★ summary: you and steve were tangled in each other’s lives from birth, sharing scraped knees, midnight secrets, and every promise two kids could make without understanding the weight of them. as years passed, the two of you shifted with every change the years threw at you, and time kept moving the way it always does. fast and unrelenting. you could only push down the inevitable for so long before you realized all you've ever wanted has been right in front of you, all along.
★ pairing: steve harrington x reader, slight omc x reader
★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, cursing, canon character death, slow burn, childhood friends to lovers, angst, emotional cheating, p in v, oral f recieving
★ word count: 16.2k
★ notes: this is an au where nothing supernatural happens in hawkins btw!!! i've spent soo long on this that i kinda hate it but i really hope you all enjoy! i appreciate the feedback so much <3
You had never known a life without Steve Harrington in it. From the moment you were walking, he was standing there right beside you. Your mothers were friends, often leaving you two with the same sitters. With matching sticky hands and loud babbles of nothing, you found a friend in the messy-haired boy.
Steve was there through all of life’s biggest moments. The first time you rode your bike without training wheels, losing your first baby tooth, and your first heartbreak in the fourth grade, when Adam Kelly put gum in your hair. Steve pushed him off the slide, splitting his lip open. He thought the punishment was worth it to see the smile on your face.
Similarly, you were there through his horrible prepubescent hormones, his growth spurt hitting later in life. You tripped Christy Morris after she called him short, embarrassing him in front of the class. Her accident overshadowed his embarrassment when she went crying to the office, chocolate milk staining the front of her white dress. Steve’s eyes met yours across the lunchroom, and you sent him a simple shrug. It was mindless, the urge to protect him. It went both ways. It was soon clear to everyone in Hawkins that the two of you would do anything for the other.
Steve held your hand when your dog died, letting you sob into his shoulders. He came to your house the next day, a bundle of picked dandelions in his hand. It was the first time a boy brought you flowers; he told you that you deserved them every day since it made you smile. And you believed him. When his parents got a new job, leaving him at your house or with strange relatives, he’d hide his face in your pillow, pretending tears weren’t racking his body. You’d run your tiny hands through his hair, and once he was done, you’d force him to watch movies with you. Making him laugh so hard that he no longer felt the absence of his parents. He would never be abandoned, because you’d never leave him.
The summer before high school, the two of you made a pact. Bound in the blood of scraped knees and years of friendship.
“We’re gonna be friends forever, you know that, right?” Steve asked, both of your backs pressed against the hot fabric of the trampoline. His hair was getting longer, his voice already deeper.
You had changed, too, your body developing in ways that made boys in school look at you longer. You started caring more about your appearance, making Steve call you gross every time you’d put on lip gloss. In the same way, you’d smack him with the hairspray can he stole from you.
“Of course I know that,” You said, “Why?”
He huffed, throwing his arm over his forehead in an attempt to quell the Indiana heat. “High school is just scary. What if we make new friends?”
You shrugged, not really thinking too much about it. “We both have other friends already.”
“But none of them are like you.” He said the meaning of his words wouldn’t come to him until much later.
“I know.” You smirked, kicking his shin with your foot. “Even when the world changes, our friends, school, and even when we change as people. It won’t matter because our friendship never will. We’re unchangeable.”
He laughed at your word choices, pushing your foot away from his playfully. “Growing up is scary.” He admitted after a brief moment of silence.
You hummed in agreement, reaching your hand down to grab his. Lacing your fingers together as if you’ve done it a thousand times, because you have.
“You make it not so scary.” You smiled, the two of you staring at the clouds.
“Pinky promise?” Steve asked, his voice betraying him. You just smiled, bringing up your other hand that wasn’t in his, holding out your pinky. He did the same, lacing your two pinkies together in an unspoken vow.
Time is a fickle thing. Nothing ever happens as you plan it; it’s the only consistency in the world. When the two of you stepped foot into Hawkin’s High, it was inevitable that things would change. He made the basketball team, coming over to your house with his jersey in hand. Jumping up and down, swearing you needed to join the Cheerleading team. You smacked him upside the head for even entertaining the idea. He made fun of you for joining the library club, a realization coming over you two that your High School experiences were heading into different directions. You promised to go to each of his games, and he said he would read one book a year for you. A compromise of sorts.
At his first basketball game, Trina Robbins kissed him courtside, her pom poms shaking wildly at her sides. It was the first time you saw him as a man, not just the little boy who’d help you catch fireflies in the backyard. You ran to him after the game, arms slinging around his shoulders in congratulations. He spun you around, his joyful laugh ringing in your ears.
“I’m so proud of you!” You gawked, his arms still wrapped around you. It wasn’t until you heard a loud cough from behind you. Trina and her friends were standing behind you, evil smirks on their faces.
“Y/n! This is my girlfriend Trina.” He smiled widely, his arm leaving your body quickly. He walked over to her, his arm slinging across her shoulders. “Babe, this is my friend I grew up with.”
Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched, “Oh? Steve didn’t mention you.”
You hoped the sound of the rowdy gymnasium covered the sound of your heart shattering. He didn’t even tell you he had a crush, let alone a girlfriend. Then he didn’t mention you at all. You knew Steve, your Stevie, would never do this. You brushed it off, a hopeless, dumb teenage boy in love. It was fine.
You braved it with a smile, ignoring their judgmental glares that Steve seemed oblivious to. “Well, nice to meet you, Trina. You did great.”
“I know.” She smirked, pulling Steve away. “Come on, I want ice cream.” And he was dragging her out the door.
He turned back, waving at you. “I’ll see you around!”
You sent him a wave back, riding your bike home in pitiful silence. Absent was the sound of his bike pedaling next to yours, his incessant complaining about assignments and practice.
It was just a simple interaction, one you tried not to dwell on. But little did you know it would be the first crack in the glass. Your interaction with Steve at school was becoming little to none as the weeks passed. Trina was glued to his hip, and when she wasn’t, his mean older teammates were. You still saw him some weekends, helping him study for his English tests. Inevitably, doing the assignments for him. He was still the same Steve you knew and loved, but something was different.
He no longer reached for your hand as much as he used to, and there were no more hugs goodbye. You knew this would happen when the two of you started dating, but soon the phone calls stopped. The weekend hangouts in his parents' basement were replaced with him going to parties. He no longer rode with you to school, biking halfway across town to let Trina ride on his pegs. You passed each other in the hallways, soft smiles and waves were all you got for the majority of the year.
It was the week before Summer break, and you were excited. You and your friends had planned a slumber party, painting nails, hair rollers in, and the stereo in your room blaring your newest cassettes. Preparing your future Summer plans. Celebrating the end of finals, gossiping about going into your sophomore year. You were flipping through a magazine, ready to point out a pair of shoes, when there was a loud tapping at your window.
The girls jumped, eyes wide at the sight of none other than Steve. His arms were clinging to the ledge, tapping on the glass. It feels like it has been ages since you’ve spoken to him, let alone seeing him, ready to climb into your room.
“What the hell?” Imogen yelled, her hand cradling her chest.
You rolled your eyes, ripping open the window. “What are you doing?”
“I just wanted to-oh oh, hi ladies.” He paused, looking past you to wave flirtatiously at your friends.
Your fingers flicked his forehead, “Out with it.”
“Mom wants you over Sunday night for dinner. Said it’s been too long. Still thinks she loves you more than me. Also, just wanted to see you.” He cheesed, to which you pretended it didn’t make your heart pound.
“Okay. You could've called.”
“Can’t see your annoyed face through the phone.”
You glared at him, making him cower. “Okay, okay. See you Sunday!” Then he was off, his feet hitting the ground with a thud. You lay back down on the floor, content to skim through he magazine once again. Trying to calm the thud of your heart. But your friends were not letting it go.
“You have the Steve Harrington sneaking through your window?” Jessica gawked, running and watching where he ran back to his bike.
“He’s my best friend.” You laughed nervously, watching her and Imogen stare at each other. An all-knowing look in their eyes. “He could’ve used the front door; he probably just wanted to show off.”
“Does that happen often?” Jessica asked, her line of questioning not done.
“Not as much as it used it. Sometimes I’ll go to his, but I’ll use the front door like a normal person. “ You shrugged mindlessly, “His bed is comfier anyway.”
What you thought was an innocent moment turned out to be anything but. When you walked into school the last day, you were met with too many eyes on you. From the moment you walked to your locker, the whispers were evident. Your palms were sweaty as you stumbled, unlocking the combination lock.
“Y/n.” Imogen rushed towards you, out of breath from seemingly running to you. “I’m so sorry. I told Jessica not to say anything, but she really wants to be on the cheer squad next year-”
“What?” You sputtered, “Say what?”
Before Imogen could spit it out, the school doors slammed open. Everyone’s eyes are on you. There stood Trina, complete with her group of friends. Her face was red, anger evident. You had zero idea what was happening, assuming Steve broke her heart and she was coming to take it out on you.
“Hey, you whore.” Trina spat, getting in your face within seconds. Your back pressed against your lock, eyebrows raised. Imogen had run off, muttering something about being back. You were left alone, nothing but a pissed off squad of cheerleaders at your neck, with half the school watching. You felt like you were in a bad 70s movie, living out your worst nightmare.
“What’s your fucking problem?” You asked, fingers clutching your stack of books like your life depended on it.
“I knew from the moment Steve introduced us that you’d be a problem. With your pathetic “poor me” face. You just couldn’t accept that he wanted me, huh?” She spoke, your mind still reeling.
“I literally have no clue what you’re talking about.” You tried to push past her, her friends pushing you back roughly into the lockers. Your books going flying from your hands.
“We’re talking about you fucking my boyfriend.” She spoke slowly, “I heard that you guys crawl into each other's windows and you spread your legs for him.”
Jessica. That fucking bitch Jessica. Your heart ached; you thought she was your friend. She knew nothing was happening between you two.
“I never fucked Steve.” A blush crept up your neck at your words, “He’s just my best friend. I’ve known him since I was in diapers.”
“Bullshit. You can lie to me, but she saw him literally hanging from your window.”
You didn’t know where the bravery came from, clinging to your pride as much as you could. “You know, Trina, I know no one ever wants to be around you unless you’re putting out, but there’s this thing called friends-”
Her hand backhanded your cheek before you could finish, the sting making your eyes water. On instinct, you raised your hand back, unable to get anything in before one of her friends kicked you in the shin. The other’s joining in. Pain bloomed through your body as you fought back, getting outnumbered within seconds. It was a blur; in seconds, they were on you, only stopping when they heard a yell down the hallway.
Imogen was running back, Steve in tow. He was in his gym clothes, his eyes wild.
“Get the hell off her.” He barked, his arm coming up to pull Trina’s shoulder back. “What the hell is your problem?”
Her other friends scattered, leaving you slumped on your feet. Arm cradling your stomach, which was bound to be covered in bruises. You couldn’t meet his eyes, but you felt his worried gaze on you.
“What’s my problem? My problem is you. Cheating on me with this loser?” She screamed, getting the attention of teachers who slowly poured into the hall.
“Y/n? Nothing happened. God, she’s like my sister.” It wasn’t the first time the comparison had been made, but it was the first time Steve had said it. He didn’t like the way the words shaped in his mouth, his throat going dry before he spoke back up again. “Y/n is my best friend. I told you that.”
He pushed her aside, dropping to his knees to look over you. He cupped your chin, forcing you to look up at him. Unshed tears were heavy in your eyes, blinking them away when he checked you over for injuries.
“Are you okay?” He whispered, helping you stand upright. You didn’t answer, keeping your gaze on the floor. Willing yourself to wake up from this nightmare.
“Steve, I’m sorry.” Trina whimpered, watching her social status flash before her eyes. Steve pushed you behind his back, his eyes wild with fury, while looking at her.
“You know what, Trina. I don’t think you have the right to call anyone a whore, considering you put out on our first date.” Steve’s words were cruel, an ice to them you’ve never heard before. “You can go to hell. If you ever come near her again, you or your bitchy friends. I will ruin your life. Understood?”
He was met with silence, tears falling down her cheeks. Little did Hawkins know this was the start of the infamous King Steve.
“Matter of fact, if anyone has issues with her, they come to me.” He yelled, right before the teachers swarmed in, grabbing Trina by the arm.
Steve held your hand in silence to the nurse’s office, his eyes squeezing shut when you showed the nurse your reddened skin.
“It’ll probably bruise, nothing bad enough to go to the hospital for.” She said, snapping her gloves off. “I’m gonna have the office call your parents up here.”
All you could do was nod, picking at the skin around your nails harshly.
“Y/n…” Steve whispered, his hand finding yours. You let him lace your fingers together tightly. It had been so long since you held his hand, but it still fit perfectly in yours. “I’m so sorry.”
You shook your head, “S’my fault. I made a joke to Jessica about how your bed is comfier than mine. I didn’t think she’d take it wrong, definitely didn’t think she’d tell half the school about it.”
“No, no. It’s not your fault. I haven’t been the best of a friend lately.” He admitted, letting his thumb rub over the top of your hand. “Can’t believe I let a stupid girl get in between us.”
His pained laugh made you roll your eyes, “Don’t care if you get a girlfriend, Stevie. Just want you to still talk to me.”
“I promise. God, I promise it’ll never happen again.” He laughed shakily, pressing soft kisses to your hand.
Things had still changed, changed so much sometimes it seemed like you were lifetimes apart from the two kids that sat hand in hand on that trampoline. But you’d accept any change, as long as he was still in your life. Without him, there was a hole in the shape of him, lodged in the middle of your chest. You felt the hole close, each moment Steve grinned at you. Promising to take you out for ice cream as soon as your parents show up.
Sophomore year rolled by so quickly, you wished you could have grabbed time, and begged her to slow down. Steve had grown a new reputation in school. King Steve, they called him, claiming him the royalty of Hawkins High. Little did they know the king of Hawkins made you blow-dry and hairspray his hair every morning. His girlfriends, or trysts as you liked to call them, all knew you. Whispers of the Trina incident followed every relationship of his; he just smiled and told them you’d always be more important than them. They either accepted it or they didn’t.
Dating for you didn’t come nearly as easily; most of the boys at school were so scared of Steve they steered clear of you with a ten-foot pole. It only got worse when he began hanging out with Carol and Tommy G. You hated them, despised how they fed into Steve’s ever-growing ego. They were kind to you, most of the time. It was clear they tolerated you only.
Every time Steve would grab you by the shoulders, pulling you into a hug in the hall, they’d groan.
“Gotta hug my girl.” He’d shrug, kissing your forehead goodbye before going off to class. Imogen would just roll her eyes, swearing up and down that the two of you just needed to start dating. You’d cringe, shaking her off. He was just your best friend you’d tell her. When she’d swear her and her best friend didn’t act like that, all you could do was shrug. “That’s just me and Steve.”
You didn’t have your first official boyfriend until the summer before Junior year, and Steve hated him. Hated him for reasons you were still unclear about. He was on the debate team, the most innocent, nerdiest of boys who had captured your heart. So when he broke your heart three weeks into the year, Steve had held you in his arms as you sobbed, brushing your hair down, swearing he’d kill him.
“I really will, I promise. I’ll use the beamer. Catch him on a foggy night and just boom,” Steve spoke, making your chest rattle with laughter. “Blood and guts everywhere.”
“It would ruin your nice and shiny car.” You pouted through your tears. For his 16th birthday, Steve’s dad had presented him with the infamous burgundy BMW. He’d almost spun the tires out pulling into your driveway. That night, the two of you went through a whole tank of gas, driving everywhere around town. You couldn’t imagine your ex-boyfriend's murder ruining that car.
“Would be worth it to see you smile.” He said, watching your puffy cheeks as you sat up.
“He was such a dickhead.” You frowned, rubbing your tired eyes. “I really thought what we had over the summer was good. Then he sees Rebecca in chemistry and thinks she’d be a better lay than me.”
Steve’s brows furrowed, “Did he say that?”
“It was implied.” You grumbled, fumbling with a loose thread from his shirt. “Can’t believe I lost my virginity to someone who asked if he was going to put it in the wrong hole.”
A loud laugh tore from his chest, “Wait, what?”
“He wanted to make sure, and I quote: “Is it in your vagina or your pee hole?” You burst out laughing, rubbing your face.
The two of you laughed until your chests hurt, Steve going on and on. “Dude, poor fucking Rebecca,”
“Poor Rebecca.” You wheezed, taking a deep breath in. It was good to laugh. It was good to be in Steve’s arms, the two of you lazily lounging in his bed.
“Hey,” Steve spoke up, “Do you wanna order pizza and disgrace his yearbook picture?”
You scoffed, “I’m offended you’d even ask Stevie.”
The two of you did just that, you ended up falling asleep on his bed. The two of you waking up in a tangled mess of arms. His body pressed against yours. In an awkward shuffle, you pulled away, and he nearly flung off the bed. Stuttering that he had to go to the bathroom, the door slammed shut. All you could do was laugh.
He drove you to school that morning, and you walked alongside. When you passed by Nancy Wheeler and her friend, Barb, Steve paused, sending a flirty wave her way. Your eyes squinted, waiting to speak until you got to his locker.
“Nancy Wheeler, huh?” You asked, ignoring the blush creeping up on his face.
“We’ve just been talking a little.” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. You hadn’t seen him this flustered before. Not over a girl. You ignored the weird sinking feeling in your stomach, smiling teasingly at him.
“Oh, so someone has a crush.” You sang, making him shush you. Looking around, like everyone would hear.
“Just because my love life failed this year doesn't mean yours has to; ask her out.” You encouraged him, closing his locker for him.
He gave you a sympathetic look, patting your cheek gently. “Just because that loser broke your heart doesn't mean you can’t try again. Now I don’t think any men in this town deserve you, but I do want you happy.”
You nodded against his hand, mourning the loss of warmth when he pulled away.
“Go get him, tiger.” You smirked, watching him run down the hallway.
It was no surprise you were once again regretting your words a few weeks later, doing your best to avoid where Steve had his tongue shoved down Nancy’s throat in the middle of the hallway.
“They’re disgusting.” Barb had spoken; you didn’t know the girl well, but as Nancy joined your orbit, she had followed.
“Sometimes I wonder if she ever gets tired of him slobbering all over her face.” You said, causing Barb to giggle.
“Hey, you and Sam aren’t much better. Staring longingly at each other in homeroom.” She teased, making you roll your eyes. Sam was your friend, just a friend. There had been a few moments you thought something more could bloom between the two of you, but you shrugged it off. Unsure if you wanted to deal with another inescapable heartbreak.
“Y/n! Barb.” Nancy stuttered, just now realising the two of you were standing next to her. Her face was flustered, and Steve stood there unbothered as usual. “What are you talking about?”
“How Y/n needs to woman up and ask Sam out,” Barb said.
“No, don’t ever ask a man out. That’s the man's job.” Steve shook his head, pulling Nancy to his chest.
“I think if she wants to ask him out, that’s fine. Cute even. I have art with Sam, he’s really sweet.” Nancy smiled, staring nervously at you. You were friendly with Nancy, but the two of you didn’t have much in common, it felt like sometimes. Steve went on and on about how Nancy thought you hated her.
“I’m not asking anyone out, but thank you, Nancy.” You sighed, your head hitting the locker. “I’m just gonna die alone.”
“Little Y/n not able to get laid?” Tommy’s shrill voice ruined the moment the four of you were having.
“That’s not what your dad said last night.” You squinted your eyes at him, Carol responding with a sarcastic laugh.
“You kiss Steve’s ass with that mouth?” He asked, making Nancy tense. You didn’t miss it, Steve did.
“He has this running joke that I feed Steve’s ego blindly, that’s why we’re friends. Tommy finds friendship as this impossible-to-grasp concept. One could only wonder why.” You told her with a smile, “He also thinks he’s much funnier than he actually is.”
“Hey, cut it out. God, you two fight like animals.” Steve sighed, “While we’re all here. My house. Tonight. Parents are gone.”
“It’s Tuesday.” You deadpanned, not ready to get roped into another one of the Harringtons' infamous get-togethers.
“It’s Tuesday.” Tommy mocked, grunting when Steve elbowed him in the stomach.
“A party?” Nancy asked, her innocent face looking up at Steve.
“Ding, ding!” Carol laughed, making you roll your eyes.
While they broke into conversation about the party, your eyes followed Nancy’s. Watching Jonathan Byers tacking up missing posters for his brother.
“Oh, God, that’s depressing.” Carol snickered, and Barb walked away before the conversation got worse. You didn’t blame her; every time the couple spoke, it made your skin crawl.
“Should we say something?” Nancy asked, eyes full of empathy. You knew her little brother was friends with his.
“I don’t think he speaks.”
“How much you want to bet he killed him?” Tommy laughed, your head turning to meet Steve's.
You scoffed, “Your friends are fucking assholes. You know that?” And with that, you stormed off, determined to find Sam. You were going to ask him out; you deserved your own happiness. Your own life outside of Steve’s little bubble.
-
Your fingers twirled in the phone cord, “Y/n, please. Tommy said he’s sorry. Please just come.” Steve begged through the phone. You could hear them snickering in the background. He wanted you at this stupid party; he cleaned his pool out and everything. Even got your favorite wine coolers.
“I’m with Sam.” You blurted out, The man you spoke of caught your eye. He was sitting on your bed cross-legged, shirt askew. Maybe you did decide to ask him out and sneak him in through your window.
“So bring him,” Steve said after a brief pause. “Barb is here. If she’s here, there’s no reason you can’t be. Please.” The begging in his voice made your resolve crumble. Sucking you right back in.
About an hour later, you were stalking into Steve’s backyard, hand in hand with Sam. Sam was beautiful. Taller with shaggy hair, you couldn’t help but immediately notice how different he looked from Steve. Wondering why your brain forced you to compare the two. There was no time to dwell on that.
You introduced him to everyone, making sure to flip Tommy the bird while doing so.
“Steve. I heard a lot about you, man.” Sam spoke, holding his hand out for Steve to shake. It took Steve a moment to shake his hand. Probably gripping harder than he needed to.
Once that was out of the way, you all found a good rhythm, chatting and drinking cheap beers. You're sipping on your strawberry wine coolers, Carol cringing with each sip of beer.
“No fair, why did she get nice drinks?” She whined.
“Because she doesn’t drink beer. They’re her favorite.” Steve laughed, a billow of cigarette smoke falling out of his mouth.
You couldn’t help the smirk that graced your lips, leaning back into Sam’s chest. As much as they loved King Steve, none of them knew him the way you did. He knew you like it was the easiest thing in the world, while Tommy and Carol barely scratched the surface. They knew it too. Nancy was different; you knew she really cared for Steve. You just worried he’d break her heart; you warned him if he did, he’d never hear the end of it. She was different from the other girls.
“It’s different this time, Y/n.” He swore, flicking his pencil on the library table.
“What, like you love her?” You asked.
He paused, thinking for a moment. “I think so. Not as much as I love you, and not in the same way. “ He hummed.
“Aww, wait, so you’re really falling in love with her?” You cooed, “What happened to King Steve?”
“Oh shut up.” He grumbled, right before the two of you were shushed by library goers.
When your brain came back into focus, they were shotgunning beers, your eyes rolling at the dick measuring contest Steve and Tommy were perpetually in. You looked back at Barb, forcing her to join you and Sam’s little group.
“When they’re around women, they turn into animals. Everything is a contest.” You said, making the first smile appear on her face this night.
“Sam, you don’t wanna join?” She asked, making his chest rumble in laughter.
“I don’t think I need to chug a beer to impress Y/n. She’d probably call me a meathead.”
“You know me so well.” You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.
A large splash made you gasp, watching Carol come up from the pool. Tommy was standing there with a smirk on his face.
“What the hell, Tommy?” She shrieked, him jumping in beside her. It was then Steve’s turn to copy him, throwing Nancy and himself in the deep end.
“I broke my arm in this pool when I was 6. Don’t get any ideas.” You told Sam.
“So you’ve known Steve a while, huh?” He asked, watching the couples play about in the water.
“Since we were babies. We grew up together.”
“You guys couldn’t be more different.” He said it was an innocent comment. But it made you feel weird, frowning slightly.
“I guess I’m a little boring. A lot nicer to look at, though.”
“Disagree with the first part, but agree to the last.” He said, nuzzling his head in your neck.
“Hey, lovebirds,” Steve yelled, ruining the moment by splashing water at you two, “Get in.”
You shook your head, “I’m not ruining my shirt.”
“So take it off.” Tommy whistled. Carol smacking him upside the head.
“Didn’t know you wanted to see me shirtless that bad.” You teased back, Sam’s arm draping across your chest.
“I think everyone would enjoy the show, some more than others.” He whistled, Steve’s eyes shooting daggers into his skull.
“At least get in with us, Y/n,” Nancy spoke up, a smile on her face.
You turned to look at Sam, “I’ll get undressed if you do.” He teased.
“Fuck you all.” You grumbled, sitting up. You let Sam’s hands travel to the hem of your shirt, pulling it up over your head.
“Fold it, it’s cashmere.” You muttered to him, watching him place it gently in one of the chairs. Leaving out the part where it was a Christmas present from Steve’s parents.
Sam tugged his own shirt over his head, ignoring the hollers of the boys. You ignored the gazes, keeping your shorts on. Clad in those and a plain black bra. Thankful it at least wasn’t white today.
“Okay on-” You started, readying yourself for a countdown before you saw Sam running at you full force.
“Wait-no.” You squealed, being pushed into the pool. The cold water shocked your body, coming up with a shriek. “Fuck that’s cold.”
Sam’s hair was dripping all over his face, swimming over to hold you in his arms. You wrapped your legs around his waist, holding onto his shoulders for dear life.
“We should play a game,” Carol spoke up, a devilish grin on her face.
The group of you didn’t stay in the pool much longer after that, a few games of chicken before you were all shivering. There were only so many times you could push Carol into the water aggressively before someone got mad.
“I’m so cold.” Carol’s teeth were chattering while you wrapped the towel around yourself.
“I heard his mom’s room has a fireplace.” Tommy’s eyebrows waved suggestively at her.
“Gross, Steve, you’re gonna let them fuck in your parents' bed?” You groaned. Steve turned back, his eyes locking onto yours for what felt like the first time that night. This was while Nancy and Barb had a heated exchange, Barb storming off. You felt bad, making a mental note to bring her a muffin tomorrow morning in homeroom to apologize.
“Unless you and Sam want it first.” He said, making you cringe.
“We’re probably gonna head out.” You sighed, bidding them a goodnight.
“Hey man, thanks for inviting me,” Sam said to Steve, Steve responding with a tight-lipped smile. All you could do was squint at the man, watching him walk into the house.
“I guess we should head back.” You mumbled as soon as the two of you were alone, his hands resting on your hips.
“I guess,” He sighed playfully. “Or we could take advantage of his empty backyard.”
You gasped, “I’m not fucking you in my friend's yard.”
He shook his head, “I didn’t say all that.” He pulled you to one of the beach chairs, laying you down against the cold plastic.
Your heart was beating out of your chest, his lips pressed against yours hungrily. You kissed him back with fever, letting his tongue enter your open mouth. You gasped against him, feeling his hands cup your chest. Squeezing them before his hand trailed south, popping open the buttons of your soaked shorts.
“This okay?” He grumbled against your lips. You weren’t sure if it was the wine coolers or the warmth of his body against yours, but you nodded.
His hand slipped into your underwear easily, fingers finding the spot that had your back arching against the chair. Your eyes fluttered open when he hit that sweet spot inside you.
Your gaze accidentally landed on Steve’s window, the curtains open and wide. The warmth in your stomach grew as, watched his bare back ripple on the bed. There was no doubt what he and Nancy were doing. You looked away quickly, pressing your lips to Sam’s again. Pretending you didn’t just come around his fingers, looking at your best friend. You prayed he didn’t see it, the guilt radiating off of you. You shoved it down, focusing on his body against yours.
Little did any of you know that Johnathan Byers was in the woods just feet away, snapping photos of all of you.
-
Barb was absent from homeroom, and Sam swore to you that there was no reason to be worried. The roads were hard to navigate on Steve’s road, especially at night. It was more likely that she was too embarrassed or tired to come in. It still made a weird, nagging feeling bloom in your chest.
At lunch, you reluctantly joined the band of misfits again. Sam’s arm was lying against the back of your chair, Steve sitting across from you. Tommy was convinced he got frostbite from the pool, putting his disgusting foot on the lunch table, making you gag.
“Hey, Y/n.” You turned around, watching Nancy walk up to the table on a mission. “When you left, did you see Barb?”
You shook your head, Tommy cutting you off. “What?”
“Barbara. She’s not here today.” Nancy spoke, her patience running thin.
“I seriously have no idea who you’re talking about.” He shrugged.
“Come on, don’t be an ass, man. Did you...Did you see her leave last night or not?”
“No, she was gone when we left,” Tommy answered, Carol leaning over the table.
“Probably couldn’t stand listening to all that moaning.” She moaned, beginning to moan Steve’s name loudly. Tommy joined in mocking Nancy loudly.
Steve kicked him under the table, telling them to cut it out. You rolled your eyes, “I was worried this morning, but I think maybe she’s just skipping. We were out late last night.”
“Yeah,” Sam perked up, “She’s not usually a party goer, you know? Not used to running on a few hours of sleep.”
“Yeah, sure,” Nancy said with a tight lip.
After lunch, you were excited to finally go home, kissing Sam goodbye when he left for his art club. It was then that you saw Steve walking towards you in the hall, grabbing your arm harshly.
“Steve, what the fuck?” You asked, letting him angrily drag you into the parking lot with him. “What’s going on?” Carol, Tommy, and one of Carol’s friends, Nicole, followed along. Steve’s sights were on Jonathan Byers as he walked to his car.
“Steve, if you’re going to be an asshole to him, I’m not-” You were cut off by Carol, looking at you for the first time with genuine sympathy in her eyes.
“Y/n. Apparently, he was taking pictures of us last night.” She said, your eyes widening. Nicole simply nodded. You turned your head back to the disaster that was waiting to unfold.
“Hey, man,” Steve shouted, his voice wavering in anger. You don’t think he was this angry when Trina had you pinned against the lockers freshman year.
“What’s going on?” Jonathan stuttered, looking at all of you with wide eyes.
“Nicole here was, uh, telling us about your work.” He said Carol and Tommy agreed. Swearing, it sounded like the coolest art in the world.
“And we’d just love to take a look. You know, as... connoisseurs of art.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He lied, Tommy snatching his backpack off of him, tossing it over to Steve.
“Please, give me my bag.” He pleaded, Steve, ignoring him. Rifling through it to pull out a stack of photos. You leaned against his shoulder, watching him shuffle through the photos. Your heart fell into your stomach, seeing photos of you all getting out of the pool. Then Nancy upstairs, undressing in the window. Then his focus was on you, Sam’s hands down your pants. Your head tilted back in pleasure. Tears stung in your eyes, ripping the photos out of his hand.
“Let me see,” Tommy said, snatching a few from Steve’s hand. He and Carol taking turns looking through them. “Yeah, this isn’t creepy at all.
“I was looking for my brother.” He tried to defend himself, unable to look any of you in the eyes.
“No. No, this is called stalking.” Steve spoke, “Not only did you trespass, but you took perv photos of my best friend and my girlfriend. On my property. During private moments.”
Nancy took the perfect moment to walk up, her face concerned, watching the tears in your eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Here’s the starring lady.” Carol smirked, “One of them, anyway. I have to say Y/n, looks like he was rocking your world.”
You crushed the photos in your hand, shoving them frantically into your bag. Steve shot Carol a look that could kill, “Shut the fuck up for once, Carol.”
“This creep was spying on us last night,” She said, ignoring Steve’s outburst, handing Nancy a photo. “He was probably gonna save this one for later.”
Her expression matched yours, one of embarrassment and disgust.
“See, you can tell that he knows it was wrong, but…” Steve reached out to wipe Jonathan's sleeve, the boy flinching. “Man, that’s the thing about perverts... It’s hardwired into ’em. You know, they just can’t help themselves.”
You couldn’t watch this; the whole situation made your stomach turn.
“So…We’ll just have to take away his toy,” Steve said, grabbing the camera.
“Steve…” Nancy warned.
“No, please, not the camera,” he begged, watching Steve pretend to give it back. Your whole body cringed when Steve dropped the camera, the lenses shattering on the asphalt.
He stepped into Jonathan’s face again, pulling him by his collar. “If I find out you have pictures of her anywhere on that thing, it’ll be the last thing you see.” He spat, pushing him back roughly. Steve didn’t have to specify who he was referring to by the way he looked at you, before storming away.
You and Nancy were frozen, watching the ripped-up photos crumple to the ground.
“He shouldn’t have done that,” Nancy spoke quietly, eyes on the broken camera.
“Please don’t make me verbally agree with Carol and Tommy.” You begged, “He wasn’t just creeping on you. There are pictures of me on there, too.”
“Yeah, almost seems like Steve’s more upset about those than mine.” She mumbled under her breath.
“What do you mean by that?” You stopped her, grabbing her arm.
She jerked it away, snatching up the rest of the pictures. “Nothing. Just nothing, Y/n.”
You were left standing there, dumbfounded. You looked back between Jonathan and the remains of his camera.
“I hope you find your brother.” You managed out, walking back towards the group. Steve’s arm wraps around your wrist, pulling you to him.
“You still going to the game?” He asked, his skin still warm from frustration. You shook your head no, pulling away from his grasp.
“I’m just gonna head home.”
He looked down at you, concern lacing his features. “Call you later?”
All you could do was give him a weak smile. He paused, holding out his pinky. You stared at his finger; you hadn’t done a pinky promise with him in years. You laced yours with his, “Promise.”
You avoided Nancy’s stares when you walked away, holding your hand close to your chest.
-
They found Barbara’s car in a ditch a mile from Steve’s house, 3 days later. In a ditch you passed on the way home that night, unknowing that her body was pinned inside the vehicle for days.
A week later, they found Will Byers alive in the woods, malnourished and traumatized, but alive. You were thankful there was at least one positive to the recent events in Hawkins. Nancy was in hysterics at Barb’s funeral, and Sam held you through the guilt. The two of you eventually made it official. Dating him was easier than it had been before, almost too easy. Sometimes it felt like you were putting on a show, living your life as you were taught you were supposed to.
Time passed, as it often did. Senior year was full of jobs and college applications, and getting swept up in talk of the future. Despite your insistence on Steve studying and you doing half of his English assignments, his grades weren’t good. You held his hand, swore to him it would all be fine. But you knew his dad, and you knew the type of son his dad wanted him to be. Somehow, Halloween had crept up on you; flyers to Tina’s party floated around the halls.
Despite Steve’s incessant begging to get you to join the pair, Sam was out of town visiting family, and you weren’t interested in third wheeling. Nancy had already been distant with you ever since the Jonathan incident; the last thing you wanted to do was make it worse. Late that night, you stayed in bed, only being roused by your phone ringing. You tried to ignore it, but the caller was only calling again. You rolled over, angrily gripping the phone off the hook.
“Hello?” You barked.
“Y/n..” Steve’s faraway voice came in through the phone.
“Steve?” You questioned, confused as to what number he was calling you from.
“Y/n. I need a ride. Nancy left me.” He mumbled.
Your eyes nearly bugged out of your head at his words, jumping up to slip on some clothes.
“You at Tina’s?” He responded with a mumbled yes.
“I’ll be there in 15. Please do not go anywhere.” You made him promise, not holding drunk Steve to anything. You sped there, parting drunken bodies to find Steve. Sunglasses still perched on top of his head, his eyes hazy.
“Guys, it’s my best friend.” He laughed, flinging his body onto yours. You pushed him off with a grunt, grabbing him by the arm. Dragging him out into the yard. Using all your strength as he kept going, deadweight on his feet.
This wasn’t the first time you had to pick a drunk Steve up from somewhere, but this was the worst.
“Bullshit.” Steve slurred, his body slumping more in your hold.
“What?” You were exasperated at this point, just barely able to toss his body into your passenger seat.
“Bullshit. Nancy said it was all Bullshit. Didn’t love me.” He whined, his face pained with each word.
Your brows furrowed, “Nancy loves you.” That was all you could manage to say, reaching over him to buckle him in.
“No, no, she doesn’t.” He whined by the time you started the car, driving him slowly to his house. You only had to pull over once for him to throw up, thankful he didn’t ruin your floorboards.
Getting him up into his room was easy, seeing as he threw up a portion of the alcohol in his system.
“Come on, Joel Goodson, let’s get you to bed.” You sighed, taking the sunglasses off of him despite his protests. He took his own shirt off, not bothering with his pants, as he curled up in the bed. You watched his eyes flutter closed, his chest rising and falling. He looked peaceful, the frown lines he had earlier melting away. You moved the blanket over him, ready to leave before he stopped you.
“Please don’t leave me.” He whimpered, not even opening his eyes.
Your heart splintered open in your chest, crawling into bed with him. He nuzzled into your side, probably going to drool all over your sweater. That was fine, as long as he got some sleep.
“Thank you,” He mumbled, “M’loving me. Wish it was you.”
“What?” You asked, your heart falling into your stomach. The only response you got was his gentle snores. You didn’t get any sleep that night, content to lie on your back. Brushing your hands through his hair, staring at the ceiling, wondering what he meant. Or if he’d even remember.
That wasn’t something you had the time for, deciding to push it into the back of your mind.
Safe to say he didn’t when you woke up to him throwing up in his side table trash can, making you cringe. You did what you did best, taking care of him. He told you the story of what happened between him and Nancy, not liking your response.
“I don’t think she deserves you, Stevie.”
“Come on-”
“I mean it, I know she’s going through a lot, but you didn’t kill Barb. It was an accident.”
He was quiet for a moment, hesitant to say the rest of the story. “She also thinks I’m in love with you.”
The mood in the room shifted, the tension thick. “W-what? Why would she think that?” You stuttered out.
He shrugged, not meeting your eyes. “I didn’t defend her honor enough with Jonathan, which is funny considering she forgave him.”
“She forgave him?” You scowled, trying to do your best to forget that night ever happened. The pictures were burnt in your fireplace, alongside photos of you and your ex.
“Told her she wasn’t allowed to do that since he took pictures of you, too. She didn’t like that.”
“What a bitch.” You mumbled, grabbing his hand in yours.
“Dating is hard.” He gave you a sad smile, to which you nodded. “How are you and Sam?”
You shrugged, “Fine. I think it's a little too fine. Sometimes I feel bad that he’s too sweet, too forgiving, too- I don’t know, is it mean to say boring?”
“He does seem a little lame,” He teased, you hitting his chest playfully. He winced, holding his head, “I might throw up, don’t do that.”
“He’s not lame. I just think something is wrong with me. Sometimes it feels like I can’t love him like I’m supposed to. Like I'm broken.” You admitted, watching his eyes soften at your admission.
“I think you love me just right.” His words were quiet, heavier than before. “You’re not broken, Y/n.”
“You don’t make it easy.” You joked, unraveling your hands. Maybe one day you’d explain to him that loving him was the easiest thing in the world, because you never had to think twice. From the moment you were born, there was an invisible thread tying you to him. Instead, you pushed it down, slapping his chest playfully.
“Especially when you smell like an expired liquor store.”
“Hey!” He whined.
It was all fine, everything was fine. He went to shower, and you went home. He was going to buy Nancy flowers, and you were going to wait by the phone, waiting for Sam to call. So why did it feel so wrong?
-
You got a call from Steve the next afternoon, asking if you’d come over. You obliged, only to be godsmacked by his bruised and bloodied face.
“Oh my god? What the fuck?” You asked, rushing inside the door.
“Am I an asshole?” He asked, ignoring your concerns.
“What?” You muttered, dragging him into the bathroom. You immediately grabbed the first aid kit, ready to wipe his face with an alcohol pad. He stopped you, grabbing your wrist loosely.
“Am I an asshole?” He repeated, his dark brown eyes heavy with sadness.
“I mean, sure sometimes,” You’d never lie to him, “But you aren’t an asshole, you can just act like one.”
“I did something really stupid.” He admitted.
“Oh, really? I can’t tell.” You snarked, pressing the pad to his face. Making him wince in pain while you cleaned off the dried blood. “Let me guess, Nancy.” Her name tasted bitter on your tongue.
He cocked his head to the side, “You don’t like her?”
“I’m starting not to Stevie.” You admitted, bandaging the cut under his eyes closed.
“Went to apologize to her with flowers for the other night, Jonathan Byers was in her bed. Tommy and Carol convinced me to spraypaint some bullshit at the theatre about her being a slut, he kicked my ass.” You took a moment to soak in his story, finishing with one last pink bandage.
“Well, I guess you deserved a small ass kicking, but not this bad.” You winced. “Am I allowed to beat her ass?”
“Y/n..”
You threw your hands up, “Sorry, sorry!”
In the silence, you cleaned up the bloodied paper, washing your hands in the sink. He stayed still, his brows furrowed in thought. A frown line forming into the crease of his forehead, you wanted nothing more than to rub your thumb over it. Releasing all the tension from him.
“Penny for your thoughts?” You asked, placing your hand next to his on the counter. Propping yourself up next to him, your arms brushing.
“Do you ever think about it?”
“Bout what?” You asked, oblivious to what thoughts were rolling around in that head of his.
“How much easier it would be if we were in love.”
Who would have thought 11 words would tilt your world on its axis? You must have been silent for longer than you thought. Steve speaking up again, “I mean, imagine how easy it would be. We’re already basically a couple anyway. Imagine if we were in love.” There was a subtle hopefulness in his voice; you told yourself you were reading into things.
“Yeah. Imagine.” Your voice felt foreign to you.
The silence was thick again, Steve’s eyes heavy on you.
“Penny for your thoughts?” He copied you, his arm rubbing against yours, intentionally this time. Like he needed your touch to ground himself with each word he spoke. The sensation makes chills go up your spine.
“I think,” You cleared your throat, “That you just got hit in the head a lot. You need ice.”
If Steve was going to speak, you didn’t hear, too busy gliding out of the bathroom into the kitchen. Your hands shaking with adrenaline as you get him an ice pack ready.
“Y-yeah.” He laughed, “Probably have brain damage or something.”
With your doctoring, you gave Steve a clean bill of health, leaving him with instructions to ice and call you if his head hurt any worse. The entire drive home, all you could think about was Sam.
Sam made you feel steady, like you were safe on the shore. Feet planted in the sand, a war, breeze flowing through the air. Why wasn’t it enough? Why didn’t it make you feel alive?
-
Adulthood snuck up on you, graduation coming and going. You were ashamed to admit you were relieved he and Nancy were finally done. He seemed sad, but lighter. You had Dustin to thank for that, the kid he semi-adopted, despite him claiming he didn’t. The kid adored him. When he went off to summer camp, Steve nearly shed a tear, swearing you to secrecy that you’d never tell him that. He’d never live it down.
When the mall opened up, it was the perfect opportunity for ‘real world experience’ as Steve’s father called it. Scoops Ahoy had hired him on the spot, complete with the cutest little outfit to go with it. You found a simpler, less embarrassing job at a bookstore at the end of the hall. The two of you were still able to spend too much time with each other.
His co-worker Robin became your best friend, much to Steve’s chagrin. If he thought you were picking on him, each time the two of you were together, it was Steve’s own personal level of hell.
Today’s topic of discussion was his horrible flirting skills. Being back on the market had made him rusty, fumbling around every single girl that walked in. Robin’s ‘You Suck’ board had made you cry out of laughter when she showed you.
“Ladies, 3 o’clock,” Robin whispered, pulling your head down behind the window. The two of you are ready to spy on him.
“Ahoy, ladies! Didn't see you there. Would you guys like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with me? I'll be your captain. I'm Steve Harrington.” He spoke, too high a volume for the quiet store. The girls cringed with each word.
“Oh my god, he’s hopeless.” Robin sighed.
You couldn’t help but agree, “It’s like a car crash. I can’t stop watching.”
He stumbled his way through offering ice cream samples, the girls taking their scoops awkwardly and leaving in a fit of giggles. Steve closed his eyes, “I don’t wanna hear it.”
“Oh, you’re gonna hear it.”
-
Steve’s freckled shoulders were underneath your hands, your fingers digging into his muscle.
“God, you feel so good.” His voice was raspy, the moan coming deep from his chest. He was deep inside you, his hips rutting frantically against your own. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the room. The headboard slapping the wall.
“Steve, Steve.” You moaned his name like a broken record, his lips nipping at your neck. His name fit perfectly on your tongue.
“There you go, honey, you gonna cum around me?” He asked, looking down at you. Your eyes meet his as you..
You woke up in a hot sweat, fingers twisting in the sheets. There was a thin layer of sweat covering your body, chest rising and falling. Sam lay next to you, as still as a board. You let out a shaky breath, the throbbing between your legs reminding you of what you just experienced. Slipping out of bed silently was easy, grabbing a glass of water with shaky hands. The fantasies your mind conjured up played like a highlight reel as you stared into the dark room.
“What the fuck.” You breathed, laying your head down on the cool counter. Hoping the granite would quell the fire blooming through your body.
Steve’s words from last fall echoed in your mind.
“Have you ever thought about us?”
You felt queasy, content to head back upstairs. Crawling into bed with Sam as if nothing had happened. It was fine; you can’t control your dreams. There’s no such thing as bad thoughts, only actions. And nothing had happened, nothing will happen.
-
The dream was haunting your every move, every time Sam tried to initiate anything, his face blurred with Steve’s. It’s like you were cursed. You began to see Steve in everything. Every place around Hawkins you frequented, memories lingered on all of your clothes. You couldn’t escape him, and a sick, cruel part of you didn’t want to.
“You okay?” Sam asked, his hand still steady on your hips. Sam. He was kissing you; he wanted you. You blinked away the faraway look in your eyes, nodding weakly.
“Just got distracted.”
You refused to be haunted by make-believe, bringing Sam down to your level. Kissing him hard. Fingers pressed into his shoulders. Your brain continued terrorizing you, flashing you images of your dream. Before you realised it, you were mirroring the exact position. You moaned and twisted your body every which way, fighting for that feeling. When he slipped inside, all you could think about was Steve. Would he touch you like this?
“Is that good?” Sam interrupted your thinking, noticing how quiet you had been. His hips slowing down. Catching onto your wood behavior.
“Y-yeah.” You lied, smiling up at him. “Maybe just a little harder?”
He obliged, the headboard creaking against the wall. Your eyes fluttered shut again, letting yourself indulge. Just for a moment. You told yourself it was to test your theory, but you knew what it was. It was the carnal urge to let yourself crave him. Just once, to let your mind wander into the feelings you’ve pushed so far back in your mind.
You thought about his plump lips, the way his hair falls on his forehead after basketball practice, the swell of his biceps, and the happy trail you see when he stretches. Steve. All you could think about was Steve, every neuron in your body lighting up at the mere thought of him.
“You like that?” Sam asked, watching your back arch.
All you could do was nod, watching a highlight reel behind your eyelids. You imagined what his body would feel like against yours, heavy and slick with sweat. How he’d feel pressed inside you. How attentive he would be. You couldn’t take it, your legs shaking around his hips.
“Stev-Sam.” You stuttered, covering it up with an obnoxious moan. Pushing it down, pushing down every single thought of him that made you feel alive. Your eyes stayed shut when he came, scared your eyes would tell him everything.
“God baby, you really liked that, huh?” He yawned, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
That night, you cried in the shower, scrubbing every inch of your body raw. Doing everything you could to feel clean, the sin and disgust clinging to your skin like a bad perfume.
-
The next day at work, your hands were shaky. You were spacy, constantly zoning in and out. The mall patrons only occupied you when they had questions. Working at a bookstore was the ideal place for peace and quiet, but now it felt like your own personal hell. Trapped in these walls.
When the clock hit noon, you were running through the mall, nearly knocking down entire families in your path.
The familiar Scoops Ahoy sign made you sigh. Steve would be on break right now. At least you didn’t have to face him. Your body collided with another, his cologne alerting you to his presence before he did.
“Where’s the fire?” Steve laughed, his hands falling to your hips. That was normal, that was something that happened. But now it felt like the fire was inside of you, burning you from the inside out.
“Uh, I just need to see Robin. I’m out of girl things. Pads, tampons, you know.” You stuttered out a lie, trying not to watch the way his lips parted when he spoke.
“I have some in my car for you, you know.” He started, you cutting him off.
“Yes! Thank you. Can you go get them?” Your eyes were wide, your voice too loud, and he just squinted at you.
“Okay..I don’t remember your period making you this weird.” He grumbled, letting go of you. “I’ll be back. I can get you some chocolate from Bon Bon?”
“I’d love that.” Your face softened, feeling horrible for lying to him. As soon as his back disappeared amongst the crowd of people, you jumped over the counter, Robin’s scooper flying out of her hand.
“What the hell?” She asked, eyeing your disheveled appearance.
“Hey Robin.”
“Hey, Y/n.” She mocked your cadence.
“Can I tell you something, if you swear on your life to never mention it to another living soul?” Her face got serious, noticing your expression.
“Yes, of course.”
You took a deep breath, saying the next sentence so quickly that only someone like Robin would have been able to understand it. “I had a sex dream about Steve last night, and that’s never happened before, ever. I’ve never thought of him that way, maybe once or twice in passing as a curious teen, but never seriously, and now I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Her eyes were wide, your chest heaving from the speed at which you word vomited at her.
“A sex dream?” Her jaw was on the floor, “Steve? Your best friend since birth, Steve?”
You shushed her, spinning around the empty Scoops Ahoy like a woman on a mission.
“Yes.”
“I mean, I’ve had a sex dream about Smurfette once, so I wouldn’t think too much about it.” She offered, watching your still panicked face.
“Wait,” She paused, “What do you mean you can’t stop thinking about it?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it.” You grumbled, knowing Robin wasn’t going to let it go.
“Nope, you can’t drop a bombshell on me and not elaborate.”
You grabbed her arm, pulling her into the backroom. Watching through the window anxiously as if he was going to materialize at any moment.
“I just keep thinking about it. Like earlier, he was speaking, and all I could think about was that my dream lips had touched his dream lips. Then I couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss him.” You rambled, “Then I look at him and feel guilty. Like I’m dirty and sinful because I can’t stop thinking about, dreaming about him naked. And inside of me-”
“Whoa! Too much information-” Robin cut you off.
You ignored her, “And he’s my best friend. My Stevie. So what do I do? I can’t even look him in the eyes anymore.”
“Do you like him?” She spoke slowly, like she was poking a frightened bear.
You stopped your anxious pacing, tears welling up in your eyes. You were so overwhelmed you could barely think, and you shook your head. “N-no?”
“Babes, you didn’t sound too confident there.”
“Can I tell you something else awful?” You whispered, there was never a filter between you and Robin. There probably never would be.
She nodded softly at you to speak.
“When Sam and I had sex the first time, I almost called him Steve. A-and I thought maybe I just you know? Two S names and all,” You laughed manically. “Then the dream, so I’m wondering if it’s always been subconscious. So when Sam and I had sex last night, I closed my eyes and imagined Steve. And I did it again.”
When it was off your chest, you felt lighter, albeit dizzy.
“And?” She added, her eyes wide.
“I was really sad to open my eyes and see Sam.” You cried, tears pouring down your cheeks now. “And Sam was like Wow, you’ve never been so into it before and I’m so awful. I’m such a bad person.”
Robin was the only person in the world you could trust to tell. You liked Sam, you really did. But you couldn’t feel a fraction of what you felt just thinking about Steve with him. You felt broken, stringing the man along because you couldn’t face the music.
“Honey.” Robin frowned, pulling your shaking frame into her arms. “I don’t think you’re a bad person. I just think you’re in love with Steve.”
You shook your head frantically, “I can’t be. Can’t. It’ll ruin everything.”
Robin’s lips tightened in a straight line, choosing her words carefully. The entire Summer Robin has had to endure similar conversations with Steve. How they still didn’t see it was beyond Robin. The entirety of Hawkins thought they had been dating for years.
“But there’s that chance he could feel the same way. You won’t know unless you try.”
You were saved by the door busting open. Steve’s arms are full of various bags. Pads, tampons, and various snacks. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted, just got one of everything. Robin, I got you some gummies-” He rambled, looking up to see the two of you embracing, tears pouring down your face.
He held out the bags to you nervously, “I’m sorry your vagina is bleeding.”
The moment the words left his mouth, you and Robin fell into each other laughing, Steve’s face going red.
“Women.” He muttered, tossing the bags onto the table with a thud.
-
Robin’s words sat heavily on your mind, but instead of listening to her sound advice, you ignored it. Ignored the horrible feeling in your gut and prayed it would go away after some time. Now you were walking up to Steve’s front door, Sam’s hand in yours.
The kids had conned him into hosting a movie night, complete with all the junk food you all could gather. You, Sam, Robin, and Steve were the designated chaperones. Although it’s not like they actually listened to anything any of you said. You were bombarded when you walked through the door, getting tugged in different directions by various kids. The girls wanted your advice on something, Dustin needed you to convince Steve to let them swim after dinner, and the rest of the boys were screeching about some game.
“Go ahead,” Sam had chuckled, “Love you.”
That was another new development. Sam had told you he loved you multiple times now. Each time you sent him a tight-lipped smile, no words escaped your mouth. It broke your heart that you couldn’t love him. You loved being loved by him, and you were selfish enough to drag him along.
“That was awkward,” Max muttered. You ignored it. Letting them drag you into the house.
After the kids had run you ragged, you found Steve in the kitchen setting up the multiple boxes of pizza.
“Remind me again why I signed up for this?” Steve sighed, gesturing to the gaggle of children currently destroying his living room.
“Because they were getting sick of the mall. It’s summer break.” You laughed, “And you are the one who designated yourself as the babysitter.”
He sighed, “Still..”
“And you love me?” You giggled, grabbing a stack of plates from the cabinet.
“That I do.” He said, his eyes meeting yours before they caught Sam’s hovering behind you.
“I love you. Love you enough to tell you that I’m not helping you clean this up tomorrow.”
Sam cleared his throat, and you whipped around. Startled by his presence.
“Hi-”
“Can we talk?” He cut you off, shooting Steve daggers behind your back.
“Okay?” You stuttered, taken off guard. Steve excused himself, patting your arm gently before he slid past you two. Leaving you both alone in his kitchen, Sam’s eyes dark on yours.
“What’s wrong?” You asked.
“Why do you let him do that?”
Your brows furrowed, “Let who do what?”
“Steve. You let him give you those pathetic puppy dog eyes.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh come on,” He laughed, the tension growing thick, “He glares at me like I’m going to attack him at any second, then he looks at you like a kicked dog. He touches you whenever he gets the chance. And you just let him.”
“Sam, it’s-” You stuttered, “It’s how we’ve always been.”
“Yeah, well, it’s getting sort of ridiculous, Y/n.” He scoffed, spinning around to head for the door.
You followed, ripping the door open behind him. “What is?”
“You!” He yelled, his hands waving in front of you. With all the commotion, you gave it a few minutes before Steve and Robin followed you outside. No doubt the kids had their ears pressed to the door. What an embarrassing disaster this night has turned into
“Sam-”
“Have you just been playing in my face for over a year?” He asked, his voice thick with emotion.
You shook your head quickly, tears welling in your eyes. “No, no Sam no. I would never.”
“So you love me?”
You went silent, your bottom lip wobbling.
“You can’t even fucking say it.” He spat. “That’s all I wanted from you, but you can’t even give me that.”
“Is this because I told Steve I love him?” You whimpered, willing the tears not to fall. “We’ve been telling each other we love each other since we could speak.”
He shook his head, “No. Something changed. Either you’re too blind to see it or-” He cut himself off, letting out a heartbroken laugh. The front door opens behind you. You knew who it was, without turning around. Steve would always come for you; he always has. What you’ve truly wanted has been right in front of you, and you never realized it until now.
“There’s your knight and shining armor.” Sam scoffed, rubbing his mouth with his hand.
“Y/n, are you okay?” Steve ignored Sam’s words, his soft voice speaking to you only. The voice he used before kissing your bandaids over scraped knees. The voice that got you through the darkest times. The same one that asked you that night, he asked if you’d ever thought about it.
“She’s fine. We’re talking, can we please have a moment?” Sam spoke when you didn’t, tears falling freely down your cheeks now.
“I wasn’t speaking to you,” Steve responded, his hands on his hips now.
Sam laughed, a cruel one. “I know you can’t fight Harrington, so don’t bother.”
“Stop.” You spoke weakly, turning around. “Steve, just give us a second.”
His eyes met yours, the two of you having a silent conversation with your eyes. He was ready to turn inside, but this only angered Sam further.
“Actually, no, Steve, you should stay.” Sam’s voice chilled you to your bones, your eyes snapping to his. Despite your protests, he continued. “We were just talking about how Y/n doesn’t love me. Apparently, you’re all she can think about.”
“Bullshit-”
“You’re dreaming about him, Y/n! You have repressed your feelings so far down that you don’t even realize how pathetic it is. God, it’s so fucking embarrassing being with you, watching the two of you dance around each other.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You cried, confused as to how he would even know about your dreams, your feelings.
“You say his name in your sleep. You say his name during sex.” He let out in a heartbreaking laugh, “You think I didn’t hear you? You think I don’t see that faraway look in your eyes? When you look disappointed to see me there?”
It was as if you could feel your world falling apart all around you; you wanted nothing more than the world to swallow you whole. Steve’s eyes were burning into the back of your head; you couldn’t face him. Not when Sam was laying it all out in the open, flaying your heart open right here for Steve to see.
“That doesn’t mean I never cared for you.” You sniffled, “Sam, I could love you, I could.”
“I wish I could believe that. I really do.” He sighed, shuffling his feet.
Steve stayed quiet, unsure of what to do. He was stuck against the door, his heart aching for you. Even for Sam.
“You know what the worst part of all of this was?” He laughed, tears filling his eyes, “I always knew this would be how it ended. You, running into his arms. Everyone warned me, but I loved you too much to listen.”
“I’m so sorry.” You blubbered, your arms wrapped around yourself. This was it; you couldn’t go back from this.
He shook his head, “No. Not really, you’re not..” Were his last words as he turned around, speeding off down the road in his truck
Everything you had ever known was dissipating in front of your eyes. All the plans you had made. That metaphorical box of feelings you had been cramming to the brim finally crumbled underneath its own weight. You were scared you were going to drown. The unknown picking up your body and dragging you to sea.
“Y/n..” There was that voice again, your forever anchor. You shook your head, wiping away your tears. You couldn’t face him, you couldn't do this.
“We gotta talk about it.” His voice was thick, “We gotta get it out.”
“I can’t.” You whimpered, hiding your face in your hands.
He stepped forward anyway, grabbing your wrists in his hands. Pulling them away to expose your tear-stained cheeks.
“It’s just me. It’s just me.” He reassured you, holding your face in his hands. He held you as if his whole world was resting upon his palms, because it was.
“That’s the problem.” You cried, eyes still squeezed shut. If you opened your eyes and saw him, it would all be real; the weight of this would crash on your shoulders. But you knew he’d be there to catch you.
He let you steady yourself, pressing his forehead to yours. Waiting for your frantic breaths to match his, your shaking hands gripped his jacket. Searching for a lifeline.
“All this time….” He cleared his throat. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Your eyes shot open at his words, his eyes glossy, full of a thousand unsaid words.
“I've spent so many years dancing around it. Pushing it down and just praying it would go away. If I thought about it too hard, if I let the idea cross my mind, it would never go away. So I couldn’t. Couldn’t lose you.” You cried.
“You’d never lose me. Look at me, Y/n Y/l/n.” He promised, forcing you to keep your eyes on him. He wasn't going to let you look away, not now.
“The love I have for you,” his voice cracking, “The love I have for you transcends every possible doubt you have in your mind. I look for you in every room, every time I need you, you are right there, you’ve always been right there. Through it all. If I could go back, I'd kick myself for letting you get away from me for so long, but it doesn’t matter. Because we’re right here. And I'm not going anywhere. However long it takes, whatever it takes. You’ve always been my girl.”
You nodded, “Pinky promise?” It came out as a pathetic whimper, tears slipping down Steve’s cheeks, matching your own.
“Yes,” He gave you a teary laugh, “Pinky promise.” His hand came up, his pinky finding yours. He leaned down, kissing your knuckles. Suddenly, you were both 13 again, the same Indiana sun beaming down on you two.
“I choose you and me, religiously. Through everything, everyone in my life. Not because I felt like I needed to, but because I wanted to. There was no one else, god, there was never anyone else I’ve loved as much as I love you.” He cried, his forehead pressing harshly into yours, “It’s always been us. You hear me?”
“Steve..”
“I love you, Y/n, you’re my best friend, and I am helplessly, unequivocally in love with you.”
“That’s a real big word for you.” You laughed through the tears, making him beam.
“It is a huge word for me, only I even know it because of you.” He sighed, “There are no words to explain just how much I love you.
“I think I’ve loved you my whole life.” You whispered, your noses brushing. “It’s the only thing that’s ever come easy to me.”
Steve’s smile could rival that of a thousand suns, his lips brushing yours. “Can I?” His voice was meek, unsure.
You didn’t even have a chance to nod, closing the gap between you. Your lips pressing softly to his. He kissed you like he was coming home, and you kissed him back as you needed him to survive. The two of you are drowning in the kiss, hands clenching each other tightly as if both of you would wake up from a dream.
When you pulled apart for air, his cheeks were flushed, his eyes dark. What a mess the two of you looked, tear-stained and blushing in the middle of his driveway.
“I love you.” You said, just to say it. Just because you could.
“And I love you.” He pressed a longing kiss to your forehead, pulling back to look at you.
“This has been so embarrassing. Can’t believe I ruined movie night.” You sniffled.
“Those kids are fine. Robins probably distracted them by now with some ridiculous scheme.” Steve said, kissing away the tears running down your face. You both had a lot to talk about, you needed time to think, and grieve. But the crushing weight of your feelings was finally off your shoulders, and Steve didn’t run away. He ran towards you, holding your hand just like he always had.
You were thankful for the kids who acted oblivious, throwing popcorn at you the moment you walked back in the door. Making you pay for having to listen to Robin monologue about Gremlins, before even pressing play on the tape.
Steve simply shrugged, pulling you down against him on the couch. His arms are around your chest. It wasn’t anything different from how he’d held you before, but it was also so different. New intentions, a new feeling sparking every time you two touched.
That night, neither of you was able to sleep, content to tiptoe over the sleeping children. Steve nearly slips on Mike’s blanket, making you have to cover your mouth to stop the laugh from slipping out. The sliding glass door creaked as you two descended into the night. Steve practically pulling you into his backyard like a man on a mission.
“What are you doing?” You giggled, watching the old trampoline come into view. Your heart ached; it must have been in his garage collecting dust.
“Made the kids pull it out.” He answered you before you even asked, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “Robin asked if we wanted candles and rose petals, but I told her this was perfect.”
“It is.” You whispered, your hands running over the rusted springs.
Steve helped hoist you up, the two of you plopping down on the worn-out plastic. Both of you bouncing into each other.
In a rushed fit of giggles, you pulled him down next to you, your head nuzzling into his chest. With his arm around your waist, he held you close. The stars were bright tonight, a rare, clear night this time of year.
“I never thought this would happen,” He admitted, “Always thought you were too good for me. That I’d never deserve you. I still don’t think I do.”
“I didn’t think you’d ever choose me. I mean, out of all the girls in Hawkin’s you’ve been with, and there’s been a lot,” You teased, “I didn’t think I had a shot in the dark.”
“Honey, you are my girl. Everyone knew.” He smiled, thinking back to all the times everyone said you two were practically dating anyway. Looking back, it was painfully obvious; the only oblivious ones were you two.
“Guess I just thought you were fulfilling some pinky promise we made as kids. Like out of some weird obligation to the weird girl who started following you around one day and never stopped.” You admitted sheepishly.
“That’s ridiculous, honey.” That was all he could say, humor lacing his words.
“I mean, looking back, it was kinda obvious,s huh?” You laughed, your mind giving you a highlight reel of the past few years. All the girlfriends of his you hated, the boyfriends of yours he wouldn’t even give a chance. Everyone’s whispers, both of your parents, calling it from a young age. It was always inevitably going to end here, no matter how bumpy the ride.
“Dude, our moms are gonna flip.”
“Ugh, they’ve probably already planned the tackiest wedding imaginable.” You groaned.
“You wanna marry me, honey?” He teased, poking your side.
“Shut up.” You grumbled, your cheeks warming.
“I think,” He said, eyes going back up to the stars, “I think I'd marry you right now if you said yes.”
“I’d say yes.” You admitted, “I’ve never been so sure about something my whole life.”
Suddenly, he was jolting up from the trampoline, leaving you bouncing in his absence.
“What are you doing?” You laughed, watching him stumble around in the dark, hands brushing through the grass. If you knew any better, you’d have thought he finally lost his mind.
“Wait, wait. No! Yes, fuck yes okay.” He muttered, ripping something out of the ground, running back up the trampoline. He was illuminated by the moonlight, his eyes sparkling as he looked up at you. He was on one knee, holding up a dandelion he’d folded into a ring.
“Are you proposing?” You laughed, unable to keep a straight face.
“Yes, not for real, but also kinda?” He chuckled nervously, “Will you, Y/n Y/l/n, take me, Steve Harrington’s hand in marriage? In probably about a year or so from now??”
“You are ridiculous.”
He tsked, “That’s not an answer.”
“What are my options?”
“Yes, and uh.. Oh yeah, yes.”
“God, lots of decisions to think over.”
You smiled down at him, holding out your left hand. “Steve Harrington, yes, I will marry you.”
“Fuck yeah.” He cheered, slipping the weed onto your finger. With the yellow flower against your skin, all you could think about was his bouquet of dandelions he brought you when you were a kid.
“Come here.” You whispered, dragging him back up with you. Your lips meet his. This kiss was different than the first; this was hot and heavy. Your mouth opened, letting his tongue explore. You straddled his hips, pinning him down as best you could while the two of you bounced with every movement.
“Baby.” He groaned, your lips trailing down the side of his neck.
“Hmm?” You hummed, your hand crawling under his shirt. Finally touching the rough patch of hair you dreamed about. His soft stomach underneath your palm.
“Don’t think there’s anyone in the woods with a camera, do you?” He asked, making you fall off of him in a fit of giggles.
“Oh, that’s fucked up.”
“Sorry, I had to.” He threw his hands up, “I mean, weirdly, he’s a cool guy. He and Nancy make a good couple.”
“I think we make a better couple.” You cheesed, pressing another kiss to his lips. Then another, and another. You’d never get sick of it.
“I agree.” He laughed in between kisses. “I also think we should take this upstairs.”
You met his hungry eyes, taking his hand in yours, letting him lead the way. This was one of those times you were thankful for Steve’s rich parents. His room was upstairs on the other end of the house from everyone else.
You had been in Steve’s rooms countless times, even slept in his bed more times than your own. But suddenly it was real; none of this was some dream you found yourself lost in. He was right here in front of you, his hands leading you to his bed.
“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” He spoke calmly, nerves radiating off of you. You looked up at him, the hunger in his eyes matching your own.
“I want this,” You whispered, “I want you.” With every fiber of being, this was all you wanted.
The rest was a blur, messy kisses, hushed moans, and trembling hands as clothes floated to the floor. He hesitated against your bra strap, staring deep into your eyes when the clasp came undone. Pulling it off your body as he was unwrapping a delicate vase.
“You,” His mouth went dry, his eyes still on yours. “Are the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.”
You were burning alive for him. His hands touched you gently, his thumbs rubbing over your peaked buds. With each gasp that left your lips, Steve watched, memorizing every single touch that left you reeling.
“This okay?” He whispered, his face leaning down into your ribcage.
“Yes, Please.”
This was all he needed, his lips trailing wet kisses down your sternum. His tongue flicked over the sensitive bud, flattening before he took it into his mouth, Sucking ever so softly, while his other hand gripped your other tit, massaging the flesh.
“Oh my god.”
You could barely breathe, the pressure between your legs growing with each wet trail of his tongue. He pulled off with a lewd pop, his lips glossy. He didn’t stop there, his kisses trailing down your stomach, until he was perfectly settled between your hips. Arms caging your body in.
“How are you feeling?” Ever the worrier, Steve was going to stop every few seconds, asking if you were okay. Your body was trembling underneath his, in anticipation and nerves.
“Good. I love you.” You panted, his fingers curling in the sides of your underwear.
“Gonna take these off now, that okay?”
You frantically nodded, lifting your hips for him. When he threw them alongside the pile of your other clothes, your legs fell shut on impulse.
He looked up at you, a silent question in his eyes.
“C-can you take your shirt off?” You asked, feeling underdressed. He flung the shirt off quicker than you’ve ever seen before, smiling wildly at you. His bare skin was warm against your legs as he settled himself back in position, hands gripping your thighs.
“Open up for me, honey.”
You let out an embarrassed squeal, “Wait.”
Steve paused, watching your face scrunch with nerves. “S’what wrong?”
“I’ve never…” You trailed off, choking on your embarrassment.
“What?” He asked, taking a minute to put two and two together. He looked down at your clamped legs, and back up to you like he’d seen a ghost.
“Are you serious?” His voice had lowered an octave, hands clenching. “No one’s ever gone down on you.”
“They all said it was g-gross. So I didn’t bother you, know?” You flushed, “You don’t have to.”
He stopped you, unclenching his jaw. “Gross? Baby, I have every right mind to go track them down and beat their ass.”
A squeak escaped your lips, “You’re hot when you’re mad.”
“I am mad, mad because there’s no reason any of those men deserved you. I’ve been wanting to get my mouth on you for years, and they just-” He cut himself off, hand rubbing small circles on your calf. “Baby, do you want me to go down on you?”
You nodded sheepishly, “Just nervous.”
“Don’t be. You just talk to me, okay? If there’s anything you don’t like, anything you want. Need you to promise you’ll tell me.”
“Okay, yeah. Promise.” You leaned back, bracing yourself on his pillows.
“Good.” He grabbed your tights gently, “Open up for me, pretty girl.”
You obliged, letting your legs fall open for him. A shock went through you at the sensation of your wet cunt hitting the cold air. Steve’s eyes were locked on you. Practically drooling at the sight of you.
“Gorgeous.” He babbled, pressing kisses up and down your inner thighs. “You’re so fucking gorgeous. Gonna put my mouth on you, okay?”
You nodded, your body jerking the moment his wet mouth came down on your clit. He took it slow, letting his tongue draw circles over you. You were over the moon, letting out choked moans of his name. You didn’t know it would feel this good.
His tongue flattened, teasing your entrance before suckling your clit into his mouth. He ate you out like a man starved, moaning against you. The sensations had your legs shaking, overwhelmed by new feelings that licked up your spine.
“Steve..”
“How’s it feel, baby?” He panted, your wetness covering the bottom half of his mouth when he came up for air. His hand curled around to your entrance.
“S’good. Bab,y it feels so good.” You basically sobbed, your cunt welcoming in his thick fingers. Stretching you out with each curl of his fingertips. His mouth wrapped around you, and that was all it took; your back arched off the bed. Grinding into his mouth messily as you came. He held your hips still, stroking out each morsel of your orgasm. Sweat clung to your forehead, your chest rising and falling quickly.
“I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard.” You sighed dreamily. Steve had a shit-eating grin on his face, wiping his face on his discarded shirt before crawling back up your body. His lips met yours, kissing you deeply. You could taste yourself on his tongue, moaning weakly when he pulled apart.
“I will do that all day, every single day.” He swore between kisses. His hips pressed against yours; the only thing separating you two was the thin fabric of his boxers. You could feel his hard length pressed against you.
“Can I return the favor?” Your teeth came down to bite your bottom lip, wanting nothing more than to run your tongue down his happy trail straight to his cock.
“Another time?” He smiled, speaking before you frowned, “I need to feel you.”
“Just for a second?” You pleased, giving him your best doe eyes. He knew he could never say no to you. His boxers were pulled off, his cock slapping against his stomach. He was huge; your mouth salivated at the idea of wrapping your mouth around his pulsating tip. He fumbled around in his drawer, holding up a condom in his hand like it was a winning lottery ticket. He lay next to you on the bed, letting you switch positions.
Your hand wrapped around him slowly, barely fitting. He gritted his teeth before you could fully pump him. The length twitching in your hand.
“O-okay, baby-” He winced, his head hitting the headboard when your lips wrapped around him. Licking the precum off of him, savoring the salty taste of him. His hips jerked up, his cock sliding into your mouth deeper.
“Fuck, okay, nope. Nope.” He hissed, gently pulling you off of him. This time, it was your turn to have a shit-eating grin on your face.
“What? Can’t handle it?” You teased, squealing when he gripped your hips. Flipping you back onto your back with a thump.
“Nope, my girl has a perfect fucking mouth,” He smirked, “But I wanna feel this pretty pussy more.”
Your core throbbed at his words, hips rutting against the air for relief. He sat up between your legs, sliding the condom over his length.
“Ready?” He asked, to which you nodded frantically.
“Yeah, baby.”
His tip circled your entrance a few times, spreading your wetness around for him. Before he braced himself, sliding himself in slowly. Your hands found his shoulders, fingers creating half-moon indentations as you welcomed the stretch.
“Doing so well.” He praised, pressing kisses up and down your neck and chest. “Taking me so well. So fucking tight for me.”
When his hips bottomed out against yours, tears sprang in your eyes. You were so full, emotions overwhelming you.
He noticed your eyes fluttering shut, his hand moving to cradle your cheek. “Eyes on me. Eyes on me.” He cooed.
You were scared, so scared you’d open them, and it was just another dream. “I’m real. I’m here.” He reassured, pressing soft kisses to your cheeks. They fluttered open again, and you stared at your brown-eyed lover. Drinking him in, every freckle, every imperfection. You wanted to count his eyelashes and memorize the patterns in his irises.
“I love you.” Your voice was raw, the words spilling out heavier than ever before. Despite the countless times the two of you said those three words to each other over the years, this was the one that meant the most. That held the most weight. It carried every emotion you’ve pushed down over the past decade. Now it poured out of you, oozing from your very being.
His smile was infectious: “I love you so much.” Another kiss on your lips. Something you’d never get sick of, his plump lips against yours. Moving with a passion that can only be built from years of secret glances and repressed feelings.
You both moved as if the other was going to slip through your hands like water. Hands frantic, but focused. Memorizing every bit of each other’s bodies as your body welcomed him in.
“You can move.” You sighed, the discomfort turning into pleasure. He did an experimental rock of his hips, hitting a spot deep inside you that had you mewling.
“Oh, already, baby?” He cooed, using the hand that wasn’t propped up to rub circles on your cheek with his thumb.
“S’deep.” You slurred, with each expert movement, your body was on fire. The wet sounds of him dragging in and out of your cunt only fueled the burning. The bed creaked when he sped his movements up.
“I love you. I love you.” Steve grunted, his fair falling meassily on his forehead. His eyebrows scrunched up, staring down at you, watching you come apart underneath him. Committing every second to memory.
Your legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him even closer if that was possible. His thick patch of hair sits above his cock, rubbing deliciously against your clit, his tip hitting your cervix as he fucked into you.
“I’m gonna cum. Baby gonna cum.” You whined, feeling the tension coil deep in your gut. Steve nodded with a grunt, grabbing your legs and spreading them wide. The new angle had you screaming his name, his fingers rubbed your clit messily while you spasmed around him. Coming so hard your ears began to ring, legs shaking in his hold.
He fucked you through it, keeping you spread wide for him. “That’s it. Take this cock, baby. Feels good? Feels so good.” He muttered, his hips stuttering.
“Come inside me,” You babbled mindlessly, paying no mind to the condom between you two.
“Oh fuck.” Steve gasped, emptying his load into the condom with a gasp. Falling slack against your body with each twitch of his cock inside you.
Your hands curled in his hair, his panting breaths hitting your chest as the two of you came down. Relishing in the sounds of each other’s breathing, and his skin on yours.
After a while, he pulled out of you with a hiss, disposing of the condom and cleaning the two of you up. He crawled back into bed, beckoning you to lie on his chest.
You didn’t hesitate, curling yourself up against him. Letting his hands find your scalp, massaging your head. You cooed into him.
“Penny for your thoughts?” You sighed dreamily, Steve’s fingers expertly combing through your hair.
“My thoughts are worth more than a penny.” He teased, making you roll your eyes at him.
“I have a kiss, take it or leave it.”
“Oh, I’m taking it alright.” He leaned down, pecking your lips gently.
“Okay, pay up.” You ordered, letting his hands go back to caressing your scalp.
“Just thinking about you. Our future.” He hummed, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
You sat up a little, “Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah, big house. You’ll have a garden out back. We’ll have a pool. So I can watch you lounge outside while I grill. A couple of dogs running around, maybe ten kids?”
“You’re out of your mind, Stevie.” You gasped.
“Okay, what about six?” He compromised, pulling his face down to yours once again.
“Maybe let’s slow down, become real adults first. Then… yeah, maybe I’ll give you a couple kids.”
He smirked. “I knew it.”
Your mind conjured up images of little versions of you and Steve running around. Growing up alongside the battalion of aunts and uncles downstairs.
“You’re gonna have to buy a minivan if you want that many kids. Can you imagine us taking home a baby in the beamer?”
“Our first two babies are definitely coming home in the beamer, babe. It’s when we get to 3, then we need to start looking into minivan territory.”
“If you’re doing the heavy lifting...” You shrugged, imagining Steve in dad jeans. Pulling carseats out of his car. Your children running around the two of you. Family dinners, vacations, and the stable parents that neither of you were afforded growing up.
“Of course.” He scoffed, not believing you’d think otherwise.
“Guess we gotta find better jobs to support this million-dollar idea, huh?” You laughed, Steve pausing for a minute.
“God, I guess you’re right.” He slumped, trying not to think too hard about the stress of that lingering on top of his shoulders.
“Hey,” You whispered, “It’s all gonna work out, we have each other. That’s all that really matters.”
“Yeah.” He smiled wistfully, “You haven’t been able to get rid of me this long, don’t even try now, babe.”
Summary: Tommy Hagan’s end-of-year party is supposed to be Steve and your first “normal” night after Starcourt. But when you overhear Tommy and Carol tearing you apart behind Steve’s back, implying the only reason he’s with her is for sex - you spiral hard, drink too much, and start to wonder why Steve Harrington is with you at all.
Warnings: Sexual themes, bullying, tooth rotting fluff
Word Count: 5,897
You don’t think you’ll ever get used to Steve Harrington looking at you like that.
Like you’re something he chose on purpose.
You’re leaning against the front counter at Family Video, picking at a rip in your jeans, when he steps out from behind the register, locks the front door, and turns that smile on you…the small one, not the big, showy ex–King Steve grin... the one just for you.
“End of year Summer party at Tommy’s tonight,” he says, twirling the keys around his finger. “You, me, bad music, warm beer. What do you say?”
You snort. “Tempting.”
He bumps your hip with his. “That sounds like a yes.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re already smiling. “That sounds like a ‘we’ll see.’”
“C’mon, Henderson,” he says, dropping his voice into a half-whine. “I already told him I’m bringing my girlfriend. Do not make me look like a liar.”
Girlfriend.
It still rings in your ears like a new language, like hearing your name sung in a song for the first time. It’s only been a month or two since Steve kissed you outside of Starcourt's closed, burned-out shell; since you both stood in the parking lot, sticky with dried blood and smoke and grief, and decided that somehow, despite everything, you wanted to try being something more than whatever you’d been before.
You, who spent all of last year watching him get his face beaten in for your little brother. You, who sat with him and Robin on the bathroom floor while the world ended for the hundredth time. You, who never expected any of it.
“You already told him you’re bringing your girlfriend?” you repeat, adjusting your weight on your heels to hide the sudden flutter in your chest. “Wow. Bold move.”
He shrugs like it’s obvious. “Well. Yeah.”
Tommy Hagan. The same Tommy who used to laugh when you walked by in middle school; who lined up behind Steve in the locker room and echoed every word out of his mouth like it was gospel. The same Tommy Steve barely talks to anymore, except for the occasional invite like this… The idea of being paraded in front of that old life of his makes your stomach squirm.
“Do you even like Tommy?” you ask.
Steve hesitates, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Not really,” he admits. “But free food, free booze, and it’s not like we have anything better to do, right?”
“Wow,” you say, deadpan. “Flattering. I feel so special.”
His eyes flick to yours. They soften.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” he says quietly.
You do. But it’s easier to tease than to sit in how earnest he can be with you now. He nudges you again. “Come on. It’ll be good. Normal. No Russians, no monsters, just… dumb kids getting drunk in a stupid house. We deserve one boring night.”
You think of the Upside Down, of bloody hospital sheets, of fireworks and snarling teeth, of the way your hands shook for hours after Starcourt while Dustin pretended he wasn’t crying.
“Okay,” you agree, “one boring night.”
His answering grin is pleased and a little relieved. “That’s my girl.”
Your heart stutters.
You hope he can’t hear it over the jangle of his keys.
You don’t dress for Tommy. You dress for yourself… and maybe a little bit for Steve.
You stand in front of your mirror longer than you usually would, fussing with your hair, trying on three different tops before you settle on one that feels like a compromise - nicer than your usual jeans-and-a-tee, but not something that looks like you’re trying to be someone else. Soft fabric, familiar sneakers, lip gloss you stole from your mom’s bathroom.
When Steve pulls up, honking twice in that obnoxious way he knows makes Dustin yell from his room, you already feel your nerves fizzing under your skin. You grab your jean jacket, yell a quick goodbye to your mom, and slip outside before Dustin can come barreling out to ask where you’re going and if Steve can take him to the arcade instead.
Steve looks you over when you climb into the passenger seat. His eyes linger. Not in a gross way. In a way that makes your cheeks warm.
“Hey,” he says, a little softer than usual. “You look… nice.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised,” he protests immediately. “I just - you always look nice. I’m… I like it You look pretty.”
You smirk. “Smooth.”
“What, you want poetry?” he says, pulling away from the curb. “O Henderson, my Henderson, thou art - ”
“Please don’t.”
He laughs, and some of the tightness in your chest loosens.
The drive to Tommy’s is short and filled with the kind of easy chatter that still sometimes surprises you. The way Steve talks about work, about movie recommendations, about Robin’s latest rant, like you’re his person now. Like telling you the little tiny details in his life is a given.
You, in turn, tell him about Dustin’s latest D&D campaign, about your summer assignments, about how it still feels weird to plan for a future when the last year convinced you you might not have one.
He taps the wheel thoughtfully. “You’re gonna be fine, you know that, right?”
“With the party?”
“With… everything.”
You look out the window at the Indiana darkness, at the gold streetlights blurring by. “You don’t know that.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I know that despite everything, we’ve made it out every time...stronger.”
You don’t trust yourself to answer that without saying something stupid, so you just reach across the console and tangle your fingers with his.
He squeezes your hand once and doesn’t let go.
Tommy’s house looks exactly like you pictured: too big, too clean, too polished, like a catalog family lives there instead of Tommy and his permanently unimpressed parents.
The driveway is already jammed with cars. Music thumps even out here. There are kids hanging out on the lawn, smoking and drinking and laughing like nothing bad has ever happened to them.
You swallow.
Steve notices. He unwinds your fingers and slides his hand to the small of your back instead, warm and steady.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
“I’m fine,” you lie. “I just - I haven’t been to a party like this in… a while.”
“Yeah, well.” His hand presses, the faintest protective pressure. “If you hate it, we leave. No big deal. We’ll go raid the video store and watch something stupid.”
“Oh,” you say lightly. “Is that an option right now?”
He huffs a laugh. “Let me get through at least one beer. Then we’ll negotiate.”
Inside, the air is thick with cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, and spilled beer. Bodies press close together. A girl shrieks with laughter near the stairs. Someone’s already doing a keg stand in the kitchen. The noise hits you like a wave. It should feel simple… this is what high school was supposed to be, right? Before everything went sideways?
Instead it just feels… loud.
Steve keeps his hand on your back as he navigates through the crowd, nodding at people, exchanging quick hellos. He still knows half of them. They still recognize him, call him Harrington, clap him on the shoulder. He doesn’t puff up the way he used to when you watched him from afar in hallways; now he just looks faintly amused, a little tired.
You feel eyes on you, the curious, assessing kind: who’s the girl with Steve Harrington?
Your skin prickles.
And then Tommy and Carol appear.
“Steve!” Tommy shouts, too loud, slinging an arm around Steve’s shoulders like they’ve been best friends this whole time instead of awkward, drifting ex-friends. “Man, you actually came!”
“Yeah,” Steve says, prying himself gently loose. “Told you I would.”
Carol’s gaze slides to you. Her eyes flick up and down, taking you in.
“And you brought a date,” she says, smile sharp and pearly. “Wow. Big night.”
Steve’s hand tightens on your back. “Uh, yeah. This is -”
“His girlfriend,” you say, because you want to. Because you’ve earned that word too. “Hi. I’m - ”
“Yeah, yeah, Henderson, right?” Tommy interrupts.
You nod. “That’s me.”
“Oh my God, that’s so cute,” Carol coos. “We’ve heard so much about you.”
You can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not. Her tone is syrupy, but there’s something glinting underneath.
“All good things?” you ask, trying to keep your voice light.
“Of course,” she says, but her eyes cut to Steve in a way that says not exactly. “I mean, we were all wondering when Steve was gonna show up with someone. Thought maybe he’d sworn off girls after all that… drama last year.”
Steve’s shoulders stiffen almost immediately. You know she means Nancy without saying her name. You also know he still gets that hurt look sometimes when her name comes up, even if he tries to cover it. You get it, even if he didn't have feelings, it was still a painful memory.
“Yeah, well,” he says shortly. “Guess I changed my mind.”
Tommy lets out a low whistle. “Harrington’s got himself a girlfriend. Man, look at you. So domestic.”
“Shut up,” Steve mutters, but there’s color in his cheeks.
Carol looks you over again, head tilted. “You’re very cute,” she pronounces.
“Uh, thanks?” you say, not sure what to do with that.
“Just ignore her,” Tommy says, rolling his eyes. “She expected you to show up with some cheerleader clone.”
Carol smacks his chest lightly. “I did not.”
“Yeah you did.”
Their bickering gives you just enough time to breathe.
“I'm gonna grab drinks,” Steve cuts in smoothly, squeezing your side. “Want anything?”
“I’m good for now,” you say. “I’ll go with you, though.”
Carol waves a manicured hand. “Go, go. We’ll find you later. Harrington, don’t hog your girl all night.”
Words, on the surface, like approval, like welcome. But her face when she turns away is already bored, dismissive. You recognize that look from high school. The one that says: you’re not important.
You tell yourself you don’t care.
In the kitchen, Steve hands you a red cup filled with something suspiciously bright.
“Relax,” he says when you raise an eyebrow. “This one’s just soda. I made sure.”
“You’re very sure of that for someone who once told me vodka doesn’t even taste like anything,” you say, sniffing it anyway.
He winces. “Wow. You’re never letting that go, huh?”
“You tried to get my fourteen-year-old brother to taste it, Steve.”
“I didn’t try - okay, yes, I did, but in my defense - ”
You bump his shoulder, smiling. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, but he’s smiling too. “Seriously, though, take it easy. I don’t want to carry you out of here.”
“Didn’t you say that was one of your favorite hobbies?” you murmur.
His expression warms, eyes dipping to your mouth. For a second the party fades to a blur.
“Well,” he says, stepping closer, voice low. “There are some… contexts where I don’t mind at all.”
Heat flares up your neck. “Harrington.”
He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.”
He leans in and kisses you… quick, but real. Enough to make your toes curl in your sneakers.
A few weeks ago, this would’ve been unthinkable. You, in the middle of a party, Steve’s hand on your waist, his mouth on yours, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
When he pulls back, you’re a little dazed. He looks pleased with himself.
“Don’t go far, okay?” he says. “I’m gonna go pretend I still like these people for, like, ten minutes, then I’m all yours.”
“Ten minutes,” you echo. “Got it.”
He gives your hip a gentle squeeze and disappears back into the noise.
You sip your soda and try not to stare after him like some lovesick cliché.
You make yourself circulate a little, drifting through the living room, hovering near a group of kids you know from school. They’re talking about graduation, about colleges, about getting out of Hawkins. You nod, throw in a comment here and there, but your head isn’t really in it. Part of you is still back in that kitchen, the echo of Steve’s mouth on yours playing on loop.
After a while, your cup is empty.
You decide to get a refill before your hands give away how much they’re shaking.
In the kitchen, a crowd has gathered around the keg, smoke curling through the air. You skirt the edge, reaching for the big glass bowl of punch instead… the one that definitely is not just soda, judging by the smell.
You hesitate.
You hear laughter in the next room. A doorway off the kitchen, slightly ajar. Voices you recognize. You tell yourself not to listen. You tell yourself to mind your business, to pour your drink and walk away. Then you hear your name.
You freeze.
“No, seriously,” that’s Carol, her voice dripping with amusement. “Did you see her? New hair, new outfit - you can practically smell the desperation.”
You go very, very still.
Tommy laughs, a mean, ugly sound you know too well. “Please. Harrington’s only with her because she’s probably making up for it in the bedroom.”
Your fingers tighten around the empty cup.
“Dont get me wrong, she’s… pretty,” Carol continues, a scoff in the word. “But she’s not exactly Steve’s type.”
“Yeah,” Tommy says. “She’s, like, cute, I guess? But I fear he just found a nice girl to slum it with now that the glory days are over.”
There’s a chorus of low chuckles.
Your stomach twists.
“Seriously.” Carol nods, “If we were still in school, he wouldn't even look twice at her. She was always so quiet and loooooved acting like a goodie tooshoes.”
“Oh, totally,” someone else chimes in. A guy you don’t know. “But you’ve heard the saying: quiet ones are always crazy in bed. Bet she pretends she’s not that kind of girl until she’s down on her knees.”
The room erupts in snickers.
You feel like someone’s poured ice water down your spine.
“Yeah, and Harrington always liked girls he could train,” Tommy adds, voice lowering in that gross, conspiratorial way. “Give it a month… he’ll be bored. Honestly, if he loosens her up enough, maybe I’ll take a turn.”
More laughter. Somebody whistles.
“Tommy,” Carol says, mock-scolding, but she’s laughing too. “You’re disgusting.”
“What?” he says. “It’d be a waste if he didn’t share.”
The bowl in front of you swims in your vision. The red liquid inside wobbles, reflecting the overhead light in a nauseating way.
You realize you’re holding your breath. You let it out in a shaky exhale.
The cup in your hand trembles so hard you have to set it down.
They’re still talking. Their voices blur together, a hum of words like girlfriend and lucky and she should be grateful and Harrington could do better.
You back away from the doorway before you hear anything else.Before you hear your own heart crack.
The living room has tilted slightly when you step back into it.
You move on autopilot, weaving through bodies until you find a quieter corner. Your chest is tight, your throat raw. You feel too hot and too cold at the same time.
You shouldn’t care what Tommy and Carol think. You know what kind of people they are. You’ve seen the way they treat everyone beneath them on the invisible ladder they still think they’re standing on.
But it’s not just what they said. It’s what it implies…That Steve is settling. That you’re some placeholder. That everyone assumes the only reason he’d be with you is because you’re good in bed.
Your face burns.
You think of every time you’ve flushed under his touch, every time you’ve let him see you vulnerable and messy and bare. Every time you’ve thought: this is ours. This is private. And now you hear Tommy talking about you like you’re a party trick. Like Steve’s bragged about you.
You try to push that thought away. Steve doesn’t talk like that. He doesn’t brag. Not about you. You know that….But the seed is already planted, and it digs.
You feel suddenly out of place. Like you’ve crashed a party you weren’t actually invited to. Like everyone’s looking at you and seeing exactly what Tommy described: some girl Steve picked up because he could. Because he was bored. Because why not?
In the kitchen again, someone has abandoned a fresh cup of punch on the counter.
You pick it up and raise the cup to your lips.The punch is sweet and sharp, burning on the way down. You cough once, swallow again. You don’t want to think anymore. You want the edges blurred. The cup empties faster than you mean it to. You get another... And another.
By the time Steve finds you, your head is pleasantly fuzzy and your sense of balance is… well, gone.
He spots you from across the room, half-leant against the wall, cup dangling loosely from your fingers. The music pounds in your ears, your thoughts half a beat behind.
He appears in front of you, sudden and close.
“Hey,” he says, brow furrowing. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for -”
He stops. Really looks at you.
“How many of those have you had?”
You squint at the cup. “This one,” you say. Then frown. “Or… that one. Or… I don’t remember.”
He takes the cup gently from your hand and sniffs it. His expression twists.
“Okay, yeah, that is not soda.”
“No kidding,” you say, and giggle. It bubbles up unexpectedly. You clap a hand over your mouth.
He stares at you, concern sharpening his features. He glances over your shoulder, searching the room like he’s looking for someone who might have done this to you.
“Did somebody give this to you?” he demands. “Did someone - ”
“I poured it myself,” you interrupt, words running together slightly. “Relax, Harrington. Nobody roofied your girlfriend.”
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath. “Okay. That’s not funny.”
You roll your eyes. The floor tilts a little. “You’re so serious.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Because you’re drunk.”
“I am,” you agree. “Y’know what else I am? Fine.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “You don’t look fine.”
“You don’t know what I look like,” you protest weakly.
He huffs out a breath, almost a laugh, but there’s no real amusement behind it. He reaches out and gives your arm a gentle tug.
“Come on,” he says. “We’re getting you some water.”
You try to pull away. “I don’t want water.”
“Tough,” he says. “You’re getting it.”
His hand slides to the small of your back again, and this time the touch feels different. Not just gentle. Steadying.
He steers you out of the living room, down the hall, into a quieter side room… maybe a study or a spare den. The door clicks shut behind you, muting the music to a dull heartbeat.
There’s a small couch pushed against the wall. He guides you onto it, kneeling briefly to make sure you’re actually sitting before he lets go.
“I’ll be right back,” he says. “Don’t move.”
You salute him sloppily. “Yes, sir.”
He shakes his head and disappears. You lean back against the couch, closing your eyes. The room sways gently. Your brain floats somewhere just out of reach. When you open your eyes again, Steve is in front of you with a glass of water.
“Okay,” he says, pressing it into your hands. “Drink.”
You wrinkle your nose. “Bossy.”
“Yup,” he says. “Drink.”
You take a sip. Then another. The water is blessedly cold, cutting through some of the sweetness still coating your tongue. Steve watches you, one knee on the cushion beside you, close enough that you can see the little lines between his brows, the tension in his jaw.
“What happened?” he asks, soft but insistent. “You were fine, and then I left, and now you’re… this. So what happened?”
You shrug, staring into the glass. The ice clinks faintly.
“Nothin’,” you say. “Just a party.”
“Bullshit.”
Your head snaps up. He rarely swears at you like that. Not at you.
“You were fine,” he repeats. “Now you’re not. So something happened.”
Emotion rises fast, hot and stinging.
“Drop it,” you say, your voice wobbling even as you try to make it firm. “Please, Steve. Just leave it.”
His eyes soften, but he doesn’t back off. He shifts closer, one hand coming to rest on your knee.
“I’m not gonna leave it if it’s making you feel like this,” he says. “Talk to me.”
You look at his hand on your leg, at the familiar shape of his knuckles, the small scar on his thumb from breaking a bottle during the Starcourt mess. You think of Tommy’s voice, low and amused: if he loosens her up enough, maybe I’ll take a turn.
Your stomach lurches.
“I heard them,” you blurt.
Steve stills. “Heard who?”
“Tommy,” you say. “And Carol. And some other guys.”
His jaw flexes. “Okay. What did they say?”
You laugh. It comes out wrong, too high. “A lot.”
“Babe,” he says, and the word lands differently this time. Fragile. “Tell me.”
You suck in a breath. It feels like it scrapes all the way down.
“They were talking about me,” you say. “About us. About why you’re with me.”
Something cold flashes through his eyes. “What. did. they. say.” he repeats, quieter now. More dangerous.
You stare at the water in your hands, watching the ice melt.
“They said I was trying too hard,” you mutter. “That you’re only with me because I make up for it in… other ways. That I’m not really your type, I’m just…” You swallow hard. “Something convenient.”
Steve is silent.
You push through it, because now that you’ve started, you can’t stop.
“They said you could ‘train’ me,” you whisper. “That I’m the kind of girl who says I’m not that type until I’m… on my knees. That you’ll get bored in a month, and if you ‘loosen me up enough’ maybe Tommy will ‘take a turn.’”
The last words taste like ashes. Saying them out loud makes them worse, more real.
You don’t want to look up. You don’t want to see pity on his face. Or worse, agreement.
His hand leaves your knee. For a split second, panic flares… this is it, you’ve ruined it, you’ve pushed too hard.
Then you hear him stand.
You flinch.
“Where are you going?” you ask quickly.
“Out there,” he says, voice tight. “To break his goddamn nose.”
Your head snaps up. His back is to you, shoulders rigid, fists clenched.
“Steve - ”
“You’re telling me,” he says, spinning back around, “that he talked about you like that? To other people? And like you’re - ” His mouth twists. “Like you’re some… thing he’s got dibs on?”
Your cheeks burn and that was all the confirmation he needed.
His eyes are blazing. “I’m gonna kill him.”
He takes a step toward the door.
You lurch forward, grabbing his wrist. The room sways alarmingly.
“Don’t,” you say.
“Henderson - ”
“Please,” you insist, tugging at him. “Please don’t go out there and, and make a scene. I can’t - I don’t want everyone staring. I just… I just want to leave.”
He looks down at you. Really looks. At your wet eyes, the way you’re clutching him like he’s the only solid thing in the room.
His shoulders drop an inch.
“Okay,” he says. It sounds like it costs him. “Okay. I won’t. Not right now.”
Relief and guilt crash over you at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I shouldn’t have told you. I just - ”
“Don’t,” he cuts in sharply. “Geez, don’t you dare apologize for telling me.”
You look away, staring at the pattern in the rug.
“I knew I shouldn’t have come,” you say. The words tumble out, loose and unfiltered. “This is your world, not mine.”
“My world?” he repeats, cautiously, “what does that even mean?”
“You’re - ” Your throat tightens. You blink hard, vision blurring. “You’re Steve Harrington.”
His expression shifts, confusion flickering across his features.
“And?” he prompts.
“And I’m me,” you say helplessly. “I’m… not Nancy. I’m not some cheerleader goddess everyone expects you to be with. I’m Dustin’s weird older sister who reads too much and doesn’t know how to talk to people at parties. I stand next to you and people look at us like - like it’s a joke.”
Tears spill over, hot and humiliating. You swipe at them angrily.
“They’re all thinking it, even if they’re not saying it,” you choke out. “What’s Steve Harrington doing with her? Why is he wasting his time? Why is he slumming it?”
Your voice cracks on the last words. You bite your lip, hard, trying to hold yourself together.
For a moment, there is silence.
Then you feel fingers on your chin, gentle but firm, tipping your face up.
Steve is closer now, kneeling on the floor in front of you. His eyes are intense, burning, like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Look at me.”
You do. Because you always do.
“First of all,” he says, “fuck them.”
The swear lands like a slap. You blink.
“Tommy, Carol, every jerk in that room who thinks they know anything about us,” he continues. “They don’t. They don’t know me anymore, and they sure as hell don’t know you.”
“Yeah, well, they - ”
He shakes his head. “No. I’m not finished.”
You shut your mouth.
He takes a breath, like he’s steadying himself.
“Second,” he says, voice lower, “I’m with you because I want to be. Because I wake up and you’re the first person I want to see. Because talking to you in between customers at Family Video is the best part of my day. Because you get my stupid jokes and you call me on my bullshit and you don’t look at me like I’m some washed-up ex–King of Hawkins High.”
He huffs out a humorless laugh. “You have no idea how… different that is.”
Your chest aches.
“You think I’m slumming it?” he asks, “with you?”
You swallow. “Don’t say it like that.”
“I’m saying it like that because it’s insane,” he says. “You are -”
He stops, eyes searching your face, like he’s reaching for the right words.
“You’re so far out of my league it’s not even funny,” he says finally.
You stare at him. “That’s not -”
“I’m not finished,” he repeats, a little more firmly.
You clamp your mouth shut again.
“You’re smart,” he says. “And not like, fake smart, where people memorize stuff for tests and then forget it. You actually… care about things. You read books that aren’t on any syllabus. You think about stuff. You made me think about stuff I never thought about before.”
His thumb brushes away a tear that’s slipped down your cheek, the gesture so soft it almost undoes you.
“You’re funny,” he goes on. “You make these little comments under your breath that half the time Robin doesn’t even catch, and I have to pretend I’m not losing it behind the counter. You’re so stubborn. You argue with me about movies even when you’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong about The Godfather being boring,” you mumble automatically.
“See?” he says, a flicker of a smile crossing his face. “This is what I’m talking about.”
You sniff.
“And yeah, okay,” he adds, “you’re Dustin’s older sister, which used to be a terrifying concept. But you’re also… you. Not ‘Henderson’s sister.’ You.” His gaze softens. “The girl who sat on a mall floor with me and held my hand when I thought I might actually die. The girl who didn’t even flinch when being interrogating be fucking Russian spies. The girl who could swing an axe better than anyone on the baseball team. The girl who still wanted to talk to me even after she saw me at my absolute worst.”
He swallows.
“You think I could ever see that as slumming it?” he asks. “You think I could ever see you as… convenient?”
Your voice is very small when you answer. “It’s hard not to when that’s what everyone else is saying.”
“Everyone else doesn’t know shit,” he says fiercely. “They’re stuck in some high school movie that ended two years ago. They still think I’m the guy who cares about what they think.”
He cups your face fully now, palms warm against your skin.
“I don’t,” he says. “Not anymore. The only person whose opinion on my life I care about right now is sitting right in front of me, crying into a plastic cup.”
You look down. You hadn’t even realized you were still holding it until he gently pries it from your fingers and sets it on the floor.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You listening?”
You nod.
“I haven’t told them anything about us,” he says quietly. “Not the private stuff, anyway. I brag about you, sure. About how smart you are. How you roasted a customer so hard the other day that you basically forced him into apologizing to me. But I haven’t- ” He flushes slightly. “I haven’t talked about… that. With them. Because that’s ours. Not theirs.”
You search his face, looking for any sign of a lie. You don’t find one.
“They’re making assumptions because that’s all they know how to do,” he says. “They see a guy and a girl and they assume it’s about sex, because that’s all it ever was for them. They can’t understand that maybe I just… like you. That maybe I’d still be just like them if we’d never -”
He breaks off, jaw working, “point is,” he says instead, “they’re wrong. About you. About me. About us.”
Your chest feels tight with something that’s not just hurt anymore. Something warmer, heavier, no less terrifying. You sit there for a moment, the party thudding faintly through the walls, his hands still cupping your face like you’re something precious.
The alcohol makes everything looser, your thoughts slipping past your usual filters.
“I like you,” you blurt.
His eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”
“A lot,” you add, because apparently you’re committed to this now. “Like… more than I should. Like, stupid amounts.”
His expression softens so much it almost hurts to look at him.
“I know,” he says gently.
You blink. “You know?”
“Well,” he says, a hint of teasing edging back into his tone. “I had my suspicions when you agreed to date me.”
You let out a shaky laugh.
“No, I mean - ” You suck in a breath. The words crowd your tongue. You’re not sure which ones will come out. “I mean, I - you’re in my head all the time. When I’m at home and Dustin is being annoying, when I’m at work, or when I’m trying to read. I think about you and that dumb smile you do when you’re pretending not to care, and how you always smell like popcorn and cologne, and how your hair sticks up in the morning, and…”
You trail off, realizing how much you’ve said. Your face feels like it’s on fire.
“I sound insane,” you mutter.
He shakes his head slowly. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, a tiny back-and-forth that steadies you.
“You sound like someone who likes their boyfriend,” he says softly. “Which is… good news for me, I think.”
You huff, half-sob, half-laugh. “You’re taking this very well.”
“What, you think I’m gonna be upset that my girlfriend likes me?” he asks. “You really don’t know how low my self-esteem is these days.”
You open your mouth to reply, but the room lurches a little, the edges blurring further. The adrenaline that kept you upright earlier is fading, leaving you heavy and tired.
“Ugh,” you mumble, closing your eyes briefly. “Everything’s spinning.”
“Okay,” he says immediately. “We’re done here.”
You blink them open again. “Done?”
“With this party,” he clarifies. “You, me, out. I’m taking you home.”
“I don’t wanna go home,” you complain. The thought of facing your mother like this, of Dustin’s inevitable questions, makes you want to sink through the floor.
“Okay,” he amends. “My home. My bed. You’re gonna sleep this off and then in the morning you can yell at me for being overbearing.”
“Very overbearing,” you agree, trying to stand. The couch seems surprisingly far from the floor.
He’s there in an instant, hands under your arms, steadying you.
“Woah,” he says. “Okay. Easy.”
“I’m fine,” you insist, immediately tripping over nothing.
He catches you against his chest, one arm around your waist, the other bracing your shoulder.
“Totally fine,” he says dryly.
You look up at him.He looks worried and fond and a little frustrated, all at once.
Impulse overrides common sense. You reach up and touch his face, fingers clumsy on his jaw, “You’re a good thing,” you say, words slurring a little. “I don’t… I don’t get a lot of those. So if you’re lying to me…”
You can’t finish the sentence.
His expression crumples, just for a second.
“I’m not lying to you,” he says. “About any of it.”
He leans in. For a moment you think he’s going to kiss you, and every nerve in your body lights up in anticipation.
Instead, he presses his lips to your forehead. Soft. Lingering.
It says more than any of the other kisses you’ve shared.
You exhale shakily.
“Okay?” he murmurs against your skin.
You nod, eyes closing briefly. “Okay.”
He straightens, keeping an arm firmly around you as he guides you out of the room, down the hall, and toward the front door.
People call his name as you pass - a few whoops, a drunken “Harrington, where you going?” — but he doesn’t stop. His focus doesn’t waver from you, from making sure your feet are under you, your head doesn’t bump into anything and that you don’t have to meet anybody’s eye.
Outside, the night air hits your face like a blessing. It’s cooler than in the house, quieter. You breathe it in greedily.
He helps you into the passenger seat, buckles your seatbelt like you might forget how. His hand lingers on the strap for a second, fingers brushing your shoulder.
Then he closes the door and circles around to the driver’s side.
As he pulls away from the crowded curb, you lean your forehead against the cool glass and close your eyes. The world tilts, but not as violently as before.
“Hey,” his voice comes, softer from the driver’s seat. “You awake?”
“Mm,” you manage.
“Just… for the record?” he says. “They’re wrong.”
You crack one eye open. “About what?”
“About you not being my type,” he says. “If anything, you’re too much my type. It’s kind of a problem.”
“Yeah?” you mumble, fighting a smile.
“Yeah,” he says. “And tomorrow, when you’re not drunk and not about to throw up in my car, I’m gonna tell you all the reasons why. Again. As many times as it takes until you stop listening to idiots at parties and start listening to me.”
“Bossy,” you mutter.
“Yup,” he says. “Get used to it. You’re stuck with me.”
Warmth blooms in your chest, spreading outwards, wrapping around your ribs like a blanket.
“You promise?” you whisper, not fully sure if you said it out loud.
There’s a pause, then, “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I promise.”
You fall asleep to the sound of his voice and the hum of the engine.
your first kiss with eddie happens when you’re painting his nails for him and he has to try to resist touching you because the polish is still wet.
wc: 1.6k+ | warnings: kissing, sensuality, sexual tension, friends to lovers, mention of marijuana use, no use of y/n, not explicit but mdni, reader is out of high school/an adult, eddie is repeating senior year again.
author’s note: would it really be so crazy if i said this little drabble is one of my favorite things i have ever written? also this is dedicated to @dearwalker for no reason other than she gets me.
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You’re supposed to be helping him study for a biology test.
It’s the whole reason you came over.
But then he suggested ordering a pizza. And then he rolled a joint for the two of you to share. Then the pizza was delivered, and he turned on a horror film that you’re sure he’s already seen at least a dozen times.
Now an hour has passed and his biology textbook is still open to the same page that it was when you first arrived.
The movie still plays as background noise as he focuses all of his concentration on painting his fingernails to match his raven curls.
Maybe it’s due to the fact that you’re a little buzzed, but you can’t stop staring at him.
Maybe you just think he’s pretty.
“It’s getting late,” you hum, transfixed by the way he bites his bottom lip in the endearing way that he always does when he’s hyper focused on a task. “If you wanna pass your test tomorrow, you need to study.”
He snorts. You know him well enough to know that he’s saying we could study for the next six fucking hours and I’m still not gonna pass that test without actually saying it.
“Quiz me,” he says without taking his eyes off the tips of his fingers. “This is going to take a while. I can paint my right hand pretty quickly, but the left…”
You stare at him for another moment when you get an idea. If he were to ask, you’d say it’s to speed up the process, but it’s not quite so easy to lie to yourself.
You just want to be closer to him.
You scoot to where he sits near the foot of his bed and hold out your hand for the tiny brush. He freezes and looks up at you with wide doe eyes.
“Let me help you,” you murmur. “And I’ll quiz you, too. Kill two birds with one stone.”
He smirks, passing you the brush. “You always have the best ideas.”
You take his left hand in yours and pull it closer to you, your eyes drawn to the details of his rings as if you haven’t stared at them a thousand times before. With your other hand, you dip the brush back into the nail polish bottle that he still holds in his right hand.
“I know. That’s why you keep me around.”
When you look up, he’s already watching you with a half-dazed expression. “Among other reasons.”
The air suddenly feels heavier. You force yourself to drop your gaze back down to his hand in yours, bringing the brush to the tip of his index finger and mentally willing your hand to stay steady.
You clear your throat. “First question. Define commensalism and give me an example.”
“Too easy,” he laughs lowly. You feel the faint vibration of it from where his hand rests in yours. “It’s a type of symbiotic relationship where one organism benefits but the other isn’t helped or harmed. Like…barnacles on a whale.”
You smile and nod, not taking your eyes off of his fingernail for fear that you’ll smear the black ink across his pale skin. “Good job,” you praise, moving onto his middle finger. “What about mutualism?”
“Also too easy. Mutualism is when both organisms benefit from the relationship. Like bees and flowers. Like coral and algae. And like me and you.”
You freeze, your heart hammering in your chest. “Me and you?” You muse, glancing up at him briefly through your lashes. Maybe it’s the chemicals in the nail polish affecting your ability to think clearly, but you swear his gaze lingers on your lips for a loaded second. “How so?”
He grins, highlighting the crinkles around his eyes. “You know,” he shrugs. “You help me study for a test, I buy you pizza. I let you smoke my weed, I get to stare at you while you paint my fingernails. Win-win situation if you ask me.”
Perhaps it’s not the chemicals making your imagination run wild, then. You’d think you were dreaming if it weren’t for how uncomfortably dry your mouth suddenly feels.
You do what you’re so naturally inclined to do - deflect.
Dropping your gaze again, you move onto the next finger. “Sounds to me like you’re getting the short end of the stick.”
You mentally curse the slight quiver in your voice.
“Pshhh,” he scoffs. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?”
You shrug, moving onto his pinky nail. It takes every ounce of determination you possess to will your hands not to shake under the intensity of his stare.
“Hey,” he says softly when he realizes that you’re not going to give him a direct answer. Just as you’re finishing up the first coat of paint on his pinky, he takes the brush away from you. You feel you have no choice but to look him in the eye.
He’s looking at you with the same effortless softness as always. That’s what you find the most infuriating about it - he always looks at you just as fondly as he is right now. So why is it suddenly ripping the air from your lungs?
“I do not have the short end of the stick,” he says, almost defensively. “Not when I’ve got you in my room, sitting on my bed, holding my hand in yours. Anyone who isn’t me…that’s who has the short end of the stick.”
“Eddie,” you breathe, your brain short-circuiting. Suddenly, English is a foreign language. It may as well be your first day trying to string two words together.
You don’t have to worry about being speechless for long.
His eyes flicker to your lips again. He doesn’t even try to hide it. Then he shifts closer, his knees brushing against yours as he places the bottle of nail polish and the brush on his bedside table without ever looking away from you.
The Evil Dead playing on his television fades to static white noise as he starts to raise a hand to your face.
“Wait.”
He freezes when his lips are mere inches from yours. You grab his wrist in your hand right before it makes contact with your cheek.
The dejected look on his face is enough to make you wish you could go back in time by about five seconds and bite your stupid tongue.
“Shit,” he murmurs, pulling his hand away immediately. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I thought - I’m not sure what I thought.” He shakes his head, now looking anywhere but at you. “Can we please forget about—”
“No, no, no,” you say quickly, grabbing his wrist again. He tenses beneath your touch, an equal mix of confusion and disappointment on his face. “It’s not that. I want to kiss you. Of course I want to kiss you.”
He gulps. “You do? Then what—?”
“Your nails,” you explain, feeling silly. You just interrupted the kiss that you’ve envisioned more times than you can begin to recount over something as trivial as nail polish. “They’re still wet,” you huff a shaky laugh.
He stares at you with wide eyes. Blinks. Then, his shoulders drop in palpable relief and his lips quirk in amusement. “You really think I care more about my nails than I do kissing you?”
Your cheeks are burning. He’s too sweet. Always been too sweet. You shake your head, more at yourself than anything else. “Don’t want all my hard work to go to waste,” you murmur. “Just..let me. Okay?”
He nods, slow and dazed. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Okay.”
With his hands out of the question, he waits. Completely at your mercy.
You lift your other hand, just barely grazing the skin of his jaw before brushing a stray curl away from his face. His eyes flutter closed and he sucks in a sharp breath.
God, he’s pretty. Thick dark lashes against porcelain skin and plush lips that twitch in anticipation of you.
And you don’t intend on making him wait another moment.
The second your lips touch his, he all but sighs into you. His whole body shivers, shoulders trembling as he leans into you as much as he dares without moving his hands from where they hover at your sides.
His lips part under yours with a quiet gasp, and his head tilts just enough to deepen the kiss. You feel the tremor that runs through him when your fingers slide to the back of his neck, the way he tenses like he’s fighting the urge to sink his fingers into your waist, to pull you onto his lap, to touch you anywhere you’ll let him.
A soft whimper escapes him when your teeth scrap along the swell of his bottom lip.
“Jesus Christ,” he sighs against your lips, voice trembling with restraint. “Do you know how hard it is to not touch you right now?”
You huff a laugh, flustered and lightheaded. “Just a few more minutes,” you breathe. Then, because you want to touch him every bit as badly as he wants to touch you, you ease yourself onto his lap, steadying yourself with your palms against his chest. Through the fabric of his t-shirt, you feel his heart pounding. “Then you can touch me however you want.”
Another sharp inhale as you bracket your thighs around his waist. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he whispers, his breath fanning across your face. He swallows hard, his eyes even darker than usual with lust blown pupils as he gazes up at you. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
Your cheeks burn hot at the way he’s looking at you. Awestruck. “You’re dramatic,” you tease. “You know that?”
“Am not,” he huffs, though there’s nothing but fondness in his expression. “I’m being tortured. This is torture.”
Your thumb grazes his cheekbone and he nuzzles the side of his face against your palm.
“….Worth it, though.”
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thank you so much for reading <3 i love you forever if you comment/reblog
eddie munson starts acting distant out of nowhere. turns out the idiot has been taking romantic advice from dustin and steve, and apparently step one was play hard to get. good thing you catch on fast, because eddie is terrible at pretending he doesn’t want you, and even worse at hiding that he always has.
🏷️ 2.3k — mutual pining so bad it’s concerning, jealous!eddie, reader is oblivious on purpose, dustin (and steve) give good advice for once, confessions full of word vomit + soft fluffy ending
request — [ by @sunnliqht ] love your superhero soirée ivy! ‹𝟹 can i have parker’s prompt patrol + eddie munson w/ “ugh, why would i be jealous? you can flirt with whoever you want. i don’t care.”
author's note — okay first time writing for eddie munson and i am feral. this man has ruined my life in the best way possible. huge thank you to brooke for the request, because now i’m fully in my eddie era and none of us are leaving. i think everyone can agree when i say that eddie is alive and well. requests are open. enjoy <3
Eddie Munson had really hit rock bottom in his life.
And not in the metal-song-playing, lightning-cracking kind of way he always imagined. No. His rock bottom was worse. It was taking romantic advice from a fourteen-year-old who got his romantic advice from Steve Harrington. That was how far he’d fallen.
But maybe rock bottom was what he needed to crack himself open, let some of the feelings piled up inside him spill out before they drowned him completely. So, as advised, he did what Dustin (and apparently Steve) told him to do and tried to play hard to get. With you. Which was basically impossible because you were the only person he had ever been easy for.
Which brought him to his current predicament — watching you work with Steve and Robin (mostly Steve) at Family Video. Dustin and Lucas were digging through the shelves while Eddie stood uselessly at the front of the store, pretending to browse a rack of staff-picked recommendations he couldn’t see because his gaze was glued to you.
You were leaning on the counter, chin on your hand, grinning up at Steve as he told you some long-winded retelling of his latest heroic teen-movie disaster moment.
He gestured wildly, knocking over a stack of return cards, and Robin groaned without looking up. You laughed. Loud and pretty. Eddie almost flinched at how the sound hit him.
It wasn’t like you were totally enamored with Steve. You weren’t leaning over the counter, you weren’t twirling your hair, and the second the bell rang when Eddie walked in you had immediately waved at him and the gremlins beside him.
You’d even raised your brows asking, "Want me to help you find something?"
The offer was right there on your lips before Dustin elbowed Eddie hard in the ribs and dragged him toward the horror aisle with Lucas tagging along.
Eddie hadn’t protested. He was trying to be hard to get. That meant not going to you, not claiming his usual spot against the counter beside you, not stealing a pen out of your pocket just to annoy you, not calling you sweetheart in front of everyone because he could. His body refused to move toward you, even though every instinct screamed that you were where he belonged.
From where he stood, half-hidden by the shelves, he watched Steve keep talking, watched you laugh again, head tipping back, your smile so easy it made his chest ache. Steve laughed too, bumping your shoulder with his.
He forced himself to look away, jaw clenched. Playing hard to get wasn’t supposed to feel like swallowing glass.
Dustin and Lucas were choosing between two nearly identical horror movies, whispering loudly to each other. They absolutely were not actually picking tapes. They were watching Eddie watching you. Waiting for this whole stupid plan to magically work.
He had survived bats from literal hell. He had survived the entire town hating him. But watching you laugh at someone else’s jokes while he pretended he didn’t care?
That might actually kill him. No, he couldn't wait anymore.
He hooked two fingers into Dustin’s jacket sleeve and yanked him out of the aisle hard enough that the kid stumbled into his side. Lucas looked up from the tapes, startled, but Eddie didn’t care. His eyes were still locked on the counter where you were, now leaning closer to Steve to see something he was pointing at in the register.
Jealousy crawled up Eddie’s spine.
“Hey, Henderson,” he muttered under his breath. “You sure Harrington isn’t in love with her or something? Would make sense why he gave me that torturous advice.”
Dustin scoffed immediately. “Are you kidding me? Steve? In love with her? Nope. Steve loves Nance. It’s sad actually. I’ve given up on him.”
Eddie blinked down at Dustin. “The. . . the reporter girl? The one with the eyes that could murder a man?”
“Yes,” Dustin answered flatly. “He’s been in a weird life-or-death pining spiral for like a year.”
Eddie opened his mouth, closed it, then frowned even deeper. “So he told me to act like I don’t care about the girl I like because he’s. . . emotionally stupid?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“You don’t see how that might be a problem?”
“Nope.”
Eddie stared at him, baffled.
“Listen, Steve doesn’t give sucky advice. Ever.”
Eddie snorted so sharply it sounded painful. “Henderson, the man gets rejected more often than the school janitor takes out the trash.”
“That’s because he keeps choosing girls he can’t have,” Dustin shot back. “Not because his strategies don’t work.”
Lucas chimed in reluctantly, eyes still on the tapes. “He’s not totally wrong. Steve actually knows what he’s doing with the whole. . . dating. . . thing.”
Eddie pointed toward you and Steve at the counter. “He knows what he’s doing? Look at him! He’s already in love with the way she organizes tapes!”
Dustin rolled his eyes. “Oh my god, man. That’s called friendship.”
“It’s called emotional intimacy and I don’t like it,” Eddie hissed.
“Dude,” Dustin said, grabbing him by both shoulders, eyes wide with older than his age confidence, “you play this right and she is going to be obsessed with you.”
Eddie swallowed hard. “She already was obsessed with me. Now she’s laughing at King Hair over there.”
“She laughed at you yesterday,” Dustin snapped. “In fact, she does that every day. Because she likes you.”
Eddie wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to. But the longer he watched you smile at Steve, the more something sharp twisted inside him.
Dustin tugged on his sleeve again, lowering his voice. “Look, man. If you want her to chase you, you have to stop orbiting her. Trust the process.”
Eddie breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. Trust the process. Trust the plan. Trust the child who didn’t understand taxes but apparently understood romance.
He watched as you tossed your head back laughing once more at something Steve said.
And then you looked over.
Your eyes found Eddie immediately. Your smile softened into something warmer. You lifted a hand and waved.
Eddie froze.
His heart was doing things medically inadvisable. He lifted his hand automatically to wave back before Dustin slapped it down.
“No!” Dustin whisper-yelled. “Hard. To. Get.”
Eddie grimaced, trying to school his expression into the neutral, vaguely mysterious cool-guy face Steve had demonstrated. It probably looked more like he was constipated.
You raised both eyebrows at his weird non-reaction, confusion slipping across your features for just a second before Robin pulled you away to help reshelve a pile of returns.
After a few minutes, Eddie saw you coming. You rounded the end of the aisle with that determined little stride you got when you were trying to figure someone out, and Eddie’s lungs stopped working. His eyes snapped to Dustin and Lucas in full panic.
They both gave him the most useless encouragement in the world—two enthusiastic thumbs up—and then immediately backed away.
You stopped right in front of him. “Hey. Is everything alright?”
Eddie straightened, trying to pull on the casual attitude he had practiced in the mirror. “Yes,” he said.
“You sure?” you asked, tilting your head. “Because you didn’t wave back just now.”
“Oh, yeah. . . I had a, uh. . . a fly on my hand.” He pointed vaguely at his wrist. “Henderson was just swatting it away.”
You blinked at him, totally not buying it. “Right. . . the fly.”
He nodded aggressively.
You let it go. “Well, did you get the movie you came in for?”
“The what?”
“The movie you came in for,” you repeated gently. “You know, the reason you’re here.”
“Oh,” he coughed, scratching the back of his neck. “That was just for Henderson and Sinclair. They were planning a horror movie night.”
You nodded slowly. Then silence settled between you.
The kind that made your stomach twist. Things had been weird between you lately. He’d been a little distant and it was not like he was fully pulling away, but just not orbiting you the way he used to. Conversations were shorter. His jokes didn’t land the same, mostly because he wasn’t really telling them.
You kicked the toe of your shoe softly against the carpet, trying to think of what to say next, but Eddie beat you to it.
“So you and Harrington have been spending a lot of time together.”
“Oh, Steve?” you asked, taken aback. “Yeah, you know we work together, silly.”
Eddie muttered something under his breath, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.
You took him in and suddenly it clicked.
“Are you jealous?”
His head snapped toward you defensively, cheeks already blooming red. “Ugh, why would I be jealous? You can flirt with whoever you want. I don’t care.”
You stared at him. “Who said anything about flirting? You didn’t think that was flirting, did you?”
Eddie scoffed, scoffed again, then nodded with false confidence. “Of course I know what flirting is.”
“Are you sure?” you asked.
He blinked, narrowing his eyes in offense. “Yes, I’m sure.”
You leaned in slightly, just enough to make his breath hitch. “Then why don’t you show me?”
Eddie froze.
“Huh?” he managed, voice cracking.
You met his eyes confidently because you were done with him pretending he didn’t want you. “If you know what flirting is,” you said softly, “show me.”
Eddie stood there, mouth opening and closing with absolutely no data processing happening behind his eyes. If an error message could appear on a human face, it would’ve been on his.
You waited, arms loosely crossed.
He cleared his throat, trying to remember every suave line he’d ever used in his life. Normally he could flirt with you without thinking. But now that you were asking for it? His brain emptied like someone had flipped a switch.
“So,” he started, leaning one elbow on a display shelf in what he hoped looked smooth. The shelf wobbled dangerously. “Uh. . . you come here often?”
You stared. “I work here.”
Eddie swallowed. “Right. So. That’s. . . that’s a yes.”
He tried again, standing up straighter, trying to channel his usual cocky grin. “You’re, uh. . . pretty. I mean, not pretty. I mean. . . you are pretty. Obviously. You’re so pretty it’s like. . .”
His hands waved helplessly in the air as if the right word might land on them.
“You know, sweetheart,” His voice cracked halfway through the word. “I’m. . . available. Like very available. Like, aggressively available.”
You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. Not because you wanted to make fun of him but because this was the worst flirting Eddie Munson had ever done. It was almost endearing how hard he was trying to act like he didn’t care while caring more than anyone ever had.
“Okay, I can’t do this anymore,” he confessed, eyes finally lifting to meet yours. “I. . . look, Dustin said I should play hard to get. And Steve backed him up. And they both looked very sure of themselves, which is stupid now that I say it out loud.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “Play hard to get? With me?”
“Yes! Which is insane, because I am very easy to get with you. If you asked me to jump, I’d already be in the air.”
He took a shaky breath, words tumbling out before he could stop them.
“Anyways, they said it because apparently girls don’t like guys who are obsessed with them too fast. And I was trying but it’s like trying to pretend I don’t need oxygen around you. I thought if I didn’t talk to you as much, if I acted like I didn’t care, you’d chase me. Instead I just got to watch you laugh with somebody else and it felt like my ribs were being pried open.”
Your heart cracked right open.
He kept going. “I wasn’t flirting just now because I didn’t want to flirt. I couldn’t because I’m so crazy about you it breaks my brain. I don’t know how to flirt with you when you’re staring at me like that. I don’t know how to pretend with you. Not about anything.”
You stepped closer giving him every chance to retreat. He didn’t. If anything, he leaned in.
“So you weren’t jealous because you thought Steve and I were flirting?” you asked softly.
“Yes, obviously I was jealous!” he hissed like he couldn’t believe you even needed the clarification. “I’m jealous of the air you breathe. It’s disgusting.”
You smiled, warmth blooming deep in your chest. “You didn’t need to play hard to get.”
He nodded miserably. “I know.”
“You didn’t need to pretend you didn’t want me.”
“I know.”
“You could’ve just told me.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “I was scared.”
You reached forward slowly and took his hand, threading your fingers together like you’d done it your whole life. Eddie sucked in a breath like you were electricity.
“Why would you listen to them?” you whispered.
He swallowed hard. His voice was small when he answered.
“Because I like you too much. And I didn’t want to mess it up by. . . liking you too much.”
You squeezed his hand. “You didn’t mess anything up.”
Eddie’s face split into the kind of smile that could’ve powered the town if someone hooked him up to a generator.
“So. . . ” he said, “does that mean I can stop playing hard to get?”
“You never played it well to begin with.”
“Thank god,” he exhaled. “It was killing me.”
You tugged him closer by his hand.
“Now,” you teased, “you wanna try that flirting thing again?”
Eddie leaned in confident, the way he always was with you.
“Oh sweetheart,” he murmured, “now that I don’t have to hide anything? I’ll show you flirting.”
And when he kissed you, it wasn’t hard to get. It was everything he’d been dying to give you all along.
it’s officially my favorite season! (well two more hours but who cares) get ready ya’ll!
word count: 2.3k
contents: steve harrington x fem!reader, they have four daughters surprise!! confused chaos, literally what the title says, someone saw mommy kissing ‘santa claus’
The house smells like pine and the sugar cookies you baked with the girls that afternoon—burnt just a little on the edges because Lily insists on hitting every button on the oven like it’s a game show. The tree twinkles in the corner of the living room, crooked star and all, and you’re standing in the bedroom mirror smoothing the front of your dress while Steve wrestles with his tie behind you.
You hear him huff. Then again, louder.
“You need help?” you ask, smiling at his reflection.
“I’ve been tying ties since Nixon was president,” he mutters. “This shouldn’t be this hard.”
“You were, like, two.”
“Exactly.”
You turn, step into his space, and fix it for him anyway. He watches you with that soft look he always gets when you do the small, quiet things—like he’s memorizing you. The lines at the corners of his eyes are deeper now than when you first met him. There’s a silver streak in his hair that your daughters insist on calling his “storm stripe.” You love all of it.
Tonight is his work Christmas party. A few hours of employees, spouses, tacky sweaters, and too much punch. You debated not going—four kids under eight make any night out feel like a military operation—but Steve looked so excited, you caved immediately.
Now the girls are all bathed and in their pajamas, the babysitter’s on her way, and Steve is buzzing like a kid himself.
“You ready, Mrs. Harrington?” he says, holding out his arm with an exaggerated flourish.
You take it. “As I’ll ever be.”
The party is exactly what you expect—loud, cheerful, slightly unhinged. There’s tinsel on the light fixtures and a plastic Santa looming in the corner like he’s judging everyone’s life choices. Steve disappears for a few minutes to “help set something up,” which you know from experience means “get convinced to do something stupid.”
When he reappears in a full Santa suit, the room loses its mind.
You nearly choke on your drink.
He struts out like he’s on a runway, red velvet stretched across his shoulders, black boots, fake belly stuffed just enough to look ridiculous. The beard is a strap-on kind that loops behind his ears, and he’s already tugging at it like it’s itchy.
“Ho, ho—” he starts.
Someone yells, “You better not have anyone sit on your lap, Harrington!”
“Only the Mrs,” he fires back, pointing finger-guns.
You laugh so hard your cheeks hurt. He catches your eye from across the room and winks. You take a mental picture of him like this—your husband, father of your four daughters, dressed like Santa Claus for a work party just to make people laugh.
Later, when the night winds down and you’re bundled back into coats, you kiss his cold cheek outside.
“You cannot wear that thing around the house,” you warn.
He grins. “Counterpoint: I absolutely can.”
The house is quiet when you get back—really quiet, the way it only gets when all four girls are finally asleep at the same time. The babysitter is sitting on the couch with her fuzzy socks on, homework spread out on the coffee table. The tree lights cast soft shadows across the walls.
“All good?” you ask softly.
She nods. “They were angels. Evie woke up once for water, but she went right back down.”
You relax instantly. Steve pays her while you grab her coat for her. She leaves with a shy wave, and the front door clicks shut behind her.
You both stand there for a second in the entryway, the reality of silence settling over you.
“Well,” Steve says, tugging the Santa hat off his head and hooking the beard down under his chin. “We survived.”
You kick off your heels. “Barely.”
You start turning off lights, tidying the little remnants of the day—a stuffed unicorn on the stairs, a sock near the couch, half a glass of milk on the counter that absolutely does not belong to anyone old enough to leave it there.
Steve trails behind you, still half in costume.
“You know,” you say casually, glancing over your shoulder, “you actually look really good with a beard.”
He freezes.
Slowly, he lifts the fake beard back up from his neck and secures the strap behind his ears again. Then, with exaggerated seriousness, he places the Santa hat back on his head and reshapes the brim.
“I knew this costume would pay off,” he says.
You laugh. “You’re impossible.”
He reaches into his pocket and produces a sprig of mistletoe—someone must have stuck it on him at the party. He holds it above your head, eyebrows waggling, a smirk appearing through the shaggy white beard.
“Mandatory Christmas rules,” he says. “You have to.”
You roll your eyes, but you step under it anyway. “Fine.”
He leans in slowly, giving you plenty of time to back out. You don’t. Your lips meet his, soft and warm, and the beard tickles your chin. You laugh into the kiss and tug him closer by the collar of the coat.
As you pull back, you poke his stomach through the fake padding. “Also, Santa has gotten so out of shape.”
He yelps. “Hey! That’s years of curated holiday fluff!”
You tickle his sides, and he retaliates immediately, chasing you two steps across the living room until you’re both breathless and quiet-laughing so you don’t wake the kids. He corners you gently against the couch, pressing his forehead to yours through the beard.
“God, I love you.” He says before dipping down to kiss you again.
You don’t see the small figure on the stairs. Bare feet on carpet. Big eyes peeking through the railing.
Evie is four, and four-year-olds understand the world in strange, literal pieces. She heard your voices and wandered out of her room in her sleep-warm pajamas, thumb in her mouth, curls sticking up in wild directions.
She sees the red suit. The white beard. The little glowing lights from the tree.
She sees you kissing Santa Claus.
Her eyes widen.
She doesn’t make a sound.
She turns around and scurries back up the stairs as fast as her little legs can carry her, heart pounding with something she doesn’t yet have words for.
Sunday morning comes with the sound of feet and chaos.
Lily, your seven-year-old, is the first one up as always. She’s serious, observant, the kind of kid who thinks before she talks. She comes down the stairs already dressed, hair brushed, announcing, “Rosie wet the bed again.”
Chelsea, six, follows right after her in a flurry of mismatched socks and opinions about absolutely everything. “It wasn’t again, it was just a little bit and she cried ‘cause her blanket was cold.”
Rosie is two and furious about everything by default.
And then there’s Evie.
Evie is quieter than usual.
You and Steve move through breakfast like a practiced dance—pancakes on the griddle, bacon in the pan, orange juice on the counter. Rosie is on Steve’s hip, clinging to his shirt and chanting “Up, up, up,” even though she is already up.
The girls pile into their chairs around the table. You set down Evie’s plate in front of her—cut-up pancakes, little squares just how she likes.
She pushes it away.
“I don’ wan’ Mommy do it,” she says firmly.
You blink. “Honey, it’s already done.”
She crosses her arms, chin tucked. “Daddy do it.”
Steve hesitates at the stove. “Evie, Mommy already—“
“I SAID DADDY,” she snaps, sudden and sharp.
The table goes quiet.
Rosie starts to cry because loud noises are illegal in her world. Chelsea makes a face. Lily watches Evie closely.
You slide the plate back toward yourself, uneasy. “Okay. I’ll let Daddy help.”
Steve comes over and adjusts the pieces again like he’s performing a very serious culinary operation. Evie relaxes immediately.
When you sit back down, she won’t look at you.
The rest of breakfast unfolds strange and stiff. Every time you reach for Evie—napkin, straw, syrup—she recoils.
“I don’ need Mommy.”
“Ow,” Chelsea mutters under her breath, not kindly.
Steve shoots her a warning look. “Hey. Be nice.”
Your chest feels tight in a way you don’t recognize. Evie has bad moods sometimes. All four of them do. But this is different. This feels deliberate.
When you finally can’t stand it anymore, you gently ask, “Evie, did I do something to make you upset, sweetheart?”
Her lip trembles.
“I jus’ wanna Daddy,” she says.
“Why?” Steve asks softly.
She stares at her plate for a long moment. Then, in a small, serious voice, she says, “ ‘Cause I saw Mommy kiss Santa.”
The words land heavy and unreal in the middle of your warm kitchen.
Steve freezes.
Chelsea’s jaw drops. “You kissed Santa?!”
Lily’s eyes go wide. Rosie claps like this is the best story she’s ever heard.
You feel heat rush to your face. “Evie—”
“You was standin’ by da tree,” she continues earnestly. “An’ Santa had da beard an’ da hat. An’ you kissed’d him. An’ Santa not s’posed to kiss mommies.”
Chelsea lets out a scandalized gasp. “Mom cheated on Dad with Santa!”
“NO I DIDN’T,” you squeak.
Lily, ever the logical one, frowns. “That doesn’t make any sense. Santa doesn’t come until Christmas Eve.”
Evie shakes her head furiously. “He was here! I saw him!”
Steve finally finds his voice. “Baby, that wasn’t the real Santa.”
Evie’s eyes fill with tears. “Yes it was! He had da suit an’ da beard an’ ev’ryfing!”
You reach for her again without thinking. She flinches away.
Your heart cracks.
You and Steve exchange a look over the table—half panic, half disbelief, half what have we done.
“Evie,” you say carefully, keeping your voice soft and steady, “remember Daddy went to a work party last night?”
She nods, sniffling.
“And remember how Daddy likes to dress up and be silly?”
Another nod.
“Daddy was wearing a Santa costume for the party. That Santa was just Daddy pretending.”
She looks between you and Steve, uncertain. “But… Santa’s beard was on.”
Steve lifts her gently from her chair and sets her on his lap. He slips an arm around her and presses his forehead to hers.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “Daddy was the one in the Santa suit. Mommy was kissing Daddy. Not Santa.”
Evie’s brows knit together in deep confusion. “You was Santa?”
“Just for pretend,” he says. “Real Santa isn’t coming for a few more days. Remember? Today’s only the twentieth.”
Lily perks up. “So Santa’s still at the North Pole.”
Steve nods. “Yep. Probably feeding the reindeer right now.”
Rosie claps again. “Deen-deer!”
Evie chews on the idea, chewing on her lip too. “But… Santa kissed Mommy.”
Steve smiles gently. “Nope. Daddy kissed Mommy.”
She studies his face like she’s trying to line up two different pictures in her head. Finally, she reaches up and pokes at his chin.
“No beard,” she whispers.
“And no red suit,” he adds.
Her shoulders slump a little with relief. Then the rest of it hits her all at once and her face crumples.
“Mommy not bad?” she asks quietly.
Your throat tightens. “Never, baby. Mommy would never do anything to hurt Daddy. Or you.”
She sniffles hard, then launches herself out of Steve’s arms and into yours with a sudden, fierce hug. You hold her tight, breathing her in—sleep-warm hair and breakfast syrup.
“I was scared,” she mumbles into your shoulder. “I thought Santa was takin’ you.”
You close your eyes. “Oh, honey. No one’s taking Mommy anywhere.”
Steve watches the two of you with soft, glossy eyes, one hand rubbing slow circles on Evie’s back.
Chelsea breaks the quiet. “So Mom didn’t cheat on Dad with Santa?”
You glare playfully at her.
She shrugs. “I just wanted to be sure.”
Lily sighs like she’s aged a decade. “Obviously Mom wouldn’t kiss Santa. That’s illogical.”
Rosie, still thrilled, yells, “Dada Santa!”
Steve groans and drops his face into his hands. “Great. That’s my new name.”
Breakfast ends messier than it started, as it always does. Syrup on fingers, bacon mysteriously disappearing into Rosie’s sleeves, Chelsea arguing that her pancake is “unevenly blessed with chocolate chips.”
Evie sticks close to you now, glued to your side, little hand fisted in your shirt. Every few minutes she looks up at you like she’s checking that you’re still real.
When the table is finally cleared and the girls scatter into the living room with toys and cartoons, you and Steve linger by the sink.
“I cannot believe that actually happened,” you murmur.
He snorts quietly. “You kissed Santa.”
You smack his arm. “That was you.”
He grins. “Best crime of my life.”
You lean into his side, still a little shaky. “She really thought I was kissing the real Santa. I feel terrible.”
He wraps an arm around you and presses a kiss to your temple. “You didn’t do anything wrong. She’s four. The world is still half magic to her.”
From the couch, Evie calls, “Mommy?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Santa still comin’ later, right?”
You smile softly. “Yes. He absolutely is.”
“An’ he bringin’ dolly stroller?”
“If you stay on the nice list,” Steve calls back.
She gasps dramatically. “‘m nice!”
Chelsea snickers. “Debatable.”
Evie scowls. “You’re not gettin’ nothin’ for Christmas.”
Lily looks up from her book. “Technically, that’s not how Santa operates—”
Steve claps his hands. “Okay! Everyone, free play! No debates about Santa’s internal systems!”
You laugh, the earlier tightness in your chest finally easing. You watch your girls—your loud, stubborn, magical little people—and then look back at the man beside you.
“You coming to bed later tonight,” he says quietly, eyes warm, “or are you planning on sneaking away with Santa again?”
You grin. “Depends. Does he still have the beard?”
He leans down and kisses you, gentle and sure and unmistakably Steve.
From the couch, Evie groans loudly. “Daddy! That’s my mommy!”
Steve pulls back, mock-pouting. “Sorry, sweetheart. Santa rules.”
She pauses. Then she giggles.
And just like that, the house is full again—of noise, and warmth, and the quiet kind of wonder that only exists when Christmas is close and everyone still believes in something just a little bit impossible.
A/n: i want to try and do 12 days of ficmas but knowing me I’m either going to write way too many or I’ll write three and get bored but might as well try!!
Here we are, back again, fighting what’s in front of me.
summary: Despite being best friends for the past four years, you and Steve have never truly spent a Halloween together. Always at separate parties, separate dates. This year though, the two of you decide to keep it quiet both of you tired of the humiliation ritual that is dating.
The plans were simple: horror movies and pass out candy.
You’d be more excited if it wasn’t for the kiss the two of you shared drunk on a dare at Eddie Munson’s bonfire a week ago. A kiss the two of you have refused to talk about at all costs, A kiss you can’t seem to quit thinking about no matter how hard you try.
WC: 14k
warnings: 18+// Steve & reader are in their early to mid 20’s, stubborn idiots in love, classic we don’t want to ruin the friendship yearning, drinking, mentions of smoking, kissing, literally non stop tension, slight dry humping if you squint.
author’s note: This fic is inspired by Emily Henry’s People We Meet On Vacation, except for it’s in Hawkins with Steve, and revolves around their Halloweens over the years told between flash backs and current time. I had a lot of fun writing this, I hope you have just as much fun reading it.
Halloween - now.
“Sour candy or chocolate?” Steve asks deep in thought, he’s standing in the brightly lit Halloween aisle of the local Piggly Wiggly with two different ‘Family Size’ bags of each in his equally big hands.
His eyebrows are pinched in the center of his forehead, marrying just below the swoop of hair that always fails to stay tucked behind his ear as he scans the shelves for a third, possibly better option with his full bottom lip tugged between perfect teeth.
This was peak Steve Harrington concentration.
“Sour candy, obviously.” You scoff, grabbing the neon Warheads bag out of his grasp, dumping it into the small cart that’s already full enough to make you regret not getting the large one Steve had suggested at the door.
It’s fine, you were supposed to be practicing self control tonight anyway, plus you would never tell him that he was right about something. Not unless you wanted to hear about it for the next week.
Self control is a new concept when it comes to Steve, but you are good at trying to practice it, refusing to meet his eyes as you brush past him, and again when you ignore the glimmer of electricity that’s sparked between the two of you since your friendship’s conception. It’s a lot harder to pretend now though, because touching him feels like sticking a wet hand to a power grid these days, all because of a childish dare to prove Eddie Munson wrong. A plan that backfired in your face pretty quickly after drunkenly locking lips with your best friend at the metal head’s bonfire last week, because neither one of you can back down from a challenge.
Or admit the truth.
Your friendship with Steve has always been a series of ‘what if’s’. An unspoken tension that everyone in the room could feel when the two of you were in it, but honestly Steve had chemistry with everyone. He was just one of those guys, and your bond only intensified it, at least that’s what you’ve told yourself over the years. Kissing him though? That was always the kind of ‘what if’ you’d only ever dared to think about in the dead of night - alone, in your room, before shoving it back deep down into the dark crevices of your mind. It always happened after a movie night that got a little too cozy under a shared blanket, wandering hands a little too daring in the dark, cinnamon and clove clinging to all the fabrics of your clothes.
Only now, it was a reality. One that hasn’t stopped playing on a loop since.
“I think we should get both.” Steve finally decides like it’s been something that’s kept him up at night, coming up behind you so close that his chest brushes against your back as he reaches around to dump the chocolate in the cart. His cologne tempts your senses like the devil trying to make a deal for your soul, and you wonder if holding your breath would be too dramatic.
”We’re going to have so much left over if we get both.” You argue with a smile twisting up the corners of your lips, but you make no effort to correct the situation. The uneven wheels squeak as you keep pushing the cart down the linoleum floors.
”Or we can be the best stop on the block, let these kids clean house.” He suggests as if he were a coach coming up with a play, pounding his fist into his open palm for the words ‘clean house’ before pushing the dark green sleeves of his Hawkins Community College sweater up his arms. A galaxy of freckles reveal themselves to you, clustering and spreading along his permanently sunkissed skin. They stand out even more under the fluorescents.
“I know you like winning, but I feel like I have to remind you that this isn’t a competition Harrington.” Grinning, you finally meet his amused eyes.
”Just getting into the Halloween spirit, that’s all honey.” Steve winks, pushing the wild strand back, just for it to fall across his face not even a second later. He ignores your protest when he bumps you to the side with his hip to take over pushing the cart. “Now the real question is what are we watching tonight?”
“I was thinking something along the lines of Army of Darkness, or Nightmare on Elm Street. Neither are very scary, I know how you get.” You couldn’t help but throw the little dig in retaliation for taking the cart from you, a giggle slipping past your lips at the side eye you get in return.
”I just don’t like being scared? Is that such a crime? You can go watch whatever you want with Eddie like the little weirdos you are.” He does a good job at keeping a straight face as the two of you get in line behind a family of five, but you catch a peek of his smirk when he leans over to put the divider on the black belt.
“Do I need to remind you that you invited yourself tonight? I should make you watch The Exorcist.”
It’s the genuine disbelief that paints his features that gets a full bellied laugh out of you, a big smile pushing up your glossed lips, and you can’t help notice how his gaze falls to them for a split second.
Self control.
”Sorry I want to spend my best friend’s favorite holiday with her, sue me.” Steve scoffs dramatically, setting the bags of candy on the moving belt first, the family ahead of you wrapping up.
“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it.” You roll your eyes, crossing your arms stubbornly, cheeks burning hot at the smirk he gives you.
”Listen, I don’t actually care about what we watch, what I care about is that you’re going to let those pumpkins we carved finally see the light of day.” He pushes the now emptied cart ahead, leaning back against the wooden panel of the register, leaving just a few inches between you. An amused eyebrow arches at your annoyed groan in response.
”Steve, they are hideous.”
”Speak for yourself, I put my blood, sweat and tears into mine, he deserves his moment. He’s going outside.” He decides it with the kind of finality in his tone that you know means it’s going to be the first thing he does as soon as you get back.
”No one is going to come to the apartment, it will look like serial killers live there.”
“Or a couple of undiscovered artists. Who are also going to be the number one candy dealers on the block.” He argues, completely unphased by your protesting.
“Steve!” You whine, despite the smirk that creeps up your lips, and it makes Steve’s face split in two.
“Fine, but we’re watching whatever I want then.” You challenge, doing your best to ignore the flutter in your stomach when his foot brushes against yours and he keeps it there.
”Like within reason.” He succumbs with genuine concern, rubbing his palms nervously against his tight fitting light wash jeans at the thought of what you’re sure is the last movie Eddie made him sit through.
”I’m not a monster Harrington.” You wink, quietly thankful for the fact that the line starts to move, because like magnets you’d unconsciously migrated deeper between his spread legs.
Seizing the moment, you put some space between you just in time for Delores, or as her name tag reads to greet you both, popping the bubble you’d unknowingly trapped yourself in with him and bringing you back to reality.
Self Control.
Halloween - Three Years Ago.
“I really can’t believe you’re choosing to go to Eddie’s Halloween party over Tina’s.” Steve yells over Eddie Money’s ‘Take Me Home Tonight’ from his bathroom.
”And I can’t believe you’re going on a date with Brenda, again.” You retort, recalling the last time he tried to date her six months ago, and how he had to disconnect his landline after he ended things.
Granted he was breaking up with her because the new foreign exchange student at the time was showing interest, and he’d rather have a semester of fun with her than spend the winter playing boyfriend with Brenda. So you definitely understood where she was coming from, in fact you constantly reminded Steve you were on her side every time he’d try and complain about the mess he made. Messes he always seemed to make.
You ignored the unreasonable pit of jealousy that formed in your gut then, just like you are now, cause in no universe are you going to allow yourself to have a crush on your best friend. There was no way you were going to fall victim to the Harrington charm just like everyone else, you liked hanging out with him too much for that. It would be a cold day in hell if you ended up as one of Steve’s messes, because in an alternate reality where you gave in to the ‘what if’ and it didn’t work out, there’s no way you’d be able to go back to watching him do exactly what he’s doing right now.
You wouldn’t be able to have movie nights where maybe you both sit a little too close, laughing until your sides hurt and snacking on whatever is in front of you. No more late drives to lovers lake, just so you can get a better view of the moon when it's full, and staying out till sunrise, stopping at Denny’s to share a grand slam on your way home. No more talks about the future and how much the uncertainty of it all scares you both. No more having someone you can be completely yourself around. Someone who won’t judge you for your faults, someone who shows up when no one else will. Neither one of you could lose that.
”Look, it’s been a few months. She seems over it, besides it’s not like it’s anything serious.” He tries to reason, finally stepping out of his bathroom to give you the first look at his costume. ”What do you think?”
You never thought Indiana Jones was hot, even when he made you watch all three movies in preparation for this, but Steve as Indiana Jones was another story entirely.
His dark brown pants are tucked into black boots, fitting his waist perfectly with a chocolate colored belt wrapped around his hips only extenuating it more. The cream colored button up leaves little to the imagination since he only has the bottom two done, half hazardly tucked into the front of his pants. You notice the silver chain that you’d gotten him for Christmas last year hanging from his neck, the dog tag at the end of it getting lost in the thick thatch of hair on his chest and it leaves your body warm. He opts out of the fedora because according to him it would hide his “best asset” so that wild strand swoops across his forehead like it's on purpose.
Steve Harrington looked like a movie star.
Brenda didn’t know what was coming for her, and you have to swallow that sour taste in your mouth for the second time tonight.
“I’d say Stephen Spielberg needs to seriously consider recasting you as the lead instead of Harrison Ford.” You feed into his delusion, because that’s what best friends are for.
”Right? Right?” He spins around one more time, flashing that million dollar smile of his that devastates anyone he directs it at. You have to remind yourself of everything that you could lose again.
It’s Steve’s turn to take in your costume. Golden brown eyes sparkling with amusement and the kind of adoration that was hard to ignore. You’re a Venus fly trap from the Little Shop of Horrors, wrapped up in a dark green form fitting tube top dress that stops at the middle of your thighs with jagged cut ends you made yourself with a dull pair of kitchen scissors. The silk gloves that go up to your elbows are the same shade of emerald, along with the little paper mache fly trap heads that Robin helped you make sticking out of the top of your pinned up hair. Glitter covers every exposed inch of your chest, and shimmers in the corners of your eyes. You had felt confident enough to even reconsider going to Tina’s instead when you applied your red lipstick before leaving for Steve’s. His reaction only makes it soar.
”What do you think?” You smile, taking your turn to spin.
”Who are you trying to impress at this party again?” Steve quirks an eyebrow, a darkened gaze lingering over all the details of you, taking his time where a best friend shouldn’t and it makes you squirm.
”Jonathan’s friend that’s visiting from California. You know him, Argyle."
He scoffs, waving a dismissive hand before moving past you to grab his cologne from the top of his dresser.
”Him? Why? He’s only here for like two more days anyway.” He challenges with his back turned, and you know it’s on purpose.
”Okay? And?” You snap, his hypocrisy quickly snuffing out the jealousy that seemed to get comfortable in your gut and turning it into anger. You prefer it. So you lean into it. “You’re the only one who get’s to fuck around with no strings attached?”
”He’s a stoner pizza delivery man, I don’t really know what you’d see in that. Don’t lower your standards just to hook up with someone because you look cute tonight.”
Because you look cute tonight.
It’s your turn to scoff.
“You’re being a complete ass, Harrington. Like working at a video store is any better. He’s nice, and makes me laugh. We already hung out the other night. Then guess what? He walked me home and kissed me at my front door. I don’t think I need to impress anybody.” Your nails dig into the soft flesh of your palms, hands balling into fists at your side. How dare he.
What makes you even more mad is that it feels like it’s Steve who’s jealous. Steve who’s getting ready to go on a date with someone else. Steve who didn’t ask you when you were always right here.
”Oh, so that’s why we didn’t hang out the other night, got it.” He raises his eyebrows, lips turning into a frown before nodding his head.
“We hang out almost every other night Steve, I don’t say anything to you when you go out on dates, and you go out on a ton of them. I think you’ve dated almost every girl in my Liberal Arts Class. I’m not appreciating this double standard, or you questioning my judgment.” Your words carry the kind of venom that stings, and you can see it all over his face. The worst part was how you immediately feel bad, frustrated tears threatening to spill over the shimmer that covers your cheeks.
Steve’s quiet for a moment, looking down at his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. He meets your eyes after a few seconds, soft and apologetic, traces of unmistakable regret in the dark pools of his irises.
”You’re right, I’m sorry.” He sighs, straightening up, shifting his belt buckle around. “I don’t know why I’m being so-, I just think, I just -“
He takes a moment to gather his thoughts and decide if he really wants to say what’s trying to escape from the tip of his tongue.
”I just don’t think anyone’s good enough for you.”
You let his words sink it. They make the anger that fueled you cool down to a low simmer so that jealous pit can come back to reclaim its rightful throne.
”Well I could say the same thing for you too.” You mutter, refusing to meet his gaze, you weren’t ready to yet.
The silence that fills the space between you is full of those what if’s and half truths. It stays there just long enough for you to finally look at him with the mask you’re used to wearing.
”Apology accepted. The game plan then is for you to try and not to end up getting tied to Brenda’s bed, and I’ll try to make sure Eddie doesn’t burn his trailer to the ground.”
Steve stares at you for a while, like he knows the conversation needs to move on but he doesn’t want it too. Logic wins out no matter how forced it seems, because he follows your lead.
“He’ll need you, buddy needs to cool it with the lighter fluid. And for what it’s worth your costume looks amazing. You guys did great.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes.
He spots the whip at the end of his bed, playfully flicking the head of one of the fly traps with his fingers as he walks past, and you have to stop yourself from inhaling the cedar and honey that invades your senses from his cologne. It’s not the one with cinnamon that you love, the one he only wears in the fall, the one that he wears for you.
“Come on, I’ll drop you off on my way.”
Halloween - Now.
“So what’s the game plan chief?” Steve grins, leaning over your kitchen island, long fingers digging through the freshly filled candy bowl for a pack of Swedish fish.
”There’s no game plan, we hang out, kids walk up, they ring the door bell, then we give them candy and they walk away.” You swat his hand from the treats, but let him keep the gummy candy he searched so hard for. “No good supplier eats his stash Harrington, and I can’t believe I just had to explain the concept of trick or treating to you.”
You don’t tell him about the pile you already set aside to share later.
“What? I’m rusty! And, you gotta test the quality of the product honey, I’m a professional, I know what I’m doing.” He argues with his mouth full.
”Eww keep your mouth closed please and you can’t be rusty and a professional at the same time.”
He sticks his tongue out in response with a whole mini bag of half devoured Swedish fish on it.
”I hate you.”
”No you don’t.” He smirks, chewing the rest before pushing himself up right with a big gulp, letting you admire the cozy attire he changed into after you got back from the store.
You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone make grey sweatpants and a black crew neck sweater look so good. A sweater he made sure to tell you he wore just for you today, the only black top he owns.
“I’m still mad you didn’t get me any Halloween socks.” Steve points to the fuzzy black ones with jack o lanterns on your feet.
You’d opted for a pair of leggings and an oversized sweater, Steve’s oversized sweater actually, he’d left at your place almost a year ago and never bothered to reclaim it. The dark burnt orange color of it reminded you of fall, and for a while it smelt like him too. You’d never admit that last part to anyone, or that you were excited at the prospect of getting that smell back after tonight.
”You could have easily grabbed a pair at the store earlier, it’s not my fault you don’t know how to be festive.”
The roll of your eyes is hard, but the smile that twists at the corner of your lips is soft for him as you grab the bowls of candy, silently indicating for him to follow you to the living room.
”I’d like to think I’m pretty festive.” He scoffs, tube sock covered feet padding loudly against the old wood floors of your apartment. “This is the first year I’m not dressing up, actually.”
”Because you don’t have a girl you can do a couples costume with this year.” You retort, setting the candy down on the coffee table before lazily flinging yourself onto the blanket and pillow covered couch.
“One, I could have very easily gotten a date for Tina’s party tonight, let's not pretend that you and I don’t both know that. And two, that’s not true either, the year before last I didn’t have a date, I went with Robin as Mario and Luigi. You were the one that had a date that year, it was that douche bag Ryan from your English Lit class.” He snorts at the memory and the boy you’d almost forgotten about, but clearly your best friend hadn’t.
Dropping into the spot he always takes next to you, Steve lets himself melt into the familiar cushions. His knee bumps yours when he spreads his legs wide with an appreciative groan before leaning his head back against the headrest closing his eyes.
“Ryan was not a douche bag.” He was.
Steve opens one eye, a lopsided grin pulling up on your favorite cheek dotted with two moles.
“Yes, he was and you know it. He wrote you one poem and you were smitten, one shitty poem. I could’ve written you a better one.”
”Then why didn’t you.”
Steve’s eyes shine, but he doesn’t answer you, instead the two of you just sit there in silence smiling at each other in a silent dare that's always there. His knee presses into yours harder, and the butterflies that’d you’d done a good job at keeping dormant flutter back to life. Then you see his gaze flick down to your lips again.
Self control.
”L-lets start the movie.” You stutter, unable to tell if you yelled the words or if it really was just that quiet.
Leaning over, you grab the remote off the coffee table with a kind of quickness that would make you think there was a gun pointed to your head. Steve’s continued silence doesn’t help anything either, he just drapes both arms across the back of the couch, wiggling himself deeper into his spot. The movement has your teeth digging into your bottom lip as you press play, starting the VHS. You had finally settled on Nightmare on Elm street on the car ride back.
It’s second nature to lean over Steve to turn off the lamp, although after last week it feels taboo but it’s too late to stop by the time the realization dawns on you. The light disappears with a loud click leaving just the small one over the stove in the kitchen as your only source besides the TV and the porch light that bleeds through your blinds from outside.
Electricity sparks and fizzes in the air around you the moment the room succumbs to darkness, and your chest accidentally brushes with his as you plop back into your seat. Steve sucks in a sharp intake of breath from the unexpected contact, but still he doesn’t hesitate to scoop you up like he always does, long fingers wrapping around your knees to drape your legs over the top of his thighs.
Tucked under his arm like this, it’s easy to inhale him, bask in him and the warm cinnamon that mixes into his usual amber in the fall. He’s wearing your favorite. You nuzzle your cheek into his chest becoming greedy, the cozy scent calming your nerves, you get lost in it, and if he notices he doesn’t show it. He squeezes you closer, the top of his chin finding a new home on the crown of your head, while the pad of his thumb rubs circles on the sore muscle of your calf with pointed pressure.
Secretly, you always knew this moment, the one right here, was the cheat code every time you had ‘movie nights’ just the two of you. The excuse to let yourselves have this one thing. A silent agreement to never ruin the friendship by giving in just enough to keep the temptation at bay. An equal craving for the kind of affection that only feels good with someone you love, but as the years go by, the bolder both your touches get under the cloak of a dark room and a blanket, you wonder if it’s more than that. If there’s a world where he thinks about risking it all too.
Halloween - Two Years Ago.
You weren’t supposed to end up at Tina’s Halloween Party, but Ryan wanted to make an appearance after the two of you left Reefer Rick’s. He’d offered to be the DD, but three group shots of pickle bombs into it, you and everyone could tell he wasn’t having a good time. So since your apartment was walking distance from Tina’s, it made sense to end the night there or at least that’s how he explained it when he told you he wanted to leave.
The usual anxiety that tightens in your chest returns at the thought of seeing your best friend, somersaults in your stomach you refuse to call butterflies. In fact, you’ve done a good job at convincing yourself this is totally normal, because you can’t remember a time where it didn’t feel like this to see him.
Robin would be there too thankfully, because the two of them had entered Tina’s annual costume contest as Mario and Luigi. Costumes you watched them both make all week, sprawled out across Robin’s bedroom floor, pricking fingers till they bled trying to sew. The worst part about it though, was how cute Steve made the oversized mustache look. Some people really do have it all.
Ryan keeps you close to his side when the two of you enter the packed house dressed as Frankenstein and his bride. Monster Mash blares from the speakers so loud you wonder how much time you have left before Hopper comes knocking on the door to shut it down. You scan the crowd for the familiar red and green in a sea of witches, mermaids, and Top Gun characters, finding the two of them in the corner closest to the kitchen. Closest to the booze.
You can’t fight the way your face lights up when Steve’s gaze meets yours through the crowd, his own smile growing so big that half his mustache falls off. Suddenly coming to Tina’s was the best idea Ryan’s ever had. You tug at his arm, leading him towards the two Mario brothers that wave eagerly at you.
”Oh, great. Steve’s here.” Ryan mutters, sounding less than thrilled but you choose to ignore it, and the very obvious tension between the two men that’s existed since they met.
”Finally you come to the superior party!” Robin exclaims hugging you tight, before giving Ryan an awkward side one.
”She’s aliiiiive!” Steve who is clearly feeling very good yells over the music, before scooping you up in his arms.
He gives you the kind of hug that’s usually reserved for the long goodbye after a self indulgent movie night. The kind that has his big palms splayed across your back, pulling you flush against him, the thin material of your ripped white dress and his ramshackled overalls leaves little to the imagination. His lips find their way to the shell of your ear, tequila and lime warm on his breath, pebbling goosebumps along the back of your neck. He’s wearing your favorite cologne.
”You look beautiful, honey.”
He lets you go with that, and you catch the smug way he looks at Ryan over the top of your head. The smile on Robin’s face is awkward as you meet her gaze with a silent plea for help, you don’t know what exactly you want her to do, but your body is on fire and someone needs to put it out. You stare a little longer as if to communicate this delima to her telepathically even though you would never admit it to her with your words, only giving up on your dead end mission when you feel Ryan tug you back to his side by your hip.
”She does, doesn’t she.” Ryan agrees, fingers threatening to dig bruises in your side unknowingly. Steve always did this to him, but tonight the alcohol intensified it.
“Seriously, literally always so stunning.” Robin agrees on your beauty nervously, giving you an apologetic look that she couldn’t think of anything better.
”Let’s get some shots!” You try with mock excitement in a desperate attempt to remind Ryan why you came here and that it’s not to punch Steve’s teeth in with a squeeze of his hand. It’s a fruitless effort to try and ignore the growing heat that warms under your cheeks and churns deep in your gut where your body always seems to betray you.
”Great idea!” Robin exclaims doing her best to copy your tone, it seems to be enough to shake the boys out of their silent dick swinging contest.
”Tequila or rum?” You ask your date, laying a hand on his chest doing your best to ignore the heat of Steve’s stare on the back of your head.
“Tequila.” He answers, placing his palm on the top of your hand, bending down, his eyes flick towards your best friend before kissing you. Marking his territory.
You’d think it was hot if your body had any kind of reaction to him, but it’s still practically humming for the one behind you and you hate yourself for it.
”I’ll be right back.” You wink, giving Ryan’s fingers a squeeze before slipping through the crowd towards the kitchen without looking back.
It’s quieter in the yellow light of Tina’s kitchen, the music a low thump instead of overpowering all your senses at once. A shaky breath slips past your black painted lips, while uneasy hands half hazardly read the labels on the cheap bottles of liquor. The bold letters that spell Tequila finally catch your eye on the most generic looking bottle. You grimace at the thought of the hang over that seals your fate tomorrow, but then you remember the way the lime smelt on Steve’s breath.
“You look beautiful honey.”
Fuck it. You take one straight from the bottle for good measure. No salt, no lime, just regret.
“Your boyfriend’s a little insecure isn’t he?”
As if thinking about him makes him appear, Steve walks through the kitchen pointing a thumb over his shoulder towards the direction Ryan’s in.
“He’s not my boyfriend yet, and he won’t be because you keep egging him on, Harrington.” You sigh exasperated, ignoring the way he chuckles not taking you seriously at all before turning around to face him, your palms finding purchase on the kitchen counter behind you.
“Maybe, just a little.” He pinches his thumb and index finger together with a devious smirk that looks even more absurd in his costume. At least his oversized mustache must’ve been left with Robin. “I just don’t like him is all.”
“You don’t like anyone I’m interested in, Steve.”
You want to ask him why. The alcohol almost starts to make you brave enough to do it too. Why does he do this every time it’s your turn to date around? Why does he always have a list of issues on how they simply aren’t good enough? Why is it always a competition? Sometimes you wonder if it’d just be easier to hear him say it out loud instead of doing whatever this is.
“Well, that may be true, but you also have terrible taste.” He closes the space between you, mimicking your stance on the kitchen island across from where you face him. The tips of your shoes are close enough to touch.
“Who would you like me to date then?” Your question is supposed to sound snarky and mean, not quiet with weight wrapped around it like it does
The look in his glossy eyes steals the air from your lungs, like he’s daring you to say it.
You both know you won’t and he changes the subject.
“I can’t believe I caught you doing a tequila shot without salt and lime. Especially that tequila.” He tsks, pushing himself off the counter and invades what little is left of the space between you. You can smell the cinnamon again.
“Well I needed a quick stress reliever, no thanks to you.” You should be embarrassed by how breathy it comes out, but when he holds your gaze like this, like he wants to eat you alive, it’s hard to care.
It's just the liquor you tell yourself, Steve’s been drinking all night.
He mutters a ‘hmm’ under his breath, long fingers wrapping just tight enough around your wrist that you could pull away if you wanted too. You don’t though, instead you bite your bottom lip, too selfishly invested in what he might do next.
Steve reaches behind you, grabbing the salt shaker that dwarfs in his grasp, lifting your hand up to your mouth.
“Lick.” He smirks devilishly, and you realize you’re getting the full force of his charm.
“Steve.” You whisper, just barely audible over your heart thrumming out of your chest. You can feel it in your ears.
Thump, thump, thump, thump
“We’re gonna do a shot together, the right way.” He reasons like this is a completely normal interaction between two friends while the gold shimmering in his eyes darkens.
You don’t say anything, searching his face for any sign of this being some kind of prank just to see how you’d react. But the way he licks his lips tells you pretty quickly that it’s not.
So you do it. Holding his eyes the whole time, and you swear they turn onyx.
It’s his turn to stay silent, breathing heavily through his nose as he taps the shaker over the corner of your hand before doing the same to his own, and now it’s your turn to stare as his pink tongue licks a perfect straight line. All the stories you’ve heard about him flood to the forefront of your mind, the endless pillow talk about Steve Harrington that fills the college halls.
You hate that the motion has your thighs pressing together, especially with Ryan just outside waiting for your return, but you can’t bring yourself to care enough to leave. Your eyes trace the veins in his neck, silently counting the freckles that explode across his skin as he pours up two shots.
“Here honey.” He whispers, like he’s scared for this bubble to pop too.
The two of you cheers, glass clinking loudly in the silence, eyes staying trained on each other like you need to memorize every detail of this moment. Like this was never going to happen again.
The tequila doesn’t taste as bad followed up with the salt and the lime. Steve does it like a pro, like a boy who’s been to every party this small town has to offer. He doesn’t even take that ‘this is disgusting’ suck of breath through his teeth, he just smiles at you setting the shot glass down.
“Hey, is everything okay? Do you need help? Oh.”
It’s only fitting that it’s Ryan who pops your carefully crafted bubble, and you know it will be another fight about Steve on the walk home. Another night to get buried with all the others just like this, and a night that has you and Steve avoid being alone together for a week.
Halloween - Now.
It’s hard to concentrate on Freddy terrorizing a young Johnny Depp when the tips of Steve’s fingers move from your calf to the top of your thigh, a motion he’s repeated for half the movie. A move that gets bolder, higher, pushing the boundaries with every swipe. He has to feel the way it makes you squirm, in fact, you think it’s spurring him on. Especially when he gets dangerously close to the soft outline of your underwear, a quiet gasp escaping past your lips.
Luckily, you're saved by the sound of your doorbell, the first trick or treaters of the night making you both jump.
“Finally!” Steve exclaims like he wasn’t just actively tempting you to cross the line for the second time this week, like he didn’t already know what your tongue tasted like.
The bonfire comes back in flashes, teeth scraping, nipping, the whistles that got drowned out when his hand came up to your cheek opening you up more when it was just supposed to be a peck.
”Hello? Are we just going to keep them waiting?” He snaps you back to reality, standing over you with his hands out for you to take. “I don’t really want to beat you at your own game.”
”Again Steve, this is not a sport, you can’t win at something when there’s no prize.” You groan, refusing to meet eyes but slide your hands into his.
“Sure you can.” He winks, letting you go the moment you get on your feet, extending his arm for you to lead the way.
His playful demeanor has you feeling like maybe you just imagined the last thirty minutes. Was he not affected the way you were? Has it always just been you? Did the kiss not make him question everything?
”Whatever you say Harrington.” Sighing, you try for the hundredth time this week to push the thoughts of your bottom lip between his teeth down where they can’t see the light of day.
So distracted by the man behind you, the lack of candy in your hands has you stopping dead in your tracks without thinking, the domino effect slams his hard chest right into your back.
”Foul ball.” Steve huffs, steadying you both with hands on your hips. The warmth of them bleeding through the thick fabric of your sweater. “I thought you said this wasn’t a game.”
What you hated most about Steve Harrington was that he always knew how to make you laugh even when you didn’t want to.
”Well if this were a game, we’d be losing.”
Genuine panic paints his features like a truly serious offense has occurred.
“We forgot the candy.”
He groans, running a hand through his hair that you wish was your own.
”Wow, total rookie mistake, we gotta get it together or we’re gonna get benched.” Clapping loudly he turns on his heel to grab both bowls, “I do not wanna get on the coach's bad side.”
”You don’t have to bring both.” You try your hardest to fight the smile that wants to twist up the corners of your lips. “And who’s the coach?”
”We’re not going to be under prepared this time sweetheart, and I need to see who picked the better candy, if they’re even still there!” Steve tutts with a shake of his head gliding past you. “And you’re the coach, duh.”
”Why do you always like to participate in competitions you know you’re going to lose?” Crossing your arms, you light up at his narrowed gaze, his long fingers wrapped around the door handle, “I mean, we might as well take a poll of the ugly pumpkins you made us put out too while we’re at it.
“Sounds like a great idea.” He grins smugly, “I love how much you lean into intimidation tactics when you know you won’t win by the way.” He doesn’t give you any time to respond, swinging the door open with the kind of excitement that would rival a kid on Christmas morning.
Then you watch it drain from his face almost instantly, quickly replaced by pure annoyance.
“What’s going on? What are you doing here?” Steve, stacks one of the candy bowls on top of the other, leaning on your door with a hand on his hip.
”What does it look like we’re doing?” You hear Mike Wheeler’s voice before you see him, but when you meet Steve at the door, you realize it’s all four of his ‘children’ and you can’t stop the laugh that bubbles past your lips because they’re all dressed as The Cone Heads.
“It looks like legal adults going to strangers' houses asking for candy, instead of being at a party, meeting girls. Will you’re excluded in that last part, obviously.” Your best friend runs another irritated hand through his hair.
“I’m not sure they’ll be able to chase tail dressed as Beldar Conehead, Steve.” You can’t stop giggling. “Just give them some candy.”
”Yeah, listen to your girlfriend, Harrington.” Dustin antagonizes, shaking his empty pillow case in front of him. “Give us the sour candies and we’ll get out of your hair.”
”One, she’s not my girlfriend, dip shit, and two, what's wrong with Snickers?”
“Sour candy’s just better.” Lucas shrugs, “Now hand over the Warheads.”
She’s not my girlfriend.
It feels like an expected punch in the gut. The final nail in the coffin your last shred of hope lays in. You should have known better, but the kiss made everything fuzzy, the self control you prided yourself on waning in a way that you weren’t sure you could ever get back.
“You guys can have as much as you want.” You say ignoring Steve, snatching the bowls from his hand.
“Seriously? They can buy their own!” He groans, leaning his back on the door crossing his arms over his chest.
“She’s not your girlfriend, huh? You seemed pretty whipped to me,” Mike laughs knowing just how much this is getting under Steve’s skin.
You know it’s supposed to be somewhat of a compliment but it just adds salt to a wound that won’t stay closed.
”Shut up, that’s enough,” Steve smacks the back of Mike’s head hard enough to get an ‘Ouch! Asshole!’, the cone on top wobbling. “Get out of here and go to a god damn party.”
The boys take half the bowl of Warheads, walking away arguing about who can put the most in their mouth without spitting them out. They only took a few pieces of Steve’s chocolate, leaving you the clear winner this round, something you’d be more excited about rubbing in his face if you weren’t trying to actively avoid it. The taste of disappointment is bitter on your tongue, but you do your best to swallow it down. A hard lesson learned, but one your heart can’t bear to repeat again. All you know is that you can’t go back to being best friends with wandering hands in the dark.
Self control.
The Bon Fire - Last Week
Eddie Munson’s filter always disappeared when he was drunk, it was part of the fun of drinking with him. Except for when his unfiltered thoughts were about you.
”Oh give me a fucking break!” Eddie yells at you from across the flames that lick the night sky violently. The excessive amount of lighter fluid he’s sprayed into them should be illegal. A half smoked cigarette dangles from the side of his mouth, dangerously close to falling out as he finishes.
“The only reason you and Steve are still single is because the two of you refuse to acknowledge the fact that you’re clearly in love with each other!”
”Fuck. Off. Munson.” Steve glowers from the lawn chair next to you, taking a swig from his 5th beer of the night.
”What? ‘Fuck off’ because I got your ass?” Eddie adjusts in his seat, saving his cigarette, fully prepared for this debate like he’s been waiting for it all his life.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You argue weakly, following Steve’s lead and taking another “sip” of your empty beer.
The metal head guffaws.
“Please, I’ve been watching the two of you for the past four years. Steve scares off any guy you try to date and you let him, which makes me believe you feel the same way, and Steve only dates girls he knows he’ll never have a connection with!” Eddie claps his hands every few words to really drive his point home, and it leaves your argument a jumbled mess on the tip of your tongue.
The vicious cycle of you and Steve Harrington.
”One, she dates horrible guys -“ Steve starts but immediately gets cut off by Eddie’s sarcastic “Sure!” And your “Hey!”
“Are you going to let me finish?” Your best friend narrows his eyes, polishing off his beer with an apologetic glance flashed briefly in your direction.
”You can if you want, but it’s not going to change my mind or anyone else’s at this party.” Eddie eggs him on more, taking a deep inhale of his cigarette and blowing the smoke out of his nose like a bull. Taunting you both.
You look around the fire for help foolishly thinking your friends were going to be on your side only to realize literally everyone is avoiding your gaze, even Robin.
”Robin!” The gasp that escapes you shouldn’t sound so surprised. She spends the most time with both of you.
“What?! I’m not Eddie! Yell at him!” She exclaims defensively, but her eyes are still everywhere but yours.
”Then look at me.” You cross your arms, arching a brow with a tilt of your chin.
She mumbles something about killing Eddie under her breath, messing with the empty beer bottles next to her like she’s looking for something. She was procrastinating.
”Oh my god! Seriously?”
Eddie chuckles victoriously and you swear you hear Nancy giggle from the spot next to Robin. Sinking into the hard plastic of your chair, you dare to sneak a glance at Steve who’s face is entirely unreadable. This was worse than your worst nightmare, this was reality.
”Look,” Eddie starts again, leaning forward in his chair like some sort of evil mastermind from a bad action movie, “If it’s all in our heads like you keep saying it is. That she really does have terrible taste in men and that you’ve really just exhausted all your options in Hawkins. Kiss then.”
Robin gasps dramatically.
”Are you really doing this right now, Munson?” Steve glowers through gritted teeth before shooting Robin a look so harsh she covers her face.
”Why not? What’s it going to hurt? I’m sure you’ve both thought about it before.” He shrugs, a cheshire smile poking dimples into both his cheeks. “Unless you’re too scared to do it, which would then make me continue to believe everything I just said was true.”
God, Eddie Munson knew exactly what he was doing. He knew how to press Steve’s buttons. He knew exactly how dug in both your heels were, holding up that invisible line that’s saved you for the past four years. And you couldn’t figure out if you wanted to kill him, and dump his body into the lake or be eternally grateful for someone finally ripping this old bandaid off. You just didn’t know if there was going to be a scar underneath.
”And why’s that?” You chime in finally finding your voice, snarky and rude. You’ve decided to lean into the anger, and ignore the heat of Steve’s stare warming the side of your face.
“Guys, this is getting a little weird.” Robin tries to intervene, the rasp in her voice uneasy, holding both her arms out like both boys might jump through the fire at each other soon.
”I dare you both to prove me wrong, and then I’ll let it go.” He sits back in his chair, a cigarette put out by his combat boots, and folds his hands in front of him. ”Just a peck.”
”Eddie, come on-“ Robin starts but Steve cuts her off.
”No, no, no it’s fine Rob.”
That’s when he does it, he turns to face you because Steve Harrington never backs down from a dare. Even if it means throwing a boulder at your glass house. Eddie was playing chess while Steve played checkers, and you start to believe all the drunken stories he told you about the campaigns he wrote for his DND club in high school. Your best friend will unfortunately always be an easy target.
“It’s fine, if this freak wants a little show to get off to later, we’re perfectly capable of a peck. My Mom gives out pecks like they’re candy! N-not like to me alone specifically,” He clears his throat awkwardly, “Like the rest of my family too.”
You grimace at the idea of Steve kissing you like his Mom and Eddie’s eyes sparkle.
”Okay,” Steve waves his hands, eyes closing tight in frustration, “This is coming out wrong! All I’m trying to say is, no big deal Munson, if it’ll get you to shut up, we’d love to prove you wrong, right?”
Wait, was Steve really agreeing to this? Were you really going to have your first kiss with him in front of all of your friends? A kiss you’ve shamefully thought about more than you should. Did he actually want to kiss you? Is he really doing this to shut Eddie up?
”Yeah, not a big deal. You’ll see, and then I’ll be expecting free weed for at least a month.” You try to over compensate with a brave face, but Eddie sees right through it.
”Sure.” He grins, utterly pleased with himself.
”Well what do I get?” Steve glares at his friend expectantly.
”You don’t get anything Harrington, shut up.”
“Wow, doesn’t seem fair, but whatever.” He mumbles, before finally focusing on you, and you aren’t sure you’re ready.
It feels kismet the moment your eyes meet, the sounds of the party fading around you, leaving only the crackling fire and your heart beating so loud it rings in your ears, and thumps through the tips of all ten of your fingers. The bubble you’ve carefully made together, the one that’s kept you safe for this long comes out like a shield. The last defense.
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
Steve licks his lips, eyes silently communicating with you to make sure this is really okay, that you guys were actually going to do this and all you can muster is a nod. He scoots his chair close enough for the sides of your hands to touch, amber and cinnamon wrapping around you like a spell.
”Just me and you okay?” He whispers loud enough for your ears only.
”Yeah,” you agree, hooking your pinky with his, “me and you.”
Steve smiles that smile he doesn’t give anyone else, and suddenly you don’t care about the answer to any of those questions swirling around loud in your brain. You want this. You want him. Even if it’s just for right now.
His nose brushes against yours, miller lite and mint hot on his breath. It makes your lashes flutter against the tops of your cheeks, your skin warming as if you were standing in front of the sun. It’s so gentle when his bottom lip connects with the top of yours, it almost tickles. He exhales a deep breath through his nose, mouth hovering for what feels like an eternity.
Thump, thump, tump, thump.
When the soft silk of his lips finally meets yours, you swear the earth shakes, and after a few seconds when he pulls away with that dazed look on his face you wonder if he felt it too. He blinks a few times, slow and bewildered, something shifting behind his brown eyes that you can’t figure out. Steve doesn’t give you much time to try before his lips are on yours again, that big hand of his finding your cheek, tilting your willing chin up just enough to open you up. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip asking for more and you give it to him without question tasting him for the first time.
Steve Harrington was kissing you, really kissing you.
“I hope those aren’t the kinda pecks your Mom’s handing out like candy, Harrington!” Eddie gloats loud enough to break through the haze, causing both of you to remember where you are.
Steve’s in no rush to pull away though, in fact, he takes his time, perfect teeth nipping gently at your bottom lip for good measure. He lingers like stopping this is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. The tip of his nose runs along the length of yours, and for a second you think he might keep kissing you. His eyes are already fixated on yours when you meet his stare with fluttering lashes. He holds your gaze like he’s desperately trying to read your mind, the pad of his thumb swiping against your bottom lip not once but twice before finally letting you go.
”You happy now, Munson?” Steve huffs flopping back into his chair with rose colored cheeks. He leans down to grab his beer, running a hand through his untamable hair before taking a swig like that didn’t just change everything.
Oh no.
“Literally couldn’t be happier, Harrington. I think I’m going to start charging double for my eighths now, actually.” Eddie grins winking at you, only for his face to soften meeting your unreadable expression.
Frozen in your seat, your fingers press against your lips. You could still feel his teeth.
“What do you mean?” Steve interjects, refusing to look in your direction.
Oh no.
“What do you mean?” The metal head challenges, with a confused raise of his eyebrow. “There’s witnesses Harrington.”
He waves his ringed finger in a circular motion reminding you both of the still very much ongoing party around you. It’s hard to feel the familiar ache of disappointment when your bones won’t stop buzzing. They don’t get it, they don’t realize they bore witness to the kind of moment that moved tectonic plates for you. The kind of moment that you know is going to change everything no matter how hard you try.
”We did your dare, she gets free weed.” Steve continues like it’s obvious.
“Yeah, no. You two were practically eating each other alive. I actually think people started to feel awkward, that’s how insane it was.” Eddie’s disbelief furrows his brows together, head cocking to the side. “So, clearly, I was right.”
At least he’s got the balls to say it.
“When I win, I like to win big, okay?” Steve smirks with his kiss bitten lips, making the next thing he says sting even more. “You’d never let it go if it was just a peck.”
Oh no.
Your eyes meet Robin’s, and the expression on her face makes you wish you hadn’t.
”Right?” It takes you a minute to realize Steve is talking to you, in fact it’s not until you feel a gentle tap on your shoulder from the hand that was just cupping your cheek.
He’s asking you to agree that it meant nothing, that you both got Eddie, that you two are only everything you’ve ever said you were. Everyone stares at you, and for the second time tonight you wish this was a nightmare. You wonder if you should just pinch yourself to see.
”I’ll take my first free eighth tonight.” You finally manage, giving Eddie a weak smile.
Oh no.
Halloween - Now
Steve feels miles away on the other side of the couch, a conscious choice you made after his teenage children left, after he made it abundantly clear where he still stood with you. It’s a choice you’re going to dig your heels into no matter how much your body physically aches to be close to him, or how his knee hasn’t stopped bouncing almost three movies and a whole lot of trick or treaters later.
The clear pink digital clock on your mantle reads 12:18 AM in bright red numbers, A Nightmare on Elm Street: Dream Warriors lights up your TV and despite the distance, Steve still hasn’t left. You know he wants to ask why you’re so far away, why you’re not wrapped up in his arms like it doesn’t matter, like last week never happened but then he would have to talk about it. Acknowledge it.
You fucking hated, ‘It’, and maybe Eddie Munson too.
Shadows dance across Steve’s face, eyes intent on the TV with knitted brows that meet in the middle of his forehead. Those hands that had wandered your body under blankets woven with secrets and what if’s for the past four years sit propped behind his head as he leans back into the cushions. His legs are spread wide, in a position that looks uncomfortable, letting you know he’s lost in whatever argument he’s been having with himself since the second movie after you had grabbed your own blanket.
You were going to break the vicious cycle of you and Steve Harrington, right here, right now. While you still had a shred of willpower left.
“I-I think I saw a full moon out there earlier.” His voice breaks through everything like it always does, hoarse from its lack of use, he clears his throat turning his head to look at you biting his nail.
The warm red lighting from Freddy’s boiler room illuminates his features in a way that dares those butterflies to wake back up from the eternal rest you banished them to. His sharp jaw, those high cheek bones kissed with freckles and moles. The dark pools of his irises beg you for something, surrounded by sparkling brown and gold. You couldn’t look away even if you tried. Movie star.
”Yeah?” You manage, voice coming out quieter than intended, it softens his features almost instantly, like he missed the sound of it.
”Do you maybe wanna go for a drive?”
You make him wait for an answer to a question you could never say no to even if you tried, doing your best to hang onto your fleeting self control for just a little bit longer before giving in with a,
“Let's go.”
Steve was right, there was a full moon tonight. It sits half hidden in the clouds but it still manages to shine bright enough to coat the sleeping town of Hawkins in an incandescent opal. He cranks the heat all the way up so you can rest your head on propped up hands along the open passenger window. Strings of orange and violet bulbs wrap around trees, twinkling off fences and front doors, lighting the dark spots that the moon can’t kiss. Flames still flicker and dance inside jack o lantern mouths that sit on front doorsteps, and you can’t help but inhale the bitter crisp fall air that hits your face. It even smells like Halloween outside. You can faintly hear the sound of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ spill from his speakers, and it curves up the corners of your lips. Closing your eyes, you let yourself bask in this moment, including the unmistakable feeling of Steve’s gaze.
The thing about Steve’s car is that it feels like you’re completely surrounded by him when you’re in it, wrapped up in him, consumed by him. The warm leather underneath you always smells rich, especially in the summer after it bakes in the sun. It’s soft to the touch, freshly lotioned by him at least once a week to prevent cracks, while the amber of his cologne permanently clings to the threads in his carpets, and soft chenille lining of his doors. Some days, you’ll catch hints of that Farrah Faucet spray he used in high school, but that was usually after a date. Loose change jingles in his cup holder, along with the stick of gum you almost always inevitably steal from it, and despite the internal battle you’ve been having with yourself, tonight was still no exception. Steve’s car felt like home.
Neither one of you talk as he drives the familiar path towards your favorite spot by the lake. His headlights illuminate the fog that wraps up the base of the trees, crawling up slowly to the dying leaves in a way that makes everything look like magic as you pass town lines. Including the boy next to you. It takes you a few minutes to work up the courage to steal a glance in his direction, but when you do he’s already looking at you too. His soft laugh after you both get caught makes your cheeks ignite, the corners of your lips twitching.
”Eyes on the road, Harrington.” You manage, fighting the losing battle with your growing smile. You don’t look at him again, not until the BMW slowly rolls to a stop.
Still, you waste no time jumping out of the car parked on the secret cliff you’d both discovered lost on a drive a few summers ago. Wind hits you in a heavy gust, free from anything that can slow it down up here, pebbling goosebumps along your skin. The cold ground cracks underneath your slippers you didn’t bother to change out of, while cinnamon and crimson leaves flutter in the trees. Crickets chirp in the distance, creating a melody with the wind howling through the dense forest that feels fitting for the holiday. Your heart swells from the feeling of nostalgia, filling you with the kind of joy something that a party could never do.
“Spooky.” Steve whispers in your ear, coming up from behind you. The warmth of his spare jacket he keeps in the back seat drapes around your shoulders. It smells different than the one he wears regularly, but it's still him, so you selfishly pull it closer.
“Mmhmm.” You agree, eyelids growing heavy at the feeling of his breath against the soft skin at the back of your neck before his arms wrap around your waist like they belong there.
Steve pulls you close, mumbling something about being cold too and how you need to share. The tip of his nose traces the shell of your ear before burying his face into the crook of your neck. He inhales deeply, openly, like an addict that’s been denied his favorite drug and he’s finally got his hands on it. So just as quickly as they were banished, the butterflies come migrating back and you don’t have the energy to stop them, or to practice that new concept of self control because this feels too good right now. Maybe you’re an addict too.
Thin clouds spread out in wisps along the dark night sky, messily painted there by an invisible brush, the stars twinkle around them, shimmering bright even underneath it all. Your gaze traces the invisible lines of the Big Dipper, and it reminds you of the time you’d spent nearly twenty minutes trying to get Steve to see the formation sprawled out on a blanket at this very spot. You would’ve spent the whole evening if you had to.
“Are you having a good Halloween?” He whispers, voice vibrating deep inside your bones while his cold fingertips trace along the waist band of your leggings under your sweater. You don’t remember when they got there.
You roll the answer around in your head with a thoughtful hum, admiring the orange glow of the town below. An owl calls out into the darkness and Steve’s lips curl into a grin pressing into your neck at the noise.
”Yeah, this is pretty perfect.” You start, thankful he can’t see your own smile that pushes up your cold cheeks, “Especially after getting the confirmation that I do have better taste in candy than you. I love when I’m right.”
He snorts loudly, and it vibrates against your skin making you giggle, his grip on you tightening playfully before pulling you deeper into his chest.
”I threw the game, I felt bad, you know, I didn’t want to outshine you on your favorite holiday. I purposely picked the candy no one would like.” His voice comes out right next to your ear, the baritone of it going straight to your legs threatening to turn them into jell-o.
“Mmmhmm.” You manage, voice cracking with nerves as the palm of his hand finds the plushness of your stomach and keeps it there. You wonder if he can feel the butterflies too. “Whatever you have to say to yourself to sleep better at night, Harrington.”
Steve laughs into your shoulder, the blunt end of his nails scratching lightly over the soft skin of your navel. Neither one of you try to fill the quiet after that, letting the million things that need to be said hang over you in the eerily beautiful silence of the canyon. They cling onto every swipe of his fingers, and the sighs that come from the back of your throat. The two of you stay wrapped up in each other like this for what feels like an hour, swaying back and forth, too scared to pop your favorite bubble. It’s not until a shiver runs up your spine, the frost in the air numbing the tip of your nose.
”We don’t have to leave, but we should at least sit in the car with the heater on for a while.” Steve breaks the silence with a slight chatter in his teeth, the pad of his thumb swiping against the smooth skin of your hip before untangling himself from your clothes. This was starting to feel like a sunrise kind of night.
”Yeah, that’s probably smart.” You clear your throat with a small smile, already missing the feeling of being surrounded by him, for once you don’t push it down.
You follow him to the car, letting your gaze greedily trace the outline of his shoulders in his crew neck sweater. His hair whips around wildly in the wind, the little product that was left in his hair standing no chance. He walks past the passenger door to open the back one instead of your usual spot in the front. The change makes you pause, you’d never really hung out in the backseat together, always using the center console as a barrier to stop you from doing the unthinkable. Everything always seems more romantic in the dead of night.
“I had an idea earlier when I saw it was going to be a full moon tonight, I- uh, brought us a blanket.” He explains before the question even has a chance to leave your mouth, pink dusting his cheeks that you aren’t entirely sure is just from the cold.
It almost goes over your head, but the bashful way he won’t meet your gaze catches your attention. This wasn’t just some coincidence he saw the full moon from your front door, he had already known, probably with the help of the very kids that showed up dressed as Coneheads.
Steve Harrington planned something for you.
”I uh, stole this blank tape from Henderson too and recorded the re-run of Radio Mystery Theater, Eddie had told me about. Thought it might be something you’d like.”
Your heart swells, threatening to burst in your chest with the unmistakable feeling of wanting to kiss him again.
“I can’t believe you did this Steve, I’ve always wanted to listen to an episode.” You practically beam, taking a few steps closer, looking up at him from under your lashes. “You remembered.”
The crimson that deepens in the apple of his cheeks this time is definitely not from the cold.
”We’ve had a lot of shitty solo Halloweens, and since this was our first one together, I just wanted, I- I guess I just wanted to make this one special. Maybe we can start a new tradition or something?” he shrugs, muttering the last part with a scratch at the back of his neck pretending to be nonchalant but you can always see right through him.
”Yeah, I’d like that.” Your admission is quiet, but the smile he bites back threatens to be megawatt before reaching out his hand, ushering you into the car and out of the two am chill
”I’m gonna go grab the blanket.”
He closes the door gently after making sure you’re comfortable, and you watch him with hungry eyes from the back window pull out a down comforter from the trunk. It’s the one from his bed, the fabric a deep plush deep burgundy with a black trimming around the edges, it looks so warm in his grasp as another chill rattles through your bones. He comes around to his side, opening the door to hand it to you with a grin that only grows wider when you snatch it eagerly before popping to the driver's seat to turn his car on. The heat starts to blow through the vents instantly, sending another shiver up your spine and a chatter of your teeth. Your gaze falls on the sliver of skin that reveals itself to you where his sweater rides up his back as he leans over the center console to grab the cassette tape from his glove compartment. Of course there’s another cluster of moles and freckles there that make you want to explore where the rest hide.
He pops it in with ease, pressing play and waits until he hears the opening crackle through the speakers, a quiet ‘yes’ slipping past his lips. A gust of cold air follows him when he opens the passenger door again as he slides into the leather seats next to you, knees knocking into yours before shutting it. He wastes no time finding you under the covers, torturing you with his cold hands by slipping them back underneath your sweater.
”Steve!” You jump, scolding him with a giggle without pushing him away, and he takes this opportunity to pull you back into the position you were in on your couch at home before you tried to find some semblance of boundaries.
He keeps his hands under your sweater, even when they’re warmed back up, the pad of his thumb rubbing soft circles along your rib cage. His cheek rests on your forehead, full lips tickling your skin when he talks. You can feel his heart beat against your palm, and how it speeds up every time your fingers curl into the cotton of his sweater whenever you laugh, instinctively pulling him closer. He doesn’t fight it, instead his grip tightens on the soft dough of your thighs draped over his knees, making sure every inch of you stays pressed firmly against him.
This doesn’t feel like best friends. This feels like something more, but it’s always felt like something more.
In fact you think you’ve known you were in love with Steve Harrington long before you ever admitted it yourself. Burying it so far deep, the fleeting idea just didn’t exist to you anymore, but tonight in the soft glow of the moon sitting in the back seat of his car, you were sure of it and its existence.
It feels like he can read your mind when his fingers curl under your chin, tilting your head up to look at him. The stars twinkle in the gold of his auburn eyes like he plucked them from the sky and hung them there. So close, you can see those freckles you’d discovered the last time he looked at you just like this. That one badly behaved swoop of hair tickles the top of your forehead, and your fingers twitch to push it back for him. Movie star.
The tape stops with a loud click, leaving nothing but the low whistle of wind outside, and it mixes with your heavy breaths, electric currents stinging at your fingertips. His heart thumps wildly against your hand, like he was working himself up for something big. The notion sets a fire ablaze on every inch of your skin in anticipation.
”I want, I want to talk about something.” He says just barely above a whisper with a gaze so intense, it makes you want to look away. You don’t.
“What about?” Your voice comes out somehow even quieter, eyes falling to his lips on their own accord. He catches it, kicking his heart rate up even more.
Was he going to do the unthinkable? You try to push the thought down, but it fights back this time. Refusing the denial exile you’ve shoved it in for the past four years.
“Last week, at um, at Munson’s.” His eyebrows pinch together, visibly swallowing his nerves, as the tip of his nose dares to brush against yours. “God, I-I can’t stop thinking about it.”
The last part comes out like he’s being tortured by it. At least it’s not just you.
“If we’re being honest though,” He continues, his palm running up your thigh to squeeze at your hip, keeping you close, “I don’t think I ever stop thinking about you.”
His words crack your chest open, shining light on all the dark places that you’ve kept him in, just like the sunshine Steve Harrington is made of.
”Really?” You manage to say, after fighting with the words that keep getting tangled up on the edge of your tongue, desperately trying to give him more than a one word answer but failing miserably. Years of daydreaming about this moment in silent shame freezing you up.
He nods, pressing his forehead against yours, yearning eyes searching inside the dark pools of your pupils down the slope of his nose.
“You just, you brushed it off so easily, I thought -“ You start, replaying the way he’d rolled back into his seat, sipping his beer so casually like nothing happened. The confidence in his voice bragging about how Eddie got it wrong, that he wasn’t in love with you.
”What’d you think?” He encourages gently, the hand on your hip coming up to cup your cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing along the bone.
”I just thought I was the only one.” You confess, that same defeated feeling from that night creeping back in despite the way his gaze softens all of your edges.
“That night at Eddie’s, I freaked out. Robin told me it was pretty obvious that I have feelings for you and it got me in my head that I was secretly making you uncomfortable because if she noticed it, surely you did too. So I completely overcompensated after I lost control at the bonfire, there was just no way I could stop kissing you, and then I panicked again earlier at your house-“
“Steve.” You say his name like it's something romantic, successfully ending his rambling with another brush of your nose against his. .
”Yeah?” He breathes, the tension leaving his shoulders like hearing your voice was enough.
You meet his heavy stare from underneath your lashes, the foggy glass of the windows creating a halo around his head from the soft glow of the moonlight.
“I dare you to kiss me again.” There’s confidence in your voice you don’t recognize, and the corner of his mouth quirks at it.
“What if I just wanted to kiss you because I wanted to?” Steve whispers, closing more of the little space that’s left between you.
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
“Then, I’d say…” You brush your top lip against his bottom one, a low simmer starting to boil in the pit of your gut, spreading warmth between your thighs at his sharp intake of breath, “what are you waiting for, Harrington.”
His lips are curved into a smirk when he presses them to yours, his thumb finding the corner of your mouth to open you up just enough for him that your lips move like they were made for this, for him. He handles you differently in the back seat of his car than at the bonfire, he’s gentle, taking his time without prying eyes, savoring you. Your fingers curl into his sweater, pulling him closer because of it, like he can never be close enough, nose pressed into his cheek. He hums in response, and you can feel his smile return before his hand moves to the back of your neck, the pad of his thumb rubbing gentle circles on the soft skin behind your ear. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip begging you to finally let him in, and when you oblige, you both moan at the taste of each other.
It feels like Steve is everywhere, surrounding you with all of the little details of him embedded in every inch of his car. He’s in the leather underneath you that squeaks with your movements, in the amber and cinnamon that warm the air around you, comforting your nerves that threaten to fizz and burst like a live wire. His tongue explores every inch of your mouth like he’s hungry for it, like nothing else could satisfy him, massaging against your own in a way that earns a moan from the back of your throat. One you have no control over, but you’re starting to realize that maybe you never really had control when it came to Steve.
He breaks away just enough to whisper the word ‘perfect’ with a swipe of his nose against your own before pulling you onto his lap. You gasp at the feel of him as your knees press into the seat on either side of his hips. The effect you never really knew you had on him pressing into your heat with only the fabric of each other's pajama pants as a barrier, a feeling that only ever existed in your day dreams. But this was real, and he was closer to you than you’d ever allowed each other to be, dark wild eyes staring up at you like you were the one who painted the moon and the clouds in the sky. That swoop across his forehead has an extra curl to it from the sweat that beads at the top of his head, auburn hair turning into a wild untamable mess. His big hands grip the tops of your thighs, bringing you out of your thoughts and back to him.
”You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.” He confesses with an exhausted laugh, as if carrying the burden of ‘what if’ had been weighing him down. “I’m going to be insufferable now, I hope you know.”
His teeth shimmer in the white glow as his kiss bitten lips pull up into the kind of smile that’s contagious, even getting a giggle from you that cuts through the tension like a knife making Steve pull you closer. The tips of his fingers return to their favorite place under your sweater where they trace like a whisper against the warm skin of your lower back, and it makes your eyelids grow heavy. You slump more of your weight into him burying your head into his neck, your own hands traveling up his sweater, finger nails scratching against the rough trail of hair there before your palms rest on the thick thatch on his chest. Your lips press a kiss the two moles that had been begging you to do it for four years just below his ear, and he hums squeezing you closer despite running out of room to physically be able to.
”I want to do this with you all the time,” Steve whispers, lips brushing against your ear, “not just tonight, not just this.”
Hearing Steve say it out loud, confess the one thing you always had to pretend didn’t exist blooms something deep in your chest that you didn’t know could grow there. Shining light on all the darkness and doubts that had made themselves a far too comfortable home. Why keep denying something you both clearly want so bad?
”D-do you feel the same? Please tell me you feel the same.” You can hear the doubt creep into his voice from your misperceived silence when he whispers the plea hot against your lips, begging you to turn your head and meet them.
You almost want to laugh at the idea that Steve Harrington had reservations that you might not feel the same way about him. Wasn’t it obvious?
”Listen, Harrington.” You sigh, meeting his gaze from under your lashes, his heart kicking back up against your palm, his fingers going still. “If you think you’re going to be insufferable, you clearly have no idea who I really am.”
It takes Steve a minute to absorb your words, but when he does, the deep bellied laugh it earns you vibrates against the windows of the car and wraps around your heart. He pulls one hand from under your sweater, fingers curling under your chin again to get to what both of you want more of. A lopsided grin pushes up the vampire bites on his cheek, full lips hovering just over yours and it feels like the first time all over again. Part of you thinks it might always feel this way with him.
“Don’t underestimate my capacity to yearn, baby.” His lips brush against yours with every word, a shiver running up your spine.
Baby.
“What if I dare you to show me?” You whisper, teeth nipping at his bottom lip enjoying the feeling of the blunt end of his nails digging into your back.
“Careful, you know I can’t say no to that.” He huffs with a grin, warm breath against your skin, silently offering up his own dare for you to close the rest of the distance and give in.
”I’m counting on it.”
You take the bait without giving him any time to respond, accepting his challenge by pressing your lips to his that match your energy almost immediately, meeting you hungry and ready. It’s easy to get lost in him again, and you let it consume you even when the soft pink glow of the sunrise shines through the fog on the windows like a kaleidoscope. Because finally, here, in the back seat of his car, you are in love with Steve Harrington, and it doesn’t have to be a secret anymore.
Content: Jackson!Joel x reader; Jackson!Tommy x reader (not a threesome sorryyyyy)
Synop: Joel Miller only comes around at night. After the sun sets. After the stars have already flooded the sky. After all of Jackson is already asleep — including his wife.
But you're tired of being his dirty secret. Of being the other woman. You didn't think you'd hurt this much. That is until Tommy. Tommy who wants you openly. Tommy who wants you and only you.
You thought you were healing... until Joel comes along.
Warnings: age gap (unspecified reader of age), cheating (joel has a wife), reader gets heartbroken, mean joel, pinv, oral (f! receive), no ellie, praise kink (tommy), pet names, face riding (kinda), torn between both millers (me too)
Word Count: 9k?
(dividers by: @cafekitsune)
a/n: this did not turn out the way i originally planned but that's okay because i just let my fingers write whatever they desire. truly i am torn between both miller brothers and don't know who to have y'all end up with so let me knowwwwwww. SPOILER tho you will have sex with Joel next chapter. sorry not sorry.
The coffee's gone cold. It always does when you pour it too early, thinking he might stay longer than he does.
But he never does.
The sun bleeds gold across the warped floorboards, crawling in through the broken slats of the blinds you never fix. It’s quiet in that cruel kind of way — not peace, but pause. Like the world’s holding its breath before it moves without you.
Your place still smells like him. Leather and old sweat. Tobacco and pine soap. Faded traces of campfire smoke clinging to the flannel he left draped over the back of the chair. Like he’ll be back any minute.
But you know better.
He comes on the wind, always at dusk or after — carrying the weight of something he won’t name, eyes heavy with history and hands that shake until they’re on you. And when he touches you, he’s not gentle, not rough either. Just hungry. Like he’s trying to remember what it feels like to want something he’s allowed to take.
You let him. Every time.
Because the thing about being the other woman is that you learn how to live in the in-betweens. In the dark hours and unfinished sentences. In the jacket he forgot to take and the warmth in your bed that isn’t yours to keep.
And on Sundays — you never expect him.
Sundays are for her.
The one who gets his name whispered soft across pillowcases and gets to ask where he’s been without flinching. The one who gets to admire his features in the daylight. You don’t want her to exist anymore. But you know she always will.
Because Joel Miller never comes around on Sundays. Sundays are for her.
And if he ever did — you think maybe you’d ask him to stay.
But he doesn’t. He won’t.
And so you sit in the quiet with your cold coffee and that old flannel, pretending this room is a church and you’re the only sinner left praying for a man already spoken for.
It was Thursday. Or maybe Wednesday.
The days blur when you don’t ask for promises.
He came in like he always does — shoulders slouched, boots heavy, voice low. Said your name like it hurt. Like it was the first word he’d spoken all day and it tasted unfamiliar in his mouth.
You didn’t ask him where he’d been.
You never do.
You just moved aside, let him in, closed the door behind him like you were sealing something in. Or keeping something out. You’re still not sure which.
The lights stayed off. That’s how he likes it.
He sat on the edge of your bed like he didn’t mean to stay long, like this was a mistake halfway made. But then his hands found your hips, and his head found the crook of your neck, and suddenly you were both breathing like you’d been underwater.
It’s never urgent, with Joel.
It’s not tender either.
It’s quiet. Tense. Like a storm held behind his ribs.
You feel it in the way he touches you — slow, searching, like maybe if he just holds you long enough, he’ll forget what he’s running from.
You let him leave fingerprints. Bruises, sometimes. He always kisses them after, though. Mouth soft where his hands weren’t. As if to say I’m sorry, without giving it a voice.
You didn’t say anything when he traced his fingers along your spine.
Didn’t move when he stared too long at the ceiling after.
You just watched him — that profile you’ve memorized a hundred different ways — and counted the beats of silence between breaths.
Then he spoke. Just one word.
“Laura.”
You turned your head away. He didn’t notice.
Or maybe he did. And didn’t care.
He left before the sun rose. No kiss. No goodbye. Just the groan of boots on old floorboards, the soft thud of the door closing, and the echo of her name still floating in the stale air you shared.
You buried your face in the pillow he used, pretending it didn’t smell like regret.
You don’t cry anymore.
That part of you dried up months ago — somewhere between the first time he left without looking back, and the fifteenth time you let him in anyway. Grief got old. Tears started to feel theatrical. And anyway, there’s no one left to see them but the walls, and even they’ve stopped listening.
Now it’s just the quiet. The long hours. The weight of being something he uses to feel human, but never stays human for.
You clean the sheets. Wash the pillowcase he used. Light a candle to burn the smell of him off your skin.
And still, it lingers.
That feeling. That film.
Like you’ve been dipped in something thick and invisible. Not blood, not dirt — worse. Something that clings behind the ears, between the thighs, under your tongue. Shame, maybe. Or the slow realization that you’re not a secret because you’re special — you’re a secret because you’re nothing.
Because love is something he gives to her.
And you’re just flesh.
You sit at the edge of the bed, half-dressed, your back to the mirror. You don't like to look anymore. You used to — used to try, anyway. Lip gloss. Liner. A hand in your hair, brushing it just so in case he noticed. In case he saw you.
But now, you don’t even try. What would be the point?
She gets him clean. You get him hollow.
You wonder what she’s doing right now. Maybe she’s making eggs. Maybe she’s wrapping her robe around herself while he kisses the top of her head and asks her what she dreamed. Maybe he makes her coffee without being asked.
Maybe he says good morning to her without needing to borrow a body first.
You’ve never heard him say it to you. You’ve never seen him like that in the light. You wonder if he looks different. Softer, maybe. Or maybe just real. You only ever get him in shadow — in pieces, in fragments, in the kind of silence that bruises.
He gives her Sundays. And you?
You get Thursdays, Mondays, Wednesdays — Fridays and Saturdays if you’re lucky.
Maybe. If he’s not too tired.
Never Sundays. Never.
You want to tell yourself you don’t care. That it’s just something you do — like a habit, or a drug, or a sin you haven’t gotten tired of yet. But that’d be a lie, wouldn’t it? Because it’s not just your body that aches when he leaves. It’s all the parts of you that no one’s ever wanted.
The parts you buried hoping he might dig them up.
But he never does.
He doesn’t ask.
It didn’t start with a look. It started with a sound — the scrape of boots on concrete behind you, the rustle of old canvas, the low murmur of someone asking for rifle rounds two stalls down.
Joel Miller.
Everyone in town knew his name. Not because he wanted them to — he kept to himself, like a man who learned long ago that silence is safer than kindness — but because in a place like this, everything echoes. Rumors. History. Grief.
You’d seen him before. Always moving, always grim. Eyes that didn’t linger. Hands that looked like they’d broken more than they held.
You didn’t speak. Not at first.
Just noticed.
He lived near the edge of town, in that crumbling house with the boarded windows and the overgrown porch. You passed it sometimes on supply runs and wondered what the inside looked like. If it smelled like cedar. Or smoke. If he ever lit candles, or just sat in the dark like you imagined he would.
The first time you actually spoke, it was raining. Hard. You were struggling with a crate of dry goods outside the community hall, your hands going numb, your patience gone.
He didn’t offer to help. He just picked up the other side of the crate and said, “Where you want it?”
And that was it.
No small talk. No smile. Just effort. Quiet and necessary.
After that, he started nodding when he saw you. A tilt of the head, sometimes a gruff “Hey.”
Then he started staying longer at the trade stalls when you were there. Asking about things he already knew.
One day, he brought you jerky from his last hunt. Said it was extra. You knew it wasn’t.
You didn’t know what to make of it, but you started brushing your hair before heading into town. Started wearing that jacket he once glanced at.
You told yourself it was nothing.
Then one night, he showed up at your door. Said nothing.
Just looked at you like the day had been long, and the world had been unkind, and you were the only soft thing left in it.
You didn’t ask questions. You just stepped aside.
That first night was clumsy. Not in a bad way — just in that way that two broken people collide. Careful and unsure, like neither of you had done this in a while. He didn’t kiss you. Not really. Just pressed his mouth to your collarbone like he was afraid it would vanish.
He left before dawn. No goodbye. Just the faint scent of sweat and regret on your sheets.
It kept happening.
Not often, not predictably. Just… when he needed.
He never made promises. Never brought flowers or touched your face like you were precious. But he came back. And for a while, that felt like something.
You started marking time by him. How long since he last came. How long until he might again.
You'd hear about him from others — how he helped reinforce the south gate, how he traded for ammo, how he didn’t speak much but always delivered.
He existed in your world like a shadow moving through the same air. A man near enough to haunt you, but never close enough to claim.
And slowly, what began as a flicker — something small and thrilling — dulled into routine.
Now, when you hear the knock at your door, you don’t smile.
You just open it.
Let him in. And let him leave.
He’s not a mystery anymore. He’s just a fact.
Like the cold. Like the curfew bell. Like the ache in your chest that never goes away.
You knew about her from the beginning. Before the first touch. Before the first knock.
Before the first night he let his body speak in place of his mouth.
People talk in towns like this. They whisper in market lines and at water pumps, over stitched-up coats and shared cigarettes.
"Joel Miller’s wife’s a good woman," they’d say. "She’s patient, still sets a place for him at dinner even when he’s late."
"She keeps the old world alive — bakes bread, tends a garden, teaches the little ones to read."
And you nodded, pretending you didn’t care.
Pretending your stomach didn’t twist when you heard the word wife.
You should have closed the door when he first came to you. But you didn’t.
Because no one ever taught you how to say no to something that feels like almost-love.
And he never mentioned her. Not once.
Not in words, at least.
But you saw it anyway — in the way he never stayed too long, in how he always kept one boot near the door. In the look in his eyes when he pulled away from you, like the sin had already been committed and there was nothing left but clean-up.
You don’t feel guilty.
Not really.
You’ve tried. God, have you tried.
But guilt implies you didn’t want it. And you did.
You still do.
You wanted the way he looked at you like maybe you were something warm in a world that had gone cold. You wanted his hands on your hips, heavy and sure. You wanted to feel wanted, even if it was only in the dark, even if it was only when he couldn’t carry whatever lived in his chest back home.
And maybe that makes you cruel.
Maybe that makes you hollow.
But it also makes you his, if only for the hour it takes to forget the life he chose before you.
She walks through town in the mornings — strong-legged and soft-eyed, with silver just starting to streak her dark hair. She looks like she’s earned her peace. Like she’s carried something heavy and learned how to set it down without screaming.
She’s his age. Maybe even older.
And you — you’re old enough to remember the world before it ended, but young enough to have gone through the hardships of puberty with infected hidden in every corner.
You hate that you envy her. But you do.
You envy the way people smile at her. The way her name is said with respect. The way Joel lets her hold his arm in public.
You envy that she gets all of him.
His mornings. His coffee breath. The sound of his voice when he isn’t worn thin.
You only get what’s left.
The part that’s too tired to speak. The part that hurts.
And still — you open the door.
Every time.
Even knowing he’ll leave smelling like you and crawl into her bed like nothing’s out of place.
Even knowing you’ll wake up in your empty sheets and try to remember what your name sounds like in someone else’s mouth.
He gave her the world. He gave you his ruin.
And somehow — somehow — you keep calling it love.
He comes late.
Later than usual. Boots caked with dirt, knuckles raw, a cut on his cheek that’s already scabbing. He doesn’t say a word when you open the door. Just walks past you like this is his house, like your body is furniture he knows by memory.
He sits on the edge of your bed. Elbows on his knees. Head bowed.
You don’t move to touch him. Not tonight.
You close the door slowly, lean against it like maybe it’ll hold you up. For a moment, neither of you speak — just the sound of the wind outside, and your heart thudding like it knows what’s coming before you do.
You ask quietly, almost gently, “Why do you treat me like this?”
He looks up, eyes narrowing like you’ve broken some unspoken rule. “Like what?”
You step toward him. Not angry. Not pleading. Just tired. “Like I’m no one. Like I don’t deserve to know anything about you. You come here, and you take what you need, and you leave. You don’t talk to me. You don’t even look at me, half the time.”
His jaw tightens. “I never made you any promises.”
And that hurts. Because it’s true.
You sit down across from him, knees almost touching, voice barely a whisper. “Is she different?”
His face hardens, but you press on.
“Are you nice to her? Do you talk to her? Does she get the real you?”
He looks away.
You keep going, each word slicing your own throat as much as his.
“Does she know what you’ve lost? What you’ve done? Does she get to hold you when the guilt comes? Because I don’t even know what you’re guilty of. I just know you crawl into my bed like a ghost trying to forget who he used to be.”
He stands abruptly. Paces. Hands clenched at his sides. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about.”
“Because you won’t let me.”It explodes out of you. “You won’t let me see you. You come here and hide. And I take it. I’ve taken it for years. But I can’t do this anymore if you won’t even give me the truth.”
He turns back to you, angry now. “I never asked you to love me.”
You blink. Swallow the sting. “You didn’t have to. I did it anyway.”
Silence. Thick and final.
He stares at you, breathing hard — a man made of walls, panicking at the thought of tearing one down.
You think maybe he’ll say something. That maybe the dam will break. That maybe he’ll finally tell you who Sarah was, or what it’s like to lose the world twice, or why he looks so tired all the time.
But he doesn’t.
He just grabs his coat and walks toward the door.
Your voice trembles, but it’s steady where it counts.
“If you leave now, don’t come back.”
He hesitates. For half a second. Then he leaves.
Just like that.
No slamming door. No final word. Just the sound of boots fading into the night.
You stand there in the stillness, your whole body humming with what’s just been torn out of it.
You should feel strong. Empowered. But all you feel is empty.
Still, this is the first time in a long time you’ve chosen yourself. Even if it hurts like hell.
Even if the bed feels colder than ever. Even if tomorrow, you’ll still look at the door and wonder if he might come back anyway.
But tonight — You finally said what needed to be said. And that has to count for something.
You cry yourself to sleep most nights now. Not loudly. Not in that wild, breaking kind of way.
No — it’s quiet. The kind of crying that lives in your throat all day and only spills when your head touches the pillow, when the dark closes in and there’s no one left to pretend for.
You face the wall. Bite your knuckles to keep the sound in. Tears soaking the same side of the bed he used to lie on.
You don’t even know why it hurts this much.
You ended it. You told him to go.
But you never expected him to vanish like you meant nothing. Like you never mattered at all.
And now he walks past you like you don’t exist.
You see him sometimes. Out in town. At the gates, helping unload supplies. At the trade stalls, his voice low and rough, asking for nails or ammo or salt.
But he never looks at you. Never nods. Never glances. Never gives you even that old, familiar ache of almost-contact.
And that? That hurts worse than the nights he left your bed cold.
He let you go too easily. As if you were just another wound he’d gotten used to ignoring.
You tell yourself this is for the best. That every night you spend crying into the silence is one step closer to being free of him.
But healing doesn’t feel like healing. It feels like rotting in place.
Then one day, while you're working behind the mess hall, someone calls your name.
You turn, expecting a trader.
But it’s him. Not Joel — his brother.
Tommy.
You freeze. Something cold crawls up your spine. Not fear. Just... shock.
Because for a second, you think Joel sent him. Think maybe this is the moment everything comes crashing back.
But no. Tommy doesn’t look angry. Or suspicious. He looks... relaxed.
“Hey,” he says, hands in his pockets, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
You nod, throat dry. “You didn’t.”
He steps closer, gestures toward the crates you’re moving.
“You always this tough, or just showin’ off?”
You almost laugh. Almost. Your voice comes out hoarse. “You offering to help or just standing there with compliments?”
And he smiles — not like Joel. Not guarded. Not hiding something behind his teeth.
It’s easy, unpracticed, genuine.
“I could be talked into both,” he says. And something in you lifts.
It’s small. Fleeting. But real.
For the first time in weeks, your chest doesn’t feel like it’s caving in. For one strange, stupid, golden second, you forget.
You forget how Joel looked when he left. Forget the way he never fought for you. Forget the sound of your own muffled crying into an empty pillow.
Tommy asks how you’re doing. He talks about the weather. The crops. A dumb story about some guy falling in the river trying to catch a chicken.
And you laugh. You actually laugh.
And when he looks at you — really looks — it feels like he’s seeing a whole person, not just a warm body in the dark.
He flirts a little, too.
Not hard. Not heavy. Just enough to remind you that you are still wanted. Still worth looking at.
And when he leaves — when he tips his hat and says he’ll see you around — you stand a little straighter. Breathe a little deeper.
You remember Joel again, of course. That night. That argument. The way he left without even asking if you’d meant it.
But for a single, flickering moment... You weren’t thinking of him.
And it’s the first moment in a long time that didn’t hurt.
Tommy keeps showing up. Not in the way Joel did — heavy-footed and silent, like a storm pushing through your door — but light. Curious.
Warm.
He comes by the stalls, where he was never one to linger before.
Sometimes with a bundle of old books to trade, sometimes with nothing but a lopsided grin.
Most days, he doesn’t even bother pretending he’s there for supplies.
“You again,” you tease, brushing your hands on your thighs, trying not to look like you were waiting.
And he’ll just shrug. “What can I say? I like the company.”
At first, you keep your guard up. Not out of suspicion, just… self-preservation. You’re still stitched together with thin thread, and Joel tore through you like a blade.
But Tommy never asks for anything. He talks. He listens.
Sometimes he flirts — softly, the way sunlight warms your neck through a windowpane. It’s never the kind of heat that burns.
He compliments your laugh. Says you’re funny. Smart. That your eyes catch the light in a way that makes it hard to think.
And you blush. Actually blush. You forgot you could.
It’s been weeks since the last time you cried into your pillow. Now, you fall asleep thinking of Tommy — the things he said, the way he smiled like he wanted you to see it.
The way his hand brushed yours when you passed him a tin of tea.
You think about him more than you think about Joel. Not entirely.
There are still scars. Still moments when you catch sight of that same worn flannel in the crowd and your lungs seize.
But the ache has dulled. Like a wound that finally started healing the right way — not clean, not pretty, but real.
And then, one late afternoon as you’re closing up shop, Tommy leans against the frame of the stall, looking uncharacteristically nervous.
He scratches the back of his neck, eyes flicking up to meet yours.
“I was thinkin’,” he starts, voice low, “I know a spot. Just outside the north ridge. We cleared it a few months back — safe, quiet. Stars are real clear out there.”
You blink. Heart thudding somewhere deep in your ribs.
He keeps going. “Thought maybe we could make a fire. Got a stash of chocolate, too. Even found marshmallows that ain’t gone stale yet.” A small grin. “Could roast a few, talk some more. Maybe... count constellations, if you’re into that kinda thing.”
You stare at him, wide-eyed. Not because you’re shocked he likes you. But because no one’s ever asked you for something gentle before.
A date.
Not a favor. Not a secret. Not a body to bury pain in.
A real, sweet, silly date. With s’mores and stars and firelight on skin.
Your voice is soft when you answer, but it doesn’t tremble. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
And in that moment — with his eyes crinkling in that way Joel’s never did, with your heart fluttering like it used to before it knew better — you almost forget what it felt like to be someone’s ghost.
Because for the first time in too long… you feel wanted in the light.
You take your time getting ready.
Not because you're trying to be perfect — but because, for once, you actually want to be seen.
Your tiny denim shorts hug your hips just right, cinched with an old brown belt you found in a forgotten drawer last spring. They're worn, soft, fraying a little at the edges, but they feel like you.
You button up a maroon and white plaid shirt — short sleeves, tight at the waist. It fits snug across your ribs, flattering but not loud. Something about the colors makes your skin glow in the low light.
And then the necklace.
A tarnished gold chain with a little amber stone at the center — simple, but lovely.
Your mother gave it to you before she died. Before Jackson. Before Joel.
You don’t wear it often. It’s too easy to forget who you were before she died. But tonight, it feels right.
You glance in the mirror once before stepping away. Your cheeks are flushed from anticipation, your lips soft and parted like they’re waiting for something sweet.
You feel... pretty. Not just presentable. Pretty.
You hadn’t expected that to feel so strange.
And then — a knock at the door.
Not heavy. Not impatient. Just soft. Measured. Hopeful.
For the first time in forever, a knock at night doesn’t make your stomach drop.
You smile before you even open the door.
Tommy stands there, a little breathless, a little awkward — and handsome as hell.
He’s dressed up. For you.
Clean button-down, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms. Jeans without a single stain or rip. Boots polished like it actually mattered what you thought when you looked at him.
And in his hand — a bundle of wildflowers. Pink and yellow, petals already wilting a little from the heat of his palm. Still, they’re beautiful. Vibrant and crooked and real.
Your breath catches.
“For me?” you ask, voice light, teasing.
He scratches the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “Yeah. Spent way too long lookin’ for ’em, honestly. Think I held up patrol more than once. Heard a lotta sighing behind me.”
Your smile falters — just a flicker — at the word patrol. Because you know who he rides with.
You picture Joel somewhere behind him, arms crossed, eyes dark, unknowingly watching Tommy pick wildflowers for you.
And your heart stutters. But you shove it down.
Not tonight.
You reach for the flowers, let your fingers graze his as you take them. They smell faintly of grass and sunshine and effort.
They smell like someone tried.
“They’re beautiful,” you say softly.
He’s looking at you like you’re something out of a dream. Like he can’t quite believe this is real.
“You look...” He swallows. Laughs under his breath. “Hell, I don’t even got the right word. You look dangerous, maybe.”
You arch a brow. “Dangerous?”
“Yeah. Like someone I might fall for if I’m not careful.”
Your stomach flips — not in fear. In fluttering. And you haven’t felt that in a long, long time.
He offers his arm, old-fashioned. “Ready?”
And you nod, tucking the flowers close to your chest. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
And just like that, you leave the door behind. Leave the bed where you cried yourself to sleep. Leave the ghost who never knocked again.
Tonight is for you. And for the man who actually came when he said he would.
The forest hums low with night.
You walk side by side, not touching yet, but close enough that your arm brushes his every now and then. The air smells like pine and dry leaves, the dusk settling slow and golden around the tree trunks. The path winds quietly, moonlight creeping between branches like silver veins.
When you reach the clearing, your breath catches.
It's simple — a little fire pit circled with stones, a folded blanket resting nearby, and a tin box of supplies tucked neatly beside it — but it feels like something meant. Not thrown together, not rushed.
Chosen. Prepared.
Tommy sets the blanket down first, spreading it carefully over the soft grass. Then, without a word, he gestures for you to sit.
You do. And he moves around you with practiced ease, stacking logs, striking a match, coaxing a slow, crackling flame to life.
The fire’s warmth kisses your skin in waves. You pull your knees to your chest, resting your cheek against your arm, and just watch him.
He notices. Smirks a little. “You keep starin’. I got somethin’ on my face?”
You grin. “Just wondering if you’ve always been this good at this.”
“At makin’ fires?”
“At... this.” You gesture vaguely. “Being nice. Making people feel safe.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just opens the tin and pulls out a bag of marshmallows, a broken bar of chocolate, and some skewers made of smooth, whittled sticks.
“I had a lot of years to practice,” he says finally, voice soft.
You nod. Don’t press. Not yet.
Over sticky, melting s’mores, you talk about small things. Silly things. Like his worst jobs back in the old world.
He tells you he once got kicked by a horse trying to impress a girl. You nearly choke on your marshmallow.
“Did it work?” you ask between laughs.
He grins. “She married my best friend a year later.”
You lean back, satisfied and full, the sugar warm in your blood.
The stars have come out, pinpricks in the ink of the sky, sharp and endless.
Tommy glances at you, eyes lit with something boyish. “Got one more thing for you.”
You turn, brows raised, as he reaches into the bag beside him and pulls out—
A bottle.
Dark. Dusty. Long-necked, with a cracked label that’s mostly peeled away.
He sets it in front of you like it’s treasure. “I know, I know — real fancy, right?”
Your eyes widen. “Is that... wine?”
He nods proudly. “Found it on a run, buried behind a collapsed liquor store. Figured it was fate.”
You run your fingers over the dusty glass. “You were saving it?”
He shrugs, suddenly a little shy. “Didn’t know what for. Just felt like... I shouldn’t open it ‘til the moment was right.”
He pulls out two mismatched but real wine glasses — one chipped, one cloudy — and you laugh, breathless.
“You came prepared.”
He pours carefully. Red-gold liquid, thick and rich, filling the glasses with a quiet glug.
You stare at yours, then admit, “I’ve never had wine before.”
Tommy raises a brow, smiling gently. “Well, that just makes this better.”
You hold the glass, heart thudding. His eyes are on you — not greedy, not expectant. Just... warm.
You take a sip. It’s bitter. Complex. Sour, sweet, strange.
But it’s good.
You close your eyes, swallow slowly. “That’s... that’s really nice.”
He tips his glass toward you. “Told ya. Wine’s better when it’s old. Kinda like me.”
You giggle. You giggle, and you don’t even feel stupid about it.
And then — without even noticing when it started — you’re both lying back on the blanket, shoulders pressed, gazes tangled in the stars.
He points upward, totally confident. “That one there’s Orion. Or, uh… maybe it’s a frying pan.”
You snort. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Course I do,” he says, deadpan. “Look at it. Big ol’ dipper-lookin’ guy with a sword.”
You elbow him lightly, and he grabs your hand playfully, holding it between both of his. And suddenly your fingers are laced together, and the stars don’t seem half as interesting anymore.
The wine makes your skin buzz. Not dizzy. Not dull.
Just soft. Open.
You shift closer, your head finding his shoulder. His arm curves around you without hesitation, pulling you in. You tuck your legs beneath you, curl into him like you’ve always known the shape of him.
Neither of you say anything for a long while.
The fire pops quietly nearby. The stars blink, distant and watching.
And you? You don’t care about constellations anymore.
Because here — in this sliver of night, on a blanket in the woods with wine in your blood and kindness wrapped around you — you feel like maybe you’re allowed to be happy.
Like maybe you’re not ruined after all. Like maybe you’ve found something worth holding on to.
The stars have faded from your focus.
All you can feel now is him — warm against your side, arm curved around your shoulder, his chest rising slow and steady beneath your cheek. The wine has made everything glow softly at the edges. You feel buzzed in your fingertips, in your knees, in the flush climbing your neck.
You haven't spoken in a while.
Just quiet breaths. Little shared glances. His thumb brushing over your shoulder in slow, absent arcs, like he’s tracing the thought of you into memory.
And then you feel it shift.
The stillness between you grows thicker — charged and certain — and when you turn your head to look at him, he's already watching you.
His expression is soft. Not hungry. Not fast. Just… hopeful.
His hand lifts to your cheek — callused, rough, gentle — and he leans in slowly, giving you every second to pull away.
You don’t.
Your eyes close just as his lips meet yours.
The kiss is light at first. Testing. Tender. Like a secret being told mouth to mouth.
Your breath catches. Your heart stammers wildly.
His lips part slightly — warm and careful — and he kisses you again, deeper now.
Not demanding. Just there. Real. Present in a way you didn’t think anyone could be anymore.
You feel your cheeks bloom with heat. It’s ridiculous, really. You’ve been touched before.
You’ve been kissed in the dark like a secret, like a sin.
But this — this — makes you blush. Makes you feel like something delicate in good hands.
Your fingers find his shirt, holding lightly at the edge. His hand slips to your waist, grounding you
He kisses you again, and again — unhurried, sweet — until the rhythm feels like something you were meant to know.
And then—
He deepens it.
Just a little. Just enough for his tongue to brush yours.
And your stomach flips. Not in the good way.
Because suddenly, uninvited and cruel, he is there.
Not Tommy. But Joel.
Joel — with his rough, bitter mouth. Joel, who never kissed you soft. Joel, who made you feel wanted and worthless in the same breath. Joel, who touched you like a man burying a memory, not holding a person.
And now here you are — tongue tangled with his brother, and something sour rises in your throat.
You pull back gently, your hand moving to Tommy’s chest.
He looks at you immediately, worry flickering behind his eyes.
You force a smile. Light. Airy. You hope it doesn’t shake.
“Hey,” you whisper, trying to soften the moment, “slow down, cowboy. I’m still new to wine and stars and, you know... you.”
He laughs under his breath — not hurt, not defensive. Just sweet.
“Yeah. Of course,” he says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry. Got a little carried away. You're just...” He looks at you like you hung the moon. “You’re kind of impossible not to kiss.”
You look down, smiling for real now, even if there's still a tremble in it.
He pulls you back into his arms without hesitation, without pressure, like he doesn’t need anything else from you tonight except your closeness.
And so you lay there again, your head on his shoulder, his arm around your back.
And maybe the magic of the moment is cracked now. But it’s not broken.
Later, when the fire’s embers are nothing but soft orange breath, he stands and offers you a hand. Packs everything up without asking you to lift a finger. Tucks the wine glasses back into his bag like something delicate.
He walks you home in the moonlight.
You don’t speak much, and you’re afraid — quietly, deeply — that maybe you ruined something. That the kiss that faltered might leave behind too much silence.
But when you reach your door, he turns to face you.
And just before he leaves, he kisses your forehead.
“Sleep good,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”
And he walks away. Not lingering. Not asking to stay.
Just… leaving you with the feeling that someone actually cared enough to be gentle.
You stand in the doorway, watching him disappear down the path.
And for the first time in a long time, the ache in your chest doesn’t feel like loss. It feels like hope.
It’s your day off.
The sun’s warm on your skin, not hot, just gentle — like it’s blessing you for once.
A quiet breeze hums through the trees around the Jackson square. Someone’s hammering in the distance. Chickens cluck lazily across the yard near the fence. Children’s laughter spills from the schoolhouse down the road.
You sit on a bench just outside the mess hall, a book in your lap — one Tommy lent you, something about a girl lost in the woods. Your legs are crossed loosely, your thumb tucked between the pages.
You’re not really reading, though.
Every so often, your gaze lifts toward the path, expecting him. Tommy. He’s supposed to stop by later.
You don’t know if you’ll kiss again, or just talk, or just sit close and laugh about nothing. But whatever it is, you want it. You want him.
And for the first time in what feels like years, you’re not waiting to be needed. You’re waiting to be chosen.
So when a shadow falls over your page, your heart skips.
You smile before you even look up. “Hey—”
But it’s not Tommy. Your smile falls.
It’s Joel.
He’s towering over you, arms crossed, eyes storm-dark and narrowed. His jaw’s clenched so tight you see the muscle twitch.
“Joel,” you murmur, instinctively closing your book. “I—”
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” His voice is low, sharp, not yelling — but it slices all the same.
You blink. “What?”
He stares down at you like he’s holding back a thousand things and losing grip on all of them. “You care to explain why my brother spent half our patrol this morning blushin’ like a goddamn schoolboy? Talkin’ about your little date. Your outfit. How pretty you looked under the stars.”
Your cheeks go hot instantly — part pride, part confusion, part fear.
Tommy talked about you like that? Like you were precious?
But Joel’s not looking at you like you're precious. He looks furious.
He looks hurt.
“I didn’t know he was talking about it,” you say, your voice quiet. “I didn’t tell him to.”
He steps closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to pull the air from your lungs.
“I know what this is,” he says, voice thick. “You’re usin’ him to get back at me.”
You freeze.
“What?”
His gaze burns through you. “You think I don’t see it? You’re tryna make me jealous. Parade around town lettin’ him hold your hand, kiss your face, pretend like I didn’t mean anything to you.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he cuts in. “And I’m not gonna let you drag him into your mess.”
Your breath stumbles. “My mess?”
His face twists. “You think he knows what you let me do to you? You think he knows you let me in your bed, night after night, cryin’ and clingin’ to me like I was the only thing keepin’ you from breakin’?”
Your whole body goes still.
He’s too close. Too loud. Too angry to care about who might hear.
Your voice shakes now, but not from fear. From something deeper — betrayal, maybe. Heartbreak.
“I’m not using Tommy,” you whisper. “I care about him. He makes me feel safe. And wanted. And happy. Things you never let me feel.”
Joel’s chest rises and falls like he’s been running. His arms are still crossed tight, but his eyes betray him — flickering, pained, like he can’t believe you’re not just laying down and belonging to him anymore.
“Do you know how fuckin’ jealous that makes me?” he growls suddenly, voice raw. “Is that what you’re tryin’ to do? Watch me fall apart over this?”
You blink hard, throat tightening.
And in the silence that follows, a single thought hits you like a stone dropped in still water:
He feels it. Joel Miller is jealous.
He feels something.
But it’s too late. Too twisted.
Your voice steadies. “You don’t get to feel jealous, Joel. Not after what you did. Not after how you treated me.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you.
“I think…” you say slowly, your voice trembling with something that tastes like both terror and freedom, “I think I could actually love Tommy. And I think he could love me too. We could have a life. A real one. Not a secret. Not some... dirty, bleeding shadow in the dark.”
You see it hit him.
Right in the gut.
Joel stares at you for a long, long time. His face is red, jaw clenched, arms like steel across his chest.
And then — without a word — he turns.
And walks away.
No apology. No threat. No parting shot.
Just leaves you sitting there with your book unopened in your lap, and your breath caught between heartbreak and release.
You don’t know what that silence means. But for the first time, you don’t chase it.
You try not to think about Joel. You try.
But his voice keeps echoing in your head, even hours later — low, bitter, possessive. That damn question clinging to the walls of your mind like smoke you can’t scrub out.
Do you know how fuckin' jealous that makes me?
You don’t know what it means. You don’t know how it made you feel. All you know is it shouldn’t matter — not anymore.
Not when Tommy’s the one coming to meet you.
You’re back on the same bench, pretending to read again. The sun’s slid down the sky, casting long gold shadows across the street. Your fingers twist nervously in the hem of your shirt, heart beating a little too loud for comfort.
You hear his boots before you see him.
Then, warm as always, his voice: “You alright?”
You look up. Tommy’s there — handsome in a plain tee and clean jeans, a flannel tied around his waist, eyes squinting slightly against the sun. His expression is soft, but worried.
You freeze.
It hits you all at once — how different this feels.
How he doesn’t demand answers, just asks because he cares.
And for a moment, you want to tell him. Want to say: Joel showed up. Joel said things. Joel looked like he might break in two and I don’t know why it still hurts.
But you can’t.
You can’t.
Joel doesn’t get to take this from you.
So you force it all down, deep into that box where you’ve stuffed the ache, the guilt, the heat of his eyes.
You smile. Not the biggest smile. But real enough.
“I’m fine,” you say gently. And before he can ask more, you lean up and press a kiss to his lips.
That does it.
He relaxes instantly, grinning as he kisses you back. “Okay then,” he says softly. “Let’s go.”
He takes your hand and leads you down the lane, fingers laced through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And for a little while, you let yourself forget the shadow that passed over your day.
Tommy’s house surprises you.
It’s nicer than you imagined. Country style, tucked just off the main path, with big windows and a porch strung with old Christmas lights that still work somehow. Inside, it smells like cedar and soap, warm and lived-in. There’s a leather couch with a throw blanket, a bookshelf brimming with paperbacks and dusty mugs, and a framed photo of him and Joel by the door — a reminder of another life.
The kitchen is small but tidy, and a bowl of fresh tomatoes sits proudly on the counter.
“Spaghetti night,” he announces like it’s a sacred ritual. “Told you I was cookin’.”
You grin, shrugging off your shoes. “And I told you I’m helping.”
Tommy mock-groans but doesn’t argue. “Alright, alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. I take my sauce real serious.”
He shows you how to cut and peel the tomatoes, how to sauté garlic in olive oil, how to add salt “with love, not fear.” You’re clumsy with the measurements, splash sauce across the counter, drop a spoon in the sink with a loud clang.
He doesn’t get annoyed.
He just watches you with amusement, shaking his head fondly. “You’re a menace in the kitchen,” he says, chuckling.
“And yet,” you shoot back, “you invited me.”
When the sauce is finally simmering in the pot, you wipe your hands on a towel, only to feel something wet smear across your cheek.
“What the—?”
You turn. Tommy stands beside you, licking sauce off his thumb with a devilish grin.
“Punishment,” he says. “For makin’ a mess of my counter.”
You gasp, scandalized. “Oh, it’s on.”
Before he can move, you grab a glob of sauce with your fingers and slap it onto his cheek.
He freezes. Then breaks into a grin.
The next few moments are chaos. Sauce flung. Laughter echoing. You chase each other in lazy circles around the tiny kitchen until you collapse against the counter, breathless and sticky.
And then—
His hands find your waist. Yours find his collar.
And you kiss.
It’s playful at first — wine-sweet and garlic-touched — but it deepens quickly, hunger turning slow and sweet. He pulls back only to gently wipe the mess from your face with a soft cloth, fingers lingering along your jawline.
“I could get used to this,” he murmurs. “We could have nights like this every damn week.”
You look at him. At the sauce on his shirt, the light in his eyes, the way his voice dips when he says we.
Dinner is simple — pasta, bread, and the rest of that dusty old wine he saved. But he lights two stubby candles between you, their soft flames dancing as the sky darkens through the window.
And when you go to sit across from him, you change your mind. You slide into the seat beside him, hip to hip, thigh to thigh.
“Hi,” you say with a little smile.
He kisses your cheek in reply.
You play footsie under the table like kids. You compliment the meal.
“Tommy, this is actually amazing.”
He beams. “Told you. Serious about my sauce.”
You talk about small things — who you saw around town, someone’s busted gate, a child’s chalk drawing of a horse that looked more like a rabbit.
Then he asks: “How was your day?”
And you freeze.
Your smile falters for just a second too long.
He notices — you feel him notice — the way his hand slows as it traces your leg under the table, the way his eyes search your face like he’s trying to read between the words you haven’t said yet.
You lift your glass of wine, buy time with a sip. Force your voice to stay light.
“It was good,” you lie. “Quiet. Peaceful. Spent most of it with my book.”
He watches you for a beat. Then smiles, brushing your hair behind your ear.
You don’t know if he believes you. You’re not sure if it matters.
You lean into him, rest your head on his shoulder.
And somewhere in your chest, the ghost of another man gnaws quietly at your ribs.
But tonight, you are warm. You are safe. And you are not alone.
Before you know it, the night has gone quiet.
Just the soft murmur of the radio playing in the background — some old love song, dreamy and distant — and the faint hum of wind against the window glass. You’re curled up on Tommy’s couch now, head resting in his lap, your body curled sideways like a cat soaking up warmth. His fingers glide gently through your hair, slow and steady, like he’s memorizing each strand.
You’ve never been touched like this. Not like you’re fragile, or precious — but like you’re known.
Your eyes flutter closed. His palm rests on your temple now, warm and grounding.
You think, I could get used to this.
And just as the thought settles sweetly in your chest, Tommy breaks the silence:
“So… are you gonna tell me what really happened today?”
Your eyes open slowly. Your breath stills.
“I already did,” you murmur, keeping your voice soft, lazy.
But his fingers pause. You feel his gaze on you.
“No, you didn’t,” he says gently. “You said it was a quiet day. Peaceful. But you weren’t peaceful when I showed up. You looked… shaken. Scared, even. And you’ve been smiling all night, but not really. Not the way you did before.”
You shift, sit up a little. Your pulse picks up.
“Tommy—”
“Look,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. “I know we haven’t known each other long. Not like that. But I’m not just doin’ this for fun. I’m into you. Really into you. And I’m not the kinda guy who can build something real if it starts off with secrets.”
He leans down, brushing your hair behind your ear, eyes locked with yours now — earnest and unflinching.
“I want someone honest. I want you. And maybe that’s stupid, but…”
He huffs a soft laugh. “…you make me nervous as hell. I go to sleep thinkin’ about you, and I wake up with your face in my head. I don’t even know what to do with it sometimes. But I know one thing — if I’m gonna fall for you, I gotta know you’re not hidin’ somethin’ that’s gonna break me.”
Your heart drops.
Because God, you want to tell him.
You want to cry right here in his arms and tell him everything — how you let his brother crawl into your bed for over a year, how you loved him, how he broke you, and how today, he showed up and lit a fuse in your heart you thought had burned out.
But you can’t.
If you tell him, you lose this. Lose him.
And you’re not sure who you’d be with both Millers carved out of your chest.
So instead, you look down. Swallow the ache.
“…Some guy said something to me this morning,” you say softly. “Not someone you know. Just some asshole. Said I was easy. That I didn’t belong here. It just… threw me off, I guess.”
It’s not even a good lie. But it’s enough.
Tommy’s face hardens instantly. His arms go around you, pulling you up into his lap like you’re weightless. One hand cups the back of your head, the other gently strokes your cheek.
“Hey. Look at me.”
You do.
“You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he says, firm and slow, like he needs you to believe it. “And I don’t give a shit what anyone else says. You’re strong. You’re kind. You belong exactly where you are. With me.”
Your throat tightens.
He studies your face for a moment, then adds, quieter now, “I’ll find him if you want me to. I swear.”
You laugh softly — more guilt than amusement. “No, it’s fine. Really. I just needed to shake it off. I didn’t want it to ruin tonight.”
Tommy’s brows relax. His expression softens like candlewax.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” he whispers. “You being here? You… lettin’ me hold you like this?”
His hand touches your chin, tips it up gently.
“I think I’m fallin’ for you.”
And then he kisses you.
Not careful this time. Not shy.
It’s deep, and romantic, and hungry in a way that makes your chest ache. His hands grip your waist, your back, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.
And for a moment, you let yourself believe this could work.
That maybe you can love him clean. That maybe one day, the lie will fade, and all that will remain is this. The way his mouth tastes like wine. The way he makes you feel safe. The way he chose you.
And maybe, just maybe — that can be enough.
Tommy’s kiss deepens, his mouth parts and his tongue slips between your lips. This time you’re not scared. This time you take it, entangling your tongue with his.
His hands wander, tentative at first — down the curve of your back, brushing along your waist, slowly tracing the line of your thigh. Like he’s unsure if he’s allowed, or maybe like he knows exactly what he wants but doesn’t quite have the nerve to ask for it. Every touch feels like a question, and every answer is in the way you lean closer.
So you decide to make the first real move. Your fingers drift down the planes of his chest, slow and deliberate, until they find the hem of his worn black shirt. For a second, you hesitate — then slip your hands beneath the fabric.
His skin is warm and impossibly soft beneath your palms, the kind of heat that seeps into your bones and makes you forget the cold ever existed. Your fingers explore the shape of him — the lean muscle, the faint scars, the way a trail of coarse hair starts just below his navel and disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans.
You feel him shiver. Not pull away — just breathe, sharp and shallow, like he’s been waiting for you to touch him like this, but didn’t think you ever would. His hands still for a moment, caught somewhere between restraint and want, before resting on your hips — not guiding, just grounding. Letting you lead.
It’s quiet, except for the soft rustle of clothing and the heartbeat echoing in your ears. And in that silence, you realize: he’s letting you in. Not just into his space — but into something deeper, something softer. Something real.
You pull away from the kiss, breath mingling in the small space between you. In one slow motion, you tug his shirt up and over his head, revealing skin kissed by sun and time — warm, golden, and solid beneath the soft glow of the low light.
He’s strong, that much is obvious — a man shaped by years of labor and living — but there’s a gentleness in the way he carries it. No fresh bruises. No jagged edges. His chest rises and falls with steady breath, his body unguarded in your presence.
Joel was always different. Built like a wall, all grit and sharpness — the kind of body that told a story just in scars. There was never a moment with him that didn’t feel like it might end in ache. But Tommy…
Tommy feels like safety. Like home.
There’s something soft about him, even in his strength — in the slope of his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone, the way his eyes search your face for permission, for want. Not taking, just waiting.
And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like something to be used. You feel wanted. Cared for.
Tommy’s hands slip beneath your shirt, the warmth of his touch blooming across your skin like a slow-burning fire. His fingers move with purpose, but not haste — exploring the soft terrain of your waist, the gentle curve of your ribs, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his hands if he isn’t careful.
He touches you like he’s trying to understand you — not just your body, but the quiet ache beneath your skin, the places where longing lives.
His hands roam higher, slow and steady, until they hover just beneath where you want him most. There’s a hesitation there — delicate, almost reverent — as if he’s waiting for a signal, a breath, a whisper of permission.
And that pause says everything: that he wants you, but won’t take more than you’re willing to give. That he sees you, not just your body, but your need — the kind that’s laced with history, with heartbreak, with the hope that maybe this time, it won’t end in ruin.
“For fucks sake, Tommy, just touch me.” A slow, heavy breath escapes you, desire coursing like wildfire beneath your skin.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m just nervous.” He admits. Embarrassment fading across his face.
“That’s cute.” You say as you grab his wrists, pushing his hands beneath your bra.
His fingers finally graze across your hard nipple. His mouth parts slightly as he feels every tender inch of your breast. Feels how badly you're aching for him. He quickly pulls your shirt to your shoulders, dragging your bra with it. Your breasts bounce freely in front of him. His gaze lingers before his touch follows, admiring every curve.
He eases your shirt off now, slow and careful, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. There’s no urgency in the way his fingers move, only patience. Intention. When the fabric slips from your shoulders and over your head, he sees you — all of you. Or at least, the part of you you usually try to hide.
Scars trail across your skin like ghosted memories, remnants of a life you survived — one lived shoulder to shoulder with danger, where the infected were never more than a heartbeat away and safety was something you only dreamed about.
They’ve always made you feel exposed. Marked. Like the past would never quite let go. But Tommy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
His eyes move over you slowly, tracing each line like they tell a story worth knowing — not something ugly, but something earned. You brace for judgment, for pity, but what you see in his expression is softer. Something closer to awe.
And in that silence, that gentle stillness, you begin to believe that maybe you're not something to be hidden after all.
You move freely in front of him — unguarded, unhidden, unashamed. There’s no need to tuck your insecurities away, no fear of being too much or not enough. In his gaze, you are seen, fully and without judgment. Every soft curve, every silent scar, every secret wish — they all exist in the open, and he looks at them like they’re sacred.
You’ve never been like this with anyone. Not even Joel. With him, there were always shadows — things you kept quiet, parts of yourself folded away, unsure if they were welcome. But with Tommy, there’s space. Space to breathe. To want. To be.
And so you let yourself unfold — slowly, delicately, like something once bruised that’s finally learning how to bloom again.
“So pretty.” Tommy whispers amongst his admiration. He makes you blush in a way you never thought you could, for reasons you never thought you’d experience.
He wraps his arms around your back, pulling you in closer, bare chest to bare chest. Your tender nipples scrape against the dark coiled hairs lining along his chest. His lips find yours in a kiss that’s slow and tender, his mouth moving with quiet worship. He kisses you like he’s savoring it — like he’s learning it — his lips molding gently to yours, warm and sure. When his tongue slips forward, it’s soft, exploratory, tracing the edge of your teeth with the lightest touch, like a question he’s too careful to speak aloud.
Then he plants soft kisses along your cheek, jaw, neck — meeting the soft skin below your ear, sucking enough to leave faded marks. Marks no one would notice but you. No one would notice unless they were looking for it.
“Tommy..” You breath, rocking your hips into his, feeling the growing curve beneath his jeans. His breath hitches — hands grasping your hips tighter.
“Fuck. Already makin’ me lose myself.” He groans, pulling his lips from the growing red marks he’s left.
“I need you.” You plead, his hands pulling you roughly into him — closing the space between his jeans and your shorts. The denim rubbing against your clit — that’s rubbing against his budlge — almost becomes too much to handle. You can feel the dampness between your legs. You can see the way his jeans darken with every movement.
His head dips to your chest, taking your hard nub between his lips — sucking harshly, flicking and circling his tongue around your nipple. Your grab your free breast with your hand, squeezing and palming yourself, causing electric shocks to travel down your spine.
Your back arches into his mouth, his touch. Chasing every movement. He shares his attention with your other breast now, removing your hand, letting him take care of you.
You’ve never been this way with Joel. Never sat in his lap, thrusting into his clothed cock, chasing his mouth with your arching back. Joels never shown you this kind of attention, made sure the pleasure was all about you. With Joel, it was always how he wanted it.
Tommy’s hands slid around the small of your back, holding you with a gentle strength as he eased you down onto the soft cushions of the couch. Without thinking, your legs curled around him instinctively, pulling him closer. He leans in, his lips brushing yours in a tender, slow kiss. The world seemed to hush around you as he captured your bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling softly, a sweet and intimate gesture that sent a shiver down your spine.
One hand pressed gently to the cushion beside your head, his weight resting on his elbow as he leaned in, anchoring himself in the intimate space where your breaths tangled and the world fell away. The other reached hesitantly between your legs, looking you in the eyes — asking for permission. Your begging pants were all he needed to hear before he rubbed slow circles on the ache hidden beneath your shorts.
“More…” You ask in a whispered hush. Wrapping your arms around his neck.
He whispered softly, his breath warm against your skin, “I want to take you to bed… to do this right, with you.” Carefully, he lifted you from the couch, his touch gentle, his eyes full of quiet devotion as he held you close.
Tommy’s arms wrapped securely around you as he carried you through the dimly lit hallway, your body fitting naturally against his. Every step was steady and sure. The world outside seemed to fade, replaced by the quiet rhythm of your breaths.
When he reached his bedroom door, it creaked softly as he pushed it open—an intimate sound that felt like the start of something sacred. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting warm shadows that danced across the walls.
Slowly, carefully, he lowered you onto the bed, his hands never losing their gentle hold. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, and for a moment, he just stayed there—watching you, his eyes full of something tender and protective. The quiet hum of the night wrapped around you both, and all that mattered was this soft, suspended moment between you.
He left a trail of gentle kisses down your body — stopping at the silver button clasping your shorts. He pulls them down — underwear including, his patience worn. Met with the sight of your glistening, begging pussy.
He drags his thumb between your folds, capturing your slick, and rubbing gently at your throbbing clit. Before you know it, his head dips between your legs — lips planting kisses on the inner soft skin of your thighs.
“You're dripping.” He groans. The eye contact with him becomes too much, to fierce. It sends a pulsing fire right to your lower stomach.
His tongue licks a long stripe, swirling and sucking right where you need him. Your moans fill the air and you can feel yourself become wetter and wetter. You’d be embarrassed with how loud you were being if it weren’t with Tommy. But Tommy eats up every bit of it.
Your legs curl tightly around his shoulders, drawing him deeper, while Tommy’s hands explore the soft, heated flesh of your thighs with slow, deliberate pressure — anchoring himself in the intoxicating pull of your body pressed close.
He digs his tongue inside of you, the sight of his face fully buried, nose pressed tightly on your clit, has your legs shaking. Once he enters two fingers, thrusting deeply and curling into the spongey part of you, you’re sent over the edge.
Your hands tangle fiercely in his hair, gripping tightly as you struggle to steady the rush of your trembling body. He thrusts his fingers into you faster, harder, as you try to chase his touch — griding against his face.
“Oh- oh god, Tommy.” You moan, the heat curled deep in you threatening to spill over.
His muffled moan vibrates against you in response. Enough to send shivers down your spines. Enough to finish you. Before you know it, you’re spilling your hot liquids on his fingers. On his tongue that’s still licking circles around your ache.
Tommy lifts himself from between your thighs, showing his fingers covered in your slick. He slowly brings the two to his mouth, licking them clean. The sight nasty, perverted, but turning you on once again.
“Tastes so good.” He claims, dragging his fingers out of his mouth with a pop. “Ready for me, babygirl?”
You nod your head desperately. “Yes..”
His hands move deliberately down, undoing the button of his jeans with practiced ease, unveiling more of the dark, tangled hair that lay beneath. He pulls them down, past his thighs, his boxers following quickly behind.
You weren’t expecting how big he is. His length slapping against his belly button, tip already dripping with wet precum. Your legs spread instinctively wider, inviting him in. He gives you a knowing smirk as he leans down, hovering over you and balancing himself on one hand as he guides himself to your entrance with the other.
He moves into you gently, as if savoring every second of closeness. You’re already so open to him, your bodies drawn together by something deeper than desire. His hands come to rest tenderly around you head, thumbs brushing your temples like a silent promise. A deep, almost trembling groan slips from his lips, and his eyes flutter closed — not just from pleasure, but from the overwhelming truth of how much he feels for you. It’s not rushed. It’s not just passion. It’s raw and quiet, spoken in the way he holds you.
His touch is slow, like he’s discovering something sacred. When he moves inside you, it’s not with haste but with intention — like very inch is a silent confession. You’re already so ready for him, your bodies fitting together with an ease that feels fated, walls accepting him deeper inside of you.
Tommy’s breath shutters as he presses his forehead to yours, hands gently cupping the sides of your face like you’re something fragile he’s afraid to break. His voice is low and warm, roughened by need. Thrusts a steady rhythms — the sound of skin slapping skin filling the air.
“You feel so fuckin’ good.” He whispers, bottoming out — a feeling that almost has you screaming. “Feel like I’ve been waitin’ my whole damn life for this.”
He moves slowly, savoring the way your body tightens around him every time he pulls out. Quiet sounds escape your lips — sounds he drinks in like they’re meant only for him. His hands slide back through your hair, then trail down your breasts, your sides, worshiping the lines of your body with a quiet awe, till his hands grasp your ass, spreading you wider.
“So damn beautiful,” he breathes against your skin. “You don’t even know, do you?”
And he’s right. You don’t. You haven’t in a long time. Not since whatever you had with Joel started. But your Tommy’s now.
His lips find yours again — slow, deep, and lingering — then trail to your jaw, your neck, pressing soft kisses between each whimpered word. His voice stays low, intimate, like a secret he’s trying to keep.
“Been dreamin’ of this… of you. The way you feel. The way you look at me. The way you make me feel like I ain’t carryin’ the weight of this while damn town on my shoulders.”
You feel Tommy in every part of you. The way his fingers lace with yours above your head, grounding you. The he pauses to look at you, chest rising and falling with every breath like he’s afraid he’ll miss something.
“You’re safe, darlin’,” he murmurs. “With me. Always.”
His rhythm deepens slowly, never rushed — every movement purposeful, guided by the overwhelming need to make this mean something. He leans in, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his pace builds.
"Fuck- takin' me like such a goodgirl." He whispers.
And when the tension finally builds too high to hold back, your legs wrap around his, pulling him closer — legs shaking. Tommy’s thrusts falter as he collapses into you, hot strands of him shooting deep inside of you. His pace slows as he releases every last drop, beads of sweat lining his forehead and chest.
Afterward, he stays wrapped around you, his hand resting in the strands of your hair. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your shoulder, and finally your lips — slow and lingering.
And when you wake the next morning, The light is soft when you stir — that gentle, early morning glow slipping through the curtains like a secret. Your body is warm, heavy with the kind of peace that only comes after something real… something that meant more than just a night.
At first, you're not fully awake — just aware of warmth beside you, the steady rise and fall of someone's chest, the brush of a hand loosely resting at your waist. And then your eyes flutter open.
He’s still here.
Tommy.
His face is so close, peaceful in sleep. One arm is slung around your waist, holding you gently but securely, like even in his dreams, he wants to keep you near. His breath is slow, even, ruffling your hair every so often as he exhales. You can feel the warmth of his naked skin where it touches yours, where your legs are tangled together beneath the sheets.
Your chest tightens.
You’re used to waking up alone. Used to the hollow stillness after Joel would slip out sometime before dawn — not cruel, not cold, just… distant. Detached. He never stayed. Never really let himself.
So now, lying here with Tommy still wrapped around you, the weight of his presence is almost too much. Too tender. Too safe. Like your heart doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
Your instinct is to freeze, not out of fear, but disbelief. You wait for him to move, to get up, to pull away.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he shifts closer in his sleep, nuzzles his face against your shoulder with a soft hum, and tightens his arm just slightly around your waist.
A tiny sound catches in your throat. It’s not quite a sob, but it’s something close — quiet and raw and full of all the things you’ve never let yourself hope for. You press your forehead into the pillow, breathing slow, trying to make sense of the ache in your chest.
Tommy stirs then, as if your silence reached him even in sleep. His eyes blink open, still heavy with rest, and they find yours almost immediately.
“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rasped with sleep. “You okay?”
You nod before you even think about it, eyes wet, lips parting to speak — but no words come.
He sees it, though. He always does.
His hand moves up, fingers brushing gently through your hair as he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your temple.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “You don’t gotta look so surprised.”
It had been a quiet kind of day — the good kind.
Tommy was busy with town duties, something about a supply run meeting and wall repairs, so you'd kept to yourself. The house was calm, filled with the soft rustle of pages as you read by the window, curled under a blanket. The book had long since been forgotten, though — set aside on your lap while your thoughts drifted to Tommy.
It was late now — past midnight — and the fire had burned low in the hearth. Outside, Jackson had settled into that peaceful silence it only ever got on cold, still nights.
Then came the knock.
Three soft taps. Hesitant. Almost... unsure.
You weren’t expecting anyone.
Your heart gave a strange little lurch — hopeful, for just a second, that maybe Tommy had found his way to your doorstep anyway. That maybe he couldn't sleep either, missing you the way you missed him.
But when you opened the door, your breath caught.
It wasn’t Tommy.
It was Joel.
And not the hardened, guarded version you’d grown used to. He looked different. Raw. Torn. Eyes shadowed. Like he hadn’t meant to come here, but his feet brought him anyway.
And then it hit you — the weight of the moment.
It was Sunday.
You stood there frozen in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other wrapped tightly around yourself, as if your body instinctively knew this moment would hurt.
“Can I come in?” he asked, voice low, rough. Like gravel underfoot.
You stared at him for a beat too long. “It’s late.”
“I know.”
His eyes searched yours. There was something behind them — not just guilt, not just longing. Something more desperate. Something that made your chest tighten.
You hesitated, then stepped back wordlessly, letting the door swing open just enough for him to step inside.
Joel walked in slowly, glancing around your little living room like it had changed since he last saw it — and maybe it had. Maybe it felt different now, because you were different.
You didn’t offer him tea. Didn’t make excuses for the silence. You just crossed your arms and waited.
He stood by the edge of the fireplace, not looking at you. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“No,” you said quietly. “You really shouldn’t.”
His jaw clenched. “Tommy told me. ‘bout you and him… how he fucked you.”
Your heart thudded.
“So what?” you asked. You tried to keep your voice steady, but it cracked — not from weakness, but from everything he’d never let you have.
Joel finally looked at you. And you hated that your heart still flipped at the way his eyes softened, even now.
“You happy?” he asked.
You blinked. “Why does it matter?”
“Because I—I never meant to hurt you.”
You let out a short, bitter breath. “You didn’t have to mean it. You just did.”
He flinched like the words hit harder than you’d intended.
“You never stayed,” you whispered. “You never looked at me the way he does. And now you show up? On a Sunday?”
Silence.
“I left her,” Joel said suddenly. The words dropped like a stone in still water.
You stared. Shocked. “What?”
“Couple nights ago. I couldn’t—” he ran a hand down his face. “I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
“I kept tryin’ to tell myself it wasn’t real, what we had,” he continued. “That I didn’t feel nothin’. But it was a lie. And then the way Tommy said he…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
You stepped back slightly, unsure whether you wanted to laugh, cry, or scream. “You only came because you saw someone else loving me. Not because you were ready. Not because I mattered before.”
Joel looked down, silent again.
And then you spoke the truth you’d been holding in your chest for too long.
“I needed someone who didn’t just want me when they were lonely. I needed someone who chose me even when it wasn’t convenient.”
Joel looked up. Eyes full of something broken.
“You were never an inconvenience." He mutters. You swear you hear his voice crack. "I always wanted you."
"Stop, Joel. That's not fucking fair." Your eyes burn as you beg them to hold back your tears. "I'm with Tommy now."
"I bet you thought about me while he was deep inside you, huh?"
"Joel stop."
He's close now, leaning in centimeters from your face. "Did he do it right?"
"Joel, please." You beg. But yet you don't find yourself leaning away from him, from the way his hands slip under your sweater — grazing your bare hips.
He stutters for a moment. Eyes searching your face for any sort of excuse to stop himself. But he leans in, lips grazing softly against yours, mouth parting to say: "Stop me."
You don't. You collide your lips into his, tasting the familiarity. Hands wrapping instinctively around his neck, pulling him in closer. Like you've done this a million times before.
Well... you have.
But, it's only when his hand slips beneath you leggings, traveling down to the front of your underwear, that you push him away. That you push him off of you.
"We can't do this anymore. Seriously. I really am with Tommy." You inform, wiping away his drool from your lips. You feel filthy.
"You want me. Admit it." He fights back. The fear and anguish now returning to his face. The hurt as well.
"Get the fuck out, Joel." You yell, pushing him harshly towards you door, the tears finally escaping.
He didn’t fight. He didn’t beg. Maybe he finally understood.
And when you opened the door again, he walked out without another word — not angry, not cold.
Just hollow.
You closed the door behind him, leaned your back against the wood, and let yourself breathe. Slow. Deep.
And when your eyes drifted to the small clock on the mantel… it had just passed midnight.
being an x reader writer and trying to be inclusive of all readers makes me overthink so much like should i write about you having smth with milk in it? no no what if the reader is lactose-intolerant. about the reader being the big spoon? noo what if they wanna be cuddled like a little spoon. about fingers through your hair? noooo what if the person reading it is bald
Werewolf!Eddie Munson x fem!Reader (NSFW) - Eddie’s POV
Synopsis: Out of desperation, Eddie visits you at your house to take care of some agonizing hunger.
Warnings: nsfw/18+ content; porn with a hint of a plot; Eddie's POV; breeding kink, Eddie’s in heat, situationship+/friends just helping friends, jealous & possessive!eddie, rough sex, clit stim, fingering, masturbation, unprotected sex, cum play/creampie/eddie cums in & on the reader & stuffs it back in, multiple orgasms
Word Count: 2.5k
A/N: So, I wrote a werewolf!eddie story for Valentine’s Day, then ended up getting a little more brainrot from it and wound up writing this today. They’re separate stories, but this is a little glimpse of what to expect from the V-Day fic :) Hope you like it!
“I’m sorry,” Eddie sputtered for the hundredth time.
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. Driven by that deep-seated animalistic hunger…. He hung his head and growled. The sound was ugly to his ears, but the rest that framed them drove him onward. A curse within a curse, all wrapped in an imperfect, impenetrable bow.
“I’m– fuck. I’m sorry.”
You answered with a warm, addictive clench around him, the gushing driving him deeper inside of you, chasing that feeling. Your whines and moans joined the wet slaps of every rough thrust he gave you. Though, with a hand on the back of your neck that kept your back perfectly arched, you turned your head into your pillows so nobody would hear. You bit down on it every time he drilled into you faster, leaving permanent marks in the fabric just as your fingers were doing to your sheets.
You laid three towels down underneath you to spare the cleanup, but still, he promised he'd get you new sheets cause of this. Kept that as one of the few coherent thoughts he still had when he was inside of you.
You were supposed to be downstairs. Your friends were having a party for something he couldn't even recall right then. Two dozen people down there, some of them even brought some of their single friends to help you out cause apparently, you being single for a year was unfathomable and the worst fucking thing in the world. The thought of it, parading you around down there to flirt with the random assholes like that….
Your bed creaked as he fucked you deeper, and you began to shudder. That sweet fucking shudder you did. Christ. He gave you shorter, quicker thrusts. His cock nestled deep in your cunt, a fucking addictive sensation that brought less relief before relief would come. And it would. It fucking would. You were the only one who made it go away. You were the only one he didn’t feel anything bad after draining his balls in you for the torturous hours when this fucking curse hit.
You felt fucking right. It wasn't a waste with you. Even when some spilled out of you and his body burned watching it drip down your thighs and cunt, you kept yourself spread so he could push it back in. You fucking wanted it. You wanted it. You wanted him. You still fucking wanted him even when he showed up at your fucking window in the middle of your party, drenched in that damned cold sweat, shaking, red in his cheeks and audibly panting.
You still locked your door, texted your friends that you weren’t feeling too great and you needed an hour or so, and you laid out those towels with a gentle smile. A beckoning smile.
He managed to keep himself together so you could drape your dress and underwear over your desk chair. Then….
His hips snapped forward and his vision blurred. Four. For the fourth time, he came in you. Throwing his head back and nearly drawing blood on his lip, he felt that rush of adrenaline and relief. It ripped through him and brought little rough thrusts that had you gasping into your pillow. He always enjoyed those. The ones where it was from him climaxing that made you lose your mind. Like you got off on taking him like that.
Maybe you did.
He wouldn't ask you. He knew if the answer was yes, he wouldn't be able to keep what little of his sanity remained.
“Fuck,” he choked out.
You clenched around him, walls fluttering and beckoning him to stay. He was trying to go. Trying to leave. His balls tightened as you took him to the hilt, and he readjusted his grasp on your hips desperately. Close–you were close. You could cum. He could make you. He needed you to. You’d cum how many times already? Three? You had to match. The least he could do was match.
His hair hung in his face as he reached around you. Gentle–he was gentle. Slow and gentle. With his fingers. He found your clit with memorized ease, giving you tight circles that had you gasping instantly. Your cunt began to spasm, and you writhed, clawing at your bed and whimpering, yes, yes, yes. And at that heavenly sound, his hips snapped forward, rutting so deep your subdued sounds became a bit of a bark. Your whole body–he could feel it–it became a light. It burned. It trembled.
He snapped his hips forward again, dragging his cock against all the sweet, sensitive sections inside of you. And you shuddered. Crying into your pillow, tearing at the fabric on your pillowcase, you cried. You squirmed. You came.
Restraint. He dropped both hands. They were shaking as you were. Both of you sitting in the silence of your bedroom, hearing the party down below. People laughed, their conversations drowning out into each other. And your heartbeats did as they always did–agonizingly beat together. As you both huffed for necessary fresh air to clear your heads, you were together. Wholly.
Eddie ran a hand over the top of your ass, tracing the tips of his nails over the tender skin with just enough pressure to gain goosebumps. You shuddered again, sniffling through hitched breaths. He was still erect, still balls deep–he had to wait. You knew that. Even if his balls were empty and he had nothing else to give, he needed to wait. And he waited, stroking your back, looking down at where he pressed inside of you, drenched in a cold sweat of needing more.
All night.
He wanted to be selfish. He wanted to keep you there. You were his. Like hell you were going downstairs to the flirty strangers there.
But he…he couldn’t be selfish. He was trying. He was trying so fucking hard.
You were doing more than enough as you were. He'd interrupted your night, and you still helped him. He couldn't. He couldn't. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
It hurt to pull out. It was like he'd edged himself for hours, and just before he was about to cum, he was stopping. Even if he could see the opposite of that as evidence on your thighs. Still. His cock glistened hard and still leaking. That was just one agony for you knew him. You were more than just…you were more than just friends. He had one hand on the base of his cock as you pushed your weight onto your shoulders and reached back. His coherence blurred as you spread yourself for him as you did every fucking time without him asking. You just did it.
Fucking–
He put a hand on your ass and pushed you harder against your bed. He was being a little selfish. But he couldn’t help it. It was impossible not to be. He had to. He had to. He had to.
He pumped his cock hard and quick. The sight was fucking perfect. Unbearable to leave as it was. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He pressed his tip against your entrance and came, mourning the loss of what wasn’t going inside of you, but burning at the relief that was joined by your whine and wiggle of your hips.
“I’m sorry,” he sputtered, voice raw as he freed his cock. “Fuck. I…Christ, I seriously fucking….”
He brought his fingers to you as you kept yourself spread. Same thing–doing what he liked without him even thinking of asking. You just…you just did it. And he gathered up what wasn’t inside of you and pushed it in with two fingers. Again, then again. Making sure he got every drop that could be saved.
Your body shook, and if it wasn’t for the damn laughter, he might’ve thought you were crying. You were. You were still crying a little. Sobbing and sniffling as you lifted your head and laughed. You trembled under your own weight. Kept in that position for so long, fucked raw and rough and as hard as he’d given it to you, you were a puddle. One that laughed so lightly it drove him mad.
"You've said," you murmured with a smile. A killer smile. It made his grow crooked, and certainty and relief settled in his gut. "I would've told you to take a hike, Eddie. You know that."
He did. You'd done it only once before, and he'd never left a place that the cops weren't at so quickly. He was trying. He was trying so fucking hard, and you made it so easy. You even backed yourself up onto his fingers as they pushed into you again, and it wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair knowing you were going downstairs the second he left.
“I interrupted your night, ‘kay? I’m gonna apologize.”
He curled his fingers and the squelching–Christ. Your fingers gave way. You fell into a new arch, shaking as he continued to pump his fingers. He reached back around you and found your clit again. His chest heaved. The thought of someone else touching you, getting that flirty smile from you, getting to put their fingers inside of you, their tongue, their cock.
Selfish–he was feeling really selfish. He knew–he fucking knew nobody would fuck you like he did. Nobody would make you cum as hard. Or…or have the stamina the damn bite gave him. Nobody. But he…he needed….
He needed to be selfish.
He pushed you onto your side just as he felt your cunt clench. Not yet. He burned as you blinked up at him, moving with his hands as he guided you onto your back. The positions he normally had you in faced you away. You rarely really looked at each other, and he could see the nerves, the intimacy. This wasn’t the first time he’d done this, though. But it was the first time he was doing it so….
In control.
He came over you, finding your widening eyes and your pulse skyrocketing. He nearly draped his body against you, but he needed room to plunge his fingers back into you and his palm to find your clit. Just enough. And your mouth fell open as he propped himself up on his elbow and cupped the back of your head.
Your eyes were so full and teary as they searched his. Your chest pressed against his with uneven, heavy breaths. And your back arched as your climax slowly barreled toward you.
He pressed his mouth to yours. No hesitation–no warning. A slow, searing, possessive kiss. His fingers moved faster. He’d brought this mouth to yours in heated, rough moments. Not like this. It was never…so intimate.
His body moved with the thrusts of his fingers, the push of his arm. Your mouth parted on a gasp, and he didn't have to take the full stride. You met his tongue halfway, deepening the kiss with him. And–oh. Oh. Oh. Jesus fucking Christ.
He snarled into the kiss, pinning you back.
His.
Your eyes clamped shut, and your head pressed back.
His. You were his.
You moaned against his mouth as you came, writhing beneath him and sputtering out his name. He tasted the tears on your lips. His hair fell into your face and his. His necklace was a warm press on your chest.
His fingers pulled out and pushed right back in even slower, holding you like a hook as he ghosted his mouth over yours.
“Hold some of it in for me before you go downstairs,” he whispered. “Just a little longer.”
His fingers pulled out. You nodded your head on a soft breath. Half-lidded, your eyes fell to his mouth and stayed there.
“You know I always do,” you murmured. “I know it helps.”
He matched your nod with his own.
“Thanks again.”
He…he nipped at your bottom lip on a whim. The sweet, vibrating sound you made was fucking atrocious to his self-control. Yet he still managed. He started to pull back, needing to leave, needing to go, needing to be far from you before what control he had over his second wind kicking in waned. So he pushed back–
“Are you coming back tomorrow?”
His hands twitched. You pushed up onto your elbows, closing the distance he just took, and he went still. Your eyes were wide and vulnerable. Sweet. You’d never asked him before. It’d always just been…. He left, then you two saw each other when you saw each other. Sometimes the next day with friends, sometimes not for a week or two. You were still in contact, yeah, but your…you thing was something kept track of except when he had unexpected moments like the one that night.
“I mean,” you murmured, brows furrowing, eyes darting away. “I just…was this enough? Because I have to be at Payton’s tomorrow at ten. If…if it’s not. I’ll be here before then.”
His cheeks flushed with what he damn well knew was a visible red. But it was joined by a crooked yet surprised smile. He tried to play it cool. Once upon a time, he would’ve thought being a werewolf would’ve made him fucking cooler in that regard. Gave him even more confidence to fuck around, but no. You ruined it. You took it and crushed it with your damn smile and kindness and selfless help.
And then you had to go and bite your lip before dragging your tongue back over it. And he knew–he fucking knew. He knew you were trying to get another taste of him. So he…he nodded again, and up went his hand. Your cheek was wet and soft. His pulse was hard and unforgiving as your bed creaked.
One more.
One last.
You melted while he barely held himself together as he kissed you.
“I’ll be by before you go,” he said against you. “Doubt it’ll be early, but–”
“You can come in. You….” You swallowed hard, nose nudging his. Your breath trembled. “You can just…if I’m sleeping. You can wake me up…with it…if that makes sense.”
His. He growled without even meaning, his nails pressing just a little bit into you as he brought his mouth back to yours. The kiss was just as searing as the last but coming in hotter. Truly burning. Maddening and breaking. You…. You….
You’d be alone in your room.
For him.
Waiting for him.
He shuddered and pulled back. He wanted to stay. Fuck it. He wanted to fuck you into your mattress all over again.
You weren’t going to give any of the shitheads down there even a second of a chance.
He kissed your jaw before pulling back, making a direct line for your window. His hand shook. He was alight inside of him in a way he couldn’t fucking comprehend. And he pulled on his clothes, left doing his belt as he sat in your window, the glass smudged from your collective fingers.
You lay sprawled on your bed, eyeing him with a burning yet tender gaze he wanted to eat up. To bathe in. It was new. Newer. That look was never so…at the front. He gave you a crooked smirk and waved.
“Sleep naked for me,” he whispered.
You cracked a smile. “I will.”
“Thanks.” He licked his lips before turning toward the night.
Out in the slightly cool air, he sprinted down into the trees, taking in you. Only you. All of you. It was a new beat in his chest he couldn’t fathom. It drove him wild, and he hollered with a beastly echo while running.
firstly I love your new blog layout it’s so fucking cute, secondly I love you 💕 thirdly, for your baby prompts, I’m thinking……… butterfly
happiness is a butterfly
got a little carried away with this one. 3k words of modern day!best friend!eddie munson x afab!reader. contains: fluff, alcohol, confessions of feelings, bisexual reader, two friends in a room who might kiss (they do), suggestive innuendo (eddie’s a sweetheart), and argyle’s matchmaking ways. thank you @breddiemunson and @ghost-proofbaby for always calming my wild thoughts, and katie’s line where eddie asks reader not to make him say what she already knows. genius, that one.
-
“happiness is a butterfly
try to catch it like every night
it escapes from my hands into moonlight…”
happiness is a butterfly - lana del rey.
-
Photo after photo. Swipe after swipe. Endless hopefuls that aren’t really hopefuls, because there aren’t many of those in Hawkins these days.
No—there are merely boys, wearing the skin of men, playing with hearts with a carelessness that leaves damage in their wake. Leaves your heart ripped to shreds; battered and bruised. Wounded, but not broken, with jagged lines where smooth surfaces had once been.
Tonight is no different. Tonight you mourn your relationship with Travis. Travis, who played hockey and apparently a different girl or guy in every state. You’d only found out through social media.
One of the girls he brought back to his hotel room had posted an image on her story while he slept, which then surfaced on another person’s social media account, and then eventually became a social media article on some gossip website you couldn’t, for the life of you, be bothered to remember.
You suppose the “Travis debacle,” as Eddie has been calling it, is your fault. A guy from out of town. The allure of some famous player with a broken down car in front of the Hideout, where you worked as a bartender, that you’d had your friend Eddie fix up as a favor.
You’d tossed him his keys as the sun set, burnt orange and red across the summer sky, and he’d asked, “How much?”
And suddenly you’d spent the week welcoming him around Hawkins, as well as the intricacies of your susceptible heart. Had preened and praised him while he perused his options in the next town over on his problematic apps.
The same apps you’re now frowning at, watching the population around you continue to dwindle with every pass of your thumb.
“You know, they say insanity is—”
“Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.”
You shoot a glare Eddie’s way, watching his dexterous fingers pull his hair back into a makeshift bun at the back of his head. Those same fingers reach down to grab your glass, chipped black nail polish capturing your attention as he draws your drink up to his lips and takes a long sip.
“Tequila. Travis really fucked up.” He chuckles. The movement has his cropped shirt billowing around his hips, tattoos on his sides visible where the holes his arms extend through as he settles down beside you. “You know, I think you need to ditch the apps. I did, and I’m much better for it.”
“You got a puppy a few weeks ago,” you point out, finger jabbing him in the ribs. He hisses, cupping his pec. “Getting a puppy is code for throwing in the towel.”
“Ozz is the cutest puppy, I’ll have you know. Look—” He waves to Gareth as he passes by, drumsticks twirling in his hands. “Delete the apps. Take a break. Isn’t there some quote about happiness? That Nathaniel Hawthorne one. You know, the ‘happiness is a butterfly’ one you used in a paper back in school.”
“One, I can’t believe you remember that.”
Your nose wrinkles at the thought of your teenage years. Of you with braces and he himself being the first person to welcome you to sit with him on your first day of school, snapping at Jason Carver when he’d brushed by you and thumped your shoulder a little too hard for his liking.
“And two, the quote is actually ‘happiness is like a butterfly, which, when pursued, is always beyond our grasp. But, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you.’”
“So stop chasing it. Just let it happen. C'est la vie. Carpe diem. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?”
You don’t even bother letting him know none of those things mean what he thinks they do.
“Eddie.”
He loops his arm around your neck. Presses a kiss against your temple. You lean into his embrace, comfortable warmth that seeps into your bones and floods you with familiarity.
He’s hard lines against your softer edges. Inky tapestries of collected memories that tell a tale of his adventurous life on the forearm tangled in your hair. His ring-clad fingers delight in toying with the tips, hair shifting between digits like water.
Calming and soothing Eddie. A constant in your life since you were teenagers, now going on ten years of friendship later. Someone you’ve always been able to turn to at the end of the day; someone who never once questions your motives, even if he might suggest you try different methods to your lifestyle habits.
And now, your dating habits.
“I’m just saying it’s worth a try.”
-
Maybe you don’t stop right away. Maybe it takes a date with Joe, Jim and Jessica to realize the truth of Eddie’s words. Maybe there’s some weight to pushing it all aside, stepping out of the way of your own preconceived timeline, and allowing someone to walk in at the right place and time.
And on a night such as this, where Corroded Coffin are getting set up on stage and citizens are packing out the bar to see the increasingly popular band play, it’s easy to remember why swiping on your phone has brought you here. To asshole Andy Lerman standing before you while you work. Basketball coach at Hawkins High and douchebag royalty from what you remember of him back in your years of teenage angst and adolescence.
He’s had a few drinks now. You know because you’ve served him. But all they’ve done is instill courage in him to step over to the girl who people teased in school for being a “freak fucker” by merely being associated with Eddie, claiming time ‘really did wonders for you.’
He’s staring at your tits when he says it, and it takes everything in you to not toss his next drink in his face. But in a town where money is hard to come by, and there’s not much to do by way of work, bartending pays the bills, and you’re not about to mess up one of the few good gigs left.
“Andy, it’s really not going to work,” you tell him, “but here. Your last one of the night…on me.”
With a quick pat to his shoulder, you send him on his merry way with a fuller pocket and a story to warp when regaling his friends with the time he pity-invited the “freak fucker” on a date.
“Don’t look now, my lady, but Eddie Munson is staring at you,” Argyle says, working on mixing a margarita beside you for a patron.
“He’s not staring at me,” you retort, sliding a vodka soda across the bar, thanking your customer for the hefty tip they toss your way. At Argyle’s raised brow, you reiterate, “he’s not.”
“He’s always staring. That’s the look Eden gives me. You know, the look of someone in l—”
Argyle’s words are cut short as Eddie appears on the other side of the bar, bare elbows pressing against the counter, hair falling out of his ponytail, bangs long overdue for a cut shifting every time he blinks.
“Are you okay?” He asks, thanking Argyle as he passes him the beer he knows he prefers. At your arching brow, he continues, “I saw Andy Lerman flirting with you. You looked uncomfortable.”
You snort, getting to work on a moscow mule. “That’s because I was uncomfortable. But I took care of it. I appreciate you always looking out, though.”
He reaches over and grabs your chin. Gives your head a little wiggle until you’re grinning against his palm. Then reaches his fingers over toward you, rests them so gently against your curled palm resting on the bar and pauses. He waits a moment and closes his ringed fingers into a fist, knocking his knuckles against yours.
Then he’s off toward the stage to get ready, leaving you with a knot in your throat and warmth prickling against your skin.
Argyle passes you a knowing smile and before you can yell at him to get back to work, embarrassment roiling in your chest, he announces he’s going to take a quick break and call his wife.
His words spin in your head once more. Comparing Eddie’s gazes to Eden’s. To the nature of the depth in which he cares for you. But you shake your head free of it.
You’ve been unlucky in love.
It couldn’t be so simple.
-
Argyle’s words don’t change much in regards to your Eddie conundrum.
They’re a phantom in the back of your mind. Wispy tendrils of a memory that feels distant now.
Weeks pass, and the warm heat of summer in Hawkins turns to a sweltering hell on earth.
The Hideout becomes quieter most evenings. Those with air conditioning prefer to stay home, remain by their pools, to host gatherings where alcohol and coolers are plentiful.
And you don’t blame them, letting out a long huff as you wipe down the counter, while Argyle counts your tips.
“Oh, how was that date with…Paul, was it?” He muses thoughtfully, beginning to split the money.
“Not great.”
“You said that about the last three. What was wrong with this one?”
And that’s the thing. You sit across from these people, trying to force a square into a circle, trying to sparse out the qualities that they’re lacking.
Not funny enough. Not the right hair color. They lack that unruly smile. That glimmer of brightness in their amber eyes. There’s no dimple in Paul’s cheek. No banter on your date with Jeremiah. Caleb doesn’t like metal, and Kayla thinks D&D is a breeding ground for satanism (you’d thought that one was left in the 80s, but it appears not).
“He said Dio was overrated.”
“Interesting,” Argyle laughs, shaking his head.
You whirl around, damp bar towel flicking water his way. “What’s so interesting?”
“Just funny when two people are so obviously similar and don’t even see it,” he says, humming to himself, conversation over.
And that was that.
-
It’s funny, you think, that it only hits you then.
Like the flutter of butterfly wings on your flowerbeds you’d managed to stumble upon earlier that morning, the flicker of wings on a bird in the sky. The soft beating of both, like the constant thump of a heart in a chest.
A constant.
It’s the word everything hitches on as you sit on that work table in your garage, watching the man who stopped everything he was doing when you’d called earlier at the drop of a hat. All just to make sure you were okay.
That same person who is now up to his elbows in grease, fingers stained an oily black. With his hair pulled away from his face, you catch the determined line of his mouth, the jut of his tongue pushing lightly against pink lips. The corded lines of his arms move as he works, barest hint of stomach on display when he reaches up to slam the hood of your car down once it’s finished.
You toss him a towel, grinning at the shadowy form of him blocking the sun from your eyes. “Sorry you’re doing this instead of the movies.”
“Stop that. You know I’m happy to spend any time with you, sweetheart,” he laughs, wiping the planes of his face that are streaked like the fingers pressing against terry cloth to keep it in place. “Fixed the alternator and did an oil change. Seeing as you always forget anyway.”
He walks over slowly, grunting when your sandaled foot kicks him playfully in the kneecap. “That was why my car made that awful sound and shut off?”
“Exactly.” He curls the towel around his neck. “Day is still young. How about we—”
“Why’d you delete all your dating apps?”
The words fall from you in a rush. A swift exhale that has Eddie’s back drawn ramrod straight. Rigid, but not with anger. Instead, you watch that full mouth part just slightly. Like the words he had been about to say were lost to the wind, left to titter away into nothingness.
He swallows audibly, palm sliding over the towel across his neck. “I…just didn’t see the point in them.”
Determination hardens your resolve. Brings to attention Argyle’s teasing these weeks. The wondering, questioning, burgeoning curiosities brimming. So you utter a simple, “Why?” and try your damndest to ignore the nerves welling up in your chest at the fear of what comes next.
“Just kind of felt like I was using them to get over someone else,” he admits, taking a step closer.
Your bare knees brush the tops of his thighs. Warmth seeps into your skin, bristles at his touch.
Dark eyes drag along your form. Along the dress you wore that evening, covered in flowers, a thin thing that would have fluttered in the wind if you and Eddie had been able to do what you’d planned for the day. Simple drive to the lake to eat some lunch, share a joint and fish (a new hobby he'd picked up from his uncle), then movies at the theater when the sun had set.
You meet his stare. Remind yourself of those eyes that had been on you the whole time Andy had leaned over the bar just weeks ago. Ready at any moment to come to your aid, should you have needed it. He’s never pushed you, never crossed the boundaries of your friendship, trusted you knew best.
But he’d always been there if you ever needed a hand.
You only ever needed to reach out.
Always.
You swallow thickly. “Who?”
“Don’t make me tell you what you already know.”
It’s quiet. A plea for pity that has your heart clenching within your chest.
But it’s not scary.
It’s not frightening at all.
Dozens of memories flash behind your eyes.
Of teenage years, laughing in the cafeteria, trading snacks, sneaking off to the woods between classes to smoke. Of you in community college, and his van screeching through the parking lot to take you to lunch between classes. Of nights at his place, your place, the movies, around town. Of ice cream at Lover’s Lake with his van doors swung wide, trying to make out the shapes of the clouds in the sky.
To highs and lows and everything in between. To all those shitty dates, to his own failed dating escapades. To that time you had to ice his lip in the back of the Hideout when Jeff had accidentally elbowed him in the face, or when you’d fallen off Max’s skateboard and ripped open your shin and he’d had to hold your hand while he disinfected it.
To this very moment, where he’s just finished fixing your car. To him with his dirty palm tapping lightly against your kneecap, feet shifting awkwardly beneath him.
Your head tips up and you catch the downturn of his lips, frozen in time by your prolonged silence.
Argyle was right.
“What?”
You hadn’t realized you spoke out loud, but confusion swirls behind Eddie’s gaze all the same, mollified only when your hand snakes up around the back of his neck and drags him downward to your level. Only when you pour your affection into him where you’re finally, lovingly, connected at last.
The fullness of his mouth against the softness of yours is hesitant at first, like his brain needs a moment to catch up to his current reality, before he’s tipping your head up with his hand. Until his fingers slide across your cheek, cupping you gently, easing you closer to him.
Before long he’s gripping you closer. Deft fingers in the dough of your thighs, tugging you flush against him, skirt indecently high up on your hips. But you don’t care. Not as your ankles lock around his waist, nor as he hums into your throat while he leaves a sloven path along your skin, learning the sounds you make when he’s tender, sweet—when he scores his teeth against your pulse point and you melt like putty beneath his devotion filled fingertips.
Ten years. Ten years of watching that silly butterfly float away into the sky, only for it to have been there all along.
Only for it to have been the man with his forehead against yours, noses flush together, your fingers beneath his shirt and his around the bend of your kneecaps.
You’re not sure where you start and he ends, but even that incites a new thrill, a new world to explore further. A desire to know the depths of him beyond the limit of friendship.
“Argyle got to you too, huh?” At your nod, Eddie barks out a laugh. Kisses you softly. “Fuckin’ guy thinks he’s Cupid or something.”
“I don’t want to talk about Argyle right now.”
Eddie’s lips curl into a grin. The whites of his teeth flash in your gaze, your fingers trailing along his stubble-lined jaw.
“I don’t either.” His thumb comes to swipe at your cheek, dimple in his cheek twitching slightly. “Got you a little greasy. Just…ten years, you know? Got a little carried away.”
You nod, reaching out to lace your fingers with his. He watches as you hop down from the work table, brow arching curiously as you tug him toward the door leading into your home. “Well, like you said, we’ve got ten years to catch up on. So before I kiss you more, Edward Munson, we’re going to shower.”
“We?” He swallows, voice hoarse. “Like a two people conserving water shower?”
You enter the small laundry room, humming as his chest brushes your own, his weight just enough against yours to press you into the lip of your drying machine. Cool metal chills your skin at the open back of your dress, balanced by the heat of the knee that slides between your thighs to pin you in place. Your body both buzzes with life and oozes honey into your system as you melt into him, pliant under that smoldering dark gaze of your best friend in front of you.
“We,” you nod, grinning into his kiss. “After that we’re cuddling on the couch and ordering a pizza.”
“hm,” he hums, face scrunching in disappointment when you lean over the bed to open the window on the wall. sunday morning rain on soggy earth from the storm last night sends a soft patter through the room. the breeze feels nice, wanting that more than any overcast light the parting of the curtains let in.
you settle on your stomach, chest and face propped up on the pillows to look outside and watch the trees sag. watch a few neighbors walk their dog far and few in between. some families quietly getting more damp as they hurry to the car for eight o’clock mass.
“hm,” softer now, more needy. his face relaxes, reaching a tattooed arm out for you with closed eyes. you feel his hand run warm over your back, sticky with sweat from the room overheating last night. he’s like a human furnace. his fingers walk over to your side, giving you a little tug. you smile, letting a breath out of your nose as you give into him, scooching over to let him wrap himself around you. bare chest against your skin.
“morning, baby.” he mumbles, sleep still heavy in his voice, “you feelin’ better?”
“hm,” you shrug, “the weather helps. you feelin’ better?”
“hm,” he nods, wrapping a tattooed leg between yours. tangled up tight, entwined, “this helps.”
the fights weren’t often, but they were explosive. as big as the storm last night, fed by thunder and the promise of a downpour. who can yell the loudest? who can be the meanest? who can get the last word? two bolts of lightening that always need to be right, striking moments between each other. then the rain starts, it never matters who it is first. it’s never regularly you or him, almost always at the same time. crying like babies so hard you don’t even know why you’re fighting anymore.
you both never go to bed mad the way you used to. got in the habit of settling when the eye of the storm past over.
“i’m sorry, baby,” he’d rasp out, “m’sorry for yelling.”
“m’sorry for smashing that plate,” you’d guiltily cry, “i love you.”
“i love you, too.” teary confessions, drowsy needs.
“let’s just clean up and go to bed, okay?”
warm silence. you were both never violent, not even in bed. soft cascading hands, desperate clingy touches. but never speaking in bodies, never keeping score with him inside you. you kiss goodnight and draw the curtains so the moon doesn’t interfere.
and morning. wrapped up in each other in the rainy breeze, clouds joining for breakfast. you feel his limbs slide out of yours while he sits up in bed, bare aside from a pair of his boxers. he yawns and stretches, hand coming down to squeeze the fat on the back of your covered thigh while he crawls out of bed.
sweatpants from a pile of clean laundry are all he adds, a pair of socks with holes in the heels. his fingers glide over a hung acoustic guitar in a strum.
“gonna make us some eggs,” he tells you. he means more than eggs, but he always just says eggs.
“we’re out of sugar,” you mention, rolling onto your side, legs stretching like a cats, “for coffee.”
he smiles lazily, the cold breeze from the window catching his curls while he leans over you. he presses a warm kiss to your cheek, and then your lips, “you’re sweet enough for me.”
“hm,” you hum, sticky syrupy affection slipping in from your head to your toes, “smooth this morning.”
“it’s the munson way,” he mumbles, his voice still gravelly, noses brushing. butterfly kisses.
“hm,” you reply lazily, your lashes and his lashes meeting.
“hm,” he grins, another warm kiss against the cool breeze. he looks back at you before he leaves the room, brown eyes saying all he needs to say and yours match. he blushes. you’ll have a few more moments to yourself in the window before you go meet him in the kitchen.
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