summary: you've never been kissed and eddie has been crushing on you since the day you met
18+ [bestfriend!eddie x female!reader]
contains: hurt/comfort, mutual pining, fluff, friends to lovers, kissing, brief mention of alcohol, swearing
word count: 4k
a/n: this is my first time writing for eddie and I'm excited to share him with you! this is very self-indulgent but I hope you like it. please consider reblogging/commenting if you do, my blog is brand new! enjoy ❤
There’s a romantic comedy playing on the television, something you picked up from Family Video for your bi-weekly movie night with Eddie. It was your turn to pick, and after sitting through a terrible slasher film he claimed to love, you wanted to get him back with a movie you didn’t necessarily have interest in, but knew would make him squirm in his seat.
He grabbed the snacks while you got the movie, and you met up at his trailer after Wayne left for work, the sun setting beyond the horizon and leaving a cold autumn breeze in its place. A routine that had been kept for almost six-months straight.
A bowl of popcorn sat between the two of you, an open bag of sour patch kids resting against your thigh and a half-empty bottle of beer was clasped in Eddie’s hand, resting lazily on his knee where he sat on the opposite side of the sofa.
You always looked forward to these nights, but today you felt particularly resentful about your choice of film, the two main characters falling in love mere days after meeting. It’s cheesy and cliche, and not all that realistic. You know that. But it makes your chest ache with longing for something you’ve never had.
And now, unbeknownst to you, you’ve been watching the movie play out with a pout sitting on your face while Eddie has to bite back his smile each time the male protagonist kisses the girl that looks a little like you if he squints hard enough.
The two of you had been best friends since high school and now you were spending most of your time in college while Eddie worked at an auto shop, which left your get-togethers pushed to the weekends unless one of you showed up at the other's place without warning after a long day. You’d also been crushing on him practically since the day you met, but had kept your feelings to yourself, ignorant to the fact that Eddie also had eyes for you for longer than he was willing to admit to himself.
You’ve watched him go through a handful of relationships in the time you’ve known him.
From hearing the disbelief in his voice when he scored a date with Chrissy Cunningham and seeing her hanging off of his arm around school for four months, before you all graduated and she broke it off with a voicemail left on Wayne’s home phone and headed off to university in Indianapolis; to random hookups from his evenings spent at The Hideout that you encountered in awkward meetings when you showed up at his trailer to spend the day with him, finding girls in his clothes sipping coffee that they helped themselves to while Eddie snoozed for another hour.
Eddie has been your best friend for five years. Six in only a couple of months. And he has been with a total of nine different women.
Not that you’re counting or anything.
His relationships never bother you. Not really. But the nagging thought in the back of your mind every time you think about him, was that you haven’t been with anyone.
You’ve had nothing more than a brief conversation with boys in required discussion groups in college. And other than the frequent hugs you receive from Eddie, the furthest you’ve ever gone with someone was a kiss on the cheek from one of your girlfriends that was slightly too close to the corner of your mouth, and left your body erupting in tingles.
But Eddie had game. He knew how to make a girl swoon. How to wrap them around his finger and kiss them until they were weak in the knees and red in the face.
You had seen him kiss a handful of times and were ashamed to admit to yourself that you had crawled into your bed with your hand between your thighs more than once, wishing it was you he was kissing and touching and making crumble with one particularly smitten look on his face.
He glances at you when you haven't said a word in over an hour, seeing the frown on your face and the crease between your brows that he desperately wants to smooth over with his thumb. You never had a great poker face, unintentionally putting most of your emotions on display, and he knows you have no idea you’re pouting.
“Did you run out of candy?” He asks suddenly, making you turn to him, the wrinkle in your forehead deepening in confusion. “You’re grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy,” you huff, plucking your aforementioned candy off the sofa and popping one into your mouth.
Your knees are pulled up to your chest, body leaning away from Eddie with your legs resting against the arm of the sofa. He knows something is up when your eyes don’t return to the movie, lips pursing as you suck on the candy in your mouth and stare at the bag in your hands, pretending to read the ingredients.
He quietly sets his beer down on the coffee table, moving the barely touched popcorn off of the sofa and clicking pause on the remote, filling the room with silence. You look up at him and he rests his arm on the back of the sofa, the palm of his hand pressing into his cheek.
“Are you going to keep pouting for the rest of the night, or tell me what’s wrong?” He asks, brow arching in question and you fight the urge to roll your eyes.
“I’m fine,” you mutter, dropping your candy onto the table and bundling your hands together in your lap.
“You’re a liar, is what you are,” he accuses.
You sigh, slumping further down into the sofa with your cheek resting on the cushion as you turn to meet his gaze.
His brown eyes sparkle in the dim light of the room, his usually untamed hair pulled back with a bun at the base of his skull, stray pieces falling softly to frame the sides of his face. He looks pretty. He always does, but your current state of mind has you looking away as your heart skips a beat, gaze falling to his chest which is covered with a well-worn Dio shirt.
“I want that,” you admit quietly, voice barely audible to yourself.
“You want what?” He questions, brows furrowing.
You flicker your eyes over to the television and he turns his head to look at the screen, the film paused on a scene of a girl lounging beside a pool with a fluffy dog in her lap, sipping on a bright purple cocktail.
“A dog? A pool- or do you want a drink? I can try and make you something but I don’t know what we have…” He trails off in confusion and you sigh, rubbing your hands over your face.
“Just forget it,” you mumble into your palms before crossing your arms over your stomach and tilting your eyes up to the ceiling.
Eddie feels clueless as he tries to work out your unspoken desire in his head, gaze shifting around the room until he spots the fictional couple on the cover of the rented VHS tape.
A lightbulb flicks on in his head.
“You want someone?”
Your eyes dart to him quickly enough that he knows he’s right before you give him a subtle nod of your head, pulling the sleeves of your sweater over your hands as you feel your face grow hot.
“You will one day,” he assures you but you just shake your head, that being the last thing you want to hear.
Eddie knows about your relationship history, or rather, lack thereof, but you never talk about it. So he’s surprised with your next statement, his heart leaping into his throat and the energy in the room shifting.
“No one has ever found me attractive… or at least not enough to do something about it. It’s hopeless.”
He keeps a straight face but curls his fingers into a fist at his side, silently cursing himself for never telling you how pretty you really are. He thinks you’re the prettiest and most attractive person he’s ever known, but has never said a word out of fear that you’ll stop being his best friend.
“It’s not hopeless,” he says quietly. “The guys who haven’t made a move on you are pussies.”
His partially self-degrading comment was meant to make you laugh, but you don’t. Not even giving him a pitying laugh or a half-forced smile.
“No one has ever even glanced in my direction,” you say and he frowns.
“That you’ve seen.”
“Eddie…” you sigh, unsure of why you start to feel emotion welling up in your chest.
"Sorry."
“I just… I grew up surrounded by friends who had boyfriends, or flings, or were flirted with- kissed stupid outside of bars or on the bench behind school. And no one-” your words get caught in your chest and you swallow down the lump forming in your throat. “No one has ever even looked at me. Do you know how that feels?”
You look up at him but he doesn’t reply, his eyebrows threading together as he watches you bare your heart to him like this for the first time.
“To have guys look at everyone around you, but never you? To never have anyone like you enough to say something about it? To… to have maybe had three guy friends who never saw you as anything more, that you haven’t even spoken to in years?”
You know he doesn’t get it. Not at all. But it doesn’t matter.
“God, Eddie.” You scrub at your eyes when tears gloss over your vision. “I’ve never even kissed someone,” your voice cracks and falls into a whisper.
He immediately reaches forward to wrap his hands around your ankles and pull you towards him, swiftly maneuvering you to sit with your legs thrown over his lap and your head buried in his neck.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, running his hand over your waist. You sniffle sadly. “Fuck, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”
He knows that all of the potentially comforting words forming in his brain won’t make you feel better. Because he doesn’t understand what it’s like to be your age and never kissed.
You don’t want to hear that it’ll happen one day. You don’t know what you want.
Maybe comfort isn’t something that words would necessarily give you right now.
“I know that it’ll probably happen one day but… what if it doesn’t?” You whimper, curling into him as your vulnerability takes over. He holds you tighter to him, shaking his head. “I don’t even know what it feels like to be wanted. I can’t even imagine anyone wanting me. No one ever has.”
His heart feels like it’s going to crumble into pieces in his chest as he lets you talk out your feelings, his hand gripping your thigh tightly. You’re almost completely perched in his lap, but he can’t focus on how you feel against him when your tears are wetting the collar of his shirt.
“God I feel fucking pathetic,” you mumble, wiping your hand over your eyes and sitting up. “Sorry.”
“You’re not pathetic,” he says, making you scoff quietly as you dab at your cheeks with your sleeves, staring down at your lap. “You’re human. It’s pretty human to want to feel desired.”
“Yeah,” you whisper, sniffling back the remainder of your tears and lifting your eyes to find his pretty brown ones staring back at you.
There’s something different in his gaze now. Something you’ve only seen a few times. Something loving and soft, and so sweet that it makes your breath hitch in your throat.
Eddie figures that now is as good a time as any to potentially make a complete fool out of himself in an attempt to make you feel better. To make you feel like you’re worthy of being desired. Because god knows he’s been desiring you since the day you accidentally fell into his lap in the cafeteria after being shoved out of the way with a harsh shoulder by some prissy cheerleader on the second day of school.
“You’re beautiful,” he says so quietly that you almost don’t hear him.
“Eddie…” you mumble, shutting your eyes and moving to climb off of his lap.
His hand on your thigh tightens and you pause, his eyes tracing delicately over your features.
“You want someone to look at you,” he says, the corners of his lips quivering in a small smile. “So I’m looking, sweetheart.”
His eyes flicker down to your lips and you want to say something. To pull away and turn the movie back on, get off of his lap and pretend like you were never there in the first place. But the way he’s looking at you is something you’ve only ever seen him do with his past girlfriends or someone he’s crushing on. Never to you.
Your cheeks feel warm as he looks at you and you can almost feel his eyes as they trace over your hairline and down the bridge of your nose, past your lips and dropping down to your chest before meeting yours again. Your stomach twists with nerves as his hand leaves your thigh to rest on the side of your neck, his thumb smoothing across the skin of your cheek.
“Eddie,” your voice is a whisper, heart pounding in your chest. “Stop.”
He can feel the nerves radiating off of you but he doesn’t move, one of his brows quirking up in question. “What’s wrong?”
“I-I don’t… I-” you stumble for a reason why you want him to stop looking at you like that.
You wrack your brain while he sits patiently for an answer, but you quickly understand that you don’t want him to stop. You’re just terrified.
You don’t have to speak to understand what could happen, with how he’s gazing at you and touching you so softly as if you’ll break under his palms at any second. Holding you in a way he never has before.
“Please don’t be making one of your stupid jokes right now,” you say, a plea that has his face softening and his thumb brushing across your bottom lip.
“I’m not joking, baby,” he murmurs, the pet name making your heart stammer in your chest. “You’re gorgeous. And I was too afraid to say anything in case you didn’t feel the same and left because you were uncomfortable around me.”
You suddenly feel like crying again, a wave of disbelief washing over you as you realize that your best friend and the person you’ve been silently wanting for almost six years wants to give you everything you were just begging for.
“I could never be uncomfortable around you,” you say and he smiles, hooking his arm around your waist and twisting you so that you’re facing him, your knees pressing into the sofa on either side of his hips.
“I mean it,” he said and all you can do is nod.
The position you’ve found yourself in is foreign in more ways than one, but especially with it being Eddie who has put you there. You feel slightly overwhelmed with your shorts riding up on your thighs and your skin cold where the metal of the chain on his belt presses against you. Rough denim scratching softly at your legs and a subtle heat radiating through the fabric that makes you slightly dizzy as you get a whiff of his cologne.
Your hands are clenched into fists around the fabric of his t-shirt and he can feel your heart racing where his palm is still pressing against the side of your neck.
“It’s just me, yeah?” He says and you swallow the sudden dryness in your throat. “There’s nothing to be scared of.”
He knows you need him to make all of the moves right now and he’s okay with it, even despite the way his heartbeat is quickening to catch up with yours.
“Can I kiss you?”
His question makes your head spin and your stomach tightens. “I… I’ve never-”
“I know.” The gentle reassurance that falls from his lips soothes you and you give him another quick nod.
There’s still a hint of a smile on his face when he leans forward to brush his lips against yours.
He doesn’t kiss you right away, the tip of his nose nudging yours as he pulls back just enough to gauge your reaction. Your eyes are closed and your lips part slightly with a shaky sigh, hands unknowingly pulling the neckline of his shirt down to grasp for any semblance of reality as you sit in his lap.
He slides his hand to the back of your neck, guiding you forward an inch to meet his mouth, lips slotting against yours. His lips are soft and slightly chapped, and when a strand of his hair brushes against your cheek, you don’t bother to pull away even when it tickles your skin.
The hand on your neck is a grounding touch and you think you’ve never felt so safe and comfortable in Eddie’s arms before.
He can feel the way you relax into his kiss, your body slumping just enough to rest your chest against his and fingers untangling from his shirt to drop into his lap. You’re not breathing so he pulls away after just a few seconds, lips parting from yours with a quiet click and you immediately take a deep breath through your nose, your eyes fluttering open.
You think if your brain was working properly, you’d be worried that this was all a ploy for him to get your first kiss out of the way so you’d stop crying, but the only thing floating through your mind is how nice it felt to have his lips on yours.
His face is close to yours, lashes brushing his cheekbones as he sits with his eyes closed, the hand on your waist sliding down to rest on the top of your thigh. The tip of his tongue pokes out as he wets his lips before exhaling a long breath through his nose, a tiny smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Shit,” he breathes, squeezing your thigh before tipping his head back to rest on the sofa cushion. “I really can’t believe it took me this long to kiss you.”
“You mean that?” You fight the urge to bring your hand up to feel your lips, wondering how long you might have to wait to feel his again.
He peels his eyes open and looks down at you. “You have no idea.”
You feel a smile begin to form on your face and you duck your chin to hide against his chest, fingers still trembling from clutching his shirt so tightly as you lift your arms to slink around his neck. He chuckles and curls his arms around you, tilting his head down and burying his nose in your hair.
“Don’t get all shy on me now, sweetheart,” he says, a shiver running down his spine as you slide your fingers into his hair, loosening the elastic holding it back.
He doesn’t care about his hair as your nose presses into his neck and your breath warms the skin beneath his shirt. “Did I do alright for your first time?”
Your face goes flush at his choice of words and he fights back a moan when you press a quick kiss to his neck before lifting your head, unable to hold back the coy grin that sits on your lips.
You nod and he smiles, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your lower back.
“Yeah? Think it’d be okay if I did it again?”
“Please,” you say and he wastes no time in kissing you again.
Your hands blindly tug the elastic band out of his hair, sliding it onto your wrist and tangling your fingers into the mess of curls at his neck. His lips drag over yours in lingering kisses that make your stomach twist with heat, tasting a hint of the candy he was munching on earlier in the evening.
You’re consumed by the new sensation of his lips moving against yours and the frizzy curls hooked around your fingers, the thick of your thighs resting on his own with a silent invitation to scooch your hips a little closer to his if you wanted to.
Eddie is kissing you. Keeping his advances small but addicting, pushing back a smile each time he feels you chase his lips when he pulls back. You can’t get enough.
So you don’t really notice when he relaxes back against the sofa, resting his hands on your soft thighs with his fingers dipping just below the edge of your shorts. You let out a quiet noise against his lips as your chest comes to rest on his, your arm getting trapped beneath his shoulder and the cushion. His nails press softly into your skin at how pleased you sound, his arms erupting in goosebumps when you unintentionally tug at his hair.
You’ve been letting out quiet gasps between every kiss he plants on your mouth, your lungs stinging in your chest, yet reluctant to pull away. It’s only when you feel the tip of his tongue nudge against your bottom lip that you pull back, resting your forehead on his and panting to catch your breath.
“Too much?” He mumbles, sliding his hands over your skin.
“Not at all,” you breathe, swallowing hard and letting out a soft laugh. “I just couldn’t breathe.”
Eddie smiles, tilting his chin forward to press his lips to the corner of your mouth. You lift your head and your eyes instantly fall to his lips, now slightly swollen and a darker shade of pink.
It’s hard for you to think straight, to wrap your head around the fact that you just had your first kiss, and second, and third, and fourth… all with Eddie who is looking at you now like you hung the moon just for him.
As much as your insecurity is wanting to take you away from this moment, you know that he isn’t that good of a liar, and if he really didn’t want you like this in at least some capacity, you’d be able to see it in his eyes. But all you can see is the sweet, loving gaze of your best friend as he lets you settle, no matter that all he can think about now is kissing you stupid for the rest of the night.
You’ve gotten further than you ever thought you’d get and you mindlessly pull the tangles in his hair apart, wetting your lips and taking a deep breath. “I like you, Eds. A lot.”
You figured he might make a teasing comment at your admission, but he just smirks and lets his eyes fall closed as you play with his hair. “I like you too, sweetheart. Have for way too long.”
You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and slide your hands from his hair to drag down his chest, his stomach twitching beneath your innocent touch.
“Do you want to keep watching your movie?” He asks, glancing at you and you shake your head. “You sure?”
You think this is the happiest you’ve ever been, and Eddie feels the same- just happy that he could be the one to make you feel truly wanted for the first time. He wishes you would’ve confided in him about your lack of romance earlier in your friendship so you wouldn’t have missed out on so many years silently pining for one another. But he thinks this will do just fine.
“I want to keep doing this,” you quietly admit and he lets out a soft groan as he brings his hands up to his face.
“You’re gonna be the death of me…” He drops his hands to his sides. “Wanna get comfy in my room then?”
He chuckles at your eager nod, patting your thighs and moving to sit up. “Hop up then, baby. We can clean up later.”
You get up and he follows suit, grabbing your hand and interlacing your fingers to drag you down the hallway with an urgency that makes you laugh the entire way into his bedroom.
summary: it's 1988 and eddie takes you to a guns n' roses concert to see your favourite song live
18+ [boyfriend!eddie x female!reader]
contains: a lot of fluff, a lot of love, kissing, brief mention of alcohol, swearing, eddie takes care of you
word count: 4.7k
a/n: extremely cheesy concert vibes since eddie never got the chance to love guns n' roses. and as will always stand, my characters are adults and no longer in high school! please reblog/comment if you enjoy my writing, any feedback is extremely appreciated ❤
Spending half his paycheck to snag tickets for a band he heard play on the radio twice was never something Eddie thought he’d do.
At least not until you burst into his trailer one day with an Appetite for Destruction cassette tape in your hand, demanding that he let you use his boombox so you could play him the band your friend had just introduced you to that morning. The two of you then spent the night listening to the entire album.
Well… what he thought would’ve been the entire album.
When track 9 came on for the first time, he saw the ways your eyes lit up at the rich and memorable guitar riff combined with the first few words that rolled off of the tongue of Axl Rose through the speakers of his cassette player.
She’s got a smile that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories
When everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky
Every time the song ended, you reached over and rewinded the tape to the beginning of the track, leaving Eddie having the lyrics memorized within half an hour, miming the guitar riff with his hands as the two of you laid on the floor in his bedroom.
Sweet Child of Mine quickly became your favourite song, Eddie throwing it on whenever you were in the passenger seat of his van just to see the joy on your face. He later sat you down in his room and played the entire song he learned for you on his guitar. You then proceeded to climb into his lap and kiss him until his face was red, mumbling against his lips that you loved him, which just happened to be the very first time you told him that.
So when Wayne mentioned to him that Guns N’ Roses were headlining a show in Indianapolis, he called in sick to work and drove down to the arena at the crack of dawn, standing in line for four hours to get a pair of tickets.
It was worth every second though, when he picked you up from work that afternoon, leaning against the side of his van with tickets in hand.
You slipped them out from between his fingers, a smile pulling at your lips.
“What’s this?” You asked, tilting your chin down to read what was printed on the cardstock before you looked back up at him with wide eyes. “Eddie- are you serious?”
“As a heart attack, sweetheart,” he murmured and was practically body slammed into his van when you lunged into his arms with an excited squeal, squeezing all of the air from his lungs.
He could still feel the tight hold you had on him that day if he closed his eyes and thought about it hard enough.
You were even more excited when he said it would just be the two of you, as his bandmates briefly mentioned wanting to see them if they ever came to the city. Eddie never had the privilege of taking you to a concert before and was taking advantage of it, eager to have you pressed against his side the entire evening listening to your new but now shared, favourite band.
The drive to the venue was filled with your eager ramblings about how much you were looking forward to the evening, and Eddie was already over the moon at your delight.
He had been to Market Square Arena once before when he saw Iron Maiden a few years back, but was in the nosebleeds with the only tickets his uncle could afford. This time though, you were on the floor, much to your surprise when you got scanned in with a bright yellow wristband being handed to you.
Eddie guides you onto the arena’s floor, hand tucked tightly in yours. There were no seats, the entire floor acting as one big mosh pit he’s sure would form sometime throughout the night. Hoards of people already crowding at the barricade, packed in like sardines despite the amount of empty space lingering behind them.
He glances down at you to ask if you want to be closer to the front, but your eyes are wide as they scan over the crowd filled with loud, burly men with cups of beer in their hand, uncaring when the liquid splashes over the rim and onto the sticky floor. Younger people are scattered amongst the crowd as well but Eddie knows that doesn’t matter when you unintentionally falter in your step beside him.
Wordlessly, he leads you towards the side of the room where the crowd is sparser and he can lean against the wall separating the crowd from the endless rows of seats slowly being filled behind him.
“Is this alright?” He asks, pulling you to face him as he rests his lower back against the lip of the wall.
You nod. “You didn’t tell me we were on the floor!” You exclaim, bouncing on the balls of your feet and he smiles, holding your hand to his chest and dipping his chin down to kiss your knuckles.
“You saw the tickets,” he teases and you roll your eyes, glancing towards the stage. “Do you want to go and grab any merch before the show starts?”
There was a little less than an hour left before the band took stage and you’d already stopped on your way in to grab a bottle of water that Eddie insisted you have, wanting to ensure you stay hydrated throughout the night.
“I don’t want anything,” you say and he lifts his brow at you, tugging on your hand and focusing your attention back on him.
“I call bullshit.”
“I don’t!” You insist, not wanting him to spend more money on you than he already has. You know that he will insist he pays for whatever you might want, but having him here with you is more than enough. “We’re already here anyways, I don’t want to fight through the crowds.”
He saw you eyeing a t-shirt on your way into the arena and has no doubt that you’ll be changing your mind later, hopefully before everything is sold out. He would run and grab you whatever you wanted but he doesn’t trust a single person around you, other than the minimal security guards stationed in different parts of the pit.
“You know I’ll buy you whatever you want, darling,” he says with a squeeze to your hand and you smile at the fact that you were right.
“I know you will, Eds. But I don’t want anything. Unless you do?”
He lifts his shoulders in a shrug, curls brushing the leather jacket he hardly ever takes off. And as per his request, you’re adorned in one of his denim jackets, the fabric soft with wear and draping over you with the subtle scent of him left behind.
There really is nothing he loves more than seeing you in his clothes, other than you of course, and when you lean forward to curl your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his chest, he feels his heart beat a little faster at the reminder that you chose him out of everyone you could’ve had. He feels like the luckiest person on planet earth, with you in his arms.
You’re relaxed in his hold, surrounded by the earthy smell of his leather jacket combined with the velvety musk of his favourite cologne. Your eyes fall shut for a few breaths and Eddie’s chin comes down to rest on the top of your head, one of his palms splaying over your back with the other dragging softly down the side of your thigh.
The touch is innocent but when you hear a sudden wolf-whistle from somewhere behind you, your eyes flutter open to see a man watching the interaction with a sleazy grin on his face that makes you grimace. You pull back in time to watch Eddie lift his middle finger in the air, muttering “dickhead” under his breath as the man ignores him in favour of dragging his eyes down your figure before turning back to converse with someone standing next to him.
You’re dressed in a pair of dark skinny jeans with Eddie’s oversized jacket hanging down to your thighs, but you briefly feel as though you’re wearing nothing as you pull your arms out from around him and move to stand at his side instead, partially hidden from the crowd.
Eddie wastes no time in curling his arm around your shoulders to keep you pressed into his side as he looks down at you. “Don’t even think about him. He’s a piece of shit, yeah?”
You nod, crossing your arms over your chest as you eye the man’s back. “More like a heaping pile of shit,” you mutter and Eddie laughs, tilting his head down to press his lips to the side of your head.
“That’s my girl,” he mumbles and your chest warms with his praise, no matter that it was at the degradation of another.
You spend the next little while talking about whatever is on your mind and you eventually park yourself back in front of him, uncaring of the man from before now that a hundred more people have filled in the room behind him.
Eddie keeps one hand on you at all times, hooking a finger around one of your belt loops when you drift a little further away from him while you’re talking or dancing to the music filtering through the speakers around the room. He listens intently to everything you say but his eyes follow every man that walks past the two of you, particularly the ones that keep their gaze on you for a beat too long.
Those are the moments when he pulls you back into his chest, wrapping his arms around you and lacing his fingers together at your lower back. You don’t know why he keeps doing it but you can’t complain when he looks down at you with so much love in his eyes you feel like you could burst.
The crowd starts to get a little rowdy the closer it gets to showtime as there was no supporting act, and the next time he wraps his arms around you, he doesn’t let go. Your hands fiddle with the zipper on his jacket and his hands eventually fall to slide into the back pockets of your jeans, making your lips curl up into a smile as you speak.
“Do you think we can stop for food on the way home?” You ask and he lets out a quiet laugh.
“You’re already thinking about that?” He teases since you both ate your dinner on the drive to the city, evidenced in the paper bags littered on the floor of his van. “Of course we’ll stop somewhere. Wherever you want.”
“What a gentleman,” you quietly swoon and he smirks, enjoying the way you wrap your fingers around the ends of his hair, tugging softly on his scalp.
You part your lips to speak again but get cut off when someone yells something from the back of the room, your gaze flitting up towards the seats. You turn your head and squint slightly when a familiar voice yells again, clearer the second time.
“Eddie!”
There’s a small group of boys waving their arms above their head in the first row of balcony seating, trying desperately to get the attention of the boy wrapped around you. It’s hard to tell, but you think you recognize Gareth and a few of his other friends. Dustin is standing at the end of the row, clearly the one yelling.
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie mutters under his breath and you glance back at him with a giggle as he lifts his hand up in a brief wave, so as not to draw any more attention to the two of you. “Even when we’re alone, they’re still just… lingering in the shadows.”
The tiny smile curling at his lips tells you that he isn’t as annoyed as he’s making himself out to be and you look back up at the stands to see Dustin beaming at the fact that he was able to spot Eddie before the show.
“I think it’s sweet,” you say as he promptly tucks his fingers back into your pocket and turns his back to the boys who were briefly spying on him. “You know how much that boy looks up to you.”
You glance up over his shoulder and wave to Dustin to hopefully satisfy him enough to keep his lingering eyes on the stage for the entire evening.
“Now this is going to be all he talks about for the next week,” he says and you smile with the shake of your head, bringing your hand to rest on his cheek.
“Don’t be so grouchy about it, baby,” you say, your thumb tracing across his bottom lip when he juts it out in an exaggerated pout before pressing a kiss to your thumbprint. “You don’t always have to be so mean and scary when they’re around.”
Your comment isn’t malicious and you’re grateful he doesn’t take it that way when he gasps and pulls your thumb between his teeth. You tug your hand away from his mouth and rest it on his chest as his brows pull together.
“I’m not always mean and scary,” he mumbles and you purse your lips, giving him a sarcastic nod. “Just… sometimes. When they deserve it. Never with you, though,” he defends as your hand slides down his chest to sit against his waist, goosebumps rising up on his arms.
You can’t help but smile at his comment, leaning into him with your eyes never leaving his. “Never with me. You buy me concert tickets and tell me I’m pretty and kiss me-”
He squeezes your bum through your jeans and you let out a laugh as your forehead presses into his chest. “Damn right I do,” he mumbles.
You pull back to say something else but all of the lights suddenly cut out and your eyes widen as the entire arena erupts into ear piercing screams.
“You ready?” Eddie leans down to ask in your ear and you nod, an eager smile tugging at your lips as you spin around in time for the opening chords of You’re Crazy to bounce around the room.
It takes an hour and the band trailing into their second encore for them to play Sweet Child of Mine, making the crowd go wild.
You feel Eddie curl his arm around your shoulder, pressing softly into your chest to hold you against him. There’s a bright smile on your face when you turn to look up at him, his face illuminated every few seconds by the spotlight that passes over the crowd and the colourful lighting streaming into the audience from the stage.
His lips pull upward in a lopsided grin as you beam up at him, his chest filling with warmth when you press a kiss to his cheek. He doesn’t let you get far, lifting his hand to your jaw, keeping your head turned and capturing your lips completely.
He kisses you until your head is spinning and you pull away with a quiet gasp to catch your breath, poorly attempting to hide the coy smile that frames your face. When he nudges you back to watch the band sing out your favourite song, his cheek comes to rest on the side of your head and you can just barely hear his voice floating into your ear, singing the words that make your heart swell in your chest.
You’ve never been as happy as you are at this moment.
His breath fans softly over your cheek, the vibration of his vocal chords buzzing across your skin when he dips down and his lips brush over your ear. The feeling sends tingles down your spine, threatening to beat out the heavy bass line that’s shaking the floor and sending vibrations up your legs.
You close your eyes as he sways you to the music, your hands clutching tightly around his where it’s resting against your stomach, his rings icy against your hot and sweaty palms. You’re overwhelmed with joy and the amount of love you feel for the boy curled around you and you open your eyes when he says something that you can’t hear over the song.
Before you can look up at him, your eyes widen as he drops his arm from around your shoulder and uses your tangled hands to spin you away from him. A squeal leaves your lips when he twists and twirls you back into his chest, your head tipping back as a loud laugh spills out of your lungs.
Eddie’s eyes are filled with complete adoration as you stumble into him, pressing your hands against his chest and biting your lip to hide your giggles. His hands grab your wrists and tug your arms to wrap around his neck, your chest pressing into his and his foot sliding between yours.
He can’t find anything to complain about when you immediately stand on your toes to kiss him for a second time, sliding one of your hands into the back of his hair and curling your fingers around the strands. He has little care in the world for who might be watching the interaction, but is still a little surprised at your not-so-subtle display of affection, especially after someone whistled at the two of you earlier in the night.
You kiss him like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do, tasting the lingering flavour of nicotine on his tongue, enjoying the way his bangs brush against your forehead and how he drags his hands down to squeeze the flesh of your bum over your jeans. His grip tightens when you moan into his lips and press your hips into his, letting yourself get lost in the moment as the song plays out like the perfect soundtrack to your love.
His lips are slightly chapped as they move over yours and you’re reluctant to pull back even when your lungs squeeze in your chest and he starts to smile against you.
Eddie is the one to pull away when you accidentally let a heavy breath escape from your lungs, and he knocks his forehead into yours, shutting his eyes as he catches his own breath.
You can’t really see him in the dark until he pulls away and catches the soft smile on your face as you sink back down onto your heels and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek on his chest. He smooths his hands over your back, sitting his chin on the top of your head and hugging you tightly as you listen to the crowd scream along to the lyrics that the band leans into, Axl peeling his microphone from the stand and pointing it towards the audience.
When the song eventually trails off into its inevitable close, you don’t move from your spot around Eddie, spending the rest of the encore cuddled against him and quietly singing along to the last one you know, sandwiched between two covers.
Eddie knows that your adrenaline and excitement is worn out when you turn your head up to meet his gaze, lip jutting into a small pout as soon as Guns N’ Roses announce their final song for the night.
Already dreading the amount of traffic he’ll have to fight through to get the two of you home, he leads you towards the exit but stays for the remainder of the song so that you don’t miss a single word. After a couple of minutes, you glance up at him and nod towards the hallway behind you, content to leave even despite the music still blasting through the room.
He steers you out of the arena before the major crowds of people could clobber you from the floor and the sudden shift in volume when you make your way further away from the music leaves you feeling a little like you’re in a dream as a wave of exhaustion hits you.
It’s still busy in the winding hallway of the arena and Eddie nudges you in front of him, keeping his hands secured around your shoulders to guide you through the crowd, practically beelining towards the front door.
He almost knocks you right onto the floor when you stop abruptly in your tracks near the stand of merchandise.
“I want a shirt.”
You turn to look at him and he glances at the slowly growing line of people and the piles of shirts getting sparse, sighing through his nose. He knows he shouldn’t have listened to you when you insisted that you wanted nothing, but he can’t be mad at the hopeful look in your tired eyes.
“Really?” He asks and you nod.
He flickers his gaze up to a small group of teenagers standing in the line, huddled in a circle and paying no mind to their surroundings. As soon as the man in front of the group steps ahead in line, Eddie pushes you forward to slide discreetly in front of the teenagers, making you gasp at the sudden movement.
“Eddie-”
“Shh, s’fine,” he mumbles, not bothering to glance at the group behind him, still chattering away in blissful ignorance. “We’d be here all night and leave with nothing otherwise.”
You curl around him again, resting your chin on his chest as you look up at him.
“Tired?” He asks, bringing his hand up to your cheek and brushing your hair back when you nod.
“My hearing is all fuzzy.”
Eddie slides both of his hands to the sides of your head, brushing his thumbs over your ears. “Should’ve let me bring those earplugs I offered,” he says but you shake your head, brows dipping together.
“I wouldn’t have worn them.”
He smiles, smoothing his thumb over the wrinkle in your brow. “If I take you to any more concerts, you’re wearing them, darling.”
You grumble something under your breath that makes him laugh and you rest your cheek back on his chest, letting him shuffle you backward every time the line inches forward at a snail’s pace.
The shirt you want isn’t sold out by the time you reach the table and Eddie buys you one, getting himself one to match. Before you can leave the building, you stop in a quiet corner to peel off your jacket and throw on the t-shirt over the one you’re already wearing.
“Happy?” He asks when you look down at the Guns N’ Roses logo covering your chest and you nod.
“Yes. Thank you, Eds,” you beam, hugging him tightly before he pulls away to drape his denim jacket back over your shoulders, the fabric draping down past your hands.
“You’re welcome. Need anything else before we leave?” He checks as he swiftly does up the buttons of his jacket to keep you warm, but he’s thankful when you shake your head and take the hand he holds out for you.
He glances at his watch to see it’s a little past 11:30pm and he silently wishes that he would’ve caved and got a hotel in the city for the night.
“Can we go home now?” You ask when you finally walk out of the building and the brisk night air prickles at your face.
“Yeah, baby, we’re going home,” he says, weaving through the parking lot to where his van is parked.
He helps you into the van with his hands on your hips before getting into the driver's seat and cranking the heat, tugging his seatbelt over his chest.
“That was so much fun,” you say through a happy sigh when he pulls out of the parking space to get into the line of cars waiting to get out of the lot.
“Yeah?” He glances at you and you nod, tucking your hands between your thighs. “What was your favourite part?”
“Being with you, I think,” you reply, voice quiet as you turn to look out the window.
Eddie feels his cheeks flush as he pulls his lips to the side to hide the smile that threatens to form on his face, his hand coming down to rest on your thigh with a tiny squeeze.
You stay awake long enough for Eddie to buy you McDonalds, and happily munch on the fries in your hand, feeding him a few every couple of minutes until the carton is empty. You keep quiet conversation when he finally gets onto the highway, an hour long drive back to Hawkins ahead of him, but it only takes about twenty minutes for your words to trail off into one-word replies as the rumble of his tires against the asphalt threatens to lull you to sleep.
It’s only when you haven’t said a word in ten minutes that he looks over to see you fast asleep, his jacket now acting as a cushion between your head and the door after you pulled it off to drape over the front of you like a blanket.
He opts to keep the radio off for the remainder of the drive, finishing off your Coke to keep him awake.
When he finally pulls into the trailer park, he winces and slows down the van as the gravel road crunches loudly under his tires until he pulls up onto the grass in front of his trailer. The light is on inside and he knows that Wayne is still up, despite Eddie’s insistence that he don’t wait up for them.
You’re still asleep when he rounds the front of the van to pull your door open, unclicking your seatbelt and setting the crumpled ball of his jacket in your lap. Not wanting to wake you just to get you inside, he curls his arms around your back and under your legs and lifts you off the seat, slamming the door shut with his elbow.
Your head lulls to rest on his shoulder, a deadweight in his arms as he makes his way towards the front door which opens before he can walk up the steps, Wayne appearing in the doorway, dressed in a pair of flannel pants and a t-shirt.
“Didn’t have to wait up,” Eddie says as he climbs the steps and Wayne rolls his eyes, holding the door open as he carries you inside.
“And how do you propose you would’ve gotten the door unlocked?”
Eddie mumbles something inaudible under his breath as he kicks off his shoes.
“How was the show?” Wayne offers as he locks up behind the two of you.
“Fucking amazing,” he replies quietly. “I had the time of my life.” He glances down at your sleeping figure before briefly flicking his eyes up to his uncle. “I’ll tell you more tomorrow… Night, Uncle Wayne.”
“Goodnight,” Wayne says with a tiny smile as Eddie spins on his heel to carry you into his bedroom.
You finally stir when Eddie is tugging your jeans down your legs to change you into something more comfortable and he glances up at you when you let out a quiet groan.
“Eddie?”
He smiles, leaning over you with his hands pressing into the bed as he presses a kiss to your cheekbone. “We’re home, sweets. I’m just getting y’out of your jeans.”
“Okay,” you mumble, mostly still asleep and not helping at all as he pulls the band shirt over your head, keeping you in the one you wore to the show.
You do eventually move so that he can get you under the covers and you peel your eyes open, squinting in the light as he gets himself ready for bed, tugging his shirt over his head and shoving his jeans to the floor to deal with tomorrow.
“Hey, Eds?” You murmur from your spot in his bed and he turns to you, raising an eyebrow as he slides his rings from his fingers to drop onto his nightstand. “Thank you for taking me tonight. It was the best night of my life.”
He smirks, softly shaking his head as he flicks off the light before climbing into bed beside you and pulling you into his chest.
“I’m glad that you had such a good time. Tell me all about it in the morning, yeah?”
You nod with a hum, burying your face into his chest. “Love you lots, Eddie.”
summary: the ups and downs of the day eddie finally graduates
18+ [boyfriend!eddie x female!reader]
contains: blood, violence, bullying, hurt/comfort, swearing, mentions of alcohol, superficial injuries, fluff, kissing, surprise party, dustin and eddie acting like siblings
word count: 9.7k
a/n: baby's graduation day! eddie really deserved to walk across that stage in '86 and this is my interpretation of how he ended up going out with a bang and some blood. please heed the warning above if you're not comfortable with blood/violence. as always, please reblog/comment if you enjoyed this- I love hearing from you ❤
A metal clang rings through Eddie’s ears as he shuts the lid of his, now empty, lunch box, having met up for one final deal before the start of the ceremony. He shoves the tin into the back of his van and plucks his graduation cap off of the passenger seat.
"Hey, Munson!"
Eddie stiffens, his knuckles turning white around his cap as he straightens his spine and heaves a heavy sigh through his nose.
Graduation starts in thirty minutes and he really thought that he could avoid this today, but he just isn’t that lucky.
Shutting the door to his van and turning around, he plasters an unbothered smirk on his face to meet Jason and Andy, both dressed in their gowns like everyone else.
“Happy graduation, freak.” Andy grins, trailing behind Jason until they both come to stand in front of Eddie, effectively cornering him against the side of his van and blocking anyone’s view who may be walking through the parking lot. “I’m shocked that Higgins is actually letting you take home a diploma today.”
Eddie brushes this off, glancing towards the school where you’re waiting inside the front doors for him to finish his deal so that you could steal one last kiss before he has to line up with the other students.
“Happy graduation, fellas.” He tips his chin in a small bow. “If you came here for a trade, you’re out of luck as of-” he glances at his watch, “three minutes ago.”
Before he can blink, Jason is wrapping his fist around the collar of Eddie’s gown and slamming him against the side of his van, rolling his eyes in the process.
“We don’t want your weed, freak,” Jason grits, the corner of his lip turning up in a menacing smile. “You really think I was just gonna let you walk right out of here without a goodbye?”
Eddie plasters on his best poker face despite the way his heart skips a beat in his chest, Jason’s breath fanning across his face smelling like beer and the remnants of cigar smoke.
This was the third year Eddie spent as a senior in high school and with your help, he finally managed to get good enough grades and actually submit all of his assignments to secure his diploma and get the hell out of Hawkins High.
When you met, Eddie was in the eleventh grade and you in the tenth, and you were the dictionary definition of high school sweethearts. Attached at the hip and caught making out in the hallway between classes a few too many times.
When Eddie was held back from graduating the first time, he was pissed but he also secretly enjoyed getting to spend another year with you, taking a majority of the same classes. The second time it happened though, he had to watch you graduate while he sat in the stands with a flimsy bouquet of flowers in his hand and a shameful feeling in his stomach that he was forced to be there again, but this time without you.
And on the first day of what ended up being his final senior year, Jason and his gang were in the same grade and opted to fuel their egos through Eddie’s torment, making him their own personal punching bag whenever they needed to blow off some steam. It worked in their favour, not having you around, but you still knew what went on when you would show up to Eddie’s trailer on a Friday night and he opened the door with a bag of peas pressed against his cheek.
He never took the bullying well, at least not behind closed doors. And after attempting to fight back and being pummelled into the ground for a fourth time, earning himself a concussion, Eddie stopped defending himself.
They were stronger than him. So he let the jocks take what they needed without really blinking an eye, and he got off a little easier for it.
When he showed up to school with a black eye or a fat lip, he acted like it didn’t exist. No matter the judgemental looks he received from his teachers or the worried ones from his friends. But he struggled with the embarrassment he felt for himself, that teenagers were the ones overpowering him.
It was something he eventually confided in you with when he broke down over the phone one night the week after Christmas break.
They made him feel weak, immature, and downright stupid each time he was forced to clean up his nose in the school bathroom before Hellfire or see the look on his uncle’s face when he came home with another shiner.
But now, he’s graduating.
Third time’s a charm, he had said to you the night before the first day of class, and had been more determined than ever to get it right this time.
And he did.
But he still isn’t so lucky to believe that he could’ve gone the entire day without running into Jason.
“Look-” Eddie mutters, his jaw tightening. “I’m not fighting you. So just let it go, man,” he says, stooping low enough to practically plead for his own mercy today.
Wayne is here, waiting for him in the stands with the rest of the parents and families, and you’re bound to walk out of the school at any minute, looking for him.
“Shut up. You’re a piece of shit, Munson,” Jason spits, his nose close to brushing against Eddie’s with how close he’s standing. “I think I deserve one last hurrah, don’t I?” he breathes through a smile that makes Eddie’s stomach turn. “To show everyone here you’re just some weak and pathetic satanist that can’t even bother defending himself?”
“Jason- just wait… at least until after the ceremony, man, please-”
“You’re the last person here who deserves to walk across that stage today. You can go ahead and show your girl how fucking pathetic you are.”
Eddie manages to keep a straight face despite that comment feeling more painful than the fist that Jason throws across his face. His knuckles collide with the top of his cheek bone and skim across his nose with a soft cracking sound, springing tears to his eyes.
Warmth immediately spills from Eddie’s nose and before he can turn his head back to face his abuser, a glob of spit lands directly on his cheek that makes him wince.
“I truly wish you all of the best,” Jason says when he drops his hold around Eddie’s collar and takes a step back. “Lord knows you’ll be spending the rest of your life slinging drugs in alleyways until the chief finally locks you up for good.”
Eddie glances at Jason who grins as he walks backwards, knocking his fist against Andy’s.
“See you up there, yeah?” Jason points behind him to the football field where the ceremony is taking place. He sucks his tongue against his teeth before spinning on his heel and making his way back around the front of the school where everyone is starting to line up.
Blood seeps between Eddie’s lips and he spits it onto the ground, lifting his arm to wipe off the saliva on his cheek with his sleeve.
“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, bringing his hand to his nose and glancing at his fingers to see them coated bright red.
Your eyes flicker up to the clock above the doors, letting out a quiet sigh when Eddie still hasn’t shown. You cross your arms over your chest and rest your head on the wall, silently hoping he didn’t bail at the last minute since you had to convince him to come to this thing in the first place.
It’s only when you spot Jason and Andy walking past the front doors, laughing about something that you feel your stomach drop. Jason pulls a cigar from the pocket of his gown and you spot the blotchy red skin covering his knuckles.
“Shit,” you breathe, pushing the door open and stepping outside, rushing around the building to where Eddie’s van is parked.
The back doors are open wide, facing the forest where he backed in when he arrived and there’s a wet, red stain painting the road next to his passenger side door. You press your lips together, your heart rising into your throat.
Eddie is sitting in the back of the van, hunched over with his elbows on his knees and a tissue soaked in blood pressed against his nose. Broken blood vessels are painting the skin under his eye, turning a deep shade of red as it swells.
“Eddie…” you gasp, shoulders falling as you spot the two tissues he’s already discarded.
His head lifts up when you reach down to pick up his graduation cap off the ground where he dropped it, brushing it clean with your hand.
“It’s fine,” he mumbles, voice nasally as he holds the tissue tightly to his nose.
You glance towards the school, aware that the students are starting to line up. If Eddie doesn’t get there in time, he won’t be walking the stage.
Climbing into his van on your knees, you set his cap to the side and grab a few more tissues from the box he keeps in the back.
“Let me see,” you say, pulling out the water bottle you brought in your bag for the long day, dampening one of the tissues.
Eddie turns to you and carefully lowers the maroon coloured tissue from his nose. Your eyes dart across his features and threaten to fill with tears, drops of red staining the green and orange stole that sits around his neck.
Blood seeps slowly from one of his nostrils and you bring the tissue to his upper lip, carefully cleaning away the drying blood that’s smeared there. “Does it hurt?”
“It’s not broken,” he says, voice quiet and although he didn’t answer your question, you don’t push. When your finger grazes over the side of his nose, he hisses, pulling away and lifting his hand to your wrist. “Fuck- stop. I’ll do it.”
You frown, sitting back on your heels. “We don’t have time. You need to stop the bleeding, everyone is lining up already.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What doesn’t?”
He shakes his head, letting your arm go and plucking a fresh tissue to hold under his dripping nose. “I’m not walking that fucking stage,” he mutters, and you don’t miss the sheen of saltwater that spills across his vision before he looks down at the pavement. “Not like this. Not when Wayne is here… he-” his breath catches in his throat and his jaw tightens, “-it’s humiliating.”
A lump forms in your throat that you swallow down, lifting your hand to his chin and turning him back to face you. You keep a gentle grip on his face as you wipe up the remainder of blood on his face, which he doesn’t fight you on.
“I didn’t even fucking do anything this time, I barely said a word but he needed to get one last punch in,” he continues, blinking quickly in an attempt to clear his bleary eyes. “But he got what he wanted. I’m not going up there. I shouldn’t even be getting this diploma.”
You pause at his words, lifting your eyes to his which are averted down to your thighs. “Did Jason say that to you?”
“Does it matter?”
He lifts a hand to rub at his uninjured eye and you notice the blood staining his fingers, dropping the dirtied tissue to the side and wetting a new one. He looks at you when you take his hand into your lap, chin tilted down to your chest as you clean up his skin.
“You deserve to graduate more than anyone here, Eddie,” you start, his brows twitching down at the conviction in your voice. “And you’re going to walk across that stage today and snatch that god damn diploma out of Principal Higgins hand, give him the bird, and celebrate the fact that you’re finally getting the hell out of here.”
You raise your eyes to meet his, noticing that his nose has almost stopped bleeding.
“This shit doesn’t make you weak,” you quietly continue, tilting his chin up to wipe up the blood sitting in his nose. “And Wayne isn’t going to think you are. Especially not if you go up there without caring about what any of those assholes think about you. They may be physically stronger than you, but they have nothing over you, Eddie. You’re already so much more than they will ever be.”
He’s quiet when you drop your hand from his chin and ball up the tissues in your hand to throw away later. His rings clink together as he curls his hand into a fist before flexing his fingers outward and back again, a nervous habit he developed a few years ago.
“You proved everyone wrong this year. And you’re graduating today. You finished high school.”
Despite the gnarly bruise that’s forming beneath his eye and the blood on his gown, he still looks just as beautiful as he did this morning when his lips curl up in a shy smirk, and he lifts his eyes to yours.
“Fuck Jason and his friends, you’re not going to see them again after today. And this day is for you. No one else,” you say, lifting your hands to rest on his cheeks, smoothing your thumbs over his skin to collect any tears lingering there. “Got it?”
He lets out a soft chuckle, sniffling and wincing slightly at the taste of blood in his throat. “Yeah, sweetheart. I got it.”
“Good. Now… just try not to touch your nose for a while. It stopped bleeding for now but you might like… rip something open again if you do anything,” you murmur, eyeing his nose carefully. “Do you want me to break into the nurse’s office and find an ice pack for your eye?”
“It doesn’t hurt that bad,” he replies despite the throbbing pain in his face. “But, are you really going to make me walk out there with blood on my gown?” he says in jest although he knows that it’ll only solidify his standing as the ‘freak of Hawkins High’ until he walks off of that stage and doesn’t look back.
“You might need to avoid Mrs. Click after the ceremony or she’ll make you pay for it, but-”
You’re cut off by Eddie’s lips eagerly meeting yours, muffling the noise of surprise you make. He rests his hand against the side of your neck, forcing himself to stop from melting into a puddle on the pavement from the way you slide your fingers into his hair, the sweet lip gloss you’re wearing smearing against his lips.
His nose brushes your cheek and forces him to pull back from the sting, his lips glossy and pupils wide when your eyes flutter back open.
“What was that for?” you giggle quietly as he slips his tongue out over his bottom lip to taste the gloss on his mouth and presses his fingers into the side of your thigh.
“I’m happy you’re here,” he breathes, sniffling softly. “I still wish that we would’ve been graduating together- but you’re here, and I couldn’t do this shit without you.”
You smile, giving him another quick kiss before swiping away some of the lip gloss on his bottom lip. “Don’t get all sappy on me already. You’re not allowed to make me cry until the ceremony.”
He chuckles with the shake of his head, tilting his head down to glance at his watch. His face falls slightly as he sighs. “I should get going.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to find you some ice? It’s going to be a while before your name is called.”
He shakes his head as you take in the swelling skin below his eye, knowing that his appearance is going to end up shocking some of the parents there today when he gets his diploma. Not that he cares about them.
“I’m sure,” he cements and you give him a small, unsure frown. “I don’t want you worrying about me- I swear I’m good.”
“Fine,” you mumble. “But I have some tylenol that you should take.” Pulling out a couple of capsules from your bag, you drop them into his hand and he swallows them down with the water you brought. “And bring your sunglasses. It’s sunny.”
You have no doubt that he is going to wind up with a headache by the end of the day, more sensitive to sunlight ever since his head got slammed into the ground by one of Jason’s friends after Eddie threw a punch that busted their lip open a week before Halloween last year.
“Yes, ma’am,” Eddie murmurs and you roll your eyes, leaning into the kiss he presses to your cheek before plucking his sunglasses off of the floor of his van and sliding them onto his nose.
He grabs his graduation cap before getting up and pulling you up with him. “I’ll be in the stands with Wayne, but if you need anything-”
“I’ll be fine, sweetheart. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” he assures you, tugging you into his chest for one last hug before he locks his van and leaves you to go sit under the sweltering sun for the next hour. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” you mumble, kissing him again before stepping back and nudging him towards the school. “Now go!”
He smirks, walking backward and giving you a two-fingered salute before spinning on his heel and sauntering off across the parking lot.
You make your way back over to the football field, spotting Wayne at the end of one of the rows, saving a seat for you next to Dustin who Eddie had no idea was here. They had become pretty good friends over the school year and Dustin was the reason Eddie had started getting passionate about his Hellfire campaigns again after the slump he went through when school first began.
And, Dustin practically begged you to let him come today, although you never thought of turning him down when he asked the first time, knowing Eddie would appreciate having him here even if he denied it.
Climbing the steps, you give Wayne a small smile before sliding past him to sit down, Dustin immediately holding out a bag of trail mix for you. “Thank you,” you mumble, plucking some from the bag to munch on.
The graduates are slowly filling into the seats but you can’t see Eddie yet.
“Hey,” you say suddenly, turning to Dustin. “Could you do me a favour?”
“Uh, depends what it is,” he mumbles through the food in his mouth.
“I need you to sneak into the school and find Eddie an ice pack and some water,” you reply and he looks at you with the raise of his brows high on his forehead. “And you’ll need to get it to him during all the blabbering-” You wave your hand towards the stage where the teachers are quietly conversing to each other. “Please?”
Dustin glances towards the school. “What happened?”
“What do you think?” you mutter quietly and he frowns, turning to you.
“Alright,” he sighs, shoving the bag of trail mix into your hand. “But if I get caught, you owe me big. And I mean big.”
“Deal.”
With a pause of hesitation, Dustin sighs before standing up and making his way down the stairs, disappearing behind the stands. Wayne clears his throat and you glance at him.
“He has a black eye,” you say unpromptedly and he blinks at you. “But he’s fine... I made sure.”
He doesn’t reply, flickering his gaze towards where the students are walking into the field, his lips pursing softly in disappointment.
“Dustin’s finding him some ice, and I gave him painkillers so he’ll make it through the ceremony without any issue. And this is… well hopefully, the last time he’ll ever deal with this,” you quietly continue and Wayne nods, keeping his eyes on the teenagers when he finally speaks up.
“Who did it?” he asks, nodding towards the group and you glance over, seeing that most of the first few rows are filled in, but Jason happens to be standing at the side of the stage, talking to his coach and tilting his head back with a loud laugh.
“Kid beside the stage… It’s been him and some of his friends.”
Shaking his head, he sighs and sits back, hands clasping the edge of the seat beneath him. “Well… thank you. For always making sure he’s okay.”
“Of course,” you shrug like it’s nothing and it makes Wayne smile as he plucks the program off of the seat and flips through it to pass the time.
When you finally spot Eddie making his way onto the field, his sunglasses are still perched on his nose and his graduation cap sits snugly on his head, flattening some of his curls. His head turns towards the bleachers and you can tell the exact moment he spots you, a grin spreading on his lips before he eagerly waves to you.
You smile, waving back and nudging his uncle’s leg with your knee to get his attention. He spots Eddie and lifts his hand in a wave, smiling softly as he follows the line into the next row of chairs stationed on the grass and sits down, his back facing you.
You’re glad he’s in good spirits after what happened and can only hope that the rest of the day goes smoothly.
About ten minutes later, while Principal Higgins is in the middle of his speech, you spot quiet commotion coming from the side of the field. Dustin is pulling his arm away from one of the teachers standing by the exit, a bottle of water and a plastic bag filled with ice clutched in his hands.
He manages to get out of her grip and runs towards the plastic chairs, catching the attention of almost everyone in the stands as he slides into the row that Eddie is in with his lips moving in what you can only assume to be quiet apologies to the people he passes. He stops halfway through the row and shoves the items into Eddie’s lap without a word before turning around and hurrying out of there.
A teacher is making her way over to him but he immediately darts around the rows of chairs and back over to where you’re sitting, his feet slamming loudly against the metal stairs as he climbs them. He hurriedly squeezes past you and Wayne and sits down with a heavy sigh, panting to catch his breath.
“Jesus fucking christ,” he huffs and you ignore the glances of both parents and students in favour of finding Eddie in the crowd, his body twisted in his seat and sunglasses in his hand.
He raises an eyebrow at you and you just smile, shrugging your shoulders to your ears. His tongue pokes into his cheek and a smile tugs at his lips, shaking his head in disbelief. You pucker your lips and press your fingers to them before blowing him a kiss, his cheeks turning a visible shade of pink.
With his sunglasses off you can see that his eye is now a deep shade of purple, and you’re glad you didn’t listen to him about the ice, knowing he’ll be grateful he has it if he needs it.
He turns around in his seat and you can feel another pair of eyes on you, lifting your gaze towards the second row of students where Jason has his head turned, eyes narrowing in your direction.
You lift your hand and wiggle your fingers at him before promptly sticking out your tongue, making his jaw tick in annoyance. He rolls his eyes and slumps into his chair as he looks back towards the stage and you smile in satisfaction, dropping your chin to rest in your hand.
You, Dustin, and Wayne spend the next little while finishing off the bag of trail mix and keeping as hydrated as possible in the heat, and you silently envy the parents who brought umbrellas to shade themselves from the unrelenting sun as you fold up your program into an accordion to fan yourself with.
The ceremony doesn’t drag on as much as you anticipated it would, already on the L’s after forty-five minutes, but Dustin is keeping himself occupied with the copy of Lord of the Rings he had borrowed from Eddie, who checked it out of the school library two years ago and dodged enough late fees until the librarian reluctantly ordered a new copy in replacement.
None of you are planning to stick around once Eddie gets his diploma, knowing that the last thing he would want is to be forced to sit here for the next hour or two until the end of the ceremony. And there’s currently an ice cream cake sitting in Wayne’s freezer that Eddie doesn’t know about, but that you’re dying to dig into after sitting in the sun all morning.
Wayne wipes a bead of sweat off of his temple with the back of his hand and you trade programs with him so that he can use your makeshift fan, flipping through his pristine one until you find the list of names. There’s only five people in front of Eddie and you glance up to see that his row is lining up at the side of the stage.
His water and ice were promptly discarded onto his seat before he stood up which you’re unsurprised by, happy nonetheless that he keeps his sunglasses perched over his eyes until the first M name is called out. Eddie tugs his glasses off and shoves them into the pocket of his gown, his eye visibly black and blue even from where you’re sitting.
Of course, this being his last day ever at Hawkins High, he’s going out with a bang. Although, you don’t miss the way he starts to fiddle with the rings on his fingers, toeing at the ground with nerves the closer he gets to the stage.
Wayne glances at you when you pull your camera from your bag, turning it on and tugging your bag back over your shoulder. “I’ll get a photo of him. Just enjoy this,” you say when you catch his eye and he quietly clears his throat, nodding as he looks towards the stage again.
You stand up and make your way out of the stands, careful not to trip over your feet on the steep stairs before walking closer to the side of the stage Eddie will be leaving from. Fiddling with your camera, you spot him on the other end, gripping the railing tightly as the student in front of him grabs his diploma and shakes Principal Higgins hand.
“Edward Waylon Munson,” Mr. Kaminski drones from his place at the podium and there’s scattered applause as Eddie hops up onto the stage with his signature smirk on his face.
You can’t help the tears that well up in your eyes as you lift your camera to your eye. Principal Higgings barely holds out the diploma before Eddie grabs it from his hand with a mocking bow. He turns to walk backwards for a few steps and lifts his middle finger into the air, letting out a loud “whoo!” that makes a few parents in the audience jump.
He is a sight to see with his frizzy curls poofing out from underneath his graduation cap and the violent bruise painting his cheek, but no one would have a clue that he was ever bothered by his injuries.
You’re not surprised when Eddie’s eyes snap to a section in the front row, hearing a quiet yell from Jason that you can’t understand but which makes your jaw tick in frustration. Eddie merely tilts his head to the side and lifts his hands up near his head, poking his fingers up and sticking his tongue out with a crazed look in his eye.
A few gasps erupt from the bleachers and Eddie’s face falls into an amused smirk as he lowers his hands back to his sides.
Snapping a few pictures, you hear Dustin cheering loudly from the stands next to Wayne and there’s a few others from the crowd that you recognize as Robin and Nancy, both who are in the same graduating class, Eddie’s bandmates, Mike, and Steve who you spotted in the bleachers when you first arrived.
Higgins and the other teachers roll their eyes, grumbling nonsense under their breaths, but Eddie just smiles, giving a two-fingered salute to Dustin and Wayne.
A lump settles at the base of your throat with your emotion, happy that despite all the people who had no problem voicing their negative opinion about him over the years, and particularly this past school year, that he still did make a couple of friends that were actually happy he was able to finally get his diploma.
There’s a soft pink hue ghosting across Eddie’s unmarred cheek that you’re pretty sure is from the handful of genuine cheers he received that he never expected, but you know if you mention it, he’ll blame it on the sun.
He tugs his tassel to the side and practically skips down the steps onto the grass as you shove your camera back into your bag and find his eyes with a beaming smile on your face. You hurry to meet him halfway, leaping into his arms with your legs wrapping around his hips and arms latching onto his shoulders.
Neither of you care about the eyes of anyone in the crowd as you hug him tightly. “I’m so fucking proud of you, Eddie Munson,” you say with so much conviction that his eyes threaten to water as he buries his head in your neck. “You did it!”
You pull away, planting your hands on his cheeks and your lips on his. It’s hard to kiss him with your smile and you pull back when he groans.
“Careful of the eye, sweetheart,” he murmurs through a grin and you giggle an apology, sliding your hand to the back of his neck and kissing him again.
He sets you back down on the ground a few seconds later, keeping his lips on yours with a content hum vibrating his chest, only stopping when you hear Dustin’s voice.
“Get a room.”
Eddie smiles, pulling away from you and glancing up to see Dustin and Wayne walking over to you. You step to the side and notice the slight shift in Eddie’s expression when he sees his uncle’s glossy eyes.
You fumble to pull your camera back out of your bag as Wayne clasps a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, shaking his head as he takes in the bruise on his cheek. “Christ boy,” he mutters. “That’s one hell of a way to go, isn’t it?” he jokes, making Eddie laugh before pulling him into a hug.
It’s hard to decipher any of the words they exchange as you snap a photo of the sweet moment, Eddie pulling back with a wobbly lip before he sniffles and glances down to his feet, letting out a soft laugh when Wayne pats a heavy hand on his back.
“Know I’m proud of you kid,” Wayne mutters and Eddie wipes at his eyes with his sleeve with a quick nod.
The sweet moment ends abruptly when Dustin walks up to him and throws his arms around his shoulders, making Eddie stiffen slightly.
“I knew you could fucking do it, Eddie-” he starts and Eddie gives him a brief pat on the back before squirming out of his hold, Dustin ducking before he can put him in a headlock. “You’re gonna let me use the throne now, right?”
“Considering none of those other guys take it seriously enough… Yeah, it’s yours man.”
You smile when Dustin pumps his fist into the air with a whispered “yes” and continues babbling about his campaign ideas as the four of you walk towards the parking lot.
Luckily Eddie’s friends walked the stage before him, so he isn’t missing out on anything, leaving early. He throws his sunglasses back on and waits until you’re at his side to slide his hand into yours, lightly bumping his hip against your side.
“You have to keep hosting campaigns, you’re the best Dungeon Master there is!” Dustin exclaims with wide eyes as you step off the grass and onto the asphalt, turning to walk backwards so he can look at Eddie. “I have so many things I still need to show you, and you have to help me with my own games now, and-”
“Dude, relax,” Eddie cuts him off. “I’m not giving up DM that easily. You’re taking the reins here-” he points to the school. “But I’ll still host campaigns, I just have to work out the details first.”
Dustin’s shoulders slump in relief and you notice the tiniest hint of a smile on Eddie’s face once he turns back around.
Wayne is parked a couple cars down from the van and you stop in the middle to part ways, Eddie lifting his foot to nudge at Dustin’s leg.
“Thanks for coming, man. Means a lot,” he says quietly. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”
Dustin frowns. “Obviously. We’re all going to your house.”
You roll your eyes with a small sigh, not knowing why you ever trusted Dustin to keep even part of a secret to himself.
Eddie raises his eyebrows, glancing from Wayne to you and you give him a small smile, shrugging your shoulders.
“Come on,” you start, hooking your arm into his and tugging him towards his van. “Let’s go before someone says too much.”
“You got something planned?” he asks with a teasing smirk before his face falls slightly and he tugs you back. “But wait, can we stop for milkshakes or something? I’m sweating my ass off.”
“Don’t you need to go and return that gown before you go anywhere?” Wayne pipes up from behind him and Eddie spins on his heel, plucking at the fabric covering his chest.
“Not unless I wanna give ‘em any amount of money for this,” he says, grimacing down at the blood, now stained a murky shade of brown against the fabric. “They can’t do shit about it once I’m gone.”
“If you say so,” Wayne grumbles, rounding the bed of his truck to get into the driver’s seat as Dustin climbs in on the other side.
“We don’t need to stop for milkshakes,” you say and Eddie looks back at you with his bottom lip jutting out.
“Hey-” Wayne suddenly calls from over the top of his truck and Eddie turns back. “Don’t get any more speeding tickets, alright? ‘Cause I’m not paying for them anymore. You’re finished high school, so you’re not getting away with that shit as easily,” he scolds with a pointed look towards his nephew, but you can see the glimmer of pride in his gaze.
Eddie doesn’t reply but gives him a thumbs up before turning to you and curling his arm around your shoulders.
“So… why are you denying a graduate his milkshake? You know I’m driving right, so you don’t really have the ultimate say-”
“It’s a surprise!” you cut him off and he laughs, walking with you to the side of his van.
“One sec,” he quips before he’s ripping the stole off over his head and hastily unzipping the gown with a relieved sigh when the slight breeze in the air flits across his skin.
Your eyes trail down to what he’s wearing underneath, which you did see before he picked up his gown this morning, but it had somehow slipped your mind.
His favourite ripped black jeans are sitting on his hips, lacking their usual jewelry in place of an old leather belt that has a faded silver buckle of a skull resting just below his navel. A fitted, black singlet tank top hugs his lean figure, tucked into his jeans and showing off his arms which are slightly more defined than usual with the push-ups he started doing a few weeks ago.
He pushes the gown off of his shoulders, letting the fabric drop to the ground and your eyes drag over the recent additions on his arms from over the last year, the dark ink prominent across his pale skin.
When he turns to pick up the discarded gown, you notice the sheen of sweat coating his heated skin, glimmering under the summer sun and matting down the subtle peek of hair you glimpse under his arm.
Eddie turns his head to look at you and a smirk lifts to his face when he watches your lips part as your eyes dart over his figure.
“Baby?” he drags on slowly, standing up straight and tilting his head to the side.
Your eyes snap back up to his face, cheeks growing flush. “What?”
His eyes crinkle softly as he laughs, pulling open the door to his van and chucking his cap and gown behind the front seat with the fake diploma, the real one being sent through the mail in the coming weeks.
“See something you like?” he teases before lifting himself onto his toes and turning his back to you, whipping his head over his shoulder with a much too-forced smoulder that makes you giggle. “Doesn’t this deserve a milkshake?”
“No, Eddie!” you laugh, nudging him to get inside the van. “There’s something better at your house. Promise.”
“Oh yeah?” He arches his brow at you, perching himself on the edge of the driver’s seat, and you nod. “Consider me intrigued.”
He pulls you in for a kiss by the back of your neck, moaning quietly at the taste of your lip gloss before patting the back of your thigh and telling you to get in the van.
The drive back to his trailer is filled with blaring music combined with Eddie’s screams as he sings along, batting his hands against the steering wheel and bopping his head enough that his hair sticks to his cheeks, damp from the heat. There’s a wide smile on his face for almost the entire drive and you watch him and his happiness, recognizing how much more relaxed he already seems, the further away from the school you get.
The air conditioning in his van busted yesterday and he hasn’t gotten around to fixing it yet, so you’re sweating in places you didn’t even know could sweat, but nothing could have stumped your happiness in that moment, knowing that he’s finally free of all of the shit that’s been holding him back for so many years.
He reaches over to turn down the music when he pulls into the trailer park, having been scolded more than once by his elderly neighbour for the noise. He has a soft spot for her though, shovelling her walk in the winter in exchange for a cup of cocoa, or scrubbing her car clean in the summertime for a lemonade, like he’s done for the last handful of years.
You take your seatbelt off before he’s even put the van into park next to Wayne’s truck, twisting around to grab his graduation cap, smoothing the tassel out between your fingers. He watches you, shutting off the van and dipping his chin when you lean forward to secure the cap over his curls again.
“What are you doing?” he mumbles, nose twitching when the tassel tickles his skin.
“Can you keep it on for a little bit?”
“Why?” He lifts his head and you push the tassel to the side of the cap, smiling at him.
“Because, I’m proud of you and you look really cute wearing it.”
His features briefly twist in annoyance as he groans, but you catch the faint smile that quivers at the corner of his lips. “Fine. But it’s coming off as soon as you’re done taking all your little photos.”
With that, you both get out and Eddie sighs in relief from no longer being in the hot, humid air inside of his van. He lingers in the subtle breeze, tipping his chin up towards the sky with his eyes falling closed and you take the opportunity to snap another picture of him, his head turning to you when he hears your camera.
You smile at him, shoving it back into your bag and holding your hand out. “Come on, I’m dying out here.”
He grins at you, looking like an excited little boy as he strides over to take your hand and follow you eagerly up the stairs and into the trailer.
“We’re home!” Eddie bellows, the screen door loudly slamming shut behind him. “There better be a damn good reason why I couldn’t buy myself a shake-”
He pauses, taking in the sight of the four boys sitting in the living room, talking each other’s ears off about some movie you haven’t seen. Your shoulders fall in relief that his bandmates made it to the trailer before you did, knowing they only left the ceremony as soon as Eddie walked off of the stage.
There’s a shiny foil banner hung above the television, reading “Happy Graduation!” and a few balloons scattered around the room; the most you were able to do in the short time you had the trailer to yourself this morning when Wayne took Eddie out for breakfast.
No one even glances up at Eddie’s voice, too engrossed in their conversation and you press your lips together with a disappointed roll of your eyes, having initially planned that they would all surprise Eddie as soon as the two of you walked through the door. Not even Dustin looks up, rambling to Gareth.
“Surprise?” you say timidly, looking up at Eddie to see a crease between his brows, an unreadable expression on his face.
His eyes snap down to yours when he hears your voice and his face softens. “You planned this?”
You nod. “I know it isn’t a big… party or anything, and if you want, I’m sure we can head over to Steve’s a little later to see everyone else but I just thought-”
You end up cutting yourself off with a quiet ‘oof’ when Eddie crushes you in a hug, almost knocking you straight onto the floor with the force, if only his arms weren’t holding you tightly against his chest.
“You’re incredible,” Eddie breathes into your neck, pressing his face there despite the pain radiating in his cheekbone. “I don’t care about a party… this is all I wanted- even more than I thought I did,” he says before pulling back and placing his hands on the sides of your neck. “Shit, sweetheart,” he chuckles, brushing his thumbs over your cheeks and glancing at the party banner on the wall. “I was so happy just to come back here with you and Wayne.”
“I still thought it would be a little bit more than this,” you say in quiet frustration, motioning to the boys in the living room who still haven’t acknowledged either of you. “They were at least supposed to say ‘surprise.’”
The smile on his face only grows before he’s pushing at your shoulders until your back hits the wall, his lips promptly smearing against yours. His kiss is rough and a little uncoordinated but it only lasts for a couple of seconds, Eddie pulling back when you hear a familiar, low clearing of a throat.
Wayne stands with his hip resting on the edge of the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest.
“Should I barbecue tonight, or do you want to go out again?” he asks, rubbing his fingers over the scruff on his chin and Eddie’s face drops into a sarcastic scowl.
“Do you have to ask?” he accuses and Wayne grumbles something under his breath before turning to go back into the kitchen, waving a dismissive hand.
“You’re helping me grill then,” Wayne calls and Eddie gives him a salute that he doesn’t see, turning back to you.
“This is still a surprise, baby,” he reassures your previous comment, tilting his head towards the living room. “But if you think you’re ever gonna pull them away from talking about Day of the Dead, you’re so wrong,” he drags out his words, voice dropping into a low hum.
You laugh, his hands squeezing at your hips before he plants another kiss onto your lips. “Thank you,” he murmurs and you smile, dipping your chin to rest your forehead on his.
“You’re welcome… Are you happy?”
“So fuckin’ happy,” he whispers, eyes glimmering in delight and you think today might just be the day that those brown eyes officially make your heart burst into pieces.
“Can I show you why we didn’t stop for shakes now? Maybe we can actually all cool off,” you ask and he nods quickly, the tassel on his cap wiggling with the movement.
Wayne is pouring sodas for everyone into solo cups when you walk into the kitchen, two beers dripping in condensation sitting on the counter and Eddie slips one into his hand, taking a swig of it. He keeps his hand on your hip as you pull open the door to the freezer, the icy air coming out in visible clouds and chilling your skin.
You feel his chin come down to rest on the top of your head while you grab the ice cream cake and slip out of his grip to set it on the counter.
His eyes widen when he sees it, blindly shutting the freezer and standing next to you with his jaw falling open in surprise.
It’s a simple sheet cake with white icing covering the entire thing, black piping around the edges and the demon from his Hellfire logo iced onto the centre in gel next to a dark green graduation cap, matching the one sitting on his head.
The words at the top of the cake read, 'Graduating Munson of ‘86,' with a cursive, 'Congratulations!' piped below the demon’s head.
Eddie cackles at the message on the cake as you pop off the frosty lid and set it to the side.
“Holy shit, this is amazing,” he beams, sliding his hands around your waist to pull you into his chest. “You do this?”
“Maybe… I placed the order anyway,” you reply, smiling when he tightens his arms around you. “Wayne came up with the writing though.”
“Well we’re not celebrating the whole bloody class of ‘86, ‘side from your boys,” Wayne mumbles from his place near the sink, nodding towards the living room.
“Is it chocolate inside?” Eddie asks, lips brushing your ear.
“Duh.”
His hand lifts up, eager to swipe off some of the icing on the side of the cake.
“Ah!” You lightly slap his hand away. “You’ll get your piece. But don’t you want a picture before you dig into it?”
“Hell yeah,” he agrees and moves around you to pick up the cake carefully in his hands while you bring your camera back out.
He smiles widely at you and you lift your camera to your eye. “Say ‘happy graduation!’”
The camera goes off but you instruct him to take another one and he pretends to pose just to humour you before he leans down and takes a big bite off the corner of the cake, smearing his face and nose with black and white icing as soon as the shutter goes off.
“Eddie!” Your jaw drops as you lower the camera and he looks at you innocently, chewing down the cake and ice cream in his mouth. “That’s going to stain your face.”
Wayne chuckles as Eddie’s face falls and he puts the cake down, sticking his tongue out to try and lick up the black icing on his upper lip. His uncle tosses a wet kitchen towel at his face as you move to start cutting up the cake.
“Better?” Eddie asks after a few seconds and you glance at him to see a small stripe of black still staining the side of his top lip and darkening the stubble he has there.
“Sure.” You smile and he frowns, poking a finger into your side.
When the cake is cut and distributed onto paper plates, Wayne calls the boys to grab their food and Eddie saunters into the living room with his arm curled around a bowl of chips, beer in hand. He drops down onto the sofa with a happy sigh, setting the bowl onto the coffee table and patting the cushion for you to sit next to him, grabbing the plate you made up for him with his already-bitten cake.
The next hour flies by with the boys greedy in their helpings of cake, and you eventually wind up curled against Eddie’s side and holding a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel to his cheek after he mentioned how badly it was starting to sting.
He has your legs pulled over his, one hand curled around your thigh with the other gesturing animatedly at his side as he talks about the new setlist he wants his band to try the next time they book a gig, since The Hideout is currently closed down for some much needed renovations.
It used to make you a little uncomfortable, joining in on hangouts like this with Eddie where you were the only girl in the room. But despite the people he deals to, or the ones that have a sour taste in their mouth whenever they so much as glance in his direction, Eddie generally surrounds himself with good people.
He has a habit of latching onto anyone that shows him any ounce of kindness, and was eventually left with the very few that never once got sick of him.
His friends are some of the most respectful you’ve ever met, treating you as any other member of the group aside from the occasional wrestling, headlocks, and crude pranks that they play on each other.
You’re also lucky that Wayne has always been so easygoing with your relationship with his nephew, so long as you stuck to keeping things strictly PG when people were around: a rule he demanded after having caught the two of you fooling around on the sofa one night when he came home from work early with a cold, the very first year that you had started dating.
You’re happy in a room with the people that Eddie loves the most and he’s overjoyed that you’ve found your place so seamlessly within the group, even if you occasionally slip away to spend some much needed time with Robin or Nancy.
The frozen peas eventually get too warm to do much of anything, but Eddie insists that they helped anyway, lightly prodding at his bruised cheekbone to feel how cold his skin is. Wayne takes the bag from you when he heads back into the kitchen to start prepping dinner and Eddie grabs your hand, lifting it to his lips to press a light kiss there.
He keeps his hand tucked into yours and turns to join in on the conversation about D&D, specifically, the new characters they were working on, started up by Dustin.
Without thinking about it, he tugs the graduation cap off of his head when it starts to feel too tight and your lip juts out in a small pout, catching his attention.
“Sorry, baby. But it’s gonna give me a headache soon,” he says, smoothing down his already flattened curls. “Here-” he twists to face you better and lifts the cap to set on your head, tucking it down over your hair.
“You’ve already seen me in this, Eds,” you mumble in resignation, not fighting him when his eyes brighten at the sight of you in his graduation cap.
“Yeah but you look hot in it.” He shrugs, nudging his finger against the tassel before dropping his hands onto your thighs.
Your cheeks feel hot at the compliment and you bite back your smile, dropping your head to rest on his shoulder.
Both of you briefly forget about the stiff piece of cardboard stitched into the top of the cap, the corner of it jabbing Eddie in the neck and making him yelp.
“Oh my god.” You whip your head up and he bursts into a laugh. “I’m so sorry!”
You press your hand to the red mark already forming on his pale skin, his shoulders shaking softly as he chuckles.
“I should’ve seen that one coming. You and Carver really know where my weak spots are,” he teasingly prods and your frown only deepens.
“Don’t compare me to Jason,” you mumble, his face falling at the joke he didn’t realize was a little too far. Your thumb brushes gingerly over the freshly marred skin near his collarbone and he lets out a quiet sigh at the delicate touch. “You know I didn’t do that on purpose-” you start to defend yourself but he grabs your hands to tangle them together with his.
“I know- hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t think about what I was saying.” He feels awful at the genuine sadness now painted across your features. “Was super shitty of me to say.”
“I still hate what he did today,” you admit, eyes lifting to his bruise.
“I know,” he murmurs against the back of your hands, his eyes rounding out in apology. “Forgive me?” he softly pleads, kissing your knuckles and you give him a weak nod.
You absolutely hate the reminder of what that piece of shit did to him, but you know that his words slipped out without thought with no intentional malice behind them. He had also mentioned to you when he pulled out of the school’s parking lot that this wound up being the first time he ended up not caring so much about what Jason did - once you talked him down at least - knowing now that the chances of ever running into him and his friends again are truly slim to none.
“Thank you,” he says through a sigh and lifts his head. “Can I have a kiss?”
Leaning forward, he merely pulls back and the crease between your brows deepens until he taps against the side of his neck. The corners of your lips turn up and you pull his cap off of your head, tilting your chin forward to press one soft kiss to his skin.
He finds your lips with his own when you sit back, resting his hand on your jaw. He lingers on you for a few seconds before pulling back, the tip of his nose brushing yours.
“You kissed me better… did it work with you?” he wonders, dark eyes flickering back and forth between yours and you have to pull your lips to the side to hide your smile.
There is a part of you that would love nothing more than to tease him more than you’re currently capable of with the presence of his friends in the room, but you just shake your head. His brow arches in surprise.
“No? How many do you need?”
You shrug and his eyes narrow at you before he starts counting up from one. Shaking your head with every number he says, you deny him satisfaction only until he reaches five.
“Five it is,” he murmurs, creeping his fingers over your collarbone before he wraps his hand around the back of your neck and pulls you forward.
It’s hard to kiss with the smiles lifting onto both of your faces and you laugh when he accidentally kisses your teeth. The five consecutive pecks are fast and noisy each time your lips part from each other, and you pull your bottom one between your teeth after the fifth one as Eddie trails his kisses up and over your cheek until you giggle, pulling away from his grasp.
“Worked like a charm,” he hums, laughing softly into your hair and catching Dustin’s disgusted gaze over the top of your head.
“Are you guys done?” he asks and has to duck behind the coffee table when Eddie immediately chucks a throw pillow at his head.
“Fuck off!” Dustin yells, throwing it back and Eddie dodges it as it flies past his head.
“Watch it! I’m damaged goods, Henderson.”
“You’re damaged something alright,” Dustin mutters under his breath and you press your lips together, not surprised when Eddie’s eyes narrow and he carefully pushes your legs off of his lap.
“You wanna say that to my face like a man?” Eddie taunts, a menacing smirk on his face as Dustin’s eyes briefly widen but he hides it with a forced clearing of his throat, pushing his fingers through his hair.
“What? No- I didn’t say anything.” His voice is quiet and Eddie pats his hand against your thigh before standing up to tower over his friend. “I’m just uh… gonna go to the bathroom,” he continues, pushing himself to stand and rushing around the sofa to put it between him and Eddie.
“You’re dead,” Eddie barely gets out before Dustin is sprinting out of the trailer with a shriek, making Eddie roll his eyes, sitting back down with a satisfied smile.
“You’re not going after him?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. Let him hide out there for ten minutes, he deserves it. I graduated today, he doesn’t get to mess with me.”
“You’re really going to keep milking that for the rest of the day, aren’t you?”
His brows raise high on his head and he nods, grabbing a handful of chips to shove into his mouth. You playfully roll your eyes as he sits back and hooks an arm around your shoulders before pressing a salty kiss to your cheek.
“Ugh,” you scoff lightly at the crumbs that fall from his lips and down your shirt. “You’re lucky I love you,” you grumble and he chuckles once he’s swallowed down his snack.
“Luckiest guy in the world,” he replies, gently knocking his head against yours and you smile, cuddling deeper into his side, knowing just how much he truly believes that.
a/n: this was inspired by my daydream that men still wear crop tops regularly like they did in the 80s
It isn’t rare for Eddie to be found snipping the sleeves off of at least one of his t-shirts by the time summer comes around and the sun turns the inside of the trailer into an oven.
It’s as much planned as it is compulsive.
Plucking a random shirt off of the pile of clean laundry he has yet to put away, and a pair of dull craft scissors, hacking away at the fabric until he’s left with a tank top that shows off a glimpse of the dragon tattoo decorating his back. A new addition to his pale skin with its spiked tail curling around his bicep and ending at a point just above his elbow.
This time though, it’s a little too compulsive. Not thinking when he lays the t-shirt out on top of his laundry and goes to town until he’s left with jagged edges that curl in on themselves, and a fresh new hole snipped into the side of his hellfire shirt. Luckily it’s one of many, but Eddie curses at the mistake that would effortlessly expose the side of his waist.
He isn’t so upset as to chuck the shirt in the trash, but not skilled enough to even attempt at sewing it closed, so he simply grabs his scissors again and follows the cut through to the other side, leaving him with a cropped shirt ending right beneath the hellfire logo.
And he knows how ridiculous it would look to keep the shirt like this, with quarter length sleeves that are longer than the shirt itself, so he chops those too.
One last snip to the collar and he’s done, chucking the scissors onto the desk behind him and holding up the white shirt with a slight grimace at the thought of showing that much skin.
A compulsive idea turned bad as he balls up the cropped tank top and chucks it into his laundry basket to forget about.
Well… it’s a bad idea until the summer heat edges itself up to 95° and he’s sweat through all of his other shirts.
It doesn’t take long for him to get used to the breeze flitting across the skin of his abdomen as he works on his van, stretching over the exposed hood and enjoying the feeling of cold metal pressing into his waist from where it’d been parked in the shade.
He ends up gravitating towards the cropped fabric whenever he’s lounging around the trailer, giving him more of a reason to wear his favourite jeans in the sweltering heat.
Standing in their poor excuse of a backyard, lit cigarette perched between his lips, humming to the Metallica song playing on the radio as he hangs up his damp clothes on the clothesline Wayne strung between the trailer and the branch of a tree. Hair pulled out of his face in a bun with dark curls poking out every which way, a pair of cheap sunglasses perched on his nose, and his hellfire shirt, sitting an inch above his navel to expose his waist and the tiniest peek of dark hair trailing into the waistband of his jeans.
Tightening the chain on Max’s bicycle when it comes loose, mowing the grass, drinking a beer with Wayne on the front porch as the sun sets, his uncle wondering aloud if Eddie thinks he could pull off “that shit” as he motions to Eddie’s exposed stomach, which leaves him with burning sinuses when he laughs through a sip and almost shoots beer from his nose.
He winds up finishing off the summer with a tan line painted across his ribs, a few new freckles dotting the skin of his lower back, and 3 more t-shirts that met their fate in the form of a cropped tank added to his summer wardrobe for years to come.
dare i say.. i feel like rules of the crawl steve (or just s5 steve in general!!!) is sooo into cock slapping too.. idk.. 🚬🚬🚬
continuation of this post
holy shit anon. holy shit.
So here’s the thing: Steve’s appetite in bed has evolved significantly over the years.
He isn’t just into sex anymore—years of violence and deprivation have turned him into someone different, someone who wants it all: to tease, command, claim, punish, mark, to dominate and be dominated.
He’ll always have that lover-boy missionary softness at his core, that’ll never change. But after all the shit he’s lived through, there’s a certain... edge that develops. A craving for intensity. For something that hits in his body instead of just his brain. A streak of violence he would’ve once cringed at, now tingling under his skin, just waiting for someone he trusts enough to unleash it with.
Then he meets you.
And suddenly, this “pretend hate” dynamic between you two isn’t just a kink. It’s an outlet that lets him access that side of himself without fear. It’s an unspoken agreement that you can push each other to the edge of discomfort, knowing it’s safe.
It’s a fire you both stoke, and Steve is obsessed with feeding it.
He thrives on the testing. On pushing just a touch too far, just to see if you’ll push back. And when you do... that’s what flips the switch for him. Raised brows and that sharp, “oh, okay, we’re doing this today” smirk that makes your knees weak.
He loves it. He lives for it.
And cock slapping is peak s5 Steve. It’s that bratty attitude, the inflated ego from his king-steve days, that little bite of cocky ha arrogance he never really lost.
It’s his fingers under your chin, forcing your face up so he can make eye contact with you while he slaps that thick, heavy weight on your tongue, over and over.
It’s the humiliation of it that drives him insane. Telling you to "open up,” watching you squirm at all the filthy shit he spits at you. Waiting for that split second you wince when he tightens his fist in your hair. Watching you brat out ten times harder after that, spitting on his cock and fighting against his grip, telling him he can go fuck himself.
And Steve loves messy, borderline disgusting sex. Sticky, wet, slick, the kind that leaves sweat and spit plastered to your hair, dripping down your neck and coating every inch of your skin. He loves when the room reeks of sex afterward. He’d never admit that outright, but he does.
He loves to spit on your pussy, in your mouth. Loves making out so hard neither of you can breathe properly. Loves being mean with his hands, his words, because he knows it makes you wet faster than anything else. Loves grunting “look at me” while his cock rests heavy across your face, knowing you can’t because he’s blocking your view. Loves watching you on your knees, desperately squeezing your thighs together, your hands pinned behind your back because you’re not allowed to touch yourself.
He loves it when you manhandle him back, because underneath all his bravado, he’s bruised. Both in ways the world can see and in ways it can’t. Bruised by the blows he’s taken, and by all the years he went starved for affection. Even before the violence, he went hungry for touch, for love that was rarely returned—and that deprivation left marks deeper than any visible scar.
So after years of being beaten, choked, tortured, literally devoured—and the long, lonely stretch before that, of waiting for affection that never came—he’s learned to crave a kind of love that doesn’t flinch away from a little mess. He’d never admit that out loud either, but he does.
He wants to be loved so hard it leaves bruises, love that grips him fiercely and refuses to let go.
Love so raw, so intense, so all-consuming that it borders on desperation. Rough hands, tight grip, filthy kisses, playful smacks and slaps—he wants it all.
‘light face slapping and choking (mostly steve receiving for those two)’
this food is so fucking good, i feel like he’d be sososo into those 🚬
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, established relationship, switch!steve, a little s5 mean!steve, degradation, power play, light choking, slapping, character study
♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡
By Season 5, Steve’s relationship with control is broken beyond repair.
This is a man who spent years being helpless in the worst possible ways. Held down, beaten bloody, drugged, tortured, trapped, forced to watch horrible things happen to people he loves and being unable to stop them.
Years of violence and grief fundamentally changed the way Steve experiences his own body.
He’s carrying around so much tension all the time it practically vibrates under his skin; adrenaline, anger, exhaustion, guilt, fear, and desire all tangled together until he can’t tell where one feeling ends and another begins anymore.
And he never really gets to release it.
He's too busy trying to hold himself together for everyone else. Being dependable, useful, strong. Always anticipating danger, waiting for the next disaster to hit.
So by the time sex enters the equation—especially with someone he trusts completely—it stops being just sex for him.
It becomes release. Catharsis.
The one place where he can finally stop clenching his jaw and let go for five fucking minutes.
And because of that, Steve develops this insatiable hunger for intensity.
Sensation overwhelming enough to drown everything else out.
He wants the kind of sex that leaves him wrung out afterward. The kind where his body feels heavy and loose instead of wound painfully tight. The kind where he’s breathing so hard that his lungs ache and there are bruises scattered over both of you by the time it’s over.
Your nails scraping down his back, your teeth sinking into his shoulder, your hand gripping his throat, your palm against his cheek, your thighs locking around his waist while he fucks into you hard enough to knock broken sounds out of both of you.
He wants all of it.
Because for those brief, dizzying moments, he isn’t thinking about monsters or grief or all the people he couldn’t save.
He’s just feeling.
And at first, Steve channels all that energy through control.
He loves towering over you with that cocky fucking smirk while he pins your wrists above your head with one hand. Loves the way his shoulders completely box you into the mattress, the weight of your legs around his waist while his other hand drags slowly between your thighs, fingers coated in your slick, rubbing just enough to make you squirm without giving you what you actually want.
And that asshole knows exactly how intimidating he can look when he wants to be.
Knows what it does to you when he cages you in beneath him, staring down through mussed hair with that dark, heavy look in his eyes.
Knows his voice gets rougher when he’s turned on. Lower, meaner.
“C’mon,” he’d murmur against your mouth, thumb circling your clit lazily while your hips jerk beneath him. “Thought you wanted this. Where’d all that attitude go, hm?”
Steve loves teasing you almost as much as he loves fucking you.
Loves dragging things out until you’re glaring at him in frustration, denying you just enough to make you desperate.
Loves the power trip of making you squirm.
He’d drag his cock through your folds painfully slow, refusing to push in, watching your thighs shake around his hips while he smirks down at you.
“C’mon, baby. Use your words,” he’d tease softly when you try to chase the friction, whining under your breath. “You want this cock? Tell me.”
And something about your attitude goes straight to his head, hits his bloodstream like a fix.
When you finally get fed up enough to shove at his chest, glaring at him through your pretty lashes. “Steve, I swear to god—”
Only for him to catch your wrists immediately, smirking while he pins you harder into the mattress.
“What?” he’d taunt. “Swear to god what?”’
He can't get enough of it—being the one controlling all that tension, deciding exactly how much pleasure to give you and when.
But then you stop letting him dominate the moment so easily.
And holy fuck does that change everything for him.
The first time you wrap your hand around Steve’s throat, something in him permanently rewires.
He'd think it's a joke, initially.
Eyes dark and amused as he leans back against the couch cushions, hands settling confidently on your hips while you straddle him, taunting you with more bullshit when your hand closes around his throat.
“What, like that's supposed to scare me?”
But then you flex your fingers, squeezing hard enough to actually cut off his circulation, and his expression goes slack.
Head tipping back, lashes fluttering, mouth falling open around a shaky inhale. The tendons in his throat flex visibly against your palm when he tries to swallow.
His cock would get embarrassingly hard for it. Flushed dusky pink from root to tip, pre-cum smearing across his stomach while his hips buck instinctively into the slow grind of your body against his.
And he can’t stop staring at you.
Can’t look away from the angry little crease between your brows, or the sweaty strands of baby hair stuck to your forehead, or the way you’re glaring at him like you wanna kill him—god, it drives him insane.
He’s so fucking obsessed with you it’s honestly starting to feel pathological.
It’s not normal, he’s sure of it.
But then again, his attraction to you stopped being normal a long fucking time ago.
And maybe the reason it affects him so intensely is because he’s so tired of carrying everything all the time.
He’s desperate to let someone else take over for once.
He spent years bracing for violence that came without warning, without mercy. So something about this—this consensual roughness with you—feels strangely therapeutic in a fucked-up way.
With you, he knows exactly where the line is.
Knows he’s safe.
For once, the violence is chosen, and he can finally stop fighting it.
And then there's the time you slap him across the face.
It happens purely on impulse, that first time.
Just another way to shut him up, because Steve runs his mouth like no one else during sex.
Especially once he realizes how easily his words get under your skin.
He gets cocky. Real mean about it.
Lounging back against the headboard in nothing but gray sweats shoved low on his hips, one arm hooked lazily behind his head while you kneel between his spread thighs.
Cock heavy and flushed in your hand, pre-cum wetting your palm while he watches you through half-lidded eyes with that infuriating smirk.
And he just keeps running that fucking mouth.
“Wow, you're really taking your time tonight,” he’d murmur while you kiss slowly up his thighs.
You’d glare at him and he’d only grin wider.
“What?” he’d tease, tapping the tip of his cock against your lips, smearing it with warm, salty pre. “Thought you were desperate for it earlier.”
When you finally take him into your mouth, he groans low in his chest, head tipping back for a moment before his gaze drops to you again.
Predatory satisfaction written all over his face, like you’ve just proved his point.
And you'd try ignoring him at first.
But Steve can tell when he’s getting under your skin, can see the flash of irritation in your brows, the way your jaw tightens around him.
So naturally, the asshole doubles down.
Thumb stroking across your cheek while he thrusts shallowly into your mouth.
“Fuck,” he’d rasp softly, tone as degrading as can be. “You look soo pretty like this, baby. So desperate to suck my cock, hm? Bet you’d let me use this mouth whenever I wa—”
And before you can think better of it, you reach up and slap him across the cheek.
The sound cuts straight through the room.
Wide, startled puppy eyes blink back at you, head turned slightly from the impact.
His cheek slowly pinkens beneath your palm, cock twitching hard in your hand, his lips parting around this stunned little breath because holy shit, nobody has ever done that to him in bed before.
He has to take a full ten seconds to recover, head falling back against the wall with a disbelieving breath while he rakes a hand over his face.
Then he looks back down at you, tongue dragging slowly across his lip:
“…oh, you are so fucking done.”
After that, it becomes a thing.
He starts provoking you on purpose, mouthing off during sex just to watch your expression sharpen, saying bratty, filthy shit just to see if you’ll do it again.
And what really messes with him is the emotional whiplash of it.
That bright, sharp, humiliating sting, followed immediately by your hand cradling his face.
Your thumb brushing over the pink warmth on his cheek while you force him to hold eye contact.
“Better?” you’d ask softly while he pants underneath you.
And Steve would just nod back, completely fucking ruined and completely in love.
Because again, it’s the intimacy of it.
The trust. The fact that you can be rough with him without there being any real cruelty underneath it.
The idea that someone can see this side of him—the messiest, neediest, most shameful and desperate parts—and still hold him gently afterward.
And oh boy, does he get desperate.
He loves when playful wrestling matches accidentally turn sexual. Loves when you pin him flat on the mattress, your knee wedged against his dick, hand curled around his throat until his voice catches completely. His hips buck off the mattress, the blood rushing to his cock so quickly it leaves him legitimately dizzy for a second.
He loves when you grip his jaw, spitting directly into his mouth to shut him up. Loves when you pin his wrists over his head after he spent the last twenty minutes doing the exact same thing to you.
He fucking loves it when you yank his hair while he’s eating you out, fist twisted tight in the roots so you can bury his nose deeper into your cunt. Groaning against your skin while his hands grip your thighs hard enough to leave fingerprints, because the sting in his scalp mixed with your taste mixed with the pressure around his skull makes him feel completely fucking insane.
But really the hottest part out of all of this is the softness in between.
Because Steve is soft at heart.
That never goes away.
Underneath all the roughness and filthy teasing, Steve is still Steve.
Still attentive and loving, still desperate to take care of you.
So the same man who was gripping your throat ten minutes ago is also the man pressing gentle kisses to your wrists afterward because he’s worried he held them too tightly.
The same man who was calling you his little slut while fucking you into the mattress is the one brushing sweaty hair back from your face:
I just know that modern steve would LOVE those vibrators that are controlled by an app on your phone. He would literally ask you to put it in just so you it would make running errands more interesting. He’d be making you squirm in the passenger seat at red lights, pretending like he wasn’t even doing anything. And of course he’d accidentally leave it on the highest level while you two were walking back to the car, and then wonder why your legs were giving out the second you opened the car door. “Baby wha- oh. Oh my god babe, I’m so sorry..” he’d apologize, feeling genuine guilt all the while trying to hide his smile.
adding onto this that steve is so big on you using your vibe in bed.
like he’s grabbing a condom and your vibe from your nightstand those are the essentials.
he’ll be fucking into you so so deep and sucking at your neck and whining about how pretty you are and how good you are and when you grab at his shoulders and scratch up his back and you moan about how close you are, he’s like “lemme grab it honey” and he’ll stop to rifle through your nightstand drawer and he’ll turn it on (just on the low setting, just enough to send you over the edge) and he’ll press it against your clit as he slowly starts fucking back into you again, and he’s just. so so wrecked looking at you squirm from the feel of it. he’ll try to kiss at your jaw as you writhe around and he’ll whisper little “let go sweetheart, i got you, i know i know” as you’re cumming and he’ll always turn it up a little big higher when you finally cum, and he just loves how tight it makes you when he’s inside you<3
also, sometimes when hes kind of turned on but doesn’t really have the energy to really fuck you, you guys will be casually playing with each other in your underwear in bed as you’re making out, and around half way through, he’ll pull back just a little, all breathless as he’s kissing down your neck to your collarbones like “where’s your vibe at?” and you’ll lean over to grab it from your dresser or wherever and he’ll be like “can i:)” and you’ll give it to him as he settles you against the pillows and crawls down between your legs. and he’ll always just turn it on low at first and just rub it over top your panties, just to get you started, and he loves to smirk up at you like that and wrap his arm around your thigh to keep you still. and then he’ll turn it up a bit higher and start to focus on your clit more, and when you start to squirm, he’ll be all cocky like “s’that feel good sweetheart? you need more?” and then when you start to grab at his hair, he’ll take the vibe completely off you and chuckle at your little whines. and then he’ll pull your panties to the side, just enough to see you, and he’ll kiss your clit all sweet with a little smile like he’s not absolutely OBSCENE rn, and he’ll peck at your inner thigh before turning your vibe up to the full setting and pressing it into your clit without any mercy <3 and then he’ll hold it there until you cum and the whole times he’s just trying to hold your hips down as you squirm and cooing down at you like “hey hey i know honey i know i got you, just lemme make you feel good sweetheart yeah i know” and he literally thinks it’s the hottest thing ever when he makes you cum like that, looking up at your pretty face from between your legs <3
coach!steve harrington x single mom!reader
(18+; MDNI; 13.5k words)
And for a moment, you’re sixteen years old again, having your chin tilted up by Steve Harrington at Mayor Kline’s 1983 Fourth of July bash, his chapped lips brushing against yours at the peak of the Ferris wheel. You’re sixteen, and your biggest worry is whether or not your friends will believe you when you say that King Steve kissed you, and his hands are warm and steady on your waist as you wind your arms around his neck, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “God, you’re beautiful.”
(Your five year old daughter wanted to sign up for the newly established Hawkins Little League Softball team. To your surprise, the coach is your old high school fling, Steve Harrington.)
cw: pregnancy/shitty exes/custody; mentions of family death in a vague way; masturbation; p-in-v sex; sort of unprotected sex (reader has an IUD); tit worship; body worship; creampies; pussy eating; porn with plot!!!; reader has stretch marks from pregnancy; soft!steve; big dick!steve; yearning; reader and steve graduated high school together are both 25
masterlist || divider by @/saradika-graphics || ao3 link
Your life wasn’t meant to turn out this way.
Not that you would necessarily complain, but when you were eighteen and fresh faced, ready to take on the world, you’d had a very clear plan in your mind of how life was supposed to go.
College, then a career, marriage, and after several comfortable years, maybe children could enter the picture. You were, after all, eighteen, and the prospect of kids had felt astronomically far away.
(Isn’t life funny sometimes?)
Then the car crash happened.
You don’t remember much of it—bits here, pieces there, some flashes if you think hard enough that it makes your head hurt—just that one moment you were in the backseat of your family’s car, buckled in and drifting to sleep, and in the next, you were staring up at the ceiling of Hawkins Memorial.
You had survived with some broken bones and a nasty concussion.
Your family did not.
You were eighteen and alone, having graduated high school only a few weeks prior. And between all of the injuries that you’d sustained and the sudden lack of family to help pay for tuition, you were forced to drop out of college. Your days were instead spent planning funerals from a hospital bed, handling lawyers and life insurance and inheritance. You threw yourself into physical therapy and, once your leg healed, forced yourself into a car, refusing to let yourself vomit from the anxiety of being behind a wheel once more.
You survived it all, and you came out a stronger person on top.
Different, maybe, but stronger.
And throughout it all—through the long hours in the hospital and longer hours rebuilding your strength—was your boyfriend, Mark Lewinsky.
Mark was sweet. Mark was kind. He filled your recovery room with flowers, and once you were discharged, his parents allowed you to stay at their house as you healed.
But Mark also had a life outside of yours completely crashing down around you, and in August of ’85, he swept off to Purdue without a glance backwards.
And life moved on. Injuries healed, you moved back into your family’s home, and your days were spent with sorting through their belongings, figuring out which items you wanted to keep and which items would be better loved in another home.
Mark called often. Of course he called often! He was your boyfriend, the love of your life, and was even starting to talk about rings and weddings and marriage, and even if your life hasn’t gone the way that you thought it should, at least you could still have the other parts, right?
It was just as things were starting to feel normal again, that you were settling into your new existence, that the earthquake happened.
Mark spent the summer of ’86 bouncing between his parents’ house and your place, filling out the copious amounts of paperwork that the military required for him to be released to go back go college, and before you could wrap your head around it, he was gone.
He was gone, and you were left in this new, strange world by yourself. No Mark, no family, no friends.
Alone.
And it was fine. It was fine.
It was fine up until the military doctor informed you, during one of the mandatory checkups, that you were pregnant.
And then, suddenly, everything wasn’t fine, because it was October of 1986, the military was breathing down everyone’s necks, and you were scared and pregnant and alone and all Mark could say over the phone was, “Babe, are you even sure that it’s mine?”
You seethed. Of course you seethed—you were faithful! You’d been nothing but faithful for two years! You hadn’t even looked at another man, not since Mark asked you out during your senior year! And now you were pregnant with his baby, stuck in a nightmare scenario, he changed his phone number, his parents had moved from town, and you were alone.
Mark, clearly, did not care.
In fact, he didn’t really seem to care until long after you gave birth, not until your daughter, Mia, was nearly two, and he came skipping back into Hawkins after he graduated college, demanding a paternity test.
He demanded a lot of things, really, that you were too exhausted to fight him on. Not with the money behind the Lewinsky name. Not with the way you hadn’t slept for a full night since giving birth. Not with living through a military occupation, abandoned and scared, with a baby who depended on you for everything.
So you got the test done, and wouldn’t you know it? Mark Lewinsky was, in fact, the father. Except Mark Lewinsky was no longer your boyfriend, and he had a nice, new woman at his side with a nice, new shiny ring on her finger and a nice, new lawyer to demand shared custody.
The only thing you refused to budge on was changing Mia’s last name from yours to Mark’s. You were, after all, the person that carried her in your body, the only parent she knew for the first two years of her life, and you were the one she cried for after nightmares. You were the one that she snuggled up next to after you rented Cinderella from Family Video for the umpteenth time and you knew exactly how she liked her pancakes made.
She was yours in every way that mattered and nothing was going to change that.
And before you knew it, years passed, and Mia grew faster than you could keep up with. She developed thoughts and feelings and opinions—god, so many opinions that it makes you laugh—and, suddenly, an interest in sports.
(You’re not quite sure where that one came from, seeing as Mark’s athletic prowess had been comical at best and you were too busy in high school with other extracurriculars to even try.)
Which is how you find yourself here, the early June sun beating down on your neck, at Hawkins Middle School with an excitable Mia clutching your hand, surrounded by the newly formed Hawkins Little League Softball Team.
A team that had been spearheaded by none other than Steve Harrington, a familiar face that you hadn’t seen in a long, long time.
Shock spreads across your body at the sight of him jogging towards your ragtag group, and the first thought that crosses your mind is that he looks good. Better than he did in high school, back when the two of you spent a summer fooling around with one another like there was nothing better to do with your time. His hair is a bit shorter than it was back then, a little less styled with the tips curling from humidity, and a white shirt already drenched with sweat sticks to his chest.
Your throat goes dry at the sight of what should be considered indecently short athletic shorts and hairy legs stopping in front of the crowd, and not for the first time, you find yourself regretting that the two of you drifted apart once Mark became a more stable presence in your life.
(Were you ever really friends? You’re not sure, but you gave a piece of yourself to him that summer, and you’ve never once regretted giving it away.)
You rip your gaze away from his legs, tracing the line up his body—which is both so similar and so different from your memory—and find that he’s smiling sunnily at you, recognition crossing his face.
And then, he greets the kids and practice is started.
You make yourself way to the stands with the other parents, watching with no small amount of amusement as Steve corrals a gaggle of five year olds who want to do nothing more than sprint in dizzying circles around him. He takes it all in stride, however, and you find yourself impressed at the everlasting patience he has for the girls with no attention span.
It would be a lot for any person to handle, you think, but somehow, Steve has a knack for getting the kids to listen to his instructions.
The first practice goes fine. Great, even, for a bunch of hyperactive, uncoordinated five year olds. And even though there isn’t a single kind who actually manages to hit the ball with the stupidly expensive softball bats, but afterwards, Steve gives each and every girl a high five, tells them that he’s proud of them, and reminds them all to drink plenty of water once they get home.
You watch Mia bound over to you, her twin braids flying as she yells, “Did you see? Did you see?”
“I saw!” you laugh, catching the bundle of energy in your arms as she babbles on excitedly about how much fun she had and how much she can’t wait for the next practice.
Your heart sinks, because despite how uncomfortable the metal bench was, you really enjoyed watching her tumble her way across the field. But… the next practice is next week, Mark’s week, and he was already reticent to pay for half of the fees. Would he even stay to watch? Would his wife—a lovely woman in her own right—stay to watch? Will there be anyone to cheer Mia on as she runs in circles? You’re not sure, and it makes your chest hurt to think about that.
Before you can dwell on it too long, though, a shadow crosses over the two of you, and you look up, up, up, to find Steve Harrington in all of his sweaty glory, your name dripping from his lips, and he asks, “Hey! It’s been awhile. How are you doing?
“I’m good,” you say at the same time that Mia, a clingy child on the best of days, does her best to burrow her way into your skin. “I was actually a little surprised to see you here. Didn’t know that you were moonlighting as a coach now, but it looks good on you.”
“Yeah?” he says, a little bashful as he pushes the hair from his eyes. “I coach the baseball little league, too, and was kind of annoyed that the girls didn’t have their own sport, so… yeah. Anyway, is this your niece?”
You open your mouth, ready to respond, but it’s in this moment that Mia chooses to peel herself from your arms and beat you to the punch.
“Uh, this is my mom, Coach Steve. Duh.”
“Mia!” you scold. “God, Steve, I’m so sorry, she’s a little—I mean—”
A booming laugh cuts you off. You watch, stunned, as his head tilts back, the evening sun catching on the column of his throat, the corners of his eyes crinkling from the force of his mirth. Everything about him screams All American Boy as the delight spills from him, and a knot in your chest that you didn’t even know was there eases.
“You’re right, Mia,” he says, holding a hand out to her as a peace offering. “I should’ve known better. Will you ever forgive me?”
Mia sniffs imperiously, eyes him a little warily, but clearly decides that he passes some invisible test when she places her little hand in his large palm. “I guess.”
You take this moment to pry her from your lap, instructing, “Go get a snack from the car, sweets. I’m going to talk to Steve real quick.”
She grumbles something under her breath, shooting you a sour look, but does as told, scampering towards your old sedan.
“So…” Steve starts, hands placed firmly on his hips and his gaze firmly trained on your daughter, as though he’s making sure that she doesn’t run into any trouble in the perilous twenty foot distance between you and her. “Daughter?”
“Long story,” you offer.
He raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”
You pause, thinking, and realize dimly, Oh, he should know. Especially if Mark drops her off next week. “Well… no, actually.”
You give Steve the abbreviated version—as abbreviated as it can be, anyway, for a tale that is both short and rather uninteresting. Knocked up at nineteen, gave birth at twenty, share custody with her father, Mark Lewinsky, so he’ll be the one at practice next week.
If possible, Steve’s brows raise higher at the mention of Mark.
“The bench warmer?” he asks, then flushes as if he wasn’t supposed to say that.
But it’s your turn to laugh. “Yeah, him.” Glancing to make sure that your daughter is still out of earshot, you add, “Wouldn’t have been my first choice in fathers, but I got Mia out of it, so… Worth it, in the end.”
“She’s a good kid,” Steve says. “Picked up on what to do faster than the other kids. And I’m not just saying that to, like, stroke your ego or anything. She’s smart.”
“Yeah,” you smile. “She is, isn’t she?”
Life persists and summer continues to grow, the heat swells until it presses into every corner of your life, and the humidity wraps itself around you like a second skin.
As always, Mia is at your house one week, goes to her dad’s the next, and inevitably she returns with her light a little dimmed and a trembling smile on her face, climbing into your bed every Sunday night after her dad drops her off.
(It breaks your heart, but what can you do? It’s not like they’re mistreating her or anything. She just doesn’t like going out over to Mark’s house, especially not since Mark’s wife announced her own pregnancy.)
And, against all odds, Mia sticks with softball, throwing her tiny little body into practice and drills. She takes to spending every evening with her bat in the backyard, swinging it around wildly as she asks, “Do you think Coach Steve can tell that I’m doing this?”
“Of course,” you reply amiably from your spot on the deck, a book propped open on the table next to you. “Coach Steve is very smart, you know.”
She preens under the thought of praise, and you heart clenches with gratitude that you get to be her mother.
Practices get bumped up to twice a week, too, meaning that every other week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, your evenings are spent in the stands at your old middle school, watching your daughter flail across the field with the grace of a newborn kitten.
There’s a certain amount of affection that wells up in your chest whenever you watch Steve interact with her. He corrects her with a gentle efficiency, lifting her elbow into place, showing her how to stand. It’s hard not to notice just how much she blossoms under his roaring cheers from across the field when she manages to hit the ball, her little legs pumping as she sprints to home base.
And then—faster than you can process it—she slides her way to the home plate. Tries to slide her way to the home plate, and it’s immediately evident that it completely went wrong when a shrill cry pierces the air. Your blood freezes, and in the next second, Steve’s at her side before you can even stand, scooping her sobbing form up. His big hand settles on her small back as he jogs towards the first aid kit.
You scramble from the stands, forcing your way through the other parents, and as you make your way closer, you hear him say, “I bet it hurts a lot, Mia, but it’ll be okay. See? It’s just a little cut, don’t worry.”
“But—but—” Her lower lip wobbles, fat tears falling from her eyes. “What if I can’t run anymore?”
If this shocks Steve, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he reaches out gently, dragging a thumb across her cheek as he wipes the tears away, promising in a soft voice, “You’ll be able to run again, I promise. You think a little scrape can prevent that? Come on, Mia, you’re a strong girl. You can do anything you want.”
Your heart melts at the assurance as you slip onto the bench next to her, tucking Mia into your side as he finishes cleaning and bandaging her skinned knees, saying, “There, all done. Look! No more blood. How about you sit here with your mom for a bit, okay? If it hurts a little less, you can come back out, but no worries if not.”
She nods, presses her face into your shirt, and Steve offers you a soft smile before turning his attention back to the rest of the team.
You offer her soothing words and squeezes, smoothing a hand down her back throughout the rest of practice, trying desperately to ignore the way your stomach flips at the mental image of her coddled against Steve’s chest.
It’s inappropriate, you think, to feel so electrified after seeing how kind his is with your daughter.
(But is it really your fault? You’ve seen Mark with her when she’s injured, the way he tends to hand Mia off to his wife when all she needs is a hug, a kiss to the forehead, and an assurance that all will be well. Because Mark is awkward and never quite adapted to fatherhood, and Steve—)
(Steve just seems so naturally step into that role, even for kids that aren’t his own.)
After practice, you stay sitting on the bench, watching as the rest of the team disappears in the parking lot and drives off. It’s only once the last family has left that Steve makes his way back over to the two of you, checks on Mia’s knees and opens his arms up. “Will you ever forgive me, Mia?”
She giggles and throws herself at him, wrapping herself tight around his neck as she buries her face into the crook of his neck.
“I guess,” she says in a way that you know, from experience, means yes.
Your throat tightens at the sight, trying to remember the last time you’d seen her actual father treating her with so much tenderness.
Steve’s eyes, warm and brown, meet yours, and he asks, “Can I make this up to you? Both of you? There’s a new diner nearby that’s supposed to be good, and it’ll be my treat. I should’ve shown Mia how to safely slide before she ever attempted it, and…”
“Oh, Steve,” you say. “You really don’t have to.”
“I want to,” he says firmly. “Please?”
“Please, Mom?” comes your daughter’s muffled voice.
You glance down at Mia, at her face still filled with baby fat tucked into his shirt, and find yourself nodding. “As long as Mia wants to, I’m fine with it.”
The smile Steve sends you is blinding.
He leads the two of you towards his car, having insisted on driving, with Mia held close to his chest after she demanded that he carry her as payment—where she learned that phrase, you’re not quite sure—and you find yourself shocked to find a silvery blue pickup in place of a maroon BMW, and you blurt out, “You got rid of the Beamer?”
Steve pauses where he’s opening the passenger door, glancing back at you with something unreadable on his face. Carefully, with a tinge of sadness in his voice, he says, “Figured that it was time for something better.”
“Still, we had some good memories in that car,” you say without thinking.
Steve coughs.
You freeze, face burning.
“Oh my god,” you say. “I’m so sorry, that just—”
“It’s fine,” he wheezes, his cheeks turning a rosy red. “Can’t say you’re wrong, can I?”
And Mia, ever the nosy child, finally puts two and two together. “Mom, did you know Coach Steve before softball?”
“I did, sweets,” you say. “We were friends in school.”
(Which isn’t exactly the truth, but, well, you’re not exactly about to tell your five year old that you and Steve hooked up between relationships, are you?)
“Your mom was the prettiest girl in our grade,” Steve whispers conspiratorially, easing Mia onto the bench seat and nudging her towards the center.
“Mom’s the prettiest girl now,” Mia asserts.
“You’re right,” he seriously replies. Then, as your brain struggles to catch up with the conversation, he turns to you with a hand held out, saying, “Alright, Prettiest Girl, let me help you in.”
Your face feels hot as you slip your hand into his, an electric shock racing up your arm at the contact. His palms are warm and calloused, assured in the way he grips your fingers as his other hand settles on your lower back, helping you up into the passenger seat.
He lingers for a moment, peering up at you, the setting sun making his eyes appear more honey than brown, and he says, “Not so bad, is it? Not as nice as the Beamer, but she’s a sturdy gal.”
And for a moment, you’re sixteen years old again, having your chin tilted up by Steve Harrington at Mayor Kline’s 1983 Fourth of July bash, his chapped lips brushing against yours at the peak of the Ferris wheel. You’re sixteen, and your biggest worry is whether or not your friends will believe you when you say that King Steve kissed you, and his hands are warm and steady on your waist as you wind your arms around his neck, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “God, you’re beautiful.”
You blink, and you’re twenty-five once more, with Steve Harrington—who has long since fallen from his throne—giving you a shy smile as his hand slips from your back, and for a moment you have the delirious thought that he still sees you as you, not the role you’ve filled for the past five years. He sees you as the teenager you once were, stealing kisses in the summer sun, making the windows of his Beamer fog up. He sees the person who once stole seven of his shirts in one night—shirts that still sit in your closet—and the person who once snorted lemonade out of your nose in his backyard.
And then your daughter shifts next to you, clearly antsy, and his gaze dips down to her, reminding you of the person you are now, before meeting your eyes once more.
As if he can sense your thoughts, he quietly asks, “You alright?”
You force yourself to nod, saying, “Yeah, of course. Just, uh, hungry.”
Because if you don’t, you’re going to ask him, Do you still see me as me? Or do you only see me as a mother like everyone else does?
(You’re not sure if you could handle the answer, no matter what it is.)
The drive to the diner is filled with endless chatter from your daughter as she fills Steve in on how she’s starting kindergarten in the fall, every thought and excitement and fear she has pouring from her body, and you watch. You watch the way his fingers curl around the steering wheel, you watch the way he leans over to ruffle Mia’s hair. You listen to the low, soothing timbre of his voice when he assures her that kindergarten isn’t hard, that she’ll have no problem making friends, that she’ll be okay no matter what.
And for a moment—
For a moment, you wonder if this is what your life could’ve looked like, in another universe.
But you don’t let yourself dwell on that long, because in another universe, Mia wouldn’t be your daughter, and the thought of that makes your chest crack wide open from pain.
Steve helps the two of you out of the truck, doesn’t comment when Mia grabs his hand as well as yours, and holds the door open to the restaurant, ushering you both in and settling you into a corner booth.
Mia orders a stack of waffles—and you note the anguish that flashes across Steve’s face when she announces this to the waitress, wondering but not asking—and you order a sandwich, cautious of not spending too much despite his insistence to not worry about it.
It’s… it’s fun. It’s fun in a way you haven’t felt in a long time, a burden that you didn’t know was there easing from your bones.
Steve, clearly, is phenomenal with kids, never flinching when Mia’s voice gets too loud or her stories too rambley. He meets her at her level like it’s the most natural thing to do, and you know from experience that it’s not. She’s a precocious child, too smart for her age and always getting into something, and it’s a common complaint you’ve heard from her father when he drops her off at your house. That she isn’t always controllable, as if it’s a crime to let a child roam free, as if a child is meant to be controlled.
(You can’t think about that one without righteous indignation burning through your veins.)
And when the food arrives, he waves you away when you move to cut up Mia’s waffles, saying, “I got it, just enjoy your meal.”
You think that you could cry.
Dinner passes without incident, and you’re nowhere close to surprised when Mia nods off onto your arm, her snores filling the space between you and Steve. He huffs out a quiet, affectionate laugh, goes to pay the bill, and when he comes back, he leans down to gather her into his arms, asking, “You ready?”
He’s quiet as he takes you back to your own car, contemplative, and he wordlessly helps buckle Mia into her car seat, biceps flexing as he protects the top of her head from bumping against the roof of the sedan.
It should be odd, you think, to let him do this. To let him take care of your daughter without question.
But it’s not like you don’t know him. It’s not like he’s never treated you with the same gentle reverence, either.
(Because you remember high school. You remember your first big breakup, sophomore year, and Steve finding you crying behind the bleachers in the outfield. You remember him sitting next to you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling some napkins from his coat pocket to dab at your mascara stained cheeks. You remember his kindness, back when he was King Steve and you were someone on the outskirts of his universe. You remember him driving you home afterwards and helping you into bed. You remember coming into school the next day to see your ex with a black eye and fat lip, and the warmth in your chest that, for the first time, someone had taken care of you.)
“Thank you,” you say, even if it falls far short of anything else you really want to say. “This… this meant more than you know.”
Steve straightens, gently shutting the door. “It’s no problem, honestly.”
“Still,” you say. “You don’t need to be so nice, Steve. I know I’m just your…”
Your former fling. Someone you filled your afternoons with before Nancy Wheeler broke your heart. A person you probably haven’t thought about in years.
“My friend,” he gently finishes. “You’re my friend.”
You blink, taken aback. “But we haven’t—”
“I know,” he interrupts, still in that soft, soothing tone of his. “But I never once stopped considering you a friend. And…” He pats around the pockets of his jeans, pulling out a scrap of paper. “I’ve been trying to figure out a good time to give this to you.”
You take it, looking down to find a phone number scrawled out.
“I live in a place up near Forest Hills Park now,” he continues on. “Up in northeast Hawkins? Not the trailer park that has the same name, it’s on the opposite side of town. So my number’s obviously changed, but if, you know, you ever want to talk, I’m almost always home around eight. To catch up.”
“Oh.” Your throat feels uncomfortably tight. “Oh, this…”
“You don’t have to,” he quickly says. “Just figured I’d offer.”
Something in your chest warms at the thought. Catching up. Even if you’re confident that there’s nothing in your life interesting enough to catch up on, he’s looking at you so earnestly, so ardently, that you can’t deny him.
“I will,” you promise. “I will. And—my phone number never changed, so if you still remember that—”
“I do.”
You pause, smiling. “You can call me anytime.”
A shy, sheepish grin peeks from his face. “Yeah?”
You nod. “Yeah. And for what it’s worth, I’m still living in the same house I did in high school.”
“Really?” he asks, following you around the car as you reach for the driver’s side door. “What’s the story behind that?”
“I don’t know,” you say coquettishly, slipping into the seat. “You’ll have to call and find out, won’t you?”
Sunday comes, and Mia gets whisked off to her father’s house like she always does, and you’re once again left wandering around your house, trying desperately to fill up the time and space that’s usually allotted to parenting. It’s never easy to ignore the way that being a mother has been hardwired into each and every one of your molecules, a small tick tick tick that’s sounding off in the back of your brain like you’re somehow doing something wrong by curling up on the couch, watching reruns on the television instead of reading your daughter a bedtime story.
A few days pass, and Mia calls like she does every night when she’s at her dad’s, telling you about softball practice and feeling the baby kick and what she ate for dinner.
“I don’t think Dad likes Coach Steve,” she whispers over the line. “He always sits in the car at practice and never says ‘hi.’”
This doesn’t surprise you, but you’re not about to tell her that Coach Steve and Dad once got into it over Dad not being good enough at basketball to get off the bench in high school.
“I’m sure he likes Coach Steve just fine,” you instead say. “Anyway, what else did you do today?
She continues to ramble, you continue to listen, and eventually, Mark takes the phone, saying, “Hey, listen, I had a question for you.”
You sit up straighter. “Yeah? What’s up?”
“I know this is short notice,” he begins. “But my parents bought plane tickets for me, Lisa, and Mia to visit them in Florida next week. They wanted to see everyone before the baby comes, you know? Anyway, I told them that it was your week, but they insisted on it.”
Something in your gut curdles.
And here’s the crux of the issue:
You don’t dislike the Lewinsky's. Sure, they did threaten to sue you into oblivion had you not agreed to the current custody arrangement between you and Mark, and sure, they ignored your calls when you were pregnant, trying to get in touch with Mark after he changed his number. But you can’t forget how they took care of you after your family’s death, either, nor can you forget that they’re your daughter’s family.
(As much as you might think they’re reprehensible people, that’s for Mia to decide when she’s older, and you do your best to keep your opinions away from her.)
You stay silent long enough that Mark says, “And so you don’t lose your time with her, I figure that when we get back, you’ll get the next two weeks before we go back to our normal schedule.”
You purse your lips together. “I’m not happy about this.”
“I didn’t think you would be,” Mark replies.
“I’ll agree this time,” you say. “But don’t make a habit of it. Have you told Mia? She’s going to be upset.”
“Wanted to ask first,” he says. “Could you pack a bag for her, by the way? I’ll swing by Friday evening to pick it up, and she can say bye to you then.”
“Fine,” you tell him shortly. “Please take some pictures of her while you’re there and send me the copies.”
“You got it,” he says. “I’ll make sure to set some time aside for her to call while we’re down there, too.”
That’s the least you could do, you think bitterly, but force yourself say, “I appreciate it. Give her my love.”
And the line goes dead.
You let out an aggravated sigh, too annoyed to keep sitting. You make your way to the kitchen, aggressively scrubbing the scant dishes you’d left from breakfast. Laundry gets thrown into the wash before you climb upstairs, looking around your daughter’s room as you find a bag, tossing in clothes that Mark’s parents are the least likely to judge, tucking her favorite book in alongside in the fabric, and for a moment, you’re lost.
Adrift.
You’ve never spent two weeks away from your daughter. You had never gone more than seven days without her wrapping her small body around your chest, without hearing her mumble as she dreamed or watching her sleepily walk into the kitchen for breakfast.
Your life, since May 1987, has entirely revolved around the role of Mom.
Who are you when you aren’t that?
You aren’t sure, and that scares you more than it should.
The rest of your evening is spent aimlessly, listlessly, as you try to find something to fill your time. Your time away from Mia is generally spent catching up on laundry and cleaning and getting ready for her to come back, making sure you have enough food in the house for her lunches and some new books from the library.
What did you do for fun before you were a mother?
You genuinely can’t remember.
Before you can consider it too deeply, your keys are in your hand, sandals are slid onto your feet, and the next thing you know, you’re in the parking lot at Family Video, easing your way inside the familiar store and nodding at the bored teenager behind the register.
For a moment, you stare at the red curtain in the back, illuminated by the neon sign proclaiming ADULT above it, and you’re tempted. Really tempted. Honestly, when was the last time you had time for yourself like that? But the last time you’d been behind that curtain was the summer that Mia was conceived, when you’d snuck behind it with Mark, giggling like the children you were as you whispered the names of different titles, mocking and young and so, so in love.
If you go back there now, you’re not sure that you won’t meet the ghost of your former self, still being spun in a circle and covered in kisses with not a single care in the world.
So you pivot left, in the opposite direction of the pornos, towards the new releases and ignoring the door opening behind you as you search for something to fill your evening.
Rows of tapes surround you, some sticking out, movies you would’ve rented without second thought for Mia like 101 Dalmatians and The Brave Little Toaster. Films that are kid friendly, ones you can enjoy alongside her as you wait for a re-release of The Little Mermaid and fight half of Hawkins to snag a copy.
Just as a copy of Father of the Bride catches your eye, a warm voice behind you says, “Hey.”
You jump, spinning around, coming face to face with none other than Steve, who’s smiling down at you like it’s the most natural thing for him to do.
“Oh! Hi, Steve,” you say, clutching your chest. “What are you doing here?”
The second the words are out of your mouth, you feel like a complete idiot. What are you here for? What else would someone go into a video store for?
But he only shrugs, saying, “I caught sight of you walking in as I was driving home, so I figured I’d stop in. I was just about to call you, actually.”
Your heart beats harder than it should at the admission as you thump his arm softly. “Okay, creep.”
He laughs, and your gaze snags on his Adam’s apple as he tilts his head back, carefree in a way you haven’t felt in years.
“You got me there,” he admits. Glancing around, he asks, “Is Mia at her dad’s this week?”
“Yeah,” you say. “And, uh, next week, too. Last minute vacation to Mark’s parents’ place in Florida, apparently, so she won’t be at practice.”
There must be something in your tone—a sadness you can’t force away—because Steve catches your wrist, his thumb pressing comfortingly into the pulse point where your heart flutters against your skin, his voice full of empathy as he says, “That sounds rough.”
You nod, blinking back the torrent of emotions threatening to overpower you. “It’s kind of weird having no kid around, if I’m honest.”
“Hence the movie?” he asks, tilting his head towards the racks.
“Yup,” you say. “Hence the movie.”
An idea pops into your head, then. And, well, Steve is the one who said that he still considered you a friend, right?
“Hey, uh,” you flounder for a moment. “Would you want to come by for dinner on Friday? If you’re free? I can cook, you know, to make up for you buying our dinner. We could, uh, watch—” Your eyes cut to the tape next to you, and you snatch it from the shelf. “—Father of the Bride together. Maybe drink beer or something?”
His shoulders soften, and he fixes you with a look that has your knees weak and your stomach flipping as though you were a teenager once more.
“I’d love that,” he murmurs, his thumb worrying a path down to your palm. “But let me get the beer, alright? I’ll feel bad not bringing something.”
“I can agree to those terms,” you say, suddenly giddy. “You said you’re usually home by eight, right? Or—if you want to come home—I mean, come by earlier—I get back from work around four.”
“Is five okay?” he asks. “I’m helping a friend build something during the day, so I want to make sure I can shower before I come over.”
“Five’s perfect!” A grin stretches across your face before you can stop it. “You haven’t developed any allergies since high school, right?”
He shakes his head. “No, and before you ask, I do still eat anything that gets put on a plate, so just make whatever you’d usually eat.”
You already know that you are going to make something nice, and you’re pretty sure he can tell, too, but you lead him towards the register, slapping the tape down on the counter and digging through your purse.
But while you’re pulling your wallet out, Steve’s already handed a ten dollar bill over, telling the cashier, “Have a good night, man.”
“I was going to pay,” you say as he leads you from the store. “Seriously, Steve, let me give you money for it.”
“No can do,” he says. “My mother raised me to be a gentleman, honey. She’d rip me a new one if she knew I made someone as beautiful as you pay.”
You stumble, heat coursing through your body, and his hand quickly puts you right, a steadying presence as you choke out, “Hold on, are you flirting with me?”
“I’ve been trying to since I saw you without a ring on your finger,” he confesses. “But I’m glad it’s working now.”
You splutter incoherently. “Steve!”
Embarrassment flushes at your skin, and in the next moment, it feels as though your entire being is overpowered by him. He leans down, his nose brushing against your own as the smell of his cologne, something deep and woodsy, fills your head. Fingers skim down your arm, and you can practically taste the sweat on his skin as he murmurs, “I wasn’t lying when I said that you were the prettiest girl. And, well…” His gaze very obviously drops down to your lips. “I’d like to rectify that and say you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re just saying that to be nice,” you breathe, heart beating erratically against your rib cage.
“Am I?” he asks.
For a moment, you think he might do something more, and you feel like that sixteen year old who spent her summer wrapped up in his arms, but the only thing he does is press a chaste kiss to your cheek.
You touch it gently, blinking up at him, and he whispers, “See you Friday?”
And then you’re left standing in the middle of the parking lot, Father of the Bride clutched in your hand as you watch him drive off.
You don’t remember much of the drive home. You don’t remember much of anything, really, just that the second your front door is locked, you’re climbing the stairs to your bedroom, arousal burning it’s way through your entire body.
It’s been so long since you’ve felt this way—since you had the freedom to feel this way—that it crashes into you all at once, almost blinding you with how much you want. Want Steve, want pleasure, want something.
Your shirt gets shed first, your bra is thrown towards the hamper in the corner, and you kick your underwear and pants off in one fell swoop before collapsing onto the bed.
There’s no slow buildup the way you might have once done it, no teasing of your breasts, no swirling around your clit, because god, you are wet and aching in a way that you haven’t felt in so long. Too long.
While one hand roughly grabs your own tit, your other creeps down to the apex of your legs, drifting through the thatch of pubic hair to swipe through your slit, gathering slick on the pads of your fingers.
You remember, suddenly, the first time you ever slept with Steve, a few months after that breakup in tenth grade. How he had gripped your hips with his big, warm hands—hands that were soft and free from callouses at the time—and brought his mouth down to your cunt, licking a stripe from your hole up, sucking your clit into his mouth and hollowing out his cheeks in a way that had you seeing stars. How you had never felt such pleasure before, how you’d never had someone pay so much attention to you wholeheartedly before, and it’s the image if him peaking up at you from over your pussy that has you plunging two fingers inside, using the heel of your palm to grind into your clit.
It’s messy. It’s hot. It’s mesmerizing, becoming reacquainted with a part of your body that has long lived dormant inside you, to have the thrill of desire run so freely through all of your senses. To have your breasts peak in the cold air of the bedroom, to be able to moan loudly and freely, to so unabashedly become reacquainted with yourself once more.
You pinch a nipple between two fingers, twisting it in a way you once remember Steve doing, gasping breathlessly as your hips jerk up into your hand.
It’s intense, and your orgasm builds fast, faster than it usually does in quick, stolen moments. Your toes curl as heat pools in your stomach, your core aching, and with one more circle of your clit, everything explodes.
You lay there, panting, as the aftershocks of pleasure fissures through your limbs, pulling your soaked hand from between your legs.
If there is one thing that you know, you cannot wait for Friday to arrive.
The rest of the week passes quickly, and you find yourself thrumming with anticipation at the thought of Steve coming over.
(Not that you’re expecting anything, but you can’t even find it in yourself to feel guilty for fantasizing about the feelings of his hands against your thighs.)
Mia still calls every evening, and any happiness of the thought of seeing Steve gets doused when she quietly admits, “I wish I could spend the week with you.”
“I know, sweets,” you tell her. “But you’ll have so much fun with Nana and Grandpa. And I’ll take a week off of work, so we can have a whole week to ourselves when you come back, okay? Plus I’ll give you such a big hug and so many kisses when you come to get your bag tomorrow that you’ll be set for a whole week of hugs and kisses.”
“Mom, I don’t think it works like that,” she whines. “Don’t be silly.”
“Uh, it absolutely works like that,” you say. “Are you questioning me? The same person you called the smartest person in the world?”
“You’re not being smart when you’re being silly!”
You sigh dramatically, shaking your head. “I love you too, Mia.”
It isn’t until later in the night when you’ve finished washing your face and have slipped into pajamas that it hits you.
Mark is coming over. Tomorrow. When Steve is going to be at your house.
Fuck.
You scramble for the phone on your nightstand, punching in the number to Steve’s house that’s sat by your alarm clock since he gave it to you, and you hope and pray that it isn’t too late for you to call.
And for once, luck is on your side.
His voice is a little rough when he answers with, “Henderson, I swear to god, I love you, man, but I haven’t gained any opinions on quantum physic theories since you asked me twenty minutes ago.”
“Well, good for you,” you wryly say. “I’m not here to ask your thoughts on quantum physics.”
There’s a silence, a spluttering, and then Steve chokes out, “Yeah, you weren’t who I thought was calling.”
“Clearly not.” You sit down on the bed, running a finger along a fraying thread on your quilt. “I, uh, needed to warn you about something.”
“Ominous,” he says. “Hit me with it, honey.”
Your face warms at the epithet, and you quickly explain the scheduling blunder you made, rushing to say, “Just—if you’re here when Mark and Mia come over, could you—uh—stay hidden? I’m not embarrassed or anything, but, well, you are Mia’s coach, and Mark has been kind of weird when I’ve had men over before—and you two do have a history—and you can park in the garage and everything so Mia doesn’t see the truck, and I’m so sorry to ask this of you, and—”
“Honey,” he gently interrupts. “I get it. You don’t need to worry about offending me.”
“Are you sure?” you ask, worrying your lip between your teeth.
“Am I sure?” He huffs out a laugh, soft and full of affection. “I was sure when we were sixteen and you pushed me into my pool. I was just an idiot back then, but, you know, I had to thump my head a few times to figure it out.”
“I just…” You press your eyes shut. “I haven’t… it’s been a long time, Steve, and I don’t want to mess this up, but… I’m not the same girl you knew then. ”
“You won’t,” he assures. “And I’m not the same boy you knew, either. I want the woman you are now, in whatever way you’ll let me have you.”
Something in your chest eases at the admission, and you whisper, “Okay.”
You can hear the grin in his voice as he says, “Maybe we can talk more about this tomorrow? In person, over some beers?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Of course. Of course—just—I’ll leave the garage door open for you, okay? And you can come in through the side door. Just shout so, you know, I know when you’re in my house.”
“Anything for you, honey,” he says. “See you then?”
“See you then,” you promise.
The next day passes slowly, and you end up taking a half day, feigning illness convincingly enough that your boss lets you go without complaint.
Your house gets scrubbed from top to bottom, new bedding gets spread across your mattress, dinner is prepped, and you take a gloriously long shower, scrubbing every inch of your body until you’re satisfied.
You make your way back into your bedroom with a towel wrapped around your body, digging through your dresser to find something, well, sexy to wear.
(Not to be presumptuous or anything, but… you didn’t want to be caught off guard, either.)
It’s as you’re dabbing perfume behind your ears when you hear the creaking of the screen door. Seconds later, Steve’s voice calls out, “Honey, I’m home!”
You roll your eyes, affection blooming in your chest, and you call back, “One moment!”
With one more glance in the mirror to make sure everything is where it’s supposed to be, you make your way down to find Steve in the living room, a six pack of beer in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other, smiling nervously as you make your way closer to him.
“These are for you,” he says, thrusting the flowers towards you.
You take in the sight of him slowly, savoring it as your fingers brush against his, accepting the bouquet. His hair’s curled at the ends, like he’d taken a shower and didn’t dry his hair all the way afterwards, and he has a nice, linen button down tucked into dark wash jeans, clearly having put effort into looking nice.
For you.
“You look handsome,” you say shyly.
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “You look beautiful.”
You shake your head, moving past him towards the kitchen. “You have to say that,” you say. “I made you dinner.”
“I’d say that even without the promise of food,” he tells you, falling into step behind you. “But I won’t lie, the food is a motivator.”
It should be a little awkward, a bit uncomfortable, but the only thing you feel is safe.
It’s easy, you think, to share a space with Steve. Even if you hadn’t talked to him in nearly a decade, even if the shape of your life has changed so much since you first befriended him, he still knows you at your core. He knows what makes you laugh and what you like. He remembers how to work your oven, preheating it for the ziti that you prepped, and he slides an open beer across to you without prompt, bumping his foot against yours underneath the breakfast table you’re both sat at as you wait for the pasta to bake.
It’s almost enough for you to forget who you are outside of this small bubble you’ve created, for you to forget the person you’ve become in the years you didn’t see Steve.
Almost, up until the doorbell rings, and Steve hangs back as you bring the bag of Mia’s clothes to the front porch, easing the door shut behind you.
You’re not shocked when Mia throws herself at you, tears already streaming down her face as Mark taps his foot impatiently behind her, blubbering incoherently about missing and sad and Mom in a way that has your heart shattering into a million, tiny pieces.
“Oh, sweets,” you murmur into her hair, holding her tightly to your chest. “It’s just a week, sweet girl. You’ll be home before you know it, and you’re going to have so much fun.”
“But I don’t wanna,” Mia sobs, little hiccups bubbling from her. “I wanna stay here, Mom, I don’t wanna go to stinky Florida!”
Mark scowls. “Amelia, honestly. This behavior is ridiculous. I’ve already told you that we’re visiting Disney. Don’t you want to meet Minnie Mouse?”
You shoot Mark the nastiest glare you can manage.
“Not without Mom!” wails Mia, gripping your shirt even tighter.
“Baby,” you try again. “It’ll all be okay. You won’t even have time to miss me!”
“You’re lying,” she shouts, though her words are muffled from the way her face is pressed into your throat. “I always miss you!”
(And if that doesn’t make you want to pull her into the house and lock the door.)
Mark lets out an exasperated noise, glancing towards the idling car, and you know it’s time for them to go. Forcing yourself to stand, you gather Mia up in your arms—even if she’s just a bit too heavy for you to comfortably carry—and make your way towards the backseat.
She screams the entire way, tiny fists pounding on your back as you pull open the door. Mark’s wife, Lisa, gives you a sympathetic look when you’re forced to pry Mia’s hands from the fabric of your shirt, choking back your own tears as you buckle your daughter into her booster seat. You capture her face between your hands, pressing kisses to every surface of her face that you can reach, even as she screeches in protest.
You barely manage to utter out one final I love you so much, sweets before Mark nudges you out of the way, slamming the door shut as he says, “If you didn’t coddle her so much, she wouldn’t act like this.”
There are plenty of things you want to say. You could say, words that have been simmering under the surface for years. Insults, injuries, all sorts of horrible thoughts you’ve buried ever since Mia came screaming into the world on an early May morning, but you choke all of it back, snapping, “Have you considered that, maybe, if you’d wanted to be a father when she was born, she would have more of an attachment to you, Mark.”
“The town was in lock down,” he argues.
You shake your head, not pointing out the fact that he changed his god damn phone number so you couldn’t to reach him. “You could’ve tried, asshole.”
“Yeah, well,” he snips, stomping his way over to the driver’s side. “At least I’m not an uptight bitch.”
The only thing that stops you from losing it entirely is the knowledge that your daughter will hear it, and you refuse to be the parent who does that to her. Instead, you say, “You better call once you’re settled at your parents’ house. I want to make sure she’s okay.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grunts, slamming the car shut, effectively cutting the conversation off.
You stand there, waiting in the driveway as he pulls out, memorizing the shape of your daughter’s face pressed against the window, the way her little fingers claw at the glass, and you hold yourself tightly, trying desperately to not let her see just how much pain this situation is causing you.
(You would do anything to prevent her from shedding another tear again, and it kills you to be the cause of her anguish now.)
Once his car disappears from sight, and you force yourself back into the house, kicking the door shut behind you.
Steve looks up from his place on the couch, takes one look at your face, and opens his arms up in the same way he had for your daughter just a few weeks prior. It’s easy, then, to crawl onto his lap the way you once did in high school, to let yourself be held tightly, to press your ear against his chest and listen to the sound of his steady heartbeat.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly, dragging a hand down your back.
You sigh, pressing your eyes shut. “Mark’s just an asshole, and Mia hates spending more time with him than she has to, but there’s nothing I can do about it. She’s still so young, and even if I had the money to take him to court for full custody, it would be hard to when the courts wouldn’t take her opinion into consideration. I try my best, but… but seeing her cry, I don’t know. Makes me wonder if I’m doing the right thing by not letting her choose now, you know? But despite everything, they’re her family, and she should know them.”
“What a douche bag,” Steve bluntly says.
A laugh bursts from you, unbidden. “Did I ever tell you that he accused me of cheating on him when I announced that I was pregnant?”
A scandalized noise erupts from his throat. “No.”
“Yes!” You sit up, meeting Steve’s eye. “And because he was at Purdue, I had to call him. He asked, ‘are you sure it’s mine?” then changed his number so I couldn’t contact him! He only showed up when Mia was two and demanded shared custody after the paternity test said that he was the father.”
“Seriously?” Steve scoffs. “What an asshole. You know, he never watches Mia at practice, either, and always looks annoyed when she tries to talk to him about it. I’ve even told him that she was really good and he just glared at me! Glared! He doesn’t deserve her.”
“No,” you agree. “He really doesn’t.”
“You know…” A small smile crosses Steve’s face. “I bet the reason he’s so pissy about it is ‘cause he’s mad that she’s better at softball than he ever was at basketball.”
“I bet you’re right,” you say. “He can’t handle the blow to his ego.”
A beat passes, his grin widens, and before you can stop it, giggles spill from your lips as all tension leaves your body.
It feels good to talk to someone about your daughter’s shitty father, to have Steve so easily validate every annoyance you’ve ever felt towards the man. It feels like you’re not as crazy as you're left feeling half the time after interacting with the man, to know that you’re not as alone in the world as you felt even five minutes prior.
The timer on the oven goes off, and the two of you make your way into the kitchen. Steve pulls plates from the cabinet, talking about the baseball team he coaches as you pull the baking dish from the oven, putting it on the breakfast table while he sets silverware down.
And dinner is…
It’s nice.
It’s simple, and it’s easy, and you feel like you, but in a way that doesn’t feel at war with your role as a parent. Like Steve sees both sides of you, understands that they are two sides to the same coin, and he likes you that way.
He talks about his life since high school. A shitty job at the mall, a shittier job at Family Video once the mall burnt down. The years spent working weird jobs, taking care of a gaggle of kids you vaguely remember seeing him with in high school. He tells you how he lied to his parents about how he couldn’t get into college, having not known what to do with his life and not wanting to disappoint them.
“I guess I thought they’d find it easier to accept that I was too stupid to be accepted,” he explains. “Though, as it turns out, they wouldn’t have had an issue with me just saying that I wanted to take a gap year.”
“Did you end up going?” you ask, sipping at your beer. “To college, that is.”
He leans back in his seat, stretching his arms behind his head. You don’t miss the flash of tummy, the trail of hair leading south that had not been there the last time you saw it.
“I did,” he says with no small amount of pride. “Graduated this past May, actually. Got a degree in physical education from Ball State. I’m starting at a gym teacher at the middle school in the fall.”
“Holy shit!” You reach over, squeezing his leg. “Congrats! That’s huge!”
He beams, but shrugs bashfully. “It’s no big deal.”
“Don’t be modest,” you scold. “That’s amazing. Mr. Harrington, gym teacher. Has a nice ring to it.”
“You think?” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the wooden tabletop. “So… you told me to call and ask why you’re still living here. Do I still need to do that, or can I ask now?”
“Hm.” You pretend to contemplate it, dragging your gaze across the kitchen, your eyes catching on the fridge covered in your daughter’s drawings. “I guess I can tell you, but I have to warn you, it’s not a fun story.”
“Not everything has to be,” he says.
And that’s all the assurance you need.
He listens attentively as you describe the car crash you don’t really remember, the one that ended the lives of your family just a couple of weeks after you graduated high school. The physical therapy, the fact that you lost your spot in college from all the medical issues. The way you planned to go once you healed, just somewhere closer to home, somewhere more affordable so you didn’t blow through the money you inherited. But then one thing led to another—the earthquake, the quarantine, the pregnancy—and your life had once again flipped upside down.
You talk about the early years with Mia. The labor that had lasted for thirty-one hours, the nurse who all held your hand as you pushed, the one for whom you named Mia after. The exhaustion, the late nights and early mornings, how you felt so, so much love for the tiny creature that you created from nothing, who felt so alien and so familiar at the same time. You tell him about her first laugh and first words and first steps, her propensity to get into trouble even from such a young age. How you bawled at her first birthday party, an event that was only attended by neighbors because, at that point, all of your friends had moved on with their lives while yours was completely centered on Mia.
You tell him about the day that Mark came crashing back in, the fury that you felt, how you had screamed at him so loudly that a neighbor came over to see if they needed to call the police on him for trespassing. The way you felt so small when his parents came in with money and lawyers and more things than you could ever hope to provide your daughter on a meager salary, how you’d been bullied into giving up more of your time with Mia than you ever wanted.
You tell him everything that you can think of, and when you’re done, you steel your nerves, look Steve straight in the eye, and say, “There’s another thing.”
He nods. “Yeah?”
“I can’t…” You chew on your lip. “I won’t do anything to hurt her, Steve. I can’t have you in my life as… as someone who’s flirting with me, or doing something more. Not if you don’t understand that we’re a package deal. She’s everything to me, and I would rather die than have her hurt over a choice I made. And I know this is a lot, and I know this is intense, but—I’m telling you right now. You’re either all in or you’re out. We can be friends, and we can hang out, but if you want anything more… you have to understand that she will always come first.”
“I know,” he says simply. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, honey. Whatever you’ll let me have, whatever parts of your lives I can be in, I want that. I want you. Both of you, in whatever way you’ll have me.”
Something in your chest eases at the admission, a nervousness dissipating.
Slowly, he leans in, the gap between the two of you closing, and he whispers, “Is this okay?”
“Yes,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut.
And his lips crash into yours.
Your fingers scramble up, gripping his chin as he pulls you forward, off your chair and onto his lap.
It feels as though you’re on fire, sparks shooting across your skin with every rough drag of his lips, with every nip of his teeth. You tilt his head so you can have a better angle, and when he lets out a wanton groan, you feel alive.
His calloused palms skim their way under your shirt, settling on your waist as you moan into the kiss, open mouthed, drawing his tongue in.
It’s messy, and it’s a little clumsy, but you find that you don’t care. Not when you can feel him hot and hard against your leg, and not when he whimpers against your lips as you tug on his hair.
“Honey,” he whispers. “Don’t torture me.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” you say, pulling away. A trail of spit connects the two of you, and you take in just how incredibly wrecked he looks already, with his pupils blown wide and a heavy flush on his cheeks. “Would you… do you want to go upstairs?”
“More than anything,” he admits.
You stand and capture his fingers between your own, tugging him through the house and up the stairs.
It isn’t until you enter the expanse of your bedroom that the nerves start to get the better of you, and you put your hands on his chest, stopping him from ducking down to kiss you once more as you say, “I have something else to tell you.”
“What is it?” he asks, pressing his forehead into yours.
“Just… I…” You squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment flooding your system.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me, honey. Are you having second thoughts? We don’t have to do anything—honestly, I wasn’t expecting—”
“It’s not that,” you quickly interrupt. “It’s not—it’s just that—I’m different now. My body—it looks different from how you remember it. It’s softer, and I have stretch marks, and—I’ve had a baby. I don’t look the same.”
A kiss, gentle yet effervescent, is pressed into your temple. “That doesn’t matter to me at all. You grew a person. You think I’m supposed to feel anything other than awe over that?”
“I’ve had—other people have told me it’s gross,” you confess. “I just… I wanted to prepare you, is all.”
“Oh, honey.” It’s said so softly that you barely hear it. “I could never be grossed out by you.”
Your eyes fly open. You see the honesty on his face, along with the unbridled desire as his gaze dips down, and before you lose your nerve, you reach for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and off and tossing it somewhere out of sight.
The reaction is immediate.
It’s gratifying, honestly, how clearly he wants you. How clearly he desires you, and everything that comes with it. Enough so that you’re pushing your pants down, asking, “Am I the only one getting undressed tonight?”
He grabs the end of his shirt with a fervor, completely and utterly uncoordinated, and you can’t help but giggle from his enthusiasm.
That is, however, until you see his chest. The way a forest of hair has completely taken over, yes, but the mottled silver scars that cover the tanned skin, tracing down his sides and stopping mere inches from his boxers.
You want to ask, but when you look back up at his face, you recognize the situation for what it is: A conversation for a different time, a different day, where you have the time and space to become reacquainted with one another on a deeper level.
He steps closer, then, and you remember thinking how much of a man Steve had seemed back in high school, back when you were just a girl yourself and he was the most grown person you’d slept with. All confidence and bravado and hard lines, a tendency towards your pleasure before his own like it was his solemn duty. But you had been utterly wrong about whatever masculinity that you assumed he had back in high school.
The boy he was then has nothing on the man he is now, the kind of man who has grown into his own body, who is comfortable in who he is above all else. One that’s softer, less toned, but somehow more powerful than before. Covered in the kind of hair that can only come with life experience and age, a surety in his hands that no one else has ever had as he reaches for your hips.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he warns, his lips brushing over your own.
You tilt your chin up, grinning, and he presses forward.
It’s softer now, less frenzied. He takes his time mapping every part of your face as he presses you back into your sheets, covering your body with his own. You reach behind you, unclasping your bra and tossing it away, desperate to feel the wiry hair on his chest brush against your nipples, and you mewl at the sensation.
Steve huffs a laugh into your mouth, planting his lips down your chin, ghosting his teeth over the column of your beck and down to your collar.
He pauses, then, one big, calloused hand coming up to cup your breast, his thumb dragging over the peak, and he whispers, “I know I keep saying this, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone more beautiful than you are.”
“You’re cheesy,” you say.
“Only for you,” he replies.
A kiss is pressed onto your sternum, then a little bite, and before you can process it, your entire nipple is sucked into his mouth, his tongue lavishing circles around the bud as his hand comes up to play with your other breast.
“Fuck, Steve,” you gasp, threading your fingers through his hair.
He peeks up at you, his brown eyes glowing in the darkness of your room, and grins with your tit still in his mouth.
It’s obscene, yet you feel so, so hot, especially as his hand travels down your body, making its way to your wet, aching core.
“So pretty for me, honey,” he murmurs, releasing your breast with a pop. “So, so pretty.”
He traces a path down, his tongue leaving a trail of spit as he goes, and for a moment, you think he’s going to just dive in, ripping your panties off and feasting the way he once did, but he doesn’t. He stops at your stretch marks, and carefully, begins to plant a kiss on every single one that he can find, mumbling beautiful and gorgeous as he goes.
Your entire head goes fuzzy at the sight, and you think he can tell by the dopey grin he shoots you as he asks, “Do you still think I don’t love this?”
“You’re a perv,” you moan, his thumb pressing down on your clit through your panties. “And a freak. I can’t believe—”
“Only for you,” he promises. “Only for you, honey.”
Fingers come up to the elastic of your underwear, and with your permission, he begins the torturous process of peeling them down your legs, tossing them to the side without a care before spreading you open once more.
You aren’t surprised when he pampers kisses along your inner thigh, easing his way towards your core, to where you want him the most. You can feel the mess you’re making despite the fact he’s barely touched you, and you see the delight on his face when he makes his way home, stroking a hand through your pubic hair before spreading your lower lips apart.
“I missed this,” he says, then dives straight in.
The next thing you know, his tongue is everywhere. Dipping inside your cunt, swirling around your clit. He flattens it, licking a long stripe up as he peers at you through the thatch of hair, and you feel completely and utterly incoherent as pleasure builds faster than you’ve ever felt before.
Two fingers nudge their way inside, curling, finding the spot that has your thighs squeezing Steve’s head. You can feel his laugh, rather than hear it, as it vibrates against your pussy in a way that has your hips jerking up, desperate, chasing—
“That’s it,” he says, twisting his hand. “Come for me, honey.”
And you do.
Loudly.
A moan is ripped from your throat, bouncing around the walls as you tangle your fingers into his hair, stars shooting across your eyes as he holds you in place.
You feel like you’re on fire, like you’ve somehow been born anew as he works you through your orgasm, brushing a thumb against your clit as you shake and shake and shake, coming down slowly from the highest high you’ve ever felt in your life, until slowly, finally, your limbs stop trembling, and every single one of your muscles goes lax.
“Wow,” you whisper, forcing your eyes open and down towards the man still planting kitten kisses against your pussy. “Wow, Steve. You got—a lot better at that.”
“Yeah?” He shoots you a lopsided grin. “I’m glad.”
You tug on his hair once more, pulling him back up your body. “Come here.”
He follows, and you pull him towards your mouth, savoring the taste of you on his tongue as he kisses you deeply.
It’s perfect.
You reach down, hooking your thumbs into the elastic of his boxers, and he pulls back suddenly, saying, “Uh, when I said I wasn’t expecting anything—I meant it. I don’t—I didn’t bring protection.”
“It’s alright,” you say. “I have an IUD.”
His eyes blow wide open at that, and the next thing you know, his lips are crashing into yours once more as he helps you shuck his underwear. You take him into your hand, finding him warm and somehow bigger than you remember, but still so utterly him and utterly real.
His hips stutter as you give a few, testing pumps, and he whimpers against your mouth, pleading, “Don’t tease.”
“Not teasing,” you say. “Just feeling.”
His forehead drops to your collar as you continue to stroke him, up and down and up and down, dragging your nails across sensitive skin, soaking in the way he moans so beautifully under your ministrations.
“Honey,” he groans. “Please, please, may I fuck you?”
“Well,” you giggle. “Since you asked so nicely.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
You yelp when he catches you under your knees, pushing up, up, up until you’re practically folded in half, the tip of his cock dragging through your folds, gathering wetness. He looks up, locking his eyes on you, before slowly—torturously slow—he pushes in.
Your mouth drops open as a loud moan is punched from your throat, savoring the feeling of how he drags against your walls, filling you up in a way that you could go crazy over.
He eases out, testing, and gives a shallow thrust, testing, teasing, as he carefully fucks each and every single inch back into you until finally, finally, he bottoms out, his hips flush with your pussy.
And for one, small, excruciating moment, you know what it feels like to be home.
He leans over your body, capturing your hands in his own, winding your fingers together as he presses your foreheads together, the obscene sound of him fucking you gently filling your head.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs against your open mouth. “So, so beautiful, so mine—so lucky, honey, I’m so lucky—”
Tears of pleasure spring in the corners of your eyes, falling down your cheeks, and you let out a breathy laugh when he licks them up, loving the feeling of his tongue against your oversensitive skin.
It’s never, not in any of your years of sleeping with people, made you feel as whole and complete as you do now, with Steve making space in your body for himself, with the unbridled pleasure he gives you with each and every thrust.
It almost slips from your lips—an inappropriately timed expression of love—and you think he can tell, because he whispers, “I know, honey, I know.”
“Steve,” you gasp. “Steve.”
He picks up the pace, his hips snapping against yours faster, punching the air from your lungs as bliss lays claim on every single one of your senses.
“Please,” you babble, “please please please, come in me, please—”
“Fuck,” he grunts, then captures your lips so roughly that they’ll no doubt be swollen by the time morning rolls around.
He gives a last few, harsh, stuttering thrusts as warmth spills inside you before collapsing on top of you entirely.
It takes a few minutes, ones you spend stroking a hand down his muscular back, becoming reacquainted with the feeling of his skin, before he pulls out and rolls off, saying, “I could do that every day.”
You tilt your head, giving him what is no doubt a dopey smile.
“Yeah,” you say. “Me too.”
It takes a bit for the two of you to clean up, with Steve insisting on carrying you to the bathroom and laughing when you slip from his sweaty grip.
He finds a wash cloth in the linen cabinet, taking care to be mindful of any sensitivity on your end as he drags the cloth through your folds, washing his spend from your skin.
He also, in the years apart, has apparently lost all sense of shame and insists on staying in the bathroom as you pee, holding your hand like you were at risk of flying away if he were to turn away for just a single second.
It should be embarrassing, but you find that you’ve long since moved past any sense of shame when it comes to Steve Harrington.
Back in your bedroom, he tugs soft pajamas from the dresser and insists on dressing you, kneeling on the ground as he helps you step into underwear, his hands warm against your legs as he pulls up the fabric.
The two of you move back to the bed, crawling under your old quilt, and instinctively you reach over to the alarm clock, flicking on the radio as Jimmy Lee’s Late Night at the Squawk plays.
“You know,” Steve murmurs against your cheek. “One of those weird jobs I mentioned earlier? One of them was at the radio station.”
“Yeah?” you ask, a little too sleepy to say anything else.
He nods, his hair ticking the soft skin of your face. “Uh-huh. Back during lock down, in ’87. I did the late night set at the Squawk, Monday through Friday.”
Everything in your body stills. “Are you serious?”
His eyes peel open, fixing you with a curious look. “Yeah. Robin—my best friend, she handled the morning show—always said that she had to put me late at night, ‘cause my music choices were too boring.”
“No, it’s not—” Your heart pounds erratically, and it feels as though flowers have wound themselves around your ribcage, blooming under the admission. “Steve.”
“Yes?”
“Mia was born in ’87.”
“I know,” he says.
“No, no, you don’t—”
A laugh bubbles from you, and he hitches himself up on an elbow. “I’m missing something.”
“That was you!” you say between giggles. “Oh my god! No wonder she likes you so much!”
“Honey?”
“After Mia was born,” you start, grinning like a madman. “When it was just me and her, the only way I could get her to sleep was by tuning the radio to the Squawk whenever your show was on. But I had no idea it was you—I was so exhausted, you know?—and your voice—oh, god, your voice—it was the only thing that ever soothed her to sleep without fail.”
“Are you…” He licks his lips, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Are you serious? She…”
There’s something in his expression—hesitation, wonder, affection—that brings tears to your eyes, because you know that look. You know it intimately, because it’s the same way you feel every single time your daughter does something that surprises you, every time she grows just a little more into her own person.
And it’s a look that you have never, not a single time, seen on Mark’s face when he looks at her.
Something in you bursts, a swell of tenderness, of hilarity, over the fact that it took so long to find someone who might even remotely feel the same way about Mia that you do. And that person—that man—the one who so carefully cleaned her scraped knees, is the same man who once applied the same, careful precision to wiping tears from your face when you were nothing but a stranger to him.
It took so long, and he’d lived so close the entire time.
“You know,” he says, sounding rather choked up. “I—don’t kill me for saying this, but—I wish I’d run into you sooner.”
You find his hand in the dark and squeeze, hoping and praying that it conveys every single thing that you feel.
He threads his fingers through yours and squeezes back.
“I’ve wasted so much time that I could’ve spent with you, with her,” he whispers. “I… I was serious earlier, when I said that I’ll take the two of you, in whatever way you’ll have me. I’m all in, honey. She’s just—god, she’s an incredible kid, and you—I don’t even know where to begin, but—fuck.”
