People always talked about Sukuna like he was intimidating. Too tall, too serious, tattoos crawling up his arms, piercings, and that permanent annoyed expression. But nobody ever mentioned his hands.
It happened randomly. You were stretched out on his couch while he worked on an assignment, his laptop balanced on his knee. Yuji was asleep in the other room after refusing bedtime three separate times. You weren’t even doing anything, just lying there with your cheek against the armrest, watching him.
His sleeves were rolled up, and his hands moved over the keyboard. You stared for too long because they did not match him.
Not really.
His knuckles had tiny pale lines across them, old cuts. One thicker scar sat near the base of his thumb. His nails were short and uneven, and the skin around his joints was dry. His fingers looked rough and used. Not ugly. Just worked.
Warehouse shifts, carrying boxes, opening things with his hands because he never bothered getting tools, cooking, washing dishes, holding Yuji’s tiny shoes while yelling at him to stand still, fixing Choso’s bike, and probably carrying too much for too long.
You looked down at your own hands, soft with little rings and tiny scars from paper cuts and cooking, and suddenly your chest hurt.
Sukuna glanced over. “Why are you staring.”
You blinked. “Nothing.”
“That face means something.”
You shook your head, and he went back to typing. Two minutes later, you spoke again. “Why are your hands like that?”
He stopped typing and slowly looked at you. “What does that mean.”
You sat up. “No, like…” You reached over and took one of his hands before he could pull away. He let you. You turned it over in your lap, his palm warm and rough. You traced one of the scars with your thumb.
“You work too hard.”
He stared at you, then looked away. “What.”
Your throat felt strange. You laughed awkwardly. “I dunno. I just… I don't know.” You pressed your thumb into his palm, and suddenly your eyes stung.
He noticed immediately. His expression shifted. “Oi.”
You looked away, and he responded by closing the laptop. “Why are you crying?”
“M’not.”
“You are.”
You sniffed, and it sounded ridiculous even to you. You whispered, “I just got sad.”
His eyebrows pulled together. “About my hand.”
You nodded once.
He looked genuinely confused. You swallowed. “I know this is dumb,” you murmured, tracing another scar. “But every time I see stuff like this, I think you do too much.”
His face stayed blank, so you kept going quietly.
“You work all day. You raise Yuji and Cho. You always pay. You fix everything, and…” Your voice softened. “Your hands look tired.”
Silence settled between you. Sukuna looked at you, then at his own hand resting in yours. For a moment, something in his expression shifted. Not dramatically, just a flicker of surprise, like nobody had ever looked at him and thought about him instead of what he could do.
He scoffed under his breath. “You’re weird.”
You nodded sadly. “I know.”
He stared at you for a few more seconds, then turned his hand and closed his fingers around yours. You froze. He looked away, the tips of his ears faintly pink.
“They’re just hands.”
You looked at him and whispered, “No.”
When his eyes flicked back to you, you smiled softly. “They look like someone whose been trying really hard.”
His jaw tightened, the way it always did, like affection made him uncomfortable. Then he reached out, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you into him. You made a small, confused sound as he pressed your forehead against his shoulder.
“Stop looking at me like I’m dying.”
You laughed weakly. “M’ not.”
His hand rubbed your back once, slow and awkward. Then, quieter, he said, “It is not that bad.”
You nodded against him.
But later, when he was asleep, you held one of his hands against your cheek and thought that next time he came over, you were buying hand cream. Not because he needed it, but because somebody should take care of the hands that take care of everyone else.
Also, my sign to buy hand cream bc why tf are my hands so rough😭😭 Finally wrote something up, exams have literally drained my balls blue, I'm so DONE!!
nanami was never the same after shibuya. it wasn’t just the loss of his physical appearance that changed him.
it hurt to hear his muffled sobs stirring behind closed doors, only for him to emerge stern-faced. every night.
when you placed a gentle hand upon his marbled one in assurance, it did not melt into yours. not like it used to. your husband from a year ago, would've interlaced fingers with a sickening endearment, soft kisses peppering among each bump of your caressed knuckle.
you were the first to adapt to his injuries. faster than him, dolefully. for example, standing on his right when speaking to him as he was hard of hearing on the left. scuffing slippers intentionally when approaching to not startle his rattled nervous system. replacing his shirts with a rich cotton-bamboo blend for his sensitive flushed skin. taking over cooking duties, restricting the amount of culinary freedom he had in the kitchen if he tried to help, you knew better than to let his hardened fingers tangle with a knife.
your husband desperately clung to every tradition he had before his injury, hoping to keep himself anchored to who he once was. one of which, refusing to look unkempt. every passing of a reflective surface led to a pathetic churn from the bottom of his heart, like he was no longer worthy of the rich relationship that thrived so effortlessly with his old face. he figured the least he could do to compensate for his ugly disfigurement was be presentable at all times for you.
so, when you found him wrestling with the ivory buttons of his shirt. you executed the usual routine in commiserate heartache.
you intentionally dragged the sole of your foot, allowing the scuff to announce your presence before appearing in his blind spot.
his fingers only fumbled faster in a one-sided race to finish before you reached him. by no surprise, you beat him.
“you don’t need to rush, ken.” you murmured gently tending to his embarrassment.
his hands dropped in surrendering defeat allowing you to take the wheel. in a swift, almost insulting motion, you had buttoned the rest of his shirt leaving his collar comfortably loose.
“thank you, sweetheart...” his lone eye stayed glued to his tainted reflection, meeting yours in the glass for a fraction of a second.
instinctively, his gaze dropped to the floor pathetically. completely retreating from yours. he was terrified of what you might find if you lingered on his eye a second too long.
maybe you would mourn his old face.
you gently caught his chin, thumb brushing the glassy texture as you coaxed his head upright until he was forced to look at you.
“of course... you look great.”
oh how those sacred words unravelled his coarse mind time and time again, slicing mercilessly through that self-loathing armour of his.
he found something terrifyingly beautiful in your undying devotion to him. nanami had never once questioned your loyalty. he knew you meant what you said.
yet, acknowledging how your wedding vows still laced your every word. every action. every thought. it was a sobering frightening realisation of how lucky he was to have you. a terrifying miracle.
you pressed a long adoring kiss against his lips. equal pressure on his good and scarred side. a warm exhale left his nose, pillowing against your face.
you had adjusted yourself to the front of his torso, aware of how difficult it was for him to simply lean left or right.
per usual, he melted into your grounding routine.
only one arm tightened at his will. your right hand laid softly against the chest of his crisp cotton shirt, while your left hand caressed the smooth curve of his good ear.
this was another adaptation you picked up on. even in the heat of the moment, you would never dare to hurt him. every movement you took during intimacy was carefully curated for his comfort. you never leaned your full weight on the ruined left-side of his body. you never ripped his clothes off in arrogant lust. your husband took notice of these habits you succumbed to, never verbalising his gratitude out of the shame, he was the reason you had to change.
and of course, the sudden shift of your natural embrace had stung his heart far more deeply than his body ever could. a horrible cue to mourn the carefree wife you once allowed yourself to be.
god... how he wanted to pull you flush against him. to wrap his arms round your waist tightly. both arms. to lift you off your feet, twirl you around until that familiar bubble of laughter seethed into his ears like music.
yet he knew in a bitter uncertainty that those moments were permanently bound to the man a year ago.
instead, he simply collapsed into the reality of what he could do.
he attempted to bury his face into the crook of your neck. the elasticity of his skin was completely rid. it was not a graceful movement, it was stiff. but he made it work.
a cultivated sway caught momentum in the embrace.
“my love...” he spoke rasping into your hair. “what you have done for me this past year. i...i don’t know if i can ever repay it.”
“oh darling..." you leaned your head back just enough to face his sorry gaze. "there is no debt to repay."
his eye, a dull ember, stayed low with the familiar dishonour seeping into that troubled head of his.
"when i married you, i promised in sickness and health. my love for you has not faltered since. it never will, kento." you hushed, searching his lone hazel eye. "i know you’d do the same for me.”
it was only when your hand lifted to rest against the left side of his face in reminder that your words applied to every part of him, did he drag to meet those earnest, doting orbs of yours.
the surface of his skin felt artifical under your fingers. the overlapping folds of shiny, glassy ridges swirling like a rosy marble. it did not bother you. this ‘imperfection’ is what brought your husband back home to you after all. and you did your utmost best to remind him daily.
a strained unnatural tug formed at his lips, a lop-siding grin growing from the toughened skin around his mouth.
“what are you smiling at?” you mirrored his smile with a questioning laugh.
“just...” he let out a gravelly huff. “how couples often call eachother their ‘better half’. i always thought it was something of sentimental nonsense. now look at me...
a man stripped of his literal physical half.”
his eye met yours, significantly glossier than before.
“and now i am sure i can conform to those sentiments my dear. you are my better half. i mean it in the most literal sense sweetheart. i see how you naturally step to my blind spot when we walk on the streets so i'm not spooked by fast walkers. how when i’m too exhausted to execute simple mundane tasks. you step in before i can feel useless. and... your little slipper thing. you make up for the half of my body i lost.”
he let out a grounding uneven breath, his right hand sliding up the cradle of your head before continuing.
“how you drag those feet to not startle me. god, you notice everything my love... i could go on forever listing everything you’ve changed for me. i want you to know i notice it all. my dear, i notice it all." there was no shame behind the sudden longing in his eye, he needed you to know that all the shame, disgust and contempt in the world could not compete with the expression of love for his wife.
the burning heat that welled in your eyes finally broke like a dam. streams trickled down your cheeks. his good hand traced your hair, long fingers untangling strands. bringing a sliver toward his face. he shut his eyes in bliss, burying his nose against your crown as he breathed you in, like you were a lifeline he clung so shamelessly to.
your tears began to spot his white shirt, black smudges spreading by the second. “stop... my mascara... kento, stop.” you mutter against his hard thumping chest in between a sob and laugh.
but your husband did not let you pull away. instead, he lowered his head to yours, hovering before his seared left cheek rested upon your crown, letting his two worlds merge.
“it is just a shirt.” a low retort grumbled from him. “it can be washed. i care entirely about the woman who is ruining it.”
the loving sway found its way back to your intertwined bodies. “let it smudge...”
his eye closed in beautitude. an unknowing tear squeezed out as he did, it trickled pensively down the healthy undereye, heaving over his prominent nosebridge, easing onto the bordered terrain of his burn, it zig-zagged between the salmon pathways of the uneven texture before dripping down to your scalp in finality. coincidentally, it was a beautiful analogy of those strained emotions passed through all parts of him in longed recognition. how it passed through his good half, bad half.
I'd run the risk of losing breath on empty pages,
losing breath on no exchanges,
losing breath on no one waiting
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
Summary: Working at an overnight camp--the same camp you’ve been going to since you could walk--should be fun. But it isn’t. Not when all you can see is the boy you used to love, the boy who used to love you, running around, having the time of his life with his new girlfriend.
Everyone loves him. Everyone seems to want him. And you’re forced to watch it, knowing what he did to you, knowing how you feel for him.
Perhaps an old friend could help.
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, enemies to loversish?, derogatory language, heavy ex yearning, plot heavy smut, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, ruined orgasm, oral (f-receiving), praise, light anal play (whoops), squirting, fingering, creampie, choking, dom!steve, jealousy, horsecock steve harrington ofc, a sickenening amount of petnames, probably more tbh...
W.C: 13.8k
a/n: this is by far my LONGEST oneshot and the nastiest smut I have ever written to date. I'm both parts happy and shocked with myself. hope you enjoy <3.
୨♡୧
The sun beats down on your back, heating your skin down to the bone. A lingering headache sneaks up your temples, settling deep within your skull. Your black tank–which you’re now regretting immensely–sticks to your skin, sweat sliding down each notch of your spine.
Other counselors chat and laugh around you, oblivious to the storm swirling deep within your stomach. An all-consuming ache that even with months of distance has refused to go away.
How can anyone blame you, though? Although some people might claim you and Richie Blake were nothing more than a summer fling, a brief blink in time, you know you were more than that. You wish, you hope, Richie knows that too.
Your love burned bright and fast, and no matter how long you fought to keep the wick standing, the wax melted too quickly, searing nothing but the memory of him into your skin. Burning all your faults into the creases of your charred palms, all the harsh words he threw at you settling deep within your bones.
Flashes of last summer flood back into your head as they always do, ever-present, never-ending. The ghost of his hands on your waist, the taste of his tongue on your lips. The constant “I love yous” and “I miss yous” even though he was only a few cabins down.
And then, there he is.
Richie shuffles over to a group of his friends, just a few feet away from you. A large, dimpled smile lights up his face, dirty blonde hair swooping high above the arch of his brows. Over all the chatter of other counselors around you, you can still hear that deep, baritone voice. Smooth as honey.
As if the world stops spinning on its axis, time slows down as his eyes slide to yours, through the crowd of people. A part of you hopes for a twitch of his brow, for his entire face to light up like it used to. Except… there's nothing. Then, like it never happened, he turns back to his friends and continues whatever story he’s telling them.
“Stalking him again?” A raspy voice behind you.
You spin around, eyes wide, your heart pounding against your ribs. “Jesus Christ, Robin!”
“Sorry, sorry!” She laughs, the sound escalating when you stick out your tongue at her.
“Seriously though, you have to let him go.” It’s true, of course. Doesn’t mean that the thought of it doesn’t make your heart hurt.
“I mean- come on, Rob? Who does that? Seriously?”
“I know-”
“He told me he loves me! How can you love someone one day, and claim ‘you’re not mentally ready for a relationship?’ Like, hello?!”
Robin cringes, watching you wave your hands around erratically, your face getting redder and redder. She gets it; she really does. But it’s been an entire year since last summer. Robin of all people knows how draining it is to dwell on the same person for so long. After all, her Tammy Thompson is your Richie Blake.
“Hey- maybe we should take a breath?”
Just as you're winding up to argue with her, you look over your shoulder, just wanting one more glance at his beautiful face—when she walks up.
Hollie Carter.
Long, shiny auburn hair falls down her back in soft waves, the sun shining off the loose curls. Tight black shorts vacuum seal themselves to the curve of her ass, her tits popping out of her red bikini top. The plump curve of her lip is smeared in shimmering gloss, her teeth shining white as a smile spreads across her face.
She walks right up to Richie, placing her manicured hand on his bicep. And the look on his face fucking breaks you. His eyes are shining, the dimple on his right cheek appearing almost immediately. You remember the times you pressed your lips against it; you remember the times his eyes used to shine that way when he looked at you.
But they’re focused on her.
And god, she’s fucking beautiful. Everything you’re not. Athletic, funny, put together. Sexy. Everything you were insecure about in his arms.
There were rumors they were talking. You knew they must’ve been true. Hell, even when he was yours, she was all over him. But, fuck, seeing them interact like that? Right in front of you? It hurts. It’s worse than hurt, even. It’s that type of burning ache that tears through your veins, splits your heart open till you’re bleeding into your lungs, choking on every “what if.”
What if you were prettier? What if you were funnier? Smarter?
And yeah, you can’t blame him for moving on. You don’t own him. At this point, it feels like you never had him in the first place. Sometimes you wonder if you were ever even friends?
Robin knocks you out of your spiraling thoughts rather abruptly, sliding in front of you, blocking the sickeningly good-looking couple from your view.
“Okay. Enough of this, I'm serious. You need a Richie detox,” Robin says, stepping to the side when you try to look past her shoulder once you see Hollie getting on her tiptoes to whisper something in his ear. “I’m serious! You should move to be a counselor for the older kids so you don’t have to see him as much!”
In response, you shake your head. You wish it were that easy. “Rob, we’re four weeks into the summer! I can’t just switch bunks.”
“So you’re just going to torture yourself for another five weeks?”
“No- I’ll- I’ll deal with it, okay?! It’s like- it’s not even that big of a deal. I’m over him,” you huff, sounding like you wouldn’t even be able to convince the most gullible person on the face of this planet.
“I’ll talk to our boss, how about that? See what she can do-“
Your conversation is once again interrupted by a chorus of greetings from over Robin's shoulder, and another face you’d really rather not be seeing right now.
Steve Harrington, Richie’s best friend. His right-hand man, if you will. Both you and Robin watch as Steve saunters up to the growing group of counselors and claps Richie on the back. Some kind of energy in the group shifts, like they’re absolutely enthralled by the man.
It does nothing more than fuel your growing anger. Your despair. To you, Steve Harrington is nothing more than a man-child with too much hair. To you, he’s nothing to blink an eye at, nothing to swoon over like every fucking person on this planet does.
Maybe, to other people, you have absolutely no reason to hate him. Just because he’s friends with Richie doesn’t make him an asshole. But you know better. You have a way of reading people, seeing things others can’t. You’re not falling for his spell.
A little tidbit that you know for a fact that Steve would never tell anyone—to him, he’s too cool for the likes of you—is that you used to be friends. Best friends, even. Back in high school. Then he became the king. Really, he just became a fucking asshole. Nothing less, nothing more. He started pushing you away, calling you less, laughing at you when he was with his new shiny friends.
To top it all off, Steve only became close friends with Richie AFTER he broke your heart. They merely rotated in the same circle beforehand! It’s like he did it to spite you. To show that you’ll never be anything more than that weird girl King Steve wouldn’t even spare a passing glance at.
Fucking dick.
Robin, seemingly noticing the steam billowing out of your ears, grabs your forearm and starts to drag you away. “Okay, we’re done here. Back to our cabin!”
“Wait- Robin! I still need to get snacks for my kids!” You say, stumbling into step with her.
As you’re pulled away from the crowd, you don’t notice the honey-thick eyes burning into the back of your head.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
Cold lake-water laps against your ankles, goosebumps littering your skin with each gentle roll of the water. The light from the moon shines on the ripples of the inky black water, cicadas singing somewhere deep within the trees that surround you.
After an entire day of stewing in anger, the sadness came crashing in, like it always seems to do. That crushing, devastating pain sat heavy on your chest, making it almost impossible for you to even think without sobbing. Robin tried to help, forced you to watch all your favorite comedies, scooped you a huge bowl of ice cream, and let you cry on her shoulder. Although it helped for a little, it just wasn’t enough.
So, once she fell asleep on your shoulder halfway through a movie you don’t even remember the name of, you slowly set her head down on a pillow and snuck out to the camp lake. Your happy place, the one place where you feel like you can breathe.
Still, tears silently roll down your cheeks, mixing into the inky water below.
At this point, you begin to think it’ll never get better. This empty hole in your heart just won’t heal; it never will. And what makes it all so awful? Richie doesn’t even care. You know he doesn’t think of you. He doesn’t even spare you a passing glance; how foolish do you have to be to think one day he might miss you?-
Suddenly, footsteps sound on the wood dock behind you, heavy yet unrushed. You quickly wipe your tears on the sleeve of your sweatshirt, sniffling quickly.
“Robin- just go, please,” you whisper, hiding your face to the side, hoping she can’t see the mess of mascara you know is smeared across your cheeks.
“Hollie’s a bitch, you know,” she says.
Except, the voice is not Robin’s at all.
You startle, your neck almost breaking from how quickly you whip your head to the side. “What the fuck?!” You rush out, holding your chest where your heart feels like it’s going to burst out of your ribs from the shock.
You’re face to face with Steve, his face illuminated by only the moon, his hair a messy swoop of chestnut waves. “You shouldn’t let her bother you,” he says casually, his gaze settling on the far side of the lake. A cigarette hangs from his lips, glowing dimly, smoke curling in the air.
Looking at him, bewildered, you open and shut your mouth. “What the fuck do you want?”
Then, he glances back over at you, tilting his head to the side. He pulls the cig from his lips, blowing the smoke in your face. “That’s why you’re crying, right? Hollie and Richie? Or just Richie?”
Scoffing, you scoot away from him, shaking your head. “Steve, seriously, fuck off,” you grunt, waving the pungent smell away from your face.
He’s silent for a moment before you hear shuffling. His feet slide into the water next to yours as he leans back on his hands, relaxing like this is a normal conversation he’s having with one of his closest friends.
“What he did… Was really fucked up. I should’ve said something sooner.”
Slowly, you turn your head to look at him, your lips parting. That’s new.
But also rich coming from him of all people.
“If you really thought that, you wouldn’t have become all buddy-buddy with him a week after it happened. You’re worse than him for that.” Maybe that last part isn’t… completely true. But it feels that way. You haven’t been friends for a long, long time. Yet it feels like a betrayal. That kind of quiet betrayal that sneaks up on you when you least expect it, that keeps you up for weeks wondering why.
He blows out a breath, shaking his head. A few strands of hair fall over his brow, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he debates his next words. “He lied to me about it,” he whispers, taking another drag.
Immediately, you shake your head. “Sure he did. Everyone knew about it last year; he was bragging to his whole fucking friend group. Said he led me on for fun, called me an ugly bitch.”
“Jesus Christ,” Steve exasperates, smoke blowing from his lips when he speaks, his eyebrows twitching. “He said that?”
Just as you're about to fire back at him, you turn to look into his eyes. All you see is genuine shock. And anger. “He didn’t tell you that?”
“I heard rumors from our other friends. I thought it was just bullshit. He seemed so… stand-up,” Steve says, having trouble even getting the words out after what you just said.
In response, you blow out a laugh. “They always do.”
Silence follows, only the sounds of the trees rustling in the wind, the sharp coos of owls just a whisper in the night. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and his cologne, the scent weirdly comforting. From the corner of your eye, you can see him flick the dying butt into the lake beneath his feet, making your eye twitch. But you don’t say anything, snapping your teeth together.
You think back to what Steve said just a few moments ago, about how Richie lied to him. The question sits on your tongue, begging to be let out. But a part of you doesn’t even want to know. For all you know, he could’ve told people that you’re a crazed stalker that casted a spell on him so he’d fall in love.
But curiosity seeps in deep, grabbing a hold of you in its sharp claws. “What did he tell you?”
The man next to you is silent for a moment, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his head. Even in the moonlight you can see a soft dusting of pink creeping up the tips of his ears. “It’s just gonna piss you off…”
“Harrington, I’m already pissed off. Just fucking tell me.”
With a soft sigh, he shakes his head. “He, uh. Told me you slept with his friends when you guys were dating.”
You almost breathe a sigh of relief. It could be worse. It’s not great, but it could be worse. “That’s it? He just wants people thinking I’m a slut?”
“At the same time.”
“Oh.” You’re silent for a moment, your body bracing itself for your next question. “How many did he say?”
Silence rolls back in, Steve’s face almost glowing in the night. It’s certainly a weird sight to see the king so unbelievably uncomfortable. “Five.”
You sputter, choking on your spit. “Five?! Five??! Are you fucking serious?”
“Dead,” he looks over at you, a sheepish look on his face.
“And you believed him? Like, you legitimately believed I had a fivesome. Me? Of all people?”
“I mean- I think that would be considered a sixsome?”
“Steve!” You shove his shoulder hard, almost causing him to tumble into the water.
“I’m sorry! He’s very convincing!” Steve says with a rich laugh, running a hand through his hair.
“Jesus Christ!” You laugh in disbelief, the tears long gone. “You know, he’s the fucking weirdo here. You know what he wanted me to do?”
He cringes, his eyes widening. “Oh god, can I say no?”
Promptly ignoring him, you continue. “He wanted me to watch him fuck my sister. My sister, Steve!”
He immediately turns his body toward you, eyes as wide as saucers. “You’re joking. Holy shit- You’re joking,” he sputters in disbelief.
“I wish I was!” You laugh, almost mad at yourself for putting up with all this bullshit he put you through.
“And you’re still hung up on this asshole?” He says, not in that teasing way that’s crafted to make you feel bad, but in genuine, utter disbelief.
“Fucked up, right?” You shake your head.
Steve’s silent for another moment, a soft laugh filling the empty air. “You need to get under someone else, Cookie. Get that asshole out of your head.”
Both his words and his use of your old nickname make you startle. “First of all, don’t call me that. Second of all, fuck you. I’m not sleeping with you.”
“Whoa! Jesus, not me!” He throws his hands up in front of him, as if you’re about to hit him. “I can hook you up with someone. I know half the guys here.”
Embarrassment simmers low within your stomach at your assumption. “Oh…Right. Still, I don’t want you to be my.. Dick Wingman.”
“Your- Dick Wingman?” Chest rumbling with a laugh, an eyebrow quirks up.
“You know what I mean. I’m perfectly fine without sex.” And it’s true. Mostly. Sure, you’ve been getting slightly frustrated recently. But you’ve just been attributing it to the Richie-shaped-hole left in your heart. You just simply miss his touch, his taste, his warmth. That’s why. Not because you need to get pulverized into a mattress. God, no.
“Come on. Just- What’s your type? I can help you find someone. Call me your matchmaker.”
“No thanks,” you huff, not convinced.
“Look, you don’t have to sleep with anyone. Just tell me your type, and I’ll set you up with someone. You don’t like him, I’ll leave you alone. Won’t ever bring it up again.” Once he notices the unconvinced look on your face, he holds up three fingers. “Scout's honor?”
“You’re not a Boy Scout, Steve,” you mutter, crossing your arms across your chest.
Still, you consider it. What’s the worst that can happen? Like he said, it’s not like you have to sleep with whoever he finds for you. Even still, he could find you someone that you genuinely find attractive! Then maybe, finally, you could begin to get over Richie.
“Fine,” you sigh, taking a moment to consider. “I guess I like funny guys. The kind that can always make you laugh, even if they’re saying something stupid. Someone-“
Steve interrupts you quickly with a shake of his head. “No- I mean physical. Like, blonde, blue-eyed.”
Your eye twitches when you look back over at him. “I’m not that shallow.”
Fearing that he’s lost you again, Steve overexaggerates a pout, his eyes somehow glowing under the light of the moon. “Humor me. Please?”
“Ew, don’t do that,” you laugh, looking away from him. When you look back, he’s still pouting, looking like a kicked puppy. “Okay, okay, fine, stop,” you push his face away, earning a chuckle from his lips.
You take a moment to think. When you really consider it, Richie isn’t much of your type at all. Of course, you find him attractive. You’d be blind not to, really. But you’ve never really had a thing for blondes. That’s a starting point, you suppose.
“I mean, I guess I’ve always had a thing for brunettes,” you say slowly.
“Gotta give me more than that, Cookie,” he winks at you when you throw him a nasty look.
As you think about it, the words begin to tumble out of your mouth in a long, seemingly never-ending stream. “I like brown eyes too. Not exactly brown, actually. I like when guys are pretty, you know? When the sun hits them, and their eyes turn almost golden. When if you look close enough you can see flicks of green in them.”
Steve’s silent for a beat, and you chalk it up to him simply processing your words and waiting for you to continue.
“I like full lips, too. Not when they’re chapped. I don’t know why guys refuse to wear chapstick; I hate kissing someone with dry lips,” you shudder at the thought and continue. “I also think I have a weird thing with noses? I like when guys have big ones. Everyone says it’s ugly, but I think it’s cute.”
“Mhm,” Steve murmurs, but it sounds slightly strained. Still, you continue.
“Oh, and, jumping around here, but I like when guys have nice hair. Last year Richie showed me a picture of him in a buzzcut, and it was… Really, really bad. I just think guys look so much better with lots of hair. I mean, not long hair like Jonathan’s friend. But you know what I mean,” you rush out, letting the words tumble out without even thinking.
To your surprise, Steve is still silent. Quickly, you assume it’s because he expects you to continue. Sure, slight miscalculation on your part, but you keep talking. “I don’t need a guy that’s ripped or anything. I like when guys are a little soft, or lean. Biceps are a must, though. And he doesn’t really have to be that tall—just taller than me.”
Finally, you look over at him, not really sure what else to say. He’s staring at you wide-eyed, his lips parted and a look of absolute bewilderment written all over his face. He stutters a few times, completely unable to even get a single sentence out.
“Wha- What did I say? You told me I can be shallow!”
“No- I- Think about everything you just said,” he finally gets out.
For a moment, you press your lips together, trying to comprehend what you could’ve possibly said wrong. “What? The height thing? I don’t think it’s bad to want someone taller than you.”
He looks at you like you just ran over a puppy, his eyebrows furrowed so tightly you’re worried he might give himself a migraine. Steve says your name slowly, then he gestures to himself.
It takes you a moment to understand what he means, but as soon as you realize, you laugh loudly and roll your eyes. “Steve, not every girl is attracted to you. Sorry to be the one to break it to you.”
“Okay- hold on. Usually, I’d agree with you. But after all that shit you just said? According to you, I’m exactly your type!”
“Oh, Steve, come on!” You scoff.
“Brunette?”
“There’s plenty of brunettes at this camp!”
“Great hair? Tall? Hazel eyes? Big nose? Lean? Cookie, please tell me you’re not that dense,” he says, voice almost begging.
You’re about to argue with him, you’re about to deny, deny, deny. Because, seriously? You? Being attracted to Steve Harrington? You’ve always had an immense amount of pride for not being like all the other girls who fawn and drool over him. But slowly, so slowly, something deep twists within your chest. Realization comes slowly rolling in like waves crashing on the shoreline, the undertow dragging you under with it.
Under the moonlight, you look at him. You really look at him.
And fuck, he’s gorgeous. The moon casts shadows across his face, deepening each curve, his long eyelashes casting a shadow over his face. Freckles are splattered across his tanned skin like constellations, spreading all the way down and hiding beneath his tank top. His hair falls in soft, chestnut waves over the arch of his brow, urging you to run your fingers through them.
And his lips. Oh, fuck, his lips. They’re curved into a teasing smirk, making you wish you could wipe it right off. They’re dusted a baby pink color, plush and full. They look soft, so, so soft.
Okay. You’re fucked. You’re so fucked.
Knocking you out of your trance, you feel fingers under your chin, forcing your gaze to line up with his. “You’re attracted to me, Cookie. Admit it.”
Humiliatingly, you can feel your face glow red, the tips of your ears burning. “I’m- No- God, Harrington, you’re so full of yourself! And- you know what? Your eyes aren’t even hazel, asshole!”
He gives you a deadpan look, his hand dropping from your chin. “Really? That’s the defense you’re going with?”
When you refuse to say anything more, he rolls his eyes. He fishes in the pocket of his shorts, pulling out a small flashlight. Then, he shines it right in his eyes, making him flinch back just slightly.
You see the deep, rich color, specks of gold and deep greens swirling in the thick pool of honey. They almost glow in the artificial light, a siren call that urges you to get lost in them. As soon as the light comes, it ceases when he flicks the flashlight off and shoves it back in his pocket. “Are you done?”
You look down at your lap, hanging your head in shame. You’ve run out of words to defend yourself with, embarrassment sinking deep in your soul. You should’ve just kept your big fucking mouth shut. “Can we just… pretend like this didn’t happen?”
Steve shakes his head sharply, not letting you get away with this so easily. “Nah-ah. I’m still your matchmaker, remember? And we just found the perfect candidate to make you forget all about Richie,” he says, his voice lowering on the last part, the deep baritone going straight into your stomach.
“I’m not letting you stick your dick in me, asshole. Stop trying to pimp yourself out to me,” you say, forcing your eye to twitch despite how those first words make you feel between your legs.
“I never said anything about me fucking you. I don’t even have to take my pants off, you know. I can... make you feel good. Just for a night. Show you that Richie’s not the only guy that knows what he’s doing,” Steve murmurs, walking his fingers up your thigh, his touch gentle, light. Just in case you push it away.
But you don’t. You can’t. Not when waves of molten travel right to your core at the mere thought, at the barely there touch of his fingers. “So- W-what? You’re just going to rub my thigh until I have to fake an orgasm?”
At that, Steve lets out a deep chuckle. “You know I’m better than that,” he says simply, not offering more.
After a deep breath, you shake your head. This whole thing is stupid. Having mediocre not-sex (with Steve Harrington of all people) isn’t going to help you get over the man you love. But a small, tiny fraction of your body aches for touch. Not… specifically Steve’s, right? Just someone’s hands all over your body, the warmth of their lips against yours, their taste on your tongue.
“Okay,” Steve says with a shrug, like it doesn’t bother him. To your surprise, he pulls his hand away and sets it in his lap.
As soon as his warmth leaves you, a chill spills down each notch of your spine, a deep lingering want left behind in its wake. Something akin to a searing desperation, the likes of which you haven’t felt in a long, long time. Not since Richie.
With a shuddering breath in, you give in. You can’t imagine leaving this dock, going back to your cabin and tucking yourself to sleep without at least giving it a try. “Steve?” You whisper, so quietly you’re worried he won’t hear.
Slowly, he turns his head, an eyebrow quirked. “Hm?”
Without so much as another thought, you push his head toward you and surge toward him, your lips pressing against his.
Somewhere in the back of his throat sounds a strangled groan, his entire body freezing. You move your lips against his, almost letting out a moan of your own at how soft they feel against yours. When you pull back, he’s staring wide-eyed at you, blinking at you with nothing but confusion on his face.
“You gonna help me tonight or what?”
His pupils blow, a smirk growing on his face, his eyebrows furrowing in challenge. “You sure?”
“Shut up, Harrington.”
Just as you see the ‘make me’ forming on his lips, you twist your fingers into his shirt, yanking him forward. This time, Steve comes to his senses quite quickly.
His hand slides up your neck into your hair, his nails scraping your scalp as he grabs a fistful. His mouth is persistent and warm, feeling like it’s made to be against yours. “You better be good,” you murmur into his mouth.
Feeling his smirk makes your cunt flutter around nothing, the feeling making you shudder. “Oh, I am, honey,” he says right back.
He slips his tongue out of his mouth, coaxing your lips apart. You allow him to tilt your head to the other side, his tongue slipping into the wet heat of your mouth. A soft whimper leaves your throat at the feeling of his tongue sliding against yours, his taste absolutely intoxicating. Somewhere beneath the lingering smoke on his tongue, you can taste the sharp mint of gum, and a taste so uniquely Steve you can’t help but whine. Fuck, it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.
You can feel him smiling against you at your little whimpers, his teeth hitting yours when you press yourself closer to him. The kiss borders on senseless, pure desperation. He licks into your mouth with fervor, your lips glistening in spit, both yours and his.
Once you feel his hand traveling up your shirt, cold fingertips brushing your burning skin, you place your palm on his chest, pushing him back. “We- We should go to a cabin.”
Steve blinks at you, his eyes completely dazed. When his brain is able to catch up with him, he clears his throat and nods. “Eddie’s at Chrissy’s tonight. Mine is empty.”
“Right. Yeah,” you breathe out. The gravity of what you’re about to do starts to weigh on you when Steve stands up and offers his hand, pulling you down the dock.
Hopefully he’s not all talk.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
The walk back to the cabin is silent, your heart matching each heavy footstep you both take. As you get closer and closer, your stomach begins to twist, warmth pulsing between your thighs. The smell of damp grass wafts through the air, the mud beneath your shoes getting softer with each march forward.
When you see Steve’s cabin come into view, dread begins to pulse through your body. What if you can’t get Richie out of your head, and you moan his name instead? And again, what if Steve thinks he’s really that good, when in reality, he’s not? You’ve had a good amount of sexual partners. None of them were really that… mind-blowing. Some of them were downright awful. You shudder thinking about all the times guys have jackhammered their fingers in you, telling you to cum when you weren’t even close.
And Richie? You don’t even remember. That’s how much you loved him. He could’ve been absolutely awful, and you'd have no clue. All you could think about when he was with you, when he was in you, was just that: how your heart is fully his, no one else’s.
Without you even realizing, you end up at Steve’s front door. He takes a moment to fish his keys out of his pocket. You can’t help but notice the way his biceps flex when he twists the key in the knob. At least he’s hot.
Steve cracks the door open, motioning for you to step in. Shuffling to the middle of the room, you take a look around. It’s more or less the same as yours, if not a little messier on one side. With a quick look around, you realize it’s Eddie’s side that’s mostly untidy. Band posters and clutter line the walls and shelves, sheets dark as night. His desk is covered in papers and pens, coffee rings scattered all over it. It’s not disgusting, per se. Just so Eddie that it makes you smile.
Steve’s side of the cabin is… surprising. It’s neat, almost empty. His sheets are navy blue, pillows silk white. His desk has a small pile of papers on it, a line of pens on top. The only light in the room is the little lamp on his desk that he must’ve left on before going to the docks. It smells strongly of citrus soap and Steve’s cologne when you walk over to his desk, the scent infecting your lungs with each inhale. You smile when your fingers brush against a small succulent, googly eyes on the pot.
“Who’s this?” You chuckle.
Quiet as a mouse, Steve comes up behind you, his chin leaning over your shoulder. The sudden barely-there contact makes you shiver. “Jonathan gave it to me. Don’t know how I’ve kept him alive so long.”
“It’s a succulent, Harrington. You have to water them like… four times a year.”
His breath is hot on the shell of your ear when he chuckles, eyelashes brushing your temple. “I don’t think you came here to talk gardening with me, Cookie.”
You can feel your face light on fire, the AC doing nothing to calm the heat of your body. It intensifies when his fingers rest on your hips and turn you around, your faces just barely apart.
The look on his face is earnest when he speaks next, “We don’t have to do this, honey. You can walk out right now. Or just chill here for a little. Up to you.”
Considering it for a moment, you gently shake your head. You’re determined. “No- I want this,” you whisper, voice firm. Final.
With a twitch of the corner of his lips, Steve leans in, pressing his lips to yours once again. Immediately, you can’t help but melt into him, pressing your chest against his, fingers tangling in the soft tendrils of his hair.
Steve deepens the kiss with a sweep of his tongue against the roof of your mouth, a needy whine from your throat following it. He walks you backwards blindly, pinning you to the wall with his body.
The kiss becomes sloppy, his hands traveling across the planes of your body, tracing each dip and curve with warm, eager palms. You gasp into his mouth when his hands travel downward, fingers digging into the plush skin of your ass. With a press of his palms against your ass, he drags your crotch against his.
As soon as the seam of your shorts comes into contact with the firmness of the bulge in his, you let out a frankly embarrassing noise.
“Feel that?” He grunts against your mouth, rolling your hips against his, making sure you feel him kick up against you. “See what you do to me, pretty girl?”
The pet name sends a spark through your body, your legs spreading when Steve kicks them apart just slightly. Then, he presses the corded muscles of his bare thigh against your aching heat, grinding you down onto it. “Steve-“ You whine, eyebrows furrowing as he nips at your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth.
“What do you need? Tell me, honey,” he murmurs against your jaw, his nose nudging your head to the side.
Before you even have the chance to answer him, his teeth sink into the skin of your neck, the sharp pain stinging so good. You let out breathy whimpers as his lips press against the spot, tongue swiping out to soothe the blooming purple. “Fuck- Steve! You’re gonna- ah- leave a mark,” you whine, fingers cording through his hair, holding him against you despite your words.
“Good. Gotta show Richie that you’re bein’ taken care of, yeah?” He murmurs, nipping at your fluttering pulse, the skin jumping as your blood pumps through your body harder, flooding your ears until all you can hear is that thick, syrupy voice. “Show him that you don’t need his pathetic ass anymore.”
The words should hurt, should make you feel empty inside like they have every single time Robin has tried to comfort you with them. But with his hands all over you, his thigh grinding against your clit so perfectly, it sends fire through your veins.
He pulls you forward, walking you to his bed. The back of your knees hit the mattress, and he picks you up, palms pressed into your ass. Contrasting the heat of his mouth on yours and his hands all over your body, he gently lays you on the comforter, your hair splaying out over his pillow. He lands on top of you, one hand pressed against the mattress, his knee between your thighs.
And then he pauses. His hand reaches up to cup your face, his thumb brushing your jaw. “God, you’re fucking beautiful,” he whispers, almost in awe. “You know that?”
Blinking up at him, your lips part. Richie never told you things like that in bed. Really, he was almost completely silent besides a few grunts here and there. “You… you don’t have to say stuff like that, Steve. This is just purely sexual,” you murmur, although the words twist something ugly within your chest.
Quickly, he shakes his head. “Just telling the truth, Cookie. I’ve always thought you were gorgeous,” he whispers.
Not giving you a chance to respond, he latches onto your neck again. When you let out soft whimpers, his lips track downwards, wet against your collarbone. He leaves even more blooms of purple in his wake, the wet heat of his mouth feeling like heaven against your skin. Lowering his head, he nips at the spillage of your breasts out of your tank top, a shiver running through your body.
Steve looks up at you through thick eyelashes, his hands sliding up your tank, brushing against your ribs. There’s a question in his eyes, wordless but evident. “Please,” you whisper.
He lets out a warm chuckle against your skin, pulling away to slide the fabric up your body slowly, his eyes darkening with each inch of skin that’s revealed to his hungry gaze. You raise your arms, letting him pull it completely off and throw it behind him somewhere.
A part of you wishes you were wearing something cuter than your old cotton bra, the pink color faded into a beige, but his eyes darken anyway. “God, look at you, honey,” he says, cupping you through the thin fabric, his thumb brushing your hardening nipple.
You sit up slightly and reach behind your back, undoing the clasp. Slowly, he helps you drag the straps off your arms, pulling them away from your body completely. Your tits spill out, goosebumps rising over your newly revealed skin at Steve’s rough gaze. “Fuckin’ hell.” He ducks his head down, taking a nipple into the heat of his mouth.
Immediately, pleasure spikes through your body in ripples, your back arching into his warmth. Steve chuckles against you, his tongue swirling around the firm peak. “So responsive,” he coos, tugging gently on it with his teeth.
His other hand reaches for your other tit, pinching and rolling your other nipple between nimble fingers. You slide your hand through his hair, holding him there. He switches his mouth to the other one, sinking his teeth into the plush skin. Heat pulses between your legs, your panties slick with arousal, sticking to your heated skin.
You grind your pussy against his thigh, searching for any friction you can get. “Needy girl,” Steve mumbles, smirking around your nipple.
In response, you whine, dragging yourself against his leg like a humpy chihuahua. In hindsight, it would be embarrassing how he has you like putty in his hands with only his lips on your tits. But how could you blame yourself, when no one’s touched you like this in an entire year?
“What do you need? Tell me, honey,” he whispers, picking his head up and nuzzling his nose against your jaw, breath prickling your skin.
You whimper, grabbing his wrist. You try… and fail to pull his hand between your legs. Steve tuts with a click of his tongue, his fingers digging into your thigh instead. “Use your words. Where’s that foul mouth?”
“Steve,” you huff, trying again.
His eyes widen in admiration when you yank his other hand downwards, pressing his palm against your pussy. “Stubborn,” he murmurs. Although the contact is more than nice, it’s still not enough. Eyes narrowing at you, he speaks again. “Use your words, or you’re not getting what you want.”
“What happened to ‘I just wanna help?’” You say, despite knowing you don’t have the upper hand here. Not when you’re half naked under him, his body pinning you to his mattress.
He grins down at you, his teeth showing when he grinds his palm against your clit, pulling a breathy moan from your lips. “I do, but you gotta show me how much you want this. That you’re not here wishing it was him.” His voice darkens on the last few words, his smile fading.
Oh.
He’s jealous. Steve Harrington is jealous. “Steven,” you say with a sly smile. “Are you jealous?”
He huffs and rolls his eyes. “I don’t get jealous, Cookie. Especially not over Richie Blake,” he practically spits out his name.
If there’s one thing you’ve known about Steve, he's a terrible liar. So why not poke the bear? “What if I did wish it was Richie? Wish it was his hands all over my body, getting me like this?” You say, reaching out and palming him through his basketball shorts, trying not to let your breath catch at the firmness of him. “That it was his dick twitching in my hand?”
That snaps something within him. He immediately grips your wrists—not painfully, just enough where you can’t wiggle out easily—and pins them to the mattress, his face inches from yours. “Don’t fucking say his name,” he says through his teeth, eyes wild.
Something churns in your stomach, then builds like a forest fire tearing through the brush. Your cunt clenches, your panties feeling far too sticky to be comfortable. They’re practically clinging to you through your shorts. “It’s true,” you whisper, your voice cracking as you say it.
Without giving you a chance to respond, he captures your lips, his tongue licking into your mouth, breath mingling with yours. You moan into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist, grinding your aching pussy against his fattening bulge once again.
He reaches down, yanking your shorts and panties in one go. You flinch, cold air dusting over your heated skin as soon as the fabric leaves you. His mouth is still on yours as he explores your body, fingers slipping through your folds. Steve groans when he feels how soaked you are for him, his fingers spreading you wide open. “Real wet for someone thinkin’ about someone else, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the pad of his middle finger pressing firmly against your swollen clit.
“Oh, shit,” you whimper, intense pleasure striking through you as he finds the right rhythm, the right way to move to make you arch up into his touch.
“Like that, yeah?” He murmurs, circling his finger a little quicker, pulling more moans from your lips. You know he doesn’t have to ask; he already knows how gone you are without him doing much of anything.
Quickly, he pulls his fingers away, pulling a protesting whine from deep in your throat. Then, he begins to kiss down your body, his tongue dragging across your soft skin. Your eyes begin to widen when you realize what he’s doing. Steve settles between your legs, his hands wrapping around your thighs and yanking you downward toward his face.
You prop yourself up on your elbows and look down at him between your legs. Big mistake. His hair lies in messy waves over his forehead, his cheeks sun-kissed and freckled. Soft lips are flushed a pretty pink, plump and glistening with your spit. He’s already looking at you through his lashes, eyes half-lidded and glazed over.
The overwhelming warmth spreading through your body at just the sight of him intensifies when his tongue sweeps out, licking a broad stripe from your dripping hole to your clit. You moan a little too loudly, your head plopping back down onto the pillow.
He does it a few more times, tongue parting your folds. A groan vibrates against your skin, his nose pressing against your clit. “Fuck, you taste so good,” he murmurs, breathing in your scent deeply. “So perfect.”
Your face lights on fire, embarrassment heating your cheeks. Before you can dwell on it, Steve dives in. He laps at your pussy like he’s starving in the desert and you’re the only food in sight, his tongue dragging against your clit with such practiced precision that it makes you keen against him.
“Fuck- Steve!” You moan unabashedly, fingers twisting into the bedsheets, just looking for anything to grab.
A chuckle vibrates against your clit, sending more shockwaves through your entire body. He ducks his head, spearing his tongue inside of you, his nose nudging against your clit. Your hips lift off the bed, moans slipping from you without care. Thighs squeezing either side of his face, Steve pins them down, clicking his tongue once again. Why is that sound so hot?
“Steve, oh my god,” you drag out, eyes rolling back in your head.
He whimpers against you when your hips grind up against his face, needing even more. “Keep doing that, baby, get what you need,” he mumbles, latching right back onto your clit.
“Oh, fuck, right there!” You pant heavily, the coil deep in your stomach tightening until it feels like it’ll snap at any moment.
Just as you feel the rubber band lurching forward, suddenly everything just… stops. Your orgasm dies like a cigarette butt being stomped into the ground, flickering pathetically as it tries to ignite. Your eyes crack open, and you look up at the ceiling in confusion.
Slowly, you prop yourself up on your elbows, looking down between your legs. Steve’s sitting back on his haunches, his lips and chin glistening with your slick. He’s looking at you with a fire in his eyes, a small smile on his lips.
For a second, you think he might’ve miscalculated. Maybe he thought you had already cum? Anger rolls in through your veins, in heavy clouds. Of course you wasted a night on this idiot. “I didn’t finish, asshole! I thought you knew what you were doing.”
“I know,” he just says.
This completely catches you off guard, your eyebrows raising. He doesn’t give you the chance to protest much, however.
“Wha- Steve!” You yelp, eyes widening when he pushes you back onto the bed, a finger prodding at your entrance. He slides it in, pumping slowly. Your eyes widen, your cunt clenching around the intrusion.
When you look at his face, he seems to be searching for something. His finger curls deep within you, prodding with each movement. His smirk deepens when he finds that soft, spongy spot, confirming it when your hips twitch up, a loud whine bouncing off the walls. As soon as he finds it, he presses hard against it, sliding a second finger in.
He splits you apart on his fingers, curling them even harder with each deadly thrust of his wrist. Steve’s thumb presses against your clit, circling around it. The pleasure is so intense it almost burns, his fingers scissoring you open.
You climb up to the ledge a lot quicker than before, already so, so close from your ruined orgasm.
“Fuck, Steve! I’m so close, oh my god!” You moan, eyes rolling backwards.
“Cum for me, baby,” he murmurs.
This time, he lets you topple over the edge. Your cunt clenches around his fingers, your back bowing high off the bed. You cum hard and fast, his name on your lips like a prayer. Steve's fingers still work you, all the way through your orgasm. Except… they don’t stop. His thumb keeps circling your clit, pressing harder even after you’ve already finished.
“Steve!” You whine, squirming away from his touch.
But… he pins you down. He presses against your stomach, preventing you from moving away from his touch. “Hold still for me, honey,” he murmurs, that look of focus on his face returning.
Your nerves feel like they’re on fire, a million little needles pricking your skin. A foreign feeling bubbles deep within your stomach, your eyebrows furrowing. Loud moans fill the room, your thighs shaking violently with the overstimulation.
“Steve, I can’t-“ You sob, tears filling your waterline. “Please, it’s too much!”
“Shh, I know you can take it, baby,” he whispers, stroking your cheek with his other hand, contrasting the roughness of his fingers pounding into you.
Obscene noises fill the room, the loud squelching of your cunt with each thrust of his wrist causing your cheeks to sting. Steve doesn’t seem disgusted; however, it just urges him on more. “You’re soaking my wrist, god,” he mumbles, a wicked smirk on his lips.
His fingers reach a spot within you that has drool pooling at the corner of your lips, your eyes squeezing shut. Your mind is hazy with pure euphoria, nothing on your mind but him. You cum hard, again, yet Steve doesn’t stop, even when you clench around him like a vice.
“Bet he never made you feel like this, hm?” He murmurs, leaning down and peppering your neck in harsh bites.
You’re unable to respond, your vision black with the back of your eyelids, your toes curled so hard they’re cramping.
“He’s never had you like this, drooling, shaking, yeah?” He growls, changing the angle so instead of his thumb, it’s his palm grinding against your clit.
Loud, nonsense murmurs leave your lips; nothing you’re saying makes any sense, and Steve just laughs. It doesn’t feel mocking, however, but in your haze of pleasure you can’t place what it is.
Suddenly, your eyes snap open when a pressure begins to build low within your stomach. It’s unfamiliar but far too familiar all at the same time. Panic rips through your body at a sickening rate, your eyes wide. “Wait- Steve,” you yell, your hips snapping up.
His fingers press firm against your g-spot, your head thrown back and a loud squeal leaving your throat.
Liquid sprays out of you, soaking Steve’s entire arm and shorts, his sheets dampening beneath your ass. “There it is,” he growls.
His fingers continue to roll against your sensitive walls, your cunt clenching around his fingers like a fucking vice, making him almost unable to move them. “You’re doing so good, I know you can give me more.”
With one more grind of his palm against your abused clit, you squirt again, the bed absolutely ruined. You soak his arm all the way to the elbow, his face in absolute awe of you.
You go completely limp, your fingers that you hadn’t even realized were dug deep into his wrist unpeeling from his skin, your trembling legs dropping against the mattress. Chest rising and falling heavily, your heart almost cracks a rib from how hard you’re panting.
“Good girl,” he coos, leaning down and pressing his lips against your forehead, his gentleness almost shocking when compared to his motions from just a few moments earlier.
A wince slices through your teeth when he slides his fingers out, your cunt pulsing with oversensitivity. “Sorry,” he whispers, kissing your temple before flopping down on the bed next to you, facing the ceiling.
Steve gives you your space, letting your body relax and come down from the intense high he brought you to, multiple times. Slowly, you come to, your chest rising and falling at a normal pace, your heart slowing to a light jog. After what could either be five minutes or ten, you throw your arm over your eyes and huff out a soft, “Fuck.”
You feel him shift to his side on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow. “You okay, honey?” He whispers, voice soft, his fingers brushing your jaw.
“Mhm,” you mumble, still not really sure what just happened.
You shift just slightly, your heart dropping when you feel the wetness beneath your ass. Immediately, you sit up, your eyes bouncing between Steve’s sheets, comforter, and his clothing. “Oh my fucking god! I’m so sorry,” you rush out, your face tomato red.
Steve also sits up, chuckling as he shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he says gently, placing a hand on your shoulder comfortingly.
Except, you’re not listening to a word he’s saying. “Oh my god, I ruined your bed!” You rush out, covering your face with your hands.
“Cookie, it’s just sheets. Eddie has extra. I promise you, it was hot,” he says, pulling your hands away from your face by your wrists. “I promise.”
“Are you sure? I-“ Realization dawns on you, all the color draining from your face. “Steve, holy shit, you made me squirt.”
A loud laugh rumbles from his chest, a hand running through his hair. “I did. Richie ever make you do that?” He tacks on, like he couldn’t help it.
You whip your head toward him, your face completely deadpan. “What the fuck do you think?”
Again, Steve laughs, leaning over to peck your lips. You kiss him back gently, palm against his neck, your thumb sliding against his jaw. “No one’s ever made me do that before,” you admit.
He pulls back, a victorious smile on his face. “Good.”
Shaking your head, you kiss him again, his lips firm against yours. Although it’s not as heated as before, something flickers in the background, growing and sparking.
He shifts, pulling your bare chest against his, his tank rough against your sensitive nipples. You reach out blindly, your palm finding the bulge in his shorts that still hasn’t gone down. You hear him whine into your mouth, his dick twitching against your hand when you squeeze.
“Honey,” he whispers once your hands travel up his tank, pulling it upward. “Hey, hey,” he stops you, grabbing your hands. “We don’t have to. Tonight was about you.”
Shutting him up with another kiss to his lips, you brush his hair out of his face. “It’s not fair I get to feel that good and you just get nothing.”
Any protest he has dies on his tongue when you squeeze his dick again, his hips grinding up into your palm. “Ah- Cookie,” he grunts, head thrown back.
“I want you in me, Steve,” you whisper into the shell of his ear.
Immediately, his eyes snap open, scanning each crease of your face once you pull back. “Are you sure? I mean…” He trails off, motioning to his ruined sheets.
“I can take it,” you say firmly, although you’re not really sure you can.
“Yeah?” He whispers, his thumb pulling your bottom lip down, watching as it snaps back up when he lets go.
“Yeah,” you say back, already tugging his tank top over his head.
Steve snaps out of it, helping you pull it off of him. Before he gets a chance to move on top of you, you push him back, getting a good look at the expanse of newly revealed skin. And god, he’s gorgeous. Dark curls of hair cover the length of his chest, his stomach just slightly toned, a little soft. You can see each dip of his ribs, a trail of hair below his navel dipping all the way into his waistband.
Most eye-catching, though, are the jagged scars that twist into his flesh, deep and tinted purple. Your lips part at the sight, his stomach clenching when you drag your fingers over them. It looks like something bit down into his skin and pulled him apart slowly. The thought alone makes you shudder.
The question dies on your tongue when he follows your gaze, his tongue coming out to wet his lips, a nervous tick you remember from high school. “Story for another day,” he murmurs, gasping low and deep when you lean down to press your lips against each raised scar.
He whispers your name, his eyebrows furrowed in pleasure and something else you can’t place. With shaking hands, you reach down and undo his drawstring, peeling the damp fabric down his thighs. Steve kicks them off the rest of the way, leaving him in nothing but tight navy briefs. Due to the dimness of the room, you’re unable to see much through the dark fabric, not like you could see the silvery scars practically shining on his skin.
Before sliding your thumbs in his waistband and tugging downwards, you take a shaky breath in. You’ve heard far too many rumors about Steve Harrington, so many you can barely keep track of all of them. But the one that you’ve heard most, the one that everyone and their mother spread around in High School? Steve Harrington is hung. Not only is he long, but thick too. You remember sitting in chemistry class senior year, hearing Stephanie Wiggins pop her gum and describe exactly what he’s working with in excruciating detail. Yeah, it was a rough class.
You used to roll your eyes at the chatter, chalking it up to rumors Steve himself spread, that girls who wanted to sleep with him—but never got the chance to—grabbed onto as ‘proof’ that he let them.
But now, you’re a little nervous. After what he just made you do, you’re not sure how much more you’re going to be able to take.
Still, you hook your thumbs lower, pulling the fabric away from him. He lifts his hips, helping you slide them completely from his body. When your eyes flicker back to where your mind has been all night, your heart drops.
Every single rumor you’ve heard? They’re all true. Every last one of them. Even the one where Casey Atkins said his dick was “pretty.” You cringed at it when you overheard her in gym class, but it’s true.
He’s long and thick, the skin tanned and looking so, so soft. The tip is flushed a light pink, precum already leaking down the shaft. Thick veins snake around in coiling lines, enticing you to drag your tongue across them. A trimmed patch of hair sits at his base, connecting to his happy trail that you refuse to admit turns you on to no end.
“You want a picture?” He says coyly, seeing how wide your eyes have gotten.
Your eyes snap up to his, a sly look on his face that you want to kiss off. “Shut up,” you say, your cheeks pink.
“You should watch your mouth, Cookie,” he whispers.
Steve opens his mouth again, probably to tease you more, but every single word dies on his tongue when your small hand wraps around his dick, your thumb swiping out to smear the dot of precum. “Oh,” he breathes out, his lips parting.
To your delight, he lets out soft little whimpers when you lean over and let a string of spit fall from your lips to your fist, making your palm glide easier across his shaft. He throws his arm over his eyes, his throat working with each whine that leaves his lips. “Baby, you keep doing that, I’m not gonna- fuck- last for you.”
The new pet name makes your movements falter for just a second, before picking up speed a moment later. “Then you better pin me down and do something about it,” you say, hoping he gets your insinuation. Despite how sensitive you still are, how the apex of your thighs is still pulsing with overstimulation, you can’t help but want him to manhandle you a bit, to pin you to the bed and get what he needs.
He drops his arm to his side, his eyes snapping to your face at the insinuation. “How do you want me?”
You tilt your head slightly, not really sure what he means, but you answer anyway. “As rough as you want.”
Adam's apple bobs when he swallows, your eyes tracking the movement. “You sure? I don’t wanna hurt you,” he whispers, your name, his voice so sweetly earnest it melts you a bit, despite the lewd situation.
“Please?” You whisper. A thought crosses your mind, words that you know will drive him mad–exactly what you want. “Fuck him out of me.”
The effect is near immediate. Steve’s eyes widen, his eyebrows furrowing so tightly it makes you smile. He lurches forward, fingers digging into your hips and flipping you over, your stomach pressed against the still-damp sheets. It should gross you out, but it does the opposite, your thighs pressing together.
“Ass up,” he grunts, pushing your upper back down to make you arch. When you’re fully exposed to him in the low light, he groans, spreading you open with his thumbs. “Look at this pretty pussy. So wet, all for me," he murmurs, not as a question. A statement.
You blush, knowing how much of yourself you’re giving to him. But you don’t regret it; you don’t feel uncomfortable. Steve makes you feel safe, seen. Loved. Quickly, you shove that thought from your mind quickly. That’s not something you should be thinking about, especially not when the circumstances of this hookup aren’t romantic whatsoever. Purely a favor on his part.
The thoughts bounce out of reach when you feel the blunt head of his dick slide through your dripping folds, once, twice. “Condom?” He asks, pulling back just slightly.
The thought of having him bare makes your stomach clench almost immediately. “I’m on the pill.”
He’s silent. For a moment too long. You think he might be regretting it, that this has gone too far. But when he grabs your ass, his nails digging into your skin, you know that’s far from the truth. “Fuckin’ hell, you want me raw?”
Nodding as hard as you can, you wiggle your ass back onto him, gritting your teeth when a vein drags against your clit. “Don’t pull out.”
“Holy shit,” he breathes out, nearly a disbelieving laugh. “You want me to fill this pussy up, huh? Have you full of me?”
“Please, fuck, please,” you moan out, gripping the pillow in preparation, breathing in his cologne that’s soaked through the fabric.
“Can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” he murmurs, pressing his tip against your weeping hole.
The stretch is quick to come, making you both groan at the same time, Steve’s fingers pressing bruises into your hips. “Fuuckkkk, so tight f’me,” he groans, nearly doubling over.
You almost yell at the burn that’s so good it’s overwhelming, his dick nearly splitting you open. “Fuck, Steve!” You moan out, knuckles cracking at the force of them twisting in the sheets.
He pushes in halfway, your cunt clenching around him, forcing an obscene moan from his throat. He rubs his hand up and down your spine, nails dragging a soothing pattern. “Breathe for me, baby, come on.”
You do as he says, trying to follow his exaggerated breath from the effort of him trying not to slam right into you. He can feel your body relax and flutter around his dick, dragging him deeper. “There we go, so good, you’re doing so good,” he coos, his voice becoming breathy in a way you can’t recall having heard before.
“Deeper,” you whine out, pushing back onto him.
The breath is punched out of his chest when his hips meet yours, his dick fully sheathed within your waiting cunt. “Jesus Christ,” he groans, unable to hold back from rolling his hips.
The fat head of his dick just barely kisses your cervix, your thighs trembling already. You’ve never felt this full before, this sensitive. And no one, especially not Richie, has reached this deep within you before. “Steve,” you whimper pathetically, your eyes squeezing shut.
“I know, I know,” he coos, his thumbs spreading you wider. You can feel him watching in awe as he slowly pulls himself out, all the way to the tip. Then, without warning, he shoves forward, slamming back into you in one brutal thrust.
His headboard slams against the wall, your mouth opening in a silent scream. He does it again and again, the breath quickly stolen from your lungs. “Fuck, take it baby, take this dick,” he grunts, yanking you backwards onto him, spearing into you at a brutal, unrelenting pace.
Each time he punches forward, his tip bullies your g-spot so perfectly that you have to bite the pillow to stop yourself from screaming.
The sound of skin slapping skin bounces off the walls of the cabin, your pussy squelching obscenely loud with each snap of his hips into you. With each thrust in, Steve’s grip on your ass gets tighter, his thumb just barely brushing against your hole.
You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but a fire begins to burn brightly deep in your stomach. It’s a type of want you’ve never felt before, for something you’ve always been curious about. Not able to make out any sounds other than moans and screams, you arch even harder, the pad of his thumb pressed right against it.
His hips still for just a moment before he snaps them forward once again, a breathy laugh tumbling out. “You like that?” He asks, pressing firmer.
Whining out a “yes” is all it takes for Steve to run with it. You feel him spread you open even wider, leaving no amount of decency. A gasp tears out of your throat when you feel a glob of spit land right on your hole, warm and wet.
“Gonna try something, honey, tell me if it hurts,” he grunts out, spreading his spit with his thumb. Then, making your eyes bulge out of your head, you can feel the tip of his thumb push through the tight ring of muscle.
As soon as it does, your stomach tingles, your walls fluttering. It feels strange and new, but so, so good. When you moan his name instead of wincing in pain, he sinks the digit inside down to the knuckle. No one’s ever touched you back there, not even yourself. You moan loudly, bouncing back onto him.
“Fuck, you really like that,” he laughs out, more so in shock than in an effort to humiliate. He keeps his thumb still as he thrusts into your cunt, stretching you wide open with each movement.
Suddenly, he reaches forward, his chest pressing against your shoulder blades. Steve wraps his fingers around your throat, yanking you backward. He sits up on his knees, your back pressed firmly against his front. With his free hand, he grabs at your jaw roughly and tilts your head to the side, his lips locking with yours.
The kiss is more than sloppy, both of you panting into each other's mouths more than kissing. Your eyes flutter open, looking into his. And god, he looks good. A bead of sweat drips down his forehead, his lips parted and his face flushed. His hair is messy and plastered to his forehead with sweat, hanging over the arch of his furrowed brows.
His thumb still thrusts into your tight hole, despite the awkward angle. Steve’s other hand locks around your throat, squeezing your pulse points just barely. It’s not so much where it hurts or makes you panic, but just enough to make your breath leave you in ragged pants.
With both of his hands occupied, your own travel downwards, shaking fingers circling your swollen clit. Once Steve realizes what you’re doing, he groans, his lips brushing your temple.
“Keep touching yourself, baby,” Steve murmurs, his voice so husky that you know he’s close.
Steve knows it too, his efforts doubling. He thrusts his thumb fully inside of you, his fingers tightening around your throat. “Come with me, please, honey,” he pleads.
Drool begins to spill down your chin, tears tracking down your cheeks. You murmur his name over and over, it being the only sound you’re able to conjure up. The coil in you tightens so fast you lose your breath, your head knocking back against his shoulder.
“You can do it, fuck, come on,” he grunts, holding his own orgasm as long as he can.
Then, with one more rough thrust, you come undone. You soar over the edge of your orgasm, your cunt clenching down on him like a vice, your legs shaking and a loud scream tearing from your lips. Steve immediately reaches up, his palm pressed tight against your mouth. It muffles you just enough, your breath hot on his hand.
Then, finally, he buries himself to the hilt, twitching once, then twice. He spills within you, hot cum coating your sensitive walls, intensifying the aftershocks of your own orgasm. Steve’s teeth sink into your shoulder, muffling his own noises.
You sit shaking in his arms, his teeth still sunk into plush skin as you both come down from the intense high. After some time, Steve gently pulls back, kissing the bite and murmuring soft apologies. His thumb drags out of your tight hole, making you cry out once again. “I know, shhh,” he whispers, gently peppering kisses across your neck.
Then, he slowly pulls out of your abused cunt, laying you down on your stomach. He groans, watching his release drip out of your pussy onto his sheets, and he physically has to avert his eyes. Steve sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing sweet circles on your back. You lay there, trying and near failing to catch your breath.
After some urging from Steve, you’re able to blink the tears away, the clouds hovering over your mind clearing. You're able to register gentle kisses on your shoulder blades and the scent of sex lingering in the air. When he hears your breath calm, his fingers draw hearts into your skin. “You okay?”
“Mhm,” you murmur, completely spent and exhausted.
“Did I go too far?” Steve whispers, worry dripping like honey into his tone.
Then, you turn your head and look up at him, your voice sincere. “No. But.. think you’ve ruined me for anyone else,” you're able to get out.
At that, Steve chuckles, brushing your hair away from your sweaty forehead. “I’ll take it you're not still thinking about him?”
The question catches you slightly off guard. “Huh?”
He lets out a loud laugh at the confusion on your face, like he’s completely fucked the man out of you, just like you asked. “Richie,” he clarifies.
You shudder at the thought of him, the feeling you typically get when you hear those two syllables completely bleeding out of your body. “Ew,” you say, nose scrunching in disgust.
Steve just laughs and shakes his head, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “I’m gonna run you a bath, okay? Then I’ll change these sheets.”
Your heart pounds against your ribs at the thought of him taking care of you like that, the feeling weird when it’s associated with Steve Harrington. “You don’t have to do that,” you whisper.
“Oh, Cookie, I definitely have to change these sheets. As much as I love you, don’t think I wanna be sleeping in that all night,” he teases. The words slip out almost mindlessly. You realize he doesn’t even know what he said when he stands up and hums softly to himself while he strolls to the bathroom.
You lay there in his bed, your eyes wide and your breath still. Did he really just say that? Did you imagine it in a post-mind-blowing sex haze? More importantly, why does it make your heart bloom?
You’ve never felt that way about Steve. Not once. Well… perhaps you had a little crush on him in high school when you were friends. Okay, more than a little crush. But love? That’s ridiculous. Sure, you’ve come not to hate him after the night he just gave you. But it’s just the result of all the orgasms he brought you to. Not because you have feelings for him.
Sure, maybe you are very attracted to him. And sure, maybe you only wanted Richie at first because you knew Steve was a mutual friend. But then you fell in love with him!
Oh.
You’ve never admitted that to yourself. You’ve always convinced yourself otherwise. That if you truly wanted Steve to notice you again, you would’ve dated Eddie, or even Jonathan. But looking back now, it was a desperate ploy to get him to speak to you again, to realize he missed you.
Of course, you truly did love Richie at some point in time; you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t. You truly did miss him deeply, too. But maybe, after he broke your heart, the scar was older. Older and deeper than you’d like to admit.
Just as you come to the realization, Steve creeps out of the bathroom, a new pair of boxers covering his body. He stands in the doorway awkwardly, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his head. “Um. I didn’t mean to- uh,” he coughs, and now you realize what he said dawned on him. “Slip of the tongue,” he tacks on haphazardly.
You sit up and tuck your legs beneath you. His eyes don’t even stray from the floor, even when the blanket falls from your shoulders. “Why did you stop talking to me?” You ask, shakily.
“Huh?”
“In high school?” You ask. Your voice isn’t angry; you’ve gone long past anger. You’re just… curious. A tad hurt. “You were my best friend. Was I not yours?”
“Oh honey,” he says, voice cracking. He walks over to you quickly, cupping your face with both his hands. “Of course you were. I was so fucking stupid back then. Tommy and Carol teased me about being friends with you, and I just… I listened. And god, I regret it every day. I regret every day I didn’t talk to you. Every day I pushed you away. You know, last summer? I wanted to apologize. I couldn’t find the words, especially when I saw you with him,” he rushes out. “I’ve been so stupid, Cookie.”
You swallow thickly. “You have.”
Steve chuckles, his thumb brushing against your cheek.
“I think I have, too,” you admit, looking down at your lap.
Just as you can hear him about to protest, you stand up on shaky legs, fingers wrapping around his wrists. You hold his gaze steadily. “I did love Richie; I can’t tell you I didn’t. But… I don’t know. It feels like he’s a step in my path to someone else. To the person I wanted to be with all along.”
Steve’s eyes widen, his eyebrow quirking.
“To you, Steve,” you say with a wobbly smile.
He blinks at you in shock, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he scrapes up a squeaky “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you repeat, leaning in to press your mouth against his in a soft, chaste kiss. Then, with a deep breath, you whisper against his lips, “I love you, too.”
At that, Steve lets out a breathy near-sob, unable to help himself from tugging you against his body, his arms wrapped tight around you. You stand there, chest to chest, heart to heart, breathing in his scent, basking in his touch.
It feels like you’ve come home, like you’ve come up for air after sinking to the depths of the ocean for so long.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
Over the next few weeks, your relationship blossoms and grows. To the dismay of Eddie—who you’ve promptly kicked out of his own cabin multiple times—you spend almost every night with Steve, sometimes naked beneath his sheets, sometimes just resting in his arms while a movie plays faintly on the boxy TV on his dresser.
The only people who know are Robin and Eddie, the former of whom ran around screaming when you first informed her. Although she was slightly suspicious of Steve’s intentions, after speaking with him, she became nothing but supportive of you both.
Although you’d like to shout from the rooftops your love for him, his love for you, you both decided it’s best to keep it quiet. Word spreads fast around camp, rumors wild and violent. There’s no need to give people something to sink their teeth into, especially after the things Richie spread about you.
One night, you’re in your own cabin for a change, Steve’s head ducked between your legs, his favorite spot. He laves at your folds lazily, his finger sliding against your walls nice and slow. Your shirt is pulled up around your neck, his hand squeezing around your tit, your own curled tight around his hair.
You moan softly, grinding your hips against his face. Just as you begin to feel that now-familiar pressure in you build, loud knocks crack against your door.
Steve pauses, his eyes flicking up. You glance toward the door and just shrug, urging him to continue. “It’s probably Robin forgetting something. She’ll go away,” you whisper, only feeling slightly bad for urging her into Nancy’s cabin for the night.
At your word, Steve gets back to work, his finger spearing into you a little quicker now. He groans in frustration when the knocks sound again, louder and quicker. You’re about to tell him to keep going when you hear a familiar voice calling out your name.
Richie.
“Can we talk?”
Steve’s head quickly snaps up, your eyes widening. “The fuck?” He whispers, sitting up on his haunches.
Your heart sinks into your stomach. What could he possibly want? You haven’t spoken to him in a year! When you see Steve about to get up, you place your hand on his shoulder, pushing him downwards. “Heel,” you joke, earning a playful jab to your stomach.
Quickly, you stand up on weak legs, pulling on your pajama shorts and fixing your t-shirt. You don’t bother fixing your hair or your pink cheeks. After all, you don’t have anyone to impress except the guy on your bed, and he’s seen every inch of you.
You pad over the door, opening it only enough for him to see you, just when he’s mid-knock. Richie’s face changes when his eyes rest on you, a small smile crawling its way onto it. If it were a few months earlier, you’d melt.
“What?” You say, slightly snippy. God, you really wanna get back to having your boyfriend's mouth on your clit.
Richie clears his throat and runs a hand through his grown-out buzz, mussing the sandy waves. “I just- I wanted to talk to you.”
“About?” You cross your arms.
“I think- I made a mistake, blossom,” he admits, his old nickname for you not even sparking the smallest of flames within you. “With Hollie.”
You don’t speak, just tilting your head to urge him to either speak or get the hell off your porch. “I miss you, okay? I shouldn’t have let you go. Hollie’s nothing compared to you, my blossom,” he says, reaching forward and taking your hand in his.
Eyes widening, your heart drops. The fucking nerve he has to come crawling back to you after everything he did to you, after everything he said behind your back, too cowardly to say it to your face.
“I want you by my side again, I want you to be my future. Remember what we talked about? California? Us on the beach?” He says, eyes shining.
You pull your hand away, wiping it on your shirt. Richie’s eyes widen just slightly at the motion, his irises swirling with confusion. “Blossom? I know you miss me, baby. I heard you and your friend talking about it just a few weeks ago,” he almost pleads.
“Richie, get lost. We both know you’re doing this because Hollie dropped your ass,” you say, voice firm and final.
His eyebrows furrow in pure confusion. “I don’t- Come on, don’t do that,” he murmurs, reaching out to grab your hand again. When he does, you can hear the bed springs behind you squeak, the noise just barely there.
Suddenly, you feel a large, warm palm wrapping around your waist. You watch as Steve’s fingers wrap around the door, yanking it open to reveal him behind you. “She said get lost,” Steve says, pulling you back against his bare chest.
Immediately, Richie drops his frozen arm, his eyes as wide as saucers. It’s almost comical, really. His eyes dance around the scene in front of him, gaze landing on the bite marks on your neck, the purple marks on Steve’s. The mess of your hair and Steve’s, his state of undress. Finally, his eyes land on the shirt you're wearing. Undeniably, it’s not yours. An old Hawkins High swim team tee.
“What the fuck!” Richie spits out, more so directed at Steve than you. “You’re an asshole, Harrington! What kinda friend fucks his buddy's ex?”
Steve’s arm wraps around you tighter, as if Richie would reach out and take you away from him.
“First of all, we’re not buddies. Second of all, you don’t own her. Especially not after the shit you spewed to everyone about her.”
Richie shakes his head, his face red with anger. “Blossom, you don’t seriously want this prick, be serious! He’s all talk and no dick!”
At that, you can’t help but chuckle, your eyes widening and your palm slapping against your mouth. Richie flinches back, his eyes wild with anger.
“Sorry- I just- this is rich coming from the guy I had to fake orgasms with for a year,” you get out, amusement leaking into your voice.
Richie scoffs, running a hand through his hair. He seems twitchy, his fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides, like he’s ready to punch something. Or someone.
“Get lost,” Steve says firmly, slamming the door right in his face.
As soon as the wood cracks against the frame, Richie screams profanities on the other side, his boots stomping on the gravel while he storms away, probably off to lick his wounds.
You spin around, wrapping your arms around Steve’s neck, your head tilted up. Anger is settled deep on his face, his eyebrows creased so hard it has to be giving him a pretty strong headache. You smooth out the wrinkle between his brows with your thumb, his face relaxing just barely.
“Calm down, Stevie. Save your energy for me,” you whisper, kissing him gently.
He melts against you, palm pressing against your spine, holding you against his chest.
“I love you, Steve. More than I can say. Not him,” you whisper against his lips, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
“I love you more, Cookie,” he says with a smile.
Slowly, you pull back, cupping his jaw. “You know, you’ve never told me why you call me that.”
Steve smiles sheepishly, his breath hitching for a moment. “You really wanna know?”
“Of course I do. You’ve been saying it since ninth grade.”
“I don’t know… You were always just so warm. Comforting. Something I wanted to go to when I had a shitty day.”
You blink at him, your smile wobbly and sincere. “You’re so corny,” you laugh, the sentiment full of so much love.
“That’s why you love me,” he dips his head down, pressing his smile against yours.
୨♡୧
a/n: hope you enjoyed! this fic is unfortunately inspired by my own sad life. fuck you camp guy.
summary : for you, it's been five years. for him, only a few seconds.
warnings : ANGST. ANGST. ANGST. hurt/comfort, with about 30 % comfort and only like at the very end (oops), this is an alt AU where both frank and reader were part of the avengers (bare with me i swear it makes sense), mentions of depression, mentions of unaliving one's self, oh and did i mention angst
word count : 6.1 k
a/n : not proofread ! blame them. they made me do this. i'm sorry.
The air is so unbelievably thin.
Your chest feels like it's constricting every time you move, your limbs aching and groaning with every sudden movement.
Everything hurts.
The battlefield stretches for miles, painted in smoke and fire and broken metal. The sky itself seems wounded, split apart by ships burning as they fall back toward the earth.
Around you—
Screams.
Orders.
The crackle of energy weapons.
Someone is crying. Someone else is begging.
You can't tell who anymore.
Your sword hangs limp at your side, suddenly far too heavy to lift.
Across the ruined plain, you see Steve drop to one knee. Thor is staring at his empty hands. Natasha's face has gone completely white.
"…What…" The word barely leaves your lips. Thanos stands in the distance. Motionless. The Infinity Gauntlet hangs scorched and smoking from his arm. The stones are dim. His fingers are still spread from the snap.
"No…" The wind changes. You don't understand it at first. A strange current sweeps across the battlefield, carrying gray ash into the air. Then someone screams. You turn. Bucky Barnes looks down at his own hand. It flakes away beneath his fingertips. Like burnt paper. Steve lunges toward him.
"Bucky—" But he can't hold onto smoke. Within seconds… He's gone. Nothing remains but drifting ash.
"No…" Another scream. Sam. Gone.
Someone shouts Wanda's name.
Someone else yells for T'Challa.
The battlefield erupts into chaos.
"No, no, no…" You stumble forward. This isn't happening. This can't—
Movement catches your eye.
Peter. He's running toward you. Your heart leaps.
"Peter!" His mask is already off.His eyes are huge. Terrified. He runs and runs and runs- trying to reach you - until he can't anymore.
Until his legs fade to dust beneath him and he falls, face first onto the ground.
"No !" You screech, your heart jumping into your throat. you reach him just as his face starts to come apart like ash.
"No, no, no, Peter, please." You choke on a sob, looking up. "Tony ! Tony, help !" Your own tears start immediately.
"I don't wanna go." He starts crying. "I don't know what's happening." You pull him tighter.
"I've got you." His body trembles against yours. He looks at his hands. Ash drifts from his fingertips.
You grip him harder.
His fingers clutch desperately at your shoulders.
"I don't wanna go."
"I know."
"I don't wanna go."
"I know."
"I'm sorry." His body begins to come apart in your arms. Not all at once. Slowly. Cruelly. His shoulder dissolves first. Then his arm. You desperately try to hold together someone turning into dust. It doesn't work.
"No!" He looks at you one last time. Eyes wet. Terrified.
"…I'm scared."
Then— He is gone. Your arms close around nothing. Ash slips through your fingers. Silence. You stare at your empty hands.
"No…" Your voice cracks. "No." The tears come all at once. Violent. Uncontrollable. You sink onto your knees in the dirt, clutching the handful of gray ash that slips through your trembling fingers.
"No…" It blows away on the wind. "Peter…" Your entire body folds forward. You sob so hard you can't breathe. Around you, more people disappear. More screams. More ash. The battlefield is ending. The world is ending.
And there is nothing— Nothing— You can do.
A voice comes from behind you.
Soft.
Almost lost beneath the chaos.
"…Baby?" You know that voice. Your heart stops.
Slowly— Too slowly— You turn.
Your husband stands twenty feet away.
His rifle hangs forgotten at his side. He's staring at his own hand. Confused.
"…Frank?" He looks up. Your stomach drops.
Gray ash drifts from the tips of his fingers.
"No." He frowns.
"…Huh." Another piece of him crumbles away. He watches it almost curiously. "…Guess…" His voice catches. "…Guess that ain't good."
"No." You scramble toward him, tripping over broken concrete. "No, no, no, no—" He reaches for you. His hand is already disappearing.
"…Hey."
"No!"
"It's alright."
"It is not alright!" You throw yourself into him. Your arms wrap around his waist. He hugs you back. As tightly as he can. But already… You can feel him becoming lighter. Less solid.
"No." His chin rests on top of your head.
"I'm here."
"You are not allowed to leave me." A sad little smile touches his lips.
"Wasn't plannin' on it." His shoulder begins to dissolve beneath your cheek. You clutch harder. As though you can hold him together by sheer force.
"You promised."
"I know."
"You promised you'd always come home."
"I know." Your tears soak into his shirt.
"I can't do this without you." His remaining hand cups your cheek.
Warm. Familiar. The touch you've known a thousand times.
His eyes glisten.
"I wish…" He swallows. "…God… I wish I had more time."
"Frank, stop it."
"I wanted…" Another piece of him drifts away. "…one more mornin'."
"Stop."
"One more coffee."
"No."
"One more kiss." You kiss him before he can finish. Desperate. Shaking. He kisses you back with everything he has left. When you pull away, half his face is already becoming ash.
"I love you."
"No, no- Frankie."
"I love you."
"Frank—"
"You hear me?"
"Stop!"
"I love you." His voice is fading. "So damn much." His arms weaken around you. You try to hold him up. Instead… He slips through your embrace. Like smoke. Like dust. His fingertips brush yours one last time.
Then— Nothing.
The wind catches him. Carries him away. You collapse forward into empty air. Your hands slam into the dirt where he'd been standing only seconds before.
"No…" The battlefield doesn't stop. The explosions continue. People keep shouting. But for you… Everything has gone silent. You curl around the place where he'd vanished, clutching a handful of ash to your chest as it slips, grain by grain, through your fingers. And for the first time since this war began… You scream.
You don't remember making it back to earth. Back to New York.
Back to the apartment that smells like him, the bed that's still ruffled from when he slept in it last.
You vaguely remember Tony being there.
He's talking to Matt.
At least you think he is.
Their voices reach you like they're underwater.
"…can't leave her alone."
"…she hasn't slept."
"…she hasn't eaten."
"…Tony."
"…I know."
You don't look at either of them. You just stand in the middle of your apartment. Frank's boots are still by the door. One of them tipped over. You stare at it for almost five minutes.
Finally— You kneel. You set it upright.
Then you burst into tears. The funeral never comes. There are no bodies to bury. No caskets. No gravestones. Just photographs. Just names. Just empty chairs. Someone gives you a folded flag anyway. You don't remember who. It sits untouched on the kitchen table for almost a year. The first night, you sleep on Frank's side of the bed.
The second night too. By the third… You stop sleeping altogether. You lie awake listening for the sound of his keys in the lock. For boots in the hallway. For the familiar grunt he'd always make as he shrugged out of his jacket.
Sometimes— For half a second— You swear you hear him.
Your heart leaps. You run to the front door. It's never him. Three weeks after the Snap, Karen brings groceries. You don't answer. She lets herself in with the spare key Frank insisted someone keep. She finds you sitting on the kitchen floor. Still wearing the same sweatshirt you'd worn the day the world ended.
The coffee mug in your hands is empty. Cold.
"…Honey?" You look up.
"…I forgot how to make coffee." Karen kneels beside you. The coffee maker is already full. Ready. You'd just… Forgotten to press the button. She cries harder than you do.
Matt visits every Thursday. He never announces himself. He simply knocks twice. Lets himself in. Makes dinner. Leaves. Some Thursdays, you don't speak. He doesn't mind. He just sits across from you while the apartment echoes with a silence that used to belong to Frank.
Month three.
Steve asks if you'll come back.
"We need everybody." You shake your head.
"No."
"They need you."
"They're dead." His face falls.
"So are we." You close the door. You stop answering your phone. Natasha leaves voicemails anyway. Tony sends texts. Bruce stops by. Rhodey too. Eventually… They stop asking. Not because they've given up. Because they know. Some wounds don't close because someone tells you to keep living. The apartment becomes a museum. Frank's jacket remains hanging by the door. His shaving razor stays beside the sink. His coffee mug never gets washed. The indentation on his side of the mattress slowly fades.
That one hurts the most. You start sleeping there. Not because you want to. Because you can't bear watching it disappear.
Six months.
The nightmares begin. Sometimes Peter is reaching for you. Sometimes Frank. Sometimes both. Every dream ends the same way. Ash slipping through your fingers. You wake up grabbing empty sheets.
One year.
The city has learned to be quiet. There are fewer cars. Fewer lights. Too many empty apartments. The grocery store closes two aisles permanently because there aren't enough customers anymore. Children stop asking where their parents went. They already know. That hurts worse.
You stop being an Avenger. Not officially. You simply… Never come back. Your armor gathers dust. Your communicator dies in a drawer somewhere. The world keeps spinning.
Without you.
Some days… You don't get dressed.
Some days… You forget what day it is.
Some days… You stand in front of the bathroom mirror and think—
It would've been easier if I'd gone too.
The thought frightens you. Not because you want to die. Because you don't care very much whether you wake up tomorrow. There's a difference. It doesn't feel like one.
Year two.
Karen convinces you to walk outside. Just once. The coffee shop on the corner still remembers Frank's order.
"Large."
"Black." The barista starts making it automatically. Then freezes.
"…I'm sorry." You smile. The first genuine smile in nearly two years.
"It's okay." You buy it anyway. You carry it all the way home. You set it on his side of the kitchen table. It goes cold.
Year three.
Steve comes again. This time… He looks hopeful.
"We found something." You don't answer. "There might be a way." Silence. "Time travel." You laugh. Not because it's funny. Because it's cruel.
"You think you can outrun this?"
"We have to try." You shake your head.
"I already watched him die once."
"This would undo that."
"Or I'll watch him die twice." Steve has no answer. When he leaves… The apartment feels even emptier than before.
Year four.
The panic attacks become quieter. More dangerous. They don't make you cry anymore.
Instead… You simply stop. Standing in grocery aisles. At crosswalks. In the shower. You stare into nothing until someone says your name. You forget entire afternoons. Matt notices. He starts staying longer. Neither of you mentions it.
Year five.
The calendar still has Frank's handwriting on it. Dentist - Tuesday. Pick up dry cleaning. Movie night. You never change it. Then… One rainy afternoon…
Tony Stark knocks on your door himself. Not in armor. Just Tony. Older.
More tired. He looks at you for a long moment.
"You look awful."
"So do you."
"Fair." Silence. He doesn't smile.
"I think…" He rubs a hand across his beard. "I think we figured it out." You stare at him blankly.
"What?"
"A way."
"No."
"A real one."
"No."
"We can bring them back."
"No." Tony's brow furrows.
"You don't even know what I'm going to say."
"I know enough."
"You don't believe me."
"I don't believe in miracles anymore." He flinches.
"I don't need you to."
"I watched him turn to dust in my arms." His eyes soften.
"I know."
"I held Peter while he begged me not to let him die."
"I know."
"I buried people who didn't even leave bodies."
"I know."
"My husband disappeared."
"I know."
"My kid disappeared."
"I know."
"My world ended."
"I know." You look away. Voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm tired of hoping." Because hope… Hope is what made you listen for Frank's footsteps every night for months.
Hope is what made you leave his side of the closet untouched.
Hope is what convinced you, for just one impossible second, that every knock at the door might be him.
Hope had become another way to lose him.
Tony doesn't argue. He simply walks farther into the apartment. His eyes land on Frank's boots. Still by the door. Five years later. Exactly where he'd left them. Tony closes his eyes. Then quietly says,
"…I'll bring him home to you, kid." You don't answer. Not because you don't hear him. Because somewhere deep inside yourself- In a place grief buried years ago— A tiny, terrified part of you is suddenly more frightened of hope than it ever was of despair.
Tony leaves.
The apartment falls silent again. You don't call him back. You don't even watch him walk away. The front door clicks shut. And you stand there…
Staring at Frank's boots. Exactly where he'd left them.
You don't join the mission. You don't help build the machine. You don't suit up. You don't answer another phone call. If they truly can change time… You decide you'll find out afterward. You can't survive another promise.
The nightmares get worse. Not louder. Quieter. Some nights Frank doesn't disappear. Instead… He comes home. He drops his keys in the bowl. Calls your name. Wraps his arms around your waist while you're making coffee. You laugh.You kiss him. He asks how your day was. You tell him about Peter. About Karen. About Matt. About absolutely nothing.
It feels…Perfect.
Then— Ash begins falling from his hair. You scream before he even notices.
"Frank—" He looks confused.
"What?" His hand disappears.
"No." His smile falters.
"Baby?"
"No, please—" His face crumbles apart. This time… He isn't even afraid. He simply watches you.
"I'm sorry." Then he's gone.
Every.
Single.
Night.
You stop sleeping in the bed. The dreams are waiting there. Instead you sleep on the living-room floor. Sometimes in the bathtub. Sometimes sitting upright against the wall with a pistol in your lap. If you never really sleep… The dreams can't catch you.
One night… You hear a woman scream.
Real. Not imagined. Outside. Three blocks away. You don't think. You move.
The mugger never sees you coming. One punch. His jaw breaks. He reaches for a knife. You take it away. Break three fingers. Leave him crying in an alley until the police arrive.
When you get home… Your hands are shaking. Not from fear.
For the first time in years… Your mind is quiet. You sleep six straight hours. The next week… It's another scream. Another alley. Another gang. Another fight. Another night without dreams. You begin to understand. Violence doesn't make you happy.
It makes you… Empty.
And empty is infinitely better than drowning. It becomes routine. The city sleeps. You don't. You patrol rooftops. Subway stations. Construction sites. The neighborhoods Frank always insisted on checking twice. You wear no colors. No Avengers insignia. No shield. No emblem.
Just black. Just blades. Just bruises.
The newspapers invent names.
"The Ghost."
"The Widow."
"The Wraith of Hell's Kitchen."
You never read them. Criminals begin whispering. Not because you're theatrical. Because you're efficient. You don't make speeches. You don't threaten. You simply appear. And when it's over… You disappear again.
Matt finds out first. Of course he does. He hears your heartbeat from two rooftops away. Hears the broken ribs. The knife entering someone else's shoulder. The way you stop breathing entirely before you strike.
One night- He lands beside you.
"You need to stop." You keep cleaning blood from your knuckles.
"So stop me." He says nothing. Because he knows. He probably can't. Karen sees you six weeks later. You answer the door with a split lip. Bruised cheek. Fresh stitches across your ribs. She doesn't ask. She already knows.
"You look like him." You freeze.
"What?" She swallows.
"From years ago." Silence. "You look exactly like Frank did." You close the door. You don't speak to her again for three months. The bruises become familiar. The cuts. The broken fingers. The cracked ribs. You patch yourself up the same way Frank used to. Needle. Thread. Whiskey.
Silence.
Sometimes… While sewing your own shoulder closed… You laugh. A small, humorless sound.
"So this is what it felt like." You stop fearing death. Not because you want it. Because it stops feeling important. If someone finally gets lucky… Fine. Maybe you'll see him again.
If they don't… Tomorrow is another rooftop. Another gang. Another night your head stays blessedly quiet. Steve comes looking for you once.
He finds three unconscious traffickers zip-tied to a lamppost. A fourth is coughing blood. You're wiping your knife clean.
"You've changed."
"So has the world."
"This isn't you." You finally look at him. Eyes hollow.
"You don't know who I am anymore."
"I know who Frank would've wanted you to be." That one lands. Hard. You don't answer. You simply walk away. Tony sends Happy. Bruce sends Natasha. Natasha sends Clint. Nobody reaches you.
Not really. You're always somewhere else. Always chasing the next emergency. Because if you're fighting… You're not remembering. If your fists hurt… Your chest doesn't. If your lungs are burning… You're not hearing Peter say,
"I'm scared." You're not feeling Frank dissolve in your arms. Pain has become medicine.
Violence… Anesthesia.
By the time Tony finally calls to say,
"We're ready." Your apartment is almost empty. Frank's boots are still by the door. Everything else… Has been packed away. Not because you've moved on. Because looking at it all finally became impossible. You stand in the doorway for a long time before leaving. Your hand brushes the leather of one boot.
Still dusty. Still waiting. Just like you. You whisper into the silence—
"I hope you're wrong, Tony." Not because you want him to fail. Because you've spent five years teaching yourself how to survive a world without Frank. And somewhere deep down… The idea that he might actually come home feels more terrifying than believing he never could.
-----
The night is quiet. Too quiet.
Hell's Kitchen always sounds different after midnight. Distant sirens. Traffic. Arguments drifting up from the sidewalks. Tonight… Nothing. You stand on the edge of an abandoned warehouse roof, the city spread beneath you in a sea of yellow lights.
Five years. Five years of fighting. Five years of bleeding. Five years of waking up disappointed that you hadn't died in your sleep.
Your suit is torn.
Your knuckles are split open. There's dried blood under every fingernail. Some of it's yours. Most of it isn't. You look down. It's a long way to the pavement. High enough. Probably.
Maybe not.
You don't particularly care. Your fingers loosen around the edge of the rooftop.
"…Frank." The name disappears into the wind. "I'm tired." No answer. Of course not. You laugh. Small. Empty. "You won." Not Thanos. Grief. It won. You close your eyes. One step. That's all it takes. Just—
"Don't." The voice hits you like a gunshot. You spin. Impossible. A man stands in the doorway leading to the roof. Long hair. Metal arm. Blue eyes.
"…Bucky?" He stares at you. Not with confusion. Recognition. Pain. Relief.
"You remember me." You blink.
"…No." He takes one careful step forward. "You…" Your voice catches. "No." His expression crumples.
"I know."
"No." You shake your head harder. "I watched you."
"I know."
"You disappeared."
"I know."
"I watched you turn into dust."
"I know."
"So you're not…" You take another stumbling step backward. "You're not real." His jaw tightens.
"I am."
"No."
"You are."
"No!" Your heel reaches the edge of the building. You don't notice. Bucky does. His entire body goes rigid.
"Don't move."
"I already buried you." His eyes fill.
"You didn't bury anybody."
"I watched you die."
"I know."
"You can't be here." Another careful step.
"I am."
"No!" Another.
"You gotta breathe."
"I'm dreaming."
"No."
"I'm dead."
"No."
"I'm finally dead."
"No." He moves. Fast. Faster than your exhausted body can react. The metal arm hooks around your waist just as your foot slips backward into empty air. You gasp. Suddenly you're no longer falling. You're pinned against a solid chest. Held. Hard. The way someone holds another person when they're terrified of letting go.
"Let me go!" you scream, struggling weakly against him.
"No."
"Let me go!"
"No."
"I have to—I have to be with him- I have to join him-"
"No!" The shout echoes across the rooftops. For a second… Everything stops. His breathing is uneven against your temple. His arms are shaking. Not from effort. From fear. "You don't get to do this."
"I have nothing left! Let me go ! I want to be with my husband!"
"You've got me."
"You were dead!"
"I was."
"You disappeared!"
"I did."
"You—"
"I came back." Silence. You stop fighting. Very slowly… You look up at him. Really look. There's new stubble. A fresh scar near his eyebrow. His heartbeat. You can hear it. Strong. Steady. Real.
"…How?" His throat works.
"Tony." You frown.
"What?"
"He figured it out." Your brows knit together.
"…No."
"He did."
"No."
"We went back."
"No."
"We got the Stones."
"No."
"He snapped." Your stomach drops.
"…Tony?" Bucky closes his eyes.
"He saved everybody." Silence. "But…" His voice breaks. "It killed him." The words don't register. You simply stare.
"He…" You swallow. "…Tony's…" Bucky nods once.
"He saved us.We don't... remember anything. It feels like five minutes ago Thanos did his snap but... it's been five years." The rooftop tilts beneath your feet. You grip the front of his jacket.
"…Peter?"
"Alive." Your breathing catches.
"…Sam?"
"Alive."
"…Wanda?"
"Alive."
"…T'Challa?"
"Alive." Each answer lands like another impossible heartbeat.
"…Frank?" Bucky doesn't answer immediately. Instead… He reaches up with his flesh hand. Very gently… He brushes a tear off your cheek.
"Yeah." One word. That's all it takes. The dam breaks. You fold. Not gracefully. Not dramatically. Your knees simply give out beneath you. A sound tears out of your chest that you've been holding in for five years. You sob. Violently. Your whole body convulses.
"I couldn't—" The words dissolve. "I tried—" Another sob. "I couldn't save them." Bucky lowers himself to the rooftop with you still in his arms. He doesn't try to stop the crying. He just holds on. The way Steve held him after HYDRA. The way someone holds another human being who's forgotten how.
"I know."
"I wasn't there."
"I know."
"I didn't believe Tony."
"I know."
"I wanted…" You choke on the confession. "…I wanted to die." Bucky's grip tightens.
"I know."
"I almost—"
"I know."
"I couldn't do it anymore."
"I know." His own voice starts shaking.
"None of us blamed you."
"I blamed me."
"I know." You cry until there are no tears left. Until you're just shaking. Breathing in broken little gasps against his shoulder. Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Eventually… Bucky speaks again. Very quietly.
"He's been looking for you." You don't respond. "The first thing he asked was where his wife was." Your breath catches. "He thought…" Bucky smiles sadly. "He thought maybe Thanos had gotten to you. He has no idea how long it's been."
It hurts.
God… It hurts.
You stare out across the city. The sunrise is beginning to stain the horizon gold.
"I don't…" Your voice is tiny. "I don't know how to see him." Bucky looks at you.
"What?"
"I spent five years learning how to survive without him. He thinks it's only been a few seconds." Another tear slips free. "What if…" You can't finish. "What if he looks at me and doesn't recognize me anymore?" Bucky's expression breaks.
"He'll recognize you."
"I've changed."
"So has he."
"I became…" You look down at your blood-covered hands."…something awful." Bucky reaches over. Without hesitation… He takes one of those stained hands in both of his.
"I know exactly what it's like…" He squeezes gently. "…to think the person you love will only see the monster." Your eyes lift to his.
"And?" A small smile.
"The people who love us…" His gaze drifts toward the rising sun. "…they usually see the parts we forgot were still there." He stands first. Then offers you his hand. Not pulling. Just waiting.
"You wanna go see your husband?" Your lips part. For the first time in five years… Hope doesn't feel like a knife. It feels terrifying. Fragile. Beautiful. With trembling fingers… You place your hand in his.
"…Yeah." Your voice cracks around the word. "So bad." Bucky helps you to your feet. The way to the compound feels surreal. Almost like a sick version of deja vu.
Five years since you stepped foot in this building.
Five years since everything fell apart.
You half expect Tony to greet you, arms wide open. But he doesn't.
The halls are brighter than you remember.
Cleaner.
Someone rebuilt this place while you were busy trying to survive. You don't recognize half the faces that pass you. Some of them smile. Some of them stop dead when they see you. They've heard stories.
The Ghost. The woman who refused to stop fighting after half the world disappeared. None of them say a word. Bucky stays beside you. Never touching. Just close enough that if your knees give out again…
He'll catch you.
"You alright?" he asks quietly. You almost laugh.
"No." He nods.
"I figured." The elevator doors slide open. The medical wing.
Clint is already waiting.
He looks older. More gray at his temples. More tired around the eyes. But he smiles the second he sees Bucky. Then he sees you. The smile disappears.
"…Oh." His eyes travel over the old scars. The fresh ones. The bruises blooming across your knuckles. The exhaustion carved permanently into your face. He doesn't ask. He doesn't have to.
"You found her." Bucky nods. "Almost too late."
Clint closes his eyes for one long second. Then—
"He's in here. Peter and the others already went home." Your heart stops. Clint reaches for the door handle.
"You don't have to—"
"I'm ready." You're lying. He knows it. Still… He opens the door. Frank is sitting on an examination table. Bruce has electrodes stuck to his chest. A blood pressure cuff squeezes one arm. Someone has clipped a pulse oximeter to his finger. He's arguing.
"I told ya, I'm fine."
"You were dead for five years."
"I was dead for five seconds."
"You don't actually know that."
"I feel fine." Bruce sighs.
"Frank—" Then… Frank looks toward the door. His entire world stops.
"…Baby?" You freeze. He's… Exactly the same..
Same hair.
Same eyes.
The same tiny scar above his eyebrow from years ago. He looks like he walked out of your apartment yesterday. He looks… Home.
Frank doesn't even think. He rips the pulse oximeter off his finger. The heart monitor leads come away with it. Bruce opens his mouth.
"Fra—" Too late. Frank is already moving. He crosses the room in three long strides. Then he's there. His hands cup your face.
Warm. Solid. Real.
"Oh, thank God." He laughs. Actually laughs.
"I thought—" His voice breaks. "I thought maybe he got you." His forehead presses against yours. "I've been askin' everybody where my wife is." He smiles through wet eyes. "There you are." He pulls you into him. Hard. Like he always does. Like he's terrified you'll disappear too. His arms wrap around your back. He buries his face against your neck. "I gotcha."
Silence.
He waits for you to hug him back. You don't. Not because you don't want to. Because… You can't. Your arms hang uselessly at your sides. Your body refuses to believe he's real. Frank notices almost immediately. He leans back just enough to see your face. The smile slips.
"…Baby?" You stare at him. Studying every line. Every freckle. The way his beard hasn't grown in. The warmth coming off his skin. Your fingers rise slowly. Almost fearfully. You touch his cheek. Your hand trembles violently.
"…You're warm." He gives a confused little laugh.
"Yeah…"
"You…" Your thumb traces the scar over his eyebrow. "…You're really here."
"I'm here." Your breathing begins to shake.
"No…" His smile falters.
"What?"
"You can't…" You shake your head. "This isn't…" Your chest caves inward. "I buried you." Frank's brow furrows.
"What?"
"I buried you." His confusion deepens.
"What're you talkin' about?"
"You were gone." His eyes flick toward Bucky. Then Bruce. Neither of them says anything. Understanding begins to dawn. Slowly. Painfully. He looks back at you.
"…How long?" You can't answer. Bucky does.
"Five years." Frank goes completely still.
"…What?"
"To them…" Bucky says quietly. "It was five years." Frank looks back at you. Really looks. Notices the scars. The weight you've lost. The dark circles beneath your eyes. The way your hands won't stop shaking.
"…Baby." His voice is barely there. "What happened?" That question— That stupid, innocent question— Breaks the last thing holding you together. You throw yourself against him. This time your arms wrap around him so tightly he actually stumbles backward a step. A sob tears out of you.
Violent. Animal.
"I tried." Your fists bunch in the back of his shirt. "I tried so hard." Frank's arms lock around you immediately.
"Hey." He stares at you. Not speaking. Just … Looking. Looking at the woman who used to steal fries off his plate. Who laughed too loudly. Who danced barefoot in the kitchen while making coffee. Who kissed him every morning before work.
She's still here.
But she's buried under five years of grief.
Five years… That, to him… Never happened.
"Hey, mama, c'mere." he whispers, pulling you in, lips pressed to your temple as you sob. You hear the door close softly behind you, telling you Bruce and Bucky have left the room- and your whole body just gives up.
You go crashing to the floor, sobbing hard as Frank follows, tucking you against his chest.
"I'm sorry." You cry. "I'm so sorry." Frank shushes you, rocking you back and forth.
"Shh..Shh.. what are you sorry for , pretty girl ?"
"I-I was gonna-" You hiccup."I was gonna try to join you."
Frank stills. Not physically. Physically, he keeps rocking you, one broad hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. But inside…
Everything stops.
"…What?" Your face disappears deeper into his chest.
"I couldn't…" You can't catch your breath. Every word is ripped apart by sobs. "I couldn't do it anymore." His arms tighten instinctively.
"Hey…"
"I tried so hard. I fought." Your fingers clutch at the front of his shirt like you're afraid he'll disappear again. "God, Frankie, I fought so hard." His chin rests on top of your head.
"I have no doubt you did."
"No…" You shake your head violently. "You don't." Because he can't. How could he? To him, he'd kissed you goodbye. Then Thanos snapped. Now you're here. Three heartbeats later. He never lived the years in between.
"I waited," you whisper. His brow furrows.
"What?"
"I waited for months." Your voice has gone distant now. Like you're watching someone else's memories. "I kept your coffee mug by the sink." Frank's throat tightens. "I washed your clothes because…" A broken laugh escapes you. "…because they smelled like you." His eyes close. "I couldn't let the smell go." Your shoulders shake harder. "I slept on your side of the bed."
"You…"
"I thought…" Another hiccupping breath. "Maybe if I slept where you slept…" You squeeze your eyes shut. "…I'd dream about you." Frank's vision blurs.
"…Baby."
"I talked to you." Every word lands like another knife. "Every morning." His hand cups the back of your head. "I'd make coffee." Another sob. "And I'd tell you about my day." He can't speak. "I'd leave your boots by the door." Your voice cracks completely. "…In case you came home." Frank lets out the smallest, most broken sound. "I never stopped waiting." Silence. Then— "It got harder." You stare somewhere past him. Past the room. Past today. " God, Frank, it got so hard. I stopped hearing your voice." His heart splinters. "I couldn't remember your laugh exactly."
"Baby…"
"So I started listening to old recordings." Your breathing catches. "Over." A swallow. "And over." Another. "And over. I was scared…" Your lips tremble. "…that I'd forget you." Frank buries his face in your hair.
"You never would've."
"I almost did."
"No."
"I remembered pieces." You smile through tears. "The way you'd steal my fries." A watery laugh. "The way you snored."
"I do not snore."
"You absolutely snore."
"I breathe aggressively." Despite everything… You laugh. It's tiny. Broken. But it's there. Frank almost cries harder hearing it. Then your smile disappears.
"And then…" Your voice empties. "People stopped saying your name." His chest aches. "They stopped asking how I was. They thought…They thought I was better." He shakes his head. "They were wrong."
"Sweetheart-"
"I smiled." You shrug helplessly. "I went grocery shopping. I paid bills. I washed dishes. I even laughed sometimes." Your eyes meet his. "But every single day…" A tear slips free. "…I wanted to come home to you." Frank's face crumples. Your hand reaches up, cupping his cheek. "So I started fighting." He notices your knuckles again. The scars. The old fractures that healed crooked.
"You see these?" He nods slowly. "I stopped caring if I got hurt." His stomach twists. "I hoped somebody would eventually be faster."
"No…"
"I hoped I'd lose."
"No."
"I wanted somebody to kill me." His entire body jerks.
"No."
"So I wouldn't have to do it myself." The room goes deathly quiet. Frank just… Looks at you. At the woman he loves more than breathing. Who'd spent five years slowly disappearing. Because he'd disappeared first. His eyes overflow.
"Oh, my love…" His voice is shattered.
"Tonight.. I found the tallest building. I was going to-"
"I'm so sorry." You blink.
"What?"
"I'm sorry."
"You didn't—"
"I left you."
"You couldn't help it."
"I know." His thumb wipes away another tear. "But I still left you."
"You didn't choose—"
"I know." His forehead presses against yours. "I know." He takes a shaky breath.
"But while I was gone…" His voice breaks completely. "…you carried all of me by yourself."
You start crying again.
"I was so tired. I didn't want to be brave anymore."
"I know."
"I didn't want to wake up anymore. I missed you."
"I know." The words come out almost like prayers now. Small. Fragile. You curl closer, until you're practically folded into him.
"I kept thinking…" You sniff hard. "…if I could just hold you one more time…" Frank wraps both arms around you so tightly that you can barely breathe.
"I'm here."
"I know."
"I'm not going anywhere." Another nod.
"I know."
"I mean it." His hand slides into your hair. "You hear me?" You close your eyes.
"I hear you."
"I ain't leavin' again." His voice shakes. "I don't care if I gotta haunt God himself." A tiny, watery laugh escapes you. "I'll find my way back." Another laugh. Smaller. Realer.
"I believe you." He kisses your forehead. Then your temple. Then the corner of your eye where tears keep collecting.
"So listen to me now." He waits until you look at him. Really look. "If you ever get that tired again…" His thumb strokes your cheek. "If you ever think about doing that again…" His own tears spill freely now. "You tell me." You swallow.
"I couldn't."
"You do."
"I don't wanna burden you." His expression twists.
"You are never a burden."
"I—"
"Never." He says it with such certainty that it steals the next apology from your mouth. "I carried guns." He brushes your hair behind your ear. "You carried grief. I think yours was heavier." You shake your head.
"No." He smiles sadly.
"We're done carrying things alone." Your lips tremble.
"…Promise?" He doesn't hesitate.
"Promise." He hooks his little finger around yours, the way he'd done years ago over stupid things like remembering milk from the grocery store. It almost makes you laugh.
"You still do that?"
"Always worked before." You curl your pinky around his. The gesture feels impossibly small. Impossibly normal. After five years of surviving. It feels like the first piece of home you've touched. Frank presses one last kiss to your knuckles. Then gathers you back into his arms. This time, neither of you says anything. You simply sit together on the medical room floor, holding each other while the impossible truth slowly settles between you.
Summary: You're just trying to help your best friend get the boy she likes, but George Weasley keeps looking at you instead. Turns out the only person who doesn't know she's the one worth looking at is, is looking at her.
Warnings: no use of y/n
Cw: angst
Wc:3k+
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 (finale)
Everyone noticed Cecily first.
Always. Without fail. You had accepted this the same way you accepted that the staircases moved and the food appeared at dinner. Its just one of those things that was true and not worth questioning.
Cecily was your best friend and she was, by every measurable standard, beautiful. Not in a complicated way. In a very simple, immediately obvious way that made boys forget what they were saying mid-sentence.
And you were, you.
Quiet. Careful. The kind of person who stood slightly behind Cecily in every conversation without meaning to. The kind of person who got through five years at Hogwarts by being easy to overlook. You didn't mind being looked at so much as you had no idea what to do with it when it happened, so you made sure it happened as rarely as possible.
It was a good system.
It was working fine.
And then Cecily had to go and develop feelings for George Weasley.
---
"He smiled at me," Cecily announced, dropping into the seat beside you at breakfast, immediately stealing your toast.
"In Transfiguration. George Weasley smiled at me."
"He smiles at everyone," you said. "It's sort of his whole thing."
"Not like this." She pressed her hand to her cheek. "This was different. This was a specific smile."
"You're describing a smile like it has subcategories."
"It does." She turned to look at you very seriously. "There's the polite smile, the jokey smile, the — "
"Cecily."
"— and then there's the one where they're actually looking at you, like really looking, and it's — " She fanned herself. "It was that one."
You glanced across the Great Hall. George was at the Gryffindor table arguing with Fred about something, gesturing widely, nearly knocking over a goblet of pumpkin juice. He caught it without even looking. Just reached out and steadied it mid-sentence.
You looked back at your porridge.
"So talk to him," you said.
"I can't just talk to him." She looked at you like you'd suggested she walk into the Black Lake. "He's — you know what he's like. He'd say something funny and I'd laugh too hard and it would be embarrassing and I'd have to transfer schools."
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm being realistic."
"Those aren't the same thing."
She slumped against you. "Help me. Please. You're so good at this stuff, you're calm, you don't get flustered, nothing rattles you."
You thought about how your brain went completely offline whenever anyone addressed you directly and how you had once walked into a door because a prefect said good morning to you.
"Sure," you said. "I'll help."
The plan was simple. Clean. Required zero conversation on your part.
You knew George and Fred camped out at the back corner of the library every Wednesday afternoon to work on their joke products. You knew this because you were in the library every Wednesday too — had been since second year — because it was the one place people left you alone.
You told Cecily to come return a book at half past three. Told her exactly which aisle to walk through. Told her to wear the blue top.
Then you sat down with your Potions notes and minded your business.
---
You were doing brilliantly at minding your business until someone sat down across from you and said, "You planned that, didn't you."
You grabbed your inkwell before it tipped. Your heart had relocated to your throat.
Fred Weasley was sitting across from you, chin in his hands, looking deeply entertained.
"I don't know what you're talking about," you said.
"The aisle your friend just walked through leads to exactly one place, and that place is our table." He picked up your quill. Examined it. Put it back. "Clever plan."
You gulped, you're heart racing.
"I suggested she return a book. That's all."
"Uh huh." He did not look convinced. He looked the opposite of convinced. "You know, we've been in the same year for five years."
"I know."
"Never spoken."
"I noticed."
"You're very — " he tilted his head " — compact. Conversation-wise."
"Thanks."
"That wasn't entirely a compliment."
"I know."
Fred laughed, surprised, like he hadn't expected that. He stood up, tucking the chair back in.
You sat very still. Then you turned back to your Potions notes and read the same sentence eight times.
---
Friday. The corridor outside Charms.
You had your head down, bag pulled close, moving fast because the Friday crowd made your skin feel wrong. You had a system — stay left, watch the gaps, don't make eye contact, be home free.
The system failed when someone fell into step beside you and just stayed there.
You looked up.
George Weasley. Hands in his pockets, walking like he had nowhere to be and all day to get there.
Your brain did something it did not have permission to do.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," you said, and immediately looked back at the floor.
"I'm George."
"I know who you are."
"Right." He sounded like that amused him. "You're in my Transfiguration class."
"Yes."
"You never talk in class."
"I talk when I have something to say."
"McGonagall called on you Tuesday. You answered in eleven words and then went completely silent again." A pause. "I counted."
You looked at him. "You counted my words."
"Fred talks too much," he said simply. "I started counting as a coping mechanism. Now I just do it."
You had no idea what to do with that information. You looked back at the corridor. The fork was coming up ahead — left for you, and then this conversation would be physically impossible to continue and you could go back to existing in peace.
"You were in the library on Wednesday," he said.
"I'm always there on Wednesdays."
"I know. You had your Potions book open." A beat. "Upside down."
The heat hit your face so fast it was almost impressive. "I was thinking."
"With the book upside down."
"It's a method."
"Is it a Potions method specifically or a general thinking method?"
"It's a — " You stopped. He was smiling. Not laughing at you, just — smiling, like he found you genuinely interesting, which was somehow worse. "Can you not."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're doing something."
He laughed — low and quiet, not Fred's big boom, something warmer and more contained and it landed right in the center of your chest and stayed there, which was absolutely not allowed.
You were at the fork. Left. Go left. Go left right now.
"You should talk to Cecily," you said. The words came out faster than you planned. "My friend. You know her — dark hair, always laughing? She's really fun, like actually fun, not just polite fun."
George blinked. "Okay —"
"She's your type," you continued, because apparently you had committed to this and there was no stopping now. "Like I genuinely think she's your type. She's funny, she laughs at everything, she'd actually keep up with you —"
"My type," he repeated slowly.
"Yes. And she loves Quidditch, she knows all the teams, you could talk about that for hours. And she's kind. Really kind. And she bakes, I don't know if that's relevant but she makes these incredible — anyway. The point is." You adjusted your bag strap. It did not need adjusting. "You should talk to her. Like, properly talk to her. I think you'd really like her."
George stared at you for a second.
"Did you just pitch your friend to me," he said, "like a business proposal."
"I was being helpful."
He pressed his lips together like he was physically trying not to smile and failing completely. "Right," he said. "Cecily. Got it."
"Right. So. You should — yeah." You pointed vaguely to the left. "I have to go."
"You're not late," he said. "We just got out of the same class."
"I have things. Other things."
"Things," he repeated slowly, like he was testing the word.
"Important things. Goodbye."
You turned left so fast you nearly walked into the wall. You recovered. You did not look back. You kept walking with your chin up and your face absolutely on fire and your heart making a lot of noise about something that was none of its business.
Behind you, George watched you go.
He was still smiling.
A/n: i just thought of the storyline an instantly wrote it cause ive been missing my pookie :3
synopsis: while waiting for your boyfriend to finish a recording session, you unfortunately encounter joe, who implants the idea in your head that you are slowly ruining michael’s career. this causes you to slowly spiral and distance yourself from michael, which he quickly notices.
part two
pairings: thriller era michael jackson x !fem reader
contents: anxious reader, previously established relationship, mentions of joe jackson, anxious habits, angsty,
a/n: i previously published this on my other blog but i took it down because my other blog was more anime focused but i also just wanted to start over yk!! I rewrote some stuff and improved the fic. I enjoy writing so much. I previously wrote and it kinda felt like a chore but my obsession with michael makes it so easyyy!! comment if you are interested in being included in my taglist!
𑣲
Blood rushed to your face and through your ears as Joe’s harsh words came like a slap.
“You’re in the way. Michael’s success rides on one thing; time,.”
Ouch.
A pause fell over the two of you as his eyes cold scanned over your broken expression. His lip curved into a slight smile before he spat out, “That’s something you selfishly steal from him.”
Joe turned on his heels before the lock of the Jackson’s shared family mansion clicked. “If you know what’s best for him... you would let him go.”
Joe smiled to himself and walked up the stairs, briefly leaving you alone with your swirling thoughts.
Joe and you never freely spoke. Truth be told, you were scared of his intimidating presence ever since your first tense interaction. Michael introduced you to his family after months of sneaking you around the Hayvenhurst estate and calling you a ‘new friend’. Despite the quiet but giggly whispers you two shared, his family immediately knew by the way his eyes sparkled when they meet yours. He couldn’t keep your name out of his mouth for more than ten minutes and more importantly he couldn't keep you off his mind.
To majority of his family it was love. They were over the moon to see a new bubbly side of Michael due to your presence. Unfortunately to Joe it was greed.
He swore he saw glimmers of greed and lust in your eyes and he claimed that he would be damned if a “money hungry slut” ruined his son’s career. Of course you never heard this because Michael was sure to protect your ears from the sickening comments of his father.
What he couldn’t protect you from was the hostile energy his father exuded when he first met you. Joe’s piercing eyes judged you relentlessly which caused you to uncomfortably shift in place. The rest of his family was the kindest it was just Joe that caused your skin to crawl at his presence. To solve this you avoided him to the best of your ability until one day you just couldn’t.
Michael told you to come over to Hayvenhurst after he finished recording but due to his session running overtime you arrived early and had to wait awhile. You intended to go greet his mother and hang out in his room until he came home but you had the misfortune of interacting with Joe.
His words swirled in your mind before you felt a large warm hand rest on your lower back.
“Hey baby, what were you two talking about?” Michael whispered as he placed an innocent kiss on the top of your head. Michael waited for your response as his eyes followed his father’s figure until he disappeared around a corner upstairs. You remained still as your teeth pulled your bottom lip in.
You suddenly became hyper aware of Michaels presence which caused you to clear you throat before voicing with a forced smile,
“He was just saying hi.” Michaels hands found yours as he turned you towards him. His soft eyes scanned over your face. Michael was such a caring soul and worrying him was the last thing you’d ever want. To avoid conflict and wasting time dealing with such a small issue, you quickly reassured him.
“Just a hi.” Only it wasn’t a small issue at all. The words swirled in your mind that night as you tried to finally rest.
“Let him go”
“You’re in the way”
“Selfish”
You unintentionally internalized every single word. You’d already previous suffered with anxiety. The weight of possibly ruining your lovers music dreams crushed you. Joe’s suggestion to leave Michael completely broke you but despite the cruelness of the words you would never do that. Right?
You loved your boyfriend too much to even be away from him for as little as a week, but on the other hand you also loved to see him passionately pursuing his dreams. It all felt like a moral dilemma. If you left him then he would be heartbroken but he could actively and successfully thrive more in his career. On the other hand if you stayed with him then you would weigh him down with the responsibilities of a relationship which could hold him back.
Your mind wandered before you knew it and you found yourself impulsively self soothing. Your hand would constantly rub over your forearm on late nights like this and your foot would graze over your calf repetitively until you could feel the friction causing a burn to form.
These methods were to prevent your mind from running circles around you and to prevent yourself from selfishly venting to Michael.
You didn’t want to give him reason to worry but your behavior made it inevitable. Michael started to worry about you when he realized that you didn’t want to come over anymore. It started with small excuses.
“I would love to go but I have a dance class later.” Michael’s lip formed into a thin flat line.
“I thought your instructor was on a pregnancy leave.” You could feel Michaels eyes suspiously burning into you.
You inhaled deeply as your eyes stared past him.
“She recommended her regulars a similar instructor” Michael pouted at this.
“Mamas please, It’ll be quick. Swear. Joe just wants us to run through our routine a few times and we’re done. Thirty minutes max.” Your face twisted at the mention of Joe and you felt the pit of anxiety swell in your stomach. You knew your logic didn’t match reality. Joe was a shit talker who did everything on the premises of money.
In Joe's eyes Michael’s relationship with you was considered distracting, which allegedly blocked Michaels focus on the group and the profit he was making off his solo album. He believed that instead of lounging around with you, he could've been practicing or promoting his solo album. It was all about the money.
You knew his concenrn weren't true but you couldn’t help your overthinking. Realistically Joe couldn’t do anything to you.
He couldn’t make Michael break up with you because that wasn’t in his power and he definitely couldn’t change Michaels feelings towards you. He was all talk. Your alleged ‘negative’ influence on Michaels career was non existing but you didn’t know that.
The cunning tone in which Joe spoke was so assuring to the point where you would’ve thought that Michael vented to joe about his true feeling towards you.
Michael noticed your contorted expression and reluctantly dropped it while simultaneously making a mental note at your unusual behavior. You would’ve usually been jumping at the idea of visiting Hayvenhurst, in fact, you’d usually go over when Michael was busy. You loved to talk to his mom and hang out in his room.
“If you don’t want to go it’s fine. I’ll be back later mk?” His head ducked down as he placed a light kiss on your cheek.
These small excuses led up to bolder rejections of quality time. He confirmed that something was truly wrong when you denied hanging out with his family at the studio.
Michael had stopped by your place to see you before a studio session. He begged you to come with him because some of his family would be there, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized you hadn’t visited or spent time with his family in a while. He missed you.
A few of his brothers decided to accompany Michael to the studio while he recorded for a good time. Michael didn’t tell you it was only his brothers, he only said “some of my families going to be there.”
“I think I’ll pass this time baby,” Michael audibly reacted with an exasperated sigh.
“You passed last time and the time before that, my family wants to see you. I’m sure they miss you. I miss you."
A nervous laugh fell from your lips. You knew he wasn’t lying. His family loved you dearly and you enjoyed time with them but Joseph’s cruel words clouded your judgment.
“Next time, promise! I have to go run some errands and I want to be home early tonight.” The excuses were becoming less elaborate and more obvious.
It had been weeks since you rejected Michael’s request to visit his family along side him. If you were being completely honest with yourself you had began to believe Joe. Michael was becoming something huge and in hindsight a relationship was a lot of work.
Hypothetically, Michael would come home late from the studio and still have to adhere to the responsibilities of a relationship.
The guilt of distracting your boyfriend from his career got so bad that you felt horrible for staying up late in hopes of being able to hear his laugh over the phone or even debrief about your day because you feared exhausting him even further.
He held so much on his plate that adding any responsibility felt evil. The excuses turned into small changes in the way you loved. When you noticed Michael becoming short with his staff from stressful days you followed suit and fell back, if you noticed him zoned out and humming to a beat you left him completely uninterrupted in fear of ruining his creative process and you stopped being so clingy in a sense.
This was a huge upset on Michael’s end.
As far as he was concerned, being clingy was the best quality a partner could have. It allowed him to be constantly reassured even if it wasn’t verbal. He enjoyed the way your head would rest in his lap as he rhythmically massages new instrumentals of his songs into your scalp or the way you would massage his shoulders when you felt him getting overwhelmed with scheduling compliments. It’s what he loved about you.
Unfortunately you on the other hand found it impossible to allow yourself to breathe freely around your boyfriend due to the constant pressure of ruining his career. Your boyfriend noticed this huge change in addition to the rejections of visiting his family.
He found it strange that you’d suddenly became so distant in a relationship that you both valued with your lives. It was eating at him. He overthought almost every predicament that came to mind.
Were you mad at him?
Had he done something to upset you?
Were you overwhelmed with his busy schedule?
Did something happen that you aren’t comfortable sharing?
He couldn’t put his finger on it. One night he decided to ask you in hopes mentioning the growing distance in your relationship he didn't want it to come across as forceful just a slight mention.
He’d just finished pre-recording a promotional commercial for his upcoming album and he was drained. The drive to your place felt like a never ending road trip but as soon as arrived he smiled and made his way to your suite despite his eyelids becoming heavier with each step.
“Hello?” His voice echoed off the empty halls of your apartment. He made his way inside, without complications of course due to his spare key.
Your apartment was quiet and cozy, per usual but today it felt different. You usually had a slowed down vinyl spinning in the background to fill the apartment with some kind of noise or at least a tv playing with the latest news but today, nothing.
The sound of a metal spoon repeatedly tapping glass lured Michael into the kitchen where he found you blankly staring into your mug.
“Baby?”
Your head quickly snapped towards the sound before you placed a fake smile onto your face.
“Hey Mich,”
You said as you walked over and placed a light kiss on his jaw. His hands found your waist where they rested. Meanwhile his tired gaze scanned the dark kitchen suspiciously.
“Why’s it so gloomy and quiet in here? I thought you were off to bed already.”
You nervously laughed and shrugged before slipping out of his embrace. You turn around and grab your cup of tea.
Your hands kept a steady grip on the cup as your boyfriend watched you cautiously sip the tea.
“I was off to bed actually.. long day ahead tomorrow.”
Michael’s lip formed into a deep pout.
“You’ve been so busy recently. I feel like you’ve had a lot of long days. We need to go on a date and spend time together before my album releases so you won’t miss me too much when I’m swamped in tours.”
He leaned back onto the kitchen counter as he joked about the last part but a serious expression formed on your face.
Your lips pursed into a thin line before rudely muttering, “You’re already swamped in enough work as is.”
As soon as the words left your mouth you regretted it. Not because it wasn’t true but because you could see the hurt settling into his face. Despite your boyfriend’s common calmness and patience that went into communicating with you, he instantly got defensive.
“Woah.. I haven’t been swamped in work to the point where I’m neglecting us.” He stated before quickly asking a rhetorical.
“Have I?”
His eyes burned into you for an answer but your gaze fell to the kitchen counters. You placed your mug down and your finger nails subconsciously rested in between your teeth. Michael noticed the skin around your nails and how it was chewed raw. Your once healthy nails were now reduced to a jagged worn down mess.
Were you anxious?
This was becoming alarming to Michael. You’d never been hesitant to speak your mind or express yourself in the slightest. Michael ran his hand through his hair as confusion set in.
“Baby what’s going on? I mean with everything. You’ve been distant.“ He said throwing his hands up.
“You don’t want to come over anymore, I can’t get you to talk to me about the simplest things and now you’re practically saying I’m ignoring yo- Us. Not to mention I can practically sense your anxiety radiating off of you."
You shook your head.
“Nothings wrong.. well...I just" You glanced at him while purposely avoiding eye contact.
Michael’s brows lifted at this but he stayed quiet, allowing you to finish.
“I just feel like.. you’re doing so well in your career.”
Michael cut you off before you could even finish. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Your heart sped up as your thoughts raced through your mind. Before you could even think you blurted out.
“I think we should break up.”
tags: established relationship; marriage couple; domestic fluff; mention of previous miscarriages; mention of conceiving; fear of inadequacy; soft Valarr; devoted Valarr; akotsk universe;
A year after your second miscarriage, you try to convince your husband for another child, another shot at happiness you both so desperately desire.
words: 4.1k
The room reeks of memories.
You are trying to find another word for it other than reek . It’s proving to be way harder than you anticipated. Reek. Thick and bulky and almost tangible… not bad , certainly, but burning in its intensity to the point of being uncomfortable. Almost for you to touch and fold and make a different shape, form a different mold of it. Your room smells like crushed flowers and the tarty sweetness of Arbour wine (Valarr’s favorite) and the fresh, piney smell of your cologne. The darkness of the room cowers over you, even as the drapers from your windows blow with every gust of wind—spilling the silver moonlight over the room every once in a while. The flickering darkness brings memories too. Good ones, scary, aching ones. One that feels like a distant memory of someone else.
Valarr shifts beside you, his face mashed half against the pillow, half resting on his own arm. Naked from waist up, the muscle of his arm bulks a little, makes an elegant curve of it as he rests it over the pillow, drawing it closer to his body. His hair is upturned, messed up, the silver strand glimmering like a dream. It’s dark in your room, but he’s so clear to you. So unimaginably clear, like a shadow of yourself. A part of your own body. Your face is mashed up against the pillow as well, looking at your husband with a storm brewing in your chest. Your eyes—unlike his closed ones—are open and prying, calculating, rationalizing.
You try to mimic his even breaths as you trace unintelligible lines across your abdomen. Your own breaths stuttering, heart racing as if you’d been running a hundred miles an hour. You cannot help but feel as if, even by only deciding what you’ve decided, you have broken the invisible shield of protection. You have exposed yourself to a newer, more uncertain future.
You are scared to your bones.
Your index draws a line from your abdomen to your chest. A hundred different futures swirl and dance inside you.
It’s been two days. You haven’t come around to telling him yet.
You cannot help feeling as if you’re cheating a bit. As if you’re still toying with the idea. Which you aren’t. Not for a long time. It was a steady flow of progression after the christening of Daeron and Kiera’s daughter. You saw the reverence with which Valarr held his niece, traced the slope of the child’s nose as if it were a wonder in itself. You felt the strange, unearthly pain prick at your chest again, for a hundredth time. It didn’t help that the court had started whispering again, dragging up old wounds, picking at your faults like vultures atop a dead body.
You kept your smile at the sept despite the clawing wound in your heart. You held him in your arms and tried, very hard, not to let your failure cloud your blessings for the pure soul. You tried exceptionally hard not to stare at Valarr, to not see the warmth in his eyes as you held a child that was not yours.
But at the end of the day, as you were walking back to your chambers, your eyes drifted to him—catching him in his dreams. His mismatched eyes had that faraway look—the sky and the land meeting in some distant, aching place—and he’d shuddered when he caught you looking. He blushed, shook his head and started talking about the Tyroshi ships they’d been given as gifts.
But you saw it. The look. The dream.
And something light and springy settled in your chest. You decided.
Two days.
You lift your hand to rest your palm against your husband’s cheek. The sharp jut of his cheekbone, the stubble littering his jaw, all paint a picture of him stark and clear even in darkness. Even in the shadows. It swirls another rush of painfully sweet memories inside you, another rush of hereafter as you’ve bared yourself to him. You know this as clear as day. You want his child. And you cannot imagine doing that with—or for—anyone else.
“I love you,” you say softly. “So much.”
Your heart jumps when you feel him smile. His lips puckered on your skin, a soft, effervescent kiss on your palm.
“I should hope so,” he says, the smirk evident in his voice. “You married me, remember?”
You roll your eyes, smiling like it’s an instinct. Valarr draws you closer—eyes open now, soft, mismatched eyes, muddled with sleep and exhaustion—and settles his hand across your body, just where you were touching yourself a moment ago.
“I thought you were sleeping,” you say, only slightly embarrassed.
“Hmm… so did I.” He pecks you on the nose. “It’s fortunate that I was conscious, though. Otherwise I’d miss your confession.”
“Confession?” you snort. “I was just trying not to make it obvious that I am in it for your throne.”
“Or my golds.”
“Your stupid, handsome face.”
“My great, gigantic cock—”
He doesn’t get to finish it, because you start laughing too hard. The laughter scrapes out of you like air and you feel yourself getting more and more nauseous, giddier. Valarr scrunches his nose, thoroughly happy with himself. And the sight of him like this, eyes pushed closer, slightly narrowed in exhaustion, lips pulling in that adoring half smirk only illuminated by the flood of moonlight in your chambers, you can’t help filling the gap between your faces, laughing, kissing, melting.
You are unsure how the next part happens. It’s the mechanics of your bodies, forever gripping each other, chasing each other, settling against each other’s warmth like locks and keys work before your mind has any say in it. Valarr wraps his arm around your waist, you clutch onto his shoulders. He settles on his back, you lift your legs to straddle him. Hands bracketing his face as you lean in for a long, lingering kiss.
When you pull away, the remnants of the smile still present, he tells you he loves you too.
And you cannot help the next thing coming out of your mouth, unmistakably like a confession.
“I want to try again.”
Valarr raises his eyebrows. His eyes are confused only for a moment before they widen. Your breath hitches from the sudden sharpness. The sweet, tangy pang his expression brings. You sit up straighter almost the same time he grips you a little tighter.
“What?” he rasps.
You repeat your words. I want to try again. You roll your tongue around the words, like you’ve been doing for the past few weeks. You’ve been tasting the hope in them. Reading into their tones in your own head before you infect your husband’s mind as well.
Valarr is looking at you with wide eyes, lips parted in a terrified, helpless surprise. It scrapes at your heart. “My love, we’ve talked about this…”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Your spine melts. You rest your hand on his chest for leverage. “But I want to.”
“You don’t—did anyone say anything to you? Did my mother…”
“Your mother said nothing,” you say, licking your lips. “And the court always says something, so really, I do not register that as an issue anymore.”
“I’m so sorry,” he huffs out a breath. “I haven’t protected you.”
You narrow your eyes—feeling your eyes prick as the conversation slips into someplace you haven’t intended it to. “What? No, Valarr—”
You grip his jaw and tilt his face. It tilts, the way you pull. You can feel him soften under your touch. Becoming malleable. “I did not mean… I want to get with child again. Your child. Our child.”
Under you, Valarr goes peculiarly still. The side of his face, the side you can see in the inconsistent light, is as immovable as the rest of him. But you see his eyes, raking all over you, still apprehensive. Still searching.
“It’s too dangerous,” he says, his words coming out clipped, as if he’s been holding onto them for too long.
“I know.”
“I cannot lose you. I cannot watch you go through with losing a babe again.”
You tap your index against his jaw. You lean to brush your lips against his dry ones. His one blue eye is as watery as the narrow sea. And the dark one is just as deep. “You went through with it as well. I was not alone, remember?”
He shudders. And the weight of it—the weight of all those times before—presses down so heavily that you have to close your eyes or you fear the gravity will pull you under. Memory floats back to the last time, a year ago. Springtime. The smell of budding roses from the garden wafting into your bedchamber. Valarr had come back from a late council meeting to find you shivering against the unlit fireplace. You were in your nightshift, sobbing silently, and he had to have but one sparing glance at the blood red spot on your backside to know what had passed.
You had looked up to him. “I lost it,” you said, as if your child was a thing, not really a person. You hadn’t given your babe enough time in your womb to be a person. You were inadequate, a failure, a few steps closer to a complete disaster.
Valarr had a look on his face that you will remember to your dying breath, and you will never tell another. His face twisted, from grief—the familiar calm expression wrenched away from him. He ran to you, wrapped his arms around you as he sat down next to you. And you climbed into his lap, the blood from your miscarriage soaking his doublet, his breeches, his skin. And he rocked you, as if you were a child, crying against your hair and asking you to hold on, to have heart—because you were his heart.
The two of you stayed like that—blood-soaked, devastated—the entire night. For one night you were only two people, outrageously young, sharing the loss of a child who never even took a breath. And when your maids came at the break of dawn, they found you wrapped together to a single point. They whispered about the two of you, cooing false sympathies, ruminating about curses and omens. About the stillbirths of your mother, about the poison in his Targaryen blood. The walls of the castles rang with rumors and you two were the stillpoint soaking the tragedy in as if it was your destiny.
You had a terrible fever the next day. It stretched into a month and not one of the maesters thought you’d make it out alive. They say that Valarr went mad, whenever he was not in front of you. Your ladies told you he shrieked at the Seven, that he threatened a maester, that he had broken his cousin Aerion’s finger when the man had joked at your expense.
“You are my heart,” Valarr says now, his words have the same hunger still, the same fear.
“And you are mine.”
“I will not need an heir if I have you. I cannot lose you.”
“We can’t see the future, Valarr,” you say. “I might die even if I never get with child again.”
“Don’t—”
“And I might live if I try again. I am healthy. This time, I feel healthy.”
Valarr looks at you as if he’s trying to decide if you are real or not. The look on his face on Vaella’s blessing was wistful, hopeful, aching. You remember the softness raking the lines of his face when you held the baby.
But now there is a peculiar stillness in his face. He clenches his jaw, the muscles there rippling in a grief too great, too heavy for a man as young as him. You know he resents himself for wanting a child with you even after all that tragedy. You know he thinks he’s a beast for that.
You purse your lips, sitting entirely straight now, pelvis just on top of his groin. “I want your child, Valarr. I want you to spill inside me. I want to cross my legs and pray that your seed quickens. I want to feel those morning sicknesses. I want to feel our child stir inside me. I want to guide your palm across my belly and watch your face as our child kicks. I want it so bad, my love. I ache for it, I feel empty for it. Please, please, my only love. I want to. I want to teach him how to read. I want to teach our daughter how to write. I want to see them and find traces of ourselves in them. We are good people. We deserve this happiness.” You whisper the words against his skin, kissing and kissing him between words. You kiss his face all over—his eyelids, the jut of his cheekbones, the gap in his jaw. You feel the lazy stubbles graze your lips and you say all these against his skin so he could soak it all up, at once, you want and your hunger.
There is a fever in you. Has been since you saw him first at a meadow in your father’s manor. You were talked of for prince Aerion, as per your status and your beauty, they said. But then Valarr saw you, and the world twisted and turned until you could be as you are now. You remember you wished for love, so much love, that you wouldn’t know what to do with it. You wished to be as close to him as humanely possible. You wish to stitch your lives together like you are making a poem.
“I want a boy that looks like you—”
You squeal embarrassingly loud, your breath hitched on your throat mid-sentence as you feel gravity fail you when Valarr—that madman —flips you around. Unexpectedly. Hurriedly. As his face hovers over you, eyes wide, hair tousled, you gasp. He looks just as breathless as you.
“Oh, fuck!” He cups your face, eyes scanning you. “Are you okay, my moon? Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?”
“No, you jester.” You huff. “I was… surprised.”
“I’m sorry.” He kisses your face, your nose, your forehead—mimicking the desperate keening you were doing not a minute ago. “I was so overwhelmed, love.”
You chuckle awkwardly. Valarr dips down to kiss your throat, his breath hot and fanning over your skin. “You are stirring me up, my love. I can’t—”
“We can,” you plead. “Say yes.”
You feel his weight relax against you. He rests his head in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. His lashes flutter against your skin as he closes his eyes. “I love you,” he says instead. “Do you know why I love you?”
“Because I am pushy and exhausting?”
His teeth graze along the line of your neck. “Do not talk about my wife like that.”
You laugh. “Aright. Alright.”
“She is a vision. She is extraordinary.”
“Why do you love me, husband?”
“Because you are real. You look at me and you see a man. You want a child because you think we are good people. There is no one else who’d see me and not think about that bloody throne. I forget about the throne when I am with you. I forget my name.”
“Valarr,” you say softly, your heart skidding to a dangerously slow pace. Less blood flowing in your body, only nerves. Only fireworks. “My Valarr.”
“I want to give you everything. The things an ordinary man gives his wife.” He grips you tighter, burrows his face in your hair with more urgency. “But I am afraid that it’s my blood that’s causing…”
“Shh.” You wrap your hands around his shoulder, maneuver your body so you are even closer to him. “No.”
“You don’t know…”
“I do,” you say firmly. “No.”
He stays still. Like this. Wrapped up in you like a blanket. You stay still with him and inhale, taking in his scent—that sweet, humane mixture of both your skins. For a while you only feel his breaths working up and down his lungs. His heartbeats thudding in its own mechanical way. His silence has your answer, aching and pulling. And you feel your heart hammering inside your chest as you recognise his soft moan, the softest yes.
“You should hear about my future plans, you know,” you say against him. “I want to keep you around for all the gory details. There’s going to be vomiting, and water in the feet, itchy skins, and—”
“And I’ll stay for it all.” He settles a little on top of you, his weight pressing sweetly. You have this memorised, too. His weight. The smell of mint and musk and something that escapes when you are together like this—twisted like one being. “I’ll take leave from the council. I will kiss your feet everyday.”
“They’ll think me a witch.”
“Well, you have bewitched me. I have been at your mercy for a long, long time.”
You bite down your lower lip, staring. There’s a soft buzzing across your abdomen, trailing from the hollow of your pelvis to your ribcage. The trickling, electrifying intensity and it feels like excitement as it settles on your chest and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, spreading your legs to pull him closer with more intent, with more suggestiveness.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
There is a horrible, dark gash running from the side of his right shoulder to his throat, its shape like a half moon. You trail it with your index, absentmindedly remembering the day he got this. Your strangled cries on Matarys’ shoulder when they brought him from the battlefield. You remember hating him, you remember screaming that you’d never forgive him if he died.
“You could die too, you know,” you say softly. “On battlefield, or in bed from natural sickness. A plague. But that is not a reason to stop living, husband.”
This is a new kind of danger you invite to your mind when you love someone. You can’t stop thinking about everything going wrong. Sometimes you think that love and fear of death come hand to hand. You have never been more in love with your husband, you have never been more afraid. “You tell me something now,” you whisper to counteract your thoughts. “Something you have thought, against your fears, about our future.”
Valarr traces your hairline, twists his finger to a loose strand. “You know them. Riding horses, teaching them how to read, taking them everywhere I go on my shoulder.”
You nod. You want more. You need more to fight this wretched fear of inadequacy, you still need to convince yourself it will be worth everything.
“I have this… another scene playing inside my head,” Valarr continues, his voice trembling. It’s barely perceptible, but oh you hear it well. “We are arguing in our bedchamber, over there, by the fire, and he is playing on the floor with his massive collection of toys.”
“Why are we arguing?”
“I do not know—something inconspicuous. Maybe because you haven’t told me that Aerion was antagonising you.”
“That would be because you’d do something irresponsibly rash.”
“You’re my wife .”
“Your wife who is capable enough to take care of herself. And anyhow, we are possibly arguing about how you jump headfirst into any roguery Aerion pulls without so much of a second thought and now that you have a son along with a wife , it’s your duty to—be more—more responsible and mature—”
You are stopped again by his kiss. You chuckle into it, but he doesn’t. He is intense and melting into you and his tongue slips past your lips and his hands are on your hair and it’s good, it’s so good. You gasp with a wet sound when you pull apart.
“Alright. Alright. We are arguing, we’re mad and we are nearly hissing because we do not want to scare him. But kids are perceptive, are they not? He understands that we are angry and he’s trying to divert us. But it’s just making things worse. We’re at the height of it all and you have that mournful look on your face and I am almost about to combust and he—when he sees no other recluse—screams for our attention. And we snap our head, angry, and ready to yell but then—” his voice drops down. “But then I see him, eyes welling up, eyes like yours, and I… I stare at you to find you already reaching out to him… and suddenly we can’t remember what we were fighting about, why it seemed important. Suddenly there’s so much love we can’t see beyond it. And you scoop him up and I pull you both in and—we bask in that love. That’s all. That’s all, my darling.”
You trace your fingertips along his jaw. “That’s lovely. I’d… I’d like that.”
You would. And now you grip him tighter to pull him in. Instinctively, like a memory, twist your legs around his so you touch where it feels necessary. Feels like a necessity. You are bare underneath the soft silk nightdress, and there’s a thrill in knowing how he likes that, how you dress a certain way so he can undress you a certain way.
You let out a surprised, disdainful huff when Valarr pushes your hands aside and makes them rest on the side of face. Your hips buck to meet his, but he resists that, too. He’s leaving kisses when you huff again, whispering. Whispering.
“Shh. My baby, my darling girl, I will make love to you. I’ll make love to you so good.” As if he wants to prove he’ll make good on his promise, he leaves the grip on your wrist to run his hands along the curves of your body. Stopping at the hollow of your pelvis, dips his finger just on the edge of your cunt. You moan. But he doesn’t linger. He moves his hand, cups your breast momentarily, before holding your face, tilting it so he can whisper directly to your ear what he’s going to do to you, how many times he’ll repeat that His voice is low and raspy and… dirty . Brimming with intent. He promises more. You buck your hips. He promises more. “We’ll take it slow. We’ll make it last. I just need to look at you first.”
He kisses your throat one last time before pulling back, staring straight in your eyes. Saying, insisting, “You saved me. I was a piece of wood before you. An heir. A marble statue only fit for a bloody throne.”
He shifts to mimic something close to lovemaking. Soft thrusts to meet your hips, he moves you sideways so he’ll have better access. You can’t speak for a moment. The hot, needy pull, the intensity in his eyes a reflection of yours. In the last few years, you have held him in contempt in anger in annoyance in adoration in tenderness in love. In love with tender-eyes and honeysuckle dreams of a future where all is well. You know him by his weight when he comes back to the side of his bed and by the absence when he leaves in the morning. You know him by the blurred mist he leaves in your mirror and the collection of love letters he sends to you whenever he’s away.
There’s a fear of death that creeps in when you love someone. But there’s the exhilarating, nauseating life as well. Burning you, engulfing you. “You saved me, too. I was so lonely before you. You saved me from a life of exceptional loneliness.”
There is a visceral persistence to your knowledge of him. Staring at his familiar mismatched eyes, there’s an undeniable stretch of memory that makes you trust that it’ll always be there. That the same pull you felt, deep in your belly, even after he’d been too careful while making love to you. Every time, after those desperate, needy pushes inside you, he was always careful not to come inside you —instead spilling his seeds over your thighs, or your stomach—and then clutching you close so you’d not even register the emptiness. Instead of praying for a child that propriety, his blood, the realm had demanded of you to, you laid together, chest pressed against each other, easing your breaths and feeling your heartbeats come to the same rhythm as his spend dried against both your skin.
He traces his hand along your face now. “We’ll be fine. We’ll be so fine. All our life.”
