welcome! thank you so much for reading my little stories 🫶
mostly writing about soft boys who desperately need a hug
☼ = fluff | ☾ = smut | ⛈ = angst
request status:
🔴 closed
☆ masterlists
steve harrington
-> steve masterlist
joe keery
-> joe masterlist
joel miller
-> joel masterlist
☆ summer fics
-> lovers lake ☼
a hot day at lovers lake turns into exactly what the rest of the gang feared: steve harrington being completely incapable of keeping his hands off you for seven straight hours
-> body language ☼ body language pt.2 ☾☼
joe meets reader in the middle of a sweaty dance festival crowd and spends the entire night hopelessly drawn to her
-> too hot to handle ☾☼
a record-breaking heatwave leaves steve harrington fighting for survival, armed only with determination, increasingly desperate solutions, and a girlfriend who refuses to have sex with him until the temperature drops
-> windows down ☼
a heatwave leaves steve and reader driving around hawkins at 2am with all the windows down because it's still too hot to sleep
-> honeymoon hazard ☾☼
joe thought the honeymoon would involve sightseeing and relaxation. instead, it mostly involves him losing his mind every time his new wife walks into the room
-> hold this for me ☼
steve spends an entire summer party inventing reasons to hand you things because he likes it when your hands touch
-> heatwave ☼
a brutal summer heatwave leaves both you and joe sticky, half-dressed, sleep-deprived and increasingly incapable of keeping your hands off each other
-> strawberry picking ☼
between strawberry fields, stolen glances, and a pair of tiny denim shorts, steve harrington realises he might be having the perfect summer day
-> above the city ☼
when the apartment becomes too hot to sleep in, joe decides the rooftop is a much better idea. somewhere between city lights, old conversations and a blanket that definitely isn't big enough, neither of you notices yourselves falling asleep
-> stay in the shade ☼
steve spends one afternoon discovering you have no sense of self-preservation, which means following you around with water, sunscreen and increasingly specific instructions not to walk directly into the blazing sun
-> freckles ☼
every summer, steve's freckles come back. and every summer, his girlfriend falls a little bit more in love with them
Summary: Steve expects just another birthday. Instead, he discovers he's spent years building himself the family he'd always dreamed of.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, hurt/comfort, mentions of a neglectful childhood (steve's), found family, angst, everyone loves steve harrington (lmk if i missed anything)
A/N: pls blame jess (@holawdw) for the emotional damage 😭😭 thank you SO much for giving me this idea and then spending several days screaming about it with me in dms because i genuinely don't think i would've written this without you. i knew the second you said it that this had to become a fic. i really hope i did your beautiful idea justice. thank you for trusting me with it, and thank you for emotionally ruining both me and steve 🫶
W/C: 8k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!
You wake before Steve does.
The curtains are still only half-lit, the early morning sun filtering through the gaps in soft bands of gold that stretch lazily across the bedroom floor. Outside, Hawkins hasn't quite decided to wake up yet. Somewhere in the distance a lawnmower coughs into life before giving up again, birds chatter noisily from the oak tree outside the window, and the whole house sits in that strange, peaceful quiet that only exists before the rest of the world remembers itself.
Steve is still asleep beside you, one arm escaped from beneath the duvet during the night, stretched lazily across the mattress until his fingertips brush yours, as though even unconscious he has some quiet need to know you're still there. His hair sticks up in every possible direction, flattened on one side and hopelessly unruly on the other, his face softer in sleep than it ever is when he's awake.
You smile to yourself.
Twenty-three.
It feels impossible somehow - not because twenty-three is particularly old, but because you've spent long enough loving Steve to remember nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Every version of him that existed between those birthdays and this one. Each year he'd grown a little gentler, a little quieter in himself, as though life had slowly been teaching him that he no longer had to carry everything alone.
Carefully, so as not to wake him too suddenly, you lean across and press a kiss against the centre of his forehead.
His nose wrinkles immediately. A low, sleepy groan rumbles somewhere beneath the blankets before one eye cracks open just enough to find you. "...Morning."
"Morning, birthday boy."
His expression falls with almost theatrical disappointment. "...Do I have to get older?"
You laugh quietly. "I'm afraid you don't have much choice."
"I was hoping we could skip this one."
"I'll write to the calendar."
"You think it'd listen?"
"Probably not."
He sighs dramatically before rolling onto his back, staring up at the ceiling with the sort of resignation usually reserved for tax returns and dentist appointments. "...Worth asking."
You reach over to smooth an impossibly stubborn piece of hair away from his forehead. "You know," you say, "most people get excited about their birthday."
Steve hums. "I know."
"You don't."
Another small shrug. "I've just never really been bothered."
He says it so casually that anyone else might have believed him.
But you've known him long enough to understand the difference between someone who doesn't care and someone who learned, very early on, not to expect much in the first place.
Steve never disliked birthdays. That wasn't it. He'd simply stopped allowing himself to build them into something worth looking forward to.
Growing up, they were... fine.
There'd usually be a couple of presents, carefully chosen by parents who knew roughly what an eight-year-old boy ought to like but never quite what their eight-year-old boy actually did. His mother insisted on the same dense, healthy carrot cake every year because she preferred it to chocolate, somehow never stopping to consider that perhaps the birthday boy himself might have had other opinions.
Sometimes his parents were away entirely, leaving him with grandparents or a childminder and promising they'd celebrate properly when they got back. Sometimes they were there, though never really present. A birthday dinner if everyone happened to be home. A quick "happy birthday" over breakfast before somebody rushed off to a meeting. There was never anything cruel about it.
Just... distance.
Nothing bad enough to complain about.
Nothing good enough to miss.
By the time you'd met him, birthdays had become something he accepted with the same quiet indifference he accepted rainy Tuesdays or running out of milk. Nice enough if somebody remembered. Easily forgotten if they didn't.
He catches you looking at him. "What?"
You realise you've been absent-mindedly tracing your thumb across the back of his hand. "Nothing."
"Your face tells me it isn't nothing."
You smile. "I was just thinking."
"Dangerous."
"Oh, absolutely."
He grins, the corners of his eyes creasing in that familiar way that still makes something inside your chest soften. Then, just as quickly, he stretches with another sleepy groan and reaches for his glasses on the bedside table.
"So..." He pushes them onto his nose. "...What's the plan today?"
The question is completely innocent.
There's no expectation behind it. No hopeful curiosity. No excitement. Just the quiet assumption that whatever happened would be perfectly nice, and perfectly ordinary.
You hold his gaze for a moment before leaning across to steal one more kiss.
"Oh," you murmur, smiling against his cheek. "I think you're going to have a very different birthday this year."
Robin is the first to arrive.
You hear her before you see her.
The front door flies open without so much as a knock, followed almost immediately by, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DINGUS."
Steve has barely managed to look up from the mug of coffee in his hands before something rectangular bounces unceremoniously off the side of his head.
"...Ow."
"You're welcome."
He picks the envelope up from the floor, turning it over suspiciously.
Across the front, written entirely in thick black marker, are the words:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DINGUS.
Beneath them, in much smaller handwriting:
Don't let this inflate your ego.
Steve laughs quietly through his nose. "I haven't even opened it yet."
"I know." Robin folds her arms with exaggerated satisfaction. "I just wanted to establish the tone."
You disappear into the kitchen under the pretence of making more coffee, partly because somebody has to rescue breakfast before it burns, and partly because you've known Robin long enough to recognise the expression she's trying very hard to hide.
She's nervous.
Steve, blissfully unaware, slides a finger beneath the flap and unfolds the card.
Silence.
Then another page unfolds.
And another.
Steve blinks. "...Robin."
"What?"
"It's..." He flips another page over. "...Really long."
She shrugs with studied indifference. "I got carried away."
"What did you write?"
"I don't know."
"You wrote it."
"I wasn't paying attention."
He gives her a look.
She refuses to meet it.
You watch him begin reading.
The smile appears immediately, tugging at one corner of his mouth as he reaches the first insult.
Happy Birthday to Hawkins' second-biggest idiot.
Congratulations on somehow surviving another year despite making some of the dumbest decisions I've ever witnessed.
He snorts.
Robin looks insufferably pleased with herself.
Then the smile begins to change.
It softens almost imperceptibly, his eyes moving more slowly across the page now.
You can't read the words from where you're standing, but you know Robin well enough to know exactly what she'll have hidden between the jokes.
She'll have thanked him for making Family Video bearable, for never making her feel like she had to be anyone other than herself, for listening when she came out without making it weird, without asking questions she didn't want to answer, without changing the way he looked at her afterwards. She'll have written about Starcourt. About Russian secret bases and demobats and everything in between. About the fact that, somehow, Steve Harrington had quietly become the safest place she'd ever known.
By the time he reaches the final page, the kitchen has gone strangely quiet. Robin is studying a loose thread on her sleeve with almost academic concentration.
Steve clears his throat before reading the last line aloud, his voice noticeably softer than before. "'Don't get emotional.'" He smiles to himself. "'I'm only saying this once.'"
Robin points at him immediately. "Exactly."
"You literally wrote three pages."
"I know."
"You called me your favourite person."
"I was clearly concussed."
"You said you'd trust me with your life."
"I mean..." She sighs dramatically. "I would."
His smile grows impossibly soft. "You know..." He glances down at the card again. "...Thank you."
Robin groans so loudly you almost laugh. "Ugh."
"What?"
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're about to hug me."
Steve doesn't even pretend to think about it. He simply walks around the table and wraps his arms around her.
Robin lets out the most exaggerated sigh you've ever heard. "This is disgusting."
"You started it."
"I wrote a card."
"You wrote three pages."
"I regret everything."
"No, you don't."
"...No."
She hugs him back anyway. Only for a second. Only because nobody's looking.
Except you absolutely are.
When they finally pull apart, Robin immediately pokes him in the shoulder.
"If you tell anybody I have feelings, I'll deny the whole thing."
Steve laughs. "My lips are sealed."
"They'd better be." She narrows her eyes. "And if you cry..."
"I'm not going to cry."
"You looked dangerously close."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
"I definitely wasn't."
Robin glances towards you. "He was, wasn't he?"
You smile over the rim of your coffee mug. "A little."
"I wasn't."
"You've still got watery eyes."
"It's allergies."
"In February?"
"...Shut up."
The conversation drifts naturally onto something else after that.
Dustin is apparently running late. Robin immediately starts complaining about his inability to tell the time while Steve joins in as though nothing unusual has happened, the two of them slipping back into familiar bickering before Nancy wanders in from the hallway carrying an armful of paper plates, looking between them with a knowing smile. "He's late again?"
Robin throws her hands into the air. "When isn't he?"
The room fills with laughter, and before long the conversation has moved on entirely.
Later, while everyone else is distracted in the kitchen and Robin is attempting to convince Joyce that frozen chips absolutely count as a vegetable, you catch Steve standing alone in the hallway.
The card is open again.
He's reading the third page for a second time, his thumb lingering over the final paragraph before he quietly folds it closed with surprising care. The smile on his face is small, thoughtful, the sort that only ever appears when someone has managed to tell him something he didn't realise he'd needed to hear.
He slips the card carefully back into its envelope.
Not tossed onto the side. Not left amongst the wrapping paper.
Carefully. Like something he already knows he'll keep forever.
Dustin arrives nearly forty minutes late.
He bursts through the front door carrying three different bags, a box of doughnuts, and what appears to be a screwdriver for reasons known only to himself.
"Sorry!" he announces before anybody has the chance to say hello. "The bus was late, the car wouldn't start, and then I had to help my mum move a bookshelf because apparently I'm 'the man of the house now.'"
Robin raises an eyebrow. "...You brought a screwdriver."
"I know."
"Why?"
Dustin looks down at it as though only just noticing it in his own hand. "...Huh."
Steve laughs. "There he is."
Dustin grins, dropping everything onto the kitchen table with considerably more force than necessary. "Happy birthday, old man."
"Thanks."
"You look ancient."
"I'm twenty-three."
"Exactly."
Steve rolls his eyes. "You'll understand one day."
"I'll never be twenty-three."
"You literally will."
"I refuse."
The conversation dissolves into laughter almost immediately.
Nancy is still trying to work out where everyone's coats are supposed to go. Joyce keeps disappearing back to the kitchen because she insists she's forgotten something. Holly trails after Steve, carrying a balloon almost as big as she is, asking if she can help despite clearly having no idea how. Derek is outside trying to light the barbecue with considerably less success than he'd predicted.
After everything that's happened over the last few years, days like this have become strangely precious. Nothing extraordinary. Nobody saving the world. Just everyone existing in the same place at the same time, talking over one another, stealing chips from each other's plates, and interrupting conversations with terrible jokes as though they haven't spent the better part of adolescence fighting monsters together.
More than once, you catch Steve quietly looking around the room.
Not at anything in particular.
Just... everyone.
It makes something warm settle gently inside your chest.
Eventually, as plates begin disappearing into the kitchen, Dustin freezes mid-conversation. "...Oh."
Steve glances up. "What?"
Dustin slaps a hand dramatically against his forehead. "...I forgot your present."
Robin doesn't even look up from her drink. "No, you didn't."
"I did."
"You absolutely didn't."
"I absolutely-" He stops, sighing with theatrical defeat. "...Fine."
Steve laughs. "I knew it."
"You were supposed to believe me."
"I've known you too long."
Dustin disappears into the hallway before returning a moment later, carrying something wrapped in Christmas wrapping paper. It's awkwardly shaped, too large to be a book and too flat to be anything else. Without meeting Steve's eyes, he thrusts it into his hands. "There."
Steve turns it over carefully. "...What's this?"
"I said don't ask questions."
"You literally handed it to me."
"I know."
"Can I open it?"
Dustin rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck. "...Yeah."
The room gradually quietens. Even Mike abandons the card game long enough to look over.
Steve peels the paper back with surprising care, trying not to tear it.
Inside is a thick scrapbook.
The cover is slightly crooked, one corner clearly glued back into place after an unfortunate accident, and across the front, in unmistakably Dustin Henderson handwriting, is written a single word.
STEVE.
Nothing else. Just... Steve.
His smile falters almost immediately.
Slowly, he opens it.
The first page is covered in old cinema tickets from Family Video movie nights.
The second is photographs.
Robin asleep against his shoulder. Lucas laughing so hard at something Steve had said that he's almost falling over. Max pulling a face behind Steve's back while he remains blissfully oblivious. A much younger Dustin wearing Steve's sunglasses, the frames so oversized they practically swallow his face.
Then come the things Steve doesn't even remember keeping.
Campaign maps from old Dungeons & Dragons sessions. Drawings Holly had made years ago that somehow ended up forgotten in his glove compartment. Polaroids. County fair wristbands. Birthday invitations. Receipts. Little scraps of paper everyone else would have thrown away.
One page is filled entirely with handwriting.
Robin's. Nancy's. Lucas's. Mike's. Will's.
Even Erica's, squeezed into one corner with the words:
"Don't let it go to your head, Harrington."
Beneath each name is a tiny memory.
"Steve bought me fries because I forgot my wallet."
"He waited outside my maths exam because he knew I'd panic afterwards."
"Drove us home in a thunderstorm even though he hates driving in the rain."
"He always says yes."
"Best babysitter ever."
Steve turns the next page much more slowly.
His fingertips linger against the edges as though he's frightened of damaging something.
"...Dude." His voice is barely above a whisper.
Dustin shrugs without looking up. "I know."
"You..." Steve lets out one quiet, disbelieving laugh. "...You made this?"
"...Shut up."
"No, seriously."
"It wasn't a big deal."
Robin snorts immediately. "He spent three weeks chasing us for photos."
"I did not."
"You literally made Joyce search her loft."
"That," Dustin points accusingly, "was research."
"And you bullied me into writing two pages."
"You wrote three because you got emotional."
"I did not."
"You absolutely-"
"Shut up, Henderson."
Laughter ripples around the room.
Steve doesn't join in.
He's still turning the pages. Slowly. As though every photograph contains a memory he'd forgotten belonged to him.
Then he stops. Halfway through the book.
You can't see the page from where you're standing.
You only notice the way his expression changes.
His shoulders soften. His eyes linger. His thumb brushes gently across whatever Dustin has glued onto the paper. "...You kept that?"
Dustin finally looks up. "...Yeah."
Steve swallows. "I didn't even know anybody still had it."
Dustin shrugs as though the answer should be obvious. "You don't throw away stuff that matters."
The words are so matter-of-fact that Dustin probably doesn't even realise what he's said.
But the room falls quiet anyway.
Because Steve is looking down at years of little moments he'd long since forgotten.
Movie tickets. Drawings. Receipts. Photographs. Inside jokes. Evidence. Proof that people had been quietly collecting pieces of him long before he'd ever thought to collect pieces of himself.
You watch him blink rapidly once. Then again.
Very carefully, he closes the scrapbook, resting one hand against its cover. "...Thank you."
Dustin clears his throat. "Yeah." A beat. "...Don't cry, dude."
Steve laughs softly, rubbing quickly beneath one eye. "I'm not crying."
Robin doesn't even glance up from her drink. "Third lie of the day."
Another ripple of laughter breaks the silence, the conversation slowly picking back up around him. But you notice something Steve doesn't seem aware he's doing.
He never lets go of the scrapbook.
Every time somebody shifts it to make room on the table, his hand finds it again almost instinctively, fingertips resting lightly against the cover as though he's quietly reassuring himself that it's still there.
The presents continue throughout the afternoon, though calling them presents hardly feels accurate anymore. Some are wrapped carefully, others arrive in supermarket carrier bags or with the price stickers hastily scratched away, and none of them are particularly expensive. None of them need to be. Somewhere between Robin's card and Dustin's scrapbook, the day has quietly stopped being about gifts at all; instead, it becomes a long series of people finding their own ways to tell Steve Harrington that they love him.
Lucas is next. He hands Steve a neatly wrapped box with a shrug that tries very hard to look casual, though he watches far too closely as Steve begins peeling back the paper. "It's not a big deal."
Steve smiles. "It didn't have to be."
Inside is a new baseball glove, the leather still stiff and untouched. Steve hadn't asked for one, but Lucas had noticed weeks ago that the stitching was beginning to unravel on the old glove he used whenever he played with the kids.
"You remembered," Steve says, turning it carefully in his hands.
Lucas looks almost confused. "Well... yeah."
"You noticed that?"
"You use it every week."
A quiet laugh escapes Steve. "I didn't think anybody was paying attention."
"Steve." Lucas shakes his head as though the answer should be obvious. "We notice everything."
Steve looks down again, his thumb moving slowly across the smooth leather before he thanks him with one of those small, genuine smiles that always reaches his eyes. Across the garden, Erica loudly informs Derek that the new glove still won't make Steve any less terrible at baseball, prompting Lucas to shout something defensive on his behalf while Steve laughs and calls them both ungrateful.
Max wanders over a few minutes later carrying nothing but a dog-eared paperback she'd spent the last month insisting he needed to read.
"You keep stealing mine," she says, pushing it into his hands. "Now you have your own."
Steve turns the book over. "I thought you liked lending them to me."
"I don't. I like getting them back eventually."
"I always return them."
"After six months."
"They're long books."
"They're four hundred pages."
"I'm a slow reader."
"I know." Her mouth twitches despite herself, but the amusement fades as she hesitates, scuffing the toe of her trainer against the grass. "...Thanks, though."
Steve blinks. "For what?"
"For always treating me like..." She pauses, searching for something precise enough. "...Just me. You never acted like I was broken."
His smile softens immediately. "You aren't."
"I know." Max shrugs one shoulder, suddenly fascinated by the book in his hands. "You just made it easier to remember."
She bumps her shoulder against his before walking away, leaving Steve watching after her for a moment before his attention drops back to the paperback. Nearby, Will quietly makes room for her beside him on the patio steps, neither of them saying anything as she steals a crisp from his plate.
Nancy catches Steve later while he's helping Joyce carry a tray of drinks into the garden. She slips a small envelope into his pocket so discreetly that nobody else notices. "Open it later."
He raises an eyebrow. "Secret?"
"I'd rather Robin didn't make fun of me."
"Fair."
When you find him reading it alone in the hallway a little while later, you discover it isn't really a birthday card at all. It's a letter, short enough to fit on half a page but written with the sort of care that makes every sentence feel deliberate. Nancy thanks him for always showing up, for never once asking whether somebody deserved saving before trying anyway, and for reminding her that kindness and courage were never mutually exclusive.
She ends simply:
The world is better because you're in it.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Jonathan doesn't write anything. That wouldn't be him.
Instead, while everyone mills around the garden balancing paper plates and cups of lemonade, he quietly hands Steve a photograph he'd developed himself. It was taken the previous summer, though nobody had realised Jonathan was holding a camera that afternoon. Steve is sitting on the grass with Holly asleep against one shoulder while Joyce is topping up everybody's drinks without asking. Will is showing Max one of his sketches, Mike is laughing at something beyond the frame, and El is lying flat on the grass looking at clouds.
You aren't looking at the camera either.
You're looking at Steve, smiling in that completely unconscious way people only ever do when they don't know they're being watched.
On the back, Jonathan has written a single sentence.
You always make it feel like home.
Steve stares at it for a long time. "...You took this?"
Jonathan nods. "You looked happy."
"I was."
"I know."
A quiet, bewildered laugh leaves Steve as he looks around the garden. Nancy is collecting empty plates; meanwhile, Robin is stealing chips off them before they can be picked up and taken into the kitchen. Everyone is talking over everyone else. Nobody is paying Steve any particular attention anymore.
The celebration has simply become itself.
"...You all remembered," he says, his voice nearly lost beneath the noise.
Jonathan studies him for a moment before giving the smallest shake of his head. "No."
Steve frowns. "What?"
"We didn't just remember." Jonathan glances towards the garden. "We wanted to."
It's such an ordinary sentence, spoken so quietly it almost disappears beneath the laughter drifting through the open door, but you watch something shift inside Steve anyway.
All day, some part of him has been waiting for somebody to admit they felt obligated; that birthdays are merely something decent people acknowledge because convention tells them to. Instead, every person keeps offering him the same truth in a different form.
Not simply happy birthday, but:
I'm glad you're here.
You make things better.
Life would look different without you.
And, perhaps for the first time in his life, Steve doesn't quite know what to do with the possibility that every one of them genuinely means it.
By the time the sun begins dipping behind the trees, the garden has dissolved into the sort of comfortable chaos that always seems to follow this particular group of people. Dustin and Erica have started teaching Holly a card game that she keeps accidentally cheating at. Mike and Lucas are throwing around a football, while El keeps spectacularly missing the catches and laughing anyway. Hopper has claimed the garden chair furthest from the noise with the determination of a man pretending not to enjoy himself, and Jonathan wanders quietly between them with his camera, capturing moments nobody else seems to notice.
Joyce, meanwhile, has somehow produced enough food to cater for an entire wedding.
Steve stands in the kitchen doorway, staring at the dining table. "...Joyce."
She looks up from the casserole she's carrying. "Hm?"
"There's enough food here to feed about thirty people."
"I know."
"There are, like, twelve of us."
"I know."
He gestures helplessly towards the mountain of dishes covering every available surface. "How did you even make all this?"
Joyce shrugs as though she'd thrown together a sandwich rather than enough food to sustain Hawkins through the winter. "I got carried away."
Robin wanders past and steals a roast potato straight from the tray. "She always gets carried away."
"I heard that."
"I wanted you to."
Steve laughs, shaking his head. "This is ridiculous."
Joyce smiles without looking up. "I know."
Nobody goes hungry when Joyce Byers is involved. Plates are filled faster than they're emptied, second helpings appear before anyone has the chance to refuse them, and every attempt to help clear away is met with a gentle but immovable, "Sit down. I've got it."
Steve tries anyway. Of course he does.
He appears beside Joyce with an armful of empty plates before she's even reached the sink. "I can help."
"I know." She takes them from him. "But today's your birthday."
"I don't mind."
"I know." She smiles at him over the top of the washing-up bowl. "So let somebody look after you for once."
The words are spoken so casually they almost disappear beneath the rush of running water, but you see Steve pause.
Only for a second.
Later, after dinner has dissolved into coffee, cake and half a dozen conversations happening at once, you wander back into the kitchen in search of more plates and find Joyce standing at the counter surrounded by plastic containers. She fills one, then another, then another: pasta, roast potatoes, slices of pie, enough leftovers to feed two people for the better part of a week.
Steve wanders in behind you just as she's clipping the lid onto the final container. "...Joyce?"
"Hm?"
"What's all this?"
She looks at him as though the answer is obvious. "Your dinners."
"My..."
"You work long shifts." She stacks another container neatly on top. "And I know you'll forget to cook for yourself if I don't send you home with something."
Steve laughs softly. "You don't have to do that."
"I know."
"You've already fed all of us."
"I know."
"This is too much."
Joyce finally stops what she's doing, placing both hands on the lid of the last container before sliding the entire stack towards him. "You'll take these."
He hesitates. "I don't need-"
"I wasn't asking."
There's no sharpness to it, no irritation, only the gentle certainty of someone who has spent years making sure the people she loves never leave her house hungry.
Steve looks down at the containers, then back at Joyce, and something shifts across his face so quickly that, had you not been watching for it all day, you might have missed it.
Recognition.
Not of the food.
Of the feeling.
Joyce has done this before: when he'd arrived after a shift looking exhausted, when he'd spent too many evenings helping the kids instead of himself, when she'd quietly wrapped slices of lasagne in foil because she'd "made too much again," despite everyone knowing perfectly well she'd cooked extra on purpose.
You realise, with a sudden ache beneath your ribs, that she has been mothering Steve for years. Neither of them has ever said it aloud. Neither of them has needed to.
Joyce notices his silence. "What?"
Steve blinks, almost startled back into the room. "...Nothing."
"You've got that look where you're thinking too hard."
A small smile finds him. "I was just..." He glances down at the containers again. "...Nobody's ever packed me leftovers before."
The kitchen falls unexpectedly quiet.
Joyce's expression softens almost imperceptibly. "Oh, sweetheart." She reaches out without hesitation, smoothing an affectionate hand over his shoulder as though she's done it a hundred times before. "Well." Another gentle squeeze. "They do now."
Steve doesn't answer. He only nods once, swallowing a little too hard before carefully carrying the stack across the kitchen and opening the fridge. He rearranges half the shelves to make room, setting each container inside with absurd precision before closing the door as though he's placing something valuable somewhere safe.
They're only leftovers. A few plastic tubs that will probably become lunch before work tomorrow.
But as you watch his hand linger briefly on the fridge handle, you realise they were never really about food at all. They were proof that somebody had been thinking about tomorrow on his behalf.
For someone who'd spent most of his life quietly taking care of everyone else, that might just have been the greatest gift he'd received all day.
When he finally wanders back outside, the evening has settled into that soft golden hour where everything seems to slow down. Fairy lights strung between the fence posts have begun to glow faintly against the darkening sky, somebody has started another pot of coffee, and the birthday cake sits half-demolished in the middle of the table, one candle still stubbornly refusing to go out despite Robin's repeated attempts to blow it over with exaggerated determination.
You lean against the kitchen doorway for a moment, simply watching.
Steve barely makes it back onto the patio before Dustin catches him again, insisting he absolutely has to see the scrapbook page he'd forgotten to point out earlier. Mike throws a crisp at him. Lucas joins in without even asking what they're arguing about. Max rolls her eyes so dramatically you're surprised they don't disappear entirely.
And through it all...
Steve laughs.
Not the polite laugh he gives customers. Not the awkward one he used to force whenever his parents invited colleagues over for dinner.
This one is different.
Loose. Easy. It belongs here.
You don't think he'd even realised the difference.
Not until today.
Hopper chooses his moment carefully.
He waits until Steve wanders away from the noise with another cup of coffee, escaping towards the edge of the garden where the old oak tree throws long shadows across the grass. It's the sort of place Steve always drifts towards when everything gets a little too loud - not because he dislikes the company, but because he's always needed a minute to breathe between moments.
Hopper follows a few seconds later.
Not obviously.
You watch from the patio without saying anything.
Steve hears the footsteps and glances over his shoulder. "Oh. Hey."
Hopper grunts something that could generously be interpreted as a greeting before stopping beside him.
For a while, neither of them says anything.
They simply stand shoulder to shoulder, looking out across the garden while laughter drifts faintly behind them. Joyce is gathering empty mugs onto a tray. Nancy is folding paper napkins that don't really need folding. Robin has somehow persuaded Holly to help blow bubbles across the garden while Dustin insists bubbles are scientifically impossible to catch.
Steve smiles into his coffee. "...Nice day."
Hopper nods once. "Yeah."
Silence settles again.
Not uncomfortable. Just... Hopper.
Eventually, he clears his throat. "Happy birthday."
Steve looks faintly surprised. "Oh." A small smile appears. "...Thanks."
Another long pause passes, and you almost wonder whether that's going to be the entire conversation.
Then Hopper speaks again, his eyes still fixed somewhere out across the garden. "You've done good."
Steve frowns. "What?"
"The kids."
A shrug. "They're good kids."
"They are." Hopper nods slowly. "They're better because you're around."
Steve's expression changes almost imperceptibly.
Hopper keeps talking before he has the chance to interrupt. "I've seen the way they look at you." Only then does he turn his head. "They trust you."
Steve opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
"You didn't have to keep showing up." Hopper's voice is as gruff as ever. "Nobody asked you to." Another pause. "But you did."
Steve looks down at the coffee cup in his hands. "I just..." A quiet laugh escapes him. "...They needed somebody."
"They did." Hopper nods once. "They got you."
For a moment, neither of them moves.
The sounds of the party carry on behind them as though nothing extraordinary is happening. Someone starts another round of Happy Birthday purely to annoy Steve. Robin groans loudly enough for the entire neighbourhood to hear.
Steve laughs automatically.
His eyes, however, have become suspiciously bright.
Hopper notices.
Naturally.
He pretends not to.
Instead, he reaches out, giving Steve's shoulder one firm, awkward squeeze before offering his hand.
Steve blinks. "...Really?"
"What?"
"The handshake."
"I'm trying."
Steve laughs through the thickness in his throat. "I know."
He takes Hopper's hand.
The handshake lasts barely two seconds.
It's probably the closest Hopper has ever come to saying I'm proud of you.
When he lets go, he clears his throat. "Don't make it weird."
"I wasn't gonna."
"You were thinkin' about it."
"...Maybe."
Hopper points back towards the house. "Go enjoy your party."
Steve smiles. "...Yeah."
He watches Hopper wander back towards the others before letting his gaze drift across the garden.
Robin has somehow ended up with Holly asleep against her shoulder despite loudly insisting children "smell weird". Joyce is packing slices of cake into foil while Nancy labels the containers before anyone can forget whose is whose. Lucas and Mike have wandered to the end of the garden with a football, Jonathan is crouched beside the flowerbed trying to photograph a butterfly Holly spotted, and Erica is shamelessly raiding the snack table one last time before anybody notices.
You catch Steve's eye from across the lawn.
He smiles at you.
Not because anything funny has happened. Not because he's trying to.
Simply because, for perhaps the first time all day, he's beginning to understand what every single person has been trying to tell him.
He hadn't just been thrown a birthday party.
He was home.
By the time the last of the washing up has been stacked beside the sink, the house has settled into a gentler kind of noise.
The loud laughter has softened into quieter conversations, and the music drifting from the old radio has become little more than background static. Through the kitchen doorway you can still see everyone scattered comfortably around the house, no longer celebrating in any organised sense of the word, simply... staying.
Robin has somehow ended up half-curled across one end of the sofa, arguing lazily with Max over what film everyone should watch before they eventually leave. El sits cross-legged on the rug with Mike, the two of them still passionately debating something that nobody else is listening to anymore, while Will quietly contributes the occasional comment that neither of them acknowledges. Joyce is wrapping the last slices of birthday cake in foil, Hopper pretending not to help while hovering close enough to hand her the tape every few minutes without ever admitting that's exactly what he's doing. Holly has fallen asleep against Nancy's side, Jonathan is carefully packing away his camera, and Erica is wandering through the living room helping herself to whatever snacks everyone else has forgotten about.
Nobody seems in any hurry to go home. Nobody seems to want the day to end.
Steve stands beside you at the sink, drying the final plate with considerably more concentration than the task really requires.
He's been quieter ever since Hopper wandered back inside. Not unhappy. Just... Thoughtful.
You hand him another plate, and he dries it automatically before speaking into the comfortable silence. "...I don't get it."
You glance sideways. "What don't you get?"
A quiet laugh escapes him, though it carries none of its usual ease. "Today." He runs the tea towel slowly around the edge of the plate. "They all..." He trails off, searching for words. "...They actually wanted to come."
The sentence settles heavily between you. Not because of what he's saying. Because of what he's accidentally revealing.
You wait.
He keeps looking down at the plate in his hands. "I know birthdays are..." He shrugs awkwardly. "People feel like they have to come, right? You buy a present. You sing. You eat cake." Another small shrug. "It's just... what people do."
You lean your hip against the counter. "Is that what you think today was?"
"I don't know." His smile is almost embarrassed. "It didn't feel like that."
"No."
"They weren't just doing birthday stuff."
"No."
He looks through the doorway towards the living room, where Robin has thrown another cushion at Dustin, Lucas catches it before it reaches him, and Joyce laughs so hard she has to steady herself against the arm of the sofa. "...They were celebrating me."
You smile. "They were."
He looks back at you, his brow creasing slightly. "I've never..." The sentence never reaches the end. Instead, he laughs quietly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "...I don't think I've ever had that before."
Your heart aches. Not because he's upset. Because he says it with such genuine surprise, as though the possibility had never once occurred to him.
You reach for his hand. "C'mere."
He follows without question.
You lead him slowly through the house without saying anything, simply letting him look.
Nancy is gently lifting Holly so she doesn't wake her. Hopper is quietly locking the back door, while Joyce wraps up slices of cake in individual napkins. Jonathan is wiping down camera lenses, Mike has drifted asleep in the armchair, and El gently covers him with a blanket. Robin is trying to convince Max that one more film won't kill anyone, despite half the room already falling asleep, while Erica is counting how much birthday cake she's managed to smuggle home.
Nobody's performing anymore. The party is over. This is simply what remains. People comfortable enough to exist in one another's spaces without needing a reason.
Steve watches them quietly. "They're still here."
"Mhm."
"They don't have to be."
"No."
"They've all got homes."
"They do."
He looks around again, confusion softening into something quieter. "So why..."
People who had arrived separately, from entirely different corners of his life, and somehow fit together now. People who, before him, had never all belonged in the same room.
"You spent years looking after everyone because you thought that's what made you useful."
His eyes meet yours.
"You drove them everywhere. You showed up. You fixed things. You carried everyone else's worries until they stopped feeling so heavy."
He nods slowly. "I thought..."
"I know." You step closer, your thumb brushing gently across his knuckles. "But somewhere along the way... they stopped needing you because of what you did."
His brow furrows.
"They stayed because of who you are."
The words seem to settle somewhere deep inside him.
"You became loved long before you even noticed."
For a long moment he simply looks at you.
Then his eyes begin to shine again.
You smile softly. "I've still got one more present."
He blinks. "You do?"
"Mhm."
You disappear upstairs for barely a minute before returning with something wrapped carefully in plain brown paper and tied with twine.
Steve laughs quietly. "I thought we'd finished."
"We had." You place it gently into his hands. "This one's different."
He unwraps it slowly.
Inside is a dark leather-bound photo album.
No title. No ribbon.
Just his name, pressed carefully into the cover in tiny gold letters.
Steve.
He opens it.
The first page isn't a photograph.
Just a single sentence:
You spend so much of your life looking after everybody else.
He turns the page.
Steve teaching Dustin how to drive. Steve asleep on the sofa with Holly curled against his chest. Robin laughing so hard she's crying while Steve looks completely bewildered. Max stealing chips from his plate. Lucas teaching him a ridiculous handshake. Jonathan catching him mid-laugh behind the camera. Joyce handing him another plate of food. Hopper clapping him awkwardly on the shoulder.
You.
All of them.
Beneath each photograph you've written a single line.
Not describing the picture.
Describing what it meant:
The day Dustin stopped needing a babysitter and started needing a brother.
The first time Robin laughed like she wasn't afraid anymore.
The afternoon you accidentally became Holly's favourite person.
He keeps turning the pages until he reaches the last one.
There are only six words:
Home isn't always somewhere you arrive.
He turns one final page:
Sometimes it's something you build.
Nothing else.
Steve doesn't realise he's crying until a tear lands quietly on the paper.
He lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, shaking his head. "...Honey."
Very gently, you close the album beneath his hands.
"So..." You smile. "Happy birthday."
He looks at you for a long moment.
Then, without saying a single word, he wraps both arms around you.
Not because he doesn't know what to say.
Because, for perhaps the first time in his life... being loved has left Steve Harrington completely speechless.
By the time the two of you finally climb into bed, the house has fallen completely silent.
The fairy lights outside the bedroom window still glow faintly against the darkness, casting soft pools of amber across the ceiling, and somewhere downstairs the dishwasher hums steadily through the last traces of the evening. Steve's birthday cards are stacked neatly on the dresser, Robin's sitting proudly on top, still slightly bent where she'd thrown it at his head that morning.
The leather photo album rests beside them.
Closed now, but not put away.
You curl instinctively beneath the duvet, expecting exhaustion to pull you under almost immediately after such a long day.
It doesn't.
Some time later, you wake to find Steve still lying beside you, exactly where he'd been when you fell asleep. Only now his eyes are open, fixed quietly on the ceiling, his hands folded loosely across his stomach as though he's trying to untangle a thought that's been sitting with him for hours.
"...Hey."
He turns his head. "Oh." His voice is barely above a whisper. "Sorry."
"You don't have to apologise for existing."
A tired smile appears. "I know."
You roll onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow. "What're you thinking about?"
For a while, he doesn't answer. The silence between the two of you has never needed filling.
Eventually, he lets out a quiet breath. "...When I was little..." He laughs softly to himself. "...I always wished I'd grown up with a big family."
The confession catches you off guard. He keeps looking at the ceiling.
"I used to imagine one of those really noisy houses. People everywhere. Dinner all squashed around one table. Too many birthdays. Too many Christmas presents." He smiles faintly at the thought before it fades again. "I don't know... I just thought it'd be nice."
You reach across the mattress until your fingers find his. He threads them through yours automatically.
"I thought..." He swallows. "...I thought I'd missed my chance."
You shake your head. "No."
For the first time since he started talking, he turns to look at you. "No?"
"You didn't miss it."
His brow furrows.
"You built it."
A quiet, disbelieving laugh escapes him. "I don't..."
"You've got Robin. Dustin. Lucas. Max. Mike. Will. El. Erica." You smile gently. "Nancy. Jonathan. Joyce. Hopper. Holly." You pause. "And me."
His eyes soften.
"They're your family, Steve."
He looks away again. "They..."
"They are."
"I know they care about me, but-"
"No." You squeeze his hand before he can disappear back into old habits. "They don't love you because you drove them everywhere. They don't love you because you babysat them. They don't love you because you fixed every problem before anyone else even noticed it."
You think back over the day.
Robin's card. Dustin's scrapbook. Jonathan's photograph. Joyce quietly packing tomorrow's dinner before Steve had even thought about feeding himself. Hopper, standing beneath the oak tree, trying to say I'm proud of you without ever using the words.
"They love you because you're Steve."
The room falls quiet again.
"You spent years believing people only stayed because you made yourself useful."
His eyes glisten.
"But somewhere along the way..." You smile. "...they stayed anyway."
He lets out one small, disbelieving laugh. "...When did that happen?"
"I honestly don't think anybody knows."
You think about Dustin, twelve years old, following Steve everywhere. Robin slowly deciding she could trust him. Joyce wrapping leftovers in foil because she'd quietly started expecting him for dinner. Holly climbing into his lap without asking.
None of it had happened all at once.
There wasn't a single moment where strangers became family.
It happened on ordinary Tuesdays. On lifts home from school. Movie nights. Late-night phone calls. Shared meals. Inside jokes.
One quiet act of kindness after another until, somehow, nobody could remember a version of life that didn't include Steve Harrington standing somewhere in the middle of it.
"It just..." Your thumb brushes gently across his knuckles. "...Kept happening."
His breathing catches.
You nod gently towards the bedroom door, beyond which the cards, photographs and carefully stacked leftovers still wait downstairs.
"If every single person chose to spend today celebrating you..." Your voice is barely louder than the rain-soft silence outside. "...it's because every single one of them can't imagine their life without you in it."
For a long time, he doesn't speak.
His breathing catches once. Then again.
He laughs quietly through the tears gathering in his eyes. "...You're really laying it on thick for a birthday."
"I know."
"You trying to make me cry?"
You smile, brushing the same stubborn strand of hair away from his forehead that you'd smoothed back that morning. "No." A gentle kiss against his temple. "I'm just telling you the truth."
Something inside him finally gives way.
Not dramatically. There are no great sobs. No speeches.
Just one quiet exhale that seems to carry years of loneliness away with it.
A tear slips silently down his cheek. Then another.
Without saying a word, he turns towards you and buries his face against your neck exactly as though that's where he'd always belonged.
You wrap your arms around him instinctively, your fingers disappearing into his hair as he lets himself be held. Completely.
For perhaps the first time in his life, Steve Harrington doesn't apologise for crying.
He doesn't explain it away. He simply allows someone else to carry the weight for a little while.
You press one last kiss into his hair. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."
His reply is almost lost against your shoulder. "...Best one I've ever had."
You close your eyes, holding him a little tighter as the fairy lights continue glowing softly beyond the bedroom window.
This morning he'd asked if he could skip his birthday.
Now, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing against your chest, you realise birthdays were never really supposed to celebrate surviving another year.
Sometimes they're simply an excuse for everybody who loves you to remind you how very glad they are that you did.
since summer is over for some regions, can u pls write a cuddly fluff or smut with joe in rainy weather 💔
ahhh i LOVE this idea!! rainy weather fics have such a special place in my heart <3
i actually have a rainy day joe fic already called [the world can wait], so if you like this one then i'd definitely recommend giving that one a read!! it's all pancakes, blanket forts, tea and spending the entire day hiding from the weather together
BUTTTT i don't think there's any rule saying i can only write one rainy joe fic 🤭 i already have a completely different rainy-day idea brewing... thank you so much for sending it in!! x
after the rain
Joe Keery x reader
Summary: Joe convinces you not to run from the rain. Mostly because it gives him an excuse to be the one to warm you up afterwards.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, showering together, soft joe keery, comfort fic (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 8.4k (sue me)
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!
By the time the first raindrop lands on your hand, you're convinced you've still got another hour.
You stop walking automatically, lifting your palm towards the sky. One perfect bead of water sits in the centre of it, catching the last of the evening light before sliding slowly across your skin and disappearing between your fingers.
"...Joe."
"Hm?"
"It wasn't supposed to rain yet."
He glances up from whatever story he'd been telling - something about migratory birds, you think. You'd been listening, mostly. Enough to know they can somehow navigate using the Earth's magnetic field, though you'd admittedly become distracted by the simple comfort of walking beside him, your fingers threaded loosely together, his thumb absent-mindedly tracing slow circles over your knuckles.
He squints at the sky. "Huh."
"Huh?"
"I think you might be right."
"You think?"
A second raindrop lands on your shoulder. Then another against your cheek.
The lane stretches quietly ahead, winding between hedgerows just beginning to bronze at the edges. The air still carries the last warmth of the day, but it's different now - cooler, sharper, smelling faintly of damp earth before the rain has even properly arrived.
Home isn't far. Through a gap in the trees, you can just make out the chimney of the cottage.
You squeeze his hand. "We should hurry."
Joe looks towards the cottage. Then back at the sky. "I think we've left it a little late."
As though the weather has been waiting for permission, the rain arrives all at once.
Not a drizzle. Not a polite shower. A proper autumn downpour.
You let out a small yelp as icy water immediately finds the back of your neck. "Joe!"
"I'm aware."
"Run!"
He laughs. Actually laughs. Not because he's laughing at you, but because somewhere in his strange little brain this has immediately become the highlight of his week. "...Why?"
You stare at him. "What do you mean, why?"
"We're already soaked."
You glance down. Your sleeves are already dark with rain, water dripping from the end of your nose. His curls have collapsed across his forehead, his glasses speckled with droplets he makes absolutely no attempt to wipe away.
"...Joe."
"What?"
"We're getting drenched."
"I know."
"We'll freeze."
"We probably won't."
"You have no survival instincts."
"I have optimism."
"It objectively isn't the same thing."
He just smiles. The same smile that's talked you into midnight drives, swimming in lakes that were far too cold, buying a telescope because "what if Saturn's visible?", adopting the elderly cat everyone else overlooked at the shelter, and taking the longer route home simply because the sunset looked prettier that way.
After all these years together, you've learned there's almost always a moment where you have a choice.
You can keep insisting on the sensible option. Or you can take his hand.
The rain drums harder against the gravel lane, soaking through both your coats with alarming efficiency. Somewhere overhead, thunder rumbles softly.
Joe steps closer.
"If you want to run," he says gently, "we'll run."
No teasing. No convincing. Just the offer.
His hand stays exactly where it is between you. "I mean it."
You look from his outstretched hand to the cottage waiting further down the lane.
Then back to him.
He's already soaked through, rain running down the bridge of his nose, and somehow he's still smiling with that same quiet patience he always has, as though either decision would genuinely make him happy, provided you're making it together.
You don't know exactly when loving him stopped feeling like something dramatic and became something quieter.
Something built out of shared grocery lists, Sunday mornings, forgotten shopping bags, brushing your teeth side by side, and conversations about birds that you only half listen to because you prefer listening to his voice.
Maybe that's what love looks like after years together.
Not fireworks. Familiarity. The freedom to be entirely yourself.
You let out a long breath.
Then, despite every sensible instinct you've ever possessed, you leave your hand exactly where it is.
Joe's grin spreads slowly across his face. "I was hoping you'd say that."
Before you can ask what he means, he laces his fingers through yours, steps backwards into the rain, and gently tugs you after him.
The first puddle is entirely his fault.
You make it perhaps another twenty feet down the lane before Joe deliberately steps straight into one, sending a fan of icy water over both your jeans.
You gasp. "Joseph."
"What?"
"You did that on purpose."
"I absolutely did."
"You are thirty-four years old."
"And?"
"And you're splashing puddles."
He glances down at the water, then back at you with complete sincerity. "...Yeah."
Another splash. This one catches your trainers.
You stare at him. "Oh, that's dangerous."
"What?"
"You've made an enemy now."
His eyebrows lift. "Is that right?"
Before he can react, you swing your own foot through the next puddle, sending a wave of water crashing into his shins.
For a second he simply looks down at himself. Then he laughs. Really laughs. The kind that bends him slightly at the waist before he gives up trying to brush the rain from his face because there's simply too much of it.
"There's that smile."
"What smile?"
"The one you've had for the last thirty seconds."
You hadn't even realised. Your cheeks already ache from it.
He reaches for your hand again as naturally as breathing, and the two of you fall back into step beneath the steadily worsening rain. The fields beyond the hedgerows blur into soft grey, mist beginning to lift from the earth as another flock of birds wheels somewhere overhead before disappearing into the storm.
"You know," Joe says after a while, "I think people forget how to do this."
"Walk?"
"Get rained on."
You snort. "I don't think they forget."
"I do." He glances sideways at you. "When you're little, rain's exciting."
"You also eat mud."
"Exactly."
"...That's not helping your point."
"My point is..." He pauses, searching for the words. "Kids don't spend half the day worrying about whether their clothes are dry, or whether their hair looks alright. They just... exist in it."
You look down at your soaked jumper. Mascara is probably halfway down your face. Your hair has long since given up pretending to stay in place.
You should care. You don't.
Somewhere between arguing about puddles and watching Joe grin at the rain like he'd personally arranged it, you'd quietly stopped.
"I don't actually remember the last time I stood in the rain on purpose," you admit.
"I thought that might be true."
He comes to a stop in the middle of the lane and turns towards you, holding out both hands. "Come here."
You narrow your eyes. "I don't trust that face."
"It's a perfectly trustworthy face."
"It isn't."
"I've had this face my entire life."
"And I've known it long enough to recognise when you're about to do something."
He laughs. "Fair."
You place your hands in his anyway. Rain streams steadily from his curls as he smiles at you, warm despite the cold, before gently pulling you towards him.
"What are you-"
He spins you. It's barely one full turn, but your laugh escapes before you can stop it.
"Joe!"
"What?"
"You absolutely planned that!"
"I absolutely did."
"You-"
He spins you again. This time you don't even pretend to complain.
The lane is empty. The fields are empty. The whole world has dissolved into rain and soft autumn light until it feels as though the two of you are the only people left in it, turning clumsily together in the middle of nowhere while your laughter disappears into the storm.
When he finally lets go, you're slightly breathless, your forehead resting against his shoulder.
"I hate when you're right."
"I know."
"You were unbearably smug."
"I was quietly confident."
"That's just smug in nicer words."
He kisses the top of your rain-soaked head. "Maybe."
You stay there for another minute, listening to the rain drum steadily around you, until a sharp gust of wind slips beneath your damp jumper and sends a shiver through your whole body.
Joe feels it immediately. His arms tighten around you. "...Okay," he says, sounding almost disappointed. "Maybe now we should go home."
You lean back just enough to look at him. "I told you."
"I know."
"I specifically said we'd freeze."
"I know."
"And you laughed."
"I did."
"And?"
He sighs with theatrical reluctance. "...I may have slightly underestimated the weather."
"Slightly?"
He reaches for your hand again. "Come on."
"What happened to 'we're already soaked'?"
"Oh, we absolutely still are."
"Then why are we leaving?"
His grin returns. "Because now I get to warm you up."
You roll your eyes, but let him lead you back down the lane anyway, your shoes squelching in perfect rhythm beside his.
And somehow, despite the rain still pouring from the sky and the fact that you can no longer feel your fingertips, the walk home becomes your favourite part of the evening.
By the time the cottage comes into view, the novelty has well and truly worn off.
Your trainers squelch with every step, your jumper clings stubbornly to your skin, and you're fairly certain you've reached the point where being wet has become less of a sensation and more of a permanent state of existence.
Joe glances sideways at you. "You alright?"
"I'm considering divorcing you."
He laughs. "We're not married."
"Details."
"You still love me."
"I do." A beat. "But I'm also freezing."
"...Yeah."
The front door barely has time to swing shut behind you before you both start laughing again.
Water drips steadily from your clothes onto the wooden floorboards as you kick off your trainers with considerably less grace than you'd like, one skidding halfway down the hallway. Joe peels off his own jacket, hangs both of them over the banister, then looks down at the growing puddle around your feet.
You shake your head. "I'll get towels."
"I'll make tea."
"Builder's?"
"You know me so well."
"I should hope so."
By the time you come back downstairs with an armful of towels and dry clothes, the kettle is already boiling and Joe is crouched in front of the fireplace, coaxing the first flames back to life.
"You started the fire?"
Without looking up, he shrugs. "You looked cold."
"I am cold."
"I noticed."
He always does.
It isn't dramatic anymore, the way he cares for you. It lives in quieter places than grand declarations ever could; mugs of tea appearing before you've realised you wanted one, phone chargers packed because he knows you'll forget yours, favourite biscuits somehow finding their way into the trolley. Years together have turned love into instinct.
He stands, brushing ash from his hands before taking one of the towels from your arms. "C'mere."
You step towards him automatically. The towel settles over your head before you can protest, his hands rubbing gently through your hair until a reluctant laugh escapes you.
"Joe."
"What?"
"I'm perfectly capable of drying my own hair."
"I know." The towel slows, his fingers brushing lightly across the back of your neck where the rain has left your skin icy. "But you don't have to."
Your hands come up almost without thinking, catching his wrists.
"What?"
"Nothing." You laugh quietly, leaning your forehead against his chest. "I just love you."
His arms fold around you without hesitation, towel and all. "I know."
"So arrogant."
"You tell me every day."
"I do."
"And I believe you every single time."
The words settle somewhere deep inside you. Simple. Matter-of-fact. As though believing you're loved is the easiest thing in the world.
Another shiver works through you. Joe feels it immediately. He leans back just enough to look at you. "Still freezing?"
You nod. "A little."
"I've got an idea." He reaches for the hem of your damp jumper. "I think we should probably get you out of these wet clothes."
You stand in the bedroom doorway, both dripping, both grinning, your breath still coming in uneven pulls from the final sprint across the garden. The hallway behind you holds the chill of the autumn night, but the bedroom is still warm - the woodstove's residual heat pressing against your rain-cooled skin like a slow exhale.
Joe shakes his head, sending droplets flying, and a low, breathy laugh escapes him. "We're insane. We are absolutely insane."
Your grin widens. "Your idea."
"You agreed."
"I always agree when you get that look."
He reaches out, catches a strand of wet hair plastered to your temple, and tucks it behind your ear. His fingers are cold, and you shiver - not from the cold, but from the way he looks at you, like you're the only warm thing in the room.
Rain drums steadily against the windowpane, a sound that has been your companion all evening. The single lamp on the nightstand casts a low, amber glow across the room, catching the sheen of water on your faces, the dark patches where your clothes cling to your bodies.
Joe's jumper is the first to go. He grabs the hem with both hands and pulls it over his head in one motion, and the wet wool lands on the floorboards with a distinct slap. You watch it hit, then look up at him - his damp dark hair curling tighter now that it's wet, his T-shirt clinging to his shoulders.
You bite your lip. "That sound. That's the sound of a man who's about to catch a cold."
"Worth it." He reaches for the button of his jeans, then stops, one eyebrow lifting. "You're still fully dressed. I feel exposed."
"You are exposed. Your jumper's also on the floor making puddles."
"That's not-" He laughs, a low, warm sound that makes your chest ache in the best way. "Honey. Come on. You're soaked."
"So are you."
"I'm trying to fix that."
You look down at yourself - your pale blue shirt, translucent now where it sticks to your skin, your jeans dark with rainwater from the knee down. A puddle is forming at your feet too, a mirror of his.
"We're going to have to mop," you say.
"We'll deal with it later."
"The floorboards will warp."
"I'll sand them down. Refinish them. I'm basically a carpenter, remember?"
You laugh. "I think that cabinet you built last summer would beg to disagree."
"In my defence, it was being very argumentative."
"You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
"I do."
You say it simply, without hesitation, and something in his face softens. The grin remains, but his eyes change - that particular warmth that makes you feel like you're the only person in the world. He takes a step closer, his bare feet sloshing slightly across the floor.
"Then let me help you out of that," he says, his voice lower now, his fingers finding the top button of your shirt.
You watch his hands - those callused guitar player's hands that have spent years pressing hard into strings, that have learned the curves of your body just as thoroughly. They move slowly, deliberately, undoing each button one at a time. The fabric parts, and the cool air of the bedroom meets your damp skin, and you breathe in sharply.
"Cold?" he asks.
"Not anymore."
He pushes the blouse off your shoulders, and it slides down your arms, joining his jumper on the floor with a wet sigh. Your bra is thin, pale grey, clinging to you, and his gaze drops, then rises again, and he lets out a slow breath.
"You're beautiful," he says. Not like a line. Like a fact he's reminding you of.
You reach for the hem of his T-shirt. "Up."
He raises his arms, and you pull it over his head, revealing the broad shoulders you know by heart, the slight dusting of hair across his chest, the way his skin gleams damp in the lamplight. You let your hands rest on his chest for a moment, feeling his heartbeat under your palms, steady and sure.
"Your hands are cold," you say.
"So are yours."
"I'm warming them up."
"That's my line."
You grin and press your palms flat against his chest, letting the heat of his skin seep into your fingers. His chest shifts under your touch as he reaches down and unbuckles his belt, the metal clinking softly. His jeans join the pile on the floor, and he stands before you in boxer briefs that cling to his hips.
"Better?" he asks.
"Getting there."
You step back, kick off your own soggy socks, and hook your thumbs into the waistband of your own jeans. They're heavy with water, stubborn against your thighs, and you have to wiggle them down with an undignified grunt. Joe laughs - that easy, affectionate laugh - and you shoot him a look.
"Don't you dare."
"I'm not saying anything."
"You're thinking it."
"I'm thinking you're adorable."
You finally manage to push the jeans past your knees, and he steadies you with a hand on your elbow as you step out of them. Now you're both in your underwear, standing in a widening puddle of rainwater, and the absurdity of it hits you again.
You start laughing. "Look at us."
He looks. Down at the puddle, at your damp bodies, at the pile of wet clothes on the floor. Then back at you, his hazel eyes bright. "I'm looking."
"We look like drowned cats."
"Warm drowned cats." He steps closer, his bare feet sloshing. "With very good taste in rainstorms."
"And each other."
"That too."
He reaches out and brushes a wet curl from your cheek. His thumb lingers on your skin, tracing the line of your cheekbone, the corner of your jaw, the soft spot just below your ear. The laughter fades from your face, replaced by something quieter, deeper. You look up at him, your smile softening into something almost shy, even after all these years.
His thumb still rests on your cheek, and your hand comes up without thinking, your fingers finding his wrist, wrapping around it gently. His pulse beats against your fingertips, steady, and you press your thumb into the soft underside of his arm, feeling the tendon shift beneath his skin. He lets out a breath he's been holding, and the sound of it - quiet, unguarded - makes your chest ache.
"You're cold," you say again, though this time it isn't a statement of fact. It's an invitation.
"I know." His voice is low, rougher than it had been a moment ago. "So are you."
You step closer. The puddle at your feet widens, but you don't look down. The wet floorboards, the pile of sodden clothes, the lamp casting its amber glow across his bare shoulders - none of it matters. What matters is the way he's looking at you, like you're something precious, something he'd been lucky to find and spent years learning how to hold.
"The shower," you say, not quite a question.
"The shower." He nods, but his thumb doesn't leave your cheek. "We should-"
"We should."
Neither of you move.
The rain keeps falling. The lamp flickers slightly, a draft from somewhere, and the shadows sway across his face. You watch the way his jaw tenses and relaxes as he swallows. He's always so steady, so sure of himself in his quiet way, and yet here he is, waiting for you to make the first real move.
You let your hand slide down from his wrist, your fingers trailing along his forearm. He shivers under your touch, and you smile.
"Sensitive," you say.
"Your hands are cold."
"You've mentioned."
"I'll keep mentioning it."
You laugh, soft and low, and the sound seems to break something - not the tension, but the stillness. He shifts his weight, and his thumb finally leaves your cheek, sliding down to your chin, tilting your face up toward his. The movement is gentle, unhurried, and you let him guide you, let yourself be held in the space between his hands.
Your name leaves his lips, quiet as a secret.
"Joe."
He kisses you. Not urgently, not desperately - just a slow, warm press of his lips against yours, a question answered without words. Your eyes close, and you lean into him, your hands finding his chest again, your fingers spreading across the firm muscle, the coarse hair, the steady thrum of his heartbeat. He tastes like rain, like the cold night air, like something familiar, safe, and yours.
The kiss deepens, but only slightly. His hand slides from your chin to the nape of your neck, his fingers threading through your wet hair, and you make a small sound against his mouth - not a gasp, not a moan, just a sound of recognition, of homecoming. He smiles against your lips, and you feel it, the curve of his mouth, the warmth of his breath.
"The shower," you say again, pulling back just enough to look at him.
"The shower," he agrees, his forehead resting against yours.
You reach down and take his hand, your fingers intertwining with his. His palm is broad, callused, warm despite the cold. You squeeze once, and he squeezes back, and together you step out of the puddle, leaving your wet clothes on the floor, leaving the lamp burning, leaving the rain to drum against the window as you cross the bedroom toward the bathroom door.
The bathroom is smaller than the bedroom, wrapped in pale blue tiles that catch the soft light from the single fixture above the mirror. Steam hasn't yet filled the space, but the air is cool, clean, smelling of the cedar soap Joe keeps on the ledge and the lavender shampoo you'd bought at the market two weeks ago. He lets go of your hand only long enough to reach into the shower and turn the handle. The pipes groan, a familiar complaint, and then water begins to hiss against the tile floor.
You stand just behind him, your arms wrapped around yourself, watching the way his shoulder blades shift as he reaches in to test the temperature. Water splashes his forearm, and he adjusts the handle, then again, until he's satisfied.
"It'll take a second to warm up," he says, turning back to her. His boxer briefs cling to his hips, dark with residual dampness, and water still beads on his chest from the rain. He looks at you - really looks - and his mouth curves into that particular smile, the one that reaches his eyes before it reaches his lips. "You're shivering."
"I'm not."
"You are. Your arms are wrapped around yourself, and your teeth are doing that tiny chatter thing they do."
"They are not."
He steps closer, and his hands find your elbows, gently pulling your arms away from your body. The air meets your skin, cooler than his palms, and you inhale sharply. "They are," he says softly. "Come here."
He guides you forwards, one hand sliding to the small of your back, and positions you under the showerhead just as the water begins to steam. The first spray hits your shoulders - hot, almost too hot, and you gasp, your body tensing against the shock of it. But then the heat sinks in, seeping through your chilled skin, and you let out a long, slow breath as your muscles begin to unclench.
"Too hot?" he asks, his hand still on your back.
"Perfect."
He steps in behind you, and the shower is just wide enough for both of you if you stand close. The water runs over your shoulders, down your chest, tracing the curve of your waist before falling to the drain. You tilt your head back, letting the stream soak your hair, and close your eyes. The sound of the water fills your ears - that and the rain against the small bathroom window, softer here, more distant.
His hands find your shoulders. You feel his thumbs press into the tight muscle just below your neck, and you groan - an undignified, entirely involuntary sound - as he begins to work the tension out of you.
"That good?" His voice is low, amused, close to your ear.
"Don't stop."
"Wasn't planning to."
He works slowly, his callused thumbs tracing firm circles along your shoulder blades, up the curve of your neck, back down to where your spine meets your shoulders. The heat of the water, the pressure of his hands, the steam filling your lungs - you feel yourself softening, leaning back into him, letting him take your weight.
"You're tense," he says.
"I ran through a rainstorm and then stood in a cold bedroom peeling off wet clothes."
"Fair point." His hands slide down your arms, warming them, then back up to your shoulders. "Better?"
"Much."
You open your eyes and turn in his arms, the water now falling across both of you. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, and you reach up without thinking, brushing the wet curls back from his face. His eyes - those hazel eyes that hold so much warmth - are watching you with that soft, unguarded look he only ever gives you.
"Your turn," you say.
"My turn for what?"
"To get washed."
He raises an eyebrow, a hint of his dry humour surfacing. "I'm already wet. I think I'm washing by proximity."
"That's not how showers work."
"It's how I work. Efficient."
You laugh and reach past him for the shampoo bottle on the ledge. The motion brings your chest against his, and you feel his breath catch, just slightly, before he steadies himself. You ignore it - or pretend to - and squirt a generous amount of shampoo into your palm.
"Turn around."
"Honey-"
"Turn around."
He turns, and you press your soapy hands into his hair. The shampoo lathers quickly, and you work it through the wet strands, your fingers sliding from his scalp to the ends of his curls and back again. He lets out a sound - low, satisfied, almost a hum - and his shoulders drop as he relaxes into your touch.
"That feels amazing," he says, his voice muffled slightly by the water.
"I know."
"Humble."
"Accurate."
You work your fingers into his scalp, pressing firm circles with your fingertips the way you know he likes. His hair is thick, soft now that the rain has been rinsed away, and you take your time, making sure every strand is coated, every inch of his scalp massaged. He leans his head back into your hands, and you smile, watching the water run in rivulets down his neck, over his shoulders, tracing the line of his spine.
"You have good hands," he says.
"I have precise hands."
"You have caring hands."
The words land somewhere in your chest, soft and warm, and you pause for a moment, your fingers still buried in his hair. Then you reach for the showerhead, guiding it over his head to rinse him clean. The water runs milky with shampoo, then clear, and you watch the suds disappear down the drain.
"There," you say. "Clean."
He turns back to face you, water streaming down his face, his eyes bright. He blinks, shaking his head slightly to clear the water from his lashes, and you laugh at the gesture - so familiar, so him.
"You look like a wet dog," you say.
"So I've been promoted from drowned cat?"
"You're welcome."
He reaches for the shampoo bottle. "My turn."
"I didn't-"
"You washed mine. Now I wash yours. Fair's fair."
There's no arguing with him when he uses that tone - gentle but firm, the same tone he uses when he insists on carrying the heavier shopping or giving you his jacket when you forget yours. You turn, and his hands find your hair a moment later, gentle, deliberate, as if he's handling something precious.
He's slower than you had been. His fingers work the shampoo into your scalp with patient, circular motions, starting at your temples and working back, then down the length of your hair. You close your eyes, letting yourself be held by the warmth of the water and the weight of his hands. The steam curls around you, fogging the mirror, blurring the edges of the small bathroom until it feels like you're the only two people in the world.
"Your hair is so long," he says quietly.
"It's the same length it's been for three years."
"I know. I still notice it every time."
You smile, your eyes still closed. "You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
"I do."
His fingers press into your scalp, finding a spot of tension you hadn't realised you were carrying, and you let out a breath that's almost a moan. He chuckles, low and warm, and keeps working, his thumbs tracing circles behind your ears, down the nape of your neck.
"You're good at this," you say.
"I've had practice."
"With who?" you joke.
"With you. Every time you let me."
You feel something catch in your throat - the fullness of being seen, being known, being cared for by someone who chooses you every single day. You reach up and cover his hand with yours, pressing it more firmly against your scalp.
"Don't stop," you say again.
"Wasn't planning to."
He rinses your hair slowly, cupping water in his palm and letting it run through the strands, checking that every trace of shampoo is gone before he's satisfied. Then his hands slide down to your shoulders again, rubbing warmth into your skin, and you turn to face him.
The water falls between you, steaming, steady. His chest is flushed pink from the heat, his hair curling tighter now that it's drying slightly in the warm air. You look at him - really look - at the small scar that's always been there, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his mouth softens when he looks at you.
"Hi," you say.
"Hi."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For the rain. For the walk. For the shower. For-" You gesture vaguely between you. "This. All of it."
He smiles, and it's the smile that had made you fall in love with him, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look younger, softer, more open. "Thank you for saying yes to the rain."
"I almost didn't."
"I know. But you did." He reaches out and brushes a wet strand of hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear. "You always do, eventually. That's one of my favourite things about you."
You lean into his touch, your eyes drifting closed for just a moment. When you open them, he's still watching you, his gaze warm and steady, and you feel a familiar ache spread through your chest - the ache of loving someone so completely that it sometimes feels overwhelming.
"Kiss me," you say. Not a question.
He does.
Slow, warm, the taste of rain and soap and him. His hand slides to the back of your neck, cradling your head, and you press closer, your hands finding his chest, the steady beat of his heart under your palm. The water runs over you, around you, and you feel the kiss deepen - not with urgency, but with familiarity, with years of knowing each other's rhythms, each other's silences.
When you break apart, your forehead rests against his, and you both stand there, breathing the same steam, listening to the water and the rain and the quiet of your small cottage.
"We should probably get out before we turn into prunes," you say.
"Probably." He doesn't move. "In a minute."
"In a minute."
You stay under the spray, wrapped in the warmth of each other and the water, until the steam begins to thin and the hot water starts to cool. Joe reaches past you and turns off the shower, and the sudden silence is startling - just the drip of water from your bodies, the distant drum of rain against the roof, the sound of your breathing.
He steps out first, grabs a towel from the rack, and holds it open for you. You step into it, and he wraps it around your shoulders, his hands lingering on the fabric, pressing gently to absorb the water. Then he takes a second towel and begins to dry your hair, the same way he always does - gently, thoroughly, working from the ends up to avoid tangling the curls.
"You don't have to-" you start.
"I know."
He keeps going, rubbing the towel over your head with careful attention, and you let him. When he's satisfied, he drapes the towel over your shoulders and presses a kiss to your temple.
"Go finish your routine," he says. "I'll sort something out."
You look up at him, your hair a wild mess of half-dry curls, your skin flushed from the heat. "What are you sorting?"
"You'll see. Go. Before you get cold again."
You had wanted to argue, but the warmth of the shower was already fading, and the air in the bathroom was growing cool.
You pad out of the bathroom, your feet leaving damp prints on the hardwood floor, and cross back into the bedroom. The lamp is still burning, and the puddle on the floor has spread slightly, but you step around it, reaching for the soft flannel dressing gown hanging on the back of the door.
You shrug it on, tying the belt loosely, and move to the small vanity near the window. The rain still falls outside, steady and relentless, pattering against the glass in a rhythm that feels like a lullaby. You go through your usual motions - moisturiser, a quick brush through your damp hair, the familiar rituals that ground you after a long day - but your mind is on Joe, on whatever he's "sorting out" in the living room.
From beyond the bedroom door, you hear the soft clink of metal, the rustle of fabric, the strike of a match. You smile to yourself, a suspicion forming, warm and sweet.
When you finish, you pad to the bedroom door and push it open, stepping into the hallway.
The living room glows.
Firelight flickers across the walls, casting long, dancing shadows that make the room feel larger and smaller at once. The hearth, which had been cold and dark when you'd left that morning, now roars with a healthy blaze, flames licking at the logs with a warmth you can feel from the hallway. Joe has piled blankets and cushions onto the rug in front of the fireplace - the thick wool throw from the back of the couch, the soft quilted blanket you keep in the cupboard for winter evenings, at least three cushions from the armchairs - creating a nest of fabric and warmth that invites you to sink into it.
Two mugs sit on the low table near the hearth, steam curling from their surfaces. Tea, you realise. He's made tea.
Joe kneels by the fire, a poker in his hand, adjusting the logs. He's pulled on a pair of soft grey joggers, his torso still bare, his hair still damp and curling at the ends. The firelight catches the plane of his back, the shift of muscle as he moves, and you stand in the doorway, watching him, your heart full to bursting.
He must feel your gaze, because he turns, the poker still in his hand, and smiles at you - that soft, open smile that belongs to you alone.
"There you are," he says. "Come sit."
You cross the room, your bare feet silent on the floorboards, and sink onto the pile of blankets beside him. The heat of the fire wraps around you, warm on your face, your hands, your bare legs. Joe sets the poker aside and reaches for one of the mugs, handing it to you. You wrap your fingers around it - warm ceramic, the familiar weight - and breathe in the scent of honey and chamomile.
"You made tea," you hum.
"You were cold."
"I was in the shower."
"You were cold before the shower. And you like tea after a shower. It's a thing you do."
You look at him, at the firelight in his eyes, at the way he sits so casually, so comfortably, as if building a blanket nest and brewing tea by firelight is simply what one does on a rainy autumn evening.
"You're perfect," you tell him.
He laughs, low and warm. "I'm not. But I'm yours."
You set the mug down and reach for him, your hand finding his jaw, pulling him towards you. The kiss is soft, slow, tasting of tea and honey and the faint lingering trace of rain. He leans into you, one hand bracing on the blanket beside your hip, and the fire crackles and pops, and the rain falls, and the world outside your cottage ceases to exist.
The kiss deepens, but slowly - the way you always move together after years of learning each other's rhythms. His hand slides from the blanket to your waist, fingers finding the gap where your robe fell open, brushing the warm skin beneath. You hum against his mouth and lean into the touch, letting him guide you down onto the piled blankets.
The cushions shift beneath you, soft and yielding, and he follows you down, one arm braced beside your head, the other hand still resting on your hip. The firelight plays across his face, catching the damp ends of his hair, the curve of his shoulder, the way his eyes have gone dark and soft at the same time. You reach up and trace his cheekbone with your thumb, feather-light.
"You're warm," you say.
"So are you." He dips his head, pressing a kiss to your jaw, then another just below your ear. "You taste like honey."
"You taste like rain."
He laughs against your skin, a low, warm vibration that travels down your spine. His hand moves from your hip to the tie of her robe, fingers working the knot loose without looking. The fabric falls open, and the firelight sweeps across your chest, your stomach, your thighs. He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the way his breath catches - barely, almost imperceptibly - makes your stomach tighten.
"You're beautiful," he says.
You reach up and hook your fingers into the waistband of his joggers. "You're wearing too much."
"So are you."
"I'm wearing a dressing gown. That's barely anything."
"It's something." He tugs the robe off one shoulder, then the other, baring you to the firelight. The heat of the flames kisses your skin, but his gaze is warmer. "There. Now we're even."
You push at his joggers, and he lifts his hips just enough to let you slide them down. He kicks them off somewhere behind him, and then he's above you, skin to skin, the weight of him pressing you into the blankets. The fire crackles, and the rain falls, and you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down into another kiss.
His hand finds your breast, palm flat, his thumb tracing a slow circle around your nipple. You arch into his touch, a small sound escaping your throat, and he smiles against your lips.
"Sensitive," he says, echoing your earlier tease.
"Always."
He lowers his mouth to your neck, your collarbone, the curve of your breast. His lips are warm, his tongue slower than his hands, and you let your head fall back, your fingers threading through his still-damp hair. The firelight flickers across his shoulders as he moves, and you watch the play of muscle beneath his skin, the concentration in his brow as he focuses on you.
He takes his time. That's the thing about Joe - he never rushes, never treats your body like something to be conquered. He explores it the way he explores a new musical instrument, with patience and attention, finding where produces noise, the places where you're most alive. His mouth traces a path down your sternum, your stomach, pausing at your hip to press a kiss there that makes your breath hitch.
"Joe."
"Mm?"
"I want you."
He lifts his head, his eyes finding yours. The firelight catches the gold in his irises, and he smiles - that soft, open smile again. "I know. I want you too." He shifts, his body sliding up yours until his face is level with yours again. "But I want to take my time."
"We have time." You reach up and cup his jaw, your thumb brushing his cheekbone. "The rain isn't going anywhere."
"Neither are we."
He kisses you again, slower this time, as if he's memorising the shape of your mouth. His hand slides down your side, over your hip, along your thigh, then back up, leaving trails of warmth wherever he touches. You feel yourself opening to him, your body responding to the familiar weight of his, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
When his hand finally settles between your legs, you gasp - not from surprise, but from the relief of being touched exactly where you need it. His fingers are gentle, exploring, finding you wet and ready. He makes a low sound of satisfaction against your mouth.
"You're already-"
"I know." You bite your lip. "It's you. It's always you."
Joe presses his forehead to yours, his fingers still moving in slow, deliberate circles. "I love you," he says. Not a prelude. A fact.
"I love you too."
You reach down and wrap your hand around him, and his breath stutters in his chest. He's hard, warm, familiar in your palm. You guide him to your entrance, and he pauses, his eyes meeting yours in the firelight.
"Ready?"
"I've been ready since the rain started."
He pushes inside you slowly, inch by inch, and you let out a long, trembling breath. The stretch of him, the fullness - it's the same every time and different every time, a feeling you never got tired of. He fills you completely, and when he's all the way in, he stops, just breathing, just being inside you.
"Okay?" he asks.
"More than okay."
He begins to move, a slow, deep rhythm that matches the rain against the windows. The firelight paints your shadows on the wall, a single shape moving together. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans against your neck.
"Honey."
"I know." You tilt your hips, meeting his thrusts. "I know."
You move together the way you always do - without hurry, without performance, just two people who know each other's bodies and hearts. His hand finds yours on the blanket, his fingers intertwining with yours, and he presses your joined hands beside your head as he moves. The fire pops, showering sparks, and the rain continues its steady drumming, and the world outside your cottage is a distant memory.
You feel the pressure building, slow and inevitable, a warmth spreading from where you're joined to your chest, your thighs, your fingertips. His breathing grows rougher, his thrusts deeper, and you know he's close too. But he doesn't speed up. He holds the rhythm, steady and sure, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes closed.
"Come for me," he says, his voice low, almost a whisper. "I want to feel you."
You let go. The orgasm rolls through you like the tide, slow and inexorable, pulling you under with a soft cry. He follows a moment later, his body tensing against yours, his breath hot on your skin. You hold him through it, your arms wrapped around him, your legs still locked around his waist, keeping him close.
Afterwards, he collapses against you, his weight a comfort. You stroke his hair, still damp at the ends, and listen to his breathing slow. The fire crackles, and the rain falls, and the room smells of woodsmoke and tea and the two of you.
Joe lifts his head after a long moment and presses a kiss to your forehead. "I love you," he says again.
"I love you too." You smile, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "You know, for a man who knows a lot about birds, you're pretty good at building nests."
He laughs, the sound muffled against his skin. "I had good material to work with."
"Flatterer."
"Truth-teller."
He rolls off you, but only to pull you against his side, arranging the blankets over you both. The fire has burned down to a steady glow, casting long shadows across the room. You tuck your cold feet between his calves - an old habit - and he doesn't flinch, just pulls you closer.
"We should probably clean up," you say, without conviction.
"Probably." He kisses the top of your head. "In a minute."
"In a minute."
You close your eyes, listening to the rain, to his heartbeat, to the settling of the fire. The tea sits cooling on the table, forgotten. The world outside your cottage can wait. Here, in the warmth of the fire and his arms, you have everything you need.
You aren't sure when you drifted, but you must have, because the next thing you know, Joe is shifting beneath you, careful not to wake you. You feel him press a kiss to your hair, then ease his arm out from under your head. The loss of his warmth makes you stir, and you blink against the firelight, now low and orange, casting long shadows across the ceiling.
"Shh." His voice is soft, his hand finding your shoulder. "Stay. I'm just adding a log."
You watch through half-closed eyes as he crosses to the woodpile, the firelight tracing the lines of his back, the dip of his spine, the way his shoulders move as he lifts a piece of seasoned oak. He kneels by the hearth, places it carefully on the embers, and uses the poker to coax the flames back to life. Sparks rise, catch in the draft, and disappear into the dark of the chimney.
When he turns back, you're watching him, fully awake now, your cheek resting on the folded edge of the quilt. He smiles, that soft, private smile, and crosses back to the nest of blankets, settling beside you. He pulls the quilt up over both of you, tucking the edge around your shoulder.
"Hi," you say, your voice still sleep-rough.
"Hi." He brushes a curl from your forehead. "You fell asleep."
"Just for a minute."
"More like fifteen."
You stretch, feeling the pleasant ache in your thighs, the warmth of the fire on your skin. "You should have woken me."
"Why? You looked peaceful." He traces the line of your collarbone, his fingers light, unhurried. "Besides, I like watching you sleep."
"Creep."
"Romantic."
You laugh, the sound low and sleepy, and turn onto your side to face him fully. The fire has caught the new log, casting fresh light across his face. You reach out and trace the line of his jaw, the slight stubble that has grown in over the course of the day.
"I love this," you say quietly.
"What?"
"This. Us. The fire. The rain. The fact that you made tea even though we forgot to drink it."
He glances at the mugs on the low table. "We can reheat it."
"That's not the point."
"What is the point?"
You think about it, your fingers still resting against his jaw. "The point is that you thought of it. That you knew I'd want it. That you built all of this-" she gestured at the blankets, the fire, the warm glow of the room "—while I was putting on moisturiser."
Joe catches your hand and presses a kiss to your palm. "I'd build you a hundred fires."
"I know."
You lay there, facing each other, the fire popping softly, the rain a steady backdrop. You trace his eyebrow with your thumb, the way you always do, and he closes his eyes under your touch, a quiet exhale escaping him.
"You're tired," you say.
"A little." He opens his eyes. "But not too tired for this."
"For what?"
He doesn't answer with words. He leans in and kisses you, slow and warm, his hand finding your waist beneath the blanket. The kiss is different from before - softer, more tender, a lingering press of lips that says more than any sentence could. You feel the weight of the evening in it, the years behind you, the quiet certainty of what you've built together.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and his hand finds yours beneath the blanket, your fingers intertwining.
He says your name in a quiet breath.
"Joe."
"I don't say it enough."
"Say what?"
"How much you-" He pauses, searching for words. "How much you've changed my life. How every day with you feels like I got lucky, and I'm still getting lucky."
You feel something catch in your throat. "You say it plenty."
"I want to say it more."
You lift your joined hands and press your lips to his knuckles. "Then keep saying it. I'll keep listening."
The fire settles, the new log catching fully now, casting a warm, steady glow across the room. The rain has softened, a gentler rhythm against the windows, and the cottage feels smaller, warmer, more yours than it has ever felt before. You shift closer, tucking your head under his chin, your body fitting against his the way it always does - like you've been made to lie together.
His arm wraps around you, his hand resting on your hip, and you feel his breath slow, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. The blanket is warm, the fire is warm, he is warm, and you feel yourself sinking into the moment, letting it hold you.
"In a minute," you murmur, your eyes drifting closed.
"What?"
"We should clean up. In a minute."
He laughs softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. "In a minute."
The rain continues to fall. The fire crackles and pops. And you let yourself drift, held by the heat of the flames, the weight of Joe's arm, and the quiet, unshakeable knowledge that this - this moment, this man, this life - is exactly where you're meant to be.
⋆˚꩜｡SUMMARY: you walk in on steve pleasuring himself in the bathroom
⋆˚꩜｡TAGS: no y/n, steve x reader, reader insert, college setting, desperate!steve, nervous!reader
⋆˚꩜｡TW: NSFW 18+ content, minors do not interact!! | male masterbation, voyeurism, hand job, praise, multiple orgasms, a tiny bit of overstim
⋆˚꩜｡WC: 1.8k
⋆˚꩜｡A/N: for my djoups<3 this is based on a dream i had in 2023:) enjoy!!
It was a typical Tuesday night. Nearing around 11pm. You sighed, treading down the hall, back towards where your dorm is. Your slippers lazily scraped across the floor, not being bothered enough to fully pick up your feet with each step. You held your towel in one hand, drying your hair as you walked, humming a quiet tune to yourself. The other hand held your overflowing shower caddy.
You preferred showering late at night. The bathrooms were quiet. You were able to actually take your time, not having to rush through your routine.
As you turned the corner you noticed the door to the men’s bathroom was cracked, a soft warm light shining through. You didn’t think anything of it. As you got closer you could hear faint noises coming from inside. You ignored it, too tired to care. Just as you were about to pass it, the sound of muffled moans stopped you in your tracks.
Keep walking. Keep walking.
Your feet betrayed you and began stepping towards the door before you could stop yourself. Your heart began pounding as the noises grew louder the closer you got. You peeked through and what you saw was enough to make your stomach drop.
There stood your best friend, Steve, planted in front of the bathroom mirror. The room was foggy. The air thick and filled with steam from a hot shower. His hair was dripping wet, causing beads of water to fall down to his bare skin and onto the floor.
Your eyes raked down his body. He has one hand on the counter in front of him keeping his balance. His basketball shorts were pulled down in the front just enough so that his other hand could pull and jerk at his aching, leaking cock.
You watch as his head falls back with a quiet moan as he strokes for his own pleasure. The sight has your jaw slacked. Weak. You feel weak. You know this is wrong. You shouldn’t be standing here watching him. Watching your best friend in such a vulnerable state.
And yet, your feet don’t move. They don’t even try. Your stomach tightens. You feel yourself squeezing your legs together to try and subside that stupid annoying feeling that’s happening inside you.
You always knew Steve was good looking. You’re not blind. But you never actually thought about him like this.
You don’t actually know how you never looked at him like this before. I mean…jesus. It was like you were in a trance. His wet hair, the way his eyebrows knitted together and his eyes shut tight. The way his stomach was twitching from the sensations he was causing himself. The occasional flex of his bicep while he jerked himself off.
His hand moved at a steady pace. You almost fell to your knees when he let out a quiet soft whimper of a moan as he worked higher towards his tip.
Oh my god.
Then of course. The universe decided to play its own version of a sick joke on you. Before you could react or even register what was happening, your shower caddy decided right now was the perfect time to finally give out. All of your shower products flew out of the basket and onto the floor with a loud bang.
Steve’s head whipped towards the sudden noise, his eyes immediately finding you. You froze. You looked at all the bottles on the floor and then back at him. Then back at the bottles….then back at him again. What exactly are you supposed to do in this situation?
“I—um—I—sorry I was just—“ you stumble over your words, unable to find anything to say that could possibly make this situation better. You look anywhere but at him, too humiliated to even glance in his direction. “I um…I’m sorry. I didn’t see—“
“Shh, hey it’s okay.” he finally spoke. You were terrified. What he said next was the opposite of what you expected. “Can you help me?” he asked.
Your breathing hitched. You almost choked on your own spit, your body tensing immediately. It’s almost like the world was put on mute. All you can hear is the deep drum of your heart beat. A shiver runs down your spine and you can literally feel your throat close up, struggling to get any words out.
What the fuck? What the actual fuck is going on?
You should leave. You should grab your things off the floor and lock yourself in your room and never come out again. Maybe even transfer schools and forget this ever happened.
That’s not what you do though. Instead, without even realizing it, you find yourself nodding your head to his question.
He speaks again, “C’mere.” His voice was quiet and soft. It was laced with traces of need and want. Maybe even some desperation.
You exhale shakily, setting down the rest of your things. You slowly step into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you. He watches you carefully, as you start to inch towards him nervously.
“I—How do you want—?”
“Get behind me. Can you do that for me? Please?”
Normally you’d be embarrassed by how fast you complied. But right now you couldn’t care less. Your whole body feels like it’s on fire and that’s all you can focus on. Along with the ache between your thighs.
You swallowed hard, your throat feeling dry and heavy. He could see the nerves in your body language. Feeling it radiating off of you.
“Hey, s’okay. I got you.” he looked at you through the fogged mirror, unable to make out any features. “S’just me, mkay? Your best friend. Your Steve.” He reached behind himself, grabbing your hand and rubbing it gently. An attempt to calm your nerves. “Need your help so bad. Would you be a good friend and help me?”
You nod, nervously. You lift your hands to his shoulders, letting them trace gently down his arms all the way to his wrists. Your movements are slow and unsure. You feel him shiver underneath your touch, only to melt into it once your hands find their way to his bare chest. Your fingers gliding over top of his chest hair.
The second he melted into your touch it was like all nervousness left your body. Without a second thought you leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on his shoulder. He exhaled in pleasure, biting his lip to stifle a moan when your hands rubbed up and down his body.
“Been thinkin’ ‘bout this for so long. ‘Bout you.” he spoke through deep breaths.
The heat in your stomach only grew at his words. The fresh panties you were wearing were certainly growing wetter by the second.
You pulled your arms back, causing him to frown. The sound of you spitting in your hand quickly replaced that frown with a lazy smile. Your left hand wrapped around his torso, running up and down his chest while your other hand found its way to his aching cock.
He hissed the second you grabbed onto him, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure. Your hand finally began to move up and down his length. You started off slow, teasing, pulling a quiet “fuck” from his lips.
Your free hand roamed all over his chest and stomach, wanting to feel every inch you could reach. Keeping your movements slow, you placed a trail of kisses all over his upper back, causing a deep exhale to escape his lips. You squeezed slightly tighter, a real moan finally coming out.
Music to your ears.
It was right then that you stopped holding back. All you wanted was to hear that sound over and over again. The sound of your best friend completely at your mercy. Weak over your touch.
You picked up your pace, your hand moving up and down in a corkscrew motion. His head fell backwards, landing on your shoulder. The bathroom was quickly filled with sounds of his erratic moans and the sound of you jerking him off.
“Doin’ so good—fuck—makin’ me feel so good.” he spoke in between moans.
“Yeah?” you smiled, watching his face scrunch tight through the mirror in front of you two.
You kept a steady rhythm, not too fast, not too slow. His noises and little twitches encouraging you to finally ask what’s been on your mind since he said it. “You said you’ve been thinking about this? You and me?”
“Mhm, ahh fuck.” he leaned into your touch, trying to steady himself. “You came over one day—shit go faster. Please, please go faster.” a loud moan rippled through the bathroom. “You were wearing that one skirt—“
Before he could finish his sentence, your hand reached the top of his shaft, right underneath his tip. He jolted in your hands, a literal whimper escaping from his mouth.
Your lips immediately quirked up into a wide smile, knowing you’d just found his spot. “That feel good?” you ask, keeping your movements focused on that one spot.
“Ahh—fffuck yes.”
“The skirt. Tell me about the skirt.”
“The short black one—“ he struggled to talk coherently, his breathing growing heavier as he reached his climax. “—you came over wearing it. Dropped your keys—m’so close.”
“I know, I know. Deep breaths, you can do it. Keep tellin’ me.”
“Y-you bent over to pick em up. Your little pink panties on complete display f’me.”
Your face reddened. You don’t even remember that.
“Ever since then, been wanting to get my hands on you.”
His words made your knees weak. Like actually weak. You suddenly felt like jelly. Your core clenching around nothing, begging for some kind of relief.
Your arm was burning but that didn’t stop you from going faster, determined to get him to his release.
After a few more moans and curses, Steve threw his head back once again, landing on your shoulder. A loud, breathless moan ripped through him as his come shot all over your hand and his stomach. But you didn’t stop there. You kept your movements going up to his tip, wanting to hear those whimpers from earlier.
He cried out, knees buckling. You stepped back, his sudden body weight almost knocking the both of you over. You didn’t dare stop.
“Ahh fuck I can’t—“ he whined loudly.
You paid extra close attention to where his shaft and tip met, rubbing up and down in tiny movements. He was putty in your hands. He tried to talk but nothing coherent could come out. The overstimulation too much.
Only when a second orgasm ripped through him did you finally stop. He was completely and utterly spent. His chest heaved, struggling to catch his breath.
You released him from your grasp, bringing your hand up to your mouth. He turned around and watched with awe as you licked his come off each of your fingers until your hand was clean.
With wide eyes and dilated pupils he finally spoke, “Jesus fucking christ.”
You smiled. Before you could say anything he grabbed you by your waist, pulling you close. “C’mere, it’s your turn.”
where'd you get that confidence from, last time that i checked i won
"don't go,
go where you don't belong."
***
steve harrington x fem!reader
one of Steve's exes keeps coming into his work in hopes of winning him back over. Despite his persistence that he's taken, after she completely steps over the line you feel the need to step in and remind her that Steve's yours now.
warnings: nsfw mdni, swearing, oral (m. receiving), p in v (protected), making out, dirty talk, slightly rough sex, sub/dom steve, jealous reader, steve's ex won't leave him alone, reader publicly humiliates ex, lovesick steve, nancy is the ultimate bestie
a.n: this might be one of my favourite things i've ever written, i hope you all enjoy this x
part of the 200 follower celebration
***
Thirty seconds. That’s precisely how long it took for you to walk into the Family Video store and realise that something wasn’t right. You were chatting to Nancy, the two of you out shopping for a party you were throwing next week, completely engrossed in her re-telling of the awful date she went on last night when you glanced over to the cash register and stopped with a very loud sigh.
The sigh wasn’t directed at your boyfriend, no. The very moment you’d walked through the door, Steve had met your gaze and not been able to stop looking at you, that stupid grin on his face that always made your knees weak Actually the sigh was meant for the girl who was currently leaning over the counter, chatting your boyfriend’s ear off and seemingly ignoring the fact that he wasn’t even looking at her anymore. This didn’t stop her from casually placing a hand on Steve’s arm as she told him a joke, laughing loudly. Steve smiled out of politeness but he carefully shrugged out of her touch. This girl could not take a hint.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Nancy roll her eyes. “Seriously, she’s here again? Isn’t this like the third time this week?”
Krissy Matthews. She had been the girl that Steve dated before you, the two of them having broken up a few months beforehand when Steve had caught her kissing another guy at a party. It had taken a little while for him to get over it, but as soon as he’d met you Steve had never looked back. Which was more than could be said for Krissy. It seemed as of late that she had realised what a great guy she’d let go of. What a shame that guy was already taken.
You strolled over casually, not feeling the least bit intimidated by her. The relationship you had with Steve was rock solid, you knew he only had eyes for you, which was proved by the way his whole demeanour lit up when you reached him, turning towards you and completely shutting Krissy down.
“Hey, baby.” You smiled at him, leaning over the counter to kiss him. When you pulled away he was full on beaming, gazing at you like a lovesick puppy. Krissy didn’t even exist to him anymore.
“Hey, sweetheart.” He replied. “Hey, Nance.” He nodded over your shoulder to your best friend. She smiled in response before heading off to browse the tapes. “What are you doing here, I thought you guys were going out for coffee?”
“We were just passing by and I wanted to stop in and see you.” You told him. “Thought you might be getting a little bored.”
It was then that Krissy cleared her throat loudly, making her presence known to you. Slowly you turned to face her, giving her your best saccharine smile. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there.” You apologised to her. “I didn’t realise Steve was with a customer.”
“Actually-“ she began.
“You look kind of familiar. Have I seen you in here before?” You were riling her up, she knew that you knew exactly who she was. Krissy had been lingering in her for the last few weeks like a bad perfume, desperately trying to get some facetime with Steve. The idea that it hadn’t fazed you at all made her scowl in disappointment.
“I was actually in the middle of a conversation with Steve.” She told you. “I was telling him about a film I watched last week.” She turned back to your boyfriend. “So, what did you think about my offer?”
“Oh, what offer was this?” You asked, playing along with her.
Steve’s eyes were twinkling as he caught on to what you were doing. “Krissy was inviting me over to watch a movie with her tomorrow night.”
“She was?” You turned back to her, amusement written on your face. “What a damn shame, Steve and I already have plans tomorrow night.”
Krissy glowered at you. “I wasn’t asking you. I was asking Steve.”
You turned back to Steve, awaiting his response. A smile crept across your face when you saw he was already looking at you, no doubt already envisioning how the next evening would play out. Most nights spent together ended up with both of your clothes off, tangled up in the sheets. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach when you thought about it, and he knew damn well the effect he had on you as his fingers intertwined with yours over the counter.
“Sorry Krissy, I’m busy tomorrow night. I’m busy every night, actually. I’m really not interested in whatever you’re doing here.”
The devious smile on her face dropped instantly, and she immediately tried to recover it. “That’s OK. I’ll give you time to reconsider.” She reached over and put her hand on Steve’s arm, causing him to startle a little. “Wouldn’t want to see you settle, Steve.”
You didn’t let her words affect you, but they sure affected Steve. His jaw clenched at her words and he gently brushed her hand off. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
She finally conceded, stepping away from the counter. “OK. I’ll see you around, handsome.”
That was the last straw. You physically had to hold yourself back from launching across and throttling her as she turned her back to you, walking out of the store. The only thing that broke through the red haze was the hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently to bring you back down to earth. “Honey, are you alright?”
You turned back to Steve, seeing his face etched with concern. You were his moon and stars, and nothing else ever came close. He hated the fact that this ghost from his past had come back to haunt both of you, there was absolutely not a chance of anything happening with him and Krissy. When she’d broken his heart, he’s taken it pretty hard and hadn’t othered with anyone else for months. But when he met you, it was a reminder that there were still people who loved every part of him, not just the jokey façade he often wore or the things he could do for people. You loved every piece of him. Krissy never had.
That was why you were it for him.
“I’m sorry, baby. I tried shutting down that conversation so many times, she said she was just here to rent a video.”
“It’s OK, Steve.” You smiled at him. “I’m not mad at you. I just wish she would get the hint.”
“You’re telling me? The prettiest girl in all of Hawkins just walked in and I had to stand there talking to Krissy.”
A smirk crept across your face. “The prettiest girl, huh?”
“God damn gorgeous.” Steve told you, leaning in to kiss you again. You were tempted to lose yourself in it, but then Nancy reappeared next to you, coughing loudly. You smiled at her.
“What is her problem?” She asked the both of you. “Doesn’t she know you guys are dating now?”
“Apparently she can’t get the message.” You replied, glancing to the door that Krissy had just disappeared out of. “The fucking nerve after everything she did.”
“I don’t want to talk about Krissy anymore.” Steve interjected. “If I never have to see her again, that’s fine with me. Besides, I’d rather talk about this party next week, is it still on?”
“Damn right.” You nodded. “Me and Nancy are throwing it at her house. Everyone’s coming. I just need to figure out what to wear.”
“You should wear that cute skirt you just bought.” Nancy told you, smirking at Steve. “Wait until you see her in, you’ll lose your mind.”
You could tell Steve was already picturing you in it by the way he gulped slightly, Shaking your head, you rana hand up his arm. “Alright, I think we’ll leave you to it. But I’ll see you tonight at your place?”
“Absolutely, can’t wait.” Steve had that lovesick grin on his face again as you gave him another quick kiss before heading out the door. Anyone within a three-mile radius could see how down bad he was for you, no one else ever stood a chance as long as you were around. He was already counting down the minutes until he could see you again.
It was just a shame some people couldn’t take a hint.
***
“Steve.” You breathed softly, head falling against the couch cushions as he kissed your neck gently. The TV was still on but the two of you had long forgotten the movie you had been watching. This was how most nights went down when you came to see Steve, neither of you could keep your hands to yourself.
His tongue laved over the sensitive spots of your skin as he groaned lightly. “Taste so good, baby. Can’t wait to taste all of you.”
His words sent shivers down your spine as he reached under the t-shirt you were wearing, one of his that you’d stolen. The second he’d opened the front door to you and seen you wearing it, he was totally done for. You could tell from the way his pupils blew out that he wouldn’t be able to resist you for too long. And you’d been right. He moved to unclasp your bra, ready to take all of your clothes off.
And then the phone rang.
“Oh, Jesus Christ.” He said in annoyance. The one thing Steve hated was to be interrupted when he was with you, he valued your time together more than anything. “Who the fuck is calling right now?”
“It’s OK, you can answer.” You told him with a smile. “I’ll still be here when you get back.”
With a mutter of indignation, he climbed up off the couch and made his way over to the phone, which was still shrieking on the wall. He quickly answered it. “Hello?”
You observed his facial expressions as he listened to the response, trying to make sure nothing was wrong. It was unusual for anyone to call round here so late, you hoped nothing had happened with one of the kids. But then he sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. “Why do you still have my number?”
You could only hear a faint chattering on the other end, but whoever it was Steve clearly didn’t want to talk to them. It wasn’t until he name-dropped that you felt your blood run cold. “Krissy, you need to stop.”
“What the fuck?!” You exclaimed loudly, Steve shook his head at you, sharing in your anger.
“We broke up ages ago, because you cheated on me. It’s over, alright. I’m happy now and you need to leave me alone.” He told her before hastily slamming the phone back on the wall, cutting her off. He stood there for a moment, breathing heavily as he stared at the phone like it had personally offended him.
You slowly got up and made your way over to him, hugging him from behind. He instantly relaxed into your touch, melting against you. “Are you OK, baby?”
“I didn’t even know she still had my number.” He told you. “Why won’t she just leave us alone?”
“I know, honey. I hate it as well.” You told him. “But hopefully now she’ll get the message.”
“I don’t get it, it’s like she enjoys trying to hurt me or something.” He turned around so he was facing you, arms circling around you. “I’m sorry, baby. I can’t believe I let her ruin our date night.”
“Hey, she didn’t ruin anything.” You carded your hands into his hair and his eyes drifted shut as he leaned into his touch, all the tension leaving his body. “I’m still here. Now, can we pick up where we left off?”
Steve pulled you into a hungry kiss, attention completely fixed on you now. “You’re the only one for me, you know that right?” He mumbled against your lips.
“I know, honey. You’re it for me, too.”
You just wished Krissy knew it too.
***
The night on the party finally rolled around, and you found yourself climbing out the car at the Wheeler’s house, decked out in the outfit you’d picked out with Nancy. You couldn’t lie, you did look hot. A lacy pink shirt and skirt was just the right length that you knew it would drive Steve crazy when he saw you. It was a showstopper for sure, and you were pretty sure nothing could dampen your mood right now.
There were already crowds of people there when you walked in through the front door, eyes searching for your friends. You’d told Steve to meet you here, knowing full well if you’d driven together there was no way he would have been able to keep his hands off you. It didn’t take long for you to spot the familiar head of curls that belonged to your best friend, standing next to Robin and Jonathan. When she spotted you, you waved over to her and she hastily made her way over to you. As soon as she reached you, you could tell by her expression that something was off.
“What’s wrong?” You asked her.
“We have a problem.” She told you, before glancing over to the kitchen. You followed her gaze, and your stomach dropped when you saw that your boyfriend had been cornered by the one girl you had not wanted to see tonight.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” You exclaimed loudly.
“I don’t even know who invited her.” Nancy said. “I didn’t even know she was here until Steve went to get a drink, and she just appeared. I was going to step in but then you got there.”
“I swear, the audacity of that girl is something else.” You shook your head.
Steve was obviously uncomfortable, trying to sidle past her but Krissy had him in a corner, clearly hanging on way too hard. She was chewing his ear off about something that he wasn’t listening to. His gaze flickered over her head and landed straight on you, almost as though he had felt you come into the house, like he’d been searching for you all night. His mouth fell open when he saw the outfit you were wearing, taking you in. He’d never seen anyone so gorgeous in all his life. You flashed him a small smile.
Krissy seemed to notice that his attention had drifted somewhere else and she followed his gaze to see you standing there next to Nancy. She flashed you a dirty look, rolling her eyes before turning back to Steve, putting a hand on his arm. Steve was already making his excuses, attempting to move past her. And then it happened.
Krissy tightened her grip on his arm, holding him in place as she leaned in and went to brush her lips against hers.
Before she could, Steve immediately recoiled away from her, shaking her arm off. From across the room, all sense and reason had left your head as you stormed away from Nancy and marched over to them. When you reached them Steve had retracted back, speaking to her in an angry tone.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m in a relationship now. Stay away from me.”
“Oh, come on.” Krissy laughed as you reached Steve’s side, staring daggers at her. “You think she’s better than me. Steve, baby, you could be so much happier with me.”
“No, I’m already happy. And don’t talk about her like that, she’s the best thing that ever happened to me.” His arm instinctively wrapped around you, pulling you closer. It was a good thing, too. It meant you couldn’t strangle Krissy. “She picked me up after you broke my heart. We’re over, Krissy. You need to move on.”
Your gaze flickered down to the jacket wrapped around her shoulders. It was one of Steve’s. “Where did you get that from?” Your voice didn’t waver once.
She glanced down at the jacket. “Oh, this old thing?” She chuckled. “Steve gave it to me.”
You heard him sigh as he leaned in to whisper in your ear. “I left it on the back of the chair just now when I went to get a drink. I think she took it then.”
You knew he was telling the truth. Steve had been wearing that jacket just this morning when you saw him, it was one of his favourites. Except now it was tarnished because she was wearing it. But you weren’t one to get rattled so easily. Instead, you flashed her a smile.
“It suits you, you should keep it.” You told her, before turning your attention to Steve. “Baby, I’m so thirsty. Would you mind grabbing me a drink?”
“Sure, honey.” He leaned into you. “You look fucking amazing, by the way.”
“Thank you, baby.” Before he could leave, you pulled him into a kiss in front of Krissy, making sure she could see just how much Steve had moved on. When you pulled away, Steve was grinning like an idiot, wandering over to grab you a drink and not giving Krissy a second glance. You on the other hand.
As soon as Steve was gone, you whirled around to face her. She was still wearing that smug grin on her face. “Don’t get too comfy, sweetie. It’s only a matter of time before Steve comes crawling back to me.”
“Oh, honey.” You laughed. “You really don’t know when to back down, do you?”
Nancy and Robin appeared next to you, a safe alliance around you. “Want me to throw her out?” Nancy asked you.
“No, no. That’s OK, Nance. Actually she should stay, as a guest of honour. In fact, I should make a speech just for her.” You spotted the cup in Robin’s hand and took it off her, storming into the living room and climbing up onto the coffee table so everybody could see you. “Excuse me, can I have everyone’s attention, please?”
The swathes of people mingling about all turned their heads towards you, clearly excited to see what this new development at the party was. You noticed Steve return, standing next to Nancy and Robin and looking bemused. You held your cup up in the air. “Thank you all for coming, but right now I would love to make a toast to our guest of honour. Krissy Matthews.” You tilted the cup in her direction.
Krissy didn’t look so confident anymore, suddenly feeling like a bug under a microscope as all eyes in the place turned on her. You continued your spiel. “You know, from up here I can see there are a lot of happy couples here tonight. You guys all look so good, by the way. I just wanted to make a quick PSA to all the ladies, you might want to steer clear of Krissy tonight, because she can’t seem to keep her hands off what doesn’t belong to her anymore.” You announced loudly.
Everyone suddenly started booing, but not at you. At Krissy. She folded her arms in on herself as you went on. “But doesn’t she look great tonight, guys? Let’s all give it up for Krissy.” You signed off your speech, climbing down and making your way over to her. As soon as you were close enough, you tripped forward and spilled the remnants of the drink all over the jacket.
Krissy yelled in shock. “What the fuck?!”
“Aw, I’m so sorry babe.” You pouted at her. “Butterfingers and all. But then again, I guess that jacket was never yours to begin with, huh?” You gave her the fakest smile, leaning in so only she could hear you. “The next time you think about kissing my boyfriend, maybe think twice. Steve’s with me now, you lost babe.” You stepped back. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going upstairs with my boyfriend to fuck his brains out.”
With that, you turned heel and left her standing there completely dumfounded. Wandering over to Steve, you planted a kiss on his cheek and he chuckled low..
“Jesus, baby. You know how hot you looked up there, looking like that and defending my honour.”
You shrugged. “Maybe it was petty, but it had to be done.”
Steve’s hand settled on your waist, passing the drink he had gotten you to Robin before leaning in to you. “I’m not going to lie, I’m kind of turned on right now. You look damn good in that skirt.” Steve confessed, whispering in your ear. A shiver went down your spine at his words.
“Oh, yeah?” You smirked. “Well, how about we go somewhere quiet and you show me exactly how much?”
You grabbed Steve’s hand and began pulling him through the crowd, flashing Krissy a wink and a smile as your pushed past her, heading for the stairs. Steve followed you up and you located the first room you could find, dragging him inside. It turned out to be one of the guest bedrooms which worked perfectly for you. You took no time in pushing Steve up against the wall and crashing your lips with his.
He groaned against your lips, secretly loving how much you were taking charge right now. “Jesus, baby. You’re fucking killing me right now.”
You broke away from his lips and began peppering kisses along his jaw and down his neck, feeling him melt into you. “You know what I want to do to you right now?”
“Mmm?” Steve was a little too preoccupied with how good your kisses felt in that moment, heat creeping up his back.
“I want to fuck you until you forget all about Krissy Matthews.” You told him as you palmed him through his jeans, feeling how hard he was.
“Fuck, baby.” Steve moaned in surprise. “You know it’s only you for me.”
Your hands moved up to card into his hair, tilting his head back and leaning in to lick a long strip up his neck, revelling in how you felt him shudder under your touch. “I know, baby. I just want to make sure.” You moved down to unbuckle his belt.
“Honey, let me touch you first, please?” Steve practically begged but you shook your head, pulling his pants down and dropping to your knees.
“Not just yet, baby. Let me take care of you, first.”
Steve was pretty sure he had died and gone to heaven, seeing you down on your knees for him. You removed his boxers slowly and before he knew it, you were taking him in your hand, pumping slowly. His head fell back against the wall, a series of curse words falling from his mouth. You picked up the pace a little, and Steve saw stars. “Jesus Christ, baby. Please, you’re killing me.”
“Please what, Stevie? You want my mouth.”
“Fuck yes.” His breathing was ragged.
“Hmm.” You hummed in contemplation, still stroking him. “I don’t know, have you forgotten about Krissy yet?” You knew what the answer was, and the jealousy from earlier had completely dissipated now. Steve was all yours and you knew it. You were just slightly enjoying having him as putty in your hands right now, seeing his face completely wrecked from your touch gave you a little thrill.
“Baby, I never thought about her. It’s only ever been you.” Steve breathed. “Please.”
That was good enough for you, and without any hesitation you licked a strip up his length, causing him to jolt in both surprise and pleasure. “Oh, fuck.”
You took him in your mouth, expertly bobbing up and down. This wasn’t your first rodeo and you knew exactly how to ruin Steve. You started off slow, knowing how much it would drive him crazy. His hands snaked into your hair, desperately trying to keep himself grounded. “Oh God, baby. You’re so good at this, please don’t stop.”
You glanced up at him, head thrown back against the wall, breathing heavy and eyes drifted close in pure ecstasy. “You look so pretty right now, honey. You briefly paused to tell him, before taking his entire length back in your mouth. He groaned loudly.
“Shit, I’m not going to last much longer, baby.”
You hummed in response, feeling his hands tighten in your hair and his legs start to shake. After a moment, he cursed loudly and tried to pull your head away but you doubled down as he spilled his release into your mouth, moaning as he watched you swallow. You finally pulled away with a smile. “You’re so good for me, Stevie.” You grinned up at him, watching as he tried to catch his breath, holding his hand against the door frame to steady himself. As soon as he had come back down, he reached down to pull you up, kissing you softly as his hands found their way into your hair again.
You sighed against his lips, and he took the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, deepening the kiss. Steve was the best kisser you had ever met, you could have stayed there for hours, but apparently he had other ideas. He was in control now, moving to kiss down your neck and sucking at a particularly sensitive spot, making you moan.
“Does that feel good, baby?” He asked, hands toying with the hem of your shirt. “Think it’s my turn to make you feel good.”
“Please.” You were begging now, which only fuelled Steve’s ego. He leaned in to whisper in your ear.
“Gonna fucking ruin you, baby. Show you that you’re the only one for me.”
He pulled your shirt over your head and immediately trailed kisses down your neck, hands coming up to your nipples as he circled them slowly. Your head fell forward against his shoulder as he played with your tits, caught up in how good it felt. “Shit, Stevie. That feels good.”
“Yeah, baby?” He kissed the top of your head softly, not stopping his assault on your nipples. “Swear I could do this all day.”
“I need you, Steve.”
Steve cooed. “Poor baby, gone all dumb for me now? Need me to take care of you?” His hands moved down to pull up your skirt. “Gonna let me make you feel good?”
“Please, baby, want you inside me.”
“Since you asked so nicely.” He lined himself up with you and slowly pushed himself inside. Even after all this time, it still took you a minute to adjust to his size, fingers gripping his shoulders tightly as Steve stroked your hair gently. “It’s OK, honey. I’ve got you. I’ll start slow.” As soon as the pain bloomed into pleasure, you squeezed his shoulder, a green light. Steve began moving, slowly at first and he groaned at the feeling of you around him. “Fuck, baby. You feel amazing.”
“Feels so good, Steve. Always so good.”
Steve pressed kisses to your neck as he picked up the pace. “God, no one ever felt as good as you do, honey. You know how much I love you?”
You did, you always had. Steve was the one for you, no one ever made you feel as good as he did. “Love you too, Steve. So much.”
His groans were getting louder, mixed with your moans and you knew for sure that if anyone was outside right now, they would hear you. Not that you cared, you wanted everyone at that party to know that Steve was yours.
“Say you’re mine, Steve.” His head was nestled in the crook of your shoulder as he thrusted in and out of you, not hearing you at first. “Baby, please say you’re mine.”
“I’m all yours, honey. No one else’s. Yours.” He whispered in your ear.
You moaned loudly. “God, you feel so good, Steve. I’m so close.”
Steve picked up the pace tenfold, pounding into you knowing how much you loved it when he got a little rough. “That’s it, baby. Take it like that, you feel fucking incredible.”
“Steve.” Feeling the coil tighten in your stomach, you knew how close you were to the edge. Steve was right there with you.
“Let go for me, honey. You know how much I love to hear you fall apart on my cock.” He said, voice low and husky. That was all it took for you to tip over the edge, feeling as though you’d been sent to another planet as Steve held you through your orgasm.
“Oh God, Steve.” You moaned loudly. “Oh, Steve.” His name fell from your lips like a prayer and it was enough for him to follow you over the edge, groaning loudly as he spilled his load inside you. You were grateful to be on the pill, as there was no way you were pulling away from him right now. The two of you held each other as you both came down from your highs, breathing slowly returning to normal.
You looked up and brushed some hair out of his face, revelling in how fucked out he looked right now. He gave you a grin right back, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re fucking amazing, you know that?”
“I do, but it’s nice to hear it.” You giggled. “I love you, Steve.”
“I love you, too. I swear, it’s only you.”
“I know.” You nodded. “Hopefully now everyone else does too.”
A sudden banging on the door had you both startling in surprise. “Hey, guys!” It was Robin. “If you’re done screwing in there, we might need your help clearing up down here.”
summary. You and Joe broke up a year ago. Now both of you are invited to James Corden’s show: Spill Your Guts, where you and Joe find out about some things you didn’t tell each other before.
warnings & tags. You and Joe are exes! inspired in Harry Styles and Kendall Jenner’s video. pet names. mention of reader with a gap tooth smile. fluff. english isn’t my first language.
a/n. hiii! i MIGHT make a part 2 of this, buuut im not so sure. however hope you love it and if feel like making a request you’re totally invited to!! also credits to the owners of the dividers!!
masterlist
Life had a way of twisting unexpectedly, surprising you more with each passing day. Now more than ever.
A long, wide table stretched before you, lined with dishes that faced the round table where you sat. You were on one side, wearing a confident smile. One that the man across from you knew better than anyone. It was a fake smile that tried to look secure.
You and Joe had started your relationship while filming the third season of Stranger Things. From that moment on, you became inseparable. Wherever you were, Joe was never far behind. While he performed onstage, singing his heart out, you were always in the audience with a genuine smile, watching him.
Your relationship became something people envied. Many fans —or even the opposite— loved seeing you together. The affection and love you shared were so strong that it showed in every interview and every photo.
It stayed that way for years. Until, at some point, the distance between you became impossible to ignore. It became impossible to see each other, or even find a few hours to talk.
The decision had been made. As painful as it was to admit, as much as tears fell from your eyes and sobs escaped your lips, the relationship couldn’t continue.
Still, you both agreed that breaking up didn’t mean disappearing from each other’s lives. And that’s how you ended up on The Late Late Show with James Corden, ready to ask each other uncomfortable questions or eat disgusting food to avoid answering.
“Long time no see,” Joe murmured to you with a crooked smile.
No one really knew why you had broken up. Neither of you said anything once the relationship ended, so countless unconfirmed theories spread across the internet.
“Let’s get this done, Joe,” you said softly, shaking your head at his words. “I can’t believe I actually agreed to this.”
Joe smiled at the audience, then back at you. “Don’t you think it would’ve been better to just go to a normal restaurant and talk?” he joked, resting his elbow on the table and covering his mouth with his hand.
The dishes on the table looked worse one after another. Just the smell reaching your nose was enough to make you grimace.
“Let’s take a look at the food we have on the table,” Joe said again, laughing softly at your expression. “First, we have Bug Trifle.” He looked at the audience, who reacted with disgust.
“Yeah. Ew,” you repeated, scrunching your nose.
Together, you and Joe began naming each dish resting on the table. The audience, meanwhile, noticed the tension-filled glances between you.
“Well, ladies first, don’t you think?” Joe tilted his head, smiling mischievously, though in truth, there was nothing but warmth behind it.
“Always so polite,” you raised your eyebrows, waiting for him to continue.
Joe began spinning the table, searching for the perfect dish for you. “I’ll take a card with one of the questions. The producers didn’t tell us what they’d be, so I take no responsibility for anything,” he said, directing the last part to the audience. “Oh, I have the perfect one. I’ll give you the 1000 year old eggnog.”
Your eyes widened in horror at the dish he’d chosen.
“Oh, no,” you whispered, tilting your head.
“I’m actually so sorry for this.” He let out a nasal laugh, his smile dropping into a guilty grimace.
You waited as Joe grabbed a card. The moment he opened it, he laughed. A laugh you knew perfectly well. It meant he found something interesting, something he knew would draw attention.
“Which cast member have you connected with the most, and which the least?” Joe read the card, then looked at you, hiding half his face behind the paper.
“Oh my god. What?” You lifted your head in surprise. There was no way you could answer that without ending up in trouble. “I—” You stopped, unsure what to do.
“Oh, come on. I think I could answer that question with all the information I have,” he teased, biting the inside of his cheek.
Of course he could. Joe knew every detail about you, just like you knew every detail about him. He knew exactly what answer was running through your mind.
“You know I can’t answer this even if I knew what to say,” you raised your eyebrows, frowning. You glanced at the audience, who were shouting that you should drink. “You guys are evil.”
Without thinking too much, you grabbed the glass filled with a thick, viscous liquid and took a sip of the green contents.
“Oh god. She did it!” Joe raised both arms as the audience erupted in cheers.
“Don’t smile too much. It’s your turn,” you said, watching his smirk grow even wider.
“All yours,” he gestured toward the table, though deep down, you suspected his words carried another meaning.
“I’m all yours, baby,” he had once said, caressing your cheek, his face inches from yours. “I’ll forever be, love.”
You remembered those words, his gaze locked on yours. Your skin prickled at the memory, and you forced yourself to ignore it as you spun the table, searching for the right dish.
“Okay, great. My turn. I’ll do the Cod Sperm,” you said, wrinkling your lips at the plate. You grabbed a card and laughed at the question. “Do you think Steve should’ve ended up with Natalia’s character or mine?”
“Oh, easy. I think it was perfect that he ended up with you. I mean, come on. They were just perfect for each other. I don’t think anyone could’ve been a better option,” he said, extending his hands to emphasize his point.
When he finished, he looked at you again with a soft smile. Your palms grew sweaty around the card. Those were the same words he’d told you while filming the final season of Stranger Things. Except back then, he’d added, “They’re perfect for each other… just like we are, baby.”
“Yeah…” you managed, smiling softly before laughing at the audience’s reaction.
They loved you both, and it was obvious they missed your relationship. Though not as much as you missed it yourselves, and perhaps that was what hurt the most.
“Alright. It’s my turn now,” Joe said, looking at the table like a mischievous child. “I’ll give you the Salmon Smoothie.”
“Oh god. I hate salmon,” you bit your lip, staring at the glass.
“Shit, that’s true. I totally forgot.” He began spinning the table again, not waiting for your input.
His eyes darted between dishes, searching for a better option. You smiled and placed your hands on the table’s edge to stop it. “It’s fine, Joe. I actually think that’s the best option out of all of this.”
He laughed, turning his gaze back to you. “You sure?” he asked, watching you with a hint of concern. When you nodded casually, he smiled again. “Okay, let’s do it.”
Joe grabbed another card. As soon as he read it, his eyebrows lifted with interest. A teasing smile appeared on his face as he held the card to his chest. “Who has been the best kisser out of all the projects you’ve worked on?” he asked, raising a brow.
The audience gasped with excitement, but your eyes stayed locked on his. You shook your head slightly, though a laugh escaped your lips.
He knew the answer. Of course he knew.
“I don’t think I want to try the Salmon Smoothie, so… fine, I’ll answer,” you said, earning applause from the audience. “It’s probably you, Joe Keery…” You crossed your arms and shrugged, trying to downplay it. But Joe saw right through you. Your lip bite, your fidgeting fingers, all the little habits you had when you were nervous.
“I’m so honored, honey. Thank you.” The nickname slipped out before he could stop it.
You tilted your head at his response but pretended not to notice. You spun the table again, searching for your next choice.
“This one looks so yummy,” you said playfully, sliding the dish in front of him. “The Bug Trifle.”
His expression twisted in disgust as he covered his nose. “I’m going to get revenge, I promise,” he warned, eyes fixed on the plate.
“It’s not that bad. You could just answer the question…” You grabbed the card, and your eyes widened. You covered your mouth to hide your laughter, failing miserably. “I really want to know the answer.”
“Oh god.”
“Which of your songs is completely about me?”
Joe opened his mouth, then closed it again, processing your words. He licked his lips, smiling as the audience reacted.
“You really wanna know, huh?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and clasping his hands under his chin. He glanced at the plate, then back at you.
“I didn’t make the questions! This is what the people want to know,” you said, shrinking into your shoulders.
“Yeah!” “Totally!” the audience shouted.
When the room finally quieted, Joe sighed. “I actually don’t think this is that hard to guess.” He bit his lip, looking at you calmly. “It’s Gap Tooth Smile, kids.” He turned to the audience with a smile.
Seconds later, a portion of the song played through the speakers.
“I know that’s my future lookin’ right back at me
I see right through your skin
Yes, I know who you are
Frame up on my baby, she’s my superstar
Big heart, all smile
Come on pretty baby, let’s last a while”
You knew the song had come out a few months before your breakup. Joe had never directly told you it was about you, but you always danced to it together in the kitchen while cooking dinner, or in the car on the way to set. Deep down, you knew.
Joe smiled as he listened. “Yeah… that one.”
The audience applauded, cheered, and whistled. But Joe only smiled at you, squinting slightly, silently asking if you’d expected him to answer. You shrugged with a smile that matched his.
“Okay, let’s get this done. I’m gonna give you the Bull Penis, looks delicious,” he joked, sliding the dish toward you. Then he grabbed a card. “Who is the most surprising celeb to ever slide into your DMs?”
The audience reacted loudly. Joe glanced at them, then at you, waiting. He thought he knew the answer —you’d talked about it before— but maybe something new had happened in the past few months.
You covered your mouth, reacting to the crowd. “I have my answer, but I don’t think I should say it,” you admitted, feeling your cheeks burn.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to answer,” he said, waving it off. Then he pointed at the dish. “But you can’t run from that.”
You pinched your nose as the smell hit you, then quickly took a bite to get it over with.
“There you go!” Joe encouraged, clapping as the audience joined in.
You drank water, then looked back at him. You couldn’t help smiling at his reaction. Your heart raced every time he looked at you with that familiar smile.
Reluctantly, you tore your gaze away and returned to the table. “I think the Giant Water Scorpion is a good option,” you said, spinning the table.
“Looks delicious,” Joe replied sarcastically, raising his eyebrows.
“Oh, Joe…” you said with feeling as you read the question. You wondered why these questions had to be so intense, but you continued anyway. “Have you written any songs about me since we broke up?”
Joe stared at you without blinking as the room fell silent. Then, without warning, he grabbed the dish you’d chosen for him and took a bite.
You gasped in surprise, then burst into laughter at his reaction. “He did it!” you told the audience, laughing.
Both of you stood from your seats, moving to stand side by side as you waved at the crowd. Joe said a few final words, and you followed.
Once the farewell ended, you began walking toward the exit. You could feel Joe close behind you, his footsteps perfectly audible until you also felt his breath against your neck and ear.
summary: Days of petty vacation bickering take an unexpected turn when Steve accidentally walks in on you naked. Now you're icing him out entirely, and he would do anything for you to talk to him again... literally anything.
warnings: accidental nudity (no descriptions of reader's body apart from being afab), SMUT (+18), oral (f), fingering, soft dom! steve, p i v, unprotected sex.
words: 3.8k || masterlist
August finally rolls around, and with it? The long awaited time off work you managed to get.
But it wasn’t just the time off that exited you. You were now finally in the cabin near the lake you've rented with your friends to get out of town for a week.
So these were exciting times. Sunbathing in front of a lovely lake with your best friends. Playing volleyball, chicken, and dumb drinking games. Having sleepovers every night for a whole week. Tripping over big Nikes thrown in the middle of the kitchen floor... Wait what?
Yes. It wasn’t all fun and games the living-together situation. Who in their right mind takes off their shoes in the kitchen and just leaves them there? Well, from the size of the shoe and the fact that they're white and red Nikes... It’s easy to take a guess.
"Steve!" you scream, holding the Nikes in your hand.
"Yeah, sup?" he comes out of the bathroom.
"Why are your shoes in the middle of the kitchen floor?"
"Oh, sorry. I just took them off before I took a shower." he says, grabbing them.
"In the kitchen? And you just left them here?" you question.
"I said sorry!" he looks at you like you're crazy.
"You're leaving your entire wardrobe laying around the house instead of your own room!" you start. "Just yesterday you had two hoodies on the couch. Not one, two! And, oh look at that! They're still laying there!" you glance at the couch.
"Jeez! Sorry, mom!" he chuckles sarcastically.
"Oh, shut up!"
"Well, what about you taking over the bathroom?" he complains.
"What?" you ask, confused at the accusation.
"You're taking up 80% of the sink with your hair products, and make up, and body creams." he lists. "I can't even find a square inch to put down my toothbrush!"
"Hair products that you are also using! Don't think I didn't notice!" you respond.
"Oh, please! That’s so dumb." he rolls his eyes.
And unfortunately, it doesn't stop there. Even though these are things that could annoy anyone also living in this house, it only seems to fire you two up.
"You still haven't done the dishes?" Steve comes into the kitchen already seeking troubles.
"What?" you frown.
"It was your turn! Robin did them yesterday."
"I thought it was your turn! I did them two days ago already."
"No, I already cooked today. So it's your turn to do them." he argues.
"Well, I cooked yesterday. What does that have to do with anything?" you say back.
"I can do the dishes." Jonathan offers.
"Yeah, but it was the princess's turn to do them. But it seems she thinks she's too good for that!" he smiles sarcastically.
"No, but I do think you're way too obsessed with me." you say final, and walk away. Leaving Steve with the next sentence in his mouth.
"Can you believe her?" he asks Jonathan.
"Dude, it's not that big of a deal." he says and starts with the dishes.
But to be fair, Steve is not the only one acting crazy.
"Give me the blanket." you say once you can lie down on the couch to watch a movie with the group.
"What? No, I grabbed it first." Steve says.
"Well, I called dibs on the blanket earlier when we were picking the movie." you explain.
"That’s insane! You can't call dibs on a blanket!" he laughs.
"I already did and nobody complained, so give it to me."
"That’s true, she did." Robin agrees.
"I don't care. You didn't call dibs while I was present, so it doesn't count for me." he argues.
"Oh, now you're just making shit up." you complain.
"Can’t you just share the blanket?" Eddie steps in, tired of the stupid bickering.
"It's not as comfortable!" you insist.
"It's even more comfortable! You can also cuddle while you're at it!" Eddie claims. "Maybe that's best for everyone so you two quit fighting over everything."
"He wishes." you comment.
"No, you wish." Steve responds.
"You both wish! You're acting like toddlers tugging on each other's hair because you like each other!" Eddie shouts and Robin chuckles loudly.
"That’s so true!" she says.
But the big problem comes the day after. You were alone in the cabin while the rest of the group was down by the lake. The sun was setting and you went inside to take a shower now before everyone here starts making a line in front of the bathroom to do the same.
You had everything set in the bathroom. Underwear, pajamas, skin care, hair products. Everything but the towel, you had left it in your room.
You were already butt naked about to run the water when you noticed. But since everyone is still at the lake and you're alone in here, what's the issue?
So you opened the door and walked quickly towards your room, when suddenly-
"Oh, shit!" Steve freezes when he sees you like that. It takes him three whole seconds to take his hands to his eyes.
"WHA- DON'T LOOK!" you try to cover yourself but you have nothing. You run to grab the first shirt you find laying around... his, of course. But you grab it either way and cover yourself up. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!"
"I'M SORRY! I DIDN'T THINK YOU'D COME OUT NAKED!" he's still covering his eyes.
"I WAS ABOUT TO SHOWER BUT I FORGOT MY TOWEL!" you complain. "I THOUGHT I WAS ALONE HERE!"
"I JUST CAME TO GRAB THE CAMERA TO TAKE A PICTURE OF THE SUNSET!" he explains. "I SWEAR I'M NOT A CREEP!"
"GOD! JUST GET OUT!" you scream and he does so.
Not only did that leave you staring at the wall, still covering yourself with his shirt, when you should be taking your shower. But also, you couldn't even look at him that same night when everyone came back inside.
He saw you fully naked... not just half naked. Everything. And the fact that it has to be him out everyone here with you made it ten times worse.
If it were to be Robin or Nancy you'd just apologize and even laugh about it. Hell, even if it were Eddie or Jonathan it would be embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as it was with Steve fucking Harrington!
You've been arguing with him since you got here practically! You were at each other's throats all the time. It was humiliating.
So, no. For the next two days you don't even look at him, let alone speak. It’s not like he didn't apologize ten times more after the first one. He did.
"I'm so fucking sorry, okay? But it doesn't have to be a big deal. I swear I didn't tell anyone, and I barely even saw anything." he tries to comfort you.
But you know he's lying. He saw plenty. Three whole seconds actually.
"Come on, talk to me, scream at me, tell me I'm a fucking idiot." he insists, but no words leave your mouth still. You just leave the room like you didn’t listen.
But it's not like the rest of the group didn't notice something was wrong. The only one who knew was Robin, you told her that same night before going to sleep. She obviously tried to comfort you telling you it didn't have to be so embarrassing. And she even gave you the idea that maybe getting even would solve it. Maybe walking in on him in the shower would work. Kind of an "eye for an eye" situation. But you weren’t going to do that.
You didn't know what you were going to do, actually. You couldn’t ignore him forever, but maybe just enough time until you didn't blush at even the thought of it.
But the gang had a different opinion. Robin didn't snitch, but as I said, they're not stupid, they know for some reason you're not talking to him. So they decide to help by giving you privacy.
One afternoon you notice how empty the cabin is when you get back from a walk around the lake. You thought you were alone until you saw Steve coming down the stairs.
He freezes again for a second when he sees it's just the two of you here.
"Hey," he tries again. "I think they went for a hike."
You just nod slightly, letting him know you heard him, but still didn't feel like hanging out with him.
"Honey, I'm sorry. I don’t know how to keep apologizing. And I don’t entirely know what's the problem because you won't even look at me." he explains. "Please, just give me a hint."
"If I look at you, I’m reminded of why I want to pack my bags and take the next bus home." you finally say to him.
"But why? It was an accident, I didn't plan it like some freak." he explains for the millionth time.
"But you saw." you explain. "You stood there, Steve. For three whole seconds just looking at me, bare. I feel so exposed around you."
"Can you look at me?" he asks and you finally do. "I froze because my brain short-circuited. I walked inside the cabin and you just... took the air right out of my lungs."
You stay looking at him, listening. He's talking like he's admitting, confessing to something.
"I didn't mean to disrespect you, I am sorry." he continues. "But if you're embarrassed around me because of what I saw... then that's just stupid."
You frown, still listening but ready to get offended if he's not careful.
"You should feel embarrassed at all for the body you have. You are stunning. There's not a single bad thought about what I saw when I saw you. I'm just blown away by how beautiful you looked."
"Steve, It's fine-" he cuts you off.
"Don't tell me I'm just saying things to make you feel better. I'm telling the truth. I just saw how gorgeous and sexy you are and that’s all I can think about now. For two days straight, the only thing running through my brain is the image of your beautiful body." he says, almost whispering. "And I'm really sorry for embarrassing you, but you shouldn't be!"
You stay silent, not expecting this confession at all.
"And this is hell, to be honest too. Because at the same time, you're not speaking to me. You won't even look at me when the only thing on my mind is just you."
"You're not just saying things?" you double-check.
"I almost cut my finger off earlier when I was chopping the onions because I had my mind on you." he chuckles, showing you the bandaid on his finger as proof.
You laugh softly. "What were you thinking about exactly?" you ask, ever so innocently.
"I don't wanna say." he smiles, looking down. Shy all of the sudden.
"Come on. You have to now." you smile too.
"You are gonna think I'm a creep." he insists.
"Try me." you shrug.
"I was thinking about how soft your skin must feel." he admits. "Your chest, stomach... thighs."
Your breath hitches. And as he says the word 'thighs' you suddenly feel the need to rub them together. "What else?"
"It only gets worse from here." he warns you. "I can't quite leave the image of your tits off my head."
"Steve!" you close your eyes and cover your face at his words.
"I'm sorry, I just- it's true... they're even better than what I imagined."
"You... what?" you laugh.
"I've wanted you for months. Even more now that I see you every second of the day." he confesses. "And I may or may not have... imagined what's under the swimsuits you've been wearing."
"These are some... serious confessions." you say.
"They're not really helping my case of me not being a creep, are they?" he realizes.
"I know you didn't do it on purpose. You couldn’t have known I'd come out naked to look for my towel... Right?" you smirk.
"Right, obviously!" he nods.
"You know, um... Robin gave me the idea that, maybe, if I saw you naked I'd stop feeling so embarrassed."
"Did she now?" he smiles. "Is that something you wanna try?"
"... Maybe." you shrug again.
Without another word, he takes off his shirt first, showing his glorious chest and arms that you've already been eyeing way too much when he’s in his truck suits. Then comes off the sneakers and the pants. He looks over at you to check you still want this before lowering his boxers until they reach the ground.
And there he stands. A naked Steve in all his glory. And boy, does it help your case. He's... there's no way to put it lightly, big. Probably the biggest you've seen.
You've heard the rumours. You were friends with some girls who hooked up with him in high-school. Also, Nancy has told you how difficult and painful her first time was... you just had to do the math.
But this was more than you expected. He even looks pretty too. As well as the rest of his body that just seems like a museum sculpture in the flesh.
"You can say something..." he reminds you with a smile.
"It's not very comfortable, is it?" you chuckle and he nods. "This is just not fair, you look like a model." you say, smirking.
"Not fair?" he frowns. "You literally have the body I couldn't get out of my head for two days now."
"I think we could do something about that." you comment.
"And what could that be? Care to share?" he smiles.
"I can show you better than I can tell you." you say, and you start walking upstairs as you take your clothes off slowly.
Steve almost trips over his own clothes on the floor as he hurries after you.
When he reaches the room, he sees you standing bare in front of him once again. But this time, you're not trying to cover or hide yourself. You stand looking at him, waiting for him to walk over to you.
And he does so, only two big steps and his hands are on your waist. He pulls you closer slowly, your hands go to his chest.
"You sure you want to do this?" he murmurs.
"I think we've waited long enough. Drove each other pretty crazy already." you smirk.
"Yeah, you do drive me crazy." he whispers and finally leans in to kiss you.
Your hands go up to his hair and pull him closer. Just by a kiss you can already feel yourself getting more wet.
It's no coincidence, he is a great kisser. His tongue moves slowly against your lips and against your own tongue. One of his hands grabs your jaw to deepen the kiss.
It's a rather sweet and slow kiss, in contrast to you two standing bare naked already. But something about that tells you he's going to take his time with you tonight. And you already can't wait.
He walks you both towards the bed until you fall onto it. He takes another second to just stare at you like that, and then moves to kneel on the bed in front of you.
He starts kissing you everywhere, from your neck, down to your stomach, taking his sweet time with every new inch of skin.
"You're so beautiful." he murmurs. "Open these legs for me."
"You don't have to-" you tried to tell him you were wet enough already, but he interrupts.
"I fucking want to." he looks at your pussy, nothing else. Firstly, he opens it up with his fingers. He teases your clit just lightly, to make you squirm.
He leans over and plants kisses there, some licks just to mess with you. You go to grab his hair, move it away from his face. He looks at your eyes as you're looking at him, and he dives in. He sucks and then licks it over, alternating between those two.
His fingers also start teasing. His other hand grabs your thigh harder and harder and opens you up more.
He spits on your clit and then licks firmly. Your moans only working for him to work more fiercely.
"Such a sweet pussy." he murmurs almost against your skin. "This all for me? So wet for me?"
"Yes, Steve. For you." you nod and keep tugging on his hair.
"So pretty, and-" one big kiss. "mine, right?" another kiss. His eyes locked on your.
"Yours, baby." you nod again.
His fingers that were teasing your entrance finally start pushing in. You moan louder once he finds that one spot and curls his fingers towards it.
The combination of those thrusts inside you, right where you needed them, plus his mouth doing everything but stopping on your clit, is making a tight knot on your stomach.
"Don't stop." you exhale. He wasn't planning on stopping either way, but he takes that as fuel to move faster.
"God! Steve!" Your screams work like warning bells to let him know you're about to come, and he wants nothing more.
A strong feeling washes over you, hitting you like a wave in the sea. He still moves only to stimulate you more and drag it out. He loves the way your breath got messier and your hands grabbed him with all their force. He then moves back to let you catch your breath.
"Good girl." he praises you and keeps caressing your legs. After a minute, he speaks again to check on you. "You wanna keep going? Wanna go to sleep?"
"No, we can keep going." you shake your head.
"Alright. Stay like this, but wrap your legs around me." he guides you. Then grabs his big and now almost red cock and lines it with your entrance. "Tell me if it hurts."
"Keep going." you nod to let him know you'll be just fine.
He pushes in, first his red tip inside you, then keeps pushing until he's halfway in. He waits a second and starts thrusting back and forth, letting you get used to that. And with each thrust he lets just a little more in each time.
"That’s almost all of it. Think you can take it, pretty girl?" he teases you.
It's a new stretch that definitely feels different, but it feels so good at the same time. You know the pleasure will beat the pain in no time. "Yes, more."
"Atta girl." he praises you and pushes all of it in. He lets a loud moan out at the feeling of your tight walls wrapping around him completely. "Feels so good, insanely good."
"You're so big, Steve." you moan, what's the harm in stroking his ego while you're at it?
He keeps thrusting in and out at a steady pace, still slow to let you get used to it.
Then a few minutes later, he grabs your legs to pull them higher on his waist and starts going faster and faster.
"Oh, yes!" you let out as you hug him, pulling his body closer.
"You like that? How does my cock feel inside this sweet pussy?" he murmurs. His mouth goes to your neck while one hand is on the bed to keep himself from crushing you, and the other grips on your thigh almost definitely leaving marks.
"So good, Steve. The best."
"Yeah? That's right. Fucking made for my cock."
You don't know nor care if you're still alone in the cabin. Your friends could already be back for wherever it was they went to. And if they were, they would probably be able to hear you two. But that thought didn't even cross your mind right now. The only important thing was the feeling of Steve on top and inside of you.
He puts one of your legs on his shoulder and thrusts slower, this feels so much deeper he wants to feel every second of it. Your moans get higher and pitchier, letting him know it is definitely working wonders for you too.
He enjoys seeing you like this, totally ruined on his cock while he moves how he wants. You look beautiful and fucked out.
His thumb travels up to your mouth and you suck on it. This shouldn't make his cock twitch like it does, but he almost has to take a second to calm down.
With a pop, it leaves your mouth and attacks your puffy clit again. Not roughly, quite the opposite actually. A high contrast to his thrusts that are now going hard again.
One of your hands lets go of the sheets to grip on his arm, putting your nails into the skin. "Too much." you whine.
"Oh, it's too much?" he mocks you. "Poor baby, too bad you're just gonna have to take it."
"Fuck, Steve!"
"You're being so good at taking it, you can do it." The back and forth of his praises and mocks are making you feel dizzy in the best way.
"I'm gonna come." you moan, still digging your nails into his arm, but the movements of his thumb don't seem to miss even a little bit.
"Gonna come on my cock and make a mess?" he moves even faster. Talking to you like this, and knowing it's working for you too makes him feel just as close. "That’s it, come around me. Come on, baby, I want it."
"Steve, oh my god." broken moans that almost sound like cries leave your mouth. You arch back and let yourself be taken away by the pleasure once more.
"Yeah, yeah, just like that. Look how fucking pretty you look coming for me." he whines as well now. He was holding it until you finished first, and now seeing you come undone because of him is enough to drive a man crazy. "Where, baby? Where do you want it?"
"Inside, all inside." you pull him closer and he lets out big and loud breaths mixed with moans as he paints your walls.
His arms give up and he just lets himself rest on top of you. Careful not to hurt you, but definitely crushing you a little with his weight.
You both wait like that for your breaths to even out. A couple of minutes later, his face is nuzzling into your neck.
"You're fucking perfect." he smiles.
"So clingy." your turn to mock him now.
"Yeah, and you'll have to get used to it." he jokes.
"I can live with that."
"You sure? I'm gonna leave my clothes all around the house." he reminds you.
"Yeah, well, I'm gonna fill your bathroom with my things... and your bedroom." you add.
"Sounds great." he whispers.
"The clothes aren't so bad. But finders keepers." you warn him.
summary: you like to have things in your mouth. steve hates it.
tags: reader has a bit of an oral fixation(?), steve has a fixation on reader, kissing, suggestive themes but no smut, brief mentions of steve's childhood, f!reader, touch starved steve, etc. etc. etc.
wc: 1222
note: i saw djo live IN THE FLESH on sunday and the worms are back in my brain....i need him bad. i started writing this before i fell asleep last night and finished it today so idk what it is. first steve fic tho <3 mayb i'll do another eventually. this probably sucks. enjoy!
He can't stop looking at your mouth.
It's something you started doing with it. This instinctual need to have something in it; a sucker, a straw to chew on, a bobby pin.
it drives him up a wall.
Especially now, sitting across from you on the couch as you attentively watch whatever he put on the TV, completely still except for the pen cap rolling around between your teeth.
He's noticed it over time, your inability to sit still. Usually it's your fingers twisting a hair tie back and forth, your foot tapping against the floor, your hair twirled between your fingers.
Nothing ever this distracting.
He's not even sure if you realize you're doing it. Or worse, the torment it's causing him.
"Do you-" he clears his throat, his voice thick with something he doesn't want to name. "Are you hungry? Do you need something to eat?"
Your gaze slides from the tv to him, brows furrowing in confusion. That pen cap falling still between your lips.
God, your mouth. He can't stop thinking about it.
"What?" The word is slightly mumbled, still not having taken the cap out of your mouth.
There's a sheen on your lips, a mix of whatever gloss you put on earlier and spit sticking to them. He feels like he's going to die.
"Steve."
He must have lost a second (or a minute), because when he makes eye contact with you, your eyes are a mix of confusion and concern.
And a bit of smugness too, he thinks. A small tilt to your smile, like you saw him, like you wanted him to watch.
He runs a hand through his hair, tries again. "Are you hungry? I can make something if you want."
"We just ate dinner, though."
"Yeah but," he gets stuck there, on the corner of your mouth. You've taken the cap out, now biting the inside of your lips. "You keep chewing on shit. I don't know if that was a silent message to me if you wanted something else or not."
He looks back up and knows. Caught. Your eyes are clear now, the smugness from your smile spreading to them. Like you know what it's doing to him.
"Are you okay? You look-" you reach a hand out to his forehead, pressing the back of your palm to it, "flustered." The simple contact of your skin on his feels electric and he has to fight to not lean his whole weight into it.
"Fine." He feels like he's gonna pass out.
"You sure?" You lean in, your hand shifting as your fingers start playing with his hair. He shudders, his eyes falling closed as you twist the strands through your fingers.
He can feel your breath on his mouth. Not sure when you leaned even closer, but he swallows as he sits there. Waits.
"I saw you watching," you murmur, "you looked pissed off at the pen."
"I am." He opens his eyes to see you searching his face, for what, he's not sure. "Was wondering why you always have something in your mouth." His gaze drifts back to it.
You hum, your face shifting to the side, your lips pressing to his jaw as your hand in his hair shifts to cup the nape of his neck. "Dunno. Just feels nice."
A bite under his ear. Tasting his skin, rolling it between your teeth before soothing it with your tongue. Feels nice to have his skin on your lips.
Steve's chest heaves, shifting his hips a little to ease the pressure off. "You're messing with me."
He can feel your smile, then. Like you know he's caught you. Like this was your plan all along, to ease yourself closer to him. Your head moves up, back in front of him and he opens his eyes to look at you. Hadn't even realized they'd fallen shut again.
He wonders what you see. Flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, breath falling heavy out of his mouth. A mess.
"Honey," you start. Your gaze falls to his mouth, then. "Do you want me to kiss you?"
The words are quiet, gentle. Like you know that's what he needs. A soft touch, a gentle approach.
Sometimes Steve gets stuck. Caught in a long lost pattern where he wants something but doesn't know how to ask for it. Feels his skin get clammy and his heart rate kick up as that voice in the back of his head becomes louder. Too much. Too needy.
Feels it in his throat, then. Pressure in the back of it, every muscle in his body telling him not to. Too risky. She wants you to say no.
"Please," he rasps out.
You smile. A gentle, knowing one. Like you can hear those voices too. Like you know him well enough to realize when it's hard for him to ask.
Your other hand comes up to cup his cheek as you lean in, lips pressing to his. You're cautious, not out of nerves, but knowing that he might need a second to settle.
Your tongue swipes across his bottom lip and he melts. Reaches across to your hips to pull you closer to him. Needs that touch. Nothing has ever grounded him as much as you do.
You raise up onto your knees so you're above him and you hum warmly when he pushes closer to you in any way he can. Hands tightening, pinkies slipping under your shirt, rubbing small circles against your ribs.
He's warm all over. Your mouth is hot and wet against his, letting out little breaths that go straight through him like a live wire. You kiss like that for a few minutes, the time lost to him as he gets lost in you.
"Steve," you start, pulling back just slightly. It's a reflex for him to lean back in, to get more from you. You let him before reaching into his hair and tugging just enough to get his attention.
He whimpers at it, leaning back and opening his eyes to see you smiling at him again, eyebrows raised in surprise. "You know you can kiss me whenever you want, right?"
His throat is dry as he swallows. He feels dazed, back to staring at your mouth again. Pink, a little swollen. He's obsessed with it a little, he thinks.
Tells you that too. "You drive me insane sometimes," his thumb reaches up to run across your bottom lip, sinking in a bit until he feels your teeth. "Always playing with stuff in your mouth. Can't think about anything else when you're doing it." You close your lips around his thumb and suck a little. Steve feels like he's going to die.
"Well," you lean closer, lifting one of your legs over his hips and resting your weight on him. He exhales sharply, knowing you can feel how hard he is. "Lucky for you, there's an easily solution to that."
He's grinning when you lean back down, pressing your mouth to his in a way that shows him how badly you want it.
And later when Steve starts stealing little items from you, rolling them around in his hands and twisting them between his long fingers, you may have to cross your legs and turn your attention elsewhere, (but he doesn't need to know that).
PLEASSSSEEE having sex in a hot tub with joe when staying in an airbnb on tour!!!
AHHHH WHAT A GOOD REQUEST 🤭
i fear this one completely ran away with me in the best way 😭 it ended up being much softer and more intimate than i originally expected - lots of tour exhaustion, wine, and joe being impossibly gentle and atrociously hot
i really hope it lives up to what you had in mind!! thank you so much for sending it in 🫶
until noon
Joe Keery x reader
Summary: After six relentless weeks on tour, one quiet night in an Airbnb outside Vienna reminds you both what it feels like to finally have nowhere else to be.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex, alcohol consumption, praise, mutual pining, body worship, they're so in love it hurts (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 5.1k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!
The hot tub jets rumble against your lower back, a low vibration that works into muscles you forgot you had. You let your head fall back, the stone edge cool against your neck, and watch steam curl off the dark water into the night sky. The Airbnb sits somewhere outside Vienna - you've lost track of which country you're in, let alone which city - and the silence is the kind you haven't heard in weeks. No tour bus engine. No hotel hallway footsteps. No distant bass from a venue's walls vibrating.
Just water. Steam. And the faint smell of chlorine and wet cedar from the patio deck.
You sink deeper, the heat pulling a sigh from somewhere low in your chest. Six weeks. Forty-two days since you last sat in silence and let your body remember what stillness felt like. The tour had been good - great, even - but good in the way a long run feels good when you're still moving. You haven't stopped long enough to feel the ache until now.
The water ripples as you shift, adjusting to the heat. Your hair floats around your shoulders, darkened with moisture, and you tuck a strand behind your ear. The silver ring on your thumb catches the faint light from the patio lanterns - warm amber glow strung along the railing - and you turn it absently, the motion automatic.
Somewhere beyond the patio wall, a church bell tolls. Distant. Low. You count the rings without meaning to. Ten. Eleven. You stop counting.
The glass door slides open behind you.
You don't turn. You know the sound of his bare feet on the stone tiles - the particular heel-toe rhythm that means he's carrying something in both hands and walking carefully. The clink of glass confirms it.
"You took your time," you say, voice carrying easily through the steam.
"Had to find the good bottle." His voice, low and warm, wraps around the words. "You think I'm bringing you cheap Austrian red after Berlin?"
A smile touches your mouth. "I think you'd drink gasoline if it came in a wine bottle."
"Yeah, but I wouldn't make you drink it."
You turn now, just your head, enough to see him. Joe stands at the edge of the tub, two glasses in one hand, the other already reaching for the stone edge to steady himself. The lantern light catches the veins on his forearms - lines you know by heart, know the feel of under your fingers at 3 AM in a tour bus bunk. Water sluices over his shoulders as he sinks in, a controlled descent, and the sight of him - chest bare, hair already darkening at the hem, hazel eyes finding yours through the steam - sends something warm through you that isn't the water.
He sets the glasses on the stone edge beside him. Red wine. Two of them. Condensation beads the rims.
"One of these is yours," he says, settling in. The water rises around his chest, lapping at his collarbones. "The other one's mine. But I'll share if you ask nice."
"I don't ask nice."
"No." He grins, and it's the same grin that made you laugh in the dive bar where you met two years ago - easy, crooked, like he knows something you don't. "You ask mean. That's the part I like."
You roll your eyes, but the warmth stays. It's been there since you crossed the German border, actually. This particular quiet between you, the kind that settles when you're alone and the tour falls away and it's just you in a room, or a tub, or a bed that isn't moving.
The water shifts as Joe adjusts, settling deeper. Steam curls between you. You watch the way it catches in his hair, beading on his lashes, and something in your chest loosens another notch.
"We should rob more Airbnbs," you say. "This is better than the last one."
"The one in Munich with the shared bathroom?"
"The one in Munich where we had to share the bathroom with Wes."
He groans. "Don't remind me. I still haven't forgiven him for the toothpaste incident."
"He said it was an accident."
"He squeezed from the middle, honey. That's not an accident. That's a lifestyle choice."
You laugh, and it comes out easy, surprised - the way it does when you're comfortable. The sound hangs in the steam between you. Joe's watching you. He does that. Watches you laugh like it's something he wants to remember.
"What?" you say.
"Nothing." Joe picks up one of the glasses and takes a sip. "Just glad we're here. That's all."
You know what he means. The tour has been a blur of cities and soundchecks and borrowed beds. Two nights max in any one place. Never enough time to breathe, let alone be together the way you're used to. The way you are when there's no bus idling outside, no call time in the morning, no gear to load.
You pick up the other glass. The wine is good - deep, earthy, a little sharp on the tongue. You let it sit in your mouth a moment before swallowing.
"I forgot what quiet sounded like," you say, more to yourself than him.
"Yeah." He's quiet a moment, thumb tracing the rim of his glass. "I forgot what you sounded like. Just you. Not the crowd, not the monitors. Just your voice in a room."
You look at him. The steam has softened the edges of his face, made him look younger somehow. Or maybe that's just the absence of the stage lights, the hours of travel, the weight of the road. Maybe this is who he is when no one's watching.
"We have the whole place until noon tomorrow," you say. "No checkout. No soundcheck. No anything."
"I know." Joe's voice drops, that raw edge slipping in. "I've been thinking about that since Prague."
"You've been thinking about the checkout time since Prague?"
"I've been thinking about what we could do with it."
The words settle between you, heavier than the steam. You take another sip of wine, let the warmth spread through your chest, and don't look away.
Joe sets his glass down on the stone edge. The clink echoes off the patio tiles. Then he shifts, the water rippling, and you feel it - his hand finding your ankle under the surface.
You don't flinch. You're waiting for it, maybe. The touch is warm, deliberate, his fingers curling around your ankle with an ease that speaks of practice. Of knowing your body's geography.
"Come here," he says. Not a question.
You let him pull your leg across his thigh, the water sliding warm against your skin. His thumb finds the arch of your foot and presses - slow, deep, the kind of pressure that knows exactly where to dig in. You exhale, a sound you don't mean to make, and your eyes flutter half-closed.
"That hurt?"
"That's the opposite of hurt."
His thumb works a slow circle into the arch, and you feel tension you didn't know you were holding release through your toes. Thirty-six shows into the tour, your feet are having the last laugh.
"You've been standing the whole set," Joe says, his voice quiet, his thumb pressing deeper. "Every night. Heels. Wooden floors."
"My boyfriend's in the band. Of course I'm gonna be on my feet the whole show. That's the deal."
"Doesn't mean you have to do it on your toes."
"It's the shoes. They make my calves look good."
He looks up at you, his hand stilling on your foot. "Your calves look good in everything. Including nothing."
The air between you thickens. Steam rises. The water laps at your thigh where your leg rests across his, and you can feel the solid warmth of him under the surface. His hand resumes its work, thumb finding a knot just below your heel, and you let your head fall back again, watching him through your lashes.
The lantern light catches the water beading on his chest. His shoulders are bare above the surface, and you watch the way his arm moves as he works your foot - muscle shifting under ink, tendons standing out. He's all lean lines and easy strength, and you know exactly what that body feels like over yours, under yours, beside you in the dark.
You finish the wine in one long swallow and set the glass on the edge. The stone is cool against your forearm as you lean forward, the water sloshing gently against your chest.
"You're allowed to do more than my foot," you say.
Joe's eyes meet yours. That same hunger you saw in that bar two years ago, the one that told you he wasn't just a charming musician. The one that told you he knew exactly what he wanted, and it wasn't just a night.
"I'm pacing myself," he says.
"Since when?"
"Since I realised we had until noon tomorrow." His thumb drags a slow line from your heel to the ball of your foot. "I'm not in a hurry."
The words land low in your belly. You hold his gaze, let the silence stretch, let the steam do its work. The jets rumble against your back, and the water laps at your ribs, and you feel every inch of the distance between you.
You could close it. You could slide across the tub, straddle his thighs, feel the stone at your knees and his hands on your hips. You could kiss the taste of Austrian wine from his mouth and let the night take whatever shape it wanted.
But Joe's waiting. His hand on your foot, his eyes on yours, the water dark between you. His other hand rests on the surface, palm open, fingers slightly spread.
Waiting for you to close the distance.
You watch his open palm. The water laps at his fingers, and a bead of condensation slides down the wine glass he set aside, catching the lantern light before it lands on the stone edge with a sound you barely hear.
The church bell again. Farther now, or maybe just softer through the steam. You stop counting after three.
Your foot is still in his hand. His thumb has stopped moving, just resting against the arch, and you can feel his pulse through the contact - or maybe that's yours, hard and slow in your throat. The heat of the water has settled into your bones, and the wine hums warm in your chest, and the space between you feels like a note held too long, trembling on the edge of release.
You don't move toward him.
You don't move away.
The steam curls between you, and you watch the way it catches in his hair, the way his chest rises and falls with breaths he's keeping slow. Deliberate. Like he's reading you the same way you're reading him.
Your thumb finds your silver ring again, turns it once. Twice. The motion is older than the tour, older than him - a habit from long before you knew each other.
"Joe," you say. His name in the steam. Not a question. Not an answer. Just his name, the way it sounds when the rest of the sentence hasn't caught up yet.
"I'm here."
His voice is quiet. No edge. No hunger in it, not the way he said it before. Just presence. A statement of fact. He's here. He's not going anywhere.
The water shifts as you adjust your weight, and your leg slides an inch along his thigh. His hand tightens on your foot, just barely - a reflex, not a demand.
"I know," you say.
The silence settles around you again, but it's different now. Fuller. Like the space between you has weight, and you're both holding it.
You look past him, past the steam, past the patio railing. The city lights beyond are scattered and distant - a glow against the dark, not quite stars. Vienna. Or wherever this is. Somewhere with old stone and church bells and a bed that doesn't vibrate when the tour bus engine idles.
The night jasmine you noticed when you first arrived, climbing the trellis by the patio door, sends a faint sweetness through the chlorine and cedar. You breathe it in. Let it settle.
Then you look back at Joe.
His eyes haven't left your face.
You reach out. Not to take his hand - not yet. Your fingers find the waterline, trace a slow line through the steam, and rest on the stone edge beside his open palm. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Not touching.
His fingers don't move towards you. He's waiting. The same patience he had when he learned your body's rhythms - the way you like to be touched, the way you need to be held, the way you pull away before you get too close and come back when you're ready.
You remember that. The first time you slept together, in a hotel room with thin walls and a view of the parking lot. He'd waited then, too. Not rushed. Not pushed. Just waited, with that same open palm, that same steady gaze, until you closed the distance yourself.
The water laps at your fingers. His are still, just beside them.
You let your hand drift the last inch. Your fingertips brush his. Light. Barely there.
His breath catches. Just a fraction. Just enough for you to hear.
You don't pull away.
Your fingertip against his. The barest contact, skin to skin, and the water lapping at your hands like it's part of the conversation. You feel his pulse through that single point - or maybe that's wishful thinking, wanting to feel him the way you feel yourself, hard and slow and hungry in your chest.
He doesn't move. Doesn't curl his fingers around yours, doesn't pull you closer. Just waits, that open palm beside your hand, letting you decide how much of this distance you want to close.
You trace a line down his palm. Slow. Deliberate. Your fingertip follows the lifeline, then the heart line, and you feel the slight catch of callus at the base of his fingers - guitar callus, worn into his skin from years of strings and frets. You know the feel of those hands on your body. Know what they can do.
"Baby." Joe's voice is low, barely above the rumble of the jets. "Look at me."
You do. His eyes are dark in the lantern light, the hazel swallowed by the pupil, and there's nothing easy in his face now. The charm is gone. What's left is raw, open, the same hunger you saw in that bar, but stripped of the grin that usually carries it.
"I've been wanting this," he says. "Since Berlin. Since Prague. Since the night we crossed the border and you fell asleep on my shoulder in the back of the van."
"You didn't say anything."
"You needed to sleep."
Something cracks open in your chest. Not painfully - the opposite. Like a door you didn't know was locked, swinging inward.
You slide your hand fully into his. His fingers close around yours, warm and sure, and he squeezes once - a question, not an answer.
You answer by pulling his hand towards you. Under the water, past your thigh, until his palm rests flat against your stomach, just below the surface.
Joe's breath catches.
Your skin is slick and hot from the water, and you watch his face as he feels you - the soft swell of your belly, the jut of your hipbone, the way your breath hitches when his thumb traces a slow circle just above the waistband of nothing. Because you're not wearing anything. Haven't been since you stepped into this water.
"You're sure?" he asks.
"I'm sure."
His hand slides lower.
You spread your legs under the water, a small shift that opens you to him, and his fingers find you wet - not from the tub. His knuckles brush the inside of your thigh as his palm cups you, and you exhale, long and slow, your head falling back.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're already-"
"I know."
His middle finger traces your slit, featherlight, barely there, and you jerk like you've been shocked. The water ripples around you, sloshing against the stone edge.
"Look at me," he says again. "I want to see your face when I touch you."
You force your eyes open. His are dark, fixed on yours, and his finger slides into you without resistance. One knuckle. Two. You're so slick he glides in like you were made for it, and the pressure - the fullness, the stretch, the way his finger curls inside you - draws a sound from your throat you didn't know you could make.
"Yeah," he says, low. "That's it. That's what I wanted to hear."
He works you slowly, his thumb finding your clit in a steady circle, his finger curling and pressing, and you grip the edge of the tub with your free hand, knuckles white against the stone. The water slaps against your chest as you breathe - short, shallow, your hips starting to roll against his hand.
"I've been thinking about this," he says, his voice rough, almost a whisper. "Every night in those shitty hotel rooms, you in the bunk across the aisle. Hearing you breathe. Wanting to touch you and not being able to."
"Joe-"
"I'd lie awake and imagine your hand on my cock. The way you look when you're on top of me. The sound you make when you come."
You whimper - actually whimper - and his thumb presses harder, his finger driving deeper, and you feel the edge approaching, that familiar coiling heat in your belly.
"Not yet," he says.
He pulls his hand away.
You make a sound of protest, raw and desperate, and he grins - that same crooked grin, but darker now, edged with something possessive.
"I said I'm pacing myself." He lifts his hand out of the water, brings his fingers to his mouth, and sucks you off them slowly. His eyes never leave yours. "And I want to taste you for real."
He shifts, turning in the water, and before you can process the movement, he's between your thighs, lifting you out of the water onto the stone, his hands on your knees, pushing them apart. The water sloshes against the stone, and you feel the rough edge of the wall at your back, the sky open above you, the steam curling around Joe's shoulders as he settles in front of you.
"Hold onto the edge," he says.
You do. Your fingers find the stone, wet and cool, and you grip it as he lowers his mouth to you.
His first lick is slow, flat-tongued, from your entrance to your clit, and you jerk so hard you almost lose your grip. He hums against you, a sound of approval, and does it again - slower this time, like he's savouring you, like the taste of you is something he's been craving.
"You taste," he says against you, "like everything I've been missing."
His tongue circles your clit, wet and precise, and you let your head fall back, your fingers slipping on the stone. The steam rises around you, the night air cool on your wet shoulders, and all you can feel is his mouth, his hands gripping your thighs, his tongue working you closer to the edge.
"Joe, I'm-"
"I know." He doesn't stop. Doesn't slow down. His tongue presses harder, faster, and you feel your hips buck against his face, and you're gone - falling apart in the hot water, a sound tearing out of your throat that carries across the patio, into the night, into the dark Austrian sky.
He rides you through it, his mouth gentling as you come down, his tongue soft and soothing against your oversensitive clit. You're trembling, your thighs shaking, your grip on the stone so tight your fingers ache.
He surfaces slowly, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then your hip, then your stomach as he rises out of the water. His face is wet, his hair plastered to his forehead, and his eyes are dark and hungry.
"Scoot back," he says. "I want room."
You shift backwards in the tub, the stone seat pressing against your spine, and Joe follows, his body crowding yours. His chest presses against yours, the water warm between you, and his hand slides down your stomach, between your legs again.
"You're still so wet," he murmurs. "That's for me, isn't it?"
You nod, not trusting your voice.
His fingers find you again, sliding inside, and you're so sensitive from the orgasm that you gasp, your hips twitching.
"One more," he says, his lips against your ear. "I want you to come on my fingers before I fuck you."
You feel his cock against your thigh, hard and thick, and the thought of what's coming - of him inside you, of the stretch and the heat and the way he feels when he comes - sends a fresh wave of wetness through you.
Joe feels it. His fingers curl, his thumb pressing your clit, and he whispers in your ear - filthy, low, things he's been thinking about since Prague, since Berlin, since the night you fell asleep on his shoulder in the van. You can't make out all the words, just the shape of them, the way his voice drops on the dirty ones, and it's enough - his fingers, his voice, the water lapping at your legs - to push you over again.
You come with your face pressed into his shoulder, your teeth sinking into his skin to muffle the sound, your whole body clenching around his fingers.
He holds you through it, his other hand cradling the back of your head, his lips brushing your temple.
"That's it," he says, soft now. "That's my girl."
You lift your head, your eyes finding his. The steam has thickened around you, and the lanterns cast long shadows across the water. You reach down, your hand finding his cock under the surface - hard, hot, slick from the water and from you.
He hisses through his teeth.
You stroke him once, slow, your thumb tracing the head, and he shudders.
"I want you inside me," you say. "Now."
He doesn't argue. He wraps his arms around you, lifts you, and you feel the stone edge of the tub against your hips as he settles you on his thighs. The water laps at the small of your back as you straddle him, his cock pressing against your stomach, and you reach down to guide him.
The head catches at your entrance, and you both freeze.
His eyes meet yours. Dark. Waiting.
You sink down.
The stretch is everything - the slow burn of him filling you, inch by inch, the water warm around you, his hands gripping your hips as you take him deeper. You feel every ridge, every pulse, the way your body opens to accommodate him, and when he's fully inside you, seated to the hilt, you both exhale at the same time.
"Fuck," Joe breathes. "Honey."
You start to move. Slow at first, a gentle roll of your hips, the water sloshing around you. His hands find your waist, guiding you, and you set a rhythm that drags him out of you almost completely before you sink back down.
"Like that," he says, his voice strained. "Just like that."
You pick up speed, your hands braced on his shoulders, your nails digging in as you ride him. The water slaps against the stone edge, splashing onto the patio tiles, and the steam rises around you like a veil. You can feel the pressure building again, a third orgasm coiling tight in your belly, and the sound of your bodies meeting - wet, rhythmic, obscene - fills the night.
His hand moves between you, his thumb finding your clit, and you cry out, your rhythm faltering.
"Come for me," he says, his voice rough, his hips thrusting up to meet yours. "Let me feel you."
You do. Your body clenches around him, your back arching, a scream tearing out of your throat that echoes off the patio walls. He follows a second later, his hands gripping your hips so hard it will bruise, his cock pulsing inside you as he comes with a groan that sounds like your name, like a prayer, like something he's been holding in his chest since the day you met.
You stay like that, tangled together, the water slowly settling around you. Your forehead rests against his, and your breath mingles in the steam, ragged and warm.
After a long moment, Joe kisses you. Soft. Tender. A different kind of hunger.
"Noon tomorrow," he says against your lips.
"What about it?"
"We have to make it count." His hand slides up your spine, settling at the nape of your neck. "But first, I'm taking you inside. There's a bed in there, and I'm nowhere near done with you."
You laugh, breathless, still trembling in his arms. "That so?"
"That's so." He shifts beneath you, and you feel him still hard inside you, softening but not gone. The water has cooled around you, the steam thinning, and you're suddenly aware of the night air on your wet shoulders, the goosebumps rising on your arms.
"Inside sounds good," you say. "But I'm not sure my legs work."
He grins, that crooked grin, and wraps his arms around you. "Good thing I've got two."
Joe stands, lifting you with him, and you gasp as the water sluices off you both, the cold air hitting your skin where the water had been warm. His cock slips out of you, and you feel the loss - a hollow ache between your thighs, the slick evidence of him running down your leg. He carries you up the stone steps, water streaming off both of you, and you wrap your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck.
The patio tiles are cold under his bare feet, and you feel him shiver as you cross the stone. The glass door is still open, and the warm air from inside hits you as he carries you through, steam rising off your bodies in the room's sudden stillness.
The bedroom is dark, the curtains drawn, the only light a sliver of streetlamp filtering through a gap. He lays you on the bed, the sheets cool against your wet back, and you watch him as he stands over you, water dripping from his hair onto his shoulders, his cock half-hard and glistening.
"You're beautiful," he says. "You know that?"
You reach for him, your hand finding his, pulling him down to you. He comes willingly, his body covering yours, his skin cool and damp against your warmth. You kiss him, deep and slow, tasting yourself on his lips, tasting the wine and the chlorine and the night.
His hand finds your thigh, slides up, settles at your hip. "Roll over," he says against your mouth.
You do, turning onto your stomach, and Joe moves behind you, his chest pressing against your back, his cock pressing against the cleft of your ass. He kisses your shoulder, your spine, the nape of your neck, and you shiver - not from cold.
"I want you like this," he says, his voice low, his hand sliding between your legs. You're still slick, still open, and his fingers find you easily. "I want to watch your back arch when I fuck you."
You push up onto your elbows, your knees spreading, and he positions himself behind you. The head of his cock presses at your entrance, and you feel the stretch again - different from before, deeper, the angle changing everything.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Yes."
He pushes in, slow, so slow you feel every inch of him filling you. You drop your forehead to the sheets, a sound escaping you that's half moan, half sob. He's so deep like this, hitting places he couldn't reach before, and you feel yourself clench around him, pulling him deeper.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You feel-" He stops, his hips pressing flush against you, and you feel him everywhere. "You feel like home."
He starts to move. Slow strokes at first, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in, each thrust a deliberate claim. You grip the sheets, your knuckles white, and let him set the rhythm. The bed creaks beneath you, a steady counterpoint to the wet sound of your bodies meeting, and you feel the heat building again, low and insistent.
His hand finds your hair, gathers the wet curls, pulls gently until your back arches and your head lifts. "I want to hear you," he says, his voice rough. "I want the whole neighbourhood to hear you."
You bite your lip, and Joe pulls harder - not enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp.
"No," he says. "Let me hear you."
His next thrust is harder, deeper, and you cry out - a raw, broken sound that fills the room. He does it again and again, building a rhythm that drives the sound out of you with every stroke. Your thighs are shaking, your arms trembling, and you feel yourself climbing toward another peak, faster than you thought possible.
"That's it," he says, his voice strained. "I can feel you. You're so close."
His hand slides under you, finds your clit, and you break - shatter - your body convulsing around him, a scream tearing out of your throat that you can't control, can't contain. He keeps thrusting, riding you through it, and you feel him pulse inside you, feel him come with a groan that vibrates through his chest into your back.
You collapse together, a tangle of limbs and sweat and cooling water. Joe pulls out slowly, and you feel the warmth of him leaking out of you, pooling on the sheets beneath you. You don't care. You can't bring yourself to care about anything except the weight of him beside you, the sound of his breathing, the way his hand finds yours under the covers.
"Noon," you say, your voice hoarse. "That's still hours away."
He presses a kiss to your shoulder. "I know."
"What are we going to do until then?"
He's quiet for a moment. Then his hand slides down your stomach, dips between your legs again, and you feel his fingers trace the evidence of what you've just done.
