#series of mini things

[giggly-squiggily]

Putting The Moves On Him (My Hero Academia)

Heyo everyone! Guess who's back with some fluffy Todobaku for your viewing pleasure? This girl! The fabulous @intheticklecloset and I were yelling about Todobaku together as one does,and thus this fic was born! Thank you so much Nym for fangirling about these two with me and inspiring me to make something soft and squishy with them in it! I hope y'all like it :D

Cloud 9 (Taglist Peeps):

@duckymcdoorknob @baby-tickles2022 @rachi-roo @imjusthere07 @sevenincubistolemyheart

Summary: Todoroki's love language is physical touch, so much so just seeing it in his favorite drama's makes him swoon. Bakugou decides to give his boyfriend the real deal.

Bakugou wasn’t oblivious.

Well..okay, maybe SOMETIMES he drank from the carton without checking the expiration date. And sure- occasionally he might fail to see his headphones aren’t connected, leaving everyone to bear witness to whatever playlist he put together that only made sense to himself. Small, meaningless things that might lead to some discomfort, but ending at that. Discomfort.

He always made sure to make note of the important things.

~~~

A small sigh; gentle and breathy. Bakugou tried not to make his interest show as he dared a peek towards his boyfriend. They were in his room; lying across wrinkled sheets on their bellies as they entertained themselves. Todoroki was watching a show on his tablet, headphones in and cheeks flushed. The blonde didn’t have to see the screen to know it was a romance.

He dared a peek, trying for stealth as he watched the two characters on screen interact. They were fighting- but it didn’t seem like anything truly intense. The girl stepped forward in a sudden surge of emotion when it happened.

She was against a wall, the guy pinning her with a hand above her head. She sucked in a breath, as did Todoroki. His chest raised and lowered as if he were the one being pinned.

Bakugou fought off a smile, shaking his head at just how affected his boyfriend was by the scene. Returning to his Switch, he considered the various other moments he got to witness Todoroki swoon over as his Charizard destroyed the champion.

~~~

“Hey, come train with me.”

Todoroki looked up, not surprised by the request. “Right now? Haven’t we done enough these past few days?”

“One more day isn’t gonna kill you. Besides- I haven’t fought you quirkless yet.” Bakugou didn’t wait, turning and heading into the nearest room. He knew Todoroki would follow him.

“You’re as hardworking as ever.” The duel-quirked hero laughed softly, kicking off his shoes and wandering across the mats. “But that’s what I like about you. You’re always so persistent.”

“Tch- shut it.” Bakugou huffed, turning away before Todoroki caught a glimpse of his smile. “Let’s freaking do this! Come at me!”

“Why? You should come at me.”

“Cause I said so.”

“I don’t recognize your authority.”

“You son of a-fine, come here!” Bakugou ran at him, aiming low. Todoroki dodged at the last second, dancing out of reach as the blonde tried to grab onto him.

“Come on- Ol’e Or whatever the bullfighters in movies say!” Todoroki smirked, enjoying how irritated Bakugou looked. He pranced and dodged every grab and swing sent his way, throwing in little jabs here and there to really get the blonde going. “Is this what you can do without your explosives? You need more practice.”

“Ah, you son of a-” Bakugou paused, studying him. Then he calmed- a rare sight in a fight for him. “No, I know what you're doing. And it’s not gonna distract me!”

Todoroki would have asked what that was if the ground suddenly fell out from under him. A hand grasped his shirt while the other nestled the back of his skull. He landed flat on his back, Bakugou looming over him.

Oh…

Oh.

Was his heartbeat loud? Todoroki felt it in his ears, eyes wide and suddenly unable to breathe. His cheeks felt like lava, hot and tingly and dear lord the way Bakugou was looking at him- calm and smug and beyond attractive. He leaned down, and Todoroki involuntarily closed his eyes.

Only to blink when his nose was flicked.

“Gotcha.” Bakugou grinned at him, delighted at Todoroki’s fluster. “I win.” With that, he gave him a quick peck before shooting to his feet, running out the room like a child pulling a prank.

Todoroki laid there, heart racing and ears burning. He covered the stupid grin pulling at his lips with his hands, fighting the urge to make a noise in case Bakugou was still within earshot as he kicked his feet.

~~~

“Good grief- how much whipped cream did you put on that?” The blonde asked one morning, more amused than anything at the tall pile resting against Todoroki’s waffle stack.

“Not enough. It’s good for the brain.” He replied, swiping a finger through the perfect mountain before licking it, closing his eyes. “Sugar or something- ask Midoriya.”

“I’m not asking that nerd shit.” Bakugou rolled his eyes, a fondness in his smile as he watched Todoroki snag another bite. “How did I not know you had a sweet tooth?”

“I don’t- I just really like whipped cream.”

“That’s basically the same thing.”

“No- this is light and airy. Sweets are heavy.”

“How-ah, it’s too early for this.” Bakugou shook his head as he grabbed his water bottle, turning towards the outskirts around the dorm. “I’m going for a run. Be ready when I get back- it’s our turn to get groceries.”

“Hm.” Todoroki had picked up the waffle whole, biting into it as he listened to Bakugou talk. He looked like a squirrel harvesting; cheeks fat and happy. Bakugou tried not to laugh. “Sure, sure, no problem.”

“Good. Hey, hold still.” The blonde reached out, swiping a dollop of cream off his cheek. Without breaking eye contact, he licked his thumb, smirking when Todoroki blushed. “You know- it’s not all that bad.”

He took off, fiddling with his playlist as he disappeared out the door. Todoroki was stock still- staring at the waffle he bit into as he replayed that action over and over in his mind.

“Dude- you got it bad.” Denki mused from beside him, taking the other waffle off his plate. Todoroki didn’t even notice.

~~~

“Hmm..’He looked at her with such…context?’”

“Contempt.”

“I knew that!”

Todoroki smiled at the blonde’s annoyance, his eyes never leaving his notebook. They were working on their English homework together; Present Mic was insistent they kept their studies going even with everything else in the world going on. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

“Like hell I am.” Bakugou grumbled, glaring at his own notebook. “You can’t even begin to imagine how many tutors had to help me before I could figure this out.”

“I always assumed academics were natural for you.”

“I’m not a genius like people say I am.” There was a touch of insecurity in his sarcastic remark. Todoroki reached out and patted his hand.

“Struggling with one subject doesn’t make you any less smart. You help me with any subjects I barely understand. I mean it when I say that; you’re a natural when it comes to this kind of thing.”

Bakugou flushed, cheeks on fire as he glared into his clenched pencil. Then he reached out- squeezing Todoroki’s shoulder. “Erm..thanks, Shoto.”

The half-n-half hero smiled gently, returning to his notebook.

“I never believed in fate until I met you. Now I know we’re meant to be together.”

Todoroki felt himself shiver, dropping his pencil at the words. “W-What?” He asked, turning around to look at Bakugou.

“What? I was just reading the next question out loud.” Bakugou didn’t look up from his work, hands scratching away at the paper. Todoroki felt his heart race again, trying not to clutch it as he took a shaky breath.

“Yeah..yeah, I see…” He swore he could see Bakugou smiling to himself. Only after he finished the last of the worksheet did he realize none of the translations even came close to that.

~~~

“Shoto.” Bakugou called out to him many weeks later. At this point, Todoroki was ready.

“Yes?” He asked when the blonde reached him. He could see the signs now- little quirks here and there. A suppressed smile, a glean in his eyes. His hands twitched with eagerness to do what he was going to do next. Todoroki’s heart raced with each fidget- also eager.

“I saw this new thing on the internet. Some cool handshake or whatever.” Bakugou raised his hands between them, flat and straight. Todoroki immediately knew what was happening.

“...” He did the same, mimicking the pose as he watched Bakugou smile. Fingers folded into the other one, leaving five digits standing. Todoroki did it with some feign hesitation, slowly dragging them down before looking at Bakugou. “Is this the part where we shake hands?”

Bakugou didn’t respond. Instead he hooked his own into Todoroki’s standing ones, bringing it up and above his head. That hand from before was back on his skull- cushioning the blow as he was pressed up into the wall. Another small gasp, his eyes widened involuntarily as he looked into Bakugou’s.

The blonde was grinning now, leaning in so they were forehead to forehead, his hand dragging slowly from Todoroki’s head to his neck then shoulder. The duel-quirk hero tried not to squirm, fighting off the giggles building up in his chest as the hand rested on his chest- right above his heart.

“Heh. Knew it. You totally love this.” Bakugou’s voice was hushed, a secret between them as he held Todoroki’s gaze. “Your heart is practically sprinting, Shoto.”

“Can you blame me? You’re so close..” He didn’t have the words to banter- his brain was barely working with Bakugou right there. “You really have been doing all this on purpose, have you?”

“Yeah.” No point denying it, it seemed. “Has it been working?”

“...Yeah.” Todoroki confessed. No point denying it himself either. “It has.”

“Good.” Bakugou laughed softly, letting the hand on Todoroki’s chest slide. He was about to take it off before deciding he had one more trick up his lack of sleeve.

“What-Ah! Ahehahahahah, dohohoohn’t you dahahahhare!” Todoroki squeaked, bursting into giggles when Bakugou began squeezing his side. “Nohohohooho, it tihihihiihckles!”

“That’s the point, Shoto. Man, you really gotta keep up with me, here.” Bakugou snickered as he leaned in to kiss him, smothering his giggle fits briefly.

Voices could be heard then. Uraraka and Midoriya- something about moves and whatnot. Todoroki felt his stomach churn with sudden dread. “Katsu-”

The door he was leaning on opened, sending them tumbling back. A few moves- a hand back on his head and a kick to wood sent them straight into Todoroki’s room, concealed away before anyone could witness.

“What was that?” They heard Midoriya ask.

“Maybe a ghost? Scary..” Uraraka added, their footsteps passing by with no stop. Bakugou waited, still as a statue until they couldn’t hear them any longer. “Wow- talk about a close call.” He turned back to Todoroki, bringing his hand out from behind his head and brushing his thumb against his cheek. “You good?”

All of it was such a daze. Between the wall pin, the kiss, the almost getting caught- and now he was once again pinned to the floor beneath his boyfriend, breathless and light. When Bakugou asked again, he reached up and kissed him, hard and fast.

“Mm!” The blonde yelped before melting, grabbing onto his shirt as he quickly returned the favor. “Damn, I should do this more often.”

“Mm…wait- wait, Katsuki.” At Todoroki’s words, he froze immediately, giving him enough space to speak. “Can I ask you something?”

“Right now? I mean- yeah.” The blonde nodded, brows furrowed. “What’s up?”

“Why…why did you do all this? The wall thing, the quotes- all that romantic stuff?” He had a feeling he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from his boyfriend's lips. “How did you know I’d…”

Bakugou blinked, considering. Then he grinned, laughing as he fell into Todoroki’s chest. “You’re so duhuhmb! Isn’t it obvious?” He looked at him, eyes dancing with such love it once again snatched his breath away. Damn- he was gonna need new lungs. “It’s because you love this kind of thing. You’re like- physically affectionate or whatever the love thingy is.”

“Love languages. But- you don’t like this kind of stuff though, no?” The blonde was never much for physical contact- griping and groaning over it whenever someone tried to hug him. “So why..?”

Bakugou sighed, the sound amused. “It’s not my preferred love thing, but…you love it. And I guess I don’t really mind getting physical-” He paused, wagging his brows. Todorki rolled his eyes with a laugh. “No but seriously- I know how much you love this kind of thing, and I want to give you the kind of love you deserve. And- mind you, I’m not against physical touch- obviously.” He gestured to their positions. “This isn’t my thing, that’s all. I’ll gladly give it to you-” Another pause- Todorki shoved at his shoulder. “Hehe, okay okay. I just know you well enough to make you happy.”

Todoroki felt his heart swell, eyes misting some at the words. Before Bakugou could panic, the half-n-half hero reached out, touching his cheek with a strong smile.

“I don’t think I tell you this enough- but I love you, so much.”

Bakugou’s cheeks flushed, eyes wide and smile growing. He leaned into Todoroki’s hand with a small laugh, puddy at his fingers. “Now we’re really recreating your romances.”

Todoroki laughed, pulling him close and kissing him once more, resuming their previous activity. Every kiss reminded him just how lucky he was to have someone like Bakugou in his life.

Thanks for reading!

[kaattlin]

so…. here’s an itty bitty nightwing cover!!

red hood | batgirl | red robin | robin | spoiler | signal | oracle

[r-aindr0p]

Mini-rollo invasion : Diasomnia

Anypov :

Heartslabyul - Savanaclaw - Octavinelle - Scarabia - Pomefiore - Ignihyde

[thirdtimed]

still figuring out how to draw them

[franollie]

i've peaked i fear 😔

[stevesgother]

Chalkboard Hearts - Pt IV

Pairing - KindergartenTeacher!Steve Harrington x SingleMom!Reader

WC - 5.6k

Summary - A snow day prompts Steve and Abbey to spend a little one on one time together.

AN - sorry this one took a little longer! being creative is hard when the U.S keeps sucking me of all my joy. thanks for the patience, love y’all! ~ emma

Three weeks ago, your daughter’s kindergarten teacher gave you his phone number in a chilly, deserted diner parking lot, and every weekday since that night, Abbey has had to all but drag you from his classroom when you go to pick her up in the afternoons. One topic leads to another and another, and before you realize it, you and Steve have been chatting in his mostly empty classroom for over an hour. But this morning, you’re dialing those digits he gave you on your landlines keypad for the first time with shaky fingers. You’d spent the past hour exhausting all your other options. Your mother? Working. Your sister? Out of town. Your usual babysitter? sick.

Steve was the only person you knew for a fact wouldn’t be working today.

It wasn’t for a lack of wanting to that you hadn’t called yet. Every waking hour since that night, you had been wrestling with yourself about what an appropriate reason would be. Was he flirting with you? Did he genuinely just want you to have access to him in case of an emergency? Both? Your inner dialogue was deafening– like a squawking bird in the back of your brain.

The intrusive volume of your thoughts seemed to quiet now as your leg bounced impatiently– anxiety over the prospect of having to call into work outweighing your trepidation– waiting for him to pick up the call on the other line. 

He finally answered halfway through the fourth ring, “Hello?” Despite the early hour, Steve sounded wide awake. Probably rousing at the same time you did, not expecting to be temporarily blinded by three feet of bright, white snow piled on top of his car. On the kitchen radio, you can hear the newscaster announcing a closure of the local schools.

“Steve, it’s Y/N,” your voice cuts through the static.

He pauses briefly, yours probably being the last voice he expected to hear when he picked up his phone, “Hey, morning–” he clears his throat, “everything alright?”

“Yes– well– I don’t know.” You rub the tips of your fingers restlessly over your closed eyelids, “I don’t have anyone to watch Abbey with the school being closed, I've tried everyone and I really hate to ask but–”

“Of course, I can be there in thirty. Can you give me your address?”

“Are you sure, Steve? I can just call out if–”

“Don’t be ridiculous, just give me your address,” his incredulity and lack of hesitation sends the wings fluttering about in your stomach again, while cementing the reassurance of his words. You gain the courage to repeat your home address for him to write down.

You can hear the sound of pen hastily scratching paper, then after a few beats of silence he speaks again, “It’ll take me a little bit to clear off my car, but I’ll be there as soon as I can,”

“Thank you so much, you have no idea.”

“Don’t mention it,” you can hear the grin in his voice, can picture the flash of perfect white squares, “see you soon,” you breathe a heavy sigh of relief at the click of the receiver being placed back in its cradle. Abbey is bundled up on the couch watching Rugrats, a bowl of cereal in her lap. Normally, you wouldn’t let her eat in the living room, but you needed respite from her usual game of 20 Questions to make some phone calls.

“Hey, Ab,” you say as you approach her, thoroughly engrossed in her cartoons, “Is it okay if Mr. H comes over and watches you today while mommy goes to work?”

The question is more than enough to pull her focus from the television screen. Her face lights up like the Fourth of July as she nearly spills her cereal with the force of her straightening on the sofa, “Really?” She asks hopefully.

“Yes, grandma is working and Julia is sick. Is that okay?” As excited as you know she is, you want her verbal confirmation. Mostly because you’d never put your child in a situation she’s uncomfortable in; but a smaller, more selfish part of you wants to be absolved of the guilt you feel for having to leave her all day.

Your wish is granted almost instantly as she squeals and hops off the couch where she’d been lounging, placing her bowl on the coffee table. Halfway to her room, she calls, “Mommy! Where are my coloring books?”

“They’re on top of your bookshelf,” you call, “don’t make a huge mess, please!”

“I won’t!” She replies, muffled through the drywall separating you.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You hadn’t had time to tidy the house or make yourself look even remotely presentable before Steve arrived. If it weren’t for the relief that floods your body upon seeing his car pull in the driveway, you might even be a little embarrassed. Booted footsteps shuffle up the porch as you’re shoveling things into your bag at the last minute, followed by three light knocks on the door.

“Coming!” You shout from where you stand in the dining room.

Before you even have the chance to reach the foyer, Abbey is darting from her bedroom in plastic play shoes and throwing the door open with immeasurable enthusiasm.

“Hey–” Steve starts, expecting it to be you before he realizes who’s greeting him, “Oh, hi Ab,” he waves to the little face staring up at him, “Where’s your mom?”

“Mommy!” Abbey calls, “Mr. H is here!”

Steve spots you holding two pieces of notebook paper clad with chicken scratch scribblings. You look frazzled– hair thrown up hastily and scrubs wrinkly. He scours the place where he would normally find an emotion akin to pity for your distressed state, but in its absence, he only feels endearment laced with a little concern.

He doesn’t get a word in before you’re shoving the papers in his hands and spouting off information that he’s praying is already on the sheets you’ve given him.

“I should be home by five, if anything happens, this–” you point to a barely legible number, “--is my work phone. This is her doctor’s phone number and she’s allergic to peanuts. There aren’t any peanuts in the house but–” you sigh, exasperated with yourself, “just in case.”

The rest of the pages are filled with ramblings about which channels Abbey likes to watch and how to work the television. How, in case she needs a bath, you have to pull and then twist the knob for the hot water to run. That she is not, under any circumstances, allowed to put nail polish on by herself and where you keep her Epi Pens.

Steve’s surprised at how many of these sentiments he already has catalogued. He’s required to know Abbey’s emergency contacts and that she has a nut allergy for his job, but he knows that channel thirty-seven has the best cartoons because Abbey once told him that Power Puff Girls was her favorite– and you’d already relayed to him the hilariously tragic tale of what happened the last time Abbey attempted to paint her own nails.

Despite this revelation, he doesn’t dare interrupt you. He indulges your ranting, a grin creeping involuntarily along his face.

“-- sorry, I’m rambling– I’ve just never left her with someone who wasn’t my mom or her sitter before,” you’re a little breathless after two straight minutes of talking.

“Hey, hey– you’re okay,” he wastes no time reassuring you, “you know I’d never let anything happen to her.” You nod your understanding, “Besides,” now he’s speaking to Abbey, “we’re gonna have a super fun time right?”

She shouts, “Yes!”

He looks at you with his brows raised, amused, “See?”

“Okay, alright,” you kneel down, chuckling, “do I get a hug? Or am I chopped liver?”

Giggling, Abbey wraps you in a suffocating embrace, like always. Her excitement for Steve has never quelled her affection for you, and you can tell that she’s still hesitant to see you go. You smack a kiss on her cheek, grabbing your bag from the floor as you rise again.

“Swear you’ll call me if anything happens?” You ask him one more time, already knowing the answer.

“Cross my heart.” He smiles fondly, stoking the flames burning bright around the cage that your heart inhabits.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Your home is cozy, much cozier than anything Steve had growing up. He’s warmed at the idea that Abbey has the privilege of growing up in a house that feels so lived in– stains on the carpet, soft edges and yellow lighting. There’s clutter on the kitchen counter by the microwave and colorful alphabet magnets securing several bright pieces of artwork to the fridge.

“Are these the pictures you drew in art class last week?” He asks Abbey, who has been trailing behind him all through the house, pointing things out to him as they go.

“Uh-huh, Mrs. Morse helped me with that one,” she points to what Steve thinks is probably supposed to be a zebra.

“Well, you’re very talented, I love them,”

“Can we go play outside?” She asks, drawing out the last syllable and completely ignoring Steve’s compliment.

“Sure we can,” he chuckles, “where do you keep your snowsuit?”.

Abbey takes Steve by the wrist and leads him to the coat closet by the front door. Similar to the rest of your house, it’s stuffed to the brim– full of puffy nylon and heavy winter boots. He catches a glimpse of a familiar brown and green jacket– his jacket. You’d promised to wash it and return it to him, but it must’ve slipped your mind. He grins to himself at the reminiscence as he fetches Abbey’s snow gear and shuts the door.

Steve hadn’t dressed appropriately for a morning rolling around in the cold. He had slipped on a pair of your mittens, probably meant more for fashion than practicality, because his fingers were already completely numb. But he can’t seem to deny her when Abbey pleads with him to make snow angels. They’d just spent the past half an hour building two snowmen– one short like Abbey and one tall like Steve, she insisted, as she wrapped her scarf around the snowman that resembled her.

“Please, Mr. H?” She begs when she notices his hesitancy.

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles, “but then we’re gonna go inside and have lunch. Deal?”

That appears to be a good enough covenant for her, “Okay!” Abbey exclaims, falling fairly harshly to the cushioned ground. Steve braces himself for tears, but Abbey only keeps laughing in that contagious way as she begins spreading her arms and legs out beside her in a repetitive motion.

“Are you gonna make one?” She questions from her place on the ground.

He grunts as he reluctantly lowers himself down next to her, anticipating the icy wetness waiting underneath him. The snow seeps uncomfortably through his jeans, but the sound of Abbey’s unbridled joy nearly makes up for his soiled clothing.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

What’d you want to eat, Ab?” Steve calls from the pantry while Abbey changes out of her wet clothes in her bedroom.

“Not hungry!” She calls back.

He sighs, expecting her stubbornness– she was nearly as mulish as you.

“Remember the deal we made earlier?” He asks, “That if I made a snow angel with you, that you’d have to eat something for lunch, right?”

She emerges from her room, pout prominent on her strikingly adorable features, “But I wanna keep playing,” she whines, giving her foot a little stomp on the linoleum for emphasis.

“We can keep playing after, I promise,” he knows he’s not winning this battle without a compromise, “does your mom let you eat in the living room?” He asks with a lilt to his voice that makes him sound conspiratorial.

“Sometimes…”

“How about…” he pauses as if thinking, “I make us some food and we watch a movie while we eat?”

He can tell he’s got her after that– hook, line and sinker. She still pretends to mull over his proposition for a moment before agreeing, “Hmm…I think that sounds good,” she settles, trying and failing to mask her elation.

That’s how Steve ended up, plates of grilled cheese sandwiches in hand, dodging barbies and miscellaneous stuffed animals on his way to the living room a few minutes later.

“Have you found a movie yet?” He asks Abbey as he sets the plates down atop the coffee table.

“Yes but–” she jumps on her tiptoes, “I can’t reach it,”

Steve walks over to the towering shelf of VHS tapes in front of her, “Which one are you trying to reach?”

Abbey points at the tape in question, “Home Alone,”

“Alrighty,” Steve says as he grabs it with ease, “Your foods on the table, go sit while I put it in,”

Abbey, for once, does as he asks– bounding over to the coffee table with the excitement typical of a five-year-old who has an adult's permission to break a house rule.

While Steve eyes your VCR, he catches a glimpse of a photo out of the corner of his eye, causing him to pause. It’s you, no older than twenty, holding a swaddled baby in a sterile hospital room. He doesn’t recognize the picture as one he’s seen before.

Of course you’ve never seen it before, he thinks, you barely know her. Get a grip.

You’re filled with such youthful brilliance in the shot, despite the underlying weariness of having just given birth; your hair tied messily into a bun at the nape of your neck, sweat beading on your brow bone. It’s just you and Abbey, Steve thinks her father must’ve been the photographer.

He can’t help but think of himself at that age and all the stupid shit he was doing. How, if you had handed him a baby then, he wouldn’t have known the first thing about what to do with it– but here you had raised such a bright, healthy daughter and largely alone. He was struck by such a sudden and overwhelming admiration for you that he nearly forgot what he was supposed to be doing.

“Mr. H?” Abbey asked, mouth full, “When are we gonna start the movie?”

Her question sends him hurling back to reality. A reality where he’s your daughter’s kindergarten teacher, and the two of you are friendly with each other at best.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

At some point during the movie, once their lunch was reduced to crumbs on empty plates, Abbey had hauled out her box of coloring books and crayons that she had been looking for this morning.

Steve, the less creative of the two, was coloring in a cartoon illustration of a fairy while Abbey was making her own drawing on a piece of white construction paper. The lack of constant chatter is a welcome reprieve, but he knows that Abbey only becomes quiet when she’s particularly concentrated, so he chances a peek to his right at what she’s working on.

She got a death grip on a brown crayon– shaved almost down to the tip– with her tongue sticking ever so slightly between her lips as she focuses intently on her art.

The picture is of three stick figures– two tall and one significantly smaller in between them. It’s set at what looks to be a playground, a bright yellow sun in the sky and blue scribblings around white clouds. Swings, slides and even a little blue dog adorn the rest of the background.

Pleasantly surprised at her artistry, Steve says, “That looks amazing, Ab!”

She’s snapped out of her stupor, her face split with a wide toothless grin. She doesn’t thank him, only lets out a few bashful giggles at his praise and says, “I like yours too,”

“Is that you?” He points at the littlest figure.

“Mhm, see? I made her hair curly like mine!”

“It looks just like you,” he agrees, then draws her attention to the other figures, “Is this your mom and your dad next to you?”

“This is mommy,” she points, “I put her in the blue clothes she wears at work,” he knows she’s referring to your scrubs, but the phrasing makes him chuckle.

“And this is you!” She circles the figure she’s drawn with the tip of her finger. She’s included his voluminous chestnut hair and his silver wire-framed glasses, even one of the stupid striped polos he wears at school. Looking at it now, it’s obvious who it was supposed to be– but it’s so unexpected that he feels his face heat up at the realization.

“Oh, wow, Ab– That’s–” he grapples to find the words to express the juxtaposition he’s found himself in. He’s honored, truly, to be included in this portrait Abbey’s made of herself and her mother– her family– but there’s a gnawing guilt he can’t seem to shake. The fear that, in some way, he’s replacing her father.

“I love it, Ab, thank you,” he smiles fondly at her work, the proud grin she wears slowly melting the flash freeze of trepidation that encased his conscience.

“Can we hang it on the fridge for mommy to see when she gets home?” She asks after a moment.

“That sounds like a great idea.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Around four o’clock, Abbey begins asking what they’re having for dinner. Steve wonders briefly if you always have to deal with her being so ravenous.

“How about we start cooking now? That way it’ll be ready for your mom when she gets home,”

“Okay,” Abbey concurs. Steve wouldn’t consider himself a Michelin star chef by any means, but he can make a mean chicken parmesan.

A trip to the grocery store was needed to grab some ingredients. After scribbling down the required items on a crumpled receipt, and struggling for ten minutes to get Abbey’s carseat in the back of his BMW, they’re on their way.

He meets her eyes in the rearview mirror, “Do you want me to put on some music?”

“Christmas music?” She asks hopefully.

Steve isn’t the biggest fan of Christmas music– Christmas in general, really– but he obliges her request and turns the dial to their local channel, soft bells and a choir of voices begin to flood through the interior of the car. She really is so harmlessly manipulative with her saucer eyes and round button nose, he can’t seem to refuse her anything.

Steve drives more cautiously than he thinks he ever has, even more so than when he was sixteen and learning how to drive with his family’s Pontiac as his father stared harshly at him from the passenger seat. He comes to a full halt at every stop sign, and he never takes his eyes off the road.

After fighting some early rush hour traffic, they make it. Without a second thought, Abbey grasps Steve’s hand while walking through the parking lot. He tries not to look startled at the sudden contact, recalling how she always seems to have a firm grip on your hand in public spaces too. Steve’s just glad she feels comfortable with him.

“Can I help?” Abbey asks as Steve grabs a cart from the corral.

“Course’,” he smiles, “do you wanna grab the ingredients and put them in the cart for me?”

She bounces excitedly, “Sure!”

Wandering through the aisles, Abbey never strayed from Steve’s side. Every time he read off an item, she would dutifully fetch it and throw it into the cart with a little more force than necessary, but Steve didn’t mind.

“Do you live by yourself?” She asks out of the blue as they peruse the store.

“I do,”

“Then how come you know how to cook?”

He laughs at her inquisitive nature, “Well I have to eat don’t I?”

“Yeah…” she ponders, “I guess so,”

“Alright, the last thing we need is breadcrumbs,” he informs her, scanning the shelves.

Like earlier, Abbey attempts to stand on her tiptoes to try and reach the can in question, “I’m getting it,” she mumbles in determination, very much not getting it.

“Here,” Steve says as he lifts her up by her waist like it was second nature to him.

“Got it!” She exclaims, tossing it in with the rest of the groceries. “Can I ride in the cart now?” She yawns with a polite hand over her mouth. He supposes grocery shopping takes a lot out of you when all the shelves are at least five feet taller than your head.

“Sure,” Steve chuckles as he slots her little legs through the designated holes.

Despite the ride home only being about ten minutes long, Abbey manages to doze off– lulled to sleep by the subtle hum of the car's engine. Steve veered as gently as possible into the driveway, careful not to disturb her even though he was about to wake her up anyway.

“Abbey,” he shakes her softly, “we’re home,”

Abbey rouses, but only slightly. She yawns again and stretches with her arms over her head before extending them out, silently motioning with her eyes still closed for Steve to carry her inside.

“Okay, c’mon lazy bones,” he grunts at the angle but lifts her from her car seat nonetheless. After unlocking the door one-handed, he sets her carefully on the couch and covers her with a plush throw blanket before heading back outside for the rest of the groceries.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The first thing you notice when you approach your front door is the savory smell of something cooking. Inside, the TV is off and your daughter is sleeping soundly on the couch. Quiet clattering noises flood from the kitchen.

The sleeves of Steve’s burgundy sweater are rolled up to his elbows and the kitchen smells of roasting chicken and mahogany as he stirs a simmering pot of homemade pasta sauce. He’s humming some tune softly under his breath– Bob Segar, you think.

“Hey,” you greet with a grin as you set your bag down on the dining table. Steve turns around to meet you as you ask, “What’re you doing?”

“Cooking?” He replies.

“No, really?” You deadpan back, eliciting an amused chuckle from the man standing at your stove.

“Abbey was asking about dinner,” he pauses, “we were gonna do this whole thing– we were gonna make it for you together, have it ready by the time you got home, but,” he gestures with his arm to the living room where Abbey is napping. Steve Harrington is nothing if not expressive– talking with his hands, eyebrows always either furrowed in concentration or raised in amusement. It’s one of the most charming things about him, you think.

“Well, thank you,” you say, “you didn’t have to do that,” you feel a blush heat your cheeks at how domestic this feels– like you come home to Steve cooking dinner for you and your daughter every night. You can picture it as easily as if it were your actual reality and it leaves you feeling briefly vertiginous. You’re not sure Jeremy ever cooked even one meal for you in the entirety of your relationship.

“The chickens almost done and then I'll get out of your hair,” he assumes a teasing lilt to his voice to disguise the fact that he feels like he’s overstepping– overstaying his welcome or crossing some invisible line.

“Are you kidding?” You scoff, “You’ve gotta at least stick around long enough to see how it came out,”

“You don’t mind?” He asks hesitantly.

“Steve, of course I don’t mind,” honestly, you think you’d start a fire and burn your house to the ground if it meant getting him to stay just a little longer to help you put it out, “plus, I’m sure Abbey’ll be stoked.”

“Alright, well,” he smiles warmly, “it’s ready if you wanna go wake the gremlin up,”

At the table, Abbey insists on sitting next to Steve in the chair across from you.

“This is delicious, Steve,” you compliment.

“Best you ever had?” He teases, but his phrasing makes you choke a little on your pasta.

Abbey makes a twisted face, “The sauce tastes funny.” Saved by the bell.

“Abbey!” you scold playfully, poorly concealing a laugh behind the back of your hand, “Sorry– I think she’s just used to eating Prego,”

“That’s okay– I think she’s right, actually,” he assures you, twisting his expression into something sour and causing Abbey to giggle. His eyes are the color of rich soil as he sends you an oh, so familiar look across the table, communicating another silent thought to you. One that says, I don’t mind how blunt she is, I think it’s endearing.

When dinner is finished, Steve insists on doing the dishes for you too. “You cooked, Steve, let me–” you try to barter.

“--You do enough as it is,” he counters simultaneously.

“You watched my child all day!” You laugh at his stubbornness.

“I do that everyday anyway!” He argues, beginning to fill up the porcelain farmhouse sink with hot, sudsy water.

“At least let me help,” you give him that wide eyed look you always seem to be giving him lately. God, you’re no better than Abbey. “You wash, I’ll dry?”

“Fine,” he tries to frown but his smirk betrays him in his act of faux annoyance.

After a few minutes of stuffy silence, you ask, “She wasn’t too much of a pain in the ass today, was she?”

“Not any more than usual,” he jokes and a plate slips through his fingers, causing a small splash of water to coat your face in dishwater. You gasp at the sensation.

“Oh– Sorry!--” he tries to apologize, but you take your dishwater soaked fingers and flick them in the direction of his own face– small soapy bubbles clinging to his lashes and eyebrows.

“I cannot believe you right now,” he says, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

“There, now we’re even,” you smirk.

“I’ll let it slide. This time.”

“Mommy!” Abbey rushes into the kitchen, “Can Mr. H stay to watch a cartoon before bed?”

“I don’t know, baby, it’s getting late,” you can just barely see the flash of heartbreak in her gaze before Steve interjects, “It’s okay, I don’t mind staying for a little longer,”

You send him a skeptical glance over your shoulder, but he just nods and asks Abbey what she’d like to watch.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The end credits for an episode of The Rugrats flashes across the screen, illuminating Abbey’s sleeping face in muted shades of blue and orange. She snores, slumped against Steve’s chest with her arms wrapped around his torso. You sit propped against the other arm of the couch watching them intently– trying to memorize the sight before you. You’ve never seen Abbey cradled like this before by anyone else except you. It wasn’t something you felt you craved until recently.

Steve turns, catching you staring but not calling attention to it. He can count on several hands the amount of times he’s done the same to you– Steve Harrington is many things, but he is not a hypocrite.

“Did you know the guy from Devo wrote the theme song for this?” He gestures towards the television.

“Really?”

“Mhm,” he replies, “I can’t remember who told me that,”

After a few beats of hushed silence, you say, “Should probably put that one to bed– unless you wanna be here all night,” you try to joke but your voice shakes.

He would if you were sincerely asking. He’d stay right here on this uncomfortably worn sofa, with your daughter whom he has such an affinity for, sleeping against his chest for the next millenia. He’d fossilize here if he could– your presence beside him calm and grounding like an anchor in a storm.

He voices none of this. Instead he says, “Do you want to take her?”

“It’s okay,” you wave him off, “I’ll just come with you.” The three of you slowly make your way to Abbey’s bedroom, Steve carrying her bridal style against his torso and the door creaks on its hinges when Steve pushes it open with his hip. She stirs only a little when he sets her down, but is soothed quickly with a firm palm stroking her back a few times.

The door clicks behind you as Steve leads you both back to the living room.

“I should probably–”

“Do you want–”

You begin to speak at the same time, awkward chuckles leaving both of your nervous lips.

“You first,” he offers, scratching the back of his neck.

“I was– just gonna ask if you wanted some wine, but I know it’s late–”

“Wine sounds great.” His lips form a line across his face as he grins.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Half a bottle of wine split between the two of you, and your hands were tingling from the effort it was taking not to reach out and card your fingers through the hair of the man sitting across from you.

“How come you never called?” He asks suddenly, but not unkindly.

“Hm?”

“You never called– well, not til’ this morning at least,”

“Didn’t know what counted as an emergency, I guess,” you shrug, the alcohol shaking your nerves loose.

He must’ve been feeling in a similar way to you– speaking freely in a way he wouldn’t have before, “Just wanted to talk to you,” he smiles fondly.

“Oh,” you whisper, and when you don’t say anything else, Steve changes the subject.

“I like that photo of you on top of the entertainment center,” he says contemplatively, “you looked really…peaceful,”

“Well, raising a miniature version of yourself tends to age you a bit, I suppose,”

“Can I ask you something?” He asks, testing the waters.

“Always”

“Where was Jeremy in the picture?”

“We always talk about me,” you roll your eyes spiritedly and release a contented sigh, “Tell me why you really came to Maine,”

“Don’t deflect,” he teases.

“C’monnnn,” you draw out the last syllable, “answer,”

“I asked you first,” Steve chuckles.

“Jeremy wasn’t at Abbey’s birth,” you admit, it's immediately like an aching weight removed from the length of your spine– one that's been there consistently for years. “He didn’t even want me to have her,” you scoff humorlessly.

You had told almost no one this before. For the sake of keeping appearances, even after he passed, only your mother and sister knew that Jeremy had pushed for you to terminate your pregnancy when he’d found out; and that only once your daughter was actually born did he want to be involved in her life. The burden felt shockingly easy to lay at Steve’s feet, like someone might confess to a priest. This tender man sitting across from you– whether it was the wine or simply his presence, you aren’t sure– but it felt so effortless to be vulnerable right now. Your soft, white underbelly on display for him to do as he pleases, trusting him to have a gentle touch.

“That fucking sucks,” he knows you well enough by now to understand you’ve never cared for empty platitudes, so he doesn’t bother schooling his bitter, empathetic expression, “M’ sorry,”

Not wanting to dwell on it any longer, you say, “Your turn,”

“My old man was an abusive, drunk asshole,” he says frankly, “I don’t know if I ever saw him sober,” he huffs a laugh but there’s no humor behind it. “I needed to get out– to see what else there was, you know?” He asks, and you nod, “He died in my sophomore year of college. Didn’t even go to the wake.”

“Well, I’m really glad you ended up in this shithole,” he laughs at that, “I think you’re pretty neat, Harrington,”

“Thanks,” he deadpans, “Juries still out on you,” he pokes your side and you giggle like you’re a damn teenager again.

You swat him lightly on his bicep in retaliation, and before you know it, you’ve both succumbed to a fit of contagious laughter. When it begins to die down, you’re closer to him than you’d been before. It steals the breath from your lungs and your heart thrashes inside your ribcage like a wild animal.

You’re gazing at each other now, heads light from the alcohol and dizzy with proximity. His heavy lidded gaze lands on your lips for a second too long, and then he’s pulling your face flush to his own by the sharp edge of your jaw.

It’s a soft kiss, but it’s maddening nonetheless. His lips are plush and smooth– malleable against yours. You huff a surprised breath of air, but don’t pull away. One of his calloused hands is resting firmly on your waist while the other one snakes up tenderly to hold the back of your head. You feel that familiar itch to bury your fingers in his brown tresses, so finally, you do. What realistically only lasts a moment, feels like hours before he’s pulling away, nearly frightened.

When he looks at you, his doe eyes are wide with fear, glassy with the impending fallout of what he’d just done. He stammers, “I’m sorry–that was–” he runs his hands down the length of his guilt twisted face.

“No– Steve, It’s okay, I–”

“I should go–” he says quickly as he slips his shoes and coat on, not even bothering to tie the laces, he grabs his keys, “I’m sorry I’ll– I’ll see you on Monday,”

He’s closing the door behind him before your mind gets the chance to catch up with your mouth. You wished to tell him that it was okay, that you liked it– that you wanted him to stay and never leave again.

But it’s too late. You’re left alone in the stifling air of your living room, half a bottle of wine on the coffee table and your heart on the floor.

taglist - @soulxiez @sadieshairbrush @the-witty-pen-name @ilovetaquitosmmmm @mrsnarnian @negomi123 @micheledawn1975 @cherryc1nnam0n @paleidiot @adaydreamaway30 @twinkling-moonlillie @royalestrellas @jamdoughnutmagician @cali-888 @kolsmikaelson @1deverland @borhapparker @alexa4040 @chiliwhore @weonlysaidgoodbyewithwordss @paddockspookie42 @foxes-n-frogs @j-mlover383

divider cred - @cafekitsune

[gothamite-rambler]

Duke: My cousin Jermaine got sentenced to a year in prison yesterday. Not for what you think either.

Jason: I'm intrigued.

Duke: Thought you'd be. Okay, so he heard about this money glitch at Chase.

Dick (pinching the bridge of his nose): Oh no.

Duke: You already clocked it, but let me keep going. So what he heard is if you write a check with a large amount that you don't have, it'll let you withdraw said funds before the check clears and that... That's just check fraud.

Dick: That's like the most basic type of bank fraud.

Dick laughed, shaking his head.

Duke (laughing): Like I get he wanted money, but you can't take money that isn't yours... When you're poor. When you're rich, it's not stealing, it's getting a bag.

Jason: This is why we like hanging out with you. And was he aware the bank has all his info?

Duke: He kind of was, he signed up with the info. The check was for seventy-five thousand dollars. And ... And ... He learned about this "glitch" through finance bro on TikTok.

Dick nearly spit out his drink as he started laughing again.

Dick (coughing and laughing): Oh God, I was drinking water when you said that.

Jason (smirking): Is he... Is he stupid?

Duke: Oh yeah, it got so bad his mom didn't bail him out. He committed a felony to use the money to buy stupid stuff. Stupid stuff his mom is currently returning or reselling. I swear, we all got 'that' family member, you know what I mean?

Dick and Jason: ...Yeah.

[keeryhours]

such small hands - mini series masterlist

Masterlist Tag Lists

Eddie Munson x female!Henderson!reader

Summary:

Your budding relationship with Eddie - so new your own brother doesn’t even know - is cut brutally short after the events in the upside down. Now you’re left to navigate life without your soulmate while comforting Dustin and pretending Eddie was nothing more to you than a new friend. Things get worse when you find out your pre-battle night together might have led to something life changing.

Warnings:

Smut (18+), death, injuries, grief, angst, pain, pregnancy, birth, lots of emotions and feelings, past reader x billy, check individual chapter warnings

Current Total Word Count: 13.3k

🔥 - contains smut

Chapter One 🔥

Chapter Two

[cherimarie]

God, please give them more screen time where they are happy ass siblings who act like they’ve known eachother longer — (than Mike has known Will)

PLEASE let them be happy and not have competition like dense fans think they would have. They both deserve the world because they have been through hell together since the day they were first shown in the series. My babies. 💔

[radioactiveparker]

The Breakfast Club - Eddie Munson X Cheerleader!Reader (Mini Series)

Eddie Munson X Fem!Cheerleader!Reader - Enemies to Lovers

Summary: Five high school students from different walks of life endure a Saturday detention under a power-hungry principal. Each has a chance to tell his or her story, making the others see them a little differently. And when the day ends, they question whether school will ever be the same. (A retelling of The Breakfast Club, written and directed by John Hughes.)

Series Warnings: Enemies to lovers / All Characters Are 18+ / Strong Language / Sex References / Mentions of Abuse (physical and emotional) / Cheating / Bad Relationships / Dysfunctional Families / Arguing / Materialism / Kleptomania / Stereotyping / Sexual Orientations / Drug Use / Mentions of Alcohol / Smoking / Pyromania and Fire / References to Demonianism and Satanism / References to Religious Beliefs / Social Alienation / Angst / Hurt-Comfort / Use of Y/N (like once or twice) / Eddie is a complete asshole

A/N: This mini series is set in its own little world, so it does not follow the Stranger Things timeline, and I have taken some creative liberties with most characters. Yes, they are all still in high school (final year and 18+), and yes, some of the events don't match up - just forget everything you knew about Stranger Things, it's easier that way haha.

“...And these children that you spit on as they try to change their worlds are immune to your consultations. They’re quite aware of what they’re going through...” - David Bowie 

Masterlist: (completed)

Part One - These Children That You Spit On

Part Two - Low Tolerance For Dehydration

Part Three - Hallway Vision

Part Four - Hand Over The Purse

Part Five - Don't You Forget About Me

Taglist: @cruwushes @the-ch0sen-on3 @namelesshumanperson @ali-r3n @cadence73 @munsonssweets @ahoyyharrington @mewchiili @yourdailymemedelivery @httpsunflowers @b-irock @coolglittercornbae @sav12321 @cumslutforaemond @siriuslysmoking @learninglinesintherainn @peaches-roses-sins @lodeddiperrodrick @catherinnn @lilocapoca @minniedreamers @melaninjhs @chaosfrogsonfire @levylovegood @bowsforsienna @rcailleachcola @spookysace24

[lutheban]

Death: The Time of Your Life comic panel edits with Kirby

Original bellow:

[rosalie-starfall]

Tiny Beautiful Things

Love

[atoltia]

rewatching cr c3 ep 95 rn and it just warms my heart at the thought of essek buying street food lol

idk the image of essek, who grew up in the high society of rosohna with the expectation of being prim and proper both in and outside the courts, just happily gnawing on a chicken and pepper skewer as he makes his was back to the bell's hells makes my heart grow three sizes

[manchesterau]

31 festive days of dnp [12/31]

❄︎ Dan and Phil ‘sing’ Christmas Songs! - YASUHATI ❄︎ 

[raayllum]

Because I thought why not compare the drawing scenes and see what we can find?

First, I think it's interesting we can already kind of tell the emotion is different just from the drawings.

In 2x07, Callum does more drawings but with less detail, focusing on Rayla's heroism, athleticism, and confidence, featuring her swords in each picture. It's not quite frantic, but it is more hurried (especially since considering in canon she hasn't been gone for that long, even if she took an hour to reach the dragon and likely took far less time). He's accentuating these traits born out of his admiration for her that also provides a basis for his feelings for her ("That's what makes a hero, that's what makes her Rayla") and also likely to reassure himself.

He's picturing the Rayla he wants to fight alongside ("Believe me, I wish I could go down there with you and be the heroes who stop all the fighting") but feels inadequate too. At the same time, if she's heroic / athletic / strong enough, as strong as he's hoping for, she won't die ("If I don't come back") and make it back to him. But it's not working, because the situation is dire and Callum has never treated her like she's invincible.

The circumstances are accordingly quite different in 6x03. He's worried, but less so; the ship isn't 100% safe, but it's not inordinately dangerous either, and exploring it is definitely one of the less dangerous things either of them have done. Despite being out there for presumably longer, Callum has seemingly devoted himself to one, much more detailed sketch, in particular with Rayla's eyes and horns. Her expression is much softer and smile gentler, reflecting the way they'd grown in knowing each other post-2x07, all throughout season three and into arc 2. And rather than drawing her because he's worried, he's also drawing her just to pass the time and because she is, accordingly, always on his mind.

I wonder if he'll hang the second picture up in his new high mage office, or wherever they live after S7.

[stevesgother]

Dress - S.H

Paring - Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

WC - 1.5k

Summary - 2 times Steve Harrington has lost his mind seeing you in a dress that fits you like skin, and the one time he does something about it.

Contains - best friends to lovers, mutual pining, reader is pathetically in love, loosely based off of ‘Dress’ by Taylor Swift. Or maybe heavily based lol

Warnings - steve & reader ARE 18 in this, they just haven’t graduated yet, drinking, vomit. As always, let me know if I missed anything

AN - THIS IS PART 1 OF A WIP. second fic…ever! also my first mini series! i was gonna make it all one fic but i figured it would be easier to digest this way. enjoy :)

Senior Prom - May 1985

Michael Cooper. That’s who was waiting for you downstairs in your foyer, sweet talking your parents while he waited to escort you to your final high school dance. He wasn’t your first choice for your senior prom, hardly even your second; but he was respectable enough for you to be seen on his arm for one night.

Taking one last look at yourself in your vanity mirror, you smoothed your hands down the front of your dress. It was a beautiful baby pink ball gown with lace trim and puffy sleeves. Before you can think better of it, before you can feel guilty for it, you imagine Steve’s reaction when he sees you tonight.

Steve Harrington. Your best friend since diapers. Your mothers grew up together, so naturally when they found out they were pregnant at nearly the exact same time, it only made sense that they would orchestrate your friendship immediately.

As it turns out, not much orchestrating would be required. The second your little baby brains could comprehend what it meant to love another person, the rest was history. Wherever you went, Steve went too. You’re not sure when your feelings for him started to change. The usual calm that washed over you whenever you were in his presence one day seemed to transform into something different. You felt nervous, like someone had released a net of butterflies into your stomach.

You clear your head with a harsh shake and grab your clutch off the bed, making your way downstairs. Michael is waiting for you with a green corsage in a shiny translucent box. ‘That's Sweet,’ you think, “if only it matched my dress.’ 

–

Upon arriving at the gym, the first thing you do, consciously or not, is scan the room for your best friend. You spot him quickly, his perfectly manicured hair and well-pressed suit making him hard to miss. Even harder to miss is the gorgeous, curly haired brunette resting her head on his shoulder.

Nancy Wheeler.

They’ve been together for over a year at this point, even joining your close knit circle of friends. Despite this, you can’t help the nagging sense of jealousy stabbing at your chest, making your face heat up. You tell yourself it’s the humidity inside the gymnasium, and not the fact that you’d give anything to be in her position. You quickly abandon your date and try not to feel guilty for it, making your way over to the happy couple.

“Steve!” You call as you come further into their line of sight.

“Hey you!” Steve stands and gives you a tight hug. “Hey!’ you greet, returning the embrace. He can’t help the way his eyes quickly travel down the expanse of you, noticing the shape this dress gives your body. He prays to any listening God that his girlfriend didn’t notice, that you didn’t notice. “Hey Nance.” You address her with a polite smile. She gives you a hug without warning. Another thing that irks you about Nancy Wheeler: that girl is impossible to hate. You have every reason to despise her, and yet you can’t. She’s kind, funny, strong-willed and beautiful. She’s so ‘girl next door’, she’s so…not you. Occasionally you’ve wondered if it’s a front, that she can’t possibly be that perfect.

“Where’s Michael?” She asks inquisitively; like she genuinely cares where your douchebag date has run off to. A quick scan of the room reveals he’s already talking up another girl by the photobooth. There’s not one part of you that gives a shit. “We were just thinking about grabbing some food, wanna come with?” Steve nods his head toward the various appetizers they have set up on tables decorated with gaudy tinsel and tablecloths. “Yeah, why not?”, you smile and it doesn’t reach your eyes.

–

An hour and 2 cups of spiked punch later, ‘Heaven’ by Bryan Adams starts to play and you feel like you might hurl. Nancy’s face quickly lights up and she gives her date a knowing look, “Steve! Let's dance! Please??”. She’s immediately pulling him away from the table where you’ve been watching them flirt all night. Her delicate hand resting on his bicep, his large one finding a home on her thigh. He sends you a sympathetic look as he rises; sorry that he has to leave you there, sorry that you won’t be slow dancing with anyone tonight. He has no idea.

Your date is long gone. The two of you going together was a ticket inside and nothing more.

The air in the gym is suffocating and frankly smells of sweaty basketball shorts, so you decide to make your way outside for some fresh air. The romantic serenade of Bryan Adams’ voice is nothing more than a quiet lullaby as you lean against the brick wall of your high school.

You hear him before you see him. “Hey stranger,” the open door momentarily lets the humidity escape and you feel it wash over your skin. “you alright?” he asks with a half smile.

“Yeah just,” you say looking around, “getting some air is all,” returning the expression. He imitates you and decides to lean on the wall, a little too close for comfort. You’re all but slapped across the face with his scent. Cinnamon, a no doubt expensive musky cologne, and sweat. You can feel him looking at you, so you decide to meet his gaze; praying that he can’t see the crimson shade of red creeping up your neck and cheeks simply from standing next to him. You feel so pathetic at times like these. 

“Nance found a couple of her girlfriends, figured it’d be a good time for a smoke.” He pulls a cigarette out of his suit jacket pocket, and lights it. His hand cupped to cover the breeze.

“Those’ll kill ya, you know?” you smirk, knowing. You’ve always teased him for his bad habits, especially this one. “Yeah well,” he says in an inhale, “now’s as good a’ time as any, right?”

He grins at you, smug. It sends you reeling and you hope your thundering heartbeat doesn’t give you away. Maybe it’s just the alcohol.

After a few minutes of silence, he stomps his cigarette out on the pavement and turns to fully face you. 

“You’re beautiful, you know that?”

His words steal the breath from your lungs and your breath hitches in your throat.  Steve’s complimented you before, thousands of times. So why does this feel like you’ve just been slammed into a wall of concrete?

“Steve…”

You feel like he’s getting closer. You’ve definitely had too much to drink.

Before you can stop yourself or even comprehend what’s happening, you vomit all the contents of your stomach directly onto Steve’s perfectly polished loafers. He yelps, most in surprise, slightly in horror. Despite that undeniable foulness of the situation, his hands immediately move to hold your hair back, just in case you aren’t, well, finished. 

You don’t realize it, but you’ve started crying. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. You’re okay,” he soothes, rubbing a hand up and down your back. “Let’s get you home, yeah?” He starts to lead you to his car in the parking lot, leaving you here alone not an option for him. “What about Nancy?” you sob, “I’ll come back and get her, honey. Don’t worry.” Honey. You almost puke again.

Once he settles you into the passenger seat of his pristine BMW, you watch as he toes off his shoes and throws them in the garbage. When he slides into the driver's seat and turns on the ignition, he turns and brings a palm up to cradle your jaw. “Guess I’m gonna have to keep an eye on ya next time,” he chuckles, “can’t handle your mildly spiked punch.” You groan, but give a breathy chuckle of your own, “Just drive, Harrington.”

When you arrive home, you breathe a sigh of relief at the lack of your family car in the driveway. Your mother would certainly pitch a fit if she saw you like this - mascara streaked down your face, an obnoxious yellow stain down the front of your once flawless dress. Steve leads you upstairs with a hand on the small of your back, and a palm cradling your elbow. You know you’re not drunk, and you’re almost positive that wasn’t the reason you spilled your guts. But the alternative to just letting Steve take care of you would be admitting that you love him, that you’re in love with him.

You don’t bother taking your makeup off, Steve just helps you change into an old t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts. “Lights on or off?” He asks as he pulls the covers up and over you, “Off, please.” he gives you a little two-finger salute, “you got it.” Just as he’s reaching underneath your lamp shade you whisper, “Steve?” he looks, “yeah trouble?” “I’m sorry for ruining your night…and throwing up on your shoes.” you give a sheepish look. Even though he would have every right to be, you know he’s not mad at you.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he leans down and presses a kiss to the crown of your head,”the shoes we can discuss at a later date,” he shoots you a wink, making sure you know he’s only teasing.

“Thank you, Steve.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Without another word he closes the bedroom door, bathing you in darkness. Just before you succumb to sleep, you’re filled with dread at the thought that you’re gonna remember this in the morning.

Cheers to senior year.