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8bitscarlet · 1 year

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If We Said Goodbye

Summary: You were scared of the future, you always saw it's worst possibilities. Being with Wanda, you began to saw the best possibilities. And the moment you began to plan for the best, that's when the worst had it's chance.

Pairing: Wanda x Reader

Genre/Warnings: Angst (mention of alcohol, consumption of alcohol, blood mention, death of a major character)

Word Count: 5.5k

A/N: Italics is a flashback. No writer's block but all my energy is going to angst, so this is the road we find ourselves in. 😂 Happy Reading everyone! 💕

*please do not repost or translate my material or claim as yours. reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated!*

_____________________________

The wind blows comfortably across the wooden deck, making the porch wind chimes sing out a quiet tune. The sun is dipping down closer to the evening, coloring the sky with a darkening orange as you run your finger down your sweating drink.

You purse your lips together, thinking back on the conversation you just had. A terse conversation that started out light hearted.

A chair scrapes out along the wood and you glance up, watching as Bucky sits down across from you. You sigh out, leaning back against the chair and glance around him.

You can see her. Red hair falling out of her bun as she helps pin down Barton to the grass, his kids sprinting from the side of the house with freshly filled water guns. Their laughs are clear as day and you can hear her’s, sending your stomach twisting.

“It’s nice to see Barton can have a family and still have time to save the world,” you sip from your ice cold drink, clearing your throat.

“Jealous?” Bucky’s tone suggests a rhetorical question but you answer anyway.

Clenching your brows, you glance away from the dog pile occurring, “Why would I be jealous?”

“Because that’s exactly what you want,”

You narrow your eyes but can’t stop the sigh that leaves your lips, “Uh huh, right. Besides, I’m missing a few key components.”

“Come on,” Bucky stares at you and without spilling a drop, cracks open another beer, “I overheard that conversation you had with her. There’s feelings there, you’re just denying it.”

“There’s nothing to deny. There’s a mission. And I’m focusing on that,” you reach forward and rip the can from his fingers. Sloshing it against the table as he tries to keep grasp on it.

Grunting as he pushes away from the table, you hear him muttering to himself as he flips open the cooler, “You’re scared. You don’t want to break her heart. Better yet,” the can hisses, “You don’t want her to break yours. Stop blaming it on the mission.”

You look down at the tab of your beer, rocking it back and forth until it snaps off, “She doesn’t deserve to have her heart broken.”

“Nobody does,” Bucky crosses his foot over the other as he leans next to your arm, “but you’re never going to get this, if you don’t grow a pair.”

Rolling your eyes, you knock your hand against his arm as he chokes slightly on the beer, some of it rolling down his nose. You stand, “You just want to say that I copied you by also dating a red head,”

He shrugs, “True. But if you really care about her, then you need to see all of this through her eyes. She’s probably just as scared as you. Look at her,” he points down towards the side of the house. Wanda is fluffing up Fanny’s face as Nat clips the harness on the dog. Fanny needs never ending walks when Yelena is away on mission and Wanda is always happy to take her. Usually you join her, but she didn’t come searching for you this time.

“You can’t let her slip away.”

You shake your head, “And what if I die?”

Bucky sighs, crossing his arm over as his chin rests on the top of his beer, “You have got to stop thinking about every possible bad thing. What if I cut my finger on your broken tab and get an infection and I die? See? It’s stupid.”

Rolling your eyes, you toss your empty can into the trash, “Now, that’s just ridiculous,”

“You’re being ridiculous!” Bucky calls after you as you descend down the stairs, swinging your keys on your finger.

The breeze follows you as you drive with the window of your truck down, the smell of evergreen trees growing the longer you drive. And you don’t drive too long, you spend longer sitting in the bed of the truck. Swinging your legs, you catch the sound of branches snapping and a soft voice talking. You chuckle, it sounds more like a therapy session with the occasional barking response of the therapist.

Fanny makes it through the brush first and sees you. She takes off in a dead sprint, flinging herself straight into the back of the truck and climbing onto your back. You chuckle,

“Oh, well now look who it is. Going on a walk without me? You traitor!” you laugh as the dog wiggles through any attempt you make at petting them.

“You know dogs,” Wanda wraps the leash around her fingers, “They can sense bad energy.”

You hum, “As long as she got a proper walk. You know if you actually ran that whole five mile loop, it’s a decent warmup.”

“Oh really?” Wanda runs her hand down Fanny’s back, “And what if that was my cool down?”

“Pretty weak if I’m honest,” you scoot over slightly on the tailgate, “I do the out and back for my cool down.”

Wanda chuckles as she hauls herself up, Fanny keeping the two of you separated, “You’re so irritating,” Her green eyes glow as they reach yours, working down and seeing you’re still dressed in jeans and your button down, “You aren’t going out for your own warmup?”

You swing your legs, angling your boots that aren’t really made for running. She looks at you as you glance back up, watching how her pupils grow and a reddening in her cheeks as you both brush over the same part of Fanny, “What’s wrong?”

With a sigh, you think back on what Bucky said only a few moments ago, “Look. I need to make a few things clear here.”

Wanda’s face falls slightly as she sits ever so slightly rigid. She doesn’t speak a word, just waits for the bomb you’re about to drop on her lap.

“I don’t like your weird vegan cardboard food that you make me eat once a week. It tastes like dirt, frankly.” you shiver at the thought of the last one she made you, “I don’t like that you’re seemingly right all the time. I don’t like that I need your help when I thought I was fine alone. And I definitely don’t like that you’re making me do this,”

Wanda grins slightly, “Do what exactly?”

Squeezing your fist and stretching out your fingers to attempt to release the energy inside of you, you look up at her, “Tell you that I like you. Just being completely and totally honest. I really like you.”

Her grin grows and her hand that brushed through Fanny’s fur rests on your cheek as her lips press against yours. You smile, her lips the softest things you’ve ever felt and this, the best kiss you’ve had, even with a handful of fur in your mouth.

“I owe someone a beer,” she whispers against your lips,

You groan, “I can’t believe you made a bet about this.”

“Forgive me?” she whispers, her lips pressing against your nose and watching your eyes open with a grin,

“Only if I get one too,”

________________________________

You sigh, staring into your mug of black liquid. It doesn’t steam but has white foam as you attempt to hide what it is to any passing person. Sipping from it, you grimace. Even though it’s not steaming, it isn’t pleasantly cold. Muttering to yourself, you pull your pant legs over your tied shoes and look into the mirror to finish getting dressed. One of the last things you seem capable of it seems.

Tucking in your shirt tighter, you run your hand down and along your belt. Ensuring the buckle is centered, you work your eyes back up until they rest on themselves. They’re stained red, puffed and glistening more than usual. Pressing your hand against a small box in the breast pocket of the jacket you’ve slung over the chair, you feel a lump in your throat grow.

Peering outside the window of the room you’re in, the gathering is an unusual energy. Something you’re certainly not used to. Granted, you aren’t really used to being here anyways. You always thought it was hot and stuffy and now, you know you’ll never be back. The beer is hot, you glance back at your mug, and the folk are cold. The time is young but there’s not a single person trying to rile anything up. If anything, they all want the time to end as quickly as possible.

Buttoning the jacket as you step out of the room, there’s an unsubtle hush that falls over the room. Everyone is dressed up like you, scattered around the gathering area outside of stained glass with chairs that are somehow more uncomfortable than the pews inside. You feel old as you loiter around the area, giving subtle nods to people you pass as your fingers grip tighter to the mug in your hand. You just want to go home and away from this crowd of people. Their eyes on you because they know exactly why you’re here. Who you’re all waiting on.

A silver haired gentleman breaks through the crowd, his presence bringing whispers instead of hushed silence. As he makes his way towards you, he raises a thermos that should be holding coffee. But as he hands you the second one he holds, you grin and see you’ve both learned the same trick. Beer looks so much like coffee.

“You prepare anything?”

Sipping on the lukewarm liquid, you still can’t believe you forgot to put the cans in the fridge, “I was never one to write a speech. Besides, I might not have to.”

Pietro hums, “You’re like me than. Wanda could spew out a speech without a thought. That maid of honor one had everyone crying and the only thing she worked on was saying their names in Russian. Totally unfair,”

You never thought you’d have to make a speech in front of people. The plan was always to do it in private, together. The facts in front of you though, changed all your plans.

“There’s gotta be something you say. Something that comes to mind when you hear her name.”

Your brows raise slightly, there’s a million things that come to your mind. You don’t know if many of them are appropriate for this moment though. They would be much better off staying inside of your brain.

“Her eyes are like rarest emeralds and her kisses, they’re like rain. They can calm any ounce of nerves in my body,” you skim your thumb against your lip, wiping the spilled beer, “Always once to dance, always has to pull me up onto the dance floor. That’s the only reason I was dancing at your wedding,” you chuckle and every second feels like torture, “So many nights with that radio singing.”

You run your hand down your jacket, pausing over that box again, “And I can’t remember now what song it was when we… Not that it matters anyway.”

“It’ll always matters.”

Grimacing, you swallow the lump in your throat, “I don’t… I’m scared.”

Pietro slowly takes the thermos from your shaking hands, “We’ll walk in together?”

“Is that allowed?” you whisper, staring past the now empty courtyard to the large wooden doors as a bell tolls out.

“You’re family.” The crack of his voice practically sends you to the ground in a crying heap, you can see it on his face. Everything about this day keeps him from hiding it all inside.

You wipe your face, feeling your trembling lips let out a trembling voice, “Piet. I never-,”

He pulls you in, arms wrapped too tight for you to even attempt to escape, not that you’d wanted to, “I know you would’ve. That’s all that matters to me.”

______________________________

The place you stepped into was dimly lit and packed to the brim with people waiting to get inside. A couple talked to the host, you caught the sight of money sneakily being passed over, trying to get a table. You nervously squeezed through hordes of people and waiters scrambling to their tables. You’d never been to such a fancy establishment and as you tried to rub the wrinkles from your suit, you hoped to never be back in one.

“Oh man, I’m sorry for being late,” you leaned over and pressed a kiss against her cheek as you whispered, “Again,”

“Honey, you just came from overseas and you’re only a few minutes late,” her hand tightly wrapped around yours beneath the table, trying to find a sense of calm in this hurricane, “I think you’re okay,”

You grinned and looked up finally at the two pairs of eyes that sized up every move you made. You desperately tried to hide the itch in your throat as you tried not to cough, knowing your eyes were beginning to water.

Wanda’s father reached forward and tore a piece of bread for himself and Wanda’s mother. They both buttered the pieces, carefully as if it was an egg shell. Her father didn’t eat it but instead just rested it back on his plate as he interlocked his fingers.

“Where’d you come in from?”

You cleared your throat, quickly putting down your glass of water, “I’m not really allowed to talk about.”

“Well wherever it was,” her mother gave a look to Wanda before glancing down at your fingers, “Looks like they had you playing in the mud.”

You glanced down at the dirt trapped beneath your nails and the streaks of mud along your hand that were partially hidden beneath your shirt. You hid them beneath the table, sliding them slowly across your thighs. That itch was back and you tried to push back the image of Nat gasping for air as you finally broke through the collapsed tunnel. You had been digging nonstop, nearly giving up before a flare was shoved through an opening above you, scorching your neck.

“Mom,” Wanda said through gritted teeth.

You chuckled, trying to make light of the whole situation, “You could say that, yeah. They did,” you voice quiets at the end, “Do we want some wine?”

Her mother hummed as she looked at the menu and Wanda nodded quickly, “Italian?”

You flagged the waiter down and dug deep into the recesses of your mind, pulling out the quick course you were forced to learn before a mission. You tried to speak with confidence as you ordered the Italian wine, closing the menu you glanced across the table. You were expecting impressed looks. But all you got was a continuation of a blank stare from her father and fake enthusiasm from her mother.

“So, you speak Italian, Y/N?”

Before you could speak, Wanda sat upward sharply, “They speak six languages,”

There were some hums, some nods but it was all a ruse for what the two across from you truly wanted to talk about. Wanda’s mother was the first to broach the subject.

“Regarding this, how does it work between you two? I mean with the amount of time you’re gone. Overseas,”

“Do you have any control of your schedule?” Her father was forthright with his questions, his fingers clenched tighter and you swallowed dryly.

Your thumb skimmed along Wanda’s hand, “Uh no, not really. I just get up and go when my team is called. Wherever we’re needed.”

“Following orders,”

There was hostility in his voice. You caught it right away and your brow cocked without a thought, “It is a government agency, sir.”

Wanda breathed in carefully, crossed her leg and rested her foot on your shin.

“Doesn’t sound like there’s room for a stable home life. Doesn’t seem fair to ask that of a partner. Fear of worrying, of losing you while you’re out where you’re needed.”

You nodded slowly, not finding a lie in his words.

“Okay dad, I think I told you not-,”

You sat up straighter. She wasn’t going to fight your battles. You were here to win over her parents so you could add to the rings on her fingers. The man in front of you would never respect you if Wanda did all the talking.

“Yeah, I do have to go do things that I don’t exactly agree on. But I do it so people I love, like Wanda, don’t have to see what I see over where I’m needed here, at home. I don’t plan on doing this until I’m dead. I want a stable future with your daughter,” you glanced over at her and saw the glistening in her emerald eyes, “Have kids, find a way to help make this world a little bit better. I love Wanda and that’s not going to change.”

Her smile beamed over at you as she leaned and pressed her lips to your chin. You chuckled under your breath for her to hear, you felt good. You felt that the respect would finally come. You put your foot down and let your morals be known. You told them exactly what they wanted to hear. The truth. Wanda grabbed your hand and your grin fell when you saw the way her dad stared at you,

“Well, that’s good to hear, Y/N. Until you come home in a box. What about Wanda then?”

__________________________________

You walk inside the church, your eyes talking in everything around you. The pews are slowly filling up with people as they talk amongst each other. Everbloom roses litter the place, covering over the smell of incense that fills all the way up to the high ceilings above. They’re placed at each end of the pews and you gently touch each one on your way down the aisle. The music softly fills the space and hides the words that people are no doubt sharing with each other. You know what they’re saying. You’re all here for the same reason. Still, it puts a knot in the pit of your stomach.

And then you see her.

A beautiful and perfect portrait made just for this day. You feel your breath push out from your lungs as your knees begin to tremble. The stinging of tears threatens to escape your eyes as you press a fist against your lips.

“Hey,” a voice whispers from behind you and you turn, gripping tightly onto their arm, “You’re good.”

“Why am I here,” you clench your face as you move your vice like grip to the edge of a front row pew.

“You know why you’re here. Always is love, isn’t it?”

You scoff, glancing up at the red head with her own ring on her finger, “I messed up, Nat. I really messed up.”

Nat pulls you down with her, trying to get comfortable in the wooden seat, “We all do. No fight could ever end what you two shared.”

You grimace, running both hands down the front of your jacket. One hides a flask and the other that small box. She’s right but you didn’t want her to be right. You could never hate each other, none of your fights ever ended that way. Even though sometimes they did. Sometimes you thought you had really ended things forever, made her hate you beyond words.

_______________________________

You knocked on the door loudly for the umpteenth time, swaying slightly from the alcohol in your system and slightly from nervousness. You stood there, thinking about what to say. The door whipped open before you could think of a proper greeting. Wanda saw you there and gave you a scolding look when she saw that case of beer next to your feet.

“Y/N,” her voice was tight, the arms that crossed in front of her were even tighter,

“Yeah,”

“I have neighbors. What’re you doing? I thought you were supposed to be hitting the town Bucky,” you could hear the tone as she said his name.

You sigh, “Well, you know. A beer with you sounded better.”

She rolled her eyes and pressed the door closer to her back as she saw your eyes try to peek inside. You sighed, “And I lost my house keys,”

“Oh, you don’t know how to breach a door? Or pick a lock?”

You patted your jeans, trying to muffle the sound of jangling metal, “Uh, can’t get there. Lost my car keys.”

Wanda sighed and stepped further into the threshold, trying to keep you from getting closer to the door, “Uber.”

You were running out excuses, “I misplaced my cellphone.”

Her green eyes glowed ever so slightly, her phone had been ringing and buzzing from the moment you left the bar, picked up this case of beer and until you started to slam on her door.

She smiled softly, “Y/N, these are lies.”

“Okay, okay. You’re right. You got me, you got me.”

Wanda tilted her head, brows raised, “All right. Then tell me the truth,”

You sighed, “I already did. A beer with you sounds better. And… I’m sorry.”

Her eyes widened slightly. It was all you said. You added no words to try and explain anything. Just a pure apology. A pure understanding that you had messed up and you owned it. A step in the right direction for both of you. Wanda knocked her head against the threshold with a groan and kicked open the door with her foot. You leaned down and picked up the case of beer as she watched you carefully from her lean against the threshold.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you say that,” she admitted as you stepped past her and listened to the door lock.

You rolled your eyes as she walked to the kitchen and replaced her ice cold beers with the lukewarm ones you brought her. She shook her head, “You need to remember to get cold beers. I won’t be here forever to remind you,”

You scoffed as you cracked open both cans, “When did you become a mother? That’s what my mother says to me,”

“One step at a time, buckaroo. You still need to learn to take care of yourself,” Wanda snatched the can from your hands, “Besides, I have to learn to relax. You can’t control your schedule.”

You nodded and took a sip with her, “I can control who I see when I’m home though,”

“You both were celebrating being alive and-,”

A hand was placed on her cheek as your lips found hers, “Don’t make excuses for me. I’m home. I’m yours.”

__________________________________

You never lied. You were her’s the moment you stepped off the Quinjet to the moment you stepped back on it. But those steps frequented more on than they did off. Something with the world needing more saving meant that you were working more overtime. Your schedule was creating problems and Wanda’s wasn’t any better. And when she was home, she was arguing with her parents about you while you sat and waited as dinner grew cold and colder.

Efforts were put into trying to convince the team into putting you two on a mission together. Maybe you could fix your problems by kicking ass together. But that was quickly shot down and as much as you wanted to fight it, you knew it was the right decision. The two of you couldn’t work together. It would compromise the mission. You knew how you were when Wanda was injured. How your blood boiled. You’d lose every sense of duty to the mission if you ever saw Wanda get hurt in front of you.

And as you remember that feeling, of undying devotion, the trembling in your knees grows once more as you reach out for something to hold on to. You have been able to ignore that trembling, just feeling it in your hands as you pressed them beneath your arms. The voice of the priest was nothing more than mumblings as you glanced over at those emerald eyes every few moments. The grin on her face brings back that knot in your stomach all over again, just like the very first time you saw her.

As you reach out to keep yourself from stumbling, your hand rests on the perfectly shined box in front of you. Made just for an occasion like this, it was exactly what Wanda had wanted. Everything about today was planned far in advance because she knew, she always had to be the one prepared for the future. You barely could remember to put beer in the fridge.

You glance over to the side once again, wondering how the brushstrokes captured all of her so perfectly.

__________________________________

You sat at the bar, finishing the glass of caramel colored beer as another sweating glass is placed next to your hand. You raised the glass to the bartender as you started to walk towards the group. A hand grabbed your shoulder roughly and shook you, your beer slightly foaming out of the glass and spilling across your hand.

Running your hand across the top, you flick the foam at Steve in retaliation, “Go get your own beer, you geyser!”

Steve laughed, “So, what about Wanda? You talk to her?”

You chuckled, picking at the peeling skin on your fingers, “Yeah, yeah, I talked to her. She’s good, man. She’s just, uh… She’s gotten really good at buying things to add to my ‘Honey Do List’,”

He ran his hand down the scruff on his face, “You’re sounding more and more like Buck over there. Except she traded her name for a band.”

“I heard it’s still Romanoff,”

Bucky rolled his eyes, “Only on mission,”

The table erupted into jeers as they chucked peanuts and pretzels at the escaping man but Steve was still staring at you. You chuckled, “I’m surprised she’s still there, honestly. I don’t know how she does it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Life after this. I mean, hero like her, how do you walk away from all this, you know? Work intelligence and tell us where to go.”

Steve scratches at his forehead, “Yeah but she’s still in the team. She works some ops and then makes you brisket for dinner.”

You grinned but shook your head, “Yeah but that’s it. This… this isn’t just a job. This is a, it’s a life. This is ten times the life most people live.”

“Okay. And you remember that she gave that up for you then. Now, go get us some beers, yeah?

You stood, “Listen man, if I ever lose sight of that… you tell me to go get my eyes checked.”

He smiled, “Let’s do that now, how many fingers am I holding up.” You watched as he held up his hand but they were not how you normally held up numbers. He twisted and contorted his hands, putting up three fingers sideways on one hand and another with only half a finger up.

“What… what the hell is this? Jenga? Don’t worry, I know what she’s done,” you downed the rest of your beer and gently placed it down on the table, “We’re two people but one beating heart. I’m lucky enough to have that, so I’m gonna give it all of me.”

“Good,” he nodded, “Don’t ever forget that. Just give it all you got and fill up that pitcher, will you?” He flicked you with his empty, glass, droplet of beer dropping onto you, “you’ve been baptized, go get more of that holy liquid. Chop, ch-,”

As his hand smacked against your shoulder, the side of the bar slammed in towards you. The pitcher was ripped from your hand as debris blew up all around you. Through the ringing of your ears, you heard Steve talk to you. He asked if you were okay and as you blinked through the dirt in your eyes, you gathered your surroundings through the smoky haze around you, only seeing with the help of the neon lights.

You climbed slowly up to your feet, wiping away glass in your arms as you started to help the team triage the people who were inside the bar. Bucky came running through the half caved in entrance and met you there,

“You good man? It’s chaos out there,”

You glanced around you, “Yeah, yeah. We got a lot of people we need to help right now,”

Screams came from outside as people tried to escape the area and as you looked at the damage inside, you knew there had to be damage on the street. Jogging outside, carts of the street market are thrown all over the road. Food, souvenirs and debris littered the area. People called out for each other and there were others who were trying to stop anyone to help them. You stopped for them.

Grabbing people form the street and carrying them inside for the team to start working on them. You coughed at the smoke that was inside the bar and the dust you inhaled from the blast, but you kept working. You directed people away from the blast zone, telling them to go to the hospital to find anyone missing.

A younger yell caught your attention as you whipped around and saw a young boy in the middle of the street. Blood poured down his arm, dirt covered him from head to toe.

“Aysha!”

You jogged over to him, “Hey, Aysha what? What’s Aysha?”

The little boy held up a burnt pink teddy bear and you eyes widened, “My sister, Aysha!”

“Aysha!” You yelled out and held out your hand for the child to stay there, “Hold on, Aysha!”

You started to head down the street, peering into parked trucks and underneath them. Trying to listen out for anything above the wailing sirens and screams. A few paces down the street and you hear the soft sob of a child. You jogged back to a truck and saw a small child had curled up on the floor of truck. As you opened the door, you kneel down and meet their terrified gaze,

“Aysha?”

They nodded and you quickly grabbed them, running them back to their older brother, “My friend Clint is gonna take you two inside, okay? He’s gonna keep you safe.” Clint had exited the bar quickly and takes the child from your arms, guiding the older one inside for refuge.

“You good, Y/N?” He asked quickly as you wiped blood from your ears,

“I’m good, go help Steve. I’m going back out.”

You glanced down the street, watching people take the last of the limping and injured out and away. You walked behind the last of them, ensuring they made it out of the perimeter and clearing the way for the ambulances that were no doubt on the way. As you threw a destroyed cart out of the way, you froze as you heard a phone begin to ring.

Beside a parked car, you saw a lone backpack hidden behind the back tires. You barely have time to remember the lecture you had taken about bombers. Always check for secondary devices.

________________________________

You clear your throat as your thumb strokes along the lid of the box.

There was one thing Wanda didn’t decide. She left it up to you and you wish she hadn’t. It was something you didn’t want to think about. It made all of this real and you couldn’t escape from it.

Open casket or closed.

“I hate all of this…” you whisper, your finger following each grain of the wood, “You knew I would. You took care of everything. You took care of me and I…it went to hell. We had one too many long nights away. The dish broke and I can’t remember whose fault it was. Not that it matters anyway.”

Trying to breath through your clogged nose, you take another glance at that portrait that captures her so perfectly in time. The way her hair fell to frame her face, you even notice the small lines of the scrunch of her nose.

Something you saw nearly every night, after a shared kiss. If you tried hard enough, you could convince yourself that you could still smell her, feel the cold touch of her hand on yours.

“You left me standing in that driveway dust and cranked your car and drove away. Just some time, Piet told me when you dropped your bags off there. Maybe I should’ve gone there. Maybe I should’ve brought you back home. But I signed up for that damn mission.” your lips tremble, “I nearly died. You picked up that mission. You did die.”

Chuckling, you press your hand against your mouth as it nearly turns into a sob, “Guess you did still love me. Revenge, right? That’s what it was? I was still in surgery when you left. Maybe I could’ve convinced you to stay. You shouldn’t have been there. I can take a bullet, you can’t. And I’ll ask why for the rest of my life. And I’ll never come to understand it, even if this god came in front of me and told me why.”

Hot tears run down your face as you grip the small box through your jacket, “I can’t recall if we said goodbye. But,” you take out the small box and carefully pry open the leather, watching how the ruby reflects the candlelight around it.

Gently, you rest it on top of the lid, “I’ll try to remember the beer. And I’ll say goodbye, now that you’re gone.”

__________________________

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bifuriouswaterbender · 9 months

Text

It Sends You Spinning

Will/Gareth - 4,325 Words, Rated T

Gareth’s been staring at the Google Form for over twenty minutes now, and he’s starting to feel a little ridiculous. He can do this. He absolutely can.

The university hosts this event every year in collaboration with a local queer activism group. He knows it started as a way to raise awareness about HIV prevention, and while the info packet mentions that testing will be available at one of the booths, it’s grown much larger, and the drag show is the major draw. There will be actual professionals in the second half, but it’s the amateur competition at the beginning that has him preoccupied now.

Gareth could. He should. He can. He just needs to fill out the stupid form to enter.

Eddie picks up on the third ring. “What do you want?”

Gareth starts with a joke, partially for the mood and partially to stall. “I didn’t interrupt sex with your boyfriend or anything, did I?”

“Hardy har,” Eddie says, and Gareth can practically see him roll his eyes. “It’s cute you think I’d let you interrupt that by answering.”

“And here I thought I was special,” Gareth coos.

“I’m assuming you do have a reason for calling, though.”

Gareth hesitates. The silence must speak for him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Gareth starts, then cuts himself off again. “I’m being stupid, and I need you to tell me that.”

“What did you do?” There’s a teasing lilt to Eddie’s voice, like he knows he isn’t about to scold Gareth, just verbally knock some sense into him.

“It’s what I haven’t done.” Gareth bites his lip, staring at the computer screen for a few seconds before admitting, “I’m looking at that drag show signup, and I can’t bring myself to do it.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Gareth says, “that involves getting into drag in front of people.”

Eddie snorts, and okay, fine, Gareth can admit it’s funny even though he doesn’t appreciate that he’s the joke here.

“What’s so funny?” he asks anyway.

“You literally performed for people all the time in high school. You’ve been up on stage plenty of times!”

“Yeah, but the drummer’s at the back.” Gareth knows he’s arguing just to argue, to stall, but that doesn’t stop him. “And that’s with others, not by myself.”

“You’ve been practicing your intricate little makeup looks for months.”

“And only let like three people see it.”

“You wore a dress out in public last month when we went clubbing! That has to take more courage to go out on the street confidently in a dress than up on stage.”

“I didn’t even have a bra and padding on, though.”

“But you tucked,” Eddie points out. “You did the most awkward part and proved you can be around people without thinking about it constantly.”

“I’m starting to be sorry I told you that,” Gareth grumbles.

[Read the rest here]

#greatwise #gareth emerson #gareth (stranger things)#will byers #background steddie #st fic #stranger things fic #my writing #my fic

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specialagentlokitty · 11 months

Text

Mr Evershed x Student!reader - open your mind

A/N; this is so random but it’s based on my dream I had so enjoy this weird monstrosity 💜

You had enough for school for the day, you were fed up of everyone making annoying you and making comments on the tattoos on your arms.

“Get back into this classroom!” Mrs Carp snapped.

“Why?! What’s the point their all mocking me and you’re not doing anything about it!”

“Well if you didn’t have those tattoos maybe they wouldn’t mock you would they?” She asked.

You stared at her, narrowing your eyes a little bit, hands balled tightly into fists and your side.

“It’s part of our tradition, are you saying it’s okay to mock others cultures and traditions?” You asked lowly.

“All I’m saying is if the shoe fits.”

You clenched your jaw, reaching behind you, you slammed your hand into the fire alarm making it go off and you smirked at her.

“Have fun dealing with this.”

With that you stormed away and down the hallways, making your way outside with everyone else you waited patiently in the line.

Everyone was dismissed and you turned around, making your way inside to go to your locker and you started to grab your stuff.

“Cleaning the footballs, detention for the next week, and you forfeit the privilege of any school activities for the next two weeks.”

You looked up at the headteacher.

“Your punishment for pulling the fire alarm, what we’re you thinking?”

“Forget it I’m going home not coming back to this stupid school.”

You tossed your bag on your shoulder and kicked your locker shut, making your way towards reception.

“You can’t just leave! Let’s talk about whatever’s going on.”

“You students and teacher are making me for my culture!”

You turned around, rolling your sleeves up to shoe the tribal designed tattoos.

“Mocking these.”

“Right and that’s not on, and I’ll talk to them, but you can’t just leave. Your bus won’t be here until after school how are you going to get back without it?”

“I’ve got a way.”

“Right well you still can’t just go walking out of school and pulling the fire alarm.”

You glared at him and walked outside, looking around.

“Forget it, I’m done with school I don’t need it anyways. Only doing it cause council said we had to.”

“Well you do need school.”

You whistled loudly and you waited, hands stuffed in your pockets.

“Let’s just go back inside and talk about this (Y/N), come on.”

“Not a change.”

You watched a shadow pass over and you ran in the direction it went, and Mr Evershed ran after you, calling your name and telling you to stop.

Running up the the empty field you looked around, a smile on your face.

“Come on bud where you gone?” You called.

Mr Evershed ran up the hill.

“Right whatever it is you’re doing, stop, come inside, we’ll talk, and we’ll get all this sorted.”

You looked behind Mr Evershed as the large black mass came gliding down towards you, and he landed behind you with a small purr.

Mr Evershed stared in disbelief and what he was saying.

“Hey toothless…” you whispered.

You ran a hand over his head and he looked at you as you climbed into the saddle on his back, and looked back at Mr Evershed.

Mr Evershed slowly back away, hands raised in the air and he tripped, falling backwards.

“Forget your stupid school, I’m not coming back.” You huffed.

Reaching out, you ran your hand over toothless’ head, scratching behind his ear.

“Let’s go home bud.”

Toothless raised his wings, and in one powerful motion you guys were in the air and in the blink of an eye you were gone.

Mr Evershed just stared at where you and Toothless were before slowly getting up and making his way back to his office to sit down.

He was trembling with fear, and he had absolutely no idea what to do now going forward, typically he would arrange a meeting with your parents, but it was just you, you didn’t have any, and the only option was to go to the village to see you.

And after what he had just seen he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to that.

You let go of the handle to the harness and you sighed leaning back, resting your head on the dragons back.

Toothless glanced at you, purring a little.

Reaching over, you tapped his side a few times.

“I hate outsiders.”

Toothless grumbled and you sat up with a laugh, leaning forward, you rested you hands on his head.

“Yeah I know you hate them too bud. Let’s just go home.”

Toothless looked at you then he dived down a little while turning.

You guys made it home in no time at all, and when he landed on the ground you jumped down, running inside the house you let him wait outside as you tossed your stuff aside and changed.

Making your way back outside, you ran down the road, waving at a few people who were milling about.

“(Y/N) (L/N)!”

You stopped, and toothless slid to a halt just behind you and sat on his back legs.

You grinned at the man in front of you.

“Hi chief Todo…” you mumbled.

“And why are we home so early?” He asked.

You took a deep breathe and huffed a bit.

“Because Im done with outsiders and their stupidity.”

Todo sighed, shaking his head and gestured for you to follow him so you did, up the hill and you both sat down on the bench while toothless ran down the other side to see the rest of the dragons.

“You know why you have to go, right?”

“I don’t want to go anymore, they’re making fun of our culture Todo, our traditions. We did a class in history on our family, and the teacher refused to let me show mine. They wouldn’t be so brave if I walked in with toothless…”

“People are narrow minded, but that doesn’t mean you can just run away from this. You know that.”

You shrugged a little.

“I don’t need anyone but toothless.”

Todo sighed a bit, placing his hand on your shoulder.

“You cannot keep running from everything, one day you will have to face the things you run from kiddo. And you’ll also have to apologise to that poor teacher you scared the life out of.”

“Mr Evershed called you?”

“No. Emailed, though it didn’t make much sense until I saw toothless coming home.”

You shrugged again.

“Well, I don’t care. They all deserve it.”

With that, you got up and ran down the hill to be with your best friend and Todo sighed to himself.

He did try getting you to go back to school, but you refused, you were sat in the back of your house with a handful of clothes and you looked at the dragon sat in front of you.

“Ready bud?”

He nodded and sat back and you set the clothes in the hole in the ground and stepped back.

“Light em up toothless!”

He fired a purple blast and the clothes, and they burst into flames and you cheered loudly.

When you were sure the school clothes were burned you put the fire out and hopped over the fence, toothless behind you and you looked around for something to do.

Mr Evershed had tried emailing you, calling you, but you never responded, he emailed the email you had given them when you first started about you leaving, though he left out the part of the massive creature you had brought with you.

When you failed to come to school for a week, he emailed Todo again, asking if he could bring you in for a meeting.

When a few days went by and he didn’t get a reply, he sighed, trying to figure out what to do.

“Just go to the village and talk to them all.” Mrs Carter said.

“That’s not really appropriate is it?”

“Well, from what I can gather (Y/N) mentioned before they don’t have any internet or phone lines in the village, so I assume they won’t receive any of these unless they leave.”

Mr Evershed furrowed his brows a little.

“Come on, it’s probably going to be the only chance you get to sort out whatever is going on here. It’s a an hour outside of Ackley, I’ll watch things here.”

Mr Evershed looked at her.

He was going to keep protesting but seeing the look she gave him he knew he didn’t have much of a choice but to go, so he reluctantly agreed.

And while he driving over there, he couldn’t help the anxiety he felt was feeling.

He pulling up outside a gate and he got out, looking at the sign on it.

If heading the village please walk the rest of the way, there is no suitable road for vehicles along here.

Mr Evershed sighed heavily, heading back to his car, he parked it, and left, making his way up the trial and following the signs.

When he reached the top of a hill, he looked down and he saw the village at the bottom, beautiful large houses, people running around or just talking.

And he made his way down to the bottom and looked around.

“Hello, can we help you?” A woman smiled.

“I’m actually looking for (Y/N), or Todo?”

The woman nodded and looked around.

“(Y/N) went away with toothless I believe, but you can find the chief over there by the well.”

She pointed down the street and he nodded, making his way over and he stood by the well looking a little confused.

“Mr Evershed I assume?”

Mr Evershed turned around and looked at the man in front of him.

“Yes, Todo?”

“That’s me, come on, let’s talk somewhere quieter.”

Mr Evershed nodded and followed him inside a building where they both sat down.

“How did you know who I was? I thought you didn’t get signal or WiFi here.”

“Well after (Y/N)s sudden departure from school, I figured it was only a matter of time until you came.”

Mr Evershed nodded again, looking at a few people who were sat in the cafe.

“You saw him, didn’t you?” Todo asked.

Mr Evershed looked back at the chief in confusion.

“Who?”

“The dragon behind (Y/N). Tall, fast, scales as black as coal. Sound familiar?”

Mr Evershed looked at the drink he was given and look back at the chief.

“Dragons aren’t real.”

“Keep telling yourself that, but that’s what you saw my friend. A dragon. Night fury.”

“I.. I don’t know what I saw but dragons are not real.”

Todo hummed, shrugging his shoulders a little bit.

“You keep saying that, but when you’re ready to admit what you saw, we’ll talk then.”

Todo got up and left, leaving Mr Evershed alone in the cafe.

There’s no way it could’ve been a dragon, because dragons were not real. Everyone knew that.

He sat lost on his head, and looked up when someone put a plate in front of him.

“I didn’t order anything.”

“You look a little pale, you should eat. It’s fine, but may I offer some advice?” The woman asked.

Mr Evershed nodded.

“Open your mind to the possibilities. Not all is what it seems you know.”

With that she left and Mr Evershed ate his sandwich, finished his drink and took his dishes back up, pulling out his wallet.

“Oh no, we don’t use currency in the village.”

“You don’t?”

“No of course not. That way no one has to go hungry or without a home. We trade mostly.”

“I.. don’t have anything to trade.”

“That’s fine too.” The woman beamed.

Mr Evershed set some money on the counter.

“I won’t feel right if I don’t give you something, thank you.”

He smiled and left, and looked around, finding Todo standing against the well again, and he walked over.

“(Y/N) needs to come back to school.”

“I’ve tried talking to them. They won’t go back because you lot are treating her horribly.”

“I’ve spoken to all the students and teachers, letters and emails have gone out. It’s not going to happen again.”

Todo sighed, and looked to the sky.

“Honestly, even if I could talk them back into going again, which I can’t, it’s not going to solve anything really. (Y/N) values our culture and traditions deeply, and it hurt that people were making fun of them.”

“The tattoos?”

Todo nodded.

“Look around, we all have them.”

“But they’re underage.”

“It’s a traditional practice for us. When you complete certain things, you get a tattoo as a right of passage in a way, to record milestones once you become a teenager.”

Todo began to explain the culture to Mr Evershed, and they walked around as he showed the headteacher different things in the village.

They reached the base of another hill.

“Regardless if you open you mind or not, it’s possible that there are things in this world people keep hidden. If you want proof, I can give you proof.”

“Proof of what?”

“Dragons Mr Evershed. Just like the one you saw behind young (Y/N).”

Todo began walked up the hill and Mr Evershed walked up with him, and when they reached the top of the hill, he saw the other side, dragons running around some of them flying lowly.

“These are our dragons, friends, family. They are an extension of who we are, just like toothless is for (Y/N).”

Mr Evershed shook his head.

“No, no it has to be something in the drinks or food.”

“It’s not, if you don’t believe me still, look up.”

And he did, seeing a small figure in the sky just flying around in circles.

“That’s a bird.”

“Is it?”

Todo whistled loudly, just like you did, and Mr Evershed watched as the bird figure turned around and dived straight down.

As it came closer it got bigger and bigger, and he heard a cheer and a roar, and when you came up to the hill, you jumped down, running a few steps until you stopped.

Toothless dived down the hill and when he landed he spun back around and ran up to stand behind you.

“Mr Evershed?”

“It’s… I didn’t dream that..?”

You looked at him then to your best friend.

“This is toothless. He’s my best friend.”

You smiled and put a hand on the dragons head, and he purred, leaning into your side.

“That’s not.. i..”

“I’m not going back to school.”

“Why?”

“Because you lot make fun of us! Because we don’t have WiFi! Or phone signals! Because of our tattoos and traditions!” You yelled.

“I’ve spoken to them, it’s not going to happen again, you can come back but.. he.. can’t.”

“I’m not going anywhere without toothless.” You huffed.

“You can’t bring that to the school!”

“Cool because I’m not going back!”

Todo placed a hand on your shoulder, giving you a look and you muttered out an apology.

“I’m sorry toothless scared you sir but.. but I… I’m not going back…”

With that, you climbed back on to the dragons back and took off to the sky, and Mr Evershed watched as you flew a little lower this time, but still high in the sky.

“Toothless is their only family left. They have no one, and won’t listen to anyone. Even me, and I’m the chief.”

“What?”

Mr Evershed looked at him.

“Their parents passed away years ago, it’s just them, and toothless. They were both still young, (Y/N) had only gotten toothless a few months before, only just started training him.”

Mr Evershed looked up to the sky, and watched.

You were annoyed, and there was one way to cheer you up when you were annoyed.

“Wanna play a game bud?”

Toothless chirped.

“Then let’s go it!”

Toothless flew straight up, and you grinned to yourself, when he was high enough you pat his side.

“You better catch me.”

With that, you let go and angled yourself down, and toothless flipped backwards and dived down with you.

“Oh my god!” Mr Evershed yelled.

“It’s fine.”

“They’re going to die!”

Todo placed a hand on the teachers shoulder.

“Just watch.”

And they did, the watched as both you and toothless barrelled towards the village, and when you were close to you reached out, gripping the harness.

Toothless opened his wings and you both sped through the air, right above Mr Evershed and Todo as you went back up to do it again.

“They’re insane.”

“It’s trust. We all do it.”

“You’re all insane.”

Todo laughed.

“Maybe, but perhaps Mr Evershed, if you came back or stayed for while you would come to understand a bit more about us. Maybe you could earn (Y/N)s trust to get them to go back to school too.”

Mr Evershed thought about this, this was a side of you he hadn’t seen before, so maybe todo was right maybe it could help him bring you back to school

#Ackley bridge #Ackley bridge x reader #Ackley bridge x you #Ackley bridge imagine #mr Evershed #mr Everhsed x reader #mr Evershed x you #mr Evershed imagine

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patchworkgargoyle · 5 months

Text

OC Fic: all the words of the dead

So, in between working on my steddie big bang, I've been descending deeper and deeper into brainrot over my OC, Dominik (tag: goth babygirl dom).

Very long story short, we put him into a mafia!au and killed him off and then developed the slowest slow burn romance for him after the fact.

This is the letter he leaves in his will for @steves-strapcollection's OC, Sam. You'll find Sam's letter in response here (please read it, it's so so so good).

Anyway, I'm gonna go cry over them now. Have this totally out of context.

Rating: M || CW: main character death implied

Title from Bad Luck Again - The Rural Alberta Advantage

Hi Sam, my darling.

You know, I thought I’d only ever have one letter to write. When I got old enough to start needing a will, I only had Vinny to write to. I love Lucky and Gia, but Vinny and me… thick as thieves.

Then I come back from my enforced vacation, and suddenly he has a fiance who turns out to be my best friend. Two letters, then. Two people to care about with my whole, shrivelled little heart.

The third and fourth ones are new. Unexpected.

It was a fucking frustration and an honour to teach your daughter, though I wish almost as much as you do, I think, that she and her brother never got within a hundred miles of this world. For their sakes, and for yours. I tried my best to help prepare her. I hope it’s enough. But she's tough as fuck, and she’s got you and those two boys of hers looking out for her, though, so I’m sure she’ll be okay.

She’s the third letter.

This is the midst of the fourth. The last.

I hope that you knew you’d get a letter when the lawyers started handing them out. I hope you didn’t doubt it. It’s okay if you did.

I’m sorry you’re getting one. I don’t know what happened to me, obviously, but I probably went and fucked up something somewhere and now I’ve paid for it. You know how it is.

I hope you weren’t there when I died. If you were, I’m sorry. So sorry. We spend so much time together now that it might be possible you saw what got me but I don’t want that on your shoulders. They carry too much already. You should put some of that down sometime. Give some of it to me

Don't let Vinny and Ziah waste time and money on a big, useless funeral for me. And try talking to them, if you need someone. I know you. You're not as stoic and unshakable as you'd like us to believe.

This is har Fuck. I hate this.

I’d say I don’t remember when I knew my feelings for you were more than just being really horny and very fond of you but that’s a fucking lie. It’s been about a year now. I'd so cruelly sent you home for the night, but insisted I walk you to your truck, and we stopped to chat because we can't seem to get enough of each other I'm a greedy motherfucker at heart and didn't want you to go yet. I said something that made you laugh, really laugh. Can’t remember what the fuck I said. All I remember is what your face looks like when you smile like that, what you sound like when you’re happy. I had to kiss you then or I'd do something incredibly stupid otherwise. Also asked you to stay the night for the first time.

You’re one handsome bastard, you know that, right? It’s deeply unfair. You look even better when you're between my thighs.

You’re sleeping in my bedroom while I write this. No one’s ever slept in my bed with me. But you've done it so many times now I lost track. When I’m done with this fucking letter, I’m going to crawl back under the covers with you and feel safe there.

You’re such a surprise, Sam. I never thought I could have something like you. I feel indescribably lucky that I could. We should’ve had a normal life together, but I wouldn’t change this. Never.

There’s something for you, other than the cheque the lawyers’ll hand you. Ziah will know where it is. Don’t take it the wrong way. I wasn’t planning any big surprises. It’s just something to remember me by because I wasn’t sure what else you’d want. You can sell it if you don’t care for it, the sapphire’s worth something at least, small as it is. I told Vinny to let you take anything from my apartment you might want.

It’s cold over here at my desk, I should be in bed with you gotta write another fucking version of this, christ

I don’t know how to end this. What a fucking mess.

I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you even though I don’t know what it’s like. Never been in love before. But it feels like this, I think, like wanting to be around you all the time. Craving you. Trusting you. Sharing what life we have. Choosing to let you in over and over.

Vulnerability. Being changed.

You don’t have to love me too. I’m not going to fucking guilt trip you into loving me, post-mortem. This is just some kind of re-realisation of mortality based confessional at this point. You won't see this version of the letter anyway. You'll get one with fewer mistakes.

Do you think we have something, at least? Are we something? I hope we are.

I’ll tell you I love you in the morning, if I’m not a coward.

Forgive me if I was.

Yours,

-Dom

[[READ SAM'S LETTER HERE]]

#i'm miserable and having such a good time about it #goth babygirl dom #my darling sam #oc fic #sav scrawls stuff #samdom

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proudfreakmetarusonniku · 1 year

Text

How to Sex Four

now, you might be thinking: TOMMY, please. it has been three volumes already, surely you have gotten your Wisdom too the World out already. but you would be WRONG AND LAME. i am the Biggest Man in the WHOLE UNIVERSE and I always know More about everything. and the world needs to know how to sex. else there will be no babys and everyone would disappear. so you should thank me.

And you also might be thinking- tommy, why would I want to have sex? Sex is BAD AND SINFUL and it’s all fucking gross and shit. and you are also right! instead of having sex you should go to Church Prime and leave offerings and then maybe the gods will let you go to heaven. But they probably won’t and they’ll make you sit in a dark void forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and then He will find you and then He will pull you out and it’ll be even worse and

NO NO NO STUPID Stupid. this isn’t a fucking journal. try again. ignore that last part.

Anyway so after sex you should Pray. and then the sin washes off I think. but it’s still fucking icky. iam NEVER EVER having sex because it’s EVEN GROSSER THAN WILBUR. and Wilbur is really fucking gross man. he kissed a SALMON. but if you need advise you need to harness a dark force Carefully. i think. unlike Him I hate Him I hate Him I hate Him die die die die die die die die die

TOMMY STOP BEING A FUCKING BITCH. YOU WROTE THE LAST ONE FINE IN EXILE. DREAM HASN'T EVEN HIT YOU IN MONTHS STOP BEING A PUSSY.

okok do the Breathing exercisses like puffy taught you.

i don’t know. What’s the fucking Point. I’m just hiding for NO REASON and dream is gonna find me anyway and kill and revive me until we're fucking Besties or whatever the fuck he’s going on about. no one is reading this. everyone will die but you and dream anyway tommy stupid fucking tommy can’t even get his own brother to stay stupid stupid evil villain hero betrayer die die die. you deserve it.

NO. PUFFY SAID TO NOT WRITE THE GOOD THOUGHTS. WRITE THE GOOD THINGS ABOUT ME:

tubbo is my friend

i'm going to get what i fucking deserve anyway. that’s good. dream will finally beat some fucking Sense into me like I always deserves fucking awful child stupid child didn’t get Hit enough and became a Wrongun. Wilbur left because he hated you he had to he’s a liar LIAR LIAR LIAR LIAR LIAR LIAR like you and you lie and you say you’re Good but you’re not. you’re awful you’re the worst you should just throw yourself off a cliff and Die.

… this isn’t helping.

—

Tommy threw the book into the lava without a second thought, and cried.

#my writing #c!tommy angst time >:3

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shurisneakers · 3 years

Text

harmless (vi)

Summary: Bucky volunteers to go stop a small time villain, but nothing can prepare him for what exactly he has to deal with. (Bucky x villain!reader, drabble series)

Warnings: cursing, existential crisis, frustrated bucky, dramatic reader, lil bit of angst, clint barton being a lil shit

Word count: 1.9k

A/N: BUCKY BARNES IS BACK AND HAS A CONFIRMED PERSONALITY

also omg everyone who’s been sending me ideas- ur the lomls.

if you have any ideas for future inventions/evil plans, lemme know! i might actually end up using them

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Series Masterlist

Your place or mine? ;)

He stares at the text.

The right answer is mine. See you at the lair.

“Y’all are dating now?” Clint peeks over his shoulder.

“Fuck no,” Bucky says indignantly. “God forbid.”

“Okay, man,” he retracts, giving Bucky space to turn around and face him. “What do you want to call your mini dates then?”

“Missions,” Bucky corrects him.

“No one wants to go on a mission. You volunteered to go back there.”

“It’s for the good of the tristate area.”

“I bet.” The snort he lets out contradicts his words. “Whole world is depending on you, Barnes. Go save them from the treachery of your crush.”

“Enemy.”

“Girlfriend.”

“Mortal nemesis.” Bucky narrows his eyes at him. “Go further, I dare you.”

“What are you gonna do? Choke me? Punch me with your metal arm?” Clint cranes his neck. “Bring it, big boy. I’m not scared of some kinky shit.”

He hates living here.

The door is left open for him.

This time, even though the lair is still illuminated by the green light out in the front, there’s a minor change. Sunlight streams in through a skylight in the roof.

There’s a ladder there, leaning against the rim. It gives him an entrance to the roof, which, judging by the lack of any other presence in the lab, is where he’s supposed to go.

As he gets closer he notices there’s a note on one of the rungs.

‘Evil’ with an arrow pointing upwards.

He rolls his eyes, discarding it on the floor before swiftly scaling the steps.

“Ah, Mr. Barnes,” he hears your voice call out even before his head pops up above the surface. “We’ve been expecting you.”

He pauses, looking around. “Who’s with you?”

Because other than the gigantic machine pointed up towards the sky, there’s only you with a visor and sunglasses. The best way he can describe its design was that it was shaped like a pine cone, had a large antenna pointed towards the sky, two handlebars near its base to manoeuvre it with a large button in between them.

“Just imagine I have my henchmen with me,” you urge. “I’m on a budget, man, I can’t afford them yet. Maybe when my cloning machine finally works-”

He doesn’t answer.

“It’s a James Bond reference,” you add when he doesn’t show any signs of answering.

“Haven’t watched it yet.” Bucky shrugs. “We’re doing Star Trek right now.”

“You’re done with Star Wars?” you, receiving a nod in confirmation. “Nice. You’d find the spy shit ridiculous anyway, it’s way below your level.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He makes a mental note to add the Bond movies to the list.

“Speaking of stars,” you begin, gesturing to the machine. “I’m going to harness the power of the sun.”

“For what?” He doesn’t bother asking how, he already knows you’ve figured out something.

“There’s a science exhibition and my team’s stupid solar car experiment isn’t working and I need it for them to win.”

“So build a better one.”

“No, ours is the best and if Jeff and his stupid baking soda volcano beat us then we’re going to have a murder on our hands.”

“Your hands,” he emphasises. He has nothing to do with this.

“I said what I said, boy.” You glare at him. “This is our problem now.”

“How much power are you taking?” If it’s insignificant enough, it wouldn’t matter much. He thinks.

“The whole thing.”

He laughs. He stops when you don’t.

“You’re taking all the energy of the sun to power your shitty science model.”

“Your face is a shitty science model,” you mimic him in a higher pitched voice. “I will do anything to win.”

He wonders which grade kid you stole that insult from was in. There’s no way they were anything older than 13. He could use it on Steve, maybe.

“Everyone on Earth will die.” He feels the need to remind you, even though there was no way it was actually going to take place. Eat shit, Clint. This superseded the tristate area.

“Not for eight minutes.” You look at your watch. “And, if Jeff dies then I win by default.”

“You’ll die too,” he points out.

“I’ll die a winner.” You nod seriously as if that makes it better.

He’s not that worried. Experience tells him that you’re not a mass murderer willingly.

“You’ll die an idiot.”

“Only if you don’t stop me.” Your lips curve into a smile. “And how will you when I do this?”

You yank the machine to point towards him and slam the button. His hand reflectively pulls in front of him to defend himself. Something hits him with enough force to send him skidding backwards slightly.

He removes his hand carefully from in front of him, looking at you.

Something feels off.

“You just-”

The knives strapped to his thighs suddenly feel heavier.

“Took your powers?” you finish his thought. “Yeah.”

He feels his body tip towards his left. He’s suddenly very aware of the weight of the arm. Had it been this heavy all this while?

“You’ve barely changed,” you noted, “You’re just regular Bucky but like, 20% less beef.”

After all, he was a boxer when he was a teen. One of the best men the Howling Commandos had even before the serum.

His shoulder feels heavier though. And somehow he thinks he’s sensing things a little less. He can’t really hear the faint buzzing of the generator downstairs anymore.

“Yep, that’s real muscle.” He turns when you poke at his shoulder. He doesn’t know when you got there. “You’re like a modern day Schwarzenegger. Grade A beefcake.”

He can’t see the construction site near the horizon as clearly as he used to.

Something about this situation makes him feel like he’s going to have a midlife crisis, even though he’s overshot the age by a huge number. No one has a midlife crisis at 106.

“Now that we’ve established that this works,” you say, back near the machine again. When did you walk there? “Let’s show this bitch that I’m the brightest star allowed in this solar system.”

He shakes his head to jolt himself awake, shoves aside his mental dysfunction and breaks out into a sprint when you pull the device down to aim it at the sky.

He latches onto the side, using his left hand to pull himself up, straddling the machine.

“Excuse me,” you exclaim like it’s a minor inconvenience and he feels the machine sway wildly under him. “You’re weighing it down, get off my inator.”

You’re shooting recklessly, trying to shake him off. It’s not dissimilar to the mechanical bull Natasha made him ride during a mission down south so she could win money off placing bets on him. They had lobster that night.

He reaches down to its side, hoping to feel maybe a panel he can rip off. He finds nothing.

He hopes none of the rays are actually hitting anything. It’s a little harder to stay on than he’d imagined it would be, and he thinks that maybe this wasn’t the best plan.

He changes his mind in a split second, swinging himself over so that he can climb the underside of the machine like a monkey bar. He feels like a fucking insect. How was Peter not mortally embarrassed?

He factors in the fact that his hands are getting clammier and his grip is slipping faster than usual. Also, he can taste his lunch at the back of his throat.

“Motherfucker,” Bucky curses when his hand slips, leaving him to hold on only by his metal arm.

“You okay?” you call out, not giving him a second to recover unless he really needed it.

He lets out a grunt, swinging his arm up and catching hold of the antenna, yanking it down and towards the machine itself. He pulls himself up so that he’s straddling the machine again.

One more shot and-

“Very smart, Barnes,” you say dryly, letting go of the handles.

He sends you a sly grin before sliding down the barrel, kicking the large button with his heel right before he jumps off.

The beam shoots out, instantly meeting with metal. The device automatically gives a mechanical groan before powering down, turning off altogether.

“I hate you,” you huff, before noting his paleness. “D’you want some water? An IV maybe?”

He dismisses it with a wave of his hand, inhaling heavily to catch his breath.

He’s tired, more so than he would have been under any normal circumstance. He feels a little dizzy, a little disoriented.

“Don’t worry, your magic powers will be back in a few minutes or so.” You examine the bent antenna, pressing the button and sighing when it stands there lifelessly. “Once Jeff wins, I’ll send the dry cleaning receipt to you. You can pay to get the tear stains out of the kids’ outfits.”

“Your tears or theirs?” He’s relieved about the powers returning, he thinks.

“Both, bitch.” Your eyebrow quirks at his retort. Clearly, he had more energy in him than people realised; his brain seemed to be working fine. He was stronger than you thought. Good for him.

“You’re smart. You’ll figure something out.” He lets out a final exhale before standing up a little straighter.

“Thanks. It’d be better if you asked your billionaire tech genius to send us something, but okay.”

“It’s a middle school science exhibition. Make a potato battery or something.”

You tsk-tsk. “No points for creativity, Mr. Barnes.”

It creeps into his mind without warning. He wonders if he actually wanted the powers back. Wonders what his life could be if he maybe retired, settled down. For the brief time he feels like his pre-war self, he starts to think like his pre-war self.

“I’m not the one who’s about to lose to a baking soda volcano,” he finds time to respond, however.

“Your face is a baking soda volcano.” You narrow your eyes at him. “I will not lose.”

“You’re running out of time. Chop chop.”

But the thought hits him. Who is Bucky without his super soldier serum? If he doesn’t have his powers then he can’t think of what use he is to the Avengers.

Who the hell is Bucky if he can’t provide a service to others? How else does he make up for being himself?

His, what he’s now deemed, afterlife crisis is starting to look more apparent.

He compartmentalises and stores it away in a box. He’ll bring it up with his therapist later.

“I’m going to win and then you’ll be sorry you weren’t a part of it because you didn’t let me steal the sun.”

“If you win, I’ll still be glad I didn’t let you.” He climbs back down the ladder, feeling the ache in his muscles reduce with every passing minute.

True to your word, his powers do return a while later.

And while he’s watching Avatar: The Last Airbender with Peter in the living room two days later, his phone beeps with a text.

It’s a picture of a blue first place ribbon next to a toy car that looks like it’s powered by a potato battery. Beside it is an out of focus middle finger that is aimed at him.

Congratulations, he texts back. Told you potato batteries always win.

Your face always wins, he receives in return. He can’t tell if you’re insulting or flirting with him.

He just shuts his phone off and goes back to watching the show.

Next part

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mcu fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky angst #bucky barnes angst #harmless fic #winter soldier x reader #Winter Soldier #bucky barnes #bucky

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ragingbookdragon · 3 years

Text

I'm Only A Crack In This Castle Of Glass (Hardly Anything Else I Need To Be) PT. 4

Batfamily x Batsis Story!

Word Count: 2K Warnings: Explicit Language, ALL THE ANGST Tags!: @itsnottilly @cloudyskylines @starflyer-104 @justine-en @iwillstaywiththemforever @weirdgirlfromtx @edlothia-baby @soul-end @notsostraightweeb @candlestudy

Author's Note: Some of y'all didn't tag so see if that's something on your end. Enjoy the angst and cliffhanger! -Thorne

Wally didn’t come into the coffee shop for almost two whole months after their fight—not that she blamed him—she was still vaguely upset with his harsh words. But she had to admit that she’d gotten used to his warm presence every morning, and not seeing him messed her up more than she thought it would. More often than not, she found herself absentmindedly staring at the door, waiting for him to walk in with that stupid grin on his face and proceed to boast and recall whatever exciting exploits he and his friends had accomplished earlier. It hurt not to see or hear him, and she realized that Wally had become the greatest friend she’d ever had.

Barry still came in though, and if he knew who she really was, he didn’t say anything because he still acted like he always did. So, even if Wally were still angry with her, at least he’d kept his word and not said anything to anyone about her identity. Which if she were honest, tasted bitter when she thought about the price she paid for his silence—his friendship.

It was getting colder again, which meant a lot more people were coming and going from the shop, so at least she could take her mind off her feelings for at least a few hours. Until she got home, and all she was left with were them and a whole lot of silence to think about them with. Sometimes she thought about calling Wally, at least to hear his voice. Hell, even if their last words to one another were frigid, she missed the interaction. She’d give anything to hear him, even taking another round of cold snipes and trades.

She heaved a sigh and wiped down the last few tables of the evening rush, smiling politely at the people who were still sitting at tables or so across. Today had been hectic and there’d been no let up of customers until the last hour of the shift. She’d never thought they’d run out of coffee, but it came close to that a couple hours ago.

The bell above the door chimed and with her back turned to the entrance, she didn’t see who came in, but with another barista at the counter ready to take the final orders of the evening, she didn’t particularly care. All she wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed. Sleep until hell froze over. That, or until her feet stopped hurting—whichever came first. She let out a quiet laugh that made her chest ache—Wally would’ve found that absolutely hilarious and probably shot back about how if anyone had the right to complain about their feet hurting, it would be him. God, she really missed Wally.

“Melisandre,” someone called quietly, and she glanced over her shoulder, eyes widening when she saw the familiar red head behind her.

Speak and the Devil will appear.

“Wally,” she breathed, voice thick with shock, and before she could stop herself, she was throwing her arms around his waist, squeezing him tightly.

He returned her hug in fold. “I guess I wasn’t the only one who missed this,” he quipped.

She huffed a laugh and pulled away. “Believe it or not, it doesn’t feel right when you don’t come around.” Her eyes narrowed almost sadly. “I’ve missed seeing you, Wally.”

“Same here,” he replied, then glanced at the clock above the espresso machines. “Are you almost off? I want to take you somewhere.”

Nodding, she took a look at her watch. “I get off in about ten minutes. Can you wait that long, or will you perish from boredom?”

“I think I can survive ten minutes, Melisandre,” he retorted and collapsed into one of the booths. “Hurry though, I don’t want to be late.”

She rolled her eyes and deadpanned, “Wally, I can’t speed time up. That’s not how that works.”

“Works for me.” He proudly stated.

“I wonder why?” she retorted sarcastically, then gave him a smile before wandering off to clean the last tables.

***

Despite the fact that Wally could run anywhere he wanted in less than a second, he still owned a vehicle and that was downright baffling in her opinion.

“Dick got it for me.” He suddenly said, shifting the car into drive and she blinked internally wincing at the mention of her brother.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I know you didn’t, (Y/N). But you were thinking it.”

“Uh huh,” she doubted and crossed her arms over her chest. “What am I thinking about right now?”

“Knowing you? Probably food, I know you like to ea—” he dissolved into laughter when she reached over and shoved at his side.

“No, I don’t you ass.”

“Really? Because I distinctly remember the time I took a fry off your basket and you looked at me like I’d killed your favorite dog.” (Y/N) glared at him and he pointed at her. “Yeah, that’s the look right there.”

“I don’t like sharing my food,” she said. “You should’ve known better.” Her eyes drifted to the windshield. “So, where are we going?”

“S.T.A.R. labs.”

(Y/N) cocked a brow and stared at him. “Really? S.T.A.R. labs? What’s there?”

Wally shrugged. “Wanted to show you a bit of what it’s like to be me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You mean you came to see me after all this time and the first thing we’re doing is going to a lab so you can show my what you do?”

His gaze momentarily darted to hers. “Is that a problem?”

“I dunno, I just figured we’d go eat a diner somewhere and apologize to each other.”

“Are you sorry?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Are you sorry? For all of the last three years?”

“Not particularly,” she griped, and he shrugged again.

“Then I’m not sorry for what we said to each other that night.” he let out a sigh. “But I’m willing to let it go, because I’d rather us just have a disagreement than lose what our friendship over it.” he looked at her. “What do you say?”

(Y/N) stared at him for a long moment, then she sighed and nodded. “…Yeah, I agree.”

Wally smiled. “Good.” He turned the wheel and pulled into the parking lot of the lab. “But there is food there for us, so you’ll be satiated anyways.”

“Hardy har har. Shut up, Wallace West,” she shot back, climbing out of the car. Her eyes traveled up the tall building. “Wow, this place is huge, isn’t it?”

She felt him stand next to her. “Yeah. Did you know they had to replace the glass windows a whole bunch of times because Barry and I kept shattering them when we’d run up ‘em?”

(Y/N) blinked, unsurprisingly stating, “No, I did not. But I can see that happening.”

He started towards the doors, leaving her to follow and soon they were stepping into an elevator. She watched him hit the rooftop button and she looked at him.

“If you’re showing me what you do, why are we going to the roof? Shouldn’t we be going to some laboratory inside?”

Wally chuckled. “Patience, young padawan.” He ignored her rolling eyes. “Food first.”

“Oh, dinner in the moonlight? Well, aren’t you just the romantic.” (Y/N) cocked her elbow on his shoulder and grinned. “Don’t tell me you fell in love with me all that time we spent away from each other?”

This time, he was rolling his eyes. “Hardly, (Y/N). I just figured you’d want a nice evening where you weren’t staring at your bland kitchen walls.”

She scoffed and pulled away from him. “Look, I’d paint and hang shit up but the landlord wouldn’t be happy.”

“Since when do you care about making people happy? You’re typically a ‘I’m going to make someone unhappy’ type of person.” Her eyes shifted to his and he waved a hand. “Not what you’re thinking about—I was talking about the coffee shop.”

For a moment, she didn’t say anything, then she hummed. “There’s nothing more fun than telling someone I’m going to get the manager and then do my magic little spin and cheerfully greet, ‘Hi, I’m the manager’.” She grinned. “Does wonders to see Karen’s little head explode.”

Wally chuckled and the elevator dinged. The doors split open, and they walked out onto the rooftop. Surprisingly, the roof was enclosed and lighted, giving her perfect vision and when her eyes fell on them, her heart seemed to stop in her chest, and her feet to a halt.

They stood from the table they’d been sitting at and with her heart hammering against her ribcage, she immediately spun on her heel, intent to flee back into the elevator, only to come chest to chest with Wally, who wrapped his arms around her waist—effectively keeping her in place.

Her feet were still moving on their own accord and she shoved against his chest, trying to get back to the lift. “Wally, move.”

“No, (Y/N),” he murmured, and she could feel her breath starting to come in and out in panicked spurts.

“Wally, please, I’m begging you, move.” She stared up at him and plead, “Please don’t make me do this. I’ll do anything, just please let me leave.”

His evergreen eyes were narrowed in pity, but there was a firmness that rested within that pity and he shook his head. “I can’t let you leave, (Y/N).”

“Wally, please,” she begged, arms starting to go limp against his chest, the tears flooding her vision. “Don’t make me do this.”

“You’ve gotta stop running, (Y/N).”

She couldn’t help the sob that escaped her, and she rested her cheek against his chest. “I hate you…so much.”

“I know,” he murmured.

“You’re a liar and I hate you.”

Wally sighed. “I know you do.”

(Y/N)’s face contorted in anger despite her pain. “I should’ve left the night we fought. I knew you wouldn’t be capable of keeping it from him. From any of them,” she sneered and suddenly pulled away from his grip, eyes flashing with rage.

“This wasn’t your right to tell!” she shouted at him and shoved him in the chest. Wally didn’t budge an inch and she shoved him again. “God, I was so naïve to assume you’d keep your fucking mouth shut! That’s one thing you’re not capable of doing!”

She growled and turned from him, running her hands over her face. “Three years of relative peace shot straight down the fucking drain,” she shot him a teary glower. “All because of you and your big bleeding heart for your best friend.”

Wally frowned. “I’m doing what I think is best, (Y/N).”

“Forcing me to meet them isn’t what’s best, Wally! I didn’t want to be found! I didn’t want to be associated with them again!” she snarled and in an instance her anger cooled, her shoulders drooping as she lamented, “…This wasn’t a decision you should’ve made. This was never your right to decide. For me…or for them.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t,” he agreed. “But if you weren’t going to draw the line in the sand, I was.”

(Y/N) met his gaze and held it for a long moment, then she turned her attention to the four men who were standing in front of the table, their expressions a mixture of regret, anger, and relief.

She let out a long sigh and reached up to rub at her temples. “Let me guess, I’m not allowed to leave until we’ve had our picture-perfect reunion scene?”

Wally nodded. “The elevator is sadly,” his hand shot backwards and with a sharp crackle of lightning, the light went out. “out of order.”

(Y/N) shook her head in disappointment at him then declared, “The next time I run, I’m settling in a city that has no superheroes.”

“Good plan,” he quipped. “But I don’t think there’ll be anymore running.”

She got up in his face and hissed, “Then you underestimate my feelings regarding the brothers and father before me.”

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madcatdaderpydrawer-blog · 2 years

Text

“...This isn’t a good idea..”

“I. don’t. care.” Moon seethes, though it’s barely audible over the whirring in his chest. Hey, he doesn’t want to be here either, but he would much rather get it over with and patched up them wait for maintenance to come in the morning. They would only cause more trouble right now.

He doesn’t want to be rude. They had put Gregory away to catch his breath a bit while they talked, sure that the topic would eventually fall into some sort of confrontation, but nevertheless. Just because the kid wasn’t there didn’t mean he was going to be rude to the guy, even if he is getting on his nerves.

“It’s for the kids sake, anyways. What about when you need to charge? He’ll need some ability to hide.” the jester hopes that appealing to the clear fatherly bond between the two will finally convince the bear to drop the subject. It wasn’t even a lie! He did want the panel back so that he could help the kid. Using the wire is the only thing he can really offer to the table here, and he can’t help but be concerned for his safety. It just wasn’t the full truth, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Freddy looks at him and sighs. God, he hates that look, so damn much. He knows that look; He’s done it so many times before. It was the same look he gave Sunny when he knew he was lying; Seeing it now just makes him feel sick. Freddy places a large hand on his shoulder, and Moon surpresses a wince, “I know you want to help, but.. Gregory is a smart kid. I may not like it, but he has found his.. own ways.. to stay safe. It would not be possible to fix you right now, anyways. The power outages would cause you to remain turned on for at least part of the procedure, if I even knew how to do it in the first place. And.. you’re clearly in a lot of pain. You should stay here, and rest. The technicians will be here in a few hours, and they will be able to fix you up properly.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the pain, or how stressed he’s been lately, but Moon can’t help but finally snap at that, “Are you stupid, Freddy?? For the last time, I DON’T WANT THE TECHNICIANS INVOLVED! If they find me like this, I’m dead! Do you know how many rules I’ve broken just coming out here to help you guys, AND got damaged on top of that?! No leaving the daycare outside of authorized times, No diverging from given route, No turning the lights on, No fighting the other animatronics!! I was supposed to keep him there, or call Vanessa, or the POLICE!” It all just comes spilling out before he can stop it, gesturing surprisingly animatedly as he talks considering his injuries. Hearing it out loud, he really did break every single rule he was meant to follow, didn’t he? “They’ll be furious, I broke every single rule and destroyed the only unique feature I was given doing it! I know you don’t have to think about it, FREDDY FAZBEAR, but when you cost more then you’re worth you get trashed! And if I get scrapped then they’ll end up using Sun for everything, and Sun is batshit insane right now and without me there he’ll just end up hurting someone and get himself scrapped too! So please for the love of god JUST FIX MY HARNESS!!” His voice shutters, cracking at the height of the pitch. He was never meant to raise his voice that loud, static clinging to the end.

He shouldn’t of snapped at Freddy like that.. He did have a point, but he couldn’t... He just didn’t want to become useless. He didn’t want to get chewed out my the staff again for being stupid and unruly and fucking everything up again. He was supposed to be better then that, or at the very least responsible enough to follow his own rules.

Moon could feel the bears gaze on him, but he didn’t dare look at him, opting to pulls his hat down over his eyes. It felt like such a childish action, not that he was much better then one at this point- throwing a tantrum and all. Waves a pain flared in his back and yelped, almost falling over. He barely managed to slide to sit on the floor before collapsing; Maybe he shouldn’t of moved that much.. it only further irritated the exposed parts in his back, sore and already filling him with nauseating amounts of pain. Another thing he has to deal with. Just great.

He feels a warm hand land on his head, and he can hear the larger bot crouch to be eye level with the daycare attendant. He pushes the brim of his hat up to peer at the bear, whose glowing eyes hold a mixture of conflicting emotions. It’s.. comforting, in a strange way. He can see why Gregory trusts him so much.”...In that case.. we’ll figure something out. Roxanne is much better at these things then I am. Once she is in safe mode, I will bring her back here and have her look at you. You shouldn’t leave until then, though.” A huge wave of relief washes through the jester at that comment. He can do that. He doesn’t know Roxanne that well, but if there’s any chance she could help then he’s willing to wait.

Freddy smiles, seeing the tension fade from his shoulders albeit slightly, “..Now, in the meantime I suggest you should rest for a bit. I know you have plenty battery, but..” he trails off at the end, gesturing vaguely at the attendants situation, “you do need it.”

Moon heats up slightly, embarrassed. Admittedly, he is right. And, he hasn’t gotten many opportunities to rest lately. He hesitates, but nods, toying with the bell on his hat. He won’t be able to help much if he doesn’t give himself some rest... Freddy stands up from the floor, nodding firmly, “We’ll be back soon. The cylinder will remain locked so that no one can get inside while we’re gone.”

When there is no reply Freddy notices that the smaller jester is already almost asleep. He must of been more tired then he expected. He chuckles at that before stepping out of the tube, closing it with a small swish.

#fnaf security breach au #fnaf sun #fnaf moon #fnaf glamrock freddy #moondrop #sundrop #sunrise #daycare attendant #i wrote this one because of moons rant #it was a lot of fun to write lmao #psycho sun au #role reversal au

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songbirdstyles · 4 years

Text

white wedding.

summary: your estranged aunt leaves you her estate in her will with the stipulation that you have to be married to receive your inheritance. luckily, harry is more than willing to help.

pairing: best friend!harry styles x reader

warnings: fluff, smut, angst if you squint.

song inspo.: white wedding - billy idol

word count: 13.4k

You weren’t too close to your Aunt Alice for the entirety of your life - there’s a picture, you think, hung in your parents’ house of her and some of your other family members, crowding around your bassinet when you were just a baby, her face turned up into a scowl amid everyone else’s gleaming grins, and it was a lovely foreshadow into your relationship with her. She sent you $10 on your birthdays and Christmas (an amount that your father had always scoffed at when he thought you weren’t listening - ‘she’s a goddamn millionaire,’ he’d hiss to your mother, ‘and the most she can spare her only niece is $10?’) and you could remember, when you were 9, seeing her at a family reunion where she sat at a table pressed into a back corner and nursed glasses of wine during the entire event.

It goes without saying, you suppose, that she wasn’t the kindest lady. Your mother had told you how Aunt Alice cut off your father for some reason nobody could quite discern and, so, she never held a much larger place in your life than a mere branch on your second grade family tree project -

But, still. It’s rather difficult to regard the dead in such a negative manner so you try and focus on the good parts of your late aunt. Twice, she wrote ‘love u’ in your Christmas card. And, at said family reunion, when you walked over to her table to say goodbye before you left, she delivered a sloppy, strangely wet kiss to the side of your face that smelled distinctly of chardonnay (a scent you hadn’t quite been able to place until years later.) And -

“Are you alright?”

Harry’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts, gazing out the rain-streaked car window at the night sky with an odd air of sadness surrounding you. You had been trying to hide the slight dash of sadness you feel at the memory of your aunt by disguising it with a mask of sleepiness that has you leaning your forehead against the cold window, eyes squeezed shut. But Harry can read you like a goddamn book - like the back of his hand. It’s what best friends are for, you suppose.

“I’m fine,” you tell him, tilting your head away from the window to glance at him in the driver’s seat. And, the truth is, you are fine. It’s not as though you’re entirely too saddened with the news of Aunt Alice’s passing. She’d always had health issues, according to your parents, and you’re not sure what, exactly, has sealed her fate - you’re simply more confused by it all. “Well - when we were leaving the movies, I got a call from my dad. My aunt died.”

You can hear Harry’s sharp intake of breath and there’s a brief hesitation where you know he’s trying to gauge how you feel about it. “Oh,” he settles on, turning to look at you in the eye when the car rolls to a stop at a red light. “M’sorry, love.”

You shrug, glancing down to squint at your fingernails in the darkness of Harry’s car. You’d begun to pick at the baby blue nail polish he’d delicately applied the night before (they matched his, naturally) and it really is a nervous habit you should work on, but you can’t be bothered right now. “We weren’t close,” you admit, leaning back against the headrest. “It’s just weird, is all.”

“Are y’sad about it?”

“Not quite,” and it’s the truth. “She was wealthy, though. I think she wrote novels or plays or something - I’m not sure. And I was, apparently, her closest living relative that she didn’t despise.”

He clicks his tongue softly, making a left when the light finally switches to green, and his eyes shift back towards the road. “Left y’somethin’ in her will, did she?”

“Her countryside estate,” you confess, voice soft - it’s not the climax of your story but it certainly sounds like it should be, and you can see the confused crease in Harry’s eyebrows when you look up at him. “I looked the address up online, Har - it’s gorgeous, 6 beds and 7 bathrooms. I guess we had similar tastes in that regard.”

“Y’don’t sound too thrilled, for someone who jus’ got their dream house handed to ‘em on a platter.”

“There’s a stipulation in the will.”

“Ah.”

You smile tightly. “I’ll only inherit the house if I’m married.”

It’s something you’ll never understand. Aunt Alice never married and lived in that grand old house (your dream house) all by herself, and if you’d known about your role in her will perhaps you’d have argued it with her in person - the hypocrisy of it all, how goddamn unfair it was. And it’ll kill you - truly kill you - to see that house go to whoever her next closest living relative is who she doesn’t hate. Probably some third cousin twice removed, considering how great she was at cutting people off.

And Harry sits for a moment in silence, considering it. “Seems very - very - can’t think of the word.”

“Sexist? Unfair? Dumb?”

“All true,” he agrees, giving you a sympathetic smile, and it makes you feel the tiniest bit better, even if it’s just for a moment. “Barbaric, maybe.”

“I hate her,” you declare, crossing your arms over your hoodie-clad chest, and you most certainly don’t, but you’re angry enough to mean it in the moment. When your father had told you, you hadn’t thought about it too much - besides being confused by the entire thing, being left a house by a relative you hardly knew - but saying it out loud makes you angrier, squeezing your eyes shut. “Would you know she never married? How does that make sense?” “It doesn’t,” Harry repeats, and you glance out the window, lifting your palm to wipe at the cloudy stain your forehead had made against the glass - you’re just less a minute away from your apartment building, and you rip your phone from Harry’s charger and shove it into the pocket of your hoodie. “She left you time, right? T’get married? Tha’ seems only fair.”

You snort, ignoring the way his lips turn up into a smile at the noise. “She gave me a year. I mean, I’m 23 - I wasn’t intending on settling down for another couple of years.”

If you were less distracted, perhaps you’d see his responding silence for what it is - time to think, gears grinding in his head, as he pulls into the parking lot of your apartment building and leans over the center console to wrap you in a hug. Harry’s a talkative person and he’s only really quiet when he’s got something on his mind, but you’ve got something on yours too (probably more than he does) so you ignore it. And his soft murmur into your hair of ‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow for breakfast’ sounds every bit as distracted as you feel so you simply pay it no mind.

It’s easier that way, for now.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about your situation.”

You raise your eyebrows at Harry, bent over his plate of French toast as though he hadn’t spoken at all. His sunglasses are perched at the end of his nose so you can see his eyes - which, in your opinion, defeats the purpose of even wearing the stupid things in public. But, whenever you two go out together, he insists on wearing them, along with a grey beanie protecting his infamous head of curls from any wandering eyes, and the bizarre attempt at a disguise always makes you feel like you’re having breakfast with a burglar.

“Not much to think about,” you shrug, popping a forkful of omelet into your mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “I was just mad about it last night, you know. Heat of the moment, sort of thing.”

“I’d be mad, too,” Harry tells you, and it’s getting more difficult to ignore the way his words send heat creeping up your neck, and you glance down at your plate of eggs with a small smile gracing your face. “Not jus’ heat of the moment, either. Really mad. S’bullshit.”

A second of silence passes, and you let his reassurance settle over you - simply having him agree with you on the stupidity of the entire situation makes you feel a thousand times better. Even if you don’t get the house (and you’ve already progressed into the last stage of grief over almost certainly losing it - acceptance) at least you’ll always have Harry, and maybe that’s enough.

But the house would be nice, too.

“What were you thinking about?” You question, lifting your eyes back up to meet his through his tinted glasses, and if there wasn’t the barrier between your gazes you’d be able to note the nearly shameful glint in his eyes as he digs into his stack of sugary sweet toast, doused with maple syrup and towered high with fruit. “About the situation, I mean.”

Harry begins to speak once more just as you reach over with your fork to nab a piece of banana, and he swats at your wrist as you pop the slice of fruit into your mouth. “Don’ steal my banana, babe,” he tells you, eyes narrowing in mock anger, and you roll your eyes at the name. “Anyway. S’not totally crazy, that you could get married in less than a year.”

Yes, it is, you want to reply back, but you can tell he’s ramping up to something important, so you rest your fork on your plate and furrow your eyebrows at him pointedly. Truthfully, even if the love of your life happened to be sitting in front of you, you’re not sure you could go through with marrying them, anyway. It’s such a heavy commitment and, God, you thought you’d have more time. Time to explore and experiment and not settle down (in your dream house) just for the sake of it.

“What if we got married?”

And that - is not what you were expecting him to say.

You’re not sure if he’s kidding or not so you give it a minute before responding in any capacity. Just stare at him, and he makes a point of hooking his pinkie in the center of his sunglasses and tugging them down his nose just a bit so you can see the absolute lack of amusement in his eyes. He’s all business, goddammit, as if he hadn’t just basically proposed to you in the middle of eating your fucking omelet.

But you can’t be sure he’s serious, and you also can’t be sure that the way your stomach flipped wasn’t because of a particularly egregious sip of chocolate milk and not the prospect of marrying your best friend. So you lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Are you kidding?”

Harry just shakes his head, grey beanie sliding up just a bit for one chocolate coloured lock of hair to escape the confines of the dumb hat. “M’being dead serious, babe. I’ll get down on one knee an’ prove it, too.”

“Don’t do that,” you beg him, reaching out to grab at his wrist when he makes to push himself out of his chair, and his wide grin only sends your stomach into another set of somersaults. “Jesus, Har.”

“Horrible idea?”

You don’t respond right away, grabbing your glass of chocolate milk and wrapping your lips around the straw. It’s a few seconds to process the request in all its glory - marrying your best friend, even if it’s just for show, is a lot. Sure, all you’d really have to do is head down to a courthouse (you could do it today, even - if you wanted to, and you’re not sure you do.) It’d be easier than searching hopelessly for the love of your life and arrange a wedding in less than a year, and you’d be able to walk the halls of your aunt’s gorgeous estate, decorate it how you please, and - ideally - your relationship with Harry wouldn’t quiver in the slightest.

Well, maybe that’s why you’re hesitant to begin with. Because it would quiver - or because it wouldn’t - or because it’s plain weird to marry your best friend. Even if it’s for a good cause (your dream home) and even if he suggested it in the first place, because he cares about you and wants you to be happy.

That’s sweet.

Maybe it would be a glorious fuck you to Aunt Alice in death. It isn’t as though anyone would know about the inauthenticity of the union but you would, and that’s all the revenge you need for her adding such a silly stipulation to her will, anyway. A marriage born not out of love, but out of need - sure, it’s not exactly how you wanted your life to go, but it’s better than watching the estate go to someone you’d never met before. You could get married and get divorced in the time frame she’d given you to find love in the first place and it would hardly be a blip in your life plans, and certainly not in Harry’s. It isn’t as though he’d suggest it if the marriage would ruin anything for him.

Sure, you’d prance around family parties with him on your arm to sell your faux romance to your family. Only one or two, though, his arm around your waist, and it wasn’t as if your parents hadn’t already begun to question whether your close friendship with Harry ventured into something further. And, when it’s all said and done, when the house is officially in your name and you can begin shopping for furniture to make it your own, it’ll be easy to sell the divorce - he’s touring, you’d tearfully proclaim, and the stress was just too much on our relationship. And then you’d both be happy, right? For the most part, anyway. Still best friends with no hassle at all, and you get your house and he gets the popstar life without the settling down part.

When you’ve swallowed your gulp of chocolate milk, it’s nearly worrying how much you’ve thought about the proposal.

“It’s not a horrible idea,” you begin, eyes diverting downward to where Harry’s fingers are fiddling with a straw wrapper. “I mean, it could be pretty easy.”

“Very easy.”

“We just elope -”

“Could do it today, even -”

“I haven’t agreed yet, Mr. Styles - but we would elope, and then I’d get the house, and maybe I’d bring you to a family reunion, just to sell it, and then we’re divorced.”

He raises his eyebrows, glasses sliding further down the bridge of his nose until their purpose has been completely obliterated, and his eyes are on display for the goddamn world to see. “Unless we fall in love an’ live happily ever after - no divorce necessary, m’love.”

Bastard. Your stomach flips again but you just roll your eyes, picking up your fork and lifting a shaky bite of eggs up to your mouth. “Shut up.”

You’re almost certain you’ve made up your mind but you still make a show of thinking about it, slowly chewing on your omelet and focusing your gaze on a paper napkin resting on the ground beside Harry’s chair. It’s almost too easy, the entire process, and maybe that should make you nervous, just a little bit, that the idea of marrying him feels so relaxing. But - well - if you had to choose anyone in the world to marry in order to fulfill a stipulation in your aunt’s will, it would have to be Harry.

He’s looking at you eagerly when you look back up at him, and you’re not sure why he’s so excited about it - not like there’s anything in it for him - but it’s something you’ll think about later.

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this,” you tell him, watching the way his grin spreads across his face like wildfire, and you can’t help yourself from smiling, too, “but I am.”

In seconds, Harry’s reaching across the table, grabbing your hand in his larger one, and just the way your heart jumps at the feeling of your palms pressed together should certainly have you rethinking your enthusiastic yes. But then he’s picking up the straw wrapper he’d been fiddling with, and it’s twisted into a makeshift wedding ring, and he’s sliding it onto your ring finger with a wide smile like a fucking puppy -

God. You’re in too deep already, and you’ve only just agreed.

For the record, you’d rethought your decision many, many times since agreeing.

You’d drafted out the text for Harry for when you inevitably will change your mind - a block of words confessing to him that you’d reacted too quickly and you think it would be best if you simply forfeit your inheritance, but you can never quite gather the guts to do it. And every time you copy and paste the note from your notes to your text thread with your best friend, something always stops you -

The photos of the house from the real estate website you’d seen it on.

Harry’s wide grin as you accepted his offer.

FIngers delicately sliding on an engagement ring made of a paper straw wrapper, and the next day when he’d shown up at your door with an actual, real engagement ring.

Naturally, you hadn’t sent it. You’d deleted the note entirely, too, embarrassed with even looking at your words of defeat sprawled on your phone screen. Sometimes, though, you wish you had fucking sent it. Nearly two weeks after accepting the proposal that still hasn’t progressed from feeling like an absolute fever dream, you’re sitting with Harry at Aunt Alice’s funeral, his arm hooked around the back of your chair and the other clutching a glass of wine that he’s hardly taken two sips of.

You’re on your second glass already, and it’s barely been an hour. You’d signed the guestbook and hooked your arm with Harry’s and introduced him as your fiance to exactly one of your great-aunts, and you’d been so nervous that Aunt Shirley could see right through your faux-engagement that you’d practically downed your glass the second her back turned.

“This is so weird,” you confess to Harry, shifting closer to him so no one else around you can hear. Not that there is, per se, anyone else around you - not many other people are sitting down, but you and Harry were one of the first people to arrive, so you’ve given yourselves a pass to sit down for a while. “Isn’t it weird, Har?”

“S’only weird if you make it weird,” he murmurs back, and you would roll your eyes at how maddeningly calm he is if you weren’t desperate to keep up your pretense as loving fiance to the funeral goers whose wandering eyes may turn to you two. “And, babe, you’re makin’ it weird.”

Your lips spread into a smile and you lift your glass of wine to your lips, taking a small sip before bringing it back down to your lap. No matter how many times you scream at yourself, internally, that nobody knows you’re not engaged and to calm the fuck down, you can’t stop your leg from bouncing up and down, showcasing your nerves in the most outward way you possibly could. “Wonder when my parents are getting here - should’ve texted them and told them separately. Did you tell your mum?”

“Told her the truth,” Harry tells you, tilting his head into yours in a way that feels so natural you swear you could stay this way forever. “You’re not tellin’ your parents the truth?”

“Bless my mum,” you sigh, “but she can’t keep a secret to save her life.”

Harry exhales a soft laugh, eyes darting around the room full of people before landing back on yours, and your gazes lock for just the briefest of seconds before he’s glancing down at your lap. “Y’don’t have t’do this if you’re uncomfortable, y’know. We can jus’ say - the pressure of m’job was too much.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” you tell him, which is true. You’re nervous, for sure, but he could never make you uncomfortable. “And, ironically enough, that’s my excuse for when we divorce.”

Your voice drops to a near breath on the last word and Harry’s head drops back with a bark of laughter that’s entirely too loud for the setting you’re at but you can’t bring yourself to reprimand him. “Always talkin’ ‘bout our divorce,” Harry breathes, tilting his head closer to yours so his mouth is close enough to your ear that you can feel his breath, hot against your skin. “What if we fall in love, babe? No divorce then. Don’ y’want us t’live happily ever after?”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” you roll your eyes, even if you’re almost positive you will (or already have) and shake your head at Harry’s resulting chuckle. “Been best friends for nearly five years, haven’t we? If we were going to fall in love, I reckon it would’ve happened already, Har.”

“You’re right,” he agrees, voice oddly soft and sounding just sentimental enough for you to narrow your eyes suspiciously at him - but before you can question him further, his eyes dart down to where your leg is still frantically bouncing up and down. “Bloody hell, love - bouncin’ your leg so much. Y’look like a nervous wreck.”

“Thanks,” you begin, and whatever else you’d been meaning to say dies in your throat as Harry’s arm shifts from around the back of your chair and his hand comes down firm on your leg. His fingertips brush your knee and his palm lays soft against your thigh, just high enough to gently brush the end of your black dress and you wish you could control the way your stomach flips again and again like a fucking gymnast.

It’s to keep up appearances, you tell yourself. So people don’t think I’m so nervous. But it feels so nice, so natural in a way you hadn’t expected, feeling his hand resting on your thigh like it belongs there, fingertips drumming against your knee which most certainly isn’t bouncing anymore.

Your eyes flit up to his, narrowing them ever so slightly as if to sniff out his intentions, and out of the corner of your eye you can see two familiar figures walking in the high arched doors of Aunt Alice’s service. Your parents break off from each other nearly the second they enter, your father skirting off to greet some of his cousins and your mother’s eyes scan the room filled with relatives before landing on you and Harry.

“Mum’s here,” you tell Harry, pushing yourself to stand, and the feeling of his hand dropping off your thigh is a sensation you absolutely despise. He stands soon after you, adjusting the cuffs of his black button down shirt, and for the first time since the funeral began, you can see the beginnings of nervousness creeping upon him. A light pink flush works its way up his neck to his cheeks and he brings his hand up to run through his hair, inhaling a shaky breath. “You look nervous, Har. You’ve met my mum before.”

“S’different. Now we’re engaged.”

“Not too different.” You hook your arm with Harry’s, patting his hand with yours, and he gives you one grateful fleeting grin before you begin walking over to your mother. She’s bent over the guestbook, scribbling her name with the feather pen resting beside the log. You stop walking when you’re just a couple paces behind her, waiting for her to turn around and see you two - and your voice drops to a hushed tone as you reassure Harry. “I think she already sort of thought we were dating anyway - so she won’t care too much.”

“Wait - she did?”

“Hey, mum!”

You’re getting married in a week.

And, sure, you’d known that the entire process would move quicker than you could imagine but it still feels surreal and you still reckon you haven’t thought it through enough. It’s worsened (or, in some way, bettered) by the absolute adoration your family had immediately adopted towards Harry after meeting him just a few days ago, your aunts pulling you aside at the funeral and the repast that occurred after and whispering in your ear about what a handsome man he is!

Well, they’ll certainly be disappointed when, in a month or two, you pop in to the next family gathering and announce that you two had gotten divorced as quickly as you’d been wed. Harry will be your ex husband and, at that point, surely people would be suspicious at the speed of which everything had happened but - hey - you’ll have your house and your best friend and that’s all you really need, isn’t it.

Yeah.

Slowly but surely, you’re coming to peace with it, and Harry’s certainly making it easier by being so zen about it all. His nerves at the funeral had been just about eradicated because your mum loves him, which you knew, and your father had seemed positively overjoyed at the news of your engagement, but they’d both seemed rather disappointed at your decision to elope instead of spending the time planning a big white wedding. And you’d expected that, but you figure that, by the time your second marriage inevitably rolls around, it’ll be real (realer than whatever you’re feeling for Harry, because you’re still not sure) and your father will walk you down the aisle and you’ll be able to go shopping for a big gorgeous wedding dress like you’d always dreamt of wearing.

You haven't even bought a dress. The one you’re wearing now, staring at yourself in the floor length mirror propped against your bedroom wall, is one you’d purchased for your college graduation to wear beneath your gown - simple and flowy, falling to just about your mid-thigh, and the only redeeming quality for even being considered a wedding dress is its white color. Still - it isn’t as though it’s a real wedding, in the traditional sense, so it doesn’t make sense for you to spend too much on a gown you’ll don for a trip to the courthouse and then get sad whenever you look at it again, post-divorce.

No, you don’t think you like it. You’d liked it for your graduation but for a wedding (your wedding) you wish you had something just a bit nicer, and you want to strip out of it and change back into your jeans but Harry’s sitting in your living room, waiting for you to model the stupid thing for him, and you’d hate to disappoint him. So you inhale softly, run your hand down the fabric, soft beneath your fingers, and reach for the door.

Harry’s on his phone when you step out of your bedroom, slowly shutting the door behind you, his body looking strangely large where he’s perched on the small loveseat in your living room. Everything in your apartment seems too small for him - or just too small in general - and it’ll be a nice change to live in a house where you can hold gatherings of more than 5 people without feeling like sardines in a can.

“Har,” you call, reaching down to tug the ends of your dress just a bit further down your thighs as you step further into the living room, bare feet padding against the plush rug your parents had gotten you as a Christmas gift the year prior. “What do you think of the dress?” You can hear the click of his phone as he turns it off, dropping it on the cushion beside him, and heat creeps up your cheeks as his gaze turns to you - you should feel self conscious, the way his eyes roll up and down your body, drinking in every bit of your dress, but you fucking love it. Love the way his lips part into a small o and upturn into a grin, how he pushes himself to stand and close the distance between you two until he’s hardly two inches away from you, how he reaches down to pick up the end of your dress as though examining the fabric.

“Do you like it?” You question as Harry drops your dress, letting the fabric fall back down around your thighs. “Wasn’t sure if I did.”

“I love it,” he tells you, immediate and forceful and you can tell he means it with his whole chest - maybe you love it, too. “Y’look beautiful.”

“You don’t think it’s too simple, do you?” Maybe you’re fishing for more compliments but you allow yourself to do it shamelessly. “It was my graduation dress - remember?”

“I do remember,” Harry grins, tugging at the bottom of your dress, and keeping his hands busy is a nervous habit of his that you’ve grown to recognize from a hundred miles away, but you can’t think of why, exactly, he’d be nervous now. “Looked so pretty, walkin’ across tha’ stage. I was so proud.”

You smile, gaze dropping down to where his fingers are fiddling with the skirt of your dress, and you think you’ll wear this dress every single goddamn day if he reacts as positively to it as he is now. “You sound like my dad.”

His nose scrunches when you look back up at him, and your heart twists inside your chest. “Don’ make it gross.” You simply shrug, bringing your fingers up to drum against his shoulders through the fabric of his Fleetwood Mac shirt, his muscles flexing ever so slightly beneath your touch. “M’being serious, though. I love the dress. Y’make the prettiest bride on the planet - m’a lucky man, aren’t I.”

From the moment you walked out of your room you’ve been feeling heat burning your cheeks but it doesn’t stop you from gently smacking his shoulder. “Stop it - you’re gonna make me blush.”

“Looks like y’already are, Mrs. Styles.”

Should that name make your stomach as topsy-turvy as it does?

You shake your head, smoothing your palms over the front of your dress to both eradicate the wrinkles that adorn the fabric and to wipe off the sweat cropping up on your hands. You don’t think you’ve ever been so nervous around Harry before and you can’t quite place your finger on why, but it’s getting more difficult to look him in the eye with your heart pounding as fast as it is. “I’m not gonna be Mrs. Styles for another week.”

Harry exhales softly, fingertips tapping against your hip and you hadn’t even realized how close his hands were to that spot of your body - but it feels comforting, his touch on an oddly intimate part of you. “I can’t wait,” he says, and you can’t, either. “Makin’ me a very lucky groom, babe.”

Hearing him call you babe could make you go crazy if you focus on it for too long, so you don’t - and it’s hard to focus on much other than Harry himself as his head drops down, forehead pressed to yours, and oh God you can smell his fucking gum, and if you tilt your head up ever so slightly -

Is he going to kiss you? You think your heart will explode but you’ve never wanted anything more so you tilt your head up, just a bit, grip tightening on his shoulder, and you can feel his breath growing warmer against your face -

The sound of Harry’s phone ringing in his pocket snaps you out of your haze.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hands dropping off your hips, and your head drops downwards with a soft groan. It was so close. You could feel his breath against your face and how did that fucking opportunity pass you by? - “S’my mum. Fuck - m’sorry.” And you’re not sure if he’s apologizing for the call or what had (or, rather, had not) happened but it doesn’t matter.

One glance at the phone he’s tugged out of his pocket shows that he’s right - Anne’s contact photo smiles up at you and you give Harry a small nod, faking the smile you’re not feeling, before taking a step back against your plush carpet as he turns around, back to you, phone pressed to his ear.

“I’m gonna change,” you whisper to no one in particular. Harry’s head turns just a bit so you can catch the apologetic look on his face before he’s loudly greeting Anne, and you’ve never liked eavesdropping on their calls. So you turn and head to your bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind you and turning to stare at yourself, wide-eyed, in your mirror.

He almost kissed you.

He didn’t - but would he have? If Anne hadn’t rung him - would he have leaned down, breathing shaky, like how it always is when he’s nervous, and ever so gently pressed his lips to yours? And you would’ve known exactly how it feels to be kissed by him, whether it would be as dream-like as all the times you’ve dreamt of it. His hands on your hips, yours on his shoulders, bodies slotted together until your hands are roaming and you’re pushing him on to the couch, sliding into his lap and his hands would roam to your thighs -

It doesn’t do well to think about it now. You don’t want to get yourself too worked up about it - that doesn’t do anyone much good - and you don’t want to take too long to change. So you inhale a soft breath, smooth your clammy palms back over the front of your wedding dress, and you allow yourself one final glance in the mirror at the attire you’ll be donning in a week’s time before reaching around to your back, fiddling with the zipper until you can begin to tug it down.

You and Harry haven’t talked too much since you showed him your dress, and it’s probably not very great etiquette for an engaged couple, but you two have never been normal anyway.

He sent you a picture of the suit he’s wearing and it’s as every bit unconventional as your excuse of a wedding dress, and you told him that - how you would be a pair for the books, the opposite of what a regular married couple looks like. And you texted him just yesterday and asked if he would make you two a reservation at your favourite restaurant for dinner after the elopement (he always tended to get the nicer tables, and you don’t pretend not to know why) and he sent you back two thumbs-up emojis in response.

You’re getting married in three days, though. It would probably be best to talk about it with him before you cross that bridge but it’s never been one of your stronger areas, so you leave it be for now.

“Are you alright?” Your friend questions, tilting her head in so you can hear her against the thumping music of the club. Your friends had insisted on dragging you out for a bachelorette party the second they hard of your engagement and it would be out of character for you to refuse a night of drinks on them - even if you’d rather stay home and think about Harry and all the things you should’ve done when he was at your apartment. Getting drunk out of your mind does seem preferable to wallowing, though, now that you’re out and about and well on your way to getting smashed - so you turn to Olivia and nod once, a simple jerk of your head.

“I’m fine,” you tell her, reaching over to grab the cocktail Amy had gotten for you and bringing the straw to your lips. “Just thinking about Harry.”

Amy snorts from her spot across the booth, dipping her finger into her empty shot glass and licking up the droplet she collected. “Can’t believe it took you two so long to get together.”

“And I can’t believe you didn’t tell us about it,” interjects Olivia, reaching over to grab your glass out of your hand and taking a sip of your drink. “How long have you two been together again?”

Fuck. You’re in the grey area between being tipsy and being drunk and you can’t remember how long you and Harry had claimed to be together. Was it a year or two years? You think it’s a year - you’d wanted to go as low as possible with your answer. Did we say six months? That seems too low. “I’ve liked him since I’ve known him,” you answer instead, which is absolutely the truth, and Amy and Olivia are both too drunk to ponder about your evasion of the question. “Loved him, even.”

Your fingers brush against your phone, sitting on the table face down, as your friends playfully swoon - the last time you’d texted Harry was to tell him you were going to the club, and you hadn’t checked to see if he responded. It’s always been a habit between the two of you to text where you’re going, in case something happens, which seems oddly barbaric at times but you’ve always appreciated it.

“You’re so lucky,” Amy informs you, reaching across the booth to intertwine your fingers. She gets sappy when she’s drunk and you can tell from the distinct crack in her voice that she’s mere seconds away from bursting into tears and professing how much she loves you and Olivia - you don’t ever quite enjoy being around to see that. “I mean, really. You and Harry - we always knew it would happen -”

“I should call him real quick,” you mumble, watching as her eyes water over, and Olivia rolls her eyes with a grin as she scoots around the other side of the booth so Amy can throw her arms around her. You grab your phone and push yourself out of the booth, maneuvering through the crowd of people until you’ve reached the bathroom.

It's a single stall and the club is small enough that you only have to wait a minute or two before a thoroughly shitfaced woman stumbles out of the bathroom, a piece of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of her shoes, but she’s gone before you can point it out to her. You brush it off with a shrug and shut the door behind you once you’re inside the bathroom - it smells like Febreze and mint soap, and the scent of the mint reminds you of Harry’s breath and you really need to call him, don’t you.

You’re scrolling through your call log before you can wonder if calling your best friend who you’re in love with while you may be quite drunk is a bad idea - the phone is ringing just as you begin to - and he’s picked it up just when you realize you’ve made a mistake.

“Hey, babe,” Harry says from the other end, voice crackling with the poor reception in the club. He sounds groggy and raspy and you can tell you’ve either woken him up or he’s trying to go to sleep, and you don’t actually know what time it is, you realize. “What’re you up to?”

“I’m at a club,” you tell him, and you can hear his soft exhale of air and you can practically picture the slow smile spreading across his lips. “I’m out with Amy and Olivia - they wanted to take me out for a bachelorette party or something - s’kinda dumb, I dunno -”

“Are y’drunk? S’just, you’re slurrin’ a lot -”

“I’m tipsy,” as you sit back on the closed toilet seat, fingernails digging into your thigh. You don’t actually know what you’d called him to say but four days without talking to Harry seems like it’s setting some sort of record and you hate it. “Just wanted to call because - um - well, I miss you.”

For a second you think the call may have broken up - you can’t hear much beside his soft breathing, and you pull the phone away to check if it’s still connected. But then he sighs softly, and you’re quick to press your phone back to your ear. “I miss y’too, m’love - ‘course I do.”

“That’s sweet.” You hum softly, kicking your toes against the tiled bathroom floor. “I thought you might be mad at me.”

“Why would I be mad?”

“Dunno,” you shrug. “That’s why I was confused. But you haven’t texted me much.”

You can fucking sense him rolling his eyes. “Well, y’didn’t text me either. I thought you were mad at me -”

“I’ve been thinkin’ about what happened the other day,” you interject, and you know you wouldn’t be telling him this if you weren’t teetering more towards being drunk instead of tipsy, “and I really wanted to kiss you, you know. I mean, I thought you were going to - and then it didn’t happen.”

“Well, m’mum called.”

“Would you have done it if she didn’t?”

There’s a pause for only the briefest of seconds before Harry says, “‘Course I would have.”

Your heart flutters inside your chest and you lean your head back against the wall, nails digging further into your thigh and it’s difficult to hold back the grin that threatens to split your goddamn face in two. God, he would have. He would have kissed you - does he love you like how you love him? It seems fucking unreal, like something you’d dream up in your deepest sleep. You’d never thought Harry would ever feel the same way, even as you got a fucking marriage license together and planned out the dinner you’d eat after your elopement and -

You can’t think of a single other one of your friends who would fucking marry you for any reason, house or no house, life or death. And who would you do it for? Not Amy, not Olivia, even if they asked you nicely. It’s a commitment - a huge one - one that you wouldn’t be willing to do for anyone.

But you’d do it for Harry, in a heartbeat. You know you would. You’d have the fucking dress on before he could finish asking, and isn’t that what you had done, really? He hadn’t had to convince you much at all. You’d been willing from the get-go.

“Really?” Your voice is barely a breath, a soft exhale of air, reeking of the giddy joy you’re feeling at his proclamation. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Y’know I never lie to you.” Harry sounds nearly offended at the mere idea. “You are m’fiance. Comes with a code of conduct.”

You roll your eyes, and just then there’s a loud knock against the door - you jump violently, phone nearly slipping from your grasp. For a minute you’d forgotten you’re in a club bathroom and you know you’ve been here far too long to be appropriate - you’ll give yourself just one more minute to talk to Harry. “What about when we get divorced? Gonna lie to me then?”

“Always talkin’ about the divorce,” he murmurs, and his voice sounds so full of adoration that you’re nearly overwhelmed by it. “D’you have such little confidence about the strength of our relationship?”

If it were up to you, you’d be with Harry forever - but you can’t tell him that, not yet. “It’s not as though it’s a traditional relationship, you know. I don’t think most marriages that began for the sake of a house inheritance last too long,” you smile, feeling heat burning up your face even if he can’t see you. “Just generally speaking.”

“Hope y’got the statistics t’back that one up -”

Another louder knock shakes you again, and you jump up as though someone had set you aflame. Your phone nearly slips out of your clammy grasp once more and you clear your throat, lowering the device to your shoulder and calling, “Just a second!” to whoever’s waiting impatiently outside. You raise your phone back to your ear and clear your throat again. “I’ve gotta go, Har. I’m in the bathroom at the club - been in here a bit too long.”

“Aright,” Harry says, and you can hear soft shuffling from the other end, audio still crackled by the reception. “Breakfast tomorrow?”

You tilt your head to the side, scrunching your nose up before remembering he can’t see you. “I think it’s tradition for the bride and groom not to see each other before the wedding, isn’t it?”

“Now you’re a stickler for tradition?”

“I’ll see you at the courthouse, Har,” you tell him, before pulling the phone from your ear and hanging up. For a second you can’t move, staring down at Harry’s contact in your phone with a giddy grin that surely makes you look like some child in a candy store - and, in a way, you are - and it’s only a third knock at the bathroom door that has you scrambling out the door, giving an apologetic grin to the girl waiting impatiently.

Being married - for the record - doesn’t feel too much different than before.

There’s a shiny ring on your finger that Harry had bought, and when you glance across the table where he’s sitting, clutching his menu, you can see the similar wedding ring on his left hand - it’s simplistic and small and contrasts with the rest of his clunky rings and it makes you feel strangely warm inside when you spend too long looking at it. And, even after you and Harry had talked at the club, your ‘post-elopement’ dinner doesn’t feel entirely different than all of the other dinner dates you’d shared before the entire situation began. It’s familiar and sweet and his ankle is hooked around yours under the table, forcing a permanent heat onto your cheeks.

Harry rests his menu on the table, fingertips drumming against the laminated paper, and you similarly drop yours to look at him. “Think m’gonna get the spaghetti.”

It’s a testament to the slight air of awkwardness surrounding you both that the only thing he can think to talk about is the food he’s getting - but you’ll play along. “I like the raviolis,” you tell him. “Think I’ll get those.”

He hums softly, pushing his menu further into the table. “Can y’believe tha’ we’re married? I can’t. Seems so weird.”

“Doesn’t feel that different,” you disagree, toes tapping against his ankle beneath the table. “It’s not like we didn’t go out for dinner together before we got hitched.”

“We’re playin’ footsies under the table, babe.”

You grin down at your napkin, resting on your lap on top of your wedding dress. “Be careful or I’ll kick you, Har.”

His ankle tightens just a bit around yours beneath the table and you could watch that small smile spreading across his face for the rest of your life. “Y’wouldn’t dare - don’t y’love me?”

Yes, you do, so you resist the urge to unhook your ankle from around his and deliver a swift kick to his calf - just rest your palms on the table, scratching lightly at the rustic wood of the table. It’s hard for you to even pretend to be mad at him when all you can think about is how much you want to climb over the table and straddle him - as his wife you suppose it isn’t an insane thought, and you’re nearly certain he’s feeling the same way. Hadn’t he told you he would have kissed you if he hadn’t been called by Anne? Maybe you’ll get a chance to do it again - later. You’ll never give up the opportunity again.

“When d’you get t’move into the house?” Harry questions, leaning in just a bit in his seat.

“A few months, I think.” You shrug. “Reckon I’ll start redecorating before then, though. I’m already looking at furniture - I’ve gotta save up for most of it, though. Might sell my apartment before then.” There’s a pause, and then you shrug once more, picking at a crack in the table. “I’ll probably move back in with my parents.”

Harry’s eyebrows are raised when you glance up at him, fingers paused in their drumming on the menu. “Are y’kidding? We’re married. You can move in wit’ me.”

“I can’t ask you to do that -”

“Not asking, are you? Even if we didn’t just elope at a courthouse, you’re still m’best friend. Can’t have you moving in t’your mum’s basement.”

You smile softly, flattening your palms against the table and craning your neck to examine the ring - proof that it had really happened, that you’re really married. It still doesn’t feel quite real, no matter how many times you and Harry casually talk about it. “Was gonna live in her attic, actually.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’ll pay f’the furniture, too. Don’t look at me like tha’ - s’our house. Needs t’be ready f’when we move in.”

You hesitate, trying poorly to conceal the way your grin is arching further upwards at the mere prospect of what he’s hinting at. Living with Harry? Jesus, even if you weren’t in love with him, living with him sounds like an absolute dream, only made better by your feelings for him. And picturing walking through an Ikea, searching for furniture, feeling his arm around your shoulders as you two look online for decorations - if heaven were a place on Earth, it would be your Aunt Alice’s estate, soon inhabited by you and your husband. “Well, we’ll talk about it, alright?” you land on as your response.

For a moment, neither of you say anything, and the silence isn’t as stifling with awkwardness as it had been before. Then Harry reaches over, resting his hand overtop of yours, fingers instinctively intertwining, and your heart nearly splits itself in two - he initiated it, holding your hand, and maybe you shouldn’t feel so surprised but you can’t fucking help it. Your scalp is tingling and you swear your eyes are going to bubble over and his hand feels just as soft and beautiful as you’d expected - as you’d always dreamed of.

You’re not sure when, exactly, there would ever be a better time to tell him than now, so you clear your throat and squeeze his hand and confess, “I’ve liked you for a really long time, Har.”

Sharing your feelings isn’t necessarily your strongest spot but you’re feeling egged on by absolutely everything, and the way Harry brushes his thumb against your palm encourages you to continue. “I mean - since we met, basically - but I never told you. Never thought you would like me back.”

“I did,” he interjects, and you look up at him with furrowed brows. “Liked you back, I mean. Clearly - hope y’didn’t think I’d run off an’ marry anybody this fast.”

“I just thought you were being nice.”

“You’re silly, then.”

“A real idiot,” you proclaim, rubbing soft circles into the back of Harry’s hand, and you swear you’ll never let go unless someone fucking rips you away. “Guess I should’ve figured it out, then - seems like we did everything in the wrong order, right?”

Harry snorts, a noise that draws the slightest attention from an older couple sitting at a table beside you, but neither of you pay them any attention. “Get married first, fall in love second.”

“I was already in love,” and you’re not sure why, exactly, you had said that but it feels right and true falling off your tongue so you decide, pointedly, not to regret it.

There’s no hesitation when Harry responds, voice laced with the authenticity you’re so desperately craving - “Reckon I was, too.” You barely get a minute to process that and how it’s making your stomach do flips and turns like an Olympic medalist before he’s standing up, fingers still interlocked with yours to pull you up with him. “How d’you feel ‘bout a sleepover tonight?”

“A sleepover?”

He barely looks at you as he fishes through the pocket of his dress pants to pull out his wallet. “Not like we haven’t had them before.”

That’s true - you’ve slept over at Harry’s house so many times, it’s like a second home to you - but you have a distinct idea that, based off of your previous conversation and the wedding rings shining on both of your fingers, this sleepover will be just a bit different.

“Skipping out on the reservation, then?” you question, squeezing Harry’s hand as he tosses a $50 onto the table - a significant overkill for your lemonade and his Coke but you suppose he’s feeling rather generous today. “I am rather hungry.”

“We’ll eat at my house,” he insists, leading you through the maze of tables with a grip that’s so tight, you wonder if he’s having the same qualms as you are about never letting go. “Y’like pizza, don’t you?”

You’ve been in Harry’s house more times than you can count, but it’s never been like this.

His hand is still firm in yours and it’s a feeling you adore - even if his palm has gotten clammier with every second, every step you took closer to his front door, and you can practically smell the nervousness rolling off of him. It’s not unlike the worry that’s overtaken you because you’re not quite sure what he’s expecting - only know what you want to happen and you pray to any god above that your desires align with his.

The sound of Harry shutting the door is the only crack of noise burning through the otherwise thick silence surrounding you. Neither of you had known what to say and the car ride was taken in comfortable silence, hands clasped and heads bobbing to soft music playing on the radio, but being in his house is different - there’s no music, no excuse for Harry to keep his eyes off of you, nowhere to lean your head and pretend to be resting your eyes while your heart uncontrollably thumps against your chest.

In ways, it’s better. Most ways, in fact.

Slowly, you turn to face Harry, fingers drumming against the back of his hand. His breathing is heavy and his eyes never leave yours, and you’re reminded remarkably of trying on your dress for the first time in front of him and your position hadn’t been too unlike this one - maybe now you can do it right.

It feels entirely natural, tilting your head up until you can easily slot your lips to Harry’s. They’re soft and plump and he kisses you back with a vigor you hadn’t quite expected - deepening it before you have the chance to react, his free hand that’s not clutching yours roaming to your neck and you can’t ignore the way your stomach flips at the feeling of his hand on your throat. But then his hand keeps moving up, palm pressing to your cheek in such a sweet gesture that doesn’t at all match the intensity with which he’s slipping his tongue into your mouth - your hand lands on his waist, gripping the flowy material of his dress shirt, pulling his body as close to yours as you can get.

You only pull away to catch your breath, grip tightening on his shirt to ensure he won’t move away - you need him close to you, need to feel his body against yours - the bulge near his thigh that you can feel against your pelvis, hardening with every second that passes.

“Why’d you move?” Harry questions, voice soft and vulnerable and you can’t help but lean up and land another kiss to his mouth.

“Had to breathe, Har,” you murmur, smoothing your hands against his waist and the wrinkles you’ve surely created in the fabric. His fingers brush the edge of your jawline and you can feel your skin growing goosebumps beneath his touch.

He simply hums in response, ducking his head down to kiss you again. It’s sweeter this time, soft and fluffy but you don’t want that now - God, you want his hand around your neck and his knee between your thighs but perhaps that’ll have to wait for another time. You’re needy for just about anything you can get and if that’s sugary sweet kisses, a touch so gentle you could trick yourself into believing it isn’t there, then you’re more than grateful.

Harry’s teeth dig into your bottom lip, hard enough to have you moaning into his mouth and your nails dig into his through his shirt - the resulting whine into your mouth has you smirking against his lips, pushing your hips further into his. It’s the clearest way you can think of to tell him that you need him beyond kisses and touches.

“Jesus,” he breathes and you can feel his cock, twitching against your thigh and it’s a sensation you never thought you’d be able to experience outside of your deepest dreams - it feels twice as good as you’d imagined. “Gonna make me go crazy, babe.”

That’s exactly what you want.

“Hey,” and you pull away from him, his forehead dropping against yours, his breath still hot on your face, “don’t we have to fulfill the tradition of consummating the marriage?”

He laughs, a loud exhalation of air rather than his true barking laugh, but you smile anyway at the sound. “S’not the middle ages - no one’s expecting us to, if y’don’t want to.”

“Of course I want to.” Harry’s hand slides backwards into your hair, pulling the strands into a ponytail and tugging and your resulting moan has him smirking like a smug bastard against your lips. “God, Har. I really want to.”

It seems that that was the exact response he’d wanted - you get one last lingering kiss to your lips before Harry’s pulling away, hand falling away from your hair and other still interlocked with your own. You don’t have a second to question where, exactly, he’s leading you but then he’s tugging you through the foyer and down the halls and up the staircase you’ve grown to know so well - the trek to his bedroom has never seemed so viciously long until now, but by the time Harry swings open the door, you feel as though you’ve been walking for hours instead of barely a minute.

“On the bed, babe,” he directs you, all raspy tone and dominance lacing every last syllable and you can’t ignore the gush of arousal you can feel rushing straight to your core. It’s the stuff that makes up dreams, really, his fucking voice, and you know just the four simple words would be enough to get you off for years from now. “C’mon.”

You wouldn’t dream of disobeying - your footsteps are nearly completely silent on the carpet as you walk over to the end of Harry’s bed, pushing yourself up to sit on the plush duvet, sinking into the mattress that feels like an absolute cloud compared to the rock you’re used to sleeping on. For a brief second, he doesn’t move - just stands and stares at you, chest heaving through the baby blue dress shirt that your needy grasp had wrinkled. Then he moves, shutting the door with a barely perceptible click before making his way over to you, gazing up at him with heat blazing in your eyes.

Perhaps you’re expecting him to push you onto the bed, to fulfill the dominant tone he’d held before, so it is a bit of a surprise to see your best friend (your husband) dropping to his knees before you, fingertips ever so gently trailing up and down your calves.

The bedroom is so silent, save for your panting breaths and Harry’s shaky ones and you reckon he may be more nervous than you are - you’d expected him to handle all of the confidence between you two but his fingers are shaking as he pulls off your heels, resting them side by side on the carpet at the end of the bed. Chills crop up over your skin as his gentle touch roams up your legs, landing on your knee, and your breath hitches in your throat as the man you’ve loved for nearly 5 years leans in, lips landing a soft kiss to the top of your calf.

This isn’t what you had expected - him fucking worshipping you, on his knees - you’d never pictured it in a million years. And maybe it’s proof of the difference between him and the other guys you’d been with - your ex-boyfriends and flings had always been worried about their pleasure, never paying you any attention, and Harry couldn’t be closer to the end of the spectrum. Your entire body feels warm beneath his watchful gaze and touch, how he brings one hand up to snap firmly when your eyes flutter shut.

“Look at me,” Harry directs, and despite the slight strain in his actions, his words still hold a never-faltering dominance that he’d had before. “C’mon, babe. I don’ want you to look away from me - can y’do that?”

It’s a task that’s easier said than done, but you nod anyway, swallowing thickly as Harry redirects his attention back to your legs. His hand, resting delicately on your left knee as though you’d break if he put too much pressure, slides down the length of your leg until he’s grasping your ankle, kneading the soft skin in his grasp while his lips linger at the top of your knee.

Using his grip on your ankle, Harry hoists your leg up onto the bed without warning, your toes digging into the end of the bed - uses his other hand to push your thigh outward so you’re on display for him like a goddamn feast and his smug grin proves that he can see just how wet you are, soaking through the white lace panties you’d chosen for the occasion. Heat blooms up your cheeks as he presses an open mouthed kiss to your thigh, teeth grazing your soft skin, and then he gives a dramatic inhale and - that’s -

You reach down, bracing both palms on the side of his face and forcing your husband (husband!) to look at you in the eye. He looks confused by your interjection and apologetic and that isn’t what you were going for but you hadn’t expected him to want to eat you out - most guys didn’t.

“You don’t have to do that, Har,” you murmur, giving a pointed glance to your lap that he’s been eyeing like it’s his dessert. “I won’t be mad.”

And Harry looks almost offended by the prospect of not wanting to, like you’d insulted him - “I want to. D’you not want me to?”

“Yes,” you reply, your voice hardly above a breath, and when he begins to pull away you continue. “No! I mean - yes, I want you to.”

He grins, wide and toothy and reminding you of exactly why you’d fallen for him in the first place, and you settle back into your spot on the bed with your nerves almost completely eradicated. He wants to - he’s not doing it because he feels obligated - it’s already a step up from any other guy you’d ever been with.

Fingers trail up your thighs as Harry’s lips close around the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, cheeks hollowing as he sucks a deep purple hickey, and you lift your hips just a bit so he can hook his fingers in the waistband of your panties and begin to tug them down. The crotch area is practically dripping with your arousal and it takes a bit more force to tug it away from your cunt but once they’re gone, Harry grabs your ankle again and straightens out your leg, making it easier for him to tug the offending material down your body and toss them away from the bed before resting your foot back on the edge.

You can hear his shaky breathing as he pulls his lips away from your thigh, thumb smoothing over the mark he’d left as if to prove it exists. You’d get it fucking tattooed if you could - to forever commemorate this experience - his mark in such a secretive place, just a breath away from where you need him most.

“Jus’ - jus’ tell me if y’want me t’stop,” Harry tells you, eyes interlocking with yours once more, and you jerk your head up and down once. “Lean back f’me, then - not too far, jus’ a bit - still need t’see you.”

So you lean back, propping yourself up on your arms, a barely reclined position from how you’d been sitting before. It’s easier to see him as he grabs the hem of your dress, tugs it up just a bit, but when you lift your hips so he can pull it out from under your ass he doesn’t comply - well, perhaps he has other plans with it, doesn’t want the dress to come off just yet, and you can respect that.

The time it takes for Harry to duck his head beneath your dress, tongue flicking against your overly sensitive folds, seems like fucking years even if it’s hardly a second, but when he does your hips instinctively jerk forward into his mouth. His eyes are flashing when he looks up at you and you breathe out a stream of apologies, heart thumping in your chest, fingernails digging into the comforter beneath you. “Don’ move,” he directs, and you nod again and again and you don’t stop until his lips close in around your clit.

Your head drops back with a low moan as Harry’s teeth graze your clit, cheeks hollowing as he sucks the sensitive nub like it’s what he was born to do. The bottom of your dress covers the top of his head so you can’t see what he’s doing - you have no idea what his next move is and it makes the pleasure rolling through your body that much better.

“Fuck - fuck, Har -” the only two words you can think to moan roll off your tongue like a mantra, your back arching upwards despite his warning not to move but he doesn’t mention it - just drags one hand up, fingertips light and dancing on your thighs until he can splay his forearm across your lower stomach, effectively pinning you to the bed. Your hand moves from digging into the sheets to digging into his scalp, tugging at the loose strands of hair that smell ever so slightly of gel and it makes your heart swell to imagine him putting product in his hair for the elopement - but before you have time to dwell on the sweetness of the sentiment, that talented tongue is licking a thin stripe up your folds before flicking your clit and you’re brought back to reality. “Fuck.”

“Feel good?” Harry mumbles, muffled where his face is pressed firm to your pussy and the vibrations of his words reverberate against your clit, sending a chill up your spine, and you let out a low whine at the sensation.

“Yes,” you breathe in return, tugging at his hair just a bit, the strands forming a makeshift ponytail like he’d done to you before. “Feels so good, Harry, god -”

His head pulls back just a bit, hem of your dress dropping to just the tip of his nose so you can see his eyes - smug and glinting and you’re sure that, if you could see his mouth, those lips would be upturned into a smirk and practically dripping with your arousal - but he goes back in just as soon as he’d pulled out, burying his face in the apex of your thighs and you collapse back against the bed with a shout.

Whatever order he’d given you to maintain eye contact disappears. It isn’t as though you can see his eyes anyway, and you couldn’t stop yours from rolling back into your head if you tried. Ecstasy rolls through your body and, God, you know you’re close already, thighs tensing under where Harry’s palm kneads the soft skin, hard enough that you’re sure you’ll see bruises tomorrow. Your cunt clenches and flutters around the emptiness you’re yearning to get rid of and your back arches up again, Harry’s restraint on your torso not enough to stop it now, and you’re so fucking close.

“Harry -” you moan, digging your fingernails into Harry’s scalp and relishing in his responding moan to your clit - “gonna cum, Har -”

He doesn’t say anything - but you can feel his tongue continuing its work, up and down your folds and circling your clit and that’s response enough. Your hips jerk into his face, back arching as you grasp his hair tight enough that it has to fucking hurt but then you’re cumming and -

“Oh, fuck!”

Your voice is high pitched, cracked with a desperate sob right in the middle of your words before you’re holding Harry’s head to your pussy, his tongue working your clit like he was born for it, his low moans muffled against you. The hand previously holding down your torso slides up your body until he can shove his hand into the top of your dress, tugging it down so your chest is. He plucks at your nipple before grasping your tit, full in his palm, and the added stimulation prolongs your orgasm, hips rolling against Harry’s working mouth.

You can’t see straight when Harry pulls his head out from the bottom of your chest but when your vision focuses you’re beyond thankful. His chin is glistening with your arousal, tongue poking out to lap at the moisture on his lips and he dons that shit-eating grin you’ve grown to know so well. You usually see it when he wins a board game or when you’re celebrating something - seeing it on his face after he’s finished giving you the best orgasm you’ve ever gotten is certainly different but not unwelcome by anyone’s standards.

There’s a second where all you do is lie back and catch your breath - staring up at the ceiling above you, chest heaving as the aftershocks race through your body. Harry, meanwhile, pushes himself to his feet, muttering a small groan about God, m’fuckin knees and gettin’ too old for this, aren’t I?

Lazily you hold your hand out towards him, wiggling your fingers, and he reaches out to interlock your fingers again. “How was that?” he questions, voice soft and almost insecure and it’s a sharp contrast from the dominance he held before, but you know it’ll come back.

“I think you’re a natural at that, Mr. Styles,” you tell him, squeezing his hand in reassurance as you pull him closer to you until his knees hit the bed and he’s forced to collapse on top of you, grin cracking onto his face. “Gonna undress me?”

“‘Course,” Harry murmurs, leaning down to place a brief kiss to your lips, but before you can lift your head to deepen it he’s rolling off of you, shifting onto his side and shuffling upwards so his head rests on the stack of pillows. You raise your eyebrows at him - it isn’t as though he can take your dress off from that position - but, as though he can read your mind, he raises his hand and pats his lower stomach pointedly. “Climb up, babe.”

For what seems like the millionth time today, you can feel heat pulsing in your cheeks but you hope it doesn’t show - just sit up, swing your legs around so you’re straddling Harry, hands on his chest and gazing down at him like the God he seems to be. His hair is splayed out on the pillows beneath him, bottom lip tugged between his teeth, and you can’t help yourself - lean down to land your lips to his again, and this time both of you allow it to deepen. His hand starts at your cheek like it had before but you reach for it, fingers wrapping around his wrist and maneuvering it downwards until his palm is wrapped around the column of your throat, and he squeezes once experimentally.

You moan softly, hips rolling against the pointed bulge in his dress pants, and Harry’s eyebrows raise. “No fuckin’ way,” he breathes, squeezing again just to hear the way your breath catches. “Gonna be th’fuckin’ death f’me.”

You’re fine with that, and you reckon he is too.

You reach behind you, tapping along your back until you can reach the zipper. You’ve only tugged it down an inch or two before Harry’s free hand replaces yours, dragging the zipper down as far as it can go before reaching for the bottom of the dress. It’s gone in an instant - tossed off the edge of the bed, to be worried about later - and you can feel his fingers fumbling with the clasp of your bra before it comes undone, and then you’re naked.

You’d expected yourself to feel more embarrassed, or perhaps just nervous, and maybe it’s the effects of your previous orgasm but you’re feeling surprisingly calm - or maybe it’s how Harry looks up at you like you’re some sort of goddess sent from above, as though he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

It does wonders for your self esteem, truthfully.

“Gonna undress me, then?” Harry questions, hands smoothing up and down your thighs, eyes drinking in every bit of your exposed body on top of him.

You hum softly, pinching at the soft material of his shirt. “I don’t think so - want you to fuck me in your fancy clothes.”

“Well, if I’d known tha’ was an option -”

“Do you want me to put the dress back on?”

“No!”

You grin down at him before rolling your hips over his again, and it’s the last thing you manage to do before his grip lands on your hips and he’s flipping you over - your head lands dangerously close to hitting the headboard but it’s worth it, seeing him above you, fully clothed, pupils lust-blown and wide.

It hardly takes a second for Harry to undo the button to his pants and the sound of the zipper being undone is like music to your fucking ears - you spread your legs, letting him slot his body between them and oh, you can feel the tip of his fucking cock it’s right there and -

The first movement, Harry pushing himself inside of you, has you throwing your head back against the pillow, the moan coming from your throat mixing with a cry. He’s big - certainly bigger than you’d ever expected and bigger than any guy you’d been with - feels like he could split you in half if he wanted to but he stops, hands smoothing up and down your body, and you make a point of reaching for his hand and interlocking your fingers.

You’ll never grow tired of holding his hand, you think. Not for a while, anyway.

“How’re you doin’?” he questions, voice strained, and when your eyes shift back to him you can see the droplets of sweat beaded on his face. “Jus’ - jus’ tell me when, alright?”

“When,” you breathe almost immediately. You hadn’t needed too much time to adjust but you need him to move - you’re so pent up and you know it won’t take long to take you to your second orgasm but, God, he needs to fucking move. “Please, Har - please, fuck me.”

It doesn’t seem he needed much more encouragement than that. With one final move of wrapping his free hand firm around your neck and giving another small squeeze, Harry pulls out agonizingly slowly until just the tip of his cock remains in your heat. Just as you open your mouth to beg him to move again he slams back in with a force you hadn’t anticipated, your body rocking backwards of its own accord with the weight behind the thrust.

It’s exactly what you’d needed, though - fast and rough and his hand, cutting off your airflow just a bit, just enough to have you quivering beneath him. The low groan that rips out of his throat, reverberating through the humid bedroom has you pushing your hips up to his, trying to deepen where he’s buried inside of you to the hilt but you’re not sure how much deeper he could get. Feels like he could split you in half with every desperate thrust, every rut of his hips into yours and yours back into his.

“Oh - god - m’fuckin’ good girl, so tight around m’cock -”

Another rush of arousal gushes straight to your core with his filthy words and your head falls back into the pillow with a high whine, nails digging into the back of his hand as his other one tightens grip around your neck. It makes every desperate moan and cry that much airier and you can tell Harry likes it, staring down at you as his hips pound yours with absolutely no mercy and you don’t want any, anyway. It’s the subject of every single fantasy you’ve ever had about him, rough and hard and the sound of skin slapping skin overpowering your needy noises.

You’d never dreamt it would feel so good.

“Oh god, Harry!” Your eyes are rolling back into your head as your free hand trails down your stomach, shaking fingers focusing on your ignored clit and beginning tight circles around the nub. The jolts of pleasure that run through your body are - god, fucking amazing and you know you’re close, hardly need anything else to tip you over the edge. “Gonna - gonna cum, Har -”

It’s a testament to, perhaps, the long-growing tension between the two of you that his head drops backwards with a cry of me, too in a tone that’s so desperately vulnerable and it’s exactly what you’d needed - the reminder, in the midst of the rough thrusts and desperate moans, that this isn’t a one time thing. If you both allow it, it’s the rest of your life, just like this - and, God, you’ll allow it.

Your cunt clenches around your cock as you cum, eyes rolling back into your head and body spasming beneath him. In the midst of it Harry pulls out and you don’t get a second to question the sudden emptiness before you feel a familiar warmth hitting your lower stomach, and you open your eyes in time to see your husband, hand working at his cock as ribbons of cum spurt onto your stomach.

(You think you could cum again just from the sight but - well, you’ll hold back.)

His breathing is choppy and desperate, broken occasionally by a needy moan until he’s finished and he collapses on his back beside you, hands still intertwined with no intention of letting go. Nothing needs to be said - not yet - not for a little while, where you’ll talk about it more.

A little while ends up merely being a minute or two before Harry swings his legs over the edge of the bed, hand still clasped in yours, and makes to stand up - it’s only your tightening grasp on his hand that forces him to stop, glancing behind him to look at you.

“Don’t,” you plead, throat already feeling sore and voice raspy. “Just - another minute, alright? Then clean up.”

He hums softly but you know he won’t resist the prospect of just a brief cuddle - one of the few things you hadn’t done often when you were just friends, because you knew that, if Harry held you as close to him as he is now, lips pressed to your forehead, you wouldn’t be able to resist telling him how you felt about him.

Doesn’t matter now, though. And his arms feel so warm around you, clammy palm still pressed to yours like a fucking couple in middle school but you wouldn’t dream of letting go. It’s all so - so peaceful, lying with him and listening to his heartbeat as you rest your head to his chest, listening to his heartbeat thumping as fast and hard as yours is.

And - well. Barely a month ago you were convinced your Aunt Alice was the worst woman in the world - a hypocrite and an asshole, set out to taunt you by lording your dream home over you and snatching it away when you couldn’t find a husband in time. But now? Feeling Harry, landing soft kisses again and again to your forehead, you figure she’s not so bad, after all.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles writing #harry styles angst #best friend!harry styles #loose ankles #lol #one of my fav things ive written #i got carried away during the smut.... sorry

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dorimena · 3 years

Note

Are you taking requests could you make a part two for motorboating but the characters are motorboating the reader (sorry if this to much)

Yes I am! And of course! I’m assuming it’s the same three characters so - and it’s not too much! Sorry in advance if it comes out a bit sillier than the original one (´꒳`)

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰; Bakugou Katsuki, Aizawa Shota & Monoma Neito

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱; 1.6k

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰; nsfw in Monoma’s part, nsfw-ish in Aizawa’s, motorboating, ⅔ fluff, ⅓ suggestive, cuddling, soft boys, mentioned kink, bdsm harness, cursing, implied multiple orgasms in Monoma’s part

𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔰; gender neutral reader, the boys appreciating your chest, everyone but Bakugou kinda failed, implied dom!reader, implied sub!character, aged-up characters, Monoma & Bakugou are 18+

𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔢; in case no one knows what motorboating is, let us take our beloved Urban Dictionary and recite:

“The act of pushing one's face in between two ample breasts, and rocking one's head side to side very rapidly while making a vigorous, lip-vibrating "brrr" sound.”

Here is part one where these three boys are motorboated

𝕸𝖔𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖇𝖔𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝕳𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖓𝖘 𝕽𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖊

☙ Remember when I said that if there’s one thing Bakugou loves more than lying on your lap, it’s you lying on his chest?

☙ I lied, kinda

☙ The truth is that he loves laying on your chest more than you laying on his chest, but he’s sure it’s about the same sentiment

☙ He loves using you as a pillow, but he won’t ever really admit that, not at all

☙ Not because it’s embarrassing (it kind of is) but because you tease him about it, which makes him blush and 6/10 times he sometimes indulges in some fantasy and proceeds to accidentally ignore you

☙ And now it’s one of those times where he accidentally did it again

☙ And you’re pouting, the hand that was scratching his head just placed there, still as your eyes drift elsewhere, gaze set on some random object as you try to think up what’s getting him so distracted

☙ But Bakugou thinks you’re upset, sad, because you stopped scratching his head and you know how much he loves that!

☙ He bites back his question, not wanting to bother you out of your obvious thoughts, simply placing his head back on your chest until an idea comes to his mind

☙ And even if it’s something you’ve hinted at liking, he’s still gonna try convincing himself this is revenge, kinda

☙ You managed to find out how much he loves you motorboating him, so saying this is revenge will be out-of-place and just make it obvious how he’s just being a good boy boyfriend

☙ Anyways, let’s get back to the present

☙ He stops any other hesitation lingering in his mind as he slowly turns his face, his face buried in between your chest which startles you out of whatever you were doing

☙ And when you scratch his head to maybe catch his attention, Bakugou takes this as his chance to begin turning his head side to side, slowly

☙ When he picks up speed and is at about the same pace you usually are in when motorboating him, you laugh as you hug his head

☙ Accidentally stops him, by the way, and has him let out a noise of confusion and slight irritation

☙ Did you not like it?

☙ But he feels how you’re giggling, laughing, cooing at him

☙ He’s red, but you can’t see it, not when you’re holding his head still

☙ And he’d be trying to pull back but being buried between your chest is, again, oddly soothing

☙ But now he’s kind of suffocating

☙ So he kind of struggles in your hold, and when you loosen up, he starts again, this time making sure to make much more convincing engine noises

☙ Your laugh grows tenfold, and he eventually joins in, his body shaking as laugh after laugh rakes over and he looks up at you

☙ “Suki, again?”

☙ This might be one of the few times you let him take control, and he will make this worthwhile

☙ In other words, you guys aren’t leaving the couch for a gooood time

☙ Because Bakugou will be trying to argue and convince you he does a better job motorboating and how you’ve been doing it wrong all this time

☙ You retort back how he’s never complained before

☙ He stays quiet before burying his embarrassed face in your chest again, making weak noises before they just turn into his typical grumbles

☙ He wants you to know just how ticklish this can be

☙ Because when he asked you if you wanted to be motorboated by him, you rejected the offer and said it’s fun giving than receiving

☙ Had him wonder if someone’s done this to you and you either didn’t like it in general or the other person ruined the experience

☙ Either way, he came to the conclusion that he’s just going to have to surprise attack you like you did to him

☙ Asking you and convincing you would be futile, with the way you seem to be cautious with his questions

☙ Or you’re hiding something

☙ But he knows that if you’re hiding something, it’s for a good reason he’ll eventually find out, whether accidentally or you ‘spilling the beans’

☙ His surprise attack came into action the moment he saw you relaxing on the bed in a starfish position, staring at the ceiling

☙ He just came out of the shower, but he’s decent; shirtless, but he’s at least wearing pants

☙ So he’s not too eye catching (lies he already had your attention the moment he opened the door)

☙ And seeing how busy you seem, he decided that it’s now or never

☙ And it has to be now

☙ You feel the bed sink a bit, but below you rather than next, but you don’t look at him, not while you’re busy trying to figure out how to tell him that you’re-

☙ Why is his head on your chest?

☙ Not that you mind, but it’s mostly you on him than him on you

☙ Does that make sense?

☙ Your eyes go to the top of his head, blinking as your brain processes the position

☙ But it’s too late because he’s already moving his head and making the engine sounds

☙ Which would look ridiculous from your point of view but really it has you blushing really red

☙ He can, uh, feel it, right?

☙ Your shirt is too thin to hide the-

☙ Aizawa stops and interrupts your mental monologue, lifting his head to stare at you with dilated pupils and mouth opened in slight shock

☙ Did he feel that right?

☙ You shyly smile, wiggling your eyebrows before somehow stripping off your shirt

☙ And on your chest is a black leather harness

☙ Has Aizawa salivating in his mouth until he realizes oh, tonight’s the night

☙ “Keep motorboating, babe. Don’t stop until I say so.”

☙ Has him wondering why you’d tell him that-

☙ Oooooh your leg feels good grinding against his half hard-on, has him almost whimper on the spot but he groans softly instead

☙ Surprise motorboat attack kind of failed, but it came to bite him back with a better surprise

☙ God, he loves it when you put that harness on

☙ Again, remember in the previous post you were up for either him motorboating you or you motorboating him?

☙ The offer is still on the table

☙ But Monoma doesn’t know that

☙ He still doesn’t really like you motorboating him

☙ First, because it’s really ticklish and he’s really ticklish and if he’s tickled enough he lets out embarrassing snorts

☙ Second, because his nipples are sensitive and if you brush against them a certain way, or in any way really, he moans and it doesn’t matter where you guys are

☙ So, it’s torture

☙ He’s been plotting revenge for some time since the last time you motorboated him

☙ Which was the previous night where he had to fucking run to the bathroom because-

☙ Well, you get the idea, I think

☙ How embarrassing! How could you be so mean?

☙ … that’s a stupid question and he knows

☙ So his revenge, unlike Aizawa’s surprise attack, wasn’t to creep on you and motorboat you before you even notice

☙ Rather simply dive right into your chest and go crazy with it

☙ And don’t tell anyone, but he had to kind of investigate how to do it properly because he’s not such an asshole to simply fuck it up and make it hurt

☙ Who knows how hard he’ll fall against you, so he’s been practicing that too

☙ Don’t let him know you caught him practicing his dive one too many times that it had you concerned whether or not he’s been struck by a quirk or if it’s just Monoma being… Monoma

☙ The day has come where he shall give you a piece of his mind

☙ Or so he thought until he suddenly found himself trying to catch his breath from your 3rd round of couch sex

☙ Has him trying to remember why he even decided to come to the living room if he could be in his office catching up in paperwork-

☙ Oh yeah

☙ Your eyes are closed as you bask in your post-orgasm bliss, a small smile on your lips as Monoma shifts, being careful not to have you fall off his lap as he stares at your chest

☙ Inhaling, he goes forward, his face finally buried in your now-sweaty chest, wondering what he’s supposed to do next

☙ You basically somehow fucked all his thorough investigation and practice out of his head, how dare you

☙ Sighing, he plants a kiss on the skin before moving his head side to side, but quite slowly

☙ As if he were finding comfort in your chest rather than actually put effort in his revenge

☙ You open your eyes, wrapping your arms loosely around his neck as you pick up his weak attempts at a motor sound, humming to it as you rock back and forth

☙ And no, I don’t mean in a soothing manner, I mean in a ‘let’s go for round 4’

☙ Monoma whimpers, his head completely stopping as his hips snap up

☙ “Let me motorboat you- hnngh~”

☙ With a laugh and a “do it but I’m not stopping”, Monoma fails in correctly executing the perfect motorboat

☙ But who cares, it somewhat saved him from remembering how he easily forgets things when you fuck him, apparently

#۵; sin #bnha smut #mha smut #bnha fluff #bakugou fluff #aizawa smut #monoma smut #bakugou x reader #aizawa x reader #monoma x reader #𝖇𝖆𝖐𝖚𝖌𝖔𝖚 #𝖆𝖎𝖟𝖆𝖜𝖆 #𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖒𝖆 #✿; impurity

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heli0s-writes · 3 years

Text

Clumsy

Summary: Serendipity, it’s the only way Steve can describe it. His ma was right: he’d always been slow.

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader

A/N: Fluff with a tiny sprinkle of Steve angst because I love one sad boi. Written for @wkemeup‘s 4K Challenge like an entire year ago!! I’m so sorry, Kas!! The prompt was Bright Eyes’ “First Day of My Life”. 2.8k words.

It was supposed to rain.

Thunderclaps rolled in the distance all morning. Moisture hung heavy in the air and the earth smelled like wet already--- salty, thick, sweet. The app on his phone blinked gray clouds straight across the screen. Seventy-three degrees and a nine-five percent chance of precipitation. Winds NE 20 miles per hour.

But at 2:30 in the afternoon when Steve slides into the car, it’s clear and blue.

So he figures it’s coincidence and poor meteorology when the engine quietly rumbles to life. He fixes the collar of his shirt, checks for hotels around the midway point, and sends an uneasy look to the empty passenger seat.

Then, he makes his way to where you are.

The two-lane country road stretches on. Winding and curving, pitch-black and howling with wind and wildlife. Bugs splatter on the windshield and he mechanically sprays a bit of fluid, wiping them off, the squeaks giving his radio a bit of rhythm in all this late-night talk. It’ll be another half hour before he gets to the hotel and he’s still wrestling with himself if he should even break.

No reason to now. He can drive all night. No reason to other than his pride.

“So what is it?”

There’s an imprint in the seat. An outline of a warm body folding soft creases in the leather. Late night talk radio fizzles out, and he’s tired, so he can’t get too upset at his brain for seeing the shape even though it’s been months since anyone’s sat there.

He chances a look over, then quickly back ahead because sure—the sedan is small, but this tiny strip of pavement feels even smaller. Too right and he’ll careen into the woods, too left and if another car’s coming around the bend Steve would roll out alive, but he’d be the only one.

He looks again.

Legs folded. Bare feet. Ankles crossed on the dash. Casually sitting with one hand on your phone and the other one behind your head, face lit incandescent by the screen. It was the first time he’d been alone with you after New York; he remembers this.

You hadn’t even given a glance sideways at him, still fixed on the screen, thumb sliding up and focused on mission details in a perfect picture of indifference.

“Your whole thing. Mister Red-White-and-Broody, most eligible bachelor in all of America—which, by the way, is so far up your ass all fifty states might as well be coming out of your mouth—”

“Stop it.”

“Okay, Rogers.” A smirk. His last name slipping between your lips like military title. “Fine, you’re all gilded in the front, suffering in the back. So—” You turned finally, pulled your feet back and tucked them under your body, “What is it?”

Steve pretended to think, left hand clenching a fraction tighter on the wheel, feeling its strength beneath his grip. His face remained impassive and dedicated forward, turning the seconds in his head, counting down the appropriate time for his reply.

It was a game, certainly. Your assertion, your poise, hand propping up your head—all of it. Your entire being was a foil to one Steven Grant Rogers and he was strapped with you for half a week. Already the car ride was beginning to foreshadow what was quickly seeming to be a long assignment.

“It’s my job—”

“So weak.”

“I’m busy—”

“Are you even trying to lie?”

You were known to do this: lay out a path of questions that only gave your company the pretense of a genuine conversation. You’d lead them like a wrangler leading horses to water, knowing they wouldn’t drink, but giving them just enough time to stare at their own reflection in the pool before you’d yank the harness elsewhere.

It was always a short path, but what you lacked in subtlety you made up for with honesty.

Agitated, Steve snapped before he could rein himself back in.

“What are you, my psychologist?” Horse.

“You don’t have one. You are the only Avengers Tower resident who has run off every psychologist on Stark’s payroll. So--” a twist of your torso, your back pressed up against the door handle as you stared at the outline of his side profile. Wrangler.

The question dangled in front of his gritted teeth. The answer he’d known long ago was behind two perfect calcium rows, pressed up, trying to find its way through the cracks.

What’s your thing? We fought together. We live together. We suffered a cataclysmic event in the form of aliens together---so why doesn’t anybody know you?

You leaned forward, body tilting until it almost touched your former footrest. Your head sloped to find his face and when he flicked his eyes sharply to yours, Steve knew it wasn’t sharp enough.

“You don’t want to be vulnerable.”

You’d led him through the brief route of your inquisition and had seen all you cared to see. Your voice bounced off the window when you closed your eyes and turned away.

“Steve,” you sighed, mouth going to the side in a smile. “Vulnerability is clumsy, but it��s the only thing worth anything.”

He had thought: No, it isn’t. He’d spent too long being vulnerable already, and he couldn’t afford it again. Twenty years of a miserable half-life and seventy years of sleep and suddenly the world was new and different and strange. Coming back into his body was new and different and strange but it was the body that afforded him invulnerability.

Mostly, anyway.

Steve decided, then, at least he could make up for that lump of mortality—that lump of weakness—with performance.

So, he became the blacksmith to his feeble Brooklyn boy heart. Forged carbon steel, gold-plated, immaculately polished like his own shield at press conferences. Smoothed himself into a monumental display of impeccable posturing and hid the boy away where no one could reach him. Let him go back to sleep, too. Frozen in a time long passed, long forgotten.

He wasn’t Steve Rogers anymore because no one knew Steve Rogers anymore; it was the only way he could carry on. Didn’t you know?

No, he supposed, you didn’t.

On the ride back you surrendered yourself to the backseat, laying down in the most comfortable position the sedan would allow, and chatted his ear off the entire ride home. Called him Steve and looked at him through the rearview mirror. Eyes met eyes, and yours crinkled at the edges with some secret knowledge.

By the end of it, all he could think about was how he didn’t mind the conversation and that his first name even sounded a little nice coming out of your mouth.

You shimmer in the passenger side until your hair hangs a little longer. His brown leather jacket is around your shoulders. A stretch of your arms. A stretch of your lips. Months passed and Rogers befell the man you knew during the Manhattan Crisis while he became Steve.

Steve on missions and in the field—On your six, Steve! Keep up, old boy. Steve at the tower and Steve in the gym— don’t touch my weights, Steve, you’ll throw your back out.

Steve getting the door and pouring the whiskey and letting you wear his jacket when you were cold. Finding you across rooms at parties because there was an easiness to your presence that calmed the crowd. Shooting pool and watching movies. Up late and out late and laughing until the early hours.

He was Steve, your friend, because he finally allowed himself to have a friend.

You change. Shimmer again until your hair is pulled back from your swollen face. A hospital gown crinkled around your shoulders. Asleep, cold. Too close to death, too close to him. He couldn’t even sit by your bedside, only standing by the door, shuffling from one wall to the other and watched the monitors with a too-loud and static-filled brain.

He was hesitantly Steve when you stepped too close to him on the balcony nights later, hand precariously hovering over that fragile boy heart, finally pressing down on it, feeling his delicate pulse thawing and crawling towards you. Tipsy smile and you tasted like whiskey and easy joy.

The kiss was clumsy, like you’d said. Vulnerability threw him back to the 40’s, all gangly limbed and ill, his lungs malfunctioning, his breath smothered in his mouth. He stumbled, but the banister held him up.

You didn’t mind that his knees felt boneless. You chalked it up to too much drink, but the touch of your still-bruised cheek abruptly burned down his throat—warm and smooth and cataclysmic until he caught sight of the way you winced as his hand cupped your tender face. Steve stepped back, then, and apologized for what he said should have never happened.

There was a small quiver from your shoulder before you quietly went back inside.

He cursed himself on the balcony. Cursed letting it all happen in the first place. Captain Rogers watched your retreating steps, burying the spark and the fire. And the boy must have cried in his ice-block coffin when he buried him again, too.

“Don’t look at me like that.” God, he’s going crazy. Poor night-vision and an addled brain causing him to scold an empty seat. “You stopped talking to me.”

His grip on the steering wheel tightens the way it does when you’re too deep in his head and he can’t get you out. Days without hearing from you smeared together in careful steps of a cagey dance. Comments always presented as half-truths—riddles he struggled to deconstruct. Breadcrumbs never leaving enough of a trail to lead him anywhere. He wants the harness back. Wants back your confident hand.

“You could have said something.” Steve scoffs, because you always had something to say. “Anything. You could have said anything. We were—friends.”

And hell, doesn’t that sound stupid out loud? Maybe it’s best that he’s got nothing but infinity beyond the sedan’s glaring brights and a million thoughts of unsaid words. It’s all useless, anyway. Best that he can get it all out now, talking to your ghost. It keeps all his thoughts in his head and keeps him from yelling every time he sees you not-looking, not-smiling, not-talking to him.

Steve flicks the wipers on again. Shuts off the radio. Shuts off the navigation. Takes the car off cruise-control to give himself something to do. He’ll stop overnight, after all.

Suddenly then, in the distance, two glowing eyes greet him steadily. Measured paces, in a firm and crisp trajectory, growing closer and closer. Glaring and vivid, beating the monotonous grind of nighttime out of him. His pinky moves, and his high beams flip to low beams, white giving way to yellow and the glistening road signs and tree-shadows in the distance slowly diminish.

Bleached spectral glaring of leaves and road signs soften ochre and brown, indigo dark. For a fleeting moment, even Steve’s enhanced eyes feel half-blind again as he readjusts to the pitch-black night barely lit. The car coming toward him does the same, highs blinking low and they pass each other in quiet understanding. In blind trust on the dark road, dependent on each other’s good faith to see it through.

He thinks of Sarah Rogers in a tiny Brooklyn kitchen, floral wallpaper yellowed and peeling behind her. One hand on an apron-clad hip, cooking interrupted by her son stumbling in dripping blood down his shirt, her other hand clenched around a wet kitchen rag.

“Steven Grant Rogers! Oh—wretched! What else can I say,” she’d sigh as she pressed it to his nose, “You do whatever you please, anyhow. You just put this on your face—and don’t think it’ll get you out of doing the dishes, either.”

“But—” he’d attempt.

She’d put up her hand, “Lord have mercy on any young woman that’ll have you. May she have your poor mother’s patient heart.”

His ma always called him slow. A dolt through and through. Quick to temper, but laborious to do much else. Common sense always took its sweet time-- took the long path home to get to Steve Rogers. In seventy-odd years, he hasn’t changed.

Better than coincidence and better than poor meteorology. Serendipity. It’s the only way he can describe it.

Like finding a crumpled up twenty in his pocket—or in his case, a five—enough then for a week’s worth of meals. Like having that nightmare— the one right before the plane crashes and instead of going down with it, he wakes up. Like expecting to drive five hours through a storm and stopping overnight, but instead it’s clear and blue as far as he can see.

The rush, the relief, the deafening joy that shuts everything else up and out.

Sarah Rogers was right: he’d always been slow.

So he careens back onto the highway from the service road, steadying his foot on the pedal and flies about fifteen miles faster than the speed limit says he should. The car is vibrating to a thrilled beat inside his chest. Steve can’t help smiling.

It was supposed to rain. All the way to the next mid-morning but the sky parts a brilliant orange sunrise and he nearly sprints to the door. He doesn’t wait for it to open all the way before he barrels in. A sliver of parting wood is enough, and Steve throws it wide with his enormous shoulders, kicking it shut firmly with his boot.

The imprint of your body on the couch is still warm—you, halfway across the room in alarm—real and even warmer when Steve gathers you into his arms. He’s been awake for over 24 hours, talking to himself, talking to your hallucination, so he apologizes when his teeth click against yours in a frantic kiss.

“Rogers--!”

You pull away, dazed, a little bit pissed off, but you cow the swirl of emotions into professionalism. “What are you—you’re not supposed to be here until late—did you drive through--”

“Steve,” he interrupts, “Steve.”

He’s so tired of the long road. Can’t stand another second of maneuvering in the dark down winding paths or broken streetlight avenues you’re not at the end of so he keeps his next phrase short: “I really like you.”

You raise your brow and brush the back of your knuckles over your lips, the light from the balcony streaming over your face. His hand tenderly brushes your cheek, the same one he touched all those months ago and you blink in surprise. Quick, calculating movements even as you lean gently into his touch.

“Steve…” you say slowly before your mouth pinches together in a poor attempt to hide the smirk threatening to surface. “You drove all night to… ask me to call you Steve.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “And the mission.”

“Right, the mission. The debrief didn’t mention that it required a lot of… kissing.”

“It came up recently; I haven’t adjusted the file yet.” He grins at your rolling eyes, your swollen lips peeling back to reveal a joyful display of teeth at his stubborn defiance.

“Took you long enough,” you mumble.

You place your hand over his chest, over his heart.

You kiss him and Steve hears himself sighing into your mouth. His cheeks flush with embarrassment, but you’re not letting go, and he presses his lips to yours a little slower, a little firmer, learning the ways you like to feel him there.

“Steve,” you breathe, and it paints him in the most galvanized care. “Steve,” you say again, and his eyes slip shut, like he’s being laid to rest. And maybe he is. Finally weary of lugging around all his armor, all his pretense.

The boy emerges, thawing toward his name held sweetly in your mouth.

He fumbles with his awkward limbs—a newly birthed foal trying to find its footing—but you’re patient and enduring. He takes in his trembling body—knobby knees and gangly elbows. Inept gait still learning how to be. He takes the sights—white casting over the balcony. You, even brighter.

It was supposed to rain, but you link your fingers through his, leading him toward the open doors, smiling against a backdrop of sherbet swirls. He stumbles, but you’ve got him. A few short steps, just a few more, and Steve kisses you again in the sunbathed daybreak, resurrected and anew.

#marvel #fanfiction #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #reader insert #steve rogers x you #steve x reader #steve x you #steve rogers imagines #fluff #angst

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