The edges of your soul (I haven't seen yet) ⭐︎ S.H.
⭐︎ Warnings: 18+ mdni! post apocalypse, character death, angst, mean!steve, grumpy!steve x sunshine!reader, blood, wounds -- all the gory stuff, smut in the future chapters, hurt/comfort
⭐︎ Pairing: Grumpy!Steve Harrington x sunshine(fem)!reader
⭐︎ Summary: Everything he once knew, is gone, dead and buried, burned to the ground and turned into ash. All he has known is loss, death and pain, he despised this world, until it brought you to him -- the sunshine he had long forgotten. Light he will follow till the very end.
⭐︎ In collaboration with @hellfire--cult
⭐︎
Prologue ☀︎ When the sun hits, she'll be waiting
Chapter one ☀︎ Welcome and Goodbye
Chapter two ☀︎ Can you see right through me?
Chapter three ☀︎ You’re the greatest thing we’ve lost
Chapter four ☀︎ While I'm alone and blue as can be
Chapter five ☀︎ Watching cityscapes turn to dust
Chapter six ☀︎ The killing time. Unwillingly mine.
Chapter seven ☀︎ Fall back into place. Fall back...
Chapter eight ☀︎ Dead-eyed. Dead weight.
Chapter nine ☀︎ Pull the trigger on the gun I gave you when we met
Chapter ten ☀︎ Turn me into something tragic, just for you, I let it happen
Chapter eleven ☀︎ And I'll fear no evil because I'm blind to it all
Chapter twelve ☀︎ You’re a bandit like me. Eyes full of stars
Chapter thirteen ☀︎ Then this heart would break and fall as twice as far
Chapter fourteen ☀︎ The devil in your eyes, won't deny the lies you've sold
Chapter fifteen ☀︎ Every print I left upon the track has led me here
Chapter sixteen ☀︎ One day I am gonna grow wings...
Chapter seventeen ☀︎ Now I'm racing for what to do, all roads lead me right back to you
Chapter eighteen ☀︎ I'll give you all that I can, as long as you'll wait for me there
Chapter nineteen ☀︎ When you’re lying between my legs, it doesn’t matter
Chapter twenty ☀︎ If you can't survive, just try
Chapter twenty one ☀︎ Look into my eyes and baby, whisper
Chapter twenty two ☀︎ If anyone could’ve saved me, it would’ve been you
Chapter twenty three ☀︎ We could be safer, just for one day
Chapter twenty four ☀︎ God loves you, but not enough to save you
— your fake boyfriend breaks up with you for extremely stupid reasons, and you spend a few miserable days realizing you actually liked being his girl. turns out fake dating is very bad for your sanity but great for finally getting the boy who’s been in love with you the entire time.
🧷 13.1k — steve harrington x fem!reader, fluff, mutual pining but they share one brain cell, fake dating gone painfully real, steve “i’ll just suffer quietly” harrington, reader with delayed emotional processing, fake breakup → immediate overthinking → fix it with kissing, robin has been right since day one, hurt feelings but make it romantic, clingy steve supremacy, best friends to idiots to lovers, small town thinks they’re already married, a scene inspired by rachel and joey from friends
request — [ anonymous ] hiiiiiiiii! if you’re still doing requests, would you be interested in a man’s best friend-centric steve harrington fic? could be maybe based on when did you get hot, manchild, or my man on willpower ??? idk i have a soft spot for sabrina and steve hahaha. kind of down for whatever suits your fancy! your writing rocks :-)
author's note — god this baby is huge. i think this is one of my the fics. anyways, thank you so much for the request, i had the best time writing this because i, too, am deeply attached to both sabrina and steve, which is honestly a dangerous combination for everyone involved. definitely somewhat inspired by 'my man on willpower'. hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it. enjoy <3
masterlist : navigation
gif by @keery-joe | divider by @/lavendergalactic
The first sign that your day was going to go downhill was when Steve Harrington came in before you and Robin, which was usually a reliable omen that something deeply embarrassing was about to happen to him.
You stood behind the counter at Family Video scanning returns. Robin was on the back counter, crouched on a stool and rearranging a tower of cassettes that did not need rearranging but were receiving her full commitment anyway.
Steve, meanwhile, was in the action aisle, moving tapes from one shelf to another. Every few seconds he would pause, squint at a title, then slide it over half an inch as if that would finally bring him peace. He had been like that all morning. Suspiciously productive.
You had already made a note to ask Robin if he was going through some kind of personal growth phase, because those usually ended badly for everyone around him.
The bell above the door chimed and a girl walked in, hovering just inside like she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to be there. She looked around the store. You straightened from the counter and gave her your best customer-service smile.
“Hey, can I help you with a few tapes?”
She shook her head quickly, hands clasped together. “No, I’m not here to get anything. I actually wanted to talk to Steve. Steve Harrington?”
Robin’s head popped up from behind the stack of cassettes. She squinted at the girl, then at you, then back at the girl with confusion, clearly not buying the idea that a girl was looking for Steve.
“Yeah,” she said. “We’re familiar.”
Then she turned toward the shelves and called out, “Dingus, you got a customer.”
There was a beat of silence, then Steve’s head appeared between two rows of VHS tapes. He blinked at the front counter, clearly not expecting an audience, then pushed himself upright and walked over with the cautious expression of a man approaching a trap.
You tilted your head toward the girl and stepped back slightly, joining Robin at the counter. Both of you leaned casually against it as you looked between the two.
The girl looked relieved and nervous at the same time. “Steve?”
Steve nodded once. “Yeah. Hi. That’s me.”
She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I’m from Karen Wheeler’s neighborhood. I was just wondering if you would be free for a shift tonight.”
Steve glanced at you and Robin, confused, then back at her. “For what?”
“For babysitting my little sister. Mrs. Wheeler told my mom that you take care of Mike sometimes, so. . .”
The silence that followed was so complete you could practically hear Robin’s brain short-circuiting beside you.
Steve stared at the girl like she had just informed him he was being drafted into a war. His eyebrows lifted slowly in disbelief. Meanwhile you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you were fairly certain you would leave a mark.
Steve turned his head toward you and Robin, eyes wide, silently asking if you were hearing this too. You and Robin, without missing a beat, immediately arranged your faces into identical masks of confusion and shook your heads as if this was brand new information.
Steve faced the girl again. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t babysit. I’m not a babysitter.”
“Oh. Oh, okay. I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s just you’re always hanging around the kids, so. . . ”
Robin leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “They’re his friends.”
You nodded gravely. “Yeah. He is friends with a lot of kids.”
The girl laughed nervously, giving Steve a look that hovered somewhere between suspicious and concerned. She nodded a few times, clearly unsure how to respond to that information, then murmured another apology before backing toward the door.
The bell chimed again as she left, and the moment it clicked shut behind her, the store fell into silence.
Steve stood there, still processing. You and Robin lasted exactly one second.
Then you both burst out laughing.
You had to grab the counter to stay upright as the laughter doubled over on itself. Robin clapped a hand over her mouth and wheezed, sliding halfway off the stool. Steve stared at you two, offended.
“Are you kidding me?” he exclaimed, gesturing toward the door. “Babysitting? Again? Why does everyone think I—”
“You literally drove them to school in your car,” Robin managed between gasps. “You packed them snacks. You have a designated seat for Dustin.”
“It’s called being a good friend,” Steve said defensively.
“You have a car seat indentation in your backseat,” you added, wiping at your eyes.
He pointed at you. “You are not helping.”
Robin leaned against you, still laughing. “I can’t believe someone actually came in to hire you for a shift. Steve Harrington, available weekends and holidays, comes with free hair tips.”
Steve dragged a hand down his face. “I hate both of you.”
You straightened, trying to compose yourself, though the grin refused to leave your face. “No, c'mon. Think about it. You could make extra money.”
“God knows you need it,” Robin said. “That’s how you get girls, you know.”
Steve groaned loudly enough that a customer browsing near the comedy section glanced over. He walked up to the counter and planted himself beside you, dragging a hand down his face again like maybe if he pressed hard enough he could erase the last five minutes of his life.
“Shut up,” he muttered.
Robin grinned, pleased with herself, and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder that was far more patronizing than comforting. “I’m just saying, dingus. You’ve got a niche. Lean into it.”
“I’m going to throw you out,” he said.
“You can’t,” she shot back. “We work here.”
Then she pushed away from the counter and wandered toward the back room, still laughing to herself under her breath.
That left you and Steve at the front counter. You picked up a stack of returned tapes and began scanning them in, sliding each one across the counter.
Steve leaned beside you, shoulder nearly brushing yours as he crossed his arms and stared out at the empty aisles. Then, after a moment, he followed you as you moved around the counter to shelve a tape. And then again when you stepped toward the register. And again when you circled back to the returns bin.
“I just don’t understand,” he began, voice low and indignant. “How did I go from King Steve to some girl walking in asking if I’m free for a shift tonight. A shift?”
You nodded sympathetically, though the corners of your mouth kept twitching upward. “It is a big change.”
“I didn’t change,” he said immediately. “I did not change. I am still the same person. I just. . . happen to know some kids.”
“You drive them everywhere,” you said, moving a tape into its case and snapping it shut. “You helped Will with his project for three hours.”
“That was one time,” he insisted. “And he was struggling.”
You hummed thoughtfully, sliding another cassette into place. “Sounds like babysitting to me.”
He groaned again, louder this time, and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. Then he straightened and leaned closer. “I used to be cool,” he said. “I used to walk into a room and people would be like, oh wow, Steve Harrington. Now I walk into a room and people are like, hey, can you watch my kid for a few hours.”
You glanced at him, taking in the slump of his shoulders and the way he looked personally betrayed by the universe.
It was difficult to take him seriously when he was pouting in front of a shelf labeled Family Favorites, but you softened anyway, because beneath the theatrics there was always something earnest about Steve when he got like this.
“You’re still cool, Steve,” you said, nudging a tape flush with the row before stepping back toward the counter. “You’re extremely cool.”
He made a face that said he appreciated the effort but did not believe a word of it.
“Doesn’t feel like it,” he muttered, following you as you moved. “You know yesterday I asked Henderson if he wanted to hang out, and he said he had a meeting with Eddie. This is how it starts, I’m telling you. First they stop needing rides, then they stop calling, then suddenly everyone forgets me and I end up dying alone.”
You leaned against the counter and folded your arms. “Well, that is a bleak projection for your future.”
“I’m serious,” he insisted. “I’m aging out. I can feel it. I peaked in high school and now I’m. . . I don’t know. A former peak?”
You tilted your head. “I’ll tell you what, Steve. Get a girlfriend. That’s always a popularity boost.”
He blinked at you, clearly not expecting that response. “I can’t just date a girl to get popular,” he said, frowning. “That’s disrespectful to her. And also to me.”
You shrugged, entirely unconcerned. “Well, looks like you are in fact going to die alone then.”
He let out an offended noise and turned away from you, pacing a few steps down the aisle. You reached for your water bottle on the counter and unscrewed the cap, taking a sip as he continued muttering to himself.
Then he stopped abruptly.
You glanced up just in time to see him staring at a display near the register, eyes narrowing in thought. He reached out and picked up a copy of Her Cardboard Lover from the return pile, turning it over in his hands. His expression lit up and you immediately felt a sense of dread as you realised he had just had an idea.
“Oh no,” you said, watching him. “That’s never good.”
He turned toward you, still holding the tape, clearly pleased with himself. “I just had an idea.”
You raised your bottle again and took another sip, bracing yourself. “That sentence has never once led to anything positive.”
He stepped closer to the counter, enthusiasm building. “Okay, hear me out. You said I should get a girlfriend, right?”
You nodded cautiously, swallowing your water. “Hypothetically.”
“So,” he continued, gesturing between the two of you with the tape, “you could be my pretend girlfriend.”
You choked.
The water went everywhere. It sprayed forward in a completely uncontrolled burst and hit him square in the chest before you could even process what had just come out of his mouth. You doubled over coughing, clutching the counter for support while trying not to inhale the rest of it.
Steve recoiled, looking down at his now very damp shirt with startled offense. “Okay,” he said, blinking at you. “I see you’re shocked.”
You coughed again, wiping at your mouth and trying to catch your breath. “You—” you started, then had to stop because you were still half choking. “You cannot just— say things like that while I’m drinking water.”
He held his hands up defensively, though he was trying not to laugh. “I didn’t know you were going to—”
“You just proposed a fake relationship out of nowhere,” you said, straightening and grabbing a napkin to dab at the front of his shirt. “That’s not a casual suggestion, Steven.”
He watched you fuss for a second, then shrugged. “It makes sense. You literally just said I should get a girlfriend. This solves the problem. You help me look less like the town babysitter, I help you with. . . whatever you need help with. It’s mutually beneficial.”
You stared at him, napkin still in hand, trying to decide if he was serious. He looked entirely earnest. Hopeful, even. Like he genuinely thought this was a reasonable plan and not the beginning of a very bad plan.
“You are unbelievable,” you said, though there was a reluctant laugh tugging at your voice.
He smiled a little, encouraged. “Come on. It’s not that crazy.”
You stared at him for another second, still holding the napkin against his shirt. “You’re right,” you said. “It’s not that crazy.”
His face lit up immediately, hope flaring so fast it was almost impressive.
“It’s stupid,” you finished. “Completely dumb. I can’t date you.”
His expression fell with equal speed. “Why? What’s wrong with me?”
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the immediate wounded offense. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Then why not?” he pressed. “Are you dating someone?”
“No.”
“Then—”
“It’ll be weird,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “And totally wrong. And honestly I’m still not seeing how this is benefiting me.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Uh. By. . . by. . . by—”
He trailed off, clearly searching for a reason and coming up completely blank. You watched him flounder for a moment, then slowly took a breath and leaned back against the counter, thinking maybe that was it. Maybe he would realize it was ridiculous and drop it.
You exhaled, relieved.
Then he straightened abruptly, eyes widening like a light bulb had gone off over his head.
“Your mom,” he said.
You turned immediately toward the front door. “Where?”
“No, not that,” he said quickly. “I meant your mom. You told me she’s always pestering you to get a boyfriend. And I’m in her good books.”
You looked back at him, suspicious. “How do you know you're in her good books?”
He gave you a look that was almost smug. “Sweetheart, she sent me home with leftovers last time I dropped you off and told me to drive safe and call if I needed anything. She literally said that I was the best thing you'd brought to their life.”
You blinked. “She did?”
“That’s not the point,” he said quickly, waving a hand. “The point is, this is a win-win situation. Your mom gets off your back. People stop trying to hire me for babysitting shifts. Everyone benefits.”
You hesitated, chewing on the inside of your cheek. The logic was annoyingly sound. Still, you frowned. “I don’t know, Steve. I mean, won’t people think it’s weird?”
He scoffed immediately. “Oh, please. We’re always together. You know the first thing Max asked me when she met you?”
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “What?”
He leaned in. “She asked how I got someone like you.”
Your head snapped toward him, surprised. “She did?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Looked at me like I’d pulled off some kind of miracle.”
You stared at him for a second, then folded your arms, trying very hard not to look pleased. “I always knew Max was my favorite.”
He grinned a little, encouraged by the shift in your expression. “See? People already assume we’re together. We just. . . don’t correct them.”
You looked down at the counter, tapping your fingers against the surface as you thought. It was ridiculous. It was definitely ridiculous. But it was also. . . convenient. And maybe a little tempting.
He watched you like he didn’t want to push too hard and scare you off. For once, Steve Harrington was being patient. That alone should have been a red flag.
“You’re really serious about this,” you said.
He nodded once. “Yeah. I am.”
You sighed, tipping your head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment. Then you looked at him again, narrowing your eyes. “This is a terrible idea,” you said.
He brightened immediately. “So that’s a yes?”
You pointed at him with the hand still holding the napkin. “This is temporary. Strictly pretend. And if this gets weird, we end it immediately.”
He nodded quickly. “Deal.”
You drew in a breath. “We should probably set some ground rules. . . before this gets weird.”
He straightened, suddenly attentive in a way that suggested he was taking this far more seriously than he had any right to. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Ground rules. Good. Love ground rules.”
You leaned your hip against the counter and folded your arms, already slipping into a very official tone. “Rule number one. This is only for appearances. Public settings, social situations, my mom, your reputation. That’s it. No unnecessary PDA when we’re alone.”
He nodded immediately. “Right. Only when people are watching.”
“Exactly. Rule number two. No using this as an excuse to mess with each other. No embarrassing stories and no making up fake details about my life for fun.”
He held up his hands. “I would never.”
You gave him a look.
“Okay,” he amended. “I would try very hard never.”
“Rule number three,” you continued, ignoring that. “If either of us wants out, we say so. No dragging this on for the sake of appearances.”
“Agreed,” he said.
“Rule number four,” you added, thinking it through. “No over-the-top physical stuff. Hand-holding is fine. Maybe the occasional arm around the shoulder. Nothing that’s going to make this weird.”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded again. “Yeah. Okay. Is kissing on the table?”
You gave him a look and he raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, no kissing.”
“Rule number five,” you said, tapping the counter. “We keep this between us for now. We tell Robin, obviously, because she’ll figure it out in five seconds anyway. But no big announcements.”
He nodded. “Right. Slow rollout.”
You took a small breath. “And finally,” you said, “we don’t let this mess up our actual friendship.”
He stilled a little at that, then nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”
From the back room, you heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching.
Steve heard them too. His eyes flicked toward the door, then back to you. “One more rule,” he said.
You raised an eyebrow. “What?”
He held your gaze for a second longer than necessary, like he was making sure you were really listening. “No falling in love.”
You blinked once and then laughed and waved a hand like he’d said something completely absurd. “Trust me,” you said. “That won’t be a problem.”
He nodded, but there was a brief, unreadable look on his face before it smoothed over.
A second later, Robin rounded the corner from the back, arms full of tapes and eyes already narrowed in suspicion. She took one look at the two of you standing a little too close at the counter and stopped mid-step.
“Okay,” she said. “What did I miss?”
Four days later, everything had spiraled in ways you absolutely had not prepared for.
The news that you and Steve were dating had spread through Hawkins like wildfire. You had expected questions. Stares. Instead, people had accepted it with such normalcy that it almost felt insulting.
On your second day walking into Family Video together with his arm slung around your shoulders, you had overheard a girl near the new releases whispering to her boyfriend, “Oh my God, they’re finally official,” only for the boyfriend to shrug and say, “Haven’t they been dating since high school?”
You had nearly dropped the tapes you were holding.
Steve had just stared into the middle distance like he was trying to decide if that was flattering or deeply confusing.
The moms, however, reacted exactly as expected. They stopped asking Steve to babysit. Completely. Instead, they asked about you. Every conversation he had with a suburban mother now began and ended with questions about how you were doing, whether you liked pasta salad, and if you preferred carnations or roses. One of them had even sent him home with a container of cookies “for you both,” which he had delivered to you.
The party knew, of course. You had told them immediately, mostly because Robin insisted that if they found out any other way she would personally sabotage the entire operation. Their reactions had been. . . mixed.
Max had looked between you and Steve, then shrugged and said, “Yeah, that tracks. I would not, for a second, believe it was real.”
Dustin had demanded to know why you had not informed him sooner, because he felt like this was information he deserved as someone who had been “emotionally invested” in Steve’s life for years.
Mike and Will had exchanged one long, knowing look that made you deeply uncomfortable.
Lucas had just smirked. Jane had nodded once, like she had already knew what it would end in.
Nancy had been suspiciously quiet, which somehow felt more alarming than any actual reaction and Jonathan had raised an eyebrow and said nothing.
Eddie had laughed for a full thirty seconds straight and then clapped Steve on the back like he had just accomplished something monumental.
Robin, of course, had been the only one to say what needed to be said.
“This is a terrible idea,” she told you both flatly. “This is going to bite you in the ass. I am going to be there when it does. I will not say I told you so, because I'm going to be wearing a shirt that says that.”
You had both ignored her.
That, in hindsight, might have been a mistake.
Because right now, four days into this arrangement, you were sitting at your family’s dining table with Steve beside you, and the situation had escalated into a level of awkward that even you had not anticipated.
Your mother was thrilled. She had made enough food to feed an entire neighborhood and kept smiling at Steve like he had delivered wonderful news to the household. Every few minutes she asked him if he wanted more pasta, more bread, more salad, more of literally anything.
Your father, on the other hand, was silent, which was actually his worst reaction.
He met Steve’s eyes from across the table and slowly stabbed his pasta with his fork.
Steve visibly gulped.
You saw it out of the corner of your eye. He shot you a quick look. You gave him a small, encouraging smile that you hoped looked reassuring and not at all like someone who was also internally panicking.
Your mother set down another dish with a bright expression. “Steve, sweetheart, do you want more garlic bread?”
“I’m good,” he said quickly. “Thank you. This is great. Really great.”
Your father watched him take a bite of pasta.
You shifted slightly in your seat and, without thinking too hard about it, let your knee bump lightly against Steve’s under the table. He glanced at you again, and this time his expression softened just a little.
“So,” your mother said cheerfully, settling into her seat. “How long has this been going on?”
Steve did not even hesitate. “About two months,” he said at the exact same time you said, “Last week.”
Your mother’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. Your father slowly looked up from his plate.
Steve froze, mid-chew, eyes widening as he realized what had just happened.
You felt your stomach drop straight to the floor, take a brief walk, and then sit down somewhere near the radiator to rethink your life choices.
You both turned to look at each other at the same time.
“Two months,” Steve repeated quickly. “I mean—no. Not two months. I meant. . . we started, uh, hanging out more two months ago. But dating like she said. Last week. Technically. But I’ve—” He stopped, swallowed hard, and then, as if something in his brain simply snapped into survival mode, blurted out, “I’ve just been in love with her for a really long time.”
You blinked at him.
Your mother blinked at him.
Your father did not blink at all.
Steve turned to you with an expression that said please go along with this or I will actually pass out at this table. You nodded immediately, a little too quickly, like a bobblehead that had been shaken with enthusiasm. “Yes. That. He has. For. . . a long time,” you said. “It was very. . . slow burn.”
Your father set his fork down with a clink that sounded like a warning bell.
“Look, Harrington,” he said, and Steve physically straightened in his chair. “Let’s get one thing clear. I don’t like you now. I used to like you when you were just a boy who came over to hang out with my little girl and watch matches with me. You were harmless then. Annoying yes. Very loud. But now that you're dating my daughter I don’t like you.”
“Okay,” Steve said immediately. “Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.” He kept going, nodding faster with each repetition, like if he stopped agreeing he might be escorted out of the house. “That’s fair. Totally fair. I get that. Very reasonable position to have.”
You nudged him under the table, both because he was spiraling and because you needed him to stop saying okay before he said it so many times it lost all meaning. He startled slightly at the contact and glanced at you. You gave him a look.
“Dad,” you said. “Steve is very good to me. You know that. He. . . he never even lets me do any work during our shifts.”
Your father’s head snapped toward you. “Why?” he asked immediately. “I thought you wanted to get a job to be independent. Is he not letting you work? Is that what this is? That’s it. I’m going to get your job changed. Actually, you don’t even need to do a job. You can quit. You don’t need to work there at all.”
Your eyes widened in horror as you realized you had made a catastrophic error. “No, no, no, that’s not what I meant,” you said quickly, nearly knocking your glass over in the process. “I meant he’s helpful. He’s very helpful. Too helpful, actually. Sometimes annoyingly helpful.”
“Honey, calm down,” your mother said to your father, placing a hand on his arm. “She clearly meant that Steve is helpful at work. He helps her. That’s a good thing.”
You nodded vigorously. “Yes. Exactly.”
Steve jumped in with enthusiasm. “Super helpful,” he said. “I am extremely helpful. If helpfulness were a sport, I’d have a trophy. Several trophies. A shelf, maybe.”
Your father stared at him.
You tried again. “He also. . . brings me lunch sometimes,” you added weakly.
“You can bring your own lunch,” your dad said. “You don’t need him bringing you lunch. You’re perfectly capable of bringing your own lunch.”
You closed your eyes briefly. This was going so badly. This was going so, so badly.
Steve must have seen the panic starting to creep into your face because he sat up a little straighter.
“Sir,” he said, and you almost choked because Steve Harrington never called anyone sir unless he was in very deep. “I know you don’t like this. And I get why. I really do. But I care about your daughter a lot. I always have. I. . . I love her. And I’m not going to let you maker her quit her job or stop doing anything she wants to do. I just try to make things easier for her when I can. That’s all.”
Your heart was pounding so loudly you were certain everyone could hear it. You watched your father’s face, searching for any sign of what he was thinking. He held Steve’s gaze for a long, long moment. Long enough that you started mentally preparing a speech about how this was all a misunderstanding and also possibly a joke and no one needed to panic.
Then, finally, your father gave a small, slow nod. He picked up his fork again, twirled some pasta around it, and leaned back slightly in his chair. “All right,” he said.
That was all he said. But the fact that he had not thrown Steve out of the house felt like a miracle.
You exhaled so hard you almost saw stars.
You turned your head toward Steve and mouthed, oh my god I can’t believe that worked.
Steve looked at you, eyes still wide, and mouthed back, me too.
By the time your next shift rolled around at Family Video, the fake dating had apparently entered what Steve liked to call the “method acting” phase.
He held doors open for you, pulled out your chair during lunch, and had started calling you “baby” in a tone that sounded suspiciously natural. You were beginning to suspect he was enjoying this a little too much.
You were sorting through the new arrivals when he leaned against the counter beside you, one arm draped across the surface, looking far too pleased with himself.
Robin stood behind the front counter scanning tapes with the focused expression of someone trying very hard not to get involved in whatever nonsense you two were currently doing.
“Baby, can you hand me that pen?” Steve asked, even though the pen was literally in his own hand.
You stared at him. “You are holding a pen.”
He glanced down, then back up, unfazed. “Right. Just checking if you were paying attention.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why are you pretending right now? There is no one here. We are alone. Robin is emotionally unavailable to both of us and also immune to whatever this is.”
Robin, without looking up from the register, said flatly, “I am not immune. I am suffering. Internally.”
Steve leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We have to stay consistent,” he said. “If anyone walks in, we’re supposed to look couple-y. That’s the whole point. We can’t just turn it on and off like a light switch. That’s how people get suspicious.”
You opened your mouth to argue that no one in Hawkins was conducting a surveillance operation on your relationship, but before you could, the bell over the door jingled.
A woman walked in, scanning the aisles. Steve straightened immediately, posture shifting into what you could only describe as Boyfriend Mode.
Robin plastered on a customer service smile and went to help her find whatever tape she was looking for, leaving you leaning back against the counter while Steve hovered nearby with an air of suspicious fondness.
You were about to move away, because standing this close felt unnecessary and also mildly dangerous to your composure, when Steve stepped forward and placed his hands on the counter on either side of your waist.
You blinked up at him in confusion. He didn’t look away. He was looking at you like you were the most interesting person in the room, which was deeply unfair considering you were currently holding a stack of VHS tapes.
Then you noticed the customer.
She was watching the two of you with open curiosity as Robin searched for her order behind the counter. Her expression had that soft, knowing look people got when they saw something they considered adorable. You realized, with dawning horror, that Steve was performing.
You looked back up at him. He was still looking at you.
His expression softened in a way that did not look entirely like acting. Slowly, he reached up and tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so gentle and so unexpectedly real that your brain short-circuited for a full second.
“Want to go on a date tonight?” he asked.
You stared at him. “What?”
He didn’t break eye contact. “I was thinking Enzo’s,” he continued smoothly. “My dad can get us in. Is 8 good for you?”
Your heart did something deeply unhelpful. You knew this was part of the act. You knew there was an audience. You knew this was for show. And yet the way he was looking at you made it feel. . . not entirely like a performance.
“It’s perfect,” you heard yourself say, smiling before your brain had a chance to catch up.
He grinned, that familiar, warm grin that had gotten him out of more trouble than was reasonable.
Your chest felt suspiciously full. Without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
The moment your lips made contact, your entire brain rebooted.
Your eyes widened. His eyes widened. Time paused.
You pulled back slowly, horror flooding in as you realized what you had just done. Steve looked genuinely stunned, like someone had unplugged him from reality for a second.
You stared at each other, frozen, while somewhere behind you Robin said, “Found it.”
You cleared your throat. “I—um—back room,” you said, to no one in particular.
Then you slipped out from between his arms with speed and walked—very calmly, very normally, not at all like you were internally screaming—toward the back room. The second the door swung shut behind you, you pressed your hands to your face and stood there in stunned silence, heart racing like you had just sprinted a mile.
Out front, Steve remained exactly where you had left him, one hand still on the counter, staring at the space you had just vacated with an expression that could only be described as completely and utterly shell-shocked.
By the time evening rolled around, you had already changed outfits three times and rejected at least six more. You were not nervous about the date itself. You were nervous about the part where you had kissed Steve Harrington on the cheek in the middle of a work shift like a person who had completely lost control of her own motor functions.
You paced once across your room, then again, rehearsing under your breath. “Hey, about earlier,” you muttered. “That was. . . just for the customer. Obviously. Purely professional cheek-kissing.” You paused, grimaced, and tried again. “I’m sorry I kissed your face without warning. That was weird. I am weird. We are pretending. Let us never speak of this again.”
You stopped in front of your mirror and sighed, dropping your shoulders. Nothing you said sounded normal. Nothing you said sounded like something a person who had not impulsively kissed her fake boyfriend would say.
You were mid-practice apology number eight when the doorbell rang.
Your head snapped up. For a second you froze, then you moved quickly, slipping out of your room before your mom or dad could beat you to the door. You smoothed your hair back with one hand as you walked down the hallway, telling yourself to act normal. This was normal. This was a normal fake date with your very normal fake boyfriend whom you had definitely not kissed.
You opened the door and immediately stopped.
Steve was standing on the porch, mid-sentence, apparently delivering a nervous speech to absolutely no one. He had one hand gesturing vaguely in front of him and the other holding a bouquet of flowers that you recognized instantly as your favorites.
He didn’t notice you at first, too busy whispering to himself. “Just say it like a normal person,” he was muttering. “Hi, you look nice. Don’t trip. Don’t say anything weird. Definitely don’t—”
He looked up.
He stopped talking.
For a full two seconds, he just stared at you like his brain had temporarily left the building. You looked back at him, then at the flowers, then back at his face again. He was still staring.
You lifted your hand and snapped your fingers lightly in front of him. “Hello,” you said.
He blinked hard, snapping out of it. “Right. Hey. Sorry. It’s just—” He thrust the flowers toward you. “These are for you.”
You took them, the soft scent of them immediately familiar. “They’re my favorite,” you said, a little surprised despite yourself.
“I know,” he said quickly. Then he paused, rubbed the back of his neck, and added, “You look beautiful. Really. Like, totally out of my league, which you obviously are. Max has told me every single day for the past week. Repeatedly.”
You couldn’t help it. You smiled. You stepped a little closer and leaned in just enough that your voice wouldn’t carry into the house. “You don’t have to compliment me so much,” you murmured. “My parents are in the other room. No one’s watching.”
He looked genuinely confused. “No, what? No. I meant that,” he said, brow furrowing slightly like the idea that he wouldn’t mean it had not occurred to him.
Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps approached from the living room. Your father appeared in the doorway. He looked Steve up and down with the solemn expression.
“Harrington,” your father said. “Have her home by eleven.”
Steve straightened immediately. “Yes, sir. Absolutely. Eleven or earlier. Definitely not later,” he said.
You gave your dad a quick smile, trying not to laugh at how stiff Steve suddenly looked. Your father held his gaze for another long second, then nodded once and stepped back.
You turned back to Steve. He exhaled slowly, like he had been holding his breath the entire time. You adjusted your grip on the flowers and stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind you.
“Ready?” he asked.
You nodded, still smiling a little. “Ready.”
You sat across from Steve in a booth near the back, the flowers he brought resting in the center of the table between you.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Steve fiddled with the edge of the menu even though he had already looked at it three times. You traced the condensation on your water glass with your fingertip, trying to decide how to start.
The silence wasn’t awkward exactly, but it was different from your usual easy back-and-forth at work.
You cleared your throat softly. “Okay,” you said, leaning forward a little. “Before anything else, I should probably apologize for earlier. At work.”
Steve blinked at you. “What?”
“The kiss,” you clarified, gesturing vaguely toward your own face. “I didn’t plan that. It just kind of happened. Which is not a sentence people should have to say in general, but especially not to their fake boyfriend.”
He stared at you for a second, then shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize for that,” he said, almost immediately. When you gave him a look, he added, “It was just. . . part of the act. Right?”
“Okay,” you said slowly, smiling a little. “Okay, good. Then we’re good.”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “We’re good.”
You leaned back in your seat, and then your smile shifted into something a little more mischievous. “Well,” you said, tapping your fingers lightly against the table. “Since we’re pretending this is a real date. . . I feel like I should get the full experience. Show me. How is Steve Harrington on a date?”
He blinked again, clearly caught off guard. “What?”
“Come on,” you said, gesturing toward him. “You cannot tell me you don’t have moves. You were King Steve. There were definitely moves.”
He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “I do not have moves.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That is a lie.”
“It’s not a lie,” he insisted. Then he paused, thought about it, and immediately broke. “Okay, fine. I have. . . some moves.”
You leaned forward eagerly. “I knew it. Go on. Impress me.”
He straightened in his seat. “Alright,” he said. “Usually, I start simple. Eye contact. Maybe I lean in a little and say something like. . .” He paused, then tilted his head just slightly and looked at you with a soft, almost shy smile. “I was going to wait until the end of the night to say this, but you look really nice. I can't concentrate on anything besides your eyes.”
You blinked. “Okay,” you said, a little surprised. “That was actually good.”
He looked pleased. Encouraged. “Right? Okay, next one. Classic move. I casually bring up something thoughtful. Like, I remember a small detail you mentioned once. Favorite movie. Favorite snack. Something like that. Shows I’m attentive.”
You rested your chin in your hand, watching him with interest. “You’re very prepared,” you said.
He nodded, smiling at seeing you impressed.
You laughed. “Alright, my turn,” you said. “Let me show you how I work.”
He leaned back, folding his arms loosely. “I’m ready.”
You tilted your head. “So,” you said. “Where’d you grow up?”
He blinked. “That’s your move?”
“Just answer the question,” you said, trying not to smile.
“Hawkins,” he said.
“And were you close to your parents?” you asked, your voice softening just slightly.
He shrugged. “My mom, yeah. But only when I was little. My dad’s. . . around. In theory.”
You nodded sympathetically and reached across the table, lightly touching his wrist. “That must be tough,” you said.
He started to nod along, falling right into it. “Yeah, it is. Sometimes I think—” He stopped suddenly, eyes widening. “Wait. Nice move.”
You grinned. “Thank you.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Okay, that was good. That was really good.”
You sat back, satisfied. “I’m full of surprises.”
He watched you for a moment, still smiling, and there was something softer in his expression now. You didn’t notice. You were too busy feeling pleased with yourself.
“So,” he said after a second. “What’s your finishing move?”
You tilted your head, thinking. Then you smiled slowly and leaned in just a little. “Well, that is for another time,” you said as you winked.
He froze.
For a split second, he looked completely undone. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. He swallowed and looked away, trying very hard to recover.
You didn’t notice. You were already reaching for your water glass, entirely unaware of the way he had just melted across the table from you.
You sat perched on one of the tall stools behind the counter, elbows on your knees, stacking VHS tapes into a tower that was already leaning at an angle that suggested it would not survive the next five minutes.
You were in the middle of adding what you were fairly certain would be the final, ill-advised layer when Steve walked in from the aisle, wiping his hands on his jeans. He slowed when he reached the counter, watching you for a second with a look that hovered somewhere between fond and nervous.
“Hey,” he said.
You didn’t look up right away, concentrating as you balanced one more tape on top of the tower. “Hey,” you replied.
He leaned on the counter. “Can I ask you something?”
You nodded, still focused on the tower. “Sure.”
There was a pause. You felt his gaze on you in that way that made it clear he was choosing his words very carefully. “Last night,” he said slowly, “after the date. . . did you feel something?”
You glanced up at him, blinking. “Yeah,” you said.
His eyes widened immediately. “You did?” he asked, a little too quickly. “Because I got home and I was, like, really freaked out. I mean, not in a bad way. Just in a—”
“I think it was the noodles,” you said thoughtfully.
He stopped. “The noodles?”
“Yeah,” you continued, nodding. “They were really weird. My stomach felt weird for, like, an hour after. I thought I was going to have to lie down.”
He stared at you. “Right,” he said. “The food. That was what was weird.”
You hummed in agreement and turned back to your tower, completely unaware of the internal spiral he had just pulled himself out of. He lingered there for a second longer, watching you stack another tape.
Robin appeared from the back a moment later, carrying an armful of tapes. She set the tapes down with a soft thud and glanced between the two of you.
Steve straightened immediately. “Robin,” he said. “Hey. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
She narrowed her eyes. “That tone never leads to anything good, but sure.”
They disappeared into the back room together, leaving you at the counter with your towe. You added another tape. The tower wobbled dangerously.
In the back room, Steve immediately started pacing.
“I think I broke the rules,” he said.
Robin leaned against a stack of boxes, folding her arms. “You think?”
“No, I definitely did,” he admitted. “I have feelings. Like, real ones. And I know we said no falling in love and I wasn’t going to and then I did anyway and now I don’t know what to do.”
Robin stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then she sighed the kind of sigh that suggested she had been waiting for this exact confession for days.
“Finally,” she said.
Before he could react, she shrugged off her jacket and pulled it over her head. Steve blinked in confusion.
“Rob, hey,” he said. “What are you doing?”
She tugged off the short-sleeved shirt underneath, revealing a long-sleeved one beneath it. Then she turned around.
Across the back, in bold marker, were the words: I TOLD YOU SO.
Steve stared. “You seriously had that printed on a shirt?”
She turned back around, looking entirely satisfied. “I like to be prepared.”
“Robin,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “This is not helpful.”
“This is extremely helpful,” she corrected. “You broke your own ground rules. You made the rules. And then you broke them.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “It just. . . happened.”
She pointed at him. “That is exactly what I said would happen. I said this was a terrible idea. I said fake dating leads to real feelings. I said you two are idiots. And now look at you.”
He groaned. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Well,” she said. “Step one is admitting you like her. Which you’ve done. Step two is figuring out if she likes you back. Which. . . I’m pretty sure she does. Step three is not panicking and making it weird.”
He blinked. “You think she likes me?”
Robin gave him a look. “Steve. She built a rule system for fake dating with you and then kissed your cheek at work. Use your brain.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, considering that.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Cool. Cool. I get that. I understand what you’re saying. I see why you would think. . . that is a good option.”
Robin narrowed her eyes, already suspicious. “There’s a ‘but’ coming.”
“But,” he continued, lifting a finger, “what I was thinking is that I’m just going to ignore her until the feelings go away. And then, maybe a few years later, when she’s married and I’m still alone, I’ll confess everything and it’ll be, like, a funny story.”
Robin stared at him. The kind of stare that was so long and so flat it felt like it should have been accompanied by a dial tone.
“Why do I even try with you?” she said finally. “I don’t understand. I genuinely do not understand.”
Steve frowned slightly. “Maybe be a supportive friend,” he suggested. “Like I was when I found out you were a lesbian.”
Robin threw her hands up. “I would be supportive if the idea wasn’t idiotic,” she shot back. “How are you even planning on ignoring her? She is your fake girlfriend. Who you have very real, growing-by-the-second feelings for. You literally work together.”
He paused, considering that. His eyes flicked toward the door like he could see you through it. Then his expression shifted as another terrible idea formed.
“Uh,” he said. “Okay. Okay. New plan. I’ll break up with her.”
Robin’s face went completely blank. “You will what.”
“I’ll break up with her,” he repeated, nodding. “End the fake dating. Problem solved. Then I can. . . you know. Emotionally recover in private.”
She pointed at him slowly. “You are on your own,” she said. “I am not a part of whatever idiocy you’re about to pull.”
He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Okay,” he said. “Wish me luck.”
He started for the door.
Robin watched him go with the expression of someone witnessing a car drive slowly toward a brick wall and choosing not to intervene. As he reached for the handle, she cupped her hands around her mouth and called after him, “I hope she smacks you in the face.”
Out front, you were still crouched by the counter, restacking tapes into something that would hopefully resemble order. You didn’t look up right away when the back room door opened. Steve stepped out, stopped, and then immediately forgot every single word he had rehearsed the moment he saw you sitting there, completely unaware, humming softly to yourself while you worked.
He stood there for a second, frozen in place, the weight of his extremely bad plan settling in.
Steve opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He had walked out of the back room with a plan, a very bad plan but still technically a plan, and now he stood there in front of you with absolutely no words available to him whatsoever.
You were crouched by the counter, focused on restacking the tower that looked like it would collapse if someone so much as breathed in its direction. You were humming under your breath, something soft and absentminded, and the sight of you like that made the idea of breaking up with you feel not just impossible but actively stupid.
He swallowed. Tried again.
Still nothing.
You finally glanced up when you felt someone standing there, and your face brightened automatically when you saw him. It wasn’t even a big reaction, just a small, easy smile, the kind you gave him all the time without thinking. It landed somewhere directly in his chest.
“Oh, hey,” you said. “Did Robin finish yelling at you?”
He blinked. “What? No. I mean—yes. I mean, she always yells at me. That’s just. . . baseline.”
You nodded, accepting this as fact, and turned back to your tapes. “Makes sense.”
He stood there another second, staring at you, and then the moment passed. The words he had rehearsed dissolved completely. He cleared his throat, said something about helping at the front, and did not break up with you.
He told himself it was temporary. Just until he figured things out. Just until he stopped feeling like his entire internal system short-circuited whenever you smiled at him.
Except the opposite happened.
Over the next few days, instead of pulling away, he got worse.
Much worse.
He hovered. He leaned. He stood too close. He called you “baby” and “sweetheart” with increasing ease, like the words had always belonged in his mouth. If you moved around the counter, he moved with you. If you reached for something, he handed it to you before you could grab it yourself. He rested his hand lightly at the small of your back whenever customers came in.
You, for your part, shrugged it off as him being very committed to the bit. If anything, you found it impressive. He was excellent at pretending. In fact, he was so good at pretending that somewhere along the way you stopped thinking about the rules as much. You stopped noticing when his hand lingered a second too long. You stopped questioning why he always chose the seat next to you. You stopped wondering why he looked at you the way he did when you laughed.
Instead, you started getting used to it.
Then you started liking it.
You found yourself leaning into his side without thinking. You waited for him to walk in before starting your shift. You caught your reflection in the glass one afternoon with his arm slung over your shoulders and thought, distantly, that you looked. . . happy.
Because that was the strange part. Even though it was fake, even though you knew the entire arrangement was built on a ridiculous agreement behind a Family Video counter, you felt. . . special. Sought after. Like you were the center of someone’s attention in a way that was warm and constant and strangely comforting.
And sure, technically he was the only guy paying you that kind of attention. And yes, technically it was fake. But he was Steve Harrington, and he was very convincing, and after a while the line blurred in a way you didn’t examine too closely.
At group hangouts, it only got worse.
Steve always ended up beside you. On the couch, on the floor, at the counter in the Byers kitchen, leaning against the wall at the arcade. His knee pressed against yours. His arm draped across the back of your chair. His hand resting near yours, close enough to touch.
No one questioned it.
That was the wildest part.
One afternoon, you overheard two people at the grocery store talking about you and Steve like this had been inevitable. Another time, you caught a guy at the arcade nudging his friend and whispering something about Harrington being down bad.
And Steve’s feelings, meanwhile, were not going away. They were not being ignored into submission like he had optimistically planned. If anything, they were growing at an alarming rate. Every time you laughed at something he said, every time you leaned into him without thinking, every time you called his name across a room, something in his chest tightened.
He told himself to cool it. To pull back. To reestablish boundaries.
He did not do that.
Instead, he found himself sitting a little closer. Holding your hand a little longer. Looking at you when you weren’t paying attention and then quickly looking away when you were.
From across the room one evening, Robin watched him resting his chin on the back of your chair while you talked with Max and Lucas. She stared for a long moment, then dragged a hand down her face.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered to herself. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
She stared at Steve for a full ten seconds, watched the way he leaned over the back of your chair like some kind of lovesick housecat, watched the way his eyes followed your face while you talked to Max and Lucas, and then finally made a sharp beckoning motion with her hand.
“Steven,” she said. “C’mon. We need to talk.”
He blinked, pulled from whatever soft, dangerous thought spiral he had been in, and looked at her like she had just spoken in another language. “What? Why?”
Robin did not answer. She just kept staring at him with a look that suggested he had about five seconds before she dragged him out of the room by the collar.
He glanced back at you automatically. You were still talking, laughing at something Max had said. His expression softened for a second, something almost helpless passing through his eyes, and then he stood up.
“Uh. Yeah. Okay,” he muttered.
He followed Robin into the kitchen, and the second they were out of earshot, she spun on him.
“Oh my God,” she said, hands flying up in the air. “Oh my God, Steve. I cannot watch this anymore. I cannot be a witness to whatever this is.”
He frowned, already defensive. “What is what?”
She stared at him. “This. The staring. The hovering. The yearning happening in real time every time she breathes in your general direction. Get your shit together.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do not lie to me,” she said immediately. “Do not lie to me in this kitchen where I have supported you through every single terrible romantic decision you’ve ever made. You are down bad. You are embarrassing. You are one soft smile away from writing her a sonnet which you do not even know how to write!”
He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. Because unfortunately, she was not entirely wrong.
Robin stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You need to either ask her out for real or break up with her. Those are your options. Pick one. I am begging you to pick one.”
He looked past her toward the living room and his shoulders sagged.
“I can’t just ask her out,” he muttered. “What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if this is all just. . . pretend for her?”
Robin stared at him for a long moment, something like exasperated affection flickering across her face. “Steve,” she said, “she agreed to fake date you. She built a whole rule system with you. She looks at you like you hung the moon half the time. And you’re telling me you think she feels nothing?”
He swallowed. “I don’t know. I just. . . what if I ruin it? What if I say something and it gets weird and then I lose her completely?”
“You’re going to lose her anyway if you keep doing whatever this is,” she said. “You’re either going to confess and maybe get the girl, or you’re going to keep fake dating her until one of you dates someone else for real and then you’ll both be miserable and I will have to listen to you pine for the rest of my natural life.”
He let out a long breath, staring down at the floor. His mind ran through every possible scenario, every possible disaster, every possible version of you pulling away from him with that polite smile that would absolutely destroy him.
He knew what he needed to do.
He just. . . didn’t want to do it.
Robin lingered for exactly half a second after him saying it.
When he did not immediately sprint back into the living room and confess his undying devotion or fake-break up or do literally anything useful, she gave him a tight, expectant nod.
“I hope you chose good,” she said, pointing two fingers at her eyes and then at him in a deeply unnecessary gesture. “Like, really good. Because if you mess this up, you're a dead man, Harrington.”
Before he could respond, she turned on her heel and walked off.
Steve stood there for another minute, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole out of pity. He ran a hand through his hair, then both hands, then rubbed his face in a way that suggested he was trying to physically push his feelings back inside his chest where they belonged. None of it worked. Eventually he let out a long, resigned breath and followed her out.
The living room looked exactly the same as it had five minutes ago, which felt deeply unfair considering his entire life had apparently changed in that time.
You were still on the couch with Max and Lucas, leaning forward as Max told some story about school. You were laughing, shoulders relaxed, completely unaware of the emotional apocalypse currently happening in Steve’s ribcage. The sound of your laugh hit him square in the chest and stayed there.
He stood there for a moment, just watching you, and his expression did something soft and miserable at the same time. It was the look of a man who had found the best thing in his life and was about to hand it back for entirely noble and incredibly stupid reasons.
He cleared his throat, which came out quieter than intended. Then he tried again.
“Hey,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Uh. . . if you could. . . I mean, if you’re not busy. We need to talk. For a second.”
Max and Lucas both went still in the way people do when they sense drama. You turned toward him immediately, still smiling, like of course you would go with him. The sight of that almost made him abort the entire plan on the spot.
“Yeah, sure,” you said, pushing yourself up from the couch. “Give us a minute?”
Max gave you a very slow look, then glanced at Steve with the kind of suspicious intensity usually reserved for crime investigations. Lucas followed suit, squinting slightly. Steve tried not to visibly panic under the scrutiny.
You didn’t notice any of it. You just walked over to him, still in a good mood, and nudged his arm lightly as you passed.
“What’s wrong?” you asked as you guided him a little farther down the hallway for privacy.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, then took them out again, then shoved them back in like he couldn’t decide where they belonged. For a second he just looked at you, and the words got stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth.
You tilted your head, smile softening into concern. “Steve?”
He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Right. Okay. So. I, uh. . . I think we should. . . end this. The relationship. The fake one. I mean.”
The words came out clumsy and rushed, like he was trying to outrun them. You blinked once, the smile on your face staying exactly where it was, polite and a little confused.
“Oh,” you said. “Okay. That’s. . . sudden. Did something happen?”
He felt like the worst person alive. “No. I mean, yes. Not bad. Just. . . I think we’ve done what we needed to do, right? For the whole. . . fake dating thing. People definitely bought it. Mission accomplished.”
You nodded slowly, still wearing that same friendly expression. It didn’t quite reach your eyes anymore, but he either didn’t notice or pretended not to.
“Right,” you said. “Yeah, that makes sense. We did a pretty great job, if I do say so myself. Very convincing.”
He forced a small smile that looked like it physically hurt. “Yeah. Exactly. So, we should probably stop. Before it gets. . . weird.”
There was a brief pause. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, hands clasped loosely in front of you.
“Is that the only reason?” you asked. “Or. . . is there something else?”
He hesitated. This was the part Robin had told him to be honest about. This was the part that was supposed to make it better. He took a breath that felt like swallowing glass.
“I, uh. . . I kind of like someone,” he admitted, eyes dropping to the floor. “For real. And I think it’s. . . I think it’s getting complicated, doing this with you while that’s happening. It’s not fair to you. Or them.”
The words hung in the air between you.
For a split second, something flickered across your face. It was quick. So quick he almost missed it. Then your smile returned, perfectly supportive.
“Oh,” you said again. “Well. That’s. . . good. I mean, not good for me, I guess, but, you know. Good for you. That’s exciting.”
He nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. I mean. I think so.”
You let out a small breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “Wow. Okay. So. We’re breaking up. Fake-breaking up. That we somehow made real enough to need a real breakup conversation for.”
He winced. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag it out.”
“It’s okay,” you said quickly. “Really. It’s fine. We always knew this wasn’t permanent.”
Inside, it felt like someone had quietly knocked all the air out of your lungs. He liked someone. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? Steve Harrington liking someone was about as shocking as the sun rising. You had always known this would end. You had always known it wasn’t real. Still, the words sat heavy in your chest, confusing.
You kept smiling because that was what you did. You kept it light because that was easier than asking questions you weren’t sure you wanted answers to.
“So,” you said, clapping your hands together once in a bright, slightly forced motion. “We’re good? Still friends? Still. . . video store coworkers who argue about movie recommendations?”
He looked up at you then, eyes a little glassy. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Always.”
“Great,” you said, nodding. “Then we’re good.”
There was a small, awkward moment where neither of you moved. Then you stepped forward and gave him a quick hug. He froze for half a second before hugging you back, arms tightening just a little too much, like he was trying to memorize what this felt like. You pulled away first, still smiling.
“I’m gonna head back out there,” you said. “Before Max assumes you murdered me in the hallway.”
He huffed a weak laugh. “Yeah. Okay.”
You walked back into the living room like nothing had happened. Max looked up immediately, eyes narrowing.
“Everything good?” she asked.
“Yep,” you said brightly, grabbing your bag. “Just. . . remembered I have to be up early tomorrow. I think I’m gonna head out.”
Lucas frowned. “Already?”
“Yeah. Rain check on movie night. You guys pick something terrible without me.”
Max watched you for a second longer than necessary. “You sure you’re okay?”
You smiled,. “I’m fine. Promise. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You said your goodbyes quickly, waved once, and slipped out the front door before anyone could press further. The cool night air hit your face and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Your smile faded the second you were alone.
Inside, Steve stood in the hallway, staring at the spot where you had been. He could hear the front door open and close. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to go after you, to fix it, to say the thing he should have said in the first place. Instead, he stayed where he was, rooted to the floor by his own terrible decision.
He had wanted to do the right thing. He had wanted to be honest. Somehow, he felt like he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.
The next few days were, in a word, terrible.
Not movie montage terrible where everything was set to a sad song and you stared out of rain-streaked windows looking beautiful. It was the much less glamorous version where you stayed in pajamas until noon, forgot to eat actual meals, and kept wandering into rooms only to forget why you had gone there in the first place.
You called in sick to work on day one with a voice that sounded suspiciously normal and then called in again on day two with a voice that sounded even more normal, which made you feel worse somehow, like you were committing a crime against customer service by not showing up.
You told yourself it was fine. It was fake. The relationship had always been fake. This was the plan. It had a beginning, middle, and end, and you had known the end would come.
What you had not known, apparently, was that the end would feel like someone had removed a very specific, very loud presence from your daily routine and left behind an echo that would not shut up.
You missed the way he hovered. You missed the way he reached for your hand without thinking. You missed the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room even when you were both fully aware that the entire thing was supposed to be an act.
It turned out that fake attention still registered as attention to your brain, and your brain had decided to get extremely attached to it in a very embarrassing fashion.
By day three you were pacing around your room with the phone pressed to your ear, rambling to Nancy.
She had called to check in once and had made the mistake of asking how you were doing, which opened a floodgate that did not appear to have an off switch.
“Okay, but here is what I do not understand,” you were saying, pacing. “He used to be all over me. In a supportive, very attentive fake boyfriend way. He was committed to the bit, Nance. And now suddenly he has this iron willpower and emotional restraint and I am supposed to just. . . adjust? Overnight? It feels like I went from being the most sought-after girl in Hawkins to the least sought-after girl in the land in the span of forty-eight hours.”
Nancy made a soft sound on the other end that might have been sympathy and might have been her trying not to laugh.
“I mean, I know it was fake,” you continued quickly, flopping onto your bed. “I know it. I was there. I signed the fake dating contract in my head. But it turns out that when someone spends weeks holding your hand and looking at you like you hung the moon, your brain does this really fun thing where it goes, oh, this must be real. And then when it stops, your brain goes, wow, you must be deeply unappealing actually.”
“You are not deeply unappealing,” Nancy said.
“I am currently sitting in what can only be described as my most unflattering pajamas,” you went on, staring at the ceiling. “These pajamas are not tempting anyone. And apparently he is out there on some love journey for another girl, and good for him, truly, but also, why now? Why after I got used to him hovering like a very tall, very concerned golden retriever?”
Nancy let out a small laugh. “You miss him.”
You groaned loudly. “I miss the attention. Which is worse. I miss feeling like someone was always a little bit focused on me. Even when I knew it was pretend. And now he is probably being very respectful and very normal and very emotionally mature about this other girl he likes”
There was a pause on the line, then Nancy said, “You could go back to work.”
You buried your face in a pillow. “I cannot. I cannot face him while I am like this. What if I look at him and my face does something? What if he is completely fine and I am the only one acting like we just broke up for real? Which, to be clear, we did not. We fake broke up. From our fake relationship. That somehow managed to hurt my real feelings.”
Nancy hummed thoughtfully. “You know he did not want to hurt you.”
“I know,” you said quickly, rolling onto your back again. “I know that. He was being honest. He likes someone. That is normal. People are allowed to like people. I am not the center of the universe. But also, this feels extremely inconvenient for me personally.”
Silence stretched for a second before you added, “It is just weird. He is not there. He is not hovering. He is not texting me about dumb things or asking if I want snacks. And now I am sitting here realizing that I got used to being. . . wanted. Even if it was pretend. And it turns out I liked it. A lot. Which is humiliating.”
Nancy’s voice softened. “It is not humiliating to like being cared about.”
You stared at the ceiling for a long moment, phone warm against your ear. “Yeah,” you admitted. “Maybe not. Still feels a little pathetic though.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Nancy said. “Why don’t you ask Robin?”
You blinked at the ceiling. “Ask Robin what?”
“I mean,” Nancy continued, warming to the idea, “I honestly do not buy that Steve just suddenly woke up one morning and decided to break up with you because he liked someone else. That feels. . . abrupt. Suspiciously abrupt.”
You pushed yourself up on your elbows, interest sparking through the fog of self-pity like someone had flipped on a light switch. “Wait.”
Nancy kept going, a little triumphant now. “Maybe she knows something. They tell each other everything. If there was a conversation that led to him making that decision, she was probably part of it.”
You swung your legs over the side of the bed, suddenly very awake. “Robin definitely knows something. Steve only decided to break up with me after talking to her. That is extremely suspicious. That is practically a neon sign.”
“There you go,” Nancy said, pleased. “See? Maybe I am good at giving advice.”
You grabbed the phone cord and started pacing again. “Yeah, sure, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, but you might be onto something. I am going to call her right now.”
Nancy laughed. “Okay. Tell her I said hi.”
“Sure, bye, Nance,” you said quickly, already pulling the phone away to dial.
You hung up before she could respond and immediately started punching in Robin’s number. The line rang once. Twice. Three times. You paced a tight circle near your bed, free hand twisting in the hem of your sleeve as your heart did something annoyingly fast and anticipatory. On the fourth ring, the line clicked.
“Hello?” Robin’s voice came through.
You did not bother with a greeting. “Robin, what did you do?”
There was a beat of silence. Then, on the other end of the line, you heard a small, startled noise that sounded very much like someone who had just been caught doing something they were absolutely not supposed to be doing.
“Oh oh,” Robin said.
You pounded on Steve Harrington’s front door like you were trying to break it down. You knew his parents were out of town, which meant there was no one to shush you, no one to open the door halfway and ask you to keep it down. There was only him, and right now that was the entire problem.
You knocked again, your heart thudding in your chest with a mix of anger, relief, and something that felt suspiciously like nerves. For a split second you wondered if he would not answer, and you would have to yell through the door like a deranged person.
Then you heard shuffling on the other side, a thud, a muffled curse, and finally the lock clicking open.
The door swung inward and there he was.
Steve stood in the doorway looking tired and rumpled, hair sticking up in several directions. His T-shirt was slightly wrinkled, his eyes heavy with sleep, and for a brief moment you might have felt a pang of sympathy at the sight of him if you were not currently fueled by the kind of righteous indignation that erased all other emotions.
He blinked at you, clearly trying to catch up. “Sweeth—” he started automatically, then stopped himself mid-word as he realised you two had 'broken' up. “What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”
You did not answer. Instead, you stepped forward and hit him square in the chest with both hands, not hard enough to hurt but definitely hard enough to make a point. He stumbled back half a step, eyes widening.
“You tell me, Steven,” you said. “How is that girl you like doing?”
He stared at you, still half-asleep and entirely unprepared for this conversation. “Good?” he said cautiously, like he was answering a trick question on a test he had not studied for.
You crossed your arms. “Uh-huh. Really? Because I know for a fact that she is doing terrible.”
He blinked again. “I’m. . . confused.”
You leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “You idiot. I talked to Robin.”
The change was immediate. The sleepiness vanished from his face, replaced by dawning horror. “Oh.”
His eyes widened fully now, like someone who had just realized the carefully constructed house of cards he had built was currently collapsing in real time. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then opened it once more.
“Okay,” he said quickly. “Okay, wait, I can explain—”
“Explain what?” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “Explain why you decided to break up with me because you ‘liked someone else’ instead of just saying that you liked me? Explain why you thought the best possible plan was to break my heart and your own at the same time? Explain why you are, in fact, the dumbest person I have ever met?”
He winced at that but did not argue. “I panicked,” he admitted, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I thought if I said it out loud and you didn’t feel the same way, it would ruin everything. I didn’t want to lose you. So I thought if I just. . . ended it first, then at least I could keep you as a friend and not—”
“You thought breaking up with me would make it less likely that you would lose me?” you interrupted, incredulous. “That is your genius plan? That is the master strategy you came up with?”
He looked deeply embarrassed. “In my defense, it sounded better in my head.”
You stared at him, equal parts furious and exasperated. “You should have just told me. You should have just said it. Especially because—” You stopped, took a breath, then glared at him harder. “Especially because I liked you too, you absolute idiot.”
He froze. Completely. Like someone had hit pause on him mid-motion.
“You. . . what?” he said.
“I liked you too,” you repeated, throwing your hands up again. “I was going to apologize for the kiss and then maybe tell you that I didn’t want it to be fake anymore and then you went and broke up with me because you ‘liked someone else,’ which, by the way, is apparently me, which makes this entire situation even more ridiculous.”
He stared at you, stunned, relief and disbelief warring across his face. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I thought you were just. . . being nice. Or pretending really well. Or—”
“Steve,” you said, exasperated. “I kissed your cheek at work. I went on a real date with you. I missed you when you stopped hovering. I called Nancy and spent an hour spiraling about how pathetic it was that I missed your attention. What part of that says ‘just pretending’ to you?”
He opened his mouth again, clearly trying to explain himself for the thousandth time. “I just didn’t want to mess it up,” he said. “You mean a lot to me and I thought if I pushed too hard—”
You did not let him finish. You stepped forward, grabbed the front of his shirt, and kissed him.
He made a small, startled noise against your mouth before immediately kissing you back, hands coming up instinctively to hold your arms like he needed to make sure you were actually there and not some sleep-deprived hallucination.
When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing a little faster, standing very close in the doorway of his house.
He blinked at you. “So,” he said, still holding your arms. “You. . . like me?”
You gave him a look. “Yes, Steve. I like you. A lot. Unfortunately.”
A slow, relieved smile spread across his face, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Okay,” he said. “Good. Because I really, really like you too.”
You exhaled. “Next time,” you said firmly, pointing a finger at his chest, “we are talking about our feelings like normal people. No more terrible plans. Agreed?”
He nodded immediately. “Agreed. Absolutely agreed. I am done with terrible plans.”
You studied him for a moment, then leaned forward and kissed him again, softer this time. He smiled into it, and held your waist, pulling back just for a second.
“I swear if this turns out to be a dream, I'm killing myself.”
we are never getting back together - series masterlist
Masterlist Tag Lists
Older!Eddie Munson x Ex Wife!Reader
Summary:
Eddie Munson is a lot of things. Mechanic, musician, loving father to his 11, 9, and 6 year old girls, your ex husband, and huge pain in your ass. Stupidly handsome and infuriating with his ability to make you smile and to weasel his way into your bed - he makes your life infinitely more complicated. Unfortunately, you’re stuck with him.
Warnings:
Smut (18+), lots of smut really, drinking, drug use, older!eddie, dad!eddie, mom!reader, ex husband!eddie, ex wife!reader, idiots in love who refuse to believe they’re in love, cheating (not on reader), pregnancy, check individual chapter warnings
Summary: After a few too many drinks, secrets start to mean less and your skin starts to hum Eddie’s name, whether you feel it or not. He answers the call.
Word Count: 6.3k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, PiV unprotected semi-public sex, secret friends with benefits, cream pie, cum eating, little bit of oral (fem rec), dirty talk, drunk!Eddie POV, jealousy, possessiveness, panty stealing, begging, testosterone-off, small physical altercation (not R), desperation station, PDA, switch!Eddie, mild public embarrassment, dubcon (alcohol consumption; one-sided drunk sex), established relationship, Eddie is down horrendously, drunk!horny!Eddie abuses endearments, R wears a skirt (for easy access)
Song Rec: Drunk in Love by Beyoncé
A/N: Happy (almost) Valentine’s Day <3 Also, SURFBOAR— SURFBOAR—
Masterlist
Submission Guidelines
Eddie feels good.
Actually, he feels better than good—
He feels amazing.
The alcohol in his bloodstream is rushing, warming him from the inside out, leaving him flushed in the face.
The smoky bar is playing old Judas Priest tracks.
He’s drunk enough to not care how badly he’s losing the bet—the one he made thinking Steve would easily beat Robin at a billiards game. How was he supposed to know she was some kind of a whiz at Pool?
He’s got his girl to his right and the two bickering boneheads in front of him.
A couple of beers, some smooth vodka, great music, and friendly competition.
What’s not to love?
Although, you do keep inching away from him every time he gets close. He’s not loving that new development.
Somewhere in the back of his mind—before the three pints and the two shots—he recalls your hushed voice in his ear, outside the bar. It was low and sultry. Scratchy and strained, but not like how it gets after a long day of talking. No—
It was the type of strain that happens when you’ve spent too many hours screaming his name. When too many breaths have torn from your chest, ragged and pressed out by the strength of his hips.
That type of strain is his favorite…. But you had said something then—
You leaned close. The music from the bar was leaking out into the muggy, open air of the parking lot. There was noise from the road nearby. Fast cars, rubber peeling off of wet asphalt—
Wet asphalt emanating heat and earthy scents—
And there was you. He could smell you, too. His favorite scent. The perfume you always leave traces of, like love notes he finds well after you’re gone. Proof of your existence in his bed, near his clothes, on him.
You leaned close. Yes, because of the noise—the music, the cars.
And your mouth brushed the shell of his ear and he shuddered. You laughed. Sweet and teasing. You laughed.
He shuddered again, or maybe he was just vibrating with excitement—he could never tell around you. Then he felt what you were saying before you even said it. Your kiss-bitten lips curved so delicately around every syllable.
You called his name.
His favorite shape your mouth makes…
Well, that, and the stretch of—
No. No, you said something. His name. That’s what you said.
That and something else.
What was it?
He closes his eyes, trying to relive the moment— Your mouth against his ear, your hot breath on his skin, his name on your lips…
Fuck, he can’t remember. And damn it, you won’t let him touch you.
You just took yet another shuffle-step to the right. He didn’t even realize he was leaning into you until you did that
Come to think of it, what you said before probably had to do with why you’re not letting him touch you now.
Usually you love it. You welcome his zealous exploration. He knows that, you tell him through the prettiest sighs—
And what you said—well, it felt important at the time. You dropped his hand to say it, so it must’ve been.
But as the golden glow of the hanging light fixture shines down on you, your hair glinting with every movement, his patchy memory no longer seems all that significant.
The sound of dense resin knocking together draws his attention to the table, the green surface missing one less solid colored ball.
“Yes!” Robin calls out, pumping her fist victoriously.
“Shit!” Steve curses at the same time, stamping the butt of his wooden cue on the floor.
“Oof, rough go, Steve.” You smirk, pretty as a picture.
Eddie wishes you’d look at him like that.
Subtly, he brushes his arm against yours—the one that’s holding your beer. His eyes practically roll at the heat rippling across your soft skin.
But you move away at the first contact. That’s really starting to get on his nerves. Because what, is he radioactive or something? What’s so bad about him wanting to hold you?
You lean forward. “Maybe if you—”
“No speak from the opposition!” Steve shouts stiltedly, sending an accusatory finger your way. His eyes flit from you to the table as he strategizes his next shot. “I will not let your womanly wiles corrupt me—”
“Mm, I would,” Eddie purrs lowly, floating into your orbit. His leisurely efforts are abruptly halted, though, when you jab a knuckle into his side.
Steve paces, wearing a chasm into the chipped, creaky floorboards of the old dive bar. “If you had bet on me like you should’ve, then maybe I’d hear you out. But since you’ve left me scorned, I’d like to keep my dignity intact, thank you.”
“For now,” Robin simpers, sending you a side-long glance. “Or wait, do we think he had any to begin with?”
“Mmm, jury’s still out—” you shrug, lips curled like you’re trying not to laugh at the frazzled man’s brewing tantrum.
Eddie giggles, “Dignity…Steve.” The words feel heavy on his tongue, like he’s dragging each syllable out a second too long.
Steve grumbles—something about trading. Or maybe ‘trait-or’? Eddie doesn’t know, he’s too busy weathering the turn of the earth now that you’re looking at him again. It’s been forever since he’s held your attention, and he was nearly at the point of begging.
It’s not just your eyes on him, though. You’re smiling, too. It’s that knowing smirk he loves. The kind that makes his knees weak and his pants feel tight.
But then your lips twitch, smile faltering as you peer down at his finger hooked in the waistline of your skirt. And suddenly, you turn to him, shifting your hip out of reach. He opens his mouth, a complaint on the tip of his tongue when you force a half-drank bottle of beer into his outstretched hand with a terse, “Hold this.”
Straightening up, he gathers himself, prepared to shoulder any task for you—no matter how trivial. His responding, “Okay, baby,” is drowned out by Steve’s loud cheer after finally pocketing a ball.
You turn back to Robin and Steve, leaving Eddie chasing after your gaze. “I’ll get the next round.” And just like that, you’re gone.
He jogs after you, the floor feeling uneven as he stumbles through groups of people. You’re leaning against the bar, waiting for the drinks when he arrives, looming over you with heaving breaths.
“Oh, baby, y’look so pretty tonight,” he grunts, wrapping an arm around your waist, trailing his lips up your neck.
You whip around, hand shoving against his chest until he stumbles back a few paces. His eyes widen, stinging from the pain of rejection, and he feels minuscule under your cold glare.
When you swallow, glancing somewhere behind him, he has to stop himself from moving into your eyeline. Because damn it, if you’d just look at him longer than a second—
“You need to stop,” you hiss.
His head jerks back, the burn of nausea twisting low in his gut. “Wha—”
“You said you’d be good, Eddie.”
He is being good! He’s being so good! All he’s done tonight is stare at you and touch you—you love when he does that!
He opens his mouth to argue, but you cut in before he gets the chance to start.
“You said you’d behave! So you better start now, or we’ll have to leave,” you grit out, stepping back from him once more.
Following your movement, his overheating body crowds you against the bar. “No, please, don’t make us leave, baby,” he hurries, grabbing at your hips. “‘M havin’ so much fun, don’t wanna go—”
Your shoulders drop, you lean into him, and he almost closes his eyes, certain your lips will find his.
“Okay, then be-have,” you admonish, then turn to collect the drinks left behind by the busy bartender.
Eddie decides he’d much rather have gotten a kiss than a warning.
Sliding out of his embrace, you march back to your party, a grumbled, “Just friends, Eddie. You promised they wouldn’t know—” fading the further you flee.
And he feels like he just stepped into the Twilight Zone because what the hell? Why would he say that? That doesn’t sound like him at all—
“Thank God, gimme that,” Steve swipes a bottle from your arms, chugging it. He jabs a finger in Robin’s direction. “This woman wants me dead.”
She snorts, then looks at you with an unimpressed glint in her eyes.
“Missed another shot?” you ask, brow quirked.
“Multiple,” Robin confirms.
“It is just not your night, is it, Steve?”
Before the beleaguered man can answer, Robin cuts in, elbowing him. “It’s never his night. That’s basically his whole thing. He’s, like, the personification of a Monday.”
Steve snaps, “Okay, that’s enough outta you. Just take the damn shot.”
A loud clack, then a muffled thump into leather, and Robin laughs manically.
Eddie watches you lean over the table, passing the girl her drink. Inch by inch, your skirt rises the more you reach, and his head drops to the side, weighed down by curiosity.
He thinks of the black panties you shimmied on before coming here. He watched you then, just like he watches you now. Watched the way you wiggled the flimsy fabric over your ass, how the material covered your freshly fucked cunt so delicately.
The same black fabric peeks out from beneath the hem of your skirt, only now, there’s a wet splotch between your folds, and he knows exactly what soaked through.
You straighten up—too soon for his liking—but Eddie’s still staring. Still leering at that cursed skirt. It’s never done him any good—always hiding you away. Then again, maybe it’s done him a world of good. It’s been the catalyst to many a sweaty tryst, that’s for sure. But right now, it’s useless fabric obstructing his favorite view.
In the back of his mind, he vaguely registers the bickering going on around him, the music blaring. But his focus is divided between the sight of your upper thighs and the stirring in his pants.
He reaches down to adjust himself, then quickly remembers the beer in his hand. The condensation beading down the glass has seeped into his skin, pruning his fingers. He doesn’t remember why he’s even holding the thing to begin with.
Setting the bottle on a nearby table, he shuffles closer to you. You’re talking to Steve, and he’s not quite sure what you’re saying, but he hears you choke on your words the moment he presses against you. There’s a hiss of breath that sounds like his name, but his mind goes blank as tingling pleasure prickles up his spine, almost a relief of pressure. Or the temptation of relief.
The feeling is small, but it’s intoxicating. Even more than the alcohol in his bloodstream. Because now he’s drunk on you. On what could be if he just bent you over and—
You cough, clearing your throat as you take a step forward—right up to the Pool table. Eddie grunts, grabbing your hips and dragging you back against him, this time with a stronger, steadying grip.
“No, that doesn’t count as a mulligan— Hey! Ed, what the hell are you doing?”
Steve’s question falls on deaf ears, and your elbow digging into his ribs does nothing to deter his mission. Because the heat is building. In his flushed cheeks, in his muscles. Even lower. Incendiary friction sparks something dizzying and all-consuming.
“Dude, at least let her breathe. No need to hover—”
He’s laughing, but Eddie doesn’t think it’s funny. Not when you slip from his hold, yet again, now an arms-length away. Too far.
Your palms are planted on the glossy, oak edge of the table as you huff out something that sounds like it would’ve been a chuckle if it hadn’t collapsed halfway up your throat. “Think he just gets weirdly clingy when he’s drunk. Don’t know why I’m the victim, though—”
There’s a sharpness to your tone. It’s dulled by his inebriated ears. Undeterred, he closes in on you. “You’re so pretty, baby.”
The words slip out easily. Your shocked reaction only makes Steve laugh harder.
“Jesus Christ, you’re really three sheets to the wind, dude—”
Eddie ignores him, but then watches as he turns to you.
“Does he think you’re someone else?”
The question makes Eddie’s chest rumble. As if you could be anyone else. As if he could want anyone else this badly—
Wrapping his arms around your rigid frame, he can feel your ribs expand on the breath you draw in. Before a response tumbles past your lips, he squeezes you. Quick and firm. It’s the only warning he can manage without ripping fabric or leaving teeth marks on your delicate skin.
Because he knows what you’d say. He’s starting to catch onto the lies. And he’s not in the mood to play pretend anymore.
“How many has he had?”
Robin’s voice sounds distant as Eddie finds himself beside you again—not far, this time, but shucked off all the same—monitored under your eagle eyed gaze. When she calls your name, stealing your attention for…something about going home or taking a home, he can’t find it in him to care. Not about Robin’s itch for theft or Steve’s quiet, regarding stare.
He can smell your perfume. It calls to him, whispers of heat and closeness. Of the subtle change in the chemical makeup when you begin to warm beneath him, when his sweat mixes with yours. The evil scent pulls him in until his nose is running along your neck. You don’t jump nearly as much as you have been. He’s breaking you down. All he has to do is persist.
You reach across your body, finding his chest and he almost giggles at the half-hearted shove you give. Like it’s just for show. Like you don’t really want him gone. Then your fingers curl around the flimsy material of his shirt and he’s certain you don’t want him gone. How could you push him away if you’ve got a hold on him?
With a groan, he presses his straining length against the underside of your other wrist, your palm still planted firmly on the edge of the table. It’s a slow, focused grind; his knees nearly buckle. Pushing harder as his own hands slide down your arm, he keeps you in place.
“Fuck, Eddie, st—”
“Holy shit, he’s like a cat in heat,” Steve mutters, cutting you off in what Eddie deems a particularly grating tone. It does nothing to aid the coiling need he’s trying to sate.
Tension bleeds from your muscles in a slow-burning drip as your form sways just the slightest bit in his direction. He can feel you fighting the urge to melt into him. He’s waiting. Patiently. As patiently as he can without compromising his own desires.
Then, your chin tips and you whisper a lackluster, “Eds, seriously, not here—” over your shoulder.
“Okay, what the fuck, man.”
A large hand lands on his bicep, pulling him away from you. His heartrate spikes.
A calamitous anger rages inside, catching like a wildfire through his veins. It feels like integrity but tastes like possession.
Whipping around, he smacks the arm away, blindly knocking the culprit back.
“Dude! Actually get the fuck off her—”
“Steve, it’s fine!”
Your sharp tone slices through the fog in his mind; it settles the devastation inside, canning it for another time. He stares at your back as you move between him and a very angry-looking Steve. Chest all puffed out, the ex-jock is the picture of chivalrous defense, and he can’t help but grin.
If the good knight only knew the things you’ve let Eddie do to you…
“Yeah, Steve,” he drawls, his heavy-lidded gaze sliding from the incensed man to you, the one-woman garrison emboldened by altruism and bolstered by sweetness. He inches closer; a shadow encroaching on the light, a predator going in for the kill. “She said it’s fine.”
His palms hover over your skin, consuming and reveling in the heat. Up your arms, around your shoulders, and back, he maps out your body, admiring the winding curves he’s traversed many times before. The simmering rage of the man in front of you only encourages his quiet appreciation.
Slowly, delicately, he leaves a chaste kiss where your neck meets your shoulder.
You tremble, blinking like you mean to steel yourself.
And his grin widens. “See? She likes it—”
Steve snaps into action, but Robin is quicker, throwing her arm out in front of him. At the same time, you grab Eddie’s wrist, yanking him after you.
“That’s it, I’m taking you home.”
He lets you drag him away, tossing a smirk over his shoulder. Steve tries to ask if you’re sure and you only let out a clipped, “See you guys later,” in response.
Eddie can’t help but congratulate himself on yet another successful victory. You’re his. You’re choosing him, again. A room full of people and you’re taking him home.
He somehow feels both stone-cold sober and wasted beyond belief, all from your fingers digging into his pulse. And the alcohol. There’s that, too.
Weaving through meandering patrons, the exit sign comes into view. You’re talking, but he can’t hear you. The words float ahead, jostled and spliced by the whining guitar riff peeling from the surrounding speakers. He hears the anger, though. It doesn’t bother him.
Once the door closes behind him, the stuffy bar now in his rearview and the night air filling his lungs, he drops his weight back, no longer moving so willingly.
You grunt, but otherwise seem unfazed. Only tightening your grip and continuing your lecture—
“—at fault. I mean, seriously, we fucking agreed! It was mutual! We said we didn’t want the dynamic to change, then you down a few too many, and now all of a sudden, you’re measuring dicks with Steve. I mean, you might as well’ve just pissed on me—it was too fucking obv—”
Pebbles kick up beneath his skidding shoes as he finds his balance.
“Oh, sure, make this harder than it has to be. You’re great at that—”
The last word catches in your throat as he pulls you the opposite way, back to the bar. You stumble, trying your best to resist, but he’s moving you easily.
“Eddie, what the fuck did I say? If you can’t behave, we’re leaving. We’re not going back— Agh—”
Pressed against the brick wall of the building, hidden in the alley beside it, your complaints fall to unintelligible nonsense as Eddie attacks your neck, lips ravaging any sliver of skin he can find. His body envelops yours, keeping you still with a force he can’t find it in him to tame, especially for the sake of propriety. Not now. Not after waiting so dreadfully long.
“E-Eddie, slow d-down, Jesus—”
“Can’t,” he grunts, finding his way to your mouth, mumbling like a wanton man. “I need you, baby. Need you so fuckin’ bad—” His hips jut forward, searching for reprieve from the miserable strain of his jeans.
When your back arches, he sinks his talons in, blunt nails biting and fingers digging as he clings onto you. Because in this moment, you’re the only thing keeping him from falling off the face of the earth; he feels it racing beneath his feet. Your eyes on his, the taste of your lips—it slows everything down.
“Shit, you’re so pretty. So, so pretty—”
Every word is mindless, slurred, but true. Inhibition has long-since died a silent, restful death inside him, buried somewhere low, near the hearth that never stops burning for you.
His hands grope and grab at anything they can reach—your ass, your thighs, your arms, your breasts. Anything. All of it keeps him here for one second more. Grounded in your softness. Steady on your terrain.
“Eds, we—we have to go,” you gasp, pliant beneath his roving touch. He closes the gap, tongue tangling with yours in a sloppy, searing kiss that makes his mind whir and his ears fill with a fizzing sound.
“Nuh-unh, wanna stay,” he pants, nipping at your pulse point, feeling your blood rush. “Wanna stay with you.”
His hands slip beneath your skirt as you hold onto his shoulders. You give a weak push when his fingers pull at the gusset of your panties, but it’s not nearly enough to deter him.
“We can’t st—ay, fuck— You’re drunk, Eddie. I don’t even know how you’re hard right now.”
He hums, straightening to his full height and pressing you harder against the wall. His breath comes fast; he can’t seem to catch it as he watches you.
How is it not obvious?
“‘S you,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your temple. “‘S all you. Makin’ me burn…. Makin’ me want you so damn bad it hurts.”
You swallow, lashes fluttering as you lean into his gentle touch. “I’m sorry I hurt you…but we can’t do this. Not he—”
“You don’t want me?” His voice is brittle. Breaking.
A night full of small rejections comes to a head as the weight of your words—sincerity and conviction threaded through every syllable—crashes into him, a frenzied tidal wave leaving wreckage in its wake.
He only manages to retreat half a step before you’re pulling him back, arms wrapping around his neck.
“I do want you,” you rush, pressing imploring kisses onto his rosy cheeks, tiny promises sealed with sticky lipgloss. “I always want you.”
His vision blurs as he peers down, frizzy curls hanging low in his eyeline. Confusion is a bitter thing as he finds the hem of your skirt. There’s mercy in the feeling of the grooved stitch beneath the rough pads of his fingers.
“Even now?” he asks, low and timid for the first time tonight.
Your arms release him, trailing down the sinewy plane of his chest. You lift his shirt only an inch—just enough for your nails to find his flushed skin, enough to feel him twitch as you explore so freely.
“Always.”
He pauses, searching for something in your gaze. Or, maybe something in the silence. And it’s the silence that answers.
With a hurried breath, he tears at your panties. It’s a quick, controlled rip, and he stuffs the fabric into his back pocket.
You gasp, but he drops before you get the chance to scold him. His jeans do little to mitigate the sting of gravel as his knees hit the ground. He hikes your thigh over his shoulder, disappearing under your skirt.
“Ed— Oh, God!”
His face drags through your folds, nose catching on your clit as his tongue sinks into you, plunging as deep as it’ll go. But the thundering ecstasy of finally tasting you—and himself—is cut short when you tug at his hair with a force far too sharp to be pleasurable. He groans, missing your heat as you haul him up to his feet.
“Eddie! We can’t do that here,” you bite out, glancing behind him. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
The worry in your brow catches on something inside him, and if he had the right words, he’d make it go away. But there are no right words, only burrowing panic and gnawing desire so deep, it’s almost torture.
“Please, baby, I’ll be good,” he pants, pawing restlessly at your body. “I swear to God, I’ll be good. Just— Just let me— Ah, Jesus!” His forehead falls to your shoulder and he hangs onto you, a firm grip on your ass as he pulls you into him. The movement is meant to alleviate, to save his sanity, but all it does is remind him of your denial, of the space he can’t close, and the release he can’t reach.
Your fingers begin to soothe his scalp. He matches his breathing to yours; in and out, in and out, in and out.
Curious and tender, you mutter, “It’s really that bad?”
He shakes his head, lifting it to meet your concerned gaze.
You don’t understand. You can’t possibly know what it feels like. This dull ache. Persistent, like a gnat in his ear, it’s been with him all night, made worse by you. Your perfume, your soft touch, the glimmer in your eyes. The distance, the act, the canyon between words and truth.
It’s all a great pain. An infection that’s been festering for hours. You have the medicine and you won’t give it to him.
His voice cracks, “So bad. I’m achin’ for you, can’t you feel it?” His hips jerk forward as he waits for your response, but the silence is too loud. He can’t stand it.
“You’re just so pretty…” Dazed, his eyes rove over your wrinkled top, fabric askew and showing more skin than you started the night showing. “‘N so soft.” Ducking closer, he rumbles out a drawling, “Mm, you smell so good.”
Again, you look behind him, somewhere just over his right shoulder and he sways, chasing your gaze.
“And you can’t wait ten minutes to get to your apartment?” you ask, eyes narrowed.
He sags against you, a whine crawling up from deep within his throat. “No…. No more. I’ve been waiting all night. I can’t— I—”
“Okay, okay, I get it. I hear you. Just— Hey, Eds, look at me—”
Your palms cradle his head and he can smell the lavender hand soap he put in his apartment just for you.
“Be quick,” you whisper, tipping your chin to hold his attention.
He perks up, swallowing harshly as he stares at you, trying to decode the two simple words. But you might as well have spoken another language because his mind is running circles around the meaning, never through.
“Hey—” Your eyes dart downward, stall there, then you close the distance.
It’s messy and wet and he can still taste you on his tongue—smell you smeared on his skin—but you don’t seem to mind as you deepen the kiss, your mouth parting around a moan. It’s over too soon, though.
A delicate string of spit connects him to you as you pull back. “Take what you need, ba—”
He’s moving before you even finish the endearment, hands racing across your body, tugging at fabric, kneading skin—anything he can touch. His jacket is around your shoulders in no time, protecting you from the rough brick. The cuffs on his belt clang as he unfastens the homemade contraption, the button of his jeans next.
“Oh, thank you, baby,” he breathes into your mouth, using his full weight to trap you against the wall. “Thank you, thank you—shit! You’re so good to me,” he whimpers, bucking his hips as he frees his length, wrapping a hand around the base until it throbs beneath his unyielding grip. “So fuckin’ good to me. Wanna be good to you, too.”
He fumbles a bit, struggling to move while still trying to maintain every point of contact he can. Once he manages to pick up your thigh, hitching it onto his hip, he guides the blunt tip of his cock through your slick folds. A soft mewl escapes you and the sound only makes him twitch, a stream of sticky precum dribbling from his slit.
“Wanna be inside you. God, I always wanna be inside you—”
Your voice cuts him off, strained with a familiar need as your forehead falls to his. “Please, Eddie— Please just fuck me already, I can’t—”
His body responds before his mind even registers the plea, jerking forward until he’s buried deep inside you. A resounding groan echoes through the empty alleyway, drowning out your shrill cry. Though, you have enough sense to slam a hand over your open mouth, muffling the lewd noise
He, however, is too drunk to care. Drunk on the alcohol humming in his bloodstream. Drunk on the feeling of your walls squeezing him so tight, he could count your heart rate just from the pulse of your pussy alone.
“Ohh, my—fuck! Jesus, fuck—you’re tryin’ to kill me, you’re tryin’ to kill me,” he babbles incessantly, squirming from the pressure.
Your hand drops to his shoulder, holding onto him so tightly, your fingers pinch. “E—ddie, shh—ah!”
Torturously slow, he pulls out. Your cunt clings to him, contracting—almost a proper plea to stay—and yet, you seem to revel in the drag of his length. He knows you feel it. The thrum of his veins, the curve that stretches you, the thick ridge that catches on your entrance.
With just the tip inside, he shudders, his head hanging as he stares downward. The bright neon sign on the corner of the building beams, making his cock shine with your arousal.
He pauses.
Then, his hips snap forward, marking the start of a suffocating rhythm as he forces the breath from your body with every thrust. He moves wildly, a frenzied pace with one intention, and one intention only.
“Oh, God, oh, shit, baby! You feel s’good.… Takin’ such good care o’ me—thank you! Thank you— S’sweet to me—” he pants, slipping a large, heavy hand behind your neck until your gaze drops, joining him as he watches himself disappear inside of you. “Ah, look at that— Mmm, so pretty when you’re full o’ me.”
The wiry hair at the base of his shaft begins to stick to his skin, weighed down by the mess he’s making out of you. Glimmering slick forming a milky ring, droplets splashing from the strength of his thrusts. A giddy chuckle rumbles through his chest, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he admires just how wet you are. How wet he makes you.
The sound of his leather jacket scratching against the brick fills his ears as he falls against you, muscles straining. Your eyelids droop low, but your gaze hasn’t moved from where he’s fucking into you. His mouth finds yours, lips gliding as he hungrily swallows your every moan.
Sweat beads at his hairline, and his nails sink into your thigh, drawing you impossibly closer. Because he needs more. He needs all of you. Your walls are pried apart by his thick length and it’s still not enough.
He lets go of your neck, pushing two fingers into your mouth. “Suck.”
His breath turns ragged and you finally look at him, your eyes dark and glossy as your lips reach his knuckles, your cheeks hollowing out in that way that always makes his knees buckle. His hips jerk, rhythm shifting at the memory.
He can feel the flames spreading, overtaking the hearth, but he’s not ready yet. He’s not done with you.
His fingers fall from between your lips as he reaches below, pressing tight circles into your clit. You choke on your breath and the sharp sound makes him grin.
“Yeah, there you go, sweetheart. Fuck—you’re so tight! Squeezin’ the life outta me— God, I know you wan’ it—cum for me. Soak my fucking cock,” he grits out, watching your eyes roll with rapt attention. “Mark me, baby, drown me—”
“F-Fu— Eddie!”
Your back arches and you go rigid; he knows you’re on the very edge. He knows you. He knows the exact high your voice reaches before you come undone, and even though you’re trying not to, he knows you’re losing yourself.
“Give it to me,” he drawls, practically purring at you. “Give in, baby. Please, I know you need it—”
“Shh, shh, we have to—b—e quiet! You have t—o keep it d— Oh, God!”
Your cunt clenches around him, tighter than he can handle after suffering from your denial for so long. You're moving against him now, convulsing and chasing after the pleasure like an ebbing wave. His body starts to curl inward, but he tries his best to keep a good enough pace. Your moans ring in his ear as he drives into you, shivering at the obscenely wet sounds.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck! F-Feels so— God, ‘m g-gonna fill you up, baby. Hm? You wan’ it? Wanna feel full o’ me? Wanna hold it for me? You’re always so good at it—”
His breathless words seem to have no effect on you as you settle limply, held up by his frame and the wall at your back. You give no indication that you heard him, there’s only the flutter of your lashes and the lull of your head against the brick. His palm presses against your neck, just enough to keep you still, to hold your far-out gaze.
“You listenin’? Hm?” he pants, landing a firm kiss on your slackened mouth. “Y’gonna empty my balls for me, baby? Know you love to feel me drippin’ outta you.”
Your cunt responds with a weak pulse. He chuckles, only to be cut off by his own sputtering groan as a particularly deep stroke shoots right through him. You whimper, and he knows he’s the only thing keeping you from buckling to the ground as your arms struggle to wrap around him.
“E-Eddie…”
Static buzzes in his mind as you mewl, soft gasps hiccuping in time with his pounding thrusts. His hand drops low, splaying just beneath your navel. Then, he presses, relishing the catch in your breath.
“Ah, there I am,” he mutters, going dizzy at the feeling of his cock-head nudging his palm. “Here, right? Y’gonna keep me here, baby?”
You nod, letting out a frail, broken sound that tells him all he needs to hear. You want it. Need it, even.
His eyes roll, balls pulling taut as his rhythm falters. “Oh, f-fuck! Jesus Christ, you’re made f’me—you are,” he grunts, nosing against your neck. “Fit together so nicely. Hmm, made f’me, made to be full o’ me—”
Your face crumbles as you clench around him once more, another orgasm rolling in, quiet as a tide, and this time it’s softer. He can still feel you shake, but there’s a dragging sense of freedom. Of letting go.
And you drag him with you. Under the tide. Under the surface where everything sounds fuzzy and he feels weightless.
“Jesus—fuck! Ah, shit!”
He gives one final, deep thrust, burying himself inside your heat as he spills into you. Waves of pleasure crash through him, so overwhelming, his hips stall. He shivers, almost violently, and his words tumble out, barely loud enough to be a whisper. “God, baby, thank you. T-Thank you. Shit—you’re so good to me.”
He stays like that—arms wrapped around you, your fingers in his hair—for a while. It’s only when you shift, repositioning yourself against the wall, that he picks his head up. Indulging himself in your gentle kiss. His languid lips speak a sweetness far greater than his words could manage at the moment.
“I feel better now,” he mumbles, letting himself explore along your jaw, lazy and sated, but needing to taste you all the same.
“Yeah, I bet,” you snort, tucking his hair behind his ear, then twisting a damp curl around your finger.
With much reluctance, he finally pulls out, both of you wincing at the loss. He fixes himself quietly, buttoning his pants again and hiding his smile as he notices you squirm. You adjust his jacket over your shoulders and smooth your skirt. His eyes follow the movement and all he can think about is how much he wishes he could just sit on the ground beneath you and watch himself leak out of your pretty pussy.
But then you clear your throat, motioning to the end of the alley and he offers his arm. You smirk, shaking your head as you accept his offer. As he passes under the neon sign that says, “Bar,” he stares at the entrance to the building.
“Mm, I wan’ a beer,” he hums wistfully, starting to veer off course.
“Unh-unh!” Both of your hands circle his bicep, yanking him back. “No, we’re leaving. I’m taking you home.”
“But—”
“No ‘but’s.” You continue to drag him further away from the bar, heading toward his van. “You’re going home, then you’re going to sleep. And tomorrow, you’re gonna call up Steve and apologize for trying to fight him.”
Eddie’s face twists up, a sharp scoff falling from his lips. “‘M not apologizing. He was trying to touch you—”
“No,” you utter pointedly, digging into his back pocket—ignoring his quiet, “Hey, buy me dinner first”—and pulling out his keys. “He was not, that was you. He was trying to stop you because he thought you were being a perv.”
“I was being a perv,” he grins, watching you unlock the van. You shove him into the passenger side and he gracefully complies, settling in a haphazard huff. His eyes follow you through the windshield as you speedwalk around to the driver side door, which he reaches across the console to open for you.
“An unwelcome perv,” you amend, climbing into the seat. You check the mirrors first, then turn the key in the ignition. Eddie sighs contentedly as the van rumbles to life, the tape he mixed for you already filtering through the stereo.
He leans close, looming over you. With exaggerated slowness—a test, a toeing of boundaries—he drags two fingers up your thigh, beneath your skirt, until he feels the sticky combination of his cum and your slick smeared against your skin. “Knew you liked it,” he purrs lowly, sucking the digits clean.
Your breath comes quicker and shakier as you give him a sidelong glance. “You’re disgusting.”
His grin stretches into something wolfish, something predatory and ostensibly clear-headed, despite the glossy look in his eyes and the sway in his body. Quickly, he makes another swipe between your legs, this time relishing the hitch in your throat as he grazes your warm, puffy folds. He shrugs, admiring the milky gleam on his fingers before taking them into his mouth once more. “Chef’s gotta taste his own food.”
With that, your trembling hand lands on the gear shift and the van jolts into reverse.
A/ N: Guys, is this anything? Let me know🧎♂️It’s been in the drafts since October🥀
Also, it's the one year anniversary of me writing fics :) One year ago (almost to the day), I posted this rambling drabble. Since then, my work has improved so much, and I’ve gotten to talk to so many of you about your Eddie thoughts which is all I ever wanted from this.
Thank you for reading my silly, not-so-little ramblings. Thank you for making this an enjoyable space to create in. Thank you for always showing up to my ‘Is anyone interested in…’ posts with 110% enthusiasm. And thank you for talking to me about my writing.
I think that’s what I appreciate the most—how much I get to connect with y’all over what I’ve worked so hard on. I love reading your reactions to my fics, I cherish them so deeply. I’m also glad you feel comfortable with me and enjoy my writing enough to want to hear my thoughts on your Eddie ideas. I love this space and I’m glad you guys are always down for a little chitty-chat.
Thank you for sticking around and taking an interest in my work and especially me as a person <3 Love you guys <3
★ summary: steve’s new flavor of the month doesn’t like you, but maybe it’s for good reason
★ pairing: steve harrington x reader
★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, fem reader, name calling, mean!steve, cheating, p in v, maybe slight voyerism?? idk, porn with no plot
★ word count: 1.1k
★ notes: consider this porn drabble an apology for being behind on writing
Steve Harrington wouldn’t say he had a problem with dating, but he wouldn’t say he was great at it either. You, his best friend for years, would say he had a problem with it. He was a playboy who no one could wrangle down. He’d date, sure. He was the perfect gentleman; bought every meal, and on every anniversary or birthday, he put out all the stops. He remembered their hobbies, their dreams. He reassured every single girl that his best friend was just a friend. His childhood friend was innocent and harmless. On paper, he was the perfect boyfriend.
In reality, this was not the case. This month it was a sweet blonde named Brandy. You met her once or twice in passing and smiled at her. Told a few jokes about Steve being whipped and went on your way. Brandy wasn’t like the others for multiple reasons, the biggest one? She hated you. Couldn’t stand you. She’d seethe every time Steve mentioned your name. Despite his reassurances, she couldn’t find it in herself to believe his words.
We’re strictly platonic. Just my best friend. I promise you nothing is going on.
You couldn’t find it in yourself to be mad at the girl, especially not as Steve had your legs folded behind your head. The bed was shaking wildly at the speed at which his hips were thrusting in and out of you. His cock is splitting you in two. Your squelching cunt echoes throughout the room, your release creaming around the base of his cock. Dripping messily into the thick patch of hair that rubbed against your clit. You had already come twice, but it wasn’t over until Steve said it was.
“Taking my cock so fucking well.” He grunted, his hands grabbing onto the thick flesh of your thighs. Keeping your spread open wide for him, his eyes locked onto where his cock was disappearing inside your ruined cunt. Each greedy suckle of your walls around him had his cock twitching inside of you.
All you could get out was pathetic wails of his name, your lungs crushed with the brutal angle. You wouldn’t change it for the world, not with the way his tip was kissing your cervix.
“This pussy always loves me,” His hand came down, fingertips smacking into your clit. You jumped into his arms, eyes opening wide. “Dirty little slut. You love when I use you huh?”
All you could do was nod, each slap onto your wet pussy had you quivering around him. He was ready to lean down, to take your tits into his greedy mouth before a sound interrupted him.
RING RING RING
“Just ignore it.” You pouted, hearing his phone ring from the nightstand.
He tried, he really did. He let himself get lost in your body. Mouth greedily sucking and pulling on your bouncing tits, but the phone persisted. Nearly vibrating off the table. You didn’t have time to react when he leaned over, shoving the phone in between his ear and shoulder.
“Hello?” He panted into the phone, repositioning himself. You were wrong to put your legs down, his free hand slapping your inner thigh. You were also wrong to assume he would stop. You should’ve known better. This was all a part of his game.
His phone was turned all the way up, the distorted voice entering the now quiet room. ”Hello? Where the hell are you?”
“Oh, Brandy.” He hummed, watching you with darkened eyes. He was insane, batshit insane. But so were you since you were lifting your legs once again, holding open your cunt for him with your arms wrapped around your thighs. “M’ at Y/n’s. We had that work thing. Told you.”
His cock made itself back at home in your cunt with one failed swoop, your hand slapping over your mouth. While he rambled on about some bullshit work thing at the station.
“You cannot be serious Steve. You spend way too much time with her, It’s like you don’t even care-“ You stopped hearing her when the phone fell onto the bed. Steve’s pace was picking up while she yelled into the receiver.
Your eyes were wide, watching the filthy smirk on his face. He was getting off on this, you could tell by every erratic thrust. His body leaned down onto yours, letting your hands rest from spreading you open.
“You gonna cum on my cock again pretty girl?” He whispered next to your ear, as if his girlfriend wasn’t on the phone inches away.
“S-Steve.” You whispered frantically at him, trying to grab the phone to hang up. Instead, he found it first, pressing the speaker button. Her nasally rambling filled the room.
“-I just think if you really loved me you’d stop spending more time with her than me.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Steve said, as if his hand wasn't wrapped around your throat. His hips fucking you within an inch of your life.
“Steve,” She screeched, “I’m being serious. I can’t be second to her.”
He rolled his eyes, “She’s my best friend. She’s always gonna be more important than you.”
“You’re an asshole-“ The rest was lost on you as your orgasm approached fast. Your legs are shaking around his hips. If she couldn’t hear the muffled moans escaping your mouth, she undoubtedly heard the wet sound of his balls slapping against your ass.
“I g-gotta go!” Steve yelled, his hand leaving to hang up the call.
“Oh my fucking god.” You cried out, teeth clenching as you came around him. Your release soaking the bedsheets, your back arching against him. It was filthy, disgusting even. The way your body reacted to his. It was wrong, god was it wrong.
“Yeah that’s it,” He grunted, grabbing your chin in his hand. “Cumming around my cock while my girlfriend’s on the phone. Such a nasty slut.”
“You’re such an a-asshole.” You cried, tears escaping your eyes. His hips slapping against yours hard enough to leave you aching tomorrow.
“Asshole that’s about to cum in this tight pussy.” He winced, his eyes shutting shut when he came. Emptying his balls deep inside you. The warmth bloomed in your stomach, your body falling limp.
“That’s it. Take it. Take it.” he cooed, his arms shaking next to your head. “Gonna leave her. Can’t get enough of my best friend’s pussy.”
He was always babbling nonsense after he came, holding you to his sticky chest. Making promises he’d never keep while his cum seeped out of you.
So the next time a girl showed up on his hip, you bit back the cruel smile that threatened to escape. You knew where he’d be at the end of the day, and that’s all that mattered to you.
Warnings: major angst, breakups, heartbreak, allusions to cheating, self doubt, mean!Steve, King!Steve, hurt/comfort, love triangle, mentions of an ED, past trauma. Eddie x reader ending.
Parings: Steve Harrington x fem!cheerleader!reader | Eddie Munson x fem!reader | Steve Harrington x Nancy Wheeler
Summary: Steve was slipping through your fingers and you desperately held onto him not realizing that his heart wasn’t yours anymore. Dealing with the aftermath of your breakup turns out to be harder than you thought. Steve’s presence still lingers and while he keeps a hold of your heart, someone else sneaks their way into it too.
prologue | part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | part ten | part eleven | part twelve | part thirteen | part fourteen | part fifteen | part sixteen | part seventeen | part eighteen | part nineteen | part twenty | part twenty one | part twenty two | part twenty three | part twenty four | part twenty five | part twenty six | part twenty seven | part twenty eight | part twenty nine | part thirty | epilogue
I don’t have enough words or thoughts at the moment to express how amazing this series was! Like it is seriously a piece of art that has had me bawling my eyes out the past day while I’ve read through it as I’ve been ill.
It’s genuinely a masterpiece and everyone needs to read it right now and feel the heartbreak with me.
But the ending was beautiful, the healthiness of the situation and just ugh.. everything I don’t want to spoil it obv, but I don’t think you could’ve written it better ⭐️
"Steve Harrington is annoying, smug, and tragically tan — but if fake-dating him is what it takes to get Robin and Nancy to finally make out, then so be it."
Pairings: Steve Harrington x fem!reader | Background Robin Buckley x Nancy Wheeler.
Status: Ongoing
Note: Rated M for now, but I’ll tag + rate clearly if (or, more likely, when) things escalate. Pinky promise.
♡ Synopsis: in which your ex boyfriend left you with your biggest blessing in life, or- a bundle of a blessing. And he doesn’t even know it.
♡ tags/warnings: 18+, (explicit content in later chapters) angst, and drama, exes to lovers, hidden baby trope, Toji is an asshole (but we love him), Reader just wants to raise Megumi in peace, CEO Toji, possessive Toji, emotionally constipated Toji, Tension, misunderstandings, Flashbacks to past relationship, Heavy themes of abandonment, trust issues, and redemption, baby Megumi is a cutie, Megumi is a mama’s boy, reader works at a flower shop, Hidden Baby Trope
♡ Masterlist ♡ Previous ♡ Next
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“Thank you for inviting me to Megumi’s party, Miss Y/N,” Yuuji says, beaming up at you with sparkling brown eyes, little wisps of pink hair poking out from under his too-big beanie. He clearly practiced the line, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, then glancing back at his father for reassurance.
You crouch down with a soft laugh, tugging the beanie gently over his ears with your gloved hands. “Of course, Yuuji. You’re one of his best friends!”
His smile is so sweet it makes your heart ache. Your maternal instincts nearly shed a tear on the spot.
Megumi groans beside you, puffing his cheeks out and frowning in that terribly adorable way of his. “Mom,” he huffs, tugging at the hem of your coat. “Let’s go. It’s snowing more now.”
You glance up at the pale sky, where snowflakes have started to drift faster against the city skyline. A light dusting already coats the stone steps of the school.
You stand, smoothing down your coat, and give Jin a polite smile. “Thanks again for bringing him next week. It’ll just be a little get-together at our place with a cake.”
Jin nods, though his brows are drawn slightly, like he’s debating whether or not to say something.
It’s jarring, standing face to face with Sukuna’s brother who for all intents and purposes, feels like a different species entirely.
Jin is slimmer, softer-spoken. His presence is gentle, almost careful. Where Ryomen’s sharp features and imposing frame demand attention the moment he walks into a room, Jin feels like the opposite, quiet and unassuming. They share the same pink hair and striking eyes, but the similarities end there.
“I hope it’s alright if my brother drops Yuuji off at the party,” Jin says with a trace of concern in his voice. “I’ll be traveling most of the break, and Yuuji’s staying with him.”
You pause, just for a second. Just long enough to feel your stomach twist.
Of course Jin knows who Megumi is. Who you are. He might not have been part of that infamous friend group, but he’s Ryomen’s brother. That alone makes him familiar enough with them. Toji included.
You’d never crossed paths with Jin back then, but after that playdate from hell with Ryomen a few months ago, you’re sure Jin got an earful from his psycho sibling.
The thought of Ryomen stepping foot into your home makes your skin crawl.
But if it means Yuuji gets to come to Megumi’s party… so be it.
God. The things you’d do for your child!
“It’s fine, Jin,” you say, forcing a smile that softens when you hear Yuuji let out an excited little squeal.
“Have a great start to your winter break,” you tell them warmly, giving a wave as Megumi tugs you toward the parking lot.
Your boots click against the marble as you walk. The cold air bites your cheeks. Snow falls in gentle spirals, dusting cars and blanketing the city in white. Megumi’s gloved hand is small in yours, but determined, and your heart swells at the thought of having him all to yourself for the next two weeks.
Or at least, it should swell. But something clenches tight in your chest. An invisible grip that’s been there for days now. Ever since Megumi asked you if his father would be at his party. Ever since you said yes.
It’s been a week of stalling. A week of busying yourself to avoid the inevitable. A selfish part of you wondered, hoped, that Megumi might forget the conversation altogether.
But you quickly shut that thought down. You’d do anything for your son. Anything to make him happy, Even if it means reaching out to Toji.
You’ve stared at that slip of paper Suguru gave you so many times this week, you’ve practically memorized the number. And still… you haven’t found the nerve to call.
You’re just settling into the car when Megumi delivers the final push.
“Mommy,” he says casually as you buckle your seatbelt, “I told Yuuji that my dad is coming.”
Your jaw subtly drops. You twist around to look at him. “Yeah? Are you excited to meet him?”
Megumi shrugs, his green eyes trained on the falling snow outside his window. “Yuuji says his uncle knows him.” Your fingers tighten around the steering wheel. Your pulse spikes.
Of course Ryomen said something in front of Yuuji. That’s the only way he would’ve known!
“He does, sweetheart,” you say carefully. “He’s a friend of your father’s.”
Megumi goes quiet for a moment before he finally asks the question that freezes you solid. “How come Yuuji knows my dad… and I don’t?” You glance at him in the rearview mirror.
And suddenly, everything makes sense. The questions. The subtle shift in behavior. He’s been talking to Yuuji. Hearing things from other kids. Piecing things together.
You’re silent as you drive, contemplating your answer. Luckily for Megumi, the drive home is short. Just ten quiet minutes through tree-lined streets and under the soft glow of passing streetlamps. You pass manicured hedges and rows of elegant, ivy-draped townhomes, their windows lit warmly like little golden frames.
Your building is smaller than most. Quaint. Tucked between a bakery and an old bookstore that always smells faintly of lavender. Still, it’s yours.
You pull into your designated spot, the gravel crunching softly beneath the tires, and cut the engine with a slow, tired sigh.
You unbuckle your seatbelt and step out… but instead of circling to the backseat, you slip in beside Megumi. He looks up at you, confused, but says nothing.
You just couldn’t have this conversation with your back to him.
“Megumi,” you say gently, brushing his hair back from his face. “I know you’ve been feeling a little curious about your daddy lately. I’m sorry I haven’t told you more.”
His big green eyes blink at you. So full of trust it nearly knocks the breath from your chest.
“Before you were born, your daddy and I loved each other very much. That’s how you came to be,” you explain softly, your fingers lightly smoothing his dark brows.
He nods, but a small pout forms on his lips. “…But now you don’t?” Your expression softens.
“I still love him very much,” you admit quietly. “And even though you two haven’t met yet, I promise he loves you more than anything. Sometimes adults make mistakes. Silly, hurtful choices. Your daddy and I made some of those mistakes. But it doesn’t change how much we love you.”
You flinch a little at your own words. At the truth buried in them. You do still love Toji, even when he didn’t love you back.
Megumi’s pout shifts into a scowl. “Did Daddy apologize to you?” You almost laugh. His little face is scrunched with outrage. You press a kiss to his forehead. “We both have some apologizing to do. But especially to you.”
“Mama, you don’t have to apologize,” he insists, clearly offended on your behalf. You raise a brow. “But I do. I’m sorry I haven’t brought your daddy around before. I promise I’ll fix that.”
Megumi shifts, resting his head on your shoulder, still grumbling. “Daddy’s a dummy… don’t say sorry to him.” You blink, surprised. “Where’d you hear that from?”
You don’t need to guess. Either Yuuji, or something he overheard from Ryomen.
You sigh, holding your little boy tighter, wishing he could understand just how much of a dummy you feel like. Maybe you should’ve tried harder. Searched longer! Maybe if you’d told Toji sooner, when you found out, you could’ve spared Megumi this ache in his heart.
You end up carrying him up to your apartment, the warm air curling around you like a hug as you step inside.
Today’s the day.
You’ll call Toji.
But not yet. First, a hot shower to melt away the nerves curling beneath your skin, and then a warm cup of cocoa in your favorite chipped mug, the one Megumi always insists on holding with both hands like you do.
Because Megumi comes first, he always does.
And if you're going to shake the foundation of everything - your peace, Toji’s silence, the quiet little world you've managed to build - you’ll do it only after your son is fast asleep, safe and dreaming… unaware that somewhere, a past is beginning to stir again.
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Toji’s day had been nothing short of insufferable.
It started early, with a call just after dawn. Takeda, his driver, sounded unusually subdued. A family emergency. Serious enough to take him out for the foreseeable future. Toji listened quietly, fingers tapping against the kitchen counter as he sipped his first coffee of the morning.
“It’s alright, Takeda. Take all the time you need. Just forward the dates to my assistant,” he said, before ending the call.
He could be an understanding man when he wanted to be!
And this wasn’t really a setback at all. He had options. A rotating list of backup drivers, assistants, staff who’d scramble with a single text. But today? He didn’t bother.
So he dressed in tailored charcoal slacks, shrugged into a thick wool coat, and slid into the driver’s seat of his Aston Martin Vantage. The sleek gunmetal one he’d had for years. Still purred like the day he bought it.
Outside, the sky was already bruising gray, and light snow dusted his windshield in soft, steady flakes. Tokyo traffic was its usual brand of apocalyptic. Roads closed without warning. Detours stretching across the city like a joke told at his expense.
A drive that should’ve taken twenty minutes stretched to fifty. Every red light, every sudden stop chipped away at his patience. By the time he pulled up to the gleaming Zenin Financial tower, nearly an hour late, no one said a word.
Toji hated being late. He expected precision from others, and even more from himself. The fact that the floor was already humming with movement when he walked in only added to the tension crawling down his spine.
And the day was just getting started.
His assistant, or rather, the intern subbing in while his real one was abroad, greeted him with a little too much pep for the current mood. She handed him a coffee with a nervous smile, which faltered slightly under his unreadable stare.
He took a sip. And immediately regretted it.
Way too sweet. Syrupy. Hazelnut, of all things. Clung to the back of his throat like glue. He swallowed it down anyway, lips pressing into a thin line. It was the kind of drink you used to love. More sugar than caffeine.
He didn’t say anything. Just set it on his desk and left it there, untouched and rapidly cooling into something completely useless.
The board meeting that followed somehow managed to make things worse. Two of his highest-paid execs, the CFO and Director of Global Assets, devolved into a shouting match over some mishandled reallocation overseas. Grown adults, red-faced and bickering like children.
Toji sat through it in silence, one hand rubbing slow, exhausted circles into his temple. The minutes crawled by. His jaw ached from how tightly he’d been clenching it.
Lunch came and went. He didn’t bother.
There wasn’t time to actually go anywhere, and nothing sounded appealing anyway. He ended up gnawing on a sad, half-eaten protein bar he found in his drawer. Dry as hell. More obligation than nourishment.
By the time the sun dipped past the skyline, the world outside had melted into a blur of neon and twilight. The windows of his office fogged slightly at the edges, framing a glittering Tokyo below. He could’ve stayed late. Probably should’ve. He had a stack of reports waiting, numbers he could pick apart, details to obsess over.
But tonight he just didn’t have it in him.
He wanted to go home, pour a drink, turn off his brain! That was all. His phone buzzed on the desk, a message from Gojo asking the group to meet at Horizon.
Toji snorted.
Not a fucking chance. Last time he went, he ended up in the tabloids with some woman he barely remembered talking to, and the hangover was not worth the PR cleanup. Tonight, he’d rather be asleep after nursing some of his criminally overpriced scotch.
He slipped back into the car, the leather seat cool against his back. The engine murmured to life, low and familiar. And for the first time all day, something in him began to loosen.
His penthouse was waiting. High above Roppongi, all dark marble and clean lines, floor-to-ceiling glass framing a city that never quite slept. The silence there wasn’t comforting exactly, but it was predictable. And right now, that was good enough.
He could already feel the weight lifting as he merged into traffic.
Then his phone lit up again.
A number. No name. Just digits.
He stared at it.
Almost didn’t answer.
Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have. Would have let it ring, let voicemail chew on it and spit it out. But something about this number gave him pause. It wasn’t quite recognition — more like a soft tug in the back of his mind, something familiar, buried and half-remembered.
His thumb hovered for a beat before he finally pressed accept.
“…Hello?”
There was nothing at first. Just the soft purr of the engine, the faint rush of tires over slush, and a quiet crackle of static on the line. He waited, jaw clenched, irritation already beginning to rise. If this was another robocall, one of those idiots trying to sell him something he didn’t need, he was going to throw the phone out the damn window.
“Toji… hi.”
His entire body went still.
The traffic, the sting in his temple, even the wheel beneath his palms - all of it faded. That voice. It was soft, unsure, like you didn’t know if you had the right number. But he knew. He had known the second he heard it.
It hit him hard, like someone had reached into his chest and squeezed.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened, the leather groaning beneath his fingers. He hadn’t heard your voice in six years, and yet here it was. Alive. Real. Slipping through the speaker like it had never left.
“T-this is Y/N,” you added quietly.
He nearly laughed. Not because it was funny, but because the absurdity of it all knocked the air from his lungs. As if you needed to introduce yourself. As if he could’ve forgotten. Your voice had camped out in the corners of his mind long after you were gone. He’d tried to drown it in work, noise, late nights, women. Nothing had worked.
And now you sounded nervous.
That twisted something deep in his gut. You were always the calm one. Steady. Kind. So why the hell did you sound like you were standing on a ledge?
He ran a hand down his face, as if that might ground him somehow.
“Y/N.” His voice came out rougher than he meant, like he hadn’t spoken in days. Just saying your name out loud did something to him. It brought everything back with it—the ache, the questions, the ghost of who you’d been to each other.
You were calling.
You. After everything.
And he couldn’t stop asking himself why.
“I’m sorry, Toji. I know this must be a bit of a shock, but… I wanted to talk.”
He swallowed hard. The pressure in his chest hadn’t eased since he saw your name flash across the screen. If anything, it was getting worse—tight and aching, like his body couldn’t quite remember how to relax.
“About?”
The word left him sharper than he meant it to. It felt distant, almost biting, and he hated that. Hated that his instinct was to pull away, to block you out when you were the last person who deserved his coldness.
But he couldn’t help it. His voice betrayed what he refused to name: the way his heart had started to race the moment he heard your voice again.
“I’m sorry,” you said again, even softer now. “I wanted to know if we could talk. In person.”
You kept apologizing - and it undid him. After all this time, you were still the same. Still gentle, still soft around the edges. Still offering your heart in quiet ways. And he… he had been the one to walk away from all of it.
The silence that followed was heavy, stretched taut between you like a thread on the verge of snapping.
You must have sensed it fraying, because your voice rushed in to fill the space—uneven, small, uncertain.
“It’s just… there’s something I really need to tell you.”
He closed his eyes and let out a long breath through his nose. And when he spoke again, his voice had already drifted, distant, as if his mind had stepped away from the conversation entirely.
He could practically see you now. Not as a memory, but like a vision playing just beyond the windshield. You, pacing the floor of your small apartment, wrapped in one of those oversized sweaters you always wore when you comfortable and home.
The phone pressed to your ear, your brow furrowed with thought, your lip caught between your teeth, pink from chewing. Every part of you brimming with hesitation, with the weight of something that had lived unspoken for far too long.
That image alone, faint and imagined as it was, ached somewhere deep in his chest.
“Send me your address,” he said finally, his voice lower than before as he maneuvered through the blinking lights and crowded streets of Tokyo. Home no longer felt like a destination, not when he was already in motion toward something far more important.
There was a pause on the other end. Hesitation, soft and telling.
“It’s… the same as before. I’ll send it to you,” you murmured, and his grip on the steering wheel tightened.
You were still there? After all this time? Still in that little apartment on the edge of the city?
“No need,” he replied, clearing his throat as he switched lanes, the skyline shifting as he made his way toward the quiet neighborhood he had gone out of his way to avoid for the last six years. “I remember. I’ll be there in twenty. There’s traffic.”
“Okay,” you said, your voice smaller than before, barely more than a breath. He knew that tone. He remembered the way your voice dipped when you were scared, when something was wrong, when you didn’t know how to say the next thing.
Why did you sound like that now? Why tonight, after six years of silence, had you chosen to call?
He glanced down at the time—just past 8 p.m.—then back to the road, headlights passing like ghosts.
“I’ll see you then,” you said, quiet and steady, pulling him back into the moment. The line went dead a second later.
And still, he drove.
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You’re restless.
Megumi’s already been tucked into bed. You got off the phone with Toji a few minutes ago and somehow just hearing his voice had been enough to bring tears to your eyes.
Now you’re pacing your apartment, unable to sit still.
Your eyes scan every corner, checking for anything that might look out of place. You shuffle between the living room and bathroom, adjusting the throw pillows, smoothing down the rug, fixing your hair in the mirror. Then you catch yourself and scoff. Why do you even care what your hair looks like right now?
Everything feels unsteady! You’re anxious in a way that makes your skin buzz. And in moments like this, you wish more than anything that you had someone to call.
Being a single mom and running your own business hasn’t exactly left room for a social life. Most of your time is spoken for.
Sure, you’ve gotten friendly with a few of the other parents in Megumi’s class, but those relationships are surface-level. No one you could actually call up and say, “Hey, my ex is coming over tonight. The same ex who doesn’t even know he’s my kid’s father. What do I do?”
It’s ridiculous!
What’s worse is that the one person you would have called back then was Satoru. Satoru Gojo, who ghosted you just like the rest of them did after Toji walked out.
Ironically, he used to be your closest friend. You always found him hilarious, and underneath the sunglasses and playboy rich kid act, he was kind. A nerd, really. You both loved the same video games and often read the same books in your free time. He used to call you his partner in crime, especially when you were ganging up on Toji with teasing jokes.
You talked to him about everything.
Now he’s gone too.
You let out a small, humorless laugh. Video games. You can’t even remember the last time you played one. There was a time when you had actual hobbies, strong opinions, little things that lit you up outside of baby bottles and semi-annual clothing sales for your growing child.
The thought makes your stomach twist, because Megumi is your life.
Nothing, nothing, brings you more joy than watching him thrive. But still, if you’re honest with yourself, the quiet longing is always there. The little things you once enjoyed have fallen by the wayside. And yet, every smile your baby gives you outweighs those lost pieces of yourself.
You sigh, sinking deeper into the couch, your knee bouncing in a steady, anxious rhythm. Your eyes are locked on the television, though you’re not really watching. The news drones on, the only remotely interesting story being about some upcoming community pet adoption event. God, this is a nightmare.
You’re left here waiting, like a sitting duck, and your thoughts give you no reprieve.
Still, you sit. You watch. You force yourself to breathe and try, with trembling effort, to pull yourself together.
And yet, when the knock finally comes, you still flinch.
Your eyes snap to your phone. 8:20 p.m. Just like he said.
God. Would it have killed him to be late for once? You could’ve used the extra few minutes to spiral some more. Maybe rearrange the throw pillows for the third time. Maybe cry!
You push up from the couch, suddenly remembering just how cold it is outside. The temperature had dropped hard after sunset, and the snowfall had thickened into sheets. You picture him out there - refusing to text like a normal person, freezing his ass off in a suit and tie.
God.
With one last frazzled attempt to fix your hair by the door, you swing it open and immediately come face-to-chest with the dark slate of a wool coat. Warm air from inside meets the crisp cold from outside, and for a second you just stand there, blinking.
Looks like he didn’t freeze.
Your chin lifts, eyes meeting his - and just like that, you forget how to breathe.
Toji Zenin is standing in your doorway. Six years older than the last time you saw him, and somehow even more devastating than you remember.
Those eyes. That impossible green that still makes your heart seize. His nose is still perfectly straight, save for the slight crookedness near the bridge from when he broke it falling off a bike as a kid. His cheekbones have only gotten sharper, his jaw more defined. Gone is the last trace of youth that softened his features. Now, he looks like everything you tried to forget. And failed to.
You always felt a little betrayed that Megumi ended up looking just like his father. But seeing Toji now, you think maybe your son hit the genetic jackpot.
He’s looking at you, too. Really looking. His gaze drags over your face like he’s trying to piece together who you’ve become, studying every detail like he’s afraid to blink. You don't know what he sees, but whatever it is, it’s making your knees feel alarmingly weak.
A cold gust cuts through the street behind him, snow swirling around his shoulders, and you instinctively shiver. Without thinking, you step back and open the door wider.
“Come in. It’s freezing outside,” you manage, your voice softer than you want it to be. Shaky, almost. You hate that.
Toji hesitates just for a second, then steps over the threshold, closing the door behind him.
Now inside, away from the cold and standing in the entrance of your home, he’s immediately hit with a wave of nostalgia. This tiny hallway that opens into the living room, the kitchen just off to the side with its familiar round wooden table. A beautiful floral centerpiece sits perfectly in the middle, just as he’d expect from you, a small reflection of your talent.
Beyond that, another short passage leads to your room, the spare bedroom, and the bathroom nestled between them.
He knows this place like the back of his hand.
The powder blue couch. The slightly worn furniture passed down from some distant relative. The soft golden lights that bathe everything in a warm glow. It all feels so distinctly you—gentle and inviting.
“Sorry,” you say quickly, trying to fill the silence. “I just realized I don’t have any slippers in your size.”
Your words snap him back to the present. He glances down, then up at you, caught between memory and reality.
That look on your face. It's like you’re bracing for something, like you’re waiting for him to snap at you.
It tugs at something in his chest he doesn’t want to name.
Toji attempts a smile. It’s not much, tight and uneasy - but it’s something. He shrugs out of his coat, revealing a dark suit and silk tie, crisp from a long day at the office.
“Don’t worry about it,” he murmurs, voice low as he toes off his boots.
But then he pauses. Eyes fixed on something by the door.
Two small sneakers, neatly lined up next to your own.
He stares. Long enough for your stomach to twist.
You follow his gaze. And your breath catches.
“W-why don’t you come sit?” you say, voice brittle. “I can get you something to drink.”
You turn before he can respond - half walking, half fleeing toward the kitchen, where the counter offers a merciful barrier. Your pulse hammers in your ears.
The door is closed now. He’s here. He saw the shoes. He hasn’t asked.
Not yet.
And your hands are shaking.
You’ve barricaded yourself in the kitchen, fumbling with mismatched mugs and digging through the clutter of sweeteners you always kept on hand. He watches in silence, choosing to stay on the couch rather than make it worse. You clearly hate that he’s here—or at least, it seems that way—but something must’ve pushed you to call him, to invite him into this space again.
So he’s merciful. Quiet. He sinks into your powder blue couch and waits, eyes following every anxious motion you make until you finally return, two steaming mugs cradled in your hands.
He quirks a brow as you hand one to him. A waft of herbal scent rises from the rim. Tea. You made tea.
“So... how’ve you been?” Toji breaks the silence, just after your third deep breath.
Your head snaps toward him, eyes wide like he’s jumped ahead of the script playing out in your mind.
“I’ve been okay... how about yourself?” you ask, voice barely steady.
He almost rolls his eyes. You’re stalling. You look like you’re about to piss your pants. Just what the hell is going on here?
Still, he can’t be too mad, not when looking at your face is as beautiful as he remembers.
“I’m fine, Y/N. What’d you wanna talk about? And how’d you even get my number?” Toji sighs, taking a slow sip of tea. It tastes exactly the way he likes it. You still remember.
“Well, um... I ran into Suguru a few months ago,” you admit, eyes on your lap. “He insisted I have your new number. Said I should reach out to you. Please don’t be mad at him.”
Your fingers are nervously fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve, twisting a loose thread as if it’s the only thing tethering you to this moment. You refuse to look up at him. If you did, the tears would probably start.
Toji stares at you, a knot growing in his chest. You look scared. Really scared. Ready to break. And now he’s scared too.
Are you sick? Is it something terminal? Did someone hurt you? Why did Suguru see you and say nothing? Why are you talking like he’ll be angry?
It’s like you can read his spiraling thoughts.
“I made Suguru swear secrecy. I didn’t want him telling you what he saw,” you whisper.
Still, you won’t look at him. Your mug sits untouched on the coffee table.
“Y/N... what’s going on?” he asks, voice lower now, edged with something unfamiliar. Fear. “You’re worrying me. Are you sick? Did something happen?”
The way you’re building this up, the way your hands won’t stop trembling, he’s starting to think you’re going to tell him you’re dying!
Instinctively, he places a hand on your knee, grounding himself in the moment, but jerks it back the second your body locks up at the touch.
He’s never really been an anxious man but your anxiety is damn near infectious.
Finally, you move. You rise slowly, walk to the TV console, and kneel down to pull something from the cabinet. A small, soft blue book. A photo album?
You hold it against your chest for a moment before making your way back to the couch. You sit beside him again, not quite touching.
He watches you closely. Every breath, every hesitation. Your eyes meet his at last, and they’re glassy - tears threatening to spill over, but still holding the line.
He wants to pull you into his arms, bury your face in his chest the way he used to. But he doesn’t. He knows he has no right.
“Here,” you whisper. You offer him the album, still refusing to look at him. “Open this.”
Your gaze stays locked on the cover, refusing to meet his again. You’re curling in on yourself, as if you could disappear into the cushions if you just tried hard enough.
Toji tears his eyes away from you and down to the album in his hands. Baby blue, soft to the touch. In the center, in your unmistakable handwriting:
“Megumi, my love!”
His heart skips.
Megumi. Your love. An M name. The letter he saw on your necklace that night he found your social media profile again...
He opens the book, and the first page punches the air from his lungs.
It’s a photo. Just one. A printed image, slipped beneath the plastic sheet.
It’s you in a hospital bed, younger than you are now. Your hair is shorter, like it had been when he last saw you. Your face is fuller, flushed and tear-streaked, and still, you’re smiling. Beaming, even.
In your arms is a bundle of soft blue. A newborn, barely the size of a loaf of bread. A shock of black hair peeks out from beneath the cap.
Beneath the image, handwritten in pen:
“December 22nd is the day I had you, my little Megumi. A kind nurse took this picture. Look at how tiny you are!”
He doesn’t know how long he sits there, frozen, staring at the photo.
You don’t say a word. Not beside him. You don’t move, don’t breathe. Dread is gnawing through your stomach like a slow burn.
And Toji—Toji can’t even lift his head.
“You had… a baby,” he says, voice hollow with disbelief after long moments of paralyzed silence.
You nod, even though he won’t look at you. “Go to the next page,” you whisper, eyes fluttering shut to stop any more tears from slipping out.
He obeys.
And then freezes again.
You're not in these photos. It’s all Megumi - sleeping soundly in a little wooden crib, swaddled in a close-up shot in your arms, glowering up at the camera with those unmistakable green eyes. The exact same shade as his own.
Toji has always prided himself on his composure. But in this moment, staring at that tiny face, he fears he’s forgotten how to breathe.
At the bottom of the page, he sees more of your writing.
“First week home! You weigh eight pounds and five ounces. I don’t think you could really see yet? Mommy has to read more baby books… Regardless, look at your pretty green eyes!”
Impulsively, he shuts the book.
He turns to you with a sort of mortified quiet, completely undone.
You don’t say anything at first. You just let the tears fall freely now since there’s no point in holding them back.
“He’s… our baby, Toji,” you manage to say, voice breaking. “He’s ours.”
Toji has never been a man of many words, but now you've done it, you've rendered him completely mute. He stares at you, his head practically spinning as the gravity of his actions six years ago dawns on him.
He left you, cut you off, stopped you from ever being able to reach him again - and you were pregnant.
Young, alone, probably terrified, and pregnant.
And it was all his fault.
You watch him, your face pained and the silent tears unrelenting. Years worth of heartache has all led up to this moment, and you find yourself struggling to put up a stronger front.
Because with Toji, you never had to act strong.
He had once been your safe space in this cold and unfair world. And it seems like your heart can't distinguish the man in front of you from the man who abandoned you all those years ago like your brain can.
"Megumi wants to meet you," you admit after a long stretch of silence, your shoulders drooping in defeat. "That’s why I finally decided to call you."
Toji doesn't move. His jaw is tight, his expression unreadable — but finally, he speaks.
"Why didn’t you tell me… when you had the chance?"
You look away, guilt twisting inside you like a knife. "I tried. For so long." The laugh that escapes you is brittle. "Honestly, it got embarrassing."
Your eyes stay low, but his stay fixed on you - watching, listening, like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time.
"The week of Megumi’s first birthday, I was desperate. You had missed so much already… I didn’t want you to miss that too." Your voice cracks, and you press your hands to your face as your shoulders tremble. "He was already saying ‘Dada,’ and I just felt so alone."
You try to collect yourself before continuing, though your voice is still uneven.
"I paid for a babysitter. It was out of my budget at the time, but I was so determined. I couldn’t bring him with me - it was freezing out, and he was still so little, I was terrified he’d get sick. So I left him home and went to your office building."
You hesitate for a beat. Then, with a soft exhale:
"Security escorted me out as soon as they recognized me. Said it was on your orders." Your laugh is quiet this time - empty and raw. "But I was so stubborn."
You wipe at your eyes, but it’s no use. Everything is blurry now.
"I waited outside for a while. I don't know, I kept hoping I’d see you… or someone I knew. But nothing. Just time passing."
You finally lift your head and meet his eyes - and the sight of him startles you. His gaze is glassy, wet. He’s not crying, not really. But he’s close.
"I think that’s when I gave up on you too," you whisper, giving him a sad smile, small and tired. "I stopped waiting."
You ran out on Steve almost three years ago in the middle of a sweet fling, but now you’re back in Hawkins, and there’s a little girl on your hip that looks just like him. fem, 14k
afab reader, second-chance romance, girl!dad steve, slow burn idiots, no upside down au
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You realise how fucked you are pretty quickly.
It’s something in the way the kid is looking at you. He’s staring at you, not unfriendly but piercing, and his gaze keeps flicking to Leah like he’s trying to make sense of her, and his mouth is stuck obnoxiously with his tongue flat and pulled into that cruel letter ‘S’.
You freeze up like you’ve been caught, which doesn’t help.
And the kid spins in his Nike’s and races for the entrance, ditching a basket full of veggies and a pack of gum in the middle of the aisle.
“Okay, Lee,” you say, sweating despite the November chill. “Let’s get going.”
Leah grins in her seat in the shopping cart. “Meemaw’s?” she asks.
“Yeah. Let’s go make sure your meemaw had her dinner.”
Your ears ring all the way home. They don’t stop ringing. You spend the night waiting for a phone call you don’t get, awkward and clammy. There’s a certain way that rich families work in Indiana. You can see the coming hush money or the threat to leave town almost as clearly as you could see the loveless marriage years ago. You and Leah need to get out of dodge before you’re stuck having conversations you never wanted to have.
I mean, who could’ve predicted that? One of Steve’s teenagers recognises you in the grocery store three years after your fling, how’d they even remember?
The phone doesn’t ring, that night.
Or the next.
Maybe Steve didn’t believe the kid. Maybe the kid had an emergency completely unrelated to Leah. Maybe Steve believed it and didn’t care. You deem yourselves safe from harm in a venture to the grocery store when your mom asks for chicken noodle soup.
It’s there you recognise your mistake. Steve Harrington’s shiny BMW sits parked in the bay by the sign for the laundromat and the man himself sits inside with a paperback bent open on his thigh. He’s glaring at it like it killed his whole family.
You move bodily away from him with Leah clasped to your chest, wondering if you can beat him in, but then a chirp sounds near the door and you watch in slow motion as a young teenager brings a radio to his mouth and says, “Code milkshake!”
You hear a curse and can’t help looking back, right at the bimmer, where Steve is looking up through the windshield with a look of frozen trepidation on his face.
—
So.
How did you end up where you are?
You aren’t one for thinking about the past. Don’t like doing it. In fact, you try your very hardest not to think of the past when you can help it. Once Leah was born, that was easy to do. Babies are demanding, they take over your entire life, and your new life in Portland was already busy to begin with. You find thinking of the past incessant and unnecessary, but. Things are happening oh so fast —you had genuinely figured you could get through your homecoming without being spotted. You figured you could leave Leah at home with your mom while you shopped, but meemaw’s stroke has affected more than her body, and you couldn’t leave Leah there in good conscience in case an accident happened.
It’s not like you had many friends, before you left. Any, in fact. Steve was the first guy to ever show any interest in you, and as nice as he’d been in the quiet moments after, he hadn’t exactly brought you roses or promised you anything. You’re the dummy who got pregnant by the ‘washed out’ king of Hawkins High. It was probably going to be one of his peers, and it was never going to be Nancy Wheeler.
Things were obviously more detailed at the time, but you and Steve had come together in a fling. It’s not a relationship that you’d pictured for yourself, but it’s not as though you set your sights on him and thought, yeah, I’m going to fuck him. It was more that he was friendly, and you were both at the same bar at the same time sitting by yourselves, and with a little gin and a ton of mutual loneliness, it’d felt natural to let him kiss you against the hood of his car. When he drove you home, worried you’d get stuck in the rain, you’d offered him into an empty house. Things snowballed from there.
The sex was good. Steve was kind. He was a bit awkward from time to time and he didn’t know what to say without putting his foot in his mouth, but you liked it. Liked him.
Then the test. Then the memory of his Harrington name, how his mom wanted him to marry a socialite and his dad was priming him to get into the family business, whatever that may be. That silly conversation about kids. “I’d never put them through it,” he’d said, naked and tracing a star into your shoulder blades through the sheets, his hair damp at the nape of his neck with sweat, “are you joking? They’d be the loneliest kid ever.”
You remember laughing softly. You’d wanted him to say something different, but you aren’t sure what it is he could’ve said to make it right enough to stay.
In the end, you figured Leah could be part of a brand new start. You applied for a job in the classifieds and uprooted the rest of your life to go to it, and when you finally had your baby, you didn’t let yourself call Steve. What use would that have been, letting him smash the lingering, aching bit of your heart that wanted him to love you? You were smart enough then to recognise that your dream for the future was about as childish as getting knocked up at nineteen.
It hurts now, though, as he gets out of the car, how badly you want him to want you, and how stupid you’ve always been.
Steve shuts the door to the BMW and makes his way in a jog across the parking lot. He breathes your name. You’re nervous, not stupid. You don’t try to hide the baby.
She grumbles on your hip.
Steve stands in front of you. He’s remarkably not shouting at you, but he’s not smiling, either. He looks different than the last time you’d seen him for sure, fuller and broader, lip dark with stubble and his hair shorter (but not short). There’s a funny scar stretching unkindly against his throat, startlingly new to you but clearly healed.
He stands there in quiet.
Leah makes a fawning sound, like she’s tired and excited to see a new person.
“Hi, Steve,” you say, to get sound out in the air.
His eyes fall on Leah. She’s a good mix of you both. Got her dad’s eyes and her mom’s nose and a handful of his beauty marks, small dark freckles that sprouted all over her body a few weeks after she was born.
“Is she mine?” he asks, cutting straight to the fat.
You shift her closer to your chest. He’s impossible to read for once, not a lick of anything on his face as he waits for you to answer. The cold chaps your lips and the late-fall sunshine threatens to blind you where it’s rising from behind him.
“You didn’t want to have a baby,” you say carefully. Each word said with less enthusiasm than the previous.
He doesn’t speak. Leah whines at the pause, her hand spreading against your collarbone in protest.
“I know you didn’t. You said it’d be miserable, and you’d get stuck with a woman you didn’t love to save face, and I knew that. I didn’t see any good in… in making you go through that.”
To your complete and utter surprise, his face softens. His mouth puckers in sympathy and his arm twitches like he’s going to reach for you. His hair curls into his eyes in the cold breeze. He squints against it, gaze falling once again on Leah, who he can’t get enough of. He’s full-blown gawking at her, watching her sigh and sniffle and press her hand into your neck.
“Is she mine?” Steve asks again.
You clear your throat to answer, but you can’t summon the words. Your nod is jerky and embarrassed and annoyed, all at once. Of course she’s his baby. She looks so much like him, and you never let anybody else touch you.
Steve opens his mouth to finally speak and you cut him off. “Well, she’s mine,” you say tightly.
He nods like he understands. He doesn’t even look mad at the insinuation.
“Her name is Leah.” If he’d been angry with you, cruel, even agitated, which maybe he deserves to be, you’re not sure you could offer this to him now. “She… she looks a lot like you, huh?” you ask.
Steve manages a laugh, strained as it may be. “Yeah. Yeah, she does.” He swallows harshly. “I thought if I came by the house you’d turn me away. Uh. Because I thought there must’ve been a reason you didn’t want me to know, but now we’re… here.”
You glance around the parking lot. His tattle of a child has made himself scarce.
“Do you wanna come home with me?” you ask. Mostly for want of something to say.
“Yeah.”
You go to leave, but Steve makes a sound and brings you right back. Without comment, he curls an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into a half-hug, slotting his nose against your temple like he used to, even as you tense up in his embrace.
“I thought you’d be more angry at me than this,” you say under your breath.
“Yeah, that’s not really how I work.” He parts from you awkwardly and points to the car. “I’ll follow you?” he asks.
“Okay.”
“Okay.” He turns very suddenly and makes his way to his car.
You meander to your own car and pop open Leah’s door. “Sorry, Lee,” you murmur, tucking her into her carseat.
“Why?” she murmurs.
“We’re gonna go to meemaw’s, okay?” If your mom could hear you calling her meemaw before her stroke she’d have knocked you up the side of the head, but it’s all Leah’s ever known her as, and meemaw doesn’t have much choice in the matter now. You’d laugh if you didn’t feel sick.
“Okay.”
You kiss her cheek, getting stuck there with your nose in her hair, all manner of panic and awkwardness and I’d-rather-nots thrumming through you. I should’ve stayed in Portland, you think.
Leah kisses your cheek while you’re stooped there. Your misery takes a backseat as you gather your bearings.
You climb into your own seat, close the door, lock it, and shove the keys in the ignition. Steve’s car idles a few spaces behind, waiting for you to go. You cannot put this off much longer, but you’d pictured the moment so differently, there’s a sense of unreality now. Is this happening? Did you really spill the truth to him the very first time he asked?
Where’s your backbone?
Where’s your common sense?
With a groan, you pull the car out of the space and begin the drive to your mom’s house. You were never close with her, as strange as it seems. She was a woman with interests and her kid happened incidentally. It doesn't bother you anymore. You came to Hawkins to take care of her. Nobody else was going to do it for you, but so far she’s been an easy patient. She needs help making dinner and she can’t walk more than the length of the hall without finding herself breathless, but she’s recovering slowly, so long as her mental faculties recoup with her body, she’ll be alright.
You, however, have screwed the entire pooch. You look at Leah in the rearview mirror and worry you’ve ruined her entire life.
“Chill,” you say to yourself quietly, almost missing the road to your mom’s house. Worst comes to worst and we go home to Portland, you tell yourself. Nothing has to change.
“Mommy?”
“Mm?” you ask.
Leah leans forward in her car seat, huffing with annoyance when the belts keep her in place. The jacket she’s wearing has bunched into a lump under her chin. “Off?” she asks.
“Two minutes.”
“Off.”
“Let me park the car, Lee. I’ll take it off of you as soon as we get home.”
She whines long and loud.
“Sorry, sweet girl. Two minutes and we’re there.”
Leah sulks the entire way there. You park in the space in front of the house and hurry out of the car, quick enough to see Steve in the bimmer pulling onto the sidewalk. You open Leah’s door and offer her a huge smile, hoping to cull a tantrum with bubbly affection. “Hi, off?”
“Yes!”
You laugh to yourself and bring her out, even as your heartbeat climbs up your throat. You can hear Steve getting out of his car as you unbuckle Leah from the car seat and drag her out. You sit her in the slight dip of the window and use your stomach to keep her up as your fingers search for the zipper of her coat. You pull it tight down and unzipper her, freeing her of the thing that had been irking her so bad and restoring her good mood.
She exhales dramatically in relief, which has you laughing again. “Is that better?” you ask through it.
“Better,” she echoes.
Leah sits up at the sound of shoes on gravel. Steve’s crossing the drive, hands shoved in his pockets.
“Who?” she asks.
Uhhhh.
“He’s gonna come in and have dinner with us, okay?”
“Y’okay.”
“Yeah?”
Leah nods enthusiastically. You can see Steve grinning in your peripheral vision, and it’s so much like Leah’s smile you find your heart going haywire.
“Okay,” you say, your full attention to Steve. “Is that cool?”
“Can we talk, first?”
You don’t blame him for asking.
“Yeah, we’ll talk first. But… my mom, she’s not doing the best right now, so. Maybe we should talk outside?”
“I’m not going to yell.”
“No, but. If you’re angry, I get it, but she can’t cope with that right now.”
“Are you angry?” he asks.
“No.”
“Then we don’t have anything to worry about,” he says, the sound of his smile palpable as Leah gives one back. “I’m not gonna yell. I promise.”
You show him into the house. It feels like walking yourself to the gallows.
The room is narrow. The sides of your vision start to dissolve as you drop your car keys in the bowl by the door, then walk Leah to the kitchen. You hold her one handed as you palm off her shoes, dropping them and then her on the floor by the kitchen table. “Okay?” you ask her.
She wanders off toward the living room and the sound of TV.
Steve Harrington’s standing in your mom’s rinky dink kitchen waiting for you to talk. You’re standing there useless, taking sips of air that sting, waiting for him to cut the crap and berate you. It would make sense. If he’s upset that you didn’t tell him you were pregnant, or that you were stupid enough to keep her, to get pregnant in the first place, it wouldn’t surprise you. Men are cruel, and Steve had a reputation for popularity. It would make sense for him to be mean to you now.
“How old is she?” he asks finally.
“She’s turning two soon.”
Steve seems to be holding his tongue.
“Just– ask.” You try to look sorry. “Ask me whatever you want.”
“Can I–” He throws a hand out, the first sign that he’s not as genial as he appears. “Can I be her dad?”
You flinch. “What?”
“Like, I want to be her dad. A real dad. I want to be in her life, I want her to know me. Did you think I wouldn’t want that?”
“I didn’t think you wanted kids at all.”
“I want kids.” Steve crosses his arms over his chest. “I always wanted a whole team of them.”
“That’s not what you said.”
“When? When you told me you were having my baby?”
This is more what you’d been expecting. There’s a cruel pleasure in being vindicated. “When you told me you didn’t want kids, Steve. You said you didn’t want a miserable kid in a miserable marriage, what was I supposed to glean from that?”
“Exactly, I didn’t want a miserable kid, which is exactly what I was, and I didn’t want it in an arranged marriage that my mom thought would be good for me.” His anger drains a little. “I never meant– I mean, even if I didn’t, you should’ve told me.”
“She’s my baby.”
“That’s not fair.”
“That’s totally fair, she’s literally mine.”
“It’s not fair to act like I wouldn’t have cared,” he clarifies, frowning at you. It’s so disappointed-looking it pisses you off worse, but you're trying to keep a level head. Nobody here deserves for you to blow up and say words you don’t mean.
You bite your lip. “I’m sorry, Steve, but I wasn’t convinced that you would. I wanted what was best for me and her.”
“I can be best for you both.”
You wait for him to hold it up. To prove what he means.
“If she’s mine, I want to be her dad,” he says.
“If?”
He waves a hand, like he could roll his eyes. He should thank his lucky stars he didn’t. “Not like that, I’m not saying she’s not, I just want to look after her.”
“She’s looked after.”
“I’m not saying she’s not,” he says, uneasy now, shifting to hide a hand in his pocket. He wasn’t expecting you to be difficult, you think. “I’m not saying that. I’m not saying anything about you, I’m asking you if I can do right by you.”
“You might not actually want her, Steve.”
“I haven’t stopped thinking about her since the kids told me. I didn’t get a good look at her, but the idea? Just the idea of her? I wanted it.”
You sigh, frustrated, and set your sights on the fridge. “Can’t believe you had kids posted up at Bradley’s to stalk me,” you murmur.
“I needed to see her for myself.”
“Steve... You’re twenty three. We aren’t married. You don’t have to be anything to her, you don’t have to do right by me, we don’t have to play house until you’re miserable. In a couple of months we’ll go home to Portland and you don’t have to do anything. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but you don’t have to worry. You can tell everyone you tried and I said no and you’ll still look good.”
“Why are you being like this?” he asks, leaving little air between your sentence and his. “What are you talking about? I’m asking you if I can keep you guys and you’re trying to run me out?”
“Keep us?” you ask indignantly.
“Yes!” He clears his throat. “I don’t get why you left without telling me and I am angry, but I also don’t understand what it’s like to have to make that decision, and I’m sorry you made it by yourself, and I don’t blame you for running away. Okay? Is that okay?”
He’s so loud, then, so tightly wound and upset, his voice a shade of pleading, that the protests you’d been making die on your lips.
“Yeah,” you say quietly.
“You didn’t think I wanted a baby, and I guess I didn’t give you a reason to think that, but I do want one. I would’ve— if you’d told me, I would’ve lost my mind. I’m still losing it.”
You pull out a chair at the kitchen table to take a wobbly seat. Your heart is racing, that stupid kiddie feeling of being in trouble for hurting him clouded by a lingering sense of mistrust. You’d thought… all these years, that Steve didn’t want kids, or marriage, or anything, and– and– maybe you didn’t run away because of him, maybe it was all you, maybe—
“Hey,” he says, a hand landing between your shoulders, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” you ask, sharper than you mean to.
“I don’t know. I wanted you to stop freaking out.”
“Well,” you say, licking your lips, your breath coming short and shallow, “it didn’t work.”
Steve Harrington rubs your back. You try desperately to chill out, Leah in the other room, your mom sleeping or listening, probably already wound up from all the ruckus, and Steve, who you haven’t seen in years, who used to kiss all over your face before he’d hug you in the dark of his bedroom, waiting for you to calm down so he can say what he needs to.
A chair pulls out next to yours after a while. Steve sits beside you, resting his hand on your knee.
After a few minutes, you cover his hand with yours.
“She’s beautiful,” he says.
“Looks like her mom,” you mumble.
“Yeah, she does. More like me though.”
You huff a weak laugh.
“Are you gonna throw me out?” Steve asks.
“You want to be her dad?”
For a few seconds, you worry he hasn’t heard you. But he rubs a small back and forth on your leg and says, “Please.”
“Okay. Okay, then. I’m not letting you meet her if you’re not serious, Steve. You have to mean it.” You raise your eyes to his and all his perfect lashes. “Promise?”
He offers his pinky, which is so dumb. This whole scenario is so stupid. Too bad it’s mostly (almost entirely) your own fault.
You shake his pinky. He keeps them tied for a long time.
In a rush, you sniffle yourself dry and usher Leah into the room with a hand on her shoulder. She is so, so small. At least your mom missed the commotion, sleeping sat up in the armchair.
“You promise?” you ask Steve, pausing at the table.
Steve nods emphatically. By the looks of things, he’s all in.
You pull your chair out opposite Steve and scoop Leah into your lap. You hold her wrist in your hand gently and lean down to talk in her ear. “Okay, Lee. I gotta tell you something, okay?”
“Y’okay.”
“This is daddy.”
You can tell he’s not expecting such a straightforward introduction, but after a moment, he cannot hide his smile. Leah looks at him with his almond shaped eyes, all smiles in return.
“Okay? This is daddy, and he’s gonna spend some time with us.”
“Huh?”
You point at Steve, smiling even as your hand trembles between you both. “This is your daddy. He missed you very much and wanted to see you. Can you say hi?”
“Hi,” Leah says, her voice raspy and high.
“Hi, Leah,” he says, ever so slightly choked up. Just barely.
“He was my best friend,” you say, “and he wants to be your best friend, too. Do you want to play a game with daddy?”
“Wam’ play game?” Leah asks Steve.
“Please, I would love to play a game. What game do you like?” he asks.
“Um…” Leah places her hand in his and you could probably weep, but he’s smiling at her with so much love as he waves it up and down you never get there. She shakes her fist up and down in his, giggling when he over exaggerates her strength.
“Woah, strong girl!” he says. “Don’t break my arm!”
Leah gives him a good shake.
—
“I do not understand why you’re so calm. How you’re so calm. This is not how I’ve seen you react to things.”
Steve pushes the shopping cart into Robin’s hip. She squawks and thrusts it at him, the crate of kiddie water bottles he’d balanced on the bottom rung hitting him clean in the ankle.
“How am I supposed to react?” he asks, wincing as he brings his leg up to rub at the new wound.
“Uh, to blow the fuck up?” She tucks her hair behind her ears, staring at him. “I was expecting more whining, if I’m totally honest.”
Steve gets back to the task at hand. The aisle they’re in is pink no matter where you look, full of Barbie dolls and ballerina tutus and teddy bears with hearts in their palms. “What would you want if you were two?” he asks.
Robin offers one of her kinder smiles. “I guess I’d want everything.”
“Well, Y/N’s not gonna like that.”
He wants to take care of you both. He doesn’t want to make you feel like you weren’t doing that already. So. The cart is full of stuff for him mostly, things he’ll need to look after Leah should he ever be allowed to take her by himself, which he assumes he will. He’s got diapers, sippy cups, wet wipes, rash creams, a mountain of clothes he has to remember to keep the receipt for, baby snacks, a changing pad, bath toys. He has a towel like a poncho with a ladybug hood and a great big bottle of bathroom cleaner to shape things up for his baby.
He also got you pajamas. He’s not sure why. He remembers that old pair you used to wear whenever he’d make it to your place with the pink and purple plaid, and he’d been wondering if you kept them, and a desire to see you in them again had come over him and now they’re in the cart. He’s hoping he can sort of slip them in between diapers.
Steve doesn’t want to show you up, but he does want to prove he’s being serious, emotionally and physically —financially. Leah is his baby. Kids are expensive, and she must’ve already cost you a small fortune, and you didn’t want his help but you can bet you’ll be getting it, not singularly because he cared for you (he has to gloss it into that one word, care, things being complicated enough as it stands without remembered notions of falling and love) but because Leah is literally his baby.
He pauses on the spot.
Leah is his girl. He’s allowed to buy her things. It will not be an insult.
He grabs a Barbie with a puppy dog on a leash, a box of stickle bricks, a teddy bear with a big cutesy grin, and purple bunny rabbit to be his best friend.
Robin watches him put it all in the cart in silence.
“Is that enough?” he asks, despite previous internal decisions. She’s his best friend. Everyone needs one.
Robin turns on the spot to look at the shelves behind them, grabbing a box set of storybooks bound with ribbon down the spines. “These ones are from me,” she says, dumping them next to the second jumbo box of diapers.
“I’m not, like, super angry,” he says, getting behind the cart to push for the checkout. “I want kids. I want Leah. This isn’t a bad thing.”
“You kind of missed out on a lot,” Robin says. Carefully, not to be cruel, but to present it to him in case he hasn’t thought about it. Obviously he’s thought about it, but.
“I mean, yeah. But do you remember being a baby?”
“It’s, like, a deep down thing.”
He swallows. “Sure, I don’t like that I didn’t get to be there when Leah was a baby, but… I’m finding it hard to be mad when she was protecting all of us from things we didn’t want, or, that’s what she thought.” Steve gives a jerky shrug. “I’m sure she got enough love from her without me, but I’m gonna make up for whatever she missed out on.”
“Okay. Well, when you explode, I’m literally right here.”
Steve is overcome with the urge to snuggle her in the middle of the store, but he hits her with the shopping cart again and feels the thanks get stuck in his throat. “I’m not gonna explode. I’m happy.”
Steve is thrilled. He has a baby. He has a child. Maybe it’s not the wife and six kids he thought he wanted, but Leah is his baby.
“She’s mine,” he says.
“I know, dingus. You’ve said it a hundred times.”
He parks his cart at the belt behind a grandma buying cat food. “I can’t wait for you to meet her, Rob, she’s–”
“She’s beautiful,” Robin says, rolling her eyes. “We’re way too young for kids, Steven. You were supposed to go to college.”
“I’m still gonna go!”
“With what money?”
Steve will save again. It’s community college.
Robin holds his eye. He avoids it, starts putting things on the checkout belt. “You’re doing the only thing you can do,” she says, “I don’t wanna be friends with a deadbeat, but I wanted you to go. I’m too young to be an Aunt.”
“I’ll going, Rob.”
“Fine. I believe you.”
“Can you help?”
She pulls stuff out of the cart reluctantly.
Together, they pack what can be bagged and take it all to the car. Steve drops Robin off at home without much of a goodbye —either she’ll call him tonight or he’ll call her, ‘cos one way or another, they’re gonna talk. Then he takes the side road to your mom’s house and parks the bimmer behind your old blue Pontiac.
He grabs the toys and the bag of groceries. He’ll have to make another trip for the diapers, but he figures it’s best to see your reaction before he lugs it all up the driveway.
You answer the door. Parenting has been going better than expected considering you kept the baby a secret for two whole years, and you’re already smiling when you see him. Things were awkward that first week, but he’s been coming by every single day after work if he works, bright and early if he doesn’t. He can tell you’re growing more confident in his promises. He’s not gonna realise how big this whole thing is and run. He’s well aware of how world-changing his decision was to stay, but it wasn’t a decision at all.
“Hi, is she awake yet?” he asks. Leah naps every day at noon.
“Mm-hm. She was asking me for daddy all morning,” you say. Secrets you may have kept, but you’re glad for both of them whenever Steve and Leah get along. “I promised you’d be here after dinner.”
“Is it cool that I’m early?”
You eye the bags in his hands. “Sure. I already told you, I’m not gonna dictate anything. You can see her when you want to… What’s that?”
“I was thinking I’d make dinner?” He shakes the lighter bag. “And this is for Leah.”
“Right. Okay.”
You let Steve in. He, despite all things in his body that remember this song and dance and demand he kiss your cheek hello, powers through to the kitchen without making a fool of himself.
“Brought your favourite. Thought Leah would probably like it, since you liked it so much,” he says. “And those pastries you loved.”
“You want me to go grab her?”
“Where is she?”
“She’s sitting with my mom. Don’t think she heard the door, she would’ve come out running by now. She’s a little sleepy.”
“That’s okay. I can put all this away and I’ll go see if she’s awake.”
You cross your arms over your stomach, leaning against the counter. “You didn’t have to get stuff for me.”
“I wanted to.”
“You don’t have to, though. Leah’s your baby, but I’m…”
He feels achy in his jaw. He abandons the bag full of groceries to look at you fully. “If you’d turned up here without Leah, after two years of full radio silence, no letters and no clue where you went, if you came back, I’d want to see you. You know that, right?”
“I…”
“I asked your mom where you went, did you know that?”
“No.”
“Well, she wouldn’t tell me.”
“I don’t think she knew.”
Steve hates how much that annoys him, hates the way he relates to it. He dries his hands on his pants, not sure if he wants to hug you or tip your head with his thumb at chin, forcing you to look at him, to say the things he’s said in his head before bed a couple nights a week for years.
Steve Harrington does not love by halves.
“You’d tell me if you were gonna leave again, right?” he asks.
“We are leaving.”
“I know, I know, but. You’re not gonna disappear in the middle of the night.”
“No, Steve. I’ll tell you before we go home. I promise.”
His shoulders relax. “Okay, then, I’ll keep bringing stuff you like, too. Trade deal.”
“Mutually beneficial. I won't kidnap your baby again and you bring me raspberry turnovers.”
“Exactly.”
You surprise him with a laugh. “Okay.”
“Okay, good,” he says, grinning, wondering if he’s finally paving a path into your lap again.
From the doorway of the kitchen comes a pleased gasp. “Daddy?” Leah asks, her eyes widening in delight, feet stomping on the spot, “Hi, daddy!”
He was supposed to give this up for community college? Steve squats down in a half-second and holds out his hands, ready for an armful of sleepy toddler. Her hair is all puffy and her pajamas big at the neck like she’d wriggled for hours, but she’s soft, smells clean as he wraps his arms around her and she burrows into his neck.
“Hi, Leah,” he says softly.
Leah hums her content.
“Good nap?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah? Did you have a good dream?”
She laughs as he strokes her back. He must’ve tickled her. “Da-ddy,” she says, a long, pulling word.
She’s so small Steve can’t hug her properly like this, so he hooks her in one arm and stands up to his full height, catching your unreadable expression from over her shoulder. Whatever you’d been thinking fades away, your smile strengthening as Leah pulls out of his neck to wave at you.
“Mommy,” she says, poking at Steve’s neck. “Look. Daddy’s for dinner.”
Steve laughs loudly. “I’m for dinner? You’re gonna eat me? I thought you liked me!” His head falls in a dramatic agony. “Leah wants to cook me up for dinner, I can’t believe it.”
“No!” Leah says, giggling as she grabs his face. She pulls at his cheeks, forcing his head up. “Not eating,” she says, like he’s silly.
Steve shifts her so she’s sitting braced on his lower belly, looking down at her. God, she’s so pretty. She’s perfect. She’s tiny, slim for her age according to you, but she isn’t weak. She holds herself up, her hands confident as they spread over his chest. Steve has to confess that this feeling is the strongest he’s ever experienced. Nothing compares to looking at this little kid who already treats him like he’s the best person she’s ever met, knowing that she’s his. He has to look after her. He gets to be loved by her without hesitation. Leah has no reason to love him, and yet here she is giggling in his arms from the excitement of seeing him. It’s like every day she likes him more, and every day, Steve gets to love her more. It’s so weird, but it's nice.
“I brought you something,” he says, shifting her again so he can cover her back with one arm, using the other to brush a stray bit of lint off of her face. “But– mommy, can she have it now?” he asks.
You flush. Steve recognises this look on you, pleased and startled. He’s seen it on you a hundred different times. You were always that girl who didn’t expect kindness, or to be considered. He remembers how endearing it was to surprise you with a kiss to say thank-you, or picking up the bill no matter how casual dinner felt, or something as small as helping you into your pajamas after you’d both showered. It was heartbreaking, but he’s never been unfamiliar with the bare minimum.
“Yeah, of course she can.”
“Alright,” Steve says, grinning. “Your Aunt Robin sent me with a gift for you, but daddy’s is better, so you can have mine first.” He twists for the bag it’s in and yanks it out, Barbie to him so she can’t see. “It’s only small, but I saw it and I thought you’d like it.”
“Can have?” she asks.
“Depends. Can I have a hug first?” he asks, checking your face to make sure he’s not being weird.
Leah nods erratically and throws herself forward. Steve gets a big kiss right on his smooth-shaven cheek, and he can’t stop himself from beaming, his punched out sigh poorly suppressed as he turns her to give her a much gentler kiss at the very top of her cheek. “Thanks, Lee.”
Her eyes squint with a smile. “Can I have, please?”
Steve brings the box up and tosses it to flip it, brandishing it right way round to her glee.
“Barbie!” she cries.
“With a puppy!”
“Oh gosh.”
Steve bursts out laughing. “Gosh! Should we get the box open? Then you can gosh at the accessories. She has two pairs of shoes, Leah. Two!”
Leah squirms to be put down, hands clenched tightly on each side of the box. You’re already grabbing scissors to get it open.
“Thank you.” You lean over Leah to start the dissection.
“Don’t,” he says, quiet but less shame-faced. “You don’t have to say thanks.”
You shake your head to yourself. “Yeah, well.”
“She deserves it, and it’s not up to you to say thanks. I’m serious.”
“It’s nice of you.”
He doesn’t know how to prove how certain he is about staying. He decides to keep his mouth shut for now, which is hard. Almost slips up that whole evening. You don’t look happy when he doubles back before he leaves that night with the bag of snacks and the huge box of diapers, but he catches you as you and Leah stand on the stoop waving at the bimmer. You’re smiling. A real one, teeth on display for the first time since you came home.
—
“Okay,” you say quietly, “up, baby. And another one. Good job.”
Leah demonstrates a unique level of concentration as she climbs up the stairs with you. You’d have carried her if she didn’t insist she could do it herself with a displeased squeal. Her eyes are nearly closed, her tongue slipping between her lips and a hand thrown out for balance, the other held in your own as she manages two, then three, the few shallow steps that lead into the WSQK building.
“Hi,” you greet a quiet man sitting at the door. “Is Steve in?”
“Think so. Why?”
“I wanted to talk to him, if that’s okay.”
The man gives you a suspicious look that eventually metes. “Sure. Gotta knock the booth before you go in, though, they might be on the air.”
“Sure. Thank you.”
Leah stumbles with you inside. There’s a wide wooden panelled room and smaller glass one within. You knock on it and wait for movement, too scared to look through the panels. You’ve learned that Robin has her very own radio show on the 94.5 called The Morning Squawk, and Steve, through best-friend nepotism, gets to be her sound guy. He has this WSQK van they drive around to do on the road interviews, and they’re both a hundred times happier here than they were rewinding tapes at Family Video.
It’s a pretty firm knot of roots to lay.
The door opens a good fifteen seconds after you’d knocked. You’re immediately greeted by a blondified Robin Buckley, her freckled cheeks slack with surprise. “Uh…”
“Hi, Robin.”
“Hi,” she says.
The last time you saw Robin, you’d been laying on Steve’s couch in his socks and what might’ve been Robin’s own sweatshirt, the three of you arguing on what movie to watch and what candy you were gonna tip into your popcorn. You’d laid your head in Steve’s lap.
“Leah,” you say, clearing your throat as subtly as possible, “say hi, bubby.”
“Hi, bubby,” Leah says.
Robin snorts.
“This is your daddy’s best friend ever, Aunt Robin,” you say, shooting Robin a sorry look as you mouth, “Is that cool?”
Robin culls your misery and manages a real smile. “That’s me, babe.” She bends at the waist. “Oh, you really do look like Steve. Shit, this is so cool.” Her awkwardness has melded to full-bodied delight. “You’re like his twin! Well, you do look like your mommy, duh, but this is trippy! Hey, did you get your books?”
Leah looks up at her with huge eyes.
“Did you like your storybooks?” you ask Leah, kneeling down behind her to hold her shoulder. “Aunt Robin gave you those ones, remember, daddy read one to you about the ugly duckling?”
“The duckies,” Leah says factually.
“Awesome,” Robin says. “I’m so happy you liked them, sweetie. And I’m so happy to meet you.”
You don’t question for a second that she means it.
You pat Leah on the shoulder. “Aunt Robin is your daddy’s best friend in the whole world.”
“Daddy’s here?” she asks Robin.
“Uh, not right now, he had to go get lunch.”
“Oh.”
“But you can totally come in!” she says, opening the door to the booth wide. “I can show you how the radio works! And then Steve– then dad can come back. I bet he’ll be here any second.”
“You’re not busy?” you ask.
“I mean?” Robin laughs, nervously incredulous, “if I ever have kids they’d be her cousins. That’s pretty important. And, like, she’s Steve’s, so? I’d die for her?” Robin scratches a hand through her hair. “Come on, baby Stevie, I’ll show you the keyboard. It’s your dad’s favourite gimmick.”
You hover in the middle of the small room as Robin slides a chair over to the desk with a keyboard and a mic balanced on top of it. She glances at you before she holds her hands out to Leah, and Leah goes into them willingly. Robin pulls her up and settles her in the chair. She can barely see the keys, but she’s already reaching for them as Robin starts to explain which ones do what, toggling a switch that you assume makes sure whatever sounds Leah plays are off air.
You sit yourself down on a loveseat by the door.
“We can play all of this stuff on the radio in the car,” Robin says, “do you listen to the radio?”
“The music, bubby,” you say.
Leah gives a neck-breaking nod.
“Well, me and dad choose what songs to play. Do you have a favourite song?”
“She loves ‘Save it For Later’ by The Beat. She gets super into it,” you say.
“Oh, we have that one! Let’s queue it up, Leah.”
Leah mashes the keyboard in a cacophony of introductions and funny sounds, then a long run of the Rockin’ Robin intro. She finds a sound bite of applause loaded up on the tape deck, hitting it over and over as she giggles.
“Be careful, Lee, don’t break it.”
Her hitting doesn’t slow.
“Lee,” you say more firmly, “baby, stop. You have to be nice. Don’t slap the buttons.”
Leah throws you a glare. “Mommy,” she whines.
“What? You have to be nice to other people’s things. Aunt Robin is letting you play with her keyboard, but it’s important. It’s okay to try all the buttons! But with nice hands. Yeah?”
The ajar door opens fully. “Is my Leah not being nice?” Steve asks, already beaming with all his teeth as he sees her behind the keyboard. “I don’t believe that for a second!”
Leah wiggles her excitement in the depths of the chair. Doesn’t bother calling out for him, there’s no need. Steve laughs, saying hi with a quick hand dropped on your shoulder, the gentlest squeeze anyone’s ever given with his thumb rubbing a half circle before he bends down by Leah’s chair. “Hi,” he says, your heart beating so loudly in your ears that you hardly hear him. “You’re at the radiohouse! Did Rockin’ Robin show you how to play a song? Do you wanna talk on the microphone?”
“Hi,” Leah says.
“Hi.”
“Hug me now?”
Steve’s like butter in the sun. He melts into nothing. “Yeah, babe, right now.”
She slinks forward and he picks her up, standing with a baby on his hip like he’s been doing it all his life.
“I’m gonna play her a song,” Robin says. “My queues almost empty.”
“Okay, thanks,” he says, to which Robin wrinkles her nose.
“Sure,” she says, sending you a look as she heads to her desk. Like, get a load of this idiot.
Steve presses his nose to Leah’s hair and smells her. Then he smiles, patting the small of her back.
Leah looks straight at you and says, “Daddy’s here,” in case you weren’t aware.
Steve blinks away a pained flutter, his brow pulling like he’d been in pain, quickly wiped away and hidden by the time Leah glances at him again.
You think maybe, for a second, he’d wanted to cry.
“Steve?” you ask quietly. “You okay?”
“Yeah. No, yeah.”
“You sure?”
He tugs Leah higher on his hip. “I’m okay,” he tells you, holding your gaze, his left sclera bloodshot but his nearly-tears blinked away. “I’m great, ‘cos Leah’s here,” he adds, pressing his mouth to Leah’s cheek, “at work! She’s a working girl now, we gotta get you on the payroll.”
It’s a little while later, sitting on the couch and waiting for Steve to ask you what it is you’re doing here, when the door opens. Leah perks up in his lap, the headphones she’d been wearing falling down around her neck in a heap that makes her cringe, giving a warbly cry as Steve offers assurances to her.
You’re focused on the teenager standing in the door. It’s the kid.
His eyes widen at the sight of you.
“Lucas Sinclair,” you greet, giving him a stony look. “You ratted me out.”
“Uh– did I?”
“I know it was you.”
Lucas grimaces. “Are we sure it was me?”
“I saw you.”
“Steve could’ve got the information from anyone.”
You glare for a few more seconds, then relax. “I’m messing with you, Lucas. I’m not mad. Even if you are a narc.”
“I am not! I told Dustin and it was Dustin that radioed Steve. He’s the narc. I said we had to wait for proof.”
“Well, thanks for trying.”
Lucas hesitates with you, though he comes further into the room and lets the door shut behind him. “I am sorry. Kind of.”
“We’re working things out.”
Leah tugs the headphones off of her head and out of the outlet in a great show of toddler rage, Steve laughing where he holds her. He grabs the headphones before Leah can throw them at the floor. “Hey!” he admonishes through laughter, “Those aren’t mine, babe. Should we put them on the desk?”
Steve takes them from her and sets them high. He moves the chair, bumping Leah on his knee, forcing her eyes to the new figure in the room. “Look, Lee, it’s your Uncle Lucas.”
Lucas gives an awkward, endearing smile. “Hi.”
“Hi!” Leah says.
“What’s up?” Steve asks.
“Can I get a ride, tonight? I asked my dad but he’s going to that miniature car thing.”
“Where to?”
“Max’s.”
“Why are you being cagey?” Steve asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“I’m not!”
“You so are, dude. What’s happening at Max’s?”
“Nothing! She doesn’t, like, know I’m going, that’s all.”
Steve leans in his chair in what would be a total act of casual derision if he weren’t also holding Leah to his front, his fingers waving patterns into her tummy affectionately. “So I’m gonna be on her shit list for whatever it is you have planned? No deal, dude.”
“I’m not in trouble. She’s not mad at me,” Lucas says.
“For once.”
“She’s not. I have a surprise planned? And it’s gonna get ruined on my bike, so.”
Steve’s suspicion wavers. “What sort of surprise?” he asks.
His smile is nice. Doesn’t it suit him? He’s calm where he sits despite the rumble of noise coming from Robin’s booth and Leah talking to herself in his lap. The red glow of the ON AIR light makes his brown hair nearly purple at the tops but leaves his face untouched, tan fading pale in the fall, his beauty marks the darkest bit of colour to him when you aren’t looking into the well of his eyes. His irises are like wet tree bark. His lashes look long from across the room.
And his biceps don’t look half bad when they’re wrapped around your baby. Her tiny stature emphasises the bulk he’s put on while you were in Portland. You’ve been noticing more of him lately—his weight gain, the change in his muscle, the cut of his hair, those reading glasses he keeps in the console of his car. But there are things about him that didn’t change. He’s pretty happy, as things go. He likes doing things for other people.
Their conversation drifts into focus. “…not too much, right?”
“Nah, I think that’s appropriate. Four years of dating is a long time.”
“Even if you’re broken up for half a year in the middle?”
Steve chuckles. Leah looks up at the sound. “I wouldn’t mention that part,” he says. “Look, I’ll come get you after I’m done here–”
“You’re not coming tonight?” you ask, entirely sincere in asking. Not a lick of judgement in it, but surprise, and a second emotion you aren’t eager to name.
“I was– I was gonna come,” Steve says. “If that’s cool.”
“Oh, sure. Sorry. I thought you were– Yeah, it’s fine,” you say.
Steve looks at you for a long second. “I can’t miss out on dinner,” he says, dipping down to speak in Leah’s ear, “can I? What am I making tonight, Lee, do you remember?”
“S’getti,” she says, with a vindication bordering evil.
Steve presses his lips together. Shrugs at Lucas smugly. “S’getti,” he says. “I’ll be there at six, okay?”
Lucas shoots an “Awesome, thank you, sorry,” over his shoulder as he leaves.
“Thank you sorry,” Leah repeats.
Steve has to lock into work and he doesn’t ask you to leave, moving Leah around in his arms and plugs the headphones in. She enjoys the novelty enough to sit there without complaining, bathed in attention. It’s weird to have Leah with you without having to look after her. Like, she gets uncomfortable and Steve moves her. She whines in his arm and he opens a drawer to uncover a bag of chips. He does ask if it’s alright for her to eat them, but you say yes and he doesn’t need guidance after that. He wipes her dirty face in his sleeve and twists a knob on the keyboard.
He is startlingly capable.
You are startlingly hot.
You pull at your neckline, wishing you’d brought a book to read or a zip tie to garrote yourself with for thinking such stupid shitty thoughts.
—
Steve packs his shit up at five with Leah on his hip, happy to stay with him. You’ve been quiet bordering silent and he hasn’t summoned up the bravery to ask why. He didn’t wanna look a gift horse in the mouth, ‘cos you’re here, and you brought Lee without any begging on his part. He shows her off to everyone they pass on the way out, less subtly to the smiley cleaner Cindy who loves to call him handsome in the morning. Who’s this? she asks.
This is my baby, Leah.
The problem arises when he’s trying to pass Leah to you to part ways in the parking lot.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard something that loud,” Robin laments, blinking fast. Because, despite years and time to learn, he’s her ride home.
Leah screams another ear-splitter. “No!” she’s shouting. “No, no!”
She sobs.
You try to disentangle her from Steve’s chest. He can feel your individual fingers pressing into his pecs. “Lee, come on!” you say, laughing nervously. “Daddy has stuff to do, we’ll see him for dinner!”
She sobs louder.
Robin shakes her head as though dislodging water from her ears.
“Baby, please,” you say, apparently possessing the patience of a god, “it’s okay, I promise, it’s not long. We’ll be okay for a bit.”
Leah sews her hands in his hair tightly, yanking until it stings. Steve flinches and you immediately stop trying to make Leah disengage.
“Sorry, honey,” you say, and Steve realises with a full body start you’ve spoken to him, your hand resting open on his upper shoulder. It’s an obvious slip of the tongue. You lean forward with a slight stammer, “I– Leah, don’t pull, you’re hurting.”
“Not going,” Leah says.
“Just for now!”
“No!”
You give Steve a wide-eyed frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s going on. She doesn’t do this… usually.”
“That’s okay, it’s fine, maybe you could come with me?”
You nibble your lip. “I gotta go check on my mom, I haven’t been home all day, I don’t know if she’s eaten yet.”
Steve tries to pass Leah into your arms with renewed purpose. The snap of hair behind his ear gives him pause. “Uh, can she come with me?” Steve asks, loud now, his head angled against her hand. “Ow, Lee!”
Leah stops pulling his hair with a sob.
“I’ll take her with me and I’ll drop Robin off, pick Lucas up early, and we’ll come straight to the house.”
You falter.
The thought of you not trusting him hurts his stomach, but you say, “Steve, can you deal with that? She might not get any happier for a while.”
“Sure I can, you’ve had to do it a hundred times. I’m mostly patient. If she doesn’t calm down, I won’t yell–”
“I didn’t think you would.” You pout, wrinkling your nose. “You’d have to move the car seat–”
“Yeah, I got one.”
“You got a car seat?”
“Installed it last week. Jesus Christ, Leah, not the hair!” He reaches up to force her hand as gently as he can away from his scalp. “Baby, owwww. Not the hair.”
Leah shudders away to check he’s not angry. He can see it on her tiny face, the worry. He brings his hand to her cheek, finds his hand is too big, and has to rub her cheek with his thumb alone. “You wanna come with daddy to drop off your Aunt Robin?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Come with you,” she says, a crocodile tear rolling down her cheek.
“But mommy has to go home, is that okay?”
Leah shudders again. “Y’okay.”
“Okay. Give mommy a big kiss,” he says, repeating one of your favourite lines when it’s time for Steve to leave.
You get a kiss. You’re startled, he thinks, almost expressionless in how slack you’ve gone, but Steve smiles at you and you smile in turn. “You know how to do the car seat?” you ask.
“Sure. It’s got the two mechanisms, right? Her arm goes through each of the triangle strap thingys?”
“Yeah. Okay. Are you sure you can manage?”
“Are you okay with me taking her?”
You shrug. He can see why Leah does it as much as she does. “I guess I am. I mean, when we go home… like, you’ll have to have her for summers, I guess?” you ask, and you’re as beautiful as you usually are, the awkward twist of you and your tired eyes don’t touch it. You were beautiful when he walked into the sound room and found you in the loveseat, beautiful when you told him you’d stay for now without saying goodbye, beautiful when he spotted you across the parking lot with his surprise on your hip. You’ve always been beautiful. He knows you don’t feel strongly about your looks, but he does, and now you made his girl? And she looks so much like the two of you?
Steve stares at you, not even in hopes of any realisation, but he stares at you and thinks I cannot let this girl go back to Portland without me.
He doesn’t expect you to stay. All he needs is to beg a ride.
Because yes, Steve will become your awkward cling-on. He’ll find a shitty apartment close to you and he’ll build his life around Leah if that’s all he can have.
But it’s not everything he wants.
“You go take care of your mom, and we’ll meet you for dinner at 6? 6:15 at the latest?”
“Okie dokie.”
Steve rolls his eyes to stop from kissing your cheek. “Say see you later, mommy,” he tells Leah.
“See you later, mommy,” Leah says.
You use his shoulder as an anchor to kiss her cheek. He swears you rub his arm as you pull away, but Robin would call that delusional thinking. “See you soon, bug.”
He watches you walk away. Every step is perfect. “Your mom’s such a bombshell,” he murmurs, “holy sugar, she’s everything.” You turn over the top of the car and give him a wave, blowing Leah a kiss. He wants to catch it. He finger waves back.
Then he spins and finds Robin judging him hard.
It takes them twenty whole human minutes to figure out how to get Leah safely secured in her car seat. Then he spends four minutes framing her face in his hands and kissing her cheeks, enamoured beyond anything to see her in the bimmer. Robin laughs at how lame he is and he strokes a hair off of Leah’s forehead rather than feed into her ridicule. His baby laughs up a storm as he chucks her under the chin.
“Steve, I’m gonna starve!” Robin warns.
“Right, right!”
He kisses Leah’s small forehead and clambers out.
Robin talks a big talk, but she bends around in the passenger seat to chatter to Leah the whole way to her neighbourhood. “And then dad got us stuck on the side of the road! It was crazy! I told him we were in trouble and he kept laughing! But nothing is that funny, Leah, nothing. I think it’s ’cos your dad has a bunch of screws loose from that time he slipped on melted ice cream at work.”
“Don’t listen to her, Lee!” Steve protests, laughing at her rolling giggles.
“He busted his head! Luckily I saved him, because I am very very smart and I went to camp–”
“You went to Girl Scout’s sleep away camp, that’s not real camp! You were there for a week.”
“But they taught me what to do when your dingus gets a concussion,” Robin says, in her silky radio voice that Leah’s magnetised to. “And that’s why dad only looks a bit wonky, as opposed to a lot.”
“I’m not wonky, am I, Lee?” Steve asks, checking the rearview for her.
“Wonky?” she asks.
“Does daddy look wonky?”
“Mm,” she says.
“What! That is so mean! Baby, I thought you liked dad?”
She giggles and goes all shy. Robin, bless her clumsy, alternative, mixed-up huge heart, goes soft as taffy against the seat. “We don’t like him at all, do we?” she asks, reaching out to rub Leah’s arm. Steve nearly hits a curb trying to watch. “Stinky dad. You can be my girl instead, if mom wants to share. I don’t mind your Harrington blood.”
He drops Robin off, but her mom comes out and wants to meet Leah and that’s a whole thing. She’s squarely heartbroken when she first sees her, going, “Aw,” and “Oh,” as her eyes fill with tears.
“Mom!” Robin says.
“Sorry, but she’s beautiful. Well done, Stevie.”
He murmurs a Thank you, Mrs. Buckley and gets the usual It’s Melissa, Steve.
It takes another ten minutes to get Leah in the car after her quick trip. He heads straight for Lucas’ and finds him freaking out about the bouquet he got Max —Erica told him to put salt in the water to keep them fresh. Steve drives him to the florists ten minutes before they close and they end up with two smaller bunches combined into a vibrant hodgepodge.
Steve buys a handful of daisies for Leah, tucking one behind her ear.
Max likes her flowers, but she’s far more interested in the baby. Lucas stands behind her rubbing his mouth.
“She does look like you,” Max says thoughtfully.
“Right? She has my eyes.”
“Yeah.” Max leans into the car. “Hi, Steve’s baby,” she says quietly.
“This is your Aunt Max,” Steve says.
Leah, who has taken all these new aunts and uncles in her stride (or is too young to get what the hell is going on), offers Max a huge smile with her tiny baby teeth. “Hi Am’ Max,” she says.
Max grins despite herself. “Hi. Are you having a good day?”
“Yessss.”
“Yeah?” She glares at Steve momentarily before standing in front of him, like she’s annoyed he’s seen her being normal, like he doesn’t catch her in a good mood all the time. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to lie. Did you have dinner?”
“Max, I am perfectly capable of looking after her.”
“I’m just checking!” She shakes Leah’s hand nicely. “This party had enough boys,” she says.
Steve ruffles Max’s hair, unbound and bouncing behind her. He’s lucky he makes it to the car with his hand.
Steve sighs when they’re on the road to your place. “Okie dokie,” he says, clenching the steering wheel to listen to the leather creak, “let’s go see your mom. It’s only–” He checks his watch. Blinks big and wide. It’s 6:37PM already, and it’s a five minute drive to your side of Hawkins. “Oh, my god. You’re mom is gonna kill me dead.”
“Kill?”
“Kiss!” he says, cringing. “Yep, she’s gonna kiss me! No other words.”
“Y’okay.”
“Who taught you to say that so cutely?” he asks, fully stressed now, the tightness in his voice surprising a giggle out of Leah. “Stop laughing!”
She giggles worse.
He can’t be more anxious as he pulls up to the house. He climbs out of the car, grabs Leah from her car seat, and in his rush to get her home before you murder him, slams his head so hard into the roof of the car he sees stars.
“Oh, fuck,” he says, holding Leah to his chest as his vision fades out.
Your laugh sounds out from behind him. “Every parent has to do it, Steve, I’m sorry to say,” you call, jogging down the path to the car. “I was wondering where you guys went. It’s… Steve?”
He blinks hard as he stands up, his arms around Leah shaky as his head pounds and pounds and pounds. “Sorry,” he says.
“Steve, what’s wrong?” You rest your arm behind his shoulders to hold him. “Hey, are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”
He urges you to take Leah.
The pain is radiating from the centre of his skull outward, into each eye and down the nape of his neck. It’s such a sudden sharpness he loses his breath, spotty vision fading in and out as he curls into himself.
“Lee, can you go inside, baby?” he hears you ask. There are a few steps, your dark shadows on the ground drifting further away before one returns, all alone. “Steve, what happened? How hard did you hit your head?” you ask softly.
“It’s– I got that–” Every word pulls at the nausea brewing in his stomach. “I’m gonna–”
Steve gags. He aims for the grass. Everything goes white.
—
Steve does a valiant job of keeping himself upright long enough for you to sit him down inside, but after that, he’s useless.
“Okay, it’s okay,” you’re saying, a ringing in your ears you can’t cope with, “it’s alright, Steve, you’re okay. Come forward, honey, let me see–”
You aren’t sure he’s conscious, but he slumps forward regardless to expose the back of his head. You feel through his hair and pull your hand out quick to check for blood on your fingertips, but they come away clean.
“Daddy?” Leah asks, wandering into the living room with her little smile and a daisy drooping behind her ear.
“How was meemaw, bub?” you ask.
“Sleeping.”
“Why don’t you go snuggle with her for a minute? I’ll bring you a buppy?”
Leah hugs your leg from behind. “Buppy?”
“Yeah, do you want one?”
Leah shoots for the bedroom. You take her absence as an opportunity to pull Steve’s head up, meeting his droopy gaze. “Steve, baby,” you say, so softly it’d be a wonder if he could hear you, “are you okay?”
He groans. “Just a migraine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Feels like one.”
“You get them a lot?”
“More since you left.”
You swallow roughly. “I’m gonna call an ambulance.”
“No.” At that, he sits up, holds his own head up to plead, “You don’t have to. I’m fine, this just happens sometimes. After I hit my head at the mall, I get these killer migraines.”
“You hit your head, though. I think you have a concussion.”
“Not my first one.”
You hold his cheek in your hand. Your thumb brushes over his beauty marks. “No?” you ask.
“Had three.”
“You never told me.”
“I know. Didn’t want you to think I was– some loser? I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know why it was hard to be honest with you, guess I thought– it’s not like it’s ever done any good before. I always say the wrong thing.”
You get on your knees in front of him. To cope with the strain of looking up at him, but more to see him face to face. “Steve, you nearly yacked in my yard. I think we’re past appearances.”
Steve covers his mouth with a big hand.
You tuck as much of his hair behind his ears as you can. “Can you look at me? I want to check your pupils.”
He opens his eyes properly, pouring his gaze into yours without hesitation. You check the size of each pupil and find them normal, though the longer he looks, the bigger they become. “I think there’s something wrong, Steve. Your eyes are blown.”
“It’s fine. It’s not ‘cos I hit my head. It’s a headache.”
“You almost knocked yourself out. You’re throwing up. What if I don’t call the ambulance and Leah’s dad dies on my couch?”
“I don’t need an ambulance. I barely puked, it was all spit.”
“Steve.”
“I’m serious. I didn’t even go for the first two concussions, and the third one, they said this could happen. Turns out that taking a couple of bad knocks to the head makes you fragile, I’m fine.” He cups your cheek. “Jesus, don’t feel sorry for me–”
“I do feel sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Seconds of stringy silence follow. He squints at you through the pain. “It’s okay,” he says, his own thumb rubbing at your veins. “I’m sorry, too.”
You pull his hand off your face. Not without care.
“…Can I please call an ambulance?” you ask, uneasy.
“I don’t need one.”
“How do you know?” you whisper.
He turns his hand in your grip to hold yours. His eyes are brown and teary with pain, but they’re so familiar. “I just do. Can you trust me, please?”
You try to stand. Steve squeezes your hand in his and makes you sit on the couch beside him as his eyes shutter closed and his head tips back, the column of his throat there and pale and working as he swallows his pain. You stare at the length of it with your hand too hot in his grip, wondering when it’s acceptable to pull your hand away, and if you’d even want to when the time came.
You told me you didn’t want this, you think, your two joined hands rising and falling where he’s pulled them to his chest. You swear you can see his heart in his chest. The gentle bump-bump of it against skin. A miserable wife.
“Can I get you anything?”
He croaks a hum. “Mm, no.”
“Are you sure? I have aspirin.”
His fingers flex. “It’ll go away.”
“When?”
“It depends. It can take a few hours, sometimes, but I don’t get the worst of the pain for long.” His voice is hoarse with its quiet.
“The other times?”
“They can last for days.”
You’d seen the physical change in Steve. He went weak and sweaty in seconds. His nausea was obviously extreme. You can feel the tremor in his hand as he talks like every word spurs pain.
“It won’t, though,” he says. “Don’t worry. I need five minutes and I can make dinner.”
“Uh, no you can’t. You can sit right here until you feel better, thanks.”
He sinks impossibly further into your mom’s old couch. “Okay. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” You lower your tone. “I don’t mind. I’m sorry if you thought I would.”
“I didn’t mean to–”
“To what? Give yourself a concussion on the roof of the car? I gathered that.”
“Didn’t mean for it to become your problem,” he says.
“You’re not a problem, Steve. I promise.”
You fight for better judgement and lose, letting yourself caress a piece of hair away from his pale neck.
“I think I really screwed up,” he says. “Think I made out all the wrong things. You didn’t think you could tell me about the baby–”
“We don’t have to do this again–”
“Yeah, we do. We do. Because I made you think I wouldn’t want you. I lied to protect my ego and I could’ve had everything I wanted,” —his brow pulls tight and glared, his jaw rigid— “and I hurt you.”
“I hurt myself. You didn’t make me run away, Steve. I did it all alone. I’m good at that.”
“I don’t want you to be alone.”
“I don’t want you to live a life that you hate.”
“I don’t. I won’t. How could I ever hate anything about her?”
You have to give him that. But. “I didn’t tell you for a bunch of reasons, Steve,” you confess, hardly wanting to let it out. “I was scared of everything, you and your parents, making you into the reluctant husband, or– or at the least the reluctant father. I didn’t want to deal with it. And I didn’t wanna be that stupid girl who got knocked up by the prom king. I ran away and nobody had to know.”
“It wouldn’t have been like that.”
“I realise that now.”
His head lolls to see you. He pulls his lashes apart enough to peek through them, that dark hedging a line you’d like to count. You tip your head toward his and face him across the couch cushions, hands joined and hot as a hearth.
“It was never messing around, to me,” he says quietly. Sweat wets the hair at his temples.
“You don’t have to–”
“I got my heart stomped on pretty hard over and over and I stopped trying. I put all my cards on the table every time. But with you, I couldn’t do it again. I thought I couldn’t, so I acted less into you than I was.”
You remember all his kisses and tight armed hugs, his affectionate nudges, his nose lined to your temple as he bore down. It hadn’t felt like less. But you’d never thought it was more, either.
“I pretended we were this summer fling, told you I didn’t want kids, that I wanted to live in the city and get a full time job at a firm with a company car, like that stuff mattered.” He frowns at you deeply. “I’m sorry. I wish I could change it.”
His throat bobs.
“S’it still hurting?” you murmur.
“So much,” he murmurs too, holding your hand against his heart. “I can’t get it to stop.”
“I can’t do this with you.”
He shakes his head minutely. “M’not asking you for anything you can’t give me. I’m just sorry.”
You want him to lean in and align his mouth to yours. You imagine it vividly, the press and taste of him, the scratch of the stubble on his upper lip and his hand slipping behind your neck, squeezing your nape gently, his thumb at the hinge of your jaw trying to open your mouth. You want him so badly it’s a palpable ache in your teeth, like he’s already kissed you harsh and quick, that clack of a collision and the subsequent metallic on your tongue.
But you aren’t lying. You can’t do this.
A thudding noise echoes from your mom’s room, compelling you up and away from his warm touch. Your hand sings with pins and needles as it falls out of his.
“Lee?” you call. “Sorry. I have to go make sure she’s okay.”
He frowns again as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s fine. I’ll be here.”
—
The bedroom throw blankets haven’t changed since you were here last. Your mom didn’t waste much time turning it into a guest room, but the sheets and blankets are the same, soft with wear in your hands as you lay them out. Leah waits for you to finish before climbing into bed, her bottle teat bitten between her teeth. It slips out of her hand with a rush of air as she slips into the pillows. You pick it up and offer it to her again, your shoulders aflame with the weight of an uncommon gaze.
“What side do you sleep on?”
Steve, at half-mast but less obviously pained, takes his time answering.
“Left.”
“Left side’s all yours.”
He shuffles forward in a polo and a pair of his old sweatpants. You, in a horrible stroke of great luck, had them in the bottom of the chest of drawers.
“Make room for me?” he asks Leah.
She grins around her bottle.
You’re pretty sure that if Steve can’t open his eyes for more than ten seconds at a time, he can’t drive, and you don’t want him to fall asleep at home and never wake up. Hence your impromptu sleepover. The bed is a queen and you have a shared child as a buffer, but you’re already annoyed with yourself. Your arms keep remembering what it felt like to stretch out over him whenever he ended up on his front. It is not helpful.
You put the big light out and the nightlight on, a ladybug on a mushroom that glows a warm orange on Steve’s side of the room. In your own sweatpants and a vest, you climb into the right side of the bed and nearly fall straight back out at the lack of space.
Steve curls an arm around Leah tentatively, encouraging her into his side to make room for you.
“You okay?” he asks Leah quietly.
“You okay, daddy?” she asks.
“I’m fine, beautiful. I’m good.”
“Sleep?” she asks.
“With you, if that’s cool?”
“Cool,” she says decidedly.
When you lie down, Leah immediately rolls out of Steve’s grip and makes herself comfortable in the curves of you, her nose digging hard in your arm, the bottle warm on your chest.
“I’ll move her when she falls asleep,” you whisper, nodding to the foldout cot next to the bed with its padded interior.
Sleeping in the same bed as Steve Harrington is a long gone artefact of the past. It’s odd to be face to face with him, to smell him so close, the toothpaste on his breath and the salty, earthy sting of sweat mixed with allspice. You don’t strictly mind it, but you didn’t think you’d ever be this close again. It hurries the heart. You miss him like a slap.
Refusing to think on it is the best way forward.
“You sure you’re okay?” you ask him under your breath.
Leah suckles at her bottle, breaking the quiet, though it’s a monotone sort of sound. Steve doesn’t answer. You glance at him and find him dozing already, not a blanket over him nor a sheet untucked.
“Steve.”
He blinks to attention. “Huh?”
“Pull the blanket up over yourself.”
He must like your tone. You’d gone soft by accident, too used to lulling Leah to sleep via sweetness and dulcet murmuring. He kicks it down and then pulls it up to his ribs, a tight white parcel with the pink throw laid over his feet.
“It’ll be cold tonight. Does that make the migraines worse?” you ask.
“No. I’ll be okay.”
You let him fall asleep. Leah snuggles under your chin. This isn’t the daydream. You aren’t being cuddled and coddled by warm kisses along the side of your face, his big arm around you, your baby between you. Steve keeps a good distance and he’s exhausted.
Leah takes a lot longer to fall, but when she does it’s for keeps. You give her ten minutes tucked up on your chest but decide to move her when you feel your own eyes drifting shut. A rush of unnecessary shushing and a soft kiss later, you creep toward the bed and lay down on your side. Steve sleeps as your mirror, one cheek and eye hidden by the pillow, the sheets pulled haphazard over his hip. You yank them from under you and pull them up to cover him to the shoulder, tempted to tuck his hair behind his ear again. It’s long enough.
“Can feel you staring,” he whispers.
Your heart leaps in shock, though thankfully you don’t jump. “Hm?”
“Staring at me.”
“Trying to gauge whether you died in your sleep.”
“Still ‘live.”
You do reach for him, then, stricken by how badly you want to take care of him. “I can see that.”
He peeks down at your hand on his cheek and grins dopily. “Missed you,” he says.
“Missed you, too.”
You wouldn’t tell him if it weren’t dark, if he weren’t in pain.
“You did?” he asks.
“I always miss you,” you say. You pull your hand away like it’s him that’s said the wrong thing, annoyed at your own boldness, moving onto your back to stare at the ceiling.
He feels at your wrist, up your arm. Steve slides his palm over your stomach and holds it there. When you’re starting to think he might’ve fallen asleep again, your breath aching in your throat to be expelled, he presses down carefully and sighs. “I wish I got to see it. Don’t know why you were alone.”
“I wasn't.”
“Would’ve looked after you, though.”
“Steve…”
“I would’ve.”
“I know.” You know now. You could’ve stayed here and had him look after you, but it’s not what you wanted. “I wanted… more, than that.”
He stares at you across the pillows. Your breath catches as he brings his hand up to your cheek and encourages your head toward him, as he lifts himself up off the pillows to bear down over you.
“Do you still want that?” he asks.
You laugh, weak and weary. “Not when you’re concussed.”
He laughs in your face. It’s quiet to leave Leah sleeping, and to stop from hurting himself again, but it’s a genuine laugh of joy leaning over you. His hair falls in his face and he’s beautiful. All freckled and gold in the dim amber light sunning in from behind him.
“I am not concussed,” he says, leaning down.
You don’t kiss. Won’t lift your lips to his where he waits, though waiting might not be the right word. It’s like he’s alright with anything you’re about to do, or not do, sharing your breath.
“I don’t believe you,” you tease lightly.
He’s moved so much to be over you. It is unquestionably the position of a man who’s going to kiss you.
You press your forehead to his chin.
“We should sleep,” you say, because you shouldn’t kiss.
Portland feels very, very far away as he trails his fingers down the front of you and takes a handful of your hip.
“I’m not concussed,” he says, though it’s not asking for anything; Steve’s already pulling away. He sits up and slightly away from you, rubbing a wave into your abdomen lovingly, like you never went to Portland at all. Like it’s the sleepover after a night spent kissing slow and watching shit TV. “Get some sleep, angel,” he adds, so quietly you’d doubt he spoke if you hadn’t watched his mouth shape the words.
—
In the morning, you wake to find Leah chest to chest with Steve, his hair like water on your pillows.
“An’ my hand an’ my nose as my mouth,” she says factually.
“And your ears,” he says back to her quietly, stroking a path from her shoulders to her lower back and up again. “Your eyebrows, and your hair, and your neck.”
“Yeah.”
“Your tummy, and your legs, and your little toes.”
“Am’ my toes,” she says.
“Even your toes are pretty,” Steve agrees. “‘Cos duh. Leah’s the prettiest girl I ever met, right?” His voice drops low enough to rattle hoarsely. “Just as pretty as mommy. I didn’t know that was possible.”
You hide your face in the pillows, pretending to sleep.
This is not going to go how you’d first thought.
—
thank you for reading!! so excited I love steve and I know he could be bitchier and angrier here but I’ve decided to make him whipped instead cos he’s cute when he’s in love and if it’s not implied enough he’s still whipped for the reader lol. hope you enjoyed it thank you very much for reading and taking the time
summary: you're steve's “bitchy” step-sister and are spending the summer in hawkins; eddie is steve's annoying best friend who you can’t seem to shake, but things take a sharp turn when you find yourself sneaking around and ultimately falling for him
contains: slightly enemies to lovers trope, drug and alcohol use, smoking, secret relationship vibes, tension, and eddie being a certified tease <3
word count: 7k
chapter song: foxey lady x jimi hendrix
| next part |
| series masterlist | their mixtape I -main masterlist- I
Eddie hates summer.
Most people hate summer due to boredom, but if Eddie’s being honest, he’s never been bored a day in his life— Eddie can make staring at the wall a fun game if he wants to— so, no, Eddie doesn’t hate summer because of boredom. Eddie hates summer because it’s so fucking hot. It’s hot, and the sun is always out, and Eddie burns like fucking bacon in an oven— and it doesn’t help that over half of Eddie’s wardrobe is the color black. Do you know how hard it is to be a metalhead with long hair and black jeans in the middle of a summer heatwave? It’s hard.
Now, you would think that with this knowledge of his undying hate for the heat, Eddie would do everything in his power to stay out of it— except Eddie’s friend is kind of a picturesque summer lover boy and drags Eddie everywhere with him no matter how intense satan’s wrath feels that day. So now, Eddie sits in the airport carpool lane, nearly drowning in his sweat as he waits for Steve’s step-sister to get off the plane.
“I just don’t understand why you couldn’t ask Robin to come with you,” Eddie grumbles as he tugs the front of his black muscle tee open and shut in a fanning manner. It doesn’t do much to cool him down, considering the dry heat that’s settled over Hawkins. Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever been this hot in his life if he’s being honest.
Steve rolls his eyes, watching people filter out of the airport, dragging luggage behind them as they spot their rides. Steve doesn’t bother looking Eddie’s way when he responds, “I already told you— Robin’s been too busy shoving her tongue down her girlfriend's throat all summer,” he grimaces, “Plus, I know my step-sister, and I know she has at least three suitcases— all of which will fit perfectly in your van.”
Eddie’s the one to roll his eyes now, irritation settling in his bones as the seconds pass like minutes. “Asshole,” Eddie mumbles as he shifts in his seat. He’s sticky everywhere. Sticky, wet, and gross, and he’s sweating in places that he’s almost one hundred percent sure shouldn’t be sweating. He huffs as he turns his attention to the exit of the airport, eyes scanning through different people as he asks, “...Well, what’s she look like anyway?”
Steve scoffs, “You’ll know it’s her when you see her. Just look for a girl that looks like she came straight out of a Baywatch episode.”
Eddie thinks for a moment, brows furrowing before he speaks, “So… someone hot?”
Steve grimaces and turns to Eddie, “Ew. Gross, dude, no— that’s my sister—” “Step-sister.”
Steve shakes his head and turns back to people watching, “She’s from California, pervert. I meant look for someone who looks like an asshole from California.”
Eddie’s not sure why Steve would ever decide to associate Baywatch with anything other than hot, sun-bathed babes, but Eddie’s too irritated with the heat to argue his point and instead nods his head in understanding.
“She’s probably wearing heels, and she’s probably in some over-the-top girly outfit— and again, she’s probably lugging at least three suitcases.” Steve further explains.
Eddie nods and purses his lips. “So…” he pauses and thinks for a moment, “Malibu Barbie?”
Steve snaps his fingers and points to Eddie as he glances at him, “Exactly. And forewarning— she’s a total bitch.”
Eddie nods, lips pursed as he takes the information in. Eddie scans the crowd of people for some time, growing frustrated when he finds no sign of a bitchy-looking Malibu Barbie running around Hawkins, but then…
It’s as if a cool breeze drifts through the devil’s heat, and Eddie feels something other than absolute dread when the airport's sliding doors open and out steps a girl that fits the very description Steve had just given— only, you’re even better in real life.
Eddie swears time slows down when he sees you— pretty, glowy skin glistening in the summer sun, the light wash jean skirt you’re wearing is hugging your waist sinfully, leaving little to nothing for Eddie’s imagination as his eyes travel down your legs. Soft, shiny, perfect legs with doughy thighs that Eddie thinks would make his brain short-circuit if he ever got the chance to feel them.
Eddie’s mouth may as well become a fountain with the way it fills with spit at the sight of your soft tummy, peeking out from the tiny sliver your top leaves— god, is that a fucking belly ring? Your shirt hugs your tits in an ungodly way— well enough to make Eddie stir within his pants because, seriously, how do they look so perfect? Eddie thinks you’ve come straight out of one of the porno magazines he’s got stuffed in his junk drawer.
You’re a dream. Dreamtime fucking central.
Sex on legs or whatever they say— Eddie doesn’t know; he just knows you’re really fucking hot, and you’re about to get into his disgusting, old, and dirty van.
Eddie’s hand nearly caves Steve’s chest in when he smacks his friend, “Dude,” his face twists in disbelief, “Why didn’t you tell me she’s like—” “Jesus Christ, Eddie, do not tell me you think my step-sister is hot.” Steve groans as he rolls his head on his neck.
“But she is!” Eddie exclaims.
“Well, she’s off limits,” Steve quickly shuts the idea down, "For everybody in this town, especially you.” He points an accusing finger at Eddie, and Eddie can’t help the way his eyes roll. What could Eddie possibly do to somebody like you? As if you would even give him a chance.
“Plus, I’m pretty sure she’s dating some douchebag quarterback from her school. She’s got a new boyfriend every time she comes home.” Steve grumbles— which immediately confirms it; you would never give Eddie, someone who has never willingly touched any set of balls other than his own, the time of day.
That doesn’t mean Eddie can’t admit you’re drop-dead gorgeous, though. Because you are. And Eddie kind of forgets what he’s doing here in the first place until Steve unbuckles himself and gets out, and Eddie remembers— oh yeah, I’m here to pick up this extremely hot girl in my extremely run-down van.
Whatever.
Eddie will live, he thinks. He unbuckles and gets out of the van, rounding the front of his van to step onto the sidewalk, where Steve calls your name and grabs your attention. You spot them immediately, your expression unreadable as you wave a flight attendant over to follow you. And yeah, that’s more than three suitcases being pushed behind you.
You glance at Eddie when you get closer, your cute little kitten heels clicking against the cement floor— who wears heels to the airport?
“This is disgusting.” You say as you gesture to the air. And Eddie couldn’t agree more. This heat is disgusting, and he couldn’t imagine being in it with heels.
Steve hums, “Welcome back to paradise.”
You roll your eyes, handing your carry-on to Steve. Steve grunts at the weight of it, glaring at you as he stumbles from your force, “Did you fucking move out?” he stresses when he sees the cart of suitcases behind you. You grimace, “Like I would ever move here. Where’s your car?”
You don’t acknowledge Eddie as you glance around, and Eddie’s honestly too stunned to speak— and is that your perfume he’s smelling? Jesus Christ, Eddie wants to fall to his knees right here on this cracked pavement.
Steve rolls his eyes at your response and turns to open the back doors of the van, “My car wouldn’t be able to hold your fifty suitcases, so I came prepared,” he throws a fake smile as he tosses your bag in, ignoring your warning to, “Be careful with my stuff, asshole.”
Steve waves you off before he gestures lazily to Eddie, “This is my friend, Eddie, by the way.”
And for the first time, you look at Eddie. It’s then that Eddie’s bodily autonomy finally comes back, and he remembers that he has control over his limbs. He waves, tossing out a lazy hey as he opens the back doors of his van, “Heard tons about you,” he grunts as he loads in another suitcase.
You huff as you cross your arms, “I doubt it.”
Eddie huffs out a laugh, “Yeah, not much.” He admits. “But when I heard Malibu Barbie was coming into town, I knew I had to see her for myself.” He winks.
You grimace, rolling your eyes with a groan, “Gross.” You grumble before yanking the side doors open and stepping in.
Eddie can’t help but smile as he finishes loading your suitcases.
Steve had run off somewhere to find an ATM; something about needing to tip the attendant who helped you with your luggage, so it’s only you and Eddie in the van when Eddie hops back into the driver's seat.
It’s silent for a moment, achingly so, and Eddie takes it upon himself to turn the radio on, forgetting that the volume had been amped to the highest level. The music blares through his speakers— nearly blows them out— and Eddie almost jumps out of his seat as he scrambles to reduce the volume, awkwardly laughing as he glances back at you and speaks, “Sorry about that…”
You don’t say anything. Instead, you stay seated, arms crossed over your chest, legs crossed, and your glossed lips pouted in boredom. Eddie turns back to the front, the radio now a soft hum as he taps his decorated fingers on the steering wheel. He purses his lips briefly, his skin itching because Eddie has never done well with silence, so— “You listen to Iron Maiden?” He asks.
“No.” You flatly respond.
Your tone is dull and bored, and Eddie nods again as if it softens the blow. Eddie avoids opening his mouth again, too afraid that whatever comes out will just piss you off even more, so he keeps quiet. But he can’t help it when his gaze flickers up to find you in his rearview mirror, watching as you huff and gaze out the window.
It’s silent for a few long, crippling minutes before you speak, “Does this thing not have AC?”
Eddie purses his lips, fingertips tapping against his thigh as he shrugs, “Just takes a second.”
You huff, crossing your arms over your chest as you mumble, “Course it does.”
Eddie lets it fall silent for a moment again, but Eddie’s never been one to like silence, so— “How’s college?”
“Do you usually talk this much?” You suddenly ask, tilting your head and narrowing your eyes at him. Eddie snorts, glancing around the airport for any sign of Steve, and he responds, “No, actually, I usually talk more than this. Wait ‘til you get me going about D&D.” He scoffs.
Your face twists in confusion, “D&D?”
Eddie waits for a moment before turning to gaze at you. You look at him, an unwavering expression plastered across your face as you wait for Eddie to speak.
“…You don’t know what Dungeons and Dragons is?”
You blink at Eddie, definitely contemplating if you could catch a flight back home before you respond, “Am I supposed to?”
Eddie shrugs, “Well, I mean, it’s only like the greatest game to ever fucking exist.” He stresses.
You roll your eyes and softly groan in disgust, “Ew. If you’re about to nerd out on me, I’d rather walk home in the heat.” You grimace.
And Eddie pauses, contemplating the amount of damage he’ll do if he continues to ramble about his favorite game— then he’ll really have zero chance with you, that’s for sure. But it’s not like he ever had one in the first place, right?
Eddie turns back around, watching as people bustle around the airport. “Do you like games?” He can’t help but ask.
You take a slow and long breath, gathering your patience before you reply, “I can’t remember the last time I played a game, so no.”
Eddie’s face twists in concern, “What do you do for fun?” He glances in the mirror, watching as you gaze out the window.
You shrug, watching people as you speak, “Spend my dad’s money.”
Eddie lets it fall silent for a moment, a few responses rolling around in his head before you roll your eyes and speak again, “It was a joke. I’m not a spoiled brat.”
“Oh,” Eddie awkwardly laughs before glancing at you. “Well, the heels and cart full of suitcases didn’t exactly sell a ‘humble woman’ picture.”
You laugh then, “I didn’t say I was humble; I said I’m not a spoiled brat.”
“What’s the difference?”
“There’s a difference.” You mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. Eddie thinks it’s cute, the way you get flustered by his smart mouth. He wonders how much he can push and prod before you explode.
But before he can respond, Steve is swinging the passenger door open and hoping in, glaring back at you when he speaks, “Next time you come here— and god forbid you do— maybe try to keep the bags to a minimum of two. I just tipped that dude a hundred bucks.” He complains.
You teasingly coo at your step-brother, “Poor Stevie, having to use my dad’s money to pay for things.”
Eddie snorts at that, earning Steve's glare, which quickly directs Eddie’s attention to pull out of the airport. Steve settles in his seat, ignoring your annoyed mood as he grumbles, “Told you she’s an asshole.”
“Not bigger than yours.” You quickly whip back.
Eddie can’t help but chuckle. So, the princess does have humor.
The house is quiet, something you hadn’t expected given how obnoxious Steve is, though you don’t take it for granted as you flip through a magazine and let the TV play in the back.
You don’t like coming into town, you never have. It’s dull and dreary in Hawkins, and you’re not quite sure why your father would give up the sunny California weather for this. Conservative townies that grow and die here— that’s all this town has to offer.
But there’s no point in complaining; you’re stuck here for the whole summer; otherwise, your dad will stop paying for your school. So, you do what you can to take your mind off of it, which includes drifting through magazines and wasting away with shitty TV shows.
Your stepmother has been home from work for nearly an hour, but you hardly give her complete sentences, so she made herself scarce. Her son, however, doesn’t get the memo as he bursts into the room. You say nothing, eyeing him as he sits on the opposite side of the couch and puts on his shoes.
“Get up, we’re going out.”
You train your eyes back on the magazine in your hands as you boredly mumble, “Not interested.”
Steve hums in annoyance as he shoves his right foot into a shoe, “Mom said I have to include you in shit, and I’m not in the mood to get bitched at for your shitty mood, so— get up, we’re going out.” He repeats before standing up to place his hands on his hips and look at you. You glare at him from behind the magazine before closing it, folding it over your stomach as you tilt your head, “And where exactly are we going? I can’t imagine there’s anything fun in this town— at least none that you would know of.” You jeer.
Steve sneers at you, stepping forward to dig the toe of his shoe into your shin, earning an annoyed kick from you. You swat at him with the magazine, striking him and earning a few curse words as Steve rips it from you and tosses it on the coffee table. He huffs as he turns to you with a huff, “Eddie’s band is playing tonight.”
And that’s rich. It’s incredibly bold of Steve to believe you would ever willingly submit yourself to hear his weird, gross friend spit out nonsense into a mic. As if you hadn’t had enough of them two on the drive here. You scoff, leaning forward to grab your now crinkled magazine before laying back on the couch with a scoff, “Absolutely not.”
Steve snatches the magazine yet again, tossing it onto the opposite side of the couch as he glares down at you, “Too bad.” He snaps, stepping over your legs and walking over to the front door, “I’m leaving in ten,” he grabs his keys off the mantle, “Be ready, or I’ll drag you out myself.”
You watch him walk out with a slam of the door, a refusal dancing on your tongue. And Steve is, in no way, your boss. You’ll cut off your limbs before you let Steve boss you around— but fuck. If his mom is this hellbent on you two spending time together, you’re sure she’ll throw a fit at your refusal, which will ultimately end up being your dad’s problem, and he won’t hesitate to cut you off money-wise. So, with a dramatic huff and an undeniable reluctance, you stomp up to your room and get dressed.
The bar is exactly what you’d imagined— loud, grungy, and somewhere you would never be caught dead in. Yet, here you stand, arms crossed with a tabletop dogging into your lower back and a scowl etched across your face.
The smell of sweat, liquor, and cigarettes wraps around you like a dusty old jacket, sticky floors snapping beneath your shoes with every move you make. The walls are covered in graffiti, posters, and old stickers, and the crowd is primarily full of ripped denim, fishnets, and loud groups of friends.
It's not your scene.
Though you can’t seem to stop watching.
It’s like a movie. Something is happening in every corner of the place, with loud music blaring through the speakers and dancing lights kissing the grimy space. It’s chaotic. It’s noisy and dirty. And you feel so… misplaced.
Your outfit isn’t screaming country club, but it surely isn’t screaming anything close to this.
Steve brought a few other friends along, none of whom you care to learn the names of or attempt to hold a conversation with. You’re too busy trying to ignore the intense burning sensation of smoke in your eyes.
“So, how long are you in town for?”
You glance over at the girl; you think her name is Robin, and shrug, “Unfortunately, the whole summer.” You sigh.
Robin hums, lips pursing in an apologetic look, “Bummer. Can’t imagine giving up a Californian summer for Hawkins.”
You huff, something like a grim smile splitting your lips, “Wasn’t exactly my choice, but,” you shrug again, “No point in crying now.”
Robin raises her glass to that and takes a sip, allowing you to turn back to gaze about the room. You catch a few people headbanging near the stage, smiling as they enjoy the music pouring through the speakers. After a few moments, you lean into Robin. “Is it always this… rowdy?” you ask.
Robin follows your eyes to the group of friends by the stage and smiles, “This place was a shit hole a few years back, actually. Wasn’t much of anything, but Corroded Coffin brings some traction and, well, their music is pretty intense, just like their listeners.”
Your face twists in confusion then, “Corroded Coffin?”
Robin smiles with a nod, “Yeah, Eddie’s band.”
You nod and drag in a breath, diverting your attention back to the stage. So these people listen to Eddie’s music, or at least music similar to Eddie’s. You find yourself annoyingly intrigued.
You gaze at the empty stage that awaits the band, and you hardly realize your mind has wandered as you begin to wonder what kind of show Eddie’s band will put on. Are they any good? You doubt it, honestly— you’re two minutes from a headache already.
You’re not left wondering for long before the boys step onto the stage— four of them, all incredibly different in style yet cohesive in presentation.
The lights shift, reds and blues pouring over the stage as the band takes their place, adjusting instruments and whatnot. You recognize Eddie immediately as he steps up to the mic, testing it for feedback.
He looks different up there. He looks like he belongs. Like this is his place, where he’s meant to be. The messy hair that you’d wrinkled your nose towards at the airport fits perfectly beneath the dim, flashing lights. His tattoos almost look as if they’re on display, like this is an art museum, and he is presenting the art on himself, there on the stage beneath the red hues.
He’s wearing a worn-out band tee with a name you don’t recognize, the sleeves cut off, and the sides ripped open just enough to be irritating. You can see his muscles working beneath his skin, tensing and relaxing as he moves about. He adjusts the mic, entirely at ease, like he’s done this a thousand times before.
He greets the small crowd, humble with the low rumble of his voice, and beside you, Robin hollers out a small cheer that makes you jump— you’d been so lost in watching everyone that you’d almost forgotten you weren’t here alone.
His eyes drift towards the back where you are seated with Steve and his friends, mumbling a low thank you to Robin in the mic before his eyes dance a little to her left, and he meets yours. It’s only for a second before he looks away, and you find yourself relieved not to have been caught in that situation as he glances down at the guitar slung across his body, skilled fingers working the tuning pegs.
And then he smiles to himself.
It’s lazy and confident, the kind of smile that says I know you’re watching.
Your teeth dig into your tongue, your gaze immediately snapping away as if you’ve been caught looking at something you shouldn’t have been looking at.
And as if he knew you were grappling with your resolve and only aimed to torment you more, the first note crashes through the speaker, and the show begins.
It’s loud and raw. Nowhere close to the polished music you listen to, but despite your innate desire to hate everything about it— the rowdy crowd, the thrumming of bass on your chest, the chaos of it all— you only find yourself fascinated more than anything.
You sneak a few glances at Eddie every now and then. Quick ones that you will, later on, string together in your mind to create a stop-motion picture. He’s lost in it. He sings like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do besides breathing. His fingers fly over the fret of his guitar like he was born with it in his hands— and he works the stage like it’s nothing. He owns every inch of this room whether you like it or not— and the scary part is… you don’t seem to dislike it.
And as if that isn’t bad enough, Eddie keeps looking at you.
At every glance, no matter how little or discreet you try to be, Eddie’s eyes always find yours first. As if they never left. And in between songs, when he’s changing the tuning of his instrument or addressing the crowd, his eyes drift off towards the back and onto you, lingering long enough for you to feel it.
And you refuse to react. You know what this is. You know what he’s doing, teasing and provoking your disdain for this night, and you won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you crack.
After what feels like an eternity, the set ends. The bar erupts in applause, hoots, and hollers, and the band thanks them all as they hop down from the stage.
You stay glued to your seat, untouched drink resting on the table beside you as you watch Eddie and his band pack up the stage. You lose interest after some time, eyes going back to watching the different scenes of the room. And you had been so focused on everything around you that you didn’t even notice the curly-headed boy make his way up to you.
“Didn’t peg you for a metal fan, princess.”
You look at him, the devilish smirk on his face as he drags a barstool next to you and swings a leg over— invading your space. You can feel how warm he is, seeping through your clothes and penetrating your very soul as you wonder if he knows the concept of personal space.
“I’m not.” You boredly reply.
His brows raise for a split moment, taunting just like his voice as he asks, “No?”
“No.”
“And yet here you are.” He gestures to the dingy bar.
You scoff out a humorless laugh, “Not by choice.”
Eddie grins, shifting on the barstool to let his legs hang more open. You look— just for a second. The thickness of his thighs, the way they strain against his jeans. Stupid. You snap your gaze away before he can notice.
Eddie snags your drink without asking. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.” He says, briefly sniffing the drink before deciding it’ll do. His lips press right over the stain of your lipstick. You know he notices.
Your stomach tenses, but your expression never falters from neutral as you watch him toss the drink back. He drags his pink tongue between his lips, savoring the taste.
The sight is infuriating.
“Take drugs before your little show?” You ask, voice dry.
Eddie hums, snapping his tongue at the taste of your drink before pointing a finger at you matter-of-factly, “I did, actually.”
You condescendingly coo, “Must explain your hallucinations then.”
Eddie chuckles, slow and lazy, as if he expected that response. He shifts on the barstool, taking his time to think, swirling his finger around the rim of the glass a few times before tilting his head toward you, “No one’s gonna, like, lose it if you say you liked the show, you know?” He points out.
Your jaw tightens.
“I mean,” he continues, “given the few precious hours I’ve gotten to know you,” he places a faux-heartfelt hand over his chest, leaning in like he’s making some grand confession, “I don’t think you’d waste a second being somewhere you don’t want to be.”
You grimace at his theatrical performance. But the worst part?
He’s not wrong.
You hate wasting your time, and you don’t put yourself in situations you can’t stand. But did you really have a choice tonight? Not when Steve’s mom is at home, probably working out a million ways to make your life a living hell by forcing you to spend time with her perfect son.
You shrug, playing it off, “Again, not by choice.”
Eddie hums, clicking his tongue as he shakes his head, “Everyone has a choice, princess.” He lulls, slowly letting a lopsided grin split across his lips when he looks at you.
The heat that pricks at the base of your neck is aggravating. Not from embarrassment— from irritation. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself. And you thank god the lights in here are dim because, god forbid, Eddie sees any physical evidence of his effect on you.
He’d probably misconstrue it and think you liked him.
You ignore him, “Don’t call me that.”
Eddie hums, tilting his head like he didn’t hear you, “What? Princess?”
“Yes.”
He purses his lips briefly, considering, before grinning again, “Would you rather be called Barbie— because those are my top names for you, doll.” He offers.
Your stomach churns at the thought.
You visibly cringe then, looking at him as you make a sound of disgust, “Neither.”
Eddie gives shrugs, “Why not? It fits you.”
You roll your eyes, unable to keep the annoyed look off your face, “Because it’s annoying.”
“So are you.”
You freeze.
Your eyes snap to him, glaring and hot. He’s smirking around the rim of your glass before tipping back the rest of the drink like it’s his.
“Excuse me?” You bite out.
Eddie puts the empty glass down and slides off the barstool with a deep sigh, swinging it back over to the table he’d stolen it from before throwing a wink your way, “Thanks for coming to the show, princess.”
And as he walks away, leaving you steaming, you realize—
This is going to be your entire summer.
The first weeks of summer are miserable.
A thick and relentless heatwave has settled over Hawkins, turning every breath into a chore. It clings to you, wrapping around your bones from the second you wake up to the moment you rest your head on your pillow again. It makes every movement exhausting.
You spend most of your days sitting in front of a fan, dreaming about California— the cool ocean breeze, the lack of mosquitoes, the ability to breathe without suffocating.
When the sun begins to dip behind the trees, you escape to the backyard, wasting hours by the pool, dangling your legs in the water, relaxing in the few hours of cool air the evening brings you
At night, you run up the phone bill, flipping onto your back and spending hours talking to friends from school, twirling the cord around your fingers, your friend's voices drifting through the static. You talk about everything— who’s dating who, what parties you’re missing, how much you want to be anywhere but here.
Inevitably and routinely, Steve ruins it.
He always does.
“Shut up!” He yells from the intercepted line, “Some of us actually want to sleep!”
You roll your eyes, pressing the phone harder against your ear. You don’t shut up, and you don’t ever plan on it.
Steve isn’t the only problem this summer, though.
No— he’s not even the worst one.
Because for the first time in the history of knowing Steve, he is not the leading cause of your headaches.
That honor belongs to Eddie Munson.
Eddie is obnoxiously, disgustingly everywhere.
And you don’t know why.
You’re not sure what path of destruction Steve has chosen, but suddenly, Eddie is constantly in your house.
It’s like some rotting, stoner apocalypse has overtaken the upstairs— video games blaring, pantry raids, the distinct smell of weed they air out through Steve’s window— it’s twenty-four seven.
And no matter what you do or where you go, Eddie makes sure you know he’s there.
— As you walk past Steve’s room:
“Bring up a soda when you come back, princess!”
“No!”
“Worth a shot.”
— Late at night, when you’re sneakily digging through your stepmother’s stash of chocolate:
“Don’t you get tired of having to match all of your pajamas? I’ve never seen you in regular shorts and t-shirts.”
“Don’t you get tired of wearing that ratty old t-shirt every day?”
Eddie grins, “You noticed. Cute.”
— Or in the backseat of Steve’s car as he drives you to a friend's house:
“You look good today, special occasion?”
“Stop trying to hit on me. Steve, tell your friend to stop hitting on me.”
Steve rolls his eyes as Eddie responds, “I think you like it.”
“It kills me inside a little, honestly.”
“God, that’s so hot.”
“Gross.”
It’s constant.
It’s guaranteed at this rate that if Eddie is in the vicinity, he’ll find a way to get on your nerves. And the most annoying part of it all is you feel something. There in the pit of your stomach, or sometimes your chest.
You think it might be early onset asthma from the amount of secondhand smoke you’ve had to endure around him.
That being said, since you’ve spent the past few weeks growing used to Eddie’s constant presence, you can’t help but notice how he has yet to bother you at the bonfire Steve has dragged you to— another courtesy of his darling mother.
You hadn’t seen much of Eddie all night, only at the start of the evening when he had first arrived. And with Eddie and Steve being your only ‘friends’ here and the former having gone missing, you’re kind of pissed when Steve says he’s going off to be with some girl for the night.
“Why can’t you drop me off at home now?” You frown as you storm after your stepbrother. Steve groans, “Because it’s a total boner killer— oh, sorry, I just have to drop off my sister at home real quick,” he mockingly says before cringing, “Are you kidding me? No.” He scoffs.
You’re the one to groan now, stomping after him as he weaves through the cars parked on the hill in front of the lake— “You can’t just leave me here, Steve!” You stress as Steve makes it to his car, which is already occupied by a girl in the passenger seat as she waits for him.
Steve glances at you, “Would you relax? I’m not leaving you stranded; I’ll be gone for an hour— maybe two.” He rolls his eyes when you dramatically groan. “Look, just talk to someone to pass the time. And if you really want to leave, find Eddie.” He shrugs before opening his door.
“I haven’t even seen him all night.” You point out, to which Steve just shrugs again before pointing over your shoulder, “Couldn’t have gone far if his van is still here.”
And sure enough, when you glance over your shoulder, Eddie’s van is parked just a few cars down. You turn back to plead for Steve to take you home but are disappointed to see him already in his car, waving a taunting hand in farewell as he backs out.
Then you’re stranded. You’re stuck, all by yourself, at a bonfire you could care less about with people you don’t even know.
And you miss home more than you can afford to admit.
You find yourself walking towards Eddie’s van, leaves crunching beneath your feet as you grumble your way to the front of the car. Given the height of the vehicle, it's hard, but you manage to climb your way up onto the van's hood, cool metal pressing against your thighs as you settle on it.
You’re hardly paying attention when Eddie walks up, too busy plotting ways to escape back to your home when he clears his throat. You look up, catching his gaze as he walks up to the front of the van, tilting his head in question as he looks at you perched upon his car.
“Didn’t know you’re so eager to see me, doll.” He smirks.
You roll your eyes, glancing away at the distant flicker of fire, “Don’t flatter yourself; Steve left me stranded here, so I need a ride home.” You grumble at the last part, glaring at him when he hums.
Eddie grins, walking closer until he can turn and rest against the car's grille, “Left you with good company then.” He teases as he digs out a cigarette from his pocket.
You roll your eyes, ignoring the heat of his body seeping into the skin of your leg. “I’d beg to differ.”
He snickers, pearly teeth peeking out behind his grin as he sticks the cigarette between his lips. You watch him light the end of the stick, thin trails of smoke leaving the side of his mouth before he pulls in one quick drag.
He exhales, a cloud of smoke wrapping around you both as he glances at you, shifting with a deep sigh before he speaks, “So,” he starts, “What’s it like? The whole college thing.”
You think for a moment, glancing at the bonfire some yards away before you shrug, kicking your heel again, “Fast. Loud. Always something going on.” You briefly reply.
Eddie hums as he takes another drag, “Sounds awful.”
You huff a small laugh, “Yeah, you’d hate it.” You agree— which is true. Most days, you hate it, too.
You nudge him with your foot, suppressing a grin when he nudges you back as you ask, “What about you?”
Eddie snorts, “M’not in college, princess.”
You roll your eyes, “I know that,” you dismiss, “I meant, like… Do you ever plan on leaving this place?”
Eddie hesitates momentarily, distracting himself with his cigarette before he shrugs, “Nah.”
You suspect he’s lying, but he doesn’t give you a chance to pry before he speaks up, “You ever smoked before?”
Your lips curl in disgust, “No. Gross habit.” You grumble.
Eddie glances at you, raising an eyebrow as he takes a drag. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” he says, plucking the cigarette from his lips and raising it to you. “Go ahead, princess. Let’s see what you’re made of, " he challenges.
Your face twists in disgust as you glare at the burning paper between his fingers, “No thanks.”
Eddie hums, tilting his head tauntingly, “Scared?” He teases.
“No.” You snap.
He wiggles the cigarette at you, “Then take a hit.” He says with a teasing lilt to his voice.
You glare down at him, eyes slightly narrowed— and it’s so stupid. You know Eddie is only doing this as some silly way of provoking you. You know he wants you to do the predictable thing, which is snap back with some witty remark, but as you look at the curly-haired boy smirking up at you with that dark glint in his eye, you know there’s only one thing you have to do.
You take the cigarette.
“Fine.” You grumble.
Eddie raises a brow as he turns to face you. He now stands before you, watching you turn the burning paper between your fingers. “Pointers?” You ask.
Eddie’s lips twitch in a smirk, boots crunching against the leaves as he steps closer, the chain on his pants brushing against your ankle. “Don’t cough and embarrass yourself.” He teases, to which you roll your eyes, “Helpful.” You mutter.
He grins as he cages you in, one palm pressed to the hood of the car as the other gestures to the unlit end of the cigarette, “Lips here and just inhale slow; don’t overthink it.”
You nod, gazing at the cigarette before you shrug and bring it to your lips with not much of a mental preparation— because how hard can it be to smoke a cigarette? Apparently, it’s hard— because one moment you’re breathing just fine, and the next you’re coughing up a lung on Eddie Munson’s car hood.
You cringe, coughing violently as your eyes well up with tears. “Shit—” you hold up the cigarette with a grimace, “People actually like this stuff?” You question with a groggy voice, coughs still sputtering up from your chest. Eddie laughs, a real, guttural laugh, as he takes his gift from you, “Good, right?” He asks.
You shake your head, eyes wild, as you look at him. “No! Not at all, " you stress. “I won’t be trying that again.” You shake your head, watching as he takes a drag, lips pulled into a smirk as he looks at you.
He blows the smoke off to the side, still gazing up at you as he jokes, “You’re already halfway to a badass reputation, princess.”
You roll your eyes, pressing your palms onto the car hood as you slightly lean forward, your body slowly relaxing after having nearly lost a lung. “Right, because sharing a cigarette with a guy like you in the middle of a shitty bonfire is exactly how I pictured my future as a child.”
Eddie rolls his tongue behind his cheek for a moment, his lips twitching with something like a lazy smile before he asks, “A guy like me?”
You hum in confirmation, and he slightly narrows his eyes. “What does that look like?” He asks.
Your eyes dance, something charged dancing between you both that you, upon weak judgment, decide to ignore.
“Reckless. Irresponsible. Cocky.” You list off.
Eddie hums, feigning understanding, “Bad company for a girl like you, I assume?” He prods.
And you don’t have to ask what he thinks you are before you nod, “Absolutely.”
It falls silent momentarily, that charged sensation thickening between you both. And maybe you hadn’t been aware of it; perhaps you had been so wrapped up in the conversation, but you’re not exactly sure when Eddie’s hands had gotten so close to yours.
You can feel his warmth; right there, just inches away for you to grasp and sink your palms into. His calloused fingertips are ghostly sensations against your soft knuckles, daring you to inch forward and just touch him. The space between your fingers buzzes, like a current threatening to connect.
You could do it.
You kind of want to do it.
It would take nothing to close the distance.
And Eddie? He’s waiting.
His brown eyes— dark and rich like the earth you walk on— flicker downwards and take in the sight of the space between your hands.
And you know Eddie.
You’ve been around Eddie enough to know that he likes touch; Eddie communicates through it like his words won’t do his warmth justice. So, when his gaze flickers back to you, and there’s that look swimming in his gaze, you know what he wants to do.
You know he wants to let his touch speak for itself.
And you nearly let your desires win.
But in the distance, a bottle crashes, and an eruption of cheers lifts, and you’re back in your body.
Your spine stiffens. Your throat tightens. Your stomach churns. And your fingers curl away from him.
You pull away— not abruptly, but just enough that the moment feels as if it’s lingering like the smoke that had left Eddie’s lungs minutes ago.
You blink, pulling in the crisp summer air as you sit up, putting space where there was none.
“So, can you drive me home or not?”
Eddie blinks, the moment fractured between you— and you think he might speak on it.
But he says nothing.
Disappointment swirls in his eyes, barely showing before it’s gone. You take in a breath, glancing away as he pulls back and clears his throat, dusting his thumb across his nose in nervous habit as he nods, “Uh,” he blinks, flicking the cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath his boot.
You hate the feeling that stirs in your chest, and you hate that you want to fix it. But Eddie nods anyway, fishing his keys from his pocket and forcing a half-hearted smile.
a/n: HIII if you’ve made it this far i hope you enjoyed the first part to this little 5 part series !! i’ve got a packed summer planned for these two so i hope you’ll stick along for the ride :) also, expect smut next chappy hehe. anyway, as always, thank you for reading, ily and appreciate any and all forms of feedback <3
we are never getting back together - series masterlist
Masterlist Tag Lists
Older!Eddie Munson x Ex Wife!Reader
Summary:
Eddie Munson is a lot of things. Mechanic, musician, loving father to his 11, 9, and 6 year old girls, your ex husband, and huge pain in your ass. Stupidly handsome and infuriating with his ability to make you smile and to weasel his way into your bed - he makes your life infinitely more complicated. Unfortunately, you’re stuck with him.
Warnings:
Smut (18+), lots of smut really, drinking, drug use, older!eddie, dad!eddie, mom!reader, ex husband!eddie, ex wife!reader, idiots in love who refuse to believe they’re in love, cheating (not on reader), pregnancy maybe idk who knows, check individual chapter warnings but this one’s going to be pretty light besides the smut!
Synopsis: Bakugou is dragged to a huge party that’s been thrown “for him” in honor of his birthday despite how he thinks its all bullshit. This party, these people and especially his birthday, at least his drink is strong. As he’s about leave something catches his attention, you. Little does he know that you’ll make his birthday a night he’ll never forget.
Warnings: Smut 18+, choking
Track Four: Birthdays really fucking suck | Things change but people rarely do wc 7075
Master List : Here
A/N : This is part of a birthday play list collab hosted by @/kingkatsuki enjoy~
“Do we really have to go to this Valentine’s day party tomorrow?” Bakugou asks as you brush your teeth in his bathroom. Hard to believe how quickly you integrated into his space and his yours. Not that he hated seeing your stuff around his apartment, in fact he loved it. Still having those chest numbing daydreams with a ring on your finger and a house somewhere nice.
“Yes.”
But that’s if the partying ever stopped.
Since dating you Bakugou had been to more parties these past ten months than his entire college career.
“But people do weird shit at Valentine’s themed parties.”
“Like what?”
Like taking home people they weren’t dating for starters. But Bakugou doesn’t say anything as you come to the bed.
“I’mma pass. I have a lot of shit to catch up on.” You look at him now pouting as you climb into bed with his t-shirt on. Hand trailing down his abs to cup his cock through his boxer briefs.
“Baby…” Bakugou gives you a look even as you pump his cock over his underwear.
“So are you going to the party with me tomorrow?” You bat your lashes, eyes looking breathtaking in the low light. Bakugou actually considers it, really thinks it over but he can’t. He told his professor his research would be neatly typed in a twenty page paper for peer review, it was the whole reason Bakugou was using that asshole’s “special” lab.
And Bakugou didn’t go back on his word.
“Kitten, no.” He sighs out and you pout, turning over to give him your back and a heavy HMPH.
The rest of the night is silent as the two of you drift off to sleep.
Bakugou wakes up in a cold sweat. He hadn’t set his alarm so it hadn’t gone off at nine am, his heart racing from him jerking himself awake. He turns over with his eyes closed, hot palm seeking you out.
welcome to hawkins’ number one diner! where the staff don’t wanna be there and the linecook is a grumpy metal head who likes to argue with his boss and ignore everyone else. but the new waitress can’t hack the rude customers and the regulars can be a little… much.
serving up indiana heatwaves, slow burns, walk in freezer breakdowns, late night talks, shared shakes and food as a love language. order extra spice for $4.
[41K] a linecook!au with eddie munson and shy fem!reader.
CH1. HOME STYLE
CH2. ICE BOX
CH3. SUNNY SIDE UP
CH4. 0800-AWKWARD
CH5. WAKE ‘N’ BAKE
CH6. SPILLED MILK
CH7. SPICE BOX
CH8. BOILING POINT
CH9. SIMMER [EXTRA HOT 18+]
CH10. CHEQUE, PLEASE
THE SNACK BAR 🥡
THE KITCHEN MIX 📻
WWW.JIMSMIDNIGHTDINER.COM 💾
Summary: Eddie’s at war with his subconscious as it continues to dress up like you—his best friend—painting pretty dreamscapes in his mind. That would be fine—if not a little awkward—if he wasn’t dating Chrissy Cunningham.
Or, colloquially known as the Dream fic.
Word Count: 19.3k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI!!! Smutttttt, PiV unprotected sex, emotional cheating, Chrissy is not demonized, angst with a happy ending, almost all of it is written in Eddie’s POV, one-sided storytelling bc Eddie’s wrapped up in himself, meta mind fuckery, childhood best friends to lovers
Warnings continued below the cut! It's a lot, lol.
Warnings continued: clueless!eddie, Dream!Reader is a chatty cathy, Dream!Reader is a little mean at times but remember it’s his own subconscious, loooots of dirty talk, cream pie, handjob, wet dreams, guilt, shame, Eddie’s kind of a bad friend at times, allusion to suicide (not actual feelings just embarrassment from saying something stupid), maybe dubious consent but remember it’s his own mind conjuring you and dreaming of having sex with you, Reader has boobies that jiggle (1x throw-away mention), loooottt of teasing, kissing, a little biting, lot of endearments (baby, pretty, sweetheart, teddie, lover, loverboy, etc), one scene with daddy/mommy kink but in the playing house kind of way (read it–you’ll understand, I’m not necessarily a fan of straight up daddy kink either if this tag gives you pause), brief hair pulling (Eddie’s), mention of masturbation, friends to lovers, tension, déjà vu, Old Yeller joke lol, jealousy, mentions of alcohol and weed, nipple play, if I missed anything lmk!
A/N: A couple things: Pay close attention to everything that’s said in the dialogue, there’s a lot of callbacks. In the same vein, if you think I forgot to describe changing scenes or actions—remember how glitchy dreams are. One last thing about the contents of the fic: remember that, in the dreams, he’s hearing what he wants to hear—so it may not be realistic to the bits we see of y/n outside of his dreams. I made a playlist of songs that helped me write this inspiration-wise, so here’s that. There Is Something on Your Mind by Big Jay McNeely is probably the song that reminds me most of this fic and them as a whole. Also, I hit 1k followers which is very wild and crazy and cool, so thank you all for reading my shit. That’s very rad of you and you guys bring me so much happiness with your interactions. Lastly, I worked on this almost nonstop for over a month, so please, please, please let me know your thoughts. Gimme the play-by-play, I need to geek out over this fic. There’s a lot of moments in here that have been added to my mental list of the best excerpts I’ve ever written, so yeah!
Masterlist
He would walk for miles muttering
“I’m sure this rain won’t last
I’m sure its time is up
Though it’s pouring down, I’m sure this rain won’t last”
As it fell on Job’s eyes, this water of doubt
He said, “I’m wading in lies, it’s wearing me out
But if you want it, alright
I’ll buy it
I’ll buy it
I’ll buy it
I’ll buy it
I’ll buy it”
The wind screamed, “Blood too dirty for mosquitos
I hope that you die soon
Pray to any god you believe in”
—Job’s Eyes by Far
Eddie pats the pockets of his jacket, then his jeans, missing the obvious lump of his wallet. He lifts random items on the counter, checking beneath them for the folded leather. A glance at the microwave’s digital clock reminds him—he’s running late.
“Fuck,” he mutters, running back into his room to search the pockets of discarded jeans. Once he finds the missing item, he secures it to the chain on the pair he’s wearing, swiping the van keys off the table, ready to head out the front door.
When he opens the door, he jumps at the sight of you on his front stoop, your fist raised to knock. Stumbling back, he presses a dramatic hand to his chest. “Jesus, dude! You scared the shit outta me!”
Your shock melts into amusement, huffing out a laugh as you lower your hand. “Sorry, Eds.”
“Nah, it’s fine. I was just about to meet up with Chris. What’re you doin’ here? D’you need something?” He’s more jittery than usual, the clock ticking down the seconds until he’s well and truly late for the date with his girlfriend.
Instead of answering, you climb up the last step entering his trailer, brushing past him into the living room. He watches you turn around to face him, standing with your hands clasped in front of you, hanging from your body. Letting the door swing shut, he glances at the clock again.
“Sweetheart, I really gotta go. What’s up?”
Any amusement you showed is now wiped clean from your face. Wide eyes and fluttering lashes gaze at him as you let out a mumble, “She’s not right for you.”
“What?”
He heard you, but he’s not sure if he heard you correctly.
Letting go of your hands, you carefully move toward him, but your timid steps don’t stop until you’re almost toe-to-toe with him, sharing the same shallow breaths. Wide brown eyes follow the way your tongue slides over your dry lips, wetting them with a shine in the low lamp light of his trailer.
The sight of you nearly chest to chest with him has his heart rate picking up. He’s been your best friend since preschool, but he’s only ever been this close to you a handful of times, and neither of you are in formal wear—so it can’t be one of those times.
The staring contest breaks with the downward tip of your chin, glancing at the minimal space between both of your bodies. His stare remains on the crown of your head—where your nervous eyes just were. His stomach twitches at the feeling of wandering fingers inching up the side of his abdomen.
“You heard me,” the mutter is almost unintelligible until you look up at him again through painted black lashes. “She’s not right for you.”
His huffing breath hitches at the smooth fingers weaseling their way under his band tee, the skin on his stomach jerks at the unfamiliar, cool touch. Sucking in a stuttering breath, his eyes flutter shut at the teasing tips of painted nails as they dance across his waistband. Forcing his eyes open with a struggle, he gulps. “I–I d–don’t…under–understand.”
Meeting his wide, brown irises with drawn brows and pouty lips, you whisper, “No? Wan’ me to explain?”
Nodding his head, he nervously clears his throat as your lips creep closer to his. This isn’t what he was expecting in terms of an explanation. He’s trying so hard not to lean in, but it’s like there’s a gravitational pull—like he’s stuck spinning aimlessly in your orbit.
A strangled sound escapes his throat as you pull him by the shirt to the couch, shoving him down before settling onto his lap, legs bent on either side of his thighs. He calls your name softly, a miserable attempt to deter your actions.
“Y–You know I’m with Chris…” he shakily defends, an earnest attempt to remind you he’s a taken man. But you won’t hear it, sitting your weight onto the bulge beneath his fly.
Roving hands slide up his chest, past his throat, and into the curls at the nape of his neck. His eyes close on their own volition, the scratching sensation of your nails on his scalp too much for his nervous system to handle. He can feel the soft puff of breath on his lips, the heat from your taunting mouth. He can almost feel the words you speak, your lips are practically on his own.
“Yeah? Well, maybe I have someone too. So let’s call it even.”
The mention of you having a boyfriend or someone—as you put it—has him frowning. He doesn’t recall you mentioning anybody. You two told each other everything. Who is this guy? Eddie doesn’t get the chance to interrogate you when he feels your soft hand on his bare cock.
Looking down, he watches you spread a bead of precum around the ruddy tip. He doesn’t remember you undoing his pants or pulling them down enough to free his length, but he also feels like he doesn’t remember the past minute since you walked in, guns blazing.
“W–What are you doing?”
You let out what almost sounds like a whine, the noise makes his cock twitch in your firm grip. You breathe desperate breaths into his mouth, head bobbing forward to graze deprived lips to his. “I need you, Eddie. Please…I’ve needed you for so long,” you mewl, guiding his head through your drenched folds.
His forehead presses to yours, mouth dropped open in anguished pants. He’s trying so hard to understand what’s going on, but all the blood from his brain has rushed south. An unwilling moan leaves his throat at the feel of your warm arousal. Looking down his nose, he watches you sink down on his cock, the skirt he hadn’t even noticed you wearing now offering perfect, easy access.
Biting back a groan at the way your walls adhere to him, squeezing him so well, he musters up enough power to utter a single word. “B–But–”
Rolling your hips, you hurriedly peck the lips you’ve been grazing with your own for the past twenty seconds, assuring him, “Nobody has to know, I promise. You know I can keep a secret…”
The way your head tilts has him following your lips, entranced by the small peck you granted him. Ringed fingers slide up your thighs, settling on your slow moving hips. Moaning at the feeling of you everywhere—breath on his lips, hands in his hair, cunt on his cock, scent in his nose—he can’t stop himself from guiding your hips faster.
“T–This is wrong, we sh–shouldn’t be d–doing this.” His words are interrupted with stuttering moans and hissing pleasure as your pussy squeezes him so tightly. He’s getting close and he has no fucking clue how any of this happened.
He was going somewhere when you arrived, somewhere he can’t remember now…
He was meant to do something—meet someone? Thoughts are functioning at a third of their typical speed in his head, every idea is dragged down by the drawl of your sinful hips. The pulsing of your walls mark each passing second his morality degrades in the flames of his desire.
He feels your soft hands pull his head, catching his foggy gaze. “Don’t you know, baby? It’s not cheating if you don’t cum inside me… Be good, Eddie, baby. You can be good for me, right?”
Melting at your saccharine words, he has to grit his teeth not to cum right then. Moans are free falling from his lips as your hips pick up the pace, fucking yourself on his hard cock.
Planting a wet kiss to the corner of his lips, you mumble against his hot skin. “Or maybe…you want me to be good for you? I can do that… Is that how you wanna play, lover?”
A growl leaves his lips, hips twitching upwards, needing more from you. He’s never heard you speak like this, your voice is so fucked out, the things you’re saying—he feels like he’s losing his mind. Large hands grope your ass, working you up and down on his throbbing cock.
“You’ll be good for her and I’ll be good for you. Or how about, you’ll be good for her…and I’ll be bad for you. Would you like that?” The question is tainted by a moan, the unfamiliar cadence makes his brain whir with static.
Your words are all registering as dirty promises to Eddie. With no thoughts in his head to stop him, he flips you over as you squeal, your back falling to the old couch—the one you’ve spent many nights sleeping on. He watches with hunger as your breasts jiggle from the sudden movement—he doesn’t remember when your shirt came off, but he’s been a little preoccupied with every near kiss you tease him with.
The new angle and his unforgiving thrusts have you moaning uncontrollably, gyrating hips making a pitiful attempt to meet his movements. Mumbling curses and hitching breaths into your neck, he cages you in. Beside his ear, he hears a combination of what sounds like panting breaths and giggling laughs from you—the same laugh you’d let out when you won every arcade game against him.
“Oh, I knew there was something about you,” you pant out, whining as he bites the junction of your neck. “You like to be all sweet and silly, but you’re a beast aren’t you?
Just take what you want in bed, hm?”
Your sultry words have his hips stuttering, losing the rhythm he built up. Running a sweaty hand down your conjoined bodies, he rubs the little button he’s been dying to play with. Hearing your breath catch in your throat, he relishes the way you moan his name as your walls squeeze the life out of his cock, throbbing around him in fluttering pulses.
“Mm, fuck, sweetheart. Cunt feels s’fucking good, pretty.”
He feels your hot gaze on his face as his eyes roll back, stomach clenching, balls pulling taut to his body. For the life of him, he can’t remember what he’s supposed to do right now. Can’t remember if there's a formality he should partake in, a question he should ask you before the fiery feeling becomes too much.
“Remember the rules, lover boy,” you warn with a moan.
“F–Fuck,” he drawls, languid hips carry him through his orgasm as rope after rope of his cum paints your warm walls.
He drops onto your chest in exhaustion, and you smack the back of his shoulder blade. “Oh, naughty boy,” you chide, giving a punishing yank to his curls—only to earn a moan in response.
Drawing his head from your neck, you hold his hot cheek, looking into hazy eyes. “You wanna see your mess, pretty boy? Wanna see what you’ve done to me?”
Struggling to catch his breath, Eddie nods tiredly, backing off of you. Right as he feels the squirming feeling of his soft cock sliding out of your wet hole—prepared to look at the oozing mess—he wakes with a start.
Face down into his sheets, the pillow shoved further up the bed than his body, he feels the most uncomfortable sensation he’s ever felt. He knows he was just humping the bed, he wouldn’t be in this position otherwise. Beneath his crotch, he feels a squelching wetness. Jumping up in a rush, he looks down, panting at the sight before him.
His sheets are damp with a big, blotchy stain, and his boxers have a matching wetness. “Shit,” he mutters, scrambling off the bed and shoving the soiled underwear down his twitching legs. Grabbing a fresh pair of boxer briefs from the half-open dresser drawer against the wall, he glances back at the stain, tugging the fabric up before stripping the sheets off the lumpy, old mattress.
Eddie doesn’t remember anything, but it must’ve been some dream—this is the most he’s cum since he first discovered masturbation. Peeking out of his bedroom door, he notes Wayne’s absence. Sunday means diner day with his buddies from the plant, Sunday also means hang outs with you and the gang. You. He’s getting the weirdest sense of déjà vu having to do with you. Was he supposed to do something? Say something to you?
Shaking off the confusing train of thought, he shuffles out of his room, shoves the dirty sheets into the wash with some detergent, and starts the cycle. Yanking open the refrigerator door, he grabs the orange juice, drinking right out of the carton—a habit you always yell at him for.
He swipes away a stray drop of juice from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, messy in his movements, as he considers the last time he had an 'accident' like that—couldn’t be any less than five years ago. Snorting at the memory, the day after his first prom night was a doozy, one he doesn’t often like to reflect on.
The phone rings, shaking against the wall with the shrill noise. He checks the clock on the microwave, giving himself another bout of déjà vu. Ignoring the strange feeling, he sets the carton of juice down, heading to the phone.
“Munson residence, how may I direct your call?” he asks with a hoity-toity accent.
A smile grows on his face as he hears your familiar giggle through the phone, you always laugh at every new way he answers your calls. “Hi, Edward.”
Despite the clear smile in your voice, he cringes at the name you use. “Oo, gross, hate it.”
“Well, it seemed right with the way you answered the phone.” You laugh at his dramatic gagging.
“Okay, noted. I’ll never use that voice again.”
“The world will thank you. What are you up to?”
“Uhh,” he hesitates, eyes darting between the washer and the cum soaked underwear still on his bedroom floor—he doesn’t think you need to know every detail of his morning. “Just drinkin’ some orange juice.”
“Out of a glass?”
“...Yeah.”
You’ve known him long enough to be able to hear the lie in his voice. “Egh, you big fibber! You’re drinking out of the carton again, aren’t you?”
“Hey! I resent that very true accusation!” Eddie’s cheeks ache from the wild grin stretched across his face—he loves getting to talk to you first thing in the morning. It reminds him of all those school years when you’d meet up before classes and every moment in between.
“Ugh, you’re a beast. You should be taken out back and shot Old Yeller style.”
Snorting at your words, he can’t help the furrow of his brows. Something about your sentence sounds familiar—like you’ve said that very same thing to him before. Shaking the thoughts out of his head, he scrambles for a response.
“Yeah, well, I’d like to see you catch me. It’d be like hunting wabbits,” he finishes in his best Elmer Fudd impression.
“Whatever, weirdo. Hey, what are we doing tonight, by the way? Steve was asking me.”
“Uhh, I dunno,” too hung up on the mention of Steve, he can’t think straight until he lets the question fly. “You talked to Steve?”
He didn’t know you talked to Steve. He thought you two were only connected via his joint friendship with you both—only conversing when the group was together.
“Yeah, he was over at my place the other day. Came to ask for that ‘Dirty Dancing’ VHS.”
The frown never leaves Eddie's face as he hums into the phone. “Hm…Family Video does house calls now? What, did they increase their budget?”
He hears crackling static and your giggle over the line. “I don’t know,” you muse, “I think it was an excuse to come look at my dad’s new car. I mentioned the luxurious purchase last week, and well, you know Steve.”
He does know Steve. He knows Steve better than you. He knows that the guy loves cars, but he loves women even more, and that’s what concerns him.
“Right,” Eddie feels a weird prickling sensation in his chest, choosing to ignore it, he carries on the conversation. “Uh, what about the arcade tonight?”
“Sounds good to me. I’ll let Rob know. I’m sure she’s at work with Harrington right now.”
The line goes quiet for a second. He pauses, it doesn't sound like you were done speaking. Then your voice picks up again, a quiet tone—different from the light and teasing smile he heard through the receiver a second ago.
“Is Chrissy coming?”
Eddie’s eyes widen, this is the first time today he’s thought about Chrissy. Usually he gives her a call right when he wakes up, but he was so distracted with the mess he made, then you called, and he can never resist joking around with you. Shit, he needs to call his girlfriend.
“Uh, you know what? I’m gonna call her right now and ask.” He rushes out a quick, “See you soon, sweetheart,” before hanging up.
“Fuck, fuck fuck fuck.”
Dialling the number he knows by heart, he presses the yellow telephone to his ear, listening to the ring.
“Hello?” The soft voice of his girlfriend pours through the static.
“Oh, Chris! I’m so sorry, I forgot to call you when I woke up—it’s been a crazy morning.”
Muffled giggles preface her words, “It’s okay, Eddie. I was just about to go for a run. How’d you sleep?”
Suddenly uncomfortable with her question, he obfuscates, “Uh, I…it–slept fine. You?”
Deeming less words better, he listens to her talk about the dream she had. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t want to divulge the events of his morning—cleaning up after his wet dream. It’s not like he hasn’t had sex with his girlfriend or that they abstain from talking about sex. It’s just that he doesn’t exactly remember the dream, so he’s not in the mood to flounder at her inevitable probing questions.
He must’ve zoned out on her tale because he jumps when he hears a question directed at him. “Have you ever had a crazy dream where you’re like, ‘Woah, that felt so real’?”
Heart rate picking up, he doesn’t know why her question gives him so much anxiety all of a sudden. “Uh, not one I can remember—I don’t think… Hey, listen, I was wondering if you wanted to come to the arcade tonight with me and the group.”
“Sure! Sounds fun! You’ll pick me up?”
“Yep, let’s do seven.”
After getting off the phone with her, he calls you back. He gets your machine but leaves a message confirming the time for tonight. With plans solidified, he goes about his day—making his bed with fresh sheets, writing down some notes for Hellfire, and doing more laundry. Seven approaches and he hasn’t thought about the mystery dream once.
Arriving at the arcade with Chrissy, he greets you, Steve, and Robin. He notes that you look different than normal, but he can’t put his finger on it. Never exactly great with observations, he lets it slide—there’s been one too many times throughout the years where you’ve waited expectantly for him to notice your new haircut. Eventually you always have to tell him or it’ll be grown out again by the time he notices the change.
The night is filled with fun and laughter—he watches contently as Steve and Robin argue over who will play Ms. Pac-Man first, and laughs at how Chrissy swoops in to play while they’re too busy bickering. You beat him at Joust like you always do, causing him to groan and complain and you to giggle maniacally.
“Be good, Eddie,” you chide, telling him to behave like a man instead of a sore loser.
The one time you lose to him is during a round of Ghosts ‘n Goblins—and only because he’s too busy sabotaging your gameplay. He constantly blows air in your ear, pinches your waist, and moans obnoxiously loud, drawing attention from those around you until you finally smack him.
When you don’t even make it past the stone hopping—instead sinking into the water—you slam your hands on the control board. Whipping around to Eddie, you angrily watch as he’s doubled over in laughter at his successful attempt to bring you down a peg.
“You did that! That doesn’t count, it’s your fault I died! Look at what you’ve done to me!” You gesture to the pitiful end score, barely even making it off the first piece of land.
His laughter dies down at the unsteady feeling in his body, he looks around at all of the young adults and kids in the bustling arcade. Déjà vu again, but he hasn’t been here in a while. Your words draw him back, his body feeling steady again.
“You owe me a game of Q*bert,” you threaten, marching off without looking back.
Eddie moves to follow you, but Chrissy pops up in front of him. “Hey! Can I watch you play Dragon’s Lair? I really like when the princess is on screen, she’s so pretty.”
Glancing down at his girlfriend’s big blue eyes, he realizes he hasn’t hung out with her much tonight. Looking around, he spots Steve and Robin bickering over a game of Punch Out—Robin laughing in Steve’s face while he complains about the machine being rigged.
“Uhh, I was gonna–” his words catch in his throat. Telling his girlfriend ‘no’ to go hang out with his best friend who he’s been with all night sounds like a bad boyfriend move, so he doesn’t.
Meeting your eyes from across the room, he sees you standing guard by the machine, keeping any annoying kids at bay while you wait for him. A faint smile lingers on your lips, but your eyes flick between Chrissy’s back and his wide brown ones.
He’s not sure if he saw what he thought he saw, but your smile seems to falter as he squeezes Chrissy’s hand. Glancing back down at his expectant girlfriend, he asks her to go wait by the Dragon’s Lair machine.
“I’ll be right there, I just need to go do something really quick.”
Eddie feels awful when your smile brightens as he comes closer. “Ready to get pissed at the idiotic movements of a little ball of orange obsessed with geometry?”
A rueful smile creeps across his face at your quip, fiddling with the rings on his fingers, he gestures vaguely to where Chrissy just was. “I would love to, sweetheart, but I think I–I should play a round with Chris. Don’t wan’ her to feel left out.”
The bright smile slowly falls off your face, a neutral look of understanding replaces it. “Yeah, of course! You should go–play with your–girlfriend.”
He knows you're upset by the way you're overcompensating—being overly accommodating and offering stilted encouragement—and he wishes he could just play Q*bert with you. He’d much rather hear your evil laugh as you beat him yet again than play Dragon’s Lair, but he doesn’t want to upset Chrissy.
“How about this, we can come back here—just you and me—I’ll provide the change and you can bulldoze me all you want. I’ll even play Dig Dug with you.” He knows how much you love that game, especially because it’s your best one—and he has never won against you on that damn machine.
The smile that pulls at your lips makes him want to run a mile in celebration—he’s got you. “Sure. But only if you get me pizza afterwards.”
“Deal,” he grins, shaking your hand.
All it took were a couple more dreams and wet sheets for Eddie to catch on. He couldn’t remember them at first, but then he started having weird reactions while around you or hearing your voice. Bit by bit, the dreams started to come back to him.
Wandering hands, breathy sighs, your voice saying strings of words he never thought he’d hear come from your lips. It’s almost indiscernible. Dream you and you you. He’s known you for so long, you must have a whole room of files in his mind—information, memories, the way you speak, the cadence of your voice, the gait of your walk.
Shock takes over his body, flooding his nervous system with unease every time he wakes up. Every single dream feels real. You feel real. He’s certain he knows the exact feel of your–
But then comes the guilt. The morose shame that threatens to drown him in the wet ashes of his morality. He’s tried everything—going to bed early, going to bed late, smoking weed before bed, drinking himself to sleep, not going to bed at all.
You still worm your way into his unconscious mind. He’s so tired all the time, all he wants to do is sleep. At least in his dreams, everything is clear. You want him and he–
He won’t admit it. Admitting it would be the worst thing he could do. No. He loves his girlfriend. His sweet, kind, gentle girlfriend. He refuses to hurt her, she doesn’t deserve that. He can get better, he has to get better.
This is just a weird perverted phase. Probably happens to every guy with a girl best friend as pretty as you–
No.
Not pretty.
Normal looking.
A girl.
With attractive qualities that most girls have. Nothing special and nothing new.
He loves his girlfriend. He loves his girlfriend. He loves his girlfriend.
And he’ll do anything to keep her.
So he starts bailing on individual hangouts, making up excuses to avoid movie nights with you—barely answering the phone for fear he’ll hear your soothing voice right in his ear, just like–
Eddie’s refusal to pick up the telephone pisses Wayne off a lot, but he just can’t risk it. He can’t handle the shame that fills him every time he hears your giggle.
He can’t cut you out of his life entirely—nor would he want to. He’d be lost without you. He just can’t be alone with you until this illness has surrendered its grip on his subconscious. Having the group as a buffer is fine, though—helpful, even—as it allows him to pretend he’s not cutting you off completely.
It’s four in the afternoon when he wakes up, drooling on his pillow and an uncomfortable hard-on pinned to the bed beneath restless hips. He’s learned to take what he can—at least he didn’t cum in his boxers this time.
The time on the digital clock next to his mattress has him shooting out of bed, stumbling as the tangled sheets refuse to free his legs. Knocking into the bedside table, he scrambles to catch some knickknacks tumbling to the ground. “Shit, shit, shit!”
Wayne must be close by in the kitchen because he hears his uncle’s gruff mumble. “Damn bull in a china shop.”
Throwing on whatever semi-clean clothes he can find, he tucks his unyielding erection into the waistband of his jeans before jogging into the kitchen for his keys.
“Hey, Ed, that girlfrien’ o’ yours called. Said she was just gonna meet’ya there—wherever ‘there’ is. She wasn’t very specific.”
Eddie freezes at the relayed message from Chrissy, halting his attempt to pull on his dirty Reeboks. He straightens up to look at his uncle.
“What? Why didn’t you wake me up when she called? I was supposed to pick her up!”
Wayne shrugs, unfazed by Eddie’s admonishment, as he pulls a TV dinner from the tiny freezer and unwraps it. The lack of urgency in the man’s explanation is driving Eddie crazy—he’s already late, and now he knows his girlfriend had to drive herself because he couldn’t wake the hell up.
“Y’looked like you needed the sleep,” the old man grumbles, his eyes never leaving the task as he fiddles with the plastic wrapping.
Groaning, Eddie continues shoving his feet into his shoes before heading to the door. “That’s the last thing I need.”
Wayne calls after him, asking about your whereabouts and why you haven’t been over lately. Eddie only gives a passive shrug, yelling out a half-assed, “Dunno,” before jumping in his van and tearing out of there.
Eddie’s running up to the group as they hover outside the Hideout, chains jingle as his heavy footsteps hit the gravel. “Hey, shit–sorry guys! I overslept.” Ignoring your wave, he stops right in front of a miffed Chrissy.
“Dude, it’s 5:13…p.m.”
Scowling at Steve’s comment, Eddie wraps an arm around his girlfriend. “It was a nap,” he lies, leaning into the short blonde.
“Sorry, baby, I overslept.”
Crossing her arms, she purses her lips at him, “I heard.”
Sparing a quick glance at you, his body jolts in surprise as he accidentally makes direct eye contact with you. You look upset at him—he hates that look. But guilt eats at him for even looking at you, so he turns back to his girlfriend. Grabbing her soft cheeks, he pulls her in for a messy kiss.
A shocked hum leaves Chrissy’s throat as she leans into him, arms unfolding and hands settling on his hips. He tries to ignore the discomfort her small, soft hands bring—that’s never something he’s felt when being touched by her before. Chalking it up to the unusual PDA, he breaks the wet kiss when Robin groans.
“Egh! Get a room, guys. That’s so nasty.”
The group secures their usual booth once inside the busy bar. Typically, Chrissy doesn’t attend Thursday night drinks, so Eddie sits on one side of the booth with you while Steve and Robin take the other side. Today, when you slide into the seat opposite the already bickering knuckleheads, Eddie doesn’t follow. Instead, he hovers awkwardly at the end of the table with Chrissy, acutely aware of your expectant gaze on his face.
Biting the bullet, he avoids eye contact as he says, “Hey, uh…do you think you could let me and Chris sit there?”
He’d rather walk over hot coals than sit next to you on that cracked leather seat. You’d be so close, there’d be no direct line of sight to your lower bodies under the table, he’d feel the dip of the cushion where your supple thighs splay–
He can’t sit next to you. Not until he’s better.
“Oh, Eddie, it’s fine. I can just pull up a chair.”
The blonde moves to grab a nearby chair from a four-top, but his warm hand on her arm stops her. There’s a quarter-second lull—Steve and Robin falling silent at his request to you, your inability to move from your seat, his hand stopping Chrissy’s attempt to accommodate the usual seating chart. It’s only a fraction of a second, but it feels like ages when he catches sight of the hurt behind your eyes.
It’s like everything is transitioning from slow motion to regular speed when you scooch out of the booth, making room for the couple to sit down.
Chrissy looks at you with wide eyes and pinched brows, “Are you sure? I’m fine sitting on the chair–”
“Sit down, Chris.”
The girl’s attempt to check in with you is cut off by Eddie’s order, tension crackles in the air and nobody but Eddie understands why.
Throwing a tight-lipped smile at the worried blonde, you pull a chair to the edge of the table. “It’s fine, Chrissy. Thank you, though.”
The rhythm of conversation wears down the tension—mostly thanks to the never-ending noise spilling from Steve and Robin. Something, something, Steve sucks at taking inventory and Robin is better—Eddie can’t really be bothered to keep up. The most he can offer are half-assed ‘yeahs’ and ‘uh-huhs’ to Chrissy as he toys with the condensation on his pint glass. Thankfully, you don’t have much to say tonight either.
Eddie knows you know he’s avoiding you—has been since Sunday. The two of you haven’t gone this long without talking or hanging out since before you even knew each other—which is saying something, considering he wasn’t exactly hitting the social scene before the age of five.
Knowing you, you’re pissed at his ‘boyish’ ways—which is really just another way of calling him stupid for how he handles his emotions. That’s something you’ve always called him out on without hesitation. But he knows you won’t say a word in front of other people, so all he has to do is avoid being alone with you until his ailment passes. Then everything will go back to normal. He’ll be guilt-free with Chrissy, you’ll accept him back with open arms and a lecture, just like you always have, and everything will be as it should be.
There’s too much guilt in his body to feel shame over the way he’s leaning into his girlfriend, overcompensating with affection he wouldn’t otherwise display so publicly. This is his first real relationship, but even then, he’s never been the type to hang all over her like he is now, arm firmly around her shoulders, playing with her hair.
He touches you with no problem—well, he used to. He’d play with your hair, hug you, tug on your clothes, shove you when you’re being annoying—he’d do all of that in public and in private. But he’s never been very touchy with Chrissy, he’s not sure why. It’s not like she doesn’t touch him constantly. Maybe that’s why. She touches him so much already, he doesn’t feel the need to touch her.
A lull in the conversation has you readjusting in your chair. You look like you’re about to say something and Eddie’s heart rate spikes.
“Hey, Eds, I was able to secure a copy of Child’s Play if you wanna do movie night on Friday?”
“Yeah, thanks to me reserving the first copy that came in,” Steve butts in, causing Robin to roll her eyes.
“Sure, it was him—totally not me because he couldn’t remember what movie you wanted…”
You laugh at her crossed arms and pinched brows. “Okay, thanks for the group effort, guys. You can share your kudos,” you placate.
Steve sits up at that, jaw dropped and tone resembling a petulant child. “I don’t wanna share with her, she’s a kudos hog!”
Robin cocks her head in consideration, “Kudos hog, huh. Odd way to refer to someone who’s always right.”
Eddie watches as Steve looks at you, a hand gesturing to Robin’s face, “See what I mean?”
Chrissy's giggles echo around the table; unused to how annoying the bickering can get, she finds it hilarious. You lift a warning finger in their direction, eyebrows raised as you reprimand them. “Control yourselves before I muzzle you both.”
Eddie moves to pick at the soggy label of the empty beer bottle from Steve’s previous drink—the condensation already wiped clean on his own pint glass. Hyper-focused on his fidgeting fingers, he doesn’t catch the way you turn back to him.
“As I was saying,” the emphasis you put on the last word tells him you probably threw the two idiots a dirty look. “I got Child’s Play, so did you want me to come over Friday?”
Chrissy has to elbow him to get his attention away from the way his blunt nails catch on the wet paper. “Eddie, she’s talking to you.”
Startled, he looks up, eyes darting around everyone’s faces—all attention on him. “Uh, yeah. I got work tomorrow, though. So just give it to Chris or something and we can watch it on Friday.” He turns to look at his girlfriend as he finishes the stuttering sentence.
Robin frowns, catching sight of your resigned face—she’s pretty sure Eddie just pushed you out of your own plans.
Chrissy’s head jerks back, face screwed up in disgust. “Ew, I don’t wanna see that movie. Dolls freak me out. Plus, I don’t do horror. Why don’t you two watch it, that’s what you usually do, right?”
Before you can answer, Eddie speaks up, “Well, I’m actually really booked up at the garage this week, so–”
“That’s fine, we can push it to next week–”
“Next week, too,” he hurries, cutting you off. “It’s a really busy month, actually.”
Robin eyes Steve, silently checking to make sure he’s hearing what she’s hearing. After Eddie’s obvious excuse, you don’t speak up for the rest of the evening—resigning yourself to silent sulking.
Laying next to a sound asleep Chrissy, he stares aimlessly at the dark ceiling, listening to the hypnotic whirring sound of the box fan by his bed and the deep breaths coming from his girlfriend. Mentally shuffling through every D&D monster he can think of, he tries to train his brain to dream of something else for the night.
Waking with a start, he glances at the alarm clock on his bedside table—2:57 AM. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but luckily, he doesn’t recall any dreams his subconscious may have conjured in the short time he slept either.
Listening to the same old box fan, he lifts his head off the pillow, looking around the dark room. Everything is as it was when he laid down for the night and he can still hear the calming sound of his girlfriend’s deep breaths. Tired eyes fall on her sleeping form, watching the way her back moves with each expanding inhalation.
Settling his gaze back on the ceiling—ready to count sheep back to sleep—he hears the rustle of sheets as she adjusts her position.
“Eddie?”
He jolts upright onto his elbow, eyes snapping to the source of the voice—that’s definitely not his girlfriend. In the same spot he could’ve sworn Chrissy occupied only a second ago, you’re there, turned toward him, awake, and calling his name. Panicked breaths rush through his chest, and his eyes widen as they take in your soft, sleepy form.
He knows that look, he’s seen that look on every sleepover—every time you’d come into his room to check on him and end up staying over in his bed. But that hadn’t happened in almost a decade. Not since Wayne informed you two that boys and girls should sleep separate once they get to a certain age.
He remembers how upset you were at the new rule change, not understanding what the big deal was—what the implication was. But Eddie knew. He understood what his uncle meant the moment he said it. He noticed the different feelings he experienced during that year, he had forcefully broken one too many longing glances during movie nights to confuse Wayne’s meaning.
“What are you doing here?”
Looking up at him through fluttering lashes, your head rests gently on the pillow. “I’m sleeping over…like you asked me to. What’s up with you?”
God, you sound so normal. You sound just like you. The plain tone, the straightforward answer—he has asked you to sleep over many times, but he definitely didn’t tonight.
Eddie closes his eyes and shakes his head, hoping that maybe once he opens them, you’ll be gone and Chrissy will be back. But you’re still there when he looks down—still lying on his bed, in his sheets, your waiting eyes gazing up at him expectantly.
“Where’s Chrissy?”
Your eyebrows pinch together, “Who?”
He’s starting to get sick of these mind games. It wouldn’t shock him if he woke up in a padded room and the last few weeks were all just a very realistic hallucination. If that doesn’t happen, he’s considering looking into antipsychotics because this shit is driving him insane.
Losing his patience, he bites out, “My girlfriend. Where is she? What did you do with her?”
Frowning, you sit up to level with him, leaning on your elbow to better address his concerns. “Eddie, I don’t know what you’re talking about…”
Sitting up fully, his eyes never leave your very real looking figure. “She was just here…” he mutters.
He watches as your concerned frown melts into an annoyed eye roll. “Oh, please. You’re so guilty you can’t even properly write her out of your own dream without crying about it.”
His eyebrows twitch, creasing in focus as he studies your face, noticing it’s almost like you broke character—as hard as that is to compute in his head. “Who are you?” He asks the question slowly and steadily; he doesn’t even know how to begin wondering who—or what—you are, or why you’ve attached yourself to him, plaguing him constantly.
Sighing, you readjust to sit up more. “Ugh, you know who I am, Teddie. Same old me since preschool,” you shrug breezily, glancing down at your body as if the sight will convince him you’re the same.
The use of your childhood nickname for him sends him reeling. Looking down, matching the tilt of your head, he takes in your appearance—as you do the same. He hadn’t noticed until now, but you’re wearing a black silk teddy nightgown. The disheveled, flimsy triangular fabric barely covering your breasts makes him gulp.
“Except I’m all womanly now,” you shimmy with a smirk.
The confused frown never leaves his face as he narrows his eyes at your exposed figure. Shaking his head, he pants out a dissenting, “No, you’re not her.”
Amusement flashes across your face before you mask it with a curious pout. “I’m not?”
Brown eyes follow your hand with rapt attention as you daintily caress your body—starting at your soft, bare thighs and ending at your supple, immodestly covered breasts. Giving a light push to your bust, you lean in. “Feels real… Think you should check?”
Swallowing harshly, Eddie shakes his head ever so slightly. “No.”
“No? But you dreamt me up like this. I’m all pretty just for you and you don’t wanna cop a feel? You’re breakin’ my heart, baby.”
Sanity slipping at your crooning tone, he almost feels shame for rejecting you—even when you’re not real. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, truly contrite.
You coo at his sad, muddy eyes. “It’s okay, honey. I know what’ll make you feel better. Let’s play house,” you coax with a smile. “It’ll be just like old times.”
Ignoring his silent rejection—frizzy curls moving with the shake of his head—you come nose-to-nose with him. “I’ll play mommy and you can be daddy.”
The voice, the tone, the inflection, the visage, the faint perfume—it’s so you. But you’re not here. There’s no way. Not looking like that and not offering to play childhood games.
He feels like a sailor slowly succumbing to insanity, constantly rejecting the siren’s call. There’s no escape from you—you’re in his head. Unable to plug his ears or sing a disruptive tune, you whisper sweet nothings in his mind every time he tries. He should just let you drag him under—let you have your way with him. He’ll sleep forever, and you can keep him as yours.
It takes a little too long for guilt to trail after that thought—he really is slipping.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he shakes his head fervently, wishing to wake up. “Stop,” he grits out, sounding far too pitiful.
Feeling the breath of your words on his lips, you whisper, “But, daddy, I’m so confused. It doesn’t feel like you want me to stop.”
A stuttering exhale leaves parted lips as he feels the firm grip of your hand around his stiff cock. Placing his hand on yours, he means to remove your grasp, but his mind sends the wrong signal down his arm. Instead, he squeezes your grip tighter, moaning at the relief that shoots through him. Eyes closed in ecstasy, he pants out a useless, “S–Stop it.”
He can almost hear the smug smile in your voice. “I’ll stop once you let go of my hand…”
Ignoring your response, he keeps a pulsing rhythm of firm compression going—imitating the feel of your warm, tight walls around him. A vain attempt compared to the real thing—but what does he know about real? When his only point of reference is what unfolds behind closed eyes, in moments like these, he knows his mind is the last place to bear truth.
“Mm, but you’re not gonna, are you, daddy? You don’t want mommy to stop. You wanna play just as badly, I can feel it.”
The breathy, sultry tone of your voice has him heaving—shallow gasps of air bringing no relief in his search for oxygen.
“What are you doing?”
Falling back against his pillow with a shove of your hands, he watches you straddle his lap. Groaning at the sensation, he practically melts as you grind down onto him, your bare, slick pussy sliding along his throbbing length. Your brazen, annoyed tone from earlier comes back, reminding him this is all his fault.
“What am I doing? What are you doing?” you bite. “Dating her, dreaming of me?”
Eddie’s eyes roll back with a groan as you continue to drag your hips. The leaking head of his cock keeps catching your waiting entrance and it’s driving him up the wall. He’s so close to feeling you again, he’d do anything for it. The way your walls hug his thick length, the gush of your arousal every time you sink down onto him greedily—he’s so used to it now, he needs it like he needs air. But you won’t let him in. Not yet.
“Shamefully cleaning the sheets every morning. Pretending everything’s fine. Kissing her sweetly and bailing on dates in the next breath—all just to come hang out with little old imaginary me. You’re turning down your real girlfriend to go fuck a figment of your imagination, baby, and I’m what’s wrong?”
Desperate, veiny hands grip the sheets beside his body, using every ounce of restraint to not grab you and pull you down onto his aching cock. “S–Sweetheart–”
You chuckle at his anguished voice, lining him up at your entrance, languid hips gyrating on his fat, ruddy tip. “Aht aht aht, be careful, Teddie. That ‘unwilling victim’ act is starting to slip,” you warn. “How will you justify such immoral actions then?”
You feel so real. The slick wetness seeping from your hole, drenching his cock, tosses him off the cliff of sanity, sending him barreling down, down, down into delusion. This is exactly how you’d feel in real life. It must be. You’re so…so wet. So warm. So tight. How could his mind conjure something so damningly sweet? Your greedy heat is a honey trap he’d gladly fall for—every single time. He’d bare his soul, reveal every last burning secret if you’d just allow him inside you—if you’d just relieve him of his fidelity.
“Bottom line?” You sink down on him fully, pussy swallowing him in one go. He watches the victorious look on your face as a loud, needy groan escapes him. Leaning down, lips hovering over desperate, panting ones, you grant him a quick peck. “This is all you, baby.”
“Please–” he breathes out—unsure what he’s begging for. Mercy? Movement? For you to stop your evil monologue long enough to let him go to hell—let him fuck you like he needs to? Probably the latter. But you’re not done with him yet—not ready to give in.
“You know I’m sound asleep at my place. Probably dreaming of puppy dogs and little sheepies…”
Eddie groans as you roll your hips experimentally, then slowly lift your core until just the tip remains inside.
“Or maybe I’m not asleep.” Hips circling his tip again, your movements elicit a strangled whimper from deep within his throat. “...Maybe I’m with someone.” Slamming down on his hard cock, you drop so quickly the feeling of your walls fully encapsulating him again has his stomach jerking, another loud, scratchy groan tumbling past his lips. This time the groan is not just in pleasure, but annoyance too. He wants you to stop talking—needs you to. He doesn’t want to hear about you with someone else.
“Stop,” he grits out, teeth bared as he struggles to maintain his calm demeanor. Both of his hands pull at the roots of his hair, desperately withholding any attempts to touch you.
You lean down again, chest-to-chest as you drag your soft hands all over his body despite his refusal to do the same. Lifting your ass, you slide up and down his shaft—slowly, torturously.
“You remember my crush on Steve in eighth grade?”
He grumbles as you toy with him—quickly losing his patience.
“Maybe I’ve given him a chance,” you muse. “I mean, he’s only gotten more attractive with age. Plus, he’s all ‘good guy’ now.”
Eddie can practically hear the teasing, wicked smile behind your whispered words. Your blasé attitude has him grinding his teeth, struggling not to let your—hopefully baseless—pondering get under his skin.
“Stop it.”
He wants you to continue fucking yourself on his leaking cock, but he also wants you to leave his friend out of your dirty talk. The white-knuckled grip he’s got on his sanity is slipping with each word you let out, describing how you’re with Steve. Maybe. Maybe with him. And the ‘maybe’ is enough to drive a man mad.
“Make me,” you challenge, your slow, languid pace keeping him hooked.
“No, I’m not doing this again. This is wrong,” he tries, unhappy with being toyed with. Trying to convince himself to put a stop to this, the words are there, but the meaning is hollow. There’s no fire—no conviction—behind his demands. There’s barely any guilt, either. He finds himself just saying what should be said.
Sitting up, you grab the hands that he’s been gnawing on—his hair no longer enough to stop the desperate need to touch you. Spreading his fingers, you guide rough palms up your abdomen, slowly bringing them to rest on your supple breasts.
You pout, cooing, “Oh, poor daddy. He’s all confused. You can touch me, baby, I’m here for you—use me.”
Huffing out a frustrated breath, he shakes his head, but he leaves his hands where you placed them. “You’re not real.”
Regretting the comment as soon as you perk up, he watches an excited grin spread across your face. His comment was meant to deter you and it seems to have reinvigorated you as you fuck yourself a little faster on him, moaning softly.
“Exactly! That’s what’s great about me because if I were real, this would be wrong,” you lower your tone on the word, mocking his earlier sentiments. “You’d be a dirty cheater and do you think I’d wan’ a guy like that?”
Your words swarm his mind with guilt, but it’s almost like his brain has tortured him so much that he’s come back around—no longer feeling shame in this moment. With a newly unburdened mind, he finally moves his hands, giving a groping squeeze to your breasts, tweaking the pert nipples, reveling in the moan you let out. You may not be you, but you sound exactly the same, and he’s never needed to cum so badly before.
Breaking the trance your rolling hips put him in, he remembers you asked a question. “No.”
He has the decency to sound ashamed, but he doesn’t feel it. He wouldn’t want you to be with a cheater. He doesn’t want to be a cheater for you. That’s the limit of his shame right now. You wouldn’t like him if he cheated, so he won’t.
“You’re so sweet to worry about what I’d think…”
The pulsing of your warm heat, the soft, smooth skin on your chest—he’s so close to pure, fiery ecstasy. He’s nearly there, all he needs is for your wet cunt to continue gripping him like a daydream. One roll of your hips away from tipping over the edge, his stomach tightens at your words.
“But what would your girlfriend think?”
Sucking in a harsh breath, his eyes snap open. He’s exactly where he just was, but now his face is buried in strawberry-scented blonde hair. Chest moving with ragged breaths, he feels a small body in his arms. The sensation is almost unfamiliar. Almost.
He’s held her so many times since they started dating, but he’s held you more. The sleepovers, the movie nights, the time he consoled you when Joey Humphry stood you up in tenth grade. He would know your body blindfolded and this is not you. The sharp corners and soft curves are not right.
Eddie is pulled from his consuming thoughts when he feels pressure on his erection. Moving his hips back away, he realizes Chrissy is awake and making a move. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before. He usually wakes up with ‘morning wood’ and even sometimes in the middle of the night—like tonight.
In the honeymoon stage of their relationship, when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, they’d get up to no good during the wee hours of the morning. Messy kisses and wandering hands satisfying hormonal needs.
It’s been a while since he’s been intimate with Chrissy, the honeymoon stage long since over, and the dreams keeping him busy and guilt-ridden. So when her hips follow his retreating pelvis, he cringes at the thought of the pressure not being the right kind—not the right hips, not the right ass, not the right girl.
He tries to wipe that thought out of his mind like windshield wipers on a car, but it sticks—like a squashed bug that won’t wash away. Giggles pierce through the silence of the dark room—not the right giggles—as she turns around to face him.
“Let me help you, Eds. ‘S been a while.” Her sultry voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard after such a dream—your moans playing like a hymn as he worshipped at your altar.
Gulping, he tries to back up again, avoiding her reaching hand. “No, it’s–it’s okay. Let’s just go back to sleep.”
Wandering hands run down his abdomen—not the right hands—closing in on the waistband of his underwear. “Baby, I can help you. Just wanna be close to you.”
Guilt overcomes his body and mind at her words. Not only has he not been intimate with his girlfriend in a month, but he’s blown off a few dates to sleep. He tried to tell himself it was because he keeps waking up so tired, constantly trying to avoid you in his mind. But that’s not the truth.
He’s slowly succumbing to the siren in his mind, the woman who calls to him in his dreams. The girl he’s known forever needs him when he’s asleep and he’s always wanted to feel needed.
This sleepover was supposed to be a compromise. He was supposed to hold her properly—like a boyfriend should. He was supposed to surround her with necessary affection and, maybe, if he could, guide that affection naturally into something more explicit. Make up for lost time.
But now he’s starting to think it’s not just you he needs to avoid—at least until he’s better. If you're going to permeate his waking mind, tainting every interaction with the woman he’s supposed to love, then he needs to step back and reconsider how best to burn you out of his head.
He’s already had to pull out of group get-togethers, the barrier of Steve and Robin no longer sufficient—not with the way his brain picks up a new quirk of yours every time he sees you, perfectly implementing it into his dreams with practiced ease.
A small, soft hand wraps around his cock, but it brings no relief. It’s not what he needs.
Eddie’s thoughts are interrupted by her confused voice.
“Wha–you were just hard. I felt it.” Her hand squeezes his now flaccid penis. He’s as surprised as her. When he woke up a minute ago, he was on the verge of cumming in his underwear. And now he can’t get it up as his girlfriend tries to provide stimulation to his usually sensitive cock.
Cringing at the way she sounds almost upset at the sudden disappearance of his erection, he gulps. “I’m sorry. I–I don’t know what happened, we–we can just go back to sleep.”
He can tell she’s trying so hard not to take it personally as she mumbles out a quiet, “Okay,” and turns back around—notably leaving a gap between two bodies.
Staring at the ceiling, terrified of when sleep takes him, Eddie realizes he needs to try harder. He needs to fix this; he can’t keep going on like this. Something’s got to give, and he’s afraid to find out what.
When Eddie runs into you at Bradley’s Big Buy the next day, he nearly jumps out of his skin. You’re turning the corner with a shopping cart and he’s already been discovered as he crashes right into the front of the basket. It doesn’t help that he was just thinking about you—about how you felt last night, about what you said.
“Oh my god! Eddie, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you.”
“No–uh, th–that was my bad. I wasn’t…paying attention. Sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting around at all the other shoppers. Nobody’s batting an eye at the interaction, meanwhile this is his worst fear coming to fruition—you’re here looking at him, he can’t run away, and you look just like you did last night in his bed dream.
He hates how awkward this interaction is—your shifting eyes, his stuttering formalities. You two have been friends since childhood, he shouldn’t be fumbling over every other word. It’s even worse because you seem resigned to the fact that he’s been avoiding you as you try to end the moment early.
“Yeah, um–anyway, I should…go.” Maneuvering your cart around the blockade his body creates, you don’t get very far when his hurried question stops you.
“Are you seeing someone?”
Eddie’s suddenly craving the taste of gunpowder on his tongue when he hears what the hell just came out of his mouth. Your body goes rigid at the question—something that wouldn’t happen if he wasn’t actively pushing you away. Usually you’d tell each other everything, but that kind of honesty is reserved for best friends—something you’re not, apparently.
He knows why he asked it. He knows the exact demon on his shoulder who whispered it to him just now—the one that looks eerily similar to you. Maybe I’m with someone.
Wincing at the way you turn around, frown on your face, hurt and confusion flashing across your eyes, he watches as you consider him. It feels like hours before you respond. Like pristine windows into your soul, your eyes say so much—and nothing at all. He can’t even begin to translate them.
“Was trying to,” you sigh. Your defeated shrug and the plain answer shatters like glass in his ears—a sound he imagines a freeze-dried heart would make if slammed against the ground. “But I realized I’ve got some stuff to work through first. Things to get over.” You mutter the last part, avoiding his prying eyes.
Eddie opens his mouth to probe for more information, your axis-tilting answer not enough to satiate his morbid curiosity—god forbid Dream You be correct about something. But before he can get a word out, you’re already bidding him a cryptic goodbye and practically fleeing the scene.
“See you tomorrow, Eds.”
The familiar nickname evokes a sort of stabbing pain in his heart and he’s acutely aware of your thinly veiled dismissal as you flee the scene—you’d rather be anywhere but here, answering his strange questions. Watching your retreating figure, he can’t help but feel he should be the one running. It’s worse that it’s you who does it. It only reminds him that all of his actions of the past few weeks have actual repercussions—he can’t just ignore you in real life and be held by you inside his mind.
A million thoughts fly through his head, one that continues to stick is the question of who you were trying to see. Nausea fills him at the chance that it could be Steve, just like you said. No, not you.
His dream.
Him.
His mind.
Correction: Just like what he dreamed you said.
Though, it’s easier for him to pretend it’s really you saying these things, because he’d like to think he wouldn’t imagine such awful truths—if they could even be labeled as such. He’d also like to think he wouldn’t purposefully dream of cheating on his girlfriend, but the writing is on the wall.
So dream or not—can he even trust a word you say when you’re on top of him? His insecurities scream yes, but the sliver of logic he’s been holding onto lately quietly tells him no.
The other thought that is sticking sends a chill down Eddie’s spine. Tomorrow. He forgot about tomorrow. He forgot he agreed to game night a month ago—a meager attempt to pretend he hasn’t been ditching plans. Now, the date has arrived, and he’s in the midst of avoiding you. He’s going to have to show up at Steve’s place, act as if he doesn’t feel a burning disdain for the guy based on conjecture from a dream, and exist in your presence for longer than five minutes. With no ability to cancel last minute, he hopes tomorrow never comes. Maybe if he wishes hard enough, the planet will get swallowed into a black hole and he’ll evade you once again.
Unfortunately, there were no world-ending emergencies today, so Eddie sits quietly on Steve’s couch, watching as you, Robin, and Steve gather around the coffee table to play Monopoly, all of you seated on the floor. He tried his best to give the world all the extra time it needed to end, even circling the block a few times before finally arriving at Steve’s door—forty-five minutes late.
He can’t tell if it was his tardiness or his awful behavior lately—but you barely acknowledged his existence. Which, of course, made him feel worse. For some narcissistic reason, he finds himself capable of dealing with the fallout if he doesn’t have to…deal with it. When he first flaked out on Friday movie nights, he only had to hear you speak about it briefly at the Hideout. Then he didn’t hear anything else about it, not having to meet you face-to-face and turn you away at his door.
Now it’s you turning him away—directly to his face, and without so much as a word from him. He’s not even trying to talk, not handing you any easy reason to push him away, but you do it anyway—just like he’s been doing to you.
You’re simply icing him out, ignoring his presence in the room. It doesn’t feel like you—it feels like high school. Like he could stand up on the lunch table, ranting about conformity and the stratified social food chain, and no one would give a fuck whether he lived or died, so long as it was entertaining. Although, even then, he’d get at least one quick glance.
But you offer him no such courtesy—and he knows he deserves it. So he sits there, watching, frozen out by your disinterest, wounded by your clear discomfort at being so close to him. At least he has a whole world in his head to retreat to. Though, last night’s dream was particularly unnerving.
The things you said made his head spin—had him rethinking every moment he’s ever spent with you. Your harsh truths and revelations unlocked vaults in his mind he thought were securely locked and sunk deep in the ocean of his idle thoughts.
“I know why you asked if I’m seeing someone. I see the way you look at me…”
Like a lioness hunting, you approached him slowly. Your piercing gaze elicited a concerning amount of trepidation in his shaking body. He sat anxiously on his worn-down couch, the low lamplight of the trailer casting daunting shadows over your face. Your words struck fear in his heart—did you really know? Eddie’s wide eyes watched as your delicate fingers crept up his thighs, the muscles twitching wantonly.
“Does it make you jealous, baby? Does it make you feel prickly all over?”
He sucked in a harsh breath as you danced the tips of your fingers across his upper thighs, coming dangerously close to his hardening cock. He felt prickly, but not with jealousy. Not at that moment.
“You don’t wanna share your shiny new toy?”
The questioning tilt of your head made him squeeze his eyes shut. He couldn’t look at you when you were like this—no matter how much he wanted to. Though, you didn’t let him hide for long. Your warm palm pressed into his bulge, causing his eyes to shoot open, instantly meeting yours.
“No, that’s right…” you muttered, as if he had corrected you—despite his mouth being pressed tightly shut, willing any betraying sound to stay buried in his throat. “I’m not new. You’ve thought about it before.”
The raw warmth of your soft hand drew his attention. He looked down, helplessly watching as you granted slow, languid strokes to his now-leaking cock. A stuttering groan tumbled past his lips, brows drawn in desperation for just a little more.
“You remember? Prom night? When I changed in your room, and you strategically positioned yourself right in front of the mirror?” You chuckled, recounting the memory, ridiculing the perversions of a young man. “Just dying to get a peek at me—your unassuming best friend. Naughty boy, Eds… Using a poor girl like that...” Shaking your head, you admonished him with a slow, mocking tsk, tsk, tsk.
The strained whimper that tore from his throat made your head tilt, eyes raking over his pitiful form before you seemingly decided he’d given enough of himself to earn a secret. “You know I changed right there for you. I wanted you to look—wanted you to touch yourself to the thought of me…”
Eddie’s head lolled back against the couch, groaning as you whispered in his ear, your deft fingers squeezing him so well. Your thumb brushed his leaking slit, drawing more precum out, earning another drawn groan as he succumbed to your touch.
“Have you ever touched yourself to the thought of Chrissy?”
The name was like a bucket of ice water, pulling his attention back to you in a split second. “D–Don’t say her name,” he grumbled, unintentionally bucking his hips at the responding squeeze you gave.
“Oh, no… No, because talking about her would be bad…” a particularly mind-numbing twist of your wrist caused another involuntary reaction—his hips haphazardly thrusting into your slick palm. “You might hurt her…”
Regretfully, that hadn’t been the reason he didn’t want you to say her name. He hadn’t wanted to explore the real reason, but he needed you to know that specific string of letters was off-limits. “Don’t wanna think about ‘er.”
Puffs of air glided across his parted mouth. He felt trapped in your gravitational pull, lips aching to rest on yours. But you weren’t done—you seemed to take great pleasure in branding the truth into him, relishing the scent of his smoldering moral shortcomings.
“No, you wouldn’t, would you? The guilt doesn’t feel very good, huh, baby?” Your sympathetic pout mocked him, filling his mind with hot, sticky shame, gluing him to his place as you spoke.
He whimpered in response, your slick fingers circling his cockhead, constricting the fat, ruddy tip. He felt your next words before he heard them—rhythmic growls against his panting mouth, charming him like a snake in a basket.
“Gnawing, festering, bubbling…corroding that sweet heart of yours, isn’t it? Bad boy,” you hissed, pulling his bottom lip between your teeth.
Clearly frustrated by his lack of response—his refusal to play your games—you gave his throbbing cock another harsh squeeze, making him jerk forward with a mewling whine, his forehead pressed to yours as he breathed through the burning desire.
Your saccharine tone bit at his heart and mind, taking chunks out of him—his will, his shame, his hunger, his sanity. “This isn’t a spectator sport, dearest,” you taunted.
Pleading eyes watched your gritted teeth as he tried to come up with any intelligible response, despite your hand teasing him—granting just enough pleasure to make him need more.
Eddie nodded his head against yours, swallowing the lump in his throat as he forced his feelings to the forefront. “Mhm, s’killing me, it’s–”
Your lips had soothed his hurried pants, pressing a chaste kiss to his pleasure-bitten mouth. The sweetness hadn’t lasted long, though—just enough to leave him wanting more, the way you always did.
“Or, maybe…you don’t wanna think about her because it’s not…arousing?”
He choked on his breath when your warm, wet hand traveled down, down, down, cupping his swollen, sensitive sac.
“Doesn’t do it for you, huh, baby?”
Now he’s stuck watching his friends have fun, feeling like an outsider—as if you’ve pulled him to the dark side and don’t even know it. He has to hear you laugh, knowing he hasn’t been the cause of it in what feels like forever. He has to sit with the words you spoke to him, the revelations uncovered, the secrets thrust into daylight—shameful truths forced to be considered.
Every new dream is like a plague upon his sovereign lands. He was resolute before you shook him to his core, dismantling every belief he’s held since he met you. You didn’t even do anything. Nothing changed, nothing happened—then one day, he was cursed with the hope that you felt something.
No.
Not hope.
Worry.
A worry you felt something he had sorely missed.
No.
Not sorely.
But that is it, isn’t it?
His mind fed him a scenario he only ever dreamed of when he was a hormonal teenager—a scenario he hadn’t thought of since. Then all of a sudden there was a possibility. A possibility in his heart. Wishful thinking, really.
Shame, shame, shame.
Wishful thinking to feel much guilt over.
But his rotten mind and decaying heart seem to have gotten the better of him, because he struggles to feel guilt now. He struggles to remind himself of the pretty blonde girl yearning to spend time with him. It's only during the darkest nights he’s spent with you that he allows the creeping thought to take root—small, delicate roots like a lima bean surrounded by a wet paper towel in a plastic cup on the windowsill, a childish experiment—but digging into his mind nonetheless: he should break up with her.
The thought doesn’t last long—much like your sweetness in his dreams.
The moment he wakes up, he’s confronted with the lunacy of breaking up with his long-term girlfriend based on the sheer, unsubstantiated hope that his best friend might ever feel something for him—something he wouldn’t even know what to do with if he were given the chance.
Your words and actions in his head aren’t the same as your words and actions in reality. There’s a reason he ended up with Chrissy after prom—and not you.
That line of thinking always devolves into one clear point: he’s got a sickness of the mind—but it’s not permanent. It can’t be. He can become the good boyfriend he once was—the loving partner. Because you don’t love him in that way, and he knows that. He has something real with Chrissy. You’re not real—not the you he wants.
And yet, despite it all, he’d sleep forever just to feel your touch.
Eddie’s dissociative state shatters when you turn around, kind eyes settling on him and a warm palm shaking his knee.
Startled, his heavy eyes blink open as he realizes he’s fallen asleep—he wasn’t just thinking; his mind had painted the exact scenario, letting him stare at your back, watch your effervescent smile as you turned around, and remain entranced while sorting through the detritus of his thoughts.
It’s starting to get scarier—the way his mind creates vivid scenarios, passing them off as memories, and now, even as the present. But he’s grateful to be awake now, especially by your soft touch—something he’s been yearning for. Maybe through this crack in your walls, he can endear himself to you again, earn the affection he’s been entitled to for nearly two decades.
Eddie’s wide eyes dart from your hopeful gaze to Steve and Robin, both lazily wiping the board of any tokens and sorting the colorful money into organized piles while they look at him. He realizes you must have said something, given the way everyone seems to be waiting for him expectantly.
“Uh, w–what?”
“I said, ‘Do you wanna play?’” you repeat, a hint of amusement in your voice—he must look as dumb as he feels. “We’re starting a new game.”
A small look of realization passes over his features, his mouth parting slightly before he shakes his head, holding a placating hand out in front of him. “Oh, uh, n–no…thanks. I think I’ll just watch.”
At his answer, Robin slides the tokens back into place on the ‘Start’ tile, returning everyone’s original game pieces. You shrug, seemingly accepting his answer, and begin dishing out the money—two $500 bills, two $100 bills, and two $50 bills.
“You do like to do that,” you say breezily, earning a chuckle from Steve.
Confused at what that’s supposed to mean, Eddie frowns at you, your back to him as you continue sorting the money. “What?”
You glance over your shoulder, pinning him to the couch with a heavy-lidded gaze and sugared drawl. “I’m just saying—I know you like to watch me, baby.”
“Eddie!”
Jumping at the loud shout and the kick to his leg, Eddie’s eyes shoot open as his body jerks into the couch, moving further away from you, despite your still form on the ground by the coffee table.
Frustrated impatience shifts to concern on your face. “Dude, are you okay?”
An incredulous frown overtakes his features as he glances between your worried eyes and the matching apprehension on Steve and Robin’s faces. Whipping his head back to you, his brain aches, struggling to piece together what the hell is happening. He’s losing his grip on reality—but this moment feels more real, despite his conviction that the last five minutes were real too. He needs to get out of here.
When he doesn’t respond, you tilt your head, agitation furrowing your brow. “You’ve been out for the last half hour. Are you okay?”
Your repetitive concern finally jolts Eddie into action, he mumbles a quick, “Yeah, ‘m fine,” before grabbing his jacket and rushing out of the apartment.
Robin eyes his fleeing figure, sitting in shocked silence as the door slams shut. “Okay, did he seem a little–”
“Barely lucid?” Steve finishes, frowning at the exit Eddie just disappeared through.
“I was gonna say ‘under the weather,’ but yeah, that.”
He shoots you a questioning glance. “What’s going on with him? He’s been weirder than usual lately.”
“And he’s giving Sleeping Beauty a run for her money,” Robin quips, earning a snort from Steve, who scoops up the dice and gives them a shake, opting to continue despite Eddie’s blaze of retreat.
“I don’t know, but I’m just about over it… I feel like I should go after him.”
Robin watches you spare an uneasy glance at the closed door, as if you had X-ray vision and could see through it to figure out where Eddie had fled. She shrugs, taking $100 from a disgruntled Steve, playing the role of both the bank and her own token.
“Eh, leave it. At least until we finish this game. I wanna bankrupt dingus here.” You laugh as she cocks her head toward a now-affronted Steve. “Plus, it’ll give him a chance to make up another dumb excuse. Lord knows he’s been abusing that arsenal lately,” she sardonically mutters.
Eddie runs around his dimly lit trailer searching for his wallet, wet curls soaking the collar of his faded band tee. He could’ve sworn he had it on his person before he stripped down for a shower, now the stupid thing is nowhere to be seen.
You always used to tell him his wallet chain was pointless if he didn’t consistently reattach the folded leather when changing pants—and he’s eating your words now. Just another reason to love you: you’re always right, both to his fortune and, sometimes, his chagrin. Right now, it’s the latter, because you’re not here to help him search. If you were, you’d annoyingly find it in the first place he looked—making him seem like an incapable idiot. He needs you.
When he catches sight of the radioactive green time glowing on the microwave—over two hours since he fled Steve’s place—he curses his past self for being so careless with his belongings. He’s late, and this is something he cannot afford to be late for.
After turning out the pockets of every pair of jeans in his overflowing laundry basket, he moves on to the stacks of papers scattered around his messy room. Your voice rings in his head—past admonitions from previous years bouncing back and forth like ping-pong balls of nagging truth—as he sorts through the pigsty he lives in.
“Jesus Christ, Eddie, please clean your room—at least once in your life.” No, he likes it like this. It has to feel like a cave, so he can dwell.
“Seriously, Eds? Do you really need three copies of the June Playboy?” Yes, she looks like you—her similar features send butterflies fluttering through his stomach.
“Eddie, just say the word and I’ll go to that new Office Depot store and get you a ringed binder for all this loose-leaf—I’m not kidding, I’ll literally go right now if you just promise to organize this shit.” Silence.
A short but firm knock on the front door drags him out of his zone. An impatient groan slips from his lips as he straightens up, taking a quick glance around his room and noting which areas he’s already searched. The knock repeats as he continues to ignore it and wonders whether he might’ve accidentally tossed his wallet into the drawers of his nightstand—though that wouldn’t make much sense, since that space is usually reserved for things he wants to hide. Things like every polaroid he once had of you on display, a fruitless attempt to curb the dreams by removing any source material. At the third round of knocking, rage courses through him—doesn’t whoever’s out there understand that he’s late?
“Hold on! I’m coming, Jesus H. Christ!”
Barreling down the narrow hallway, Eddie whips open the door, only to be met with the one person he was running late for—standing there on his front stoop with her fist raised. Wide eyes meet wide eyes as he catches you off guard with his violent door swing.
All anger melts from his body, replaced by a spark of hope as he watches you glance at the small gap between his body and the doorframe. You seem to decide it’s worth the risk, squeezing through the space, ignoring his refusal to make room for you and the way his gaze burns into the side of your face as you brush past him—his yearning eyes following your every movement.
He didn’t mean to make you have to nearly shove him out of the way to get through—though he doesn’t quite want to admit it was because he wanted to feel you close to him either.
He can tell you’re extremely uncomfortable as you turn around, meeting his rapt attention in the middle of his messy living room. Déjà vu hits him like a comforting memory as he takes you in—your stiff posture and fidgeting fingers don’t deter the longing in his wet eyes. Unable to conjure the first sentence, he’s relieved when you beat him to it. Though, the relief is short-lived when your voice comes out strained and firm—eliciting an anxiety that only strikes when he knows he’s about to get in trouble.
Your hands are held out in front of you, warning him not to move—commanding him to just stand there and take what you have to give. “Don’t say anything. Just let me speak–”
Never one to behave—Eddie hurriedly cuts you off.
“I can’t find my wallet.”
Your next words seem to die on your tongue as your brows pinch in confusion at his seemingly random comment. He watches as your eyes momentarily shift off of him, scanning the space around him. Then, opting to take a better look, you turn your head, taking in the torn-up state of his trailer.
The confusion lingers, quickly joined by shock. He can tell you understand now—his words weren’t just a comment on his current mess. You’ve always been able to discern his shy, pitiful requests—the quiet pleas for help he never wanted to voice.
After one hesitant glance in his direction, you sigh and take slow, measured steps toward the kitchen, eyes roving in search of the worn leather pad. Eddie’s meek demeanor shifts, though, when you curiously lift a tipped-over cereal box to reveal his wallet. You pick up the small item, turning to face him and holding it up next to your head.
His shoulders drop as he takes in your incredulous look—your lips pressed into a line, head tilted in that familiar, obnoxious way. He can already hear the lecture forming in your mind—the reminder that his wallet chain is pointless if he doesn’t use it.
An indignant expression takes over his face, jaw dropping at your uncanny ability to make him look like an idiot—it’s practically a superpower at this point. “What the fuck?”
If you asked, he’d swear up, down, and sideways that he already checked the kitchen counter. But apparently, the universe favors you. It makes sense, considering what an awful person he’s been these past couple of weeks.
You don’t ask, though. Instead, you just toss him the wallet, forcing him to scramble to catch it before you continue with your impending speech.
“Okay, now don’t speak. I have something I need to say to you.” You hesitate, Eddie’s assuming you’re making sure he stays silent this time—so he does.
“I don’t know what I did to…piss you off—god, I don’t even know if that’s it. I don’t know what emotion I elicit in you because you’ve well and truly iced me out, here.”
Your frustration is clear, and he has to fight the urge to defend himself as he watches you throw your arms out in exasperation, humorless amusement overtaking your face. Though, he doesn’t even know what he’d say in his defense. There is no defense—anything he came up with would be a lie or an excuse. He can’t claim he’s been busy, since he’s been conveniently un-busy for group hangouts—at least until he had to stop those too. And he definitely can’t say he hasn’t been avoiding you—because he has. So, he just lets you continue.
“I mean, seriously, Eddie—you haven’t been this stupid since whatever the hell happened on prom night.”
The mention of that night—the one he tries so hard to block out, all poor timing and failed attempts—makes his stomach churn, especially coming from you. He hadn’t realized you even noticed something was off afterward. He thought he’d masked his feelings well. Apparently not. Thankfully, you don’t linger on the memory, opting instead to play hardball.
“So I’m here now,” you say, and he gulps at the way you seem to batten down the hatches—planting your feet firmly on his carpet, crossing your arms defiantly over your chest, emphasizing your frustration. “And I’m not letting you shut me out any longer. You’re going to tell me everything right now or I’ll... I’ll tell Wayne you’re being mean to me.”
Having been waiting with bated breath for the end of your threat, Eddie lets out an amused huff. Your childish tone brings him back to a decade ago. Of course your go-to ultimatum is to sic his uncle on him—you’re so damn cute when you try to be intimidating. It’s not an empty threat either; he just feared you’d say something worse. Like you’d never speak to him again, or maybe that you’re tired of his wishy-washy friendship and you’ve moved on with Steve. The thought alone leaves an acidic taste on his tongue.
Come to think of it though, Wayne might be worse. That old man loves you through and through—he’d absolutely tear Eddie a new one if you actually told him how cold your supposed best friend has been. His uncle always did seem to like you more than him anyway, always picking your side in those childish fights years ago. Eventually, Eddie stopped relying on Wayne as a mediator—the no-bullshit man would just hit him with a gruff, “I don’t know what you did, but you definitely did it. Apologize to ‘er.” So he’s inclined to yield to your threat.
Tell you everything?
Where does he even start?
First off, glad to see you, sweetheart, was just comin’ to find you. Second off, I left game night to go break up with my girlfriend because I couldn't stop having sex dreams about you. I know, crazy, right? Funny enough, they weren’t just sex dreams—they were things I thought I’d buried a long time ago. Wishes, wants...whatever. Just stuff I told myself I didn’t feel anymore. Ha! Get a load of this guy, huh? Sentimental bullshit—love so damning it’s turning me into a bleeding-heart poet or some shit.
See, I tried to hold them off for as long as I could—tried convincing myself it was a phase. But I don’t think this kind of love is a phase. Unfortunately.
And yeah, I said love.
It’s not perversion. I know what perversion is. I’ve dealt with it. I’ve stared too long in the mirror while you changed behind me. I’ve stolen a peek or two down your top when you cleaned my room that one time—I know perversion.
This isn’t that.
Perversion doesn’t fester and corrode the way love does.
And I know you don’t love me back, and that’s fine. I can live with that. Or—I’ll try to.
But I can’t keep living with you in my head. I’m losin’ it here, sweetheart.
When I broke up with Chrissy, she asked if there was someone else. Probably because of how much of a dick I’ve been—avoiding her, and not to mention, you. But I couldn’t answer her question, because…yes.
No.
There is, but there’s not.
It’s not your fault. You’re not doing this to me. You’re not actually in my bed every night, whispering all the things I wanna hear.
You’re not tempting a taken man—you’d never. I know that.
I’ve placed you on this pedestal in my subconscious—something you never asked for.
I’ve prayed to you in idle worship. But now, I’m asking you to put me out of my misery.
Hear my plea. Absolve me of my sins—
So I can continue to live in your shadow. Happily.
Alone.
With you.
Happily.
But that’s a bit much and just a tad crazy. He’s spiraling, sure. But you don’t need to know that. So Eddie starts simple.
“We broke up.”
He can tell you’re taken off guard by his admission. You’re probably floundering for context, considering Chrissy was still somewhat part of the group—at least up until a bit ago.
Your brows furrow sympathetically, and he can feel your frustration melting—the tension in the air fizzling out. That inherent need to console overtakes any prior feelings.
“What? Oh my god, Eddie, I’m so sorry. You were into her for like…years, right? That’s awful.”
The reminder of his stupid schoolboy crush makes his skin crawl. It’s like a swarm of ants under his skin, crawling up his arms, his neck—itching with the memory of someone he no longer is.
That version of him—wide-eyed, hopeful, convinced longing was the same thing as love—feels like a ghost. A haunting echo of an almost-man, displaced from time and reality. Cursed to float through his mind like 2 a.m. regret. Sure, the crush led to a formative relationship. Two years. But those two years didn’t validate the fantasy. They dismantled it.
Because through Chrissy, he finally saw it. He saw you.
And now, the girl he’s always wanted—but never let himself want—is standing in front of him, trying to console him over someone he no longer aches for.
His bleeding heart doesn’t beat for her anymore.
If he had any shame left, he would feel like a horrible person for moving on so quickly. But he’s fresh out of shame. You drained every last drop from him with your whispered sighs and rocking hips. You’ve permanently changed the chemistry of his brain with every sweet, imaginary kiss to his greedy lips, every teasing quip about his confusing feelings over the years. He doesn’t struggle with the end of his long-term relationship because he never adjusted to it not being with you. He realizes that now.
You’re ingrained in his DNA at this point—a golden thread weaving magic through every atom that makes up his being. He understands now, with perfect clarity, that you were always his. You’re supposed to be his.
So he’s sure the cosmic forces can forgive a love that was written on the wall the moment you shared your Goldfish crackers with him at five years old.
A stone-carved devotion, so tried and true, it manifested entire fantasy worlds where you were surely his.
Choosing not to respond to your ill-timed sympathy, Eddie’s eyes dart away from yours, restless, sweaty palms rub against his black jeans.
“What happened?”
He curses his lack of response. Maybe if he had been proactive about his storytelling, he wouldn’t have to look you right in the eyes and tell you the truth. Maybe he could tell you a sliver of the truth. Maybe that would be enough.
Although, knowing you, it wouldn’t be.
“I broke up with her,” he mumbles, barely maintaining eye contact when you shoot him a shocked look—clearly taken aback by the fact that he wasn’t the dumpee.
“Why the hell would you do that? I mean…I thought you really liked her. And she was sweet. ”
He winces at your initial outburst, but it’s your last statement that imbues him with unearned confidence.
“Not like you,” he mutters with a slight shrug, voice low and resigned.
You shake your head as if trying to knock loose some semblance of understanding, eyeing him carefully like you’re trying to peer into the right spot, earning a momentary glance inside his mind. His words are too confusing, you need the source material.
“What are you talking about? She was, like, perfect for you.”
Eddie doesn’t know why you’re trying to rewrite the story. Why you’re pushing this version where he and Chrissy made sense. They didn’t. Not really. Not like you and him. You know each other—every weird, wonderful part. That’s always been enough.
“She wasn’t you.”
Frustration ripples through you again, tension crackling in the air. He realizes he’s not exactly being forthcoming—with his feelings, or whatever it is he’s trying to say. He’s never been Mr. Exposition Guy, but something’s happening to him, something that keeps him from spitting it out—and it’s pissing you off. He can tell.
It’s like he’s trained his whole life for a marathon. Months of running it, mile after mile, pacing himself, pushing through the exhaustion, waiting for the end to come into view. And now that it has—now that he can see the finish line—his legs feel like they’re about to give out. Fatigued from the journey, he’s unsure if he can make it. Everything he’s ever trained for is right there in front of him, and now his body won’t cooperate. His words won’t come.
The daunting realization that this is it—that this is his chance to convey how detrimental and beautifully significant you’ve been to his mind, his life, his heart—has him stumbling. And the consequences of this confession, of his actions, rage through his mind like a category five hurricane.
Which he finds—humorlessly—kind of funny.
You’d be the one to bring a storm like that.
His hericane.
There’s a battle raging inside him. One side is certain that telling you the truth won’t change a thing—you’ll let him down easy, things will be weird for a while, and then you’ll both pretend it never happened, slipping right back into best-friend territory. The other side is cataloging every fidget, every flicker of raw emotion in your gaze, and whispering that only someone with something to hide acts like that.
Maybe your something is like his. Maybe if he shows you his, you’ll show him yours. Maybe, in your confusion, you’re trying to push him away. Maybe you think you’re taking him from Chrissy. He knows you’d hate to be the other woman, and he never meant to place you in that role.
“Say, you didn’t happen to get really drunk and take copious amounts of drugs, did you?”
You’re trying to pass your question off as a joke, but Eddie hears the bite behind it. He’s known that tone for years—knows it even better now, after hearing it echo through his dreams.
Shaking his head, he holds up three fingers on his right hand, giving you the Scout’s honor—despite never having been one. “Stone cold sober, sweetheart.”
A scoff leaves your smiling lips, you shake your head, incredulous. Heading over to the kitchen, you start cleaning up the mess Eddie made in his search for his wallet—your hands just needing something to do.
He eyes you carefully, watching the way your movements are harsh and unrestrained as you close cabinets, crumple scrap papers, and pick up tipped-over cereal boxes. Despite his own inability to be straight with you, he finds himself getting frustrated at the way you refuse to believe him. He’s your best friend—he thinks he deserves the benefit of the doubt. Then again, he may have squandered all the goodwill he’s earned with you over the past few months.
Without looking up at him, you cup your hand to scoop the fallen cereal off the counter and into your other, waiting hand as you dismiss him again. “Okay, maybe the lack of sleep really is getting to you.”
Quick to shut that theory down, Eddie steps closer, squaring off with you across the counter. You still won’t look at him, focused instead on sweeping the rest of the cereal into the trash.
“Nah,” he says, quieter now, more certain. “I’ve never slept better in my life.”
And it’s not a complete lie.
There was a time the dreams drained him—left him wrung-out and raw, waking more tired than when he went to bed. But something shifted. Once he accepted that you weren’t leaving his mind until he did something about it—until he made a choice, ended what needed ending, and faced the truth—he found you again in those dreams.
And this time, you weren’t a ghost weighed down by the chains of his guilt—like some specter he’d cursed to carry the burden of his indecision.
You were a promise.
Permission to rest.
The confidence of his declaration seems to piss you off because you finally stop what you’re doing, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “Then, Eddie, what the hell are you talking about?”
Fuck it.
“I broke up with her for you,” he admits, imploring—wide, brown eyes wet with desperation, painted in truth.
You blanch at his words, eyeing him in horror. “I didn’t ask you to do that! You’ve wanted her since, like, forever. Why would you break up with someone you chased for years?” you shout.
Eddie’s heart pounds—you still don’t get it. Every second you don’t see it feels like you’re slipping further away.
“Because I’ve wanted you longer,” he says, the truth falling from his lips like it’s always been there.
The look of horror melts off your face, replaced by quiet calculation as you puzzle out what this new admission means. Eager to help you solve it, he continues.
“Tell me you haven’t thought about it. Tell me…you never looked at me any other way than a friend, and I’ll never bring this up again.”
Blood rushes in his ears as he stuns you into silence. If you say the words—if you reject him—he’ll go. He’ll be better. He’ll bury this thing between you and pretend it never existed. Not for himself, but for you. And it won’t be your fault. It never was.
“You can leave, I’ll try to stop these feelings, we’ll pretend nothing ever happened, and I’ll eventually be cured of this…thing.”
Disgust taints the word—thing—as he lays himself bare for you. Not disgust for you, but for the word itself, for the pitiful inadequacy of it. For the feelings he can’t name, for how he’s handled them, who he’s hurt in the process, and how long it took him to see them clearly.
His frustration is evident as he claws his way through the desperate, heart-felt pleas to you. Met with silence, a conniving, rotted kind of hope spreads through his veins like a viral infection. He can’t pin down one emotion in your shocked eyes—all he sees is a storm of confusion, surprise, petulance, and something else he won’t dare to name.
The quiet of the trailer suffocates him—you won’t tell him no, but you’re not telling him yes. And the unfortunate truth is he’d let you string him along forever if you’d give him the bare minimum. If you chose not to answer him on this day, he’d take that crumb of hope and cut it up into a million little pieces to feast on from now until eternity. And that would be enough—just to be with you in any capacity.
But first, he has to push a little harder. He’s selfish that way.
The desperation in his tone multiplies tenfold as he tries again. The emotional turmoil of weeks upon weeks of you living in his head—showing him what he could have—is bubbling over, giving way to humorless amusement that makes him appear as if he’s gone mad. Festering, gnawing, corroding—just like you said.
He gazes at your still form with rapt attention, hungry eyes devouring every minute movement you make. With a mad sort of tilt to his head, he leans over the counter slightly, attempting to close the distance despite the barrier.
“Please, just–just tell me. Put me out of my misery, ‘cause I can’t stand another second of dreaming about you and then seeing you like this–like none of it ever happened. Like you don’t know all the things we’ve done, all the ways I’ve held you.”
“All the…” His voice falters, barely above a whisper. “All the ways I’ve loved you.”
You recoil, taking a step back, like his words were a blow you weren’t prepared for. He wants to scream at the way you break eye contact, the way you shut him down without a word. He’s trying his hardest to be clear, and you’re keeping him at arm’s length—or really, a kitchen counter’s length.
“Eddie, you sound crazy,” you mutter, shaking your head and folding yourself into the comfort of your own arms.
“Maybe!” he shouts, threading his hands through the roots of his curls in exasperation. He’s going to have to spell it out for you. “Maybe I am crazy!” A humorless chuckle leaves his lips as he shakes his head, eyeing your questioning gaze. “I can’t go a night without dreaming about you—maybe that’s what’s driving me crazy. You, just living it up in my head!”
Eddie’s mocking, bitter voice makes you flinch. He can see tears well up in your eyes, causing his frustration to melt back into pathetic desperation.
“I–I don’t know what to say…”
He so badly wants to tell you what to say—to say you love him, to say you’ve just been waiting for him to pull his head out of his ass. But he doesn’t want to lead the witness…
He knows himself well enough to admit that selfishness runs through his veins like hot, life-giving blood. If he could lead you to that conclusion, and you accepted it—despite being shoehorned into the role of best-friend-turned-girlfriend—he’d selfishly take it. He’d live in yet another delusion that this was what you wanted all along.
But he also knows how that would end. He’s seen it already—in a dozen dreams, in every morning after. The illusion never survives daylight.
So, he won’t put words in your mouth. He won’t push you to decide. He won’t ask you to shatter what’s left between you just to spare him false hope. He’ll take what you give—if you choose to let him stay in your life after this disaster of a conversation and the immature way he’s been handling things lately.
Resigned, he graciously forfeits. He’s no stranger to rejection, even when it’s passive.
“Then don’t say anything,” he shrugs, lips curling inward, gaze falling to his hands, worrying the skin at his cuticles like it might distract him from the ache in his chest. “I get it. This was stupid anyway, I'm sorry. I…this was shitty of me.” A humorless snort escapes him, the understatement almost laughable. “Really shitty. Feel free to never speak to me again, by the way. I’d understand.”
Unable to meet your eyes for one last look, Eddie retreats to the couch, collapsing into a miserable slump. He’s not going to throw you out just because you rejected him—doesn’t feel like he has the right to tell you what to do. But he hopes you’ll spare him your pity and leave soon. He’d like to have at least one more good dream before they all shift into horror reruns of this conversation.
Unfortunately, he’s got hell to pay karmically, so the quiet pitter-patter of your feet approaching doesn’t surprise him. His dissociative state doesn’t break when he feels the couch shift one cushion away as you sit down, folding a leg beneath you. Eddie falls to his knees inside his own head, cursing everything in the sky above—because of course you’ve gotten comfortable. Looks like you’re staying for however long it takes to realize he’s an awful person and you should be rid of him.
Living in his peripheral vision—an ironic coincidence, given all the years he neglected to realize his feelings for you—he can vaguely make out your thoughtful expression as you stare at him for some time before taking a break to join him in his dissociation toward the turned-off TV. That trade-off continues for what feels like hours, but is probably only one. Maybe one and a half.
With time crawling by like the final mile of a race he was never meant to win, he loses track of you—too busy reliving every dream and the memories before. His mind flickers like Times Square, each screen lighting up with moments just for you.
If he’d been more aware, he would’ve noticed the way you crept closer to him every couple of minutes. Centimeters made the difference from the distance you originally kept. So deep down the rabbit hole you carved in his mind, he doesn’t realize until he feels heat bloom through his body, starting at his lips and traveling all the way to his toes.
Tears well up in his eyes, his chest tight with the unexpected flood of feelings your kiss stirs up. It's not just your lips—it's the overwhelming rush of something he didn’t see coming. Confusion clouds his mind—he thought you rejected him. The hesitation he saw in your eyes earlier, the way you fixated on Chrissy—it didn’t make sense. He thought he fucked up. You didn’t seem to accept his confession. But now, here you are, in front of him, close enough to make him question everything he thought he understood.
He can’t make sense of it. This doesn’t feel like rejection. No, this feels…like home. Like he’s finally come in from the cold. Like your sunny warmth is pouring through him, and he’s alive in a way he hasn’t been for a while.
But then, fear jolts through his veins—what if this is just another dream? What if this is the illusion of something real?
Déjà vu crashes over him like a second wave—but without the usual eerie discomfort. He’s been here before—this moment, this feeling—like it’s been lifted straight from a dream. Only now, he’s not fighting it. The warmth, the closeness, the way your lips feel against his—it’s all too familiar, too vivid. He swears he’s lived this before, seen it in his mind’s eye a hundred times. But now, it’s real, and it’s impossible to deny.
Your tongue glides along the seam of his lips, breaking him from his spiral—wordlessly begging him to reciprocate. He wants to, but his body refuses. The kiss is too real, too overwhelming, and he’s frozen in place, afraid that if he moves or speaks, it will all shatter. It’s only when he opens his eyes, feeling your warmth still lingering, that the doubt fades. There’s no escaping this. No denying it. You’re still there, close enough that he can feel the warmth of you, a thin string of saliva connecting the two of you—proof that this was real. A messy, fragile reality he never expected.
His brain functions at a quarter of its usual speed as his wide eyes rove over your face—you’re real. You’re real, and you’re really close. Closer than friends should be.
Just like in every dream he’s ever had of you, he can feel the words before he hears them. “How long?”
Struggling to focus through heavy lids and buzzing static in his head, Eddie’s brow furrows. “What?”
The sweetest smile he’s seen almost every single day of his life pulls at your wet lips, despite your attempt to temper it. He must sound like an idiot right now, but he’d put on a dunce cap and do a little dance just to make that smile widen—and maybe, just maybe, if he’s really good—hear your melodious laugh.
“How long have you felt this way? I mean, how long have you known?”
Oh. That.
Anxiety spreads through his chest as he realizes he’s going to have to share his feelings again—right after the disaster that happened earlier. He has to hope it’ll end differently, or he’ll never get another word out. Your kiss certainly helped feed his delusion…or maybe it’s not a delusion.
There’s that pesky hope again.
“I–I wanna say since I met you, but I don’t think that’s really true,” he mutters regretfully—as if unconsciously loving you for the better part of two decades isn’t enough. “Wasn’t exactly ruminating on the meaning behind how much I loved you more than my other friends at five years old. I didn’t unlock the power of introspection until high school, unfortunately.”
His attempt at a joke lands, and he revels in the puff of breath you let out—more heat to his lips, more hope to his heart. He watches as you study him closely, your eyes scanning his face. His heart skips a beat when your gaze drops back down to his lips. But the weak organ feels like it’s folding in on itself, crushed beneath the weight of your next words.
“Can we just go back to normal?”
Crestfallen, Eddie struggles not to show it. Your pleading whisper harpoons his weak heart, dragging it violently from his chest and landing it in your squeezing grip. Of course you’d want that. Of course you’d want to go back to normal—it’s the least he could do for you after the way he blew up everything around him. Who would want to be with someone so incapable? You certainly don’t deserve that.
But the kiss.
The kiss was just a pity kiss. A weird way to let him down easy, but he won’t fault you. He’s been doing a lot of weird shit lately. He has no room to judge.
Forcing what he hopes is an understanding smile onto his face, he casts one last, longing glance at your lips—the lips he'll never feel again. “Y–Yeah. Yeah, we can.”
Much to his chagrin, you don’t move away from him. You’re still hovering close to his face, torturing him with what he can’t have. What he ruined.
“And that means…movie nights and hangouts again, right?”
Gulping, Eddie puts on a brave face, ignoring the way he can feel your gravitational pull—your lips calling to him like a siren in murky waters. But he can’t give in. That would be the worst of the worst. To kiss you without your consent? He’d send himself to hell for that. Here you are, trying to become his friend again, and he can’t stop thinking about your lips. He could kick himself.
He’s got a lot of work to do—burning this feeling out of chest.
“Yeah, of course.”
The burn comes sooner than he expects—but it’s not the right kind of burn. Flames of heat engulf his body at the feel of your warm palm on his chest. Now he has two points of searing desire to deal with. Great. First, it was your sinfully soft lips; now it’s your gentle hand, your rogue thumb caressing him while he punishes himself for mistaking innocent consolation.
Unable to stop himself, his eyes flutter shut, reveling in the affection—before he forces them open again.
“Can we have sleepovers again?”
The request sets off alarm bells in his head. But you’ve proven to be real this time, so it can’t be that. Luckily, he’s fantastic at ignoring warning signs, choosing to nod a silent yes to your question.
He wants to say no. Sleepovers again? Watching you sleep, seeing the way your face melts in contentment, how you inch toward him, seeking solace in his body heat—it would be torture. But he’ll take whatever he can get. Damn his selfishness.
Eddie’s breath hitches as your head bobs, chin jutting forward, almost as if you felt the same pull he did. As if you wanted to find solace in his lips too. Like it was home to you as well.
“Can I sleep in your bed?”
The weight of the request sinks in, dragging him back to the reality of what he’s already imagined—the closeness, the heat, the way his heart would race. He’s torn, but he’ll do anything just to have you back in his life. If that means endless nights of torture and tests of his will, so be it.
“Sure…”
Before he gets a chance to follow up with how he’ll take the couch and you can have his bed, you’re whispering another question—drilling a millionth of a centimeter closer to the root of his temptation.
“Will you hold me?”
His eyes search your face, a brow raised at your request. In his quest to find any hidden meaning, all he sees is innocent curiosity. It only makes him want to punish his mind more.
Bad, bad, bad Eddie. Bad.
Shame, shame, shame.
“If…if you want.”
“Will you show me what you dreamed of?”
If you weren’t so close to his face, Eddie might’ve blanched at your words. Instead, he settles for a shocked tilt of his head, unable to tear his gaze from yours as he struggles to understand how this could possibly be reality. Pinching his arm, he tries to wake himself from what must be the most meta dream he’s had to date. There’s no way you just said that. After everything? He’s so confused he could cry.
At the quiet movement below, you glance down, chuckling at the way he’s desperately trying to wake himself from reality.
He finally releases a heaving breath when you back away, giving him space for the first time in what feels like forever. The relief is short-lived, though, when his heart thumps wildly like a rabbit’s foot at the feel of your warm palm sliding down his chest, then his abdomen—almost mirroring the movement from a dream he once had. But you don’t settle there. Instead, you rest your hand on his, halting his assault on his forearm.
“It’s real,” you assure, almost making him cry from the clarity he’s been sorely missing. “Now, I’m still pissed at you for being so stupid, and I’m not happy with the way you handled everything—I don’t appreciate the secondhand guilt you so graciously gifted me, considering I’m the one who came between you and Chrissy—but it’s real.”
Eddie wants to cut you off, his mouth already open to assure you that it was more like Chrissy came between him and you, given all the history there—but he swallows the argument when you shoot him a pointed look.
You suck in a steadying breath, seemingly preparing yourself for something—and he’s dying to know what.
Glancing up at him through blackened lashes, you mumble a vague, “It’s you, Eddie.”
A soft, rueful laugh slips from your shy smile as you gaze intently at your hand atop his. “It’s real, and it’s always been you.”
He watches you with rapt attention—doesn’t want to miss a single moment of this.
You hesitate, as if gathering the right words to explain how you feel, and Eddie finds himself empathizing. It’s a lot—to be real, to be transparent, to place your bleeding heart in someone else’s hands and hope they don’t crush it.
“I didn’t know if you would ever feel…the same—the way I did. Y’know…” You shrug, passively opting out of a full confession, still unsure of everything that happened between him and Chrissy—and your place in it all.
Eddie’s heart feels weightless in his chest, just pondering the past tense you used. You didn’t know. How far back? How long ago did you realize you felt…something? And that cop-out—y’know.
He doesn’t know. But god, does he want to. He won’t push you tonight, but he’ll spend the rest of his life begging for your version of every shared moment. He wants to know everything you feel for him.
And he’ll gladly, excitedly tell you his—as long as you tell him yours. He wants to hear your dreams. He wants to know if he stars in them the way you shine so brightly in his.
His train of thought crashes, cut off by the sharp jab of your fist into his shoulder. He flinches back with a wince. “Ow!” Jaw agape in full offense, he meets your determined face, your features drawn tight in admonition.
“You still owe me a game of Q*bert, jackass. And you’re definitely paying.”
Eddie’s pain melts away at the memory of the deal he made with you—how he promised to take you to the arcade, just the two of you, and pay for all your games. Pay for you to beat him on every lousy machine.
He didn’t forget. He won’t forget how much he owes you for everything he’s put you through.
Rubbing the spot where your knuckles dug in, he nods, avoiding your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Think I’ll be paying for a lot from now on.”
Another fist flies into the same sore shoulder as soon as he drops his hand.
“Damn right, you will.”
Before he can whine out a complaint, your lips are on his again, pulling him into a hypnotic trance of messy, wet tongues—one hesitant, one sure. When you pull away, his lips follow instinctively—resigned to his fate at the bottom of a darkened sea, forever drawn to the siren who led him there.
A smirk pulls at your mouth, a teasing glint dancing across your eyes—the same eyes he’s stared into every night for months. “That’s what boys do on dates, after all.”
A/N: This is just like when Lady Gaga said, “That girl in your head ain’t real. How bad do you want me, for real?” Anyway, I’ve been talking about this for so long. Tell me—did I deliver? Like, comment, reblog to help a writer out.
pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x rockstar!gareth emerson x fem! reader
word count: 7.1k words
description: you fly out to reunite with your rockstar boyfriend eddie munson. after a long day, you decide to return to his bed on the tour bus, but it seems like it is already occupied by his bandmate, gareth.
warnings: 18+ content, MDNI, no use of y/n, rockstar au, all participates are 18+, mentions of alcohol and substances, reader is established as eddie's girlfriend, gareth has crush on reader, mentions of reader having hair but no other characteristics described, groupies, threesome activities, voyeurism, dry humping, tons of dirty talk, spanking, oral (v receiving), v and anal fingering, rough unprotected sex, face grabbing, multiple orgasms, light choking, possessive eddie, cum eating/feeding.
authors note: hey... hey... how y'all doing? lmfao, happy valentine's day! i have been hunkered down for days trying to finish this insane idea and let me tell you... it was horny times. i loved writing for eddie already, and i decided after reading @the-unforgivenn's masterpieces with gareth, that I too would like to add that man to the mix. wanna thank my babies @amanitacowboy, @pedgito, and @chaotic-mystery for supporting this insanity as well. enjoy!
how to help palestine ~ dividers by @cafekitsune
It had been three months.
Three months since you saw your boyfriend, Eddie.
Tour had taken up his entire life since his band’s new album “Asylum” came out in January, and you fucking missed him so much. He had told you countless times to come out and visit him, but your job was holding you hostage with a bunch of stupid deadlines. You were simply just waiting for him to come home to your shared condo in LA.
But after one too many missed assignments, your job decided it was best to let you go because your head was somewhere else. And it was. It was constantly occupied on what your boyfriend could be getting up to while on the road with his bandmates.
You called Eddie that night, twisting the home phone’s cord around your finger as you spoke about how your boss called you into his office and told you that you were dismissed. Eddie was pissed, telling you that he would give your boss a piece of his mind. You told him there was no need, you did not feel like fighting for a job that useless.
“Well, we got four more shows left. Tomorrow is in Austin, Texas. I will be home in like a week, baby. I’m so fuckin’ excited to see you.”
You could not stand another week. You needed to feel him. Touch him.
When you got off the phone, you booked the next flight to Austin. Tomorrow morning at 7AM. That would do. Once you got your official booking, you called Gareth. When he picks up the phone, you can tell from his slurred speech that he’s one, drunk, and two, very confused.
“What’s up darlin’?” His voice rasps through the speaker.
“Hey, I’m surprising Eddie tomorrow and coming to the Austin show. You think you could make sure your management knows and I can get backstage?”
You can hear Gareth’s shuffling, isolating himself somewhere more private, “You are coming to Austin?”
“Yes. I’m surprising Eddie. Make sure will call has passes for me, please.”
His voice sobers, “Of course. I’m… We are excited to see you.”
Gareth was probably your favorite member of Corroded Coffin, other than Eddie, of course. He was sickeningly sweet to you. You chalked it up to how close he and Eddie have been since childhood. He knew you meant the world to Eddie. Plus, he enjoyed your swift and funny banter.
Little do you know, Gareth harbors a small crush on you.
You were strictly off limits but he could not help but let his gaze fall on you longer than what was needed.
“See you tomorrow, Gare!”
-
You were on the verge of tears.
Your flight had been delayed all day. You were not going to make it to the show if the next flight out cancelled again. The kiosk worker said it was because it was too windy for takeoff and most flights had been canceled for the rest of the day. You were at the mercy of the fucking wind.
But by the grace of whatever god, you were boarding a flight at 1PM, which meant you would miss the show and arrive by 8PM. But you still had the chance to catch them after the show, you told yourself.
When you land, you hail the first taxi you see and tell them to race to the arena where your boyfriend is performing. You only brought a backpack, stuffed full of some random assortment of clothing and toiletries. You throw it in the backseat, tapping on the buckles as your anxiety spikes.
Traffic was a nightmare, the city bustling with people attending the show and or, getting fucked up on a Friday night. When the cab screeches to a halt at the very front of the arena, you throw them two $20 bills and sling your backpack over your shoulder. Scalpers approached you immediately, asking if you wanted a shot at catching the band’s last song, but you practically push them to get to the will-call stand. You get the lady’s attention by your insane expression, hurriedly telling her your name and why you are there.
She smiles widely, her wrinkles reflecting her surprise. “We thought you weren’t gonna come! Let me get security to escort you back.”
As soon as you cross into the area, you hear Eddie’s voice over the speakers, wishing everyone a good night. Before you know it, you are guided down some random corridors under the arena. The halls are narrow and you catch yourself knocking your jam-packed bag into the brick walls. It’s so loud, different sounds bouncing off the not-sound-proof walls.
You finally are let backstage which has tons of people bustling around taking large metal boxes off the stage and towards other hallways. Everything was so scrambled and confusing, so it’s reassuring the moment you lock eyes with Gareth. He’s sweaty, his cheeks red and his shirt completely off, displaying some new artwork you haven’t seen before.
“There you are!” He cheers, racing over to you. His glistening skin does not shy you away from giving him an embrace. You giggle as he shakes you excitedly.
“I’m sorry, my flights got all fucked up. But I’m here!” You release him, pulling away to get a good look at him, “Where’s my boy?”
His smile widens even more, taking your hand as he guides you around a crowd of crew and groupies. Walking hand in hand with Gareth gets you some odd glances from pretty girls, which gives you a confidence boost.
When you get to the door marked “Eddie Munson”, your heart is beating straight out of your chest. You had been so nervous this whole time, that you had really no time to get excited. You look at Gareth, releasing his hand and knocking furiously on the door. You take a deep breath when you hear footsteps bounding towards the door.
“What the f-,” His voice is deep and somewhat annoyed, but the moment his eyes land on you, it’s like his entire body relaxes. His big brown doe eyes are enough to take your breath away. His hair is wet and tangly across his forehead. He looks so broad. And naked?
“Surprise!”
It’s the first thing that you can think to say. You can’t say anything else because Eddie’s arms fly around you, pulling you into a big bear hug. His body is so warm, setting you alight almost immediately. “Baby, what are you doing here?!”
You pull away, your hands going up to touch his face. You missed cradling his jaw in your hands when you looked at him or kissed him. “I am surprising you! Surprise!”
“Yeah, you said that!” He presses a kiss into your palm, “I’m so happy to see you, sweetheart.”
You look back at Gareth, whose smile is so wide it warms your entire body. He waves a simple goodbye to you, letting Eddie drag you into his dressing room.
-
Eddie is quick to get you in his lap. He knew the moment he got his hands on you, he would not want to let go of you. You are propped up on his thighs, telling him about the dramatic day you had while he peppered kisses all around your neck.
“Are you even listening to me, baby?” You pester, poking at his still-nude chest. He had managed to put on some sweats before he pulled you onto his lap.
He chuckles, pulling away to sit back on the leather couch. “Of course, I am, sweetheart. Just missed you way too much.”
The sparkle in his eye sends a smile spreading across your face. The days seemed so long without him and while you supported his career and loved that he followed his dreams, you miss the simple pleasures in life with him. Waking up in the same bed. Going grocery shopping together. Doing dishes and singing along to your favorite songs. Ever since Corroded Coffin took off, you have been grieving that life.
Seeing him happy was all that mattered, though. His hard work allowed you two a comfortable life and you knew that’s all Eddie ever wanted to give you.
You slide out of his lap when there’s a knock on the door. The tour manager comes in, his eyes never even meeting your eyes as he directs Eddie to hurry up and get packed up. He’s short in stature, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead. You assume he does not look your way due to the fact that most rockstars keep random girls around all the time and there cannot be conflicts of interest with his talent. Before he can shut the door, Eddie stops him.
“Roger, this is my girlfriend. She’s gonna be tagging along tonight,” Eddie states simply, standing up to almost present you to the man. You nod timidly as the guy finally glances at you.
“Nice to meet you, kid. Keep this boy in check, he’s been a pain in my ass all week. He and Gareth are pests.”
And then he shuts the door, not saying another word. You raise your eyebrows at Eddie, unsure how to react to such a claim. Eddie purses his lips, the sides of his mouth pointing up slightly.
You crook your head, “What have you been putting that poor man through?”
“Nothin’. Gareth has been more of a shithead than me. Won’t stop kidnapping women and bringing them over state lines.”
You lock onto his arm, your eyebrows dropping in confusion. What did he mean by that?
“And you?”
“Last week of tour is prank central. I pelted him with water balloons when he was leaving a porta potty yesterday.”
Him being the more innocent of the two throws you for a loop. Gareth being the real problem is shocking. While a hellion like Eddie, he was definitely the more tame one. Eddie was always dragging him into the pits of chaos, not the other way around.
You loosen your grip as Eddie starts to head over to his vanity to collect all his belongings into a frayed duffle bag. “Gareth is kidnapping women?”
“Not on purpose. He brings them on the bus to fuck and then when he is supposed to take them back to security, he just doesn’t. A girl made it to Chicago from Louisville and Roger had to book her a flight home.”
You shake your head, your hand resting on your forehead. You could not imagine having that poor man’s job. You would murder all of the band before the first show could even go on.
“He’s right, you two are pests.”
-
You and Eddie walk hand in hand down the long corridor that opens up to the back lot of the arena. On the way out, Eddie stops at craft services to load up his duffle with random snacks he says “They don’t have them on the bus”, which you know is a big fat lie. You could bet money their snack cabinet is filled to the brim with snacks and restocked the moment they start to run low.
Jeff walks by you two, his face twisting in surprise when he recognizes you. You stand in the hall, catching up with him. You can tell he’s high off something because his eyes are half shut when he talks. Like a magic trick, a flask appears in his hand and he raises it to you and Eddie.
“See you lovebirds on the bus!”
Eddie wraps his arm around your waist, a sly giggle releasing from his throat, “Mans off his ass every night. He probably won’t even make it to his bunk.”
Your fingers trace his arm, wrapping your finger through one of his bracelets, “Do you have a bunk?”
“Oh no, princess, I have the queen-sized bed in the very back of the bus. We will be very comfy tonight.”
-
You finally climb the steps onto the bus. It’s weirdly freezing as you make it to the very top, taking in the space. It’s a mess to put it lightly. Jeff is already making himself at home on the scratchy-looking couch. Grant is propped up next to a very pretty girl, his arm slung around her possesively. It is weird to see the boys living the life of rock stars. You knew your boyfriend entertained some parts of the life, mainly the alcohol and drugs, but with the way he’s wrapped around your finger, you seriously doubt any infidelity. You also knew if he did try something like that, Gareth or one of the other boys would come running to you to rat him out.
Eddie would never, though. You were his everything.
You give Grant a gentle wave, moving your way through the back of the bus. Before you and Eddie make your way to the door at the very end of the hall, Grant speaks up.
“Gareth’s in there!”
Eddie’s hand drops from your back as he shimmies past you in the tight corridor. He presses his ear up to the door, but you do not even need to do that to hear what is happening in the room. On Eddie’s bed.
Eddie cracks the door a bit, getting an eyeful of Gareth completely going to town on a girl, who he surely does not recognize.
Eddie rolls his big brown eyes, annoyed and ready to break down the door. You stop him, though. An idea sprouts in your head. Something a bit unhinged.
“It’s prank week, Eds. Why don’t we… prank him?”
Eddie’s face relaxes, his jaw going slack. “Prank him? How?”
You ponder your options for a moment. You could sneak in there and scare him? You could have Eddie go up behind him and slap his ass or something?
You smile when the idea hits you.
“Why don’t we stumble in there acting like we are trying to get it on and just fall onto the bed next to them? That’ll rattle him.”
Eddie’s pride shines through his expression. “You’re a dream, baby. So smart and so pretty. You know that?”
He drops the bag onto the floor, as your heart pounds at the fact that he agreed so quickly to your plan.
Eddie grabs you roughly, his eager kiss turning into something more the moment he slides the wooden door open. You hear a sharp gasp the moment you two step into the small confines, but you know not to pull away from Eddie to see who it came from. His hands are expanding under the t-shirt that’s loosely hanging off your body, fondling the flesh of your hips and back. You are walking forward, while he is dragging you with him, his heels hitting the end of the bed before falling onto the bed with a bounce.
The slapping of skin has completely halted by the time Eddie’s lips leave yours and is instead replaced with the sounds of sheets rustling.
“What the fuck!” Gareth’s voice pierces through the room, ringing in your ears. Eddie’s eyes do not leave your face as you both smile wickedly at the plan working out exactly the way you wanted.
You do not look at Gareth, instead, you face the pretty little thing he’s been fucking. Her widened eyes reflected her absolute horror at you and Eddie’s entrance.
She reflected a lot of your physical attributes, but she was just smaller. She was probably a bit older than you as well, her makeup caking around her forehead where her face must’ve been twisted in pleasure. After taking her in, you finally glance over at Gareth.
Big mistake.
He’s glistening with sweat, his curls a mop of mess on his head. He only covers his dick with his hands, leaving the rest of his body on display. You had just seen him shirtless, but there was something more to look at. The expanse of his hipbones and long legs that are littered with random tattoos. He was more covered than Eddie was, which for some reason sends your mind reeling.
You had to keep going along with the bit. “I’m sorry, Eddie said this was his bed.”
Eddie perks up, finally peeling his eyes away from your lingering gaze on Gareth. “It is.”
Your eyes falter back to the girl lying naked under the covers next to Eddie.
“What’s your name?” You probe, your fingers dancing across Eddie’s shoulders. You wanted to be touching him, making sure you maintained your coolness. The girl’s expression shifts over to Gareth, who just shrugs at her.
“Emily,” She responds, her voice small and hesitant. With the way she was moaning, you expected her to have a bit more conviction. Eddie’s hands rest on the back of your thighs, keeping you right between his spread legs. Gareth noticed it immediately, his Adam’s apple bobbing at the sight.
“Emily… I like that name,” You utter, the coldness of Eddie’s rings sending goosebumps down your legs. His every touch was distracting you.
“It’s a very pretty name,” Eddie adds, staring up at your face as he sits back a bit more on the bed. He does not dare look at the other girl, knowing that the only sight he wants to look at right now is you.
“Edd-”
“Gare, why did you stop?” You inquire, your eyes are unyielding as you let them settle back on his face. “Emily seemed to be enjoying herself.”
“You two walked in-”
“And?” Eddie presses, dragging you forward so you are fully mounted on his lap, your knees pressing into the mattress on each side of his hips.
You drag your tongue slowly across your top teeth, ticking it as you shoot Emily a glance. For some reason, this was not just a silly little prank to fuck with Gareth. You strangely wanted to watch Gareth at work. You and Eddie had talked about joining other people in the bedroom in the past, but you knew better than to add a random groupie to such affairs. So you would settle on just watching your long-time friend and your boyfriend’s bandmate fuck a stranger.
“Do you want him to continue, Emily?”
She looks nervous under your regard, which only sends you more on a power trip. You did not know this girl and you would probably never see her again.
Eddie’s hands find your ass, squeezing both cheeks and spreading them apart. It makes your hips rock against his crotch. You can audibly hear how wet you are and it makes Eddie chuckle, a rasp in the back of his throat. You place your hands on the nape of his neck, holding on to steady yourself before you start grinding harder on him involuntarily.
When her head jerks for ‘yes’, you smile and look back at Gareth.
“Give her what she wants, Gare.”
The air in your lungs is literally stolen from your body when Gareth drops his hands from his dick. You did not expect such a thing from him. Long, girthy, and so fucking pretty. The extra saliva in your mouth almost dribbles down your lips when you watch him rip the top sheet off of her body.
By the look on your face, Eddie realizes you are liking this a whole lot more than he is. He swats your ass, gaining your attention again. You grab his neck with your hands, your nails leaving small scratches across his throat. You arch your back, leaning forward and capturing Eddie’s plump pink lips. He is all teeth when you open your mouth to deepen the kiss, which makes you moan a bit.
All the tension you have built up in the last couple of months is now being released and it makes you aggressive. When his teeth graze your tongue, you push him onto his back as you adjust your hips to completely line up your clothed cunt against the tightness in his pants.
The whole time you two have been battling dominance, you realize Gareth has dragged Emily’s frame to the side of the bed, lining his cock up with her perfectly shaved cunt. When he sinks into her, the moan she lets out is pornographic. With one experimental thrust into her, he returns back to the steady pace he was at when you and Eddie just listened to him through the door.
You roll your body on Eddie’s lap, resting your hands on his chest. His body responds to your touch, lurching his hips upward to meet your circling hips. His hands grips onto your thighs, holding you down so you cannot stray away from the friction. You flick your head back to watching Gareth, his pace speeding up as he grunts about how tight Emily is.
“You better make her cum first, Gareth,” You mock, your voice dripping in lust. His eyes snap up to you, his brows furrowed in concentration. Eddie’s hands are burning into your hips, his focus solely on making you cum by simply dry-humping him.
Gareth flicks his curls away from his forehead, leaning over Emily’s smaller frame as he sharpens his angle and grinds his pelvic bone into her swollen clit. She’s writhing under him, completely taken by his performance.
“You want to watch her fall apart on my cock, honey?”
Gareth’s eyes are lasered in on you, your face twisted in pleasure as Eddie starts to move your hips for you. You are so enamored by the question that it steals your voice. Eddie sits up again, his arms wrapping around you, locking your arms behind your back. It’s like he’s putting you in a human straight jacket.
His mouth connects with your jaw as you dry hump him, his voice coming out strained. “Gareth asked you a question, princess.”
You feel your cunt clench around nothing and you are panting. You did not expect those words from Eddie, who was usually possessive and jealous when any guy even gave you a glance. Now he’s playing into Gareth’s game? How did you get here?
You nod, your chest rising and falling in Eddie’s face. You cannot look at Gareth as you say it, so you just squeeze your eyes shut. “Yes, please.”
Due to the close proximity, Gareth’s wing span is long enough to touch you. Instead of a gentle caress, he’s grabbing your face, his fingers pinching your cheeks together. Eddie says nothing, just smirking devilishly at his actions.
“Eyes open. Key word was watch.”
When you open your eyes, Gareth’s face is inches from yours. His steel blue eyes are practically black, his pupils are beyond dilated. You blink slowly, seeing Emily’s twisted expression while the man that’s fucking her is holding onto your jaw. With the way she’s groaning, you know she’s nearing her end, and so are you. Eddie’s one hand locks your wrists behind your back while the other makes its way groping your braless chest over the black fabric of your t-shirt.
Your hips still as the stimulation becomes too much and your cunt spasms even though it’s not filled. Emily matches your moment, her arms lurching upward to grab onto Gareth’s arms as she falls apart on his spearing cock. The moans coming from the room are enough to alarm on the bus, for sure. Her long drawn-out sobs are much louder than your whines, but it was no competition.
Gareth does not finish, just pulls out of her and continues to jerk his soaked dick. Eddie releases your hands, letting you settle against him as your body recovers from your orgasm.
“Gather your clothes, Emily. The security outside the bus will bring you back to the arena,” Gareth directs, backing up so the absolutely spent girl could come to her senses enough to get dressed. You look away as she stands up, focusing your eyes back on Eddie. He’s smiling still, the glint in his eye mischievous.
You felt bad for the girl. She just got to fuck a rockstar, probably one she admires, and now he’s escorting her off the tour bus without really finishing the job. As he guides her to the door, you half expect him to gather his own clothes off the floor.
But he does not do that. Instead, he’s bounding over to the bed, sitting down right next to Eddie.
Eddie’s hands rub up and down your thighs, before he clears his throat. “Did you need something, Gareth?”
You finally peel your eyes away from Eddie, looking over at Gareth’s narrowing expression. His lips are pursed in contemplation. Gareth’s cock is still covered in a condom. When he notices your eyes on him, he slowly drags it off his dick, discarding it on the floor. You feel a dribble of sweat drop down into your eyebrow, not realizing that your body is covered in a layer of glistening sheen.
“Your girl, Munson.”
Your stomach flips as you tug your lip between your teeth, trying your best to not smile. You do not know how Eddie was going to respond to such a revelation, but the thought of being able to get both of them in one night was enough to send your head spinning.
Eddie shrugs, nonchalantly. He starts tilting your face towards his with his pointer finger, “You want that, sweetheart?”
You let the tension in your face go, finally settling on a smirk as your eyes rested on Eddie’s lips.
“As long as I get your dick first, baby.”
Gareth chuckles dryly beside you, his hand grazing the arm you have wrapped around Eddie’s shoulders. “Eddie, you lucky bastard.”
Eddie tightens his grip around you, flipping you on your back. He presses your hips into the mattress, the tangled-up sheets surrounding your head as you look at the two men staring down at you. Their next meal.
Eddie’s quick to strip you of all your clothes and his own. When the realization hits that you are completely bare in front of both men, you start to grow a bit self-conscious. You raise your arms up to grab at your boobs, but Eddie is quick to swat them away.
“Don’t be nervous around us, princess. You’re fuckin’ perfect,” his voice drips with lust. The amount of times you got off on Eddie’s words alone should be studied. Gareth settles beside you, stroking himself as Eddie’s hands trace your legs and thighs. He settles on his knees, parting your knees. “Isn’t she perfect, Gareth?”
Gareth hums, “Fuckin’ flawless, Eddie.”
Your focus tapers in on Eddie’s fingers, dragging towards your wet slit. He still has his rings on, the silver catching the dim overhead light. You groan when his touch graces your silky center, his fingers gathering your slick. When his pointer and middle digits sink into your cunt, your hips raise off the bed.
Your head lulls to the side, your eyes feasting on Gareth’s length right near your head. He’s looking down at Eddie working magic on your core, pumping his cock with his large hands.
You did not realize how attractive you found Gareth until he was this close to you, naked and fiending for you.
When his eyes snap over to yours, he looks pleased.
“You just can’t keep your eyes off my cock, huh, honey?” His voice brings Eddie’s eyes to the state of your gaze. He pumps his fingers into you faster, latching his lips around your swollen bud. That brings your attention back to his head between your thighs.
“Oh my god, Eddie,” You moan, your hand reaching up to grab at his long curls. He shakes his head, his tongue running between your pussy lips like a madman. Eddie always had you cumming on his tongue, and this moment would be no exception. Your core tightens as you feel that familiar build-up in the pit of your stomach.
You cannot look away at his nose and how it probes the top of your pussy as he drags his mouth up and down your slit. When his lips envelop your clit, it’s game over. He scissors his fingers in you as you tumble over the edge.
“Yes, fuck, yes baby,” You cry, your other hand mindlessly gripping onto the closest thing. It was Gareth’s thigh. You dig your nails into the flesh as you grind your cunt on Eddie’s mouth.
Your mind is blank as Eddie lifts himself up, his mouth glossy with saliva and your spend. Your hand is still locked on Gareth’s leg, observing how Eddie slots himself between your lower half. Eddie’s cock is standing at full attention as he pumps himself with his wet fingers. You smile at Gareth, completely drunk off of the climax Eddie just gave you.
“Two orgasms, sweetheart. You think you can handle any more?” Eddie questions, pushing his cock between your folds. You are so sensitive, you are unsure if you can handle it, but your lips deceive you.
“Yes, please,” You say to Eddie, eyes still glued to Gareth.
Gareth decides it’s time to adjust his position, sliding off the edge of the bed and leaning over it to put all his focus on you. He glances up at Eddie, almost to ask permission for something. Eddie just nods, like they spoke telepathically.
Gareth’s hand comes up to your cheek, tenderly dragging down your cheekbone.
“You’re so polite, honey,” He murmurs, his eyes sparkling down at you, “I can’t wait to watch Eddie ruin you with his dick.”
Eddie tilts his shaft down, pushing his cock inside you. You breathe out, trying to take him without clenching immediately. But your reflexes squeeze him so much that he matches your action, gritting his teeth and letting out a sigh.
“Relax, baby. You’re squeezing the fuck outta me,” Eddie groans, taking his time fully sheathing himself inside you. Your senses are in overdrive as you watch Gareth’s mouth slightly open, his fingers touching your lips softly. He’s teasing you, you can tell by how his demeanor has shifted from the way he’s been talking to you.
“Her pussy is probably tight because it hasn’t had a good fuckin’ since you left, Eds. Give her a break,” Gareth dotes, his thumb dropping to your chin. Your breathing hitches when Eddie widens your legs more and snaps back into you. “That right, sweet cheeks?”
Eddie chuckles darkly as you whine when his pace picks up, not waiting for you to adjust to him again. “My girl doesn’t need a break. She just wants to soak my cock, don’t cha, princess?”
You just nod, the air your lungs completely pushed out of your body the moment Eddie lifts your hips up with his sticky hands. The new position hits you perfectly, his cock driving into you at a speed it’s never been at before.
Gareth’s hand drags down to your throat, wrapping around it slightly in a teasing squeeze. He is gauging Eddie’s reactions and that one seems to rub him the wrong way.
“Watch it, Emerson,” he warns, tightening his hands on your hips, “Play with her titties. She likes that.”
Gareth’s hand leaves your neck. You silently curse Eddie’s guidance, wanting nothing more but for him to choke you while Eddie spearheads into you. But the moment his palm reaches your tit, you whine at the contact.
“She does like that, doesn’t she?” Gareth lilts, his fingers going to pinch at your perked nipples. You wiggle in Eddie’s grip, trying to get away from the overstimulation both boys are bringing you. Eddie grabs the back of your thighs, hinging your legs, and drives his cock into your pussy while compressing you into the bed. Even Gareth gasps at the aggression, loving the way you cry out for Eddie.
In an act of pure insanity, Gareth leans down, capturing your nipple in his mouth. Eddie’s reaction brings a sound out of your throat that you have never heard before. His hand practically manhandles Gareth’s curls, trying to pry him away from your chest. It’s met with resistance for a moment before Gareth’s swollen lips pop off your nipple.
You are not sure how the action does it, but you are seizing around Eddie’s cock. No names come out of your mouth, you are unsure which one to scream anyway. You just chant, “Oh god, oh god”, over and over again.
The constriction on Eddie’s cock pushes him over the edge. He releases Gareth, practically tossing him aside as he locks his hands on your waist to fuck his seed into you. Even with your bones feeling like jello, you sit up on your elbows to get an up-close view of Eddie’s furrowed brows and distorted expression.
You grab onto the nape of his neck, the sweat pooling at the base of his curls. You pull him into a passionate kiss, your tongue exploring the inside of his mouth. He tastes like your essence and the whiskey he had been sipping on earlier.
You pull away, nails raking down his neck and chest. You tilt your nose up, getting ready to probe him with a mind-numbing question.
“Now why did you do that to Gareth, baby? You told him that I liked when someone plays with my titties.”
Eddie’s jaw drops before a small smile creeps across his lips. You shoot Gareth a look, his face completely dazed by what just happened.
Eddie’s breath fans your face before drawing back a bit. His cock slowly drags out of your leaking core as he stands up before you. “I told him to play, not suck.”
You tick your tongue, shaking your head at his response. “No making up random rules in the middle of sex, baby.”
Eddie looks smug as he grabs Gareth up from his spot. The odd intimacy of him touching Gareth’s hips as he positions him in front of you is very hot to you. Eddie stands a bit taller than Gareth, so when he leans down to whisper in his ear, you cannot help the way your stomach flutters.
“Fine. Gare, just do what the girl tells you. But,” Eddie’s hands leave his waist, nudging him a bit closer to your knees, “If you cum in her, I will rip your dick off your body. Understand?”
After he says it, he slaps Gareth’s ass before giving you the cheesiest smile ever. His body sinks into the bed next to you, his arm wrapping around your shoulders. When he presses a kiss into your shoulder blade, you finally roll your eyes.
“You heard his terms,” You give a pointed look at Gareth as he slowly drags his pointer finger across your knee, “Do you understand?”
“Crystal clear, honey.” He quips, shooting you a smug smile. “Do you mind if I take you from the back? Or are there stipulations with that?”
You shake your head, pushing up on your ass, flipping over eagerly. Eddie watches you with curiosity, completely taken by the fact that you are this excited to get fucked by his friend.
Gareth’s hands lock on your hips, dragging you to the edge of the bed. He pumps his dick, watching your pulsating pussy dripping with a mixture of Eddie’s cum and your own. He smiles sickly, dragging the tip of his dick through your messy folds.
“Tell me you want it.” Gareth rasps, tilting his head a bit to meet your gaze.
You giggle, not taking him too seriously. “I want it.”
He shakes his head, glancing over at Eddie. He is propped up, his completely nude body looking like a graffitied sculpture from the Louvre or something. Eddie looks between you two, tilting on his side so he can watch you get your fix from Gareth.
“Is she always such a tease, Eddie?” Gareth inquires, his gaze snapping back to the view of you ass up for him.
Eddie snickers, “Gotta put her in her place, Emerson.”
You angle your head to face Eddie head-on, completely baffled by his response. Gareth’s titillating motions around your pussy are already putting you on edge, and now Eddie is only encouraging him to taunt you even further.
“I’ll leave that to you. I’ll just fuck her like the slut she is.”
He snaps into you in one fluid motion, his cock curving inside you in a way that Eddie’s dick does not. You do not expect him to shift so quickly inside you, so you let out a shift yelp. His words still ring in your ear as you hear both of them laugh at your reaction. You press downwards, pushing your ass up further, laying the side of your face into the sheets.
You decide it is better to give it back to him. While he drives into you, you speak up.
“Yes, Gareth, treat me like the dirty little slut I am. Fuck me like you fuck those groupies.”
“Yeah?” He pistons his hips faster. The way his hands fit on your waist is so different than how Eddie’s settle. His hands are rougher and his fingers are not as long. Must be the callouses built up from all the drumming he does. You feel his naked chest make contact with your back. His voice comes out as a whisper, “I fuck all those girls wrapped up. I get you raw. Fuckin’ slut.”
The idea you had earlier about how that girl resembled yourself springs into your brain.
“You like fucking girls who look like me, Gare? Hm?”
Gareth’s thrust slowed for a moment, shocked that you would say such a thing. You were right, but how were you so observant?
“Fuck, you gettin’ off on my little crush on you? You think it’s cute?”
You hum your response, hands gripping the sheets as he rams into you even harder now. You were surely getting off on more than that.
Eddie knew Gareth had a crush on you. He knew that he was fucking whatever girl had your hair or your eyes. Hearing Gareth confess such a thing as he’s balls deep in you sends red flags flying in his mind. He knew he could not stop this right now, loving the way you looked all blissed out on his friend’s dick anyway. But this would not be happening again.
Eddie's hands roam all over your skin as his bandmate fucks you, massaging your back. His fingers meander over to your lower back before his hand is groping your ass cheek. His body moves away from your constricted view. He takes your other ass cheek in his hand, spreading them for his and Gareth’s viewing pleasure.
“How does she feel, Gare? Everything you dreamed about?” Eddie quizzes as he swats your ass a couple of times, trying to rid his mind of the racing thoughts.
Gareth audibly moans, “So fuckin’ tight, dude.”
Gareth’s thrusts only get more sloppy as Eddie plays with your ass. When his middle finger slips down your ass crack, feeling out for your asshole, you put your face in the blankets and screech. Your throat is becoming hoarse at all the strangled moans you have let out in the last hour. Over the wet slapping due to Gareth fucking you so good, you hear the squelching of Eddie pooling a drop of spit between your cheeks.
“She will be gushing on you in no time if you just,” Eddie sinks his finger into your other hole, the excessive stimulation maddening. “Add a finger.”
This is why you are madly in love with the man. He knows you better than anyone.
Because he’s right. As soon as he presses his index finger into your asshole, your hips jut forward. Instead of retreating, Eddie and Gareth both clutch onto your waist and fuck you through the white-hot rapture ripping through your body. Your cunt is gushing around Gareth’s cock, the sounds absolutely obscene.
“Oh fuck, Gareth, oh my god yes! Cum, please cum.”
The way your pussy clamps down on Gareth causes him to hit that same wall, too. After one particularly sharp thrust, he is fumbling out of you, jerking his dick off right near Eddie’s intrusive fingers.
His cum spurts out all over your ass crack and Eddie’s hand. Instead of straying away from it, Eddie chuckles at Gareth’s spend coating everything in sight.
You have never felt so drained in your life the moment the orgasm dampens. Eddie and Gareth share snickers when your body essentially drops down onto the bed.
For you, the interaction is done. But Gareth has something devious planned. He exhales, tilting over and dragging his tongue across your cum-covered ass and back. The warmth of his mouth sends goosebumps rising all along your skin. Eddie gawks at his exploit, his eyes dropping to his cum covered hand. He glances over at Gareth who is so focused on cleaning his remnants on you that he’s not focused on what Eddie is about to do.
With his clean hand, Eddie grips your hair and yanks you up by your scalp. You are whiplashed when he places his coated hand in front of your face.
“A gift from Gareth,” He displays, his smile a bit unhinged. You ogle him before accepting his offer, extending your own tongue and dragging it all around his knuckles and fingers. He shakes his head, at your vulgar conduct. “That’s my girl. Always so compliant.”
By the time you are getting the last bit off Eddie’s hand, Gareth is done cleaning you up. He sees what Eddie is making you do and he cannot help the quiver that escapes him.
When your mouth is laced with your own spit and Gareth’s cum, Eddie drops your head delicately. You roll onto your side, your upper body half in Eddie’s lap, half on the bed.
“I need a shower,” You gripe, trying to regain full feeling in your body. You feel a head high, almost as if you just smoked a full joint by yourself or something.
Eddie assists you in getting up, wrapping you in a sheet, “Let’s get you a shower then, baby.”
Gareth watches him help you as he gathers up his clothing off the floor. The room is so small and the bathroom is right outside the sliding door, so you did not have long to walk. Still, your legs felt like they may give out at any time, so Eddie’s trained hands on you were very helpful.
Eddie helps you into the shower, unraveling you from the blanket and holding your hand as you step into the stand-up surround. You give him a gentle smile, nodding that you would be okay with the rest of the chore.
Eddie uses the blanket for himself, wrapping up just in case one of the other guys sees him in the narrow hallway. As he walks out, Gareth is leaving his room, a snicker leaving his lips.
Eddie raises his fist, gesturing that a bump was required.
Gareth returns the bump, “Thanks for letting me join, dude.”
Eddie shakes his head, a half smile ticking upward, “No problem… It’s never happening again.”
“What if she-”
“Never. Happening. Again,” Eddie states firmly, still grinning, “Enjoy your bunk, Emerson.”
-
part 2
np tags (just some folks that supported my last eddie fics or asked to be tagged, tehe): @hockeyhughes @wdsara48 @emxxblog @cxrsed-angel @canyonmooncreations @mediocredreams
hurm patrick getting you high asf so he can pound ur pussy to no resistance?? just a wet warm hole that kisses his neck sloppy and paws at his shoulders
hi... <3 this made me so dizzy i'm obsessed. i let it cook a little i hope you forgive me <3
TW FOR NONCON/DUBCON VIA INTOX if this is a topic that will trigger you or is not to your liking, please don't read this <3 much love
Really, you should've stopped. You should've known that it was getting to be too much, but Patrick kept putting the joint back between your lips and encouraging you to take nice, big hits. His eyes boring into yours as he grins and rubs your back and grins.
"That's a good girl," he nearly coos. His voice is dripping with condescension that flies right over your pretty head as he takes the joint back. You don't even notice that he's not taking any hits from the joint, he just distracts you with soft little touches and mindless chatter before he's placing it between your glossy lips again.
It isn't long before your head feels a little fuzzy, when his hand on your thigh makes you just want to nuzzle up and curl against him like a cat. You sigh softly as he pets your face, thumb grazing over your cheek.
He clicks his tongue to get your attention and you peer up at him with heavy eyes, smiling sweet and docile up at him. When he runs his thumb along your bottom lip and tugs it down with no resistance, he knows he has you where he wants you.
The moment his thumb presses against your tongue, your soft, pretty lips seal around it. He lets you suckle and drool around it as he wriggles his hand down your jeans and into your panties. You're already nice and wet for him, he figures you probably have been since the moment you stepped into his dorm room and gave that sweet little smile as you toed off your shoes.
"That's it," he murmurs, mouthing at your jaw as his rough fingers rub at your clit, making you gasp and moan around his thumb. Each noise pulled from your mouth, each lazy blink and slow grind of your pussy against his fingers, is like the sweetest honey. Every thought in that pretty little head of yours unspooled and replaced with cotton candy. Sweet and ephemeral.
It's a relief, seeing you like this— when he's laying you down on your back and sliding your pants and panties off and you're just blinking lazily up at him. Cunt slick and hot, clenching around nothing when he strips you of your top and plays with your nipples.
You whine and mewl, squirming with desperate need that you're too mindless to beg for. But he can see it in your eyes, he can see it dripping from your needy little hole. Want. Need. Desire.
You're so pliant, so open. Your walls just barely fluttering and squeezing around his cock as he sinks into your warm, wet cunt. You moan softly and loop your arms around his neck— they feel too heavy for you to do much more than that.
Sweet little gasps and moans escape your lips as you mouth at his jaw and ear with sloppy kisses, and if he feels you getting a little too fuzzy, a little too limp, he just has drill into your cunt a little harder to bring you back to where he wants you.
You're so good for him like this— soaking wet and so sweet. From the looks of it, he'd guess you were in heaven. He thrusts a little harder and a whimper of a gasp punches out of your lips, again and again and again. Pretty, mewling cries, mumbled hot against his throat.
If he was nicer he'd make you cum, but you're not exactly in a position to hold him to it. You whine softly when he pulls out, and he almost feels bad as he looks down at you— bleary eyed and desperate. When he notches his cock at your lips, you almost look a little confused, but you open your mouth and let him in— until you're suckling on his tip and laving over him with your tongue.
"There we go," he murmurs, his fingers fisted in your hair as he sinks in a little deeper. "Just needed something else in your mouth, didn't you? Keep going, honey... that's it. Use that hot little tongue."
He comes with a groan, pumping his load into your mouth and over your lips. Pretty little angel lips glazed in his cum. When you lick it off, he rewards you with another hit. It's the least he can do.
The edges of your soul (I haven't seen yet) ⭐︎ S.H.
⭐︎ Warnings: 18+ mdni! post apocalypse, character death, angst, mean!steve, grumpy!steve x sunshine!reader, blood, wounds -- all the gory stuff, smut in the future chapters, hurt/comfort
⭐︎ Pairing: Grumpy!Steve Harrington x sunshine(fem)!reader
⭐︎ Summary: Everything he once knew, is gone, dead and buried, burned to the ground and turned into ash. All he has known is loss, death and pain, he despised this world, until it brought you to him -- the sunshine he had long forgotten. Light he will follow till the very end.
⭐︎
Prologue ☀︎ When the sun hits, she'll be waiting
Chapter one ☀︎ Welcome and Goodbye
Chapter two ☀︎ Can you see right through me?
Chapter three ☀︎ You’re the greatest thing we’ve lost
Chapter four ☀︎ While I'm alone and blue as can be
Chapter five ☀︎ Watching cityscapes turn to dust
Chapter six ☀︎ The killing time. Unwillingly mine.
Chapter seven ☀︎ Fall back into place. Fall back...
Chapter eight ☀︎ Dead-eyed. Dead weight.
Chapter nine ☀︎ Pull the trigger on the gun I gave you when we met
Chapter ten ☀︎ Turn me into something tragic, just for you, I let it happen
Chapter eleven ☀︎ And I'll fear no evil because I'm blind to it all
Chapter twelve ☀︎ You’re a bandit like me. Eyes full of stars
Chapter thirteen ☀︎ Then this heart would break and fall as twice as far
Chapter fourteen ☀︎ The devil in your eyes, won't deny the lies you've sold
Chapter fifteen ☀︎ Every print I left upon the track has led me here
Chapter sixteen ☀︎ One day I am gonna grow wings...
Chapter seventeen ☀︎ Now I'm racing for what to do, all roads lead me right back to you
Chapter eighteen ☀︎ I'll give you all that I can, as long as you'll wait for me there
