervently. Druig didn’t need to ask him what he meant; the force of emotion in his words and eyes said enough. Druig smiled earnestly, nodding back to Galen. He felt a pang of sadness to think that Galen would never have the chance to see his daughter grow up, to chase her dreams, to fall in love, to maybe be a mother herself one day. Druig would though. With a swell of ferocity in his chest, Druig resolved to live all those moments, the ones that Galen would never have, for the both of them. 

Druig reached out and placed his hand on Lyla’s shoulder. She slowly withdrew from Galen’s hug, both of them laughing and smiling in contentment. Lyla’s laugh sounded just like her father’s, Druig realized. He marveled momentarily at that fact; he’d always thought Lyla’s laugh was like Elena’s, but now that he’d met Galen, he knew that wasn’t true. 

Galen rose from his crouch, and slowly the smile faded from his lips as he, Druig, and Lyla gazed around at their surroundings. Their small unorthodox family reunion was dwarfed by the immense blackness of Elena’s vacant mind. 

“Where is she?” Druig asked urgently. He felt stronger now, not just from Lyla’s powers, but from Galen’s presence here too. Something incredibly important was happening, unfolding around him, and Druig had a tantalizing feeling in his mind that felt almost like hope. 

Galen looked at Druig, his expression somber. “I’ll take you to her - both of you,” he added with a quick glance down at Lyla. “But I should warn you. She isn’t herself.” 

Druig was unsure what that meant - especially given the circumstances - but he found he trusted Galen implicitly. He nodded at Galen’s warning, his hands squeezing Lyla’s shoulders protectively. Galen extended his hand, palm facing up, towards Druig. Without needing to ask, Druig touched Galen’s palm with his own. As their skin connected, Druig felt a nauseating swirling sensation in his gut as he felt himself begin to travel through the expanse of Elena’s mind. Although he didn’t feel his feet leave the ground (he wasn’t sure that he was standing on anything solid at all, come to think of it), he was acutely aware of traveling a great distance in the dark before the sense of movement came to a stop. 

In front of them, cowering like a rabid animal, was a writhing, pale wraith-like creature. It shivered violently as if in the midst of a fever dream, and it was completely unclothed. Its face was turned away from them, and the bones of its spine protruded harshly from its back in a painful-looking line of ridges. With a sinking feeling, Druig realized he was looking at Elena, or what was left of her. 

“I told you,” Galen said sorrowfully from next to him. “She’s been getting worse and worse for months now. She kept it hidden from you for a long time. But the Blackness was eating her alive in here.” 

“The Blackness?” Druig asked pointedly, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at Galen. 

“I’m not sure what happened out there,” Galen continued, “but there was someone else in her head. It did this.” Galen gestured at the empty darkness around them. 

“Speaking of,” Druig said, his curiosity suddenly piqued, “how did you get here? I’ve never encountered another person’s consciousness inside a human’s mind before.” 

Galen shrugged halfheartedly. “I’m not sure, honestly. I remember being alive. In Sokovia. I remember before that too, but the last place I remember is Sokovia. And I remember you,” he inclined his chin towards Druig. “Then I remember waking up inside the Blackness. I’m not sure how long I was there. I felt it around me. It tried to get to me for a long time, but there was something - some sort of barrier, I guess - that kept it from reaching me.” Galen’s expression turned thoughtful as he recounted this. Druig’s mind raced, processing Galen’s story. Nearby, the muffled whimpers of the wraith-Elena continued as it recoiled from the sound of their voices. Lyla had her mother’s haggard form fixed in her eyes, a curious absence of fear in her gaze. 

“Your powers,” Druig eventually mumbled. His mind finally began to put the pieces together. 

Galen looked at him, confusion on his face. “My powers?” he asked.

“You have healing powers, right?” 

Galen nodded in response. 

“Your powers must have kept Death from hurting you. Maybe you regenerated fast enough to balance its effects on you,” Druig postured.

“Death?” Galen repeated, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “The Blackness I felt? That was Death?” 

This time, it was Druig’s turn to nod. Galen thought about this for a moment, chewing on his lip thoughtfully. 

“I suppose that makes sense. It wasn’t until the Blackness found Elena that I really noticed that it had a conscious energy.” 

Druig nodded. He could remember the exact moment that Death had found Elena. It had been at her birthday the summer before, when he’d presented her with the black stone pendant. He hadn’t known it at the time - and neither had Phastos - but that black stone was the Death Stone, one of the lost Infinity Stones. Druig could see the pieces of the mystery begin to crystallize in front of him. The shroud of fear and unknowing that he’d been mired in for the past few months, watching Elena waste away in front of him without any explanation, suddenly clicked together like puzzle pieces. 

“I had the stone with me that day.” At this point, Druig was thinking out loud. His voice was soft, and he stared absently at the wraith in the corner. 

“Stone?” Galen asked, interrupting Druig’s reverie.

“The Death Stone. It was the vessel that the Blackness travels in,” Druig clarified. 

“You had it what day?”

“The day you died. In Sokovia.” Galen’s features fell slightly as the pain of that last living memory pulled at the corners of his mind. 

“It must have trapped you somehow… maybe it was drawn to your powers…” The clarity of understanding was getting fainter the further Druig chased down his hypotheses. The three of them lapsed into silence, each lost to their own thoughts. After a moment, Druig spoke, but his voice was heavy with emotion.

“Thank you, Galen. For watching over her.” He gestured towards Elena’s terrified consciousness, still hiding its face away from them.

“I’m not sure what good it did. Just look at her, for Christ’s sake.” The heartbreak in Galen’s voice matched Druig’s own despair.

“Momma?”

Lyla stepped forward, out of Druig’s grasp. Her voice was soft, but gentle and luminous. Druig could sense the same warm energy in her mind that he felt before she’d used her powers on both Ben and him a few minutes before. She approached Elena confidently. Out of the corner of his eye, Druig saw Galen instinctively move to follow her, his arms outstretched as if he meant to swoop her up and away from Elena, but Druig reached out, placing a steadying hand on Galen’s shoulder.

“Wait,” he whispered, his eyes trained on Lyla. As she moved closer to Elena, Druig noticed the violent shivering and sorrowful whimpers lessen slightly.

“Momma, it’s me,” Lyla announced, crouching down next to her mother. Druig was once again struck by how mature Lyla seemed, how very self-possessed. Her movements were slow and measured, but there was not an ounce of fear in her soft smile. Elena slowly turned her face towards Lyla, her eyes darting from Druig to Galen to Lyla like a rabid animal.

“We need to help you,” Lyla continued, reaching a hand towards the terrified creature in a beckoning gesture. Elena retracted from it as if Lyla’s skin would burn her with a soft yowl of panic. Lyla kept her hand extended, her gaze steadfast.

“It’s OK,” she cooed, as if she were the mother soothing a frightened child. “Dad’s here. Both of them.”

Elena’s gaze darted frantically to Druig and Galen at Lyla’s words. Lyla took the opportunity to scooch an inch or two closer to Elena, her hand still outstretched but almost touching her mother’s forearm. Elena’s eyes snapped back to Lyla, and he thought certainly her tolerance had reached a fever pitch and she was about to run away into the recesses of this black emptiness. But intriguingly, he saw Elena’s breathing begin to steady as her eyes raked over Lyla’s face, as if drinking in all the angles of her face. Her gaze remained wary, but Druig couldn’t mistake the flicker of recognition in her eyes. After an agonizing moment of waiting, Lyla closed the distance between them, her hand coming to rest on Elena’s forearm. Elena jumped at the contact, but she didn’t withdraw. She looked wide-eyed at her daughter’s soft, smooth hand perched on her own arm like a dove. Druig could feel the gentle, warm shimmer of Lyla’s powers begin to awaken.

Lyla turned back, making meaningful eye contact with Galen. Intuitively, Galen and Druig knew what she was saying, even if she made no sound. Galen stepped forward, approaching the two cautiously, until he too was crouched in front of Elena. She reacted skittishly to his approach, but seemed bolstered by Lyla’s presence. Druig saw Galen look inquisitively at Lyla’s hand before realization struck his eyes. He looked back at Druig, a question in his gaze as if wanting to confirm his thoughts. Druig nodded, and Galen broke into a proud grin to know that his daughter shared his gift.

Haltingly, Galen extended one of his hands until it connected with Elena’s shoulder. She shuddered slightly, but didn’t flinch away or shake off the contact. Lyla continued to talk soothingly to her. Soon both of Lyla’s and Galen’s hands were on Elena’s arms. Druig could feel both of their powers – Galen’s a stronger version of Lyla’s, with a burgundy aura to it instead of champagne like his daughter’s – as they began to pour forth healing energy into Elena.

Druig watched with amazement as he felt Galen’s and Lyla’s powers strengthen, intertwine, and wash over Elena like tidal waves. As each new surge of energy blanketed Elena, Druig watched as her erratic gaze steadied and her breathing deepening and slowing. She seemed to settle against Lyla and Galen’s hands, and after a few moments her face broke into a bright smile. It was like seeing daybreak over the horizon after a stormy night. Druig felt part of his heartbreak melt into pure bliss at the sight. 

He didn’t have long to drink in the beautiful sight before Galen turned to him. 

“When she’s strong enough, Druig, you need to get her out of here.” Galen’s voice was confident, but strained. Druig saw a look of effortful concentration in both Galen’s eyes and Lyla’s. Reaching out with his mind, Druig felt the edges of the Blackness pushing in, pressing down on Elena’s healing form. It reminded him of what he’d felt the last time he’d strayed into her mind. 

Druig wasn’t entirely sure what Galen meant by get Elena out of here. They were inside her own head, after all. But Druig wasn’t about to question Galen. Although Druig had irrefutably been inside minds more than Galen, this was an entirely new experience for him, and he trusted Galen’s instincts. 

So, rather than question or argue, Druig decided to let his instincts guide him. He watched tensely as Lyla and Galen continued to strain against the crushing force of the Blackness. Before his eyes, Druig watched as Elena began to transform. Her gaze softened, her hair darkened and thickened, her complexion warming and the rosey hint returning to her cheeks. Her body started to thicken, muscle definition returning to her arms and legs and her spine straightening. Druig watched, mesmerized, as Lyla and Galen’s powers surged in and around Elena, bathing her in light. 

“You need to go, too,” Galen grunted, looking at Lyla. She nodded, meeting his gaze with a mix of sadness and strength in her eyes. 

“What will happen to you?” she asked. Druig could feel both Lyla beginning to pull back on her powers as Galen’s surged forward, taking the place of hers. It was almost time. 

“I’ll be fine, honey,” Galen smiled reassuringly. Druig felt a twinge of sadness at recognizing the same tone of parental comfort he used on Lyla when she was frightened. “I can’t go with you, but I’ll always be there.” 

Lyla’s eyes swam with tears, but she nodded, chewing on her lip. Druig saw Galen’s own brown eyes prick with moisture. 

“Go, now!” Galen instructed, gently pushing Lyla’s hands off of Elena. Lyla stood, turning to run towards Druig. She hesitated briefly, turning back to plant a fast kiss on Galen’s cheek. Druig saw a tear slip out of Galen’s eye as he watched Lyla run towards Druig.

As soon as Lyla’s hand connected with Druig’s, Galen nodded encouragingly at Druig. It was as much of a goodbye as they could spare - Druig could see Galen’s jaw clenched and straining as he continued to hold off the ravenous blackness threatening to devour Elena once again. 

With purpose and intensity, Druig threw his powers out towards Elena, who was looking up at Galen with clear recognition in her face. Druig felt the familiar form of her consciousness and seized it. He’d never done that before - never exerted that level of control over another mind before - but it felt almost as if Elena was reaching out for him with her own mind. As soon as Druig connected with her consciousness, he felt himself and Lyla rocketing backwards with the same gut-wrenching spinning sensation he’d felt when Galen had brought them to Elena in the first place. He gripped Lyla tightly with his hand and Elena with his mind as the three of them flew through the unnavigable darkness…

#druig imagine #druig x oc #druig #druig angst #druig fanfiction #druig eternals #eternals #eternals imagine #druig au #druig x elena au

[bellejeanx]

[bellejeanx]

[bellejeanx]

fanfiction culture is when you don’t wanna tell people you write fanfic but you do want to talk about writing, so you just say, “oh yeah, sometimes I write little short stories here and there!”

[bellejeanx]

WANDAVISION episode nine: the series finale

[bellejeanx]

Seafoam (part 4)

Characters: Aleksander Morozova x Fem!Reader Word Count: 2,872 | 8 min. read time Warnings: discussion of pain, depressing themes, violence Part 4 of the 'Seafoam' Series | Read Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3

Aleksander threw open the flap of the Healers’ tent, allowing a biting gust of frozen wind into the hazy interior. There were several Inferni-made fires dispersed throughout the expansive tent. A few Squallers stood by, using their powers to direct the smoke upward through the vents at the top of the tent. Unlike the rest of the Second Army’s decimated ranks, this tent was warm and comfortable. Healers bustled around, busying themselves with the various injuries and ailments that plagued the remaining Grisha.

“General.” Genya bowed deferentially to Aleksander upon recognizing him. Although she was not a healer, as the highest ranking Corporalki in the Second Army, she’d become the de facto administrator and organizer of the Army’s medical units. Ivan, Aleksander’s long-time military advisor, served as the head of the Heartrenders, and dealt with battle strategy. Genya’s shrewd mind for organization and soft touch made her a perfect fit for her role in charge of the Healers.

“I’m looking for Private Tovin,” Aleksander muttered to Genya, his voice low and urgent. She nodded, unsurprised. Ever since Private Tovin had returned from his secret mission with a drüskelle arrow sticking out of his ribs, Genya knew that General Kirigan would undoubtedly make a personal appearance. She led Aleksander to a semi-private corner of the tent. The Healers had hung a few sheets from the walls of the tent to afford Private Tovin a semblance of privacy.

It was rare that Healers encountered a wound they couldn’t heal, but an arrow-punctured lung was among them. Private Tovin had barely made it back to the camp before dying, and even now all the Healers were able to do was keep him comfortable and extend his life to allow him to take care of any unfinished business, such as letter writing to his loved ones. Genya couldn’t understand why Private Tovin had bothered to return at all. She knew enough of battle injuries to recognize that his wound was fatal and riding with it for the six days and seven nights it had taken him to return from the capital must have been excruciating.

She pulled back one of the sheets, standing aside to allow General Kirigan to pass. He shot her a grateful look, motioning for his oprichnik guards to wait for him outside. They obeyed, turning to assume post on either side of the hung sheets. Genya was surprised when Aleksander turned and motioned her to follow him. She stepped towards Private Tovin’s bed, letting the sheet fall closed behind her. She was taken aback by the young man’s ashy complexion. His face was slick with a sheen of sweat and his eyes looked feverish. Even so, he recognized General Kirigan and saluted weakly.

“Private Tovin, please, save your strength,” Kirigan replied, settling on a straight-backed wooden chair next to the soldier’s bed. Genya had seen some of the Healers sitting in it, reading Private Tovin’s personal letters to him earlier that day. She swallowed thickly, trying to push down the tears threatening to gather in her eyes.

“General, I saw her.” Private Tovin’s voice was raspy and weak, but there was no mistaking his words. Genya didn’t know the nature of Private Tovin’s mission, although it had been one of much speculation amongst the Second Army ever since they’d learned that the Black General had dispatched two of his best fighters back to Os Alta. Although Genya was not so disillusioned as to think herself a friend of General Kirigan, she had served with him a long time and she knew enough of his heart to know that there was only one reason he would weaken the already ravaged ranks of the Army. It was the otkazat'sya lover, the woman with the dark hair that Genya had seen him embracing on the steps of the Little Palace when they’d left on campaign so long ago. As far as Genya knew, the General never spoke of this woman aloud, but there was no mistaking the poorly concealed heartbreak lurking in his dark eyes. It was an emotion almost everyone in the Second Army had become intimately familiar with since they’d all left Os Alta. Except Genya. Somehow, amidst the death and chaos of the last eighteen months, she’d found David. It was a cruel twist of fate to have fallen in love with someone so deeply just before their deaths - a fact both of them had accepted as the inevitable end to their doomed conflict with Fjerda at this point - but she was glad to have known true love at all. She felt that General Kirigan must have been similarly compelled to have acted with such desperation at a moment when the fate of his Army was balanced on a knife’s edge.

Private Tovin coughed weakly before continuing. Aleksander tensed like a taut wire, hanging on the moment. “She’s alive, General. But the drüskelle-”

Private Tovin’s words were interrupted by a wince of pain. He grimaced, clenching his teeth. The sheets of his bed were pulled down around his waist, and Genya could see a bloodied bandage wrapped around his chest. A bright spot of blood bloomed atop the place where the arrow had pierced him.

“The drüskelle what, Private?” Aleksander’s voice was gentle and superficially calm, but there was a thinly contained desperation just beneath the surface.

“They took her, sir. I didn’t see where. I tried to follow them, but I lost the trail in the mountains.” Private Tovin coughed again, this time a hacking cough that set Genya’s teeth on edge. She could see the pain it caused him to cough so violently.

Next to him, she saw the bottom in Aleksander’s black eyes fall out. His expression collapsed, his shoulders falling in defeat. After a few moments of listening to Private Tovin’s agonizing coughs, she saw the General gently grab the soldier’s hand in his own.

“Thank you, Private. From one man to another. I cannot thank you enough for what you did. And for coming back here to tell me.” The sincerity in his voice was so pure and vulnerable that Genya thought for certain her heart would split in two. Private Tovin smiled weakly back at the General between fits of coughing. As another convulsive hack overtook him, a Healer stepped through the opening in the bed sheets.

“General, please, I must insist.” The Healer looked worriedly from Private Tovin to General Kirigan, hunched next to the bed with the soldier’s hand clasped between his.

“Of course, of course,” he replied, rising from his seat and returning the Private’s hand to the sheets. He shot Private Tovin another gratified look before turning and leaving the Healer to the task of easing the soldier’s pain. Genya followed him out of the Healers’ tent, turning up the fur-lined collar of her military-issue winter cloak against the harsh wind. The sky was a slate gray, a foretense of a blizzard charging over the mountainside and due to blanket the camp later that night. The sun was a faint disc of sickly yellow light, hovering over the bleak mountaintops that separated them from their homes in Ravka to the southwest.

“Genya, walk with me,” General Kirigan stated. It was somewhere between an order and a request, and Genya was happy to oblige. In the months since the Second Army had found themselves pinned between the Permafrost and the snowed-in mountains, she’d seen less and less of the General. She’d always found his calm demeanor a helpful tonic against nerves when she felt close to losing faith.

She fell into step next to him as they made their way through the tents of the camp. Outside the mouth of each lean-to, soldiers huddled around weak fires, cooking mealy stew and drinking soured kvas. Despite the generally desperate state of the Second Army, Genya felt a surge of pride to see General Kirigan stride amongst his troops. He knew most of them by first name, greeting them with a warmth and courage that was contagious. Somehow, he managed to keep his black kefta and fur-linked cloak in impeccable shape, and Genya knew it was not for lack of use. General Kirigan was nothing if not a leader; he understood the importance of looking the part as much as acting it.

Their progress through the camp was slow as the General stopped to talk to almost every soldier he passed, but Genya was unbothered. It felt good to stretch her legs and leave the hushed, somber atmosphere of the Healers’ tent. The mood of the Second Army lifted noticeably as General Kirigan’s procession drew more and more attention. Soon, soldiers were lining the central path, waiting for their turn to shake the Black General’s hand. He was not unknown to the Army, but spent much of his time in consultation with his advisors or out on reconnaissance missions, so most of the soldiers were used to quick glances or chance meetings.

Twilight was peaking over the hills by the time Genya and the General arrived at his tent, on the opposite side of the camp from the Healers’ tent where they’d started. Genya saw him shake off the facade of a fearless leader that he’d worn so well for his troops. Beneath the facade, she saw the heavy set of his shoulders and the exhausted fear in his eyes. He sank into a chair opposite her, and for a few moments they lapsed into a thick silence.

“Fjerda will use her to force my hand into surrender.” The General’s voice was laced with pain when he finally spoke. Genya looked up from her hands into his gaze. He looked utterly broken.

“Your lover?” she ventured. He nodded solemnly. A small part of her was happy to think that he felt comfortable confiding in her, and she resolved to give him her full attention and best counsel in exchange.

“What will you do?” she asked, genuinely curious. She watched as Aleksander’s eyes glazed over, his mind weighing the impossible options. She was incredibly grateful that this decision did not rest on her shoulders. When she thought of David in the clutches of the drüskelle, her mind went blank with terror and her heart quaked. She knew what choice she would make, regardless of how many lives it would cost. No life was as precious to her as his. And she could see that there was the same depth of devotion in Aleksander’s heart.

When he looked up at her, she was utterly shocked to see tears pooling in his dark lashes. She had never before seen such raw emotion from General Kirigan, and although she’d not doubted his love for whoever this otkazat'sya was, she’d never expected to see him break in front of her. When he spoke, she had to strain to hear his voice it was so soft.

“Whatever I have to.”

*****

Your consciousness came back slowly, in fits and starts. At first, you registered the uncomfortable twist of your hands bound behind your back and the biting ache in your shoulders, telling you that you’d been bound like this for a while. Then you caught the sounds of voices around you, all speaking in the guttural tongue of Fjerda. Although you’d picked up snippets of the Fjerdan language in childhood when your family would trade with Fjerdans at the local market, your head was too foggy to make sense of the words being exchanged. Next came the salty taste of blood in your mouth and the excruciating pound of your cheek and temple from where the drüskelle soldier had hit you with his sword. Only one of your eyes would open, the other being swollen shut, but from what you could see you were in some sort of wooden structure. There was a waterskin and a plate of moldy bread and a mealy apple laid out a few feet from your face.

You lay there, your breath shallow and ragged, as your last memories came back to you in snippets. You remembered the sting of the Fjerdan’s sword hilt connecting with your cheek, the sight of your nephews’ terrified eyes as you instructed them to hide with their sister. The sickening thump of a drüskelle arrow as it lodged in one of the messenger’s ribcage. But one piece of your memory was so crystalline clear that it kept your heart beating and your mind fighting against the pain and the pull of unconsciousness. Aleksander. He was alive, he was looking for you.

You weren’t sure how long you laid there, but you do remember seeing the faint glimmer of sunlight through the wooden slats of the wall climb upward and recede downward into darkness three times, tracing the arm of the sun through the Fjerdan sky outside. When you were able to open both your eyes, you managed to force yourself into an upright seated position. By now, you were alone in a ramshackle wooden cabin. You dozed on and off, pain and starvation keeping you under a heavy blanket of weakness, but occasionally you registered another person coming in to stoke the fire in the stone hearth opposite you. There was a heavy-linked chain attached to one of your ankles and your hands were bound in rough rope at your lower back. Your shoulders screamed in protest to be kept in one position for so long, and your left hand had long since fallen asleep under the pressure of the rope. The empty socket where a tooth had once been kept you from chewing the stale bread or mealy apple, so you were forced to bite off chunks small enough to swallow whole, all without the aid of your hands. The waterskin was damn near impossible to drink from unaided, but once or twice the thickly-bearded drüskelle who stoked your fire tipped it back into your mouth, giving you a much needed swig of icy cold water.

Four days after you’d first come back to the world, a tall, deep-voiced man clad in the signature wolf-pelt and leather armor of the drüskelle strode into your wooden hut. A dozen or so other drüskelle trailed behind him, and although there was nothing specific in his armor that designated him as such, you knew intuitively from his bearing that he was a leader of sorts amongst the Fjerdan army. He fixed you with a cold stare, his icy blue eyes devoid of emotion. You tried your best to return his gaze with defiance, but you were so weak that it was difficult to hold your head up before it lolled back to your chest.

Some of his attendants scoffed in derision at your frail form, but he remained eerily quiet, watching you carefully. After a few moments, he walked over and knelt in front of you.

“Do you know where you are?” he asked in broken Ravkan. Fleetingly, you debated whether you should answer him or not, but ultimately you nodded once. He was the first person who’d spoken anything you could understand in days, and although you knew it was unlikely to happen, if there was even a sliver of hope that you might trick him into revealing something damning, you would take it.

“I’m going to untie your hands,” he informed you, reaching behind you and severing the rope wound around your wrist with a clean stroke of his dagger. Your aching shoulders erupted in pain as your arms fell limply to your hands. You gasped in pain as he grabbed one of your wrists, raising it in front of you. The green sash that had attracted the drüskelle’s attention back in Os Alta stayed where you’d left it. It was so dirtied now that you could barely recognize the beautiful shade of seafoam green it had once been. The drüskelle leader eyed the fabric carefully, his eyes flickering back and forth between your wrist and your face.

“Who gave this to you?” he asked. His Ravkan was heavily accented and difficult to understand.

“What’s it to you?” you managed to bite back. Unconsciously, you felt yourself brace, expecting him to strike you. No such hit came; in fact, he chuckled darkly.

“You must be who you say you are,” he continued, amusement and satisfaction glinting in his eyes. “You’re as stubborn as he is. Both of you refuse to die, it seems.”

You didn’t need to guess at who the he in the man’s statement was. Your heart skipped a beat in your chest. Aleksander.

“We’ll see how stubborn the two of you are when you’re burning at the stake.” The man stood, letting go of your wrist which fell to your lap. He turned on his heel and left the hut, his lieutenants trailing closely behind him. A few of them spit on you before stepping out. The sound of a harsh winter wind whipping outside roared in your ears until the door slammed shut behind them, leaving you alone in the wooden hut with the dull moan of the blizzard outside. Your mind felt frozen as you tried to process his words. You were glad no one was around to see you vomit in fear as the reality of what he’d threatened you with settled in your mind…

to be continued...

ty for reading!! reblogs/likes/replies srsly put smiles on my face. also, requests are open so give me more excuses to sink further into my fantasies <3

#darkling shadow and bone #shadow and bone fanfiction #darkling x you #darkling fanfiction #darkling x y/n #darkling x reader #ben barnes #general kirigan #aleksander morozova x oc #aleksander morozova #aleksander morovoza

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@hottpinkpenguin

Druig's side profile appreciation post

#your honor i want to marry this man

[bellejeanx]

Black and White - Chapter 1

“Shit, Witcher, that hurts!” Arian cursed, wincing at the sting of the damp rag. He shot Arian an impatient look as he continued to dab at the gash on her shoulder.

“It’ll hurt worse if it festers.” He continued to wipe away the dried blood and pus from the gash with a feathery touch. Despite the sarcastic bite in his words, she was surprised to receive such tender care from a Witcher. Arian had always heard tales of their famed swordsmanship and brute strength, never of their gentleness.

She took another brazen swig of the whiskey the Witcher named Geralt had given her to help numb the pain. It burned going down her throat, but it was a welcome distraction from the pain of the infected wound.

Arian had received the wound in battle some three weeks ago at Sodden and it hadn’t healed properly. It certainly hadn’t helped that she’d been forced to hide from the Redanians tasked with clearing the field by lying buried under the corpses of her fallen comrades for four days. The wound had desperately needed dressing then, but instead it had stayed in the bloody muck until she’d been able to slip away quietly by cover of darkness.

Despite being on the brink of starvation and weakness from blood loss, she’d had the good sense to shed her Nilfgaardian armor prior to meeting Geralt in the woods. Arian’s time spent as a diplomat in King Foltest’s court had served her well, and her Nilfgaardian accent had all but disappeared. Geralt didn’t seem to suspect her Nilfgaardian roots, and Arian intended to keep it that way. Although he’d so far not given any indication that he was invested in the quarrel between Nilfgaard and the Northern Kingdoms, Arian couldn’t be too sure. If Geralt – or anyone with a vested interest in the conflict – discovered who she was, who her betrothed was, there’d be no escape for Arian except through death.

Arian took another long drag from the whiskey, hoping to numb not only the pain in her shoulder but also the pain in her chest. Thinking too long on her life before Sodden threatened to split her open from stem to stern in grief.

“Save some for me,” Geralt growled from behind Arian. He’d stopped dabbing at her wound with the whiskey-soaked rag and had begun stitching the ragged edges of her flesh together. Thankfully, the liquor had begun to do its work, and the sharp pricks of the needle were dull enough that Arian could almost ignore them.

Arian offered the bottle to the Witcher behind her. He took a break from sewing her back together to take a deep sip of his own, handing it back to her.

Emboldened by the liquor, Arian decided to press her gruff traveling companion for information.

“Where are you taking me, Witcher?”

“Somewhere safe,” he replied curtly. He was a man of few words, that much Arian had learned in their short time together. Arian knew he didn’t trust her, although she doubted he trusted anyone, but he seemed particularly keen on keeping her close by. At first, she’d thought he – like most men – had dark intentions towards her. But as hours turned into days and multiple opportunities for the Witcher to overpower Arian passed by uneventfully, she began to realize that there was something more he was looking for from her. And he sensed that she, as much as she hated to admit it, was dependent on him. Although he didn’t know her background, he could sense that she was a stranger in these lands and hiding from something. Traveling with a Witcher was a convenient way to avoid being asked difficult questions; most people found Witchers vile and untrustworthy, and that distaste extended to their traveling companions. Arian was content to let Geralt’s unwelcome presence cloak her own identity in secrecy. Although she wasn’t convinced that many common villagers in these parts would recognize her, there were plenty of noblemen and women who would know the bride of the Black Flame, even if she was a little worse for wear…

#black and white au #shadow and bone fanfiction #the witcher #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x oc #arian vaneharr oc #darkling x oc #darkling #aleksander morozova #aleksander morozova x oc #witcher fanfiction #witcher and shadow and bone crossover