Jude Bellingham x Reader - Bridgerton Story (Smut)
Based on S1, fake dating to lovers, includes smut
WC: 8.4k, oral sex, dirty dreams, dirty talk, part 2 includes unprotected sex, same as my NCT hyuck story, made this a JB ver.
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The ballroom at the Marchioness of Denbury’s estate was already heaving with music, lace, and gossip by the time Miss Y/N stepped inside. Her brother, Viscount Winchester, had insisted she attend the season’s first major gathering—not for her amusement, of course, but for society. As if society did anything but pry and judge.
Y/N’s eyes scanned the room with measured grace, nodding politely as suitors passed. She had no intention of engaging with any of them, but she knew her place as a sister to a viscount. That meant charm. That meant posture. That meant—
“Another one?”
She blinked, turning slightly toward the source of the exasperated voice behind her.
Duke Jude Bellingham stood with a champagne glass in hand, smirking, eyes raking her over with what she could only describe as lazy disdain.
“Pardon me?” she said, brows raising.
He looked amused now. “I meant no offense. But I do find it rather remarkable how quickly word spreads. I’ve been in London less than a week, and already—well. Here we are.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Y/N said icily.
He gave a half-smile. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t remember all your names. There’ve been quite a few eager introductions tonight.”
“Ah,” she said slowly, finally grasping the situation. “You believe I came to throw myself at your feet like every other debutante this evening.”
His smile faltered. “Didn’t you?”
Y/N stepped closer, now fully facing him. “I’m Miss Y/N, sister of Viscount Winchester. And if you must know, I didn’t even know the Duke of Riverton had returned from France until I heard your rather tragic monologue just now. So rest assured, Your Grace, I am not one of them.”
The duke blinked, clearly taken aback by her forthrightness. He opened his mouth, then closed it, the edges of his lips twitching.
“I suppose I deserve that,” he said finally, voice lower, amused. “Apologies, Miss Y/N. That was presumptuous of me.”
“Presumptuous?” she repeated. “It was insufferably arrogant.”
He grinned then, all teeth and charm. “You’re not nearly as charming as the others.”
“Good. I’d rather die than be grouped with your fan club.”
With that, Y/N turned on her heel, chin lifted, gown swishing behind her. She was halfway across the ballroom before she allowed herself a grin.
It wasn’t until a week later that they were forced into each other’s company again—at a small garden party hosted by the Winchesters themselves. Y/N had protested the guest list, but her brother had insisted the duke be invited. “He’s just returned, Y/N. It’s our duty to welcome him properly.”
Her brother had no idea, of course, how their first meeting had gone.
She found him alone by the roses, nursing a teacup and looking oddly pensive.
“Are you always this brooding?” she asked dryly.
He looked up, surprised, then let out a short laugh. “Miss Y/N. You’ve come to insult me again?”
“I only speak when provoked.”
“I must provoke you very easily, then.”
A beat passed between them. Then, to her surprise, he looked at her seriously.
“I was... wrong about you,” he said.
She tilted her head, curious despite herself.
“You remind me of someone,” he continued. “Someone I lost. And I think I project more than I ought to.” He met her gaze. “I’m not used to being spoken to like you did that night. But it wasn’t unwelcome. It was... refreshing.”
Y/N was taken aback by the honesty. She swallowed, her tone gentler now. “Well. I suppose we all put up masks when we’re being hunted.”
He looked at her. “Are you being hunted, Miss Y/N?”
She smiled, just barely. “By suitors and expectations? Always.”
The silence between them was softer this time, laced not with irritation but something closer to intrigue.
Perhaps the Duke of Riverton wasn’t so insufferable after all.
-----------
The violins soared in waltz-time behind her, but Miss Y/N slipped out onto the terrace with a sigh, her silk skirts whispering against the marble as she descended into the gardens. She had danced enough for one night—twice with a marquess’s son who wouldn’t stop boasting about his estate, once with a baron’s nephew who’d stepped on her gown, and once out of pity with a man who introduced himself as a “financially optimistic second son.”
Enough.
Lanterns lit the garden path in soft, golden halos, their glow catching on the flowers blooming wildly along the hedges. Y/N found herself drifting toward a secluded corner where night roses bloomed, their petals glowing pale pink under the moonlight.
“You have a habit of disappearing,” came a familiar voice behind her.
Y/N didn’t startle, but she did sigh again. “And you have a habit of finding me, Your Grace.”
Duke Bellingham stepped out of the shadows, hands clasped behind his back, the corner of his mouth lifted in amusement. “I find myself drawn to gardens. Less suffocating than salons and gossiping mothers.”
“Ah, the mothers,” Y/N said knowingly. “More dangerous than war generals.”
He laughed, surprisingly soft. “You’ve met Lady Eastmoor, then.”
“I believe she offered me her daughter’s hand in marriage.”
He grinned. “That sounds about right. I've lost count of how many daughters have been paraded before me tonight. If I have to hear ‘He’s the Duke of Kent!’ one more time, I may throw myself into the fountain.”
She turned to face him fully now, hands clasped in front of her. “You poor thing,” she said, voice laced with dry sympathy. “Burdened with charm, status, and undeniable good looks. However do you survive?”
He chuckled, then looked at her with a tilt of his head. “And what about you? I noticed you dancing with Lord Stanton. Twice.”
Y/N wrinkled her nose. “His mother nearly tackled me into the powder room. Said we’d make a good match. Which I assume means I’d make a good wife while he manages his horses and sleeps till noon.”
Jude hummed. “It seems we’re both under siege.”
She leaned against the wrought-iron arch covered in jasmine. “If only there were a way to fend them all off.”
A pause.
He looked at her, thoughtful. “What if there were?”
She blinked. “Pardon?”
“A plan,” he said slowly, a glimmer of mischief growing in his voice. “A public agreement. You and I... together. In appearance, at least.”
Y/N’s brows lifted. “A fake courtship?”
“Precisely.”
“People would back off,” she murmured, half to herself. “Your parade of suitors would vanish. My brother would stop tossing bachelors at my feet. We could dance only with each other if needed. Leave when we wanted. No expectations.”
He was watching her now, intrigued. “And neither of us would have to explain anything.”
Y/N bit her lip. “It’s rather devious.”
“I prefer the term strategic.”
Their eyes met, a glint of amusement—and something else—passing between them.
Finally, Y/N held out her hand. “Very well, Your Grace. Let’s lie to all of London.”
Jude smiled slowly and took her hand, shaking it gently. “A pleasure deceiving with you, Miss Y/N.”
Their hands lingered a moment longer than necessary, warmth blooming where skin met skin.
Neither said anything about the spark that passed between them.
They simply turned back toward the ballroom, their masks fixed, their plan in motion—both pretending this was only about convenience.
----------
It was a fine morning—the kind London rarely offered, with sunlight breaking through gauzy clouds and the scent of new blooms wafting through Hyde Park. Perfect, Y/N thought, for a promenade. And, unfortunately, perfect for scandal.
Every bonnet turned as she strolled beside the Duke of Kent.
“Are they courting?”
“Didn’t he just return from the continent?”
“I heard she’s the sister of Viscount Winchester.”
“He’s never promenaded with anyone before!”
Their whispers, though hushed, trailed behind them like a silk ribbon caught in the breeze. Y/N kept her eyes forward, chin tilted at just the right angle of serene nobility. Jude, beside her, looked maddeningly at ease—hands clasped behind his back, a slight smile tugging at his lips as if he were thoroughly enjoying the chaos they were causing.
“You look like a cat who’s just knocked over a vase,” she murmured without turning her head.
“I might have,” he replied. “The vase being Lady Featherstone’s sanity.”
“I believe I saw her faint into a hedge.”
He grinned wider. “You’re quite good at this.”
“I do love theatre.”
They turned off the main path and strolled toward the lake, away from most of the crowd. Only a few lingering glances followed them now, though Y/N was sure a full report would be delivered across every drawing room by afternoon tea.
“We should discuss terms,” she said.
“Ah,” Jude replied, voice amused. “The boundaries of our grand deception.”
She glanced sideways at him. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
They stopped beneath the budding branches of a cherry tree. The breeze tugged lightly at Y/N’s skirts, and Jude leaned against the trunk, arms folded casually, but his gaze sharp.
“First,” Y/N said, counting on her fingers. “The partnership ends the moment the season ends. No questions, no negotiations.”
He nodded. “Agreed. We part ways, no regrets.”
“Second,” she continued. “No actual feelings. This is performance. Nothing more.”
He smirked. “You’re worried you’ll fall in love with me, Miss Y/N?”
She gave him a dry look. “Not in the slightest. I just know how these schemes tend to spiral when people get... confused.”
He chuckled, clearly not taking it seriously. “Fine. No real feelings. I promise not to fall for your sharp tongue and devastating floral knowledge.”
She ignored the flutter of something unwelcome in her chest.
“Third,” she said, “we dance at tomorrow’s ball. We must appear completely besotted. No drifting off to smoke cigars with barons.”
“And no hiding behind potted plants to escape unwanted suitors,” he added, raising a brow. “Yes, I saw that.”
She flushed. “That was one time.”
He held out a hand. “We have a deal, then?”
She hesitated only a second before placing her gloved hand in his once again.
“Deal,” she said.
And like before, their hands lingered—just a second too long. His thumb brushed against the back of hers, warm even through the thin silk. Her eyes flicked up to meet his.
Something passed between them again, just like the first time. Sharp. Electric.
But neither spoke of it.
Instead, they pulled apart, and Jude offered his arm once more.
“Shall we, Miss Y/N?”
“Let’s go make society lose their minds.”
And they strolled back toward the crowd—cool, collected, and pretending this was nothing more than strategy.
---------------
The chandelier glittered overhead like a thousand diamonds suspended in air. Soft candlelight bathed the Rosemont Ballroom in golden warmth as strings filled the space with a dreamy waltz. Feathered fans fluttered. Champagne flutes clinked. And all of London waited for the dance that would send the ton into full-blown hysteria.
Y/N knew it the moment she descended the stairs with her brother at her side. Every pair of eyes followed her—not because she was the viscount’s sister or for her famously composed elegance.
But because she was now walking toward Duke Bellingham, who stood tall and regal in a deep navy coat with silver embroidery, his hands clasped neatly behind him.
And as he turned at the sound of her steps, a slow, knowing smile curled on his lips.
He bowed. “Miss Y/N.”
She curtseyed with practiced grace. “Your Grace.”
Without hesitation, he offered his hand. “Shall we give them what they came for?”
She placed hers in his. “Let’s ruin everyone’s night.”
They stepped onto the floor just as the waltz began, gliding smoothly into step, every movement so fluid and natural it was as if they’d been doing this forever. The crowd parted around them like the sea, giving them space—as if no one dared interrupt the performance.
But it didn’t feel like a performance.
Not entirely.
Jude’s hand was warm at her waist, his other guiding her expertly. He leaned in, low enough that she felt his breath brush her temple.
“You dance better than I imagined,” he murmured.
“I imagined you had two left feet.”
He chuckled softly. “Cruel.”
Her hand pressed gently against his shoulder, and their gazes met in a moment that stretched a second too long.
They spun. His touch firm, hers light. The room faded. The music slowed.
Or maybe their hearts sped.
As the final note rang out, he dipped her low—perfectly, dramatically—drawing a gasp from the onlookers. Her hair brushed against his coat. His eyes locked on hers.
And then slowly, slowly, he lifted her again.
They bowed. Curtseyed.
And chaos broke out the moment they stepped off the floor.
Y/N hadn’t even reached the refreshment table before her brother appeared at her elbow, jaw set tight.
“May I have a word?” Viscount Winchester said sharply.
She blinked. “We’re at a ball—”
“Now.”
She sighed, handing her glass back to a stunned footman before following her brother toward the nearest open door. They ended up in a small music room just off the main hall, the door clicking shut behind them.
He turned to face her, arms crossed. “What exactly is going on between you and the Duke?”
“Nothing scandalous,” she said evenly.
“That’s not what half the ballroom is whispering.”
“Half the ballroom whispers when a bonnet ribbon looks out of season.”
He gave her a look. “Y/N.”
She hesitated for a moment, then exhaled. “It’s a courtship. A strategic one.”
His eyes narrowed. “Strategic?”
“No one bothers me anymore. No forced dances, no thinly veiled marriage proposals. And as for him... well, you’ve seen the crowds he attracts.”
Winchester paced a step. “So you’re pretending.”
“It’s not hurting anyone.”
“It could,” he said darkly. “If someone falls.”
“No one will,” she lied.
He looked at her a moment longer—too long. Then he ran a hand down his face, clearly torn between suspicion and resignation.
“Does he know the rules?”
“They’re his rules too.”
The viscount shook his head slowly. “Just… be careful, Y/N. You think you can control this, but feelings aren’t logical.”
She softened just a little. “I know what I’m doing.”
A knock on the door interrupted them. It opened slightly to reveal the subject of their conversation himself—Duke Bellingham, brows raised, voice casual.
“Forgive the intrusion,” he said. “But I was wondering if I might steal my fake betrothed back. Lady Hanley’s started describing her family lineage again, and I’m losing the will to live.”
Y/N bit back a laugh.
Her brother stared at Jude for a long, tense second.
Then, finally, he stepped aside. “Be charming. But not too charming.”
Jude grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
As Y/N passed her brother, he whispered, “You know he’s trouble.”
And she whispered back, “So am I.”
The ballroom buzzed louder than ever as Y/N reappeared at Duke Bellingham’s side, her brother trailing behind them with an unreadable expression. The waltz had ended, but the social storm it left behind was just beginning.
“Smile,” Jude murmured from the corner of his mouth. “Half the room looks like they’re about to burst into tears or applause.”
“Or blood vessels,” Y/N added.
They barely had a moment to breathe before a tall, older gentleman approached them, flanked by a younger cousin and a fan-wielding mother. His expression was that of polite skepticism—the kind only men of high standing and low imagination wore when challenged.
“Your Grace. Miss Y/N,” Lord Ellington greeted, voice clipped and knowing. “What a… pleasant surprise.”
Jude bowed his head. “Lord Ellington. You’re looking well.”
“I imagine it takes great effort to maintain such appearances,” the lord continued, eyes flicking between them with interest. “A sudden courtship. Very sudden.”
“Love often is,” Jude said smoothly, taking Y/N’s hand. “One moment you’re surviving another dull evening, and the next—” He lifted her hand toward his lips but paused just before they touched. “You see someone worth starting a war for.”
The words, the gaze, the way he angled himself slightly in front of her—protectively, possessively—were enough to send a hush rippling across the nearby eavesdroppers.
Y/N kept her expression serene, but inside her pulse skittered.
Lord Ellington didn’t look convinced. “Quite poetic for a man known for military strategy and not sentiment.”
Jude’s smile sharpened. “It’s remarkable how quickly one learns poetry when the inspiration is compelling enough.”
Just then, as Y/N lowered her hand, the glove on her right slipped—just slightly, catching on the edge of her bracelet. It fluttered to the floor like a feather.
And before she could reach for it, Jude bent low with ease, sweeping the pale satin glove from the marble floor.
But instead of handing it back immediately, he cradled it in one hand and gently took her bare one with the other.
The touch was warm. Bare skin against bare skin.
The contact shot straight up her spine.
Y/N drew in a soft gasp—too quiet for conversation, but far too loud for a ballroom of watching eyes.
His eyes flicked up to hers, and for a split second, something unspoken passed between them. A crack in the performance. A beat too long.
He turned smoothly, drawing her glove up her arm with practiced elegance. “You’ll catch a chill,” he said, voice low.
She nodded, lips parting, but no words came out.
All around them, ladies clutched fans tighter. Gentlemen whispered. Lord Ellington cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said, watching Jude as though reassessing his entire strategy, “perhaps I misjudged.”
“Most people do,” Jude said pleasantly. “Now if you’ll excuse us—Y/N, shall we take another turn about the room?”
She blinked, still trying to recover from the heat in her veins, but nodded. “Of course.”
They walked off slowly, all eyes following them—every guest now thoroughly convinced that the Duke of Kent was utterly, irrevocably enamored with Viscount Winchester’s sister.
When they rounded the corner and were briefly alone by the columned hallway, Y/N finally spoke, voice quiet.
“You’re good at that,” she said.
He smirked. “At lying?”
“At making it look like the truth.”
Jude leaned slightly closer, not touching her this time—but close enough to make her breath catch.
“I told you I never do anything halfway.”
------------
Y/N didn’t understand it.
The first time it happened, she was watching Duke Bellingham speak with a diplomat, his voice low and charming, one hand cradling a glass of brandy. He took a sip, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.
That was when she felt it.
A deep, hot pulse between her thighs.
It startled her so much she crossed her legs quickly, pressing her knees together under her silk gown. The heat didn’t go away. It lingered like the echo of a thunderclap, low and insistent. Her breath hitched. She picked up a glass of cold lemonade just to steady her hand.
It happened again later, when his smirk curled slowly, confidently, like he knew exactly what kind of chaos he caused. When he leaned over to whisper something witty in her ear and his breath brushed her skin.
Her thighs clenched together instinctively.
What is this? she thought wildly. She’d felt flushed before, embarrassed, flattered, even flustered. But this—this heatpooling low in her belly, this ache—this was something new. Something she didn’t quite understand. Something that made her squirm in her chair and pretend her wine glass needed refilling.
And when she caught herself staring at his hands—his hands, for heaven’s sake—she very nearly excused herself to the gardens again.
It was shameful. Inappropriate.
It was thrilling.
Jude had noticed it too—though not in her eyes or her blush. He noticed it in the way her voice dipped just slightly when she was sarcastic, biting and dry, never yielding. That made his blood warm.
She was radiant in her gowns, yes, but it wasn’t just the cut of her waist or the color at her cheeks. It was the way her neckline would dip ever so slightly when she leaned forward to accept a biscuit from a tray, and he could see the gentle rise and fall of her chest with every breath.
It was the way she moaned—actually moaned—after trying a strawberry tart at Lady Bramble’s tea. The sound was innocent, delighted, but something about it made his mind go somewhere far less pure. He’d nearly dropped his own teacup.
He knew the rules. No real feelings. No blurred lines.
But it wasn’t feelings that were threatening to ruin him.
When she bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing during a dull speech, he found himself gripping the armrest of his chair. When she rolled her eyes at some poor lord’s bragging, Jude wanted to drag her into a corner just to hear what else that clever tongue might say when no one else could listen.
The way she moved when she danced with him — light and controlled, but her chest pressed just barely against his, her gloved hand in his — left him restless for hours afterward.
He’d taken cold baths every night since the promenade.
And now, as she stood across the ballroom laughing at something her friend said, he watched the way her lips curved and her eyes sparkled, and he wondered — not for the first time — how long he could pretend he wasn’t completely, devastatingly undone by her.
------------
The terrace doors creaked softly as Y/N stepped outside, the muffled hum of the ball fading behind her. The night air was cool, a relief against the simmering warmth she felt under her skin.
The feeling had followed her all night.
It pulsed low in her belly whenever she glanced at him—Duke Bellingham, lounging with dangerous ease, hair just right, the candlelight flickering off the edge of his jawline as he sipped from his glass.
And now, as fate would have it, he followed her.
She heard the quiet clink of glass behind her, then the creak of leather boots on stone. When she turned, he was already there—holding a half-empty glass of golden liquor, the night breeze tugging gently at his coat.
“You’re awfully fond of slipping away,” he said, voice low and amused.
Y/N swallowed, forcing a small smile. “Only when the walls start closing in.”
He stepped closer, slowly, almost lazily. “And yet, you never leave alone.”
His eyes glinted as he took one last sip and set the glass on the ledge behind her.
Y/N took a step back—only to feel the stone wall at her spine. Her breath caught.
Duke Bellingham didn’t stop.
He braced one arm on the wall beside her head. Then the other. Caging her in without touching her, leaning just close enough to make her pulse trip.
“So,” he murmured, voice rich with amusement and something darker beneath. “There’s something I’ve been wondering.”
Y/N looked up, her breath shallow. “What?”
His lips were near her ear now, his tone barely a whisper. “Have you been feeling... hot lately, Miss Y/N?”
She froze.
His smirk deepened. “That strange little flutter. That ache. Right here—” His voice dropped, eyes flicking down to her waist, “—when I look at you. When I speak too close.”
She gasped. Her thighs instinctively pressed together. Her chest rose and fell faster now, clearly giving her away.
“Oh,” he whispered. “You have, haven’t you?”
She had no words.
His face lingered near hers, breath warm, but he didn’t kiss her. He didn’t need to. His voice alone was enough to unravel her.
Until—without fully thinking—Y/N’s hand rose and touched his arm. Slowly. Boldly. She dragged her fingertips over the fabric of his coat, stroking the muscle beneath, soft but intentional.
His breath hitched.
The cocky glint in his eyes faltered for the briefest second—just enough for her to see it.
Desire. Real, sudden, unguarded.
He blinked, the tension snapping.
Then he stepped back. One pace. Two.
“We should,” he said roughly, straightening his coat, “go back inside.”
Y/N said nothing. Couldn’t say anything. Her hand still tingled from the touch. Her body was buzzing.
So she only nodded once, eyes still locked with his.
And when he turned and opened the door for her like nothing had happened, she stepped back into the party—feeling everything had.
---------------
Y/N twisted beneath the silk sheets, her breathing shallow as the dream took hold.
It was hazy, like looking through fogged glass—fragments flickering in and out of clarity.
A mouth on hers. Hungry, devouring.
Strong hands slipping down her back, pulling her in until there was no space left between them.
Clothes falling. Fingers grasping. Heat.
And his voice—his groan, low and broken, rasping against her neck.
"Y/N…"
Her name had never sounded so sinful.
Her body arched in sleep, hips shifting restlessly under the blankets. The flashes continued—his body above hers, lips dragging across her own as he looked down at her like he owned her.
She moaned softly in her sleep.
And then—suddenly—she gasped awake.
Her heart was pounding. Her skin was damp with sweat. And her core… throbbed.
It was a pulsing ache, deep and insistent, as if the dream had left a mark on her body. Her thighs pressed together, but it only made it worse.
She bit her lip, eyes fluttering shut again, and hesitantly—so hesitantly—she let her hand slip beneath the sheets.
Her fingers brushed between her legs, and she gasped.
The jolt of pleasure made her shudder.
She’d never touched herself like this. Never thought to. But now, something desperate had awoken inside her—because of him.
Slowly, experimentally, she moved her fingers over her slick heat. The sensation was sharp and overwhelming, her hips twitching.
“Oh…” she whispered, trying to stay quiet.
She imagined his mouth on hers again. His voice in her ear. His hands holding her down.
She circled her clit, moaning softly into the pillow, her other hand fisting the sheets as her body bucked.
It built too quickly—an unfamiliar, exquisite spiral—and then, with one last desperate touch, her back arched and she came, soft and breathless, the pleasure crashing over her like a wave.
Her chest heaved. Her hand dropped to her side.
She lay there in the silence, stunned and burning, her whole body tingling.
She should have felt ashamed.
But all she could think was: It was him. It’s always him.
Meanwhile…
Duke Bellingham’s Chambers
His head tipped back against the pillow, one arm slung over his eyes, breath ragged as his dream faded into darkness.
He was used to these dreams now. They’d started weeks ago.
But tonight? Tonight had been filthy.
Y/N, in nothing but her corset, straddling him in a shadowed drawing room, her lips red and swollen from his kisses. Her hands pulling at his cravat. His mouth marking her neck.
“More,” she moaned in the dream, and he gave it to her.
He'd slammed into her from behind against a marble balcony rail, her moans echoing into the London night. Her fingers dug into stone. Her voice shook as she begged.
In the dream, he grabbed her hips and—
Jude hissed through his teeth, shifting under the blankets. His body was painfully hard, throbbing against the fabric of his sleep trousers.
He could still hear her moans. Feel her body in his hands. Smell the perfume in her hair.
He’d stopped fighting it a long time ago.
He palmed himself roughly, groaning low as he imagined her watching him like she did across the ballroom—curious, breathless, innocent.
She didn’t even know what she did to him.
When he finally came, it was with her name under his breath and a snarl of frustration.
Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.
Not with her.
Not when he wasn’t allowed to touch.
--------------
The next morning, Y/N barely managed to sip her tea without trembling. She hadn’t slept properly—not after the dream. That dream.
She’d woken up breathless and shaking, her body humming with aftershocks. She’d barely dared to look in the mirror, as if her reflection might betray her thoughts. Desire. Lust. It clung to her like a second skin.
And then, as if summoned by the very devil himself, a note arrived:
I will collect you at ten. You and I are now expected at the public celebration of the Royal Library’s west wing opening. Do wear something light — it’s meant to be a sunny affair. Yours (for today), D.
Today? She’d read that line ten times, each time her stomach tightening. As if he knew. As if he had felt it, too.
By midmorning, she was standing at his side outside the freshly painted stone steps of the Royal Library, doing her best to look composed while wearing pale blue muslin and holding a parasol that did nothing to cool the heat in her chest.
And he—the Duke of Ravishingly Rolled-Up Sleeves—was beside her, coat discarded, vest open at the throat, and sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
His forearms were the same color as honeyed sun—lean, strong, dusted with the faintest shadows of muscle and vein. She stared longer than she meant to.
And it didn’t help that he was smiling softly as he knelt beside a small boy who’d dropped a book far too heavy for his size.
“There you are,” Jude murmured kindly, lifting the tome with ease, muscles shifting beneath his skin. “Next time, maybe pick something smaller than your entire head, hm?”
The boy giggled and ran off.
Y/N was still staring. At his arms. His fingers. His mouth.
Her cheeks flushed deep pink.
That mouth had groaned into her throat in her dream. Those arms had held her steady while he—
“Something wrong, Miss Y/N?” he asked suddenly, standing and glancing down at her. There was something wicked behind his smile now. “You look a bit flushed. Feverish, almost.”
“I’m quite fine,” she said far too quickly.
He tilted his head. “Hm.”
She shifted, lips parted just slightly. Her parasol dipped. And she looked at him with wide, dazed eyes—like she didn’t know where to look, like she couldn’t stop looking.
His voice dropped.
“If you want something,” he said, “just ask.”
Her breath caught. Her thighs tensed under her skirts.
He stepped closer, just enough that the sunlight glinted in his hair and his mouth hovered above hers. His voice was warm, low, and just a little cruel.
“Did you dream about me too?” he asked.
Her lips parted, trembling slightly. She said nothing.
He leaned closer—so close she could smell cedar and citrus on his skin—and for a heartbeat, she thought he might finally kiss her.
But then, of course, he smirked.
And pulled away.
“We should take our seats,” he said casually. “The speech is starting.”
She stood there a second longer, heart pounding, legs unsteady, mind clouded with the filthiest thoughts she’d ever had in daylight.
And the worst part?
She wanted him to do it again.
The speech concluded with polite applause and a final bow from a very ancient Lord Whittingham. Guests began drifting into the nearby garden pavilion, where refreshments awaited and the real entertainment — social maneuvering — resumed.
Y/N was still flushed from earlier. Her skin buzzed. Her lips still tingled.
But then, she saw him.
Duke Bellingham, laughing softly, head bent close to a pretty young debutante with golden curls and far too much bosom on display. The girl touched his arm — his forearm, the one Y/N had spent far too long dreaming about.
He smiled.
Y/N's jaw ticked.
So this is the game we're playing.
She turned on her heel and glided toward the lawn, eyes scanning the crowd until she spotted a young bachelor — Lord Henry Corfield. He was sweet, if a bit dull, and more than willing to entertain her if it meant earning favor with her brother.
“Lord Henry,” she said with a bright smile, brushing a hand against his sleeve. “I do hope you're not engaged in serious conversation. I’m in desperate need of someone interesting.”
He nearly tripped over his own foot. “Oh—oh no, not at all, Miss Y/N. I was just admiring the lilacs, actually.”
“How utterly thrilling.”
She didn’t even need to feign interest. All she needed was Jude to see.
And of course, he did.
She caught it — the flick of his eyes, the slow drop of his smile, the tightening of his jaw.
Moments later, a shadow fell over her.
“Miss Y/N,” came his velvet-smooth voice, lower now, quieter. “Might I borrow you for a moment?”
Y/N glanced up with an arched brow. “Actually, Lord Corfield and I were discussing horticulture.”
Jude’s smile was tight. “I promise I won’t keep her long.”
Before Lord Henry could stammer a reply, the Duke had taken her hand firmly and led her behind a cluster of tall hedges, out of sight from the main crowd. As soon as they were alone, Y/N yanked her hand back.
“You looked cozy,” she said coolly. “Is she next on your list?”
His eyes narrowed. “What game are you playing, Y/N?”
“I should ask you that. Is this how you maintain the illusion of a courtship? By whispering to every girl with a pulse?”
He stepped closer. “You’re jealous.”
“You’re delusional.”
“You’re turned on.”
She gasped. “Excuse me?”
He grinned — slow, devastating. “You’ve been flushed since the moment I rolled up my sleeves. You couldn’t stop looking at me. Don’t lie, darling — it’s beneath you.”
Her voice dropped. “And what about you? You act like this is all fun — like none of it matters. But every time you touch me, you look like you’re about to lose control.”
His smile faded.
One beat.
Two.
Then he leaned in, close enough to taste the tension between them.
“We should leave,” he said quietly.
The carriage ride home was intense.
The inside was too warm. Too still. The faint rattle of the wheels on cobblestones filled the silence, but not the space between them.
Y/N sat stiffly beside him, staring out the window.
He didn’t look at her.
“You don’t get to act possessive,” she muttered. “Not when you spent the afternoon playing the charming rake.”
He exhaled slowly, head tilting back. “You were the one flirting with that boy like he was about to propose.”
“I was having a perfectly innocent conversation.”
“There’s nothing innocent about you, Miss Y/N.”
She turned sharply, eyes blazing. “And there’s nothing sincere about you, Your Grace.”
He looked at her then.
Hard. Hungry.
And then, without warning, he moved — grabbing her waist and pulling her into him, crashing his mouth against hers.
Y/N gasped into the kiss, but her fingers had already curled into his shirt, her body tilting forward, melting into him. His lips were rough and urgent, tongue sliding against hers as a low groan rumbled in his chest.
She moaned in response, hands fisting the front of his coat, pressing closer, letting him consume her.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless, her chest heaving — she stared at him, stunned.
And then — she pulled him back in, kissing him again, harder, hotter, until the carriage rocked slightly from the force of it. Their moans tangled, hungry and raw.
For a moment, they forgot the world.
There were no rules.
No deals.
Just lips and hands and heat.
Once they arrived at Y/N's dwelling, she quickly straightened herself out once she saw her brother out the window. Having no time to say goodbye, she glanced back at the Duke and then left the carriage.
------------
The soft sound of gravel shifting was her only warning.
Y/N had kissed the Duke 2 days ago, no contact since.
She turned away from her bedroom window, heart skipping as she caught sight of movement in the shadows of the garden. A figure stood beneath the moonlit archway, hands clasped behind his back.
Duke Bellingham.
Moments later, her maid reappeared, breathless. “Miss… you have a visitor. According to him, I officially don't know anything about this.”
Y/N didn’t ask questions.
She slipped downstairs, out the side door, the hem of her night-robe brushing against the stone path. The cool night air kissed her skin, but all she felt was heat rising in her chest.
He was waiting.
When she stepped into the lantern-lit garden, he looked up. His hair was slightly messy, his coat gone, shirt sleeves rolled again to his elbows. His eyes raked over her—soft and thinly dressed in pale silk—and darkened immediately.
“I paid off your maid,” he said. “Don’t be angry.”
“I’m furious,” she whispered. “You’ll ruin me.”
Jude stepped closer. “I think you ruined me first.”
She couldn’t breathe.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he continued, voice low and rough. “That kiss in the carriage—it hasn’t left my head. I know this started as a game, a lie, a strategy—but this—” his eyes burned into hers “—there’s nothing fake about what happens between us.”
He reached out, fingers brushing along her jaw, then her neck.
“You feel it too,” he whispered.
Y/N didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
Instead, she took one step back—into the stone wall behind her. He followed, crowding into her space, arms bracing on either side of her head. His shirt pulled tighter across his shoulders, the flex of muscle exposed by his rolled sleeves. She stared openly now, her breath catching as her eyes dragged along his forearms.
“I see the way you look at me,” he said. “Like you want to bite me.”
“You’re arrogant.”
“I’m right.”
Then he kissed her.
It was rougher this time—needier. Her hands slid into his hair, tugging gently, her lips parting for him like instinct. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her close until their bodies pressed together, her chest rising fast with every breath.
And then—his hand trailed down.
Slowly. Deliberately.
She gasped into his mouth as his fingers brushed under the hem of her nightdress, rising inch by inch up her thigh.
“Still furious?” he whispered against her lips.
Her only reply was a breathless moan.
He rubbed her over her thin underthings—slow circles that made her legs tremble, her head fall back against the wall. Her fingers tightened in his hair as he kissed her jaw, her throat, never looking away from her face.
“You’re soaked,” he muttered, lips brushing her skin. “Is this for me?”
Y/N gasped. “Yes.”
And with that, he dropped to his knees.
Her hands grabbed for his shoulders, breath shallow, but he was already hiking one of her legs up over his own shoulder, bracing her open against the wall.
He didn’t hesitate.
His mouth found her over the silk first, kissing her through it, tongue pressing against the damp fabric. She cried out, hand flying to her mouth, the pleasure sharp and immediate.
Then he pushed the silk aside.
And devoured her.
Long, slow licks that left her shaking. His hands held her hips firmly, keeping her in place as his tongue moved deeper, hungrier, groaning against her heat as she gasped his name.
“Jude—oh—please—”
Her back arched. She couldn't breathe, couldn’t think. All she could feel was his mouth on her, the wet sounds, the flick of his tongue, the grip of his hands. His name slipped from her lips over and over, breathless, desperate.
And when she finally fell apart, trembling against him, he stayed there—slowly easing her through it, his tongue gentle now, reverent.
When he stood, her leg still trembling, he kissed her again—deep, slow, tasting her moan.
“You should know,” he whispered against her lips, “I’m not pretending anymore.”
------------
The next morning, sunlight streamed through the drawing room windows of Winchester House, golden and warm — a cruel contrast to the storm of nerves twisting in Y/N’s stomach.
She smoothed the front of her gown for the third time.
Beside her, Duke Bellingham looked maddeningly composed, lounging in the same chair he had mocked during his first visit, one ankle crossed over the other, sleeves properly buttoned this time — though she couldn’t not remember them pushed up, couldn’t not remember the taste of his kiss still lingering on her lips.
They had agreed, only hours earlier, tangled in the moonlit shadows of her garden, that this courtship — this love — would no longer be fake.
He glanced at them, brow arching high. “You’re both awake. Miraculous.”
Jude stood with grace. “Winchester.”
The viscount didn’t sit.
Y/N took a breath. “We need to speak with you.”
“I gathered that.”
She stepped forward. “This is no longer a game.”
Winchester’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Jude glanced at her, then turned to her brother, voice steady.
“I am requesting permission to officially court your sister. With the intent to marry her.”
Silence.
The viscount’s eyes flicked between them, sharp and calculating. He folded his arms. “That’s bold.”
“It’s honest.”
“And sudden.”
“Not for me,” Jude said quietly.
The tension in the room thickened. Y/N’s hands curled in her skirts.
Then Winchester sighed and looked at his sister.
“Is this what you want?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “It’s real, brother.”
He stared at her a moment longer.
Then, finally, he sat.
He was quiet for a long moment, and just when the silence felt unbearable, he spoke again — softer this time.
“Then I’ll give you both my blessing. On one condition.”
Y/N blinked. “What?”
“I don’t want to walk in on you ever doing anything in a carriage. Or anywhere.”
Jude coughed, they both hadn't realize they had been caught. “Understood.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Winchester stood, grumbling something about cold tea and scandal sheets, then left the room with a huff.
The door clicked closed.
Y/N turned to Jude — and the moment their eyes met, she exhaled a laugh. Relief, joy, nerves. It all spilled out.
He reached for her hand, pressing it gently to his chest.
“You’re going to be my wife,” he murmured, as if tasting the words for the first time.
“And you’re going to be my husband.”
He grinned. “Do you think he meant no carriages at all, or just not that one?”
Y/N smacked his arm, laughing.
“Be serious.”
“I’m trying,” he whispered, leaning closer, “but you keep looking at me like that.”
----------------
The carriages began arriving before the sun had fully set.
Candlelight flickered in the massive windows of the Duke of Kent’s London estate, casting golden reflections across the polished marble floors and gilded mirrors. Music floated out from the grand ballroom — strings tuning, laughter swelling, heels echoing through the corridors.
Tonight, the Duke himself was hosting.
Whispers ran like wildfire before the dancing had even begun.
“Why would he host something this early in the season?”
“I heard it’s to announce something... or someone.”
“Miss Y/N, did you say?”
“She’s only a viscount’s sister!”
“Then why does he look at her like that?”
Jude stood at the top of the grand staircase, dressed in deep navy, his black cravat tied perfectly. He held his gloves in one hand, his expression unreadable — until the crowd parted below him and sheentered.
Y/N.
In pale gold silk that shimmered as she walked, the same color as the light in her eyes.
And when their gazes met, every muscle in Jude’s face softened.
He descended the staircase slowly, every step deliberate.
When he reached her, he didn’t take her hand.
He took both.
The room fell silent.
Jude turned to face the crowd. “Thank you all for joining me tonight,” he said, voice smooth and clear. “It is my honor to share with you the best decision I’ve ever made.”
He looked back at Y/N.
“I am engaged to Miss Y/N Winchester.”
A gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by applause — polite at first, then louder, warmer. Her brother clapped with a proud smirk from the edge of the room. Dowagers fanned themselves. Young ladies looked on with wide eyes — a mixture of disbelief and envy.
But Y/N and Jude heard none of it.
He led her to the center of the ballroom as the orchestra began to play.
The moment their hands touched, it was as though the world around them vanished.
They danced slowly, perfectly in step, his hand low on her back, her fingers brushing the edge of his jaw every time she turned. They couldn’t stop smiling — soft, private smiles meant only for each other.
“You’re glowing,” he whispered.
“You’re staring.”
“I can’t help it.”
Their bodies moved with grace, but their touches were full of mischief — a thumb grazing a knuckle, her fingers lingering too long on his shoulder, his palm splayed just a bit too low on her waist.
At one point, she laughed, breathless.
“What?” he asked.
“I think half the room just fell in love with you.”
He leaned down. “Too bad for them. I’m already yours.”
By the end of the dance, no one doubted it.
The Duke of Kent — once the most untouchable man in London — was undone by her. And Y/N, the clever sister of a viscount, had found someone who matched her fire, her wit, her longing.
They bowed. The applause was thunderous.
But they didn’t hear it.
Because they were already leaning in again — foreheads nearly touching, hands still clasped, their smiles wide and eyes bright.
In love.
And now, the whole world knew it.
-------------
The chapel was glowing.
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting golden rays over the polished pews and blooming white florals that lined the aisle. The scent of fresh lilies hung in the air. A hush fell as the guests stood.
And then—the music began.
At the front, Duke Bellingham stood in fine ivory and silver, his black curly hair perfect, his expression tight with emotion as he watched the doors.
Behind him stood his brothers — John, tall and grinning wide, James, who looked like he might cry, and Jack, straightening Jude’s collar at the last second before wiping his own eyes.
And then the doors opened.
Y/N appeared, radiant in soft lace, her veil glimmering, her smile tremulous. Her father walked proudly at her side, her younger sisters tossing petals just ahead, giggling and glowing, and her little brother toddling carefully as the ring bearer.
Jude’s breath caught in his throat.
When Y/N finally reached him, he took her hand in both of his, kissing her knuckles.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “You always have been.”
She laughed softly, already blinking away tears.
The ceremony was simple. Honest. Vows spoken with quiet certainty, promises of forever.
And when they kissed, the chapel erupted in applause.
Petals rained from above as they stepped through the doors, hands clasped, faces flushed with happiness. Y/N’s sisters threw flowers up into the air and twirled, and her little brother ran into Jude’s legs, arms raised.
Jude didn’t hesitate. He scooped the boy up effortlessly, tossing him in the air once and catching him with a laugh. “You’ll be taller than me soon, won’t you?”
The boy shrieked with delight.
Y/N watched, her heart full. She loved him — all of him. The way he melted with her family, the way he knelt down to talk to her sisters eye-to-eye, the way he let them braid ribbons into his sleeves without a word of complaint.
He had no walls with them. Only warmth.
As the carriage waited, Y/N turned to her family, one by one.
Tearful hugs with her mother and father, both whispering blessings in her ear. Kisses to her sisters’ cheeks and a tight embrace for her youngest brother. She promised she’d write. Promised to visit.
Then came her older brother.
Viscount Winchester looked at her for a long moment, his eyes soft but wet.
“You’ve grown up too fast,” he murmured.
She hugged him tightly, burying her face in his chest. “Thank you for everything.”
He nodded, then turned to Jude.
The Duke straightened immediately, his playful expression sobering.
“Take care of her,” the viscount said. Not a question. A command.
Jude looked him in the eye. “Always.”
His voice was steady. Certain.
“You don’t have to worry,” he added, glancing at Y/N with so much tenderness it made her breath catch. “She’s my everything now. And your family is welcome in our home anytime. No notice needed.”
There was a long pause.
Then Johnny stepped forward with a half-serious mutter, “Except me. I will absolutely show up drunk and eat all your food.”
Laughter broke the tension.
The viscount pulled Jude in for a brief, strong hug, clapping his back. “She chose well.”
As the horses began to pull forward, Y/N looked back through the window, waving through tears, watching her family grow smaller.
Jude gently pulled her hand away from the glass.
“you'll always miss them,” he said, kissing her fingers. “But you'll never be without them or without love.”
She turned to him, eyes shimmering. “You really mean that?”
He leaned in, kissing her softly. “With every part of me.”
The wind carried rose petals across the road as their carriage rolled on, the sun setting in hues of honey and gold.
Inside, the new Duchess curled into her husband’s arms.
And the Duke — no longer guarded, no longer pretending — kissed her again and again, smiling into her lips as he whispered:
“We made it, my love.”
They rode away toward forever — hearts full, hands intertwined, and nothing but joy ahead.
-------------
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In honour of England winning 3rd place at the world cup!
WC: 1.4k, unprotected sex, oral sex, Jude wears his medal while they have sex, Jude just being sexy
----------------
The stadium explodes around you, a living, breathing roar of sound that vibrates through your bones. You're on your feet, pressed against the railing of the family section, your eyes locked on the pitch. Jude controls the ball with that effortless grace that always makes your breath hitch, weaving through the defense like they're standing still. The shot is clean, powerful, unstoppable. The net ripples.
You bite your lip so hard you taste copper, a giddy, primal thrill racing through you. He turns after the celebration, his chest heaving, and his eyes find you in the stands. That confident, cocky smile. And then a wink, quick and private, just for you. God, he is the sexiest man alive. Always so fucking confident.
The medal ceremony is a blur of flashbulbs and proud smiles. You stand shoulder to shoulder with his mum, your phone capturing every angle of him standing on that podium. The bronze medal glints under the stadium lights, swinging around his neck. It isn't gold, but the weight of it, the pride in his eyes, it means everything after the devastation of the semi-final.
The press conference finally ends. The fans filter out. The stadium empties into a quiet cavern, leaving just the players, their families, and a few lingering staff. The tension of the tournament finally unwinds into a soft, shared relief.
You don't walk to him. You run.
He sees you coming and opens his arms, catching you mid-leap, laughing as your legs wrap around his waist. Your mouths meet in a deep, celebratory kiss, tasting of salt and victory and joy. He pulls back, still grinning, and reaches up to unclasp the medal from his neck.
He settles it over your head, the cool metal resting against your chest.
"Feels good, doesn't it?" he asks, his voice rough with exhaustion and genuine happiness.
You look down at the bronze disk. It feels good. But it belongs on him. You smile, lifting it off and carefully placing it back around his neck, your fingers grazing his damp skin.
"It looks better on you."
He gives you one last quick, hard kiss. "See you back at the hotel."
You nod, letting him slip away, but the anticipation is already a hot, sharp hook in your ribs.
The logistics of separate cars are a tedious necessity, but the drive back to the hotel is a blur of neon lights and adrenaline. The moment the door clicks shut behind you, you're digging through your suitcase, discarding clothes until your fingers find the delicate lace of the black lingerie you packed for exactly this possibility.
You slip it on, the silk and lace cool against your heated skin. The bra cups your breasts perfectly, the panties a tiny triangle of black fabric held up by thin straps. You pull a soft, oversized sweater over it and a tiny denim skirt, the combination innocent and electric with promise.
You sit on the edge of the bed, waiting, your pulse a frantic drum against your ribs.
The door clicks open.
He walks in, still in his full kit, the bronze medal swinging against his chest. His hair is messy, plastered to his forehead. His skin is flushed, slick with the remnants of sweat and grass. The smell hits you—clean exertion, hard-fought triumph—and you fucking love it.
You're on your feet instantly, crossing the room in three steps. Your arms loop around his neck, and you have to rise on your tiptoes, pressing your body against his.
"I'm so happy for you," you whisper against his lips before kissing him deeply.
He smiles into the kiss, his hands finding your hips, pulling you flush against him. The softness of the greeting dissolves in an instant. The kiss turns raw, hungry, desperate. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, and you groan, your fingers tangling in his damp curls.
The shift is immediate. He walks you backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed. His hands slide down, gripping your thighs, lifting you onto the mattress. He follows you down, his body covering yours, still fully dressed in his kit. The rough fabric of his shorts grinds against the thin lace of your panties.
His mouth leaves yours, trailing hot, wet kisses down your jaw, your throat, sucking a bruise into the delicate skin of your collarbone.
"Need you," he mutters against your skin, his hands impatiently pushing your skirt up your thighs.
You arch into him, your fingers working at stripping off his jersey. "Take this off."
He sits back on his heels, ripping the jersey over his head, discarding it on the floor. His torso is a masterpiece of muscle and sweat-sheened skin. The medal rests against his sternum, swinging as he moves. Your sweater is next, pulled over your head in one swift motion, exposing the black lace.
"Fucking hell," he growls, his eyes darkening. "You planned this."
You don't answer, you just pull his mouth back down to yours. The kiss is messy, wet, devouring. He pushes you back against the pillows, his mouth dropping lower. He presses open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your skirt and panties, dragging them down your legs.
"Spread for me, baby."
You obey, opening your thighs wide. He groans at the sight of you, already slick and ready. He doesn't make you wait. His mouth is on you instantly, hot and greedy. He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, circling it with his tongue before sucking it between his lips.
Your hips buck against his face. "Jude… please…"
He fucks you with his tongue, pushing it deep inside you, then lapping at your clit with a relentless rhythm. He knows exactly how to break you. Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him against you as the first orgasm crashes over you, a hot, pulsing wave that makes you cry out his name.
He doesn't stop. He licks you through it, groaning against your sensitive flesh, drinking down every drop of your release. Only when you're trembling and oversensitive does he crawl back up your body.
The head of his cock presses against your slick entrance. He holds your gaze, his eyes dark with hunger.
"This," he says, his voice rough, "is the best feeling in the world."
He thrusts into you in one slow, deep motion. Your body stretches to accommodate him, the fullness making you gasp. He fills you perfectly. He pauses for a moment, letting you adjust, then he pulls out almost all the way before slamming back in.
The rhythm he sets is punishing and perfect. Every thrust drives the breath from your lungs. The medal swings against your chest, a cool counterpoint to the heat of his body. He is a champion, and he is yours.
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Harder."
He obliges, fucking you with a desperate power, the bed creaking beneath you. The tension builds again, coiling tight in your gut.
"Cum with me," he grunts, his forehead pressed to yours. "Now."
The command shatters you. Your orgasm rips through you, your cunt clenching violently around him, milking him deep. The sensation drags him right over the edge with you. He groans your name, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, hot and thick, his body shuddering with the force of his release.
He collapses on top of you, his weight a heavy, perfect comfort. The medal is crushed between your chests. You lie there, breathing hard, tangled together in the slick heat of your shared release.
After a long moment, he lifts his head, pressing a soft, tender kiss to your lips. "Thank you for being here."
You run your fingers through his sweaty hair. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."
He shifts, pulling you onto your side, tucking your head under his chin. His hand strokes your hair, traces patterns on your back. You feel the last of the tension finally leave his body. The weight of the semi-final loss, the exhaustion of the tournament—it all melts away as he holds you in the quiet of the room.
He is happy. He is loved. And in four years, you'll be right there again, watching him chase the gold. But tonight, this bronze medal, this victory lap, this moment in your arms—it feels like winning everything.
----------------
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The atmosphere surrounding the England camp during the World Cup was electric, a whirlwind of media frenzy, high stakes, and suffocating expectations. For Y/n, it was mostly just annoying. Being the sister of one of the starting midfielders meant she had a backstage pass to the madness, and more importantly, a front-row seat to the phenomenon that was Jude Bellingham.
To the rest of the world, Jude was a golden boy, a generational talent who played with a maturity far beyond his years. To Y/n, he was an irritant. It wasn't just the hype—though the constant praise from every sports analyst on the planet was grating—it was the ease of it all. Everything seemed to slide right into place for him. The goals, the fame, the effortless grace on the pitch, and the way he carried himself with a confidence that bordered on arrogance.
And then there was the face. That was the real problem. It was infuriating how genuinely handsome he was, with those sharp features and a gaze that always seemed to be reading her thoughts.
Y/n was leaning against the corridor wall of the team hotel, scrolling through her phone and waiting for her brother, when a familiar scent of expensive cologne and fresh laundry hit her. She didn't even have to look up to know who it was.
"Still looking grumpy, I see," a smooth, melodic voice teased. "How are you?" he asks.
Y/n looked up and met that award-winning smile—the one that graced a thousand billboards and made millions of fans scream. She didn't smile back. Instead, she let out a long, dramatic sigh and rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt.
"Fine, Jude," she clipped, her voice flat.
Jude chuckled, a low sound that vibrated in the narrow hallway. He didn't move away; instead, he stepped closer, invading her personal space with a deliberate slowness. He loved this. He lived for the moments when he could break through her icy exterior, the challenge of pulling more than a one-word answer out of the only person in the vicinity who didn't treat him like a god.
"Just 'fine'?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave. "I feel like we're lacking a bit of enthusiasm here. I just put in a Man of the Match performance, Y/n. A little praise wouldn't kill you."
"I saw the game. You kicked a ball into a net. Congratulations," she retorted, trying to step around him.
But Jude was faster. In one fluid motion, he shifted, blocking her path and planting a hand on the wall beside her head. He didn't touch her, but he crowded her, his large frame looming over her, effectively pinning her against the wallpaper. He leaned in, his face inches from hers, a sly, knowing smirk playing on his lips.
Y/n felt her breath hitch. She hated how her heart hammered against her ribs whenever he did this. She hated the way her skin prickled under the heat radiating off him. She shifted her weight, trying to find some room to breathe, but he only leaned closer, enjoying the way she squirmed under his gaze.
"You're so transparent," he whispered, his eyes scanning her face, lingering on her lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto her eyes. "You pretend to be so bored by me, but I can see it. You're practically vibrating."
"I'm vibrating with the urge to push you into a locker and humble your ass," she snapped, though the effect was ruined by the slight tremor in her voice.
Jude’s smirk widened. He loved the friction, the sparks that flew every time they clashed. He liked that she fought him, that she resisted the charm that worked on everyone else. It made the tension between them thick, almost tangible, like a wire stretched to its breaking point.
"I'd like to see you try," he murmured, his voice a playful challenge.
He stayed there for a moment longer than necessary, letting the silence stretch, letting her feel the sheer size of him compared to her. He was well aware of the effect he had on her—the way her pupils dilated, the way she held her breath. He was playing a game, and while Y/n insisted she wasn't participating, the heat flushing her cheeks told a completely different story.
Finally, he stepped back, giving her air and a mocking little wink.
"See you at dinner tonight, I hope we end of sitting near each other" he says.
He turned and strolled away, his gait confident and relaxed. Y/n stayed pressed against the wall for a few seconds, staring at his retreating back, her chest heaving. She hated him. She absolutely hated how much she didn't actually hate him.
----------
The dinner was a loud, chaotic affair, filled with the boisterous laughter of athletes and the chatter of their partners and families. The long table was crowded, but as if by some cruel twist of fate—or a very deliberate calculation—the only open seat left was right next to Jude.
As Y/n slid into the chair, she let out a heavy, audible sigh, her shoulders slumping. Beside her, Jude didn't even have to look at her to know she was annoyed; he could practically feel the irritation radiating off her in waves. He leaned back, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across his face. He loved how easily he could get a reaction out of her, even if that reaction was pure exasperation.
When the waiter arrived, Y/n didn't hesitate. "I'll have the steak spaghetti, please."
The waiter paused, looking apologetic. "I'm very sorry, miss, but we just served the last portion of the steak spaghetti to the gentleman here." He gestured toward Jude, who was currently looking very pleased with himself, a fork already poised over the exact dish she had wanted.
Y/n’s left eye twitched. She glared at Jude, who gave her a mock-sympathetic pout that didn't reach his dancing eyes.
"Shrimp," she snapped at the waiter, her voice tight. "I'll have the shrimp please."
For the rest of the meal, Y/n focused entirely on her plate, eating with a frantic speed. She wanted to finish, get up, and escape the suffocating proximity of the man beside her.
However, the closer she tried to distance herself mentally, the more she felt him. Jude hadn't touched her, but he had draped his arm across the back of her chair. His forearm was inches from the nape of her neck, the heat from his skin seeping through the air, creating a magnetic pull that made the small hairs on her arms stand up.
"Slow down, Y/n," her brother remarked from across the table, glancing at her with a confused frown. "The food isn't going anywhere."
Y/n froze, realizing she was practically inhaling her shrimp. She let out a huff, crossed her arms over her chest, and leaned back into her chair. She began to chew slowly, her expression one of utter defeat, staring blankly at the table with her cheeks full.
Jude’s grin widened. He shifted, turning his entire body toward her, effectively shutting out the rest of the table. He leaned in close, his voice a low, intimate murmur that was meant for her ears only.
"So," he whispered, his breath warm against her ear, "when do you think we can actually hang out? Just us."
The boldness of the question sent a jolt through her. Y/n abruptly stood up, the legs of her chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I have to use the bathroom," she announced curtly, not looking at anyone as she hurried away from the table.
In the sanctuary of the restroom, Y/n leaned over the sink and splashed cold water onto her face. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, her cheeks flushed. Get it together, she told herself. He’s just a football player. An overhyped, arrogant, ridiculously hot football player. She gripped the edge of the porcelain, determined that she would not fall for the charm that seemed to work on every other woman in the hemisphere.
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and walked back out into the hallway. She was so focused on her internal resolve that she didn't see him until she walked straight into a solid chest.
"Whoa there," Jude chuckled, his hands instinctively flying out to catch her by the waist to steady her.
Y/n reacted instantly, pulling back with a sharp gasp, but Jude didn't let her get far. With the same predatory grace he used on the pitch, he stepped forward, crowding her against the wall. He leaned in, his presence overwhelming, trapping her in the small space between his body and the corridor wall.
He looked down at her, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that made her stomach flip. A small, knowing smirk played on his lips.
"You know, Y/n," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky tone, "if I didn't know any better... I think you'd have a little crush on me."
Y/n scoffed, her face heating up. She brought her hand up and shoved his chest, pushing against the firm muscle of his pectorals. He didn't budge an inch; it was like trying to move a brick wall.
"You're delusional," she spat, though her voice lacked its usual bite.
Jude didn't look offended. Instead, he gave her another one of those blinding, arrogant smiles—the one that told her he knew exactly what she was feeling.
"And stop fucking smiling at me like that!" she hissed, dodging under his arm and marching back to her seat.
She sat down with a huff, ready to finish her meal in grumpy silence. But as she looked down at her plate, she paused. The shrimp were gone. In their place were perfectly sliced pieces of steak, glistening in a rich sauce.
She looked over at Jude. He was calmly eating the shrimp from her plate, looking entirely innocent, though the glint in his eyes betrayed him. He had switched their plates while she was gone.
Y/n stared at the steak for a long moment, her annoyance warring with the fact that he’d given her exactly what she wanted. She poked at a piece of meat with her fork, glancing at him sideways. He didn't say a word, just kept eating her shrimp with a smug expression.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Y/n took a bite. It tasted delicious, and it only made her hate him more.
------------
The city below was a sprawling tapestry of neon lights and distant sirens, the urban hum acting as a lullaby that Y/n couldn't quite succumb to. The rooftop air of the hotel they were all staying at was crisp, biting through her thin pajamas, but she welcomed the chill. It cleared the fog in her mind, allowing her to lean against the cold metal railing and close her eyes, letting the wind whip a few stray hairs across her face.
The heavy thud of the rooftop door echoing behind her broke the silence. Y/n didn't need to turn around to know who it was; there was a certain energy that followed him, a gravitational pull she had become all too familiar with.
"Oh, sorry. I didn't know anyone was up here," Jude’s voice sounded different—stripped of the playful arrogance and the teasing lilt. He sounded exhausted. "I'll leave you alone."
He began to turn back toward the door, his silhouette slumped. He was dressed down, wearing loose basketball shorts and a heavy hoodie with the hood pulled up, shadowing his face and making him look smaller, less like the golden boy of English football and more like a tired twenty-year-old.
"Wait," Y/n blurted out before her brain could filter the impulse. She caught herself, blinking. "You stay. I was just leaving anyway."
She looked at him, really looked at him, and felt a pang of unexpected empathy. She knew the world saw the fame and the money, but she saw the dark circles under his eyes and the way his shoulders seemed to carry the weight of an entire nation's expectations. The pressure to bring the trophy home was an invisible mountain, and he was climbing it every single day.
As she stepped toward the exit, intending to give him the solitude he clearly needed, Jude’s hand shot out. He didn't grab her harshly; his fingers simply curled gently around her forearm, a soft but firm tether.
"I wouldn't mind the company," he murmured, his gaze softening.
Y/n paused, her heart giving a traitorous little thump. She nodded slowly. "...Alright."
She moved back to the railing, but she was mindful of the space between them, maintaining a strict two-meter distance. They stood in a comfortable, heavy silence for a while, both staring out at the horizon. For the first time since she'd known him, the air wasn't thick with sexual tension or the need to win an argument. It was just... quiet.
"Do you ever feel like the city is watching you?" Jude asked suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Like every window has a pair of eyes waiting for you to trip up?"
Y/n looked at him, seeing the vulnerability he usually kept locked behind a smirk. "I can't even imagine," she admitted softly. "I just see the highlights and the cheers. I forget that the silence after a mistake is probably louder than the applause."
Jude turned his head toward her, a genuine, tired smile touching his lips. It wasn't the predatory grin he used to fluster her; it was something raw and honest. "You're a lot more perceptive than you let on, Y/n. I think you actually like me a little bit."
The moment of genuine connection flickered, and just as Y/n was about to offer a sincere response, Jude shifted. He closed a fraction of the distance between them, his eyes darkening as they traveled slowly down her body, lingering on the way her pajamas clung to her curves in the moonlight.
"Actually," he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to that low, vibrating register that always made her toes curl, "I bet you look even better when you're not trying so hard to pretend you hate me. Especially in the dark."
Y/n inhaled sharply, the sudden spike of heat in her chest clashing violently with the midnight air. The vulnerability was gone, replaced instantly by that insufferable, magnetic confidence.
"It's... it's cold," she stammered, her face flushing a deep crimson.
Without another word, she spun on her heel and hurried toward the door, her heart racing. She left him standing there alone under the stars, knowing full well that he was probably leaning back against the railing with that smug, knowing smile plastered on his face.
-----------
The atmosphere in the stadium was electric, a vibrating wall of sound that seemed to shake the very concrete beneath Y/n’s feet. She sat perched on the edge of her seat, her fingers gripping the fabric of her jersey. She was radiating pride for her brother and the rest of the squad; just getting to this stage of the World Cup was a feat, but the hunger to go further was palpable in every roar of the crowd.
However, the mood shifted violently when Norway found the back of the net first. Y/n felt the energy around her dim, a collective gasp of shock rippling through the English supporters. The silence that followed was heavy, thick with a sudden, suffocating anxiety.
But Jude Bellingham didn't do "suffocating."
As the clock ticked toward the 45-minute mark, Y/n stopped breathing. She watched as Jude took control, his movements fluid and predatory, slicing through the Norwegian defense with a level of composure that felt otherworldly. When he finally connected with the ball, sending it screaming into the goal, the stadium exploded. The sound was deafening, a tidal wave of euphoria that sent thousands of people jumping up and down around her.
Y/n didn't jump. She couldn't. She was frozen, her eyes locked on him. On the giant screen, the commentators were practically screaming, their voices cracking as they praised him: "Once again, he’s delivering for England! The man is a machine! A generational talent!"
Y/n felt a heat crawl up her neck that had nothing to do with the weather. Seeing him like this—dominant, focused, and utterly in control—did something to her that their bickering in the hotel hallways never could.
The second half was a blur of tension, but as the game neared the 90th minute, Jude struck again. The roar that erupted this time was primal. England was now firmly in the lead, and the victory felt inevitable.
This time, Jude didn't just celebrate with his teammates. He sprinted toward the stands, his chest heaving, and spread his arms wide in that iconic, commanding gesture. As he looked out over the crowd, a boyish, triumphant smile broke across his face.
Y/n felt a physical jolt in her gut. It was a dizzying, sickening sensation—the kind of visceral reaction that left her feeling breathless and weak. Fine, she admitted to herself, her heart hammering against her ribs. Fine. I have a crush on him. Whatever.
The other players swarmed him, a chaotic pile of white jerseys and shouting men, but Y/n’s gaze remained fixed on the spot where he had just been.
When the final whistle blew, confirming a 2-1 victory with both goals credited to Jude, the stadium turned into a carnival of joy. England was heading to the semi-finals. Y/n sat back, unconsciously biting her nail, her legs crossed tightly as she watched the celebrations unfold on the pitch.
She watched the way he laughed, the way the sweat made his skin glisten under the floodlights, and the sheer, unadulterated confidence radiating off him. Every interaction she’d ever had with him—the teasing, the crowding, the suggestive whispers—had left her wanting more, but seeing him in his element, tasting success on a global stage, amplified that longing into something aching.
He was arrogant, he was irritating, and he was currently the most desired man in the country. And as Y/n watched him, she realized with a sinking feeling that she was completely and utterly undone by him.
-----------
The after-party was a shimmering blur of gold, black, and crystal. The venue was opulent, the air thick with the scent of expensive cologne and the crisp, bubbling aroma of endless champagne. Y/n felt a rare sense of poise as she entered hand-in-hand with her brother, her gold dress clinging to her curves like a second skin. It was a daring piece—the fabric shimmering under the chandeliers, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her thigh with every step and a hint of cleavage that teased without giving too much away. She felt elegant, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of the stadium.
A few minutes later, the energy in the room shifted. The double doors swung open and Jude walked in.
He looked devastating. The crisp lines of his black suit hugged his athletic frame perfectly, and that triumphant, boyish smile was already plastered on his face. He was immediately swarmed. The other players descended on him, ruffling his hair and shouting, “Man of the hour!” and “Absolute legend!” over the noise of the music.
Y/n drifted away, blending in with the other girlfriends and family members. She sipped her champagne, the bubbles tickling her throat, laughing and chatting, but her eyes kept drifting back to him. She watched the way he commanded the room, the way he leaned into the praise with a confidence that was almost suffocating.
During dinner, the room fell silent as Harry Kane stood up. The captain’s voice was warm as he gave a short, heartfelt speech, praising the team's grit but focusing heavily on Jude’s brilliance. As Kane reached over to pat Jude’s cheek in a gesture of brotherly pride, Y/n felt a strange, tight knot form in her chest.
She focused on her food, feeling a strange mixture of relief and irritation that they weren't sitting next to each other. For the first time all day, there was a physical barrier between them. But the relief was short-lived, replaced by a nagging sense of neglect. He hadn't looked at her once. Not a single glance, not a single teasing smirk. It was as if she had become invisible in the wake of his glory.
As the night wound down, the crowd thinned. The loud celebrations transitioned into low hums of conversation. Feeling her makeup sliding and her scent fading, Y/n slipped away to the restroom. She took her time, carefully reapplying her lipstick and spritzing her perfume—a sweet, musky scent that lingered in the air.
She took a deep breath, smoothed down the gold fabric of her dress, and stepped out of the bathroom.
She didn't even have time to blink before she nearly collided with a solid chest.
Y/n gasped, her heart leaping into her throat as she stumbled back a step. Jude was standing right there, leaning against the wall as if he had been waiting for her. He looked different now—the polished "man of the hour" had frayed. His tie was loosened and hanging haphazardly around his neck, and the top few buttons of his dress shirt were undone, exposing the tanned skin of his collarbone and the dip of his chest.
“You scared me!” she breathed, her hand flying to her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Jude didn't move. He didn't apologize. Instead, he let his gaze travel slowly, deliberately, from the tips of her heels up the shimmering gold length of her legs, lingering on the curve of her hips before finally meeting her eyes. His expression was dark, hooded, and entirely devoid of the boyish charm he'd shown the crowd.
"You've been avoiding me all night," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to echo in the small hallway. "Or maybe you were just waiting for me to notice you."
“You know, most people have been congratulating me for the win, but I haven’t heard anything from you. Kind of putting my mood down,” Jude says, a slight, playful smile dancing on his lips to let her know he’s joking.
Y/n rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “You only scored two goals. Am I supposed to be impressed or something?” she replies sarcastically, though her heart is hammering against her ribs.
Jude laughs, a low, rich sound that vibrates in the small space. “There she is,” he murmurs. In one swift motion, he moves forward, caging her in by planting both arms on the wall on either side of her. He crowds her space, his large frame looming over her, trapping her against the cold surface. “You know, I think I deserve a little reward for all the hard work I did today,” he says softly, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that makes her breath hitch.
“Oh yeah? Like what?” Y/n asks, squirming slightly under his heavy gaze, her body reacting to his proximity before her mind can catch up.
“How about…” he begins, leaning closer. He reaches up, his fingers grazing her skin as he gently brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. The touch is light, but it feels far too intimate, sending a shiver of electricity down her spine. He leans in further, his lips now only a few centimeters from hers, his warm breath fanning over her skin. “…a kiss,” he whispers, the words a soft command.
Y/n inhales sharply, her lungs tightening. She doesn’t move, frozen by the magnetic pull of him. Jude pauses, giving her every opportunity to pull away, to push him back, or to say no. But she doesn’t.
“That’s not gonna happen,” she breathes, though her voice lacks any real conviction.
“Oh?” Jude teases, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not even a little one?”
He doesn't push further, but he stays right there, his body heat radiating through his suit and his expensive cologne making her head spin. After a moment, sensing the tension has reached a breaking point, he begins to pull away, not wanting to actually make her uncomfortable.
But as he retreats, something in Y/n snaps. The longing she’s been suppressing for weeks boils over. She reaches out and yanks hard on his tie, pulling him back down with a sudden, desperate force. Their lips meet roughly, the collision hot and hungry.
Jude’s eyes fly open in shock for a split second, surprised by her sudden aggression, before they flutter shut. He groans into her mouth, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding past her lips to claim her mouth in a filthy, sweeping motion. His hands slide down to her hips, gripping her firmly and pulling her flush against him.
Y/n lets out a muffled moan, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. Her hands slide down the hard, defined muscles of his biceps—feeling the strength she had only ever imagined in her fantasies. Driven by a sudden surge of need, she hooks one of her legs around his waist, pulling him closer. Jude responds instantly, driving his hips forward, grinding his crotch hard into her.
They both gasp into the kiss, the sound of their wet tongues together filling the quiet hallway. Y/n grinds her pelvis back against him, her pussy already soaking through her panties, aching with an anticipation she can no longer ignore. She can feel the thick, rigid length of Jude’s cock straining against his trousers, pressing firmly into her heat.
Jude cups her face, his fingers digging into her cheeks as the kiss turns desperate and raw. His hand slips down from her hip to her thigh, sliding upward with predatory intent. His fingers brush firmly against her clit through the thin fabric of her panties, and Y/n lets out a sharp, needy whimper, arching her back into his touch.
Just as the friction begins to push her toward the edge, the distant sound of her brother calling her name echoes through the hall.
The sound acts like a bucket of ice water. Y/n snaps out of the haze, shoving Jude away with a sudden burst of panic. As they separate, a thin string of saliva connects their lips for a fleeting second before breaking.
Breathless and flushed, Y/n quickly wipes her mouth and frantically adjusts her hair and the gold fabric of her dress. When she hears her name called a second time, louder this time, she shoots Jude a look of utter disbelief and longing before turning on her heel and running off in the opposite direction.
Jude remains where he is, letting out a long, guttural groan. He rests his forehead against the cold wall, his hand dropping to his crotch to grip the throbbing, painfully hard cock straining against his fly.
“Fuck,” he hisses, his voice raw with frustration.
He stays there for a moment, shaking, before finally turning and walking into the bathroom to try and calm himself down.
So close.
--------------
The hotel energy was electric, thick with the kind of tension that only precedes a clash of titans. It’s the semi-final—England versus Argentina—and the weight of a nation is resting on the shoulders of the players. For Y/n, the tension is twofold; there is the anxiety of the game, and then there is the suffocating memory of that hallway encounter a few days prior.
She hasn't seen Jude since. Not a word, not a glance. The silence between them has been a living thing, pulsing with the memory of his cock pressing into her and the taste of his tongue in her mouth.
As the players prepare to congregate in the lobby for the departure to the stadium, Y/n’s phone buzzes in her palm. A text from an unknown number.
West stairwell. Now.
She doesn't need a name to know who it is. Her heart leaps into her throat, and she slips away from the crowd, navigating the corridors until she reaches the secluded, concrete silence of the west stairwell.
Jude is waiting for her. He isn't in his kit yet; he’s dressed simply in dark pants and a plain white shirt that clings to the broad expanse of his shoulders. He looks stripped down, raw. As she approaches, he rubs the back of his neck, his gaze shifting away from hers for a split second.
Y/n stops a few feet from him, her eyebrows arched. “How did you even get my number?”
Jude lets out a breathy, sheepish laugh. “One of the teammates' girlfriends. I had to practically beg for it.”
Y/n studies him, and for the first time since she’s known him, she sees it: the flicker of genuine nerves. The confidence, the swagger, the 'man of the hour' persona—it’s all gone, replaced by a vulnerability that makes her chest ache. He looks human. He looks like he’s carrying the world on his back, and the realization that she is the only person seeing him like this sends a surge of protectiveness through her.
“I just… wanted to see you before the match,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, sounding almost shy.
Y/n softens, a small, genuine smile playing on her lips. She crosses her arms, leaning back against the railing. “Good luck. You boys will give it your all. You've got this, Jude.”
He takes a step closer, the scent of his cologne mixing with the sterile smell of the stairwell. The air between them instantly thickens, the ghost of their last encounter returning to haunt them.
“So… about that kiss…” he starts, his eyes darkening as he remembers the way she had yanked his tie and devoured him.
Y/n quickly cuts him off, her voice firm but playful. “Let’s not talk about that right now. Just focus on the game. You have a match to win.”
She turns to leave, the click of her heels echoing on the concrete. But after three steps, she stops. She can feel his gaze burning into her back, and the memory of his hard body against hers makes her bite her lip, her pussy giving a traitorous little throb.
She turns around and walks back to him, her pace slow and deliberate. When she reaches him, she leans up on her tiptoes, placing her palms flat against his chest. She can feel his heart hammering against his ribs—fast, erratic, and powerful.
Y/n presses her lips to his in a gentle, lingering kiss. It isn’t the desperate, filthy collision from the party; it’s a promise. It’s a soft, tender anchor to keep him grounded.
Jude is caught off guard, his breath hitching in his throat, but he recovers instantly. He groans softly, his hands coming up to grip hers, pinning her palms to his chest as he kisses her back with a sudden, hungry intensity. For a moment, the game doesn't matter; the stadium doesn't exist. There is only the heat of her mouth and the scent of her skin.
Y/n pulls away just before the kiss becomes too consuming, whispering against his lips, “Good luck.”
She gives him one last, sweet peck on the lips before turning and walking away, leaving him standing in the silence of the stairwell wanting more. As she descends the stairs, a dumb, giddy smile is plastered on her face, while behind her, Jude stands breathless, his heart racing not from the nerves of the match, but from the intoxicating taste of her.
--------------
The energy in the stadium is suffocating, a thick blanket of anxiety that settles over the crowd long before the first whistle. Y/n can feel it in the marrow of her bones. Argentina isn't just an opponent; they are a force of nature, a legacy of ruthless efficiency and passion. Every time an Argentinian player touches the ball, a collective shiver runs through the England supporters.
When England scores the first goal, the explosion of joy is visceral. Y/n screams until her throat is raw, her heart hammering against her ribs with a surge of hope. For a moment, it feels possible. It feels like the fairy tale is actually happening.
But then, the tide turns.
Argentina scores. Then, with a clinical precision that feels like a physical blow, they score again. The stadium, once a roar of anticipation, descends into a haunting, heavy silence. Y/n watches, her hands clenched in her lap, praying for a miracle that refuses to come. She looks at the clock, the minutes ticking away like a countdown to a disaster.
When the final whistle blows, the sound is deafening and yet completely silent. It’s over. England is out.
The devastation is immediate. Y/n looks toward the pitch and sees the collapse. Players are dropping to their knees, some burying their faces in the turf, others staring blankly into the distance as if trying to comprehend the void. She sees her brother, his shoulders shaking, tears streaming down his face as he clings to a teammate.
The aftermath is a blur of grief. After the grueling press conferences, the stadium becomes a sanctuary of sorrow. Y/n finds her brother, and the moment she touches his arm, he collapses into her, sobbing into her shoulder. She holds him tight, swaying them back and forth in a slow, rhythmic motion, whispering into his ear, “You did so well. You gave it everything. I’m so proud of you.”
As she holds him, her eyes drift across the field. In the distance, she sees Jude.
He is surrounded by his family, but he looks utterly alone in his grief. He isn't hiding it; he is crying openly, his face twisted in a mask of raw agony. Seeing him like that—the golden boy, the powerhouse, the man who always seems to have an answer—completely broken, makes Y/n’s heart ache with a physical intensity. She wants to run to him, to scream that he isn't the reason they lost, that he was the heartbeat of the team, the reason they had even made it this far.
The ride back to the hotel is a funeral procession. The bus is a tomb of silence, the only sound the occasional sniffle or the heavy sigh of a player staring out the window. The mood is sour, the air thick with the bitterness of "what if."
-----------------
Back in her room, Y/n collapses onto her bed. She doesn't even take off her shoes. There is a pit in her stomach, a hollow feeling of shared loss and a lingering, pulsing worry for Jude. She stares at the ceiling, the silence of the room amplifying the ringing in her ears.
Then, her phone buzzes with a text.
I'm at the rooftop if you wanna join me.
Y/n gasps, sitting up so abruptly she nearly knocks her phone off the mattress. Her heart, which had been heavy and slow, suddenly kicks into high gear. She knows exactly who it is. Without thinking, she leaps from the bed.
She moves with a frantic energy, stripping off her clothes and pulling on something comfortable yet soft. She brushes her hair, the strands falling over her shoulders, and reaches for her lipgloss. She swipes it across her lips, the shimmering gloss catching the light, before she suddenly freezes.
She stares at her reflection in the mirror, the gloss making her lips look plump and inviting. What am I doing? she thinks, a flicker of guilt crossing her mind. He’s grieving. This isn't the time for... this. And it's just Jude.
But the image of Jude crying in the stadium flashes in her mind, and the need to comfort him outweighs everything else. She puts the gloss down, takes a deep breath to steady her shaking hands, and slips out of the room.
As she makes her way to the rooftop, the air grows cooler, the city lights of the host city twinkling below. When she pushes open the heavy door and steps onto the roof, she sees him. He’s leaning against the railing, a solitary figure against the vast, midnight sky, looking small for the first time in his life.
“I’m sorry,” are the first words out of her mouth, her voice barely a whisper against the cool night breeze.
Jude turns to look at her, and the sight makes her heart ache. He looks exhausted—not just physically, but spiritually. The confidence that usually radiates from him like a physical heat has dimmed, replaced by a hollow, haunting weariness. His eyes are rimmed with red, his expression fragile.
“What are you sorry for?” he asks, a sad, ghost of a smile flickering on his lips.
“I don’t know...” Y/n steps closer, the distance between them shrinking. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out this time. I just feel grief for you and the boys.”
Jude looks away, his gaze drifting back to the horizon, his jaw tightening. “I should’ve done more.”
“Jude, let me stop you right there,” she says firmly, stepping into his space. “Should’ve, would’ve, could’ve—it doesn’t matter. What happened has happened; it is what it is. Don’t pretend like you and the boys didn’t play your best. Forty-eight countries in the World Cup and you made it to the semi-final. I know it’s not enough and not what you wanted, but I hope one day you can be proud of yourself for making it this far. Besides,” she adds, a small, encouraging smile touching her lips as she looks out into the glittering city, “we all know you’ll come back in four years even stronger.”
Silence falls between them, heavy and thick. For a long moment, Jude doesn’t say a word. He just watches her, his chest rising and falling in a slow, ragged rhythm.
“All day I’ve been hearing ‘it’s okay Jude, you’ll get them next time,’” he finally says, his voice raspy. “It just makes my grief feel so dismissive. Like the pain isn't valid because there's a future version of me that might win.” He turns fully toward her, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that makes her breath hitch. “But the way you put it... you’re exactly right. It’s not enough. I want it all.”
The air between them shifts. The grief is still there, but it’s being overtaken by something sharper, something more primal. The desperation of the loss is morphing into a different kind of hunger.
“Then continue what you’re doing,” Y/n replies, her voice dropping an octave, her gaze locking onto his. “Keep going. You want it? Go get it.”
As the words leave her lips, the context blurs. They aren't just talking about the trophy anymore. They aren't just talking about the pitch or the glory of the game. They are talking about the tension that has been simmering between them for months—the stolen kisses, the predatory glances, the raw, magnetic pull that neither of them can ignore. They are talking about the possession, the desire, and the need to feel something other than defeat.
Jude doesn't hesitate. He closes the remaining gap in one swift motion, his large hand coming up to cradle her face. His palm is warm, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone with a tenderness that contrasts with the sudden, fierce hunger in his eyes.
He leans down, his breath hot against her skin, and crashes his lips onto hers.
The kiss is desperate, tasting of salt and longing. It isn't the gentle, comforting kiss of a partner; it is the kiss of a man who has lost everything today and is clinging to the only thing that still feels real, the only thing he can actually claim as his own. Y/n moans into his mouth, her hands flying up to grip the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer until there is no air left between them.
He groans low in his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated need, as he presses her back against the railing, his body pinning hers in a way that feels like a reclamation. In this moment, the world outside the rooftop ceases to exist—the loss, the fans, the pressure—all of it vanishes, leaving only the electric, consuming heat of their bodies colliding.
Jude breaks the kiss with a guttural groan, the sound vibrating through Y/n’s chest. He doesn't say a word, his grip on her hand firm and possessive as he practically drags her across the rooftop and downstairs down the hall to his hotel room. The moment the door clicks shut behind them, the restraint he’d been holding onto snaps.
He slams her back against the door, his mouth crashing onto hers in a kiss that is less of a greeting and more of a claim. He tastes of desperation and raw hunger, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to dominate her senses.
“Been dreaming about this for so long,” he murmurs against her lips, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sends a shiver straight down her spine.
His hands move with a frantic efficiency, gripping the hem of her top and pulling it over her head in one fluid motion, followed quickly by her pants. He tosses the clothes blindly to the floor, stepping back just an inch to take her in.
Y/n stands there, breathing heavily, clad only in a matching set of crimson red lace bra and panties. The bold color contrasts sharply against her skin, hugging every curve of her body.
“What?” she asks, her voice trembling slightly under his intense gaze.
Jude’s eyes darken, his pupils blown wide as he scans her from her chest down to the thin strip of lace covering her heat. A smug, knowing smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “You wanted this.”
Y/n blinks, confused. “What?”
He licks his lips, his gaze lingering on her nipples peaking through the red lace. “You’re wearing a matching set, Y/n. You wanted this to happen. You wanted me to bring you to my hotel room, take your clothes off, so I’d see this sexy little set you put on for me. You just happen to be wearing matching lingerie all the time? I don't think so.” He gives a sly smile.
The realization hits her and she feels a flush of heat that has nothing to do with the room's temperature. She shoves his chest, though there's no real force behind it. “What did I say about smiling at me like that?”
Jude lets out a rich, genuine laugh—the first real laugh she’s heard from him since the match. He reaches out, his large hands clamping onto her hips and pulling her forward with a sudden, forceful jerk that slams her pelvis against his.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, his eyes locking onto hers with a predatory intensity. “I wanted this to happen just as bad. And I'm gonna give you everything you want baby.”
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Y/n comforts her boyfriend after his loss at the World Cup, seems soft at first but turns dirty once they go back home.
WC: 2.5k, unprotected sex, bathtub sex, oral sex (both m and f receiving)
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The atmosphere in the stadium was suffocating, a heavy mixture of deafening cheers from the opposing side and a crushing, hollow silence from the England supporters. Y/n stood frozen in the stands, her fingers gripping the fabric of her Bellingham jersey so tightly her knuckles were white. Tears blurred her vision, streaming down her cheeks as she watched Jude.
From across the emerald expanse of the pitch, he looked small—not in stature, but in spirit. He was doubled over, hands on his knees, staring at the grass as if the answers to why they had fallen short were written in the turf. Seeing the raw agony on his face broke her heart more than the loss itself. As the final whistle echoed and the players began the slow, somber process of hugging and comforting one another, Y/n didn't wait. She navigated through the crowd, her heart racing, driven by a singular need to be the one he leaned on.
By the time she reached the sanctuary of the locker room, the air was thick with the scent of grass, sweat, and defeat. A few players were already there, sitting in stunned silence, the usual boisterous energy of the squad replaced by a funeral-like gloom. Y/n stood near the center of the room, her eyes scanning the door.
When Jude finally walked in, he didn't look at anyone. His shoulders were slumped, his gaze fixed on the floor, his expression a mask of devastation. The moment his eyes found her, the mask cracked. He didn't say a word; he simply walked straight toward her, his strides heavy.
He collapsed into her, burying his face deep into the crook of her neck and chest. The impact nearly knocked the wind out of her, but she wrapped her arms around him instantly, pulling him as close as humanly possible. A quiet, shuddering sob escaped him, vibrating against her skin.
"We were so close," he whispered, his voice cracked and fragile, sounding nothing like the confident star the world knew.
Y/n closed her eyes, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to the top of his head. She held him firmly, guiding his ear closer to her chest so he could hear the steady, rhythmic beat of her heart—a reminder that regardless of the score, he was home.
"I know, baby," she murmured, her own voice thick with emotion. "I know."
She didn't try to fix it with platitudes or tell him it didn't matter; she knew it mattered more than anything in the world to him right now. She simply held him, letting him unravel, letting the weight of the loss pour out of him in the safety of her embrace.
As they eventually pulled apart enough to leave, Y/n caught the eyes of a few teammates. She offered them a small, sad smile—a silent acknowledgement of their shared grief—before guiding Jude out of the stadium.
The ride back to their hotel in Atlanta was silent, the city lights blurring past the window. Once inside the privacy of their room, the door clicked shut, sealing out the rest of the world. The silence here was different—it wasn't the silence of a stadium, but the intimacy of two people who knew exactly how to hold each other together when everything else felt like it was falling apart.
The heavy silence of the hotel room was broken only by the distant hum of Atlanta traffic outside. Jude looked exhausted, his muscles tight and his spirit bruised, but the sight of Y/n taking care of him brought a flicker of warmth back to his eyes.
"Just relax on the couch, baby. Drink plenty of water," she murmured, pressing a cool bottle into his hand. "I'm going to get your bath ready."
Jude leaned back, the cushions swallowing his athletic frame. He reached out, catching her hand and pressing a lingering, tender kiss to her knuckles. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice still raw.
A few minutes later, the bathroom was filled with a thick, swirling steam that smelled of eucalyptus and salt. When Y/n called out that it was ready, Jude didn't just walk in; he lingered in the doorway, his gaze scanning her body.
"Aren't you gonna join me?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave.
Y/n blinked, surprised. "Oh… I thought maybe you'd want to be alone. To just clear your head."
Jude shook his head slowly, a small, determined smile playing on his lips. "I wanna be alone with you."
He reached out, his large hand gripping her waist to tug her toward the tub. There was a new urgency in his movements. Without breaking eye contact, he stripped off his shirt and pants, tossing them carelessly onto the tile. Then, his hands moved to her, his touch gentle but firm as he peeled her clothes away, leaving her bare and shivering slightly in the humid air.
Jude stepped into the tub first. As the scalding water engulfed his sore muscles, a loud, guttural groan escaped his throat, his head falling back against the rim. After a moment, he extended his hand, beckoning her. Y/n climbed in, the heat stinging her skin before settling into a deep, soothing warmth. She settled between his legs, her back pressed firmly against his broad, wet chest. Jude wrapped his arms around her, linking his fingers over her stomach, pulling her tight against him.
For a long time, they just sat there, the only sound the rhythmic dripping of the faucet and their synchronized breathing. The tenderness was thick, a sanctuary of shared grief and love.
Y/n sighed, tilting her head back to press a soft, lingering kiss to his damp shoulder. "I'm sorry it wasn't your year this time," she whispered.
Jude leaned in, kissing her shoulder in return, his lips grazing her skin. "Thanks, baby. It just gets to me… how close we were."
Y/n shifted slightly, turning her head to look up at him. "Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?"
The question hung in the air. Jude didn't answer immediately. He stared at her, his dark eyes locking onto hers for three long seconds. In that silence, the atmosphere shifted violently. The tenderness evaporated, replaced by something heavier, darker, and far more primal. The grief was still there, but it had morphed into a desperate, hungry need to feel something other than defeat. He looked at her not as a source of comfort, but as prey.
Y/n felt a sudden, electric buzz ignite low in her stomach, a thrill of submission and desire shooting through her as she recognized the predatory glint in his eyes.
Before she could breathe, Jude leaned down and captured her lips in a bruising kiss. He didn't just kiss her; he invaded her, his tongue sliding deep into her mouth, licking and tasting her with a starved intensity. His hand shot up to her neck, his fingers gripping her firmly, tilting her head back at an angle that forced her to open up to him. He deepened the kiss, his tongue swirling against hers, claiming her completely.
A loud, needy moan escaped Y/n's throat. Driven by the sudden surge of heat between them, she twisted her body around in the water, her wet skin sliding against his. She gripped his muscular shoulders for leverage and swung her leg over, straddling his lap. The friction of her soaking wet pussy pressing against his hardening cock through the water sent a jolt of pure electricity through both of them.
The water in the tub sloshed violently as Y/n began to grind her hips, her soaking wet pussy sliding rhythmically against the hard length of his cock. The friction was electric, the heat of the water amplifying every sensation. They remained locked in a deep, messy kiss, their tongues dancing together while low, guttural moans vibrated through their chests.
Jude’s large hands shifted from her waist to her hips, his fingers digging into her soft skin. With a sudden, firm surge of strength, he pushed her down harder against him, forcing her pussy to crush against his shaft. Y/n let out a sharp, needy gasp, her back arching as the pressure intensified.
"Jude… please," she whimpered against his lips, her voice trembling with desperation.
Jude pulled back just an inch, a lazy, half-lidded smile crossing his face. He was still physically drained from the match, the exhaustion clinging to his muscles, but the sight of her undone and begging for him ignited a familiar, competitive determination. He wanted her to feel every bit of the passion he had bottled up.
He shifted his hips slightly, teasing the swollen head of his cock against her clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in slow, torturous circles. Y/n whimpered, her hips twitching in search of more. Then, with a slow, steady thrust, he began to slide inside her.
Y/n let out a long, loud moan, her eyes fluttering shut as she sank down onto him. He was thick and filling, stretching her walls as he buried himself deep within her. She paused for a moment, her breath coming in ragged hitches, allowing her body to adjust to the sheer size of him filling her completely.
Jude let out a heavy, satisfied sigh, dropping his forehead against her chest. He breathed in her scent, the tension finally leaving his shoulders. "Just what I needed," he rasped, his voice vibrating against her skin.
They stayed still for a heartbeat, the only sound the dripping of the faucet and their heavy breathing. Y/n looked down at him, her heart swelling with love and desire. She leaned down, whispering into his ear, "Let me do the work… you just relax."
She began to move, lifting her hips slightly before slamming back down onto him. Jude let out a deep, guttural groan, his head snapping back against the rim of the tub. Y/n picked up the pace, riding him with a rhythmic intensity that sent waves of pleasure crashing through them both.
The air in the bathroom grew thick and heavy with steam and the scent of sex. The water sloshed wildly around them, spilling over the edges of the tub and soaking the bathroom floor, but neither of them cared. Jude’s hands remained locked on her hips, guiding her movements, pushing her down deeper with every stroke to ensure he hit her G-spot.
Y/n reached forward, cupping his face in her hands and pulling him into another searing kiss. She moaned into his mouth, her internal muscles clamping tight around his cock, milking him with every upward and downward motion. The friction of the water and the tightness of her pussy drove them both toward the edge.
The tension built to an unbearable peak. Y/n’s movements became faster, more frantic, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Jude’s grip on her hips tightened, his knuckles turning white as he felt his own climax rushing toward him.
"I'm… I'm close," she sobbed, her body beginning to tremble.
"Do it, baby… come for me," Jude groaned, his voice a raw command.
With one final, powerful downward thrust, Y/n’s walls spasmed violently, her orgasm ripping through her in crashing waves. The sensation triggered Jude instantly; he let out a loud, primal shout, his body stiffening as he shot his warm cum deep inside her, filling her to the brim.
They collapsed against each other, chests heaving, their bodies still joined and twitching in the cooling water, completely spent and finally at peace.
After a few minutes of drifting in the cooling water, Jude finally stirred. He stood up, the water cascading off his lean, muscular frame in sheets, and reached down to scoop Y/n up into his arms. He carried her out of the tub with an effortless strength, his chest heaving slightly as he carefully dried her with a plush hotel towel, his touch lingering on her curves before he quickly dried himself.
He didn't let her go far. With a predatory glint returning to his eyes, he carried her the short distance to the bed and laid her down gently against the white linens. Jude didn't waste a second; he crawled between her legs, his lips finding her stomach. He kissed his way down, his tongue tracing a wet path over her navel and lower, until he reached the damp heat of her pussy.
Y/n let out a sharp gasp as his tongue flicked upward, licking directly into her slit. Jude groaned, burying his face in her folds, his tongue working with a rhythmic, hungry intensity. He ate her out with a focused passion, his tongue swirling around her clit and dipping deep inside her, tasting her arousal and the remnants of his own cum. Y/n’s fingers tangled deeply in his hair, pulling him closer, her hips bucking off the mattress as she neared another peak.
Just as she felt the tension coil tight, she gently pulled him away, her breath coming in ragged hitches. "No… I wanna reward you," she whispered, her voice thick with affection. "You worked so hard baby, and you did so good."
Jude looked up at her, dazed and wanting, but Y/n firmly pushed him back onto the pillows. He sank into the mattress, his muscles finally giving in to the exhaustion of the day. Y/n shifted, sliding down his body until her face was inches away from his cock, which twitched in anticipation, already hardening again for her.
She didn't hesitate, leaning in to give him a sloppy, messy, slow suck. She swirled her tongue around the head of his dick, letting thick saliva soak the shaft, making it glisten under the dim hotel lights. She took him deep into her throat, moaning around him, the wet, suctioning sounds filling the quiet room.
Jude let out a string of curses, his hands gripping the bedsheets as the sensation overwhelmed him. While her mouth worked on his head, Y/n’s hand reached down, her fingers stroking the base and his balls, ensuring every inch of him was stimulated.
She paused for a moment, pulling back just enough to look up at him, maintaining intense eye contact. The sight of her—devoted, wet, and focused entirely on his pleasure—was the breaking point. Jude’s head fell back against the pillow, a guttural sound escaping his throat.
"You're gonna kill me, baby," he rasped, his voice breaking.
With a few more powerful, deep sucks, Jude stiffened, his hips jerking upward as he came violently in her mouth. He filled her throat with hot, thick spurts of cum, his entire body shuddering with the release. As the orgasm faded, he felt his bones turn to jelly, the last remnants of the day's stress and grief finally evaporating.
Y/n swallowed him completely before crawling up his body, leaving a trail of wet kisses across his chest and stomach until she reached his lips. She kissed him softly, a tender contrast to the heat of moments before.
"You did so well," she murmured against his mouth. "Go to sleep baby, you have to rest."
Jude offered her a tired, genuine smile, pulling her tightly against his chest. He reached over to the bedside table, clicking off the lamp and plunging the room into a soft, warm darkness. Wrapped in each other's arms, the silence of the Atlanta night finally bringing them peace, they both fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Steve Harrington x Reader - Baseball Season (Smut)
Y/n comes back to her hometown, Hawkins, as shes transitioning between jobs. She meets her little brothers baseball coach Steve Harrington and although they clearly have sparks she makes it clear they can only be friends since her little brother really looks up to him...she doesn't really know how she ends up riding him on his couch 45 minutes after that
warning: unprotected sex, riding, couch sex, lowkey dom Steve (but like subtle)
WC: 3k
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Y/n stepped out of her beat-up sedan in the parking lot of Hawkins Junior High, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the baseball field. She had just returned from the city, her life in flux as she transitioned between jobs—packing boxes one day, job hunting the next. But family came first, and that meant showing up for her little brother's practices. Dustin, her fourteen-year-old sibling, was obsessed with the Hawkins Junior High baseball team, and today was her first time picking him up after one.
She smoothed down her sundress, the fabric light against her skin in the humid Indiana air, and walked toward the chain-link fence surrounding the diamond. The crack of bats and shouts of boys filled the air, a nostalgic rhythm that pulled her back to simpler times. Dustin spotted her first, waving enthusiastically from the dugout as practice wound down.
'Hey, sis!' he called, jogging over with his glove tucked under his arm. 'You made it! Come meet Coach Harrington. He's the best.'
Y/n smiled, ruffling his curly hair as he led her toward the infield. There, barking final instructions to the team, stood Steve Harrington. She had heard the whispers about him around town—the high school heartthrob turned coach, still turning heads with his easy charm and athletic build. All the women in Hawkins adored him, or so the gossip went.
Steve turned as Dustin approached, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His skin gleamed under the sun, tanned and glossy from hours on the field, stretched taut over defined muscles. A faint, distinct cologne lingered around him, something woody and masculine that cut through the scent of fresh-cut grass and dirt.
'Dustin, great hustle today,' Steve said, clapping the boy on the shoulder before his eyes lifted to Y/n. Their gazes locked, and an immediate spark ignited—charged, electric, like static before a storm.
Dustin beamed. 'Coach, this is my sister, Y/n. She's back from the city and said she'd start picking me up.'
Steve extended his hand, his lips curving into a warm smile. As Y/n reached out, she watched him lick his lips subtly, the gesture sending a subtle thrill through her. His grip was firm, calloused from handling bats and balls, holding hers just a beat longer than necessary.
'Hi,' she said, her voice steady despite the sudden heat rising in her cheeks. She smiled back, taking in the way his hair fell slightly tousled, the confidence in his stance.
'Pleasure to meet you, Y/n,' Steve replied, his tone smooth and inviting. 'Dustin here's been killing it on the mound. Kid's got real potential.'
She glanced at her brother, who puffed up with pride. 'He won't stop talking about how great the coach is. Says you're the reason he's improving so fast.'
Steve chuckled, releasing her hand but not breaking eye contact. 'Well, that's high praise. We'll keep pushing him.' His eyes lingered on hers, the air between them thickening with unspoken interest.
From that first encounter, Y/n found herself returning to every practice. The routine settled in quickly—arriving early to watch from the bleachers, her eyes drawn not just to Dustin's swings but to Steve's commanding presence on the field. He moved with purpose, adjusting stances, tossing pitches, his voice carrying encouragement laced with authority.
One humid Tuesday evening, as the team ran drills, Y/n leaned against the fence, arms crossed. Steve caught her gaze during a water break, sauntering over with a baseball in hand.
'Enjoying the show?' he asked, tossing the ball lightly between his palms. Sweat glistened on his collarbone, visible where his polo shirt clung to his chest.
She tilted her head, a playful glint in her eye. 'It's not bad. Dustin's looking sharp out there.'
'He's got good genes,' Steve said, his voice dropping a notch. He stepped closer, the fence the only barrier between them. That cologne wafted toward her again, mingling with his natural scent. 'And you? Settling back into Hawkins okay?'
Y/n shrugged, her fingers brushing the chain-link. 'It's an adjustment. City's fast-paced. Here, everything moves... slower.' Her eyes flicked to his mouth, remembering that lip-lick from their first meeting.
Steve's smile widened, sensing the undercurrent. 'Slower can be nice. Gives you time to appreciate things.' His gaze traced her face, then lower, appreciative but restrained. The tension hummed, a pull that made her pulse quicken.
By Thursday, the flirting had woven into their post-practice chats. Dustin dashed to the car, leaving them a moment alone as the field cleared.
'You know, I could use an extra set of eyes at the next game,' Steve said, leaning against the dugout wall. His arms crossed, biceps flexing subtly under his sleeves.
Y/n raised an eyebrow, stepping nearer. 'Scouting talent? Or just company?'
He laughed softly, the sound warm. 'A bit of both. Dustin would love it if you came.' But his eyes said more, locking onto hers with that charged intensity. She felt the heat of his proximity, the way his glossy skin caught the fading light.
'I'll think about it,' she teased, her voice light but her body aware of every inch between them.
The weekend practice brought rain, turning the field to mud. The team scrimmaged under a light drizzle, and Y/n huddled under an umbrella near the sidelines. Steve called a break, jogging over to check on her.
'Not your typical city weather, huh?' he said, water dripping from his hair. He shook it out like a dog, droplets scattering, and she laughed.
'Beats traffic,' she replied, holding out the umbrella so it covered them both. Their shoulders brushed, the contact sending a spark up her arm. Up close, his cologne mixed with rain, intoxicating.
He lingered under the shelter, his breath visible in the cool air. 'You're a good sport for sticking around. Most sisters wouldn't.'
Y/n met his eyes, the steaminess building in the shared space. 'Most coaches aren't worth watching.'
Steve's lips parted, that familiar lick of them before he grinned. 'Careful, Y/n. Flattery like that could get you invited to more than just practices.'
She felt the tension coil tighter, a promise of something more simmering just beneath the surface. But for now, it stayed there—flirty glances, lingering touches, words laced with heat—as the practices continued, drawing them closer with each passing day.
Y/n's laughter faded into a soft, hesitant smile as she pulled back slightly from the shared umbrella, the rain pattering around them. 'I'd love to be friends, Steve,' she said, her voice gentle but firm. 'Dustin really likes you, and I don't want to complicate things for him. Nothing can happen between us.'
Steve nodded, his expression neutral, but the flicker in his eyes betrayed his doubt—like he was humoring her even as his own resolve wavered. 'Sure, friends it is,' he replied, though the words hung heavy, unconvincing even to him. He stepped away as the drizzle picked up, giving her a final nod before turning back to the team.
Later that night, the dim lights of the local bar in Hawkins cast a warm glow over worn wooden tables and the murmur of conversations. Y/n sat at the counter, nursing a half-empty glass, her mind replaying the day's charged moments. The door swung open, and Steve walked in, shaking off the evening chill. He headed straight for the bar, ordering a whiskey neat, his broad shoulders relaxed in a casual button-down.
His eyes scanned the room and landed on her. A grin spread across his face as he approached. 'Hey, buddy.'
She cringed visibly, twisting on her stool. 'Okay, don't say that.'
Steve laughed, the sound rich and easy, pulling up the stool next to hers. 'Fair enough. Can I get you something?'
Y/n bit her lip, glancing at him sidelong, the proximity stirring that familiar pull. 'A beer,' she said finally, her tone light but her gaze lingering on the line of his jaw.
As the bartender slid the drinks over, a woman in her thirties—clearly a mom from the PTA circuit—sidled up to Steve, her eyes bright with admiration. 'Great practice today, Coach,' she said, winking as her gaze trailed down his chest.
Steve shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. 'Thanks,' he muttered, polite but distant.
The woman lingered for a beat before drifting away, and Y/n couldn't help but giggle, covering her mouth with her hand. 'You must get that a lot.'
He turned to her, his expression sheepish but his eyes locking onto hers with intensity. 'Yeah, but not from the person I want looking at me.' His voice dropped, the words carrying a weight that made her breath catch.
She shook her head, though her cheeks warmed. 'We're just friends, remember?'
Steve raised his glass in mock toast. 'Absolutely. Great friends.'
They fell into an easy rhythm, debating the merits of opposite-sex friendships over sips of their drinks. 'It can totally be platonic,' Y/n insisted, gesturing with her bottle. 'People do it all the time—no drama, no mess.'
He nodded, leaning in closer. 'Right. We're proof. Just two pals chatting about baseball and life.'
'Agreed,' she said, but as the words left her lips, their eyes met and held. The bar noise faded, the space between them crackling with unspoken heat. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back up, and she felt the pull, undeniable now.
Forty-five minutes later, the door to Steve's apartment clicked shut behind them, the pretense shattered like fragile glass. They hadn't made it far from the bar—just a short drive, hands brushing on the gearshift, tension coiling tighter with every red light. Now, on his couch, Y/n straddled his lap, her skirt hiked up around her thighs as she ground down against him.
Steve's hands gripped her hips, guiding her rhythm as she sank onto his cock, inch by inch, her pussy stretching around his thick length. She gasped at the fullness, her walls clenching tight as she bottomed out, his hips bucking up to meet her. 'Fuck,' he groaned, his voice rough, fingers digging into her skin.
Y/n cupped his face, thumbs tracing his jaw as she leaned in, her tongue slipping past his lips in a deep, hungry kiss. She licked into his mouth, tasting the whiskey and want, their tongues tangling wetly while she rode him harder. Her breasts pressed against his chest, nipples hard through her thin top, and she rolled her hips, chasing the friction that built low in her belly.
He thrust up sharply, his cock hitting deep, making her moan into the kiss. She broke it only to nip at his lower lip, then dove back in, licking and sucking as her pace quickened. Sweat slicked their skin, the couch creaking under them, and Steve's hands slid up her back, pulling her closer while she fucked him with abandon, lost in the heat of finally giving in.
Steve's grip tightened on Y/n's hips, his muscles flexing as he surged up, flipping their positions in one fluid motion. She landed on her back against the cushions, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, her skirt bunched high. He didn't waste a second, thrusting back into her slick heat with a deep, forceful drive that buried his cock to the hilt. Her pussy clenched around him, wet and welcoming, as he set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward relentlessly.
'Fuck being friends,' he growled directly into her mouth, his breath hot and ragged, capturing her lips in a bruising kiss. Each powerful push sent his chain—dangling from his neck—swinging forward, the cool metal slapping against her cheek in time with his thrusts. The sharp sting only heightened the sensation, her body jolting with every impact.
Y/n moaned loudly, the sound vibrating against his tongue as her eyes rolled back in her head. Pleasure ripped through her, white-hot and overwhelming, with each brutal hit of his cock against her deepest spots. She arched her back sharply, pressing her chest upward, offering her tits to him like an invitation she couldn't voice.
Steve's eyes darkened at the sight, one hand yanking her top up roughly, exposing her breasts to the cool air. They bounced with every thrust, nipples peaked and begging. He dove down, teeth grazing one hardened peak before biting down, the edge of pain making her gasp. His free hand fondled the other, fingers pinching and rolling the nipple between them, kneading the soft flesh with possessive hunger. Her walls fluttered in response, tightening like a vice around his thick shaft, pulling him deeper as her climax built.
The pressure coiled unbearably tight inside her, and she shattered first, her pussy spasming wildly around him. Steve followed seconds later, groaning as he pumped into her, spilling hot cum deep inside with erratic thrusts. He swallowed her final cry, sealing his mouth over hers in a fierce kiss, his hand threading into her hair to tilt her head back. He angled his face, tongue plunging deeper, devouring her moans as their bodies trembled through the aftershocks.
They broke apart slowly, chests heaving, a thin string of saliva connecting their swollen lips before it snapped. Y/n panted, her gaze locking onto his in wide-eyed disbelief—like she couldn't fathom how they'd crossed that line, how the heat of him still throbbed inside her. The room smelled of sex and sweat, the evidence of their surrender smeared between her thighs.
Steve smirked, that cocky glint returning to his eyes, and he dove back down without a word, claiming her mouth again in a slow, languid kiss. His tongue traced hers teasingly, savoring the taste. Y/n's arms flew up, wrapping around his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as she pulled him closer, deepening the connection. She melted into it, bodies tangling once more on the couch, the night stretching out in a haze of touches and whispers.
She didn't leave until the next morning, slipping out of his bed with tousled hair and a secret smile curving her lips, the ache between her legs a delicious reminder of the boundaries they'd obliterated.
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The afternoon sun filtered through the curtains of Y/n's living room, casting warm patterns on the worn carpet. She was lounging on the couch, flipping through a magazine, when the doorbell rang. Dustin, sprawled on the floor with his baseball glove nearby, jumped up first. 'I'll get it!' he called, bounding to the door with his usual enthusiasm.
Y/n followed at a leisurely pace, curious but not expecting much. When the door swung open, there stood Steve, looking effortlessly put-together in a fitted polo that hugged his broad shoulders and jeans that sat low on his hips. In his hand, a bouquet of wildflowers—daisies and sunflowers mixed with a few vibrant pops of color—caught the light. His hair was tousled just right, and that signature cologne wafted in on the breeze, making her stomach flip.
'Steve!' Dustin beamed, stepping aside to let him in. 'What are you doing at our place? Come for a pre-practice catch?'
Steve chuckled, his eyes flicking past the kid to lock onto Y/n's. She stood there, arms crossed, a smile tugging at her lips despite the surprise. He stepped inside, holding out the flowers like an offering. 'Actually, Dustin, I came to ask your sister on a date. What do you say? Is that cool with you?'
Dustin's eyes widened, then he broke into a massive grin, pumping his fist in the air. 'Yes! Totally cool! Go for it, Steve!'
Y/n couldn't help but laugh, the sound light and genuine as she took the flowers, their petals soft against her fingers. The scent of fresh blooms mingled with Steve's cologne, overwhelming in the best way. 'We're doing this all out of order, you know,' she said, shaking her head, though her cheeks warmed under his gaze.
Steve shrugged, that easy confidence radiating from him. 'Who says there's a rulebook? I figured after last night, we skip straight to the good parts.' He reached out, ruffling Dustin's hair affectionately, the kid ducking but laughing all the same.
Then, without missing a beat, Steve closed the distance to Y/n, his hand cupping her cheek gently. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips—quick but lingering just enough to send a spark through her. 'I'll see you both at practice later,' he murmured against her mouth before pulling back, his thumb brushing her jaw.
As he turned to leave, he paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk that promised mischief. 'Oh, and Y/n? You might want to grab some concealer for your neck. Don't want the whole team asking questions.'
Her hand flew to her throat instinctively, eyes widening. 'What—' She bolted to the hallway mirror, tilting her head to inspect the skin just below her ear. There they were: two dark, unmistakable hickeys, blooming like badges from the night before—one a deep purple, the other fading to red around the edges. Heat flooded her face, but it was mixed with a thrill she couldn't deny.
From the door, Steve's laugh echoed, deep and teasing, as he stepped out onto the porch. 'Catch you later!'
Y/n slammed the door shut a bit harder than necessary, biting her lower lip as she stared at her reflection. Her fingers traced the marks lightly, remembering the heat of his mouth on her skin, the way he'd sucked and nipped until she was gasping. God, she was so gone for him—hooked, tangled, utterly lost in the pull of his charm and that unrelenting desire he stirred in her.
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(working on a much longer fic kinda like this one with more tension and feelings, stay tuned!)
Steve Harrington x Reader - Academic Rivals (Smut)
WC: 4k, unprotected sex, masterbation, dirty talk, kind of Dom ish Steve, teasing, hand restraining
Y/n tries hard, Steve doesn't. Yet somehow he beats her on every test and all the professors love him, making her hate him. But behind the fighting, there's a different tension waiting to unfold.
The lecture hall buzzed with the low hum of students shuffling papers and whispering about the latest philosophy reading. Y/n sat in her usual spot, third row from the front, her binder open on the desk like a fortress of meticulously organized notes.
Pages were filled with highlighted quotes from Nietzsche, annotations on Kant's critiques, and timelines of literary movements—everything cross-referenced for maximum efficiency. She’d read every assigned text twice, attended every class without fail, and yet here she was, second in the class rankings. The spot she deserved was stolen by him.
Steve Harrington lounged two seats over, his long legs stretched out under the desk, one ankle crossed over the other. His notebook was barely touched, a few doodles of basketballs and half-hearted underlines scribbled during the prof's drone. He hadn't shown up last week—rumor had it he'd partied too hard the night before—but that didn't stop Professor Ellis from beaming at him today like he'd just dropped the wisdom of the ages.
"Excellent point, Steve," Ellis said, adjusting his glasses as he nodded toward the back of the room. "Your interpretation of existential dread in Camus ties beautifully into our discussion on absurdism. Profound insight."
Y/n gripped her pen tighter, watching Steve flash that easy, charismatic grin. He leaned back, running a hand through his tousled hair. "Yeah, well, it's all about embracing the chaos, right? No point fighting the void when you can just... vibe with it." The class chuckled, a few girls in the front row giggling a little too enthusiastically. Bullshit. Pure, unadulterated bullshit. She’d spent hours dissecting The Myth of Sisyphus, and he probably skimmed the summary on SparkNotes—if that.
Her eyes flicked to him, catching the way his shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, the casual roll of his sleeves exposing forearms dusted with light hair. For a split second, she imagined her fingers threading through that messy mop on his head, yanking it back to shut him up. But no. He was a poser, coasting on charm while she bled effort. And the professors ate it up, fawning over his 'natural intellect' like he was some prodigy.
Class dragged on, the tension coiling in y/n's chest with every nod Ellis gave Steve's direction. When the bell finally rang, she snapped her binder shut, stuffing it into her bag with more force than necessary. Steve was already on his feet, slinging his backpack over one shoulder, chatting with his buddies from the back row about some party this weekend.
She pushed past them toward the door, but of course, he fell into step beside her in the hallway, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips.
"Hey, Miss Perfect," he drawled, his voice low and teasing as he matched her stride. "Saw you glaring daggers back there. What's the matter? My take on Camus cramp your style?"
Y/n didn't break pace, her chin lifted defiantly. "Your 'take' was a bunch of hot air, Harrington. You wouldn't know absurdism if it slapped you in the face."
He laughed, a rich sound that sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine. His eyes dipped briefly, tracing the line of her skirt hugging her thighs, lingering on the way her legs moved with each step. She felt the heat of his gaze like a touch, and it made her pulse quicken despite herself.
"Ouch. Harsh words from the girl with the binder thicker than my ex's ego." He leaned in a fraction closer, the faint scent of his cologne—something woodsy and warm—invading her space. "Admit it, you're just pissed because I aced that last paper without cracking a single book. While you're over there slaving away for second place."
Y/n stopped abruptly in the emptying corridor, whirling to face him. Her cheeks burned, but she held his stare, those hazel eyes sparkling with mischief. "It's not about the grades, you arrogant prick. It's because you're an ass who bullshits his way through everything and gets rewarded for it. The profs think you're some deep thinker, but we both know you're just winging it."
Steve's grin widened, unfazed, as he stepped closer, crowding her personal space just enough to make her breath hitch. Up close, she could see the faint stubble shadowing his jaw, the way his lips quirked like he was holding back a laugh. Her mind betrayed her again, flashing to how those lips might feel pressed against hers, rough and demanding.
"Winging it? Nah, that's just talent, sweetheart. Maybe if you loosened up a bit—skipped a reading or two—you'd see it's not all about the grind." His voice dropped, laced with that cheeky edge. "Or hell, maybe you need someone to show you how to really unwind."
She crossed her arms, trying to ignore the way her body responded to his proximity, a traitorous warmth pooling low in her belly. "As if I'd take advice from you. Go bother your fan club."
He tilted his head, eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her knees weaken. "Come on, y/n. We both know there's more to this than hating my guts. The way you stare at me in class? Like you wanna strangle me... or something else entirely." His gaze flicked down again, bold and unapologetic, to the curve of her hips. "Bet those legs of yours could wrap around a guy real nice if you stopped pretending to be so uptight."
Heat flooded her face, a mix of fury and something dangerously close to desire. "You're disgusting," she snapped, but her voice wavered just a touch.
Steve chuckled, leaning in even closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Disgusting? Or just honest? Tell you what—next time you wanna argue, maybe you should just shut me up yourself. Put that mouth of yours to better use than snark."
Y/n's heart hammered, cheeks flaming as his words hung in the air, laced with blatant suggestion. The image hit her unbidden: her hands fisting in his hair, pulling him down, silencing him with a kiss that turned into something fiercer. But no. Not him. Never him.
"Screw you, Harrington," she hissed, shoving past him with her bag clutched tight. She stormed down the hall, face burning, the echo of his low laugh following her like a promise—or a threat.
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The bass from the speakers thumped through the crowded house, vibrating the sticky floorboards under y/n’s heels. Red solo cups littered every surface, and the air hung thick with the scent of cheap beer, sweat, and perfume. She had come to this party against her better judgment—needing a break from the endless cycle of notes and readings—but now, sandwiched between clusters of laughing strangers, she regretted it.
That was when she spotted him across the room: Steve Harrington, king of the campus, holding court with his usual entourage of jocks and admirers. His eyes locked onto hers for a beat too long before he looked away, that smirk already forming.
Y/n turned back to the guy she’d been chatting with—Jake, or maybe John, some quiet type from her psych elective. He was sweet, pushing his glasses up his nose as he rambled about quantum theory in literature, and for once, it felt easy. No bullshit, no ego. She giggled at his earnest explanation, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly as he gestured wildly with his hands.
Then Steve’s shadow fell over them both. He sauntered up, all easy confidence in his fitted jeans and unbuttoned shirt, the top two buttons revealing a glimpse of toned chest. "Hey, man," he said to the nerdy guy, clapping a hand on his shoulder with a friendly squeeze that somehow felt territorial. "Just a heads-up—y/nhere? She’s not really your type."
Y/n’s laughter died in her throat. She gasped, whipping her head toward Steve. "What the hell are you talking about, Harrington?"
He shrugged, that grin widening as he eyed the guy, who shifted uncomfortably. "Come on, buddy. She’s into guys who don’t look at her all nice and polite. She wants something a little wilder. The kind that pushes buttons, you know?" His gaze slid to her, heavy with implication, like he was daring her to deny it.
Heat rushed to her face, a mix of embarrassment and irritation. The nerdy guy mumbled something about needing a drink and bolted, leaving y/n alone with Steve’s smug presence. "You’re such an asshole," she hissed, shoving his chest with both hands. He barely budged, but she spun on her heel and stormed away, weaving through the throng of bodies toward the back door. Behind her, his laugh followed—deep and mocking, cutting through the music.
The cool night air hit her as she stepped into the backyard, the distant hum of crickets mixing with the muffled party noise. String lights dangled from the fence, casting a soft glow over the patchy grass and scattered lawn chairs. Y/nleaned against the wooden railing, sucking in deep breaths to steady her pounding heart. Footsteps crunched behind her—Steve, of course.
"Hey, wait up," he called, hands shoved in his pockets as he closed the distance. He stopped a few feet away, tilting his head. "You ever think maybe you get so riled up around me because you’re way too stressed and tense all the time? Like, bottled up tighter than a cork."
She crossed her arms, glaring at him over her shoulder. "You have no idea what those words even mean, Steve. Stressed? Tense? Try studying for actual grades instead of charming your way through life."
His grin returned, slow and knowing, as he took a step closer. The moonlight highlighted the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hair fell just so over his forehead. "Oh, I know exactly what they mean. And blunt as hell? You need to get laid. Badly."
Y/n’s eyes widened, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. "How dare you! You’re barbaric."
He smiled wider, closing the gap until the heat from his body brushed against hers. His voice dropped, rough around the edges. "Bodily needs aren’t barbaric, y/n. It’s just primal. Basic human stuff—sweat, skin, release." He leaned in quick, too quick, his face inches from hers like he might kiss her right there. She jumped back, heart slamming against her ribs, her back hitting the railing.
Steve’s grin spread wide, triumphant. "See? So tense and jumpy. Proves my point."
She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way her skin tingled from the almost-contact, the forbidden thrill of it. "Whatever. I’m not just a genius in the classroom, you know," he added, winking with that infuriating cockiness, his eyes raking over her like he could already picture peeling off her clothes.
Y/n scoffed, pushing off the railing. "I’m leaving. This party’s lame anyway."
"Fine," he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. But as she brushed past him, he murmured, "When you finally realize what you need, you can call me anytime. I’ll be waiting to help you unwind."
She shook her head, not trusting herself to reply, and hurried back through the house to the street. The walk home blurred in a haze of frustration, his words looping in her mind like a taunt.
Later that night, alone in her dim bedroom, the sheets tangled around her legs, y/n couldn’t shake him. Her hand slipped under the waistband of her panties, fingers circling her clit with urgent pressure. Steve’s face flashed behind her closed eyes—his smirk, the way he’d leaned in, the promise in his voice. She imagined his hands instead, rough and sure, pinning her down as he ground against her. Her other hand dipped lower, two fingers sliding into her wet pussy, thrusting in rhythm with the twist of her thumb on her swollen nub.
"Fuck," she whispered, hips bucking up as heat built, coiling tight. She pictured him above her, cock hard and pressing at her entrance, teasing before slamming in deep. His mouth on her neck, biting, his fingers digging into her thighs as he fucked her senseless. Faster, her fingers pumped, clit throbbing under the slick glide, but the edge hovered just out of reach. The tension wound higher, frustratingly insistent, her body clenching around nothing substantial.
Y/n cried out, a sharp whine of "Steve!" escaping before she could stop it. Orgasm taunted her, building but never cresting, leaving her panting and soaked. Tears pricked her eyes as she slumped back, fingers still buried inside her pulsing heat. "Damn it," she muttered, frustration crashing over her like a wave. He might be right—too tense, too wound up. And all because of him.
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The two weeks following that frustrating night blurred into a relentless storm of clashes. In the lecture hall, y/n’s eyes would meet Steve's across the rows, sparking arguments over interpretations of texts or the professor's biased praise for Steve's half-assed insights. Hallways became battlegrounds for sharp banter—him calling her out for burying her nose in books, her firing back about his reliance on charm over substance. Each exchange left y/n flushed, pulse racing, the air between them crackling with unspoken heat. She hated how his teasing grins lingered in her thoughts, how her body betrayed her with a flush of warmth at his proximity. But she pushed it down, focusing on finals, until the exams wrapped and freedom hit the campus like a wave.
Steve's house pulsed with life that Friday night, the sprawling lawn transformed into a makeshift party zone. Bonfires crackled in pits, casting flickering shadows over clusters of students laughing, dancing to thumping bass from outdoor speakers, and passing bottles of beer. The air smelled of smoke, grilled burgers, and summer sweat—exams finally behind everyone. Y/n had shown up on a whim, drawn by the promise of letting loose, but now she sat alone on a weathered picnic blanket at the edge of the grass, knees drawn up, nursing a lukewarm drink. The noise felt overwhelming, her mind replaying the endless cycle of tension with him.
Footsteps crunched through the grass, and she didn't need to look to know who it was. Steve dropped down beside her, uninvited, his thigh brushing hers as he stretched out his legs. He wore faded jeans and a black tee that hugged his broad shoulders, hair tousled from the breeze.
She sighed, staring at the firelight dancing on the ground. "I don't wanna talk to you, Harrington."
He chuckled low, the sound vibrating through her. "Then why'd you come to my party? Lawn's big enough to avoid me if you tried."
Y/n shot him a sidelong glare, the orange glow highlighting the sharp angles of his face. "Thought you'd be too busy entertaining your other guests. You know, the ones who actually worship at your feet."
Steve's easy smile faded into a sigh, his gaze dropping to his hands as he picked at a blade of grass. He leaned back on his elbows, voice quieter than usual. "Nah. Truth is, I don't notice anyone else really when it comes to you."
The words hung there, simple and disarming, cutting through her defenses. Her heart stuttered, but she masked it with a scoff. "Oh, please. Save the lines for someone who buys them."
His eyes snapped to hers, that familiar spark igniting. "What? It's true. You think I chase every girl here? Nah, it's always been you driving me crazy—your fire, the way you push back."
"Because you're insufferable," she snapped, heat rising in her chest. "Always acting like you own the room, like effort's beneath you. Newsflash: charm doesn't make you irresistible."
Steve sat up straighter, frustration etching his features. "And you're always wound so tight, judging everyone. Maybe if you let go for once—"
"Let go? Like you? Partying through life while the rest of us grind?" The argument escalated fast, voices rising over the distant laughter, old resentments spilling out—her accusations of his laziness, his jabs at her uptight control. It felt inevitable, the tension boiling over until y/n surged to her feet, fists clenched.
"Forget it. I'm done." She stormed toward the house, weaving through the crowd on the porch, the screen door slamming behind her as she bolted up the stairs. The party noise muffled as she reached the top, turning into the first room she found—his, judging by the messy bed and posters on the walls.
Footsteps pounded after her. Steve burst in, breathless. "Y/n, what the hell are you doing in here?"
"Shut up," she whirled on him, chest heaving, the room spinning with pent-up fury and something darker, hotter.
He stepped closer, mouth opening with that cocky tilt. "You know, if you'd just admit you want me to—"
Y/n rolled her eyes, fed up with the games. Grabbing his face in both hands, she yanked him forward and crashed her lips against his—hard, demanding, pouring every frustrated spark into the kiss. Steve froze for a split second, eyes wide in shock, before his hands clamped onto her hips, pulling her flush against him. His body was solid, heat radiating through his shirt as he leaned in, forcing her back to arch against the door. The kiss deepened, tongues tangling in a messy, urgent slide, his grip bruising as he ground his hips forward, the hard line of his cock pressing into her stomach.
Her fingers dove into his hair, tugging sharply on the strands, and he groaned into her mouth—a low, guttural sound that vibrated against her lips. She hooked her foot around his ankle, kicking the door shut with a decisive thud, sealing them both in the dim room lit only by moonlight filtering through the blinds.
Steve's control snapped. He walked her backward, hands roaming up her sides, until the backs of her knees hit the bed. He pushed her down onto the mattress, following without breaking the kiss, his weight pinning her as her legs parted instinctively. They broke apart gasping, a thin string of spit connecting their swollen lips, his breath hot on her face.
"Shut up and get inside me, Harrington," y/n demanded.
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Steve Harrington x Reader - Baseball Season (Smut)
Y/n comes back to her hometown, Hawkins, as shes transitioning between jobs. She meets her little brothers baseball coach Steve Harrington and although they clearly have sparks she makes it clear they can only be friends since her little brother really looks up to him...she doesn't really know how she ends up riding him on his couch 45 minutes after that
warning: unprotected sex, riding, couch sex, lowkey dom Steve (but like subtle)
WC: 3k
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Y/n stepped out of her beat-up sedan in the parking lot of Hawkins Junior High, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the baseball field. She had just returned from the city, her life in flux as she transitioned between jobs—packing boxes one day, job hunting the next. But family came first, and that meant showing up for her little brother's practices. Dustin, her fourteen-year-old sibling, was obsessed with the Hawkins Junior High baseball team, and today was her first time picking him up after one.
She smoothed down her sundress, the fabric light against her skin in the humid Indiana air, and walked toward the chain-link fence surrounding the diamond. The crack of bats and shouts of boys filled the air, a nostalgic rhythm that pulled her back to simpler times. Dustin spotted her first, waving enthusiastically from the dugout as practice wound down.
'Hey, sis!' he called, jogging over with his glove tucked under his arm. 'You made it! Come meet Coach Harrington. He's the best.'
Y/n smiled, ruffling his curly hair as he led her toward the infield. There, barking final instructions to the team, stood Steve Harrington. She had heard the whispers about him around town—the high school heartthrob turned coach, still turning heads with his easy charm and athletic build. All the women in Hawkins adored him, or so the gossip went.
Steve turned as Dustin approached, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His skin gleamed under the sun, tanned and glossy from hours on the field, stretched taut over defined muscles. A faint, distinct cologne lingered around him, something woody and masculine that cut through the scent of fresh-cut grass and dirt.
'Dustin, great hustle today,' Steve said, clapping the boy on the shoulder before his eyes lifted to Y/n. Their gazes locked, and an immediate spark ignited—charged, electric, like static before a storm.
Dustin beamed. 'Coach, this is my sister, Y/n. She's back from the city and said she'd start picking me up.'
Steve extended his hand, his lips curving into a warm smile. As Y/n reached out, she watched him lick his lips subtly, the gesture sending a subtle thrill through her. His grip was firm, calloused from handling bats and balls, holding hers just a beat longer than necessary.
'Hi,' she said, her voice steady despite the sudden heat rising in her cheeks. She smiled back, taking in the way his hair fell slightly tousled, the confidence in his stance.
'Pleasure to meet you, Y/n,' Steve replied, his tone smooth and inviting. 'Dustin here's been killing it on the mound. Kid's got real potential.'
She glanced at her brother, who puffed up with pride. 'He won't stop talking about how great the coach is. Says you're the reason he's improving so fast.'
Steve chuckled, releasing her hand but not breaking eye contact. 'Well, that's high praise. We'll keep pushing him.' His eyes lingered on hers, the air between them thickening with unspoken interest.
From that first encounter, Y/n found herself returning to every practice. The routine settled in quickly—arriving early to watch from the bleachers, her eyes drawn not just to Dustin's swings but to Steve's commanding presence on the field. He moved with purpose, adjusting stances, tossing pitches, his voice carrying encouragement laced with authority.
One humid Tuesday evening, as the team ran drills, Y/n leaned against the fence, arms crossed. Steve caught her gaze during a water break, sauntering over with a baseball in hand.
'Enjoying the show?' he asked, tossing the ball lightly between his palms. Sweat glistened on his collarbone, visible where his polo shirt clung to his chest.
She tilted her head, a playful glint in her eye. 'It's not bad. Dustin's looking sharp out there.'
'He's got good genes,' Steve said, his voice dropping a notch. He stepped closer, the fence the only barrier between them. That cologne wafted toward her again, mingling with his natural scent. 'And you? Settling back into Hawkins okay?'
Y/n shrugged, her fingers brushing the chain-link. 'It's an adjustment. City's fast-paced. Here, everything moves... slower.' Her eyes flicked to his mouth, remembering that lip-lick from their first meeting.
Steve's smile widened, sensing the undercurrent. 'Slower can be nice. Gives you time to appreciate things.' His gaze traced her face, then lower, appreciative but restrained. The tension hummed, a pull that made her pulse quicken.
By Thursday, the flirting had woven into their post-practice chats. Dustin dashed to the car, leaving them a moment alone as the field cleared.
'You know, I could use an extra set of eyes at the next game,' Steve said, leaning against the dugout wall. His arms crossed, biceps flexing subtly under his sleeves.
Y/n raised an eyebrow, stepping nearer. 'Scouting talent? Or just company?'
He laughed softly, the sound warm. 'A bit of both. Dustin would love it if you came.' But his eyes said more, locking onto hers with that charged intensity. She felt the heat of his proximity, the way his glossy skin caught the fading light.
'I'll think about it,' she teased, her voice light but her body aware of every inch between them.
The weekend practice brought rain, turning the field to mud. The team scrimmaged under a light drizzle, and Y/n huddled under an umbrella near the sidelines. Steve called a break, jogging over to check on her.
'Not your typical city weather, huh?' he said, water dripping from his hair. He shook it out like a dog, droplets scattering, and she laughed.
'Beats traffic,' she replied, holding out the umbrella so it covered them both. Their shoulders brushed, the contact sending a spark up her arm. Up close, his cologne mixed with rain, intoxicating.
He lingered under the shelter, his breath visible in the cool air. 'You're a good sport for sticking around. Most sisters wouldn't.'
Y/n met his eyes, the steaminess building in the shared space. 'Most coaches aren't worth watching.'
Steve's lips parted, that familiar lick of them before he grinned. 'Careful, Y/n. Flattery like that could get you invited to more than just practices.'
She felt the tension coil tighter, a promise of something more simmering just beneath the surface. But for now, it stayed there—flirty glances, lingering touches, words laced with heat—as the practices continued, drawing them closer with each passing day.
Y/n's laughter faded into a soft, hesitant smile as she pulled back slightly from the shared umbrella, the rain pattering around them. 'I'd love to be friends, Steve,' she said, her voice gentle but firm. 'Dustin really likes you, and I don't want to complicate things for him. Nothing can happen between us.'
Steve nodded, his expression neutral, but the flicker in his eyes betrayed his doubt—like he was humoring her even as his own resolve wavered. 'Sure, friends it is,' he replied, though the words hung heavy, unconvincing even to him. He stepped away as the drizzle picked up, giving her a final nod before turning back to the team.
Later that night, the dim lights of the local bar in Hawkins cast a warm glow over worn wooden tables and the murmur of conversations. Y/n sat at the counter, nursing a half-empty glass, her mind replaying the day's charged moments. The door swung open, and Steve walked in, shaking off the evening chill. He headed straight for the bar, ordering a whiskey neat, his broad shoulders relaxed in a casual button-down.
His eyes scanned the room and landed on her. A grin spread across his face as he approached. 'Hey, buddy.'
She cringed visibly, twisting on her stool. 'Okay, don't say that.'
Steve laughed, the sound rich and easy, pulling up the stool next to hers. 'Fair enough. Can I get you something?'
Y/n bit her lip, glancing at him sidelong, the proximity stirring that familiar pull. 'A beer,' she said finally, her tone light but her gaze lingering on the line of his jaw.
As the bartender slid the drinks over, a woman in her thirties—clearly a mom from the PTA circuit—sidled up to Steve, her eyes bright with admiration. 'Great practice today, Coach,' she said, winking as her gaze trailed down his chest.
Steve shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. 'Thanks,' he muttered, polite but distant.
The woman lingered for a beat before drifting away, and Y/n couldn't help but giggle, covering her mouth with her hand. 'You must get that a lot.'
He turned to her, his expression sheepish but his eyes locking onto hers with intensity. 'Yeah, but not from the person I want looking at me.' His voice dropped, the words carrying a weight that made her breath catch.
She shook her head, though her cheeks warmed. 'We're just friends, remember?'
Steve raised his glass in mock toast. 'Absolutely. Great friends.'
They fell into an easy rhythm, debating the merits of opposite-sex friendships over sips of their drinks. 'It can totally be platonic,' Y/n insisted, gesturing with her bottle. 'People do it all the time—no drama, no mess.'
He nodded, leaning in closer. 'Right. We're proof. Just two pals chatting about baseball and life.'
'Agreed,' she said, but as the words left her lips, their eyes met and held. The bar noise faded, the space between them crackling with unspoken heat. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back up, and she felt the pull, undeniable now.
Forty-five minutes later, the door to Steve's apartment clicked shut behind them, the pretense shattered like fragile glass. They hadn't made it far from the bar—just a short drive, hands brushing on the gearshift, tension coiling tighter with every red light. Now, on his couch, Y/n straddled his lap, her skirt hiked up around her thighs as she ground down against him.
Steve's hands gripped her hips, guiding her rhythm as she sank onto his cock, inch by inch, her pussy stretching around his thick length. She gasped at the fullness, her walls clenching tight as she bottomed out, his hips bucking up to meet her. 'Fuck,' he groaned, his voice rough, fingers digging into her skin.
Y/n cupped his face, thumbs tracing his jaw as she leaned in, her tongue slipping past his lips in a deep, hungry kiss. She licked into his mouth, tasting the whiskey and want, their tongues tangling wetly while she rode him harder. Her breasts pressed against his chest, nipples hard through her thin top, and she rolled her hips, chasing the friction that built low in her belly.
He thrust up sharply, his cock hitting deep, making her moan into the kiss. She broke it only to nip at his lower lip, then dove back in, licking and sucking as her pace quickened. Sweat slicked their skin, the couch creaking under them, and Steve's hands slid up her back, pulling her closer while she fucked him with abandon, lost in the heat of finally giving in.
Steve's grip tightened on Y/n's hips, his muscles flexing as he surged up, flipping their positions in one fluid motion. She landed on her back against the cushions, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, her skirt bunched high. He didn't waste a second, thrusting back into her slick heat with a deep, forceful drive that buried his cock to the hilt. Her pussy clenched around him, wet and welcoming, as he set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward relentlessly.
'Fuck being friends,' he growled directly into her mouth, his breath hot and ragged, capturing her lips in a bruising kiss. Each powerful push sent his chain—dangling from his neck—swinging forward, the cool metal slapping against her cheek in time with his thrusts. The sharp sting only heightened the sensation, her body jolting with every impact.
Y/n moaned loudly, the sound vibrating against his tongue as her eyes rolled back in her head. Pleasure ripped through her, white-hot and overwhelming, with each brutal hit of his cock against her deepest spots. She arched her back sharply, pressing her chest upward, offering her tits to him like an invitation she couldn't voice.
Steve's eyes darkened at the sight, one hand yanking her top up roughly, exposing her breasts to the cool air. They bounced with every thrust, nipples peaked and begging. He dove down, teeth grazing one hardened peak before biting down, the edge of pain making her gasp. His free hand fondled the other, fingers pinching and rolling the nipple between them, kneading the soft flesh with possessive hunger. Her walls fluttered in response, tightening like a vice around his thick shaft, pulling him deeper as her climax built.
The pressure coiled unbearably tight inside her, and she shattered first, her pussy spasming wildly around him. Steve followed seconds later, groaning as he pumped into her, spilling hot cum deep inside with erratic thrusts. He swallowed her final cry, sealing his mouth over hers in a fierce kiss, his hand threading into her hair to tilt her head back. He angled his face, tongue plunging deeper, devouring her moans as their bodies trembled through the aftershocks.
They broke apart slowly, chests heaving, a thin string of saliva connecting their swollen lips before it snapped. Y/n panted, her gaze locking onto his in wide-eyed disbelief—like she couldn't fathom how they'd crossed that line, how the heat of him still throbbed inside her. The room smelled of sex and sweat, the evidence of their surrender smeared between her thighs.
Steve smirked, that cocky glint returning to his eyes, and he dove back down without a word, claiming her mouth again in a slow, languid kiss. His tongue traced hers teasingly, savoring the taste. Y/n's arms flew up, wrapping around his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as she pulled him closer, deepening the connection. She melted into it, bodies tangling once more on the couch, the night stretching out in a haze of touches and whispers.
She didn't leave until the next morning, slipping out of his bed with tousled hair and a secret smile curving her lips, the ache between her legs a delicious reminder of the boundaries they'd obliterated.
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The afternoon sun filtered through the curtains of Y/n's living room, casting warm patterns on the worn carpet. She was lounging on the couch, flipping through a magazine, when the doorbell rang. Dustin, sprawled on the floor with his baseball glove nearby, jumped up first. 'I'll get it!' he called, bounding to the door with his usual enthusiasm.
Y/n followed at a leisurely pace, curious but not expecting much. When the door swung open, there stood Steve, looking effortlessly put-together in a fitted polo that hugged his broad shoulders and jeans that sat low on his hips. In his hand, a bouquet of wildflowers—daisies and sunflowers mixed with a few vibrant pops of color—caught the light. His hair was tousled just right, and that signature cologne wafted in on the breeze, making her stomach flip.
'Steve!' Dustin beamed, stepping aside to let him in. 'What are you doing at our place? Come for a pre-practice catch?'
Steve chuckled, his eyes flicking past the kid to lock onto Y/n's. She stood there, arms crossed, a smile tugging at her lips despite the surprise. He stepped inside, holding out the flowers like an offering. 'Actually, Dustin, I came to ask your sister on a date. What do you say? Is that cool with you?'
Dustin's eyes widened, then he broke into a massive grin, pumping his fist in the air. 'Yes! Totally cool! Go for it, Steve!'
Y/n couldn't help but laugh, the sound light and genuine as she took the flowers, their petals soft against her fingers. The scent of fresh blooms mingled with Steve's cologne, overwhelming in the best way. 'We're doing this all out of order, you know,' she said, shaking her head, though her cheeks warmed under his gaze.
Steve shrugged, that easy confidence radiating from him. 'Who says there's a rulebook? I figured after last night, we skip straight to the good parts.' He reached out, ruffling Dustin's hair affectionately, the kid ducking but laughing all the same.
Then, without missing a beat, Steve closed the distance to Y/n, his hand cupping her cheek gently. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips—quick but lingering just enough to send a spark through her. 'I'll see you both at practice later,' he murmured against her mouth before pulling back, his thumb brushing her jaw.
As he turned to leave, he paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk that promised mischief. 'Oh, and Y/n? You might want to grab some concealer for your neck. Don't want the whole team asking questions.'
Her hand flew to her throat instinctively, eyes widening. 'What—' She bolted to the hallway mirror, tilting her head to inspect the skin just below her ear. There they were: two dark, unmistakable hickeys, blooming like badges from the night before—one a deep purple, the other fading to red around the edges. Heat flooded her face, but it was mixed with a thrill she couldn't deny.
From the door, Steve's laugh echoed, deep and teasing, as he stepped out onto the porch. 'Catch you later!'
Y/n slammed the door shut a bit harder than necessary, biting her lower lip as she stared at her reflection. Her fingers traced the marks lightly, remembering the heat of his mouth on her skin, the way he'd sucked and nipped until she was gasping. God, she was so gone for him—hooked, tangled, utterly lost in the pull of his charm and that unrelenting desire he stirred in her.
--------------------
Wanna read a bonus smut scene after he wins a game? Subscribe to my patreon here OR read the FULL story here!
(working on a much longer fic kinda like this one with more tension and feelings, stay tuned!)
The Storyteller & The Mage (Mike Wheeler x Eleven) - Stranger Things
5 years after they defeat Vecna, Mike still thinks of El every single day. No matter what he does he can't move on, even if his friends did. Mike decides to travel the word for inspiration for his writing career but he knows the real reason he's going. In the deepest realms of his dreams, he searched the world until he finds El.
This is the story after endgame, the Storyteller and The Mage.
8.3k for part 1, angst with a happy ending, part 2 linked at the end
--------------
Five years is a long time to live with a ghost.
Mike Wheeler learns that in small, ordinary moments—the ones that aren’t supposed to hurt anymore. When he laughs at something Dustin says and the sound dies too fast in his throat. When he passes a girl on the street with dark hair and his heart stutters before remembering. When he wakes up from dreams where she’s still there, warm and real, and the morning leaves him hollow all over again.
Everyone says it gets easier.
It hasn’t.
He thinks of Eleven every single day.
Not always in dramatic ways. Sometimes it’s just a flicker—a memory of her smile when she figured out sarcasm, the way she used to reach for his hand without thinking, the weight of her head against his shoulder when she was tired. Other times, it’s a dull ache that sits heavy in his chest, impossible to ignore.
The world moved on after Vecna fell.
Hawkins rebuilt. Slowly, painfully—but it rebuilt. The Upside Down scars faded into history, into headlines, into something people talked about like it was finished.
Mike’s friends moved on too.
Lucas went to college on a track scholarship. Max, alive and stubborn as ever, learned how to laugh again. Dustin fell in love twice and talked about both girls endlessly. Robin found her place. Steve found peace.
It’s nice to see.
Mike is happy for them.
But his heart stays where it broke.
There’s a part of him—quiet, persistent, impossible to kill—that still believes Eleven didn’t die. That she escaped. That she slipped through somewhere unseen, like she always did. Like the world thinks she gave everything, but Mike knows better.
She was never meant to disappear.
So when the grief becomes too heavy, when Hawkins starts to feel like a cage built of memories, Mike makes a decision.
He’s going to leave.
Not to run—but to search.
On paper, it’s simple. He tells people he’s traveling for inspiration, that he wants to write, that he needs to see the world to find his voice. And that part is true. Writing is the only place he can still talk to her without it hurting quite so badly.
But deep down, in the place he doesn’t say out loud, Mike is hoping for something else.
He’s hoping that somewhere—somehow—he’ll find her.
The goodbye dinner is held in Steve’s backyard, the same place so many endings and beginnings have happened before. There’s laughter, food, too much nostalgia packed into one evening.
They tease him. Encourage him. Tell him he’s brave.
Mike smiles. He hugs them all. He promises to write. Promises to come back.
And then, as the night winds down, Will catches his arm.
“Hey,” Will says softly. “Walk with me?”
They drift away from the noise, toward the edge of the yard where the lights don’t quite reach. It feels familiar—two boys standing side by side in the dark, on the edge of something important.
“I’m really proud of you,” Will says after a moment.
Mike exhales. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
There’s something in the way he says it. Something careful. Knowing.
Mike looks at him then, really looks. Will’s eyes are steady, kind—and sharp in a way that makes Mike’s chest tighten.
For a split second, Mike wonders if Will knows. If he’s always known.
That this trip isn’t just about writing.
That it’s about faith.
About love that refuses to die quietly.
They share a look—long and unspoken—and Mike feels it settle in his bones.
Will does know.
Mike nods, unable to trust his voice.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “Me too.”
He pulls Will into a hug, tight and grateful. Will hugs him back just as hard.
“Don’t stop believing,” Will murmurs.
Mike swallows. “I won’t.”
Later, as Mike packs and the night deepens, he lies awake thinking of dreams—the kind where the world bends, where impossible things still happen.
In the deepest of them, he’s traveling. Crossing oceans. Walking unfamiliar streets. And somewhere—somewhere that feels like fate—he turns a corner and sees her.
Eleven.
Alive.
Waiting.
Mike closes his eyes, holding onto that hope like a lifeline.
Tomorrow, he’ll leave Hawkins behind.
But he’s not leaving her.
He never has.
-----------------
Two months into South America, life feels… lighter.
That surprises Mike the most.
Hawkins had pressed in on him like a constant weight—every street a memory, every quiet moment too loud with what was missing. Here, the air is different. Thinner in the mountains, heavy and warm in the jungles, salted by the ocean along the coasts. The world feels bigger than his grief, and for the first time in years, that doesn’t scare him.
He meets people everywhere he goes. Other travelers, locals who tell stories over coffee and shared meals, strangers who become temporary constants. He listens more than he talks, scribbling in his notebook late at night—new characters, new worlds, sentences that come easier now, like they’ve been waiting for him to breathe again.
He reads books he’s never heard of, their pages dog-eared and worn from secondhand shops. He watches waterfalls thunder down cliffs that feel ancient and unmovable, stands at the edge of canyons glowing gold at sunset, and thinks—yeah. This is real. I’m really here.
He writes letters home whenever he can.
To his parents, assuring them he’s safe.
To Dustin, who sends back rambling updates full of exclamation points.
To Lucas and Max, to Will, to everyone who still feels like home even from thousands of miles away.
He tells them about the places. The food. The way the sky looks different in each country. He leaves out the deeper parts—not because they wouldn’t understand, but because some things are still his alone.
Every night, though, the ritual stays the same.
Before bed, after the lights are low and the world outside his window has gone quiet, Mike reaches for his wallet. The leather is worn now, softened by time and travel. He slides the photo out carefully, like it’s something sacred.
It’s old. Creased from being folded and unfolded so many times.
Eleven is sitting on his lap at Scoops Ahoy, both of them younger, sunburned, sticky from melting ice cream. She’s laughing—full, unguarded, eyes bright—and he’s grinning just as wide, like the world makes sense because she’s in it.
Mike studies the picture, letting the moment wash over him.
He doesn’t feel sad.
Instead, something warm settles in his chest—hopeful, steady. Gratitude. Determination.
I knew you, he thinks.
I loved you.
And that mattered.
No matter where she is. No matter how long it takes.
He folds the picture neatly, tucks it back into his wallet, and sets it on the bedside table. Then he turns off the light.
The guest house room falls into darkness, his bags already packed for the next destination waiting quietly by the door. Somewhere beyond the window, the world stretches on—vast and full of possibility.
Mike closes his eyes, breathing easy.
Tomorrow, he’ll keep going.
-----------------
Four months in, East Asia feels different.
The noise of South America—the color, the music, the constant motion—had wrapped around Mike like a shield. Here, everything is quieter. Intentional. Still. The kind of stillness that doesn’t distract you from your thoughts, but invites them in.
He visits temples tucked into mountainsides, their roofs curved like they’re bowing to the sky. He removes his shoes, walks slowly across cool stone floors, watches incense smoke curl upward in lazy spirals. The air smells like wood and ash and rain. Bells ring softly in the distance, each sound deliberate, measured.
It’s beautiful.
And it hurts.
The grief sits heavier here, pressing against his ribs in the silence. Without crowds or noise to soften it, the longing sharpens—clean, precise, almost reverent. He thinks maybe places like this are meant for reflection, and reflection has always led him back to her.
He hikes mountain paths early in the morning, mist clinging to the trees, the world hushed like it’s holding a secret. Sometimes he stops just to breathe, hand resting on his chest, trying to steady the ache.
I miss you, he thinks—not desperately, not angrily. Just honestly.
It surprises him how strong the feeling is. Not sadness exactly. Something deeper. Pulling.
He remembers graduation day.
Standing in his cap and gown, surrounded by cheers and camera flashes, he’d felt it suddenly—warm and familiar, like a hand resting between his shoulders. For a second, he’d turned, fully expecting to see her there.
She wasn’t.
But the feeling stayed.
His birthday, too. Blowing out candles, the room full of laughter, that same quiet certainty settling in his bones. She’s here.
Her birthday was the worst—and the clearest. He’d woken up with her name on his lips, heart racing, like she’d brushed past him in a dream that felt too real to dismiss.
Mike knows himself.
And he knows one thing with absolute certainty: he has never been wrong when he’s felt her.
That’s what pushes him to write to Will that night.
He sits at a small desk in a guesthouse overlooking a garden, paper laid carefully in front of him. Outside, wind moves through bamboo, a soft, rhythmic whisper.
Will,
I don’t know how to explain this without sounding insane, but I think you’ll understand anyway.
He pauses, pen hovering, then continues.
Being here… it’s quiet. And in the quiet, I feel her more. Not like memories. Like presence. The same way I did at graduation. On my birthday. On hers.
His chest tightens, but he keeps writing.
You and El were always connected—through the Upside Down, through Vecna, through everything that tried to take you both. I guess I’m wondering… do you ever feel her too? Like she’s not gone. Like she’s just somewhere else.
He thinks of Will’s sensitivity, the way he’s always known when something was wrong before anyone else did.
If you do, you don’t have to explain it. I just needed to ask someone who might understand.
He finishes the letter slowly.
I’m heading to Europe next. I’ll be there for a while.
If you want to write back, here’s where I’ll be staying.
He adds the address carefully, double-checking it, then signs his name.
When he folds the letter, his hands are steady.
Later, lying on his futon, Mike stares up at the dark ceiling. The mountain air drifts in through the window, cool and clean. Somewhere far away, a bell rings once—low and resonant.
“I know you’re out there,” he whispers into the quiet. Not pleading. Certain.
The grief is still there, heavy and aching—but beneath it, unwavering, is that same glimmer of hope that has carried him across continents.
Soon, he’ll leave for Europe.
And wherever she is, he believes—truly believes—he’s getting closer.
--------------
Later that evening Mike showers, changes, and slips into bed, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment. He presses a hand flat against his chest, grounding himself.
“Okay,” he whispers into the dim. “Okay.”
Sleep takes him faster than it has in weeks.
And this time, he dreams.
He’s standing in a wide, open field, grass moving gently around his ankles. The sky is pale and endless, light spilling everywhere. There’s no fear here. No urgency. Just calm.
Then he hears his name.
“Mike.”
He turns.
She’s there.
Eleven stands a few feet away, exactly as he remembers—eyes steady, expression soft but searching. Real in a way dreams usually aren’t. Solid. Present.
“El,” he breathes, and his voice doesn’t break.
She smiles, small and familiar. “You found the place.”
“I didn’t know if you were real,” he admits, stepping closer. “I didn’t know if I was imagining you.”
“You never were,” she says simply.
The space between them closes without either of them rushing. When she reaches for his hand, it’s warm. Real. He feels it all the way up his arm, straight into his heart.
“I tried to come home,” she says quietly. “But I needed time. To be… me.”
“I know,” Mike says, tears burning his eyes even here. “I waited. I would’ve waited forever.”
She squeezes his hand. “I felt you. Everywhere. You never stopped.”
Neither did you, he thinks—but doesn’t say.
They stand there together, fingers intertwined, the world calm around them. Safe. Like the dream they used to talk about.
A place with light that never disappears.
When Mike wakes, the room is still dark.
And he feels worse than he did before.
-------------
Six months in, Italy feels too big and somehow too small at the same time.
Mike wanders through sun-washed streets, past crumbling stone buildings and open piazzas filled with laughter and clinking glasses. It’s beautiful—objectively so. The kind of place people fall in love with life again.
But today, it doesn’t touch him.
The doubts creep in quietly, slipping between moments of awe.
Could I really search the entire world for her?
What if she’s in some tiny town I’ll never hear about?
What if she doesn’t want to be found?
The last thought stops him cold.
What if she’s really… gone?
He shakes his head sharply, like he can physically dislodge it.
“No,” he mutters under his breath.
Out of all the what-ifs, that one is the most absurd. He knows that with a certainty deeper than logic. Deeper than fear. He’s never been wrong about her—not once.
My El is out there.
Still, the emptiness lingers. A hollow ache that has nothing to do with travel or scenery. He misses home in a way that feels almost physical. Misses Dustin’s rambling, Lucas’s steady presence, Max’s sharp honesty. Misses Will—being understood without having to explain himself. Misses his parents. His room. Being known.
For the first time since he left, he considers going back to Hawkins. Just for a while. To breathe. To remember who he is when he’s not searching.
The thought follows him all the way back to his temporary apartment.
The building is quiet when he climbs the stairs, his footsteps echoing softly. He unlocks the door, drops his bag by the wall—and freezes.
There’s an envelope on the small table by the door.
His name is written on the front in handwriting he knows as well as his own.
“Will,” Mike whispers.
His heart slams against his ribs as he grabs it, barely bothering to shut the door before rushing to the bed. He sits, then immediately lies back, hands shaking as he tears the envelope open.
The letter is warm. Familiar. Home.
Mike,
I miss you. A lot. We all do. Hawkins isn’t the same without you, and I don’t think it’s supposed to be.
Mike swallows hard, eyes blurring already.
Will writes about the others—about movie nights, about Dustin’s latest obsession, about how everyone still talks about Mike like he’s just around the corner. Like he belongs.
Then the letter slows. Deepens.
I know people wouldn’t like it if I said this. I know our friends and our families probably wouldn’t want me encouraging you to keep searching forever.
Mike’s breath catches.
But I don’t feel like she’s gone.
His vision blurs completely now.
She’s my sister. And I can feel it in my bones, the same way I always felt when something was wrong—or right. She’s still around. Somewhere.
Mike presses the paper closer, like it might disappear if he doesn’t.
And if she wants to be found by anyone, it’ll be you. It’s always been you.
A tear slips free, landing on the page.
Don’t give up, Mike. You both deserve your happy ending.
Mike lets out a shaky breath that feels like it’s been trapped in his chest for months. The weight he’s been carrying—alone, heavy, isolating—finally cracks.
He’s not the only one.
His best friend believes it too. Knows it.
And that is enough.
Mike folds the letter carefully, pressing it to his chest, holding it there like an anchor. Like proof.
That night, for the first time in months, sleep comes easily.
Clutching Will’s words close, heart lighter than it’s been in a long time, Mike closes his eyes with quiet certainty.
He’ll keep searching.
Because he’s not wrong.
And because somewhere in the world, Eleven is still out there—
and one day, she’ll find her way back to him.
Mike writes back the very next morning.
He sits at the small kitchen table of the apartment, sunlight spilling through the window, coffee gone cold beside him as he searches for the right words—then realizes he doesn’t need many.
Will,
You have no idea how much your letter means to me. I didn’t realize how alone I felt in believing she’s still out there until I read your words. Now I don’t feel alone at all.
He pauses, pen hovering, heart steady.
I’ve always felt understood by you. I still do. And that letter gave me the fuel I needed to keep going.
He signs his name simply—Mike—folds the paper, and seals it before doubt can creep back in. Mailing it feels like setting something in motion. Like choosing hope out loud.
By the afternoon, his bags are packed again.
-----------------
It’s June now. Summer.
And for as long as he can remember, Mike has wanted to see Iceland—to stand somewhere the sun never fully disappears, where even midnight refuses to be dark. The idea had once fascinated him as a kid; now it feels symbolic in a way he doesn’t question too hard.
Some places don’t let the light die.
The flight is long and quiet. He watches the clouds shift beneath him, reads a few pages of a book without really absorbing them, and thinks—absently, fondly—of Eleven marveling at all of this. He can hear her voice in his head, soft and awed.
When he lands, the air is crisp and clean, the sky stretched wide and pale. He picks up his rental car, drives past lava fields and open roads that feel endless, until he reaches a small guest house tucked far outside the city.
He drops his things inside, barely glancing around, restless in a way he can’t explain.
So he drives again—this time toward a grocery store marked on his map. The road curves through low hills and distant mountains, their silhouettes softened by light that never quite fades.
At one point, the view opens up so suddenly it steals his breath.
Mike pulls over without thinking.
He gets out of the car, the wind brushing past him, and lifts his camera to take a few pictures. The mountains stand quiet and vast, ancient and watchful. The sky glows—gold bleeding into blue, like the day forgot how to end.
And then—
It hits him.
Not a memory.
Not a thought.
A feeling.
Warm. Familiar. Immediate.
Mike’s breath catches sharply as his hand drops to his side.
His heart pounds.
He hasn’t felt this in almost a year.
“She’s—” he whispers, voice breaking off.
He turns slowly, scanning the empty road, the fields, the mountains. There’s no one there. Nothing out of place. Just wind and light and silence.
But it’s unmistakable.
The same pull he felt at graduation. On his birthday. On hers. Stronger now. Closer.
“She’s here,” he says quietly—not as a question, but a realization.
His chest tightens, eyes stinging—not with sadness, but with awe.
He can feel her.
Somewhere near. Somewhere real.
Mike stands there under a sky that refuses to go dark, heart racing, knowing with absolute certainty—
He’s not searching anymore.
He’s arrived.
--------------
Mike thinks about the dream a lot these days. Not the one he had recently about El, but the dream he shared with El years prior.
The one they talked about when everything was still broken but hopeful—late at night, lying side by side, whispering like the world might overhear. A quiet place. Three waterfalls. A small town full of warm, trusting people. Somewhere safe. Somewhere gentle.
At the time, it felt impossible. Like a child’s wish.
Now, standing on this island, it feels… close. Almost prophetic.
It’s August. Nearly three months since he arrived in Iceland. Almost a full year since he left Hawkins.
And he’s explored nearly all of it.
He’s driven winding roads that hug cliffs and cut through endless green. He’s stood beneath waterfalls so powerful they soaked him to the skin, laughing breathlessly because the world felt unreal. He’s walked through villages where people smile easily, where doors feel open, where time seems slower and kinder.
Everything here feels like a dream someone forgot to wake him from.
Tonight, he’s on another long drive, chasing the quiet. The sun hangs low in the sky even though it’s midnight, casting everything in soft gold and silver. The light never leaves—it just changes its mind about where to sit.
Mike hums softly to himself, eyes on the road.
Then the car sputters.
Once.
Twice.
“No, no—” Mike mutters, heart dropping as the engine coughs and dies.
He coasts to a stop near a black sand beach, the shoreline stretching endlessly beside him. He stares at the dashboard, then lets his head fall back against the seat with a long sigh.
Out of fuel.
Of course.
He gets out of the car, the wind sharp but not cold, the sea rolling calmly nearby. Midnight daylight washes over everything, eerie and beautiful. He checks his phone—barely any signal. The map tells him the nearest gas station is about half a mile away.
He exhales, running a hand through his hair.
“I’m so close,” he whispers—not to the gas station, but to her. He can feel it again, faint but undeniable. Like a thread pulled taut.
Giving up isn’t an option.
He locks the car and starts walking.
The road isn’t safe to walk on this late, so he takes a pedestrian path that runs parallel, gravel crunching beneath his shoes. The sky darkens just slightly—and then, without warning, rain pours down in heavy sheets.
Mike groans aloud, tipping his head back. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Within seconds, he’s soaked. Hair plastered to his forehead, jacket useless. He laughs once, breathless and tired, because what else can you do?
Then he hears voices.
“Hey! Excuse me!”
He turns, squinting through the rain. A couple stands a few yards away, holding an umbrella between them, concern written clearly across their faces.
“Do you need shelter?” the woman calls out. “You’ll freeze like that.”
Mike hesitates only a second before nodding. “Yeah—yeah, that’d be great. Thank you.”
They usher him into a nearby house, warm and softly lit. The rain fades to a dull roar outside as the door closes behind them.
“Here,” the man says kindly, handing Mike a towel. “Dry off. You can sit.”
“Tea?” the woman adds immediately, already moving toward the kitchen.
“Uh—yeah,” Mike says, still a little stunned. “Thank you. Really.”
They don’t ask questions right away. They just… help. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Once he’s wrapped in the towel and holding a steaming mug, the woman smiles at him. “You’re not from here, are you?”
Mike smiles back, small but genuine. “No. I’m a tourist. I’m… a writer. I travel.”
They exchange a knowing look, amused and warm.
“Iceland has lots to offer,” the man says gently. “Especially to people who are looking.”
Mike’s chest tightens—not painfully, but sharply, like recognition.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I think you’re right.”
Outside, the rain keeps falling.
The sun keeps shining.
And somewhere—closer than ever—Mike knows she’s still there.
-----------------
Mike stays the night.
He thanks the couple over and over—probably too much—but they just smile, like kindness is something you’re allowed to give freely here. He sleeps on a small couch by the window, rain tapping softly against the glass, the light outside never fully fading. For once, his dreams are calm. Quiet. Almost anticipatory.
By morning, the storm is gone.
Clear skies stretch endlessly overhead, washed clean, the air sharp and fresh. Mike thanks them again, shoulders his bag, and continues the walk toward the gas station. The road winds gently now, past clusters of houses tucked into the land like they belong there. Cliffs rise and fall in the distance. Valleys open up suddenly, green and vast, like the earth is breathing.
He walks slowly, taking it all in.
Then—
He stops.
His feet plant themselves before his brain catches up.
His heart starts to pound.
Mike turns his head, slowly, deliberately, as if he’s afraid the world might vanish if he moves too fast. He steps closer to the edge of the path, eyes scanning the land beyond the houses.
And there they are.
Three waterfalls.
Not one. Not two.
Three.
They cascade down the cliffs at different heights, white and powerful against the dark rock, mist rising into the air. The morning sun catches the lingering moisture from the rain, and right there—arching softly across the sky—a rainbow forms.
Mike’s breath leaves him in a shaky exhale.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he whispers, a laugh breaking through his disbelief.
They talked about this. Years ago. A dream spoken quietly, almost jokingly, like it was too fragile to say out loud. And here it is—real, undeniable, standing right in front of him.
If this isn’t a sign, he doesn’t know what is.
His hands tremble as he pulls out his Polaroid, snapping a picture before he can second-guess himself. The image slides out, colors slowly blooming to life. Proof. Not just for him—but for Will.
He continues on, dazed and buzzing, gets gas, then notices a small local restaurant just off the road. Hunger hits him suddenly, like his body finally remembers it exists.
Inside, it’s warm and cozy, the smell of coffee and butter filling the air. He scans the menu—and freezes again.
Eggo waffle special.
Mike laughs out loud this time, shaking his head.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Okay.”
He orders it without hesitation.
While he waits, he unfolds his map on the table. The town’s name is small, easy to miss. Nestled near the southeast coastline, surrounded by glaciers, tucked so naturally into the land it almost feels hidden on purpose.
He doesn’t remember seeing it before.
That doesn’t feel like an accident.
When his food arrives, he barely notices the taste—though it’s good—because his mind is already elsewhere. As soon as he’s done, he pulls out his notebook and starts writing.
Will,
I’m in Iceland. I didn’t tell you I was coming because I didn’t know if it meant anything yet.
He pauses, then continues, handwriting a little shaky.
I think it does. I’ve never felt this close before. Not like hope—like certainty.
He slips the Polaroid out carefully once it’s fully developed.
We used to talk about a place with three waterfalls. I found it.
He tucks the picture into the letter.
I don’t know what happens next. But I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Mike folds the letter, heart steady, full in a way it hasn’t been in a long time.
Outside, the waterfalls keep roaring.
The rainbow fades slowly, like it’s done its job.
And somewhere in this quiet, hidden town, Mike knows—with bone-deep certainty—
He’s finally close.
--------------
Mike relocates without really deciding to.
It just… happens.
The town welcomes him quietly, the way it seems to welcome everything—without questions, without rush. He stays at a tiny, family-owned bed and breakfast perched slightly above the road, its windows facing the cliffs and the distant waterfalls. The owners greet him by name after the second day. By the fifth, they stop asking how long he’ll be staying.
As if they already know.
Every morning, he eats breakfast at the same little restaurant. The staff recognizes him now, smiles easily, brings coffee without asking. He sits by the window, notebook open, words finally coming the way they used to. Stories pour out of him—soft ones, hopeful ones. He writes letters too, to home, to Will, to people he misses. Sometimes he just writes to her, even if he never plans to send them.
In the afternoons, he walks.
He lets himself feel.
The town is small but full—tiny shops with handmade goods, cafes that smell like cinnamon and warmth, quiet bars where locals nod at him like he belongs. The air always feels clean here. Honest. Like nothing is hiding.
And underneath it all, that feeling hums.
Low. Steady. Patient.
One afternoon, he ducks into a café he hasn’t visited yet. It’s cozy and bright, sunlight pouring through wide windows. Near the back, something catches his eye.
A synthetic tree.
Its branches are decorated with dozens—maybe hundreds—of small paper slips tied on with string. Wishes. Dreams. Confessions. The leaves rustle softly whenever someone passes by.
Mike steps closer.
A small sign reads: Leave a wish. Take a moment.
He hesitates, then pulls out his pen.
He doesn’t overthink it.
He scribbles a few words, folds the paper carefully, and ties it to a low branch. His fingers linger for a second before he lets go.
Then curiosity pulls him closer.
He reads a few.
I want a dog.
Money.
To fall in love.
He smiles softly at those.
Then—
His breath stops.
One slip of paper hangs slightly apart from the others, the handwriting small and uneven. Careful.
I’m free but I want to go home.
Mike stares at it.
The café noise fades. His heart begins to pound, slow and heavy, like it knows something his mind is afraid to name. He reaches out before he realizes he’s moving, fingertips brushing the edge of the paper.
The feeling floods back—stronger than ever.
Warm. Familiar. Aching.
Her.
He doesn’t know how he knows. There’s no logic, no proof, nothing he could explain to anyone else.
But he knows.
His throat tightens as he studies the handwriting, memorizing every curve, every pause in the ink. It feels like recognition, like remembering something he’s always known.
“I found you,” he whispers—not triumphantly, not loudly.
Reverently.
The tree rustles gently beside him, papers swaying like they’re breathing.
Mike closes his eyes for just a second, hand still resting against the wish, heart steady despite the tremor running through him.
He doesn’t need certainty yet.
The feeling is enough.
And for the first time since he left Hawkins, Mike isn’t searching blindly anymore.
He’s listening.
He also starts living his life again.
That’s the strange part—it feels like living again, not just waiting.
He walks the town every day, learning its rhythms. The way the bakery opens early and smells like sugar and warmth. The way the same few locals sit at the bar each evening, laughing quietly over drinks. The way the light shifts across the cliffs, changing the waterfalls’ color hour by hour.
It never feels right to ask about her.
He never pulls out her picture, never asks if anyone has seen a girl who looks like this. Deep down, he knows that wouldn’t work. Whatever path brought her here wasn’t meant to be interrupted or forced.
She’ll come to him when she’s ready.
They’ll find each other when he is ready too.
That’s the part he doesn’t understand yet.
He has hope—real, solid hope—but hope doesn’t stop the loneliness from creeping in at night. From missing voices that know him without explanation. From wanting, just once, to hear someone say his name the way it sounds like home.
One evening, as the sun drags itself lazily along the horizon, Mike stares at his phone for a long time.
Then he exhales and dials.
The international call fee flashes briefly on the screen. He ignores it.
It rings.
Once.
Twice.
“Hello?”
“Nance,” Mike says quietly. “Hi.”
There’s a pause—and then—
“Mike??” Her voice sharpens instantly. “Oh my god—where are you? Are you okay?”
He smiles despite himself. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. I’m in Iceland right now.”
“Iceland?” she repeats, stunned. “Wow. How’s the trip? Are you—are you liking it?”
“It’s great,” he says honestly. “I’ve met so many nice people. Seen some incredible places. It’s… good.”
She goes quiet for a moment.
Then, gently, carefully: “Have you… found peace yet?”
Mike closes his eyes.
He knows what she’s really asking. If the weight has lifted. If he’s learning how to carry the loss of Eleven. If this trip is helping him survive her disappearance.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “But honestly… I feel a bit lonely lately. Being so far from home.” His voice cracks just slightly. “It’s just nice to hear your voice. I miss you. I miss the whole gang.”
Nancy doesn’t rush to fill the silence.
“Mike,” she says finally, warm and steady, “we love you. All of us. And we’ll be right here waiting for you whenever you’re ready to come home.”
His chest tightens.
“But take your time,” she continues. “Finish what you need to do for yourself. We understand. It’s okay.”
A tear slips free, sliding down his cheek before he can stop it.
“Thanks, Nance,” he murmurs. “I… I needed that.”
“I love you,” she says.
“I love you too.”
The call ends, the line clicking softly into silence.
Mike lowers the phone and takes a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs, steadying him. The world feels a little less heavy now. A little more possible.
As he heads back toward the bed and breakfast, he passes a sign advertising local experiences.
Cold Plunge — Nordic Tradition.
He stops, considers it.
“Tomorrow,” he decides quietly.
Maybe it’s time to let the cold shock his system.
To trust the process.
To meet whatever comes next with an open heart.
The sun lingers low in the sky, refusing to disappear.
And somewhere in this small town, Mike feels it again—soft, patient, waiting.
So is she.
-------------
Mike wakes before the sun can even pretend to rise—though here, it never really does.
The air is crisp, clean in a way that feels intentional. He pulls on layers, buys a simple swimsuit from a small local shop that smells like wool and soap, and tells himself this is just curiosity. Just experience.
Time to see what all the hype is about.
The drive out is quiet. Empty roads. Mountains reflected in still water. When he parks, there’s no one else around—no voices, no cars, no movement. Just him, the lake, and the sky stretched pale and endless above.
He exhales slowly, toes curling in his shoes.
“Okay,” he mutters. “Okay.”
He strips down to the swimsuit, the cold biting immediately, and walks to the edge of the clear water. It looks deceptively calm. Inviting, even.
Mike pinches his nose shut and cannonballs in.
The shock is immediate—violent, almost. Cold slams into him, stealing his breath, searing his skin. His whole body reacts at once, muscles tightening, heart kicking hard against his ribs.
“Holy—!” he sputters when he surfaces, then laughs, breathless and wild.
It’s freezing.
And somehow… incredible.
The cold cuts through everything—grief, doubt, heaviness—like it’s stripping him down to something raw and essential. He feels awake in a way he hasn’t in years. Almost like being reborn.
He dunks his head under again.
The world goes blurry. Sound disappears. Everything softens into light and shadow.
He opens his eyes underwater, blinking, but there’s nothing to see—just distortion and movement. He surfaces again, pushing his hair back, laughing to himself, chest heaving.
“I did it,” he says out loud, grinning like an idiot.
He swims a little farther, limbs aching from the cold, then dips under once more. This time he closes his eyes.
And he thinks of her.
Of Eleven in the bath.
In the tank.
Floating, suspended, alone.
Did it ever feel like this to you? he wonders. Cold… but quiet? Like everything else fades away?
Then—
Something shifts.
The cold tightens around his chest.
Too tight.
Mike’s breath catches.
Panic flares sharp and sudden, his lungs burning like they’re collapsing inward. He kicks hard, arms slicing through the water—but the surface feels impossibly far away. The lake stretches above him, warped and unreachable.
No—no—
His heart pounds wildly as he swims harder, frantic now, fear clawing up his throat.
Finally—finally—he breaks through the surface.
He gasps violently for air, coughing, choking as he scrambles toward the shallow end. His hands find rocks, slick and cold, and he hauls himself out, collapsing onto them, chest heaving as he sucks in breath after breath.
“Okay—okay—” he pants, wrapping himself tightly in the towel he left nearby. His whole body trembles—not just from the cold.
He sits there for a long moment, head bowed, letting his breathing steady.
Then he looks up.
Across the lake, beyond the water, where the mountains rise quiet and unmoving—
He freezes.
For just a second—just a heartbeat—he swears he sees her.
Standing there.
Eleven.
Wearing the same outfit he last saw her in. Hair dark against the light, posture still and familiar, like she’s watching him the way she always used to. Calm. Present.
“El…” he whispers, standing too fast.
His vision blurs. He rubs cold water over his face, blinking hard, heart racing.
When he looks again—
She’s gone.
Just mountains. Just stone and sky and water.
But the feeling doesn’t fade.
It sits heavy and warm in his chest—the unmistakable pull he’s come to trust more than his own eyes.
“She was here,” he murmurs, not scared. Not confused.
Certain.
Mike stands, towel clutched around him, slowly turning in a full circle. He scans the shore. The paths. The rocks.
Nothing.
No one.
Still, the air feels charged. Alive.
And as the cold finally leaves his skin, one truth settles deep in his bones:
This isn’t imagination.
She’s close.
And whatever comes next—
he knows he’s ready.
---------------
Later that evening, Mike sits alone at a small restaurant near the water.
A candle flickers on the table, its flame bending every time the door opens. He barely notices. His fork moves automatically, food disappearing without taste. His thoughts keep drifting back to the lake—to the cold, to the panic, to the way his heart nearly stopped when he thought he saw her.
I saw something.
Didn’t I?
He stares out the window instead of his plate, watching the sky soften into that endless twilight Iceland seems to live in. Part of him tries to reason it away—exhaustion, shock, his mind filling in what it wants most.
But the other part of him—the part that’s never been wrong about her—won’t let it go.
The feeling had been there. Strong. Immediate.
Real.
When he finishes eating, he leaves quietly, nodding at the staff who now recognize him. The town is calm as he walks back to the bed and breakfast, the air cool against his skin, his body pleasantly tired.
His room feels especially quiet tonight.
---------------
The food market is already awake when Mike gets there.
Stalls glow under strings of warm lights, steam rising from coffee carts as the sun slowly lifts itself over the horizon. The sky is pale gold, the kind of morning that feels gentle instead of loud. Locals move easily through the narrow paths, greeting one another, laughing softly, hands wrapped around cups to warm themselves.
Mike wanders without much purpose.
He picks up fresh bread still warm from the oven. A small jar of berry jam. Pastries dusted with sugar that melt at the edges. It all feels domestic in a way that surprises him—like he’s pretending at a life that almost feels real.
He’s reaching for a loaf when it happens.
The smell hits him first.
Vanilla.
Clean. Soft. Familiar.
His breath catches so hard it hurts.
No.
No way.
His head lifts slowly, heart already pounding as his eyes scan the crowd. People pass in front of him—strangers, coats, scarves, motion—but then he sees her.
Just a glimpse.
Dark hair. Slight frame. The way she tilts her head, like she’s listening to something no one else can hear.
Mike drops the bread.
“El,” he whispers, already moving.
He pushes through the crowd, murmuring apologies he doesn’t register, pulse roaring in his ears. He loses sight of her once—panic spikes—but then he sees the figure again, slipping past a stall, moving faster now.
“Wait—” he says, louder, more desperate.
She turns down a narrow side street.
An alley.
Mike doesn’t hesitate.
He breaks into a jog, heart slamming against his ribs, the world narrowing to the sound of his breath and the echo of his footsteps. The alley is quiet, empty, light spilling in from one end.
He slows.
The figure stops.
Mike swallows hard, his voice barely working. “El?”
She turns around.
And it’s her.
Not a memory.
Not a dream.
Not a feeling.
Her face is exactly the same—eyes wide, shocked, alive. Real.
The world tilts.
“Oh my—” Mike breathes, knees buckling as everything rushes at once—relief, disbelief, love, fear, hope crashing together too fast for his body to keep up with.
The last thing he sees is her reaching for him, her mouth forming his name—
Then everything goes dark.
-------------------
Mike wakes slowly.
Not the sharp, jolting kind of waking—this is gentle, disorienting. Warm. He blinks up at a wooden ceiling washed in soft morning light, the air smelling faintly of tea and something floral.
For a moment, he doesn’t move.
Then he notices the walls.
Pictures.
Framed, carefully placed.
His heart starts to race as he turns his head.
There’s one of him and the gang at the middle school science fair—Dustin grinning like an idiot, Lucas standing proud, Max smirking, Will half-hidden behind Mike’s shoulder. Another photo nearby shows them in their Ghostbusters costumes, proton packs crooked and homemade, all of them frozen in a moment when the world was still simple.
His breath catches.
Further down the wall: Will between Joyce and Jonathan, all three smiling softly. Another frame—him, Nancy, and Holly, Holly sitting on his lap, missing one front tooth.
His chest tightens painfully.
“What…?” he whispers.
A cold thought creeps in.
Maybe it was a dream.
Maybe I never left Hawkins.
Maybe I broke.
A psych ward, his mind supplies cruelly. Somewhere safe. Somewhere padded with memories.
He swallows hard, panic rising—
Then the door creaks open.
Mike’s head snaps toward the sound.
She steps inside.
Eleven.
She’s holding a small teapot and two cups balanced carefully on a tray. She freezes when she sees his eyes open, her breath catching audibly.
“Oh,” she gasps. “You’re— you’re awake.”
Mike can’t speak.
He just stares.
His vision blurs, not because he’s crying yet, but because his brain refuses to believe what it’s seeing. She’s older—softer around the edges, hair longer—but unmistakably her. The way she stands. The way her eyes search his face like she’s afraid he’ll disappear.
His voice comes out broken. Barely a whisper.
“Is this real?”
He swallows.
“Am I dreaming?”
Her lip trembles.
She sets the tray down quickly, hands shaking, and steps closer, shaking her head.
“No,” she says softly. “I’m as real as you are.”
Slowly—carefully, like she’s giving him time to pull away—she reaches out and touches his hand.
The second her fingers brush his skin, something inside Mike shatters.
He gasps, a sharp, desperate sound, and yanks her toward him, arms wrapping around her like he’s afraid the world will take her back if he loosens his grip. He buries his face in her shoulder, shaking as tears spill freely.
“El—” he chokes.
She lets out a wet laugh that turns into a sob, clutching him just as tightly, fingers digging into his shirt like she’s anchoring herself.
“I found you,” he cries into her hair. “I found you.”
“You never stopped,” she whispers. “I felt you. Always.”
He pulls back just enough to kiss her hair—again and again—pressing his lips to her temple, her crown, like he needs to make sure she’s really there. His hands slide up to cup her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks gently, reverently.
He looks at her.
Really looks.
Her eyes are bright with tears. Alive. Hers.
“It’s you,” he breathes, almost laughing through the tears. “It’s really you.”
She nods, smiling through her own tears. “It’s me.”
Mike presses his forehead to hers, eyes closing as a sob of relief tears out of him.
After a year of searching.
After continents and doubt and loneliness.
After never giving up—
He found her.
And this time, she’s not going anywhere.
They stay like that for a long time.
No rush. No words at first. Just warmth and quiet and the soft clink of porcelain as El pours the tea. She leans into him naturally, like her body remembers exactly where it belongs. Mike’s arm settles around her shoulders, protective, instinctive, his thumb brushing slow, absent-minded circles against her sleeve as if letting go is no longer an option.
Outside, light spills in gently—never quite night, never quite morning.
Mike lifts his cup, takes a sip, then sets it down carefully on the table. His chest rises with a slow breath.
“I have to ask,” he says quietly, voice low so he doesn’t break the moment. “Why’d you disappear like that?”
El stills slightly.
“Couldn’t you have told me?” he continues softly. “At least told me your plan. You could’ve saved me… all this misery. All that pain.”
She exhales, long and heavy, eyes dropping to her hands.
“I needed every single person to believe I was gone,” she says. “If anyone knew—if you knew—you would’ve tried to find me. Or contact me. And then they would’ve found you.”
Her fingers tighten around her cup.
“The military had to believe I was dead,” she continues. “So did everyone else. In a couple more years… when things cool off… maybe I could go home.” Her voice wavers, just slightly. “But until then, I have to keep you all safe.”
She tilts her head, resting it gently against his shoulder.
“Especially you, Mike,” she adds. “I’ll never regret my choice.”
Mike swallows hard.
He nods slowly, pressing his temple to her hair.
“I know,” he murmurs. “I always knew you had a reason.”
His arm tightens around her, pulling her just a bit closer. “I felt you. Every day. Even when it hurt.”
El smiles softly, eyes shining.
“I know,” she whispers. “That’s how I knew you’d find me.”
Silence settles again—but it’s different now. Full. Complete.
They both turn toward each other at the same time, like gravity pulling them together. Mike lifts a hand to her cheek, thumb brushing away a tear that never quite falls. El’s fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.
They lean in.
The kiss is slow. Careful. Familiar and new all at once.
It tastes like tea and relief and a year’s worth of longing finally answered.
When they rest their foreheads together afterward, neither of them pulls away.
Not this time.
--------------------
Two years pass quietly.
Not in the loud, world-ending way Hawkins always knew—but softly, gently, like the steady flow of water over stone.
They live in the small village with the three waterfalls, tucked between cliffs and open sky. Everyone knows them here. The American writer with the thoughtful eyes and the girl with the calm presence who works near the water. No one asks too many questions. People are kind. Trusting. Warm—just like they dreamed.
Every morning begins the same.
Mike wakes first most days, slipping out of bed while El is still half-asleep, hair fanned across the pillow. He makes coffee and toast, sometimes waffles if he’s feeling ambitious. She comes out in one of his sweaters, rubbing sleep from her eyes, smiling when she sees him like it’s still a surprise he’s real.
They eat together at the small wooden table by the window.
She tells him about the boats, the weather, which fish came in overnight. He tells her about a paragraph that finally worked, or a character that won’t leave him alone. He always walks her to the door, kisses her goodbye, and watches until she’s out of sight—every single time.
Every night, she comes home.
They cook dinner together, elbows bumping, music playing softly. Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they don’t need to. Afterward, they curl up on the couch with a movie they’ve both seen a hundred times. El always falls asleep first, head on his chest, and Mike never moves, even when his arm goes numb.
On weekends, they drive.
Long, winding roads past glaciers and mountains that look unreal, like they belong in one of his stories. They stop wherever they feel like—no plan, no urgency. Just them and the open world.
In winter, when the cold sinks deep into their bones, they go to the hot springs. Steam rises around them as they sink into the warmth, El’s fingers lacing with Mike’s under the water. The cold can’t touch them there.
They are safe.
Happy.
Home.
One afternoon, they stop by the café in town—the one with the synthetic tree in the corner. Paper wishes flutter softly from its branches. They sit beneath it, sharing waffles and hot chocolate, laughing quietly over nothing at all.
El tilts her head, reading some of the wishes.
“I want a dog.”
“Good luck.”
“Please let me be brave.”
She smiles.
“Did you ever write one?” she asks.
Mike hesitates. Then he stands, stepping closer to the tree. He gently lifts one of the older pieces of paper, edges worn, handwriting unmistakably his.
El leans in.
The wish reads:
to live happily ever after with her
El’s breath catches.
She looks up at him, eyes shining, and Mike smiles—soft, sure, full of everything he once thought he’d lost.
“I guess,” he says quietly, “it worked.”
She laughs through happy tears and pulls him into a kiss right there beneath the tree, wishes rustling above them like approval.
Outside, the waterfalls continue to flow.
And for the first time in their lives—
nothing is chasing them anymore.
Maybe now it's time for El's wish to come true as well.
I’m free but I want to go home.
------------
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Max is propped up against the pillows, the hospital room dim and quiet in that late-afternoon way. The machines hum softly beside her, steady and reassuring, proof that she’s really here. Awake. Alive.
Everyone’s been in and out all day—Dustin rambling, Mike hovering awkwardly, Eleven holding her hand like she might disappear again if she lets go. It’s overwhelming in the best way.
But Lucas is different.
He’s there… just not there.
Sitting a little too far away. Hands folded in his lap. Watching her like she’s made of glass, like one wrong move might shatter her all over again.
Max notices. Of course she does.
“Lucas,” she says quietly.
He looks up instantly. “Yeah? You need something? Water? Nurse? I can—”
“Can we talk?” she asks. “Like… actually talk.”
He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
She waits until the door clicks shut behind the last of the others. The silence settles, thick but safe.
“You’ve been holding back,” Max says gently.
Lucas swallows. “I just didn’t want to overwhelm you. You’ve been through a lot. I figured you might need space.”
She lets out a small, humorless laugh. “Space is kind of the last thing I need.”
That makes him look at her—really look at her.
Max takes a breath, steadying herself. “When I was… in there,” she begins, voice quiet but sure, “I knew you were there with me. I could feel it. Your voice. The music. You holding my hand.” Her eyes sting, but she doesn’t look away. “You kept me alive, Lucas. You didn’t let me go.”
His eyes shine, and he blinks fast.
“And I felt how much you love me,” she continues. “Even when I couldn’t move. Even when I couldn’t answer. I felt it.”
She reaches out, fingers brushing his sleeve. “I love you too. So you don’t need to give me space. I’ve had too much of that already.”
His breath shudders.
“I don’t need space,” Max says softly. “I just need you.”
That’s all it takes.
Lucas moves in a heartbeat, wrapping his arms around her carefully, like he’s afraid but also like he can’t help himself anymore. Max melts into him, pressing her face into his shoulder, breathing him in like she’s been missing this air for months.
“I’m here,” he murmurs, voice thick. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She pulls back just enough to look at him. “Good.”
Their foreheads touch. The moment is slow, tender, full of everything they didn’t get to say before. Then Lucas leans in, giving her a gentle, lingering kiss—soft and careful, but full of feeling. Like a promise. Like relief.
When they pull apart, Max smiles, small but real.
“See?” she says quietly. “I’m still me.”
Lucas smiles back through tears. “Yeah,” he says. “You are.”
The plan hangs in the air between all of you—reckless, dangerous, very Steve.
One last push straight at Vecna.
As the others start gathering gear, voices overlapping, you stay rooted in place. Your eyes never leave Steve.
He’s halfway through checking the straps on his vest when he feels it—your stare. He looks up, meeting your gaze, and something in his chest tightens.
“Hey,” he says lightly. “We good?”
You wait until the others drift a little farther away, until the night swallows your words. Then you step closer, lowering your voice.
“I need you to promise me something.”
That alone makes his smile fade.
Steve straightens. “Okay… that sounds serious.”
You swallow.
“Don’t—” Your voice catches, and you have to start again. “Don’t risk your life for me. Please.”
Steve blinks, caught off guard. “What?”
“I mean it,” you rush on. “I know the plan. I know you’re going to be right in the middle of everything, trying to play hero like always, and I just—” Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “I can’t lose you. Not because of me.”
For a second, Steve just stares at you.
Then he smiles.
It’s soft. Easy. Like he isn’t carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“Hey,” he says gently. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
That’s when you realize how good he is at lying.
He steps closer, close enough that you can feel his warmth, close enough that the noise of the others fades completely. He lifts a hand, brushing his thumb across your knuckles.
“We’ve got this,” he continues. “Vecna’s the one who should be worried.”
You search his face, trying to find the cracks. “Steve…”
He leans in before you can say anything else and kisses you.
It’s slow. Careful. Like he’s trying to reassure you with every second of it. His hand cups your cheek, grounding you, and for just a moment the fear eases—just a little.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
“I promise,” he says quietly.
You nod, even though your chest still feels tight. “Okay.”
Steve squeezes your hand one last time before stepping away, grabbing his bat like it doesn’t weigh a thing.
But inside his head, the truth is loud and unwavering.
You’re the reason I’m doing this.
Not the plan.
Not the hero crap.
Not Hawkins.
You.
He watches you for half a second longer than necessary, burning the sight of you into his memory.
I will never let anything happen to you, he thinks fiercely.
Not now. Not ever.
Steve Harrington turns toward the darkness with his jaw set, already decided.
Vecna isn’t taking you.
Over his dead body.
-----------
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Steve Harrington x Reader - Cabin Trip (exes to lovers)
The gang goes on a cabin tip to enjoy the snow, cold weather and a bit of skiing, y/n has no idea who she'll deal with her ex boyfriend Steve Harrington also joining the trip, but maybe Christmas/holiday magic will make things right.
mainly fluff, 4.1k
----------------
The call came out of nowhere.
Your phone buzzed on your nightstand, and when the name Steve Harrington lit up the screen, your stomach dropped straight through the mattress.
You hadn’t spoken one-on-one in… years. You existed in the same friend group—graduation parties, study sessions, late-night diner runs—but never alone. Not since tenth grade. Not since he broke your heart with that soft sigh and a quiet “I think we should break up.” No explanation. No warning. Nothing.
You considered letting it ring out.
But you didn’t.
“Hello?”
“Hey.” His voice came through deeper than you remembered. Smoother. Warmer. “Um—sorry, I know this is random. Do you… have a minute?”
You hesitated. “Yeah. I guess.”
He cleared his throat. You heard the faint engine of his BMW in the background, the hum steady, like he was parked somewhere.
“I was thinking,” he started, “the cabin trip is next week and… I don’t want things to be weird.”
You closed your eyes. Too late.
He continued anyway, voice gentle but deliberate. “I want us to be able to hang out like normal. No bad blood, no awkwardness. I figured we should talk before we’re trapped on a mountain together.”
You forced a small laugh. “Makes sense.”
“Can we meet up?” he asked. “Maybe… the coffee place on Maple? Tomorrow?”
Your heart squeezed.
He sounded sincere.
He sounded… older. Softer in some ways, harder in others.
“Sure,” you said. “Tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Y/N.” He exhaled like he’d been holding the breath for years. “Really. I think we both deserve a good trip.”
You hung up first.
Only then did you let your shoulders slump.
Because you didn’t want to “clear the air.”
You wanted answers.
You wanted the truth he never gave you.
And you weren’t ready for how seeing him again would feel.
—
The next afternoon, the bell above the café door chimed as Steve walked in.
You had to remind yourself to breathe.
He looked nothing like the 15-year-old boy who used to walk you home after class with his backpack slung over one shoulder, kissing you against your front porch like he couldn’t stop himself.
He was—God—he was a man now.
Wider shoulders.
Arms that strained underneath the sleeves of his henley.
Jaw sharper.
His hair still perfect, still fluffy, still unfairly charming.
And his eyes…
His eyes were older.
Wiser.
Like he’d lived a hundred lives since the last time you looked into them.
And maybe he had.
He dealt with things you still didn’t understand.
He saw you and smiled, that same crooked Harrington smile that always destroyed you.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
He sat across from you, leaning forward on his elbows like he wanted to be close but wasn’t sure if he had the right anymore.
“So…” He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit he never outgrew. “I know it’s been a long time. I didn’t want the trip to be uncomfortable.”
“It won’t be,” you said quickly, though your chest ached like a bruise. “We’re… friends.”
He looked at you for a long moment.
Soft.
Searching.
Careful.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Friends.”
It should’ve felt reassuring.
Instead it felt like a punch.
He sat back, releasing a breath. “I just… wanted to clear the air. No tension. We both deserve to have fun, you know?”
You nodded, smiling even though your heart felt like cracked glass.
“Yeah. Absolutely. Clean slate.”
He smiled back, relieved.
You wished you could tell him he didn’t need to worry—
that you’d pretend everything was okay
that you’d pretend your heart didn’t pound when you looked at him
that you’d pretend the breakup didn’t still sit unsolved in your chest like a secret you weren’t allowed to know.
But you didn’t.
You just nodded.
Because he wanted to be friends.
And you still didn’t know why he ever stopped being yours.
----------
The cabin looked like it had been plucked straight off a postcard—wooden logs stacked with perfect symmetry, warm golden windows, smoke curling out of the chimney. Snow dusted the roof like powdered sugar, the world outside muffled and quiet in that way winter always made everything feel softer.
Everyone arrived within minutes of each other.
Nancy and Jonathan unloaded the trunk, bickering lightly about the map.
Robin immediately slipped and nearly face-planted into a snowbank.
And Steve—
Steve stepped out of his car, pulling off his gloves, breath clouding in the cold.
Y/N felt her heartbeat falter.
He looked… unfair.
More grown. Broader shoulders, arms filling out his coat, hair slightly longer than before, falling in perfectly tousled waves. He walked toward them, boots crunching against the snow, eyes warm and familiar and somehow so different—older. Like he’d lived a lifetime in the last couple years. Like his heart carried stories she had no way of knowing.
They all piled inside, carrying bags and laughing about the cold. Jonathan and Nancy took the room near the end of the hall. Y/N and Robin claimed one with two twin beds and fuzzy blankets. Steve’s room was across the hall—close enough to hear the floorboards creak with each step, close enough for her stomach to twist every time he walked by.
Later, after settling in, they bundled back up and drove into town to grab takeout from a small diner that smelled like melted butter and cinnamon. Back at the cabin, they gathered around the fireplace, plates on their laps, boots drying near the hearth. Soft flames crackled as snow fell against the window.
Conversation drifted naturally—classes, family, plans, gossip from school.
“Okay,” Robin said, nudging Y/N with her elbow, “tell them. Tell them about the schools.”
Y/N looked down shyly, fiddling with the edge of her napkin. “I—I got into some Ivy Leagues.”
Everyone exploded.
“WHAT?” Robin nearly screamed.
“Oh my god, Y/N!” Nancy beamed, nearly spilling her soup.
Jonathan clapped, Dustin would’ve fainted if he were here, and even Robin did this little happy dance on the couch.
“Holy shit,” Robin added, “that’s—like—that’s incredible!”
Y/N’s cheeks warmed. “They’re… really expensive though. So I’m waiting to hear about scholarships. I don’t want to get too excited until I know if it’s realistic.”
Nancy nodded in solidarity. “Same. I got into Emerson and—God, the tuition alone made me want to pass out.”
But she smiled softly. “Still. You got in. That’s amazing.”
“Seriously,” Jonathan chimed in. “That’s huge.”
Y/N’s heart felt light under all the praise… then heavy when she felt a warm hand wrap around her arm.
Steve.
He leaned forward slightly, his grip gentle but firm, his thumb brushing once—absently, unconsciously.
He smiled at her, eyes soft, proud in a way he probably didn’t even realize.
“I knew you could do it,” he said.
Her breath caught.
The way he looked at her—like she was the same girl he used to kiss behind the bleachers, the girl he’d held during thunderstorms, the girl he once swore he’d never hurt—it made the cabin feel suddenly too warm.
She swallowed, finally meeting his gaze. “Thanks.”
For a moment, it felt like the past lived in that small space between them.
But she forced herself to let it go.
They weren’t those people anymore.
She cleared her throat and pushed the attention away from herself. “What about you, Steve? Did you apply anywhere? Any schools you’re thinking about?”
He stiffened—not obviously, but enough that she noticed.
“I, uh… no,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t apply.”
Everyone quieted a touch.
“I might just… stay in Hawkins,” Steve continued with a practiced shrug. “Work at my dad’s company like I always planned.”
“Oh,” Y/N said softly. “That’s… good. If that’s what you want.”
He gave a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Steve Harrington, who used to talk about leaving Hawkins and seeing the world.
Steve Harrington, who used to say he'd take her to New York someday.
But she didn’t push.
She didn’t get to. Not anymore.
She just nodded, polite and gentle and careful.
Steve looked at her for a second too long, like he wanted to say something else—maybe explain, maybe confess, maybe apologize—but then Robin made a loud joke about bear attacks and the moment disappeared.
The fire crackled.
Snow continued falling outside.
And Y/N wondered how she was supposed to survive a whole week in the same cabin as the boy she had never stopped loving.
Robin sprawled across the bed, one arm over her eyes. “There was so much tension tonight I’m surprised the fireplace didn’t explode.”
Y/N tugged on her sleep shirt, rolling her eyes. “There wasn’t tension.”
“There so was.” Robin sat up, pointing at her. “He kept looking at you.”
“He looked at everyone.”
“No. No, he didn’t,” Robin said. “He did the polite group eye contact thing, and then he’d do this sneaky little glance at you. Like—” She mimicked Steve’s nervous hair ruffle and the way he’d subtly angle his body toward you.
Y/N scoffed, though heat crept up her neck. “We’re friends now. We talked. It’s all good.”
“Uh-huh.” Robin flopped back again. “He gets weird about college talk, by the way. He hates feeling behind. His parents messed him up about it for years—‘Who needs college when your job is already secured,’ blah blah blah. He just shuts down.”
Y/N paused mid- brushing her hair. “I remember.”
Robin peered over. “You two were good together, you know.”
“Were,” Y/N repeated softly. “Keyword.”
And she crawled into bed before Robin could say anything else, heart squeezing in that same old familiar ache.
---------------
The cabin smelled like pine and cold air and something warm that felt like possibility.
Y/N was up before everyone, snow still settling outside the windows. She tied her hair back, humming to herself as she whisked pancake batter and squeezed oranges for juice. The quiet was peaceful — a rare moment without the buzzing, chaotic thoughts of Steve Harrington.
By the time she set the table, footsteps thudded down the stairs.
“Holy crap, Y/N,” Dustin (who’d arrived with the morning carpool) said, eyes widening at the spread. “Marry me.”
“You say that every time someone makes you food,” Lucas muttered.
Nancy hugged her from behind. “You’re an angel.”
Jonathan nodded gratefully. Robin stumbled in and immediately grabbed a pancake with her hand.
Then Steve walked in.
Sleep-ruffled hair. Sweats. The soft kind of morning voice that hit her embarrassingly hard.
“You… made all this?” he asked, blinking at the table.
Y/N shrugged. “Felt like it.”
He smiled — a small, warm, familiar thing she wasn’t ready for.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
Her breath hitched.
He used to call her that all the time.
Everyone ate like they hadn’t seen food in a week. Y/N sat back, watching them banter and laugh and argue over syrup, her heart so full it hurt.
These were her people.
Her home before she ever found one in a college acceptance letter.
The moment she carried a plate toward the sink, a hand gently nudged her hip.
“Nope,” Steve said, sidestepping her. “Cooks don’t clean.”
“I don’t mind—”
“Doesn’t matter.” He slid into place at the sink, rolling up his sleeves. “Go sit or something.”
Y/N blinked at him, then climbed onto the counter—an old habit from when they dated, when she used to sit there while he made milkshakes at Family Video.
He started rinsing plates, water warm and steam clouding the window.
“So…” she tried, swinging her legs. “How’ve you been?”
He smiled faintly, eyes on the dishes. “Pretty good, actually. Grades still kinda suck.”
“Steve—”
“I know,” he laughed softly. “But I’m doing great on the teams. Coach said I might get scouted for a local program.”
“That’s amazing.”
He shrugged, but his cheeks pinked. “My parents are… the same. Dad’s still pushing the company thing.”
Y/N nodded. She’d known his insecurities long before he admitted them to anyone else.
“I haven’t, uh… done anything too wild lately,” he added with a wry grin.
She raised a brow. “That’s not what I heard.”
He froze. “…What did you hear?”
“Robin told me you’ve had some… adventures.”
He groaned. “She exaggerates. A lot. I’m actually pretty boring.”
She laughed. “Steve Harrington? Boring?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her, a playful spark in his eyes — the one she remembered, the one that used to undo her completely.
“That’s what you always said.”
“Yeah,” she whispered, “well. Things change.”
He paused washing, leaning his hip against the counter to face her fully.
“Not everything.”
There it was again.
Something warm. Something tender.
Something she wasn’t supposed to feel anymore.
His gaze held her a second too long before he turned back to the sink.
And Y/N realized something she wasn’t ready for:
She still wasn’t over him.
Not even close.
--------------
The snow had stopped falling sometime after sunset, leaving the world quiet and unreal—white draped over every branch, every rooftop of the cabin, glittering under the porch light. The others were inside playing cards, laughing loud enough to spill through the walls.
But you and Steve had drifted out onto the porch, both pretending you just needed fresh air.
You stood with your arms wrapped around yourself, exhaling small clouds into the cold. Steve stood beside you with his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet like he was trying to gather the courage to speak.
He wasn’t usually quiet. Not around you.
Not unless something was eating him alive.
“Y/N,” he finally said, voice low. “There’s… something I should’ve told you a long time ago.”
You turned to him, heart already tightening.
“Okay.”
He didn’t look at you—not yet. He stared at the snow instead, breathing hard, like every word weighed him down.
“You asked me once,” he said, “why I broke up with you.”
Your throat closed up.
You remembered.
You remembered begging him to just tell you, just give you something to understand—but he’d shut down, closed off, walked away without a real reason.
He swallowed, jaw tense.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “You never did. I just… I wasn’t good for you. I knew you were going places—big places. And I was in this really… dark, messed-up point in my life.”
You blinked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want you to see it,” he said immediately, voice breaking at the edges. “I didn’t want you to see how bad it got. I didn’t want you to worry about me when you were already… more than I ever deserved.”
Your chest ached.
“Steve…”
He finally looked at you.
And God — his eyes.
All that warmth you remembered.
All that hurt you never got to see.
“I was angry all the time,” he continued. “At my parents. At school. At myself. I felt like a screwup with a future someone else planned for me. And I thought if I stayed with you, you’d… you’d get stuck to me. You’d slow down for me. And I couldn’t let that happen.”
His breath shook as he said it.
You stepped closer without thinking.
“Steve, you should’ve told me.”
Your voice wavered. “I didn’t need perfect. I didn’t need you put together. If you were struggling, I would’ve been there for you. I would’ve helped you. I would’ve done anything for you.”
He looked gutted. Like those words hit him right in the heart.
“I know that,” he whispered. “That was the problem. You were willing to give everything. And I… I wasn’t someone worth giving that to back then.”
You shook your head, eyes stinging.
“Don't say that.”
"It's true," he murmured. “I was scared. And I was stupid. And I hurt you because I thought it would keep you from getting dragged into the mess I was.”
You stepped even closer, your boots crunching in the snow, looking up at him.
“Steve… you didn’t have to protect me from you. I didn’t need that.”
He let out a shaky breath, like he’d been holding it for years.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t know how to love you the right way back then.”
Silence fell between you—but it didn’t feel empty.
It felt like truth.
Like old wounds finally being cleaned out.
Like something shifting, melting, thawing.
Steve looked at you with this soft, aching expression.
“I'm sorry, Y/N,” he said. “For hurting you. For disappearing. For… everything.”
Your voice came out barely above a whisper.
“I never stopped wanting to understand.”
He closed his eyes for a second, exhaling like he’d been waiting years to hear that.
Then, slowly, he reached out.
Not touching you.
Not assuming anything.
Just letting his hand hang there, close enough that you could take it if you wanted.
The cold air swirled around the two of you, but for the first time in a long time, neither of you felt it.
The air between them feels different after that conversation.
Lighter.
Like something that had been pressing on both their chests for years had finally loosened its grip.
Steve walks back into the cabin beside you, shoulders no longer tense, jaw unclenched. You don’t talk about what was said — you don’t need to. The silence isn’t awkward anymore. It’s comfortable. Familiar. Almost dangerous in how easy it feels.
Later that morning, everyone piles into jackets and boots, scarves half-tied and laughter already echoing through the cabin. The mountains stretch endlessly ahead of you, white and blinding under the winter sun.
Skiing was Jonathan’s idea.
Steve pretends he’s annoyed about it.
“I haven’t skied since I was, like, twelve,” he mutters, tightening his gloves.
Robin grins. “Relax, Harrington. Worst case scenario, you fall dramatically and we laugh.”
“That’s not comforting.”
You smile quietly, watching him. He looks good out here — cheeks flushed from the cold, hair a little wild under his beanie, taller somehow against the snow. Stronger. Older.
On the slopes, chaos ensues.
Dustin eats snow within the first five minutes.
Lucas insists he’s “actually really good at this” before immediately wiping out.
Robin screams the entire way down, laughing so hard she can barely stand.
Steve sticks close to you without realizing it — always just a little behind, ready to grab your arm when you wobble, steadying you without making a big deal of it.
“You good?” he asks, voice warm through the cold air.
“Yeah,” you say, breathless. “You?”
He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
But the truth sits heavy in his chest.
Because watching you laugh like this — carefree, confident, surrounded by friends who adore you — makes something ache inside him. He remembers tenth grade too clearly. Your smile then. The way you believed in him when he didn’t know how to believe in himself.
He wonders how the hell he ever let you go.
They take a break near the lodge, clustered around steaming cups of hot chocolate. You’re mid-story, animated and glowing, when Steve catches himself staring again.
He looks away too late.
Nancy notices. Of course she does.
Steve has thought about you every day since the breakup. In quiet moments. In loud ones. When things went wrong and when they went right. He told himself it was nostalgia. Regret. Guilt.
But standing here now, snow crunching under his boots, watching you throw your head back in laughter —
He knows the truth.
He never stopped loving you.
And this time, if he gets the chance…
He’s not letting fear take you away from him again.
---------------
That night, Christmas Eve settled quietly over the cabin.
Snow tapped softly against the windows. The fireplace crackled, filling the room with warmth and golden light. Someone handed out mugs of cocoa. Everyone gathered on the floor and couches, wrapped in blankets, close enough that knees and shoulders brushed.
“Okay,” Robin said, clapping her hands. “Tradition time. One thing you’re grateful for this year. No dodging.”
There were groans, but no one protested.
Jonathan went first, awkward but sincere. Nancy followed, thoughtful. Dustin made a joke and then surprised everyone by getting serious. One by one, the room filled with gratitude, laughter, softness.
Then all eyes turned to you.
You swallowed, suddenly shy. “I guess…” you glanced around the room, at faces you loved, at people who felt like home. “I’m thankful for my friends. All of you. For… sticking around. For being here. For letting me grow and mess up and still showing up anyway.”
There were murmurs of agreement, a few soft awws. Someone threw a pillow at you.
Steve’s chest ached.
When it was his turn, he shifted where he sat, elbows resting on his knees. He stared into the fire for a moment too long before speaking.
“I’m grateful for new beginnings,” he said quietly. “And… old friendships. The ones that don’t disappear, even when things get complicated.”
Silence followed. Not uncomfortable—just loaded.
Several heads slowly turned.
Toward you.
Then back to Steve.
Robin rolled her eyes so hard she nearly fell over. Nancy pressed her lips together to hide a smile. Dustin mouthed oh my god to Lucas.
You didn’t look at Steve.
Steve didn’t look at you.
Everyone else could see it clearly.
Two people circling something fragile and unfinished, pretending they weren’t standing right in the middle of it.
The fire crackled louder, snow falling steadily outside.
And Steve thought—not for the first time that week—that maybe new beginnings didn’t always mean starting over.
Sometimes, they meant finding your way back.
The snow was still untouched that morning, a soft white blanket stretching endlessly between the trees. The cabin behind them glowed faintly with Christmas lights, muffled laughter drifting through the walls as the others slowly woke up.
Steve shoved his hands into his jacket pockets as he stepped onto the porch. “Wanna take a walk?” he asked, casual—too casual.
You hesitated only a second before nodding. “Yeah. Sure.”
The cold bit at your cheeks as you walked side by side, boots crunching quietly. For a while, you talked about nothing important—how ridiculous Jonathan looked on skis yesterday, how Robin somehow managed to fall without even moving, how the pancakes had disappeared in record time.
It felt… easy. Familiar. Like slipping into an old sweater that still fit.
Steve exhaled slowly, breath fogging the air. Then he stopped walking.
You turned. “What’s up?”
He stared out at the trees for a second too long, jaw tight, like he was bracing himself for something. “I—” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t do this anymore. Pretend I’m fine. Pretend I don’t feel it.”
Your heart skipped painfully. “Steve…”
“I’m still in love with you,” he said quietly.
The world seemed to still. Snow fell softly around you, but all you could hear was your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
“I know you don’t owe me anything,” he rushed on, finally looking at you, eyes earnest and raw. “You don’t have to say anything back. I just—I’ve been holding this in since the day we broke up. I never stopped loving you. Not once.”
Your chest ached.
“I wasn’t a good boyfriend back then,” he continued. “I was scared, and messed up, and dealing with things I didn’t know how to handle. I thought I was protecting you by letting you go. You were going places. You still are. And I felt like… like I’d only drag you down.”
Your voice trembled. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
He swallowed. “I know. And I hate myself for it. But I’ve worked on myself. I’m not that kid anymore. I’m trying to be better. Stronger. Someone who can actually take care of you—stand beside you, not behind you.”
He paused, searching your face. “I just love you. So damn much.”
You felt tears sting your eyes. “Steve… I would’ve been there for you. I didn’t care how dark things got. I loved you then. I love you now. I always have.”
His breath hitched.
“I don’t know what this looks like yet,” you admitted softly. “It’ll take time. But my heart’s never stopped wanting you.”
For a second, he just stared at you—like he was afraid this was a dream that might disappear if he moved too fast. Then he stepped closer, slow and careful, giving you every chance to pull away.
You didn’t.
His lips brushed yours, gentle and tentative, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile. You kissed him back instantly, fingers curling into his jacket as you pulled him closer. The kiss deepened just slightly—warm, familiar, aching with everything left unsaid.
When you finally pulled back, both of you were smiling, foreheads touching, breaths uneven.
“Merry Christmas,” Steve whispered.
You laughed softly, heart full. “Merry Christmas, Harrington.”
Behind you, the cabin door creaked open.
Robin’s voice carried through the snow. “I SWEAR TO GOD if you two weren’t kissing out there I was about to lose a bet—”
Steve groaned. You just laughed, squeezing his hand.
This time, neither of you let go.
------------
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Steve Harrington x Reader - Cabin Trip (exes to lovers)
The gang goes on a cabin tip to enjoy the snow, cold weather and a bit of skiing, y/n has no idea who she'll deal with her ex boyfriend Steve Harrington also joining the trip, but maybe Christmas/holiday magic will make things right.
mainly fluff, 4.1k
----------------
The call came out of nowhere.
Your phone buzzed on your nightstand, and when the name Steve Harrington lit up the screen, your stomach dropped straight through the mattress.
You hadn’t spoken one-on-one in… years. You existed in the same friend group—graduation parties, study sessions, late-night diner runs—but never alone. Not since tenth grade. Not since he broke your heart with that soft sigh and a quiet “I think we should break up.” No explanation. No warning. Nothing.
You considered letting it ring out.
But you didn’t.
“Hello?”
“Hey.” His voice came through deeper than you remembered. Smoother. Warmer. “Um—sorry, I know this is random. Do you… have a minute?”
You hesitated. “Yeah. I guess.”
He cleared his throat. You heard the faint engine of his BMW in the background, the hum steady, like he was parked somewhere.
“I was thinking,” he started, “the cabin trip is next week and… I don’t want things to be weird.”
You closed your eyes. Too late.
He continued anyway, voice gentle but deliberate. “I want us to be able to hang out like normal. No bad blood, no awkwardness. I figured we should talk before we’re trapped on a mountain together.”
You forced a small laugh. “Makes sense.”
“Can we meet up?” he asked. “Maybe… the coffee place on Maple? Tomorrow?”
Your heart squeezed.
He sounded sincere.
He sounded… older. Softer in some ways, harder in others.
“Sure,” you said. “Tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Y/N.” He exhaled like he’d been holding the breath for years. “Really. I think we both deserve a good trip.”
You hung up first.
Only then did you let your shoulders slump.
Because you didn’t want to “clear the air.”
You wanted answers.
You wanted the truth he never gave you.
And you weren’t ready for how seeing him again would feel.
—
The next afternoon, the bell above the café door chimed as Steve walked in.
You had to remind yourself to breathe.
He looked nothing like the 15-year-old boy who used to walk you home after class with his backpack slung over one shoulder, kissing you against your front porch like he couldn’t stop himself.
He was—God—he was a man now.
Wider shoulders.
Arms that strained underneath the sleeves of his henley.
Jaw sharper.
His hair still perfect, still fluffy, still unfairly charming.
And his eyes…
His eyes were older.
Wiser.
Like he’d lived a hundred lives since the last time you looked into them.
And maybe he had.
He dealt with things you still didn’t understand.
He saw you and smiled, that same crooked Harrington smile that always destroyed you.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
He sat across from you, leaning forward on his elbows like he wanted to be close but wasn’t sure if he had the right anymore.
“So…” He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit he never outgrew. “I know it’s been a long time. I didn’t want the trip to be uncomfortable.”
“It won’t be,” you said quickly, though your chest ached like a bruise. “We’re… friends.”
He looked at you for a long moment.
Soft.
Searching.
Careful.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Friends.”
It should’ve felt reassuring.
Instead it felt like a punch.
He sat back, releasing a breath. “I just… wanted to clear the air. No tension. We both deserve to have fun, you know?”
You nodded, smiling even though your heart felt like cracked glass.
“Yeah. Absolutely. Clean slate.”
He smiled back, relieved.
You wished you could tell him he didn’t need to worry—
that you’d pretend everything was okay
that you’d pretend your heart didn’t pound when you looked at him
that you’d pretend the breakup didn’t still sit unsolved in your chest like a secret you weren’t allowed to know.
But you didn’t.
You just nodded.
Because he wanted to be friends.
And you still didn’t know why he ever stopped being yours.
----------
The cabin looked like it had been plucked straight off a postcard—wooden logs stacked with perfect symmetry, warm golden windows, smoke curling out of the chimney. Snow dusted the roof like powdered sugar, the world outside muffled and quiet in that way winter always made everything feel softer.
Everyone arrived within minutes of each other.
Nancy and Jonathan unloaded the trunk, bickering lightly about the map.
Robin immediately slipped and nearly face-planted into a snowbank.
And Steve—
Steve stepped out of his car, pulling off his gloves, breath clouding in the cold.
Y/N felt her heartbeat falter.
He looked… unfair.
More grown. Broader shoulders, arms filling out his coat, hair slightly longer than before, falling in perfectly tousled waves. He walked toward them, boots crunching against the snow, eyes warm and familiar and somehow so different—older. Like he’d lived a lifetime in the last couple years. Like his heart carried stories she had no way of knowing.
They all piled inside, carrying bags and laughing about the cold. Jonathan and Nancy took the room near the end of the hall. Y/N and Robin claimed one with two twin beds and fuzzy blankets. Steve’s room was across the hall—close enough to hear the floorboards creak with each step, close enough for her stomach to twist every time he walked by.
Later, after settling in, they bundled back up and drove into town to grab takeout from a small diner that smelled like melted butter and cinnamon. Back at the cabin, they gathered around the fireplace, plates on their laps, boots drying near the hearth. Soft flames crackled as snow fell against the window.
Conversation drifted naturally—classes, family, plans, gossip from school.
“Okay,” Robin said, nudging Y/N with her elbow, “tell them. Tell them about the schools.”
Y/N looked down shyly, fiddling with the edge of her napkin. “I—I got into some Ivy Leagues.”
Everyone exploded.
“WHAT?” Robin nearly screamed.
“Oh my god, Y/N!” Nancy beamed, nearly spilling her soup.
Jonathan clapped, Dustin would’ve fainted if he were here, and even Robin did this little happy dance on the couch.
“Holy shit,” Robin added, “that’s—like—that’s incredible!”
Y/N’s cheeks warmed. “They’re… really expensive though. So I’m waiting to hear about scholarships. I don’t want to get too excited until I know if it’s realistic.”
Nancy nodded in solidarity. “Same. I got into Emerson and—God, the tuition alone made me want to pass out.”
But she smiled softly. “Still. You got in. That’s amazing.”
“Seriously,” Jonathan chimed in. “That’s huge.”
Y/N’s heart felt light under all the praise… then heavy when she felt a warm hand wrap around her arm.
Steve.
He leaned forward slightly, his grip gentle but firm, his thumb brushing once—absently, unconsciously.
He smiled at her, eyes soft, proud in a way he probably didn’t even realize.
“I knew you could do it,” he said.
Her breath caught.
The way he looked at her—like she was the same girl he used to kiss behind the bleachers, the girl he’d held during thunderstorms, the girl he once swore he’d never hurt—it made the cabin feel suddenly too warm.
She swallowed, finally meeting his gaze. “Thanks.”
For a moment, it felt like the past lived in that small space between them.
But she forced herself to let it go.
They weren’t those people anymore.
She cleared her throat and pushed the attention away from herself. “What about you, Steve? Did you apply anywhere? Any schools you’re thinking about?”
He stiffened—not obviously, but enough that she noticed.
“I, uh… no,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t apply.”
Everyone quieted a touch.
“I might just… stay in Hawkins,” Steve continued with a practiced shrug. “Work at my dad’s company like I always planned.”
“Oh,” Y/N said softly. “That’s… good. If that’s what you want.”
He gave a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Steve Harrington, who used to talk about leaving Hawkins and seeing the world.
Steve Harrington, who used to say he'd take her to New York someday.
But she didn’t push.
She didn’t get to. Not anymore.
She just nodded, polite and gentle and careful.
Steve looked at her for a second too long, like he wanted to say something else—maybe explain, maybe confess, maybe apologize—but then Robin made a loud joke about bear attacks and the moment disappeared.
The fire crackled.
Snow continued falling outside.
And Y/N wondered how she was supposed to survive a whole week in the same cabin as the boy she had never stopped loving.
Robin sprawled across the bed, one arm over her eyes. “There was so much tension tonight I’m surprised the fireplace didn’t explode.”
Y/N tugged on her sleep shirt, rolling her eyes. “There wasn’t tension.”
“There so was.” Robin sat up, pointing at her. “He kept looking at you.”
“He looked at everyone.”
“No. No, he didn’t,” Robin said. “He did the polite group eye contact thing, and then he’d do this sneaky little glance at you. Like—” She mimicked Steve’s nervous hair ruffle and the way he’d subtly angle his body toward you.
Y/N scoffed, though heat crept up her neck. “We’re friends now. We talked. It’s all good.”
“Uh-huh.” Robin flopped back again. “He gets weird about college talk, by the way. He hates feeling behind. His parents messed him up about it for years—‘Who needs college when your job is already secured,’ blah blah blah. He just shuts down.”
Y/N paused mid- brushing her hair. “I remember.”
Robin peered over. “You two were good together, you know.”
“Were,” Y/N repeated softly. “Keyword.”
And she crawled into bed before Robin could say anything else, heart squeezing in that same old familiar ache.
---------------
The cabin smelled like pine and cold air and something warm that felt like possibility.
Y/N was up before everyone, snow still settling outside the windows. She tied her hair back, humming to herself as she whisked pancake batter and squeezed oranges for juice. The quiet was peaceful — a rare moment without the buzzing, chaotic thoughts of Steve Harrington.
By the time she set the table, footsteps thudded down the stairs.
“Holy crap, Y/N,” Dustin (who’d arrived with the morning carpool) said, eyes widening at the spread. “Marry me.”
“You say that every time someone makes you food,” Lucas muttered.
Nancy hugged her from behind. “You’re an angel.”
Jonathan nodded gratefully. Robin stumbled in and immediately grabbed a pancake with her hand.
Then Steve walked in.
Sleep-ruffled hair. Sweats. The soft kind of morning voice that hit her embarrassingly hard.
“You… made all this?” he asked, blinking at the table.
Y/N shrugged. “Felt like it.”
He smiled — a small, warm, familiar thing she wasn’t ready for.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
Her breath hitched.
He used to call her that all the time.
Everyone ate like they hadn’t seen food in a week. Y/N sat back, watching them banter and laugh and argue over syrup, her heart so full it hurt.
These were her people.
Her home before she ever found one in a college acceptance letter.
The moment she carried a plate toward the sink, a hand gently nudged her hip.
“Nope,” Steve said, sidestepping her. “Cooks don’t clean.”
“I don’t mind—”
“Doesn’t matter.” He slid into place at the sink, rolling up his sleeves. “Go sit or something.”
Y/N blinked at him, then climbed onto the counter—an old habit from when they dated, when she used to sit there while he made milkshakes at Family Video.
He started rinsing plates, water warm and steam clouding the window.
“So…” she tried, swinging her legs. “How’ve you been?”
He smiled faintly, eyes on the dishes. “Pretty good, actually. Grades still kinda suck.”
“Steve—”
“I know,” he laughed softly. “But I’m doing great on the teams. Coach said I might get scouted for a local program.”
“That’s amazing.”
He shrugged, but his cheeks pinked. “My parents are… the same. Dad’s still pushing the company thing.”
Y/N nodded. She’d known his insecurities long before he admitted them to anyone else.
“I haven’t, uh… done anything too wild lately,” he added with a wry grin.
She raised a brow. “That’s not what I heard.”
He froze. “…What did you hear?”
“Robin told me you’ve had some… adventures.”
He groaned. “She exaggerates. A lot. I’m actually pretty boring.”
She laughed. “Steve Harrington? Boring?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her, a playful spark in his eyes — the one she remembered, the one that used to undo her completely.
“That’s what you always said.”
“Yeah,” she whispered, “well. Things change.”
He paused washing, leaning his hip against the counter to face her fully.
“Not everything.”
There it was again.
Something warm. Something tender.
Something she wasn’t supposed to feel anymore.
His gaze held her a second too long before he turned back to the sink.
And Y/N realized something she wasn’t ready for:
She still wasn’t over him.
Not even close.
--------------
The snow had stopped falling sometime after sunset, leaving the world quiet and unreal—white draped over every branch, every rooftop of the cabin, glittering under the porch light. The others were inside playing cards, laughing loud enough to spill through the walls.
But you and Steve had drifted out onto the porch, both pretending you just needed fresh air.
You stood with your arms wrapped around yourself, exhaling small clouds into the cold. Steve stood beside you with his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet like he was trying to gather the courage to speak.
He wasn’t usually quiet. Not around you.
Not unless something was eating him alive.
“Y/N,” he finally said, voice low. “There’s… something I should’ve told you a long time ago.”
You turned to him, heart already tightening.
“Okay.”
He didn’t look at you—not yet. He stared at the snow instead, breathing hard, like every word weighed him down.
“You asked me once,” he said, “why I broke up with you.”
Your throat closed up.
You remembered.
You remembered begging him to just tell you, just give you something to understand—but he’d shut down, closed off, walked away without a real reason.
He swallowed, jaw tense.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “You never did. I just… I wasn’t good for you. I knew you were going places—big places. And I was in this really… dark, messed-up point in my life.”
You blinked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want you to see it,” he said immediately, voice breaking at the edges. “I didn’t want you to see how bad it got. I didn’t want you to worry about me when you were already… more than I ever deserved.”
Your chest ached.
“Steve…”
He finally looked at you.
And God — his eyes.
All that warmth you remembered.
All that hurt you never got to see.
“I was angry all the time,” he continued. “At my parents. At school. At myself. I felt like a screwup with a future someone else planned for me. And I thought if I stayed with you, you’d… you’d get stuck to me. You’d slow down for me. And I couldn’t let that happen.”
His breath shook as he said it.
You stepped closer without thinking.
“Steve, you should’ve told me.”
Your voice wavered. “I didn’t need perfect. I didn’t need you put together. If you were struggling, I would’ve been there for you. I would’ve helped you. I would’ve done anything for you.”
He looked gutted. Like those words hit him right in the heart.
“I know that,” he whispered. “That was the problem. You were willing to give everything. And I… I wasn’t someone worth giving that to back then.”
You shook your head, eyes stinging.
“Don't say that.”
"It's true," he murmured. “I was scared. And I was stupid. And I hurt you because I thought it would keep you from getting dragged into the mess I was.”
You stepped even closer, your boots crunching in the snow, looking up at him.
“Steve… you didn’t have to protect me from you. I didn’t need that.”
He let out a shaky breath, like he’d been holding it for years.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t know how to love you the right way back then.”
Silence fell between you—but it didn’t feel empty.
It felt like truth.
Like old wounds finally being cleaned out.
Like something shifting, melting, thawing.
Steve looked at you with this soft, aching expression.
“I'm sorry, Y/N,” he said. “For hurting you. For disappearing. For… everything.”
Your voice came out barely above a whisper.
“I never stopped wanting to understand.”
He closed his eyes for a second, exhaling like he’d been waiting years to hear that.
Then, slowly, he reached out.
Not touching you.
Not assuming anything.
Just letting his hand hang there, close enough that you could take it if you wanted.
The cold air swirled around the two of you, but for the first time in a long time, neither of you felt it.
The air between them feels different after that conversation.
Lighter.
Like something that had been pressing on both their chests for years had finally loosened its grip.
Steve walks back into the cabin beside you, shoulders no longer tense, jaw unclenched. You don’t talk about what was said — you don’t need to. The silence isn’t awkward anymore. It’s comfortable. Familiar. Almost dangerous in how easy it feels.
Later that morning, everyone piles into jackets and boots, scarves half-tied and laughter already echoing through the cabin. The mountains stretch endlessly ahead of you, white and blinding under the winter sun.
Skiing was Jonathan’s idea.
Steve pretends he’s annoyed about it.
“I haven’t skied since I was, like, twelve,” he mutters, tightening his gloves.
Robin grins. “Relax, Harrington. Worst case scenario, you fall dramatically and we laugh.”
“That’s not comforting.”
You smile quietly, watching him. He looks good out here — cheeks flushed from the cold, hair a little wild under his beanie, taller somehow against the snow. Stronger. Older.
On the slopes, chaos ensues.
Dustin eats snow within the first five minutes.
Lucas insists he’s “actually really good at this” before immediately wiping out.
Robin screams the entire way down, laughing so hard she can barely stand.
Steve sticks close to you without realizing it — always just a little behind, ready to grab your arm when you wobble, steadying you without making a big deal of it.
“You good?” he asks, voice warm through the cold air.
“Yeah,” you say, breathless. “You?”
He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
But the truth sits heavy in his chest.
Because watching you laugh like this — carefree, confident, surrounded by friends who adore you — makes something ache inside him. He remembers tenth grade too clearly. Your smile then. The way you believed in him when he didn’t know how to believe in himself.
He wonders how the hell he ever let you go.
They take a break near the lodge, clustered around steaming cups of hot chocolate. You’re mid-story, animated and glowing, when Steve catches himself staring again.
He looks away too late.
Nancy notices. Of course she does.
Steve has thought about you every day since the breakup. In quiet moments. In loud ones. When things went wrong and when they went right. He told himself it was nostalgia. Regret. Guilt.
But standing here now, snow crunching under his boots, watching you throw your head back in laughter —
He knows the truth.
He never stopped loving you.
And this time, if he gets the chance…
He’s not letting fear take you away from him again.
---------------
That night, Christmas Eve settled quietly over the cabin.
Snow tapped softly against the windows. The fireplace crackled, filling the room with warmth and golden light. Someone handed out mugs of cocoa. Everyone gathered on the floor and couches, wrapped in blankets, close enough that knees and shoulders brushed.
“Okay,” Robin said, clapping her hands. “Tradition time. One thing you’re grateful for this year. No dodging.”
There were groans, but no one protested.
Jonathan went first, awkward but sincere. Nancy followed, thoughtful. Dustin made a joke and then surprised everyone by getting serious. One by one, the room filled with gratitude, laughter, softness.
Then all eyes turned to you.
You swallowed, suddenly shy. “I guess…” you glanced around the room, at faces you loved, at people who felt like home. “I’m thankful for my friends. All of you. For… sticking around. For being here. For letting me grow and mess up and still showing up anyway.”
There were murmurs of agreement, a few soft awws. Someone threw a pillow at you.
Steve’s chest ached.
When it was his turn, he shifted where he sat, elbows resting on his knees. He stared into the fire for a moment too long before speaking.
“I’m grateful for new beginnings,” he said quietly. “And… old friendships. The ones that don’t disappear, even when things get complicated.”
Silence followed. Not uncomfortable—just loaded.
Several heads slowly turned.
Toward you.
Then back to Steve.
Robin rolled her eyes so hard she nearly fell over. Nancy pressed her lips together to hide a smile. Dustin mouthed oh my god to Lucas.
You didn’t look at Steve.
Steve didn’t look at you.
Everyone else could see it clearly.
Two people circling something fragile and unfinished, pretending they weren’t standing right in the middle of it.
The fire crackled louder, snow falling steadily outside.
And Steve thought—not for the first time that week—that maybe new beginnings didn’t always mean starting over.
Sometimes, they meant finding your way back.
The snow was still untouched that morning, a soft white blanket stretching endlessly between the trees. The cabin behind them glowed faintly with Christmas lights, muffled laughter drifting through the walls as the others slowly woke up.
Steve shoved his hands into his jacket pockets as he stepped onto the porch. “Wanna take a walk?” he asked, casual—too casual.
You hesitated only a second before nodding. “Yeah. Sure.”
The cold bit at your cheeks as you walked side by side, boots crunching quietly. For a while, you talked about nothing important—how ridiculous Jonathan looked on skis yesterday, how Robin somehow managed to fall without even moving, how the pancakes had disappeared in record time.
It felt… easy. Familiar. Like slipping into an old sweater that still fit.
Steve exhaled slowly, breath fogging the air. Then he stopped walking.
You turned. “What’s up?”
He stared out at the trees for a second too long, jaw tight, like he was bracing himself for something. “I—” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t do this anymore. Pretend I’m fine. Pretend I don’t feel it.”
Your heart skipped painfully. “Steve…”
“I’m still in love with you,” he said quietly.
The world seemed to still. Snow fell softly around you, but all you could hear was your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
“I know you don’t owe me anything,” he rushed on, finally looking at you, eyes earnest and raw. “You don’t have to say anything back. I just—I’ve been holding this in since the day we broke up. I never stopped loving you. Not once.”
Your chest ached.
“I wasn’t a good boyfriend back then,” he continued. “I was scared, and messed up, and dealing with things I didn’t know how to handle. I thought I was protecting you by letting you go. You were going places. You still are. And I felt like… like I’d only drag you down.”
Your voice trembled. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
He swallowed. “I know. And I hate myself for it. But I’ve worked on myself. I’m not that kid anymore. I’m trying to be better. Stronger. Someone who can actually take care of you—stand beside you, not behind you.”
He paused, searching your face. “I just love you. So damn much.”
You felt tears sting your eyes. “Steve… I would’ve been there for you. I didn’t care how dark things got. I loved you then. I love you now. I always have.”
His breath hitched.
“I don’t know what this looks like yet,” you admitted softly. “It’ll take time. But my heart’s never stopped wanting you.”
For a second, he just stared at you—like he was afraid this was a dream that might disappear if he moved too fast. Then he stepped closer, slow and careful, giving you every chance to pull away.
You didn’t.
His lips brushed yours, gentle and tentative, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile. You kissed him back instantly, fingers curling into his jacket as you pulled him closer. The kiss deepened just slightly—warm, familiar, aching with everything left unsaid.
When you finally pulled back, both of you were smiling, foreheads touching, breaths uneven.
“Merry Christmas,” Steve whispered.
You laughed softly, heart full. “Merry Christmas, Harrington.”
Behind you, the cabin door creaked open.
Robin’s voice carried through the snow. “I SWEAR TO GOD if you two weren’t kissing out there I was about to lose a bet—”
Steve groaned. You just laughed, squeezing his hand.
This time, neither of you let go.
------------
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Steve Harrington x Reader - Return from the Upside Down (Fluff)
Y/n takes care of her Steve when he comes back from the upside down
----------------
The moment Steve stepped through the gate, bleeding, bruised, covered in Upside Down dust, Y/N didn’t even think.
She ran.
Her feet hit the ground so fast she barely felt it, and before anyone could say her name, she was already throwing herself into him — arms around his neck, legs wrapping around his waist in a desperate, relieved leap.
“Steve,” she breathed, voice breaking.
His arms came up instantly, catching her like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. His chest heaved against hers, exhausted, but his hold never wavered. He buried his face in her shoulder, inhaling like she was oxygen.
“Hey, hey,” he whispered, voice rough. “I’m here, baby. I’m right here.”
She pulled back just enough to kiss him — too fast, too emotional, trembling with fear and relief. He kissed back, slow and tired but present, like he needed the taste of her to prove he was alive.
When her feet hit the ground again, she hugged him so tight he let out a quiet groan — not from pain but from the overwhelming relief of being held by the person he loved most.
“Let’s get you home,” she whispered, cupping his cheek. “Please, Steve.”
He nodded, leaning into her touch. “Yeah… yeah, okay.”
-----------------
Steve all but collapsed onto the bathroom stool while Y/N ran warm water into the tub. The steam filled the room, fogging the mirror and softening the metallic scent of dried blood.
He watched her with heavy eyes — eyes that tracked her every move like she was the only thing anchoring him to the real world.
“You don’t have to do all this,” he murmured.
“Yes, I do,” she answered softly.
She helped him peel off the ruined layers — jacket, shirt, undershirt — every scrape and bruise making her chest twist. When he hissed quietly from a cut along his shoulder, she kissed just above it in apology.
“Baby…” he whispered, voice shaking slightly.
“I’ve got you,” she said.
When he finally lowered himself into the tub, muscles relaxing instantly, he let out a breath that sounded like something inside him unclenched.
Y/N knelt beside the tub, sleeves pushed up, hair tied back. Every so often, as she gently sponged warm water over his shoulders, he’d lean into her like he couldn’t keep himself upright without touching her.
She didn’t care that water dripped down her arms and soaked into her shirt.
He reached for her hand, soft and reverent, lifting it to his lips to kiss her knuckles.
“You came back,” she whispered, eyes stinging.
“I told you I would,” he murmured, kissing her fingers again. “Always.”
She washed the blood from his hair carefully, his eyes drifting closed as she massaged his scalp. He kept leaning forward, forehead brushing her cheek, the softest sigh leaving him.
“You’re so good to me,” he breathed.
“You deserve it,” she whispered back.
When he was finally clean, she wrapped him in a thick towel, guiding him gently to her bed like he was made of glass.
In bed together
Steve climbed under the blankets with a tired groan, scooting close the second she joined him. His arms wrapped around her waist automatically, pulling her against his chest like he needed her warmth to survive.
He kissed her cheek once.
Then again.
Then lingered there, breathing her in.
“Y/N?” he whispered, voice barely above a breath.
She brushed her fingers through his damp hair. “Yeah, love?”
He pulled back slightly to see her face, eyes soft and earnest in the dim light.
“You know everything I do is for you,” he said. “All of it. Going back down there… fighting those things… it’s so we can live a life free from fear and danger.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb tracing her cheek. “Until we get that… I won’t stop going back there.”
Her heart soared — painfully, beautifully — because somehow she ended up with the bravest, sweetest, most selfless boyfriend alive.
“Steve…” she whispered.
He kissed her cheek again, then her temple, then hovered over her lips with a tired, soft smile.
“How did I get so damn lucky?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer — just leaned in and kissed her, gentle but deep, their lips fitting together perfectly. When they broke apart, she kissed his forehead, then his nose, then his lips once more.
Steve sighed, long and content, curling into her chest.
Within minutes they were tangled together, limbs intertwined, his arm tight around her waist and his face tucked into the warm curve of her neck.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, they both fell asleep peacefully — safe, warm, wrapped up in each other, finding quiet bliss in the comfort of the arms they loved most.
------------
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Steve & y/n getting a bit distracted during work 🥹
The ON AIR light glowed red above the tiny recording booth window, casting a warm glow across the dim space. Robin’s voice floated through the hallway speakers — animated, dramatic, absolutely in her element as she introduced the next song.
Steve leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her through the glass with a proud little smile. Then he looked over his shoulder to where Y/N was perched on the edge of the desk behind him, swinging her legs like she owned the place.
“You know,” he whispered, pushing off the door and walking toward her, “you look way too cute sitting there.”
She smirked. “Just sitting?”
“Mhm.” He placed his hands on either side of her hips, leaning in close. “And also breathing. And also looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” she whispered, pretending innocence even though her eyes were absolutely doing that thing — soft, warm, pulling him in like gravity.
Steve let out a tiny, breathy laugh. “Don’t start.”
She leaned in until their noses brushed. “Start what?”
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, grabbing her waist and pulling her flush against him. Her laugh spilled into his mouth as he kissed her — quick at first, then slow and deepening when she wrapped her arms around his neck.
From the booth, Robin’s cheerful voice sailed out:
“And now here’s a little something for anyone hopelessly in love—Steve, don’t roll your eyes, I saw that—”
Y/N snorted against his lips, and Steve had to bury his face in her shoulder to keep from laughing out loud.
“She’s gonna kill us if she looks over,” Y/N whispered, fingers sliding into his hair.
Steve lifted his head, smirk spreading lazily across his face. “Then we don’t let her look.”
“That’s definitely how that works,” she giggled.
He kissed her again, slower this time, hands warm against her waist as he guided her backward until she was leaning against the wall. She gasped softly as he pressed closer, lips brushing hers between kisses.
“Missed you today,” he murmured against her mouth.
“You saw me four hours ago.”
“Exactly.” His grin went crooked. “Four. Very. Long. Hours.”
She tugged him down for another kiss — deeper, warmer — but they both froze for a split second as Robin’s voice suddenly got louder, like she’d leaned toward the glass.
“Steve, stop distracting my technical assistant! This is a professional environment!”
Steve pulled away just enough to whisper, “We’re doomed.”
Y/N tried so hard not to laugh that her eyes watered. She clapped a hand over her mouth. “She knows.”
“Oh, she definitely knows,” he said, kissing the corner of her smile. “She’s known since we walked in holding hands.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes softening.
“You’re really bad for my concentration, you know that?”
“Good,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his in a teasing pass. “Means I’m doing my job.”
Steve let out a very quiet groan, grabbing her waist again. “Baby, please—”
A loud thump came from the other side of the glass, and Robin’s voice burst through the speakers:
“STEEEEVE. I CAN SEE YOU TWO.”
Y/N choked on a laugh. Steve pressed his forehead to hers, shoulders shaking as he whispered, “We need to run.”
“We need to hide.”
“We need to pretend we were totally talking about… weather patterns,” he deadpanned.
She kissed him one last time — soft, lingering, sweet.
Then they broke apart just in time to hear Robin shout:
“IF YOU’RE GONNA SUCK FACE, AT LEAST WAIT UNTIL THE AD BREAK!”
Steve groaned into his hands.
Y/N giggled into his shoulder.
And honestly?
He kissed her again anyway.
————————————
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