R O M I

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

[miffyreader]

hello !! ⊹. ꒰⑅ᐢ ᵕ ᵕ ᐢ⑅꒱ ˚. ⊹

☆☆ WHO AM I? ☆☆... my name's romi !!

I'm 9teen. Latina. ISFP-T. Pronouns are she/they. ♡♡

-> this blog is mostly just a place for me to find fics that I love <3

-> using my likes as a tbr list and rebloging the ones I love :))

[satellite-evans]

danger calls

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: Superman keeps finding the woman he loves in the middle of disasters because you refuse to run from danger.

Word count: 7k+

Warnings: fluff, mention of injuries, buildings collapsing, rushed ending

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The first thing Clark noticed in every room he walked into was you.

Always you.

Not the headline Perry White was shouting about across the newsroom. Not the stack of reports waiting on his desk that he was definitely supposed to finish before noon. Not even the distant tremor that rippled faintly through the pavement outside the Daily Planet building, the kind of vibration that most people would never feel but that Clark immediately recognized as the early sign of something going very wrong somewhere in the city.

No.

The first thing he noticed was you.

You sat two desks away in the bullpen, half curled into your chair like you had been there for hours. One leg was tucked underneath you, the other lazily hooked around the chair leg, your posture completely indifferent to the concept of ergonomics.

Your pen rested between your teeth as you read through your notes, chewing on the plastic cap with quiet concentration. Papers were spread around you in the organized chaos that only made sense to you, highlighters scattered like colorful landmines across your desk.

Clark had walked into the newsroom a dozen times already.

And every single time, his eyes had found you first.

It was automatic now. Instinctive. Like breathing.

He loved everything about you.

Everything.

Clark loved the way you ate lunch like it was a small ceremony that had to be done correctly. The way you carefully unwrapped your burger before even touching the fries. The way you separated everything on the tray with almost surgical precision, as if the fries and the burger would start a territorial dispute if they came too close to each other.

The first time he had pointed it out, you had looked genuinely offended.

"They get soggy if you mix them."

Clark had nodded very seriously, like this was an entirely reasonable explanation, even though the logic behind it still baffled him.

He loved the way you walked.

You moved through the newsroom like you were always slightly ahead of the world, like your brain had already decided where you were going five minutes before your body caught up. It meant you walked just a little too fast for everyone else, weaving around desks and chairs with effortless momentum while other reporters scrambled to keep up with you.

Clark often slowed his pace just to watch you move ahead of him.

You talked with your hands constantly.

When you were passionate about something, your whole body seemed to join the conversation. Your fingers sliced through the air as you argued your points, your eyebrows lifting, your head tilting, your shoulders leaning forward as if the sheer force of your enthusiasm might push your argument into someone else's brain.

Clark had once watched you passionately explain to Jimmy why Gotham pizza was objectively inferior to Metropolis pizza for nearly ten minutes.

Jimmy had tried to argue back.

He had failed spectacularly.

Clark had sat nearby pretending to work while quietly enjoying every second of it.

He loved the tiny crease that appeared between your brows when you concentrated.

A faint line formed as you reread a paragraph in your notebook. Your pen tapped lightly against your lip while you thought.

Clark knew that crease better than he knew most people.

It appeared when you were writing something important.

Or when you were annoyed.

Or when someone said something particularly stupid in a meeting.

He loved the way you hummed under your breath when you wrote.

You never seemed to realize you were doing it. The sound was barely audible, a quiet melody that slipped out of you when your thoughts were moving faster than your hands could keep up with.

Clark could hear it from across the room.

He could hear your heartbeat too, steady and familiar among the hundreds of other heartbeats in the building.

If he listened closely enough, he could map your entire presence in the room without ever looking.

But he always looked anyway.

Because he loved the way you existed.

It was such a strange thought, he knew.

But it was true.

Clark loved the small things about you that no one else seemed to notice.

The way your nose wrinkled slightly when you laughed too hard.

The way you absentmindedly twirled the end of your pen when you were thinking.

The way you always stole the last donut from the break room but somehow convinced everyone it had been Jimmy.

You filled every space you stepped into with something warm and bright and stubbornly alive.

If Clark had been completely honest with himself, there was not a single thing about you that he would have changed.

Not one.

Except for one thing.

Your stubbornness.

Clark Kent was the strongest man on Earth.

That was not arrogance. It was simply fact.

He could lift buildings. He could stop speeding trains with his bare hands. He could hear disasters unfolding from miles away and cross the city in seconds to stop them.

But somehow, impossibly, you were still the most immovable force he had ever encountered.

Your stubbornness was legendary.

When you decided something needed to be done, it was done.

Logic, caution, and sometimes even basic self preservation had very little influence over your decision making process.

Especially when someone was in danger.

Clark had asked you to stay out of trouble more times than he could count.

You had never once listened.

And the frustrating part was that he understood exactly why.

Your heart was bigger than your sense of fear.

It meant that if there was a child trapped somewhere, you would be there trying to help before anyone else even thought to move.

If someone needed pulling out of rubble, you were already climbing into the wreckage.

If danger existed, you ran straight toward it.

Clark had saved the world more times than most people could imagine.

But you were the only person he knew who would argue with him about how to do it.

Which was exactly why he had been standing on the edge of the Daily Planet rooftop with his jaw clenched so tightly it was beginning to ache.

From above, the city looked like a wound.

Three blocks of downtown Metropolis had been carved open by the rampage of something large, angry, and very much not from Earth. Asphalt had been ripped apart like paper. Several cars had been overturned and tossed aside as if they had weighed nothing. A storefront window down the street still crackled faintly with leftover heat vision burns from when Clark had forced the creature away from a group of trapped pedestrians.

Smoke curled upward into the sky in lazy gray spirals.

Sirens screamed from every direction.

Police cruisers were arriving. Fire trucks were pushing through traffic. Ambulances lined the street like a chain of flashing red lights.

Clark had stopped the alien creature less than two minutes ago.

It had taken him roughly twelve seconds.

It had taken the city much longer to recover.

He stood there for a moment, scanning the area with the quiet focus that had become second nature. He listened for heartbeats. For panicked breathing. For the subtle sounds of shifting rubble that might indicate someone trapped underneath.

Everything was controlled now.

First responders were moving through the wreckage.

People were being evacuated.

No immediate threats remained.

Clark should have felt relief.

Instead he felt something else.

Because right in the middle of all the chaos, over the wail of sirens and the crackle of radios and the distant hum of emergency vehicles, Clark heard a voice that made his stomach drop.

"Oh my god, hold still, sweetie. It's okay. It's okay, I promise."

Clark closed his eyes.

He did not even need to look.

Of course.

Of course you were there.

He would have bet his entire savings account on it.

Two seconds later Superman landed in the street with a gust of wind strong enough to scatter loose papers across the pavement. The impact sent a small shockwave rippling outward that rattled broken glass along the sidewalk.

Several people gasped.

Someone shouted his name.

Clark barely noticed.

The creature was already gone. He had dealt with it moments earlier, launching it high enough into the atmosphere that it would not be returning any time soon.

What remained was the aftermath.

Overturned vehicles.

Cracked asphalt that split through the street like lightning.

Shattered windows.

And civilians scattered across the scene, some injured, others helping pull people free from the wreckage while first responders rushed to stabilize the area.

Clark's eyes moved across the scene quickly.

Paramedics treating a man with a broken arm.

Two firefighters cutting through a bent street sign to free someone pinned beneath it.

A group of police officers directing traffic away from the destruction.

And then he saw you.

Of course he did.

You were crouched beside a crushed sedan near the curb.

The car had clearly taken the brunt of the creature's rampage. The entire front half of the vehicle had been compressed inward, the hood folded like crushed foil, the windshield spiderwebbed with cracks. The frame had bent dangerously toward the passenger side, creating a pocket of space that was currently the only thing keeping the vehicle from collapsing entirely.

Inside the car, a child was crying.

And you, apparently, had decided that the correct response to this situation was to climb halfway inside it.

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You have got to be kidding me," he muttered under his breath.

Your knees were on the pavement, your upper body leaning through the broken window as you tried to reach the child inside.

"It's okay," you were saying gently. "I'm right here. You're doing great. Just hold still."

The car creaked faintly.

Clark could hear the stress fractures in the metal frame shifting under the pressure of the weight.

One wrong movement and the entire thing would collapse.

And you were inside it.

Clark felt a headache forming.

You did not notice him until his shadow fell over you.

You looked up.

Your hair was half falling out of the clip you had thrown it into that morning. Dust smudged across your cheek and the shoulder of your jacket. There was a small cut on your knuckle that was already beginning to dry.

You blinked at him like this was a completely normal interaction.

"Oh," you said casually. "Hey."

Clark stared at you.

There were dozens of civilians around them now.

Phones were out.

Several people were filming.

A police officer was standing nearby with the slightly stunned expression of someone witnessing a very strange interaction.

Clark took a slow breath.

His voice, when he spoke, was calm.

Public calm.

The kind of calm Superman used when he was very deliberately not allowing himself to sound like he was about five seconds away from losing his patience.

"Ma'am," he said evenly, "that vehicle is structurally unstable. That could have been extremely dangerous."

You blinked up at him.

Then you glanced back inside the car.

"Yeah," you said, like this was a minor inconvenience, "well, the kid's leg is stuck."

Clark exhaled slowly through his nose.

"You should step back."

You squinted at him slightly.

"You could help."

Clark nodded.

"I am helping."

You gestured vaguely at the situation.

"You are standing."

Clark's eye twitched.

Behind him, one of the firefighters made a very suspicious coughing noise that sounded an awful lot like someone trying not to laugh.

Clark ignored him.

He crouched down beside you and placed one hand carefully against the twisted metal frame of the car.

The entire vehicle weighed less to him than a grocery bag.

He lifted it slowly, deliberately, making sure not to shift the frame too quickly.

The car rose several inches off the pavement like it was made of cardboard.

You immediately leaned farther inside.

"Okay buddy," you said gently to the child. "We're gonna slide you out, alright? You're doing amazing."

The kid sniffled but nodded.

Clark held the entire vehicle suspended with one arm while you carefully freed the child's trapped leg and helped him crawl out through the broken window.

The moment the child was clear, Clark gently lowered the crushed metal back onto the pavement.

Paramedics rushed over immediately, taking the child into their care.

The kid, however, did not want to let go of your hand.

You smiled softly and squeezed his fingers reassuringly before the paramedics gently guided him toward the ambulance.

Clark watched the whole exchange.

And despite himself, some of the tension in his chest loosened.

You were always like this.

You walked straight into danger without hesitation if someone needed help.

It was one of the things he loved most about you.

It was also the thing that terrified him the most.

You stood up and brushed dust from your clothes like this had been a completely normal part of your day.

Clark folded his arms.

"Ma'am," he said again, slightly tighter this time, "next time you should leave situations like this to trained professionals."

Your eyes narrowed immediately.

"Excuse me?"

"You could have been seriously injured."

You shrugged.

"I was careful."

Clark stared at you.

"You were inside a collapsing car."

"I had it handled."

Clark felt his jaw tighten.

A small crowd had started to gather nearby.

Several people were watching the conversation with open curiosity.

Someone whispered, "Is this happening right now?"

Clark forced the polite Superman voice again.

"It is my responsibility to keep civilians safe."

You folded your arms.

"And it is my responsibility not to ignore a kid trapped in a car."

Clark leaned slightly closer.

His voice lowered, just enough that the people filming might not catch the exact tone behind it.

"You are not invincible."

You looked him dead in the eye.

"You are."

There was a long pause.

Someone in the background whispered loudly, "Is she arguing with Superman?"

Another voice said, "I think she's winning."

Clark inhaled slowly.

Very slowly.

"Please," he said tightly, "step away from dangerous areas in the future."

You gave him a look.

Clark knew that look better than he knew his own reflection.

The look meant absolutely not.

The look meant you had already decided he was wrong.

Then, without another word, you grabbed your bag off the pavement and walked toward the ambulance area like the conversation had concluded exactly the way you wanted it to.

Clark watched you go.

Several firefighters were now openly grinning.

One of them muttered, "Good luck with that, Superman."

Clark groaned internally.

This was not over.

Not even remotely close.

Three hours later, Clark opened the apartment door.

He already knew what he would find before he stepped inside.

Your heartbeat had been in the apartment for the last forty-seven minutes.

He had heard it the entire flight home.

Still, when the door swung open and he stepped into the quiet warmth of the apartment, the sight in front of him somehow still managed to make his eye twitch.

You were already inside.

Of course you were.

You sat at the kitchen counter like the events of the afternoon had been nothing more than a mildly interesting inconvenience.

Your legs swung lazily from the stool while you ate cereal straight from the box, one hand buried inside it while the other held your phone. A half-full glass of milk sat beside you, completely ignored, because apparently pouring cereal into a bowl had been too much effort for the evening.

Clark slowly closed the door behind him.

Very slowly.

The soft click echoed through the apartment.

"Hi," you said casually, not even looking up from the cereal box.

Clark just stood there.

For a moment he didn't move at all.

His glasses were slightly crooked from how fast he had flown back across the city before changing into his civilian clothes. His hair was still wind-tossed, refusing to settle properly no matter how many times he had tried to smooth it down before coming upstairs. His tie hung loosely around his neck, half undone, the knot sitting somewhere near the middle of his chest like it had simply given up.

He looked like a man who had stopped an alien monster, saved a dozen civilians, and then flown home in record time to lecture someone.

You finally glanced up at him.

It took exactly half a second for you to read his face.

Your shoulders sagged slightly.

"Oh boy."

Clark walked forward slowly.

He dropped his keys onto the counter with a quiet clink.

Then he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

Dust still clung faintly to the sleeve of your jacket. There was a faint bruise beginning to form on your forearm that definitely had not been there that morning. The small cut on your knuckle had dried into a thin red line.

Clark felt his jaw tighten.

"Do you have any idea," he began slowly, carefully, like he was trying very hard to keep his voice from rising, "how dangerous that was?"

You reached into the cereal box again.

You pulled out another handful of cereal.

Then you popped it into your mouth and chewed thoughtfully before answering.

"I mean," you said after swallowing, "technically you got there before the car collapsed."

Clark stared at you.

The silence stretched.

"That," Clark said slowly, "is not the point."

You shrugged like the concept itself was debatable.

"The kid is fine."

Clark dragged a hand down his face.

"You could have been crushed."

You tilted your head slightly.

"But I wasn't."

"You could have been."

"But I wasn't."

Clark pointed at you.

"This," he said, gesturing emphatically, "this right here is exactly the problem."

You grinned slightly.

Clark groaned and began pacing the kitchen like a man attempting to burn off frustration through sheer movement.

"I swear," he muttered, running a hand through his hair again, "you are like a magnet for danger."

You leaned back on the stool.

"I work in journalism."

Clark spun around.

"You climbed inside a collapsing car."

"There was a kid."

"There are always kids!" Clark said helplessly, throwing his hands in the air.

You softened slightly at that.

Your fingers stopped digging through the cereal box.

Your voice, when you spoke again, was quieter.

"I couldn't just leave him."

Clark stopped pacing.

The words settled between you.

That was the thing.

That was always the thing.

Your heart.

It had always been the problem.

Not because it was wrong.

Because it was too big.

You would never walk away from someone who needed help. It wasn't in you.

Clark sighed slowly and leaned against the counter across from you, folding his arms.

"I know why you do it."

You tilted your head at him.

"But?"

Clark hesitated.

Then he looked at you fully.

"But you scare the crap out of me."

Your expression shifted immediately.

The teasing light in your eyes faded.

Clark looked down at the counter for a moment before continuing.

His voice was quieter now.

More honest.

"I hear everything in this city," he said softly.

He tapped his fingers lightly against the counter.

"Every accident. Every scream. Every collapsing building."

You watched him carefully.

Clark met your eyes again.

"And then I hear you in the middle of it."

Your throat moved slightly as you swallowed.

Clark continued, his voice rougher now.

"You don't run away from danger."

You gave a small, sheepish shrug.

Clark sighed.

"You run toward it."

You looked down at the cereal box in your hands.

Your voice was quiet.

"Someone has to."

Clark pushed himself away from the counter and stepped closer.

Without a word, he gently took the cereal box out of your hands and set it on the counter.

"You don't."

Your eyes flicked back up to his.

"You already save people," Clark said quietly. "Every day."

You frowned slightly.

"With your stories," he continued. "With your voice. You hold people accountable. You expose things that would stay hidden if you didn't write about them."

His expression softened.

"You already make the world better."

You studied his face for a long moment.

Then you muttered quietly, almost stubbornly,

"Still helping."

Clark groaned and dropped his forehead against the counter.

The dull thud echoed through the kitchen.

"You are impossible."

You laughed.

And Clark hated how much he loved that laugh.

It was warm and bright and completely unapologetic.

He lifted his head and looked at you again.

The frustration in his face had softened now into something gentler.

Still exasperated.

Still tired.

Still deeply, hopelessly in love.

"I love everything about you," he said.

You blinked.

Clark sighed.

"Everything."

A small smile tugged at your mouth.

"But?"

Clark pointed at you again.

"The stubbornness."

You grinned.

Clark shook his head slowly.

"I am going to be giving this speech for the rest of eternity, aren't I?"

You slid off the stool and stepped toward him.

Before he could react, you wrapped your arms around his waist and pressed your face against his chest.

Clark melted instantly.

His arms came around you without hesitation, holding you tightly against him.

"You love me," you mumbled into his shirt.

Clark sighed deeply and rested his chin on top of your head.

"Unfortunately."

You laughed again.

Clark pressed a soft kiss into your hair.

Quietly, almost like he was saying it to himself more than to you, he added,

"But I really do wish you'd run away from monsters."

You leaned back just enough to look up at him.

Your eyes were bright.

"No promises."

Clark closed his eyes.

He sighed.

"Of course not."

The accident happened two days later.

Tuesday morning.

Clark had been sitting at his desk at the Daily Planet with the deeply familiar expression of a man attempting to write something he did not care about in the slightest.

His computer screen glowed in front of him, displaying the exact same sentence it had displayed for the last fifteen minutes.

"City council officials discussed the proposed budget allocation for next year's infrastructure improvements..."

Clark stared at it.

He reread it.

He sighed.

Then he deleted it.

He started again.

"During Tuesday's meeting, members of the Metropolis city council..."

Clark stared again.

He sighed again.

Then he deleted that one too.

For the third time.

Three paragraphs.

Three deletions.

At this point he was pretty sure the article was actively resisting being written.

Across the bullpen, your desk sat empty.

Which was already suspicious.

You were supposed to be there. You had texted him earlier that morning saying you were running late, which was not unusual. You had also added something about coffee and traffic and a bagel emergency, which Clark had not fully understood but had accepted as a valid explanation.

Still.

The empty chair bothered him.

Clark leaned back in his seat slightly and rubbed his eyes.

Around him, the newsroom buzzed with the usual chaos.

Phones rang.

Jimmy was laughing too loudly at something on his screen.

Perry was already shouting at someone about deadlines.

Lois was typing with the aggressive speed of someone determined to destroy her keyboard before lunchtime.

Clark tried to focus again.

He placed his hands back on the keyboard.

He typed another sentence.

Then his hearing caught something.

Metal screeching.

Clark's head lifted slightly.

The sound came from somewhere downtown.

Brakes screaming.

A truck horn blaring far too long.

Clark went still.

Three blocks away.

His hearing sharpened automatically.

The sounds rushed in clearer.

A delivery truck engine roaring out of control.

The driver shouting something panicked.

Pedestrians yelling.

Running footsteps.

Then the violent, unmistakable crunch of metal as the truck slammed sideways into something.

Glass shattered.

Car alarms started screaming.

Clark was already halfway out of his chair when he heard it.

Your voice.

Clear as day.

"Hey! Hey, can you hear me?"

Clark froze.

He had literally talked about this.

Two days ago.

Two.

Days.

Clark inhaled slowly.

Then he stood up.

Across the room, Lois glanced up.

"You okay, Smallville?"

Clark adjusted his glasses with forced calm.

"Just remembered something I forgot to file," he said.

Lois squinted at him.

"You forgot something you were filing?"

Clark nodded.

"Very important paperwork."

Lois narrowed her eyes further.

Clark smiled awkwardly.

Then he walked quickly toward the stairwell.

The moment the door closed behind him, Clark vanished.

Three seconds later Superman landed in the middle of the intersection.

The impact cracked the pavement beneath his boots and sent a gust of wind rushing down the street.

People gasped.

Several phones immediately lifted into the air.

The truck had ended up halfway on the sidewalk.

Its front bumper had wrapped itself around a streetlight like an unfortunate metal hug. The hood was crushed inward, steam rising from the engine.

A parked car had taken the worst of the hit and now looked like it had been folded in half.

A small crowd had gathered at a cautious distance.

And right beside the passenger door of the truck, someone was kneeling on the pavement.

Clark didn't even need to look closely.

You were halfway inside the truck through the open passenger door.

One knee on the seat.

One foot still on the sidewalk.

You were trying to help the driver, who looked dazed and extremely confused, unbuckle his seatbelt.

"Okay, okay," you were saying gently. "You're good. Just stay with me. I'm gonna get this off you."

The driver blinked at you.

"I think I hit a mailbox," he said weakly.

"You hit a streetlight."

"Oh."

Clark landed beside the truck with a heavy thud.

The ground shook slightly.

Several people cheered.

Someone shouted, "Superman!"

You glanced over your shoulder.

"Oh," you said casually.

Clark stared at you.

"Oh. Hey again."

Clark continued staring.

"You," he said slowly, "were supposed to be at work."

You gestured vaguely at the wrecked truck.

"I took a quick field trip."

Clark rubbed his face.

Inside the truck, the driver looked between the two of you.

Then he squinted.

"Wait," the driver said slowly. "You guys know each other?"

You froze.

Clark froze.

The driver pointed vaguely between the two of you.

"Because this feels like a very specific kind of arguing."

You smiled nervously.

Clark cleared his throat.

"We have crossed paths," Clark said stiffly.

The driver nodded thoughtfully.

"Ah."

You finished unbuckling the seatbelt and helped the driver shift carefully toward the door.

Clark reached out and effortlessly lifted the entire front end of the truck upright so the frame stopped leaning dangerously against the streetlight.

The driver stared.

"Oh."

Then he looked at you again.

"You call him often?"

You shook your head quickly.

"No."

Clark sighed.

The driver looked between you both again.

"So you just happen to show up whenever she gets into trouble?"

Clark pointed at you.

"Exactly."

You crossed your arms.

"I was helping."

Clark gestured broadly at the wreckage.

"You were climbing into a crashed truck."

"He was stuck!"

Clark stared at you.

The driver slowly climbed out of the truck and leaned against the door.

Then he nodded thoughtfully.

"I feel like this argument has happened before."

Clark and you both spoke at the same time.

"Yes."

The driver nodded again.

"Yeah. I thought so."

The third time happened a week later.

Clark had almost started to believe you might actually try to be careful.

Almost.

It was early evening, the sky over Metropolis washed in deep oranges and fading gold as the sun dipped behind the skyline. Clark had been two neighborhoods away, high above the city, listening in the way he often did when he wasn’t actively responding to something.

The city had its own rhythm.

Millions of heartbeats. Conversations spilling out of apartment windows. The distant rumble of traffic. Music drifting from rooftop bars. The quiet hum of a thousand ordinary lives unfolding at once.

Clark could separate those sounds the way someone might sort through radio stations.

Most of the time, everything blended into background noise.

But sometimes something cut through it.

That evening, it had been the fire alarms.

A piercing mechanical wail echoed through several blocks, loud enough that Clark’s attention snapped toward it immediately.

Then came the crackling.

Fire had a very distinct sound when it started to spread. It snapped and hissed as it fed on wood, drywall, furniture, anything it could reach. Clark heard the flames licking through the walls of a small apartment building, the structure groaning faintly under the sudden heat.

People were shouting.

Doors were slamming open.

Someone screamed down a hallway, telling everyone to get out.

Clark moved before the thought even finished forming.

In less than a second he was airborne, cape snapping behind him as he cut through the evening air.

From above, he spotted the building almost immediately.

It was small, three stories at most, tucked between two older brick structures on a quiet street. Smoke poured from the upper floor windows in thick black waves, curling into the sky like dark storm clouds.

Flames flickered behind the glass of several apartments.

Residents were spilling out onto the sidewalk below in clusters, some barefoot, some clutching phones or pets or hastily grabbed bags.

Fire trucks had already been dispatched.

Clark could hear their sirens approaching from several blocks away.

Then he heard something else.

Your voice.

Clark’s stomach dropped.

Through the chaos of shouting neighbors, crackling flames, and blaring alarms, your voice carried clearly through the second floor hallway.

“There’s still someone upstairs!”

Clark actually faltered midair.

Of course.

Of course you were inside.

He didn’t even know how you kept managing this.

Clark pushed forward faster, blasting through the smoke-filled air toward the second floor.

The window shattered inward as he entered.

Glass scattered across the apartment floor, blown aside by the force of his arrival.

Smoke filled the hallway so thick it hung like a gray curtain, turning the entire floor into a hazy maze of flickering orange light and shifting shadows.

Clark’s vision cut through it easily.

He saw you immediately.

You stood halfway down the hallway, your arm wrapped firmly around the shoulders of an elderly woman who looked both terrified and dangerously unsteady on her feet.

The woman’s gray hair had partially fallen loose from its bun. Her slippers dragged against the carpet as she struggled to keep up, one hand clutching your sleeve tightly.

“Almost there,” you were telling her gently, your voice hoarse from the smoke. “Just a little farther.”

Flames licked along the ceiling at the far end of the hallway, spreading fast.

Clark landed directly in front of you.

The floorboards rattled under the impact.

You looked up.

Your entire face changed the moment you saw him.

Relief washed over you instantly, your shoulders sagging slightly like the weight of the situation had finally lifted.

“Oh good,” you said breathlessly. “You’re here.”

Clark stared at you.

For a moment he didn’t even speak.

You were covered in soot. Smoke had darkened the edges of your sleeves and streaked across your cheek. Your hair had completely escaped whatever attempt you had made to tie it back that morning.

Your eyes were watering from the smoke.

And you were standing inside a burning building.

Again.

Clark finally managed to say the only thing that came to mind.

“Why are you here.”

You coughed slightly, waving a hand through the smoke.

“I was interviewing someone in the building.”

Clark stared at you.

“You were interviewing someone.”

You nodded weakly.

“It was about a rent dispute.”

Clark blinked.

A piece of flaming ceiling panel crashed down somewhere behind you.

The fire was spreading faster.

Clark didn’t argue.

He simply stepped forward, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other scooped the elderly woman up with careful ease.

Both of you gasped slightly as the floor vanished beneath your feet.

In the next second Clark launched through the same window he had entered.

The cool night air rushed over you as you burst out of the smoke cloud and into the open sky.

Several people on the street below gasped and pointed.

Clark landed gently on the pavement beside the growing cluster of fire trucks.

Paramedics rushed forward immediately, taking the elderly woman from Clark’s arms and guiding her toward an ambulance for oxygen.

You stumbled slightly when Clark set you down.

A paramedic immediately approached you with concern.

“Ma’am, were you inside the building?”

You waved him off quickly.

“I’m totally fine.”

The paramedic looked skeptical.

“You were inside a structure fire.”

“I’m totally fine,” you repeated.

He tried to check your arm.

You pulled it back.

“Seriously. I’m fine.”

Across the street, Clark stood with his arms folded.

His cape shifted slightly in the evening breeze.

His expression was not pleased.

You could feel it without even looking.

So you didn’t look.

You focused very intensely on the paramedic checking your oxygen levels.

Clark watched the entire exchange from across the street.

Your heartbeat was still slightly elevated.

Your lungs were irritated from smoke inhalation.

Your hands were shaking faintly.

And you were insisting to a trained medical professional that you were completely fine.

Clark dragged a hand down his face.

You still refused to look at him.

One of the firefighters walked past Clark and glanced toward you.

Then he looked at Superman.

Then back at you.

Then back at Superman again.

“…you know her?” the firefighter asked.

Clark sighed.

"Unfortunately."

Clark had been standing in Perry White’s office when it started.

Perry was pacing behind his desk in the way he did when he was delivering one of his famous lectures about journalistic integrity, deadlines, and the apparent inability of reporters to turn in stories before the universe ended.

Clark stood near the desk with a notebook in hand, glasses sitting neatly on his nose, nodding every few seconds like he was listening very carefully.

“Deadlines are not suggestions, Kent,” Perry was saying, stabbing a finger toward a stack of paperwork on his desk. “When I say noon, I mean noon. Not noon-ish. Not sometime before dinner. Noon.”

Clark nodded again.

“Yes, sir.”

In reality, Clark had not heard the last three sentences.

Because four miles away, something had exploded.

The sound reached him first.

A deep, violent boom that rattled windows across several blocks. The kind of sound Clark recognized immediately as a gas explosion.

Then came the secondary sounds.

Concrete cracking.

Metal twisting.

The awful groaning noise of a building losing its structural integrity.

And beneath all of that, chaos.

People screaming.

Car alarms blaring.

Sirens already starting in the distance.

Clark’s focus sharpened instantly.

He could hear the building collapsing inward, sections of flooring giving way one after another in a domino effect.

Dust and debris poured into the air.

And somewhere inside that collapsing structure was a heartbeat he would recognize anywhere.

Yours.

Clark went perfectly still.

Your heartbeat was faster than normal.

Uneven.

Adrenaline.

You were moving through the rubble.

Talking to someone.

Clark didn’t even hear Perry finish his sentence.

He simply turned and walked out of the office.

“Clark?” Perry called after him.

Clark didn’t answer.

He moved through the bullpen quickly, pushing open the stairwell door and disappearing down the stairs before anyone could question him.

Thirty seconds later Superman dropped out of the sky.

The building had partially caved in.

It was an older commercial structure, three stories tall, the kind of place that housed small offices and construction storage spaces. The explosion had blown out most of the first floor walls and caused the front section of the building to collapse inward like a broken jaw.

Dust filled the air so thick it turned the entire street gray.

Chunks of concrete littered the ground.

Twisted metal beams stuck out of the rubble like exposed bones.

People stood behind police tape, shouting names, crying, pointing toward the wreckage.

Construction workers in hard hats were trying to pull debris aside with their bare hands while they waited for emergency crews.

Clark landed hard in the middle of it all.

The ground shook beneath his boots.

A fresh cloud of dust rolled outward from the impact.

He scanned the wreckage immediately.

Heartbeats.

He counted them automatically.

Several injured.

One unconscious.

Two trapped beneath debris.

And one very familiar heartbeat moving somewhere near the center of the collapsed structure.

Clark pushed through the rubble in three strides.

And then he saw you.

Right in the middle of it.

Of course.

You were kneeling beside a construction worker who had clearly been caught in the collapse. One of the steel support beams had fallen across his leg, pinning him beneath it.

The man was pale, breathing hard, one hand gripping your sleeve while you tried to keep him calm.

“Okay, okay,” you were saying gently. “Stay with me. Someone’s coming.”

Your voice sounded strained.

Clark’s eyes dropped immediately to your arm.

Blood.

Not a lot, but enough to make his stomach tighten.

Your sleeve had been torn open at the shoulder, and a long scrape ran down your arm, already darkening with dried dust and blood.

Your hair was coated in gray debris.

Your cheek had a faint bruise forming along the bone.

Clark felt something sharp twist in his chest.

Then he landed beside you.

The impact rattled the loose debris around you.

Your head snapped up.

For half a second your face lit up with pure relief.

Then your expression shifted.

“Oh.”

Clark stared at you.

You winced slightly.

“Hi.”

Clark didn’t say anything at first.

His eyes flicked briefly over your injuries again.

The scrape.

The bruise.

The way your left hand was shaking slightly from the adrenaline.

Clark forced his face back into the calm, neutral expression Superman always wore.

He crouched beside the trapped construction worker and placed one hand under the steel beam.

The metal groaned faintly as Clark lifted it like it weighed nothing.

“Careful,” Clark said, his voice steady and controlled.

You immediately moved.

Despite the fact that your arm was clearly hurting, you shifted forward and carefully helped the construction worker drag his leg free from beneath the beam.

The man cried out in pain but managed to pull himself out as Clark held the beam suspended.

The moment the man was clear, Clark set the steel down gently.

Paramedics rushed forward almost immediately, lifting the injured worker onto a stretcher.

You stayed crouched for a second longer, catching your breath.

Then you slowly stood.

Clark straightened too.

Dust swirled around him, cape shifting in the wind.

He crossed his arms.

And for a moment he simply looked at you.

From an outsider’s perspective, Superman looked calm.

Composed.

Authoritative.

From your perspective, he looked like someone preparing to give a lecture.

You slowly took a step backward.

Clark pointed at you.

“You.”

You froze.

Clark inhaled slowly.

Very slowly.

“How,” he began.

He paused.

Then tried again.

“How do you keep doing this.”

You raised both hands slightly in surrender.

“In my defense,” you said carefully, “this one exploded around me.”

Clark closed his eyes for a brief moment.

Then he pointed again.

“I told you to stay away from dangerous situations.”

“I wasn’t looking for it!”

“You were inside a collapsing building!”

You gestured around the wreckage.

“You were inside a collapsing building too!”

Clark opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“That,” he said finally, gesturing toward himself, “is different.”

You tilted your head.

“How.”

Clark gestured at the giant red S on his chest.

“I’m Superman.”

You shrugged.

“You showed up.”

Clark stared at you like you had just explained gravity incorrectly.

“You cannot rely on me showing up.”

“You always do.”

Clark went very still.

The words hung between you.

Your voice softened slightly as you stepped a little closer.

“I know you hear everything.”

Clark looked down at you.

Your eyes were tired now, but steady.

“And I know,” you continued gently, “that if someone needs help… you will come.”

Clark sighed quietly.

You reached up and brushed some dust off his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world to casually tidy Superman after a disaster.

“You worry too much,” you said softly.

Clark looked at you.

Then he said very quietly,

“You don’t worry enough.”

You smiled.

Clark groaned.

Because he already knew.

This argument was not ending here.

It would happen again.

And again.

And again.

For the rest of his life.

And every single time he heard your voice in the middle of danger, Clark Kent’s heart would still stop.

But he would always come.

Every time.

Clark had barely finished the thought when his eyes flicked back to your arm.

You were trying very hard to act like nothing was wrong.

Clark knew that trick. You did it every time you got hurt. A casual shrug. A small smile. That very convincing “I’m fine” voice that fooled absolutely no one who actually knew you.

Except right now he was Superman.

And Superman was not supposed to know you.

Which meant he had to do this carefully.

Your sleeve was torn open from shoulder to elbow. Dust and dried gray debris clung to the scrape along your arm, but Clark could still see the thin line of red where the skin had broken. It wasn’t life threatening. It wasn’t even serious.

But it was enough.

Enough to make his chest tighten.

Enough to make the protective part of him wake up again.

You were still standing there like the conversation had been about the weather instead of the fact that you had just been inside a building that exploded.

Clark exhaled quietly.

Then he turned his head slightly toward the emergency crews moving around the site.

“Paramedic,” he called.

His voice carried easily over the chaos.

One of the paramedics, a woman kneeling beside a stretcher a few yards away, looked up immediately. When she saw who had called, she stood and hurried over, medical bag swinging against her hip.

“Yes, Superman?”

Clark stepped slightly to the side, gesturing toward you.

“This civilian was inside the collapse,” he said calmly.

You blinked.

“Hey—”

Clark continued like you had not spoken.

“She needs to be checked for injuries.”

You stared at him.

The paramedic immediately shifted into professional mode, already reaching for gloves.

“Of course.”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly.

Clark folded his arms.

The paramedic gently reached for your injured arm.

“Let’s just take a quick look.”

“It’s just a scratch,” you insisted.

Clark raised one eyebrow slightly.

You noticed.

Your eyes narrowed.

“Oh you have got to be kidding me,” you muttered.

The paramedic carefully rolled your sleeve back the rest of the way. The scrape was longer than it had looked through the dust. It ran down the side of your arm, red and irritated from debris.

“Did you hit something?” she asked.

“A wall,” you admitted.

Clark’s jaw tightened.

The paramedic cleaned the scrape gently with antiseptic.

You winced.

Clark noticed that too.

“Any dizziness?” she asked.

“No.”

“Headache?”

“No.”

“You were exposed to the explosion?”

“I was down the hall.”

Clark spoke again, voice calm but firm.

“She was also inside the structure during partial collapse.”

You shot him a look.

“Thank you,” you muttered.

The paramedic gave you a small sympathetic smile.

“Superman’s very thorough.”

You huffed.

“Yeah, I noticed.”

Clark pretended not to hear that.

The paramedic finished cleaning the scrape and wrapped a small bandage around your arm.

“There we go,” she said. “You’re lucky. Could’ve been worse.”

Clark silently agreed with that statement.

Very strongly.

The paramedic stepped back.

“You should still take it easy tonight,” she added. “And maybe avoid collapsing buildings for a bit.”

You nodded politely.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Clark made a soft noise under his breath.

You looked up at him again.

He was still standing there, arms crossed, cape shifting slightly in the dusty breeze, watching you with the very unmistakable expression of someone who absolutely did not believe you would follow that advice.

You pointed at him.

“I was helping someone.”

Clark replied calmly.

“You were injured.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“You were inside an explosion.”

Clark inhaled slowly.

Several nearby firefighters had stopped working and were now openly watching the exchange like it was a form of entertainment.

You dusted your hands off and grabbed your bag from the rubble beside you.

“Well,” you said brightly, “thanks for the assist.”

Clark stared at you.

You took a few steps backward.

Then a few more.

Clark did not move.

You pointed a finger at him.

“I’m leaving.”

Clark said nothing.

You turned and began walking toward the police tape.

Clark waited exactly three seconds.

Then he called after you.

“Ma’am.”

You stopped.

Very slowly you turned around.

Clark’s voice was calm.

But the tone underneath it was unmistakable.

“Try,” he said carefully, “to stay out of dangerous situations.”

You stared at him.

Then you smiled.

“Can’t promise anything.”

Clark closed his eyes briefly.

Around them, the firefighters burst out laughing again.

Clark sighed.

Of course.

Of course you couldn’t.

taglist : @kristine13 @mollymal @clarkswhore-jpeg @fire-joestar @sunlightkent

[raven-dor]

i see myself in you

in which anthony bridgerton finds himself enamored with the ton's most stubborn debutante...

PAIRING: anthony bridgerton x fem!reader

WARNINGS: given last name (Bennett), boring men, annoying Anthony, protective siblings, a generally healthy family dynamic, angst, fluff, so much pining, miscommunication ig, medling servants, dramatic confession (ala Anthony Bridgerton style)

WORD COUNT: 6.5k

🎶 : reflections - the neighbourhood

AN: 🩵♥️💗 - love this one so so much!! It's not really set in any season, but if it were, I imagine season two Anthony (looks wise) and season three Anthony (vibes wise)!! enjoy pookies!!

You could not bring yourself to care.

You tried, you really did. But this lord, whatever his name was, was the most trying man you’d ever had the misfortune of meeting. Your mother’s close childhood friend had introduced you to him, and from then on, you’d not found a way to be rid of him. It’s not that he was horrible in any way, just extremely dull. And pompous.

He was currently talking about how many homes he had in the countryside. You scratched your brow, the signal you and your mother had devised long ago. A signal that meant it was time to free you from whatever you were taking part in.

Today, it applies to this boring conversation. “How wonderful, my lord-” 

“Darling.” Your mother approached the table, feigning an apologetic look. “We really must be going. Your father has sent for us.” 

“Oh.” The lord, you still didn’t remember his name, frowned. “Then you must leave. I insist.” 

“Really?” You frowned as well. “I would hate to-” 

“I will see you at the Danbury Ball. Do not worry.” He took your hand, kissing the back. “Until then, Miss Bennett.” 

“Until then, my lord.” You hooked your arm through your mother’s, all but running out of the ice cream shop. “Thank you.” 

“Of course, my darling.” She smiled. “May I ask what was wrong with him?” 

“I-” You couldn’t very well tell your mother you hated him, or that you didn’t know his name. That he wasn’t at all what you pictured for yourself, and even though you knew you must marry for duty, you wished you could at least enjoy the man. “He was quite self-centered.” 

“What man isn’t?” 

Your mind drifted for a moment, imagining any number of men you’d read about. One your your newer novels had the dreamiest man, the most perfect man. He was stoic, but loving, reserved, but all encompassing when it came to his love. “I imagine some.” 

“Ever the idealist, my dear.” 

Your sister, Mary, was young, only six and ten years of age. You felt a certain protectiveness over her, to shield her from the way men were. You wished she could remain naive forever. That hope, the one only you knew, locked you into a dutiful marriage. Then your sister, as kind and naive as she was, could marry for love without a care in the world. 

She would never come to know the harsh realities you faced, and that was fine with you. 

But there were moments. 

When you walked in the park, your eyes would drift to the lovers on the benches, giggling and smiling. Your heart would flutter when the man would brush something from his wife’s cheek, or even kiss her longingly. 

Something you had never experienced, and most likely never would. 

“Are you listening?” Mary frowned. “You’ve drifted off again.” 

“I’m sorry.” You sat up in your chair, smiling at the young girl. “What is it you were saying?”

“I was asked to a ball.” 

“A ball?” Mary had yet to debut; who in the world had asked her to a ball? “Who has asked you?” 

“One of the Lady Bridgerton’s daughters. We met at the library, and she was quite witty. We became quick friends.” 

The worry that had built up in your stomach quickly subsided. “I’m sure Mother will be thrilled. The Bridgerton girls are wonderful.” 

“Perhaps you can meet one of their handsome brothers.” Mary wiggled her eyebrows. “I have heard they are quite easy on the eye.” 

“And where exactly are you hearing this?” You scoffed, sitting back in your seat. “You are much too young-” 

“I read about it, if you must know. In Lady Whistledown.” 

“Must I repeat my earlier sentiment?” 

“I am six and ten years of age, sister. I am hardly a child.” 

“In my eyes-” You reminisced fondly. “You will always be a child.” 

 “I wish I were not.” She huffed, folding her arms indignantly. 

“Well, you are.” You teased, opening your book back to where you’d left off. “It is the way of older sisters, Mary. We will always think of you as we first met you.” 

“You first met me when I was a babe.” 

You laughed, not bothering to look up from your book. “Exactly.” 

“Our girls look exquisite, do they not, my lord?” Your mother was ecstatic, brimming with joy, when Mary told her the news. “The very picture of elegance.” 

“I wouldn’t say that.” You scoffed. “I’m dressed as a pirate.” Mary had failed to mention that the ball she’d been invited to was the Bridgerton’s annual Masquerade Ball. You had no use for new gowns, deciding to give your Mother your allowance to make Mary the most exquisite girl at the ball. “Mary, however, looks beautiful.” 

She grinned, spinning in her sparkling white gown. It was in the style of their mother’s youth, with a large, voluptuous skirt and tight corset top. She had wings, large fabric ones, with a beautiful halo. “Thank you, sister.” 

“Shall we make our way?” 

Your father grumbled. “I would very much like to.” 

Your father had always been quiet, reserved in nature. To hear him say he would like to attend a ball was quite shocking, amusing even. You laughed, hooking your arm through his. “You would like to, you say?” 

He nodded, helping you into the carriage. “Perhaps this will be the ball you find a suitable husband, my dear. Where better than the Bridgerton ball?” 

Your cheeks grew red, squeaking in shock. “Father!” 

It had been his turn to laugh at you. “The Bridgertons are a fine bunch. Their eldest-” 

“I will not entertain this any longer.” You hissed. “You and Mary, I swear.” 

“You swear?” Your mother climbed into the carriage, shaking her head. “Do not swear, dear.” 

“Yes, mother. My apologies.” 

Your father hit the roof of the carriage twice, signaling to the driver that he could begin the short drive. Mary was practically bouncing with excitement, staring out the window the entire ride.

When you arrived, their footmen were already waiting, ready to help you out of the carriage. Mary’s cheeks grew red, muttering a quick thanks before she stepped aside, waiting for you. “I feel like a princess.” 

“That is because you are one.” You smiled warmly, taking her hand. “Shall we?” 

She nodded, holding the front of her skirts so she wouldn’t trip. “They have a beautiful home.” 

You nodded. “They do, yes.” They had flowers in every corner of every room, each covered in decadent glitter that practically glowed, thanks to the countless candles, of course. The party goes themselves was just as exquisite, every one of them decked out to the stars. “I do believe this is the most elaborate ball I’ve ever been to.” 

“Benedict?” Anthony called out. “Come here.” 

The younger brother complied, annoyed that Anthony had taken him away from his newest conquest. “Yes, my loving brother?” 

“Who is that?” His finger pointed toward a pair of girls, one dressed as an angel, the other dressed as a pirate. He’d laughed when he first saw her attire - the British Empire had constant problems with pirates, and here she was, dressed as one. It was amusing, to say the least. “I have not yet seen her.” 

“I am shocked.” Benedict scoffed. “Considering your quest to find the perfect woman, one would think you would find Miss Bennett quite becoming.” 

“Miss Bennett, you say?” Anthony raised a brow. “Any relation to Lord Bennett?” 

“His daughters. The pair of them. The younger one is Eloise’s friend, I believe.” 

“Ah.” He nodded. “Thank you, Benedict.” 

“I must warn you, brother, she is quite…” Benedict tilted his head. “Interesting.” 

She looked beautiful, wonderfully witty. Her face radiated confidence, the quiet kind that pulled Anthony in. “I do enjoy a challenge.” 

Benedict laughed. “Then I wish you luck, brother.” 

He approached slowly, smirking as the girls commented on the house. “I do believe this is the most elaborate ball I’ve ever been to.” 

“I’m glad you think so.” A man, you presumed a Bridgerton, grinned from behind his mask. “I shall let my mother know.” 

Mary grinned, waving politely. “Hello.” 

The man waved back, obviously finding humor in her eager nature. “Hello. You must be the young lady Eloise invited.” 

“Yes.” Mary nodded. “Is she here?” 

“She is indeed. Just behind you, actually.” He pointed over Mary’s shoulder. “The one who looks as if she wished she were anywhere else.” 

Mary laughed, looking up at you for permission. “May I?” 

“Go on then.” You ushered her away, watching as she greeted her new friend. “They met only three days ago.” 

“I heard. Eloise talked of a smart girl she met at the library.” The man’s eyes were rather intense, you noticed. They were pulling you in, a look behind them you wished you could decipher. “She did not mention her stunning sister.” Your stomach flipped, caught off guard by his comment. “May I know your name?” 

“I-”

“Viscount Bridgerton.” Your father called out, and you gasped, curtseying quickly. “How good to see you.” 

“Lord Bennett. Welcome.”

“I apologize.” You stood straight, cheeks hot from the mistake. Later, you would look back on the moment you met the most perplexing man you’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. “I did not-” 

“And how could you have?” The Viscount shook his head. “Do not apologize.” 

Your mother looked mischievously between the two of you. “Your father and I were just going to grab a glass of punch.” 

“I can join you-” 

“No, no.” Your mother shook her head. “Why don’t you stay and make new friends?” 

“Mother-” She hadn’t even waited for you to reply, and when you turned back to the Viscount, he was still smirking. Obnoxious really. “I apologize for her behavior. She is eager for me to-” Why were you explaining yourself? “If you’ll excuse me-” 

“Would you care to dance, Miss Bennett?” 

 “You wish to dance?” You tilted your head. “With me?” 

“Is there another Miss Bennett beside you?”

“If you insist.” You took his hand, following him to the floor. “How long has your sister enjoyed reading?” 

“Which one?” He raised a brow. 

You fought the intense urge to glare, feeling it was rather obvious. “The one my sister has grown fond of.” 

“Ah. Eloise.” He placed a hand on your waist, and you ignored the way his touch caused your skin to tingle and your heart to flutter. “She has always enjoyed being educated. She particularly loves to correct my brothers and me on every matter we speak of.” 

“She sounds like a spitfire.” You grinned. “I would love to know her.” 

“I am sure you will in the coming months. My sister and yours have been writing to each other, planning their meetings. Penelope Featherington has even joined their little posse.” 

“I enjoy Penelope.” You grew defensive. Men of the ton seemed to pull Penelope into their little jokes. “She is a kind-” 

“Do not assume I find displeasure in Miss Featherington or her company. She is a close family friend.” 

“Ah.” You nodded. “I see.” 

“And what is it you enjoy doing?” 

“I-” Why must he look at you so unwavering, like you are the only person he cares to talk to? It is most unnerving. “I also enjoy reading. I particularly enjoy books regarding history.” 

“History?” He grinned. “Do tell.” 

“Miss Bennett!” 

You turned around, shocked to find yourself disappointed. Why, you had no idea. “My lord.” 

It was the man you had seen earlier that week in the ice cream shop. “I am pleased to see you.” 

“Thank you, my lord.” You still did not know his name. “Are you enjoying this fine day?” 

Your little piece of tranquility had been ruined. You’d found a new book and were determined to at least finish the first chapter in the park. It seemed that the plan would not come to fruition. “I must say, you look beautiful in this light.” 

You tried your hardest not to scoff. “Thank you, my lord.” 

“Would you mind terribly if I sat with you?” 

“I-” 

“Miss Bennett!” 

Your stomach flipped at the sight, almost happy to see the Viscount running toward you. You quickly stood, brushing off your dress. “Viscount Bridgerton.” 

“I thought we agreed to meet at the ice cream shop?” 

You tilted your head, deeply confused. You had not made any plans to meet the man. His eyes quickly darted toward the ever-persistent lord, and all became clear. “My mistake.” 

“Not at all. I am here now.” He smiled, extending his arm. “Shall we?” 

You waved goodbye to the lord, gratefully taking his arm. Anthony smiled politely at the lord. “Beesbury.”

“Bridgerton.”

You waited until you turned the corner to speak. “I could have saved myself.” 

“Oh?” He tilted his head. “It looked to me as if you were trapped.”

“I was. But I had a plan, I assure you.” 

“Please do tell.” 

You scoffed. “I do not have to tell you anything, my lord.” 

“I feel it is only right. Consider it payment for my saving you.” 

“What a gentleman you are. Demanding that a lady pay you back for a good deed.” 

“I never claimed to be a gentleman.” 

You gasped, a shocked smile gracing your lips. “Viscount Bridgerton. What a horrid thing to say.” 

“Why were you with Beesbury anyhow? He is a dreadfully boring man.” 

“He is.” You nodded.

“You agree?” 

“Of course.” 

“Then why would you entertain his company?”  

You thanked the lord for your timely arrival, walking up your home’s steps. “Until next time, Viscount Bridgerton.”  

“You are quite a confusing woman, Miss Bennett.” 

You scoffed, yelling over your shoulder. “I could say the same of you, my lord.” 

The dreaded Danbury Ball.

You loved Lady Danbury, you really did. But the thought of seeing Lord Beesbury was not something you were looking forward to. It was as if he had some magical sense, because as soon as you’d arrived, he had been on you, greeting your family. “Lord Bennett.” 

“Lord Beesbury.” Your father looked less than enthused. “I assume you’ve met my wife and eldest daughter.” 

“Yes, of course.” He took your hand, kissing the back much too intimately. “Miss Bennett, wonderful to see you.” 

“My Lord.” 

“And who is this?” Beesbury smiled. “I do not believe we have had the pleasure of meeting.” 

“This is my youngest daughter. She has yet to be presented into society.” Your mother was making it quite clear that he could not have her. As if there was not another reason for you to despise the man, he was looking a little too longingly at your sister.

“Ah, I see.” He turned back to you. “Shall we dance, my lady?” 

“I-” 

“I believe I was promised the first dance.” 

How was he always there? You quickly curtsied, politely smiling at the Viscount. “Lord Bridgerton.” 

“Miss Bennett.” He turned to Beesbury. “I do apologize.” 

“It is not a problem. I will see you after.” He kissed the back of your hand once more. “My lady.” 

“My lord.” 

“Lord Bridgerton.” Your mother grinned. “How wonderful to see you.” 

“The pleasure is all mine.” He smiled. “Could I steal your daughter for a dance, my lady?” 

“Of course, of course.” 

“Mother.” You hissed. “I have not said yes.” 

“Nonsense. Go on, dear.” 

You took his hand reluctantly. “You must cease this ‘savior’ act. It is quite tiring.” 

“I am sorry.” 

“Thank you.” 

“I am sorry that I saved you from the annoying man that is Lord Beesbury.” 

“Lord Bridgerton!” You gasped. “You must not say such things.” 

“You never told me why you allow him to bore you so.” His hand yet again found its way around your waist, fingers digging into you a little too tightly. And yet, you found yourself not asking him to loosen his grip, for fear of losing his touch entirely. You squirmed, heart pounding from the proximity. “I must know.” 

“Must you?” He was, without a doubt, the most arrogant man you’d ever known. “Just because you are a Viscount does not mean we all answer to you.” 

He was caught off guard by your comment, something you found immense satisfaction in. “You astound me, Miss Bennett.” 

It was his turn to catch you off guard, it would seem. “I allow him to bore me because he is from a fine family. A good man, despite his lack of personality. He would be a fine husband.” 

“I disagree.” 

“Of course, you do.” He spun you around, momentarily stumbling as you fell back into his arms. “Tell me, what exactly do you disagree with?” 

“He is not worthy of you.” 

If Anthony Bridgerton was wholy arrogant, he was wholy swoon-worthy as well, devastatingly so. “I beg your pardon?” 

“We have not known each other long, Miss Bennett. But I must say, I never thought you would be the kind to settle for a man simply because of his status.” 

“You’re right.” You glared, remembering why he angered you so. “You have not known me long, so you do not understand me. Nor will you.” You curtsied, glad the dance had ended. “If you’ll excuse me.” You stalked toward Mary, grabbing her hand and pulling her away from whatever conversation she was having. “We’re leaving.” 

“Why?” Mary whined. “I was-” 

“What is the matter, dear?” Your mother frowned. “Has something happened?” 

“I would like to leave.” You glanced over your shoulder, his eyes still trained on you. “I am tired, Mama.” 

“As you wish.” Your father nodded. “After you, my dears.” 

“You know I must ask you what happened last night.” Your father’s voice cut through your reading. “You left so suddenly.” 

“It was nothing. Like I said, I was tired.” 

“If you plan to continue your tradition of reading in my study, you must be prepared for sudden interrogation, my dear.” You hated it when your father was right. “What did Lord Bridgerton say?” 

“How do you know it was the Viscount?” You scoffed. “It could have been anyone.” 

“True.” He nodded. “But it was the Viscount, wasn’t it?” 

“You’re terribly insightful.” You groaned. “He made an assumption about my character. One that was entirely misplaced.” 

“So he offended you?” 

You nodded. He had, even if he was wrong. And you couldn’t very well tell your father the truth, that the Viscount had assumed you to be some power-hungry debutante, unloving and cold. “In a way, yes.” 

“Would you like me to speak with him?” 

“That won’t be necessary, Father. But thank you.” 

He was quiet for a moment, staring at you as if he were trying to decipher you. “I know what you are doing, my love.” 

“And what is that?” 

“You wish to protect your sister.” 

“I-” You closed your book. “Any good sister would.” 

“Yes. But you are-” He tilted his head, trying to find the right words. “Your mother and I are not destitute.” 

“I know, Father.” 

“Then why have you vowed to marry for duty, rather than love?” He frowned. “You are quite telling. The men you see, do they bring you joy? Laughter?” 

You shook your head, too embarrassed to speak. 

“If you were married for love, your sister would be perfectly content. Her dowry, the same as yours, is more than enough to live comfortably.” 

“Father-” A tear ran down your cheek. “I’m sorry.” 

“I should be the one apologizing, my dear.” He laughed, standing up from his desk. “You take too much upon your shoulders. It is my job to look after your sister and her future, and I have turned a blind eye to your interference. From now on-” He brushed a hair behind your cheek. “Promise me you will only entertain lords who entertain you. No more of the duty nonsense.” 

“I promise, Father.” You wrapped your arms around him, hugging tightly. “I promise.” 

“Good.” He nodded. “I would like a biscuit.” 

You pulled your head away from his chest. “A biscuit?”

He nodded once more. “Would you care to venture to the kitchens with me?” 

“I would.” You grinned, placing your book on the end table. “A biscuit sounds wonderful.” 

“We must stop meeting like this.” 

Anthony Bridgerton was the bane of your existence, it would seem. 

“Viscount. How good to see you.” 

“You must not lie.” He frowned. “Are you enjoying this?” 

“The event?” You looked around the room, taking in the countless paintings that covered the walls. “I do love museums.” 

“As do I.” He smiled, standing beside you, observing the painting before you. “Where is dear Lord Beesbury?” 

“Engaged, thankfully.” You smiled back. “Some poor lady will be miserable till death do they part.” 

“On that, we agree.” 

“I do so love this painting.” You sighed. “It is captivating.” 

“Yes, it is.” 

You looked over, shocked to see his eyes fixed on you. “I must explain my sudden departure to you.” 

“There is no need. I was being callous-” 

“May I? Please?” You felt faint under his gaze. “You said I was settling for Beesbury because of his status.” 

“It was wrong of me-” 

“You were not entirely…wrong.” You began to pick at the skin around your nails, a nervous habit you had picked up around your debut. Your mother hated the habit, as did you. You just couldn’t seem to break it. “I vowed to marry for duty, so that my sister could marry whomever she wanted. She is my pride and joy, you see.” You swallowed, staring at the ground. “I love her so dearly, and I only want the best for her-” 

“We are quite similar, you and I.” 

His voice was tight, tense. Why, you had no idea. You looked up, laughing at his comment. “Perhaps, we are.” 

“Could I accompany you while you remain here?” 

Your cheeks felt hot. “I-” 

“It was a stupid idea.” He laughed. “Excuse me-” 

You shouldn’t have done it. But in that moment, you couldn’t think of any other way to stop him from leaving. You reached out, grabbing his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. “I would love that, my lord.” 

“Wonderful.” He smiled, slipping his hand out of your grasp to hook his arm through yours. “Tell me, who is your favorite artist featured today?” 

“I do so love Jean-Antoine Watteau’s work.” You grinned. “It is so detailed, beautifully done.” 

“I agree,” Anthony would later pinpoint this moment as the day he fell in love with you.

“Hello?” You called out, the pale blue halls empty save for a few servants. “Hello?” 

“Do you need help, Miss?” 

You nodded. “I’m here to pick up my sister, Miss Mary Bennett.” 

“Ah.” The maid smiled. “Follow me. I believe they are in the drawing room.” 

“Thank you.” You followed her through the doors. 

“A Miss Bennett, my lord.” 

You curtsied, smiling as Anthony burst to his feet. “My lord.” 

“Miss Bennett.” He began to fix his vest, making you laugh. “I was not expecting you.” 

“I’m simply here to bring my sister home.” You looked around the room, smiling at the others who inhabited the space. “I won’t be long.”

“Please.” He blurted out. “Won’t you stay for tea?” 

A quick laugh left (who you could only assume) was his brother’s lips before Anthony glared at him, promptly shutting him up. “I wouldn’t want to intrude-” 

“You wouldn’t be.” 

His mother watched with utter fascination, quiet as a church mouse. 

“I am sorry, Lord Bridgerton, but my mother wishes us home for dinner.” You looked behind you, tapping your foot impatiently. “Where is she?” 

“Come with me.” Anthony set his book down, grabbing your hand in his. You gasped, as did his mother and (you assumed yet again) his older sister. “I have an inclination as to where they are.” 

“Very well.” You gave in, wishing he could hold your hand forever. “After you.” 

The halls of the Bridgerton estate were beautiful, even without the dazzling decorations. The paintings that lined the walls were perfection, the furniture antique and well-kept. “I must say, my lord, your home is-”

It couldn’t be. You slowed, pulling Anthony to a stop as well. “Is that the-” The painting. The very one you both had stared at for minutes while you confessed your reasoning behind leaving. He bought the painting.

He nodded, swallowing thickly. “I acquired it after you left.” 

“I see.” Your voice was small, smaller than you’d wanted it to be. “But why?”

“I-” He searched your face desperately. “I believe you know why.” 

“My lord-” 

“Please.” He shook his head. “Call me Anthony, I beg of you.” 

“That is most inappropriate, my lord.” You hissed, although it had no bite. Your insides were mush, his attention causing you to short-circuit. 

“I apologize.” He did not look the least bit sorry. “I’m sorry, but I must tell you something. You-you have captured my-” 

“Anthony.” The lord groaned, his arm falling from yours as he turned around. 

“Yes, brother?” 

“Mother is calling for you.” It was not Benedict, but rather Colin, who called from the end of the hall. 

“Tell her I will be there in a moment.” He turned back around, disappointment etched on his face. “Will you wait for me?” 

You nodded, cheeks still burning from his words. “Of course.” 

“I will be back, I promise you.” 

“Go.” You ushered him away, staring at the painting in fascination. He had bought this because of you. He had bought this because you told him you loved it. It was- 

“Poor girl. She has no idea.” You whipped around, a servant's voice echoing through the hall. “He’s going to eat her alive, he is.” 

“You mustn’t say things like that.” Another whispered, before laughing. “Even if it is true.” 

“Lord Bridgerton has gone through more ladies than I’ve gone through households.” The first servant whispered. If this were not about you, you would tell the servant her whispering needed improvement, but you were curious. 

Curiosity killed your love. If you could have even called it that. 

“He will not truly love her. He is a rake, through in through.” The second spoke. “What man isn’t?” 

Your eyes welled. You were stupid, so stupid to believe in his attention. Forget Mary and her naivety, that was you. It had been you all along. You were easily tricked, but no longer. You stalked around the corner, ignoring the gasps the servants let out at your appearance. “My lady.” 

You paid them no mind, tears streaming down your cheeks as you found Mary waiting for you in the foyer, Anthony and Eloise standing dutifully beside her. “Sister!” Her eyebrows furrowed. “Is something the matter?” 

“We’re leaving.” You kept your eyes to the ground, grabbing her hand as you pulled her toward the door. “Say goodbye to Miss Eloise.” 

“Bye!” Mary waved quickly. “Why are you walking so fast?” 

The Bridgerton siblings stood there in confusion, staring at the girls until they left their view. “What was that about, do you think?” 

Anthony shrugged, heart clenching at the thought of your upset face. “I haven’t the faintest clue, Eloise.” 

“What has happened?” Mary pestered. “Sister?” 

“You are not to go to the Bridgertons again.” You muttered, stalking past your footmen and up the stairs toward your room. “I don’t want you around that family ever again.” 

“You must tell me what is going on!” Mary yelped. “And stop pulling me!” 

“I-” You looked behind you, face paling at the sight. Your grasp on your sister’s wrist was tight, too tight to be comfortable. “I’m sorry, Mary.” 

“I will be fine.” She smiled, wiping a tear from your cheek. “Please, do not shut me out.” 

“Come along then.” You huffed, ushering her into your room. You explained as you removed your coat. “I was foolish, so very foolish.” “Is this to do with a certain Viscount?” Mary wiggled her eyebrows. 

“He is a rake. And he-” You sobbed, slapping a hand over your mouth. “I thought he was an honorable man, but he is not. He has fooled me.” 

“What did he do?” Mary looked positively frightened. “Has he-” 

“No!” You shook your head quickly. “I believed that he- I don’t know why.” You crumbled to the floor. “I thought he- he loved me.” 

“Oh, sister.” Mary sat beside you, pulling you into her hold. “I am so sorry. So very sorry.” 

“Will I ever know what has happened with you, my dear?” Your mother frowned, worriedly watching as you simply read your novel. “You’ve been rather distant.” 

 “I do not know what you mean. I am simply tired.” 

“You have been tired for nearly two weeks.” 

“It must be my cycle, Mother.” It was nowhere near your cycle, but your mother was nothing if not persistent. 

She nodded, like that explained everything. “Ah, I see.” 

You hid a laugh behind your hand as your sister rolled her eyes. 

“My lady.” Your mother’s housekeeper, Mrs. Gilligan, interrupted. “There is a gentleman in the foyer.”

“Did you catch his name, Mrs. Gilligan?” 

“No, my lady.” 

“No matter, I will go see what the man wants.” 

You groaned, sitting up and making yourself presentable. Mary laughed, shaking her head. “Do you think it’s him again?” 

You glared. “I hope not. Besides, he wouldn’t dare-” 

“He’s here.” Your mother poked her head through the drawing room door. “Shall I let him in?” 

Mary shook her head. “I think it would be best to tell him that she is ill.” She looked back at you, smiling comfortingly. “Do you agree?” 

“Yes.” You nodded. “Please, Mother.” 

She sighed. “Very well. But you cannot avoid him forever, my dear.” 

You waited till she had left the room to scoff. “I beg to differ.” 

“She’s right, you know.” 

“Traitor.” You stuck your tongue out playfully. “I do not wish to see him.” 

“And I understand, truly, I do.” She placed her hand over yours. “But he can never defend himself if you do not give him the chance.”

“There is nothing for him to defend himself over. We were never courting, there is nothing to say.” 

“You and I both know that is not true in the slightest.” She raised a brow, waiting for you to disagree with her. “He is devastated by your disappearance.” 

“And how would you know?” 

“Eloise writes to me now that you have banned me from going over. He has confined himself to his room, and when he is not in his room, he is a shell of himself.” 

“I do not see the issue.” 

Mary shook her head, deciding to drop the subject. “The Featherington ball is coming up.” 

“So I’ve heard.” 

“Will you at least go to that?” Mary pleaded. “For my sake?” She jutted out her bottom lip, and you caved most easily. 

“Fine, fine.” You glared. “Now let me read my novel, please.” 

The Featherington ball, much like its matriarch, was over the top, its halls covered in dramatic florals that overwhelmed the senses. It was beautiful, but even beautiful things could cause you pain. Or at the very least, exhaustion. “Must I go in?” 

“Do not be such a bore, sister.” Mary hooked her arm through yours, dragging you toward the stairs. “It will only take a moment.” 

“I know. That does not mean-” 

“Too late.” Mary wiggled her eyebrows, descending the steps. “Come along then.” 

Your eyes scanned the room, stomach fluttering as you met the Viscount’s gaze. He was gloomy and terribly handsome in his dark ensemble. The very picture of a leading man in some novel, perhaps one of those newer novels by that woman, Jane Austen. Your breath caught in your throat, Anthony had this horrible trait of turning you into a right mess. “I need some fresh air.” 

Your sister groaned, tired of your antics. “But we’ve only just arrived.” 

“I’ll only be a moment, I swear.” 

Your mother escorted her further into the ballroom, introducing her to the many other young ladies who would most likely be making their debuts the following year. She was certainly ready, of that you were certain. “Miss Bennett.” 

Your heart clenched, eyes shutting as if that would stop him from speaking further. “My lord.” 

“You are recovered.” 

You tilted your head. “I'm sorry?” 

“From your sickness.” Anthony stepped closer, his voice lowered. “I called on you.” 

“Did you?” You shrugged, feigning ignorance. “That is a shame, Viscount Bridgerton. I would have loved to see you.” 

“That I find hard to believe.” He looked positively miserable. “Has something happened?” 

“I do not know what you mean. If you’ll excuse me-” You stalked away from him, toward where you had no idea. Anywhere where he was not would be idealistic. 

“You cannot avoid me forever, Miss Bennett.” 

“I believe I can, my lord.” 

“Enough!” He hadn’t yelled, but his tone was enough to halt your steps. “I must know what I’ve done.” 

“I-” You were at a loss for words. “You-” 

“Correct me if I am wrong, Miss Bennett, but I believed us to be growing close. I believed-” His swallowed, hand twitching as if he itched to hold you. “I thought-” 

“You are wrong.” It pained you to say it, but you had to. “Whatever you believe, or believed, you are wrong. We were nothing, not close, no growing to be. We are acquaintances, that is all.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe it. Out with it then. Tell me what I have done to make you hate me so.” 

“I have heard the talk, the gossip. The Ton is relentless in their information, especially when it comes to you, my lord. Tell me, how many other women have you bought paintings for? How many other ladies have you pulled into a false sense of hope, of companionship?" Your voice grew tight, your eyes watery. “Of love?” 

“Miss Bennett-” 

“I cannot bear to look at you.” You practically hissed at the man, shocked that he had not stopped you. “I am disgusted by you, by your behavior.” You whipped around, walking further into the house and further away from the party. 

“You drive me mad!” He hissed back, following after you. “My thoughts are consumed by you, you and you alone. You haunt me in my sleep, your wit, your beauty-” He groaned, looking as if he truly was going mad. “I am enamored by you!”

Your tears were falling freely, and Anthony frowned at the sight. You walked forward, shoving his chest firmly. “Do not come near me again.” You sobbed, shoving him once more. “Swear it.”  

“I cannot.” 

“Why not?” You sobbed again, his hands wrapping around your wrists before you tried to shove him once more. “Why not?” You shook against his hold, your resolve breaking by the second. 

“Because I am in love with you. You have bewitched me, and I cannot stay away from you.” He brought your hand up to his heart, pressing your palm to his chest. “My heart yearns for you.” 

You shook your head, tears subsiding. “You do not mean it.” 

“But I do.” He whispered, leaning his forehead against yours. “I mean every word.” 

“Anthony…” Your eyes darted to his lips. “We will tear each other apart-” 

“We will not.” He smiled, his breath intertwining with yours. “We will not because I love you, and I believe you love me.” 

“Love you?” You scoffed. “Whatever are you talking about?” 

“You heard our maids talking, did you not? About my past? That is why you were upset, why you left so suddenly.” His hand found its way to your cheek, wiping away your tears. “Why would you be so upset if not for love?” 

“You have no idea of my feelings.” You could feel your self-restraint weakening by the second. “No idea at all.” 

His eyes fell to your lips. “I look forward to a life of finding out, my lady.” 

“If that is your idea of a proposal, my dear Viscount, you have misinterpreted this situation.” 

He laughed. “Have I?” 

“No.” You shook your head, arms wrapping around his neck. “You have not.” 

“You are quite the contradiction, Miss Bennett.” His lips brushed against yours, your knees buckling. “Quite the contradiction indeed.” 

bonus part: the moment anthony bridgerton proved, yet again, to be the man of your wildest dreams

The autumn air did not deter either of you from your daily promenade; if anything, it prompted you to take your time, to enjoy the changing leaves and crisp breeze. You took advantage of the cool weather, grasping Anthony’s arm as if he were your only source of warmth. 

Anthony did not mind in the slightest, and if he had, he did not show it. He revelled in your touch, in his wife’s affection. He took pride in it, in the fact that you loved him so dearly, that you cherished him so publicly. 

“Should we sit?” He whispered, nuzzling his nose against your ear. You giggled from the touch, shoving his arm playfully. “You must be tired.” 

“I am hardly tired, but you are awfully sweet for thinking of me.” 

“I always think of you.” He kissed your cheek. “You occupy my every thought.” 

“That is no good.” You frowned. “What of our babe? Do you not think of him?” 

“Or her.” Anthony’s hand gently caressed your bump. “Of course, I think of the babe. Which is why I must ask you to rest, my love.”  

“Fine, fine.” You glared, plopping onto the bench. “If you insist.” 

“I do.” He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him. “Are you cold?” 

“With you by my side, how could I be?” You traced shapes on his chest haphazardly. “You are warm enough for the both of us.” 

“You tease, yet you cling to me.” He reached out, carefully pulling a leaf from your hair. “You are quite the contradiction.” 

“Is that not why you love me?” 

“One of the many reasons, yes.” His eyes fluttered to your fingers, pulling them from his chest, examining them. "You have stopped, yes?"

You nodded, cheeks growing hot. "I have not picked at my hands in quite some time, Anthony."

"Ah." He smiled, kissing each one delicately, still as giddy as the day he first saw you. “You continue to amaze me, Lady Bridgerton.” 

“Stop it.” You glared. “You forget we are in public, my lord.” 

“You forget I do not care.” He whispered, finding pleasure in the laugh that left your lips. “I am finding it very difficult not to kiss you.” 

“You must control yourself.” You said it so firmly, but he knew you did not mean it. You enjoyed his attention. You even confessed to him, one night when neither of you could sleep, what you once dreamt of, what you found yourself daydreaming of during your time as a young debutante. He never forgot, always striving to fufill each and every dream. 

Little did he know, he fulfilled your every dream by simply being your husband. 

He loved the way your nose crinkled when he dove down to kiss your cheeks, the way you visibly became flustered by his love. “Please, my darling? Just one kiss?” 

“Oh, alright then.” You could never say no to him, nor did you want to. And as he dove down, kissing you much too deeply for you to be in public, you couldn’t help but think back to when you wished this were you. When you wished to be so loved, so unconditionally and perfectly loved.  

taglist: @esmereldafloyd @eddiemunsons-lover @maryjaneeeee @y-ns-things

LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO JOIN!

[miffyreader]

THANK YOU FOR THE MEAL ❤️

[soaps-mohawk]

Summary: Task Force 141 operates successfully without an omega, at least that’s what Price has been saying since its formation. Two alphas and two betas balance the pack just fine, and they have the numbers to prove it.

It works for a while, until the Omega Initiative is born and the 141 find themselves having to adjust to the sudden addition of an omega to their pack. Fresh out of an institute, you’re hardly fit for their secretive, dangerous world, or so Price thinks. 

As each member of the team gets closer to you, things begin to come to light, not only about you but about the decision to force you into their lives.

Maybe, just maybe, Price was wrong and the 141 does need an omega after all. 

Pairings: Poly 141 x reader, Price x Gaz, Ghost x Soap

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, NSFW content, explicit smut, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), knotting, biting, claiming, mating cycles, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, age differences, military inaccuracies, canon typical violence, blood, weapons, language, no use of Y/N, brief torture, hurt/comfort, let's be real this is so unrealistic but it's a/b/o you're not here for accuracy.

Chapters containing smut are marked with a *

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**This fic is complete**

NAVIGATION PAGE

CRCB DIRECTORY

Part 1 - The Omega

Chapter 1 - The Introduction

Chapter 2 - Adjustments

Chapter 3 - Speak Their Language

Chapter 4 - You Can Be Useful

Chapter 5 - What I Want *

Part 2 - The Bond

Chapter 6 - One Step Closer *

Chapter 7 - Sweet Strawberry

Chapter 8 - The Thing About Ghost

Chapter 9 - Save Me

Chapter 10 - Treat Me Gently*

Part 3 - The First Heat

Chapter 11 - It's Coming

Chapter 12 - Fire In My Veins*

Chapter 13 - Piece Me Back Together*

Chapter 14 - The Aftermath*

Part 4 - The New Normal

Chapter 15: Bonnie*

Chapter 16: Big Brown Eyes *

Chapter 17: Alone

Chapter 18: Don't Let Me Go

Chapter 19: Daddy Issues

Chapter 20: The New Normal *

Chapter 21: Crime and Punishment *

Chapter 22: I Won't Be Gentle

Part 5 - A Pack of Five

Chapter 23: Regrets

Chapter 24: The Last First Time *

Chapter 25: Animals *

Chapter 26: Fuck *

Chapter 27: Drown In It *

Chapter 28: Two Is Company, Three Is A Party *

Chapter 29: There's Something Wrong With My Omega

Part 6 - The Tragedy

Chapter 30: Butterfly's Wings

Chapter 31: Forced Proximity

Chapter 32: The Tragedy

Chapter 33: Ghosts of the Past

Chapter 34: The Whole Truth

Part 7 - The Aftermath

Chapter 35: Threads

Chapter 36: To The Sea

Chapter 37: The Silence

Chapter 38: Shattered

Chapter 39: Life

Part 8 - The Next Chapter

Chapter 40: Where Do We Go From Here

Chapter 41: Revenge

Chapter 42: Comfort and Joy

Chapter 43: Lies

Chapter 44: Little Shit

Chapter 45: Heat of the Moment *

Chapter 46: My Girl *

Chapter 47: The Reunion

Chapter 48: Wild Times *

Chapter 49: Reforming Bonds *

Chapter 50: Flashback *

Part 9 - Finding Home

Chapter 51: Back To The Start

Chapter 52: The Rucking Princess

Chapter 53: Meeting the Family

Chapter 54: The Farm

Chapter 55: Finding Home *

Chapter 56: Making Home *

Chapter 57: Reunited And It Feels So Good *

Chapter 58: Together At Last *

Chapter 59: The New Packmate *

Chapter 60: Uncertainty

Chapter 61: Finally Home

Epilogue

Title card made by the beautiful @141wh0re

[miffyreader]

binge read this series over this and last week and I loved it so much.

Went through so many emotions along with 'mega, im gonna miss her </3

Literally lived in my head rent free, I could not stop reading. I am going to miss having something to read 😪

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

The Epilogue

Summary: One year later, you've grown comfortable on your farm, living out your lives with your routines, free of any fear or stress.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 1,322 words

Warnings: Alpha/beta/omega dynamics, alternate universe, copious amounts of fluff

A/N: Aaah here it is, the end of CRCB. This feels so surreal after just over 20 months of near non-stop writing this fic. I can't believe it made it this far, that I managed to finish a fic of this length at all, much less in such a short amount of time. I'm forever grateful for those of you who have been here from the beginning, supporting me and those of you that have joined later on at any point keeping me going. It's really because of all of my readers that this fic made it to the end. It's bittersweet that such a big part of my life, and so many others, is coming to a close, but it's not the end. I'll still be around, posting writing. I've got some things up my sleeve for next year, and I can't wait to start sharing them with you. I hope you've enjoyed this fic, and I hope you enjoy this sweet ending that we all deserve.

MASTERLIST | <- Previous

One Year Later

The sun is just rising, lighting the sky as it crests over the horizon when you wake. The bed is warm, helped by the furry body pressed up against you. You slip a hand from under the sheets to rub Teddy’s head, pressing a kiss to his snout where it rests on the pillow next to you. He stirs, lifting his head as he yawns. You roll onto your back, turning your head to look to the left. Kyle is still fast asleep, tucked under the blankets. It’s still cold in the mornings, damp and dewy from the overnight frost.

You tuck the blankets tighter around Kyle before you slip from bed, Teddy jumping down behind you. You dress in warm clothes, tugging on jeans and a thick coat before you head out of the room, softly closing the door behind you. Teddy runs for the back door excitedly, the house quiet in the early morning. You slip on a pair of wellies before opening the door, letting Teddy run free.

You grab the basket from the shed before heading out into the grass, following the path worn down by many pairs of boots over the last year. The grass has stopped growing in it, leaving it thick with mud in the winter and dry with dirt in the summer. It’s still damp now as you shift into spring, your boots squishing audibly as you make your way to the chicken coop.

You open the door to the hen house to let them out before you begin gathering eggs, pushing a broody hen off of her nest. She pecks at you but you simply shove her out of the way, long gone numb to the sharp pecks of their beaks.

You leave the coop, basket full of eggs in hand. You make your way further down the path to the pasture, finding Johnny meticulously combing through Flower’s thick hair.

“Morning.” You say, petting Fower’s head through the fence.

“Mornin’,” Johnny says, glancing up at you with a smile. “Get a good clutch this mornin’?”

You nod. “Almost a dozen. Twice as much as yesterday.”

“I swear they’re producing better on Tuesdays.” Johnny says.

Another moo sounds, your second cow Petal running up to the fence. “Hello, girl.” You say, patting her head. She’s younger than Flower, her horns just poking through her shaggy hair. “Where’s John?” You ask Johnny.

“Out with the sheep.” He says, moving to Flower’s other side. “Took them out early this mornin’. Probably sittin’ and watchin’ the sun rise.”

You smile softly. “I’ll leave him to his quiet time, then.” You turn, Teddy wagging his tail behind you. “What, you want to stay out here?”

Teddy barks at you, as if he’s answering your question.

“Alright, alright.” You wave your arm. “Go on.”

He runs off down the hill, and you watch until you can’t see him anymore. Silly pup. You make your way back to the house, leaving your boys to their work.

Kyle is up when you step back through the door, bleary-eyed making some tea. You toe off your mud-covered wellies, leaving them by the door before setting the basket of eggs on the counter. You lean up, pressing a soft kiss to Kyle’s cheek. He grunts in greeting, rubbing his eyes. He’s not quite the morning person as he used to be.

You grab the bucket from under the sink before you start to wash the eggs, cleaning each one meticulously before adding them to an empty carton. No doubt you’ll be sharing with the neighbors soon with how many you’ve gotten from the chickens recently.

You start the coffee machine for you and Johnny before you take the basket back out to the shed. Kyle is seated at the table when you return, nursing his hot tea, still half asleep. You squeeze his shoulder as you pass before heading back to the bedroom to change into something more comfortable for the day.

Simon has returned when you leave the room, taking Riley’s leash off before hanging it on the wall. You pat the panting German Shepherd’s head before stepping up to Simon.

“Have a good run?” You ask, leaning up to press a kiss to his lips.

“Made it all the way to the McGregors’.” He says.

“Jeez what is that, ten kilometers there and back?” You ask.

“Not quite, more like eight.” He grins.

“Still, that’s impressive.” You say, kissing him again. “Good for you, now go shower smelly man.”

“I’m not that smelly,” he says, trying to wrestle your face into his armpit.

You slip out from under his arm before he can, giggling as you back away. “Oh, no, not this today. I’m too fast for you.” You grin.

He chuckles. “That you are. I’ve gotten slow in my retirement.”

“Nah, you’re still sharp as a knife.” You say, patting his cheek before passing into the living room.

You turn on the morning news, letting it play in the background as you listen to Riley scarfing down his breakfast, and probably Teddy’s too. Kyle is moving around in the kitchen, now more alive than he was a few minutes ago, starting on breakfast.

“Bacon or sausage?” He yells.

“Bacon!” You yell back, choosing for him.

The pan starts to sizzle, and soon you can smell the delicious aroma of bacon in the air. Riley has stopped eating, no doubt laying at Kyle’s feet, waiting for anything that might “accidentally” drop onto the floor.

The back door opens, two pairs of boots and a set of paws coming into the house. Boots get toed off a the door before feet make their way towards the bedroom to change into cleaner clothes for now.

Johnny joins you on the couch, lounging across it so he can lay his head in your lap. “Mornin’ kitten.” He says, wiggling to get comfortable.

“Morning.” You say, running your fingers through his mohawk. He couldn’t be convinced to get rid of it, and it’s become a staple in his retirement. He’ll keep it until he’s old, you think. Even then, he might still wear it just for fun.

“Smells good in here.” He says, sniffing the air.

“It does. I’m so hungry.” You say, licking your lips.

Teddy pads into the living room, feet freshly wiped clean of mud. He lays himself at your feet, curling up in a ball. Riley joins the two of you, still panting a bit as he lays down next to Teddy. You had been worried when Simon adopted the retired military dog, but the two of them are like peanut butter and jelly. They got on immediately and have been practically inseparable since.

“Breakfast’s ready,” John says, sticking his head through the archway a while later, freshly shaved and washed.

Johnny rises from your lap, Teddy and Riley following him to the kitchen, you not far behind.

“Morning,” you say, pressing a kiss to John’s lips.

“Morning, love.” He says, kissing you softly.

You hum against his lips, leaning into him. He groans softly, his hands dropping to your waist to hold you.

“If you two are done making out, the food is getting cold.” Kyle calls from the kitchen.

You break apart, giggling softly. You head for the kitchen, John following behind you. You make a plate before sitting at the table beside Simon. John takes the head of the table, the five of you settling in for breakfast.

Riley and Teddy make their rounds as you eat, the world outside getting brighter and brighter as the sun rises. Silence has settled over the table, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. It’s a full silence, just the five of you enjoying each other’s company now that you’re together as a pack. No more fear, no more worry, no more stress.

Just the five of you living out the rest of your lives together, safe and comfortable.

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[miffyreader]

Its so bittersweet to reach the end of a series 😪

Loved this so much I cant put it into words

[noralia20]

The before, the middle and the after

nora's note : ok, i'm still not fully satisfied but you'll tell me if it's shitty. I cannot do a sad ending for the life of myself. Thanks for the long ass wait. (dividers : @pixopix)

part 1 needed

Warnings : mention of violence, swearing, grief, death, heaven (no use of y/n)

summary : after the phonecall, Steve rushes to the hospital only to find his world breaking. On your side, you're fighting into the depths or the world.

Steve doesn’t remember agreeing to get into the car.

One moment he’s basically on his knees in the Wheeler's basement, the air thick and not coming through his lung. The next he’s in the backseat of Nancy’s car, the door slamming shut behind him as Robin sits beside him. The engine starts, and the streets of Hawkins blur past the window.

Nancy is driving because she has to be. Because she’s the only one whose hands aren’t shaking so badly they’d lose grip of the wheel. Steve is normally the designated driver, great driver to be honest but right now he’s broken open. Robin is beside Steve in the backseat, her knee bouncing uncontrollably, fingers twisted into the hem of her sweater. She's not even rambling which makes it even more worrying.

Steve sits still.

His body feels wrong, like it doesn’t belong to him anymore. There’s no adrenaline, no sharp spike of action the way there always was before a fight. The fight or flight instincts are abolished. All there is left is this vast, hollow terror clawing at his chest from the inside out, scraping against bone.

This isn’t fear of dying. This is fear of watching everything fall apart while he stands there, helpless. A fear that he thought would never come up again.

He stares straight ahead, eyes unfocused, denial settling over him like a heavy blanket. This isn’t real. It can’t be. This is a misunderstanding, a bad joke, some cruel nightmare brought on by exhaustion and too many beers. Any second now, he’s going to wake up in his bed with you warm at his side, hair tangled across his shoulder, complaining that he stole the blankets again.

His brain almost believes it, since it was safer than anything in this moment. Until Nancy slows down the car.

Steve’s head snaps toward the window without him consciously deciding to move. The simple movement already send nausea straight through his senses. He finally notices the world outside has shifted. Red and blue lights flood the night.

They flash so brightly it burns his retinas, and for a split second he has the absurd thought that this must be what dying feels like. Just a brightness swallowing everything else. Like a nuclear bomb.

Police cars. Fire trucks. An ambulance parked at an angle that makes Steve’s stomach lurch.

Time seems to become a concept. Everything moves in slow motion now, like the world has decided to torture him by forcing him to see every detail.

His brain tells him not to look but he does anyway. There’s a car on its roof. Your car.

The recognition is instant and devastating. His breath catches so sharply that his lungs burn immediatly from the lack. The side of the car is torn open, metal bent and ripped like paper, glass scattered across the asphalt in a cruel constellation. It doesn’t look like a car anymore. It looks like wreckage. Like something that should never have had a person inside it.

Steve’s vision swims. He feels sick.

Robin is quick to act. She grips the side of his face, turning his head away with desperation. “Don’t,” she says, voice breaking. “Steve—don’t.”

She prevented something worse, something she saw before he did. The dark stain on the pavement half-dried and soaking into the cracks in the road. What could only be your blood.

The distance between the car and that awful patch of ground tells her everything he never wanted to know. How your body must have been thrown weightless through the windshield, laying on the cold and soaked ground. She holds back something between a sob and a gag. She pulls him closer, pressing his face into her shoulder as if she’s trying to shield him from the image burned into her brain.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, over and over, like it’s a prayer. “I’m so sorry.” She turns to Nancy through the mirror and signals her to drive faster throught the god awful scene. Past the place where your life split violently into before and after.

Steve doesn’t move away from her shoulder until they arrive at the hospital.

The automatic doors slide open and he’s suddenly rushing forward, words tumbling out of him as he tries to explain to the poor receptionist. "My girlfriend, she was in an accident, please, I need to see her-" but the receptionist’s calm voice only makes the panic worse.

Then a fire door down the corridor opens, revealing Hopper stepping out. He looks older somehow. Smaller. His face is drawn tight, red around the eyes, like he’s been scrubbing at himself too hard. When he sees Steve, something painful crosses his expression.

And a part of Steve already knows.

He starts talking immediately, questions spilling out of him in a rush. "Is she awake? Can I see her? Where is she? Is she okay?" Hopper raises a firm hand to stop him. “Steve,” he says, voice low. “Sit down.”

Steve doesn’t want to. He wants to keep moving, because moving means alive. And right now he needs you to be alive. And if he keeps moving, that means he's alive and you are too because he can't live without you. But his legs finally betray him, and he sinks into the plastic chair as Hopper sits across from him, forearms resting on his knees.

“She has internal bleeding,” Hopper says carefully. “They took her straight into emergency surgery.” Steve’s heart slams painfully against his ribs. “She took a hard hit to the chest,” Hopper continues. “Some of her organs didn’t handle it well.”

Steve swallows hard. “Did you… did you see her?” Hopper hesitates, and that's never good. “I was in the ambulance with her,” Hopper admits quietly. “Her heart stopped once on the way. They got it back.”

Steve’s world fractures with an audible crack. “She was hooked up to more tubes and machines than I’ve ever seen,” Hopper adds, voice thick. “And that’s saying something.”

Steve can’t breathe.

He presses his palms into his eyes like he can physically hold himself together, like pressure alone might keep him from splintering apart. Images crash through his mind, ricochetting against one another, your laugh, your hands in his hair, the way you looked at him like he was something good.

“Did they get the guy?” Steve asks hoarsely, clinging to anything that isn’t this. “The driver.”

Hopper shakes his head. “Not yet.” Another feeling fills him. He follows it because it's beter than just the pain. Anger , hot and useless, but it burns and it keeps him going.

Steve just wants to wake up. He wants to go back to this evening. Just before the argument and all the words he wishes he’d said differently. He wants to chase you out the door this time, grab your wrist, pull you back, tell you he’d go anywhere as long as it was with you.

He wants to hold you. To apologize. To tell you that he’d leave Hawkins, the country, the planet if that’s what it took. That he’d fly to the moon just to see you smile again. Your beautiful smile. Will it fade into a memory one day, sooner than he wishes.

But all he can do now is wait. Steve bends forward, sinking his head into his hands, shoulders caving inward as the weight of it all finally crushes down on him.

Everything feels…wrong in the gentlest way possible.

You feel light. Not like you're floating, or falling, just unburdened. There’s a faint chill against your skin, like a breeze brushing past you. You feel somehting tickling your arms and legs. You don’t remember how you got here. That realization doesn’t frighten you at first. It simply is.

Your eyes flutter open.

Sunlight floods your vision, bright and golden, sitting high in the sky. The sun is too high to be morning, not low enough to be evening. It looks like early afternoon, maybe. Close to two. The warmth presses against your skin in that unmistakable way that can only belong to summer. You ears buzz with the chorus of cicadas. Simply because the world itself is alive and breathing.

It's summer.

You sit up and immediately regret it. A sharp brightness forces your eyes shut again as sunlight reflects violently off some surface nearby. You lift a hand to shield your face, blinking until the glare softens enough for you to look again.

Lovers Lake.

The sight steals the breath from your lungs.

The water stretches out before you, reflecting the sky like glass. The trees surrounding it are lush and green, leaves shimmering gently in the heat. Everything looks warm. Alive. Glistening. Beautiful in a way that feels almost unreal, like the edges are too soft, the colors too saturated.

So beautiful it almost feels like...

A memory.

A knot twists faintly in your stomach. You’ve never liked the lake. Not really. Not since the spring of ’86. Not since things crawled out of water and tried to destroy everything you knew once again. But standing here right now, there isn’t the fear you expected. No dread. Just a quiet sense of familiarity, like you’ve been here before in this exact moment.

You push yourself to your feet. When you look down, you realize you’re wearing your favorite summer dress. The soft fabric brushes against your knees, sun-warmed and familiar. You smile faintly.

Someone gave this to you. Someone special, someone who knew you well enough to know this would become your favorite thing to wear in summer.

But your mind doesn’t come up with any name.

You try to grasp it but find only fog. The harder you push, the emptier it feels. Your head feels warm, hazy, like you’ve been lying in the sun for too long. Still, the confusion doesn’t panic you. Not yet.

You’re alone.

The realization settles slowly. You turn in a slow circle, scanning the shoreline, the trees, the path that winds into the woods. No voices. No movement. No sign of anyone else.

And you don’t remember how you got here.

You start walking, you feel your ankles brushing against hairy and soft grass. You know these woods. At least, you feel like you do. Your body seems to remember paths your mind can’t quite access. But after a while, something feels off.

The trees start to blur together.

You swear you’ve passed that same crooked tree before. The one with the split trunk and the exposed roots. Once. Twice. Three times.

Your pace quickens.

“Hello?” you call out, your voice sounding too loud in the quiet. “Is anyone there?”

No answer.

You walk faster, and faster. Until your heart begins to pound. You don’t know if it’s from exertion, or from the growing sense that something isn’t right. The woods feel familiar yet wrong, as if it was the réflexion of reality. Everything was right where it was supposed to be but at the opposite. And you didn’t know where to cross the mirror.

You break into a sprint. “Hey-!” you shout, breath hitching. “Please-someone!”

But even as the words leave your mouth, you falter. Who are you calling for?

The question hits you hard, stopping you mid-step. Your chest tightens as you realize there are no names on your lips. None waiting to be spoken. You know you’re missing someone, more than one someone, surely. But their faces blur, their voices slip through your fingers like sand.

It’s not that you don’t. It’s that you can’t remember anything.

Panic finally claws its way into your chest. You run again, blindly now, branches brushing past your arms, heart racing as if it’s trying to escape your ribcage.

Then finally the trees thin. You stumble into a clearing. You know it’s a place you’ve been before. Like an old music you haven’t listened to in a long time. Wildflowers blanket the grass in every color imaginable, swaying gently in the breeze. You don’t remember such details. It’s like an edited painting made to be more beautiful. In the center stands a single wooden picnic table, worn smooth by time, its surface faded and scarred.

You approach it slowly, as if afraid it might disappear.

Your fingers trail over the wood, tracing old marks scratches, shallow carvings, initials that have been worn nearly smooth by years of weather and use. You feel a strange affection for it, a warmth spreading through your chest as if you’ve sat here before. Laughed here. Loved here.

A rustle sounds behind you. You stiffen instinctively as the sound morphs into heavy steady footsteps, crunching against the fallen leaves.

You spin around, heart leaping into your throat.

And then you see him.

A familiar silhouette stands at the edge of the clearing, emerging from the trees like a ghost pulled from memory. Dark curls frame his face, just as wild and unmistakable as you remember. He looks the same. Exactly the same. As if time itself never dared touch him.

Your breath catches painfully.

You haven’t seen him in what feels like decades.

You would recognize him anywhere. In any lifetime. From how desperately, how endlessly, you’ve wished to see him standing in front of you again.

His name slips from your lips before you can stop it.

“Eddie?”

Hours bleed into what feels like eternity in his mind. Time loses all meaning.

The hospital lights never dim, giving him a headache to the back of his skull. The beeping machines never stop. Steve sits hunched forward in a plastic chair that feels molded to his body by now, elbows on knees, hands clasped so tightly his fingers ache. Every few minutes he looks up, hoping someone will come out smiling, telling him it was bad but manageable, that you’re strong, that you pulled through.

Instead, when the doctors finally approach, their faces are grim in a way Steve recognizes instantly. He hasn't seen that kind of expression much in life. he had seen it on Dustin's face when he came back alone from the upside down that day. For a split second, he is certain you are already gone.

The thought hits him like a physical blow. His vision narrows, ears ringing, heart slamming so violently against his ribs it hurts. The world caves inward, crushing him beneath its weight. Even though the doctors haven't said anything just yet. He stands on wobbly legs, grabbing the attention of his friends sitting beside him.

Then one of the doctors speaks. They tell him your heart is still beating. Steve latches onto that word like a lifeline. His hands tremble as hope surges up. But hope is the most uncontrolable dangerous things your heart can follow. For it can be crushes as quickly as it appeared, leaving you with its poison.

They explain that the damage was too severe. That despite everything they tried, your body is failing you piece by piece. That machines are doing what you can no longer do on your own. That they can keep your heart going a little longer but not you. That it would be a 16% chance that you ever wake up. And it would need a miracle for your body to start working on its own. That it’s time to say goodbye.

Nancy’s hand flies to her mouth, a broken sound slipping past her fingers as tears immediately spill down her cheeks. She turns away, shoulders shaking, pressing her forehead into Robin's shoulder as if she needs something solid to hold her upright.

Robin barely registered. She feels like the world had stopped spinning. That gravity would collapse and swallow them whole. Her face drains of color, lips parting as she shakes her head slowly. Perhaps if she refuses to accept the words they’ll rearrange themselves into something else.

Hopper closes his eyes. He exhales slowly, deeply, he’s done this before. This story is becoming too familiar that it makes his chest number. When he opens them again, they’re glassy, rimmed red, but steady. He nods once at the doctors, voice rough when he thanks them. There’s grief there, heavy and familiar, etched into every line of his face.

Steve hears all of it as if from underwater. Goodbye.

The word circles his mind, refusing to land. It’s absurd. It’s wrong. You don’t say goodbye to the love of your life at twenty-something in a hospital hallway that smells like antiseptic and despair. You say goodbye after fights, after road trips, after late nights when you promise to see each other tomorrow. Because there shouldn't be a permanent goodbye in his world.

His chest tightens violently. Memories start crashing into him without warning. The first day you met, how unimpressed you were, how he’d tried too hard. The night you punched him square in the jaw because you thought he was an intruder in the darkness and you were protecting the kids, and he’d been so stunned he almost laughed. The way you rolled your eyes when he teased you, the way you always reached for his hand when you were in that awful upside down.

It's like your life is flashing in front of his eyes and it's becoming blurry. He can’t remember your smile. Not clearly anymore. What if he forgets? What if grief steals pieces of you from him until all that’s left is pain and blurred edges? When was the last time you smiled at him? Was it this morning? Yesterday? During the argument?

His breathing spirals out of control, chest hitching sharply as he gasps for air that won’t come. His hands shake violently, vision blurring. “No—no, no,” he mutters, rocking forward. “This doesn’t—this doesn’t make sense.”

Robin is at his side immediately, crouching in front of him, gripping his knees to ground him. “Steve, hey—look at me,” she says, voice trembling but firm. “Breathe. You’re here. You’re okay. We’ve got you.”

Hopper kneels beside him too, one large hand steady on Steve’s shoulder. “Listen to me, son,” he says quietly. “I know it feels impossible. I know you think you won’t survive this.” Steve looks at him, eyes wild and wet. “But you will,” Hopper continues, voice thick with lived pain. “And right now? The only thing that matters is making sure she knows she’s loved. She deserves that.”

Steve doesn’t know how long it takes, but eventually the panic loosens its grip. His breaths slow.

Robin and Nancy excuse themselves not long after, voices breaking as they say they need to make calls to let everyone know, to give them the chance to come say goodbye too.

Steve barely hears them. He asks to see you. It’s close to five in the morning when they let him in. The room is quiet except for the machines.

You lie so still it hurts to look at you. Tubes snake around your body, wires attached everywhere. Your skin is so pale that you look like a porcelain doll. You look smaller. Nothing like the person who argued with him hours ago, who stormed out without giving him a chance to complain. His heart sinks in time with the monitor’s steady beeping.

Steve drags a chair closer and sinks into it, every movement careful, reverent. He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair back from your face with trembling fingers. “Hey,” he whispers, forcing his voice to stay soft, normal. “You fell asleep again.” He pretends this is just another late night. Another moment where you promised you’d stay awake through the movie and failed. He talks to you quietly, telling you everything and nothing at once, how the kids are still arguing about stupid stuff, how Robin’s trying to be brave and failing, how you scared the absolute shit out of him.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek. “I’ve got you. You’re not alone, okay?” He whispers sweet nothings over and over, voice breaking more with each one, memorizing every detail of your face like he’s afraid it’ll fade the second he looks away. This is the last time, he knows it is. The last time he’ll feel your warmth, even through the machines.

When Robin knocks softly at the door, it feels like being ripped out of a dream. She looks destroyed. Red eyes, tear-streaked cheeks. He probably doesn't look any better. Her gaze drifts to you before settling back on Steve. “They’re here,” she says quietly. “Everyone.”

The room fills slowly. Friends crowd in, standing shoulder to shoulder, breathing the same air, none of them quite believing this is real. One by one, they take turns speaking to you, voices cracking, hands trembling, tears falling freely.

Steve can’t stay. He steps outside into the night, rain pouring down just beyond the hospital overhang. Jonathan follows him out, silent for a moment before offering a cigarette.

Steve stares at it. He hasn’t smoked in years. Not since Nancy. But right now, his heart is shattering all over again. He takes it.

As the rain falls and the cigarette burns between his fingers, Steve Harrington stands there, staring into the darkness, wondering how the world can keep moving when his has just stopped.

The moment you see him, you don’t think, but your body moves.

You rush forward and throw your arms around Eddie, gripping him like he might vanish if you loosen your hold even a little. He lets out a surprised oof, stumbling back a step before wrapping his arms around you just as tightly, squeezing like it’s instinct, like muscle memory.

“Jesus–okay–hi–wow,” he blurts, voice cracking into nervous laughter. “Damn, missed you too, sunshine.”

You bury your face in his never changing leather jacket, breathing him in, and your chest aches with the relief of it. He’s here. He’s really here. And finally the hole he left is filled.

You pull back just enough to look at him, hands still fisted in his shirt like you’re afraid to let go. Words spill out of you in a rush.

“Eddie—how are you here? You–you died. Where were you? Where are we? Where’s everyone else? Why does it feel like–like something’s missing, like I forgot something important–”

“Okay, okay, whoa,” Eddie cuts in, hands up defensively, eyes wide. “Slow down, tiger. One existential crisis at a time, yeah?”

He looks at you properly now, really looks, like he’s been craving to be in front of you once again. He studies you like decades have been spent apart. And perhaps it has. After a few moments his grin falters just a bit, falling into sadness.

“Shit,” he mutters. “You’re not supposed to be here.” Your stomach drops.

“What do you mean I’m not supposed to be here?” you ask, panic already creeping in. “Eddie, what is this place?”

He drags a hand through his curls, pacing in a tight circle. “Okay, okay, uh–how do I explain this without you completely freaking out–nope, too late, you’re already freaking out, cool.” He adds when he sees the look on your face.

Then it hits you.

The intersection. The headlights. The sound of metal tearing apart.

Steve.

“Oh my God,” you whisper. “The crash. Steve–oh God, Steve.” You press a hand to your mouth, horror washing over your face. “How could I forget him?”

Eddie winces. “Yeah. That’s the part I hate about this place.” You look at him, eyes wide and shining. “Am I–am I dead?” The word feels heavy and wrong in your mouth.

Eddie shakes his head quickly. “No. No, no, no–don’t do that.” He steps closer, gripping your shoulders. “You’re not dead. Not yet. Emphasis on the yet part please.”

“Not yet?” you squeak. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Right. So,” he exhales sharply, “welcome to the Middle. Super exclusive. I’d give it a 0/5 stars” You stare at him, utterly lost. Is he messing with you right now?

“It’s… like a waiting room,” he explains, waving his hands vaguely. “Some people call it the start of death. Some call it the space between. Basically, when you’re drifting toward the other side, your brain starts doing this fun little thing where it deletes your memories like it’s freeing up storage. You know that’s what starts to happens when you see your life passing in front of your eyes.”

“That’s comforting,” you mutter weakly.

“I know, right?” Eddie snorts. “Real design flaw.”

“So… that’s why I forgot everyone?” you ask. “Steve. Our friends.”

“Yeah,” he says more softly. “You forget in the middle. You remember again at the final stop.” Fear grips your chest again. “Am I going to die?”

Eddie doesn’t joke this time. “That’s why I’m here,” he says. “Because you’re not ready. And they know it.”

“They?”

“Management,” he says with a shrug. “Big cosmic HR department. Suits everywhere. Total buzzkill.” You blink. “They sent you ?”

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “Trust me, I asked the same question. ‘You sure you want the guy with the Hellfire shirt?’ Still negotiating that, by the way. But it had some crap with your soul calling me, or some shit.”

You let out a shaky laugh despite yourself. He is indeed still dressed in his hellfire attire. “Heaven really let you in wearing that?”

He grins. “Bold of you to assume I’m in.” You smile at him. “We both know after all that happened that you’re in.” He smiles back and nod. You breathe a little easier.

“So,” you say quietly, “how do I go back?” Eddie nods once. “Come on.”

He turns and starts walking, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you follow. You do, falling into step beside him as the woods stretch out ahead.

As you walk, you talk. About him. About what he left behind. The fear. The guilt. The way Hawkins never mourned him.

“I saw,” Eddie says softly. “All of it. You can, too. But later.” The trees part, and suddenly you’re standing at Skull Rock. You smile sadly. “We really went through hell here, didn’t we?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Would not recommend the experience.”

That’s when you see it.

A door, white, floating in the air, light seeping through its edges like something alive. Warm. Inviting.

“That’s it,” Eddie says, presenting it with his hand. “Your exit.” You step closer, then stop. “Why can’t you come with me?” Eddie reaches for the handle. It doesn’t budge. “Locked,” he says simply. “Figures.”

“Let me try,” you whisper. You grasp the handle, and it opens effortlessly. Light spills out, wrapping around you in warmth and comfort so intense it almost makes you cry.

You turn back to him, tears already falling. “I don’t want to say goodbye again.” Eddie smiles, soft and real, eyes shining. “I prefer to say it’s a ‘see you later’.” He taps your chest gently. “You’ll know the way back to Harrington. Trust me.”

You sob, pulling him into one last hug. “Go,” Eddie murmurs. “He’s waiting.”

Steve finishes his cigarette in silence. Jonathan doesn’t say anything, and Steve is grateful for that. He doesn’t need words. Jonathan’s quiet presence is enough. Because the next days are goign to be loud, and the next years will be silent. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask anything of you.

The rain has stopped. It’s 7 a.m., early May. The air smells clean, washed of the night. The sky is no longer black but a pale, fragile blue. Steve watches it like it means something. Like it’s a sign.

The last sunrise, a part of him thinks, and he doesn’t know whether he means yours or his.

He turns back toward the hospital and walks inside.

The moment he crosses the threshold, a tight grip seizes his chest. He knows. There’s no logic to it, no medical explanation, just the deep, animal certainty that the end is close. The hallway is filled with quiet sobbing.

Robin is folded into herself against the wall, face buried in her hands. Nancy’s arms are wrapped around her, both of them shaking. Hopper stands a little apart, staring at the floor next to Joyce.

Dustin looks up when he sees Steve. He doesn’t say anything. He just steps forward and hugs him like he’s afraid Steve might disappear too. It’s a warm hug. Steve holds on. For just a second, he lets himself lean into it. Then Dustin pulls back, nodding once, eyes red and glossy but steady. He understands. They all do.

Steve looks around at them, his family, his kids, his people and his heart aches with the sheer amount of love packed into such a small space. Love with nowhere to go. Love with no place to land.

He turns and walks toward your room. At the doorway, he stops, taking it all in. Entering your space one last time.

He sits in the chair beside your bed as dawn spills through the window behind him, painting the room in pale gold. You look so still. So impossibly young. Twenty-two forever.

Steve had always thought he would die first. Even if it was decades from now. Even if it was old age, gray hair, wrinkled hands. He had never imagined a world where he’d have to walk it without you. Never imagined plans unraveling like this, because life doesn’t care about promises or futures. “You know,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “I really thought I’d go first.” He tells you how the world will keep spinning. How he’ll get older while you stay exactly as you are. How unfair that feels. How wrong. Then he forces himself to smile a little, changing the subject, because he doesn’t want the last things you hear to be sadness.

He tells you about your first date. How he was convinced he’d screwed it up beyond repair. How he sat by the phone afterward, heart in his throat, fully prepared to never hear from you again. “But you called,” he whispers, a soft laugh breaking through his tears. “And I swear, there’s no universe where we didn’t end up together. Even if this one… didn’t give us enough time.” He swallows hard. “No matter what,” he says, “I’ll wait for you.”

His voice cracks when he apologizes, for the argument, for the words he didn’t say, for every moment he wasted being afraid. “I love you,” he whispers, leaning forward, forehead resting gently against your hand. Then the beeping changes. It becomes loudand continuous. Flat.

Steve freezes. Doctors rush in, voices urgent, hands moving fast, and Steve stumbles back as panic explodes in his chest. He knows.

This is it. This is the end.

You step toward the doorway.

The light spilling from it is warm, gentle, silver, wrapping around your skin like moonlight. You take one more breath and move to cross the threshold.

The door slams shut before you can. Hard.

It hits you square in the face, the sound echoing unnaturally loud through Skull Rock. You stumble back with a startled cry, clutching your nose.

“What the hell?!” you gasp. You reach for the handle immediately, rattling it.

Locked. You twist it again, harder this time. Nothing. You turn slowly toward Eddie. He looks just as confused as you feel. “Uh,” he says intelligently. “That’s… new.” You frown. “You said this was my way out.”

“It is!” he insists, hands flying up. “At least it was ! I swear I didn’t know, there’s no cosmic ‘slam door in face’ feature that I know of!”

You open your mouth to respond and then it hits. A searing, blinding pain explodes in your chest.

It feels like something is squeezing your heart in a fist made of fire. Your breath vanishes. The world tilts violently beneath you and your knees buckle.

Eddie catches you.

“Whoa—hey, hey!” he shouts, lowering with you, panic replacing every trace of humor. “What’s happening? Talk to me!” He's swearing things he probably shouldn't say considering he comes frome heaven or something. You clutch at your chest, gasping. “It- hurts-”

The pain is like a sharp stab and spreads quickly through your chest like electricity, and you instinctively look down at your hands. They’re flickering. For a split second, you can see through them like you’re nothing more than a projection glitching in and out of existence. Then they solidify again. Then flicker.

Your stomach drops. “Eddie,” you whisper, terrified. He stares at your hands, eyes going wide. “No. No, no, no, shit—that’s not supposed to happen.” You blink, now your whole arm fades again, translucent, barely there. “What’s happening to me?” you choke out.

Eddie shakes his head, curls bouncing wildly as he looks around like he expects someone to pop out and fix this. “This isn’t how it works. You’re supposed to go back. That’s the whole point. You’re not supposed to-” His voice cracks. “You’re not supposed to glitch out like some busted arcade machine!”

Another wave of pain rips through you and you double over, clutching his jacket. “I can’t-” you gasp. “I can’t feel-”

“You’re crossing,” Eddie breathes, realization dawning on his face. “But not the right way.” You look at him, vision blurring. “Your body,” he says quickly, gripping your shoulders. “It’s starting to cross you toward the after. When it’s supposed to be pulling you back to the before.” You shake your head weakly. “I don’t understand-”

“It means your body’s failing,” he says, and the words sound foreign in his mouth, like he doesn’t want to claim them. “It’s not holding on. It’s not doing what it’s supposed to do.” Your hands flicker again, longer this time.

Eddie swears under his breath, fear finally cracking fully through his messy bravado. “No, no, no, come on. This isn’t the plan. This is not the plan.” He looks at the sky, as if he's screaming at corporation. You can feel it now. The pull.

Not the warm invitation of the door you tried to walk through but something deeper. It's light blue and colder, dragging you somewhere you didn’t choose. Eddie cups your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. “Hey. Stay with me,” he says urgently. “You’re not done. You hear me? You’re not done.” But your edges blur again, your body flickering like a dying light.

The flatline barely finishes echoing before the room explodes into motion.

Doctors and nurses flood in, surrounding your bed in a rush of blue scrubs and sharp commands. Steve is shoved back by the sheer force of it, the chair scraping loudly across the floor.

“She’s not a DNR!” someone snaps. “We can get her back, start compressions!”

Steve stands frozen as hands press hard against your chest. The rhythmic, brutal force of it makes his stomach turn. One, two, three, counting under their breath. The flat light on the machine starts to vibrate. “She’s no longer asystolic, charge the machine.” The machine whines as they charge it.

“Clear!” Your body jolts with the shock, it’s not as violent as he’d expected. Steve flinches like he’s the one being electrocuted. “Epinephrine!” “Push one milligram!” Another shock. Another jolt.

The room is chaos, shouting, beeping, the mechanical hiss of oxygen. Steve’s ears ring, his brain unable to process any of it except one terrible thought: this is how she dies.

Not the calm death you could’ve had but people around you fighting to keep you.

A nurse appears at his side. “Sir,” she says gently, placing a steady hand on his arm. “We need some space.”

“I—no, I can’t—” His voice cracks apart. “I can’t leave her.”

“You’re not leaving her,” she assures him softly, guiding him toward the door. “We’re working on her. She’s young. Strong. You probably haven’t said your last words yet.”

He’s too numb to answer. He lets himself be led into the hallway, but the second the door swings shut, the sounds become worse somehow, ramming through his skull. Like nightmare being loved over and over.

Steve’s legs wobble violently.

He presses his back against the wall, trying to stay upright, but the weight on his chest becomes unbearable. His knees give out and he slides down until he’s sitting on the cold hospital floor, head falling forward into his hands.

He’s crying now.

Not quiet tears. Not controlled. He’s wrecked, shoulders shaking, breath hitching painfully as if the air itself is cutting him on the way in. The kind of sobs you only have when you’re a kid and disappear with age.

It feels like the world is collapsing inward, the walls narrowing, the ceiling pressing down. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. He can’t survive this.

So his brain tries to save itself where the heart can’t. He goes to his happy place.

Sunday mornings.

The kitchen is warm and golden with sunlight. The radio hums softly in the background, “Don’t stop me now” makes you hips swing excitedly. You’re barefoot, wearing one of his old t-shirts, swaying absentmindedly as you flip pancakes at the stove.

You hum off-key.

He stands at the counter, pretending to be offended that you won’t let him handle the flipping because “you always burn them, Harrington.”

He only burns them because he’s distracted by you. He laughs in the memory.

He can smell the batter. Hear the sizzle in the pan. See the way you bump your hip against his when you pass by.

It’s simple. So simple it feels stupid. But it’s happiness and he can feel it slipping through his fingers. God knows how long he stays there.

The flickering stops. Just like it appeared it simply went away without explanation.

One second you’re blinking in and out like a dying bulb and the next, you’re solid again. And the searing pain in your chest vanishes as if it was never there.

You let your lungs gasp some much needed oxygen, even though air doesn’t quite feel like air.

Eddie exhales so hard it’s almost a laugh. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t do that. I already died once, I don’t need round two for heart failure.”

You look down at your hands. “I think…” you breathe. “I think it stopped.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding quickly. “Yeah, you’re good. You’re back on track. Whatever was going on down there? They fixed it.”

Down there. The Before. Your body.

You slowly push yourself to your feet. Eddie keeps a steadying hand near your elbow like he doesn’t quite trust the universe not to yank you sideways again.

You walk back to the door. It’s still there luckily. You grab the handle.

Locked. You frown, rattling it once more. “Seriously?” you mutter. Eddie shrugs. “Your body’s probably not ready to wake up yet.”

“So what do I do?” He gestures broadly to the clearing. “We wait.” You glance at him. “You’ve got a few hours,” he adds. “Give or take. Hard to tell. Time’s weird here.”

You nod slowly and sit down in the grass beside him. The flowers sway around you, the sky still painted in that endless golden afternoon. And you talk. For hours. Face to face in the grass like you’re kids again. You tell him everything that happened after he was gone, even though he says he saw most of it.

“I know,” he says softly at one point. “I saw you guys. All of you. Especially Henderson disobeying me. But when did that kid ever listened you'll tell me.”, he shrugs. You tell him about the way Hawkins changed.About the guilt. The grief. The way Dustin still talks about him like he might walk through a door any second.

You tell him about Steve. About how messy and stubborn and soft he is. About your fights and your dreams and the way he knocks on doors in secret rhythms.You're sure it's not his favourite part, talking about Steve Harrington's love life. But he listens.

You tell him about people he never got to meet. Like Johnathan or El or Will. About friends who came later. He listens to every word like it matters. Like you weren't in the middle of life or death and none of it really mattered anymore. But for him you matter. Right this moment.

The sun begins to lower in the sky of the Middle. The light shifts from gold to amber to something darker. You’re mid-sentence, laughing about something stupid, when the door behind you slams open on its own.

You both turn. It stands wide open now, light pouring out in warm waves. Eddie nods slowly. “Huh. Took less time than I thought.” You blink. “What do you mean?” He pushes himself up, brushing grass off his jeans. “Time’s different here. The Middle and the After run faster than the Before.” You frown. “Faster how?” He tilts his head, calculating.

“Roughly? A day here is about six months down there.” Your breath catches in your throat. “You’ve been waiting…” he glances at the sky, squiting his eyes. “About eight hours.” Your mind spins at the calculation. “That’s two months,” you whisper. He glances back down at you. “Yup,” he says gently. Two months. So much time you've lost for a simple mistake.

Steve. You step toward the door, heart pounding. You’re ready. But then something stops you. It’s not physical pain this time. It’s grief. It swells in your chest, stealing your breath in a completely different way. You turn back to Eddie. “I don’t want to leave you,” you whisper.

His face softens immediately. “And I don’t want you to stay,” he replies.Tears well in your eyes. “You’re here alone.”

“I’m not alone,” he says gently. “And even if I was? That’s not your burden to carry, sweetheart.”

“I want you back with me,” you ramble, voice breaking. “You should be there. You should’ve had more time. You didn’t get to live your life, Eddie.” He steps closer. “Hey,” he says softly. “It’s not your time. That’s the deal. And yeah, it’s gonna hurt like a bitch. Death sucks. And it'll hurt you more for you than me.” You blink. “What?”

“You’ve got a lifetime ahead of you,” he explains. “Decades. You’re gonna miss me sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” you choke out. He smiles faintly. “Okay. A lot, at first.” Tears spill down your cheeks. “But for me?” he continues. “It’ll only be a few days.” You stare at him, confused. He nods toward the sky. “Time here, remember? Six months a day. You’ve been gone two months already. By the time you get back and live your whole long ass life? It’ll feel like a blink to me.”

That brings slight dread and relief to you. “I’ll see you soon,” he says softly. “Just not your soon.” You step closer, gripping his hands. They're as warm as you expected them to be, and the cold metal of his rings contrasting with them.

“I wish you a long, long life,” he says, voice thick now. “Go study. Go love. Go fight. Go live every stupid, beautiful dream you’ve got. Miss me sometimes. But not all the time. Because you know you’ll find me again.” You’re crying openly now.

“How long till I see you again?” you ask. He grins, that cheeky grin, and blinks rapidly to chast away the tears. “I wish you to live at least...140 days.” You frown. “Seventy years,” he clarifies. “I'd say it's a pretty good deal.” You let out a watery laugh. “Deal?” he asks. “Deal,” you whisper.

You throw your arms around him and he hugs you tight; as tight like he did when you first ran to him. Both of you shaking a little now. He presses a soft kiss to your cheek.

“Go,” he murmurs. He takes your hand and guides you to the doorway. The light spills over your skin. You hesitate just once more. He squeezes your fingers. “I’ve got you,” he says. You focus on his hand as he slowly lets go. The light envelops you completely.

And the last thing you feel...Is him.

The hand doesn’t let go. You keep holding on to that single thought as you walk through was at first only light and became darkness.

It's like your vision is gone, just endless darkness. It's like you stepped wrong and fell straight into nothing. For one terrifying second, you think it failed. Think the door lied. Think this is it. An eternal, empty void where sound doesn’t exist and you’re stuck floating forever.

Panic crawls up your throat. You try to move, but you feel weightless, attatched to nothing not even the ground. Like you’re drifting farther and farther away from everything that ever mattered. Into space like a lost meteorite.

Then sound rushes in your ears.

Beep.

Another one follows.

Beep.

It’s distant at first, echoing like it’s underwater. You cling to it instinctively, like a rope thrown into darkness. You follow the sound, even though something in your gut screams that it’s a bad idea. The closer you get, the louder it becomes, until it’s not echoing anymore, it’s pounding. Right into your skull. You wince. You can't even look down at yourself, it's like you don't exist. You don't have legs or arms or hands... Hands.

And that’s when you notice it again. The hand. You still feel a hand wrapped around yours. But it’s not Eddie. And then what you suggest is your chest, flutters.

Once.

Twice.

Your breath stutters like your body is remembering how to exist. You’re not floating. You’re heavy. Anchored. Pressed into something firm beneath you.

A bed.

It’s not a void.

It’s just your stupid, stubborn, closed eyes. And you're the conscience right now. You focus with everything you have, every ounce of will, and try to open them. Your lids feel impossibly heavy, like they’re glued shut. You manage the smallest crack and light spills in, blinding and soft all at once.

You hum weakly, a sound you don’t even realize you make. Already complaining at the all to bright light. Everything is blurry.

Hand.

Beeping.

Light.

There’s a figure beside you.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Standing close enough that you can feel their presence even before you see them properly. The sun is behind them, pouring in through a window, outlining them in gold. For half a second you wonder if this is what angels are supposed to look like.

The figure moves, they lean closer, squeezing your hand just a little tighter. A voice reaches you, muffled, like it has to fight its way through cotton.

“Hey… hey, easy. I’ve got you.” I've got you ? Someone said that to you a few moments ago but you can't remember. Your throat feels raw when you try to speak. “St—” it comes out broken. The figure stiffens.

You try again, forcing the word through with everything you have. “Steve.” He lets out a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Yeah,” he breathes, voice cracking completely now. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m here.” Your vision clears just enough for his face to come into focus.

Steve.

He's real. Yes he seems exhausted, with eyes red and glassy, tears clinging to his lashes. His hair is a mess like he’s been running his hands through it nonstop. And his freckled skin needed some rest from the frowning. It was unfair how wrecked he looked yet still impossibly beautiful in the early morning light.

He squeezes your hand again like he’s scared you might disappear if he doesn’t.

You stare at him. Just stare. Drinking him in, the way some people do while looking at painting in museum, you're looking at your love. The way his jaw trembles. The way his smile keeps breaking apart because he can’t stop crying.

He's here and you are too. And it's morning on Hawkins. Just sunrise filtering into a quiet hospital room. His thumb strokes across your knuckles absentmindedly. You take a slow breath, not really knowing what to say.

“I…” You swallow. Your voice is small. “I fell asleep during the movie again, didn’t I?” It takes him a second to process it. Then he huffs out another wet laugh, tears spilling over. “Yeah,” he nods quickly, playing along immediately. “Yeah, you did. Worst timing ever.”

“I told you to pause it,” you murmur weakly. He wipes his face with the back of his hand. “You were out for a while. Thought about finishing it without you.” You narrow your eyes slightly. “Rude.”

“I know.” He leans down and kisses your forehead gently. His lips linger there. “But it was worth the wait.” There’s so much in his voice. So much love. So much relief. So much fear. Something like disbelief.

You let your eyes close for just a second to bask in the warmth of it all. The sun is higher now, bathing the room in soft morning gold. When you open them again, he’s still there. Watching you like you’re the only thing in the world.

Apologies are hanging in the air. Explanations. Questions about what you remember. About what happened.

You know there will be conversations. Hard ones. Emotional ones. But not right now. Right now, you’re here. He’s here.

Your heart is beating. The world didn’t end.

You squeeze his hand back with what little strength you have. “I’m okay,” you whisper. His face crumples again at that. “I know,” he says softly. “You’re okay. I'm okay. We're okay.”

And you let it all go to flames. Between the rising sun of Hawkins, with monitors humming gently and his hand anchoring you to the earth, you let it all be simple. Because that's what it is. And it's happy. And that’s enough.

tag list for this second part : @sarkastic1515 @taylor-27 @itslivz @aestheticsunflower19 @ilovesfandoms @thexhotmess @theallisonkeery @lalqu @catloverteen @girlnextdoore @offbrandhandymanny @mblovestaylor @damiiworld @hottie-bishop-belova @lala426

[miffyreader]

I'm sobbing 😭 its 1 am and im sobbing.

Whatever you do dont forget your tissues before reading this.

[perplexedpondering]

I won’t tell, if you don’t

PART ONE

{part two} {part three}

Steve Harrington x Wheeler!reader

Word count: 4.8K

Synopsis: two years after your little sister and Steve break-up, you’re still hiding your long hidden feelings from him– that is until he drives you home from a party. 18+!!!

[a/n: this is the most nervous I’ve been about a fic ever. I’m playing around with morally dubious people. This is going to be a series. I really hope yall can still engage with them even though they’re incredibly FLAWED. Enjoy!]

[MASTERLIST]

You’re really not this type of person. 

That’s how you rationalise the predicament you’ve found yourself in over the past couple years. You used to be the type of person that stayed out of trouble as a rule. Call it glass kid syndrome, or whatever psycho-babble would say about you- until you were seventeen you were a sensible person.

And then something changed. You changed. For whatever reason why, you had completely divorced yourself from all the core beliefs you once held. You'll never know why it happened to you. All you knew for certain was that coveting your sister's ex-boyfriend is not who you were. But it’s who you are now.

There was always a standard set when you were a kid about your role in the family dynamic. You’re the oldest of four, which meant you were trial and error. The experiment, so to speak. Being that you were an Irish twin- only twelve months older than your sister- it always felt like you were supposed to be the responsible one. Even though you were just as helpless.

It wasn’t as though there was a lack of love in your home. No, that was never it. But there wasn’t time for you to screw up. Nancy was the one who snuck boys up through her window and disappeared for a night with little to no explanation because no matter what way it was cut, you were supposed to know better. 

And up until Steve Harrington you did. 

These past couple years, you’ve been the problem child. The one who mom calls every sunday to check that you hadn’t destroyed your life in some new obscure way once again. It had been less overbearing since you’d gone to college. But you knew that none of them believed you when you said you were fine. You’d made too many mistakes during senior year to be trusted again. It was just a by-product of running away from your troubles, but your girl interrupted act that year had almost completely dismantled your families tentative dynamic. 

It wasn’t like Steve and Nancy were together long. It was barely anything. A blip. But it was enough. And even though you knew him first- even though he was your age and in all of your classes- she was the one that got paired in a project with him. That’s what had really eaten you. That’s what pushed you over the edge- from quiet kid to burn-out biting bitch.

Sometimes you think about what it would’ve been like if he hadn’t seen her first. If he’d have accidentally crawled through your window one night instead of hers, where you could’ve convinced him that you weren’t the weird older sister. You used to wrap yourself in what-ifs like a protective shield so you could avoid having to look in your own eyes and justify what you felt. But ifs-and-but’s are storybook rhymes- it never happened, it never would and you’re still the abhorrent, greedy, selfish girl who covets things that don’t belong to them.

It was hardest during senior year. That was before Nancy had found a home with Jonathon- sledgehammering the soon-to-be nuclear wife role that everyone had always thought would lay in her future.

Back then, you were having to decide how exactly you were going to keep up the facade if he were to become your brother-in-law. You were carefully deciding how far you could flee for college to escape the living nightmare you’d created for yourself. 

Back then, you were forced to stare it down each and every day. It was like narrowly avoiding land-mines. Rehearsing excuses in the mirror of why you’d rather not catch a ride to school with them, or why you seemingly hated your little sister's perfect boyfriend. You’d been given no choice. The heat from being cruel to him seemed to be more practical than admitting how you felt.

And then the universe gave you an out, served piping hot on a platter. They broke up and life could finally go on as it should. But it didn't stop you from staring at the back of his head in class or bumping into him around town. So, the feelings dampened down to weak cry, instead of the scorching, cloying wail it had been before. 

But still, you find yourself sitting on the corner of parties, eyes narrowed in over your cup to watch him smoke cigarettes and drink beer. It maybe won’t ever change, you reason, but it's less than it was, and for that you’re thankful.

Mostly thankful.

Tonight is one of those nights where you don’t feel much like being happy about any of it. It’s too hot, too loud, and he’s too close. Summer had found you once more. Back at home until the first semester of Junior year rolls back around in the fall.

College is a strange one. You spend a third of the year playing dress-up as an adult, who lives in your own place with friends your family haven’t met- and then you come home to be a kid again. A novice child who loves someone who knows they exist but for all the wrong reasons.

Nancy wouldn’t be home for a month yet. She’d snagged an internship that would extend for a month past the semester’s close- not that you guys would go to the same parties anyway. It was a surprise to even find Steve here. He never used to debase himself with your crowd back in school but you guess the ever changing small town politics found things changing at wild abandon. So, here he is. In your burn-out friend’s basement, giggling with Robin like they were long lost twins. 

“Stop starin’” Eddie mumbles to you from the corner of his mouth like anyone would understand the subtext he meant with his words.

You’re shaken from your internal torment to face him dead-on in the poorly lit basement of Reefer Rick's, where your oldest friend now lived. Eddie is the only one who knows about the Steve situation. You guys were practically joined at the hip for the last year of school. You didn’t really have any close friends before that. Your wild streak had found you buying weed off him and ever since, he’d served as a life-line. You told him about your unrequited love during a drunken night, between retches over a toilet bowl, and to your surprise he held your secret with guarded reserve. All this time.

“I’m not staring. I just can’t work out when he became friends with Robin.” You whisper pointedly. 

“Dude, I’m saying this because I love you- you need to stop torturing yourself.” Eddie says gripping you at your shoulders. 

There’s nothing he could say that you haven’t already tried to manipulate yourself into thinking. You’d consider shock-therapy if you thought it would work. You doubt sincerely that anything ever will. You’d done it all. Random sex, copious drinking, smoking weed (only to make you more anxious about your secret anyway.) Nothing was yet to yield results.

You jut your foot out to dramatically kick the air, picturing your own face as the target. “He’s just everywhere. Do you know that my mom still has a photo of him and Nance on the wall? They’ve been broken up longer than they were together, Eddie.”

Your dark haired friend sighs and pats down the side of your head like you were a small child. “I know, bug. It’s shitty for you, but I hate watching you suffer. What can I do? Freshen your beverage, perhaps?”

You sigh meekly and look at your mostly foam beer. You suppose you won’t be able to do the rest of the night sober and silently agree to his offer. He skips off without any more query. That was the nice thing about you guys. There wasn’t a need for long conversations, you knew each other too well. 

The cushion that Eddie had only just vacated is sunk into next to you before you can even notice that someone was closing in on it. You’re entirely regretful for agreeing to the drink when you catch wisps of fluffy brown hair now sitting so close to you that you can smell the product within it. 

Steve is grinning at you before you can even address his sudden proximity. He was still working under the notion that you’re not all that much a fan of his- consequence from your cold demeanor toward him over the years. He must read your pleading eyes as that, and not your defense mechanism kicking in to self-preserve.

“C’mon, don’t tell me you still hate me.” He smugly simpers. “It’s been a hundred years.”

You believe this is the first conversation you guys have had since last winter when you and mom had bumped into him at the grocery store- where she’d not subtly pried into his love-life. She was still hopeful about making him a proxy-Wheeler.

You realise that you don’t even have the energy to be cold. “Since when did you slum it round these parts?” You ask, trying to avoid the subject of any feeling toward him. Hate, or otherwise.

He’s lazy in his shrug back. Almost like he’s trying to conceal something from even himself. 

“Not exactly King Steve these days. Plus, I just love the taste of cheap beer. Have you tasted this?” He asks, tilting his cup up to your lips.

You raise your brows at the casual nature with which he offers you a sip from his drink but on instinct you shift forward to allow him to pour some in your mouth. You’re ashamed at how much this meager interaction spikes your heart-rate. You keep your eyes locked on him to gauge his reaction to you accepting the offer. You’re always worried about how you’ll be perceived around him, but he doesn’t seem perturbed. If anything- he's amused.

You swirl the beer you’ve already tasted around your mouth like it’s a fine wine before swallowing it down. “You don’t like the taste of stale piss?” 

He chuckles weakly back at you. “College gave you a sense of humour, I see. How long you been home?”

“A week. So, about five days too long.” You mutter dejectedly.

Steve nods knowingly. It’s not exactly a secret that you don’t enjoy coming back. Your face is the giveaway. You spend most of school breaks pretty despondent. It’s just ironic that he doesn’t realise he’s half the reason why.

You can see Eddie heading back into the room, two drinks in hand. Steve notices too, and almost as if he knew that it was for you, starts to get up. You try not to be too disappointed.

“Well, if you get too bored while you’re back, you know where to find me, Wheeler.” He whispers in your ear as he stands up, knocking his knee into yours as he goes. 

Your heart plummets down and the heat in your cheeks seems to spread like wildfire through the most intimate parts of you, but you choose not to tell Eddie when he asks what Steve had wanted. You spend the rest of the night thinking about it though. Regardless of its futility. Even if you took him up on what was undoubtedly an innocent offer, it wouldn’t matter anyway.

You're the wrong sister.

–

You don’t need to take Steve up on his offer to hang out.

Once the party had dragged past fun and people falling out into collapsed heaps to make it home before dawn broke, you’d carried your tired legs out onto the lawn.

Usually you could’ve just crashed in Eddie’s room, but you had it on good authority that he’d taken a girl up there somewhere around midnight. He hadn’t appeared again so you choose to do the moral best friend thing and not interrupt whatever nefarious deed he would no doubt be up to.

You suppose maybe that had been an error when you realise you’re facing a long trek across town to home. You weren’t drunk at least. In fact, you’d nursed the last drink Eddie had got for you the rest of the night. But you do some mental math to assess the best case scenario for getting home, and you know you’d be lucky if you beat sunrise given it was summer. You can’t imagine mom would be happy if you were caught crawling in at 4am.

You don’t get a chance to make it off down the winding path ahead you before Steve’s car pulls up, sporting a sleeping Robin laid out across the back seat. If you weren’t already privy to Robin’s love affair with Vickie, you’d wonder if there was something between the two of them. It makes it easier knowing there was no way. Even if you still find it hard to imagine them being best friends in any scenario.

You halt your meandering to address him from the rolled down window of the driver's side.

“Weren’t you drinking?” You ask tiredly, and secretly judgementally at the concept of anyone drunk driving. Even if it was Steve.

“I had one beer.” He clarifies. “You’re not seriously trying to walk home from here, are you?”

You look forwardly at the dark path before you both, already knowing that it wasn’t sensible. “I was planning on it.”

Steve snorts abjectly. “Yeah, right. Get in.”

You want to argue, but then you think about the difference a ten minute drive makes to what would likely be an hour long walk– the answer is simple. Even if you find the idea of this kind of proximity to him jarring.

Steve seems shocked when you don’t fight his kind gesture. He used to offer to do stuff for you all the time when he was with Nancy– probably to get in good graces with his girlfriend’s family– and consistently he was met with firm rejection. That’s really what started the narrative of you hating Steve. You hadn’t meant to be nasty with your continued rebuffing, but you guess that’s how it came across. Eventually, everyone just decided you hated him.

Including Steve.

The car is welcomely warm. Despite being June already, the nights were surprisingly nippy. You peek back at Robin as he puts the car back into drive. She’s completely dead to the world, mouth hung wide open. You suppress a fond smile. You guys weren’t close but you’d always liked her.

“Do you think you’ll manage to sneak back into yours without getting caught?” Steve asks into the darkness. He seems incredulous at the idea.

You sigh softly, because you know he’s right. Your mom had the ears of a guard dog. Probably from years of rearing unruly teens. Especially now that Mike’s in high school. “I thought I’d be staying with Eddie, but he got lucky. For once. I am not getting in the middle of that.”

Steve stifles a laugh. “That’s thoughtful. I think I’d rather deal with that than the wrath of Karen Wheeler though.”

You try not to think too hard about how Steve knows all this stuff about your family, but not because of you. You guys have a strange tacit relationship, but barely even know each other. It’s like a stranger, except not at all. Not even close.

“Like she’s ever been anything but sweet as pie with you.” You mutter. “She’s still practically desperate that you’ll be her son-in-law.”

The quiet that follows is long and ominous. You guys haven’t been around each other for long enough since the break-up for it to be acknowledged. You do know that it wasn’t Steve who ended stuff.

Everyone knew that Steve hadn’t wanted to break-up, and you had first hand experience because you got Nancy’s inner-monologue during. You regret saying it as soon as it tumbles out. Especially when you notice the crumpled bobbing in his throat.

You have to resist the urge to punch yourself. “I’m sorry, Steve. I shouldn’t have said that. It was a dumb joke.”

Whatever passing wave of sorrow had come across Steve’s usually care-free demeanor was gone almost as soon as it appeared. You didn’t know for sure but you think that’s why you admire him from afar the way you do. Because you see a likeness in him.

There’s always been an air of forced independence around the boy– one that you can recognise from your own life. The way he swallows back whatever bad feeling is gave to him, is exactly what you do.

He lulls his head to the side to smile at you easily, like nothing had happened. “Why are you sorry? It’s old news now. Besides, it’s nice to know that at least one of the Wheelers likes me.”

You’re thoughtful about what he’s said for a moment, and you can’t help yourself. “I like you.”

The snort that rips through him is genuine amusement. “Are you kidding? Dude, I thought you were gonna snap and kill me one day.”

It’s almost nice when you laugh back. You feel it. The lightness in the conversation you guys are sharing. You’re not worried about saying the wrong thing. You’re just two people shooting the shit after a party.

“It was never that deep. I was just… going through some shit back then.” You resolve.

He hums, unsure. “If you say so. But I remember some frosty dinners.”

You guys ride in silence, coming closer and closer to the middle of town, until Steve clears his throat pointedly. “You know, I’m taking Rob back to mine. My folks aren’t in town. You could just come with us?”

You try to keep your heart from thumping up through your chest and into your throat. It’s a harmless offer– shrouded in innonence– because what else could he mean by that? When you’re you, and he’s… well, him. Still you know what the optics are. How it would look if anyone was to find out. If Nancy found out.

You’re already letting the doubtful hums come out before the words can formulate in your brain. “I don’t know. That seems…” you can’t find the right word for it.

Inappropriate? Unwise? Dangerous?

Everything about Steve was dangerous to you. Even this car ride seemed like your tiptoeing around bad news.

“C’mon, it’s got to be better than a scolding. Besides, we don’t even need to tell anyone. Robin will pass out in the spare. I’ll even give you the bed.” Steve insists.

You want to be questioning in his motives– to find fault in his logic. But you were never that sensible these days anyway. So it all makes complete sense in your weak-willed head.

“You don’t need to give up the bed. I can take the floor. And I’ll be out of your hair first thing.” You press firmly, trying to find ways of making what you were doing less obviously morally questionable.

It’s not like you were sleeping with him. But it’s also not like you don’t want to. You were probably already going to rot for eternity for desiring him the way you do anyway, so maybe this was just one more thing you would have to serve penance for in the afterlife.

Getting into Steve’s wasn’t as hard as you thought it might be. Apparently Robin is a deep sleeper, so she barely even flinches when Steve thumps her over a shoulder to get into the house. He doesn’t even bother whispering when he directs you to the last bedroom on the left while he drops her off what you guess is the guest room.

You knew Steve’s family were wealthy. Everyone in Hawkins knew. But you still find your breath being taken from you as you walk through his house. His bedroom is more quaint by comparison. It still looks like it belongs to a teenage boy. You feel stiff in the surroundings. You want to be able to relax but you can’t. You just stand impotently in the centre of it, trying to imagine his life in it.

Did he used to bring Nancy here? He must have, they were together for six months. Does he bring people back here a lot? Was he lonely in this big empty house?

You don’t have all that long to think about it because almost as soon as you’re in, Steve’s pushing past the door to shut it gently behind him. There’s a part of you that thinks about asking him to leave it open, almost like a safety clause. But you’re so nervous that you’re worried that your voice won’t carry it out of you.

He seems amused by your stiff standing when he looks back at you.

“Dude, you can relax. I'm not going to bite you or something.” He laughs, moving to pull clothes out of his drawers. “I assume you’ll need something to sleep in? Unless dresses are comfortable sleepwear?”

You fidget with the hem of the dress you’re wearing, suddenly aware that you have nothing with you. You’re entirely unprepared for a sleepover anywhere.

“Shit. Yeah, I guess.” You mumble, trying to calm the nerves you can’t seem to get a hold of. You wonder if he can tell.

You wonder even more why it is that when you’re around him, no matter how much time passes, you devolve back into the shy girl you had once been. The girl you hadn’t been in years. You’ve been in boys' houses. You’ve been in countless men’s beds. Never have you felt like this during.

You take the initiative to grab the clothes he’s laid out for you, moving to the corner of the room where the bedside table is. You shake your jacket off your shoulders, and reach back to try and unzip your dress blindly from behind. You’re mostly just losing grip on it, suddenly questioning how it was you even got it on in the first place.

You don’t dare ask Steve for help. That would officially be out of the question. But much like with the rest of this night, you don’t have to ask Steve for help. He just does it on impulse.

You feel his breath on the bareness of your shoulder before you hear him moving to you. The warm fanning causes you to freeze all tethered motion. You can’t be sure but you think your heart stops completely for a second. There’s no way that you can pretend that it’s probably just an innocent gesture, not with the way his breath hits you from such close range. Especially not when the pads of his fingers run across the skin of your shoulder blade to drag down to the zip.

“Let me help.” He whispers.

The shiver that runs up your spine is uncontainable. The fluttering in your stomach seems to ascend up through your chest and down, past your belly button, and right to your core. It’s not a weak flushing, it’s a thumping heartbeat now fully located in your most private part.

You know you’re fucked. Well, and truly, fucked. His hand works the zipper down in a fluent swoop, and you encase the front of the dress to you, to prevent it from unconcealing your modesty, even as you face away from Steve.

Your chest is shattered. You make a point not to take your eyes off of the patterned wall in front of you, because you know if you turn to face him, it’s over. You can’t pretend that you won’t let it happen if he tries. And then any concept of you being anything less than a horrible person and an even worse sister are thrown loose to the wind.

Steve’s confident in his motions. He clearly isn’t worried about rejection, or any notion that you might not want this. Maybe he’s always known how you felt. Or maybe it doesn’t matter at all. Because you ended up here anyway. He brushes the hair off your shoulder to press chaste kisses down the bare skin of it. You can feel the shake in your knees before you finally let the panted gasp out of your throat. It’s broken, just like you must be on the inside.

You wiggle yourself away from the kisses that you want to melt into, but can’t with any reasoning. You turn to face him, and it cracks you in two.

He seems to be just as honed in to whatever tension had ebbed between the two of you. The tension that has probably been there the whole night but that you’d chosen to ignore. His eyes are glazed over in a hooded hue. They don’t look their usual green. They’re dark, burnt out with what you can only recognise as hunger. He doesn’t look like Steve. He’s someone else entirely.

“We can’t.” You say back to him a broken whine.

He’s pushing forward, even with your weak disapproval, hands coming to cup around your suddenly too warm cheeks. You want to close the tiny gap now between your lips but you’re still at least masquerading reluctance, even though you know it’s not real.

“I won’t tell, if you don’t.” He finally chokes out.

There it was. The final push. The straw snapping.

You claw him forward to you, biting mouth against mouth, all teeth and clank. All rot and dirt.

He doesn’t waste precious beats, just greedily deepens the kiss, yanking the fabric of your dress down you, leaving you in unbalanced standing to his completely clothed figure.

It doesn’t last long. You’re pushing his shirt, to get it up to his chest still kissing frantically. You only detach to get it overhead, before you’re being moved with little struggle over to the bed.

You want to say that you feel guilt or shame. But it’s just not in you. All you feel is the weeping drip at your centre, coupled with the violent clench of wanting to be full of him. He remains standing over your thrown back frame, yanking his own jeans past his legs like he was feeling as desperate as you to get flesh on flesh.

“Underwear off.” He chokes, while he sheds himself of his layers.

All you can do is squeak pathetically at his firm instruction. You want to be ashamed of the way you have to peel the now wet fabric from clinging to you, but you don’t care. He helps take them off you at the ankle before he sinks down to eye level with your core. He lets his head fall forward to groan deeply.

“You’re soaked.” His voice is a cracked husk, thick with want. He’s kissing up the soft insides of your already spread wide open legs, practically vibrating at the anticipation of his mouth anywhere near the heat that was rolling off of you. “Can I taste you?”

You can barely hear your own voice agreeing pathetically eagerly, shifting your hips down to try and find his tongue as it slides up the edge of the top of your thigh. His hands grip the mounds of your hips to drag you down onto his already flattened tongue.

As soon as the first wave of pleasure rolls up you, you’re cracking upward to arch your back off the bed. It’s not like anything you’ve felt before. Maybe it was years of long anticipation, or the sense that maybe it wasn’t even really happening. But Steve’s tongue is working you over from opening up to throbbing clit, and you’re powerless to the grind of yourself into the steadily moving tongue.

It feels like hours, but it could be seconds. You’ve lost all time, or senses beyond the curling, pooling, tightening in your abdomen. But then he detaches, just as you think you won’t last a second longer, travelling up to kiss you.

You don’t need to ask if you’re going any further. You know you are. You push him by the chest to lay flat under you. You want to see him. Every inch of him. When you catch sight of his girth, you take it as a personal challenge. You want to sink yourself down on it with a battering intensity. You’re hovering just above him, already anticipating the burn, when he brushes a thumb along the swell of your bottom lip.

He’s looking up at you inquisitively, like he’s trying to place something that he just can’t.

“You don’t look like her.” He finally says.

Your heart slams in your chest, and you drop down to sink yourself onto him, letting the scream rip through you. The stretch is a welcome pain. A firm punishment for wanting this the way you do.

His groan is deep from the pitch of his chest, and he drags you further to sink right to the base– you’re nose to nose, eye to eye– collapsing all your pain into each other in an endless pounding.

–

You don’t wait for Steve to wake up before you flee the next morning. You watch the sunrise, as he’s curled around your back, sleep bitten and arms solidly wrapped around your middle.

And once reality takes hold, you’re dressing yourself in silent, frantic, wilting– running straight out the front door. Not stopping until you reach the blissful escapism of your childhood home.

You’ll have to face up to what you’ve done eventually.

But, not today.

[miffyreader]

oh heck yeah things are getting MESSY >:))

I love how quickly she folds for steve cause girl me too 😓

great fic now excuse me, I need to binge read the next parts

[stevie-petey]

episode ten: the bad

Every day you fall in love with Steve just a little bit more. Your love for him has become an endless well, its depths unknown, yet inviting despite it all.  “I think that’s a lovely idea, honey,” you bring his knuckles to your lips, kissing them softly. “Though I’m a little upset I didn’t think of it myself.” “Gotta find reasons for you to keep me around.” Steve winks. He’s just relieved to see you smiling again.  Your face burns from how hard you smile. “I’ll always keep you around, dummy.” “Good. The dating scene is currently awful in Hawkins.”

Summary: steve decides hes an f1 driver, hoppers cabin becomes hawkins hottest club, you get terrible news and try to run away (as usual), you still unfortunately have to grow up despite being deeply traumatized, dustin decides he no longer likes being your brother, lucas gives you a pep talk, max becomes your penpal, nancy becomes the proud owner of a radio tower, and you collect a few charms as compensation for The Dread. what a year !

Rating: general, slight cursing

Warnings: fem!reader, use of y/n, descriptions of PTSD (slightly), swearing, immense grief and guilt, can be viewed as suicidal thoughts (but i promise they arent)

Words: 9.2k

Before you swing in: oh my god we’re BACK !!! ive missed you all so much and i especially missed bug <3 this chapter sets a lot up for season 5, and while i dont have it outlined yet, i knew i had to give yall the final chapter of season 4 as a special thanks for waiting so patiently and continuing to support this story. im so incredibly grateful. i really hope this chapter was worth the wait. enjoy :)

-

Puffs of air swirl around you, dancing with the fallen snow-like ash that settles quietly upon the crest of your cheeks. A blood rush pounding in your ears deafen the ever increasing unnerve within the crowd amongst you. 

Bodies push against yours. Their sensation goes ignored. 

The only movement you register is Dustin’s fingers interlocking through yours, terrified, afraid, lost. 

Lost. 

You’ve lost. 

Watching smoke billowing through the sky of the hometown which once shielded you, you get lost in the ruin.

Steve’s hands force you back. 

He shoves through the crowd, through the maze of people just as lost and terrified as you are, desperate to get to you. 

“Y/N!” His voice sounds faint through the pounding in your head. You almost don’t register that it’s him, but then Steve’s hands wrap around your arms and the force of his grip rips you back into reality. “Y/N, we need to leave.”

“What’s going on?” Dustin pulls you away from Steve, lost in his own panic as the sky darkens with smoke and the ground beneath begins to shake. 

Steve grabs onto his jacket, hauling him back as he grabs you once again, colliding you against Robin, death gripped behind the older teen. “We need to leave!”

The urgency in his voice shocks the remaining paralysis within you. Feet stumbling, you follow after Steve. You will always follow him.

“What the hell is happening?” Robin tries to pull away, but Steve only tightens his grip and knocks roughly into a group of strangers blocking his path. 

“Let’s go!”

His brute force startles you. “Steve, where are you–”

But your words get drowned out by the monotony of others asking each other the same frightened questions. Children start to cry. Mothers and fathers huddle together and demand answers that no one can provide. Someone even begins to scream.

That’s when the first helicopter wails through the sky. 

Its violent and ugly sound causes even more distress. The formerly stoic crowd Steve shoved his way through to get to you now becomes a mass panic. Red bleeds into the skyline and lightning strikes above.

The Upside Down has encased all of Hawkins. 

Any minute the sky could fall upon you. You aren’t sure if the sirens ringing in your ears are real or just another hallucination. 

Military vans fly down the streets. Officers yell at innocent civilians to clear a path for uniformed soldiers and their tanks. You don’t understand how so many appeared so quickly. As if they were expecting the snowfall. 

Steve never once slows down. He weaves between people and holds onto you so tightly that it almost hurts. Your shoulder throbs from the bats you fought only days ago and Dustin’s limp slows the rest of you down. 

Robin isn’t doing any better, stumbling over her feet repeatedly until she finally has enough. Slamming to a stop, she yanks her hand from Steve’s. “Where are you taking us?”

He frantically shakes his head, lunging at Robin’s hand as if afraid the crowd will swallow her whole. She screams at Steve for answers, protesting and violently trying to pull away from him, but already he’s arrived at his car and shoves Robin into the front seat. 

“Get in.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Robin screeches, her panicked eyes looking to you for answers. “We can’t just drive in the middle of a goddamn nuclear meltdown!”

You don’t say anything. While you may not understand what Steve is doing, you trust that whatever decision he’s come up with could save you and the ones you love the most. That’s all you have left.

Trust. 

Tugging at Dustin’s arm, you pull him into the backseat with you and slam the door just as Steve starts the engine. Your brother tucks his head into your chest and tears shake his body. Your own tears soak his hair and neither of you can let go of the other.

Dustin can’t lose you. Not like how he lost Eddie. But the sky erupts ash from the Upside Down and Steve’s reckless driving reminds him of the bats that swarmed Eddie’s dead body and all Dustin can do is close his eyes and hope that the blow of the end of the world will land delicately upon your face.

Steve jerks the steering wheel, narrowly avoiding other cars who seemingly had the same carnal desire to flee. “Everyone hold on!” 

You let out a sharp breath, bracing against the sudden turn of the car, while Robin covers her ears and flinches at the sound of oncoming cars honking at each other. 

“Steve,” she gasps out, holding tightly onto the dashboard. You’ve never seen her so pale. “Please. Where are we going?”

His eyes catch yours in the rearview mirror. He studies your face, the tension in your shoulders and exhaustion behind your eyes. Knowing he’s asking you whether you want to hear the answer, your head nods. 

White knuckled grip on the steering wheel, Steve says one name. “Hopper.”

Immediately everything within your body jerks awake. 

The cabin. 

Steve is driving to Hopper’s cabin. 

Though long destroyed, the cabin may well be the only option the four of you have left. After years of fleeing to the woods, after the Demodogs, after the Mind Flayer and his army, Hopper’s cabin became the solace that the party desperately needed. 

There are still weapons hidden beneath the floorboards. There are still memories within its walls that you know Mike and the others will run to as well. 

Swallowing down the fear in your chest, you hold onto the trust that you’ll find what you’re looking for in the cabin. 

“Turn left,” you say, guiding Steve where to go. “Then follow the woods.”

The relief on his face tells you that all he has left is trust, too. 

– 

Fraught with fear, the sight of Argyle’s obnoxiously hideous pizza delivery van parked outside the cabin almost makes you cry in relief. 

Nancy and Jonathan are inside, somewhere alongside Mike and El and Will. 

They’ll know what to do. They have to know what to do. 

With a frantic mind eager to find your friends, you run out of the car before Steve has even parked. You think you hear him calling after you, but it goes ignored in favor of making sure that the party is safe. 

You don’t see the unfamiliar black car parked next to the pizza van. 

Instead your unstable legs carry you through the cabin’s door, shouting the only names you can think of. “Jonathan? Will?”

Your Byers boys. 

Steve stumbles through the doorway and rushes to your side, pulling you close as Dustin and Robin crowd near. But the cabin’s wrecked interior remains silent. A ghost of the home it once had been, your heart slams against your chest in anticipation of someone, anyone, to come home. 

Then Nancy breaks through the backdoor, lost in her own fear, and seeing her eases the remaining chords of dread in your chest. 

“Nancy!” You stumble towards her, relieved to have someone to hold onto. “Are you okay? Is-is everyone alright?”

“Y/N?” She’s out of breath, just as confused and overwhelmed as you are. Her eyes flicker to the others and worry edges her face. “What are you–?”

Another body slams through the backdoor, only this time its inhabitant throws his arms around you fiercely and whispers only one name under his breath, “bug.”

Jonathan’s scent overwhelms you. Instinctively you melt into the embrace. “I’m okay, bee.”

“God, I was worried about you,” he pulls away, eyes never leaving yours despite the fact that Steve stands not even an inch away. “The roads, they aren’t safe to drive right now–”

“Oh, it’s not like we had any choice.” Robin sarcastically slaps Steve’s back. “Stevie over here decided it was a bright idea to drive amongst goddamn geysers. I mean, we were one pothole away from becoming flaming skewers.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I had to get the three of you to safety.” 

“By putting their lives in danger?” The clench of Jonathan’s fists foreshadow the argument soon to follow. “Yeah, great thinking, Harrington.”

“Only minor road laws were broken,” Dustin shoves Jonathan away, endlessly annoyed. “Now can we please focus on the fact that the world is seemingly ending?”

“The world isn’t ending.” El walks into the cabin, Mike and Will close behind her. 

The moment you see them, everyone else goes forgotten. You’re wrapped around them in seconds, exhaustion creeping through your relieved exhale, “You guys are okay.”

For once Mike doesn’t push you away. “We’re fine, Y/N.” 

“But Hawkins sure isn’t.” Dustin again reminds the group. “Can someone tell me what the hell is going on out there?”

All eyes fall on El.

“I…” Her voice breaks. “I don’t know.”

The last fragment of stability collapses. Everyone begins talking at once in a cacophony of blinding incoherence. 

“We’re going to die.” Robin starts to dry heave. She paces the room and kicks at pieces of wood on the ground and it takes Nancy several attempts to even get her to listen to her reassurances. 

Yet Jonathan’s voice rings loud above the others. “How could you think that driving here was a good idea? The ground was exploding. You could’ve killed Y/N.”

Dustin shoves his middle finger at him. “I was in the car too, asshole.”

“So was I,” Robin says in between dry heaves. “Appreciate the concern, Byers.”

“Is now really the time for this?” Steve waves his hands in the air, seconds away from giving Jonathan another bruise. “Is your ego really so far up your ass that you’re willfully blind to the fact that there’s a very real possibility Y/N is still in danger?”

Jonathan bites back laughter and his response gets lost in the chaos within the cabin. Nancy tends to Robin’s unrelenting spiral, Dustin interrogates Mike and Will if they’ve seen anything, Steve barks out insults, and inexplicably Argyle walks through the door and worsens Robin’s already debilitating panic and it all builds into a crushing wail within your skull until a loud, familiar voice shouts–

“Enough.” 

The voice commands attention. It silences the room. The voice once told you that you were the best out of everyone before the July heat killed him. 

Hopper.

He stands in the doorway, a shell of the man you thought you buried last summer. 

Seeing him echoes old wounds. 

Your skin flinches, tendons connected to nerves scream at you to run. The man standing before you isn’t really Hopper. It can’t be him. Jim Hopper is dead. He died in a blast so powerful that it could only be covered up with a mall fire.

He’s just another hallucination. 

If you try to embrace him, all you’ll be met with is empty air. 

You’re in the dandelion field again. You can hear your father calling your name, only this time his voice sounds like Hopper’s and terror chokes your lungs. You try to scream, but all that comes out is a broken gasp. 

Yet Hopper hears it. He grabs your shoulders, seeing the panic in your eyes, and forces you to look at him. 

“Kid, listen to me,” you never forgot the rough timbre of his voice. “There isn’t any time to explain. I don’t know what happened to you out there, but right now I need you to help me get El to safety. Can you do that?”

A maternal palm rests on your shoulder, the hand small but fierce, and when you look up, Joyce’s tired eyes shine down at you. 

“Is this…?” Your head spins, unable to coax your lips into forming the question that beats into your chest. 

Steve’s hand lands on the small of your back. He understands more than you could ever ask him to. “This is real, angel.”

Again, all you can do is trust him. 

Squaring your jaw, you nod at Hopper. “Tell me what to do.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Spinning around, he faces the others. “I need everyone out.”

“What?” Dustin can’t believe that the chief is sending everyone outside where all literal hell has broken loose. “Are you out of your mind?”

“This cabin is the only location completely unknown by the rest of the world.” Hopper grabs your brother’s shirt and yanks him to the door. Glaring at everyone else, he sends a silent warning not to argue any further. “I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

“But is it safe outside?” Nancy presses, refusing to move just yet. Not when her brother’s life may be at risk. 

“Look,” Will suddenly steps forward, wringing his hands anxiously when the room’s attention falls to him. “I-I can’t feel Vecna. Or the Mind Flayer. It may not be much, but I can promise you that we aren’t in danger. At least for now.”

The answer doesn’t seem to satisfy Nancy. She bites her lip, uncertain, before looking to you for the final verdict. “Y/N?”

Nancy will trust whatever call you make.

“We need to listen to Hopper.” You say, grateful your voice doesn’t shake. “Everyone get out.”

No one hesitates. 

“Go home. Don’t come back here under any circumstances.” Hopper takes point, directing everyone where to go and what to do from here as they exit the cabin. “Pretend this place doesn’t even exist.”

“But what about El?” Mike protests immediately. “Where are you taking her?”

“She’s staying here,” Hopper responds, uncharacteristically soft. “I promise, alright? The minute I know she isn’t in any danger, we’ll find a way to establish communication.”

You ask the question that no one else will. “Safe from what?”

“You hear those helicopters flying above that pretty head of yours? They’re all looking for El. Each and every one of them.” A humorless laugh falls from his chest. “This isn’t the end, kid. This is only the beginning.”

– 

The entirety of Hawkins shuts down. An infiltration of military officials and their safety protocols meant only to protect the upper hand and take over the once quiet town. 

A quarantine goes into effect immediately. No one can leave. 

It hits you harder than you expect it to.

Mrs. Waters calls you almost a week after the first military watchtower gets constructed in downtown Hawkins. 

“Hello, dear.” 

“Mrs. Waters?” You almost don’t recognize her voice when she first calls, the exhaustion aging her nearly a decade. “Is that you?”

“It is,” the phone rustles on the other line. You can hear her heavy breaths, how she strains her body to continue. “Listen, my dear. I have some rather unfortunate news.”

“Are you okay? Do you need me to get you anything?” You try to quell the roaring terror that rises.

“I’m alright.” Mrs. Waters sighs heavily. “No need to worry. What I wanted to tell you is that… Well, I’m afraid that I can no longer have you work at Bookstordinary.”

“I’m sorry,” you’re not sure you understand. “Did I do something?”

“Oh, never. You could never do anything wrong.” More rustling, you think you hear the woman blow her nose. “My dear Y/N, none of this is your fault. It was those wretched men outside. They took control of my store, claiming it to be their property because it happens to be too close to their silly science experiment.”

The final gate. The gate that took Max away from you.

Rusted nails line your throat. Swallowing down bile, you mumble a soft apology to Mrs. Waters. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“I know you’d do whatever you could.” The woman laughs softly. “That’s what I’ve always loved the most about you.”

The sentiment burns. You know Mrs. Waters means well, but a large part of you feels that you don’t deserve her kindness. Bookstrordinary would still be open if you hadn't failed to kill Vecna. Hawkins wouldn’t be destroyed and Mrs. Waters would still have the store she loved so dearly.

“Well, dear,” the woman sighs one last time. “I’d rather not keep you. Just know that you were a wonderful employee and an even more wonderful young lady. Do visit me sometime, yeah? And bring along that cute young man of yours.”

When the dial tone sounds, an indescribable urgency to disappear overwhelms you. 

So you run. 

The brisk early winter air stains your cheeks red. Fallen autumn leaves crunch beneath your feet. It’s been a long time since you’ve run through these woods. 

And it’s been even longer since you’ve seen the Byers’ home. 

It’s still the place you run to. It will always be the home you run to. 

Somehow the home survived the earthquakes and ruin of the town. The old porch creeks with every step you take, an old exhale of a welcome to a familiar friend. The front door sways in the gentle wind, its hinges unable to secure it closed. Beyond the door stands a still empty home, and despite the innate urge to run towards Jonathan’s old room and pretend you’re still a little kid, you remain on the porch, no longer naive to the passage of time and its wounds it brings. 

You don’t know how long you sit there, listening to the trees rustle above and relishing in the silence that has become rare within Hawkins. There are no military tanks nearby, no soldiers barking commands. 

It’s only you and the memories engraved within the Byers’ home. 

“Get lost on the way home, bug?”

Of course it’s Jonathan who finds you. He will always find you. 

He still knows you better than anyone. 

“Just needed some air,” you respond, feeling Jonathan’s weight press against yours as he settles beside you. “Found myself here.”

He nods, able to understand through the little you’ve provided him. “Do you often come here to breathe?”

“Not since the summer you left.”

“Oh,” Jonathan’s exhale reflects sympathy rather than surprise. He looks at you, gaze lingering on the profile of your nose and the crest of your cheek. Your skin warms at the sensation, long used to his lingering eyes. He studies you for a moment, searching for answers you won’t give him. “What happened, bug?”

His question isn’t meant to force a response. You know he only asks because he cares about you and knows how often you hide. Yet as Jonathan continues to stare at you, the warmth on your skin slowly comes to a burn. 

Shifting away from him, you close your eyes and mumble, “They took Bookstordinary.”

“Bug…”

“And there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.” Without meaning to, your voice rises and your heartbeat spikes. All the anger, all the resentment and pain and frustration seeps through your skin and comes spilling out before you can stop it. “I mean, those assholes come into Hawkins and what? Ruin our lives? All because they believe that hunting down an innocent sixteen year old girl is the answer?”

Pain pricks at your fingers, stabbed raw from the porch wood as your hands grip at whatever they can find. “People died,” Billy’s blue eyes flash inside your concave mind. The tears in Max’s eyes when you last saw her. “People died… but not the ones who were supposed to. Not him,” Vecna’s laughter, knowing he’d won in the end. “It was supposed to be him.”

“Y/N,” Jonathan tries to grab your hand, but you swat him away and stand up.

“It’s all bullshit! The military. The Upside Down. Vecna. All of it is bullshit.” All the fury that builds within your chest suddenly collapses, taking the air in your body with it. Dizzy, you nearly collapse against the porch steps. “I-I can’t keep doing this, bee.”

Jonathan quickly pulls you to his chest, terrified. “What are you saying?”

“I–” Though despite how hard you try, you can’t put into words the unrelenting dread that aches your bones. How the dread has been there ever since you were twelve hearing your father’s suitcase hitting the floor. How dread followed you when Will first disappeared, only getting worse with every year that passes. With every death that follows. “I can’t keep being helpless.”

“You aren’t–”

“I couldn’t save Max. I couldn’t save Hawkins or Bookstrordinary. I don’t know where Vecna is or if he’s even still alive. I don’t know anything. I-I don’t have any sense of goddamn control, so how the fuck am I supposed to help anyone–”

“Enough.” The fury in Jonathan’s voice breaks the remaining incoherence that drowns you. Like lifting your head from water, his presence serves as a lighthouse warning of what lies ahead. “Enough, Y/N.”

Pressed so tightly into his chest, you can hear how erratically his heart beats. 

“I won’t listen to anything else you have to say, alright?” Jonathan brushes hair out of your face, gentle as always. “I’m sorry, but you’re wrong.”

You try to pull away. “But–”

“There’s nothing that you could’ve done differently,” he says with a softened voice. He pauses, thinks over his words, before exhaling deeply. “And there’s nothing you can do now except allow the time to pass.”

In his words, the last of your fight ebbs away. Body limp, you allow Jonathan’s fingers to press between your shoulder blades. Quietly, you confess, “I don’t know how.”

“By letting the time pass together,” Jonathan kisses your forehead. “All we have left is each other, bug.”

“And the others?”

He nods. “And the others. They’re all we have left in this shitty town.”

For now, Jonathan’s words are enough. They may not remedy the wounds, but their burn becomes manageable. 

In the distance, leftover smoke rises from the ground. The last of the fires. Its smoke darkens the midday clouds, leaves a trace of red behind, and its presence taunts what you already know. 

This isn’t the end. Only the beginning.

– 

You come to mark the passage of time through grief.

One month after Hawkins falls apart, the town holds a commemorative service for all the lives lost that day. Hawkins, though always a small town, somehow looks even smaller piled together within the cemetery amongst an endless sea of portraits of those never found. 

You wear your mother’s favorite pair of mary janes. Tears sting your eyes, though they don’t fall. Dustin stands next to you, unmoving, eyes never leaving Eddie’s forever nineteen-year-old smile. His portrait stands at the very end of the ceremony procession. Only Wayne Munson leaves a flower in his honor while the rest of the portraits receive bouquets. 

Steve holds tightly onto your waist throughout the ceremony. His fingers melt against the overheated skin, but never once does he pull away. He insisted on coming along, not wanting to leave Dustin alone as he buried an old friend. 

“We’ll get through this, you know.” Steve whispers into your ear during one of the speeches, feeling the tension in your ribcage and the familiar scar from when you were sixteen. “Everyone will be okay.”

You don’t have the heart to tell him that you’ve long stopped believing in fairy tales.

After the service, Steve drives you and Dustin home. 

It’s then that the onset of your brother’s anger ebbs to the surface. 

“I don’t know why you’re crying, Y/N.” Dustin says from the backseat, breaking the silence that had once been there before. “You never even liked Eddie, anyways.”

You flinch at his words, quickly wiping away the tears you thought he’d be unable to see. Surprised by the lack of venom in his tone, yet unnerved by the words themselves, you turn your head slightly and meet his gaze. “He didn’t deserve to die, Dustin.”

“Yeah, no shit.” The kid huffs sarcastically. “Good to know you finally caught on.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Dustin undoes his seatbelt and exits the car before Steve has even put it in park. “I’ll see you guys inside.” He says, bored, before slamming the door shut.

Left alone with Steve, you sit in stunned silence.

It’s Steve who breaks first. “What the hell was all that about?” 

“He’s mourning.” Though even you can’t quite believe the excuse. 

Steve shakes his head furiously. “Bullshit. The kid can mourn, but he can’t lash out at you, either.”

Shame darkens your cheeks. Looking down at your hands, you feel small. “But I did the same to him. Back when our dad left.”

“You were twelve, angel. He’s almost three years older now than you were then.” Steve’s hand settles upon yours. He traces the lines of your palm, slowly, carefully, long having memorized the way it can make you shiver. “What he said wasn’t fair to you.”

But I wasn’t fair to him, either.

Abandonment makes you cruel.

Your father taught you and Dustin that.

“He just needs some time,” you exhale softly, Jonathan’s words from a few weeks prior echoing within your mind. “Time will pass, and Dustin will come back to us when he’s ready.”

“Like you came back?”

Just because dad left it doesn’t mean you can be a bitch.

My sweet girl.

You’re just… scary right now.

I miss you, ladybug.

Their voices swirl around in your head. Your brother and mother and father and all their pleas for you to come back to them when you were twelve and believed that cruelty could cure the bitterness of abandonment and longing. 

“He’ll come back,” you finally respond, swallowing down unease. “He has to.”

Steve bites his lip. Words unsaid threaten to spill out, but he swallows down his own unease and settles on admiring the way the moonlight shades your hair, making it ethereal. He will never get over your beauty. 

“I love you, angel.” He whispers in the dark, not looking for anything other than the warmth of your smile. 

And you do smile. Because how could you not, knowing how lucky you are to be loved? “I love you, too, honey.”

In the seclusion of Steve’s car, you find the solace you’ve sought after ever since the fourth toll of the grandfather clock. 

– 

A few months later, an unnamable sensation of grief hits you, seeing all the empty chairs during your graduation ceremony; students who never lived to see graduation.

“C’mon, angel,” Steve had said earlier that morning, tearing your blankets off your exhausted body with an infuriatingly charming smile. “Can’t skip out on your own graduation. Especially considering you made me attend mine.”

You should’ve known Steve would be an insufferable asshole about the whole “graduation” thing. The thought of not having El and Max in attendance was almost too much to bear, so when you told everyone that you didn’t want to go to your ceremony, Steve had a bigger meltdown than your own mother.

“Your graduation wasn’t set during the end of the fucking world,” you huffed, yanking the blankets back over yourself. “Leave me alone.”

“We both know that I’m incapable of leaving you alone.” He throws a pillow at you. “Now get up. Robin said she’d only wait in the car for five minutes before storming your room to ‘see what silks you slumber in’. Her words. Not mine.”

You were about to throw the pillow right back at Steve, but then your eyes landed on the flowers he’d set on your desk, full of beautiful baby pinks and blues that matched the cardigan he once stitched his initials into, and you couldn’t help but give into his charm.

Asshole.

In the end, Steve gently guides you out of bed. He helps you brush your tangled hair, neatly arranges your gown and the dress that your mom had worn to her own high school graduation, and even manages to convince Robin to cook breakfast so that you’d have extra time to get ready.

Sometimes your love for Steve is enough to forget the nightmares, at least for a little while.

The graduation ceremony itself is the first community wide event since the commemoration. Old friends and neighbors and coworkers sit in the bleachers eagerly, anxiously, awaiting the old tradition of a graduation ceremony. Itching for a sense of normalcy.

Yet on every side of the bleachers stands a private military party, watching their every move. Their guns shine cruelly in the May sunshine.

At the very last row of students, you catch Nancy’s eye and nod your head at the soldiers. She sees them, rolls her eyes, and then fake gags. Robin notices the interaction, seated just a row or so ahead of you, and she boos childishly at the soldiers.

The small act is enough to get you to laugh. You wish that it was Nancy and Robin seated next to you. You wish that you could hold their hands and seek the assurance that only they can provide.

Dressed in the tacky orange graduation gown provided by the school, you sit by yourself, surrounded by vacated seats, cannibalizing yourself on guilt. 

You don’t deserve to be the one left standing. 

Then, tucked in the corner of your eye, you notice one solitary, bright sign waving frantically in the air. 

Proud to be Y/N Henderson's.

Messily drawn arrows in multiple colors point down to the ensemble of young teens waving the sign up and down. 

Dustin notices you looking first. He waves wildly and harshly jerks his elbow into Mike’s side to get attention. It’s been so long since your brother has smiled quite like is now. 

“Guys! Y/N is looking!”

The two boys quickly quarrel, Mike hitting Dustin back and Dustin simply smacking his chest, before the two boys catch Lucas’ and Will’s attention and suddenly all four boys begin jumping excitedly, cheering, very nearly almost taking your mother’s eye out with the sign.

Yet she screams louder than anyone else, pointing at you and whistling and buzzing with so much energy that your brother has to hold down her shoulders before she knocks them both off the stands.

Jonathan stands beside your mother with a small, fond smile. He hadn’t been able to graduate with you, Robin, and Nancy due to technically still being enrolled in California, yet he never once frowned or complained. Instead, he took your graduation portraits and in every picture, your smile is genuine. 

And then you see Steve.

Standing in the sunlight, a vision of gold and honey, he is a warmth that can only be found in rhymes and enamoration. 

Steve is all that love envies to be called. 

He screams your name over and over again. A force of adoration that demands to be seen. That demands to be believed in. To be lived for. 

Taut strings constrict your lungs seeing everyone you’ve ever loved, adoring you just as fervently as you adore them. The strings ache with grief, too, from the absence of Max and El, and the grief intertwines so tightly together with love that you can’t breathe, yet they reveal to you what you already know. 

Tomorrow you’ll mail the letter that sits at your bedside table at home. It was written after the very first time you saw Max in her hospital bed. 

Addressed to New York University, you’ve rescinded your enrollment due to "unforeseen circumstances”.

You can hear Dustin’s laughter in the crowd. Mike’s taunts and Will’s fondness and Lucas’ intervention and Robin’s joy and Jonathan’s soft bug and Nancy’s quiet congratulations and Steve’s lovesickness and your mother’s pride. 

Knowing Max would’ve shouted your name louder than anyone else. That El would’ve made her own sign for you.

How could you ever leave them? 

How could you even think to?

You can’t. It’s as simple as that. 

– 

July comes and before you know it you’re eighteen. 

You spend the day in the hospital waiting room.

The plan was to wake up early enough so as not to alert your mother or Dustin before biking the three miles to the hospital, where you’d walk up to the front desk and declare yourself a visitor of Max Mayfield. 

Except the minute you stepped foot inside the hospital, your entire body shut down. 

You fell against one of the waiting room chairs, where you remain for the rest of the day. Every time you try to get up, to go and see Max after months of not visiting, nausea creeps up your throat and threatens to spill out. 

The guilt eats you alive.

For hours you sit inside the waiting room. Blank, white walls surround you. Nurses walk past without a glance. Your muscles pull together, body begging to enclose around yourself, to protect yourself, and in fighting the urge to flee, exhaustion wins over. 

“Y/N?” The voice startles you awake. After years of never ending monsters and scars, you jolt upright and reach for your knives, aiming them towards the source of the voice, who exclaims, “It’s me, Y/N!”

“Lucas?” You quickly put the knives away, embarrassed by your overreaction. “Fuck, I’m sorry!”

The teen tentatively lowers his hands. “It’s alright,” he breathes out, forcing a laugh. “I should be the one apologizing for scaring you.”

You shake your head, wincing. “You know I hate when you boys apologize to me.”

“And you know that we’ll always be doing something worth apologizing for.” Lucas’ laugh now comes genuinely as he takes a seat next to you. His shoulder presses against yours and he winks, all charm. “What are you doing here, anyways? You’re an adult now. You should be off in a retirement home or something.”

Despite the knots in your stomach, Lucas still is able to pluck laughter out of you. “I’m eighteen, not eighty.”

“Same difference.”

A gentle silence follows. You haven’t answered Lucas’ question, though he doesn’t push you for more. He’s always been smarter than the party gives him credit for. In the months Lucas has visited Max, he never once has seen you. 

Now, the day you turn eighteen, he finds you shell shocked in the hospital waiting room.

Lucas doesn’t blame you for not visiting Max. No one does. It’s become an unspoken rule within the party not to mention the girl around you, something that Lucas mourns the most. He recognizes the signs of guilt. They’re the same signs that he finds within himself more and more every day. 

“I don’t blame you, you know.” Lucas says softly.

All the air gets knocked from your lungs. You’ve heard those words before. Once, exactly one year ago, Joyce had told you that she didn’t blame you, either. She saw how deeply the scars of guilt etched themselves into your skin. 

Your eyes close. Sometimes the dark makes it easier to hide from the truth. “Max almost died because of me.”

Lucas scoffs. “Bullshit. It was Vecna. He was the one who tried to kill her.”

“But I should’ve done more.” The familiar grief chokes your words. When Lucas tries to refute what you’ve said, you quickly shake your head. “I should’ve been with you and Erica that night. Not Max. It should’ve only been me as the bait.”

“What, and leave Max with the others in the Upside Down? Would that have been any better?” 

Your eyes widen. “God, of course not, but–”

Lucas grabs your hand, voice harsh, yet gentle all the same. “Y/N, you have to come back from the past.”

“I don’t–”

“You keep saying that you should’ve done more, as if you didn’t put your life on the line to save Max’s. As if you years prior you hadn’t spent each and every day devoting yourself to the party and everyone else around you.” Lucas’ voice catches suddenly, choked and stifled. “You almost died, Y/N, and if you had ended up like Max…I don’t think I would’ve survived losing the two of you.”

Lucas clenches his jaw. He swallows back the tears. “Whenever I can’t sleep, you let me call you, even when I don’t say anything the entire time. You pack me snacks every time I visit Max. Every Friday you make sure that I’m not alone on the weekends.” He swallows again, exasperated in fondness. “You keep saying that you should’ve done more, even though you’re already doing more than I could ever ask for.”

Eyes softening, Lucas twists your intertwined hands. “I mean, what else could I even want? Max still has a chance. She could come back to us any minute. And you? You’re here. You’re here, stuck in the present with me and the party, including your obnoxious brother, and I’d consider myself a pretty lucky bastard because of it.”

Unable to bear the distance any longer, you fling yourself out of the hospital chair and into Lucas’ arms. He’s grown so much taller in just a few short months. He’s leaner now, stronger, far from the little boy you once met all those years ago, yet still entirely your dearest friend. 

Lucas allows you to hold him for as long as you need. He ignores the tears that wet his shirt and the uncomfortable angle of his neck in favor of holding onto you as tightly as you’ve always held onto him.

Eventually you let go, not bothering to wipe your eyes or hide the flush on your face. Never one for crying in front of others, you know that with Lucas, it’s safe to. 

“I’ll go get you some water.” He guides you back to your seat. “Stay here, okay?”

You nod, falling back against the chair to rest your exhausted head. Your entire body aches, and everything that Lucas told you settles heavily in your chest. 

“Here,” he returns quickly, handing you a styrofoam cup. You thank him, and he shrugs. “It’s the least I could do after snitching on you to Steve.”

You nearly spit out your water. “I’m sorry?”

“I called him, told him you were here and about five seconds away from a panic attack.” Lucas grins, not at all ashamed. “He’ll be here pretty soon.”

“Lucas!”

“It’s not like I lied!” He holds his hands up in defense. “I love you, Y/N, but you can’t stay in this waiting room all day. Go home. Celebrate your birthday. Allow yourself to feel literally anything other than guilt, alright?”

Exhaustion wins over your pride. Crossing your arms, you turn your head away from Lucas. “Just so you know, I’d never snitch on you to Max. That was a low move.”

“You wouldn’t need to. She always finds out what I’ve done wrong before I can.”

Both you and the boy laugh, for once the warmth of Max’s memory doesn’t burn. It tickles your skin, cradles your heart. For now, you welcome the tenderness.

True to Lucas’ word, Steve arrives at the hospital within ten minutes. 

“Jesus, are you alright?” He rushes over, inspecting your body for any signs of injury or distress. Worry writes itself over his pretty face, and you hate that you’re the cause of it. 

“I’m fine, honey.” You take his anxious hands into yours and steady them. 

“I mean, are you sure? Lucas called and said that–”

Rolling your eyes at Lucas, you tug Steve away. “He’s a liar and unreliable narrator.”

Lucas waves goodbye. “I love you too, Y/N.”

“Tell Max I said ‘hi’!” You blow him a quick kiss before turning back to Steve. “Can we go home now?”

Steve swings your interlocked hands back and forth, relieved to see that you’re okay. “Of course we can.”

The second you exit the hospital, all the air returns to your lungs. You inhale sharply, the July sun beats down on your skin and welcomes you home. 

An old Beatles song plays as you and Steve drive. He found the cassette at a garage sale and hasn’t stopped playing it since, knowing that the songs put you at ease. You stare out the window, content to simply watch the trees go by, but Steve never allows you to hide. Not when you only end up hurting yourself. 

“What happened back there, angel?”

Cold silver slides between your fingers, the charms of your bracelet worn smooth from the nervous habit. Feeling the pendants fall together soothes you. All the kids are still with you. Steve is still with you. 

“I wanted to see Max.” You confess, eyes following the horizon outside the window. You’re not quite ready to meet Steve’s gaze. 

You hear the breath he lets out and the words he bites back. He has never fully understood how to approach the loss of Max with you. Some days you’re alight with her memory, sharing stories with Dustin and Lucas as you drive them to Mike’s. Other days he finds you locked in your room, unable to move. 

Steve knows that today you were paralyzed. 

“How long were you there for?”

You unconsciously pull at the knife charm. A gift from Max. “I don’t know. Long enough for Lucas to find me, I guess.”

“I’m sorry, angel.” Steve doesn’t know what else to say. You still haven’t looked at him and he worries that any minute you’ll break the charms off your bracelet with how anxiously you twist them between your fingers. 

The sympathy washes over you in uncomfortable, overly warm waves. You never thought grief could be so stiflingly hot. Clenching your fists, you finally release the bracelet. “I just wish I could tell her that I miss her.”

I wish I could tell her how sorry I am. How much I wish I could trade places with her.

Though it goes unsaid, Steve hears it anyways. 

He thinks for a moment, rolls your grief over and over in his head. Words have never been Steve’s friend, but he knows how easily you lose yourself in them. How desperately you cling to them for comfort, for joy and for love. 

Then it hits him. 

“What if you could talk to Max without ever actually having to see her?”

Finally your eyes find Steve’s. “What do you mean?”

“She wrote us letters once,” he reaches for your hand, aching to hold you. “Why don’t you return the favor?”

Every day you fall in love with Steve just a little bit more. Your love for him has become an endless well, its depths unknown, yet inviting despite it all. 

“I think that’s a lovely idea, honey,” you bring his knuckles to your lips, kissing them softly. “Though I’m a little upset I didn’t think of it myself.”

“Gotta find reasons for you to keep me around.” Steve winks. He’s just relieved to see you smiling again. 

Your face burns from how hard you smile. “I’ll always keep you around, dummy.”

“Good. The dating scene is currently awful in Hawkins.”

You pinch Steve’s arm, causing him to yelp, and the two of you break into a fit of childish laughter that mends the remaining heartache in your ribcage. 

– 

The letters you write to Max become your lifeline. 

Every week you sit at your desk and play her favorite songs as you write to your long-lost penpal. As naive as it may be, the letters are enough to convince the hope-ridden part of your brain that Max is alive. 

Nothing goes unsaid in what you write to her. For the first time in your life, you talk about anything and everything without the fear of being selfish. 

Only Lucas knows what you write; he’s the one who reads them to Max.

In the letters you write endless lines about how much you miss Max and her wit. Often you beg her to wake up, to keep fighting, though you try to remind her of all the good, too. 

You inform her of the food shelter that you now volunteer at, which started after you stress baked more cookies than anyone could ever eat, and how you now bake for the recipients every single week.

To include as much of the good as possible, you share stories about the party that you know she’d love. Mike walking into the wrong homeroom his first day and embarrassing himself. Lucas’ growing talent for basketball and how proud you are of him. Will and how lovely it is to have him back, often helping you bake. 

In the letters you try to paint Dustin in a light that isn’t anger or resentment, though it gets harder with every passing day. He’s stopped interacting with you or Steve, tired of the interactions somehow ending in an argument with Steve and worry from you. 

What you write to Max instead are anecdotes of your brother. The brief moments of the little brother you miss dearly, like how he still prefers mint chocolate chip ice cream over vanilla and how he still smuggles your comics. 

In these letters you tell Max about Hopper’s return and how hard El trains these days to outrun the endless hunting she endures and how much you wish she could just be a kid.

And as hard as you try to keep the letters a source of comfort and good, lately you’ve found yourself scribbling about the goddamn crawls. 

And you fucking hate the crawls. 

They were Hopper’s idea. Which is never a good sign. 

“We need to figure out when those militaristic morons do their sweep of the Upside Down. They still think El is there somewhere.” Hopper announced to the group one day, crowding everyone inside the Byers’ abandoned home. 

“But what does that have to do with us?” Nancy asked, looking around at everyone.

“I go in after them.”

Immediately the house broke out into objections. 

Hopper waved his hands up, demanding silence. “We know more about the Upside Down than those assholes claim to know. We know that Henderson’s radio tech can penetrate through underground facilities run by Commies. We also know that he’s annoyingly smart and can figure out a way to track me while I’m tracking Vecna.” He then looked to Dustin. “Right?”

Your brother hesitated. “I mean, maybe, but–”

“You’re out of your mind,” you scoffed at Hopper. “We may not know much about whatever the hell they’re doing in the Upside Down, but we know for a fact that you’d be outnumbered practically 100 to 1.”

Joyce had nodded, stepping next to you. “She’s right, Hop. It’s too dangerous out there.”

“Not if we’re smart about it.” Hopper motioned to the room. “For this to work, I need everyone in this room to stay quiet, blend in, and focus on the crawls.”

“‘The crawls’? What, you’ve already named this thing?” Mike crossed his arms. “No way. We don’t even have any way to contact the military. How the hell are we supposed to figure out their every move?”

“That’s where Murray comes in.” Hopper smiled. 

Dustin then stepped forward, getting everyone’s attention. “Alright, no. For this to even hypothetically work, I’d need something way stronger than Cerebro to make contact with the Upside Down. Now unless someone here has an ultra powerful HAM radio up their ass, I doubt this will even work.”

“I mean, it’s not shoved up my ass, but I may have a solution,” Robin suddenly spoke up. “My neighbors, the Geralds, you know them? Super old, they kinda smell like canned corn, oddly enough. Anyways, they own the WSQK radio tower but Mrs. Gerald absolutely hates it when her husband climbs up the tower for maintenance work.”

Hopper stared at her. “What are you getting at?”

“Well, Mr. Cop, I think I’d be able to convince them to give me access to the tower in exchange for Steve’s handyman abilities.”

Your boyfriend choked on his spit. “Why am I–”

“I can talk to them, too.” Nancy interrupted. “I can show them my resume, maybe convince them with my journalism background.”

“The tower could work.” Dustin hummed.

And before you could stop it, the pieces fell into place. 

In the end Nancy and Robin were able to sweet talk the Geralds into giving them the radio tower’s keys. With access to the tower, Dustin was able to figure out a way to both trace and track radio frequencies in the Upside Down within two weeks. 

It takes several meetings between El, Hopper, Joyce, Nancy, Dustin, and Mike to figure out exactly how the crawls should work.

Within a month, Murray secures a web of information reliable enough for the first crawl to take place. 

Somehow, it works.

And it’s the first time you’ve felt true hope since Vecna’s burning body fell to the ground.

Until one crawl becomes five without any answers as to where Vecna is. After the tenth unsuccessful crawl you stop holding your breath that he’ll be found. When Hopper returns from the fifteenth crawl without his dead body, you stop holding any hope at all. 

The crawls become an endless abyss of the reminder that you failed. 

You fucking hate them. 

The only good thing that the crawls bring you is The Squawk.

“Welcome back, Hawkins! You’re listening to WSQK The Squawk!” Robin’s voice plays over the radio’s speaker placed on the table, followed by a loud squawk from the rubber chicken Steve found in the trash can one day and couldn’t bear to leave. “Today was brought to you by yours truly, Rockin’ Robin, with my wonderful copilot Soundy Steve, who I should really come up with a better name for.”

You laugh to yourself, scribbling your final disdainful thoughts about the latest crawl to Max while sitting in the radio tower’s communal lounge. 

Jonathan and Nancy sit to your left, reading over the newest map of the Upside Down with updated information from Hopper. They’re both quiet, though gentle with each other, and you’re secretly relieved to see them working together without any underlying tension. 

Across from you Dustin hunches over the table, working on some tracking tag for the next crawl. He looks relaxed, young again, without the scowl that seems to mar his face these days. 

You close your eyes for a moment, listening to Robin’s quips and Steve’s amusing sound effects. The moment is peaceful, almost even nostalgic. You hate how rare moments like these have become.

“Now, my dear listeners, I have a special final song lined up for today.” Robin’s smile is evident in her voice. “It was requested for Hawkins’ sweetheart. You know who you are, pretty girl. I was specifically told to tell you that this song is from your ‘sweetest admirer’.”

You’re an angel.

And you’re sweet honey. 

You’ll never forget that night in Steve’s car, dressed for a Snowball and falling in love faster than you could ever imagine. 

“This song proclaims love, devotion, and all the other lovey-dovey synonyms that this admirer insists on making me say,” Robin continues. “It’s also tastefully written by a band named after a bug, which just so happens to be this pretty girl’s original nickname. Pretty ironic, if you ask me.”

Jonathan stiffens, fingers frozen above the map. Nancy catches the reaction and shifts uncomfortably in her seat. The tension returns. As it always seems to do. Neither look at you, despite how obvious it is that it’s you who Robin is talking about. 

“Anyways, this sweetest admirer wanted me to deliver a message before the song begins. He proudly states ‘sorry about your brother’. Wow! How inspirational!” Robin drops the record’s needle and the beginning notes of I Will play over the radio. “Now enjoy this bittersweet melody by the Beatles.”

Though you can’t hear her above Dustin slamming down a piece of metal. “Your boyfriend is a jackass, Y/N.”

He leaves before you can stop him. 

Tears burn your eyes. Unable to look at Jonathan and Nancy in fear of their reaction, you force your head down and scribble the final sentence to Max: I’ve come to measure the passage of time through grief.

The broadcast ends. Steve’s laughter echoes through the floorboards as he congratulates Robin on another successful show. 

You remain where you are, too anxious and wound up to go upstairs and join them. Really, all you want to do is go home and crawl into bed, pretending that the last year and a half has all been an awful, horrible dream. 

Instead Steve sprints down the stairs and grabs your hand, quickly forcing you to your feet before running with you outside. He’s a mess of excitement and boyish charm. “C’mon, angel!”

The rush of it all coaxes a laugh out of your worried mouth. Dizzy from love and adrenaline, you follow after Steve. 

How could you ever tell him no?

He guides you to a clearing near the radio tower. The early fall weather casts a honey-like glow over the fields, turning the green grass into melancholic gold. Birds sing above in the trees and soft dandelions dance around your ankles. 

Steve finds a small patch of untouched grass and sits down, tugging you into his lap. His arms wrap around you and he rests the crest of his nose against your hair. He breathes in deeply, his chest rises with yours, and you allow the sun to kiss your skin. 

“I got you something,” he murmurs against your shoulder.

You lean against his chest. “Tell me.”

Steve removes an arm, rustles through his pockets, before opening his palm out to you. “Figured you had some space left on that charm bracelet of yours.”

The three small charms shine in the sunlight. 

A bird, a mirror, and a record.

You don’t have to ask who they’re meant to represent. Carefully you touch the pendants, in awe of their beauty. “How did you…?”

“Robin has been begging me to give you the bird charm since we found it a few weeks ago. She claims she’s long past due to be included in the bracelet.” Steve chuckles. “As for Nancy, she took the mirror from one of her old charm bracelets. Said you’d understand why.”

“And Jonathan?” You can’t help but want to know. 

Steve bites his lip. “He said that the two of you grew up with each other’s music. He wanted it to mean something.”

“They all mean something.” You gently remind him, looking down at the rest of the charms that all represent the children you so fiercely adore. 

“I know,” he kisses your brow. “That’s why I wanted them on your bracelet. Nancy and Robin and Jonathan. I… I know how hard all of this has been for you, so I figured this way, we’re all together.”

“Together,” you echo softly, the memory of Jonthan once saying the same to you gently. 

“It’s the only way we’ll get through this.” Steve kisses your cheek, then your nose. “We have to be able to do this together.”

You lean into the affection, warmth cascading through you. “Thank you,” you breathe out, encased in the love that only Steve can make you feel. “Thank you.”

He kisses you over and over again. He kisses your mouth, your hands, your wrists and your neck. In the field he whispers promises into your skin. 

Together. Together. Together. 

Over and over his lips seal the promise into your shoulders, your hair, your chin. Anywhere they can reach, anywhere the sun can kiss you as well. 

You’re all together now. 

And you try to believe him.

-

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[miffyreader]

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Welcome back bug I missed you dearly ❤️

[harddeckstories]

8-Pool Meltdown

Summary : After too many drinks at the Hard Deck, your emotions are running high and witnessing everyone reject Jake when all he wanted to do was play pool, was your last straw.

Pairing : Jake "Hangman" Seresin × Fem!Reader

Important info : Your call sign is Lightning ⚡️:)

Disclaimer : English is not my first language so apologies for any grammatical errors that might have escaped my proofreading. Also I have never been drunk in my life so sorry for any lack of realism there💞

Word count : 6.1k

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“This is so much fun,” you declared, mostly to yourself, as you took a sip of your fifth drink, swaying slightly on your tool.

Reuben and Mickey had insisted to go to the Hard Deck on Friday night after a grueling week of training, and they dragged everyone with them. They even had managed to get you to come even though you were fervent on spending a calm evening at home. Their insistent pestering and pleading, along with Mickey promising to buy you your first two drinks, eventually sealed the deal for you. Who were you to refuse free drinks ?

Quite quickly after arriving at the bar, all of you had settled in your self proclaimed corner, the one with the biggest pool table which was also not too far from the throwing darts game.

It was later into the evening now, you had let yourself seduced by shots with Natasha and you hadn’t exactly stopped drinking after that. Sipping your mojito happily, you took a moment to take a look at the members of your squad, who were spread out in two groups. Natasha, Bradley and Bob seemed to be having a vigorous debate over by the dart board, while Javy, Reuben, Mickey and Jake were engrossed into a party of pool, which Jake was leading, of course.

Bradley had invited you to their game a little while ago but you had gently refused, opting to just sit for a moment, content to watch your friends have fun while enjoying the warm feeling the alcohol was giving you. It wasn’t very often you drank, not really liking the way you became so emotional and loosed tongue. But so far, you seemed to be doing fine, the liquor in your system making you feel giddy for once and not so mushy like it usually did.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, how the hell are you still winning when there’s three of us against you ?” Mickey complained, which caught your attention.

“This is actually starting to feel unfair,” Reuben agreed, putting his cue stick on the pool table, while Javy was letting out an exasperated grumble.

“I don’t know boys, I’m just that good. There’s nothing you can do about it except maybe just make peace with it,” Jake retorted, a smirk brighter than the sun itself stretching his lips. “Let’s go again, I promise to go easy on you this time.” He winked charmingly at his three friends who were staring at him with infiltrated irritation.

“No way, I’m out.” Javy capitulated, throwing his arms in the air before walking towards the bar.

“Okay,” Jake smiled, letting the last syllable linger, “damn, didn’t know you were such a sore loser Coyote.” He called out after his friend, “come on, Payback, Fanboy, you two against me.”

“Sorry man, honestly it’s not even fun anymore,” Reuben declared.

Jake just waved him off, turning to Mickey expectantly.

“No way.” The man simply said before walking with Payback towards the rest of the group next to the dart board.

Jake was left with an air of incredulity deforming his features.

“What the hell, guys ? So what, you’re just gonna leave me hanging ?”

“Now you know what that feels like,” Bradley called out to him with a smirk, evidently proud of his quick wit.

“Shut the fuck up, chicken.” He then, looked at the rest of the squad while walking over to them, “are you serious ? No one wants to play with me ?”

You had been watching the whole exchange quietly from your barstool, and you didn’t like the way Jake’s tone changed, almost imperceptibly to the normal human ear, but it didn’t go unnoticed by you. Nothing he would ever do would go unnoticed by you, which you considered to be your greatest misfortune.

“Are you really surprised ? Nobody likes playing with you, Hangman.” Natasha retorted harshly.

In any other circumstances you would have agreed with her, threw in a snappy remark of your own, not wasting an opportunity to put him in his place. But in your state, her tone sounded overly cruel in your ears. And the way Jake reacted was not helping the oncoming wave of empathy and emotion you could feel rising in your throat.

He simply looked at them with an unreadable expression for a second and just as he was about to say something, Javy returned to the dart board, carrying a tray full of drinks.

“Alright who’s up for darts ? Jake, don’t even think about it dude, leave us a chance to win.”

Jake cleared his throat, “Yeah, okay. I mean, I thought pilots like you would like some competition but if you like an easy win, have at it,” he conceded with a resigned grimace.

“We’re not in the air, Bagman, let us have fun. Not everything has to be hardcore competition,” Bradley almost snarled at him, while taking off some drinks from Javy’s tray.

Jake let out a bitter chuckle, “yeah, alright. Have fun then.” He said before walking back to the pool table, where he had left his drink.

Despite the bravado he forced himself to put on at all times, it was clear as day he was hurt, and you felt your heart tighten. It wasn’t often you saw him showing any other emotion that wasn’t infuriating cockiness, thinking about it, never had you seen him like that.

Jake loved pool, everyone knew that. Sure, you could say that every respectable fighter pilot liked pool, it was always fun to play. But Jake ? Genuinely loved it, his face would light up when he was playing, especially when he was winning. Which was pretty much all the time. Every time you all went to the Hard Deck together, he would practically rush for the pool table in the left corner, hurrying everyone else, already putting on chalk on his cue. He knew all these strategies, which you had always laughed at, why need strategies ? It was literally a ball sinking game. Jake was also capable of doing these — this you’d admit — insane tricks with the balls, giving them effects as he sunk them, even making the cue ball jump over a striped one so that it could sunk one of his full ones and he was always ecstatic to show off to anyone who would deigned to watch him.

And with no warning, you felt tears rising to your eyes as you stared at Jake sipping his drink all alone. Why would they reject him like that ? He just wanted to play. Your heart lurched at the sight, your squad having fun together, and Jake, reassembling the balls to prepare to break them, so that he could play, by himself.

Without any second thought, drink still in your hand, you got up from your stool, swaying lightly and cursing as your feet hit the ground. If you needed any confirmation that you had too much to drink, this was it.

For a minute you felt dizzy — your blurry vision not helping — you waited a moment to avoid completely falling flat on your face and made your way to your friends by the dart board. Sniffling and keeping your head up high to avoid having tears run down your cheeks.

Bob was the first one to spot you coming, and immediately he seemed alarmed by your expression. A quick touch of your cheek confirmed that you hadn’t done a good job of containing the evidences of your chagrin.

“Hey, Y/N, what’s happening ? Are you alright ?” Bob asked gently, getting up from his stool so he could get to you.

His worried tone made everyone perk up, and all the pilots started to gather around you.

“You okay ? Did someone bother you ?” Bradley asked.

They were all accustomed to how emotional you could get while drunk, but Bradley especially would never put aside the possibility of some weird guy harassing you.

“You guys are—“ you were cut out by a pathetic little sob, “so mean !” You said an accusing finger pointed in their direction.

“Y/N, you’ve had too much to drink, okay ?” He said gently, while going to take the drink from your hand, which you quickly retracted, pulling it against your chest.

“No, you guys are so mean,” you sniffled, “why won’t you play with him ?”

Everyone shared confused glances, in the corner of your eye you saw Javy murmured to Reuben something that sounded like “the fuck is she talking about”.

Natasha got closer to you, features morphing into something gentle, she knew better than anyone how to handle you in that state.

“Y/N, who are you talking about ?”

The fact that none of them even had the smallest idea of who you were referring to was your last straw. They had just dismissed him entirely, someone they flew with every single day. Threw him away with some hurtful remarks, left him all alone and they had the nerve to ask who you were talking about ?

“What do you mean who am I talking about ?” You whined, the emotion felt like it would burst out of your chest from feeling too much of it, “Jake ! I’m talking about Jake ! He wants to play pool but none of you wants to play with him !”

Mickey bursted out laughing then, which got him a stern look from Bradley.

“Don’t worry about him, sweetheart.” Natasha told you, “he’s a grown man, he’s fine. Why does that bother you anyway ?”

“He’s not fine !” You insisted, smalls sobs along with the alcohol making you hiccup, “he’s sad ! Go play with him, right now.”

“We love you, Lightning, we really do,” Reuben started, “but no way in hell.”

“You’re really not helping,” Bob reproached him with a sigh.

Mindlessly wiping the tears running freely on your cheeks with your free hand, you tried to refrain the next sob that was threatening to break out.

“Fine, I’ll go play with him then.” You declared in a very determined tone, already turning around and making your way over to Jake, swaying lightly on your feet.

“Hey Y/N come back—“ Natasha was about to go after you but Bob quickly stopped her.

“It’s okay, she’ll be with Jake, he’ll take great care of her,” he mischievously smiled at her, which only got him a puzzled look.

“What, you seriously don’t know ?” He asked her, visibly incredulous.

The chatter of your friends got more and more distant as you got closer to the pool table where Jake was sinking balls easily with an evident lack of enthusiasm. There was a laziness to his movements, like he was disinterested. The contempt and rejection from the squad seemed to had drain all the excitement of the game for him.

He looked like a kicked golden retriever puppy and your heart couldn’t have possibly handled more.

“Hangman !” You called out, quickly wiping the tears that had ran down during your walk there, “I’m playing with you.”

Jake suddenly stood up straight from sinking a ball upon hearing your voice, and immediately he seemed startle by your expression, similarly to how the rest of the squad had been only minutes ago.

“Hey, Lightning, you good ?” He asked, getting closer to you, his sharp eyes taking you in and inspecting you for any physical hurt.

You waved him off, while trying to ignore how his concern made your whole chest feel warm, when you’d sober up you’d probably blame it on the alcohol.

“Put the balls back in the middle, I’m playing with you.” You declared, words slurring slightly.

Jake only looked at you for a second, his raised brows betraying his surprise.

“You,” he started, pointing a finger towards you, “want to play with me ?” His index now pointed at him.

Taking another sip of your drink, you nodded into your glass.

“Yes, that’s what I said. I’m playing with you.”

“How much have you had to drink ?”

“Jake that is literally not the point, I want to play pool, so let’s play pool !” You insisted in a whine, putting your glass down on a table — not before taking another sip — and going to collect the balls he had already sunken from the pockets.

He stared at you, taking you in. Your urgency felt uncharacteristic, especially if it was related to doing anything with him. Jake never really saw you drunk, it wasn’t often you allowed yourself to reach such a state and when you did, you usually sticked close to Natasha or Bradley. Your behavior was completely new to him and it was taking him aback a bit.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the rest of the squad eyeing you both, while whispering things amongst each other. A few seconds passed, the gears were turning in his head, he looked at your drink on the table, your tears streaked cheeks, the way the squad was so very obviously gossiping about the two of you… And then it clicked.

Jake took one long look at you carefully placing all the balls in the middle with the rack.

“You know you don’t have to play with me if you don’t really want to, right ?” He began cautiously, a gentle tone in his voice. “I was fine playing on my own.”

But the words ‘on my own’ seemed to trigger another wave of tears, they ran freely down your cheeks as you sobbed, “no you were not, you were sad.”

Jake’s whole face seemed to melt instantly.

“Aww, sweetheart…” he cooed, taking a step towards you.

But before he could get anything else out, you continued.

“And they are so—“ you began through sniffles, “so mean for treating you like that all because you wanted to play pool. So I am playing with you, I want to play with you.” You finished while weeping the tears from your eyes.

Jake stared at you for a moment, feeling like his heart would burst out of his chest just from looking at you. You were standing in front of him, determined and adorably empathetic — glassy eyes from the alcohol and the tears boring into his. Your cheeks were flushed from all the drinks you’d had, and you were leaning against the pool table, probably in an attempt to stabilize your dizzying vision.

He felt something dangerous happen to him, standing in front of you, having you be so nice to him for perhaps the first time ever since he had met you, he felt dangerous thoughts cross his mind — the ones he only ever allowed himself late at night, in the quiet of his apartment — and travel to the tip of his tongue. But he caught himself before they could become anything more than that, thoughts. Jake forced himself to swallow the words, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was overcome with an emotion he couldn’t possibly had voiced you, but his face showed nothing of it when he looked at you.

Pink lips stretching into a fond smile, jade green eyes soft and staring at you with… was it fondness ? The alcohol might had been blurring your judgement.

“I really appreciate it, darlin’, that’s very nice of you. I’d love for us to play together.” He said in a soft, soothing tone, hoping to calm your meltdown and the state of distress you were in at the sheer idea of him playing pool alone.

You nodded, satisfied by his answer, and Jake helped you put all the balls back in the middle with the rack before taking it off. He handed you a cue stick.

“Break ‘em.”

“No, you do it.”

You knew he loved to break.

Seeing a spark of something you couldn’t decipher flash in his eyes, he let out an almost bashful smile as he looked at you, and you gestured for him to take the shot, not sure you could handle his intense eyes on you any longer.

Jake got in position, upper body getting close to the table and your drunken brain immediately diverted your eyes to the curve of his ass, making a warmth spread out in your chest that you couldn’t blame on the liquor.

“Eyes on the game, darlin’.”

Your heat skipped a beat.

“I was watching the game,” you slurred, hoping your cheeks weren’t any more flushed than they already were because of your many drinks.

He let out a chuckle as he lined up his shot and every ball went bouncing off in every direction. He managed to sink a striped one.

“Alright, you take the full ones.” He told you.

Simply nodding, you watched him take another shot, sinking a ball. And then another successful one. It’s been quite some time since you’d seen him play this close, he was really good. On his third shot, he missed, finally letting you take your turn.

Circling the table and holding on to it, you tried to find the best angle to sink one of your balls, “You know I’m very good,” you stated like it was obvious, “but it’s been a long time since I’ve played.”

Jake caught himself before he could make any remark about how in your state he wasn’t expecting you to be world champion anyway.

“I wouldn’t know,” he settled for instead, “we’ve never played together.”

You abruptly stopped your rounding of the table to look at him, both of you standing perfectly on opposite sides. Your brows frowned in a confused expression and Jake wanted nothing more than to kiss away the crinkle on your forehead.

“Have we really never ?”

“Never,” he confirmed, “you don’t exactly carry me in your heart, remember ? You always say you don’t want to play with an arrogant jerk like me.”

His words seemed to fall on you with the weight of a thousand suns, your heart aching at his depiction of your own words.

“Do I really say that ?”

But Jake didn’t seem to notice the way his — yours — words had affected you, he only laughed as he continued to reminisce.

“Yeah, I tried so many times. Don’t tell me you don’t remember all the nights I literally begged you to do just one game with me ? You normally never even want to be in my vicinity when we come here.”

You shook your head, feeling the emotional overload pile up in your chest, rising in your throat to form a lump that was impossible to swallow.

“Oh…” was the only pathetic sound you managed to get out.

“Anyway, I’m glad to finally see what you are made of, Lightning.” He finished with a small chuckle.

But it had been too much too fast. The crushing realization of your harsh words, the way you had treated him no better than your friends you just yelled at a few minutes earlier, made you sick at yourself.

Still holding your cue stick in one hand, you broke out into sobs. Your head fell into your free hand, shoulders shaking with the force of your inconsolable chagrin.

If you had been able to see Jake’s face you probably would have laughed at the way his eyebrows raised comically fast.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey,” he said in a hurried panic, putting his cue stick down on the pool table to cross the distance that was separating you, “Y/N what’s wrong ?”

He raised his hands in an instinctual move to put them on your shoulders to try and comfort you, but unsure of what his touch could do to you right now, he awkwardly put them back down. Instead he lowered himself slightly, trying to catch your eyes where you had your head bowed down into your hand.

“Y/N ?” Jake called out softly.

“I’m an awful person—“ you said in a huge sniffle, tears cascading down your cheeks with no way of stopping them. You still refused to look at him. “I’m so sorry Jake, so sorry, I’m so mean—“

He managed to get over his temporarily shock, attention now entirely focused on your wellbeing and seeing you smile again. He gently took the cue stick out of your hand to put it on the table, and before you could bring your newly free hand to your face, he took it softly, fingers wrapping around your wrist.

“Y/N ? Could you look at me for a second, sweetheart ?”

You shook your head, sobbing harder now.

“I’m sorry, Jake. So so sorry—“

“Everything is alright, I promise. You did nothing wrong,” Jake soothed, rubbing what he hoped were calming circles onto your wrist. “Could you look at me, please, Y/N ?”

Rubbing your eyes in a clumsy attempt to wipe the tears staining your cheeks, you finally lifted your head, your eyes meeting his. Jake’s heart nearly broke witnessing your lip quiver, signaling that another wave of tears was incoming. Your features were contorted into a chagrin he never witnessed before, an expression he never thought he’d see on your pretty face. And he got the most irrepressible desire to take you into his arms, rock you softly and shush you soothingly until your wet lashes dried.

His brain sent out the signals before he could stop it, his arms lifted open in an instinctual move to bring you into him, but stopped himself at the last second, arms still frozen open.

But your eyes caught the movement, and it was enough for you to launch yourself into him, sending him stumbling backward a bit from the force you had thrown yourself with. You buried your nose in his collarbone, your arms around his waist holding on as tight as your drunken state allowed you to.

It took Jake a second to get over the shock before his arms wrapped around you, one hand holding your head while he put his chin on top of it, gently caressing your hair.

“Shh shh, it’s okay, baby. Let it out. Everything is okay, I promise, everything is fine.”

Like he had imagined it only seconds before, he swayed you gently from left to right. Soothing voice hitting your ears and calming down your distress. You sniffled as you completely melted into his embrace.

“How you feeling, sweetheart ?”

“Better,” you mumbled against his collarbone.

Jake let out a fond chuckle, “i’m glad.”

He continued to rock you gently for a few minutes before he slowly began to pull back so he could look at you, his arms still wrapped around you. Your tears had dried, leaving small stains on your cheeks as you looked up at him.

“I’m really sorry I’m so mean to you all the time, Jake. I don’t know why I act like that.” You confessed in a small voice.

He gently put a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes soft as they gazed down at you.

He hummed softly, “I’ve got a little idea.”

You waited for him to explain further but when he didn’t say anything else, you frowned.

“What are you waiting for ? Tell me.” You whined.

He just smiled knowingly.

“I think that’s something you need to figure out on your own.”

Your bottom lip stuck out as you pouted and Jake playfully tsked you.

“Hey none of that,” he warned jokingly, “what can I do to bring a smile back on your pretty face ?”

Gazing at the table on your right, your voice found a new determined tone.

“I want to play pool.”

“Is that really what you want ?”

“Yes, with you.”

The smile that broke out on Jake’s face almost made you look away from how dazzling it was.

“Alright, let’s play, sweetheart.”

He handed you back your cue stick, signaling for you to take your shot since it was your turn. Aligning yourself with the cue all, tongue between your teeth in deep concentration you took the shot and—

“Oh, well I’m worse than I thought.” You stated with a hint of disappointment as you completely missed the cue ball.

Jake was unable to hide a laugh, “to be fair I don’t think everything you drank is helping you. Want some help ?”

“From the pool king himself ? Yes please.”

Jake was happy to notice some of your wit coming back, he came up behind you, not close enough to touch but close enough that you could feel his warm breath on your neck as he bent down slightly at your level.

“Just get really close to the table, yeah ?” He put a warm hand between your shoulder blades as you went down, “aim for number 5 over there,” he pointed at the ball.

You got low like he told you, chest almost touching the table, hips and ass pushing back as Jake respectfully stepped aside so he wouldn’t collide with you. Focusing really hard on where you wanted it to go, you finally took your shot and the ball went straight into the left corner pocket.

Excitement immediately made you stand up and turn around to see Jake harboring a bright, wide smile.

“Look at that, a true natural.” He praised, flashing his palm for a high five you eagerly participated in.

“What can I say ? I have the world champion player by my side,” you chimed.

You both continued to play pool, Jake very subtly letting you win. And when you had sunk all your balls and hazardously shot the 8-ball in the left middle socket, you squealed as Jake clapped for you.

“You beat me fair and square, sweetheart.”

That was clearly debatable, but you were in no state to question it, your victory seeming totally legitimate in your eyes. You walked around the table to go get your drink.

But right as you were about to take a sip, Jake — who had somehow crossed the distance in three steps — took the glass out of your hand.

“Hey ! That’s my drink !”

“How about you stick to water for now, mmh baby ?”

All the fight left your body as soon as the petname hit your ears, his Texan drawl making it sound so sweet. His voice having rendered you completely pliant, you just nodded.

“Let’s go ask Penny for a glass.” He prompted and you quickly took a hold of his arm as he guided you to the bar.

You were still holding on to Jake and Penny wasn’t able to hide her surprise when she saw the two of you.

“That’s certainly a sight,” she said with a smirk, eyeing the way you were clinging to Jake. “You okay, sweetie ?” She asked you.

“I’m great,” you assured, a tired but bright smile stretching your lips.

Jake chuckled fondly, “could we have a glass of water Penny, please ?”

The older woman nodded and quickly got out a glass that she filled with ice and water before she handed it to you. You thanked her and began downing the drink.

“Well, you definitely needed it.” Jake joked, ruffling your hair affectionately, “when you finish that glass, I’ll drive you home, yeah ?”

You nodded as Penny looked at Jake with squinting eyes.

“How much have you had to drink, sailor ?”

“Don’t worry, I just had one beer a few hours ago.”

“Alright, drive safe.”

Jake saluted Penny as you finished your glass, settling it down in the bar.

“Good night Penny !” You waved at her, the older woman eagerly returned your gesture.

“Alright, let’s say bye to the squad now.”

Making your way over to the squad, still firmly wrapped around Jake’s arm, it was almost comical to see your friends’ look of disbelief when they started to notice you walk over.

“Alright gang,” Jake caught their attention, “I’m driving Lightning home.”

All of them were stunned silent at seeing you two so close, and you so pliant and calm with him. Bob was the only one harboring a small, tender smile.

“Drive safe, we’ll see you guys on Monday.”

“I’m sorry, is no one gonna mention any of this ?” Reuben undignified himself while gesturing wildly to the two of you.

“What is that supposed to mean ?” You inquired, not liking the way he seemed to be referring so hostilely to Jake and you.

“Leave them alone,” Bradley’s voice caught everyone’s attention. “You get her home safe, Hangman.” He looked at Jake straight in the eyes, tone firm and authoritative before he softened and turned to you. “Text us when you’re home, alright ?”

While everyone was expecting Jake to come back with a smug and arrogant remark — like he usually did — his simple, diligent nod raised everyone’s brows. You let go of Jake momentarily to go hug Bradley, he wrapped his arms around you and left a quick kiss to the top of your head. “Don’t do anything you’d regret tomorrow,” he whispered in your ear.

“Me ? You know I could never Bradshaw.” You replied jokingly.

Jake patiently waited for you as you hugged every member of the squad. When you came back to him, you immediately took hold of his arm again while he bid everyone goodnight and led you to the door after your goodbyes.

The fresh air of the summer night was a welcome sensation on your flushed cheeks. “Tonight was so much fun,” you declared.

Jake chuckled, quietly wondering how could it had been fun for you when you spent half of it crying your heart out for him.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, sweetheart.”

“Did you have fun ?” You asked, looking up at him expectantly.

Stopping next to his truck, he looked down at you, feeling the words swell up in his chest — in which his heart was hammering. He took a deep breath, willing himself to calm the swirl of emotion billing in his throat.

“Yeah, I did. Thanks to you.” He said in a voice that carried so much fondness it felt like a warm embrace.

A bashful smile made its way onto your face, as Jake refrained the urge to leave the softest kiss on your forehead, instead he just opened the passenger door for you and helped you in.

The drive was rather short, but Jake was struggling to focus on the road as he could sense your intense stare on him. Your eyes never wavered from his face and despite himself he could feel heat slowly coming onto his neck and cheeks.

Parking out in front of the small house you were renting near base, he came to your side to open your door and helped you out. In front of your door, you both stopped.

“Thank you for tonight, darlin’.”

Your hazy eyes bore into his with an intensity that shook him to his core.

“Jake ?”

“Yeah, baby ?”

“I think I figured out why I’m so mean to you all the time.”

He froze, his heart skipping a beat, not sure if it was from excitement of finally hearing the words he longed to hear from you or fear of having you say them while the alcohol was clouding your judgement.

“You did ?” His voice was strained, feeling his palms sweat and wiping them down on his pants.

“Yes. The reason I’m so mean to you all the time is not because I hate you, I think—“

“Y/N, Don’t say anything, please,” he stopped you, putting his hands on your shoulders.

Giving him a confused look, you felt your heart drop, “why…?” You asked, voice small, “you don’t wanna hear what I have to say…?”

Jake let out a sigh, “It’s not that, sweetheart,” he assured, voice gentle, “I just don’t want you to say things you could regret tomorrow.”

“Do you know what I was going to say ?”

He gave you a small smile, one hand sliding from your shoulder to cup your flushed cheek, thumb rubbing gently. The cool temperature of his hand was a welcome sensation as you nuzzled against it.

“I do.”

“But I want to say it, I want you to know.” You whined, putting your hand on top of his that was cupping your cheek.

“Believe me, I already know, darlin’. Have for quite some time now. But when you say it to me, I want it to be because you are ready to say it, not because the alcohol is forcing you to.”

But Jake could still see the disappointment in your eyes and your pouting lip was making a reappearance, completely melting him from the inside.

“How about you tell me tomorrow ? When you’re sober.”

“I won’t have the courage to do it tomorrow ! That’s the whole point of doing it now…”

“Then I’ll wait, it’s okay.”

Feeling the tears starting to come back with the frustration of not being able to express what you had been feeling this whole time, you complained, “I don’t want to wait anymore, Jake. I lo—“

“Baby, please don’t,” Jake put a panicked hand over your mouth.

You frowned and he could see your eyes getting hazy with tears.

“If I take off my hand, will you listen to me for a second ?”

As you nodded, Jake moved his hand from your mouth to your cheek, so both of his hands were holding your face. He hated knowing he was the cause of the small tears that were slipping from your confused and hurt eyes.

“Y/N, I promise that I feel the exact same way you do, I have for years, okay ? And there is nothing on this earth I desire more than to finally hear you admit it, but when you do, I want it to come from you, not the alcohol.” Drowning in his jade green eyes, his words made your heart almost beat out of your chest. “I want you sober when you finally tell me, cause then there won’t be anything else holding me back from kissing you like I’ve been dreaming of, alright ?”

His words stunned you quiet as his thumbs gently wiped the tears on your cheeks. It’s like your breath had been taken away. Nothing had been said, and yet you both knew. The silent truth was lingering in the air, silencing every other noise. In this moment it was only you and him, standing in front of each other, finally on the same wavelength.

Your lips stretched out on their own. Unknowingly to you both, your hearts were beating in synch to the rhythm of your unspoken, and yet certain, feelings.

“You have to promise me something, Jake.” You finally said when you found your words.

“Anything.”

“You need to come find me tomorrow, so I can tell you. Tomorrow morning, first light, I want you right here in front of the door, so I can tell you. If you don’t come to me I’ll never have the courage to go find you myself.”

Jake let out a shaky, relived exhale before a smile broke out onto his face.

“I will, sweetheart. Promise.”

“What time will you be here ?” You eagerly asked, already impatient for the first rays of sunshine to cast a golden glow over his features as you would pour out your entire heart to him.

Jake chuckled, before he bent down slightly, leaving a tender kiss on your cheek that you leaned into the best you could.

“I’ll be here at first light, just like you said. If you think I’m not impatient as well, you’re mistaken, darlin’. Now go to bed, it’s going to be a long day tomorrow, we have a lot to talk about.”

You nodded, embracing him as tight as you could.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jake.” you said in a barely contained excited giggle.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N.”

You opened your door, flashing him one last smile before closing it and disappearing inside of your home.

Jake didn’t know exactly how much time he spent in front of your door after you closed it. His chest felt tight, heart filled with the quiet love he had carried all these years, a love he’d finally be able to express out loud.

He looked up at the moon which was casting an eerie glow over the street, and prayed for the night to fly by fast. He usually loved the stars, but looking up at them he found himself thinking that he’d be fine never seeing another star again if he meant he finally got to be with you. He smiled, feeling giddy like the first time he’d realised he was in love with you. He had waited patiently for years for this moment to come, and somehow it felt impossible to sit tight for another few hours.

Jake couldn’t wait for tomorrow to come.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Author’s note : alright I definitely didn’t planned for this little fic to get that long, but I hoped you liked it, thank you for reading !!

Next fic I’m working on is Pleasure Is No Shame - Part 3, I can’t wait to bring it to you !!💞

[miffyreader]

THIS IS SO CUTEEE T_T

Tell me why I was actually feeling bad for jake when no one wanted to play pool with him omg :(

anyways this was such a good read I adore overly emotional drunk reader sm <3

[bunnis-monsters]

Just so everyone knows.

Fuck ICE.

ACAB.

No one is illegal on stolen land.

Leave my fucking page if you disagree. This isn’t negotiable, I won’t argue and I won’t tolerate it. You’ll be blocked instantly.

[gardenspells]

just a friendly reminder that this blog hates ICE

[heaveninruins-deactivated202602]

Hidden Inventory & Co. | The Office AU

episode 001: pilot (director’s cut) 

synopsis: meet the shibuya sales office of hidden inventory & co. the higher ups didn’t approve of the camera crew, the manager's best friend is planning on making a soundscape of what the microphone picks up from the grump, and that grumpy salesman is only really nice to the smiley woman with the very shiny engagement ring.

warnings: modern au, non curse au, the [beeps] indicates cursing, some crude topics — two girls, one cup (not in vivid detail lmao), crack, just them being idiots, slight descriptions of weapons, simp sukuna lowkey.

runtime: 22 minutes

director’s note: it is finally out of my drafts and yours to read. i will yap your ear off at the end! i hope you enjoy :)

series masterlist                               next episode

“I’m not really sure who approved of you guys being here.” Standing in front of the inconspicuous building is Masamichi Yaga, a member of the board of directors for the weapon selling company — Hidden inventory & Co.. 

“Gojo likes to think that he runs this whole ‘show’,” he adds air quotes around the word show, an eye roll to accompany the slightly annoyed tone. “But, he doesn’t.” He looks down to check the time on his watch — reading 8:53 in the morning. “He is just the regional manager of this location,” he sighs, long and hard. His eyes wandering beyond the camera into the parking lot where cars are starting to drive into. “And if he is [BEEP] late today, I’m going to-“ he cuts himself off, staring into the camera. “We can’t curse, huh? Good [BEEP] luck with this team.”

He turns his back, walking to the big glass doors leading himself into Japan’s largest arms producing company. 

Hidden Inventory & Co. was founded in 2003 and quickly became the country’s shining star — leading supplier of tactical weaponry and defense gear. Or, how some workers like to describe it as “adult fun gear”, (surely not to be mistaken with sex toys), and “killing machines bought by men who peaked in high school.” 

The company operates six branches across the country, three more branches opening in the United States earlier this year. This specific one, the Shibuya office, has the highest turnover rate in the company’s history. Every year. For the four years running. 

The camera lingers on the company’s banner tacked onto the side of the building, sun bleached and crooked — what used to be sleek black, now looks grayish. The silver words littering the company’s logo: “Building peace, one weapon at a time,” looks like it’s been lazily erased with a very short eraser. 

Behind the camera crew the sound of car doors slamming, muffled good mornings and tired yawns rip into the chilled air. Swiveling around to get a glimpse of the standing employees of this branch, screens are greeted with a hearty team of people. 

A blonde is walking in, head down, lips tucked into a straight line. His patterned tie gives off a youthful glow, not matching the stress lines etched across his forehead. His steps are quick, as if rushing in would send him home any earlier. Without much of a look towards the cameras, he stomps into the office building.

A heavy slam of a car door, an iced coffee and cellphone balancing in one hand, an unlit cigarette in the other. A sly grin is dressed across her face, her hair flowing behind her as she slowly makes her way towards the doors. 

“This was Gojo’s idea, huh?” She juts her chin in the direction of our crew, her eyes taking over the equipment and the people herding it. “Yaga is going to have his [BEEP],” she chuckles, making her way into the building. 

Trailing pretty close behind is a couple, a lanky man with green rooted hair and sharp features, eyes half lidded and jaw tense. Next to him, a woman skipping to keep up with his hurried strides — smiling at everyone who catches her eye. Her blue pencil skirt clashing with the dull color of his khaki warehouse uniform — the name of the company plastered against the right breast of his shirt.

She looks over her shoulder at the green pickup truck that has been parked here since before Yaga jumped out of his own car. The quiet hum of the car's engine still cutting through the air as a pink haired man sits in the driver's seat. His eyes following the smiling woman's walk as she looks over her shoulder — looking for him it seems.

With an engagement ring shining in the early morning sunlight, she waves towards the car. The wave seems warm, as if it was made to be only his. A sweet smile accompanied the movement, a small giggle weaving through the small breeze and to his car. And the hardness that's been riddling his features since he's parked, softens. His hands still gripping tightly around the wheel as if he debating if he should drive away or sit and watch her.

“Can you come on?” The man she is supposed to be keeping up groans as he throws a quick look over his shoulder. The warmth that seems to radiate around her, dwindles a bit as she is presented with the coldness of the man by her side, or who should be by her side. He is currently at least six feet away from her, no signs of his steps stopping to wait for her.

She stumbles a bit as she tries to gather herself, the waving hand gripping the cardigan covering her shoulders. "Yeah,” she calls out, sending him a smile as well. As if this is her default face — a shining smile, no matter the words or tone being thrown at her. “I was just saying hi to Su-“

Looking forward again, his feet hurrying to wherever he has to be, he cuts her off. "I’m not having lunch with you today,” and then he's walking around the corner of the building to the loading dock. His back tense, almost angry.

She watches him, the first time you'll catch the tips of her lips dipping into something other than the gleaming smile. "I love you," she calls out, without any response coming from him. The same hand she used to wave at the man in the green pickup truck is waving towards this man's retreating back. Less warmth in the wave, it's almost hesitant, wary.

And then she's walking into the building as well, her shoulders to her ear as she breathes in deeply — the smile finding its way back on her face.

In the pickup truck, her friend watches with an unease that is felt throughout the whole parking lot. His lips snarled between his teeth and his eyes narrowed, not towards her though. Following the tense back of the man finding his way to the loading dock. His hands flexing around the steering wheel, with a zoom of the camera we can make out just how harshly he's gripping as his knuckles are white from how tight.

His crimson eyes flick to our direction, the warmth that was felt from her smile is replaced by something colder, less approachable.

Then, a car skirts into the parking lot. The tires loudly screeching, the pop song bumping out of the car is even louder. Wind swept frosty, white hair and ravened slicked black hair sweeping behind the occupants of the car.

The car doesn't pull into a parking spot, but directly in front of the crew. The lyrics of a Britney Spears song, at a decibel that's much too loud for it to be almost nine in the morning, smacks across the mics. The sound coming out screechy in the headphones of the mic handlers.

"Oh," the white haired passenger waves his hand out the window. "Is this how Snooki felt when she first entered the Jersey Shore house?"

The driver peeks over, his hair loosely falling around his shoulders. His eyes on his passagner, not the cameras situated to get every movement in his car. "Or more like Angelina when she came in with the garbage bags?"

A gasp squeaks out of the passangers lips, his unnaturally blue eyes widening as he spins his head to look over. "I'm not Angelina," he almost yells. The clock on the dashboard ticks as it becomes nine.

"Well," the driver shrugs, his eyes narrowing as he finally pays attention to how many people are gathered at his small car. "You're not Snooki either… She's short."

A beat of silence, a silent stare down between the two, as the passenger lets out a groan. His hand combing through his disheveled white locks. "Go around the block," he demands, his fingers impatiently pushing his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. "We're doing this again."

And as they backup, you hear the retreating hums of their bickering and the blaring of a car horn.

"Don't speak unless I say so!"

The camera pans to the man in the green pickup truck, his forehead pressed against the steering wheel.

[The Office theme songs instrumental starts playing]

Camera cuts to the confessional room — an unutilized storage closet that the manager made his receptionist clear out before the camera crew arrived. A stock photo of a happy team is plastered on the wall behind him. Smiling faces, hands thrown in the air.

Sitting in a small chair, black sunglasses on the ridge of his nose and a very easy grin on his lips, is the boss of this place — Gojo Satoru.  

“I like to pretend that this little place is my real life sims simulator and I get to play around with my characters all day.”

He throws his hands up in excitement, dropping down a coffee can filled with pens. 

“We have my pride and joy, Geto Suguru.” 

A clip of Gojo delicately examining a dying plant and Geto scribbling down notes. Phones are going off behind them, a flustered voice woman — her eyes wide as she runs into the office they’re in. 

“I am Geto Suguru. Not the top salesman but best friends with the boss, so basically the same thing.” 

Suguru is lazily sitting in the chair in front of the camera. No tie, a few buttons open in his shirt. His cellphone pings on his lap and his lock screen pops up. It’s a picture of him and Gojo riding a bike. 

“We sell weapons. Or we’re supposed to be selling them.” 

He shrugs his shoulders. There is a knock on the door and Gojo’s booming voice calling for him. 

"Well, Sukuna sells. I think he's selling them to himself to create a militarized sanction of just him."

[Commerical Break]

Gojo stands in front of the room of his employees, a huge grin on his lips as he holds a microphone pack. Yaga standing next to him with a grimace as everyone stares back at the two.

The cigarette smoking brunette bunkers down in a corner, her head leaning on the pillar of the wall. Her purple button up slightly sliding off her shoulder. The glasses wearing blonde sits next to her, his hazel eyes hawking over the crew as he sits straight up.

"I am not sure how this got approved by the highe-" Yaga starts, a yawn spilling from Geto who just so happens to be sitting facing the rest of the employees. His shoulder pressed to the narrow hip of his superior (and best friend).

"I paid them," Gojo shrugs.

"For [BEEP] sake, Gojo," Yaga lets out an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I thought it'd be fun to show the audience our very hard jobs."

"We sell weapons," the stotic faced man in the back speaks out. His voice low, but hard. He rolls his eyes when Gojo looks his way, his arms crossing against his chest.

"And that's hard, Nanami," Geto practically whines.

With a finger point and the chuckle from this morning easing into her voice, the brunette picks her head up and looks at Geto. "For you, apparently."

"Anyways," Yaga booms, everyone straightening, watching as he paces across the front of room. A whiteboard is scribbled with numbers and different models of weapons and their destruction rate. "Sales is confidential, so can't talk that much about the actual gist of your damn jobs." He turns to stare at Gojo. "So what's the plan with that?"

"Going to talk about friendships."

A gruff voice breaks into the room, coming from the second row. In the new light, the camera can make out tattoos etched across his face — the owner of the green pickup truck from this morning. His stare is still uneasy, unapproachable. "I'd rather die," he shakes his head, his shoulders bumping into your shoulder as you start to snicker. "Why can't we talk about sales?"

"Are you asking because you're planning a revolution and want to delete all your proof to come off as normal?"

"Oh my God."

"GUYS," Gojo yells over his employees. His hands raised above his head, as if he's surrendering not only himself but his team to the idea of having a camera crew on them eight hours a day. "We're going to treat this like a regular thing," everyone, including Yaga stares at him.

"I don't regularly have cameras following me," crimson eyes roll as his lips stretch across his face in a straight line. His big hands on his thighs balling into fists.

"I mean, I doubt they allow cameras in jail unless you're like in beyond scared straight or something."

"What the [BEEP] are you talking about?"

"Sukuna isn't a felon," you softly call out, your voice getting mixed up with the gruffs and complaints from everyone around you. You look to your right, catching (who we now know is Sukuna) Sukuna's eye. He raises an eyebrow and you shoot him a smile.

"Of course you'd know that."

"What?" You swivel around in your chair, your knee bumping into Sukuna's thigh in the process. The fists balling on his lap relax, his palm settling flat on his black slacks.

Gojo claps his hands, the sound sharp and slightly piercing. Geto scooting away, his raven hair covering his hand that's checking if his eardrum is okay. "Anyways," he point towards the angry looking Yaga, who had now moved to a corner that is steps away from the door heading out of the room. He eyes stalking over every interaction that had flown between this group of people. "Any words Yaga?"

"This is going to be a disaster."

"That's not the spirit I was hoping to gather for my team." Gojo frantically, almost childlike, rolls his eyes. Sulking over to where a burly Yaga stands, and pushing him towards the conference room door. "Bye Yaga. Everyone ignore his emails, please."

"Can we get back to work?"

"Are you rushing to get back to LinkedIn, Nanami?"

"Yes."

"Okay, don't listen to him," the white hair manager looks directly at the camera. One hand on Yaga's shoulder, the other pointing towards Nanami in the back. "Mics stay on at all times."

"Even in the bathroom?" Sukuna jumps back into the roll of voices squirming about. His eyebrows raised, as you look down at the comically small mic pack in his big hands.

"Yeah," Geto stands , walking to where Gojo is. His palm wrapped around the knob of the door as Gojo finally manages to push Yaga out, Geto closing the door. "We can get audio of the one man, one cup video I'm planning on directing."

"I'm not even going to ask what that is."

"You haven't seen two girls, one cup?"

"I'm confused," Gojo wipes his hands together, dusting off imaginary dirt. He looks at Sukuna, pure confusion etched across his face and his cerulean eyes take him in. "Do you need to bring cups in the bathroom with you in jail?"

"[BEEP] you," Sukuna flips him off.

You speak up, confusion also etched across your features as you look over at Sukuna and then Geto standing in front of you. "Are they like sharing ice cream?"

"You're so cute," the only other woman in the room, the brunette calls from the back of the room. You turn back around again, your hair moving with the movement. Sukuna leans over a little, like he's trying to get closer to you. "No, they're eating shit."

You turn, looking at Geto who is doing everything in his power to keep a very serious face. Sukuna falling back to his original position, sliding over a bit so that you wouldn't turn over and smack against his shoulder. "Why are you making a video like that?"

"Money."

Director cuts in to explain how the mic packs work, where cameras will be situated, and how this should be natural. The crew only wanting raw footage of the day in, day out of an employee here. Gathering the group of people's attention for a solid five minutes, before Gojo decided he wanted to talk about himself in the confessional… again.

“[BEEP]!” 

“Do you need help with your mic?” Your soft voice is picked up between the shuffling of bodies and office chairs rolling to and from their respective desks. "Also," you turn to the cameras, looking over to the directors. "We can't curse?"

"Really?" Sukuna stares down at you — the unapproachableness isn't as heavy when he stands in front of you. A comfortable tension settling between you two, it feels.. known.

The cameras shakes, the simple answer of no.

"We have to work on that, Ryo," you tap his shoulder, signaling for him to turn around as he places his mic pack in your much smaller hands. "Sorry, I meant Sukuna." You shake your head, as if you're embarrassed that an obvious nickname slipped from your lips instead.

Your ample fingers work, attaching the pack to the back of his pants. Clipping it smoothly on his belt. "You know you can call me that," he says from over his shoulder. The conference room clearing out, leaving you two alone with a censored white board, flickering lights, and the sounds of Gojo laughing in the confessional room. "I [BEEP] hate it though."

You click your tongue, poking his hip. "You cursed."

"I know what the [BEEP] I said."

With mic now properly attached to him, you two start to walk out of the room. His steps aren't so long, as if he's waiting for you to step with him on every one. "Say fudge instead of [BEEP]," you point your finger up at him. "Oh [BEEP], I cursed," your hands hurriedly cover your mouth.

"Twice."

"Shut it."

With matching steps, you reach his own desk. A simple desk, a few protein bars and pens littered around. A picture of a pink haired little boy, that eerily looks exactly like him, and a trophy where the person on it is missing a head and that has the words "BEST SALESMAN". It's his, and that much is obvious.

"I'm not saying fudge," he stands at his desk, his hand planting against the hardness of it. Geto sits on the side of his, his heads popping up when you respond to Sukuna with a soft laugh.

"Moan instead."

Both you and Sukuna pause. "In what world is that a better alternative?" You ask Geto, your legs slowly shuffling to your own desk.

"The one where my one man, one cup video goes viral."

"I'm going to [BEEP] hurt you."

[Commerical Break]

A shot of group of desks, a head of pink and those narrowed red eyes follow the camera’s movements. The smiling woman with an armful of documents is shuffling to his desk. His eyes avert to her, gaze softening. 

“Sukuna.” 

Sitting in the too small closet is Ryomen Sukuna. Top salesman, crimson eyes always narrowed, and fingers tapping impatiently on his thick thighs. He lets out repeated huffs of breath, his arm tangling with the wires of his mic everytime he moves.

Tattoos adorn his face, a plain T-shirt tucked into slacks. Pink hair messily contrast the darkness of the supply closet, as well as his overall demeanor.

“I don’t make friends. Just do my work and get the [BEEP] out of here. So I don't know what you want me to talk about."

Sukuna is standing at the receptionist desk, the first thing you see when walking in. It's adorned with colorful little pieces of life — hand written cards, colorful flowers in a tin can, little figurines that bring as sense of personality in the otherwise pretty dull office. He is leaning on his forearms, a very soft grin on his face, and looking down at you. Gojo walks by glancing at the camera, holding a mug that says ‘Boss Babe’. 

Sukuna notices the camera and immediately narrows his eyes, a grumble leaving his lips but the microphone (that's supposed to be on him) doesn’t pick up on what he said. 

“Sukuna hates everyone.. I think?” 

Gojo is back in the confessional. His ‘Boss Babe’ mug held high. He lazily leans back, the door of the confessional room slightly cracked open. From his position, you can see Sukuna burrowed at his desk — fingers clicking away, eyes narrowed on the blinking screen, and his phone ringing in the otherwise quiet office.

“Well, not YN. I think she is the only person he likes… or at least tolerates.” 

Gojo shrugs and wiggles his eyebrows at the camera. 

Cut to: YN at her desk, smiling faintly as she types. Her ring glints under the fluorescent light. Sukuna’s eyes flicker to it. Then away. The mic finally picking up on the muffled sigh that seethes out his nose.

“Hi! I’m YN LN.” 

The camera shakes a little as you wave — it's small, but sweet. A smile to match as you're surrounded by the colors of your desk.

A small plaque reads "Receptionist/Office Coordinator/Gojo's Best Girl Friend" — the last title scribbled in sharpie, and also misspelled, as it really says "Gojo's Best Girl Frend".

"Sukuna has been slowly chipping the last line away whenever he comes up to check on me," you're in the confessional, the camera zooming on the light flickering above your head. "I like the title… I love being someone's best friend.." you pause, the laugh already squeezing out of you. "Or frend, I should say."

You're balancing a tray of coffees, walking through the row of desks with the ease that comes from having every movement memorized. The camera crew runs behind you as if they're filming a war at hand, their movements loud and slightly clumsy.

Your manicured hand places a cup of steaming black coffee — you explained everyone's coffee orders in great detail — on Nanami's desk. He doesn't look up, you didn't expect him to. Then you're floating towards Geto's desk, his cup of green tea is placed near his framed picture of the office building. He offers you a peace sign, his eyes more focused on a text messages he's sending. You roll around to Gojo's office, his 'Boss Babe' mug filled to the brim with fruit punch — his lips already red from the last cup he drank twenty minutes earlier.

"I try not to give Gojo any caffeine after," you pause, the last drink on the tray awaiting its placement on a desk. You look over your shoulder at the clock above your desk, the time reading noon. "Honestly, I try not to give him caffeine at all," you say, before walking your way to Sukuna's desk.

"Oat milk latte," you hum, setting the cup near his mouse. He doesn't look up, but instead grunts.

"Didn't ask for this."

"You always do this," you start to back away, smiling towards the man. "But you drink it anyways."

A tiny pause, his eyes flicking up towards the camera's crossing his desk at the moment. The hardness of the look causing a few members to stumble back. Then, his eyes flick towards your back as you turn and walk away. "Only because you buy it."

"You know it's on company's dime."

Sukuna is sitting in the confessional again, the light above flickering hard enough that his eyes narrows up towards it after every world that leaves his lips.

"She's too nice," he mutters, scratching his jaw. "She remembers birthdays, and coffee orders, and people's middles names." He pauses, staring at the light. "It's weird. And she's always smiling, no matter what," his face softens just a bit, the furrowing of his brow has calmed down and his scratching of his jaw slows. "Being happy just comes easy for her."

"It's my job to remember all of those things," you smile, your own oat milk latte is in your hand. "I handle everything small and big — it all goes through me!"

Director: "You seem to enjoy it!"

Your eyes flick down to your pencil skirt, your feet starting to tap along the crackled marble floor. A heavy exhale wheezes into the room.

"I guess I do," you shrug, eyes still focusing on the threading of your skirt. "It's not a little girl's dream to become a receptionist," you force out a laugh. "But, I'm here and I want to be great."

Cut back to the office — you're answering a phone call, pen in hand as you write something. You dramatically roll you eyes at Gojo trying to throw paper balls into your trashcan. Sukuna's desk is angled next to yours, his chair turned slightly to face you. He's typing, and everytime you let out a giggle his face flickers towards you.

"I'm engaged," you raise your hand for the camera to finally get an actual glimpse at the princess cut ring decorating your left hand.

You're smiling, but it doesn't reach your eyes — not in the way that every other smile reaches it. Your fingers toy with the button on your cardigan.

"He works in the warehouse," you wave your hand, signaling the warehouse that is directly below the office, "We were supposed to have our wedding last summer," the light above you flickers, a little too harshly. You wince from the cackle and pop. "Timing wasn't right."

Gojo: "And the year before that."

Sukuna: "I have a graveyard of save the dates from her."

"Wedding planning is tricky!" You fake a smile, your feet tapping along the crackled marble again. "I think I'd make a pretty great wife one day."

[Closing Theme Song]

director’s note (again): ugh this has been plaguing my mind since the beginning of the year. i was quite nervous to even try to tackle it, but i am happy i did. thank you to my sister, venus, pepper, and daya for reading this over and suffering whenever i brought this up 😭 i promise to shut up. and thank you daya for your idea about the beeping of the curses, i am going to hold your brain hostage. but thank you, thank you, thank you — i really hope you guys enjoy it as much i have enjoyed creating them! 

🏷️: @swearimnevergivingup @cupidstrace @planetjanae @sukubusss @spearofheaven @catladythoughts @indiewritesxoxo @starmapz @loudshortbookworm @seellove @kawaiipotato143 @certifiedchangbinlover @prettygalleria @thefemmefatalexo @justanotherdayforthesurveycorps @nattie-smack @chrimsychrism @thewaytomars @ah-mya @blushedcheri @lilbizzy04 @yarimarjane @library-trash @rurwu @msrinnnn @alish-a12 @hastletea @noooo-onee @xylov @pickuptruck01 @browrm @dishs0pe @gumiigum @prosypepper @call-memissbrightside @blueyesuguru @zeunys @billiondollarworth @uhnosav @14pxa @erensbae4life @getosshampoo @jamiroqouai @yuhgetintoonit @cheolifyme @berry-marys @crude-saint @ommudum @farrowroyale @chloesfinalproject

[miffyreader]

Amazing. Brilliant. Fantastic.

Give me 8 seasons of it 🙂‍↕️

[miffyreader]

fic idea! Where it's mostly in steves pov as the group (Nancy, Jonathan, Robin, and him) continue their monthly meetings on top of the squawk. At first, he mentions the reader, and the group pays it no mind because they've heard it all before. We see the progression as Steve continues to bring them up, the group still has their doubts, but Steve asks if he can bring them next month. And y'know all the significant milestones as he brings up his plan to propose, gets married, and ultimately, after missing some months, shows up with his kid on his hip 🥹

[miffyreader]

conformitygate believers im sorry the duffers failed you 😔

I was rooting for you guys but atleast we got some sick ass edits

[arcane-vagabond]

Fool's Fare Masterlist

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: Captain Jake "Hangman" Seresin had come close to swinging from the gallows more times than he would care to admit. He's stolen, cheated, even killed. The worst thing he's ever done? Broken the heart of a woman. Having broken the heart of the woman whom Davy Jones himself had fallen for six years ago, Jake is now cursed to live as something not dead, but not alive. He's doomed to live a half-life for the rest of his existence unless he manages to obtain the treasure Davy Jones deems most valuable. The problem? He has no idea what it is, and he only had seven years to obtain it.

Series CW: Violence, Swearing, Supernatural themes (not the show), Jake Seresin, slow burn, references to sex work, suggestive language, eventual smut, fluff, angst, firearms, etc. There will be chapter specific warnings!

All posts related to this story will be tagged with "FF" and "Fool's Fare"

Meet our heroine!

Read the sequel!

*Denotes smut

Completed on 12/02/24

Masterlist || Moodboards || Playlist

Series;

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six*

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten*

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Drabbles;

Guppy sneaks on the ship (Jake’s POV)

The Dagger Crew discusses having Guppy on the Hangman

Jake sees Guppy in the pub for the first time

Jake has a nightmare...

Clearing up the Curse...

Jake Finds Guppy Asleep...

[miffyreader]

Ive been listening to sea shanties on repeat since reading this. This is so good and its bringing my pirate obsession back.

10/10 fic, I love it so much, only wish I read it sooner 😪

[fxlthyangxl-deactivated20240122]

website

[hesbythecampfire]

StopNCII.org is operated by the Revenge Porn Helpline which is part of SWGfL, a charity that believes that everyone should benefit from technology, free from harm. Founded in 2000, SWGfL works with a number of partners and stakeholders around the world to protect everyone online

Sounds legit

[songue85]

StopNCII.org is operated by the Revenge Porn Helpline which is part of SWGfL, a charity that believes that all should benefit from technolog

[nosferatusnoopy]

everyone reblog this!!

[uncleasad]

[Image ID: screenshot from TikTok(?) containing the following text:

Cousins, if someone ever edits your photo with Al or Photoshop to create a nude photo, then you go to www.stopncii.org/and submit the original photo and the edited photo, then they will remove the edited photo from all the places on the Internet. You don't need to talk directly to anyone for this and your identity will remain confidential

/end ID]

Per StopNCII.org, only their partner sites will remove the images, not “all the places on the Internet”—but that’s better than nothing.

[miffyreader]

okay the whole worm hole discovery was cool I enjoyed it and the discovery, although flimsy, still made for a good plot point, that was foreshadowed earlier. But why have dustin say all this.

Just to then contradict yourself later

So what? Destroying the exotic matter is fine now because bombing the bridge will not destroy both worlds and now will only destroy the one world we choose. Then why did we even mention the threat to the world if the threat was never even real?? So much wrong with this season, but this just pisses me off