Dating Sirius Black Would Include:

FEMA is doing an emergency alert test on all TVs, radios, and cell phones on October 4, 2023, at approximately 2:20pm ET.

If you live in the US and you have a phone you need to keep secret for any reason, make sure that it is turned off at this time.

Yes, I'm doing this months in advance, and yes, my blog has very little reach, but I figure better to post about it more than less.

Please reblog and add better tags than mine, I'm bad at tags.

Your existence is greatly appreciated. That’s not because of any contributions, but because you as a person exist and thus deserve to be appreciated. Your value will never decrease and you don’t need to stress yourself out right now about “doing more”. I just want you to know that I appreciate you right this very moment, regardless of what you’ve done today. Thanks for being here.

Reblog if..

You think bisexuals who end up with the opposite gender are still valid bisexuals.

Tips for a newbie fanfiction writer?

what most people think hufflepuffs are like

hufflepuff: friends! happiness! cuddles!

what hufflepuffs are actually like

hufflepuff: yeah i had like 3 mental break downs last night, but it washed all my makeup off so i’m kinda thriving

Olivia Laing, The Lonely City: Adventures in the Art of Being Alone

don’t wanna fall in love

Synopsis: Dustin has a cool, new friend (you). Steve’s feeling threatened, perhaps even a little jealous. The fact that all he really wants to do is kiss you doesn’t help.

Warnings: enemies-to-lovers, cursing, a little angst, more than a little fluff, some hurt/comfort, kissing!

Word count: 10.3k

a/n: very excited to share this one 🥹

You’re hidden in a sea of plastic.

Cellophane, the technicolour kind, iridescent, blushing teddy bears, precariously balanced stacks of gift boxes and novelty items. Artificial bouquets saturate the counter in front of you, their thick, resin coat scintillating rays of sunshine.

You wrap a large, reduced-to-clear sticker around a bunch as you pick them up, offensively red letters bright enough to induce a headache.

You sigh, then, bringing your fingers to your temple on instinct. Gentle pressure, though the dull ache permeates. Like the static that buzzes through the air before a storm; a forewarning, a bad omen, a harbinger of disaster.

And then, a pocket-sized distraction enters the gift store.

“What do you have for me?” The boy asks in lieu of a greeting, his mess of bronze curls secured underneath a baseball cap.

“Hello to you too, kid,” you say mildly. He’s a ball of energy, as per usual; everything from his backpack to his knobbly knees bouncing as he walks. The former rocks against a sparkly card stand, a table decorated with breakable vases, expensive candles. You sigh, again. You add, “Would it kill you to be careful?”

The space between the boy’s thick eyebrows creases. He places one of his hands on the front counter firmly, cutting you one of those shrewd, almost-glares that say, “not the time”, and perhaps also, “really?”

“What do you have for me?” He repeats impatiently, his free hand fishing for spare change in his overalls. When he removes it from the front pocket, it’s to scatter a suspicious number of quarters onto the counter. A fair bit of dusty lint, too, some lonely pennies that burn ochre in the sunshine.

You hazard a guess at the amount of money he’s offering, landing somewhere between needing your staff discount and just plain stealing. “Fake flowers?” You offer hesitantly, waving the fluorescent bouquet in the air.

He frowns thoughtfully. He picks at the reduced-to-clear sticker tacked to the green stem. “How much?”

“Free,” you answer easily, though there’s a lilt to your tone, bright eyes twinkling mischief as you lean in a little close. “On one condition.”

Over the past few weeks, the young boy has frequented the store more often than every other patron combined. Whether to purchase a tacky postcard or novelty teddy bear, he’s perused the stacked shelves enough to stir your interest.

He owes you an explanation, introduction notwithstanding.

The curly-haired kid groans, he mutters a fair few, carefully chosen expletives, and then, he flashes you a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. When he speaks, it’s through gritted teeth, features pained as though he hates you.

He doesn’t. He’s a second away from disregarding every single thing he thought he knew about teenagers. About almost adults; people Steve’s age (he loves Steve), people Eddie should have graduated with (he worships Eddie), you.

“Name it,” he says finally, albeit begrudgingly.

You raise your eyebrows at his tone, taking a pause to search his features. The silence stretches, and his irritation piques, as though each second that passes is ageing him faster than it is you. Dustin Henderson is incapable of maintaining a poker-face. You find yourself strangely endeared by this revelation.

“First,” you start primly, relaxing your expression. “Your name.”

“Dustin,” he answers impatiently, tapping his fingers on the wooden counter. He’s fidgety. It’s mildly amusing. “That it?”

“No,” you say then, “tell me about the girl you’re buying these for.”

And perhaps it’s the genuine warmth you radiate, the soft, almost reverent way you say the words. Perhaps it’s the way your smile lifts your cheeks. You’ve dipped your head to eye-level, now, and perhaps it’s the way all your attention is on him.

Whatever it is, Dustin feels impossibly at ease. He deflates his lungs of expired oxygen, and when he takes a breath in, it’s in preparation of release. “So,” he starts, making a split second decision to tell you absolutely everything, “I met Suze at summer camp.”

You realise fairly quickly that Dustin Henderson is a force of nature. Once you get him going, there’s really no way of stopping him, and the weeks that follow your formal introduction are clear evidence of this fact. Biweekly visits become twice daily, minimum, filled with long-winded stories, questionable detours with no end in sight. And you learn several things about him, along the way; the kids he hangs out with, that one game he plays. The group of freaks (his words, not yours) that created his favourite school club, his girlfriend, his mom, everyone in between.

The latter of which includes Steve Harrington, apparently. As in — the same “King Steve” you’d shared classes with at Hawkins High; been ignored by, dismissed, promptly forgotten about after graduation.

You’d be lying if you said Dustin’s relationship with him didn’t perplex you. Steve Harrington didn’t seem the type to entertain dorky freshman — especially not to the extent that the young boy often described. Rides to the arcade, free candy and girl advice; he seemed as invested in Dustin’s life as you were, and perhaps a secret part of you felt a little threatened by his presence.

Like a few minutes ago, for example, when Dustin’d entered the store with a — “Just came from Family Video, and you won’t believe what Steve found tacked to the front window.”

You’d tuned him out on realising you weren’t getting a word in, though perhaps it was time to tune him back in.

“…so, anyway,” he continues, on the tail end of an hour long rant. Something about the constituents of the cinematic experience; instead of listening, you’ve been counting the number of times he uses the word ‘ambience’. “We’re planning on checking it out tonight. See if the open air gets us some more ambience,” you add another line to your mental tally. “You in?”

“Hm?” You mumble on instinct, tearing your eyes away from the greeting cards you’ve been organising. There’s a thick sheen of glitter coating your forefinger and thumb, raising iridescent dust as you bring your hand to your neck. Kinking slightly, you give your shoulder an absent squeeze. “In for what?”

Dustin scowls. “Weren’t you listening?”

“I was,” you lie, nodding your reiteration for good measure. “Movies. Ambience.”

“Fucking hell,” Dustin mutters, sending you a pointed glare. “Drive-in. Tonight. Steve, the gang, me.”

You pause, replacing a tattered anniversary card with another that’s newer, emblazoned with brilliant gold and silver. “Right.”

“So?” Dustin presses, edging forward impatiently. His forearm brushes against the stack of cards, nudging them into a pocket of lemon sunshine. “You in or what?”

“In?” You echo, eyes widening with surprise. “To come with you guys?”

Dustin’s never sought your company outside of shop hours. Especially not with all of his friends, with —

“But what about Steve?” You add then, worrying your bottom lip.

“What about him?” Dustin asks, raising his eyebrows bemusedly. There’s a pause as he studies you, the kind of sticky silence that stretches. And the concentration creasing his brows, the thoughtful way he tilts his chin, it’s as though he knows the answer to his own question before you say it.

Except that he doesn’t. He’s caught you in a dreadful, embarrassing, misunderstanding.

“Oh,” he enunciates, his mouth creating a loud oval. “No, no, don’t worry about Steve, he won’t try anything with you — he’s nothing like he was in high-school. Trust me.”

You resist the urge to grimace. Dustin doesn’t appear to notice.

“Think it’s all the minimum wage jobs,” he adds thoughtfully, stroking his prepubescent chin. “Totally humbled him. He’s like, super lame-o now, hangs out with us more than he does guys his own age.”

“Dustin,” you say carefully, shaking your head, “I don’t mean — he —”

You falter, letting out a tired sigh. “— I know he isn’t going to hit on me,” you finish awkwardly. “I just wanted to — uh, he won’t mind? Me coming?”

Dustin frowns, features taking on a confused expression. “Of course he’ll hit on you,” he says matter-of-factly, “you’re like, textbook out of his league.”

“Dude,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “You know we graduated in the same year, right? We even had math together. Didn’t even look at me, let alone flirt.”

“No, listen,” Dustin urges, practically climbing onto the counter in an effort to edge forward. His elbow knocks over the delicate stack of cards you’ve created, showering the wood with polychromatic glitter. You wince. Dustin doesn’t notice. “That’s cause he wasted high-school pining over the wrong girl,” he adds, nodding his head loyally, “he like, definitely would’ve noticed you if he hadn’t, and —”

“Dustin,” you interrupt, looking toward the fallen stack reproachfully. “I don’t care. Have you asked your friends — asked Steve — if they’re alright with me coming tonight?”

“Why wouldn’t they be alright?” Dustin returns smoothly; he thinks you won’t notice that he hasn’t answered your question. Cheeky motherfucker. “They’re going to love you. Drive-in’s at seven, but for the love of God, get there early, alright?”

—

Steve watches Dustin amble down his porch steps, backpack swinging, mildly amused by the way he’s scrubbing the lipstick off his sunburnt cheek.

“You’re making it worse,” he greets genially, watching the red stain bloom brighter with the heat of his palm. “Relax.”

“My mom’s the one who needs to relax,” Dustin mutters, hard set scowl on his features. “Seriously, what’s with the makeup when she’s staying in?”

“Oh cheer up, Dusty,” he teases with a grin, watching him fish his walkie-talkie out of his backpack, sending a whoosh of static through the air. “Pretend it’s Suze’s, or something. Surprise visit.”

Dustin pauses, nodding thoughtfully. “You know, Harrington,” he says then, reaching forward to fiddle with the car radio. “You’re not as dumb as you look.”

Steve narrows his eyes, fixing Dustin with a pointed glare. “Ever heard of humility, Henderson?”

Dustin smiles with teeth. “That’s a big word,” he says, and though Steve’s about to open his mouth in protest, he knows any argument he makes’ll be fruitless.

Because Dustin’s managed to sort through the static of his walkie-talkie, by then, tuned into the frequency him and the gang always use.

“Venkman?” He starts, bringing the contraption to his mouth conspiratorially. “Venkman, do you copy? Over.”

“Copy,” says a deeper voice then, thick and authoritative, “Over.”

“Hey,” comes another, and Steve can here an edge to it, albeit crackly. “C’mon, dude, we’ve been through this. I’m Venkman.”

“Shit, okay — fine. We’ll both be Venkman, alright?”

“But —” a sigh, a rustle, the second voice tries to deliberate, “— alright, I’m Venkman #1, and you can be Venkman #2 —”

“What? Why do you get to be Venkman #1 —”

“Holy shit,” interrupts Dustin, pinching the bridge of his nose frustratedly. “We do not have time for this. Stop. Mike, do you copy?”

“Copy,” grumbles the second voice again.

“We’re picking you up first, alright?” Dustin says, “Lucas, you’re next. Be ready. We can’t be late.”

He pushes down the springy antennae before they can respond, tapping the walkie-talkie against the edge of the window impatiently.

“Oi,” Steve scolds, reaching over to halt his movements. “You’re going to fucking break the glass. Stop.”

Dustin ignores him. “Will you step on it, Harrington?” He urges, eyes darting toward the sinking horizon. “We can’t turn up late after I told her to make sure she’s early.”

Steve furrows his brow, confusion flickering over his brown irises. “Who? Robin?”

“What?” Dustin asks distractedly, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “No, you idiot. Robin’s not even coming anymore. I invited gift shop girl, remember? I told you about it, her name’s —”

“Giftshop girl,” Steve repeats, setting his jaw firmly. “Of course.”

He isn’t sure why you bring forth such unease. The first time Dustin’d mentioned your name in passing, Steve’d thought it sounded vaguely familiar — someone he’d went to Hawkins’ High with. A beautiful someone, no doubt, who knew him as king Steve; as the cocky, insensitive guy he’d once been.

Not present day him; gentler, kinder, more patient. Perhaps a part of him resented that your presence tethered him to his former self.

Never mind the fact that Dustin Henderson acted as though the sun shone out of your ass; he adored you, point-blank worshipped you, and so what if this irritated Steve to no end? Sue him. He couldn’t help but succumb to jealousy rearing it’s ugly head.

Dustin raises his eyebrows at Steve’s hardened expression, gaze falling to his iron-clad grip on the wheel. “What’s that face?”

“What face?” Steve scoffs intently, feigning nonchalance. “There’s no face.”

“There’s definitely a face,” Dustin decides, scrutinising Steve’s features with narrowed eyes. “If this is about —”

“It’s not,” Steve interrupts, sending him a warning glance. “Drop it. I definitely don’t care that you invited her.”

“I never said you did,” Dustin answers carefully, eyebrows soaring.

“Whatever,” Steve mutters, drumming his hands on the wheel impatiently. “I don’t care that she’s really fucking cool and likes to listen to you talk about all of that nerdy crap,” he lowers his voice several decibels, words coming out a quick hiss, “or how she gives way better girl advice than me, apparently, because I’ve suddenly stopped hearing about Suze, and how the two of you are doing — but whatever. It’s fine. Totally cool with it. Drop it.”

Dustin doesn’t quite catch all of Steve’s rant; it’s barely perceptible, something about not caring (said in a voice that definitely cares), Suze’s name and girl advice and ‘nerdy crap’ thrown in there.

“Right,” he says after a pause, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Uh, Steve?”

“What?” Steve bristles, sending him an irritated glare.

Dustin raises his arms in surrender, nodding toward the stretch of suburbia to his left. “You missed the turn to Mike’s.”

Steve forces out a breath through gritted teeth. “Should’ve got giftshop girl to pick you up.”

—

The air is thick with the scent of forget-me-nots, sweet honeysuckle bathed in gelatinous humidity. The sweltering, Hawkins’ heat has burnt the grass into neat, brown patches; they make the field far easier to navigate, create pockets of drive-in goers with spaces in between.

Although, you probably don’t need them to find Dustin. He’s loud as ever, wildly unabashed; you can hear his animated voice all the way from the carpark.

Steve’s back is turned. It’s the first thing you notice as you near the group; thick, chestnut hair and broad-looking shoulders. He’s wearing a swim-team jersey that’s blue and red, it hugs his biceps, his firm torso, slightly frayed at the edges like it’s well worn in. It probably smells like him. Faint musk, spicy cologne, overwhelming chlorine; it’s one of the few things you remember about him, having sat behind him in a few classes, back at Hawkins’ High. He used to be on the swim team — that’s another thing you remember. The tips of his hair, fresh and damp, dripping beads of water onto the back of his chair, the edge of your desk.

You falter, blinking several times. Perhaps you’d seen more of Steve back in high-school than you’d let on.

“There she is!” Dustin exclaims then, forcing you out of your reverie. He bounds over to you with a wide smile on his face, dragging you right into the heart of the huddle. He diligently introduces you to each of his friends — gangly Mike, shy Will, confident Lucas and his coolly disinterested girlfriend, Max. He ends with Steve, almost strategically. You aren’t sure whether this makes you want to thank him, or throttle him for it.

“…and this is Steve,” he finishes smoothly, jerking a thumb toward the older boy beside him. “He, uh… you know Steve, right? Graduated the same year as you?”

“Right,” you say with a nod, smiling awkwardly.

Steve doesn’t return the gesture right away. The frayed edge of his jersey is far more interesting, the scuffed tips of his sneakers, the steely keyring in his hand. It’s a bottle opener. He shoves it into his front pocket and straightens, feeling overly self conscious all of a sudden.

“Oh, yeah,” he begins coolly, only then allowing himself to really look at you. You’re startlingly beautiful up close, he realises fairly quickly, a beat passing, another, as he takes you in. There’s a shyness to the way your lips curve upward. Steve’s eyes fall to the column of your throat, lower still to the osculate where your collarbones kiss. He blinks. He begins to seriously doubt his perception of time and space.

“Hey, again,” you greet.

Steve’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows. “Hey,” he returns.

“It’s — you probably don’t remember me,” you add quickly, mostly because his response sounds more like a question than a salute. He doesn’t remember you; why would he? He’s Steve fucking Harrington, king of Hawkins’ High, and you’re — “I was pretty low key when we were at school. No biggie.”

Steve knows he shouldn’t take your explanation so personally. All you’re trying to do is diffuse the tension; he’s the one who’s at a loss for words, staring down at you like he’s forgotten how to speak. You’re really pretty. Why did you have to be so, very, pretty?

“What?” He defends, voice uncharacteristically gruff, “Of course I remember you. We, uh — we had that one class together in senior year, first period with… or, wait, was it third? The one Mrs Garcia taught, you sat right behind me with the —”

“— math?” you supply helpfully.

Steve frowns. “I was getting there.”

“Right.”

“I’m not —” he falters, letting out a frustrated sigh, “— why wouldn’t I remember you? We graduated the same year. We took similar classes.”

You raise your eyebrows pointedly, cocking your head to one side. “You’re King Steve. We didn’t run in the same circles.”

“So?” Steve scowls, folding his arms across his chest. You don’t remember his biceps being so broad. He’s worn this jersey on several occasions, in the past, and you definitely don’t remember the sleeves being this tight. “That means I’m not capable of being a decent human being? Remembering all the people in my graduating class?”

You frown. “Okay,” you say then, looking to Dustin for support. “Now I’m definitely confused.”

“Well, I’m not that guy anymore,” Steve responds, a finality in his tone that hadn’t been there before. “You don’t — you don’t know anything about me, alright? So don’t act like you do.”

“Dude, c’mon,” Dustin intervenes, sending him a reproachful glance. “Be cool.”

“I’m just saying,” Steve mutters, unfolding his arms to comb his fingers through his hair, “she doesn’t actually know me —”

“You know I have a name, right?” You interrupt, raising your eyebrows.

“Right, gift shop girl doesn’t actually know me,” Steve corrects, speaking over your irritated sigh. “So she should stop acting like she does, like — like she understands the dynamics of the group, or who I am, or who I might know, or might not know, or —”

“Harrington,” Dustin cuts in warningly, “we get it, alright? Drop it.”

He turns back toward you just as the crowd hushes, flashy, movie lights painting his grimace meek, apologetic.

“Sorry,” he whispers, tugging you down onto the picnic blanket. The rest of the group busy themselves settling in, Steve’s large figure perched near the edge, beside Max and Lucas. “He’s not usually like that, I swear.”

“Don’t apologise,” you murmur, smiling softly.

Dustin’s sweet to think your exchange may have gone any other way. Sure, you hadn’t expected as much hostility as you’d received, but you’d known not to anticipate anything more than mild pleasantries. Steve Harrington didn’t waste his time on girls like you, even when he kind of, almost, shared a joint custody agreement with them.

“No, seriously,” Dustin urges, unwilling to take no for answer. He shuffles closer noisily, toppling over a bag of sour patch kids as the opening credits roll. “He’s being a total dingus. Maybe — shit, maybe he’s playing hardball because he’s into you, or something; the other day — you remember, right? When Suze was going on about that asshole computer whiz in her neighbourhood — he told me that I needed to ‘play it cool’, or —”

“Holy shit, Dustin,” Max hisses, fixing the back of his head with a pointed glare. “Shut the fuck up, will you?”

You bite back an entertained smile, reaching down to give his shoulder a pat. “Dustin,” you whisper then, shaking your head bemusedly. “Think it’s a pretty safe bet that Steve Harrington isn’t into me.”

“Why?” Dustin questions with a frown, turning around to send Steve a momentary glance. “You guys are both, like, old. And boring. And hang out with kids half of your age — so like, definitely sad and lonely —”

“Hey,” you interrupt, trying to mask your amusement. “It’s not so much that we hang out as I’m the glorified babysitter you come to for help —”

“Details,” Dustin dismisses easily, and you’re really laughing now. Steve’s been eavesdropping on your conversation ever since all of you sat down, but you’re laughing, now, and the sound hits him square in the chest. It’s the sort of gooey, heart-squeezing sensation that travels to the tips of his fingers, his toes; Steve watches your lips part, hears the laugh bubble through, and he realises that he’s in serious trouble.

You’re like, really really pretty, have a pretty laugh, too, and now he’s thinking about how it’d feel to kiss you.

It’s confusing. He should probably stop staring.

“Dude, stop. You’re embarrassing yourself,” Max mutters on queue, as though she can read his mind. (If that were true, and Steve was in trouble before, he can’t even begin to imagine the carnage that’d ensue.)

“Whatever, Mayfield,” Steve grumbles in response, tearing his eyes away from you laughing, glowing, looking suspiciously iridescent. “I don’t get embarrassed.”

“You should,” she responds mildly.

Steve narrows his eyes; he knows exactly where this is going. “Don’t,” he warns, as if that’ll make any difference.

“I — I like — of course I remember you,” Max mocks, adopting an almost caveman-like register. “I, king of Hawkins’ High —”

“Mayfield,” Steve forces through gritted teeth.

“Uh, it’s not like I’m being a total dingus on purpose,” Max continues gruffly, ignoring him. “It’s just — I’m Dusty’s best friend and I’m the one he always sits with, and —”

“Alright, enough,” Steve interrupts, fixing her with a stern glare. His eyes dart to Lucas’ figure for support, receiving nothing more than a grimace and an apologetic shrug.

“Sorry, dude,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “That was pretty painful to watch.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Steve insists.

“What was with all the,” Lucas pauses, brow furrowing as he gathers his thoughts, “‘you don’t know me’ bullshit?”

Steve frowns. He realises that he isn’t sure himself. “She doesn’t,” he says lamely.

“And all the crap about the dynamics of the group…” Lucas continues, trailing off to cut Steve a look of clear exasperation, “…seriously?”

He allows for a meaningful pause, raising his eyebrows. “Dude, we’re all, like, textbook losers. I don’t think we get to be picky about who joins the group.”

“Whatever,” Steve mutters, stealing another glance at you and Dustin. He’s close enough to you that his shoulder knocks yours, eyes glued to the screen as he whispers something in your ear. Something that Steve’s on the receiving end of, usually; a minuscule detail within the movie scene, a prop he swears been put in place deliberately. And when you nod along, murmur your approval, Dustin glows, and Steve feels another twinge of jealousy.

He’s meant to be the super suave, role model slash friend. So he adds, “I’m the fucking babysitter,” because times like this one, it feels as though they’re all he has left.

—

“We’re closed,” Steve calls, having heard the rusty bell above the entrance door chime. He holds a neat stack of returned tapes to his torso, deciding whether Risky Business, near the top of the pile, deserved a spot on the chic flick shelf. (It does, he concludes after several moments of deliberation. Not only is it a total classic amongst the ladies, he has a pick-up line ready for the ones who frequented Family Video.)

“Cut the shit,” comes Dustin’s response, the young boy trudging over, walkie-talkie in hand. “This is serious.”

Steve raises his eyebrows, surveying Dustin’s figure with mild amusement. “Tone, Henderson.”

“I need a ride,” Dustin says then, choosing to ignore his sentiment. As usual.

“Dude,” Steve frowns, glancing down at the generous looking pile at his hands. “You’re gonna have to wait, alright?”

Dustin shakes his head vigorously, jerking a thumb toward the exit. “Suze drama. Like, now. Need you to take me to the gift shop before it closes.”

“The gift shop?” Steve repeats, narrowing his eyes. “I’m giving you a ride right into gift shop girl’s arms?”

“Harrington,” Dustin groans, dragging a hand down his face. He mutters a few expletives under his breath, digressing when he’s sure he’s lamented his dramatics. “C’mon. Not the time for you to get all jealous on me. Let’s go.”

Steve narrows his eyes, taking pause to survey Dustin’s body language. He’s antsier than usual — shifting from foot to foot every five seconds, fidgeting with the walkie-talkie antenna, different knobs, and, on closer inspection, his bottom lip is chewed raw. Steve sighs. He says, “Seriously, you fucking owe me,” and he replaces the tapes in his hand with his car keys.

No bottle opener keyring.

He threw it away a week ago, at the drive-in movie, somewhere between trying to ignore you and memorising the faint bergamot, hint of lavender in your perfume.

“Alright,” he says once they’re both buckled in. “What’s the Suze sitch?”

Dustin winces at the question, glancing down at his walkie-talkie sheepishly. He mumbles a response so soft it’s barely audible, something about an anniversary with suspicious ties to “the L-word”.

Steve doubts that it’s a big deal. His mind wanders to reciprocity, to love confessions, and perplexingly, to you, and then he begins doubting whether he knows what does and doesn’t constitute a big deal.

If there were ever a Universe where he said the L-word to you (not that he could L-word someone who’s stealing his favourite kid from him — it’s just your stupid laugh and your stupid smile, the stupid way you make his heart flip-flop), he probably wouldn’t want you to forget the anniversary of it.

“You — alright, hold on,” Steve says slowly, looking over at Dustin. “You forgot the I-love-you anniversary?”

Dustin winces, again. “Yes,” he groans, burying his head in his hands. “And it’s all your fault, you know that?”

Steve turns into the complex the gift shop belongs to, parking his car right opposite the front of the store. “What?” He asks, frowning bemusedly. “How the hell is this my fault?”

Dustin unbuckles tersely, practically running into the shop. The clock on Steve’s dashboard clicks forward, a minute before five just as he catches up.

“Well?” He presses, allowing the door to shut behind him. The store is artificially fresh, as though someone’s blasted an old, air conditioner for hours, and smells disarmingly familiar, soft bergamot and faint hints of lavender. He hinges near the doorway. He tries not to think about whether the job comes with a cute uniform.

“You’re the one who told me to play hardball,” comes Dustin’s voice from a sea of trinkets, effectively breaking him out of his reverie. “You know — after that whole thing with Dave from computer camp?”

Steve furrows his brow, unsure how this relates. “So?”

“So,” Dustin repeats, sighing frustratedly. “It’s led to me forgetting our I-love-you-versary. I mean, shit, what do you even get someone to say sorry for that?”

“That’s a little unfair,” Steve frowns, taking a tentative step forward. “I never told you to forget about —”

“Give her some space, you said,” Dustin continues, voice thick with accusation. “She’ll come running back to you, you said —”

“Oof, pulling back like that when you’re already in a relationship?” Says another voice then, far sweeter than the last, though Steve doesn’t want to think about that. “Rookie mistake.”

“How?” He argues stubbornly, heading toward the source. “Playing hard-to-get always works. That shit is like, foolproof.”

You’re leaning against the side of the front counter when he appears, hip pressed into the smooth, wooden edge. “Maybe for you,” you counter, raising your eyebrows pointedly. Somewhere behind you, there’s a concerning sounding ruckus, no doubt Dustin toppling items as he makes for the discount bin. “Dustin, dude, relax.”

“Right?” Steve says then, agreeing with you despite himself. “That’s what I’m saying. The little shit needs to calm down about this Suzie thing.”

“In the store, yes,” you say, raising your eyebrows meaningfully. “In general, no.”

And whilst half of you really does mean that — the L-word is a big deal, after all — the other half of you just really wants to disagree with everything Steve’s saying.

Maybe his dismissal at the drive-in had cut deeper than you’d initially anticipated. Maybe you wanted to make certain he knew you weren’t interested in being friends, being more, with him, either.

Steve cocks his head to one side, folding his arms across his chest. “I don’t get it.”

His gaze travels to the apron tied to your neck, the plain, white t-shirt you’re wearing underneath it. It’s sitting a little funny on your torso at present, favouring your left side so your right’s a little exposed. There’s a sliver of bare skin between your waist and hip, soft and unblemished, shaded from the heat. Steve unfolds his arms.

“I mean, I’m of the opinion that the L-bomb drop’s a big deal,” you answer, shrugging easily.

Steve doesn’t want to agree. The hem of your t-shirt has ridden up from the movement, tiny sliver becoming a far more devastating rectangle. Steve blinks. You angle back a moment to free your skin from the shade, sunlight bathing you aureate, and Steve almost agrees, anyway.

“Me too,” he says carefully, clearing his throat. “But — c’mon, no way him forgetting is my fault.”

“You told him to play hardball,” you accuse.

“Not with this, though.”

“Still,” you insist, frowning stubbornly. “You’re the reason the sweet kid’s gone off his game —”

“He didn’t have any game to begin with,” Steve interrupts, scoffing his exasperation.

“Hey!” Dustin calls indignantly, voice muffled a little by the novelty items that surround him. “Uncool, dude.”

Steve grimaces. “Sorry,” he calls, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. He’s wearing a Family Video vest that’s a size too small, with strong arms that’d cover yours barely covered themselves. He looks overwhelmingly solid, rugged, handsome in that Hollywood way that’d get you a “Most likely to be a movie star” in the senior yearbook. The room shrinks. You can feel the heat radiating off his figure (as if that’s fucking possible); has he always been this close?

You frown, feeling a perplexing set of butterflies erupt within your stomach. “He’s a sensitive kid, you know,” you murmur pointedly, attempting to change the subject.

“Of course I know,” Steve responds irritatedly. “I’ve known him longer than you have.”

“So you should know,” you say then, raising your eyebrows at his tone. “That he really does care about your opinion.”

You pause, stepping forward so you’re closer, so you can cast over every crease, every wrinkle on his forehead. “Don’t know why, exactly, but he does. So maybe don’t give crap advice that’ll lead him to me with like, five pennies and a dime?”

Steve scowls, inching forward subconsciously. “What do you mean ‘don’t know why’?” He asks, fingers raised in air-quotes as he narrows his eyes. Large fingers. “Why wouldn’t he come to me for girl advice?”

“Shit, I don’t know,” you respond sarcastically, “maybe because you tend to treat girls like objects?”

Steve winces, shaking his head. “Used to.”

“Still,” you bristle, still harbouring some petulance over the way he treated you at the drive-in, at the way he ignored you back at Hawkins’ High, at the way he’s acting like he never did. “You were all Skull Rock and parties and locker room make-out sessions back then.”

“This is what I was fucking talking about before,” Steve sighs frustratedly, running his fingers through his hair. “You — you don’t know me, alright? Just because you’re familiar with some version of me, from back in high-school, doesn’t mean you can waltz into my life and act like you’ve got me all figured out.”

You let out an indignant scoff, and Steve’s gaze falls to your mouth momentarily. You’re so close, now, that he can see silver specks on your lips, cosmetic grade glitter hidden within a thick gloss. It looks freshly reapplied, untouched. Steve tries not to think about how many kisses you’d need for it to wear off.

“And,” he adds; you purse your lips then, pressed tight and almost puckered, and he really really tries not to think about it. “You also don’t know anything about me and Dustin, how we roll, and all the shit we did before you came along. Like — the gift shop is cute and all, but —”

“Guys,” Dustin interrupts, his panic rendering him oblivious of the fight that’s ensuing. “How about this?”

You turn to him just as he holds up an assortment of waxy candles — citronella, cedar and fir, fresh pine, old spice, pineapple. Steve’s right behind you, the groan he lets out under his breath rumbling through his chest, into your shoulder blades. It’s fleeting, it’s a tendril of warm touch, but it’s electric.

“Summer camp smells,” he explains, looking between the two of you expectantly. “Well?”

Your gaze softens. Steve’s becomes a touch more pained.

“It’s perfect,” you gush, just as Steve says, “pathetic.”

You frown, deciding against turning around and demanding he explain. (Mostly because he’s so close it’s like standing near a furnace. You can feel the breadth of his torso behind you, hot static that’s raising goosebumps along your skin. It’s a nice feeling, perplexingly. If you fainted, right now, he’d had no trouble taking your weight. Maybe even carrying you to safety, strong arms squeezing you tight and promising stupid things about never letting go. Steve’s big. He’s really, really close.)

“Dustin,” you reiterate, shaking your head slightly. “It’s perfect. Seriously.”

You’re exactly the right height. He realises, as he glances down at you, that there’s a perfect amount of space between your head and his chin. There’s fire in your gaze, bottom lip jutting out obstinately, and Steve focusses on that instead of how perfectly you slot together. Except, that you look unfairly beautiful when you’re annoyed, and now Steve doesn’t know what he’s meant to focus on, if not that.

“Don’t listen to her,” he mouthes, shaking his head several times. “Lame-o move.”

“But why?” Dustin asks out loud, oblivious to Steve’s pointed glare.

“Why what?” You echo bemusedly.

Steve closes his eyes, letting out a defeated sigh. “Because,” he answers, and you shift ever so slightly in front of him, surface of your knuckles brushing his jeans pocket. The tips of his toes warm. “It’s way overboard. She’s gonna run the other way.”

You furrow your brow in disagreement, turning a little more so you can look up at him properly. “I don’t think so,” you say. His eyes are disarmingly brown, rich molasses that lightens in the sun. “I think it’s sweet.”

“Kid like Dustin, though?” He mutters, voice so low only you can hear. “Can’t afford to be sweet. Gotta build up the heart-breaker rep before you can go all soft. That’s like, page one of how to get the girl.”

“But he’s already got the girl.”

“And she has him wrapped around her little finger,” Steve explains, protective streak shining through. “C’mon — you have to admit that the kid does way more for her than she does him.”

You falter then, chewing your bottom lip thoughtfully. “Hm. Guess I never thought about it that way.”

Steve furrows his brow, surveying your features carefully. He doesn’t know whether he’s imagining the subtle shift in your demeanour; your voice is softer, gaze a little crestfallen. “Right.”

“Like, I don’t know. I guess I just give him the advice I wish my exes had been given,” you continue, muscle memory prompting you to provide an explanation. “I forget that Suze isn’t me, and Dustin isn’t them.”

“I get it,” Steve says slowly, fighting the overwhelming urge to hug you. He’s scared that if he does, he won’t know when to let go. “I’m guilty of that too, for sure. He —”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dustin interrupts impatiently, “I’m not you, either. Candles, people. Yes or no?”

There’s a beat before either of you say anything, a beat where you just look at each other, wonder whether the other person’s feeling the same way. There’s static in the air that surrounds you, it kisses goosebumps on your skin, something more in your heart. Your chest feels funny. You wonder whether Steve’s feels the same.

“Maybe just one,” you say finally, maintaining eye-contact with Steve as you do so.

“Yeah,” he affirms after another moment, one more. “Just one.”

Dustin nods his approval, deliberating over the hefty pile in his hands. “Good idea,” he agrees, deciding on sweet citronella. “Compromise.”

—

The diner’s busy, busier than usual for a Thursday afternoon, but you’re still able to hear the sound of your own slurping.

You leave a ring of pink gloss on the straw as you pull away. Condensation drips down it’s thick, plastic surface.

“I’m going to go grab us some napkins,” you say awkwardly, flashing him a smile you hope doesn’t appear as pained as you feel.

It doesn’t matter. Your date — some kid named Richie who slid you his number, half-smudged on a piece crumpled paper — isn’t really listening.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he says distractedly, eyes glued to the small TV propped up above the Jukebox.

You sidle out of the booth with a small sigh, taking your time walking toward the front counter.

“Wait a minute… no way, scoops, is that you?”

You stumble to a halt, lips parting in surprise. Her voice is a little hoarse, just as you remember it, and the nickname —

“Buckley?” You ask; it’s rhetorical, you can already see the grin on her face.

“No fucking way,” she reiterates, pulling you into a tight hug as soon as you’ve turned to face her. “When’d you get back to Hawkins?”

“A few weeks ago, actually,” you answer, smiling wide as you draw back. “How are you?”

“Fine, whatever,” Robin replies airily, separating to wave a dismissive hand in the air. “Same old. How are you? How’s college? How’s being back? How’s everything?”

You let out an endeared laugh, shaking your head bemusedly. “Good, great, the lamest, okay.”

The clouds outside free the sun as she nods, and light streams through the window, painting her brown hair softer ochre. “Noted,” she says, linking her arm in yours. “Listen, who’re you here with? Maybe you guys can join me and Steve at the booth by the Jukebox? He’s being totally absent because there’s some stupid game on, or something, so we’ll have a good chance to catch up without him interrupting us.”

“Steve?” You echo, faltering. “Like… Harrington?”

“Oh, shit, yeah,” Robin responds, eyes widening sheepishly. “I forget that you’ve gone so long. Yeah. Yes. I’m friends with King Steve Harrington now. I know, right? Me? Steve?”

She takes a pause, clocking the skepticism transforming your features. “No, listen, trust me,” she adds then, shaking her head reassuringly. “He’s like, a completely different guy —”

“I’ve heard the Steve spiel already,” you interrupt, frowning. “From Dustin, from him — it’s whatever.”

“From… huh?”

“It’s a long story,” you sigh, raising your eyebrows meaningfully. “Listen, don’t worry about it, we’ll have to catch up another time and —”

“Dude,” comes another voice then, far deeper. Your chest begins to feel funny. You don’t want to recognise it as quickly as you do. “Come on — what’s the hold up? Are they ‘out’ of strawberry syrup again? Because, swear to God, if that stoner manning the cash register told you that —”

“Steve,” Robin interrupts, mostly because he’s about to crash into her. “Stop.”

Only then does he finally tear his eyes away, having made the walk to the front counter with them glued to the TV screen.

“What?” He asks, sending her a bewildered glance. Beside her, a blur of gold, amber hues, a stranger bathed in soft sunlight, wearing a pretty dress. She’s out of focus at first, but the familiarity of her perfume draws him in. Faint bergamot, patchouli, remnants of drive-in petrichor; he’d recognise that smell anywhere.

“You?” He adds candidly, turning to you then. “What are you doing here?”

What are you doing here in a dress with spaghetti straps, low cut neck that he’s trying his best not to stare at? What are you doing here with lipgloss on, curly lashes, sparkly eyeshadow on that brightens your irises? What are you doing here, in this stupid, mundane diner, and why are you doing it whilst looking so, so pretty?

Your brow furrows at the question, and Steve’s fingers itch to smooth out the crease it forms on your forehead. It’s annoying, almost unfair, the effect that you’re having on him. Steve knows what you’re doing here. Why aren’t you doing it with him?

“Uh,” you start awkwardly, rocking back on your heels. “Grabbing a milkshake?”

Robin raises her eyebrows knowingly, scanning the row of hidden booths behind you. “With who?”

“No one,” you answer, entirely too quickly.

“Stop it,” Robin gasps, eyes widening excitedly. “You’re on a fucking date?”

Steve tenses. His vision blurs around your figure, tunes in on subtle movements, tiny changes in your expression. Your bottom lip tucks between your teeth, pert nose flaring as you sigh your defeat. There’s a shyness to the way your grimace. Robin’s right. Steve feels an ugly pang of jealousy.

“It’s going terribly,” you concede finally, features twisting into a grimace. “He’s more interested in the game than he is me.”

“Pretty good game,” Steve reasons, feigning nonchalance.

You roll your eyes, scoffing your exasperation. “Right. Of course it is.”

“Ditch him?” Robin offers, gesturing toward her table. Steve’s wallet and keys rest on its weathered surface.

“I shouldn’t,” you sigh, sending your own booth a reproachful glance. “He’s nearly done with his shake, anyway.”

“Why shouldn’t you?” Steve asks with a frown, clearly bewildered. “He’s being a total ass to you.”

“It’s called being polite,” you say pointedly.

“Screw polite,” he scoffs. “Any loser that’s ignoring you on a date doesn’t deserve polite. Ditch him.”

Your lips part in surprise, momentarily disarmed by his honesty. “Oh,” you nod, chewing your bottom lip absently. “Right.”

Steve resists the urge to grimace, blush blooming across his cheeks. “I just — you know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“Good,” he says, shoving his hands into his front pockets. He can feel Robin’s eyes burning holes into his side; he rocks back on his heels, he halts, he tries not to fidget.

He fails.

“Good,” you echo, watching him fiddle with the frayed hem of his crew neck.

“And, listen,” he adds then, deciding to bite the bullet at the last possible moment. “The other day, the gift-shop with Dustin…”

He trails to a pause, letting out a breath of air. “…for what it’s worth, I don’t think you give him bad advice. I’m just protective of the kid, you know? Don’t want to see his feelings hurt.”

You nod, swallowing slightly. Steve’s eye contact holds an intensity that’s almost devastating; it hasn’t wavered, not once, and it’s turning your knees to jelly. The way he’s looking at you, now, it feels as though you’re the only girl in the world. If you asked Steve why, he’d tell you it’s because he means it.

Because you are, to him.

—

The arcade is a sea of fluorescence, bold yellow, indigo, green mixed with brighter cherry. The different games whir loudly, obnoxiously from overuse, the sounds they make juxtaposed by people yelling. Lots and lots of yelling — when they win, when they lose, when they’re almost there, not quite, when they’ve made it to the next level; even when they haven’t.

Dustin Henderson is very easily the loudest. You could find him in a crowd, with your eyes closed, if you wanted to. (To your credit, they very nearly are, at present, what with the overhead lights strobing at such an offensive speed.)

“Henderson!” You call, cupping your mouth with your hands. “Come on!”

Dustin’s eyes widen as he recognises your voice, and he searches the crowd blindly before finding you within it. “Come here,” he mouthes, beckoning you over urgently.

“No,” you mouth back, frowning stubbornly. “Headache. Come on.”

Dustin groans. “But I’m not done!” He yells, jerking a thumb toward the game.

You’re halfway to responding, mouth open in protest, when a familiar, broad figure sidles in beside you.

“Hey,” he greets, sending you a swift smile. “What’re you doing here?”

You crinkle your nose slightly, nodding toward Dustin. “What do you think?”

Steve frowns then, confusion transforming his features. His figure shifts a little as he angles toward you, the solid expanse of muscle on his arm knocking yours in the process. The tendril of touch sends your nerve-endings aflame, shoots up into your shoulder, your chest till you’re shivering.

“What?” He asks, furrowing his brow for good measure. “But he asked me to pick him up.”

“He — what?” You echo, eyes darting toward Dustin. “No, he definitely asked me. Just the other day.”

You pause then, forehead creasing as you gather your thoughts. “Friday, 6pm sharp, don’t be late —”

“— because my mom expects me home at 6.30pm so she can call grandma and get me to talk to her,” Steve finishes reciting, pinching the bridge of his nose frustratedly. “That little shit. I’m going to fucking kill him.”

As if on queue, Dustin (who must’ve been lip-reading from a distance) chooses that moment to amble over, features a little meek.

“Hey, guys,” he starts awkwardly, rocking back on his heels. “So… funny story —”

“Nope. You’re walking home,” Steve interrupts, shaking his head with a perplexing amount of finality. There’s something strangely maternal about his disappointed expression; you aren’t sure whether you’re supposed to find it this attractive. Your shoulders brush, again, the edge of his knuckles to your elbow as he folds his arms across his chest. Heat radiates off his figure, and you can feel his muscles vibrate as they tense. Okay — yeah, he’s definitely attractive.

He looks down at you expectantly, catching the tail-end of a pain induced wince.

“Hey,” he murmurs, faltering. “You good?”

“Headache,” you answer dismissively, pressing your fingers to your temple. “No biggie.”

“See what you’ve done, Henderson?” Steve reprimands, fixing him with a pointed glare. “You’ve given her a headache.”

“That wasn’t me!”

“Even worse, then,” Steve corrects, tutting his disappointment. “You made her come all the way here with a headache when she definitely didn’t have to.”

Dustin grimaces apologetically, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, about that —”

“Don’t want to hear excuses, bud,” Steve interrupts, again. “Apology would be great, though.”

“Right,” Dustin agrees, nodding his head vigorously. “Or — or even better, a punishment. I have to, like, walk home, or something.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “I said that already.”

“Exactly,” Dustin says quickly, turning back toward his huddle of friends. “So — yeah. I’ll do that. I’ll walk home.”

“Dustin, no way, Steve was kidding,” you insist, shaking your head. “We’re not letting you walk.”

“You have to. You — you have to like, teach me a lesson —”

“Okay, stop,” you frown, searching his terse features carefully. “What’s going on?”

Dustin shifts from one foot to the other. He toys with the clasp of his overalls, scuffs the tip of his sneaker on the sticky linoleum.

“I —” he pauses, squeezing his eyes shut as though he’s gathering the right words to say. “— alright, so like, I came with the gang, right? And I asked you guys for a ride, like I always do, but then Eddie and the Hellfire Club got here, and like half of them can drive too, so I just thought… you know — I don’t know — maybe one of them could —”

“Dustin Henderson,” you scold, cutting him a reproachful glare. “You dragged both of us out of our respective houses, and now you’re saying it was for nothing?”

“I don’t want to leave yet,” Dustin half-explains, half-pleads.

And Steve’s about to argue when you wince again, fingers flying to the knot of wrinkles between your eyebrows.

“Alright, you know what? Whatever,” he decides, unfolding his arms and letting them rest at his sides. The one beside yours twitches closer. “We’re leaving.”

His fingers intertwine yours before you can so much as process the exchange, tugging you into his side before turning on his heel.

Above you, the fluorescent lights change again, an abrasive flash of colour that shoots right into your forehead. The ache within it intensifies ten-fold, and you find yourself leaning against him on instinct.

“Is it the lights?” He asks, unclasping your hand to wrap a strong arm around your waist. He’s a solid expanse of muscle, firm torso juxtaposing the gentle way he holds you. You tuck into his side with entirely too much ease; feel almost feather-light, though perhaps that’s because he’s carrying all of your weight. He uses his free hand to shield your eyes from the strobe lights, feels your forehead creases soften as you find temporary relief.

“Mm-hm,” you manage, nodding your head ever so slightly.

“Almost out,” he murmurs, a few beats from the exit. “There we go. How does that feel?”

Significantly better, though you almost don’t want to admit it. You’re thoroughly enjoying being pressed up against Steve, his calloused fingers on your waist, his warm breath on your hair. His crew-neck is cotton soft, smells like familiar musk, math classes and drive-in movies and all those Steve things you’ve committed to memory. You wouldn’t mind being held like this forever. A little less clothing, a little more touching, and you definitely wouldn’t mind being held like this forever.

“Better,” you answer after a beat, peeling away from his figure reluctantly. “Uh, thanks.”

“Oh, yeah. No big.”

His sincerity makes you smile, and you do so, softly. “Anyway,” you say then, reaching into your front pocket. “I better head back home, try sleep this headache off.”

“What?” Steve’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head in quick, terse movements. “No way. You’re in no state to drive. Let me take you home.”

As though on queue, another pang of pain shoots down your forehead and settles within your eye sockets.

“But,” you protest lamely, “my car.”

“We can get it tomorrow,” Steve insists, already wrapping his arm back around your figure. “Come on. I’m taking you home.”

Above you, the velvet sky is moonless. The sun has long since sent, dark ink bleeding through gentler orange; it’s a welcome relief from the lights inside, soothes the miserable ache in your head.

“Just ‘round here,” Steve says gently, guiding you through the carpark and toward his pickup. “You live on that cul-de-sac by Maine Street, right?”

You’ve been squinting at your feet (not quite on the ground; Steve’s like, really strong) for the better half of the walk, though the question’s enough for your head to snap back up.

“What? How do you know that?” You ask, eyes widening bemusedly.

Steve halts as he nears the passenger’s side, grip loosening some so he can fish his keys out of his back pocket. The loss of support prompts you to lean against the door, cool metal sending a shiver down your spine.

“Oh, I —” Steve falters, having shifted his gaze from his keys back up to your face. There’s an inch, maybe two, of space between you; your eye contact is startlingly ardent, something sticky, almost electric in the air. You lean further back into his car, and your expression grows softer as the silence stretches. You’re glowing. There’s no moon in the sky, barely any stars, but fuck if Steve needs them; you’re almost iridescent.

“— from high-school,” he finishes finally, rubbing the back of his neck. “I used to see you go for walks along there.”

You raise your eyebrows, lips curving into a sweet smile. “You remember that?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, grinning sheepishly. His insides feel warm and gooey, all of the sudden; you’re smiling, at him, and he doesn’t want it to end, ever.

“That’s…” you trail off slowly, looking up at him through thick lashes, “…I didn’t expect that. That’s sweet.”

Steve feels himself blush, feels his heart bloom several sizes. “Alright, alright,” he says then, clearing his throat till he’s all business. “Enough about all that.”

He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you back into his torso, reaching around your figure to unlock the door for you.

The movement’s so quick you brace your hands against his chest on instinct. You try to control your breathing; try not to focus on his heady cologne, the warmth of his skin, how it appears to vibrate.

“There, alright, get in,” Steve says hastily, acutely aware of the hand you rest over his heart. He tries to control how quickly it beats; tries not to focus on the feeling of your body, this close, your lavender shampoo, the sliver of bare skin above your waist.

You both fail.

“Thanks,” you answer, pulling away reluctantly. He buckles you in once you’re settled, jogging over to the driver’s side to do the same.

“Maine Street?” He asks, turning on the ignition. The radio must’ve been blaring on his way here, because the action blasts loud bubblegum pop through the speaker. Steve winces his disdain, clicking it off before turning toward you worriedly. “Shit, sorry, did that just make it worse?”

Your heart squeezes. He cares. “No, no, you’re good,” you smile, pressing your head back into the headrest. “Yeah, right by Maine Street. Geraldine Pass.”

—

Steve’s holding a half-eaten sandwich when you stir, having spent the better half of the last hour not quite sleeping, but not quite awake.

“Shit, hey, how’re you feeling?” He asks softly, settling on the edge of your bed as you sit up.

“Better,” you answer with a smile, nodding. You rub two fingers against your temple, eyeing the empty plate in his hand hopefully. “Hungry.”

“Oh — yeah,” Steve agrees, standing back up as you amble out of bed. Sleep creases the unblemished expanse of your neck, the contour of your cheek, the soft edge of your forearm. The pain meds have done you well; you aren’t wincing, anymore, and this brings him great relief.

After dropping you home, Steve insisted he stay with you. He isn’t quite sure why, but an irrational part of him told him he had to; had to help you up to your room, dim the lights, get you some pills and water, too. What if you couldn’t manage yourself? What if something happened to you in his absence?

Steve would die. He knows that sounds unreasonable, kind of crazy, but he would.

“Sorry, I —” he pauses, glancing down at his sandwich sheepishly. “— I hope you don’t mind, kinda helped myself —”

“Totally fine,” you dismiss, smiling. “What’s in it?”

Steve’s eyes light up, a roguish grin transforming his features. “Why don’t I make you one?” He asks, nodding toward the exit. “You can guess.”

You raise your eyebrows, narrowing your eyes suspiciously. “You’re gonna poison me, huh?”

“Oh shut up,” Steve laughs, turning around to head back down. “C’mon.”

When you re-enter the living room, Steve insists you wait for him on the couch.

“No peeking,” he warns, waggling his forefinger at you. “Just, like, chill. I’ll be out in a sec.”

You frown stubbornly, though you oblige, all the same, collapsing back into the cushions with your hands folded neatly in your lap.

It doesn’t take him long to make another sandwich. He comes back into the living room with a proud-looking plate in hand, placing it into your palms before settling down beside you. He sits really, really close; thigh pressed into yours, shoulder almost tucked into your back. His eyes are an alarmingly deep brown, but a hairsbreadth away, you can see burnt orange within them, lighter yellow.

“Alright,” his breath smells like sandwiches and mint. You wonder whether that’s how his lips taste. “Try it.”

You stare down at the sandwich for several moments before picking it up. When you do finally bring it to your mouth, the first bite is small, tentative as you try to gauge how it’ll taste. Salty pickles, prosciutto, a burst of sweet pineapple. Burger sauce, maybe tomato sauce, too.

“Shit,” you curse through a mouthful, closing your eyes as each flavour hits your tastebuds. “This is good.”

Steve grins. “See?” He teases, knocking your shoulder playfully. “Gotta trust me sometimes.”

You know the phrase doesn’t have a double meaning, but the more you mull it over, the more you realise you can’t ignore it. You don’t want to.

“I know,” you nod, angling your body toward him. There’s a disarming amount of sincerity in your eyes. You add, “I get it. The whole… you changing, thing, I get it.”

Steve swallows, and your gaze falls to his Adam’s apple momentarily. There’s a shadow of stubble on his jaw, his chin; rough and rugged in a way that juxtaposes his gentle smile.

“Look,” he says then, shaking his head slowly. “We got off on the wrong foot. I didn’t — I mean, sure, I was a little jealous of how much Dustin worships you, but I think a big part of me just…”

He trails off, wincing. “… just didn’t want to face someone who knew me as King Steve. Who hasn’t seen all the shit I’ve been through the past few; who hasn’t seen me grow out of that douchebag I was.”

“Steve,” you whisper, softening considerably. “I didn’t mean —”

“No, it wasn’t you,” he interrupts. “At the drive-in movie, you were being nice. I was the one who screwed it up. I don’t blame you for giving me the same energy right back.”

You nod, chewing on your bottom lip absently. “For what it’s worth, I was only being rude ‘cause I didn’t want you to think I was like, pathetic or something.”

There’s more you want to say, and the silence stretches as you gain the courage to do so. “I mean… you’re not the only one who’s changed since high-school. We — we’re both way different now, and that’s probably for the best, huh?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, watching you take another bite of the sandwich. Remnants of orange, burger sauce stick to the side of your mouth.

“So we’re good?” You ask then, gazing up at him through thick lashes.

“Mm-hm,” Steve answers, eyes trained on the corners of your lips. “Uh, here,” he adds awkwardly, reaching forward to wipe the sauce away. It’s fleeting contact, but your breath catches, anyway; you can feel every rough, callous on his pad of his finger, feel the warmth of his touch long after he pulls away. His lips are probably softer than his hands. They’re probably hotter, harder, more impatient.

“Burger sauce,” he whispers lamely, fingers frozen mere inches from your face. He’d leant in to wipe away the orange substance, but this close, he isn’t sure he’s capable of pulling away. Your noses are a beat away from touching, his breath intermingling with yours, a little heavy.

“Right,” you mumble, feeling a little lightheaded. It’s probably the fact that you’re not breathing, anymore. Steve moves a little closer. His warm forehead presses into yours.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks softly, tucking his fingers underneath your jaw. It’s a gentle pressure, wonderfully firm, and he inches closer, gives you an almost, butterfly kiss.

“Yes please,” you manage to answer; your noses touch then, and you can feel his thumb caress the soft expanse of skin beside your lips.

Steve doesn’t kiss his Skull Rock girls like this.

It begins as a barely there brush of his lips; careful, soft, as though he’s testing tentative waters. But when he feels you melt against him, feels your lips part obligingly, he presses harder, firmer, less gentle, teeth-scraping kisses that have you gasping for air. He tastes faint mint on your tongue, strawberry milkshakes and drive-in movies, and he slips his hand under your shirt, then, covers the smooth expanse of your waist, your hip. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorise you. Like he isn’t sure whether you’re real, and he’s trying to convince himself through your lips. They’re softer than he imagined, as if that’s fucking possible, and he’s broad and wide and could swallow you whole and a secret part of you almost wants him to.

When he pulls away, it’s to catch his breath. Your fingers have tangled themselves in his floppy, brown hair; your eyes are still half-closed, lips bruised by the phantom of his.

Steve wonders fleetingly whether you understand the effect you have on him.

“Wow,” you mumble after a beat, and he grins, caressing the soft contour of your cheek. “I take it back.”

“Take it back?” Steve echoes, searching your features in earnest. “Take what back?”

You open your eyes then, bright irises scintillating mischief. “The whole ‘you’ve changed’ thing. You totally haven’t.”

Steve cocks his head to one side, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

“C’mon,” you tease, crinkling your nose playfully. “Taking advantage of pretty girls when they’re super high on pain meds? Total King Steve move —”

Steve shuts you up with another, firm kiss, lips descending on your jaw, the spot beneath your earlobe, your neck. “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” he mumbles into your skin, over and over. “Count yourself lucky that this is happening in your living room, and not at Skull Rock.”

“Ha ha,” you half-laugh, half-sigh, bruising kisses leaving you a little breathless. “You could never.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, lips on your collarbone now, dangerously close to the neckline of your t-shirt. “You’re right. Not with you.”

—

tags: @milkiane @goddamnbabysitter @thesimpletype

we could get married {ominis gaunt x f!reader} {arranged marriage au}

summary: you met your new husband at the altar. he looks like he'd rather jump off a bridge than try and make this work.

request for the sweetheart that is @myrachondria who wanted an alternate arranged marriage au where ominis and reader fell in love AFTER the wedding

tws: arranged marriage, bad pureblood parenting and opinions, discussions and depictions of children, pregnancy, labour and parenthood, postpartum depression, smut, p in v, period typical treatment of women

everytime i do an arranged marriage fic, it turns into a deepdive into expectations of women at the time. maybe it's feminism, maybe it's two years of studying sociology.

unedited, lmk if u see the hp refs 😏

You didn't meet your new husband until your wedding day.

In fact, now that you think about it, you met his mother first.

The maids had been tying you into your wedding dress, pulling the corset strings tight to give you the visual of having the perfect hourglass figure. And then, without even a knock, despite the fact you were half dressed, your new mother-in-law to be came gliding in. Her aura was what you'd come to expect from the Gaunts. Cold, intimidating, and aloof. So when you saw her, your already shot nerves went into overdrive.

Why was she here? You can't have done something wrong already, you're not even married yet!

Lady Gaunt shooed the maids away, her slender hands taking hold of the strings of your dress. You had to admit, she pulled them much more delicately than the maids had. Your spine appreciated it.

"So. You're the little thing that will be marrying my Ominis, hm?"

Her Ominis? Merlin, you hoped she wasn't one of those overly attached mothers. That'd be just the cherry on the cake. An arranged marriage and a monster-in-law.

"Well, you're pretty enough. I've seen your grades from your NEWTS, so you're smart enough. Though, in truth, if you were neither of those things, you wouldn't even have made it to the altar."

That sent a shiver up your spine. You'd heard of the Gaunt reputation, of course. A reputation of cruelty. It was easy to imagine what might become of you, should they deem you worthless.

Lady Gaunt continued, paying no mind to your discomfort.

"I see only one reason why this marriage may not be as fruitful and successful as it should be. And that is my son."

What? Oh no, what's wrong with him?

That put you even more on edge. You were about to marry this man, after all. You didn't want to be told that he wouldn't be a good husband.

"Unfortunately, my Ominis has some outlandish ideas about blood purity. He cares little for the importance of continuing the bloodline of Salazar himself. And he cares even less for making sure that the mother of his children has the kind of lineage needed to keep our family pure. So as you imagine, he is quite against this marriage. He'll be hard to win round. But you must do so. Understand?"

Oh.

It was incredible, the way this woman was telling you the best possible thing you could hear about your husband, yet she was saying it as if it was a terrible skeleton in her family's closet. In fact, this was about the only thing anyone had said so far that made you not dread this wedding.

You knew what you were expected to say next. And it wasn't even a lie. You just weren't saying it for the reason she thought you were.

"Of course, my lady. I will endeavour to make sure mine and your son's marriage is a satisfactory one."

She smiled, and you knew you'd said the right thing.

-

Less than half an hour later, you were gliding down the aisle towards your fiancé, soon to be husband. And he wasn't even facing you.

To be fair, you knew he was blind. You obviously weren't expecting him to be watching you come down the aisle. But you certainly hadn't expected him to completely have his back turned to you either, not even acknowledging your existence.

His best man, however, was looking at you. There was no trace of happiness for his friend on his freckled face. Just mere curiosity. It made you feel odd. Like an animal in a zoo. Though it did please you when he leaned into Ominis' ear and whispered loudly that you were quite pretty.

Finally, the long walk was over, and you were at the altar with Ominis. And now that you could see his face, you could see that he was utterly displeased with this entire situation. It irritated you a little, despite being forewarned by his mother. You weren't thrilled about this either, but at least you weren't sulking and pouting about it publicly, in front of all your family and friends.

The two of you stumbled through your vows, and when Ominis said 'I do', it sounded more like he was signing himself up for some sort of suicide mission.

Okay. So maybe, just maybe, you overestimated how easy it would be to bring your new husband around.

-

The reception was equally as awkward. Your groom's best man took it upon himself to tell tales of how much Ominis had been dreading this. Your maid of honour, your darling cousin, could say nothing about what a love story you'd had, so instead, she uncomfortably listed off every accomplishment you'd ever achieved, until you were blushing and hiding your face behind your veil in embarrassment.

The first dance was you and Ominis alone, waltzing to some classical song. Ominis held you as far away as was physically possible while still being able to say he was dancing with you. You'd thrown your bouquet a little too far, and had hit your new father-in-law in the face. Though you considered that a slight win, as the choked noise he made was the only thing that had made Ominis smile that day.

And then it got to the end of the night, and you and Ominis were shoved off into a carriage to your honeymoon. The men were shouting raunchy things and advice to your new husband, while the women called out for you to enjoy your honeymoon.

Finally, you and Ominis were alone. It was time to try and get to know your husband.

"Well. Thank Merlin that's over, hm?" You spoke, hoping that a shared hatred of your wedding day would maybe encourage bonding.

It did not. Ominis merely made a 'hmph' noise, and closed his eyes. His breathing steadied out a few minutes later, and you didn't know the man enough to know if he was genuinely asleep or if he was pretending so he didn't have to speak to you. Whichever it was, he didn't open his eyes again until the carriage driver called back that you had arrived in St. Ives.

Ominis had swept out of the carriage, his wand ahead of him in that way you'd have to become accustomed to, and went right up the stairs. Meanwhile, you were tripping over your wedding dress trying to get out, until a kind maid stepped forward to put you out of your misery, untangling you and helping you out.

By the time you'd followed into your family's seaside home, the footmen informed you Ominis had decided to go for a walk around the town. Without you.

And so, the first night of your marriage was spent with you taking off your own wedding dress, and crawling into your marital bed alone.

-

The rest of your honeymoon went in quite the same fashion. You would attempt to hunt down Ominis. He would be several steps ahead of you, leaving the house at the crack of dawn, returning long after you'd gone to sleep. It seemed your new husband was something of a phantom, slipping in and out of your shared holiday home at will, paying no mind to how his new wife felt about the matter.

Though to be fair, you were used to people disregarding your feelings. That was how you'd ended up in this marriage, after all.

-

You didn't have your first proper interaction with your husband until you'd returned back to London.

Both of your parents had decided that your wedding was an excellent opportunity to host a celebration of the event (wasn't that what the wedding was for?), and as the guests of honour, you and Ominis were to be on each other's arms all night.

So you'd put on your nicest dress, a nice black, velvet, floor length number that suited your body type wonderfully. You'd strung some Gaunt family heirloom around your neck, a large locket with an 'S' embedded into it. And last of all, you'd let the maids mess with your hair and make up until you looked stunning. You would most certainly be catching eyes.

When it came time for the event to start, you and Ominis met at the top of the grand staircase.

Ominis, loathe as you were to admit it after such negligence on your honeymoon, looked wonderful. His suit was the same black velvet material as your dress, with a green bowtie. His father had given him his heirloom for the night, an intricate gold band with a black stone atop it. He looked almost... princely.

You hated it.

You should be thrilled to be married to this handsome, elegant man. And instead, every time you looked at him, you just felt sad. Sad that he didn't even bother to notice you. To try and get to know you. To even tolerate existing in the same space as you, unless he was absolutely forced to.

The man in question distracted you from your self-pity with a slight nudge. The music to queue you two in had begun. You slid your arm around his reluctantly, putting a fake smile on your lips as the two of you began to descend the staircase slowly, you waving elegantly at faces you recognised.

Eventually, you reached where your and Ominis' parents stood at the bottom of the staircase, slipping into place beside them.

Both of your fathers began the usual grandstanding speeches. Blah blah blah, two great families have been united, blah blah blah, soon you'll pop out a child.

It took everything in you not to roll your eyes at every word.

Once they were done, you were set free from your captivity at the front of the room. And you, of course, made a beeline to your beloved cousin, by the refreshment table.

Your favourite part of any event was standing with her, absolutely slandering anyone and everyone. The two of you were worse than a scandal sheet. Now that you were reunited, the bitching could begin.

"I'm not sure if Lady Black's hair is supposed to look like that, or if a bird nested in it on her way here. If so, I feel sorry for the poor bird." You casually said to your cousin, and then promptly heard someone choking on their drink behind you.

You turned to see your dear husband, red faced and coughing, and you went just as red. You rushed to hit him on the back.

"I'm so sorry, that was extremely unladylike of me! I hope you don't think less of me, it's merely an old joke between my cousin and I!"

Brilliant. Now you've done it. The one time your husband had heard you speak in a casual manner, and it was a bitter takedown of a woman he was likely distantly related to. At this rate, you'd be divorced by the end of the month.

Eventually, Ominis started coughing. And then he started laughing. And laughing. And laughing some more. He was actually starting to catch attention at this point, which made you glance around anxiously. Heaven forbid someone come over and ask what he was in hysterics over. Lady Black would probably use the Killing Curse on you on the spot.

Once he'd settled, he smiled at you. Actually smiled! You were glad to learn that Ominis looked even more handsome when he smiled. Then, he settled in between you and your cousin, beginning to offer his own critiques on your guests. And Merlin, he was ruthless.

"Lord Greengrass over there, I don't know if you ladies have ever had a conversation with him? Well, if you had, you'd know there are broomsticks more intelligent than him. And more eloquent, now that I think about it too." He said casually, a smirk on his face.

You promptly snorted in a very unflattering manner, and his smirk became a grin.

"That was a lovely noise." He chuckled, laughing louder when you swatted his arm with the back of your hand.

The three of you traded banter for the next few minutes, until your cousin excused herself with a wink at you. That left just you and Ominis, shoulders pressed against each other as you whispered jokes to one another.

All seemed to be going well, until your mother announced that the newlyweds would be engaging in a dance together, and you felt Ominis stiffen beside you.

As strange as it was to say, you wondered if the banter had taken him away from the situation the two of you were in. And it seemed the reminder, courtesy of this awful event, had brought him back to reality, taking his good mood with him.

You took his hand cautiously, hoping he wouldn't react badly. When he didn't snatch his hand back, you let out a sigh of relief, leading him to the centre of the ballroom. His hands went to your waist and your shoulder, and you quickly took up your position as well. Much like your wedding day, he was holding you at arms length, and you quickly searched for a way to make him more at ease.

"Do you think we can find a way to get your father to make that weird noise again? The one he did at the wedding, when I hit him with my flowers?"

It worked, thankfully. Ominis' face lit up with a sly grin, pulling you closer to speak lowly by your ear.

"If I get one of the centrepieces in your hands, do you think you could pull off that shot again?"

You smirked back.

"I can certainly try."

-

After the night of the ball, you and Ominis slipped into a friendly state of cohabitation.

What with you both being in your early twenties, and you know, married, you'd agreed finally that a civil relationship was likely the best option for a life that would be at least somewhat bearable.

Admittedly, you were much happier.

It was nice to be in a house where you weren't just wandering around alone any more. Though the house was awfully quiet when Ominis went to work. And when you mentioned potentially getting a job to your mother and mother-in-law, they both laughed in your face, telling you that's not how things were done.

So you had a lot of free time in those hours when Ominis was out. And with free time, came stupid ideas.

Such as the idea that you wanted a baby.

Which, you knew, was not something you should do just to have a hobby. But you'd always loved children, always volunteering to take care of the little ones in your family. You'd always imagined yourself with a big family of your own, several children following you around, that you could raise into actual people.

And you knew, between you and Ominis, you could raise good people. The both of you had discussed your distaste for the ideals of blood purity, for the childhoods you'd both been brought up with, and the decisions that had been forced upon you. The both of you wouldn't make the same mistakes as your parents. Your children would be happy and adored.

There was a selfish side to it as well though, in truth.

Ominis was handsome. Very handsome. You couldn't help but wonder what it would be like, should he start... exercising his husbandly privileges with you. You think he'd be good at it. He had such long fingers, and he moved so gracefully, and sometimes, he would dart his tongue out to lick at his lips. It made you squirm in your chair, to think of him using such talents for your pleasure.

After some careful consideration, you decided to broach the topic with him.

-

It took you about a month to work up the courage. It was a month of you two getting closer, at least. So hopefully, he'd be more likely to say yes. Emphasis on the hopefully.

You cornered him in the library, one rainy night. He was in the big armchair by the fireplace, his fingers drifting across one of his Braille books. You really did want to learn that, you thought to yourself. But that was a thought for later. You were putting off the real matter at hand.

Taking a seat cross-legged in front of the roaring fire, you softly called Ominis' name. He knew you were there, of course. His other senses were uncanny to make up for the loss of vision.

He glanced up from his book, his fingers slowing to a stop as he raised an eyebrow. You didn't often seek him out so late.

"Yes, my dear wife?"

You really needed to find a way to stop blushing every time he called you his wife.

Taking a second to compose yourself, you began your pre-planned speech which she hoped would convince Ominis to see things your way.

“I’m aware we haven’t been married long, and that we’re still getting to know each other. But I wanted to speak to you about something that I want very much. Of course, you’re free to say no and I won’t hold it against you, but if I don’t at least ask, I’ll never even get a chance at a yes, will I?”

You stopped for a moment after your babbling was done, then finally spit it out.

“I would like to try for a baby.”

Ominis’ eyes widened and his jaw fell open.

“Pardon? Did I hear that right? You want to try for a child?”

Letting out a noise of affirmation, you continued with the argument you’d spent the last month crafting. You’d be damned if you didn’t at least get heard out before he turned you down.

“One of the main things you said you were concerned about was that your children would be brought up the same way you were. But we’ve spoken about this. We don’t hold the same stupid views our parents do. We’re not cruel people. Our children would be loved, and safe, and they would know the importance of treating others with respect regardless of their blood status. We’ll teach our children that their family name will never be more important than their own happiness, or other people. We’ll be better than our parents were to us, because we know firsthand the pain the traditional pureblood method of parenting brings.”

Ominis’ face was unreadable, but he hadn’t interrupted to completely shut you down, so you powered ahead.

“Also, I have to admit… this is something that’s very important to me. I’ve always wanted children. Even when I was a pre-teen, I’d jump at the chance to babysit, because I just liked doing it. And at the moment, I feel quite… lost. I discussed getting a job with our mothers and got told quite clearly that it wasn’t an option. I feel as though having a child would give me a purpose. Not that I mean I want a child to cure my boredom. I merely mean that nothing would make me happier than to have a child, our child, who I could love and care for and help shape into a good person. It would bring me a great deal of fulfilment.”

Well, that was everything you had to say on the matter. All you could do now was wait for Ominis to process all this and let you into whatever was going on in that clever mind of his.

He was silent for a few minutes, before he spoke finally.

“I agree with what you said about raising them. We will be better parents than our parents were. And I understand how you feel about having children. I can see that’s something that’s very important to you, and I’d never dismiss that. But there is one more concern I wish to discuss before I’d feel comfortable making a decision on this matter.”

You looked up at him from your spot on the floor, wondering what else could be worrying him.

“My blindness. It is possible that it could be passed down to our children, should we have them. Would you be prepared to take the chance our child would have my condition? Would you be prepared to make the adjustments needed should that come to pass?”

That hadn’t even been a consideration for you, though you supposed you were in the position that you’d never had to consider before that your child may have a condition that would impact every aspect of their life. Despite not having thought of it before, your answer came easily to you.

“Absolutely. I don’t intend to be the kind of parent that makes their love conditional. If our child did inherit your condition, I would do anything needed to make sure they had anything they needed. I admit, I may not always know or consider immediately the kind of adjustments that may need to be made, but I’m more than willing to learn. And if you’d be willing to help with that, I would be honoured to do so. That’s the case even if we don’t have a blind child. I want your life with me to be as easy and comfortable as possible too. If there’s anything I can do to help make our home and our lifestyle better for you, please tell me.”

Ominis’ face relaxed at that. You were cautiously optimistic about that, but not ready to get your hopes up quite yet.

“This is quite a big decision. A life-changing decision, in fact. I need some time to think about this, make sense of how I feel about it.”

You agreed readily. It took you a month to even be able to ask him, and you were the one who definitely wanted the child. It was understandable that Ominis, who’d essentially just had this dropped on him, would need a while to think about it.

You could wait.

-

You’d been waiting a while now.

Your first wedding anniversary had come and gone, and still, not a word from Ominis about that question you’d asked him so many months ago. At this point, you’d just accepted that he probably had decided he wasn’t ready, and didn’t want to disappoint you by telling you. So you’d thrown yourself into hobbies, since your families were still firm on you not being at work.

You read a lot. Tried to learn instruments and languages. Picked up (and admittedly, abandoned) many different kinds of creative hobbies.

Some of those, you’d kept up, finding a passion for them. The others, you’d realised were not for you, and were more than willing to leave them be. It was nice, you thought, to have so much time to pursue anything and everything you might be interested in. But despite having things to absorb yourself in, it hadn’t lessened the craving in you to be a parent.

In fact, the months you’d spent with your husband had worsened that urge. The more you came to know him, the more you became certain that this was the man you wanted to be the father of your children. Ominis was kind, patient, and devoted to those he cared for. He remembered the things you liked and gave you gifts related to them. He taught you to read Braille like you wanted, and would ask you to teach him things he saw you do he found interesting.

In summary; you’d started to develop a little bit of a crush on your husband. But you were fairly certain he only saw you as a friend at best, as the woman he was stuck with at worst.

What a strange, strange dilemma you were in. Most people would be thrilled to like their spouse. And here you were, stressing over it like it was the worst thing that could ever happen to you.

-

After sixteen months of marriage, Ominis finally concluded the conversation you’d left on hold so many months ago now.

The two of you were sitting at the dinner table after eating, you working on your knitting, him fumbling with a kalimba you’d abandoned months ago, when he said it.

“You know, after a lot of consideration, I think I’m ready for a child.”

You let out a squeak of pain as you promptly stabbed yourself with your knitting needle in shock.

Once Ominis had fussed over your finger like the mother hen he tended to be, you returned to the topic at hand.

“You really mean that? You actually do want to have children? Now?”

He nodded patiently, a small smile on his face.

“I know I took a while to answer you, but I wanted to ensure I thought this through fully. But you were right in what you said. We’ll be good parents. I do want children, and a petty part of me wants to raise them in a way my parents hate, because then I’ll know I’ve done it right. And if they were to inherit my blindness, I feel confident that we’d be able to handle it as a team. So, yes. I’m ready if you are.”

Instead of responding verbally, you flung your arms around Ominis’ neck, tugging him closer. On thinking back, you realised this was probably the most contact the two of you had ever had. That would change soon enough, you thought with a blush, if you were to have a child together.

Ominis’ mind seemed to be going the same place, based on the light flush spreading across his pale cheeks.

“You are aware though, that if we are to have a child, we will have to be… intimate. More than once, likely. Is that something you’re comfortable with?”

You let out a quiet yes, feeling a sudden rush of shyness, and he smiled back, seemingly just as nervous.

“Would you maybe… like to start trying now? Or is that too sudden?”

Your enthusiastic agreement burst out before you could control it, and the familiar feeling of embarrassment came right after. Luckily for you, Ominis was too focused on managing his own blush to notice.

After a moment’s hesitation, he intertwined his fingers with yours, leading you up to the master bedroom. Seeing him in this room was a strange sight, even though it was always intended to be shared with him. Since your wedding, you’d resided in this room alone, while Ominis had taken up the guest bedroom closest to the office and the library.

Then, for the first time in your marriage, he leaned forward and kissed you.

It was a gentle kiss, his soft lips moving against yours slowly and hesitantly.

The two of you had never kissed at your wedding, but while this was your first kiss with Ominis, it wasn’t your first kiss ever. You thought it might have been the sweetest though, but you may have been biased based on how much you were starting to care for this man.

Those elegant hands of his came to rest on your waist, pulling you closer until your chest was flush with his. Your hands came up to hold onto his shoulders, and the entire moment was just… nice, as simple as that was to say. It was just a very nice, soft moment.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, just kissing, but the feeling of him against you started to make you feel warm, like you needed something. And while you may have been inexperienced in this situation, you were fairly sure what you needed.

Pulling away from Ominis, the only thing that left your lips was a whispered ‘please’.

He didn’t need you to elaborate.

His hands still holding your waist, he walked you backwards slowly until your legs hit the bed, making you sit instinctively. You kept moving back until you were near the head of the bed, watching as he began to crawl onto the bed after you, his pace painful. Eventually, your head was pressed against the pillows with Ominis supporting his weight above you.

Eyes not leaving yours, he began to unlace your house dress. Once you were free of the ties and fastenings, he slipped it off you and you pushed the fabric off the bed to the floor. He let out a pleased hum as he started to trace your body, finding it bare beneath the dress. As he began to map your skin, you worked at his shirt, slipping it off his pale shoulders. You shouldn’t have been surprised to see the constellations of beauty marks on his torso, but it made your mouth go dry with desire regardless.

Ominis pulled back to remove his trousers and underclothes, letting them fall around his ankles and stepping out of them. Within a moment, he was back above you, but this time, he clearly intended to leave no space between the two of you.

Using one arm to balance himself against the mattress, his other came around your back to lift you slightly so you were pressed against him. The feeling of your breasts pressing against his warm chest made you shiver, letting out a soft sigh of pleasure.

The two of you hadn’t even properly started, yet you couldn’t help but wonder why you both hadn’t been doing this for the entirety of your marriage.

Ominis’ head dipped to kiss you again, his tongue nervously darted out to trace your lips until you opened them, allowing him to deepen the kiss. Once your tongues touched, it spurred you both on, and Ominis reached down to take himself in hand. Somehow, you hadn’t looked down through all this, and the movement drew your attention. The view made your eyes widen in surprise.

You’d never seen one before. You didn’t think they were supposed to be pretty. But Merlin. Ominis’ was pretty. It was long, and slender, which made sense because that’s how Ominis was, every inch of him. And the head of it seemed to be blushing, a soft pink colour not dissimilar from the one on his cheeks right now. The very tip was beaded with a pearly white dot of fluid, and you couldn’t help but tilt your head in fascination as you watched the bead begin to trickle down the length of him in a way that made your tongue itch to trace after it.

Your visual exploration was cut short by your husband clearing his throat softly. Clearly, he’d noticed your admiration, but was ready to move to the next part. You couldn’t agree more.

Leaning forward to kiss him again, Ominis reached down again to grip his length, pumping it to spread the fluid at the top so it coated him fully. Ominis appeared to be surprisingly adept at all this. You knew he’d never done this either. Perhaps he’d asked his loud friend for advice.

That train of thought got stopped in its tracks when you felt Ominis guide himself closer, his tip nudging against your entrance. He let out a shuddering breath as he felt the wetness there, his forehead coming down to press against yours.

“Can I? Please?”

You nodded, knowing he’d feel the movement of your head against his, and your toes curled a little as he began to push that deliciously long length into you. Once his hips were flush with yours, the coarse blonde hair at the base of him almost tickling you, both of you stopped completely.

All that could be heard in the room was the heavy breathing coming from both of you, pressed against each other in every place you could be.

And then Ominis’ hips pulled back until he was barely inside you any more, pushing back forward. The sensation of him moving so slowly was the ultimate tease, and you brought your lips to his again, hoping that it would encourage him the way it did earlier. And it did. His hips snapped against yours almost instinctively, and you let out a moan before he could apologise. Your noises opened the floodgates, and soon, his pace was steady and relentless.

All you could do was bury your head into his neck as he thrusted, letting out muffled cries into his heated skin.

You felt so close to something. You didn’t know what, but it felt good. You just needed a little more.

Then those lovely long fingers were rubbing circles just above where you were joined, and you were chanting his name as you went over the edge. You’d never felt anything like it. Why were people not doing this constantly? Was this why married couples had a honeymoon? So they could have some time to do this as much as possible, to get it out of their systems before they were expected to behave like normal, functioning members of society? Whatever the answer to those questions were, you didn’t care because all that mattered was Ominis and the amazing feeling he was giving you right now.

The way you were clenching around him as you rode out your high soon had Ominis following you in your release, and the sensation of him filling you up had your eyes rolling back into your head. He took a moment to catch his breath, before pulling out, leaving you with the sense that you were empty. Then he pressed an affectionate kiss to your forehead, before rolling to the side and collapsing onto his back beside you.

-

Now that the two of you had started, it was impossible for you both to stop.

Ominis had a good day at work? Sex to celebrate. Ominis had a bad day at work? Sex to cheer him up. You’d finished a project you were working on? Sex to celebrate. You felt understimulated? Sex to cure your boredom. The two of you were insatiable.

It wasn’t a shock that you were with child by winter, but it made you both incredibly happy nonetheless.

-

Ominis absolutely doted on you during your pregnancy.

He’d been in your bedroom more often since you’d begun being intimate, but once the baby was on the way, he asked to move in there officially for the duration of your pregnancy. It took a while to get used to having another person in your bed with you for a whole night, but it didn’t take long for the two of you to figure out a routine. Ominis was a light sleeper, and you were increasingly restless, so you worked out a system where he would hold you close and soothe you to sleep, and his embrace stopped you from moving and waking him up. Inevitably, his hand would always come to trace circles on your growing stomach.

He was at your beck and call for anything you needed. If you had a craving, he was pulling his shoes and coat on to go and fetch it for you, no matter the time. On the rare occasions he had to stay away for a while for work, he would send owls constantly. If you mentioned wanting anything in your letters, you’d soon find a grumpy Sebastian at your door, with said item in his hands.

On a night, he would slide down the bed until he was level with your swollen belly and read stories to your child. Often, he would read the Tales of Beedle the Bard. His favourite was the ‘Fountain of Fair Fortune’, though you were fond of the ‘Deathly Hallows’. Ominis said it was too dark for a little one, but he’d read it to you without fail regardless. Once he’d finished his nightly book, he’d stay down there a while, whispering to the baby in a low tone you couldn’t hear. You were more than happy to let him have his one on one daddy-bump time. You got the baby all the time at the moment anyway.

And when it eventually came time for the birth, he refused to leave your side despite the protests of his father and the doctors. He was determined to be there. The most comforting part was that you knew he wasn’t just there for the baby, he was there to support you. Your labour was long and intense, lasting over a day. He left your side as little as possible, only to attend to basic needs or to fetch something for you.

At the end of it all, your little boy was placed into his arms. Tears trailed down his cheeks silently as his fingertips trailed over your son’s delicate features so softly it made you cry even more. The pair of you spent the rest of the night in your shared bedroom, laid on the bed together with your new tiny baby between you both. You told him all about how much your son looked like him, and he started a playful debate about who’s nose he had. You swore it was Ominis’, while Ominis was convinced it felt the exact same as yours did. You called it a truce when your laughter got a little too loud, and the baby let out a little cry, sending you both into panicked new parent mode.

The pair of you agreed to call him Luc, based on the Latin word for 'light', because you were both in total agreement that he was the light of your lives.

Neither of you mentioned the fact that technically, he was supposed to move back in the guest bedroom now the baby was here. He stayed by your side every night the same as he did before.

And after all he’d done for you over the past nine months, you couldn’t deny it to yourself anymore. You were in love with your husband. But you didn’t know if he loved you back, or if he could, considering how against you he’d been at the start. You weren’t willing to admit it and risk your new bliss, so you’d have to live with never knowing.

-

Being a mother was hard.

You were fortunate in that you could afford maids and cooks to take the workload of the housework off you.

But your little one was extremely colicky, and he would cry for hours, and nothing would stop him. You would spend your days closed up in the nursery, trying desperately to soothe him, and he just would not stop wailing.

Often, as soon as Ominis left the house and you went to your son, you would cry alongside him. You were so tired, and achy, and your postpartum hormones were raging wild within you. You loved Luc more than life itself, but you were just so sad. You knew you should speak to Ominis about it, but a little voice in the back of your head was insistent that he’d be so disappointed in you.

You were the one who’d wanted this baby. You said you could handle caring for him during the day while Ominis was at work. You shunned the idea of nannies because you were so certain you could do this alone. You’d made your bed, and as far as you were concerned, you were merely going to have to suck it up and lie in it.

-

Today had been bad.

Your little love had been screaming, quite literally, for the past three hours straight. You'd had him in your arms the whole time, walking back and forth in nursery as you hummed mindlessly through your tears.

You were so tired.

Every time Luc cried on a night, you were up at his side to tend to him before the noise could wake Ominis. It felt unfair that he would have to work and pick up your slack as a mother. When he'd laughed about how you'd both lucked out by having an infant that slept through the night so well, you'd smiled back faintly, hoping he didn't notice you didn't respond.

In your weepy, sleep-deprived state, you failed to pay attention to the time. Or the front door opening and Ominis calling out to you.

So it made you let out a yelp of surprise when you heard him say your name from the doorway in a concerned tone.

"What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

Being asked that made you cry harder for some reason. You slid down to the floor, Luc in your arms, crying just as hard. Like mother, like son, you supposed.

Ominis was by your side in an instant, taking the baby and pressing him to his chest. He slid his free arm around you, pulling you closer until your head was resting on his shoulder. His long fingers stroked through your hair soothingly until your sobs abated to little sniffles before he finally spoke again.

"What's going on, dearest? I've never seen you get upset like this, not even after two years of marriage."

And just like that, you told him everything. How sad you felt, how hard it was to handle Luc, how you felt ashamed to ask for help because you should be able to do it alone. He listened to it all patiently, his hand on your hair never faltering.

"Darling, we're in this together. We agreed that we'd work together to raise Luc, not that you'd do this all by yourself while I worked. And you taking care of him during the day is just as hard work as what I do during the day. It's not fair on yourself to expect yourself to be the perfect mother. You've never done this before, and even if you had, you're only human."

You nodded into his shoulder as he spoke. Hearing his voice saying these things downed out the little self-doubting one in the back of your head that said you were a failure.

He kept going, promising he would start working from home some days, that he'd help you find a nanny so you could have some breaks, making you swear to let him get Luc on a night when he could so you could catch up on the sleep so desperately needed. He also made you promise to see a healer about how you were feeling, to see if anything could be done.

By the time Ominis had finished speaking, Luc had fallen quiet. The combination of the rare silence and getting things off your chest had you the most optimistic you'd been in weeks.

Taking advantage of the sleeping baby, Ominis ran you a bath. Once you were happily settled in the hot bubbly water, his hands ran through your hair once more, cleaning it and massaging your scalp in a way that made you melt.

As soon as you were all clean, he wrapped you in your comfiest nightclothes, scooping you up to put you in your still-shared bed. He pulled the covers up over you, and as he did, he dipped his head to give you a soft kiss.

"I love you. I don't think I've told you that before, but I really, truly do. As loath as I am to admit it, the best thing my parents have ever done for me is arrange this marriage, because now I have you."

You mumbled it back sleepily, and as you watched him settle beside you and begin to read, all you could think before you fell asleep was that this marriage had turned out far better than just 'satisfactory'.