I just know, after raising Shane all these years, Yuna is very in tune with the likes and dislikes of her family and always likes to pick things up when she’s out.
A blanket on sale that she knows is a texture Shane will like, sesame mochi — the only dessert Shane will eat — David’s favourite brand of chocolate covered almonds (Meiji, obviously).
And when Ilya joins their family it takes a while, but Yuna notices that he always reaches for the dried mangoes when there’s a bag open, and he eats the Miss Vickies sweet and spicy ketchup chips by the handful.
So it makes sense to her that she would pick these things up when she sees them at the store and make sure her pantry is stocked for all her boys.
Ilya only finds out when they’re over at his parents on a movie night, and Shane, rummaging around the pantry for snacks groans “at this point, you have more of Ilya’s stuff than you do mine,”
“My stuff?” He asks, completely befuddled.
“Yeah, like the ketchup chips and the dried mangoes. Your snacks take up the whole pantry.”
“My snacks,” Ilya says again flatly, still not understanding. “But you all eat these.”
“I mean sure,” Shane agrees, “but my mom buys them for you. Because you like them.”
“This is true?” Ilya turns to Yuna with wide eyes.
And Yuna smiles softly at him, maybe a little sheepishly at being called out so blatantly, and shrugs.
“I mean, yes, honey. I thought you liked those snacks?”
And Ilya gets all teary and reassures her that he loves these snacks. He’s obsessed with these snacks. They are his favourite snacks.
And he starts noticing how anytime he shows interest in something, it will start showing up regularly at the Hollander household—snacks, candy, that specific Japanese soda Ilya likes with the marble.
It becomes a running joke between them that Yuna pays more attention to what Ilya likes than what Shane does (not true but the joke makes them both pleased and sappy).
ilya rozanov who’s known to boston as the mysterious fuckboy from russia who chirps like he’s getting paid for it and is crazy good at hockey. one day a teammate is absent from a few games in a row and turns back up to practice with a fucking newborn and they’re all in their hockey gear fawning over this tiny baby. then once everyone’s said hi before practice, the crowd parts and ilyas just stood by the doorway, a literal deer in headlights staring at the bundle of blankets in his teammates arms and-
“do you wanna hold him?”
ilya’s moving forward before he can process the words and everyone’s holding their breath as he gathers the newborn into his arms, pausing to take his gloves off first. it’s a few tense seconds before the baby babbles and shifts slightly before tucking his head into the crook of his arm and swiftly falling to sleep.
ilya looks up to see his whole team stifling grins, “i think we’ve found the new babysitter” and he bites back a chirp because he doesn’t want to wake the baby he’s holding so delicately to his chest.
he’s stuck on the sidelines for the whole practice while he rocks the baby through the slams against walls, waving its little arm towards its dad when it eventually wakes up.
and yeah pictures surface soon after of fucking rozanov staring down at the baby in his arms with the fucking softest eyes and twitter has a field day proving he’s a softie at heart
shane sees the photos and had feelings that send him into the most intense panic attack of all time. the thought stays hidden in the back of his mind until he’s laying in his bed, at the cottage, with ilya draped over him and both of them are whispering i love you in every language they know and then the image crawls out of the recesses where he shoved it and holy fuck that might be possible one day holy fuck
Obsessed with the thought of Eddie’s massive cock entering you raw.
18+ MDNI obviously, PiV unprotected sex
(Don’t have unprotected sex unless you’re ready to deal with the consequences, but this is fiction so let’s fuck)
After the first time you two did it sans condom—hormonal desperation overtaking any care for safety when Eddie revealed he forgot a rubber—a monster was created. Now you can’t stand the little lining of protection—you have to feel him. You need to feel every vein, every curve, every difference in thickness.
The way his tip is leaking like crazy—all revved up and ready to go. You’re on your forearms and knees as he settles behind you, admiring the way your pretty folds are open for him—like a springtime flower. You’re so fucking wet as he gathers more slick along your slit, using his warm, ruddy cockhead to collect it.
Once he finally starts to push in, he’s so big with a thick mushroom tip that you’re gonna stretch wider before your walls can shrink back—clinging to the rest of his cock.
That’s not to say the rest of him isn’t girthy, no, he’s big everywhere. It’s just, for some reason, he’s got the fattest tip you’ve ever seen, with such a prominent ridge around it, it drives you crazy—always wanting to suck it into your greedy mouth. Although, your greedy hole will do just fine for now.
A contented moan tumbles past your parted lips as you feel the little pop of his tip making it safely into your pussy. He groans as your malleable walls take to the rest of his cock, hugging him in a wet heat.
His tip may be particularly large, but he gets almost as thick by the base of his shaft—yet another feat for your pulsing, desperate walls. He always likes to give you the head slowly, solve algebra problems behind his eyes so he doesn’t blow his load when your pussy starts to suck him in, and then give the last couple of inches when you beg for it—knowing it’ll be another stretch.
“Fuck, sweetheart! Squeezin’ me so…fuckin'…oh, god.”
Barely containing the desperate wiggle of your hips, you mewl, “Ne—Need more, Eddie, please!”
He’s almost fully inside you, all that’s left is the last little bit and with the way you’re acting—rolling your hips to trick him into sliding all the way in, groping the sheets with strained knuckles—you’ll take it just fine today. With one quick squeeze to your right ass cheek, Eddie shoves in, his head thrown back in a satisfied groan.
At the same time, a matching moan tears from your throat as you jerk forward, so full of him. Eddie doesn’t dare look down, if he sees the way your once-tight, little hole is now stretched wide to take all of him, he’ll bust right then and there. His body is vibrating with need and you’re practically in heat; he can tell this is going to be more than one round…
thinking about spitting in sub!eddies mouth rn😵💫 need to watch him swallow it while cradling his face DJDJSUWNSKAO im going insane
Yeah...me too fr
Warnings: MDNI, smut, mommy kink, Eddie creams his jeans, spitting, slight masturbation (fem)
”P-Please—“
His wide, doe eyes follow your legs as they uncross, then cross again, only allowing him a momentary peek at your wet folds.
“‘Please’ what?” you mutter, not sparing him a glance. Instead, your gaze remains fixed on the television, watching the movie he seems to have forgotten about.
—
He had been acting odd since you arrived. Quiet, more attentive than usual; fluttering about as he made sure everything was perfect. Your favorite snack within reach, a soda already poured into a glass of ice, a blanket folded over the back of the couch—just in case.
Every ‘thank you’ made him hesitate, as if the two words needed translating before he could internalize them.
And as the movie played, you caught him staring. A lot. He watched you more than he watched the screen, only looking away when you would turn to him, an expectant brow raised.
But he never said anything.
He just slowly became more and more restless, shifting in his seat, fidgeting more than usual. And you didn’t bother to ask what was wrong. It was much too familiar to be a mystery.
Then, halfway through the first act, he slid from his spot, settling onto his knees, right in front of the couch—in front of you.
He was silent in his movements, careful in the way his hands laid on his thighs, bracketing the tented fabric of his grey sweatpants.
And he stared, brown eyes boring into you. You could practically hear his internal pleas—look at me, please, look.
—
”I’m thirsty,” he whispers.
The corners of your lips almost curl. Almost. But you refuse to let the mask slip.
“Then you should get up and get yourself a drink."
There’s a lull in the action on the TV, and you hear him swallow.
Finally, you let your gaze slide away from the screen.
His breath quickens as your attention lands on him, and he squirms, cock straining against the seam of his pants. There's a growing wet spot that betrays his patience.
“You don’t want a drink?”
It’s a test, and he passes with flying colors—if not fraying threads—as he shakes his head.
“Thought you were thirsty—“
“I am,” he rushes out, voice still quiet—almost timid. Polite. He's holding onto those manners with a white-knuckled grip.
This time, you do smirk, uncrossing your legs lazily. “What a peculiar predicament.”
His eyes dart to your core and you relish the shiver that leaves him trembling. A whimper follows, slipping from his bobbing throat with effort.
He's trying so hard to be good.
It's adorable.
Hunger rushes through you, broiling your skin with an itchy need. You want to squeeze him. Mark him. Devour him.
“P-Ple—“
“Open up,” you order, hungrier when he instantly abides.
His breath hitches as you lean over him, cradling his jaw in a firm grip. You watch his eyes flutter, his nostrils flare as he revels in the scent of your wet cunt so close to him.
With a lewd tuh, a glob of your saliva lands on his tongue, the muscle twitching as a broken moan tumbles out of him.
He tries to close his mouth—to swallow—but your nails bite into his cheeks, and you utter a sharp, “Aht-aht! Hold it.”
He shudders, and you can almost see the internal fight.
It’s some time before you say anything more, then, once drool begins to pool—
“Swallow.”
He does, gulping with enthusiasm. And his reaction is entirely physical—muscles spasming, cock jumping.
“T-Thank you, mommy,” he gasps, digging his fingers into his thighs.
You hum idly, tipping your chin low as you assess him. Your tone is light and clipped as you murmur, “Kiss.”
He puckers up, eyelids heavy as he waits. But you don’t lean down.
Instead, you drag two fingers through your folds, swiping your gleaming arousal across his lips.
A shrill, almost pained, whimper escapes him as his body suddenly convulses. His shoulders hunch, and he curls in on himself, desperately licking up your gift.
You giggle as the wet patch blooms wider on his sweats, the grey fabric darkening as he soaks through. His brows pinch and he chokes on every breath as he cums, untouched.
“You look real pretty with a little bit of gloss, baby,” you purr, lazily circling your clit.
“T-Thank you, m-mommy!”
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A/N: Sometimes I feel like I forget how to write and this is one of those times lol
Gif by the lovely @loveu2themoonandtosaturn, dividers by @/cursed-carmin
Eddie Munson x Cheerleader!Reader
Summary: It was a normal day for Eddie. Arriving at school late, getting to class late, leaving lunch late. But then an anonymous note, inked in glittery pink gel, fluttered from his locker. And he knew whose it was. No doubt about it. Because it was the same handwriting as the short message on the last page of his junior yearbook. Carved in glitter, color faded from the amount of times his thumb had traced every curved letter, every dotted ‘i’ and crossed ‘t’. It was yours. It was you. Calling him to the forest behind the school. And he had never been so early.
Or
You seek Eddie out, maybe for a little herbal relief, maybe for something more. And who is he to turn down such a pretty girl? But how will he fare having to skirt the edges of your loose-lipped truths?
Word Count: 11.1k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, PiV unprotected sex, semi-public sex, cream pie, virginity loss, dirty talk, nipple stim, fingering, oral (f rec), mention of masturbation (m), insinuated hypothetical pregnancy, virgin!Reader, semi-experienced!Eddie, fluff, mild angst, very mild dubcon (both R & E are high), Eddie’s POV, drug usage (weed), feelings, insecurity, fem pronouns, if I missed anything lmk!
Song Recs: Evie by Shoe, Palomino by FINNEAS, I Want Somebody Badly by Jeff Buckley
A/N: Everyone say thank you and kiss this anon’s forehead for the idea. Also, it’s been a minute since I’ve freshly written a full fic and not just posted a draft from the summer, so be nice to me.
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“You’re pretty.”
The words catch Eddie off guard. Especially since you haven’t spoken in two minutes, utterly transfixed by the sky above. Or maybe it was the falling leaves that stole your attention; scarlet and gold floating on the autumn breeze. Delicate. Pretty.
Either way, he hadn’t expected to hear such a sentiment from the Hawkins High cheer captain.
Although, he hadn’t expected to be here with you, at all, as a matter of fact.
Not in the woods behind the school.
And definitely not alone.
It’s unnatural.
You, laid out on top of the picnic table. Him, hunched on the seat below, straddling the old plank of wood. Too close.
Closer than he’s ever been.
It’s aberrant, really.
But maybe, just for today, everything is topsy-turvy.
Maybe it will go back to normal soon. You in your bubble, him in his. Two separate worlds. Two separate planets orbiting the same rust-bucket town. The same miserable high school. At least for a few more months.
Then he’ll get the hell out of this place. Just drive and drive and drive until the scent of manure no longer singes his nose hairs. Until the cornfields turn into beaches. Or mountains. Or shit, even swamp lands. He’s not picky.
And you’ll be off at some college, probably.
Find a braincell-deficient jock and pop out a couple of kids. He’s picturing a picket fence somewhere there, too. Possibly a station wagon with that dumb wooden interior. He hates that wooden interior.
And you’ll forget he ever existed.
And he’ll—
“So pretty.”
It’s lower this time. A whisper. Like it was only meant to stay inside your head. Like you weren’t even aware you said it.
And maybe you aren’t aware. Maybe the weed is hitting you hard. Too hard. It’s only your first time.
So maybe he should pretend like he didn’t hear. Just continue to act like the metal box in front of him needs reorganizing.
Re-reorganizing, even.
Whatever it takes to not notice the way your pleated skirt has ridden up, bunched at the tops of your thighs.
Because he hasn’t noticed.
No, he’s not aware of how smooth your skin looks, or how the cherry blossom scent of your lotion seems to intoxicate him more than the shared joint, now forgotten, smoldering between your fingers.
He has no idea what color panties you’re wearing, and absolutely no clue what powder blue fabric looks like when it darkens.
Baggies to the left. Try to prop them up against each other. Bottles to the right. Line them up. Shit, the baggies won’t sit upright. Maybe lay them flat? Then, if he moves the tin—
“Do you think I’m pretty, too?”
Fuck.
Your heavy-lidded gaze is directed at him now, and he finally feels the high. Or maybe it’s just your effect; the kind of haze that leaves him wondering what new strain has him seeing a real life angel. The kind of feeling that sends his heart away at a dead sprint and his mind swimming in a tank of molasses.
Everything is muffled. And there’s only you. And those eyes. Waiting.
“Y-Yeah,” he chokes, hoping you don’t see the heat blooming beneath his cheeks. “You’re pretty. ‘S kinda your thing.” He shrugs. “Popular and pretty.”
It’s a deflection. It’s bitter. It’s crashing through the bubble with an unceremonious pop.
Because yes, you’re pretty. Everyone knows it. Everyone.
Him noticing isn’t any different.
You blink. “But do you think I’m pretty? Just pretty.”
He pauses, wondering, for only a split second, if this was all some kind of elaborate rouse to incriminate him. If, any minute now, Andy and Jason are going to step out from behind one of these trees, itching for a fight. Because Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson is tainting the precious queen of Hawkins High. His no-good, low-life, burn-out presence might as well stain your skin like black tar.
But he nods, nonetheless. A calculated risk; it’s shaky, not insincere.
And that seems to be enough because your painted lips twitch into a small smile. It’s a breath of fresh air. If only his heart would stop pounding against his ribs like it’s trying to get out. To get to you.
“I told my friends, once, and they didn’t talk to me for a day and a half.”
Your smile is gone now. And your gaze is empty as you turn back to the tree tops.
Eddie shifts in his seat, feeling more and more like he’s fallen through the looking glass.
“T-Told them what?”
He’s not sure he wants the clarification. Not sure he wants to understand. Because it doesn’t seem like it’ll work. Like he’ll never truly understand if you say what he—
“That I think you’re pretty,” you mutter, turning to him again, a simple pout weighing your features down.
Fuck.
“We were talking about crushes, and they said theirs. And they were so…excited…. And Heather was trying to convince Jackie S. to tell Patrick how she felt. And I wanted to feel it too.”
He can barely breathe, so he stays silent, just letting you speak to no one in particular. Because he’s not here.
Not now.
Not on this planet.
Not in the same reality as the girl he’s pretended not to watch since the middle school talent show. The girl whose perfume somehow lives in his mind, though he’s never bathed in it longer than a shoulder brush through the halls. Not that girl, not in this reality.
Not you. Telling him he’s pretty. No way—
“—wanted to hear what they’d say. Like if they would tell me we’d look cute together, or they’d say they’ve seen you looking at me, or something, and maybe there’s a chance.”
Fuck, he’s low on E.
And these damn baggies don’t organize well—he should really label them. And Reefer Rick has probably laced this new, stupid supply with something because there’s simply no conceivable way—
“But they just looked at me like I said something insane. Asked me if I was joking. They didn’t believe me at first—”
He snorts, twisting the skull ring around his finger until the skin underneath starts to heat. You’re silent now, and he almost doesn’t want to look. But he has to. So he does.
Your polished nails, the lipstick stained joint, thousands of wool fibers bending and yielding to the curves of your body. Then that pout, your eyes. A frown.
The baggies of pills, the weathered wood; carved initials giving way to new grain.
“You don’t believe me, either?”
It’s so broken sounding, he has half a mind to lie and say of course he does. Of course he believes you, resident queen of Hawkins High—the girl who prances through school with five guys, minimum, trailing after her, lovesick and delusionally hormonal—are telling the God’s-honest truth. That you have somehow taken a liking to the town pariah.
The people’s princess has woken up this day and decided she’d like to bestow upon him, of all people, the greatest charity he could never repay, nor even begin to deserve.
And you’d say this exact thing stone-cold sober. Sure.
He could say that.
“Um—” he clears his throat, repeatedly dragging a dirty Reebok on the ground until a pile of curled leaves starts to grow, “I believe…uh, we’ve probably had enough.”
Before you can make a move to stop him, he plucks the joint from between your fingers, ignoring the shock of your touch.
The faint sizzle of embers being extinguished on old wood is the only sound that fills the air. That, and the rustle of wind through the trees.
He can feel your eyes on him as he licks his fingers and pinches the end of the roll. It may very well be laced, but he’s not the wasteful type.
And anyway, he’s got plans later. A date with his right hand and the well-loved porno mag he’s made some…changes…to. All while he pretends not to remember how your lips wrapped around the very same joint he hopes will last him long enough.
You sit up suddenly, swinging your legs over the edge of the picnic table. He nearly knocks his metal lunchbox off the seat, scrambling to avoid the brush of your skin.
“Do you not like me?”
The words are filled with accusation, woven by insecurity, and Eddie feels insane. Clinically. Terminally, even. That’s not a thing, but given his luck, he could be the first man, ever, to die from a hot chick coming onto him.
Because what the actual fuck? You’re looking at him like his very existence is a puzzle to you. As if you can’t imagine why in the world he’d be second-guessing your confession.
He clears his throat, again, but chokes on his breath the second you slide down next to him, your skirt creeping impossibly higher before settling properly. And he’s up in a flash, like only the heat of you near him is all it takes to burn. And God, does it burn.
“N-No! No, I, um, I—I just don’t know you.” He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “Basically just met you today, really.”
He could almost kick himself, the way his voice jumps an octave he’s certain only liars can reach. And you seem to hold the same belief, your eyes all but say as much as you stand to follow him.
Leaves crunch under his shuffling footsteps, and you pause, as if realizing the space between is carefully set.
It’s a choice he’s fighting to make, just as he’s fighting not to look at you. Though, one is admittedly easier than the other.
“I mean, not really. We’ve been going to the same school since, like, sixth grade—”
He shakes his head, correcting, “Your sixth; my eighth.”
Bewilderment overtakes your frown, and he understands the semantics appear meaningless to you, but they keep him up at night. When the hours tick by and delusion creeps into the edges of his foggy mind, thoughts of fate start to sound more and more sane.
“My mom even made you that casserole when your uncle was sick.”
Oh, yeah.
That.
He remembers that day. Thinks about it when the delusion turns sour and his conscience wants to remind him what an embarrassment he is.
He remembers perfectly how he heard your heels clicking from down the hall. How he took one look through the small hospital window, saw you in your Sunday best and booked it to the en suite bathroom.
How he left Wayne to fend for himself in a state of utter confusion, never having seen his nephew move so fast. How he hid in the small space, surrounded by porcelain and that chemical smell that still makes his skin crawl. Just so he wouldn’t have to face you.
So he wouldn’t have to watch you charm his uncle, lift his spirits like you do everyone.
No, he only had to listen and imagine what shade of lipstick you chose to match with your outfit. Because that was way easier than seeing the cruel fluorescent lights fail to hollow you out like it did everyone who entered that godforsaken room.
Yeah, hearing the raspy laugh of his uncle, followed by your airy giggles through the surprisingly thin walls was a cakewalk compared to what it would have been had he been forced to smile and nod along.
Act as if you and he lived the same kind of life. As if one wasn’t a plunder and the other a jaunt through the daisies.
Eddie paces, unable to let his twitching muscles rest. “Yeah, but what does it really mean to know someone, you know? Uh oh! I’m gettin’ philosophical now!” He chuckles, but it’s strained, and your frown comes back, unmovable this time. “Probably the weed.”
His words are stilted, and you seem too aware of this performance, but he will press on with forced amusement until you believe him. Or at least until you let him be; go on back to your bubble. Leave him to suffocate in his.
“Are you high? I’m high. I think we’re both really high. It’s so funny, it’s like I don’t even know what I’m saying— Blah!” He flails about, already planning on checking himself into Pennhurst after this. “This is so crazy! We probably make no sense right now.”
You cross your arms, trudging back to the picnic table. The breeze lifts your skirt as you plop down, and Eddie turns away. Because he has to.
“I’m not that high and neither are you.”
It’s that damn pout that’s going to do him in.
Curls twist around his fingers as he tries to hide behind his hair. “No…no, I’m pretty high.” He nods. “‘Miss Hawkins 1982’ is sitting here, tellin’ me she’s got, like, what—a crush on me?”
“‘S more than a crush,” you mumble petulantly, but for his sanity, he elects to ignore it.
“I mean, shit! I didn’t think weed had hallucinogenic properties, but you know.” His shoulders shrug in defeat, and he still can’t look at you. “Learn somethin’ new every day!”
Your head cocks to the side. “So you don’t believe me?”
Eyes wide as saucers, he wonders if this is what it would feel like to explain the sky to a mole.
“Of course I don’t believe you! You sound crazy! I mean you’re…” He searches for the words, but how does one sum up almost a decade of watching? Of wanting— “You. …And I’m me.”
It’s softer. Lower. Just where he should be. Because really, you’re the sky. And he’s just a burrower. Too afraid to leave the caverns he’s carved in his mind, even for warmth. For light. For a smile that doesn’t shine—
“Right…” Your mouth pulls, dim, and the huff of breath sounds derisive, like you can’t possibly pass it for a laugh, but still, you try. “You’re you, and I’m me—”
He nods along, internalizing the sound of his own words on your lips. If you believe it, that will be enough. It will be enough.
“Just boring…me—”
The sentence drips with resignation. As if it’s a truth you’ve cuddled up to long enough for the feelings to subside. Roommates with your own distaste. A years-long relationship molded into resentment. He feels sick.
“What?”
You resituate yourself, pulling inward, and if you could transform the atoms in the air, Eddie thinks there’d be a wall already reaching above the highest branches.
“No, I just— It makes sense.” You tug at your sweater until your hands are almost hidden, and regret nips at his bare skin, colder than the breeze. “It’s totally true; you’re so cool—”
He swallows the words, but they catch in his throat. Unusual and untrue. And despite his quiet, “Cool?” that slips out, coated in disbelief, you carry on, adding brick after brick.
“You’ve got your band, and that game you love to play—”
Now that’s just strange.
“D&D?” he mutters, blanching at the sentiment. Because, yeah, he thinks it’s cool. But he can count on one hand how many other Hawkins residents think the same.
You perk up a bit, and he feasts on the split-second of sunlight. “Yeah! That’s the one. And you literally run a club for it. That’s, like, the definition of cool.”
It’s the high. It’s the marijauna in your system. Either that, or you and he have vastly different definitions of cool—
“And your music taste! I hear you drive up to school all the time; you’re always blasting that metal stuff! It’s so…” your eyes wander, as if searching for the right word and his mind fills in the usual blanks: loud, shitty, annoying, satanic. “unique!”
You’re too good. He’s decided it. Not because of the popularity, like he had chalked it up to before. This is different. It’s pure.
And he’s tar.
“You know, if I had a nickel for every time someone told me my music taste was…unique, I’d be broke,” he huffs, crossing his arms like the act will protect against your budding smile, growing back like the first bloom of May flowers.
“Well, I’m sure they just haven’t tried it yet.” And you’re so sure. He can hear the optimism in your voice and it’s deafening.
But then, it’s like time reverses, and in comes the April shower to drown the delicate bud; you retreat into yourself, again. Smile fading, insecurity rearing.
“I’ve never… I mean— I’ve never really tried it before, either.”
Now you won’t look at him, and the insinuation of your words alone is enough to haunt him.
With a sigh, he closes the distance, sitting beside you on the bench. For a moment, he only listens to his own pulse. The rushing in his ears. He waits for the confidence to speak, unaware it’s a bus that will never come.
But impatience gets the best of him, and he decides to walk it.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel— It’s just— I just—” He groans, watching the thoughts pass him by while he fails to hang onto even one. His skin feels too tight and he’s certain the only solution is to peel it off his miserable bones. “I don’t know why I am the way that I am.”
The admission rings out like a shot in the autumn air, and the silence that follows lands like an atom bomb, breaking the sound barrier in a mushroom cloud of mortifying truth.
He doesn’t know why he said it.
Why he thought cutting himself down while you’re bleeding makes some sort of difference. How it could possibly count as some kind of balm to your wounds.
But you wear your wounds well. And truth leaks from you without loss. It pools without inhibition. Not yielding, but seeping. Filling the cracks in him—the tunnels that quake—with something malleable and pure. Not viscous and sticky. Not like tar.
His head hangs low, eyes following the way your thumb smooths over your wool skirt. Then his gaze tracks downward, and he wishes it wouldn’t. But your skin looks so soft, and he traces the curving terrain until he sees your pearly-white Keds digging into the dirt.
You could probably make it to China before he finds the right words to fix this.
“You know, I’ve never had to convince a girl not to like me.” The quirk of his lips doesn’t change the tone, despite his best efforts.
You cross your ankles, old wood creaking under you. “No?”
It’s simple. Gentle. You’re humoring him. And it’s a kindness he can’t afford, but you give it to him anyway, charity case that he is.
“No.” He huffs, something like a snicker but without the joke. “Usually, it’s the opposite.”
More atomic silence. And he starts to wonder if he ever actually learned how to behave properly. If he fundamentally misunderstands how to have a conversation.
Or maybe he was just swapped at birth with an alien whose sole purpose is to elicit discomfort. And maybe there’s a human version of him out there, travelling among the stars, charming and suave, dripping with bravado. Yeah, that’s probably it. That’s what he’ll—
“What’s the argument then?”
His brows furrow, and he swings his head to look at you. But the second his eyes meet yours, he has to force himself not to flee. Not to make a coward’s retreat.
“What?”
“The argument,” you respond coolly. “How are you gonna persuade me not to like you?”
God, he wishes you’d stop saying it. Maybe it’d be easier to hear if it didn’t sound so earnest. If it didn’t sound like it came from a well of truth.
His foot taps on the ground as he thinks, hands flexing restlessly. “Well…I guess I kind of thought the everything about me was argument enough.”
You stare silently, and his flesh might as well be made of a cellophane the way your gaze seems to expertly track the gears turning in his mind.
“But clearly not,” he murmurs.
Your lips quirk. “Nope.”
The glint in your eyes should scare him. Should shake him to his core. Because there’s something about this particular glimmer…
With the determination of a predator poised to attack, or a vulture itching to pick him apart, you watch. Quietly. Waiting. It’s the kind of look only the helpless are on the other side of. He should be terrified.
But he’s not. His hands aren’t shaking out of fear, and his stomach doesn’t flip out of nerves.
No, it’s something else entirely.
Your chin tips, and your smile curls around the words. “To ensure a fair hearing, the court must consider all evidence; Mr. Munson, you may proceed.”
His grin stretches, and he turns his body the slightest bit towards you.
“Okay,” he nods, pondering the laundry list of reasons he has locked and loaded, ready to go. Who’s the lucky winner? What’s the bare minimum he can share without mortally wounding his pride—well, more than it already is. “Alright, well, sometimes I forget to wear deodorant, and I end up smelling really bad.”
Before he has a chance to regret his choice, your laugh drowns out every doubt. It cracks through him with an unbearable weight, leaving behind splintered shards of bone instead of prison bars. His heartbeat sounds louder now.
And for a moment—only a moment—he forgets why he said anything at all. He forgets the point. He forgets that the melody floating from your lips doesn’t belong in his dysfunctional orchestra.
But the urge is there. To hear it again. To be the cause.
Your eyes squint from the size of your smile. “Shut up.”
Locked in your gravitational pull, he moves closer—minutely, and he wouldn’t if he could help it.
“No, I’m serious! It’s bad! That’s why I gotta leave school early sometimes, I start to smell like vegetable soup by 2 p.m.”
His grin is stuck as he watches your head fall back, the melody growing stronger, lodging somewhere deep in his brain. Between cobwebs and old, out-of-tune earworms. He imagines bottling the sound and building a shelf just to hold it.
“You’re an idiot,” you huff breathlessly, the word not carrying the same sting it usually would if it came from anyone else. Because there’s no bite to it. No teeth, even.
He leans in before he can stop himself. “Ah, see, that’s a good one, too! I’m an idiot!”
But the melody quiets, and the violins screech a nasty response as your smile starts to fall.
“No, you’re not.”
It’s firm and final, like you truly believed it even before it slipped from your lips.
“Yes, I am,” he says, soft yet steadfast. “I’m a three-time super senior army crawling my way to a ‘D’ in Mrs. O’Donnell’s class. And I’ve had two full tries at it.”
You cock your head, eyeing him closely. Then—
“Well, practice makes perfect. Plus, I think it’s totally your year.”
Your smile is back and so is the warmth in Eddie’s body. If he had any sense, he’d steer the conversation elsewhere, because somehow, you’ve managed to flirt with him over his tragic academic history. You’re too powerful. You and your honeyed words, so sweet and thick, he could choke if he’s not careful.
He shifts, but can’t bring himself to move away. “Okay…what about this—I wanna do music.”
Your brows raise and he can tell you see through his pitiful attempt.
“Well…you’re in a band,” you shrug. “I kind of already knew that—”
“No, like, professionally. That’s what I wanna do. I wanna go to L.A. and, I don’t know, like, get a record deal and shit, and just make music.” The light still shines in your eyes and he knows you’re not getting it. “No college for me, no office job, no suburbs—no picket fence kind of life.”
Your gaze never strays from his. “Eddie, that’s not a bad thing. That’s—that’s inspiring.”
God, you’re making this hard. Especially when you look at him like that—like he’s something to be enamored by. Something worth looking at. Something pretty…
“No,” he shakes his head, clinging to the reality where you aren’t leaning closer to him, where your soft, perfumed skin doesn’t brush against his rough, bargain-bin jeans. “No, it’s a pipedream. It’s basically me begging to live in a van for the rest of my life because you and I both know it will never—”
“Eddie,” you cut in, grabbing his hand, “let me save you the energy. There’s nothing you can say that will stop how I feel. This isn’t a new thing. I’m not going through a phase. It’s not just a blip or a crush— I like you, Eddie Munson.”
His heartbeat slows, skipping every third thud like an old record, and he now knows the weight of your hand in his.
And for the first time since his fingers brushed yours while passing the joint, he can’t look away. No amount of self-control or misplaced willpower can drag him up from the depths of your imploring gaze.
“I like you a lot. You’re sweet,” and his face must’ve twitched because you grin and add, “When you’re not trying to act all tough and broody.”
Cellophane. He’s complete cellophane around you. Weak and pliant and see-through. His posturing means nothing, and he wonders if you always knew that.
If every snide comment to the jocks came with a footnote in the smallest print only you could read: I’m jealous they get your time. They don’t deserve it.
If every breezy look elsewhere gave him away as you’d walk past his table in the lunchroom, swaying skirt billowing in the winds of his repression.
“—and you make me laugh, and you’re honest.” Your hand squeezes his and he can’t quite bring himself to hold it yet. To open up. To keel over and admit defeat. “I just feel like everyone here…pretends to live the life they think they should live. But you don’t do that. You just live. And I think that’s beautiful.”
Your chin tips low and he has a near physical reaction from losing the heat of your attention.
“I think you’re beautiful.”
His mind whirs, sirens blare, but they’re silent. Unhelpful. Useless. Exactly what he feels like in the wake of your confession. And the only thought he can hold onto long enough to realize it’s just as useless is: he should buy a lottery ticket, or something.
“I—”
He watches you shift, doesn’t hear you breathe.
“I…think you stole my line…”
The pitiful excuse for a chuckle comes too late. Too weak to sound genuine, but just strong enough to deflect. Because that’s what he’s good at, right? Deflecting? Distracting?
Rejecting, apparently. At least that’s how you seem to take it, the way your hand slips from his so easily. The way your shoulders hunch and your legs squeeze together.
Small. You’re making yourself small for him.
And he’s just too unsteady. He’s not firing on all cylinders, not since you clipped his wires a ways back. Somewhere around you’re pretty and I like you. Just left of I told my friends and down the street from you’re cool.
“Sorry. That was…a lot. God.” Your frown is back and you turn to say something, then give up before you even start. A beat. Then, “I—I’m sorry if I scared you off with all of that.”
You say it as if the moment’s done. As if he’s not still clinging to your words with a white-knuckled grip.
And you retreat.
Not in any real way.
No, you’re still sitting next to him, still closer than ever before, but now, chipping away at your nail polish seems to be far more interesting than anything he could offer.
“Well…I’m still here…” he tries, unsure.
“Yeah…. You’re still here,” you echo quietly.
Showing mercy to your manicure, you shove your hands into your lap, twisting your fingers up. He recognizes the movement. The attempt to banish the need. The need to touch. He’s felt it too. Feels it now.
The bricks stack higher as your wall grows; a structure never meant to be scaled.
But he’s a burrower.
“You know…” he ponders, forcing the humor from his tone. “I’m starting to think maybe it’s not the weed…”
That gets you.
He hears the melody again, sees your wry smile.
“Shut up,” you whine, shoving his chest.
He moves fast and with grace as he traps your hand with his, holding your palm just over where your first laugh torpedoed his ribcage. Where the prisoner waits.
“Your heart’s beating so fast,” you whisper, voice full of awe—the kind that quickly begins to carve away at his weakened flesh.
He huffs, low and earnest. “Yeah…. The prettiest girl in Hawkins just told me she likes me and there’s nothing I can do about it. You’re lucky I haven’t gone into cardiac arrest over this.”
You smirk, and he thinks it might just kill him. Like actually.
“Hm, well, now I feel like I’m kind of missing out on that…”
He snorts, his grin stretching wide. “Oh, yeah? You want me to keel over right here, right now?”
Your smile turns demure and he knows it’s a lie. Then, you give an innocent shrug that can’t even fool him.
“I mean, I’m not saying I wouldn’t be extremely flattered—”
He jolts suddenly, grunting and groaning, curling his fingers tighter around your hand as he falls back against the edge of the wooden picnic top.
You gasp, turning to prop a knee on the bench as you lean over his stiff body. “Oh my God, medic!” Your empty call echoes in the air, amusement bubbling just beneath the surface. Then, your voice falls to a low mutter. “Ohh, what do I do, what do I do? Damnit, I should’ve paid more attention in First Aid.”
Eddie convulses some, really driving the near Oscar-worthy performance home. Then he peeks an eye open, choking out, “M-Mmm-mouth.”
Your mask slips as you smirk, leaning closer. “Sorry, what was that? I didn’t quite catch it over all the dying.”
He slumps even more, the table digging beneath his shoulderblades as he sputters, “Mmm-mouth-to-mouth—”
You sit back, chewing the inside of your cheek and leveling him with an assessing stare as he twitches. “No…that can’t be it…”
Both eyes open as he brokenly utters, “No, it definitely is— With tongue! The tongue helps—”
You snicker, “Oh, yeah? It’s a necessity?”
He squeezes your hand. “Yeah, big—big necessity.”
You lean in, so close, and his mind turns to static as your perfume invades his senses.
This is it. It’s going to happen. Almost a decade of dreams that left him waking up in sticky discomfort, and he’s going to know the taste of—
“See, I just don’t remember that in the course,” you shrug, pulling away abruptly. “Mouth-to-mouth, sure, but adding tongue?”
One last shot, he reaches into the sky dramatically, convulses, then slackens in a lifeless heap, accented by his best death rattle.
He hears you call out, some half-assed plea that wouldn’t convince a soul, but then everything stops. Your lips slot against his, soft and plush and timid, and you might as well have used the paddles, the way his system shocks into action.
His hand finally releases yours, but you don’t move it, and he settles a gentle grip on the back of your head. Heavy enough to beg for more, soft enough to leave room for an escape, if you so choose.
But you don’t. Instead, your tongue glides along his top lip—a teasing kind of sweetness he accepts gladly, thankfully. He responds in kind—in hunger.
He can taste your cherry lip gloss, hear your surprised hum. It’s a tiny sort of sound he swallows with a groan of his own.
Then the pressure is gone. The taste, the noises—all gone. The music has stopped and the dizzying dance comes to an end with a blinding grin.
“Oh my God, it’s a miracle,” you pant, smoothing your palm up his chest until you reach skin.
He sits up, dazed, and you don’t move away, just letting him hover close like the proximity isn’t debilitating.
His next words slur out before he has a chance to think of a smoother line— “Have you ever considered becoming a doctor?”
And you laugh. And he’s learning that maybe you don’t want smooth. Because if you did, he certainly wouldn’t be your first call, and you wouldn’t be so quick to serenade every dumb comment of his.
So he thanks whoever rents the big house in the sky that you have a thing for burnouts and tries not to choke as you slide onto his lap, your pretty skirt splaying out across worn fabric.
Your lips find his again, your fingers get lost in his hair, you don’t bother hovering, and he starts writing a mental Last Will and Testament.
Jeff will get his Sweetheart, Mike will get his D&D manuals, Dustin will get his cassette tapes, and Gareth will finally get those twenty bucks he’s been whining about since last summer. He’ll leave it to Grant to dispose of his stash, and in payment, he can have the stack of porno mags under his bed.
Though, he might just give them away whether he dies or not, because he’s pretty sure, with the way you’re pressing down on him, they’ll soon be rendered useless.
Goosebumps rise along heated skin and something prickles up his spine as your nails rake through his curls. His mouth works against yours, a mind of its own as its aim widens, and he’s suddenly nipping down your jaw, tasting the tang of perfume on your neck.
Your chest racks with heavy, panting breaths and noises that sound like earnest attempts at his name. It’s intoxicating. His lips swell from struggling to keep up with his greed, but he can’t stop. There’s a burning kind of ache deep within him, and it’s growing.
His hands find their way to your hips, and he can’t tell if it’s you who moves freely, grinding down like you’re searching for something, or if it’s him and the ravenous need he’s not certain can be controlled.
“Fuck—”
“Eddie,” you call, tightening the grip on his hair until he groans. His cock flexes, straining against the oppressive zipper of his jeans and missing a kind of warmth he’s itching to know.
“Hm?” he grunts into your neck, barely aware. He’s pretty sure he could devour you whole. But then again, he’d much rather savor you, pick you apart and feast on your supple flesh for ages. The smallest little bites until your sweet noises grow louder and louder; scratchy and desperate like the mindless roll of your hips against denim.
“E-Eddie—”
Your voice pitches up, his name breaking on the crest of your movements, and you hunch toward him like the pleasure is a weight your shoulders can’t possibly bear.
And something twists in his gut then, something raw and hungry.
He wants to hear that again. Hear his name shatter on your tongue as his hands explore beneath your dainty skirt. He wants to feel the vibrations of your moans as he kisses every inch of you.
“Mm, yeah, baby?”
“I want— Want you,” you grit out, like the words take effort you can barely muster.
“Fuck— I know, I wan’ you, too. So bad. So fuckin’ bad.”
If it were any other time, he might feign control. Might deepen his voice with a confidence he doesn’t have. But this is not just any other time. It’s you, in his lap, whispering needy little pleas into the air like it’s obvious. Simple necessity. Like he’s not just a warm body and you’re not picturing someone else.
His fingers curl into the waistband of your skirt, and it’s as if you remembered there was more to be said because your hips stall and you press against his chest.
He swallows the disgruntled whine, and accepts your direction. Doubt creeps into the fog of his mind, but you don’t leave him time to get lost when your thumbs smooth over the stubble on his jaw, the worry in your eyes outweighing his.
“Eddie, I, um, I want—you,” you finish stiltedly, looking at him like you’re waiting for the penny to drop. “But, I, uh, I’ve ne—” It spins. “I don’t really—” And spins. “I mean, not that I’m, like—” And spins. “I’ve just never really—”
It drops, a metallic clang bouncing off the walls of his skull, and suddenly he feels like he shouldn’t touch you at all. His hands hover over your hips and the something-molten deep in his gut turns out to be much more familiar than he thought. Hot, bubbling, careless and incessant in its need to stain. To contaminate.
“Never?” His brows furrow, trying to decipher the discomfort on your face. If it’s him—if it’s the tar—he might just leave town now. Screw graduation. Screw a diploma— “Like never ever?”
Stupid question. At this rate, he should look into surgically removing his foot from his mouth before he tries to speak next—
“Guess I was just…waiting,” you shrug, thumbing the hem of his shirt. Then your movements become less innocent as your nails trail against his skin. So light, if he weren’t acutely aware of everything you do, if his stomach didn’t twitch in time with his restless cock, he wouldn’t have caught it.
“Sweetheart,” he almost warns, feeling like he misconstrued this moment for something serious, when clearly, you’re toying with him, spreading your palms along his waistband like you can’t see him shiver. Like you can’t feel his length straining beneath you, flexing against its jean prison, reaching for the warmth of your core.
“S-Sweetheart,” he repeats, the endearment sounding more and more like a plea as you rake your nails through the wiry curls just below his navel.
You go on, apparently undeterred by his fraying control. “I’ve been on dates—”
He doesn’t care. His eyes track yours and the glide of your tongue along kiss-bitten lips.
“Guys have tried—”
Okay, he cares. What?
“I’ve just never really—wanted to.”
Fuck.
You grind down, passing the motion off as adjusting your position, but Eddie doesn’t trust that gleam in your eyes. And you confirm it in the way your palms smooth down his arms until you press his hands to your hips. Making him touch you. Contaminate you. You encourage it, even. Wrapping your grip around his wrists as you guide his hands beneath your wool top.
“But it’s different with you.”
He shudders.
“Sweetheart.”
It’s certainly a plea, now. A cry for mercy as your fingers return to the sensitive skin just above his waistband, travelling up, up, up until he’s entirely covered in goosebumps, and he worries you can feel the pitiful call of the convict in his chest.
“I don’t want to. That’s not what it feels like—”
God damnit, he’s so confused and all the blood rushed from his brain long ago. There’s nothing up there anymore.
“‘S not like that. ‘S like,” you lean in close, letting him feel the words against his lips before he ever hears them, “a need. Like there’s something missing right now.” You roll your hips and he chokes on the breath he was holding. “And I think— No, I know, if I could just—feel you…inside me—I would be okay again. Better.”
“Oh, f-fuck,” he groans, thrusting up with the coordination of a muscle spasm. He lets his forehead fall against yours in an attempt to gather control. “You—you can’t just say shit like that.”
You peck his lips and he chases the small affection. “But it’s true. I don’t wan’ anyone else. Just want you. Inside me.”
“Jesus Christ,” he grits out, trapping you in a kiss that borders on consumption more than anything sweet.
He can feel you everywhere: on top of him, in his hair, under his shirt, sinking claws into his sides; your touch is kindling to the fire raging low inside him.
Suddenly, he’s reminded of the foiled condom he removed from his wallet just the other day. The old thing was practically useless, worn down and crumpled from years of sitting idle in between the folds of cracked leather. But something is better than nothing, and now he’s cursing his past-self for his terminal case of realism.
The clink of metal draws his attention back, and he hadn’t noticed your lips leave his or how your hands have grown eager, already past his belt and now fiddling with the button on his jeans.
“Wanna feel you, Eddie. I need to,” your honeyed whines wash over his body, sending a buzz through his veins. But then the purring sound of his zipper sliding open reminds him—
“Shit,” his hand wraps around your wrist. “Wait, I don’t— I don’t have anything,” he admits lowly, miserably.
You smile, kissing around his mouth like you’re drawing the shame out, and him in. “It’s okay…. I just want you,” you repeat, firmer this time. “All of you.”
And something inside him rumbles, something sick and starving. Once-weak, but now growing in strength. It’s mean and sharp, with teeth that can cut through steel and an appetite that can devour innocence whole.
It’s not unfamiliar, this beast. He’s known it for ages. It’s an old friend. A confidant. Something to speak to in the darkest moments, but never to trust. Something to surrender to during the sweatiest nights, when his hand cramps but the need still aches. Still hungers.
It’s got an imagination, too. Twisted as can be, it preens at the thought of possession, of staying. Of skin stretching and bones shifting, of curly-haired children that have your eyes and his smile. Soccer practice between label meetings, the sun beating down on hot sand as little feet kick at his back. A ring with weight and a necklace to match.
It’s like a plague on his thoughts. But it’s not. Not really. Because he doesn’t have to fear the lies anymore. The want. The bubbles are melding, his world is clashing with yours. And the beast tells the truth, now.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters against your lips, the words sounding more like a warning than anything.
“Mmm,” you hum, trailing your affection down his neck. “Been there, done that. I’d rather keep you alive for this.”
And you’ve crossed his wires so expertly, he’s practically sparking beneath your touch.
Imbued with a new kind of power, he slides you from his lap before shucking his leather jacket off and swinging it onto the table’s surface. His shirt follows with, finding a strategic home among the layers.
You seem to catch on because you climb onto the table, laying yourself out just like before. He grins, helping you out of your top, only to fold it up and leave it where your head can rest.
Both of you pause, taking just a moment to stare. Openly.
He tracks your gaze as it trails across his chest, noting each tattoo. Then his eyes widen as you distractedly remove your bra like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t fucked his fist to the thought of this very moment.
The material slides down your arms and you settle back, pretty as a picture, laid out all for him.
“Jesus…Christ, sweetheart, fuck.”
You smirk, and there’s that gleam again. Evil and conniving and he’s a willing victim, first in line, and hopefully last.
“See anything you like?”
He gulps, kneeling on the bench below, itching to touch you, but holding onto manners with a white-knuckled grip. “Yeah. See a whole lot.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” You grab his hand, guiding it to your breast with a squeeze. “This isn’t a museum, you can touch.”
“Oh, s-shit,” he stutters, losing all decorum as his other hand joins in, kneading the supple skin. Your sighs possess him, and before he can overthink it, his mouth closes around your nipple, tongue circling and laving at the tightening peak.
“E-Eddie!” Your hand flies to his curls and he groans, parting his lips wider, needing to feel more of you in his mouth.
You writhe beneath him, a victim of a fiendish kind of gluttony as he moves to your other breast, tweaking the wet peak he left behind.
He explores your body zealously, taking his time tasting and nipping every bit he can reach until you start tugging at the roots of his hair, forcing him up.
“Need you,” you huff breathlessly, yanking at his jeans. “Now.”
“W-Wait—” his hands land on yours, slowing your movements.
Your mouth parts as you look up at him, wide-eyed and completely desperate, and he feels his control unspooling like flimsy yarn.
“No, Eddie, I already told you—”
“It’s not that,” he shakes his head, kissing you quiet. “I just— We can’t just…”
You watch him patiently, clinging onto every half-thought he struggles to produce.
“I gotta— No, I—want to make this good for you…obviously,” he grunts, cringing at the lack of suavity. “And to do that, um, we can’t just…”
You nod, encouraging him as his face grows hot. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell he’ll be able to explain the concept of foreplay to you right now. Not when you’re looking at him like that, bare and ready for him.
So he sighs and kisses you once more, this time slow and careful. Full of things he can’t quite say, but he hopes you understand.
“You trust me, right?”
“Of course,” you respond instantly, eyes shining so bright.
He swallows, rubbing a thumb along your cheek. “And you’ll let me take care o’ you?”
You lean into his touch, almost shy as you nod. “Yeah. Yes…please.”
And a piece of him breaks off, then.
Splintered by your soft words, the plea that landed like a hammer on his scuffed lacquer.
One single chip in the barrier, and the beast rises in a crashing escape.
His lips find yours—messy, needy.
Wanton greed curls around every cracked rib, reaching out like smoke unfurling. Searching for something to envelop, to take. To take and take and take. Your breath, your taste, you. It wants it all.
He wants it all.
The words tumble out too easily. “Such pretty manners, huh?”
You shudder, hiding your face in the curve of his jaw.
“Pretty manners in a pretty girl,” he practically purrs, letting his hands slip down your body until his fingers invade the waistband of your pleated skirt. “Gonna let me take care o’ you, hm? Gonna let me get you all nice and ready?”
Your breathy sigh warms his neck as he shimmies the fabric down your legs, laying you back, gently.
You squirm beneath his gaze, squeezing your thighs together. “Eddie…”
“Shh, patience, pretty,” he murmurs, trailing a finger along your curving terrain until he’s toying with the powder blue fabric. “Gotta be good for me. Think you can do that?”
“Mhm,” you hum, choking on the note as he softly pushes your legs apart.
“Ohh, look at you…” His eyes darken and he thinks he could get used to this. To seeing you all laid out for him like a meal. A feast that could last him forty days and forty nights.
You shift, almost imperceptibly, as he drags your panties down, but he noticed. He always does with you. “Be good,” he warns lowly.
“I’m trying.”
Your whine falls to static as he watches a single string of arousal cling to the blue gusset with a fragile strength he aches to snap.
The trees rustle overhead and the sun peeks through, lending a perfect spotlight to your wet folds, and he groans, pocketing your underwear with little consideration.
“Fuck, you’re so god damn gorgeous, baby, think I’m losin’ my mind,” he mutters, kneading the fat of your thighs.
“Eddie,” you call, wiggling into his grip, and he’s never been more certain that you’re a temptress put on this earth to destroy him and everything that he tries to be. Controlled. Polite. Genetlemanly.
Every stuttering breath, every twitch of your hips, every slow blink—you’re chiseling away at the lacquer, unaware of all that lies beneath.
“Eddie, pl—ease!”
His middle and ring fingers glide through your folds while his opposite hand holds your hips down as you try to grind onto him.
“Knew you’d make the prettiest sounds. …Pretty sounds, pretty manners, pretty girl,” he chants the words like a mantra, entranced as he raises his fingers up to watch your arousal glisten in the evening light. “Pretty.”
You whimper, and suddenly it feels like he’s been pulled from the depths as he stares down at your face, pinched in pleasure. You’re waiting as patiently as you can and he has to reward that.
He spreads your folds once more, listening intently as he slips a finger inside. Your broken moan speaks almost directly to his cock, and he can feel a stream of precum soaking his boxers.
You call his name again, your chest moving in perfect time with the pulse of your warm walls. He responds to your plea for more with a second finger, and your nails sink into his wrist.
“Doin’ so good for me, baby. So good,” he utters restlessly, leaning closer to your soaked cunt. He glances up, notes your closed eyes, and decides to feed the beast.
With one stolen moment, he breathes deep, cataloguing the scent. Your perfume, your cherry lotion, and now you. The most intimate of all. And he can’t stop now.
He knows your touch, your heady scent; he wants to know your taste, too. The real thing. Not just your lip gloss or your languid tongue in his mouth. He needs to know you deeply, fervently.
His fingers drag inside you, a slight curl every time you buck your hips. He hears your whines, sees you dripping down his hand, shimmery and inviting.
Then he pulls out, much to your loud chagrin. And before he can scrounge up any last attempt at control, his fingers are in his mouth and he’s groaning at the taste—so sweet, he could choke.
“Oh, fuck,” he grumbles, mouth full as you stare at him. He almost feels the need to apologize. He robbed you of the friction you were so desperately seeking just so he could be selfish. Though, he feels like he might never stop being selfish around you, so maybe he’ll allow the precedent.
He’ll blame the beast. It’s not really him.
It’s not him who wants to drown in you, force you to ride his face until he passes out. It’s not him who wants to leave bite marks along your quivering thighs until salt coats your cheeks and you beg him just to fuck you.
It’s not him who wants to live in your sweltering heat, carve out a place for himself. Make your walls know the shape of his cock, feel you milk him dry until something takes and you’re his and a part of him is yours.
It’s not him, it’s the rotted want.
The need that grows hot, like a wound that has festered long enough. A gash you cut into him sometime ago.
Bleeding for years and he never even knew it.
The infection has driven him mad.
But he’s beginning to think maybe you’re suffering just the same. Fevered skin and heavy limbs, weak from the wait. Like him. Withered and hungry. So long watching the have’s, resolved to be a have not—
“Eddie, please, I need you.” Your hips search for him, for pleasure, for friction, and he drops lower, his breath spreading over your fluttering folds.
“I know, sweets, I know. But I gotta get you all ready, gotta make it good for you,” he whispers, staring as fresh arousal glints in the golden rays. It’s like you’re trying to entice, to coax.
“‘S already good,” you slur, and it sounds like the words are burning to ash on your tongue. He can feel you overheating. “‘S so good, please, just—”
“Said you trust me, right?” He smooths a hand up your body until he finds your breast, kneading it some more.
“Yes,” you huff, scooting closer to him.
He licks his lips, and the lie comes quicker than he’d like. “Just a little bit more. Wanna make sure you’re all re—”
His voice becomes muffled as he presses his face against your cunt like a starved, rabid thing. Your fingers thread deep through his curls—a knee-jerk reaction—and he laps at you with open-mouthed kisses and agonizingly precise flicks of his tongue.
You squeal and your thighs threaten to close around his head, but his fingers sink into the supple flesh, prying you open as his tongue breaches your slit with pointed thrusts.
Your back bows, arching high off the table and he pulls you closer to him, finally satisfying what has felt like an insatiable ache.
Because it’s different with you. He’s never felt this…full. Every pulse, every lewd slurp, fills him; he gorges himself on you. On your taste, on the way your moans crash over themselves like waves trying to drag you both under.
His fingers slip in once more and your body goes rigid—the perfect picture of marbleized ecstasy. His tongue circles your clit and pleasure carves into your every curve, sculpting a release that courses through you like rolling thunder.
His name dies a thousand times on your parted lips, and your hips begin to flee.
“O-Oh, God!”
He slows to a stop, smoothing a thumb over your twitching muscles. “Fuck, you taste so good— Knew you would,” he pants, sucking his fingers clean. He settles over you, whispering against your mouth. “Knew you would—”
“Tell me I’m yours.”
It’s sudden. An order.
Every syllable hammers into him, shattering something fragile. Shards of control—of disbelief, of belonging—bite at his skin. He’s paralyzed by it, a nerve punctured somewhere deep inside.
And you look worried, like that simple sentence wasn’t meant to land so heavy, but you don’t take it back. Instead, “Tell me I can be yours.”
He swallows hard, nearly choking on nothing.
He has wanted. Longer than you, he thinks.
But it’s all been in vain.
Then you show up, move mountains and shift worlds with only your audacious honesty and a quarter of a joint for courage. He could really learn a thing or two from you—
“Yeah,” he whispers, staring into eyes he never thought he’d see this close. “You’re mine.”
With a shuddering breath and a kiss so gentle, he’s almost certain reality falls away, his mind latches onto the moment your hands blindly find his jeans, urging the material down his thighs.
He helps you, watching intently as you take him in—all of him—his cock weeping and flexing, reaching for something he never imagined asking for.
You don’t speak, but he sees a reflection in the shine of your iris. It’s familiar. It commands. It guides as you drag your fingers along corded muscle with a level of reverence that leaves him dizzy.
Peering down, he holds back every sound, his chest heaving from the marathon of your touch.
You’re pacing yourself. Exploring—testing, in a way, like you’re figuring out what makes him tick.
Confidently kneading here, a delicate brush there.
Sinew twitching, his length jumping, stomach flipping.
Your nails rake through the dark curls at his navel and you follow the trail until it grows coarse, an observant hum at his body’s reaction.
“Pretty,” you mutter lowly.
His frame trembles, the single word falling from your lips like a ton of bricks.
As your hands wander, you don’t bother with permission and that almost makes him double over.
There’s no question of can I? There’s only the surety of being yours, like an apodictic artifact you’ve excavated from a shallow grave.
Because he did lay it to rest.
So many times.
Every morning his head lifted from his pillow, he buried it again. Every time your skirt caressed his desk, he threw roses. Every laugh he never caused, he said a prayer.
But he could not abide an eternity of peace.
Darkness would fall and he’d dig and dig and dig, the dirt already loose and the trees whispering their greetings. He’d drag up old ghosts—truths only meant for the moon—and dance with them all night.
Then, like clockwork, golden light would send him reaching for the shovel; the sun would rise and he was resolved to live without.
Now it’s you who has disturbed the holy ground and it’s freeing. To be exposed. To be known.
Your gaze settles on his face, and he wishes he could understand the thoughts in your mind, the ramblings behind your eyes.
For a second, he thinks he recognizes the quiet curve of your lips, but—
“So pretty.”
He chokes, his body jerking as your hand circles his cock, firm, yet gentle. Possessive.
Your unwavering attention and innocent smile turns the blood in his veins molten. His hips buck into your grip, unintentionally coating your soft palm in the sticky precum dribbling from his tip.
“S-Shit, sweetheart—”
He hunches over, weathered wood scratching against his knees as he tries to warn, to caution you on just how easy he is. How little effort it’d take him to lose it, to let himself fuck your hand like a poor, desperate slip of a thing.
“I’m ready,” you say, leading him down. “Please.”
He allows your thighs to hitch onto his hips, allows you to hold him, and he allows himself to be this close. To find purchase between your legs, to indulge in the heat of your core.
He memorizes your features—the determined furrow of your brow, the flutter of your lashes. The version of you before him.
He so badly wants to tell you what he sees.
“God, you’re— Fuck!”
Your breath hitches as you press his cock to your folds, and he tries for coherence, but it all falls away when he feels you. Soft and wet and so inviting; you’re killing him slowly.
“Please, Eddie,” you huff, your hips rolling like you mean to catch him. “Need to feel you, I swear to—”
The sentence shatters on a sharp moan the moment he takes control, letting his length glide against your slit. He’s coated in no time, practically drowning in you, but he doesn’t stop.
It’s like a trance, the way he moves, watching fresh drops of precum mix with your arousal. He wants to taste that, too. You and him, together. He wants to know.
You don’t seem to notice his paralysis, instead focusing on bucking your hips just right, and when his tip catches on your entrance, something shocks him into motion.
Your body wraps around him shallowly, sucking the blunt edge of him in. He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t ignore your babbled pleas for more.
For once in his life, he allows himself to take. It’s not begrudging permission, not shameful resignation to his more selfish nature. It’s enthusiastic, it’s encouraged, it’s accepted.
He pushes into you slowly, meeting your parted lips with ragged breaths, and your walls cling to him in a joyous welcome. Your pulse drums against his length, squeezing him in a sudden clench; he thinks he mutters advice, something about relaxing, but he’s not sure.
Reality is bending and he’s thought about this so much, imagined this very moment countless times, and yet, nothing could have prepared him for how your nails take a chunk out of him, how you’re trying with all your might to pull his hips closer, huffing in impatience and cracking under the need.
You’re just like him.
He hadn’t realized it until now.
He saw shadows, heard the strain of your voice.
But he hadn’t looked in your eyes, hadn’t been near enough to hear the call.
The call of the hungry and withered. Of the wanton and greedy.
He hears it now. Loud and clear.
Responding in a bellowing groan, he sinks into you fully. His lips flutter over your face, savoring your once-delicate features as they warp in pleasure.
“F-Fuck! Ed— Eddie, more,” you cry, squirming for friction.
“More,” he echoes mindlessly, latching onto the order. A real kiss, sweet and loaded like a gun soon to go off, then, “More. The pretty girl wants more— Gets what she wants.”
The words fall from his tongue with little thought—little care. Static whirs in his brain, blocking out everything but you.
Drawing back steadily, he steals one more glance at you—checking in—then drops down in a sudden snap, guided by your fingers digging into the taut muscle of his ass.
Sweat beads at his spine as his skin sticks to yours on every impact. His arms hook under your knees, changing the angle just to hear that shrill whine he’s quickly growing addicted to.
All you manage to say is his name, over and over again like his thrusts are evicting every syllable from your chest.
The shadows rise, spreading rapidly, and it feels much like possession coursing through him.
He shudders, his stuttered breaths syncopating with the pulse of your cunt, choking him on every shove in. Your eyes have rolled back now, and your body moves with him, pliant, as if his to mold—to inflict upon, however he sees fit.
A malleable offering of sheer innocence, laid at his altar.
And it was your idea.
The lamb’s idea to come to slaughter.
“F-Feels good, huh?” he grits, watching you surrender to him so beautifully.
Your response catches, snagged halfway up your throat, clawed back by a resounding whimper as you nod.
“Yeah, it feels good,” he parrots, fighting back the raging fire deep in his gut—the one that threatens to engulf you, too. Because he’s not done yet. Not nearly.
His hips pound into you, cock dragging along your walls at a punishing pace. The beast hums and he smirks as you try to form sentences.
“S-So— Agh! I— Mmmph!”
He nods like he understands every unspoken word. “Now you see why I had to get you all ready? Hm? You were so cute, thinkin’ you could just take it. So brave, comin’ here, all sweet on the freak.”
“Eddie!”
You have the audacity to paw at him, to pull, to try to meet his strokes in crumbling desperation. He drops your legs, shoving your hands above your head as he presses down onto you, pinning you against the picnic table, the structure rocking with the movement.
His long, rhythmic thrusts dwindle to swift, sharp ruts, the action bordering on animalistic.
“But now look at you. All mine,” he huffs, dark eyes roving over your trembling body. Then his gaze travels lower, where his cock burrows into you—where you take him so easily, opening up like he said the magic word a thousand times over. “Practically made f’me, fuckin’ look at you. Stretched full and so damn pretty, too. We fit real nice together, don’t we, baby?”
You whine and he maneuvers your wrists into one hand, helping to prop your head up with the other.
“Look at you,” he repeats, firmer this time. “So wet, you’re drownin’ me, sweetheart.”
Something splinters on your face and he follows your eyeline, notices it fixed on the milky ring that circles the base of his thick shaft and the matted down curls you couldn’t stop admiring earlier.
“Oh,” he drawls, a wicked, wolfish grin stretching his lips. “You like that?”
You nod and he practically preens. You are just like him.
“Like seein’ me covered in you? Marked?”
Your response is nothing more than a brittle whimper and he can feel you clench around him, already so close to falling into the after—the space in time where you will know what it feels like to be thoroughly picked apart, to be undone. By him.
“You’re markin’ me,” he growls into your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses along your jugular, trying not to bite. “Think it’s only fair you let me do the same, hm? What do you say, pretty girl? Gonna let me really fill you up?”
“P-Please! Oh, God, please, Eddie—”
His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight, practiced circles on the swollen bud and you freeze, arching into his chest, searing your sweat-soaked flesh to his. Your cries fall silent as you gape, convulsing at every third swipe he makes.
Your walls trap him in a vice grip, fluttering and milking rope after rope of cum from his flexing length. He shivers uncontrollably, feeling his warm spend flood the tight space until it leaks, shoveled out by his now-pitiful ruts.
He tries to prolong it. Tries to steal the moment from time itself and live in it; play house with the present. But then his body finally gives out, muscles slackening, and your arms are there to catch him, welcoming the iron hold he traps you in.
Raspy whispers are muttered into your neck, tattooed by the heat of his breath; quiet sentiments he’s not certain you hear over the noise of two settling souls. And maybe it’s better that way. Maybe they’re things to hoard—at least for a little while longer.
He trails kisses up your jaw, blindly searching for your lips, only to find them unresponsive. Worry fills him immediately.
Maybe he was too rough. He did notice the half-moon marks scattered along your thighs.
Maybe he was too mouthy. He can never think straight when it comes to you.
Maybe he was just too much—
“Eddie,” you call gently, pulling him from somewhere deep and dark.
He meets your eyes, surprised to see them wide and wanting, shining with that honest gleam that makes him feel so exposed.
“You are mine.”
So you heard.
He wasn’t cautious and he said the words meant for an empty bedroom out loud. And you heard.
Your fingers thread through his curls, dragging his wavering attention back to you.
“You are mine,” you repeat, softer but no less confident.
He wonders how something so delicate could detonate something so sturdy. Years and years of denial, blown to smithereens in three words.
And you make it look easy.
Make it sound plausible.
That he could be yours, just as much as you want to be his.
He nods, hanging onto you like a lifesaver as debris from the wreckage floats by. He swallows and his voice barely forms around the letters, breaking under the weight of it all.
“O-Okay.”
And he surrenders.
He believes you.
A/N: For the love of god, please be sweet and talk to me about this fic. I think I looked at it for too long and now I don’t know if it’s maybe the worst thing I’ve ever written or if I’m just too close to it rn, I’m being so for real.
home - hollanov - @hollanovmicrofic - word count: 350 - click here for my hollanov microfic archive on ao3 - takes place shortly before TLG
Ilya had done a lot of interviews in his life.
He'd been asked a lot of questions–some stupid, some prying, many repetitive, and many that he'd asked people to repeat.
But as he sat in a squishy armchair in Harris's office, he honestly thought that he'd never enjoyed an interview more.
Well...
Maybe some of the interviews he'd done with Shane. But he wasn't about to admit that.
They were laughing together about the team's abysmal choices in vodka, about Dykstra's terrible taste in music, about how Coach Weibe was terrible at giving directions when they took the team bus anywhere–and Ilya felt relaxed. Happy.
Then, Harris said cheerfully, "Okay, Ilya. Now we're going to do something a little silly, but the fans always love it. I'm gonna say a word, and you have to say the first thing that comes to mind when you hear it, alright? No thinking, just go."
He grinned. "And if my responses are not appropriate for...young, impressionable audience?"
Harris chuckled. "That's why we're not live."
Ilya smirked. Of course Harris didn't trust him to do any of the Centaurs' livestreams. "Okay,” he agreed.
"Hockey."
"Winning," Ilya replied quickly, grinning at the camera. "Always."
Harris laughed. "Alright. Goal."
"Rozanov," Ilya shot back, still beaming.
The other man chuckled again. "Okay. Gym."
"Water bottle," Ilya replied before thinking better of it, his mind instantly going back to a moment ten years ago in a dingy hotel gym with two stationary bikes and two nervous teenagers.
But the answer was acceptable and innocent enough, so Harris moved on.
"Food."
"Uh...Pasta."
"Happy."
"Summer."
"Home."
"Shane."
It took Ilya about two seconds after he spoke to realize what he'd said and freeze, eyes widening as he stared, terrified, at Harris.
But the man just looked at him, understanding and kindness in his eyes. "....you...want me to delete that part, buddy?" he asked carefully, reaching to press a hand to Ilya's slightly-trembling knee before leaning back again.
Ilya inhaled, chewing on the inside of his cheek, before nodding sharply. "Uh, yes. Maybe. I think would be best."
Summary: While stuck in the middle of Steve and Jonathan's arguing, you out your secret relationship with Steve to shut them up.
Author's Note: The new season got some gears turning. Season five spoilers, of course. Say a prayer for Steve's saftey in the next part (I'm scared)
All you had heard for the last hour and a half were bouts of childish bickering followed by stretches of silence. It was a seemingly endless cycle that made you want to scream at both of the boys. Steve sat in the front of the WSQK van manning the wheel while Jonathan was crouched in the back focusing on the satellite. You sat on the floor between the two with the radio, trying to get ahold of your little brother. He should have been here a while ago.
You have worried about him a lot since Eddie died. As if losing a friend isn’t enough, all of Hawkins High now thought Dustin was friends with a murderer. He didn’t tell you much about what went on at school, but you knew it couldn’t have been easy. You called for him again on the radio, but got no response.
“Damnit, where the hell is he?” You asked no one in particular. Steve turned back to face you, looking all apologetic and equally as worried as you. He glanced in the rear view mirror to make sure Jonathan was still focused on the tech in front of him. When he knew the coast was clear, he reached back and grabbed your hand and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. You met his eyes and sighed, knowing his mind was running just as fast as yours. He smiled at you as he let your hand go, not wanting to get caught like this. Not today.
You’d known Steve for most of your life, as you’d always gone to the same school. Though you didn’t pay him any mind until the Upside Down opened. You were always with Jonathan or Nancy just trying to keep all of your siblings alive when he suddenly entered the picture. It was odd at first, to see King Steve being all buddy-buddy with your little brother. But he grew on you fast.
He became your best friend. Then your boyfriend, though no one but Robin knew about that yet. It just wasn’t a good time with the constant world-ending threats you were dealing with. Plus, the two of you were confident Dustin would freak out. Probably ignore both of you for a while. That wouldn’t work while you were trying to take down Vecna. So for now, it was a secret.
You had known Jonathan for just as long. You never meant to become so close to him, but when your brothers became best friends in elementary school, you saw each other more and more every day. You also went to school together, so it just made sense that you became good friends. By high school, you were driving the kids places together, babysitting together, and even just hanging out on your own. It was nice.
Just as the silence was settling over the van again, Jonathan cursed under his breath while fiddling with the satellite.
“Need help back there?” Steve asked. Here we go again, you thought.
“Yeah, like you could help me with this,” Jonathan scoffed. You buried your face in your hands, ready for another round of arguing.
“Do you hear anything?” You asked Jonathan, trying to break the boys up before they could get into it. But they ignored you. Jonathan’s eyes were locked on Steve’s, seeing red before either of them had said much of anything.
You knew what this was about. Jonathan thinks Steve is still into Nancy. You and Steve both knew that was far from the truth, but you just couldn’t prove it without exposing your relationship.
“It can’t possibly be that hard,” Steve remarked. You sighed, deciding to give up and fade back into the background.
“Oh really? You think you could do this? Wanna come try it and show off for Nancy again?” He was yelling now, and that means Steve would start yelling too.
“Oh my god, I am not trying to impress Nancy. How many times do I have to tell you?” Steve glanced down at you, but you didn’t notice. You hated this conversation. Steve knows you hated this conversation. You believed Steve wholeheartedly, but hearing his past relationship brought up so often was starting to weigh on you.
“However many times it takes for me to believe you.” Jonathan stared at Steve, anticipating another loud rebuttal. But Steve just huffed and turned back around.
“My girlfriend believes me,” he simply stated. You whipped your head up and caught Steve’s expression in the mirror. He was completely stone faced, but with a mischievous look in his eye only you would recognize. You bit back a grin. Jonathan hadn’t said a word, just looking at Steve with his jaw on the floor.
“You don’t have a girlfriend.” Jonathan said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“I do,” Steve said. That’s how you knew he was done arguing with Jonathan. But Jonathan wasn’t satisfied yet.
“Alright then, who is she?” He asked. You decided to play along.
“Yeah, who is she?” You repeated. Steve cracked a smile at that.
“Not telling.” He said. Jonathan was looking at you now, like you were both finding this out at the same time. You played innocent and matched his surprised expression.
“Why the hell would you have a secret girlfriend?” Jonathan asked, skeptical as always. Steve just shrugged.
“We got bigger fish to fry right now than me going around telling everyone about my girlfriend.” It was the truth, but not the whole truth. You are having fun now. You waited a moment, debating if you should say anything. Nobody else spoke, so you filled the silence.
“Plus her little brother would freak the fuck out if he found out his best friend was dating his sister,” you offered, no longer suppressing your smile. Steve raised his eyebrows at you, shocked by your admission, but not upset. Relieved, even. Jonathan, on the other hand, was aghast. Suddenly the big van felt small as you and Steve waited for a response.
“Wait-” Jonathan sputtered. “You?” He pointed at you. “And you?” Then he pointed at Steve. You noddled, giggling, while Steve threw his hands up in the air. You thumbed under the neckline of your shirt and pulled out a gold chain that had a little S charm at the bottom.
Steve had bought it for you just two months ago, and you hadn’t taken it off once. You were, however, very careful to keep it tucked under your clothes when other people were around.
“See?” You showed him. “Proof.”
“Believe me now Byers?” Your boyfriend said. You hoped they’d get over themselves and get along now. Jonathan sat back against his heels, eyebrows knit together like he was doing complicated math or something.
“How long?” Is all he said.
“Eight months,” You confessed. You looked at Steve, who was clearly enjoying this. His lips were quirked up in that big stupid grin of his, which made you laugh again.
“Eight months? And nobody knows?”
“Robin knows.” Steve declared. You were going to tell no one, but then Robin burst into Steve’s room while you were asleep in his bed, in his clothes. There was no lying your way out of that situation. You thought by now she’d surely have given you guys away, but she was very committed to keeping your secret.
“But you can’t tell anyone.” You demand, no longer giggling. “Especially my brother. He’s having a rough enough time, let’s not add to that.”
“Relax,” Jonathan raises his hands in surrender. “I’m not gonna go talking about who you make out with in your free time,” He chuckled now. You scrunched up your face as his choice of words.
“Ew,” you muttered. Steve shot you a look.
“Making out with me is ‘ew’?”
You didn’t have time to think up a response, because something outside the window caught your eye. Or, someone. It was Dustin, walking towards the van only two hours late. Something looked off, so you adjusted your glasses and squinted to get a better look. Dustin had two black eyes and a bloody nose. The alarm bells in your head went off immediately as you tucked your necklace back under your shirt and hopped out of the van.
Before you ran right to Dustin, you turned back to Jonathan and whispered,
“Don’t say a word.” You ran to your brother before waiting for Jonathan to agree.
can i request a steve x gf! reader fic where the reader and him met through working and shes constantly saving up money because her family doesnt come from much and left during the earthquake but she doesn’t want to tell steve abiut her money problems so she skips meals and her own needs to offer to buy things for the kids and even a big gift for steve’s bday or anniversary? maybe steve one day sees her money box or handwritten expense sheet or even she skipped too many meals and doesnt feel well and they have a heart to heart ☺️ steve jjst wants to provide for his girl
my heart is full of doubt
pairing: steve harrington x reader
summary: request above!
word count: 3.3k
content warnings: financial insecurity, reader is self-sacrificing, not proofread, idk what else
author's note: hi!! thank you so much for this request my angel! and thank you for being so patient with me!
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Family Video wasn’t exactly where you’d imagined spending your summer. You knew you’d be working for most of it, but you’d be hoping it would at least be somewhere more…stimulating.
You didn’t hate the place. It was great for the employee discount, and you almost always got first pick out of the new tapes when they came in but you would be lying if it bring some kind of heaviness in your chest when you spent every afternoon stocking the shelves whilst the rest of your friends had free time to do whatever they wanted.
It’s fine, you’ve made your peace with it for the most part. Some people are just dealt different hands in life and while yes, you could spend the rest of your summer outwardly pissed off at the world, how would that help you?
Instead, you channel your energy, into expense sheets and budgeting folders that live under your bed next to your little silver lunchbox you use to keep all the money you make.
It’s nothing grand, but it brings you safety. A crutch, something to fall back on. Most people wouldn’t understand your need to know where every cent is going, because who really cares what happens to the 50c you let fall onto the floor?
You did. You knew just how far to stretch every single dollar left in that little lunchbox like your life depended on it. That was what kept you going, that if you knew it all went to shit one day, you’d still have that.
Steve Harrington was a curveball. A boy raised with a silver spoon in his mouth who only carried 10 dollar bills in his wallet, not a single coin to be seen.
You knew boys like Steve Harrington from the countless service jobs you’d worked over the years. Boys who would have to call Daddy just to know how much gas cost, boys whose biggest concerns were winning their next match, or when their next haircut would be.
So, seeing ‘King Steve’ take up a job at Family Video? Call yourself intrigued, who knew graduation would end with such a fall from grace for the former high school star athlete.
You’d imagined him somewhere far from here, working some corporate job for his father in the big city. That had been the plan after all, everyone knew kids like Harrington basically had their whole lives planned out for them.
But there he was, same mousy brown hair and brown eyes yet this time in an awful vest embroidered in the Family Video logo and his surname, you’d laugh if you weren’t so shocked.
“Harrington?” you say shocked, your jaw slackening as you catch sight of him behind the counter.
His own expression morphs into perplexion as he watches you walk into the store, uniform freshly buttoned over your baby tee. His mouth forms your name in a hesitantly baffled manner.
“Oh shit,” you laugh, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear as you walk closer, “It really is you!”
His smile is strained as he replies, “It’s me.”
You want to ask him why he’s here, why he’s decided to start slumming it downtown when he’s got a nice cushy mansion practically all for himself. However, he looks like he’s begging you not to ask any of that, and you’re a lot of things but an asshole isn’t one.
So, you let it go, you smile and nod your head like you’re not bursting with a million questions and instead offer, “Where do you want me, boss?”
Steve lets a breath out, his shoulders slumping in relief.
Odd.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
It’s almost embarrassing how easily the two of you become friends. Who would’ve known that Steve Harrington was a total loser?
God, it’s almost like all that confidence in high school got washed away the second he graduated.
He’s dumb. In the funniest way. He knows jack shit about movies except for the dumb action movies that somehow every boy in Hawkins has ever seen and he’s horrendously bad at flirting.
Which is even worse for you considering that it works on you. The dumb smiles and the lines that fall flat—they endear you. So, despite your best efforts—you fall for Steve Harrington.
He’s unusually sweet, kinder than he was in high school and weirdly self-actualised which throws you off.
And as much ad you promised yourself you wouldn’t, you can’t help but compare your Steve to ‘King Steve’. Even though you know he’s not that anymore—that he’s left all that behind him when he left high school.
Dating Steve is nothing like you’d thought it would be, he takes you out to dinner and pays for your meal without even asking, he brings you flowers—different bouquets at first until you mention you like one more than the others, and those become ‘your flowers’, and he never pushes.
You know more about his sex life than you would like but surprisingly enough—Steve is a romantic. He is slow and tender and kind-hearted that you can’t even imagine that the same boy you once knew in high school is the same man you love.
The first time he picks you up, you clean obsessively. Your place has never been dirty but you’re hoping the obsessive cleanliness will distract him from the glaring wealth gap between the two of you.
You’re not embarrassed perse, it’s just that—you really like him. He’s become one of the best things in your life and it would really suck if the one thing you couldn’t control became the thing that drove him away.
Three subsequent knocks echo through your home and with a heavy chest and a smile about as fragile as your mental state, you open the door.
Steve is smiling, that charming boyish smile that you’ve grown immeasurably fond of.
“Hi.” He beams, he thrusts his hand out to you, practically shoving the bouquet under your nose as you flinch back slightly.
“Oh!” you say surprised, “These are for me?” you ask shyly, your hands lifting to grasp the stems of the colourful bouquet with a frail hold.
Steve rubs the back of his neck with a nod, “Yeah, I uh—I thought you’d like them. I dunno, is it too much? I can take them back—” he offers hastily.
You frown, pulling them towards you with a swift shake of your head, “No! no—no they’re nice. They’re lovely Steve.” You assure him, watching delightedly as a red hue blooms from his neck over to his face.
You glace down at the flowers with a fond gaze, biting your lip.
“I’ve never gotten flowers before.” You admit in a hushed whisper, slowly tracing the petals of the fragrant rainbow in front of you.
You glance up at Steve with a soft look, “I’m going to put these in some water, would you like to come in?” you offer.
He nods fast enough that you worry he might just pull a muscle, “Yeah—yeah let’s do that.”
He follows you into your home as you try not to turn around and stare at him. You want to know what he’s thinking—if he finds your place too small, too cold or unlived in, if he likes that you have pillows scattered over your couch despite them being mismatched—if the colour scheme reminds him of something.
You don’t realise it then, but he’s staring at you as you make your way to the kitchen, flowers in your delicate hold as you take precision to care for the flowers.
His gaze is soft and adoring, eyes alight with wonder and ill-hidden emotion. Steve had always worn his heart on his chest and was never really that good at hiding his feelings—he just hopes he makes it through this date without blurting it out that he loves you
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
Dating Steve is nothing short of the best time of your life, you do nauseatingly cute couple things like going to the movies just to make out, drive down to lover’s lake to have picnics and spend hours on the phone with one another.
You open yourself up to him, telling him things you thought you’d never have the confidence to utter aloud.
“My family isn’t around anymore,” you mention casually one night. You’re lying on Steve’s bed with his arms around you as you trace formless shapes onto his chest.
You feel Steve freeze beneath you, and you worry that you’ve overstepped, that maybe you shouldn’t have said anything at all.
His arms tighten around you slowly, unsure at first before he pulls you closer to him, smacking a loving kiss onto the top of your head.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, acknowledging that he’d heard you but not pushy enough for you to grow uncomfortable.
You nibble on your lip with a contemplative expression, “Yeah,” you admit. “They uh—they left after the earthquake.”
“And you stayed behind?”
“And I stayed behind.” You agree.
There’s a bout of silence between the two of you before Steve’s voice whispers softly, “Why?”
“Why’d I stay?” you rhetorically ask, feeling his hum as he does it.
You shrug, “Dunno, I guess I just couldn’t imagine myself leaving y’know? I was old enough to move out and Hawkins is home.” You mumble.
You don’t see the smile that graces Steve’s lips, but you feel him tug you closer and snuggle into you, a silent agreement between the both of you that he shares your sentiment.
“’S that why you started working at Family Video?” he asks and you tense in his arms, trying to avoid where the conversation is heading.
“Yeah,” you mumble reluctantly. “Gotta make a living somehow.”
Steve frowns, “Does Keith even pay you enough? I don’t really know how much you need but if it’s not enough I could aways—”
“Stop,” you cut him off. “He pays me fine Steve, don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
Steve sniffs, tugging your face to look up at him. “Always gonna worry about you honey,” he says softly, a soft smile spreading across his face.
You squint at him, “Well don’t. I’m fine.” You promise.
He glances over your face, offering no other rebuttal so you drop your head back to his chest without another word.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
And soon enough, Steve’s kids become your kids. It’s like overnight that you end up adopting 6 kids that are somehow simultaneously the most amusing and annoying things in your life.
They’re fuels for chaos, but they bring so much love into yours and Steve’s life that you can’t help but adore them. Steve and you become honorary parents to the most accident and danger prone group of children.
It’s only right as a group-appointed mother that you spoil your kids, well as much as you can afford to anyways. You find yourself rearranging your own budget to fit in the rest of the party.
Candy for the kids DND nights, birthday gifts for everyone, anniversary gifts for Steve and small things that you think any of them will enjoy. It leaves you wrought out sometimes but it’s worth it most of the time to see the grateful smiles and endless affection that you receive in return.
You like making them happy, and if that means skipping a couple of meals here and there or having to sacrifice some of the luxuries you treat yourself to? You’re more than willing to sacrifice.
You want them to like you.
So, when Steve offers to pick the kids up from the arcade after your date, you don’t hesitate to offer to pay for them to get milkshakes on the way home.
Steve levels you with a look that more amusement than begrudging.
“I wanted one anyway,” you say softly as he scrutinizes you doubtfully but relents to their whining and heads towards the drive thru.
“Alright,” you call out, turning backwards in the passengers’ seat to confirm their orders.
“It’s 3 chocolate, two vanilla’s and one strawberry right?”
“Yes,” they chorus back to you and with a snort you turn to look at Steve who raises a brow at you.
“You want anything?” you offer and he scrunches his face, shaking his head.
“Still full from lunch.” He says and you nod.
“That’ll be $15.” The crackly speaker answers you when you’ve read out the kids’ order, having you pause as you contemplate whether to add your own.
“Will that be all?”
You only have $20 in your wallet; you can’t afford to have a milkshake and get groceries this month.
“Yes,” you say softly, ignoring that Steve whips his head to your own with a confused look.
While you’re making your way through the drive thru line the kids are involved in their own discussions, Steve interrupts your train of thought with a hushed whisper, “Baby, I thought you wanted a milkshake too?”
You force a smile, shaking your head, “I wouldn’t be able to finish it anyways.”
He frowns, “You sure? I can always drive back around and get you one, the lines not that long.” He offers
You disagree with him immediately, “It’s alright—we’ve gotta get Will home soon or Joyce will kill us.” You remind him.
He doesn’t look happy about your stance, but he can’t actually refute it, so he nods even though there’s a tightness in his chest that won’t go away and drives to drop the kids off as they slurp their milkshakes in the back.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
It all comes back to bite you when Steve arrives early to your place for your date, forcing you to let him wander around while you shower and get ready. You promise you’ll only be 10 minutes, but Steve knows better than to hold you to that.
He doesn’t mind waiting, he makes himself comfortable on your bed, throwing a random ball around as he whistles to himself.
With an ill-timed throw it misses his outstretched hand and falls to the ground, rolling under your bed. He leans over your bed, pushing himself down to peak under to try and grab it before his attention shifts to a different item.
A silver lunchbox, completely unassuming laid against the wall just begging for Steve to open it.
He hems and haws for a couple of seconds, still hearing the sound of water rushing through the thin walls of your room before he reaches a handout and tugs the lunchbox with him to sit back onto your bed.
He questions his own ethics for a few seconds, arguing that this might be a complete betrayal of your trust even though you yourself knew fairly well that he would be snooping around your room.
Nevertheless, the box is opened and Steve’s face morphs into confusion.
“What?” he mutters to himself, taking in the sight of carefully folded pieces of paper and stacks of bills hidden inside. Granted its probably only around a hundred dollars, but it’s odd enough to have Steve wondering.
Is this some kind of emergency fund? Something you just haven’t told him about?
With barely constrained inquisitiveness, he opens the folded papers one by one. His heart clenches in his chest when he reads your handwriting.
May—expense sheet
Total income: $175
Groceries: $50 $30
Rent: $75
Fun stuff: $15 milkshakes w the kids $15
Steve’s present: $50
Leftover: $5 (savings)
5 dollars leftover for your savings? What the hell?? How didn’t Steve notice this?
His heart grows heavy the more he goes over your previous expense sheets, every single sheet has money adjusted—times when Steve rarely let you pay for dinner when he left his wallet at home had made you late on rent, when you had bought Steve the cologne he’s been speaking about for ages for his birthday, you’d had to stretch 20 dollars over two weeks for your groceries.
He was the worst boyfriend, what kind of boyfriend didn’t know that his girlfriend was struggling to make ends meet? What kind of boyfriend doesn’t notice that she’s been skipping meals, that she’s been taking care of everyone else but not herself—
“Hey, so I was thinking after the movie we could go back to yours? I was thinking—” you babble as you walk out of the bathroom, steam billowing behind you as you towel dry your hair without looking at him.
He stares at you with something akin to horror and despair in his expression and when you don’t hear him respond, you turn to look at him.
“Steve?” you say confused, frowning at his expression before you catch sight of the familiar items on your bed, spread out before him like photos of a crime scene.
No, a horrified thought invades your mind. Nononono
He was never supposed to find those.
“Steve I can explain—” you say panicked.
He frowns, shaking his head, “What?”
“Baby, why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, devastation coating his tongue in an acidic pain.
Your heart feels as heavy as lead in your chest, “I didn’t want you to worry, I was handling it—”
“Handling it?! You were skipping meals!” He disproves.
You shrink into yourself from his tone, feeling like a child being scolded by their parent. He softens at the sight of you, getting off the bed and tentatively walking over with his arms outstretched presumably to show he’s not a threat.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles as he grows near. “I didn’t mean to lash out.”
You shrug, wringing your hands out in front of you in nervousness before he tugs them into his own. He pulls you into his chest, his arms bracketing your form as he rests his head on your own.
“I just wish you would’ve trusted me,” he says softly, his voice tinged with sadness.
You shake your head, “I do trust you!” you insist, pulling away to look up at him.
His smile is crooked and a little fragile, “But you don’t trust me enough with this.”
“That’s okay! Hey—it’s okay, I’m not mad. I’m not mad I promise.” He insists when it looks like you’re about to argue with him.
“I’m sorry,” you say uncertainly, blinking back the tears that prick the corners of your eyes.
“No need,” he dismisses you immediately.
“I just didn’t want to burden you with the bills and the budgeting—I’ve had it under control since my family left, and I thought if I did it well enough then you wouldn’t realise because I can handle it you know? I—I can be self-sufficient and I wouldn’t have to rely on anyone, and I could still be a good friend and girlfriend and buy you these things you want because you deserve them—”
Steve cups your face in his hands, cutting off your train of thought as he forces your gaze to meet his.
“It’s okay” he reassures you, stopping you in your tracks. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”
You bite your lip unsurely, “Are you—do you think less of me?”
Steve’s face grows dark, “Never,” he vows. “I would never think less of you.”
Some of the weight eases off your chest and you let a fragile smile break through your nervous expression.
“However,” he adds despite your protests. “You are going to let me help.” He asserts.
You frown, already shaking your head, “I’m not a charity case, I don’t need—”
“Ah ah,” he tuts with an amused smile. “I never said that I know you don’t need my help, but it would make me very happy if you’d let me help every once in a while. Most of my trust fund is sitting untouched and trust me—I’d be a whole lot happier spending it on spoiling and taking care of you than on anything else.” He practically pleads.
You try to smother the wobble in your lips as you lean up to press a sweet, chaste kiss to his lips.
“You can’t go crazy,” you threaten him with a shaky voice.
He agrees immediately, because of course he does.
“You have to let me help, okay?” he fires back.
With a small amount of hesitation, you nod slowly.
summary: You're the kind of person who touches everyone — hugs, hand-holds, leaning on friends like it's nothing. Sanji watches from the sidelines, burning with jealousy, because when you touch him, it means everything.
WARNINGS: kinda smut ??
a/n: I've tried to do something +18, but it's not too explicit <3
Sanji had always considered himself a patient man.
He had to be. Cooking required precision, timing, the ability to stand over a hot stove for hours without losing his temper. He'd waited for dough to rise, for sauces to reduce, for the perfect moment to plate a dish. Waiting, he'd learned, was a skill. But nothing, nothing, had tested his patience like you.
The first time he noticed it, you were greeting Luffy.
Nothing unusual about that. Luffy was always being greeted. But you didn't just say hello. You threw your arms around his shoulders and pressed your cheek to his straw hat and laughed like you hadn't seen him in years, even though it had been maybe twenty minutes.
Sanji watched from the galley door, cigarette halfway to his lips.
Affectionate, he thought. Nothing wrong with that.
Then, you were sitting next to Usopp on the deck, listening to one of his stories. At some point, you'd leaned your head against his shoulder and hooked your arm through his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Usopp turned pink. Kept talking, but turned pink. Sanji's grip on his coffee mug tightened. Friends, he told himself. Just friends.
By the fifth time, he'd lost count. You held Nami's hand while walking through town. You draped yourself over Chopper's tiny back like a blanket. You sat so close to Zoro on the bench that your knees touched, and Zoro — Zoro, who didn't let anyone near him — didn't even flinch.
Sanji wanted to scream. He wasn't jealous. He was just... confused. Because you touched everyone like it meant nothing. Like pressing your body against theirs was as casual as breathing. And he couldn't figure out if that meant it actually meant nothing, or if it meant everything, or if he was losing his mind entirely.
Probably the last one.
"You're staring," Nami said, not looking up from her book.
"I'm observing."
"You're glaring. There's a difference."
Sanji took a long drag of his cigarette and didn't answer.
Across the deck, you were helping Zoro wrap his wrist — some training injury, nothing serious. But your fingers were lingering. You were standing close. You were saying something that made Zoro's mouth twitch in that half-smile he never gave anyone.
Sanji crushed his cigarette into the ashtray with more force than necessary.
"Jealousy is unbecoming," Nami murmured.
"I'm not jealous."
"You're practically smoking."
"I'm always smoking."
Nami turned a page. "Mm."
The worst part was that you didn't seem to notice.
You treated Sanji the same as everyone else — which meant you touched him too. A hand on his arm when you thanked him for dinner. A brief hug when he brought you tea. Your shoulder pressed against his when you sat next to him at the table.
It drove him insane.
Because when you touched him, he felt it. Everywhere. In his chest, in his stomach, in the spaces between his ribs where he'd thought he'd built walls. Your casual affection hit him like a punch each time, and you didn't even realize.
You'd pull away, smiling, already reaching for someone else.
And Sanji would stand there, heart hammering, trying to remember how to breathe.
It came to a head on a quiet night.
The crew was scattered across the deck, recovering from a long week. Usopp was showing you something — a new gadget, maybe, or a drawing — and you were leaning over his shoulder, one hand resting on the back of his neck, laughing at something he said.
Sanji walked past with a tray of empty cups. He didn't mean to stop. He didn't mean to stare.
But your fingers were tangled in Usopp's hair now, absent and gentle, and Usopp was leaning into the touch like a cat being pet, and something in Sanji's chest cracked clean in half.
He set the tray down harder than intended.
You looked up.
"Sanji? You okay?"
"Fine," he said, voice tighter than he wanted. "Just tired."
He walked to the galley before you could respond.
You found him there ten minutes later, standing at the counter with his back to the door, not cooking anything.
"Sanji."
"I said I'm fine."
"You're not." Your footsteps crossed the floor. "You've been weird all week."
He didn't turn around. Couldn't. Because if he turned around, he'd see your face, and if he saw your face, he'd say something he couldn't take back.
"Sanji." Your hand landed on his shoulder. Warm. Familiar. Casual.
He flinched.
You pulled back like you'd been burned.
"Did I —" You stopped. Started again. "Did I do something wrong?"
He closed his eyes. "No."
"Then why won't you look at me?"
Because if I look at you, I'll fall apart.
He didn't say that.
Instead, he turned. Slowly. Carefully. And found you standing there with your arms wrapped around yourself — a posture he'd never seen before. Closed off. Uncertain.
You looked smaller without your hands reaching for someone.
"Sanji," you said quietly, "talk to me."
He ran a hand through his hair. Lit a cigarette he didn't want. Let the smoke fill his lungs before he spoke.
"You touch everyone," he said.
You blinked. "What?"
"Everyone. Luffy, Nami, Usopp, Zoro, Chopper. You touch all of them. All the time."
Your brow furrowed. "Yes? That's... that's just how I am. I've always been like that."
"I know."
"Then what's the problem?"
He looked at you. At the confusion on your face, the genuine bewilderment. You really didn't know. You had no idea what you did to him every time your fingers brushed his arm, every time you leaned into his space, every time you smiled at him like he was just another person in a long line of people you touched.
The problem, he realized, was that he didn't want to be just another person.
"I can't," he said.
"Can't what?"
"I can't be one of many."
The words hung in the air between you.
You stared at him. Your arms tightened around yourself.
"What are you saying?" you asked.
Sanji took a long drag of his cigarette. Exhaled. Let the smoke curl toward the ceiling like a question he didn't know how to ask.
"I'm saying," he said quietly, "that when you touch me, it means something. To me. And I don't think it means the same thing to you."
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Sanji —"
"You don't have to explain." He held up a hand. "I'm not asking you to change. I'm not asking for anything. I just... needed you to know. Why I've been weird."
He turned back to the counter, pretending to organize something, giving you an out.
You didn't take it.
Your hand landed on his back.
Not casual this time. Not absent. Deliberate. Your palm pressed flat between his shoulder blades, warm through his shirt, and Sanji went absolutely still.
"That's not true," you said.
He didn't turn around. "What?"
"You said it doesn't mean the same thing to me." Your finger moved in small circles against his back. "That's not true."
His heart stopped.
"Then what does it mean?" His voice came out rougher than he intended.
You were quiet for a moment. Your finger kept moving.
"I don't know," you admitted. "But it's not nothing."
Sanji turned.
You were close. Closer than he'd realized. Your hand was still on his back, and your face was tilted up toward his, and your eyes were wide and honest and scared in a way he'd never seen before.
"I touch everyone," you said slowly, "because I like making people feel seen. Cared for. That's all. It doesn't mean anything romantic."
"I know."
"But when I touch you —" You stopped. Swallowed. "When I touch you, I have to think about it first. Because it feels different. And I don't know what to do with that."
Sanji forgot how to breathe.
"Different how?" he asked.
You looked down at your hand on his back. Then back up at his face.
"Different like..." You stepped closer. Your chest almost touched his. Your hand slid from his back to his chest, fingers spreading over his heart. "Like this."
His breath caught.
Your palm was flat against his sternum now, and you could feel everything — the hammering of his pulse, the way his ribs expanded with each shallow breath, the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.
"Your heart is racing," you murmured.
"You're not helping."
A small smile tugged at your lips. "I'm not trying to help."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
You didn't answer with words.
Instead, your other hand came up to his chest. Both palms pressed flat now, fingers splayed, like you were trying to feel all of him at once. Sanji's hands stayed frozen at his sides. He didn't dare move. Didn't dare breathe.
"Touch me back," you said.
"What?"
"You heard me." Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him a fraction closer. "You've been watching me touch everyone for weeks. Now I'm asking you to touch me."
His control snapped.
One hand came up to your waist. The other cupped the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. He didn't pull you roughly — just enough to tilt your face up, to make you look at him.
"You have no idea," he said, voice low, "what you're asking for."
"Then show me."
He didn't kiss you.
Instead, he walked you backward until your hips hit the counter. His body pressed against yours, caging you in, and his hands — those hands you'd watched chop vegetables and knead dough and plate meals with such care — slid down your sides, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing every inch of you through your clothes.
Your breath hitched.
"Still want me to touch you?" he asked, mouth hovering near your ear.
"Yes."
His hands settled on your hips. Squeezed. Pulled you forward until there was no space left between you.
"Like this?"
Your fingers dug into his shoulders. "Yes."
His thumb traced the waistband of your pants, just barely slipping underneath. Just enough to make you want more.
"Or like this?"
"Sanji —"
"Tell me." His lips brushed the corner of your jaw. "Tell me what you want."
You turned your head. Caught his mouth with yours.
The kiss was nothing like his usual charm. No smoothness, no performance. Just hunger. His hand tightened on your hip. Your fingers fisted in his hair. He tasted like smoke and something sweet — honey, maybe, or the dessert he'd been baking earlier.
You bit his lower lip.
He groaned — low, raw, desperate — and pulled back just enough to look at you.
His eyes were dark. His lips were parted. His chest was heaving.
"You," he said, voice wrecked. "I want you. Not like everyone else. Not casual. Not friendly." He pressed his forehead to yours. "You. Only you."
Your heart swelled until it hurt.
"I'm right here," you whispered.
He kissed you again. Slower this time. Deeper. His hands spread across your back, pulling you impossibly closer, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go.
You weren't going anywhere.
Later — much later — you sat on the counter with a glass of water, watching Sanji clean the kitchen he'd definitely not been cleaning earlier.
His shirt was wrinkled. His hair was a mess. There was a mark on his neck that you'd put there.
He looked happier than you'd ever seen him.
"So," you said, swinging your legs. "Still jealous of Usopp?"
Sanji threw a dish towel at your face.
You caught it, laughing.
"Shut up," he said, but he was smiling.
You reached out and grabbed his hand. Pulled him between your knees. Wrapped your arms around his shoulders and pressed your cheek to his chest.
"Thank you," you said quietly.
"For what?"
"For telling me. For waiting. For —" You gestured vaguely at the kitchen, at the two of you, at everything. "This."
His arms came around you. Tight. Secure.
"I'd wait forever," he said into your hair. "For you. I'd wait forever."
You held on. For the first time, when you touched him, you didn't reach for anyone else.
release - hollanov - @hollanovmicrofic - word count: 270 - click here for my hollanov microfic archive on ao3
"June 3rd, 2022
Ottawa Centaurs
OFFICIAL STATEMENT
In light of the concern expressed regarding language used by captain and star center Ilya Rozanov on some of his social media posts, the Ottawa Centaurs would like to expressly state that we as a team are not 'heterophobic.' The Centaurs as an organization, and everyone employed under the franchise name, are committed to embracing and accepting everyone, regardless of their sexuality.
Hockey is for everyone."
After reading the end of the statement, Shane looked up from his phone, glaring from his husband to Harris Drover. "Rozanov. What the fuck did you do?" he demanded, narrowing his eyes.
"Nothing! Was a joke!" Ilya whined, crossing his arms and smirking a little.
"I cannot believe you made me release a statement in support of the straights. During fucking Pride Month," Harris retorted, frowning.
"I did not-"
"What did you say?" Shane asked again, feeling more and more hysterical.
Ilya sighed. "I just replied to comment on a picture of me, you, Barrett, and Haas in our Pride jerseys. Comment said, 'Reasons 1to 4 I am homophobic.' So I said, 'And you are reason I am heterophobic, Carl.'"
Shane groaned as Harris sent him an 'I-told-you-so' look. "I'm sorry for him," he muttered, shaking his head.
But Harris just chuckled. "You act like I didn't have to spend four hours last week doing damage control because you told a reporter to focus on hockey questions and not flirting with your husband."
Shane flushed a little. "She wasn't doing her job."
"Yeah, and because of you two, I'm always doing mine," Harris replied, rolling his eyes.
why would she give a damn about me? — steve harrington
pairings: steve harrington x fem!henderson!reader
synopsis: you always thought steve harrington never noticed you. steve thought the exact same thing about you. after being drugged by the russians, now on the bathroom floor, a lot of badly timed confessions prove you were both wrong.
wc: 1.8k
a/n: english isn’t my first language so let me know any mistakes!
my steve harrington masterlist!
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
never in your life had you thought throwing up this much was even humanly possible. until today, obviously.
this whole dumb idea of spying on russians through your brother’s best friend’s job went straight to hell. you weren’t even supposed to be here. after last year — all the bullshit demogorgon-hunting with your brother and (yes, believe it or not) steve, yeah, steve “the hair” harrington. you decided leaving hawkins to study somewhere else was a brilliant life choice, and it was, at least until you came back for the summer and everything immediately went to shit.
like, seriously, what were you even doing in the scoops ahoy bathroom, throwing up all over next to steve harrington’s toilet? you were never friends. not even close. back in high school he was “steve the king harrington,” way too popular to even acknowledge your existence, and not like you ever wanted to walk past him in the hallway.
oh, you hated all of that. you kept to yourself, maybe one or two friends at most, and god, you despised high school, so yeah, your paths were not meant to cross. ever.
until last year, when your brother dustin dragged you into a lovely little adventure involving demogorgons and upside down nonsense — featuring steve. which, honestly, wasn’t that terrible. turns out steve wasn’t as much of an asshole as you’d always assumed. but still, not your problem. so you got the hell out of hawkins.
and now here you are. back again. sprawled on a bathroom floor after puking up every last drop of whatever weird russian drug they pumped into your system.
yeah. great summer so far.
—do you think we’re still high?— you asked steve through the thin bathroom walls.
—no idea, i feel fine, relatively speaking,— he answered from the other side.
—let’s play questions,— you said. yeah, maybe you were still high.
—sure, want me to start?— he replied, voice soft. it always was. you just hummed.
—okay,— he made a little thinking noise. —had you ever gotten high before?—
oh. great opener.
—once.— you hesitated, debating whether to explain. not because it mattered, but why would you casually tell steve harrington your life story? —you?— you shot back.
—not exactly. just smoking. tommy used to bring weed to the parties at my house.— he said it like it was nothing, which somehow made you feel mildly obligated to share too. not that you really minded.
—do you remember eddie munson?— you asked.
—eddie the freak munson?— he sounded genuinely confused. if you could see him, he’d definitely have that dumb little face he makes when he’s processing something.
—yeah. that one.— you let out a slightly laugh.
suddenly, steve appeared through the small gap between the bathroom stalls and sat down across from you, your legs ending up next to him and his next to you.
—so you got high with eddie munson?—
yep. exactly the confused face you imagined. just… a little amused this time.
— it was just once. outside the homecoming dance. i don’t think it even counts- it was half a line and it didn’t even hit me,— you smiled at the memory.
— why did you do it?— he asked softly. there was a small smile on his face, which honestly felt unnecessary considering said face was bruised and bloody thanks to russian torture.
— it was, like, the worst day of my life.— your eyes drifted to the wall in front of you. —some girl spilled the entire punch bowl on my dress and everyone laughed.— you smiled, bittersweet. —i swear, any other day i wouldn’t have cared. i would’ve gotten mad and told everyone to fuck off,— you rolled your eyes. —but that day i was so… excited. my dad had bought the dress on his trip to new york and i- shit, i felt beautiful. and then suddenly everything was ruined, half the school pointing at me and laughing, and out of nowhere i was the most horrible person to ever step foot in hawkins.—
he just stared at you. attentive. slightly shocked that you’d decided to tell him something like that.
— it was nancy, right? the one who spilled the punch.— he asked carefully, like he was scared something might set you off.
oh, nancy. nancy bitchy spoiled princess wheeler.
well, now she was just nancy spoiled princess wheeler.
you used to hate her. a lot. you were never even remotely alike. your brother and her brother had been friends since they were kids, so every now and then you’d end up stuck at the same dinner or gathering, and it never — ever — went well.
maybe because she was spoiled.
maybe because you were unbearable.
who knows, it just never worked, especially once you got to high school, at least there you never interacted. until that stupid dance where she kind of ruined your life. okay, not really, but at that age it definitely felt like it.
now, after hunting a couple monsters with her, you’d realized she’d matured a lot. and you probably had too. so it wasn’t an issue anymore. honestly, you even thought it was pretty cool how good she was with a gun.
but friends? yeah, no. that was never gonna happen. there was just zero chemistry between you two.
you sighed and smiled. —yeah, it was her. i don’t blame her completely, there was a lot of social pressure, you know? even if i would’ve never done something like that.— you shrugged. —whatever, it doesn’t matter.—
—it does,— he looked at you, worried. —it wasn’t okay.—
—of course it wasn’t. but still, whatever. i ran out of there and sat on this bench outside the school, and eddie just… showed up. told me those dances were bullshit and asked if i wanted to forget about it by getting high.— you frowned, remembering the stupid decision. —i know it was dumb. don’t take drugs from strangers and all that. but i was so… sad.— remembering it felt like reliving it all over again.
—and then i ran off and…— a wave of memories hit you and you looked at him, genuinely confused. —steve, you were there! after i ran, you showed up with your car and offered to drive me home.— maybe half the line actually did hit.
steve’s expression shifted into something weird, unreadable. —i- yeah. i did. and then you told me to fuck off and kept walking.—
—well, obviously. why would i accept a ride home from steve harrington?— you said, like it was the most logical thing in the world.
—why would you accept drugs from eddie munson? sounds just as stupid,— he laughed.
—i don’t know. i was defensive, okay? you were part of the social group i literally ran away from in the first place. i probably thought you were gonna mess with me too.— you rolled your eyes.
—i wasn’t even there when that happened to you.— he sounded… sad?
—i know.— that was all you said.
suddenly, silence filled the space between you. just a few seconds. seconds that somehow felt endless.
—what were you even doing outside anyway? sent to get beers?— you laughed, trying to lighten the mood.
steve laughed too. —yeah. i went to get beers.—
and then the silence showed up again.
—no. i didn’t go get beers,— he sighed. —i just went out to look for you. i saw you run out so scared and i- i just wanted to make sure nothing happened to you.—
you looked at him, completely confused. —don’t make stuff up,— you laughed.
—i’m not,— he wasn’t laughing. —you’ve always been there, you know? my whole life. we shared physics, spanish, p.e. i always saw you in the hallways, walking alone in front of me and all my idiot friends. i remember once you called tommy’s girlfriend a bitch because she tripped a freshman.— this time he laughed, and you did too.
—why didn’t you give me a flyer?— he looked at you, genuinely.
you smiled, confused. what was he even talking about? —a what?—
—a flyer. senior year. you did that physics campaign with mr. clarke and handed them out. you gave one to everyone in the hallways except me. you skipped me. i never got a flyer.—
you laughed. —steve, what are you talking about? okay, yeah, i remember, but i didn’t give one to you or your friends. i just assumed you didn’t give a shit about physics.—
—and i didn’t. but damn, i really wanted you to give me one,— he sighed. —listen… my whole life i wanted your attention. i never really knew why. there was just something about you that pulled me in. but you never saw me.—
—steve, you never talked to me. not once,— you said, incredulous.
—the one time i tried, you told me to fuck off and ran away.—
—i was high,— you defended yourself.
—that’s not true,— he laughed. —last year… i didn’t plan on sticking around with dustin that long on that stupid hunt for those weird creatures.—
—demodogs,— you laughed, correcting him.
—demodogs, right,— he rolled his eyes with a smile. —but… you were there. so i stayed. and honestly? i don’t regret it.—
—i really like your hair,— you confessed. —i’m always telling you it looks bad and that you’re a cocky idiot but… i really like it. i really do.—
he smiled at you. a real smile.
you took a deep breath. a big one. you were gonna need it. —i treat you like shit because you make me nervous. like, really nervous. and i… i don’t know, i’ve never felt like this before and i don’t know how to deal with it, so telling you to fuck off is way easier. it lets me avoid the feeling.—
steve tried to say something, but you cut him off. suddenly it felt like you needed to throw up everything you were feeling. —i wasn’t even that sure about going away to study! i thought if i stayed away from you for a few months i’d forget about you, but i didn’t. and you… well, you still make me nervous and- seriously, i really like your hair.— you sighed.
steve laughed. —i don’t care if you tell me to fuck off.—
—good. because i’m gonna keep doing it,— you laughed with him.
—i’m really glad we’re here,— he said.
—here? on the bathroom floor at your job? post-drugged and post-torture?—
—yeah… exactly like this.—
—yeah. me too.—
both of you started laughing. god knows why. maybe the drugs hadn’t fully worn off. maybe it was the bleach on the bathroom floor. maybe it was all the remembering. or maybe it just felt right.
the bathroom door slammed open and both of you looked up.
your brother and erica stormed in and stopped right in front of you. —okay, what the hell?— oh, he was pissed.
you and steve looked at them. then at each other.
and your laughter filled the bathroom all over again.
summary: steve is there to witness when you and your little sister max are ready to start a bar fight!
from jen: here's something short because i unfortunately did not finish 'if i say it twice’ like i wanted to : ( but it's coming i swear! this is based off that 'f you bitch'/'we're so sorry'/'no we're not!' trend on tiktok soo hope you guys like it! i want to write more steve x mayfield!reader :) as always, with love <3
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If it were up to you, you would’ve spent your Saturday night at home wrapped in the strong arms of your boyfriend and definitely not jam packed between bodies.
Eddie’s band was playing a small gig at the new bar, and despite your initial refusal, you were basically dragged by your hair by your persistent little sister. She and the rest of the kids were finally at the age where they have some more legal freedom, but still needing a chaperone and who better than the babysitter himself, your perfect boyfriend.
And where Steve and Max were, you were right there too.
It’s opening night and as much as you hated to admit it, Eddie’s band was half decent and capable of pulling in more people. It’s a previously worn down building on the edge of East Hawkins, the gravel outside creating a makeshift parking lot. Inside, the lights flash multi colored sporadically across the room and bodies fill the space.
You and Steve are against the bar, one of your ankles wrapped around his for a little more closeness. The kids aren’t far – only Max, Lucas and Dustin decided to tag along this time – and they’re all sitting at the table a few feet away from you.
Steve orders a drink for you and himself, and you continue to nurse it when Max, who’s sporting her unmissable mischievous smile, skips towards you two, taking a seat on the bar stool beside Steve. Her red hair swings behind her shoulders and she drums her fingers along the bar.
“Hey Max,” Steve nods at her, but she ignores him.
“So,” She smiles at you. “What’ya drinking?”
You raise a brow at her, fingers instinctively covering the top of your glass. “A drink,” You replied dryly.
She rolled her eyes at your response, but responds just as sarcastically. “Thank you so much, how could I have ever known that oh so important piece of information?”
It’s your turn to roll your eyes and Steve fights back an amused smile as he takes a sip of his own drink. She doesn’t let you respond before she’s smiling again.
“Can I have one too?” She asks.
Steve’s brows raise as he sips from the straw, eyes flickering between you two.
You’re taken aback by her question, but not surprised. She’s 18 now, and you know it’s inevitable she becomes interested in alcohol but she’s still your baby sister. The same bright eyed, freckled face, chubby cheeked sister you practically raised.
“No.” You said simply, taking another sip of your drink and ignoring the frown on her face. She goes to fight your answer but shuts her mouth as you turn back to the bar, ordering another one for yourself.
But you don’t miss the way Steve side eyes you and quickly slides his drink towards Max for her to sip.
You would have turned around and told him off for completely ignoring what you said but Steve’s new favorite drink is an old fashioned, a drink made of entirely dark liquor – something you know Max will hate.
From the corner of your eye, you see her glance at you and back to the glass before quickly raising it to her lips, taking a long swig and you can see Steve physically cringe, fingers out stretching towards her as a way to slow her down.
Within seconds, Max’s face is twisting with disgust and she practically slams the glass back on the table top. She tries to cover her coughing fit when you looked her way but fails miserably. You fight back an amused smile at her reaction to the drink and know for sure she won’t ask again.
Max grumbles something under her breath, swirling around in her chair so she’s facing the crowd instead of the bar. You look up at Steve and see his sheepish smile looking back at you.
It was sweet, sort of.
Steve goes to say something before an elbow collides with your back and you’re shoved forward, barely missing Steve’s chest, some of your drink spilling onto the bar top. The push isn’t enough to hurt, but definitely enough to annoy you.
Steve frowns, arms raising to steady you but you’re already grimacing, and turn around to see the back of the head of the girl who just pushed you without so much of an apology.
“Excuse you,” You say, loud enough so you’re sure she’ll hear.
Passively, she glances at you over her shoulder. “It’s crowded,”
There was three empty spots within six feet of you.
You don’t bother responding before stepping forward and taking your place back, not bothering to be shy about knocking your elbow into hers to reclaim the spot you had.
She stumbles just barely, completely turning towards you now. “Do you mind?” She scoffs.
You mirror her passive glance over your own shoulder, “No.”
You’re already turning to continue your conversation with Steve when she opens her mouth again.
“Guess some people don’t know how to act in public,” She sneers from behind you.
You narrow your eyes and before Steve can stop you, you’re spinning around again. “If you have something to say, say it to my face,”
The girl blinks, seemingly surprised you confronted her, but she recovers fast. “Just saying maybe you shouldn’t take up the entire bar,”
“Maybe you should learn personal space,” You bite back. She glares at you, but you don’t waver.
“Don’t be such a priss. It’s a public place,” She’s closer now, but still not enough to worry you.
Behind you, Steve’s hands find your hips, simple enough to ground you. “Then act like it,”
This time she rolls her eyes and looks past you, eyes landing on your boyfriend. “Why don’t you teach your girl how to behave?”
You can feel Steve tense but before he can even defend you, your arms are shoving her backwards. “Fuck you, bitch,”
You don’t scream it, it’s not a call for attention, and that’s somehow worse. The girl tumbles backwards into her friends but Steve uses his hands on your hips to pull you backwards, your back lightly hitting his chest.
“Alright, let’s just leave it here,” He pleads and you’re ready to agree, ignoring the girl as she regains her bearings and moves to step toward you again.
Without even noticing, Max is in your eye line again. She steps in front of you, stopping the girl and shoves her backwards again. “Yeah, fuck you, bitch!“
“Max!” Steve yelps from behind you.
Your brows raise at her outburst but not because it’s out of character, simply because you didn’t even realize she was paying attention. Gently, you pull her back by her wrist while an amused smile grows on your face.
The girl huffs at you two before yanking her pride off the ground and storming off. Max looks back at you with a wide smile and you can’t help the matching laugh that falls from both of you.
Steve groans behind you, arms fully wrapping around your middle as he pulls you back into his chest. He places a sweet kiss to the side of your head.
“I just wanted a normal party,” He mutters into your hair.
“That was normal,” You insist, winking at your little sister.
steve harrington is the kind of guy to never give up on you.
you may have told him you wanted space after billy died. you may have told him you wanted him to move on after max's coma.
but steve harrington stuck around.
because of course he did.
he showed up to your trailer almost every day to take you to visit max at the hospital before he needed to be at the wqsk radio station.
he came over every week with groceries because he knew you and your mom were drowning in medical bills. he’d conveniently leave cash tucked inside one of the bags.
he would downright ignore your attempts to shut him out—showing up constantly for you in ways you didn’t know you needed.
“you don’t have to do this, you know?” you tell him quietly one day after he had picked you up after visiting max. it had been a difficult visit—you had braided her hair which, by all accounts shouldn’t have made you cry, but it did. because her hair was so long now and it was a mark of how time was passing by—how long she had been in a coma for.
nearly 12 months and counting.
“i know,” steve says quietly, eyes on the road—mind on you in the passenger seat. “but i want to.”
“i don’t—” you begin, voice thick with sudden emotion. “i don’t deserve all this. you being nice and being patient.”
“you do,” steve says simply, looking at you for a brief moment with all the love and patience in the world before his eyes are back on the road. “now—i’m taking you for some burgers and we’re getting cheesy fries, okay?”
you bite back a smile that steve doesn’t see.
“okay.”
one day you’d be ready for him and steve? steve will be waiting for you.
dividers by the lovely @zclhs
💌 a mayfield!reader blurb because i LOVE mayfield reader so expect more in the future. also writing this made me want to write a steve x mayfield!reader fic 🤭 which may or may not already be planned
to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page
