Summary - Five years ago, she fled with a secret—the son Rhysand never knew existed.
She built a quiet, hidden life... until the day her little boy runs straight into the arms of the High Lord she swore she'd never face again.
One look at the child with his violet eyes, and Rhysand knows the truth.
Dragged back into each other's orbit, old wounds reopen, lies, heartbreak, fear, and the pull between them that never died. Rhys is determined to earn a place in his child's life and in hers, no matter how many years were stolen from him.
A story of second chances, stolen years, found family, and a love stubborn enough to survive fate itself—if she's brave enough to claim it.
Tags - hidden child, accidental reunion, second chance romance, hurt/comfort, domestic moments, family bonding
Contents -
ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ One
ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Two
ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Three
ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Four
ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Five
ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Six
ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Seven
ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Eight
ACOTAR Masterlist
A/n - This series will include content warnings at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.
Theo and Winter's book from the Chestnut Springs series was one of my absolute favourites, and it definitely helped inspire this fic. I'm a sucker for the secret child trope, the whole "learning each other again" arc is always so sweet!!
This time the child is a boy (since in "Starlight" we already got our baby girl, Velaria!). I thought it would be fun to explore the father–son dynamic with Rhys this round :)
As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Your votes and comments mean the world to me <3
series summary → After the fall of Vecna, Hawkins is barely surviving—and so are the people who saved it. You’re Dustin Henderson’s older sister, the quiet genius who left town on a full-ride to Stanford, determined to outrun grief and the ghosts of what you lost. Steve Harrington stayed, holding what’s left of Hawkins together with stubborn loyalty and a radio station crackling through the night. When you finally return, distance, trauma, and years of unspoken desire collide—and Steve realizes the girl he loved in silence is now a woman who knows exactly what she wants.
word count → 1K
series warnings → 18+ (MDNI), slow burn, mutual pining, emotional angst, grief & trauma, PTSD/nightmares, references to character deaths (Eddie Munson), canon-typical violence, sexual content (eventual), praise kink, soft dom! Steve Harrington, strong language.
notes → Welcome! This is my first full-length fic and I am so excited! I will also be cross-posting this to my WattPad account (here). As always, I am so appreciative of any feedback, comments, and reblogs! New chapters will post every Friday, starting Feb. 6! Requests are still open!
May 23, 1986. 10:00 AM.
Hawkins, Indiana.
The Beamer hummed as Steve drove toward the airport, headlights cutting through the early morning fog. The roads were emptier than they used to be as you exited town through what little was left of Main Street. Storefronts were boarded up, sidewalks perpetually empty, and familiar landmarks scarred by things no one dared to discuss out loud.
It had been just two short months since the rift, the very splitting of the Earth perpetuated by Vecna’s master plan. And it had come with tremendous loss - buildings split and swallowed whole, families torn apart, numerous lives lost.
Eddie was dead.
Max was in a coma.
And Hawkins was still trying to heal.
Dustin sat in the backseat, legs pulled up to his chest, uncharacteristically quiet. He clutched the pager tightly in his hand, pressed against his chest, almost as if he was afraid it would vanish.
“You’ve got it, right?” He asked for the hundredth time, voice too casual to sound convincing.
“Yes, Dustin, I’ve got it.” You offered with the ghost of a smile, patient as ever. You tapped the backpack resting on your lap. “Right here.”
He leaned forward, brown curls bouncing as they brushed against the headrest. “Somewhere you can reach it easily?”
“Absolutely.” You quickly unzip the front pocket of your backpack and pull out your own pager within seconds, holding it up in demonstration.
“And you remember all the codes?”
Steve’s jaw clenched at the question, nearly inconspicuously. He stayed silent, though, tossing only a brief glance in your direction.
“One beep,” you recited from memory, “means check in when we can. Two beeps -”
“And three?” Steve finally spoke, eyes still focused on the stretch of road ahead.
You hesitated briefly before turning toward him. “Emergency. Drop everything.”
His grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles turning white.
“Good.” Steve nodded, satisfied. “And you don’t ignore it. Ever.”
“I won’t.”
The pager, which was still a fairly new and hot commodity, had been Murray’s idea. It had been difficult to procure, and he reminded you every chance he got of the great lengths he’d gone to obtain it. It was a brick-sized, black, ugly-thing that buzzed so loud it could wake the dead. Hopper had immediately co-opted the idea, insisting that the pager was a necessary and brilliant way to keep an open line of communication despite the distance.
In case this isn’t over, Hopper had said, we’ll need your brain, too.
You watched Steve silently from the corner of your eye. He looked so different now, rougher around the edges, exhaustion permeating his posture after everything that had happened. Eddie. Max. The way the town had nearly torn itself to shreds.
And you were leaving anyway.
“I hate that you’re going.” Dustin confessed bluntly, staring out the window. You were well aware of his opinion on the matter, he’d expressed it incessantly for weeks. “You can’t just leave now that it’s all over…”
But that was precisely why you had to leave.
After the rift. After Vecna. After standing amidst the blood and ash and promising yourselves it was over, you were desperate to start again. You needed to build something that wasn’t centered around monsters and loss, to find yourself, to finally put the pain behind you.
And when that full-ride scholarship to Stanford came in the mail, you had cried in relief. A sense of serenity washed over you, then, something you hadn’t felt since Will Byers first disappeared all those years ago.
“I need to do this, Dusty. But the distance doesn’t mean I’m abandoning you. Or the party.” You reached back and squeezed Dustin’s knee reassuringly.
Steve lets out a harsh breath through his nose. "Feels like it."
The airport signs appeared too soon.
Steve pulled into the drop-off lane and killed the engine. The silence that followed was heavy and uncomfortable, pressing down on all three of you.
You unbuckled slowly. Dustin was out of the car in seconds, hugging you hard, face buried in your jacket.
“You better answer every time!” He demanded fiercely. “I don’t care what time it is.”
“I will,” you promised, “I swear.”
Steve stepped out last, circling the car to grab your suitcase from the trunk. He set it down beside you carefully, like it was something fragile.
“You packed light.” He noted, looking anywhere but your eyes.
You shrugged. “Didn’t want to bring too much of Hawkins with me.”
His eyes flickered up at that, meeting yours in a scorching gaze. You could have sworn Steve looked upset, devastated even, at the thought of you leaving Hawkins behind.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
“You don’t have to do this.” He said, echoing Dustin’s prior sentiment. You sigh, defeated.
“I know. But I want to.” Your voice dropped to a half-whisper as you avoided his gaze.
“Call if you need help.” Steve instructed, shoving his hands into his pockets.. “Or if something feels off. Or if—” He stopped himself, jaw clenching. “Just call.”
You met his eyes, finally, something aching and unresolved twisting deep in your chest. “I will. I promise.”
The pager buzzed softly from inside your bag, just the battery settling. Harmless. But all three of you froze anyway.
Steve exhaled slowly. “That thing’s gonna be the death of me.”
"It’s how you’ll know I’m still connected.” You said, smiling - small but sincere.
Dustin wiped his eyes aggressively with his sleeve as tears streamed down his face, visibly disgusted with himself. “This is so gross. Emotional.” He muttered under his breath.
The flight announcement crackled overhead.
It was time.
You hugged Dustin one more time, then turned back to Steve.
“Don’t be a stranger, Harrington.” You said lightly, almost teasing.
His mouth curved into something that almost resembled a smile. “You too.”
You walked toward the terminal without looking back.
Steve stayed where he was, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, watching until you disappeared through the doors, already knowing that no matter how far you went, that pager meant one thing:
A steve harrington x reader fanfiction | multi-chapter | teacher!steve harrington & teacher!reader | enemies to loverswarnings: reader matches steve's freak... meaning shes a total bitch diva. when i say enemies. actual enemies. slow burn. no pre-existing feelings. they both don't like one another. EVENTUAL SMUT
words: 92,550
summary: You and Steve are not friends. You never were, and if you had it your way, never will be. You almost found it funny that, of course, your first year teaching, you're right next door to the man you hate most.
playlist
No destiny, no grand romance, no soulmate-type connection that would rewrite the stars. I just wanted something easy—a distraction. Something or someone to make me forget how dull Friday mornings could be.
My thumb moved lazily across the screen, muscle memory guiding me through an endless sea of filtered faces, half-hearted bios, and overused one-liners.
The dating app had become a ritual at this point, a way to fill the silence between sips of coffee and the ache of another week gone by.
And then I saw her.
Feyre. Even her name felt like it should be whispered, like something fragile and dangerous all at once.
Her profile picture stopped me cold, those eyes, storm-grey with a flicker of blue like lightning caught in motion. Her smile looked half-wild, half-inviting, and the soft sunlight in the photo turned her hair to liquid gold.
I barely skimmed the bio, something about art, travel, maybe a gallery or two but none of it registered.
My pulse had already quickened, my finger hovering over the heart icon like I was about to make a mistake I'd never regret.
Swipe right.
The app chimed with a tiny burst of serotonin. "It's a match!" Before I could even process the thrill, a new message appeared.
Feyre: Hi, darling. Aren't you a sight for sore eyes? :)
I stared at the text, a small smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. Confident. Effortless. Like she'd done this before but maybe not quite like this.
Me: And aren't you a flatterer.
Feyre: Only when the time calls for it.
Me: I see we're getting straight to the point.
Feyre: It's only right. Dinner tonight? There's a really lovely place downtown.
I blinked. Tonight? As in a few hours from now? No endless back-and-forth, no drawn-out dance of casual texting and half-hearted replies. Just... direct.
It should've been a red flag, or at least a pause button.
But something about her tone, smooth, teasing, like she already knew I'd say yes made it impossible to resist.
And honestly, what was stopping me?
I didn't want to overthink, didn't want to analyse or predict. I just wanted a night that didn't feel like every other night. A careless evening. Some laughter. Maybe a kiss I'd think about later, maybe a bed I wouldn't stay in come morning.
I took a deep breath, the cursor blinking at the edge of my indecision.
Me: Sounds fun. Text me when and where!
By the time I turned my phone off and got out of bed the clock had already sprinted toward evening.
There was a text from Feyre waiting for me before I could even think about second-guessing myself.
Feyre: 8 PM. That new fusion spot on Fifth. I'll get us a table.
Of course she would. Smooth, decisive, no hesitation. I liked that.
I stood in front of my closet for longer than I'd ever admit. Rows of clothes blurred together in a kaleidoscope of indecision. Casual felt too indifferent, but overdressing felt desperate.
And then my eyes landed on it—the little black dress.
The one that had seen its fair share of chaos. The one that had turned dull nights into dangerous ones. The one that never failed me.
It wasn't anything outrageous just sleek, short enough to be interesting, and fitted enough to make an impression. The neckline dipped just right, the fabric soft against my skin, the kind of black that seemed to drink in the light around it.
Every time I wore it, something happened. Sometimes good. Sometimes... memorable.
I slipped it on and felt it settle over me like armour and temptation all at once. Paired it with heels that made me feel taller, braver, sharper. A swipe of lipgloss, a touch of shimmer on my collarbones.
When I caught my reflection in the mirror, I almost smiled. I looked like trouble. Perfect.
The ride to Velaris was smooth, city lights blurring against the tinted window as dusk spilt across the skyline. My stomach fluttered, not nerves exactly, but that low, electric hum that comes right before something unknown.
And then the car pulled up in front of the restaurant, and my breath caught.
The place was stunning. All glass and gold edges, modern lines softened by soft amber lighting that poured through the windows.
The restaurant name glowed in understated cursive above the entrance. Even the way it shimmered felt expensive, like luxury wrapped in mystery.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of jasmine and something smoky, like cedarwood. Music thrummed quietly under the hum of conversation. Waiters in sleek black uniforms glided between tables as if part of some choreographed dance.
I hesitated at the entrance for a heartbeat, tugging lightly at the hem of my dress, pretending I wasn't completely out of my depth.
This wasn't a casual dinner. This was the kind of place where the wine menu had its own page count, where people spoke in low tones and time seemed to slow.
Feyre must have money, I thought, scanning the room. Either that, or she knew how to fake it beautifully.
I wasn't sure which possibility intrigued me more.
And then before I could take another step I saw her.
Feyre. She was seated at a corner table, half-shadowed, half-drenched in the soft glow of candlelight.
Her posture was effortless, back straight, shoulders relaxed, one hand curled loosely around a crystal glass. Her hair was swept up in a careless twist, golden-brown strands escaping to frame her face like she'd stepped out of a dream and hadn't bothered to put herself back together.
The sight of her was enough to steal my breath. Every photo I'd seen had been beautiful but this? This was something else entirely. She didn't just occupy the space, she commanded it.
I was halfway through a smile when my gaze shifted and froze.
Because next to her sat a man.
Not just any man, he looked like he belonged to another world entirely. Midnight-dark hair, glossy and artfully dishevelled, a jawline that could've been carved with precision.
His suit fit him like sin itself, deep charcoal that caught the candlelight in soft gleams. But it was his eyes that did it, violet, sharp, impossible to look away from.
He wasn't just beautiful. He was dangerous.
My pulse skipped. Then stuttered. Then began to race.
For a wild second, I wondered if I'd made a mistake. Maybe I'd misread the directions. Maybe this wasn't Feyre at all.
But no, there she was, watching me approach, that same magnetic energy wrapping around the air between us.
Except... she wasn't alone. What the hell?
Still, my legs carried me forward before my mind could catch up. My heels clicked softly against the marble floor, each step echoing louder than it should have.
Feyre's eyes lit up as soon as she spotted me, a slow, warm smile curving her lips.
"Gods," she said as I reached the table, voice low and velvety. "You're even more beautiful in person."
I blinked, caught between flustered and frozen. Compliments from her should've melted me, but my focus snagged on the man sitting so casually beside her. He looked amused, like he already knew what I was thinking.
"Um—hi," I managed, eyes darting between them. "Sorry, I think there's... some kind of mistake? What is this?"
Feyre's brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her features. "What do you mean?"
I gestured vaguely, awkwardly, at the man. "Who is he?"
For a heartbeat, the air went utterly still. Then she blinked. Slowly. And then almost apologetically she laughed. A soft, melodic sound that should've been disarming if it didn't make my cheeks burn hotter.
"This," she said, turning slightly in her chair to rest a hand on the man's arm, "is Rhysand. My husband."
My stomach dropped. "You're what?"
Feyre's brows arched delicately, her lips curving in that faint, knowing way. "It's in my bio," she said, reaching for her phone. A few quick swipes later, she turned the screen toward me.
There it was clear as day. 'Married. Looking for connection, conversation... and maybe something more, if the chemistry's right.'
My mouth went dry. "Oh my god," I whispered. "I didn't—I must've skimmed. I didn't see that part."
The man, Rhysand was definitely fighting a smirk now.
"So you didn't read the fine print?" he asked, voice smooth, low, with the kind of tone that felt like it belonged in dark corners and whispered promises.
I could feel heat rising to my face, embarrassment and confusion tangling into something complicated and sharp.
"I—no, I didn't. I just—" I gestured helplessly at Feyre, "—you had great photos, okay?"
Feyre smiled, soft, almost kind. "That's fair." She tilted her head, eyes sweeping over me in quiet appraisal. "You can go if you're uncomfortable, of course. But you're already here."
Her tone was gentle, but there was something behind it. Something daring.
And gods help me, curiosity sparked where discomfort should've been.
I could've walked out. Should've, probably. But I didn't. Because beneath the awkwardness, there was this... pull.
Feyre's gaze was warm and steady. Rhysand's was unreadable, all shadow and intrigue.
"I—" I cleared my throat, trying for composure. "No, I mean... that would be rude. And I did come all this way."
Rhysand's mouth twitched into a grin. "Then stay," he said smoothly, gesturing toward the empty chair. "Join us. We don't bite."
Feyre's lips curved. "Not unless asked."
I exhaled a shaky laugh and slid into the seat.
Maybe I was insane. Maybe this was the strangest night of my life but as the waiter appeared with a bottle of wine and Feyre's hand brushed mine across the table, that electric hum returned, alive, dangerous, thrilling.
And I knew one thing for sure. Whatever this was... I wasn't ready to leave just yet.
The date had lasted far longer than I'd anticipated, and by the time it wound down, I was already caught in a haze of anticipation and desire.
They were... intoxicating. Playful, magnetic, completely disarming.
Every glance, every teasing smile, made my pulse quicken. Every word they spoke seemed designed to draw me closer, and I couldn't resist.
So when we all slipped into a car together, the air between us thick with unspoken promises, I didn't hesitate.
And when we arrived and the door closed behind us, it was like gravity itself pulled us toward the bedroom.
Clothes came off almost without thought, discarded with a fluidity born of familiarity, sliding across the floor as though the air itself had conspired to strip us bare.
Soon, we were all naked, limbs tangling against the soft, warm sheets of their expansive bed.
The scent of them mingled with the faint trace of candles, a heady, intoxicating aroma that made my skin tingle and my pulse pound in my ears.
"Ever had a threesome?" Feyre asked, her voice low, teasing, her lips brushing mine in a feather-light kiss before trailing down my chest.
The warmth of her breath, the soft, deliberate pressure of her lips, sent shivers racing through me, making it impossible to think of anything else.
"Mhm... like once or twice... in college," I admitted, my voice trembling as I exhaled shakily, my head falling back in surrender.
Feyre's hands roamed over me with a deliberate, teasing touch, each caress and kiss sending little jolts of pleasure cascading through my body.
"The good old days," Rhysand purred from behind her, his hands gliding slowly down her spine.
The smirk on his face made my stomach flutter with nerves and anticipation, a delicious tension weaving between us, electric and inescapable.
"Don't worry, darling... we'll take care of you," Feyre murmured, her lips finally reaching their destination at my core.
The effect was instantaneous.
My body arched, my fingers tangling in her hair as waves of heat and pleasure rolled through me, leaving me breathless and trembling.
"I—I have no doubt," I moaned, lost to sensation, feeling as though every nerve in my body had ignited.
Feyre moved with a hypnotic focus, every motion deliberate, her devotion to my pleasure total, and I was helplessly intoxicated by it.
"How does she taste, love?" Rhysand asked, that cheeky, mischievous grin still playing on his lips, eyes dark with hunger as he watched me and Feyre.
"Sweet," Feyre hummed, the vibration of her words against me making my back arch higher, my breath ragged and uneven.
Every flick of her tongue, every suck and swirl, made sparks shoot through me, and I felt utterly consumed.
My hips lifted of their own accord, desperate for more, and yet Feyre never faltered, her focus unwavering, her attention entirely on me.
Rhysand's hands roamed over her curves, teasing, tugging, stroking, sending shivers through both of us, a symphony of touch, scent, and sensation that made me dizzy with need.
Every gasp, every whispered word, every soft moan was amplified in the charged, electric silence of the room.
I could feel the heat radiating from their bodies, the subtle brush of skin on skin, the slick warmth of our intertwined forms.
Their movements were synchronised in a rhythm that was equal parts intoxicating and maddening.
My mind went utterly blank, all thought dissolved into pure sensation.
The only reality was the fire we had ignited together, the pleasure, the intimacy, the unrelenting need that coursed through every nerve ending.
I surrendered completely, letting the wave of lust carry me further than I had ever gone before.
When I came down from my high, Feyre was there, her lips glistening, her slender fingers teasing my now hypersensitive clit with a deliberate, intimate precision.
Every touch, every gentle stroke sent shivers cascading through me, leaving me trembling and gasping with lingering, delicious pleasure.
"You okay?" she asked softly, eyes dark with heat and mischief.
I could only nod, struggling to catch my breath, each inhale trembling as I tried and failed to steady the storm still raging through my body.
"I want to taste you now," I murmured, my voice husky, as I rose over her, pressing the heat of my body against hers.
I straddled her hips, feeling the slick press of her thighs against my core, the intoxicating warmth that made me ache to touch her more.
Without hesitation, I lowered myself, my lips and tongue seeking her, capturing the sweet, wet taste that had already pooled between her thighs. Just as I had anticipated, she was already aching, dripping, her body yielding beneath me with need.
"Fuck!" she cried, arching off the bed, hands clawing at the sheets with a shuddering intensity that made me groan around her.
I doubled down, my mouth and tongue moving with deliberate hunger, teasing and tasting every inch of her.
I listened to her gasps, her shaky moans, each one spurring me on, urging me to draw out every shred of pleasure from her.
"Gods... you taste incredible," I whispered, nipping and licking at the sensitive folds, delighting in the way her hips jerked and pressed back into me.
"Can't let you two have all the fun now, can I?" Rhysand murmured in my ear, his hot breath sending sparks down my spine.
His hands slid along my back, fingers grazing over sensitive skin, coaxing me into an involuntary shiver.
When I instinctively lifted my hips, he pushed into me with slow, measured ease, inch by inch.
The sensation of him filling me while my mouth worked over Feyre was dizzying, overwhelming, exquisitely tense.
Every thrust he gave pressed me harder against her, blending our movements, our moans, our shared desire into a rhythm that felt almost too perfect, almost cruel in its intensity.
"Now this... this is a sight I'll never tire of," Feyre groaned, hands tangling in my hair to lift my head for a fleeting moment, only to press me back down with a possessive, commanding push. "Don't stop."
Her words, her moans, the raw heat in her voice wrapped around me like wildfire, pulling me further into the heady, overwhelming vortex of lust and intimacy.
I responded with everything I had, my lips and tongue worshipping her, my body yielding to Rhysand's thrusts, every nerve screaming in exquisite overload.
The room became a symphony of sound, slick skin rubbing, ragged breaths, urgent whispers, and low, wet moans that punctuated every movement.
Every subtle shift, every shared touch, every synchronised breath drove us closer to the edge, each of us spiralling together toward a climax none of us wanted to face alone.
"More... please... don't stop..." Feyre moaned, her hips pressing desperately into my face, her hands gripping my shoulders as though anchoring herself to me.
I groaned around her, sucking, licking, tasting, feeling her tremble and writhe, utterly consumed.
Rhysand's hands roamed over me, kneading and teasing, his touch setting my skin on fire, pushing me deeper into the delicious torment of being claimed by both of them at once.
Every nerve ending sang. Every inch of me was taut with anticipation, arousal, and need.
And yet, the sheer, overwhelming pleasure of being wanted, of tasting them, of feeling their bodies pressed against mine in such intimate, impossible harmony, made me lose myself entirely.
I was suspended in a haze of lust and bliss, my mind nothing but a perfect, all-consuming surrender to the fire, the heat, the erotic symphony of three bodies moving as one.
I was glad—so damn glad that I had swiped right.
A/n - First part and it's basically, our reader thinking Feyre's way too beautiful to be real, skims her bio and boom—she accidentally ends up on a three-person date she did not see coming x
Now, hear me out... I have no idea if the smut actually worked out. I've written a few poly stories now but this is my first time trying to write a fxf dynamic—so if it's a little rough around the edges, I'm sorry!!
Thank you so much for reading, let me know what you think <33
Unexpected tag list - @sophieliz @azrielblue @whump-loverz @allthetroubleiveseen @galacticoceans @lilah-asteria @niiickelodeon @justtryingtosurvive02 @rosie-posie08 @mis-lil-red @cardiganconfessions @hyruledemigod20 @dnfhascorruptedme @hfeee-42 @iamrgo @insomniac-astronomer
Summary - She only wanted one night—no strings, no promises, just a little fun with the pretty girl from the app. But when her date turns out to be Feyre and her husband Rhysand, everything she thought she agreed to spins out of control.
One night becomes something she can't escape, chance encounters, lingering touches, and messages that start to feel like something more.
She keeps running, insisting it's casual—because falling for two people who already belong to each other can only end in heartbreak.
But Feyre paints her into art, Rhys looks at her like she's already his, and suddenly it's not just chemistry anymore.
It's connection. It's terrifying. It's real.
Tags - modern AU, polyamory, emotional tension, accidental love, found connection, fear of falling
Contents -
✴︎ One
✴︎ Two
✴︎ Three
✴︎ Four
✴︎ Five
ACOTAR Masterlist
A/n - As always content warnings will be at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.
This fic was another request and it is on the shorter side because the prompt wasn't very detailed—but I hope it still delivers!
This is the first time EVER since I began writing (about seven/eight years ago) that I'm writing a story with another female as one of the love interests. I just wasn't sure I could ever do it justice, but the request called for it, and I gave it my all. Please be gentle, I've poured my absolute best into this :)
Please don't hesitate to vote or comment along the way, it truly means the world to me <3
omg! Steve taking r to the mall for the first time? Or even just out to town! She needs clothes, pants or skirts that fit cause Steve’s aren’t cutting it and she gets a little lost maybe
beyond the sea au | fem, 2.3k
“People are looking at us,” Steve mutters.
You twist around. “Look?” you ask. “What?”
Steve managed to find a soft, stretchy sweater for you to wear over the rash guard, but you look like you’re having a mental breakdown in the boxers. They do not look like shorts. Steve’s pants didn’t fit you either.
“Here,” he says, holding up a skirt that looks loose but sturdy. It’s blue, and sleek, like you could wear it to the beach. Steve should’ve called Robin for advice, but he was honestly too excited to do this and didn’t want to deal with someone else overcoming the shock of a mermaid with no tail. It had been exhausting enough to do it alone.
You feel the skirt with your hands. “Good,” you say.
“Yeah?” Steve props the hanger on his finger and picks up a white wrap blouse with petal sleeves displayed beside it. “This?”
“Yes,” you say, clearly more familiar with a top than the skirt. “Me. Bikini.”
“Not a bikini, this one stays dry.”
Remarkably, your feet are the same size as Robin’s, so after Steve changed your socks and stared like a creep at your new toes, he’d helped you into a pair of converse she’d left behind. You should be good to change into the shirt and blouse now, if only so people stop looking at Steve like he’s a psychopath.
“Let’s go change,” he says.
You pick up a t-shirt with a smiley face on the front. “Happy?”
Steve adds it to your small pile. “Come on. Before we get arrested.”
He’s dragged you halfway across the store in the vague direction of the dressing rooms when he remembers you’re going to need underwear, which is… a thing. Steve folds the clothes over his arm and takes your hand before you can wander off, pulling you deeper into the women’s section, toward the very back of the store.
“Steve?”
“Getting tired?” he asks.
You’re wobbly on your new feet, but you can walk. It makes Steve think this is not the first time you’ve used them.
“Little.” You squeeze his fingers. It goes through his entire body like a shock. “Steve?”
“What do you need?” he asks, eyeing the walls. There’s a sign hanging above the pajamas that says UNDERWEAR & LINGERIE. Steve tugs you that way.
“Hold now?”
“Hold later. Underwear now.”
“Underwear?”
“Something to go…” Steve parses with the reality that you’re actually only wearing boxers right now and hurries his searching, though he does make sure to give your hand a few soft squeezes on the way.
When he finds the panties all pink and white and blue with little bows and thongs, he feels your hand like a coal. He’s buying you underwear. Peripherally, Steve was aware that this is a thing that gets some guys going, taking their girl to the store and picking out what they’re gonna wear. Even paying can be a kink. But he knows, looking at the panties, that he’s going to have to help you choose a pack, that you’ll be wearing them, and that he’s going to have to wash them, and his stomach starts to go heavy and hot as lead.
You are none the wiser to his mild perversion, pointing very subtly at the boxers you're wearing.
Steve nods. “Yeah, exactly. But for you.” He leans into your space. “You can choose.”
“Hm?”
“You,” he says, gesturing at all of them, “pick. What do you need?” ‘Want’ would be a great word to have practised with you right now.
You shrug. “Um. Steve good?”
Are you asking which ones he thinks are nice?
Steve would find his face red at the sides if he could see himself, he knows. The tips of his ears are burning too, but Steve doesn’t rush. He looks at the packs of panties and considers what a girl who hasn’t had to wear them before might like. Some girls say thongs are the most comfortable, but you… haven’t had a butt for very long, and Steve thinks that’s a lie, regardless. Or, a circumstantial case. He disregards small cuts and sets his eyes on some high legs, then the plain french, of which there aren’t very many. The high legs are about as common as a full brief, but they come in more interesting colours, and you favour your busier bikinis, so.
“How about these ones?” he asks, surprisingly calm as he takes a pack from the rack to show you. He points at the second pair, pale pink with little white flowers. “Pretty?”
“Okay.”
“Yeah, okay? Promise?”
You lean into his arm. Steve takes a steadying breath. He grabs the french cut too, then another size. He’ll just have to bite the bullet and pay for anything you try on? He doesn’t know how underwear returns work. Steve went up a brief size last year on account of all of his clothes being marginally too small for years and then suddenly massively too small. He has not bought new underwear since.
Your footsteps aren’t necessarily confident, but you don’t trip. You’re slow, but Steve can’t say he minds, more time to hold your hand and all, especially now there’s no old ladies peering at you both every ten seconds wondering why you’re dressed for a last-minute day at the river.
Steve figures you won’t waste much time looking at bras —he’ll buy you a couple of sports bras the same size as your bikinis— but you pause in front of them, lips parting in quiet awe.
There are admittedly some very beautiful bras to choose from. Not just bras…
Steve lets your hand slip out of his as you approach a mannequin wearing a pretty babydoll. “Why?” you ask, touching the mannequin's hand.
“To show the clothes,” he says. “So you can see if you like it. See if good.”
You turn back to the babydoll, running the fabric through your fingers. It’s simple, a sweet, light blue with frills and fuzz and two little pom-poms hanging from the bow at the apex of the neckline. “Good,” you say. “Can have?”
“Uh…”
“Please, if okay?”
Steve doesn’t know how to explain it, so he buckles, like, immediately. Robin will cry laughing at his pain. “Yeah, baby. Of course it’s okay.”
You try to take it off the mannequin and gasp happily when Steve magicks one from the table right next to it, in your approximate size. This is torture. You are teasing his mortal soul.
“You need, like, normal bras. You can’t wear that one all the time, so…” Steve plucks a plain grey bra from the rack. Cup sizes are not gonna work. Has he seen your boobs enough times to guess your cup size? Sure, but being friends with Robin means he has vague knowledge of womanly experiences he hadn’t before, so Steve knows what a band size is now, and that makes the cup size not the same? He isn’t sure the rest of the male population are aware of this. Eugh. At least your babydoll was in dress sizes.
“You’re gonna have to try it on,” he says.
“On?” you ask, your eyes lit with excitement.
“Oh my god,” he says, mostly because you can’t understand, “you’re the prettiest girl alive. I’m gonna die. You’re gonna kill me. Do you even feel guilty?”
You laugh at his grave tone. “Me?”
“Yeah, you.”
“Me what?” you ask.
Steve sighs, but it’s not sad. He’s riding high on the elation of your new mobility, and gives in to what we wants shamefully fast. “You are pretty,” he says, brushing your cheek with the side of his hand, knuckles, then index finger, a roll of his wrist that you wrinkle your nose at. Doesn’t matter, you can’t hide your smile. “That’s what this means. Pretty,” he strokes your cheek again, “face good. You look pretty, good.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Steve tells the fitting room assistant that you have nerve damage in your hand, and whether she believes him or just wants you to get some real clothes on, she ushers you down the hall. Steve opens the first cubicle he finds and offers you in. You glance around the tiny room with avid confusion.
“This is where we’re gonna try your clothes on,” he says. “Can I help you take these off?”
You shrug out of the jacket yourself. It’s strange. You don’t move with the clumsiness of a child, because the brain pathways are all there and sharp, but you’re unused to removing layers like this. You do much better with flat sheets and towels.
Steve helps you out of the rash guard first, presented with soft skin and softer fat. He touches your shoulder quick and turns to grab the bra, slipping it off of the hanger. You’re used to this song and dance, standing still and unbothered as Steve sews your arms through the straps and leans over your shoulder to hook the back closed. It takes a little longer than the bikini, and Steve is overly aware of your breasts pressing into his chest as he helps, but he– kind of loves it? Like, it’s not sex. He could probably find dressing you hot, and this is hot, arguably, if only because he likes you and he likes thinking about you undressed when he’s alone after long days, but it’s also normal. He pulls away from you and hooks his finger under the band, trying to check the fit. “I think it has to be tight enough that you don’t chafe, but you don’t wanna fall out of it?” He glances at you both in the mirror. The bra cups you nicely. “Can you turn around? I’ll fix the straps.”
“Hm?”
He takes your shoulders into his hands. “Turn around,” he says softly, encouraging your back to him.
Tightening the straps is a total mindfuck, but he does it. The fit is better when you turn back, so Steve figures this is a win and pulls the tag off of the bra, careful not to have it snap against your skin.
Steve tries not to get into his head as he takes your hips into the slightest of holds. It is scary to feel like you don’t know enough about your privacy to consider it, but Steve believes that you should still have it. “Okay, I think you can do this by yourself. You managed the boxers, right?”
Steve breaks open a pack of panties and shakes out a pair. “Can you put these on?” He gestures to your hips.
You smile at him. Steve closes his eyes as you hook your thumbs in the boxers and is perfectly unaware of you as you take them off. Your hand shoots out to grab him at one point and he steadies you, listening to the shush of fabric being pulled up your legs and snapped into place.
He peeks. The panties are on.
“Okay, awesome. Thank you, smart girl,” he says, doubly pleased when you recognise ‘smart’ and whack his arm lightly.
You look goofy in your cons and your underwear. Steve snorts, grabbing the skit he’d chosen and holding it open for you to step into. Again, you steady yourself heavily on him as you do. Steve’s thumbs brush up your thighs as he pulls it up.
Thankfully, the skirt fits nicely. Sits pretty on your hips and kisses at your calves in waves. “That suits you,” he says, clearing his throat.
“On, please,” you say, pointing at the delicate blouse he’d chosen earlier.
You raise your arm. Steve is a fool for this, knowing absolutely that you need no help with sleeves and helping you into it anyhow. He smooths it down, taking the two steps back the cubicle allows, and feels his face split with a smile.
Your mermaid form is beautiful. Without human touch, your stretches of skin, your beautiful dark scales, the shine that he catches on your eyes, and chin, and your roughed up elbows. He can’t see the shine as much now you’ve left your scales behind, but you’re still beautiful. In different ways, but still so pretty. And this outfit—
Maybe Steve has that thing about dressing women.
“You look amazing,” he says.
It’s so you. Something airy and sweet to match your teasing, your playfulness, your languidity.
You might be clumsy on land, but you’re lovely. The kind that doesn’t go away.
Your eyes track your figure in the mirror. You turn back and forth, watching your skirt swish against your skin, your arms held out. “Pretty,” you say, nodding proudly. “Thank you. Need you.”
Steve doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, and he just can’t help himself clearly, toying uselessly with the short sleeve on your blouse to have an excuse to prolong the moment.
He collects all the tags, your discarded clothes, and piles your new collection of panties in his arms to take to the checkout. “We’ll get you some stuff for your hair next, I promise.”
“Hold me?” you ask.
Steve laughs aloud, “With what arms?”
You pout, leaning heavily into his side. “Tired now.”
“You’re tired now?”
“I’m tired,” you confirm.
He hums sympathetically. “Okay. No hair stuff. All we have to do is pay for your clothes and we’ll go home, and you can sleep. Is that good?”
“Home and sleep?” you confirm.
Steve wants to drag you in to plant a kiss against your temple, but he shouldn’t. “Promise.”
Like you can hear what he’s thinking, you pull his hand to your mouth and kiss it, jostling his arm, and sending half of the things he’d been carrying through the gap. It all hits the floor with a smack.
“Sorry,” you say, rushing to bend down and collect it, and ending up in a lump on the floor beside the mess, unused to your new centre of gravity.
So obsessed with this series. Steve and Mer!reader are the only thing getting me through a brutal sinus infection and I need them to end up happily ever after on a ridiculous level 🥹✨
A steve harrington x reader fanfiction | multi-chapter | teacher!steve harrington & teacher!reader | enemies to lovers
warnings: reader matches steve's freak... meaning shes a total bitch diva. when i say enemies. actual enemies. slow burn. no pre-existing feelings. they both don't like one another.
summary: You and Steve are not friends. You never were, and if you had it your way, never will be. You almost found it funny that, of course, your first year teaching, you're right next door to the man you hate most.
first chapter on december 11th
a/n: Here's a sneak peak.
Walking into Hawkins High as a member of the faculty feels disorienting in a way you weren’t prepared for. Even though you’ve told yourself a hundred times that this is different now. You’re different now. It still feels strange to approach the same building you once sulked into as a student, only this time with a lanyard around your neck and a folder full of handouts you’re supposed to use to shape young minds. The morning air is damp, warm in that late-September way, and the sun is just beginning to catch on the glass of the front doors as you push them open. Inside, the scent of industrial floor wax and new binders hits you immediately, familiar and oddly unsettling, like an old memory brushing past your arm without asking.
The silence settles across the hallway in a way that makes you hyper-aware of your own footsteps. Hawkins High looks different now. It was new banners, new paint, the faint hum of brand-new fluorescent lights reborn after two years of disaster recovery, but there are pieces of the old place that cling stubbornly to the bones of the building. You try not to think about that as you head toward your classroom in the English wing, reminding yourself that you belong here. You earned this, even if the “fast-track program” was the government’s way of pretending sympathy counts as reparations. Six months of condensed coursework, six months of grief simmering under your ribs, and now here you are. A first-year teacher in a half-rebuilt high school that still doesn’t feel entirely real.
You tell yourself the nerves are normal. Everyone gets nervous. Everyone second guesses whether they’re qualified. Everyone wonders whether the students will smell fear like blood in the water. You tell yourself that the unease has nothing to do with the classroom next door, and you keep telling yourself that even though the hallway is empty and no one is here to accuse you of lying.
When you reach your door, you stop short because it isn’t closed all the way. The metal latch rests against the frame instead of inside it, leaving a thin slice of light visible from within. For a moment, you just stand there, feeling your heartbeat tick upward in that slow, creeping way it does whenever your instincts whisper that something is off. You know this feeling by now. You’ve walked into it half a dozen times over the summer. You place a hand against the door, push it open the rest of the way, and the sight that greets you is enough to drain every drop of ease from your body.
Your classroom looks wrong.
Not destroyed, no overturned desks, no graffiti, nothing so dramatic. but wrong in the quiet, deliberate way that makes you want to grind your teeth. You step further inside, your eyes narrowing as you take in the evidence. Your library shelf, the one you spent hours organizing alphabetically with little stickers for each genre, is completely reversed. Every single book has been turned around so that the spines face the wall, leaving only the pages visible in uneven white lines. It looks ridiculous. It looks intentional. It looks like someone had far too much time on their hands.
Your pencil jar is half empty again, the green highlighters missing just like they were the last time and the time before that. You scan the room, noticing that your carefully pinned bulletin board border. It was a soft, calming forest green chosen specifically because it didn’t clash with anything but now has been replaced by a loudly patterned strip of yellow paper decorated with tiny basketballs. You stare at it in disbelief, because you certainly didn’t buy it, and you’re quite certain no one else would have picked something so aggressively obnoxious for an English room.
As you cross the room, your gaze lands on the final insult. Your desk chair perched neatly on top of your desk, balanced perfectly like a smug little trophy. It’s not knocked over or precarious or even messy. It’s placed. Arranged. Presented with the kind of careful precision that makes your stomach knot with irritation.
You exhale slowly, the kind of exhale that isn’t calming at all. You close your eyes for a moment, feeling the tension prickling beneath your skin, and when you open them again the chair is still staring down at you like it knows exactly what it’s doing.
“Harrington,” you whisper, the name so bitter it tastes metallic.
A steve harrington x reader fanfiction | multi-chapter | teacher!steve harrington & teacher!reader | enemies to lovers
words: 3,706
warnings: reader matches steve's freak... meaning shes a total bitch diva. when i say enemies. actual enemies. slow burn. no pre-existing feelings. they both don't like one another. angst.
summary: You and Steve are not friends. You never were, and if you had it your way, never will be. You almost found it funny that, of course, your first year teaching, you're right next door to the man you hate most.
a/n: i've been so excited to share this.
songs:
black horse and the cherry tree- kt tunsell | rich girl- daryl hall and john oats
playlist | masterlist
chapter 1
Walking into Hawkins High as a member of the faculty feels disorienting in a way you weren’t prepared for. Even though you’ve told yourself a hundred times that this is different now. You’re different now. It still feels strange to approach the same building you once sulked into as a student, only this time with a lanyard around your neck and a folder full of handouts you’re supposed to use to shape young minds. The morning air is damp, warm in that late-September way, and the sun is just beginning to catch on the glass of the front doors as you push them open. Inside, the scent of industrial floor wax and new binders hits you immediately, familiar and oddly unsettling, like an old memory brushing past your arm without asking.
The silence settles across the hallway in a way that makes you hyper-aware of your own footsteps. Hawkins High looks different now. It was new banners, new paint, the faint hum of brand-new fluorescent lights reborn after two years of disaster recovery, but there are pieces of the old place that cling stubbornly to the bones of the building. You try not to think about that as you head toward your classroom in the English wing, reminding yourself that you belong here. You earned this, even if the “fast-track program” was the government’s way of pretending sympathy counts as reparations. Six months of condensed coursework, six months of grief simmering under your ribs, and now here you are. A first-year teacher in a half-rebuilt high school that still doesn’t feel entirely real.
You tell yourself the nerves are normal. Everyone gets nervous. Everyone second-guesses whether they’re qualified. Everyone wonders whether the students will smell fear like blood in the water. You tell yourself that the unease has nothing to do with the classroom next door, and you keep telling yourself that even though the hallway is empty and no one is here to accuse you of lying.
When you reach your door, you stop short because it isn’t closed all the way. The metal latch rests against the frame instead of inside it, leaving a thin slice of light visible from within. For a moment, you just stand there, feeling your heartbeat tick upward in that slow, creeping way it does whenever your instincts whisper that something is off. You know this feeling by now. You’ve walked into it half a dozen times over the summer. You place a hand against the door, push it open the rest of the way, and the sight that greets you is enough to drain every drop of ease from your body.
Your classroom looks wrong.
Not destroyed, no overturned desks, no graffiti, nothing so dramatic. but wrong in the quiet, deliberate way that makes you want to grind your teeth. You step further inside, your eyes narrowing as you take in the evidence. Your library shelf, the one you spent hours organizing alphabetically with little stickers for each genre, is completely reversed. Every single book has been turned around so that the spines face the wall, leaving only the pages visible in uneven white lines. It looks ridiculous. It looks intentional. It looks like someone had far too much time on their hands.
Your pencil jar is half empty again, the green highlighters missing just like they were the last time and the time before that. You scan the room, noticing that your carefully pinned bulletin board border. It was a soft, calming forest green chosen specifically because it didn’t clash with anything but now has been replaced by a loudly patterned strip of yellow paper decorated with tiny basketballs. You stare at it in disbelief, because you certainly didn’t buy it, and you’re quite certain no one else would have picked something so aggressively obnoxious for an English room.
As you cross the room, your gaze lands on the final insult. Your desk chair perched neatly on top of your desk, balanced perfectly like a smug little trophy. It’s not knocked over or precarious or even messy. It’s placed. Arranged. Presented with the kind of careful precision that makes your stomach knot with irritation.
You exhale slowly, the kind of exhale that isn’t calming at all. You close your eyes for a moment, feeling the tension prickling beneath your skin, and when you open them again the chair is still staring down at you like it knows exactly what it’s doing.
“Harrington,” you whisper, the name so bitter it tastes metallic.
It’s not that you have proof. You never have proof. But after a summer of finding your posters shifted two inches lower, your chalkboard chalk arranged in rainbow order except for green mysteriously missing, your lesson plan binder shuffled, and that one time a basketball appeared on your stool like some kind of deranged calling card, you don’t feel the need for proof. You don’t need to catch him in the act. You’ve known Steve Harrington long enough to recognize the pattern. The childishness. The infuriating blend of confidence and carelessness that defined him in high school and, apparently, still trickles into adulthood.
You lift the chair down from your desk with more force than necessary, the legs clattering loudly against the hardwood floor. For a moment, you just stand there, fingers tight around the backrest, breathing through the familiar, simmering frustration that comes whenever he inches anywhere near your life. It’s not that you think he’s malicious. He never was that. But he was thoughtless. Entitled. He floated through high school on charm and hair and stupid smiles, skating by while people like Jonathan struggled and people like Nancy picked up the pieces. And people like you… well. People like you slipped through the cracks unnoticed, invisible except when someone needed an extra body to fill a group project or to take notes for them.
Every little prank, if that’s even what they are, takes you right back to that feeling. Small. Overlooked. Unimportant.
You shake your head, refusing to let the thought fester. You smooth your hand across your desk, straighten a stack of syllabi that were slightly off-center, and pull down the garish basketball border with a sharp tug that’s far more satisfying than it should be. This is your room. Your job. Your first year. You refuse to let him turn it into a joke.
He doesn’t get to matter, you tell yourself as you restore your space piece by piece. He doesn’t get to crawl under your skin like he used to. He doesn’t get to ruin the one thing you’ve worked for since the world fell apart. You’re not sixteen anymore, and you’re not letting him drag you back there.
You’ve barely restored your room to something resembling sanity when the hallway begins filling with scattered teacher voices drifting through open doors. Most of them belong to people you’ve never met. It was new hires brought in through the same fast-track program you used, or older teachers returning after months of reconstruction, so the sound is a mix of introductions, half-joking complaints about early mornings, and animated reunions between coworkers who managed to cling to normalcy through the end of the world.
You sling your bag over your shoulder and step into the hallway just as a door opens beside you. You don’t have to look to know whose it is. Hiis presence hits you a split second before the visual does, like the universe’s own warning alarm system.
Steve Harrington strolls out of his classroom with that same maddeningly casual energy he carried in high school, like he’s never once walked with urgency in his entire life. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, his hair somehow already perfectly tousled despite the hour, and he locks his door with a quick twirl of his key that seems entirely too pleased with itself. Then his attention shifts to you, and there it is. It was that insufferable smirk curling at the corner of his mouth, the one that makes you want to turn around and walk straight back into your classroom forever.
“Well, good morning, neighbor,” he drawls, his voice carrying an easy, mock-cheerful tone that feels specifically engineered to raise your blood pressure. “Your door was already open. Means you’re excited for the first day?”
“Or someone can’t mind their own business,” you answer immediately, sidestepping him as you move down the hall. You don’t break stride, but he falls in step beside you anyway, like this is some kind of reunion tour you agreed to participate in.
“You talking about me?” he asks, and he sounds amused in a way that only makes your irritation sharpen. “Because I really don’t have the time or energy to snoop in your room every five minutes.”
“Funny,” you say, keeping your eyes ahead as you walk. “Considering my library was rearranged into a literal book graveyard this morning.”
He gives a low whistle. “That sounds like a lot of effort.”
“Exactly,” you snap. “Your effort.”
“Wow,” he replies, and you can hear the grin in his voice without even looking at him. “You really think I’m that invested in you.”
You glare at him, wishing the look could burn straight through his skull. “I think you’ve been a pain in my ass since 1984.”
“Come on,” he says lightly, “at least give me ’83. I was already annoying by then.”
Your inhale is sharp, pointed, meant to signal the end of this conversation, but he seems content to follow along like some golden retriever you didn’t invite on your walk. You pick up your pace as you near the cafeteria as it was temporary headquarters for the district’s in-service week, but he keeps up easily, hands swinging casually at his sides.
When you push the cafeteria doors open, the room is already bustling with teachers settling into their cliques like homing pigeons. Long tables stretch across the space, each one covered in tidy stacks of welcome packets, schedule drafts, and complimentary pens that look cheap enough to break in half with a single thought. At the far corner, you spot Robin sitting with the band director and the French teacher, animatedly waving her hands about something you can’t hear. Her excitement radiates across the room, and you briefly consider sitting near her before you realize there’s only one open seat left. It was at the very back, next to the wall.
You also realize, unfortunately, that Steve notices it at the same exact moment.
You meet his eyes.
He meets yours.
Neither of you says a word.
But the challenge hangs there, suspended in the air, as obvious as if someone had rang a bell and shouted, “Go.”
You both move.
You’re faster and it’s probably because spite is one hell of a motivator, but he’s right behind you, long strides eating up the distance like this is the Olympics of petty behavior. You reach the chair first, grip the back of it triumphantly, and slide into it with all the dignity of a warrior claiming conquered land. When you look up to deliver a victorious glare, however, he’s nowhere in sight.
Instead, you hear soft murmuring near the front of the cafeteria.
You turn your head just enough to see him. He was four tables away, bending down to pull out a chair for one of the freshman history teachers. She’s heavily pregnant, moving with the kind of slow, careful sway that suggests she’s thirty seconds from going into labor amid the lunch tables. Steve settles the chair behind her gently, saying something you can’t make out, and she beams at him as though he’s personally solved her entire life.
“Thank you so much, Steve,” she gushes, lowering herself into the seat with visible relief. You could hear her shower him with comments that he had always been such a nice sweet boy.
A few nearby teachers nod approvingly, murmuring compliments in his direction. One of them, a woman in a thick knit sweater covered in tiny embroidered apples, turns to look at you, her expression cool and distinctly unimpressed, as if she’s just discovered you shoved the pregnant teacher yourself.
Your mouth opens slightly, then closes again just as quickly. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. You didn’t do anything wrong. You simply… sat down.
But the heat prickling across the back of your neck doesn’t care about logic. It blooms higher when two more teachers glance your way, following the apple-sweater woman’s line of sight. There’s judgment in their faces. It was not sharp, not overt, just a soft, lingering disapproval that settles into your bones with familiar weight.
Because it doesn’t matter what you did. All anyone sees is Steve being helpful. And you… not being him.
The irritation that follows doesn’t come from guilt. It comes from recognition. This is how it has always worked, he smiles, the world smiles back, and you are the misplaced, overlooked shadow in the corner of the frame.
You straighten in your chair, set your shoulders back, and lift your chin with a quiet defiance. You are not going to compete with Steve Harrington for moral high ground. You are not going to explain yourself to strangers. And you are certainly not going to let the first staff meeting of your teaching career begin with you feeling like the villain in a story you didn’t even sign up for.
But as Mr. Higgins, the high school principal, taps the microphone to begin the session and the room hushes, you can’t help glancing toward Steve again, irritation still simmering beneath your ribs.
He’s smiling at something the pregnant teacher says, that easy, effortless grin he’s mastered since adolescence. You look away before the sight can twist anything deeper.
By the time lunch rolls around, you’ve survived the Mr. Higgins entire welcome-back presentation, three separate handouts about safety procedures, and a twenty-minute tangent about proper hall-pass distribution delivered by the vice principal, as if Hawkins High has not literally collapsed into an interdimensional pit before. You’re fairly certain your soul left your body somewhere between “new copier protocols” and “updated club guidelines.”
The teacher’s lounge is a cramped, mismatched room tucked beside the library, smelling faintly of burnt coffee and disinfectant wipes. The chairs don’t match, the tables wobble, and the vending machine hums loud enough to vibrate your water bottle. But it is quiet. It is cooler than the rest of the building. And Robin has already saved you a seat across from her.
She’s mid-story about her girlfriend, Vickie, and their date last night, when the door swings open again. The energy in the room shifts a little. It was just enough for your shoulders to tighten.
Steve walks in, already laughing at something one of the other coaches said behind him. You tense reflexively, as if your body has been conditioned to brace itself at the sound of him. You look down at your sandwich, determined not to give him a single second of acknowledgment.
But of course, because the universe thrives on your suffering, he makes a beeline for the table.
He doesn’t take the empty seat by Robin. Doesn’t sit with the group he came in with. Nope. He stops beside you.
And then he pulls out the chair right next to yours, close enough that his knee nearly nudges your leg, and sits facing you.
You scowl before you can stop yourself. “What.”
He frowns, not dramatically but just enough to be annoying. His eyes flick down at your lunch, then up at your face. “You enjoying your lunch?”
You lift your sandwich slowly, calmly, deliberately. “Yep,” you say, voice smooth, cool, utterly unbothered. “Delicious.”
Robin groans into her hands. “Jesus Christ, can you two not start this before the students even get here? It’s September. I cannot referee this for ten months.”
Neither of you look at her. Neither of you say you’ll stop.
You keep your gaze carefully fixed on the table, refusing to give him the satisfaction of direct eye contact. “Why?” you ask mildly, as if you didn’t already know exactly where this is going.
Steve leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “I went to my room to grab my food and the crazy thing is… I couldn’t find it.”
You let the silence stretch, savoring it.
Then you smile. It was slow, sweet, polite in the most venomous way imaginable, and took a large bite of your peanut butter and jelly sandwich… that was definitely not yours. You had forgotten to pack your lunch of all things.
His eyes narrow instantly.
“I locked my door,” he says flatly.
You swallow, dab the corner of your mouth with your napkin, and tilt your head. “You know,” you say lightly, “the janitor, Mrs. Phillips, remembers me from high school. I used to bring her cookies during finals week. She’s very sweet. Very helpful.” Another bite. Another bright, innocent smile. “I told her I left something in your room.”
Robin’s mouth falls open. “You did not.”
You absolutely did.
Steve inhales, long and slow through his nose, the kind of breath someone takes when they’re trying not to swear in a breakroom. Then he lets it out in a laugh that isn’t amused at all.
“Well,” he says, wiping a hand across the table like he’s clearing the air, “I just got back from talking to Mr. Higgins.”
Robin perks up. “About what?”
Steve doesn’t look at you. Thank God, but his voice carries that irritating ease again, the kind that makes you grind your molars. “Dustin begged me to convince Higgins to let Hellfire Club come back. And…” He spreads his hands like he’s presenting a magic trick. “After some negotiating, I got him to agree.”
Robin leans forward, impressed despite herself. “How did you manage that? Higgins has shut Henderson down for the past two years.”
Steve leans back, grin widening. “You know, I talked about how it’s Dustin and his friends’ senior year and it’d probably fizzle out once they graduated. I then promised they would change the name instead of Hellfire.”
Robin snorts.
He continues. “And that they would have two staff sponsors. At least one of them is required at all meetings.”
“Of course you’re one of them,” Robin says dryly.
Steve proudly nods.
Then she narrows her eyes. “So who exactly did you rope into being the other one?”
And that’s when it happens.
Robin turns her head. Her gaze lands on you. And her entire face twists into a look of dawning horror.
“Oh no,” she whispers.
Your stomach drops. You turn slowly, stiffly, to look at Steve.
He’s smiling. No he’s grinning. It’s broad and bright and arrogant in a way that makes your pulse spike with pure, boiling fury.
“I told Higgins,” he says casually, “how much you were dying to be involved. And how you already have a great relationship with those kids.”
Then, because he is the devil, he winks.
For a moment, the room feels too still, like someone pressed pause in the middle of your breath. You stare at Steve, unable to process the sheer audacity of the wink. Robin is shaking her head, mouthing something that might be I’m so sorry, but your ears buzz too loudly to catch it.
“Why,” you finally say, each word sharp and clipped, “would you tell him that?”
Steve lifts his shoulders in an easy shrug, as if this is a conversation about borrowing a stapler instead of sabotaging your after-school life for the foreseeable future. “Well, I had to think about it,” he begins, tapping his fingers against the table in a steady, irritating rhythm that seems to sync directly with your pulse. “Realistically? I’m not gonna be able to make most of the meetings. Coaching responsibilities takes over my schedule. And Robin already signed herself up for AV and Spanish club. So I thought to myself, ‘who’s someone that has no life, is definitely single, and won’t have anything better to do after school?’”
The words land with a thud you feel in your gut. Your jaw drops. Robin makes a strangled noise like she’s choking on her own tongue.
“I do too have a life,” you snap, louder than you intended. Heat climbs up your neck, flushing your ears, your chest, the back of your scalp. “And you can’t just… just volunteer me for something without asking! That’s not how anything works, Steve! Ever!”
He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t even meet your fury with equal heat. He just smirks.That same maddening, slow, self-satisfied smirk that has irritated you since the tenth grade when he used it to get out of trouble for almost everything he ever did.
He reaches forward casually, plucking the unopened bag of chips sitting near your elbow. Before you can pull it back, he’s already taken it. Then he swipes the cookie from your napkin with the same smooth motion, tucking both into his palm.
“Hey—!” you start, half rising from your seat, as if you had a claim on the lunch you had stolen. Finders keepers, you wanted to yell at him.
He takes a bite of the cookie before he even finishes standing up, nodding thoughtfully as if critiquing a gourmet dessert.
“You shouldn’t have taken my lunch,” he says simply, voice soft, almost conversational. No venom. No anger. Just matter-of-fact triumph that makes your skin prickle.
Then, without waiting for your response, without a glance back toward Robin, without any sign of remorse, he heads for the door, chip bag rustling in his hand, crumbs dusting the corner of his mouth.
He leaves you sitting there, your pulse thundering, your sandwich half-eaten, and an entire room of teachers quietly pretending not to watch the aftermath of whatever the hell just happened.
Robin leans forward, elbows on the table, and exhales a long, exhausted sigh.
“You two,” she says, staring at you like she’s trying to diagnose a terminal condition, “are absolutely going to kill me.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Your mind is too busy replaying every second of the encounter, each detail sharpening the white-hot irritation sitting behind your ribs.And somehow he walked away like he won.
twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)
→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn
→ warnings: strong language, smut (oral, f receiving), overload of cheesiness, upside down does not exist, minors dni
→ wc: 11.8k+
→ a/n: this might be the cheesiest, fluffiest thing i've ever written, and i can't even be bothered to care. it might be unrealistic. it might be too much. i do not care. this has been a long time coming and i think we all deserve all the cheese after this story.
i don't even know what to say besides thank you. thank you to everyone who followed along from the beginning, to those of you joined the journey along the way, to those of you who are reading as we finish it up. thank you for all the support and love you guys have shown this fic. i will always, always, appreciate it more than i know how to say. i love these idiots, and i love you all.
if you would like to see this story continued through small blurbs, my ask box is officially open to requests from this universe. i will also probably be posting some "beyond the hours" content over the next few weeks.
thank you. i love you.
without further ado...
masterlist.
spotify playlist.
EPILOGUE: A BET
TWO MONTHS LATER
“Why are there so many fuckin’ options?”
Eddie stares at the line up of smartphones before him, all different models and different physical sizes, different colors and different memory amounts.
“There’s not that many,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around him from behind as you rest your chin on his shoulder. It’s a bit of a stretch, making you lean up onto your tippy toes, “Besides, isn’t having options a good thing?”
He scoffs as he brings a hand up subconsciously to where your arms overlap on his torso, grip gentle as he runs a thumb over your skin and gives a squeeze, “Sure, options are great. But there’s at least twenty different iPhones on display here, sweetheart.”
The last few months had been interesting, to say the least. A new and exciting journey initially, but also a fairly stressful ordeal given all the hoops you two had been jumping through. You’re both busy people, having to suddenly figure out how to carve out a specific space for each other amongst bustling lives. It wasn’t the same as making time for friends or a weekly night out; it was figuring out times for dates, times for lazy afternoons, times for just you and just Eddie.
And, occasionally, time to take Eddie shopping for a new phone. Finally.
“Well, better pick one fast,” your fingers dig into his side playful, and he blows out an annoyed breath as he side-eyes you. You only retaliate in a fast peck to his cheek before whispering in his ear, “We’re gonna be late if you keep taking all day.”
It was Argyle’s birthday party tonight. His actual birthday wasn’t for another week, but he’d be venturing back home to California for that. And so the group elected to throw him a preemptive party at one of the group’s favorite bars.
Which — fine. Awesome. You were excited, you really were: you loved Argyle, you loved your friends, you even found yourself warming back up to parties.
But your friends didn’t know.
Two whole months, and neither you nor Eddie had told a single soul of what had become between you two. Not even Steve. Not even Nancy.
At first the excuse was to give this time to grow, to find your footing before you brought your lovable yet rambunctious group of friends into the equation. But then you two had found your footing, and you’d worried what they would say. Eddie had nearly made himself sick with anxiety over Nancy finding out he’d kept this relationship from her. They’d support you two — that wasn’t a worry. They’d proven that since the first time the entire group had hung out after the bet.
“So,” Robin started, narrowing her eyes at you and Eddie sitting on opposite ends of her and Steve’s couch. Neither of you had said a word to each other yet (Plenty had already been said that morning as you’d snuck him out of your dorm), “You two really aren’t together?”
“Why is everyone so adamant that the bet has to end with us getting together?” you jeered.
Eddie didn’t help the cause when he was quick to take your side, “Exactly! The bet’s over. We lasted twenty four hours. We’re friends now — isn’t that what you guys wanted?”
“I actually wanted to help you dudes plan a winter wedding,” Argyle chimed from the kitchen where he was retrieving a coke, “So I’m gonna side with Birdie on this one.”
“Of course you are,” you muttered beneath your breath.
Everything in you ached to be sitting next to Eddie rather than so far. You ached for his arm around you, his lips pressed to your temple. Just to share body heat, even — innocent thighs brushing with layers of denim between would have been enough.
“It’ll happen eventually,” Nancy mused from her seat on the kitchen counter, Jonathan beside her and matching her confident energy with a sly grin, “Just give them time.”
What they hadn’t realized is that it already did happen. The moment Eddie showed up to your dorm and the two of you said to Hell with space, it was inevitable.
Now, it was just the challenge of letting your friends in on the secret.
“What about the red one?” Eddie asks you as you finally unravel from him.
“Of course you’re choosing the red one.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he scowls, no malice behind it as you step up to occupy the space next to him, brushing shoulders for only a moment before his hand is grabbing yours, intertwining fingers like second nature.
You recall that moment on his balcony, where he had once been so nervous and hesitant to hold your hand.
“Nothing,” you shake your head, smiling to yourself as you look at the specific model he was talking about, “You’re just getting a little bit predictable, Munson.”
He opens his mouth to argue, to nip back at what you always offer him, when one of the salesmen approach you two.
“Hi folks! Can I help you with anything today?”
Eddie squeezes your hand, no doubt in an effort to withhold his laughter at the man’s overly chirpy tone. You squeeze back, if for nothing more than to let him know you felt him.
Despite Eddie’s previous claim to a decision, he still chooses to entertain the man. Asking questions about different models, inquiring for recommendations as if they’d change his mind. They go back and forth, both polite enough, but the conversation easily bores you. In five seconds flat, your mind has officially wandered off.
You two hadn’t really discussed the specific details of the night to come. Whether you’d ride with Eddie there, how you’d navigate Eddie’s natural born clinginess once he got a few drinks in him, if tonight might be the night to finally tell your friends.
The last one felt a bit obvious. It was Argyle’s night — you didn’t want to snatch the attention from him for even a second.
But there were layers to your anxiety. Because it was more than just how to navigate how you two would display yourselves to your friends on nights out.
It had been two months, and you still hadn’t said those three little words back to Eddie.
He didn’t pressure you. He never once brought it back up, never once pressured you. But just because he wasn’t constantly reminding you vocally that he loved you didn’t mean you didn’t feel it. You’d felt it, impossible to miss, when all those lazy morning fantasies became reality. You felt it during movie marathons and you felt it every time he’d worship your body. It was there — in the late nights, in the early mornings, in the dull afternoons. A wild thing unleashed in your gardens, all those vines you’d worked so hard to see flourish threatened to be torn up by impatient claws at the feeling growing rapidly in your chest every time you looked at him.
And slowly, surely, you knew that there was only so much longer that like could suffice in describing your feelings for Eddie.
You were falling, whether he was aware or not. You just needed to figure out the right moment for those three little words to unstick, to go from hot honey on your tongue to easy breaths between you two. He’s given you time, he’d filled the months you’d awarded him with making up for every previously bitter exchange, and yet you still couldn’t give him this. And you’re starting to believe maybe that’s why you couldn’t imagine telling your friends yet.
You sort of hated yourself for it.
You’re pulled back to reality once the salesman departs, no doubt into the back to grab Eddie’s choice of phone. You don’t even have to ask; you know he got the red one.
“Hey,” Eddie fully turns to you, bringing your knuckles to his lips in chaste kisses. Your stomach still kicks with flutters, your heart still warms at the gesture. Eddie’s affection has yet to lose novelty, “Where’d you go?”
“What do you mean?” you twist your face, “I was here the entire tim-“
“Not where’d you physically go,” he clarifies, letting your conjoined hands drop back to the sliver of space between your bodies, “Mentally. Where’d your mind just go?”
You hadn’t thought he’d notice your drifting.
“Nowhere,” you shrug off.
“Nowhere? So you’re really just that interested in the newest iPhone model?”
He pointedly looks up at the widescreen display you don’t doubt you’d been blankly staring at the entirety of his conversation with the man who had yet to return.
“Oh, absolutely. You know me so well.”
All bark, no bite. These days, all the previous venom that had infected exchanges with Eddie prior to the bet had finally been sucked clean from the wound, long gone to make room for all the genuine affection to seep into its place. You still argued — or perhaps bantered was a better word for it — but you didn’t fight. You both still grated on one another’s nerves and managed to slither beneath the other’s skin, but not in an unwelcome way.
It was a nice change.
It made you hate yourself even more for not saying those three little words.
Eddie seemingly reads your mind, “Are you nervous for tonight?”
“I-“ you consider lying to him and saying it hadn’t even crossed your mind, but the look he gives you warns against it, “We just haven’t… discussed it.”
“What’s there to discuss?”
You hold up your interlocked hands for emphasis, raising your eyebrows at Eddie.
His mouth falls open softly, eyes widening, “Oh. Are you- Are you wanting to tell them tonight?”
No, your gut screams, absolutely not tonight.
“Is Argyle’s birthday party really the best time to explode their minds?”
You try to keep your tone teasing as you sense Eddie’s own nerves creeping up. Sometimes it was fun, standing in a room with everyone and pretending to be more akin to strangers than lovers. But sometimes, it was just plain painful. Sometimes, the entire group would be laughing at something, and you craved nothing more than to be pressed into Eddie’s side and feel the vibrations of his shared joy rather than just having to listen to it from across the room.
It’s not that you wanted to tell your friends and cause a scene — you just didn’t want to have to hide anymore. And maybe you wouldn’t have to, if you’d just tell him how you felt.
“Probably not,” Eddie murmurs, “I mean, it’s his night. We can always tell them the next time we all get together.”
The issue is that’s what the two of you always say. You always brush it off for the next time.
You can only sigh in defeat as you see the salesman finally bounding back out from the back room, a small box holding Eddie’s purchase in his grip, “Yeah. Next time.”
You can’t even be mad at next time. It’s the same thing you tell yourself every time you felt those words on the tip of your tongue, so close yet so far from revealing the most terrifying truth you’d discovered yet to Eddie.
You let go of his hand long enough for him to check out, hardly overhearing when he questions how they can transfer all the data from his current flip phone. When he seems particularly worried about pictures transferring, you don’t think anything of it.
—
STEVE-O: do i need to pick you up tonight?
You don’t see the text. You’re a bit busy with something when it comes through.
Something is currently still between your legs, curls threaded between your fingers as your back arches off his mattress and his name starts to come out as a desperate whimper rather than a chant.
STEVE-O: ???
The initial buzz of your phone on his nightstand doesn’t phase either of you. Eddie’s tongue still works you eagerly, circling your clit as you tug particularly harshly at his roots. Each flick sends white hot pleasure through your bones, nearly making you see stars.
“Fuck,” you gasp out when he brings his fingers into the mix. You can feel his smile against you as he curls his fingers inside of you, mimicking a come hither motion and relishing in your little pants as your thighs tighten around his shoulders, “Oh, fuck. Right there, Eddie. I- Eddie.”
The way you’re moaning his name only encourages him as he slips in a second finger, stretching you further. You feel cool metal bumping your entrance, sending shocks up your spine as his lips suction against you and he sucks hard.
He hadn’t even taken the time to remove his rings when the two of you had gotten home. He had been too eager, dragging you to his bedroom with his lips attached to your neck from the moment he’d shut the front door behind the two of you until he’d thrown you down on his bed.
“That’s right, baby,” his voice vibrates against your clit, “Say my name. Tell everyone who’s making you feel this goo-“
STEVE-O: helllooooo????
“Okay, who the fuck keeps texting you?” Eddie finally pulls back when he realizes you’re slipping out of that bubble he’d created, your head having turned towards the nightstand in curiosity, “Let me guess, it’s your other boyfriend?”
Your head is still spinning and your chest continues to heave from that lingering pleasure he’d been offering so generously to you. He sounds annoyed, but you can guarantee you’re even more irked.
“I don’t have another boyfriend,” you blandly reply, not taking his bait.
It only makes him wrap his hands around your thighs on his shoulder, giving a playful squeeze as you reach out for your phone.
“You sure?”
You squint at the notifications, but don’t properly read them, only rolling your eyes at both the fact that Steve’s the one interrupting this precious moment and at Eddie’s valiant teasing.
You slam the phone back down, eyes trailing down to his, “I am, but I can certainly find another boyfriend if you don’t get your mouth back on me in the next three seconds-“
He doesn’t need a second warning. In an instant, the warmth of his tongue is back on you, lapping at all the spots he’s come to memorize as of recently. That pleasure comes back into reach, edging your vision with feathery black as your eyes flutter shut and the coil in your stomach tightens.
You throw your head back into one of his pillows, one that has started to smell like your shampoo now rather than his, and let a drawn out whine escape your lips.
“You were saying?” he teases, grinning wickedly. He takes that brief moment to come up for air, turning and sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of your thigh beside his cheek. Not hard enough to draw blood, and probably not hard enough to leave indents. But it is enough to have you preening once more as your heels dig into his bare back and you try to lift your hips, desperate for his mouth again.
He was edging you. Without even meaning to, he was repeatedly bringing you to the edge only to leave you teetering.
With your focus back on him, you can admire how pretty he looks. Mouth slick with you, pupils blown out, hair an absolute mess. You like him best this way, you think, when he looks so absolutely devoted to you. When he’s looking at you with a hunger you almost can’t place. It makes you want to scream from the rooftops about how you’ve fallen for him. How you feel so much more than like for your boy.
STEVE-O: seriously. if you don’t respond, you can just walk. you have five minutes.
At the buzz of the phone, your hands leave Eddie’s hair to form fists, pounding them into the mattress at your side in a brief tantrum. He ceases all actions, pulling his lips away from you again, and it only makes you pout more.
“Baby,” he coos, fingers trailing up the sides of your thighs before he reaches out to hold your fists down, “Maybe you should answer him. Tell him to fuck off-“
Eddie’s interrupted as your phone fully bursts to life with your ringtone.
You were going to kill Steve Harrington.
“On second thought, let me answer it,” Eddie groans as you reach out and grab it once more, “Give the fucker a piece of my mind.”
“Shut up,” you hiss as you realize it’s Robin calling. You turn the screen so he can see, and his eyebrows lift in surprise.
He makes no move to remove himself from between your legs, though. He stays face to face with your aching core.
“Hello?” you snap after swiping to answer.
“Finally! My God, Steve’s been texting you-“
“I didn’t see the texts.”
“Do you need a ride?”
“Nope.”
You’ve never been so short with your friends.
But that pleasure is slipping from you, the flames of your impending orgasm dying down to nothing more than embers. It’s enough to piss anyone off.
“Are you sure?” Robin asks, sounding genuinely concerned, “It’s kind of a far walk-“
“I’m running late,” you sigh, realizing that you were going to have to come up with a lie to get off the hook. Another thing you hated about the hiding — it led to your friendships being littered with dishonesty. Always a new excuse as to why you weren’t available, always feigning reasons as to why you didn’t reply to texts as timely as you used to. “With getting ready. I could- I don’t know, do you think Eddie might pick me up? Isn’t my dorm along the way to the bar from his place?”
At the mention of his name, he perks up. His cheek settles against the exact spot he had bit just moments before, nearly nuzzling into you as your free hand comes down to gently push back his bangs. On instinct, you find yourself soothingly pressing your fingertips in slow circles against his scalp. You’re nearly melting beneath his soft gaze, those big and wide eyes locked on you with bated breath.
“You want Eddie to pick you up?” you suddenly hear Steve exclaim in the background.
Your face scrunches up, a wrinkle forming across the bridge of your nose and between your brows. It’s so damn cute to Eddie that he can’t help but press a quick kiss to the skin he continues to lay into, beginning to smile as your absent-minded head massage continues.
So much more than like.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know I was on speaker.”
“Why do you want Munson to pick you up?” Steve ignores your sarcasm, voice sounding closer to the phone now, “He drives a motorcycle, you know. That’s dangerous.”
Eddie must be able to catch some of Steve’s shrill exclamation, his eyebrows raising ever so slightly. You feel his curious hum against your skin and you don’t hesitate putting your own pesky friends on speaker.
“Motorcycles are not that dangerous,” you retort, and it makes Eddie have to hide a slight scoff into your thigh in an effort to stay silent. It was ironic that they cared about how safe it would be for you to ride with Eddie on his bike now, after that allegedly dangerous vehicle had been your main source of transportation for nearly two months now, “He has a helmet, right?”
“Isn’t your dorm the opposite direction of the bar from his place?” Robin questions, “I mean, I’m all for you asking lover boy if he’ll give you a ride but-”
Steve interrupts her flatly, “It’s making him go out of his way. Besides, he might have already left for the bar by now.”
You don’t know what to silently laugh at first. The assumption they were making that couldn’t be further from the truth, or Robin’s new nickname for Eddie.
Lover boy is fitting for him in this current position. He’s still latching onto your leg, cuddling you in every way he could from where he laid, staring at you and hanging onto your every last word. The poster boy for pathetically in love, he gives your leg another kiss, starting a fiery trail with his lips until he reaches your knee. It pangs in your chest, wondering if he can see your feelings also painted so obviously across your face.
“Steve,” you murmur, breath catching in your throat as Eddie’s lips linger in the ditch of your knee. It takes a second to remember you’re on the phone, “No offense, but Eddie hasn’t been on time to a single get together the entire time I’ve known him.”
Eddie reacts in real time to your insult, forcing an over-exaggerated offended look before he bites you again. This time, his teeth do leave an imprint from his nip, and it makes you slap a hand over your mouth to avoid yelping.
Don’t bite me, you mouth at him.
Don’t be mean, he answers right back, silent as ever.
“Technically we’re all already late,” Steve points out. It makes you sit up quickly, startling Eddie in the process. You squint at the clock across the room and- fuck. Steve was right, “Nancy just texted me that she and Jon are there, Argyle’s on his way. She said she tried texting Eddie but didn’t get any response,” there’s a long pause as you motion wildly for Eddie to get up with you, the boy watching as you fling yourself off his mattress and carry the phone with you to his dresser, “Have… you heard from him recently?”
“Why are you saying it like that?” you jab, throwing open one of the drawers Eddie had cleared out for you to keep some clothes here in his apartment. At this point, a good chunk of the tuition you paid was going to waste considering the fact you rarely spent the night at your dorm. You were already half moved into Eddie’s space.
You try not to think too hard about it, because just last week, you’d had a panic attack at the revelation.
You were afraid of smothering him, even if he was the one always insisting you could leave more of your things here. He was always the one conning you into spending another night, promising soft murmurs of giving you a ride to class the next morning if you did. You rarely ever had much of the choice in the matter; once he’d wrap his arms around your waist, curl his body flush against yours, it was always game over.
Practically living together, and you still hadn’t said those words back to him.
“I’m not saying it like anything!” Steve defends himself, “I’m just asking an innocent question!” Eddie’s snort this time is audible, and you freeze as Steve clearly mistakes it for your laughter, “Shut up. It’s a reasonable question. You guys are friends now, remember?”
Friends. Of course, because all your friends jumped at the chance to bury their mouths against your cunt and make you cum repeatedly until you had tears streaming down your cheeks. Because you let all your friends sleep in the same bed as you, and wake you up by burying deep within you as they bite your shoulder with a moan. You and Eddie were friends.
“Trust me,” you glance over your shoulder in your haste, looking at Eddie as he stretches out on his side and props himself up on his elbow, “I remember.”
He gives you a knowing smile, squinting his eyes at you in entertainment.
“Babe, it really would just be easier for you to ride with us,” Robin’s voice sounds again as you tug a shirt out of the drawer, something casual and comfortable that you could style for the night, “Unless you’re just hellbent on having alone time with Eddie for some reason-”
“I’m not hellbent on being alone with him, Robs.”
Another lie. I definitely am. But not in the context you think.
“You just sound like you are.”
“Well, I’m not,” you yank a pair of black jeans free from the drawer and slam it shut, standing and turning to Eddie.
He hardly has time to react before you’re tossing your phone down on the mattress in front of him, the small device bouncing and hitting his chest. He winces and throws himself back dramatically, letting out a small oof that you pray neither Robin or Steve pick up on.
As you dress, throwing on the random t-shirt and shimmying on your jeans, Robins laughs, “Denial isn’t a good look on you.”
Eddie watches you, never moving to get ready himself. All he does is stare as you button up the pants.
When you give him an expectant look, he merely mouths, bra?
You shake your head. You don’t know where Eddie had flung your undergarment, and you’re not in the mood to frantically search for it. You’ve gone without a bra before – you can survive one night out without one.
Eddie’s entire face and chest immediately flushes pink. Cute.
“Now you guys are just being assholes,” you scowl despite the fact that only Eddie can see it, waving your hands to motion for him to get up and also get dressed, “I’m texting Eddie. If he has already left, I’ll just walk. Fuck you guys.”
“Tell lover boy I said hi,” Robin teases.
“Even if he’s already parked at the fucking bar at this point, we both know he’d jump right back on his bike and come pick you up,” Steve’s voice grumbles over the line.
It almost makes you smile. “Someone sounds jealous.”
“Not jealous, just annoyed,” Steve corrects as Eddie finally stands from the bed, “When are you two going to get your shit together?”
“What do you mean?” you play dumb.
You’ve had this conversation with your friends multiple times. They were truly going to have your head once they realized what you’d been keeping from them for months now.
“Don’t you have a 4.0 GPA?” Robin inserts herself back into the conversation, “You can’t possibly be this stupid.”
Eddie pauses in his fumbling with pulling his jeans from the pile he’d left his clothes in at the end of the beg, face scrunching in silent laughter. You almost walk over and smack his bare back angled towards you.
“First of all, no. I don’t have a 4.0 GPA. Thanks for the reminder,” you grab your phone back off of the bed and decide to leave Eddie behind in the room, heading into the bathroom to finish getting ready. You hate to admit it, but if you have to keep watching him giggle so cutely to himself, you’ll also probably break. And you aren’t in the mood for any further interrogation from Robin and Steve, “Second of all, I’m hanging up now. I’m going to call Eddie. At least he won’t be such a dick to me.”
“Oh, you must see the irony there-”
You cut Steve off, “Bye! See you in… like, ten minutes.”
Once you’ve hung up, you put your phone down on the bathroom counter and look up into the mirror. Your hair is a mess, wild and tangled from all the writhing you had been doing before being so rudely interrupted. You give it your best effort, trying to tame it a little bit to look more presentable, but it’s a lost cause at this point. Fuck it.
Eddie appears in the doorway behind you, fully dressed and his hair pulled back into a bun, leaning into the door frame with his arms crossed and an impish grin on display, “Oh, you’re going to call me now, sweetheart?”
You glare at him in a jocosely manner through the reflection, “Don’t look so proud of yourself.”
He pushes off the frame and comes up behind you, still locking his eyes only through the reflection as he leans his chin over your shoulder, “And what if I don’t want to give you a ride? You have been awfully mean – insulting my punctuality, throwing your phone at me, teasing me by going without a bra. The list goes on and on.”
Something deep within you stirs, those embers that still ache to burst into a forest fire. You hate that you could easily spend the entire night here with him, letting him take you every which way between his sheets. And even without sinful actions involved, you would be plenty content with just his presence tonight. As a matter of fact, you might be more content with that outcome rather than heading out to see your friends.
Sorry Argyle, you think guiltily.
“I’m teasing you?” you question just as his hands land on your hips, moving so that he was pressed firmly against the curve of your ass. Making sure you could feel how hard he was against the seam of his jeans’ zipper, “You didn’t even make me cum.”
“Seems like we’ll both be spending the night frustrated, then,” he smiles, almost gleefully, almost devilishly, “Besides, that was technically Harrington’s fault, not mine. We both know I usually have no problems making you cum on my tongue – without interruptions, of course.”
He rolls his hips ever so slightly into you, and your mouth falls open, eyes going glossy as you continue to stare him down through the mirror. The stirring in your abdomen is persistent now as your heart hammers against your ribs, mind melting and completely forgetting the obligation at hand.
And Eddie knows this. He’s well aware of the effect he’s having on you, and it’s deliberate.
Suddenly, his body completely pulls away from yours, “I’ll meet you downstairs. Don’t want to keep them waiting any longer, do we, sweetheart?”
Damn him. Damn him, and damn his dimples, and damn how good his legs look in those jeans as he’s walking away from me right now.
You linger in the apartment, alone, for a few extra minutes to compose yourself. Trying to quelch the heat between your hips that had slowly spread across your entire body, threatening to consume you. You even go as far as to splash cool water across your cheeks, giving yourself a few smacks for good measure as you try to prepare yourself to go into public and put on the usual act. And beneath it all, you also hush the animal in your chest, the one that claws at you to tell him. The one that wails everytime you simply tell him you like him, the one that roars when you let another moment slip you by. It has to quiet, just as your flames need to settle, all for the sake of the act.
You deserve a goddamn Oscar at this point.
After deciding that touching up your makeup would take up far too many precious seconds, you’re darting out of Eddie’s apartment, locking up behind yourself before you head down to where he’s waiting. He’s already straddling his parked bike, the engine roaring to life like the animal inside you as you exit the main doors of the building and his hands extend his only helmet. You don’t fight him on who’s going to wear it – that’s a battle, you’ve learned, you will always lose.
We really need to just buy a second helmet.
The thought makes you smile as you hold the clunky thing. Buying a second helmet. Something Eddie had never done before, because he had never had a regular passenger before. He had never had someone glued to his side as you had become, not even Nancy. It sounds terribly domestic; perusing aisles with him, debating which helmet fits your style best. He’d probably make a joke about your head being big. He’d probably tease you for looking at the ridiculously expensive ones and tell you to opt for a cheaper one. You’d probably end up with a pricier one in the cart regardless, and Eddie would probably refuse to let you pay for it.
Domesticity. The image of it doesn’t ache like it had that night all those months ago. This isn’t something you yearn for hopelessly, smoke and mirrors that dissipate when you dare to reach out for it. It’s something finally in your grasp. Something tangible and something bound to happen, all you’d have to do is say the word and Eddie would comply eagerly.
Anything to keep my girl safe, as he would tell you any time you pointed out how dangerous it was for him to go without a helmet. He’d gotten creative in saying his own version of those three little words.
“M’lady,” he hums, nodding for you to put the helmet on before sweeping a hand over the empty space in the seat behind him, “Your chariot awaits.”
You don’t have a snarky quip to throw back at him, only grinning at the ground as you flip the helmet around a few times to prepare to put it on. All those embers aren’t just desire for him – there’s a warmth there that always exists. A candle on the windowsill of the home you had finally found.
You raise the clunky thing and tilt your head when Eddie suddenly says, “Oh, and babe?”
Immediately, you lower it, eyes wide in curiosity, “What?”
“That’s my shirt.”
“What?”
He motions to the t-shirt tucked carefully into your jeans, “That fine shirt you are currently wearing is mine.”
You look down, and he’s right. It’s too late to go back inside to change, and you know he’s aware of this when you catch his amused smirk. He probably noticed the moment you had put it on, and had deliberately waited until it was too late for you to do anything about it to inform you.
Bastard.
“I-” you pinch the fabric between your fingers, looking between it and Eddie wildly for a second before your shoulders slumped in defeat, “It’s fine. I doubt they’ll even notice.”
—
You were wrong. They do notice.
Everyone is already waiting inside for the two of you, nestled around a table in the bar in a similar arrangement to the very first night you’d been introduced to the group. There’s only two empty seats left conveniently, right next to each other. You don’t miss that mischievous look of success on Robin’s face as she looks overly proud of herself.
They’d set it up so we’d sit next to each other.
You’re grateful for your friends’ antics until you go to take the empty seat next to Steve.
“Is that Eddie’s shirt?”
Robin is leaning around Steve eagerly as she says it, ridiculing the shirt intensely.
“What?” you laugh nervously, looking down and tugging at the fabric.
Lie. Make up a lie. Make it good.
“That is Eddie’s shirt,” Nancy looks surprised across the table, looking up at the two of you questioningly.
“What?” you repeat yourself. Eddie has already taken his seat, and is avoiding the stares of everyone, “No, it’s not.”
“He has one just like it,” Jonathan adds fuel to the fire, “He literally wore it - what? Two days ago?”
In a pathetic attempt of an excuse, you plop down in your seat and force an offended look, “People can own the same shirt. He’s not the gatekeeper of-” you look down, and nearly erupt in embarrassment when you see what the shirt is. “Deftones.”
Ah, fuck.
It’s not just the embarrassment of being on the verge of getting caught in your lie – it’s the memories that flood back. You, on Eddie’s lap. Your mouth and his becoming one. Steve calling, and you sucking so innocently on Eddie’s neck.
Fuck.
You really wish Steve and Robin hadn’t interrupted earlier.
“It’s not like I got it at a show,” Eddie shrugs, and you wonder for a moment if he’s lying, “They’ve gotten more popular lately. I’ve seen their shit in Target.”
“Exactly!” you exclaim a little too loudly, a little too quick to defend yourself, “Exactly. I just thought it looked cool at Target. Besides, tonight is about Argyle.”
You smile at the birthday boy, and he returns the joy as he waves a little at you. The reminder is all it takes for everyone’s attention to return to the focus of the night – everyone’s attention but Nancy’s.
You can feel her eyes on you as conversation sparks up and debates of ordering shots begin. Everyone is busy asking Argyle what his plans for next weekend are – which are mostly composed of normal family gatherings, probably a homemade cake, etc. – but Nancy is watching you and Eddie like a hawk. In the peripheral of your eye, you watch the way she leans back so casually into Jonathan's around her shoulder, looking like she knows. You’re probably just being paranoid. You’re definitely just being paranoid.
You try to ignore it, and instead let yourself just enjoy the moment. All your friends gathered, a group in which you finally feel like you belong to, jokes being made and laughter being exchanged that has you feeling a bit giddy. It’s nice. Even between the smoke of the room and the flickering lights overhead, murmuring chatter of nearby patrons mingling right in with your group’s noise, it’s homely. The smell of drunken cigars and fruity cocktails should be overwhelming, but you just let it wrap you up instead.
And when you turn your head, inhaling deeply the smell of cinnamon and musk rather than all those other foreign anomalies, you find Eddie already looking at you. Soft eyes, bitten grin, a few loose curls framing his cheeks as his bangs curl up into his forehead. Even in the shoddy lighting, he takes your breath away.
He’s looking at you. Just like that first night. Dozens of other people in this room at this moment, and he only has eyes for one – he only has eyes for you.
“So!” Argyle announces, “I think, my dudes, instead of doing what Birdie had so… excitedly suggested,” and oh, he was being generous and calling Robin suggesting he took twenty three shots for his twenty third birthday just her being excited rather than foolish, “We should just take the twenty three shots and split them up amongst the group.”
Steve and Jonathan immediately groan, protesting how they’re driving, and Eddie only shakes his head with a chuckle. So far, he’d only ordered and been nursing on a plain coke, no whiskey.
Somehow, sitting beside him with the group is worse than keeping distance.
When he’d taken off his jacket, you’d silently begged for him to rest an arm across the back of your chair just as Jonathan was doing to Nancy. And he had, almost too naturally before he’d caught himself. It would have been easier to play off cooly, probably would have gone unnoticed, but your boy had practically jumped out of his bones as he’d flinched and tucked his arm back into himself suddenly. He’d even bumped his elbow against his own seat in his haste.
And Nancy had noticed.
“That’s only three shots per person!” Argyle defends, “Four for me, since you know – birthday boy.”
While Eddie may be avoiding alcohol tonight, you aren’t. Not unusual, but it had been odd when Eddie had told the waitress your order of an amaretto sour rather than you telling her yourself.
Another strike. Another thing Nancy had noticed with her watchful eye.
“I’m down,” you shrug, “Hell, I’ll even take an extra shot if those two dumbasses won’t.”
“Is that a good idea?”
You wish Eddie had been drinking to excuse his idiocracy. Because all it takes is him saying that, not with malice but with concern, and the look on Nancy’s face told you she was officially catching on.
He hadn’t said it with the concern of a friend prepared to warn against drinking yourself sick. He’d said it with the concern of someone who would be taking care of you by the end of the night, of someone who would be dealing with the aftermath of that many shots.
You two were bombing this whole secrecy, to put it lightly.
You try to save the moment but laughing it off, turning to him slightly and teasing, “What, are you my keeper now?”
Despite your best efforts, the statement doesn’t come across as friendly banter. It’s not quite fighting either. It’s a dare, you dangling something in Eddie’s face that no one else at this table quite sees. A stupid, idiotic continuation of your flirtatious game of cat and mouse from earlier in the apartment, when he’d deliberately gotten you hot and bothered. When he’d deliberately let you leave in his shirt. His palm is warm when he shifts ever so slightly, placing it on your thigh beneath the table. Out of sight from everyone else. Fueling and fanning all your growing flames.
You two were toeing a very dangerous line tonight.
His eyes darken a bit, and you pray no one else notices in the dim bar lighting, “I don’t know, am I?”
Everyone is distracted enough with your idea. Steve and Jonathan were agreeing, saying they could take one shot and then others in the group could shoulder the extras. Robin was quick to also say she’ll take an extra one. But Nancy is silent, watching your quiet exchange with Eddie.
“I don’t think you are, Munson.”
Except he is. Without a single doubt in your bones, you know that he is.
Your playful smile betrays you. It tugs up the corners of your mouth and it’s clear to any outsider this wasn’t a brewing argument. The game was obvious if anyone was watching close enough. And Nancy, ever the smart one, was watching close enough.
She’s playing her cards right, you realize, when she waits until the group has ordered the round of shots to say anything.
“So, Eddie,” she begins, drawing the entire group’s attention to her best friend, “Do anything fun today?”
He nearly chokes on his coke subtly. “I- Um-”
“You just didn’t answer any of my texts today,” she continues on, “Must have been busy, yeah?”
Eddie retracts his hand from your thigh, far more elusive in this action than he had been about removing his arm from your chair, before he fiddles with his hands in his lap. “Yeah – no, yeah. Sorry about that, Nance.”
He pulls his phone from his pocket for no apparent reason. The shiny new smartphone, having not even bought a case or screen protector yet. You’d already yelled at him for that, claiming out of everyone, you trust him the least to not break the phone on the first day. He’d only laughed and shut you up with a kiss.
His new phone is placed face down on the table, cherry red glinting, “I just had to go to the mall and-”
“Is that a new phone?” Argyle interrupts him, catching sight of the movement and the glinting, “Oh, holy shit, my dude! That’s a new phone! That is an iPhone if I’ve ever seen one!”
Everyone – Robin, Steve, Jonathan – are rapidly leaning to catch sight of it as if they can’t believe it. Eddie continues to shrink at being the center of attention suddenly.
“It is,” Steve laughs in disbelief, “Never thought I’d see the day, Munson.”
Robin scrunches her face, “Does this mean we have to add him to the group chat?”
You let out a giggle at that, lips pressed to try and contain some of that smile breaking through as you look at him and wiggle your brows. He immediately rolls his eyes, but picks up the phone regardless to give everyone a better look.
“Yes, yes. I’ve finally joined the dark side,” he teases everyone just as the waitress returns with the tray of shots. Jonathan is the only one with enough sense to look away from Eddie’s spectacle, thanking her kindly, “Feast your eyes, my friends, for this is where my five hundred dollars went-”
“Holy shit.”
Nancy’s sudden whisper of an exclamation has everyone freezing. Eddie stops spinning and flipping the phone to show it off, staring at her with nothing but concerned, “What? What happen-”
Nancy shares a look with Robin as they both grin.
Oh no.
“Eddie,” Nancy says slowly, turning her head back his way slowly.
“What?” Eddie frowns, eyes flitting back and forth between Nancy and Robin.
Robin is the one to ask the question rather than Nancy, “What exactly is your lockscreen?”
Eddie goes pale. You’re confused, looking at the phone he’s currently cradling with the screen against his palm.
Did he even change it? Wouldn’t it just be one of the default ones?
“Guys,” you decide to come to his rescue, still impossibly confused, “It’s probably just some default screen, don’t tease him.”
“That was not a default screen,” Nancy laughs out.
Argyle looks around at everyone. Nancy and Robin, both with mischievous glints in their eyes. Eddie, still ghostly white as if he’s been caught red-handed. Steve and Jonathan, both just shrugging at each other. “Uh…. Why do I feel like I’m missing something here?”
“Show the class your lock screen, Eds.”
“Fuck off, Nancy.”
“Oh my God,” Robin coos, leaning across Steve and pressing you back gently to catch sight of Eddie, who’s dipping his face down, “He’s blushing!”
“Guys, leave him alone,” Steve insists, sharing a look with you now. But you have no clue what’s going on.
You have no clue what his lockscreen is.
“Edward Munson, show us that lockscreen right now, or I’m Venmo-requesting five hundred dollars from you,” Robin continues to threaten.
You look away from Steve and at Eddie immediately, leaning in closer to his space. He looks at you, clearly focusing on your presence more than everyone else’s, and smiles like a child trying to get out of trouble.
“Eddie,” you say quietly, almost impossible for your friends to hear, “What the fuck is your lockscreen?”
He slowly and carefully turns the screen towards you, making sure only your eyes can see it, and- oh.
It’s a low quality photo. Clearly taken on his flip phone. Details just a little fuzzy, and the darkness of the photo wasn’t helping. But you can see it clearly. You can make out exactly what it was that had Nancy and Robin losing their minds.
It’s a picture of you and Eddie, with your head on Eddie’s chest.
For a moment, everyone else at the table doesn’t exist. You hadn’t been insane that night – he had taken a photo. A snapshot of the moment where everything had changed. The moment in which you had given up the fight and completely succumbed to just how much Eddie meant to you, how badly you pined for him and how deeply you liked him.
“I was going to make it the one of you at Betty’s,” he whispers, “But, I just- I really liked this photo.”
He’s still tense, as if he expects you to be upset with him.
You’re the farthest thing from upset at him.
“You made me your lockscreen?” you breathe out, a slow-growing smile beginning to stretch your lips.
You’re not upset at him. As a matter of fact, you’re in love with him. You want to scream it from every rooftop, shout it to every stranger on the street – you are in love with Eddie Munson.
And you have been for a while. You just hadn’t found a way to tell him yet.
“Yeah,” he loosens up a little when he realizes you’re happy, enamored with the fact, “Yeah, of course I did. Who else am I going to make it besides my favorite…. Enemy?”
He says it loud enough for everyone to hear clearly. All of Nancy’s teasing has come to a halt, Robin has settled back into her chair, and Steve is finally looking too curious for his own good.
“As birthday boy,” Argyle breaks the moment, shatters away the bubble you and Eddie always seemed to end up in, “I am demanding I get to see this lockscreen.”
Eddie doesn’t make any move to show the screen to any other person, only watching you for approval.
Well, so much for next time.
You give him a little nod.
Eddie makes a dramatic show of it, sighing heavily before he very slowly turns his lockscreen to face everyone else. But even in his dramatics, you can see that weight lifting off his chest.
This, as a matter of fact, changes everything.
No more hiding, no more lying. One simple flash of his phone screen, of a photo he had taken on a night that no one has even been gifted the details of yet, and all your friends suddenly know.
The reactions all vary.
Argyle leans forward and squints before his face breaks out into pure joy for the two of you, “Oh, fuck yes! Best birthday gift ever. Pay up, my dudes!”
Jonathan leans backward, digging out his wallet as he murmurs, “Son of a bitch.”
Steve only smiles and shakes his head, also digging for his wallet as he seemingly chastizes himself, “I should have fucking known.”
“Hold on,” you look between everyone as Jonathan digs out a couple twenties, “Wait, did you guys fucking bet on this?”
“We did,” Robin answers you, holding up a hand to make Jonathan and Steve pause their retrieval of cash, “What do you take us for? Idiots? Now, gentlemen, before either of you payout, we’ve gotta ask the most important question,” she shoves a palm against Steve’s chest so that he’s out of line of sight, gaze set on you and Eddie, “When did this happen?”
You don’t have any time to be mad at your friends. Because when Robin asks you this, suddenly you’re back to two months ago. You’re outside your dorm with Eddie, kissing him as if tomorrow would never be promised, and you’re home.
You pulled back from Eddie finally, both of you gasping for breath as he held you steady. Your exchange from moments before still hung heavy in the air.
You liked him, you liked him, you liked him.
And the feeling was mutual.
You’d already known, but it was nice to hear. It was nice to be reminded that this, what had happened between you two, was so very real.
“I don’t wanna start over,” the words tumbled from your tongue before you could consider them, upheaving from your chest, desperate for Eddie to heard them, “I- I don’t need to start over. I like our story, okay? You had been right – it wasn’t all bad, and… and I don’t want to start over. I never want you to be a stranger again, and I know that sounds stupid-”
“It’s not stupid,” he interrupted you, forehead meeting yours, “So very not stupid.”
“I don’t care if you were a dick,” you continued on, carefully, “I was, too. We were both… shitty. I forgive you. I’ll forgive you a thousand times over, as long as you keep trying to make it up to me.”
“Make it up to you?” he grinned playfully, “And just how do you suggest I start making it up to you?”
“Ask me out,” his eyebrows raised in surprise, and you knew you must have looked like a wild idiot to everyone else, but you didn’t care, “To dinner, to a movie, to just hang around your apartment with you for another twenty four hours – I don’t care. Just… Just please, Munson, ask me out.”
And so he had. A first date, a second date, a third. You two had gone through the entire ordeal of every cliche relationship despite the unconventional beginning. You’d gone to dinner, you’d gone to a movie, and you had done plenty of hanging out around his apartment and more.
“The night of the bet,” Eddie answers as he finally brings an arm up around your shoulders, just as he had wanted to earlier.
Immediately, both Robin and Argyle let out their own curses, pulling out their wallets just as Steve and Jonathan had.
You look between them, all the annoyance you should feel just being run over with adoration for these idiots. Your eyes land on Nancy, and when you realize she’s the only one at the table not coughing up any cash, you ask her, “I’m assuming you guessed correctly?”
“I did,” she nods, looking proud of herself.
“How’d you know?”
Nancy raises a threatening finger, before suddenly pointing it right in Eddie’s direction, “That idiot has always been down bad for you-”
“Okay, okay,” Eddie stops her, “I’ve already told her the nitty gritty details. No need to embarrass me.”
“No need to embarrass you?” Nancy asks in disbelief, “Good God, just how many times did I have to sit and listen to you pine for her? No, no – I have earned this, Munson.”
You look at Eddie, a glint in your eye, “You only told me about the first time.”
“I only remembered the first time,” he counters, blushing under yellow and faded lights, “I was usually dru-”
“Don’t lie,” Nancy stops him, “There were plenty of rants where you were dead sober.”
Everyone only smiles at Eddie, a few teasing comments made his way, but none of them matter as you lean into his side, your shoulder bumping his to the best of your ability with his arm still around you.
“Aw, babe,” you coo, warm all over for the man beside you, “You had a crush on me? That’s cute.”
His chin lowers, eyes boring into yours with unlimited affection. For a moment, it’s just you and Eddie. The guise of you two having your own bubble of a moment.
His head tilts further, his ears brushing your ear as he whispers for just you to hear, “So did you, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Not mistaken,” you whisper back. Money is now being exchanged, tossed across the table with grumbles that hold no heat.
Yeah, you did have a crush on Eddie. You still do. You don’t think you’ll ever stop having a crush on him, even as he’s surrendered himself as yours. Especially not when his thumb is stroking your shoulder as it is now.
Just like that very first night. The smoky bar fades to nothingness, your tunnel vision focused on Eddie. You know jokes are being made about the two of you by your friends, but it’s all white noise when he’s looking at you like this. Like you’re everything to him, like he’s just returned home after a long week.
You’d really like to be his home to return to after every long week, for the rest of your lives, but there’ll be time to ponder on that later. For now, you two have time.
The voice inside your head suddenly comes to life as it recognizes that this is your moment. You can tell him. Now that you’ve told everyone else, you can tell him those three words. Finally get them off your chest. Make it real.
“Hey, Munson,” you say, still quiet enough for the words to only reach his ears. He perks up, eager to drink your next words. You have all his attention. You always have all his attention, “I-” and then you choke. He stares curiously for a few seconds, and the words just won’t come out. You want to scream – you wonder if it would work if you screeched the three words at the top of your lungs. Probably not, “I’m just really glad you didn’t really hate me,” a pathetic excuse at a coverup, “And… I’m really glad they made that first bet.”
He smiles so softly, it strikes you right in the center of your chest. Right amongst your garden that not only had you tended for him, but that he had also had a hand in watering these last few months.
You should have told him. You love him, and you should have told him.
“I’m really glad I didn’t hate you, too,” he remarks, squeezing your shoulder a little tighter, “Actually, I’m glad you don’t hate me. Not anymore, at least.”
“I never really did.”
“You definitely sort of did. You tried to take me out with a glass, remember?”
You burst into secluded laughter, hearing your friends beginning to pass around the shots but paying them no mind.
Eddie can’t help it. He pulls you in close, placing an impulsive kiss to your temple and letting his lips linger there. Just pressed against you, breathing in the scent of you.
That kiss sends shivers down your spine, warmth through the center of your bones. You love him.
You love him, you love him, you love him.
So why can’t you just tell him that?
“Aw!” Robin pulls the two out of your bubble, “Aren’t they just adorable?”
“Yes, yes,” Steve passes two shot glasses down to your end of the table, “Absolutely adorable. It’s nauseating. Also, I’d like to go on record – I totally knew the entire time. I was just giving them the benefit of the doubt.”
“Playing the Devil’s advocate?” Argyle asks, lining up his multiple shots, “I dig it. Even though you’re totally lying right now.”
“You’re so lucky it’s your birthday, dude,” Steve rolls his eyes, clearly holding back an insult.
Eddie’s arm stays heavy on you, a welcome weight as you sit up straighter to take your own several shots.
These were your friends. Somewhere you belonged, filled with people you loved and a boy you could come home to after all your long weeks. A certain happiness that is rare, and impossible to place, and can nearly bring you to tears overwhelms you as you grab that first shot.
“Also-” Steve turns to you and Eddie, “I knew that was Munson’s shirt. The day he got it, all he did was brag about what a rare find it was. Fuck off with your Target bullshit.”
Eddie’s hand leaves your shoulder long enough to reach out and thump Steve, laughter booming and vibrating against you, “Sure you did, Stevie.”
“Target has some nice things,” Nancy offers with a shrug, now holding her own shot glass.
The seven of you all hold up the first of what will probably be too many shots tonight, the beginning of a night that will probably be remembered through killer hangovers tomorrow and possibly even captured on camera by the likes of Jonathan, Steve, and Eddie.
“To Argyle,” you take the lead on the cheers, jittery and anxious as all the love you continue to withhold buzzes in your chest, lifting your small glass in his direction, “The most lovable twenty three year old I know.”
Everyone moves to drink, but Argyle immediately shakes his head, “Nah, fuck that. It’s not even my birthday yet – I demand a new toast.”
He lifts his brows, staring you down and silently adding, you know what to do.
And yeah, you did know what to do.
“Fine,” you sigh dramatically, leaning further forward, Eddie’s arm following. You relish in the tense silence as everyone waits for what you’re about to say instead. Even Eddie is waiting with bated breath, watching your every move, a contrasting yet easy smile on his face, “To bets.”
A booming applause from your group. Glasses tapping against the wooden table before shots are downed. Groans of disgust as the tequila hits everyones’ tongues.
Eddie hardly waits before you’ve both swallowed to remove his arm and grab your face, turning your cheek so that his lips can capture yours. Everyone only cheers louder, Steve letting out an obnoxious whistle as Argyle claps. You’re surely going to get kicked out of the bar at this rate. But you really don’t care as you kiss your boy back.
Next time. You have to tell him next time.
—
The night ends in more of a whisper than a bang, surprisingly.
Everyone has suddenly become a happy drunk, probably from all the love and good news passed around throughout the night. It’s all warm feelings and warm hugs, tequila on the breath and love on the mind.
You don’t even get kicked out of the bar. Your waitress only smiles at your rowdy table from time to time, and you figure that all the good vibes must be rubbing off on her.
Steve is the first to call it quits. Robin has drank enough to give herself the hiccups, and he says that after that, she almost always gets viciously nauseous. He wants to get in the car and home before she gets to the point, for the sake of his car’s interior not getting covered in puke.
It’s a domino effect from there.
Argyle quickly agrees, Jonathan offers a guiding arm to Nancy, and Eddie’s arm only tightens around you. The group closes out the tab, putting off worries of everyone paying Jonathan back until tomorrow. Quick, simple, painless.
Until you all get outside. And goodbyes are exchanged – that’s not the part that gets to you – with promises of seeing each other throughout the week. Everyone congratulates you and Eddie one more time for good measure, Nancy and Steve looking the most proud of you two as Argyle and Robin giggle like children about it. And it’s fine – you laugh along and it’s all good. You let them get in all their I told you so’s and know it’s all in good fun.
It’s all fine. Until you two branch off from the group, Eddie’s bike across the lot from everyone else’s cars.
The moment you two are alone, you can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or if it’s the levity of suddenly having a moment that only belongs to you. Your mind wastes no time of reminding you of your pathetic cop out: I’m just really glad you didn’t really hate me. None of those words even sound akin to the real ones you should have said.
I love you.
It’s not because your friends have found out. You know it’s not that, because just last week, right after your breakdown about whether you were smothering Eddie by half-living in his apartment, you’d had a breakdown because you realized you wanted to fully live in his apartment. You’d had a breakdown because you hadn’t grown tired of him yet, hadn’t satisfied the need to see his face every morning when you first wake up yet. You hadn’t gotten bored with all his lingering affectionate touches. You hadn’t gotten used to the way he’d kiss you in the middle of sentences. He was still taking your breath away, two months later, and you had a breakdown because you realized it wasn’t novelty or a pathetic crush making you feel this way.
You had a breakdown because you love Eddie.
You love him, ardently so, and you still can’t find the right moment to say those words to him. He deserves to know – the entire foundation of this relationship was honesty.
It’s all you can think about as his hand finds yours and he’s walking up to his bike, practically dragging you up to his bike as your legs forget how to work amongst nerves.
“So, I was thinking,” he carries on conversation so casually, “You want to spend the night at my place? I know you said you don’t have any class-“
Now. Not later, not next time. Now.
“Hey, Eddie?” you interrupt him, stopping the two of you a few paces away from his bike.
His face is impossibly concerned as he looks down at you, clearly reading the worry on your face, “What’s up, babe?”
Here goes nothing – be brave.
“I-”
Why is this so hard?
It shouldn’t be this hard, because loving Eddie is easy.
It’s easy when he’s looking at you like this, like he always does. It’s easy when he wakes up after you, and he comes into the kitchen to just wrap himself around you as you make him coffee, no matter what time of day it might be. It’s easy when he catches your eye from across the room during outings, sometimes winking once he knows you’ve found his gaze, just to see you laugh. It’s easy when he tries to distract you from homework when you’ve been spending far too many hours hunched over your laptop on his couch, coming and bugging you, laying his head on your lap and insisting his girl needs a break. It’s easy when he kisses you and everything just feels right.
It’s easy. He loves you – you love him. It isn’t hard. You’re making this hard, when it never was.
“I love you,” you admit quietly, voice shaking as the words leave you easily.
Loving Eddie is easy.
“I love you,” you say more surely, voice raising in volume as you find the willpower to look into his eyes, “I love you so fucking much, Eddie.”
Each time you say it, you gain confidence in it. It’s true – you love him. You love him so much, it encompasses every inch of your being. It entirely consumes you. You love him.
His face falls slowly, mouth agape and eyes boring into yours.
You don’t wait for his response. You already have it – in the way he’s still holding your hand, in the way he holds you at the end of each night, in the way he knows both your orders at bars and coffee shops. In the way he will always put himself between you and the street when walking down the sidewalk, in the way when he roughly stops his bike at stop lights that his hand always flies back to hold onto you. In every soft touch and every expression of devotion he has offered you for not just two months, but for over a year.
“You love me?” he softly asks, finally beginning to come back to life.
You nod without hesitation, “I love you, Eddie.”
Now that you’ve started saying it, you can’t stop it. And each time, it’s still heavy and sweet like honey, even as the confession comes as easy as breathing. It’s pouring from every crevice, filling up the night air around you.
He takes you off guard with a harsh kiss. His teeth colliding with yours, his breath stealing yours, his entire being molded with yours.
“Say it again,” he begs in a murmur as he pulls you in even closer, desperate as you break into a smile, “God, please say it again, sweetheart.”
“I love you,” your cheeks begin to ache, the kiss no longer even to be a considered a kiss as you two are just mindlessly pressing your smiles together, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” with each repeat of the sentiment, Eddie drinks it in, “I’m so fucking in love with you, Eddie Munson. You and your stupid lockscreen and-”
“You do not think my lockscreen is stupid,” he pulls away, raising his eyebrows as his palms squish your cheeks, “I saw the way you looked at me. You were eating that shit up.”
You bite your lip, trying to pull further away from him, but he won’t let you, “I was not-”
“You were,” he cheekily teases, eyes bright as he looks at you, “You were, and it was the best thing ever. Totally worth stealing Argyle’s spotlight.”
“We didn’t steal Argyle’s spotlight,” you try to defend yourself.
“We so did.”
You shake your head to the best of your abilities, face still between his hands, “We… Okay, we sort of did.”
He grins like a young boy, all his youth and all his love on show for you as he leans down, pausing right before pressing another kiss to your lips, “We definitely did. And it’s fair, because they fucking bet on us.”
“They did,” you agree, not even feeling guilty anymore, too consumed by the love for the man right in front of you, “They tend to do that a lot, don’t they?”
“They do.”
He finally surges forward, lips sealing against yours one last time. It’s less messy this time, more meaningful. A bit more patient as he takes the time to fit his lips into yours, just as they should be.
You have an audience. You’re completely oblivious until you hear the cheering from across the parking lot, snapping apart to both glance at where Argyle and Robin are jumping up and down, screaming their heads off.
“Hell yeah, my dudes!” Argyle’s voice booms as Robin only produces incoherent coos to echo.
Nancy, Steve, and Jonathan are all just watching silently, shaking their heads, but you can also see their grins. Almost as radiant as you felt.
Steve finally cups his hands around his mouth, sending his voice to you over Argyle’s continuing whooping, “Get a room!”
Perfectly in sync, you and Eddie both throw up a hand with your middle fingers raised in their direction, still half tangled in each other.
Your eyes find Nancy. She’s looking at you two with overwhelming pride, a certain satisfaction that breathes out the relief of finally. This may be a weight off not only your chest but Eddie’s as well, yet you can’t help but imagine just how she feels. How many nights she had stomached Eddie’s rambles about you leading up to this very moment. The pay off must be unimaginable.
Finally.
“Congrats on finally getting the girl, Munson!” she calls out, but her eyes are on you, winking.
You see it now. Why they’re best friends. How all her best parts and Eddie’s best parts overlap and compliment one another perfectly.
Jonathan is the final one to yell across the parking lot at you two, one arm slung around Nancy as the other moves to unlock his car, even his usually grumpy face showing signs of elation in that timid smile, “Now take your girl, home, dude. Spare the rest of us the gory details.”
Eddie’s laugh reverberates against you physically from how he holds you, also making its way to burrow deep within your chest where all that liquid bliss belongs, as he throws his entire head back and makes you finally focus on just him again. Home. Not just his apartment, but him. You realize now that it’s simply wherever he goes. Where he leads, you’ll follow. It could be a shitty dorm room with a mattress that leaves your back aching, it could be a comforting apartment that holds you ‘hostage’ for twenty four hours straight – it doesn’t really matter. Wherever he is, home is. He’s your home; you love him, he knows you love him, and he’s your home.
When his laughter finally fades, and he’s looking at you again, his dimples are prominent as ever through his whisper, “Just in case you’ve forgotten – I’m very much in love with you, too, sweetheart.”
His lips meet yours for good measure.
It’s been the longest week of your life, the longest year, but you’re finally home.
Summary - She came to the city to start over—heart bruised, lip split, swearing off love for good. The plan was simple. New place, new life, no more heartbreak.
Then she met Cassian, her massive, tattooed, ridiculously charming neighbour with a smile that feels like safety and eyes that see far too much.
He's all city steel and gym sweat. She's all soft drawl and country fire. Two worlds that were never meant to collide yet somehow fit together just right.
What starts as muffins and subway maps turns into late-night movies, whispered confessions, and a slow-burning bond that feels dangerously close to home.
But when her past comes roaring back, Cassian's gentle turns feral and the city boy proves he's got a cowboy's heart after all.
Tags - city boy x county girl AU, healing love, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, domestic fluff, trauma recovery, gentle giant
Contents -
℧ One | A Fresh Slate | 2k words
℧ Two | Sweet Streets | 2.8k words
℧ Three | Flickers of Trust | 3.6k words
℧ Four | Cowboy Hat Rules | 2k words
℧ Five
℧ Six
℧ Seven
℧ Eight
ACOTAR Masterlist
A/n - This series will include content warnings at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.
My third Cassian fic and it is a requested one! This time it's City Boy Cassian x Country Girl Reader, where she's new to the city after a messy breakup... and her ridiculously handsome neighbour may or may not be her saving grace.
I'll be honest, I was a little nervous writing this because I'm a total city girl myself, my "country knowledge" mostly comes from Google and the one cowboy book series I read. Once I got into it, this story turned out to be such a blast to write :)
I also haven’t posted a solo Cassian fic in ages, so… here we are.
As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Your votes and comments mean the world to me <3
Summery: Elain begins to set to work whilst tackling emerging feelings and unexpected surprises.
Word Count: 4.4k
Content Warnings: Minors DNI, references to parental abuse and neglect, romantic tension, heated thoughts, blood, injured animal (but she is okay in the end I promise).
A/N: Merry Christmas, @lucien-archeron chapter two of your gift is here! I'm so excited for you to read this one. I really really hope you love it ❤️
Last Chapter
“As you can see, it is far from ideal,” Lucien said the next morning, running a hand through his lush auburn hair as he led Elain around the grounds. The dead grass crunched like autumn leaves beneath their boots, the morning dew not nearly enough to revive it.
“How did it get so bad?” Elain breathed, her heart breaking at the state of the wilting flowers and damaged trees. On the way, Lucien had told her how beautiful this land once was, a rich landscape filled to the brim with colour and a mixture of floral fragrances. Now, a musty scent clung to the air, and the once thriving plant life had become brittle and drained of colour.
“The land began to fade during the war with Hybern. Some of it was destroyed in the crossfire,” he said looking pointedly at a scorched patch of soil. “Other parts seemed to wither away on their own. It was as though the magic that held all the beauty together just fell away overnight.”
“Well, I suppose they wouldn’t have asked us here if things weren’t bad. I just don’t even know where to start,” Elain sighed, her eyes darting around the clearing.
“You don’t have to do it alone,” Lucien promised,his eyes not leaving Elain’s.
“Thank you,” Elain smiled, pointedly ignoring the sudden flush that painted her cheeks every time his beautiful mouth parted into a grin. She had too many things to think about, and none of them were Lucien Vanserra’s mouth. Even if it was lovely. Even if she did have to shove away the urge to trace his lips with her fingers.
“For now, we’ll need to stick to this area,” Lucien said, breaking Elain’s internal struggle. “The trees beyond here are unstable, and many of the branches are barely hanging on. We don’t want any accidents.”
For the rest of the day, they worked in comfortable silence, pulling out dead roots and slowly adding moisture back into the soil. It would need a lot more work before they could even contemplate sowing anything new, but by the late afternoon as they were packing up for the day, the task before them seemed just slightly less daunting.
Later that evening, as the sun slipped behind the horizon, Lucien stretched like a cat in front of the blazing fire, warming his aching muscles and reading a well worn book. Elain sat cross legged on the plush sofa, her pencil scratching against the parchment fervently, as she emptied her head of ideas.
“Is there a library around here?” Elain asked, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her face.
“A library?” Lucien repeated, looking up at at her through sleepy eyes. Elain wasn’t certain if he was trying to look sultry, but he did, nonetheless. Scorching heat flooded her body, a bead of sweat rolling down her spine.
“Yes, I'd like to see if I can find anymore information about local flora,” Elain clarified, swallowing hard.
“Of course.” Lucien replied, a lopsided grin gracing his face. “We have one of the finest libraries in Prythian not all that far from here. It would take a while on foot, but I have a horse, I can happily take you in the morning.”
“Yes!” Elain said, standing abruptly, focused less on their actual conversation and far more on her sudden need for air. Rushing to the window, she flung it open, breathing a deep sigh of relief when a gust of fresh air filled her lungs.
“Are you alright?” Lucien asked, his brow scrunching in concern as he rose from the floor to his knees and met her eyes.
“Yes, of course.” Elain shot out, ignoring the fluttering she felt deep in her belly, at the sight of her mate kneeling before her.
What in the name of the Mother is wrong with me? She thought, gulping in another lungful of cool evening air.
“Are you sure?” He pressed, standing swiftly and closing the distance between them in just a few strides. “You seem very flushed?”
“It’s warm,” She squeaked, fanning herself frantically, wishing beyond belief that Lucien’s scent wasn’t filling the space around them, caressing her like tender hands. He smelled smokey with a hint of apple and cinnamon. She quickly swatted away the thought that she wanted to curl up, swaddled in his scent.
Gods, Elain. Get a grip!
“Oh, I must apologise. I have fire in my blood, so the heat always feels pleasant to me, but I should have considered how overwhelming it might be for you.” He said sincerely, placing one large calloused hand over his heart.
“Its okay. I just needed some fresh air, that’s all,” She said, trying to slow her breathing, and fighting even harder to ignore the quickening thump of his heartbeat in her ears.
Lucien nodded, but a curious look lingered in his eyes. “Well, you’ll certainly get plenty of fresh air tomorrow. The ride takes about forty-five minutes, and you’ll get to see more of the Spring Court. I’m afraid I only have one horse, though, so we’ll have to ride together, if that’s alright with you.”
Elain’s stomach twisted. Riding. Together. His chest pressed against her back. Close enough to feel his heartbeat. Close enough to feel …
No. Absolutely not. She could not think like this. She was just tired. And warm. And it had been such a long time since she’d spent so much one on one time with a male. She needed to focus on the work, not the strange way her body was reacting around Lucien.
She needed a cold bath.
“Well, if we need to leave early tomorrow, then I should get an early night,” Elain rushed out, already heading for the stairs. “Good night Lucien.”
Lucien stood by the open window, the breeze at his back as he watched Elain retreat up the creaking stairs, and tried his best to ignore the thrumming of the mating bond deep in his chest.
Once she had drenched her skin in cold water, and doused the fire burning in the pit of her stomach with a glass of fae wine, Elain wrapped herself up in a silky robe and sunk into her mattress, soft as supple moss. The thrumming of Lucien’s heart, which she had once found so disturbing, now lulled her into a pleasant calm. Despite her earlier panic, his company was comforting.
Elain groaned in relief as she rested her weary bones, reaching for the leather bound journal she had left on her bedside table. As she began to write a letter to her sisters, a sharp prickle began to sting the back of her eyes, like thorns piercing through tender flesh. She knew this feeling like the freckled back of her hand. A vision was coming.
She could see a flower, the one she had momentarily glimpsed in her last vision. It was shimmering in the fading light, the sleepy sunlight hitting the petals just right, sending a cascade of iridescent pinks and purples scattering across the forrest floor.
Thunder cracked viciously, sending chills up Elain’s arms, her hand outstretched towards the mysterious plant. She knew deep in the marrow of her bones that this was important. A pivotal moment. Her fingers tingled with anticipation as they reached the velvet soft stem. Just as she went to pluck it from the earth she …
A guttural gasp pulled Elain from the vision. Panting, she scrunched her eyes shut and began counting to ten, begging her ragged breathing to steady. She hated when visions were incomplete.
It was just the nature of them sometimes, she knew that. Every book she had read whilst honing her powers had told her she should be grateful for whatever foresight the Mother had gifted her, no matter how vague it was. It was her responsibility in those instances to interpret whatever message the Mother was trying to convey. But it always set her nerves on edge, not understanding, not knowing whether the vision was hinting at something good or truly awful.
Opening her eyes, Elain set the journal on her bedside table, leaving the letter for her sisters for another day. Gripped tightly in the clutches of exhaustion, she blew out the candle, plunging the room into inky darkness. and shuffled herself deeper under the covers. As she settled herself, promising herself that she would investigate the suspicious flower further in the morning, she caught the faint floral scent clinging to the air.
The library was a sprawling expanse of a building, its domed glass ceiling rising as high as the heavens, allowing the morning light to shine down upon the ivy-lined bookshelves below.
“It’s beautiful,” Elain said, staring up at the ceiling with her hands pressed to her heart, her eyes twinkling with joy.
“Yes. It is,” Lucien replied, no interest in the architecture, his eyes fully focused on the awestruck female before him.
Spinning in a circle, Elain’s soft footsteps tapped against the marble floor, the steady ticking of the grand clock in the centre of the atrium the only other sound filling the large space.
“I believe the books on flora and fauna are this way, my lady,” Lucien said, motioning toward a light-filled alcove crammed with stacks upon stacks of well-read volumes.
“Everything seems so carefully placed,” Elain whispered as they approached the light oak shelves.“I’m afraid of touching anything,”
Lucien let out a quiet chuckle. “Even if you toppled an entire row of shelves, I think they’d still be grateful you ever set foot in this place once they met you”
Elain’s eyes grew wide, a rosy colour blooming on her cheeks. “You really think that?”
Lucien stepped closer, and it was only the constant tick-tick of the clock that reminded Elain that time had not, in fact, stopped.
“I think that anyone who has the pleasure of meeting you knows exactly how lucky they are, Elain. I promise you that.”
Elain’s breath hitched as Lucien reached up to sweep a stray strand of hair from her face, the delicate brush of his fingers against her cheek sending a shiver down spine.
“I shall leave you to explore to your hearts content,” he whispered, so close she felt his minty breath tickle her lips.“If you need me, I’ll be browsing the poetry,”
He turned on his heel and began to walk away, yet Elain still felt the phantom of his touch lingering, along with the faint scent of him in the air.
“I didn’t realise that you liked poetry,” Elain called out, her voice trembling as she shook herself awake.
“There is a lot you don’t know about me, Miss Archeron,” Lucien replied, his voice echoing lightly. He tossed her a lopsided grin and a wink over his shoulder before disappearing behind a row of shelves.
Elain set to work, scouring the many shelves that rose high above her. She wasn't sure exactly where to begin. The flower from her vision was unlike any she recognised from her extensive research into human and Night Court plant life, which left her wondering whether it was native to Spring, or just something incredibly rare.
She ran her finger along the dust coated spines, reading each title carefully.
Top Ten Terrific Terrariums
A Witches Guide to Earth Magic
Fae Gardening for Novices
Rare and Beautiful Plants of Prythian
The Complete Encyclopaedia of Spring Court Flora
Sliding the latter two thick books from the shelf and cradling them against her chest, Elain aimed for a nearby table, admiring the ornate wood carvings of flowers winding up each leg of her chair before she sat.
The encyclopedia she had chosen made a deep thunk as she opened the hefty tome. It was beautifully illustrated, filled with hand painted depictions of famous gardens and woodland trails. Elain imagined Feyre would have had a field day flicking through its pages, admiring the painstaking attention to detail the artist had captured. She had always had an eye for such things.
Elain, on the other hand, felt only sadness as she studied the images of thriving landscapes that had once filled the court. Determined to restore even a fraction of that beauty, she took out her notebook and began scribbling down ideas.
She lost track of how much time had passed, but precisely four and a half pages of notes later, Lucien returned to her side, a carefully bound poetry book resting in his hands.
Oh gods, now I’m thinking about his hands, Elain groaned internally, most pointedly trying not to dwell on those thick, calloused fingers, or the way they curled around the book’s spine. Her heart thundered in her chest as thoughts flickered through her mind. His thumb tracing her lips ever so delicately, lingering just long enough to steal her breath, and the dangerous thought of what might happen if he pressed closer still, slipping his finger into her wet mouth, and commanding her to "Suc-".
“Ready to go?” she squeaked, snapping her book shut and scrambling to her feet, the chair scraping loudly across the floor as she fought clumsily to avoided dropping her books. A few scholars shot her unimpressed looks at the sound and she wanted nothing more than for the floor to open up and swallow her whole.
Lucien straightened slowly, his gaze lingering on Elain’s flushed face. He studied her for a heartbeat longer than necessary before a lopsided smirk tugged at his mouth.
He doesn’t know what you’re thinking, Elain told herself. And yet, Lucien clearly knew something. He knew that she flushed far more often in his company. Knew how her voice climbed a few octaves whenever he stepped just a little too close. And judging by the look on his face, he found the whole thing endlessly entertaining.
Lucien swept an arm out towards to exit, leaning down into a dramatic bow.
“Lead the way, my lady.”
Outside, Lucien’s chestnut coated horse, Tilly, stood proud and steady. As Lucien lifted Elain into the saddle, she noticed the leather was warm beneath her hands, heated by the early afternoon sun.
Elain held her breath as Lucien settled behind her, his front pressed snugly against her back, his arms circling her waist as he reached for the reins.
Clicking his tongue, Lucien urged Tilly into a gentle trot, her hooves striking the packed earth in an even rhythm. As the minutes passed, Elain allowed herself to relax against him, losing the stiffness in her posture, her body easing as she adjusted to the steady movement.
"What are you thinking? I can hear your brain whirring," Lucien said, leaning in, his breath tickling the shell of her ear.
"I was wondering how you came to be so fond of poetry?" she answered. Truthfully, she had been, if only to distract herself from the feeling of the male wrapped around her.
Lucien was silent for a moment. It stretched long enough that Elain’s stomach flipped, an anxious pang tightening her chest. Had she crossed some invisible line? Perhaps she had misread him. She had assumed after all this time he would still be interested in getting to know each other, but maybe his earlier interest had been nothing more than the pull of the mating bond, and with a bit of time and distance, that curiosity had faded.
“I love poetry because for a very long time, it was the only safe place I could hide,” he said finally, sighing softly.
"My father, he was a brutal man to live with. My mother tried her best to hide us from the brunt of his temper tantrums, but she was just one fae and couldn't keep track of all seven of us at once. I was the runt of the litter. I was the youngest, the least like my father in pretty much every single aspect and I was most definitely far too tender hearted for his liking,"
Elain stilled, nausea coiling in her stomach at the image that swirled in her mind of a little Lucien, gentle and broken hearted at his father's cruelty.
"As we grew, my brothers realised an easy way to win my father's approval was by targeting me in whatever way they could. Some verbally, but mostly physically. Eris tended to leave me be, but the rest were vicious as the most poisonous of vipers." Lucien's voice was taut as a tightrope. Elain reached forward, enclosing her hand over his where it gripped the rein tightly. She had such a strong urge to sooth his pain, to bring him comfort in his raw vulnerability.
"Anything I loved, that man ripped away from me. When I was very young, too young to know that openly loving anything in that family was dangerous, a visiting emissary gifted me a small wooden music box. It was probably worth less than the golden buckles on my father's shoes, but it meant the world to me. I spent days walking the lonely halls of the manor turning the tiny brass handle and listening to the lilting tune it played," Lucien hummed a small song, the rise and fall of his voice so close to her ear sending a shiver up Elain's spine.
“It lasted all of a fortnight. Before my father made me watch as he crushed it beneath the weight of his boot. I was devastated. So after that, I learned not to love out loud. Poetry became something I could love inside my own head. A world I could escape to. In the end, it was how I survived him.”
Lucien twisted his hand, lacing his fingers through Elain’s, the soft leather of the reins snug between their clasped hands. Elain adjusted her grip without comment, her thumb brushing slow circles against his skin. She didn’t say anything at first, giving the moment time to breathe.
Tightening her hand slightly around his, Elain slowly trusted herself to speak. “I… I knew Beron was cruel. I’ve heard enough horror stories from Feyre. I guess I just hoped that he left you be, at least a little, when you were a child." She paused, swallowing the thick lump at the back of her throat, her eyes stinging.
"I’m really glad you found somewhere safe to go. That’s why I love gardening,” she said quietly, her voice shy. “It’s mine. A place I can escape to, somewhere I can shape into something beautiful … and no one can take it away.”
She hesitated, leaning back a touch so their bodies fit even more impossibly close. “Grayson… he never understood my affinity for gardening. He thought it was unladylike. He would entertain it for my sake, but he didn’t approve. He kept saying that when I was his wife, I wouldn’t need to garden, He would pay to have the perfect garden made for me. But he never understood that it’s the process I loved. Truthfully he never understood me."
Lucien gave Elain’s hand a gentle squeeze at her confession. “I understand,” he said softly. “For you, it’s the process of creating something that matters. For me, it’s a bit different—I get lost in the finished poem, someone else’s words, and how they make me feel. But I think we both crave the same thing: the moments no one else can touch, the quiet sense of calm that comes from losing yourself completely in something.”
“Yes. Yes, that’s exactly it!” Elain’s heart swelled. He truly understood. He saw her.
“I did try writing once,” Lucien added wryly, a smirk in his voice. “The result was rather embarrassing. Although … I did teach Tamlin how to write a dirty limerick or two.”
Elain balked out laughing, the sudden sound sending a few birds skyward. She leaned her head back slightly, letting the back of her head brush Lucien's shoulder as she turned to meet his eyes. “I think I’d like to read some of your embarrassing poetry someday.” Lucien let out a laugh in return, the sound warm and easy.
They continued that way for the rest of the ride, sharing laughter and gentle ribbing, happily entwined in each other’s arms, a feeling a little bit closer, and far more seen than before.
A few weeks later, Elain and Lucien had settled into a perfect rhythm. From morning until early evening, they worked side by side, laughing and sharing anecdotes from their past.
“And then she fell flat on her ass in the mud,” Elain chuckled mischievously as she pushed the roots of the bush deep into the soil. “I told her trying to balance a watering can on her head while standing on one foot atop a plant pot was a bad idea. But you know Feyre, if anyone tells her she can’t do something, it only makes her want to do it all the more.”
Lucien grinned from ear to ear while he turned the soil, his heart swelling at the pure, joyous sound of Elain’s laughter.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” he said, settling onto his knees beside Elain as he opened a fresh seed packet. “I once saw her drink half a bottle of Rhysand’s fanciest wine while standing on her head. All because Cassian bet she couldn’t do it as fast as him.”
“Oh, I remember that day!” Elain laughed. “I came home from the market to find them both in the garden, giggling on their backs and crushing my prize pansies.”
Their laughter, which had echoed through the clearing, slowly faded as their eyes met and their grins softened into gentle smiles. Once more, Elain could hear the thudding of Lucien’s heart, beating nervously against his chest, but this time, it was joined by the soft sound of her own.
As their heartbeats began to entwine, Elain leaned forward just a fraction, a quiet invitation for Lucein to do the same. One he accepted gladly.
Then, just as their faces were mere inches apart, a sharp sound cut through the stillness.
“Did you hear that?” Elain asked, all delight draining from her face.
Before Lucien had a chance to reply, another shrill cry rang out, high and distressed, raw with fear. He was already on his feet, racing toward the edge of the clearing. Elain followed quick on his heels, her stomach roiling with anxiety.
The small deer they stumbled upon was in a state of panic, its large brown eyes wide and glassy with fear. Though deer were usually skittish, this one lay unnaturally still, allowing Lucien to carefully inspect the injury.
A deep gash on the animals flank seeped bright red blood, staining and matting the deer’s soft caramel fur.
“There’s a trail of blood,” Lucien said quietly, kneeling beside the animal. “She must have hurt herself deeper in the woods and stumbled this way, looking for safety. It’s bad… she’s too weak, losing too much blood. I—I think all we can do is make her comfortable before…”
He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence, his hands hovering helplessly, covered in crimson.
"No!" Elain's voice rang sharply, tears streaming down her face. "No I can't just leave her here!" Her voice cracked, as she sank to the forest floor, the uneven ground cutting into her knees.
Trembling, she placed one hand over the deer’s heart and the other on the ground to steady herself. A soft sniffle escaped her as she gazed into the creature’s pleading eyes. Slowly, she leant forward until her forehead rested against the deer’s neck. Lucien’s heart ached at the scene. Both for the innocent animal and the gentle girl before him. He wished he could do something, anything, to bring a smile back to her sweet face. His mind raced through countless ideas, searching desperately for a solution, when suddenly a bright spark of light caught his eye.
A stuttering lilac glow trailed from Elain's palm, wavering as it snaked towards the painful injury on the deer's flank. Lifting her head, Elain gasped, causing the unstable magic to flicker, before narrowing her eyes, forcing herself to focus on the glimmering light.
Lucien watched, mesmerized, as the thread of magic extended into the clearing, linking her trembling hand to the nearby azalea bush they had planted just hours before. The plant quivered, petals curling as the light pulsed from it, flowing through Elain and into the exhausted deer, before it sputtered out entirely.
Lifting her hand, Elain and Lucien stared in stunned silence at the deer. The cut hadn’t vanished completely, it was still raw and would take time to fully heal, but the bleeding had stopped, the wound had partially closed, and the creature’s breathing had steadied.
As the adrenaline faded, a wave of exhaustion washed over Elain, forcing her to sink fully to the ground. Lucien, noticing her fatigue, gently placed a hand at the small of her back, steadying her.
"You actually did that,” Lucien whispered, his voice tight with awe.
“I… I don’t even know what happened,” Elain admitted, her voice shaking. “I’ve never done anything like that before. I just… I wanted to help her so badly, and then, suddenly, that light appeared.”
“You saved her life,” Lucien said, lifting her chin so she could meet his eyes. “This power, whatever it is, it’s incredible. I always knew you’d do amazing things, Elain Archeron, but this … this could do so much good.”
Elain’s heart fluttered at the pure warmth in his gaze. “Really?” she asked shyly. “You really believe I can do more?”
“I know you can,” he replied with a smile. “I’ll help you. We can figure this out. Together.”
The confidence Lucien had in her ability to handle this new power astonished Elain. Never before had she felt anyone believe in her so completely. Not so quickly, and certainly not so wholeheartedly.
"I don't want to leave her," Elain whispered, her eyes still fixed on the small deer.
Lucien brushed his thumb over Elain's tear stained cheek, his expression soft and full of kindness. “We can set her up somewhere safe, and check on her every day. I promise.”
Elain nodded, and Lucien helped her to her feet with gentle care. He then carefully scooped the deer into his arms, carrying her to a sheltered corner of the clearing. “I’ll come back later with food and water from the cottage,” he assured her.
Letting out a shaky breath, Elain met Lucien's easy smile with her own, and for a moment, her exhaustion faded away, replaced by the pure joy of being truly seen and understood. And in that instant, she realised that maybe it wasn’t just her new found magic that was coming to life.
Summary - 4 years of friendship had always meant so much more than Feyre and Mor believed
Warnings - Friends to lovers with a touch of angst, mentions of wine, some longing, that gift giving anxiety, probably a missed error or two (if you see them, no you didn't 😭)
A/n - Happy Solstice and Secret Santa @dreamlandreader I'm so sorry I wasn't as active as I had planned to be for this event. I hope I made your cozy with a touch of angst friends to lovers dream come true with this. Its my first time writing Mor and Feyre, but its definitely a dynamic I want to play more with! Merry Christmas, dear ❤️
Pine, cinnamon, and warmth greeted Feyre as she walked into the Riverhouse. The yearly Inner Circle Solstice Party was in full swing, laughter ringing out and drinks flowing as she removed her wool coat. She could feel her lips twitch, a small smile appearing as the familiar sound of heels clicking on the floors approached her.
“Feyre! Thank the Mother,” Mor giggled. “I am so tired of these males.” She motioned, soft blonde curls bouncing as she did to where Cassian and Azriel were already in a heated debate. “Come drink with me,” before she could protest, Morrigan grabbed her hand, fingers lacing together.
That simple gesture was one of many that had Feyre confused about the unspoken between her and Mor. Friendship had become the two of them being inseparable. So much so that they both agreed it was as if the Mother called them home when they met each other. They had once called it sisterhood, but even now, they both knew that didn't fit what they needed it to. So many questions were unclear between the two of them, lingering touches, prolonged glances, late night talks after everyone else had turned in for the night. Feyre had noticed the tension growing more as her birthday and Solstice grew closer, her mind constantly playing scenarios of what Mor must be planning.
Feyre's own plan had become bold, even for her. She just needed one opening, a moment between the two of them where she felt brave, but now wasn't that time as the of them began walking to a secluded corner, Feyre giving an occasional wave as she did, “What are we drinking,” Feyre's voice barely hid the trembling of nerves she was feeling, her mask of smiles never cracked, though.
Mor simply smiled, “I may have gotten into Rhysand's wine cellar. I may have a bottle hidden just for us.” That tug came again, Feyre's lips turning to a grin as the two of them began to fall into their routine. A moment of laughter, a moment of gossip, a moment of shock at the disbelief of other fae's behavior. They observed their friends around them, laughing as Cassian ranked Azriel. Rolling their eyes and look of disbelief as Amren judged her expensive gift from Rhysand.
As the two of them started their third glass, a small weight reminded Feyre of its presence. This would be their 4th year of this tradition: Small presents exchanged away from the Inner circle. They had their gifts they exchanged with everyone else, then something private, something their own later and as Mor took the lead, moving to a new room away from the others, Feyre felt her chest grow tight.
This year's gift was one Feyre had spent hours crafting. One she hoped Morrigan would love and wear daily. A dainty gold locket with three small stars and Ramiel on its front. The inside was where something special sat. Feyre had spent hours using her smallest and finest brushes, painting intricate line by line until the memory of her and Mor on the battlefield together stared back at her. That moment, though brutal, was one that the two of them held near and dear. That moment had been when their chemistry truly fell into place as their trust and friendship was tested. That moment had been the one where Feyre knew Morrigan wasn't a passing feeling, but a permanent mark on her heart and soul, and now a golden locket would let Morrigan carry the moment close to her heart at all times.
“Offly quiet tonight,” rich brown eyes studied Feyre, the much older fae female seeming to read her body language and mind without needing magic to do so. “Is it the company?”
Feyre could only chuckle, eyes beginning to sparkle as the back and forth began, “Don't be silly.” She took a sip of the tart wine, praying for bravery as nerves began to bubble up. “If I wanted different company, I'd go find Cassian.”
Mor blinked at her, eyes then going wide, “Cassian? Here I was thinking you enjoyed the finer things, Fey. Might have to return your gift.” She leaned in, playful nudging Feyre with her shoulder. “What is on your mind? It's your birthday and Solstice! We're celebrating! You shouldn't be sad!”
A faint flush made Feyre's brain pause. Mor had always been known to list things in the order she found their importance. Rhysand over Amren, Cassian over Azriel, or Azriel over Cassian depending on the day, Elain over Nesta. To hear “your birthday” over “Solstice” was just another reminder to Feyre of how deep their friendship was.
“Did you want to exchange gifts,” Feyre's sudden question made Mor seem to glow, eyes sparkling.
“You're nervous?”
And there was no way to hide it as Feyre's whispered reply came, “Yes.” Trembling hands reached into her dress pocket, thanking the designer for including something so useful, and she pulled out the crystal box; another handpicked touch she hoped Mor knew was just for her. “I had this made for you, well, and I also made it,” her voice was barely a whisper as butterflies began to land deep in her stomach. “I know we always agreed no jewelry, but I wanted-”
A soft hand, lightly scarred from years of training, slid over Feyre's. “Just let me see,” Mor's voice was a balm, soothing a budding ounce of anxiousness Feyre held. “I am sure I can forgive you for breaking the no jewelry rule.” As if she was taking glass, Morrigan slid the box from Feyre's hands, setting it on the table before pulling out her own small red paper wrapped gift. “Besides, I broke the rule, too.”
Her hands met Feyre's again, placing the gift in Feyre's. The two shared a moment of silence before nodding, a long ago set code that they'd made to open every gift at the same time. Feyre pulled the satin white bow, ribbon coming apart easily as she did, but soft gasp made her pause, looking up at where Mor had her mouth covered with a perfectly manicured hand.
“Oh Feyre, how long did this take,” her eyes darted over every detail of the small painting. “How?”
“Several months and very tiny brushes,” Feyre smiled. “Some detail omission on things the mind automatically fills in was done, but I'm really proud of how it turned out.”
Mor smiled at that, knowing her beloved friend could and would explain everything down to the paint layering process if she asked. The locket sparkled as she took it from the cushion. “You even got a longer chain!”
“You mentioned wanting a layering necklace,” Feyre reminded her, causing Mor to smile and nod before turning her back to Feyre, locket held out. She pulled her hair up, a silent plea for Feyre to put the necklace on her.
They'd done this countless times, but the air felt different at this moment. The unspoken feelings between the two of them seemed to become more apparent, eating into the moment and demanding to be heard and healed like an ache. Feyre stilled her shaking hands, touching the fragile clasp as she moved to put the necklace around Morrigan's slender neck.
As her blonde curls fell back down, Morrigan turned straightening the necklace,“Well? Is it perfect?”
“You always are,” Feyre answered, blue eyes going wide as she realized the slip up.
It was Morrigan's turn to blush, her mind immediately blaming the wine. Despite knowing better, she couldn't help but reply. “Am I?” That unspoken rose again, buzzing as the two of them stood close together. “Finish opening your gift.” Morrigan reached around Feyre, fingers brushing her exposed arm as she did. Both of them noticed the chills Feyre immediately felt along her arm, but neither mentioned it as they both felt a heat begin between them, both of their secret plans falling into place, “You are going to love it.”
She placed the red box back in Feyre's waiting hand, but kept herself close. Feyre's fingers worked at tearing the paper, the ripping one of her favorite noises. A black jewelry box sat inside, Mor hiding her excitement as Feyre opened it. Inside sat a silver necklace, centered on the thin chain was a 7 point star, diamond resting in the middle and sparkling. “It's the Carynth,” Mor explained. “To make sure you can always be guided home during your adventures with Rhysand or whatever!”
Without her even asking, Mor stepped even closer, removing the necklace from the box. Their faces almost touched as she began unclasping it, arms wrapping around Feyre's neck to put the gift on. Citrus and cinnamon filled her nose as Mor worked, the gentle click ensuring the gift was in place.
Mor stood in place, arms unmoving. Those butterflies appeared again, causing Feyre's stomach to go tight. “Morrigan?”
“Feyre?”
“What are we doing,” her question was breathless, vulnerability and yearning hanging in each whimpered word.
Mor's tone was as gentle, matching Feyre's as she spoke again, “Tell me what you think we are doing?”
“Longing,” the answer hung, but Mor, ever quick on her feet had the answer.
“Then maybe we should stop longing and start living?” A rapid nod barely made it out before something magnetic pulled them closer, breathing falling into sync as they stared at each other, daring the other to be the one to cross the line.
This was the grey in Feyre's plan, her mind scared of the hurt misreading the cues she was being given could bring. “You know I won't,” Feyre reminded her. “You know-” A soft press of lips against hers stopped that sentence. Mor had closed the remaining distance throwing all caution to the winds and fate to the stars as she did.
Feyre's hands moved, resting on Morrigan's back as she responded, hoping each second they connected communicated 4 years of wanting this exact moment. 4 years of knowing deep down that the build of their friendship was something more. 4 years of her loving someone she had found untouchable.
Morrigan's lips seemed to repeat those feelings back to her as the kiss grew deeper, a hand moving to the back of Feyre's neck to position her exactly as Mor wanted. Feyre's lips were as soft as her dreams had told her they'd be and tasted like what Mor could only describe as magic.
Their foreheads rested together, eyes both shut as they pulled apart. The silence between them no longer screamed, but instead seemed to sing. “Happy Solstice, Feyre," Mor spoke first. "Best present ever."
A soft chuckle left Feyre's lips as their hands seemed to find their each other’s without them even realizing it, the soft tug in their chests coming again. “Happy Solstice, Mor.’
Aahhhh this was amazing thank you so much @readychilledwine 💕 I love it so so much!
Live footage of me reading my gift:
I love this cosy quiet moment between Feyre and Mor and the gifts they got one another were so sweet and thoughtful! So perfect that it was released on Feyre’s birthday too! This has now become my mandatory Solstice reading ❄️
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