#Harley Sunday x Sebastian Stan | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

harley-sunday · 2 years

Text

Accurate

Summary: You’re not sure what your new neighbour is up to with all his late-night drumming sessions, but when you go over to ask if maybe he can keep it down a little things take an unexpected turn.

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x reader (F)

Warnings: Language. NSFW. 18+

Word count: 3.4k

AN: I actually wrote this a while ago but never posted it and now with Pam & Tommy being released well, here we are :) Shoutout to Chris Evans, who’s quote, “All my fingering is accurate” was a great inspiration for this one.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," you slam your book shut and fling it across the bed, a little annoyed when it bounces off the comforter and onto the floor but decide it can stay there if it wants. You grab your phone off the night stand and hoist yourself out of bed with an exaggerated sigh and grab the nearest piece of clothing, which happens to be your old college sweater, pulling it over your head as you make your way downstairs, not bothering to change out of your pajama pants because as far as you're concerned this should only take a minute.

“Fuckin’ new neighbours,” you mutter quietly as you make your way down the stairs. They moved in some time last week and you’ve been very patient with them until now, ignoring the late night drum sessions from last night and the night before, but now it’s almost eleven on a Sunday night and you have a job to get to tomorrow morning, thank you very much. Once you've reached the bottom of the stairs you slip into the neon green crocs your best friend got you as a birthday present last year, because even though you told her how much you hate them over and over and over again, they really do come in handy. Not that you"ll ever admit it, of course, but that's not the point.

Taking your keys off the side table you head outside, briskly walking over to the neighboring house, arms folded in front of your chest in an attempt to shield yourself from the cool night breeze. You stomp up the front steps and use the side of your fist to bang on the door, the fact that you’re on beat with the noise coming from inside not doing anything to better your mood. While you wait for someone to open the door you take in the one plant that’s adorning the front porch and try to decide whether it’s nice that they tried to decorate or a just a half-assed attempt, because the plant looks more dead than alive.

There’s no reaction coming from inside and so you try again, this time using both your hands, growing more annoyed with each passing second. Finally they seem to have heard you because the silence that suddenly surrounds you is almost deafening. The light in the hallway comes on then and you prepare yourself to go off at whoever answers the door but when it finally opens all you can do is let out a quiet, “Oh.”

The man in front of you is wearing a white t-shirt that stretches across his chest and does nothing to hide the full sleeves of tattoos that run down his arms. The grey sweatpants he’s got on are hanging low on his hips and he looks, well, fucking hot to be honest and weirdly familiar and honestly you don’t even remember why you came here.

“Can I help you?” His voice is a little rough but there’s the hint of a smirk playing on his lips as he raises his eyebrows while he looks at you.

“Uh, yeah, I, uh,” you shake your head, trying to gather your thoughts while trying to figure out who he reminds you of. Taking a deep breath you try again, “I live next door-” you nod towards your left and watch as he cranes his neck to see your house. It’s then you spot his neck tattoo and you know exactly who he reminds you of. You narrow your eyes at him, taking in his facial features because this can’t be, right? That guy must be well over fifty now and your new neighbor definitely isn’t. Or-

“So you live next door,” he says, pulling you out of your thoughts and back into the conversation, looking at you with an amused grin.

“Yeah, I-” you shake your head, still a little confused. It’s like your voice has a mind of its own then and you hear yourself blurt out, “Are you Tommy Lee?”

The man laughs and hangs his head, shaking it ever so slightly, “No.”

“You really look like him,” you tell him, pointing at your neck and arms to let him know it’s the tattoos that made you think so.

“Yeah, I, uh-” he runs a hand through his hair, looking a little insecure. He shrugs, “I’m an actor and-”

“Oh,” you reply, because finally it clicks. “You’re shooting that Pamela and Tommy Lee thing over at Universal?”

He nods, “Yeah.”

“Ok,” you draw out, “now it makes sense.” The wind picks up then and you feel a shiver run through you.

He narrows his eyes at you and nods to the hallway behind him, “You wanna come inside for a second, maybe have a neighborly drink? I never got round to introducing-”

“I should really head back,” you tell him with what you hope is an apologetic smile, because fuck, you’re going to get in trouble if you don’t back out now. “I have work tomorrow morning.”

There’s an mischievous look in his eyes before he tells you, “No problem,” with a shrug and a sly smile that sends heat to your cheeks, “but I really do think we should get to know each other a little better, you know, as neighbors.”

“Uhu,” you draw out, not missing the way his eyes travel down your body before they land on- Oh God, the Crocs. “I should go,” you mutter and turn around. “Sorry for disturbing you,” you say from over your shoulder.

You think you hear him say, “Not at all,” but by then you’re already on the sidewalk and rushing back to your own house, silently cursing your decision to leave your home looking like this and not missing the fact that you never even told him to stop with the drumming.

=X=X=

It isn’t until Friday that the drumming starts again and at first you try to ignore it because it isn’t that late just yet, but by the time midnight rolls around and he’s still going at it you decide to head over once again. You’re better prepared this time, still dressed in jeans and a sweater and opting for your sneakers rather than the Crocs. It’s still cold and so you grab a scarf and loop it around your neck before you once again grab your keys and head over.

The drumming stops on your first knock and there’s a part of you that wonders if he’s been expecting you, if maybe he did this on purpose, but then you tell yourself no, of course not, he’s just practicing for his role.

The door swings open and then he’s there, the same sly smile on his lips as last week, “Hello neighbor.”

“Hi,” you try to smile but can’t seem to focus on anything but his biceps stretching the material of his t-shirt and so you clear your throat but before you have the chance to say anything else he steps aside.

“Come in,”

“No, I-”

“I’ve been keeping you awake with the drumming, haven’t I?” He doesn’t wait for a reply and instead just shrugs, “The least I can do is offer you a drink.”

It doesn’t really work like that, you want to say, but before you have a chance to protest he turns around and walks inside, not waiting to see if you’ll follow him. You shake your head and take a deep breath, but then decide you might as well. Something about being a good neighbor and all that. That’s what you tell yourself anyway.

The house is surprisingly clean and organized, neat stacks of books on the sideboard that’s lining one of the walls and something that looks like a yoga mat rolled up in the corner. The drum kit is set up in the corner where you’d expect the dining room table to be, but that has been moved to the middle of the room. There’s a comfy looking couch near the window, with a low coffee table in front of it, and a TV hanging on the opposite wall. Except for the books there are no other knick knacks and if anything it all feels very temporary. You figure it must be, because it’s not the first time the house’s been rented out to a production company.

He’s on your left, pouring you what looks like a glass of something strong before he walks over to you and hands you the half-filled glass, holding up his own, “Cheers, neighbor.”

“Cheers,” you reply with a shake of your head, still not convinced this was a good idea.

“I’m Sebastian, by the way,” he says after taking a drink.

You offer him your name and take a sip of your drink, feeling the Bourbon burn its way down your throat in not an entirely unpleasant way.

“So,” he says and nods towards the couch, “have you lived here long or?”

“You really don’t have to do this,” you tell him as you sit down, folding one leg beneath you so you can face him. “Honestly, I just came here to ask you to maybe keep it down a bit with the drumming.”

He nods, “Yeah, sorry about that,” he points his glass at the drumkit, “I have a big performance scene coming up next week so I wanted to get some last-minute practice in but-”

“It’s fine,” you’re quick to reassure him, because you feel guilty all of a sudden even though you’re not sure why. “If it’s just for another few days I’m sure I can manage.”

“No, no-” he holds out his free hand to you, “-I don’t want to bother you. I just,” he hangs his head, “I just want to get it right, you know?”

“Honestly, it’s fine,” you offer with a smile. “Just, maybe stop at like midnight?”

“Will do,” he replies with a nod.

“Thank you,” you finish your drink in one go, earning you a surprised look from him. “I really should go-”

“You keep saying that,” he says, his voice low and a little rough.

You bite your lip and look down because fuck, there’s a weight behind his words that you’re not sure you want to take on right now. Your last relationship ended four months ago and you’ve just gotten your life back together, have just found out that you’re actually doing quite alright all by yourself and you’re not sure if you want to give that up right now. If that even is what he’s implying because maybe you are reading way too much into this and he didn’t mean it like that and-

“Can I at least show you what I’ve been working on?”

The way he looks at you makes you a little weak in the knees despite the fact that you're still sitting down and so all you can do is nod.

He puts his glass down and walks over to the drum kit, sitting down on the stool behind it with a shy smile and it intrigues you that he seems both so sure and insecure of himself at the same time. You shift in your seat and watch him as he picks up the drum sticks and twirls one of them around in his hand, the agility of his fingers not entirely lost on you and you have to bite your lip to stop yourself from commenting on it.

Still twirling the stick in between his fingers he sticks out his tongue and Jesus Chris he looks fucking hot. You let out a laugh, trying to hide how flustered you feel, “What are you doing?”

“Tommy Lee,” he deadpans with a grin and then he starts playing, the melody vaguely familiar even though you’ve never really listened to Mötley Crüe. He finishes shortly after, looking at you expectantly.

“It sounds good,” you tell him with a smile.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You wanna give it a go?” He holds out the drum sticks to you and raises his eyebrows, licking his lips at the same time.

“Sure” you reply, because why not? You put your glass down next to his and make your way over to him, taking the sticks before you join him behind the kit, where he’s stood up to make room for you on the stool. You feel his chest against your back as he adjusts the height of the stool without asking, catching a whiff of his cologne then and are you surprised he smells like rosewater and liquid sex? No. No you aren’t. You clear your throat, trying to act casual, “Ok, so what do I do now?”

You hear him laugh behind you, “You just hit it.”

Sitting up on the stool you plant your feet firmly on the ground and hit one of the drums, surprised to find the stick bouncing off it with ease and you almost lose your grip. This really isn’t for you, you decide almost immediately and so you slouch back in your seat, “Why don’t you show me that twirling trick instead?”

“Yes ma’am,” he replies with a chuckle. You feel more than see him squat beside you while he gently takes the sticks out of your hand. He looks up at you with a grin, “Ok, so what you wanna do is hold it between these two fingers,” he takes your hand and places one of the sticks between your index and middle finger, the warmth radiating off his skin not lost on you. “And then just move your fingers back and forth like this,” he says as he shows you using the stick in his hand.

It looks easy, but you soon discover that it isn’t and so you let out a frustrated groan, “This is terrible.”

He’s still squatting beside you and when he looks up at you there’s a gleam in his eye and a mischievous smile on his lips, “Yeah, it takes some pretty accurate fingering.”

“Huh,” you croak out, your voice stuck somewhere in your throat because what the fuck is he getting at. You feel the heat rise to your cheeks and then your voice does that thing again where it speaks before you have had the chance to filter any of what comes out, “So you’d say your fingering is pretty accurate?”

“All my fingering is accurate,” he replies, his voice low and full of promises, still looking at you.

Shit. You let out a ragged breath, trying to keep some of your cool but failing. Hard. It feels like there’s a war going on inside of you, your mind telling you this isn’t a good idea, that you’ve just got your life back together, that this is just someone who you don’t even really know, except that apparently he’s an actor playing Tommy Lee. You’re not even sure the tattoos are real at this point. But then there’s the rest of your body that wants nothing more than to give in to whatever it is you’re being offered right now. You’re still trying to figure out what you want when he carefully takes the stick from in between your fingers and places it on one of the drums together with the one he was holding. You look at him as he stands up, and decide to throw any and all caution in the wind right then and there, your own voice a little rough now too, “Show me.”

His eyes grow wide and he looks at you even more intently as he holds out his hand for you to take. When you do he pulls you to your feet and into him, his eyes falling to your lips, “Tell me to stop and I will, but-”

“Don’t stop,” you reply almost immediately and push yourself against him to show him you mean it. You put your hands on his chest, trying to keep yourself steady because something tells you’re going to need the support.

He licks his lips and lowers his head, his warm breath hitting your skin before his lips brush against yours. His hands find their way into your hair as he pulls you even closer, deepening the kiss in a way that makes your knees buckle and your head spin.

Letting your tongue run across his lips you let him know you want more, need more of this, and when he parts his lips you let your tongue slip in, finding his effortlessly. It’s familiar, and weird, and confusing, but it feels so good and so you continue exploring his mouth and the way he tastes, all while your hands are on a journey of their own, your fingers tracing the skin on his arms, and his chest, and his stomach, and you can’t help but marvel at just how well-defined his muscles are.

He breaks contact long enough for you to catch your breath and for him to guide you around the drum kit towards the couch, hitting the light switch as he passes it, engulfing both of you in darkness, the faint glow from street light on the other side of the road almost but not quite reaching into the living room. With one arm around your waist he sits down, taking you with him and making you straddle his lap.

The slight panic from earlier has made way for pure lust and you grind your hips against his, smiling when you feel him press against your core. You dip your head down and place open-mouthed kisses along his jawline, your hands in his hair as you pull his head back to give you better access.

His mouth is on your shoulder, teeth softly scraping your skin and you think you hear him mutter something about a warm welcome into the neighborhood but you’re too busy trying to keep track of where his fingers are on your body to pay much attention to anything else.

Your sweater gets lifted, his hands on your hips as his mouth slowly moves from your collarbone to your throat to your jaw and finally to your mouth where he kisses you with a sense of urgency, letting you know he’s as ready for this as you are. This time it's his tongue that slips in between your lips and when you taste him again you grind your hips against his in reply, creating some friction that you so desperately need.

He grabs onto your hips tighter, fingers digging into your skin as he bites your bottom lip ever so gently. It turns you on more than you’ll ever admit, but you also realize you want more and so you pull back and slide off him in one fluent motion. You end up standing in front of him, his hands still on your hips as he looks up at, his lips swollen and his pupils blown wide.

You allow yourself one moment to catch your breath, trying to figure out your next move without coming off as too needy when all of a sudden he stands up and gently pushes you backward, carefully avoiding the coffee table, until he has you pinned against the wall. He holds himself up with one hand while the other skilfully unbuttons your jeans. He puts his mouth close to your ear then and asks, “You ready?”

All you can do is nod.

“Need to hear you say it,” he whispers, his voice low and full of promises you can’t wait for him to keep.

“Show me,” you tell him again and it’s all the confirmation he needs.

He keeps his mouth close to your ear as you feel him tug on your zipper, pulling it down ever so slightly but not unzipping it all the way. Just as you’re trying to figure out what he’s doing he slips his hand into your jeans, cupping your mound. His long fingers press against your panties and you have to keep from crossing your legs to increase the pressure because God, it feels so good.

“So wet already,” he says when he pushes the fabric aside and runs one finger through your folds, making you arch your back off the wall. His thumb is rubbing your clit slowly but with vigor and you let out a content sigh.

You throw your hands around his shoulders and pull him closer, grinding against his hand when you feel him at your entrance, a moan escaping you when he pushes one finger inside, “Oh God.”

Your jeans restrict his movements but instead of taking them off you help him by moving with him, pulling back and moving forward whenever he does.

“So tight,” he growls, slowly working his finger inside you while running his lips across your jawline. He kisses you then, just as he slides in a second finger, scissoring them to open you up even more. His lips ghost over yours, “God, you’re beautiful.”

You let your head fall back when he starts to pick up the pace and know your orgasm is fast approaching. His fingers slide in and out of you with ease now, the rhythm you both are setting perfectly in sync, and so you try to warn him that you’re close, but he does something then, arches his fingers just right while his thumb rubs tight circles on your clit, and you let out a gasp.

“Look at me,” he says, nudging your chin with his nose ever so gently. When you do he nods appreciatively and picks up the pace even more, “That’s it. Look at me when you come, sweetheart.”

The way he’s looking at you, the way he keeps hitting that sweets spot within you, the way his thumb rubs your clit, it’s too much. Too much. And so you do as you’re told. You look at him as your orgasm washes over you, waves of pleasure running through your body at full speed until you’re certain you are going to explode.

He slows his movements but keeps his fingers inside as you ride out your orgasm, whispering both sweet nothings and dirty everythings into your ear until you’re finally down from your high.

Before he has a chance to do anything, you reach down and grab his wrist, wrapping your fingers around it as you pull his hand out of your jeans and bring it up to your lips, your tongue lapping at the juices that coat his fingers, cleaning them off. He groans as you put them in your mouth, sucking them clean before you let them go with an audible pop, a grin spreading on your lips when you say, “You were right.”

He furrows his brow, “I-”

“Your fingering is very accurate.”

#Sebastian Stan fanfic #Sebastian Stan x reader #Sebastian Stan imagine #Harley Sunday x Sebastian Stan #Pam & Tommy

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harley-sunday · 3 years

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Hello?

Summary: You walk in on your boyfriend who’s doing, well, you’re not sure exactly what.

Pairing: Sebatian Stan x reader [F]

Warnings: Language. Smut. Blowjob.

Word count: 1.6k

AN: I’m sure by now you’ve seen Sebastian’s video on IGTV, I know I did. Multiple times *insert heart-eyes emoji*. Anyway, my mind wandered and then this happened and yeah, enjoy :) ♥

You overestimated yourself, you know you did, but you’re too stubborn to admit defeat and so here you are, schlepping three grocery bags, two pizza boxes, and a Christmas tree up the six flights of stairs needed to get to your apartment. The bottle of wine on the bottom of one of the bags keeps hitting your thigh at regular intervals and does nothing to help your balance. One more, you think to yourself when you round the landing in between the second and third floor, all while quietly cursing yourself for forgetting about the scheduled elevator maintenance today.

The plastic of the grocery bags has started to dig into your skin and you’re sure it’s going to leave a mark, but then you finally make it to your floor, a little out of breath and a lot frustrated. You set the Christmas tree down, letting it lean against the doorframe for support, and use your free hand to fish around your pocket for your keys. It’s then you hear the faint sound of music drifting out of your apartment, a song you don’t think you recognize, although that could be because there’s no music, just singing.

You wedge the pizza boxes between yourself and the wall while you try to get the key into the lock without being able to see what you’re doing, using your finger for guidance instead. When you finally get it in and unlock the door, you use your foot to push it open so you can pick up the Christmas tree again and make your way inside, still refusing to make two trips. You’re about to call out for some help but the scene in front of you makes you stop dead in your tracks, a quiet, “Jesus Christ,” escaping you.

He turns around at the sound of your voice, looking rather bewildered and a little ashamed. Scrambling to get up he clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair before he says, “Hey, babe,” as if nothing happened.

You’re at a momentary loss for words and so you just stare at him, the grocery bags, pizzas, and Christmas tree still in your hands temporarily forgotten. It’s then you spot his phone, propped up against the garbage can, his camera app now only recording his feet. You look back at him then, “I- What?” Shaking your head you let your eyes travel around the kitchen the half empty bottle of wine on the counter sort of helping to explain what is going on, but also not really. You can feel your hand start to tremble from the weight of everthing you’re still holding and so you turn around and gently slide the pizza boxes onto the counter before you set the grocery bags down on the floor. The Christmas tree gets to lean against the fridge while you unzip your jacket and shrug it off, hanging it on the coat rack in the hall.

“I can explain,” he tries, hands now resting on his hips after he’s tugged his sweater down. He reaches down then and grabs his phone off the floor, tapping the screen to end the recording.

“Uhu,” you draw out. “To me though,” you say with a nod to his phone, “it looks like you were lying on the floor, giving a very heartfelt rendition of Lionel Richie’s ‘Hello’.” There’s a hint of colour showing up on his cheeks and it’s so endearing you struggle to keep a straight face, “Bit pitchy though, babe, have to admit.”

“That’s a little harsh,” he says, doing his best to look offended but failing because you both know it’s the truth.

“Is it, though?” You tease with a tilt of your head while making a face.

“Yeah,” he nods, holding his hand up to you, thumb and index finger only slightly apart, “little bit.”

“Aw,” you pout for extra effect, “want me to make it up to you?”

“I feel like you should, yeah,” he says, dropping his hand and beckoning you over with a nod.

You walk towards him, a teasing smile on your lips as your fingers find the fabric of his sweater and tug at it, pulling him closer. Standing up on your toes, you let your eyes fall to his mouth but you decide to tease him a little more and so you move your lips to his jawline, pressing soft kisses to his skin wherever you go. One hand slides under his sweater then, fingers splayed out against his abs as your mouth finds his again and you kiss him for real.

He opens his mouth almost instantly and sucks on your bottom lip, his hands in your hair to keep you where he wants you. He’s kissing you hard and when he runs his tongue between your lips you part them eagerly, your teeth clicking against his when he pulls you closer, and you can feel yourself getting wet.

Your tongue finds his then and you swirl yours around it, tasting a hint of red wine that’s not entirely unpleasant. Your hands, meanwhile, have other plans and are tugging at the hem of his jeans. It doesn’t take long before you’ve unbuttoned them and when you do, you pull back a little, your lips barely touching his, just as you slide one of your hands down his jeans and cup him over his boxers.

“Fuck,” he pants, gently dragging his teeth over your lower lip before he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. His tongue runs along your jawline before he nips at the pulse points just below your ear, licking and biting and sucking and God, does it feel good. His hands have left your hair, one cupping your breast instead, the other on your hip to keep you both steady.

You tilt your head to the side to give him better access while you gently squeeze his balls, relishing the way a shiver runs through him in response.

The hand that was on your hip disappears and you moan at the loss of contact, but you feel it slide into his jeans not much later, cupping your hand with his so that when he curls his fingers yours do too and it might be the hottest thing he’s ever done. He rolls his hips then and you feel him grow even harder in your hand, a quiet groan escaping him when you push your hand against him even more.

Taking advantage of the moment you pull back your hand and gently push him against the wall before you drop to your knees. When you’ve unzipped his jeans you push them down, involuntarily licking your lips when you see the outline of his cock straining against the fabric of his boxers, a bit of precum staining the material. Looking up at him you find him staring back at you through hooded eyes and it makes you even wetter. You ghost your fingers over his cock, teasing him then by gently blowing against the fabric.

“You tryin’ to kill me?” he says through gritted teeth before he takes matters into his own hands and pushes his boxers down.

“Trying to apologize,” you purr, wrapping your hand around his cock. You run your tongue across the tip, while your hand twists up and down his shaft and it isn’t long before he’s completely hard.

His hands are in your hair then, letting you know that he needs you to take him even though he doesn’t push you onto him.

Opening your mouth a little further you let your jaw muscles relax while you flatten your tongue and lean forward, sliding down on him. One hand moves to his hip, the other cupping his balls as you suck him, taking him deep into your mouth. You let your tongue do the work and so it’s a little sloppy but you know that’s how he likes it.

It doesn’t take long for him to curl his fingers into your hair even more, his ragged breaths telling you he’s close.

You hold still against his hands, only the tip of him in your mouth now, and look up at him, the hand that’s on his hip giving it a little squeeze to let him know he’s in control now.

His eyes fly open and he looks down at you, his pupils blown wide with lust, a question in them that you answer with a slight nod. “I love you,” he breathes, before he starts thrusting his hips, slow at first, gentle almost, until he’s sure you can take him and then he starts fucking your mouth in earnest.

He deep throats you a few times, your gag reflex making your throat clench around him, but then suddenly he stills in your mouth and so you hollow your cheeks, creating more friction for him. His movements become more erratic and he lets out a loud groan then, shooting his cum down your throat on his final thrust.

You swallow most of it, the excess dripping down your chin until he pulls back and you wipe it away with the sleeve of your sweater. You feel his fingers under your chin and when he tilts your head upwards you look at him with a sly smile, “Still think you were a bit pitchy, babe.”

He shakes his head but grins, “I was going to return the favour,” he tucks his now soft cock back into his boxers and pulls up his jeans, “but I think you have some more apologizing to do.”

“Yeah,” you reply, cupping him over his jeans again, “that’s going to have to wait until after I put away the groceries and you finish whatever the hell it was you were doing earlier, though.”

Leaning in he gives you a kiss, letting his lips rest against yours when he says, “You’re a tease, you know that?”

“You love me,” you tease and give him a kiss.

He sighs, “I really, really do.”

#Sebastian Stan x reader #Sebastian Stan fanfic #Harley Sunday x Sebastian Stan #sebastian stan instagram

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harley-sunday · 3 years

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The Draw - Epilogue

Summary: The whirlwind starts at the 2018 ACE Comic Con in Phoenix but you’re not sure where it will end…

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x reader (unnamed OFC)

Warnings: Language.

Word count: 1.9k

AN: This it. It’s done. I don’t really know what to say other than that I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. The ending (part 17) was supposed to be something completely different up until last week, when eL convinced me to take the angsty-route. I’m glad she did, because it allowed me to include a piece in the epilogue I wrote a long time ago but never really got to use until now. Thank you, sweets! Here it is, guys, enjoy! ♥

Masterlist

His collar is up and his hands are tucked deep into the pockets of his jacket because it’s cold, much colder than it usually is this time of year anyway. He looks up at the dark sky and wonders if there’s any snow in the clouds that slowly drift by, trying to remember if he’s heard anything about it on the news earlier that day but not recalling a weather warning going out.

He’s on his way home after another meeting with his lawyer, who, for some reason, always insists they meet in a restaurant rather than his office. It’s never during normal business hours either but always late at night, and always somewhere else. At first he was fine with the arrangement but it’s starting to annoy him that the restaurants have become increasingly more expensive and he’s always the one that ends up footing the bill. As if he doesn’t pay his lawyer enough to help him come out of this messy divorce as unscathed as possible.

He shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the guilt that he feels about wasting three years of his life in a loveless marriage that never had a chance of succeeding in the first place. His therapist tells him to look at it as personal growth, but he doesn’t agree, not really, anyway. At least the court date has been set, he thinks, and this should all be over and done with two weeks from now.

He quickens his pace as he lets his mind wander, taking long strides, looking straight ahead and not paying much attention to the few people that are out this late. Most of them ignore him too. It’s New York after all. For a moment he debates the option of hauling a cab to get him out of this cold but he dismisses the idea quickly. He likes the walk home from downtown, it gives him an opportunity to clear his head and helps with the insomnia that sometimes bothers him.

Crossing the street absentmindedly there’s something on the other side that catches his eye. He does a classic double take and then shakes his head, not quite believing what he sees. He must have walked by these storefronts at least a dozen times and tries to recall if the art gallery has always been there, but he simply can’t remember. The black canvas that’s displayed in the window is illuminated from above by a single light bulb, highlighting the various brush strokes going from left to right and top to bottom. He knows it’s called ‘Love’ before even looking at the little card pinned to the bottom right corner, and it’s like someone’s punched him in the gut. He first saw it a few years ago, when it was still a work in progress, standing on an easel in her guest bedroom in Charlotte, the paint still wet, and the black somehow less black.

It’s then he notices the lights inside the building are on and it’s like his body has a mind of its own and before he knows it he’s on his way in. A bell chimes above his head as he enters and he hears a chair being pushed back in response somewhere. The space he’s in is long and narrow, only about fifteen feet wide, but the ceiling’s high and makes it feel more spacious than it is. There’s a wall about forty feet in, with a door that’s slightly ajar, and music flowing in from the back room, some song he thinks he recognizes but hasn’t heard in a long time.

“I am so sorry but we are closed,” the voice is soft, coming from behind the door, but he would recognize it anywhere and he chokes up a little at the familiarity of it all. The door opens a little more then and all of sudden she’s there, exactly like he remembers her, “I must have forgotten to-” but she doesn’t finish her sentence because it’s then she sees him. Her eyes widen in shock and she actually drops the paintbrush she’s holding, her eyes never leaving his.

“Hey,” he says with a foolish grin, because never in a million years did he expect to run into her again, not here, and definitely not tonight.

“Hey,” she mimics, her eyes softening and the hint of a smile on her lips.

He takes the few steps needed to get to her, and for a moment he hesitates, unsure if she’d let him, but then he throws his arms around her and pulls her in for a hug. He can feel her smile against his shoulder, and he presses a kiss into her hair, because God, does it feel good to hold her again.

“Here you go,”

He takes the beer she hands him and waits until she’s uncapped hers before he raises it in a toast. She clinks her bottle against his and takes a swig and he follows suit.

They’re sitting on the floor of what turns out to be her art gallery, their backs against the far wall, looking out on the dark street on the other side of the window. She turned the lights off before she brought him his beer, except for the lone bulb illuminating ‘Love’, and it feels like they’re in a little bubble, shielded from whatever’s going on outside and if someone told them he’d have a way of making this little moment in time last forever, he’s sure he would.

He’s taken his jacket off, using it as something to sit on after she admitted she’s only got one chair here, his legs stretched out in front of him and his head resting against the bare brick wall. He’s got a million questions for her but he’s not sure where to begin and so he takes another sip of his beer instead, letting the silence settle between them.

She’s sitting next to him, close enough that her arm brushes against his whenever she takes a drink and it feels like there are little electric currents running through him every time she does. She looks up at him then, her eyes narrowed, almost as if she’s studying him, “You ok?”

He wants to tell her he’s fine, great even, but the way she looks at him tells him she’ll see straight through any bullshit answer he’ll try to give and so shakes his head, “Not really.”

“Talk to me,”

He opens his mouth to say something but then decides against it. They haven’t seen each other in four years and so much has happened but none of it they went through together and-

“It’s ok if you don’t want to,” her voice is soft and kind. She clears her throat then, “It’s just- I’ve read the articles about your divorce and- Well, the accusations she's made and- I don’t know, Seb, I figured maybe it has something to do with why you’re out this late.”

“Yeah,”

“I’m sorry.”

He lets out a heavy sigh because he doesn’t want to bother her with everything that’s going on in his life, not really, but he also knows she’s a good listener and there’s no one he’d rather talk to than her right now. Looking down he plucks at the edge of the label on his beer bottle, deciding then to be honest with her, “I guess I should have fought harder, should have made it work, I-” another sigh, “They say you never know what you got ‘till it’s gone, right?”

He sees her nod out of the corner of his eye, and then her hand’s on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze and it’s like a bolt of lightning runs through him, “Then why don’t you?”

His eyebrows knit together in confusion, “Why don’t I, what?”

“Fight,” she explains. “Try to make it work. If that’s really how you-”

“Would you let me?”

“I-” she hesitates and pulls her hand back then, “What?”

“I wasn’t talking about her,” he confesses quietly and when he looks up at her he sees her eyes are wide in shock. He tries to smile, “It’s always been you.”

“Oh,” she breathes, her eyes a little glossed over now. She doesn’t say anything else and he doesn’t really know how to go from here so he keeps quiet too. But then she puts her beer down and stands up, holding out her hand to him, “Come on, I wanna show you something.”

He takes her hand and lets her pull him to his feet. She doesn’t let go when she leads him to the front of the gallery, her hand warm against his, and when he gives it a gentle squeeze she smiles at him from over her shoulder and it warms his heart in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

She stops in front of a painting, reaching behind it to turn on the searchlight, the warm light casting a golden glow on the canvas. “I made this one right after we broke up,” she says, her voice a little rough, “took me forever to finish because I couldn’t stop crying.” His heart breaks a little, but she dismisses her statement with a wave of her hand, “I got there in the end. It was like therapy.” A smile then, “I submitted it to a local art competition and I don’t know-” she shrugs but he can tell it’s important, “People seemed to really like it. Someone actually wanted to buy it but I couldn’t- I would never.”

She gestures around her then, “This is all because of that.” He must look confused because she continues, “I kept painting, had some of my work on display in local art galleries, but it wasn’t until I decided to quit my job after Deb retired last year and Mark got appointed as her successor that things really took off. More art shows meant I sold quite a few pieces, enough so I could open my own art gallery anyway.” She looks up at him, “I don’t really know how I ended up in New York, but,” another shrug then, “here I am.”

“Here you are,” he agrees quietly. He doesn’t know how these things work, if it’s karma or faith or destiny he has to thank for this, but he likes to believe that her coming back into his life at this exact moment was meant to be and he vows right then and there to never let her go. There’s still so much he wants to tell her, has to tell her, and he’s sure the same goes for her, but it doesn’t matter. Not now anyway. Now he just says, “If you’ll let me, I’m willing to fight.” He squeezes her hand, “For you.”

“Me too,” she whispers. “For you,” she looks at him then, “and for us.” She lets go of his hand a little, only so she can intertwine her fingers with his, leaning into him, her other hand on his arm. She nods towards the painting, “Do you like it?”

He looks at it then, really looks at it, taking in the different shades of green she’s used, which, even when they’re on opposite sides of the canvas, seem to pull towards each other, always meeting or almost meeting in the middle, and somehow he just gets it. “I do.”

“It’s called ‘The Draw’.”

#The Draw #Sebastian Stan imagine #Sebastian Stan fanfic #Harley Sunday x Sebastian Stan

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harley-sunday · 3 years

Text

The Draw [17]

Summary: The whirlwind starts at the 2018 ACE Comic Con in Phoenix but you’re not sure where it will end…

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x reader (unnamed OFC)

Warnings: Language.

Word count: 3.5k

AN: I’m sorry.

Masterlist

You’re still a little hungover when you make it into the office that next morning, not for the first time glad Deb usually works from home on Monday. You’re not sure you could face her right now without having to explain everything that’s going on. Your phone rings just as you’ve turned your laptop on, the sound only adding to the already-there headache, and so you take the call without looking to see who it is first, answering with a rather curt, “Hello?”

“Hey,”

A shiver runs down your spine when you hear his voice, but you don’t say anything.

He sighs, “I take it you’ve seen the pictures?”

“I have.”

“Will you let me explain or have you made up your mind already?”

There’s such an accusation in his voice that you physically recoil, “What?”

“Sorry,” he says almost immediately, “I’m sorry, that came out wrong.”

You let out a staggered breath, not really knowing how to reply.

“There was a birthday party for one of the cast members,” he starts, his voice much more controlled now. “The girl in the pictures is one of the extras and I don’t know, at one point she told me her grandmother’s Romanian and how she used to go there every year during the holidays and so we were just talking about the country and how much it’s changed over the years, but that’s all.” He clears his throat, “Nothing happened.”

You let his words hang in the air for a moment, the silence between you two deafening and uncomfortable, and it scares you. It’s not that you don’t believe him, but you can’t help but wonder if this is how it’s going to be from now on, with him away for work while you both have to deal with something neither of you had any part in but that’s putting a strain on your relationship nonetheless.

“Talk to me,”

You shake your head even though he can’t see you, “I can’t-” you take a deep breath, “I don’t know if we should do this over the phone, Seb.”

“This?”

“Please don’t,” you whisper, hearing the hurt in his voice. “You know that’s not what-.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“I don’t know, ok?” You close your eyes and lean back in your chair, “I just think we should talk about this face-to-face. When we’re together. Not with a million miles and a few time zones between us.”

“Ok,” he agrees, but you can tell there’s something he’s holding back.

“Ok,” you echo. “So I’ll see you next week?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be seeing you, Stan,” you say, trying to lighten the mood, but by then you hear the call’s already disconnected.

You try to focus on work the rest of the week but often find your mind wandering and so by Friday afternoon you tell Deb you’re taking half a day and head home around lunch time. Trying to distract yourself you decide to clean the house, starting in the bathroom, before you move onto your bedroom, and Jake’s guest bedroom. You’re pretty sure there’s some psychological reason why you feel this sudden need to organize, probably something to do with trying to control what you can, but so far it isn’t really working.

You order a pizza for dinner and while you wait for it to be delivered you decide to tackle the second guest bedroom. It’s not so much a guest bedroom as it is a storage room, one you haven’t really stepped foot into for at least a year or so, and so you’re a bit hesitant when you open the door. A quiet, “Oh,” escapes you because suddenly you remember when you were here last, the proof of it standing on an easel, almost taunting you.

It’s a painting you made right after you found out Mark cheated on you, all your anger put into this one piece, the colour palette nothing but dark blues and greys, almost like a dark storm rolling in, called ‘The Currents’.

Mark made you give up painting when you were together, deeming the abstract work you preferred to make ugly and something his three-year old niece could do. In a way, painting this was your way of claiming your life back and even now it makes you feel happy. It also makes you realize how much you’ve missed painting and you wonder if maybe you should pick it up again.

The doorbell rings then, interrupting your thoughts and so you quickly make your way downstairs, leaving the door slightly ajar as a sort of promise to come back.

Letting yourself in with the key Lauren gave you shortly after she moved into her apartment, you call out, “It’s me!” You hear her reply from the kitchen and so you make your way over there, finding her stirring in a big pot with a glass of wine on the counter beside her. “So, sorry I’m late,” you tell her while you kiss her cheek, “I lost time while I was cleaning the kitchen and-”

“It’s fine,” she smiles while she pours you a glass of wine. “Matt’s just gone out to pick up some more eggs for the Pavlova.”

“Pavlova?” It’s your favourite and she knows it and so you bump your shoulder against hers with a smile, “I love you.”

“I know,” she says with a wink. “I figured I’d better spoil you a little.” Her look turns more serious then, “How are you?”

You shrug, “Ok, I guess. I mean-” you sigh, “I’m just trying to figure out why I’m so upset about this, you know? He told me nothing happened, and I believe him, so why is it still bothering me so much?”

“Are the pictures bothering you, or,” Lauren turns around so she’s facing you, “is it maybe just that you don’t have any control over it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she scrunches up her nose, “I’ve been thinking, and please don’t take offense-”

“None taken,”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say,” she counters with a grin.

“Yeah, but it’s you. I know you and I know you’re not trying to hurt me.”

Her eyebrows knit together then, as she takes in your words. She looks back up at you, “Babe.”

You nod, because you think you know what she’s getting at. “I know you,” you repeat a little slower now, “and I know you’re not trying to hurt me.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” you echo, because fuck, maybe this is it. Or at least part of it. You bite your lip and let your eyes fall to the floor, trying to figure it out. When you look back up you find her staring at you with a sad smile and you know she agrees.

“If it makes you feel any better,” but she knows it probably won’t and so she pulls you in for a hug, “I was going to tell you something along those lines too, but in much more of a go-around kind of a way.”

Before you can say anything else there’s a knock at the door and so she lets go of you, the look on her face letting you know she’s here if you need anything and so you mouth a quiet, “Thank you.”

Matt is exactly how you imagined he would be, a good-looking, down-to-earth guy who is a perfect match for Lauren. You watch them during dinner and can’t help but smile when you see how in love they are.

“So, Matt,” you start when Lauren’s in the kitchen to get dessert. You watch him as he sits up and looks at you expectantly, “You’ve made a pretty good first impression, but as Lauren’s best friend I’m obliged to tell you that first of all,” you hold up a finger for added effect, “I’m not above kicking your ass if you ever do something to hurt her.”

“Noted,” he says with a nod.

“And second, her favourite flowers are Dahlia’s, she hates chocolate but would kill for vanilla Tootsie Rolls, and,” you lean in closer, “if you ever really want to sweep her off her feet, you should take her to go see Hairspray Live.”

He grins, “Thank you.”

“Hey,” you shrug, “anything to make our girl happy, right?”

There’s a knock on your door but before you even have the chance to respond the door opens and you hear a loud, “Hey, loser!” coming from downstairs.

“Hey,” you yell back, while you finish your brushstroke, “I’m upstairs. Guest bedroom.” You smile when you see his head pop into view not much later, “What are you doing here?”

He starts to protest, “Can’t a guy-”

“No, Nate,” you scoff, “not you.”

“Ok, fine,�� he admits, “Sarah made me go check up on you after I told her what happened last week.”

“You can tell Sarah I’m fine,” you reply while you dry your paintbrush on the rag that’s hanging over your shoulder.

“You sure about that?” Nathan asks with a nod towards the half-finished canvas.

“I think I’m going to call it ‘Love’,” you say, as though that explains it all. But then again, it kind of does. “I found my old supplies last week and, I don’t know,” you shrug, “figured I might as well give it a go and see if I still got it.”

“And you’re sure this has nothing to with what’s going on between you and Sebastian?”

“No.” But your answer came a little too fast and you both know it. Nathan just looks at you without saying anything and it isn’t long before you cave, “Of course it has.” You put the paintbrush down and motion for him to follow you downstairs so you can wash your hands and make both of you a cup of coffee.

“You sure you’re ok?”

“I honestly don’t know,” you tell him over your shoulder while you grab two mugs from somewhere inside the cabinet. “I’m afraid we both fucked up this time and that there’s no coming back from this.”

“What do you mean,” he asks, shaking his head, “how was this a joint effort? He’s the one who ended up in the tabloids-”

“Yeah, but I think I made too big a deal out of it.” You sigh, “If I’d just told him, ‘Ok, I heard your side of the story, I believe you’, and moved on, none of this would have happened.”

“But it still would have bothered you,” Nathan says.

As always, your brother hits the nail right on the head and so all you can do is agree, “Yeah, it still would have.”

In through the nose, out through the mouth, you keep telling yourself as you keep watching Exit E, waiting for Sebastian to come through the doors any minute now. His plane landed a little over thirty minutes ago, although it feels like you’ve been waiting here for hours already. You’re nervous and scared and way too emotional for this not to end with tears. In through the nose, out through the- “Oh.”

He’s wearing the same baseball cap he wore the first time you picked him up here almost two-and-a-half months ago although it feels like another lifetime. He keeps his head down as he walks towards you and if anything it makes you even more nervous. You haven’t really spoken since that phone call last week, only sent the occasional text to each other, the distance between you even more palpable with each passing day. It isn’t until he’s just a few feet away from you that he looks up and your heart, oh your heart.

You try to smile, try to say something, but the tears that have threatened to spill all day finally make their way down your cheeks and so you just to stand there, for a moment worried about what will happen next but then he holds out his arms and you step forward, holding onto him with all your might, “Oh, Seb.”

He doesn’t say anything, just holds you, his lips pressed against your temple.

You know you can’t stay here like this and so after a while you let go, running your hands over your cheeks to try and wipe some of the tears away.

“Please don’t cry.”

His voice is soft and brings on a new set of tears, “I’m sorry.”

“Come on,” he picks up his suitcase and puts it in the trunk, “‘I’ll drive.”

The drive over to your house is silent, even though you keep thinking of things you want to say but then deciding against it. You steal quick glances in his direction every now and then, a little worried by the way his jaw is set and his hands are gripping the steering wheel.

It’s early in the evening and the roads are relatively quiet, especially for a Friday, and so he pulls up onto your driveway not much later. You wait for him to get his suitcase before you make your way to the front door and inside. “Did you eat?” Your voice is a little rough and so you try again, “I could make something if you want?”

“I’m good,” he replies from somewhere over your shoulder.

You drop your purse on one of the kitchen chairs before you turn around and face him, “I would offer you a coffee but I guess we both could use something a little stronger.”

“Yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair, “Listen, is it ok if I take a shower first? I’ve been in the air for the better part of the last eighteen hours and-”

“No, of course,” you nod towards the stairs, “go ahead.” You watch him as he carries his suitcase upstairs, something heavy settling inside of you.

You’re curled up in the corner of the couch when he comes back down again, his hair still a little wet and his cheeks still a little rosy, and he surprises you when he sits down next to you and wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him. You let out a heavy sigh, “I fucked up.”

He kisses the top of your head, a “Me too,” whispered into your hair.

You stay like that for a moment, letting him hold you, and you wonder if, like you, he’s putting off the inevitable just a little longer, because as long as the words haven’t been spoken out loud, haven’t been put out into the universe, there’s still a glimmer of hope somewhere. Still, you know you can’t stay like this forever and so after a while you reluctantly push yourself off him and hand him the glass of whiskey you poured him earlier. You raise your own glass towards him before you take a sip, the liquid burning its way down your throat. Knowing it’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do you take a deep breath before you ask, “Will you let me try to explain?”

He tries to smile but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “Talk to me.”

Cupping the whiskey glass in your hands you let your eyes fall, “Remember when we were in Los Angeles and I asked you how you deal with the paparazzi and you told me it’s just part of the job?” You don’t really wait for his reply, “For me it isn’t, Seb. And I don’t know if I can handle this the way you maybe want me to if it happens again.” You clear your throat, “I don’t know if I can get used to this.”

He nods, but doesn’t say anything.

“You told me nothing happened and I believe you,” you continue, “but- I don’t know. I hate how it made me feel.” You hold up your hand when you see he wants to say something, “That’s totally on me, I mean, that’s something I need to work on, but I don’t want it to be something I’m blaming you for, you know? And I’m afraid maybe that’s what will happen if something like this happens again and I just-” You sigh. “I don’t want you to have to reassure me every time I get insecure about our relationship.” You look up at him, “I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” he puts his hand on yours, “it’s ok.”

“No, it’s not,” you scoff, a lone tear rolling down your cheek. “I fucked up, Seb, but I think we both know there’s no coming back from it this time.”

“Hey,” he says again, giving your hand a squeeze to make you look at him, “I don’t want you to take the blame for this, and to be honest, I think neither of us should. Put it on bad timing, or bad luck, or whatever else you can think off, but not on us.” His voice catches on the last word and you notice his eyes are a little glossed over as well. He shrugs, “Sometimes things don’t work out. No matter how much we want them to.”

“But don’t you think we should fight for this,” you try to blink away the onset of tears, “for us?” You wipe your cheeks angrily, “It feels like we’re just giving up and I-”

“We’ve been fighting for a long time,” he says then, his voice barely above a whisper.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, to contradict his words, but then you allow them to sink in and you know he's right. Hell, this all started because he felt like he had to make up for what happened at the Infinity War premiere. You look up at him, a sad smile playing on your lips, “But when it was good-”

“-it was great,” he agrees, his hand now cupping your face and his thumb stroking your cheek.

You bite your lip to keep from really crying, scrunching up your nose before you whisper, “So this is it then?”

He nods slowly, “I guess it is.”

Letting out a ragged breath you get up and make your way towards the kitchen because it feels like you just got punched in the stomach and you’re about to get sick. Leaning over the kitchen sink you cry, big fat tears and heavy sobs, and it hurts, God, it hurts.

He comes up behind you not much later, his hand on the small of your back, “Come here.”

You run a hand under your nose before you stand up and when you turn around you can tell he’s been crying too and your heart hurts even more. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

He wraps you in his arms, “I’m so sorry.”

You nod against his chest because you get it, and so you mutter a quiet, “I’m sorry too.”

You offer him the guest bedroom for the night, because you both agree it’s too late for him to go somewhere else, and when you ask him to please ignore the mess you’ve made while painting, while warning him the paint is still wet and to be careful with his clothes, it feels like such a normal thing to do that it’s almost ridiculous.

It takes a long time before you fall asleep, tossing and turning in your bed, and when you finally do it’s restless, full of dreams you can’t remember but make you feel anxious nonetheless.

It’s still early when you wake up, but you can hear the shower’s already running and you guess he couldn’t sleep anymore either. You wait until you hear him go downstairs before you make your way to the bathroom, the lingering scent of his cologne triggering a fresh set of tears.

When you get downstairs after getting dressed you notice that his suitcase is already by the door and you find him leaning against the counter in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee. You try to smile, “Hey.”

“Hey,” he replies. He runs his hand through his hair, “I uh- I found a flight to New York.”

“Ok.”

“There’s a cab picking me up in ten minutes,”

“Oh.” You nod, because even though it’s way too soon you know there’s no point in dragging this out either. “Ok, uh- Is there anything you need from me?”

He shakes his head, “No.”

“Can I give you one last hug?” Your voice is small and you hate how insecure you sound, but he nods anyway and so you step into his arms, wrapping yours around his waist. A sob escapes you then and he pulls you closer and you stay like that until you hear a car honk its horn outside.

“That’s me,” he says, his voice rough and barely above a whisper.

You take a step back and look up at him, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“The last four months.” A fresh set of tears cloud your eyes and you try your hardest to blink them away, “I know it’s not fair to say this but,” a sob then, “I’ll miss you.”

He nods and tries to smile, but there are tears in his eyes too. He puts his arm around your shoulder and presses his lips against your forehead before he whispers, “I’ll miss you too.”

And then he is gone.

#The Draw #Sebastian Stan imagine #Sebastian Stan x reader #Harley Sunday x Sebastian Stan

36 notes · View notes

harley-sunday · 4 years

Text

The Draw [15]

Summary: The whirlwind starts at the 2018 ACE Comic Con in Phoenix but you’re not sure where it will end...

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x reader (f)

Warnings: Language. Smut. NSFW.

Word count: 4174

AN: This took me a little (lot) longer than expected, but it’s finally here. And boy, is it fluffy. So I hope you’ll enjoy :) I’m not sure if I can manage to get everything I still want to write in one chapter or if there’ll be more, so something to look forward to, I suppose... Either way, please let me know what you think. Validation and all that. ♥

Masterlist

“Not a good time,” you echo, taking a step back as a physical reaction to his rejection, “got it.”

Pursing your lips to keep from crying you offer him a curt nod before you turn around and walk back through the corridor towards the elevator. It takes every bit of restraint not to start running and so you think you actually hear a woman’s voice coming from inside his room when you’re about halfway, which would explain why he wouldn’t let you in. The elevator’s quick to arrive once you’ve pushed the call button rather frantically, and when you step inside you keep your eyes trained on the floor, not particularly wanting to catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirrors lining the walls.

The two girls at the front desk eye you suspiciously when you pass them, no doubt wondering if something’s wrong, but you ignore them. At least they’ll have something to gossip about, you think wryly.

Are you surprised to find the taxi stand empty once you get outside? No, not really anyway, because that’s just the day it’s turning out to be. Not looking forward to hanging around until a car magically appears you try to remember where you came from and start heading in that direction. The drive over here was short so it can’t be that far, you reason. The sun’s hanging low in the sky and there’s a gentle breeze that makes it rather nice outside, but you’re too busy trying not to break down and cry to notice.

You’re so lost in your own thoughts that you don’t notice there’s someone coming after you until you hear your name being called and realize it’s not the first time you’ve heard it in the past minute or so. You recognise the voice, of course you do, and for a moment you contemplate to just keep walking, but you know he’ll catch up with you anyway and so you turn around, a rather defeated, “What?” escaping you.

He stops a few feet away from you, holding up his hands to let you know he’s not here to harm you in any way even though the thought never even crossed your mind. He’s not like Mark. Thank God. He runs a hand through his hair before he looks up at you, “I’m sorry.”

It sounds so sincere that you wonder what it is he’s apologizing for, because it must be something big and so immediately you expect the worst - he’s with someone else and sorry you had to find out this way. The tears that you have been trying to hold back finally spill over and roll down your cheeks. You lower your head, feeling such an immense sense of loss of what could have been that it physically hurts.

“Hey,” his voice is soft and much closer, his hand under your chin then to make you look up at him.

You want to tell him to make it quick, because there’s no need to drag this out any longer, but you’re sobbing uncontrollably and couldn’t get a word out if you tried.

“Will you please come with me?”

The question surprises you and he must realize it too, because he quickly adds, “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” Then, when he sees the confusion on your face, “I need you to trust me on this, ok?”

Trying to take deep breaths to calm yourself down, you nod, but then you point to your face, which is no doubt blotchy with streaks of mascara and eyeliner running from your eyes, and let out a humorless laugh. You must be quite the sight.

He smiles and uses his thumbs to wipe away whatever’s on your cheeks before he presses a kiss to your forehead, “All done.” He takes your hand then and leads you back to the hotel, the two girls at the front desk trying their hardest not to stare when you pass them for the third time in not even twenty minutes.

The elevator ride is silent, but he doesn’t let go of your hand and it feels good to be this close to him again even though you’re still not sure what exactly is going on. It isn’t until he opens the door of his room and you see who’s sitting on a chair in the little lounge area to your right, recognizing her from pictures in his apartment, that you let out a sigh of relief.

“Dragă,” the woman says as she gets up, holding out her arms for a hug as she walks towards you.

You can feel yourself starting to cry again when she holds you, quietly berating yourself for assuming the worst, yet at the same time very relieved that it’s his mother who’s in his room. Like Sebastian did earlier she runs her thumbs over your cheeks to dry your eyes once she’s pulled back, her kind eyes letting you know it’s ok. She winks at you and then gently pushes you to face Sebastian.

You shake your head at him, “I’m so sorry.”

“You kids have a lot to talk about,�� his mother says then, before she steps around you and kisses his cheek, “I’ll get out of your way, but promise me you two will have dinner with me tomorrow?”

Sebastian nods, “I’ll call you.”

“You do that,” his mother says with a grin as she closes the door behind her.

“She always spends her summer holidays in Romania,” he offers once he’s turned back to you, “so she’s spending a couple of days with me before she flies to Constanta next week.”

You nod, still a little lost for words.

He grabs a bottle of wine and two glasses from somewhere and tells you to follow him outside. The balcony he leads you onto basks in the last of the evening sun, with a comfortable lounge set on your left and it’s there you sit down. He has the corner room and so there’s only one neighboring balcony, but it’s separated from his with a high stone wall and so it doesn’t really feel like you’re in a hotel, what with all the privacy it offers.

Taking the now full glass of wine from him with a quiet, “Thank you,” you watch him as he sits down, keeping a little bit of distance between the two of you. You decide it’s best to just bite the bullet and so you shift in your seat, folding your leg under you so you can face him before you admit, “Listen, I fucked up and I’m really sorry.” Taking a deep breath, you allow yourself a moment before you continue, “I should have told my parents about you sooner and I get why it made you upset. I just- I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” he replies, the hint of a comforting smile playing on his lips. He clears his throat then, “But I shouldn’t have run out on you like that. It’s uh- It’s not a very mature thing to do.”

“Oh please,” you say, shaking your head, “I would have done the same.”

He smiles, for real then, “You would have.”

“I really don’t want to make any excuses-”

“Then don’t,” he says, his voice soft and kind. “We’re not teenagers anymore, you know, there’s no clean slate. There are things from our past that have made us the way we are and I think the challenge for us, maybe, is to try and not compare this to anything else. Accept that this is something completely new that we have a chance to shape into whatever we want it to be.”

“Hmm,” you agree, because it makes sense. Smiling you let your eyes fall to your lap, “It’s a learning curve for sure. I never- What you just said about us having a chance to shape this, I don’t know, I really like that idea because-” you look up, your eyes finding his, “-this feels different somehow. There’s something between us that I haven’t experienced before, like a push and pull that makes us work.”

“There’s a draw between us, for sure,” he agrees. “And I know we have some odds stacked against us with the career I have, but I really think we can make this work.” He motions for you to come closer then, “I want us to make this work.” You sit down next to him, your back resting against his chest as he drapes his arm across your shoulder and presses a kiss to your temple, “We good?”

“More than,” you say as you lace your fingers through his, softly kissing the back of his hand. God, it feels good to be this close to him again and so there’s a sly smile on your lips when you say, “You know what would make this even better?”

“Oh, fuck,” you curse quietly, trying your hardest to keep your voice down, your hands bunching up the fabric of your dress that he’s pushed up over your hips not long ago. One of your hands lets go then, making its way in between your legs and into his hair, holding him into place, chasing a high that undoubtedly will follow soon. You throw your head back and realize it’s dark outside, a new moon high in the sky above you.

His tongue is attacking your clit with vigor, sometimes joined by his teeth gently scraping over the tiny bud in a way that makes you want to scream out even though you know you can’t. He has one finger inside of you already and there's promise of a second, which you hope will join soon because you are right on the edge.

Your legs have been resting on his shoulders all this time, but you push them further apart, digging your heels into the edge of the seat you’re sitting on, granting him more access. His second finger slides in then and you feel your eyes roll back in pure bliss, rocking your hips to make him go in even deeper. “I’m about to-”

You don’t get to finish that sentence, because it’s at that moment he curls his fingers just right while sucking on your clit with a determination that has you come so hard you forget how to breathe for a moment. Which at least helps you keep quiet. He pulls his fingers back and grabs onto your thighs, holding you in place as he laps at your juices, helping you get down from your high in a way only he can. You’re actually whimpering then, because fuck, it feels so good.

Once your breathing is back to normal he lets go and pulls back, the lust still darkening his eyes. You grab the collar of his shirt and pull him in for a kiss, licking his lips to taste the sweet mix of you and him before your tongue finds his. You moan when he ends the kiss to take a hold of your hands, gently pulling you to your feet, and so you’re pouting a little at the loss of contact.

He looks at you, eyes even more dark and his voice low and hoarse when he says, “You’re way too loud for me to fuck you outside.”

Fuck. You might have just come again just now, and so you press your legs together to try and relieve some of the tension but fail miserably.

He leads you inside and has you stand in front of the bed, where he makes you turn around so he can unzip your dress, his mouth trailing kisses down your back the further down the zipper goes. Once he pushes it off your shoulders the fabric pools at your feet with ease and you step out of it, your hands reaching for his jeans. He gently swats them away and mutters something that sounds like, “Bed. Now.”

You sit down, back resting against the headboard as you watch him take off his clothes, licking your lips absentmindedly when he pulls down his boxers and his cock springs free. What you wouldn’t give to taste him right now, you muse, but you know from the way he pushed your hands away you know you will have to wait.

He pumps himself a few times, until he’s completely hard, and then kneels onto the bed, leaning down so he can kiss you. Hard. His mouth travels from your jaw to just below your ear then, where he finds your pulse point. He nips at it, teeth scraping your skin before he puts his mouth to your ear and whispers, “On your knees, sweetheart. Ass up.”

He’s never been like this, never told you what to do, and so you’re a little surprised and a lot turned on and you do exactly like he’s asked. When you look at him from over your shoulder once you’re where he wants you, he throws you a wink and grabs your hips, pulling you a little closer. One hand lets go then, grabbing his cock and guiding it towards you, the tip of it sliding through your folds in a way that is both a turn-on and a tease. When he’s sufficiently lubed up he lines himself up and then, without warning, thrusts forward, filling you completely. He holds still for a moment and just as you marvel at how big he is, he pulls all the way back before he fills you up once more. Both his hands are on your hips again, holding you in place as he finds his rhythm, no longer pulling all the way out, and you can’t help but moan because of how good it feels.

One of his hands slides down your stomach to your clit then, his fingers expertly finding the bud and giving it some much needed attention. You can tell he’s close from the way his breathing picks up and so you start rocking your hips to meet his thrusts, wanting him to know you’re right there with him. He curses quietly and pinches your clit between two of his fingers just as he slams into you and then both of you come at the same time, you with a loud, “Fuck,” and him leaning down and softly biting down on your shoulder while he fills you.

The sun is high in the sky by the time you finally make your way out of his bed, even though he’s been up for a while already. You vaguely recall Room Service being delivered at some point and as a result there’s a fruit salad waiting for you on the counter top of the kitchenette. Grabbing a fork from the drawer before you pick up the bowl you make your way outside and join him on the balcony. The shirt you’re wearing is his and barely covers your ass and so you made sure to put your panties on even though he mutters something about you looking even better naked, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your thighs as you pass him. You throw him a wink before you sit down next to him and turn towards him, letting your feet rest in his lap while you get some much needed vitamins.

His hand strokes your bare legs absentmindedly, “They’re gonna need me on set this afternoon and tonight.”

“Oh,” you nod, “ok.”

“I called my mom already,” he smiles, “and she wants to know if maybe you’d like to have dinner with her instead? Just the two of you.”

You try to gauge his reaction, wondering how he feels about this, but he keeps his expression neutral and so you reply, “Yeah, I’d like that,” because you really do.

“Yeah?” His smile grows wider, “Good. If you give me the address of your hotel I’ll ask if she can meet you there at seven.”

“What time do you have to leave?”

He checks his phone and sighs, before he looks back at you, “They’re picking me up in an hour.”

“An hour, huh?” You raise an eyebrow as you put the now empty bowl down on the table, gently nudging his leg with your foot, “There’s a lot we can still do in an hour.”

He grins, “I guess there is.”

You’re at the small desk in your hotel room, checking up on your email and answering what you can from here when your phone lights up, ‘Mr Smooth’ flashing across the screen as it rings. Sliding your finger across the screen you accept the call, smiling when you put the phone to your ear, “Hi.”

“Hey,”

There’s a lot of background noise on his end and so you pause the music you were playing and up the volume on your phone, “You ok?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” you hear him chuckle. “How was dinner with my mom?”

“Really nice,” you admit easily. “I had a great time.” It’s true. You were nervous at first but already after a few minutes you felt completely at ease with Georgeta and loved hearing her stories of Sebastian growing up.

“So did she,” he says, sounding sort of proud. “She really likes you.” Before you have a chance to reply he continues, “I’m going to have to keep this short, I’m sorry. I’m on set and they’ve changed some of the schedule around so I’m on location for the next four days-”

“Oh,” you pout, even though he can’t see you, but then you realize you showed up here as unannounced as it gets and so it shouldn’t be a surprise he has prior commitments and so you quickly add, “that’s ok.”

“They gave me Friday off, though, so cancel whatever plans you had, ok?” He says something to someone then before he comes back on the line, “I’m really sorry, babe, they need me on set, but I’ll pick you up at ten Friday, ok?”

“Yeah,” you smile, “you do that.”

The sun’s out in full force on Friday and you hope that whatever he has planned for today will be an outdoor activity because at least there’s a slight breeze to offer some relief every now and then. You grab your sunglasses and purse, before you take your keycard out of the lightswitch and head out, excited to see him again.

The girl at the front desk flags you over once you get to the lobby and tells you there’s a message for you, handing you an envelope with what you now know is Sebastian’s handwriting. You smile when you read the note inside

There’s a car waiting for you outside. See you soon.

When the driver sees you coming down the front steps he opens the back door and greets you with a curt nod as you get in. It’s nice and cool inside the car and you are curious to see where you’re off to, but this is Greece and so everything is new to you. You admire the olive trees lining the streets as the driver weaves in and out of traffic effortlessly even though the streets are narrow and it’s still quite busy. You’ve been driving for about ten minutes when suddenly you see the sea in front of you and it’s then the driver turns left before driving onto the parking lot of what you assume is a marina. He hands you another envelope before he gets out and opens your door.

“Thank you,” you say as you get out, smiling at him.

“Enjoy your day,” he says, nodding towards the docks, his English laced with the most wonderful Greek accent.

You thank him once again and watch as he drives off, waving when he turns onto the main road before you open the envelope he gave you. Inside is a folded up plan of the marina, dock A-12 circled in red ink, and you’re quick to find out it’s somewhere on your left.

Of course Sebastian’s already waiting for you on the dock once you get there and you can’t help but smile as you walk towards him. He looks as handsome as ever, the moss green shirt he’s wearing, paired with jean shorts and white sneakers, looking very familiar. It isn’t until you remember you’re wearing a blue and white striped top and navy wide legged linen pants that you realize you both are wearing a summer version of what you had on during your first date. Which seems very fitting in this setting.

He holds his hand out to help you down from the dock onto the platform, pulling you close so he can kiss you once you’re next to him, “Hi.”

“Hey,” you reply before giving him another kiss. You pull back then and can’t help but laugh, “This all looks very familiar.”

“It does,” he agrees with a wicked smile, leading you towards the thirty foot yacht that’s docked on his right. He steps on board, never letting go of your hand, helping you down the steps with ease.

Like Los Angeles, the yacht comes with a captain and a deckhand and so once again you find yourself on the upper deck, albeit much closer to Sebastian this time, your back leaning against his chest while he whispers sweet nothings into your ear.

It’s perfect and you wish you could stop this moment in time, enjoy it a little longer before you have to fly back tomorrow and start work again on Monday and even more so because you know you won’t get to see him for a long time.

“Where’s your head at?”

His voice interrupts your thoughts and even though you don’t want to dampen the mood, you know it’s best to be honest, “Not seeing you for five weeks once I leave tomorrow.”

He kisses your temple, “it’ll be over before you know it.” You start to protest but he’s quick to continue, “l don’t have anything else lined up until early September, and I promise you to spend as much time as I can with you.” He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer, mouth next to your ear again as he chuckles, “Right until you get sick of me.”

“Never,” you reply, shaking your head. You tilt your head back and kiss his cheek to make your point.

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Good,” he loosens his grip and puts his hands so he can maneuver you onto his lap, letting them rest on your hips once you’re facing him. He smiles at you, “We should spend some time together in Charlotte.”

“Hmm,” you agree, your hands resting on his shoulders before you lean in and kiss him, “I’d like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,”you give him another kiss, “you still have to meet my parents after all.”

He chuckles, hands now roaming under your top, “That I do.”

A shiver then, when his fingers trace your spine with a featherlight touch. “Seb,” you hiss, leaning your forehead against his, grinding your hips to relieve some of the tension that has started to build up.

He just grins, a mischievous look in his eyes, continuing on like nothing happened, “After that some time in New York? Maybe book a trip out of the country the week before I have to leave?”

“Deb’s gonna kill me,” you mutter quitely.

“Oh, come on,” he counters, “Deb loves you.”

“Not enough to give me four weeks off,” you reply with a sigh, although you’re already starting to toy with the idea of taking a few weeks of unpaid leave, “but maybe I can work something out.”

“I’d like that,” he says, leaning closer so his lips find yours again.

The kiss is slow and comfortable and his hands are back on your hips then and for a moment, just a moment, time does seem to slow down and it feels like you got your wish.

Your goodbye on Saturday morning is cut short when he gets a call that lets him know he’s needed on set in an hour and so all of a sudden you have to rush and it makes you a little sad because you were supposed to have at least a few more hours together.

He seems to understand your change of mood and holds out his hand once he’s finished the call, pulling you to your feet from where you were sitting on the bed and into him, his arms wrapping around you as he kisses your forehead but doesn’t say anything.

A ragged breath escapes you and it makes him pull you even closer and then you just stand there, holding each other, but for some reason it feels like the most intimate thing you’ve ever done. After a while you pull back a little and look up at him with what you hope is a brave smile, “I love you.”

“I love you,” he replies before he leans down and kisses you, “and I’ll be seeing you.”

#The Draw #Sebastian Stan x reader #Harley Sunday x Sebastian Stan #Sebastian Stan Imagine #Sebastian Stan

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harley-sunday · 3 years

Text

The Draw [16]

Summary: The whirlwind starts at the 2018 ACE Comic Con in Phoenix but you’re not sure where it will end…

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x reader (unnamed OFC)

Warnings: Language.

Word count: 5k

AN: I just can’t seem to quit this story - I keep adding parts... But. BUT. We are closer to end. There’s not much more I can say without giving anything away, except that this chapter seems to consist of mostly phone calls... 🤷🏻‍♀️ I hope you like it, please let me know what you think - I’d love to read your thoughts :) ♥

Masterlist

“I don’t know, Brad,” you try your hardest not to sound as frustrated as you feel, “last week you told me that you understood the process, so I don’t really get why we are missing all this inventory right now.” You rub your temples, trying to get rid of the headache that started when you got to the office this morning, quietly cursing the jetlag that has been bothering you ever since you got back from Greece on Saturday, although you know Brad’s fuck-up also has something to do with it. Inventory is not that difficult.

Brad, who’s been interning at the San Francisco office for a grand total of three weeks and yet somehow thinks he’s God’s gift to this company, just shrugs, “I’m sorry?”

You just stare at him and shake your head, “No. Go over it one more time, ok? I’m keeping these here,” you tap the stack of papers on your desk, “so really start at zero again and report back to me tomorrow morning.” You watch him roll his eyes before he nods and turns around to leave. “Brad?” You no longer try to hide the annoyance in your voice, “Close the door on your way out, will you?”

When he does you let out a frustrated groan and lean back in your chair, quietly shaking your head and wondering if you were ever this cocky when you first started working here. Probably not, Deb would have never allowed it. As if on cue your phone rings and when you see who’s calling you answer with a smile, “Hi, Deb.”

“How you holding up, kid?”

“Just told an intern to start over on inventory,” you offer, “so I’m sure he’s telling the other interns what a bitch I am right about now.”

You hear Deb chuckle, “Good for you.” There are some muffled sounds on the other end of the line then and you can just imagine her getting up and walking to the kitchen to get another cup of coffee because the woman seems to run on double espressos and cigarettes. “Listen, I want to run something by you.”

Weird. This is weird. Usually she just informs you after whatever it is she has decided, but her wanting to 'run something by you' tells you she actually wants your opinion. You sit up in your chair, curious to hear what she has to say, “Sure.”

“Technically I’ve found someone to take over the San Francisco office from you,” she says, “and on short notice too, because I know you’ve already been out there longer than you’d like.”

“Ok,” you draw out, not sure where she’s going with this.

You hear her sigh and then she mutters something about biting the bullet before she says, “It’s Mark.”

“Oh.” Your heart drops and your throat goes dry, the lump that suddenly has appeared hard to swallow. There’s a million things running through your head all at the same time, some good, most of them bad, and an involuntary shiver runs down your spine. You don’t really know what else to say and so you stay quiet, waiting for Deb to give you something more to go on.

“I know,” her voice is unusually kind, reserved only for the really shitty situations and it tells you she hates this as much as you do. She clears her throat then, “I’ll be honest with you, kid, I contacted him. I know he wasn’t happy when I shipped him off to the London office after you-” she hesitates and clears her throat again, “After what happened. Thing is, he has done some great work there, out of all our overseas offices, this one’s giving us the best turnover.”

You only half-listen to her listing off why this is a good idea, your mind drifting to when you first met Mark. There was talk of a new guy coming in to maybe take over from Deb in a few years, supposedly the best in the business although some called him an asshole who would stop at nothing to get to the top and so by default you had decided you probably wouldn't like him, but then all of a sudden there he was, all six foot two of him, full of ambition and good looks and sweeping you off your feet almost instantly. You told yourself, and him, you didn’t do office romance, that you would never date a colleague, but all it took was one night of overtime and some celebratory drinks after to make you forget your so-called rule.

And the first six months were good, really good. Or at least that’s what you thought. In the end there were warning signs all along, but you just choose to ignore them. And even now you’re not sure what triggered him but something changed after those six months and Mark became manipulative, obsessive, and abusive, and at first you told yourself it was just stress from work, even though deep down you knew better. Still, you always believed you’d be the one to make him change his ways, if only you did what he wanted. Problem was, you were never sure what that was.

He’d want you to wear a tight dress and high heels one day, and the next he would tell you you looked like a whore and what were you thinking leaving the house looking like that? It took you too long to understand you could never make him happy, no matter what you did, and that he would always find things to obsess over. When you finally realized your relationship had turned toxic it still took you another two years to quit him, and that was only after you learned he’d cheated on you with a girl from accounting. When Deb found out what Mark did she immediately took your side and made it look like his sudden move to the London office had been planned all along even though you know she had to pull quite a few strings.

She still doesn’t know about the verbal abuse and the threats and the mind games, you realize then. Maybe if she did she wouldn’t have offered him to come back.

“You still there?” Her voice interrupts your thoughts.

“Yeah.”

She sighs and you can just imagine her pinching the bridge of her nose, “Thing is, with the experience he has, you’d only need a day, two at most, to bring him up to speed.” She hesitates, “If we bring in someone new-”

“It’ll take at least four weeks,” you offer with a nod even though she can’t see you.

“Yes.”

“Yes,” you echo. You roll your lip between your teeth, trying to decide whether or not you should tell her the full story. Would it matter? And if it did, would it mean you’d be stuck out here longer?

“Listen, take the day to think about it,” she offers then, “get back to me tomorrow and let me know, ok?”

“Ok.”

“Alright.”

Before you get a chance to say goodbye she has disconnected the call and so you’re left with your own thoughts. Tapping your phone against your chin you’re trying to decide what to do, but it seems like too big of a decision to make on your own. You pull up your texting app and send Lauren a quick message:

You free tonight?

Her reply comes not much later and surprises you:

Sorry, can’t tonight. Going on a date :)

You type a reply almost immediately:

?? Why didn’t you tell me? But also, YASSS! Go get it, girl! Call me tomorrow?

You lean back in your chair while you wait for her reply, a little upset that she didn’t tell you, and you can’t help but wonder why.

Her reply doesn’t really make you feel any better:

You were busy, babe. Talk to you tomorrow.

You kick off your shoes the moment you step into the apartment you refuse to call home, and head straight to the kitchen to pour yourself a glass of wine, before you open the takeout container and put some of the fried rice and egg rolls you got from your favourite restaurant on a plate. It’s still nice outside and so you end up on the tiny balcony, now bare feet propped up on the railing as you eat your dinner.

The thought of having to work with Mark again, if only for a short while, takes up most of your headspace and you hate how indecisive you are about it. Part of you wants nothing to do with him ever again, but part of you knows he really is the best man for the job. Say what you will about the asshole, but he knows how to run a company. Having Mark at the San Francisco office would probably mean neither you nor Deb would have to step in ever again and, you reason, he could probably manage Seattle and Phoenix from here too.

You really just want to talk to somebody about this, because putting your thoughts into words has always helped you, and so you call your brother.

The call goes straight to voicemail although a message follows soon after:

At Jake's science fair, or did you forget that was today?

You let out a frustrated groan, because yes, you totally forgot.

It does nothing to help your mood and you're starting to feel so bad about missing out on so much that's happening in Charlotte right now, what with Jake’s science fair and Lauren apparently dating someone, that it's actually making you homesick. You decide to pour yourself another glass of wine, because fuck it.

When you close the fridge your eyes fall on a picture of you and Sebastian you've put up there and you figure maybe you should just call him. A quick glance at the clock, however, tells you it's early morning in Greece and so you forego that idea because you don't really want to wake him up with the news your ex is about to make a comeback into your life.

You are having a very ‘Woo is me’ moment and hate how alone you feel right now. You know the wine is not helping and so you dump what’s left in the glass in the kitchen sink and put the kettle on for a cup of tea instead. While the water boiling you set out to find a notebook, hoping that putting your thoughts on paper will help you figure out what it is you can do about this situation and maybe make some decisions.

You call Deb the moment you’re at your desk and she answers on the first ring.

“Tell me,”

Never one to beat around the bush, you think, although in this case you appreciate it. “Have Mark take over San Francisco,” you tell her, “but I need him to do his homework in advance because two days is my absolute max.”

“Noted,” Deb agrees easily, “but?”

You take a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves, “I want to be able to divide my time between Charlotte and New York as I see fit, with Charlotte as my home base, at least for now. If I ever decide to move to New York I want it to be an option to turn that arrangement around-”

“Give me two weeks once Mark has settled in-”

“-and I’d like to take four weeks of unpaid leave in August,” you add quickly, before you lose momentum.

She sucks in her breath, “I don’t know if I can do that, kid.”

“It’s only four weeks, Deb,” you counter, “and it’s unpaid. I still have enough days left to make it a paid vacation if that’s what you prefer.” You close your eyes and scrunch up your nose, anxious about her reply, because you’ve never really talked back to her like this before.

Turns out there was nothing to worry about when she tells you, “Look who finally put on her big-girl panties, standing up to her boss.” She lets out a laugh, “I’m proud of ya, kid.”

“Will you let me know when to expect Mark? I’ll make sure everything’s ready by then.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s just,” Lauren hesitates, and you want to tell her it’s ok, that you know you haven’t been there for her as much as you should have, but she continues then, “it’s weird not having you around, not knowing what you’re up to. Not knowing if, when I call you, I’m bothering you.”

“Hey,” you counter quickly, “you are one of the few people who never have to worry about that and I’m a little shocked you would even think that. You can call me day or night, Laur, always.”

“I know.” She sighs then, “It’s just- I feel like- I don’t know, ok? It’s just different with you being so far away for so long. I miss you.”

“I know,” you try to smile even though she can’t see you, “I’m sorry for not being the best bestest friend these past few weeks. I miss you too, babe.” You get up from the couch and make your way onto the balcony where you lean against the railing, “Let’s just hope Mark can make it out of London soon so I can get back to Charlotte and get back to annoying you twenty-four seven.”

She laughs, “You’re going to have to share me now, though.”

You’re relieved she seems to have accepted your apology and so you decide to tease her a little more, “You do realize the first thing I’m doing when I get back is give Matt the same stern talking-to as you did Sebastian?”

“Oh shit,” she whispers. A little louder then, “Please don’t, I really like him.”

“Well you better tell him then that your best friend is not above kicking his ass if he ever hurts you.”

“Will do.” She clears her throat then, “So, are you going to tell Sebastian about Mark?”

“That was the most abrupt change of subject ever,” you scoff with a grin, “what the hell, Laur?”

“I just think you should tell him.”

“I know,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, “I will. I just want to wait until I know when Mark gets here, you know?”

“Yeah.” She lets out a yawn and laughs, “Sorry.”

“Alright, alright,” you smile, “I get the hint.”

She laughs, “I’m sorry, babe, it’s been a long day. Listen,” another yawn, although you’re sure this one was on purpose, “let me know once you know more about Mark and when you’re getting back, ok?”

“Yup, will do.” You have to stifle your own yawn then, “Talk to you soon, babe.”

“Love you.”

It isn’t until Friday afternoon that there’s an email from Deb, informing you Mark will take a flight from London next Wednesday so that you have all of Thursday and Friday to get him settled in. She’s included a list of subjects he wants to discuss but you decide that’s for later, before you close all active connections and shut your laptop off. You grab your phone off your desk and send a quick message to Lauren:

Coming home next weekend :)

Her reply comes when you’re at the elevator bay:

Yay! Let me know how when you land and I’ll pick you up! Xx

Your next message is to Sebastian:

Missing you something fierce, Stan! Call me when you can? X

The sound of your phone wakes you from a deep sleep early on Sunday morning, but you can’t help but smile when you see ‘Mr Smooth’ flashing on your screen and so you answer with a quiet, “Hey you.”

“God, it’s good to hear your voice again,” he whispers. “Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hi,”

“You ok?”

“Yeah,” you smile, “I have some news though.” There’s a knot starting to form in your stomach and so you figured it’s better to bite the bullet right away.

“Tell me,”

“Promise you’ll let me finish before you say anything?”

“That bad?”

“Not really- I don’t know,” you push the covers off and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. You take a deep breath before you continue, “Remember when I told you about my ex, Mark?”

“Hmm,” he replies, and you take that as your cue to continue.

“What I didn’t tell you then- And maybe I should have- We used to work together in Charlotte.” You clear your throat, “And when we broke up Deb moved him to the London office, but now she wants him to take over San Francisco from me.” You wait for a reply from him, but then remember you told him to wait and so you continue, “He starts on Thursday and we’ve scheduled two days for me to bring him up to speed, so I’m going to have to spend some time together with him and I don’t know, I just thought you should know.” You push yourself off the bed and make your way to the kitchen, “The good news though, is that I got Deb to agree to let me divide my time between Charlotte and New York from now on, and that I have four weeks off in August.”

He stays quiet for a little too long and so you’re preparing for the worst when he finally replies. But then he just says, “How do you feel about seeing him again?” and you feel a wave of relief washing over you.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “I mean, I know he’s right for the job and it’s always easier to bring in someone who has experience and knows the company, but I- There’s a lot of history there and I just hope he realizes I’m not the same person anymore.” You lean against the counter and let out a sigh, “I guess I just want to get this over with and go back to Charlotte.”

“So nothing for me to worry about?” His voice is soft.

“No,” you’re quick to reassure him.

“Good.”

Mark is, well, he’s still an asshole, you realize when he walks into your office and tries to greet you with a hug. You offer him a hand and a curt, “Hello,” and have to hide your smile when you see the disappointment in his eyes. You’ve been feeling nervous all morning, hell, all week, because somehow you knew he would try to act like nothing ever happened.

“So this is how it’s going to be, huh?” He says while he puts his briefcase down on one of the visitors’ chairs on the other side of your desk.

“Yes, Mark,” you nod and sit down in your own chair, “this is exactly how it’s going to be.” You watch as he unbuttons the jacket of his three piece suit before he sits down and leans back in his chair and you hand him a folder, “Read this first, it’s an overview of the last five years and should give you a fairly good impression of how things are run here.”

He thumbs through the papers, seemingly resigned to the fact that it’s solely a business relationship between you two from now on, and you see his eyebrows go up when he comes to the financial statements, “How on earth-”

“I know,” you hand him another folder, “this is Paul Kroeger’s file. Or at least everything that I’ve managed to uncover in the few weeks I’ve been here. I really urge you to keep digging, because I’m sure more shit will come up.”

“Why didn’t Deb step in sooner?”

“You’ll have to ask Deb that,” you offer with a shrug. Another folder then, “This is everything you need to know about the rest of the staff here. I don’t think anyone else was in on it, but again, you might want to keep digging.”

He nods, “Ok.” Taking all three folders, he puts them in his briefcase before he looks back at you, squinting a little as if he’s trying to read you. There’s a hint of a smile playing on his lips when he says, “You’ve changed.”

And you haven’t, you want to bite back, but don’t because you want to at least try to keep things civil. Instead you simply agree, “I have.” You try to steer the conversation back to work, “We have a meeting with Finance in ten minutes, then lunch with the board, and a meeting with Sales in the afternoon. After that I figured we could take a quick tour of the building, so you can meet everyone, and then I’ll send out the official message to all of our partners.”

He just nods.

“I’ll make sure to have this office empty by the end of the day so you can get settled in,” you continue, “and then I’ll be available all day tomorrow should you have any further questions.”

“You forgot one thing,”

You don’t say anything and just look at him with a raised eyebrow.

A cocky smile flashes across his face when he says, “You forgot to mention we’ll be having dinner tonight so we-”

“We’re not having dinner tonight, Mark,” you say, effectively cutting him off. It makes you feel good to tell him no and so you have to try your hardest to hide your smile when you see his face drop.

“You really have changed,” he says again, but this time there’s a hint of dismay in his voice.

You smile widely now, because fuck him, “Yes. I really have.”

Blame it on the red-eye flight and thus having to get up extremely early this morning, or simply on the fact that it’s been five weeks since you last saw her, but you find yourself actually tearing up when you walk out of exit E and see Lauren waiting there for you.

She holds out her arms as you walk up to her and then envelopes you in a tight hug, “Don’t cry, silly.”

“I just really missed you,” you sniffle while you wrap your arms around her. “And it’s that time of the month, so you know,” you chuckle through your tears, “double the fun.” When you pull back you see her eyes are glossed over as well and so you just stick out your tongue at her, “Let’s go home.”

“Alright,” she says once you’re in her car, “start talking, babe. I want to know everything that’s happened since I last saw you.”

You’ve just finished telling her about your parents’ visit to San Francisco and your trip to Greece when she pulls up on your driveway and so all of a sudden you’re home again after almost two months. The garden looks absolutely immaculate and you know you have your parents to thank for that, reminding yourself to call them later today. Grabbing your suitcases out the trunk you let Lauren take one from your as you follow her to your house.

She turns around rather dramatically when you get to the front door, “Ok. So. Please don’t be mad, but-” she pulls a face, “-that plant in your dining room?”

“Felicity?”

“Sure, yeah,” she scoffs, “name your plants. What’s next? Naming your electrical appliances?”

“You’re just stalling because Felicity the Fiddle Leaf Fig is obviously no longer with us and you’re just too afraid to admit you killed her,” you counter, trying to keep a straight face.

“I didn’t-” Lauren hesitates then and seems to realize you’re just messing with her, “but yes. Felicity has gone to plant heaven. It was all very sad. I buried her in the backyard if you want to pay your respects.”

You let out a laugh, “I’d rather you just open the front door for me so we can have a drink and gossip about Mark.”

“You really said that?”

“I really did,” you admit with a smile, thinking back to when you told Mark to have a nice life when you left the office Friday afternoon. You grab the bottle of wine from off the floor next to you and top of her glass before you fill yours, “I don’t know. In a way those two days gave me some sort of closure, I guess.”

“Hmm,” she agrees, taking a sip of her wine. “So what’s next?”

“Well first you’re going to introduce me to Matt sometime this week-”

“Babe.”

“Babe,” you echo. “You’ve been dating for almost a month, do I need to remind you that you met Sebastian before we even were officially dating?”

“Yeah, ok,” she agrees, “I guess you could both come over for dinner next weekend.” She sits up a little, “So you’re going to be here for a while, right?”

You nod, “Sort of. I go back to work on Monday and then Sebastian’s scheduled to fly back on the third and that’s the same weekend I start my four-week leave-”

“That’s only two more weeks.”

“It is,” you smile. “I don’t know if he wants to celebrate his birthday here or if he wants to go to New York, and I think he said something about maybe taking a short holiday somewhere, but his next project starts in September so I’ll come back to Charlotte then and probably stay here while he’s away.”

“Ugh,” Lauren rolls her eyes and shakes her head but smiles, “to be the girlfriend of an international superstar.”

“Tante!” Jake exclaims when he opens the front door. He all but jumps in your arms to give you a hug.

“Uh, excuse me, sir,” you tease, resisting the hug, “who are you and what did you do with my nephew?” You laugh when he pulls a face, “You are getting too big, kiddo, slow it down a little, will you?”

Jake giggles and hugs you even tighter.

“Ah, there she is,” Nathan says from the doorway, arms crossed in front of his chest, “my long-lost sister. So glad you're finally gracing us with your presence after coming back home a week ago.”

“So dramatic,” you counter with a grin, although he has a point. You should have gone to see them sooner, but as always work got in the way, what with Deb doubling your workload before you take your leave in another two weeks. Jake jumps out of your arms then and so you get to hug your brother for the first time in what feels like forever, ‘“ Hi, Nate.”

“Hi, loser,” he says from somewhere over your shoulder, but the way he holds you tight tells you he’s missed you too.

“How you holding up?”

“Good,” he pulls back and smiles, “still some headaches every now and then, but not as much as two months ago-”

“That’s good,” you agree. You follow them through the house and out into the backyard, where Jake excitedly shows you the inflatable swimming pool he and Nathan put up yesterday. Sitting down on one of the chairs you watch him as he takes off his shirt and jumps in without hesitation.

Nathan re-emerges from the kitchen with some iced tea and hands you a glass before he sits down somewhere next to you. He flicks your upper arm, “You good?”

You nod, “Yeah.”

“Truth?”

“Truth,” you reply with a nod. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “a lot has happened in a short time, I guess.”

This is new, you think, this out-in-the-open caring side of your brother. You decide you like it and so you try not to make a smart remark but instead reassure him, “I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Nate, what are you getting at?” You’re confused now, because why is he pressing this?

He hangs his head and lets out a sigh, “I guess you haven’t seen it yet, have you?”

“I’m not-” you watch him as he gets his phone and pulls up something that has his jaw set in a way that tells you whatever it is, it’s not good. He hands you his phone then and you let out a quiet, “Oh,” when you see the pictures.

“I figured that’s why you were here,” he says with a nod towards his phone.

"When?"

"Saw them this morning," he offers.

You scroll further down and feel your throat go dry when you see picture after picture of Sebastian and some girl, her hand on his arm as she seems to whisper something in his ear. He’s laughing in some of the pictures and if you didn’t know any better you’d think they were on a date.

“Is that his co-star?” Nate asks quietly, knowing that if it is the pictures could have been taken on set and it wouldn’t be as bad.

Not trusting your voice right now you just shake your head because no. No, it isn’t.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, babe,” Lauren tries again, but she sounds a little less confident now that she’s seen the pictures and read the accompanying article about Sebastian’s new mystery woman where they claim she’s a Greek local he fell for while filming ‘Monday’.

You drove straight to her house when you left Nathan’s in a hurry, but only after you promised him you wouldn’t do anything reckless, and now you’re on her balcony, trying to make sense of all of this over some hard liquor because you both deemed wine wasn’t going to cut it.

She says something else then, but you’re not really listening and so you just continue to stare into the distance. She nudges you with her foot, “Call him.”

You shake your head, “I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

You look at her with tears in your eyes, your voice barely above a whisper, “What if it’s true?”

#The Draw #Sebastian Stan x reader #Harley Sunday x Sebastian Stan #Sebastian Stan Imagine #Sebastian Stan fanfic

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harley-sunday · 4 years

Text

Things We Lost in the Fire - Masterlist

Summary: During a bank robbery you’re surprised when the criminals seem to recognize you and retreat in fear. Only after do you learn that your high school sweetheart now runs a global crime syndicate and has you placed on a “no harm” list. You decide to pay him a visit after all these years.

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x reader [f]

Warnings: As AU as AU's get. Language. Mentions of a miscarriage. NSFW in later chapters.

Status: Complete

Part 01 - published December 2019

Part 02 - published January 2020

Part 03 - published January 2020

Part 04 - published January 2020

Part 05 - published January 2020 [NSFW]

Part 06 - published January 2020

Part 07 - published February 2020

#Sebastian Stan x reader #Sebastian Stan imagine #Sebastian Stan fanfic #Harley Sunday x Sebastian Stan #Things We Lost in the Fire

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harley-sunday · 4 years

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Things We Lost in the Fire [01]

Prompt found on Pinterest: During a bank robbery you’re surprised when the criminals seem to recognize you and retreat in fear. Only after do you learn that your high school sweetheart now runs a global crime syndicate and has you placed on a “no harm” list. You decide to pay him a visit after all these years.

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Reader (F)

Warnings: Language.

Word count: 4279

AN: This is as AU as AU’s get, so don’t say I didn’t warn you. But that prompt, oh that prompt was magnificent! This story basically wrote itself, during two very boring afternoons at work. I think it’s unlike anything I’ve done before, story-wise, so I hope you’ll like it. Please let me know what you think! Also, as this will only have about four parts and it’s not your usual reader insert I’m thinking of doing a taglist, so leave a comment if you want to be included. Once you’re on the taglist I would appreciate a reblog or comment for any chapters that follow. ♥

Masterlist

“Well, fuck you too!” you sneer, flipping off whatever asshole cuts you off so bad you have to slam your brakes, the seat belt restraining you as you jolt forward. Jesus, can no one drive these days, or what?

You want to give yourself a moment to recover from the near-hit but then some other asshole behind you honks a couple of times, urging you to get a move on. You flip him off for good measure too, cursing quietly because it’s not even seven in the morning and you’re already done for today.

You’re still pretty pissed off when you pull into your designated parking spot at work, close to the entrance of Carver State Bank. You’ve worked here as a bank teller ever since you moved from Atlanta back to Savannah four years ago and well, it’s not your dream job but at least it pays the bills. You started out as a temp, not really interested in working at a bank, but you needed the money. Bad. And then when they offered you a permanent position after your three months were up, you figured, why not, and stayed.

At Carver State you’re the only one of the tellers who works full time, the rest of them all middle-aged women who, at most, work three days a week. There’s five of them in total, and all of them are very kind. You have a soft spot for Bea though, the oldest of the bunch, because once she found out you were out here all by yourself, she decided you need some TLC. She checks up on you whenever you’re sick, brings leftover dinner to work for you to take home whenever she gets the chance, and she keeps hoping you’ll find a nice guy to settle down with. You even spent Christmas with Bea and her family last year. And honestly? You love it.

Bea is also working today, but won’t be here yet because the bank doesn’t open until nine, and you only got in early to decorate Bert’s office, who turned fifty-nine this weekend and starts at eight every damn day.

Rummaging through your purse you manage to find your keys just before you make it to the front door and once you open it, you hurry to the keypad to punch in your alarm code without really looking at the display. The lights that are supposed to come on automatically don't, and so you wonder if the alarm was already disabled by someone else but you can't check now unless you ask Bert to log on to the security system and that's not really an option at this moment.

The sun’s already been up for about an hour, so there’s enough light from outside to help you find your way to the back anyway, and so you figure there’s no harm done. But then you hear a sound coming from Bert’s office you wish you would have paid more attention to whether or not the alarm was activated. Your heart’s in your throat in an instant and for a moment you wonder what to do, because maybe someone’s robbing the bank, but then you hear a quiet, “Gosh darn it,” coming from the office and you can’t help but let out sigh of relief.

“Hi, Bea,” you almost whisper so as not to scare her, but she still does, clutching her pearls when you open the door. Just the sight of her instantly lifts your mood.

“Oh, sweetie, don’t you ever do that again!” She slaps you with the ‘Happy Birthday’ banner she was trying to pin to the wall and then laughs when you fake being hurt.

“Oh, Bea, I’m sorry,” you say, pouting a little for full effect, “but why are you here anyway? Didn’t we agree I’d handle the decorations?”

“Oh honey,” she says, handing you the banner and thumbtack she was holding, “I’m sure we did, but I really couldn’t remember, so I figured I might as well come in to either do it myself or to help you.” She grabs a bag of balloons from the desk and pulls one out, stretching it and bringing it up to her mouth, but not before she says, “You do the banner, hon, I’m better at blowing anyway.”

The rest of your workday is pretty uneventful, except maybe for the second serving of cake Bert offers you after you’ve given him your best rendition of ‘Happy Birthday To You’ with the fake British accent you mastered at University. Don’t ask.

Bea’s in the middle of telling you how she excited she is her grandson Zachary starts Kindergarten next week and you are trying your very best to make it look like you’re paying attention when really you’re trying to figure out whether or not it would be weird to go get a cocktail after work. By yourself. On a Monday. Because goddammit, after the morning you’ve had, with that near-collision, you’d sure as hell deserve it.

You have just dutifully hummed to let Bea know you’re still listening, or pretending to anyway, when the automatic doors open and a young couple walks in. As most young couples do, they head straight to Bea and so you stand up, relieved to get a break from her monologue, because even though Bea is as sweet as they come, the woman sure loves to talk. You let Bea know you’re going to get a coffee just before she greets the clients and make your way out of the secured area to the small kitchen down the hall.

You’re waiting for the machine to come to life, impatiently tapping your fingers on the counter top because it takes this thing at least a full minute to warm up, when you think you hear a noise coming from the front. It has you rooted in your place, your ears straining to hear anything else, but it stays quiet and so you wonder if you’ve imagined it. The machine’s finally up to temperature and you’re about to press the button for a cup of coffee when you hear Bea shouting something that sounds like, “Over my dead body!”

You’re not sure if it’s instinct or those endless safety drills Bert puts all of you through every three months, but your body has reacted long before your mind does when you find yourself running to his office. You enter without knocking, slightly out of breath when you whisper, “You need to push the button, Bert,” before you run back out again.

You know you’re supposed to go hide somewhere, wait it out until the police comes after the call from the panic button goes through. Maybe even try to make it outside using the back exit, but you can’t leave Bea out there all by herself. What if something happens to her? What if something has already happened to her? You find yourself getting angrier the closer you get to the door, because goddammit, how dare they try to come here? How dare they fuck up your quiet Monday afternoon with their attempted robbery.

Attempted yes, because if it is up to you they will not succeed.

By the time you push the handle you are fuming and ready to give these fuckers a piece of your mind, but then you see three men standing on the other side of the secured area, all armed to their teeth with assault rifles and guns, and it keeps you rooted in your spot, your voice lost somewhere in your throat. A quick glance around the room tells you the young couple is nowhere to be seen and for a moment you’re thankful but then you can’t help but wonder if they had any part in this. Your eyes land on Bea then, who stands behind her desk, a defiant look in her eyes even though three men have their guns trained on her. All of them are quiet and for a moment you’re proud because it looks like Bea’s got the upper hand.

It’s then you spot the fourth, and what you hope is the last man out of the corner of your eye. He’s trying to pick the lock of the door that leads to the secured area you’re standing in right now, a groan escaping him when he spots you. He sounds annoyed as if you’re just a distraction he now has to deal with. He stands up quickly, drawing his gun and one by one the men turn to you as a sort of response to the sound guy four made.

They are all wearing balaclavas as a disguise and so you can actually see their eyes go wide when they see you. For a moment you’re sure it’s because they weren’t expecting anyone else to be here, even though everyone knows there are always at least two tellers present in a bank at any given time, because security, but then it’s almost like they recognize you.

One of them actually mutters a quiet, “Oh shit, it’s her.”

As if on cue they lower their weapons and retreat, quickly leaving the scene of the crime without taking as much as a penny, leaving you and Bea stunned at what just happened.

“And you are sure that is what they said, ‘Oh shit, it’s her?’ and then they left?” the Detective asks you for what feels like the hundredth time.

You nod, “Yes, I am sure.”

You let out a frustrated groan because you’ve been questioned for over an hour now and honestly, it makes you feel like you’re the criminal. “I’m not sure I can give you any new information at this point. I’ve told you everything already,” adding what you hope is an exhausted sigh for good measure. “Can I go home, please?” you try and to your surprise the Detective tells you you can.

He informs you that they’d like to do a follow-up interview tomorrow and lets you know that they’ll contact you when they have any leads or news regarding the case. “We would appreciate it if you stay in the area for at least a day or two, Miss,” he says while pocketing the tiny notebook he used during the interview, “or at least let me know if you are thinking about leaving Savannah.”

You nod, because it seems like a fair request, before the Detective dismisses you with a wave of his hand and a quiet, “Thank you.”

When you step out of Bert’s office you find him leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, “You ok?”

“Yeah,” you nod, because it sort of true. Sure, you’re still a little high on adrenaline, but other than that you feel fine. Maybe because the whole ordeal last only about twenty seconds or so. For you, anyway. “How’s Bea?”

“A little shaken up,” Bert admits, while walking you to the exit. “Her husband picked her up once they were done questioning her and she agreed to take the rest of the week off.” He turns to you, his voice unusually soft when he says, “I think you should too, kid.”

“What and sit at home, driving myself crazy thinking about this?” You shake your head, “No thanks, Bert, I’d rather just come in tomorrow.”

He sighs, knowing you’re too stubborn to take his advice, “At least start a little later then, ok? Eleven is fine.”

“Fine,” you huff, crossing your arms in front of your chest, not liking this special treatment.

“Fine,” Bert mimics and gives you a wink. “See ya tomorrow.”

You glance at your alarm clock again, letting out a frustrated sigh when you see it’s already three-thirty in the morning and you’re still wide awake, the events of earlier today replaying in your mind every chance they get. You know you’ll probably won’t sleep any more anyway and so you grab your phone, pull up Google and type ‘2019 bank robberies’, surprised when you get over six million hits within less than a second. You know banks get robbed left, right, and center, but you never expected to see ‘Georgia’ pop up in so many results, stunned when you read the headlines:

Armed robbery in Macon, GA, leaves tellers tied up, but otherwise unharmed, in empty safe. Robbers walk away with half a million U.S. Dollars.

Macon, GA, robbery linked to Atlanta, GA robbery.

“These guys are professionals,” local Sheriff admits among ongoing investigation.

Pembroke, GA, next target of band of robbers. Two people injured after public tries to interfere.

Georgia robbers most likely part of a much larger crime syndicate operating nationwide. FBI now involved.

“Jesus,” you mutter quietly, after finishing reading the last article, your eyes wide in shock. It’s not so much that, if it really is the same group that’s responsible for all these robberies, they have committed an awful lot of crimes already, it’s more that they never seem to hurt anyone. The only time people got hurt was when someone tried to run them off the road after the crime occurred. From the stories they seem almost polite, which is weird.

Not for the first time you wonder why and how they seemed to recognize you and more importantly, why they left after that. Does it have something to do with their unwillingness to harm people? Biting your lip you go over everything again, from the moment the young couple came in until the robbers fled the scene, but still there is nothing that stands out.

The sound of your phone ringing wakes you and you’re surprised to see it’s already eleven-thirty. Oh shit, you were supposed to be at work at eleven and so you’re sure it’s Bert calling when you answer with an, “I’m sorry, I overslept. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

“Uh,” the voice on the other end of the line is much deeper that Bert’s and you groan when you realize your mistake. “This is Detective Johansson, we spoke yesterday?”

“Yes, God, I’m sorry,” you sit up and cover yourself with your blanket even though he can’t see you, “how can I help you?”

“I just wanted to let you know we’ve gotten a hold of some of the security camera footage of the area, and I wonder if you could come in today to see if there’s anything or anyone you might recognize.”

“Uhm, yeah, sure.” You clear your throat, “When, uhm, when would you like me to be there?”

“One would be good,” detective Johansson says. “Just ask for me at the front desk.”

“Will do,” you say, but then you hear the call has already been disconnected and you look at your phone in disbelief. How rude. You shake your head and thumb through your contact list, pulling up Bert’s number to let him know you won’t be able to make it to work after all today, not surprised when he tells you he already asked Cathy to fill in for you for today and tomorrow. Just in case.

“Nothing?” Detective Johansson sounds a little shocked. He’s shown you footage of several security cameras, and one even captured the robbers in their getaway car, without their masks on, but the image is too grainy to see any facial features you might recognize. He must know this too but he makes it seem like it’s your fault. You decide right then and there that you really don’t like him. You’re sure he’s good at his job, but he’s got the social skills of a shark.

He returns to the stills from the security camera footage inside the bank, once more lining them up as if you haven’t already studied every single detail. You have been here for almost two hours and Detective Johansson has been relentless in his questioning, making you go over everything again and again as if you haven’t already told him everything you know when he took your statement yesterday.

“I’ve already seen these,” you offer quietly, “I doubt there’s anything else I can give you.” You let your eyes dart over the photos again and while you’re aware the Detective says something about looking harder, you hardly register it because all of a sudden your eye catches something on the left side of the bulletproof vests the guys are wearing and you hold your breath, because no, it can’t be.

You try to play it cool and hope you don’t give anything away when you let your eyes dart over the four photos again. On every single vest there is a patch with the letters JS on top over the number 82. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Fuck. At first you thought it was just the brand of the vests but now that you’ve actually seen what’s written there you know that it’s not. And you also know why they might have recognized you.

Fuck.

Your mind is going a million miles an hour, trying to figure out what to do. The decision is made for your when Detective Johansson, rather unfriendly, tells you they’ll be in touch if they find any new leads, effectively dismissing you.

You clear your throat and look up at the detective, “I’m sorry, I really wish I could help.”

He just nods and grabs the pictures, leaving the room without so much as waiting for you to follow him.

“Asshole,” you mutter quietly, hoping none of the security cameras picked up on that.

You try to act cool as you leave the station but your heart’s racing and you tell yourself to slowly, slowly walk to your car so as to not draw any suspicion. Once you’re in your car you take your phone out of your purse, but then you realize you’re still in front of the police station and this might not be the best place to Facebook-stalk the person you think might have something to do with all of this, and so you start your car and head to Tybee Island, the twenty-minute drive doing nothing to calm your nerves.

Finishing the coffee you’ve ordered you think back to the past twenty-four hours, because that’s how long it’s been since your life got turned upside down. To the minute. You’ve checked.

Not for the first time it feels like you’ve ended up in a movie, but the fact that you had to stop for gas on your way over here was a perfect reminder that this is still very much real life. No matter how bizarre it seems.

The waitress brings you the bill even though you didn’t ask for it and you’re about to tell her there’s a thing or two about customer service she still has to learn, but then you figure you might as well get back to it, because there are some questions you desperately need answers to.

You try to recall the pictures the Detective showed you and even though you are certain that, even with the knowledge you have now, there’s no one on there you recognize or know from when you were younger, the JS 82 is a dead give-away. It has to be him. But why?

You’ve tried everything but there’s nothing about him on Facebook or Google, even though you aren’t really surprised, because why would there be? You’re sure most criminals would rather avoid social media. Just to be certain you try Josh as well, but also, nothing. That’s not surprising, considering how bad of a state he was in when you last saw him. You wonder if he even is still alive.

You turn your phone over in your hand while you look out over the beach and wonder if you should just swing by his house. Well, his parents’ house. You doubt he still lives there, even though that would make one hell of a headline: ‘Armed robber found living in basement at parents house.’ You can’t help but laugh when you picture the scene of him being arrested, taken from his room in nothing but his boxers.

You shake your head and make up your mind, knowing it will probably lead to nothing anyway, but you just have to know. Maybe he has nothing to do with this and it’s all one big coincidence, but you won’t know until you go there, won’t you?

You’re not sure if actually going to see his mother is a good idea, because what if the police have put a tail on you? You grin then, because you are definitely not important enough to be tailed. Jesus, you’re just a bank teller. Get a life.

Plus, if it really is him, you reason, well, they haven’t been able to catch him until now, so what would your visit change? It seems like the police still don’t have a clue who’s behind all this. You’re assuring yourself it’ll be fine.

Leaving the money needed to pay for your coffee and a little tip on the table, you get up before you grab your purse and head back to your car.

The drive over to his parents’ house doesn’t take long, also because you still know how to get there without your navigation, and are you really surprised it still looks the same as it did sixteen years ago? No, of course not.

You hesitate for a moment before you get out of the car, because if anything this is all just fucked up, but you know if you really start to think things through now you’ll never make it to the door. It takes you a few minutes to pull yourself together but then you’re finally on your way.

Taking a deep breath you ring the bell and it isn’t long before you hear footsteps coming towards the door. You hear the handle being turned and for a moment you wonder if he’ll be on the other side, but then you you see his mother standing in front of you and suddenly there’s this lump in your throat that you try your best to swallow away.

“Oh honey,” she says, her voice as sweet as you remember, her Romanian accent still there somewhere in the background, even after all these years. “He knew you’d stop by. Come on, get inside,” her voice drops then, “don’t want anyone to see you.”

She wraps her arm around your shoulder and closes the door with her left foot, the way she always did and which often got her scolded at by her husband, claiming her shoes left a mark on the door he had to repaint every year.

You let her lead you to the living room where she points to the couch, “Sit.” You obey, of course you do, and watch as she heads towards the kitchen to get you a drink no doubt, but then she seems to think better of it and walks to the bar cart instead, pouring two glasses of Scotch. She hands you one before she sits down next to you, “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” you say, but you notice the way your voice catches in your throat, making it sound like your asking a question. You want nothing more than to have her explain everything to you, but you don’t know how to start and so you just sit there, the sip of Scotch you took burning its way down your throat.

“I really can’t tell you much,” she offers after a while, because like always she knows exactly what you think, “but he wanted me to give you this.” She takes a folded envelope out of her bra, an apologetic smile, “Sorry, honey, had to keep it safe.” She laughs then, “At least it’s warmed up.”

You can’t help but smile too and carefully take the envelope from her, putting it in the side pocket of your bag. That’s for later.

“He also wanted to give you this,” she continues while she takes something out of her purse. It’s a single key, no ring, no marker. She gives it to you, “Pawleys Island. I’m sure you remember the address?”

You nod, because yes, yes you do. You know this will lead you to the last beach house on Atlantic Avenue, where you spent many summer days with him. Happy memories start flooding your mind, but you push them back. For now at least. Maybe tonight you’ll let them in.

His mother puts her free hand on your arm, interrupting your thoughts, and gives it a little squeeze, “I really wish I could tell you more, but he made me promise not to. Plausible deniability, I guess.”

You’re not sure if she’s talking about her or you.

She smiles then, “He’s changed, I mean, that much is obvious, but,” she clears her throat, “the boy we both know and love is still in there somewhere. It’s not all bad. Just,” she squeezes again, “just hear him out, ok?”

You nod, because you don’t trust yourself to speak, tears already threatening to spill from your eyes. Being here, talking to his mother, it takes you back and it reminds you of all the good times you had and you can’t help but wonder what happened. Well, you sort of know what did, but you wonder what got him there and if the dots you are slowly starting to connect are the right ones.

You know what you’re doing is wrong and that you should probably just call Detective Johansson and tell him everything you’ve found out so far, but you just can’t. You want to hear the other side of this story first.

You want to know why your high school sweetheart started robbing banks.

#Sebastian Stan x Reader #Sebastian Stan Imagine #Sebastian Stan fanfic #Things We Lost in the Fire #Harley Sunday x Sebastian Stan

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harley-sunday · 4 years

Text

Things We Lost in the Fire [07]

Summary: During a bank robbery you’re surprised when the criminals seem to recognize you and retreat in fear. Only after do you learn that your high school sweetheart now runs a nationwide crime syndicate and has you placed on a “no harm” list. You decide to pay him a visit after all these years.

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Reader (F)

Warnings: Language.

Word count: 2421

AN: This is it. This story was fun to write and almost wrote itself effortlessly. I hope you’ll like it. Please, please, please let me know what you think. ♥

Masterlist

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Detective Johansson starts, his voice lacking the emotion you weren’t expecting anyway. His eyes are trained on you, as if he’s still looking for clues. “I think you’ll be relieved to hear that Mr Hughes confessed to all the crimes we suspected him off.”

“Relieved is not-”

“We spoke to him at length on Thursday and Friday,” Johansson continues without missing a beat, effectively ignoring you, “and he gave us information that has led us to believe he was behind multiple robberies over the last fifteen years.” He clears his throat, “We also believe that the money stolen was used to pay for his treatment here.”

“Ok,” you draw out, not sure where he’s going with this. He still looks at you like you’re somehow a part of this. Which, technically, you are, but not in the way he might think.

“The investigation is still ongoing,” he pauses, his look falling somewhere over your shoulder to where you know Sebastian is, “we’re hoping to find out who his accomplices were sooner rather than later. We know Mr Hughes couldn’t have pulled this off all by himself.”

The silence that follows his statement feels rehearsed, a way to make you talk, but he should know by now you know how to keep silent. You are glad to hear Josh kept his promise and kept Seb’s team out of this. If what Sebastian has told you is true it should be almost impossible to link back to those guys. Or him.

“While I still believe you should have come to us first,” his voice interrupts your thoughts and you look up at him with what you hope is an apologetic smile, “I also believe that in the light of recent events and Mr Hughes’ confession, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference.” He holds out his hand, “You are no longer tied to this investigation.”

“Thank you,” you say as you take his hand and shake it, relieved to hear the words.

He holds on a little too long though and nods to somewhere over your shoulder, “Who’s he?”

You pull your hand back before you glance over your shoulder where you see Sebastian talking to Betty, his hands in his pockets, his demeanor relaxed, as if he has nothing to hide. You can’t help but smile when you turn back to Detective Johansson which is exactly how Josh told you to do it, “That’s Sebastian Stan. He went to high school with Josh and me.” You hesitate, looking down to add to the sentiment, “I used to have the biggest crush on him back then.”

There’s another silence then, not rehearsed this time and so you can tell it makes him a little uncomfortable.

“I should go,” Detective Johansson says then. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Detective.” You watch as he walks away, hands tucked somewhere deep in his pockets, his head held high even though his whole body screams defeat. Someone stands beside you then and an involuntary shiver runs down your spine when you catch a whiff of his cologne.

“You ok?”

You just nod.

His hand finds yours then, and he gently squeezes it, “I’ll be seeing you, dragă.”

Letting your head hang you feel his fingers slide out from in between yours and you want to tell him, “Don’t go,” but you can’t. He needs time to grieve, time to mourn the loss of his best friend, time to set part two of Josh’ plan in motion. And so you try blink away the tears that have formed in your eyes, not caring that they end up falling anyway, because you need time too.

Two weeks later you find yourself at the end of yet another tour of your house, to make sure you’re not forgetting anything. Not that there’s much left, the three boxes you wanted to take with you already shipped off to their new destination, and there have been several trips to local thrift shops already to donate books, small trinkets, and whatever else you no longer need. All that’s left inside is the furniture the house came with, some clothes, and toiletries.

You’re set to officially move in with him early August, just in time to celebrate his birthday together in your new home. To say you are counting down the days would be an understatement. Only thirty-five days left, you realize with a smile.

Your phone beeps then, letting you know you’ve received a new message, your smile growing even wider when you see it’s from him.

At the airport, almost ready to board, I’ll see you tonight, dragă.

You type a quick reply, telling him you can’t wait. As you turn around to put your phone down on the dining table your eyes fall on the picture of Josh that you’ve put up on the mantle above the fireplace, on of the few things that will stay here until you actually move out. There’s a candle next to the frame that you try to keep burning at all times, but it’s out now and so you set out to find a new one.

When you do, and you’ve placed it in the holder, you take a moment to thank Josh before you light it. You know you’ll never be able to repay him for everything he’s done, that all you can do is live the live he wanted you and Sebastian to have and enjoy every minute of it.

And that’s exactly what you plan on doing.

“Do you think it worked?”

He shrugs, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips when he puts his arm around you, pulling you closer to him, using his feet to softly rock the porch swing you’re both sitting on.

As you look out over the garden at the back of his mother’s house you spot the moon hanging somewhere low in the night sky. It’s still warm outside, not unusual for the end of July, and the crickets are taking full advantage, their singing almost like a soundtrack to this lovely evening.

It’s then his mother walks onto the porch, carrying a tray with three tumblers of Scotch that she carefully sets down. She hands each of you a glass before she takes her own, leaning against the railing next to you. Raising her glass, she looks at both of you with a smile, “To my son and getting to meet his new, old girlfriend.”

You can’t help but smile, holding up your own glass, “Cheers.”

“Noroc,” Sebastian says, clinking his glass against his mother's, then yours.

“I still don’t really see why we had to do this,” you admit, even though you had a lovely evening. The restaurant he chose was good, of course it was, and the conversation between the three of you flowed effortlessly, like it always did. You still wish his stepfather could have been there too, but he was away for business and couldn’t get out of the trip no matter how hard he tried.

“Backstory, dragă,” he says quite matter-of-factly. “Just like all those dates I’ve been taking you on for the last month.”

“Hmm,” you agree before taking another sip of your drink.

“It makes sense,” he continues, “at this point in our relationship for you to meet my Mom.”

“Sebastian,” his mother says then, with the Romanian pronunciation you’ve come to love so much, even though it sounds like she’s berating him. He must hear it too.

“What?” He laughs, “I know it seems,” he hesitates, “silly, for lack of a better word, but we need to do this. As far as Detective Johansson knows we just went to high school together, so it would be weird for her to just move in with me, right?”

Both his mother and you nod.

“It’s all part of Josh’ plan so that we could have a way out,” he says, taking a sip of Scotch before he continues, “we meet again at his funeral, exchange numbers, start texting each other and before you know I’ve asked her on a date.”

“That was a good date,” you muse, thinking back to the Italian place he took you, the same as where you had your first date, the whole evening basically a repeater of that time nineteen years ago. Minus the braces and the giggling on your part.

“It was,” he agrees, gently kissing your temple. “Just like the five dates we had after that, dragă.”

“But, you live on the other side of the country,” you offer, because you remember Josh’ words too. “And it’s getting serious, because on our last date you asked me to move in with you and I said yes.”

“Yup,” he agrees with a grin, “but it would me weird to move in with me without you meeting my family first, right?”

“Right.”

“So here we are.”

“Here we are,” you echo with a smile, raising your glass once again.

His mother sighs, “And all this just in case you’re still under investigation? Even though there’s nothing that indicates that you are?”

“Yeah,” Sebastian nods. “Better safe than sorry.”

“Plus, I had a wonderful time tonight,” you offer. “It was great seeing you again, Georgeta,” with a wink then, “under somewhat more normal circumstances than last time anyway.”

She laughs, “I wouldn’t be so sure about those circumstances, Fată.”

You feel yourself tear up at the use of the word for both girl and daughter and so you get up and give her a hug, whispering a quiet, “I promise to take care of him,”

EPILOGUE

“Seb?”

There’s no reply and you furrow your brows, because there’s no reason for him not to be at home. You lean in and grab your purse from the passenger’s seat, digging around for you phone to see if he’s called while you were on your way home, but there are no missed calls. Not unusual because the signal is weak once you pass Capetown anyway, even though you are in California and never really not that far from civilization.

“Seb?” you try again, edging closer to the house, the moon casting a faint glow over the hills around you. Still nothing.

“Fuck,” you mutter quietly, trying your hardest to keep your cool, not wanting to get lost in the what ifs. Still, your mind wanders, figuring that if this means his past has finally caught up with you, you’ve at least had three really good months together here on the west coast.

You fell instantly in love with the house he built for you, a project he started after he left Pawleys Island. It's a simple two-story cabin, but it's home and the view you have of the sea and the rugged coast making you feel like this is where you belong more than Savannah ever did.

Three months of living here have taught you the bottom step of the stairs leading up to the front porch creaks and so you step onto the second, trying your hardest not to make a sound. There’s a faint glow coming from inside the house and you see the front door is slightly ajar, and is that music you hear coming from inside?

Must be losing your mind, you think and shake your head, trying to gather the courage you know you’ll need to actually step inside. You take a deep breath, step onto the third step, the porch next, making it to the front door in four quick steps. There’s a small smile tugging on your lips then, because yes, there is actually music playing and you recognize the song as one of your favorites from U2. Deciding things can’t be that bad as you thought they would be you open the door, your smile growing even wider.

There’s a trail of lit candles leading from the front door, past the stairs to the living room and you have no other choice than to follow them, closing the front door with your left floor and dropping your purse at the bottom of the stairs. The candles continue through the living room towards the back of the house, where you find the french doors that lead to the terrace are open, a heart of candles waiting for you outside.

It’s there you find him, in the middle of that heart, looking ever so handsome in black jeans, and a simple grey sweater with leather patches on his shoulder, no doubt because you’ve told him countless times how much you love this look on him. He grins at you, a twinkle in his eyes when he holds out his hand and waits for you to take it.

“Seb,” you start, your voice catching somewhere in your throat.

“Ssh,” he says, taking your hand in his, “you just need to listen, dragă.”

You join him inside the heart, butterflies taking over your stomach because of course you know where this is going.

“I love you,” he says with a smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “And I had this whole speech prepared, but I’m nervous as fuck, so,” he lets go of your hand and takes a small black box out of his pocket, "for now all you need to know is that I love you.”

You want to say something, tell him that you love him too, but it’s then he goes down on one knee and opens the box, “Of all the things I lost in that fire sixteen years ago, losing you was what hurt me the most. I never want to lose you again, dragă, ever." He looks up at you, tears glistening in his eyes, "Will you please spend the rest of your life with me? Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” you say through your own tears, “Always yes.”

- FIN -

=====

Taglist: @blastaz | @dontbetooobvious | @weirdfanaus | @lindsaywill177 | @oliviastan17

#Sebastian Stan x reader #Sebastian Stan Imagine #Sebastian Stan fanfic #Harley Sunday x Sebastian Stan #Things We Lost in the Fire

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harley-sunday · 4 years

Text

The Draw (14)

Summary: The whirlwind starts at the 2018 ACE Comic Con in Phoenix but you’re not sure where it will end…

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x reader

Warnings: Language.

Word count: 3.5k

AN: Slowly, very slowly, I’m getting back into this one. It deserves to be finished, but I don’t want to rush to a happy ending, you know? Anyway, here’s the latest installment in this crazy ride, hope you enjoy! This one’s for @aarontveitfic ♥

Masterlist

Something beeps somewhere and you let out a quiet groan before you decide to just ignore it, because well, you were cuddling up to Sebastian in a blissful state of half consciousness and you don’t want to have to wake up and realize you only have another day left before he has to leave again. But then you hear Sebastian mutter something about your phone going off and so you blindly reach for it, accidentally knocking off your book from the bedside table first. The notification on your lock screen lets you know you’ve got a new message from your brother, the first few words on their own not really making any sense. It isn’t until you tap on the notification to open it that you see the picture he’s attached and suddenly you’re wide awake, muttering quiet, “Fuck,” as you sit up.

“What?” Sebastian asks from somewhere beside you, his voice still laced with sleep.

“Ugh. I hate him,” you look at the selfie again, channeling all your anger towards your brother, hoping some of it will make its way to him through your phone.

Sebastian must sense something’s going on, because he sits up as well, his lips ghosting over your cheek, “Morning.”

You shake him off and he starts to protest, but then you show him what your brother’s just sent you and see his eyes grow wider with every word he reads:

Guess who we just dropped off at the airport? They thought we should let you know in advance, but I told them not to ruin a good surprise ;) So anyway, can you pick up Mom and Dad? 2PM, flight number AA376. Good luck! xx

“Ok,” Sebastian says, running a hand through his hair, “ok. This isn’t that bad, right?”

You just throw him a glare you hope conveys how much you hate surprises like this and hit ‘call’ on your phone.

And of course your brother picks up on the first ring, “Hey, loser.”

“I hate you.”

He just chuckles, “Good morning to you too.”

You get out of bed, miming to Sebastian that this will only take a minute, before you walk to the kitchen, “What were you thinking, Nathan?”

“Oh shit,” your brother whispers and you think you hear Jake giggle in the background, “Tante is using my full name. We’re in trouble, bud.”

“Take me off speaker, will you?” You pinch the bridge of your nose as you lean against the counter.

“I’m driving,” your brother counters, but you think you hear him tell Jake to put his earbuds in and listen to some music, before he returns to you, “The kid’s otherwise engaged. Go ahead. Hurl your verbal abuse at me.”

“I’m not- A little heads up would be nice, that’s all.”

“What are you not telling me? Are you not in San Francisco?” He chuckles then, “Did I just ship off the parents on their own?”

“Nate. Of course I am in San Francisco,” you bite back.

“So then, what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” you let out a sigh then. “The problem is that Sebastian’s here and I haven’t told Mom and Dad about him yet.”

Your brother starts laughing so hard then, that after a “We will talk about this later, Nathan.” which you know will fall on deaf ears, you hang up without warning. You tap the phone against your chin, unsure where to go from here. There’s still four hours left before they land, and so you think that maybe you’ll be able to pull something off, but then you turn around and see Sebastian standing there and your heart drops.

His arms are crossed in front of his chest, the fabric of his shirt stretching across his biceps and if he didn’t look so upset right now it would be such a turn on. Instead there’s something dark that has settled over his face when he asks, “You haven’t told your parents about us yet?”

You open your mouth to say something, but you don’t know if there’s anything that could make this better and so you just shake your head.

He doesn’t respond, just stares at you before he turns around and walks back to the bedroom.

“Sebastian,” you push yourself off the counter and go after him, finding him sitting on the bed, staring straight ahead. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this upset. He doesn’t look up at you when you enter and so you sit down next to him, your arms brushing against his. You clear your throat, looking at the floor, “I’m sorry.”

He just nods.

“My parents, they are uh-” you hesitate, because you don’t want this to sound like an excuse, even though it’s definitely part of the cause. “Ok, so you know Monica and Ross’ parents, right?”

He looks up at you then, confused, even though you are sure he knows you’re talking about Friends.

Still, you take this as your cue to continue, “They’re a bit like them. Not that they’re bad people, or mean, but they’re just a little ditzy, if that makes sense.” You shrug, “I mean, I didn’t tell them I was going to help out at our office here until after I got here, otherwise they’d just- I don’t know. They’d just worry about everything.” You turn to him, “Nate and I decided a long time ago that sometimes it’s better to just not tell them something until after the fact.”

“I know, I know,” you quickly say when he starts to protest, hands up in defense, “I should have told them about us- About you sooner, but I- I don’t know. I’m afraid they won’t understand.”

“Bullshit.”

It comes out barely above a whisper and so you’re not sure you’ve heard him right, but then he stands up and looks at you.

“It’s bullshit,” he says again with an angry shrug. “Clearly there’s something else going on. And why would you drag your parents like that?”

“What?” You almost do a double take, because did he really just say that? You get up as well, so you can at least face him on the same level, “I didn’t drag my parents. I could entertain you for days with the shit Nate and I have kept from them.”

“Yeah?” he asks defiantly. “Does that include any of your other ex-boyfriends?”

It doesn’t register. Not right away anyway, because you’re too busy trying to remember at what point you first introduced Mark to your parents. It couldn’t have been more than three weeks, maybe a month after you started dating. Which was way too soon and which you regret till this day. It would have been so much better for everyone if you’d just waited a little longer.

Still, technically you guess Sebastian and you have been dating since the end of April, when he took you on that boat trip, but you’ve always considered your rendez-vous in Charlotte, right before he left for the press tour, as the moment you got together. That wasn’t that long ago, right? But then you start to count and realize it’s been almost seven weeks, so maybe he does have a point and you’re about to tell him you and your commitment issues are the real reason why you haven’t told you parents about him yet when finally his words hit you. You look up at him, “What did you just say?”

“I asked if that includes any of your ex-boyfriends.” He doesn’t look at you, instead needs all his attention to look for his jeans.

“No, no, no, that’s not what you said,” because you remember now. You cross your arms in front of your chest, “You said, does that include any of your other ex-boyfriends.”

He finds his jeans, sighs, and looks up at you, “Fine,” but doesn’t say anything else.

“Come on, use your words, Sebastian” you mock, because really? You don’t want to fight, because this seems like such a non-issue to you even though, sure, this isn’t how you planned on introducing Sebastian to your parents, but you know, why not? At least it would spare you an awkward dinner at some point. Mostly you’re just mad at your brother for springing this on you without warning even though you know that’s not entirely fair. But, apparently Sebastian has taken great offense and wants to see this through. Fine, you think, might as well find out now if we can work through this or not, “So we’re done, or?”

“I don’t know,” his jeans are on now, and he’s picked up his duffel bag, putting the rest of his clothes inside like he’s getting ready to leave. “I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t have told them.”

“You are making this a much bigger deal than it-”

“I called my mom right after I dropped you off at LAX,” he zips his bag closed and when he looks up at you he looks hurt, “and told her I met this great girl who swept me off my feet and who I thought might be the one but who felt like she was slipping away. She was the one who encouraged me to go after you and I promised her I’d take you to go see her as soon as we’d had a chance.” He shrugs, his face now blank, “Guess now I get to call her to tell her it didn’t work out anyway.”

You’re a bit taken aback by his willingness to just give up on your relationship and so it takes for him to put his shoes on and grab his duffel bag that you realize he’s actually walking out on you. You follow him to the living room, “Really, Seb? This is it? We’re not even going to talk about this?”

He turns around, “Unless you can give me a good reason not to,”

“I just told you!” Your voice is a little-high pitched, but fuck it, “I swear, if you meet my parents you would understand.”

He scoffs, “Yeah, I can see that going well after all of this.” He takes a step towards you and kisses your cheek, a sad, “I’ll be seeing you,” escaping him.

You want to tell him to stay, want to work through this, but nothing comes out and so all you can do is watch him leave.

Your parents, bless them, believe you when you tell them you’re not feeling too well and think you might be coming down with something even though it’s mid-June. Your father offers to drive back from the airport and so you end up in the passenger’s seat, giving him directions back to your apartment, your mother admiring the surroundings from the back seat.

You tell them to make themselves at home, thankful there’s a spare bedroom for them, and that you’ll just go to bed for a couple of hours, trying to sleep off whatever it is they think you have. You apologize for not being able to show them around town, but your Mom tells you not to be silly, that they’re here until Thursday and that there’s time.

Surprisingly you fall asleep the moment your head hits the pillow, exhausted from this morning’s strange turn of events. When you wake up some time in the late afternoon, you find your parents on your balcony, each with a glass of wine and sharing one of your mother’s famous cheese platters. A smile plays on your lips when you open the fridge and see it’s well stocked, because of course your parents have gone grocery shopping. It’s then you see a stack of freshly folded towels on the dining table and so you walk to the balcony and thank them for what they’ve done.

“Oh honey,” your mother says, “it’s the least we could do.”

You lean against the railing, telling them a little more about your job here while one by one you steal the grapes from the plate until your father gently slaps your hand and mutters, “Leave something for the rest of us, will ya?”

“It’s ok,” your mothers throws you a wink, “I know how much you like them so there’s more in the fridge.”

“Listen,” you push yourself off the railing, “why don’t we head outside for a little? Take a little walk around the neighborhood and maybe grab something to eat?” You could do with some fresh air and some time away from your apartment, you realize.

It isn’t until Wednesday night that you tell them about Sebastian. You’ve taken the day off work and toured the city with your parents, thankful that they already went to Alcatraz on their own on Monday, because it would have been impossible to fit everything into a single day otherwise. You’ve shown them the Golden Gate Bridge, visited Alamo Square, wandered around Chinatown, and ended up at Fisherman’s Wharf where you’re treating them to some of the best seafood in the city at Alioto’s Restaurant.

They take everything surprisingly well, even though your father reprimands you for not telling them sooner, because they would have liked to meet Sebastian when he was in Charlotte and before all this.

Your mother hits the nail on the head when she tells you, “You think you’re doing what’s best for everybody by keeping things to yourself, not wanting to be a burden to anyone” she holds up her hand when you start to protest. “I mean it, honey. You need to talk more. Not just about the bad, but about the good as well. Don’t keep everything to yourself, it’s not healthy. And I’m not saying you should talk to us-”

“Your mother’s right,” your father chimes in and taps your head, “There’s always been so much going on in here that I’m afraid soon not much more will fit, kiddo.”

“We know you might not want to talk to us, per se-,” your mother puts her hand on yours, “but at least talk to Nathan. You two always were two peas in a pod.”

“Heck,” your father grins, “we knew the moment the two of you were born that we would be in the backseat for the rest of your lives and sort of counted on you two to take care of each other in that regard.”

“Or Lauren,” your mother suggests then. “She always seems to be able to talk some sense into you.”

“Nathan knows,” you offer, plucking at your napkin to keep from crying. You really should have given your parents more credit. You clear your throat, “He doesn’t know about our fight yet, but I’ll call him this weekend.”

“You do that, honey,” your mother says, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. “And try to make things right with Sebastian, ok?”

Your first text after you’ve dropped your parents off at the airport on Thursday morning, after promising you’d come to visit them soon, is to Lauren:

911

Her reply comes seconds later

Calling you in five

She just sighs and you can hear the frustration seeping through your phone, “So you haven’t talked to him since?”

“No,” you admit, merging onto the exit that will take you to the office.

“Babe,” the accusation in her voice is very obvious and so you keep quiet, waiting for her to tell you you’ve fucked up. She doesn’t disappoint, “You’re an idiot.”

“I know,” you nod, even though she can’t see you. “I know, ok? I just-”

“You need to fix this.”

You’re about to protest that you can’t, that you’re sure he doesn’t want to see you again, but you know she’s right, so you quietly resign, “Yeah.”

“Call that girl,” Lauren suggests,

“Who?”

“You know, who helped us last time you fucked up?”

“Julie?”

“Yeah!” You can hear the excitement in her voice, “I’m sure she’d help you out. Again.”

“I guess,” you say just as you pull into your parking spot. “Listen, I gotta go, but I’ll keep you updated, ok?”

“You do that,” Lauren replies. “Love you, babe.”

“Love you too.”

Of course Julie helps you, because as she admits, she’s been rooting for you and Sebastian ever since the Infinity War premiere, although you might have told her you just wanted to surprise him. No need for her to know how bad you fucked things up. She tells you where he’s filming in Greece the next six weeks because even though it’s not a Marvel project she knows his schedule. She offers to find out where he staying and promises to send you the address details as soon as possible. You tell her you’ll come visit her once you’re back in San Francisco and take her out for dinner and some drinks as a thank you for all her help.

Julie comes through and sends you the address of the hotel where both cast and crew are staying at only a couple of hours later. Google tells you it’s both about half an hour from the airport and the city and that unfortunately they don’t have any vacancies. You find a hotel a few blocks away and book the room for a week, even though technically you still have to ask Deb for time off. When you call her she lets you go on the condition you’ll keep checking your emails at least once a day.

And so, after organizing everything in just two days, here you are, ready to board your flight to Athens. You pull your phone from out of your purse and find your brother’s name in your contact list, calling him just like you promised your parents you would.

“Hey,”

“Nate?” You’re worried, because you can’t even remember the last time he didn’t call you a loser when picking up the phone. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” he sounds surprised you even ask. “I figured you might not want to talk to me.”

“Dude,” you chuckle, “I called you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, ok,”

“So I guess the parents told you what happened?” You get up, grab your bag and walk to one of the big windows next to the gate, where it isn’t as crowded.

“They did. I just- I’m sorry.”

“What? No.” You shake your head, “I fucked up, Nate. It’s all on me.”

“Well,” he says and you can just imagine the smug grin on his face, “if you insist.”

“You’re still an asshole for not telling me earlier though,” you counter with a smile, “but no, this whole thing with Sebastian is on me.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“I’m about to fly to Athens-”

“Jesus Christ,” he scoffs. “Why can’t it ever be normal with you?”

It’s then you hear your row being called for boarding and so you end with an, “Love you, Nate. I’ll call you when I get back, ok?”

“Yeah, you do that.”

You try to figure out a game plan in the taxi that takes you from the airport to your hotel, but in the end you decide to just wing it. Losing a couple of hours of time difference during your flight means it’s already afternoon by the time you make it to your hotel. It’s hot and your clothes stick to you wherever they can and so you decide to grab a shower first. Rummaging through your bags once you’re done you find one of your favorite summer dresses, a mustard and white striped cotton dress that hits just below your knee. Of course you pair it with your trusted white Converse before you head out.

There’s a line of cabs waiting in front of the hotel and when you tell the driver the address he lets out a low whistle, “Very fancy hotel.”

“I guess,” you reply, smiling at him through the rear view mirror. The butterflies in your stomach prevent you from any small talk and so you stare out the window instead, admiring the view. It’s only a couple of minutes later when the cab driver pulls up in front of a beautiful white building, the name of the hotel in black letters next to the entrance. You hand him some of the Euro bills you took out of the ATM at the airport and tell him to keep the change.

He frowns when he counts the money, “You want me to wait for you, yes?”

“Oh no,” you’re quick to reassure him. “At least, I hope not.” You also realize you must have given him more than a generous tip if he offers to keep the car running, but it’s fine. You hope he at least gets to keep it and doesn’t have to give it to his boss.

As you get out of the car you take a deep breath, the butterflies still fluttering about, and straighten your shoulders, hoping no one at the front desk will ask you who you are.You walk in with purpose, nodding to one of the receptionists as you pass her and then you’re in the elevator, relieved when you see you don’t need a key card for it to work. You press the button for the fifth floor, remembering the room number Julie gave you, and when the doors open you follow the signs to his room. It’s in the far corner somewhere, last door on your right, and you get an overwhelming sense of déjà-vu when you knock and wait for him to open the door.

When he does, you can see his eyes widen in shock when he takes you in, surely not expecting you here.

“Hi,” you start, your voice barely above a whisper. “Can I come in?”

He throws a look over his shoulder before he looks back at you and shakes his head, “I uh- Now’s not a good time.”

#The Draw #Sebastian Stan x reader #Harley Sunday x Sebastian Stan #Sebastian Stan Imagine #Sebastian Stan

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harley-sunday · 4 years

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Things We Lost in the Fire [02]

Summary During a bank robbery you’re surprised when the criminals seem to recognize you and retreat in fear. Only after do you learn that your high school sweetheart now runs a nationwide crime syndicate and has you placed on a “no harm” list. You decide to pay him a visit after all these years.

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Reader (F)

Warnings: Language. Mentions of a miscarriage.

Word count: 3399

AN: Time for part two :) Would love to hear what you think, so don’t be shy about leaving a comment! Enjoy ♥

Masterlist

The drive from his mother’s house to yours is short, with only a quick stop for dinner at the Italian place you’re pretty much a regular at. You like it there because they know not to bother you with any small-talk and they always let you eat in peace. It’s also where he took you on your first date, so...

The first thing you do when you get home is text Bert, giving him some lame excuse about how this is all much tougher than you thought and how you need more time to recover. You ask for two weeks off, because that seems reasonable, and of course he agrees. Tells you to look after yourself and makes you promise you’ll let him know how you are doing sometime next week. It feels bad lying to Bert, but it appears your morals left you at the same moment those robbers left the bank.

Next, upstairs in your bedroom, you grab a chair to pull out an old battered cardboard box from somewhere deep in your closet and set out looking for your senior yearbook. You find it easily enough, even though you’re not sure why you think you need it.

It sits in your lap now, the fingers of your left hand absentmindedly tracing the embossed letters on the cover. Your right hand is holding a glass of Scotch, because that seems to have become your go-to drink every since this started. You swirl the ice cubes around in your glass, letting out a sigh, finally opening the yearbook.

You find the page that has pictures of the senior prom quick enough and you feel a sad smile forming on your lips when you see the picture of Sebastian and you as the homecoming king and queen. God, you were so happy then. You remember being giddy all night but especially after you two were crowned, because never in a million years would you have thought you’d be elected king and queen. To this day you still wonder if Josh had anything to do with it. He must have. There was some shady shit going on during the election that you know the principal tried to get to the bottom of but couldn’t and so he had no choice but to validate the outcome.

Sebastian and Josh were thick as thieves and best friends for as long as you could remember, their families living next to each other long before both boys were born. They were troublemakers, but never in a bad way, not really anyway. They got really into graffiti at some point, but nothing more than that. Or at least, that’s what you thought.

It wasn’t until a few years later that you found out Josh was into some pretty shady shit during senior year.

Your fingers caress the picture gently and there’s a quiet, “Oh, Seb,” escaping you because what the hell ever happened to you two? It’s then you remember the envelope his mother gave you and you reach for your purse that’s sitting on the ground next to the couch. You take out the envelope and spot his handwriting on the back immediately, a hastily scribbled Lubirea Mea in the center.

My Love

There’s something wet dripping down your cheeks and it takes you a moment to realize you’re crying. Weird. Must be the Scotch. Or the trip down memory lane you’ve embarked on today. Or the fact that even now you still you remember the few Romanian words he’s taught you and how he’s still calling you this after all these years.

You became friends in sophomore year, when Mrs Ellis sat you next to each other in art class and you admired the drawings he had decorated his binder with. Then, in senior year, he asked you to be his girlfriend on New Year’s Eve. He had taken you on a few dates in the weeks before that, but nothing compared to the big party Josh hosted at his parents’ beach house that evening.

Just going there and being seen together made it official to the outside world.

Sebastian waited until it was almost midnight to confess he had a crush on you and kissed you passionately for the first time just as the clock struck twelve and fireworks erupted all around you. It was romantic as hell and would set the standard for your relationship the next three and a half years. Because if anything, he was a hopeless romantic. The envelope you’re holding now telling you he probably still is.

When you went away to Columbus State University after high school and he stayed in Savannah you still found ways to make it work. After your second year you found a cheap apartment close to campus so he could stay with you without a roommate to worry about. The first couple of months of that school year were everything you wanted it to be because he came to visit you almost every weekend and you could see a future together slowly starting to form. He told you he’d been saving money, even though he wouldn’t really tell you how, just that he was working together with Josh on a couple of projects. It didn’t matter to you. All you wanted was to follow him into this dream of buying a house on the coast somewhere and raising a family together.

You trusted him to do what was best for you two. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Because everything changed on your three-year anniversary.

Josh hosted another one of his infamous parties at the beach house, which was now his after his parents decided to spend their retirement in the Bahamas, and, like every year, he invited you even though you hadn’t seen Josh since you left for university and weren’t as close to him as you once were. You knew by then Josh had a reputation in Savannah, his parties often raided by the police because they suspected drugs were being dealt and used. They never caught anyone and sometimes it almost felt like Josh was taunting them.

You were hesitant to go to the party but Sebastian took you out to dinner first anyway, a fancy restaurant on the other side of town that was way too expensive as far as you were concerned but that he deemed fitting for your anniversary. Dinner was nice and not for the first time during your relationship you felt like everything was as it should be. And so when you finally gathered enough courage you told him the big news.

You were ten weeks pregnant.

You’ve never seen him that happy before and you’ve never seen him that happy again since, because when you eventually made it to the beach house you were met with an awful sight. The house was completely engulfed in flames, police and firemen swarming the area, ambulances taking away the injured to nearby hospitals. You heard him curse quietly as he drove up to the house and it was then you saw Josh being wheeled out on a stretcher, unconscious, his body badly burned. Without saying a word you followed the ambulance to the hospital, waiting there for what felt like days even though it couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours until the doctors informed you of his condition.

Josh suffered third degrees burns on his face, chest, stomach, arms and legs, and the doctors could already confirm he’d lost eyesight in at least one eye, the second one being dangerously close to following. He would have a long road ahead of him, they warned you, if he even would make it out alive. You stayed in the hospital until his parents arrived the next day, but even then Sebastian never left Josh’ side.

No matter how hard you tried, he wouldn’t meet you, wouldn’t leave the hospital in case Josh would wake up, and so you had to go to there to say goodbye to him when you went back to Columbus after the winter break was over. He seemed distracted, but you figured he was still in shock from everything that happened and sort of admired his loyalty to Josh.

You talked on the phone a couple of times after that, but you never saw him after that last goodbye. Not when you told him you were stressed out about your upcoming exams. Not when you told him you missed him. Not when you begged him to please come see you.

Not even when you told him you’d lost the baby somewhere in the early stages of the second trimester.

He was slipping away from you and there was nothing you could do.

Eventually the findings of the police made it clear that the fire was drug-related and even believed to be an attack on Josh’ life. By then you had learned that Josh had woken up from his coma and that crime still raged in Savannah, some sort of retaliation of what happened that night. There were a lot of gang-related incidents and people were getting beaten up and left for dead almost daily.

You called Sebastian some time in April of that year, fed up with everything, and ended things. You told him you were done. Well, you told his voicemail, because he never answered his phone anymore, and he sure as hell never called back.

You saw him only once after you broke up, in the local CVS of all places on one of your rare trips back to Savannah. You tried to avoid him, tried to make it outside without having to talk to him, but like always he found you easily enough. He tried to apologize for everything that happened, but all you could focus on was how terrible he looked, his face sunken in, his knuckles scraped and bruised, and you couldn’t help but wonder just how much he was involved in all of this. The crimes and the beatings and maybe even the drugs.

You dropped out of university shortly after, needing time to make sense of everything that happened in the last six months, promising the student counselor you’d keep in touch about finishing your last year. You never did. You moved to Atlanta to get away from everything, but mostly to get away from him and the memories of him. Atlanta was a nice distraction, at least the first couple of years.

It took you three years to not think about him every single day. Five years to pretty much forget about him and be sort of happy again. You made it to ten years before you started longing for Savannah again. Made it to twelve before you finally decided to move back.

And now here you are, back in Savannah and back to thinking about him again. You wonder why he still has such a hold over you, because you are sure every normal, sane, person would just turn him in. But not you.

No.

You are sitting here, ten minutes after midnight, on your third glass of Scotch, still turning that fucking envelope over and over in your hands, the melancholy of it all settled somewhere deep in your chest. You put the glass down on the coffee table and sit back, taking a deep breath and then you open the envelope, carefully taking out the piece of paper that’s inside.

You’re not sure what you expected, but not this.

Vă rog.

Please.

You don’t make the drive to Pawleys Island right away. Not in the least because well, you’re definitely over the limit, but also because after reading his plea you suddenly feel so, so tired. You barely make it to bed, stumbling over your shoes that are lying on the floor somewhere and taking your sweet time trying to conquer the stairs while the world is spinning all around you. You vow right then and there never to drink again. Not that much, anyway.

You sleep for at least twelve hours, waking up somewhere in the middle of Wednesday, the afternoon sun shining through your window way too brightly for your liking. By then it’s too late to make the drive, and so you decide to clean your house. It’s your go-to method of dealing with things when you’re upset and it’s quite useful to be honest. Once that’s done you find your trusted duffel bag and pack some clothes. You tell yourself it’s just in case, but somehow you know you won’t be back here for at least a couple of days.

Once that’s done you order a pizza and decide to call Detective Johansson to let him know you’re leaving for at least a week, just to get him off your back. He doesn’t seem very interested and you wonder if you should have even bothered.

You’re up early, nerves keeping you from falling back asleep and so you’re on the road before eight, hitting a little bit of traffic on your way out of town, but things immediately quiet down once you cross into South Carolina. The sun is out and from experience you know it should take you about three hours to get to Pawleys Island, a beautiful drive, the memories of those endless summers coming back as you make your way down the 17, getting closer to the coast after Charleston.

You stop for a coffee and something to eat in Georgetown because you doubt he’ll take you out to lunch once you get there. Panic hits then, because what if he isn’t even there? He doesn’t know you’re coming. It’s not like you made an appointment to go see him. Jesus, what if this was all for nothing? You try to calm yourself by reasoning that his mother must have let him know that you’ve come to see her and that he probably figured out you would come out some time this week.

Wanting to get it over with you ask for a to-go cup at the counter and pour your coffee over, leaving your half-eaten sandwich on the table as you rush back to your car. It’s only about twenty minutes from here, but traffic is slow and so you quietly curse everyone on the road with you.

A wave of nausea hits you when you pull up in front of the beach house. It’s been completely demolished after the fire and the house that stands there now doesn’t have any resemblance to the old house if not for blue window panes. Well, what once were blue window panes anyway. The exterior of the house is in decay, paint is chipping pretty much everywhere and the shrubs have grown so high they’re now covering the porch. It’s weird to think the last time you were here was over sixteen years ago.

You sit in your car for a while, gathering up the courage you need for this. You wonder if he knows you’re here, if he’s already seen you from somewhere behind a window. How free does he feel here? Is this just where he hides out after a robbery or does he live here? Do the neighbors know him? Is Josh with him? God, you don’t even know if Josh is still alive. You shake your head to get rid off all the questions that are now going through your mind in a never ending loop and take a deep breath. You grab your purse from the passenger’s seat, finding the key his mother gave you in the side pocket, and get out of your car.

Looking straight ahead you walk up to the house, a small path cleared in between the shrubs wide enough for you to pass through. You hesitate for a moment when you get to the door, but then you mutter a quiet, “Fuck it,” and open it using the key in your hand. It’s light inside, far from the dark drug den you were expecting, and it throws you off a bit. Closing the door behind you, you take it all in. It’s weird how normal it looks inside compared to faded exterior. It’s completely furnished and almost homely and it’s then you wonder if this is where he lives. You half expect a kid or a dog to come running at you from somewhere then because it’s been pretty bold of you to assume he’d still be single. God, there’s a lot you don’t know about him, you realize, and you wonder what version of him you’ll find here.

“Hello?” you call out, but there’s no reply. Curiosity drives you forward, passing the kitchen on your right, to the living room in front of you. Strangely enough the layout of the house is the same as before and so you find your way effortlessly. The far wall of the living room, on the other end of the house, is made up of floor-to-ceiling windows, with a sliding door on the left side.

The door is open and leads to a deck outside and it’s there you see him, sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs. He looks relaxed, a cup of coffee in his hand, today’s newspaper on the table next to him. You tap on the glass of the door, not wanting to startle him even though you know you really should care less about his general well-being. But you want answers and those are hard to come by if you scare him to death, you reason.

He looks up and over his shoulder, a smile creeping onto his lips when he sees it’s you.

“Fuck,” you mutter quietly, because honestly, he looks as good as ever and your knees, your fucking knees, actually go weak. Using the door frame for support you step outside and see him stand up.

“Dragă,” he says, his voice smooth as butter.

“Don’t call me that,” you bite back, because does he really think he can still call you ‘babe’ after all these years.

“I’m sorry,” he says, actually dropping his head and you feel yourself getting angry because what is he, an actor now? No way does he actually feel sorry. It’s all part of this act of his, you’re sure. His way to get redemption.

But is it?

Because when he looks up at you again there’s this sincerity in his eyes that you’ve seen before. You’ve seen it every time he told you he loved you. Dammit. You decide you need some distance and so you walk back until you bump into the railing, leaning against it you cross your arms defensively, letting him know you’re not here for his bullshit. You take him in, all of him, and are surprised to see he hasn’t changed much. His eyes are still the same. A few wrinkles around them, sure, but still that same striking blue that you could get lost in for hours. His hair’s a little shorter than it was back in high school and there’s a little grey around his temples and in his beard but it suits him.

He still has a lean physique but he’s much more muscular now, and you wonder how many hours a week he spends at the gym. He’s wearing a simple white and blue striped t shirt, his biceps stretching the fabric just enough so that you can tell he’s flexing. The jeans he’s wearing are dark blue, his sneakers so white you wonder if they’re new. He looks nothing like the hardened criminal you made him out to be, and much more like a happily married father of three that you hope he isn’t.

God, what if he isn’t involved? What if he’s just like, their accountant or something? You shake your head you know he’s not.

“Coffee?” he asks, interrupting your thoughts. He’s standing up, but keeping his distance as he walks to the door.

It sounds like a normal question but this whole situation is absurd and so it takes you a while to reply. “That depends,” you finally say, one eyebrow raised, “am I just here for some small-talk or are you actually going to tell me everything?”

“Dragă, please,” he says, but realizes his mistake and quickly adds, “You’re here because I need-” he looks at you, “I need you to know everything.”

“Then I’m going to need something stronger than coffee.” And, because you’re still angry, a sneer, “Babe.”

#Sebastian Stan x reader #Sebastian Stan imagine #Sebastian Stan fanfic #Things We Lost in the Fire #Harley Sunday x Sebastian Stan

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harley-sunday · 4 years

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Things We Lost in the Fire [04]

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Reader (F)

Warnings: Language.

Word count: 4385

AN: Onto part four. Thanks for all the love so far, I’m glad you like it :) ♥

Masterlist

As you turn around you reach for your phone, pressing the home button so you can see what time it is. Not even ten minutes later from the last time you checked,and so you sigh and figure you might as well get up. It’s still early, but Sebastian’s been up for almost half an hour already, which you know because you pretended to be asleep when he got out of bed. Very mature, sure, but you didn’t want to face him just yet. You hardly slept, all the events of the past four days playing over and over and over again in your mind, while you were trying to make sense of all of it.

You’re sure that what he’s told you is the truth, but you can’t help but wonder if this is all there is. If this is the entire truth. At some point during the night his mother’s words about plausible deniability popped up, but then you figured you already know too much for that to still be an excuse. You’re now officially an ‘accessory after the fact’, but you guess that technically you became one when you didn’t tell Detective Johansson about the initials on the vests and instead went out on an investigation of your own. You’re not sure why, because there’s no reason for you to not trust the legal system, and it’s not like you were blinded by love, if anything you were just curious. Stupid? Maybe. Well, definitely. But you’re in too deep now anyway, so you might as well continue, right? Even though you’re not sure where it will take you.

It’s then the smell of freshly brewed coffee finds its way into your nose and are you really surprised he’s making you breakfast? No. Of course not. Without thinking you walk to the stairs and yell out, “Seb?”

“Yeah?”

“Do I still have time to take a shower?”

You hear him chuckle, “Yeah.”

Grabbing a change of clothes and your toiletry bag you make your way to the bathroom, smiling when you see he’s laid out a set of towels for you.

Once you’re done you turn the water off and it only takes a couple of minutes for you to get ready, your outfit a simple pair of jeans and moss green top, not bothering with shoes just yet and so you make your way downstairs on bare feet. You find Sebastian at the stove, making scrambled eggs, wearing black jeans paired with a black button-up shirt covered in, and you actually do a double take because are those fucking daisies? Huh.

You’re still not used to how much more muscular he is compared to the scrawny kid he was when you dated, but God does it suit him. You’re trying not to stare and so instead you sit down at the breakfast bar, helping yourself to a cup of coffee, your voice a little hoarse when you tell him, “Morning.”

“Morning,” he says from somewhere over his shoulder, no doubt grinning at the way you sound. “You sleep well?”

You clear your throat, “Sure,” even though you can tell by the way he looks at you that he knows you’re lying. You scrunch your nose, “Not really.” You see him nod and so you continue, “A little, but mostly my mind was just trying to make sense of everything.”

“I’m sorry,” he says as he puts a plate of toast and eggs in front of you, smiling when you thank him.

“Don’t be,” you say, and you’re surprised to realize you mean it, ‘I’m the one that came here. I mean,” you hesitate, trying to find the right words, “I’m not stupid. I sort of knew what I was getting myself into.”

He seems relieved by your answer and sits down opposite to you, “I called the home Josh is staying at and they let me know that today is not really a good day to come visit. He’s got a lot of therapy scheduled for today, so,” he looks up at you, half a smile on his lips, “they said we could come by tomorrow if we want.”

You return his smile, because of course this would happen, “Guess I’m staying another night then.”

He laughs quietly, but there’s a gleam in his eyes when he answers, “Guess you are.”

“I have some questions,” you say, breaking the silence between you. “A lot, actually.”

You’re sitting on the deck, him with his second cup of coffee and you with a fruit salad you found in his fridge. It’s another sunny day, but a little cooler than yesterday, which is nice. The beach is almost empty except for a couple walking their dog and someone running in the distance. It’s hard to believe it will be packed again in a couple of weeks when the summer holidays start.

“I’m listening,”

You hold up your fork to let him know you need a second as you’re trying to come up with a logical line of questioning. But then you remember you’re not a cop and who cares what question he answers first and so you decide to just go for it, “Why now?”

He looks at you, slightly confused and so you clarify, “Why go to all this trouble to contact me now? Why not, I don’t know, two years ago?”

“I don’t know.” He sighs. “I wish I could give you some profound answer about how our paths suddenly crossed again, or how I want to repay everything I’ve done to you, but the truth of the matter is,” he smiles but looks away then, “I need you.”

There’s such a sincerity in his voice that it feels like there’s something tugging at your heart now, making you tear up a little.

“I know I can’t keep doing this forever,” he continues, still not looking at you, “because we’re either going to get caught, or Josh dies, whatever comes first,” his voice catches at the last word and so he clears his throat before he continues. “Josh isn’t doing too well, it’s uh,” he takes a deep breath, “it’s bad. He needs a new immuno-type of therapy, but even if he gets it, the doctors can’t guarantee a positive outcome. And so we’re,” he scoffs and corrects himself, “I know I’m getting more reckless. That’s why we have been around in Savannah so much lately. It takes less time to prepare for them, but,” he shrugs, “it also increases the risk of getting caught.”

He sounds so desperate and before you know it you’ve put down your bowl of fruit and put your hand on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze, letting him know you’re here although by now you sort of wish you would have asked something else first. You don't know what you expected, but not this. Not this.

“This is the most selfish thing I will ever ask,” he admits, curling his hands into fists, “but I need you by my side. I know I shouldn’t have dragged you into this and part of me wishes you wouldn’t have come here, because it’s not going to be easy.”

You nod, letting him know you understand.

“It feels like I’m at a crossroads,” he shakes his head, “God, that sounds fucking lame.” He looks at you then, “No matter how hard I try, I can’t explain it, I just,” he smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes, “I just know that I need you.”

You look at him, studying his face, not surprised to find his eyes a little glossed over. And he’s right, he shouldn’t have dragged you into this, but then again, it feels like part of you always knew that this was how it would end. The two of you back together again, no matter the circumstances. After all, you never got a proper goodbye, you broke up with him through his voicemail for fuck’s sake.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you always thought the universe would somehow set things right, have you meet again, for whatever reason.

Still, it’s all very confusing, even more so because you feel like you might be willing to give into his request. You wish there was someone you could talk to, to hear another person's opinion, and for a moment you consider calling Bea, but there's no way you're dragging her into this.

You figure you need some time alone, if only for a little while, just so you can clear your mind, “I,” your voice is hoarse and so you have to clear your throat before you can continue, “I need time, Seb. I need time and I need answers and, I don’t know.” You smile a sad smile, “It’s a fucking big ask, for lack of a better word.”

“I know,” he says as he takes your hand in his and gently presses it against his lips.

An idea has formed in your head then and you know it’s stupid but it’s the best you can do, and so you pull your hand back and stand up. And even though you don’t really owe him an explanation you give it to him anyway, “Why don’t I go and get us some food? Stock up your fridge and, I don’t know, just go out for a little while.”

He nods, “Yeah, I think that might a good idea, but uh,” there’s an apologetic smile on his lips then, “can we set a time when you’ll be back? Just as a precaution, you know? I mean, I don’t really expect anything to happen, but I don’t want to risk it.”

“That seems fair,” you agree and you’ll tell him you’ll be back at four, which gives you three hours. You lean down and kiss his cheek before you walk back inside, finding your sneakers in the living room and putting them on before you grab your purse of the couch, digging around for your car keys as you walk outside.

An hour later you find yourself doing another round at Lowes Foods, one of the clerks giving you a curious look when you pass her for the third time with your almost empty shopping cart.

“Can I help you with anything, ma’am?” she asks, a southern drawl to her voice that makes you take an immediate liking to her.

You’re about to tell her no, that you’re fine, but then you figure, why not, you still have two hours left before you need to be back and so you smile, “Well actually,” you look at her name tag, “Eileen is it? I’m cooking dinner for my uh,” you hesitate, trying to find the right word.

But Eileen gives you a wink, letting you know she gets it and grabs a hold of your cart, “Follow me.”

It takes her twenty minutes, five alone spent on giving you her grandmother’s recipe for Catfish stew that she promises will be a hit, but then you’re loaded up and ready to go. You thank Eileen for all her help and somehow you’re not surprised when she gives you a hug and tells you good luck.

There’s still an hour and a half left once you’ve loaded the bags into your car and you decide to treat yourself to an ice cream over at Gilbert’s, hoping they still have that Lemon Custard flavor you loved so much back when Sebastian used to take you there.

Even though she doesn’t recognize you, you’re happy to see the nice lady from sixteen years ago is still behind the counter, taking your order with a, “What will it be, sweetheart?”

She encourages you to take two scoops, because, she says, it’s her favorite flavor too and she always wishes she’d gotten more, and so you find yourself outside with an ice cream so big you pretty much have to inhale it to keep it from melting in the sun. Opposite of the store there’s a bench you sit down on, finally allowing yourself to think back at what Sebastian’s told you earlier today.

You come to the same conclusion you came to this morning, you’re in too deep already. There’s this little voice in the back of your mind, surprisingly sounding a lot like Bea, that tells you to get out while you still can. You figure you could. And you know for a fact he’d let you.

But could you really walk away now, knowing that Sebastian will have to face one of two things soon? Either his best friend dies because the new therapy doesn’t work, or he gets caught.

That he’ll need you in that time of grief, well, there’s no question about that, but what good will it be if you’re there when he gets caught? He’ll probably end up getting a life sentence, because the usual sentence for a robbery is fifteen years. You’ve googled it. Multiply that by thirteen and it makes for a very long time. Does he really want you to visit him in jail every week for the next, oh, sixty years? And who’s to say you won’t end up in jail either?

And yet.

And yet, you know he will do whatever it takes to keep you out of this should it ever come to an arrest. You’re sure he has a plan, maybe an escape, because he’s smart. He’s stayed out of the actual robberies. He’s never pointed a gun at anyone. Not that you know of, anyway. One more question added to the list of things you still need to ask.

You feel a hand on your shoulder then and it startles you and you mutter a quiet, “Fuck,”

“I’m sorry, dear,” the old lady who was behind the counter says with a worried look on her face, “I just wondered if you were alright. You’ve been sitting here for an awful long time and you look terribly upset.”

You try to smile, but fail, instead you find yourself crying in front of some stranger. “I’m sorry,” you sob, using the napkin that came with your ice cream to dry your eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart,” the woman says, gently patting your knee, “anything an old broad like me can help with?”

You shake your head, because you doubt it.

“Let me guess,” she says with a raise of her eyebrows, “there’s a man involved.”

You chuckle in spite of your tears, because yes. Of course there is.

She nods in understanding, but her question is pretty straightforward, “Do you love him?”

“Yes.” It’s true. You love him. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. You guess part of you always knew that, but to say it out loud is something else, “I’m scared-”

“Love is meant to be an adventure, sweetheart,” she offers. She pats your knee once more before she stands up, “How do you feel when you’re around him?”

You smile then, wiping away the last of your tears, “Loved. Always.”

Again, true. When you’re around Sebastian you feel nothing but love coming from him. Even back when you were dating. It was when you were apart, in those god-awful three months after the fire, that you felt his love disappearing.

“Well then, there you go,” she shrugs, as if it is that simple.

But then again it kind of is. You look up at her, “Thank you.”

“Anytime, sweetheart,” she walks back inside, but not before she makes you promise to take him with you the next time you get an ice cream. It’ll be on the house, she says with a grin.

You’re back with five minutes to spare, hauling two full grocery bags to the front door before you open it and continue to the kitchen. You find it vacant and so you set the bags down and continue to the living room, which is also empty. A slight panic sets in then and you walk back into the hall, calling out, “Seb?”

“Upstairs,”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when you hear his voice and follow it upstairs. You find him in the guest bedroom, that apparently has been converted to a home-gym, doing push-ups in nothing but black shorts. You lean against the door frame, crossing your arms in front of you, taking it all in - the muscles in his arms, his back, the sheen of sweat covering his body, and you feel your mouth going dry.

“Anything I can help with?” He asks with a grin, not dropping his pace.

“No, I’m uh,” you clear your throat trying to get your voice back, “I’m just going to unload the groceries I guess.”

“Ok,” he pushes himself up one last time before he stands up, grabbing a towel from the bench press next to him, throwing it around his neck.

He steps closer to you, his hair wet from sweating and your eyes can’t help but travel from his chest down to his shorts, and you have to swallow. Hard. You expect him to comment on it, but once again he surprises you and instead kisses your cheek lightly, “I’m glad you came back.”

You just nod, not trusting your voice right now.

“I’ll go take a shower and meet you downstairs, OK?”

“Uhu,” you say as your eyes follow him when he walks past you. God, he looks good and actually let out an appreciative moan that you hope he didn’t hear.

But of course he did, because when he looks at you from over his shoulder before he opens the bathroom door, he throws you a wink, “We’ll get to that, dragă.”

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” Sebastian tries again.

You nod, not looking up at him but instead focused on cutting the catfish into even pieces. The recipe Eileen gave you is simple, and once everything is in the Dutch oven all you have to do is wait. “I do have a question, though,” you say, because you figure now is as good a time as any to continue with your investigation. You see him nod out of the corner of your eye and so you continue, “Will you tell me more about the last thirteen years?”

“I’m not sure I understand, dragă,” he says as he puts the glass of red wine he’s just poured on the counter next to you.

“Tell me about the robberies. How did you choose your targets? How much time does it take to prepare. How much money did you walk away with?” You carefully put the now cut up pieces of fish into the pan before you wipe your hands on the tea towel that’s slung over your shoulder and take your glass, “What did you do in the meantime? I need to know more, Seb.” You take a sip of wine, “I mean, I’m not sure how much Mrs Johnson told you-”

“Enough,” Sebastian answers, looking at you intently.

It makes you wonder if he knows about the guys you’ve dated, but figure that’s for later. Instead you continue, “It just seems unfair that you know so much more about me than I do about you.”

“That seems fair,” he offers with a smile. “It’s nothing too exciting though.” He chuckles then, realizing what he’s just said, “I mean, it’s not like in the movies.”

“So tell me,” you try again.

He leans against the counter, on the other side of the stove, hands in his pockets when he starts, “I have a team of six guys that I met while I was still working together with Josh, and believe or not, they’re all pretty regular guys. I mean, of course they all dealt drugs back in the day, but now,” he stops and seems to think about something, “yeah, they all have day jobs, I mean, one works in a garage as a mechanic, another one has his own construction company. Based on the job I have planned, there are either three or four guys going in, but never more than that, and always in a different team.”

You’re shocked, because you expected these guys to be hardened criminals, not hard-working middle class and so it’s just weird.

He must pick up on your mood because he shrugs, “I know, it’s crazy, right? Of every job we do, fifty percent goes to Josh. Ten is for me, and whatever’s left gets divided.”

“And-”

“Do I have a normal job too?” He says, finishing your question for you. You nod. “Not really,” he answers, before reaching for his glass and taking a sip of wine, “We made some good money in the early days, and I took what I needed and invested the rest in some funds that made quite a bit of money over the years, so I don’t really need to work. I had my own gym for a while, when we were working more on the west coast, but I sold it five years ago.”

“I know it’s not what you expected, uh, but this way there’s less of chance we get caught.” He smiles apologetically, “I mean everyone’s just going about their day-jobs. It’s just a bunch of guys who have been friends for a long time, moved to different places across the country and yeah, sometimes they meet up for a trip with the guys somewhere, you know, nothing special. A lot of those trips have been to Savannah though, in the last couple of months.”

You nod, understanding what he’s getting at.

“That’s what I meant when I said I was getting reckless,” he explains with a shrug.

“But this is how you’ve been doing things for fifteen years?”

He nods, “Since the beginning, yeah.”

“OK,” you draw out. It all sounds very well thought-out and it might just be the reason why they’ve never been caught. You remember your questions from this afternoon then, “Have you ever uh,” you search for the right words, “been out in the field? I don’t know how to put it.”

He shakes his head, “No, like with Josh I’m in the background.”

“You’re the mastermind,” you offer.

He shrugs, “I guess.”

“Can they ever be linked back to you?” It seems like he’s been very careful and you wonder just how much the guys know, “Do they know it’s for Josh?”

“No, not directly” he shakes his head and pushes himself off the counter, grabbing the bottle of wine to fill up both your glasses, “They don’t get their information from me, there’s someone I give orders to and then he relays it to the guys through a complicated system. And they don’t know what the money’s for, just that the more they walk away with, the more they get.”

“Huh,” you say, taking your full glass from him, “It all sounds pretty solid, but you must worry.”

“Oh, I do,” he admits easily, “every single day.”

The timer on your phone goes off then, letting you know your stew is done. Sebastian lets you know he’ll set the table when you tell him you’re going to start plating up.

You’re back outside, this time sitting next to each other the lounge set in the far corner of the deck, enjoying one of the most beautiful sunsets you’ve seen in the last couple years. The conversation over dinner had a lighter tone, and Sebastian mostly talked about his mother and stepfather and how he used some of his money to send them off on trips to Europe and Asia. And now that you’re outside again, with the dark slowly setting in, covered by a light blanket he’s found in one of the closets somewhere, you don’t really want to go back to the much more serious conversation you had before dinner.

“Where’s your head at, dragă?” He asks, his voice interrupting your thoughts.

You look to your right, finding his eyes, and you smile, a genuine one this time, “Nowhere. Just enjoying the moment.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You hold his gaze, studying his face in the twilight, and you’re surprised to see he looks as at peace as you feel at this moment, “If only we could stop time, huh?”

“If only we could,” he agrees. He puts his arms around your shoulder then and presses a kiss to your temple before you pulls you close.

Letting yourself lean into him you suddenly you catch a whiff of his cologne, smiling a secret smile when you realize it’s the same one you gave him on your one-year anniversary. You wonder if he’s been wearing it ever since or if he’s just now put it on again.

You’re not sure how long you’re sat like this, but after a while it gets colder and you shiver involuntarily. It’s dark now, except for a some stars in the night sky and the lights of a couple of fishing boats way in the distance. Without thinking you snuggle up closer to Sebastian, letting out a content sigh when he wraps his arm around you even tighter.

“We should get inside,” he whispers from somewhere over your head. “It’s late and we need to leave early tomorrow.”

You want to ask why, but then you remember you’re going to see Josh and so you follow him inside without much protest, leaving the blanket somewhere on the couch. He lets you lead the way upstairs, turning off the lights as you go, following you into the bathroom where you brush your teeth side by side. You risk a glance at him in the mirror and for a moment you wonder if this is what you’re future could look like with him next to you.

He finds your eyes in the mirror and smiles at you, bumping his shoulder against yours.

You change into your t-shirt and sweatpants again before crawling into bed. Like last night Sebastian’s just in his t-shirt and boxers, and like last night, he keeps his distance once you’re in bed. You, however, move closer to him, not quite touching him but close enough that you could if you wanted.

He turns off the lights then, “Goodnight, draga mea.”

Almost automatically you answer with was he’s taught you a long time ago, “Te voi vedea în visele mele.”

I will see you in my dreams.

=====

Taglist: @blastaz | @dontbetooobvious

#Sebastian Stan x reader #Sebastian Stan Imagine #Sebastian Stan fanfic #Harley Sunday x Sebastian Stan #Things We Lost in the Fire

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harley-sunday · 4 years

Text

Things We Lost in the Fire [03]

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Reader (F)

Warnings: Language. Mentions of miscarriage.

Word count: 4476

AN: And we’re onto the next part! Thanks for all the love so far, I’m glad you seem to like it. But seriously, leave me a comment though, I need validation! ♥

Masterlist

You decide to sit down on one of the deck chairs while he’s inside getting you a drink, the sun warming your face and so you close your eyes for a moment, enjoying the quiet that’s surrounding you. You find yourself getting more and more curious to hear his story, because what you’ve seen so far doesn’t match up with whatever you thought this would be. This isn’t some dank drug den in the middle of nowhere. He doesn’t look like a hardened criminal in hiding. It’s all very confusing and while you’re trying your hardest to make some sense of it, you know you’ll need to hear his side first.

You’re preparing yourself for the worst, because what if it’s not just robberies? What if he’s done worse things? Will you be afraid of him then? Because it’s weird now, even here, in the beach house, where, well honestly, he has every possibility to kill you without anyone knowing, there’s no fear. You’re not afraid. Not of him, anyway.

He returns then, two tumblers in his hands, handing you one before he sits down on the other chair. You smell what’s in the glass, surprised to learn it’s Bourbon, always pegging him for more of a Whiskey guy. Nevertheless you take a sip, the liquor burning its way down your throat, making you shiver. You wait for him to start talking and so you sit in silence for a minute or so.

He clears his throat then, “It’s not going to be easy.” He looks at you, “It’s not,” he hesitates, “it’s not a nice story.”

You nod, “I figured as much.”

“It starts way before you think it does, so I just,” he clears his throat again, “I’m sorry. For everything. I just want you to know that.”

“Ok,” you all but whisper, even more intrigued now.

“It started in senior year,” he says, very matter-of-factly. “Josh started growing some weed in his basement and I don’t know, it sort of escalated from there. It was nothing at first, I mean, I think he sold to maybe three or four guys at school, but then word got out that he’s the one you should go to for the good stuff,” he scoffs, “and by the time we graduated he was the main supplier for pretty much everyone south of West Victory Drive. But I think maybe you know that?”

You nod, because you do. Not back then, but it was all over the local news after the fire.

He takes a sip of his Bourbon before he continues, “I didn’t get involved until after you left for university, but once I did, things moved fast. Josh changed from weed to Adderall then got his hands on XTC and I don’t know, things just took off from there.” He turns to you, “He made some shady deals over the years and by the time you came back for winter break and we celebrated our three-year anniversary, well, things were bad.”

You nod, willing him to continue even though you are upset to learn he was involved with all of this while you were together. Were you really that stupid or was he just really good at hiding things? Then again, it was always him coming to see you, you never met up with him in Savannah except during longer breaks, so it must have been easy for him to keep this from you.

“People were after him, claiming he owed them money,” he shakes his head and sighs. “There was another group that said he dealt in their territory and they actually put a bounty on his head. And uh,” he runs a hand through his hair, “somehow these people, the ones who said he owed them and the ones who said he was meddling where he shouldn’t, well, they teamed up and the result was what happened that New Year’s Eve.”

His voice drops when he continues, “They targeted him, specifically. They uh, threw Molotov cocktails pretty much through all the windows on the ground floor because they knew he was there. One actually hit Josh in the chest and then exploded when it fell on the floor. That’s how he got so badly burned.”

“I felt responsible,” he looks away now, his eyes focused somewhere on the horizon. “I felt really guilty that we were out having a good time, while he was attacked. I mean, by this point we were very much in this operation together, but he was the face of it, you know? He was the one who was in contact with all these suppliers and buyers and I just was his second-in-command, but in the background. No one even knew I existed.”

He takes another gulp, emptying his glass, “And yet I was the one in control of finances. I was the one who told him to expand his working grounds. So for him to end up like that, you know, I don’t know, sometimes I feel like it should have been me. Or at least I should have been there in the house with him.”

“I think that’s why I uh,” he shakes his head, “I think that’s why I ended things the way I did with you. I felt like I was in so much debt to Josh that I just, I had to be there for him. I felt like I owed him my life and that I should do whatever I could to make up for it.”

“But you never ended things,” you say quietly, correcting him but not looking at him. You take another sip of your Bourbon, emptying the glass, more defiant now, “I ended things. I was the one who, after four fucking months of nothing, called you, remember?” You’re seething now, the venom dripping through your voice, “And then I had to tell your fucking voicemail we were through because you couldn’t even sum up the decency to answer the phone.” You turn towards him, “You just disappeared on me pretty much the moment it happened. I had just told you I was pregnant, for fuck’s sake.”

You hate that there are tears in your eyes but that’s what happens when your angry, and you’re sure he remembers it too because instead of trying to comfort you he actually looks afraid. You scoff then, “I hated you, you know that? It took me three fucking years to get back on my feet.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but you’re not done yet and so you shake your head.

“I would have understood it, you know, if you just wanted to focus on Josh for some time, but I had a fucking miscarriage and you didn’t even,” your voice catches in your throat then and you know the ugly crying is about to start but honestly, you couldn’t care less, “you didn’t even care. You didn’t care.”

Instead of waiting for an excuse you grab your glass and get up, making your way to the kitchen for another round of Bourbon. You wipe your nose with the sleeve of your cardigan before you slam your glass down on the counter, reaching for the bottle. You’re sobbing then, big fat ugly sobs, because Jesus, what even if your life right now? You allow yourself a couple of minutes to just let it all out, not caring about how you’ll look once you get back outside.

Once the crying’s subsided you pour yourself a stiff drink, and you’re about to put the bottle back down but then you think better of it and take it back outside where you find Sebastian still in his chair. The sun is lower in the sky now and it’s only therefore you see there’s something glistening on his face and you realize he’s crying too. Really?

“Don’t,” is all you say.

He nods, “I know.” His voice is barely above a whisper, “I know I have no right to be sad about it now, and-” he looks at you, “and I know you’ll never believe me, but please know that I do.” He smiles a sad smile, “I do care about you. Even after all these years.”

“Yeah, well you had one hell of a way of showing it back then,” you huff as you sit back down, putting the bottle on the ground next to your chair.

“Back then I was an asshole.”

“And now you’re not?” You scoff, “Now you’re just a criminal?”

He shrugs, not replying. He continues with his story instead, “Josh was in bad shape when he woke up. I think it was somewhere at the end of January, maybe early February, but you know, he was blind, in one eye at least, the other barely functioning, the front of his body was covered in burns, it was terrible.”

He stops then, taking the bottle from where you put it and filling his glass. Taking a sip before he continues, “But it still wasn’t enough for whoever was after him to stop. His parents had security posting outside his door all hours of the day. Private security because by then the police had figured out what had happened and wanted to arrest him the moment he’d get out of hospital.”

He chuckles then, “He was in there for two years. They actually had to wait for two years before they could take him in. And even then the judge put an end to his prosecution before it even went to trial. Said he was punished enough.”

“So while Josh was in hospital I tried to round things up, you know, business-wise.” He nods, more to himself than to you, “I took out loans, settled every debt people claimed Josh had,” another chuckle then, “I’m sure I paid way more than I should have, but I didn’t care. And I’d do it all over again.” He leans back in his chair, “And I thought that was it, you know? It took me a year, but as far as I knew, that was it. So after that things settled down for a bit. I mean, Josh was still in the hospital, but he was making progress, and I actually got a job. I worked as a mechanic and while the pay was absolute shit, I felt like I was doing something right, you know?”

He clears his throat, “I thought of going to see you every single day once I got that job. I figured I’d just show up at your apartment, and do whatever it would have taken for you to forgive me.”

“You wouldn’t have found me there,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“I moved to Atlanta the summer after we broke up.”

“I know.”

“Moved back here four years ago.”

“I know.”

It’s only then you register what he’s saying and you furrow your brows, “How did you know?”

“Later,” he says with a sad smile. “We’ll get there.” He looks at his watch before he turns to you, “It’s almost six, maybe we should grab something to eat first?”

“You really want to go out to eat?” You don’t even try to hide the surprise in your voice. Is he really so certain no one has linked him to the robberies yet that he’s ok with going to public places?

He must see the confusion on your face because he quickly adds, “There’s that really good Thai place that delivers here.”

“Ok,” you agree. You could do with some food anyway, that Bourbon has gone straight to your head and so you’re actually swaying a bit when you follow him inside. You steady yourself against the kitchen counter when you watch Sebastian place the order by phone, somehow not surprised when he orders your favorite. Once you’ve found your footing again you make your way to the bathroom, by now almost expecting to find it in the same place it was before. And it is. You start to wonder who had the house rebuild? Josh or Sebastian?

You avoid looking in the mirror once your done, certain you look a absolute mess but not caring because he’s seen you in worse shape anyway. You find him in the living room, sitting in one of the chairs, with the radio playing a song you recognize from your high school days. You wonder if he’s done that on purpose but don’t want to ask. Instead you sit down on the couch, your legs folded underneath you, not sure where to go from here.

“How did you know it was me?”

His voice interrupts your thoughts and you’re not sure you’ve heard him right, “Sorry?”

“At the bank? How did you know?”

“The vests,” you answer with a small smile as you remember. “God, you and Josh and that graffiti phase during senior year. Tagging everything with ‘JS 82’. I’m surprised no one ever figured out it was you two punks.”

“Yeah, well, it could have been anyone, right?” He chuckles, “Anyone with the initials ‘JS’ born in eighty-two at least.”

“Hmm,” you reply, not really agreeing. They really thought they were being clever, using the letters of both their first names instead of their initials and their birth year for their tags. You just thought it was dumb.

“Why did you go see my Mom?”

“What’s with all the questions, Stan?” you ask. “That’s not why I’m here.”

He shrugs, “Just curious.”

You suddenly realize something, “How long has she had that letter?”

“Since Monday.”

“Right,” you draw out, “so you only gave it to her after it happened?”

“Well, not me personally, but yeah, someone did.”

“And is this because those four guys at the bank recognized me?”

It’s then the doorbell rings and he excuses himself, but not before he offers, “We’ll get to that later.”

Dinner is spent in relative silence, both of you lost in your own thoughts. It’s nothing new. Even when you were dating you’d go hours without talking to each other, something most people found very strange. You always reasoned that it must be a good sign when even the silences feel comfortable.

You think back to the last part of your conversation. It just doesn’t make any sense with the guys recognizing you and him not giving the letter to his mother until Monday. Something feels off, but you’re not sure what yet.

You watch as Sebastian clears away the plates and leftover food once you’re done and you follow him because you could really do with a coffee right now. Something tells you it’s going to be a long night. Without asking you find your way around the kitchen, pulling everything you need out of the cupboards before you turn on the coffee maker, just like you have done so many times before. It’s weird, this new house with its old layout, all these memories you have here, the new mixed with the old, the hurt mixed in with the good times.

You hand him a cup of steaming hot coffee not much later and follow him back into the living room. You sit down on opposite ends of the couch this time, facing each other, and without any preface he continues his story.

“About eighteen months after the fire Josh’ parents died. Car crash while they were on their way to the hospital.” He nods at your sympathetic look, “Yeah, Josh took it pretty hard even though the relationship with his parents was even more strained than before.”

“God, I remember that,” you agree, “they were the worst. Always away on business trips, giving him everything he wanted so they could just buy his love instead of just being there for him when he needed them most.”

“Yeah,” Sebastian sighs. “Well, it was like that after the fire, they were hardly around and when they were it was just to pay for everything. Or at least, that’s what we thought.” He takes a sip of his coffee, “After they died we found out that they hadn’t paid any hospital bills for at least ten months. The security guys? Never paid. Got laid off after twelve months, when I settled everything and there wasn’t a real threat anymore, but they never saw a dollar.”

“But I had all those loans that I was still paying off, and Josh didn’t have any money either and we’re talking about at least eight hundred thousand, right?” He looks down, “So I did what I had to. I got a team together and we started small, you know,” he smiles apologetically, “liquor stores, gas stations, those sort of things. But it got us nowhere.”

“So I made a plan. We would start robbing banks. And it worked.” He doesn’t sound proud. If anything he sounds almost disappointed. “I planned everything, made sure everything was prepared, organized, so they’d just be in and out in a matter of minutes. I made them promise never to hurt anyone and they never did.”

“How many?” Your voice is hoarse even though you're not sure why and so clear your throat and try again, “How many banks did you rob?”

“Thirteen.”

“Jesus,” you look at him with what you hope is an angry look.

“Thirteen robberies in almost fifteen years.” He sets his now empty cup down on the table before he turns back to you, “We only took what we needed. I know it sounds like bullshit, and in the beginning we robbed a lot of banks and we walked away with a lot of money, because we needed to cover all those bills. We always made sure we had a little extra, you know, so there were quite a few years where we wouldn’t do anything.”

“So why start up again now?” You ask, remembering those news articles you read, “There have been three robberies this year alone.”

“Well, security’s much tighter these days, we don’t walk away with hardly as much,” he shrugs as if to apologize, “and Josh needs a new treatment, so-”

“So you are just going to fucking Robin Hood your way through life for him?” You feel yourself get angry again, “Don’t you think it’s enough, Seb? It’s been sixteen years, you did more than you had to. I’d say you’re done paying off whatever debt you think you owe him by now.”

“He doesn’t have anyone else, dragă,” this time he doesn’t correct himself at the use of his nickname for you, “if I don’t do this I can’t pay his bills, he’ll get kicked out of the home he’s staying in and then what?”

“Seb,” you try again, but he interrupts you.

“No, Josh is like my brother, you know that. I can’t turn my back on him.” He quietly adds, “He needs this new treatment, if he doesn’t get it, well,”

“But what happens when you get caught, huh?” You’ve chosen your words with great care, using ‘when’ not ‘if’. You want to get him to see the severity of the situation even though you’re sure he already knows. “Who will take care of him then?”

“Things have been arranged.”

“Oh please,” you scoff, crossing your arms in front of your chest, trying to get your point across, “with who? With those guys who are actually doing the dirty work for you? They don’t owe Josh shit and I doubt they’ll keep their end of the deal if push comes to shove.”

“That’s not for you to worry about, dragă.”

“Stop calling me that!” You’re angry again and so guess what, the tears are back. Fine, you think to yourself, might as well make the most of it then. You’re preparing to give him a real piece of your mind, but then he says, “Why are you so worried about me anyway?” and you’re caught so off guard that you just sit there, not saying anything.

He looks at you so intently that it feels like he’s trying to read your mind and so you get up and mumble something about needing some fresh air before you make your way outside. It’s dark now, the moon hanging low over the horizon somewhere in the distance. You rest your hands on the railing, taking deep breaths in the hope of calming yourself down enough to try and makes sense of all this.

Because he’s right, why are you so worried about him anyway?

He’s nothing to you anymore. He’s just an ex-boyfriend. Someone you dated in high school and college. Jesus, you broke up sixteen years ago. It shouldn’t mean anything anymore.

But oh, who are you kidding? Of course it still means something. He still means something.

There was a time when you couldn’t stand the thought of seeing him, when even thinking about him hurt so much it almost made you sick to your stomach. But then the years went by, and you grew up, and time softened whatever pain was left, and even though you hardly thought of him the last couple of years in Atlanta, he was always there somewhere at the back of your mind. And instead of focusing on the pain he caused you, you were able to remember the good times you had together and you often wondered what could have been.

You didn’t move back to Savannah because you missed the city. You moved back because you missed him.

He was your first after all. First crush, first boyfriend, first guy you had sex with, first one you thought about starting a family with. And the first relationship you ended. You never really forget your first love. Isn’t that what people say? Well, they’re right.

Your conscience takes over from your heart then, and you’re almost berating yourself for forgetting the horrible things he’s done. He was involved in dealing drugs. While you were dating. He must have kept so many things from you. And by now he’s robbed thirteen banks for fuck’s sake. He’s the leader of a very well-organized group of criminals which makes you wonder if robbing banks is all they’ve done. Plus, he stole God knows how much money.

But that was only so he could pay for his best friend’s hospital bills, wasn’t it? Oh fuck, you feel yourself starting to sympathize with him again. Why is this so hard?

And why aren’t you calling Detective Johansson right now? You’ve got enough on Sebastian to just turn him in. And you know he wouldn’t deny it, because if anything the man’s a martyr, but you knew that already. You wonder how Josh feels about all of this. Because the Josh you remember, before the fire and the drugs and the whatnot, well, he was a good kid. And you can’t imagine him being ok with all of this. It’s then an idea forms and you walk back inside instantly.

“I want to go see Josh.”

“I’m sorry?” Sebastian looks up at you, a little shocked.

“You heard me,” you say, hands on your hips for full effect, “I want to go see Josh.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good-”

“Sebastian Stan, if I wanted to I could call the police right now and have them arrest you, so please,” you say with a sense of authority, “don’t try and talk me out of this.”

There’s a flicker of admiration is his eyes as he stands up. “Fine I’ll call ahead tomorrow, OK? Let them know we’re coming.” He walks over to you, a wicked grin playing on his lips, “Looks like you’re staying here tonight then, huh?”

You scoff, “As if you don’t already have an excuse as to why I can’t sleep in the guest bedroom and oh no,” you throw your hands into the air for added drama, “that means we’re going to have to share a bed.”

He’s standing behind you now, his mouth close to your ear, his warm breath hitting you skin when he says, “As if you didn’t bring an overnight bag.”

It sends a shiver down your spine. “Guess we both knew how this would end.”

“Guess we did,” he says as he gently pushes you forward, his voice filled with laughter then, “Go and get your bag, dragă.”

“Seb?” You turn around, facing him even though it’s dark and you’re not sure if he’s still awake. You’re in his bed, of course you are, but at least you’re wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants. You came prepared.

“Yeah?” he says from somewhere in front of you.

You’ve been thinking about this for a while now and really need an answer, “How did you know I moved to Atlanta?”

He starts to say something, but you’re not done yet.

“And that I moved back here?”

“You’re not going to like this,” he offers quietly.

You scoff, “I doubt this is worse than all the other things you told me today.”

“Someone kept an eye on you.”

“What do you mean?”

“That new neighbor that moved in to the same apartment building not long after you did? Mrs Johnson?”

“Yeah?”

“She’s the aunt of one of the guys in my team. I sent her to Atlanta after you moved there. Just so I’d know you were OK. And safe.” He sighs before he continues, “I got really paranoid at one point and I was certain they’d come after me and if they’d come after me, then they would figure out we used date and I was afraid that they’d come after you too.”

Fucking Mrs Johnson, you think. She was nice, no doubt about that, but you always thought there was something off about her. You giggle, because it seems pretty ridiculous, “So you had an old lady keeping an eye on me? Yeah, OK. Thanks, I guess.”

“An old lady who knew perfectly well how to handle a gun, thank you very much.” You can feel him move closer, “I just couldn’t stand the thought of someone hurting you.”

“Is there someone keeping an eye on me now?”

“No,” he whispers. A little louder then, “Not since you crossed into South Carolina, anyway.”

It’s too late and you’re too tired so it takes you a little longer to connect the dots but when you do you actually gasp, “But then you knew where I was working all along?”

“I did.”

He’s too close and it distracts you from more important things like, “Did those four men knew I worked at Carver State before they came in?”

“No.”

“Then how did they recognize me?”

His voice is barely above a whisper when he says, “They knew who you were. And they knew not to hurt you. They had very clear instructions to retreat if you ever were around, be it at work or as a bystander.”

“When did you give them these instructions?” you whisper against his chest.

“Monday morning.”

Well, fuck.

=====

Taglist: @blastaz

#Sebastian Stan x reader #Sebastian Stan Imagine #Sebastian Stan fanfic #Harley Sunday x Sebastian Stan #Things We Lost in the Fire

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