decolonizepalestine.com is an easy to navigate website run by two palestinians which breaks down common myths about palestine and provides a reading list organized by a wide variety of categories ranging from history and culture to media and censorship. it’s a good starting point to use if you want to learn more about the modern day situation in palestine and understand the truth behind myths that have been perpetuated about israel’s occupation of palestine.
hey there!! could i request another shy!reader with steve where they are just friends and he likes her but steve gets hurt and the reader takes care of him and he's surprised by it? not even related to the upside down necessarily it could just be something normal hahah. thank you!!
yes ofc!!! thank you for requesting!!
fem!shy!reader | 1.5k words | cw: minor burns
"you have to put the car in drive to drive it, steve."
robin's voice pinged in his ears. damnit. he yanked on the gear shift, one foot on the brake, and was met with resistance again.
"i'm aware of that, i assure you."
"are you gonna put it in drive then?"
"it's stuck, robin. seriously?"
his head snapped to her in the passenger's seat, an incredulous look painted all over his face. robin blanched, but her resolve remained; she glared at the gear shift, and then up at you in the rearview mirror.
"he didn't say that, did he," she retorted.
all you could do was smile.
steve felt you watching as he and robin bickered about what to do with the car. you were stagnant in the parking lot of the movie theater, little round lights bordering the film posters reflecting off the hood of the BMW. he took robin and yourself to see labryinth, which he had not been excited for and was not impressed by. but the two of you had been eager to get tickets, and you seemed to like it.
tense as you were in the backseat with all the arguing going on, he could see that one expression glaze over your eyes. sometimes, you got this look on your face, steve noticed- when something had just happened or you had just seen something that excited you. you replayed it in your head, in your own little world. you must have really liked the movie, then.
your eyes met his in the rearview mirror and he tore his gaze away. it wasn't like him to be nervous around girls, of course (kind of), and it's not that you were entirely different- girls didn't have to be different for him to like them, but you were you, and it was impossible for him not to treat you differently.
steve didn't just like you. this was something else entirely. but the only times you ever looked him in the eye for more than a moment were by accident, and you rarely spoke more than a few sentences to him without suddenly realizing he could hear you, and going quiet.
he let robin finish her tangent about how the car would still work if he 'stopped ramming it into park when it was still rolling forward', and then it was silent. steve watched the corner of your face from the side mirrors and was relieved to see your expression calmed once the two of them stopped yelling.
he hadn't expected you to suddenly start looking at him or talking to him in one night, but, fuck, he did want you to enjoy yourself. he just wanted you to have fun and not get all nervous when you had no reason to, and he couldn't even pull that off. shouldn't it have been simple? he knew you well enough to know what set you off.
"alright," he rambled off, popping open his door. "i need to look at the radiator cap. i'll be back."
the key beeped in the ignition until he dropped it into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut. it hit him like a brick, instantly, and he dragged his hands over his eyes. idiot, why'd you slam the door?
it was too late to do anything about it. steve rounded the front of the BMW and opened the hood, a wave of heat rippling across his face. it was the dead of summer, the back of his neck already clammy, and he was so nervous about getting you and robin home without having to flag down the box office lady that he thought he might suddenly understand how you seemed to feel all the time. it was exhausting.
the sound of a door closing was distant to him as he reached into the guts of the car and unscrewed the squeaky radiator cap.
scalding hot liquid shot out of the valve instantly. it grazed over his palm like a bullet, leaving a raw streak in its wake. steve cursed, clamping the cap back onto the spout and screwing it shut until the flow of coolant stopped; escaped droplets leaving tiny, round wells of flesh all over his fingers.
he heard you inhale and knew it was you. jesus. his nerves flared hot as the coolant, and he squeezed his jaw shut to prevent from shouting in your direction. his first instinct was to curl his hand into a fist and ball it up tight against his chest, which was a massive mistake-
"no!" you blurted, darting over. steve was already cursing by the time you peeled his fist away from him, the burns appearing like ribbed stretches of plastic. "oh, god, don't do that."
"sorry," he breathed. "fuck."
your eyes flickered up to his, wide and confused. "why would you be- is this the only big one? the one in the middle?"
you pointed at the wide burn across his palm, still holding his hand in yours like a snow globe or a porcelain mug. something heavy and fragile. he gawked at you, a little stunned, skin still searing.
"yeah," he breathed. get it together. "yeah, yeah, it's fine. that's it. the other ones are..." he gulped, "small."
he swallowed in between the words, surprised at how badly the tiny burns on his knuckles could hurt; surprised by how close you were and how intense your expression was as you studied his hand. your skin was soft. he was almost positive he'd never been this close to you before, and you were so focused.
"do they hurt?" you stiffened. "of course they do."
"no," he blurted. "no, i mean...they're alright. not that bad."
they were bad. they hurt, so bad.
you glanced up at steve and he grinned.
"i can't even feel 'em. seriously." he spread his fingers apart. "look how thick my skin is."
"that's ridiculous," you mumbled.
you took his other hand and placed the burnt one gently in his grasp before letting go and poking into the backseat of the car. he glanced around, like he'd suddenly lost his balance, floored at your eagerness to help. when you returned with a napkin and a water bottle, he stood straight up, swaying casually on his feet.
"playing doctor?" he murmured, watching you as you took his hand from him and splayed it open in your own.
the way you looked up at him, eyes wide, would have been enough to knock him over had he not braced himself for some sort of reaction as soon as he said it. it was too brash, too overt for you; of course your cheeks and ears went as hot as the radiator.
"sorry," he shook his head. but that was essentially an admittance that he was flirting, and he couldn't have that, so instead he said, "you're a good doctor."
you inhaled and gave a stern look at his hand, but he heard your breath shake.
"i am a good doctor."
you poured water over the small burns on his fingers, turning his hand over slowly and softly rolling his knuckles over and forward to make room for the liquid. when you wet the napkin and placed it over the widest burn on his palm, he exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes up at the sky. your eyes flew open.
"i'm sorry. you have to cool it off to help it."
"ouch."
"i'm sorry," you repeated, a little more urgent. your gaze was frantic when he glanced back down, and guilt spilled into him as if a dam had been broken. his lips quirked into a bemused but sad expression.
"you don't have to be sorry. you're healing me."
you snickered, and he followed the sound; tilting his head when you glanced away.
"that's a bit much."
"this is better than anything i would have done. or robin. she would have told me to peel the burns off, probably."
you actually laughed at that, his hand bobbing up and down in your own. "actually, if they were..."
you stopped. there it was- as if you suddenly realized he could really hear you when you spoke.
steve didn't follow the sound this time. he just watched you, unsure of what to do yet, unaware of the adoration written all over his face. and you were shy; not stupid. you saw it. so you kept going, encouraged.
"if they were worse, it might have been better to peel some of them off. but i'm glad we don't have to. they aren't too bad. i'm sorry the water was painful."
it wasn't an overly romantic or important line to close with, but it was the sentence that you started, and steve was just pleased that you finished it instead of going quiet. he watched you, like an image passing by.
"you're nice," steve said. "too nice."
his breath separated the hair at the top of your head, your nose close to his chest; his hand still in yours.
a honk sounded from the car like shattering glass. you tore your hand away; the moment over but not forgotten. the glare steve shot robin was faster and more scathing than any coolant or bullet.
steve opened the door for you and slipped into the driver's seat, sighing.
"i got it!" robin burst. "i just had to pull on it a couple times. it's fine, i think. for now."
he regarded her with a locked jaw and flared nostrils. she merely snapped what? in return, sinking into her seat.
steve didn't see her wiggling her eyebrows at the two of you in the rear view, but you did. his grip on the steering wheel relaxed when he heard you laughing softly from behind him.
welcome to my one-year celebration! this blog has been so essential to me over the last year and i cannot thank you all enough for being here and following me and supporting me even when i haven't been as active as i'd like <3 so let's celebrate! check out the rules below :)
navigation, masterlist, guidelines
anyone can join whether you follow me or not!
send as many as you want, but make each ask separate please!
the deadline for this will be a tentative aug 1!
DO SEND: anything for the characters listed in my guidelines/anyone you want to ask if i'd write/talk about, fun thoughts, questions about me
DON'T SEND: the things listed in don't send on my guidelines
i will be writing nsfw blurbs for and of the characters listed on my guidelines! they'll all be tagged nsfw, 18+, so please be mindful!
i will try to do as many asks as i can but i cannot guarantee that i'll get to all of them because you all have so many wonderful ideas!
everything will be tagged #fvsbeachday and fics/headcanons will be compiled into a masterlist once the celebration ends!
so, let's celebrate! send me any of these🙂
🌊 LET'S SWIM: the water looks nice! send me this and a tumblr game or a question or just something to chat about -- would you rather, fmk, get to know me, etc
☀️ SUNSCREEN: who would you like to get your back? send me some nsfw thoughts/concepts about the characters on my masterlist and i'll add onto them 18+ only
🐚 SEASHELL: let's look for beautiful things on the beach! send me a line from a book, song, or movie/tv show and a character and i'll write a short (<1k) blurb for you
🍦SWEET TREAT: something sweet for you, someone sweet! send me this and a fic/blog you'd like to recommend to everyone
📚LET'S READ: swimming not your thing? we can sit under the umbrella and read! send me this and tell me what you like to read (genre/books/authors) and i'll recommend a book or two for you to try
📸 CANDID: let's make some memories with our friends! send me a character and i'll tell you a headcanon i have for them
if you'd like, please reblog this to signal boost! :)
Loved the Steve Harrington x shy reader ones, can you please make another where reader is shy but super kind inside? Like she rescues sick kittens or dogs from street and lets them be free after a good care when nobody's around? Really wanna see Steve's reaction after he accidently finds her doing so.
P.s-Hope you're enjoying the beach🫶
hi friend!! the beach was so good but there's sand everywhere and i can't get rid of it xoxo. thank you for ur request i hope this fits what you imagined <3
shy + fem!reader | 1500 words
"hey!"
your head snaps up at the sudden harsh call, but their next words are softer and maybe a little exasperated.
"what the hell are you doing in the road?"
steve harrington approaches like a mirage. the anchor of your stomach drops, nerves nearly pinning you to the ground. heat ripples off of the pavement and off the edges of his hair, ringer-tee tight around his arms. his BMW is parked in a gravel offshoot a yard or two away. for a moment, you forget what you're doing and your hands go free.
"hi," you muster. "i was..."
oh! you whip back around, surprised to find the dog you've discovered still meandering toward the far side of the road. it's limping on its back right leg, as if it keeps pushing forward, the injury will heal itself. it's a bully of some sort; not quite a pit, but definitely not a bulldog. its fur is completely white save for some dirt around its paws and nose.
steve slows to a jogging stop and flicks his hand at you where you kneel. get up, he's motioning. his brows are drawn in the sunlight, and likely in confusion, too. when you go to stand, he takes your bicep gently in his hand and pulls you the rest of the way to your feet. he even steadies you once you're up.
"good?"
your ears go hot as irons. you want to thank him, but it's hard to speak when he's around, so you just nod.
"is it yours?" he asks.
"no," you reply. "no, i just...i was on my bike and i saw it limping."
he throws you an odd glance. "we're on the interstate."
it's true. in the wooded part, at least- surrounded by trees and a metal barrier. but the road is windy, and if a car came around from the opposite side, it would have to be paying good attention to spot you at the curve.
you blink at steve, surprised at how much he seems to care. it's obvious that he does- you're quiet; not dense. but you still don't know what to say.
"it's okay," you shrug.
really? that's the best you could come up with?
steve shakes his head, a little frantic as he takes your forearm and leads you to the metal barrier, climbing over it and then offering his hands to you a second time. "c'mon. hop over."
you blink at him, a little stunned still. it's a bit of a ridiculous reaction, maybe. steve is one of your best friends. but he's also...steve. you can't really be entirely calm around steve harrington. especially not when he appears out of nowhere and drives his car off the road to check on you.
you take his hands and step over. once you've landed, his hands swipe across your shoulders; an almost extended release.
the dog lingers on the other side of the railing. steve swings his legs back over the barrier, and it teeters backward, frightened by his height or maybe just the drop of his feet.
"hey," he calls, frazzled. "don't...it's okay. c'mere."
the dog whines, wary.
the whirring of an engine catches your attention, and you're forced to speak.
"steve," you say. his name is foreign on your lips despite how familiar he is to you. "there's a car."
"it's okay," he replies, kneeling. his voice is a murmur. the dog is backing further into the road, its wounded paw drifting over the yellow median. steve's gaze is sharp, both of you afraid for the animal now. you feel a little bad for dragging him into it. if something happens to the dog, now steve will have to be sad about it, too.
a blue volkswagen comes around the curve too fast for your liking and you're propelled over the barrier, grabbing the neck of steve's shirt.
you yank him backwards, although he probably didn't need it. the dog scampers off just in time as the car shoots by. its back lights stay dim, the driver not even tapping the brakes as flashes of white fur disappear into the forest on the other side of the road. and just like that, the dog is gone.
"damnit," steve huffs. but his shoulders are rigid. breaths rise and fall quickly from his chest, hard and fast, as if he's trying to slow down his heart. he glances over his shoulder, but not quite at you, without moving to pry your fingers off of his shirt. "i don't see it."
your expression crumples.
steve locks eyes with you after a moment of silence. his brown eyes are wide, expectant, as if he knew what your wordless response would be. his head cocks to the side a bit before he straightens out and sighs.
"alright, alright. i'll drive around and look for it."
his neck is warm. you let go, wrinkles from your grip left in the shirt. he wipes a hand over the top of his spine like you've left a film and turns to you.
"you shouldn't just park your bike on the road, mother theresa."
you scoff at the nickname, turning from his gaze. "i am not."
"yeah, whatever," he huffs in return, as if he's ready to leave, although he hasn't moved to do so.
it's nice of him to offer to look for the dog, but you're sure he won't find it again just by driving around. why would it risk going out onto the road again? you needed to look in the woods.
"why are you making that face?" he complains.
huh? "what face?"
"that...oh, man, whatever. alright. quit ogling at me. i'm gonna do it."
you laugh before you can stop it, and if steve was tempted to smile by that, he scrubs the look off his face quickly.
"what are you talking about?" you breathe.
"you're looking at me all...helpless," he retorts. "now i have to do whatever you ask."
that does it. if your ears went hot before, all of you is on fire now. you turn completely around, pretending to look for your bike in the trees, but you had left it in the complete opposite direction and you're too worked up to pass by steve on your way there.
finally, you're forced to turn back around. there's nowhere to hide from the incredibly obvious diversion you attempted and steve is going to be standing there no matter how long you pretend to be searching for something.
he's standing with his arms folded.
"do you do this a lot?"
you stare at him, brows lifting. do what? he reads your expression.
"pick up lost puppies, brake for birds...that sort of thing."
"those are different things," you murmur.
"you get it," steve retorts.
but you don't. the notion that you're some sort of sweet and gentle creature is odd to you, considering how clunky and awkward you feel most of the time, and for steve to suggest that you just did 'that sort of thing' was entirely unexpected to you.
of course, to steve, it's plain as day; you are the sweetest thing he's ever seen, and he would camp out in a tent on the interstate for the next week until he found that dog. for you.
he has to bite back a grimace at how enamored he is with you to offer his hand.
"c'mon. you can put your bike in the trunk and then we'll go look for the dog." he clocks your concern and sighs gently. "on foot."
good.
you're greedy and take his hand before you can be afraid to, and when you step over the railing, it's clumsy; your right leg landing harder than your left. you stumble, and steve catches you, your torso folded over his arm.
when he stands you up, you can't even look at him. but you can see the amused grin on his face out of the corner of your eye, kind and surprised and maybe a little cocky.
"you know what? i'll get the bike. you just...stand there. and try to stay standing until i get back."
you shoot a glare at his back despite your nerves. he returns with your bike, looking weightless in his arms, and says- "think you can make it to the car by yourself, or do you need me to carry you?"
you grin, all embarrassment. "shut up."
"that dog would be shocked by your harsh words if he could talk."
"steve," you laugh breathlessly.
he chuckles, quiet and soft, like he hadn't meant to let it out.
oh my god i think i love this more than anything. awkward/clumsy!reader is the only reader i’ll ever need and you did it so perfectly i love it so much aaahhhhhh. She was so lovely and sweet and i just want to hug her and be friends she’s so lovely
and Steve. Don’t even get me started on Steve. He is just so ugh charming and kind and ridiculously suave i don’t even know how to describe the giggling and smiling this had me going. this is fantastic and i love it so much thank you for writing it. it was absolutely brilliant and i must say i am in love
Loved the Steve Harrington x shy reader ones, can you please make another where reader is shy but super kind inside? Like she rescues sick kittens or dogs from street and lets them be free after a good care when nobody's around? Really wanna see Steve's reaction after he accidently finds her doing so.
P.s-Hope you're enjoying the beach🫶
hi friend!! the beach was so good but there's sand everywhere and i can't get rid of it xoxo. thank you for ur request i hope this fits what you imagined <3
shy + fem!reader | 1500 words
"hey!"
your head snaps up at the sudden harsh call, but their next words are softer and maybe a little exasperated.
"what the hell are you doing in the road?"
steve harrington approaches like a mirage. the anchor of your stomach drops, nerves nearly pinning you to the ground. heat ripples off of the pavement and off the edges of his hair, ringer-tee tight around his arms. his BMW is parked in a gravel offshoot a yard or two away. for a moment, you forget what you're doing and your hands go free.
"hi," you muster. "i was..."
oh! you whip back around, surprised to find the dog you've discovered still meandering toward the far side of the road. it's limping on its back right leg, as if it keeps pushing forward, the injury will heal itself. it's a bully of some sort; not quite a pit, but definitely not a bulldog. its fur is completely white save for some dirt around its paws and nose.
steve slows to a jogging stop and flicks his hand at you where you kneel. get up, he's motioning. his brows are drawn in the sunlight, and likely in confusion, too. when you go to stand, he takes your bicep gently in his hand and pulls you the rest of the way to your feet. he even steadies you once you're up.
"good?"
your ears go hot as irons. you want to thank him, but it's hard to speak when he's around, so you just nod.
"is it yours?" he asks.
"no," you reply. "no, i just...i was on my bike and i saw it limping."
he throws you an odd glance. "we're on the interstate."
it's true. in the wooded part, at least- surrounded by trees and a metal barrier. but the road is windy, and if a car came around from the opposite side, it would have to be paying good attention to spot you at the curve.
you blink at steve, surprised at how much he seems to care. it's obvious that he does- you're quiet; not dense. but you still don't know what to say.
"it's okay," you shrug.
really? that's the best you could come up with?
steve shakes his head, a little frantic as he takes your forearm and leads you to the metal barrier, climbing over it and then offering his hands to you a second time. "c'mon. hop over."
you blink at him, a little stunned still. it's a bit of a ridiculous reaction, maybe. steve is one of your best friends. but he's also...steve. you can't really be entirely calm around steve harrington. especially not when he appears out of nowhere and drives his car off the road to check on you.
you take his hands and step over. once you've landed, his hands swipe across your shoulders; an almost extended release.
the dog lingers on the other side of the railing. steve swings his legs back over the barrier, and it teeters backward, frightened by his height or maybe just the drop of his feet.
"hey," he calls, frazzled. "don't...it's okay. c'mere."
the dog whines, wary.
the whirring of an engine catches your attention, and you're forced to speak.
"steve," you say. his name is foreign on your lips despite how familiar he is to you. "there's a car."
"it's okay," he replies, kneeling. his voice is a murmur. the dog is backing further into the road, its wounded paw drifting over the yellow median. steve's gaze is sharp, both of you afraid for the animal now. you feel a little bad for dragging him into it. if something happens to the dog, now steve will have to be sad about it, too.
a blue volkswagen comes around the curve too fast for your liking and you're propelled over the barrier, grabbing the neck of steve's shirt.
you yank him backwards, although he probably didn't need it. the dog scampers off just in time as the car shoots by. its back lights stay dim, the driver not even tapping the brakes as flashes of white fur disappear into the forest on the other side of the road. and just like that, the dog is gone.
"damnit," steve huffs. but his shoulders are rigid. breaths rise and fall quickly from his chest, hard and fast, as if he's trying to slow down his heart. he glances over his shoulder, but not quite at you, without moving to pry your fingers off of his shirt. "i don't see it."
your expression crumples.
steve locks eyes with you after a moment of silence. his brown eyes are wide, expectant, as if he knew what your wordless response would be. his head cocks to the side a bit before he straightens out and sighs.
"alright, alright. i'll drive around and look for it."
his neck is warm. you let go, wrinkles from your grip left in the shirt. he wipes a hand over the top of his spine like you've left a film and turns to you.
"you shouldn't just park your bike on the road, mother theresa."
you scoff at the nickname, turning from his gaze. "i am not."
"yeah, whatever," he huffs in return, as if he's ready to leave, although he hasn't moved to do so.
it's nice of him to offer to look for the dog, but you're sure he won't find it again just by driving around. why would it risk going out onto the road again? you needed to look in the woods.
"why are you making that face?" he complains.
huh? "what face?"
"that...oh, man, whatever. alright. quit ogling at me. i'm gonna do it."
you laugh before you can stop it, and if steve was tempted to smile by that, he scrubs the look off his face quickly.
"what are you talking about?" you breathe.
"you're looking at me all...helpless," he retorts. "now i have to do whatever you ask."
that does it. if your ears went hot before, all of you is on fire now. you turn completely around, pretending to look for your bike in the trees, but you had left it in the complete opposite direction and you're too worked up to pass by steve on your way there.
finally, you're forced to turn back around. there's nowhere to hide from the incredibly obvious diversion you attempted and steve is going to be standing there no matter how long you pretend to be searching for something.
he's standing with his arms folded.
"do you do this a lot?"
you stare at him, brows lifting. do what? he reads your expression.
"pick up lost puppies, brake for birds...that sort of thing."
"those are different things," you murmur.
"you get it," steve retorts.
but you don't. the notion that you're some sort of sweet and gentle creature is odd to you, considering how clunky and awkward you feel most of the time, and for steve to suggest that you just did 'that sort of thing' was entirely unexpected to you.
of course, to steve, it's plain as day; you are the sweetest thing he's ever seen, and he would camp out in a tent on the interstate for the next week until he found that dog. for you.
he has to bite back a grimace at how enamored he is with you to offer his hand.
"c'mon. you can put your bike in the trunk and then we'll go look for the dog." he clocks your concern and sighs gently. "on foot."
good.
you're greedy and take his hand before you can be afraid to, and when you step over the railing, it's clumsy; your right leg landing harder than your left. you stumble, and steve catches you, your torso folded over his arm.
when he stands you up, you can't even look at him. but you can see the amused grin on his face out of the corner of your eye, kind and surprised and maybe a little cocky.
"you know what? i'll get the bike. you just...stand there. and try to stay standing until i get back."
you shoot a glare at his back despite your nerves. he returns with your bike, looking weightless in his arms, and says- "think you can make it to the car by yourself, or do you need me to carry you?"
you grin, all embarrassment. "shut up."
"that dog would be shocked by your harsh words if he could talk."
"steve," you laugh breathlessly.
he chuckles, quiet and soft, like he hadn't meant to let it out.
hi :) could you do steve x shy reader at like a party or something and steve is her boyfriend who is super flirty but she's never had a boyfriend before so she's nervous bc he's being flirty?? i hope this makes sense 😭 thank you!!
it makes so much sense! i hope this is good!
fem!reader | 2000 words | suggestive but no smut
"we should leave."
you look up from the fire, a marshmallow melting on the metal skewer you're holding. "really? why?"
steve shrugs. "let's do it."
"why?" you laugh. you're not disappointed; you wouldn't mind going back to his place and getting in pajamas, where it's quiet and familiar. but it had taken a lot of convincing on steve's part to get you to come to the bonfire in the first place, so you're surprised he would want to leave so early. he'd even convinced you to wear your bathing suit, although you'd worn his shirt over it for most of the night.
he hasn't answered.
"are you upset?" you ask quietly.
"no, it's not that." he smiles at you, a little crookedly. "sorry, babe."
"it's okay," you laugh. when you flip your skewer around and bite into the marshmallow, he inhales- bending down to pick up your purse. when you bite the rest of it off the tip of your thumb, his nostrils flare.
your eyes flash wide. "what?"
"nothing. you wanna go? we don't have to."
"yeah, but-"
"i got you, then. my car's out front. did you know that?"
he's murmuring and grinning like a fool. yeah, he jokes again, this time in your ear. let me take you home. you can't help but laugh.
there's a small chorus of friendly but mostly unfamiliar girls around the fire who whine various lines like, no, don't take her yet! or, leave her with us! and while you're flattered that so many people have taken a liking to you in one night, you're perfectly relieved to go home.
steve puts his hand on your back while you weave through the small crowd. his friends holler at him, trying to say goodbye, and he waves back at them, every gesture noncommittal. the sky is a murky, midnight blue, the sun completely gone. you're gawking at him by the time you've hiked back to the empty section of the field where you parked, a handful of other empty cars around you.
"are you sure nothing's wrong?"
"wrong?" he scoffs. "no, nothing's wrong."
"you're scaring me."
he opens the passenger's door and leans on it, smiling. "you're ridiculous."
"what!"
once you're inside, he shuts the door and hauls around to the driver's seat, shutting it and locking it behind him. the breadth of his shoulders blocks the moon, his hair fluffy and dark, mostly towel-dried after swimming. you lean away and he's watching you- so you're tempted to lean back over and just let him do whatever it is he's planning to do. but you're genuinely rather confused, so you hold your ground against the seat. it's cold against your back, even in the dead of summer.
"your hair is still wet," steve murmurs.
"i know. sorry, i'm getting it on your seats."
he reaches over and takes a section of your hair in his fingers. "babe, you know i don't care."
"i know."
he's still smiling.
"what is your problem?" you nearly shriek.
then you're laughing, and he's laughing even harder, and then he kisses you, and you're very, very quiet.
he's still grinning. his fingertips rake against the back of your neck, at your hairline, careful not to yank at the wet strands there. his thumb skids over your cheek, your face still slightly damp, your skin too-clean and sensitive and a little cold.
"are you cold?" he says suddenly.
"no," you breathe. not now.
you pull away, dizzy. he breathes hard, beaming at you, but he doesn't look nervous. he's steve. he doesn't get nervous doing stuff like this. especially not with you.
why would he, with you? he's your first boyfriend. he doesn't have to impress you, if he doesn't want to. maybe you're not very impressive, either. every time he kisses you, you feel like you're going to pass out. that's not very cool girl of you.
now is not the time to be feeling insecure, but the feeling has already set in- even after he wraps his right arm around your waist and hauls you over to the driver's seat. you squeal as he sits you on his lap, grabbing his keys from the console and putting them in the ignition behind you. the heat comes on in a dull wave.
he's about to kiss you again, and then he stops, pulling wet, knotted strands of hair away from your eyes as you loom over him, not fully settled.
"you okay?" he asks.
"yeah," you try to say confidently. it's more of a wheeze.
"yeah?"
"yeah."
he smirks, and it might look a little evil if he wasn't so sweet.
"can i kiss you?"
it's the stupidest question you've ever heard. he's practically gloating.
"again?"
he gawks at you, laughing. "again, yeah."
"you want to?"
you're not even sure why you say it. but you do, and at first, steve just snickers quietly. then his smile goes a little crooked and his brows knit together. and he says-
"of course i do."
you swallow. "okay." be cool. "do it."
that was not cool in the slightest.
steve watches you, leaning back a little bit, like you're something to examine. you fight the urge to wrench your eyes shut. one of his hands lands softly on your hip, and the other comes up to rub your arm, warm over the thin tan sleeve of his waffle shirt.
"are you okay?" he asks. this time, he really means it.
"yeah," you nod. "i'm okay."
"but you're hovering."
"i'm what?"
"sweetheart," steve laughs softly, letting go of you for a moment. you droop a bit, and realize he's right. "you're not sitting."
"you can't just ask a girl to sit on you, harrington."
he looks like he might laugh, but he doesn't- his expression oddly serious for the night. "did i do something?"
"no!"
you finally lock eyes with him, and he looks so worried that guilt blooms in your gut. just be honest.
"i don't know, sometimes...i just get nervous. when we're together."
your words seem to wound him, but he's listening intently. "okay."
he brings his hand back to your arm, tracing lines on your skin over the fabric of his shirt.
"i...haven't had a boyfriend before," you say. it's not a shock- he knows. "you're my first. for everything."
he nods. "my luck is crazy."
"sure," you scoff, but his face is gravely serious. "i just worry sometimes that you're going to realize i'm not worth it. sometimes, when you...when you kiss me, or...touch me, i just get scared you're going to realize i'm not what you want. you could have someone who's less nervous. or who's been with other people before."
someone who isn't me.
you're a little horrified once you've said all of it. steve just watches you, crickets chirping outside the car, the heater blowing by your waist and over your elbows. his hands go still, and his face crumples, like he'd cut himself on something sharp. his mouth falls open a little bit.
"honey," he laments.
"i know. sorry-"
steve leans forward and wraps his arms around you, pinning your biceps to your sides at first, not weaving your limbs with his. you both inhale. he squeezes you, your head drooping onto his shoulder, and then he pulls you away and loops his hands through your sides; where you finally sit on his lap, thighs brushing against the console and the door. he holds you around your stomach and puts one hand on the back of your head, holding you to his neck. the scent of sunscreen and bug spray laundry detergent make it more real; his hands warm and dry from swimming, his neck tan from being in the sun. the entanglement of you both is a heavy weight on the seat.
you breath in again and exhale. he's real, and he loves you, even when it's hard to believe it.
"are you kidding me, sweetheart? are you joking?"
"no," you laugh, voice muffled at his neck, but he doesn't in return.
"you should have told me that before. i feel like i'm gonna be sick."
"steve!"
he squeezes you once more and plants a kiss to the top of your head, then one on your forehead. his palms meet your cheeks and he tilts your head back, your arms wrapped around his neck.
"i don't want anyone but you," he says earnestly. "there is no one i want to be with but you. it doesn't even cross my mind. it's not an option."
you might cry. he wipes his thumb over your cheek, now hot as an iron.
"you're it for me," he says plainly. "okay?"
"okay."
"do you believe me?"
"yes," you nod, embarrassed.
he shakes his head at you, expression still pained. it's almost comedic how awful he feels, but you feel even worse for bringing it up.
"i'm sorry."
"don't," he retorts. "no. don't be. c'mere."
you lean forward and kiss him this time, and he's happy about it; the palms on your cheeks sliding back into your hair and over your ears, drowning out the sounds of the field like a fishbowl. all you hear is him. all you feel is him.
"i love you," he murmurs, kissing your lips- and then the tip of your nose, and then your chin and the crook of your neck. "you're my girl. i love you. there's no one else."
you melt like ice cream, slumped in his hands. what else can you do?
"steve..." you whisper.
"mhm?"
"let's go home."
his response is delayed. he kisses the crook of your neck again, then closer to your collarbone. when you inhale sharply, he leans back, screwing his eyes shut.
"but we have to drive all the way there."
"you're the one who wanted to go home in the first place!" you beam, amused at his grimace.
"home is far," steve utters. "you're here. right now."
you're going to die if he keeps talking like that. so you climb off of him and drop ungracefully into the passenger's seat, clicking your seatbelt into place. steve groans.
"oh, that's evil."
"take me home, harrington."
he sits there for a second, and then shakes his head; running his hands over his eyes and his hair, black against the night. his laughter is a quiet rumble.
"you're killing me. you don't even get it."
"what'd i do?"
his head is still in his hands. "you don't even have to do anything. you're just sitting there, and you're driving me insane. it's embarrassing. it's bad for my reputation."
"take me home, steve."
you're trying to be firm, but you're smiling. it's impossible not to. steve sighs once, then sits up, putting the car in reverse.
"you need to watch for cops, at this point, sweetheart, because i'm going to go fifty over until we get home."
you consider saying something snide in return, but honestly, you'd be perfectly happy if he did.
i’m melting *melts* i’ve become a puddle of marshmallow fluff on the ground. completely melted.
this reader is me. spot on. she is me. i’ve never felt more connected to a reader in my entire life. ever. every single thought and movement and mannerism and giggle, i could picture it as myself the entire time.
you’re so fucking talented. i love this, so damn much. i love how you wrote steve. love it. so goddamn much! he’s so lovesick and he’s clearly gawking at his girl and she doesn’t even notice, doesn’t realize he’s only got eyes for her. and stevie’s “i feel like i’m gonna be sick” ruined me.
fav fic. ever, i think.
i’m going to be re-reading it as soon as i’m done writing this feedback reblog. that’s how much i love this. i’m stunned.
hi :) could you do steve x shy reader at like a party or something and steve is her boyfriend who is super flirty but she's never had a boyfriend before so she's nervous bc he's being flirty?? i hope this makes sense 😭 thank you!!
it makes so much sense! i hope this is good!
fem!reader | 2000 words | suggestive but no smut
"we should leave."
you look up from the fire, a marshmallow melting on the metal skewer you're holding. "really? why?"
steve shrugs. "let's do it."
"why?" you laugh. you're not disappointed; you wouldn't mind going back to his place and getting in pajamas, where it's quiet and familiar. but it had taken a lot of convincing on steve's part to get you to come to the bonfire in the first place, so you're surprised he would want to leave so early. he'd even convinced you to wear your bathing suit, although you'd worn his shirt over it for most of the night.
he hasn't answered.
"are you upset?" you ask quietly.
"no, it's not that." he smiles at you, a little crookedly. "sorry, babe."
"it's okay," you laugh. when you flip your skewer around and bite into the marshmallow, he inhales- bending down to pick up your purse. when you bite the rest of it off the tip of your thumb, his nostrils flare.
your eyes flash wide. "what?"
"nothing. you wanna go? we don't have to."
"yeah, but-"
"i got you, then. my car's out front. did you know that?"
he's murmuring and grinning like a fool. yeah, he jokes again, this time in your ear. let me take you home. you can't help but laugh.
there's a small chorus of friendly but mostly unfamiliar girls around the fire who whine various lines like, no, don't take her yet! or, leave her with us! and while you're flattered that so many people have taken a liking to you in one night, you're perfectly relieved to go home.
steve puts his hand on your back while you weave through the small crowd. his friends holler at him, trying to say goodbye, and he waves back at them, every gesture noncommittal. the sky is a murky, midnight blue, the sun completely gone. you're gawking at him by the time you've hiked back to the empty section of the field where you parked, a handful of other empty cars around you.
"are you sure nothing's wrong?"
"wrong?" he scoffs. "no, nothing's wrong."
"you're scaring me."
he opens the passenger's door and leans on it, smiling. "you're ridiculous."
"what!"
once you're inside, he shuts the door and hauls around to the driver's seat, shutting it and locking it behind him. the breadth of his shoulders blocks the moon, his hair fluffy and dark, mostly towel-dried after swimming. you lean away and he's watching you- so you're tempted to lean back over and just let him do whatever it is he's planning to do. but you're genuinely rather confused, so you hold your ground against the seat. it's cold against your back, even in the dead of summer.
"your hair is still wet," steve murmurs.
"i know. sorry, i'm getting it on your seats."
he reaches over and takes a section of your hair in his fingers. "babe, you know i don't care."
"i know."
he's still smiling.
"what is your problem?" you nearly shriek.
then you're laughing, and he's laughing even harder, and then he kisses you, and you're very, very quiet.
he's still grinning. his fingertips rake against the back of your neck, at your hairline, careful not to yank at the wet strands there. his thumb skids over your cheek, your face still slightly damp, your skin too-clean and sensitive and a little cold.
"are you cold?" he says suddenly.
"no," you breathe. not now.
you pull away, dizzy. he breathes hard, beaming at you, but he doesn't look nervous. he's steve. he doesn't get nervous doing stuff like this. especially not with you.
why would he, with you? he's your first boyfriend. he doesn't have to impress you, if he doesn't want to. maybe you're not very impressive, either. every time he kisses you, you feel like you're going to pass out. that's not very cool girl of you.
now is not the time to be feeling insecure, but the feeling has already set in- even after he wraps his right arm around your waist and hauls you over to the driver's seat. you squeal as he sits you on his lap, grabbing his keys from the console and putting them in the ignition behind you. the heat comes on in a dull wave.
he's about to kiss you again, and then he stops, pulling wet, knotted strands of hair away from your eyes as you loom over him, not fully settled.
"you okay?" he asks.
"yeah," you try to say confidently. it's more of a wheeze.
"yeah?"
"yeah."
he smirks, and it might look a little evil if he wasn't so sweet.
"can i kiss you?"
it's the stupidest question you've ever heard. he's practically gloating.
"again?"
he gawks at you, laughing. "again, yeah."
"you want to?"
you're not even sure why you say it. but you do, and at first, steve just snickers quietly. then his smile goes a little crooked and his brows knit together. and he says-
"of course i do."
you swallow. "okay." be cool. "do it."
that was not cool in the slightest.
steve watches you, leaning back a little bit, like you're something to examine. you fight the urge to wrench your eyes shut. one of his hands lands softly on your hip, and the other comes up to rub your arm, warm over the thin tan sleeve of his waffle shirt.
"are you okay?" he asks. this time, he really means it.
"yeah," you nod. "i'm okay."
"but you're hovering."
"i'm what?"
"sweetheart," steve laughs softly, letting go of you for a moment. you droop a bit, and realize he's right. "you're not sitting."
"you can't just ask a girl to sit on you, harrington."
he looks like he might laugh, but he doesn't- his expression oddly serious for the night. "did i do something?"
"no!"
you finally lock eyes with him, and he looks so worried that guilt blooms in your gut. just be honest.
"i don't know, sometimes...i just get nervous. when we're together."
your words seem to wound him, but he's listening intently. "okay."
he brings his hand back to your arm, tracing lines on your skin over the fabric of his shirt.
"i...haven't had a boyfriend before," you say. it's not a shock- he knows. "you're my first. for everything."
he nods. "my luck is crazy."
"sure," you scoff, but his face is gravely serious. "i just worry sometimes that you're going to realize i'm not worth it. sometimes, when you...when you kiss me, or...touch me, i just get scared you're going to realize i'm not what you want. you could have someone who's less nervous. or who's been with other people before."
someone who isn't me.
you're a little horrified once you've said all of it. steve just watches you, crickets chirping outside the car, the heater blowing by your waist and over your elbows. his hands go still, and his face crumples, like he'd cut himself on something sharp. his mouth falls open a little bit.
"honey," he laments.
"i know. sorry-"
steve leans forward and wraps his arms around you, pinning your biceps to your sides at first, not weaving your limbs with his. you both inhale. he squeezes you, your head drooping onto his shoulder, and then he pulls you away and loops his hands through your sides; where you finally sit on his lap, thighs brushing against the console and the door. he holds you around your stomach and puts one hand on the back of your head, holding you to his neck. the scent of sunscreen and bug spray laundry detergent make it more real; his hands warm and dry from swimming, his neck tan from being in the sun. the entanglement of you both is a heavy weight on the seat.
you breath in again and exhale. he's real, and he loves you, even when it's hard to believe it.
"are you kidding me, sweetheart? are you joking?"
"no," you laugh, voice muffled at his neck, but he doesn't in return.
"you should have told me that before. i feel like i'm gonna be sick."
"steve!"
he squeezes you once more and plants a kiss to the top of your head, then one on your forehead. his palms meet your cheeks and he tilts your head back, your arms wrapped around his neck.
"i don't want anyone but you," he says earnestly. "there is no one i want to be with but you. it doesn't even cross my mind. it's not an option."
you might cry. he wipes his thumb over your cheek, now hot as an iron.
"you're it for me," he says plainly. "okay?"
"okay."
"do you believe me?"
"yes," you nod, embarrassed.
he shakes his head at you, expression still pained. it's almost comedic how awful he feels, but you feel even worse for bringing it up.
"i'm sorry."
"don't," he retorts. "no. don't be. c'mere."
you lean forward and kiss him this time, and he's happy about it; the palms on your cheeks sliding back into your hair and over your ears, drowning out the sounds of the field like a fishbowl. all you hear is him. all you feel is him.
"i love you," he murmurs, kissing your lips- and then the tip of your nose, and then your chin and the crook of your neck. "you're my girl. i love you. there's no one else."
you melt like ice cream, slumped in his hands. what else can you do?
"steve..." you whisper.
"mhm?"
"let's go home."
his response is delayed. he kisses the crook of your neck again, then closer to your collarbone. when you inhale sharply, he leans back, screwing his eyes shut.
"but we have to drive all the way there."
"you're the one who wanted to go home in the first place!" you beam, amused at his grimace.
"home is far," steve utters. "you're here. right now."
you're going to die if he keeps talking like that. so you climb off of him and drop ungracefully into the passenger's seat, clicking your seatbelt into place. steve groans.
"oh, that's evil."
"take me home, harrington."
he sits there for a second, and then shakes his head; running his hands over his eyes and his hair, black against the night. his laughter is a quiet rumble.
"you're killing me. you don't even get it."
"what'd i do?"
his head is still in his hands. "you don't even have to do anything. you're just sitting there, and you're driving me insane. it's embarrassing. it's bad for my reputation."
"take me home, steve."
you're trying to be firm, but you're smiling. it's impossible not to. steve sighs once, then sits up, putting the car in reverse.
"you need to watch for cops, at this point, sweetheart, because i'm going to go fifty over until we get home."
you consider saying something snide in return, but honestly, you'd be perfectly happy if he did.
notes Rafe Cameron x fem!reader + childhood enemies to lovers, the slowest of burns, an unbearable amount of pining, both parties in heavy denial for like 90% of the fic, Rafe’s a total douchebag but he can’t help it (you’re gorgeous), tw for angst, drinking, and drug use
wc 12.1k
a/n a labour of love that I am SO excited to share, I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I did writing it <3
Seven.
It’s the scraped knees and bruises age, popsicle-sticky fingers, monkey bar calluses and sneaker toe blisters. It’s the messy hair age, the bike riding age, the sugar-high at your first sleepover, the whispered secrets and pinky-promises under blankets age.
For you, it’s the age that summer changes forever.
When you’re seven years old, your father announces that he’s bought a beach house on the Outer Banks.
At the heart of an island, Kildare, with a funny sounding name and tonnes of roaming space, it’s big with a bigger balcony and a view of the sea, waves that crest and foam, seagulls with hungry beaks.
To seven-year-old you, the place has everything. Sunny weather, a shortcut to the beach, an ice-cream truck that circulates regularly. Hopscotch on the side-walk and a neighbourhood with kids your age, some freckled, some loud, one that you hate.
Seven is the age that you meet Rafe Cameron.
He’s a playground bully with blue eyes and overgrown hair, his makeshift throne at the very top of the jungle gym.
Back then, he doesn’t have as many inches on you as he does now, but Rafe Cameron is still bigger and older than you, the new girl.
When you tug on a bit of jungle gym rope and cause him to teeter, you don’t mean anything by it. You’re just trying to get his attention so you can climb up the throngs too, enjoy the ten-foot-high view alongside him.
He scowls down at you, all narrowed eyes and dangling limbs.
“Who’re you?” He accuses, not asks.
“Hi,” you greet brightly, pulling on the rope again. “I’m Y/n. Can I come up too?”
His features remain the same, hard and defensive, a nine-year-old that hasn’t learnt how to share. “You’re new,” he states plainly.
“Yeah!” You agree, nodding enthusiastically. “What’s your name?”
Rafe doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he braces his knees and jumps down, landing just short of your brand new sneakers. A cloud of dirt settles on the white tips.
“You can’t go up there,” he instructs. “Ever. It’s my spot.”
You frown. “Says who?”
“Says me,” Rafe answers firmly, folding his arms across his chest.
“And who are you?” You ask, folding yours in tandem.
“Rafe,” he says. His scowl hasn’t left his face yet, only deepening when your lips pull down and tighten. It’s a frowning contest of will, and Rafe’s never one to back down from a fight.
Neither are you, as he’ll soon come to realise. The only boy his age that’ll confidently jump the ten feet without a scratch, he’s fairly used to wearing his so-called spot like a bravery badge. There’s no way he’s going to give it up just like that, especially not to a girl who’s shorter than him, smaller with pigtails and frill-hem socks.
Even if she has pretty eyes.
“Well, Rafe,” you throw back, straightening to your full height, scowling some more. Intimidation tactics that are useless on she-has-pretty-eyes boy. “You’re not the boss of me.”
“Yes, I am,” Rafe insists, crossing his arms tighter. “I live here. You don’t.”
“Yes, I do,” you argue, pointing to a walk-way in the distance. “Through there. I do.”
Rafe turns to where you’re pointing, his bully scowl deepening. “You’re lying.”
“No I’m not.”
“Are so.”
“Am not.”
“You have to be. I live through there, and I’ve never seen you around before,” Rafe decides with finality, his shoulders square as he pushes past you. He has that, older-than-you air about him that makes you fume; there’s no way you’re letting him dictate how you live your life, especially not with a mean-spirited attitude.
You huff and lift your nose to the air, catching a hold of the jungle gym ropes. “Maybe,” you mutter, already climbing up them, “you should pay more attention then.”
It takes you the same amount of time to clamber your way to the top as it does Rafe to turn around, now an eye-squint away with features that you think look chastened. You can see far above him, over fluffy treetops and slatted roofs, toward the blue shimmer of a sea blessed by sun.
“Hey!” He yells angrily, running back over. “I told you not to —”
He reaches the bottom of the jungle gym alarmingly quickly, small hands with more force than you’re used to pulling at the ropes below you.
You teeter dangerously, lurching forward and losing your balance at the last minute. There’s a nosedive before a muffled thud; the boy who has caused you to fall has broken it too, his back splintered with bark and dirt, his eyebrows scrunched up.
“Hey!” You scrabble off of him with aching knees and grazes on your palms, bottom lip beginning to tremble. “You hurt me!”
“You fell on me,” Rafe groans, propping himself up on scrape-red elbows. “I told you not to go up there. That’s what you get for not doing what I tell you.”
“I — I… I hate you!” You sputter out as vindictively as you can, eyesight a blur, limbs shaking as you stand.
“Yeah? Well I hate you more!” Rafe throws back, standing up too. There’s a fleeting moment where your seven-year-old brain looks over his longer legs, the bark-stained rips in his jeans. They look like they hurt — why isn’t he crying?
You sniff loudly and turn on your heel, breaking into a run toward the walk-way you pointed out earlier. Past the salt boxes along your Cul-de-sac, with lungs bleeding and wind whipping by your ears. Past the ice-cream truck, past the other children that live here, past the large, Tannyhill Estate that sits beside your house.
And when you hightail it to the kitchen, freshly bruised with tears in your eyes, your mother asks you what’s wrong, and you say, “Rafe did it.”
The same Rafe you re-meet at a barbeque the next day, the hybrid of an introduction and a housewarming hosted by your parents.
His eyes are the same, cold blue that they were the day before, but he’s sporting a new haircut, a two girl posse of younger siblings.
“See?” You say by way of greeting, jutting out your bottom lip obstinately. After the initial pleasantries, your parents have taken theirs inside, along with his youngest sister, Wheezie. “I told you I wasn’t lying.”
“You still shouldn’t have done it,” Rafe argues back, scowling meanly. “That’s my spot.”
You huff dismissively, throwing your palm in his face. “Talk to the hand.”
And when you push past him, shoulders square as can be, you hear six-year-old Sarah giggling, the noise loud and obnoxiously giddy.
She peels herself away from her brother to fall into your step, instead, limbs the same length as yours, soft hair in the same pigtails. Your equal.
“Can we be friends?” She asks significantly, wide eyes looking over your features.
You grin wide, unabashedly pleased. It’s the first time Rafe’s ever seen you smile, and his stomach lurches like there’s something in there fighting to break free. He scowls some more.
“Of course we can!” You exclaim excitedly, extending your pinky finger. “Best friends forever?”
“Forever,” Sarah promises, twining it with hers and squeezing.
Rafe’s rooted to the spot, watching you from a distance away, a one-sided staring competition. You find a patch of grass to sit down on cross-legged, and it’s only when you begin plucking daisies that he acquiesces.
Over the course of the summer, you and Sarah make close to a thousand daisy chains, stems twined together with precariously held petals. Rafe finds them everywhere — playground ledges, dining room tables, the sand on beach days, the deck on days in. And when he does, he remembers you, and crushes them in his hands, monkey-bar calluses his only accomplice. He hates them the way he hates you; he sees them, and they have a Pavlovian effect.
One night, when you’re camped out in Sarah’s backyard, he storms over to your blanket fort and throws one down. The air is thick and treacly, heavied by the smell of marshmallows and coconut sunscreen. Purple dusk on a grey roof, a sea of fairy lights below him.
He makes furious eye contact with you, and crushes the daisy chain with his bare-foot. When you frown, an odd sense of satisfaction bubbles up into his chest, his lower lip curling triumphantly.
With the sliding door open wide the way that it is, your loud giggle can travel into the living room freely, a Rafe-specific, video game distraction. He’s lost three games of Call of Duty to it; his best friend, Kelce, is unperturbed and victorious, and Rafe can’t quite understand how that is.
Isn’t the sound of your laugh as evasive to Kelce as it is to him?
“Stop littering in my house,” Rafe demands, narrowing his eyes at you.
You duck out of the fort and stand up tall, crossing your arms across your chest defensively. “It’s Sarah’s house too. She wants them there.”
Sarah peeks around your ankles, poking her tongue out at her older brother. “It’s not littering. They’re pretty.”
“She’s a bad influence on you, Sarah,” Rafe chastises.
“No she isn’t.” Sarah scowls argumentatively, the spitting image of her older brother. “You just don’t like that she stands up to you.”
Rafe scoffs incredulously, feeling the tips of his ears burn. “Whatever.”
For years, he associates nine with jungle gym scuffles and daisy chains in odd places. And then there’s ten, with the infamous handball fight and sand-castle brawl, eleven and the mystery of the missing Harry Potter book.
Twelve is pretending he isn’t too old to play stuck-in-the-mud, brutal, one-on-one tag games that last all summer long.
It’s the year that Ward bestows him with real, older brother responsibility, forcing him to accompany you and Sarah wherever you go.
“Oi!” He trails behind reluctantly, hands jammed into his front pockets. “Don’t go out too far, I’m serious.”
You turn your head, poking your tongue out at him. When your hair lags behind, pretty, wind-mussed locks that shine in the sun, Rafe notices. He thinks this is something that everyone notices, the subtleties in your appearance, the way your nose scrunches up when you’re making a face at him. He doesn’t think he’s looked over at Sarah all day.
“And what if we do, Rafe?” You hedge, challenging him.
Rafe’s heart lurches violently. It doesn’t matter that you say it in that derisive, high-pitched voice, every time you call him by his name he feels a little funny.
“I’ll tell dad,” he says firmly, narrowing his eyes at you. “He put me in charge.”
“Of Sarah,” you argue, folding your small arms over your chest. “Not of me. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Of both of you,” he corrects. “It’s not like you have an older brother looking out for you.”
Sarah makes a face. “You never look out for me.”
“You think I want to be out here, Sarah?” He throws his arms up in the air exasperatedly, making his way toward the two of you. “I should be at Kelce’s, playing COD on the new PlayStation he got for his birthday.”
You match each step of his with one of your own, backing away with an arm linked in Sarah’s. Rafe’s eyes fall in tandem with your movements, his eyebrows raised, a warning.
“If you want us to stay close,” you say, voice full of mirth. “You’re going to have to keep up!”
And with that, you break into a run, Sarah’s slower legs causing your elbows to untangle, a one girl game of catch-me-if-you-can.
Of course, Rafe’s bigger, taller. He catches up with you a mere, few feet away from his sister, taking a hold of your wrist and tugging you backward.
His pinky finger touches his thumb when he clasps it, and it occurs to Rafe how much smaller you are than him. How important it is for him to look out for you.
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, he reasons, like this makes any sort of logical sense.
Like hating you is first nature and protecting you is second.
“Get off me,” you grumble, wriggling out of his grasp.
“Stay put,” Rafe instructs, sending you a stern glare.
“No.” You braces your knees, slapping his forearm before breaking into a run again. “Tag! You’re it.”
He tags Sarah, who tags Rafe, who tags you, him again. Everyone else gets tired of playing, but you and him continue into the night. And then, over several days, back and forth until you’re locking yourselves into bedrooms, doubting shadows on the pavement, walking around the house with backs pressed to the wall, praying for sweet solace.
Pretty soon, the rest of the neighbourhood bans the pair of you from participating in games. Everything from hide-and-seek to bull rush is off limits; your competitive streaks are unbearable, even more so when they clash with each other.
You’re a sore loser. Rafe’s even sorer.
He’s just grateful that you’re only ever here for the summer; he doesn’t think he could stand you in the Outer Banks all year round. Having to go to school with you, deal with four seasons of bickering… he shudders to think what he would have done with himself; two months is more than enough time in your presence.
For the past three years, you’ve left the Outer Banks on the exact same day, in the exact same way.
Skipping to his front porch with your big backpack swinging, where his younger sister Sarah awaits farewell with outstretched arms. A big, squeezing hug, promises to call, and then, you always whisper something imperceptible in her ear. Every year, without fail, and Rafe absolutely hates it — a little because he can’t hear what it is, a lot because he doesn’t know why he cares so much.
From the ages of seven to nine, you don’t bother to say goodbye to anyone else. But at ten, having mastered the art of antagonising Rafe Cameron, you decide to leave him with something worse than plain silence.
“Bye, Sar,” you whisper into her hair, pouting as you pull away. “I’m gonna miss you.”
Her lips pull down in tandem, arms still held out around phantom you. “I’m gonna miss you more. Don’t forget me!”
“Never, ever,” you promise earnestly.
You turn around and walk down the porch steps, the wood sun-faded, your shadow skating down each wrung.
“Rafe!” You call out once you reach the bottom, looking up at his cracked open window.
He almost jumps, the curtain shivering as he clutches it in surprise.
“What?” He asks, sounding irritated, busy, as if he hasn’t been lurking right behind it to eavesdrop.
The sun is directly above the estate when he ducks his head out, creating a flyaway halo of yellow hair. It’s always longer at the end of summer than it is at the beginning; he’s going to get it cut when you’re gone, grow another inch or four when you’re gone. Your stomach feels funny.
“Do me a favour,” you say, frowning sternly, “and don’t be mean to your sister while I’m away.”
Rafe snorts derisively. “Do me a favour,” he mocks, “and don’t come back next year.”
“Aww,” you return, smiling saccharine sweet. “I know you’re going to miss me.”
“When hell freezes over, train wreck,” he throws back wryly.
Your expression falters, the nickname rolling over your skin like a sunburn. “Don’t,” you grit out, “call me that.”
“What?” Rafe lips pull up into a satisfied smirk. “A big, ugly, train wreck?”
“I hate you, Rafe Cameron,” you call back spitefully, sending him a furious glare.
“Didn’t ask,” he returns coolly, already retreating from his window-site spot. “Don’t care.”
——
Eleven.
It’s the staying up past bedtime and writing in your diary age, chipped nail polish and stringy bracelets, neon colours on slogan tees. It’s the flip-flop tan age, the Chinese whispers age, watching High School Musical for the first time, the strange, butterflies-in-your-stomach age.
For you, it’s the age that Rafe goes from boy to boy.
At thirteen, the cusp of teen and almost-grown-up, he’s four inches taller with brand new jeans and larger shoes. His hands are rougher than yours are, limbs somewhere between lanky and long. You begin to doubt that you’ve grown the inch pencilled into your bedroom wall, a once-proud apogee that now feels small.
Oh, and he’s gorgeous. It makes you kind of furious.
On the first day of summer, you race over to Tannyhill the minute you’re home, a force of nature on its way to her best friend, Sarah. But when your knuckles rap the large door, head just short of the knocker, it’s Rafe looking down his nose at you, not her.
It takes him by surprise too, the height difference. Thirteen’s been stressful enough as is — growing pains and wardrobe changes, confusing, terrifying feelings for girls in his class — without him also feeling like a giant all of a sudden.
It occurs to him he’s known you almost four years, now. A third of his life. His palms grow sweaty.
And then, you open your mouth to greet him, and he realises his hands have no business being this clammy.
“What are you, big-foot?” You ask crudely, raising your eyebrows up at him.
Rafe doesn’t say anything at first, his features changing in subtle ways — colder eyes, tightened lips. A powerful emotion rises up in chest; it’s thick as molasses, fiery, that whisper of wistfulness long gone within him.
He turns around without another word, sliding his phone out of his front pocket.
“Sarah!” He calls out, a wry, almost bored edge to his tone. “Your loser friend is here.”
For some reason, his dismissal feels worse than an insult would. You stand just short of the door ledge, a little slack jawed, a lot chagrined, watching the back of him disappear up the stairs. There’s far more brown on his head than there usually is, and you realise he hasn’t had his start-of-summer haircut this year.
An odd, nostalgic ache springs forth at the revelation.
And then, as quick as it arrived, it’s gone; Sarah appears at the end of the hallway, and your elated smile is all you want to focus on.
“You’re here!” Sarah squeals excitedly, running up to you and hugging you hard, a long awaited reunion with wind-chimes cheering in the background.
Her hair’s a salt-matted mess, skin sticky and a little scratchy, a canvas of sand on coconut sunscreen glue. When she draws back, her cheeks are flushed. “I missed you, I missed you, I missed you!”
“I missed you,” you insist, and then you frown a little, faux-reproachful. “Kind of mad at you, though.”
“What?” Sarah’s eyes widen worriedly. “Why?”
“Because,” you say, making a face, “you didn’t open the door for me. Had to see him before I did you.”
Sarah grimaces, a sheepish, half-scowl that exposes her bottom row of teeth. “I was on my way, I swear,” she insists, squeezing your arm apologetically. “But he’s been sulking around all day. Waiting.”
“For me?” You ask, raising your eyebrows skeptically. “Yeah, right.”
“I don’t get it either,” Sarah agrees, sighing defeatedly. “He’s been so moody this year… way moodier than usual. Dad says it’s cause he’s a teenager…” she pauses, makes a face, “…whatever that means.”
You frown apologetically, linking your arm in hers. “Doesn’t matter,” you decide. “He isn’t going to ruin our perfect summer.”
And you’re right, he doesn’t — he has his own summer to ruin.
Eleven is the first and only year where the age gap between the two of you feels so apparent.
Thirteen, for him, is a set of diametrically opposed firsts — first fight and first kiss, first girlfriend and first break-up over text.
You’re having an underwater, hand-stand competition with Sarah when you meet Blake Somerset. She’s a pretty girl with wide, amber eyes and her hand in Rafe’s, his bicep to her shoulder in a trendy, Brandy Melville outfit. Everything you want to be at thirteen, everything that you aren’t at the moment, an eleven year old in a plain one piece and stupid-looking swim goggles.
She makes you self-conscious. You blame Rafe Cameron.
“Get out,” he demands wryly, sliding his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to glare at you.
An angry, blanching, goggle-shaped imprint circles your eyes. “Why?”
Rafe scowls irritatedly. “You’ve had your turn. It’s ours now.”
At ‘ours’, he holds up Blake Somerset’s hand, forcing you to look up at the way their fingers intertwine. An ugly emotion grows within the chambers of your heart, making you frown.
“No,” you attest, standing your ground. “We just got here.”
“Besides,” Sarah adds knowingly, narrowing her eyes at her brother. “You and Blake never hang out here, anyway.”
Rafe balks. His eyes flit to yours for a split-second, heat spreading over his cheeks like an impromptu game of connect-the-freckles. With a line of fire. He clears his throat. “All the more reason to give us space to hang out here.”
Blake speaks up then, turning to you with a voice smooth as honey. “Hi,” she greets, smiling brightly, something contagious about it. This is a thirteen year old girl who has already discovered the wonders of pretty privilege. “I’m Blake!”
“Oh.” Your eyes widen, almost affronted by her kindness. “Hi. I’m Y/n.”
Rafe’s brow pulls down, a narrow-eyed warning. “Don’t bother, Blake,” he sneers, looking directly at you as he says it. “She’s only ever here over the summer, anyway. Not worth getting to know.”
“That’s mean, Rafey,” Blake says reproachfully, frowning at him.
“Yeah, Rafey,” you mock, raising your eyebrows at him. “That’s mean.”
Rafe scowls some more, dropping Blake’s hand to take a step closer to the pool. “Was I talking to you, train wreck?”
“You were talking about me, big-foot,” you bite back spitefully, scrubbing the goggle mark on your upper cheek.
“You know that you have a house too, right?” He asks testily. “You don’t have to be in mine every hour of every day?”
“It’s Mr Cameron’s house,” you argue, jutting out your bottom lip obstinately. “Not yours.“
Rafe shrugs a same difference shrug. “It’ll be mine soon.”
“Or Sarah’s,” you argue.
“I’m older,” Rafe returns angrily, an edge to his voice as his jaw clenches.
Your hand drops. His jaw loosens a touch.
“And somehow,” you shrug, “still dumber.”
Rafe scoffs indignantly, shaking his head in defeat. “Come on, Blake,” he says, turning around and throwing his arm over her shoulder. “It’s not worth arguing with her. She never learnt how to share.”
“Hey!” You call sharply, quick to rise to his bait. “That’s — no way. You’re — you’re the one who doesn’t know how to share, from the stupid jungle gym to —”
“We can go to the beach, instead,” he adds loudly, talking over you as he walks away. “More privacy there. No unwelcome guests acting like they own the place.”
“I — I hate you, Rafe Cameron!” You fume, cheeks splotchy with heat, sun on chlorine.
You don’t think he hears it, because he doesn’t say it back.
This hasn’t been possible since he was nine years old. No matter how hard he tries, your voice tends to find him, wherever he goes. It’s like his brain is primed to pay extra attention to it without meaning to — you’re everywhere all at once, and maybe that’s why he resents your presence at Tannyhill so much.
Later, when he’s lying awake and staring at ceiling shadows, he reasons that he didn’t say it back because he knows that you wouldn’t have heard it. The words would’ve fallen on deaf ears — a lone tree in the forest that hits the ground without making a sound.
That’s what you are to him, now, a series of stupid excuses and contradictory emotions.
Summer overflows, drowning the months of June and July before it begins to ebb, leaving you a fresh repertoire of insults by the time August comes around.
The week before you’re set to leave the Outer Banks for another year, the dusk air cools, molasses-thick heat replaced with something more tepid. You’ve come to call this diminution six-day-long-sleepover weather.
On one such night, you find yourself alone in Tannyhill Estate, frozen just short of the kitchen where’s Ward’s voice keeps you rooted.
Sarah’s still in her room under a mountain of plush blankets, having declined to head downstairs for a glass of water with you.
Rafe’s on the other side of the door. Eleven is age that you come to find out how much braver he is than you’d once imagined.
“I mean — you’re thirteen, now, Rafe!” A frightening sound, like a hand making contact with the marble counter, hard. You realise that you’re holding your breath. “I expect more from you — from the name I’ve given you. Cameron. Do you know what that name stands for, what it means to the people on this island?”
“Dad, I…” The shake in Rafe’s voice makes you flinch.
“Get out,” Ward instructs sternly, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Clean yourself up before your sisters see you. I mean — honestly… is this the example you want to set for them, Rafe? Getting into fights and coming home way past curfew?”
A pause. You think you hear Rafe swallow thickly, before you realise that it’s your own throat that’s shifting, a nervous tick.
“ANSWER ME!”
“No — I… no,” Rafe stutters out quietly.
There’s deafening silence, before the dull thud of retreating footsteps. A few feet away, an aperture above the stairwell channels a silver neck of moonlight to the ground, a ceiling-to-floor beam.
It’s dim edges illuminate you in the shadows, not quite hidden.
Although, even if you were, you have a funny feeling Rafe’d spot you anyway.
When he does, he stumbles back in surprise, doleful features hardening. There’s a split second where his armour of austerity wavers.
“Eavesdropping too, now?” He accuses, folding his arms across his chest defensively.
Your eyes fall to his knuckles, reds that graze and purples that bruise. There’s a split-second where your hands ache, as though you’re hurt too.
“Getting into fights too, now?” You counter, equally-defensive, raising your eyebrows up at him.
He averts his gaze, jaw clenching. His eyes tremble with unshed tears, and it terrifies you. “None of your business, train wreck,” he mutters, hiding his hands in his armpits urgently. There’s a cut on his lower lip that’s crusted over, the tell-tale maroon of blood that’s earned it’s place.
A beat. You wait for Rafe to push past you, mutter something derisive and walk away. He waits for you to do the same.
Neither of you move.
“I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, you know,” you say quietly, the tension in the air palpable.
You think Rafe’s expression almost softens. It makes your palms sweat.
“It’s fine,” he dismisses roughly, running his fingers through his hair. “What did you want from the kitchen? Water?”
You clasp your hands behind your back, and they slide over each other, all warm and clammy. “You know,” you mumble, feeling brave. “It’s okay if you’re upset about what he said. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
And just like that, the thaw halts and reverses, re-freezing double time.
If there’s one thing Rafe won’t have, it’s you — this loud, unabashed, strong-willed girl — feeling sorry for him. If you’re loud and unabashed, he needs to be louder, bolder, with miles more will and enough self-assurance to outdo you. He needs you to think that nothing could ever phase him.
Not the taunting, not his father, not even you.
“I’m not upset,” he says fiercely, glaring at you. “And I don’t want your shitty promise. You — you don’t know me.”
Your earnest expression falters, replaced by something cruel, spiteful. “I don’t want to know you either,” you bite out, pursing your lips. “I — I was just trying to be nice, but I should’ve known that you wouldn’t know how to deal with it.”
“Yeah, I don’t,” Rafe says flatly, pushing past you. “We aren’t friends.”
You let out an indignant scoff, whirling around angrily. “And I don’t want to be, either. Ever.”
Rafe doesn’t bother turning around. His knuckles burn, his split lower lip too, and now, because of you, he has to deal with this funny ache in his chest on top of everything else.
“Good.”
“Good.”
——
Fourteen.
It’s the wispy mascara and strawberry chapstick age, thready crop tops over swimwear, sausages-or-legs Instagram stories on sun loungers. It’s the ripped denim age, the caramel Frappuccino age, going to your first, red solo cup party, the getting hit on by guys that are older than you age.
For sixteen-year-old Rafe, it’s the age that you go from girl to girl.
Fourteen and a little taller, a little more mature; he’s created a tradition out of opening the door for you before his sister can, and it’s the first year that he’s the one balking at the threshold, not you.
Suddenly, he doesn’t remember you being any other age. You look airbrushed around the edges, bruise free with enough exposed skin to make him sweat a little. He scrambles for purchase on something that he knows, something that he hates — the fact that your dress is too short, the fact that your lips are too soft.
If it isn’t already obvious, he thinks that you’re gorgeous. It makes him furious.
“Are you going to let me in, big-foot?” You ask, raising your eyebrows impatiently.
The taunt brings about a predictable scowl, his surprised expression slipping. With callous features hardening the way that they are, you’d never guess that his last thought was: have her eyes always been this pretty?
“Good to see nothing’s changed, train wreck,” he returns wryly, placing his hands either side of the doorway to prevent entry.
You roll your eyes at him, ducking under his bicep and forcing your way in. Despite growing a few inches over the course of the year, Rafe still towers over you, a solid wall of hatred and obstinance and muscle. A lot of muscle.
“And it never will,” you throw over your shoulder easily, not bothering to look back at him.
“Do you not have any other friends or something?” He goads, sauntering behind you. “Other families on this island to leech off?”
You whip back around angrily, arms crossed, nostrils flared. “Do you have any friends at all, Rafe?”
Rafe furrows his brow mockingly, pretending to look confused. “Oh yeah,” he sighs out, non-existent realisation dawning on his features. “You’re not actually from here, so I’ll explain —”
“Except,” you interrupt, irritation piquing, “that I didn’t ask, and I don’t care.”
“Basically, everyone here worships me,” he clarifies faux-sombrely, ignoring the sentiment. “So if I were you, I’d probably apologise and fall in line, princess.”
You scoff incredulously, sending him a glare. It occurs to Rafe that a part of him antagonises you for all this fierce, soul-deep eye contact.
“Worshipping you?” You echo, making a face. “Not only are you a total douchebag, but you’re also somehow delusional?”
“Aw.” Rafe clutches his chest dramatically, pouting down at you. “You think I’m a total douchebag? I’m touched.”
“Don’t get it twisted,” you say, narrowing your eyes warningly. “I don’t think about you, Rafe Cameron. I know that you’re a total douchebag as a fact.”
“You know what else I am?” Rafe asks, trying for disdainful as he looks you up and down. He lands somewhere between impassive and slack-jawed. “Bored of this conversation.”
He moves past you and toward the kitchen, and to the back of him, you say, “Oh how I’ve missed our little chats.”
Rafe knows you don’t mean it like that. His pathetic pulse lurches anyway.
“Yeah?” He asks.
“Yeah,” you reply dryly, turning away from him. “They serve as a good reminder of why I hate you so much.”
You leave no space for him to throw the words back at you, already checked out of the conversation and halfway up the stairwell.
Not that he’d ever do so, anyway. Where you’d brushed past him, the fabric of his t-shirt still smells like crisp bergamot, the sweet vanilla notes of your new perfume.
It’s all he’s able to focus on for the rest of the day.
Upstairs, Sarah squeezes you tight, and demands that the pair of you take a walk along the beach.
It’s how you find yourself on Theo Deverell’s radar that summer, find yourself receiving an invite to his party a few weeks later.
A handsome junior with a skateboard under his arm and ashen hair that hasn’t been cut in a while, he’s confident and kind, his sweet-talk thick molasses.
Like a flytrap.
Along with an invite to his party, Theo innocently requests that you arrive alone and not-so-innocently buys you handful of white claws. Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t take into account the fact that someone else at this party might see you, recognise you.
Know you better than they know themself.
Rafe hears your laugh before he does your voice. It has that same, unabashed timbre it did when you were kids; loud and too-familiar, distracting. It first found him at nine years old and hasn’t left him since.
When he follows the sound to you, there’s a white claw in your hand, and Theo Deverell’s arm around your shoulder. If it wasn’t for that fact that this meant extenuating circumstances, he’s sure that he would have stolen a few more moments to look you over.
All of you, from your kind eyes to your pretty smile, the light skating along the column of your throat, the expanse of glowing skin between your singlet and raw-hem denim shorts.
Bare glowing skin. Kind eyes on scum of the earth, Theo fucking Deverell, pretty smile like a sunflower leaning into the wrong rays of sun.
Rafe’s jaw clenches like clockwork. You have no business being here — not with his friends, the people in his year, not in that outfit and definitely not with a white claw in your hand.
He asserts that it isn’t jealousy.
After all, his line of reasoning doesn’t touch the Theo Deverell effect at all; he’s just being protective over you, covering all of his bases.
If something happens and you get hurt, he’s the one that everyone will blame. Rafe decides to ignore the fact that when it comes to you, he’s his own harshest critic.
“Y/n.” He says your name like it’s an accusation, something rough, callous in his tone.
Your shoulders tense. The grip you have on your white claw tightens to a blanch, the muscles that move your jaw, too. When do you finally look over at him, he’s closer than his voice was, taller with broader-set shoulders, an angrier frown.
He tugs off his backwards cap distractedly, and your eyes move to his fabric mussed hair, longer than you remember. It suits him.
“What?” You defend coolly, narrowing your eyes at him.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he states, pinning you with a glare. Body heat and cologne rolls off his skin, cedar-wood with something spicier hidden within it. Cinnamon, you think.
“Why?” You argue, nostrils flaring. “Last I checked, this is Theo’s party, not yours. He invited me.”
Rafe’s gaze cuts to the aforementioned boy for the first time that night, a split-second power struggle. There’s an undercurrent of steel to his eye contact that makes Theo sweat a little.
“I’m taking you home,” he says resolutely, grasping your wrist. “Now.”
“What?” You scoff incredulously, quick to break free. “No fucking way. I’m staying.”
Keeping your eyes on his, you tip back the white claw and gulp down half the can. It doesn’t make your insides burn the way everyone says alcohol should; like a drink of soda, it slides down your throat with ease.
Your throat. Rafe’s gaze falls, the unmarked skin making him falter. Bathed in lemon-yellow light, your silver necklaces winks up at him, a taunt.
It makes him fucking mad.
“Whatever,” he mutters spitefully, downing his own drink just as easily. “Your fucking funeral.”
You roll your eyes, looking up at Theo and smiling your sweet, sore-cheek smile. For some, perplexing reason, this makes him even madder.
“Can I have another?” You ask, using a pleasant voice Rafe hasn’t heard before.
Theo nods without question, pulling open the fridge and handing you another. For a split-second, Rafe considers the consequence of giving him a shiner in his own kitchen.
Then, he goes back to channeling all of his anger onto you.
Since this definitely isn’t jealousy, he has no business being mad at Theo, even if said boy’s arm around your shoulder is begging to be broken. It’s you that’s at a party you shouldn’t be at, you drinking a white claw, you with the pretty smile — the siren smile.
The smile he’s never been on the receiving end of.
His head hurts. He crushes the can of beer in his hand like it’s nothing, and as he stares at you, disappearing onto the deck with Theo Deverell, you stare at everything but him.
It’s the first time since he was nine years old that he’s felt that ugly bubble of hatred in his gut. Not for you, though, of what he can’t have, even if he’d deny this if anyone were to ask.
It’s an hour before he finds you next.
There’s an alcohol induced slowness to his limbs by then, but his mind is sharper than ever, miles ahead of yours.
Skin warm and dew-damp, you’re sprawled out on the grass. Above you, the sky spins, a kaleidoscope of purple and indigo, darker streaks of dusk. And then, Rafe’s face.
He’s scowling, the way he always is. You’re alone.
“The fuck?” He loops an arm around your waist, yanking you up in a single, sweeping motion. “Why are you out here?”
Alone, he wants to add. It’s all he can focus on.
“The fuck?” You mock, words liquefying around the edges. “Why d’you always talk like s’that?”
“For fuck sake,” he mutters, cringing at the way your voice slurs. “How much have you had?”
You raise your eyebrows comically high, pretending to zip your lips and throw away the key.
Silence. Rafe’s rough fingers hold firm on your waist, all of your weight pushing into his forearm as you angle away. There’s a lot more skin-on-skin body heat this close, a lot more cologne and fierce eye contact than you can handle.
The closeness is burning hand-shaped holes into your skin. Large hand-shaped holes.
“Alright,” he announces firmly, straightening and pulling you up with him. “We’re leaving.”
“No,” you argue, more for the sake of it than anything else. “You’re leaving. M’staying.”
“Y/n,” Rafe warns, clenching his jaw. “You’re not staying here by yourself. You’re drunk.”
You make a face. “Why d’you care?”
Rafe chooses to ignore this question. A little because his focus is trained on moving your dragging feet forward, a lot because the answer to it is something that absolutely terrifies him.
And makes him furious. Amongst other things.
“Rafe, stop,” you whine, voice all messy and loud. “You — you’re not the boss f’me.”
“Didn’t ask.” He’s already shifted you from the backyard into the kitchen with surprising ease, rough hands on skin like a nectarine — soft and bare and easy to bruise. “Don’t care.”
Once inside, he pushes you toward the sink, reaching for an empty solo cup.
“Here,” he demands, thrusting it into your chest. “Have some water.”
He’s caging you against it with arms either side of you, your dim, kitchen window reflection making the proximity apparent. It makes you dizzier than the alcohol in your veins does, streaks your throat with the taste of bile.
“Don’t wan’t any,” you argue, frowning stubbornly.
“I’m serious,” he warns, turning the tap on and filling it to the brim.
“So m’I,” you throw back.
“Drink,” he instructs firmly, holding it out in front of you. Your eyes fall to it, faucet ripples making your face all soft and blurry.
And as you begin to shake your head at it, an acid-sour trill of vomit rushes out of your mouth, forcing Rafe to drop it back into the sink.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters exasperatedly, one hand steadying your waist, the other holding your hair back. There’s something to be said about the fact that Rafe hasn’t run for the hills at the sight of your puke; his broad torso hides you from view, a shield of armour hiding behind so-called hatred.
He adds, voice still low, “You really are a train wreck, huh?”
It’s the only sentence you remember of your conversation the next morning. Maybe this is because it’s the first time he’s used the insult in an affectionate way.
What you think is an affectionate way. All that booze on an empty stomach has probably messed with your naïve brain.
When you wake, it’s in your own bed with curtains drawn. The comforter you’re snuggled under smells of him, soap and musk pheromones that make your insides tumble. You feel sick.
There’s a note tucked under a glass of water on your bedside table, a blister pack of aspirin alongside it. It reads: for once in your life, can you just fucking do what I tell you to?
You feel sicker.
Like poison, it’s thrown directly into the bin. Like the plague, you avoid Rafe Cameron for the rest of summer break.
——
Sixteen is the first job age, branding you a visor-wearing cart girl on the Island Club green.
Having graduated from the Academy this year, it’s also the last summer before Rafe moves for college. You aren’t sure what this means for him, whether the frat he inevitably joins will lead him elsewhere for subsequent breaks.
Away from you. The thought makes your heart feels too heavy for your ribcage, tight and wrung through, a sinking deadweight.
When eighteen-year-old Rafe first sees sixteen-year-old you, he’s on the course with his best friend, Kelce. You’re manning the drinks cart a distance away, laughing this high-pitched, saccharine sweet laugh as an older man exchanges beers for some cash. It’s a new sound falling from lips he’s known half his life, a fresh coat of gloss making them shine. Your skin looks fresh, sunscreen soft.
“Oh shit!” Kelce exclaims, following Rafe’s gaze to your figure. “Isn’t that Y/n?”
He jogs toward you without waiting for an answer, forcing a reluctant Rafe to do the same.
“Guess they’re just hiring anyone nowadays, huh?” He calls out a little urgently, winning the race for your attention Kelce didn’t know he was participating in.
You turn toward him and your customer service smile slips, pretty features hardening to a scowl.
“Find another cart girl,” you demand, folding your arms across your chest. “I’m not serving you.”
“And I’m not giving you any of my service,” Rafe scoffs, halting in his tracks too close, the way he always does.
It makes him difficult to ignore, which you hate. Your gaze skates over his broad shoulders and chiseled torso, sleeve-taut biceps that become solid forearm, rough hands in rougher golf gloves. His blue eyes are unblinking, fierce, bright as the sun despite his cap shielding from it.
Your gaze shifts to Kelce in a hurry.
“Hey, Kelce,” you say amiably, smiling at him. “Anything I can get you?”
“Your number?” Kelce jokes, grinning back.
Rafe’s jaw tightens, an unnameable emotion rearing it’s ugly head. As his younger sister’s best friend — as a girl that he hates — you’re strictly off limits to him.
By proxy, you’re also strictly off limits to his best friend.
“When did you start, anyway?” He cuts in furiously, glaring down at you.
You sigh warily, sending Kelce an apologetic look.“Last week,” you say in a clipped tone.
“Why?” Rafe demands.
“What do you mean, why?” You throw back, scoffing indignantly. “Because I’m old enough to get a job, now? Because I wanted some extra cash?”
“What?” Rafe hedges, raising his eyebrows. “To go shopping with your one friend on the island?”
Outrage rolls over your skin like a heatwave, making your cheeks burn. “What do you care?” You return angrily, nostrils flaring. “This doesn’t concern you in any way.”
It does when your presence is capable of throwing him off his game. It does when he has to watch you flirting for tips everyday.
Besides, why would you possibly need a job, anyway? Theoretically, Rafe could pay for everything that you wanted and then some.
“It does if you refuse to serve me when I’m here,” Rafe says.
You falter, clenched jaw acquiescing by a margin.
“Right,” you reply curtly, plastering on a smile. “Was there anything you wanted, Rafe?”
“Aw.” Rafe pouts mockingly. “The waitresses at the Club normally call me sir.”
Your smile tighten to a grimace. “Don’t fucking push it, Cameron.”
“Mr Cameron,” Rafe chastises, biting back a smirk. “I’d love a beer, princess. Think you can manage that?”
“And I’d love for you to leave me the fuck alone,” you snarl back, forced pleasantries long forgotten. “But unfortunately, we don’t always get all the things we want in life.”
“Now, now.” Rafe raises his eyebrows warningly, his gaze cascading over your features without meaning to. “You wouldn’t want me to go inside and complain about the gorgeous cart girl with no manners, would you?”
You blink. “Gorgeous cart girl?”
Rafe’s expression falters, his slanted jaw slackening. “Cart girl,” he amends quickly, almost tripping over his words. “I said cart girl.”
“Whatever,” you mutter, ducking your head awkwardly. “If you aren’t going to buy something I can actually sell you, I’m leaving.”
You turn around and climb into the driver’s seat of the drinks cart, switching on the ignition and leaving the two boys in your dust.
When you do so, Rafe realises a few things.
The first, that not letting his eyes stray from your pretty face to your cleavage is an invaluable lesson in self-control. The second, that you’re the same height as his heartbeat, your smaller hands the size of a single chamber within it. The third that your ass looks fucking criminal in a golf skirt, and the fourth? That you’re beginning to make him furious for the all wrong reasons.
Kelce breaks the silence first.
“Holy shit,” he wolf whistles, “when did Y/n become such a baddie?”
“Never,” Rafe grits out, cutting him a stony glare. “Don’t let me hear you say that shit again, Smith. I’m not fucking playing.”
“Woah, relax tough guy,” Kelce replies, raising his eyebrows knowingly. “I’m just stating facts. You know that I’d never actually go there.”
“Good,” Rafe says grimly. “Because she’s off limits.”
“Right.” Kelce eyes Rafe warily. “The real question, though… when are you going to make a move on her?”
“What?” Rafe’s head shoots up in a panic, his expression somewhere between helpless and incredulous. “The fuck are you talking about?”
Kelce scoffs. “The fact that you’re in love with her, obviously.”
Rafe’s heart lurches.
“You’re delusional,” he mutters, shaking his head exasperatedly.
“Whatever you say, bro,” Kelce responds with a shrug. “She’s fucking hot. If I were you, I’d be tying her down before some other guy on this island gets the chance.”
Though the mere thought of this has him seething, he attests that it isn’t jealousy.
Just self-preservation, or something. He doesn’t need some deadbeat with empty promises thirsting over a girl he’s known since he was a kid.
Over the course of the next few weeks, interactions with Rafe at the Club drop to a minimum. Though he’s often there when you are — his golf cap cycling between sitting forwards and backwards on his head — you always seem to catch him in the middle of a conversation. With his friends, other patrons, the waitresses that swoon over him in the break room. Everyone but you. You begin measuring the days apart with his hair, the length the tawny locks grow past the head of his cap.
Somewhere between long and overgrown, the tip jar begins collecting wads of cash with your name taped around them. At first, you think someone’s playing a prank with counterfeit bills; it’s only after they’re properly checked that you gratefully accept them.
To your chagrin, the waitstaff who know of the mystery tipper refuse to reveal their name. After a while, you begin taking the money without question; you presume it’s the old widower who meets you at hole nine every Friday, a little lonely, a lot wealthy. There’s no one else you know endowed with that much disposable income.
No one else apart from everyone in the Cameron family, anyway.
The next time you see Rafe, you’re trying hard to understand something that’s very clearly out of your depth.
“Trust me, darlin’, the clean’s real essential,” the mechanic continues seriously, overplaying the importance of a trivial add-on. “Without it, your car’ll break down within the year.”
“But…” you trail off, frowning bemusedly, “…I mean, my dad only bought it a few months ago —”
“These newer models,” the mechanic explains, raising his eyebrows haughtily, “they need more maintenance. Got bigger engines with —”
“Isn’t it a V Dub Golf, Cam?” Asks a voice behind you. “Shouldn’t need anything done to it for at least a few years.”
It’s deep, a little gravelly around the edges, with a subtle, Southern twang that’s so familiar it hurts a little.
Rafe’s always had this way of garnering the attention of a room without needing to raise his voice.
“Well,” the mechanic balks, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “Uh… shit, I mean, there’s been talk of the suspension on these Volks going bust —”
“Right,” Rafe says steadily, coming up beside you. “I think she’ll take her chances, though, bud. The service on its own should be fine.”
He folds his forearms over the front counter staunchly, an air of resolve to the way he holds himself. It makes you feel nervous and relieved at the same time, as if that’s in any way possible.
Oh, and furious. He’s a wall of body heat with one too many inches on you, his bicep knocking your shoulder, his sharp jaw shepherding your gaze. There’s a shadow of stubble that trails to his Adam’s apple, steely, blue eyes that almost have you drowning.
Your chin falls as you sink, hitting his forearm where it rests on the counter. The contact sends a shockwave-like jolt to your skin, and you shoot back up in a hurry, glowing with embarrassment.
Don’t drown, swim, you chastise in your head.
“At the end of the day,” the mechanic named Cam says, sending you a meaningful glance, “it’s up to you, darlin’. Did you want me to throw in the clean?”
You can feel Rafe’s eyes on your features, his closeness makes your heart stutter a little.
“Uh,” you pause, chewing on your bottom lip absently. “I — maybe not, anymore. Thank you.”
Rafe’s gaze slides to your mouth as it moves without meaning to. Your pretty mouth. He begins scrambling for an excuse to stay this close, this counting-your-worry-lines proximity for a little while longer.
“Alrighty then,” Cam agrees, his Southern drawl kicking in. “Should take two hours, ‘roundabout.”
You nod and smile swiftly, handing over your keys and watching him retreat. It’s only once he’s out of sight that you peel away from the counter, refusing to make eye contact with Rafe as you do so.
“I had that handled,” you say stubbornly, turning your back on him.
“You’re welcome,” he returns dryly, stepping in front of you so that you’re forced to look up.
When you do, a pause. Somewhere within your too-weak glare, Rafe swears he spots a gleam of something softer, diffident gratitude hidden within pretty irises.
It makes his bones ache.
He knows that he’s the one taunting a thank-you out of you, but the last thing on Rafe’s mind is actually getting any sort of credit. The only reason that he even stepped in in the first place is because that’s his job — your best friends older brother, and all of that. Not to mention, he refuses to watch someone else take advantage; he’s the only person that’s allowed to do that, make a fool out of you and be able get away with it.
“Whatever, Rafe,” you mutter, tearing your eyes away again. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
For a split-second, he seriously considers saying, kissing you.
And then you add, “Following me?” in this cruel, defensive tone that has him deftly swallowing the words.
“Newsflash, princess,” he chides, rolling his eyes. “You’re not the only person on the island with a car that needs servicing.”
“What?” You goad. “Your little douchebag patrol posse too busy to run this errand for you?”
“Nah,” he returns wryly, raising his eyebrows. “Gotta do this one myself, make sure they don’t get swindled the way you were about to.”
Your jaw tightens, eyes narrowing angrily. “Like I said, I had it handled.”
Rafe’s noticed, that when you fume, you step closer to him without meaning to.
So maybe he’s goading you on purpose. So what? One look over your pretty, up-close features and his chest is a mess.
“Honestly,” he tuts, shaking his head tiredly. “What would you do without me?”
You pretend to think. “Oh, I don’t know,” you say, knitting your brow mockingly. “Maybe like, be at peace?”
“I’m on your mind that much, huh?” He asks, pressing his tongue against his cheek.
You force a breath out through your nose furiously, attempting to push past him. But he’s taller than you, stronger, catching you wrist just short of an arms length away.
Where his personality is abrasive, his touch is anything but. It’s featherlight like he thinks he’ll ruin you if he holds firmer. Your soft palms sweat.
“Hey, relax,” he chides, not letting go. “You gotta wait here till your car’s done, remember?”
Normally, you’d scowl at his holier-than-thou tone, but the juxtaposition of his careful hands and sloven words has your mind veering off track.
“So?” You bite back, forcing yourself to pull away. “I’m not staying here with you. I’ll go on a walk or something.”
Rafe frowns. “No,” he instructs. “You stay. I’ll come back.”
“Stop doing that,” you reply frustratedly.
“Doing what?” Rafe asks.
“Doing…” you trail off, forcing another breath out through your nose, “…doing me all these favours I didn’t ask you to do. I don’t want to be indebted to you, okay? Fucking quit it.”
Rafe balks. An unreadable emotion flickers over his once-amused features, painting them a rueful shade of grey.
“I’m leaving for me, not for you.” A pause. “You’ve never owed me anything, Y/n.”
He’s gone before you’re able to decipher his expression, find the cause of his sudden change in demeanour.
He doesn’t come back, the way he said he would. It’s a week before he returns to the car mechanic at all, long enough for you to have forgotten about the exchange.
——
Seventeen is the first year that Rafe doesn’t have a date to Midsummer’s.
Maybe this is because it’s also his first year away from home — setting Rafe up has always been Ward’s prerogative, and without the face-to-face, manipulating his son is a little more difficult. Maybe it’s because Rafe’s finally standing up to his father — heir to the Cameron Development empire or not, he’s sick of every girl he takes out being a business transaction.
Or maybe, it’s something else altogether. Maybe turning nineteen and going to a college out of state has forced Rafe to re-examine how he feels about Kildare Island.
The people on it. Person.
On Midsummer’s day, the weather is faultless.
A big, yellow sun coasts over the horizon, irradiating rows of hydrangeas and buttery-white peonies, the brilliant decorations that bedeck the venue. Prematurely hung fairy-lights dangle from green trees, the bright glare making them shine.
Rafe arrives at the Island Club a little before you do, blue skies melting woven periwinkle onto his suit blazer. He knows, from a phone conversation he overheard between you and Sarah, that you’re probably going to be late, so he doesn’t bother searching for you when he does.
Not that he’d actually do anything if he found you, anyway. It’s just that the promise of your closeness keeps him sane.
There’s a time lapse between when you do finally arrive, and when Rafe realises that you have. He’s sneaking a second flute of champagne when he spots you; you’re outside, and he’s in, the crystal-clear sliding door a hindrance.
Seeing you is like having the wind knocked out of his lungs.
You’re wearing a pearly slip of paper-thin satin, the silky fabric cascading down your figure like a waterfall. A gleaming, silver chain loops around your neck, and in your hair, a ribbon of artificial daisies glow. Like when you were seven. Rafe’s poor heart stutters.
And just when he’s sure he can’t catch a break, his legs lead him to you of their own accord — two magnets sucked into a field of charge.
Of course, this makes him furious.
“Nice of you to finally grace us with your presence, princess,” he greets sardonically, halting just short of your figure.
You’re leaning against a tall pillar on the deck, its column bedecked with a garland of ruby roses. At the sight of him, you hurry to straighten, smoothing over the sides of your pearl-white slip.
“And here I thought,” you throw back, narrowing your eyes up at him, “that I’d be lucky enough to get through tonight without having to talk to you.”
“Who else would you talk to?” Rafe’s gaze falls, skidding at your pretty lipgloss, again where your silver chain kisses your neckline. “Me and Sarah are the only two people you know here.”
“How can you be so sure?” You argue stubbornly, folding your arms across your chest.
The barely-there fabric of your slip creases when you do so, enough cleavage spilling over to make Rafe balk a little.
He coughs. “I just am, alright?”
You scoff. “You’re so fucking full of it.”
“Aw,” he pouts, still looking over you absently. “You really think so?”
It’s your cat-and-mouse game on autopilot. Both of you take turns throwing glib insults at the other, stalling. Maintaining this maddening, look-don’t-touch inch between you.
“I would,” you answer, scowling. “Except that I don’t actually think about you at all.”
“Right,” Rafe says, raising his eyebrows. “Why were you late, anyway?”
You scowl harder. “How do you know that I was late?”
“Sarah was complaining about it,” Rafe lies. An inscrutable something flickers over his features, and you realise that he’s standing close enough for you to notice.
Even in heels, he has several inches on your figure, solid shoulders and chiseled torso in soft periwinkle that makes you falter. You swear, as he waits for you to answer, that the fingers in his right hand twitch forward and flex, dropping back down in a hurry.
A trick of the light, you suppose.
“Well,” you answer, jutting out your bottom lip. “It’s really none of your business.”
“Actually, since the event is honouring my father —”
“JJ!” You call out suddenly, forcing Rafe’s voice to break off mid-sentence. “What are you… how are you here?”
JJ? Rafe falters. As in the same, dirty-blonde deadbeat that’s pogue-side and fucking insufferable?
Before he can so much as open his mouth in protest, the younger boy enters Rafe’s peripheral vision. He’s wearing a waiter’s uniform on his figure and a grin on his face, his unkempt hair a wind-mussed mess.
You’re smiling in tandem. Rafe feels his throat close up.
“Shhh,” he hushes, his blue eyes full of mirth. “I’m ‘working’ the party, alright? Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”
You laugh, and Rafe’s heart lurches. “Whatever you say, J,” you reply, shaking your head bemusedly. “A request, though?”
JJ mock curtsies, fixing you a faux-sombre look. “Anything, m’lady.”
“Can I come with?” You ask sweetly, eyeing Rafe warily. “Not in the mood to stick with present company.”
JJ turns to Rafe then, a silent but fierce battle of wills. “Of course,” he responds after a beat, knowing the older boy wouldn’t lay a hand on him with you around. “C’mon.”
The satin of your slip sways over your heels as you disappear, giving the appearance of a girl that’s floating out of sight, not walking.
A pretty girl, with wide, stubborn eyes and a frown that makes Rafe ache, in his stomach, in his bones, in the stupid, you-shaped cavity within his ribcage. He downs his flute in a single, deft gulp, tearing through the crowd in search of something stronger than champagne.
—
open the door
You’re already downstairs, filling a glass tumblr with water when your phone dings.
It’s the first anyone’s heard from Rafe since your squabble at Midsummer’s earlier that day; a little after 10 pm now, he’s hasn’t been accounted for for at least a few hours.
This realisation, paired with the laconic tone of his text, cloys with your stomach, a heavy vessel of cement. For the first time in your life, you don’t hesitate to do what he says.
When you creak open the door, Rafe’s figure is silhouetted by a moonless sky, dim, doleful stars your only source of illumination.
He can’t stand still. There’s a rumpled bow tie at his collar, sleeves pushed up and blazer thrown over his shoulder slovenly. Gel long gone, his hair’s a dishevelled mess — strands sticking up at odd ends, falling into his line of sight so he’s forced to blink them away.
Or try to, with these wide, all-pupil eyes that have your stomach dropping.
“You’re high.” Too harsh for a greeting, too weak-sounding for an accusation.
“Can I come in?” He asks, swallowing thickly.
You hesitate, gaze moving over his features tentatively. It occurs to you that, even on cocaine, that fond, attentive part of your brain still finds him attractive.
It’s infuriating.
You shake your head firmly, shooting him an exasperated look. “Are you kidding? No fucking way.”
When you attempt to shut the door in his face, he stumbles closer, barring you from doing so.
“Wait — no — shit, please?” He begs. “I — I’ll sleep on the floor. On the deck. Anywhere. I just… I had nowhere else to go.”
You sigh tiredly. “Your house is right next door, Rafe.”
Rafe falters, something harried, worrisome, washing over his face. “I can’t go there.”
A pause. The absence of light has your figure blurring around the edges, but Rafe has so much of you committed to memory that this fact is irrelevant.
You’re wearing PJs he hasn’t seen in years, this tired, out-of-reach glow to your limbs that has him reeling, struggling for air. Face scrubbed clean, exposed skin everywhere he looks, and this close, he swears he can see every frown line that etches your features.
It’s like you’re iridescent. He’s never used that word before, probably never will again, but in this moment, Rafe swears it’s the only one that makes sense.
You exhale again, stepping away from the door to allow him in.
“Fuck… thank you,” he mumbles sheepishly, his movements jagged, sloven. He follows you down the hallway and into the living room, collapsing onto the couch with sigh of his own.
You look him over with uncertainty, chewing on your bottom lip. “Do you need food, or something? Water?”
He lifts his head, parts of his face illuminated by the silver-white streak of the blinds, a barcode of guilt. “Go to sleep, Y/n,” he replies quietly. “I don’t need you worrying about me, on top of everything else.”
You scoff, folding your arms across your chest defensively. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
A pause. “That you deserve better than that. Me.”
There’s dense, sludge-like tension in the air, rising to the ceiling like heat before dropping, slinking through the floorboards and pulling you down with it. More silence. You don’t realise you’re holding your breath until you open your mouth, your response to him a heavy whoosh of air.
“Why’re you high, Rafe?” You ask quietly.
His head drop agains. “Go to sleep, Y/n.”
“I’m not sleepy,” you lie.
“Neither am I.”
“Tell me,” you try again, a little firmer, a little more urgent. “You… it’s the least you could do.”
“Fuck, Y/n,” he groans out frustratedly, roughing his fingers through his hair. “You really wanna to play that game? Why were you hanging with those pogues the entire night?”
“I — huh?” You stutter, eyes widening in surprise. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Don’t do that.” You hear Rafe swallow again, his voice low. “You know exactly what it has to do with everything.”
Another beat. The sludge-like tension returns and roots you to the spot, preventing you from removing yourself from the situation.
Preventing you from moving closer, too. You murmur, “How come you didn’t go to Kelce’s?”
“Because,” he breathes out softly, like he’s only just admitted it to himself, “you’re the one that’s always on my mind, not him.”
Your stomach somersaults. “What?”
“Goodnight, Y/n.” Rafe turns away from you, pulling his legs up onto the couch and exhaling again. “I’ll be out of here before you wake up.”
He lets his eyelids droop and his breathing slow, and you stare at him until you’re sure he’s actually falling asleep.
As you watch him, a million different should dos whizz through your mind. You should get him a blanket, a pillow, move him into the guest room, you should stay.
You do none of them, nor do you get a wink of sleep the entire night. Somewhere between morning twilight and dawn, you hear him creak open the front door, leaving without a trace.
——
“Thanks, Rose,” Rafe hears you say, your sweet voice travelling over from the kitchen. “Yeah, no, I’m super excited about it. A little far from home, but it’s been my first choice since forever.”
“That’s wonderful to hear, my dear,” Rose’s voice answers pleasantly. “You’ll have to make time to visit when you can.”
“Yeah,” adds Sarah faux-sternly. “Just because your parents are selling the beach house doesn’t mean you stop coming here, okay? I don’t care if you’re going to a college across the country, you’ll always be an Outer Banks girl, whether you like it or not.”
It’s as though someone’s dropped a two-tonne rock into Rafe’s stomach. He begins to rush forward slovenly, his gait jagged, desperate to take him into the kitchen.
He walks into it just as you say, “I will, I swear,” in this soft, earnest voice that makes him honest-to-God yearn.
It’s enough commotion to garner your attention, your eyes growing wary as they look over his figure. “Oh,” you say, overplaying your disinterest. “It’s just you.”
For the first time in eleven years, Rafe Cameron doesn’t bite.
“Since when are your parents selling your house?” He demands, not asks.
A pause.
It occurs to Rafe, as he takes inventory of your features — all the smooth planes and pert ridges, the furrow in your brow, the shine of your lips — that he can’t remember a time where he hasn’t thought you were beautiful. He’s spent half of his life antagonising you, being antagonised by you, and it occurs to him that he can’t remember a time where he’s ever actually meant it.
You’re eighteen-years-old, now; he met you when you were seven. Something in Rafe’s chest careens. It occurs to him that it’s the same, heart-lurching feeling your seven-year-old smile had once given nine-year-old him.
You raise your eyebrows at him. Rafe decides in that moment that he isn’t going to bite ever again.
“Since last week?” You answer defensively.
“And when,” Rafe takes a steady step closer, “were you going to tell me?”
The pair of you glare at each other. In the silence, Sarah and Rose share a knowing look too, the pair of them peeling away from the kitchen table carefully.
“Sarah, sweetie,” Rose says, raising her eyebrows meaningfully. “Do you mind helping me sort through the washing?”
“Not at all,” Sarah answers quickly, springing into action.
They bee-line for the door before you can so much as protest, leaving a tension that’s palpable in their wake.
You swallow it down before forcing out a sigh, slipping out of your seat and moving past him. “Didn’t think I needed to.”
The side of your wrist nudges his, shooting tendrils of heat straight to your chest. And then, it’s Rafe’s touch making your skin burn, his rough palm making contact with yours.
“Y/n,” he murmurs helplessly, turning you back to him. “You can’t drop a bomb like that on me and just leave like it’s fucking nothing.”
Your breath hitches, gaze dropping to where your fingers are intertwined. “Like I said,” you say weakly, refusing to make eye contact. “Didn’t think you’d care.”
Rafe cares. Rafe cares a lot.
Rafe’s feels like he’s cared about you longer than he’s been alive.
“Do you care?” He asks quietly, dipping his head to eye level. “About moving, I mean. Do you care about the fact that you won’t be here next summer?”
With me, he wants to add. Won’t be here with me.
You swallow nervously, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.
He’s looking down at you with the same, ocean blue irises he had when you first met him. Eleven years on, several inches more height difference and several inches less personal space, you realise that they also still make the same, fond mess of your chest.
Your mind reels. You try to remember the conclusion of any of the arguments you’ve had over the years.
You can’t.
You realise that what you can remember are the small details, the subtleties anyone else would forget — the way his hair’s grown over time, the parts of his body most susceptible to a sunburn.
For Rafe, it’s the way your pretty smile’s gotten prettier. It’s the number of times your eyes have narrowed in an argument, the neckline of every single one of your dresses. He remembers the forgettable things — when you swapped out that Victoria’s Secret perfume for something more mature, when you first wore that lipgloss that smelled like peaches and vanilla.
When you smiled at him, for the first time ever. Rafe remembers the first time you called him by his name instead of an insult.
“Of course I do,” you mumble. “I’ve spent more summers here than I can count on both hands.”
“Do you care about the fact that I will?” Rafe steps closer. His hand is still in yours, refusing to let go. “The fact that we aren’t going to be in the same town at all, next year?”
Your heart stutters. “Rafe —”
“Because I do,” Rafe interrupts, his other hand moving up to your face. He cradles your jaw gently, reverentially, his rough skin at odds with his barely-there touch. “I care about the fact you won’t be in the Outer Banks and I fucking will. I mean… shit, Y/n, summer won’t be summer without you here.”
Your eyes widen, sitting somewhere between bashful and surprised. “What?” You ask weakly, feeling your knees buckle. “You… we — you hate me.”
“You can’t actually believe that,” Rafe says, a little exasperated.
“And I… I mean — we drive each other fucking crazy,” you add in a rush. His callused thumb swipes over your cheek softly, and you sigh. It’s a tired sound. Longest eleven years of your fucking life.
Lips an inch from yours, now, less than, there’s cinnamon and cedar-wood everywhere.
“Makes me fucking furious,” you mumble absently. “You make me fucking furious.”
“Fuck, so do you.” His voice sounds rough around the edges, strained. Spearmint breath fans over your too-warm skin. “Do you have any idea the effect you have on me, Y/n?”
There’s a brush of lips on yours, just. You say, “Probably not.”
“All I’ll say,” he murmurs, this close to kissing you, “is that you aren’t the one that’s a train wreck, train wreck. It’s me.”
And then he’s pressing his lips to yours fully, urgently, his other hand finding purchase on your waist and squeezing hard. The way he pulls you to him is sloven, pleasurable, a teeth-scraping pressure that has you gasping for air. He backs you up against a wall like he’s afraid that you’re going to escape his grasp, sometimes hard, sometimes soft, so-called hatred melting into a fierce need for more.
Rafe Cameron kisses you like he’s wanted to do it since he was nine-years-old.
And when he drags his mouth along your jaw, down your neck, it’s to create a bouquet of careless, purple bruises — he needs everyone to know that you’re his, and he isn’t going to share, the same way he’d once refused you a spot on the ten-foot-tall jungle gym. His rough hands are worse, grappling for bare skin everywhere they roam, your own palms skating up his chest to his shoulders.
When he pulls away for air, you wrap your arms around his neck tightly.
“Right,” you murmur, smiling coyly. “You’re still big-foot though, big-foot.”
“Shit,” Rafe breathes out a laugh, his cheeks flushed, his lips bruised. “That nickname made me so fucking angry when we were kids.”
“You made me so fucking angry when we were kids,” you return.
“And how about now?” Rafe asks, his voice a little messy from all of the kissing. “How do I make you feel now, Y/n?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” A pause. You think he knows the answer to his own question before you even open your mouth. “Like a train wreck, Rafe Cameron.”
i hate using the word rules bc it feels so scolding but idk what else to name these u know ( ɵ̥̥‸ɵ̥̥) anyways if a character is listed here feel free 2 request them! atm i don't write explicit smut but suggestive themes/light sexuality is totally fine!!! just put it in ur request if you want it though because i won't include it in a request if it's not asked for. i love writing reaction blurbs, any (main/side) character from the shows i listed for blurbs you can request, even if they aren't on my list, regardless of gender, etc. most importantly i am in uni and work full time so i write slow!!! i am sorry!! i do this for fun so if there's something i don't feel comfortable with/something i don't think i would do well at writing i will try to give some recs that are similar to ur request. thanks <3 character list under cut!
STRANGER THINGS
- steve harrington
- reaction blurbs: choose up to five characters, even if they aren't listed here!
OUTER BANKS
- rafe cameron
- jj maybank
- pope heyward
- reaction blurbs: choose up to five characters, even if they aren't listed here!
PEAKY BLINDERS
- tommy shelby
HOUSE OF THE DRAGON
- aemond targaryen
- rhaenyra targaryen
- alicent hightower
THE HUNGER GAMES
- finnick odair
- peeta mellark
LORD OF THE RINGS
- legolas
- aragorn
- pippin
- reaction blurbs: choose up to five characters, even if they aren't listed here!
THE SANDMAN
- morpheus
TOP GUN
- jake ‘hangman’ seresin
- bob floyd
- bradley 'rooster' bradshaw
- pete 'maverick' mitchell
- reaction blurbs: choose up to five characters, even if they aren't listed here!
hii!! i absolutely love your writing!! 😍 can i request a fic please with steve x fem!reader. mutual pining but they dont know with soulmate au. but steve is the first one who finds out that they're soulmates. thank youu <33
this is so sweet i love it thank u for requesting <3 i'm sorry it took so long, i'm in uni so i haven't had much time to write!! i hope this is similar to what you wanted!!
- steve x fem!reader, 4000 words
the fact is that steve harrington knew you were soulmates the first time you opened your mouth, but he thought following that intuition would be corny, so he did not. instead, he let it eat him alive for a decade like a parasite, which made more sense to him to do. in the beginning, at least.
"hi."
this was fourth grade. you and steve had been in the same elementary school classes since kindergarten, and he knew who you were- but not well. you bounced between being quiet and loud; from sitting silently on the school bus with your head rattling against the window, to bouncing around the playground, coattails flapping in the autumn wind. all kids were like this, it seemed. elementary school flew by in a haze of long division, scraped knees, and complementary shaved ice. at the end of the day, every kid would end up talking to one another, at some point, shy or not. but this was the first time you had ever spoken to him.
steve bristled. "hey."
it was an incredibly fascinating phenomenon, you would later realize. the capacity of a child to fall in love with somebody they'd only spoken to once, and for it to never go away, even when adulthood made you strangers.
steve sniffled, cold october wind scratching his cheeks. he had an arm wrapped around the frozen metal pole of the jungle gym, his friends dangling about behind him.
"um," you started. "my friend dropped her journal down there and she's afraid to go get it."
you pointed at the mulch inside the dome of the jungle gym, then to your friend, who was whisper screaming profanities at you for saying, "she's afraid to go get it."
"i'm sorry!" you whispered back.
your frightened eyes followed the trail of mist your breath left in the icy air, dazedly. then you squinted against the breeze, trying not to stare at steve. you didn't want him to think you were weird, and you wouldn't ever have been brave enough to talk to him had your friend not begged for her journal back.
steve swallowed. he heard his heart in his ears; thump, thump. he liked the way you wobbled in the cold, nose all scrunched up as if it would somehow keep you warm.
"you want me to go get it?" he asked. "the journal?"
"yes!" you responded. "if you can. please. thank you."
steve dove into the jungle gym and retrieved the diary like it was a matter of national security. when he returned, valiantly, he banged his head against a rung of the jungle gym and hissed. you gasped, the sound a sharp wheeze.
"are you okay?"
"yeah, didn't hurt. s'fine."
he handed you the journal. the tip of your thumb poked his knuckles when you grabbed it. thump, thump.
"okay," you nodded. "well, thanks. thank you."
"yeah, no problem. you- do you need anything else?"
your lips crept up, threatening to make the widest grin you had ever grinned in your life, but you scrunched them down. don't look stupid.
"oh, no, just this. that's okay."
"okay. just checking."
you blinked at him, then sniffled, wiping your sleeve across your nose. "okay, bye."
steve saw an entire life before him, then; prom, marriage, a mortgage. she's so pretty.
"bye."
that's all he said.
steve's friends laughed like hyenas at him once you had gone. and your friend had dove off the jungle gym to chase you across the field and hiss, "hey, y/n, he definitely likes you!"
you weren't so sure. but you wished he did; that you were sure of.
. . .
steve decided he was going to marry you if you said yes. well, in a few years, at least. he definitely wasn't going to ask you before middle school. that was too early.
middle school came and went and he realized that, regretfully, middle school was also too early to ask a girl to marry you. but he wasn't asking you anything. at all. you never talked to him; and he wondered if it was something he did. he saw you in class, and in the hallways. he saw you help your friends carry their books, and pick the fuzz out of their hair when they couldn't see that it was there. you were kind. he watched your presentations and how your hands shook when you spoke. he wondered why you wouldn't talk to him, if it was because you didn't want to.
"she's just quiet, man," his friends would say. "you gotta' approach her. and, i mean, why would you even wanna' be with a girl like that? sounds boring."
after that, he didn't mention you anymore. to anyone. he didn't like it when his friends poked fun at you, and he especially didn't like that he never knew what to say in return. you were shy, it seemed. or, maybe, you just didn't like him.
or, maybe, you've only talked to her once in your life and if you just talked to her again, she would be your friend.
he decided that this was ridiculous. it was better to never speak to you again, and not have to deal with the scorn of rejection from a girl he had been in love with since age ten.
better to say nothing.
. . .
steve's infatuation became impossible to ignore when you started babysitting max mayfield.
in the fall of 1984- your sophomore year- max's mother contracted you (at a very discounted rate) to watch max when billy, her step brother, could not. at first, this wasn't overly often; just the occasional ride to school and microwaved television dinner. you liked max, and despite her cold exterior, she seemed to like you. when billy realized he could get you to watch max more often at even further discounted rate (a.k.a. no rate at all), he forced her on you more often. what were you supposed to do? refuse to watch her, and let her sit at home by herself? knowing max, she wouldn't sit at home, anyway. she would go find trouble. of course you watched her, even when billy gave you no choice.
this is how you ended up babysitting on halloween.
unbeknownst to you, it was steve's neighborhood that you were wandering through that night. max had gone to meet up with her friends; mike wheeler, lucas sinclair, dustin henderson, will byers- whom you had never seen her hang out with before. she seemed to think they would all be happy to see her, but apparently, some of them were not.
"mike is such an asshole," max huffed.
she kicked at the dirt along the side of the road as you walked. you folded your arms over your chest, fists bundled in your sleeves, hair whipping over your eyes. her michael myers mask dangled in your hand. you hadn't expected to be out all night, you hadn't expected to be working on halloween at all. not that you had other plans to attend to, or anything you would rather be doing, but you hadn't dressed for the weather. a zip-up hoodie was all that shielded you from the brisk wind, erring on the side of winter rather than fall that halloween.
"i believe you," you snickered.
"good. i just don't understand why he has to be such a dick. i mean..."
she continued to flay mike as you meandered down the interstate, having wandered completely away from the sidewalk and any neighborhood you were familiar with. anxiety beat in your chest and pooled in your belly. it had to be close to midnight, and you were nowhere near home. you had to turn around.
"hey, max-"
she ignored you for the distraction of flashing red lights. you had come upon a house; swathes of people milling about outside and dancing dangerously close to the uncovered pool. bodies in bloody corsets and leather jackets swarmed the grass and filled up the windows like paintings. your stomach sunk.
this was steve's house. you just knew it. you didn't know how you knew, but you knew. he always had halloween parties, and everybody came to them. and though you hadn't spoken to steve since, well, elementary school, probably- you didn't want him knowing you had nowhere to go on halloween night. and you certainly didn't want to be seen at his halloween party that everybody was invited to except you.
rightfully so. you weren't friends. he wouldn't want to be my friend.
"oh, shit," max murmured. "whose house is this?"
"i don't know," you mustered. "it's late, though. i'd love to berate mike some more, but we should probably head back towards your house while we do it."
"hey!"
oh, god.
"no fuckin' way," a voice surmised, sauntering over with staggering feet. he was tall, lanky like a pole, blonde as cornsilk. he wore a cheap costume- a blue muscle tank and two fraying boxing gloves. a troupe of boys followed him, each drunker than the last. "i know you!"
"do you?" you laughed, trying to sound unphased. you knew him. he was on the basketball team, one of steve's friends, though you didn't know his name. you wondered if you were about to become the victim of some outrageous, hollywood instance of bullying; like when kids got their skulls smashed in lockers or drowned in toilets in movies.
"yeah. you look alright, huh? never seen you out anywhere before, though. what's that costume? some kinda' track girl?"
thump, thump. your heart was in your ears and your throat. they laughed as you gazed over their heads, scanning the yard. thankfully, steve wasn't around. nancy. he was probably with his girlfriend, nancy.
"you're steve's girl," slurred the blonde.
max glowered. "she's what?"
i'm what?
you blinked like your eyelids weighed a thousand pounds. "no, i'm not."
"yeah you are. he talks about you, like, all the fucking time. well, not so much anymore. cuz' of miss nancy."
the troupe of boys fawned and groaned, mocking and kissing. their laughter filled your ears, an awful sound. they were making fun of you, right? they had to be.
"don't be an asshole," griped max.
they laughed even harder.
"seriously, i'm not joking. he's been talking about you for, like, years. he's obsessed."
your cheeks flared hot and red. there was no hiding your humiliation anymore, no reason to pretend you weren't upset. they could see it. everybody could. how is it possible that you could have made such an awful impression in the fourth grade that steve had been making fun of you for six years? was it that obvious that you had a crush on him?
you positioned max on your left to shield her from the drunken boys and tried to walk away.
"y/n-" max lamented.
"it's fine. no big deal," you whispered.
"goddamn," drawled the blonde boy. "makes sense why he gave up on you. can't even hold a conversation. not nearly fuckin' hot enough to be acting like th-"
the punch that followed landed like a hammer on stone.
you whirled around, clutching max by her shoulders like it would do anything to protect her. the sight before you was something out of dreams and nightmares.
the blonde boy was being hoisted off the ground by two scantily clad firemen, blood dripping from the sweaty skin between his upper lip and nostrils. and it had been steve harrington who'd thrown the punch.
he backed up slowly at first, ringing out his fist like a rag. a black suit was snuff against the breadth of his shoulders, dark hair flopping into his eyes. his eyes scrunched up for a moment, lashes fluttering, and he cursed under his breath. damn. that had to hurt.
you pictured a brunette boy with rosy cheeks, squinting through the cold like it burned him, leaning against a jungle gym.
steve looked at you and you backed away like you would be next. obviously, you wouldn't be. but when he looked at you, his eyes were painted red.
"you alright?" his gaze flashed to the little girl beside you, confused. "both of you?"
he was out of breath. suddenly, you were too. what hell is this?
"yeah," you blurted. "yes. we're fine. i'm so sorry, i don't even know what-"
you took to long to finish your thought. i don't even know what's going on, i don't even know what he meant. why have you been making fun of me?
"i don't know what he said," steve panted. "whatever it was, it's bullshit. he's a dick. don't-"
he faltered.
"i'm sorry," steve scathed. "i don't know what all he said."
"it's okay," you shook your head.
"no." he wiped a hand over his eyes. "it's not-"
"harrington!" the blonde boy shouted. "get your ass over here! now!"
steve kept his eyes on you. "you sure you're okay?"
"we're fine," you nodded, pulling max away, eager to be anywhere else. your head was reeling. "we'll go. it's really alright. we'll just go. don't...don't break your hand."
he made an odd face at you; something amused and furious. you spotted a black glint on the ground. his sunglasses.
you picked them up and held them out. he took them, and your thumb brushed against his knuckles.
thump, thump.
"don't break your hand," you repeated. "just, don't- be...i have to get her home. i'm sorry. thank you."
you took off, max dragging behind you, and halfway home she started cackling. "what the hell was that about?"
. . .
the next summer, babysitting max mayfield turned into babysitting all of her friends, and by then, you were irrevocably intertwined with the upside down, steve harrington, and apparently, russia. you'd seen it all. the demogorgon, the demodogs, steve's bat of one-thousand nails. you'd met eleven, whose pixie cut had grown into a bob, and then bangs. you'd watched her move away, the byers along with her. all of it, you had been there for.
but you refused to befriend steve.
it was the most ridiculous situation (as it always was with the two of you) and you had no idea why. you had no idea why his friends had made fun of you at the halloween party, why your one conversation in elementary school had led him to be so disgusted by you, why, no matter what you did; every class attended, every step taken, every word spoken, every alien-abomination killed- led you back to steve harrington.
steve knew why, of course. you were soulmates. but you hated him. so what was he supposed to do about it? you never talked to him; not when you brushed shoulders hiding from demodogs on an abandoned bus, not when you helped haul him out of the starcourt mall movie theater, his intoxicated head bouncing against the crook of your neck.
he thought about that every time he saw you.
and robin buckley knew all about it. when steve finally caved and told her everything, it was clear to her. she knew, without a doubt, that the two of you were just idiots. and no matter how corny it was, you were definitely soulmates. for better, or for worse.
actually, she knew it before he ever told her. all anyone had to do was watch the two of you.
each time you came to scoops ahoy that summer, steve scooped you a serving of black raspberry chip in a plastic bowl, without you having to order. (he'd seen you ask for it once when robin was working the counter, and had prepared it for you every time since). you were polite each time, saying thank you, you didn't have to do that. and steve would say, oh, no problem. you would turn to whichever kid you were babysitting that day and say, it's my favorite. and each time, steve would smile. but he would turn away and pretend to be scrubbing the sink- which made you think you had pavloved him into giving you your favorite ice cream each time he saw you, that you were holding him hostage somehow, because he pitied you.
this was not the case.
on the occasions in which upside-down business relegated you to riding in steve's car, you always sat in the back, passenger's side, where he could see you in the mirror. steve prefered to drive with the windows down. but his eyes would flick to the mirror, to where you sat in the back. when your hair swallowed your head, the summer breeze blowing it into your eyes and mouth, you never complained. but steve always watched. he rolled the windows up whenever the wind was too strong, without a word.
there was more. when you climbed the rope out of the upside-down into eddie's trailer, he lingered below, hands outstretched incase you fell. when you accidentally snagged your finger on a splinter at the creel house, he set down band-aids and neosporin on the coffee table, and waited around the corner incase you asked for help.
he recognized your favorite shirts. he never touched you without asking, even on accident, even to help. he never made a joke without looking to see if you were laughing. he listened to every word you spoke; to him, to the others, to yourself, but he never pried. he never sat close to nancy when you were in the same room, or robin, even- on the off chance you thought there was something there. he knew your favorite songs, and would search for them on the radio without saying anything. and when you were in danger, he always got you behind him; even if you didn't notice.
"grow the fuck up, steve, just TALK to her."
steve blinked, robin's open-mouthed expression the picture of exhaustion. he swallowed.
"yeah, whatever. okay? i'm not scared."
"don't be dense."
"i'm not dense."
"just tell her you like her," robin huffed.
they were folding clothes at the school, putting them in boxes to donate. vecna had torn a hole in the sky, crimson kindling behind the pewter clouds outside. a storm was coming. things might never get back to normal.
there might never be another moment quiet enough to tell you the truth.
steve nodded. "yeah," he muttered, not unkind. "i guess you're right."
robin threw a bra at him.
. . .
what kind of creep would follow you home in the middle of the apocalypse?
you balled your fists at your sides, charging ahead. the wheeler's house was only a block away, and with no car, you had to go on foot to pick up the remainder of their donations. you were out of breath, sweat beading on the back of your neck, happy and angry to be alone all at the same time. the sky looked like it was bleeding, and everything was changing. so much had already changed, but nothing that you wanted to.
you were aware of the guy's presence behind you, his body a wall of heat, his shadow casting a long grey ghost on the pavement in front of you. his hair flopped over his eyes like some sort of catalogue model, the imprints of his sleeves shown rolled up to his elbows. what a dick.
he'd been following you for about thirty seconds. you were the only person sent to the wheeler's to gather donations, and if this stranger had tagged along for that purpose, he would have told you by now.
you sped up. he sped up. you started running. he reached out his hand, as if to grab the back of your jeans.
you hauled around a wound up a smack that would tattoo your palm-print on his cheek forever.
steve seized your arm.
"what the hell?"
you sucked in a breath. "steve?"
"jesus christ," he panted, glancing between your eyes and your wrist inside his fingers. "you could have killed me."
"oh my god," you breathed out. he released you instantly, and you put your hands on your knees, bending. "oh my god."
"are you okay?"
"shut up! just shut up!"
"okay," he nodded. "okay. just-" he rubbed a hand down his face. "jesus, fuck," he murmured.
"i'm sorry," you stood. lunged closer, lungs deflated like old balloons. "steve. oh my god. i'm sorry."
"no!" he scoffed. "don't be sorry. it's my fault. fuck. i don't know why i didn't say anything, i should have said something."
"i thought you were following me!"
"i was," he nodded. swallowed, like there was a rock in his mouth.
you panted. "oh."
"well, yeah, i-" he squinted. for the briefest, briefest moment, his pupils flicked from your eyes to your lips, swollen in the sun. "fuck."
it was enough. that, right there, that was enough. you suddenly understood.
you saw that stupid brunette boy squinting on the playground, his lips chapped from the cold, his cheeks red as irons. you saw him with blood on his knuckles, staggering away from the friend he had just mauled. you saw his hand outstretched; handing you ice cream, opening the car door, lingering around your wrist.
he hadn't been making fun of you all those years. he liked you.
idiot.
everything bubbled to the surface; you had so much to say but so little at the same time. you were so embarassed, still embarassed, after all this time, after everything.
stop it, you thought. get over it. do something.
so you made a choice.
"kiss me."
his eyes nearly popped out of his head. "sorry?"
you couldn't even repeat it. nerves shot through you like lightning, seizing your heart, making your hands shake.
"if you want to, i mean. obviously. i thought- only if you want to-"
"i want to," he breathed.
"you do?"
"are you kidding me? are you joking?"
you grimaced. "no."
"y/n," steve softened. like a lament, like it was the first time he'd ever said your name. his brows knit together.
he didn't finish his thought. he just did what you asked.
when he kissed you, the two of you locked into place; slotted together like twin shards of broken glass, reunited. his mouth was surprisingly cool despite the blazing heat around you, like his nervousness was palpable, cold to the touch. his hands shook, grazing over your shoulders, your waist, the back of your neck, unsure of where to touch first, like he wouldn't have the chance to touch you anywhere ever again. he landed with one hand on the back of your neck, your hair spilling between his fingers, and the other around your waist, holding you close.
you ducked away for a breath and thought he might cry.
"i have to ask you," you panted.
"yeah, anything," steve breathed.
"at the halloween party, when you hit that guy. you liked me."
"what? of course. always. i always have. i should have said so. i'm so stupid."
"no, you're not. don't say that."
his hands shifted, palms on either side of your face.
"but you weren't making fun of me," you said, even though it was stupid. his pupils were darting across every point of your face- your nose, your cheeks, your chin. "and he wasn't making fun of me. not until the end, at least."
steve's face crumpled. "you're killing me, y/n."
"he meant it?" you grinned. "you did like me? the whole time?"
"for a decade, killer." he grimaced. "stop looking at me like that."
"like what?"
"like that's a good thing. i should've killed him for talking to you like that."
"no," you laughed, because he obviously didn't mean it.
"yeah, i should have. yes."
maybe he did mean it.
you kissed him this time, and you felt him shudder; his fingers twitching across your face. when you pulled back, he ran his fingers over your closed eyes, grazing your eyelashes.
"i'm sorry," he whispered.
"me too," you said softly. "i should have said something."
"no," he shook his head. "no. that's on me."
the two of you sat there for a moment longer. the sky had darkened overhead, the crimson behind the clouds now a shade the color of wine, dark and murky. heat lightning flashed like sirens. hawkins was imploding.
"this town is ridiculous," you muttered.
"i know," steve huffed. like he'd been waiting years to say it. "it's hot as hell. where are you going?"
"the wheeler's, for donations."
"i'll walk you. if you want. next to you, though, not behind you like a creep."
you tried not to grin. "oh, will you?"
steve shook his head, casting you an incredulous look as he fell in line beside you on the sidewalk. "nothing you say could embarrass me, at this point. absolutely nothing."
"why not?"
because i was right, he wanted to say. because i've known we were soulmates since the fourth grade.
actually, it was still extremely embarrassing, so he kept the thought to himself- despite the enormous amount of relief and euphoria it brought him. you'd missed prom, but marriage and a mortgage didn't seem so far off, as long as the world didn't end.
steve just shook his head instead. "nothing. hey, are you following me?"
"shut up!"
. . .
i haven't written in so long i hope this is similar to what you asked for!!! i wanted to write more than just a drabble so i expanded on it i hope that's okay. much love. mwah
were you planning on doing any shy reader x aemond now bc you are the owner of shy reader. if not this is me putting in a (humble) request
this is so KIND my aemond longfic will be shy reader in a certain way actually also i will write more shy reader/aemond in the future because it's my fav so i humbly accept
HI i saw that you're writing for HOTD now are you planning on writing any longer fics for that show and for aemond in particular? No pressure ofc but I would scream
i am so glad you asked this because yes mwhahahahaha. if u want a tag on it let me know and i'll make a list on the first part
turnnoffyourmind
dailybridgerton
blakekathryn
dededos
prguitarman
