✦Read on AO3! - Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦
Rating/Warnings: E for swearing, mental health issues, and sexual content.
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, modern!AU, no y/n or description for reader, roommate!Dean, angst, fluff.
Mini-Series Summary: The first time you see him, you fall for him. Easy and quickly. But Dean quickly becomes your best friend, and you're not willing to risk that. Is he?
✦Author's Note: Based off of a previous one-shot you can find here, extended into a full series! You can read both, but I recommend you read this one first if you don't want spoilers. Enjoy!✦
Rating/Warnings: 18+ for canon-typical violence, swearing, mental health issues, and sexual content.
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, best friends to lovers, canon divergence, pining, fluff, angst, smut
Mini-Series Summary
With the Mark of Cain getting out of hand, you and Sam convince Dean to try something different. A spell that won't fix the Mark, but will change it. Make Dean crave good things, things he likes, instead of death and blood.
It doesn't exactly go according to plan.
Author's Note
This is meant to a true, genuine, average length mini-series, so it won't be as long and detailed as my other works, but that's by design. It's a personal challenge, and also just something nice and fun. I hope you enjoy!
Chapter List
Chapter 1 - I Saw You In The Water
Chapter 2 - Sick and Full of Pride
Chapter 3 - The Same Way I Think Of You
Chapter 4 - Hands Drawn Out
Chapter 5 - It's Not Enough
Chapter 6 - Everything I Do
Request: @goblin-king-of-anarchy67 Dean Winchester x reader where the reader just throws a pie at his face. That’s it, that’s the whole plot :3
A/N: im getting back into writing again. ive been slowly chipping away at teh requests that have been sitting in my asks/drafts here on tumblr. sorry for the delay in posting them.
Summary: You throw a pie at Dean's face. [wc 938] [ao3] [tag list]
Warnings: fluff, pie throwing
Dean had survived demons, vampires, ghosts, witches, Leviathans, and more concussions than any doctor would consider medically acceptable. What finally took him down, however...was a blueberry pie.
The diner smelled like coffee, syrup, and fresh pastries. Dean was in heaven. "You smell that?" he sighed dramatically, already halfway inside before you and Sam had even finished parking the Impala. "That's the smell of civilization."
You laughed, following him inside. "You've said that about every diner we've ever stopped at."
"Because every diner deserves appreciation."
Sam rolled his eyes. "He's not exaggerating," he told you. "Last week he thanked a waitress because the pie 'saved his soul.'"
"It did."
An hour later, the hunt was solved. The shapeshifter was dead. Nobody had nearly died. It was, by Winchester standards, a fantastic day.
Dean celebrated accordingly by ordering three slices of pie. Cherry. Apple. Blueberry.
"You know," you said, stealing a fry off his plate, "most people stop at one dessert."
Dean gasped. "Most people are quitters."
He guarded his pie with his fork when you reached toward it again. "Oh no."
"What?"
"You've had fries."
"So?"
"No pie."
"I just want one bite."
"No."
"Dean."
"No."
"You are a grown man."
"I am."
"Sharing is caring."
"This is war."
You snorted. "You are ridiculous."
"And yet..." he took an obnoxiously slow bite, eyes never leaving yours, "...this is the best blueberry pie I've ever had."
Your eye twitched.
Sam noticed. "Oh no."
Dean didn't. "What?"
Sam quietly pushed his coffee farther away. "I know that look."
"What look?"
"The one that says she's about to commit a crime."
You smiled sweetly at Sam with the most innocent look you could muster. "I would never."
Dean smirked. "See? Sammy's paranoid."
You stood.
Dean frowned. "Where you going?"
"Bathroom."
"Oh." He relaxed.
The second he looked back down at his pie— You pivoted. Grabbed the paper plate. And with absolutely zero warning—
SPLAT.
Blueberry pie met Dean Winchester's face with enough force to send whipped cream into his hair.
Silence. Utter... Complete... Silence.
A nearby waitress froze mid-pour. Some old guy lowered his newspaper. Someone actually clapped. Dean sat perfectly still. Blueberries slowly slid down his cheek. A blob of whipped cream dripped off the end of his nose. Sam covered his mouth. He made one heroic attempt not to laugh. He failed spectacularly. A snort escaped. Then another. Within seconds he was doubled over in the booth, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe.
Dean blinked. "You..." Another blueberry rolled off his forehead. "...just threw pie..." He wiped whipped cream out of one eye. "...at my face."
You nodded. "Yep."
"Why?"
"You wouldn't share."
"THAT'S MY REASON?"
"You were being annoying."
"I was protecting my pie!"
"You were taunting me."
"It was my pie!"
"Worth it."
Dean stared. Long enough that you started wondering if maybe— maybe — You'd actually gone too far. Then... The corner of his mouth twitched. "...Worth it, huh?"
"Oh, absolutely."
He slowly reached for his napkin. You relaxed. See? Everything was fi— Instead of grabbing the napkin... He picked up the untouched slice of cherry pie.
"Oh no."
Dean smiled. The kind of wicked smile that belonged in horror movies. "Oh yes."
You backed away. "Dean."
"You started this."
"I think we've all grown from this experience."
"You weaponized dessert."
"I was expressing myself."
"You assaulted me with fruit."
"It was mostly whipped cream."
Sam wheezed. "I am begging both of you not to—"
Dean stood. You bolted.
The entire diner watched as you sprinted between booths. Dean chased after you holding an entire slice of cherry pie like it was Excalibur.
"You get back here!"
"You'll never take me alive!"
"I JUST WANT TO TALK!"
"YOU HAVE PIE!"
"I CAN TALK AND HAVE PIE!"
"No!"
You rounded the counter. Dean followed. The cook looked up once. Saw the situation. Simply stepped aside. Not his circus. Not his monkeys. This was a Waffle House, after all. He'd seen crazier things happening.
You nearly made it to the door. Nearly. Dean caught your wrist—not hard, just enough to stop you—and gently tugged you back. You stumbled into his chest with a laugh.
"There," he said triumphantly.
"Caught you."
"I surrender."
"Liar."
"Maybe."
He looked down at the pie in his hand. Then back at you. Then grinned.
"You know..."
"What?"
"I don't actually want revenge."
"You don't?"
"Nah."
Relief washed over you. "So you're just gonna let me—"
He carefully dabbed a tiny dollop of whipped cream onto the tip of your nose. "There."
You blinked. "...That's it?"
"That's it."
You smiled. "You're getting soft."
"I know."
He leaned down, brushing a quick kiss against your forehead despite the blueberry filling still stuck in his hair. "I blame you."
The waitress walked over carrying a fresh slice of blueberry pie. She set it in front of Dean. "On the house."
Dean looked between the pristine slice...and the blueberry still dripping from his jacket. "I don't know whether to feel rewarded or insulted."
She shrugged. "You made lunch entertaining."
After she walked away, Dean sighed happily. "See?" He picked up his fork. "Everything works out."
You smiled innocently. "You gonna share this one?"
He looked at you. Looked at the pie. Looked back at you. "...Absolutely not."
You reached toward it anyway.
Dean immediately slid the plate out of reach.
"Oh, come on!"
"I've learned from my mistakes."
Sam groaned into his coffee. "I'm hunting monsters with two overgrown children."
Dean didn't even look away from you. "Worth it."
You couldn't help laughing. Honestly? You'd throw another pie if it meant hearing that laugh again.
Request: @goblin-king-of-anarchy67 Dean Winchester x reader where the reader just throws a pie at his face. That’s it, that’s the whole plot :3
A/N: im getting back into writing again. ive been slowly chipping away at teh requests that have been sitting in my asks/drafts here on tumblr. sorry for the delay in posting them.
Summary: You throw a pie at Dean's face. [wc 938] [ao3] [tag list]
Warnings: fluff, pie throwing
Dean had survived demons, vampires, ghosts, witches, Leviathans, and more concussions than any doctor would consider medically acceptable. What finally took him down, however...was a blueberry pie.
The diner smelled like coffee, syrup, and fresh pastries. Dean was in heaven. "You smell that?" he sighed dramatically, already halfway inside before you and Sam had even finished parking the Impala. "That's the smell of civilization."
You laughed, following him inside. "You've said that about every diner we've ever stopped at."
"Because every diner deserves appreciation."
Sam rolled his eyes. "He's not exaggerating," he told you. "Last week he thanked a waitress because the pie 'saved his soul.'"
"It did."
An hour later, the hunt was solved. The shapeshifter was dead. Nobody had nearly died. It was, by Winchester standards, a fantastic day.
Dean celebrated accordingly by ordering three slices of pie. Cherry. Apple. Blueberry.
"You know," you said, stealing a fry off his plate, "most people stop at one dessert."
Dean gasped. "Most people are quitters."
He guarded his pie with his fork when you reached toward it again. "Oh no."
"What?"
"You've had fries."
"So?"
"No pie."
"I just want one bite."
"No."
"Dean."
"No."
"You are a grown man."
"I am."
"Sharing is caring."
"This is war."
You snorted. "You are ridiculous."
"And yet..." he took an obnoxiously slow bite, eyes never leaving yours, "...this is the best blueberry pie I've ever had."
Your eye twitched.
Sam noticed. "Oh no."
Dean didn't. "What?"
Sam quietly pushed his coffee farther away. "I know that look."
"What look?"
"The one that says she's about to commit a crime."
You smiled sweetly at Sam with the most innocent look you could muster. "I would never."
Dean smirked. "See? Sammy's paranoid."
You stood.
Dean frowned. "Where you going?"
"Bathroom."
"Oh." He relaxed.
The second he looked back down at his pie— You pivoted. Grabbed the paper plate. And with absolutely zero warning—
SPLAT.
Blueberry pie met Dean Winchester's face with enough force to send whipped cream into his hair.
Silence. Utter... Complete... Silence.
A nearby waitress froze mid-pour. Some old guy lowered his newspaper. Someone actually clapped. Dean sat perfectly still. Blueberries slowly slid down his cheek. A blob of whipped cream dripped off the end of his nose. Sam covered his mouth. He made one heroic attempt not to laugh. He failed spectacularly. A snort escaped. Then another. Within seconds he was doubled over in the booth, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe.
Dean blinked. "You..." Another blueberry rolled off his forehead. "...just threw pie..." He wiped whipped cream out of one eye. "...at my face."
You nodded. "Yep."
"Why?"
"You wouldn't share."
"THAT'S MY REASON?"
"You were being annoying."
"I was protecting my pie!"
"You were taunting me."
"It was my pie!"
"Worth it."
Dean stared. Long enough that you started wondering if maybe— maybe — You'd actually gone too far. Then... The corner of his mouth twitched. "...Worth it, huh?"
"Oh, absolutely."
He slowly reached for his napkin. You relaxed. See? Everything was fi— Instead of grabbing the napkin... He picked up the untouched slice of cherry pie.
"Oh no."
Dean smiled. The kind of wicked smile that belonged in horror movies. "Oh yes."
You backed away. "Dean."
"You started this."
"I think we've all grown from this experience."
"You weaponized dessert."
"I was expressing myself."
"You assaulted me with fruit."
"It was mostly whipped cream."
Sam wheezed. "I am begging both of you not to—"
Dean stood. You bolted.
The entire diner watched as you sprinted between booths. Dean chased after you holding an entire slice of cherry pie like it was Excalibur.
"You get back here!"
"You'll never take me alive!"
"I JUST WANT TO TALK!"
"YOU HAVE PIE!"
"I CAN TALK AND HAVE PIE!"
"No!"
You rounded the counter. Dean followed. The cook looked up once. Saw the situation. Simply stepped aside. Not his circus. Not his monkeys. This was a Waffle House, after all. He'd seen crazier things happening.
You nearly made it to the door. Nearly. Dean caught your wrist—not hard, just enough to stop you—and gently tugged you back. You stumbled into his chest with a laugh.
"There," he said triumphantly.
"Caught you."
"I surrender."
"Liar."
"Maybe."
He looked down at the pie in his hand. Then back at you. Then grinned.
"You know..."
"What?"
"I don't actually want revenge."
"You don't?"
"Nah."
Relief washed over you. "So you're just gonna let me—"
He carefully dabbed a tiny dollop of whipped cream onto the tip of your nose. "There."
You blinked. "...That's it?"
"That's it."
You smiled. "You're getting soft."
"I know."
He leaned down, brushing a quick kiss against your forehead despite the blueberry filling still stuck in his hair. "I blame you."
The waitress walked over carrying a fresh slice of blueberry pie. She set it in front of Dean. "On the house."
Dean looked between the pristine slice...and the blueberry still dripping from his jacket. "I don't know whether to feel rewarded or insulted."
She shrugged. "You made lunch entertaining."
After she walked away, Dean sighed happily. "See?" He picked up his fork. "Everything works out."
You smiled innocently. "You gonna share this one?"
He looked at you. Looked at the pie. Looked back at you. "...Absolutely not."
You reached toward it anyway.
Dean immediately slid the plate out of reach.
"Oh, come on!"
"I've learned from my mistakes."
Sam groaned into his coffee. "I'm hunting monsters with two overgrown children."
Dean didn't even look away from you. "Worth it."
You couldn't help laughing. Honestly? You'd throw another pie if it meant hearing that laugh again.
Thea, She/Her, 21, unfortunately American. I write what I feel like, for better or worse. That means long (very long) series, but also one-shots or mini-series!
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Steve Harrigton needs a date to his cousin's wedding and unfortunately for you, you owe your sister a favour.
pairing: steve harrington x mayfield!reader
words: 8.5k
contains: fluff, frenemies to lovers, (sort of) fake date, mention of precious king!steve behaviour, steve’s dad being a little awful, grief, guilt, mention of death of a sibling, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: ah so this one was so fun to write! i have never written a wedding guest fic before and oh, i just loved it! please enjoy
taglist | masterlist | 3k special masterlist | requests page
Steve Harrington could not believe his luck—or lack thereof.
The day before cousin’s wedding, Juliet had called Family Video to cancel on him and so, Steve had naturally begun to panic.
He knew how much the wedding was costing his aunt Edith—the only family member who he actually really liked—and so he knew how a last minute cancellation like this would stress her and his cousin Daisy out. Especially as he had already begged his aunt to allow him to bring Juliet with him in the first place.
He had called Robin but she was unfortunately sick with the flu. He had called his last ten dates but they were all either busy or flatly refused to go out with him again. He had even debated asking Nancy but shook the thought, she was his ex-girlfriend after all.
“Wow,” Max Mayfield grins in mild amusement as Steve rattles off the list of girls he had asked to be his emergency plus one. “You really need to find a hobby.”
Dustin—who had stumbled into Family Video over half an hour ago alongside Max to try and convince Steve into letting them rent an R rated horror for the party’s weekly movie night—laughs loudly, causing Steve to groan into his hands before resting his head against the cool countertop in defeat.
“I’ll just go alone,” Steve grumbles against his arm. “I’ll just look like a sad, sad loser going to alone to a wedding and—”
“What about Max’s sister?”
Steve can’t help it. He lets out a snort of disbelief before standing up straight.
He doesn’t miss the look of annoyance Max shoots his way.
“What’s wrong with my sister, Harrington?” She asks pointedly and Steve’s ears turn red.
Of course, there was nothing wrong with you per se. In fact, Steve had very briefly considered asking you the moment that he had gotten off the phone with Juliet. But there was just one small problem—
“Nothing!” Steve says quickly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Absolutely nothing! She just—”
“Hates his guts?” Dustin offers.
Max rolls her eyes in exasperation, folding her arms across her chest as she looks from Dustin to Steve.
“She doesn’t hate you,” Max insists. “She just—she just thinks you’re an asshole and would prefer not to be in the same room as you.”
Steve swallows. Something that felt like shame swirls in his gut. Of course, you had every reason to dislike him and Steve would be the first to put his hands up and say he probably deserved it. You two had very much gotten off on the wrong foot after you had overheard him call Billy’s family—and by extension your family—’trash’. It had been in the heat of the moment and he had only said it because Billy had been pushing his buttons all day. The moment he had realised that you were within earshoot, he had regretted saying it. But because he was stubborn and, at that point in time, cared more about what others thought of him than doing the right thing, and so he didn’t take them back. He didn’t apologise.
He later tried, after the first dance with the Upside Down together, after you had stopped Billy from almost killing him in Byers’ home with a syringe but you had scoffed and walked away like you didn’t buy it. You had made it very clear that you didn’t want to accept his apology, that you had made your mind up about him despite the fact your sister could not care less about the comment. He understood why—you were her big sister and you were protecting your family. Especially after Starcourt, especially after Billy died.
And so, Steve wasn’t exactly convinced by Max’s insistence that you didn’t hate him.
“There is no way she’ll go with me,” Steve says with a shake of his head, arms folded across his chest. “She hates—”
“—she will,” Max says with a knowing smile. “She owes me a favour.”
Steve blinks, looking from Max to Dustin and back again, as if waiting for one of them to shout ‘April Fools!’.
When neither of them does, Steve raises a brow at Max.
“What for?”
“She broke my skateboard,” Max explains. “I was gonna make her buy me a new one but making her go to a wedding with you sounds more interesting.”
Dustin laughs and the corner of Max’s mouth twitches but Steve looks thoroughly unconvinced.
“Gee, thanks Max,” Steve mutters, eyes shifting down to the pile of tapes stacked in front of him that he was meant to be rewinding. “But I really don’t think she’ll agree.”
And so, Steve spends the rest of his shift rehearsing exactly what he was going to say to his aunt when he called her to tell him he would be attending the wedding tomorrow, minus his plus one.
Five minutes before his shift was due to end, Steve was carefully rearranging the candy selection just as the bell above the door sounded. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes.
Of course—it was just his luck that a customer had decided to waltz in five minutes before his shift ended. He would put money on the fact it was a group of teenagers who would refuse to leave, teenagers who would mess up the horror display he had spent forty five minutes rearranging, teenagers who pick up the tape for Body Heat to try and convince Steve that they weren’t fourteen.
“We’re closing in—”
“—in five minutes. I know. I can read a clock, Harrington.”
Steve’s stomach turns at the sound of your voice. His head whips around so quickly it was a wonder he didn’t hurt himself. He certainly dropped all of the bars of candy that he had been holding.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” Steve asks, blinking as he watches you approach the counter with a schooled expression. “Robin has the flu if that’s what you—”
“—I’m here to see you,” you interrupt, eyes flicking down to the peanut butter bopper still clutched in Steve’s hand before you look back up at his face. “Max told me about your—your plus one situation.”
“Oh,” Steve says, the tips of his ears reddening as he looks down at all the candy bars he had dropped, the ones he had been lovingly arranging for the past ten minutes. “Yeah um, that Juliet cancelled on me. She’s cat sitting or something so can’t um, make it.”
You quirk a brow and Steve can tell by the look on your face that you want nothing more than to make a comment, to crack a joke, perhaps even tell him that he had very clearly been stood up, that there was no way Juliet had actually cancelled on him to cat sit. But you don’t, instead you seem to take a deep breath before you say. “I’ll do it.”
The bopper in Steve’s hand falls to the floor. He scrambles to pick it up before looking back ar you.
“Seriously?” He asks, his eyes wide as he tries his best not to look too hopeful. “You—you’re not—this isn’t a prank, right?”
You frown slightly. “Why would I do that?”
Steve blinks before he shakes his head because really, he knew you would never do anything like that to him.
“I—I dunno—I just—you know this is a wedding, right?” Steve asks you. “Like I’ll be in a suit and you’d wear—”
“—a dress,” you finish. “I know, Max told me. I have a dress if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Steve swallows, the bopper that was back in his grip starting to melt in his sweaty grasp. “I’m not worried about that, it's just—are you sure? Like, are you sure about coming to this wedding—with me?”
You exhale, looking away from Steve momentarily to look around the store, almost as though you were bracing yourself for something big.
“Yes, Harrington,” you say finally. “As a favour to Max, I’ll go to this wedding with you.”
Steve looks back at you for a long, long moment, as if to make sure he wasn’t dreaming or that you weren’t going to tell him you were joking. When he realises that this wasn’t a dream and you say nothing, he starts to smile.
“Thank you,” he breathes. “Thank you so much. This means a lot. My family are—yeah—this is just, it’s really great of you to—”
“—but I’m not dancing with you,” you cut in quickly, fiddling with your hands as you look away from him. “Or doing anything remotely touchy feely. I’m just your plus one. That’s it. That’s all I’ll be.”
“That’s fine!” Steve says quickly, wiping his clammy hands over his jeans before setting down the bopper onto the countertop beside him, the wrapper crumpled and the chocolate inside a little gooey. “Makes sense. Yeah. Um, totally. No dancing. Limited touching. Ju—just my plus one.”
You look at him for a beat before finally, you nod. “Good. Glad we got that covered,” you say before you lean down to pick up one of the candy bars he had dropped and tear open the wrapper.
“You know you need to pay for th—”
“See you tomorrow, Harrington,” you say, smiling before taking a large bite from the chocolate bar and walking straight out of Family Video.
“Could you sit still? Just for two minutes?”
“Is this really necessary?”
Max looked back at you blankly in the mirror before shaking her head, returning her attention to your hair, ignoring you.
You huff but you don’t question her further.
You didn’t want to admit it to yourself but as it drew nearer to ten in the morning—the time that you agreed to be ready by with Steve late last night when he had called you in a slight panic, having forgotten to tell that the wedding was over an hour away—you found that you were starting to feel nervous.
The pale green satin dress you were wearing—the one you had been saving for Max’s graduation—hugged your body in a way that you weren’t used to. Max and your mom insisted that you looked beautiful but you didn’t exactly know how to feel about that. Especially knowing you’d be spending the day and most of the evening on the arm of Steve Harrington.
“Is it too late to back out now?” You ask Max hopefully, setting down the blusher you had been applying while she was focused on your hair. “I mean—I could say I got the flu from Robin or—”
“—absolutely not,” Max snaps at you. “Just give him a chance? Alright? He’s not the asshole he was in high school.”
You hum in acknowledgement at her words but you don’t respond. You had heard that sentiment plenty of times before, you just couldn’t allow yourself to believe it.
By some miracle, you were ready just before ten o’clock. After slipping on some silver kitten heels, you stand up straight and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror next to your bed. It was hard not to smile at how pretty you felt.
“Still wanna back out?” You hear Max ask from the door of your shared bedroom, one of your mom’s nice silver purses she only used for special occasions clutched in her hands.
You look over your shoulder at Max before your eyes flicker back to your reflection, at the hair Max had lovingly styled and the makeup you had delicately applied but mostly at the dress that gave you a fluttery feeling in your stomach.
“No,” you say with a small shake of your head before you turn to look at your sister. “I made a promise so I should stick to it.”
Max looks at you before she smiles. “You look really pretty, by the way.”
Your face warms a little at the compliment but you try to hide it, walking over to Max to take your mom’s purse from her hands. “Not bad for a last minute wedding.”
The corner of Max’s mouth twitches before she walks over to you to carefully adjust one of your hair clips. “You promise to be nice to Steve? Give him a chance to prove himself?”
“Max—”
Max cuts you off with your name and you look back at her carefully. “I’m serious. I want you two to get along. You’re important to me, he’s important to me.”
You feel yourself soften, just a little. Because if something mattered to your little sister, it mattered to you too.
“Just don’t—don’t tell him I said that,” Max adds.
You fight back a smile. “I won’t.”
It was five minutes later when there was a knock at the front door. Your stomach turned nervously as Max ran to answer it.
“You look great,” your mom smiles reassuringly. You smile back—not entirely knowing why you felt so nervous. This was just Steve. Just Steve—the guy who just last week you had yelled at for breathing too loud. Just Steve—the guy you were now going to a damn wedding with.
You take a deep breath before bidding your mom goodbye and following the voices of Max and Steve out of your room.
“—is the tie the right colour?” You hear Steve ask Max, a nervous edge to his voice. “‘Pale green’ was right of vague, I had to—”
“—you don’t need to match with her dress, it’s not prom, Steve—”
“—but I thought—”
You walk into the open plan living room and suddenly, Steve stops talking.
In fact, Steve Harrington seems to stop breathing as he looks at you.
He was looking at you in a way that took your breath away for a few short seconds before you remember just how infuriating you thought he was. But for a brief moment, you allow yourself to look at Steve—really look at him—and admire just how nice he looked. He had always been good looking, even you could admit that, but right now with his wide hazel eyes, parted lips and the suit he was wearing—the tie of which almost perfectly matched your dress—he looked stupidly handsome. The kind of handsome that made your stomach tighten.
The moment the thought enters your mind, heat spreads throughout your body. You determinedly ignore it.
“You’re late,” you say by way of a hello, hoping your voice doesn’t give any indication that you felt nothing but apathy for the man in front of you. “You know it’s rude to show up after the bride?”
Steve blinks, seeming to snap out of whatever momentary trance you had sent him in so that he could frown at your words.
“It was the tie! And there was some construction near the—”
“—still. You’re late.”
Steve seems to bite his tongue with whatever retort he had ready to go, his eyes flickering over to match who Max watches the exchange, thoroughly entertained.
“Ready to go?” Steve asks you, choosing to ignore your remark as he steps towards the door.
You nod, opening your mom’s purse to check you had your lip gloss and some extra hair clips before looking back at Steve. “Yeah. Ready to—”
“—wait!” Max exclaims and you know what was coming before she even opens her mouth. “Let me just go grab the camera. I want this moment framed.”
Neither of you stop yourself from groaning loudly at that.
The drive to the wedding venue took a little over an hour and the car ride with Steve was almost completely silent, save for the radio that seemed to be the saving grace of the journey.
It dawned on you that you hadn’t ever really spent one on one time with Steve before. Sure, you two had been through a lot together when it came to the upside down, but you had never hung out, not really. But now—you face the prospect of spending the entire day together. At a wedding, no less.
One thing you quickly learned about Steve was that he hummed while listening to music. A lot. Like it was beginning to grate on you kind of a lot.
“Do you have to hum while listening to music?” You ask him in a terse voice after almost thirty minutes of biting your tongue.
You watch Steve stiffen slightly out of the corner of your eye, watch the way his knuckles tighten around his steering wheel and you register the instant ceasing of his humming.
“It’s my car,” Steve points out. “I can hum in my car if I want.”
You open your mouth to snap at him, to tell him that his humming was incredibly annoying and to tell him to stop. But then you thought of Max, you thought of your promise to her that you’d try to be nice to Steve, that you would give him a chance. You find yourself pursing your lips, carefully considering your options before you decide to let this minor annoyance slip.
Baby steps.
But when Steve pulls his Beamer into a church car park that was swarming with pastel coloured dresses, fascinators and expensive suits, it felt more like diving headfirst into cold water than tentative baby steps.
“Are you ready for this?” Steve asks you gently, sensing your apprehension as you make no move to leave the safety of his car.
You swallow nervously, soothing down your dress as you nod because suddenly, you were acutely aware of the fact that your dress cost less than thirty dollars and that your heels were scuffed, owing to the fact you had bought them secondhand from a thrift store.
“Yeah,” you lie because Hawkins was over an hour away and both you and Max had put too much effort in your appearance to turn back now. But as Steve’s hand moves to open the door, you add, “it’s just—I’m not—I’m not great with family.”
Steve’s hand stops mid-air, inches away from the door handle as he looks over at you carefully before the corners of his mouth lift into something akin to a smile. “That makes two of us,” Steve tells you. “So don’t worry. My parents hate everyone. Just don’t take it personally and you’ll be fine.”
You almost laugh. Almost.
To his credit, the moment that you finally stepped out of his car, Steve was right by your side. His hand, though tentative, rests on the small of your back as you walk towards the church, gravel crunching beneath your shoes. You were already regretting the heels.
As you walk by throngs of Steve’s relatives, he gives you a very quick run down of who’s who while you try to keep up.”
“That’s my uncle Simon,” Steve tells you, nodding to a man in a suit that looked so expensive that you briefly wondered if you were even allowed to look at it. “Been married like three times. Doesn’t seem to understand what monogamy is.”
You bit back a laugh.
“That’s my great aunt Sara—”
“—great aunt?” You repeat, looking at the women Steve had subtly pointed to who did not look old enough to even be considered a great aunt. “Are you sure she’s—”
“—she had a face lift,” Steve explains and you nod slowly. “Well, we all suspect she’s had a face lift. She’s never actually said. She just keeps saying it’s because slathers herself in honey or egg whites every morning.”
Another laugh you had to fight back.
Steve was just telling you about some falling out between his grandmother and cousin as someone calls his name. Steve stops talking mid-sentence to look over at who had called out his name and smiles.
“And this,” he murmurs to you as a woman with a kind, heart shaped face and bright smile approaches. “Is my aunt Edith. She’s a bit much but—”
“Stevie! Oh, look at you!”
You watch in fascination as Steve Harrington—the guy who had been known as King Steve, the guy who had once held a keg stand record for almost three years—turns bright red.
“Edith—”
“—what?” Edith beams at the sight of Steve, carefully adjusting his blazer and fusing over his tie. “Is it a crime now to say hello to my favourite nephew?”
Steve doesn’t respond as even the tips of his ears turn red but his aunt doesn’t tease him any further, instead her soft eyes shift over to you.
“And who is this beautiful young lady?” Edith asks, her gaze so warm and friendly that you couldn’t help but smile at her. “Steve, is this your—”
“—friend,” Steve says quickly and with a quick glance over at you. “Just a friend.”
In any other circumstances, you would have corrected Steve if he referred to you as a friend but you let it slide. Baby steps.
“And a friendship is a beautiful foundation for a relationship,” Edith says to a blushing Steve before she looks back at you. “I’m only teasing him, honey. Don’t look so worried.”
You let out a breathy laugh before shaking your head. “No, go ahead. Tease away. I didn’t know he could turn that shade of red.”
Edith laughs and despite Steve rolling his eyes, he lets out a reluctant chuckle.
“Oh, I like her already.”
The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches before he tells Edith your name and you can’t help but notice the flash of recognition in her eyes when she hears Steve reel off your last name. You can’t blame her. The surname Mayfield and the names of your family had been splashed all over the newspapers after Starcourt, Billy's death.
But Edith doesn’t say anything, which you appreciate.
“You two should probably head inside,” Edith tells you with a nod towards the church. “Or you might be in danger of being run over by the bride.”
You let Steve guide you inside, his hand still on your back as you enter the church.
“Sorry about Edith,” Steve says as you walk towards the church pews. “She’s really—”
“—she was lovely,” you tell Steve. “Really. She wasn’t too much at all.”
Steve nods but you can see the look of quiet gratitude in his eyes.
You sit down in the pews beside Steve, becoming acutely aware of his thigh pressing against yours, of the way he was tapping his finger rhythmically against his thigh as his eyes darted around the church. You knew without asking that he was looking for his parents.
“By the way,” Steve murmurs after a moment, his eyes shifting back to you. “I forgot to say earlier but you look—”
But Steve was cut off by a sudden swell of music that signalled the arrival of the bride and whatever he was about to say dies on his tongue.
As Daisy met her soon to be husband at the altar and the ceremony began, you tried your very best to remain present. But as your eyes flickered around the church, something swirled in your gut. The realisation that the last time you had been in a church—albiet, nowhere near as extravagant as this—had been at Billy’s funeral.
Despite the fact you hadn’t been very close with Billy nor had you even remotely liked your step-brother, Billy’s death had affected you more than you cared to admit. It wasn’t just because of what had happened to your family in the immediate aftermath of Billy’s death, when your step-dad had left Hawkins and took every bit of stability you had left with him. It was also the immense guilt and complicated things that you found yourself feeling that had made Billy’s death difficult to navigate, guilt that you felt for surviving Starcourt when Billy didn’t, guilt for also feeling so much resentment towards Billy when he had been alive for making your and Max’s life miserable but deep down, desperately things had been different for him.
But most of all, the thing that had been the most difficult about Billy’s death? It was seeing how it had affected Max and the crushing realisation that came the moment you had heard her scream out Billy’s name—was that, try as you might, you couldn’t protect Max from everything.
And so, as you sat beside Steve Harrington in the pews you were barely listening to Daisy and her soon to be husband Dale exchange their vows. And you even miss Steve sniffling quietly beside you.
After the ceremony—of which, you remember very little—you and Steve make the short journey to the reception which would be held at a magnificent farmhouse outside of which there was a beautiful rose garden. You would have thought it a truly breathtaking sight if you still weren’t so in your own head, still thinking about Billy, of the funeral and Max.
Though he wasn’t saying anything, Steve could tell something was wrong. The small rapport you had built before the ceremony had vanished, you didn’t even complain when he had ordered you the wrong drink by accident.
“Okay,” Steve sighs, looking at your expression carefully after pulling you to the side of the bar. “You gonna tell me what’s up? Did I do something or—”
You blink, looking at Steve as though only just seeing him properly for the first time.
“I haven’t—I haven’t been in a church since—” you stop yourself, averting your eyes in favour of watching a few of Steve’s smaller cousins running around to distract yourself from the slight burn you were feeling behind your eyes.
You miss how Steve’s eyes soften, how his expression shifts and how he half raises his hand as though he had to stop himself from reaching for you.
“Oh,” he says softly, so softly that you barely recognise his voice and you have to look at him just to be sure it was really Steve. “I didn’t—I didn’t even think. I’m sorry. I—”
“—it’s okay,” you say quickly, forcing a smile onto your face as you look back at Steve. “I’m okay. It was a really beautiful ceremony.”
Steve looks at you and there was a brief moment where you thought that he was just going to drop it. That he wasn’t going to push you to talk but he said your name in that new, soft voice and you knew you weren’t going to get away that easily.
“—I know I’m not your favourite person in the world but you know you can talk to me about—”
“—Steven! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
You watch as Steve’s face almost completely drains of colour.
“Fuck,” Steve mutters to you as your peer over his shoulder to see a couple—who were undoubtedly his parents—striding towards to two of you. “Okay. It’s just my parent’s. It’s just my—”
“—oh, you must be Steven’s girlfriend!” Steve’s mother exclaims happily as both she and his father approach. You were so taken aback by the hug she pulled you into that you don’t even try to correct her on the fact you were not Steve’s girlfriend and Steve makes no attempt to correct her. Instead, his face reddens and he shoots you an apologetic smile.
That son of a—
“He had told us you were pretty but I don’t think you’d be—”
“—mom,” Steve mutters, his face now burning as he avoids direct eye contact with you, clearly not wanting to give away the fact that you definitely were not his girlfriend. But you didn’t care about it that much anymore, not when you had just learned that Steve Harrington had told his parents that you were pretty.
Steve introduces you to both his parents and, like Edith, you see the flash of recognition across their faces at your surname but unlike Edith, Steve’s parents didn’t let your name pass without acknowledgement.
“Oh dear,” his moms says kindly, placing a gentle hand on your arm that makes your stomach churn uncomfortably. “I thought I recognised your face. Billy Hagrove was your step-brother, right?”
You don’t trust yourself to talk and nor do you look at Steve as you nod.
“We’re terribly sorry for your loss,” his father says to you solemnly, though his expression does not change in the slightest. “Awful accident.”
You smile in acknowledgement but you aren’t quite sure what to say. Thank you? Everything you knew you should say when someone offered their condolences would sound insincere. Unnatural, even. But fortunately—or unfortunately—for you, Steve’s father continues talking.
“And for his father to leave the way he did, leaving your family, a single mother to struggle and live in a trailer park of all places—it must really be awful for your family. Being amongst drug dealers and god knows what else in that park!”
You swallow. It had been awful but you didn’t think much of Danny Harrington’s tone—of the fact he sounded more sorry that your family were living in a trailer park than grieving. You still had Max and your mom—even if she had started drinking to cope—and a roof over your heads. It was all you needed.
But before you could tell Steve’s father any of this, before you could even consider politely standing up for yourself, Steve Harrington got there first.
“Dad, let’s not—let’s not go there, okay?” Steve says, placing a hand on your back as if ready to steer you away from the conversation.
Danny Harrington, for a very brief moment, looks taken aback by his son’s words but had enough sense to understand the topic of Billy Hagrove and the Mayfield family was off limits.
“Very well,” he says with a small nod and a tight lipped smile. “Enjoy the evening, both of you.”
The moment his parents leave you and Steve standing at the side of the bar, you feel immense relief.
You breathe a sigh of relief, not even noticing how tense you had felt for the past two minutes as you turn towards Steve. “That was—”
“—I’m really sorry,” Steve cuts in, his hand leaving your back in order to scrub over his face. Before you could even ask what he was sorry for, he continues. “For making them think that you’re my girlfriend. I panicked a little and didn’t know what to say—”
“—Steve, it’s—”
“—and I’m sorry for butting in like that. I know you can stand up for yourself and you didn’t need me to—you know. I just—my dad he just—I couldn’t—I couldn’t just let him talk to you like that. Like he—”
“—Harrington.”
Steve swallows, looking back at you as though he was bracing himself, ready for you to yell at him for doing something for you that you were perfectly capable of doing yourself. But to his utter surprise, you start to smile at him.
“It’s okay,” you tell him gently. “I—I appreciate it. Really. It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”
Steve looks at you as if to make sure that you weren’t lying, his eyes on you making your stomach turn in a way that you weren’t used to around him.
“Okay,” Steve says with a grateful smile. “Okay. That—that’s good. I thought you were going to lose your shit at me for a second.”
“No,” you say, stopping yourself from smiling back at him. “But the girlfriend thing though, still undecided about that.”
Steve can’t help it, his face flushes a warm pink and before he knows it, he was laughing and you find yourself joining in.
Baby steps.
He says your name then and you look at him, the expression on his face as he looks at you makes the world around you feel a little fussy, makes your stomach flip and your cheeks grow hot.
“Yeah?” you reply in a voice that you hope doesn’t give away just how slightly flustered you were feeling.
“I wanted to—I forgot to say this earlier,” he begins, scratching the back of his neck as though he was nervous, despite the fact you didn’t think it at all possible for Steve Harrington to be nervous. “I think—you just—you look beautiful, Mayfield.”
You weren’t entirely sure why those words had such a monumental effect on you, but they did. Your breath hitches, your face feels ten times hotter and you were almost positive that Steve could hear your heart beating out of your chest because of those words.
“You look pretty good yourself, Steve,” you say with a small, barely there smile.
Steve blinks and then—
“You just called me Steve,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting.
You shrug, you pretend it wasn’t a big deal.
Baby steps.
It was hard not to smile watching Steve twirl not one but two of his little cousins around, especially when their laughter was full of unbridled joy as they begged him for just one more spin around the dancefloor.
You sat at the table you and Steve had been convening at for the past few hours. The table where you had sat for the reception dinner with a handful of his cousins, where you had struggled to hold back tears at the speech by the father of the bride and Steve had placed a warm, comforting hand on your arm. Your skin was still tingling from his touch.
“Please Steve!” the youngest of his cousins, maybe five or six, pouted up at him. “Just one more!”
“Later,” Steve promises with a quick glance over at you. “Later, I promise!”
You were fighting back yet another smile at their whines of protest, at Steve ruffling their hair to make them squeal before walking back over to your table.
“What are you smiling at?” He asks, sitting down in the chair beside yours before taking a long swig of his beer.
“Nothing,” you say, hoping he doesn’t notice the warmth of your cheeks. “Just—you’re really good with kids.”
Even the colourful disco lights couldn’t conceal the impressive shade of red that Steve had turned at your words.
“Yeah, well, I’ve had a lot of practice,” Steve murmurs. “Kids are much easier when there’s no Upside Down involved.”
You laugh, which over a few courses of dinner had become something of a common occurrence with Steve. He had made you laugh a lot, more than you wanted to admit. You were beginning to think that Max was right, that perhaps you had been a little too harsh on Steve over the past few years and you even started to feel bad for not giving him a chance sooner. Not that you would ever admit that.
It’s quiet between the two of you then. You watch Steve’s fingers gently drum against the beer bottle in his hands and as he glances over at the dancefloor. You can’t help but look over too, remembering that you had told him no dancing. You found yourself suddenly regretting that part of the deal.
“You want another drink?” Steve asks you, setting down his now empty bottle of beer. “I can get you another—”
“—do you want to dance?”
The words slip out before you could second guess them and you feel your stomach tighten in apprehension. If Steve said no then you would surely have to move far, far away and—
“Yes,” Steve says quietly and with a nod. “I’d love to.”
You look at him to see he was smiling at you and you hate the fact his smile makes your stomach feel a little fussy inside.
“Just keep your hands to yourself,” you tell him with a faint smile as you stand up from your chair, Steve mirroring your action only a few seconds later.
“I’ll be a gentleman,” Steve tells you with a smile that makes you wonder why you had ever disliked him in the first place. “Promise.”
The moment you and Steve were finally on the dancefloor together, the rest of the wedding faded into nothing. From Cyndi Lauper, to a-ha to Elton John, you and Steve Harrington danced until your feet began to hurt. He spun you around, he laughed when you stumbled over your heels and you laughed when a drunken uncle of his had spilled whiskey all over his blazer. Your laughter quickly died when Steve had thrown his blazer aside, leaving him in his white shirt that he had unbuttoned while loosening his tie, giving you a peak at the hair that adorned his chest. Your throat felt a little try at the sight.
“Do my eyes deceive me,” Steve begins, smiling at you as Heaven Is A Place On Earth fades into Come On Eileen, “or are you checking me out, Miss Mayfield?”
You laugh like it was funny despite the fact you definitely had been checking him out.
“No,” you deny it with a laugh that causes the corners of Steve’s mouth to twitch. “Course not, Harrington.”
“Oh? Are we back to Harrington, now?” Steve asks in a teasing voice that makes you feel so hot it feels as though your stomach was suddenly made from molten lava. “What did I do? I’ve been nothing but a gentleman to you, Mayfield.”
It took you a moment to realise that he was flirting with you and as soon as you did the heat in your gut began to burn.
“Just keeping you on your toes,” you tell him, your eyes seeming to sparkle in the light as you look back at him.
Steve hums, unable to stop the smile from spreading over his face as he looks at you. “Misson accomplished.”
There was something in his eyes that seemed to hold you captive, you couldn’t move, could barely breathe and in that second, his eyes dip down to your lips.
“Mayfield, I—”
“—Steve!”
It was the voice of his younger cousins’, the ones he had promised another dance with. You watch as he has to force himself to look away from you, his eyes flickering back for a brief moment to apologise.
“It’s okay,” you tell him with a smile, ignoring the pang of disappointment that had taken refuge in your gut. “I’ll um, I’ll go get another drink while you—”
You gesture towards his younger cousins’ who were both tugging on his arms impatiently, demanding Steve’s attention. He shoots you one last apologetic look before he bends down to pick both squealing girls up with one only arm. You couldn’t deny the way your heart doubled in size at the sight.
You make your way over to the bar, passing by his parents who you avoid eye contact with while you order yourself another glass of wine and Steve another beer. You tap your nails against the wooden top of the bar, your eyes finding Steve dancing with his younger cousins’ easily.
“He’s always been great like that with kids.”
The sound of Steve’s Aunt Edith’s voice makes you jump, very nearly spilling Steve’s beer.
“Sorry honey,” she chortles, steading the bottle as you look away from Steve and over at her.
“It’s okay,” you say with a genuine smile because unlike Steve’s parents, Aunt Edith didn’t make you feel even remotely nervous. “Just took me by surprise, that’s all.”
“Becuase you were too busy staring at my nephew?” She offers with a wry smile.
Your face warms but you don’t even try to deny it.
“You know, I’ve seen my nephew with a fair few women over the years but I don’t think I’ve ever seen any who could make him blush like you have over the course of the evening,” she tells you.
You couldn’t stop the look of shock from passing over your face, your body buzzing with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.
“I’m just saying,” she continues when you say nothing, your fingers still tapping nervously against the table, “that I think, as his favourite auntie, that you’d be pretty grear together.”
You weren’t quite sure what to say and perhaps Edith knew that because she smiled at you kindly before walking away.
Edith’s words play on your mind as you continue to watch Steve and his cousins. You couldn’t lie to yourself, couldn’t deny that the evening had made you see Steve in an entirely different light. It had also made you rethink the Steve you had been so rude to over the past few years; the Steve that always dropped Max back home without a second thought, the Steve that never drove off without ensuring she was safely back inside the trailer, the Steve that had some sort of stupid handshake with Dustin Henderson, the Steve that had brought you tea and made Max lumpy tomato soup after Billy’s funeral. Something inside you twisted as you remembered that fact you had never said thank you to him for doing that.
“You’re looking awfully pensive over here, Mayfield.”
The sound of Steve’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts but his presence does nothing to the swirl of emotions you were feeling.
“Just thinking,” you say finally, turning to face him with a small smile. “Here’s another beer, by the way.”
“Thank you,” Steve grins, taking the bottle from you. Your fingers brush against his and your body feels alive with something you had never had thought you would feel around Steve. “Need it after running around with those kids, I’m too old for this shit.”
You laugh and shake your head in amused disbelief. “You’re twenty one, Steve.”
“Twenty one going on seventy.”
You can barely contain your laughter at that and soon both you and Steve were laughing. You miss the way his eyes flicker down to your lips as you laugh, the way his cheeks flush a shade or so darker when you look over at him as the beginning notes of Heaven by Bryan Adams starts to play.
“I know you just got us some drinks,” Steve begins, setting his bottle down onto the bar and gently prying your own glass of wine from your hands. “But I really want to dance with my date.”
The way he said it, the look in his eyes, it was almost too much.
“Plus one,” you correct him, biting back a smile.
“Synmatics,” he says softly, smiling at you before he holds out a hand, palm up, for you to take. “Dance with me, Mayfield.”
There was no other answer but yes.
You let Steve pull you towards the dancefloor, the fluttering in your stomach making you feel almost dizzy as he wraps his arms around your waist while your arms loop around his neck. It was the closest you had ever been to Steve and all you could think about was how incredible he smelled, how you wanted to trace each and every mole that kissed his skin, how truly gorgeous he looked and how alive you suddenly felt in his presence.
“Ever thought that you’d be slow dancing with me?” He asks with a smile that very nearly takes your breath away.
“Not even in my wildest dreams,” you tell him, trying to cover up the fact your heart was beating so loud you were beginning to suspect it was trying to escape from its home in your chest. “But—I think today may have helped me change my mind about you.”
“Yeah?” He asks with a hopeful smile. “Or maybe you just finally realised how irresistible I am?”
You laugh and Steve smiles so hard that you were surprised that it didn’t hurt.
“Something like that.”
You and Steve didn’t leave the dancefloor for a long time after that. Even when the song changed to something more upbeat, you didn’t leave Steve’s arms. You slow danced to Madonna, Bruce Springsteen and Prince as guests left the wedding in their droves—the bride and groom sneaking away hours ago.
“You wanna head back?” Steve murmurs against your hair as you sway to Fleetwood Mac, the dancefloor around you significantly less busy as you pull back to look at him.
“Not really,” you admit quietly, trying to ignore how one of his large hands was resting on your lower back, how his touch had set your skin aflame. “But I think we’re about five minutes away from being kicked off the dancefloor.”
Steve chuckles, looking away from you for a moment to glance at the last few stranglers remaining with you two on the dancefloor. They were all incredibly drunk and you can see the amusement in Steve’s eyes as he looks back at you.
“C’mon,” he murmurs before he pulls himself away from you, though his hand remains on your back. “Let’s go for a walk.”
You follow him without hesitation, walking out of the farmhouse with Steve’s hand still on your back and your heart nearly beating out of your chest.
“I really thought you weren’t going to say yes, by the way,” Steve tells you as you walk over the path, between the red and yellow roses that were illuminated by the glittering lights strung up ahead. “To be my plus one, I mean.”
“I owed Max a favour,” you tell him. “Broke her skateboard. By accident.”
“She mentioned that,” Steve smiles fondly. “I think she thought going to a wedding with me was more tortuous for you.”
You shake your head as you stop in front of the soft pink roses to face him. “Twenty four hours ago, I might have agreed with her but, tonight—I have to admit, it’s been pretty good.”
“Just good?” Steve asks, head tilting to the side as he looks back at you with a smile.
“No, much better than pretty good,” you say. “Maybe something closer to…pretty incredible.”
“What? Me or the wedding?” Steve asks with a hopeful look back at you.
“Undecided,” you tell with a whisper of a smile.
Silence falls as you continue through the rose garden, the colourful flowers catching your eye as you pass by. But Steve’s eyes remain on you, thought you don’t see it—on the dress that he was sure to dream about, of just how fucking beautiful you looked and how glad he was that you had broken Max’s skateboard.
“For the record, I’m really glad you said yes,” Steve tells you, the hand on your back dipping lower for just a moment and making your insides turn to goo.
“Me too,” you admit. “I um—it made me realise how silly I was—for um, not giving you a chance before. And for you know, not being all that friendly with you.”
Steve says your name and you know by the look on his face that he wanted to tell you that it was okay, that it didn’t matter but you continued talking before he could do so.
“I think I’ve realised that Max may have been right when she said you really were a good guy. I just—I’m her big sister, you know? And—I get my back up a little when people talk bad about my family and I just—I struggled to let go of what you said.”
“Because it was cruel what I said,” Steve begins, slowing down until he stops walking completely, his hand on your back making you do that same. “It was cruel and stupid and I’m sorry. Like, really fucking sorry.”
“I know and—”
“—and if after this you want us to go back to normal then I totally understand and—”
“—Steve!”
“Yeah?”
You smile, shake your head and say, “I don’t want to go back to ‘normal’ after this.”
“Then what do you want?” He asks, hazel eyes twinkling beneath the lights.
You tilt your head to the side, considering him before you say, “another dance?”
Despite the fact there was no music, despite the fact you were in the middle of a rose garden and it was fast approaching midnight, Steve does not deny your request. Instead, he pulls you into his arms like he had on the dancefloor, his body so close to yours that there was barely an inch of space between you and you were very aware of his hand resting on your lower back.
“Did I tell you how beautiful you look?” Steve asks in a voice so soft and gentle that you had to lean in to hear him.
“You did,” you whisper back with a barely contained smile.
“Well, I wanna tell you again. You look fucking beautiful, Mayfield. The moment I saw you I thought—fuck, this wedding is gonna be torture.”
Your face warms and you laugh, leaning into Steve so you could feel his heart thumping loudly in his chest.
“Because I’m annoying?” You offer with a teasing smile.
“No,” Steve says quietly, one of his hands reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear carefully. “Because I’ve been wanting to kiss you all day, Mayfield. That’s why.”
Everything seems to slow around you. Time, the roses gently dancing in the wind beside you. You can barely believe the words coming out of Steve’s mouth but the way he was looking at you told you that this wasn’t a dream—that Steve Harrington had really admitted to wanting to kiss you.
And it was crazy because twenty four hours ago, you were tossing and turning in your sleep over the idea of today, of the prospect of spending an entire day with Steve at a wedding. And now, you were desperate to feel his lips against yours.
“Then kiss me, before I change my mind.”
Steve blinks, as if to make sure that he had heard you correctly before he pulls you even closer with one arm around your waist. The proximity to Steve makes you feel almost lightheaded, his woodsy, vanillary scent filling your lungs and the hand now cupping your cheek making your body thrum with need.
“As you wish,” he murmurs before he leans in and presses his lips against yours. That first brush of his lips against yours was so inviting, so intoxicating that you felt almost every nerve in your body come alive from the feeling. His mouth was warm, his lips soft and he was kissing like there was nowhere else he would rather be than right here in the rose garden with you.
You kiss him back with no hesitation, warmth seeping through your veins as he gently tilts your head back, coaxing your lips apart with his tongue and making you forget how to breathe. You could have kissed him all night, until the early hours of the morning if you could. Especially when his tongue brushed against yours, making you whine against his lips and tug him even closer.
“Fuck,” Steve murmurs against your lips, your mouths moving together in an almost desperate sort of way as your fingers curl into his shirt. “You’re gonna ruin me, Mayfield.”
You don’t know how long you stayed there, making out with Steve Harrington in the rose garden but all you knew as you finally pulled away from each other was that your lips were bee stung and his were wet and covered in your lip gloss. He had never looked so good.
“So much for keeping my hands to myself,” Steve grins as he reaches up to swipe his thumb across your swollen bottom lip. You roll your eyes and can’t help yourself—you pull him into another kiss that makes him groan against your mouth. The sound makes you feel incredibly glad that you had broken your sister’s skateboard.
Pope Cody didn’t like to wait. An opportune moment, methodically crafted through time, a slip up to wedge his way into an ordeal where he was not welcome. It didn’t appeal to him. He had spent enough time waiting, biding his time, prison, clean up duty for his families piling messes that restricted every positive aspect of his otherwise dim life. You were the only thing Pope wanted, the one thing he wouldn’t wait for. The slim band on your ring finger did nothing to sway his desire, jagged and enormous. He spent his days palming himself with tight shut eyes to the thought of your smile, the high lilt of your laugh to his unfunny stiff humor, cock stirring at the memory of the day's earlier blithe conversation with you. Tugging his hard cock under the steady stream of water steaming the bathroom tile, forehead lulling the cool squares, lips peeling back over his teeth to bite back the stuttered groans that rumbled through his heaving chest.
You would deny it, when he’d crowd you up against one of the shelves of your shop. Your plush inviting lips pulling into a tepid smile as you denied his advances, futile attempts, “Andrew, I can’t, you have to stop,” you’d persist, hand pressed to his chest as he ducked his lips to yours, hardly grazing before your chin swept to the side, his lips smearing against your cheek. You’d shiver when he pressed the tip of his nose to your cheek, fingers furling into the taut fabric of his button down, “You like me,” he’d rumble, against the shell of your ear, thick fingers tugging against your belt loops, “You don’t love him. You like me, I know you do, just want to hear you say it.” “Andrew—” your defenses would halt at the feeling of his fingers dancing the hem of your jeans, fingers clutching tight to his shoulders, but not shoving like you ought to be. His lips graze your jaw, pressing soft feather light kisses to the junction of your throat, words breathed across your hot skin, “Tell me he fucks you better than I do. Tell me you don’t think about me when you’re with him and I’ll stop.”
Your pitchy mewls fill the empty shop, closed sign flipped over the glass while Andrew has you laid flat against your back office table. The creaking wood shivers under the weight of his heavy thrusts, your hair sprawled over the ledge as he tugs your hips to meet his hips, skin slapping in obscene slick noises. Yours fingers paw at his bare chest, clothes stripped off somewhere in a heap in the corner, ring glinting in the fluorescent light, “Oh—fuck, Andrew,” you gasp, his raw sex sinking into your eager cunt, each ridge dragging along your insides in a way that makes your toes curl and air punch from your lungs. The thick head of his dick pushes deeper, threatening to abuse your cervix with each heavy drag of his hips, slamming back against you, balls slapping against your ass. “He’ll never be this for you,” he goads, voice rasping as he yanks your hips to his cock, “Could never treat you the way I do—never love you how much I do. Isn’t that right?” “Never—never, Andrew—fuck,” you garble, his thick thumb seeking your clit with pinched brows.
⊹ 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐘. ── ⦂ minors are not allowed to interact.
ִ ⟡ 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓 ˖ dean winchester ⅋ f!reader. ❜ ࿐ ⊹ ׂ
🖊️ ❛ 𓂃 it turns out that his gun has more than just one use. content ♥︎ warnings. gunplay, rough motel sex, impact play, creampie, light bondage, strong language.
dean winchester is a horndog.
it’s no secret. it’s not something he hides. it’s a fundamental, baked-in part of his being, like his love for his car or his questionable taste in music. and you love it. you love the way his eyes darken with a specific kind of hunger that’s reserved just and only for you, the way his hands always seem to find their way to your body, no matter where you are. he loves the idea of doing just about anything with you, and you’re always, always willing to play.
right now, you can’t see the look on his face, but you can feel it. your face is pressed into the cheap motel mattress, the scent of stale fabric and him filling your senses. your hands are pulled tight behind you, his worn leather belt cinching your wrists together, the buckle digging slightly into your skin. he has you on your knees, ass in the air, completely at his mercy.
and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
your ass is on fire, a deep, pleasant throb radiating from the globes of your cheeks. they’re swollen from where he’d been smacking you, his big, rough calloused palm leaving stinging prints that were already turning into bruises. he’d fucked you just as hard, a frantic, desperate rhythm that left you breathless and seeing stars.
he hasn’t pulled out yet, but the motion has stopped. he’s just sitting back on his heels, his weight a comforting pressure on your calves, his cock still buried deep inside you. you can feel yourself clenching around him, your slick walls trying to coax another thrust out of him. your hole is sopping, utterly ruined and dripping his cum down your inner thighs in thick, milky trails.
a low chuckle rumbles through his chest. “look ‘atcha,” he growls, his voice thick with satisfaction. “so sweet and tight. took about every lil’ drop, baby.”
he finally slides out of you, and the sound is obscene, a wet, sloppy noise that makes you whine at the sudden emptiness. you feel a cool draft hit your wet skin. he stays kneeled behind you, and you know he’s just admiring his handiwork. you can picture it perfectly: his cock, slick with your wetness, a perfect white ring of his own cream still clinging to the base of the head. he’s probably got that smug, shit-eating grin on his face.
you feel his fingers tracing the edges of your hole, dipping into the slickness and teasing the swollen, sensitive flesh. he swirls a finger around, making you squirm, your hips twitching.
“still want more, huh?” he murmurs, his voice a low promise. “she’s always been so greedy.”
his fingers disappear, only to be replaced by the sharp, open-palmed smack of his hand right against your dripping cunt. the sound is wet and loud in the quiet room, a sting that has your whole body jolting.
you just groan in response, pushing your ass back towards his hand, a silent plea.
you hear a soft metallic scrape, the sound of him reaching for something on the nightstand. you assume he’s just grabbing the lube for another round, but when he comes back, what presses against you isn’t his fingers or his cock.
it’s the cool, heavy press of metal.
it’s his gun. the norinco 1911A1. the one he babies same as the impala. the one that’s always on him wherever he goes, a permanent fixture tucked into the back of his worn jeans. dean presses the tip of the barrel right against your dripping slit, the cold a stark, shocking contrast to the heat of your body.
a soft, surprised choked mewl escapes your lips. your hips jerk.
“shhh,” he whispers, his voice right by your ear. “hold still.”
he uses the barrel to nudge your folds apart, the metal sliding through your slickness. then, slowly, deliberately, he slides it in.
you let out a loud, shuddering moan. the feeling is insane. the cold steel slipping inside your hot, tight core, the weight of it, the smooth, unyielding texture. it’s wrong and dangerous and so, so, so right. he pushes it in slowly, the barrel gliding deep inside you until the front sight is pressing against your g-spot.
he didn’t put the safety on. you know he didn’t. he likes the risk, the sharp, thrilling edge of danger that makes everything feel more real, much more intense. when you started dating dean, you learned that risk wasn’t just a part of his job; it was a part of him, and it bled into everything, especially the bedroom. you didn’t just accept it; you craved it just as much as he did.
“feel good, don’t it?” he asks, his voice a low rasp.
you can only nod, your face still mashed into the pillow, your body trembling.
he takes that as his cue. he grips the handle of the gun and starts fucking you with it, his movements slow at first, pushing the barrel in and out of your tight, wet cunt. the cool metal slides against your hot inner walls, a friction that’s completely alien and unbelievably good. you start to bounce back on it, meeting his thrusts, your own hips moving in a desperate rhythm.
the sight of it turning him on.
a strangled groan rips from his throat. you hear the frantic, slick sound of his hand wrapping around his own cock. he’s watching you. watching his gun disappear inside of you, watching you ride it, watching his cum drip from your overused hole. he starts jerking off, his pace rough and frantic, his breaths coming in harsh, ragged pants.
he’s fucking you with his gun and fucking himself with his hand, and the sheer, filthy depravity of it all sends you hurtling over the edge. your orgasm hits you like a lightning strike, a violent, all-consuming wave that makes your whole body seize, your inner walls clenching hard around the cold steel buried inside you.
your scream is muffled by the mattress, but dean hears it, and it’s all he needs to tip him over to the edge. his body locks up, a sharp curse bitten off as he cums hard, his hot seed spilling over his stomach and onto the sheets, just as your limbs give up, a trembling, satisfied mess.
Summary: you keep walking into Tony without a shirt on. He's ever the amused one. [WC 1.3K] [Ao3]
Warnings: fluff, humor, a smidge of angst?
Shirtless Men Series
You should have knocked. In your defense—no one ever knocks in Avengers Tower. Not when Tony Stark owns half the building and FRIDAY opens doors like she’s reading your mind. “Tony?” you call, stepping into the lab.
The place is alive—humming, glowing, something sparking in the far corner.
“Little busy!” Tony’s voice shoots back, distracted. “If it’s Rogers, tell him I’m inventing a reason to ignore him.”
“It’s not—”
You round the corner. And stop. Tony is halfway out of the Iron Man suit, the chest plate peeled open like something cracked apart. No shirt. No warning. Just bare skin, arc reactor glowing through the center of his chest like a second heartbeat.
Your brain… completely stalls. Because yeah—you’ve seen him before. Missions, press, the occasional post-battle patch-up. But not like this. Not close. Not real. There’s grease along his ribs. A faint sheen of sweat across his shoulders. His hair’s a mess, pushed back like he’s been running his hands through it for hours.
“Don’t touch that—” he starts, turning slightly as you step in, “—panel unless you—”
He sees you. Pauses. There’s a flicker. Quick. Sharp. Calculating. And then—smug. “…Oh,” Tony says slowly. “Didn’t realize I had an audience.”
Your throat goes dry. “You could wear a shirt.”
He snorts, bracing a hand against the workbench as he yanks the gauntlet free with a metallic clang. “I could also stop building life-saving technology and take up knitting,” he says. “But here we are.”
You turn your face—try to turn your face—because looking feels like a mistake. Feels like something he’ll notice.
“You needed something?” he prompts.
You blink. Right. The mission. Words. Speaking. “Steve—uh—briefing. Ten minutes.”
Tony hums, like he’s only half-listening. But when you risk a glance back— He’s watching you. Not the door. Not the suit. You. “…I’ll be there,” he says.
You nod too fast and leave. You don’t notice the way he doesn’t reach for a shirt until long after you’re gone.
You can’t sleep. It happens sometimes—after missions, after adrenaline, after everything. The Tower feels too big, too quiet, like it’s holding its breath. So you wander. Kitchen. Hallway. Back again.
And then the common area. Dim lights. City stretching endlessly beyond the glass. And Tony. He’s on the couch. Shirtless again—because apparently that’s just a thing now—and tangled in a blanket he clearly didn’t mean to use properly.
One arm is thrown over his eyes. The other rests on his chest. Arc reactor dim. Soft. Steady.
For once, he’s not moving. No talking, no sarcastic comments throw out into the air. No talking. No quips. No constant motion like if he stops, something might catch up to him. He just looks…Tired.
You linger in the doorway. This feels wrong. Private. But then he shifts, brow tightening like even sleep doesn’t let him rest easy. And something in your chest pulls. You step closer. Carefully. Quietly.
The blanket is barely covering him. You reach down, gently pulling it up over his shoulders—
Your fingers brush his skin. Warm. Real.
Tony exhales, tension easing just slightly. “…FRIDAY,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, “remind me to—upgrade—security…”
You bite back a laugh. “Yeah,” you whisper. “That’s definitely the problem.” You turn to go.
“…You always sneak into people’s rooms at night?” he mumbles.
You freeze. Slowly look back.
His arm hasn’t moved. But there’s a hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.
“You were asleep.”
“Mm,” he hums. “Convincing, wasn’t it?”
You cross your arms. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” Tony says, voice quieter now, not opening his eyes, “you stayed.”
Your breath catches. He doesn’t say anything else. Neither do you. But when you leave this time, You know. That wasn’t an accident.
The mission goes sideways. Not catastrophic. Not world-ending. Just messy enough that Tony takes a hit he shouldn’t have. By the time you’re back in the Tower, he’s already halfway to the lab, brushing off concern like it’s a habit.
“I’m fine,” he insists for the third time.
“You got slammed through a concrete wall.”
“Light exercise.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Adds character.”
You grab his arm before he can disappear again. “Tony.”
He stops. Looks at you. Really looks this time. Something flickers behind his usual expression—something quieter. Heavier. “…Lab,” he says finally.
You follow. This time, you don’t hesitate when the armor comes off. You help him. Piece by piece. Metal clatters to the floor. Systems power down. The world narrows to just the two of you and the steady glow in his chest.
And when the last of it falls away, there he is. Shirtless. Again. But this isn’t like before. There’s bruising along his ribs already. A shallow cut near his shoulder. You can see where the impact landed, where it hurt. Your hands are steadier than you expect as you reach for the med kit.
Tony watches you the whole time. No jokes. No deflection. Just… watching.
“You gonna keep staring,” you mutter, focusing on cleaning the cut, “or are you gonna pretend you’re not in pain?”
“I’m not—”
You press just slightly.
He winces. “…in that much pain,” he corrects.
You roll your eyes. But your touch softens. Careful. Gentle. Your fingers brush just under the arc reactor, avoiding the worst of the bruising—Tony goes still. Not tense. Not pulling away. Just… still.
“Funny,” he says quietly.
“What?”
“I’ve been injured before.”
You glance up. “Yeah, I noticed.”
“No,” he says, softer now. “I mean like this.”
You pause. “…And?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re the first one who makes it feel like I should stay still.”
Your heart stumbles. “That’s because if you move, I’m gonna make it worse.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. But he doesn’t look away. “Right,” Tony says. “That’s definitely it.”
Silence settles. Not uncomfortable. Just… full.
“You always this stubborn?” he asks after a moment.
“Only with people who need it.”
His expression shifts again. Something cracks open. Just a little. “…Stay,” he says. It’s not a joke. Not a deflection. Not Tony Stark, genius billionaire, hiding behind sarcasm. Just Tony. Asking.
Your chest tightens. “…Yeah,” you say softly. “I’ll stay.” And this time, You don’t look away.
You’re starting to notice a pattern. It takes you longer than it should. But still. Pattern. Late nights. Open doors. Strategic lack of shirts. Lingering looks. The way Tony always seems to be exactly where you are—like FRIDAY’s not the only one tracking movement in the Tower.
So this time, you test it. You walk into the lab without knocking. Again. “Tony?”
No answer. You step further in. And there he is. Back to you. Shirtless. Leaning over a workbench like he’s posing for a magazine shoot titled Genius at Work, Also Abs.
You don’t even hesitate this time. “…You’re doing this on purpose.”
He doesn’t turn around. “Doing what?”
“This.” You gesture vaguely. “The—lack of clothing. The—convenient timing. The—”
“Wow,” Tony interrupts, straightening slowly, finally turning to face you, “and here I thought you just kept accidentally walking in on me.”
You narrow your eyes. “You knew.”
He shrugs. “I suspected.”
“You—” you stop, recalibrating, “—you’re unbelievable.”
He’s close. Too close. Close enough that you can see the faint fading bruise from the mission. The steady glow in his chest. The way his expression has shifted—less teasing now. More… intent. “You could’ve told me to stop,” he says quietly.
“You could’ve worn a shirt.”
He smiles. Soft this time. Not smug. Not sharp. Just… him. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Your heart is pounding now, loud enough you’re sure he can hear it. “Tony—”
“Stay,” he says.
Not a question this time. Not hesitant. Certain. Like he already knows the answer. And maybe, That’s what gets you. Because he does know. You step closer. Close the distance.
Summary: Billy watches as you braid his sister's hair.
Warnings: all the fluff, billy's not a douchebag in this
WC: 1.5K
Read on ao3!
A/N: dedicated to my fellow Billy lover @fandom-princess-forevermore
Billy’s legs were stretched out on your bed, one arm slung lazily behind his head, a cigarette burning slow between his fingers, though you’d already given him The Look for lighting it inside.
“Seriously, ash on my comforter and I’m throwing you out the window,” you’d muttered.
He just grinned, half-lidded and smug, watching you reorganize your bookshelf for the third time that week. It wasn’t even really about books anymore. You just liked when he was there, watching you like you were something worth staring at.
“Y’know,” Billy drawled, “You could come lie down and entertain me instead of alphabetizing Stephen King.”
You rolled your eyes but were already about to respond when the door creaked open and a small voice cut through.
“Y/N?” Max poked her head in, her expression a little sheepish.
Billy groaned instinctively. “Jesus, what now—”
“Billy,” you warned quietly, and then turned to Max, your voice warm and open. “What’s up, Max?”
Max stepped in holding a brush and a few scrunchies in mismatched colors. “Can you braid my hair?” she asked, cheeks a little pink like maybe she thought she was interrupting something.
Your face lit up. “Of course I can, come here.”
Billy scoffed, but not as harshly this time. He sat up a little straighter, leaning back on his elbows as Max climbed onto the bed beside you. You gently pulled her hair over her shoulder and started brushing through the red strands, careful, slow.
Max closed her eyes and relaxed into the motions, the room going quiet except for the soft tug of the brush and the occasional chirp of a bird outside.
Billy watched.
He meant to look away—meant to keep up the whole too-cool-for-this act—but something about the way you handled Max made his chest feel too full.
You were so damn patient. Fingertips gentle. Voice soft. You talked to Max the whole time, asking about her day, what book she was reading, if she wanted one braid or two. She laughed once, and it was the kind of sound Billy rarely got to hear from her.
And just like that, the annoyance ebbed.
He stubbed out the cigarette, not wanting the smell to ruin the moment.
Max caught his eye and blinked in surprise. “What?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Nothin’. Just... didn’t know you liked being babied.”
Max opened her mouth to snap back, but you pinched Billy’s leg without even looking.
“Don’t be mean. She’s allowed to want a braid and some peace.”
Billy glanced down at you, your fingers now moving through Max’s hair in practiced rhythm, and something warm curled under his ribs.
“…Looks good,” he muttered finally.
You smiled.
“She’s a good canvas.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You’re good at that.”
“At braids?” you teased.
He shook his head, eyes soft now, unguarded in the way only you ever got to see. “Nah. At takin’ care of people.”
-
Max had gone home not long after, walking away with her braid swinging over her shoulder and a handful of your leftover gummy worms in her hoodie pocket. She’d muttered a half-hearted “Thanks” to Billy on her way out, which—for her—was practically a warm hug.
Now, the room was quiet again. The kind of calm that settled thick in the summer air after a small storm of laughter and kid sister energy.
You were back on your bed, curled near Billy, a book propped open but forgotten in your lap. He’d been silent for a while. Not in a moody way—more like he was turning something over in his head, and you knew better than to poke at it too soon.
“Hey,” he said eventually, voice low.
You looked over. “Yeah?”
He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting toward the now-empty space where Max had been. “So, uh… could you show me how to do that?”
You blinked. “Do what?”
“The braid thing.” He shifted, suddenly way too interested in a rip on your blanket. “Not sayin’ I wanna do it all the time or anything. Just… maybe she’d let me do it for her. One day. If she wanted.”
The corners of your mouth tugged up, but you didn’t smile just yet—not because you weren’t delighted, but because you knew if you gushed, he’d retreat into a defensive shrug and a grumble about how it was “no big deal.”
So you nodded slowly, gently. “Yeah. I can show you.”
Billy looked relieved. “Cool. Like… now?”
“Sure.” You shifted to sit in front of him, grabbing the brush and a long strand of ribbon you’d left nearby. “You’re practicing on me, though. I’m not giving you a mannequin.”
He gave you a look that was half-scoff, half-smile. “Guess I can deal with that.”
You sat between his legs, your back to his chest, and handed him the brush.
“Start by brushing through a section. No yanking, or I’ll kick you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, but his touch was gentler than you expected.
As he worked, you felt the shift happen—the tension slowly bleeding out of his frame, replaced by quiet focus. You guided him step by step: dividing the hair into three parts, showing him how to cross them, how to keep the tension even. His fingers were clumsy at first, rough from years of fights and fixing up his car, but he was trying. Really trying.
“Like that?” he asked, brow furrowed.
“Almost. Hold this piece tighter—yeah, just like that. You’re a natural.”
He snorted. “Don’t get carried away.”
You laughed and leaned back into his chest just a little, letting yourself relax fully into the moment. “You’re sweet, Billy.”
He paused, hands still tangled gently in your hair.
“No I’m not.”
“You are.”
Silence settled again. Then, in a rare, unguarded whisper:
“I just… want her to know I care. Even if I suck at saying it.”
You closed your eyes, fingers curling around his where they rested near your shoulder.
“She’ll know. Especially if you do her hair. It’s not about getting it perfect—it’s about showing up. That’s what you’re doing.”
Billy pressed a quiet kiss to the crown of your head, just once.
“…Thanks,” he said.
And you smiled, eyes still closed, braid a little uneven but perfect in every way that counted.
-
You were in the kitchen when it happened—rooting around in the fridge for something snack-worthy and debating whether string cheese counted as a real meal—when you heard it.
A very familiar voice from the living room.
“Okay, hold still. Jesus, your head’s like… slippery.”
You peeked around the corner.
Max was sitting cross-legged on the couch, a comic book resting in her lap, expression unreadable. Billy stood behind her, tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth as he focused on twisting sections of her red hair into something vaguely resembling a braid.
It was lumpy. Uneven. Too loose at the top and way too tight by the bottom. But it was unmistakably a braid.
You leaned quietly against the doorframe, arms crossed, heart about ready to melt right through your ribs.
Max finally spoke, dry as ever. “You’re bad at this.”
Billy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, don’t act like you didn’t ask me.”
“I did not,” she shot back.
“You walked in here and dropped a hair tie in my lap.”
“That was not asking.”
“Felt like it.”
Max was silent for a beat. Then:
“…It’s not the worst braid ever.”
Billy blinked. “Thanks, I guess.”
You stifled a laugh, watching as he tied off the end of her braid with the bright blue scrunchie Max had tossed at him earlier. He stepped back, surveying his handiwork like a mechanic judging his own engine fix.
Max craned her neck to get a look in the mirror across the room. “It’s a little jacked.”
Billy threw a cushion at her. She dodged it easily, grinning.
But she didn’t undo the braid.
She didn’t even touch it.
You stepped in then, casual. “Looks cute,” you said, brushing a bit of hair off Max’s shoulder as you passed.
Billy gave you a look—half sheepish, half smug, like see, told you I could do it.
You raised an eyebrow. “Not bad for a first time.”
“I had a good teacher,” he muttered, bumping your hip as you passed.
Max looked between you two, clearly suspicious of whatever thing was happening but too cool to comment on it.
Instead, she said, “Next time, you’re learning fishtail braids.”
Billy groaned dramatically. “I didn’t sign up for a salon.”
You just laughed, grabbing a bag of chips and flopping down next to Max. She leaned her head on your shoulder, still wearing that uneven braid like it was a crown.
And Billy?
He sat down beside you both, close but casual, arm thrown across the back of the couch—watching his sister with something new in his eyes.
Summary: Everyone questions why Eddie's with her. He doesn't feel the need to explain. [WC: 763]
Warnings: ditzy! Fem Reader, Down Bad Eddie, flirting, Cllege!Reader
ao3 // tag list
Request: @samanddeansannoyingsis Whipped Eddie Munson with his girlfriend who's in college and an absolute bimbo. No one knows how she got into college but she's doing really well.
Nobody understands it.
Not the Hellfire guys.
Not the Hawkins High gossip circle.
Not even Steve, who has seen some things.
Because Eddie Munson — resident metalhead menace, self-proclaimed freak, chaos gremlin — is whipped. Totally and utterly whipped.
And his girlfriend? Pink cardigans. Glossy lips. Platform sandals. High ponytail with a bow. Talks with her hands. Calls everyone “sweetie.” Says things like, “Wait, is Nebraska a city or a state?” completely unironically. And she’s in college.
Actually in college.
Not barely scraping by. Not failing upward.
Thriving.
“Explain this to me again,” Gareth says, staring as she flips through a textbook covered in glitter stickers.
Eddie’s lying on his back on the couch, head in her lap, looking up at her like she hung the moon.
“She has a 3.8 GPA.”
Jeff squints. “In what.”
She beams. “Theology and Comparative Mythology!”
The entire Hellfire table goes silent.
Eddie grins proudly. “Yeah. She wrote a twenty-page paper on the intersection of pagan fertility rituals and early Catholic doctrine.”
She nods enthusiastically. “With footnotes.”
Gareth looks betrayed. “But you asked me last week if vampires lay eggs.”
She gasps. “I was testing you!”
“You were not.”
Eddie cackles.
She looks like she should not know the difference between a proton and a neuron. She absolutely does. She just also paints her nails bubblegum pink while discussing it.
“Actually,” she says sweetly, adjusting her heart-shaped glasses, “most modern demonology misattributes hierarchy structures. It’s not linear, it’s layered.”
Eddie watches her like he’s witnessing divine revelation.
Steve leans toward him. “You look like you’re about to cry.”
“I might,” Eddie whispers. “Do you hear her? That’s my girl.”
She pauses mid-lecture and looks down at him. “Baby, are you listening?”
“Every word,” he breathes.
She smiles and pats his cheek. “Good.”
He melts. Fully. Instantly.
The thing is — she is ditzy. She forgets where she parked. She once tried to microwave aluminum. She cannot do basic math without whispering numbers under her breath.
But give her ancient texts? Give her obscure folklore? Give her a discussion about eschatology? She becomes terrifying.
A professor once tried to trip her up. “You really believe early desert monasticism influenced modern supernatural myth?” he asked condescendingly.
She blinked innocently. “Yes.” Then proceeded to cite four sources from memory. Four.
Eddie nearly stood up and clapped.
He actually did clap once before realizing no one else was.
She waved shyly. “Thanks, baby.”
He looked ready to fight God. In public, she calls him things like: “Eds.” “Sweetface.” “My scary little cupcake.”
He pretends to protest. “I have a reputation!”
She kisses his cheek. “You cry during sad movies.”
“That’s slander.”
“You sobbed during Bambi.”
“It was emotional warfare!”
She giggles and threads her fingers through his battle-vest. He immediately softens. Every time.
The first time she brought him to a campus event, people stared. Leather jacket. Chains. Rings. And then her — clinging to his arm, pink and sparkling.
Someone muttered, “How did she get in here?”
She smiled brightly. “Academic scholarship.”
They blinked.
She blinked back.
Eddie leaned down and whispered, “They’re jealous.”
She whispered back, “I know.”
Then she launched into an animated explanation about medieval angel classifications while twirling a lock of her hair.
Eddie watched with his chin in his hands. Absolutely gone.
Later that night, they’re sitting cross-legged on his bed. She’s explaining something complicated about prophetic symbolism, doodling little hearts in the margins of her notes.
Eddie stares at her like she’s magic.
“What?” she asks.
“You’re so smart it’s kinda hot.”
She gasps dramatically. “Edward!”
He grins. “I mean it. You walk in looking like cotton candy and then casually dismantle theological frameworks.”
She blushes. “You really think I’m smart?”
“Baby,” he says seriously, cupping her face. “You are the smartest person I know.”
She softens at that.
“I don’t always feel like it,” she admits quietly. “People think I’m… not.”
Eddie’s expression shifts immediately. “Yeah? People are idiots.” He kisses her forehead. “You’re brilliant. And even if you weren’t, I’d still think you’re the coolest person alive.”
She smiles, all soft edges now. “You’re so whipped.”
“Absolutely,” he agrees instantly.
No shame. No hesitation.
She giggles and leans into him. “Good. Stay that way.”
He wraps his arms around her like that’s exactly the plan. The thing nobody understands? She chose him. The college girl who aces theology exams and dismantles professors. She saw the loud, chaotic metalhead and said, “Yes. That one. That’s mine.”
And Eddie? Eddie would follow her into any lecture hall, any library, any theological debate Just to watch her shine.
Request: @goblin-king-of-anarchy67 Dean Winchester x reader where the reader just throws a pie at his face. That’s it, that’s the whole plot :3
A/N: im getting back into writing again. ive been slowly chipping away at teh requests that have been sitting in my asks/drafts here on tumblr. sorry for the delay in posting them.
Summary: You throw a pie at Dean's face. [wc 938] [ao3] [tag list]
Warnings: fluff, pie throwing
Dean had survived demons, vampires, ghosts, witches, Leviathans, and more concussions than any doctor would consider medically acceptable. What finally took him down, however...was a blueberry pie.
The diner smelled like coffee, syrup, and fresh pastries. Dean was in heaven. "You smell that?" he sighed dramatically, already halfway inside before you and Sam had even finished parking the Impala. "That's the smell of civilization."
You laughed, following him inside. "You've said that about every diner we've ever stopped at."
"Because every diner deserves appreciation."
Sam rolled his eyes. "He's not exaggerating," he told you. "Last week he thanked a waitress because the pie 'saved his soul.'"
"It did."
An hour later, the hunt was solved. The shapeshifter was dead. Nobody had nearly died. It was, by Winchester standards, a fantastic day.
Dean celebrated accordingly by ordering three slices of pie. Cherry. Apple. Blueberry.
"You know," you said, stealing a fry off his plate, "most people stop at one dessert."
Dean gasped. "Most people are quitters."
He guarded his pie with his fork when you reached toward it again. "Oh no."
"What?"
"You've had fries."
"So?"
"No pie."
"I just want one bite."
"No."
"Dean."
"No."
"You are a grown man."
"I am."
"Sharing is caring."
"This is war."
You snorted. "You are ridiculous."
"And yet..." he took an obnoxiously slow bite, eyes never leaving yours, "...this is the best blueberry pie I've ever had."
Your eye twitched.
Sam noticed. "Oh no."
Dean didn't. "What?"
Sam quietly pushed his coffee farther away. "I know that look."
"What look?"
"The one that says she's about to commit a crime."
You smiled sweetly at Sam with the most innocent look you could muster. "I would never."
Dean smirked. "See? Sammy's paranoid."
You stood.
Dean frowned. "Where you going?"
"Bathroom."
"Oh." He relaxed.
The second he looked back down at his pie— You pivoted. Grabbed the paper plate. And with absolutely zero warning—
SPLAT.
Blueberry pie met Dean Winchester's face with enough force to send whipped cream into his hair.
Silence. Utter... Complete... Silence.
A nearby waitress froze mid-pour. Some old guy lowered his newspaper. Someone actually clapped. Dean sat perfectly still. Blueberries slowly slid down his cheek. A blob of whipped cream dripped off the end of his nose. Sam covered his mouth. He made one heroic attempt not to laugh. He failed spectacularly. A snort escaped. Then another. Within seconds he was doubled over in the booth, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe.
Dean blinked. "You..." Another blueberry rolled off his forehead. "...just threw pie..." He wiped whipped cream out of one eye. "...at my face."
You nodded. "Yep."
"Why?"
"You wouldn't share."
"THAT'S MY REASON?"
"You were being annoying."
"I was protecting my pie!"
"You were taunting me."
"It was my pie!"
"Worth it."
Dean stared. Long enough that you started wondering if maybe— maybe — You'd actually gone too far. Then... The corner of his mouth twitched. "...Worth it, huh?"
"Oh, absolutely."
He slowly reached for his napkin. You relaxed. See? Everything was fi— Instead of grabbing the napkin... He picked up the untouched slice of cherry pie.
"Oh no."
Dean smiled. The kind of wicked smile that belonged in horror movies. "Oh yes."
You backed away. "Dean."
"You started this."
"I think we've all grown from this experience."
"You weaponized dessert."
"I was expressing myself."
"You assaulted me with fruit."
"It was mostly whipped cream."
Sam wheezed. "I am begging both of you not to—"
Dean stood. You bolted.
The entire diner watched as you sprinted between booths. Dean chased after you holding an entire slice of cherry pie like it was Excalibur.
"You get back here!"
"You'll never take me alive!"
"I JUST WANT TO TALK!"
"YOU HAVE PIE!"
"I CAN TALK AND HAVE PIE!"
"No!"
You rounded the counter. Dean followed. The cook looked up once. Saw the situation. Simply stepped aside. Not his circus. Not his monkeys. This was a Waffle House, after all. He'd seen crazier things happening.
You nearly made it to the door. Nearly. Dean caught your wrist—not hard, just enough to stop you—and gently tugged you back. You stumbled into his chest with a laugh.
"There," he said triumphantly.
"Caught you."
"I surrender."
"Liar."
"Maybe."
He looked down at the pie in his hand. Then back at you. Then grinned.
"You know..."
"What?"
"I don't actually want revenge."
"You don't?"
"Nah."
Relief washed over you. "So you're just gonna let me—"
He carefully dabbed a tiny dollop of whipped cream onto the tip of your nose. "There."
You blinked. "...That's it?"
"That's it."
You smiled. "You're getting soft."
"I know."
He leaned down, brushing a quick kiss against your forehead despite the blueberry filling still stuck in his hair. "I blame you."
The waitress walked over carrying a fresh slice of blueberry pie. She set it in front of Dean. "On the house."
Dean looked between the pristine slice...and the blueberry still dripping from his jacket. "I don't know whether to feel rewarded or insulted."
She shrugged. "You made lunch entertaining."
After she walked away, Dean sighed happily. "See?" He picked up his fork. "Everything works out."
You smiled innocently. "You gonna share this one?"
He looked at you. Looked at the pie. Looked back at you. "...Absolutely not."
You reached toward it anyway.
Dean immediately slid the plate out of reach.
"Oh, come on!"
"I've learned from my mistakes."
Sam groaned into his coffee. "I'm hunting monsters with two overgrown children."
Dean didn't even look away from you. "Worth it."
You couldn't help laughing. Honestly? You'd throw another pie if it meant hearing that laugh again.
The ocean called to you in your sleep. Warm sand and setting sun, rolling waves lapping at your dreams. It visited often, calling you home like a mother who had lost her child.
If it were up to you, you would never leave the beach, buy an ocean front property and only leave the waves when Bucky pulled you to bed. It was a tradition, you and Bucky sneaking off to the coast wherever life allowed, which was far less than you ever desired. Every year for four years you managed to go at least once, last time you stayed three weeks.
Then came the years in between before and now, dark in his absence, where the vibrant hues mocked you, his shadow at every turn. The thought of people enjoying happiness anywhere was difficult, but the idea of couples frolicking at the beach, playful in their ease, felt like a slap in the face. It had been over five years since you had stuck your feet in sand, felt at home in the waves.
Then all at once the fates sighed, tired of their games, and discarded their toys. Just as he was taken from your sleeping arms, so was he returned. You thought it a dream at first, pleased by the realness this one provided. However when he spoke and then kissed you; you accepted it, sobbing in his arms.
Very little of how you struggled was willingly shared with him, but he knew, pulling the very thoughts from your mind as he always did. It felt strange, being seen after years of anonymity. So, month by month he helped you piece yourself back together, heal what he had not intentionally broken.
He was so angry, not at the injustice he had experienced, but at the way it had affected you, the way your friends had let you recede in on yourself until you were barely more than a whisper. It was strange, defending your friends that had hurt you so, but had they not experienced their own loss? He didn’t care, hurting you was always inexcusable. He returned, same as he left, fiercely protective of you, willing to protect you from anyone that posed a threat to your wellbeing, and that included yourself.
“Where’s your mind, Coral?” Warm arms wrap around your waist, memories fading at the tickle of his breath at your neck. He always says the nickname is because you’re something pretty he found at the beach, but you think it’s more symbolic, hinting at something inwardly soft protected by a sharp outer layer.
“Nowhere, everywhere, hard to determine honestly.” you shrug, turning to face him.
“Ready? I know you’re dyin’ to get your feet in the sand.” The soft sound of waves seem to agree with him from the balcony behind you.
A sense of panic runs through you at the thought of being exposed in front of everyone’s curious eyes. The five years he’d been gone had allowed one friend, and that friend was food. When he returned, you celebrated, and that also included food. The body you offered the ocean was quite different from when she saw you last. “I guess.”
“What’s that now?” He steps back to survey you, reading you like he’s so good at. “You guess?”
Another shrug, eyes on your feet.
“If it’s a touch of confidence you need, I can take you back to bed, but you’re the one who apparently needs a break.”
A playfully smug grin waits for you when you meet his eyes, but you find it a trap, a lure to gain your attention for what he really wanted to say.
“I love you, Coral, every single inch of you. I love every part of you that has already been or is yet to come. Every stretch mark you despise is a map for me to explore another part of you I find attractive. I look at you and I see my own personal lighthouse, a constant, guiding me home to myself when all my life I’ve felt astray. You survived the unthinkable, for five years, had it been you…” His voice catches and he attempts to physically shake away the thought. “I don’t know if I’d of made it. You are strong, resilient, and as much as I love your body, and I fuckin’ love your body, it’s not the only thing that holds worth. You are immeasurable, unable to be quantified, infinite.”
“Kinda repetitive there in the end, but thank you.”
He frowns at your quip, allowing you time to kiss him quickly on the nose. He grabs you before you can escape, pulling you into a firm hug. “Don’t do that, don’t deflect. I mean it, I love you. And if anyone so much as squints in your direction, I’ll kill ‘em.”
“No need for murder, Bucky.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Lightening illuminates the bedroom, a rumbling roll of thunder following on its heels.
“Damn it, I was finally ready.”
“Looks like you’ll have to settle for my plan instead.” With a mischievous grin he picks you up and tosses him on the bed behind him.
“I love you.” He says, illuminated once more by lightning.
Request: @goblin-king-of-anarchy67 Dean Winchester x reader where the reader just throws a pie at his face. That’s it, that’s the whole plot :3
A/N: im getting back into writing again. ive been slowly chipping away at teh requests that have been sitting in my asks/drafts here on tumblr. sorry for the delay in posting them.
Summary: You throw a pie at Dean's face. [wc 938] [ao3] [tag list]
Warnings: fluff, pie throwing
Dean had survived demons, vampires, ghosts, witches, Leviathans, and more concussions than any doctor would consider medically acceptable. What finally took him down, however...was a blueberry pie.
The diner smelled like coffee, syrup, and fresh pastries. Dean was in heaven. "You smell that?" he sighed dramatically, already halfway inside before you and Sam had even finished parking the Impala. "That's the smell of civilization."
You laughed, following him inside. "You've said that about every diner we've ever stopped at."
"Because every diner deserves appreciation."
Sam rolled his eyes. "He's not exaggerating," he told you. "Last week he thanked a waitress because the pie 'saved his soul.'"
"It did."
An hour later, the hunt was solved. The shapeshifter was dead. Nobody had nearly died. It was, by Winchester standards, a fantastic day.
Dean celebrated accordingly by ordering three slices of pie. Cherry. Apple. Blueberry.
"You know," you said, stealing a fry off his plate, "most people stop at one dessert."
Dean gasped. "Most people are quitters."
He guarded his pie with his fork when you reached toward it again. "Oh no."
"What?"
"You've had fries."
"So?"
"No pie."
"I just want one bite."
"No."
"Dean."
"No."
"You are a grown man."
"I am."
"Sharing is caring."
"This is war."
You snorted. "You are ridiculous."
"And yet..." he took an obnoxiously slow bite, eyes never leaving yours, "...this is the best blueberry pie I've ever had."
Your eye twitched.
Sam noticed. "Oh no."
Dean didn't. "What?"
Sam quietly pushed his coffee farther away. "I know that look."
"What look?"
"The one that says she's about to commit a crime."
You smiled sweetly at Sam with the most innocent look you could muster. "I would never."
Dean smirked. "See? Sammy's paranoid."
You stood.
Dean frowned. "Where you going?"
"Bathroom."
"Oh." He relaxed.
The second he looked back down at his pie— You pivoted. Grabbed the paper plate. And with absolutely zero warning—
SPLAT.
Blueberry pie met Dean Winchester's face with enough force to send whipped cream into his hair.
Silence. Utter... Complete... Silence.
A nearby waitress froze mid-pour. Some old guy lowered his newspaper. Someone actually clapped. Dean sat perfectly still. Blueberries slowly slid down his cheek. A blob of whipped cream dripped off the end of his nose. Sam covered his mouth. He made one heroic attempt not to laugh. He failed spectacularly. A snort escaped. Then another. Within seconds he was doubled over in the booth, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe.
Dean blinked. "You..." Another blueberry rolled off his forehead. "...just threw pie..." He wiped whipped cream out of one eye. "...at my face."
You nodded. "Yep."
"Why?"
"You wouldn't share."
"THAT'S MY REASON?"
"You were being annoying."
"I was protecting my pie!"
"You were taunting me."
"It was my pie!"
"Worth it."
Dean stared. Long enough that you started wondering if maybe— maybe — You'd actually gone too far. Then... The corner of his mouth twitched. "...Worth it, huh?"
"Oh, absolutely."
He slowly reached for his napkin. You relaxed. See? Everything was fi— Instead of grabbing the napkin... He picked up the untouched slice of cherry pie.
"Oh no."
Dean smiled. The kind of wicked smile that belonged in horror movies. "Oh yes."
You backed away. "Dean."
"You started this."
"I think we've all grown from this experience."
"You weaponized dessert."
"I was expressing myself."
"You assaulted me with fruit."
"It was mostly whipped cream."
Sam wheezed. "I am begging both of you not to—"
Dean stood. You bolted.
The entire diner watched as you sprinted between booths. Dean chased after you holding an entire slice of cherry pie like it was Excalibur.
"You get back here!"
"You'll never take me alive!"
"I JUST WANT TO TALK!"
"YOU HAVE PIE!"
"I CAN TALK AND HAVE PIE!"
"No!"
You rounded the counter. Dean followed. The cook looked up once. Saw the situation. Simply stepped aside. Not his circus. Not his monkeys. This was a Waffle House, after all. He'd seen crazier things happening.
You nearly made it to the door. Nearly. Dean caught your wrist—not hard, just enough to stop you—and gently tugged you back. You stumbled into his chest with a laugh.
"There," he said triumphantly.
"Caught you."
"I surrender."
"Liar."
"Maybe."
He looked down at the pie in his hand. Then back at you. Then grinned.
"You know..."
"What?"
"I don't actually want revenge."
"You don't?"
"Nah."
Relief washed over you. "So you're just gonna let me—"
He carefully dabbed a tiny dollop of whipped cream onto the tip of your nose. "There."
You blinked. "...That's it?"
"That's it."
You smiled. "You're getting soft."
"I know."
He leaned down, brushing a quick kiss against your forehead despite the blueberry filling still stuck in his hair. "I blame you."
The waitress walked over carrying a fresh slice of blueberry pie. She set it in front of Dean. "On the house."
Dean looked between the pristine slice...and the blueberry still dripping from his jacket. "I don't know whether to feel rewarded or insulted."
She shrugged. "You made lunch entertaining."
After she walked away, Dean sighed happily. "See?" He picked up his fork. "Everything works out."
You smiled innocently. "You gonna share this one?"
He looked at you. Looked at the pie. Looked back at you. "...Absolutely not."
You reached toward it anyway.
Dean immediately slid the plate out of reach.
"Oh, come on!"
"I've learned from my mistakes."
Sam groaned into his coffee. "I'm hunting monsters with two overgrown children."
Dean didn't even look away from you. "Worth it."
You couldn't help laughing. Honestly? You'd throw another pie if it meant hearing that laugh again.
