:

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤: 𝐂𝐥𝐮𝐛 𝐏𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 | The Hawkins High 1986 Yearbook is set to encapsulate the '85-'86 school year, capturing all students and memorabilia from the momentous year—with an exception, though... Hellfire. And as a valued member of the Yearbook Committee, Eddie Munson had placed a target on your back to protect himself.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Swearing, yelling, crying, bullying, descriptions of depression, and mentions of childhood abuse and neglect.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | Here's a masterlist in case anyone was interested. Big kisses and thanks to @spring-picnics and @batkin028 for title ideas and inspiration!

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐱𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 After finding out about their exclusion from the school yearbook, Hellfire—Eddie Munson—isn't keen in letting his feelings fall for your attempt to fixing said issue.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡 Following Friday’s events, Eddie Munson was on a mission to apologize to you, though everything fell short when your life began to crumble in a matter of hours.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 An apology is definitely at hand, and Eddie cements it when he drunkenly appears at your house despite you clear disdain.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐕. 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐨𝐨𝐧...

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐕. 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐨𝐨𝐧...

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐕𝐈. 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐨𝐨𝐧...

Angel With Glasses pt. 1

In which Steve unexpectedly falls for the girl with glasses

Warnings: sort of bully!steve, Billy, cursing, mentions of sex, Tommy and Carol, alcohol, you have an older brother, lmk if I missed anything!

Steve Harrington x fem!glasses!reader

There was never a moment in your life you’d thought of Steve Harrington as anything more than a dumb jock.

He’d proven time and time again that he was a guy with an ego who only wanted girls for how they looked instead of the way they were in the inside. Every Interaction you had with him, you ended up with the same thought you had in the beginning:

Egotistical-dirtbag-party boy-jock.

While you weren’t much for the party scene, you had an older brother in Steve’s grade who was on the basketball team as well. So, your dad made him drag you along to every party to ensure that he always had a sober ride home. He knew that you weren’t a party-er like your brother.

So, you sit in the corner watching him make a fool of himself trying to get a girl to go out with him. You’d bring homework to do, looking up every now and then to make sure her brother wasn’t drowning in the bucket of beer in the middle of the kitchen. Then you’d see Steve with his arm around some girl, smirking and no doubt telling her how special she was even though that was probably the third time he’s said it that night.

You’d roll your eyes when he came and talked to you like you were 12 years old. “Yeah, uh, there’s apple juice in the fridge. If you need little break from the adult party, there’s a few TVs upstairs. I’m sure the kid’s network is on this time of night.”

You’d glare at him, the lights reflecting off of your glasses making the look less scary.

To Steve you were nothing but his friend’s nerdy little sister. He thought your glasses were too big for your face and you always had it stuck in a book or a notebook. He wished you wouldn’t give him a dirty look every time he touched a beer or a cigarette. It’s not like he cared what you thought. Nope, Steve Harrington didn’t care what anything thought. He just was tired of you thinking you were better than everyone because you didn’t partake in normal teenage activities.

There was something about your face though. Every time his friends messed with you when your brother wasn’t around, the small quiver of your lips and the furrow of your brows was enough to get them to stop. He ignored the way your chest rose and fell as if you were trying not to calm yourself down, shaking his head as he turned and walked away from your teary eyes.

No, Steve Harrington didn’t care about anyone but himself.

.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.

Steve’s senior year was off to a start. He had made the basketball team again and was ready to get the year over with. He’d submitted college applications but hadn’t heard back from any of them. Oh well. They must take a long time, right? Big decisions always do.

He leaned up against his locker watching Tommy and Carol argue about something stupid. He saw Eddie Munson walk by with Robin Buckley. The two freaks of Hawkins High.

A couple of guys from the team walked by. He saw your brother in the group. As they pushed each other around, he noticed you trailing behind them like you had nowhere else to be with your hands folded in front of you. He took a look at your outfit. A beat of pair of sneakers, jeans and a large sweatshirt that couldn’t have been yours. And of course, your glasses that you had to push up every few minutes or they’d fall off your your face.

The guys had moved away too fast so you were left behind. You looked at Steve and Steve looked at you but then you frowned at him and walked away quickly, bumping into a few people on the way.

“Hey, what’s its problem?” Carol asked, twirling a piece of her red hair around her finger, watching you go.

Tommy smirked, the anger from their argument washing away immediately. “Probably still mad about the party on Friday.”

The girl beside him cackled. “Yeah, I would be too. You guys dumped a whole jug of beer on her head and her precious little books.” She obnoxiously chewed her gum as you were now out of sight. “Dude, she cried like a little fuckin’ baby. It was hilarious.”

Steve sighed. “Yeah, my carpet is still stained by the way. My parents are gonna be pissed when they get back.” He nodded.

“Why would they ever come back when they have you as a son?” Tommy chuckled, hitting his shoulder. Steve didn’t think it was funny. “Oh, hey, come on man. It’s a joke, okay?”

He rolled his eyes and nodded. He saw Nancy and Jonathan walking down the hall, hand in hand and internally groaned. He didn’t like that she dumped him. Steve Harrington didn’t get dumped.

“Anyway, see you in third period?” Carol asked, wrapping her arm around Tommy’s waist.

Steve stuck his hands on his hips as they turned away. “Yeah, see you.”

He shut his locker and thought about what Tommy said. His parents were always gone, that part was true. But when they came back, they didn’t dread having to spend time with him, right? He rolled his eyes, pulling himself out of his head and walked to his first period class.

.•.•.•.•.•.•.

You sat in the back of the room during first period. You didn’t like the way that the jocks would be able to sit behind you and try to put stuff in your hair or whisper mean things to their friends that they knew you could hear. So, you asked to be moved to the back.

The only downside of sitting in the back was that you had to sit next to the one and only Steve Harrington.

Most days, he wouldn’t talk which you were thankful for. But he did kick your pencil farther away when you dropped it rather than pick it up and then smirk at you like he won something. He’d always get it back to you eventually though.

Most of the student body had heard about the party on Friday and what happened. Some of them told you that you still smelled like beer but after four showers that night mixed with soap and salty tears, you were sure they were just teasing.

It sucked having an older brother who didn’t stand up for you. He’d ignore you in any public setting and sometimes even lie about being your older brother. You wished you had a brother like Jonathan Byers who stuck up for Will all the time. God, to have a family like him— it just seemed way better than whatever shitty family you were dealt.

At home, it was just you, your brother, and your dad. Your dad was just like your brother in a way. He didn’t want anything to do with you guys but he had to take care of you because your mother died.

You missed her.

She was the only nice person you’d ever lived with. She was sweet and nothing like your brother or father. You missed the way she would play with you after school, braid your hair when you wanted it out of your face, bake for your school’s bake sales— you just missed her.

But she was never coming back. She got sick when you were twelve and died really soon after. That’s when life really fell apart for your family. Your dad stopped caring and your brother became the asshole that he is today.

First period math was always the same. Lesson, practice, quiz, repeat.

The bell rang and to no surprise, Steve walked in five minutes later. He had a different look on his face today. He looked… sad.

He sat down next to you in his usual seat. You listened to the teacher drone on about what you learned last class.

“Hey.”

You heard Steve whisper so quiet that if you weren’t so far away from the front, it would be inaudible. You decided to ignore him because what else could he want other than to tease you about Friday night?

It was the regular Steve Harrington Friday night where his parents were gone and he had a hundred people at his home to break shit, stain shit, and eat all his food.

You walked in behind your brother sporting your regular attire: Baggy jeans and a jumper you’d borrowed from your dad. He suddenly stopped and turned around. “Stay out of my sight, four eyes. And don’t talk to any of my friends, they’re not yours.”

You nodded, not desiring to anyway and made your way to the kitchen, pushing up your glasses. You pretty much knew the layout of Steve’s house and where all the best hiding spots were because of how many parties you’d been dragged to. There was a linen closet through the kitchen and you hid there a multitude of times thinking that night wouldn’t be any different.

So, you sat underneath the higher shelves and turned on the light in there so you could do your homework and read until the party died down.

So, for an hour you sat there with your knees pulled to your chest and your lip between your teeth reading the third Lord Of the Rings book. You had your geometry textbooks in your cross body bag that still hung around your neck.

Suddenly it had gotten quiet.

All the screaming, laughing, talking, and the music was silent. Your looked up from your book with furrowed brows. Your heart rate picked up as you heard sets of footsteps coming closer. You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping you would disappear right there but you didn’t.

The door swung open and you clutched your book so tight as two pairs of hands reached for you. “No, no, no!” You shouted.

You were dragged out of the closet and through the house, trying to pry yourself out of Tommy and Jarred’s hands. “Get off me!”

They pulled you into the living room where people pointed and laughed. Your glasses had fallen of at this point from all the thrashing and pulling you’d been doing. You were held there for a moment, looking around at all the blurry people. But then, you were let go. If your glasses had been on, you would’ve seen the guy with a big bucket of beer coming straight at you.

In a second, you were drenched from head to toe. The liquid stung your eyes when you tried to open them. You felt it seeping through your thick sweater, dripping off of your hair.

It had gone silent and someone kicked your glasses to your feet. You slowly bent down with shaking hands and picked them up.

You set them on the bridge of your nose and looked around at all go the teenager trying to decide if they wanted to laugh out loud or whisper. It didn’t matter though. Nothing mattered anymore.

Steve saw you, made eye contact with you. Your lips quivering, shoulders shaking and body shivering. His shocked smile faltered. He could see even through your glared glasses that tears were brimming up in your eyes. You dropped your book on the ground and walked out of the house.

You heard the people inside resume laughing and cackling and let the tears flow. You couldn’t wipe them otherwise the beer that soaked your skin and sleeves would get In your eyes even more. So you walked home, not caring about your brother who pointed and laughed with all the others.

You flinched out of your traumatic flashback when Steve tapped your shoulder. You turned to him with a lethal glare. “What do you want?”

He slid something onto your desk and you looked down. Your lips parted at the sight of your destroyed copy of the third Lord of the Rings book. You looked back at him. “Wha—“

“You kinda left it at my house last week.” He shrugged.

You scoffed. “Yeah because you and your friends dumped beer all over me.”

He pressed his hand to his chest. “Hey, I had no idea that was happening.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, and that makes it any better? You could’ve done something to stop it but no, you just laughed along with the others.” You turned away from him and looked down at your mom’s book. “You gotta fit in to win, right?” Your tone was poison and Steve felt it in his veins.

Steve sighed and looked down at his blank homework sheet. A few moments went by and he cleared his throat. “Any chance I could get the homework answers?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.

You hated basketball.

Well, more like you just hated the players. Steve and your brother on the same team? Barf.

But, it was the first practice of the season and you had to wait for your brother to get done so he could drive you home. You would walk but it was too cold and you’d forgotten your coat at your house. You would ask Eddie for a ride but he left as soon as the bell rang and saw his van speeding out of the parking lot.

You sat on the bleachers not paying attention to the squeaks of the players sneakers on the linoleum and tried to salvage the pages of the book Steve so graciously returned to you. It was no use. It was sad because it was a part of your mom’s book collection that she gave to you before she died.

You ignored the whispers from girls who were watching their boyfriends practice. But the one thing you couldn’t ignore was the guy who walked out of the locker room and into the gym. He had curly hair and a smirk on his lips. He was shirtless and literally glistening.

You didn’t pay attention to many guys but this was one you’d never seen before. He looked mean so that means that he would for sure be like the others and completely ignore you. But he walked past a tall skinny blonde and made a beeline for you.

Oh here we go. You thought. My first time getting hit by a man and he looks like a Greek god.

You squeezed your eyes shut and waited to be drenched in something, hit, or spit at but… nothing ever happened.

“Hey, sweetheart,”

Steve watch the two of you for the next five minutes in conversation about whatever. Steve couldn’t believe a guy like Billy was talking to a girl like you. Steve saw a hint of a smile that he hadn’t seen since Freshman year tug at the corner of your lips.

“Harrington, get your head in the game, man!” Jason Carver, a sophomore shouted from across the gym.

He looked away for just a split second to dribble the ball and shoot it. When he looked back, you and Billy were gone.

.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.

Omg hello! This is part one of my Steve series! Do not worry, he won’t be an asshole for much longer!

I hope you enjoyed this and let me know your predictions for the rest of the series! What do you think Billy’s up to?

Taglist: @tuesday-yellowxx

@blue-willows

@montarella

@criminallymagic

@mermateyepmatewithte

@lipstixstain

@urlovelydarling

@dreatine

@f-me-reid

@fantastic-fans

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@regulus-black-223048

@mushy-mushroom04

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@livviex

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@steveharrigtonsidepiece

@ameliaxcriminalminds

@miaxx03

@moyo5653

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@honey-on-my-lips

@whenmypartysover

@sophiario

@cynbx

@princess-ofthe-pages

@kenzi-woycehoski

No Need To Ask

Chapter Eighteen - CSS DEAD

The Norris' were a notorious crime family in the UK. One of many. With Norris, the head of the family, running operations with his son, Lando, they work to keep Y/N Norris, Norris' daughter protected. Life in a crime family wasn't something they wanted for her.

But with tension with one of the Spanish crime families rise, Norris and his now deceased wife come up with only one plan, offer their daughter to the Sainz's or risk an all out war.

Warnings: Guns, death

1.7K words

Series Masterlist

LH44 has anybody heard from CSS?

LN4 CSJ55 is safe but haven't heard from CSS

FA14 haven't heard anything down here

CSJ55 I am gathering my men to get back into my house

CSJ55 will keep everybody posted

"What's this?" Y/N asked as she leaned over her husbands shoulder and placed her hand on his shoulder, looking at the screen in front of him. It was clear what it was, a chat forum. But she couldn't make sense of any of the names.

Carlos leaned back, his head against her stomach. Her touch on his shoulder was light, but it was enough, for now. "Guess which one is your brother," he said as she leaned closer to read the screen.

There were so many usernames. LH44, LN4, CSJ55, CSS, CL16, AA23, MV33, JV1.

LN. Lando Norris. Y/N pointed to his last line of chat and Carlos nodded. "Okay, who is everyone else? Who is CSJ55? Why doesn't CSS have a number?"

Carlos told her all about the chat forums. It was kind of funny, actually. That mafia families used chat forums. "My father hasn't responded since we escaped the house," he said, scrolling back through the chat.

Carlos had two chat windows open. One with all of the heads of families and one with his men. Not all of his men were responding, anxiety bubbled up in Carlos's stomach.

That chat with the heads of families kept going. Everybody had responded, everybody but Carlos's stomach. He had tried to check the cameras inside of the house, but they'd all been disconnected or destroyed.

Carlos's phone vibrated against his chest. He picked it up, reading the text. "What is it?" Y/N asked softly, gently. Carlos wasn't hiding the screen from her or anything, but the text was in Spanish and she couldn't yet read it.

"My mother," he answered as he replied to the message. She was okay, had been in contact with Carlos ever since she'd made it to Alonsos safehouse.

As much as the Sainz family and the Alonso family hated each other, they had an agreement in place. If anything happened to the Sainz, those who could get out were to get to Alonsos territory if they could. It worked both way, with the Sainz offering sanctuary for Alonso and his men if needs be.

Señora Sainz had made it to Alonsos territory. By the time she'd gotten there, the attackers had left Alonsos. It was in a state, everything broken, documents missing, just like Carlos's house.

Alonso hadn't escaped like the Sainz family had. He had a bookcase that he could hide behind. Once he was behind it, the bookcase looked bolted to the wall, unmovable. Nobody thought to look for Alonso in there.

When Señora Sainz arrived at the Alonso house, he took her and her daughters to his own safehouse.

"My mother," he said as he placed his phone back on the desk. "She and my sisters are safe, but she hasn't yet heard from my father."

Y/N squeezed his shoulder. "He's gonna be okay," she said softly. There wasn't a lot she could do to comfort him, she knew in that moment. "He's a smart man. He'll know how to save himself," she said and Carlos nodded his head.

But he wasn't so sure.

He turned to his wife, who still had a hold of his shoulder. But she wasn't looking at him. She was looking at the gun he had beside the laptop.

It was the only weapon Carlos had brought with him, which was terrifying. If somebody found them, if a group of people found them, how was Carlos supposed to protect her?

She was staring and Carlos had no idea what she was thinking. He placed his hand over her own and used his other to pick up the gun.

"For my entire life," Y/N began as she touched the gun. Carlos still had it as she ran her fingers over the components. It was loaded, the safety off, and there was no way he was letting go of it. "Everybody around me has been carrying these things around," she said. "I was always afraid of them, and I never, ever wanted to learn to shoot one."

It may have been the way she was saying it, but Carlos knew there was something more. Whether she was going to voice it or not, he didn't know. But he could guess. With how she was behaving before they had to run, he could guess. "Would you like to learn to shoot it?"

She went to nod her head, but then she stopped. "Yes," she said, standing up just a bit straighter. "I'd like that."

Like wasn't quite the right choice of word, she thought as soon as she said it. What she would have liked would have been to never have to shoot a gun, to never be in this situation in the first place. But it had become necessity. Necessity for her for learn to protect herself, to be stronger, to protect her husband.

It was strange for them, to be outside of the cabin. Since they'd arrived only Carlos had gone outside, and that was only from necessity, or to smoke a cigarette. He'd gone to the shops, gotten them food, water, clothes, anything they needed. And every time he had been in some way disguised.

But not now. Now, he and Y/N stood outside of the cabin, surrounded by the trees. It was cold, colder than Y/N expected it to be, and she found herself wrapped up in Carlos's jumper.

It smelt just like him. That combination of smoke and pine. She couldn't stop herself from lifting the collar of the jumper to her nose and inhaling. Again and again she smelled the fabric until it surrounded her, consumed her.

Carlos set up the empty spaghetti cans on top of a fallen tree. He wasn't very good at placing them, and they wobbled and fell off more than once. When he had them all lined up, he waited a moment, made sure the cans weren't going to fall, and walked back over to Y/N.

He pulled the gun from his pocket and placed it in Y/N's hands.

Shooting a gun wasn't supposed to be romantic. But somehow it was. Somehow the way Carlos stood beside her, with his arms wrapped around her, was romantic. Shocker.

He focused on her aim. It wasn't good, and the recoil had Y/N struggling. She tried her very best, and hit the top of the can in the middle, but didn't do much else.

"Can you just show me?" She asked after deciding she'd wasted enough bullets (Carlos had shown her how to reload, too. That she had gotten quick at).

When Carlos nodded his head, Y/N stepped back. She pressed her back against a tree and watched as Carlos, using just one hand, with one eye closed, shot every can sitting on the log.

It was... Hot. A huge turn on, but she couldn't stop herself from pouting. As hot as it was, she wanted to be that good. She wanted to be able to shoot with such precision. And she wanted it now.

Carlos laughed as he walked over and offered her his hand. He pulled her up from the tree, pulling her close before very quickly letting go. "No matter, my pretty little wife," he said as they walked back towards the cabin. "We can try again tomorrow."

Y/N nodded her head, but it was somewhat reluctant. If it wasn't for wasting bullets, she'd keep going. But she followed Carlos into the cabin and sat herself down on the end of the bed.

She still wore Carlos's jumper. The inside of the cabin was warm, but she didn't care, she just wanted to wear the jumper.

Carlos sat himself at the desk and opened the laptop once more. He logged on, going straight to the chat he had with his men. There weren't many that managed to get away from the house when the shooting started; only twenty of them were responding to him. Nobody from his fathers house was responding.

Laying back on the bed, Y/N grabbed her book and began reading as Carlos scrolling through the chat.

"Shit," he suddenly whispered and pushed the laptop away. He stood up suddenly, knocking over the chair, and grabbed the carton of cigarettes from the bedside table.

"Carlos," Y/N called as he grabbed the cigarettes and marched out of the cabin, slamming the door shut behind him.

She walked over to the window, looked outside and watched as Carlos, with the cigarette held between his lips, lifted his lighter to the end of it with shaking hands. He pulled the cigarette away and released the smoke from his lungs, sinking to the floor.

Y/N walked out of the cabin. She walked over to him and got down onto the floor, the ground beneath her knees cold.

He rubbed at his eyes as Y/N wrapped her arms around him. He wasn't crying, no. Mafia bosses weren't allowed to cry. And he was the boss, now wasn't he?

She didn't say anything, just held him. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him against her chest.

But then Carlos pulled away. He stood up, leaving Y/N on the ground, and finished his cigarette. She watched him, unmoving. Unsure of what to do, she only watched him. Confusion was written on her face as Carlos finished his cigarette and walked back into the cabin, leaving her there on the floor.

Y/N immediately stood up and dusted herself off. She followed after him, pushing her way into the cabin.

Carlos stared at her. She stared at him. Neither of them said anything. His hair was a mess, like for the few seconds he had been alone he was pulling at hit. His eyes were red but no tears stained his face.

She wasn't going to let him be an asshole to her, not anymore. As much as she wanted to attack, demand his respect, she couldn't do that. That wasn't who she was.

Instead she walked over to him and, again, wrapped her arms around him. "Just talk to me," she whispered and ran her fingers through his hair, trying to sort it out. But then she read the words on the screen in front of him.

CSS DEAD

Carlos Sainz Senior was dead.

Taglist (open): @multi-universe21 @formulas-bitch @gills-lounge @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @carlossainzwho @f1lov3r @samaib11 @charli123456789 @queenofmanydreams @ironmaiden1313 @vellicora @glitterf1 @80sloverry @lightdragonrayne @moonayu @bellsalabanccini @topguncultleader @handsupforamiracle @cmleitora @ashy-kit @jenniferrvsesi @barcelonaloverf1life @sbella13 @nicolettecallednikki @darleneslane @thehufflepuffavenger1 @champagneproblems17 @aespie @yukheizcigarettes @rewmuslupin @hollie911 @ashy-kit @ririgy @stqrgir1 @zaynzierulez @minkyungseokie @rafaaoli @carolinesainz @ashies-ln4op81aa23 @measimp @mizelophsun11 @eviethetheatrefreak @andydrysdalerogers @formulaal @graciewrote @biancathecool @evans-dejong

Beyond - s.h. x f!reader

Chapter Five: Somewhere in the Crowd There’s You

a/n: here’s chapter five of my purely self-indulgent fun — a little later than i anticipated because i was sick and got a little derailed. we are half way now and things will be heating up in the next few chapters, haha. wanted to play around with one of my favorite tropes, so here we are with modern day!rich!fake husband!steve harrington x afab!reader.

warnings/tags: (10k words); mentions of alcohol; parent loss, both parties; r has a sister and father; smut in later chapters, so 18+, minors dni; additional tags to be added.

masterlist

-

-

“You sent too much money.” 

It’s your father’s voice that spills down the other line. Gruff in a way that alerts you your fears aren’t for naught, as he’s likely had many sleepless nights since the last you spoke. You recall days as a child, when your mother had been sick, and your father would stay awake all hours of the night, if only to clean up the house so she didn’t have to. To make sure that her worries were only meant to be on getting better and resting. 

“I…have a business and it’s going well,” you explain, chewing on your bottom lip. 

Across the room, Steve’s fluffing pillows and putting a champagne bottle on ice. Your guests will be here soon, likely within the next few minutes, though when your father’s name flashed across your screen you knew you needed to answer. 

“Only a few clients now, but I’m hopeful I’ll pick up more,” you continue, exhaling deeply. “I want you to have it. I know Caroline mentioned needing new shoes. Please let me do this.”

There’s a long pause. “Okay, okay. I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. Clinical year at school, newly married, and now a businesswoman. How is my son-in-law?”

“He’s…” 

Continua a leggere

my house of stone, your ivy grows (and now I'm covered in you)

(Had to send in Taylor Swift for this)

my house of stone, your ivy grows (and now i’m covered in you)

{carlos sainz x fem!oc / reader; charles leclerc x fem!oc / reader}

in which dressmaker!carlos makes a wedding dress for a princess promised to another // a historical au ficlet that is mostly vibes (not quite a fic); written for the fic title ask (what would i write for this title)

warnings: cheating, historical inaccuracies, virginity loss, smut.

She’s a princess, promised to be wed to the prince of Monaco, and Carlos is the son of the royal tailor who comes to make her wedding dress. Straight up when she first meets him, she thinks he’s unbearably handsome - dark lashes and that thick hair and eyes that don’t miss a thing. And because he has to measure her, he has to put his hands on her in delicate places - around the back of her shoulders, her neck, her waist, the length of her legs. He is so respectful - she wishes he could take a few more liberties. His father is ever-watchful, and instructs him in Spanish, which she does not speak. Their common tongue is English, so he translates for his father.

She falls in love with the way he’s gentle - assuring her at every turn that everything’s going to be okay. That she’ll make the most beautiful bride. She’s so alone and scared because what if her husband is mean and cruel? And Carlos looks so sad at the prospect that he has to put down the lace he’s holding and he makes this vow that like, he won’t let that ever happen to her. the dress is so elaborate it takes months - so they become something like friends. Carlos is the only one she knows who’s been to Monaco (apparently they are *most* fashionable and have the best fabrics) and so he teaches her things about the city and its people, draws her maps and sketches of his favourite things there. She’s obsessed with the way his hands move across the paper, with wave-like fluidity and so much care. He’s so handsome, she can’t stop staring at him.

The first draft of the dress she wears… she can’t get the ties done up, so Carlos helps her, his fingers swift and elegant as he cinches her waist in. His warm breath is on her bare neck and she can’t breathe. When the dress is finally smoothed in place, and she gives him a little twirl, there’s this shift in his eyes that tells her he likes how she looks in his creation - more than he can let on. “How do I look?” and he’ll just clear his throat and look away and say, “fine” and mumble something about adjusting the hem because it’s too long.

The day before she’s shipped to Monaco, Carlos does one last fitting - laces her up so tight she struggles to breathe - or maybe it’s the proximity to Carlos that gets her breathless. He stands back to admire his handiwork - and the way the dress simply moulds to her makes him feel something horrific in his belly. His fingers itch to touch - not just the softness of the silk that glides along her curves, not just the way the lace and beading accentuate her beauty… he wants to touch her, without the troublesome covering of clothes, without any barriers of propriety between them.

But she’s getting married - promised to a prince. She’ll be queen someday, and he just cannot ruin that for her. Or for his father.

He doesn’t have to tell her she looks beautiful - she can see it for herself - in the crystal mirror, in the expression of awe and longing in his face. She gives him a last, slow twirl. “It’s beautiful, Carlos.”

“You make it beautiful,” he says, allowing himself this one silly transgressive compliment. “Prince Charles is very lucky.”

She looks sick at the mention of her betrothed - as if it were water to douse flames. “I don’t care what he thinks.”

Carlos scoffs at her naïveté. “You can’t say these things. It’s treason. Nothing is stopping your wedding.”

She gives him this defiant look. “You could, Carlos. We could run away and -”

He has to turn away, because he can’t look her in the face when he tells her that it’s a stupid notion - that Prince Charles will send a whole battalion after them, and they’ll be dead before they can cross any border. And even though it hurts him to do this, he must be the one who thinks logically, who thinks about what’s best for her future. For the peace in their region.

She could care less about their fucking countries. All she wants is a life with him. A quiet, simple life. To have their own little garden, kids running around. To not have to bend to the will and rules of ancient decrees. “You want it too,” she says, reaching for his hand, and he is too weak to pull it away. “I know this, Carlos. You’re going to let someone else have me. Can you bear it, Carlos? Knowing he’s going to be the first one to touch me?”

He stiffens, his fists tightening beneath her hand. “No,” is all he says. “But you make it harder than it has to be.”

“You can’t even look at me, Carlos. Please. Is this how you want our last night together to go?”

He closes his eyes. “How else can it go?”

So she’s mad - at his cowardice, and storms off to sulk in her room, to cry because she doesn’t know how to control anything about her own life - not even about the clothes she wears, or the man she can love. She skips supper and doesn’t let anyone in. She wonders if the window out of her room is high enough for a permanent sort of escape from this life. She lets the morbid possibility fester in her mind, and feels the grief for a life she could have had sinking in deep.

There’s a knock, at her door, seemingly hours later, waking her - she hadn’t realised she’d fallen asleep. It’s a knock that’s familiar - five taps, in rapid succession.

Carlos.

She gets up so fast her head spins, and she runs to the door and practically tears it open.

It’s him. It’s Carlos. He looks worse for wear, too. His eyes red. His lips cracked.

“I can’t marry you,” he says, voice unsteady.

“I don’t care,” she tells him, relief bursting like a dam inside her chest. “I just want you. Even if it’s just for a night. For an hour. A single brief second. I will always want you, Carlos.”

They don’t waste time with crying or tearful confessions - Carlos cups her face and kisses her and the world seems to spin in wild, brilliant colour. He doesn’t want to scare her - but she’s eager for it - begging for him to touch her, their bodies so close it feels so thrilling. She lets him take off the dress he’s made for her - each string slowly undone, a step closer to liberation. She lets the dress fall, reaches for him but he stops her - looks down ruefully at the dress (that will not do!) and he carries it gently to the chair and lays it down as careful as a new bride. She watches him - the pride he takes in his creation, and way his hands smooth over creases, and feels a prickle of anticipation, knowing that if he’s that gentle with a dress…

She feels her knees buckling when he turns back for her - his gaze somewhere caught in the crossroads of feral and tender. His mouth is swollen, he’s breathing heavy, hair mussed. She aches for him in ways she can’t even articulate - doesn’t have the language or experience for it. So he gathers her in his hands like a silk hem he’s tending to, collecting her in his arms and kissing her fully, backing her up against her bed and in the process, pulling off the rest of her clothes, her undergarments, the pins in her hair until it falls loosely, lovely for him. He guides her to lie down on the bed, her hair fanned out, and she’s naked, perfect. He tells her so. She giggles and reaches for his clothes, ordering him to take them off. He is clumsy - so eager that his fingers shake. But it’s charming, somehow.

She admires his body - the trail of hair from his chest to navel, and down south where he’s so hard for her. It’ll hurt, he tells her. But she doesn’t care - she needs him, or she’ll die.

He shakes his head, chuckling at her impatience. There’s so much he wants to show her before that. So he teases her - mouth on her breasts, sucking and nipping until she’s gasping, fingers tight in his hair. Begging him to do more. He likes that order, and moves down, cataloguing every square inch of her that he’s memorised by heart - her measurements, the shape of her - but now instead of just numbers, he knows her softness, her taste. He gets on his knees and licks between her legs and she makes sounds she’s never made with anyone else. Just him.

He doesn’t stop until she comes - until she’s writhing on the bed and wanting more of anything he can give her. His fingers and face are wet with her. He could drown in it. He finally crawls back up over her body when her thighs stop shaking and she’s utterly kissable and pliant and sweet for him. “If you don’t want this,” he says, a hand on her belly to steady her (and him), “you have to tell me.”

“It’s the only thing I want,” she tells him, and he looks so torn and relieved at the same time that she wants to giggle.

He goes slow - so, so slow. It feels strange - like an ache that builds to a sharp, stretch. At times she tells him to stop - and he does, because he’s patient - doesn’t want to hurt her. The start-stop motion absolutely kills him, because being inside her, so tight he feels like he’s not going to last, makes him greedy and stupid - some primal part of him wanting to keep going, and not stop until she’s full of him - and he’s got to turn his animalistic brain off immediately because he’ll end up chaining her to the bed and never letting her out of his sight.

But he knows it’s not possible. She’ll be married and a queen and all he can have is just this one night that they’d stolen for themselves.

Her face is a grimace when he’s all the way inside, and he’s cradling her face and whispering tender things to her, soothing over the ache, until she’s ready for more. He kisses her through the slow thrusts, until she gasps his name and tightens up around him and he knows he’s not going to last long. He’s has to pull out. If she’s pregnant - she’ll hang for it.

But she grasps him close, pleads for him not to stop - she doesn’t care. Let her have this from him. A reminder. A last goodbye.

Carlos doesn’t stop himself. He doesn’t have the will to pull away, to pull out. They’re being foolish. He doesn’t care to think about consequences when he loves her, and he’s basking in the afterglow of their shared intimacy.

There’ll be hell to pay, but he’ll pay it a million times over.

-

The wedding is a splendid, beautiful affair. Carlos and his father are invited, of course, and he’s sick - with grief, with jealousy. He can’t bear to see her in her dress - the one he’s made with his own hands. He tucks his hand in his pocket and feels for the little square of excess fabric he’s kept from her dress - his last little token before he has to let his obsession with her go.

He darts a glance at the groom - Prince Charles, tall and so handsome, and hates him with a vicious anger that the prince does not deserve.

He ought to feel some measure of guilt, maybe. He’d taken what was owed to Charles, what had rightfully belonged to him. But he doesn’t care to feel shame over his actions.

On cue, she steps into the church, and he composes himself before he allows himself to look at her. She’s ethereal - like a vision he must have dreamt up. He doesn’t think the dress could have survived the sea journey, but it does, and she’s resplendent in it.

She gives him a look as she passes him in the pews - her smile masking the sadness in her eyes. He bites down on his lower lip and wills himself to stop. To hold back. There’s nothing more he can do. It’s her destiny. It’s for the peace treaty. For the greater good.

He does not think about her soft skin, or the taste of her mouth. He does not think about how freeing it feels to run his hand through her hair. Or to have her curl up on his chest and sleep through the night. To make her moan his name as she comes.

The rituals sicken him. He sits and stands and feels nausea building as he watches Charles take her hand and they light a single candle. She pledges vows of fidelity and love and he feels nauseous when Charles promises the same back.

They are married. He is doomed.

-

He stays away, for days, weeks, throwing himself into his work because he’s tasked to make more dresses, now that she has a new position in society as the prince’s wife, with all the social events lined up for her. He doesn’t want to visit her - having memorised her measurements by heart, and sends the dresses through messenger.

Each time, they’re returned with a letter she writes by her own hand - begging him to come to her, wanting to talk to him, at the very least.

He ignores all these, and does his job. He will not make an adulteress of her.

The next dress that comes back is ripped to shreds, and he sighs at the petulance, understanding her frustration, her anger. This little part of her life is the only thing she can control, and he does not blame her for finding ways to express herself when clearly she has no way of doing so in court, or with her own husband.

-

He runs into her at a ball, one that his father badgers him to attend, because it’s polite and he needs to rub shoulders with the elite of society. But Carlos hates the pomp and pageantry and wants only to go back to his sewing.

At least the ball has his second favourite activity - drinking. He downs more cups of wine that he can count, and so when he finally gets a glimpse of her arriving fashionably late - his wine-addled mind can only supply the thought - god, she’s so fucking beautiful.

She ignores him throughout the ball, and he watches her dance with man after man, seething each time their hands get too familiar with her. And then, she dances with her husband, and some sick part of him wishes she were miserable with him, or maybe that they hated each other. But when she sees her face light up as Charles takes her in his arms and twirls her through a waltz, he feels like it’s the final nail in the coffin.

He sets his cup down, and leaves the ball - his heart in tatters. He walks out to the gardens to brood - to walk off his anger, his grief.

He does not expect to her voice calling out for him - her hand reaching for his. He turns suddenly and yanks his hand away, his face dark. “Don’t,” he warns, voice low and soft. “Don’t touch me. Please.”

“Carlos.” Her voice is guilty, but there’s vulnerability there. He cannot fall for it again. “Just hear me out, please.”

“There’s nothing to say,” he insists. “You’re married.”

“It’s not what I wanted.” She’s bitter, full of tears. “It’s not what we could have had.”

Carlos shakes his head. “This is not making it easier. You need to leave.”

“No,” she says, stepping closer. Carlos can’t look at her. “Carlos. I still love you.”

He laughs - dry. “Didn’t look like it when you were dancing with your husband.”

“What do you want me to do?” She throws up her hands, the exasperation clear. “To sulk and be miserable my whole life, like you’re doing? I’m sorry I’m not you, and that I don’t hate Charles.”

Carlos flinches at his name. They fall into silence.

“He’s nice to me.” She says, after a beat. “He’s kind, and gentle. And yes, I don’t know anything about him. Not like I know you. But… I could love him. Just like I love you, too.” She takes a breath. “But it does not mean my love for you is gone, Carlos. It’s always there. It will always be there.”

He shakes his head. “It can’t be. That’s impossible.”

He sits on a stone bench he finds, dizzy from the alcohol and her confession. “Carlos,” she says, “it’s true. It can be true if you want it to be.”

“And what about your husband, hm? You’ll make a fool of him. You’ll hurt him. That’s not love.” He gives her an appraising look. “Does he know?”

She hesitates, fiddles with her fingers. “No. But I will tell him-”

He stands up, sudden, swift. “No. You will do no such thing. You understand we will be put to death, right? This is not some fantasy you’re thinking of - it’s our lives, cariño. My dad will be disgraced. Your parents, exiled. You can’t throw all of that away just for…”

“Love.” She reaches up to wipe away unshed tears. “I know, Carlos. I know. I have a lot of time to think about it.”

She lets her eyes flutter shut, and a long, desperate sigh escapes her. “I miss you. All the time, I miss you. I think about you when I’m alone. When I’m eating your favourite meal or snack. When he’s kissing me.”

“This is making it worse.” He wipes a hand down his face, as if a headache is forming. “And so what do you want to hear, huh?” He faces her now, tall, imposing. “That I think of you too? I can’t sleep a single night without dreaming of you? That I haven’t touched another woman since you?”

Her eyes widen. “Carlos.” She steps forward - he does not retreat. She lets her hand brush his, and the spark between them ignites.

“It’s all your goddamn fault.” He whispers, defeated. He lets himself hold her hand - the illicit intimacy warming him more than anything else in the past weeks. “It can come to nothing, you know.”

She nods. He lets his free hand run up her arm, her shoulder, her neck, leaving goosebumps. He cups her face, and strokes her cheekbone with his thumb. “This is all we can have,” he whispers. “A kiss.”

She meets him halfway, mouths open and greedy. She can’t get enough of his body pressed to hers, feels hungry in a way she’s beginning to understand intimately. He swears when her fingers wrap around the back of his neck and pull him in closer, until they’re almost stumbling back into the bushes. He steadies her, but she lunges for him again - kissing until she’s backing him up against a pillar and grinding herself into him - eager, hot. He groans at the friction - too much, not enough. “Touch me, please.” She begs and he can’t help himself - hands already pulling aside the fabric of her goddamn dress - he curses himself for making it so heavy - and over her undergarments where he can feel the heat of her. He touches her and relives the memory of that night - feeling heat coil inside him as her face blooms with pleasure - and she crying out his name, her own hand teasing over the bulge in his pants, and he’s so shameless - can’t stop the thrust of his hips into her touch. She kisses him and he swallows her moans and the sound of his name and when they both come, he feels nothing except bliss - golden, sweet bliss that is unlike anything he’s ever felt.

-

She haunts him. At every social gathering, every ball, every dinner they have in common.

They find secret corners, little unattended rooms. Nobody cares that she disappears for brief periods of time.

They grow bolder. She lets him visit her when Charles is away on a month-long expedition - on the premise of tailoring her newest dress. He spreads her out on her marital bed and eats her out until she’s having to muffle her screams in case her ladies in waiting come. He fucks her into the pillow that her husband sleeps on - kisses her until he’s drunk on love and lust and everything in between. He hates himself but he hates this more - being away from her, being unable to touch her, to fill himself up on her.

It all goes to shit, though, when Charles returns - and she realises she hasn’t bled in months.

She’s pregnant. They haven’t been careful, not even a bit. She sends word to Carlos - it’s the worst and best news he’s heard.

Charles is ecstatic, of course. An heir. He’s always wanted many children.

She has to order new dresses. The ones she wears now don’t fit her. Carlos has to take her measurements. God - it’s torture. Seeing her grow big with a baby (his? They won’t know for sure, would they?). Seeing her put her hands on her little belly. His own heart aching to hear her describe her morning sickness, her backaches, her swollen feet.

He is careful not to touch her in a way that would tempt him (an absurd thing, really - she’s already pregnant, and he can’t fuck this up any more than he already has). But she’s delicate and he feels this protective instinct rising up whenever he’s in close proximity to her. He can’t hurt her. He can’t hurt her baby. Their baby.

He hears about her going into labour in the middle of the night - and he paces the floor, his nerves shot to pieces. He knows the facts - the dangers of birth. Mothers who die from blood loss, babies who never survive beyond their first cry. He wishes he were less useless of a man. He wants to do something - anything. He does not sleep and begs his servants for gossip, hoping for news.

Two days later, they finally put him out of his misery. It’s a girl - beautiful, healthy, sweet. Both mother and baby are safe. Carlos cries when he hears the news. He trembles when he receives her letter - come visit, please.

He brings his father, because he’s not sure if he can bear the trip alone. He’s nervous, anxious, wondering if there’s anything that will prepare him for the sight of the love of his life holding a baby that might very well be his.

She’s confined to her bed, and aside from the paleness and dark eye circles, she looks safe and healthy. He thinks she looks beautiful, and wishes he could kiss her. But then the midwife brings over the baby and his knees almost buckle.

There’s no mistaking it. That baby is all his - dark brown eyes, full hair. Soft cheeks that look like his nephew’s. He never thought his heart could love something so much - until now.

He gets to hold her, and his father leans in too, captivated by the little child that spells good news for their region. Carlos almost rolls his eyes when his father declares, “they’ll need a boy, next.”

But she’s perfect, in Carlos’ eyes. Soft and smelling like her mother. Carlos eventually has to let her go. He places her in her mother’s arms and mouths, “i love you” secretly, so no one can see.

He leaves the palace with a lightness in his chest, and wonders how he can feel so happy and so empty at the same time.

-

a/n: a deranged and fun historical!au that i was plotting and planning for a long time with plenty of time skips so that i could tell the story i wanted without fussing about details. Thanks for giving me the chance to write about it, Mar!

‧˚⊹ 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗹 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗼𝗻𝘀 ଓ :: 𝗖𝗟𝟭𝟲 ‧₊˚⤾

╭╯ pairing . . . charles leclerc x fem! driver! reader ) ┊ summary . . . forgetting is troublesome especially when you used to be enemies ) ┊ genre . . . angst, slight smut) ┊ song . . . link ) ╰╮ warning . . . includes smut on chapters: 2 + 3, being mean to charles, google translated french )

( masterlist ) ( requests ) ( taglist )

:: PART ONE | angst ❭ ↳ feels like time travel, everything is not the way you left it )

:: PART TWO | angst + minor smut ❭ ↳ weirder and weirder, new information's not always wanted )

:: PART THREE | angst + smut ❭ ↳ you must pull an arrow back so it can go forth )

:: PART FOUR | fluff / angst + smut ❭ ↳ baby steps )

:: PART FIVE | fluff ❭ ↳ we must be there, we have reached heaven )

:: PART SIX | angst ❭ ↳ what have you done?! )