#Red Rose Hatbox

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[lixii00]

Chapter 1: Tea and Tall Tales

Tarrant Hightopp x y/n female reader

word count:2347

The bell above the door of ‘The Curious Canopy’ chimed a merry little tune announcing Alice’s arrival like a fanfare for a very important person – which, in Y/N’s world she absolutely was. Y/N, perched on a stool behind the counter amidst a chaotic symphony of ribbons, feathers, and half-finished hats, grinned, her heart instantly lifting at the sight of her best friend.

“Alice! You’re just in time, I was about to brew a fresh pot of Earl Grey,” Y/N declared, hopping down and brushing stray threads of emerald green velvet from her apron. Her fingers, usually stained with dye and pricked with needle marks, danced over the teacups already laid out, mismatched and whimsical as always.

Alice, with her perpetually wind-blown blonde hair and eyes that held a constant glint of something unnameable – perhaps mischief, perhaps wonder – beamed back. “Perfect timing indeed! Anything to escape the drudgery of embroidery practice with Mother.” She shuddered dramatically, collapsing onto the plush velvet armchair tucked in the corner, amidst a mountain of hatboxes.

Y/N chuckled, stepping behind the counter again, a well-worn kettle already whistling on the small burner. “Embroidery again? Really, Alice, must you suffer so? Come, tell me all about it while I pour.”

The Curious Canopy was Y/N’s kingdom. It wasn’t a grand, gilded palace, but rather a wonderfully cluttered shop that smelled perpetually of tea and fabric dye. Hats overflowed from every surface – towering top hats adorned with peacock feathers, delicate bonnets veiled in lace, jaunty boaters perched precariously on shelves, and fezzes in vibrant hues. Each one was a testament to Y/N's boundless imagination, a miniature world crafted from felt, silk, and pure, unadulterated creativity. Like Y/N herself, the shop was a delightful explosion of colour and eccentricity, a haven from the more mundane corners of their world.

As the fragrant steam of Earl Grey filled the air, Y/N joined Alice, settling onto a stool opposite her, a steaming cup in hand for each of them. Alice took a grateful sip, a sigh of contentment escaping her lips.

“Embroidery of roses this time,” Alice groaned, rolling her eyes. “Red roses, naturally. As if there aren’t more interesting flowers in the world!”

Y/N laughed. “Roses are classic, Alice. Romantic, even.” She winked, nudging Alice playfully with her elbow.

Alice wrinkled her nose. “Romantic? More like… predictable. Don't you ever just crave something… unexpected? Something… more?” Her eyes, usually bright with amusement, took on a faraway, almost wistful quality.

Y/N paused, studying her friend. Alice had been… different lately. More prone to staring into space, more easily distracted, and strangely fixated on rabbits. “More than what, Alice?” she asked gently, her voice laced with concern. “More than tea and hats and escaping embroidery?”

Alice swirled the tea in her cup, her gaze fixed on the amber liquid. “More than this world, perhaps.” She said it softly, almost a whisper, and Y/N had to strain to hear her.

Y/N raised a brow, intrigued. “Oh? And what world is grander than one filled with hats, my dear?” she teased, but a flicker of genuine curiosity sparked within her.

Alice leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “I told you about it before, Y/N, remember? Wonderland?”

Y/N’s smile faltered slightly. Wonderland. Oh, that again. Alice had been captivated by this imaginary place for months, ever since she claimed to have… well, fallen down a rabbit hole. Y/N, ever the supportive friend, had listened patiently to tales of talking rabbits, mad tea parties, and a tyrannical Queen of Hearts. She’d even indulged Alice in a few rather fantastical games of ‘Wonderland Tea Party’ in the garden, complete with miniature hats for the porcelain dolls.

But Wonderland, of course, was just that – a fantastical story spun from Alice’s wonderfully wandering imagination. Y/N loved Alice’s imagination, cherished it even. It was part of what made her so… Alice. But she couldn’t possibly believe it was real.

“Wonderland,” Y/N repeated slowly, trying to keep the skepticism out of her voice. “Yes, I remember. The place with… white rabbits and disappearing cats?”

Alice nodded eagerly, her eyes sparkling again. “Cheshire Cats! And mad hatters, and playing cards that are alive, and… and everything is just… different, Y/N. It’s beautiful and strange and… well, it’s Wonderland.”

Y/N took a sip of her tea, stalling for time. “And you… you actually went there, Alice?” she asked, the question laced with gentle doubt.

Alice puffed out her cheeks. “I did! I fell down a rabbit hole, right in my garden, and I landed in Wonderland! I met all sorts of incredible people – creatures, really – and I had the most extraordinary adventures.” Her voice was brimming with fervent conviction.

Y/N set her teacup down carefully, trying to choose her words delicately. She didn’t want to hurt Alice, but she also couldn’t encourage what she considered to be, well, a rather elaborate fantasy. “Alice, darling,” she began softly, “you know I adore your stories. You have such a vivid imagination. But… rabbit holes don’t lead to magical worlds. They just… lead to rabbit burrows, usually.”

Alice’s face fell slightly, a shadow of disappointment crossing her features. “But I did, Y/N! I promise you, it’s real. I saw it with my own eyes! I drank tea with the Mad Hatter, I played croquet with the Queen of Hearts – she’s truly dreadful, by the way, always shouting ‘Off with their heads!’” Alice shuddered dramatically again.

Y/N smiled sadly. “I’m sure in your… dream… she was very dreadful.”

“It wasn’t a dream!” Alice insisted, her voice rising slightly. “It was real! And you don’t believe me, do you?” Her eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of hurt and frustration.

Y/N reached out and took Alice’s hand, her own fingers calloused but warm against Alice’s delicate skin. “Of course, I believe you, Alice. I believe that you believe it. But… Wonderland, as you describe it… it sounds like a wonderful story, a beautiful escape. But stories aren’t reality, my dear.”

Alice pulled her hand back, her expression hardening slightly. “So, you think I’m… making it up?”

“No, no, not at all!” Y/N said quickly, horrified at the thought. “I think you have a remarkable imagination, the most wonderful imagination I know. And sometimes, imaginations can feel very, very real.” She tried to soften her words, to convey her affection and understanding.

But Alice was unconvinced. She stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the wooden floor. “Fine,” she said, her voice tight. “If you don’t believe me, then… then I’ll show you.”

Y/N blinked, taken aback by Alice’s sudden shift in mood. “Show me what, Alice?”

“The rabbit hole,” Alice declared, her chin held high. “I’ll show you the very rabbit hole that leads to Wonderland. Then you’ll believe me.”

Y/N hesitated. She really didn’t want to indulge this further. Traipsing off to Alice’s garden to look at a rabbit hole seemed like a rather pointless exercise. But seeing the determined glint in Alice’s eyes, the unwavering conviction in her stance, Y/N knew that arguing would be futile. And perhaps, just perhaps, humoring Alice might help her move past this Wonderland obsession.

“Alright,” Y/N conceded with a sigh, pushing herself up from the stool. “Let’s go see this… rabbit hole.” She grabbed her shawl from a nearby hook, slinging it around her shoulders. “But if we don’t find any talking rabbits or mad hatters, you owe me a new spool of silk ribbon.”

Alice’s face brightened instantly, her previous frustration vanishing as quickly as a Cheshire Cat’s grin. “Oh, you will believe, Y/N! You’ll see! Come on!” She grabbed Y/N’s hand again, pulling her towards the door with an almost frantic energy.

Leaving the half-filled teacups and the comforting aroma of Earl Grey behind, Y/N allowed herself to be dragged out of the warm embrace of The Curious Canopy and into the crisp afternoon air. As they walked briskly through the cobbled streets, heading towards Alice’s grand manor house nestled on the outskirts of town, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being swept along on a rather peculiar escapade.

Alice chattered excitedly as they walked, recounting snippets of her ‘adventures’ in Wonderland – her encounter with a grinning Cheshire Cat, the impossible riddles of the March Hare, the chaotic tea party with the Hatter. Y/N listened with a bemused smile, occasionally interjecting with a gentle question to keep Alice’s narrative flowing. She found herself almost enjoying the fantastical tales, even if she couldn’t bring herself to believe them. Alice’s enthusiasm was infectious, and her descriptions were so vivid, so creatively outlandish, that it was like listening to a particularly captivating storybook being read aloud.

They reached Alice’s garden, a sprawling expanse of meticulously manicured lawns, vibrant flowerbeds, and neatly trimmed hedges. Alice led Y/N through a maze of rose bushes, their thorns catching slightly on Y/N’s shawl, until they reached a secluded corner, tucked away behind a weeping willow tree.

“Here it is!” Alice announced triumphantly, pointing to a rather unassuming hole in the ground at the base of the willow.

Y/N approached cautiously, peering down at the opening. It was, indeed, a rabbit hole. A perfectly ordinary rabbit hole, just like any other rabbit hole she had ever seen. It was round, earthy, and led downwards into darkness. Certainly not the glistening gateway to a fantastical realm.

“Well?” Alice asked, her voice brimming with anticipation. “What do you think?”

Y/N straightened up, forcing a neutral expression. “It’s… a rabbit hole, Alice. A rather deep one, I’ll grant you that.”

Alice’s face fell again. “But… don’t you feel anything? Isn’t there something… different about it?” She gestured wildly at the hole, her eyes pleading.

Y/N peered into the hole again, trying to see it through Alice’s eyes, to imagine the fantastical world she claimed lay beyond. She saw only darkness, earthy walls, and the faint scent of damp soil. “It just looks like a hole, Alice. A quite normal, if somewhat larger than average, rabbit hole.”

Alice sighed, her shoulders slumping. “But… I fell down it! I landed in Wonderland! Don’t you believe me at all?” Her voice was tinged with a heartbreaking mix of desperation and disappointment.

Y/N felt a pang of guilt. She hated to see Alice so upset. She knelt down beside the rabbit hole, reaching out to touch the soft earth around the rim. “Tell me again, Alice,” she said softly, her voice gentle. “Tell me everything. From the beginning.”

Alice hesitated for a moment, then sat down cross-legged beside the hole, her gaze fixed on the dark maw opening before them. And she began to speak. She recounted her tale once more, her voice gaining strength and animation as she relived her supposed journey into Wonderland. She described the White Rabbit frantically checking his pocket watch, the Cheshire Cat’s enigmatic grin, the Mad Hatter’s nonsensical riddles, the Queen of Hearts’ terrifying temper. She painted a world of vibrant colours, bizarre creatures, and illogical rules, a world that was both wonderfully whimsical and strangely unsettling.

As Alice spoke, Y/N listened intently, her gaze drifting back to the rabbit hole. The afternoon sun dappled through the willow leaves, casting shifting shadows around them. The air was still, save for the rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of birds. And as Alice’s words filled the quiet garden, weaving a tapestry of fantastical images, a strange sensation began to creep over Y/N.

A chilling breeze seemed to emanate from the rabbit hole, despite the warmth of the afternoon sun. The darkness within seemed deeper, more profound than just an ordinary hole in the ground. And for a fleeting moment, just a whisper of a thought, Y/N wondered… what if?

What if Alice wasn't just imagining things? What if, just maybe, there was something more to this rabbit hole than met the eye? What if Wonderland, this fantastical realm of mad tea parties and talking rabbits, actually existed?

She shook her head slightly, dismissing the thought as utter nonsense. But still, as Alice continued her tale, her voice filled with such unwavering conviction, Y/N couldn’t help but feel a flicker of… something. Not belief, not exactly. But… curiosity. And perhaps, just a tiny, hesitant whisper of… possibility.

Alice finished her story, her voice trailing off, expectantly watching Y/N's face. Y/N looked down at the rabbit hole again, this time with a different kind of gaze. She leaned closer, peering into the inky blackness. It was still just a hole. But somehow, now, it felt… different.

“Alice,” Y/N said slowly, her voice barely above a whisper, “show me. Show me where you fell.”

Alice’s eyes widened, hope flickering within them once more. She pointed to a slightly worn patch of grass right at the edge of the rabbit hole. “Right here,” she breathed. “Right here, I tumbled right down.”

Y/N reached out and touched the worn grass, her fingers brushing against the soft earth. She looked at Alice, then back at the rabbit hole, a strange mix of apprehension and intrigue swirling within her. Perhaps… perhaps it was just a fleeting whim, a moment of madness brought on by Alice’s infectious imagination. But something, a tiny spark of something utterly illogical and undeniably tempting, urged her forward.

Swallowing her hesitation, Y/N took a deep breath and leaned closer to the rabbit hole, peering down into its depths. The darkness seemed to beckon, whispering secrets she couldn't quite decipher. And for the first time, a tiny seed of doubt began to sprout in the fertile ground of her skepticism. Could it be possible? Could Wonderland… actually be real?

The thought was ludicrous, utterly absurd. And yet… a strange, unsettling thrill coursed through her veins. And as she gazed into the dark abyss of the rabbit hole, Y/N knew, with a certainty that defied logic, that her life was about to become very, very interesting indeed.

[rainintheevening]

Susan Anna Pevensie

No one else could have picked out the tremor in those graceful loops of ink, but she did. He did.

His hand, as he took the pen, was warm, and she caught his whisper as he bent down: "See there, you are an artist. What do I keep telling you?"

She smiled, just a little.

He signed and dated, and she leaned into his hip, grateful, throat aching as she wrapped her fingers tighter around the bouquet in her lap. Five white lilies, and two red roses, and forget-me-nots all around.

They would drive out to the cemetery afterward. Fred had been the one to suggest it, to let her know it was alright, even natural, to remember the dead on a day celebrating new life.

She looked up, sat straighter as he laid down the pen and made room for the witnesses to step in.

Fredrick Maxmillian Pilkington

She let herself smile at the dreadful, smudged left-handed signature. "No, that's what tells me you're the artist, dear."

"I suppose I'll have to choose which name to put on the paintings," he said thoughtfully. "Ah, Pilkington for the bad ones, Pevensie for the good ones, I suppose."

And when her eyes filled up with tears, she felt his arm around her shoulders, and his kiss in her hair, and she closed her eyes, thinking I don't deserve him. I don't deserve him at all. How did he ever come to choose me?

She was so uncertain about things, so careful and guarded and prickly. She had very nearly driven him away twice. But he had come back, he had stayed in her life, and now he was choosing to be in it for the rest of it.

As long as we both shall live.

Susan closed her eyes as their lips found each other, let the tears spill down her cheeks.

I don't think I deserve it, she was saying in her heart. But I choose you back. I choose you too.

The tears didn't show in the pictures, only her standing there in Mother's old wedding dress, clutching her flowers, and Fred in his old uniform, arms around her waist, resting his chin on her head.

*

Susan, from the Hebrew Shoshana/Shoshan, meaning lotus flower or lily, also suggestive of purity and beauty. The name of Dr. Susan Crocker, a pioneering physician. The name of Susan B. Anthony an American suffragist. The name of Susan Hiscock, MBE, who crewed with her husband aboard their sailing ship.

A name, before it's explosion of popularity c. 1930, characterized by several poets, societal reformers, physicians, journalists, and freethinkers.

*

It was his suggestion, taking her name on the end of his.

"Look, I've got five older brothers, Lord knows there's enough Pilkingtons in the world. We aren't rich, we aren't titled, honestly, I'm not sure my parents would even notice if I went and became a Communist. They won't mind. I'd be honoured to carry on the Pevensie name, and no mistake."

Susan had thought of her father, how she'd brushed him off, ignored his advice, called him old and 'stuck in tradition'. She hadn't said anything mean when she'd left for America, but she certainly hadn't said anything kind or particularly loving.

She'd come back after the accident, come back to England with one suitcase and a hatbox, and never even considered leaving again.

How could she leave when all that had really mattered was here? Here but gone. All gone to ghosts, holes in the fabric of her reality, in the space of an empty armchair, a silent kitchen, rumpled sheets on a bed, unfinished letters, overdue library books.

Fred had been the first real, solid thing in her life After.

And she couldn't help thinking how her father would like him. All this time, and she still cared what he thought, wished he could have been there to walk her down a church aisle– She tried not to think too hard about that.

"Fredrick Maxmillian Pilkington Pevensie. That's as posh a name as my mother could possibly wish for." Fred had taken her hand, let his grin fade down to a soft smile. "But only if it's alright with you, love."

To her knowledge, Peter had been quite comfortable as a bachelor, but Ed had been close to engaged (she'd found the ring in his sock drawer); they would both have been wonderful fathers, both would have liked Fred.

She'd wiped her cheeks. "Sorry, I keep thinking I'll stop crying one of these days."

"Doesn't have to be today," he'd said, passing over a hanky.

"I think they'd be honoured," she said at last. "To have it be you. My family name—it's something I share with them, and... I'd be happy to keep it."

"Then keep it you shall."

*

Anna, Latin form of the Hebrew Hannah, meaning favoured one or one shown grace. The name of a prophetess and attendant at the dedication of Jesus who is called Christ in Jerusalem.

"And she coming in that instant gave thanks likewise unto the Lord, and spake of him to all that looked for redemption in Jerusalem."

An elderly widow, a faithful worshiper of God in His temple, great in fasting and prayer, one of the first evangelists.

*

The taxi pulled away from the cemetery as the sun set into a bank of rising cloud, and Susan knew that rain was on its way.

But the rain was just as important to the spring as the sunshine, she thought, and shuffled over on the seat to curl into Fred's side.

He patted her knee, left his hand there, warm and heavy. Real. Solid. For all his dreaming artist eyes, Fred was solid, certain, strong enough to hold her on the difficult days, of which there were always more than she wanted.

The ring on her finger was its own kind of heavy, permanent, binding, and she needed that, needed a promise, needed something to quash the fears that choked her in the night.

They took a taxi home on their wedding night, home to the house she'd sworn she couldn't stay in, found she couldn't sell, and so compromised by working two jobs, and hardly ever being there.

Home to the old house she'd grown up in, rebuilt from the bombings, adapted and weathered and haunted by the empty places of people gone.

It had gotten better since Fred. She'd changed things, deliberately, a curtain here and a painting there, opened up the crates and jumbled everybody's books together on the shelves.

As they climbed the steps, she saw the lamp glowed in the front window, with another light shining back in the kitchen, and smiled, thanking Coraline in her heart. Her friend would no doubt be ducking out the back door that very moment, scampering across the back garden, and shimmying through the hedge, as if she were a girl of sixteen, and not a woman of thirty. There would be something warm in the oven, and the kettle waiting on the stove, and two places laid.

"Well, Mrs. Pevensie." Fred put his hand on the doorknob, drew her close against his side. "Shall we?"

Shall we go in? Shall we go into the home that is everything that came before, but is ours now too to make new? Shall we start something? Shall we continue? Shall we come home together?

She stood on her toes, and kissed him with a tremoring smile. "Yes, Mr. Pevensie. With pleasure."

[haggishlyhagging]

Among the plaited objects in the menstruant's hut, one of the first may have been her rug. Since she was forbidden to touch the ground with any part of her body, leaves were spread for her, banana leaves, broad pandanus leaves, pine boughs, or bark. Later the floor covering would be woven or fitted together—mats, sticks of bamboo, slats of wood. From this practice, it seems reasonable to suppose, people may have developed the habit of putting wooden floors in their houses.

During her seclusions she would have also acquired the wooden chair and stool as a matter of course, because her vulva could not touch the earth: "Among the Yabim and Bukaua, two neighbouring and kindred tribes on the coast of Northern New Guinea, a girl at puberty is secluded for some five or six weeks in an inner part of the house; but she may not sit on the floor, lest her uncleanliness should cleave to it, so a log of wood is placed for her to squat on." The menstruant squatted on special materials that kept her safely raised: slabs of wood, slabs of leather, woven mats, and in clothmaking cultures, pillows. Rachel, in Genesis, sat upon a special "camel chair" seat to menstruate.

The menstruant was propped up with logs or branches on three sides and underneath, to keep her contained and to keep her from lying down or from falling asleep. This form of her sitting body, outlined in wood, needed only to have its parts lashed together to become what we know as a chair. Men of course acquired the right to sit in chairs, just as they acquired clothing. My father and mother each had a designated chair, and they rarely sat anywhere else; chairs now belong to both genders. But as with all cosmetikos, the ideology for and the source of the form chair belong to the menstrual seclusion rites.

From the nakedness of the primal ancestress in her elemental hut, to the menstruant's emergence in full public ceremony at the end of her seclusion, women enacted and communicated fundamental mysteries by dressing in metaforms. The menstruant's paraphernalia piled up around her —her bowls, her straws, her mats, and her plates. They were hers alone; no one else could use them without being harmed. If she didn't break them, they had to be stored in special places, kept away from others in what would eventually become trunks, boxes, baskets, closets, cupboards—and my mother's red cedar chest. Her utensils would be carefully wrapped and cleaned, kept, like her, in the dark. She would become the one with the overflowing purse, the trunks of clothing, the hatboxes, the rolls of rugs and blankets, and the shelves of household "goods" that formed the basis, not only for family and village life, but for all technological measurement. The woman would carry her paraphernalia with her. She would become the gender who—around the world—carries the largest burdens.

-Judy Grahn, Blood, Bread, and Roses: How Menstruation Created the World

[mereberry]

I miss living with my grandparents:

The Raisin Bran, the smiling sun whose scoops I mistook for shoes, the impression of Tony the Tiger my Papa did in his cheerful, shaking voice, the heavy smear Country Crock Butter across cinnamon-sugared toast and cups upon cups of white grape juice. I miss everything. At breakfast they’d give me sips of their tea, a spoon of my own to steal their grapefruit, they’d watch the morning news that I’d undoubtedly hear again in the evening,

I miss Gardening gloves, gardening clogs soon softened by morning sunshine, lawn chairs, crape Myrtles and magnolia and gardenia, reading the funnies tummy-down on the patio while Grandma looked for coupons for a gift for Papa and watered her Harrison roses before the sun got too hot and high in the sky

While I prayed we’d have visitors at the hummingbird feeder, bright with red the same color as Grandma’s ruby ring, prayed for birds at the bird feeder, prayed for birds to splash in her birdbath, prayed for birds at her birdhouses, prayed for birds so she would hush me and whisper their Latin names that I never remembered

The only Latin i heard was in church and from her mouth and to me that meant something

She’d check the rain gauge while papa marched to the 80s exercise VHS tapes and old TV, convex bubble of a screen in front of a couch too close for watching, subtitled, and

Walking and

walking to the rhythm of a woman faded into green and red static and music,

In the garden my grandma sang ballads of women scorned in a soft voice; I wondered as a child if my grandma could’ve been a singer herself and now wonder if it was nostalgia for her too as she sung, warbling and smiling around her chipped tooth,

She spoke like music, highs and lows and accented in ways that I now have and can’t bring myself to be ashamed of, her mouth lined in a mauve lipstick I look for on drugstore shelves

Afterwards I watched her fold her robes, freshly washed after the Sunday service that she’d sung at the day before, her voice there indistinguishable in the choir, hidden with a modesty that frustrated me

I miss Prairie Home companion on the drives over to the mall in her pickup to find those gifts for Papa, syllabant s’s and jokes I didn’t get, absently being scolded for itching bugbites, for picking the craters and sidewalk-chalk dust their pebbled driveway left in my knees- a plastic cup of sweet iced tea and a molasses cookie my reward for being so patient

As though I’d rather be anywhere else

As though I couldn’t spend hours in the piles of National Geographic, dog eared around the Hubble Telescope, the bats, the migration of the monarchs, hours in my uncle’s comics with the advertisements for ten-cent gum and muscle pills, hours in the postcards kept in a hatbox, hours in their yearbooks filled with white women named carol and men who looked much older than their age, hours in their books of poetry my mother read at my age

Papa would pass me sheets of printer paper, handfuls of jellybeans, lend me rock-hard erasers and fountain pens as easily as crayons and tack every drawing to the fridge

The only things on their fridge was my birth announced in a paper and the drawings, and that meant something to me

Hours passed quietly, the booms of the giant grandfather clock always silenced by Papa’s handiwork when I stayed over despite getting over my fear of it years ago, same as the thunder that rolled over their little house, now a comfort

Raining, pouring, the old man snoring

And soon he was, fast asleep as grandma scooped my spaghettios into a saucepan, made me promise to keep their kitchen clean, condensation on faded glass sat atop doilies sat atop glass-covered tables, and I stayed clean with everything in me, helped put plates in the sink I couldn’t see over, cleaned with needlepoint towels and soap the scented brightly with jasmine

The evening newscaster, handsome and solemn, recounted the day, and I’d eventually migrate to the plush carpet so faded from sun darkened to the golden beige in the afternoon, the recliner with the same leathery skin as them where I’d watch basketball games late into the night, coved in the old tied-felt blankets I gave as Christmas gifts, sleepily hearing them open the lids of multivitamins

The slow clacking on the keyboard, printing maps for the next day,

, Their opening of candy, kept cold in the fridge, snuck to me with silent, crinkle-eye grins despite my fullness from ice cream: Peppermint Patties and twizzlers tough as jerky, chocolate chip cookies I warmed between my hands.

Clasped like prayer, selfishly hoping to never return back to my hurricane-wrecked family

[profit-parrot]

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Best Flowers for Eid

Choosing the right flowers for Eid means selecting blooms that not only look stunning but also carry special meaning. Roses symbolize love, anthuriums represent hospitality, orchids add elegance, and carnations convey warmth—each bringing a unique touch to the celebration. Discover the best flower shop in Dubai Marina with stunning floral arrangements for every occasion. Enjoy same-day flower delivery across Dubai from our online flower shop.

Roses are among the most cherished flowers for Eid. Their versatility and beauty make them suitable for both gifting and decoration. A carefully curated red roses hand bouquet, such as the Elegant Reds Hatbox, is a stunning way to share warmth and joy during the festive season.

Anthuriums are another excellent choice, often used in sophisticated table displays. With their glossy petals and bold colours, they symbolize hospitality and abundance—perfect sentiments for welcoming guests during Eid celebrations.

Orchids make a breathtaking addition to Eid floral arrangements for those who prefer a touch of luxury. Their delicate yet striking appearance adds a refined elegance to any setting. The Elegant Pinks Hatbox beautifully incorporates orchids alongside other premium blooms, creating an arrangement that is both eye-catching and graceful.

Carnations are a great choice for those looking for long-lasting flowers that carry meaning. These blooms are associated with admiration and love, making them an excellent gift for family members or close friends.

Ideal Colours for Eid Flower Arrangements

The colours of Eid flowers play a key role in setting the festive mood, with each shade carrying its own symbolism. White represents peace and purity, red and pink evoke joy and love, purple and blue symbolize luxury, and pastels offer a soft, elegant touch.

white rose flower bouquet are a timeless choice for Eid, representing peace, purity, and new beginnings. They create a serene and elegant atmosphere, making them perfect for home décor and formal gatherings. The Bianca Crescent Stand is an excellent example of how white flowers can bring a touch of sophistication to Eid celebrations.

Red and pink flowers symbolize love, joy, and festivity. These colours are often associated with warmth and heartfelt emotions, making them ideal for gifts or lively table displays.

Purple and blue flowers are linked to luxury and prosperity, making them a unique yet meaningful choice for Eid arrangements. Deep purples and soft blues create an air of sophistication, often used in centrepieces that stand out without overwhelming a space.

Where to Find the Best Eid Flower Arrangements in Dubai

With so many options available, finding the right Eid flowers in Dubai is all about quality and convenience. A beautifully arranged bouquet not only looks stunning but also ensures long-lasting freshness throughout the celebrations.

Blush Petals offers a curated selection of Eid flower arrangements in Dubai, featuring everything from elegant hatboxes to luxurious table sets. Whether you’re looking for a striking centrepiece or a meaningful gift, their expertly crafted arrangements bring out the best of the festive season.

By selecting flowers with deep symbolism and vibrant colours, you can create a heartfelt and visually stunning tribute to the joy and blessings of Eid.

[theheadlessgroom]

(The horse floated by neighing all the while, however there was more coming like a whole herd of them as the zoomed by him unfortunately though one happened to noticed him a white one that was draped in a veil with red roses it went up to the ghost and stood by him as of it waited for him to climb on).

Although a part of him was greatly hesitant to climb aboard this strange mount, Randall figured it might be the only way of getting his hatbox back, and with some trepidation, he sighed and climbed on, saying, "Lead on, I suppose!"

[seriously-nobody]

Melanie Ravenswood is a blue sapphire, idk why I just feel it fits. Henry Ravenswood is black obsidian. Alistair (movie hatbox ghost) is a red zircon. Hattie (attraction Hatbox ghost) is a green diopside. Emily the beating heart bride is a white pearl. Madame Leota is either Purple and green fluorite or sugilite I can't choose. Victor Geist would be malachite. Constance Hatchaway I believe is either a pink labradorite or a rhodolite garnet, again, I can't choose. Sally the skeletal bride is lapis. I think the mummy is a desert rose. Pickwick is a sunstone.

Uh idk any more but y'all feel free to critique and add!

Edit: I FORGOT THE GRACEYS O MY GOD I'M SO SORRY!! Master Gracey (attraction) black pearl, Edward Gracey (2003 movie) red garnet, William Gracey (2023 movie) an orange opal.

AND SALLY SLATER GOOD GOD SOMEONE BONK ME! She's an angel skin opal!

I have a random question, which gemstone would be associated with any of the HM characters? This includes outside the other Manors, OCs and the characters from the movies.

[curiositydooropened]

Better Off - Part Two

Four years since Argyle's wedding, Robin invited you and the gang to her boss's lake house. Hoping good memories will be made, you're forced to wrestle with some ghosts of your past.

This fic runs in the same Universe as My Whole Life, Too.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader, Eddie Munson x Reader

Wordcount: 14,132

Warnings: second chance romance, angst, fluff, sex and sex adjacent (minors DNI, thanks!), recreational drinking and drug use, mentions of pregnancy and parenthood, mentions of the loss of loved ones

Navigation • Masterlist • Part One

---

Your gaze blurred on ribbons of gold and ivory, stretched and pulled and flipped as a man in candy stripes worked his taffy on its puller. The air smelled sticky sweet of vanilla and lemon and warmth, and you bundled tighter into your sweater with each burst of cold air and ding of a bell at the door. 

Another worker with rolled sweets pressed and smacked them onto the countertop, the scattering of beads pulling your focus and stirring you from your daze. She offered a sample with a kind smile, and you thanked her before popping the sticky sour drop into your mouth. 

It ached at the stress sore just between your teeth and molars, but you supposed you deserved the slight agony. With a sigh, you dropped your shoulders and allowed Robin to shove you gently back to the cobblestones streets, the outside air a misty chill. Large, grey clouds loomed in the distance, the forecasted storm apt weather for your current state of mind. 

“Ugh, I’m sorry,” Robin groaned for the four hundredth time that day.

You managed to plaster on a smile, though you could feel the dishonesty behind it, and gave her a hand squeeze. “Shut up, please.”

“Yeah, Robin, we’re fine,” Nancy agreed sidling up on her other side, that special Nancy-Wheeler-determination etched between her brows. “All of this shit needed to be aired out anyway. You just facilitated it.” 

Robin rolled her eyes. “That makes me feel so much better.” 

You shrugged. “I’m glad it’s all coming out now, when I have you two for support.” 

Nancy’s facade nearly broke then, the glimmer of emotion in her eyes, but she gave a curt nod. “Me too.” 

Robin groaned and started back on your path down the western side of the road. This little lakeside town was full of antique shops and souvenir stores. Every store had something you liked, in a black or navy, or in a Devil red or forest green, smoked charcoal or honeyed yellow. You’d given up a few stores ago now, understanding the Universe was just mocking you. 

Other than the looming storm clouds and the lingering guilt from the night before, you supposed you were having a lovely, if not much-needed girls day. In any other scenario, you’d be delighted to walk such a pristine little village, smelling the early summer buds and tasting at each little eatery along the route. Plus, the company was ideal.

“Robs, I’m coming to visit you immediately, I hope you know,” you linked your arm with hers and fell into step. “You’ll never see me because I’ll spend the entire trip holed up in a bakery, elbow-deep in baguettes, but I’ll be there. You’ll teach me French?” 

“Bien sûr,” she snickered, tugging you into a vintage clothing shop.

The window display had a little black dress á la Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and the place smelled of mothballs and rose-scented perfume. It reminded you a bit of your grandmother, on your mother’s side. She had an oversized hatbox that was passed down to you, chock full of love letters from soldiers in the war.

A similar hatbox sat near the register, pale pink and pressed satin, and you jimmied the top off to see if any secrets lay inside. No love letters, but a collection of multicolored silk scarves. You pulled one from the top, white with thin, navy Breton stripes and tied it around your neck. “What do you think, Robin? Will I fit right in?” 

Robin abandoned her post near an oversized button bin, hands already full, and waggled her eyebrows, dropping her haul to the countertop. “It’s perfect,” she chuckled, caressing it between her thumb and forefinger.

You watched her blue eyes scan your features, smile softening, and eventually her padded shoulders dropped in a sigh.

“You can’t run away to France with me.” 

You smiled at that. “Why not?”

She shook her fringe from her eyes. “Eddie’s not mad at you, you know.”

You swallowed, nodded. “I know. I’m still going to apologize.” 

“And for what it’s worth,” she dug through the box in front of you, avoiding your gaze. “Steve did love you, maybe does love you.” 

You sighed and untied the scarf around your throat, suddenly suffocated by the stuffy air in here. “Steve loves the idea of me.” You pinched at the bridge of your nose, remembering you were talking to his best friend too. “I just mean… I don’t think it’s fair to start something again when I can’t be certain how I’d like to finish it.”

Robin nodded. “I can appreciate that stance. It’s very… mature.” She commented with the flair for dramatics that would put Eddie to shame, pulling a rose-covered scarf from the box with a flourish and tying it around her head.

You snorted.

“Guys,” Nancy’s voice was so meek from the corner of the room, you barely recognized it. When you turned, she was holding the world’s smallest knit sweater, navy blue with a great white whale, and she was crying. 

—

You recognized the calm from ten years of coastal living. That sweet, soft lull in birdsong, the electricity in the air. Clouds blackened the sky, and off-shore docks groaned under whitecaps’ wake. You stood in your room, looking out the tiny window at the billowing tops of trees, fingers idling at the satin ribbon around your neck, Robin’s treat. You couldn’t focus in the silence, only hearing the thrum of your heart against your ribcage. You could sense Eddie in the room next door, could feel smoke and anxiety attached to a string around your finger, reminding you of the atrocities you’d enacted. Calm before the storm.

With a deep breath and a decided snap of tension, you toed out of the room, floorboard creaking with each step toward atonement.

Only, Eddie’s room was empty, door wide, belonging strewn about like he’d moved in. His window was bigger than yours, curtains drawn and window cracked. A cool breeze whipped around your knees, billowing the soft chiffon of your skirt. You sighed and crossed, moving a handmade ashtray from the window sill to the side table. A well-loved copy of A Wizard of Earthsea sat beside the lamp, dog-eared to all Hell. 

You tugged the window down and latched it when something glinted to the North, catching your eye. 

From this vantage, you could just make out the tip of the dock, and the boat in its mooring, rocking mercilessly back and forth. You cursed and turned heel to find Steve waiting in the doorway, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes turned up at you like he’d been waiting and didn’t know what to say. 

“Did you guys wind the boat up?” You asked before he had a chance to speak. 

He opened his mouth, brows furrowed, and that was enough of an answer to have you shoving past him and down the staircase to slip into your sneakers and out the front door.

“What are you-?” Robin called out from her cozy spot on the sofa.

You waved her off with a “Be right back!” and let the slap of rubber to wood lead you down the winding staircase, past the patio and fire pit, and to the end of the dock. Halfway there, you heard Steve calling after you, heard his curses, the distinct thud of his own feet on your tail.

The boat swayed under its awning. Steve’s voice was lost on the wind. Waves thrashed against rocky shores.

“Hold that steady!” You called after him, pointing to the bow, and he rushed as instructed, wind whipping at auburn hair, the navy collar of his polo.

The boat had been placed under the dock, tied to a safeguard by a tight rope, but you knew that if it wasn’t cranked upwards and out of the water, the metal casing surrounding it could cause some serious damage, depending on the intensity of the storm. And, as you put all of your strength and effort into cranking the oversized metal wheel, the storm began to show you just how intense it could get.

Wind rushed between your legs, stretched wide for leverage, slicking your skirt to your thighs as the sky opened up and rain began to pour. A deluge of oversized drops, ice cold, that trampled your hair and soaked your skin, slipping your fingers from their handhold. You cursed, but Steve was right there to help, hair stuck to his temples, biceps flexed as he cranked the boat upward and out of the water.

You hated that you couldn’t look away, frigid wet to the bone, standing between Steve and the house, waves spraying the shoreline, unmoving as he stared back at you, blinking away rainwater, licking it from his lips. 

A crack of thunder startled you both, and you ran, slipped on the wet floorboards of the dock to be caught in strong arms, hands that gripped your cardigan at your waist line and pulled you in close, warm, led you to an abandoned beach hut to wait out the storm. 

The space was musty and dark and damp, and you were uncomfortable under skin-slicked clothes, pressed against a splintering wooden bench with molding life vests in neon orange. Steve hovered over you, breath heavy in his warm chest, droplets from his hair shaken into your eyelashes and across the tops of your cheeks. His hands remained on your waist, a tether, a buoy, anchoring himself to you and you to the ground for each roll of thunder from above.

Rain pelted the tin roof too loud to hear the racing of your heart, too loud to hear your own anxiety screaming at you to leave, to run back up the hill to safety, too loud to stop you. 

Steve’s grip tightened on your waist, tugging at the material of your skirt, and the tip of his nose met your temple, ice-cold, in a line. Then his cheek was pressed to yours, stubble and sunscreen. His breath warmed the lobe of your ear. 

You helped him lift you onto the bench, the whole thing wobbling under your weight, but you had faith in his grasp on you, his weight between your legs as he helped to hitch your skirt up one thigh, material tacky to goose-pimpled flesh. His hands were ice-cold, but you were on fire as he trailed fingertips from your hip to your knee, hooking your leg up higher on his hip. 

Another roll of thunder wracked through his shoulders, a quake around your frame that you squaring him to face you. His expression was unreadable, pupils wide, but lips drawn downward, jaw clenched. His far-off gaze lingered on your lips, and he licked his own, pawing at the underside of your thigh.

This was the moment of no return. You knew it. You knew he could feel it. Something deep inside was clawing its way up, trying to remind you of all of the heartache you’d endured in the last four years, but the rain wouldn’t let up, and his hand kneaded your flesh in a way that felt so right, so familiar, felt like home.

You caught his elbow to stop his movements, and he tensed, shoulders receding in defeat, like he’d just been waiting for you to stop him, like his mind had been racing like your own. 

You breathed his name, like a prayer, and his gaze snapped back to yours. “Touch me.”

Drowning your better judgement, you trailed your fingers down the rope of muscles in his forearm to grasp at his wrist and guide his hand to where you needed him most. 

God, it felt like coming home. Steve’s hands were made for you, a perfect form to all of the places you needed him, as if he’d made you himself. You were plaster, and he Michaelangelo. He flattened creases formed over time from wear and stress, and kneaded them smooth and soft. 

He stretched and hit places that had your eyelids alight with stardust, places you hadn’t hit in years. Your fingernails caught on the breadth of his shoulders and the rain against the roof dampened the sinful sounds pouring from each of your open mouths. He worked you like he’d been born to do it, a sailor devoted to a life at sea, or rather returning from too many years landlocked, eager and determined. 

He muttered affirmations hot and damp against the shell of your ear that had you keening, begging for him to keep going, desperate to stay afloat, until the band snapped and the buoy became untethered, rope unraveling within you.

The rainfall slowed and the sunlight fell in shallow waves across patches in the siding. Your breath evened against the damp planes of Steve’s throat. Clarity began to sharpen the softened edges. A chill wracked through you, soaked through, and you forced him from your space. Gently, you hopped from the bench, skirt falling around shaky knees.

The beach hut door opened with a creak, and you stepped out into the sun. 

—

Your eyes remained unfocused on the candlelight, too warm and itchy under an afghan and dry clothes to listen to the nostalgia being shared in the adjacent seating room. You hadn’t left the dining table, reassuring everyone you were fine, just exhausted, when you hadn’t eaten more than a few bites of your dinner. All you could focus on was Steve’s grip around the top of his beer bottle, condensation dripping between the soft pads of his fingers. 

“Hey.”

You startled at the intrusion, and tried to blink away the residual flickers in your eyesight, focusing instead on the forlorn look on Jonathan’s face as he scooted into the seat beside you, offering a chocolate bar. You took it with a soft smile, peeling back the plastic wrapping and hunkering further into your patched blanket.

“Remember last month when we were eating pizza at 3AM, laughing about how crazy this trip would be,” he released that cheeky half-smile you hadn’t seen since he’d heard the news.

You snorted, snapping off a section of chocolate to let melt on your tongue. You rolled your eyes, passing it back for him to break off a piece. “Yeah, how’re you feeling?” 

He sighed, ran a hand down his face, shrugged. You watched him stare into the flame for a while.

When he didn’t speak, you reached your hand out to take his, and he met your gaze again with a wry smile, squeezing your hand. “At least I’ll be seeing a lot more of you.” 

“You will?” You grinned. 

He shrugged. “Unless Nancy wants to move overseas. But if that’s the case, I suppose we’ll just take you with us.” 

Your heart ached at the sentiment, and you felt your emotions start to stick in your throat. He was moving to be with her. He was dropping everything he loved, everything he had, to be with Nancy, wherever her dreams took her. And although that made you wildly happy for them, it also further drove home that ache in the pit of you, that spot that hurt. 

A pair of knuckles wrapped at the doorway, stirring your attention from Jonathan. Nancy and Eddie stood side-by-side, hands shoved into pockets or hid in the sleeves of oversized sweaters. Nancy mumbled a goodnight, tiny frame dwarfed beside the gangly man beside her, both of their curls haloed in candlelight. 

“I’ll go with you,” Jonathan hoisted himself upright, planting a soft kiss to your cheek before he followed Nancy up the winding staircase and into the darkness beyond. 

Eddie lingered, shuffling closer to break a piece off your candy bar on the table. “Hey,” he mumbled. 

“Hey,” you sighed. You hadn’t spoken to him all day. More accurately, you’d been avoiding him all day. 

Another burst of laughter echoed from the living room. Eddie nodded toward the kitchen and moved the chocolate to his cheek to ask, “Wanna chat?” 

With a swallow and a nod, you pulled your chair out from the table and gathered your unfinished dinner plate to follow him into the kitchen, discarding your blanket at your place setting. 

Eddie sidled up to a counter, silhouetted in moonlight, and he stayed silent while you scraped your scraps into the garbage and rinsed your plate. When you were finished, you hoisted yourself to the countertop beside him, shoulder’s hunched, heels kicking at the baseboard cabinet. The light flickered warm from the other rooms, laughter trickling in in intervals of hushed tones. 

“I’m sorry about last night,” you both simultaneously, followed by a snicker of understanding. You elbowed him, and he swayed dramatically, sinking his weight back into you. 

“Shut up,” you scolded. “I’m actually sorry. I was being a dick. You did nothing wrong.” 

“That’s not true,” Eddie countered. “You didn’t deserve what I said. At least, not the way I said it.” 

You sighed and linked your arm with his, resting your head atop his bony shoulder. You felt the press of lips to the crown of your head, his cheek to your hair. 

“You do know I just want you to be happy, right? And that I love you?” 

“I know,” you smiled, tilting your head to kiss at the seam of his band tee. “I love you too.” 

“I, uh…” He raked a hand down his face, callouses catching on stubble. “I talked to Steve today, while you guys were out. He told me what he said to you.” 

You swallowed. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I told him to grow up.”

You pulled yourself upright to see that Cheshire grin poking dimples into pale cheeks.

“And that him hating it just made me want to do you even more. With him watching.” 

“Eddie!” You shoved at his shoulder, and once again he sunk further into you, hiding a cackle behind his hand. “You perv.” 

“Come on, you know he’d be into that.”

Your face heated at the idea. Your mind flashed back to that dark look in Steve’s eyes, in the beach hut, watching you get off on his thick, warm fingers, the bob of his Adam’s apple, the steady rise and fall of his broad chest beneath your palms. 

“I would to,” Eddie elbowed you out of your daydream, and you landed a punch, harder this time.

“Stop!”

He snickered and dodged your next attack, rubbing the sore spot you’d left on his bicep. “You’re fiesty under emotional duress.” He grinned. “What does it say about me that I find that really sexy?” 

“That you need help,” you snorted. 

He caught your wrist and pressed your hand to his sternum, deepening his voice. “Yeah I do, sweetheart.” 

You scoffed as his rumble turned into a laugh, and since you couldn’t take your hand back, you gripped his t-shirt to pull him closer, resting your forehead to his chest. He tucked you under his jaw and released your wrist in favor of wrapping you in a tight hug. Cigarette smoke and sunscreen and rumbled laughter and lithe limbs and still, somehow, it wasn’t enough. Something dammed at your throat, and you clenched every muscle in your body to rid yourself of the anxiety building. 

Eddie began soothing ministrations up and down your spine. “You need to talk to him.” He mumbled into your temple, breath hot and chocolatey against your skin. “I mean, really talk to him. Like just the two of you, hash it out for hours. You get out everything you need to. Let him tell his part. We both know you won’t be able to make a decision until you get everything out on the table and really look at it, as a whole.” 

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Make a decision?” 

He pulled away, pressing soft hands to your cheeks, dark eyes beneath a furrowed brow. “Promise me something?” 

You hummed. 

“Promise me you’ll talk to him sometime this week. It can be right before we leave, for all I care. But I need you to tell me what you figured out before you get on that plane.” 

There was something hopeful in his gaze, features softened to that lost little boy you’d tutored. There were too many meanings behind his words, too many things that spun in your mind and caught somewhere in the ventricles of your heart. “Eddie…” You muttered.

He released your face and wiped nervous hands to his jeans, suddenly shier than you’d seen him in years. “Christ, I didn’t mean it as like an ultimatum or anything. I’m not that guy.” Not like Steve. He scratched at the back of his neck, took a few steps backward. “I just need to know if I need to hide the liquor bottles or if Hawkins’ is getting a new resident.”

God, why did each phrase feel like an extra stab in the gut?

“I’m sorry,” Eddie stammered a laugh, wrapping ringed fingers against the flat plane of his chest. “I think I’ve had too much to drink.” He never drank more than one. 

You reached your hand out, stretched all the way across the gap until the tips of your fingers brushed the silver of his rings. 

He sighed and took your grasp, allowed you to pull him back into you. 

“I promise I’ll talk to him,” you chewed on the inside of you cheek, ducked to catch his gaze. “And I promise I’ll talk to you.”

The dimple tucked into his cheek beside those plump, pink lips, stretched thin in an awkward smile. He nodded. “I’m gonna go to bed.” 

You nodded. “Okay.” 

Then, he leaned to press his lips to yours. It was chaste, soft, a cascade of curls around your face, and lithe fingertips against your cheekbone. Your eyes didn’t have time to flutter closed. Then he was kissing your knuckles and bending his slender frame into a dramatic bow. 

“Goodnight, m’lady.” 

You managed a choked laugh. “Goodnight, Eddie.” 

—

Kneading dough was grounding, cathartic. It made you feel like everything was right in the world. Soft, sticky between flour-caked knuckles, the dull thud against the rolling board, the squeaky wheels of the rolling pin, the sweet smell of apples caramelizing in a nearby mixing bowl, all of it felt like heaven to you. You were at peace with an apron tied around your waist, lakeside wind sweeping in through the opened window, oven making the small space a bit stuffy and warm. 

The others were down at the patio, or out on the water, you weren’t sure. You stayed behind to think, to clear your mind, to distract yourself from the constant tipping of a scale one direction or the other. You’d tossed and turned all night thinking of Steve’s hands and Eddie’s lips and the complications to your life that each one brought. So you decided midmorning should be spent centering yourself, alone with your craft, and at peace.

You’d pressed the dough into its tin, trimming the edges and balling the scraps to be rolled and cut into strips for a lattice work top. You poured the apple slice mixture, all cinnamon and sugar and nutmeg and clove, watching the sun sparkle against their wet flesh. You indulged in licking the spoon, tangy and sticky. Then you sprinkled flour to your surface again to start rolling out the remaining dough, humming to yourself as the birds chirped outside. 

You flattened and cut and worked a lattice and ate the scraps, admiring your handiwork before you placed it into the oven and set the little wind-up timer on the stovetop. It was shaped like an egg. Your mom had one when you were young. It disappeared somewhere over time, or in the move. You contemplated stealing this one. 

You poured yourself some fresh-squeezed lemonade, tart and sweet, and leaned yourself against the countertop. You watched the sparkle of waves just off-shore and sipped and tried not to allow your mind to wander until the subject of your wandering mind entered your kitchen with mussed hair and sun kissed skin, pulling expensive sunglasses from the freckled bridge of his nose. 

“Smells amazing,” Steve smiled, reaching past you for a glass to pour himself some lemonade. You watched his forearm handle the full pitcher with care. You watched the length of his throat as he drank. You watched his tongue dart to lick a drop from the corner of pink lips. He set himself against the counter opposite you, ten feet away and still too close.

“Where’s everyone else?” You asked, praying for Robin to come prancing in with a bucket of ice cold water.

“On the boat. They just left.” He set his glass beside him. “We should talk about yesterday.” 

You turned to start the washing up, sink full of mixing bowls and measuring cups. The counter was white with flour. You turned the tap on hot, and the rushing of water into a metal sink had your brain buzzing with images of rain against the tin roof of the hut. You swallowed. “Yesterday was a mistake.”

You weren’t even sure you said it out loud, didn’t dare look to him for confirmation. You just held your front two fingers under the water to gauge temperature, although to be honest, you wouldn’t be able to tell scalding from freezing right now anyway. 

“Sure, yeah, totally,” his tone was oddly light. Out of your peripherals, you caught him entering your space, sidling up to the opposite side of you now. He smelled of expensive cologne, deliciously Steve. “Or… we could just make some adjustments to our truce.” 

You looked up at him then, caught breathless by the dark look in his eyes. You swallowed. “What?” 

He shrugged, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Well, we agreed to be civil and not bring up the past.” He held your gaze. “We only have a couple of days left. Might as well… I don’t know, make the most of it?” His jaw was firm, but there was something playful in his tone, a fire behind his eyes you hadn’t seen in years. 

You scoffed. “You’re serious?” 

He shrugged again, leaned into your space to brush flour from your shoulder, sweeping your hair back as he did so. God, he was good. “You had fun, didn’t you?” 

“Steve,” you peeled yourself away, scrubbing melted sugar from the rim of a measuring cup.

“Come on,” he boxed you in, his frame folding around yours, warm and broad and strong. “You’re on vacation.” The tip of his nose found the shell of your ear, sending sparks from skull to tailbone. “You deserve to relax, babe.”

Babe. So flippant, so casual. It’s what he called you, before, when it was just the two of you playing house in hotel rooms. You elbowed him off of you, grateful when he respected your boundaries and stood a few more feet away.

With a sigh, you turned off the faucet, only the singular measuring cup squeaky clean. You dried your hands on a hand towel embroidered with dairy cow and its milkmaid, and you turned to face Steve.

He had a fantastic pokerface, to add to the list of vast differences between he and his housemate. Where Eddie showed every last thought that came into his mind, Steve remained stoic, strong brow furrowed, jaw tight, keen eyes watching your every movement. He kept his shoulders squared, but lax, and his strong arms kept him upright against the lip of the counter, strong arms you were desperate to have wrapped around you again. 

“Be civil, no bringing up the past, and have fun while it lasts,” you agreed before your brain caught up with your words. 

All at once, Steve crowded your space again, pressing your backside to the damp countertop, an arm to either side of your hips, dipping his nose to meet yours.

You pressed your fingertips to his chest to push him away a few more inches. “Don’t call me babe.” 

His lips split into a grin at that, and he chuckled a low rumble in his chest. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you want.”

He was eager, so eager, and you felt the buzz in your waist, the flutter under your sternum. You watched his tongue wet soft, pink lips, and were suddenly reminded of the third grade, of Tommy H.’s birthday, of the surprise smooch in a treehouse and of wanting to savor that kiss for the rest of your life. As Steve dipped his head low once more, you turned to face the oven, ducking away.

“And I’m not going to kiss you.” An odd boundary you didn’t know you had until it was there, presenting itself in a panic clawing at your chest. You just knew if you kissed him, you’d be done for. You’d be packing everything you owned into a U-haul and signing the lease next to his name. Just like Eddie said. 

Steve’s stoic facade seemed to falter for a split second before he nodded and pulled away. He eyed you for a beat too long before he lowered his voice to ask, “Am I allowed to kiss you?” And the implications in his tone had your knees weakening. 

You swallowed in a vain attempt to lubricated a parched throat, and nodded.

He emitted a groan from somewhere deep, and you bit down hard on your lip as you watched King Steve Harrington sink to his knees before you, hands traveling up your skirt to knead at the flesh of your thighs like it grounded him, like it made everything right in the world. 

He tugged your shirt free from the waistband of your apron and skirt, watching you, amber eyes painted black. His breath was hot against your stomach, your hip bone. “Can you see the front door?” He asked.

You peeled your gaze from him to look through the entry way to the front door. You nodded. 

“Good. Keep watch for me, sweet girl.” 

— 

“Scale of 1-10, how hot do I look?” Robin did a pose, hair stuffed under a wide-brimmed hat and blue blazer sleeves rolled. 

“Ten,” you and Nancy affirmed simultaneously, blotting your own pink lipsticks in the full-length mirror on the back of Robin’s bedroom door. You wore a low-cut blouse with flowy sleeves, and Nancy looked sleek in black, and she helped stick a bobby pin into your scalp when a curl threatened to fall out of place. 

“What are the odds there’s a single, hot lesbian looking for a hook up?”

“At a country western bar?” Nancy peered back at your friend, and you chuckled. 

“Robin,” you reassured. “I promise there will be at least one single, hot lesbian looking for a hook up.” 

Robin sighed. “Yeah. Me.” 

She’d picked the venue for your night out, spotted it on your walk through town the previous morning, and convinced the group to go after their late evening naps. The sky had started to soak in peaches and golds, and the warmth had cooled from a breeze that billowed curtains and chilled your fevered cheeks. You’d spent the day distracted, praying no one would notice the smile that ached at the corners of your lips. You were thankful for the excuse to be chipper.

“Ladies, I need advice,” Argyle called from beyond the door, and you gently led Nancy to the side so you could open it to meet him. He wore a leather vest with a spearmint button-up beneath it, and in his hands were two ties, one a shocking pink, the other a bolo with a cubic design in brass. 

“Bolo, always,” you confirmed. 

“That’s what I said!” Eddie called from the next room over. 

“Alright,” Argyle nodded and toed back to his own room to put his tie on in a mirror. 

Nancy slipped out beside you to meet Jonathan at the top of the stairs. Your heart ached in your chest when you watched his lips meet her temple, and his hand slip into hers. They shared sweet words and walked down the stairs together. 

Robin shoved past you. “Sorry, gotta brush my teeth. Will you check on Steve for me? You know he always takes the longest.” 

You stood in her doorway for a long moment, staring at the wood of Steve’s bedroom door from across the hall. Your hands clammed up at your sides, but you released a held breath and closed the distance to wrap your knuckles against the panels. 

“Come in,” he called from inside, and you turned the handle and pushed yourself inside.

Steve’s room was a mirror of your own, window facing the water, slanted ceiling, headboard against the opposite wall. His bed was neatly made, pillows stacked at attention just like his mom taught him. The bedside lamp illuminated everything soft and warm.

Steve stood at a dresser putting on his watch, forest green polo taught over the muscles of his back. He glanced up at you when you entered, cheeks turning up in a grin. “Hey,” he greeted.

“Hey,” you breathed back, propping yourself against the wall beside the door. “Robin wanted me to tell you to hurry up.” 

“I’m ready,” he held his hands out to show himself off, and you admired the stretch of denim across his thighs. 

“You look good,” you affirmed, swallowing when he closed the distance between you, eyes flickering to the hallway just to your right hand side. 

When the coast was apparently clear, he placed a hand on your waist. “So do you. Tonight should be fun.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” you nodded. You felt giddy again, like he had you pressed up against the school lockers, hiding from the principal between classes. 

“Yeah?” His voice graveled, and he pressed himself even closer, wedging his thigh between your legs. 

“Dingus! You ready or what?” Robin shouted, and all at once, Steve was gone, his warmth replaced by cool breeze. 

“Yeah, I’m coming,” he groaned, fidgeting with the watch at his wrist. “Thanks for the help,” he waved it your direction, and you furrowed your brow before noticing Robin’s head poked through the doorway. 

She narrowed her eyes your direction, but grabbed Steve’s other wrist to lead him out and down the stairs. 

You took a minute to calibrate, a few calming breaths, before you followed them. When you rounded into the hallway, you startled at the sight of Eddie in his own doorway, lithe frame covered in black, damp curls hung in his eyes. That dimple carved deep into his cheek. 

“You look smoking hot,” he greeted. 

You rolled your eyes but hooked your hand into his elbow and let him escort you down the stairs to meet the others. 

—

Tequila was great after the initial burn. Once the tang of lime shocked your taste buds, you were smooth sailing. The music was live and loud. The room filled with smoke and the sweet smell of alcohol. Wooden walls were lined with neon beer logos and antlers. A dart board sat in one corner, a pool table in another. You were warmed from the inside, tingling fingertips and toes. 

The first round alone had you doing things you ought not, like catching Steve’s gaze over the top of Nancy’s head. He’d been staring, lips glossy and eyes hungry, and you couldn’t look away until Argyle bought round two.

Round three had you on the dance floor, pressed against the warm rumble of Eddie’s chest while he hummed a balad just under the crooning of the band’s lead singer. Flirting with Eddie was another thing you ought not do, but holding back felt impossible, tequila or no. Especially when he held you so close, thigh between your knees, swaying you back and forth to some slow and sultry tune. 

“Have I told you you look smoking hot tonight?” He indulged in another rake of your features, not shy from peaking down your blouse.

You sucked your cheeks between your teeth to avoid the smile aching at them and managed to shrug. “Might’ve mentioned it.” 

He chuckled, shaking his hair from his eyes. “Yeah, I like that top.” 

“I look better without it,” you countered, cocking a brow.

“I know you do, sweetheart.” His dark eyes shone under dim lighting, and his plump lips turned up at the corners. He was all curls, cigarettes and spearmint, and something in his eyes sank your heart. It was Eddie’s heart on his sleeve again, that poker face slipping just long enough to show you the longing beyond the lust. 

You swallowed and placed a hand to his cheek, thumbing over scruff and stubble. His name caught in your throat. 

“Song’s almost over,” he mumbled, nuzzling his nose with yours. “Do you trust me?” 

You nodded, and the air was expelled from your lungs when he dipped you low. He gripped your thigh at his waist, and you felt the trail of his nose up your sternum and throat as he pulled you upright, breathless and warmed.

Your audience whooped and hollered from their high-top.

Stage shy, you allowed Eddie to take your hand and tug you back to the table. His grip was strong, thumb administering distraction circles upon your wrist. Nancy slid you a full glass of iced water, and you thanked her for it.

“Okay, why the fuck are you both so hot?” Robin scoffed, chugging her own red plastic cup of water.

“Born this way, Buckley. Don’t act so shocked.” Eddie reached over to flick her forehead, and she swatted at him.

“She’s right though,” Jonathan pitched in, saucy grin playing on boyish features. He slung an arm around Nancy’s shoulder, and she grimaced before shoving him off. 

“Yeah, you guys should make a porno,” Argyle nodded, mustache turned down in thought before he snapped his fingers. “Baker and the Beast.” 

“Jesus Christ,” you snorted, thankful for the water to hide your warming face. You took a long drink, praying for the ice to cool you down. 

“Sex Dungeon Master,” Robin chimed in, and you nearly did a spit take. 

“Full Metal Banging,” Steve piped in to everyone’s surprise. You looked up at him to see a playful smirk across those sinful lips, and he shrugged, nodded, took another sip of his beer. “I’d watch it.” Something in you ached at the low tones of his voice. 

Eddie shook a ringed finger Steve’s direction. “I fucking knew it! I knew you liked to watch. Harrington, you dirty dog!” 

Steve merely shrugged, pokerface stoic again while his eyes offered you something more salacious. You wondered if the rest of them caught him staring the way you did, wondered if they could tell what transpired between the two of you in the beach hut, in the kitchen. 

A new song kicked on, much faster, more familiar than the last, and Eddie finally released your hand, now cold and clammy, to snap his fingers in Robin’s direction. “Come on, Buckley. Your turn.” 

Robin sighed and extended a hand for him to take. “Fine, but no cleavage licking.” 

“Come on,” Eddie whined, and before they trailed off to the dance floor, you heard him say, “I washed my tits before we came!” 

You laughed and fell into a spot beside Nancy, avoiding Steve’s gaze as you drank your water and attempted to sober yourself up. Maybe three was your limit, maybe two, but you felt just primed enough to give away all of your secrets. 

“Nancy,” Argyle stood from his seat and tightened the bolo around his neck. “May I have this dance?” 

Before the warmth of Nancy beside you had been replaced by air conditioning and the smell of stale beer, a strong hand had slipped itself between your knuckles. 

“Jonathan, watch the table,” Steve said, pulling you onto the dance floor. 

Under a swirl of lights, and to the fast rhythm of bass and drums, you were tucked close to Steve’s front and backed toward the center of the dance floor. People swung and dipped around you, and Steve bobbed and weaved your way through them with laughter rumbling deep in his chest. God, you missed that sound. 

He was wildly off tempo, and a little off-balance, but maybe that was the tequila affecting your equilibrium. He had one hand to the small of your back, the other swinging wildly, and he stepped on your toes more than once. 

“You’re a terrible dancer,” you leaned in to shout into the shell of his ear. 

He pulled back to shoot you an incredulous look before pulling you in close again, breath hot on the side of your face. “You taught me how to dance.”

You shook your head, but released a laugh that bubbled high in your chest. “I did not!” 

“Yes you did,” he argued. “At prom. I told you I didn’t know how to dance, and you promised you’d teach me. So if I’m horrible, that’s on you.” 

You smiled into his chest, and allowed your mind to wander. You wondered what she would think of you now, senior-you, prom-going-you. You wondered how she’d feel, swept around a dance floor in King Steve’s arms all these years later. 

You could still remember walking down the staircase to meet him. You could still see the flush of his cheeks when he saw you, could remember the distinct kick of butterflies in your stomach.

“Hey, dingus!” Robin’s voice sliced through your memories. You blinked back into focus to find her and Eddie beside you. Eddie was using Robin’s hand to swat at Steve’s side. 

“Will you two grow up?” Steve scolded, ever the dad of the group.

“We have a question for you two,” she ignored him, continuing to prod at his bicep and then yours when he spun you to use as a human shield.

“What?” You laughed. 

“What’s the best sex you’ve ever had?” Robin’s voice carried over the music, swam in your head, heated you from the inside out as you felt the stares of intrigue from your dance partner and hers.

You snorted, shook your head, and avoided their gaze. “Yeah, I’m not answering that.”

Robin booed you.

“You’re so drunk!” You laughed.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Eddie grinned, sidling up beside Steve. He had mischief in his eyes. “We can handle it.” 

Steve squared up then, stopped your sway, and his mouth stretched into an equally devilish grin. “Yeah, Munson can handle it.” 

You cocked a brow, still in Steve’s grasp, and looked straight into Eddie’s big, brown eyes, conjuring a memory you knew would earn a reaction from the both of them. “Campsite at the coast? Back of the car?” 

Eddie nodded, big, dramatic, hair swinging in front of his face. He pointed at Robin. “That’s what I said!”

“Holy shit, Harrington, you want some ice for that burn?” Robin cackled, high-fiving you and Eddie both.

When you found Steve’s gaze again, he was blinking back at you, mouth slightly ajar. You tried and failed to bite back the giggle that bubbled in your chest, doubling over into his stunned chest while you wheezed a laugh, tequila taking over. 

You heard Robin and Eddie yell run and squeal beside you, and when you looked up, they were spinning manically away. Steve’s mouth had closed, and he licked at his molars, nodding slowly. You worried for half a second before the corner of his mouth turned up, and he spun you away and back. You yelped, narrowly avoiding a speaker.

You crashed into his chest and laughed the tune of his own rhythmic chuckle, wrapping your arms loosely around his neck to hold yourself steady. 

“If I had known this is what it’d take to make you happy, I’d have gone down on you at the beginning of the week,” Steve grinned.

“Steve!” You admonished, glancing around to make sure no one was around to hear what he’d said. You were far from the table now, and definitely out of earshot. 

“Tell me about the campsite.” When you met his gaze again, it was that same delicious look that set you on fire from the inside out, unwavering.

You breathed his name again, faltering a little on your feet, but he caught you. 

“Come on,” he swayed your hips in his hands. “I gotta study my competition if I want to know how to come out on top.”

You licked your lips, searched his honeyed eyes for any sign of a trap, but he was just as tipsy as you were. Tequila painted the hollows of his cheeks pink. “It was the middle of the day. Campers everywhere. We had to be quiet.”

Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His grip on your waist tightened, and he pulled you impossibly closer. You could feel every ripple of muscle beneath the luxurious fabric of his top. He looked around the room before his eyes trailed your face, your lips, down the front of your blouse and back. “This is a room full of people, and the music’s so loud you wouldn’t have to be quiet.”

His words sent heat through you.“You’re drunk,” you sucked in a smile and glanced back across the room at Jonathan drooping in his seat, a soft smile on his face as he watched Nancy and Argyle dance. Robin and Eddie twirled and dipped in a far-off corner.

Steve pressed the tip of his nose to the baby hairs at your forehead. “So take advantage of me.”

In that moment, you realized Steve Harrington could be dangerous, commanding, a force to be reckoned with. 

—

The hot, sticky glow of three shots of tequila faded to heart palpitations and a burn in your calves. Though, that could be the dancing, the grin that ached at your features, the early morning burrito, or the anticipation that kept you buzzing, bouncing the balls of your bare feet against floorboards while you counted the creaks and footsteps outside your door. 

You turned in earlier than the others, feigning exhaustion related to old age, just to prop yourself against the headboard for nearly an hour before the raucous laughter died down beneath you and the sounds of your compatriots readying themselves for bed filtered in under your bedroom door. 

Anxiety replaced that warm, fuzzy feeling in the pit of your stomach. You listened to Robin’s hiccups on high-alert, pulse thudding to her steady rhythm. You toed to the door, pressed your ear to the wood to listen to the mutterings of goodnight, the faucet running in the bathroom, the steady pad of feet just beyond. 

Your hand hovered over the lock on your brass knob, but you snatched it away, pacing to the foot of your bed and back. Once, twice, three times. You caught your reflection in a mirror above the bedside. You’d left your makeup on, curled hair falling around your shoulders in tendrils. The bra you wore beneath an oversized t-shirt pinched at the skin under your arm, but it was the prettiest you’d packed in periwinkle lace to match the panties hiding beneath plaid night shorts. 

You were making a mistake. Throat dry, you crossed back to the door, reaching for the knob to lock it and turn yourself in for the night. 

The cool brass turned under your touch, and the door swung your way, narrow, allowing a shadowed figure to step into the honeyed glow of your bedside lamp. 

“Hi,” Steve smiled, towering over you, breath fresh and hair mussed.

You swallowed. “Hi.” 

“Sorry,” he hissed, closing the door behind himself. The click emitted feather-light. “Robin wouldn’t let us go to bed. I was worried you fell asleep.” 

You shook your head, managed a weak smile. “Nope.” 

“Good,” he said. “Are you cold?” His warm fingertips ghosted the skin beneath the hem of your shorts, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake. 

You shivered, shook your head again, allowing your eyelids to go heavy as his other hand came to cradle to your cheek. 

“Do you still want to do this?”

He had the power to see right through you, always had. You released a shaky breath, shoulders to your ears in a shrug. You swallowed. “I don’t know.” Honesty spilled out. You hadn’t felt this vulnerable with him since Louisville, not this nervous, not this jittery. 

A crease tucked between his brows, and he dropped his hand from your thigh to catch your fingertips in his. “I’m not going to push you.” 

“I know,” you squeezed his knuckles, hands dwarfing yours. “You never have.” 

He smiled at that, nodded toward the bed. “Want to just hang out?” 

You nodded and drew him to soft covers and an old mattress. It sunk under your weight, a burst of air puffing out between you as Steve plopped himself down, hands resting on his chest, hair splayed against patchwork. You were drawn to him, fingers itching to run themselves through his hair, to trace the bridge of his nose, connect-the-dots with his freckles, but you hesitated, tucking your knees to your chest. 

He turned his head to look at you, lazy smile crossing beautiful, dark features. “I’m glad I sobered up.” 

“Yeah?” You were on the fence.

“Yeah.” He groped around the blankets until he found your hand at your side. He massaged at your wrist, your palm, wide stroke with his thumb that smoothed aching joints and eased your mind. He pulled you ever-closer, before trailing your pointer finger over the bridge of his nose. His lashes fluttered closed, and he hummed as you painted his cheekbones with your fingertips, catching on the stubble of his jaw. “I missed you.” 

“I missed you too,” you whispered. He brought your fingertips to his lip, soft and pink and damp. You exhaled his name. 

He looked at you then, eyes dark, and placed a kiss to your palm, your wrist, the flesh of your forearm, tugging you gently from your fold until you leaned over him, your hair a curtain separating you both from the glow of the bedside lamp. “Do you want me to leave?” 

Your throat was dry, your breath staggered. You shook your head. 

Steve’s hands found your waist, smooth dregs of his palms up your ribcage until his thumbs met the underwire of your bra. “Do you want me to stay?” 

You nodded, sucking in a breath when his hands worked higher, palming at silk and lace.

“I need to hear you say it, babe,” his voice was hoarse, thick.

You faltered on the pet name, a rule broken, his eyelids heavy, warm hands on your breasts, but you didn’t want to think anymore, didn’t want to worry or panic. So you washed it all away, pushed guilt to the back of your mind, and threw a leg over him to straddle his slender waist. “I want you, Steve.”

He sat up, pushing you both upright to drag the soft cotton of your top up and over your head. He groaned at the sight of you, and you felt his lips find purchase at the crux of your throat and shoulder, his mouth wet and warm. 

You sunk your fingertips into his scalp, indulging in the vibrations of his voice against your skin. 

He pushed the lacy straps down your arms, pressing soft kisses into the bits of flesh that were creased and red. He reached around to undo the clasp, and relief flooded your waist from where the elastic bit at your skin. You released him, allowing the scratchy fabric to fall to the ground at the bedside, and Steve lowered himself back to the mattress. 

You felt self-conscious, suddenly, as he drank you in, hands ghosting the bits of your flesh that were marred or torn, burn-scarred, pock-marked. You wondered if you’d aged since he last saw you like this, if you had more wrinkles, more pudge, if the weight of you sank different onto his slender hips. You wondered if your boobs sagged, if the flesh of your thighs doubled over your panty line. 

Steve’s eyes didn’t give anything away as he raked your frame, hands molding to you like they were meant to, and after too long of a moment, he spoke. “Shit, babe. My memory doesn’t do you justice. You’re fucking perfect.” 

A chill caught on your spine, a chuckle of embarrassment building at the compliment, and you folded yourself back to him, squirming under the scrutiny. “You think about me often, Harrington?”

His nose brushed yours in a nod, and he palmed the swell of your thighs beneath your shorts, grinding you down onto him. “Every single day.”

The honesty stuttered your breath, his fanning your lips, and you knew if you didn’t back away now, you’d be lost to him. As he leaned forward to close the gap, you turned your head, cursing yourself when soft lips met your cheekbone. 

You avoided his gaze, moving instead to press a kiss to his jaw. Stubble scratched your lips, you chin. You nosed at his throat until he turned his head, and you wrapped your lips to his soft earlobe, delighting in the rumble of his chest against yours. 

His hips snapped into you once more, hardened length pressed to the inseam of your thigh. 

“Then we better give you something to remember,” you hissed into his ear.

Before you could act on your promise, Steve had you rolled over, pinning you to the bed with his hips. His lips were on you, hands kneading, frantic, eager. He pressed himself upright to strip his t-shirt, collar first, and when it hit the ground, you both heard the pad of footsteps on the floorboards outside.

You froze, suddenly remembering where you were, who occupied the room all around you. Your pulse thundered in your skull, anxiety licking at every inch of you, until you felt Steve Harrington’s perfect teeth graze your nipple and everything coursed through you like livewire. 

“Can you be quiet for me?” He hissed to your skin, gathering your wrists to pin above your head, and you gave a fervent nod, swallowing the saliva flooding your mouth. 

Steve was trouble, danger, desperate kneading hands and the rhythmic snap of hips. He was brute strength and roped muscles and demanding. He worshiped and praised God and you and mumbled praises into the crux of your throat, your sternum, building you to the highest high before crashing down on you like a wave. 

Even after all this time, he knew how to work you, how to mold you, bend you, command you in hushed tones, hand over your mouth to keep your sinful sounds from spilling between his fingers. He delighted in the challenge, wanted you begging but silent, asking if you wanted more, asking if it was good with his chin to your shoulder, your face buried into his to muffle your moans.

He was strong, confident, delicious, salt-to-the-wounds and salt of the Earth, and you fell apart on his hands, his lips, the crash of his hips like waves across a rocky shoreline. Your eyelids sparkled, the ceiling spotted with starlight, and you came down with the weight of his head on your chest.

Steve placed a chaste kiss to your collarbone and looked up at you, a smug grin etched upon his features. He rolled himself to the side, breath ragged. You closed your eyes and listened to the deep in-and-out, trying to match your inhales with his, to slow your heart rate, to stop the pulsing of every muscle now aching in your body. 

“How was that?” He whispered into your neck, turning to wrap his arm tightly around your waist.

You huffed a laugh, shrugged. “Top five, at least.”

He gnawed at your throat and squeezed you tighter into him, both of your bodies sticky with sweat. 

Sleep tempted you, darkening your vision, weighing you further and further into the warm squish of the mattress and your pillow. Steve’s breathing calmed against your back, his nose tucked under the shell of your ear, and you wondered if you’d fallen asleep so easily in the last four years. 

Steve muttered your name, and you hummed, drifting on the edge of bliss. “I do still think about you every day.”

And you wish he hadn’t said it, wish he hadn’t broken the spell, wish he hadn’t reminded you why you were here, what this was all about. The moonlight filtered in through treetops out the window beyond, and you tucked the blanket higher around your shoulders. Maybe there was no harm in late night truths whispered between lovers. 

“The campsite wasn’t the best ever,” you confessed, voice weak. Steve loosened his cradle. You turned to face the ceiling, staring up at vaulted shadows. “Remember that first night in Louisville? I hadn’t seen you in so long, and we were tiptoeing around each other all night, but then the door’s closed in that elevator…” 

Steve had propped himself up beside you, cupped your cheek. You felt the soft pad of his thumb against your lower lip. “I really want to kiss you.”

The only rule left to be broken, and your heart ached for it. You took a deep breath and avoided his gaze. You couldn’t do this to yourself again, couldn’t do it to him. It was selfish of both of you. You slipped from his grasp and out of the covers, digging through the dark for your t-shirt and sleep shorts. “The other’s will be awake soon.”

—

The sun cast the tops of your cheeks and nose in warmth, golden light filtering through your eyelids while you bathed in a lounger, allowing your Munson-special pancakes to settle. Your friends seemingly revived from breakfast, splashed a level below you, voices and laughter filtering up the wooden walkway. You battled the melancholy of your final full day with memories from the night before that had a smile aching at your lips. 

You sighed and let your mind drift to the weight of Steve’s body against yours, the slam of his hips, the tight grasp of his hand to your wrists above your head. 

“I’m heading up to take a shower,” his voice sliced through your daydream, graveled from a late night. “You guys need the bathroom before I go up?” 

Nancy shook her head beside you, glancing up at him from above the sunglasses perched on the soft bridge of her nose. 

Steve looked to you, and you squirmed under his gaze, shaking your own head with a smile. “Kay,” he smiled back. “Be back in a bit.” And you couldn’t resist in watching the slope of his thighs as he climbed the hill beside you to walk into the house.

“Holy fucking shit,” Nancy slammed her book down on her lounger.

You jumped and sat upright, glancing around you for something to cause her reaction, a giant bee, a severed arm. 

“You slept with Steve.” 

You halted your search and slowly met Nancy’s gaze. Her lips were pursed, and there was something twisted in the way she looked at you, like she was both pissed and proud she’d cracked the case.

You cowered under her gaze, picking at a sliver in the lounger, and fumbled through an excuse. “I don’t know what - ”

“Don’t bullshit me,” she snapped. “I saw him walking out of your room at 5AM when I got up to puke, and that little exchange you two just had confirmed it.” She waved her finger in the air to exemplify her point. 

You felt your face heat. You didn’t appreciate the accusation in her tone. “Okay, so? We’re consenting adults.” 

Nancy stuffed her arms under her armpits and turned to face you. “So are the two of you back together?” 

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, the ragged rate of your breath speeding your pulse, or maybe it was the other way around. “No,” you huffed. “We’re just having fun while we’re here.” 

Nancy rolled her eyes. 

“Hey, no, don’t come at me with that. What about you and Jonathan, huh? Or should I say Robbie?” It was a low blow, and the moment it fell from your lips, you wish you could it all back. 

Nancy sucked her lips between her perfect teeth and turned back in her sun lounger, hands flattening against her lower abdomen. “Yeah, well we learned our lesson, didn’t we?” 

You blanched at the thought and shook your hair from your eyes. “Jesus, Nancy. I’m sorry.” You mumbled.

She didn’t respond for a long minute, looking out on the water, listening to the chirp of birds along the tree line. Then, she turned her head to face you, sun sparkling off the chrome tint of her sunglasses. “Do you remember that summer after Louisville? That night out on the Cape, just us girls?”

You barely remembered it, a drunken night out in a bar where everything smelled like the country club Steve’s parents frequented. You remembered sequins sticking to your face on a tiled floor. You remembered watching couples spin on a dance floor and wanting to splash your drink in the face of every single one of them. You remember feeling empty, broken, lost. 

“I don’t think I realized how in love you two were before then.” She continued, turning back to sunbathe, as if this was the easiest breeziest of topics. “I mean, I knew you were close. You always spoke about him like family. And we all knew you were fucking, even though you tried to hide it.” She raised an eyebrow at you. 

You swallowed.

“But that night’s when I realized how heartbroken you were.”

You closed your eyes, released a shaky breath, tried to maintain the happy memories that were quickly slipping from between your fingers, an anchor of your past traumas rocketing you to the bottom. 

“I can’t begin to imagine how he felt.”

“Nancy,” you chided, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Come on,” she argued. “He won the fucking jackpot with you. Plus, he’d been burned too many times by other self-hating idiots to let himself get close enough to you. That’s why he never asked you to be his girlfriend, why he never left Hawkins to be with you. He was terrified you’d bail, and then he realizes he can’t live without you and what do you go and do?” 

That hit somewhere deep, a dull ache that spread like hot liquid through your chest. “I didn’t…” 

“Of course you didn’t know,” she muttered, offering an innocuous wave to Jonathan who swung his arms in the air from the level beneath you, perched atop Argyle’s shoulders in the shallow water, Robin atop Eddie. “You guys haven’t talked in four years. And it wasn’t my job to tell you. My job, as the best friend, is to tell you you don’t need him. That you’re strong and beautiful and independent. My job is to cheer you on through your accomplishments and listen about your escapades with new and exciting men.”

God, you loved her, and you didn’t want to cry because she was right, you were strong and confident and independent, and you didn’t want to cry because Nancy wouldn’t cry, but you couldn’t help the emotion damming at your throat.

“He was supposed to tell you all of this, but clearly you two are incapable of communication.” She sat upright in her chair again and scoffed. “You know what? No. You’re going to talk to him, right now.” 

You blinked, heart racing at the idea. “What? No.” 

Nancy stood from her seat and grabbed you around the elbow, hoisting you upright. “Yes, right now. I’ll distract everyone else. This can’t go on any longer, or we’re all going to implode. You’re going into that house, and you’re going to hear his side of it. Because we all know you won’t be able to make a decision until you do.” 

—

The floorboards creaked under your weight, a groan at each step to remind you of where you were going. Your bare feet, sun soaked, stuck to the finish. A breeze caught gossamer window dressing, but did nothing for the slick of sweat beading your upper lip, the creases of your palm, your lower back. The steam from Steve’s shower framed the bathroom mirror and permeated the upper floor with his scent, squeaky clean and expensive. 

Your hands trembled against the surface of his bedroom door. You heard the shuffle of fabric on the other side, and a low, soft hum. You’d almost forgotten that about him, the way he sang when he thought no one was around. If he had an ear worm, or just felt happy about something.

You took a deep breath, pressed your forehead to the door, and knocked.

“Yeah, come in,” he called, and then “Hello?” after your lengthy hesitation. 

You turned the brass knob and entered, clicking the door behind yourself. Steve stood across the room, nearest the window, tugging at his watch straps again. His white t-shirt was speckled grey across his shoulders where his hair had dripped into a freckled pattern. When he saw you, his honeyed eyes lit with recognition, something hungry in them.

“Hi,” you managed, and there must have been sheer terror in your eyes because Steve’s face flashed with alarm, and he made a slow cross your way.

“What’s wrong?” His tone reminded you of too many late night phone calls, his voice keeping the nightmares at bay. 

You swallowed, allowed him to lead you to the edge of the bed, felt his fingers slot into yours, tried to ignore how soothed you felt already. “We need to talk about Louisville.”

He searched your eyes for a moment before he turned his attention to your hand in his, tracing your knuckles, brushing a thumb over your nails. “What about it?” 

“I want to know what happened,” you sighed, allowing yourself to flop backwards onto a hand knit throw, the mattress swishing beneath you. “I want to know where it all went wrong, why I lost you. I guess I just need some insight, Steve. Because I’ve been wracking my brain for four years trying to figure it out.” 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he sighed, and you saw his teeth chew on his bottom lip. Then he brought his nail beds to his mouth, a bad habit from his youth. 

You stopped his wrist, pulling his hand back into yours. “You were my best friend, and then you just quit calling.” You don’t think you’d let the hurt sink in until that moment, heard it catch in your vocal chords. You stared at the ceiling, a blur of white plaster and amber beams.

“I thought you didn’t want me to,” his voice was just as small as yours.

You shrugged, didn’t let the wobble in your jaw deter you. “We had fights before, bigger than this one. I figured we’d get over it.” 

“You told me you didn’t want to marry me.”

You propped yourself on your elbows to face him. “Steve, come on. You weren’t serious. You didn’t want to marry me, not really. You were just at that stage in your life where you thought that’s what was supposed to happen.”

He rolled his eyes, shook his head, pulling his hand from yours to run through his damp hair. Flecks of water marked your skin. “Will you quit saying that? Quit invalidating my feelings like that. I didn’t just want to settle down out of convenience. That’s always bugged the shit out of me.” He snapped. 

You barked a laugh, wry. “Okay, you had feelings for me. I get that. You know I love you too, but you can’t just spring a marriage proposal on a girl because she’s naked in your hotel bed. You didn’t even have a ring.”

Steve stared back at you for a long moment, and something in his eyes excited you. You hadn’t sparred in ages, hadn’t talked your genuine feelings out with your best friend in four years. 

“Fuck it,” he said and stood from his seat beside you to cross to his opened suitcase, everything neatly folded and tucked inside. “If I show you this, you have to promise me you won’t say a word until I’m done talking. Alright?” He held something behind his back and pointed a finger your direction. “Not a God damn word.” 

You rolled your eyes but held three fingers his direction and pretended to zip your lips. Then you caught a little black box he tossed at you. Your heart began to thunder in your chest, fingers trembling around velvet. You blinked at it a few times before looking back at him.

Steve was stone faced, if not a little pale, and his arms were crossed over his chest like he was waiting for you to say something. When you didn’t, he took a step forward, and then back, shifting weight on the balls of his feet. Then, he gestured to the box in your hand, a curse spilling from his lips. “I bought it the second day,” he said, “in Louisville.” 

You couldn’t move, breath short, hands a vice grip on the box in your lap, terrified to look at it.

“We had that first night, the one you mentioned with dinner at that cantina, and we took that long walk past all those big houses, and I felt like I was holding my breath all day. And I can hold my breath for a long time, I’m a damn good swimmer. But sometimes with you, it feels like I’m drowning.”

You could remember every second of that night, had thought about it a thousand times, compared every date to it, hell every happy moment. 

“And I think I just realized I couldn’t tread water with you anymore. Sink or swim, Harrington,” he groaned, scrubbing his hand down a freshly shaven face. “So the next day, while you were at your conference, I went to a jewelry store and bought that.”

Once again, your attention was drawn to the tiny box in your hands, and although your curiosity was piqued, you were still too terrified to open it. 

“I chickened out pretty much the entire weekend. I think I just didn’t want to ruin the fun, and then on that last morning, I panicked. I freaked the fuck out because we were going home, and I didn’t want to be away from you anymore. So I said what I said, and we fought, and I kicked myself the whole way home.”

You were glad you’d promised not to speak, glad you’d zipped your lips, because you didn’t think you had words anyway. Too many thoughts and emotions and memories zooming through your headspace like speedboats, leaving casualties in their wake. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t go to Argyle’s wedding,” his voice was soft, and his arms found their spot across his chest once more. “I know I promised you I’d go, but I think dancing with you at someone else’s wedding felt like a twisted joke.”

You swallowed, nodded. 

“Please don’t think I brought it here because I thought I could win you back, or whatever,” he hurried as an afterthought. “I honestly wasn’t sure what would happen this week. I was shitting myself that I’d somehow make everything worse, which maybe I have.”

You shook your head.

“I just keep it in my suitcase,” he gestured to the box again. “I don’t care what you do with it now. Hock it, pawn it, chuck it into the lake. You know, do what you want with it because it’s yours. It always has been.” 

You watched as he crossed to you, taking a slow and awkward seat beside you, just beyond your reach. 

“That it,” he sighed, shoulders slumped. “That’s my piece, I guess. You can talk now. Or not, if you don’t want. No pressure. At all, about any of this,” he glanced around the room. “If you want to go back to the way things were, I totally understand. I meant it when I said I just wanted a truce for this week. We agreed you reserve the right to live your own life.” 

“No,” you croaked. You cleared your throat and shook your head. “I don’t want that. I mean, I want you in my life.”

The corners of his lips turned up at that, and he let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Me too.” 

“This is all just…” You clasped the box until your knuckles whitened, just to stop the trembling. “It’s a lot to take in.” 

“Oh yeah, totally,” Steve stood from next to you. “I’ll give you a few minutes, or you know, whatever you need. I uh… I actually think I need some air.” He thumbed to the door.

You stood on shaky legs, nodding. “Yeah, me too. Water, I think, might be good.” 

“Totally,” he held the door open for you, and the two of you walked side-by-side to the top of the stairs. The floor groaned beneath your feet. 

“Come find me later?” His voice was soft, warm, forehead creased with concern.

You smiled, nodded, and watched as his lanky frame retreat down the staircase and out the front door.

—

A batch of cookies baked in the oven, caramelized brown sugar and butter permeated the air. Three other cookie sheets sat prepped at the ready on the countertop nearby. You’d washed and dried your mixing bowls and measuring cups and hung the apron on its hook inside the pantry door. Your glass of lemonade lay untouched, glinting in the afternoon sunlight.

The small black box rolled in your pruned fingertips, and you glanced around the kitchen for any signs of onlookers before cracking open the seal, hinge groaning, for a peak at what rested within the pink satin lining.

You nearly dropped it, throwing your hand to your lips to contain the gasp that rattled when you saw the perfect diamond in its fitting on the perfect, most delicate little band. It was everything you would have wanted, subtle and sleek and sweet. You wondered if you had mentioned the details, mumbled into Steve’s chest after a night out, senses liquored and secrets spilled. 

Or maybe he just knew you, better than anyone else could.

You glanced around the empty house once more before risking to pull it out of its casing and slide it over the summer-swollen knuckles of the ring finger on your left hand. It was the perfect fit, sparkling in honeyed sunlight, casting rainbows against the cabinets and countertops. 

“Smells amazing in here, dudette,” Argyle entered the small kitchen.

“Thanks,” you choked a laugh, shoving your hands behind your back to greet him. “How’s dinner coming?”

“Good, good,” he bobbed his head, long hair swishing against a broad chest. He sidled up to the counter opposite you. “Came here to check on you though. It’s our last day. It’s not the same without you.” 

“I know,” you smiled, waving at the cookies with your right hand. “Let me finish these up, and I’ll be right out.” 

“Sure,” he saw right through you, a grin forming beneath his mustache, a glint in his eye. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right? I’m here for you.” 

The honesty there cut deep. You nodded, wondered how much he knew, felt guilty for not telling him more, or for taking too much vacation time with your petty drama. 

“Can I tell you a story about me and Eden?” His eyes lit up when he spoke of her, a big grin formed across soft features.

You nodded again, toyed with the ring around your finger behind your back. “Please.” 

He scratched an itch at his mustache, and you saw him twist his own ring around his finger, gold, outdated, oversized. “Remember that day in the military tent? When we were all waiting for orders, and Steve pulled you in so we could explain what the Hell was going on?” 

You swallowed. You’d never forget that day, though you were grateful you thought about it less and less as time went on. 

“Sorry to bring it up,” Argyle nodded, held a hand up in apology. “I only do because I remember it more vividly than any of those days. I mean, I was high for a lot of everything before, and everything after felt like one big firefight. But I remember that day specifically because you lost your mom and Steve brought you into that tent, and he just held you.”

The emotion that had been rising all day started to spill, a causeway that rolled warm down your cheeks, and you were frantic to stop the flow, trying to push back those awful memories, the flashes of orange and camo, Steve’s strong arms wrapped around your collapsing body, knees gave way. You nodded to encourage Argyle to keep going, to reassure you were okay. 

He reached a hand out anyway, pulled you into the cushion of his shoulder, rubbed at your arm. “We were all so young and so dumb, and I just wanted to go home.”

You sniffled and hugged around his middle because you understood.

“Not home to Lenora, but home to this girl I met a week earlier with brown hair and brown eyes because the moment I saw her, I knew I’d do anything for her. I wanted her to hold me the way Steve held you.”

Home, this place you’d always had in Steve Harrington, a place you always would. 

“That’s the day I realized she was my one-and-only.” He always waxed so poetic about his wife, and until this moment you’d always rolled your eyes with fondness for the man. Until this moment, you never really understood. “Are you picking up what I’m laying down?” 

You nodded, laughed wetly. “I think so.” 

The wrap of knuckles against the doorframe grabbed your attention, and you looked up to find Eddie. His hair was frizzy from air dry, and he looked impossibly lanky in a black tank top and red shorts, and the handsome smile from his face fell when he saw the tears in your eyes. “Everything okay in here?”

Your heart sank.

“All good, my dude, just talking to her about my beautiful wife,” Argyle gave you one more tight squeeze before releasing you to stand at his full height. He gave you a wink before pushing past Eddie to head back outside to be with the rest of your friends. 

The two of you stood in silence for a few minutes, the breeze trailing in to float his air from his eyes. You weren’t sure how to start, what you could say to make it right, but you didn’t have to. 

Eddie let out a whistle, long and low, and crossed the room to meet you. “I always knew Harrington had good taste.” Before you realized you were fidgeting with your ring, he took your hand into his, holding it up to catch the light like you had done earlier.

You swallowed, watching the subtle hurt etched between his brows. Eddie Munson, heart on his sleeve. You whispered his name. 

He shrugged, dimples poking through his goatee, and shook his hair from his eyes. “I’m a big boy. I can handle it. I just want you both happy.” He ducked his head then, inches from yours. “Are you happy?” 

You thought to all of the friends that had held you throughout this week, throughout the past twelve years, throughout your life, and you nodded, fighting back the new tears that threatened to spill. 

Eddie caught them with the calloused pad of his thumb, a chuckle rumbling low in his chest. “I’m never going to stop loving you.” 

“I know,” you laughed, closing your eyes as he pressed soft lips to your forehead. 

“You know? Wow. A bit full of yourself, sweetheart,” he teased, and you swatted at him. He dodged your aim and grabbed you by the waist to pull you into a bone-crushing hug, jaw pressed to your temple. 

“I love you too,” you whispered into his neck, cigarette and spice and sunscreen. 

“Have you told him yet?”

You froze, shook your head. 

The egg timer went off, shrill and loud, and in that exact moment, under the honeyed glow of the late afternoon summer sun, with the room smelling of your mom’s chocolate chip cookies, you felt like she was sending you a sign. 

Your hands shook, and you mopped at the tears in your eyes and pointed at the oven. “Can you take those out?” You asked Eddie, breathless, heart thundering in your chest. 

His lips split into that Cheshire grin, and he waved you off. “Go get him, sweetheart.” 

The rubber of your soles squeaked against every wooden step on your way down. The patio was empty, sounds of splashes and crackled firewood and laughter could be heard from the shore, and when you rounded the little tin roof beach hut, you saw your friends, your family, roasting kababs and drinking beer and smiling. Nancy and Robin shared a log to sit on, while the boys stood around the grill with hands in their pockets, breeze ruffling their shirts. The smell of ash and smoke and meats rose to your nostrils, something that just felt like another sign.

Steve was the closest to you, his back turned, broad shoulders in navy blue, running his hand through his hair. You hit sand and called his name, and he turned to face you with a squinted gaze, hand up to see your approaching figure. 

You closed the gap in four strides, dragging him down by the collar to press your lips to his, the final rule broken. 

A sound of surprise turned low when the realization hit, and you felt his hands snake around your waist and hips, lifting you on the balls of your feet to kiss him deeper. Your hands found his hair, one of his cupped your cheek, and all at once you felt at home. Once lost at sea, now you’d found your mooring. 

You breathed a laugh that mirrored his, the tip of his nose pressed to your cheek, and it wasn’t until the ringing in your ears stopped that you noticed the ruckus of friends around you.

“Is that a diamond ring!?” Robin screeched somewhere behind Steve. 

You sucked back a smile and pulled your hand from Steve’s hair to admire the ring on your finger. Steve looked back at you glassy eyed, mouth open to speak without words. You shrugged, smiled, allowed the diamond to sparkle in the sunlight. 

“Yeah, I guess it - ” You were cut-off when Steve planted another kiss on you, lifting you into his arms. 

—

The windows had been closed for the night, pale yellow curtains no longer flowing in the breeze. Your hair smelled of campfire, and your eyelids grew heavy from an eventful day. You were full of kabobs and Mom’s chocolate chip cookies, and you squished onto the tiny couch between Steve and Robin, who were flicking each other inches above your head. 

“You’re both children,” you snorted, swatting their hands away as they began to flick you instead. 

“Wheeler, are you crying?” Eddie’s voice turned all of your attention quickly to Nancy, who sat between Jonathan’s legs, mopping at the tops of her freckled cheeks.

“No, fuck off, Munson,” she scoffed.

You scrambled to sit upright, leaning across the coffee table to take her hand in your own. Jonathan gripped you both. “What’s up?” You bit back a smile, seeing Nancy’s eyes roll in annoyance at being the center of attention for something she’d rather keep private.

“I just never thought we’d be here.” She sighed. 

“Yeah, Kurtis was really generous leaving his house with a bunch of assholes like us,” Robin agreed. 

“Shut up,” Nancy groaned when you all laughed. “I just meant… after all this time, I’m really glad I still have you guys.” 

“Can’t get rid of us that easy, Nance,” Steve grinned, swinging an arm over your shoulder. You leaned into him with a sigh.

“It’s true, dude. We’re like parasites,” Argyle piped in, mouth full of cookie. 

You tried not to let her words seep in, tried desperately to tread water, to fight back the current of emotions that prickled when you realized you didn’t know the next time you’d all be together like this. Robin was off to France. Nancy and Jonathan had their own adventures, baby in tow. Argyle lived across the country.

You met Eddie’s gaze, warm browns and Cheshire smile. “Besides, we’ll all be together again soon. I heard there’s going to be a wedding in Hawkins.”

You cocked a brow, ready to retort, but Steve beat you to the punch.

“Hard to plan a wedding in a place we don’t live.”

---

A/N: This fic was definitely a labor of love for me. I actually had this planned before I wrote My Whole Life, Too. And I have so many other details of their lives and pasts that I'd love to dive back into. Thank you so so so much for reading xo xo

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[farehamflorist]

A hat box of red roses⁣ ⁣ #anniversary #rubywedding #roses #naomi #flowers #hatbox #farehamflorist #farehamflowers #flowerpower #flowerselfie #natural #red #black #love #petals #ig #romance https://www.instagram.com/p/CBflB5IjAXx/?igshid=enw4fuxgvtp6

[emcads]

Repost, don’t reblog! Tag 6 muns you would like to get to know better when done!

Name: Aleah  Age: 20  Faceclaim: mia wasikowska’s alice, when i use one lol  Pronouns: she/her Height: 5′2″  Birthday: august 21  Aesthetics: soft vintage dresses, lavender, ships in the fog, shelves of color-sorted books, kat hepburn, wax seals, bullet bras, red lipstick, a stack of hatboxes, benny goodman records, jodhpurs, rose perfume, raspberry macaroons 

Favourite muse(s) you’ve written: oh absolutely esme 100%.  she has stuck with me for almost 8 years she ain’t going anywhere, she’s pushed so many other muses out of my head.  What inspired you to take on your current muse (that you are posting this on): mostly i was just looking for a potc character to write but i felt like there was an abundance of elizabeths, so i wanted to pick a different female character. I was also working my way through all the books for the first time then and i thought it would be fun to give writing esme a shot.  never ever expected to love her this much.  

What are your favourite aspects of your current muse: i talk about this all the time,  but the way she leans fully into femininity and incorporates that as a valid aspect of her experience. she absolutely embraces masculine things too, but her womanhood is a priority (including making it a hallmark of her flag) and not something she has to abandon to be badass. i also just love like... the lengths she will go to love. she is so soft and loves to care for those close to her but she also kills and avenges for love, too.  she’s also just .. idk kind of warm ?  like she loves laughing and smiling,  she’s so happy when she’s around people she loves, she can obviously get so angry at the other end of the spectrum but she just. exudes this sort of warm magic. 

What’s your biggest inspiration when it comes to writing: idk ?? i’m not someone who can listen to music while i write or anything.  i suppose watching shows like black sails or harlots usually puts me in the mood for esme time.  inspiration comes and goes ¯\_(ツ)_/¯   i’ve been working on world development projects for norvilla recently which has put me in the mood to write them more hehe 

Favourite types of threads: oh man like the actual pirate shit. raiding vessels and sacking ports and fighting,  I love fluffy romance stuff to death but Esme in her element getting bloody and angry ? chef’s kiss.  i also have developed a huge weakness for smut threads lately lol, which i never thought i’d say. 

Biggest struggle in regards to your current muse: oh gosh anything with pregnancy, she gets so psyched out it’s tough to get in that headspace.  also she is so jealous which can make dash scrolling ...  a time kldsjfgfg 

tagged by: @norringtxn  smooches u  tagging:  @starsmapped @stardustvein @theyeardecembered @dxdger @darlingflight​ @valiiantsouls

[lafleurbytracy]

#lafleurbytracy #centerpieces #ktown #valentines #red #rose #tuesday #hatbox #love https://www.instagram.com/p/BtgYsB7DVl_/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=3utqrpauwu8g

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Peggysous Week Day Six: Carnations

Read on Ao3 @fandomsandxfiles-writes please tumblr hates my formatting go to a browser or click the link

Carnations: Red for deep love and admiration.

***

In a world of black, white, grey, and navy suits, red stands out. None more so than Peggy Carter. 

Daniel loves Peggy Carter’s red hat. So much.

In a world of black, white, grey, and navy suits, red stands out. None more so than Peggy Carter.

Daniel loves Peggy’s red hat. So much.

It’s such a pure embodiment of Peggy Carter that he can’t help but smile every single time he sees it. Even if it’s just in its hatbox or perched on a shelf, it never fails to make him light up.

There’s just something so wonderful about the bright red color. It’s bold, it’s here, it says ‘shut up and let me do my job.’ When Peggy wears it, it might as well be a crown, for how powerful it makes her look.

No, he’s not drunk, he just really admires Peggy.

Peggy is a powerful woman, and anyone who doesn’t know that is about to get it beaten into them six ways to Sunday. Not that Peggy needs to do that, she’s got her own shit to do. Everyone else is just gonna get interrupted by how freaking awesome she looks doing it. When Peggy walks down the street, she doesn’t give a damn what anyone else thinks of her. She’s Daniel’s hero. She better be everyone else’s hero at the SSR, if you ask him, look at the amount she’s done!

Also she ran her own, more successful investigation behind all of their backs and none of them realized, so take that.

He asked her where she got it once when they first worked a late night case, watching her set it carefully on a coat hook and smooth the brim.

“Oh, somewhere,” she replied offhandedly, much more focused on the case at hand—which he should be—than her hat.

“I like it,” Daniel had said, trying for casual and knowing he’s failing miserably.

“Like what?”

“The hat.”

“Oh,” Peggy had blinked in surprise, “well, er…thank you.”

“No problem.”

The ensuing silence had been the worst.

“So, the case—“

“Yes, so—“

He’s not sure if it’s a direct correlation or if it’s just because he’s looking for it now, but he notices Peggy start wearing it more often.

Rose catches him for lunch one day, taking his arm as they make their way down the street to this little family-owned deli that has the best pulled roast beef sandwiches Daniel’s ever had. They talk about work—in the classified manner, obviously—the new picture coming out that Rose has gone to see, the new mystery book Daniel’s reading, and inevitably, the conversation turns to Peggy.

“So,” Rose says, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin, “how’re you and Peg doing?”

Daniel doesn’t quite choke on his water but it’s close. Very close. “The hell d’you mean by that? We’re not together.”

“No?” Rose hides a smirk behind the rim of her glass. “Could’ve sworn you promised to ask her out after that whole Stark nonsense.”

“I did,” Daniel protests, feeling the tips of his ears burn bright red, “she turned me down.”

Rose sets her glass down with a thunk. “She what?”

“It’s not a big deal, Rose—“

“You,” Rose says sternly, pointing a finger at Daniel over their half-eaten sandwiches, “better tell me exactly what happened that day and if it doesn’t line up with Peggy’s, you’ve got some explaining to do.”

“Alright, alright, I will—“ Daniel pauses, the second half of Rose’s threat—that was a threat, okay, especially coming from Rose Roberts—finally making it through to his brain. “Wait, what do you mean ‘line up with Peggy’s?’”

Rose rolls her eyes. “Unlike the rest of you, apparently,” she says, “Peggy and I talk. Like normal humans.”

“There is not a single normal person in that goddamn building.”

“Maybe not,” Rose says airily, “but that doesn’t mean we don’t communicate.”

“Wait, so…” Daniel swallows. “Peggy…she told you what happened?”

Rose narrows her eyes. “Mr. Sousa, are you asking if Peggy and I gossip about you?”

“What?” Daniel splutters, almost knocking over his glass. “No, no, that’s not—why would you think that’s what I—“

“Because we do.”

Rose, you gotta stop dropping bombs everywhere.

“You what?”

“Keep it down,” Rose chides playfully over another dainty sip of her water, “I don’t think you rattled all the tooth fillings in this place yet.”

Daniel takes a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. “Well, if you stopped giving me heart attacks every two seconds, it would be easier.”

“Oh, please,” Rose says, setting her glass aside, “I’m just teasing.”

“Can you…stop?”

“Depends.”

“…on what?”

“Will you tell me what happened?”

Daniel groans, the reminder from his brain that they are in a public place—a respectable restaurant at that—the only thing keeping him from slamming his forehead into the table. “You’re making it sound like it’s some big scandalous thing,”

“Is it not?”

“It is not,” Daniel says from where his head is—much more respectably—buried in his hand, “and you know it.”

Rose giggles, reaching across the table to pat his arm. “Come on, spill.”

Daniel sighs. “It was after Thompson took credit for everything and I got…upset.”

“Mhm.”

“I, uh, then Peggy said that she didn’t need any recognition from anyone else.” Daniel smiles, the memory of Peggy Carter, standing in the middle of the SSR office, looking every bit the hero that needed no one to tell her what to do. “She knows her value. Everyone else’s opinion doesn’t really matter.”

“Hey,” Rose says, kicking his leg under the table, “get on with it, starry-eyes.”

Daniel blinks. “And then I…said I was getting a drink. After work. Asked if she wanted to join me.”

“And...?”

Daniel shrugs. “She said no.”

“Those were her exact words?”

He squints at Rose. “What is with you today?”

“What did she say, Daniel?”

“I don’t know, Rose, jeez, um—“ Daniel runs a hand through his hair, racking his brain to try and remember Peggy’s exact words— “she said maybe some other time. She hadda…meet a friend.”

Daniel ignores the mild ache that shoots through his chest in favor of dropping his hand and glaring at Rose. “Now would you mind telling me why I’m being interrogated over a perfectly good sandwich?”

Instead of the snappy comeback he expects, Rose just smiles softly.

“You’re killing me here, Rose.”

“I don’t think that was as much of a ‘no’ as you think it was, Daniel,” Rose says, smile growing, “seriously.”

He hates the treacherous leap of his heart at that sentence. “What?”

“Try again,” she encourages, “really. You might get a different answer.”

Should I?

No, no, what are you talking about? I’m great friends with Peggy, that’s more than enough.

But you could be more!

Or I could ruin this friendship and then where would we be?

“I don’t know, Rose—“

“Just…think about it?” She takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. “Promise?”

Daniel sighs. “I promise.”

“Good.” She sits up straight and frowns at the rest of her sandwich. “Now, no more talking. We have food to finish.”

“Oh, I’m ordering a second one to go.”

“And you think I’m not?”

“Woman after my own heart.”

“No, no, no, I’m not taking what’s Peggy’s.”

“Rose!”

“Shush. Eating.”

Peggy is…bemused at best when Rose links her arm through hers and insists they’re going out for a cup of tea.

“Rose, I’m more than happy to—“

“No buts, Peggy,” Rose says, wagging her finger, “I’ve gotten Ms. Martinelli in on this too.”

“Hey, English!” Peggy groans internally when she sees Angie coming down the sidewalk. Angie loops her arm through Peggy’s free one, Rose seizing her momentary distraction to take Peggy’s briefcase. “Just got off my shift, let’s go!”

“I don’t even know where we’re going,” Peggy protests, letting herself get dragged down the street towards a waiting car. “What is—“

“Ah! Ms. Carter!”

“Mr. Jarvis,” Peggy responds, still highly confused, “what on earth is going on?”

“I’ve been summoned by Ms. Roberts,” Mr. Jarvis explains as he opens the door for her. “Apparently, you’re to be having something of a ‘girl’s night.’”

“I’m what?”

“Come on, English,” Angie says, “it’ll be fun!”

Peggy looks to Jarvis pleadingly, hoping he’ll provide at the very least some clarification if not an excuse out of this, but he’s no help. He simply sees that she’s sat down and gets Rose and Angie into the back, hopping delightedly back into the driver’s seat and ferrying them all back to the Stark residence. He leaves them all at the gate with a jaunty wave.

“What the bloody hell is going on?”

“Relax, Peg,” Angie says, leading her to the living room, “we just wanna hang out with you.”

“And that involves practically kidnapping me?”

“Oh please,” Rose says, sitting down next to a tea set with plenty of little dishes—oh, they have planned this— “I hardly think it woudl be so easy to kidnap you.”

“Yeah, English.” Angie bumps her hip against Peggy’s. “You’ve got one hell of a right hook.”

“She’s got more than that!”

“Alright, alright,” Peggy says, accepting defeat and sitting down, “I’m here for…a girl’s night, or whatever.”

“Come on, Peg, you have to have had a girl’s night before!” Angie flings herself onto the couch.

“I have,” Peggy defends, “just not for a while.”

“When was your last one?”

Peggy props her head on her hand, accepting the cup of tea Rose passes her way. “Oh, well now let me think…it might’ve been back before I joined the SOE.”

“That’s a long time!”

“I know, I know…it was back with the other code breakers. They were formidable women.”

“Like you!”

Rose giggles when a light pink blush dusts the tops of Peggy’s cheeks. “Peg doesn’t get complimented very often, apparently.”

“I receive compliments perfectly well,” Peggy says, “just not those.”

“Why not? Ain’t you showed those fathead male coworkers of yours you’re worth more than all of them put together?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Peggy says, only to frown when Rose makes a noise of disbelief. “Rose!”

“I’m just saying if we had an agency made of more of you and less of them,” Rose says, “we’d be a lot better.”

“They’re not all awful,” Peggy defends, “some of them are perfectly reasonable.”

“Oh?” Rose raises an eyebrow. “Like who?”

“Agent Smith is an excellent detective and is more than capable of handling an investigation.”

“And?”

“Agent James is a marksman.”

“And?”

“Rose, what—“

“And?” Angie picks up, smiling cheekily at Peggy. “What? You used to only complain about your coworkers, give a girl something else!”

Peggy sighs. “This really isn’t that big of a deal, they are suitable for the job. They wouldn’t be here if they weren’t. The majority of them are acceptable.”

“But there’s none of them you think are more than acceptable?”

“Oh, I see where this is going.” Peggy sets the teacup aside. “Are you asking me if I fancy any of my coworkers?”

“Yep.”

“Angie!”

“What? It’s a perfectly reasonable question, English!”

“It’s the height of unprofessional!”

“Really? Never, not once, not even just to entertain yourself? Like a ‘ooh, what if?’ Nothing?”

Peggy immediately shakes her head but Rose smirks.

“Liar.”

“I am not.”

“Sure you are.” She nudges Angie. “Look at how she’s fidgeting more.”

“Rose!”

“What?” Rose blinks innocently. “Are you saying I shouldn’t help you teach your roommate how to tell when someone’s lying?”

“Who is it, Peg,” Angie asks devilishly, “who caught your eye?”

Her face falls. “It’s not tall blond and stuck-up, is it?”

“What?”

“One I cried on when they came lookin’ for you at the Griffith,” Angie says, “who calls his grandmother Gam-Gam.”

“Jack Thompson? No, no,” Peggy says, “of course not.”

“He calls his grandmother Gam-Gam?” Peggy looks up to see Rose filing that information away for good use.

“No, it’s…” Peggy takes a deep breath. “It’s the other one.”

Angie’s eyes light up. “Tall dark and stormy? The one with the pretty eyes?”

Peggy shoots a glance at Rose only to realize yes, Rose knows exactly who Angie’s talking about. She winces.

“His name is Daniel,” Rose says, “and he’s a gem.”

“Ooh, I liked him!” Angie claps her hands excitedly. “He seems nice.”

“You…you’ve met him for all of a few minutes while he was interrogating you.”

Angie shrugs. “I got a feeling. Rose, is he nice?”

“Oh, he is,” Rose agrees, “very nice. Quite the gentleman.”

“He asked you out yet?”

“Oh for the love of—“ Peggy buries her face in her hands as Rose and Angie burst into peals of laughter. “We are colleagues and friends, nothing more.”

“Rose?”

Rose is still laughing a little too hard to answer, thank the lord, but Angie stares determinedly at Peggy.

“You like him, huh, English.”

“Angie—“

“Look, Peg, getting you to talk about guys is like pulling teeth.” Angie sits up properly on the sofa. “If he seems nice, why don’t you ask him out for a drink or somethin’?”

“Oh, he already did.”

Angie’s eyes grow wide as Rose says it. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“It was the same night we moved in,” Peggy defends, “I couldn’t let you move in by yourself!”

“Move in, schmoove in,” Angie says, flapping a hand, “Peggy, you got asked out on a date, that’s great!”

“Well, I…” Peggy swallows, the blush back on her cheeks. “I expect that ship has sailed. I did refuse.”

“Might not have left the harbor yet, Peg.”

Peggy looks up to see Rose looking at her strangely. She smiles.

“He may ask you again.”

Angie squeals. “Oh, Peg, you gotta say yes!”

Peggy has to take a breath, her brain still reeling. Does…does she like Daniel?

Unbidden, an image of him swims to the forefront of her mind. She takes a moment to look, really look.

Oh.

Oh, bugger.

She likes him, doesn’t she?

“If he asks again,” she says softly, “I will say yes.”

“Oh, Peg!” Angie claps her hands. “What’re you gonna wear?”

“He hasn’t asked yet, Angie,” Peggy protests, “I don’t—“

“He will.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Angie just gives her a look. “Peg, it’s you. He’ll ask. So, what’re you gonna wear? Ooh, does he have a favorite thing of yours?”

Peggy’s about to protest that this is all nonsense, there’s no guarantee Daniel will ask, and even if he did, he’s only ever seen her in her work clothes, and there’s nothing he’s ever—

oh.

Oh.

Oh.

“Yes,” she tries carefully, “I think he does.”

There’s a picture on their mantelpiece. Both of their faces are slightly exasperated, obviously not understanding why a photo is being taken. If one comes close enough to the frame, their protests can practically be heard, if not for the squealing of the actress behind the camera.

Peggy’s red hat is perched atop her head, a red carnation tucked into Daniel’s suit.

When people ask what it’s from, they say it’s their first date. Well, no.

Peggy says it’s their first date. Daniel still argues that their first date came weeks later when he actually asked permission to court her properly. Peggy rolls her eyes and says that it’s just semantics at that point. Daniel will insist she’s worth enough to do it properly. And really, who’s going to argue with that?

[megalony]

Secrets- Part 6

Another part of my latest Roger Taylor series which I hope you are all enjoying.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @luvborhap @jennyggggrrr @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout

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Enjoy.

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"Shouldn't you be in bed?" (Y/n) questioned gently, a smile made of sugar appearing on her features as she looked down to the six-year-old who was sitting on the floor in the room in front of her.

(Y/n) had been passing by one of the rooms in the house which she herself never went into, finding the door left ajar and Danny sitting on the carpeted floor. The room was one which Roger liked to keep shut, it held Emily's things that the drummer couldn't bear to part with and it just so happened to be the room she had stayed in when she first came to stay with Roger. He didn't mind (Y/n) or Danny going in there, it had no strict rules saying they couldn't enter. He just liked to keep the memories behind closed doors so he was bombarded with them too often.

Pushing herself off of the doorframe, she slowly entered the room and kneeled down beside the young boy to see what he was doing. He was sitting in front of a chest of drawers, very delicately looking through the different items of clothing it held inside.

"Just wanted to look through mummy's things." He responded quietly, a soft smile on his lips as he pulled out a navy blue and white striped jumper from the drawer. Looking at it for a moment before hugging it to his chest, burying his face in the soft fabric in a way that reminded (Y/n) of Roger. When the drummer had had a particularly bad day a while back around the time of Emily's passing (Y/n) had found him in here doing much the same thing. She wondered if Emily's scent was still present on the clothes in here and if so, that was bringing some lost memories back to Roger.

"Trouble, where are you?" Both of them glanced to one another at the sound of Roger's playful yet questioning tone. Clearly having noticed his boy was no longer in bed like he had been ten minutes ago.

"You head back to bed now, sweetheart. Take the jumper." (Y/n) leaned over and kissed Danny's temple, smiling as he wrapped her up in a hug before tiredly trotting out of the room. The jumper stuck between his arm and chest as he wandered back to his room to let Roger settle him back to sleep.

(Y/n) slowly pushed herself to her feet after gently shutting the drawer back in place, her eyes cascading around the room dimly lit by the hanging light in the centre of the ceiling. The walls were a very pale cherry colour that verged on a bruised raspberry colour that had been watered down, it was rather eye-catching and simple in the best kind of way. (Y/n) couldn't help but wonder if this room had been painted especially for Emily or if it had been sheer luck that this room had been such a lovely colour. Maybe the colour was the reason Roger had given her this room in the first place.

Somehow it felt slightly wrong to be speculating about Emily and the past of the house that held so many memories of her. Yet she couldn't seem to stop her mind from running away with the fairies.

Did Emily always have this room? Or was she only in here when she first came to stay, before they decided they were going to bring Daniel up as their own? Did she share Roger's room- the room that (Y/n) now shared with him? Had Roger switched his room to a different one after Emily died and he came back from LA?

Freddie had continued to fill (Y/n) in on the little things that Roger missed out or on little topics he hadn't told her. Such as when he left for LA very suddenly without telling the band beforehand. Or how Roger had been a changed man when he came back or the way that Roger hadn't been with anyone but (Y/n) after Emily.

The house seemed to be a walking enigma to (Y/n).

It was a rather large house considering Roger had bought it in the beginning knowing it would house him and only him. He had the mindset that he didn't want children so the house wouldn't have been likely to house more than two people yet he bought it anyway. Maybe he did that because it was rather secluded, no nosy neighbours close by or people able to wander around and try and catch a glimpse. (Y/n) couldn't be sure if she was assuming or wishing that the room she and Roger shared was not the one he shared with Emily, if indeed he shared one with her at all. But Freddie had told her that Roger didn't like looking at Emily's things for quite a while and he hated little reminders of her. So surely, if they had shared a room that would be a reminder he could do without.

Roger had a few photos of Emily here and there around the rather large house. He kept most of them in this room and had put a few framed ones up in Danny's room too. But there were others decorating the walls, one in the hallway, one of Emily cradling a newborn Danny downstairs in the backroom and he had a picture of her in his study.

(Y/n) thought it rather endearing more than hurting because whether she liked it or not, Emily was always going to be there. She was always going to be different to Roger and something more to Danny because she was his mother even though she hadn't had the chance to raise him. She was the one who Roger had turned his life around for, she was the girl Roger had not been able to get out of his mind and who had almost corrupted him with her death. (Y/n) wasn't in a competition with Emily and she didn't mind that reminder of her around because she had been an influence on Roger's life and she had clearly been special to him.

Something was telling (Y/n) not to leave the room just yet.

Roger was settling Danny to sleep, he would be another ten minutes or so and she had nothing to do and nowhere to be. She allowed her eyes to scan around the room again, her fingers feathering over the lavender sheets on the bed. Her eyes looking to the dark red curtains drawn to stop the moonlight from filtering into the room.

There was a light oak wood bookshelf resting in the corner of the room next to the window that was stacked to the brim with a variety of books. Some of which (Y/n) recognised, some she had read and others she had never heard of. There was a vanity on the opposite side of the room next to a bedside table and the bed. It held one or two perfume bottles, some lipsticks, a hairbrush and pictures. There was a framed picture of Emily and Roger and a small strip of four photos that were stuck on the rim of the mirror that looked to be the both of them in some kind of photo booth.

(Y/n) walked a little closer to the vanity, her eyes zooming on the four small square photos. Noticing how Roger seemed to have a sparkle in his eyes when his head was turned to look at Emily. She noticed one perfume bottle was half full and the other was almost empty. The empty bottle was one (Y/n) knew but didn't wear herself, it sent a dagger to her heart at a sudden realisation. This was the perfume she had smelt on Roger before, he had a bottle somewhere in his side drawers next to his bed. Clearly, this was the reason why he had a woman's perfume.

Moving a little away from the vanity, (Y/n) moved ahead and into the walk-in wardrobe in front of her. Her left hand reaching out for the light switch, surprised to see there weren't half as many clothes in here as she thought there would be.

On her right there were some dresses and a few shirts and blouses hung up, on her left were about three pairs of heels, some flats and a few different coats. There was also a shelf on her left that held Danny's baby clothes, some of which were knitted and quite possibly the reason Roger hadn't given them away or thrown them out. (Y/n)'s head leaned to the side as she glanced to the top shelf on the left-hand side, seeing there was one single box resting up there but nothing else. It didn't quite look like a hatbox and there were no hats here anyway. Emily didn't give off the impression that she wore hats, she didn't seem to like fancy clothing or jewellery.

Curiosity seemed to be her best friend right now, especially at that moment as her mind didn't seem to comprehend that she was reaching for the box until she was stood on her tiptoes to grasp the edges of the rectangular box.

The box weighed less than (Y/n) thought it would, the item almost slipping from her fingers as she braced herself for the weight of the box that never came. Something about this box set off the uneasiness she had been feeling last week in the studio with Freddie. It didn't match everything else that was in the room and wardrobe. It clearly wasn't a hatbox, it was the only box in the room as all of Emily's things were neatly put away or left out. The colour didn't match and that was off-putting but it was more than that. This box was a midnight blue colour, the shade that the sky was when the stars came out to play in the dead of night. Yet it didn't look old.

Time had left no traces on this box like it had on the other items in the room. The perfume bottles had tinted in their shades, one going from a dusty rose pink to a faded shade that verged on light orange and the other had gone from crystal white to a muddy shade of cream. The pictures in the room were worn and beginning to fade. The clothes still held Emily's scent but they showed the effects of time, some were a little tattered, others were musty from simply being left unmoved for six years. Dust was collecting in the room as not many things were touched at all and Roger didn't clean the house that often nor this room.

The box had not lost its shade of midnight blue, it looked rather electrified rather than worn. The corners were not beginning to rip or tear like other cardboard boxes would. No dust was gathered on the box nor in the shelf it sat upon. It looked brand new. But that couldn't be so because Roger wouldn't buy a box and put it in this room, he didn't take anything out of the room and he didn't put anything in either. Only Danny came in and took a book or an item of clothing but he always returned them in their rightful place. The six-year-old had no reason to have a box in here and he couldn't reach the shelf.

Something about this box and the deafening silence surrounding (Y/n) was telling her not to open it.

This was not her room. These were not her clothes or books or shoes and coats. Nothing in this room belonged to her and she had not known the occupier of this room either. Emily had not been (Y/n)'s friend, mother or lover. She had no reason to be in here and yet here she was, glancing through Emily's things as if they were memories that she wished to recollect.

With her left hand (Y/n) held the box, letting the bottom of the box rest on the base of her hand. With her right hand, she held the lid of the box which was a snug bit ever so slightly loose fit to the matching box.

Was she really going to do this?

There was no other answer to that but yes. She was going to peer into the box that either held a memory of Emily or something of Roger's that he wanted to be kept in this specific room. When her fingers delicately lifted the lid of the box, her eyes narrowed to try and work out what it was that was hidden away inside. She could feel the muscles of her stomach and lower chest contracting, pulling her skin inwards as her lungs stopped what they were doing out of shock and sheer fright.

"What are you doing?"

The midnight box holding no kind of treasure like its impression gave, was suddenly dropped to the cushioned carpeted floor. It's contents partially hanging out over the side as it landed with a thud but stayed upright nonetheless.

When (Y/n)'s eyes locked with Roger's, her uneasiness rocketed sky-high as an emotion she didn't recognise swelled through her body. Roger's own eyes burned like the sun as they narrowed when they focused on the box that was now disregarded on the floor at her feet. Her eyes drifted back to the box but felt fixated on the contents that she could partially see trying to escape. Roger's voice didn't register in her ears until his hand was suddenly clamped around her upper arm, bringing her back to reality. When his words finally registered in her ears, the unusual tone he used chilled her to the bone.

"I said, what are you doing?"

[a-little-something0]

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