Holding Their Face 𝜗𝜚 Daredevil & Punisher Hcs

holding their face 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hcs

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / micro

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

your hands are gentle, like he’s made of something fragile — not bone and blood, but myth and ruin. his skin is warm beneath your palms, scraped and bruised in places he won’t talk about.

he flinches when you first touch him — not from pain, but from surprise. from the quiet ache of being held like this. you whisper his name and he doesn't pull away.

the city hums outside — always too loud, too much — but here, in this moment, it's quiet. the kind of quiet matt never gets. your thumb brushes under his eye, and his lashes flutter shut. he doesn’t open them.

your fingers slide into his curls, damp with sweat and rain. you hold him like you’re anchoring him, like you’re keeping him tethered to something good. his breathing slows. he leans into your touch like he’s starved for it.

“i’m right here.” you remind him. and for once — for just a second — matt believes you.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

tonight, he’s tired. his eyes are downcast, jaw tight, like he’s bracing for a blow that doesn’t come.

your hands are slow, steady. one at his cheek, the other at his jaw — rough stubble under your fingers, skin too warm for how cold he always pretends to be.

he blinks once. like he doesn’t know what to do with it. “you don’t have to…” he starts. but you already are. your thumb brushes across the scar on his cheek — the one he never talks about.

he doesn't pull away, but he doesn’t lean in, either. just lets it happen. like he’s trying to figure out how this feels. he’s quiet. so quiet you can hear the weight in his breathing. the way he exhales like he’s holding a war behind his ribs.

“frank.” you whisper, and that’s the part that undoes him. not the touch — the way you say his name like it’s something worth holding. his eyes close. not because he’s calm, but because he’s overwhelmed.

your hands are shaking slightly. he notices. of course he notices. “you okay?” he murmurs. you press your forehead to his. “always.” he leans into you. it’s not surrender. it’s trust. for a man like frank castle, trust is the rarest kind of softness.

your fingers slip into his hair, and he doesn’t move. he just breathes. and in that moment — bruised, broken, holding more pain than most people can comprehend — he feels safe. with you.

only with you.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

foggy talks a lot when he’s nervous — jokes, rambles, deflects. but when your hands find his face, everything goes quiet.

he looks at you like you just hit pause on the chaos in his head. his brows lift, his eyes soften, and he gives you that crooked little smile — the one that always means thank you, I needed this.

“hey,” he says, voice low, gentle. “what’s that look for?” but he knows. your thumbs brush the apples of his cheeks, warm under your hands, a little flushed because he still gets flustered when you touch him like this.

he leans in instantly. instinctively. like he’s meant to be there. you’re not just cradling his face — you’re grounding him. reminding him he doesn’t have to carry everything alone. “you’re doing too much again.” you whisper.

he sighs — busted. “someone’s gotta keep things together.” he murmurs.

you shake your head and rest your forehead against his. “someone’s gotta take care of you, too.” he melts. full-on puddles into your hands. his shoulders drop, and the tension he didn’t even realize he was holding slips away.

he reaches up, hands on your wrists, holding you like you’re the only real thing in the world.“you always know what to say.” he tells you. you don’t. not always. but you see him. and that’s enough.

sometimes he makes a joke — something like, “you’re not gonna smoosh my face, right?” but it’s a deflection. because the truth is, when you hold his face like that, foggy feels safe. loved.

and no matter how loud the world gets, your hands always bring him back to himself.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

karen carries herself like she’s fine — chin up, shoulders set, voice even. but your hands find her face, and the cracks she’s hidden so carefully start to show.

her breath catches. just a little. not because she’s scared — because she’s not used to being held like she’s something worth protecting.

you don’t say anything at first. just look at her. just see her. her eyes search yours like she’s trying to believe it’s real — that someone would choose her, softness and scars alike. your palms are warm against her cheeks, and you feel the way her jaw clenches. a reflex. a habit.

she blinks fast, like she’s trying to keep from unraveling. “hey,” you murmur. “you’re okay.” her lips press together, but they tremble at the corners. she nods — barely.

you brush your thumbs along her cheekbones, and she leans in, hesitant at first, then all at once. she closes her eyes. lets herself sink into the quiet. with you, she doesn’t have to be strong every second. she doesn’t have to fight. not right now.

you kiss her forehead, soft and slow. and when she whispers, “thank you.” it’s not just for this moment — it’s for every time you remind her that softness doesn’t make her weak.

sometimes she makes a dry little joke — “you’re not checking for bruises, right?” but it’s just her way of hiding how much it means.

for the first time in a long time, she lets herself feel safe.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

she doesn’t stumble through the door — she never stumbles — but you can see the tension in the set of her shoulders, the way her jaw is locked like she’s biting back the whole night.

blood on her knuckles, maybe. maybe not hers. she doesn’t say. she doesn’t need to.

you reach for her face without a word — slowly, like you’re approaching something wild. your hands are warm. hers stay at her sides at first. she doesn’t pull away, but her body goes still — not tense. just… waiting.

no one touches her like this. not without motive. not without want. but you don’t ask anything of her in this moment — you just see her, and she doesn’t know what to do with that.

her eyes flick up to yours, unreadable — but there’s something breaking at the edges. not fear. never that. just disbelief that someone could hold her like she’s not a weapon.

like she’s allowed to be held.

she exhales, barely — a breath you wouldn’t catch if you weren’t paying attention. her jaw tightens, her lashes flutter, like she’s trying to hold herself together. your thumbs brush across her cheekbones, and for a second, her eyes close.

“hey.” you greet. her lips part like she wants to argue, to make a joke, to keep the distance safe. but she doesn’t. not this time. she leans into your touch, just slightly — then all at once.

you kiss her temple, slow and careful — not because she needs saving, but because she deserves softness. she doesn’t say thank you — not out loud. instead: “you’re not checking for battle scars, are you?” — voice low, almost amused.

but her hands find yours, fingers wrapping around your wrists like she’s anchoring herself. with you, she doesn’t have to perform strength. doesn’t have to be on guard. doesn’t have to be anything but herself.

and when she finally lets herself breathe, when she allows the silence to settle between you — it’s the closest she’s come to peace in a long, long time.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

he’s always in control, always trying to maintain a perfect façade. but you can see it — the cracks in the mask, the hollow look in his eyes after another brutal day, another moment where he failed to hold it together.

he doesn’t say anything — he never does when he’s breaking. just... stiff, distant, like he’s suffocating but doesn’t know how to ask for air.

you reach for him slowly, your hands finding his face — his skin cold to the touch, almost unnervingly so. he doesn’t pull away, but his whole body goes rigid — like he’s forgotten what it feels like to be touched without fear of it turning into something dark.

his eyes flick to yours, almost cold, but there’s something deeper hidden under that guard. a hint of confusion. of vulnerability. he doesn’t understand why you’d touch him like this, why you’d want to.

you don’t say anything — you just hold him. your thumbs run across the sharp lines of his cheekbones, grounding him in a way he’s not used to.

“you’re okay,” you murmur, your voice just loud enough for him to hear. his mouth twitches — the corners of it pulling up just enough to make it clear he’s trying to force a smirk, but it never quite reaches his eyes.

“i don’t need comforting,” he mutters, but it’s a weak defense, a habit he’s clinging to more than an actual belief. you don’t respond to his words. instead, you press your forehead against his, slow and deliberate.

he doesn’t push you away, but his breath catches — a shallow thing, like he’s been holding it in too long. in that moment he doesn’t know whether to be ashamed or relieved that someone could want him like this — raw, unmasked, vulnerable in a way that feels dangerous to him.

he tenses, like the idea itself is a threat — but his fingers twitch just barely, as if fighting the urge to touch you back. “you... don’t know who i am,” he argues,, but there’s something in his voice — something close to needy.

“i know you,” you reply, brushing your thumb across his bottom lip, letting the silence stretch for a beat. he doesn’t say thank you. but when he looks at you this time, when he lets you hold him like this, he believes he could be more than the mess he’s convinced himself to be.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

it's quiet, the kind of day where words don't feel necessary — just the hum of the room, the weight of his body next to yours. he’s leaning into you, but there's still that tension in his posture, like he’s holding back a part of himself.

you don’t say anything — you reach up slowly, hand finding the line of his jaw. his skin is warm, you can feel the way his muscles tighten at your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. he doesn’t need to be told anything — you’re not trying to fix anything.

your thumb brushes across the curve of his cheekbone. he looks at you, eyes dark but not distant — something in him softens when you touch him like this, for a second, he doesn’t have to be the guy who’s been through too much. he just lets you hold him

“you’re pretty.” you praise. he exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for too long, and his head tilts slightly into your touch.

he doesn’t pull away. doesn’t need to. not right now, at least.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

she doesn’t fall apart. not ever.

she comes home late, tension still riding her shoulders, eyes sharp but tired. kicks off her boots, shrugs off the day like it’s something she can peel away — but it still lingers in the set of her mouth, the way her fingers twitch like they’re still reaching for a gun.

you’re both on the couch, legs tangled. it’s quiet. a movie’s playing, something you’ve both stopped pretending to pay attention to. her head is resting near your shoulder, and you feel the weight of her — present but somewhere else, too.

you don’t say anything. just shift, turn toward her, and gently cradle her face in your hands.

she blinks, once — like she wasn’t expecting it. but she doesn’t move. your fingers trace along the edge of her jaw, slow and careful, like you’re handling something you don’t want to break.

she holds your gaze — guarded at first, like she’s trying to read what this means. then it softens. just a little. enough. her lips press together, for a second, you can tell she’s thinking too hard — about control, about vulnerability, about being seen.

she closes her eyes. leans in, just slightly, and you let her, no pressure, no words. you keep holding her like that, fingertips brushing behind her ear, thumb tracing the edge of her cheek; like she’s allowed to rest. like she’s allowed to be soft.

just for a while.

⏜︵ MICRO / DAVID. 𐂯

it’s late. he’s hunched over his desk, screen glow painting shadows under his eyes. there’s a half-empty mug by his hand, something playing softly on the speakers — white noise he probably hasn’t noticed in hours.

he doesn’t hear you come in. his mind’s still spinning, still running loops — old memories, what-ifs, the kind of guilt that lingers even when you tell him it doesn’t have to.

you walk up behind him, say his name softly, he finally looks up; gives you a tired smile — the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, like he’s trying to convince you he’s fine so you won’t worry.

you don’t say anything. you just kneel down beside his chair and gently take his face in your hands his breath catches. tenderness always seems to catch him off guard, like he still doesn’t believe he’s allowed to have it.

your thumbs brush along the edges of his jaw, where the scruff’s gone a little longer than usual. he leans into it without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut like the weight of the day finally gets permission to settle.

he murmurs something — maybe your name, maybe just a sigh — and lets you hold him there, like that’s all he needs right now.

he whispers, “i’m okay,” like he’s trying to believe it, and maybe, with you there, he can. he opens his eyes after a second, looks at you like you’re something steady in a world that won’t stop shifting. he doesn’t say thank you — he just reaches up and covers your hand with his, fingers curling over yours like he doesn’t want you to let go

and you don’t.

★ a / n : mid tier effort tbh might take this down at some point

started 4.23.2025. finished 4.24.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

Tags

fic ebonmicro fanfic in the big 25???? i'm a puddle

Care and Comfort

CW: Richie being Richie, swearing. Angst and fluff. Mentions of Mikey's death and addiction.

Word Count: 2070

AN: Requested by an anonymous person!

February 22.

It’s a tough day. You’ve been with Richie long enough now—two years—to know what the date means. What it is the anniversary of. You came into Richie’s life after Mikey exited it, but you knew enough of your boyfriend’s best friend.

What a charming, larger-than-life man he was. Mikey Berzatto. Mikey Bear. Charismatic. Filled the room with his presence, his stories, his ability to make a person feel like the most important person in the world.

Also an addict. Also, probably, a narcissist.

So it’s a tough day for Richie. Mikey’s suicide blew a hole in the lives of those who loved him, and Richie loved Mikey like a brother. Two years out from his death, Richie is no closer to any real closure: he misses his friend. He loves his friend. He hates his friend for what he did, all the shitty behavior before he finally made a choice that couldn’t be taken back.

February 22 is the day that Richie’s feelings break loose like a storm. He rages, he goes sulky and quiet. He gets mad at Mikey, and because Mikey isn’t there, he lashes out at those closest to him.

You, namely.

But you can handle it. What sort of girlfriend would you be if you didn’t help him weather these hard days? Because you know, deep down, the person Richie is angriest at is himself: that he didn’t see it coming, that he didn’t do more to help his friend.

-----

Your first year together, Richie was snappish. He tried to start fights with you all day, and you—not understanding him completely—were too bewildered to rise to any bickering. Your confusion took the fire out of him, and he spent the rest of the day maudlin, full of apologies, rife with terribly negative self-talk.

This year?

This year, Richie is just sad.

He stays in bed past noon. He gets up around one in the afternoon, wanders out into the living room of your shared apartment, then promptly plants himself beside you on the couch.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, soft. You glance at him, take in the red-rimmed eyes, the deep lines etched between his brows.

He answers with a grunt, a non-committal noise.

“Hungry?”

Another grunt, and this one sounds sort of like a no or a nah. A beat later, though, you hear the snarl of his stomach, and you laugh softly at it.

“Let me make you something.”

That, at least, earns you a grumble, a string of unintelligible words, but he doesn’t object when you stand up and make your way to the tiny kitchen.

-----

You’re no Carmy, and you’re no Sidney. You’re no Tina or Marcus or Ebra.

Still, you can hold your own as a home chef. You had a mother and a father who cooked, who taught you how to fry a chicken breast, how to make a simple fresh pasta, how to roast a piece of beef or pork.

So you can’t do a Hamachi crudo or a lamb ragu, but you can do comfort food. Food that sticks to the ribs and warms a person from the inside out. For Richie, on this difficult day? You make him breakfast for early dinner or late lunch.

You slice up the brioche you got earlier in the week and find it perfectly stale for French toast. You put cinnamon and a pinch of cloves in the egg batter, fry up the slices to perfection. You fry some bacon to the crispness Richie likes; you make a pile of buttery scrambled eggs with goat cheese and chives folded in.

You finish it all off with strong coffee in the French press, which Richie used to scoff at as needlessly fussy but now can’t live without.

You don’t bother to plate it nicely. This isn’t the Bear, and no one is going to give you a star. This is food as medicine, and you heap everything on a plate and carry it—along with silverware and the coffee—into the living room.

Richie has gone horizontal as you cooked, stretched out on the couch with his face to the back, but the scent of the food makes him turn a bit and glance up at you.

“Said I wasn’t hungry.” He sounds peevish.

“Just have a bite or two.” You set the silverware down with a clink, and Richie heaves a sigh, rolls over, sits up. He doesn’t quite glare at you, but it’s glare-adjacent. A slight narrowing of his eyes as he looks at you.

“Didn’t have to fucking do all of this.” His voice has a rough edge, but you know him well enough to hear the faint thread of gratitude underneath all the gruffness. Richie never knows how to handle being taken care of. He’s used to being the one taking care of others: his daughter, his ex-wife when they were still married. Mikey’s mother, after Mikey’s suicide.

He’s the real-life version of setting himself on fire to keep others warm, so he is always surprised when someone else cares for him. Even if it’s something as ordinary as making him a comforting meal on a day when he’s too paralyzed by grief to feed himself.

-----

As you had guessed not hungry wasn’t true. Once Richie gets a few bites into him, his appetite awakens and the plate is cleaned of crumbs in an appallingly short amount of time.

“Good?” you ask, and he mumbles a sheepish “thanks,” so you clear away the empty dishes, take them to the kitchen, rinse them off.

When you return to the couch, though, Richie is sitting up straight and gazing right at you. He waits until you meet his eye, and then he says, slowly and deliberately, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He clears his throat, seems embarrassed by himself. So much of his bluster and cockiness is an act, a smokescreen. Richie is often insecure, chagrined by his own behavior, and you can guess that he’s berating himself for being curt with you earlier. For dozing in bed for so long when the two of you have so few days together.

“Really didn’t have to do all that though, sweetheart,” he starts, and you wave him off. You sit beside him, and he lifts his arm automatically, the gesture for you to tuck yourself against him, but you shake your head. You settle against the corner of the couch, then pat your lap invitingly.

“C’mon, Jerimovich,” you tell him. “Let me scratch your head.”

Your first impression of Richie is the most lasting one, even two years in. He puts you in mind of a shelter dog—kicked and mistreated in some prior life, yearning for affection, baring his teeth at the thought of being kicked again.

And like a dog, the man loves to be petted. It’s not necessarily sexual; it’s the simple fact of human touch, the feel-good chemicals that release in his busy brain when you skate your fingertips over his bare skin, when you press your own body against his, when you scratch your nails over his scalp.

Which is what you do now. You let Richie settle in your lap. He tucks one arm underneath him, but he wraps the other over your thighs. Once he’s situated, you just…pet him. Scratch his head. Sometimes you press your fingertips in the small muscles that go tense and bunched at the base of his skull, but mostly you just pet him. Let the repetitive motion lull him, and you feel him relax against you little by little.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask after a long stretch of silence. The T.V. is on, some true crime cop show, but it’s muted. The only sounds are those of city living: faint doors opening in the hallway of your apartment building, traffic in the street, the occasional gust of wind against the window.

“No.”

A beat, and then you ask him to tell you a story about Mikey. It makes Richie sigh, and he starts with the well-worn story about Bill Murray, but you interrupt him.

“No, tell me a story from when you were kids,” you clarify. “Tell me about Baby Mikey, and make sure there’s lots of Baby Richie.”

He chuckles against you, and it sounds warm. Genuine. He’s never said it, and you’ve never asked, but you can guess that it helps him somehow, when you ask for Richie stories in the guise of Mikey stories. How you gently try to frame him as the main character in his own life instead of Michael Berzatto’s side-kick and sometimes-stooge.

Now, Richie tells you a story from his high school days, and it’s his own story, and Mikey is just a supporting character, but an important one—a supporting character before the crush of adulthood, before Papa Berzatto took off and left Mikey as the man of the house. Before the Beef as it skidded into bankruptcy, before the arson attempts and shell games with Unc’s money, before the pills and the dealing out of the alley, before whatever darkness in Mikey swallowed him up and put him on that bridge with a gun two years ago to the day.

It's a funny story, some prank on some stodgy old teacher, and Richie chuckles as he tells it. You can hear his own darkness bleed out of his voice, can hear him remembering the good ol’ days instead of wallowing in the bad ones. You can hear him remembering his friend who was more like a brother—remembering him in all his bright promise and not as he left.

The story ends, and then you hear it: a weak sniffle. You lay your palm over the curve of his skull, hold him, and think that a cry might do him good. Richie holds so much in; tears might be healthy, might help him grieve Mikey in a more healthy way—

“I know it, you know,” he says against your lap, his voice thick with unshed tears.

“Know what, baby?” You wonder at what revelation he is going to share with you, what understanding in his own psychology or Mikey’s has come to him.

“I fucking know I don’t deserve you,” he replies, and it surprises you. You gape wordlessly above him. It wasn’t what you were expecting him to say.

“All this shit,” he explains. “My life’s a fucking mess, and every year, I fall into this black hole and you have to pull me out.”

You smile down at where he’s settled in your lap, and you feel a wave of love for him wash through you. Your boyfriend, Richard Lawrence Jerimovich. Rough around the edges and then some, but underneath all that trauma and hurt lies the biggest heart you’ve ever seen. A heart of gold. A man who wants desperately to belong, to be loved, to be needed.

“You’re putting a lot of weight on have to,” you tell him. “I don’t have to. I want to.”

He shakes his head. “Shouldn’t fucking have to or want to.”

“It’s just life, Richie. It beats us up. What’s the point if we don’t take care of each other when we’re feeling a little more beat up than usual?”

“You take care of me more than I take care of you.”

You scoff, and you resume scratching his head. Dragging your nails through his short hair. “Bullshit.”

“You do.”

“You keeping score on me, Jerimovich?”

He grumbles at that. “You’re not keeping score?”

“In love? Never.”

As usual, the mention of love makes him squirm. Makes him uncomfortable. He’s perfectly fine saying it to you, says I love you easily and without a bit of hesitation. Hearing it said back to him, though? That’s entirely different.

You say it as much as you can. You let him squirm and be uncomfortable and you let each mention of your love for him chip away at those rough edges a little more, revealing more of that big heart of gold.

“I love you,” you tell him, and sure enough, he squirms again.

So you say it again and again, over and over, until he finally surrenders to it, sighs and nestles himself in your lap, and he mutters it back to you as he allows you to comfort him, to take care of him. To love him.

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fic another quietly excellent one omg

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sad-girl-autumn-version

1 year ago

personally if i were an artist and teenage girls happened to gravitate towards my art i would consider that the highest fucking honour imaginable

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sad-girl-autumn-version

5 months ago

He was as tall as he was tall, and his eyes were the color they were. To describe his hair one would say that he had some. His face had all the features you'd expect, and none of the ones you wouldn't. "There he is," people would often say of him, but only when he was there. And they were right.

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sad-girl-autumn-version

7 months ago

She is me, I am her

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🩶 the grey ace way 🩶

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sad-girl-autumn-version

1 year ago

85K notes View Post

sad-girl-autumn-version

2 months ago

absolutely obsessed with the dynamic between Matt and Frank it's gotta be one of my favorite character dynamics of all time. Frank kills people as a hobby and Matt has never killed in his life. they can't have a conversation without cursing each other out. they trust each other enough to hold one another as they jump off a building. they physically fight more often than not. Frank has seen Matt's bare ass. they're both in love with the same woman who respects herself too much to hook up with either one of them. Matt is a Catholic who believes every soul can be saved except for his own and Frank doesn't think either of theirs needs to be. can anybody hear me is this thing on

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*chanting gets louder* OT3! OT3! OT3!

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sad-girl-autumn-version

5 months ago

Alexei Blurb

Stranger Things

A/N: bro idk, I just thought of it so I wrote it. it's short and nothing much, might do more of this guy later. can you tell im in season 3 of my rewatch? xoxo

You were sat in the back seat of the yellow convertible as Hopper and Joyce argued in the front seat, eyes scanning over the Illinois map that had been bought back at the gas station. Alexei was sat next to you, cuffed hands holding onto the large Slurpee he had gotten back at the 7/11. A few moments later the man said something in Russian, gently elbowing you to get your attention. You looked over at him in confusion, frowning a bit.

"I.." You sighed, folding the map up carefully and wedged it under your leg so it didn't fly away.

Alexei repeated what he said again, eyebrows furrowing.

You blinked, staring at the man blankly. "I don't... Nyet? Nyet, no." You shook your head, your expression apologetic.

Alexei shook his head before pointing at a bracelet you wore. It was something El had made for you, a thank you for helping catch her up on learning so she'd be able to attend school some day soon under her new alias.

The man grinned to himself, speaking again before laughing quietly. He shook his wrists before looking between your bracelet and his handcuffs. "Yours looks better than mine."

A smile tugged at your mouth when you realized he was trying to make a joke before you snorted a laugh, leaning back in your seat.

"You get?" Alexei's accent was thick and you looked over at him in surprise at the sudden broken English.

"Uh, no.." You shook your head before glancing at Hopper and Joyce. "But once we get there you can... tell me?" You grimaced a bit as Alexei stared at you in confusion before it turned into one of defeat.

"Will you two shut up?" Hopper snapped, glaring at you in the rearview mirror. "He's the enemy here, Y/N!"

"He's just a guy, Hopper!" You snapped back, returning his harsh stare. "Do you really think he wanted to be some evil scientist?"

Hopper opened his mouth to respond before Joyce gave him a warning stare, his mouth snapping shut with a grumble. The car ride was quiet for a while before you turned to Alexei, trying to think of what the two of you could do to keep busy.

"..Patty cake?" You looked at him questioningly, and Alexei frowned.

"Patty...cake?" His accent was thick as echoed your words, turning towards you in his seat.

You held up your hands to him, starting to make the motions in the air of the ageless game. The man gasped in realization and grinned, fully turning towards you so the two of you could play.

"Are you fucking serious?" Hopper turned his head around to glare at the two of you before quickly whipping around back to put his eyes back on the road.

"You're just mad that he's also a person." Joyce spoke up, turning around in her seat to watch the two of you. "Please! Play!" She motioned her hands, smiling at the two of you.

The two of you hesitantly started to play, Alexei trying the best he could considering the handcuffs.

"Patty cake, patty cake, baker's man-"

Alexei was singing the tune in Russian, wide smile across his face.

"It's pat-a-cake." Hopper interrupted the two of you, glancing back again.

"Pat-a-cake?" You and Joyce looked up, and you arched your eyebrows.

"Pat-a-cake pat-a-cake.." You mumbled to yourself, doing the hand motions. "Oh."

Hopper smirked, leaning back in his seat as he looked at the road ahead. Joyce scoffed and turned back around, staring out the passenger side of the car.

You and Alexei shared a glance before you turned towards him, the two of you quietly going back to your game.

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fic Cuuuuuute!!!

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sad-girl-autumn-version

5 months ago