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𝒊𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔:

NEW MARVEL FIC

𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒅:

thunder and lightning... oh so frightening ft steve harrington x byers!reader

𝒑𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒅𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅:

Stranger Things : a fanfic based on the show : (tash hopper)

𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕𝒔:

꩜-platonic ✮-romantic ❀-fluff ☁︎-angst ୨ৎ-songfic ❄︎-multi-part

daydream ft sombr ꩜❀ link

blue strips ft bucky barnes ☁︎ ୨ৎ link

team red ft roy harper ꩜❀ link

almost (sweet music) ft charlie weasley ✮୨ৎ☁︎ link

like a star ft nancy wheeler ꩜✮☁︎ link

pinky promise? ft dick grayson ✮❀ link

soda pop ft coriolanus snow ꩜❀ link

mafia wife ft nightwing ✮ link

i bet you think about me. ft newt (tmr) ☁︎୨ৎ link

oh, how i hate him. ft johnny storm ☁︎ link

rained out. ft jonathan byers ❀✮ link

lady, lady. ft (young) haymitch abernathy ✮୨ৎ link

and scene! ft paul mescal ✮❀ link

stand in title ft robin buckley ✮☁︎ link

thunder and lightning... oh so frightening ft steve harrington✮ ☁︎ part one: link //part two: link //part three: link //part four: link

oh...sweetheart ft eddie munson☁︎ ✮link

cherry-leclerc

greed ☆ op81

genre: smut, affair, erotic literature, angst, forbidden romance, enemies to "lovers", a bit angst/yearning, established relationships, voyeurism

word count: 16k

greed (noun) — intense and selfish desire for something, especially wealth, power, or food.

nsfw warning under the cut!

18+...pwp, unprotected sex, missionary, riding, fingering, f!receiving, deep throat, m!receiving, finger sucking

inspired by red sex (re-strung) [rakhi singh]

cherry here!...had fun writing this one teheee. it's a long one, so definitely take breaks in between and enjoy. missed you guys—welcome to the twisted world of greed mwah!

the-spicy-sugar

Done acting like I wouldn’t bounce on his dick fr.

pushing it down... ft oscar piastri + lando norris

The hotel room in Monaco was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning and the rhythmic creak of the mattress. You were in bed, laying down, naked, skin still flushed from the race weekend adrenaline that never quite left either of you.

Lando was above you, inside of you, moving with that familiar mix of tenderness and hunger. His curls stuck to his forehead, hazel eyes half-lidded as he kissed your mouth like he was trying to pour every unspoken "I love you" into it. You kissed him back, fingers threading through his hair, whispering soft encouragements against his lips.

"Oh yeah, baby… touch me," you breathed, guiding his hands exactly where you needed them. He gave what he could—stable, attentive, loving in the way only Lando Norris could be. He was your safe harbor after every chaotic race, the one who remembered your favorite coffee order and how you liked your neck kissed just beneath the ear.

But when you closed your eyes, even for a second…

He replaced him.

Oscar.

No disguise. Just raw, deep need that erased everything else.

It had started innocently enough—shared data reviews, late-night strategy talks in the garage, stolen glances across the paddock. Then one rainy night in Silverstone, after too much champagne and too many lingering touches, it became something else entirely. Oscar inside of you in the back of a team car, rain hammering the roof, his quiet intensity completely undoing you. He didn't speak much, but the way he looked at you—like he saw every fractured piece and wanted them anyway—ruined you for anyone else.

Now you were living two lives.

With Lando, everything felt warm and golden. He made you laugh until your ribs hurt. He held you like you were precious. He was committed, all in, talking about futures and "us against the world" in that soft British accent that still made your heart flutter.

With Oscar… it was deeper. Darker. The kind of connection that felt almost painful in its intensity. He knew exactly how to get to you—softer, harder, in between. He moved like he had studied every gasp and shiver you'd ever given him and perfected the art of pulling them out of you. He was quiet obsession. He was the secret you carried in your chest like a second heartbeat.

Later that same night, after Lando had fallen asleep with his arm slung possessively over your waist, you slipped out of bed. Your phone screen lit up with a single message from Oscar:

Room 1423. Door's unlocked.

You shouldn't. You knew you shouldn't.

But you went anyway.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, Oscar had you against the wall. No words at first—just his mouth on yours, hands sliding under the silk robe you'd thrown on, pushing it open. He was inside of you within minutes, deep and deliberate, one hand over your mouth to muffle the sounds you couldn't hold back.

You loved him in that moment. Kissed his mouth like you were praying. Praying Lando couldn't see what you saw when you closed your eyes.

When Oscar fucked you, it didn't feel like betrayal in the heat of it. It felt like coming home to something inevitable. He was steady but intense, the kind of depth that made you feel seen in ways Lando's sunshine never quite reached. You wanted him to need you. You needed to want something more than the safe, stable love you'd built.

"I wanna feel guilty," you whispered against his neck afterward, both of you tangled in his sheets, sweat cooling on your skin. "I wanna feel like this is wrong."

Oscar's fingers traced lazy circles on your thigh. "Do you?"

You didn't answer. Because the truth was more terrifying: you didn't feel guilty enough. Not when he touched you like that. Not when he looked at you like the rest of the world disappeared.

The next morning you were back in Lando's bed, letting him kiss your shoulder as sunlight poured through the curtains. You smiled at him, pushed the memories of Oscar down deep, praying he wouldn't see it when you came—when the flashes of the night before hit you at the worst possible moments.

You were singing a different song in your head now. One full of stolen touches in motorhomes, secret texts during quali, the ache of wanting what you couldn't have.

Lando pulled you closer, content and loving. "You're everything to me, you know that?"

You kissed him back, heart fracturing.

"I know."

And still, when you closed your eyes…

Oscar replaced him.

Every single time.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

#x reader #oscar piastri #mclaren #ln4 #lando fanfic #lando x reader #lando norris #landoscar #miami gp 2024

give me your eyes... ft tom riddle

The first time Tom Riddle notices you, it’s because you’re laughing.

Not the polite, restrained sort that belongs in the Hogwarts corridors, tucked behind hands and manners—but something bright and careless, like sunlight slipping through stained glass and refusing to stay contained. It echoes. It lingers. It irritates him.

You don’t belong in the same world he’s building.

That’s what he tells himself.

And yet, days later, when he finds himself standing just outside the library’s restricted section, he hears it again—your voice this time, soft and warm, threading through a conversation he has no interest in.

“I just think people are more than what they’ve been through,” you’re saying. “You can’t reduce someone to the worst thing about them.”

Tom pauses.

He doesn’t believe in anything like that.

But he listens.

—

You start noticing him long before he acknowledges you.

Of course you do. Everyone notices Tom Riddle. He moves through the castle like something inevitable—quiet, precise, untouchable. There’s a gravity to him, a pull that doesn’t ask for permission.

People orbit him. People fear him.

You just… smile at him.

It happens in passing, the first time. A small, instinctive thing. You’re coming down the corridor, arms full of books, nearly tripping over your own feet, and he steps aside without looking at you—just enough to avoid contact.

You beam anyway.

“Thanks,” you say, like he’s done you a kindness.

He doesn’t respond.

But later, in the quiet of his dormitory, he remembers the way your eyes caught the light.

—

It becomes a pattern.

You greet him like he’s normal.

Not revered. Not feared. Just… there.

“Morning, Tom.”

“Hi, Tom.”

“You look like you haven’t slept.”

That one earns you a look. Sharp. Measuring.

You don’t flinch.

“You should,” you add lightly, adjusting your bag. “Everything feels worse when you’re tired.”

“Everything is worse,” he replies flatly.

You tilt your head, considering him like he’s a puzzle you’re not trying to solve, just understand.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

He almost laughs.

Almost.

—

He starts seeking you out after that.

Not consciously—he would never admit to that—but somehow you’re always where he ends up. In the library, tucked into a corner with ink-smudged fingers. By the lake, feet dangling over the edge, watching the water like it’s telling you secrets.

You talk to him.

Not at him, not like the others who try to impress or placate. You talk like you expect him to answer. Like you believe there’s something worth hearing.

It unsettles him.

“You’re very quiet,” you say one afternoon, handing him half of your apple without asking.

“I prefer it that way.”

“Mm.” You take a bite of your own, thoughtful. “I think people get loud when they’re scared of being ignored.”

“And you?” he asks, eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you scared of that?”

You grin.

“No. I just like talking to you.”

It’s such a simple answer.

It shouldn’t mean anything.

It does.

—

There are moments—small, almost invisible—where something shifts.

He lets you sit beside him in the library without sending you away.

He listens when you ramble about nothing and everything.

Once, when you trip on the stairs, he catches your arm before you fall.

You laugh, breathless. “See? You’re secretly nice.”

“I’m not,” he says immediately, releasing you like you’ve burned him.

You don’t argue.

“Okay,” you say softly. “You don’t have to be.”

—

The first crack appears on a night when the castle feels too quiet.

You find him alone in an empty classroom, shadows pooling around him like they belong there. His expression is sharper than usual, something restless flickering beneath the surface.

You hesitate in the doorway.

“Tom?”

His head snaps up.

For a second, something dangerous flashes in his eyes.

Then he sees you.

And it… fades.

“What do you want?” he asks, colder than before.

You step inside anyway.

“You weren’t at dinner.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

You don’t believe him. You can tell he knows that.

“Can I sit?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer.

You take that as permission.

For a while, you just sit there, the silence stretching between you. Not uncomfortable—just… present.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone,” you say eventually.

His jaw tightens.

“You know nothing about what I carry.”

“Then tell me.”

“I won’t.”

“Okay.” You nod, unbothered. “I’ll still stay.”

He looks at you then—really looks at you—and there’s something almost angry in it.

“Why?” he demands. “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like you think…” He stops, searching for the words. “Like you think I’m something worth saving.”

You blink, surprised.

“I don’t think you need saving.”

“Then what?”

You smile, softer this time. Sadder, maybe.

“I think you deserve to be known.”

The words land heavier than you expect.

For a moment, he doesn’t speak.

Then, quieter—

“You don’t know what you’re offering.”

“I know exactly what I’m offering,” you say. “And I’ll believe in anything, Tom. Even you.”

Something in him fractures at that.

—

It doesn’t last.

Of course it doesn’t.

There are things in Tom that don’t bend toward light, no matter how much of it you give him. There are paths he’s already walking, choices already made in the quiet, hidden parts of himself.

But for a while—

He lets you take his hand.

He lets you pull him out to the edge of the lake, where the world feels softer, less defined.

“You could leave,” you tell him one evening, your voice barely above a whisper. “We could go somewhere nobody knows us. Nobody expects anything.”

He watches the horizon instead of you.

“And do what?” he asks.

“Live,” you say simply.

He almost believes you.

That’s the worst part.

Because for a fleeting, dangerous second, he imagines it—your laughter somewhere far away, your warmth not something he has to steal or control, but something freely given.

Something he could keep.

But he knows better.

“You’re naïve,” he says, not unkindly.

“Maybe.” You squeeze his hand. “But I’d take the fire out of the wire for you if I could.”

He closes his eyes.

You don’t understand what that would cost.

What he would cost.

—

In the end, it’s not a dramatic break.

No shouting. No final, devastating words.

Just distance.

He stops coming to the lake.

Stops sitting beside you in the library.

Stops letting himself look at you for too long.

You still smile at him in the corridors.

It hurts more now, but you do it anyway.

Because you said you’d believe in him.

And you meant it.

—

Years later, when the world has reshaped itself around his name—when fear follows him like a shadow and power curls at his fingertips—there’s a memory he cannot erase.

Sunlight on water.

Your voice, soft and unwavering—

I think you deserve to be known.

He doesn’t believe in anything.

Not anymore.

But sometimes, in the quiet, he wonders what might have happened if he had believed in you. ___________________________________________________________

#x reader #tom riddle #heated rivalry #wolf parade #sunshine x grumpy

Movement ft Johnny Storm

The gala at the Met was all marble and champagne, the kind of night where the Fantastic Four had to smile for cameras and pretend they were just glamorous celebrities instead of the city’s last line of defense. You were there as Sue’s assistant—clipboard in hand earlier, now just a deep emerald gown that hugged every curve and made your brother Ben grumble something about “too damn pretty for these vultures.”

But Johnny Storm wasn’t looking at the cameras.

He’d been watching you for months. Since the day you started at the Baxter Building, coffee in one hand and a stack of mission reports in the other, he’d felt it—like gravity shifting every time you walked into a room. The little sister of his best friend. His older sister’s right hand. Completely off-limits. He’d told himself that a hundred times. Tonight the leash snapped.

You felt him before you saw him—heat at your back, the faint scent of smoke and expensive cologne. A warm hand brushed your waist as he stepped beside you near the bar.

“Dance with me,” he said, voice low, no smirk for once. Just raw want.

You should have said no. Instead you let him pull you onto the floor.

The music was slow, strings and low bass, and Johnny moved like fire given form—smooth, confident, every shift of his hips guiding yours. His palm burned against the bare skin of your lower back. You could feel the restraint in every muscle; he was holding back, but barely.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured against your ear, breath hot. “Watching you in those pencil skirts, laughing with Sue, giving Ben shit like you’re the only one who can. I’ve been going out of my mind.”

Your fingers tightened on his shoulder. “Johnny—”

“I know. I know all the reasons we shouldn’t.” His hand slid lower, possessive. “But I’m done pretending I don’t want to feel you move with me.”

The song ended. Neither of you let go.

He didn’t ask twice. He simply laced his fingers through yours and tugged you through the crowd, past glittering guests and security, down a side corridor lined with velvet ropes. A discreet door marked “Private—Staff Only.” He shoulder-checked it open—unlocked, thank God—and pulled you into the empty administrative office beyond.

The second the door clicked shut, the pretense vanished.

Johnny spun you, pressing your back to the heavy oak desk. His mouth crashed into yours—hungry, months of stolen glances finally breaking free. You gasped into the kiss and he swallowed it, hands already sliding up your thighs, bunching emerald silk around your hips.

“Been dreaming about this dress on the floor,” he growled against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse. “Or not even on the floor—just up like this.”

You laughed breathlessly, already tugging his bowtie loose, fingers shaking as you popped the studs of his shirt. “Then stop talking and show me.”

He did.

Coat and jacket hit the floor. Your panties were shoved aside, not even fully removed. He lifted you onto the desk with that effortless strength, stepping between your thighs. When he pushed into you—slow at first, then deep and sure—you both moaned like the air had been punched out of you.

Johnny’s rhythm was liquid fire. Every roll of his hips was deliberate, powerful, like he was learning the exact way your body answered his. You clung to his shoulders, legs locked around his waist, the desk creaking beneath you as the pace built. He watched your face the whole time, eyes half-lidded and reverent, like the sight of you coming undone was the only thing that mattered.

“That’s it,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Move with me, baby. Just like that.”

Your head fell back. His name left your lips in a broken cry as pleasure coiled tight and snapped. He followed seconds later, burying his face in your neck, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you with a low, guttural sound that sent aftershocks through your whole body.

For a long minute the only sound was ragged breathing and the distant thump of music from the ballroom.

Johnny stayed buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks like you were something sacred.

“I’ve wanted you for so damn long,” he rasped. “Not just this. You. All of it.”

You kissed him softly, still trembling around him. “We’re going to have to be careful.”

He smiled against your mouth—cocky again, but softer now. “Careful’s never been my style. But for you?” He rolled his hips once more, teasing, promising. “I’ll learn.”

Outside, the party kept spinning. Inside that quiet office, the two of you had finally started moving to the same rhythm.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

#x reader #smut #johnny storm #fantastic four #fantastic 4 #human torch

Let Alone The One You Love ft red hood

The rain in Gotham never really stops; it just changes volume. Tonight it was a low, steady hiss against the warehouse roof where you waited, arms crossed, breath fogging in the cold. You’d told yourself this was the last time. The very last.

Then the skylight shattered inward in that familiar controlled way—glass raining like broken promises—and Red Hood dropped through, boots hitting concrete with a muted thud. Helmet tilted, red gleaming under the sodium lights. He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, breathing a little harder than the drop warranted.

“You came,” you said. Not accusing. Just stating a fact that hurt more than it should.

“Always do.” His voice modulator flattened the warmth you knew was underneath. “You called.”

You had. One encrypted message after three weeks of silence: Rooftop. Midnight. Need to see you. No explanation. He hadn’t asked for one.

He stepped closer, slow, like he was afraid the floor might give out. Or maybe that you would. The helmet stayed on—always did these days when things got heavy—but you could feel his eyes on you through the white lenses.

“Thought I was done with this feeling,” you started, echoing the song that had been looping in your head for days. “Really thought you could be… safe.”

He flinched. Small, but there.

“You were,” you continued. “For a while. The warmth I needed. Like stepping out of the rain into something steady. And then—” Your voice cracked. “You changed. Or maybe I just finally saw it.”

“Never changed how I felt about you.” He took another step. Close enough now that you could smell gun oil and wet leather and the faint copper of old blood. “Just… how I survive.”

“That’s the problem.” You looked up at the helmet, wishing you could see Jason underneath. Not Red Hood. Just him. “You keep me small so I stay safe. You decide what I can handle, what I’m allowed to know, who I’m allowed to be around. Like I’m still that civilian you pulled out of the crossfire years ago.”

He went still.

“If you knew me at all,” you whispered, “you wouldn’t try to keep me small.”

Silence stretched. Rain drummed harder.

“Who would do that to a friend,” you finished, softer, “let alone the one you love?”

The words landed like bullets. He exhaled sharply through the modulator—almost a laugh, almost a sob.

“You think I don’t know?” His voice dropped lower, rawer. “Every time I walk away it’s because I’m terrified the next time I won’t be fast enough. That the hug ends permanent. That I’m the reason you stop breathing.”

He reached up. Hesitated. Then slowly, deliberately, unsealed the helmet. The hiss of pressure release cut through the rain. He pulled it off.

Jason Todd. Scarred jaw, tired eyes, hair damp and sticking to his forehead. The man underneath the rage. The one who still woke up reaching for you some nights, even when he wouldn’t admit it.

“I push you away because I’d rather you hate me alive than love me dead,” he said quietly. “But I never wanted to clip your wings. I just… forgot how to let you fly beside me instead of behind.”

You stepped forward. Close enough to feel his heat cutting through the chill. “It’s too much to mend sometimes. But I’ve tried to hold on anyway.”

He swallowed. “I know.”

Neither of you moved for a long beat. Then, tentative, he lifted a gloved hand. Not to grab. Just to rest against your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your eye where a tear had escaped.

“I’d push you toward any choice worth making,” he murmured. “No questions. No doubt. If that’s walking away for good… I’d hate it. But I’d let you.”

You covered his hand with yours. Held it there.

“I don’t want to walk away,” you said. “I just want you to stop deciding I’m too fragile for your world. Let me stand in it with you. Scars and all.”

His forehead dropped to yours. Eyes closed. For once, the Red Hood looked like a man who might actually believe he could be loved without breaking everything he touched.

“I’m trying,” he breathed. “God help me, I’m trying.”

The rain kept falling. But between you, something shifted—small, fragile, but real. Not fixed. Not yet. Just… not over.

And for tonight, that was enough.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

#red hood #batfamily #jason todd #dcu #dc comics #dc universe #x reader

A Couple Minutes ft Viktor Krum

The autumn market in Vratsa smelled of roasted chestnuts and woodsmoke, the same as it always had. You weren’t expecting to see him. Not here, not after so long.

You turned the corner near the honey stall and there he was taller than memory, broader in the shoulders, dark coat collar turned up against the wind. Viktor Krum. Older now, quieter in the way champions become when the spotlight finally dims. A cigarette dangled loosely between his fingers.

“Since when are you smoking now?” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

He froze mid-drag. Then that slow, familiar half-smile cracked across his face, the one only you ever really saw. He exhaled smoke sideways, away from you.

“Since Bulgaria lost to France in the qualifiers,” he said, voice still gravelly, still accented. “Bad habit. Easy to start when no one is watching.”

You stepped closer. The crowd moved around you both like water around stones.

“It’s been a while,” you said softly.

“Too long.” His eyes searched your face the way they used to, careful, thorough, like he was memorizing you all over again. “You still wear that same perfume.”

You laughed under your breath. “You still notice.”

He stubbed the cigarette out under his boot, suddenly self-conscious. “Old habits die hard.”

Silence settled, comfortable and aching at once. You could feel the years folding in on themselves, the Triwizard nights, the stolen hours in the Durmstrang carriage, the way he used to trace your wrist with his thumb when he thought you were asleep.

“You moved house?” you asked, nodding toward the faint tan line where a Quidditch league ring used to sit.

“Da. Little place outside Sofia. No stairs. Easier on the knees.” He gave a small, wry shrug. “Getting old.”

“You’re thirty-two.”

“Ancient in Seeker years.”

You smiled despite yourself. Then quieter: “I just wanted to know if you’re okay.”

Viktor looked at you for a long beat. Really looked. The market noise faded until it was just the two of you and the cold air between.

“I am… better some days,” he admitted. “Worse others. But I am here.” He paused. “And you?”

“Same.” You swallowed. “Still teaching. Still trying not to think about you every time someone mentions the World Cup.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I think about you every time I see a library.”

Of course he did. You were the only one who knew why he kept that tiny, dog-eared copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard in his locker all seventh year. The only one who knew the Bulgarian nickname he’d whispered against your collarbone when no one else was around.

You glanced at your watch. “I’ve only got a couple minutes. Train leaves soon.”

His jaw tightened, just a fraction. “Then sit with me.”

There was a low stone wall nearby. You both settled on it like nothing had changed, like the last four years were only a long weekend apart. Your shoulders brushed. Neither of you moved away.

It already felt like being back on his old sofa in the Durmstrang guest quarters, legs tangled, fire crackling, him pretending to read while really just watching you turn pages.

“Of course I still care,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Viktor nodded once, slow. “Love is never wasted when it’s shared.”

The words hung there, simple and devastating. You felt your throat tighten.

“Although it’s over…” you started.

“I’ll always be there,” he finished for you. His voice was steady, certain. “If you ever need anything. One owl. One minute. Anything.”

You looked up at him, really looked. The faint scar above his left eyebrow from the final match. The way his hair still fell stubbornly across his forehead. The man who once flew through fire for a golden egg, now asking nothing more than for you to know he hadn’t forgotten.

You reached out and squeezed his hand once. Warm. Calloused. Familiar.

“I know,” you said.

He turned his palm up, let your fingers rest there for those last precious seconds.

Then the train whistle cut through the market.

You stood. He stood too.

“Take care of yourself, Viktor.”

“You too, milaya.”

You walked away first, because if you didn’t, you weren’t sure you could. But at the edge of the square, you glanced back.

He was still watching.

And somehow, that was enough.

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#viktor krum #harry potter #wizarding world #wizarding society #x reader

Something, Somehow, Someday ft Joel Miller

The Boston QZ smelled like rust and regret even on the good days. You were nineteen, maybe twenty—old enough to remember how the world used to taste like coffee and possibility, young enough that the fire in your chest still burned brighter than the ration cards in your pocket. Joel Miller was thirty-something going on ancient, shoulders broad from years of carrying more than his share, eyes that had seen too much and still managed to look at you like you were the only thing worth seeing.

He didn’t talk much at first. Just nodded when you showed up at the smuggling drop with Tess, handed over the pills or the batteries or whatever contraband you’d risked your neck for that week. But you kept coming back. Kept finding excuses to linger—asking about routes through the outskirts, offering half a protein bar you’d scavenged, teasing him about the gray in his beard until the corner of his mouth twitched like he might actually smile.

One night the power flickered out across half the zone. No lights, no patrols, just the low hum of generators dying and the kind of quiet that made every creak feel like a clicker. You ended up at his door because the stairwell to your shitty apartment block had collapsed under some idiot’s attempt to reinforce it. Joel opened the door shirtless, hair damp from a cold-water rinse, looking like he’d been expecting trouble but not this kind.

“Jesus, kid,” he muttered, stepping aside anyway. “Get in before someone sees you.”

You sat on the edge of his mattress while he boiled water on a camp stove, the only source of heat in the room. The silence stretched until it didn’t feel awkward anymore—just necessary. When he finally handed you a chipped mug of something that almost tasted like tea, your fingers brushed his and neither of you pulled away fast enough.

That was the first night you stayed.

It wasn’t clean or easy. He was rough around every edge—gruff words, calloused hands, nightmares that woke him gasping and reaching for a gun that wasn’t there. You were reckless in the way only youth can afford: climbing fire escapes for better views of the skyline ruins, laughing too loud at his dry jokes, kissing him like the world might end tomorrow because it probably would.

He called you trouble. You called him old man. Both were true.

There were moments when the weight of it all pressed down so hard you could barely breathe. Nights he’d stare at the ceiling and tell you stories about Sarah in fragments—her laugh, the way she’d beg for one more chapter, how he’d promised her the stars and then the world took them instead. You’d listen, head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat stutter like it still hadn’t forgiven itself.

You never asked him to promise you anything. Promises were currency no one could afford anymore. But sometimes, in the dark, his hand would find yours under the thin blanket and squeeze once—hard, deliberate—like he was saying I’m still here. For now.

One spring the Fireflies started moving people west. Whispers of a cure, a safe zone, something better than concrete cages and ration lines. Joel didn’t believe in hope anymore; he’d told you that straight. But you did. Or maybe you just believed in him enough for both of you.

The night before you were supposed to decide—stay or go—you sat on the roof together, sharing the last cigarette from a pack Tess had smuggled in months ago. The city sprawled below like a broken promise, stars fighting through the smoke haze.

“I’m not good at this,” he said after a long drag. Voice low, gravel-rough. “Never was. But if there’s a someday… if there’s ever a place that isn’t this… I want it to have you in it.”

You turned, studied the lines carved deep around his eyes, the way his jaw tightened like he was bracing for rejection.

“Then take me with you,” you said simply. “Whenever you’re ready. Somewhere green. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere we don’t have to look over our shoulders every second.”

He exhaled smoke like it carried the weight of every year between you. Didn’t answer right away. Just reached over, cupped the back of your neck with that big, scarred hand, and pulled you in until your forehead rested against his.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “But someday.”

You smiled against his skin. “Something. Somehow. Someday.”

He huffed a quiet laugh—the rare kind that reached his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “That.”

And for the first time in a long damn time, the future didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like a question he might finally be willing to answer—with you.

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#joel x oc #joel miller #joel tlou #joel x reader

Sienna ft finnick odair

Sienna

The salt air clung to everything in District 4—the nets drying on the docks, the wooden floors of the victors' village houses, your skin after a long day on the water. You and Finnick had claimed the little house at the edge of the cliffs years ago, back when the Games still felt like a nightmare you could wake from together. The wedding was planned for after the next reaping, simple: just the sea as witness, Annie to stand with you, Mags to bless the rings with her quiet hands. Finnick had laughed when you teased him about wearing a crown of sea glass instead of flowers. "Only if you promise to let me steal every kiss," he'd said, pulling you close under the stars.

You'd dreamed of more than vows. A life beyond survival. A child with his sea-green eyes and your stubborn smile.

You called her Sienna in whispers, late at night when he traced lazy circles on your stomach. "Sienna," you'd murmur against his shoulder, "she'd have your laugh. The one that makes the whole ocean jealous." He'd smile into your hair, voice soft as tide. "She'd swim before she walks. Sing to the fish like you do. Jump off the highest rock just to see if she could fly."

The morning he left for the Capitol—volunteering again, because the rebellion needed a face, a symbol—he kissed you like it was routine. "Back before the tide turns," he promised, fingers lingering on the ring you'd already slipped onto his hand in secret. You lived under his eyelids even then; he carried you in every glance he gave the cameras, every smirk that hid the ache.

You waited on the rooftop that night, freezing wind whipping your hair, wearing his old sweater that still smelled like salt and him. You watched the sunset bleed orange into the sea, the same way you'd watched it together so many times. I can feel you with me like I did before—like when you'd hum Norah Jones songs off-key just to make me laugh.

But the tide turned without him.

The news came in fragments: the arena, the mutts, the spear. Finnick Odair, victor, rebel, yours—gone. The world tilted, and you fell with it.

You still go to the cliffs sometimes, when the moon is full and the house feels too empty. You sit where the grass meets stone and imagine her—running barefoot across the sand, chasing waves, calling "Daddy!" in a voice that echoes his. She'd have acted like him: fearless, charming, a little reckless. Jumped in the pool (the cove, really) just like him. Sang to all her pets (the stray seals, the gulls) like you do.

But she never existed. Because he never came home.

The rebellion won. Snow fell. Panem breathed again. You helped rebuild District 4, taught kids to tie knots, to read the currents. Annie found peace eventually, with her son. But you… you still see his face in the forest shadows when you walk the inland trails, in the foam of breaking waves. You see hers too—Sienna's little ghost, laughing, disappearing.

You don't beg him not to go anymore. The plea lives in your chest like an old scar. Instead, you carry them both: the man who was yours in every lifetime, and the daughter who only ever existed in the space between his heartbeat and yours.

Even now, with the sea whispering secrets and the rooftop empty under the stars, you know it's true. Finnick Odair never really left. He just became the tide—constant, pulling, eternal.

And somewhere, in the what-could-have-been, Sienna smiles back at you both.

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#x reader #finnick odair #thg finnick #finnick x reader #hunger games finnick #finnick x you

The Sick ft steve harrington

The fluorescent lights in Family Video buzzed overhead like they always did on slow Tuesday nights. You were restocking the horror section—fitting, really—when the bell above the door chimed. Steve Harrington walked in, hair a little too perfect, smile a little too practiced, eyes a little too glassy.

He hadn’t called in three days.

You knew the signs by now: the way his laugh came too quick, the faint sweet burn of weed clinging to his jacket even though he swore he’d quit after the last time. After the Russian basement. After the demodogs. After everything that should’ve broken him but instead just made him reach for something stronger to quiet the noise.

“Hey,” he said, leaning on the counter like nothing was wrong. “Miss me?”

You didn’t smile back. “You smell like a bonfire in a trailer park.”

He winced, but covered it with that charming shrug. “Robin’s car. She’s trying to hotbox the upholstery or something.”

Liar.

You turned away, shoving Nightmare on Elm Street back into place with more force than necessary. “Your dad still hating you, Steve? Or has he finally given up?”

He went still. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. You’d said it once before, during one of those late-night talks on the hood of his BMW when he was drunk enough to admit his father called him worthless every holiday dinner. Steve had laughed it off then. He wasn’t laughing now.

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

You spun back. “Don’t what? Pretend I don’t see you slipping again? You think that shit you smoke saves you, but it won’t. Not between us.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”

“You’re using again. I can tell.” Your voice cracked on the last word. “And you don’t know what that does to me.”

Steve looked away, rubbing the back of his neck—the same gesture he used when the demodogs were close, when the lights flickered, when the world felt like it was ending. Except now the monster was inside him.

Part of you hated him for it. Part of you hated yourself more—because even knowing he was wrong for what he did (the ghosting, the lies, the way he’d disappear into his own head and leave you surviving the silence), you still kinda liked it. The chaos. The intensity. The way loving him felt like bleeding out slow and beautiful.

You were sick for it. You’d loved the sick since you knew how to breathe.

“I hope you settle,” you whispered, the words tasting like ash. “With that girl you’ve been texting. The one with the nice laugh and the normal life. Get that shitty job at the mall forever. Maybe she’ll be enough to save you.” A bitter laugh escaped. “I’m sorry that wasn’t me.”

Steve’s eyes snapped to yours, raw. “It could’ve been.”

“No.” You stepped closer, close enough to smell the faint mint on his breath masking something darker. “Because part of you hated me. For seeing it. For calling it out. So all of me was surviving you.”

He reached for your hand. You let him—because you always did.

“You were wrong for what you did to me,” you said, voice trembling. “But I was sick for kinda liking it. The fighting. The making up. The way you’d look at me like I was the only thing keeping you here… until you weren’t.”

His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Then stop.” It came out harsher than you meant. “Stop using me like a goddamn lighter when your pants are on fire. If you love me, then why do you never call? Why do I wait for days wondering if you’re alive or just too high to remember my number?”

He flinched like you’d slapped him. Maybe you had.

“You were wrong,” you repeated, softer now. Over and over in your head like a mantra. “You were wrong, you were wrong, you were wrong…”

But I was sick.

Steve pulled you in then—sudden, desperate—arms wrapping around you like he could hold the pieces together if he just squeezed hard enough. His face buried in your hair, breath shaky.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he admitted against your temple. “I don’t know how to be… without it. Without something to make it quiet.”

You closed your eyes, tears slipping free. “I can’t save you, Steve. I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried.”

“I know.”

“And it all goes bad eventually.”

He nodded against you. “Yeah.”

You stood there in the empty store, the clock ticking toward closing, the world outside dark and indifferent. His heartbeat thumped against yours—too fast, too fragile.

You didn’t know if this was goodbye or just another loop in the cycle. You didn’t know if he’d call tomorrow or disappear again. You only knew you loved the sick because you had to.

And maybe that was the sickest part of all.

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#stranger things #steve harrington #x reader

Shimmering Just for You ft Daniel Riccardo

The Monaco afterparty pulsed like a living thing — bass thumping through marble floors, champagne flutes catching every stray light, laughter ricocheting off mirrored walls. You were in the middle of it all, as always. Smile wide, laugh bright, turning just the right way so the sequins on your dress caught the chandelier and threw tiny rainbows across Daniel's white shirt.

You were the mirrorball tonight. Spinning. Reflecting. Giving everyone exactly what they wanted to see.

A grid girl from earlier wanted bubbly confidence? You matched her energy, tossing your hair and clinking glasses. A sponsor needed charm? You leaned in, asked about his kids, remembered their names. A teammate wanted to forget a bad quali? You cracked the joke first, let him steal the punchline.

And Daniel — God, Daniel — watched from the edge of the crowd with that half-grin that made your stomach flip every time. He hadn't said much tonight. Just sipped his drink, eyes following you like he was trying to solve a puzzle only he could see.

You caught his gaze across the room and flashed the performance smile: dazzling, effortless, I'm fine, look how fun this is. He raised his glass in a mock toast, but his eyes didn't laugh.

Later, when the crowd thinned and the DJ dropped to something slower, you slipped out to the balcony. The Mediterranean breeze tasted like salt and freedom. You kicked off your heels, flexed your aching feet against the cool stone, and let the mask slip — just for a second.

That's when you heard the door behind you.

"Thought I might find you out here," Daniel said softly, stepping up beside you. No performance in his voice. Just him.

You laughed — lighter than you felt. "Needed a breather. Too much sparkle in there."

He leaned on the railing, forearms resting easy, looking out at the harbour lights instead of at you. "You've been sparkling pretty hard all night."

"Someone's gotta keep the party going."

He turned then, really looked. Not at the dress, not at the makeup, not at the version of you that everyone else got. At you.

"You don't have to, you know." His voice was quiet, almost lost in the wind. "Not with me."

Your throat tightened. "What if that's all I am? The one who spins. The one who reflects. If I stop…"

He reached over, slow, like he was giving you time to pull away. His fingers brushed yours — warm, steady.

"Then I'll still be here," he said. "Looking at the girl underneath all the glitter. The one who's been on her tallest tiptoes all night, even when no one's watching."

You felt the first real crack show — the one that wasn't pretty or poetic. The one that hurt.

"I don't want to break in front of everyone," you whispered.

"Then break in front of me." He turned his hand over, lacing your fingers with his. "I've got you. No spotlight. No crowd. Just us."

For the first time all night, you weren't performing. You weren't spinning. You were just standing there — tired, a little jagged around the edges, and somehow still shimmering.

Daniel tugged you closer until your forehead rested against his shoulder. His heartbeat was steady under your cheek, nothing like the frantic rhythm of the party inside.

"Hush," he murmured against your hair, half-teasing, half-serious. "When no one's around, my dear… I've got the best view in Monaco right here."

And for once, you believed someone might stay — even after the lights went out and the disco ball stopped turning.

You didn't have to shine alone anymore.

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#x reader #daniel riccardo x reader #daniel riccardo imagine #f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 2026 #formula 1 #honey badger

When My Time Comes Around ft. Jason Todd

The city never really slept, it just quieted down enough for ghosts to breathe.

You’d gotten used to the silence. The kind that pressed in on your ears after midnight, when even the sirens seemed tired. It settled into your bones, familiar as your own heartbeat. Familiar as him.

Jason always came back to you like a habit he couldn’t break.

Not through the front door, never that. It was always the window—soft creak, a shadow slipping into your apartment like he belonged there, like the world outside hadn’t tried to kill him again.

Tonight was no different.

You didn’t turn when you heard him. You just said softly, “You’re bleeding.”

A pause. Then, rough, almost amused: “Missed you too.”

You finally looked over your shoulder. Helmet off. Dark hair damp with sweat. A cut splitting his lip, bruises blooming under his skin like something cruel and inevitable.

Your chest tightened.

“Sit,” you said, already reaching for the med kit.

He obeyed, because for all his defiance, for all the ways he fought the world, Jason never fought you. Not really.

Not when you touched him.

You cleaned him in silence at first. Alcohol. Gauze. Careful hands that had learned where he could take pressure and where he couldn’t.

He hissed when you pressed a little too hard against his ribs.

“Sorry,” you murmured.

“Don’t be.” His voice softened. “Means I’m still alive.”

You didn’t laugh.

Jason watched you instead, the way your brows knit together, the way your hands trembled just slightly when you thought he wouldn’t notice.

“You worry too much,” he said.

“And you don’t worry enough,” you shot back.

“Someone’s gotta balance it out.”

You shook your head, but your lips twitched.

There it was. That fragile, fleeting normalcy. Like the world hadn’t broken him. Like he wasn’t constantly standing with one foot in the grave and daring it to pull him under again.

When you finished, you stayed close.

Closer than necessary.

Jason’s hand found yours, calloused fingers brushing over your knuckles like he was grounding himself.

“You ever think about leaving?” he asked suddenly.

The question hung between you, heavy as a confession.

“Leaving what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely, your apartment, the city beyond it, the life that circled around his chaos. “Me.”

You let out a quiet breath.

“Do you want me to?”

His jaw tightened. “That’s not what I asked.”

“No,” you said, more firmly this time. “I don’t think about leaving.”

Jason looked away, like he didn’t quite believe you.

“Why not?” he muttered. “I’m not exactly… easy.”

You almost smiled at that, because it was the understatement of the century.

Instead, you leaned in, pressing your forehead gently to his.

“Because,” you whispered, “I know you’d come back.”

He stilled.

“And even if you didn’t…” Your voice softened, something deeper threading through it. “I’d still wait.”

Jason swallowed hard.

“You shouldn’t,” he said, though there was no conviction in it.

“Maybe not.” You shrugged lightly. “But I would.”

There was a beat: quiet, fragile.

Then he pulled you closer, like gravity had finally won.

“I’ve died before,” he murmured against your hair, voice rough. “You know that.”

“I know.”

“And it didn’t stick.”

You huffed softly. “Obviously.”

His arms tightened around you.

“But if it did…” he continued, quieter now, like the words cost him something. “If one day I don’t come back through that window—”

“Jason—”

“Just listen.” His voice cracked, barely. “If that happens… I don’t want you stuck waiting for a ghost.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

“You wouldn’t be a ghost,” you said gently. “You’d be… something worse.”

“Yeah?” he smirked faintly.

“Unfinished.”

That made him pause.

And then, softer than anything he’d said all night: “You really believe that?”

You nodded.

“I think,” you said slowly, “that even death wouldn’t be enough to keep you from me.”

For a long moment, Jason just stared at you.

Like he was trying to memorize every detail. Like he didn’t trust himself to believe you, but wanted to anyway.

“Y’know,” he said, voice low, “that’s a hell of a thing to say to a guy like me.”

“Good,” you replied. “You need to hear it.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“Yeah… maybe I do.”

The city outside hummed faintly, distant and uncaring.

But here, in the small space between heartbeats, everything felt still.

Jason leaned in first.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate.

It was something deeper, something steady. Like a promise neither of you said out loud, but both understood.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours again.

“If I go,” he murmured, “I’ll come back.”

“I know,” you said.

“No matter what.”

“I know.”

His hand tightened around yours.

“And if I don’t—”

“You will,” you interrupted softly.

Jason exhaled, something like relief breaking through him.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I will.”

And maybe it was foolish.

Maybe it was reckless to love someone who lived so close to the edge of everything.

But as you held him there, in the quiet, in the dark, you knew one thing for certain:

If there was any force strong enough to drag Jason Todd back from the grave...

It would be this.

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#x reader #jason todd #dc comics #dcu #dc universe #red hood #batfam #hozier

Do you like Mike X eleven or Mike X Will or both?

no judgement just curious

Honestly, Mike being single is my favorite trope. I am a huge Henderhop shipper and a firm believer that Will deserves so much better than hat Mike would ever be able to offer him. of course, i held out hope for Byler but in the end i was relieved they didn't reduce their relationship to that i guess. i also love the trope of Will bringing his partner home for the first time nad Mike being sooooo shitty.

hope this answers your question!!!

#stranger things #el hopper #eleven hopper #jonathan byers #steve harrington #jim hopper #joyce byers #mikewheeler #byler #henderhop #dustin henderson

I know you said this is a one-shot but, can you please do a part two where he does call her and tries to tell her he loves her but she still

I bet you think about me ft Newt TMR // part two

Angst with a happy ending

The rain came harder sometime after you lay down, pounding the tin roof in uneven rhythms. You stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks you’d known since childhood, listening to the storm move through the fields like something alive. Your quilt smelled faintly of laundry soap and dust and home. It should have comforted you. It didn’t.

Your phone buzzed.

At first, you thought you imagined it. A phantom vibration, the kind your brain conjured when you wanted something too badly. You didn’t move. You barely breathed.

Then it buzzed again.

Your heart slammed so hard it made you dizzy.

Slowly, like touching something that might burn, you reached for the phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up the room in pale blue light, and for half a second you couldn’t read the name.

Then you did.

Newt.

Your chest tightened painfully. You stared at it, thumb hovering, a thousand thoughts crashing into each other all at once.

It’s too late.

He’s drunk.

He misses the idea of me.

He’s calling because he feels guilty.

The buzzing stopped.

Your heart sank straight into your stomach.

Then—again. Insistent this time. Like he wasn’t going to let it go.

You swallowed hard and answered before you could lose your nerve.

“Hello?” Your voice came out rough, thin with sleep and tears.

There was a pause. Static. Breathing.

“Hey,” Newt said quietly.

Just one word, and it felt like being dropped back into summer. Into dusty roads and warm nights and his shoulder pressed against yours in the cab of your truck.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“Hey,” you replied.

Another pause. Longer. You could hear rain on his end too, faint but steady.

“I—I didn’t wake you, did I?” he asked.

You almost laughed. It came out more like a breath.

“No. I was awake.”

Of course you were.

“Yeah,” he murmured, like he already knew that. “I figured.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy and fragile. You imagined him pacing, running a hand through his hair the way he always did when he was nervous.

“I shouldn’t have waited this long,” he said finally. “I know that. I just—God, I didn’t know how to call without making everything worse.”

You rolled onto your side, pulling the quilt tighter around you.

“You didn’t have to call at all,” you said softly.

That made him inhale sharply. “I did. I really did.”

You stared at the dark outline of your bedroom door. The hallway beyond it felt miles away.

“So,” you said, forcing your voice to stay steady. “How’s the city?”

A beat.

“It’s loud,” he said. “And bright. And… lonely.”

You pressed your lips together.

“That’s funny,” you said. “You never sounded lonely before.”

Another sharp breath. “I wasn’t—at first. Everything was busy. Classes, my parents, people pulling me in a hundred directions at once. And I kept thinking if I just got through the next week, the next thing, I’d have time to call you properly.”

“You had time,” you said. The words slipped out before you could stop them. “You just didn’t have space.”

“That’s not—” He stopped himself. “Okay. Maybe it felt like that from your end. But it wasn’t because I didn’t want you.”

You closed your eyes, the ache blooming fresh and cruel.

“Newt,” you said quietly, “you don’t have to explain. I get it.”

“No,” he said, more firmly now. “I don’t think you do.”

Thunder cracked somewhere in the distance, rattling the windows.

“You left,” you continued, voice trembling despite your efforts. “And you went back to your life. The one you belong in. And I stayed here. Waiting. Watching my phone like it meant something. So yeah. I get it.”

“I didn’t stop caring about you,” he said. “I never did.”

“But you stopped choosing me.”

The silence after that was thick enough to choke on.

“I messed up,” he admitted hoarsely. “I know I did. I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve told my parents to shove it when they made comments. I should’ve—”

“Your parents?” you echoed.

He went quiet.

“They… they didn’t think long-distance was practical,” he said carefully. “They said it was a phase. That I’d move on once I met people here.”

Your stomach twisted.

“And did you?” you asked.

The question hung there, naked and terrifying.

“No,” he said immediately. “God, no.”

You laughed, brittle and broken. “You don’t have to lie to spare my feelings.”

“I’m not lying,” he insisted. “There is no one else.”

You swallowed hard. “You don’t have to protect her, either.”

“Who?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“The girl,” you said. “The one your friends like. The one who fits better.”

There it was. The thing you’d been holding in for weeks.

Newt exhaled slowly, like he was trying to keep himself calm.

“There is no girl,” he said. “No girlfriend. No secret someone. Nothing.”

You shook your head even though he couldn’t see you.

“Please don’t do that,” you whispered. “I can handle the truth. I just can’t handle being made to feel stupid for guessing it.”

“You’re not stupid,” he said fiercely. “And you’re wrong. I swear to you, there is no one in my bed. I fall asleep alone every night.”

The image you’d tortured yourself with cracked, just slightly.

“Then why didn’t you call?” you asked. “Why did you disappear?”

“Because every time I thought about calling, I thought about how much I missed you,” he said. “And how far away you were. And how unfair it felt to keep pulling you into my mess when I didn’t know how to fix it.”

Tears slid silently into your hair.

“You don’t get to decide what’s unfair for me,” you said.

“I know,” he whispered. “I know that now.”

You pressed your fist against your mouth, trying to breathe.

“I’ve been imagining you happy,” you admitted. “With someone who makes more sense. Someone your parents don’t have to tolerate.”

“My parents don’t get a vote,” he said. “Not in who I love.”

The word hit you square in the chest.

Love.

He hesitated, like he realized he’d said too much too soon.

“I—” he started. “I’m trying to say this right. And I keep screwing it up.”

Your heart raced painfully.

“Then just say it,” you whispered.

Silence.

You could hear his breathing, uneven now. Nervous. Human.

“I love you,” he said finally, the words rushed and fragile. “I’ve loved you since the night we lay on the hood of your truck and you told me you were scared of leaving this place because it felt like betraying it. I love how you smell like hay and rain. I love how you talk to animals like they understand you. I love how you don’t pretend to be impressed by things that don’t matter.”

Your chest ached so badly it felt like it might split open.

“But,” you said softly. “You still left.”

“I did,” he said. “And I regret it every day.”

You turned onto your back, staring at the ceiling again.

“You can love someone and still choose a life without them,” you said. “People do it all the time.”

“I don’t want a life without you,” he said.

“Wanting isn’t the same as doing.”

Another pause. Then—

“I’m coming back.”

You sucked in a sharp breath.

“What?”

“I’m coming back,” he repeated. “I applied for a transfer. Smaller campus. Closer. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to give you hope if it didn’t work out. I found out yesterday. I got in.”

Your heart hammered violently.

“You’re… serious?” you asked.

“I’ve never been more serious about anything,” he said. “I can’t promise it’ll be perfect. I can’t promise my parents will understand. But I can promise I’m done pretending I fit somewhere I don’t.”

You sat up in bed, tears spilling freely now.

“And if I’m not enough?” you whispered. “If you get here and realize you gave something up for someone who was never meant to be permanent?”

“You are not temporary,” he said, voice breaking. “You’re my home.”

The words settled into you slowly, like warmth after a long cold.

“When?” you asked.

He laughed softly through what sounded like tears of his own.

“Two weeks,” he said. “If you’ll still have me.”

You wiped at your face with shaking hands.

“I never stopped having you,” you admitted. “I just stopped believing you’d come back.”

“I’m here,” he said. “I’m choosing you. Over and over.”

Outside, the storm began to ease. The rain softened, the thunder fading into distance.

You closed your eyes, letting the sound of his breathing steady your own.

“Newt?” you said.

“Yeah?”

“I still don’t believe I’m better than whoever you could’ve had.”

He smiled—you could hear it.

“I don’t want better,” he said. “I want you.”

And for the first time in weeks, when you looked at the dark ceiling of your childhood bedroom, it didn’t feel like a place you were trapped.

It felt like somewhere someone was coming home to.

#tmr newt #x reader #angst with a happy ending #tmr fandom

dreamy-bunni

He's everywhere

𝑬𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒅𝒆 𝑬𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕: 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒕

part two

contains: sex scenes or sexual language, sexual references, underage drinking and/or smoking, drug use, violence, character death and character mental health issues.

word count: 8K

warnings: smut may appear in this chapter; you can skip through it if you wish

synopsis: Tash bids Hawkins farewell through tender goodbyes, passionate nights with Steve, and quiet escape with Eddie before leaving for California.

authors note: MINORS DNI. this season may contain heavier topics such as; suicidal thoughts, murder and/or degrading language and acts.

— {a few weeks later} —

The Byers house smelled like cardboard and fresh paint—boxes stacked in every corner, walls already echoing with the emptiness of a place about to be left behind. Joyce had been packing for days, her hands never still, while Hopper’s absence hung over everything like smoke that wouldn’t clear. El had taken to wearing one of his old flannel shirts, sleeves rolled up too many times, the cuffs frayed from where she kept twisting them when she got anxious. Tash had claimed his leather jacket instead—too big, too heavy, but it still smelled faintly of pine and gun oil, and she wore it like armor.

In a few days, they’d all be gone: Joyce, Will, Jonathan, El, and Tash. California. A fresh start, or at least the promise of one. The state had offered Joyce a job at a small radio station in Lenora Hills; she’d taken it without hesitation. Hopper’s death certificate had been issued two weeks ago—officially, he’d died in the “mall fire.” Tash had stared at the paper until the words blurred, then folded it into the pocket of his jacket and never looked at it again.

Tonight was the last night before the moving truck arrived. The older teens had claimed Steve’s house for a sendoff—no parents, no kids underfoot, just the five of them who’d survived the summer from hell.

Steve’s living room looked almost normal in the low lamplight: pizza boxes open on the coffee table, half-empty beer bottles sweating rings onto coasters, Robin sprawled across the couch with her legs over the armrest, strumming an out-of-tune acoustic guitar she’d found in Steve’s closet. Nancy sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a stack of mixtapes she’d brought—“road trip music,” she’d said, though no one was sure who’d actually listen. Jonathan perched on the edge of the armchair, camera resting in his lap like a security blanket, clicking occasional candids when no one was looking.

Tash leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over Steve’s old sweatshirt (she’d claimed it permanently now), watching them all like she was memorizing the scene. Her bruises had faded to sickly yellows and greens; the gash on her scalp was a thin pink line under fresh blond growth. She still limped sometimes when she was tired, but she hid it well.

Steve came up beside her, two fresh beers in hand. He offered her one without a word. She took it, their fingers brushing for half a second longer than necessary.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

She shrugged. “Ask me in a month when I’m staring at palm trees instead of pine.”

He huffed a small laugh. “California’s got better waves. You could learn to surf.”

“Me? On a board? I’d drown in five feet of water.”

“Exactly. Gives me an excuse to save you.” He said it lightly, but his eyes lingered on her face—searching, careful, the way they always did now.

She looked away first, toward the others. Robin was butchering a rendition of “Should I Stay or Should I Go,” Nancy laughing so hard she nearly spilled her drink. Jonathan caught the moment on film, the flash briefly blinding everyone.

Tash swallowed. “I’m gonna miss this. Miss you guys.”

Steve’s shoulder bumped hers gently. “We’re not disappearing. Phones exist. Planes exist. And I’m pretty sure Robin’s already planning a cross-country road trip to crash your new place.”

“God help Joyce,” Tash muttered, but there was a ghost of a smile.

Nancy stood up, brushing crumbs off her jeans. “Okay, enough moping. We need a toast.” She raised her bottle. “To Tash and Jonathan. May California give you better hair days, fewer monsters, and at least one decent pizza place.”

Robin sat up, guitar forgotten. “To new beginnings that don’t suck.” Jonathan ducked his head, cheeks pink. “To… not having to say goodbye forever.”

Steve looked at Tash. “To keeping in touch. No matter what.”

Tash lifted her bottle last. Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “To surviving. And to the people who made it worth it.”

They clinked—glass on glass, a small, defiant sound in the quiet house.

After that, the night softened. Robin put on a real record—Springsteen, low and warm. Jonathan and Nancy ended up on the floor sorting photos from the summer, laughing over the ones where everyone looked half-dead but happy. Steve and Tash drifted to the back porch, the screen door creaking behind them.

The air was cool, late-August crisp. Crickets sang in the dark yard. Tash leaned against the railing, jacket sleeves pulled over her hands.

“I keep thinking he’s gonna walk out of the woods,” she said suddenly. “Like he did that night at the mall. Just… show up. Grumbling about paperwork or something.”

Steve stood beside her, close enough that their arms touched. “I know.”

She exhaled shakily. “And Billy… I still dream about him. Not the monster part. Just… him. Smiling. Like before everything went to hell.”

Steve didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. He just listened.

“I loved him,” she said, quieter. “Even when he was awful. Even when I knew better.”

“I know.”

She turned to him then, blue eyes searching his face in the porch light. “You never made me feel bad about it. Not once.”

He shrugged, looking out at the yard. “You loved who you loved. That’s not something I get to judge.”

A beat of silence.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For… everything. For dragging me out of that forest. For letting me crash here. For not pushing.”

Steve finally met her eyes. “You’d do the same for me.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I would.”

They stood there a long time, the music filtering through the screen door, the night wrapping around them like a promise.

Inside, Robin’s laugh rang out again—bright, unstoppable.

Tash leaned her head on Steve’s shoulder. Just for a moment.

Tomorrow she’d leave Hawkins.

But tonight, she was still here.

With them.

—

The night stretched thin, the kind of late where time feels syrupy and regrets feel distant. The pizza boxes had long since been shoved aside, replaced by a battered deck of cards and bottles that emptied faster than anyone planned. Robin dealt sloppy hands of bullshit poker, cackling every time someone called her bluff (which was often). Nancy kept score on a napkin, Jonathan lost track after the third beer, and Tash—quiet at first—started matching them drink for drink, the alcohol loosening the knot in her chest just enough to let her laugh again.

By two a.m., the energy fractured. Robin yawned so wide her jaw cracked, muttered something about “needing horizontal,” and stumbled upstairs to crash in the guest room. Nancy followed a few minutes later, kissing Jonathan’s temple before dragging him with her. “Come on, Byers. You’ve got a plane to catch in forty-eight hours.” He went without protest, the camera still slung around his neck.

That left Tash and Steve.

They sat on opposite ends of the couch at first, feet tangled under the coffee table, the deck abandoned between them. The record player had clicked to silence sometime after Springsteen; now the only sound was the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the house settling. Empty bottles glinted in the lamplight. Tash’s cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy but sharp. Steve looked wrecked in the best way—hair mussed, shirt untucked, that half-smile he only wore when he was too tired to hide how much he felt.

Neither moved to leave.

“You should sleep,” Steve said finally, voice rough from laughing and drinking and everything else.

“So should you.”

He shrugged. “Not tired.”

“Liar.”

A beat. Then, quieter: “I don’t want to close my eyes and wake up to you gone.”

Tash’s breath caught. She looked at him—really looked—and saw the fear mirrored back at her. The same fear that had kept her awake every night since the mall: that this was the last time. That California would swallow her whole and Hawkins would forget her name.

She shifted closer. Just an inch. Then another. Until their knees touched.

Steve’s hand found hers on the cushion between them—slow, tentative, like he was waiting for her to pull away. She didn’t. Her fingers laced through his, thumb brushing the scraped knuckles he’d earned carrying her out of those woods.

“I’m scared,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“Me too.”

He leaned in first. Not sudden. Not desperate. Just inevitable. His forehead rested against hers for a long second, breath mingling, then he tilted his head and kissed her.

Soft. Careful. Like he was afraid she’d vanish if he pressed too hard.

Tash froze for half a heartbeat—surprised, grieving, wanting all at once—then she kissed him back.

It started gentle, exploratory: lips brushing, tasting beer and salt and the faint sweetness of whatever cola Robin had been drinking earlier. But the dam broke fast. She slid her hand to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer. He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her mouth, and suddenly it wasn’t careful anymore.

Steve’s hands found her waist, thumbs slipping under the hem of his own sweatshirt she wore, skimming hot skin over the fading bruises. She arched into the touch, a small, needy sound escaping when his fingers traced the edge of a rib that still ached. He pulled back just enough to check her eyes—asking, always asking—and she answered by climbing into his lap, straddling him, knees bracketing his hips.

The kiss turned hungry. Teeth and tongue, wet and messy and perfect. She rocked against him once, twice; he bucked up instinctively, hard and straining beneath her. A choked curse left him. “Tash—”

“Upstairs,” she breathed against his mouth. “Now.”

He stood without breaking the kiss, hands under her thighs, lifting her like she weighed nothing. She wrapped her legs around his waist, arms around his neck, and they stumbled through the dark house—bumping walls, knocking a picture frame crooked, laughing breathlessly into each other’s mouths.

They made it to his room. Door kicked shut. Clothes came off in a frantic rush: sweatshirt yanked over her head, his shirt tugged free, jeans shoved down, underwear following. Skin met skin—hot, feverish, alive.

He backed her toward the bed until her knees hit the mattress. She pulled him down with her, rolling so she was on top, hair falling around them like a curtain. Steve’s hands roamed—cupping her breasts, thumbs circling nipples until they peaked, then sliding down to grip her hips, guiding her as she ground against him. She was already slick, aching; he could feel it when she rocked forward, coating him.

“Condom?” she gasped.

“Nightstand.”

She leaned over, fumbling the drawer open, ripping the packet with her teeth. He watched her—eyes dark, chest heaving—as she rolled it on with steady hands, then sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate slide.

They both groaned. Loud. Unrestrained.

She stilled for a second, adjusting to the stretch, the fullness, then started moving—slow rolls at first, then faster, harder. Steve thrust up to meet her, hands bruising her hips, mouth on her throat, sucking marks she’d have to hide tomorrow. She rode him like she was chasing something she couldn’t name—grief, love, goodbye, all of it tangled together.

He flipped them without warning, pinning her beneath him, one of her legs hooked over his shoulder. The angle was deeper, brutal in the best way. She clawed at his back, nails leaving red trails; he hissed, fucked into her harder, chasing the sounds she made—high, broken whimpers that turned into his name over and over.

“Steve—fuck—don’t stop—”

He didn’t. He reached between them, fingers finding her clit, circling fast and rough the way he’d somehow always known she liked. She shattered first—back arching, mouth open in a silent scream, pulsing around him so tight he nearly followed. He held on, drawing it out, thrusting through her aftershocks until she was trembling, oversensitive, begging.

Then he let go.

He came with a low, guttural sound, burying his face in her neck, hips stuttering as he spilled into the condom. They clung to each other through it, shaking, sweat-slick and breathless.

After, they didn’t move right away. He stayed inside her, softening slowly, forehead pressed to hers. She traced lazy patterns on his back, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing.

“I don’t want you to go,” he whispered into her hair.

“I know.”

A long silence.

“I’ll call,” she said finally. “Every day if I have to.”

He huffed a small laugh. “You better.”

She kissed him again—slow this time, tender. No rush. No desperation. Just them, tangled in sheets that smelled like sex and summer’s end.

They fell asleep like that—limbs entwined, hearts hammering in tandem—knowing morning would come too soon, knowing planes and distance waited.

But for these last hours, the world outside could burn.

They had this.

—

They didn’t sleep.

Not really.

The hours blurred into a slow, feverish haze—bodies moving together, then apart, then together again like they were trying to memorize every inch before dawn stole it away. The first time had been desperate, frantic, all teeth and nails and whispered curses. The second slower, deeper, her on her back with his weight pinning her to the mattress, eyes locked until she came apart trembling beneath him. The third found them on their sides, facing each other, legs tangled, his hand cupping her breast while she rocked back against him in lazy, rolling circles.

Now it was sometime after four. The room smelled of sex and sweat and the faint citrus of his shampoo. Moonlight sliced through the half-open blinds in pale silver bars across the bed. Steve was behind her, chest pressed to her back, one arm banded around her waist, the other hooked under her knee, holding her open. He moved inside her with long, deliberate strokes—slow enough that every slide felt deliberate, every withdrawal a quiet ache.

Tash’s face was buried in the crook of his neck. She breathed him in—salt, skin, the lingering trace of beer and smoke from the night—and let the rhythm of his hips rock her gently forward. Her fingers curled into his hair at the nape, holding him close; her other hand rested over his where it splayed low on her stomach, just above where they joined.

He wasn’t chasing anything now. No urgency. Just the quiet, intimate drag of him filling her, retreating, filling her again. Each thrust pulled a soft, broken sound from her throat—half sigh, half whimper—muffled against his pulse. She could feel his heartbeat there, steady and too fast, matching the way hers stuttered every time he bottomed out.

“Steve…” His name slipped out like a prayer, barely audible.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured into her hair, lips brushing her temple. His voice was wrecked—low, gravelly from hours of this. He shifted his hips just enough to change the angle, nudging deeper, and she gasped, thighs trembling around the arm that held her leg up. “Right here.”

She turned her face more fully into his neck, lips grazing the skin there—open-mouthed kisses, small bites that made him groan and press harder. Her free hand slid down between her legs, fingers circling her clit in slow, slick strokes that matched his rhythm. The pleasure built low and liquid, spreading through her limbs like warm honey. She wasn’t racing toward it; she was letting it happen, letting him carry her there while she clung to the solid heat of his body.

He felt her tighten around him—slow, fluttering pulses—and his breath hitched. “Fuck, Tash… you feel—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. Instead he kissed her shoulder, her neck, the shell of her ear, whispering nonsense—*so good, so perfect, don’t stop*—as if she had any intention of stopping.

She came quietly this time. No scream, no arching back—just a long, shuddering exhale against his throat, inner walls clenching rhythmically around him, drawing him deeper. Tears slipped from the corners of her closed eyes—not grief, not exactly, but something close to it: the unbearable sweetness of being held, being wanted, being *here* while everything else waited to pull them apart.

Steve followed a few thrusts later. He buried himself to the hilt, hips stuttering, a low, guttural sound rumbling in his chest as he spilled inside her. His arm tightened around her waist like he could keep her there forever if he just held on hard enough. They stayed locked together, breathing hard, hearts slamming against each other’s ribs.

He didn’t pull out right away. Instead he eased her leg down, rolled them so she was half-draped across his chest, his softening length still inside her. One hand stroked lazy circles on her back; the other threaded through her hair, cradling her head against his shoulder.

The room was quiet except for their breathing, the occasional creak of the bedframe, the distant chirp of crickets outside.

Tash pressed a soft, open kiss to the hollow of his throat. “I don’t want morning to come.”

Steve’s fingers tightened in her hair. “Me neither.”

They lay like that—tangled, sweat cooling on their skin, bodies still joined—as the sky outside slowly lightened from black to deep indigo.

Neither of them closed their eyes.

They just held on.

Waiting for the light to force them apart.

—

The sky outside had turned the soft gray of pre-dawn, the kind of light that makes everything feel fragile and temporary. Steve’s room was still dark enough that shadows clung to the corners, but he could see her clearly now—every detail he’d been memorizing for hours.

Tash had finally gone still.

Her breathing had slowed, deepened, the frantic little hitches smoothing out into something even and quiet. Her face was tucked against his chest, one arm draped loosely over his waist, fingers curled loosely against his ribs. Blond hair spilled across his shoulder like spilled sunlight, strands sticking to the damp skin of his neck. She looked smaller like this—exhausted, vulnerable, the hard edges of the last few months softened in sleep.

Steve hadn’t closed his eyes once.

He stayed perfectly still, afraid even the smallest movement might wake her. His hand rested on her back, thumb tracing idle, feather-light circles over the ridge of her spine. Every few minutes he checked her breathing again, counted the rises and falls of her chest against his, like proof she was still here.

She’d fallen asleep mid-kiss, lips still brushing his collarbone, a soft sigh escaping as her body finally surrendered. He’d felt the exact moment it happened—the way her muscles went lax, the way her grip on him loosened just enough to feel like goodbye.

He thought she was out.

He hoped she was out.

Because the words had been building all night, pressing against the back of his teeth, and if she heard them he wasn’t sure he could survive the look on her face when she left tomorrow.

He swallowed once, throat dry.

“I’m in love with you,” he whispered into the dark.

The words felt too big for the quiet room. Too raw. He waited, half-expecting her to stir, to tense, to pull away. She didn’t.

He kept going anyway, voice barely louder than breath.

“I’ve been in love with you since… God, I don’t even know. Maybe the first time you laughed at one of my stupid jokes instead of rolling your eyes. Or when you showed up freshman year in that awful bright pink dress and no one said anything because you completely owned it. You look at me like I am real. Like I’m not just the guy who used to be King Steve. And I’ve been trying not to fuck it up ever since.”

His thumb kept moving, slow arcs on her skin.

“I watched you love him. Billy. And it killed me every time, but I never said anything because you deserved to feel that big, that much, even if it was with someone who didn’t know how to hold it right. I told myself friendship was enough. I told myself I could watch you break your heart over and over and still be the guy who showed up with bandaids and bad movies. But it wasn’t enough. It’s never been enough.”

He pressed his lips to the top of her head, breathing her in—sweat, sex, the faint trace of his own shampoo in her hair.

“I don’t want you to go to California and forget how to call me when you’re scared. Or when you’re happy. Or when you just… need someone to listen. I don’t want you to meet some surfer asshole who doesn’t know what you’ve been through, who doesn’t know how strong you are, who doesn’t know that when you say you’re fine you’re usually bleeding inside. I want to be the one who knows. I want to be the one who stays.”

A tear slipped free, hot against his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.

“I’m not asking you to stay. I know you have to go. El needs you. Joyce needs you. You need to get out of this fucking town before it eats what’s left of you. But I need you to know—before you leave—that I love you. Not the idea of you. Not the version who needs saving. All of you. The angry parts, the broken parts, the parts that still love him even though he’s gone. The parts that scare the shit out of me because they make me want things I’ve never wanted before. A future. A real one.”

He closed his eyes, finally, forehead resting against her hair.

“I’ll wait,” he whispered. “However long it takes. Phone calls, letters, shitty cross-country drives—I’ll take whatever you can give me. Just… don’t disappear on me, okay? Don’t let California make you think you have to start over alone.”

Silence stretched. Her breathing stayed slow, even. Peaceful.

Steve let out a shaky breath, pressed one last kiss to her temple.

“I love you, Tash,” he said again, softer this time. Like a promise instead of a confession.

He didn’t expect an answer.

But in the quiet, in the gray light creeping under the blinds, her fingers flexed once against his side—small, almost unconscious—and curled tighter into his skin.

He froze.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t open her eyes.

But she held on.

And for the first time all night, Steve let himself believe she might have heard every word.

He closed his eyes then, finally.

Just for a minute.

Just long enough to pretend the sun wasn’t coming up.

—

The first real light of morning slipped through the blinds in thin, pale gold stripes, painting slow lines across the rumpled sheets and Steve’s bare back. Tash hadn’t slept—not truly. She’d drifted in that hazy half-place between exhaustion and grief, body limp against his, but her mind had stayed wide awake, turning over every word he’d whispered into the dark like stones in her palm.

She knew he’d thought she was asleep when he poured his heart out. She hadn’t been. Every quiet confession had landed like a bruise she couldn’t stop pressing.

Now Steve was the one finally gone under.

His breathing had evened out sometime after five, deep and slow, the tension bleeding from his shoulders as his arm stayed draped heavy across her waist. His face was turned toward her on the pillow—swollen eye still shadowed purple, lip crusted with a thin line of dried blood, hair a chaotic mess she wanted to smooth back forever. He looked younger like this. Peaceful. Like the boy who used to chase popularity and ice cream scoops instead of monsters and heartbreak.

Tash lay on her side, propped on one elbow, watching him sleep. The room smelled like them—sweat, sex, the faint metallic edge of blood that never quite washed out. She traced the curve of his jaw with her eyes, the faint freckles across his nose, the way his lashes fanned dark against his cheeks.

She didn’t cry. Not this time. The tears had burned out somewhere between the forest and his bed.

Instead she spoke—soft, barely louder than breath, the words meant for the quiet between them.

“You have to let me go, Steve.”

Her voice cracked on his name. She swallowed, kept going.

“You’re too good for this. For me. I’m… I’m shattered glass, okay? Every time someone gets close I cut them. Billy. Hopper. Now you. I loved them both so hard it broke me, and I’m still picking pieces out of my skin. You deserve someone whole. Someone who doesn’t wake up screaming. Someone who can look at the future without seeing graves.”

She reached out—slow, careful—and brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. His skin was warm. Alive. Hers felt cold in comparison.

“I heard you last night. Every word. And God, Steve… I want to be the girl who says it back. Who stays. Who builds something real with you. But I can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever. California isn’t a fresh start—it’s just running. And I’m taking El with me because she needs me to be strong, but I’m barely holding myself together. You shouldn’t have to wait for the version of me that might never show up.”

Her thumb traced the shell of his ear, memorizing the shape.

“You’re going to meet someone. Someone bright and easy and unbroken. She’ll laugh at your dumb jokes without the shadow behind her eyes. She’ll let you hold her without flinching. She’ll make you breakfast on Sunday mornings and not disappear into the woods when it hurts too much. And when that happens… you have to let yourself have it. You have to move on. Promise me you will.”

A small, broken laugh escaped her.

“I’m selfish enough to want you to wait forever. But I love you too much to let you.”

She leaned in, pressed the softest kiss to the corner of his mouth—right where the split was healing. He didn’t stir. Just sighed in his sleep, arm tightening reflexively around her waist like even unconscious he was afraid she’d slip away.

Tash closed her eyes for a second, let the warmth of him seep into her bones one last time.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered against his skin. “For not being the girl you deserve. For making you love someone who’s already half gone.”

She stayed like that until the gold light turned brighter, until the house started to wake—distant sounds of birds, the faint creak of floorboards downstairs where someone (probably Robin) was already rummaging for coffee.

Then she eased out of his hold, slow and careful, so he wouldn’t wake yet.

She dressed in silence: his sweatshirt again, because it still smelled like him; his gym shorts; Hopper’s leather jacket over the top like a shield. She stood at the foot of the bed for a long minute, watching Steve sleep—peaceful, beautiful, hers for one more stolen hour.

She didn’t say goodbye out loud.

She just turned, slipped out the door, and closed it softly behind her.

Downstairs, the others were stirring. Boxes waited in the Byers’ driveway. A plane ticket burned a hole in her pocket.

And Steve—Steve would wake up alone, the sheets still warm where she’d been, her scent still on his skin, and the echo of words she’d never let him hear while he was awake.

She hoped he’d hate her for it.

She hoped he’d move on.

She hoped he’d be happy.

Because she wasn’t sure she ever would be again.

—

The sun was barely cresting the treeline when Tash slipped out the front door of Steve’s house, the screen door closing with a soft, final click behind her. She didn’t look back. Didn’t dare. If she saw Robin sprawled on the guest bed, snoring with one arm flung over her eyes, or Nancy curled up on the couch with Jonathan’s hoodie as a pillow, she might shatter completely. She couldn’t handle another goodbye—not the kind that felt like goodbye forever.

She knew she’d see Jonathan later, at the airport. He’d be the one loading the last suitcase into the trunk of Joyce’s car, camera around his neck, giving her that quiet, understanding look that said he knew exactly how much this hurt. But Robin and Nancy… they deserved better than a whispered apology in the dark. Better than her running again.

Her hands shook as she turned the key in the ignition of the old pickup Hopper had left behind—the one that still smelled faintly of his cigarettes and pine air freshener. The engine coughed to life, loud in the pre-dawn quiet of Maple Street. She drove without thinking, windows down, cold air whipping through her hair, trying to drown out the echo of Steve’s sleeping face and the words he’d whispered into the dark.

She didn’t go to the Byers’. Didn’t go to the Wheeler house. Didn’t even drive past the mall ruins.

She drove straight to Forest Hills Trailer Park.

The gravel crunched under the tires as she pulled up outside Eddie’s trailer. The place looked the same as always: rusted bike chained to the porch, Metallica sticker peeling off the screen door, faint light flickering behind the thin curtains. She killed the engine and sat there for a long minute, hands gripping the wheel so hard her knuckles went white. The sky was turning pink at the edges now, the kind of sunrise that should have felt hopeful but only made her chest ache.

She needed escape. Needed something loud and chaotic and alive to drown out the screaming in her head. Needed someone who wouldn’t ask questions, who wouldn’t look at her like she was about to break.

She needed Eddie.

The trailer door creaked open before she even knocked—Eddie must have heard the truck. He stepped out onto the porch in nothing but plaid pajama pants and a faded Corroded Coffin tee, hair wild and sleep-mussed, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips. He froze when he saw her.

“Tash?”

She didn’t answer. Just climbed the steps, dropped her keys on the rickety table outside, and walked straight into him. Her arms wrapped around his waist, face burying into his chest. He smelled like weed and laundry detergent and something faintly metallic—probably from the guitar strings he’d been changing last night. He didn’t hesitate; his arms came around her immediately, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice still rough from sleep. “Hey, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”

She didn’t speak at first. Just held on tighter, letting the solid warmth of him anchor her. The leather jacket—Hopper’s jacket—slid off one shoulder, but she didn’t fix it. Eddie’s hand found the exposed skin and rubbed gently, like he could chase away whatever chill had settled in her bones.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly. No judgment. Just fact.

“I’m leaving,” she whispered into his shirt. “Tomorrow. California. With El and Joyce and Jonathan.”

Eddie’s arms tightened for a second—almost imperceptibly—then relaxed again. “Yeah. I heard.”

She pulled back just enough to look up at him. His brown eyes were soft, worried, but he didn’t look surprised. “I couldn’t stay at Steve’s. Couldn’t say goodbye to the others. I just… I needed to get away. From everything. From Hawkins. From myself.”

Eddie studied her face—the dark circles under her eyes, the way her lip trembled even though she was trying to hold it together. He reached up and brushed a strand of blond hair off her forehead.

“Come inside,” he said simply. “You don’t have to explain.”

He led her in, kicking the door shut behind them. The trailer was dim, lit only by a single lamp and the faint glow from the TV he’d left on mute. The couch was piled with blankets and a half-finished D&D campaign notebook. He guided her to sit, then disappeared into the tiny kitchen and came back with two mugs of instant coffee—black for her, cream and sugar for him.

She took the mug but didn’t drink. Just held it, letting the warmth seep into her palms.

Eddie sat beside her—close, thigh pressed to hers—and draped a blanket over both their laps. He didn’t push. Didn’t ask why she’d come here instead of anywhere else. Just waited.

After a long silence, she finally spoke.

“I slept with Steve last night.”

Eddie’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he didn’t flinch. “Yeah?”

She nodded, staring into the coffee like it held answers. “It was… goodbye, I think. Or maybe hello to something I can’t have. I don’t know. I just know I can’t stay. And I can’t take him with me. He deserves better than my mess.”

Eddie reached over, covered her hand with his. His rings were cold against her skin.

“You’re not a mess, Tash. You’re surviving.”

She laughed—small, bitter. “Feels like the same thing.”

He squeezed her hand. “You’re allowed to run. You’re allowed to need space. You’re allowed to come here at five in the morning because everything hurts too much to be alone.”

Tears welled up then, hot and sudden. She blinked them back, but one escaped anyway, rolling down her cheek.

Eddie wiped it away with his thumb.

“Stay,” he said quietly. “Just for today. No goodbyes. No plans. Just… be here. With me. We can play music too loud. Eat shitty cereal. Pretend the world isn’t ending tomorrow.”

She looked at him—really looked. At the messy curls, the soft brown eyes, the way he never once made her feel like she had to be strong.

“Okay,” she whispered.

He smiled—small, real—and pulled her into his side. She curled against him, head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart.

Outside, the sun rose fully over Forest Hills Trailer Park.

Inside, for a few stolen hours, reality could wait.

—

Eddie flicked on the string lights strung across the trailer’s low ceiling—cheap Christmas ones he’d never taken down—and the room turned warm, hazy gold. He rummaged through a dented metal lunchbox under the couch, pulled out a small baggie of bright green bud that smelled like pine and gasoline even before he cracked it open.

“Special occasion stash,” he said, holding it up like evidence. “Top-shelf. Grew it myself in the shed last summer. You in?”

Tash nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. I need to not feel anything for a while.”

He grinned—soft, knowing—and started rolling. His fingers moved quick and practiced, tongue darting out to seal the paper. She watched the motion, the way his rings caught the light, and felt something loosen in her chest. No questions. No pity. Just this.

They ended up cross-legged on the floor between the couch and the coffee table because the couch felt too formal, too upright for what they were doing. Eddie lit the joint with a battered Zippo, took the first hit, held it, then passed it over. Tash inhaled deep—deeper than she usually did—held it until her lungs burned, then exhaled slow. The smoke curled lazy between them like a secret.

First hit: nothing special.

Second hit: warmth blooming behind her eyes.

Third hit: the room started to giggle.

Not literally. But everything did. The way the lamp shade tilted slightly off-center. The Metallica poster curling at one corner like it was trying to escape. Eddie’s mismatched socks—one black, one with tiny skulls. She looked at them and snorted.

Eddie caught it. “What?”

“Your socks are fighting.”

He looked down, wiggled his toes. “They’re having a turf war. Black sock thinks it’s superior. Skull sock knows it’s cooler.”

Tash burst out laughing—real, helpless giggles that made her ribs ache in a good way for once. She clapped a hand over her mouth but the sound kept leaking out. Eddie started laughing too, that low, rolling laugh that always sounded like he was in on some cosmic joke the rest of the world missed.

They passed the joint back and forth until it was a tiny roach. Eddie stubbed it out, then leaned back on his elbows, staring at the ceiling.

They both dissolved again. Giggles bubbling up uncontrollably, the kind that make your stomach hurt and your eyes water. Nothing was actually funny. The ceiling was just ceiling. The socks were just socks. But the weed had turned the volume up on absurdity, made every small thing hilarious and profound at the same time.

She flopped backward onto the carpet, arms spread wide. “I’m melting into the floor. This is fine. This is good. The floor loves me.”

Eddie flopped down beside her, shoulder to shoulder. “Floor’s got excellent taste.”

More giggles. They rolled onto their sides facing each other, knees touching, faces inches apart. Her blond hair fanned out like a halo on the ugly brown shag. His curls spilled everywhere.

“You’re leaving tomorrow,” he said suddenly, the words floating out soft, not accusatory.

The giggles stuttered. Not gone—just quieter.

“Yeah.”

He reached out, tucked a strand behind her ear. His fingers lingered. “Gonna miss your face around here.”

“I’ll miss yours too.” Her voice cracked a little, but the high softened it, made it feel less like tearing open a wound and more like letting it breathe. “You’re… you’re easy to be around, Eddie. No expectations. No fixing.”

He smiled—crooked, sweet. “I’m high as fuck right now and even I know that’s a compliment.”

She laughed again, softer this time. Reached out and booped his nose with her finger. “Boop.”

He crossed his eyes trying to look at it. “I’ve been booped. My life is complete.”

They dissolved once more—giggling like idiots at nothing, at everything, at the sheer ridiculousness of being alive and young and broken in a trailer in Hawkins, Indiana, while the rest of the world spun on without them.

Eventually the laughter tapered into comfortable silence. Just breathing. Just being.

Eddie rolled onto his back again, pulled her with him so her head rested on his chest. She could hear his heartbeat—steady, a little fast from the weed—and the faint thump-thump felt like the only real thing left.

“Stay high with me till you have to go,” he murmured, fingers tracing lazy patterns on her arm. “No clocks. No goodbyes. Just this.”

Tash closed her eyes. The giggles were gone now, replaced by a warm, floaty calm that made the ache in her chest feel far away.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Outside, the sun climbed higher.

Inside, time stopped mattering.

They stayed like that—tangled in blankets and smoke and each other—giggling at nothing, holding onto something, until the world outside demanded she leave again.

But for now, they were unexplainably, stupilly, perfectly high.

And nothing else existed.

—

A few hours later, the high had mellowed into that soft, fuzzy comedown where everything felt wrapped in cotton—still warm, still distant, but the giggles had faded to quiet smiles and long, comfortable silences. The trailer smelled like stale smoke and the burnt-sugar sweetness of the cereal they’d eaten straight from the box. Sunlight now slanted hard through the thin curtains, turning the room gold and dusty, reminding them both that time hadn’t actually stopped.

Tash sat up slowly from where she’d been lying with her head in Eddie’s lap, his fingers still idly twisting strands of her blond hair. She rubbed her eyes, the reality of the day creeping back in like cold air under a door.

“I have to go,” she said quietly. The words tasted wrong, heavy.

Eddie didn’t argue. He just nodded, sitting up with her, knees bumping. “Yeah. I know.”

They stayed like that for another minute—shoulders touching, neither moving to break the contact. Then Eddie stood, stretching until his spine popped, and padded over to the cluttered dresser in the corner. He rummaged through the top drawer, pushing aside guitar picks, crumpled receipts, a stray D20, until he pulled out a folded black T-shirt.

He shook it out once. The Hellfire Club logo stared back—demonic hand, dripping font, the whole dramatic flair Eddie had designed himself years ago. It was soft from too many washes, faded in places, but still unmistakably his.

He held it out to her.

“Take it,” he said. “For safekeeping. California’s probably got zero decent metal shirts. And… I don’t know. Maybe when you’re out there and everything feels too quiet, you can put it on and remember there’s still a freak in Hawkins who’s got your back.”

Tash took it slowly, fingers curling into the worn cotton. She pressed it to her face for a second—inhaling the faint scent of Eddie’s laundry soap and faint weed smoke—and felt her throat tighten.

She looked up at him, eyes glassy but not quite spilling over.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Simple. Sincere. The words carried everything she couldn’t say: for the hours of escape, for the laughter when she thought she’d forgotten how, for not making her explain why she needed to disappear into a cloud of smoke instead of facing the goodbye she owed everyone else.

Eddie shrugged, trying for casual, but his smile wobbled at the edges. “Anytime, Hopper. Or… Tash. Whatever you’re going by these days.”

She huffed a small laugh—the last real one of the morning—and pulled the Hellfire shirt over her head, right on top of Steve’s sweatshirt and Hopper’s jacket. The layers felt ridiculous, like armor made of everyone she was leaving behind, but it also felt right. Safe.

She stepped forward and hugged him—hard, sudden, arms locked around his waist, face pressed to his chest again. Eddie hugged her back just as tight, chin resting on the top of her head, one hand splayed protectively between her shoulder blades.

“Don’t be a stranger,” he murmured into her hair. “Call. Write. Send me a postcard of some surfer dude so I can judge him properly.”

“I will,” she promised against his shirt. “I swear.”

They held on a little longer than necessary—until the hug started to feel like stalling—then pulled apart. Eddie walked her to the door, held the screen open while she stepped out onto the porch.

The pickup waited, engine still warm from the drive over. The trailer park was waking up now: distant kids shouting, a dog barking somewhere down the row, the smell of someone’s breakfast drifting on the breeze.

Tash paused at the top step, turned back.

“Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t… don’t forget me, okay? When I’m gone.”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, that crooked smile back in place.

“Impossible,” he said softly. “You’re wearing my shirt. That’s basically a blood oath in the Hellfire code.”

She smiled—small, real—and gave him a little salute with two fingers.

Then she walked to the truck, climbed in, and started the engine.

Eddie stayed on the porch until she pulled out of the gravel lot, until the taillights disappeared around the bend.

He didn’t wave. Didn’t need to.

She knew he was there.

And somewhere in California, in a new room that wouldn’t smell like pine or cigarettes or home, she’d pull on that Hellfire shirt on the nights when the quiet got too loud.

And she’d remember.

Thank you, Eddie.

For the shirt.

For the high.

For letting her escape—just for a little while—before she had to face the leaving.

—

Tash pulled the pickup into the Byers’ driveway just past noon, gravel crunching under the tires. The moving truck was already there, doors rolled up, ramp down. Boxes lined the porch like soldiers waiting for orders. Joyce was directing the movers with that frantic, determined energy she got when she was trying not to cry. Will and Jonathan were carrying the last of the smaller stuff to the car—a beat-up station wagon stuffed to the roof with suitcases, lamps, and El’s carefully folded stack of Eggos on the dashboard like a talisman.

Everyone was there.

Nancy stood by the hood, arms crossed, talking quietly with Dustin, who kept adjusting the straps of his backpack like he couldn’t decide whether to hug someone or run. Robin leaned against the porch railing, sunglasses hiding her eyes, but her mouth was set in that knowing half-smirk. Max hovered near the steps, hands shoved deep in her pockets, looking small despite the tough set of her shoulders.

But no Steve.

The absence hit Tash like a punch to the sternum—sharp guilt, sharper sadness. She’d left him sleeping, warm and tangled in sheets that still smelled like them, without even a note. She’d run again. And now he wasn’t here to see her off, and that felt like proof she’d broken something irreparable.

She killed the engine and climbed out slowly, Eddie’s Hellfire shirt peeking out from under Hopper’s jacket. Everyone turned. Joyce’s face softened instantly; she crossed the yard and pulled Tash into a fierce hug without a word. El was right behind her—quiet, solemn—wrapping thin arms around Tash’s waist like she was afraid to let go.

Jonathan gave her a small, sad smile from the driver’s side. “Thought you got lost.”

“Something like that,” Tash murmured.

Robin pushed off the railing and caught her eye. She tilted her head toward the side of the house—*come here*. Tash followed, heart thudding.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Robin lowered her sunglasses.

“Okay, spill. What the hell happened last night?”

Tash flushed, rubbing the back of her neck. “I… uh…”

Robin raised an eyebrow. “Because Steve showed up at my place this morning looking like he’d been hit by a truck—in the best way. Angry as hell that you ghosted without saying goodbye, yeah. Kept muttering about how you ‘just left.’ But he also couldn’t stop smiling. Like, full-on dopey grin. And—” she dropped her voice, smirking—“he was limping. Favoring his left side. Five times, huh?”

Tash’s face went scarlet. “Robin—”

“I’m not judging! I’m impressed. But seriously—what happened?”

Tash exhaled, glancing toward the car where El was watching them with quiet curiosity. “We… said goodbye. The long way. And then I panicked and ran. I couldn’t face him waking up alone, but I did it anyway.”

Robin’s smirk faded into something softer. “He gets it, you know. He’s hurt, but he gets it. He just… loves you. A lot.”

“I know,” Tash whispered. The guilt twisted harder. “Tell him I’m sorry. That I—”

“I’ll tell him,” Robin promised. She pulled Tash into a quick, fierce hug. “Call me when you land, okay? I need someone to complain about Hawkins to who actually understands.”

Tash nodded against her shoulder. “I will.”

They walked back together. Nancy was waiting—arms open, eyes already red-rimmed. They hugged tight, no words needed. Nancy just held on a second longer than usual, then pressed a folded mixtape into Tash’s hand. “For the drive. And after.”

Dustin barreled in next, nearly knocking her over. “You better write, or I’ll hunt you down in California with my Cerebro,” he threatened, voice thick. She ruffled his hair like she always did, even though he pretended to hate it.

Then Max.

Max hung back until the others drifted toward the car. She stepped forward slowly, hands still in her pockets, looking at the ground.

“I, uh… I’m glad you’re going with El,” Max said quietly. “She needs you. And… I’m sorry. About Billy. About everything.”

Tash’s throat closed. She crouched down to Max’s level, pulled her into a hug Max didn’t fight. “None of it was your fault. And he—he chose to be good in the end. Because of you. Remember that.”

Max nodded against her shoulder, a small, shaky breath escaping. When they pulled apart, Max’s eyes were wet, but she managed a tiny smile. “Don’t forget to kick ass out there.”

“Always,” Tash promised.

Joyce clapped her hands once—gentle but firm. “Okay, everybody. Time to go.”

They piled into the station wagon and Hopper’s truck: Tash and Jonathan driving, El joining Tash in Hoppers' truck and the Byers in their car.

As Jonathan and Tash backed out of the driveway, everyone stood on the lawn waving—Nancy’s hand raised high, Dustin jumping to be seen, Mike just watching, Robin with both arms in the air, Max giving a small, solemn salute.

Tash watched them shrink in the rearview mirror, the Byers house growing smaller behind them.

Steve wasn’t there.

But she could still feel him—on her skin, in the ache between her thighs, in the quiet confession he’d whispered thinking she was asleep.

She pressed her free hand to the stolen shirt under Hopper’s jacket, closed her eyes for a second, and let the car carry her west.

Away from Hawkins.

Away from everything she’d broken.

Toward whatever came next...

episode eight part one: link

episode one season 4: link

masterlist: link

#stranger things #jonathan byers #steve harrington #el hopper #eleven hopper #jim hopper #joyce byers #fluff #steve harrington smut #smut #billy hargrove #eddie munson #tash hopper

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