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about: max hates the way billy treats girls, steve is nothing like billy
c.w: mentions of sex but nothing explicit, billy being awful to women but again nothing explicit, soft fluff because steve is a girl dad, some canon divergence with how the fight with billy went in the s2 finale, angsty with a tooth-rottingly fluffy ending, no pronouns for reader but mentions of reader wearing makeup
a/n: max is my daughter i love her so much, i wish they elaborated more on her and steve’s relationship in the show because i just know she wishes he was her older brother instead of billy, divider by @cursed-carmine
Billy is weird with girls. Sometimes they call the house asking for him and Max hears Billy say crude words on the phone, words that would have her mouth washed out with soap if her mom heard her say any of them. More often than not there’s a girl in his passenger seat when Billy drives her home, very obviously displeased by Max’s very existence.
And sometimes her mom and his dad— not her dad because he’s back in California— go out late and Billy will bring a girl over, never the same one. He never tells her to get out or leave because he doesn’t care, but Max quickly realizes she should with the disgusting noises they make. She usually goes outside, skating up and down their street until the girl leaves.
He never drives them home and they leave the house with makeup ruined and walking funny. He never lets them stay the night either. Some of them look upset when they leave, others don’t really care.
There’s been a few girls who walk outside and cry on the curb in the dim streetlight. It’s never loud sobbing, just quiet sniffles as they hug themselves. Max never talks to them, she has no idea what she could ever say to them.
Today it’s one of those nights again. His dad booked a fancy dinner in some restaurant across county lines so he won't bring her mom home until the early hours of the morning. This also means whatever girl Billy brings over is going to be there for a long time.
Under usual circumstances this would be fine, Max would just skate downtown to kill time, except it’s the middle of June and a storm is rolling in.
She thinks it’s ridiculous, why is there rain in the middle of summer? It was never like this in California, they had some bouts of rain in December and April but never the summer. Even when it did rain it never lasted long or was bad enough that her mother invested in proper rain attire.
Which is how she finds herself walking down the street, her jeans and converse completely soaked. The crappy poncho her mom bought at Melvald’s was in the clearance section for a reason because her hair is soaked through and she can feel water soaking her shirt.
She wants to go home. Not that dump on Cherry Lane but San Diego.
She feels hot tears welling up in her eyes when her shadow starts to elongate in the puddles and she hears the rev of a car engine behind her. Great, some asshole is gonna splash water all over her. Instead the car slows to a gentle stop next to her and when she turns her head she sees a familiar red BMW, Steve’s already rolling down the window to talk to her.
“What are you doing?” he frowns, and she can see you in the passenger seat craning your head to look at her. “It’s pouring out here.”
Max’s mouth goes dry, what is she doing out here?
“Walk,” she finally says, hoping the lump in her throat isn’t obvious.
“C’mon get in,” Steve replies without missing a beat, nudging his head toward the passenger side. “You’re gonna get yourself sick.”
“I’m fine,” Max insists, because she really is about to start crying and she doesn’t want to be in his car when that happens.
“Max get in,” your voice cuts in, frowning at her and exchanging a glance with Steve, like you two can communicate without speaking.
She does, only because you’ve been the coolest person ever to her since you stabbed Billy with a tranquilizer syringe and threatened him with a baseball bat.
She gets in the backseat, probably ruining Steve’s fancy leather seats with how soaked she is, and immediately notes the grocery bags. Not junk food but actual ingredients, great Steve was gonna cook you dinner and now she’s crashing your date night.
Steve is already slipping off his knit sweater and cranking up the heater. He sets the car in park in the middle of the road before turning around so he can hand her the sweater.
“You wanna actually tell us why you were walking around in the rain?” He has a disapproving frown on his face but for some reason Max doesn’t feel like it’s directed at her.
She wants to refuse the sweater but she’s shivering in the backseat and it feels warm in her hands. So she takes her crappy poncho off and slips it on, hoping the two of you mistake the few tears escaping her eyes for rain.
“Hey we’re not gonna tell your parents,” you say gently, reaching out to smooth down her soaked hair. “We just wanna know, I promise.”
“My parents are out for the night,” her voice cracks when she talks and she really hopes you two just think she’s cold. “So Billy invited a girl over.”
She’s looking down at her soaked shoes because looking at either one of you feels scary right now. Even then she knows you two are exchanging glances, communicating without speaking again. She remembers her mom and dad doing that, when she was younger and they still loved each other.
“Okay,” Steve says after a beat, his voice softer and reaching out to fix the sweater so it sits evenly on her. “You’re gonna come back to my place with us, and then you can use my phone to leave a message for your mom that you’re sleeping at a friend’s house. Sounds good?”
Max nods, trying to rub her hands and warm them up. Steve takes the car out of park and starts driving back to his place. The two of you are quiet throughout the drive and she doesn’t feel like starting a conversation. Every so often her eyes dart back to the grocery bag, the thought of Billy making a girl dinner is so laughable it feels absurd.
After a few minutes the BMW rolls into the driveway and you come over to her door with an umbrella while Steve grabs the grocery bags from the other side. It’s ridiculous for you to walk her twenty feet over to the door with the umbrella but she humors you anyway.
She follows suit when you and Steve slip off your shoes by the front door before walking in. The two of you actually own proper rainboots and Steve gives a glance at her thoroughly soaked converse.
“Alright I’m gonna start cooking dinner,” Steve tells her, gesturing to the grocery bag. “Why don’t you go take a shower?”
“I don’t need–”
You both give her a look.
“...Fine,” she relents after a moment, because it does feel like her bones are rattling inside her body.
“Perfect,” you take her hand, leading her over to the staircase. “I’ll show you where it is and get you some clothes.”
You take her upstairs, stopping by one of the cabinets in the hallway to grab some towels before leading her into Steve’s room. It’s mostly what she’d expect from a teenage boy, some movie posters, a basketball laying around, and a desk that obviously has seen very minimal studying.
She does catch the fact that there are multiple pillows on the bed and the sheets are a nice cream color instead of bachelor navy blue. There’s some books and a candle on the nightstand, along with two mugs holding the remnants of last night’s tea in them.
“Here we go,” you say, finally looking up after having rummaged through the top dresser drawer. Based on the clothes Max can see in, it’s your designated space in Steve’s room.
You hand her the towels along with some fluffy pajama pants, they have little teddy bears on them, along with an oversized t-shirt.
“Bathroom’s down the hall on the left, just yell if you need anything.”
She mumbles acknowledgment and you turn to leave, then Max calls out your name before she realizes it.
“What’s up?” you turn around. Her chest feels tight, everything feels wrong and right at the same time. This is how things should be for her, but they’re not and she’s terrified this brief moment will be stolen from her in seconds.
“You’re not gonna call my parents… right? You or Steve?”
Your face softens and you walk over to her. Wrapping her in a hug and pressing your lips to the top of her head.
“No we’re not,” you murmur and rub her back. “You just have to promise me one thing, okay?”
Max’s shoulders are shaking as she cries into you. Quiet sniffles like the girls who sit on the curb outside of their house after Billy decides he’s done with them. “What is it?”
“Next time something like this happens,” you whisper, still rubbing her back. “Call us, we’ll come get you.”
She nods against you and you hold her for a few minutes until the crying subsides. When she pulls away you press a kiss to her forehead before leaving.
She follows your instructions, going down the hall and to the left to find the bathroom. There’s two of everything. Tooth brushes, towels, body washes, and shampoo and conditioner sets. She can’t resist being nosy and taking a peek in the bathroom drawer. She finds a makeup bag and inside all the products look minimally used.
Steve must have bought it so you wouldn’t need to bring yours back and forth.
The idea of him standing in your bathroom carefully writing down the products and their shade names to buy them is so silly and sweet enough to make her giggle quietly.
Max takes her time in the shower, letting the steaming hot water warm her body. She also wants to make sure she’s fully composed because it’d be way too embarrassing if she started crying again.
She steals your body wash and washes her hair with Steve’s shampoo and conditioner because she thinks it’s funny. The boys make fun of him for preening with how much he invests in his hair products. It’s stupid considering how nosy they got when Dustin revealed he knew Steve’s hair routine. He never actually told any of them.
She dries herself off thoroughly after the shower and examines the skincare products on the counter. Not the cheap soaps she convinced her mom to buy after her face started breaking out. Fancy expensive ones that you need adult money to buy. Two of everything again, things Steve bought to make you more comfortable in his space.
She uses your facewash and dabs on a little moisturizer out of curiosity, it smells like clay and she likes it a bit. After wrapping her hair in a towel she heads out of the bathroom and walks over to the stairs.
The smell of garlic hits her nose and just as she’s about to head down she clears the click of the front door. Then your feet padding on the floor as you walk into the kitchen and tell Steve: “She’s a size six.”
“Hmm you think red rainboots are a little too on the nose?”
“She likes the color so it’ll probably be fine. Just maybe make the pants and coat a different color?”
“How about all yellow? She can look like the Morton Salt girl.”
“Well she would look adorable, but she’d also probably kick you.”
“Red boots it is. I’ll get a small for the pants and a medium for the coat.”
“Steve, that jacket is stupidly expensive.”
“Which is why I’m getting a medium so she can grow into it.”
Max doesn’t tell herself it means anything, she never does, but the next morning she finds a bag of rain gear on her porch.
The new reading teacher arrives across the hall, and Steve discovers that sometimes the hardest part of middle school isn’t the students— it’s admitting he wants to be around someone more than he expected. | MASTERLIST
⤷ Lunch in Steve's Room ›› Where you discover Steve’s secret snack stash and his big heart for students. 1.5k
The teachers' lounge teleports you back in time. Not because you went to Hawkins Middle, or even Hawkins High, but because your lunch hour reminds you very much of the school you did attend. It reminds you that everybody has a clique, a place to sit. You’re the newbie this year, and so far, you haven’t worked up the courage to ask to join anyone, nor has anyone invited you to their table. You’ve opted to eat lunch in your classroom, as many teachers do, and really, you don’t mind at all. It’s a nice break from all the talking you do during the day.
You’re on your way there, walking hip to hip with one of your eighth graders, Shelby Webster. She’s one of the many students you find flocking to Steve Harrington’s class for lunch. She’s a sweetheart. She’s always eager to raise her hand, polite when the rest of your class isn’t, and already well on her way to becoming a teacher’s pet. You know you’re not supposed to have favorites, but some kids make it harder than others. She reminds you a little too much of yourself at that age.
Shelby stops abruptly in the hall, catching your wrist to stop you, too. “Wait, one second,” she urges. She pops her head through Steve’s open doorway and shouts, “Mr. Harrington! Can she eat in here today? She always eats alone!”
While the gesture is heart-warmingly kind, it’s also incredibly embarrassing. Steve’s sunny smile only makes you want to melt into a hot puddle on the floor.
“Of course!” he beams. “Come on in!”
“Mr. Harrington is super nice,” Shelby whispers to you. “You’ll like him, I promise.”
She’s not wrong; you do quite like him. You’ve known Steve for about a month and some change, and since then, he’s been nothing short of amazing. He covers for you when you need a bathroom break, he lends you all the supplies you could possibly need. He even stayed late last week to help you rearrange all the desks in your room. He’s about the only person you’ve clicked with since you started. But even so, it’s early in the school year, and you haven’t had much luck with friendships in the past.
“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” he spurs.
Shelby clicks her tongue. “If I was an animal, I would certainly not be a cat. Do you know they eat their own poop sometimes?”
Every student in the room groans in simultaneous disgust. Steve makes a sour face too, adding, “Gross. And it’s a metaphor.” He sounds so confident you almost believe it.
“It’s an idiom, actually,” you correct.
“Yeah, Mr. Harrington. Aren’t you supposed to know that?” one of his students chimes in.
“I don’t know everything.”
“Well, you should. You’re a teacher, aren’t you?”
His arms cross, long sleeves bunching up at the elbow. “I only teach about health. Why would I need to know about other stuff?”
“‘Cause you need to know it for the real world, duh!”
Steve hums. “Yeah, I should probably brush up on my grammar lessons, huh? Miss Smarty Pants over there keeps catching me slacking.” He turns to you with a hefty smirk. His hands find the back of his office chair, and he pulls it out from his desk. “Here, come sit.”
You blink. You’re still in the doorway, suddenly aware of how gauche you must look. You gesture at the semi-circle of student desks where Shelby’s found a seat. “Oh, I can sit over here. I don’t mind.”
“No, no. Here,” he insists, rolling the chair closer.
Your cheeks are boiling as you sit down. You feel so out of place. And you're spoiled, letting him drive your chair up to the desk, watching him shuffle his things around to make room for yours.
His desk isn’t a mess necessarily, but it’s far from organized. There’s a stack of loose-leaf paper, a football-shaped stress toy, and a framed photo of him and several dogs in Christmas sweaters, among a collection of other things. You scoot in with your tray as he collects his own lunch— a half-eaten sandwich and a carton of Goldfish.
He’s got almost half a class of kids in his room. Some sprawled out on the floor, some at the pod of desks closest to his. He's quite popular.
“Marcus, where’s your lunch, man?” Steve asks.
Marcus Moore from your first period shrugs, his nose buried deep in a sketchbook. It appears your class isn’t the only one he spends the entirety of his time doodling in. “Forgot my lunch money,” he mumbles.
“Come on, kid. You can’t keep forgetting.” Steve bends down at your side to open one of his desk drawers. The big one on the bottom is not full of school supplies, but rather enough snacks to last an apocalypse. “Come here. Come pick something out.”
Marcus trudges over. He’s perfected the art of a blank stare, exemplifying just about every middle schooler’s natural resistance to gratitude. He picks out a bag of barbecue-flavored chips.
“Get something else. You can’t just have chips for lunch.”
Marcus takes a second bag of chips, and Steve side-eyes him. “Go eat.”
“You can have my fish sticks, Marcus,” says Gretchen, one of your seventh graders.
“Can I have a bag of chips, Mr. Harrington?” asks another student whom you’ve never met.
“Now everybody wants chips, huh? Come ‘ere, quickly, before everyone in the school finds out about my stash.” He’s a bad actor. His generosity doesn’t need words. “Want some?” he asks you.
You politely decline.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” you smile. You’re cooking up the words to thank him for allowing you to eat in there when his attention is stolen by yet another student waltzing into his room.
“Vinny! How’d you do on the math quiz? Ace it?” Vincent— the one from your second period, not your third— makes a face that says he did not, in fact, ace it. But Steve reassures him anyway, “I’m sure you did great. Don’t worry about it, kid.”
Vincent quickly joins in on the lunch trading regime that has just begun. He adds a can of Coke and begs a girl for half of her Twix Bar.
Steve perches on the corner of his desk, long legs straightening out in front of him like khaki-colored pencils. He rips into his bag of goldfish, leaning back to offer you some before popping a handful in his mouth.
“I like your classroom,” you tell him softly. He follows your eyes to the wall plastered with motivational posters, to the shelves stacked with knick-knacks, to the corner where his life-sized skeleton lives. His room feels very Steve, even if you don’t know Steve all that well.
“Thanks,” he garbles with the back of his hand pressed to his mouth full of food. “Still pretty empty in here, though. Gotta figure out how to make it look less like a storage closet, you know?”
You hum. “I feel that way about mine.”
“No, I like what you’ve done to your room. Way less sad than when it was Click’s class.”
“Really?”
“Oh my God, yeah, it looked haunted before. If you have any creative advice for my room, I am all ears.”
“Oh, trust me, I’m no interior designer. I got most of my stuff from Goodwill, and the rest I pretty much made.”
His lips thin into a fine line. “I wish I could be creative like that. I don’t have a creative bone in my body.”
The teacher piece of your heart sinks. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“You saw my bulletin board, didn’t you?”
“Yes, and it was great!”
He tips his head like you’re bullshitting him. You are, but only a little.
“It just needs some… pizzazz.”
“Oh, I think it needs a lot more than that.”
Your laughter overlaps his. Shelby appears at Steve’s feet with her own gap-tooth grin, eyes shifting from yours to Steve’s.
“What’cha want?” he asks her.
“Can you open this?”
Before she’s even finished her sentence, Steve’s already leaning over you and your lunch, snatching the scissors off his desk. “You know,” he starts, snipping the top off her yogurt tube, “I have been trying to convince this girl to try out for basketball for two years, now.”
“I told you,” Shelby barks, “I have ballet class every Tuesday and Thursday. I don’t have time for another sport.”
“I can rework the schedule. Practice on Monday, Wednesday. Games on Friday.”
“No, Mr. Harrington, I have piano lessons on Mondays, remember?”
“Ahh. You’re a busy bee.”
Shelby rolls her eyes, and Steve rolls his back with twice the drama. She returns to her friends.
“Is that another metaphor?” you tease him.
“I still don’t know the difference, so yeah, it is in my book.”
Your smile doubles in size.
And his isn’t far off as he says, “You should come eat in here more often— I mean, if you want to, of course. You’re more than welcome.”
3 • You hit where it hurts, ‘cause I gave you the bullets
Chapter 2
Word Count: 4k
Ao3
Content Warnings: light angst, arguing like an old married couple
The porcelain curve of her mask turned into her pillow, her only exposed brow furrowing at the memory.
At the glinting flashes of pointed teeth and warm mouths, of a cold train ride and the phone call that tore the world out from under her. Madison felt her legs tuck up against her chest, shifting under the warmth of a duvet that didn’t belong to her as a small, incidental sound crept from between her clenched teeth.
Slowly, like the gradual soak of rainwater seeping into the threads of her clothes, sensation crept through her veins. The sleep-addled leadening of her limbs parted from her muscles leisurely, and ever so gently, her mind departed from spontaneous recollection of the years before her death, and consciousness replaced hurtful remembrance.
The short sweep of a warm thumb over the newly awakened axons of her knuckles had her eyes shooting open, setting her nerve endings alight. It prompted the abrupt rise of her upper body, hand pulling away from the claws trifling with her fingers, and she twisted her neck in preparation to smite the wretch lounging beside her. In her room. In her bed.
An old and familiar fire lit by the need of self-preservation stirred in her belly, one that was doused by the cold realization of just who had snuck into her room while she slept. Of who was grinning smugly at her, head perched on his palm, elbow dipping into the plush of the hotel’s pillow. Hooves on the bed, she noted belatedly.
“Alastor!” She blared, her wide-eyed expression falling dangerously low into something perturbed and sour. The sheets pooled around her waist as she let out an irritated groan at the wisenheimer smile he greeted her with, and she flopped back onto the mattress.
“Good morning, my dear!” He announced cheerily, the hand not supporting his head swinging upward in a wide display of showmanship. She didn’t turn to glare at him, just fixed her heated stare on the litany of unnamed stains dotting her ceiling. He wasn’t deterred by her pointed ignoring of his unwanted presence. In fact, the glorious expression of her disdain towards his untoward approach to rousing her from her slumber only egged him on to niggle at her further. “Dreaming sweetly, I hope?”
“I was,” she spat.
He hummed, angling his arm so that he could lean closer to her, his grinning visage invading the corners of her vision whether she wanted it to or not. “Thoughts about me?”
“Yep,” she affirmed with a pop, tilting her head to squint up at him, a petulant grin crinkling the corner of her eyes. “Thinkin’ of all the ways I could snap your slutty little waist.”
And, divinely, that seemed to silence him, if only for a few short-lived seconds. She watched with gleeful satisfaction as he blinked slowly, his open-mouthed smile frozen in uncertain consternation. “…My what?”
Mentally, she had to stifle the urge to coo at his uncharacteristic doltishness.
“Never mind.” Instead, she groaned at his cluelessness, shooting a hand out to grab at his forearm and topple the pedestal he held his head on. He recovered quickly, head barely even dipping as his perch was ripped out from under him. His grin tightened when she rolled over to face her back to him, tugging the duvet tight over her shoulder, voice muffled by the thick fabric as she ground out through gritted teeth; “Don’t you have other guests to bother?”
He hummed in faux thoughtfulness, rolling over onto his stomach, legs swinging behind him as he rubbed his chin, eyes thrown to the ceiling.
“Not that I can think of,” he said after a moment of obnoxious and pretend contemplation. “This place is dreadfully boring.”
She untucked her face from the inviting warmth of the darkness beneath her duvet, eyes still closed and head turning slightly so that she could question him over the curve of her shoulder with a condescending air of sing-song haughtiness. “I thought you came here for ‘entertainment.’”
“Yes, well, when there's nobody here who’s actually trying to get redeemed,” his voice began from behind her, the fatigued drawl of his radio-filtered tone fading away as the familiar tingle of his shadows warped behind her bundled form. Then, closer than before, from in front of her, disinterested impassivity inflected the constant waves of static as he finished; “Then there’s nobody here to fail.”
“Aw,” Madison purred tauntingly, tempting the edge of the duvet down so that she could squint one eye up at him, her lip jutting out with faux sympathy as her patronizing tone cooed; “Is the poor baby not getting his sadistic fix?”
“That is precisely why I’m here right now,” he avowed with a merry swing of his elbow, pointedly ignoring the narrowed glare aimed at him as he began to pace the length of her bed, twirling his cane between his fingertips.
“You see, I was growing rather fatigued from this insipid little hotel,” he drawled, letting his shoulders sag dramatically as he spun on his heel to take long strides back towards the head of her bed. His shadow poured down over her face, blocking out the small sliver of Hell’s morning sun filtering through the small gap between the pulled curtains of her hotel room, claws pulling the duvet aside so that he could pinch her cheek between his fingertips, crooning down at her with a cheery timbre; “And then, lo and behold, along comes my favorite source of entertainment.”
Madison’s eyes widened into a sharp glare at the sudden rush of cold air blanketing her bare legs and arms, goosebumps skittering along her skin beneath the short coverage of silky fur as the duvet was yanked from her curled-up form. She dragged her darkened stare from the edge of her bedside locker to Alastor, still standing with a slight bend to his waist with his arm outstretched above his head, duvet beetling from his raised fist as his eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
“You.”
She felt her mouth twist downward, the corners of her lips creasing as her brows furrowed deep above stormy eyes. She sat up suddenly, coming eye to twinkling eye with the demon grinning impishly down at her. “I’m not entertaining you.”
“Oh, but you already are,” he corrected quickly, emending his posture and standing tall over her. He tossed his cane from one hand to the other, letting it twirl between his fingertips before tightening his hold on the thin stem, bopping her lightly on the top of her head with the microphone.
“You’re ever so sour,” he declared, a short noise of broken static warbling through the interrupted quiet of Madison’s room when she smacked the microphone head away from her. And with a retaliatory and theatrical flick of his wrist, he lobbed the cushy weight of her duvet at her head, relishing in the muffled growl the action prompted. “And I find that just darlingly sweet.”
Reflexively, she ripped the cover from where it canopied a crown of messy hair and flattened ears. She rolled over with an exaggerated huff, cocooning herself in the plush cover, trying fruitlessly to retain the residual warmth enveloping the underside of her duvet.
“Well, I’m gonna be real boring for the next…” Her voice trailed off as her eyes lifted to the locker margining her bed, to the small screen of glowing digits highlighting the contours of her face. “Alastor, it’s seven in the morning.”
“That it is,” the deer demon affirmed proudly, claws hooking into the fabric wrapped tightly around her huddled form and dragging her into a seated position. And almost absently, like an age-old muscle memory that puppeteered his movements, he let his carmine eyes rove over the mess of loose, sleep-induced tangles in her hair. And when his bright eyes finally skimmed over the sleek porcelain of her mask, he was met with an expression that looked so foreign on her otherwise soft visage. So sharp and pointed, her only exposed eye shooting tired daggers up at him, her manicured brow arched skeptically.
The tight smile twisting his thinned lips twitched slightly, something ancient and buried threatening the ever-present grin plastered on his expression. He ignored the slow churning in his guts and instead rearranged the grip on his staff, using it to boop her on her nose and watch as it scrunched under gentle impact. “Your powers of observation are as sharp as ever, darling.”
He released his grip on her duvet, smirk broadening when, instead of flopping back down onto the cushion of her mattress, Madison only slumped with her duvet wrapped tightly around her slouching body. And though the shapeless silhouette of her bundled form didn’t allow for him to study the maneuvers of her limbs, he could tell by the slight jutting angles of the duvet and the petulantly pouting countenance of her face that she’d crossed her arms over her chest.
He could already imagine the habitual drumming of her fingertips against her biceps, could recall with all the clarity in hell every time she’d watched him with the same bodily positioning. In both human, and demon form. During their marriage, and long after they’d found each other in hell, after he’d pushed her far enough away for their union to be considered estranged.
He used to find it adorable. Used to thrill under the heat of her stare.
And a part of him still did, a hellish ember igniting in the darkest pits of his stomach as she stared up at him through her eyelashes, ire flaming in the demonic glow of her irises. He realized belatedly that he’d allowed himself to fall silent, and that Madison was outright refusing to bridge the gap between them, mouth twisted in an unamused scowl.
With a sharp intake of breath that went unnoticed by the woman before him, Alastor stepped away from her.
“As for the early rise,” he began, trying to distract himself from the familiar scent of vanilla and floral perfume that seemed to envelop the air of the room already, despite her arriving not even a full day earlier. He balanced the staff in the crook of his elbow, his hands rising to straighten the lapels of his coat, fingers smoothing the fabric as he stepped towards the curtained window. “How are you going to redeem yourself if you spend your entire afterlife in bed?”
Madison’s eyes squinted against the sudden influx of fiery light as Alastor flung his arms outward, throwing the drapes open as he crooned over his shoulder; “Sloth is a deadly sin, dear.”
With a low growl, Madison stomped towards him, duvet trailing behind her as she held the cushiony material over her shoulders with a clenched fist. He stepped to the side when she scowled up at him, head cocking to the side as the red glow of Hell’s burning landscape bounced off of the intimately familiar soft curves of the side of her face. “Did it sound like I came here for redemption?”
“No,” he hummed, tearing his eyes from her face so that he could pretend to scrutinize the sharpened points of his clawed fingertips. His half-lidded eyes swept over the bed-addled mess of her hair and sleepwear, snapping sharply back up to her face when they drifted low enough to find the white speckles of fur dotting the inside of her thighs below the hem of her shorts. He hurriedly stifled the small noise the sight conjured before it could ricochet its way up his throat. “But you look like an underachieving failure.”
He punctuated the condescending proclamation by pressing the pad of his thumb to the tip of her nose, making her head tilt downward and allowing her to glare up at him through her lashes.
“Now, darling, rise and shine,” he called cheerily, hand curling into a loose fist as he swung his arm in a wide, showmanly gesture, motioning to the orb of fire burning bright in the scarlet sky, the pentagram glowing red and casting the realm in a bloody shadow. He stepped aside, shadows morphing on the wallpaper behind him into the vague shape of a ladder, letting the casted shadows of his fingers move up the narrow rungs in a walking motion. “You’ve got an entire day of failing to climb hell's social ladder ahead of you.”
She skulked away from him with a bodily roll of her eyes, head lulling in time with the upward toss of her gaze, a low groan passing through her lips as she reached her bedside. Her hand smoothed over the bedsheets, stopping only when the side of her pinkie met the solid surface of her phone. “I’m not trying to be a soul-grabbing overlord.”
They both knew that. He’d tried to encourage her in his own rude and sadistic way countless times in the past. To haul her way up the mountain of Overlords and carve out a space of her own near the top of Hell’s hierarchy of power. And every time, she’d been forced to remind him that she wasn’t interested in enslaving souls that she didn’t require in order to satiate a heedless lust for power.
That she didn’t want to push people away so that she could sit solely at the top. Almighty, and terribly lonely.
That she wasn’t like him.
He needled at her further, letting the bones of his neck crack and his head rotate fully, a gleeful inflection bleeding into his tone. “Because you know you’ll fail if you do?”
“No,” Madison enunciated haltingly, fingers skimming over the glossy surface of her phone screen before the low volume of an upbeat melody broke through the speakers. “Because I don’t wanna be slain because of the Radio Demon’s threatened ego.”
Alastor’s ears flattened against his skull, her response going unheard as his attention zeroed in on the device emanating modernity in the form of undulating synths and poppy slang.
“One would think that your music taste would have grown more refined with age,” he commented flatly, not even looking at her as he plucked the offending device from her bed, pinching the emblazoned trinket tied to the case between his thumb and forefinger and holding it away from him. “What a shame.”
Madison snatched the phone from his disgruntled hold, unwilling to allow him the chance to crush her property with his shadows because he couldn’t move on from the era he’d met his end in. She turned away from him, increasing the volume, if only slightly, and stifling a smirk at the quick burst of static that sounded from behind her. “One would also think that some people would be able to move on from the past.”
He didn’t respond right away. And she almost turned her head to check on him, because her response had been tame. Because it wasn’t a concoction of words that should have tripped him up enough to leave him wordless.
She didn’t have to. Because he found the words before she could even think to question him.
“And having a replica made of your first wedding ring?”
Madison felt her limbs seize, breath hitching on the exhale as her finger paused over the screen. Her wide-eyed expression didn’t shift even as Alastor appeared in front of her with a slow twist of shadows, not until he took her hand in his and carefully bent it at the wrist to bring the glinting metal haloing her ring finger into her line of vision. She let her eyes twitch slightly, finding the gleaming gold band, as if it wasn’t a sight she had engraved in her mind. As if she was surprised it was there.
She was surprised, or perhaps disturbed was the better description, that Alastor knew about it now. That Alastor was willing to use it as a point of attack, mild as it was.
“That’s not being stuck in the past?”
It was the goading tone he’d always used, the same tonal inflections. But it ignited something old and aching below the slope of her sternum.
“Alastor.” She wrenched her hand away from him. “Get the fuck out of my room.”
“Defensive,” he nodded gleefully, before motioning broadly to the mess of bedsheets, pillows, and duvet. “Besides, if I leave, you’ll only go back to sleep.”
He poked her forehead.
“Lazy.”
She shoved his chest.
“Bane of my afterlife.”
He only laughed, using the backs of his knuckles to nudge her chin friskily. “I’ll endeavor to retain that title, darling.”
He only laughed harder when she swatted his hand away with an annoyed wrinkle of her nose.
“Now.” With a snap of his fingers, a pile of folded clothes appeared in his open palm. The clothes she’d worn upon her arrival to the hotel, she realized belatedly, and she recognized faintly that the garments smelled fresh and flowery. She stumbled to catch the pile in her arms, holding them close to her chest as Alastor’s claws furled along the curve of her shoulders. Throwing an arm over her shoulders with feigned friendliness, he corralled her towards the wall-length mirror aimed towards the bed.
Positioning her so that she was standing in front of him, her back to his chest, his face appearing over her shoulder in the reflective surface, he gave her an amiable clap on her back. “Up and at ‘em!”
Her lids drooped in tandem with the defeated fall of her shoulders, brows falling into a flat line, lips pursing as she watched his impish expression in the mirror. She gave him a moment. And his grin tightened the longer she let the silence prolong itself, the corners of his eyes crinkling as they flitted between her reflection and the pile of clothes he’d apparated into her arms.
With a curated slowness, keeping her gaze fixed on Alastor’s in their shared reflection for as long as she could, she craned her neck to meet the scarlet eyes of his real self. And with a bone-cracking twist of his neck, he peered down at her dubious expression.
Her mouth twisted into a skeptical pout, brow arching above a narrowed gaze, drawing out the single syllable of her one-worded inquiry when he met her gaze with a blank smile. “Well…?”
“Well, what?”
She blinked.
“I need to get dressed…” She enunciated slowly, gesturing with a dazed confusion at his near-innocent cluelessness to the clothes in her arms. The arch of her eyebrow deepened into a baffled frown when he failed to follow the overtone of her implication. “So you need to leave.”
“Oh,” he said, eyes widening just a fraction as realization settled over his bones. Heat fizzled over his cheekbones in a way he hadn’t felt for years, and he was eternally grateful that the grayish coloration of his demon form’s skin didn’t tint red. The momentary lapse in his usual lackadaisical grinning expression was masked almost immediately with an exaggeration of his smile. Invisible stitching pulled harshly on the corners of his mouth as he grabbed the hand Madison was pointing to the pile of clothes with, and raised it over her head, twisting her arm and forcing her into a slow spin so that she was facing him. “Now you have some modesty?”
Her lips parted in palpable offense, her tongue running over the whites of her teeth as a terse sound of indignation rumbled in her throat. Her chin tipped forward, resting against the fluff of her chest as she sucked in a sharp breath.
Whatever blazing response stood poised on the sharpened tip of her tongue was extinguished as Alastor threw an arm loosely over the sloped curve of her shoulders. He jostled her stiff figure with a sprightly laugh, avoiding her glare so that he could inspect the points of his claws as he added slyly; “Besides, it's not like it’s anything I haven’t seen before.”
The bow of Madison’s shoulders drew tight, her arm falling by her side and dropping the stack of clothes to the carpeted ground with an annoyed huff. She ducked under his arm, and he let her, content with the exasperation rolling off of her in hot waves. She spun on her heel, hoof stomping with a muffled sound into the carpet as her arm shot out to point at the door to her room. “Out.”
He questioned her with a petty tilt of his head, using his cane to hook the corner of her bedsheets, an inquisitive hum punctuating the query. “And how can I trust that you aren’t simply going to disappear back under those covers?”
Madison watched him for a long moment, chewing contemplatively on the inside of her cheek as she wordlessly stewed on her acrimony. She glanced down at the pile of clothes he’d apparated for her to wear, eyes flitting between the neatly folded garments and the reflection of Alastor’s back.
At the prolonged silence, Alastor peered over the sharp angle of his shoulder, his tight-lipped smile parting slightly with the intention of breaking it.
Madison beat him to the punch.
“Fine,” she spat, teeth scraping her bottom lip as she bit the word out. A sanguine simper tugged at the corners of her mouth as something petulant and vindictive stirred in her gut. “Stay.”
Alastor turned to face her fully, smile fixed, though his brows dipped into a diminutive frown at her newfound acceptance of his presence. And Madison reveled in the moment that Alastor’s confusion morphed into flustered stupefaction when her hands crossed over her midsection, fingers curling around the hem of her t-shirt as she yanked the oversized garment up and over her head.
The sudden screech of stuttering static spoke a thousand distressed words.
And in the split second that Alastor disappeared from her sight, when the dark fabric slipped over her face and blocked out her vision, he also disappeared from her bedroom in a confounded cloud of shadow.
Madison was left bare-chested and satisfied, a wide grin stretching her face as she tossed the scrunched up ball of fabric into the residual plume of dissipating shadows, the shirt unfurling right where Alastor had stood just seconds before. “Coward.”
Arm still outstretched from the effort, the light Alastor had welcomed into her room caught on the edge of her aforementioned ring, the detailed curve of the golden band glinting innocently back at her as she brought her hand back to her chest. Abstractedly, her hooves brought her to the edge of her undone bed, and she let herself drop onto the plush material of the mattress with a weighty sigh, bright eyes fixed on the glaring metal as her other hand absentmindedly twiddled with the accessory.
A twinge, sharp and achingly familiar, plucked at her heartstrings as she ran her fingertips over the intentional detailing carved into gold. The rueful smile lifting her lips slipped into something flattened and down, her brow pinching as her teeth sank into the flesh of her cheeks.
A shuddering breath rattled her chest, and she drew her gaze to the doe demon being reflected back at her in the mirror. With an intentional flick of her wrist, thin red trails of magic twirled around her fingers down to her wrists. And in its wake, the satin white gloves she’d arrived to the hotel with concealed her hands once again, hiding the ring from prying eyes.
Though she supposed there wasn’t much of a purpose to them anymore. Not if Alastor knew that she’d had the symbol of their marital union while they were alive remade in the aftermath of her death. Not if he was content to make fun of her for holding onto the memory of the only period of her short life when she had been truly happy.
A teary sting tickled her waterline, and she blinked furiously against it, lifting her chin with a rib-clattering inhale.
Because of course he’d run away instead of actually talking to her about why she’d invested time and energy into having her ring replicated.
In which! you’ve been in a coma for months after being cursed by Vecna, but Steve never gives up on you. He talks to you every day, sharing his life and his heart
warnings: This story contains graphic injury, including broken bones, coma and medical trauma, hospitals and medical equipment, panic and emotional distress, mentions of death and near-death experiences, supernatural violence related to Vecna’s curse, heavy angst, fear of losing a loved one, intense emotional scenes with crying, flashing lights and hallucinations, and loud heart monitor descriptions.
You’ve been in a coma for months now.
The kind of deep, unmoving sleep the doctors call “stable,”
but Steve calls “bullshit.”
They say you can’t hear anything.
Steve knows you can.
He talks to you anyway.
Everything changed the night Vecna got to you.
Your bones had snapped.
Your breath had stopped.
Your heart had gone silent long enough for Steve to think he’d lost you for good.
But somehow, you held on.
Somehow, you lived.
You just… never woke up.
The room is dim, lit by the glow of the machines that track your heartbeat.
That steady beeping is the only thing that proves you’re still fighting.
Steve sits beside your bed every night. Sometimes he holds your hand.
Sometimes he lays his head against your blanket and just listens to you breathe.
Tonight, He’s sitting beside you, legs stretched out under your bed, one hand holding yours while the other gestures in the air like he’s actually expecting you to reply.
“So, uh… I got the job,” he says, voice low and warm. “At the radio station. Can you believe that? Talking into a mic sounding like a total idiot.”
He huffs a tiny laugh.
“Well… Robin says I sound like an idiot, but, you know. That’s Robin.”
He looks at your face for a moment, as if waiting for you to smile, like you used to whenever he complained about work.
“And Dustin,” he continues, leaning back in his chair. “God, he’s in the worst mood lately. He pretends it’s because of school, but we both know Henderson’s full of shit.”
Robin snorts quietly from the corner. Steve shoots her a look.
“What? He is,” he mutters, turning back to you. “He misses you. We all do.”
He runs his thumb slowly across your knuckles a habit he picked up months ago, back when he used to be scared to touch you.
“But he won’t admit it. Keeps acting like he’s mad at the world instead. Slamming doors, yelling at Mike, calling me ‘emotionally dense,’ which, by the way, rude.”
Robin raises a brow. “He’s not wrong.”
Steve ignores her.
“Anyway… work was stupid. People called in to complain about the weather or the music or I don’t know, their sad little lives.”
He smiles softly.
“You would’ve made fun of all of them with me.”
His voice gets quieter.
“You always make everything feel easier.”
Robin watches him for a moment, something sad but hopeful in her eyes. She can see it happening the shift in him. That softness. That fear.
Steve takes a breath.
A deep one.
“She can’t hear you, dingus,” Robin says gently.
Steve shakes his head. “She can. I know she can.”
“Steve….”
“I don’t care,” he snaps, voice breaking. “I’m not giving up on her.”
He steps closer to your bed, rubbing his hand through his hair.
Robin falls quiet.
“You know…” he starts softly, staring at your hand in his. “I think about it all the time. When she wakes up.”
Robin blinks. “think what?”
He sits back down, thumb brushing slow circles against your knuckles.
His voice drops, small and shaky.
“I was talking to lucas and max the other day. they said maybe I should… you know… ask her.”
Robin tilts her head. “Ask her what?”
Steve looks up at you, eyes full of love he’s been carrying alone for months.
“To marry me.”
Robin’s jaw drops. “Oh. Wow. Like— actually?”
Steve lets out a small, nervous laugh. But his eyes stay on you, soft and full of everything he’s too scared to lose.
“I wanna wake up next to her for the rest of my life,” he whispers. “I want the house… the kids… the dumb dog she keeps talking about. I want everything. With her.”
He squeezes your hand gently.
“So when she wakes up… I’m gonna ask.”
And something inside you shifts.
Maybe it’s instinct.
Maybe it’s love.
Maybe it’s your soul crawling its way back to him.
But your heartbeat suddenly spikes so fast and so loud that both of them freeze.
The monitor beside you erupts:
Beep.
Beep.
Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep—
“Steve!” Robin gasps, jumping to her feet.
Steve doesn’t move at first.
He just stares at your chest rising and falling under the blankets, like he’s afraid to breathe.
Then he leans in close, shaking.
“Baby? Hey… hey, I’m right here,” he whispers. “If you can hear me… squeeze my hand. Please.”
The beeping spikes again, frantic, wild, like your heart is calling for him.
Steve’s eyes fill instantly.
“Robin, go get a doctor—”
“No,” Robin whispers, staring at the monitor like it’s a miracle. “She hears you.”
Your heartbeat keeps climbing, desperate and alive.
Steve presses his forehead to your hand, laughing through tears.
“Okay,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Okay, I won’t say anything else crazy. Your heart’s gonna explode.”
But he can’t stop smiling.
Not when your heart just answered him.
Not when your body is fighting its way back.
Not when, for the first time since Vecna touched you.
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Hawkins, Indiana is notorious for having brutal summers. When Starcourt Mall was announced, everybody got excited. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t excited about its opening (even if I wouldn’t say it out loud). Opening the mall right before summer was perfect, finally giving everyone something to do other than going to the community pool everyday. Gaining a movie theater, stores, food. Namely, Scoops Ahoy.
It’s hot in my car, almost sweltering. Janice, my younger sister, is sitting on the passenger side fanning herself. “Come on, can’t you roll down the windows or something?”
I glance over, taking in the exasperated look on her face. “Do you want flies, mosquitos and possibly a wasp in here? What about the humidity? Do you think out there is-”
“Any better than in here,” Janice cuts me off. “No. I don’t. But for God’s sake can’t we do something?” I look back at the road, “No. Not really. Besides, look up ahead. We’re finally here.”
I pull into the parking lot, the mall already being packed. “Don’t kids go to the arcade or something?” I mumble to myself.
“Not anymore,” Janice responds, snapping her gum.
I roll my eyes, motioning for her to get out of the car. We make our way up to the giant building. Teenagers are giggling, kids are yelling, adults stand by fanning themselves with promotional pamphlets. I grab onto Janice’s arm so I don’t lose her in the crowd. I swear she grumbles in protest, but I can’t hear her over a crying baby as I push through the crowd, desperately trying to find the ice cream shop.
It doesn’t take long. The giant neon sign, the faint sound of sailor music drifting out from the shop. Rather than me dragging Janice, she takes control, all but running into the shop. I feel my whole body tense as we step in. Not because I didn’t know what to do, because of who was behind the counter.
Steve Harrington.
It wasn’t that he and I didn’t get along while he had attended Hawkins High. I hadn’t even directly met the guy. It was the fact that he didn’t get along with anybody that wasn’t like him. I didn’t know how bad it had been until I heard he broke Jonathan Byers’ camera. I understood why he did it, I still understand it. But it made me wonder if he still would’ve reacted the same way if it was one of his popular friends. Like Tommy. Would he have thrown that camera down? Busted it without a second thought?
I wasn’t necessarily friends with Jonathan either. I felt for the guy. His younger brother goes missing, then he has the “King of Hawkins High” up his ass. I never fit in with the royalty of Hawkins High, but I didn’t exactly fall in with the Eddie Munsons either. I was nerdy, keeping my head down, getting my work done, helping out those who weren’t able to keep up. I was a popular loner. And while I didn’t know Steve, I was in an English class with Nancy. This resulted in hearing bits and pieces about their relationship and what Steve was truly like. And just from that information alone, I knew he and I would not mesh well.
I snap back into the now, realizing that not only have I just frozen in the doorway, but Janice is incessantly tapping her foot at me. “If you got closer, you could get a better look at him,” she snapped at me. I shake my head, “Under no circumstances would I want a better look at Steve Harrington, Janice. Don’t be stupid.” I bite back, suddenly being defensive.
While I know he and I wouldn’t ever get along, it would be plain silly of me to try and deny that he was (and sadly still is) attractive. Incredible hair, a nice smile, the ability to flirt with an ease that made it seem like it was second nature to him. While I find it hard to like the man, I did find him easy on the eyes. Too bad his personality sucks.
We walk closer to the counter as a small gaggle of girls all leave with their ice cream. Looking at Steve more up close I feel my stomach knot. I look down at Janice mumbling, “Do you know what you want yet or do you have to think about it?” She looks over the case just as the worst possible thing could happen-
“Ahoy ladies! What can I get for you?” Steve’s voice carries through the store loudly. I glance up at him, noticing the soft smile he has while looking down towards my sister.
Janice orders her ice cream, smiling and blushing up at Steve. I can’t even pay attention to what’s being said because all I can think about is how Janice is soaking up everything Steve says to her. “Hey, Janice. Go find us a place to sit and I’ll meet you after I pay.” It snaps Janice out of her dreamy daze, rolling her eyes in annoyance before turning on her heel with a cone in hand. “Come back and visit me anytime,” Steve calls out, Janice not acknowledging it as she leaves in a huff.
“You do realize she’s eleven, right?” I remark, pulling out my wallet.
Steve looks back to me, the smile still on his lips. “I get along with kids. Even though I know I’d get along better with you.”
I nearly choke, swallowing thickly. There is no way in hell Steve Harrington is attempting to flirt with me right now. “I’m sure that worked on your previous customers, but it won’t work on me, Harrington.” I fish out a few dollars from my wallet.
“Who said that I tried on the others? That I’m not just trying this on you?”
I glance up at Steve as I hand him the money, “Because I’m not your type. Not at all. And the girls I just saw leaving were definitely up your alley.”
Steve’s hand froze momentarily as he took the money from me. “Who says I have a type?”
Just as I went to reply, the swinging doors burst open behind Steve to reveal Robin Buckley, standing there looking more than worn out. “Steve, can we switch yet? I’m dying back here.” Robin’s eyes meet mine.
“Robin? I didn’t realize you work here,” I say, letting go of the money I gave Steve before moving away from the counter to the side to see Robin better. I hear Steve mumble something under his breath, but I don’t care enough to listen. Anything to get away from him quicker.
“Oh hey, you, it’s just for the summer. Nothing long term,” Robin says, noticing the slight tension in the air. “Is he giving you trouble?” I glance between the two for a second, taking a moment to think. Do I admit that he was flirting with me, or just let it slide?
“No, I wasn’t,” Steve remarks, almost snapping at Robin. “Was just about to give her the change she’s owed.” Robin immediately raises an eyebrow at Steve. “No need to be all defensive, Steven. I was teasing you. Guess the heat has gotten to all of us.” Robin wanders over to me, leaning against the counter. “Did you bring Janice? You told me that she hadn’t shut up about this place since it was announced.”
“Yeah, I had her take her ice cream out to find a spot for us to hang out,” I respond, not without noticing Steve sliding over to us to join in on the conversation.
“Wait- do you two know each other?” Steve asks, glancing between Robin and I, his eyes full of wonder.
“Uh, yeah. Robin and I are in the same graduating class. We have taken a few courses together. Better to get them done together than alone,” I say, gently tapping my fingers on the counter out of nervousness. Why was Steve all of a sudden interested in my life? Why is he acting so odd?
“Steve, I’m taking my fifteen minute break. Can you please not burn down the shop?” Robin says, taking off her sailor hat before Steve has a chance to respond. “But- how can I do all of this alone? That’s so not fair,” Steve calls out as Robin loops her arm through mine, dragging me out of the shop.
As we step out, I finally feel like I can breathe again. I see Janice down a ways at a table, having found her friend Erica from school. I breathe a sigh of relief, Robin dragging me to a table close to Janice and her friends, just to keep an eye on them. “How come you looked like you wanted to strangle ole Harrington back there?” Robin finally says as we sit down.
“I don’t know Robin, you tell me. That man ran our high school, was a massive jerk to everybody, not to mention he was always too full of himself. He tried to flirt with me, Robin. Flirt. Why on God’s green earth would Steve Harrington flirt with me? He must be desperate,” I spill, running a hand through my hair.
Robin stares at me in disbelief for a moment before speaking up. “Wait- you’re mad about how he acted in high school? And what do you mean he flirted with you? I mean, I get why he would,” she says while nudging me playfully, “I think you need to give the guy a second chance. I know that he wasn’t the best when we were in school with him, but he’s different now. Trust me. All he does is talk about Dustin Henderson and how he can’t wait till he’s home from summer camp. It’s like the guy has done a full one-eighty since he left.”
I stare at Robin in shock. “You’re joking. There’s no way in hell that Harrington has changed that much,” I scoff slightly. “I think you’re just saying that so I will join your crew so it’s not just you two working.”
Robin places a hand over her heart dramatically, “How dare you accuse me of such a thing? The pay is shit, the uniforms are stuffy, but you’d get to see our beautiful faces everyday.” I roll my eyes with a smile. “But in all seriousness, I think you might like the new Steve. Why not give him a chance? And if you hate him, I’ll never bring him up to you again. Scouts honor,” Robin continues.
“That would mean a lot to me if you had been in the scouts, Robin.”
Robin smiled widely. “So is that a yes?”
I glance out over Starcourt. Am I really going to agree with Robin? Let her talk me into letting go of my grudge? My eyes pause on Scoops. I see Steve already glancing out at Robin and I as he scoops out ice cream for a guy and what I’d guess was his girlfriend. Steve raises the scoop as if to say hi, and I look back to Robin.
“If you’re wrong, does that mean I get to say I told you so?”
˚⟡˖ ࣪
It had been two weeks. Two weeks since I saw Steve Harrington. Two weeks since I allowed Robin to talk me into trying to move past my grudge. Two weeks since I had forgotten my change at Scoops Ahoy.
Today was just like any other day, except for when my sister came busting down my door.
“Can you drive me to the mall? Mom is busy and dad isn’t here. Oh, and don’t say you’d have to check if I can, mom said you’d take me already,” Janice said matter of fact like, leaning against my door frame.
“And why would you need to go to the mall? Do you have money?” I ask, turning to face her from my desk.
Janice holds up a few dollar bills. I let out a sigh, “What are you going for?”
“Erica invited me. Stop being such a stick in the mud and come on.” I watch as Janice leaves my room in an irritated huff. I stand, following her downstairs.
The ride to Starcourt is short, Janice and I soaking in the quiet of the hot car. I only had one thought swimming around in my mind- hopefully Harrington will be off today.
My wish is shown to have been useless as I watch my sister run off with her friends, only to look over and see Steve doing some sort of handshake with Dustin Henderson in Scoops. I notice Robin standing back in the door frame. Perfect.
I make my way over to Scoops, silently hoping that since Steve is preoccupied, I won’t have to talk to him. I pass he and Dustin quickly, leaning against the counter.
“You know, I had been thinking about applying,” I joke as I look at Robin. “But after seeing this display, I can see why no one else has.”
Robin huffs, rolling her eyes at the boys. My comment doesn’t go unnoticed, Steve looking at me with this glint in his eye. Don’t say a word, don’t talk to me…
“Hey, you’re back!” Steve remarks, nudging Dustin. Dustin takes in my appearance for a moment before he says “Oh, hey, aren’t you the one Steve keeps-”
Before he can finish, Steve clamps a hand over Dustin’s mouth with a small, exasperated smile. “Ignore him. What brings you here?”
I take in the absurd scene in front of me for a moment. “I came to see Robin. I didn’t know I would be getting dessert and a show.”
Robin snorts from behind me, Steve dropping his hand from Dustin’s mouth finally. “Were you wanting something? I can dish it out for you before I take my break. You know, I do think we were mint to be,” Steve says with this confident smile that makes my stomach flip.
“You’re absolutely ridiculous, Steve Harrington.” I shake my head, trying not to laugh at his pun. “Besides, wouldn’t you rather spend time with your buddy here?” I ask, motioning to the seemingly impatient Dustin.
“Don’t refer to me as if I’m some child. I’ll have you know-” Dustin starts in before Steve cuts him off. “If I get to look at your pretty eyes for even a minute longer, it’s worth it.”
Robin gags behind me, a huff leaves my lips and Dustin is glaring daggers at Steve. “Too far, Harrington.” “Did you just say you’d rather spend time with a girl over me?”
Steve’s eyes don’t leave me as I stare at him for a moment. “Fine then, get on back there. Let you have your little moment just to stroke your ego.”
He slides back on his sailor hat, going back behind the counter. He has the same look he did when he tried to hit on me two weeks prior. “And what can I get the pretty lady?”
I lean against the counter, pretending to think. “You kind of put mint at the front of my mind now, Harrington.”
Steve hums, glancing down at the case, “Cup or cone? Actually- don’t tell me. I’ll surprise you.”
I watch him closely before stealing a glance at Robin. She’s looking between him and I as though we were in an intense tennis match. Her eyes lock with mine, only for her to mouth “you’re blushing.” I roll my eyes. There’s no way I would be blushing over such a small interaction. Especially one with Steve. I hear Dustin make a small noise behind me.
“Come on, Steve, I know you’re too busy flirting but I need to talk to you. Urgently.”
Steve grumbles before smiling and handing me a cone, two scoops of mint ice cream. He really did surprise me. “Free of charge.”
I look up from the cone at Steve, “Wait- seriously? Suppose you do that for every girl you hit on, right?” I say teasingly, following him with my eyes. He takes the hat back off, running a hand through his hair as he approaches Dustin once more.
“Actually, no. I don’t. Guess you’re special to me,” Steve calls out over his shoulder as he follows an antsy Dustin out of the shop.
Robin looks at me, slackjawed. “He’s not lying. He never gives anybody things for free. That bastard meant it.”
I sit at a table closest to the freezer, crossing one leg over the other as I begin to work on my cone.
“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were flirting with Steve back there,” Robin quips as she wipes down the counter.
I scoff, “Me? You think I would flirt with Steve? Absolutely not. Have you forgotten that he and I have an unspoken argument going on?” I sit up slightly, giving Robin a look that says ‘really?’
“I think you mean ‘absolutely I was Robin.’ You aren’t fooling me. I haven’t seen you look at someone like that since that Richie kid our sophomore year,” Robin says, waving her wash cloth at me as she talks.
“I told- no- promised you that I’d try to get along with Steve. Set aside my grievances. That is what I’m trying to do.”
“So setting them aside immediately means that you’d flirt back? I didn’t know you had it in you,” she responds, a knowing smirk on her face.
“Robin, I may not like the guy, but I have eyes. It’s not hard to find something to say when he’s looking at you like that,” my sentence trails off at the end. Why was I suddenly softening up on him? He doesn’t deserve that. If he’s going to try and flirt with me, the least he can do is put more effort in than a smile, a joke, and free ice cream.
A giant group of kids come marching into Scoops Ahoy. I sit back and watch Robin interact with them, waiting before picking back up our conversation. In the seating area right outside of Scoops, we hear Dustin yell something about a secret Russian message. We roll our eyes and continue on, even when the boys come back to talk more privately in the back of the shop.
That was, until they started arguing. Robin motions for me to come back with her. I toss my napkin in the trash before following her to the back of the store. She’s already scolding the boys, making fun of the two of them for believing she was really speaking Russian. With a little more back and forth, everyone has come to an agreement that Robin and Dustin will try to crack whatever is being said in the audio. Meanwhile, Steve needed to get back to work. I sit in the corner, getting up when Steve gets up to go back out front.
“Whoa now, slow down. Where do you think you’re going?” Dustin asks, now the three of them are staring at me.
“Well, it seems to me I’m pretty useless in this scenario. You two have the code to crack, he’s got to get back to work-” I say while nodding towards Steve, “-and I don’t work here. I was moral support for about two seconds. Now it’s time for me to go.”
“What, you don’t think you could help?” Steve asks, blocking the door so I can’t go. “We’ve filled you in on what we know. You gotta stick around to see it through. I think you’ll be a great asset.”
I stop, staring down Steve as he blocks the door. “If you think I’m going to go tell anyone about your little code, I won’t. I have no one to tell.”
“Oh no, that’s not it,” Steve responds, now crossing his arms. Damn, if his arms don’t look nice- “I just think that you can help us out just by being here. Never know when we will need your expert advice.”
Robin fake gags again, Dustin groans. I narrow my eyes at Steve, “Alright, Harrington. Say I agree to stay. What’s in it for me?”
“You mean besides spending time with me? You’d get to hang out with Robin. Not to mention that I may give you my number so we can keep in touch.”
My eyes widen slightly, only for Steve to smile. “I’m just assuming, is that a yes?”
I roll my eyes, feeling my cheeks burn. “Knock that shit off, Harrington. I’ll stick around. But not because you asked me to.”
˚⟡˖ ࣪
By the time Robin and Steve are off of work, we recruited the help of Erica and Janice, not without me telling Janice exactly where she stood with the situation. “If mom finds out about any of this, both of us are dead. Do you hear me? If I go down, you go down.”
And now, we’re all at a stakeout, watching over the building below to see what the Russians are bringing into Starcourt. Janice, Erica and Dustin are a ways down from us, swapping who looks out their binoculars while Robin, Steve and I all watch the building closely.
Waiting for anything to happen feels like eternity. The proximity between me and Steve is almost more than I can handle. I keep reminding myself that I got myself into this mess, that I now have to deal with it. Even though all I can think about is how Steve’s arm keeps brushing against mine, too frequent to be accidental. That his cologne is intoxicating and I want to yell about it. This is Steve we’re talking about here. The one that would be a bully in school. That would hate me if he really got to know me.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Steve mutters to me from beside me, binoculars up to his face.
“I’m not even looking at you, asshole. I’m watching the kids to make sure they’re safe.” A lie. I was totally, one hundred percent looking at him.
“That would make more sense if the kids were over there. But they’re behind you.” He lowers the binoculars, a small smirk on his face. “I’m not mad about it. Just let me know and I can even pose.”
I roll my eyes, snatching the binoculars out of his hands. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Harrington.” I raise them up to my face, watching the street and door closely.
I can feel Steve brush against me again, goosebumps raising along my arm. Fuck him. In both ways.
“Cold?” Robin asks in a teasing tone from beside me.
“Will both of you shut the hell up? I’m trying to focus.”
“On what? Steve in that sailor uniform?”
I glare at Robin as I hand her the binoculars. “I’ll remember that.”
I sit back for a moment, looking up at the sky. It’s currently raining, and the three of us gave the only umbrella to the kids. I run a hand down my face before looking back toward the building. I catch Steve watching me, so I raise my eyebrow. ‘Cold?’ Steve mouths, cocking his head slightly. Damn him, he looks like a puppy. I nod slightly, not fully committing to it.
Steve opens his arm, a silent invitation to be closer. Body heat. Sure, it would keep me warm. But it would cause me to have a moment. I think for a second before Robin knocks into my side, pushing me closer to Steve. I glare back at her, Robin putting the binoculars back to her face with a smirk, a small ‘oops’ leaving her lips. Everybody in this situation sucks.
Steve’s arm rests around me, tucking me into his side. I accept my fate, even though my mind is fighting with itself. I’m too absorbed in the ‘I shouldn’t be allowing this’ and the ‘just let him, he’s being kind’ to hear Erica call out that there’s a truck quickly approaching the building.
We watch as the truck pulls in, and suddenly Steve is on his feet, getting all of us to go down and sneak into the building while the door is open. Everything happens so quickly- one moment we’re sneaking in, the next we’re going down in an elevator, all screaming and panicking. It’s a miracle none of the Russians heard us all.
Once the elevator comes to an abrupt stop, we all dizzily get off. We make our way down the hall in pairs. I had Janice and Erica walk in the back, Robin insisting she and Dustin walk together, leaving me and Steve in the front. I saw the teasing smile on Robin’s lips, happily looping her arm through Dustin’s, much to Dustin’s dismay.
Walking with Steve is… something. Bumping shoulders, quiet apologies, the charged air. The mystery surrounding the situation. I hear the girls giggling somewhere behind us, Robin and Dustin whispering amongst themselves. But Steve and I? It’s almost too quiet. I can tell he’s nervous, hell, I’m nervous.
“You know, that first time I came into Scoops, I forgot my change.”
Steve lets out a small laugh, almost a laugh of relief. “Yeah, you kind of ran out with Robin. Didn’t really give me the chance to give it to you.”
A small huff passes my lips. “Well, when Robin needs something, she tends to go after it. Which in that case, seemed to be away from you.”
He looks at me, nudging my shoulder slightly, “Really now? You think she wanted out of there because of me? Maybe it was because she didn’t want your cheeks to get any redder.”
This makes me look at him, “What are you talking about?”
Steve lets out a quiet laugh, “When I tried hitting on you. Your cheeks got so red. I couldn’t tell if you were embarrassed or wanted to snap my neck.”
“Maybe it was both. I meant what I said. I don’t fall into your type. Must’ve been a fluke.”
“So you think that I just hit on you to what, exactly? Tease you? Push your buttons a little bit? Might be hard for you to believe, but I was flirting with you with no ulterior motives."
I roll my eyes, looking back down the hall we’re still making our way down. “Sure, no ‘ulterior’ motives.”
“I meant what I said too, by the way. When all of this is over, I will be giving you my number. You know, in case you ever want to talk. Or go out,” Steve says the last quip quietly, almost a whisper.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, “What was that, Harrington?” Now it’s my turn to nudge him.
Instead of responding, he takes my hand, walking close enough that no one walking behind us can see what he just did. I let him. I don’t hesitate, I don’t try to stop him. I squeeze his hand tightly, like a small ‘I’m here.’
˚⟡˖ ࣪
I hate this plan. More than anything else. Robin and Steve are going in after the Russians while I’m left with the kids.
“This plan is shit, guys. Won’t you guys need help? Backup? What if everything goes to shit? Huh? How will you two-”
“Enough,” Robin says, “We got this. They will listen to you. You’ll be a damn good babysitter.”
If only it had been that easy. The next time I see Steve and Robin, their eyes are bloodshot, they’re high out of their minds, and Steve. Poor, poor Steve. His face is beaten, bloodied. His eye is so swollen and red I can barely handle it, my own eyes watering just looking at him.
By the end of the night, I know it all. The mysterious girl, the monsters living underneath our town. Why everyone seemed to be holding onto a secret that they just wouldn’t let me and Robin in on.
With the mall burning down, it means we all must go our separate ways. Tend to our own wounds, see those we thought we would never see again. It pains me to leave Steve and Robin that way, but I need to take Janice home. Assist her.
Before leaving, Steve pulls me aside. While we hadn’t spoken much since I saw him, he looks tired. More tired than I had ever seen him. He pulls out a badly wrinkled napkin, a number written on it, small scribbling of his name underneath it.
“Holding up my end of our deal,” Steve says quietly, a tired smile on his face.
“How long have you been holding onto that?” I ask, tucking it into my back pocket.
Steve hums, pretending to think. “I wrote it down when you and Robin were in the back room of Scoops. I wanted to slide it to you before we knew how serious this all was.” A small scoff left his lips. “I guess life had other plans.”
I sigh, shaking my head. “What matters is that almost everyone is alive. Even you, Harrington.” I think for a moment before looking down, “Please take care of yourself. Your poor eye is more than I can handle.”
He laughs lightly, taking a hand to tilt my head back up to look at him. “Aw, if I didn’t know better I’d say you care about me.”
I stare up at him, taking in the bruising and swollen parts of his face. “Maybe I do.” Behind me, Janice calls out for me, “Shit, I gotta go. Listen, please, take care of yourself. Promise me. No more hero stunts for a while.”
Steve nods, running his thumb along my jaw. “I promise. If you need anything, you call me. Alright?”
I nod, taking his free hand in mine, looping our pinkies in a promise.
˚⟡˖ ࣪
It’s been two days since the Starcourt Mall burned down. It’s all the news has been able to cover. Repeating the story of finding the building up in flames, nothing is salvageable. Billy Hargrove’s body having been removed, the family planning a funeral.
I had been taking care of my sister, even though she didn’t need me. “I’ve seen worse on TV,” Janice would say, trying to brush me off. Even though I noticed that she’d let me hug her for long periods of time.
Not to mention, I had been checking in on everyone in the group that was there that night. Everyone except Steve. I want to, I really do. But I get halfway through punching his number in and I panic. What if Steve only gave me his number out of obligation to our deal? What if I had read everything wrong and made a fool of myself? Oh no, and what if I blow any shot at any sort of relationship with him?
My mom and dad have gone on some sort of business trip. Which meant they were actually taking a small trip without us. Janice left to go see Erica, check in on her and Lucas. Which leaves me home alone. I decide I need to face my fears. Hell, I somehow survived a giant flesh monster at the mall, calling Steve Harrington couldn’t be as painful as that.
I make my way to my living room, sitting down in a chair. I take a deep breath before picking up my phone and beginning to dial. If I had been smart, I would’ve drank something before trying this. I actually dial the full number, pressing the phone to my ear, beginning to pray to God that no one answers.
One ring, two rings. My prayers were answered. Third ring-
“Hello, Harrington residence.”
I let out a small laugh, “I’ve never heard you so proper, Harrington. What gives?”
“Well look who finally decided to call,” Steve says, his voice changing from posh to relaxed in a beat.
“It’s only been two days, man. Had stuff to deal with. Not to mention you had a little healing to do.” I lean back against my chair, relaxing.
“All I’m hearing is excuses. What, too nervous to call?”
“What are you doing right now? Are your parents home?”
“What- no. They aren’t home. And I’m not doing anything. Why? What gives?”
“Oh, nothing. Give me five minutes and I’ll be over,” I hang up without waiting for a response.
My drive over to Steve’s is short, silent. I turned off the radio so I could calm my nerves. I sit out front for a moment, looking up at his house. It’s huge, empty. Only holding one person in there for now. I give myself that final push and get out of the car.
It only takes one knock before the door swings open to reveal a less swollen Steve.
“Well hello there. Pleasant surprise. You didn’t have to hang up on me you know,” he says teasingly.
“Didn’t want to give you a chance to change your mind.” It doesn’t feel long, but a few seconds without hearing either of us talking quickly began to bother me. “You look better, healing well?”
Steve shakes his head, smiling. “Cut the small talk and get in here.”
He steps aside, letting me in. Everything looks clean, almost too clean.
“Did you tidy up before I got here?”
“Maybe. Maybe I wanted it to look nice for your first time over,” Steve remarks, sinking onto his couch. “Please, come sit. We need to talk.”
I sit down beside him, trying to leave a small gap. I didn’t come over for that. Okay, maybe at some point, but not this time.
“Robin told me some things about you,” Steve remarks, settling into the couch.
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Like the fact that you hated who I was in high school. That you hated me when you saw me again. That you promised her you’d give me a chance.”
Fuck. I stare at Steve for a moment, slackjawed, stunned into silence. “I… I didn’t know-”
“I get it,” Steve cuts me off, placing his hand over mine. “I do. I was a dick in high school. A real asshole. But, I don’t think I’m that same guy anymore. And you can make that judgement, I wouldn’t do it for you. I just wanted you to know that I know, and that I understand your point of view.”
My eyes narrow slightly, continuing to stare at Steve. Holy shit. Instead of saying anything, I squeeze his hand with a small nod. A silent agreement, understanding.
It’s quiet for a moment. Somewhere off in the house I can hear a clock ticking, Steve still gently holding my hand between the two of us on the couch. I roll my head to the side, taking a good look at Steve’s face. The swelling did certainly go away, the dark bruises now blue rather than deep purple. It takes a minute of back and forth in my head before I decide to go for it.
I reach out and gently run my fingers over the bruise on his cheek. Steve tenses for a moment, I’m sure from the lack of warning. But he almost melts, leaning slightly into my hand.
“Look so much better than you did,” I mumble, running my thumb under his eye where the worst of it had been.
He hums, looking over my face. “Saying I was ugly?”
I laugh lightly, “No, no. Of course not. Just didn’t like seeing you hurt like that. It’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair?”
“A man who deserves better than being all battered and bruised for doing the right thing. And maybe the fact that he has changed a hell of a lot from high school. And that I shouldn’t have been so harsh.”
A small sigh leaves Steve before he squeezes my hand again. “You don’t mean that.”
“Of course I do. I’m sorry for being too stuck in the past.” A beat. “Do you think we can try again?”
“What? Almost like we could actually be- mint to be?”
“Harrington, if you say that one more goddamn time, I will give you a black eye that would rival what the Russian gave you.”
Steve smirks, sitting up, moving just a tad closer. “What was that? Couldn’t hear you.”
“I said, if you say that-”
I’m cut off by his lips on mine, gentle. Slow. Not begging, not desperate. A silent agreement, a silent plea. ‘Yeah, let’s start over.’ I run my thumb over his cheek, holding his face gently. He pulls back, resting his forehead against mine.
“I think we owe Robin a thank you for meddling,” Steve says quietly.
“Harrington?”
“Yes?”
“Forget about her for just one second and kiss me again.”
Summary: Dustin’s disappointed by his sisters recent decline into loneliness, and after a new discovery that gives him an opportunity to unite his two favorite people—a certain light comes back into your life
w.c: 7.7k
Tags: set right before season3! Friends to strangers to sorta enemies to lovers, Steve is so self deprecative. Love confession!!!! gets a little steamy. I was way too poetic in this I’m sorry.
A/n: imma be so for real. This was soooo hard to get through and I’m honestly a little unhappy with it, but everyone’s encouragement and excitement for this part truly kept me going so thank you all xxx
Tunes to listen to while your read!
The archives | AO3 | part one
-
It truly annoyed you to realize that your entire break had turned into a lesson in history. That no matter what, it was going to chase you down until the very last night in this cursed town.
You had come from Mike’s house, barely holding onto your sanity, going back to your closet with little dignity, and finally putting all your photos up. Shoved away in a box to be put into a corner to be forgotten about. You hoped Steve could do the same.
A few days had passed now, and you were determined to spend the rest of the week in peace before school came back, followed by exams, followed by college, followed by internships. At least it was anything but drama.
Out of sight. Out of mind. You thought.
To which Dustin learned pretty quickly. Bless his heart, he had tried to bring up the interaction—to poke, to prod. He asked about it, why you were so bothered and what had happened. He knew the answer to some of it; the guilt crept up on the kid, and he could barely face you.
Dustin had locked himself in his room to avoid you and the truth that he knew. No Golden Girls. No ice cream. It hurt. Everything felt like it was crumbling. You just couldn’t focus on connecting the dots, yet.
“My love, since my car is in the shop today, do you mind if I drive yours to work today, or will you have other plans?” Your sweet mother asks you, getting her things rounded up to leave for work.
You had at least an entire box of popsicles and 3 more films to tear into today. “Might want to ask Dustin before me, since I’ve been his cab everywhere since break.”
She gathered her work bag in front of her, a few feet from the door. She smiled at you, “I’m sure he’ll be alright, he can always bike or get a ride from Steve.” She pauses, “You know, he’s been so sweet to Dusty recently, it really warms my heart.”
You want to groan, scream into a pillow, throw your Diet Coke at the television screen.
“Yep, well, have a good day at work.” You cut the conversation off quickly. Hopefully, you won't have to dwell on him anymore, as you had promised yourself.
“Okay, sweetie, stay out of trouble.” She mentions before she’s out the door, with a click of a lock, and you’re slumping back down on the couch. Wishing you could just become one with the cushions, as far as you can, as far away from this reality as possible.
A straight-haired feline jumps up on your lap suddenly, Tews, the family’s new cat. After Pews had run away around 8 months ago. The name was a little too on the nose, but your mother was grief-stricken and seemed to need an emotional support animal.
Despite Dustin’s love for Pews, he barely even paid attention to Tews. It was weird, but you didn’t ask questions.
You ran your hand across her fur, pursing your lips, “Why does Dustin hate us? Huh?”
She purred in your lap, The Thing flashing on the television in front of you. It was honestly appalling how Dustin was locked in his room right now while you were watching this. Maybe if you find the old Ghostbuster VHS, he’ll come crawling out.
The patter of rain starting to hit the window behind you was peaceful. You remember the weather report saying some light rain was to be expected around this time, not realizing how much of the day you had already wasted.
It didn’t take long for the subtle ambience of rain, along with the mutter of a movie you’ve seen a million times, mixed with a living, breathing, heated blanket resting comfortably on your stomach, for you to doze off in record time in the middle of your living room.
—
A brisk wind blew across your face, rustled through your hair, and you could smell the soft scent of lavender and pine. Your hand grazed up and down the soft grass and flowers that sprang up around you, outlining your body like an angel in the snow. Your eyelashes fluttered open and met with the sun, illuminating the world around you as if it were a brush painting a picture.
You felt the tug of the universe lift your body straight; the grass brushed against your skin like feathers tickling you. You sigh, holding your dress up as you come to stand. One food in front of another as you crept through nature.
Walking slowly and walking forward ahead of you. With an unknown purpose, just drawn towards something. Someone. A smile settles on your face.
Then a figure appeared, tall and broad, cutting through the sun. outlining the body like a halo. Your steps picked up, and your smile widened. With the glare of the light, you couldn't identify your angel's face, but something in you knew, something in you beamed forward. The edges of your gown are dirty in the grass.
Your bodies met like magnets, pushed together by nothing but fate. A large, soft hand cradled your face, and you leaned into it.
“Hey, sweetheart,” the charming voice called out.
“Hey,” you whispered.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” the man breathed out. You could feel his breath on your forehead and his hand still caressing your cheek.
“You have?” you questioned, looking up at him.
The sun had moved, faded from his frame, and everything was clear now. You saw the freckles and moles spread across his neck, chin, and cheek. Those gentle eyes, that hair…
You felt hands on your shoulders, pulling you closer, jolting you—
—
You woke up gasping, being aggressively pushed back and forth, rocking your body against the couch. You heard your name, yelled out in a high-pitched and stressed tone. Again. And again.
“Wake up, oh my god—please, wake up!” Dustin cried out, positively waking you up now from your romance novel-esc dream.
“Whoa, whoa! What the hell? What's wrong?” you tried to speak in between Dustin shaking the life out of you, kneeling over your previously sleeping body. You saw the oncoming of tears in his panicked eyes, “Dustin, calm down.”
He breathed big and slow, as you taught him. Yet his chest still heaved like a wild animal. “Tews!” he called out.
“What?” you asked, confused and now panicked. Dustin doesn’t get worked up like this for no reason. “What’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know, I don't– I was working on something with, you know, scraps. And I wasn't watching her and uh, um, I don't know! She just started chewing on some old wires, and I don't know for how long, but she's been hacking and shaking, and now she's just not moving!”
“What?” you bolted up, looking around on the couch. She was just here, on your lap, napping. “Where, where is she?”
Dustin bolted up from the cushion, you followed with no thought, and fell to the ground just as fast in front of a limp kitty in the hallway. You placed your hand on her tummy, the rise and fall of her breath was too far in between and too shaky for what's normal.
“I didn't mean to, I just wasn't paying attention. I’m sorry, fuck, shit!” Dustin rambled, obviously scared.
“It's okay, it's okay.”
Think. Think. Think faster. You didn't know shit about animals and couldn't afford to mess this up. Your mom will have a stroke if she comes home to find another cat dead. The emergency vet was across town, you'll just take her there and hope the wait line isn't insane.
“Dustin, go get a blanket and wrap her up. We’ll take her to the vet.” You ordered him, and he stumbled up and towards the living room again.
Wait, shit. Mom took your car. Think. Think.
“Hey, Dustin. I'm gonna run across the street and see if Angela will give us a ride to the vet, okay? She still owes us after I watched her dog that one weekend.” You slipped on your shoes and grabbed the doorknob.
“I can call Steve, he'll be here quickly!”
“No!- I mean, no, Dustin. It's fine, this will be quicker,” you breathed before rushing out of the house and sprinting down the driveway.
You skipped the confines of the sidewalk and used every bit of track training you had, and sprinted down to your neighbor's house and up the driveway. Cut through their grass and straight to the door, twine doorpat under your feet.
Angela was your newest neighbor, late 20s and freshly out of college. She was bright and sweet. Had two huskies who were high maintenance to all hell. You learned that when she came over to ask you to watch them for a day, as her last resort, when her usual dog sitter got sick.
You knocked fast. Nothing. No footsteps. You checked behind your shoulder, somehow missing how her car was gone from the driveway, and there was no eruption of high-pitched barking at the slightest nose. And your knocking was much louder than slight.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” you cursed under your panted breath.
You could ask Mr. Anderson next door? No, no, he was one foot in the grave-elderly. Probably didn't even have his license anymore. Go by bike? No, that wouldn't work either. The vet was on the other side of the town square. You'd never make it in time.
A familiar beamer whipped into your driveway just as you quickly approached your house, and you somehow ran faster uphill. Steve Harrington shot out of his driver's seat with a somehow even more worrisome face than you.
“Where's Dustin? Is everything okay?” he asked, eyebrows knotted together.
“It's Tews, the cat. She ate something.” You explain, “Did he call you?”
“Yeah,” Steve responded, and you both wordlessly ran into the house.
You could feel betrayed by Dustin’s lack of trust in you. The burden of having to see Steve's betrayingly pretty face when that's the one thing you are trying to forget about. But to hell with a grudge right now. No time to feel betrayed when your cat was dying in your hallway.
“Let's go, Henderson. Grab the cat and let’s go.” Steve got the boy's attention and shot up and after him out the front. You tried to ignore the way you saw tears in your brother's eyes, or the empathetic look on Steve's face, like Dustin was his own.
In no time, you were buckled into Steve's passenger seat. Dustin is in the back and cradling Tews in his arms. Steve put the car in gear and drove out and towards the vet like it was his god-given right.
A twang of guilt ran down your spine as you watched Steve, maybe too intently. He rested his elbow on your seat, looking behind him to reverse, facing you instead of forward. Your eye latched onto his jaw, sharp as a knife, you followed the skin down to his open neck and the hem where fabric met golden skin. Following his hands as he grasped around the gears and shifted into drive, the way his fingers grazed across the wheel as he steered on and forward. It sent a chill down your spine to disguise the guilt, you swallowed the feeling until your body digested it, the shame coming back in 10-fold as you remembered your little brother was sobbing over your cat behind you.
“It's gonna be okay, Dustin.” You looked back—anywhere but Steve—trying to reassure him.
“Oh my god,” he cried out. “If mom finds out I killed another cat, she's going to die of an aneurysm."
“Another cat?” you shouted.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Steve’s Adam's apple bob, lips pursed, and eyes wide. He didn't question Dustin, like he didn't have the right to that information. Or maybe he already knew.
“Dustin Henderson, do you know what happened with Mews?”
“I’m sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to,” he cried again, a small, sniffled whine left his mouth. It was pathetic and sad; it made your heart ache.
“Maybe, we can interview Dustin about Mews after we get Tews taken care of,” Steve whispered. Testing to see if he was even allowed to speak, or if he was confined to simply a way of transportation.
You wanted to quip back. Yell. Tell him it wasn't his place. That he didn't have the right. But deep down, you knew Steve was right. And he didn’t deserve the aggression after blindly racing here to help.
So you reassured Dustin again, and again, that—yes, tews will be alright, yes, the vet will know what to do. No, she's not gonna die, and mom won't kill you, mom doesn't need to know. It's okay, stop crying.
Steve's eyes switched from the road to Dustin's face in the rearview mirror every second of the way there. Never seeing that kid so tear-filled. Steve had only known Dustin to be strong-willed and braver than ever, but he was cracking. And crashing hard.
And as Steve heard you whisper kind and reassuring words to the kid, he understood where Dustin got it from, the bravery and kindness. You were holding together the boy who was falling apart in his back seat.
Steve whipped and served into the emergency side of Hawkins Veterinary Hospital with the same ease he used to flirt with. Perfectly parked in the front, already coaching Dustin out of the back and into the entrance. Dustin almost tripped over himself twice, not letting his eyes leave the heaving cat in his arms, Steve's gentle hand on his back guiding him past the doors.
You guessed that pet accidents were slow this spring afternoon, a tech took the cat from Dustin’s hands swiftly. He had explained what had happened again to the young lady, in between speals of—imsorryimsorryididntknow—that made you want to cry.
Dustin sat next to Steve in the waiting room. It was Harrington's turn to calm the boy down while you paced back and forth.
After a few minutes of Steve calming your brother down, “Hey, I’m gonna go use the bathroom, I'll be right back.” Dustin sniffled, eyes a little red from his tears.
You gently grabbed his shoulder before he could make it past you, eyes locked on his reading. You said, “You okay?”
Dustin just nodded, and you decided to believe him.
—
It was silent for a while. Not the type that took your breath away, made you squirm in your seat. You sat comfortably, close to Steve. Closer than you would have imagined after the past few days.
Steve swears he could hear a pin drop in this empty room, cut through the energy with a knife, and anxiety crept up his limbs as he bounced his heel on the floor.
You noticed, you always noticed. Steve waited; he knew now was probably the worst time to bring it up. Despite the fact that he told himself he was going to try everything to make it up to you, to get you to see this all the way, he did. You had plagued his mind so much the past few days, he forgot what it was like to miss you until now, and it ached his chest as bad as a heart attack.
He looked over at you again, waiting. Open. He made sure you felt it.
And of course you did.
Barely above a whisper, “I'm sorry.”
“What?” Steve laughed, a breathy and surprised laugh. Gently, he said. “Why are you sorry?”
You swallowed a knot of pride, “I was harsh to you a few days ago, I know you– at least I did. I used a lot of deep stuff against you when I shouldn't have. We all have flaws, and I shouldn't have laid you out like that.”
“I deserved it, really. I needed to hear it.” Steve tries to keep it lighthearted.
You silently agree, unable to look at him.
“I’m sorry for letting us grow so far apart in high school,” he confessed, authenticity bled through his words in a way that didn't in the Wheelers' driveway. And it hit you hard in the chest. “I’ve been an asshole.”
“Honestly,” you chuckle, leaning back in your chair and finally looking at him. “I’m not even that bothered anymore. I got over it years ago. I managed to survive high school.”
“You still have until May.” Steve points out, and it drags a smile and laugh from your chest. Steve watches you, feeling warm, like he finally hit the mark—did something right for once.
“Right, how will I ever get through finals without a Harrington by my side?” You mock. It’s lighthearted, no jab, no venom. Steve's shoulders feel lighter, and his laugh comes out easy. It feels so easy.
Despite the doom of finals, he can’t seem to find a real care for that while you sat next to him.
“I’m going to flunk finals so badly.” Steve sighs.
“Really?” Your head turns to him.
“I’m falling off. Hard.” Steve’s thumb and pointer finger pinched the upper bone of his nose. The stress of the future or the fluorescent lights of the veterinary office was getting to his head. “My relationships, school, sports… and now my dad won’t even let me work for him despite promising me that like… my entire life? It’s just a huge mess.”
“Glad to know I’m your last resort, Harrington.” You slap his shoulder lightly.
He looks at you with a semblance of a smile, almost cheeky if Steve would let it. Shaking his head, a grown-out curl falling closer to his face, “You know it’s not like that.”
“I know. I’m giving you a hard time.” You sigh, and the tension in the room thickens again. “Despite it all, I hope you do know that I’d always be there for you when it came down to it.”
“Thank you,” Steve responds, barely above a whisper, unsure if he deserves the grace from you. Everything lay heavy in his head, and suddenly he threw out his thoughts–breathless and rushed– because he knew if he didn't say it now, he'd swallow the words and choke. “Why did it all fall apart?”
You smacked your lips, “High school happened, and you and Nance got swept up by the popular kid.”
“It wasn’t just that, though. I meant what I said yesterday… You know?” You nodded, Steve continued. “But I didn’t think I’d lose you, like completely. It felt like you pulled away more than anything. What happened?”
You have to look away, think back to those first few months when the world suddenly felt bigger than you could imagine. Back when you couldn’t comprehend the idea of losing friends and how frustrating it could feel. How quickly you were to jump ship and let yourself drown.
But then you feel Steve looking at you. Leaning in and open for whatever you'd give, he takes any of it. No matter if it hurt or stung. Steve hadn't known much else recently.
“When we were kids, when we met, I felt like we clicked. I saw you, and you saw me as much as we could at that age, and you know, I thought that was it. You and me. Before I even knew what girlfriend–boyfriends were. Because it wasn’t that, it was just us, and that's all I wanted.” You let out a shaky breath. “Then later on, Nancy started to look at you differently… and so did you. Which wasn't what bothered me, it's just that— neither of you even spared me any looks, I felt like I wasn't even part of the equation anymore. So I took the hint and just let it happen, let everyone grow apart. Let us grow apart.”
Steve stared at you, mouth agape and eyebrows scrunched. A small breath left him, Steve felt his chest rattling, his mouth dry to the bone.
“It was all a mistake,” Steve admits.
“What?”
“Nancy and I. Letting Tommy and everyone else on that shitty basketball team take over me like a plague. Until a year ago, I couldn't even recognize myself.”
You shake your head, “No, you and Nance love each other. I saw that.”
“Nancy doesn't love me,” Steve says, and it comes out so easily for the first time. Slowly, he realized those things don't hold the weight they did just a short while ago.
“Do you?”
He pauses, Steve thinks about lying, like he's been doing since she broke up with him. Looking at you, god, Steve could never lie to you even if he wanted to.
A croak leaves his mouth, and he hesitates. A face of pure visible disappointment paints your expression. Steve says, “No.”
And he doesn’t believe he's lying this time.
You nod, choosing to believe Steve.
—
Steve watches over your shoulder in worry when you and Dustin stand up at the front desk, talking with the veterinarian. Dustin's shoulder finally relaxes when the sight of Tews, eyes open and with steady breaths, looking up at him through a carrier you just purchased.
Thankfully, after some X-rays and coaxing the cat through regurgitating some wires and plastic—she was ready to go home. Tews was put on some medication so she can get the rest of any foreign objects out of her system by the end of the week. The younger boy's smile was back in full swing, and somehow Steve's world felt a little brighter.
Dustin scooped the carrier in his arms; he looked so small carrying it. Steve couldn't help but laugh a little, “Hey, let’s go put Tews in the car while your sis gets the paperwork filled out.”
Dustin nods, turning heel to the exit with Steve. Your heart leaps out of your chest watching them walk away. Once Steve throws a look past his shoulder and straight to you, you smile with little to no control left in your body. Letting the grin tug at your lips.
“Your boyfriend is really sweet. The way he looks at you is adorable,” the middle-aged vet tech says, watching your face and the way you check off different boxes and sign your name with the clipboard in your hand.
“Oh, he's not my boyfriend,” you say.
She gives you a knowing look, “Does he know that?”
“Uh,” you look back at the exit, watching a blur of Steve trying to safely strap down the cat's carrier into his beamer. Although you know Dustin will be holding onto her like his life depends on it, the entire way home.
You don’t answer her question, just finish signing your name and paying for Tew's medication. You thank the vets and workers, spinning on your heels to the exit.
Steve meets you halfway, holding the door open for you, slightly breathless from jogging from the car to you. “There you are, all ready?”
“Yep,” you nod and make your way to the car side by side with the brown eyed man.
—
The drive back was short and comfortable; the afternoon had started to darken, and the world around you grew into hues of dark blues and purple. Indiana springs were sweet and forgiving, the season taught you to breathe easier.
Dustin had fully reeled in from his emotional distress and worry, looking up at the sky before shyly asking Steve to drive him to Mike's house. Steve happened to be in a particularly happy (and maternal) mood, and said yes. At least it gave him less of the drive home to overthink himself into a black hole.
But once you gave Steve a short, half-hearted goodbye—the suddenness of parting with him, you with a cat carrier in hand, walking through your front door, made his heart ache slightly. Interrupted by Dustin’s persistent voice, asking him to just get to driving already.
Steve pulled out of the driveway, frustrated. The air was clear between you two, but what now? Did he just forget about everything he knows now? Just chalk it up to middle school silliness?
Dustin cleared his throat. And no, not in a genuine way. In a i-need-your-attention-way, because there's an elephant in the back seat way.
“What is it, Henderson?” Steve barked, flinching at his own tone once the words left his mouth. Even Dustin caught the sudden aggression.
“I’m glad you and my sister made up.” He said, smiling out the window.
“What?”
Dustin finally spared Steve a glance, “You guys are like, good now. You know?”
Steve’s eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean by good?”
“Like, good.”
“Were we not good?”
“Well, not talking.” Dustin defended, “I mean, she pretended like she didn’t know you a week ago, and then I found out you used to date so…”
“She did what? Wait, did she tell you we used to date?”
Steve felt senile. With a child in his passenger seat, giving him information that just kept throwing him for a loop until his surroundings felt dizzy. Steve felt all too sensitive. Unguarded.
“I mean, she kinda made it seem like you didn’t know who she was—but obviously I knew that was wrong because you stare at her like—“
“Did she tell you we used to date?” Steve interrupts, his voice stern and clear. His fingers shook around the steering wheel, his body buzzed. What were you doing to him? Steve was ready to die on a line for this information.
“Well, she didn’t say…”
“Then who did?” Steve continued to interrogate the boy. He knew how Hawkins liked to talk.
Dustin couldn’t come up with a lie quick enough, “No one, I could kinda assume?”
That threw Steve for even a bigger loop, “What?”
“When I found the letter, I could kind of assume.”
Steve had not shown Dustin the letter, he realizes. And he couldn’t think of a time from when it showed up in his mailbox to where it still weighed heavily in his glovebox that Dustin would have seen it.
“When did you read that?” Steve asked, almost scared at this point.
“Before I sent it to you.” The words left Dustin’s mouth quicker than he could think, and he hadn’t even realized it until the dash of Steve Beamer almost hit him in the face from the way Steve slammed on his brakes.
The wheels screeched. Steve was the safest driver Dustin knew, and this was more out of character than Steve deciding on using a different mousse (which was also due to his recent realization his life was spiraling out of control and he needed to be able to have a sense of control on something—even if it's the hair.)
It was deafeningly silent in the car; a tension thicker than mud settled.
Steve was staring at the street in front of him, he had only stopped a few houses in front of the Wheelers' household.
Dustin tried not to think about the ways his sister was going to murder him once she found out.
Slowly, words finally left Steve’s mouth, “You... what?”
Dustin couldn’t speak, his throat gone dry, and his voice betrayed him. He couldn’t even move his head enough to make eye contact with Steve.
“I sent you… her letter.” He finally muttered out.
“Why would you do that!” Steve finally yelled.
“I don’t know!”
Steve scoffed, “You’re going to have to give me a better answer than that, Henderson.”
“I really don’t!” Dustin squeaked out, a half lie. “She’s been so lonely recently, and I’m always with you, and anytime you’re around her, or I bring her up, you just sigh all sad like you missed her or something! Then I saw that letter in one of her old picture boxes. It made sense, and I just had to do it.”
“No!” Steve felt like he was going hysterical, “uh, no, ya’ didn’t.”
“But I thought I’d be nice if you guys made up! Then we could all hang out, and it would be fun, and enjoyable for everyone, and...”
The words failed, and Steve just sat next to him, shaking his head like some disappointed father when the guilt finally crept up Dustin’s neck.
“I’m sorry.”
“You gotta say that to her, not me. I mean, come on, man. That was her privacy, and you completely invaded it! That stuff she wrote was very personal, and I shouldn’t have even seen it.”
“But, I bet you’re glad you did.” Dustin tried to fight back a grin.
“Not the point!” Steve reminded him.
“But still you guys can be like…” Dustin raised his eyebrows at Steve, like it was supposed to mean something. A stupid, cheeky, out-of-place smile growing. “You know!”
Steve’s face dropped, “Get out, I’m serious. You can walk the rest of the way.”
“What?”
“Out!” Steve unlocked Dustin's door.
Dustin finally parted from his seat and sent Steve one more glare before slamming the door and starting to walk down the suburban street. Steve flinched, muttering under his breath, “That little shithead.” Before rolling down the window of his car, “careful!”
Dustin didn’t look back, just kept walking ahead.
-
Steve’s grip on the steering wheel tightened before hitting it a few times in frustration. God, how can he be so stupid? You didn’t even want him to see that stupid letter. None of what you wrote—you meant. Honestly, how could you ever? After the way he treated you. The person you had affections for was gone and changed.
He looked at his wild eyes in his rear-view mirror; it was dark, late in the night. Steve was close to spiraling into a hole. What is he even supposed to do now? Waltz back into your house, confessing feelings for you 4 years too late, makes him look more like an idiot. It’s what he deserved.
Shaking, nervous palms rubbed at his eyes. Steve Harrington was fighting Demodogs and watching his life fall apart under his hands months ago, just wishing that the rift of his universe wasn’t going to crack and he’d live to see another day. Now he’s stressing about his social reputation and what his longest best friend, if he can even call you that, would think of him.
Steve’s car was still parked and running in front of some random family's house, close to having an anxiety attack. But by god, if he didn’t do something, if he didn’t just move soon, he was going to give up on it all. Never step foot back in the Henderson house and forget everything. Maybe that’s what you wanted. Steve will just learn to unread every word you scribbled down so many years ago.
But Steve Harrington was one selfish bastard. Something he’s trying so hard to beat out of himself, and sometimes he doesn't know who to back down from a losing fight. Selfish and prideful.
His fingers reached over to his glove box, clicking the latch and seeing the floral envelope. Snatching it faster than lightning and turning on his overhead light, just as his hands settled back down in front of him. Paper in hand, fingers smoothing the edges again.
Steve took a deep breath, flipping the envelope open and pulling the paper out. He had to remind himself exactly what he was about to embarrass himself over.
Steve Harrington,
It’s close to midnight now, which means it’s been a full day into the new year. Which means another year of you in my life, and I can’t comprehend how thankful I am for such. My earliest memory is spotting you on the playground when we were kids. Something in the universe shifted, and I grew conscious when I decided I wanted you in my life, and you reciprocated. If I knew last year, I’d be at a party with you, even daring to let you kiss me, I would have called bullshit. I don’t know what’s going to happen now. I don’t know if I’ll get to keep you at my side even in a new light, get to cherish your gaze, and let you in like you’ve slowly done for years now.
I see you, Steve Harrington. You care more than the average human, you see the beauty in everything and everyone you meet, because that’s all you know how to do. I’ve learned to read between your words, to see past any facade that your new sporty friends like Johnny or Chris have started to build for you. My life started when we met because you’ve all I’ve ever needed, and I don’t want to imagine a life without it. So, I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, whether you kissed me just so you’d have a New Year's kiss, or if it meant something. I don’t care, as long as I can trust that you’ll be here for me when I need you, as you’ve always been. I’ll take you, Steve Harrington, in any way I can. I’d rather be rejected, shot down any idea of a romance with you, than lose you. So I’m here, arms wide and open and ready to take whatever inch you’ll give me. To have you in my life is to have a life of beauty and to have someone who cares. I see the love in the world when I look at you. I saw it in the beginning, and pray I’ll see it out to the end. If you don’t want me, I will play pretend, I will wait. I will love you however you will let me. Because I’ve loved you since the beginning, and I doubt it will ever go away now. You have left a mark on my soul throughout our friendship that will never change.
Your name was scribbled after ‘from your best friend’, which felt way too out of place. Steve's hands clutched the paper, guilty to have even reread it, knowing what he knows now. Steve made quick work of folding the paper back into its proper place and setting it in his passenger seat, so carefully you’d think he was handling glass.
The car's gear shifted back into drive, and Steve performed a pretty impressive U-turn for his emotional distressed state and raced back to where he came from.
Steve's spiraling brain morphed into a similar thought of yours, overwhelmed by the feeling of losing you. Yet, he already had, and it was all his fault. When Steve had chosen popularity over you, when all you wanted was to have him to turn to at the end of the day. When nothing mattered, and it was just you and him.
Steve knew he was out of his damn mind, or he was thinking the straightest he had thought in years. Either way, his actions were his. His heart was beating quicker than how he sped to your home, raced up your annoyingly uphill driveway, and may have knocked on your door hard enough that someone would assume you were getting swatted down. The humiliation ritual continues.
Steve couldn’t think anymore, his brain was just yelling at him to do. Everything went incredibly slow as he tasted the copper in his mouth from biting back for so long.
Then you opened the door, and he held his composure together with the weak strings of what dignity he had left. You looked surprised when you opened the door, even relieved, if Steve’s mind would allow him the assumption. A slight purse in your brows, wide-eyed and focused on him.
“Steve? Wh-why are you here?” You asked, a head peering behind him for Dustin or searching for a reason for Steve to be collapsing into himself on your doorstep. Once your eyes met the envelope in his hands, you knew, and almost joined Steve in his mental disruption. Your face fell, “Oh, that.”
“Yeah,” Steve whispered, realizing now he should have rehearsed this. Thought literally any aspect of this more than just—drive, go. “Listen, I—“
“You know, you can just throw it out.”
Steve almost broke. It truly was nothing to you. Jesus, this was so embarrassing. How he had made these words god in his mind for them to mean nothing. Steve swallowed hard.
“I was… gonna give it back. It wasn’t mine to find.” Steve says, tasting blood, holding back how he came across it. That wasn’t his confession to make. Steve held it out for you, an offer. “I shouldn’t have even read it, I’m sorry.”
You almost laugh, grabbing the paper from his hands. “Steve, it’s okay.”
Somewhere deep inside him, that string broke, breathing heavy—“no.” Steve said.
“What? No?” You spoke gently, more than he deserved. Full of confusion, slight regret that you'd swallow down later, “seriously, it’s fine—“
“I can’t just forget that, I can’t unread it, I can’t fucking throw it out. I don’t give a damn if you wrote that when you were 14. Did you mean it?”
You froze at the sudden confrontation, barely holding your breath under Steve’s more than intense gaze. A croak left your throat, unprepared and caught off guard.
“If you didn’t—at least now, if you truly don’t feel a single thing you did back then. Tell me. Tell me now before I humiliate myself more. But please, please, I need you. Take me back in any way you can stomach.”
“Steve…”
“I don’t know how I ended up where I am, but it was my biggest regret not having you with me. I’ve been so blind.” Steve takes a small step forward, closer to you. Testing the waters with you. He was on the brink of a sob, “just say something. Spare me or tell me you still want me.”
You were far gone, too speechless and shocked to speak. The scenario you thought of a million times at night in bed or in the halls at school when you’d search for him. It was for real now, playing out in front of you like a car crash. You thought about what you’d say to him, or how you’d feel over a million times. You practically studied for this.
Steve breathed your names, like it was the oxygen keeping him alive. He buzzed in front of you whilst your knees felt like buckling. “Please, ya gotta say something. I’m begging.”
Your brain still gave you nothing, just the memory of Tina’s New Year’s party. When it was still just you and him.
When Steve expertly asked you to help him find the extra snacks that he knew her parents kept in the pantry, stalling long enough until you were elbows deep in a pantry of snacks to sneak you a kiss. As you heard the cheers of the new year from your classmates downstairs, Steve flashed you that smile once he found the unopened box of boppers he was looking for. Swearing up and down, he had just gotten the two things he needed to head into the new year: sweets and a kiss.
“Goddamnit it, Steve Harrington.” You cursed, it came out closer to a prayer before your hands grasped his jacket collar and did the one thing your brain could come up with.
You kissed him like it was your destiny, some god given right that you had to complete before death. Steve burned against you, like white heat on your skin. Only making you dizzy. Yet once his palms connect to your jaw, his fingers rake your scalp behind your ears. You fell in sync, kissing each other with a starved desperation only years of distance could have made.
Your body screamed, not even realizing how badly you needed and missed him until Steve was in your grasp.
You parted, breathless. You didn’t need to speak for Steve to understand your response, still—you nodded. And that was enough for him now. You stepped back into your house, pulling him in with you. Steve complied like a soldier. Steve understood now that the house could be on fire and he’d still walk in with no complaint.
Steve kissed you again, kissed you through the living room, and to your room he used to know the decor by memory. What followed after was a play of muscle memory, Steve tested how much he remembered.
How many feet your bed stood from your door, where he let you guide him down on. The plush under him versus the burning coming from your skin. Hot and vulnerable, open and welcoming him. A return to home, his hands searched your skin. Rubbing up your waist, back, and shoulders. Kissing you to cause a bruise, to keep the memories, and share the taste of Pennie’s again on his tongue.
He had to memorize the feeling of you against him, for all the years he could have had you.
“Steve,” you pulled back, just before you were going to find comfort in his lap. “I’ve wanted just you since I could remember, I thought I forgot what that felt like—to want. But, I couldn’t forget you even if I tried.”
“I’ve always loved you,” Steve confessed if it were the easiest thing to leave his mouth. Smooth like a rehearsed flirt. More true than a prayer.
And it brought you to your knees, “fuck, Steve. I never stopped.”
“Please, don’t.” Steve gasped, it was a question disguised as a want.
And you’ve always seen through him. You knew Steve Harrington's entire being, every inch of his soul, like it was second nature. Despite all the years in between. You brought your knees to your bed, hovering over him as you trapped him under you.
Steve’s shoulder slumped like a blanket of weights had been lifted, released after years of waiting. Replaced by the weight of you on top of him, finding your place. You kissed him again, more intensely. Full of want. Full of need.
“I love you,” Steve whispered against your lips, a vibration down your throat that made you warm. So impossibly warm.
You shifted your hips down, Steve almost cried. Hands latching themselves to your waist, digging into your skin. Steve's nose tickled your cheek as he angled himself further, he needed to be closer. As much as you’d let him. And you were ready to lay it all out for him, you were ruined, absolutely no escaping Steve Harrington anymore.
You didn’t care if it was this room, this piece of shit town, anywhere in the world. You knew this was it. You and him. You were choosing Steve Harrington like a promise.
Large hands pulling you down onto him, feeling him beneath you. Steve loved you, and this was the evidence. Your hands found his shoulder, his back, and neck, pushing your fingers through his hair. Keeping him as close to you without suffocating, even then, that would be heaven.
Steve kissed down your jaw, keeping you steady on his lap. Letting you push down onto him, letting you take him how you pleased. You hummed in pleasure, and Steve felt it on his lips as he kept pecking you down your throat.
Finally finding solace in the crook of your neck, the smell of you possesses him. Digging his fingers into your hips, covered by the fabric of your sweatpants. He needed your closer, just so he could convince himself this was real.
Steve nipped and kissed at your neck, speaking against your skin, halfway to a cry. “I’m sorry, I’m never letting you go, this is it: I’m not leaving you.”
Spoken like a prayer. A promise to you. You pushed his head up to kiss his lips once more, accepting him fully into your life, your arms. Whatever he wanted.
Behind you, a whisper of a knock was left ignored—right before you and Steve jolted at the sudden creak of your door hinges. Someone is calling out your name softly.
“Can we talk? I really need to tell—WOAH, HOLY SHIT,” Dustin screamed, eyes wide at the sight of his sister straddling Steve Harrington. “Oh my god, holy fuck—“
“Dustin!” You screeched, reaching over Steve and accidentally giving him a face full of your chest. Grabbing a throw pillow and promptly chucking it at your brother, “Get out!”
The pillow hit your door before hitting him, shoving him out of your space, and at least getting his eyes off the scene before him. Steve tried to stifle a laugh, but he couldn’t help letting his mind begin to think about how cute you looked right now. Frustrated and on top of him.
“I-I thought you were staying at Mike’s?” You stutter.
“Yeah, but I came back here to apologize to you!” Dustin yelled from the other side of your door, voice high-pitched and full of embarrassment.
“For what?” Your eyebrows furrow together, twisting your body away from Steve to face the door.
A moment a silence. The faint sound of a heavy breath from Dustin behind the wood, “I gave Steve your letter. I snooped in your room and found it. I left it in his mail box on Saturday.”
You froze. Slowly turning back to Steve, looking down at him—eye bulging out of your face, he even swears he saw your left lid twitch slightly.
Quietly, you ask, “Did you know about this?”
“Uh, he told me about 20 minutes ago, estimated.”
(Steve actually has zero idea how long ago, feeling like hours had passed since kissing you. Yet, he still ached for more.)
“I’m gonna kill him. I’m going to murder my baby brother.” You whisper, stating like a fact, springing off Steve's lap. Setting off into a sprint before grabbing the pillow you just threw, a choice of weapon for the assault.
Steve felt like laughing, crying. He loved you still, and you never stopped either. Then the hard screech of Dustin and the even harder smack of pillow hitting a body, and Steve was scrambling up even quicker.
Rounding a corner to stop the oncoming assault between siblings, desperately trying to grasp at your waist or tear the throw pillow from your hands. “Whoa, okay, guys! Jesus! Let’s be nice! Good things came from this, okay? Let’s remember that!”
Steve smiled, despite the chaos. He was ready for this, he always had been. Wanting. Needing. Sometimes he just needed a reminder of something he always knew.
taglist: I pasted this from notes because their is so many of you, if the tagging doesn’t work I will cry. So hard. @harrysnovia @winchester-whiskey @thethreeeyed-raven @jeshomie @all-user-error @username199945 @tq-cherri @beforeroachfalls @yagurlannastasia @kayleesmando @minkyungseokie @academiq @honeyoaks @bbning @mafiulaputaama @cryptic-doe @juli3reads @dremnia @siimiasoi @boneskeeper420 @miniatureempathknightpony @kyrasworld @superlegend216 @yujyujj @inlovewithdrreid @cj-moon-1
Can I request a fluffy Steve Harrington x fem! reader long oneshot where it’s their wedding day and reader thinks back to how she met Steve by her going into Family Video to look for a movie and he came over to help her and it was love at first sight?
love at first... movie rental?
steve harrington x fem!reader
summary - your wedding day makes you think back to how you and steve fell in love.
warnings - fluff, nervous steve, cute steve, kissing. ummm yeah i think thats all, just like tooth rotting fluff!!
w.c - 2.7k
* * *
there was a slight chill in the air. it was a february morning and winter was still fading away into spring. your hair was being jammed into bobby pins, powder was being packed your face.
you couldn’t help but think back to how you got here. why everyone had gathered in this hall to celebrate you, why there was a white dress zipped safely in a bag, ready to be worn as you walked down to meet and marry the boy you loved.
the memories flooded as you remembered why this day was so special.
february 14th, 1986
the wind gusted angrily, the leaves making a skittering sound as the air pushed them along the worn pavement. walking across the parking lot to the front door of family video was an uphill battle. finally, you pulled the door open and stepped inside. your cheeks and nose were a shade of red from the cold.
steve was restocking shelves, his shoulders hunched over in concentration. the ring of the bell causes his head to shoot over to the door. his eyes land on you. his back straightens so fast he’s scared it might break.
his focus completely broken, now solely on you, like he was meant to only ever focus on the beautiful girl in front of him. his mind races, what do i say? how do i impress her? god, i have to impress her. play it cool, harrington.
his fingers brush through his long hair in attempts to clean up for you but the same pesky piece falls over his forehead into a little curl. he turns, facing you completely.
“hi welcome in,” he starts, his voice a little shaky. he hopes you don’t notice, you do. “can i help you find anyth-”
and the you smile. soft and sweet, your teeth barley visible. your cheeks still a light shade of red from the cold. his brain short circuits.
“-umm.. anything. ever. in the store, i mean. or the world, really.” he stammers. the silence is deafening. he’s blown it, hasn’t he? any second you’ll be backing away, so he continues to try and clean up his mess. he clears his throat, “what i meant is, if you’re looking for anything specific, i can help, ‘cause that’s my job. yay. movies!” he comes off a bit too enthusiastic.
you giggle softly, not in a mocking way, it’s just that you find him accidently adorable. “thank you,” your eyes glance to his name tag. “steve. i’m just gonna browse, thank you.”
the way you say his name almost makes his knees buckle. “cool cool, yeah i browse all the time, too,” he winces as soon as the words leave his mouth. “i’m going to stop talking now.”
he makes his way behind the counter and his head falls into his hands. robin snickers as she leans back against it. “yeah, that was pretty bad,” she starts. “but she didn’t run away screaming. that’s progress, romeo.” somehow robins words make him feel even more humiliated.
he lifts his head up and his eyes fall on you again. he watches as you read the back of a tape. your head is slightly tilted, your eyebrows slightly furrowed, your lips in a small frown as you focus on the words. his heart picks up again and he realizes that he can’t let you run away.
“i’m going in, again. this time maybe i can form a real sentence.” he makes himself seem busy. he grabs returned tapes and begins putting them back on the shelf. his head pops up every once in a while to make sure you’re still there. you always are. soon, his chance arises when you make your way up to the counter with a movie in your hands.
he’s quick to meet you on the other side of it. you place the movie down on the counter. sixteen candles.
“it’s valentines day, so why not some teeth-rotting romance?” you joke. his mind yet again, fails to work correctly. “might as well watch something cute, even if it’s just me and my popcorn bowl.” his heart does a flip and his stomach churns.
“it could be worse,” he shrugs. you tilt your head. “you could be working here on valentines day, with her.” he points back to robin.
“that may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” the girl replies, putting her hand on her chest.
you let out a soft laugh at the two of them and bite the inside of your cheek. you can’t deny your nervousness, either, but there’s something so comforting about the stuttering boy in front of you.
“have you seen it? sixteen candles? is it good?” you ask softly as he rings you up.
“oh um.. yeah of course. it’s romantic, cheesy, but the good kind of cheesy. you’ll like it.” he confirms. wow, a normal sentence. he messes it up, though. “i love cheese, so.”
you giggle at him again and you can’t seem to wipe the smile off of your face. “you’re cute.”
he swears his brain explodes inside his head. he stares at you as his mouth tries to form words. all he can manage is sliding the movie over to you. then he says, “happy valentines day.”
“you too steve,” you grab the movie and smile sweetly at him. “maybe i’ll see you around.” you turn on your heels and walk out back into the cold air.
steve doesn’t dare look away as you walk out, he stares in awe.
“you just successfully, okay well i won’t say successfully, but you flirted with a girl on valentines day and she didn’t back away in fear!” robin teases.
he snorts, but he doesn’t even take his eyes away from the door. he is absolutely beaming. he’s holding onto your last words and praying they come true.
maybe i’ll see you around.
he does. two days later. he’s talking to a customer who’s being entirely too difficult. the bell rings and he doesn’t notice at first. robin nudges his ribs causing a small groan to leave his lips.
“do you mind?” he scoffs, looking over at his coworker. her eyes are set on the front door, so his eyes make their way over, too. his brain fuzzes. “you got this, robin?” he doesn’t even wait for a response before he makes his way over.
“hey! did you enjoy the movie?” he motions to the tape in your hands.
“yeah! yeah it was good. very cheesy,” you nod. “but i like cheese, too.” you recall your last conversation and smile at him teasingly.
he laughs a breathy laugh and runs his hand through his soft hair. “good, that’s awesome. i’m really glad you liked it.”
“any recommendations for what i should watch next?”
he straightens up, trying to look professional.
“yes! yes totally. are you looking for funny? romantic? maybe switch it up and do some si-fi or horror?” he’s impressed by his absence of stuttering.
“funny, definitely funny, but i wouldn’t mind some romance.”
after a few moments, he finds a movie and checks it out to you. he slides it across the counter and you reach out to grab it. your fingers brush for just a moment and you both freeze. you quickly pull the movie back, your cheeks growing warm.
he decides to go for it. “hey, if you’d want to, maybe you could wait till after i get off to watch it? you could come by my place and we can watch… together?”
there’s a beat.
“i’d actually really like that.” you smile at him.
his heart melts inside of his chest.
-
steve sits next to you on the couch with a huge bowl of popcorn. you’re not sure you’d even be able to finish it with just you two. the movie begins, he chose back to the future. he wants to laugh and tell you about how he got drugged by russians and then watched this movie, but he refrains.
“how was your day? what else did you do rather than talk to me?” you ask, looking over at the boy.
he ponders for a second, “sorted movies, dealt with customers and honestly, thought about this, about you.” his eyes lock with yours.
you let out a nervous giggle and brush a strand of hair behind your ear. he watches and studies you as if you’re going to disappear.
“about me? well, i guess i can say i’ve been thinking about you, too.” you admit, sheepishly. “when i was watching sixteen candles, i was thinking about how valentines day would’ve been a lot sweeter if i had someone to share it with.”
his eyes scan your face as you talk, his heart pounding. “i’d argue that this is just as sweet.”
his words make your heart flutter, your chest flooding with heat. your eyes lock with his and you see a little sparkle in them. another smile tugs on your lips.
for the next thirty minutes, the movie is nothing but background noise. you guys talk about a little bit of everything. from work, to music, to the rude waiter who works at the dinner down the street. you are smiling so hard that you think your cheeks are stuck that way.
“i like talking with you… it’s easy.” you’re completely turned towards him now. you’re sitting crisscross and your knees are pressed against the side of his leg. his hands are fidgeting nervously in his lap.
“i like it, too.” he responds, softly. “i was struggling at first but i think i got the hang of it now.” he chuckles nervously. you smile and chew on your lip. your head falls to look at your lap and the hair that was safely tucked behind your ear falls.
when you look up to meet steve’s face again, his eyes are already boring into you. his hand comes up to move the hair back behind your ear. his touch is gentle, and his thumb brushes along your cheekbone softly. the touch makes your skin heat up immediately and your body leans towards him involuntarily.
his breath catches and he sits up to meet you.
“steve…” you whisper. you mouth falls open just a bit, your breath becoming heavier as your faces lean closer.
your noses bump and steve lets out a snort in response to his clumsiness. you smile but it’s short lived, because steve’s lips are already brushes against yours. your lips connect together in a sweet kiss. he feels you melt into the kiss as he presses his warm palm to your cheek. he sighs against your lips as your hair threads through his messy locks.
the kiss breaks naturally, but steve stays close, resting his forehead against yours. staring into each others eyes, just breathing.
“wow…” you breathe out quietly. your lips curl into a small smile.
steve is smiling like an idiot, his thumb stroking small lines on the soft skin of your cheek. “yeah, wow.”
you move to lay your head in his lap and his hands quickly tangle in your hair, massaging your scalp. he leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek. you turn your head to look up at him and he presses a quick peck to your lips.
you both watch the movie after that, but your minds are focused elsewhere.
-
steve’s fingers are tapping rhythmically on the counter as he tries everything to peel his mind away from you, from the kisses.
“can you please stop? i’m going to go crazy,” robin pleads, grabbing him by the wrist and moving his hand away from the counter. “did you really mess it up that bad?”
steve shakes his head. “the opposite, we had a really great night.” he smiles to himself, recalling the night before.
“so why are you acting so weird?” robin starts rolling the cart of returned movies to the comedy section, steve follows.
“she’s different, robin,” he starts. “i mean, i haven’t stopped thinking about her. after one date? there’s no way that’s normal. she’s just… so amazing.”
robin chuckles at him, “yeah, steve. which is why you ask her out again. it’s not a bad thing, it just means you might’ve found something really special.”
“you should’ve seen her eyes after i kissed her, man. that’s what i can’t get out of my head.”
the bell dings, and there you are yet again. steve can feel his heartbeat in his throat. your eyes find him quickly and you make your way over.
“hey steve, hey robin,” you smile at the pair. robin greets you, winks at steve, and makes her way to the other side of the store. there’s a moment of silence between you two, unsure of what to say. “i had a really good time last night, thank you for having me over.”
“anytime, seriously, i had so much fun. the company, the kisses, it was all really great.” he beams. a smile grows on your face, as well as a deep blush. “maybe we could do dinner next time?”
it doesn’t just stop at dinner. you and steve hang out almost everyday for a month. most of your free time, if not all, is taken up by the other. so many more movies are started and ignored for the most part. you learn his break schedule just to sneak make outs in his car. you become obsessed with each other in the most healthy way.
steve finally asks you to be his girlfriend. it was another regular movie night. he had picked out something random because you both knew you’d either be talking or kissing the whole way through, anyway.
“can you open this while i make us some popcorn?” he asks, handing you the movie case. your eyebrows furrow as you read the title. sixteen candles.
“steve, i’ve seen this already.” you complain, looking up at him with your bottom lip sticking out.
he smiles down at you. “open it, please?”
you look back down at the movie, a bit confused, but you open it anyway. sitting on top of the tape is a slip of paper folded up. “what’s this?” you take it out and unfold it gently.
the words written in steve’s perfectly imperfect handwriting, will you be my girlfriend?
you gasp and your eyes shoot back up to steve, who’s already beaming down at you. you stand up and swing your arms around his neck. his arms find your waist easily.
“what do you say?” he asks, tilting his head at you.
“of course i’ll be your girlfriend.”
his lips find yours in a passionate kiss. it makes you go weak at the knees, but he holds you steady. he always holds you steady.
february 14th, 1990
you’re snapped out of your daze when two hands are placed on your shoulders. when you come to, you look in the mirror and see robin standing behind you. she has a soft smile on her lips.
“i’m sorry, what did you say?” you ask. “i was totally zoned out.”
she laughs. “that’s okay, i was asking if you were ready to put your dress on?”
your eyes find yourself in the mirror. your face covered in light makeup, your hair twisted into a beautiful style. your eyes are quick to well up with tears. today was the day. you’d come back for the very thing steve was sure would ruin him: the clumsy, fumbling flirting that had enchanted you in the first place.
“i’m ready.” you said, convincing yourself that this was exactly what you had dreamed of from that very first kiss.
you couldn’t wait for the future, if it meant you got to spend it with him.
* * *
a/n: thank you so much for your request!! i hope you enjoyed i had a lot of fun writing this💐
Summary: Alastor didn't realize what he had until it was gone.
Warning: Angst, Violence, Abuse, mentions of racism/sexism
A/N: I understand Alastor is aroace. I don't really know how to properly convey the feelings or thoughts of those on the spectrum, but I tried to portray things in a way that fits in the story. Anyways, I actually tried this time. This is the shit I come up with when I don’t have writers block. I also learned that I like writing depressing shit.
——————————————————
They say life flashes before your eyes right before you die, but to Alastor, all that he could think about was you. When he recalls his childhood, there’s nothing sweet to reminisce about besides his mother and the way you constantly tailed him wherever he went. It was annoying, it was endearing, and it made him a little less lonely. He’d do anything to hear your voice one last time, the sweet voice that soothes all his insecurities and uncertainties. If only he could crawl to you now and reach for your soft hands that had once held him when he had killed his father. He did it to avenge his mother, that’s what he told himself, but he never admitted to himself that he was scared. He brought you with him to maybe have a celebratory dinner with his mother. He felt guilty for bringing you to a house that harbored a monster of a father; he was embarrassed that you had to witness such a grotesque scene. Most importantly, in that second, when his father had turned his head to you, he was absolutely terrified. He pictured your body lying next to his mother, and suddenly his body reacted on its own.
He fought so hard, in both his career and his murderous impulses, and despite all that, his efforts are in vain. He lost you regardless. What used to be a nuisance of laughter dulled into a quiet hum of emptiness.
“I’m supposed to get married,” You said beside him, a forced smile on your face. The sun dips slightly below the horizon, casting a dark orange hue on the city of New Orleans. The hilltop allowed a great view of the skyline.
“Well, congratulations, dear! We only continue to get older,” Alastor cheers brightly.
You chuckle at his excitement, toying with the daisy flower crown you’ve made. “I don’t think I’m ready yet. After all, you promised to take me to New York,” You smile fondly, placing the crown on his head. “I don’t think I’m ready to commit to the married lifestyle yet.
Alastor shifts his body to face you and cups your face in his hands. He refuses physical contact, and yet it was always comfortable with you around. “Don’t cut yourself short.” His face falls into seriousness, a concept so foreign. It’s almost as if a performative smile has been stitched on his face, and yet when he’s with you, he’s just Alastor. “You are the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen. You know how to make people smile. Your presence itself brightens the room when you walk in. Your laugh rinses away any stress and worries of the day.”
His words are enough to cast a soft, warm blush on your cheeks. His touch is short-lived as he starts going on a tangent about everything good about you, even if it's false. “I don’t know how to cook.”
Alastor was stumped for a moment, recalling the instances where he thought you were trying to assassinate him. “It may be questionable, but your efforts are admirable, and that’s all that matters,” He smiles brightly.
“The man may not feel the same,” You frown.
“Then he is blind and foolish,” He interjects.
A smile cuts through your face, admiring his passion. “I want to go to New York before I settle down.” You look back at the horizon, the sun almost gone, and the sky fading to a dark purple.
“I know I promised to take you before, but why New York?” Alastor pauses.
You stand up, fantasizing the sound of jazz never fading, the lights never dying, and all eyes on you. “It’s the Big Apple. The city that never sleeps. What’s not to like?” You ask with a smile, though your spark falters for a moment. “I want to be a star. A performer. I can dance and sing all I want down the streets, but I’ll never get my big break in this small well.”
Alastor listened intently. He had once made a promise that when he made it big, he would take you to New York. It was an empty promise, never believing it was possible. You and he were at a disadvantage when it came to pursuing dreams. He believed you had a better chance than him. After work, he’d stop by the jazz club and watch you sing and perform. He knew you worked hard, and a bit of him sits unease when men talk over your song, mock you, or straight up disrespects you. Still, the show goes on with a smile.
“Saturday will be my last night performing. My arranged husband doesn’t like too many eyes on me. Mother says it’s for the best. My- fiancé used to work on Broadway, and father said if I be good to him, he just might just take me.” You smile hopefully, yet it seems the idea was lost a long time ago.
Alastor didn’t know how to respond. There was no way he could just meddle with your life. It’d be wrong to. Alastor clears his throat, “I’ll be there.”
“Thank you.”
—————————————————————
Alastor is a man of his word, and he fought tooth and nail to watch your final performance. His bosses held him up, and how can he complain? He loves the radio. His face is made for radio. He’s made his mark in the industry, and he truly could not afford to jeopardize his moment. He also refuses to give anyone an excuse to replace him, because, despite knowing his worth, his boss won’t hesitate to replace him if he doesn’t hold to their standards. In this territory, he is nothing but prey.
He had arrived at the club, a good thirty minutes late, and you should have been performing still, because your show lasts hours if you wanted to. However, when he had asked around, you had already left early, which should have been the first warning sign, yet just like his feelings, he pushed it aside and assumed the best. You truly deserve the best, and it feels foreign to expect any calamity your way. You’ve had it set for you, compared to him. Though you worked hard to be where you’re at, he had to work triple that, because the world has yet to accept him because of the color of his skin. He left the club, disappointed, yet he pushed away that feeling as well, just like he does with any feeling involving you.
Looking back now, it was love he was feeling, though it was such a foreign concept. The only love he ever felt was from his mother. If he had stopped ignoring his feelings, maybe he would’ve noticed how your eyes longed for him, yet you never reached out. You saw him like fine china, something to be kept within distance, to be looked at and admired. You longed to have him, and yet you knew he did not feel the same, and so you continued to admire, because getting any closer would have left a stain on the relationship you had.
Alastor was still oblivious to his feelings, even as your house burnt to ashes. He watched helplessly as your mother sobbed. “She’s still in there! Save her!” Your mother pleaded with the firefighters as her husband held her back from running into the house herself. He cares for you, he truly does, and that’s what makes him so useless. Alastor watched as the fire roared, debating whether he should go run into the house himself, and yet he was cared of what it could be if he had to hold your lifeless body in his arms.
“I knew she had a fight with her fiancé, but I didn’t expect it to be this bad,” Your father stresses, regret drowning him, knowing he had allowed this man into their home despite your protest.
“A fight?” Alastor asks, a spark of an uncertain feeling burning through his skin. Maybe it was anger, annoyance, or even possessiveness. He’s had fights with you, but they were minor, petty ones where one would give the other the silent treatment. It never really lasted too long, as the other one caves in so easily.
“We assumed if we left, they’d work things out on their own,” Your father says, diverting his gaze in guilt.
“No, cut that crap. You assumed it would be fine. I never approved that man, but all you saw was money.” Your mother’s words grazed her husband like a knife. “I told you he’s a bad man, that he had hit our daughter, yet all you saw was a way to be rich. This is your fault.”
“We’ve got a deceased man and woman, both suffering stab wounds and burns,” Alastor hears a firefighter report to the other workers on scene, and it could only be assumed that it was you and that filthy man. His heart drops, and maybe your mother had overheard as well because her sobs cut through all the noise as she drops to her knees.
“Tell me she’s not dead! Please! My sweet daughter,” She sobs, and despite her husband’s attempts at holding her, she pushed him away. She’d continue to live her life knowing that her husband had led to her daughter’s death, and she wasn’t able to do anything to prevent that.
A few days later, your mother shared the police reports with Alastor. You fought with your fiancé, and during the fight, he threatened you with a knife, holding it to your throat. In self-defense, you tried to wrestle the knife out of his hands, and in doing so, a candle had been knocked down, setting the tablecloth on fire. You both were in a heated fight for the knife to even care about the fire. Then, according to the wounds, you were stabbed, deep enough to cause some internal damage to your organs, causing fatal amounts of bleeding. Based on how severely burnt your fiancé’s body was, and the remnants of fabric from the tablecloth on him, you had managed to take the burning cloth and throw it at him. This caused some minor struggle, causing the man to let go of the knife. You pounced for the knife, and despite how weak you felt from the loss of blood, as the man was struggling with the fire on him, you managed to stab him multiple times, some very fatal, before passing out from blood loss. Both you and your fiancé had gone unconscious from the stab wounds before the fire had spread to the house.
As for the content of the argument, the police could only assume that it had something to do with your performance cut short. The reason why your fiancé was so rich was that in New York, he had taken advantage of many girls, dreaming of being a performer. He had taken them in, made them do scandalous acts, and later the men would pay to spend the night with them. The girls, having left everything to chase their dreams and signing their names away in a contract, had no way out of their deals besides death. That man had tried to do the same with you, except the contract you had tied to him was the promise of marriage that your father offered on a silver platter. He didn’t know, but he is equally to blame.
The unsettling feeling in Alastor’s chest felt foreign and displaced. He didn’t cry at your funeral, as death is a natural thing, whether it was unwanted. He may be your friend, but he’s also a killer. Death is something he can control and manipulate whenever he wants. Maybe that’s why there’s a pit rumbling in his stomach. He should be feeling sad. He should be feeling empty. He should be mourning the woman he had lost, but the days go on just the same. He’d wake up, go to work, and indulge in his dangerous hobbies. Perhaps he’s grown desensitized to death itself that he no longer fears it. He still came back to that hilltop, and even if the sun felt cold against his skin, he still didn’t cry. His feelings are fizzling, begging to be let out, but he kept them at bay, and he continues to do so until he realizes too late.
His final moments were ones of realization. He avenged himself countless times for every wrong he’d been challenged with, yet he never sought to bring justice to your death. He knows how to kill, he knows how to manipulate, but there’s no one left. Your fiancé was dead, so he couldn’t even give the man a piece of his mind. Even if he blamed your father, how could he kill your family? You may have been wronged, but you loved your family dearly. If Alastor killed your father for the sake of justice, it would be like spitting at your grave.
Regrets poured out of him, like the blood that waters the Earth, as he lay still. He loved you, but he was a selfish man, undeserving of love from an angel. He’d encountered many misfortunes in his lifetime to forget what love is. Instead of indulging in crushes as a teen, he spent each day trying to survive, and eventually, he did not need such emotion. Under different circumstances, he would have married you instead. If he had been given more time, he would’ve succumbed to his feelings. He should’ve fought harder. He should’ve rejected his bosses and arrived at your show on time. He should’ve whisked you away to New York, just like you fantasized, the moment you told him you were to be married at that hilltop. He should’ve run away with you. If only he had comforted you when you looked at him wistfully, longingly. He should’ve held your hand and kissed you. He should’ve done many things, and as many times as he repeats all the should-haves, his ego would’ve kept him blind right up until disaster comes his way. Only then, when he’s trying to mend all the pieces, would he realize that he can’t mend what’s already been lost.
CW: Alastor ragebaits you and faces consequences, Power Dynamics
Word Count: 3.7K
Prologue| Part 1| Part 2| Part 3| Part 4| Part 5| Part 6| Part 7| Part 8| Part 9| Part 10| Epilogue
Chapter Two: Wrath
It had been a week. And still… nothing. Nothing from you.
Alastor had expected you to summon him almost immediately—after all, he had offered a deal of immense personal value. He had, in fact, lowered himself more than he had ever done for any being. He had assumed that alone would pique your predatory curiosity.
Instead, you treated the entire arrangement as if it were a pleasant little toy. A novelty. Something to fiddle with when boredom struck. The Radio Demon felt something twist in his chest.
Annoyance? Intrigue?
A sour taste of being… ignored?
He clicked his tongue.
The realization grated on him. This was a matter of life and death. Because those chains the Queen had placed on him still hummed beneath his skin, suffocating, limiting, mocking him.
He strode through the halls of the hotel, cane clicking rhythmically, a forced calm stretched over the irritation simmering through him. He reached the part of the hotel you had claimed for yourself. It looked like… an office.
Sinners hustled in and out clutching documents. They were rushing, yes but not panicking. Busy, yes. Focused, certainly. But not afraid.
They were… comfortable.
How annoyingly admirable. Clearly, you were a capable ruler—something he filed away in a corner of his mind, labelled for later use.
He took a step forward and abruptly, someone stepped directly in his path. Blocking him. Alastor froze, not out of shock, but out of the sheer absurdity of the gesture.
Her eyes were sharp, bored, unimpressed. “Name and purpose of visit?”
Alastor blinked once. Then he laughed—a deep, smooth ripple of amusement that crackled at the edges with radio static. “Name? My dear, if you require an introduction, you are comically unqualified for your position.”
The assistant did not smile. “Oh, I know who you are,” she said, unimpressed. “But the Duchess is busy. Do you have an appointment or not?”
Alastor’s grin stretched a little too wide. “That’s a no,” he answered cheerfully.
“Hm,” she hummed, marking something on her clipboard with clear disappointment. “Figures. No manners.”
His smile twitched.
Before he could respond, she tilted her head and asked far too casually, “Alright. Then are you here for work or fuck?”
The radio static screech that tore out of him made three imps drop their paperwork. He leaned in slowly, voice velvet-wrapped murder. “…Pardon?”
The assistant didn’t flinch. “Well, everyone who comes to see the Duchess fits one of those categories,” she said matter-of-factly. “Urgent business, or… sex.” She flipped a page on her clipboard. “She has a lot of one-time hookups. Very unhealthy lifestyle, if you ask me—”
Alastor didn’t let her finish.
He took one elegant step to the side, cane tapping sharply as he swept past her, effectively dismissing her existence. He would not tolerate the image. He would not even entertain the notion.
The assistant called after him, “I’ll just—put you down as work, then!”
He ignored her entirely. Alastor was already irritated when he reached the second set of doors. But by the time he stood before them, irritation had hardened into something sharper—into the kind of focus one has before gutting a deer.
Did you truly expect him to… perform such disgusting displays?
He nearly gagged.
But if you invoked your side of the deal—if you demanded it—then yes, technically, the agreement would require him to participate.
The thought made his skin crawl. So what choice did he have?
The doors opened with a soft hum and he stepped inside. There you were. Sitting at your desk, hunched over papers, scribbling with that terrifying concentration.
You didn’t sense him. Of course you didn’t. The annoyance that flared inside him was immediate and unreasonable.
He approached slowly, until he stood right before your desk. At last, finally you looked up. Your eyes widened with genuine surprise. “Alastor? What brings you here?”
He narrowed his eyes. Had you really not spent a week letting him twist, waiting, wondering, like a bug pinned beneath your thumb? Or did you truly forget?
“What else,” he said coldly, “but our deal?”
You sighed and lowered your gaze, flipping through the papers again. “Yes, yes, I know. I intended to get to it, but I’ve been busy handling the paperwork with Heaven.” You waved a dismissive hand. “They’re refusing to move Charlie’s meeting to an earlier date—”
He didn’t care. He didn’t care about Heaven. He didn’t care about your paperwork.
And he certainly didn’t care for the fact that you were talking to him with the same tone one used for a mildly annoying clerk. Your dismissive tone crackled something ugly inside him.
Without warning, Alastor swept a hand across your desk. Papers flew.
He perched on the desk itself, legs dangling, smiling sharply down at you. You stared at him, irritated. “What are you—”
But your words died as Alastor loosened his bowtie with a sharp tug, fingers sliding to his collar. His jaw clenched. The movement was tense, mechanical, and resentful.
Fine. If this was the humiliation you wanted, he could give you a small dose–
His thoughts shattered when you shot up from your chair so quickly it almost toppled. “WOAH—HEY—HEY!” Your blush flared instantly, hands flying up to cover your eyes. “What are you doing, Alastor?!”
Alastor froze.
“Well,” he hissed, chin tilted with stiff arrogance, “wasn’t this what you wanted?”
You blinked at him, genuinely baffled. A soft noise of confusion left your lips. “What? When did I ever say that?”
He clicked his tongue and looked sharply away, the gesture small but telling, like a curtain drawn over embarrassment. “Your assistant certainly believes so. And you,” his gaze flicked back, pointed, “apparently have numerous trysts under your belt.”
You sighed. Not frustrated, more weary, and almost fond. “I would never force you,” you said quietly.
He could handle deceit. He could dissect manipulation with surgical precision. He could withstand fear, hatred, awe, worship. He was made to devour all of it. But sincerity? It cut deeper.
And there it was, undeniable—shining in your eyes and threaded into every syllable. You meant it.
“…Why not?” he challenged anyway, but the edge was duller now.
You moved back to your seat, letting your body sink into the chair with the tired elegance of someone who spent far too long handling things far beneath them. You gave him a small, knowing smile. “Because we don’t have to sleep together to be known as lovers, Alastor. Our agreement was to be fake lovers. Fake.” You gestured lightly between the two of you. “And besides… you clearly weren’t enjoying what you just tried to do.”
That earnest tone again. It irritated him. It soothed him. It confused him immensely.
Alastor didn’t respond. His fingers moved automatically, buttoning up his shirt with precise, efficient motions. The collar snapped back into place. His bowtie tightened into its immaculate knot.
Only then did he hum—a low, thoughtful note. A decent bone in your body… who would’ve thought?
Alastor slid off your desk with a smooth, predatory grace, straightening his coat. “Then,” he drawled, eyes narrowing, “what does the deal pertain to? What precisely do I have to do?”
You opened your mouth to answer but your phone shrieked alive in a sharp SOS-red flash, vibrating with a pitch that meant someone was either dying or being stupid enough to risk it.
Your expression instantly tightened. You snatched the device, thumb gliding across the screen. The phone lifted from your hand, hovering horizontally in the air as the image projected forward like a floating window.
Vassago appeared. You softened, your voice warming without conscious thought. “Vassago?”
He bowed his head deeply. “Your Grace.”
Alastor’s eyes flickered at the softness in your tone. Interesting.
Vassago barely held the greeting before bursting forward with panic, voice rising into anxious screeching. “You’re needed urgently in the Wrath Court!”
You blinked. “…Why? I’m not scheduled to meet Satan until three weeks from now—”
A high-pitched birdlike shriek tore from him. “No, no, no! This is urgent—Satan is passing unjust judgement over Stolas!”
The slam of your palm on the desk echoed like a whip crack. “WHAT?!” Your power spiked in the air, rippling across papers, rattling drawers.
Vassago swallowed. “He gave his grimoire to Blitzo—”
“That imp he’s in love with?” you deadpanned.
Vassago nodded.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” You were already rising, already summoning your magic. “I’m coming over.”
The projection dissolved as you cut the call, and already your fingers were slicing through the air. A portal tore open.
Alastor stepped closer. “I would like to join you,” he declared, the polite tone not hiding the hungry curiosity beneath. He wanted answers. He wanted leverage.
You blinked at him, thrown off. “Why would you—? You know what, I don’t have time for this. Fine. Come along. Just try not to die.”
And together, you stepped into the wrathful heat of the Ring.
__________________________
Alastor walked beside you, hands folded neatly behind his back, whistling something jaunty and wildly out of place. His eyes, however, were drinking in every detail, no Pride sinner must have seen what he was experiencing.
At last, you reached the towering double doors; symbols of all Seven Sins were carved into it. The two guards standing watch… were not.
They were hunched over a cracked phone, snickering at something on-screen, so engrossed they didn’t even glance up.
One waved a lazy hand without looking. “Get lost, we’re on break.”
Your brow twitched. You didn’t speak, or warn or lift a finger. You simply let your power ripple. Golden energy snapped through the air. The guard’s phone shattered instantly, splintering into a cloud of broken glass and metal shards.
Both guards froze. Their eyes widened. Their faces drained.
“Y–Your Grace!” one squeaked, tripping over his own feet as he scrambled upright. “S-so sorry!” the other stuttered. “We—we didn’t know—uh—I mean—It’s just been a long time since you’ve—”
You leveled a cold stare at them. “Open the doors.”
They nodded so fast their helmets clanged together, then practically launched themselves at the handles, pushing the heavy gates open with frantic strength.
Alastor hummed approvingly at your side, entirely smug.
Stolas collapsed forward on the execution block. Stolas, barely able to lift his head, whispered hoarsely, “B-but… what about my daughter…?”
“Oh, don’t fret,” Andrealphus said sweetly, venom dripping beneath every syllable. “She’ll be safe and sound… with her mother.” His eyes glinted. “The wholesome parent.”
Satan clapped his hands together. “Well! That settles it. The court’s adjourned. Time for lunch!”
He hopped down from his platform, turning and froze when he saw you. Every other Sin froze with him. Satan recovered quickly, his grin spreading wide across his demonic maw. “Well, well! I didn’t expect to see you so soon!” he boomed. “What brings you—”
“What,” you growled, “is the meaning of this?”
You stepped forward, your voice slicing through the court like a blade.
“How,” you continued, “do you pass judgement without allowing him defense? Without giving him the chance to speak? And—” your eyes snapped toward Andrealphus, who suddenly stood very, very still “—without consulting his daughter on which parent she wishes to stay with?”
Satan’s bravado faltered. His shoulders hunched ever so slightly, a guilty schoolboy caught misbehaving before the headmistress. “I—I… well—” he sputtered.
But Andrealphus glided forward like a serpent scenting injury. “Your Grace,” he said smoothly, bowing just enough to be polite but never humble, “are you here to defend Stolas?” His feathers rustled with false concern. “Would that not be… biased?”
You opened your mouth but he barrelled on, his voice rising theatrically for the benefit of the gathered Sins and noble houses. “How could you give Via—an innocent child—to be raised by a criminal? By a prince who broke one of our sacred laws?”
The court erupted in hushed arguments. Goetic princes muttered among themselves.
For the first time, Alastor saw something flickered across your face. A tiny crack, so small it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else. Your shoulders stiffened. Your fingers curled inward. You took a step back—subtle, instinctive, as if the accusations had actually landed.
Alastor’s eye twitched.
How dare they. How dare these pampered, preening, lesser aristocrats speak to you this way?
Satan, emboldened by the shift in the room, folded his arms. “With all due respect,” Satan rumbled, a phrase that always meant the opposite, “you and Lucifer haven’t exactly been present in the last century. So how could you question the judgement of those who’ve been handling matters down here?”
A ripple of agreement shivered through the gallery. Alastor felt an irrational spike of irritation crawl up his spine. Irritation toward them. And, if he was honest—irritation toward you, too. For letting them get to you. For forgetting, even momentarily, that you were not made to be questioned.
He took one quiet step closer to you. And suddenly every pair of eyes shifted to him as if pulled by invisible strings.
Alastor leaned in, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “Are you going to allow these people,” he murmured, “to speak to you like that?”
You stiffened.
He saw the uncertainty flicker in your eyes. “I—” your voice cracked, just barely.
Alastor’s hand rose, slow and deliberate, and settled on your shoulder. His grip was steady, warm, unyielding. “If you can keep Hell running on your own,” he whispered, “then you can manage this insignificant thing as well.”
Your eyes widened, shifting. Alastor watched the transformation with a quiet, private satisfaction as something steadfast lit behind your gaze. And you smiled, soft and grateful. Unexpected. Alastor’s grin froze for the briefest fraction of a second before he smoothed it back into composure.
You stepped forward, “I may not have visited in some time, but that is because no case of importance has been brought before this court.”
Satan swallowed.
“According to Hell’s law,” you continued, “any case involving our people—” your eyes swept over the Goetia nobles “—must be brought to either Lucifer or myself. The co-creators of your line.”
Murmurs rippled through the room. Several princes stiffened; a few lowered their heads.
“And since,” you went on, your tone growing icier, “I received no hell-mail, no summons, not even a courtesy notice, that means one thing.”
“A mistake has been made,” you said, “on your end.”
Satan’s face drained of color. “I—It must have been—”
Your gaze slid to Andrealphus. "And as for being biased…” you purred, your voice echoing through every stone in the hall.
Andrealphus opened his beak-like mouth to speak—
You didn’t let him.
Your glare, vicious and bright as a solar flare, pinned him to the spot. “Because if memory serves,” you said sweetly, “you and your sister have been plotting to seize Stolas’ legions for months now.”
The entire court gasped.
Andrealphus sputtered so violently he nearly choked. “T-Th—that is—that is a vile accusation! Baseless! I—You—Your Grace, I assure you—!”
You lifted a brow, unimpressed.
You stepped forward. He stepped back. “So tell me, Andrealphus,” you said, tilting your head. “Should I punish you right now for treason?”
Alastor, just behind your shoulder, chuckled under his breath. Now this was entertainment.
“I understand,” you began, your tone low but carrying to every corner of the hall, “that judgement has been passed. And I acknowledge that neither I nor Lucifer may interfere with the verdict itself.” You paused, letting the air coil around the weight of your words before turning a cold, unimpressed stare toward Andre. “But,” you continued, “I can address what comes after.”
Andre flinched visibly even before you said the next part.
“While Stolas is… indisposed,” you said, selecting the word with unmistakable disdain, “his lands, legions, and titles will be placed temporarily under Vassago. He has proven, consistently and without scandal, that he can manage territory of that scale.”
Andre’s curse tore out of him like a punctured pipe. “You—you can’t—!”
You didn’t spare him a look. Then your gaze slid back to Satan, sharp as a blade dragged across glass. “And as for you, Satan,” you said, voice deceptively mild.
He perked up warily. “…Yes?”
“No more lunch breaks.”
Satan gasped like you’d stabbed him. “You’re too cruel!”
You only shrugged. “A just punishment. And it might help you improve your administrative discipline. This court is adjourned.”
You descended the steps and crossed to where Stolas sat bowed in defeat. You placed a steadying hand beneath his arm. “I’m sorry,” you murmured, helping him to his feet, “I couldn’t do more.”
“You did more than enough,” he said softly. “More than I expected. I know my daughter is safe. That is… everything.”
He squeezed your hand once—grateful, shaking, then turned and trudged away. You watched him go, sadness tugging at your chest like an old, familiar ache.
You didn’t stand alone for long.
A burst of honey-sweet perfume heralded Beelzebub before she even fully materialized beside you. “There you are, girl!” she exclaimed, grabbing your shoulders. “Where have you been? You and Lu haven’t shown up to one of my parties in forever!”
You huffed a laugh. “Last time you told me to ‘let loose,’ I was drunk for a week.”
Beel flicked her hair dismissively. “Pshhh, so what? You needed it!”
Before you could answer, Ozzie swept in, arms already open. “Darling,” he purred, pulling you into a surprisingly tight hug, “it’s been too long.”
You smiled against his shoulder until suddenly there were more voices, more hands, more towering figures closing in, every Sin eager for answers, for gossip, for updates on you and Lucifer, on your return, on what you planned next—
Nope. Not now.
You snapped your fingers. A portal roared open, spiralling like a hungry vortex. “I’ll contact you all later!” you shouted over the swell of complaints and demands.
Then you reached back, grabbed Alastor by his hand, and yanked him through with you—leaving six bewildered, mildly offended Sins behind in the courtroom as the portal snapped shut like a door slammed in their faces.
*
The portal spat the two of you out back in your office. You barely took a step before your shoulders sagged—just a fraction, just enough that anyone less perceptive than he would have missed it. He stood perfectly still, cane held loosely in his hand as he watched you exhale, long and deep, before lowering yourself onto your chair.
You had been magnificent in that court—sharp-tongued, commanding, practically humming with authority. The kind of raw, unrestrained power that made something in him purr with a hunger he had not indulged in decades.
Alastor’s grin softened, not out of empathy, but contemplation. Every moment with you peeled back another sliver of mystery. Every decision, every quip, every burst of wrath or wit… he learned something new.
What you valued. What you feared. What you hid. And most importantly… what you needed.
He stepped closer, adjusting his bowtie as if preparing for a performance. “So,” he said lightly, “where were we in our earlier conversation? You never gave me your answer.”
You lifted your head sluggishly, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. “Alastor,” you sighed, rubbing your temple, “just… do some courtship gestures in front of the hotel guests. Bring flowers or some shit.”
Your head hit the desk with a low, exhausted thump. You closed them for just a moment.
A mistake.
“My, my… It’s almost impressive how you and the king have allowed such disarray to run amok. All this power, and nothing to show for it.”
Your brow twitched. With a slow exhale, you leaned back in your chair and met his gaze. “We’re more than a few millennia old, Alastor. This kind of bullshit gets boring after a while.”
He hummed thoughtfully. But he was not done. “More excuses?” he crooned. “How disappointing. I would never have expected that from you.”
Your jaw tensed. He stepped closer, close enough that his grin gleamed like a razor. “I see how the others behave in your presence. Unruly children, the lot of them. And you—” his eyes flicked over you, amused “—have such a soft spot for them. But every child needs discipline.”
You stared back, bored, unamused. “So what?” you drawled. “You want to be the ruler now?”
Alastor’s laugh was bright, delighted, and sharp enough to cut. “Heavens no! I simply want to be judge, jury, and executioner.” He tilted his head, static whispering faintly around him. “Much better than your current… incompetence.”
Your glare sharpened. “Alastor,” you warned, voice low, “watch it. You don’t know anything about me.”
His grin widened. “Oh, but I do,” he said softly. “Picking up the King’s slack. Trying to keep things together after the Queen’s… unfortunate disappearance. And you’re failing rather spectacularly.”
Your fingers dug into the armrest. “Enough,” you said coldly.
But Alastor was already on a roll. “And I can’t help but wonder,” he continued, “why the king has been pestering you about finding love again. Is it because you simply can’t move on from your former paramour?” His grin twisted cruelly. “How pathetic.”
That was the line.
Your demon form surged before he even finished the last syllable. A pulse of blistering golden light filled the room. The air cracked.
Alastor barely had time to blink before luminous chains erupted from the floor, snapping tight around his wrists with a sound like cracking bone. He was yanked downward—knees slamming against the ground—your power pulling him into a forced bow.
Another chain materialized, coiling around his throat like a serpent of molten gold. You tugged. His head snapped upward, forced to meet your gaze.
“Know your place,” you hissed, voice warped by divine fury. “Do not mistake my lenience for weakness.”
You leaned down, chains rattling, your glare bright enough to burn.
“Your entire existence is a speck in my eternal life,” you whispered. “You are nothing. D̸̠̪̊̉̏I̷̘͎̼̓D̵̜͂ ̴͓̓̀Y̴̢̨̽̍͌Ơ̵̜̽̄Ü̶̦͝ͅ ̴͍͈T̴͕̈́̅̀Ŗ̵̀U̵̲̱͓͆̽̈L̶̞͍̈́̒Y̶̹̘̖̒̃ ̷̬Ṱ̸͛̾̕H̶̛͕͊I̷̛̩N̴̪̓K̷̭̈͊́ ̴Y̵̗͓̎͗̃O̷̼̳̒͠U̴̝͂̑ ̶͇C̴̞̮͖͆̑͝A̵̱̔̄Ǹ̴͎̳̎́ ̸̪P̴̳͉̾͌̿L̸̩̱̅͛͘A̴͈̔́Ỷ̷̥̞̊̆ ̴̪Ẁ̵̠̑͆ͅI̵̩̎̒͠T̴̾ͅḤ̵̩͈̈́͂̈́ ̶M̶͍̰̣͂̋͝Ė̷̱͋, ̷͈͕̆̿͊S̶̢̊Ī̷̢̥̣̈́̒N̵̳̰̑̽̕N̸̯̥̙̈́̈́͊Ĕ̴̙̲͠R̷̻̙̒͗?̵̾͊ͅ
Alastor’s breath hitched as the chain tightened, digging into his neck.
You yanked again. “Ă̶̳̱̺͍̥͚̿̑̂͠N̴͔̼̺͔̈́͑͐́̚͜͝ͅS̶͉̝͆̿̒̋̇́̕W̷̤̣̓͑̃̐̑ͅÉ̶̩̦̭ͅȒ̴̛̠͈̺̦͇́̿̂̄ ̴̦̯͓̋̃͂͝M̸̢̙͎͘Ẹ̴̠̳͇̣͊̾͒̕ͅ” you commanded.
His voice came strained, gravelly, forced out between clenched teeth. “…no.”
You released the chains instantly. His body sagged forward, palms hitting the floor as he sucked in a rough breath. The golden bindings dissolved into dust.
You turned away with a bored yawn, stretching your arms over your head. “You’re dismissed,” you said casually, already walking toward the door.
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The fox’s breath fogged faintly in the cool green light. Her tail swished once, slow and uneasy, as she stared at the towering silhouette before her.
“Who are you?” she demanded—though her voice cracked ever so slightly.
The figure stepped forward, and the shadows peeled away from him like living silk. He was tall—unnaturally tall—lanky in a way that made him look like a marionette crafted by a sadist. Four lime-green eyes blinked at her, each glowing at a slightly different rhythm. His skin was a dark gray, smooth as carved stone, and the long pitch-black cloak he wore rippled as though something moved under it.
When he unfurled the cloak, she saw it fully: the lime-green spiderweb interior, the red spider legs stretching across its lining, the giant black spider stitched proudly at the front. His boots clicked sharply against the marble floor—black with red accents, polished to a mirror shine. And atop his head sat a huge top hat decorated with a skull and a striped feather.
“Zestial,” he introduced himself at last, voice calm and smooth with a poisonous undertone. “Although at this merry time… it truly does not matter who I am.”
He stepped closer.
She stepped back.
The smile tugging at his thin mouth sharpened.
“Why am I here?” she demanded.
Zestial hummed thoughtfully, circling her like a vulture deciding where to start pecking. Each step echoed across the emerald-lit throne room, bouncing against the walls as though the shadows whispered along with him.
“We’ll get to that.”
He circled again. And again.
Then, softly:
“Tell me, my dear… what do you think a serial killer with Vox’s ego would do after a stunt like that?”
The fox froze.
This wasn’t an idle question.
This was a test.
A probe.
A scalpel to peel her open.
“Why are you—” she began.
“Answer the question.”
The interruption snapped like a whip.
She swallowed and forced her brain to focus—on psychology, on behavior patterns, on every scrap of true-crime knowledge she had ever devoured.
“A… a serial killer with Vox’s profile,” she muttered, thinking fast. “High ego, high entitlement… public image more important than anything… He’d do something big. Something flashy. Something that says he can’t be ignored.”
“Is that a question,” Zestial asked, tilting his head, “or a fact?”
“A fact,” she whispered.
He stopped behind her, just out of reach—but she felt his four eyes boring into the back of her skull.
“Very good.”
She shivered.
“And what,” he continued, voice low, “do you suppose that ‘big’ thing will be?”
She squeezed her hands tightly.
“A show of power,” she breathed. “A hostage. A public execution. A broadcast. Something to cement control, to make people fear disappointing him. Something bold enough that Hell and Heaven both notice.”
Zestial’s smile widened into something razor-thin.
“There,” he said, circling around to face her once more. “That intelligence… that instinct… that is why you’re here.”
Her heart stumbled.
“What?”
He came closer—so close she had to tilt her head back to look at him.
“I brought you here to offer you a deal.”
Her breath stopped.
“A… deal?”
“Yes.”
His cloak hissed over the floor as he moved, spider-like in its glide. “A deal that grants you what you lack… and what you desperately need.”
Her ears twitched, uncertain. “Which is…?”
“Power.”
She blinked. Hard.
“I don’t have power. Not really,” she argued. “My shadow—Numbra—acts on its own sometimes, but that’s all I have. I can’t do anything.”
Zestial clicked his tongue.
“Incorrect.”
He snapped his fingers.
The shadows behind her rippled—and Numbra rose up like oil climbing a wall, forming her humanoid silhouette… then shifting rapidly between shapes. A wolf. A spider. A deer. A stranger. A faceless thing.
“She feeds off your power,” Zestial said. “Not the other way around. You have merely been too timid to harness the full extent of what you can do.”
“I—what?”
“Your shadow is your instinct. Your potential. A fragment of what you could become. With training, you could do what she does and more. And with souls to fuel you…”
His four eyes gleamed with hungry delight.
“You could rival any overlord.”
She staggered back.
“No—no, that’s impossible, I’m not—”
He appeared behind her.
Instantly.
Without sound.
His breath brushed her ear.
“You underestimate yourself far too much.”
She screamed and spun around—and her body jerked violently as she shifted. Bones snapped, organs twisted, fur reshaped—
She transformed into Alastor.
Antlers, ears, height—everything.
Her own voice cracked out of his throat.
“THE HELL—?!”
She clutched her head, deer ears flicking wildly.
Zestial chuckled—deep, gleeful, almost paternal.
“There it is,” he said softly. “The raw instinct. The potential. The power you refuse to see.”
“I—can’t—control it—!” she hissed, flicking back into her fox form.
“You will. With training. And with my deal.”
He returned to his throne, sitting with elegant precision.
“The deal is simple,” Zestial continued. “You gain souls. Strength. Enough to take Vox down publicly, decisively, humiliatingly. Enough to prevent the war Heaven anticipates. And in exchange…”
His eyes narrowed.
“I own your soul until Heaven is no longer threatened.”
She stared at him.
Speechless.
“You… want to make a deal with me?” she finally managed. “Me? Why? Why not someone powerful? Someone trained? Someone—”
“Because,” Zestial cut in sharply, “you underestimate yourself… but I do not.”
He stood again, crawling down the steps with a supernatural grace.
“And because you are what you are because of what happened to you. You break when you must break. You bend when you must bend. You observe, you analyze, you adapt.”
He stopped inches from her face.
“And you can manipulate Vox better than any demon in this realm.”
She stiffened.
“With my deal… you gain the strength to help Alastor break free. To stop this war. To cut Vox down to size.”
His hand extended.
“And all I ask is your cooperation.”
The room throbbed with tension.
The shadows waited.
Her heartbeat was loud enough to echo.
Finally—
She reached out.
Placed her hand in his.
“I accept,” she whispered. “Even if you’re tricking me.”
His grin sharpened.
The shadows roared.
Something ancient surged into her skin—hot, cold, burning, freezing, electric.
When she gasped, her breath came out glowing green.
Zestial didn’t release her hand.
“Good girl.”
She ripped her hand back, disoriented—but already the shadows felt different.
Responding.
Listening.
She took a moment to breathe before blurting, “Do… do you know anyone who can walk into people’s dreams?”
Zestial’s eyes narrowed, curious.
“And why,” he asked, “do you need a dream-walker?”
A slow, unsettling smile grew on her face—one that looked far too much like Alastor’s.
“Because,” she murmured, “I have a plan.”
Zestial leaned back in his throne.
“Excellent,” he said. “I do indeed know someone.”
And the shadows behind him stirred—anticipating the next move in a game far bigger than Vox could imagine.
A/N: Uh oh things are getting hot aren't they ? Do we go into insanity or are we gonna act it all out in a scene for someone specific to thrive into the chaos
Summary: I don't like this - But what other choice do I have
Masterlist
XXII --> XXIII --> XXIV
TW: stalking, Vox, kidnapping if you look at it this way
Going home should have been easy.
It usually was—a straight walk from the cozy cafe tucked between abandoned buildings and flickering neon, down familiar cracked sidewalks, right to the front steps of the Hazbin Hotel. That was one of the reasons she loved that place: quiet, hidden, free from most eyes, and welcoming in a city where everything wanted to kill something.
But tonight was wrong.
So very wrong.
There were VoxTech security drones drifting in the air like metal vultures. Strange silhouettes slithered through the streets, neon screens flickering with static as they scanned demons passing by. She could feel their cameras track her. Every small movement she made, every breath, every twitch of an ear—the surveillance was suffocating.
She didn’t even know what Vox wanted. She hadn’t antagonized him directly. She hadn’t done anything outright controversial.
Yet here she was—being hunted.
So she took another route. Not the familiar path Alastor always guided her through. Not the comforting one with the predictable turns, the places she knew she could duck, hide, or call for help.
No—she was walking the unknown.
And the unfamiliar route felt like venom. Like she was being swallowed by Pentagram City whole, with no guarantee of escape.
Her fur prickled. She felt watched. She hated the feeling. She hated the helplessness, the fragility that coiled around her lungs like a tightening fist. Back when she was human, she could fight, she had instincts, decisions, control. But here?
Here she was prey.
And she despised it.
You need to help him. You need to get home to Alastor. You promised.
Her thoughts looped, pounding with desperation.
That’s when the steps began. Sharp taps of polished dress shoes. Only a few demons wore them—overlords and ego-maniacs mostly.
Her gut twisted painfully.
She didn’t want to look behind her yet. She didn’t want to confirm what she already knew.
But she risked the smallest glance. A tilt of the head, a lift of her eyes.
And there he was.
Vox, walking too close, too casually, inspecting his sharp clawed fingers like he was bored. Like she wasn’t worth the effort. His screen-face flickered faintly, glitchy edges betraying excitement, anticipation.
She quickened her pace—not a run, not yet, but fast enough to say she did not want company.
She hummed a small tune. Something from Alastor’s broadcasts. Something that implied she hadn't noticed Vox at all.
It was a strategy. A manipulation.
A performance.
A bluff.
“Hey—”
His voice was smooth, artificially friendly—yet before he could even breathe out the words, she disappeared to the side, slipping into the nearest alley like smoke.
He sighed. Loudly.
“Don’t make me use force, dear.”
The alley plunged into darkness. Cold bricks. Filthy puddles. Pipes dripping toxic sludge. Her shoes splashed through puddles, keeping pace with her pounding heart.
She ran.
She turned corners, ducked through trash-strewn pathways, zigzagged to try to lose him.
But it was a labyrinth. A maze.
And luck had never loved her.
She skidded to a halt.
Dead end.
She spun around, panic roaring in her chest.
Footsteps approached. Slowly. Unhurried. Confident. Echoing like steady funeral drums as Vox moved closer.
“You should really consider cooperating,” he cooed.
That’s when she heard another voice.
Calm. Male. Low.
“I can help you.”
Her heart jerked sideways.
She turned.
At the far edge of the wall, there was nothing visible—just shadow. Thick shadow. Rich shadow. And from it, a pale hand reached forward.
Not clawed. Not monstrous. Just… a hand.
She knew the danger of accepting help blindly. This city taught survival by paranoia.
But being dragged off by Vox and dissected for research or obsession?
That was worse.
So she reached out.
Her fingers shook when they met the stranger’s.
The darkness swallowed her like liquid.
It was like stepping into ink—no gravity, no air. Sound died. Her ears popped. Her lungs seized. Then—
She was upright again.
Her breath returned in one harsh gulp, and she staggered back, eyes wide.
The room around her was enormous and wrong.
Green and black walls formed an almost cathedral-like chamber. Shadows clung to the architecture like possessive vines, flickering with an unnatural glow.
Patterns of curling ivy and twisted sigils carved themselves into marble pillars. A grand chair—half throne, half execution platform—sat atop a slight dais, upholstered in deep emerald and obsidian fabrics. Luxurious. Handsome. Ancient energy radiated from it.
Even the air felt alive.
Cold. Watching. Breathing.
This was not Vox’s domain.
This was someone else entirely.
Someone powerful.
The fox slowly forced her mouth to work.
“W… what is this place?”
From the shadows, the voice responded—smooth as velvet over razors.
“My home.”
Her fur bristled.
“And you are safe here,” the voice continued. “For now.”
The room trembled faintly. A silhouette stepped forward—tall, cloaked in darkness that coiled around him like willing serpents.
Not Vox.
Not Alastor.
Something different. Something older.
Something that regarded her with a quiet, calculated fascination.
Like she was a priceless artifact plucked from a fire.
She licked her dry lips, forcing herself not to shrink.
“Who are you?”
He did not answer immediately.
Instead, the shadows swept behind her—then sealed the room shut.
The strange figure raised his head, and faint emerald glints shone where eyes should have been.
“Someone,” he said, voice wrapped in amusement and threat alike,
You run a quiet cafe in New Orleans, where one mysterious customer, Alastor, always seems to be watching. After you silently wish havoc upon a group of men harassing you, they turn up dead the next morning. Whispers of the Bayou Ripper terrorises the city, while you begin to realise your wishes may not fall on empty air and he might be the one listening. Has he always been the one listening?
part 4
♡ ♡ ♡
6:07pm.
The cafe lights flickered a warm gold. Tables were wiped clean, chairs were neatly stacked. Outside, the street darkened, swallowed by a cold, creeping blue, as street lamps sputtered to life, casting long shadows across the cobbled paths. A few wandering souls hurried back into their homes, skittering like rats before the haunting of the night purges their peaceful life. The door were locked, the sign was turned, but it still felt like something else was near you. The night stretched out, heavy and hungry, as if it were waiting to devour everything in its path. It had a life of its own, creeping in through the cracks of the alley ways, curling around the edges of your cafe.
The gentleman hadn’t returned that afternoon, but his presence lingered. The air felt still like someone had taken the winds pulse.
You rubbed your arms, wrapping your scarf tightly around you.
That was when the shadows in the peripheral shifted quietly, like they were stepping out of their own accord. Alastor materialised around the turn as if he had been there waiting.
He stood near the window, hands loosely clasped behind him. He didn’t speak first but something in the angle of his silhouette hinted that he wanted to.
He was listening to the silence before you spoke. “Alastor?”
His head tilted, amused. “You should lock the back door as well, my dear.”
The night air nipped at your fingertips and made the street lamps glow a little warmer. You saw clusters of moths finding solace under the rays.
With the chaos of recent events, and with the predator’s shadow lingering too close, Alastor became something like your streetlamp. An unreliable source of light in the suffocating dark. As the world seemed to close in around you, he stood there, like a beacon against the weight of the night. His warmth was the only thing between you and the, invisible threat creeping closer, yet even he felt like something fragile, unable to push the darkness fully back, but trying nonetheless.
“You got that right. There’s no sense in tempting fate, especially with the way things been going” You hummed back, stumbling over to the door, fumbling for the key in your coat pocket. With a quick twist, the lock clicks, and you stand there a moment longer, eyes fixed on the door as if expecting it to move.
Alastor chuckled, “one can never be too careful, hmm? Now, allow me to escort you home, my dear. It would be my absolute pleasure.”
You feel the claws of the darkness retreating away from behind you. “Well now, ain't you the gentleman. Lead the way."
His grin widened, satisfied. “Grand! Shall we?”
The walk started pleasant, old brick streets, the distant hum of jazz leaking from a club. But you couldn’t help but notice a crooked man leaning against a lamp post at the corner ahead, cigarette dangling, eyes already tracking you.
“Well now, look at you, sugar. Ain’t no way a beauty like you should be out here in the dark. Why don’t you let me walk you home instead? I promise you’ll be safer"
You stiffened immediately, unconsciously picking up your pace. Alastor’s gait didn’t change. But his smile did. “Some men lack both manners and dignity.” He said quietly, voice thick with a velvet warning.
“What’s the matter, huh? Too good for a little conversation? I ain’t tryin' to bite, just talk. Ain’t no harm in that."
You both kept walking.
“Hey!” the man called again. “I wasn’t done talkin’”
His words choked off abruptly. You didn’t look back, but you felt Alastor tilt his head, as if memorizing the man’s face, his posture, the cadence of his breath. Filing it away like a name on a list. A debt to collect.
You heard the man drunkly mumble under his breath, talking to the dismissive air. “Women these days, always actin like they’re too good for a man. Think you’re somethin' special, huh? Just a broad in lipstick, thinkin you can ignore me."
“Men just get loud when they don’t get what they want, huh?” You sigh, used to the encounter.
Alastor blinked innocence. “Loud men are often the easiest to silence.”
The air around you both seemed to vibrate, like a violin string pulled too tight. You both walked in a silence that wasn’t empty but carefully chosen. An unspoken weight that neither of you touched, you just let the quiet settle in like the fog; pretending the peace was real.
When you reached your building, you turned to him, hands clasped politely, trying to ignore the way he stood a touch too close.
“Well then, thank you for seeing me home again.”
“It was my pleasure entirely.” He reached up slowly, fingertips brushing a loose curl from your cheek. You froze, breath catching. “Forgive me,” he murmured, voice low and uncharacteristically soft, “but you do make even the night feel less dreary.”
“There you go again, making such remarks.”
He chuckled, eyes gleaming. “Can’t I? I was under the impression such compliments were considered gentlemanly.”
He leaned down, not quite touching, close enough that his breath ghosted your lips. His hand hovered at your waist but didn’t settle.
You made no move forward which Alastor noticed.
“Ever the careful one” he purred.
“Someone has to be, you’re forever rushing headlong”
Alastor’s brows arched. “Do I?”
“Mhm”
There was a long, charged pause between you, then, very quietly, “May I?” He didn’t specify what. He didn’t need to.
You hesitate, chewing the inside of your cheek before nodding. Only then did he close the distance.
The kiss was slow, almost testing, the way an intruder tests a locked door before breaking it open. His gloved fingers brushed the side of your jaw, just barely anchoring you.
You felt him smiling against your lips, like this was something he’d waited far longer than he cared to admit.
When you finally kissed him back, his breath hitched. Just once.
His hovering hand rested at your hips, drawing you toward him as he guided you to the wall behind you. The kiss deepened with a kind of tentative certainty, a mix of restraint and wanting, as though he was asking for more without speaking a word.
Alastor tilted his head further, grazing your bottom lip with his tongue as he pushed himself closer to you. His knee eased between yours, guiding you into the space he created, while his fingers curled around your jaw, coaxing your face closer to his.
A warm thrill rolled through you, soft but impossible to ignore. Your body leaned into him before you could think. You were drawn by the steady pressure of his touch. Your stomach fluttered, nerves and desire tangling together as you moved your lips in the rhythm of his hungry kisses.
Abruptly, he broke away, not far, but enough. His smile was a bit too sharp, eyes a bit too bright.
“That,” he said lightly, “is quite enough for tonight.”
Your lip parted. “Don’t tell me you’re stopping now.”
His grin widened, almost wolfish. “If I continue, my dear, I fear I may become decidedly less gentlemanly.”
“Well-“ you started, frowning as you saw him tip his head towards you. “Inside you go.”
“And this?”
“That’s for you to decide.”
You glances up at the sky as you linger at the doorstep, the clouds were swollen and dark, tinged with a sickly green glow that makes the world feel just a little off balance, like the calm before a storm. Shadows stretch long and jagged across the cobbled streets, and a faint electric hum seems to vibrate in the air.
“Will you be alright?” You murmur.
Alastor tilts his head slightly, letting a corner of his grin linger in the shadows. “ Oh perfectly”
You raise your brows at him, amused almost. As you steps inside, he lets his hand hover in the air for a moment where yours had been, almost as if reluctant to let the contact go. Yours shoes click against the floor as you moves away, giving him a final glance.
The moment you disappeared from view, Alastor’s smile dropped into something colder.
His shadow stretched unnaturally long as he walked back into the night. “Nocturnal pests,” he mused, playing the memory of the earlier interruption. “One must keep the streets clean for her.”
7:01pm.
Alastor wipes the speck of blood from his face, humming softly.
The body lies slumped behind a warehouse, throat cut with surgical precision. No rage. No hesitation. Just a quick, merciless kill.
He dusts off his coat, straightens his tie, and steps neatly around the pooling blood. There is a rhythm to justice, after all, a tempo he knows by heart.
The night had been simple after you parted ways. He retraced the route to the drunk. He followed the man for seven blocks. Watched him curse at a beggar. Watched him shove a vendor. Watched him smoke nervously as he realised someone was behind him.
Alastor had smiled.
“Good evening. You’ve had such a busy day. Let’s bring it to a close, shall we?”
Now, he feels the city breathe easier. He looked at the direction of your building, despite it being out of view. His fingertips brushed his lips before he lowered his head.
Then vanished into the night.
♡ ♡ ♡
💌likes and reblogs are always appreciated!
I NEED HIM SO BAD ALSO HAPPY BIRTHDAY ME!!!! ALASTOR IN MY ROOM BUTT BOOTY NAKED WITH A RIBBOW ON HIS DICK 🙏
Summary: Alastor and the reader were married in life. Then he got killed. They're reunited when the reader gets sent to hell but her appearance as a sinner eerily resembles angels in heaven. Read part 1 here. Part 2 here. Part 3 here.
NEW ORLEANS, 1933
The house was quiet when he stepped in, quiet in the way that made him straighten automatically, listening, reaching for every sound he could catch. After a day spent smiling too wide for patrons who tipped too little, bluffing men who wanted blood in the local station, and pretending he hadn’t caught the scent of rot on certain alleyways, the stillness of home hit him like a balm.
He hung his hat on the peg.
Then he saw your coat draped over the back of the sofa. He melted. He always did: pathetically, reliably, without resistance.
He loosened his tie in the hallway with a little sigh he would never allow another soul to hear. His shoulders dropped. His posture softened. The mask slid off his face like wax under warm hands.
He was just Alastor here. No smile he had to sharpen. No voice he had to hone to a clever edge.
Just a man coming home to his wife.
You were in the kitchen when he found you, humming, softly, absentmindedly, too sweetly for someone who had no idea their voice could unravel him like a loose thread. There was flour on your hands, a smudge on your cheek, and your hair pinned up haphazardly in a way that made his heart seize because you always did that when you wanted to concentrate.
You didn’t look up yet.
So he stared.
Shamelessly.
Pathetically.
He stood in the doorway like a man struck by something divine.
He touched the frame beside him, not leaning, not bracing, just grounding himself. You were rolling out dough. He could smell butter warming on the stove. He could see the little crease between your brows as you focused. And he felt that familiar, ridiculous ache in his chest.
The thought came to him the same way it always did:
He would kill for you.
He would die for you.
He would do anything, anything, just to walk into this room again.
“Chérie,” he finally murmured.
You jumped softly, then laughed when you saw him. “Alastor! I didn’t hear you come in.”
He smiled, his real one. Smaller, softer, not meant for the public. “I didn’t wish to disturb such a devoted chef.”
You huffed, amused. “I’m not a chef. I’m just making biscuits.”
“And yet,” he said, stepping behind you, “I would wager a month’s pay that your biscuits will be the best thing I taste all week.”
His hands slipped around your waist of their own accord. He always tried to pretend he wasn’t desperate for touch, but the way he pressed his forehead to the back of your shoulder gave him away.
You leaned into him easily. Naturally. Like you always did.
“You’re tired,” you murmured.
He exhaled. “Mm.”
“What happened?”
A pause.
He didn’t answer because the day hadn’t been bad, not by his standards. But it had been long. And loud. And he’d spent hours being charming and cunning and sharper than the people around him to get half of what they were handed, hours watching the worst of humanity and pretending it didn’t affect him.
But here he didn’t have to be anything but a man who’d missed his wife.
He shook his head. “Nothing of note, my dear.” Then, quieter: “I simply missed you.”
You turned in his arms, flour dusting his waistcoat as your hands slid up his chest.
He should’ve complained about the mess.
He didn’t.
You cupped his jaw. “You saw me this morning.”
“Yes.” He leaned into your palm like he’d been starving. “But it felt longer.”
Your smile softened. “Poor thing.”
He huffed, embarrassed by how relieved he felt at your touch. “Don’t pity me.”
“I don’t,” you whispered. “I adore you.”
His breath hitched.
He ducked his head just enough that his forehead brushed yours, embarrassed by how easily that sentence unmade him.
“You’re cruel,” he whispered, voice warm and frayed at the edges, “when you say things like that.”
“How is that cruel?”
“Because I never recover.”
You laughed softly, and he kissed the corner of your mouth.
And yet, even then, the fear lived in him quietly, hidden: that this was too precious to keep. That one day he’d come home and you wouldn’t be here, and the silence would swallow him whole.
But you never left.
And he pressed his face into your shoulder and held you tighter because of it.
The radio crackled as dusk settled over the house, the warm orange glow of the lamps softening everything into honey. You were curled on the couch, listening as the announcer’s crisp voice cut through the static.
“...residents are advised to remain cautious. The Bayou Butcher has claimed yet another victim. Authorities warn that he is armed, highly dangerous, and remains at large…”
You shivered. Alastor, seated beside you, did not. He leaned back comfortably, one arm draped across the back of the sofa, the other holding a small plate of pastries he’d brought home the previous day. The scent of powdered sugar and butter competed with the creeping unease curling in your stomach.
“…victims appear to be exclusively men over twenty found in isolated areas outside the city limits...”
“Here,” Alastor murmured gently, lifting a flaky piece of beignet to your lips. “Open.”
You gave him a look. “Alastor.”
“Open,” he repeated, amused.
Despite your worry, you obeyed, letting him press the pastry to your mouth. It tasted sweet, soft, familiar. Comforting.
Which was more than you could say for the broadcast.
You chewed, frowned, and finally set your hand on his knee. “You’re not even listening. The killer struck again.”
“I heard.” He offered you another bite as if that settled the matter. “And you, my dear, have nothing to fear.”
You pushed his hand lightly away, exasperated. “That’s not the point.”
Alastor tilted his head, smile warm, eyes half-lidded with affection. “Isn’t it? The Bayou Butcher only targets grown men. It’s very consistent. Organized killers often follow a pattern, and this one is nothing if not methodical.” He punctuated the sentence by brushing crumbs off your chin with his thumb. “You are quite safe.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re safe,” you shot back. “Why are you so calm about this? What if he goes after you?”
His smile sharpened a fraction, just enough for something glimmering beneath the surface to peek through.
“My love,” he said softly, almost laughing. “I can assure you, I’m in no danger.”
“You don’t know that.”
“On the contrary.” He leaned closer, voice dropping into that velvety murmur he used when he wanted to soothe you. “You’ve seen me hunt. You’ve watched me heft sacks of grain. You know I can shoot. I can track. I can handle a blade better than any man I’ve met.” He kissed your temple with gentle finality. “I’m hardly easy prey.”
You still frowned, unconvinced.
Alastor hummed and finally set the plate aside, choosing instead to pull you gently against his side. “You worry too much about all the wrong things, sweetheart.”
You crossed your arms but didn’t resist when he tucked you under his arm.
“Wrong things?” you repeated.
“Yes.” He brushed his fingers over your hair, slow and affectionate. “The killer on the radio is the least of our concerns.”
“Oh, really? And why’s that?”
His hand stilled briefly, just briefly, before he resumed smoothing your hair.
“Because there are far worse men out there than the ones they report on broadcasts,” he murmured. “Men who don’t make the news. Men who don’t follow rules or patterns or leave evidence behind. And those,” he tapped your knee lightly, “are the ones I want you to watch out for.”
A strange chill pricked your spine. You pulled back slightly to look at him.
He smiled at you with that familiar boyish fondness.
“I mean it, ma chérie. No talking to strangers. No wandering around alone after dark. If you need to go somewhere, you wait for me. Understood?”
“You’re acting like I’m the one in danger,” you said, confused.
“And you are.” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, voice turning firm in that way he used when he wanted the topic to be closed. “I want you to be cautious. Promise me.”
You hesitated.
He raised a brow.
“…Fine. I promise.”
Instantly, he softened again, pleased, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “Good girl.”
Heat flooded your face.
He pretended not to notice, though his smile said otherwise.
And as another grim warning echoed from the radio, he reached for a third pastry, lifting it toward your lips with a gentle hum, as if the world beyond your living room simply didn’t exist.
The mud was soft beneath his shoes, the smell of the bayou thick with pond rot and sap. Alastor wiped his sleeve across his brow as he tamped down the loose dirt over the corpse, his last corpse for the night, he told himself, and perhaps for a long while.
He was in a good mood.
An excellent mood, in fact.
The ritual with Rosie still buzzed pleasantly under his skin. That old devil of a woman was glad when he completed the summons correctly. The spirit had risen obediently from the hellmouth he’d carved into the dirt, and the deal had bound itself with a clean, efficient snap.
Power.
Guaranteed.
Upon death.
Not that he intended to die soon. He was far too young, too healthy, too careful.
But the world was ugly and full of idiots with guns, and he had no intention of leaving his darling wife unprotected should anything ever happen to him. No, if she ever ended up in that pit below…he would be waiting as the most powerful sinner hell had ever seen.
And if she ended up in heaven, as she deserved, well, then she’d never have to know anything except that he loved her.
He stepped back from the shallow grave, brushing dirt from his hands, mind wandering exactly where it always wandered when his work was done:
To you.
You’d been tired lately. The bed squeaked. Every toss, every turn, every shift in the night woke you, and then, of course, woke him, because he always woke when you did. You had mentioned it absently while brushing your hair that morning:
“I know it’s silly, Alastor, but I can’t sleep through the noise anymore.”
He’d kissed the back of your neck and told you he’d think about it. And he had.
He’d need to set aside some money. Replace the mattress. Maybe replace the whole frame. Perhaps he could pick up a second radio narration for the upcoming week, though the thought of dealing with those smug incompetents at the station made his jaw clench.
Still…for you, it was worth it.
He smiled at the thought of slipping into bed beside you later, your warm body curled against his chest. Maybe he’d get home early enough to see you before you drifted off. Maybe...
Crack.
A twig snapped.
Alastor froze.
The distant rustle of underbrush.
The harsh pant of dogs.
Boots pounding earth.
His fingers twitched toward the revolver holstered under his coat...but too late.
A lantern beam cut through the mangroves.
“Thought I saw somethin’ movin’ out here...”
“There! In the trees!”
Alastor stiffened, weight shifting, not panicked, but annoyed.
Men. Hunters.
Idiots every one of them.
He’d avoided them for years, slipped by unnoticed. But tonight his mind had been elsewhere, full of mattress springs and your sleepy sighs and the promise of coming home to you.
A grave mistake.
“Hold on, what is that? A buck?”
The lantern swung, its light catching on the curve of his silhouette, his tall frame, the slight shape of his hair the wrong shadow at the wrong angle.
“What the hell...? That’s gotta be the biggest damn deer I ever...”
Alastor opened his mouth to speak.
To correct them.
To mock them.
To step out and show them exactly who they were pointing their cheap guns at.
He should’ve ducked.
He should’ve moved.
But he hesitated, just one fatal heartbeat, because he was still half in the world of peace.
Just half a second.
But enough.
BANG.
The shot cracked through the bayou like lightning.
Alastor jerked...and then stilled.
He would've liked to say that his last thought was of your face. But no. It was just annoyance. At hunters. At himself, for forgetting how the world worked. Kill or be killed.
Then everything went black.
HELL: 1933 (to Alastor)
He woke to heat.
Not the swamp’s humid press, not the wet warmth of Louisiana summer air, but a dry, smothering heat that tasted like iron and smoke.
Alastor inhaled sharply and sat up.
He wasn’t in the bayou.
He wasn’t in his own skin.
He wasn’t alive.
He blinked, trying to force the world into focus. Mist curled through the barren landscape. The ground was cracked, glowing like veins of magma. A hiss of distant screams echoed like wind.
Hell.
He was in Hell.
The thought didn’t frighten him.
It irritated him.
He stood, dusting dirt from his vest. His clothes were clean. His hands…different. Clawed. His fingers tapered into elegant, alien shapes. Something heavy sat on his head, horns. Tall, sharp. His shadow twisted on the ground like it was dancing.
Death had changed him.
Fitting, he supposed.
He looked around: no bodies, no hunters, no grave, no swamp. The entire affair was finished, cleanly and without his involvement.
Which made one thing hit him like a hammer.
He hadn’t finished burying the body.
His pulse, whatever passed for it now, skipped.
The corpse.
Half-covered.
Fresh.
They’ll find it.
A low static hiss filled his ears, his own breath, unnatural now, like a broken radio searching for a station.
“They’ll find it,” he muttered aloud, voice sharper than before. “They’ll follow the trail. They’ll…”
They’d know.
The authorities.
The townspeople he’d lived among.
The coworkers he’d tolerated.
The neighbors he’d politely smiled at each morning.
They would know exactly what he had been doing at night.
And you...
His stomach twisted, a dry, hollow lurch.
She will know before anyone else. They’ll knock on the door, won’t they? They’ll knock and ask where I was that night. They’ll tell her the body wasn’t cold when they found it. They’ll ask why the grave was in the woods. They’ll ask her about my late hours, my absences, my “odd hobbies.” They will tear her apart.
His breath hitched, static warping around him again.
People would talk.
People would sneer.
People would whisper.
The killer’s wife.
She must’ve known.
She must have helped.
What kind of woman lives with a monster and doesn’t see it?
And you, sweet, trusting, gentle-hearted you, would face all of it alone.
While he was here.
His hands curled into fists.
He imagined you sitting at home, the radio helplessly buzzing warnings that now named him, his face plastered across news bulletins, posters, police reports.
He imagined the knock on the door.
He imagined your expression when they told you your husband had been killing men in the woods. That he’d died like one of his own prey, shot through the skull. That they’d found the body he was burying.
He saw you crumble.
He knew you would.
He knew you’d blame yourself.
knew you’d think you should’ve noticed something, knew you’d think your love had made you blind.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
He would give anything, anything, to be there. To shield you. To lie if he had to. To take the blame with his own, living hands instead of leaving it to strangers.
But he was dead.
And you were alive.
And you were left to drown in the wreckage of what he’d done.
A voice cackled behind him.
“Well, well. You’re early.”
Rosie stepped out of the shadows, all soft curls and wicked smile, parasol resting on one dainty shoulder.
Alastor’s eyes snapped open.
“You,” he said, breath shaking with something that wasn’t fear. “You didn’t say anything about this.”
She shrugged lightly. “Darling, I told you the deal would take effect upon your death. I never said you’d have any control over when that death occurred.”
His jaw clenched.
His shadow twitched like a snare.
“I need to go back,” he said.
Rosie raised a brow. “Impossible. You’re rather permanently here, sweetheart.”
“My wife is alone,” he forced out. “They will accuse her. They will tear her reputation to shreds. She’ll suffer for my sins when she didn’t...!”
He stopped.
Rosie’s expression softened, not kindly, not sympathetically, but knowingly, the way someone watches a man finally realize he has lost something that mattered.
“She’ll manage,” Rosie said. “Humans break. But they also bend.”
He ground his teeth.
Rosie stepped closer, tapping his chest with the tip of her parasol.
“And you, dear Alastor…you will learn to live with what you’ve done to her.”
He stiffened.
“You wanted power in Hell,” she mused. “And now you have it. But power never fixes the mess you leave behind.”
Alastor’s voice dropped to a razor-thin whisper.
“She deserves heaven.”
Rosie smiled faintly.
Almost sadly.
“Then pray she gets there when her time comes.”
He looked away.
He didn’t pray.
He wished, a fragile, trembling thing he’d never allowed himself when alive, that you would be spared any punishment for loving him.
But wishes didn’t change reality.
And the reality was this:
You were alone in the world above.
He was trapped in the world below.
And both of you would pay for the life he’d carved out with blood.
Alastor adapted to Hell quickly, almost suspiciously quickly.
His deal with Rosie held strong. Power built upon itself like a house catching fire. Sinners whispered his name before he even introduced himself. Overlords learned it the hard way, when their territory cracked beneath his heels and their shadows bent to his.
But it didn’t matter.
It didn’t fill the ache.
The ache was constant.
Like something tugging at the place where his heart used to sit.
Like phantom pain.
He missed you in the mornings.
When he would have woken to the smell of coffee and the soft sound of your humming in the kitchen.
Hell didn’t have mornings.
Hell didn’t have you.
He missed the domestic softness he used to step into when he came home exhausted, your hands pulling him to sit, your laugh filling the room, the warmth of your body against his.
Here, when he came “home,” there was only silence.
And static.
And shadows that twisted like restless limbs.
He missed your questions.
You always asked about his day, even though he lied through his teeth about half of it. You asked with such sincerity, such sweetness, as if every word mattered.
No one in Hell asked about his day.
No one cared.
They were too afraid.
He missed your voice most of all.
Your gentle chastising when he tracked mud into the house.
Your worried tone when he came home late.
Your warm laughter when he teased you.
You’d scold him when he forgot to eat.
You’d nag him to fix the squeaky bedframe.
You’d talk to him about the most ordinary, mundane things...
...and he would give every soul in Hell to hear them again.
Because above all else, you had been his dearest friend. Someone he could trust would never betray him. So even though he never shared his nightly activities, he considered you the one who knew him best, his favorite person.
You never pried, never tried to seduce him, didn't go around town asking your girlfriends how to ignite attraction in a man over tonic water and gin, didn't assume he was cheating. You simply let him be. Accepted his affection when he offered it, didn't question why he'd insist on sleeping in the same bed but wouldn't perform the marital act.
Nothing of the sort. He'd kiss you somewhere other than your lips before bed, and he enjoyed laying his head on your chest while you rubbed the back of his neck which sometimes felt stiff from leaning over the script and microphone at the radio station all day.
The radio helped. A Little.
He built a station from nothing, a tower of bone and metal and stolen tech. He broadcast his voice across Hell not for fame, not even to terrify the masses, but because talking into a microphone was the closest he could get to imagining you were listening.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he would croon in that velvet-murderous tone.
Sometimes, in the quiet moments between songs, he pictured you curled by the old radio at home, listening proudly.
But then he'd remember.
You weren’t home.
You weren’t listening.
You were alive, human, grieving the monster you’d married.
He’d freeze.
Static would buzz louder.
His claws would tremble against the controls.
And he’d turn the volume higher to drown his thoughts out.
He avoided looking at his reflection.
One day, he caught a glimpse of himself in a shattered mirror, horns tall and sharp, eyes glowing, a predator’s smile stitched into his face.
He flinched.
You would have been frightened of this.
You would have touched his face anyway.
He lifted a hand to the glass, touching the monstrous outline.
“Would you have followed me here, my dear?” he whispered, voice cracking just once, barely audible.
The mirror didn’t answer.
So he smashed it.
Rosie always noticed.
“You’ve been awfully quiet lately,” she’d say, twirling her parasol. “Unusual for you.”
Alastor would smile politely.
“I’m simply…thinking.”
She’d laugh. “Thinking about your wife, you mean.”
He stiffened.
Rosie sighed, softly, almost pitying.
“She isn’t coming here, darling.”
He knew.
He knew that better than anyone.
You were good.
Too good.
Almost angelic, his only divine thing in life.
You weren’t meant for Hell.
You weren’t meant for him.
But knowing didn’t stop the longing.
So he kept killing.
Not for pleasure.
Not for sport.
But because every battle, every hunt, every overzealous overlord he tore down and absorbed power from helped keep him from thinking too hard.
He needed to keep moving.
Because the moment he stopped…the grief caught up.
His shadow would curl tightly around him and he’d stop breathing (if breathing even mattered anymore), and he’d think:
She must hate me now.
She must be terrified.
She must think I lied about everything.
I’d give anything to tell her it was only the killing I hid, not the love.
But Hell didn’t let him say it.
Hell only let him grow more terrifying.
More monstrous.
More alone.
Some nights, when the room felt suffocating, he’d speak into the dark.
As if you were sitting in your reading chair.
As if he hadn’t ruined everything.
“I hope…” he murmured one night, shadow curling around him like a blanket, “I hope they treat you kindly. I hope you’re not afraid.”
He laughed once, quiet, empty.
“You always said I needed to talk more about my feelings.”
A pause.
Static flickered.
“Well…that opportunity has passed, hasn’t it?”
But sometimes, before drifting into Hell’s version of sleep, he whispered the same thing every night:
“I miss you.”
HELL: PRESENT DAY
The decision not to think about it, redemption, heaven, leaving, had been mutual, quiet, almost contractual in the way your fingers threaded with his. You saw the tension leave his shoulders in increments, like a radio dial being turned down from static to something gentler. His shaking had eased. The room was dim and warm. The red-glow lamps cast soft halos across the floorboards. For once, Alastor didn’t bother turning on the radio. He didn’t need the noise.
You sat on the edge of the bed first. He hesitated a beat, an old nervous tic, that flick of his ear, the second of uncertainty, but then he lowered himself beside you with an ease he seldom possessed. He didn’t always understand what it meant to rest, but tonight he tried.
His tail flicked once. Twice. Happy, subtle, betrayed by the soft rustling sounds it made against the quilt.
You lay down, turning on your side. He followed instinctively, as if pulled by a magnet buried under your ribs. His hand settled at your waist, tentative at first, then firmer, curling around you with a kind of reverence he tried not to let show.
“There,” he murmured, voice lower than usual, radio-static softened to velvet. “Comfortable?”
You nodded, and he hummed, pleased.
A moment passed before he spoke again, quieter still. “You…won’t mind if I stay close, I trust?”
He said it breezily, as though it were a joke. It wasn’t. It was a request.
“Stay,” you whispered, tugging him closer by the lapel.
His breath hitched, barely perceivable, but you felt it where his chest pressed to your back. And then all his careful restraint broke, not dramatically, but in the deeply domestic way he buried his face into your shoulder. He wrapped around you with long arms and longer legs, a tangle of warmth and sharp angles that somehow held you perfectly.
You could feel him smiling against your skin.
A real smile. Not the manic showman’s grin. Not the one that meant violence or theatrics or threats dressed as pleasantries.
A tired, relieved, utterly besotted smile.
“Ah,” he breathed, almost sheepish, “I should warn you, my dear, I may very well be…insufferably content right now.”
You laughed softly. He pretended not to melt at the sound.
His fingers traced idle, affectionate patterns along your hip. Every so often, he’d nuzzle your shoulder or your neck, small, instinctive touches, as if making sure you were real. As if you weren’t going anywhere.
“Al?” you murmured sleepily.
“Yes?” He perked up immediately, too eager, too obvious.
“You’re happy.”
An embarrassed rumble vibrated in his chest. “…Nonsense.”
“Alastor.”
A pause. Then, a tiny, involuntary kick of his hoofed foot in the blankets: pure, unmistakable deer joy.
“…Perhaps,” he conceded.
You covered his hand with yours. He squeezed once.
He did not think about heaven. He did not think about redemption. He did not think about losing you.
He thought about your warmth beneath the blankets. About how you breathed. About how, for the first time since the bayou, since life, since death, since hell, he was going to sleep next to the woman he loved.
He tucked his forehead to your shoulder, sighing like someone finally home.
A happy deer.
For once.
And god, he clung to the feeling as tightly as he clung to you.
You woke up first.
Which was impressive, because Alastor had practically fused himself to your spine sometime during the night. One arm under your waist, the other draped over your stomach, one knee wedged between your legs, cheek pressed between your shoulder blades like he intended to hibernate there.
You tried to shift.
He only tightened his hold.
“Al…” you whispered, tapping the hand across your waist.
A groggy hum vibrated against your back, low, warm, and unwilling to move. His antlers bumped lightly into the pillow as he nuzzled closer.
“Five more minutes, my dear,” he murmured, voice still sleep-rough. “Or five hours. I am flexible.”
You turned in his hold, and that woke him up properly. His eyes snapped open, pupils dilating, ears perked. He looked thrilled, embarrassingly thrilled, to find you staring back.
“Good morning!” he said, possibly too loud for someone who usually didn’t breathe.
You blinked. “…You’re in a very good mood.”
“Am I?” He arranged his face into aloof neutrality. It lasted two seconds before he broke into a wide, toothy grin. “Splendid!”
He sat up abruptly, pulling you with him so fast your head nearly whiplashed. He was arranging your hair before you could fix it yourself, straightening the hem of your sleep shirt, brushing a thumb across your cheek like polishing a gemstone.
“You look radiant,” he declared. “Positively divine.”
You raised an eyebrow. “I always look like this.”
“Yes,” he said, absolutely smitten. “And it continues to ruin me.”
He reached for your feathers, instinctively grooming them the way he did every time he was anxious, affectionate, or both. This morning it was both. He fussed relentlessly, muttering things like, “Out of place, terribly undignified, I won’t have it,” even though nothing was wrong.
“Alastor,” you said gently, catching his hand. “Are you trying to charm me?”
“Always,” he replied immediately. “It’s a lifelong endeavor.”
“You already won.”
A dangerous thing to tell him.
Because he stopped. Completely froze. Blinked at you with a stunned expression like you’d just handed him the keys to heaven.
Then a violent tail wag. He tried to hide it behind a cough. Failed miserably.
“Well!” he said, voice cracking on the first syllable. “Breakfast!”
He practically teleported out of bed, straightened his suit, and held his arm out for you with the enthusiasm of someone presenting a marriage contract to the sun.
Everyone was already gathered, Husk already drinking, Angel sprawled over two chairs, Niffty darting around with a platter. Charlie and Vaggie whispered over coffee.
The moment you and Alastor walked in, still arm-in-arm, the room fell into silent speculation.
Alastor pulled out your chair for you like he always did, but today he practically bowed over it.
Angel choked on nothing. “Since when is Bambi the gentlemanly type? What, did you two...?”
Alastor slammed his hand on the table and smiled politely. Too politely. “Angel, darling, do finish that sentence. I’m positively riveted.”
Angel clamped his mouth shut.
You sat, amused. Alastor immediately shifted your plate half an inch to the left, for optimal placement. He adjusted your napkin. He poured your drink. He hovered behind you just enough that if you leaned back you’d bump into him.
Husk grumbled, “Why’s he bein’ weird?”
“This is normal,” Charlie whispered.
“No, this ain’t normal.” Husk pointed a claw at Alastor. “He’s glowing. Look at him. He’s like…like a happy swamp cryptid.”
Alastor, still beaming, replied, “I simply slept well.”
Angel cackled. “You look like you got...”
“Angel,” Vaggie warned.
Angel leaned back. “Alright, alright. But seriously, what’s got you all…cuddly?”
Alastor’s smile twitched. He did not want to say, My wife stayed with me.
He did not want to say, She didn’t run.
He did not want to say, I’m indescribably relieved and pathetically in love.
So he said briskly, “Nothing of concern!”
You rested your hand on his knee under the table.
He jolted like he’d been tasered.
Husk stared. “Oh yeah. He’s gone.”
You hid your smile in your cup.
Alastor pretended he didn’t notice.
a/n: In the next part, Alastor has to leave to go to an Overlord meeting. The Vees, still baffled by the brief announcement of Alastor's marital status and seeing his wife, attempt to dig deeper. Chaos ensues.
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Description: Alastor has owned so many souls, they all blur together. He does not remember the names, the faces, the act of deal making in regards to them. That is, except for one.
Warnings: Inspired by the Mitski song of the same name. ANGST.
Word Count: 2,816
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A/N I am feeling kinda uninspired atm and this is an idea I came up with forever ago but never wrote (like, literally years ago).
Alastor had made many deals in his time. Many souls had been given into his ever open, ever grasping, hands by many an unwilling sinner.
Most of them hadn't lasted long. Alastor used people. They were nothing but nuisances, things to be dealt with, unless he owned them. When he owned them? They were tools.
Husk and Nifty were the only survivors, the only souls in his power that really mattered. He kept them safe from harm because he needed them, they each had better uses then to be wasted as fodder for war.
Alastor did not hold on to people, he did not care about the souls under his command. There had been so many, he could barely remember them all now.
The discussions, the competitions, the wins blurred together. They lived, he took their souls, they died. Names were unimportant. Faces were unimportant.
Nifty and Husk were different. He did not throw them into battle. He did not send them into certain death for his own amusement as he had done with so many before. Alastor remembered their names, their faces, their deals.
Not to say they were special or he particularly cared about them in any way, they just had better uses. They weren't just souls, what he had gained through their contracts, they were Overlord souls. They were powerful and his control over them displayed his power.
So no, Nifty and Husk did not matter, they were just more useful than the others. There was only one soul he had taken that Alastor had even come close to thinking mattered, and it certainly was not either of them.
The soul in question hadn't even been that useful. She was just a sinner, just another powerless person thrown into a world completely out of her control. And yet...
It was strange. The history he had with Husk, with Nifty, was something Alastor chose to remember. It helped him keep the upper hand with them. It, in and of itself, was a tool. It kept his workers in line but Y/n? Fuck, she'd been double dead for years now. So why did he still remember?
In the quiet hours, in the dark, she would come to him. The shadow of her voice, the outline of her form. It had been decades, decades, and Alastor had never even needed history to control her. Still, for some reason, a reason he railed against, he remembered.
The night they had met, it had been raining. Alastor, proud and powerful in his relative youth, had been stalking the streets. He was not necessarily looking for anything, just trying to start rumors. Rumors gave you power. When people were legends, they could be bigger than their souls.
So Alastor had been stalking, he had been generating rumor.
That first night, he had thought she had found her end in water, drowned. Hair slicked down from the rain, she looked like a ghost that would come up out of a well.
"Are you the Radio Demon?" someone had asked and Alastor had stopped, he had turned around and there she was.
Eyes downturned, head hunched slightly over, hand grasping the fabric above her heart. Alastor could tell this was something different, something new. That was why he had not attacked immediately, sheer curiosity. Sometimes he wondered if it would have been better had he killed her outright.
Instead, he had responded.
"Yes." he had announced, tossing his microphone and catching it again as he leaned down towards her, "And who might you be, my dear?"
The girl had opened her mouth to speak before closing it again. She had shook her head.
"I hear that you are in the market for souls."
Her voice was steady, cool and calm. She pronounced every word perfectly, as if she had memorized a script. Alastor chuckled lightly, straightening himself up.
"What, are you here to tell me where a good deal can be made?" he teased, "Here to try and trade another's soul for your desires? Pathetic."
For the first time, she looked at him. Her eyes were piercing, shining bright like a cat's in the darkness.
"No."
There was no hint of offense at his words. She was not defensive or angry, just intent. It was like she thought herself to be carrying information, vital information that could change the trajectory of his life. How right she had ended up being.
"Then what?" Alastor had flatly asked and when the girl had not responded, he followed up with: "Come now, my dear, I don't have all night."
"Yes, right." the girl had nodded, looking away once more, "Well, if you are who you say you are-"
"I am." Alastor interrupted.
The girl took a deep breath.
"I have heard rumors. I have heard that if you take a walk alone at midnight, people can find you and if they ask, you will take their soul. So that is what I am asking."
Alastor had made a lot of deals in his time, but none had ever gone like this. None would ever go like this again.
Sinners, normally, had to be tricked into handing over something as precious as their eternal souls. When Alastor won them, they tended to scream, to cry, to put up a fight. But here was this girl, soaked to the bone, clutching at her heart, asking him to take her soul?
"You want to make a deal?"
"I want you to take my soul." she corrected.
"Yes, I've gathered, but what do you want for it in return? Fame? Power? Protection? Wealth? What."
"What do I want in return?" she had asked, looking up at him with wide eyes, almost as if she had never considered it before.
Alastor sighed.
"Drop the act, if you would. I am in no mood for games."
Y/n shook her head fervetly.
"Not a game." she insisted, "I am not playing a game."
"Then what would you like for our deal to stipulate?"
She was silent in thought for a moment.
"I just want you to take my soul." she replied at long last, curling in on herself in apparent pain, "I can't bear to keep it. I don't want anything in return, just please. All I'll take in return are the consequences, just please. Please, take my soul."
She was begging. Alastor did not want to act rashly. This opportunity was perfect, too perfect. It was all fishy to him, something was definitely up.
"Why?"
"It is too heavy. It hurts. I want it gone."
It was not until the next day that he had seen her true form, had learned her name. It was not until the next day that Alastor had truly met his newest acquisition.
When she had arrived due to his summoning her, she was different. Well she was dry, for one, but she also stood up straight. No longer did she clutch at her clothes. No longer did that strange unnamed sorrow burn just behind her sharp eyes.
This was also when Alastor realized that he had essentially, accidentally, done the girl a favor. The previous night, he had thought he was getting off easy. A soul for nothing? Another worker and he needed to give up nothing in return?
Now, he realized, Y/n was useless. He had taken her soul and gotten nothing in return.
She was just so... weak. There was no power or territory to her name. For fuck's sake she could not even throw a good punch. Alastor did not know how long Y/n had been in Hell but unless the day they had made their deal was her first day, it was a miracle she was alive.
Alastor could either train her, morph her into something useful, or he could run her ragged with all the odd jobs and chores he never wanted to complete. The second option was less effort and so, the second option it was.
The thing was, no matter what he asked of her, Y/n always willingly complied. It became a one sided competition of sorts. He would find the worst possible jobs to give her just to see if it would garner some sort of reaction from the girl. It never worked, she always had the same response.
"Right away." she would say and give that strange, hollow smile.
Nothing ever seemed to phase her. She was simply always there. By the time Alastor realized how truly important she was, she would be gone.
In the quiet hours, the hours when there was nothing really to do, she would wait by him. It was so if he needed something, she could fetch it immediately but eventually, the boredom got to Alastor. They began to talk.
In the quiet hours, always in the quiet hours, they would sit together. Alastor would discuss his plans, his dreams, his past successes. Y/n would listen. Occasionally, she would give him just the slightest glimpse into herself too.
A well placed word here, a strange reply there, the tone she would take on when they were discussing a specific topic. It was always never enough to fully satiate his desire, always just enough to keep Alastor hungry.
In the quiet hours, always in the quiet hours, something began to bloom. He stopped finding the worst tasks for her to deal with. He stopped trying to make her pay. Maybe that was why it happened, that in those same hours now the memory of Y/n would appear in Alastor's mind.
Y/n was obedient, she was a hard worker. She made Alastor think and the only question she would never answer was why she had begged him that night to relieve her of her heavy burden.
The years passed with relative ease, with relative grace. Alastor became more and more powerful and slowly, the rumor's changed. People did not talk about just the Radio Demon. Now, it was the Radio Demon and his shadow.
He brought her everywhere. Every meeting, every excursion, every battle she would wait patiently on the sidelines. It was in case he got bored, Alastor told himself. It was in case there wasn't enough entertainment on hand.
They had been friends, so what? People had lots of friends. The thing was, friends didn't haunt each other like this. Y/n persisted, even in death. She stood, waiting, around every corner.
She was his dog, nothing more and nothing less. He held her tightly on his leash because if she were to get away? If anyone could destroy Alastor, it was Y/n. She knew too much.
He did not think about the way his long dead heart had begun to thunder dangerously in his chest at the thought of her. The chaos was comfortable, it was what he was used to. Y/n was anything but chaos. She was the calm and he was the storm.
Alastor wanted chaos, but he wanted Y/n too. He did not think about the way she had made him feel as she listened, like he was the only person, living or dead, who meant anything, who mattered. He did not think about her quiet, intimate tone, the way he had allowed her to hold him on occasion. He did not think about the comfort.
More than anything, Alastor did not think about that final day. His mind, however, was much harder to control than a demon who's soul he owned. It had other plans.
It was where the trajectory of his thoughts always ended up, that final day. No matter how hard Alastor railed against it, when it came to Y/n he was never driving the train.
Maybe that was why he didn't mind so terribly that Rosie had forced him to the Hazbin Hotel. Maybe it was part of why after getting out of his deal, he had plans to return. Y/n would have loved it, he was sure of that. The atmosphere? The camaraderie? The goal of salvation? Yes, she would have loved it. More than that, maybe Y/n could have been saved by it.
Maybe, if she had lived -- oh, what a dangerous proposition --, she could have been redeemed. Maybe then, she could have loved him.
Alastor was not allowed to think about the love. He was absolutely and unequivocally not allowed to think about the love. Nor was he allowed to think about the way she had looked at him that day, the same empty look she always gave and he definitely was not allowed to think about the fact that he had never really understood why Y/n wished so badly to be relieved of the burden of her soul until she was gone.
That, of course, meant that sometimes, it was the only thing he could think about.
"I can't." she had said.
Her voice wasn't shaking, it did not even crack. There was nothing behind it. It was as empty as she was.
"What do you mean?" Alastor had asked.
"I can't, I physically can't. You took that from me."
"I took your soul." Alastor corrected, feeling the anger welling in his chest, "It was a favor. I asked for nothing in return until now."
Y/n did not bother to correct him, she did not remind him of the years of endless unhappy tasks he had placed on her shoulders. It made Alastor feel worse.
He wanted her to scream, to rail against him. He wanted, for once, for her to have a reaction to something he did that wasn't a empty eyed smile.
Alastor wanted her to do something worth being embarrassed over because god, did he wish he had never opened his mouth. How foolish to think she was safe. How fucking stupid of him to believe she could... that she did.... how dumb.
"Yes, you took my soul as I asked and I am forever grateful for that. I will always be in your debt, but I ca-"
"You can't love me." Alastor finished for her.
Y/n took a deep breath.
"I can't. I wish I could, but I can't."
Alastor said nothing and Y/n smiled up at him, that same, empty smile.
"You took my soul."
"Get out."
Y/n had opened her mouth, as if she were about to speak again, but the words never came. Closing it, she had nodded.
Alastor should have stopped her. Even in the moment, he knew he should have stopped her but he was angry and anger makes a person do stupid things.
"For what its worth, my heart is yours. It has been yours since the day we met."
It was the last thing she had ever said to him, those effortlessly fatal words uttered as she shut the door behind her. For all Alastor knew, they were the last words she had ever said at all.
He wouldn't understand them either, not for hours. Not until she died.
It was the anger that did it. There had been some stupid people encroaching on his territory and he had wanted to teach them a lesson. He had wanted to teach Y/n a lesson too and so, he had sent her with the souls he had ordered to defend.
Y/n, who had never won a fight in her life. Y/n, who couldn't throw a punch. Alastor had killed her.
It wasn't just a soul he had taken that day, no. The heart had been the problem. The heart had been too heavy, too big a burden to bear. Alastor had taken away Y/n's ability to suffer but the surgery had been inexact and so, she had been left unable to feel.
Alastor had never known her as she was. He had never seen her bright and full of life as she must have once been. He had only gotten the aftermath.
That was the deal. Alastor got the soul, Y/n got the consequences of being truly soulless. It was what she had wanted, and he had delivered.
Alastor did not think about what he had wanted. He did not wonder how a demon who owned no emotion could make him feel so seen, so heard, so weak. He tried to hate her and when he couldn't? He just tried to forget.
She was the only sinner, the only person, he had ever needed to do that with. Y/n was the only one he couldn't not remember. He was incapable of forgetting her.
Alastor had made many deals in his time. Many souls had been given into his ever open, ever grasping, hands by many an unwilling sinner. The faces, the names, the deals all blurred together. Only hers stood out. He saw it now, before him.
For what its worth, my heart is yours. It has been yours since the day we met.
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Alastor X Fem Reader
Warning ⚠
⚠ reader is an android/robot sinner, Vox is her older brother (no incest-ew), torture, robotic gore, BOLD CAPS ITALICS= SOUND EFFECTS!, Italics= thoughts, CAPS ITALICS= INTERNAL SYSTEM, cussing. ⚠
You were standing near the operation table, messing around with the angelic blade in your hand.
The t.v. Overlord was strapped down, but you left the gag on the floor. As you listed off all of the tools on the tray, your brother tries to convince you to let him go.
"Come on! I wasn't being serious! You know that, right? Ha ha.." He jerks, trying to loosen the straps.
You ignore him and turn on the large light above him.
"Shit! Veronica! Veronica! You're my sister! Come on! We can talk this out!" Vox squirms, sweat marks forming on his screen.
Cutting his sleeve, you open it up and grab his personal IV fluid, hooking it up on the pole nearby. Quietly going through the motions you saw the doctors do when they first operated on you.
"What-? FUCK! DAMN IT VERONICA! TALK TO ME!" He starts to really struggle.
IV needle in hand, you punch the t.v. demon in the gut to stop his movements before stabbing the needle into his arm, taping it down.
"Oh-fuck!" He hisses out. "You bitch."
Finally, you speak.
"You know...I did look up to you once." You started. "But that was a long time ago. Everything changed when..." Lifting up a scalpel, the blade glinting under the light. "Our parents started paying more attention to me."
You started to cut into his side, not too deep, watching as the blood ran down.
Vox grits his teeth.
"I didn't understand why you were such an ass." You continued. "And then they died, right before my birthday." Then a hum escaped you. "That was around the time you got that weather man job."
You change the hold that you had on the blade before stabbing down, more blood and a few electrical shocks spill out.
"AH! FUCK!" He yells.
"I don't know why you did what you did." You say, twisting the blade a bit. "But I did see a pattern."
"CUT IT OUT! AH!"
Then you lift up the blade.
"You are insecure."
STAB!
"Pathetic."
STAB!
"Unoriginal."
STAB!
"Attention seeker."
STAB!
"Who's not as smart as he thinks he is."
STAB!
You pause.
"Also, I've always hated how much of a ass you are. Seriously. You're a racist white man who thinks he's better than anyone else." You ignore his gasps and shouts of pain. "Typical for a piece of shit from the fifties, but did you need to keep it in Hell?" You scoff and roll your eyes when he cusses at you again.
STAB!
"And another thing! Did you really think I wouldn't turn against you? God, you're so stupid." You laugh. "Is your brain that simple? I mean, come on Vincent! No one would want to stay trapped in a prison when freedom is so much sweeter!"
STAB!
"So, I'll do what those doctors did to me at the asylum~" You sing out, lifting the blade to his neck, pressing it down lightly.
"WAIT! WAIT! I WANT TO MAKE A DEAL WITH YOU!" Vox shouts.
You pause, keeping the blade where it was.
"I'm listening."
.
Alastor felt blood run down his cheek, his suit a bit cut up, and his hair slightly a mess.
The other two Overlords weren't looking their best either, but he knew that it wouldn't be a problem. All he had to do was wait for a signal.
As the Radio Demon lifted his staff, he paused to see his canary walking out of V tower, slightly covered in blood.
"Hey Al!" You waved with a smile. "I got it! Thanks for the help!"
"What the fuck?" Velvette mumbled, looking at the android walking over.
"Where the hell is Vox!?" The moth demon shouted, glaring at the singer.
You stopped in front of the two V's and pointed at the tower with your thumb. "He's still inside. After making a deal, he let me out." Then you giggle. "I cut open his stomach! And I pulled out all his wires and these weird tubes, oh! Then I-"
"You bitch-!" Valentino raises his hand, swiftly bringing it down.
But then something pulls his arm back.
A blue chain appears on the pimp's wrist, and he stares at it surprised.
"vȺł-"
Glancing back, you see Vox holding a hand to keep the loose wires from falling out of his stomach as he limps out of the tower.
"Łɇŧ ŧħɇm łɇȺvɇ."
The moth demon frowns. "What do you mean let them leave? You think I'm gonna-!"
"ɈᵾSŦ FᵾȻꝀƗNǤ ŁƗSŦɆN!" The t.v. demon shouts. "Wɇ'łł ŧȺłꝁ łȺŧɇɍ." He sighs, scowling as he stared down at the ground.
"A bit worse for wear, aren't you?"
You turned to find the deer demon looking as if he almost got hit by a car.
"Let's go!" You say to the red dresses man as you happily made your way over. "I want to go relax at the hotel!"
Then you are surprised when the deer pulls you close.
"I'd like to cash in one of those favors." He says.
"Huh? Oh, sure-" You blink but then are cut off by the Radio Demon giving you a deep kiss.
Can you do Steve harrington x hopper reader. So instead of max, reader had vecnas curse and is now in a coma. It’s been 18 months and Steve visits her everyday. He’s super depressed and has a short temper and that’s why him and Dustin have been arguing so much. Dustin’s depressed too cause he lost reader and Eddie. And Steve has to update hopper and el since they’re in hiding and can’t visit her. Just super angsty depressing stuff. Mans is going through it.
A/N: this is my first one in almost two or three years! I appreciate your request and I hope you enjoy it! Apologize if I didn't elaborate on certain things as you wanted I felt a little rusty!
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‘’Alright ladies and gentleman we are at that time of day,’’ Robin's voice floods through the radio speakers. ‘’This one is for a special friend.’’ She says somberly.
The music took over your small hospital room and Steve turned it up slightly hoping you could hear it at all. Steve already had one hand holding yours and brought the other hand down resting his head against your combined hands. Every day he did this saying a silent prayer you’d show a new sign you were still with us. Steve didn’t even know what he believed anymore, if there was a higher power who would decide this as your fate? He contemplated a lot about what he use to believe since last year when you started showing the signs of Vecna’s curse.
He remembers the sounds of the bones breaking on your body, the screams around him. He remembers your body floating above him and he couldn’t reach you just like he couldn’t now. He specifically remembers when you fell from the area above into his hands and he felt like he couldn’t function, not being able to make a clear decision with you practically dead in his hands. Wherever you had gone you had not returned yet he was sure of it because you would have made him aware. You would’ve squeezed his hand, moved your feet, you would have done something to let him know you were with him.
Everyday he drives from the station and straight to the hospital stays for a few hours pondering how he ended up with this given situation. From time to time Nancy, Jonathan, Dustin, and the others would stop by but they stayed the longest. Dustin had dropped off as of recently due to constantly bursting heads. Dustin would bring up Eddie and the upside down but Steve didn’t want to talk about that with you in the room, he felt it would put more stress on your body. He hoped you could hear him but he also hoped you were not hearing all the bad things.
He knew when you woke up he would have to tell you about Eddie. How he died. He would have to tell you about your dad being alive and El and the list went on endlessly.
His mind wandered to Hopper who couldn’t even come visit his daughter in the hospital. Not that he would be enthusiastic about it given the situation he already had with Sara. But he would be here with you, it killed him to stay away. It killed El. She was always the first to come up to him for updates when she saw him. The two of you had grown a bond that real sisters shared, that people envied. Steve and the others had discussed potentially sneaking Hopper in but never mentioned it to him, it would be too risky.
When Steve heard Robin's voice again on the radio he opened the cassette on the side of your bedside table and put it in. Robin had begun playing your song every night like clock work and everyone listened in hopes you would pull through. After the song ended Steve would play your personal record until he left attempting to maximize the attempts at you waking up.
Despite hearing this song over a thousand times at this point Steve still loved it. His best memories of you were dancing around to the song, playing it in the car while the window was rolled down and the wind running through the car as you hummed along. He would never get tired of it, even if he came everyday for the rest of his life and had to play it for you. He would do it.
It was often on his mind now what he would do if you never woke up, and he only allowed his mind to go to it for a moment. He didn’t want to think that way but he also couldn’t help the thought. What if you didn’t wake up?
An unknown amount of time later had passed and a knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. “Honey,” The nurse peeking in said her eyes had a certain sadness to them. “Our higher ups are in tonight so we can’t let you stay past visiting hours tonight.” They often let him, but on some days he had to leave and he never wanted them to get in trouble.
“Give me a few more minutes and I’ll head out?” Steve asked and she nodded her eyes jumping to you in the bed and back to Steve. Her lips
“I heard a song on the radio yesterday that made me think of you,” Steve says quietly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his cassette. Steve didn’t know the rules to all this. Could you hear anything, could you not? Were you stuck in some sort of in between where you could see what was happening to you? This was the first time he had tried this, playing a song that he knows used to be your favorite and held a special memory.
Time after time began playing through the speakers. The first time this song played Steve was bringing you home from the dance at Hawkins high after you called him crying over your date standing you up. You were in the passenger seat wearing a beautiful dress mascara running down your face as you tried to avoid letting more tears fall around Steve of all people. The song played through the speaker and it was the first time Steve grabbed your hand with the intention of comfort in his mind but neither of you could deny the butterflies fluttering around in your stomach.
It didn’t happen until years later that you got together but from that night forward you both knew you would be special to one another. Hearing the song on the radio the other day brought Steve back to the time when you told him how you couldn’t stop listening to that song for months after that night. Now every time he heard the song he couldn’t help think of you and everything you all had been through since and how different of a time that was.
Steve sat in silence as the song played his eyes on your resting face hoping for some sort of reaction. His eyes glanced at the monitor displaying your heart rate.
62 BPM
68BPM
74 BPM
79BPM
Steve sat up in his chair as he noticed the rising numbers as the song continued to play. He had never noticed your heart rate getting this high when he had looked before. It was something. Steve glanced around as if he could refer to someone else to confirm this was happening.
Steve ran to the door glancing outside the room, he glanced back between you and the nurse station contemplating leaving the room to grab a nurse or staying with you. What if you moved or something while he was gone? He hovered in between the hallway and your room waving his arm at the nurse who was at the station and when he saw her get up he ran back to your side.
“You okay hun?” She asks, walking into the room. It was a different nurse that he had never seen before and not the same one that came around a few minutes ago.
“Her heart rate-“ His voice was shaking. “It’s never been that high before.” He said. The number on the screen now read 78 BPM and the song was nearing the end.
The nurse inspected the machine, her face scrunching up as if she was concentrating, “Huh,” She said as she continued to examine you and checked vitals displayed on the monitor. The song ended and Steve watched as the BPM listed dropped back down. ‘’Looks like it's getting back to her norm now.’’ She assessed.
‘’That is the first time that has happened- When I played that song-’’ Steve began to speak but was cut off.
The nurse laughed almost as if she was in disbelief, ‘’She is in a comatose state sweetie, her autonomic nervous system is all over the place as most peoples are when in these conditions,’’ She says to him sincerely, ‘’It has nothing to do with the song.’’ She says not knowing how wrong she was. ‘’Sometimes people in these types of states have a spike in measurements from time to time, I’m sure its happened more maybe you just have not been here when it has.’’
That was something, he was sure of it. There was no mistaking what that song meant to the both of you and of all the times you could have shown to do something you would’ve picked that song. ‘’Let me play it again and we can see if it goes back up-’’ Steve says rushing over to the radio.
‘’You really do need to be going, visiting hours have been over for a few minutes now and we can’t have us getting in trouble letting people stay after.’’ She says to him fixing something on the IV hooked up to you. ‘’You can come back tomorrow?’’ It sounded like more of a question.
‘’I always come back.’’ Steve says defensively.
The nurse continued to work and Steve went to the radio, taking the cassette out and placing it back in his pocket. He would be back to do it again next time he would record the numbers and would bring a notebook to write things down. Right now he needed to tell someone about what happened.
Steve drove straight to the station where he would typically meet Hopper and El to let them know of any changes that happened. This was the first time he had ever had any news to report aside from some of the instances when you got your casts removed or when they had moved you from the ICU to the regular wing. ‘’Her heart rate went up when I played this song,’’ Steve says, pulling the cassette out of his pocket.
Hopper grabbed the cassette from his hand, his thumb running over the picture laughing to himself under his breath. ‘’Do you know how tired I got of this song?’’ He looked up to Steve. ‘’She played it non stop for what felt like a year,’’ he said.
‘’I think me playing it must’ve triggered something,’’ Steve explains. ‘’The nurse dismissed it but I know-’’ He pauses. ‘’I know it was her- She was there or she heard it I don’t know.’’ Steve ran his hands through his hair. Did you hear it and respond or were you close to coming back? Steve wished he knew.
Hopper signed, handing the cassette back, ‘’It's the most we’ve had in months.’’ His voice sounds disappointed but also slightly relieved. ‘’You need to take it back, go play it again for her. Play more songs, whatever holds memories for her you know. Maybe we can get that reaction again.’’
Steve nodded. He really did not want to get his hopes up but this was the most he had felt hopeful in months. This was the first time he felt like this was a sign you were still in there that you were trying to come back to everyone, to him. ‘’Yeah, you know I will.’’ Steve assures.
‘’Thanks kid,’’ Hopper says, his hand squeezing Steve's shoulder as he passes. ‘’I’ll go tell El. She will be happy.’’ He says with a gracious smile on his face. Steve bids him a goodbye and heads back to his car.
All he wanted to do was get back to the hospital and play you songs that he had heard you play, that meant something to the both of you, or your friends. This was the first time he went the next day excited to go back to the hospital - in the sense that maybe something would change from here out. He loved going to visit you but if you kept showing signs he could only hope one day he would hear your voice again.