Steve Harrington

Steve keeps his pet names quite generic, baby, babe, sweetheart. It's not so much the names he uses but how he says them. Most of the time he's most comfortable using the shortened version of your name or nickname he has for you, but the amount of affection he would put into it would make you melt. If he's being especially flirtatious you'd even occasionally get doll. He doesn't miss the effect it has on you when he calls you that.

Eddie Munson

Eddie is as theatrical with his pet names as he is with anything else in life. He loves to call you princess, especially during Hellfire meetings when he can incorporate you into his campaign. I think Eddie would switch between a few pet names to try to keep it interesting, baby, sunshine, sweetheart. It doesn't matter what he calls you it never fails to give you butterflies. Let's not pretend that if you two are hanging out in his trailer while you joke around and play air guitar together that he doesn't call you his little Rockstar.

Billy Hargrove

Billy's pet names for you depend on two things; his mood, and who you are around. In public you're only getting the less heartfelt pet names, he refers to you as his girl a lot in front of other people. Not only does he love the small smile it brings to your face but it also feeds into his possessive side, knowing that everyone knows you are his. When you two are alone and have been together for a while, Billy finally shoes a softer side of himself. He will compliment you a lot and attach all sort of pet names to those compliments, baby, sugar, sweet thing, still loving to resort to calling you his girl. You're mad at him and he's trying to make it up to you? Get ready for him to bargain his way back into your arms, wrapping his arms around you as he whispers in your ear, "Come on sweetheart, you know you can't stay mad at me."

Jonathan Byers

This soft, shy, adorable baby will probably be hesitant to use pet names for a long time. I honestly doubt you would hear them until you two begin to get intimate and he's too lost in the moment to think about what he's saying. He's pussy drunk and rambling into your neck, pet names would all be soft and sweet while he's chasing his high, beautiful and sweetheart would be at the top of his list. Getting high in his room? This sweet man would be telling you how you're his sunshine, rambling on in his delirium about how you light up his life.

Dmitri Antonov

While this man's English is very good, he still prefers to use pet names in Russian. There's something about the way he looks at you with his intense gaze as he slips back into his native tongue that just turns you into an absolute puddle. His favourites include котенок (kitten) and моя любовь (my love). The thought of this man holding you while you curl up in bed for the night, arms wrapped around you while he whispers endearing words in Russian into your ear is enough to bring butterflies to your stomach.

Jim Hopper

Let's not pretend like for a goooooooood while this man affectionately refers to you as kid even if you are barely a few years younger than him. He's a tough shell of a man that will refuse to open up or show his feelings for a long time, but when he does you realise its worth the wait. He doesn't throw around pet names and words of endearment a lot as he prefers to save them for moments when he feels it's right. When it's just the two of you and you're sharing a soft moment, sometimes referring to you as darling in his softer moments. Occasionally you might even get a cheeky baby.

Alexei

Another Russian baby, this adorable man will always call you pet names in Russian, it doesn't matter how much his English has improved. It just means more to him coming from his native tongue. His regular go to include голубь (Dove) and милый (Darling). Although, Murray taught him how Americans us Pumpkin as a term of endearment as a way to screw with you both and now it's one of Alexei's favourite things to call you. Jokes on Murray because seeing Alexei's face light up as he reaches for you and calls you pumpkin is enough to fall even more in love with him.

Murray Bauman

I feel like Murray cannot find it in himself to call you soft names to start off with. He's still confused by the fact that you even want to be with him, he's not going to possibly embarrass himself further using some pet names that might cross some invisible line he's set up for himself. He refers to as lady a lot, or another unique name that fits your looks of personality. Once this man is comfortable and more secure in your relationship I think the names would still stay light and not too sensitive. You would definitely get honey a lot, I don't think Murray would be able to resist yelling through the house when he gets home, "Honey, I'm home!"

Robin Buckley

Robin would also keep her pet names generic just like her bestie Steve, but less out of originality and more just to play it safe. Robin would have some insecurities going into a relationship after all the careful steps she took just to get to where you two are now. She is hesitant at first to say the wrong thing so she sticks to a lot of sweetheart and babe. One day you were spending time together and she slipped up and called you buttercup. She panicked for a second worrying what you would think of the nickname, but seeing your smile wiped all of those worries away and it became one of her favourite pet names so far.

Argyle

Okay so we all know this cutie is not going to call you any conventional pet names unless he's sober which is not very often. You're going to get a lot of my dude and bro but he does really mean it affectionately with you. Other than that you're definitely going to get a lot of made up names that mean absolutely nothing but to him they mean a lot; wicked lady, cream puff, anything. He would totally refer to you as "my queen" when he lets you into the van which he refers to as your chariot. Your favourite pet name would be the time he said, "My pretty girl is gonna get all the pizza she wants" he couldn't understand your reaction as you couldn't think of what to say next after hearing Argyle call you his pretty girl.

Henry/001

I whole heartedly believe this man would refer to you as pet. He does mean it endearingly but he also can't resist how you scrunch your nose up at hearing the teasing term. He also uses a lot of "My little..." whether it be bird, bunny, dove. He constantly feels the need to protect you and he shows that in his terms of endearment by referring to you as small and innocent. I know this man would call you his good girl, and you will have to pry that thought out of my cold dead hands.

Giving you a dead-ass stare for what he had to endure. There was no need for an explanation to understand, he was close to asking to sedate him. His expression made you chuckle up even more. The Russian pushing his glasses further up his nose with a brief chuckle.

Joyce lost focus for a second, looking back at you before continuing her rampage over magnets that lost it’s magnitude. “Machina?” he responded to her words, drawn back to her. “Yes, yes Machina!” Joyce exclaimed. Adding some engine sounds with it. “Machina.” The Russian repeated with some understanding.

Pointing at the car, Jim was trying to fix. “Vroom, vroom.” The Russian spoke, turning his hand like switching on the engine. Joyce confused, shook her head. “No, no not car.” Swaying her hands across. The entire conversation made you chuckle.  “Joyce! Please you give me a headache!” Jim said loudly.

“Both of you.” He approached you as you held out an old shirt to him. He accepted it with a nod, wiping his face clean. He rolled with his eyes and a loud sigh when Joyce approached. “Hey I am making progress.”

“Progress? You call that progress, Y/n?” Jim looked over his shoulder to you. You pulled up your shoulders. “What have you learned then? That Smirnoff.” Jim began. “Alexei.” Joyce corrected him. “Smirnoff.” Jim persisted on, refusing to call him by his name.

Rolling your eyes at them, you approached Alexei. Their bickering continuing. Pulling your shoulders up with a cheeky glance at him. Alexei responded with an expression of his own that you were right. “Why don’t you do something useful as try to start the car.” Jim threw the keys at Joyce, which she almost dropped.

Making your cousin sigh the loudest, laying the old shirt on his face. Wanting to disappear. Joyce started the car as Jim came leaning over the engine. Alexei stared with focus at the car. “It’s not working.” Joyce called out. “Well try again.” Jim outed. Joyce tried to start the car again.

Faintly you could hear something that didn’t seem right. Feeling tapping on your shoulder, made you turn around. Alexei pointing quickly at the car. “Hey!” he called out. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” waving his cuffed hands best as possible. “Cous… Jim!” you joined to get his attention. Jim looked back at you with confusion.

“Stop!” Alexei spoke clearly. When Jim wouldn’t listen he started to shout in Russian at him. “Smirnoff, shut it. Come on didn't you hear me I said shut up!” coming over annoyed. Your eyes widened seeing the black smoke come from the engine. “Jim!” you called out, a second later a small explosion.

That for sure getting his attention. Joyce cursing as she jumped out, right before the engine exploded. Leaving the car useless. “Stop.” Alexei spoke unable to resist rubbing it in his face. “He did warn you.” You added, backing up Alexei.

Jim wiped his hand frustratingly down his face with a loud exhale.  Jim freed Alexei from the tree, keeping him handcuffed for the walk. A walk for civilisation. Jim wanted to keep a close eyes on him, pulling him along by his cuffs. Joyce walking by his side. You joined Alexei’s side. With your cousin and Joyce getting in a discussion again, you wanted better company.

Alexei pointed at you, then at himself. “Alexei.” He spoke. Understanding what he meant, you gestured at yourself. “Y/n.” Pronouncing it slowly for him to catch it. It took Alexei a few attempts to say it. “Y/n.” saying with a soft chuckle, pushing his glasses back. You hummed loudly, repeating your name as well. “Hey!” Jim suddenly yanked at Alexei’s cuffs.

Making him stumble over his feet, further away from you. “No getting cosy.” Jim called out. “He just asked my name.” you responded a bit bothered by your cousin’s protective jealousy. “I don’t care, I don’t like Smirnoff.” He answered, moving his hands to his hip. “Alexei!” you made clear that he had a name. “Smirnoff!” Jim repeated with a hard stare. “Uhm… Hop.” Joyce began. “Not now Joyce.” He snapped back at her.

“He’s running.” Joyce pointed at Alexei running off. Jim immediately turned his head. “Sh*t.” he cursed out, going in pursuit. “Smirnoff stop!” he shouted. Joyce and you began running after them. Smiling a bit at how cunning Alexei was. Jim huffing and puffing to catch up.

Grabbing him firm by his shoulders when Alexei had stopped at the edge of the woods. “Vroom vroom.” Alexei spoke, pointing at the cars by the gas station. Having looked over his shoulder, smiling back at you as he proudly pointed it out. You couldn’t resist a smile back. Sighing with a shake of his head,

Jim grabbed Alexei by the shoulder, shoving him forwards. The four of you entered the gas station. Going immediately to the coolers for drinks. Dehydrated, you nearly drank an entire can empty. Alexei tapped you on the shoulder.

“вхатс тъат?” pointing at the slushy maker. “That’s a slurpee.” You explained to him. Alexei spoke some more, still pointing at it. You hummed loudly, going with him to the slushy machine. Alexei pulled the lever down, letting it fall on his fingers.

Scooping it up and putting it quickly in his mouth. Making you laugh at how silly he was being. He hummed happily at the flavour in his mouth. “You want one?” you suggested, pointing at the machine. Alexei nodded. You filled a cup with a slurpee.

“до ёу вант то тастэ?” He spoke as you tried to understand what he meant. He moved the cup closer to you, lifting the straw a bit up. Furrowing your brows at what he meant till it got you. Laughing softly. “No, I’m fine. It’s yours.” Declining a taste.

Alexei pulled his shoulders up, slurping from the straw. Jim whistled loud at you, calling you over. You joined him at the counter. “Don’t get so close to him.” He mumbled to you. “Aw are you jealous Hop?” you fluttered your eyelashes at him to tease him more. Jim grumbled annoyed. “No.”

Poking him in the cheek, you found it funny how Jim sometimes acted like a big brother to you. Having grown up together with just a few years apart. He was the closest family you had. Cousins. Following them outside, Jim walked straight up to a Cadillac. Shoving Alexei in the backseat.

“Hey! Hey! What’s going on?” the owner called out confused. Jim  continued to casually claim the car. ‘That man in there,” referring to Alexei already in the car. “I know he doesn’t look like it, but he is one of the most dangerous men in the world.” Jim casually opening his snack. Glancing back at Alexei.

Alexei slowly moving his lips over the straw to slurp from his slurpee with a cheeky glance. It took you immense willpower not to laugh at that. “He’s uh… murdered many children.” Lying straight to the owner of the car. Jim motioned with his head for you to get in the car. You jumped in the backseat with Alexei.

“Hey.” Alexei said softly. “Hey.” You responded finding his Russian accent cute. “I’m confiscating this car.” Jim finished urging Joyce over. Joyce got in the front seat. “So… so how do I get my car back?” the owner asked. “Call the station.” Jim responded, starting the engine. Enjoying the sound of it. “

What station? Hey what station?” the owner grabbing onto the side with some desperation. “The station.” Jim repeated driving off. Nearly riding over the owner’s feet. The car chased off. “So where are we going?” Joyce questioned. “To someone I know.” Jim responded. “Y/n” Alexei said tapping you on your knee.

Humming loud, you turned your head to him. Pulling his shoulders up, he spoke in Russian as you tried your best to understand from his body language what he wanted. He tried to act it out with gestures. “Oh… I don’t know where we are going, Alexei.” You responded hoping it was what he wanted to know. “All I know is we need to stop machina.”

-----------------------------------------

“A long time ago.” Y/n answered Bucky as well as copying him and keeping her eye’s on the man she hadn’t seen in a very long time. Not since she was a child.

“Oh my sweet, Y/n.” Alexei smiled as he approached her wrapping her up in his arms lifting her off the ground, hugging her to his chest.

“Okay, let me down.” Y/n squeezed out at how tight his hold was and she didn’t particularly like being lifted off the floor.

“I’m so happy your here. And you know Barnes!” Alexei put her back down on her feet moving his hands up to cup her cheeks, squishing them in the process.

“Yeah, yeah I know Barnes.” Y/n answered with a nod as she reached up grabbing his wrists to lower his hands from her face.

“Fantastic.” He clapped smiling looking between her and Bucky.

“May I talk to you for a sec?” Bucky asked placing a hand on Y/n’s lower back to get her attention, but to also provide her with comfort having noticed how tense she had become.

“Uh huh.” Y/n nodded leaning back into his hand as they left the room.

“How do you know this guy?” Bucky nodded back towards the room where they had left everyone else as he referred back to the burly man weathering a to tight suit. A suit neither one of them was sure ever really fit that man.

“I know pretty much all of the Bucky. John from when we helped Sam, Yelena from the Red Room-” Y/n started listing how she knew a couple of the people in the other room, but she was actively avoiding giving a straight answer to his question for as long as she could.

“How do you know Alexei?” Bucky clarified knowing her well enough to know she was stalling.

Y/n sighed, she didn’t like bringing up the past, especially this. “I was part of that undercover family with Nat and Yelena when we were kids.”

“Yeah you told me.” Bucky knew the story, she had told him before. It was the only family experince the 3 girls ever had for most of their lives.

“He was our undercover father.” Y/n stated biting her lip and let out a shaky breath.

Bucky’s eyes widened a she lifted his arm and pointed back to the other room in shock, needing extra comfirmation. “He was?”

“Yeah. A decent one to.” She nodded looking away, she didn’t like the feelings that were coming up when talking about it sure she told Bucky about this before, but not into to much detail.

“Are you going to be okay with this?” Bucky was worried with how being around Alexei could effect Y/n menatly and emtionally.

“Do I have a choice?” Y/n shrugged, it’s not like they really had a say in the matter.

Bucky hated that he felt helpless in this situation. “I don’t want you to feel-”

“We don’t have any say in the matter Bucky. I just have to. . . be okay with it.” Y/n cut him off shaking her head as she does so. There wasn’t anything they could do.

Bucky rubbed his none metal hand down his face not liking their lack of options. The only thing he could think of was to get their job done as fast as possible. “Let’s get this done fast so we can go back home.”

“Yeah.” Y/n agreed hoping they wouldn’t hit anymore snag’s so they could go home.

Yelena

°Yelena loves to flirt with jokes, she likes to make her cursh laugh and see what kind of effect she has.

°She would definitely come around the corner with her childhood stories and proudly tell how she was always the gatekeeper and that she is still just as good as she was back then.

°When Yelena has managed to win the heart of her love, she invites her to a coffee with delicious cake and so the first date is done ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Bucky

°The eldest flirts with subtle gestures, be it holding the door open, a friendly smile or simply starting a conversation with her, Bucky is not a man of big words but he does his best.

°It's important for him to make a good first impression, which is why he would like to take his love out to dinner on a relaxed evening.

°Until he finally persuades her to get on his motorcycle and take a ride through and out of the city. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ John

°John is an obvious flirt, mostly bad pick-up lines but his charm and smile make up for it very quickly.

°It was important to him to get her attention, which is why he keeps buying her little presents and leaving them somewhere with a message

°Until he finally managed to prepare a romantic evening in the tower, where he cooked the food himself and placed a bouquet of roses between candles on the table. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Alexei

°Directly, when he sees someone who makes his red heart beat faster, nothing stopped Alexei from flirting with her directly, he was confident in himself and a super soldier, those were the best prerequisites.

°He would definitely tell her about his stories and missions he had experienced while he made her a snack from his homeland and just got too excited when she tasted it and listened to him.

°A perfect date for him was a relaxed evening together with take out food, vodka and his arm wrapped around her while you talk about the Russia recordings you made together. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Ava

°Ava would be teasing to her crush, maybe a comment here and there, a gentle nap on the shoulder or an extra nudge during training, so when she interacted with her favorite it was perfect.

°But above all, Ava would talk to her about the experiments, see where there was room for improvement and if she shared the interest then it could hardly get any better.

°Ava would sit on a blanket with sweetie in the lab and watch a movie together on the hologram. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Bob

°He was a rut at flirting, but that wasn't a bad thing, because what Bob had going for him was his outgoing, friendly and just too friendly nature that won him many hearts.

°For him it was a complete success when he did the dishes with her in the kitchen and they had a lively conversation, a pleasant atmosphere between them.

°A date with Bob meant snuggling up under a blanket, watching a Disney movie and cuddling together while having milkshakes. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You have never thought of Alexei Vronsky.

Not to the extent he's thought about you, that is for sure.

You have thought of Alexei Vronsky the way one thinks of a uniquely hued bird they may have seen in passing — fleeting, reminiscent, but not life-altering.

That is not to say you are not perpetually haunted by him. How could you not be, when he is everywhere, in your peripheral in ballrooms or even within the walls of your own home when your family speaks of suitors and marriage and such atrocities.

But you are haunted in a different way.

You're haunted by him the same way one's haunted by a faux pas in front of their first crush, or a kiss pressed to lips that had just been on another's and you hadn't found out yet. He haunts you in the manner you'd want desperately to forget, yet the kind that clings onto you like smoke.

But him. God, it's the opposite. He's haunted by you the same way one's haunted by a fight with a loved one right before they died, or a misunderstanding that leads to a bubbling hatred that leads to bitterness. You haunt him in the manner of unsaid things, of yearning, of longing, that claws at your psyche till you're bruised.

He's haunted by you worse now that he also knows that the benders have been leading him back to you again.

The deathly hangovers also certainly don't help.

Especially not in his hand-eye coordination when he needs to sneak into your window.

You're startled awake, but only for a little bit. "Alexei, come on, you cannot keep—"

But his lips have already sought yours out in the fading glow of your lamp, the same way flowers seek the sun.

He gripped onto the phrase "drunk words are sober thoughts" like a vice, and clung onto it every time his lips and yours slowed in that manner that was just right, just enough to tilt your head with one thumb so he could fiddle with your hair. He loved that you let him. Or at least tolerated him doing it. Not to mention, the out-of-body-experience that he gets, where he can see the two of you, in slow-motion, your lips like sugar in his world of savoury, lit up by moonlight, or lanterns, or candlelight, or even sometimes, just the imagined glow coming from where your lips join.

Before you know it, you're reunited with your bed, hair splayed out so that he could bracket his arms around your face.

"Alexei—"

"Mm?"

His lips move all over your face, slow, languid, loving. "I've got a present for you."

"Alexei."

"I know. I know, it's inappropriate. But it's us, and we have never been appropriate, now have we, darling?"

"Alexei, I am betrothed."

"And I am besotted."

A bright gold pendant sparkles in the flickering orange glow of your oil lamp, glistening in the reflection of your eye, like some sort of forbidden sunset glow that Alexei could only admire, but never reach.

You look at it, sitting delicately between his fingers, before shaking your head. "Alexei, it's too much."

"It's accurate, I believe. Glows like you. Do you like it?"

"Yes. Thank you."

He grins. "Now kiss me, and show me how grateful you really are."

And so you do. And, as always, his fingers bury themselves in your hair, but predictably turn antsy again, moving down your night gown to the knot that's so precariously holding it together.

"Alexei—", you try, for what must be the fifth time this entire night to talk some sense into him, in that calm, tender way that only you manage to maintain when a frenzied blonde man who looks as though the angels manufactured him solely to draw out the sinner in every woman on Earth is attempting to seduce you.

"If I am fascinated with you, it is none of your business, it has nothing to do with you, do you hear me?", he asks, hot breaths covering your neck as he moves a pillow away from between you.

He is angelic in nature, but it is not in his nature, you see.

"Alexei. I will happily sit here and nurse you back to sobriety before your duties tomorrow, but I cannot entertain this anymore, you hear me?"

"Why? You allowed it that night against the cellar door when we were merely strangers at a tedious ball and I had simply said for you to follow me? Is that not dangerous?"

"Oh, very. But we were intoxicated and—"

"And infatuated, yes, continue.", he grins, kissing your nose.

"We were intoxicated and invigorated by the notion of being scandalous."

"You speak as though this is some teenage debauchery we have indulged in. This was shy of a year ago and I am still as tormented by you as I was that night. And all the nights that have followed. I am in love with you, darling, and you have returned the sentiment every way other than with words." His lips trail down your throat. "For the day I hear it from here will be the day I rejoice as though I have become master of the world."

"Master of the world?"

"Rather, let my world — you — become the master of me."

"You speak like a poet.", you comment, your hands tangling in the gold that has been embossed through his hair, finally relenting to his onslaught of kisses up the side of your face.

"But love like a madman, is that it?", he asks, pinching your cheek before he sits up a tiny bit in order to see your face.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

There's nothing louder, you think, than cracked glass in the middle of an already mellow party of slight buzzing chatter and the odd yet continuous playing of a piano medley no one is appreciating and the pianist isn't being paid nearly enough for.

No, wait, there is one thing louder. The belle of the ball, the woman of the hour — the fiancée of the man of the hour, rather — rushing to aid the person who cracked the glass and is now bleeding, out of nothing but sheer instinct. That is loud. And, to the man of the hour? Humiliating. Confusing.

"Are you insane?", you hiss, dabbing at Alexei's hand, trying to dam up the scarlet running out of his palm and onto the white of the napkin.

"You kissed him."

"So you are insane."

"You kissed him."

"Just shut up, Alexei.", you mutter, leaving him be to the servants who were probably used to rich Counts inflicting harm on themselves due to unbridled passion in the form of envy.

You watch them fuss over him, somehow backing away enough to where you originally stood — mingling with your fiancé — but not without the air around each conversation shifting intensely.

"Are you alright?", whispers your fiance during the brief moment of privacy as you float through one social circle to the other to converse. "Is he of importance to you?"

"Who?"

"Count Vronsky. You seem perturbed by his injury."

"I can't handle seeing others in pain. I've gone this way over a squirrel."

A small smile of relief — it's almost sad, how that is the opposite of what he should be feeling — and he takes your hand. "I see. I am sure he will be alright. The gash did not look deep." How was he to know he was discounting the emotional one?

You flit and drift through the party, champagne flute filled and refilled every couple of minutes just to give you the strength to converse with these people that have no true fire in their lives, no passion, no purpose. These men do not have the capacity to burn or combust spontaneously for their wives, and these wives do not... well, they do not have an Alexei. You feel for them, you do.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

If you had thought he only sought you out in inebriation, you are sorely mistaken. His sobriety leads him to you, at times, as well, but far less frequently, and he is still his outward self then.

And he did arrive, after the engagement party, straight to your window.

Long story short, he is alright.

Or so he says, as he kisses up your arm. "It was nothing, my lady, I simply lost my grip."

"I thought we were past lies, even the littlest, whitest ones.", you say, your finger running over the gauze that travels around his palm.

He shushes you softly, kissing you as he grabs your waist to yank you on top of him. "I thought you were past gowns, even the littlest, whitest, veiled ones.", he scoffs, though there's no venom in it, really.

That's the thing, Alexei's simply so used to this world of unforgiving nobility and unreasonable responsibility that he simply finds all of this amusing. But painfully so. It bubbles, this pain, just beneath his calm, untroubled surface. "I've faced worse on duty."

"On duty? You've been injured overseas?"

"Yes, I have."

"What?!"

"You act as though this is news."

"It is! I thought the higher you rise in station, the harder it is for the throes of war to reach you!"

"Common misconception, my lady. Did you do it on purpose?"

You don't have to be a genius to figure out what he's talking about.

You shake your head.

"Promise? You kissed him out of obligation, not admiration?"

You nod.

"You love me still?"

"I thought we weren't using that word."

"You think I am the type that forgets when I am drunk. I have used it then, and you have tolerated it."

"Alexei, you have to stop.", you sigh, your fingers tracing the outline of where his hair curls in to frame his face. "This is not proper."

"You torture me by snaking your way into my every dream, become the main subject of my nightmares, and you cannot even bother deigning me peace in my waking moments by kissing another? And you have the audacity to speak of propriety?", he grits out through a clenched jaw as he grips yours, two of his fingers indenting into your cheeks.

Alexei may be desperately in love with you, but he's still himself — the man who used to have women drop their morals and their overcoats for him, the man who's so used to power that every drop of it shimmers through each cell in his body. Coercion through aggression is beneath him, but not beyond him.

"We were born of scandal, and we will die of it, as well."

He rolls his eyes — something he does often, in both sobriety and otherwise — before tugging your faces so close, his eyelashes are on your cheek. He breathes you in in a manner that would be uncomfortable, disgusting, even, had anyone else done it. But you know that with him, the goosebumps are not solely because you feel predated on. "I will stop visiting you, then, if this is what you believe."

You're not stupid enough to think he means this. "Meaning you will make me have to visit you? How, by injuring yourself further in my name?"

He pulls back, his eyes moving between yours as if attempting to discern just how in hell you've read his mind that swiftly. "I will do whatever it takes."

"Alexei—"

"Do not try to placate me with meaningless platitudes of 'I love you, but this is just how life works'. It is false and foolish and you know it."

"Alexei, you do not wish to marry me.", you hiss, holding his neck to bring him to make eye contact with you.

He goes silent at that. He always does, every time you bring it up.

"And you think you can stake any sort of claim on me that does not involve a ring on my finger and a handshake with my father? Now who is foolish?", you ask, with a gentle squeeze to his neck.

"You can cancel this one. Engagements fall through all the time."

"Doesn't solve the underlying problem, does it? You wish to be this way forever, until time decides it's had enough of observing our frivolities, and clandestine meetings and other such atrocities, but we cannot. This is... a bubble of our own creation, and we are fast being approached with the spikes of responsibilities to burst it! What part of that don't you understand?", you ask, breathless and all at once as you sit up on your knees in response to his abrupt standing and pacing around your room as though he owned it.

Time. Alexei wants to kill this 'time' character. He had thought a year would be sufficient. He's had very agonisingly long years before, and he'd wanted this to drag out, as well. But no. Forget Fate. No, time is the real cruel mistress, being so painfully smug every time it slows down accidents and speeds up affairs.

But he doesn't have the time to think about how much he hates it.

Not when you're there, expecting something from him he's not sure he can provide.

"The part where you have yet to admit that there is nothing in this world that can separate us, nothing in this world that can stop the monstrously large change that you and I make to the reality of things whenever our hands touch! Even in death, I will seek you, and even in marriage, you will fail to avoid me, as is our way!", he retorts, pointing his finger at your face like it will change the way your fates are written.

"Perhaps we should grow up, both of us."

He turns, his gold curls almost gleaming in the minimal light in the room. "You mean outgrow each other."

You don't respond, picking at the bedding. He panics. He falls to his knees at the foot of the bed before you, gripping your wrists in desperation. "No, you do not— you do not mean to say you will burn my letters when you receive them, or that you will ignore my gaze at social gatherings or... or that you will lock your window, henceforth? Why now? You have known you will be engaged for months now, and you are now suddenly growing a moral compass...", he cuts himself off, his eyes moving from dancing in anguish around the room to looking up at you with nothing but sheer horror sheening over them. "Have you grown to care for him?"

He's nearly in tears, and so you kiss them off, because that is your way, the two of you. It is a dangerous line to toe, but you do it anyway. Nothing has ever felt as searingly enthralling as Alexei has. "I have not."

"Have you grown to care less for me?"

"I have not. I have simply...", you trail off. It would be too cruel to say you have simply grown. "I have simply realized my fate. I think you must, too."

He shakes his head. "No."

And then, his hand is at the nape of your neck, dragging you onto the floor with him.

However, his lips break your fall.

As is your way.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Alexei always gets his way, you realize. One way or another. Directly or indirectly.

The glass breaking, the blood, at the engagement party — all seen as a bad omen to your superstitious in-laws.

And now, you're unbetrothed again.

Which is dangerous, to say the least.

"That's one.", whispers Alexei as he passes behind you, before gently jutting his chin in the direction of a man across the ballroom that's now raising a glass in greeting to you. "Pyotr. Twenty-three. Drinks. Does not smoke. Thinks deer are only good for hunting. Political. Respectful towards women when in the presence of them. Not when speaking to 'the lads' about them. Thinks your eyes are beguiling. Told me to help him 'get his hands on your arse'. Which is why I'm here.", he tells you, a crease by his eye as he fights the same smile you're battling.

Alexei's taken on this new mission of telling you all the traits — good or bad — of anyone who he hears has intentions of courting you. It seems like he's shrunk down his wish list to just 'a good man for you', even if that is not him.

"What?", he asks, innocently.

"You're unbelievable."

"Why, thank you. But what are your thoughts on Pyotr?"

"A fine man, a rich man, a good looking man, but unfortunately, not—"

"Not Alexei Vronsky, yes, I know, not everyone can be.", he muses, pouting mockingly as a single ringed finger draws an invisible tear streak down his eye. "Shall I tell him you are not interested?"

"Who else do you have?"

He grins. "You'll love it."

"What, who?"

"Alexei V....", he trails off after the first consonant sound of the surname.

"Oh, please."

"Vostokov.", he clarifies, nudging at your elbow. "It's hilarious, is it not? A.V, just like me. The future infidelity is just writing itself, making itself easier to occur."

"And what about him? Is he nice?"

"Oh, very. This won't be his first marriage, though, if you get that far."

"What? How old is he?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Widower?"

He scrunches up his nose at your innocence. "Divorced. He fell in love with a local seamstress and got it in his head that the marriage was the only thing that made her hesitate. She left the country and he hasn't left his estate since. This is his first public appearance in a year."

"You are gossip personified."

"It's smart to know your enemies.", he says, before he leans closer so that he may whisper in your ear. "If I may say so, you look ravishing tonight. That dress is breathtaking."

"You should see me in my wedding gown."

His jaw clenches. "I'm sure I will. From a respectable distance."

Alright, so neither of you had changed your views on marriage. He viewed it a burden, you viewed it a burden. For him, marriage was a burden in the way that Sisyphus' rock was, in the way of paperwork, labels, expectations, being unable to be young and wild and free with the one he loved, the possibility that the two of you would change indescribably. He didn't want that. He wanted it to stay the same, to not become something that society could comment on until it messed with your heads. For you, marriage was a burden in the way children might be considered a burden, in the way of responsibility, duty, something you had to do, no two-ways about it, or your family would borderline disown you.

He takes a breath. "Alexei Vostokov is a no-go, then?"

You shake your head.

"Oh, the stocky brunette over there that can't help looking at you even with dozens of eligible Countesses around him? Nikolai. Nik, they call him. I have nothing bad to say about him, except that he might be a little out-of-touch. He's not in the army, and he is not into politics. He studies science in Paris, of all places. A little French-washed, I would say, but a respectable man otherwise. Would you like an introduction?"

"Yes."

His brow furrows just slightly. "That was quick."

"I like him. He looks nice."

"He is nice."

"Good. So introduce us."

His tongue reaches back to touch his molars. "You're serious?"

"Yes."

"You want me to introduce him to you?"

"Yes."

"Me?"

"I can go speak on my own, but that is considered improper. And I could also tell my parents I am interested and arrange an introduction, but then he will instantly be considered for my fian—"

"Alright, I will introduce you."

It is a stuffy affair, this introduction. Scratches at something growling and ugly that has been locked away in the shadowy depths of Alexei's psyche. Because — and Alexei would rather be hung, drawn and quartered like a British fugitive than admit this — he thinks it's a smart match. A very smart match, actually. You are the same age, you have similar senses of humour and you look good together.

The following conversation is so dull and rife with small talk that Alexei tunes it out. He finds that it is often in such numbing settings that he is able to truly introspect on himself as a person.

And Alexei should have realized this long ago, but he is presently on the brink of insanity. He's submerging himself every night in alcohol, barring his doors and windows so he doesn't stumble in the inky blackness of unforgiving Russian winter nights to your house, he's scratching your name onto every surface his eyes landed on, he's quite literally going insane. He'll soon be declared mentally unfit, he thinks, to go back to his posting in the army.

This has never happened to him before, you see. Well, not to this intensity, at least. He has fallen before, but never plummeted. He has been rejected, but never discarded. He has lusted, but never loved. And he has wanted, but never craved. He has been a gentleman in every dalliance, but he has never been a lunatic. You're pushing him there, though, so you are.

"Well, I must away. It was... truly a pleasure meeting you, my lady."

To Alexei's horror, he places an earnest kiss on your hand before nodding his head in departure.

"He is nice, Alexei."

"I told you."

"Thank you."

"My pleasure."

It is like ten thousand bullets shooting through him simultaneously, this false politeness, this detached formality. It's you. He should be having you all to himself in a corner with everflowing champagne where you can pass insulting jokes about passers-by and the palpable insipidity of their lives, not attempting to seem content and mature about wanting what's best for you. A pox on maturity! He needs you! He craves you! He's not a good man, not at all, especially not when it comes to you. He'd rather watch your life crumble into spinsterhood than watch you walk down the aisle!

Once the gathering is over, properly over, and there's no stragglers left trying to bark up the wrong tree — tonight, that would be Alexei — for drunken conversation, and the servants are collecting all the champagne flutes left here and there, Alexei can do naught but slump onto the sofa of the foyer. It's funny, he's lived in this house for nearly two years now, and he'd never actually sat in the foyer. Hang on, he doesn't think he's ever even really observed his house. And so, he stands, a man with a mission. Anything to forget bloody Nik's lips on yours. Or was it your hand? Was he dreaming? No, it was your hand. He's sure of it. But had your cheeks turned scarlet? He can't recall.

His feet first lead him through the foyer. It had been his Mother who had helped him with the decoration of the entire house, bar his own bedroom. He'd been in charge of that. He liked the things on shelves. Hourglasses of all sizes, little figurines of animals from countries he had visited and— oh! This must have been what his Mother was talking about. Her painter friend, Sergey, had commissioned a collection of dolls called Matryoshkas, and Alexei's foyer now held the first prototype. He then moves to the kitchen — a room he's sure even his Mother has not seen. The servants seem startled, jumpy, even, muttering 'welcome, Sir's the whole time. He has never been in here, before, so they worry they've done something wrong. Alexei passes by a cake that no one has touched in the party, dragging a finger along the rounded edge of it, collecting the icing and placing it in his mouth before he saunters back out.

Next comes the guest bedrooms. They are all blue. He finds that amusing. Up the stairs, he wanders, now. He passes by his own room, before frowning at a little lever he barely notices. As good a time as any, he supposes, to go foraging. He pulls it. A creak, and then stairs drop from above him. The attic. Alright, he'll bite. Nothing better to do, anyway.

The attic's not dark, not nearly. It should have been, seeing as it was bordering midnight, but there's a window, it appears, that perfectly captures moonlight. He sits down. He's tired. Insanity isn't as poetic as people make it seem. It's exhausting. It's a battle, it's terrible, it's— oh. It's an old diary of his. Brilliant. Another distraction.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

December 7th, 1869. Just tasted sherry for the first time. Pyotr keeps talking about Svetlana like she's already his wife. I heard they're engaged. The sky looked like a cocktail of pinks and oranges today. I can't stop thinking about the sherry. Pyotr also told me Natalya has her eyes on me. I have mine on her, as well. It will be fun.

Alexei snorts. Oh, that phase of his life. Beautiful. Natalya and sherry. Sherry and Natalya. He turns the page.

December 30th, 1869. I met the Lady of the house that Vostokov and I used to smoke in when it was uninhabited. Everyone I know tells me I should stay away. But she's wonderful. She plays my game so well I'm starting to wonder if it's mine at all. I might want to keep her.

Fuck. You.

He remembers the day with alarming clarity, the vision like gold and flames around the edges of it. Flames because it felt like they were consuming him, first time he'd seen you. Gold because that was the dress you were wearing.

"And there she goes.", sighed one of the ladies in the circle he reluctantly stood in, sticking out like a sore thumb.

"Who?", he asked, stifling a yawn as he stared into his champagne aimlessly, swirling it around as though that might cause some form of entertainment to enter into his glass. None of his friends had arrived yet, so he was stuck in this mind-numbingly boring in-between-state, the transitional period, if you will, where not enough guests had come to call it a party, but enough guests had come that they would notice if you crept away until the place were more filled.

"The slut of the century." His ears perked up. Sluts were not exactly his area of expertise, but they were definitely an area of intrigue.

"Where?"

"Wearing the obnoxiously glamorous gold."

There. There. The first poke at his sanity. Whatever this creature was, he'd thought, he had to be able to speak to her, if only to brag about having seen and conversed with the stuff of dreams in real-life, to the lads later. It's a rare privilege that he wasn't going to pass up on.

"She's ethereal.", he breathed out, wistful, longing, and nearly unheard. "Who is she?" Besides the lady moaning my name in my bed tonight.

"All you need to know is she is rich. Disgustingly rich, but she has rejected every single suitor that has been presented to her. Said she wanted 'fun', not comfort. I think we all know what that means.", she whispered with a knowing look, as though the gossip was absolutely delicious on her tongue. Alexei found himself staring — not just gazing, as might be accepted — at you as this new information took a corporeal form, nearly, each adjective used to describe you falling into place on your shoulders or streaking through your hair, like delicate snowflakes.

"No. I do not know what that means. What?"

"Why, Alexei, I'd have expected you to be more familiar with these proclivities."

"You have misjudged me, I'm afraid. Please elaborate."

A slight spluttering. For all the enthrallment she seemed to get from venomous words, she did not seem too keen to spell it out. "She's... very clearly a temptress. She's had... dalliances galore, with stable boy and prince alike. Woman of loose morals."

"Her?", he mumbled, discreetly pointing his glass in your direction. You were a child of the stars. He knew you, in some spiritually-tethered, all-consuming way. "Not a chance."

"I'm aware scoping out potential new brides is your forte, Vronsky, but trust me. You cannot tell by just looking.", giggled one of the other girls in this evidently bloodthirsty circle.

"And you can tell by hearing?"

The tittering of women around him turned silent.

He'd won that. Now, to win you.

Alexei doesn't quite remember how you'd ended up in the cellar together that night. The going down the stairs, the opening the door, the grabbing a lantern from the hallway? None of it floated through his mind's eye.

He remembers everything leading up to it, though.

You'd been leaning against the piano, smiling at the pianist while sipping your drink. Grace. He'd never have given the pianist another glance, but seeing you watch him? He finally understood. The notes seemed, once again, to take observable shape, soaring from his fingertips around the room as he played.

What was the intrigue of these social events, to those like you, who had it all, in every way, he'd wondered?

Of course, they were good fun, and he loved them, but fun couldn't be all there was to it.

People don't travel miles for frivolity and dancing.

Was it the gossip? Was it the fact that enemies might be able to catch whiff of what the other had been doing? Was it the— who cares? Who fucking cares? He remembers one arm behind his back, the other holding a champagne flute — the same one he'd been refilling a little too much that night — as he approached you. Cautious. Curious. Captivated.

"You're shimmering."

You'd turned. He'd stopped breathing. Eyes like the ocean in a storm. Terrifying but alluring.

"Excuse me?"

"You. You're shimmering."

"Yes. I am."

"It's lovely."

"Thank you."

"Who is it you're trying to impress tonight? Is it that Count Vronsky?", he grinned, cheekily.

"I'm afraid I do not know who that is." A lie, but it was so stunning coming from you, that he did not care. Everyone had heard of him.

He bowed, taking your hand in his fingers, a rare diamond in demand that he'd have to desperately try not to break. "It is my pleasure." One kiss on your hand. That's all it had taken for him to decide he'd been wronged by the heavens for not getting to meet you thus far.

"Oh. Pleasure. You thought I was trying to impress you?"

"You have succeeded, even if this was not your intention. May we dance?"

You'd shaken your head. "I do not dance. I am advised not to. The same rumours that that very pleasant group of women you were with are currently spreading about me? They'd only be fuelled by me dancing."

He adapted quick. "Then walk with me. In the gardens. Away from them." Away from it all.

"That cannot be right!", he'd gasped later, near the stream behind the Vostokov's estate, watching your feet splash in moonlit water. "The third Saturd- but that's tomorrow! Meaning, your birthday is tomorrow."

"Good to know you're literate."

He scoffed, incredulously. "Is that why...", he gestured to your outfit. "All this?"

"Yes."

"As I said, it is a lovely dress."

"Thank you. So. What is it you normally do at parties? Unless comforting sullen, 'lonely' women is your usual pastime."

He'd snickered, although a slight maliciousness infiltrated his gaze for a moment. "It isn't a hobby, but it is... shall we say, a common occurrence. Why? Do you wish to prove the rumours right?"

"That is an extremely, extremely bold suggestion."

"Once, at least. Simply to see what others feel like, besides the one you are to marry."

"You're suggesting I'd put my reputation, my virginity, my entire life, on the line for... fun?"

"Is that not why you rejected so many suitors?"

"I rejected those suitors because they had a notion that I had to marry them. That they were my saviours, saving my good name from tarnishing. I'm unsure what you have heard, but it is not because they lacked thrill or excitement."

"But that is not... unwanted, is it?"

You'd looked down at the water, then, standing up and taking his hand to balance you as you put your shoes back on. No, he realized, it was not.

"Let me help."

Oh, that night. He's never quite decided whether he'd do it all over again, or have a do-over of it again. If he hadn't met you, he'd be blissful, right now. He wouldn't have to board up his doors, or open the door to his Bordeaux, or yearn to slap his own face in the reflection, to get him to stomach down the idea of marriage, an affair where the same women who'd taunted you earlier would start to taunt the both of you, commenting on what they thought was going on behind closed doors. He wanted nothing more than you forever, but is being whispered about until he wanted to jump off cliffs something he'd undergo for you?

He throws the diary against the wall for dramatic measure, but all it does is cause a series of very unpleasant clanks and clatters from all the other trinkets it had hit, to sound throughout the hollow attic walls. He clutches his ears as it occurs, finally understanding that his descent into madness was a plunge. His hair spews from the gaps between his fingers, and he drags his hands down his face so roughly, his reflection — had there been a mirror — would probably have looked melted.

Fine. Fine. If you were to underline every thought he could ever conjure and poison every drop of normalcy he might taste, then fine, have it your way, he'd be your husband. He'd always have loved you loudly had you asked, had anyone asked where his loyalties lay, but now, it'd not be optional. He supposes he could live with that. So he sets down the Bordeaux, and gets himself together, because someone had finally managed to do it. Get him to propose.

He's still not sure you're human. It's not possible. He's about to propose to some fascinating eldritch being that dips her feet into his subconscious for fun, and he's normal about it, he thinks, as he gets his coat on.

This time, though, he leaves through his front door , not his window.

This time, he answers his servants as to where he is going at three in the morning.

This time, he will knock at your front door and startle your family.

This time, he will not leave wanting more.