Hello, I’m from Belgium and I’m currently obsessed with every character that Jack O’Connell has ever played and mike faist | 20 | she/her | Pisces | certified hater
My issues with Euphoria AKA the slob Sam Levinson masturbates to
Sam Levinson honestly needs to pick a lane at this point, because the pattern is getting embarrassing. If he wants to make explicit content, he should just admit that’s what he’s doing instead of wrapping it in the disguise of “art” and dragging audiences through the same shock‑bait cycle every time. And the wild part? Even the one compliment I used to give him, that his shows look good, turns out not to be his doing. The entire aesthetic he’s praised for was lifted straight from Petra Collins. So the visuals aren’t his, but the writing? Unfortunately, that is all him. Every messy plotline, every tone‑deaf choice, every bit of chaos, that’s pure Levinson and his nepotism bubble.
He practically embodies the phrase “bad press is still press,” and he leans into it like it’s a creative philosophy.
And then Season 3, Episode 2 drops a “message” about how sexualizing someone in a childlike costume is disturbing… only for the production to employ someone who has done exactly that. The hypocrisy is unreal. The show tries to moralize while simultaneously contradicting itself behind the scenes. Chloe Cherry, who played Faye, posted sexualized photos with childlike styling on a playground after Season 2, and somehow that didn’t raise any alarms for the people running this show.
I’m honestly glad I’m not paying for this series, because there’s going to come a point where even watching it out of morbid curiosity won’t be worth it anymore.
paring: andrew pope cody/stripper!reader
tags: 18+, starts in s1, erectile dysfunction, lap-dances, second-hand embarrassment, slow burn, implied age gap, no use of y/n. reader has fake names, a large family, and a past (that is catching up). medical inaccuracies. mental health issues. canon-typical violence. eventual smut.
summary: Who says you can’t meet the love of your life in a strip club dressing room after his brother paid another girl a thousand bucks to wish him a happy birthday?
Okay, so he’s a bit strange and he might be stalking you and his mother is terrifying and you’re really just trying to make enough money for rent and tuition without getting into any kind of trouble, but on the bright side, at least he’s not a cop.
Pairing: Andrew "Pope" Cody x Reader
Synopsis: You never wanted to come back to Oceanside. You promised yourself that you never would. But you weren't expecting to cross paths with Pope Cody, or for all of those long-buried feelings to come crawling back to the surface again.
But you can't turn away from him now, even though you know it will inevitably end in nothing but heartbreak.
Warnings: 18+ content. MDNI. Fem bodied reader, fem pronouns. Implied alcoholism (not Pope or Reader), Angst, bittersweet ending? Pope's stalker tendencies, morally gray reader. Unprotected PnV, creampie, multiple orgasms, oral (F!receiving).
Notes: 23.5k words. Only proofread once, but my brain is fried so please excuse any mistakes. This man won't get out of my head and it's killing me, pls send help
It's just the same as when you left it. You haven't decided if that's a blessing or a curse yet. It's too real, too raw, too sudden. Every street corner provides a memory, haunting but entirely pleasant all at once. Bittersweet. The familiarity manages to keep you grounded, even while it burrows underneath your skin like a bite, harsh enough to leave scars. You've done your best to forget this place. To swallow it down like bile in your throat, but now you're standing directly in the middle of it, and it all comes rushing back in with all the simple brutality of a deluge.
You never wanted to come back here. You've tried your absolute best not to, always clumsily dodging the exasperated chiding and persistent invitations from your dad during your brief, randomized phone call of the year. Doing your best to form excuses, to wiggle your way out of visiting. It's too busy at work. A co-worker is out on maternity leave, and they need you to fill in. You just can't afford to take time off.
You were always armed with an excuse, and you were proud of how you'd learned to evade him. In the fifteen years you've been away, the only time you'd willed yourself to come down to Oceanside was to celebrate his birthday. A quick affair that was full of heavy lulls of silence and stilted conversation, the two of you still not sure how to navigate your relationship anymore — not that the either you have ever really been able to do that. The history between you a heavy stone in your gut that kept you from really speaking, from making an effort even when you wanted to try.
More than anything you wanted to forget, to move past it all, but the weight of your childhood clung around your wrists and ankles like shackles, thick and rusted shut. Each time you looked into his eyes or heard his voice in your ear, it would force you to recall the memories you struggled to bury. The shouting that smelt of liquor, the harsh words that stuck into your psyche like fishhooks, the glimmer of a sweating beer or a near-empty whiskey glass clutched within his grasp. It was rare to see him without a drink in hand, so much so that you could hardly remember a time when his palms were empty.
You made a promise to yourself that you'd never go back to your father. Not in a way that truly mattered.
You should have known that you were just lying to yourself.
It only took a single phone call for all of your resolve to go crumbling. It's still all a haze. Distorted, murky like muddied water. You hear the woman's voice in your ear sometimes when things get too quiet. How she delivered the news, a steady cadence that was equally as gentle. A complete juxtaposition to the bomb that she had casually dropped on you once you had answered. It was from an unknown number, which made it a complete miracle that you had picked up at all, and you hate how it makes it feel fated. Like destiny had this mapped out and you were forced along for the ride.
You can't help but to wonder about what would have happened if you had never bothered to answer the call.
Maybe you'd be happier if you hadn't.
You would still be living your own life. The one that you'd worked meticulously, tirelessly to build, carved out by bloodied fingernails. But now it sits, hundreds of miles away. And it feels like it's rotting. Like you never had it in the first place. It terrifies you, that once this is all said and done, that maybe it won't be there for you when you get back.
It's the sun in Oceanside that seems to make it all worse. It's unforgiving. It always has been, this blunt and bright thing. An angry ball in the sky that scorches the earth with a light that seems to pronounce the imperfections in everything. The cracks in the asphalt are made thicker, thin fissures turned into wide, painful fractures. The paint on houses is made diluted underneath the brunt of its rays, pigment stripped and devoid of color. Of life. Neighborhoods, vibrant with evidence of happy homes, become ugly. Rich lawns made dull, the bright hues of chalk sketched out messily on sidewalks lose their charm. All reduced to a pale imitation of their true selves.
It becomes difficult to look at. An eye sore in every sense of the word. But you have no other option but to bear witness to it. It's around you wherever you look, laid out like a graveyard. But instead of headstones, it's all the places you used to love as a kid. The theater you would sneak into with your friends is still standing somehow. Though it looks a little rough for wear, age having caught up with it in a way that the owner clearly couldn't afford to fix.
You haven't built up the nerve to go inside, to relive those experiences again, but a part of you wonders if it still has that old retro carpet it had when you were younger. The type that looked like it belonged in an arcade; dark with neon stars splashed over it in a simple imitation of a galaxy. You doubt that it does.
There are places like that wherever your eyes wander. You see your younger self out on the piers that stretch out onto the sea, leaning over the wooden railing, admiring the horizon like it might have had all the answers. You see her tucked within the shadowed alleyways that nestle alongside Mainstreet, passing a lit blunt between your friends while you all snicker and laugh about jokes and drama that don't matter anymore. She's everywhere, young and angry, but still hopeful, and it stings. It stings because, now more than ever, you feel like you've failed her.
But nothing throws you off kilter more than when you finally see him, again.
You should have expected it, you suppose. It was only a matter of time, but you just never thought it would be so soon. For you to be alone.
You somehow managed to convince your father to go home earlier than usual after a heated back-and-forth, that closing the place down an hour early wouldn't tank his business. He resisted as best as he could, just as stubborn as usual, but a quick reminder of his last hospital visit had finally been the final push he needed. Though he'd still been visibly frustrated as he collected himself. Almost angerly shutting down his computer before he shuffled out from behind his desk to head for the front door, grumbling under his breath for you to make sure you'd lock the place down when you were done doing "whatever the hell it is that you're doing". You watched him leave, all with the promise that you'd be right behind him, that you'd swing by his house to check in on him one last time before heading to your motel room for the night.
You still haven't been able to bring yourself to going back to your house. You can't stand being inside of it for more than a couple hours at a time. It gets too loud when you're there. Everything rushes up to the surface, it crowds you, and sometimes you truly think that it might actually be suffocating you, squeezing you between the walls until the air in your lungs is dead.
But it probably would have been for the better if you had just left with your dad instead of staying behind to reminisce. It would have made your life so much more simpler.
You don't hear him when he comes in, but you know that even if you had, it wouldn't really have made it any better. Still, you like to pretend that it would have. The old AC unit hanging out the office window is noisy. It ticks and rattles when it runs, which is to say, near constantly in a vain effort to combat the Californian heat. Sometimes you think it might just start smoking. That one day, it'll groan in a mechanical death rattle, and sparks and vapor will burst from it like something for a cartoon.
But it hasn't given out yet. It persists despite whatever might be wrong with it, protesting in a thin continuous warble while it chugs out steady puffs of lukewarm air.
You're hardly paying attention to your surroundings. You don't pick up the sound of the front door squeaking on its hinges, or the soft shift of footsteps whispering over the floor. You're too busy just standing in the middle of it. Sitting in the center of the office, leaned with your back against the desk while you take everything in. The look of it's hardly changed, with the exception of the file cabinet that sits in the right corner of the room. The one before it was wide and white, paint scratched, and the second to the top drawer used to get hung up whenever you'd pull it out.
But your father had replaced it at some point. The new on was taller but thinner, taking up less space while holding more files.
There are signs of water damage on the ceiling now, too. Spots that never used to be there. Dappled and gray. There's a stain bleeding out where the wall meets the ceiling, another that's a little too close to the light fixture for comfort. The perimeter of it only a few scant inches from making contact.
He still has the pictures hanging up. He stands proudly in one. It was taken when he first bought the place, and he's posed in a candid shot directly in front of the small building you now stand in. He was so much younger, hair untouched by gray, and the crow's feet around his eyes were less pronounced. He's smiling. The cool, collected grin a salesman. One who just landed an opportunity, proud of his success, a little arrogant.
The family photo is presented directly beside it, surrounded by framed business licenses and permits. In the picture, your face is round with the fat collected in the swell of your cheeks, and your fingers are equally as chunky. Sausage fingers, thick and weakly grasping at the collar of your mother's shirt. Your eyes are glassy and full of wonder in that way that infants often look, far-away and delighted while you peer up at her face.
But unlike the version of yourself depicted in the photo, you can't manage yourself to look at her. Your attention darts from away before you can help to stop it, sweeping over the room like you might find a distraction.
Your subconscious registers it before you do, catching the shape that looms just along the edge of your peripheral vision like a ghost. Your body jolts before you can stop it, springing up as though it's been prodded with an electrical current. And you think that you might actually yelp. A startled, sharp noise that you can't even be embarrassed about because your heart feels as though its ruptured inside of your chest and flooded your bloodstream with nothing but adrenaline and sparks.
You twist around on your feet in a disorienting blur to glare at whoever decided to welcome themselves into the office without so much as a knock, or at the very least, a hello, but in a split second all of your indignation dies. It vanishes. The angry words you had resting on your tongue get choked out of you as soon as your brain catches up and accepts what it's seeing. Who it's seeing.
If being back in Oceanside was equivalent to being punched in the face, then being in the same room as him again was like being ran over by a car.
You don't even know what to do with yourself. It's like the floor's been ripped out from beneath your feet, and in a single breath you're hurtled back into the past. You're no longer an adult, confident in yourself, relaxed in your body, in your abilities. Suddenly, you're a girl again, awkward, anxious, a little shifty with eye contact, and masking it all with a fake backbone.
You don't even have enough fingers on both hands to count the number of times he'd been in here like this. Invited himself in unannounced while you had your head stuffed in your homework. Determined to get it done so that finally you could be free to go out, to meet up with your friends to make mistakes at whatever bonfire or house party was happening that night.
And it was always him who showed. Sometimes his brothers would be in tow, but Pope was always present. The leader of the pack, and when he came sniffing around, it had only ever been trouble. You rarely asked questions then. You had been young, but not stupid enough to really get involved where it counted. No matter how much the danger tempted you.
You weren't blind to it. Though you didn't — and still don't — know the exact nature of your father's dealing with the Cody family specifically. You're certain that it's nothing legal. But nothing about his business ever really was. Countless people would come walking through the front door, each and every one of them sketchy in their own way. Whether or not they were wearing pristine thousand-dollar suits or scuffed up sneakers, they were all cut from the same cloth.
Whenever he'd speak with any of them, his "business friends," he'd call them, it would always be far away from your ears. Out in the garage, voices low in clandestine conversation, huddled close conspiratorially. Sometimes he'd kick you out the office entirely, sending you down with to the corner store with a twenty-dollar bill so you could pick out something for yourself. But really, he just wanted to make you scarce.
But it was the Codys whose visits were always the least common, and yet you'd come to expect them the most. You used to watch them show up at random hours, early morning or late in the evenings, coming and going as if they owned the building. Occasionally dropping off cars that looked too expensive and too exotic to be sold in your dad's lot, and more commonly, driving off with vehicles that would never be seen of again.
Whenever they visited, an unspoken rule hung over you: keep your head down and your mouth shut.
There were plenty of rules as a kid that you didn't obey, and try as you might, that one too would go unheeded. You weren't ignorant. You, like everyone else in town knew not to mess with the Codys. They weren't regular. Nothing about them was ever normal. Most families have their own secrets, sure. A skeleton or two in the closet. Dad is having an affair with a co-worker, Mom drinks one too many glasses of wine at night when she thinks no one's looking, the perfect daughter lost her virginity to a loser at party, the son with a Scholarship crashed the family car and got a DUI.
But the Codys, they've committed sins that would make your blood run cold. At least, that's what the rumors were. And you believed them. You had witnessed the evidence on them yourself. The split lips, the scraped knuckles, busted noses, guns tucked under the waistbands of their jeans. Made intentionally visible for intimidation. An intimidation that was usually reserved for your dad during their "meetings."
Pope rarely spoke to you whenever he would show up. You'd be spared little more than a glance before he'd ask where your father was, voice too gruff for someone so young.
And that's one of the things that makes it so jarring to see him again all these years later. You were both adults by the time that you had finally moved from Oceanside, but not so old that the youth had been fully aged from his face. He'd still been a bit boyish the last you'd seen him. Features a little rounder, the red in his hair had been a few shades brighter, like it had caught fragments of sunlight and trapped them. And though his eyes seemed to be permanently narrowed into a glower that was lethal, the shape of them had been softer then.
But that little bit of softness that had been there is gone. Like it had given away a while ago, cheekbones made more prominent from the passage of time. He's aged, hair just a bit darker, skin slightly more tanned; sun kissed and warm. And if his stare had been mean when he was decades younger, then now it's brutal enough to be used as a weapon.
It feels like it's gutting you. Prodding past the barrier of your skin to dig into the meat that makes you, picking you apart piece by piece. It's flaying. The hair of the nape of your neck raises like a startled animal's, and your ribcage shudders when you force yourself to breathe.
"Holy shit." You suck in another thin gasp, squeezing your eyes shut while you try to regulate yourself, but the rabbit-quick pace of your heart makes it difficult. Your nerves make your hands quiver, and you have to grip ahold of your waist to keep them still. "Pope? I didn't even hear you come in. What the hell are you —"
You cut yourself off, effectively keeping yourself from rambling before your shock can continue to spill from you like a broken tap.
And God, he's still staring at you. Just as unnerving and quiet as the last day you ever saw him. His presence has completely sucked the air out of the room, and you're unsure how you didn't realize that he was here sooner. He takes up space, the unbroken stare he's pinned with you seems to have a weight of its own, and it feels as though you've been pulled onto the fringes of a black hole. Dangerously close to the point of no return, not yet trapped within the inescapable field of its pull but suspended right along the borderline. Balanced on the event horizon; a razors edge.
Your brain hasn't fully wrapped around the fact that you're actually sharing the same room as him, just like you did all those years ago. It's like a fever dream. One that you know you won't be able to blink awake from.
Your lips part so you can say something. Anything really to try and break the unsettling quiet that's spilt over the room, but you never get the chance to actually speak.
"What are you doing here."
It's Pope's voice that disrupts the silence. It's almost jarring how much it's changed. How it's matured around the edges, become a little richer, aged like whiskey. But the base of it is mostly the same. A placid timbre. It could almost be described as monotone if it wasn't for the subtle inflections that texture it, giving just enough character to keep it from being too flat. It's not emotionless, just . . . calm, each word uttered slowly like he takes the time to consider them before speaking. As though he has all the time in the world.
And the way he's talking now doesn't sound like a question. It's not accusatory, it's too dull for that, but it's something close. Like he was stunned to see you and yet also entirely unaffected by it. His eyes are probing. So dark and persistent that it's like they're prodding into you, grazing over your skin like feelers. It should probably disturb you a little that it feels so familiar, but it doesn't. You've been pinned under it a thousand times before.
You can't keep your brows from furrowing, giving him a look that's nothing short of bewildered. A noise huffs from your chest, like it could have been a laugh, but it's too tight and perplexed to hit the mark. "I should be asking you that."
You swear that he takes up every corner of the room, monolithic even in his silence. He's gotten bigger. More filled out, muscles defined. He was athletic in his youth, sure, but it had been more streamline. A little trim. Body cut from doing casual tricks at the skate park and a diligent, yet juvenile understanding of a workout routine. But now he looks thick. That's really only the word that can do him any proper justice. Forearms that look heavy, wide shoulders, and thighs that seem more like tree trunks than anything else; like the strength behind them alone could crush a human skull if it were to be struck down under his boot.
But despite all of his gravitas; the sheer bulk of him, that awkwardness still clings around his frame. That same awkwardness that used to make him a little endearing. That made him feel human. Like you could pretend that he wasn't a Cody, someone who existed in a world a little beyond your own, but just another guy. Average. With basic dreams and a basic life.
He stands, like for all of his confidence, he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. Like the skin that houses him is too tight, suffocating around its seams. Or maybe it's everything else that's wrong. The world around him is too loud, too sharp, and it's crowded him back. Forced him to withdraw within himself, lest he get cut. And now he wears his body as an armor, crude and handcrafted.
Maybe that's why, try as you might, you had never been unable to keep yourself from noticing him. You always looked, even when you were supposed to keep your head firmly down. And now that he's back within your scope, you can't resist. An old habit that hadn't gone anywhere, even when you thought it had. But it didn't actually die. Time and separation haven't done a damn thing to starve it.
"It's been years." He replies finally, and his shoulders shift like he's let himself release a breath you didn't notice he was holding. "I never thought you'd come back."
His stare is still a little mean. Assessing. Chin tilted low and eyes locked on. It reminds you too much of a dog who's sizing you up; gauging if you're worth the effort from the other side of a chain-link fence.
Maybe you've always just been stupid, but it doesn't scare you. Not like it should.
"Neither did I," you answer honestly. You let yourself move then, and he tracks you the entire time. It's like having a gun trained on your forehead, the crosshairs nailed directly where the bullet will meet flesh. His focus doesn't waver as you pull back the chair, nudging it on its wheels so that you can step around it and sink back on the support of its cushions with a light sigh. You feel the way your chest deflates with it, the release of the pressure in your lungs, but it hardly does anything to let you truly relax.
You bare your throat anyway, leaning your head on the backrest, blinking your eyes shut when the fluorescent glow of the light above hits your pupils. Now that you're attuned to it, you hear the way his feet shift on the floor, even over the metallic hiss and whine of the AC. You don't bother opening your eyes to look at him. For a moment you just sit there in a shared silence, and you let everything from the past few days roll over and through you.
You can't stand how it feels like it might smother you. Like it's all draining down into your chest, filling up your lungs like a noxious liquid. Burning nerves and eating away at tissue as it goes down. You want to choke it back up. Let it spill from you in an impetuous torrent, but you keep it safely tucked behind the trap of your teeth instead. Sealing your mouth shut so that you don't start rambling and absolutely blind side Pope with an uninvited trauma dump.
He doesn't need to know about any of it. About the hatred and anger that's festering inside of you as a disease, putrefying directly beneath your skin. He doesn't need to hear about how you haven't hardly slept in the past few days you've been in town, tossing around uselessly on an unfamiliar bed until your eyes sting with exhaustion and early dawn spills past the gaps in the curtains. He doesn't need to hear about how every interaction with your father has resulted in nothing but petty squabbles and tense debates. Or that you spent about the entirety of your evening yesterday ridding your childhood home of every ounce of alcohol you could find, even though you know that it ultimately wouldn't do any good. A band aid on a bullet wound.
If there is so much as a drop of liquor in this town, your father will find it.
"He was in the hospital," you say. It slips from you somehow anyway, pathetic and uninhibited, and you almost grimace when it processes in your ears.
"I know, I heard." It's uncaring. Delivered like he couldn't be bothered to give a damn. It should make you bristle, get a little defensive, but it doesn't. Maybe you don't care all that much either. You probably haven't in a long time.
"Then you should be able to guess that he isn't here." Your eyes slip open then, and the first thing your attention meets is the unwavering breadth of his stare. You try not to let it shake you. "I sent him home early, so whatever it is that you need him for, it's going to have to wait."
Something flickers across his face then. A crease pinching across his forehead, the downturned corners of his mouth pulling in a displeased scowl. His head tilts, a minute movement as though he's trying to physically brush past his irritation, and he steps forward. Moving with the hushed, precise stride of someone who doesn't have patience for denial. Who refuses to be told no. And his eyes are so intense that just being under them is akin to being held down and cut.
It makes your heart race, body flushing with a heat that can be felt all the way from your toes to your fingertips. The kind of molten energy that begs for you to get up and run. But you don't. You don't let his intimidation make you so much as flinch. You watch him approach, idle and as composed as you can will yourself to be while he draws near.
He comes to a stop only when he's close enough to touch the desk, the only thing that's keeping you separate. It's been forever since you've seen him like this, and you could almost dare to consider it nostalgic. You've been in this position before, except then, the lines around his eyes had been fewer, and the façade you hid your self-consciousness behind had been a little thinner. Weaker, and less refined. Held together by chipped nail polish and the admittedly annoying pop of bubblegum on your tongue.
He used to make you nervous (still does). The sight of him alone was enough to kick up a storm of butterflies in your stomach, swirling and fluttering in the pit of your gut so furiously that sometimes it felt as though you might would throw up. But it was never enough to keep you from taunting him in any way that you possibly could, flirting with danger like an idiot. Whenever he would come in, he'd make sure to scour the property himself before even bothering with you, checking every inch of the building. And the adjoining garage for your dad's presence, and if for whatever reason Pope couldn't find him, you were the last resort.
Always a last resort because you always acted clueless. Pretending you didn't have a so much as an inkling as to where he might have been. And it was all an act. One that you were certain Pope could see right through if his obvious frustration was anything to go by. It felt like a reward each time he'd get angry and crept closer, threatening to lean over the desk and into your space just like he's doing right now, making demands.
But it had only really entertained some nasty, hidden part of you. The piece of you that delighted in how unsettling he was. How his mouth would twist, lips raised in a sneer. His teeth had been a little crooked when he was younger (and it made you a little too happy when you spied that they still are), and as crazy as it sounds, it made him cute. A boyish charm that shouldn't have been compatible with someone so volatile. Someone who felt the damp warmth of blood on his hands. Who's split skin underneath the curled strike of his fists.
He would be snarling at you like a wolf preparing to tear and rip, and all the while, you'd be hiding a smile.
For a fleeting second, it feels as though that old smile might just show up again.
When he speaks next, his voice is low, turned to a smoke that could sear. He angles himself towards you, not quite a lean, but enough that it feels as though he's fully evaded your space; a rattle snake coiling itself up to strike. "Well, that's tough shit for your old man, because it can't."
"If you have a message to pass along, then I'll be happy to deliver it to him."
The words leave you for a reason you can hardly guess. The last thing you want is to get pulled down into this life again. And you don't. You know that you don't. You fought hard to get out of here. To make a proper life for yourself, and yet, you offered yourself up on a silver platter.
Calling the look he gives you in response unimpressed doesn't really do it any justice. It's almost offended. Maybe even disgusted. But there's another element to it as well. Anger, maybe. And you can't exactly blame him for that. You don't have an excuse as to why you bothered with an offer that you knew would be refused, other than the fact that you're grasping at straws to feel in control. To try and drag out this interaction out for as long as possible.
But the intensity that swallows his gaze holds you in place. You're made stuck, arrested where you sit like you've been snatched between rows of serrated fangs, a salivating maw. Even in your stupor, you don't miss the tremor that scales its way down your spine in a cold chill.
"You don't get involved." His stare holds you and breaks you down all at once. "You stay out of it."
And then he's gone, backing away without taking his focus off of you and you can finally manage to pull in a little oxygen. You feel helpless to watch as he turns around to head for the door, and you ignore the pang that bruises inside of your chest — dumb, childish, scorned.
You don't expect him to pause — hesitate, really — as he reaches for the handle. He doesn't bother to glance over his shoulder. He only angles his head, like he's considering it, but ultimately doesn't, keeping his attention trained ahead, like the metal bars covering the dirty glass are so much more interesting. He just stands there like he's considering something. He shifts on his feet the slightest bit, as though he's weighing options that you aren't privy to, the fingers of his free hand flex beside his hip, knuckles turning pale with the strain.
"How long are you in town for?"
"I'm not sure." You respond and absentmindedly run your finger over the back of your thumb, an attempt at soothing yourself. At pulling yourself back together in the semblance of someone who's collected. Unbothered. "Probably no longer than a week if I can help it."
He nods, barely perceptible. A moment passes, somehow quick and long all at once, like time has distorted. And then he's shoving the door open, the hinges squeak lowly.
It's enough to force it out of you, sounding casual, but the shape of the words leaving your mouth feel anything but. Clinging, almost desperate, and worst of, hopeful. "It was good seeing you again Pope."
He leaves without returning a response. The gentle rattle of the door closing behind his exit sounds final. It strikes down like a nail met by the brunt force of a hammer, and you're left alone to sit with the ache.
You don't visit your dad one last time like you promised him you would. You know that Pope will be there, eating up space like he does, voice a low rasp while he makes demands and discusses affairs that if you heard so much as a whisper of, would either have you thrown in jail or down to the bottom of the ocean with cement blocks tied to your feet. And that's what keeps you from daring to turn off of Canyon Drive and cutting down into your old neighborhood.
You pretend that it doesn't exist, keeping your hands fixed on the wheel, all muscle memory while you navigate your way through traffic to the other side of town. You don't stop until you're guiding your car into a barebones parking lot, loose gravel and worn asphalt crunching underneath the rolling weight of the tires. You go through the motions of killing the engine, pulling the key from the ignition, hauling yourself out from the driver's seat and nudging the door shut.
It's all steps you've taken a thousand times before and will do again, but you're detached from it all. Not in a way that's seething or hurt but just muddled. Unmoored. The kind of perplexity that comes from an unexpected blow. You never anticipated to see Pope again. And you never could have anticipated the effect it would have had on you, either.
You thought you had left him behind all those years ago. Like an adored coat that you didn't have room to fit in your suitcase, mourned for but ultimately not impossible to live without. But now all of those feelings you once carried with you are back with a newfound strength, and they snap at your heels, persistent and desperate like a pack of attention starved pups. Following closely as your feet guide you across the parking lot and over to your hotel room.
The salt from the nearby ocean flirts with your nose, brine and foam carried on a dark summer breeze, and it makes it all so much worse. Your fingers become almost clumsy when you extract your key card from your back pocket and tap it against the electric lock. And the bite of the salt, the melodic hiss of waves crashing against the distant surf follows you inside, burdens the cacophony of it all with an extra layer of nostalgia that not even the scorching water you endured in the shower was able to cleanse from you.
You probably look a whole lot like a zombie now. Sprawled out on the bed, the TV screen glowing with a random program that you aren't fully aware of — some low budget show that you've never heard of a day in your life — while you squint at the ceiling like you might find a reason in it. Flat and white. Eggshell white, you guess, but it's difficult to tell through the vignette of the shadows and the ever-changing colors casted from the TV.
You haven't been reminded of your feelings in a long time, and it got easy pretending that they never existed in the first place. That they didn't run as deep as they had, directly alongside your veins, thrumming with heat and too much vitality for a guy who hardly took note of your existence. But you'd always been a lost cause in that regard. A dumb romantic toting around an even dumber crush on a person who only meant trouble — more than you could deal with.
You had your future planned out since you were little. And it was one that theft and murder and violence didn't fit into. That was what you had reminded yourself tirelessly when you were young. So much so that it orbited around the inside of your skull like a small sun, bright and promising. And you held onto that promise as a token, a totem of good fortune, a coin to be turned over in hand. Determination for better day.
And Pope Cody, as much as you prayed and wished otherwise, wasn't someone who had a place in the world you made. He would never fit, edges too rough and jagged for the smooth corners polished by your own palms. He was made for Oceanside, the worst it has to offer. The underbelly that spits up what it can't consume, leaving nothing but gnarled carcasses and half-chewed sinew, is where he calls home. And he'll never leave.
Not unless it's in a body bag.
And it was that bitter, horrible truth that always kept you at an arm's length from Pope, even while your heart skipped each time you had looked at him. Even while you teased him and gave him more trouble than he needed. You clutched your affection for him close, let yourself feel it, be a little lovesick, but it never flourished past that. You wouldn't allow it. You don't think you would have survived otherwise. You doubt that you would have been able to walk away from this place. From him. Not without tears and a heart that ached as though it had been pierced with a bullet.
You liked Pope a bit too much. It was that affection, white-hot and fizzling, that had inspired you, almost more than anything, to leave Oceanside.
But it had always been impossible to forget him. Though you never could stop trying to convince yourself into thinking you did.
You remember the last time you saw him, vivid in a way that will forever be etched into you, carried in your marrow.
You had noticed the bruise first. The angry mottled red that saddled his nose, blotched with the equally brutal shade of purple that stained the inner corners of his eye sockets. It looked awful. Like it came with the sort of pain that would flare with so much as a blink, burning, crippling. He was stone faced despite it, standing on the fringes like the laughter and excitement bubbling across the atmosphere didn't belong to him. A drink was in his hand, emerald glass glittering with perspiration, and despite it being half empty, he was rigid. Posture perfect. The buzz he might have felt not having done a thing to loosen him up.
Everyone else was caught up and fascinated by the festivities and each other, talking and swaying around the bonfire, drunkenly leaping over oncoming waves, yelping and giggling like coyotes in the night.
But he was untouched by all of it, entirely unlike his brothers who had long since dispersed and integrated themselves into the crowd. Every once in a while, you caught a glimpse of one. Like Craig who had been flirting with a pretty brunette, or Deran who had amassed some frenzied onlookers when he'd done a keg stand against a couple of frat bros. He'd cemented his win when the one with frosted tips doubled over and threw up all over the sand.
And Pope kept his post throughout it all. Remaining vigilant over his brothers through the chaos, leaned up against the lip of an open tailgate. The expression on his face was unmoved and stoic as usual. You couldn't blame him. You started losing interest in these things as you began creeping into early adulthood, and though the sparks hadn't been snuffed out, the thrill you held for late parties and crazy bashes wasn't as zealous as it once was.
But that night had been electric, a surge under your skin, made a live wire from the excitement and dread that in a few days, you would finally be gone. Free from this town, and your father, and everything else that came with it. It was intimidating, and the worry that had been building up in your stomach over the course of several months had coiled it into knots.
You were leaving. Really. Everything you owned was packed up, stored in boxes and organized into suitcases and backpacks that you'd shove into your car. But it was seeing Pope, existing on the edge of a party, skin bruised, eyes dark with an idle storm, that made it an undeniable reality. You were leaving, and you'd never see him again.
He looked devastatingly pretty with the fire playing in his hair, scattering gold across the auburn curls. It didn't seem fair for him to be here like that, not when you were going away so soon. You were hoping that you wouldn't cross paths with him at all, not during your final moments in town, but you should have figured that you'd have bad luck. That the universe would choose to plant him at your feet now. But Harper had all but demanded that you come out with her, just one last time. One more night for you to be dumb and young together.
You clutched your fingers tight, enough for the skin of your palm to pinch from the grip. A lousy attempt to ground yourself. The sand under your bare feet wasn't enough as it was, too loose and rough. You tried to guide your attention away from Pope, to steer it somewhere else, but it remained centered on him, a bastion in the pandemonium.
Indecision gnawed at you, two choices splitting you down the middle. No one would notice if you stepped away. Harper had wandered off a while ago much to your chagrin, leaving you with an apologetic but enthusiastic smile and a promise to stay safe before she disappeared with her on-again-off-again boyfriend. Now you were awkwardly alone. You hadn't seen her in about fifteen minutes, but you could take a wild guess that they had probably ran off to his car in the parking lot to 'make up.' Again.
Sure, you weren't technically by yourself. There were plenty of faces in the crowd you recognized, old classmates and people who existed in overlapping social circles, but none of them you knew well enough to try and actually conversate with. None that you wanted to.
But that was a lie. There was one person.
And you were moving before you could second guess yourself or come up with excuses, feet trekking across the sand with only one direction in mind. You weaved through the bodies scattered about the beach carefully, ignoring waving arms and the intoxicated sway of people as they gulped lukewarm mixed drinks from solo cups and danced unsteadily to the music blaring over the boombox.
You didn't look at him when you approached, keeping your eyes trained forward, expression controlled and aloof in a poker face that he probably saw through regardless. But you didn't let yourself waver. Didn't let the way your nerves could be felt across every inch of your body, tense and jittery, dissuade you.
You sidled up next to him, turning your back to the bed of the truck, palms laid flat behind you to lift yourself up the tailgate, dangling your legs over the edge. His stare held a pressure, brushing up against the shape of your profile, shameless and pensive as it roved over you. Starting at your head and then down in a fully body sweep, but it wasn't lecherous. It was evaluating. Like he wasn't sure why you had decided to sit beside him when there were countless other people that you could be associating with.
Surprisingly, you didn't waver under it. You were comfortable, unbothered to be swaddled underneath it. Perhaps ironically, you felt more at ease with him than you had standing out in the middle of the crowd. He had probably beaten men alive. Smashed throats under the heel of his shoe, pulled the trigger of a gun countless times and left blood and brain matter painted on some dingy wall, and yet, you didn't feel the faintest tremor of fear. There was only ease. The comfortability that comes with being in the presence of a kindred spirit. Someone who wouldn't flinch if they saw the worst of you.
It was then that you tilted your head, finally allowing yourself to meet his eyes, to admire freely how the firelight spilt over him. Casted over every part of him in amber and traces of shimmering yellow; shadows wavering over the planes of his face, making his glower so much more extreme.
"You look like you'd rather be anywhere else but here." You remarked and shifted in an attempt to get comfortable on the harsh surface of the tailgate, cocking your head on your shoulder while you observed him with a smile. "Your brothers drag you out to this?"
"Do you really have to ask that." It was said in that candid way of his, suspended on the smooth rumble. He was scanning the crowd again, focus flickering over the shifting bodies, taking note of things you probably wouldn't notice.
"No. I guess not."
His lips were settled in a flat expression, but that stubborn furrow hadn't smoothed from between his brows. He didn't seem angry. That was too strong of a word. He was uninvolved. Completely removed from the fast-paced antics flourishing around him. Observing from the outside, as though he was something other. A lonely planet drifting along the far reaches of its solar system.
The only time you could recall him actually being relaxed was probably when he was skating. Something you only witnessed a handful of times. Chance encounters. Walking around town with friends, carelessly burning through the hours of the day, mindlessly chatting, drinking from gas station slushies and fountain drinks. You would all often find yourselves ambling through the park, and on occasion, he'd been there. The only skater on the ramp because he would kick out anyone else who would so much as attempt to board it.
It became his territory. One that he would defend with his fists if he had to, knuckles busted and smeared red from hit after hit. He might as well as marked the place with his name, because no one was stupid enough to try him for it anymore. It didn't belong to Oceanside, it was his. And he could always be expected to be there. New Vans on his feet each time you saw him, the rubber trim pale, clean and just barely scuffed, the wheels on his skateboard rough with grime, and there were usually marks worn into the knees of his jeans. Dirt left from when he'd probably made a harsh landing while coming back down on the curve of the ramp. Maybe his knees buckled, or the board wobbled too severely, and he wasn't able to correct himself before ultimately falling.
It always made you tempted to chide him. To call him out for skating without any proper gear, but you kept your mouth shut at the risk of sounding like someone's paranoid mother. That, and you never could quite bring yourself to distract him. Not while he looked so at peace in a way that you rarely got to see him in. There were no death stares or frowns, just a calm, tranquil exultation. Delight in its quietest form.
You never wanted to disturb that peace.
You would always watch, ignoring the knowing snickers and side eye made by your friends, because their mockery didn't matter.
But that joy was nowhere to be found his face then. It was somber for someone surrounded by commotion; neon glowsticks, sweat glittering on skin, excitement. He was almost contemplative.
"It's alright, I'm kinda in the same boat," you said, extending it like some sort of offering. An olive branch meant to fill the void that stretched between your bodies. "My friend left. Got spirited away by her boyfriend. But I should have figured that was going to happen as soon as I saw his dumb ass here."
A scorned laugh hitched for his chest, dim and clipped, disbelieving. He chased the noise with a swig from his beer, raising the bottle to the plush of his lips by its neck. You tried not to notice how his throat flexed while he swallowed it down, Adam's apple bobbing. "So she ditched you."
"Yeah. Sort of," you admitted somewhat reluctantly, voice flat with acceptance.
"No, not 'sort of.' She did."
"You make her sound like bad friend."
"I'm not making her sound like anything." He gave you a look from the corners of his eyes, the hazel of them made dark from the night, only a small wink of light caught from the fire reflected in them. "If me talking about what she did makes her sound shitty, then, well . . . " He shrugged like it was a proper enough answer. Maybe it was.
Defensiveness prickled under your skin, warm and ruffled. You didn't hide the glare you gave him, though the venom in the rebuttal you had turned to a dull smoke in your mouth. Because even though you didn't want to admit it, he wasn't wrong. Not really. And it dug at you like a splinter wedged under your nail.
"Well, it's fine." You assured. "She's having fun. I just wish it was with literally anyone else, but . . ." You sighed, leaning back further on the palms of your hands, the posture of your spine loosening.
"'Literally anyone else,'" he parroted you again. "What, with someone like me? Cause I'm such good company."
The comment wasn't made out of self-loathing. Or at least it hadn't come across that way at the time. It was tinged with amusement, and you hated how much it made you feel like a hypocrite. The humiliation of it nipped at your cheeks, made your teeth press together, because you were angry at her for ditching you. For abandoning you in the middle of a party to go and be with a guy who's done nothing but repeatedly treat her like the dirt for the whole duration of their relationship.
But he was still a regular guy. He worked a basic 9 to 5, drove a dependable car, was ordinary in every sense of the word, but here you were hanging out with a man who'd been arrested almost as soon as he reached double digits. Her boyfriend was a bad guy, but so was Pope. And yet he didn't make your skin crawl. He didn't make your blood run hot, boiling as it passed through your veins. And maybe that made you a hypocrite.
Pope was a lot of things. A criminal, dangerous. He had a reputation that was saturated in gore, and it left its mark over every square inch of this town, but he'd never made you feel pathetic or inferior. Your dynamic was a strange one. Still unspecified, brand-new despite having known of each other since you were kids, but he never lashed out in a way that made you question yourself or your safety. Somehow, he seemed to be the only person in the world that didn't make you absolutely disgusted with yourself.
"Oh, come on, you're not so bad," you teased.
"Tell that to the cops."
Silence fell over you both then, touched only by the music and laughter, the gentle roar of the waves. It wasn't uninvited. It slipped in place like a second skin, a soft sweater. Lived in despite never having been worn. Comfortable, pleasant in a way you wouldn't have expected. You were at ease, taking enjoyment in sitting back and letting the moment happen. No pressure to move on to the next thing, or concerns about what would come after. It was only the present, strange and welcome.
"You know, I can't tell if you're afraid of me or not."
Your head swiveled over to properly take him in before you could consciously decide to do it. You didn't anticipate the look on his face. You swear all the oxygen was evicted from your lungs because you never once saw that particular expression on him until then. There was such a distinct glint in his eyes, complex and raw. And it felt like you were seeing him for the first time. A glimpse behind the armor. A peek past the gunmetal and thick skin, down into a place that few had seen before.
He almost seemed . . . insecure.
It pulverized you. Cut you deep in a place that you didn't know ran as deeply as it did. A soft spot, tender and aching, that only existed for Pope Cody.
"Do you want me to be?" You asked, and it sounded as delicate as it felt, the confidence that you once had in your voice thinned.
"It doesn't matter what I want." It was said like an absolute. Like it would be a waste to hope, but the subtle crease on his forehead, the tight press of his mouth confessed what he wouldn't. "You should be."
It pained you like you'd been crushed by a physical weight, ugly and unforgiving. "Cause you've done bad things?" You adjusted yourself on the tailgate, slipping closer to him as though it would make your words bear more gravity, make them indisputable. "I don't know if you've somehow managed to forget, but I'm not exactly an upstanding citizen either. Guilty by association or whatever."
He rolled his eyes, head moving in a light shake. "That shit doesn't matter. Can you even say what your dad does? The kind of shit he's involved in. The people he rubs elbows with. You don't know anything. Nothing that really matters."
The shadows that draped over him seemed heavier somehow, broken up only by the flames flickering over on the nearby pyre. The warm glow of it pronounced the shape of the cut that split the skin on the straight ridge of his nose. A tiny laceration, but brutal all the same, surrounded by the dark blossom of damaged vessels, stained like watercolors on his flesh.
It should have made him seem like a threat, but it didn't. He looked damaged. Broken. Shattered but persevering because that's the only right he had left to his name. In that moment, he seemed so much like a boy holding himself together behind a meticulous façade. One that was constructed when he was still learning how to write the alphabet in a shaky script and playing with toy cars on a carpet.
You saw the bruise, evidence of the violence he inflicted and had infected back on him, but you also saw the person who never had the opportunity to live. The ghost of them in his eyes, lingering around the edges. Who could have been had life treated him differently. Someone gentle. Maybe even loving.
It would have been simple to be mad at him. Offended. To take the remarks as a personal blow to your pride, but he wasn't wrong. You really didn't have much of a clue as to what your father was truly up to. How bloodied his hands really were, how deep his pockets ran. And you didn't need to know. You made the decision to be selfish a long time ago, for your own sake. In the underworld, ignorance really was bliss, and you'd cling onto that ignorance until you were well beyond Oceanside's city limits.
You've pulled the wool over your eyes, but that didn't make you deaf to it all, no matter how much you pretended not to hear.
"I know he's not a good person. That's he's harmed a lot of people. People who probably didn't deserve it."
That got Pope's attention. You could tell how he rocked on his feet a bit, reluctantly moving an inch closer like you'd physically drawn him in.
"And you. I know that you've hurt people, too. Probably killed a few." His attention seemed to lock, his stare becoming heavy in the way it did when something earned his focus. It felt like a hand closing around your throat, pressure slipping tight around the pulse in your jugular, but it didn't stop you. It only spurred you on. "You don't scare me, Pope. I mean, sometimes all the staring is a bit much, but I've been that way since I was little. It's mostly because I can never tell what you're thinking, and it drives me crazy trying to figure out what you've got going on in that thick skull of yours."
You leaned in close enough to nudge your shoulder into his, a playful jab to try and lighten the mood. You didn't anticipate freezing in place. For the warmth radiating from his skin, escaping past the barrier of his shirt, to catch you. And you're so near that you could smell him over the salt and booze and weed blanketing the air. He was bergamot, musk, the base notes of a nondescript, but fresh shampoo, like he'd taken a shower before coming out here. Clean and warm, and you wanted it melt on your tongue.
"I think about you a lot. All the time."
God, you really weren't expecting that.
A hushed confession, as though he was terrified that uttering it would disturb some fundamental law of the universe. But he said it anyway. And there was this flicker in his eyes, a kind of tentative optimism that ruined you as soon as you recognized it.
All you wanted to tell him was that you thought the same. That he was always there, tucked in some corner of your mind, taking up space as though it was where he belonged. He occupied you constantly, a permanent resident cradled inside the domicile of your skull. A ghost you didn't want to get rid of. But then a realization crept up your spine, unwelcomed but demanding. An irrefutable truth.
It stung, like a twisted joke. Because he was saying what you always dreamed he would, but the timing of it — everything was all wrong. In little more than a week you'd be gone, and he'd be here, abandoned and left to pick up the pieces your absence left all on his own.
And you wouldn't be able to live with yourself if you did something so cruel, if you told him that you thought about him so much that it drove you mad. You could hardly stomach the thought alone, spilling a bitterness over your tongue, making nausea roll in your gut, oil-slick and gnawing. All the joy and ease that had fit around you like a shroud seemed to have been cruelly tugged from your shoulders, and suddenly you were bare. Made exposed to guilt that had nowhere else to go but your body, taking its seat directly behind the cage of your ribs, carving you open until all you were left with was regret.
You never should have come over here. Never should have sat with him, because nothing would ever come from it, and the reality of that was crippling.
"I'm moving out of town in a few days," you said, spitting it out like something rancid and hot. Saying it instead of what you really wanted to. "I'll be gone by Sunday, and I don't know if I'll ever come back."
You were helpless to watch it all shift and settle across his face in real time. It was all there, made vivid from the proximity of the fire, the scintillating glow highlighting each and every little thing he felt. Surprise, hurt, understanding, acceptance. All processed in a blink, lightening quick. As though he thumbed through the inundation of emotions with hardly any effort. Like he was so used to it, losing someone before he even had the chance to have them. And all you could do was try to and hold yourself together, sucking in a tight breath before you choked out an apology. A flimsy attempt to soften the blow, to ease the damage that you'd already done.
His stare tore you down the middle, and your guts spilt out from it, sincere but pathetic.
"I'm really going to miss you, Andrew."
— A knock echoes out from the door in clipped succession. Three taps, firm but short, like a person producing them was uncertain, hesitant but determined. The noise surprises you enough that you jerk up from where you're reclining on the bed, head lifting up from the pillows to scan over the door, like if your try hard enough, you might be able to see through the thick of it and see who's on the other side.
For a moment too long, you feel like a deer caught between headlights. Stuck, frozen in place all while your mind rushes, mapping out the plan to remain quiet, to reach for the drawer of the bedside nightstand that you stored your gun inside. It was already loaded. All you had to do was grab it and flick off the safety.
There's a good chance that you're just being paranoid, but it's late. A quick glance at the digital clock on the nightstand confirms that. Neon numbers burning red like a warning — 12:36.
No one should be at your door.There's a window in the bathroom, right above the toilet, and it's just big enough for you to squeeze through. You specifically requested a room on the ground floor just in case you had to evade any trouble. There was always a risk of one of your father's old enemies catching wind of you being in town, and you never wanted to be caught lacking. You had told the front desk to notify you if anyone came in asking for your whereabouts. But the guy who checked you in seemed as though he couldn't have been bothered to remember such a request, with tired, glazed over eyes that he'd barely pried from his phone for longer than a minute.
All you had gotten from him in confirmation was a sluggish, "Uh-huh, sure," and a lethargic nod.
So if anyone has come asking around for you, he certainly wasn't going to be any help.
You slip off of the edge of the bed, hand reaching for the knob of the drawer to tug it open — there's another knock. The same tempo as before, but a degree heavier. Not impatient, just firmer. Making sure that it had been heard. It doesn't ease your trepidation. The anxiety only spikes, and the silence in the room becomes thick. The sort of quiet that's suffocating. Not even the low, muffled noise produced by the TV is enough to ease it.
You pull open the drawer as gently as possible, as though the faintest traces of its tracks squeaking would give you away and the person outside will come barging in, the muzzle of a gun already trained on your head and zip ties clutched in hand. Ready to wrangle you to the floor, to fight you until you bruise and break, so they could string you up in the trunk of car. All to use you as leverage against a man who probably wouldn't give two shits if you died.
You reach down, eyes still trained on the door like it's a target, fingers brushing along the metal. As soon as you make contact with it, you accept that you might actually have to use. That you'll have to pull that trigger.
But then the sound of your name bleeds inside the room, and in a split second all of your fear seems to drain from you.
"It's just me; it's Pope."
The sigh that leaves you robs you of energy despite being made from relief. Your shoulders sag, muscles going lax, though your heart rate has hardly calmed yet, still thumping in a crazed pulse like you've been hooked up to a car battery. You swear you could taste the adrenaline, the acrid bite of chemicals. Bitter in a way that makes you want to grimace. But your body doesn't allow you to dwell on the soft shake in your hands. It decides to act for you, feet moving you forward and around the length of the bed to carry you towards the door.
There's not a single falter in your pace. All of doubt has been shed, fully abandoned. It's autopilot, pure instinct, steel drawn in a by a magnetic pull. You hardly register that you're twisting the lock free and opening the door until it's swinging open and you're left to witness him.
He's little more than a silhouette. The light above the doorway is dim, a muted, oily shine that struggles to fend off the night, and it eclipses him in dramatic shadows. His eyes reflect the dull glint of it, and it makes his stare almost seem otherworldly; head tilted down in that pin focused way he does. But there's a softness to him too despite the rigidness of his posture, the set of his shoulders is looser, like he's trying to hold himself in a way that isn't intimidating. Sharp edges made gentle. Like a kicked dog covering the teeth it tends to bare.
Your hand grips ahold of the door, squeezing tight with your fingertips like it might help you keep your head on straight. And you're so swept up that you don't have time to be self-conscious about the fact that you're standing in the middle of the open doorway in nothing but your underwear and an oversized t-shirt. You aren't even angry, or frightened anymore, just confused, and you don't bother to hide it.
Your brows perk up, lips parting in stark bewilderment as you ask for a second time within two hours: "What are you doing here?"
But you don't give him the opportunity to answer. You're moving forward, bare feet almost stepping from the plush of the carpet and past the threshold as you regard him. "Did you follow me here?"
"Yeah, I tailed you. You actually need to be more aware; there's a lot of dangerous people out here who would take advantage of that," he answers. It gives you whiplash. His real distress, the ease at which he admits to stalking you. He does it without stalling or making excuses. And it's without an ounce of shame or revulsion. As though it was the most natural thing in the world and he felt no need to lie or hide it.
"Well, thanks for the advice." It comes out brusque. More snappish than you meant, but the apology remains lodged in your throat. "But why did you follow me?"
He shifts back, and his head tilts down, eyes flickering to scan the floor like he might find the means to articulate himself. "I've been sitting in the parking lot for the past forty minutes trying to make excuses not to come over here and knock on your door, and I thought of at least a hundred, but I couldn't stop myself."
Your mind whites out in a temporary hum, overloaded with the information. And strikes you then, that he must have never went to your father's house. He stayed out in the parking lot, waiting for you leave the office. He probably sat quietly in his vehicle, parked in some hidden corner, watching while you locked up the front door with the spare key. Tracking you like a predator staring down its prey while you got in your car and drove away.
You just stand there, motionless while the world keeps turning around you both. Waves still roll and crash in the distance, the sea meeting the earth. Somewhere along the far corners of the parking lot, crickets chirp and sing together, and several blocks over, the worn brake pads on a car pitch in a low metallic cry and it stirs up a dog. Its agitated barking carries high on a passing breeze.
He steps forward. You hear the pale drag of his shoes on the concrete; you feel the warmth of his body dip over your own.
"That night, the one on the beach before you left, has haunted me for the past fifteen years." His voice takes on something deep, the rasp smoking the edges into a thick baritone, but it can't hide the waver in it. The hurt. "I never should have let you leave."
You shake your head, and your attention darts away for a second of reprieve. Skipping over onto streetlamps and the barren lot across the street; a blank canvas of dirt encapsulated by a chain-link fence. But it hardly works. It's like being swallowed whole. An old wound ripping open and reminding your body of an agony that never really went away at all. "I had to go, Pope. I had to get out of here." And you say it despite the ache it leaves in its wake. "If things had been different — if everything wasn't so complicated, maybe I would have stayed. You made me want to. . . " You release a sigh, reluctant and loaded with years' worth of strain. "I really wanted to, but I just couldn't."
He goes silent for a beat. Another passes. And another. Despite the dark you can see something flicker over him, a sort of grimace pulling at the corners of his mouth, a glint in his eyes. It's shifty, unsure. As though he had made a calculation in his head and undermined an important factor, and now he was left fumbling. When he speaks next, it almost sounds as though it pains him. "I'll leave. If you really want me to —"
"No." It nearly leaves you as a cry. So much louder, more passionate than intended. As though your body was trying to reject the very notion of him turning away; like it might become sick from it. "No, I don't want you to leave."
You settle when he doesn't move from where he's standing, feet firmly planted where he's got them. It's a relief when it shouldn't be. Another firm reminder that you're still impossibly hung up on him. Caught up in a dumb crush that hasn't abated, hasn't ebbed despite all the years. Its claws are in you deep, curled sharp beneath the soft barrier of your skin and down to where you're all sinew and blood and a heart that feels like too much to contain.
"Did you ever think about me?" It's vulnerable. Layered with uncertainty. So far beyond the man who presents himself in sharp-edged glares. Who lurks in darkened corners like a hunting dog, waiting for the command to lunge and rip. It leaves him in a near whisper, hesitant to be uttered.
"All the time."
It settles between you. Clicking into place as though it's always belonged there, but never had a chance to fit until now. A ghost materializing enough to be seen by the naked eye. You don't want to let it go now that you have it. You don't want him to go.
"Come in?" You gesture your head back towards the room behind you and angle your body enough that it would be easy for him to slip past you if he wanted to. An invitation that you hope he takes.
He moves before you can doubt yourself. He steps inside with hardly a shred of reluctance, like he's been waiting all night for that permission, a dog lunging for the supple meat that's been offered to it. He angles the breadth of his shoulders to fit around you, but his chest brushes over your arm. A faint glide from the material of his shirt, but it's enough to make your flesh prickle, heat thrumming where he grazed you.
You make quick work of closing the door, locking it behind you. When it clicks into place, it forces you to confront that you're completely alone with him. Trapped inside four close walls on the quiet side of town, and not a single other soul knows that he's here.
It excites you more than it should.
Warmth trickles up the notches of your spine. You turn around and he's already staring at you. Still and tense in the middle of the room, chin bent towards his chest. His gaze seems black from how dim it is in here, the vibrant flecks of green in his eyes is altered; pigment turned dusky, the shallow belly of a lake. It eats you alive. Pins you in place and gulps you down until you're right in the center of him. He's everywhere all at once, touching over your skin while distance keeps you apart.
The air is charged. Hot static. When you breathe, it pools in the bottom of your lungs. Suffocating, heady, like the vapors of a drug.
You know what he wants. Why he's here. It's there in his body language, the tension in the set of his shoulders, the taut flex of the muscles in his forearms. He's coiled tight. Like every facet of him is screaming at him to take, to seize what he wants and wrangle it beneath the pressure of his palms. And you know that you'd give under that pressure, baring your throat for the stamp of his teeth.
There's a decision to be made here, and you've already made it. You did as soon as you let him in.
Maybe even before you did.
"Pope. Sit down."
It's hardly a command. Defiantly not as confident as you imagined it would be. It's too soft around the edges; a poor imitation. But a glint scintillates across his eyes as though you've extended an offering that he had only ever fantasized about. Bright where it burns within the intense focus of his stare.
He walks over to the foot of the bed, complying to your request without hardly a second to consider it. The mattress groans dully with his weight when he sits himself down, posture pin straight.
He hasn't so much as glanced away from you a single time.
You let that, his undivided attention, flow through you. As potent as liquid courage, electricity skirting through your bones. It guides you forward, tugs you towards him by the heels of your feet and holds you by the neck. Persuasive, like a long-buried instinct rousing in the pit of your stomach. Demanding to be felt. And like a mutt with no impulse control, you go chasing after it. You don't think of what comes after this, not right now. You can't let yourself worry about the consequences, of the damage that will break in the aftermath.
You're going to let yourself have this. Have him — even if it tears you apart.
You don't allow yourself to stop, to relent under his focus, stopping only once you're directly in front of him. He stares up at you like you're the only thing that matters and it seems so similar to how he had looked at you that final night on the beach. Hopeful and hollowed out all at once. Like he needs you to make him full again. To catch the pieces of himself that are spilling out through the cracks, for you to cup it all in your palms and drink it down until you're choking on it.
He spreads his thighs open without prompt, making space for you to wedge yourself into and you accept, each possible shred of doubt taking the back seat, only giving space for want. Pure and starved.
Your hands reach down, and you can see the question in his eyes when they skim over his own where they sit on his thighs, but he doesn't resist when you guide them up, settling the large warmth of them over the shape of your hips. His fingers curl around you eagerly, clasping possessively. Almost greedy in their hold, and the ardor behind it has a smile threatening to nudge at the corners of your lips. He holds you like you're already slipping through his fingers. As though he's waited a thousand lifetimes to have you in his palms and now that he has you, he's afraid of having to let you go. And you can feel that worry in the soft tremor in his fingers, like if he allows himself to hold onto you for too long, he won't let you leave.
"You can touch me, Pope." You whisper softly, like if you dared to speak any louder, it would spook him.
You didn't know it was possible but his hands tighten, enough that you know your skin will be tender in the morning. Aching from the weight of him, a reminder of how he had you. That he touched you. Felt you like this.
You glide one of your thumbs over the back of his knuckles, fingers coming around the trace along the edge of his palm and you can feel the impression of a callous there. Skin rough and worn from nothing but grueling work.
You want to feel them all over you, wherever he's willing to touch.
There's a glimmer in his gaze that you've never been under, but you recognize it for what it is. Reverence. The sort of devotion that's made for old gods, deities that have existed long before man. And he watches you like a zealot. A disciple who was made only to praise and adore. It's the sort of attention you could get high on; let it suspend you high above the clouds, held on the pedestals that are his hands.
But you can't keep yourself from venerating him, either. Cherishing him as though he's the oxygen that you've been deprived of for so long.
You study his face in a shameless appraisal. The tight curls on his head, darkened from the shadows, the pale light from the TV screen painting brushstrokes of blue through the stands, occasionally revealing the natural red that lurks underneath. It all spills over his face, creates shapes from the definition of his cheekbones, the ridge of his brow, covers him in a gloom that makes him a piece of art; sculpted in all the right places like a he's been crafted from stone.
But it's his lips that you truly can't keep yourself from ogling, the shape of them traced and highlighted from the dull glow projected behind you. The corners of them are so often downturned. Set in a thin, angry line, reading nothing but a quiet rage. But now they're lifted just the slightest bit. A small indication of a smile. Barely there. But you can see it.
"Can I kiss you?" you ask.
A fire flares in his eyes, blazing as though you've doused it with gasoline.
"You can do whatever you want to me."
You believe that without a doubt. He'd let you eat him alive if you asked to, right down to the bone until there's nothing of him left. He'd do the same to you, you know. Pluck you apart, one bite at a time. Sink his teeth in, carve you out to make space for himself, and you'd say thank you a thousand times for it, over and over again.
It should be daunting. Terrifying, really, the overflow of repressed emotions that have come rippling through you. It's storm that's rolled in without warning, winds violent and howling, threatening to take you up in the squall. But you have no desire to duck down and hide from it. You want it to. You need it to ravage each part of you, seep down inside your flesh like a poison, because maybe then, things can finally be simple. Even if only for however long this lasts.
Not forever, you aren't dumb enough to try tricking yourself into imagining that. You know you don't have long with him. Your time together is borrowed, sand trickling down through an hour glass, seconds passing quickly. Maybe once the sun is up, the pale hue of it bleaching the horizon in early dawn, the illusion might shatter. Reality will come creeping back in, an uninvited ghost, to remind you that this was all temporary. An escape, a cruel taste of what you'll never be able to have.
But with him looking up at you, eyes pin-sharp but somehow dazed around the edges, like you're the only thing that's worth something, you've made peace with the pain that will come from this. The agony, bittersweet, but for now it's all perfect. He's perfect. And for one fleeting, borrowed moment, he's entirely yours.
The hold he has on your hips slackens just enough to enable you in moving, lifting your legs up to bracket them around the width of his thighs. He welcomes you onto his lap like you belong there, hands sealed around your waist as though he'll die without touching you. And it hits you now, how much he still smells the same. So similar to all of those years ago, still crisp and warm, but deeper. More refined and relaxed than it had been, the subtle, but boyish quality it had is now gone.
And it's just as mouthwatering as before.
You can't hold back anymore. You don't want to.
You both share a quick look, and it's charged, layered with longing that was never given a chance until now.
You hardly process leaning down, hardly realize that you're doing it. You only register it once his mouth is on yours, and the sound he makes is borderline needy. A ragged groan that comes from the gut, down deep like it had been held back — buried, and finally he stopped resisting it. You swallow it down, eager to taste it, to feel every bit of him, palms sweeping over what they can. Mapping over the sturdy brunt of his chest, smoothing around the stretch of his throat, fingers threading through the curls at the nape of his neck.
He makes another noise when your nails scratch over his scalp, and when you tug on his hair, his hips jerk. A sharp upward jolt, harsh and desperate, blindly seeking out friction from between your legs. You don't expect it. The animalistic want. As though he's been deprived of it for too long — starved from human contact and now he's practically drooling for it.
He holds onto you as though he'll fall apart otherwise. Hands just as greedy as your own, roaming blindly across your back, down further to grope your ass through the thin material of your underwear. Taking ahold of it in the full length of his palms. But they don't remain there for long. They constantly move, squeezing wherever they can, feeling you like he can memorize you through the sensation on his hands. Making a map of you, made for safekeeping in his mind.
Your hips work on their own, grinding down to meet his and the pressure of it has your mouth dropping open with a low whine. He takes advantage of it, teeth nipping at your lips, tracing them with the point of his tongue before he licks it inside. A light trace, explorational, testing to see how you react, and when you don't pull back, he tastes you a little more.
One of his hands settles back down to your hips again, hot enough to be felt through your clothes. It feels like it could brand you, burn into your skin. You almost wish that it would. The warmth of it, the rough texture of his palms; his thumb slipping past the drape of your shirt. You want it all engrained inside of you.
He guides you with the weight of his grip, aiding the rhythm of your hips even though you really don't need it. But you don't tell him that. You don't want him to pull away. To stop holding you like this. Urging your waist to roll in a deep, eager pace. Over and over again.
He's getting hard already. Pressing up against the zipper of his jeans, and it has the wide seam dragging directly against your clit each time your hips bear back down on him. Fire spreads up your spine with every grind, lashing through your veins and dropping down in the base of your belly. Smoldering like a pile of coals. It's white-hot, smoked honey sizzling beneath your skin.
And it's completely pathetic because all you're doing is dry humping like a couple of dumb teenagers, but it's already eating you up from the inside out. All you can do is pant against his lips while he goads you on, whispering soft encouragement inside of your mouth, "There you go. Yeah, just like that," and it's making your mind go blank.
"Pope," you whine, entirely too desperate for your own ears. If you had the ability to give a damn about it, you would probably be embarrassed, but you can't hardly think as is.
"Andrew." He corrects, tone deep but not unkind. Just firm, as though hearing you address him as anything other than his actual name would be a personal affront. Some kind of cosmic offense.
"Andrew," you repeat, savoring how it seems to spread inside the warmth of your mouth.
He hums at the sound of it, graveled, pleased. His chest rumbles against yours with a satisfaction that can be felt, a bone deep kind of bliss. And he chases after more of it. Tilting his head to drag his lips down the expanse of your cheek, dragging his teeth across the tender spot behind the hinge of your jaw, just under your ear, sucking at the skin there with the glide of his tongue. It makes you melt, head tipping back to offer up your throat to him, and he takes it, sucking and peppering kisses over the base of it. Leaving no bit of it left untouched.
The point of his nose nuzzles into you, skimming the edge of your jaw while he inhales, drawing in your scent like it's air.
You feel his voice before you hear it.
"Is it alright if I eat you out?"
You've never heard someone balance the line between casualness and desperation, but he's perfected it. And it knocks the wind out of you. Completely maddening. Tantalizing in a way that you wouldn't expect, and he won't give you the courtesy of allowing you to see his face. He's too busy keeping it stuffed against your neck, lips busy with your skin like he's making up for lost time. Afraid he'll never be able to taste you like this again and he's trying to commit you to memory before you inevitably fall through his fingers.
Your tongue is limp inside the frame of your jaw, useless and frozen. It takes entirely too long for you to will it to move. To form words like it's supposed to, and the breath you use to speak is brittle. Lungs snagging, trapping the oxygen inside, forced into a vice by the pleasure that sparks across your nerves when he sucks a tender spot directly above your pulse.
"Yeah," you answer, breathless already. "Shit—" His teeth nip a little rougher. Not enough to hurt, but it blind sides you, sparks sizzling over your nerves and it makes your spine arch from the sting. Your hips jerk instinctively, rocking crudely, pace temporarily thrown off from the shock of the bite, and it has you both gasping at the friction. It's enough to have everything spilling from you. Uninhibited. Just shy of being brainless. "Course you can. Need you to, Andrew — want you to use me. Make me feel good, please."
"Yeah?"
God, he sounds so smug. A satisfied lilt curling through the textured rasp that's thrumming against the side of your throat, right there with the teasing lap of his tongue, the press of his lips. You can feel him smile, gentle, barely there. Closer to the suggestion of one rather than the actual thing, but it makes your blood sing regardless.
"Is that what you want?" he teases. "For me to use you up?"
You must not answer fast enough, already dazed, thoughts turned murky and tinged red, because his hand slips up to grip you by the nape of your neck. Now you're staring at him, head cocked to meet his focus. You have no choice but let him keep you where he wants you; made to sit still within his scope, vulnerable within the darkened field of his attention.
"Well?" He presses, eyebrows lifting in an impatient furrow.
You're still clothed, hidden by the drape of your shirt, but you've never felt so exposed before. Bared beneath him. As though he's opened you at the ribs and has taken to peeking around inside, brushing against a part of your soul that you never bothered to show to anyone else. One that you had forgotten existed. The piece that's too caring, too tender, hungry for attention. But you aren't afraid that he sees it — that he probably always has — because you can recognize that same vulnerability mirrored right back at you through the glint of his eyes.
Aching, broken, lonely, and tearing apart at the seams. It's all there. He has his hand around your neck, and still, you don't feel like you're struggling to stay grounded, like he might pose a threat. Break you beneath his palm. You're on equal footing. You know that if you truly wanted to, you could easily reverse the roles he's nudged you both into. Flip the script and then you'd be the one making commands — and he'd give to them like it's instinct. And just the knowledge of that alone makes it feel as though you have the entire world at your fingertips.
You hold his stare, unwavering, confidence lashing through your bloodstream like a liquid heat, warm sugar.
"Yeah, that's what I want," you nod, and swivel your hips just to be a little mean. Pressing yourself down on the shape of his cock; firm repetitive motions that have his lips parting, eyes becoming heavily lidded. You have to ignore how much it affects you, too. Electricity fizzling between your thighs in pulsing currents, that familiar coil of pleasure twisting inside your stomach, faint but already there. Keep on pretending that the gusset of your underwear isn't already soaked, clinging to you. "Come on, Andrew. Waited so long for this; thought about you all the time."
"You thought about me, huh?" It's condescending, again, but there's a genuine surprise underneath that can't be hidden. Tucked away and camouflaged behind that patronizing wall is disbelief, a flicker of vulnerability, and more visible than all of that, curiosity.
You aren't given the chance to indulge him. In a split second your perspective is a disorienting blur, your back is pushed onto the mattress, the force of it causing the springs to croak weakly, and when your vision levels out, you're looking up.
Andrew is all you can see now, blotting out the ceiling above with the shape of his body. The light from the TV spills around him, tracing the edges of his silhouette in a pale glow, settling across his skin like a blanket of frost.
Pretty. So pretty, just as he's always been.
You've never had him as close as this. Pressed up against you, waist wedged between your thighs, forcing them to give around the thick width of his torso. He's built sturdy. Strong shoulders, cut muscle. He's built like he was made to take a hit and keep moving. Like the world had designed him to survive the worst of it, hand carved for all of its possible brutality. And he's done just that. Survived things that would ruin anyone else, kill them. Things that you might never get to know.
But there are some that you've been able to deduct. That you've read in between the lines to understand. Speculation that settles in your gut as a definitive truth. A troubled family, a strained childhood — one that wasn't normal. Not by a long shot. And it was all orchestrated under the control of his mother. You saw how she looked at them all, her sons, in that strange way that a mother never should. It had always left a bitter taste in your mouth, made your stomach roll with nausea, creeping at the back of your throat, viscous, acrid.
Sometimes when you saw her, you had to fight the urge to double over and throw up all over the floor. You used to fantasize about getting a gun. Stealing on of the pistols from your father's safe and taking care of her in the way that most problems should be handled.
And Andrew endured it all. He still is, because he'd never turn his back on his family. His loyalty an Achilles heel.
He deserved to have something for himself. To have you, even if only for one bittersweet night, shared in a dingy motel room like a secret. You'll let him take it all.
You settle further beneath him, allowing yourself to relax across the cushioned support of the mattress. All on their own, your thighs spread further, silently urging him to press his weight closer, to flatten himself against the length of your body, and it delights you when he does just that. Lowering himself with his elbows on either side of your ribs, close enough that his chin brushes over your chest. He doesn't glance away as he hovers his mouth over the swell of one of your breasts, teasing you with the proximity.
"Gonna share?"
You hum, playful and low, lashes fluttering from how you have to angle your head to maintain eye contact.
"Well . . . It's hard to narrow it down. I thought about you a lot." You let your fingers wander again, slipping over his shoulders, admiring the strength of them beneath your palms. "You were pretty integral to my self-discovery growing up. I mean, you had the whole brooding, silent thing going on and to an awkward teenager, it was practically kryptonite. Buuut — " you draw out the word, smiling. "Even after I left, you were always there. In my head."
Your fingertips find his curls again, plucking at them, feeling the silky whorls brush over your skin. His focus is rapt, unwavering. Stuck on you as though you've hypnotized him, lured him in like a siren and he'd come without resistance. Pliant and willing.
"When I started college, there was this guy that I would fool around with every once in a while — I'm not really sure why, he was rarely able to get me off." You roll your eyes, glancing up the ceiling, momentarily reliving old disappointment. "After he'd leave, I'd think about you. Remember you to make myself come."
He shivers beneath the gentle scrape of your nails, eyes darkening, like he's contemplating something dangerous. His nose skims along the mound of your breast again. The warmth of his breath seeps past the delicate fabric of your shirt, gliding over you in a rush and your nipple hardens in response. A subtle ache blossoming inside your chest, teased by the proximity of his mouth. But you can see that glimmer in his eyes, roguish. He's going to tease the hell out of you until he gets what he wants.
"Details," he urges in a murmur. Soft spoken against your body. He presses a feather light kiss to your breast, incentive to entice you into speaking. And it's so simple but it works.
Or it would have one of his hands didn't move, distracting you. He shifts a little, leaning all of his weight on his left arm while the opposite lowers, moving so that he can further explore you, fingertips rucking up the edge of your T-shirt to freely toy with your underwear. Plucking at the cotton material fitted around the breadth of your hip, tugging at it as though he was contemplating ripping it off of you.
The thought of that alone makes your thighs try to squeeze together, but the width of his torso keeps you splayed open and you can't be bothered to choke back the petulant groan that slips from your throat.
"I'm not gonna ask again," he warns. Stern, but lacking the sort of bite that would make you flinch; fear for your mortality. It does the opposite. All you want to do is to melt into him. To go completely lax. A lazy, open pile for him to indulge in.
"I was getting there." You grouse, but the smile on your face betrays any ounce of annoyance that you tried to project. But the snark of it is enough him to reprimand you, his gaze narrowing when he pulls back the elastic band of your underwear and releases it with a sharp snap. The pain flares with the impact of it, smarting with a dull throb that nearly makes you yelp.
All you get from him is an unconvinced mm-hm purred out against your chest, right along the unexpected flick of his tongue circling around your left nipple. It makes you arch into his open mouth, thoughts momentarily scattering, flitting out of your reach from the way he begins to lavish you with his tongue.
"I — " you suck in a shaky breath, steadying yourself as best as you can before you try to speak again, eyelids threatening to slip shut from the pleasure. "I always used my hands." You confess and he immediately rewards you by taking your nipple within the full scope of his mouth, lips sealing around it to suck, flicking the edge of his tongue on it over and over, and it melts you. Bones going weightless, head leaning back into the mattress like you could sink into it. "I had a vibrator that I kept hidden in my dresser. But when I thought of you, I wanted to use my hands just so I could pretend they were yours."
You feel his satisfied groan rather than hearing it. A drawn out, content noise that sends tiny vibrations over your heated skin. Even with the crisp air circulating the room, steadily churned out from the AC, you feel as though you're on fire. Body doused in a sweltering heat, and already there's a thin sheen of sweat beginning to glimmer across your body.
The fine fibers of your shirt drag over your nipple each time he licks his tongue over you, providing a friction that makes your spine arch, back bowing taut and hips squirming. He's all but flattened himself on top of you now. His full weight bared down like he's forgotten how to hold himself, but you don't feel crushed. It's nice. Comforting. The pressure of him sunk on you, keeping the twitch of your waist irritatingly repressed, but you can't be bothered to try and wiggle out from underneath him. Any and all complaints dead in your mouth.
That would be a torture all on its own. You can't imagine being without the sensation of his skin on yours now that you have it; the taste of him on your tongue.
"I'd play with myself for hours when I could," you confess into the air; atmosphere turned thick and balmy within the room, like satin spilling over your bodies. A dim gasp snags your words. "—fuck myself with my fingers, picturing that it was you doing it to me. I'd be soaked by the end of it. All over my fingers, my sheets; wishing you were there."
His mouth detaches from you with a wet pop, but you don't have time to get frustrated. His hands are on you again, tugging furiously at the edge of your shirt, greedy and frantic while he bunches it up in his fists and begins shoving it up the length of your torso. You just barely make out the sound of his gruff order through the blood roaring in your ears. A zealous instruction of, "Off. Get this off, let me see you."
You obey without second thought, lifting yourself up enough to aid him tearing your shirt up past your shoulders, raising your arms for him to guide the waded-up fabric over them. He tosses it carelessly, and it lands somewhere outside your field of vision, probably on the floor in a forgotten pile.
It's almost kneejerk to be embarrassed. To second guess yourself now that you're exposed, breasts bare and heaving, but he's looking at you like you're perfect. Eyes roving over your figure in the near dark, his appetite burning visibly in his stare while he takes you in, vision gliding over you like brushstrokes on a portrait.
His hands seize around you abruptly, striking with the agility of a predator to clasp around your hips and then he's dragging you down underneath him, eating up the space that you both had made in your effort to rid you of your shirt.
You watch, entranced as he slips himself from the foot of the bed and settles down to the floor on his knees, pulling you down with him until your ass is nearly hanging from the edge of the mattress. His focus doesn't part from you a single time, dark and heavy, pinned as though you're the center of everything. His palms cradle your thighs as he guides your legs apart, spreading them to hook them over the support of his shoulders. The kiss he presses to your knee is so soft that it almost breaks something inside of you, delicate and lacking the teeth that he had kissed you with earlier, and when his breath puffs out over your skin, it strikes you, really hits you, that this is actually happening.
Pope Cody is between your legs, and he's eyeing you like now that he's got you, you're his completely.
"Keep going," he murmurs.
Then the distinctive sound of fabric tearing spikes across the air. The elastic of your underwear pinches your skin, sinks into the meat of your hip for a fraction of a second and then it gives, snapping apart as though it's as flimsy as paper. And it might as well as be to Andrew. He shreds it from you like it's nothing. One minute you're wearing it and then in a blink it's gone. Tugged free from your body like it doesn't belong there, and then he's tossing it over his shoulder, useless, tattered garbage.
You feel his hands cupping the shape of your ass, thumbs slipping around to frame both sides of your pussy, crudely spreading you open. There's no time for humiliation if you even had any to spare, because as soon as you're fully bared to him, he's leaning down and smothering himself in you.
Your hips try to jerk instinctively but he keeps you completely still, his grip on you ironclad, forcing you to take the brunt of it all. His tongue sweeps over the entrance of your cunt, tasting you fully, dipping inside to drink you down. And it sounds so wet already, lewd and damp, his face slick from the arousal smearing down your inner thighs.
"Fucking, Andrew." Your head tips back, slamming back hard enough, that if you were reclined back on anything but a mattress, you'd probably have a concussion. He lets you writhe a little, keeping your hips still secure through it all, but he doesn't chide you when your torso squirms underneath the onslaught of his mouth. A cry hiccups from your chest, pitched high and mortifying, but you can't give a single shit about while he it licks his tongue over your clit in repetitive, agonizing strokes.
Your thighs clamp tight around his ears, but instead of jerking back and trying to get air, he seems to press himself into your further, nudging the point of his nose on your clit while he drags his mouth back down to your slit. Grinding it on you while he laps at the cum dripping from you as though it's the only meal he's had in days.
It takes too long for your brain to reorganize themselves, sluggishly getting back on track, a slow drip of thoughts. But really, the way he's looking at you right now isn't helping. He's still staring, transfixed on the rapid rise and fall of your breasts, the flex of your abdomen when you will yourself to breathe. The muscles in his forearms flex, arms rippling from how tightly they're holding you. He looks so good that it's unfair. It's total bullshit, but you couldn't be happier.
"I'd get myself off over and over again. As much as I could. There was this one night, one of your family's parties that I got dragged along to, and . . . " Your voice trails off, momentarily stuck on a groan that shudders through your ribcage when he takes your clit into his mouth and sucks. It lights you up, pussy clenching tight around nothing and everything fizzles, distorts and smolders around the edges. Disorienting in the best way possible, but you breathe through it to continues your rambling. "You got in this fight with Wade Beck for some reason. I just remember you swinging at him once, and then he went down, right on the ground. And, fuck, I never stopped thinking about it. You looked at him like you could have killed him and I had never been so turned on before."
His eyebrows perk up by a fraction. Like he's surprised. Shocked. Immediately your mind spins into chaos. That you've made a mistake. You've fucked up, let your mouth get the best of you when you should have kept it sealed shut.
You don't get to make excuses though, to back track and pretend that you never said it. One of his fingers slip inside of you, thick, forcing you to stretch around its width. It shoves the oxygen from your lungs, and your words with it, hiccupping until you're able to get control of yourself.
"I know I shouldn't have liked it, but I did. You're just so pretty, Andrew, always so pretty."
Something passes through his expression, raw and fervid; the vulnerability of someone who's finally been seen. Like he's been ripped apart and finally made whole again. Starved for a hundred days and he found a solace in your words alone. He looks like who wants to die between your thighs, suffocate and never leave.
"Say it again," he slurs like he's drunk, tongue lapping against your cunt. He sounds almost wrecked when he speaks next. "Please."
He's never looked so pathetic. Desperate, but beautiful. Always beautiful no matter the circumstance. Eyes round, glittering in the dark, peering up at you from between the bracket of your thighs with all of the neediness of a beggar.
As much as you'd love to toy with him, you know that you don't have the time. You never will. And so you can't deny him, can't make him ask for it, indulge in him like you really want to.
You give him what he needs.
"You're so fucking pretty." You hold his stare with your own, resolute despite the skin-deep urge to look away. You lift a hand, fingers reaching to slip over the side of his face, thumb sweeping along the ridge of his cheek to cradle him like something precious. "Always thought you were."
He makes another noise. A groan that sounds dangerously close to a whimper, and then he's smothering himself in you again. Face pressed to your pussy, tongue circling around your clit while he fucks you with his finger. The pace he sets is somehow zealous and languid all at once. Like he's frenzied, but hellbent on lazing in every passing minute, committing it to memory so that he can hold onto it forever.
He works in another finger right in alongside the first, thrusting and crooking them together, searching for the technique that'll make your toes curl. And he finds it with an ease and quickness that's dizzying, that has jealousy spiking through your bloodstream, unfounded and selfish. But it claws through you anyway, heedless to reason. And it feels like a personal hell when your mind spins, turning into chaos while you think about every other woman before you. All the people in his life who gave him the experience he has now to take you apart.
Your fingers shape into talons, both hands lifting up to hook them through the thick of his curls like it's a punishment, but he groans, throaty and guttural like you've rewarded him. Soothed something aching in his soul by tugging his hair, making it sting at the roots.
"Better than your fingers?" he queries, muffled against the wetness of your pussy.
"Mm-hm," you supply with a nod. A lousy substitute for a real answer, but he lets it slide. Too lost on your taste, intoxicated by your warmth on the flat of his tongue, wrapped around his fingers like a vice. "Feels 'o good. Feels so good, please don't stop."
Already you can feel that familiar pressure twisting up within the base of your stomach, tight and vicious. And you want it to take you and leave nothing left. Just bits and pieces for Andrew to keep; to tuck between his teeth and taste to remember you. So he can feel the ghost of you in his mouth on lonely nights.
"I'm not gonna stop," he promises, and it's a salve on a sting. "You're going to come on my fingers when I want you to. Got it?"
"Yeah, got it, I got it," you reply in a distracted surge, and you finger flex and pull at his hair to keep yourself centered. Like it might save you. But it really doesn't. Nothing can keep you from floating away, from getting spun up within him.
You aren't expecting the slap to your hip. It's gentle all things considered, but it makes you twitch regardless, the ache it leaves behind dull and tingling over your nerves.
"You come when I tell you to. Understand?"
"I understand."
You regret that you answered so readily. Enthusiastic like a dog. You're already close. A few brushes off from falling over the edge, and he must know that with how tightly you're squeezing around his fingers. Locked around him, ready to tip over from a couple practiced strokes. And he seems bound and determined to work you up as much as he possibly can, crooking his fingers deep inside of you, their tips and knuckles brushing over places that makes you choke back loud whines.
It's filthy. The wet smack of his lips kissing and suctioning around your clit, the dull squelch of his fingers thrusting inside of you. It all fills the room, your shared groans, soaked and heady. It all sounds pornographic. Sinful in your ears but you love it, how raw and gutted Andrew's voice is, muffled against your cunt. Somehow, he already seems fucked out and you've hardly done anything to him. It's like he's getting off on your pleasure, internalizing it as his own, and you can see it displayed clearly in the glazed over sheen covering his eyes. His stare clouded, and he looks drugged. High off of it, off of you.
Just that knowledge alone has your abdomen flexing, muscles bunching up tight with the rise of an oncoming orgasm. Your eyebrows pinch close in concentration as you do your best to stave it off, but it laps at you like fire, smoldering inside of your marrow in a bliss that burns. Your lips part open, panting uselessly while you try to find the ability to articulate yourself properly, to warn him that you just can't. You can't do it. You thought you could, but you can't.
His stare turns lethal, narrowed and razor sharp like he's already read your mind. He barely pulls away from you to speak, his gravel-edged baritone rumbling over your spit slick pussy in a simple warning.
"Hold it."
You shake your head, nails scraping harshly across his scalp and you aren't sure if it's out of retaliation or a desperate means to steel yourself. "I really fucking can't, I'm sorry. I'm so close Andrew, c'mon, pleas—"
"I said hold it," he reiterates, merciless. "I won't ask again."
Your hands tug back from his hair, slamming down on the bed instead, fingers clawing at the cheap comforter while you huff through your teeth. Trying your best to endure the rhythm he's set, the repetitive, firm pump of his fingers. The languorous sweep of his tongue. It's mean of him, cruel even, how he has you right there, and yet he's determined to keep you from it. Ruthlessly dangling your release directly in front of you, just outside of your reach while every nerve in your body screams for it. Muscles knotted up tight, your hips trying desperately to writhe underneath the unshakable weight of his hand, your hands grabbing uselessly at the blankets.
All you can do is endure it, and try to think about anything else to keep you from giving in. Upcoming bills, the scratch you have on your car's passenger door from a runaway shopping cart, work, the lightbulb you need to change out on your balcony. But it hardly works, a temporary solution. A stupid one. Completely useless.
You're going to combust. You're sure of it.
He's relentless. Homed in on your body, intent to torture you with pure bliss, and you think you could sob from it.
Your clit feels so sensitive, nerves reduced to sparks from the orgasm you've been left to float on the brink of. So close that you swear you could taste it, bright and saccharine, honey simmering beneath the barrier of your flesh, haunting you with what you could have. And you want it so badly that frustrated tears have begun to well up in your eyes, vision blurring in a wet vignette.
You start to plead, voice raising in your throat to spill from you like a depraved, desperate stream, but the words never make it past your lips.
His voice coils over the air, curling like smoke, an answer to prayer, and your body gives in to before you fully register what he's truly said. Your psyche finding permission in the suggestion of his words alone.
"Go ahead and come."
Every part of you splinters. Splits down the middle and fractures into tiny pieces, collapsing around the thick curl of his fingers. You think you cry out, but your ears are stuffed full of cotton, and it sounds like the ocean is roaring in your head, heavy and consuming. He licks you through it all, following the wild buck of your hips while you squirm, waist shifting and chasing after the pleasure skirting through your limbs like stretches of lightning. Setting you ablaze from the inside out.
For a while you just coast on the high of it all, the ecstasy expanding out far beyond your body, and Andrew guides you through the brunt of it. For a while you just float, abdomen spasming when the pleasure starts to become too much, but you don't complain. You can't be bothered to.
One of your hand's lifts, blindly searching for Andrew while your vision remains sightlessly fixed on the ceiling. You don't expect the weight of a familiar palm clasping around your own, the feel of it rough and calloused, thick fingers curling around your hand.
"Andrew, come here." You tug at him, almost petulant. You need him. You need to feel his skin on yours; his weight draped over your body. You feel miles away from yourself, muscles reduced to liquid from the cocktail of chemicals running rampant in your bloodstream, and it's got you dopey. "Need you up here."
He's quick to collect himself up from his position on the floor, and you know that his knees must be killing him, but he doesn't so much as wince while he drags himself onto the mattress. He releases your hand so that he can more easily position himself, but you mourn the loss of contact anyway, your palm empty without his. But you don't stay apart for long. You both tip towards each other like magnets.
His mouth crashes into yours, lips smeared with your taste, and it spreads over your tongue when he laps into your mouth, swallowing down your whines as though they're sanctified.
"Take your clothes off." You impatiently reach for him, already tugging at his shirt before he can begin to try and remove it himself. You nip at his lips, playful but avid. "I've been naked this entire time, it's not fair. Let me see you."
You feel his lips quirk in a smile. Amused and cocky. But surprisingly, he doesn't tease, he only relents with nothing more than a soft, "Okay."
It's a blur then, the both of you moving to rid him of his clothes. He tries to go about it slowly, leisurely lifting at the hem of his shirt as though he has all the time in the world, but you can't stop yourself from taking over and he doesn't try to obstruct you either. He lets you grab for it. Lets you pull it up over his shoulders, slipping his arms through the sleeves. The rest of it all gets rucked off of his body just as quickly, casted to the floor in a forgotten heap.
But now that he's naked in front of you, you fall still. A stunned silence.
He looks sculpted. That's really the only possible way to describe him. Chest full and defined in rounded muscle, veins bulging around the width of his biceps. It's unfair, really, how someone could actually look like that and not be from fiction. He's burly, big all over the place. Built for strength. The skin of his torso is paler than the tan on his arms and face, dusted with freckles, and you want kiss each and every one of them. You want to mouth at the smattering of copper hair below his belly button. A sparse happy trail that leads a path all the way down to the well-kept hair between his thighs. And there in the middle of it is his cock.
It's shameless how saliva pool on the center of your tongue.
It's thick like every other part of him. He's not the longest you've ever seen, but that's hardly going to get any complaints out of you. You can tell just by looking at him that he's going to stretch you out, the kind of girth that makes you ache and gasp. That'll have you throbbing while you sit and take it. The tip is flushed, a painful shade of pink, damp and glittering with the pearlescent smear of his precum.
You're still sensitive from your orgasm, but if you don't have him inside of you within the next five minutes, you think you might actually die.
"I want you to fuck me," you say, blunt, needy. "Right now."
"You sure you can take it so soon?" he asks. And it's sweet really. He's being considerate, and it's a care that you can tell is genuine, visible within the small furrow in his brows. But right now, your impulse control is a brittle thing.
You're grabbing ahold of him before you fully realize it, tugging him towards you by the shoulders. "I appreciate that, but if you don't fuck me right now, I think I might actually lose it."
He huffs out a laugh. You see him smile, lips raised like he's actually happy, rare like sunlight trickling through cloud cover during winter. But you don't get to admire the display for long before he's leaning into your space and pressing his mouth to yours. He tilts his weight over your body, silently urging you to recline back down on the bed again, crowding himself over you, pressed close. Heated skin on heated skin, and it's bliss. It has a laugh bubbling from you, light and airy, and it strikes you that you haven't felt this free in a while.
The realization makes emotions fizzle up, longing to complicate things, but you curb them back. You won't let this get tarnished, not now. While everything is vulnerable, close knit and intimate in a way that you never thought would be possible. Far out of reach.
So you'll enjoy it for as long as you possibly can, free from strings and the paranoia of what might come after.
When he settles back between your legs, his cock drags over you, right where you're sensitive, the head slipping over your clit. It all feels raw. Used and tender from the fading aftershocks of your orgasm. You twitch without meaning to, clenching tight over nothing but you repress the urge to shrink away from the sensation of it. The last thing you want him to do is stop, to hesitate and second guess this. To think that it's a possibility that you don't want this. Want him.
Your legs hitch around his hips, drawing him closer, caging him against the shape of your stomach. Molding him into you and he fits perfectly, body curving over yours as though he trying to become one. Like if he presses close enough, he won't have to leave you.
You press your lips to the corner of his mouth, softly, enough to entice him. A noise slips out from his throat, low and needy, like the tenderness of it has wounded him somehow. It pours through, sticking down in your bone marrow, in the sinew beneath your flesh, and it's a sound that you hope you carry with you forever. Permanently fixed within your psyche. There like an invisible brand. A keepsake. Something for you to hold on to when you're separated by miles and a state line, and all you can do is mourn the life you never got to have with him. At least you'll have this. A single night, noises in the dark, deprived and sickeningly sweet.
"Make us feel good, Andrew," you plead, spoken against his skin. "Let me feel you."
"Okay, okay," he agrees, too eager to hide. He nods gently, but his head doesn't shift back from you a single time, cheek pressed to your lips as though he couldn't possibly survive without them.
His hips tilt, providing enough space for him to wedge on his hands between your bodies so he can properly take ahold of himself. You watch him as best as you can from the proximity between your face, leaning your head back just enough to fully admire his expression. Blatantly staring at how his mouth draws tight in a kind of grimace when he strokes his palm over his cock, guiding himself down to rock between your thighs so he can slide his girth over your cunt, getting himself soaked with your arousal.
And you can hear it. The wet glide of it. The teasing, wet tap of his head on your clit. Your hips roll to meet him, feeling the shape of him spreading you open. It makes you keen, how dirty it feels, the two of you just grinding against each other, how slick it all is, the desperation. It makes your head spin, the blood in your veins turned simmering, molten.
But you don't have to beg for more.
In one, steady motion the head of his cock is notched against the entrance of your cunt, and with a deft rock of his hips he's pushing inside to the hilt, skin meeting skin with a smack. It steals the oxygen from your lungs, every possible gasp torn out of you. All you can do is cling to him. Hold on, fingers flexing and digging around the meat of his shoulders, nails biting into flesh while you try and survive the onslaught that has your thighs shaking.
You were right. He does leave an ache. The kind that has your jaw dropped open in a silent cry, but it's a hurt that feels good. A perfect blend of pain and pleasure, the kind that comes from being split open. Your toes curl from it, lashes fluttering like your eyes might roll back into your skull.
He drives into you like an animal. Ardent, feral thrusts like he's carving a place for himself inside of you, making a home between your thighs. But for all of his passion, the sheer need of it, it doesn't feel brutal. It isn't demeaning. You don't feel like a thing, a tool to be used. His head has dipped inside the crook of your neck, and his lips drag over the hollow of your throat. Indulgent, shielding himself in you, kissing you like you're meant to be cherished. And his hands are all over. Touching wherever he can. Your ribcage, your waist, the width of your thighs, eagerly caressing every facet of your body like it's an alter and he's a disciple, finding rapture in worship.
It's too much. Tender in a way that nearly hurts. You can't tell if the tears blurring in your eyes are from the pleasure or the emotions welling up in your chest, raw and bare.
It would be so easy to fall in love with him, to trip head over heels and never look back. But maybe you always have been. It was never just a crush at all; that was only a convincing lie you told yourself. The only lie that had ever really been successful, because you wanted to believe in it. Because you could never have Andrew. This life would make sure of that. He belongs to his family, to the world they've built, and you will never be enough to save him from that.
So you hold onto him harder, while you can.
You let it all spill from you, the praise, the things that you've always wanted to tell him, head tilting so he can hear you from where he's hidden himself into your neck.
"You're so good, so good to me. You feel so fucking good Andrew." Your fingers span out, palms smoothing over the planes of his shoulders, the muscle rippling beneath freckled skin. He shudders under your hands, like he doesn't deserve them, like he can't get enough of them. "Always wanted you, just like this."
His lips find your pulse, and he sucks it between his teeth to feel it flutter on his tongue. It's like he's trying to remind himself that you're here. You're real and you're here. And finally, he can have you. It strikes you that you're both wallowing in the fantasy, pretending that there's an after that comes once this is all said and done. You still aren't sure if this is the torture, or if what comes next is. The hollow ache. The inevitable hole that will be torn through your chest from his absence. But even with the promise of all that pain, you don't tell him to stop.
He doesn't stop.
You both hold on tighter.
"Always wanted you too," he answers in a hoarse hush against your jugular. "Wanted you when I shouldn't have. It felt like it was killing me, but I couldn't stop. Got so much shit for it. Didn't care. Couldn't fucking care."
You gasp, a particularly harsh thrust making your ribcage squeeze under your skin like a clenched jaw, seizing like maybe if you were lucky, you could take a bite out of him. Keep a piece of him for just yourself.
"You —" Your eyes squeeze shut tight as pleasure, agonizing and vehement as it washes through you, ecstasy poured down with the blunt force of a wave cresting over the surf. "You always looked at me like you couldn't stand me."
Your fingers find his hair again, and with a light tug he allows you to urge his head out from your neck. His eyes meet yours in the dark, glittering in the faint light, fogged over but somehow burning with an intensity that's searing.
He shakes his head, curls messy, sweat clinging to his brow. "Never hated you. You were the only person I wanted to be with."
It slams into you like a sledgehammer. It makes you angry, mournful for the life you never got to have with him, what could have been if you both had just pulled your heads out of your asses, but he doesn't let you be mad for long. He's leaning down again, mouth sweeping over yours, stealing any possible complaints that might have slipped from your lips. Kissing you like it's an apology.
His hips grind down, pelvis gliding down over your clit each time he pulls his cock from you and shoves it back in, turning your brain into mush. It's liquifying already. So you aren't expecting for him to grab you by the waist, using the momentum to sit himself back on his haunches while he hauls you up into his lap, keeping you seated on his cock the entire time. Thighs spread wide underneath your own, giving him the strength and bearing he needs to fuck himself up into you in heavy strokes that turn your thoughts into a red haze.
The position has him reaching deeper, the head of his cock striking right up against that spot that makes you crumble, body writhing on top of his and for a second you struggle find a semblance of composure. Weakly pulling yourself together as best as you can to lift your hips up, chasing after your pleasure, working him through his own, swiveling your body in steady circles.
He groans, panting through his lips each time you bare yourself down on his girth, pussy soaking him, leaving your skin damp where you're both joined. His hand settles at the base of your spine, thumb caressing over the subtle dip of it like you're something delicate and he wants to keep you.
And you would let him. You want him to.
But all you can ever have with him is this.
So it'll have to be enough.
Your head rolls, pitching forward on your neck as though it's become too heavy, made of lead, and it bows towards Andrew, blindly seeking out the support of his shoulders, and you know that you're leaving scratches in your wake. Red smarting across his upper back in streaks. Your forehead meets flushed skin, heated as though a fever is corrupting him from the inside out, hot against your palms when you touch him. The roots of his auburn curls are damp against the grip of your fingers, moisture laden from the sweat that sticks to him in a slick varnish. You can smell it on him too, the savory notes of salt clinging to him, how it blends with the subtle notes of his shampoo and cologne into something masculine and human and distinctly him.
You breathe it in like oxygen. Like it's something sweeter; an element deserving of being snagged down inside of your lungs and kept there until they threaten to burst.
You're hyperaware of him. Every piece of you is zeroed in on his existence. Listening to the noises, so soft for someone so intimidating, that are punched out from his chest each time you drop yourself on the width of his cock, each time he drives into you like he wants to lock himself inside. The feel of his body rippling against yours from the way he moves, powerful, blunt, hitting deep. The scent of him in the air, the sounds he makes, the taste of him on your tongue.
Already that familiar knot is back. Bunching up tight in your belly, dripping down and building inside the cradle of your hips, pooling there like wax melting. Trickling down, over and over onto itself, building a mountain.
Your mouth presses to his skin, teeth skimming along the junction of his shoulder from the temptation to sink them in. To bite and leave evidence. But instead you're gasping, a sharp, strangled noise that's struck out of you from the wild, upward thrusts of his hips. The pace he's set is mind numbing, splitting you at the seams, emptying you so that he can pour himself inside. Fucking into you, a constant rhythm, unwavering. The veins on his cock gliding over places that have your eyes rolling, fingers flexing like iron bands in the messy sweat-soaked thatches of his hair.
"Andrew, you're gonna make me come again," you choke it out like it's a warning.
"Then come," he answers, resolute. Firm even while his voice is rough, made a rasp, turned animal. "Need to feel that pussy squeezing around me. Need it. Need you to come all over me."
And there it is again. That inflection that finally breaks through the grit in his tone. A waver. Downright needy. A whine. Like he could cry if he doesn't get it.
Then one of his hands slips through the press of your bodies, his thumb slips over your cunt, finding your clit and that's all it takes.
You break in half. Collapse from the center. An implosion that blinds your vision with stars, lights you on fire from the crown of your skull downward in a full-body tremor, blazing through your brain matter and the sinew keeping you fused to your bones. It eats you alive for what really must only be a handful of seconds, but it drags through your mind like hours, the buzz of chemicals slowing time to a delicious, slow crawl, and you just stay there. Suspended on the rapture that has no beginning and no end, trapped inside of it while he guides you through it, keeping you floating with the persistent buck of his hips.
"There you go, pretty girl, just like that," he murmurs, tethering you through the brunt of it.You all but collapse on him, waist twitching weakly while he uses you to get himself off. And he's not far off. He groans, thrusts faltering each time your pussy clamps tight around his cock, tipping him closer to his own release. His arms have looped around your middle, wound firm like a snare, keeping you trapped in place through each wet smack of his thighs meeting yours.
He swears under his breath, strained and wounded, breath warm where he's pressed his face into your chest, mouthing at your skin. Tongue licking at the salt on your skin, lips sucking at the swell of your right breast.
"Let go for me, Andrew," you urge, breathless against his hair. You squeeze your cunt around him tighter despite the hypersensitivity, gripping around him until his ribs shiver from a silent gasp. "Come on and fill me up. Want it, please, I want it."
His entire body jerks from it. Seizing when he pushes up into you with all of his weight. Once, twice, and then he's giving in with a throaty groan. A relieved, gutted noise that comes from a bone-deep release. Warmth floods you, shooting between the cradle of your hips and settling there, pleasant in a way that has your spine bowing, body writhing on his lap like it can't decide if it wants to get closer or pull away. But he keeps you pinned to him, arms still hooked around you, stuck on his thighs while he rides out the rest of orgasm. Working your pussy on his cock until the last of his release spills from him in a weak flow, trickling to a stop.
It's only then that he goes still, and you collapse into each other. Breathing heavily, muscles already aching from the exertion, skin glittering with perspiration. Exhausted, but content in a way that only good sex can ever really achieve.
A few seconds scrawl by, spent with you both just sitting together, feeling the rise and fall of each other's chests, and then he's shifting. The suddenness of it is enough to have you making a noise, disgruntled and maybe a little fearful, but you're soothed when he shushes you and settles himself on his back. His hands don't have to tug hard where they're gripped around you, because you're already following, horribly eager, missing the contact. Tipping yourself forward until you're pressed flat against him, head tucked against his chest.
You can hear his heart like this, thudding inside the barrier of his ribcage, strong like the rest of him. You let yourself go boneless, still spread on his cock which has begun to go limp, his cum warm and trickling out to smudge over your inner thighs. It's messy, and now that the high is starting to dissipate it just feels gross, but you can't find the will to move. To lift yourself up, to untangle your limbs from his and leave for the bathroom. Because as soon as you do that, reality sinks in. Things go back to normal and you have to pretend that this never happened.
So you don't move. You keep your ear above his heartbeat, but the comfort of it, the reminder that he's still pressed against you doesn't shake the dread that's begun to slip in through the haze.
"That was really good."
It's the truth but it feels juvenile. Pathetic. Horrid. Like you're already grasping at straws to keep things from turning sour, to keep from drowning.
He only hums in response. It's not dismissive or uninterested. It's syrupy, the thick sound of someone who can't find the strength to speak, still pleasure drunk.
It forces you to look up, and you feel as though you have to pry your own head up to look at him, the dwindling bliss running in your veins has the simplest things made strenuous. But it's so worth it. To see him like this. Eyes shut, lashes kissing his cheekbones. The furrow between his brows, the one you thought was permanent, now smoothed out. Completely gone. The frown he usually wears lifted into something lighter, an almost smile. Soft. At ease. Tranquil. Like he's finally felt peace.
"You should go pee," he says, a noticeable worry tracing his words. It's only then that he attempts to look at you, eyes squinting open to peer at you through the dark. "You'll get a UTI."
A smile creeps on your face, a small laugh trickling out past your lips and you can't help but to place a small peck to the divot of his sternum before you prop your chin right there on his chest. It makes the angle to look at each other awkward but you both manage. You can still see how his forehead wrinkles when he regards you with what seems to be genuine concern, and maybe bewilderment.
"What? It's true."
"Yeah, I know basic sex ed, Andrew." You answer, but it's completely without venom. There's no place for that, not between you two, definitely not now. "Don't want to move yet. Want to stay just like this for however long we can."
So much passes through his expression. Too many emotions to gauge, a chaotic display, but you identify a few of them amongst the surge. Hurt, regret, exhilaration, and something else so much worse. Something you could only ever hope to see. Bright, sanguine, devoted. The very thing that you've carried for him all these years and never believed that you'd ever see reflected back at you. But here it is. Clear as day, held so visibly in his eyes and it's all for you, and it feels as though it's killing you.
He smiles now. Actually smiles, lips curving gently, head tilting in a scant suggestion of a nod.
"Then that's what we'll do."
He cranes his neck forward enough to press his mouth to your head, right there at the top of your forehead. A kiss that's sweet. The kind that you give a person you adore. Who you'd die for. Who you'd kill for. It lets you believe that you belong to him. That he'll leave with you instead of returning to his family. That in the morning, you'll both get in your car and you'll drive until you reach the sign that declares the city limits and you'll keep on going until California is a memory.
Your muscles relax, finding permission in his assent, and it's only then that your eyes are able to slip shut. Just for a moment. You can savor the last of this. His warmth, his scent; you can bask in him one final time.
You could feel it wedged there on the tip of your tongue, unspoken. The same as it had been all those years ago. Seated like it has never truly left at all:
Hear me out: Pope Cody meeting the love of his life robbing a bank she works at. He becomes obsessed with her, wiping her tears out of her eyes when she starts crying, talking her through the combination of the safe, later stalking her…
steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort
warnings: confusion, prob eventual miscommunication! drunk sex... biting (for u maya) riding, unprotected sex............. angst mean!steve (like... u guys might not forgive him.......) mentions of heavy drinking... hot shot is feeling a lot... crying... sammy
words: 14k
summary: When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it.
a/n: i don't have a lot to say. please don't hate me. trust me
masterlist | Rules/Playlist
Chapter 15
It's Friday, and you're sitting in American Literature with Robin, watching the minutes tick by with excruciating slowness. The class is lighter in numbers than usual—half the seats empty because students have already fled campus to start their spring break early. Even Professor Morrison seems aware that no one wants to be here, his usual passionate lectures about Hemingway reduced to a monotone drone that makes your eyelids heavy.
You're in the back row, your usual spot, notebooks open but mostly ignored. The afternoon sun streams through the tall windows, casting long rectangles of golden light across the floor that are slowly creeping toward the front of the room as the earth turns. Dust motes float lazily in the beams, and somewhere outside you can hear the distant sound of a lawnmower, the smell of fresh-cut grass drifting in through the cracked window.
Robin is antsy beside you. You can feel her restless energy radiating off her in waves—the way her leg bounces under the desk making the whole row of connected seats vibrate slightly, the way she keeps shifting her weight, the constant clicking of her pen cap on and off until you want to reach over and take it away from her.
You glance over and see her writing something in her notebook, but it's clearly not notes about "The Sun Also Rises." Her handwriting is messier than usual, more frantic, crossing out and rewriting the same lines over and over.
You lean slightly to peek at what she's written.
Nancy... I've been trying to find the perfect time to tell you...
Robin grunts in frustration, scribbling it out so hard the pencil nearly tears through the paper. She scratches at it with aggressive strokes, then throws her pencil down with more force than necessary. It rolls off the desk and clatters to the floor.
She puts her head down on the table with a soft thunk, sighing so heavily you feel the gust of air. Then she turns her head, cheek pressed flat against the fake wood grain surface, looking at you with those big, expressive eyes.
"How do you do it?" Robin asks, voice low enough not to disturb the handful of students actually paying attention up front.
"Do what?" you whisper back, genuinely confused.
Robin sighs again, breath stirring the loose papers on her desk. "How do you not feel things intensely?"
You're startled, brows furrowing together, a little offended by the question. You snort. "What?"
Robin shrugs, as much as she can while still laying on the desk like a deflated balloon. "I don't know... even when you're mad or upset, you don't—" She pauses, searching for words. "I don't know how you're always kind of cool about it. Like, sure, you can say things that let me know you're pissed, but I don't think I've ever seen you yell. Or cry in front of people. Or have a total meltdown." She groans, lifting one hand to place it on top of your head like she's actively trying to merge your souls together through physical contact. "Can we share a brain? Or like, swap bodies? Just for one day?"
You laugh—awkward and slightly too loud. Professor Morrison glances back at you with a disapproving look, and you duck your head apologetically. You move Robin's hand away from your head, rolling your eyes but smiling despite yourself.
You lean in closer, voice dropping even lower. "Rob, saying 'I love you' doesn't have to be a huge deal."
Robin's face immediately transforms like you've said a curse word in church. Her eyes go wide, scandalized. "But it's my first time ever!" she hisses. "I want it to be special. I already have it all planned out." Her voice goes dreamy, wistful, and she props her chin in her hand, staring off into the middle distance with a soft smile. "A late-night walk on the beach. The waves crashing. Maybe the moon reflecting on the water. And I'll turn to her and say it, and she'll say it back, and it'll be perfect."
You pretend to pay attention to Professor Morrison, who's now drawing something on the chalkboard that might be a timeline or might be abstract art—you honestly can't tell. You chew on your bottom lip, not looking at Robin when you ask quietly, "What does it feel like?"
"What?" Robin asks, startled like she's been pulled from her daydream mid-kiss.
"Being in love," you clarify, voice even softer now, almost shy. "What does it feel like?"
Robin turns her whole body in her seat to look at you, eyebrows raised. "You've never been in love before?"
You shrug, shaking your head, suddenly very interested in the corner of your notebook where the pages are starting to come loose from the spiral binding.
Robin's expression softens, going tender in a way that makes your chest tight. "It feels like..." She pauses, thinking, then smiles. "Like coming home after a really long day and everything is exactly where you left it. Like being understood without having to explain yourself. Like laughing so hard your stomach hurts and knowing the other person thinks you're funny even when no one else gets the joke." Her smile grows wider, more radiant. "It's terrifying and safe at the same time. Like standing at the edge of a cliff and knowing someone will catch you if you fall, so you're not afraid to jump."
You try very hard not to think about the way Steve flashes across your mind as Robin explains this. Try not to picture his smile when he sees you, the way his whole face lights up. Try not to remember how it felt waking up in his arms in the tent, or the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention, or the warmth that spreads through your chest when he says your name.
You fail spectacularly.
"You okay?" Robin asks, nudging your shoulder. "You look weird."
"I'm fine," you lie, forcing a smile. "Just thinking about all the packing I still have to do."
Robin accepts this with a nod, going back to staring at her ruined confession in her notebook, and you spend the rest of class trying very hard not to think about Steve Harrington and failing at that too.
After class finally, mercifully ends, you and Robin step out of the building into the warm afternoon sun. The campus is already half-deserted, groups of students loading cars with suitcases and coolers, excited chatter about beach destinations and ski trips filling the air.
Steve is waiting off to the side of the building, leaning against the brick wall with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He's wearing his glasses and you can tell the exact moment he spots you because his posture changes—shoulders straightening slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting.
He catches your eyes first, and you both break into huge smiles simultaneously. Your heart does that stupid fluttering thing it's been doing lately, and you almost forget yourself—almost forget that you're not the one "dating" him, almost start running up to give him a hug the way your body is screaming at you to do.
But you catch yourself, stopping short when Robin brushes past you and goes straight to him. She plucks the cigarette out of his mouth and grinds it out under her sneaker with more force than necessary.
"What the hell?" Steve complains, looking down at the crushed cigarette with genuine mourning. "I just lit that."
"I'm not going to be stuck in a car with you smelling like cigarettes," Robin says firmly, brushing ash off her fingers.
"You've never complained before," Steve grumbles, pouting at the cigarette on the ground like it personally betrayed him. Then he looks up, and his eyes find yours over Robin's shoulder. His pout transforms into a smile—soft and private and meant only for you. "Hey, Hot Shot."
You feel your face heat up immediately, a bashful smile taking over your features before you can stop it. "Hey, you."
God, you want to mentally kick yourself. You've had this man inside you multiple times in multiple positions, and now—just because you've realized you have a crush like some ridiculous teenager—you're acting like this? How pathetic.
But also, how is he so attractive? Standing there in his navy blue polo that brings out the blue in his hazel eyes, that mustache you spent twenty minutes kissing yesterday, his honey-brown hair catching the sunlight and turning golden at the ends. His glasses gleam in the afternoon sun, and you can see the smile lines at the corners of his eyes.
He chuckles—low and warm and knowing—like he can read exactly what you're thinking. Then he turns to Robin, slinging an arm across her shoulders in that easy, familiar way they have. "Ready to go pick up your sweetheart?"
Robin beams, her whole face lighting up like she's been plugged into an electrical socket. She turns to you, bouncing slightly on her toes. "Hot Shot, you sure you don't want to come?"
Your eyes go wide, panic fluttering in your chest. Steve and Robin are driving to the bus station to pick up Nancy so she'll be in town for the weekend, and then you're all leaving together for the airport Sunday morning for Miami.
But the idea of being trapped in a car with Steve for that long sounds like actual torture. And that's not even considering the dread of the spring break trip itself. A whole week of this. Of pretending you’re not feeling what you’re feeling.
You shake your head quickly, maybe too quickly. "Uh, no. I'm gonna finish some last-minute things before break. Laundry and packing and stuff."
You glance at Steve, who's still grinning at you, hazel eyes twinkling. There's something in his expression—amusement, maybe, or affection, or something else you're too afraid to name.
"Guess I'll see you at the party tonight?" he says, and you hate how much your stomach flips at the casual way he says it, like you're just friends, like you haven't memorized the taste of his skin. "It won't be that big, but some of the guys wanted to have one last blowout before everyone ditches town for the week."
You nod, not trusting your voice to come out normal.
Robin leans over and kisses your cheek, her lips warm and slightly sticky from lip gloss. "See you in two hours, babe! We'll come grab you before the party!"
And then you watch Steve and Robin walk off, hand in hand, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of her hand the way he does with you when he thinks no one's looking. They're laughing about something, heads bent close together, and they look perfect. They look real.
You know it's fake. You know it's not real, that it's all an elaborate performance for parents and society and the future they're building together.
But standing there watching them go, a part of you wishes it was you holding Steve's hand in the sunshine, you making him laugh, you walking to his car with the promise of two hours alone together.
You turn and walk back to your dorm, and you absolutely do not let yourself think about how Steve's hand felt in yours, or how he smiles differently when it's just the two of you, or how many days you have left before this crush becomes something you can't ignore anymore.
Two hours later, Robin and Nancy show up at your dorm, but something is off immediately.
Robin's mood is completely different than it was earlier—all the nervous, giddy energy from class has been replaced with something darker, more agitated. She's snapping at nothing, moving with jerky, frustrated movements as she rifles through her closet looking for something to wear to the party.
Nancy, on the other hand, is still chipper, seemingly unbothered. She's sitting on Robin's bed, legs crossed, flipping through a magazine and humming softly to herself.
"How was the drive?" you ask casually, pulling your own outfit from your closet—a simple top and jeans, nothing special.
Robin huffs loudly, yanking a shirt off a hanger so hard the hanger goes flying. "Fine."
Nancy looks up from her magazine, gives you a look that clearly says don't ask, and goes back to reading.
The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife, but apparently it's not between Robin and Nancy because Nancy seems completely at ease. So what happened?
You open your mouth to ask, but Robin disappears into the bathroom with her clothes, slamming the door harder than necessary. You hear the shower turn on, the water pressure making the pipes groan.
Nancy catches your eye and shakes her head slightly. Later, she mouths.
So you get ready in silence, the only sound the running water and the occasional curse from Robin when she drops something in the shower, and you wonder what could have possibly happened in two hours to change her mood so completely.
.-.-.-.
Robin, Nancy, and you walk up to the Pike house as the sun is setting, the sky streaked with orange and pink. You can hear the muffled roar of voices and laughter spilling out onto the front lawn. The smell of cheap beer and cigarette smoke hangs in the air, mixing with the scent of recently mowed grass.
You're shocked to see a miserable Eddie stationed at the front door, playing bouncer. He's slouched against the doorframe, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else, barely glancing at people as he waves them through. His usual manic energy is completely absent, replaced with a kind of defeated exhaustion that sits wrong on his features.
When he sees the three of you approaching, his frown deepens, carving lines around his mouth.
"I thought you wouldn't have to do this anymore since Steve became president," Robin laughs. She has her arms looped through yours and Nancy's—her excuse to touch Nancy in public without raising suspicion, though anyone paying attention would notice how her thumb keeps stroking Nancy's wrist.
"Yeah, well, your boyfriend is PMSing or something," Eddie grumbles, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear and sticking it between his lips without lighting it. "He's been a total dick since he got back from dropping you two off. Snapping at everyone, drinking like it's his last night on earth."
Robin rolls her eyes, but there's tension in her shoulders that wasn't there before. "He's still pissy? Don't worry, Eds. He's mad because I told him something he didn't want to hear on the way to pick up Nancy."
"That's why he was acting like that?" Nancy asks, a small laugh escaping despite the concern evident in her voice. "What did you tell him?"
Robin opens her mouth, then gives you a sideways look—quick, furtive, guilty. "Nothing important. The truth about something. He didn't like it, so now he's acting like a baby." She tugs at both of your arms, pulling you toward the door and effectively ending the conversation. "Eds, where is he?"
Eddie shrugs, finally lighting his cigarette and taking a long drag. "Probably out back doing another keg stand. Been at it for the past hour."
"Oh my god," Robin says, exasperation coloring her voice with frustration and something that might be worry.
Robin cuts through the side gate to the backyard, pulling you and Nancy along with her. The moment you step through, you're hit with the full force of the party—the air thick and humid with body heat, drenched in the smell of spilled beer and weed and cigarette smoke layered so thick it's almost visible. The music thrums against the windows, bass so heavy you can feel it in your chest, vibrating through your ribcage. You wouldn't be surprised if the neighbors called in a noise complaint within the hour.
There's chanting and hollering coming from the middle of the yard, voices raised in drunken unison.
"Steve! Steve! Steve! Steve!"
You can only see a pair of feet in the air at first—New Balances with the laces untied, dangling loose. Robin pulls you and Nancy toward the crowd, bodies pressing close as you push through the ring of onlookers.
Closer now, you see Buck holding Steve up by his legs, Steve's face red from being inverted, his navy blue polo riding up from gravity to expose his stomach. His happy trail. The scars on his torso glistening with a mixture of sweat and amber liquid, like someone had sprayed him with beer. His arms hang down toward the ground, hands gripping the keg, throat working as he chugs.
Finally, he jerks his legs forward, signaling Buck to bring him down. Buck helps him right himself, and the crowd erupts in cheers. Steve is smiling—grinning, really—licking beer off his lips, more of it rolling down his chin and soaking into his collar. You can't deny how attractive he looks, flushed and pleased with himself, hair falling into his eyes.
But then you notice it.
His hair is shorter. Much shorter than you've ever seen it, cropped close on the sides and longer on top, parted down the middle instead of swept back. The blonde highlights are completely gone, cut away, leaving only his natural dark brown. And his face—he's clean-shaven again, the mustache you'd spent the better part of this week kissing completely gone.
He still looks attractive, objectively handsome in that way Steve Harrington has always been handsome. But you're grieving the old look, the version of him you'd woken up next to Wednesday morning, the one who'd made you Eggo waffles and kissed you goodbye in his car.
Robin lets go of you and Nancy, crossing her arms over her chest. A scowl settles on her face, jaw tight.
You're still staring at him—ogling him, really, unable to help yourself—when a girl materializes at his side. She's blonde, wearing a tight top and high-waisted jeans, and she places her hand on his chest like she has every right to touch him. Her smile is wide, practiced.
"Steve, that was so awesome," she coos, voice pitched high and breathy.
You can hear him through his smirk, words slightly slurred. "Hey, Amanda. How are you?"
The name clicks into place. Amanda. One of Steve's old hookups—you remember Robin mentioning her once, remembered seeing her at a party months ago hanging off Steve's arm.
You're waiting for him to remove her hand, to step back, to do literally anything to create distance. He doesn't push her off. Amanda sees Robin's glare and lets go of his chest, but she doesn't step back, doesn't leave. If anything, she moves closer.
"I'm good," she says, batting her eyelashes in a way that would be comical if it wasn't making your stomach twist. "How are you?"
He looks her up and down—slow, assessing—and even though Steve told you he ended things with all of them, Amanda clearly didn't get the memo. She's biting her lip, looking him up and down in return, playing the game they used to play.
You don't have time to fully process the sharp pang of jealousy that shoots through your chest, or to question why it hurts so much to watch, because Steve's eyes flicker over to Robin. His face falters, the smile slipping for a fraction of a second.
Then, for the briefest moment, his gaze shifts to you.
Your breath catches. His eyes meet yours, and there's something in them you can't read—something dark and hurt and angry all at once. Then he looks away.
"Yeah... good. I'll see you later, yeah?" He pats Amanda's shoulder dismissively and starts walking toward you, Robin, and Nancy, a grin spreading across his face that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
He immediately embraces Robin in a hug, and you're close enough now to smell him—that deep musky scent that is distinctly Steve, but mixed with beer and weed and something sharper, more acrid. Desperation, maybe. Robin grimaces when he plants a sloppy, wet kiss on her cheek, his hands gripping her waist, only looking at her like you and Nancy aren't even standing there.
He puts his forehead against hers, swaying slightly.
"Steve—" Robin scolds, trying to pull back.
"What?" He draws the word out, lazy and defiant. "I'm playing the part, right?" His voice drops lower, meant to be private but still audible. "Isn't that what you want?"
Robin and Nancy exchange a look—awkward, uncomfortable, like they're witnessing something they shouldn't. Your stomach twists tighter.
Robin's jaw tightens, muscles flexing under her skin. "That's not what I'm talking about," she hisses in a whisper. "How much have you had to drink already?"
Steve blows a raspberry, the sound wet and childish. "What? You're the only one who can have fun?"
Nancy steps in, voice gentle but firm. "Steve, that's not why she's concerned."
He rolls his eyes, head lolling back dramatically. "Relax. I'm having fun, yeah? Not going to do anything stupid." He leans his head back forward, hands running up Robin's arms, squeezing. "Come on, let's go dance, Rob. You always want me to dance with you. I feel like dancing..." His words run together, vowels blending, consonants softening, and you don't know how he manages to sound drunk and coherent at the same time.
You realize with a sinking feeling, Steve has not once looked at you. Not directly. Not acknowledged your presence at all.
Robin sighs, defeated. "Okay, but you're drinking water first."
Steve kisses her cheek again—wet and loud—already pulling her away toward the coolers by the back porch. Robin looks over her shoulder at you and Nancy, and the expression on her face is pure apology, eyes saying I'm sorry and help me all at once.
"What was that all about?" you ask Nancy, unable to tear your eyes away from Steve and Robin. He's forcing down a bottle of water now, Robin's hand on his shoulder, both of them bobbing slightly to the music pumping through the outdoor speakers.
Nancy sighs, watching them too, but her expression is distant, eyes glassy with unshed emotion. "Apparently they've been fighting all day. She won't tell me what about. But she mentioned something about people noticing they've been distant lately, asking questions about whether they're okay."
You look over at them. Robin's back is pressed to Steve's front now, his arms wrapped around her waist, both of them swaying awkwardly to a song that doesn't match their rhythm. They're both staring off in different directions—Robin toward Nancy with naked longing, Steve toward nothing in particular with empty eyes. Neither of them looks like they want to be touching the other.
Your heart flips violently when Steve's eyes catch yours across the yard. His jaw flexes, muscles jumping under skin. Then he looks away again, pulling Robin closer in a way that looks more like desperation than affection.
"I thought things were better," you say out loud, voice small.
It was true. You thought everything had improved since you helped fix the spring break situation with Robin's parents. You thought it was better now that Steve was making choices for himself, declaring his major, standing up to his father in his own way.
Nancy swallows hard, throat working. "I think they forget they're not really together sometimes."
The words hit you like cold water.
You think about your own feelings—the ones you only admitted to yourself last night, staring at the ceiling of your dorm room while Robin snored softly in the bed next to yours. You don't know how long you've actually felt this way. Maybe weeks. Maybe months. Maybe since the first time Steve kissed you and you realized kissing him was different from kissing anyone else.
Last night you couldn't stop smiling, caught in the memory of the planetarium, of Steve's hands on your face, of the way he said your name like it meant something. And then you'd looked over at Robin sleeping peacefully, and the guilt had settled over you like a heavy blanket.
Nancy's observation sits uncomfortably in your chest because she's right. Even you forget they're not really together. It feels like betrayal—like cheating—to entertain the idea that maybe, possibly, you could change Steve and Robin's minds about their arrangement, about their promises to each other.
But you're not different. You're not special. Nothing will change.
"Can I tell you something, Nancy?" you ask softly, still watching the couple that's not really a couple swaying in the middle of the lawn.
Nancy looks at you, and when you turn to meet her gaze, her expression isn't pity. It's sympathy—soft eyes, gentle understanding, the look of someone who already knows what you're about to say.
"I know," Nancy offers quietly, saving you from having to speak it into existence. Because if you say it out loud, it becomes real. Undeniable.
You swallow hard against the lump forming in your throat. You've never been quick to emotion—or maybe you've never allowed yourself to be. The same way you've never allowed yourself to feel this way about anyone, to get close enough for it to hurt.
Your chest feels like it's caving in, ribs pressing toward your lungs, making it hard to breathe.
You think about the rule Steve made—that if either of you caught feelings, you'd end it. But then he'd said the rules didn't apply to you, that there were never really rules when it came to you. So does that mean all of them? Or none of them? Or only the ones that were convenient?
You chew on your bottom lip, tasting cherry chapstick and uncertainty. "I need to end it, don't I?"
For a second, you think Nancy might tell you no. Might tell you to go for it, to fight for what you want, to be selfish for once in your life.
But Nancy closes her mouth. Looks back at Robin and Steve—his arm slung over her shoulder now, talking to a group of Pike brothers like they belong exactly like this, like they'll always belong like this.
"Before you fall in love with him," Nancy says slowly, carefully, each word deliberate. "Before it's too late to turn back, then yeah. You should."
Her honest truth hits you like a million tiny blades, each one finding a different soft spot to sink into.
And then Nancy's eyes light up, something hopeful sparking there. "Do you..." She pauses, choosing her words. "Do you love him?"
The same clouded, confusing thoughts that ran through your head when Max asked you this question on Tuesday come rushing back. You look at Steve across the yard—at the way the string lights catch in his newly short hair, at the strong line of his shoulders, at his hands that know every inch of your body.
You think about the pieces of yourself that belong to him now. The ones you gave freely, the ones he took without asking, the ones you didn't even know you had until he found them. Pieces you've refused to give anyone else because they were his before you knew what you were giving away.
It started because of trust, because he was your friend, because it was safe and uncomplicated. Something he wasn't six months ago when he was someone you actively avoided at parties.
Your heart races looking at him. Your stomach flutters. Heat pools low in your belly even from across the yard, even angry at him, even knowing this can't go anywhere.
You open your mouth to answer—not really sure what will come out, not ready to hear yourself say it—when a voice calls out.
"Hey, Hot Shot! You want a turn?"
You look over to see Buck grinning at you, pointing at another keg that's been set up near the fence. The crowd around it is already chanting, waiting for the next victim.
Suddenly, the idea of standing upside down chugging cheap beer out of a questionable spout seems infinitely better than answering Nancy's question.
You see Steve look over the moment Buck touches you—Buck's hand on your lower back, helping you up onto the keg platform. Steve's face transforms, features twisting into something dark and possessive. His nostrils flare. His jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump from across the yard.
And it pisses you off. He let Amanda touch him. Let her flirt with him, look at him like that, put her hands on his chest. You're not dating—you've never been dating—but how could he say the things he said to you and then ignore you tonight? How could he touch you the way he touched you and then pretend you don't exist?
You don't only get drunk on the keg stand—though you do, Buck's hands firm on your stomach as you chug, the crowd counting, your vision swimming when he rights you and everyone cheers. You don't only get drunk on the cheap tequila shots that burn going down, or the beer pong game you lose against one of the Tri Delt sisters who's wearing a "Spring Break or Bust" tank top.
You get drunk on something worse, something more dangerous.
You get drunk on the pathetic, inevitable realization that you're going to have to talk to Steve tonight. That you're going to have to tell him this isn't working anymore. That you can't do this—can't keep pretending you don't feel what you feel, can't keep being his secret while he plays boyfriend to your best friend.
But finally—finally—he's looking at you.
You're dancing with Robin and Nancy now, the three of you pressed close, giving Robin and Nancy the excuse to touch each other, to be close in a way they can't be normally. Nancy's hands are on Robin's hips, Robin's head thrown back in laughter, and you're moving with them, lost in the music and the alcohol and the heat of too many bodies in too small a space.
And Steve is watching you from across the room.
His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, tracking your every movement. You can feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, sliding over your exposed collarbone where your shirt has slipped off your shoulder, down to where your jeans sit low on your hips, back up to your face. The air between you feels electric, charged with something dangerous and inevitable.
You dance harder, throwing yourself into it, letting your hips sway in a way you know drives him crazy. You run your hands through your hair, tilt your head back, expose your throat. You're playing a game you know you shouldn't be playing, weaponizing your body against him the same way he's weaponizing his indifference.
His tongue runs over his bottom lip. His fingers tighten around the red Solo cup in his hand, plastic crinkling under the pressure. He shifts his weight, adjusting himself in his jeans in a way that would be subtle if you weren't watching for it.
The song changes—something slower, bassier, all rhythm and want—and you turn, putting your back to him, rolling your body in a way that's absolutely, unquestionably meant for him to see. Nancy and Robin are lost in each other now, foreheads pressed together, swaying more than dancing, and you're alone in the crowd but you don't feel alone because Steve's eyes are burning holes in your back.
You glance over your shoulder, find him still staring, and the look on his face is pure hunger mixed with something that might be anger or might be desperation or might be both.
Steve crosses the room.
He moves through the crowd like he has a purpose, shouldering past people without apology, eyes locked on you the whole time. When he reaches your group, he slides in next to Robin, his hand grazing across the small of your back as he passes. His fingertips find the sliver of exposed skin where your shirt has ridden up, and the touch is electric, sending shivers racing up your spine.
"I'm going upstairs to lay down for a bit," he tells Robin, voice rough and low. But his hand is still on your back, fingers pressing slightly, a message meant only for you.
He walks over to the makeshift bar someone has set up on the porch table, pours a shot of something clear—vodka or tequila, you can't tell—and shoots it back without a chaser. His eyes find yours as he swallows, throat working, and he jerks his head toward the foyer where the stairs are.
"Gotta... pee," you announce to Nancy and Robin, trying to sound casual even though your heart is hammering against your ribs.
Nancy and Robin nod, barely hearing you, completely entranced in each other now that the alcohol has lowered their inhibitions. Nancy's hand is tangled in Robin's hair, Robin's lips close to Nancy's ear, and you leave them to it.
Steve has already started making his way inside. You trail behind him, keeping enough distance that it won't be obvious you're following him, but close enough that you won't lose sight of him in the crowd.
Your core is already warm, heat pooling low in your belly at the thought of what's about to happen. Your heart hammers against your ribs—anticipation and dread in equal measure.
Steve says something to the two pledges guarding the stairs—PJ and someone whose name you don't remember—and they look back at you still a few paces behind. Steve must have said something convincing because they part immediately, letting him through, then stepping aside for you when you reach them.
You climb the stairs, legs unsteady from alcohol and want and the weight of what you know you need to do. Steve is ahead of you, taking the steps two at a time, and occasionally he glances back over his shoulder—checking that you're still following, eyes dark with intent.
Neither of you says anything. Not when you reach the second floor, not when he leads you down the familiar hallway to his room, not when he opens the door and holds it for you to enter first.
The moment the door closes behind you, shutting out the noise of the party below, you're on each other.
Your lips crash together with the force of tension finally breaking. It's not gentle—it's desperate and messy and tastes like beer and tequila and want. His hands are immediately in your hair, gripping, angling your head to deepen the kiss. Your fingers scrabble at his shoulders, his chest, trying to pull him closer even though there's no space left between your bodies.
He walks you backward until your back hits the door, the solid wood cool against your shoulder blades. His body presses against yours, and you can feel how hard he is already, pressing insistent against your hip.
He breaks the kiss to mouth at your jaw, your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks you'll have to hide tomorrow. His hands slide down your sides to grip your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
But then he stops. Pulls back slightly, breathing hard, and his hands move to the hem of your shirt. He pauses, fingers just under the fabric, eyes searching yours.
"Do you want this, Hot Shot?" His voice is rough, wrecked, but the question is genuine. Even drunk, even desperate, he's checking. Making sure.
And even though you're both drunk, even though this is probably a terrible idea, even though you know you should end this before it goes any further—you want him. You want this. You want him so badly it physically hurts.
"Yes," you breathe. "Of course I want you, Steve."
Something flashes in his eyes—relief or pain or something else you can't name—and then he's pulling your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him. His mouth finds your neck again, sucking, biting, marking you as his in a way he has no right to do but you're letting him anyway.
Your feet don't work properly as he tries to pull your jeans down, fingers fumbling with the button. You're both too drunk, too eager, coordination shot. You stumble, and he catches you, but the momentum sends you both tumbling to the floor.
You land on the carpet with an "oof," Steve's weight half on top of you, and you should probably be more concerned about the fact that you're on his floor, but instead you're pulling him back down into a kiss, refusing to let the moment break.
"Where's your glasses?" you ask between kisses, breath hot against his lips. You're used to them now, used to the way they press against your face when you kiss, the way he pushes them up his nose when he's concentrating.
"They broke earlier," he says, and the casual way he says it—like it doesn't matter, like they were disposable—makes something pinch in your chest. "Fell off during a keg stand. Someone stepped on them."
The way he says it, the tone of his voice, the emptiness in his eyes when you pull back to look at him—it all feels wrong. Different.
He's touching you differently too. His hands are on you—sliding under your bra, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples—but there's a hesitation to it. A heaviness. Like he's memorizing rather than discovering. Like this is the last time.
The thought sends a spike of panic through your chest, sharp enough to cut through the alcohol haze.
"Steve—" you start, but he kisses you again, swallowing whatever you were going to say.
You ask if you can take off his pants, and he nods, helping you, both of you too eager to do it properly. You only manage to drag them down to his thighs—those thick, hairy thighs you've become intimately familiar with—his cock springing free, already hard and leaking.
Your bra is still on, your breasts spilling over the top, nipples hard and visible through the thin lace. Your jeans and panties are somewhere across the room, abandoned in your haste.
You straddle him right there on the floor, the carpet rough under your knees, and his eyes are drunk—from weed, from alcohol, from lust, from all of it. He bites his lip watching you spit into your hand, pump him a few times, watching the way his cock twitches in your grip.
Then you're sinking down onto him, taking him in slowly, and your head lulls back at the stretch, at the familiar burn and fullness. You sit there for a moment, completely still, just feeling him inside you. His warmth, his thickness, the way he twitches like sitting still is torture for him too.
His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, but he doesn't make you move. Doesn't thrust up into you. Like this moment—being buried inside you, connected in the most intimate way possible—is enough. Like he's trying to make it last.
It's nearly sobering, the intensity of it grounding you through the alcohol. The stretch of him, the way he fills you so completely, the way his eyes are locked on yours like he's trying to memorize your face.
Finally—finally—you lift up almost all the way off him, and then slam back down. The sound you both make is obscene—half moan, half sob, pure desperate pleasure. You bounce on him, setting a punishing rhythm, leaning forward to brace your hands on his chest. You push his shirt up with your fingers, revealing his soft stomach first, then his chest, pushing the fabric all the way to his collarbone but not removing it entirely. Holding it there while you continue to ride him, his skin hot and damp with sweat under your palms.
The pace gets more erratic, sloppier, your thighs burning from the exertion but you can't stop, won't stop. He's hitting spots inside you that make you gasp for air, that make stars burst behind your closed eyelids, that make you forget why this is a bad idea.
The usual banter is lost—no teasing words, no challenges, no playful arguments. Just moans and whimpers and the obscene sound of skin on skin, of wetness, of your bodies coming together again and again.
You lean down, changing the angle, and the new position sends pleasure pulsing through you both. Steve's hips buck up involuntarily, back arching off the floor.
"Fuck!" he whines, voice high and wrecked.
You lean further, putting your mouth right over his pec, and bite. Hard. Your teeth sink into his skin, and Steve lets you, lets you mark him, a moan torn from his lips.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he whispers under his breath, the words running together. He says your name—your actual name, not Hot Shot, not baby, not anything else. Your name like a prayer, like a confession, like goodbye.
You kiss the spot like you can fix it, like you can erase the damage, but you can already see the teeth marks in his skin, the tiny bit of broken skin surrounded by red that will absolutely bruise by morning. Evidence. Proof. A mark that says I was here.
"Baby," he whimpers, eyes squeezed shut as you put your hands back on his chest to steady yourself, to get more leverage.
Steve's grip tightens on your hips, fingers grabbing at the soft flesh there before one hand moves between your bodies to find your clit. He slaps it once—sharp and surprising—and you mewl, the sound embarrassingly needy.
He rubs it with his thumb, sloppy and uncoordinated but still good, still enough. The pressure builds in your core, winding tighter and tighter like a spring about to break.
You feel your walls start to clench around his cock, fluttering, and Steve groans at the sensation.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he pants. "So fucking good, baby. Come for me, please,” he begs.
Until finally you can't hold back anymore, crying out his name, "Steve!" Your orgasm crashes through you. Your whole body goes taut, back arching, stars bursting white behind your closed eyelids.
Steve grips your hips hard, keeping the brutal pace, thrusting up into you through your orgasm, chasing his own. He groans, head lulling back, and you can see the tendons in his neck, the veins protruding, his mouth falling open as he gasps through his own release. You feel him pulse inside you, filling you with warmth.
His hand comes up to the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair at the base, gripping and pulling you down into a heated kiss. Desperate and messy and tasting like salt and want and ending.
Then, even though you're both still buzzing with alcohol and endorphins, the kiss settles into a steadier rhythm. Slower. Softer. Small pecks that feel more intimate than anything that came before.
You're still hovering over him, both of you breathing hard, when you look into his hazel eyes. He brushes a strand of hair back behind your ear, his touch gentle, reverent.
And you can see it. The emptiness in his eyes. The finality.
You have to tell him. Have to let him know what you're feeling. Or maybe—maybe you need to make sure this is the last time before you say something you can't take back.
"I'm going to go clean up," you say, voice shakier than you'd like.
You hurry to his bathroom, gathering your clothes as you go, not looking at him because if you look at him you might start crying and you refuse to cry over Steve Harrington.
You clean up mechanically, movements robotic. You sit on the closed toilet seat after, face in your hands, breathing hard—either from the exertion of sex or the dread pooling in your stomach or both.
When you finally gather the courage to leave the bathroom, your stomach drops at the sight that greets you.
Steve is fully dressed again. Sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers threaded through his short hair. Clearly thinking. Clearly working up to something.
When he looks up at you, you know from his eyes—from the set of his jaw, from the way his shoulders are tensed—that he has something to say.
Your throat tightens. You lean back against the wall, not looking at him directly, focusing on a spot just over his shoulder because if you look at him you'll break.
Steve rubs the back of his neck, the gesture so familiar it hurts. "I think this is the last time we'll be seeing each other," he says quietly. Almost too quiet, like if he said it any louder he would mean it more, and he's not sure he can handle meaning it more.
And even though you were thinking the same thing downstairs with Nancy, hearing him say it out loud makes you realize you didn't actually want this to happen. That some part of you hoped you could have both—could keep sleeping with him and keep your feelings and somehow make it work.
Your defenses slam into place immediately—anger, deflection, anything to find blame in him rather than face the complicated mess you've brought upon yourself.
"But I didn't break any rules," you say, crossing your arms over your chest.
A curl falls on his forehead when he looks up, and he straightens, jaw tense. He's looking you up and down, evaluating you, scanning your face like he's trying to figure something out, solve an equation that keeps changing.
"Yeah, we did," he says slowly. "And we—I think we took it too far."
"You're kidding me." You can hear the venom in your own voice, the way it drips with hurt disguised as anger. "You told me—" You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "I followed your rules. You were the one who told me it was okay. That I was the exception."
"Yeah, well..." He trails off, searching for the right words. He groans, putting his face in his palms before standing up to face you properly. "Maybe I said that so I could see what it was like to be normal for once."
The words hit you like a slap.
You nod slowly, mechanically. "So you wanted one last fuck? Is that it? String me along until you got what exactly?"
Steve shrugs, his expression stony, unreadable. His tongue presses into his cheek, a habit you've come to recognize as him holding back words he doesn't want to say. "Look, Hot Shot, I'm sorry. I really tried to see if it would work for me, but it doesn't. Can't."
You cross the room in three strides, closing the distance until you're right in front of him, close enough to smell the beer on his breath, close enough to see the way his pupils dilate when you get near.
"You don't get to call me that anymore," you snap, finger jabbing into his chest right over where you bit him.
Steve rolls his eyes, looking away, arms crossing over his chest in a mirror of your defensive posture. He lifts one hand in a placating gesture that makes you want to hit him. "Look, this doesn't mean we can't still be friends—"
"Oh, fuck off, Steve." You press your finger harder into his chest, feeling his heartbeat against your fingertip, fast and erratic. "Friends don't fucking cum inside other friends. Friends don't say the shit you said to me. Don't look at me the way you look at me." Your voice cracks, and you hate yourself for it. "Admit you're an asshole who can't decide what he wants."
"Or maybe I'm an asshole who's bored of you," Steve snaps back, and his eyes burn with something dark and empty and hurt all at once.
The words steal the air from your lungs.
Your face falls, the anger draining out of you and leaving behind only the raw, exposed hurt underneath. Tears brim in your eyes, hot and unwelcome, blurring your vision.
"Go to hell, Steve," you whisper, voice breaking on his name.
You take a deep breath, trying to hold yourself together for a few more seconds. Your lip quivers despite your best efforts. You take one last look at him—really look at him, memorizing his face because this is it, this is the end—and your heart breaks into a million pieces, each one cutting you on the way down.
Then you turn and walk out, leaving him standing alone in his room, and you don't look back.
.-.-.-.
Your eyes are caked with crust when you finally wake, eyelids heavy and stuck together like someone glued them shut while you slept. You peel them open slowly, immediately recognizing you're not in your own bed. The sheets are wrong—navy blue instead of your floral pattern, softer than the scratchy dorm-issue linens. The room smells different too—like laundry detergent and cologne you don't recognize, masculine and clean.
You know where you are before you're fully conscious. Sammy's room. The minimal furniture, the textbooks stacked neatly on his desk, the clothes strewn on the floor that aren't yours.
You sit up, still wearing your clothes from last night—jeans twisted uncomfortably around your legs, shirt wrinkled and smelling like cigarette smoke and spilled beer and something else underneath that makes your stomach turn. Steve's cologne. You can still smell him on you.
On cue, Sammy walks in, already dressed for the day in jeans and a sweater, hair a little messy like he slept on the couch and didn't bother with a mirror. He's holding two mugs of coffee, steam curling up from both. He smiles at you—awkward, uncertain, like he's not sure what the protocol is for this situation.
"Good morning," he says, handing you one of the mugs.
"Morning." Your voice comes out rough, throat raw from crying or screaming or maybe both. You can't quite remember.
The coffee is hot against your palms, almost too hot, but you hold onto it anyway because it gives you something to focus on that isn't the pounding in your head or the hollow ache in your chest.
"You sleep okay?" Sammy asks, hovering near the door like he's afraid to come too close, like you're a wild animal that might bolt.
You nod, not trusting your voice yet. "Yeah... thank you. For letting me crash here."
"Of course," Sammy mutters, looking down at his own mug.
The memories from last night come back in fragments, disjointed and painful. Leaving the Pike house through the back gate, tears streaming down your face, mascara probably running in black streaks. Finding Eddie smoking by his van in the driveway, asking him to tell Robin and Nancy not to worry about you. The look on his face—concern mixed with understanding, like he knew exactly what had happened upstairs even though you didn't say a word.
You didn't want to face Robin. Didn't want to see the pity in her eyes or hear her try to make excuses for Steve or worse—didn't want to hear her say she'd warned you this would happen, that getting involved with Steve was always going to end badly.
And you didn't want to face anyone else either. But someone who felt safe enough, someone who wouldn't ask questions or demand explanations, was Sammy.
You'd arrived at his frat house around midnight, still crying, and he'd seemed surprised to see you. Especially since you still hadn't really talked to him except for that one awkward encounter in the library and the brief exchange about picking up your things.
But he didn't ask questions. Didn't demand to know what happened or who hurt you. He pulled you inside, gave you a glass of water, and told you that you could take his bed. That he'd sleep in the common room downstairs.
You'd crawled into his bed fully clothed and cried into his pillow until you finally passed out from exhaustion sometime after two in the morning.
He slept on the couch in the common room, and you don't know whether to feel guilty, relieved, or disappointed about that. Guilty because he gave up his bed for you. Relieved because you couldn't handle anything more complicated last night. Disappointed because—
You cut that thought off before it can finish forming.
You rub your face with one hand, the other still clutching the coffee mug like a lifeline, and swing your legs off the bed. Your feet hit the cold floor, and the shock of it helps clear your head slightly. You chew on your bottom lip, and your stomach sours at the memories flooding back.
Yesterday morning feels like a lifetime ago. Waking up happy, excited about spring break, thinking about Steve and the planetarium and the way he'd looked at you like you hung the moon. Everything had been honey and sweet and perfect, and you had no idea it was all about to crumble.
What changed? What did you do wrong? What did Robin say to him in the car that made him look at you like you were nothing?
Sammy clears his throat, pulling you back to the present. "I, uh... need to leave soon. Going home for spring break. Not trying to rush you out or anything—you can stay as long as you need. I don't mind."
You look over at him, really look at him for the first time this morning. He's a good person. Kind, patient, understanding. All the things you should want.
"Sorry, yeah. I'll leave now." You stand up, and the movement makes your head pound harder, dehydration and hangover and heartbreak all mixing together into one miserable cocktail.
You hate that you can still smell Steve on you—his cologne mixed with the smell of sex and sweat, clinging to your skin, your hair, your clothes. It makes you want to vomit. Makes you want to scrub yourself raw in the shower until every trace of him is gone.
You feel tears pricking at your eyes again, and you rub them aggressively, refusing to cry in front of Sammy. You put on your shoes—the ones you'd kicked off carelessly last night, now sitting neatly by the door where Sammy must have moved them.
"Hey," Sammy says your name gently, softly, like you're something fragile that might break. "Everything okay?"
"What?" You shoot up too fast, and your head pounds in protest. "Oh... yeah. I'm fine. I'm—" You look at him, really look at him, and you wonder what's wrong with you. Here's someone who is simple and easy and showed genuine interest in you. Someone who wanted to know you, who asked you out properly, who didn't play games or set up impossible rules.
"I'm sorry," you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.
"What for?" He tilts his head, still looking hesitant, unsure.
"For never really allowing us to have a shot." You mean it to a degree, though your feelings are so clouded and confused right now that you're not sure you mean anything you say.
Sammy looks taken aback, eyebrows rising. He shrugs, trying for casual but not quite hitting it. "It's okay. Really."
"No... I..." And then you understand why you feel so horrible, why the guilt is sitting so heavy in your stomach. "It's not cool what I did to you. Making you feel disposable or used. I'm really sorry."
Sammy doesn't argue against it, which somehow makes it worse. He nods in acknowledgment, arms crossing over his chest. "Look, I... know I wasn't the best either. I wanted to know things about you, but I didn't want you to feel smothered or pressured or anything like that. I was trying to give you space, but maybe I gave you too much."
You can't help it—feeling vulnerable and raw and desperate for something that makes sense. "Do you still want to know things about me?"
Sammy laughs, a real smile breaking through the awkwardness. "Of course I want to know things about you." Then his expression shifts, going shy, earnest. "But... not like the way before. Not casual. Properly, like..." He pauses, gathering courage. "Like dating. Like... I don't know. Like a boyfriend."
Your breath hitches, caught in your throat.
You feel a flash of anger at Steve for breaking his own rules, for making "once a month" meaningless, for letting you get close enough to fall. If he'd kept his distance, if he'd stuck to the original arrangement, maybe you'd feel less confused. Maybe you could see yourself as Sammy's girlfriend. Sammy, who knows what he wants. Sammy, who isn't afraid to say it.
"I..." You don't know what to say. Don't know what you want. Don't know anything except that everything hurts.
"You don't have to answer now," Sammy says quickly, seeing the panic on your face. "Think about it. Over break. And when we get back, you can let me know."
You nod, grateful for the escape, and leave before he can say anything else.
When you get back to your dorm, Robin and Nancy are both there, and they visibly relax when you walk through the door.
"Oh thank god," Robin says, launching herself at you and pulling you into a tight hug. "Eddie said you left with him but wouldn't say where you went. I was worried."
"I'm fine," you lie, extracting yourself from her embrace. "Sorry I disappeared."
"Where'd you go?" Robin asks, and there's genuine concern in her eyes, no judgment.
For once, you're honest. "Sammy's."
Nancy, who's been sitting quietly on Robin's bed, perks up. "Who's Sammy?"
Robin grins, immediately latching onto the distraction, her voice going sing-song. "Hot Shot's boooyfriend."
Nancy looks confused, glancing between you and Robin.
"He's not my boyfriend," you say quickly, turning away to hide your expression. Then you sigh, because you need at least one thing out in the air, one burden not sitting solely on your shoulders. "But he did ask to be. This morning."
Robin gasps, bouncing slightly. "What'd you say?"
Nancy's expression stays neutral, but her eyes are sad, knowing.
You turn away from both of them, pretending to look through your suitcase for tomorrow's flight, organizing clothes you've already organized three times. You chew on your bottom lip, the skin already raw from nervous biting. "I told him I'd think about it over spring break and let him know."
Your words come out soft, uncertain, and when you turn back around Robin is squealing like it's the best news she's heard all year. But Nancy is looking at you with sad, sympathetic eyes that see right through you.
The next morning, everyone is packed into Eddie's van again—bright and early to drive to the nearest airport. The sun is barely up, the sky still that pale gray-pink of dawn, and you're all moving like zombies, running on coffee and determination.
Steve looks rough. Rougher than you've ever seen him. He's wearing sunglasses even though the sun isn't up yet, a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, and he hasn't said a word to anyone. His jaw is tight, shoulders tense, and he radiates an energy that says don't fucking talk to me.
You hear Eddie tell Robin in a low voice, "He's got a hangover. Drank more beers than I could count last night. Found him passed out on the bathroom floor around three."
Robin winces, glancing at Steve with concern, but she doesn't approach him.
In the van, Steve puts headphones on and plays his Walkman, sitting in the front passenger seat with his head pressed against the window. You can see his reflection in the glass—eyes closed, jaw clenched, looking like he's in actual physical pain.
You're in the back with Robin and Nancy, trying not to stare at the back of his head, trying not to notice the way his shoulders curve in like he's trying to make himself smaller.
Before you take the highway to the airport, Eddie makes one last stop. Your heart sinks when you see bright red hair, a cheerful wave, a familiar face standing on the curb.
Polly.
Steve is the one who gets out, greeting her with a side hug that looks stiff and uncomfortable. He takes her luggage—a large pink suitcase covered in stickers—and throws it in the back of the van. The force of it hits the back of your seat hard enough that you feel it, and you snap around to look at him.
His jaw tightens when he sees you looking. He slams the trunk shut without a word.
Polly crawls into the van, all smiles and sunshine, seemingly oblivious to the tension. "Thank you guys so much for letting me join last minute!" She turns to you specifically, beaming. "Especially for letting me room with you! We're going to have so much fun."
You look at Robin and Nancy, and neither of them looks surprised by this news. They already knew. Everyone knew except you.
Finally, Steve turns and looks at you—still wearing those sunglasses so you can't see his eyes. "Shit, sorry. Must have slipped my mind to mention it. Hope you don't mind."
You could punch him. For putting you in this position, for making you the bad guy if you say anything. How did they even manage to find another plane ticket so last minute? Spring break flights are always booked solid.
But you can't tell Polly no. Can't say you do mind without looking like a petty bitch. So you force your best smile, the one that doesn't reach your eyes but looks convincing enough. "Of course not! We're going to have a blast."
Polly squeals and throws her arms around you, and you catch Steve's expression over her shoulder—something that might be guilt or might be satisfaction. You can't tell with the sunglasses.
Polly ends up sitting next to you on the plane, chattering away about how excited she is and how she's never been to Miami before. Steve sits next to Eddie several rows ahead, and Nancy and Robin are somewhere in the back—you can hear Robin's laugh occasionally, bright and happy.
You watch Steve flag down the flight attendant for his third glass of whiskey, even though it's not even noon yet. He and Eddie are the only ones old enough to order alcohol on the flight, and Steve seems determined to take full advantage.
Polly is a talker, and you find yourself not shying away from the conversation. In fact, you hate how much you actually like her. She's studying to be a STEM major, still figuring out if she wants to go into pre-med eventually. She's smart and funny and kind, and under different circumstances, you could see yourself being friends with her.
Which somehow makes everything worse.
The plane lands in Miami in the early afternoon, and the moment you step off and into the airport, you're hit with a wall of humid heat. It's different from the heat back home—thicker, wetter, smelling like salt and tropical flowers and jet fuel.
Outside, palm trees sway in the breeze. The sky is impossibly blue, dotted with white puffy clouds that look like they were painted on. You can hear the distant sound of car horns, music playing from someone's radio, the chatter of tourists in a dozen different languages.
They all pile into a bus that will take them to the resort, bags shoved into the overhead compartments. Nancy tells everyone that Jonathan will meet them for dinner that night—he's been on set all day but will be done by six.
The resort is huge, sprawling across what looks like several acres of beachfront property. It's packed with other college-aged students, all in various states of undress—bikini tops and swim trunks, sunglasses and flip-flops. The lobby is chaos, people checking in and out, bellhops rushing around with luggage carts, the smell of chlorine from the pool mixing with sunscreen and coconut.
It's not a fancy hotel, but it's not trashy either. It seems designed specifically to encourage partying—the staff all look young and fun, wearing Hawaiian shirts and leis, and there's already a group doing shots at the tiki bar even though it's barely two in the afternoon.
Eddie manages to flirt with a bellhop—a cute guy with dark curly hair and dimples—into sneaking a bottle of rum into his room without charging for it. Eddie winks at him, slips him a twenty, and the bellhop grins and promises to "take good care" of him.
You're able to forget about the tension and anger and sadness for a few minutes, caught up in the energy of the place, the excitement of being somewhere new.
Until you get stuck in an elevator with Steve and Polly, heading to the same floor because of course you are. Because someone—you and Steve—made the stupid decision to have his room and your room right next to each other.
The elevator is small, mirrored on three sides, and you can see infinite versions of yourself standing stiffly in the corner while Steve and Polly chat. He's taken off his sunglasses now, and you can see his eyes are bloodshot, the skin underneath dark and puffy.
Steve only talks to Polly, catching up about school, asking about her classes. She mentions his big test next Thursday, and he motions to the backpack slung over his shoulder that apparently contains his textbooks.
"Gotta study," he says, and his voice sounds rough, damaged. "Can't fuck this up."
You stare at the elevator numbers, watching them tick up. Third floor. Fourth floor. Fifth floor.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. Polly bounds out first, already digging in her purse for the room key. You follow more slowly, and you can't help but watch Steve over your shoulder.
He glances at you briefly—so quick you almost miss it—and there's something in his expression you can't read. Then he turns and disappears into his room, letting the door swing shut behind him with a decisive click.
"Oh my god!" Polly squeals, and you turn to see her standing in your doorway, looking inside with wide eyes. "We have a balcony!"
She runs inside, and you follow, dropping your bags just inside the door. Polly is already sliding open the glass door to the balcony, the sound of crashing waves immediately filling the room along with the smell of salt and seaweed.
She steps out onto the balcony and leans over the railing, breathing deeply. "We don't have water this pretty in Texas," she sighs dreamily, looking out at the ocean—turquoise and sparkling in the afternoon sun, waves rolling in steady and hypnotic.
She turns back to you, beaming. "Do you want to go down to the beach with me? I'm dying to feel the sand between my toes."
You look at the clock on the nightstand. It's barely three. Dinner isn't until six. You should go, should say yes, should try to have fun.
"Oh... uh... I'm feeling a little tired. I think I might take a nap before dinner."
"Okay!" Polly shrugs, already stripping off her clothes right there in the middle of the room. "I'll ask the others."
You look away quickly, startled by her lack of self-consciousness.
Polly gasps. "I'm sorry! I should've asked if that makes you uncomfortable."
"Oh, no... I didn't expect it, is all." It's not like you and Robin don't get dressed in front of each other. But you and Robin are best friends. You barely know Polly.
Polly continues to undress, and you try not to look, try to give her privacy. But you catch a glimpse anyway as she pulls on her bikini top—a fresh purple hickey on her breast, just visible above the line of her swimsuit.
Your stomach drops. Tears prick at your eyes, hot and unwelcome.
"I think I'm going to take a shower first," you manage to say, stumbling toward the bathroom without waiting for an answer.
You run the shower as hot as it will go, strip off your clothes, and finally let yourself cry. Really cry, the way you've been holding back since last night. Ugly, gasping sobs that echo off the tile, mixing with the sound of running water.
Two hours later, the phone on the nightstand rings, jarring you awake. You'd fallen asleep without meaning to, curled up on top of the covers in your towel, hair still damp.
You grab the receiver, groggy and disoriented. "Hello?"
"Hey, it's Nancy. We're meeting at the restaurant downstairs in forty minutes. The one off the lobby. You can't miss it."
"Okay," you mumble, still half-asleep. "I'll be there."
You hang up and drag yourself out of bed, finally bothering to put on actual clothes. You wander over to the balcony, sliding the glass door open and stepping out into the warm evening air.
The sun is lower now, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and purple. The beach is still packed with people—students playing volleyball, couples walking hand in hand at the water's edge, groups gathered around bonfires even though it's not dark yet.
The breeze is warm and smells like salt and sunscreen and grilled seafood from one of the beachside restaurants. Seagulls cry overhead, wheeling in lazy circles.
Then you hear laughter—familiar laughter—and your eyes are drawn down to the beach below your balcony.
Steve and Polly are walking together, close enough that their arms brush with every step. Steve is wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, unbuttoned enough that you can see his chest, and black swim trunks. His hair is messy from the wind, and he's smiling—actually smiling, not the fake one he's been wearing since yesterday.
Polly is wearing jean shorts and her bikini top—purple, the same one from earlier—and her breasts bounce perfectly with each step. She's laughing at something Steve said, head thrown back, hand coming up to touch his arm.
The jealousy bubbles up inside you again, hot and acidic and all-consuming. You watch Steve look up, like he can feel you watching, and your eyes meet for a fraction of a second before you quickly back away from the railing, heart pounding.
You're out of tears. All cried out. Nothing left but this hollow, aching anger.
Dinner with everyone is surprisingly normal, or at least everyone is pretending it is. The restaurant is open-air, right on the beach, with tiki torches and string lights and a live band playing reggae covers of popular songs.
Robin and Steve seem to have gotten over whatever they were fighting about—or at least they're pretending they have. Though you notice they're not sitting next to each other, not touching the way they usually do when they're playing couple. Maybe it's because they finally don't have to pretend here, where no one knows them.
Robin does lean over occasionally to tell Steve to slow down on his drinking, giving Nancy a knowing look whenever he mutters bitterly, "It's vacation, Rob. I can do what I want."
Before dinner started, Robin had pulled you aside and quietly informed you that Polly knows everything—about the fake relationship, about Robin and Nancy, all of it. "You can trust her," Robin had said.
And that makes more jealousy bubble up inside you. Polly gets to be in on the secrets now. Gets to be part of the inner circle. Gets to be close to Steve in a way you never will be again.
Why did she have to come? Why is she here, inserting herself into this trip, into your room, into your life? Why is she so fucking nice?
Jonathan spends most of dinner telling everyone about what filming in Miami is like. Which is him spealing most of his day in a golf cart driving different crew members to different sets, but he seems to genuinely love it. He can't talk about the movie—signed an NDA—but maybe he could sneak them onto set one night if they wanted.
Eddie immediately perks up at that. "Hell yes. I want to see behind the scenes of a real movie."
"It's not that glamorous," Jonathan warns, laughing.
Eventually, as dessert is being served, Polly leans forward with a conspiratorial grin. "So, a boy from UCLA told me about this party on the beach tonight. Like a huge one. Apparently they do it every year during spring break."
"Count me in," Eddie says immediately.
Robin and Nancy exchange glances, some silent communication passing between them, and they both nod.
"We're in," Robin says.
Everyone looks at you. At first, you almost tell Polly you're not going. The thought of going to some massive beach party, of watching Steve flirt with other girls, of pretending everything is fine—it sounds like torture.
But later, back in your room while Polly is getting ready, she insists. "Come on! This is the perfect time to let loose. Get drunk, dance, make out with random people you'll never see again."
She's slipped into another bikini top—red this time, equally small—and jean shorts that sit low on her hips.
And suddenly, the thought of making out with some random stranger to get the lingering taste of Steve Harrington off your lips sounds incredibly appealing.
"Okay," you hear yourself say. "Yeah. Let's go."
The beach party is exactly what you expected—chaos barely contained. There must be two hundred college students packed onto this stretch of beach, music blaring from speakers the size of refrigerators, a bonfire so large it looks dangerous, red Solo cups everywhere.
The air smells like beer and weed and salt water and smoke. The music is so loud you can feel it in your chest, bass thumping with each crashing wave. People are dancing, making out, playing drinking games, swimming in the ocean despite the darkness.
Nancy and Robin disappear into the crowd almost immediately, finally able to dance together and kiss without anyone batting an eye. You catch glimpses of them occasionally—foreheads pressed together, Robin's hands on Nancy's waist, both of them smiling so wide it makes your chest ache. They look free. Finally, truly happy.
Eddie has somehow already made friends with a group of stoners, sitting in a circle and sharing stories about the craziest people he's sold to before. You even take a hit of a joint being passed around, letting the smoke fill your lungs, make everything softer around the edges.
But your focus keeps drifting to Steve, who's drinking a beer and letting some girl roam her hands over him—fingers in his hair, touching his chest, his arms, his face. They're dancing, or what passes for dancing when you're drunk. More like grinding, really.
You notice Steve isn't really paying attention to her. His eyes are distant, unfocused, and he's not touching her back. She's all over him, and he's standing there like a mannequin, letting it happen but not participating.
You can't help it. Angrily, you stand up from the circle, brushing sand off your shorts. You need to get away from this, need to find a drink yourself, need to do something other than watch Steve let that girl touch him.
Instead of finding the makeshift bar, you find yourself walking toward the water's edge, away from the noise and the people and the chaos. You stand there staring at the empty dark sky—no stars visible through the light pollution and cloud cover—with the music still blaring in your ears but more distant now.
You wish you could melt into the water, let the tide carry you out to sea, drift away from all of this. You regret coming on this trip. Regret every choice you've made this year. Regret Steve Harrington and his stupid rules and his beautiful face and the way he made you feel things you didn't want to feel.
You see Jonathan off to the side, away from the main party, nursing a beer and looking out at the ocean. And you can't help it—you walk up to him, and he looks startled when you appear at his elbow.
"What did you mean?" you ask without preamble. "At the camping trip. You said Steve talks about me all the time. Why?"
Jonathan's eyes widen, and he looks like a deer caught in headlights. "Oh... uh... what?"
"You told me that he talks about me. Why does he talk about me, Jonathan?"
Jonathan sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I... I don't think it's my place—"
"Please, Jonathan." Your voice comes out teary, desperate, and you hate yourself for it. You're buzzed from the drinks and the joint, and everything feels too big, too raw.
He looks at you for a long moment, clearly debating whether to tell you. Then he sighs again, deeper this time.
"I don't know exactly. He brings you up a lot when we talk. Tells me about things you do, things you say. How cool you are and you don't even know it. How you're different from other girls he's—" Jonathan cuts himself off, looking uncomfortable. "He told me that you're pretty. That if things were different, he'd ask you on a date. But..."
"But?" you demand, voice shaky, tears threatening.
Jonathan looks down at the sand, digging his foot into it. "You know why. Robin."
"But Robin isn't even—" You stop yourself, because Jonathan knows. He knows it's fake. "Right. Robin."
Jonathan looks at the ocean, giving you privacy for your pain. "I'm sorry. I really am."
You look out at the dark water, waves rolling in steady and relentless. "I fucking hate him."
"No, you don't," Jonathan says quietly.
You snap your head toward him. "Yes, I do."
He gives you a knowing look, sad and sympathetic. "Our brains can get hate and love mixed up sometimes, you know? The wires cross."
The tears burn hot against your cheeks, and you don't bother wiping them away. The ocean breeze is cool on your wet face.
"Let me take you back to your room," Jonathan says gently. "You look exhausted."
You don't argue, and you let him guide you back across the beach, trudging through sand that keeps getting in your shoes, making each step harder.
Polly spots you halfway to the hotel and runs up, slightly out of breath, giggling. "Hey, uh..." She looks sheepish. "Don't worry about me if I don't make it back to the room tonight, okay?" Then her expression shifts, concern creeping in. "Wait, are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. Fine. I'm tired. Jonathan's walking me back." You nod, and you're not sure if you're pissed that Polly gets to enjoy her night with whoever she wants while you feel alone and miserable, or if you're grateful she won't be there to witness your breakdown.
Jonathan walks you all the way to your door, and you thank him quietly.
Before he leaves, he stops you with a hand on your arm. "If you need anything—anything at all—let me know. I'm in room 412."
You nod, watching him walk back down the hall toward the elevators, his footsteps muffled by the hallway carpet.
You end up actually taking a shower this time, sand everywhere making you feel uncomfortable and grimy. You scrub your skin until it's red, wash your hair twice, trying to wash away the feeling of Steve's hands on you, the memory of his skin against yours.
You take one last look outside from the balcony, down at the party still raging on the beach a few hundred yards away. You wonder if Steve is making out with that girl he was dancing with. Wonder if he's thinking about you at all, or if you've already been completely erased from his mind.
A feeling of resentment toward Robin arises—sharp and unexpected and unwelcome. But you quickly push it away, not ready to examine the complicated depths of your friendship with her, especially when she has no idea what's been happening. None of this is her fault. She didn't know. She couldn't have known.
You can't sleep. You toss and turn, tangling yourself in the sheets, punching the pillow, trying to find a comfortable position. You tell yourself it's because of the music from the beach, still faintly audible through the closed balcony door. But really, you can't stop your brain from thinking.
Around two in the morning, you hear the door to the next room—Steve's room—finally close.
You try to talk yourself out of it. Try not to get up, not to open your door, not to stare at the door next to yours. But you fail. You find yourself standing in your doorway in your pajamas, staring at Steve's door like it holds all the answers.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you knock three times. Quick, light, barely audible. You're already turning to run back to your room when the door opens.
Polly stands there in a towel, hair wet, face flushed. She looks surprised to see you, but she's smiling that bashful smile that means something just happened.
Inside, you can hear the bathroom door open, the shower still running. Someone—Steve—humming in the shower. Some song you don't recognize, voice slightly off-key, and it's so painfully domestic it makes your chest constrict.
Your eyes widen. "Oh... sorry!"
Polly looks at you questioningly, head tilting. "It's okay... do you need something?"
Your mind blanks. You can't tell her the truth—that you wanted to see Steve, to yell at him or kiss him or both. "Is there an extra pillow? There weren't any in our room."
It's a terrible lie. You have plenty of pillows.
Polly's smile widens. "Oh! Yeah, hold on." She closes the door, and you stand there in the hallway feeling like an idiot, listening to Steve's muffled humming through the wall.
She comes back with a pillow—one of the decorative ones from the bed. "Here you go!"
You stand there for a moment, both of you looking at each other awkwardly. You can smell Steve's cologne wafting out from the room, mixed with steam from the shower and something else. Something that makes your stomach turn.
"Right. Thanks. See you... tomorrow," you manage, and then you bolt back to your room like something is chasing you.
You wrap yourself in your bed, pulling the covers over your head like you did as a kid when you thought there were monsters in the closet. Hiding from things that couldn't actually hurt you, except this time the monster is real and it's wearing Steve Harrington's face.
You listen to the distant music from the beach party still going, gradually getting quieter as people filter back to their rooms.
And then you hear it.
The wall across from your bed starts thumping. The rhythmic sound of a bed hitting against thin plaster, over and over. Creaking springs. A high-pitched moan that definitely isn't Steve.
Then Steve's voice, low and rough, saying something you can't make out. Another moan, louder this time. The unmistakable sounds of two people coming together, of pleasure, of intimacy.
The thumping gets faster. The moans get louder. And you lie there in your bed, covers pulled up to your chin, choking on a sob you refuse to let out.
The sounds reach a crescendo— Polly’s whines, Steve groaning, the bed slamming against the wall one final time before everything goes quiet except for heavy breathing and low murmurs.
You know with absolute certainty now that you would never be the exception. That what Steve said was true—he was bored of you. That everything he made you feel was a lie, a game, a way to pass the time until something better came along.
And you know with equal certainty that you do fucking hate Steve Harrington.
You hate him for making you fall for him. Hate him for every soft word and gentle touch. Hate him for the planetarium and the tent and the way he looked at you like you mattered.
But most of all, you hate him for proving that you were right all along—that letting someone in, letting yourself feel something real, only leads to this. To lying in bed listening to him fuck someone else through paper-thin walls, your heart breaking into smaller and smaller pieces until there's nothing left but dust.
steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort
warnings: smut. teasing. fingering. no kissing. overstimulation. rough. spitting.... raw... (steve got too excited) kind of douche steve at the end 😬
words: 8.8k (got carried away im sorry)
summary: When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it.
a/n: this couldve been freakier but yeah good thing this is only the beginning
masterlist
You’ve been awake since six-thirty, knees pulled in, ankles crossed, sitting on your bed like if you stay still enough the thoughts might pass you by. A mug of instant coffee cools between your palms, the heat long gone, the bitterness settling into something flat and metallic. You stare at the wall across from you, not really seeing it, trying very hard not to replay last night frame by frame like a reel you can’t stop feeding back into the projector.
You try not to think about Steve Harrington under strobe lights, the way color fractured across his face. You try not to think about the weight of his hand at your lower back, the way it slid to your hips like it already knew the shape of you, the brief, dizzying press of his thumb against bare skin beneath your shirt. You try not to think about how your body had reacted before your brain could catch up, how heat bloomed from nothing more than proximity, from the low rasp of his voice brushing your ear, from the way his eyes had followed you through the crowd like you were the only fixed point in a moving room.
You are failing spectacularly.
The dorm is quiet in that hollow, almost haunted way it only ever gets during breaks, when the building exhales and forgets how to be alive. No bass bleeding through the walls. No laughter ricocheting down the hallway. No doors slamming, no shoes pounding overhead. Only the low hum of heat kicking on and off, the distant creak of pipes settling, the kind of silence that makes every thought feel louder than it should.
Robin’s been awake for at least an hour, her energy filling the room in restless bursts as she paces between her bed and the closet. You hear the zip of her suitcase over and over again, punctuated by frustrated sighs as she unpacks and repacks with increasing intensity, second-guessing herself into a spiral.
“Do I need three pairs of shoes?” she calls from inside the closet, her voice muffled by hanging clothes. “Or is that overkill?”
You glance at the clock, then back at your coffee, answering without looking. “Depends. How fancy are these dinners?”
“I don’t know,” she says, emerging halfway, one shoe dangling from her hand. “My mom said ‘nice,’ but that could mean anything from takeout to some place with cloth napkins and seven forks.”
A small smile tugs at your mouth despite yourself. You set the mug down, finally conceding it’s not getting any warmer. “Take all of them. Better to be over-prepared.”
“That’s what I’m saying!” she declares triumphantly, already tossing another pair into the suitcase.
The knock comes a second later, three sharp raps against the door, sudden enough to snap the quiet clean in half.
You’re the closest, so you slide off the bed and pad over in sleep shorts and an oversized sweatshirt that’s soft with age. You open the door without thinking.
And there he is.
Steve Harrington stands in the hallway, like the morning arranged itself around him on purpose. Dark-wash jeans hug his hips and thighs in a way that feels unfair, paired with a navy sweater that makes his eyes look warmer somehow. They’re deeper, softer, more dangerous. His hair is perfect, because of course it is, falling just slightly into his forehead like it didn’t take any effort at all, like he woke up this way and the world simply accepted it.
His hands are tucked into his pockets, shoulders loose, posture easy. Relaxed. But the moment your eyes meet, something shifts. It’s subtle but unmistakable.
The air tightens. It buzzes.
Not sharply, not suddenly, but enough to make everything feel closer. Thicker. Charged. Your skin prickles like it’s anticipating something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet, your pulse jumping in a way that feels embarrassingly obvious. He leans into the doorframe, one shoulder resting against it, and you realize distantly that you’ve leaned forward too, drawn in without permission, like gravity has changed its rules, like there’s an invisible thread pulling between your chest and his.
“Good morning,” he says.
His voice is low, rough-edged, like it’s still shaking sleep off. or like he’s been awake longer than he wants to admit. Like maybe, just maybe, he’s been thinking about last night too.
“Hey,” you answer, and it comes out softer than you meant it to, quieter, almost breathless.
You don’t miss the way his mouth curves slightly at that.
His gaze drops, for a second, barely a blink, but it’s long enough to make your stomach tilt, long enough for heat to curl low and slow. His eyes trace the bare line of your legs, linger there like a thought he doesn’t quite finish, then drag their way back up to your face. You feel it everywhere he looks, the hairs on your arm standing up with awareness, like his attention alone is enough to leave fingerprints.
Suddenly you’re hyperaware of everything.
That you’re not wearing a bra. That your sweatshirt hangs loose and thin against your chest. That your hair is a wreck, bent in odd directions from sleep, probably carrying the faint imprint of your pillow. That there might still be creases along your cheek, evidence of how recently you were tangled up in dreams you don’t remember.
But Steve doesn’t look put off. Steve doesn’t look like he’s cataloguing flaws. Steve looks at you like you’re exactly what he wants to be looking at, like you’re the best thing he’s seen all morning, like the day didn’t really start until this moment.
Neither of you moves. Neither of you speaks.
The silence stretches, tight and humming, filled with all the things neither of you is saying. He’s close. It’s too close in a way that feels intentional. Close enough that you could reach out and touch him without fully extending your arm. Close enough to see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his lashes cast soft lines against his cheeks. Close enough to catch the clean, familiar scent of his cologne.
It would be so easy.
So easy to lean forward. So easy to close the space between you. So easy to find out what would happen if you—
“Steve, can you grab my suitcase?”
Robin’s voice cuts through the moment like a blade, sharp and immediate, slicing the tension clean in two. You both blink, like you’ve been pulled back into your bodies all at once, the spell snapping with an almost audible crack.
Steve’s mouth twitches into a smile. It’s small, crooked, knowing. It’s not for Robin. It’s not for the room. It’s private, tucked just between the two of you, like a secret passed without words.
Then he pushes off the doorframe and steps inside.
His arm brushes yours as he passes, a fleeting, accidental touch that sends a shock straight through your system, lighting up your nerves like a live wire. You step back instinctively, pulse skidding, and watch him cross the room with easy confidence, long strides, shoulders loose, the kind of effortless presence that feels unfair for one person to have.
“Jesus, Robin,” he grunts as he lifts the suitcase off her bed with both hands, the muscles in his arms flexing under the sweater. “Are you moving to Boston or something? What the hell do you have in here?”
Robin snorts, shoving another pair of shoes into her duffel. “You know my parents. They’re probably gonna drag me to, like, five different dinners with five different sets of their friends, and I need to be prepared for all possibilities.”
“You could just wear the same outfit twice,” Steve offers.
She stares at him like he’s suggested something obscene. “Absolutely not.”
She zips the bag with a decisive tug, then turns toward you, her expression softening, the edges of her energy gentling in a way that always means she’s being serious.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” she asks, concern threading through her voice. “It’s not too late. I can call my parents from the bus station. They’re dying to meet you.”
You shake your head, smiling, trying to make it convincing. “No, it’s okay. I’ll be fine here.”
Your eyes flick, briefly, to Steve.
He’s watching you over the top of the suitcase, and when your gazes meet, his lips tilt into a smirk, subtle and unmistakable.
Robin doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she crosses the room and pulls you into a tight hug, squeezing hard enough that you feel it in your ribs.
“Okay,” she says into your shoulder, her voice slightly muffled, softer than usual. “But I’m calling you. Multiple times. And if you’re sad or lonely or bored, you have to tell me.”
You nod against her, throat tightening unexpectedly, emotion rising too fast for comfort. “I will.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Robin pulls back but doesn’t let go right away. Instead, she keeps her hands on your arms, studying your face like she’s committing it to memory, your eyes, your expression, the way you’re holding yourself, like she’s worried something might change while she’s gone.
Then she straightens, grabs her duffel, and swings it over her shoulder with a practiced motion.
“Okay, babe,” she says, brightness snapping back into place like armor. “I’ll call you sometime, ’kay?”
You smile, real and fond. “Have fun. Tell Nancy hi for me.”
Robin laughs, loud and unrestrained. “I will.”
She’s already halfway down the hall before Steve even starts moving, her voice echoing back something about him not being late to the bus station, her footsteps fading into the hollow quiet of the building.
Steve follows, suitcase in hand.
But just before he steps out, he stops.
Turns.
Looks at you.
Robin’s voice disappears entirely, swallowed by distance, and suddenly the room feels too still, only you and Steve.
His eyes settle on yours, steady and searching, and there’s something there that makes your breath hitch. Something warm. Intent. Threaded with heat that sinks low and slow, winding tight in your stomach.
“Hey,” he says, voice low, almost careful. “So tonight, me and Eddie are doing this movie night thing. At the house. You should come.”
You tilt your head, aiming for casual, aiming for unaffected, even as your pulse stutters. “What movie?”
“Does it matter?” he asks.
There’s nothing rude in it. Nothing dismissive. But there is a challenge, quiet, calculated, something unspoken humming beneath his words that makes your stomach flip sharply.
You lick your lips without thinking.
His gaze drops immediately, tracks the movement like it’s instinct, lingers there for a beat too long before lifting back to your eyes.
“I’ll think about it,” you say, and your voice comes out softer than you meant to. It’s light, almost teasing.
His eyes sweep over you then, slow and reverent, taking their time as they move from your face, down your body, and back again, like he wants you to feel every second of his attention.
Then he nods, mouth tipping into that infuriating, knowing smirk.
“Eight,” he says.
And then he’s gone.
The door swings shut behind him, the click of it final and loud in the sudden quiet, leaving you standing there alone. Your heart racing, skin still whizzing, mind replaying the weight of his gaze, the brush of his arm, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth noticing.
By the time eight o’clock finally arrives, you’ve changed your outfit three times, washed your face and reapplied your makeup twice, and stood in front of the mirror long enough to convince yourself, at least four separate times, that this is a terrible idea. Each version of yourself felt wrong in a different way. That you were too eager, too casual, too obvious, too guarded. You’re tired of negotiating with your reflection.
And yet.
Here you are anyway, standing on the front steps of the Pi Kappa Alpha house, the night air sharp against your bare legs, your favorite skirt defying the cold on principle alone. Your sweater is soft, the kind that makes you feel quietly pretty instead of costume-pretty, and your oversized coat hangs heavy around your shoulders like armor you can still shrug off if you decide to run. Your heart is hammering, loud enough you’re convinced it might echo, like you’re standing on the edge of something reckless and inevitable.
Which, if you’re being honest, you probably are.
The house is nothing like it usually is. No bass shaking the windows. No laughter spilling out onto the lawn. No bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder on the porch. Instead, there’s a muted hum of music somewhere deep inside, low and steady, and a warm flicker of light glowing through the common room windows. The place feels almost unfamiliar in its stillness.
Almost gentle.
You knock before you can talk yourself out of it again.
The door swings open a moment later, and Eddie Munson fills the doorway, grinning like he’s been waiting for you specifically, eyes bright with amusement and something like approval.
“There she is,” he says, stepping aside to let you in. “Thought you were gonna bail.”
“And miss whatever cinematic masterpiece you two picked?” you reply as you step inside, shrugging off your coat. The air smells like stale beer and old carpet, layered with something faintly floral that might be air freshener working overtime. “Never.”
Eddie laughs, loud and easy, he leads you through the house. The floors are sticky in places, clinging slightly to your shoes, and there’s that unmistakable damp smell, like a forgotten washcloth left out too long, lingering in the corners.
“Oh, fair warning,” Eddie says, lowering his voice as if the walls themselves might listen. “Steve has kind of been in a mood all day.”
“What kind of mood?” you ask, your stomach tightening just a little.
“The broody kind,” he says. “The ‘I’m-pretending-I’m-fine-but-I’m-actually-thinking-too-hard-about-something’ kind.”
You frown. “Is he okay?”
Eddie glances back at you, something knowing in his expression, something that makes your chest feel oddly hollow. “Yeah. He’s fine,” he chuckles, wiggling his brows. “Something tells me he will be. ”
You don’t get the chance to ask what that means.
Because then you’re in the common room.
And there’s Steve.
Steve Harrington, stretched out on the couch like he owns it, which, honestly, he kind of does. One arm slung over the back, legs long and careless, dressed down in gray sweatpants and a faded Hawkins High t-shirt that’s gone soft with age and clings to him in a way that makes your mouth go dry before you can stop it. He looks comfortable. Dangerous in his comfort.
His hair is a mess, curls falling where they please, like he’s been dragging his hands through it all day, and there’s tension carved into his jaw that proves Eddie wasn’t exaggerating. He looks like someone caught mid-thought, mid-spiral.
Then he looks up.
And something changes.
Something in his expression loosens, it softens. It’s warm and unguarded for the briefest second, like relief flickering across his face before he can stop it. Before he smooths it away, replacing it with that familiar, easy smirk that always feels like a challenge.
“Hey,” he says, and his voice is low, rough around the edges, like it’s been unused or restrained all day. It does something immediate and unhelpful to your insides.
“Hey,” you reply, and it comes out softer than you meant it to, almost shy.
Eddie drops into the armchair with all the grace of a sack of laundry, snatching the remote and gesturing toward the couch. “Sit. Get comfortable. We’re watching Labyrinth.”
“We haven’t decided on Labyrinth,” Steve says, still looking at you, like the TV doesn’t exist yet.
“We’re watching Labyrinth,” Eddie repeats, grinning like the debate’s already won.
You hesitate only a second before sliding down onto the couch beside Steve. Not pressed together, not touching, at least not intentionally. But close enough that the tiny gap between your thighs feels electric, charged, impossible to ignore.
Steve shifts slightly. His knee nudges yours, not hard, just the merest brush, and your stomach clenches, a sharp, thrilling jolt that shoots straight through your core.
“You good?” he murmurs, voice low, private, meant only for you.
You glance at him. His attention is entirely on you, not the screen, not Eddie, his arm draped along the back of the couch. His fingers rest just behind your shoulder, lingering in the faintest possible way, almost brushing the top of your arm.
“Yeah,” you say. “You?”
A corner of his mouth quirks up. “Yeah.”
The moment stretches, buzzing, until Eddie fumbles with the VCR and the opening credits flicker on.
You try to focus on the movie, really you do, but Steve is here, close enough to set fire to your nerves with every subtle movement. His thigh brushes yours again, a grazing brush that lingers just a fraction too long. You can feel the warmth radiating through his sweats, almost as if it’s a physical tether pulling you toward him.
Halfway through, Eddie heads to the kitchen for more beer, and Steve shifts even closer, knee brushing your leg with more intent. You hug your arms around yourself, realizing your jacket is still by the stairs.
“You cold?” he murmurs.
“A little,” you admit.
Without another word, he reaches behind him and pulls a blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over both of you. The fabric settles warm across your thighs, soft and heavy, cocooning you both.
His hand brushes your leg as he adjusts the blanket, thumb tracing a slow, idle path up the inside of your thigh. You suck in a breath, pulse spiking, and you can feel every subtle arc of contact. The ghost of his touch lingers, and you realize just how aware you are of him, of every inch of the space between you.
Steve shifts again, thigh pressing against yours beneath the blanket, brushing lightly along the side of your leg. He adjusts the blanket so that it bunches over your lap, giving him the pretense of casually moving it, and yet, his fingers linger against your skin, teasing, willful, the barest pressure that makes your stomach coil. Your legs pressing together.
“Better?” he murmurs, voice low, teasing, threaded with heat.
“Yeah,” you whisper, almost breathless. “Thanks.”
You adjust slightly, trying to create distance, and his hand follows almost instinctively, sliding under the blanket to rest lightly across your knee again, brushing your shin as if by accident. It’s all so subtle, so innocent, but it makes your heart pound.
His hand retreats a fraction, only to return moments later, brushing along the top of your thigh as he adjusts the blanket once more. Every motion under the fabric, his leg nudging yours, a thumb sliding along the edge of the blanket, the brush of his hand across your skin, is intentional enough that it burns, igniting something in your chest you’re not ready to name.
Eddie comes back, cracking a beer and plopping back into his chair, oblivious, but the tension doesn’t dissipate. If anything, it thickens, pressing against your ribcage and tightening your chest.
The movie continues to play in the background, a faint soundtrack to the quiet, intense conversation happening in every brush of skin, every accidental touch, every shared glance under the flickering light. You can feel Steve’s warmth radiating through the blanket, the subtle pressure of his leg against yours, his hand brushing against yours when he shifts to stretch or adjust.
It’s maddening. It’s electrifying. Every movement, no matter how small or innocent, feels loaded, intimate, almost daring. And you can’t decide whether to savor it or flee from it.
But you don’t move away. You can’t.
Because the heat of him is intoxicating, every subtle touch sending your pulse racing, and the moment, the soft, simmering closeness, is almost too much to bear.
By the time the credits roll, it’s past eleven, and your nerves are strained, humming with a tension you can feel in your bones. Every breath makes your chest ache a little, every flicker of the TV screen feels magnified, like you’re suspended in some fragile, electric bubble.
Eddie stretches, arms wide, letting out a long, exaggerated yawn. “Alright, I’m out. Got an early shift at the record store tomorrow.”
“Since when do you care about being on time?” Steve mutters, voice low, not sharp but tinged with something warm, almost teasing.
Eddie flips him off, good-natured and carefree, and grabs his jacket from the chair. “You coming?” he asks you, gesturing toward the door.
You rip the blanket off of you. You push off the couch, brushing your skirt absentmindedly, trying to ignore the shiver that snakes down your spine and the subtle tremor in your legs. “Yeah, I should head out too.”
Steve doesn’t say anything, but you feel him. His gaze presses against you like a weight, following you, pinning you as you move through the room. It’s almost a touch, almost a whisper across your skin.
The night air hits like a shock when you step outside, sharp and cold against your flushed cheeks, and you pull your arms around yourself. A shiver travels down your spine, one that feels less like cold and more like the memory of him, of his proximity, of the way he made the air around you thrum.
Eddie is behind you and Steve follows, walking the two of you out.
“You good to get back?” Steve asks, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his voice casual, but low, rich, and carrying that undercurrent of heat you can feel even across the distance.
“I’ll manage,” you murmur, each word tight in your chest.
Eddie cuts in, “You sure? I don’t mind driving you.” His eyes flash with mischief.
Steve shoots him a glowering look.
You laugh, shaking your head. “Sorry, Eds. I am not climbing into your van.”
Steve seems pleased with your response. “Kay, see you guys later.”
He gives another look towards you, tilting his head, almost like he was waiting for something, but a soft sigh leaves him when you don’t move from your spot. He closes the door sharply.
Eddie and you start the way towards your respective places. When you reach the end of the path, Eddie gives a lazy nod, raises two fingers in that infuriatingly casual salute, and heads off down the opposite street, whistling a tune that’s off-key and perfect for the moment.
You walk on, arms wrapped around yourself, breath fogging in the cold, the quiet of the empty street pressing in. Your shoes clunk against the pavement, echoing in the dark. And then, abruptly, you realize.
Your coat.
You halt, heart stuttering. It’s not on your shoulders. You groan and pivot, feet dragging, retracing your steps back toward the Pi Kappa Alpha house.
The lights inside the common room flicker faintly, casting pale rectangles on the walls. Steve’s still awake. Your chest pounds as you convince yourself it’s just the coat. Just the coat, nothing else.
You pray the door isn’t locked so you can slip in and slip out without Steve seeing you. You step up the porch stairs, fingers curling around the door handle, letting out a sigh of relief when it opens easily.
You start toward the staircase, searching for your coat, but it’s gone. Confusion knots in your stomach as you pause, scanning the common room, the floor, the couch. Then you hear footsteps back in the entry way. Slow, but weighted, the kind that makes your chest lurch.
Steve appears, descending the stairs, your coat held in one hand. He freezes when he sees you. The space between you shrinks into something impossible, thick with electricity. The air hums, the quiet holding its breath with you.
“Looking for this?” His voice cuts the silence, casual, but his eyes betray the unyielding line of restraint he’s holding.
You nod, throat suddenly tight. “Yeah. I—I forgot it.”
He doesn’t step closer. Not yet. He stands there, coat in hand, every inch of him controlled, restrained, and somehow so painfully magnetic. You notice the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the faint sheen of the day lingering on his skin.
Your pulse hammers in your ears. Step by careful step, you move closer, drawn by some gravity that isn’t rational. Then another step. The distance collapses.
“Steve,” you murmur, and your voice is a whisper, almost swallowed by the hush of the house, but it vibrates with need.
He descends the last few steps between you slowly, stopping just one step above you, so close your eyes drift to the shadowed lines of his neck, his mouth, the curl of his hair catching the soft lamplight, the quiet tension in his chest.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice rough, low, a gravel and honey rasp that makes your stomach tighten.
You don’t answer. You only reach up, fingers tangling in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.
He moves with you, closing the gap in a heartbeat that feels like eternity, and then his mouth is on your neck. It’s hot, urgent, claiming, and you gasp, tilting your head back, giving him more. The coat slips from your shoulders, falling to the floor with a soft, insignificant plumph, a discarded boundary.
His hands find your waist, firm and insistent, grounding you as your fingers thread into his hair. He groans, deep and rough, a sound that almost croons against your skin, and you press harder, tugging, desperate, needing, letting him know without words just how dangerously ready you are for this heat.
The staircase, the quiet house, the faint shadow of moonlight through the window, all of it fades into the ache of proximity, the press of skin and breath, the charged friction of two bodies orbiting a gravity all their own.
"Fuck," he breathes, and then he's lifting you, hands sliding down to grip your thighs, and you wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, locking your ankles behind him.
He pins you against the wall of the staircase, the plaster cool against your back, and his mouth moves lower, trailing along your jaw, down to the hollow of your throat, to the low cut of your sweater where your cleavage is exposed.
His lips are everywhere except where you can't have them, and it's maddening, intoxicating, the way he's devouring you without ever crossing that one line.
Your hands are still in his hair, pulling, guiding, and he makes this low, desperate sound that goes straight to your core.
"Steve," you gasp, and he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and half-lidded, pupils blown wide.
His chest is heaving, breath coming in short, ragged bursts, and you can feel the hard length of him pressing against you through his sweatpants.
He doesn't say anything.
He brings his hand up to his mouth, eyes locked on yours, and slowly, so fucking slowly, slides two fingers past his lips, wetting them with his tongue.
Your breath catches.
And then his hand is sliding under your skirt, fingers hooking into the side of your panties, and he drags them aside, the pad of his middle finger brushing against your clit.
You jolt, a sharp gasp escaping your lips, and he smirks, that cocky, infuriating smirk that makes you want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure.
Except you can't kiss him.
So instead, you dig your nails into his shoulders and grind down against his hand.
He groans, the sound vibrating through his chest, and then he's pushing one finger inside you, slowly, and you're already so wet that it slides in easily.
"Fuck," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "You're so—"
He doesn't finish the sentence.
He only adds a second finger, curling them inside you, and your head falls back against the wall, a broken moan spilling from your lips. He sets a rhythm, slow at first, almost teasing, his thumb circling your clit in time with the thrust of his fingers.
“So wet for me, honey. All for me?” He pants. His words are hot in your ear.
Your hips move on their own, grinding against his hand, chasing the friction, the pressure, the building heat that's coiling tight in your belly.
“Mhm. Since the movie started,” you confess.
His face is so close to yours, noses brushing, lips grazing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, but never—never—touching your lips.
It's torture. It's perfect.
“Aw, honey,” he clicks his tongue. “Your pussy been crying for me to touch it all night. Is that it?”
You nod, biting your lip from another wave of pleasure.
He chuckles. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take good care of you.”
Your breath mingles with his, hot and desperate, and you can feel the tension in his body, the way he's holding himself back, the way his cock is straining against his sweatpants, pressing into your thigh.
"Steve," you gasp, and his name sounds like a prayer, a plea, a demand all at once.
His pace quickens, fingers pumping harder, faster, and you're so close, teetering on the edge, and then—
You bite down on his bottom lip.
Not a kiss.
But your teeth, dragging across the plush softness of his mouth, tugging gently before releasing.
He makes a sound. It’s low, a guttural whine, completely wrecked, and his eyes flutter shut, mouth falling open, and for a second, you think he's going to break the rule.
You think he's going to kiss you.
His lips hover over yours, so close you can feel the ghost of them, and his fingers are relentless now, curling and thrusting and hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.
And then you're coming, hard and sudden, your body clenching around his fingers, thighs trembling, a broken cry tearing from your throat.
He holds you through it, fingers still moving, drawing it out, prolonging the pleasure until you're shaking, oversensitive, gasping for breath.
When you finally come down, he pulls his fingers out slowly, and you watch, dazed, as he brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean, eyes locked on yours the entire time.
"Jesus Christ," you breathe.
He grins, wicked and satisfied, and then he's adjusting his grip on you, hands sliding back under your thighs, then to your ass, and he carries you up the rest of the stairs like you weigh nothing.
You bury your face in his neck, lips finding the warm skin there, and you kiss him, open-mouthed and messy, tasting salt and something uniquely Steve.
He makes a low, pleased sound, and you feel it rumble through his chest.
By the time you reach his room, your heart is pounding again, anticipation thrumming through your veins. He kicks the door shut behind him, even though the house is empty, and then he's setting you down, slow and steady, but he doesn't let go.
Instead, he sinks to his knees in front of you, hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your skirt up as he goes. You watch, breathless, as he leans in and presses a kiss to your pussy, right through the damp fabric of your panties.
The sensation is muted but electric, and you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair.
He looks up at you, eyes dark and hungry, and then he's standing, hands framing your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones.
"We can go as slow as you want," he says, voice rough and sincere.
You don't even hesitate. You grab the hem of his shirt and yank it up. He laughs, surprised and delighted, and helps you pull it over his head, tossing it aside.
And then it's a frenzy.
Your shirt comes off next, then your skirt, his sweatpants, until you're both standing there in nothing but underwear, chests heaving, skin flushed.
You take a moment to just look at him.
He's beautiful in a way that feels almost unfair, broad shoulders, defined arms, the slope of his chest dusted with dark hair that trails down his stomach. The freckles that scatter across his collarbone and tummy.
There's a softness to his belly, a slight pudge that makes him look real, and the hair on his chest thickens as it travels down, forming a dark happy trail that disappears into the waistband of his boxers.
And then you see them, the scars.
Faint, jagged lines across his abdomen, like something clawed at him, tore into him.
You reach out, fingers tracing one of the scars gently, and he tenses under your touch.
"What—"
"Later," he says, voice tight. "I'll tell you later."
You nod, filing it away, and then your hand drops lower, palming the hard length of him through his boxers.
He hisses, hips jerking forward, and his hands are on you immediately, one sliding up to cup your breast, the other gripping your hip.
He leans down, mouth closing over your nipple through the fabric of your bra, and you arch into him, gasping. His teeth graze the sensitive peak, and then he's reaching around, unclasping your bra with practiced ease, and it falls away.
He pulls back enough to look at you, eyes raking over your bare chest, and the hunger in his gaze makes your knees weak.
"Fuck," he mutters, and then his mouth is on your breasts again, lips and tongue and teeth, and you're clutching at his shoulders, his hair, anything to keep yourself grounded.
His hands slide down to your hips, gripping hard, and he's guiding you backward, toward the bed, and then he's pushing you down, and you land with a soft bounce, breathless and aching.
He stands at the edge of the bed, chest heaving, and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He pulls them down slowly, and his cock springs free, thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip.
"Steve," you say, and it comes out half-awed, half-nervous. "How is that supposed to—"
He grins, cocky and reassuring all at once. "It'll fit. Trust me."
You sit up further on your elbows. “Do you need me to—”
“No,” he says sharply. “Later. But now, I need to be inside you.”
And then he's crawling onto the bed, settling between your legs, and his mouth is on your stomach, kissing, licking, trailing lower. It's messy, sloppy, his tongue dragging across your skin, and it should be gross, but it's not.
It's hot. It's so fucking hot.
He nips at your inner thigh, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, and you jolt, a sharp gasp escaping your lips.
And then he's biting down on the fabric of your panties, teeth catching the lace, and he drags them down your legs slowly, eyes locked on yours the entire time.
His hand wraps around his cock, pumping slowly, and the sight of it, of him, on his knees, dragging your underwear off with his teeth while he strokes himself, is almost too much.
Your panties hit the floor, and he's back between your legs, hands gripping your thighs, spreading them wider. He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock brushing against your slick folds, and you both freeze.
The air feels thick.
"You good?" he asks, voice strained, and you can see the tension in every line of his body, the way his jaw is clenched, the way his arms are trembling slightly where they bracket your hips. “Do you want this?”
You nod, breathless. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. I want this so bad. I want you so bad, Steve."
His face breaks out into a toothy grin, biting his lip. He pushes in slowly, just the tip, and the stretch is immediate and overwhelming. You gasp, fingers clutching at the sheets beneath you.
"Fuck," he groans, head dropping forward, hair falling into his eyes. "You're so—fuck, you're so tight."
He's barely inside you and already you feel impossibly full. Your body resists for a moment, the intrusion foreign and intense, and then something gives, relaxes, and he slides in another inch.
You whimper, nails digging into his forearms, and he pauses immediately.
"You okay?" he asks, and there's genuine concern in his voice, cutting through the haze of lust.
"Yeah," you gasp, even though it burns, even though you're not sure how you're going to take all of him. "Keep going. Please, Steve, keep—"
He pushes in deeper, measured, and you can feel every inch of him, the way he's stretching you open, filling you in a way that's almost too much but not quite enough.
“Shit," he breathes, and his whole body is shaking now, muscles stretched with the effort of holding back. "You feel so fucking good. So perfect."
Another inch. Then another. And then he's fully seated inside you, hips flush against yours, and you're both panting, trembling, completely overwhelmed.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
You both breathe, adjusting, and you can feel your body accommodating him, the initial burn fading into something deeper, something that makes your toes curl.
"Okay?" he murmurs, forehead dropping to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin.
"Yeah," you whisper, and then, because you need him to move, need him to do something before you lose your mind, you dig your nails into his back and say, "Move."
He pulls back slowly, almost all the way out, and the drag of him against your walls is exquisite, maddening. And then he thrusts back in, harder this time, and you cry out, back arching off the bed.
"Fuck," you gasp, and he does it again, setting a rhythm that's slow and deep and absolutely devastating.
His hands are everywhere. They’re gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, sliding up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples in a way that makes you gasp. His mouth is on your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder, kissing and biting and sucking marks into your skin that you'll see tomorrow and remember this.
"Steve," you moan, and he groans in response, hips snapping forward harder, faster.
"Say it again," he demands, voice rough and wrecked.
"Steve," you gasp, and he rewards you with a particularly deep thrust that hits something inside you that makes your vision blur.
Your hands slide down his back, nails raking across his skin, and he hisses, hips stuttering.
"Fuck, do that again," he says, and you do, dragging your nails down his back hard enough to leave angry red lines.
He moans, low and guttural, and his pace quickens, thrusts becoming rougher, more desperate, and you can feel the control slipping from both of you.
But you want more. You want him completely undone.
"Harder," you demand, and his eyes snap to yours, dark and wild.
"Yeah?" he asks, breathless.
"Yeah," you confirm, and then you wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper. "Don't hold back."
Something breaks in him.
His grip on your hips tightens, fingers digging into your flesh, and he pulls almost all the way out before slamming back in, hard and brutal and exactly what you need.
You cry out, the sound torn from your throat, and he does it again, and again, setting a punishing rhythm that has the bed frame creaking beneath you.
"Fuck, yes," you gasp, and he leans down, face inches from yours, noses brushing, lips grazing your cheek but never, never, touching your mouth.
The restraint makes everything else more intense. Every touch, every thrust, every ragged breath feels amplified, electric.
"You like that?" he asks, voice rough. "You like it when I fuck you like this?"
"Yes," you moan, and your hands are in his hair now, pulling, guiding. "God, yes, Steve, don't stop."
He doesn't.
He fucks into you with a single-minded intensity that makes your whole body shake, and you can feel the pleasure building, coiling tight in your belly, but you're not ready for it to end yet.
"Wait," you gasp, and he stops immediately, chest heaving.
"What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing," you say, pushing at his chest. "I just—I want—"
You don't finish the sentence. You just push him onto his back, and he goes willingly, eyes wide with surprise and arousal.
You straddle him, positioning yourself over his cock, and then you sink down slowly, taking him in inch by inch, and the angle is different, deeper, and you both groan.
"Fuck," he breathes, hands coming up to grip your hips. "Babygirl—"
You start to move, rolling your hips, and his words dissolve into a low moan. You set the pace now, languid, and you watch his face as you ride him. The way his eyes flutter shut, the way his mouth falls open, the way his chest heaves with every breath.
He looks wrecked. He looks beautiful.
"Look at me," you command, and his droopy eyes snap open, locking onto yours. “How bad do you want to kiss me, Steve?”
He shuts his eyes briefly, whimpering, “So fucking bad. Wanna taste you.”
You speed up, bouncing on his cock, and his grip on your hips tightens, guiding you, helping you, but you're the one in control now.
You settle your thumb on his chin, opening his mouth further. You then let a string of salvia fall from your lips, watching it glisten and glide down on his pink tongue. He growls, his eyes rolling back, swallowing, throat flexing.
"Touch me," you say, and one of his hands slides up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, while the other stays on your hip.
"Like this?" he asks, voice strained.
"Yes," you gasp, and then, "No—harder."
He pinches your nipple, rolling it between his fingers, and the sharp pleasure-pain makes you clench around him. His other hand palms your ass, gripping tight, nails latching into the soft plush.
He groans, hips bucking up to meet yours. "Fuck, you're going to kill me."
"Good," you say, breathless, and you lean down, bracing your hands on his chest, changing the angle so that every thrust hits that perfect spot inside you. Your nails make white crescents as you dig them into his skin.
The pleasure is building again, faster this time, and you can feel yourself getting close.
"Steve," you gasp, and he knows, he can tell, because his hand slides down between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and circling it in time with your movements.
"Come on," he urges, voice rough. "I want to feel you come."
The words, the pressure, the relentless friction—it's too much.
You're so close, teetering on the edge, and then he thrusts up hard, hitting that spot deep inside you, and you shatter.
“Come on pretty girl, stop trying to fight it. Wanna hear how good I make you feel.” Steve coos, despite the fact he was bucking his hips, making the filthiest shlick sounds as his cock plunges into your wet pussy.
Your orgasm crashes over you, sudden and overwhelming, and you cry out, body clenching around him, thighs trembling. “Steeeve,” you mewl, high and airy.
"Fuck, yes," he grunts, and he doesn't stop, doesn't let up, just keeps fucking up into you, prolonging your pleasure until you're shaking, gasping for breath.
But he's not done. Before you can fully come down, he's flipping you over, pinning you beneath him, and he's pounding into you with renewed intensity.
"Steve," you gasp, but you don't know if you're begging him to stop or keep going.
"One more," he says, voice rough and desperate. "Give me one more."
"I can't," you whimper, but your body is already responding, the pleasure building again despite the oversensitivity.
"Yes, you can," he insists, and one hand slides down to your clit again, rubbing tight circles that make you see stars.
His other hand grips your thigh, pushing it up and out, opening you wider, and the new angle has him hitting even deeper.
"Touch yourself," he says, pulling back just enough to look at you. "I want to watch."
You obey, hand sliding down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and you circle it in time with his thrusts.
The pleasure builds quickly, impossibly, and you're so close again, teetering on the edge.
"Steve," you gasp, and he leans down, forehead pressed to yours, noses brushing, lips so close you can feel his breath, hot and ragged.
"Come on, baby," he murmurs, “Come for me.”
And that's all it takes. You shatter again, body clenching around him, and this time he goes with you, groaning your name as his hips stutter, rhythm faltering.
"Fuck, I'm—" he gasps, and then he's pulling out quickly, hand wrapping around his cock, and he comes across your stomach, hot and messy, his whole body shaking with the force of it.
He collapses beside you, both of you panting, skin slick with sweat, limbs heavy and useless like gravity has finally won. The room feels too warm, thick with the scent of sex and Steve— soap and heat.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. There’s only the sound of breathing evening out, the distant hum of the building settling around you, the quiet that comes after something intense and irrevocable.
Then Steve turns his head to look at you.
He grins, lazy, loose, wrecked in the best way, and the sight of him like this makes something in your chest pull tight. His curls are plastered to his forehead, damp and unruly, sweat catching the low light as it trails down his temples and along his jaw. Rosy blooms mark his chest and neck, evidence of hands and mouths and moments that already feel surreal, like they might slip away if you blink too hard.
He lifts an arm, brushing a strand of hair from your face with surprising tenderness, his thumb lingering for half a second longer than necessary.
“Steve,” you say, your voice softer than you expect, like saying his name might break the spell.
He shifts closer, knuckles brushing up and down your arm, sending goosebumps racing across skin that’s already hypersensitive. “Mhm?”
You hesitate, words catching. “Is… is it okay if I—”
He nods immediately, sitting up. “Yeah, I can grab you a change of clothes.”
You blink, then shake your head slightly. “—if I take a shower before I leave?”
The two of you look at each other, a beat too long, both startled in the same quiet way. Steve’s jaw tightens and he clears his throat, gaze flicking away before coming back.
“Yeah,” he says. “I meant a change of clothes for after you got cleaned up. Sorry about that.” His eyes dip briefly to your stomach, to the mess clinging to your skin, then away again. “I got carried away. I normally wear a rubber.”
“Right,” you say, nodding. “Yeah. It’s okay.”
Carefully, legs still shaky, balance a little off, you sit up and stand, acutely aware of the way Steve watches you, like he’s trying to memorize something he won’t admit he wants to remember.
He clears his throat again. “You can use the bathroom I share with Buck. It's right through there. Don’t worry, none of the guys are here. They all left for break.” He pauses, then adds, awkward but earnest, “Do you want me to, um… start the shower for you? Show you where the towels are?”
You smirk despite yourself. “Are you trying to join me?”
His face goes pink instantly. He looks away. “No. I’m tryin’ to be nice.” Then he looks back, expression shifting, controlled, wicked. “Unless you want me to?”
You grab a pillow and toss it at him.
“I think I’ll manage, Harrington.”
“Right,” he says, catching it, placing it over his lap. “Well, if you do need help…”
You roll your eyes and head for the bathroom, heart still thudding. It’s strange being in here. His bathroom, one you never knew existed because Robin always steered you to the hall. It suddenly makes sense, the privacy of it, the convenience for when he sneaks girls into his room during parties.
The counter is wide, the sink double. You recognize Steve’s side immediately. It’s much neater than Buck’s, more products lined up with care, most of them clearly dedicated to his hair. You only met his fraternity brother Buck a handful of times, and each time you were not impressed. The clutter and stray beard hairs littering his side didn’t surprise you.
There’s a photo taped to Steve’s mirror. It’s of him and Robin together, dressed up, smiling like they’re sharing an inside joke, and you wonder if it’s from Robin’s prom. Another frame holds him, Robin, Nancy, Eddie, and a scrawny boy you don’t recognize, all squinting into the sun. You wonder if this was from their life back in Hawkins before they all scattered elsewhere.
The shower is clean, thankfully. The water is hot, soothing as it washes over you, carrying the weight of the night down the drain. You don’t bother washing your hair. No point getting it wet when you’ll be walking back out into the cold, but you still opened what you assumed was Steve’s shampoo… and conditioner? Sniffing the liquids. Yep. Definitely Steve.
Under the steady stream of hot water, your thoughts won’t settle. They slide and circle the same question, slippery as soap on skin. A change of clothes. You turn the phrase over and over, trying to decide what he meant by it. Practical, probably, something to wear so you wouldn’t have to tug your own clothes back on while you were still warm and loose and shaky. That made sense. That fits his rules.
But another part of you lingers on the possibility you don’t want to name too loudly. It’s something softer, something more intimate. A borrowed shirt, maybe, something worn thin and familiar, the kind you sleep in without thinking. The kind that implies staying. You tell yourself that’s ridiculous. There's a rule against it, after all, but the thought clings anyway, stubborn and quiet, mixing with the steam until you can’t quite tell where it ends and your want begins.
When you’re done, you wrap yourself in a towel, the air cooler now, sharper against your skin.
It doesn’t hurt to ask. That’s what you tell yourself as you stand there, water still clinging to your skin, the towel pressed tight to your chest. You’re not asking for anything, nothing dangerous, nothing that would cross the lines he drew so carefully. You’re only… clarifying. Reading the space between words. Trying to understand what he meant when he offered his clothes, when he’d looked at you like maybe leaving wasn’t the only option.
You step back into the bedroom, bare feet silent against the floor, heart still fluttering in the aftershock of everything that came before. “Hey, Steve… did you want me—”
The sentence dissolves before it can finish.
The room is dark now, the lamp switched off, the edges of everything softened by shadow. Steve is already in bed, sprawled face down beneath the covers, bare back exposed to the cool air, skin washed pale by the spill of moonlight through the window. His curls are flattened slightly against the pillow, his cheek turned into it, breathing slow and even.
It was peaceful in a way that feels almost surreal. Like you hadn’t been wrecked together moments ago, breathless and tangled and calling each other’s names into the dark.
The quiet hums around you, thick and final.
You stand there for a second too long, watching the rise and fall of his back, the faint marks blooming across his shoulders and neck. There’s something achingly intimate about seeing him like this— unguarded, asleep, already on the other side of the moment while you’re still suspended inside it.
Carefully, you turn away.
You gather your clothes from where they’re scattered, dressing slowly, piece by piece, as if moving too fast might break something fragile. When you reach for your underwear and don’t find it, you pause. A small, helpless laugh ghosts past your lips. You shrug, letting it go, imagining him finding it later, some quiet, ridiculous relic of the night, and the thought tugs a faint smile from you.
You slip down the stairs, the house hushed and hollow, and find your coat draped over one of the steps like it’s been waiting. You pull it around yourself, the fabric brushing against your still-damp skin as the cold air kisses you awake again.
Outside, the street stretches empty and still, the pavement silvered with moonlight. Before you turn away, you look back, up at the window that’s his.
And maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still humming in your veins. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking.
Summary: Told off and warned away from reclaiming your horse, you devised a different plan entirely, one that slipped through loopholes and skirted the rules Tommy laid down. But what will come to pass when you and the Brummie gangster finally lock horns in a betting shop showdown? One thing is certain, a dance as old as time was about to waltz into Small Health, and everybody would be watching up until the very last beat.
Warnings: Language, angst.
Word Count: 3.5K
[Masterlist] [Previous Part] [Trailer]
“ Of all the men in Birmingham…” Came a gravely rasp from across the yard with pride and weary affection for the girl that had been gifting him headaches since he renounced the devil at your church dunking. “...you decided to steal from Thomas Shelby”
Charlie.
You were up on your feet like a fire poker to a long-suffering mule's backside as your no-nonsense godfather crossed the yard with a smashed together sandwich to shut you up long enough to get a word in edgeways.
“Sit. Eat” his eyes brooked no argument, sharp enough to put you back in your place, which just so happened to be the wooden crate you'd taken up residency on for the entirety of the morning while watching the stables.
“ Where's, Boy?” you carefully asked, eyes flicking to the sandwich, half love, half soot, tossed into your lap.
“ Farriers, for Wolverhampton. Threw a shoe when he was hauled from your granddad's back garden. At John's ankle, mind” Charlie murmured, cracking a match against the cigarette perched between his lips, hands lined deep with wisdom, earth and engine oil.
Wolverhampton. That bastard Shelby was racing him today.
“That lads' achilles has been knackered since Eddie's shovel in 1907. Now it's all floating bones and loose tendons” Charlie continued, describing the tooth picked Shelby's battle wounds with the poise of every roughened Midlands man, gracing you with enough detail to put you off your lunch.
Pulling up a makeshift chair beside you, Charlie's weathered eye followed as you picked and prodded at your sandwich before drifting over the Small Heath skyline of billowing factory smoke and slate-roofed terrace’
“You're not to do that again”
Here we go.
“I was rescuing him…” your quick rebuttal came with blazing eyes, brows furrowing at your impending telling off.
“Give me strength…” Charlie muttered with a long-suffering sigh for his goddaughter, who had once run riot in her wellies through his yard.
“...from Thomas Shelby's profiteering clutches before he raced him into the ground to fill his pockets” you finished, punctuating the P in pockets with enough emphasis to make your point thoroughly heard.
“ Gave you too much rope. Spoilt you” Charlie rested his weight onto his knees, sharp eyes squinting into the past when life felt simpler. Less fuss and less fretting over, you.
“ Me. Your grandad. Your grandad's men. Slipping you pennies to get sweets and ribbons for your hair as we talked business” he murmured, the years catching up with him as he turned his greying head to see you, a woman now. Beautiful, strong and reckless enough to shed what was left of his hair.
“ Didn't think you'd be taking notes. That it'd turn you into a hardened criminal” he finished with a rueful edge, eyes softening as they lingered on you.
“ I'm not a criminal. I'm not like him” you gestured to Birmingham, to the gritty streets ruled by a man that governed everything and everyone until it bled dry.
“ No, you're not” Charlie shot you a pointed look, brow creased with the weight of secrets held, oaths pledged a lifetime to friends and family. “But don't fool yourself, girl. You've been raised amongst men like Tommy your entire life”
“Your grandfather's hands don't run clean. Neither do mine. Your uncles. Your…”
“ It's not the same” you cut in, head snapping to your godfather, chest tight with frustration. Unfair, biased frustration in every sense, but born from a fierce unshakable loyalty to the men who made you.
“ Aye, it's not” Charlie's gravelly agreement hit worse than any lie he could've conjured up to ease the blow of truth. “Because you've been blinded by the love of your grandad, softened with affection by his men that sat at your family's table, indulging you as you played tea party with them over their plans to bury the next body between the carrots and parsnips in your grandfather's allotment”
The hard hitting facts of your childhood sank your shoulders, ones they kept safe from your young eyes, spoken quiet around your innocent ears. But ones no amount of childish play, no porcelain dolly or make-believe could shield you from forever.
You had been born into a world of crime.
A world of miniature floral teacups and saucers held by bloody hands. By gangsters trying to brighten a little girl's day.
“ Truth is, you've been raised by criminals, and now you're playing with the biggest one in Birmingham. Worse still, he's playing back”
Charlie's words should have landed the deterrent they were, but you were never one to bristle at a warning let alone listen.
“ So before you send us all to an early grave and piss off the meanest sore loser in all the West Midlands, you'll stay away. You won't go riling him up. Won't go plotting any more heroic horse rescues” he began listing the do’s and don'ts, laying down lines you were already measuring the distance to cross.” You'll keep your head down. And behave”
“ Charlie. I'm a grown woman...”
“Aye, that you are” his voice softened through his hard exterior, from years of dealing with the stubbornly inclined members of your family. “And I ain't trying to break your spirit, girl. Just trying to guide it away from a man who only knows how to win”
Because Tommy wasn't just any man. Wasn't just any gangster. His ties to you were knotted tight with loyalty to your grandfather. Add a stubborn, granddaughter circling one of the most feared men in England into the mix, wouldn't just spell trouble, it would demand a finale to the Small Heath spectacle you had started.
But then why had you been trained ready for every battle worthy of a fight? Raised with your chin up and your boots planted? Told the ill-worded advice by your grandfather at the age of fifteen that if a boy ever thought himself brave enough to speak filth in your ear, you were to scream back so loud you deafened him of the thought entirely? Or told by Charlie that if someone said you couldn’t do something, you were to do it twice, once to prove them wrong, and again to make sure they bloody remembered it with a sharp heel to their toes.
They were men of their word.
Surely a man cut from the same cloth, could take the measure of that?
“ Enough now, lass. That's enough”
Sat bleeding ink instead of men, Tommy buried himself in the tedium of his day as he mechanically worked his way through a mountain of paperwork.
For the forecast spelt clear skies. Not a single rain-soaked cloud loomed overhead, no strong winds threatened to uproot trees, to change the course of his day as he sat behind his desk in his betting shop on Watery Lane.
But British weather had always been a fickle foe. And a woman's grievances just as so.
Head buried in contracts, a bristle of cold kissed Tommy's neck as his office window lurched open. Enough of an irritation to pause his pen and drag his attention to the weathered wooden frame.
Snapping it closed, with every expectation the world would be kept at bay, he shut out his city, the gust of wind and a pair of heels striking down like thunderbolts on the road below. His road.
“ Bloody hell. Bloody fucking ‘ell!” Arthur burst through the betting shop, flinging his peaked cap onto Tommy’s desk with a grin as wide as a double-decker bus destined to plough straight through his brother’s morning and deposit a very unwelcome passenger.
“ Arthur. The door” Tommy rasped, rationing what patience he had left for his older brother's boisterous arrival. “You're letting a draft in”
But his orders went ignored, when Arthur planted his palms flat on his brother's desk, leaning over him like some thundercloud ready to split open, and said one word, one wicked, heart-stuttering word.
“Epona”
A prickle ran the length of Tommy’s spine. The betting shop door groaned on its hinges, ushering in a cold gust and a pair of heels that stalked across the floor, slow, deliberate and hunting.
Silence swallowed the shop. The air drew taut as every punter, every Shelby man watched feline steps circle their man-made ecosystem with mother nature's most fiercest weapon. A woman, dressed to kill.
Runaway girl.
“ Fuck me…” Arthur breathed, eyes tracking you as you marked your territory, perfume cutting through the stale air with a promise of summer, dress shifting over hips built for sundown.
Sat at his desk, Tommy hadn't moved. Hadn't so much as breathed. But his eyes…shifted. Dragged themselves without permission to you and all your cleverly constructed audacity trespassing into his shop, his bloody shop. Commanding it with an authority older than any notion of superiority men had ever written for themselves with something far more ancient.
Female allure. Unchallenged and very fucking inconvenient
Clever girl.
Too casual, too unbothered for a man who plotted his days down to the last pen stroke in his little black book of doom, Tommy pushed up from his leather chair with the slow, dangerous ease of a player watching a chess piece on his board move without permission.
Every light step you took was deliberate, every strutting length of leg disarming as Tommy watched, arms folded, shoulder to the doorframe of his office, with eyes disobeying him once again, dragging down to where rebellious boots had traded themselves in for sleek heels.
You’d flipped the switch, tossed the table, changed the battlefield without warning.
You were prowling. And god, you looked good doing it.
Fuck.
The irritation, no, the sheer nerve of you, strutting into his shop and making every fool in it lose their footing, made his jaw tighten until it snapped.
And you still hadn’t fucking looked at him.
“ Easy, brother. Let her prance like a prize pony” Arthur's voice came low and gruff at his shoulder as he watched you circle with amusement.
Prize pony. Christ, Arthur. Of all the fucking descriptions.
But this prize pony hadn’t come to rile him up. Hadn’t come with a heroic horse-rescue on her agenda. She'd simply come to place a bet.
“ One hundred pounds, 5 to 1 at Wolverhampton on Lady Luck's Liar”
The room froze.
Arthur’s amusement short-circuited into disbelief. Tommy’s jaw clenched so hard his tooth cracked. And Scudboat, tasked with taking the bet, stared at you like you’d just aimed a cannon at his chest and told him not to fret over it.
Not Monaghan Boy. Not the horse you'd raised from a foal, but Lady Luck’s Liar.
Lady Luck’s FUCKING Liar.
“ That's…that's one hell of a bet, Miss” Scudboat, for all his rough and weathered edges, looked momentarily displaced by the hefty sum of money you wished to bet.
“ It is. Anybody would think I've been tipped off” you cooed with a breathy feminine laugh, playing the unassuming woman in a man's world
“ Tommy. Don't” Arthur's voice came low with a warning as Scudboat's eyes flicked past you to Tommy's, blazing, molten, and fixed on the back of your head.
You hadn’t just placed a bet. You’d challenged him. And as Scudboat waited for the go-ahead, Tommy’s sheer will, the hard glare in his eyes, demanded you turn. To see, to understand the full weight of the play you had just made.
But no wish was granted, no reprieve given. You stood firm, calm and composed as he silently burned behind you. Until…
He nodded.
Order given. Bet taken. Arthur cursing his brother until his dying day. Tommy stood rooted, steel eyes following every deliberate movement as you folded the betting slip with delicate fingers and finally, turned to face him.
You'd done him over. He knew it. Arthur knew it. The whole room knew it. And the worst part? He only went and bloody let you.
Horns locked, eyes unflinching. This wasn't a reunion between two players. It was a reckoning. Twin flames daring each other to snuff the other out.
One pointed heel in front of the other, the room held its breath as you stalked towards him, watching him armour himself with an arsenal of clever words, while you carried only one deadly declaration.
“ I win” you breathed, too soft, too delicate for the vindictive temptress he'd branded you as you swept past him out the betting shop door.
Eyes following every careful step, every deliberate sway of rustling fabric, Tommy's boots stayed planted as you left his mind a ticking time bomb, decoding your play before he ordered the silent audience back into formation, slamming his office door shut behind him.
“ Shows over!”
“ Of all the women in Birmingham…” came a stern voice from Tommy's office door, carrying the weight of not one halfwit nephew, but four. “You decided to challenge Knock ‘Em Dead Ed's granddaughter”
Polly.
Chair scraping back, Tommy rose to his feet, in no mood to be mothered by a pecking hen that had a particularly sharp beak.
“ Sit” Polly commanded, watching him begrudgingly ease back into his brooding Birmingham-forged chair he'd been stewing in silence since your departure.
“ You're playing with fire, Thomas” she warned, shadows of experience darkening her eyes from years of dealing with the Shelby siblings and the trouble they'd brought to her doorstep.
“ Not playing, Pol. Snubbing out” Tommy murmured, cigarette perched between his lips as the aspen match caught light, illuminating the creases of calculation that had tightened since you came strutting into his life.
“ Snubbing out Eddie’s granddaughter? Ed? The same man that blew off his brother-in-law's toe with a shotgun because he didn't say please?
“ Pretty please” Tommy corrected, fingers shifting the pile of London-bound contracts he had every intention of signing and sending off, before a gust of wind brought the sound of heels through his betting shop door, derailing his day.
“ What?” Polly looked bewildered, yet wearily intrigued by what Steady Eddie deemed toe-loss worthy.
“ He didn't say, pretty please” Tommy muttered, moving his pen across the file as his eyes flicked to his aunt, waiting for further elaboration. “ Ed's big on manners”
Closing her eyes, Polly found herself grateful, albeit briefly, for the chaos of her own household and everybody's toes still intact.
Christ, that family.
Shifting her focus to her most troublesome nephew, Polly looked at him, really looked at him. Tracking his eyes as they skimmed the same tedious line twice over.
“ You're bored” she said sharp and quiet, the corners of her eyes tightening as she sized him up.
“ Business is running smoothly. Money rolling in. No fires. No threats” she rattled off the usuals, but the one thing he couldn't bring himself to name.
“ She's the threat” he rebutted too fast, too defensive to stop the satisfied crease at the corner of Polly's lips from deepening.
“ To what? Your life? Your sanity? Or something else entirely, Tommy?” She mussed with far too much enjoyment, stoking the flame of her nephew's stretched patience.
“ To order” he ground his cigarette to dust in the glass-blown dish on his desk as he rose to his feet.
“ She's determined. I'll give her that. But she needs to understand there are rules. My rules. She can't just strut through my shop…”
“ And place a one-hundred-pound bet, that you accepted” Polly sliced neatly through his indignation with perfect precision.
Finger froze half way to the heavens, Tommy was silenced mid lecture, shut up by his aunt and brought back down to his slip up.
He'd taken your bet. He'd authorised it. He'd been a willing participant in the dance you started.
“Pocket change” he muttered in a pitiful attempt to regain his dignity as he hunted for another cigarette, shielding his pride from Polly's all seeing eye behind the sparked match.
“ Now. If you don't have any actual business…” Tommy settled back into his leather throne, to the scatter of papers in front of him as he resumed his day's work. “...see yourself out. And shut the door”.
Dismissal heard, the sound of Polly's heels tapped out her exit, but not before landing one last truth at the threshold of his office door.
“ You like her”
Fuck.
This time, he was waiting. No heels trumpeting your arrival, no boisterous brother barging in announcing you like some horse-racing goddess sent down from the heavens to rain on his parade.
He'd positioned himself, front and center. Your winnings rolled into one gain, gripped in his fist as he stood beside an empty till that demanded answers.
For Lady's Lucky Liar had won 5 to 1, a neck ahead of Monaghan Boy. Leaving Tommy fleeced, furious and waiting for you.
And here you fucking came.
Heels sounded smugly across cobbles, each sharp step another dent in Tommy's wallet, until the door swung open and you walked in.
Not a hair out of place, not a step out of stride, your eyes locked on the thieving bastard's ankles crossed, perched against the winnings table with performative ease.
“ Congratulations” he drawled, raspy and rough as you strutted up with that same sly smirk that had him lose control in a shower of shattered glass.
“ Beginner's luck” you remarked like you hadn't a clue about odds and the quirks of horse racing where a turn in the wind could change the course of a race.
“ Hm” Tommy hummed, gaze tracking over that stubborn Eddie streak in the flecks of your eyes.
“ See…” he pushed off the counter's edge, stepping a foot closer into your rebel stance. “ The funny thing about luck is…it runs out”
Winnings held out, the steel in Tommy's eyes narrowed iron tight, welding your reaching hand to the bundle of notes before he suddenly pulled you forward with them.
“ How?” he ground out through gritted teeth, low and dangerous as a battle of gripping hands on the winnings raged between you.
“ It's driving you mad, isn't it?” you seethed savouring the rare slip of the cool and composed Tommy Shelby's mask fall off.
“ Tell me. Or I'm telling on you” he breathed hot against your ear as your eyes snapped up, widening at the audacity, at the threat of tattling on you to your grandfather like some petulant child.
“ What? You don't think I would?" his head tilted off center with a ghost of a smirk twitching infuriatingly at the corner of his mouth. “I'm a very petty man”.
With a harsh tug you pulled the notes into you, feeling his grip tighten as you looked up with unflinching eyes.
“ Pathetic, more like” you spat, chin jutting as a deep chuckle rumbled from his chest. Everything but amused, and everything a challenge.
“ Call me what you like, sweetheart” his gaze flicked down to the fire blazing in yours as he pulled the notes back, reclaiming them. ” I'm sure grandad Ed will have some choice words for his pride and joy too…after he learns how his granddaughter shook his business associate down, delaying his share of money in a deal he's been waiting a month on”.
This fucking bastard.
“ Now. Tell me. How did you know Monaghan Boy would lose?” He demanded, as a triangle of stares between Arthur, John and Polly watched two rams go at each other in a tug of war over a bundle of King George notes.
Shoulders straightening, satisfaction eclipsed the fire within you, snuffing it out long enough for you to deliver your play.
“ You entered him in a four-lap race. My Boy may run flat and fast, but always falls back on the third” you said, practically basking in the moment as you watched the penny drop.
Fuck. He knew he shouldn't have sent John to that practice run.
“ Well done, you” he muttered, releasing the wad of cash into your possession with begrudging respect. “ What you gonna do with your winnings?”
“ Buy Boy back”
That got you a laugh, a real one. A fucking irritating one.
“He's not for sale, love” Tommy toyed, rolling his tongue across the roof of his mouth with a trace of amusement as his hands settled loosely in his trouser pockets.
“Everythings for sale” you shot back, tucking your money away from his thieving reach.
“Those winnings won't cover his worth. Besides, his value just went up, right this very moment, now I know what to work on so he doesn't fall back on the third”
What. a. prick.
Tommy watched the fire within you reignite with renewed satisfaction. Eyes fierce, glare stubborn, he could practically see the fury you felt steaming off you.
It was annoying. Irresistibly annoying.
“ Could earn him back” his words sounded like an after thought even to him, but too little too late to be retracted when your focus snapped back.
“ Earn him back?”
“ Working for me” he proposed, the offer landing at your feet like a challenge as you scoffed in disbelief.
“ Doing what, exactly?” your eyes narrowed, arms crossing in front of you, a one woman reckoning poised to tell him to go straight to hell.
“ Stables. At your godfather Charlie's yard” he rolled a cigarette across his bottom lip, perched it into the corner of his mouth as his eyes hardened. “ Train my horses. Train Monaghan boy so he wins in the fourth. Muck ‘em out. Then we'll talk”
“ A stable hand?” your brows arched high, skepticism spitting off every syllable.
“That beneath Eddie's princess is it?” he mocked roughly, painting you the pampered granddaughter of a working class man.
He'd challenged you. Prodded your pride, knowing full well you were raised in a house by a man cut from the same cloth as him. Knew he'd charged that fight within to prove him wrong, not once but twice, just like your godfather had taught you.
Your soft spot for your Boy had been weaponised. Cracking open your armour enough for hope to bleed out.
It was an offer, a trap, a chance. One you couldn’t refuse.
“ When?”
“ Monday. Charlie's. Seven sharp”
For a long beat your eyes held steady, sealing a pact neither one of you would dare, let alone dream of naming.
No last word. No triumphant glance. Just a shared impulse to turn, you both pivoted in perfect sync, as if the choreography had been decided centuries ago. A waltz danced across the cosmos through different lifetimes. Always the same game. Always the same two.
And so it began. Again.
*I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter in the comments below 🩵*
[Next Part] coming soon!
Tag list: @mrsnms @outlanderuniverse @numberonerwitch @kittygirl634 @blushingbunnynextdoor
Summary: Warned away, and promised retribution. Every threat, be it unspoken or implied by the notorious gangster, flew over your head when you set your sights on Charlie's yard, on Monaghan Boy, the very next morning. But what will unfold when Tommy learns you had not only undermined him in a town where he rules, you'd completely disobeyed him? And when answers tie you back to a legend from his childhood years, will Tommy's realisation that he's bound by loyalty, sway his mind?
Warnings: Language, angst.
Word Count: 4.5K
[Masterlist] [Previous Part] [Trailer]
They say red skies at night, shepard's delight. Red skies in morning, shepard's warning.
But what damning day awaited the residents of Small Heath when they woke the next morning beneath an ink-blotted sky, painted dark and dangerous?
For clouds towered overhead in heavy, careless brushstrokes, looming over a town that still slept unaware of a woman’s warpath, thundering forward with a single-minded intent that would tear through the order of things in a place that had long run smooth and steady beneath its ruler’s thumb.
“ No trouble reported by Isaiah, Tom” John, swept through the Garrison with easy swagger and loose limbs, dropping into a chair across from Arthur, whose hooded eyes were fixed on the most troubled of Shelby's, stood silently by the window.
Trouble.
The word was starting to piss him off.
Because not every rebel yell came guns blazing. Not every agenda came calculated and planned. Sometimes it arrived dressed with its heart on its sleeve, powered by something far more dangerous.
Loyalty.
Love.
“ Hear that, brother? Nothing untoward” Arthur murmured, eyes narrowing as he followed Tommy's gaze drifting lowly over his territory, body still with a threat he felt bone deep and aching for retaliation.
“ Quiet out” Tommy muttered, steel eyes flicking from the creak and rumble of wooden carts hauled by thoroughbreds over cobbles, the clatter of milk bottles on doorsteps unsteady against strong winds rolling in.
“ Sunday. Mass” Arthur murmured, smoothing his moustache as he clocked the look in his brother's eye, dragging half remembered warnings from old wives tales into the present.
“ Mmm. Gonna rain” Tommy's muttering continued, eyes drifting up to the darkening skies, blanketing the streets back into slumber.
“ It won't break” Arthur shot back, voice hardening against his brother's superstitions on wronged women bringing ill weather.
“ Quiet. Too quiet”
“ Fuck sake” Arthur ran a hand down his face, patience now thoroughly depleated as Tommy went on reading omens in the clouds like they owed him answers to the predicament that had walked into his life, and left wearing rebellion on its lips.
“ Right!” Arthur clapped his heavy hands together, sudden and booming enough for John's bones to jostle, sloshing brewed tea down his front.
“ Christ, Arthur…”
“ Folk are lining up outside to bore us with their life's troubles, so look sharp, boys. And John, change your shirt, you muppet” Arthur managed to ignore and rebuke his fair-haired brother's clumsiness in one breath, eyes already snapping to the other one.
The brooding one.
“Tom. You listening?”
“ Tommy?” Arthur's jaw worked, older sibling temper warring with the little restraint he was born kicking and punching into the world with.
Eyes still fixed on every sight and sound from his streets, Tommy scanned the skyline of bricked terraces until they landed over Charlie's yard in the hazy distance.
Monaghan Boy. Just a stone's throw away. A gate push for one woman, one insufferable, bullheaded woman, to blaze into his life without permission and turn his day upside down. Again.
“ Let them in” Let her try.
Boots kicking up mud, splattering the hem of your ivory dress, you appeared on the road heading to your godfather's yard a walking contradiction for every green tempered-lad, every rough-handed man to clock the defiance in your sway, the sheer audacity in every feline step as you strutted pass them with far too much confidence for a woman of your time.
But as you rounded the gate into Charlie's property, you left the judgemental stares at its threshold, to be met with the playful smirk of a soft hazel-eyed lad, more than pleased with the turnabout of his quiet Sunday morning.
Isaiah.
“ Lost, sweetheart?” He caught up to you in two strides, hands stuffed in his pockets, grinning as you stepped not one inch of a foot out of motion.
“ Not with you here” you cooed to his delight, sweet talking your way further into the yard as he doubled down and the peacocking began.
Now, in Isaiah's defence, John hadn't exactly specified let alone described what trouble had the young soldier stationed outside the yard since yesterday afternoon.
And as he attempted to charm his way into your knickers with one liners and penny press poetry, it became clear the toothpick Peaky failed to mention said trouble would look like, you.
You had been underestimated, dismissed by the fair-haired Shelby as nothing more than a spoiled girl throwing a tantrum over her pony.
But you never suffered fools. And you wouldn't suffer them, bend to them, break under their rules, their misplaced belief that you were merely a woman having a hissy fit.
No. You were about to lay a new law down, and if that required making a holy show of yourself, then by God, you would give them one.
After all, it was your prerogative, your damn birth right as a woman to make a scene.
“ What did you say your name was, love?” Isaiah matched you step for step, careful not to pull ahead of a woman that walked with such mesmerising determination. For it would've been a disservice to the female species, to insult a confidence so self possessed it bent the air around it.
“I didn't” you offered him an innocent smile, convincing if not for the way your lips parted, sickly sweet with amusement. Disarming enough to make the lad falter mid-step. Hell, dangerous enough to make the devil himself cock a blushing brow.
But even you came to a stop when a burly stacked man, arms folded, stood there grinning the observer to the play you had made as old as time.
“ Well, well, well. Just who do we got ‘ere then?” His amusement was as rich as his old country lilt. He was no foolish boy chasing skirt. He was a dog, an old dog. Or more specifically, Johnny Dogs.
“ So you're the lass giving our Tom the ‘ol runaround then, ay?” his teeth flashed with a grin, a meeting of players who’d long ago burnt the rule book, living their lives by the beat of their own drum. Loud. And unapologetically.
“ You what?” Isaiah's head snapped back and forth between you and Johnny in disbelief, that doe-eyed, fluttering lashes all innocent you, were marked as trouble. “Nah, don't believe it”
“ Be getting gone now, lad. I'll handle this one” Johnny hooked his thumbs into the knuckle-deep pockets of his waistcoat, eyes fixed on you as your boot shifted in the gravel at the sound of a horse's whinny from the stables, alert, restless, and having already chosen a side.
“Tommy said I'm under orders…”
“ Yeh? Then what am I doing here then? Johnny cut straight through Isaiah's protest, theatrics rolling off him only he could understand “Come for the picturesque scenery, have I? To bathe under Birmingham's bright and glorious sun?”
“ It's cloudy out, Johnny” Isaiah's eyes flicked up to the sky with genuine consideration for the stocky man's weather preferences as you inched a breath closer to the stables.
“Papers you eejit! Waiting on Charlie to get back from the market, ain't I?” Johnny waved the form in the air, the paperwork only Charlie Strong's eye would decide was fulfilled without so much as a cog or copper bolt pocketed by the Irishman's boys.
Market day.
Charlie would be with your grandad. Livestock. Auctions. And a mid morning whiskey on the way home.
Shit. You were cutting it close.
With your godfather’s arrival imminent, you moved with an unstoppable determination, cutting through the bickering men towards the wooden barn. Towards your boy. Monaghan Boy.
“ Hang on there! Now just you hang on a minute, Miss” Johnny's head spun as quick as his boots as you marched into the stables carrying the same insistent will of every dauntless woman who'd come before you.
Flying into the stables, your daring endeavour felt ever more justified as an impatient hoof struck the ground, thunderous, snapping and twisting hay beneath it.
“ Told you I'd come for you” you murmured crossing the barn as pointed ears flicked forward, powerful muscles bristled under your touch, recognising its own.
“ Easy boy…” you whispered, closing your eyes, a gentle hand down his muzzle mapping the path for the bond between owner and animal to root as you rested your head on his.
A nicker, a nudge, Monaghan Boy sought your affection, attention you didn't have a second to spare as the rapidly dwindling time limit began to stretch thin enough for you to hear the echoes of your mornings plans on the streets of Small Heath make their way back to Tommy.
“ Have you lost all sense, girl?!” Johnny skidded into the barn, eyes widening as you heaved Tommy's, yes Tommy's, leather stitched saddle onto Monaghan Boy's back in another act of thievery against the most notorious gangster in the West Midlands.
“ If it's any comfort…” your head spun over your shoulder with a teasing lilt rolling off your tongue as you grabbed a harness . “...I never possessed much to begin with”
“ Jesus, mother Mary, woman! Do you know just who you're thieving from?” Johnny strode heavy footed towards you, yanking the bridle from your hands, stuffing it deep under his checkered shirt with a wary eye on just how determined of a woman you were.
“Yes” your replied unruffled as you marched to the tack wall, rounded by an exasperated Johnny, fast on your heels.
“Tom won't only have my head for this, he'll serve it up centerpiece on a silver platter for Christmas lunch!” he followed a step behind you, calloused hands on his hips as you bridled your horse with fast, efficient fingers.
“Garnish it he will. With sprigs of thyme and twigs of rosemary!” The Irishman's gnarly fears for his head being served as the main course in Tommy’s dinner of wrath fell on deaf ears as you threaded and looped the stirrups.
Monaghan Boy ready, you span on your muddied boot, offering a half-spun solution to the rambling man's troubles. “Tell him, I overpowered you. That you were a…damsel in distress”
“ Damsel in distress, she says” Johnny was as equally baffled by your remedy as he was thoroughly charmed by your shrewd sense of cunningness as he clocked the leading rope between your fingers.
Before he was burdened and blamed, before he could shift a muscle, the rope coiled around him, snug and utterly useless as a restraint.
“ Could have made a half convincing job of it, lass” he muttered, sat propped and perched on a wooden stool, pockets riffled for a consolation cigarette you popped between his lips with an effortless flourish.
Fingers flexing under the leather reins, you sat saddled on your horse as his weight shifted under you, taut muscles and rumbling breath braced for your command as a flicker of hesitation crawled up your spine.
“ You ride out that gate girl, there'll be hell riding after you. He will find you” Johnny's final warning came stripped of humour, backed by decades of loyalty, of blood spilled and debts paid in the name of Tommy's success.
“I’m already going to hell”
Your rebuttal earned you a sly twitch of amusement from ol’Dogs followed by a conspiratorial nod of approval.
“ Then ride” Johnny struck the match, stoking the rebellion already burning within you as your body pressed and moulded into your horse, forging you both into an unstoppable force of nature.
One breath, one beat of your thundering heart from the point of no return, a shadow passed in front of the stable doors blocking your warpath.
“Johnny?” Isaiah stepped in, fresh brew in his hand, eyes sweeping the scene until they widened at Dogs bound in rope and you, sweet innocent you, mounted, reins tight in your fists.
“Now hang on a minute...” his hand instinctively came up, eyes tightening as he watched you hone in on over his shoulder, pass listening, pass reasoning and looking past him. “Just wait a second…”
“Go boy!”
Your heels drove down, Monaghan Boy surged forward, spinning Isaiah with his tea as his thundering hooves stormed out the stables at lighting speed.
“ Ride like the devils on your back, girl!” Johnny bellowed, half gone in kindred spirit with you as you tore out the yard, hair whipping in the wind, wild and dangerous, and completely untamed.
Head snapping from your co-conspirator back to the blur of you, Isaiah's boots scuffed and dragged along the gritted ground as he took off with the burden of having to inform the very man who read omens in the sky and warnings in the wind. Tommy.
“ FUCK!”
As all hell broke loose mere yards away from the Shelby's sat bored with unspent energy, the three brothers' morning was about to go from uneventful, to very bloody eventful.
“ Goodbye now, Mrs. Pritchard. My brother John will see you out” Tommy guided the permed pensioner and her concerns over the whereabouts of her missing plant pots to the snug door with barely contained impatience.
“ Bloody hell, they don't half go on” Arthur stretched and groaned as the morning's tedious parade of grievances stiffened his joints.
They were gangsters for god's sake. Hearing about the local nannies’ crochet clubs’ conspiracies on Small Heath's shrubbery thief for thirty minutes would be mind-numbing enough to make the local vicar pray for christs coming, and he was numbingly dull.
Uncurling his stiffened back, Tommy poured himself a well-earned measure of whiskey when the telephone shrilled in the enclosed room, igniting murderous thoughts from within.
Hope someone's dead. Or better yet…needing it.
“Christ, slow down would ya…” Arthur's furrowed brow tried to make sense of the frantic voice on the line, tugging it from his ear when the caller's panic escalated. “ Isaiah, for heaven's sake, would you..”
Tommy's eyes flew up from his moving pen. John freezed mid-step back into the room, into a shift in energy that felt far from any mundane morning and everything that spelt a day of…trouble.
“ Arthur” Tommy's hand shot out for the phone, eyes brooking no argument, no patience to wait a fraction of a second longer.
“ Tell me” he commanded down the line, all pleasantries stripped away, replaced by the jaw-tightening need to know what the cogs in his head had already turned into fact. Not fiction. Not some marginally possible reason why one of his men was calling in a panic. But fact. And the fact was…
You'd done it. You'd only gone and stolen his BLOODY horse.
When the call ended, the information transmitted, Tommy's hand steadily released the receiver onto the handle with an echoing click that filled the room like a punctuation, like a gunshot right through his waiting brothers.
Sat in a suffocating silence Arthur and John watched as Tommy's eyes fixed on a point across the room, jaw working, mind working into something that had frozen the control from his face and replaced it with something far more volatile. Fury.
Chair scraping back, fist curling around his coat, Tommy didn't speak, didn't run into the storm you'd created, he thundered, boots heavy on aged wood, barrelling out the Garrison.
“The girl…” John's head snapped to Arthur as the snug door swung back and forth the teasing pendulum of choice, like fate hadn't already decided, like Tommy hadn't already decided exactly what would come to pass.
“Epona…” Arthur's lips quietly parted, reverently christening you the fierce protector and keeper of horses. The goddess.
Shoes scuffing along the weathered floors, Arthur flew out the door grabbing his coat as John scrambled over the table, sending papers airborne, whiskey and glass tumblers tipping sideways, with only the gurgling sound of liquor spilling onto the days plans left in the wake of bedlam.
It wasn't the sound of heavy boots kicking up grit and mud, nor the whipping end of coat tails slicing the wind that warned the yard of the formidable force closing in. It was the sudden stillness, the subtle drop in temperature, the way the streets of Small Heath held their breath, that sounded Tommy's presence as he turned onto Charlie's property, flanked by Arthur and John.
“Oi!” his voice cracked over the yard, eyes snapping, fingers clicking at Isaiah leaning lazily against the weathered fence.
“ Start talking” Tommy crossed the distance before the young Peaky had time to stand to attention, time to form an acceptable excuse that wouldn't have him hung, drawn and quartered to the four corners of Birmingham.
“ She looked sweet and innocent, Tom. Until she wasn't…”
Wrong answer.
“ Jesus Christ, Isaiah…” Arthur muttered, a snort of amusement catching in his chest despite himself as John grinned around his toothpick, thoroughly entertained by the wreckage you'd left behind.
“And you just let her through, yeah?” Tommy’s hand came up without warning, fingers catching Isaiah’s chin, forcing his eyes up to meet him. “Let her walk in, ay? Take my horse?”
“She…looked like she belonged, boss.”
Belonged.
No. Like she had the authorisation, the goddamn fucking right.
Tommy's eyes bore into the young lad, a beat away from snapping before he snatched his hand away and stormed to the scene of the crime for answers, only to be met by Johnny fucking Dogs, leant back, puffing on a cigarette and looking far too pleased with himself for a man meant to be incapacitated.
“ Now in my defence, Tom, she’s very fast. Persuasive. And possibly feral”
Johnny's excuses went through one ear and out the other as he sat there at ease, like being manhandled and tied by a muddy-booted, dress-wearing woman was second nature to him.
“ You let her” Tommy flicked the cigarette from his sly friend's lips as he crouched down in front of him, eyes raking over your handiwork.
“She called me a damsel in distress. What's a man to do, Tommy?” Johnny's arms came up, rope falling uselessly around his waist as Tommy shot to his feet, a breath away from wrapping it around the Irishman's neck.
One woman. One bloody woman. And in the space of a morning she had a randy lad letting her strut into his family's yard to steal his horse and an old dog cheering her on. Fuck.
“So we've established that I have a bunch of cowboys working for me. Arthur thinks this is the most entertaining thing since Finn fell down the chimney last Christmas, and still, John can't deliver basic orders, nobody knows who she is, who she belongs to and how she takes her bloody fucking tea!” Tommy spun around to the yard thoroughly pissed off with the trail of incompetent men that seemed to orbit you like a celestial disaster sent to burn his entire world down.
“Sweet I'd imagine” Arthur murmured, entirely unable to stop himself as he stirred the pot from a simmer to a rolling boil.
“Arthur. So help me god…” Tommy rounded on his brother, finger pointed, moving past him to the weathered fence with a look that would have killed him square on the spot.
“She played young Isaiah like a fiddle,Tom. All batting lashes and swaying hips. Any hot blooded man would have buckled” Johnny's less than helpful observation drove the truth deeper, twisting the knife as he stepped out the stables, tossing his restraints to the grit like an afterthought.
As Tommy stood there, fury barely leashed, wooden fence creaking under the strain of his clenched fists, even he couldn't deny it. He might have been fooled too. Hell, he might have saddled the bloody horse himself for you.
Fuck.
Answers, vindication, should have come when Tommy turned his head to the sound of approaching boots and saw Charlie. Trusted, reliable, Charlie.
But any notions of relief were quickly smothered when his old friend took one look at the scene, the stable and its missing four legged resident and murmured…
“ Oh hell”
You were Eddie's girl. Eddie's fucking granddaughter, Charlie had told him at the yard as Tommy stood there recalculting, recalibrating in silence.
This changed everything and absolutely, categorically, bloody nothing.
“ So Epona is Knock ‘Em Dead Ed's granddaughter. Bold as brass, stubborn as a mule and born from steel. Figures” Arthur looked up at the two-up, two-down house with a rush of memory settling warmly in his chest.
Epona.
Arthur had called you your newly bestowed name twice now on the way to your grandfather's house. Once to rile Tommy up. Another because he'd truly begun to believe you'd been sent down to purposely piss his brother off.
And pissed off he was. Fingers itching to strangle your blessed name out of existence from his brother's throat.
But as Tommy stood there with his brothers, hand on the weathered wooden gate with a sign spelled, “Ye be warned” nailed up crooked in typical Eddie fashion as a threat of retribution to every riot running lad, every light fingered boy, he hesitated.
Because that lad, that boy, was once his brother's. His mates. Him.
You see, the Shelby's didn't just know Eddie, they'd been half raised by the madman through fear and affection. Been clipped countless times on the back of their heads when they ran reckless in the streets of Small Heath. Bandaged up with just as much enthusiasm after scraps with the neighbouring towns' residences.
Tommy may have shaped Birmingham, may have moulded it into his kingdom. But Eddie and his silver haired sentries were the bones, the foundation so royalty could rule.
Old guard, old rules, old respect. And respected by him.
Calloused pad of his thumb rubbing into the weather beaten wood, into a dent that rekindled the ghosts of youth, of him mid-sprint, clipping his boot on Knock 'Em Dead Ed's front gate as he and his brothers got chased from the garden with a shovel, Tommy pushed his way into his childhood, with a tight chest.
Steps quiet, the brothers moved with respect. With sentiment, for the old man who kept his birdbath filled and his prized roses pruned, under a green thumb and a bloody hand for anyone that dared disrupt an Englishman's castle.
“ Christ, that thing's still here?” John's brow climbed at the sight of the garden spade, and subsequent weapon, propped against the brick wall as phantom pain stirred in his heel, and Eddie's manic laughing rang in his ear from two decades ago.
Back straightening, suit smoothed, Tommy stood to attention for the only man who'd ever earned his utmost respect as his fist rasped against your grandfather's front door.
“ Boys”
Eddie.
For a moment, one taut second, the hierarchy shifted, the pecking order bowing to something older, heavier as the three Shelby brothers stood not as kings of Birmingham, but as lads again on the doorstep of a legend.
“Can we come in, Ed?” Tommy's voice held steady as his eyes met the man that had forged him, and every other tearaway boy from Small Heath before flicking once, just once, over his shoulder in search of movement.
“Aye. In you come, lads. Mind my new flower pots”
Flower pots.
Fucking hell. Was Eddie Mrs Pritchard's Small Heath shrubbery thief? Christ.
Met with the warmth of a home lived in, a family loved and grown in, the brothers' boots scuffed along the door mat as they stepped in and removed their peaked crowns with built in respect beaten into them by their Aunt Polly
“Bloody hell, Ed. You need to control this beast” John muttered, already plastered up against the wall as Jack padded down the hallway with the slobbering intent to ruin his newly polished boots.
“He's as soft as a lamb, John boy” your grandfather called over his shoulder, pockets full of pennies jostling with each weighted step he made to the kitchen.
“ Cup of tea?”
“Whiskey. If it's going” Tommy replied, match flaring as he lit up, smoke curling as he leaned easy against the tiled kitchen wall.
“Man of my own heart” Eddie nodded with approval despite the early hour as he pulled a bottle of Redbreast from the cupboard. Only the finest at ol’ Eds.
Boulders for hands, Tommy watched as your grandfather lined up four crystal tumblers with the grace of bull in a china shop, until his gaze drifted, jaw tightened and a picture of Eddie's pride and joy caught his eye sat front and center on the kitchen table. You.
He knew why they were there. They knew he knew why they were there. And yet, each brother nursed their whiskey under the sharp eye of your grandfather until…
“ You grown an inch, Thomas?” Eddie's only show of affection, wrapped in merciless teasing landed squarely on Tommy, cracking the tension with chuckles of amusement from Arthur and John.
“ Not since you saw me last month, Ed” Tommy blew a stream of smoke into the room, lips twitching at the corner of his mouth before he pushed off the wall and into what had him calling at his door.
“Eddie, your granddaughter…”
“Is not here” Eddie stopped Tommy before the words could form as he settled his whiskey glass down with calm precision, the same kind of control that reminded Tommy why he’d never underestimate the man.
“ Ed, she…” Arthur carefully chimed in, hand politely raised, pleading for a pause, to let them explain before he shot them down at every word.
“ Can be a nightmare” Ed's love and loyalty towards his family, left not a breath of blame aimed at you.
“Not a nightmare, Eddie. Nightmares you can wake up from. Your granddaughter is something else entirely” Tommy resigned himself briefly to your grandfather's stubbornness, stubbing his cigarette out as he strolled to the kitchen window.
And there he was, right as rain, in Knock 'Em Dead Ed's back garden eating his way through the old man's flower beds. Monaghan Boy.
Jesus Christ, this family.
“ Should have known she was yours. Same eyes. Same bloody stubborn streak running through them” Tommy murmured as watched his winning stallion, contentedly tear up Ed’s lawn.
“I prefer the word spirited” your grandfather suggested, lifting his glass to his lips with a thoughtful brow.
“ Spirited. That what you calling it, Eddie?” Tommy turned from the garden to his old friend, expression at odds with itself, part exasperation, part reluctant amusement.
“ She stole my horse. Disobeyed me. Undermined me, Ed. And now, she's put me in a tough spot. You know that. I know that. And if Small Heath gets wind of that…” Tommy lit another cigarette, chain smoking himself through the stress inducing topic that was, you.
“Then you'll look like you've gone soft, all because of old Ed's granddaughter” your grandfather rumbled with affection, with the long-suffering resignation of a man well acquainted with the particular agony of loving an absolute menace.
“If one person does it, then another will follow. And before I know it, I've got a whole bloody rebellion on my hands. I can't let this slide, Ed” Tommy doubled down, meeting the gaze of the one man in Birmingham whose opinion could still alter the direction of the day.
“ But you will. For her. For me” your grandfather met the steel in his eyes with decades of battles he should have let lie and years of dealing with stubborn grandchildren born into storms of their own making.
“ Eddie…”
“ You'll take your horse, Tom. We'll wash our hands with this. And she'll be told to stay out your way” your grandad refilled Tommy's glass in an old guard ritual that sealed truces with whiskey, and kept ties strong.
This wasn't what he wanted. This wasn't how it was meant to go.
He’d come to see you hauled up and reprimanded, put back in your place by the head of your house.
But striking an agreement with Eddie and coming out on top was like striking a boulder with a toothpick.
Useless, time consuming, and a waste of a bloody toothpick.
“ Alright, then Ed. Water under the bridge” Tommy raised his glass as Arthur's brow climbed, John's head snapped, and Eddie, sly knowing Eddie narrowed his gaze as the whites of Tommy’s eyes flashed, attention dragged to the soft creak of a floorboard from the other room.
Runaway girl.
Glasses raised, your grandfather watched as Tommy tossed back his best whiskey, throat working as he sent it down with unearned ease.
And when the heavy thud of his glass came down on the kitchen counter, sealing the deal, Eddie's eyes sharpened at the deliberate measure of liquor left clinging to the cut crystal, catching the morning light.
The little bastard.
Old fox Eddie, wasn't fooled by the ceremony of a younger pup slipping the rules. Tommy hadn't come to make peace, he'd come to mark territory.
And despite himself, your grandfather's lips twitched with amused approval.
Good. He'd have clipped the back of his head if he hadn't of.
“ Right. I'll have one of my men come round and collect my horse this afternoon” Tommy started for the front door, hands loose in his pockets, eyes flicking to the unlit room beside him with the knowing satisfaction of who was stood in there, and what they'd heard.
“ You do that, Tom” your grandfather clamped a steady hand down onto his shoulder as the Shelby brothers filed out.
Stepping out into the biting cold, peaked cap lift and set with habitual precision, something shifted.
A change in the wind, a still in the air, a grip on his spine that had him turn his head back to your grandfather's door.
And there you were.
Stood at the far end of the hallway leaning on the doorframe of the kitchen like you belonged there. Like you'd always been there.
Defiant, unapologetic, and devastatingly beautiful.
And he smiled.
He fucking smiled.
Game on.
*I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter in the comments below 🩵*
[Next Part] coming soon!
Tag list: @mrsnms @outlanderuniverse @numberonerwitch @kittygirl634 @blushingbunnynextdoor
My thought? Great, amazing, keep on doing what you’re doing I was refreshing your page like I was on crack. Which to be fair this feels like crack to me.
Give me more, more please, tag me now, I need to know story.
Summary: Monaghan Boy was your horse. Your prodigy, raised from an abandoned foal with the stubborn hope he’d race the greatest tracks in England. So when you learned your grandfather had sold him into the profitable hands of a gangster, you carved yourself a warpath to take him back. But one does not simply walk into The Garrison under the borrowed authority of a peaked cap, armed with demands, expectations, and a stubborn spine unwilling to bend. Not when the men inside rule Birmingham with razor blades and bullets. And certainly not when the man at the head of the table is, Tommy Shelby.
Warnings: Language, angst.
Word Count: 3.5K
[Main Masterlist] [Masterlist] [Trailer]
What the hell were you doing? What made you come to this stupendously idiotic decision? you questioned every last functioning shred of reason that possessed you to make such a choice, and found nothing but a woman void of sensibility, and everything a woman born with steel in her spine and fire in her veins. For you had come from a long line of bullheaded men and sharp-tongued women, and you'd be damned if you showed them up for the sake of propriety.
“ Gangster, businessman, bookie. And now, horse thief. Is there any occupation you haven't fleeced your way through to get what you want, Mr. Shelby?” you rehearsed your fighting lines, stern-faced and battle-ready, dressed in borrowed slacks, and a baggy shirt big enough to swallow your frame. Every telltale feminine line smothered in cotton, that could see you hauled out The Garrison the moment some hot blooded bastard got a whiff of the woman beneath, and her practiced argument that would be reduced to nothing more than female hysteria before it ever reached a man's ear.
“ Dozen eggs, pint of milk, and 5 ounces of pork belly” your grandad's voice rumbled from the kitchen as your creaking steps betrayed your tiptoed descent down the old rickety stairs.
Damn his sharp hearing. When would the old codger finally succumb to his age, and act like every other slipper-wearing pensioner?
Built like a barrel, fists like anvils, and affectionately known as “Knock ‘Em Dead Ed”, your grandad was still in his prime at the ripe age of seventy one. Old school, old guard, old boxer, and as stubborn as a mule.
Eddie was not only a force to be reckoned with, but a man that had earned respect through decades worth of spilled blood, and broken bones, many of them not entirely his own.
“ And don't let that cheap bastard Robertson sell you short on the center cut, girl” another gruff voice called out, rough and steady, one you'd known since you were dunked and christened Small Heath style in a bird bath of blessed water.
Charlie Strong. Your Godfather. Who just so happened to be your grandfather's oldest and most trusted friend. And inconveniently, connected through years of loyalty and decades of history to the owners of the pub you were about to storm with borrowed bravado and daring words.
With a one footed swivel, you elegantly spun around the banister off the last step, as you craned your head to see a cloud of cigar smoke and the antagonist to your desperate horse rescue emerge.
Grandad. Three brandies in and a headache away from realising the avalanche of problems he'd unleashed when he sold your horse off at an insultingly low price. That was, of course, if you got rumbled, which looked increasingly unavoidable when a very unelegant four legged member of the family started barking.
“Jack, quit it! It's your bloody sister, you useless mutt” your grandad's voice cut through the house like iron to stone, no mortal man nor fur friend, safe from his thundering authority.
“ Some guard dog, ain't you? Supposed to bark at intruders not your own bloody shadow and family, Jack” Charlie's rough hand patted his thick coat as the oversized companion thrashed his tail with the enthusiasm of a steam engine, sending the bottle of brandy toppling and the perfect opportunity to slip past the door as your grandad groaned and grumbled about his knack for choosing runts of the litter.
“ Have you seen his shadow, Charlie? He'd scare the devil himself into an early grave” your grandad began his spiel on Jack's ferocious qualities, or lack thereof, as you quietly slipped into your boots.
“He’s a hundred and fifty pounds of fluff, and cushioning, Ed” Charlie's brow scrunched as he looked down at the heap of fur now sprawled out on the kitchen tiles, pawing for attention at his boot.
“Padding, Charlie. Built like an ox underneath. Killing machine, our Jack is” your grandads defences for his dog only came out when the mutt was acting especially useless.
“ Give over Eddie, he's more likely to lick you to death than rip a limb off” Charlie shook his head as the two men talked themselves into a debate over guard dog basics whilst you grabbed your grandad's peaked cap.
One foot out the door, one step from discovery, your grandfather's voice boomed like a fog horn from the kitchen for a second time, reminding you just how sharp his hearing was as the shock of his unexpected bellow sent a jolt to your bones.
“ A dozen eggs! Not half a dozen. Not two dozen. A bloody dozen. That's twelve, granddaughter!”
His errand for you was specified down to basic mathematics, after your last egg-purchasing fiasco that saw you come home with two dozen eggs, and a thoroughly miserable household burdened with eating them every day for a fortnight.
“I'm a grown woman! I understand basic school-grade arithmetic. Perhaps you'd like to get off your royal backside and fetch them yourself?” you promptly stood your ground, waiting out the long silence at the front door before a snort of amusement from your grandfather humbled you back down to reality, enough for you to close the front door with a punctuating slam and huff that resembled that of your teenhood years.
“ Did you hear that, Charlie? My royal backside she said. The bloody lip on her. Should tan her hide” your grandad chuckled, pained with affection for the stubborn woman you'd become and the daily reminder you were one with your own mind, and clearly, own voice.
“ Well, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, Ed. You raised the firecracker” Charlie's mouth twitched with a smile, his own affections reserved for the girl that once rode ponies barefoot in his yard, wild-haired and dreaming of chasing the sunset on horseback.
And raised you he did. Elbows off the table, P’s and Q’s, yes sir no ma'am. All the makings of a polite girl, one that would be a credit to him and the family.
But one thing “Knock ‘Em Dead Ed's” granddaughter was never raised to be, was a wilting rose, ready to fold at the whisper of a breeze. No, you were raised to stand tall amongst the wildflowers. And if you were ever forced into the mud, to be tamed and compliant, then you'd burn the whole bloody field down, out of principle.
Borrowed bravado is exactly what you'd armoured yourself with as you tucked your locks under the tweed cap of a man that never needed to borrow a damn thing in his life. Your grandfather's unyielding presence in the community was one that took decades to mould and secure, and yet here you were, The Garrison's glow flickering ahead like a challenge, beckoning you closer as you dressed yourself in an authority that was never meant to be yours.
This wasn't your family's kitchen you were about to barrel through. These men were unforgiving, unswayed by the love of a granddaughter, of a goddaughter. They wouldn't soften enough to find amusement in your demands, wouldn't let you walk freely after daring to stake yourself so high as one of their equals.
No. This was an act of defiance that would cut against your grandfather's hard-won reputation, and against a man that ruled Small Heath with an iron first. But when thought gave way to motion, you couldn't stop your feet from moving. You didn't feel the thick sludge of mud and soot clinging to your boots, didn’t feel each step grow heavy as the grimy streets tried to buy your stubborn mind time to reconsider.
Instead you pushed forward, locked onto a one-way track into your own reckoning.
Hand steady on the heavy Garrison doors, you channeled every stitch of hard-earned resolve sewn into your grandfather's cap, every thread of unmanageable stubbornness your family was renowned for.
Pushing your way into the dimly lit pub of low murmurs, the room of men turned, and caught scent. Quicker than any bloodhound hunting for sport, sharper than any eagled-eyed king in the sky circling the heavens for prey, and they'd decided, you didn't belong.
Voices thinned into hushed observations, chairs began to scrape along old wood soaked in blood and beer, and within the beat of a heart you were at the mercy of a room full of Small Heath's most hardened men, a room where your grandfather would have ruled with ease. But he wasn't here. And neither was your godfather.
You'd come alone. You were on your own.
“ Mr.Shelby?” your voice came low and measured, carefully schooled to mask the softness that would have you hauled out within seconds as you steadily approached the bar.
Silence. Complete silence, heavy and patient settled over the room of smoke curling through narrowing eyes, when the panelled snug answered with the dry crack and sizzle of a match against the roughened strip of its box. Tommy.
The order had been heard down the pecking line, and the room responded in motion, when the flick of the barmans head to the enclosed corner, ushered you forward. When the heavy boots of a soldier armoured in a pin striped shirt, opened the door to the snug with the final push into your own demise, yours to make.
Squeezing your hand around the handle, you strangled the life out of the mounting nerves coursing through your shaky fingers against the cool metal as you pushed open the enclosed room to see three men sat silent.
Arthur Shelby.
John Shelby.
And the very man himself. One Mr. Thomas Shelby.
And there it was again, silence. But this time it had teeth. Dangerous ones concealed beneath pressed suits and tailored jackets, promising death with a single shot. And here you stood, voice betraying you, heart hammering despite yourself.
You'd come dressed as an equal in society's hierarchy, to face them as men with every feminine curve that might have spared you from the penalty of intrusion hidden beneath heavy cotton and stitched tweed. And now, you'd have to face them down.
“What's your business, boy?”John spoke first, eager to assert dominance, blunt with an approach that left no room for pleasantries as Arthur's eyes dragged over your frame, gum smacking between his teeth with a wolfish smirk that found you…wanting.
The question lingered heavily in the room, stretching the silence taut as Tommy finally turned his head, acknowledging you with one cold, clinical sweep from head to toe.
No boy.
“ I've come for my horse” you stated your business with a controlled breath, tossing a grenade of bundled King George notes onto the wooden table.
A statement. No, a declaration any man would be foolish to make in a room where fools were not suffered gladly.
But you were no man. And foolishness was for those that had something to lose.
The shift in tension was palpable. A ripple of reactions changed the temperature of the room from long-suffering to sharpened senses, when John's eyes weighed heavy with a predatory stare, as Arthur's thumb worked circles methodically over his clenched fist with thinning patience.
But with a subtle shake of his head toward his oldest brother, Tommy brought the room more time, forestalling the inevitable moment when Arthur's tolerance for this particular game ran dry before he'd even played his hand.
“What horse?” Tommy murmured around the cigarette perched between his lips, smoke curling lazily into the room as his chair creaked and whined, hand reaching for the bundle of notes with the unhurried ease of a man that had time turn for him.
“Black stallion. Fifteen hands high. Runs flat and true. My horse” you said proudly, watching him turn the tossed notes in his hand, as you searched his profile for something, anything. A telltale sign that would give you ground to stand on, and not leave you walking tale between your legs, dismissed back through the door you came from.
“Monaghan Boy” his reply came a breath away from mockery as his steel eyes flicked to his brothers whose smirks deepened, void of amusement and rich with the dark enjoyment men had watching a move already in motion.
“My horse” he corrected, cold eyes finally meeting yours, freezing you in place as you watched him pocket your money without a flicker of hesitation.
“ You're mistaken Mr. Shelby. He was never yours to own, let alone buy” the edge of irritation began to creep through your voice, spits of fire licking up your spine as your body betrayed you and you boldly stepped closer.
“Everything is mine to buy” he exhaled a breath of smoke between you, gaze dragging, piercing through the layers of cotton you'd armoured yourself with to hide every curve. “Or take”.
“I trained him. Raised him from a foal into a racehorse worthy of…”
“And Shelby Company Limited thanks you for your expertise hand” Tommy cut in before any sob story would test his precious time and fraying patience. “It's proved…profitable”.
“Very profitable” Arthur smirked, unapologetic to your fleeting endeavour as your mounting anger began to simmer steadily beneath your skin.
“Two hundred and four pounds, sixteen pence profitable” John added with an insufferable grin, fanning the flames purely for his own amusement.
“ Profitable” Tommy agreed, head tilting a fraction off-center, satisfaction settling into every smug crease plastered across his face.
“ You didn't only pay under the table for him, you underpaid his value. And now you're robbing every war widow, every alley drunk, blind of their money” you shot back, heaving chest stripping your armour bare for what it was. For what you were.
John's eyes flicked sharply to Tommy as the soft press of your womanly curves betrayed you with each heavy breath you took. And they'd all seen it. They'd seen you.
Stubbing his cigarette, Tommy cleared his throat as he rose from his chair having had enough of the rebuttal.
“ I paid the owner what was asked. No more. No less” each word landed sharp-edged and deliberate, dismantling your objections, reducing your moral challenge to mere background noise.
“ I’m the owner, and I wasn't paid a penny” you insisted, meeting the steel in his eyes as Tommy's jaw flexed at your complete refusal to back down and count your losses.
“ Are you questioning the honour of the man I brought him from? Implying that he stole from you? That he's what? A thief?” he stepped a fraction closer, cornering you into revealing yourself by your own admission.
He'd trapped you, coaxed you out just enough, that any response would not only crack your carefully constructed armour but reveal who you were tied to through blood and name.
“No papers. No proof of ownership. Tommy's horse. End of” John cut in, snuffing out the challenge in you before it could take shape once again.
But not quick enough, for you to find your voice bold and brave as you claimed him one final time with a two worded vow.
“ My horse”
And with that, your moment had passed, your say silenced, claim dismissed. You'd pushed too far, high on the notion you held even a fraction of authority in a room where power had been earned from blood and sweat. And now, Tommy was done with this particular charade.
With a small nod of his head to Arthur he stepped back, making space for his brother's flair for the theatrics to put an end to this unexpected intrusion into his methodically planned day.
The scrape of a chair cut through the silence, alerting you to the eldest Shelby as he rose to his feet, circling you once with a crease of amusement dimpling into his cheek.
“ Crowns are for Kings and Princes” he muttered, hooking the calloused pads of his fingers under the rim of your grandfather's peaked cap.
“ And you…” his thumb brushed along the fraying tweed before tugging it free, hair spilling down in soft locks, sweeping and tousling around your delicate features.
“ … you're no Prince” Arthur grinned, wide and delighted by the reveal as you snatched your hat from his hands, eyes snapping to Tommy with a heaving chest.
And for a fraction of a heartbeat, Tommy let his gaze linger, let it trace the feminine curve of your flushed cheek, the wild spark in your eyes, before he looked away, dismissing the sway off his axis you'd rocked him with.
“ Well, fuck me. The lad’s a lass. A bonnie one at that” Arthur's eyes roamed over you, taking in your womanly frame with renewed interest, unashamed, unapologetically.
“ Father's name?” Tommy probed, striking a match against the cigarette perched between his lips, with a question that went around you, passing straight by you to the men in your family who'd be held responsible for you.
For this act of defiance would be settled with them, and them alone. Power to power. Men measuring men. You'd been cast out in a dance you'd seen countless times before, as a dress twirling girl at your grandfather's dinner table watching authority pass from hand to hand while women were discussed as margins.
“Grandfather?” he pushed after a breath of silence, insult settling under your skin at the predictability of it as he continued to seek the head of your household.
It wasn't a question that came wrapped in pleasantries, nor from genuine interest in your family tree. It came because a name held weight in his world. Could open doors and seal graves. And Tommy needed to know exactly whose grave he'd be digging for your defiance.
And neither was it a confession, that had the corners of Tommy's eyes tighten, narrowing in on the subtle shift in your breathing. It was betrayal. Your own body's betrayal, a hitch of a breath at hearing a name you'd spoken since infancy. Grandfather.
“Ah” Tommy's suspicions flexed with satisfaction, lips twitching with the dark pleasure of someone learning exactly where to strike but letting the game continue for his own enjoyment.
“So, I'm to believe you simply fell from the sky into my pub with demands and expectations” he drawled, toying with your silence, staring down the stubborn set in your shoulders, framed by whispers of wild hair and tousled locks of defiance.
“Are you expecting to just walk out too? Because that's not how this works Miss…?” he stalked closer, hand cutting through the space between you with practiced ease, with an invitation for you to tell him just who you belonged to.
Silence.
Smart. Too smart.
He'd offered you an escape, a socially acceptable way out of your predicament. Name a man, and this would end. But you stood tall, spine straightening with steel as your eyes locked on the culprit who fed your fire, watching you with morbid curiosity to see just how high those flames would burn.
“ You have your money. No less, no more. And you accepted the exchange the moment you pocketed it…Tommy” the acknowledgement came out sharp, void of courtesy, reducing him down to just a name, stripping him bare of titles and hierarchy.
A twitch. A muscle tugged fractionally at the corner of his mouth. You were not only brave, you were dangerous. And he'd noticed, oh had he noticed.
“ Now listen here, little Miss…” Arthur's composure cracked, crowding you with a wagging finger before Tommy swiftly cut in.
“ Now, now Arthur. Let the lady finish. It's only polite” Tommy interjected, voice laced with sarcasm, pleasantries dipped in mockery as Arthur reluctantly stepped back with grumbling words on women and impending headaches.
“Where is he? Where's my horse?” your voice was steady despite the three pairs of eyes on you as the audible scoff from John cut through the tension, settling squarely where your words had landed between sheer audacity and his begrudging respect
“ My horse…” Tommy's words lingered, ash dropping lazily into the glass-blown dish beside him as he forced you to pause and consider the ramifications of his answer if your strong willed temper decided to override what little sense you had left.
“ ….is stabled at a yard owned by a man named Charlie Strong”
Charlie Strong. Your Godfather.
Your body spun for the door, locks taking flight like a banner of revolt against a man whose flag flew the highest in all of Birmingham. In a single breath, in the space of beating heart, your stubborn pride had not only declared war, it had shaken the order of things.
“ You go to that yard, and we're going to have a very different kind of conversation when I find you. And I will find you” Tommy's voice low and certain, carried the weight of a warning, a vow of what would come to pass if you trespassed into his world.
As your hand paused on the wooden door, Tommy's thumb pressed hard into his knuckle as his eyes burned into the back of your head, willing you to turn, to show obedience where you'd shown only disrespect and stubborn determination to shake his world.
And when you did, when your head tipped over your shoulder, tresses spilling against the slope of your neck, your glistening eyes unapologetically met the glare of authority, and you smiled.
You fucking smiled.
A knuckle cracked, a sharp breath of irritation tore from Tommy's chest as he watched the door swing shut, and your fleeing feet disappear from The Garrison.
“ John” Tommy's head snapped towards his brother, voice deadly calm beneath the fury rapidly building behind his eyes.
“ Send Isaiah to Charlie's yard. Now. Before she gets any ideas about committing grand larceny by horseback" Tommy stubbed his cigarette out slowly, watching the ash sizzle and die under his thumb.
“ And find out who she is. Where she lives. Where she works. Who she belongs to. Who she fucks. How she takes her bloody tea. Everything” his composure began to crack, jaw tightening, shoulders stiffening into something volatile as Arthur took a wide berth before he…snapped.
“ Tom, she's just a girl…”
“ She's not just a girl!” Tommy's thunderous voice boomed, as the ashtray went airborne, smashing into a thousand splintering shards violently against the far wall.
“ That...” he pointed, breath ragged and heaving to the exit where the swing of the door you'd walked through left him looking a fool in his own pub, in the presence of his own men, his own kin.
“...is a walking fucking rebellion”
The words hit heavy, spitting from his lips as he filed you above ruthless enemies, above pliable politicians, into a far more dangerous and intoxicating category for a man that lived his life ten steps ahead of everyone else.
Unpredictable.
Leather boots crunching over shattered glass, Tommy stalked towards the window with slow dismissing steps through the path of his outburst and into something far more cold and focused.
Outside, Birmingham ran like a well-oiled machine precisely as ordered while somewhere, walking his streets, was a variable with a smirk on her lips.
Just where do you think you're going, little runaway girl.
*I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter in the comments below 🩵*
[Part Two] coming soon!
Tag list: @mrsnms @outlanderuniverse @numberonerwitch @kittygirl634 @blushingbunnynextdoor
A steve harrington x reader fanfiction | multi-chapter | teacher!steve harrington & teacher!reader | enemies to lovers
words: 10k (exactly… how did i manage that)
warnings: reader matches steve's freak... meaning shes a total bitch diva. angst. MDNI 18+ SMUT FINGERS IN MOUTH. angst…… sorry
summary: You and Steve are not friends. You never were, and if you had it your way, never will be. You almost found it funny that, of course, your first year teaching, you're right next door to the man you hate most.
a/n: so, I’m equally proud of this chapter but also scared for you guys to read it. I hate to say it BUT PLEASE TRUST ME I PROMISE 🙏🏻
songs: can’t stop this feeling- reo speedwagon | if you leave me now- chicago
playlist | masterlist
Chapter 17
The lake house hums with noise, too many voices layered over one another, laughter bouncing off the water, someone yelling about sunscreen, someone else already halfway into the lake. Lovers Lake glints through the trees like it’s watching, sunlight breaking across the surface in lazy, blinding shards.
The Wheelers have rented a lake house for the evening to celebrate Mike and his friends’— much to the dismay of Ted Wheeler— graduation.
Though you still refused to step into lake water, you showed up for the kids.
You round the corner of the deck with a stack of plastic cups in your hands and stop.
Steve has Dustin pulled into him, arms wrapped tight, chin pressed into the crown of his curls. Dustin’s face is buried against Steve’s chest, shoulders shaking in a way that makes something twist low and sharp in your ribs.
You’d noticed it the past few weeks. The way Steve dodged every conversation about college. How he’d clap Dustin on the shoulder, crack a joke, then suddenly remember something urgent like airing up basketballs.
Avoidance, dressed up as usefulness.
Now you see why.
Dustin pulls back first, wiping his face with the heel of his hand, grinning through the tears like he’s embarrassed by them. He says something you can’t hear, something that makes Steve laugh wetly and shove him once, fond and familiar.
Then Dustin is gone, already sprinting toward the dock, yelling for Lucas, for Max, for anyone who’ll race him into the water.
Steve stays where he is.
He sniffs once, quick and irritated, swiping at the corners of his eyes like the tears personally offended him. He straightens, rolls his shoulders, breathes in deep. Then he sees you.
He freezes.
His face shutters almost immediately. He scoffs, rolling his eyes like you’ve caught him doing something ridiculous instead of human. His mouth pulls into a frown that’s pure defense.
You laugh, stepping closer, setting the cups down. “Aww,” you tease. “Don’t stop on my account. I already saw you blubbering like a baby during commencement.”
He huffs. “Whatever,” he mutters, then tilts his head, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. He’s been wearing them more lately. Ever since the bathtub, since you told him they were sexy, since he stopped pretending he didn’t care what you thought. “Like I didn’t have to kiss your tears away a few weeks ago after their last Crawlers meeting.”
Your smile falters.
It’s brief. Barely there. But Steve catches it instantly.
His expression softens, guilt flickering across his face before he reins it in. He swallows, eyes dropping, not to the deck, not to the lake, but to you.
You’re wearing a dress. No stockings this time. The hem hits just above your knees, and when you shift your weight, when you stand the way you always do without thinking, it rides up just enough to bare your thigh.
The scar is visible.
It’s pale against your skin now, but you still remember when it wasn’t. When it burned, when it ached, when it was something you hid without realizing you were doing it.
Steve sees it.
His breath catches. He doesn’t try to hide it.
His gaze softens, something reverent flickering there, like the sight of it means more than just exposed skin. Like he remembers exactly how it got there. Like he remembers you.
You think, stupidly, Boppers.
Three months. Three months of being a thing. Three months of secrets loosening at the edges. You’ve gotten lazier about it, letting comments slip, letting your voice soften when you talk about him. When someone gives you a look, you just shrug. What? He’s not that bad. And move on, heart pounding.
Today, he looks unfair.
He always does, but today it’s worse. His hair is curlier than usual, already sun-lightened because Steve Harrington loves to sunbathe like it’s a profession. He’s wearing his glasses, the frames slipping just slightly down his nose, and the effect is devastating.
You think about the time he called you over in a panic, insisting it was an emergency. Only to make you rub tanning oil into his back because it was uneven. How he’d scolded you when your shadow crossed him, dramatic and ridiculous and impossible to resist.
He’s wearing a cream knit sweater now, sleeves pushed up, and the jeans you bought him a few days ago. You were annoyingly right, they fit him perfectly. Like they always belonged to him. Like you picked them for a reason you didn’t want to name.
You shouldn’t be this close to him today.
If you are, you’ll do something stupid.
Like pounce him in a bush.
Time stretches thin and cruel. Nancy and Jonathan’s wedding is still two weeks away, and you’re not sure you’ll survive the wait without combusting.
Though, even then, when was it appropriate to tell your friend you were seeing her ex-boyfriend. At the reception? Before their honeymoon? Right after they get back?
Steve opens his mouth, about to say something when you quickly cut him off.
“I have to go help Nancy with…” You grasp for it. “Balloons.”
It’s a terrible excuse. Not even fully a lie, Nancy had asked earlier but the way it tumbles out gives you away anyway.
Steve blinks. Then his mouth quirks into a small, knowing smile.
You don’t give him the chance to respond.
You turn and walk the other direction, heart racing, the sound of the lake and the laughter blurring together behind you. You don’t look back, but you feel his eyes on you all the same.
Then, it happens once.
You barely notice it, the way Steve drifts toward you mid-conversation, shoulder brushing yours like it’s an accident, like he didn’t plan it. The way his voice drops when he says your name, like it’s meant only for you.
You laugh and pivot away.
It happens again.
This time he’s closer. Too close. Leaning in, tossing you a comment he knows will get a rise out of you. You catch it, feel it spark… and then you slip sideways, asking Joyce about napkins she’s already holding.
By the third time, it’s unmistakable.
You volunteer to grab drinks no one asked for. You abandon conversations halfway through. You keep yourself moving, orbiting everyone but him.
Steve notices.
You can tell by the way his smile starts coming slower. By the way he stops reaching for you like he expects you to be there.
Eventually, you land near the edge of the yard with Nancy, Robin, and Vickie. Beers sweat in your hands. The grass is trampled flat where the kids are attempting football with more enthusiasm than skill.
You huff. “To be fair, they kind of had to be adults way before the rest of us did.”
That earns you a quiet laugh. It’s the kind that doesn’t lift, just settles. Heavy. Fond. A little bruised.
Your eyes drift back to the field before you can stop them.
Steve has joined the game.
Dustin immediately launches himself at him like a heat-seeking missile.
“Hey— wait!” Steve yelps, laughter breaking through as he stumbles, catches Dustin by the shoulders, spins him off. He shoves his glasses up his nose, then, pulls them off completely.
He jogs toward you.
Breathless. Sun-flushed. That grin that always undoes you, curls damp at his temples like the day was made just for him.
He stops in front of you.
“Hey,” he says easily, holding his glasses out. “Can you hold onto these for me?”
Your heart slams so hard it nearly knocks the air from your lungs.
And then—
You see Nancy.
You see the flick of her eyes between you and Steve. The way curiosity sharpens her expression. Robin’s eyebrows are halfway to her hairline. Vickie’s lips are already fighting a smile.
Panic blooms. It’s fast and bright and stupid.
You scowl before you can stop yourself. “What do I look like, your mother, Harrington?”
The words come out sharper than you mean them to.
Steve blinks. Just once.
His smile falters, confusion flickering across his face as he searches yours, waiting for the turn, the tease, the familiar softness underneath.
It doesn’t come.
Something tightens in his jaw.
“Oh,” he says quietly.
He turns, offering the glasses to Robin instead. “Uh— Rob, will you hold onto them?”
Robin takes them slowly, like she’s handling something fragile. Or radioactive.
Steve doesn’t look back at you.
He heads for the field again, laughter too loud, voice pitched easy as he calls out to Lucas. It’s like nothing touched him at all.
Your hands shake as you drain your beer in one long swallow.
“Oookay,” Robin says carefully. “That was… awkward.”
You shoot her a glare sharp enough to shut her up.
Then Nancy’s looking at you.
Not accusing. Just observant.
She smiles, light as air. “Guess you’re excited to have summer break without seeing him every day.”
You glance at Robin. At Vickie. Panic flickers across your face before you can mask it. Then you look down at the grass, breathing carefully.
Did she figure it out?
Vickie saves you. “What makes you think that?”
Nancy lowers her voice automatically, slipping into that tone, the one she uses when she’s already halfway to the answer. Her innate journalist instincts. “He’s been different lately. Happier. Not so… prickly or snippy… less grouchy.”
Robin hums. “Like emotionally-regulated happy?”
Nancy nods. “Exactly. And then Jonathan and I went to grab some vases his mom is letting us use for the wedding. I used his bathroom and…”
Robin and Vickie leaned in anticipation.
“He had another toothbrush.”
Your body goes still.
Robin squints. “A… toothbrush?”
“Yes,” Nancy presses. “And before anyone says it — Steve is very particular about his toothbrushes. It was different bristles and a different handle.”
Your chest tightens. Damn you Steve and your stupidly perfect sensitive teeth.
“And,” Nancy adds casually, “I saw a bra peeking out from under his bed.”
Your thoughts scatter. You wanted to be mad at Nancy’s investigative nature, but it’s gotten you all out of enough trouble that you can’t count.
Also, you’ve been wondering where that bra went.
Robin lets out a low whistle. “Jesus,” she murmurs, then flicks her eyes toward you, pointed. “No one gets past you, Wheeler.”
Your jaw clenches and eyes narrow at her. You then stare straight ahead.
Across the yard, Steve throws his head back laughing, sunlight catching in his curls, easy and open and everything you’re trying not to shatter.
You say nothing.
You don’t have time because someone approaches your group.
You clock him before he ever speaks. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, tanned skin, blond hair still damp like he’s been in the lake not long ago. Swim trunks slung low on his hips, an old T-shirt stretched thin across his chest. Loose in the way men get when they’re comfortable being looked at. A beer dangling from his fingers.
His gaze drifts first. Not to Nancy. To you. Slow. Unapologetic. Head to toe.
Something in your spine tightens before you can stop it.
He shrugs, lifting the beer to his mouth. “Yeah. Still can’t believe little cousin Mike’s taller than me now, though.”
Nancy laughs. “I don’t know how he keeps growing.”
He smiles politely, taking a sip of his beer, looking you up and down again.. “You gonna introduce me to your friends?”
She gestures to the three of you. “These are my best girlfriends.”
Ricky lifts two fingers in a lazy salute. “Hey.” His eyes don’t leave you. “Are they coming to the wedding in a couple weeks?”
“Yeah,” Nancy answers quickly.
You tilt your head. “You could ask us directly, you know. We speak.”
That finally pulls his attention back to your face.
He smiles.
And it’s a smile you don’t like. It’s all teeth and confidence, sharp around the edges. A smile that thinks it’s already welcome. A smile that only ever looks right on Steve.
Nancy exhales. “This is…” she gestures to you, telling him your name.
Ricky’s already stepping closer, hand outstretched. “Ricky.”
He winks.
Nancy groans. “Ignore him. He’s a serial flirt and just happy you aren’t family.”
Ricky laughs, unfazed. “Guilty.”
Then, without missing a beat, “You got a boyfriend?”
The air changes.
You feel it before you see it. The way Robin goes very still beside you, Vickie’s eyes lighting up like she’s just been handed popcorn. Nancy’s expression sharpens, curious, waiting. Not prying, yet, but poised.
She’s waiting, seeing if you’ll spill the beans.
You open your mouth.
And then, like instinct, your eyes slip past Ricky’s shoulder.
Steve’s watching.
Jaw tight. Shoulders squared. That familiar crease between his brows carved deep as he stares straight at Ricky’s back, at the space between you that’s too close.
His glowering doesn’t last long.
“Steve, watch out!”
The football comes out of nowhere.
It slams straight into Steve’s face with a dull, ugly thud.
He yelps, dropping instantly to the grass.
Your body moves before your brain catches up, one foot stepping forward, heart leaping hard into your throat. The instinct is sharp, overwhelming.
Run to him.
You feel it, the pull. And you’re not the only one who notices.
Robin’s head snaps toward you.
So does Vickie’s.
Nancy’s eyes flick to your half-step forward, then back to Steve on the ground.
Steve laughs it off even as he clutches his eye, waving with his free hand. “I’m good! I’m good— Jesus, Wheeler, you should’ve tried out for baseball!”
He scrambles up, still chuckling, and turns toward the house without another look. The door shuts behind him.
The lake noise fills the gap he leaves behind with laughter, splashing, summer moving on like nothing cracked open.
You take your chance the second Nancy and Ricky get pulled away by their Nana. Nancy’s name carried off down the dock with laughter and clinking bottles. You slip inside the house like you’re doing something you shouldn’t be doing, even though no one’s told you not to.
The lake house exhales around you. Cooler air. Muted voices filtering through walls. Upstairs, footsteps wander without purpose. A Class of ’89 banner droops along the stairwell, tape curling at the corners, already surrendering to gravity like the celebration was never meant to last this long.
You check the downstairs first. Empty couches. Half-finished drinks sweating onto coasters. Someone’s sandals abandoned by the door. No Steve.
Your chest tightens in that quiet, familiar way as you climb the stairs.
The second floor feels more intimate. The rooms partially claimed, doors cracked open, people speaking in softer voices like they’re afraid of waking something. Still no sign of him.
Then, at the end of the hall, a door nearly closed. Light spilling out, low and amber.
You peek through the door. It’s a library.
Steve is sitting on the maroon leather couch, folded in on himself. Elbows on knees. One cheek pressed into his palm. The other, the one that caught the football, already faintly bruised. On the coffee table, a Newton’s cradle swings back and forth beneath his fingers, clicking softly, like he needs something steady to keep time.
You close the door behind you.
“Can I sit?” you ask, quietly. Carefully.
He doesn’t look up. Just shrugs, but shifts over anyway.
You sit beside him, close enough to feel the heat he’s holding onto, close enough that your knees nearly touch. Up close, the bruise looks worse. Tender and new.
You don’t ask. You just lift the cold can of beer you brought with you and press it gently to his eye.
He startles, grabbing it on instinct, gaze snapping anywhere but you.
Your jaw tightens. “So… you’re just not gonna talk to me now?”
He lets out a breath like he’s been saving it. “Really?” He finally looks at you then, eyes sharp. “You’ve been dodging me all day.”
You scoff, crossing your arms. “Oh. You’re so you’re pouting here alone, giving me the silent treatment because I didn’t give you enough attention.”
He laughs. It’s short, bitter. “Like there was any left after Ricky.”
You blink. “What are you even talking about? How do you even know Ricky?”
He rolls his eyes, annoyed but answering anyway. “I literally dated Nancy. I also played against his school in basketball. He’s a total meathead, by the way.”
“So,” you say, quieter, lips curving into a smirk, “you’re jealous.”
“I’m not—” he starts, then stops. Groans. “Okay. Maybe a little.” He leans back, arm thrown over the couch like he’s exhausted. “How am I supposed to feel when my girl won’t even look at me and then smiles at some idiot?”
My girl.
The words land late, but when they do, they knock the breath out of you.
His voice shifts before you can respond, losing its edge. “It’s just… if you’re done, I wish you’d tell me. Instead of pretending I don’t exist.”
Your heart lurches. “Steve, no.” You shake your head quickly. “I don’t want to end things.”
Relief cracks across his face so fast it’s almost painful to watch. He turns toward you fully now, hopeful, open. He sets the beer down, condensation slicking his fingers.
You swallow. “It’s the opposite,” you admit softly. “I really like you. And it’s getting harder. Hiding it. Hiding us. Having to lie to Nance.”
“I don’t like lying to her either,” Steve says. Then, he adds, “I never thought in a million years I’d be anticipating Jonathan and Nancy’s wedding.”
The two of you exchange a breathy laugh.
The Newton’s cradle stills completely.
“I’m… I’m really sorry I ignored you today.” You bit the inside of your cheek, guilt and embarrassment clouding you.
“S’fine.” He says it without looking at you, eyes drifting somewhere past your shoulder like he’s not sure where to put them if he lets himself really be seen. The bruise beneath his eye is already blooming darker now, a soft wash of color against his skin.
You lift your hand before you think better of it. Your thumb brushes his cheek, gentle, instinctive.
“Poor thing,” you murmur.
His breath catches, just barely, before you wrap your arms around him. He folds into you immediately, like he’s been waiting for permission. His forehead drops against your chest. Your hand moves over his back in slow circles, grounding, soothing.
You feel him smile before you hear it. He nuzzles closer, rubbing his face between your breasts shamelessly, comfort-seeking in a way that’s so Steve it makes something warm bloom behind your ribs.
You laugh, breathless and giddy. “Steve,” you scold softly, pushing at him, but he just tightens his arms around you, stubborn.
He looks up with those ridiculous eyes. They’re wide, earnest, a little pout tugging at his mouth. “It feels better now.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “I’m sure it does. Are you done sulking?”
He pulls back with visible effort, like it costs him something. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I was… being a jealous asshole.”
Your stomach flips at the grin he gives you, all boyish teeth and warmth, like he knows exactly how dangerous he is to you. This is why you can’t be normal around him. This is why you keep running.
You soften without meaning to. Your head tilts. You look at him through your lashes, slow and deliberate, fingers finding his knee, tracing small, thoughtless paths through denim.
“It’s okay,” you say quietly. “It was kind of hot, actually. The way you looked at him like you wanted to kill him.”
His breath stutters. His jaw drops just a fraction before he swallows hard.
“Honey,” he says, strained, “I— listen, I would want to, god, I do want to… but it’s not worth it.”
You frown. “Excuse me?”
“No— I mean—” He scrubs a hand through his hair, flustered. “Since I can’t kiss you I mean… and I— shit.”
You don’t hesitate. Your hand presses closer, confident, knowing exactly where to go. His body betrays him instantly, posture shifting, legs parting without permission, the pressure straining through his jeans.
You lean in, voice low. “Please, Steve. You always make me feel so good.” A pause. Softer. “Let me make it up to you, for avoiding you.”
He exhales sharply, eyes squeezing shut for half a second. “Aren’t you worried they’ll come looking for us?”
“Steve,” you whisper, climbing closer, “I just want to feel good for five minutes.” Your forehead nearly touches his. “You’re the only one who knows how.”
You kneel on the couch, the space between you shrinking until it feels charged, electric. His pupils are blown wide. His tongue slips over his bottom lip as his gaze flicks between your mouth and your eyes, like he’s fighting himself.
Your breaths mingle. Heat builds. The moment stretches, fragile and aching.
He shifts his body so that you’re straddling him. His hands only resting at your knees. Like if he touches you anywhere else, he knew there was no turning back.
“Please baby,” you whisper. “I want you.” You grab his hand, letting him feel the wetness soaking through your underwear.
His head tips back like the words physically hit him. “What did you say?” He strokes you through the soft cotton.
You falter just slightly, fingers fumbling at his belt. “That… I want you?”
He smiles, slow, knowing. “No. Before that.”
Your face burns. He’s always called you things. Always, sweetheart, honey, baby. All words you let rest against you without ever reaching back.
But now, with your heart pounding and something deeper finally uncoiling in your chest, the truth settles heavy and inevitable.
He wasn’t just Steve to you. He was irrevocably:
Your Steve.
Your boy.
Your—
“Baby,” you say low into his ear.
There’s no time to strip naked. You slip off your underwear while Steve shimmies his pants and briefs down just enough. He’s already dripping with pre-cum but he puts his hand near your mouth, “Spit,” he orders.
You do, and he uses it to grip himself, pumping, watching you bite your lip, using his shoulders to keep you stable. His free hand settles on the side of your face, roaming downward, to your shoulder then your ribs, then to your thigh.
“This dress is so pretty on you, sweetheart.” His thumb grazes your scar and you buck your hip.
He lifts you with his free hand, guiding you onto him. Slowly sliding, sucking your teeth as you swallow him inch by inch.
You press your forehead to his, arms draped over his shoulders, grounding your hips, feeling the warmth of him inside you, twitching with need.
You start to rock, a decadent pace, and immediately your breaths are laced with filthy sounds. Your chins pressed against each other, bottom lips barely touching. You can’t lose yourself in a kiss.
You nuzzle your face into his neck as he starts to set a faster rhythm, his fingers digging in your ass, lifting you. Up and down. You held onto him tighter, fingernails digging into his scalp, lightly tugging at his hair.
“You feel so good inside me,” you mewl. “You know how much I wanted this? I kept running away from you today because you look so handsome.”
You lean back. The two of you cry out from the change in angle. His hands running up your thigh. He couldn’t kiss your lips, but he placed a soft kiss on your shoulder.
“You saying this is what you wanted all along?” Steve grunted.
You close your eyes, nodding, head tilted back. “So bad, baby.”
He growled, moving his hands, running them up your body, cupping your breasts. He squeezes them through your dress, before moving them back down to your hips.
You moved back forward, both of you drinking the moans coming out of the other. You catch him trying to chase your lips in a kiss, and you almost let him break the rules, just this one time. But instead, you shove your fingers in his mouth, pushing him down, his back flush against the couch.
He chuckles against your fingers, his tongue warm, hot, and wet against them. So while your hand is still in his mouth, him licking your fingers, you lean back again, your other hand using his thigh to hold you up. Your nails dug into half his exposed flesh and his jeans.
As you rolled your hips, faster, sticky wet sounds. His palms ran under your dress, pressing his heel at the tiniest bulge of himself at the base of your tummy.
“Fuck—” you cut off by his hand cover your mouth with a slap. He was propped up by one elbow, his hips thrusting up, matching your rhythm. It’s absolutely electrifying.
He looks wrecked in the best way.
Hair fallen loose from where he’d pushed it back earlier, curls slipping into his eyes, jaw clenched like he’s holding himself together by muscle memory alone. His lashes are dark against his flushed cheeks, mouth parted from your fingers, breath coming shallow and uneven — like he’s forgotten how to take it properly. There’s a crease between his brows, that familiar one he gets when he’s trying not to give in, when he’s losing and knows it.
Without his glasses, his eyes are all sharp heat and unfocused want, tracking you like he can’t look away even if it kills him. His shoulders are tense, arms corded, veins standing out along his forearms as if his body is betraying him before his mouth ever could.
He looks hungry. Devoted. Completely undone.
That’s what brings you over the edge. Your eyes widen, you can’t speak, but you’re asking if he’s close. And he reads you instantly, nodding, because he can’t speak either.
Rather, he comes up in a hard unrelentless thrust, hitting somewhere you had no idea existed. You bit his hand, as the climax ripped through you. Your limbs shook, as the currents pulsated all the way to your toes.
Steve whined against your fingers as his own release washed over him, falling back on the couch, panting. He grabbed your wrist, removing your hand out of his mouth, placing desperate kisses on your knuckle.
He looks at his watch on his wrist, smirking. “Well, would you look at that, sweetheart.” He shows it to you. “We’ve got two minutes to spare.”
Later, the lake house exhales.
Cars pull away down the gravel drive one by one, headlights slicing briefly through the trees before disappearing. Family members hug longer than necessary. Promises to call are made and half-believed. Doors close gently. The noise thins out until what’s left feels intentional.
Night settles in.
You and your friends gather near the fire pit, wooden lawn chairs pulled into a loose, crooked circle. Robin sits cross-legged with Vickie tucked into her side, whispering something that makes them both laugh under their breath. Jonathan leans back with his camera resting against his chest, Nancy perched sideways on his chair, her chin on his shoulder.
You sit a few inches from Steve.
Far enough where it’s not telling.
Your knees point toward him anyway, traitorous things. His foot nudges the leg of your chair once, twice, like he’s checking the distance hasn’t grown teeth. You catch his eye for half a second. He smiles, small and private, then looks away first.
You feel happy. You do.
And it scares you how careful that happiness has to be.
At the end of the dock, the kids sit with their feet dangling over the water. Mike’s sneakers knock against Lucas’s in some silent argument. Will leans back on his hands, face tipped up toward the stars like he’s memorizing them. Dustin talks with his whole body, hands flailing as Max nudges him closer to the edge just to mess with him. Jane uses her powers to make shapes of animals with the lake water.
It hits you then. How strange it is that they still get to do this. Sit on a dock at night. Be silhouettes against the water. Be kids who survived and somehow stayed soft anyway.
Jonathan lifts his camera without thinking, the shutter clicking quietly. “They’ll always have each other,” he says, more to himself than anyone. “Right? Even when they’re all scattered everywhere.”
Nancy hums, thoughtful. “Yeah. I think so.”
Jonathan smiles and takes another picture and it’s one of Nancy this time, caught mid-expression, all warmth and certainty. Then another. Robin groans when he points the lens at her, flipping him off. Vickie laughs and ducks her head.
“Okay, okay,” Jonathan says, already standing. “Everyone. One together. I’ll set the timer.”
There’s a brief scramble, chairs scraping, people tripping over one another, voices overlapping. You end up pressed in from both sides, laughter bubbling up despite yourself.
And then Steve’s there.
Like gravity.
His arm slips around your shoulders without ceremony, easy and practiced. Your arm circles his back, palm resting flat between his shoulder blades. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing. The solid warmth of him. The way he tilts just slightly toward you, like that’s his default.
The flash goes off.
For one frozen second, there’s no pretending. No distance. No rules.
Just you and him, caught in the same frame.
Nancy beams when the camera clicks back into Jonathan’s hands. “I’m really happy,” she says, eyes shining as she looks around at all of you. “That I get to share my life with you guys.”
Her gaze lands on Steve, fond and familiar. “We all should do something next week. Before the wedding.”
Steve squints at her. “You just want to use my pool.”
She laughs, already tugging Jonathan toward the path that leads down to the lake. “Maybe.”
They wander off, voices fading into the trees.
You stay where you are, your arms have fallen, but you’re standing close to one another. Steve’s finger brushed your knuckle gently. And since it was dark, you hook your pinky with his. He looks down at you, his smile shines like the moon itself.
The dock creaks softly under the weight of the kids, the water lapping gentle and endless. Somewhere behind you, Robin laughs too loud. Somewhere ahead, the future stretches thin and bright and terrifying.
But you don’t think anything could ruin the feeling you have right now. A specific feeling you don’t know the name yet, but you think it has to do with Steve Harrington.
.-.-.-.
Steve’s backyard is loud, splashes, laughter, the low murmur of the radio. The pool lights cast everything in a soft blue glow, turning skin and water into something unreal.
You feel him before you see him.
Not physically, not yet, but the awareness is constant, like a thread pulled tight between you. Every time you laugh too loudly at something Robin says, you feel his eyes flick over. Every time he drapes an arm along the back of a chair or adjusts his sunglasses, you catch yourself watching the way his shoulders move, the way his hands never quite know what to do when they’re not allowed to touch you.
You’re wearing a swimsuit you never would’ve worn a year ago. One that doesn’t hide the scar. One that doesn’t pretend it never happened. The fabric curves around it instead of covering it, and the first time you stepped outside, Steve’s entire body had stilled, just for a fraction of a second, before he forced himself to look away like it hadn’t knocked the breath from his lungs.
Now, he keeps his distance on purpose. You can tell. He leans against the far edge of the pool, talking to Jonathan, laughing easy, casual. The Ray-Bans stay on even as the sun dips lower, like armor. Like a reminder.
Rules.
You tell yourself you don’t mind. You tell yourself you’re fine.
Then he looks at you again.
It’s quick. Almost nothing. But it lands heavy.
Now, you climb out of the pool with a small gasp, water streaming down your arms and legs, skin buzzing from the cold and the leftover adrenaline of being watched. Your hair clings to your shoulders, swimsuit darkened where it’s soaked through, the scar on your leg catching the blue pool light in a way that feels almost deliberate. You don’t rush to cover it. You don’t rush at all.
You pad barefoot across the concrete, leaving wet footprints behind you, and drop into your pool chair with a soft exhale. The vinyl is cool against your skin. You reach for your towel and half-heartedly blot at your arms, already aware of where your attention keeps drifting.
You feel him again before you see him, the awareness sharpening now, humming louder beneath your skin. The second you sit back, you know he’s clocked it, the way you stretch your legs out, the way the towel slips lower than necessary.
Steve drifts closer under the guise of grabbing a drink. You hear the soft twist of the bottle cap before you see him in your periphery. He pauses beside the cooler, glances at the pool, then back at you with that deliberately aggravating calm, like he has nowhere else to be and all the time in the world to bother you.
“You know,” he says, gesturing vaguely with the bottle, “you’re not supposed to dive in right after eating.”
You blink. Slowly. Still reclined. Still damp. “I had two pieces of watermelon.”
“Exactly,” he nods, dead serious. “That’s how cramps happen.”
You scoff, finally turning your head toward him. “You just made that up.”
“I did not.”
“You sound stupid.”
“You sound jealous.”
You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you, pulling into a smile you don’t bother fighting. It feels easier tonight. Too easy. “Of what? Your made-up lifeguard certification?”
He steps closer.
Unhurried. Casual. Like the space between you has always belonged to him. His knee bumps the edge of your chair. His shadow spills over you, then his shoulder brushes yours, damp skin to warm skin, feather-light contact that still sends a sharp, electric spark straight through you, like your body recognizes him faster than your brain can intervene.
You hate, briefly, how small the moment is. How this is all it’s allowed to be. A brush. A look. A joke that pretends not to be loaded.
“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, low enough that it’s only for you, his voice dropping into something quieter, something meant to settle right under your ribs, “if something happened to you, I’d feel real bad.”
Your breath catches before you can stop it. Not because of the words, but because of the way his eyes flicker down, just for a second. Your mouth. The curve of your lips still damp, still parted. Boppers. The thought lands fully formed and devastating, you want to kiss him. Right here. Right now. The kind of kiss that would undo months of pretending this is just a secret arrangement and not something that’s been quietly rewiring you from the inside out.
You know he feels it too. You can see it in the way his gaze lingers, the way his jaw tightens like he’s holding himself back on purpose. For a heartbeat, the world narrows to the space between your faces, the unspoken pull heavy and aching.
Boppersboppersboppers.
And then, reality crashes in.
Rules.
Friends nearby. Laughter drifting over from the pool. Nancy somewhere behind you, unaware and trusting and too close to the truth for comfort. Not here. Not like this. Not when it would mean too much.
You suck in a breath, startled, laughter already clawing its way up your throat as defense. You fight the smile breaking across your face, teeth digging into your bottom lip, and lift your hand, pressing it gently but firmly to his cheek, pushing his face away before either of you can do something stupid.
“In your dreams, Harrington,” you snort, tipping your head back against the chair, pretending your heart didn’t just stutter and rearrange itself.
He chuckles, low and fond and knowing, like he understands exactly why you stopped him, and maybe even likes that you did. His grin widens, wicked and pleased, as if the restraint itself has wound him tighter.
Steve glances around. Once. Twice.
Then his hands are on you.
It happens fast, too fast for anyone to register more than a blur, as he grips your waist and lifts you clean off the chair, his thumb dragging where it absolutely shouldn’t, deliberate and fleeting and meant only for you.
“Steve—!”
You don’t even finish the sentence before he pivots and tosses you clean into the pool. The splash is loud, shockingly cold. You resurface sputtering, hair slicked back, fury already loaded and ready.
“You asshole!” you shout. “You totally grabbed my ass again, Harrington!”
Laughter erupts from the yard. Steve crouches at the edge of the pool, forearms on his knees, grin sharp and unapologetic.
“What’re you gonna do about it?” he calls. “Boppers?” he suggested, low and only for you.
You glare at him, cheeks burning, then scoop up water and fling it at his face. He yelps, laughs, shielding himself as you swim away, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with the water.
Inside, the air is cooler, calmer. You, Robin, Nancy, and Vickie end up in the kitchen, dripping slightly onto Steve’s tile as you cut watermelon into uneven triangles. The knife thunks against the cutting board in a steady rhythm.
Nancy watches you without meaning to.
You move like you belong here. It was like you’ve always belonged here. You know which drawer sticks, which cabinet squeaks, where the good knives are kept. It’s instinctual. Comfortable.
Too comfortable.
“Wow,” Nancy says lightly. “You really know your way around his kitchen.”
You shrug, focusing on the fruit. “We’ve all been over enough times.”
She hums. Then, thoughtful, “Yeah, but even when I dated him, I could never remember where they kept the cups.”
Your stomach drops.
Before you can respond, the knife slips.
“Shit,” you hiss as pain flares sharp and immediate. Blood wells fast, red against your skin. Your eyes sting, more from the shock than anything else.
Nancy reacts instantly. “Where are the kitchen towels?”
“Drawer to the left of the sink,” you answer without thinking.
She pauses, brows knitting, but then she’s already moving.
On cue, Steve walks in with Jonathan, both of them laughing about something stupid. His shirt clings damply to his chest, hair still wet, curls escaping everywhere.
He sees your hand.
Everything else stops.
He’s at your side in seconds, gently but firmly taking your wrist. “What happened?”
You try to smile through the sting. “I cut my hand, Captain Obvious.”
You still flinch when he examines it, a tiny sound escaping you before you can stop it.
“Aww,” he says, voice teasing, but his hands are careful, gentle against yours. “Want me to kiss it better?”
You shoot him a look, but your face is warm for reasons that have nothing to do with embarrassment. Over his shoulder, you catch Robin and Vickie very pointedly staring at the ceiling.
Yes, you wanna say. You want to say it with a pathetic pout because that’s what he’s turned you into. An asshole whose heart grew three times bigger and pounds against your ribcage whenever he glances your way.
Despite yourself, despite the rules, you look at his parted pink lips. His attention on the cut, his fingers finding every excuse to touch your hand. Boppers.
Nancy hovers. “Where’s the first aid kit? I’ll grab it.”
Steve shakes his head. “Nah. I’ve got it.” Then, with a grin meant for everyone else, “You guys start the movie. I’ll deal with the crybaby.”
He winks. You shove his shoulder with your free hand.
“Careful,” Jonathan says dryly. “She’s in reach of the knife.”
“Not the worst thing she’s done to me,” Steve laughs, easy and loud, sliding his hand to the small of your back like second nature. Not seeing the way your face flushed at his comment. He steers you out of the kitchen, toward the hallway, up the stairs, toward his room.
Your heart beats too fast.
The rules are still intact.
But the door is already closing behind you.
You sit on the edge of Steve’s bed, knees angled inward, shoulders slightly hunched like you’re afraid of taking up too much space. Your hand is still wrapped in the kitchen towel, now unmistakably ruined, dark, stiff where the blood has soaked through. It rests heavy in your lap, a reminder of how suddenly things can hurt.
You’re wearing shorts and an old Hawkins High T-shirt, cotton thinned with age, soft enough that it barely feels like fabric anymore. It’s his. Not in any way that would give you away. Everyone had one once, but you know. The collar is stretched from the way he tugs it over his head. The hem falls just a little too low on your thighs. It smells faintly like his detergent, like summer and clean sheets and something that makes your chest ache if you think about it too long.
Steve walks in from the bathroom with the first aid kit.
He sets the kit down beside you and kneels, movements quiet, purposeful. He doesn’t rush. He never rushes when it’s you. His fingers peel the towel back gently, like the wound might bruise if he’s careless. When he cleans the cut, the sting pulls a sharp sound from you before you can stop it.
“Shh,” he says immediately, voice low, soothing. “I know.”
It settles something in you. The way he says it… like he’s been here before. Like he always knows when you’re hurting.
He smiles briefly, eyes flicking up to yours before returning to your hand. He tears the bandage tape between his teeth, the sound soft but intimate, and wraps your hand carefully, anchoring you to the moment. You watch his hands, the steadiness of them, the way his thumb brushes your knuckle without thinking.
Before doubt can catch up to you, you lean forward and press a soft kiss to his lips.
It’s barely there. A whisper of contact.
Still, he freezes.
His brows draw together, confusion flickering across his face. The rule sits between you, unspoken but loud.
You pull back immediately, heat blooming across your cheeks. “Sorry,” you say, sheepish, ducking your head.
He doesn’t retreat. “Don’t need to apologize,” he says quietly. Then, after a beat, softer, searching, “I just… what was it for?”
Your gaze drops to your wrapped hand. Your voice comes out small, honest, unarmored. “For saving my life.”
He laughs gently, lifting your hand and splaying your fingers like he’s inspecting a masterpiece. “Honey, it barely broke skin.”
“No,” you say quickly, breath catching. Your eyes drift to the scar on your leg. The one you no longer hide, him being one of the reasons. “I’m talking about with the demogorgon.”
Something changes in his face.
“Oh,” he says.
You turn fully toward him now. You cup his face, palms warm against his jaw, and feel the way he melts instantly under your touch. You see it in the slackening of his shoulders, the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.
“I thought it was Jonathan for the longest tine,” you admit.
He doesn’t look away, but you see it anyway, the flash of insecurity. The old ache. The jealousy he never quite learned how to bury.
You shift closer, kissing his cheek. “But I’m much happier it was you.”
His eyes close for a moment, breath going unsteady like he wasn’t prepared for that truth. When they open again, they’re glassy, undone. You smile softly, threading your fingers into his hair, slow and reverent.
His hand settles on your exposed leg, thumb brushing the scar with an ease that still surprises you. He massages the soft tissue like it’s sacred. Like it’s part of you he’s proud to touch.
“I love when you touch my hair,” he says quietly.
Your heart stutters.
You remember his ex’s voice, off-hand and dismissive. He won’t ever let me touch it.
You remember learning, carefully, slowly, that he let you do it in the dark, in stolen moments. But this is different. This is daylight with no other intention but to run your fingers through it.
Something breaks open in your chest.
You’ve always been all or nothing. Love or hate. And now it crashes into you all at once, overwhelming and terrifying and beautiful.
You’re in love with Steve Harrington.
Not the version everyone knows. Not the easy grin or the loud charm. But this boy, kneeling in front of you, hands gentle, eyes earnest, touching your scars like they don’t scare him. You love him so fiercely it almost hurts. Makes you want to scream it into the world. Makes you want to protect it, hide it, cradle it where no one can ruin it.
And you hate it.
Because you know, deep down, that he might not feel it back. How could he? You’re a secret. A careful arrangement. You sneak and hide and pretend. You’re not allowed to be real. You’re not even his girlfriend.
You can’t tell him.
But you have to tell him something.
You lean forward, resting your forehead against his, noses brushing, breath mingling. “Steve,” you whisper, “I think you’re my best friend.”
His smile is devastating, soft, bright, unmistakably his. “I knew I’d get you to be nice to me one of these days.”
You don’t let him finish.
You shut him up with a kiss. Then another. And another. The restraint dissolves, passion blooming fast and familiar. His hands slide to your waist, your fingers curl tighter into his hair, and the room seems to tilt.
He breaks away just long enough to murmur against your ear, “You’re my best friend too, sweetheart.”
And for just a moment, it almost feels like enough.
You’re leaving Steve’s room, hair still damp, chest still thudding, and the taste of him on your lips makes your stomach twist in the best and worst way at the same time. You tug at a stray curl, smoothing it back just how you know he likes, thumb brushing over the place on his mouth that’s still wet from spit. Your chest wants to explode.
He steps closer, hands brushing your waist, warmth pressing into you, and you murmur, “Steve, we have to get back,” voice small, trying to drag the moment into the realm of normal, rules, reality.
He chuckles low, the sound brushing against your ear. “I’ll tell them you bled out.”
You snort, shaking your head, melting into him anyway, until the faintest little sound cuts through. You peer over Steve’s shoulder.
Nancy.
Your body stiffens. Your hands push him off without thinking, and he freezes, eyes wide, reading your panic before following your gaze.
You see it before he does, the tension in her shoulders, the small dip of her lips, the way her eyes brim just enough to make your chest ache, and everything you just felt is shredded into tiny pieces of guilt, fear, and heat.
“I was worried… and…” Her voice cracks softly, hesitant, fragile, and you realize how little time you’ve had to be around her without hiding, without secrets, and it lands like a punch. She gives one last look before rushing down the stairs. Her footsteps pounding, quick and deafening.
“Nancy! Please, let me explain—” you say, lunging slightly, desperate.
She shakes her head, slow, “No need to explain. The picture was very clear.”
Jonathan, Robin, and Vickie appear at the bottom of the stairs, eyes wide and full of unasked questions.
Jonathan’s mouth moves before words even fully form. “What’s going on?”
You catch Robin’s gaze, and she’s already looking past you like she knows the answer, calm and collected while your stomach drops.
You glance to Steve at the top of the stairs, guilt painted over every inch of him. The set of his shoulders, the tight press of his jaw, and your chest hurts a little from wanting to reach him and not being able to.
Nancy’s face twists further, hurt and anger mixing into a perfect storm. “We’re leaving,” she snaps at Jonathan, voice sharp enough it makes your teeth hurt just to hear it.
“Nancy, please,” you plead, heart hammering, words spilling faster than you can catch. “We were going to tell you… we wanted to tell you.”
Her head snaps toward you, the mix of fury and tears striking like a blade. “Oh, like you were going to tell me you used to be in love with Jonathan? How long?”
“Nance-“
“I asked how long?” She demands.
Your lip quivers and you say so softly, “Since May.”
She laughs, but it sounds more like a crack. “Are you mad that Jonathan wanted me so you had to go for my ex-boyfriend? Did you even really hate him, or was it all pretend? Was it all part of your plan to get back at me?”
Jonathan freezes, realization hitting like a flash, his eyes flicking between you and Steve, connecting the dots too late.
You shake your head, breath catching. “Of course I hated him! He… was a dick to everyone in school. But… Nancy, I got to really know him. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I wanted you two to be friends, not sleep with one another.” Nancy spins to Robin and Vickie, all sharp edges and disbelief. “And why are you two acting like this is normal?”
Robin and Vickie exchange a look, silent, unwilling to intervene, like watching from the outside.
Nancy scoffs, voice heavy with betrayal. “Right. Okay, so they knew all this time. You could tell them, but not me?”
“Why does it matter? You’re getting married next week,” Steve finally speaks, voice low, careful.
Nancy’s eyes burn into him. “I asked you at Thanksgiving if you liked her, and you told me no. Was that a lie?”
Steve swallows. His face falls. He looks at the ground and nods. Eyes not meeting yours when you look at him.
Nancy had said something to him before? He never told you. Why didn’t he tell you?
Nancy turns her gaze to you again, voice cracking, raw. “I wasn’t worried about you. I expected it from him… but you…” Her hands tremble slightly. “I don’t want either of you at my wedding.” She states with finality.
“Nance—”
“Jonathan, let’s go,” Nancy says.
Jonathan is opening his mouth, but he grabs Nancy’s purse and she’s already gone, leaving you standing frozen, all the threads of the night tangling in your chest.
Robin and Vickie linger by the door, unsure what to do with their hands, their eyes, their words. The house feels too big now. Too quiet. Robin meets your gaze first, her expression soft and aching, like she wants to say a thousand things and knows none of them would help. Vickie squeezes her hand, and together they slip out, the door closing gently behind them like an apology.
You don’t move.
You stare at the door long after it shuts, after the sound of footsteps fades, after the house settles into a heavy, echoing stillness. It feels like wreckage. Like something precious has collapsed inward and you’re standing in the aftermath, unsure where to step without cutting yourself.
Your head bows forward.
You jump when a hand lands on your shoulder.
You look up at Steve.
His face is soft, careful, but there’s something unreadable there too, something guarded. He offers a half-hearted smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“At least…” he says quietly, “…we don’t have to hide anymore.”
Something sharp snaps inside you.
Anger rises fast and hot, burning through your chest before you can stop it— at yourself, at him, at Nancy, at the way everything feels ruined now. You step away from him, shaking your head.
“You think we can still be whatever after this?”
He blinks, genuinely startled.
“Well,” he says, softer, honest, “yeah…”
You laugh, but it’s brittle, hollow.
“Are you kidding me? Why would you think that?”
He straightens, defensive instinct kicking in. His voice firms, not unkind but certain.
“Because she’s the reason you had us sneak around in the first place,” he says, pointing at the door, then pauses, really looking at you, eyes narrowing slightly. “Right?”
Your jaw tightens. “Don’t make me the bad guy here. You’re the one who suggested it.”
He scoffs, “Are you kidding me? I only said it because you were too afraid to tell her.”
“Oh! Like you weren’t afraid to tell her you had feelings for me when she asked you at Thanksgiving? Thanks for telling me by the way.” Your nose flared.
For the first time in a long time, you see Steve’s vein on his neck. He’s angry. At you. Good, because maybe he’ll end it so you don’t have to. You don’t know if you’re strong enough to do it yourself.
The corner of Steve’s mouth lifts up in utter disbelief. “I wasn’t afraid to tell her. It seemed useless, because you hated me and I didn’t think I even had a chance. Why does it matter?”
You jam a finger in his chest. “Because it means she’s always been onto us!”
He held out his hands, his face in hers. “And why is that so bad? If she had known this whole time, then I could’ve properly shown off my girlfriend.”
“I’m not your girlfriend!” You snapped, immediately regretting it when Steve’s entire body goes rigid.
His lips part, shoulders moving up and down. You needed to lie one more time. You needed to get under his skin, push him over the edge so he’d hate you again.
“Come on, Steve,” you say, voice wavering despite yourself. “This was never supposed to be anything.”
You watch the words land.
He crumbles.
He steps closer, reaching out like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t. His voice drops to a whisper.
“Let me be something,” he pleads. “Please.” He says your name like it hurts. “Please. I’ve been tired of pretending the way I feel for you just to make everyone else comfortable.”
You flinch.
Steve sinks to his knees.
The sound of it is quiet but devastating. He grabs at your sides, fingers clutching like anchors, like he’s drowning.
“Please, baby,” his voice cracks. “Please. You can’t tell me you don’t feel it too.”
He’s crying. Fully. Openly. Broken in a way you’ve never seen before.
Your chest caves in.
You want to give in. God, you feel it, you feel him, but the image of Nancy’s face flashes behind your eyes, raw and shattered, and it stops you cold.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” you sob. “You don’t.”
He presses his forehead into your stomach, clutching your shirt like it’s the only thing holding him together. His shoulders shake. Your hands hang stupidly at your sides.
“If you leave, it will break my heart,” he whispers. “Please, let’s figure it out together.”
You’ve never seen him like this. Not even close.
You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to breathe through it.
“Steve,” you whisper, voice cracking, exhausted. “Get… get up. You’ll be okay. You always end up being okay.” You swallow hard. “You moved on after Nancy. You were fine after the ones after her. You were fine after all of them.”
He chokes on a sound that might be a laugh or a sob.
“No,” he says hoarsely, looking up at you. “Not when it comes to you.” He hesitates, then adds, quieter, wrecked, “You’re it for me.”
You freeze. Don’t say it, please don’t say it.
“I love you.”
Your breath stutters, tears burning hot behind your eyes as you shake your head, stepping back again. Earlier, you hadn’t said it when you wanted to—not because you didn’t feel it, but because you didn’t know if he did. Now you realize that wasn’t the whole truth. You hadn’t wanted to know at all. Because knowing would mean there was no going back. That kissing him, sleeping with him, letting it go this far had already changed something permanent. And if loving him, if being loved by him was real, then it wouldn’t just change things. It would shatter the life you were trying so hard to keep intact.
He drags a hand through his hair, gripping it hard, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t know when it happened,” he admits.
He shakes his head, breath uneven.“I just know that every path I took somehow bent back toward you.”
He looks up at you, devastation etched into every line of his face.
“Before I knew what I was looking for… it was already you.”
Your heart pounds painfully. And the room finally, completely falls apart.
“So what?” you bark, the words tearing out of you before you can soften them. “I’m supposed to have my entire world flipped upside down because you have a schoolboy crush on me?”
Steve pushes himself up from the floor, wiping at his face, jaw tight. When he speaks, his voice is strained but steady, like he’s holding himself together by sheer will.
“It’s not like that, sweetheart. And you know it.”
“No,” you snap immediately. “I don’t know it.”
He straightens fully now, chest rising and falling fast. The softness drains from his expression, replaced by something sharper, wounded and angry and achingly familiar. He’s standing again, eye level, refusing to fold.
“Stop lying to me,” he says, voice raised just enough to sting. It lands exactly where it’s meant to. “Stop trying to run away.”
You feel it, him seeing straight through you, past the armor and the barbs and the carefully constructed defenses. He always has. And you can’t let that happen now. You can’t lose this fight, because losing it would mean losing everything else.
You take a breath.
Then another.
Your mind latches onto the only escape hatch left.
“The coupon,” you say quietly. You didn’t have to elaborate. You were talking about the As you wish coupon he gave you for Christmas. You never had to use it, because when it came down to it, he did things before asking. Hell, he always did what you asked.
His brows knit together, confusion flashing across his face. “What about it?”
Your hands tremble, but you keep your voice steady. Measured. Final.
“I want to use it. Now.” You swallow hard. “I want you to never speak to me again.”
The words devastate him.
Steve’s eyes widen, jaw slack, disbelief freezing him in place. His bottom lip trembles as he shakes his head, once, helplessly.
“No.”
“It’s the deal,” you say, forcing yourself not to look away. “You said I could use it, and you’d do it. No questions asked.”
“Yeah!” he says desperately. “Like hanging up shelves. Not—” He cuts himself off, reaching for you suddenly, grabbing your uninjured hand and pulling it to his chest. He presses it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles like a prayer, like a plea. “Not when it costs you.”
You close your eyes.
Slowly, so slowly, your hand slips from his grasp. You let it linger a second longer than necessary, maybe hoping some part of you will break, will cave, will save you from yourself.
But it doesn’t.
You shake your head.
You turn away.
You don’t look back.
The sob rips out of you before you can stop it, raw and broken, following you down the driveway as you walk to your car, leaving Steve Harrington standing in the ruins of everything.
What the fuck is your problem? Sara with an H wasn’t enough for you? He gets on his knees and begs and she tells him to not speak to her anymore. What kind of evil person do you have to be to do that? In all seriousness, make it better (that’s not a threat but take it like one)
summary: What begins as curiosity turns into fixation. The man who built a kingdom on loyalty and longing finds himself undone by the one wife who treats him like a convenience instead of a god. As Jimmy’s obsession grows, you become untouchable - his favourite, his weakness, his quiet problem.
You married him for a guaranteed bed, the hot meals, the protection and dick on demand whenever you wanted it. Your desire to be free still trumped the need to be locked away in a room with others, unexpectedly bringing more attention to yourself than you thought necessary.
Not edited.
wc: 7.2k whoopsie.
warnings: language, post apocalyptic setting, mentions of unprotected sex, mentions of violence - blood and gore, cult dynamics, harem tings, jealousy, mentions and allusions to smut - missionary and doggy. Possessive and obsessive nature, body worship, breast touching, kissing, nudity, bodily fluids (cum). Power imbalance. I guess dub con since Jimmy is in charge, smut - dirty talk, spanking, praise, teasing and taunting, doggy, cowgirl, pnv, creampie - multiple mentions of creampies, oral (f!receiving), fingering. Breeding and pregnancy kink if you squint, mentions of cheating (not from jimmy or reader). Straight up murder.
Find Part One here.
Let me know what you think!
-
Jimmy had stripped within minutes of making you 'wait' for him, his taunts a forgotten thought. He couldn't control himself around you, he couldn't stop the way he needed to feel impossibly close, his skin pressed against yours.
He had you flipped onto your knees within seconds, sheathed inside your leaking heat before you could even brace yourself.
Filthy.
Your husband was utterly filthy.
Filthy in the way his hips rolled against your soft ones.
Dirty in the way he pushed your head into his silk sheets, your name on his lips as he grunted.
He pushed himself further and inside until he felt like he was suffocating inside your leaking cunt. He felt drunk, he felt filthy himself in the way his own resolve was disappearing after just minutes inside you.
Your thighs quivered with every sharp thrust, hands bunched into the sheets, head turned to the side as breathless moans left your drooling lips.
"Fuckin' god," His hips stuttered as he sunk his cock deeper, rutting into you like a man starved. "M-my perfect fucking wife - shit - d'ya feel how wet you are? Soaking me, soaki- Christ."
Jimmy huffs through his nose as a louder grunt escapes his chest, the hand on your head releasing it's grip as he drags his hands over the softness of your lower back before gripping both of your hips, fucking you against him as you manage to sit upright a little onto your elbows. He spanks your ass and thighs with each jiggle, the rings providing a sting you relished in.
"Fuck-," You all but hiccuped, squeezing around him as you writhed on the bed. "Jim-Jimmy, s'too much, oh god, mmf, I can’t -.”
It was as if you alone were made for him, made to go completely dumb on his cock as he pounded you into his mattress. Pussy squeezing him, sweet noises from your lips as drool leaked from the corners.
Teary eyes, an open mouth as only whining noises became the normal. Jimmy leans over you with his usual grin, trying to give off a semblance of restraint despite the sweat on his forehead and the furrow in his brow.
"Huh? What's that angel? S'too much? Naw, you - shit, you can take it, fuckin' made for this."
His hands are everywhere, shaky but firm, everywhere at once. His groans sound almost like a whimper as you clench around him.
Your voice felt high pitched as he stretches you deliciously, bottoming out with a few harder thrusts, his balls slapping against you with an almost disgustingly wet sound.
Jimmy whispers something from behind you, names you can't make out through the sound of skin against skin, prayers you didn't recognise.
Your breath leaves you in sharp gasps as you feel Jimmy reach around, his hand on your tummy as he positions you upright, your back pressed flush against his own chest.
He keeps you pinned to him as he ruts into you, and all you can do is cling to his arm for support as your eyes close.
"My brave girl," He all by coos in your ear, his movements turning slow as he drags his hips. "So strong for me aren't you? So, God - so fucking wet and full of me, so fucking proud all the time."
Your eyes open at hearing his words more clearly, your nails digging into his bicep as your free hand rests on his hip. Your thighs burned at the angle, your breasts bouncing roughly as Jimmy shifts his hold on you.
"Shut up." You managed to get the words out, even if they sounded weak.
He chuckles in your ear, the sound light despite the roughness of his hips. "Naw, think yer too good f'me?" A harder thrust sends you nearly forward, but he catches your slip.
"Goin' out everyday, workin', fuck," He slides the hand on your chest to your throat, keeping a light but evident grip as he slows his hips even further, causing you to whine. "Ignorin' me, ignoring your darling husband, leaving me here waiting f’you.”
Your thighs quivered and with your last bit of strength, you tapped Jimmy's right thigh three times. It was an immediate stop, a way to tell him enough.
His thrusts stopped, the hand on your throat loosening as he immediately turns your head towards him, wanting to see what caused the interruption. He slides out of you, the empty feeling nearly making you regret making him stop.
He expected swears, expected you to cuss him out for berating you during sex, but instead you shifted your position, grabbing the blond by his necklaces, pushing him down.
A grunt leaves his mouth at the surprise, his back bouncing against the sheets as he lands. He's about to ask what's wrong when you're climbing over him, your thighs straddling his own as you reach down between your legs, gripping him in your fingers and guiding him back inside.
A wife had never been on top before.
You didn't care.
Jimmy's eyes were wide as he stared up at you, his hair a mess and clinging to his forehead and cheeks as his mouth opened. You feel tighter at this angle, and he feels thicker, pressed so full inside of you that you can't help by dig your nails into his chest.
It feels like you're in a trance, your hips immediately bouncing and sliding up and down on his cock as Jimmy moans so loudly, you nearly feel it in your chest.
"Jimmy," You whimper, and the man swallows, hard, shaking his head as his hands immediately reach for your hips. He felt lost for just a split second, not having had someone ride him in what felt like forever. "Oh my god, y’feel so good, so fucking good like this."
The praise from your lips sounded better than any worship he had received in his lifetime.
Being on top gave someone else power he didn't like. Being on top and leaving him at someone's mercy was never apart of the deal.
But as he watches your tits bounce in his face, your face clouded and contorted in pleasure, he couldn't help but realise he never wanted to be away from this feeling again.
For once, the words escape him, his mouth hung open as he lets out a soft groan that resembled your real name. You didn't plan on flipping things around on him, literally, but you were so eager to shut him up.
With the quickly growing pace of your hips, sliding down his thick cock like it was second nature, your palms pressing down against his abdomen, the ridges of muscles spasming under your touch as the flush in his chest spreads up his neck and to his cheeks.
Your fingers wound through the small tufts of hair under his bellybutton before back to his chest.
"I-" His brow furrows further, his face squeezed with an emotion you can't quite decipher nor care too. It felt too good, he felt too good. "My Angel, look at ye”.
Jimmy manages to sit upright, burying is face into the crook of your neck as he grunts, one hand still on your hip as the other slides over your lower back, up and across until he's gripping your jaw and bringing his lips to yours in a rough and wet kiss.
You cry into his mouth, Jimmy swallowing the sound as he licks into you, now gripping the back of your head as he guides you over his dick in a desperate pace.
Your hands reach around his neck, resting deep into his unruly blond strands as he moans unapologetically, kissing you with even more earnest. Despite how he chased your lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure adoration.
He thrusts, the grip on your jaw never loosening as he keeps your eyes on his, his nose mere inches from yours as he watches you take what's yours and fall apart.
He feels like he's everywhere. His mouth back on yours, a ringed hand at your hip, his hips rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of the base of his cock dragging over your clit and causing a gasp to leave your lips. You tug at the roots of his hair, granting you another delicious groan from his throat.
Jimmy's thrusts feel sloppier by the second, and the coil in your belly grows with each drag of your hips. Desperate to feel more, you reach down to between your legs, but Jimmy stops you with a quick click of his tongue.
"I got ye," He hums in approval at the way you let him slide his thumb over your clit, the embarrassingly loud sounds of your love making echoing through his bedroom and no doubt the hall.
The sounds were lewd, wet and rough, but you paid them no mind. "What a pretty little sight,"
You make the mistake of closing your eyes, relishing in the way Jimmy toyed with your clit in the same time the head of his cock pressed inside of you in a way that should've hurt.
"Ah ah, look at me," His words were an order and a beg in one. Whilst his cheeks were flushed and brows were furrowed in an attempt to keep control, his eyes were full of worship, of obsession. "Ye close? Can feel it huh, feel ye squeezin' me. Yeah, yeah you are."
He could always tell when you were, felt the shift in you almost instantly. He praises you the entire time, continuing his thrusts and swipe of his thumb to prolong the feeling. His own eyes struggled to stay open as he felt you squeeze him like you'd never feel him again.
You expected Jimmy to pull out after you came, but as he felt you quiver and pulse around him and attempt to move off of him, he grips your hips.
“No,” He mutters, bringing his hand to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear once more. “Wanna feel you, all of ye, inside.”
It was your turn to be shocked.
Another rule broken.
And in a moment clouded by lust and something else you couldn't name, you nodded eagerly, bringing your lips to his again as he rutted inside you until he painted your walls with his cum.
You sighed his name, dragged the tips of your fingers over his jaw and cheeks until they swiped over his bottom lip. He chased your touch with each stutter of his hips, with each muscle that tightened in his lower stomach. It was you telling him how pretty he looked at this angle.
To say filling you felt like heaven was an understatement. He realised then and there that it was a feeling he would chase every chance he could.
Jimmy had cleaned you up, more gentle than you were used too. Had bathed you like you now carried a part of him that he was adamant could break.
He asked if you’d stay with him, but you declined with a kiss to the corner of his mouth, explaining that as much as you wanted too, you had an early morning start with the others.
Your husband watches as you leave his room with a slight limp, unable to hide the grin at the sight. But through it all, he found his obsession for you growing by the second.
Three rules broken tonight, and neither of you cared. If it were up to Jimmy, you would be barefoot and full of him 24/7.
Thankfully, it was up to him.
-
The steam from the porcelain mug curled around your face, smelling faintly of damp earth and bitter roots.
It was an old remedy, a mixture of wild carrot seeds and some herb you couldn't name that an older member had scavenged from the hills.
It tasted like dirt, but in a world without much else to offer, it was your only insurance. The older Jimmy said it worked if you took it regular - said it mattered now more than it ever had.
She called it Plan B, a name taken from the before.
"Oh, come on, don't just sit there sipping that shit," Josie nudged you, her eyes wide with a mix of confusion and genuine curiosity.
"The whole hall heard him the other night. Jimmy doesn't sound like that unless he's got someone strung up. He was practically crying, the hell did you do to him?"
You blew on your tea, looking at the circle of women clad in their dresses and heels, matching yours.
Your morning with the actual Jimmy's had turned into a few days in another outpost, much to your delight. Amongst the others, you felt like you had a family, like you belonged to people who had your back through thick and thin.
No tight dress, no heels, just a baggy green suit and a weapon in your hands.
Back in the common room however, you felt judged. As if your very movements were constantly being ridiculed. The common room was thick with heat and curiosity.
You sat cross legged on your chosen lounge, mortar and pestle balanced on the couch beside you.
Across from you, the wives were buzzing now that you were back with them.
“Hello?” Josie whined, nudging you again when you decided to drink your tea instead of talking. “He was loud. Like, loud loud, damn near kept me awake.”
Lou covered her mouth, eyes bright. “We heard him down the hall, heard ye both actually, the hell did you two do?"
Elsie laughed, delighted at the conversation finally being had. "Never had him make a noise like that before, thought you were havin' a party in there."
You didn’t look up as you looked into your cup. "What's the problem?"
"Problem?" Another echoes, a scoff on her red lips. "Ye had him screaming, we wanna know everything."
“I got on top?" You said simply, finally peering up at the others as you sip.
Silence hit the room like a dropped plate.
"Sorry?” Josie said flatly.
Lou blinked. “Oh you are such a liar."
Blair actually sits up straighter from her spot on her couch, pausing the tv she had been watching. "Bullshit, ye got on top?" She didn't seem as displeased as the others, if anything, she was intrigued. "He never allows that, didnae think he had it in him."
You shrugged, swirling the mixture again before downing it in one go, face barely twitching at the taste. "Heat of the moment I guess,"
The heat of the tea begins to settle in your stomach as you see the women all share glances, as if an unspoken conversation amongst them was finally coming to light. "I don't know what to tell ye all, it just happened - I guess he didn't mind too much at the time?"
"Minded?" Josie scoffed. "He basically danced outta his room the next mornin', he completely forgot about his breakfast with Blair."
"Which was fine by me by the way," Blair pipes up, her head lounging over the back of her couch, hair long and red as she shrugs and swishes her wine. "Means I could sleep in."
The others ignored her, continue to stare at you as if you had just claimed you laid with an Alpha.
“That’s...” Lou exhales. “That’s not something he just lets happen, there's gotta be more to it.”
"Let's naw sit here and act like I'm making fibs yeah? The day I start makin' stories up over dick is the day I walk out of these walls and join the infected, Jesus Christ," You say a little more forcibly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
You well and truly hated being back in this room. "We fucked, I was on top, he let it happen, that's it, nothin' else to it."
They erupted all at once, questions, disbelief, envy barely disguised as laughter, curiosity on how you managed such a task.
Before you could answer any of it, the room shifted again.
Jimmy Crystal appeared in the doorway, a large smile on his face as if he had heard every little word from his wives mouths. His eyes went straight to you, lighting up in a way that made several wives go quiet immediately.
“You're back,” he said, already crossing the room. "Huh, no one told me, ye been here long Angel?"
His hands settled on your shoulders from behind like clockwork, thumbs pressing warmly, familiarly. He looks for a moment, eyes darting all over to see if there were any injuries sustained whilst out.
Your head shakes in response, the empty cup resting between your thighs as you looked up at the man in charge.
Jimmy leans down until his mouth was near your ear. “My room tonight?” He murmured. “I've found myself missin' you a fair bit 'n think we're due for a catch up... Don't ye think?”
You frowned slightly, tilting your head back to look at him. You couldn't deny the way he looked at you like you were the only woman in the room. He was doing it again. "But I'm not scheduled, y'know that."
He was getting lazy.
Desperate.
Before he could answer, Elsie piped up brightly from where she sat on the carpeted floor. “Aren’t I supposed to be seeing you tonight?”
Jimmy didn’t even look at her, his eyes still locked onto yours from where you sit below him.
He clicked his tongue once, sharp, dismissive, his attention never snapping away. “No,” He said plainly. “I’ll be seeing you tonight, if ye will have me?”
The room went very quiet.
If you will have me.
Elsie’s smile faltered, confusion flashing across her face before she masked it. The others exchanged looks, some sympathetic, some openly resentful.
Jimmy’s grip on your shoulders tightened just a fraction, not painful, but unmistakably possessive now, as if there was a hint of fear that you'd refuse him, deny his touch.
“You don’t mind,” He added softly, more statement than question. “Do you? We don't gotta do anythin' ye don't want too, I just want to see you, yes? Have a wee chat."
All eyes were on you.
You felt the collective temperature in the room drop twenty degrees.
The resentment from the others was like a physical weight, but Jimmy seemed oblivious to everything but you. You looked at Elsie’s heartbroken expression and then back to Jimmy’s expectant one.
"Okay, yeah... Sure Jimmy," You said softly. "I'll be there."
Jimmy beamed, a bright, boyish grin that looked strange on a man who ran a cult. He leaned down, defying his own unspoken rule again about locking lips, and pressed a firm lingering peck to your dark red lips.
As he pulled away, his brow furrowed for a fraction of a second. He smacked his lips slightly, tasting the bitter, herbaceous tang of your tea.
He looked at the mug in your hand, then back at you, but the question died in his throat. Whatever it was, he didn't care enough to ruin the mood.
"Bye bye now." He spun on his heel and marched out with a last lingering look to where you sat, his stride jaunty.
The room exploded the second the door clicked shut.
"Oh and we're kissing now?" Lou shrieked. "When did that start? What the fuck?"
"On the mouth." Isobel chimed in, like she needed to clarify the heinous act.
"I told you," You said, feeling a headache forming at the unnecessary bickering. None of this was your fault. "Your guess is as good as mine." You turned to Elsie, who just sat looking lost. "Elsie love, I’m so sorry, I didn't ask for this, you gotta know that right?"
Elsie didn't answer, she didn't even look at you. She just stood up, gathered her glass of wine and walked out without a word towards what you assumed was her bedroom.
Blair, still sprawled in her armchair just snorted. "I'd kiss ye too if ye had me screaming like that the other night."
It made your lips quirk just ever so slightly, but you couldn't help the unease that lingered.
-
By the time you admitted it to yourself, it had already been happening for weeks, months even.
Jimmy was in love with you. This was no longer obsession.
Not the theatrical kind he performed for the others, grand gestures, loud laughter, devotion like a spectacle, but something quieter and more dangerous.
He brought gifts to your door himself now.
Not sent, not delivered by another Jimmy.
New trainers on your bed. Books he had read that he thought you’d like. Various little knickknacks for your bedroom.
And then the ring.
Not a loop hanging from a chain like the others wore, symbolic, interchangeable, easily removed like a branded collar. This one was solid gold like the ones on his own fingers. Thin at the edges, sized just for your finger.
“It's just a little somethin," He had shrugged like it was something casual. "Worried the one around ye neck might break off out there."
You didn’t argue, arguing had never been your style - and truthfully, you were starting to enjoy his company more and more.
Out in the world, nothing changed.
You found yourself spending more time with Blair too.
She was the only one who didn't look at you like you were some usurper. The two of you were sitting beside each other in the common room, sharing a pre outbreak magazine while you sipped your herbal tea.
"We're going to run out of carrot seeds if he keeps summoning you every six hours," Blair remarked, not looking up from a picture of 90's handbag. "When did he start finishin' inside?"
You paused, the mug halfway to your lips. "You know what this is?"
"I used to help Mags make it before I became a wife," Blair smirked, finally looking at you. "I know the smell of a 'I’m not having a baby' tea anywhere, nae bother, secret's safe with me... though I think it'd be cute to have a babe around."
"Yeah that's... not happening - I just don't understand it all,'" You murmured, head resting on her shoulder. "I didn't ask for this, I don't want the others hating me over this shite."
"Don't even worry 'bout them," She says flatly. "They're just scared they might have to actually scrub a floor, JImmy's just a meal ticket at the end of the day when ye think about it," She flips a page. "No offence, he's losing his mind over ye and they're losing their privileges,"
It was more food for thought, and you nestled in further to her side, your eyes no longer reading the paper.
"They're not actually scared of losing him, they're scared of losing the lifestyle. Fear makes people stupid and makes people do stupid things, like marrying a blonde."
You both laughed at her words.
How right she was.
-
More weeks passed.
Jimmy stopped pretending to rotate nights evenly.
Stopped his little visits in the common room all together.
He sought you out every chance he could between watches, after runs, sometimes just to sit and talk while the rest of the building buzzed without him.
Meals in his room became routine. Breakfast's, lunch and dinners. Moments that blurred together until the 'schedule' started to feel like a real relationship had well and truly formed.
He even started spending time with you in your room, leaving pieces of his clothing and jewellery any chance he could.
The others noticed, everyone did. They felt the change in the air when ever you were around, how his mood would lift instantly.
Jimmy smiled more, not grinned.
They all noticed the way he no longer looked at the other women the same. The way his attention snapped back to you whenever you entered a room even for just a second.
And you noticed the tea disappearing faster.
You drank it more often now, swallowing the bitterness without ceremony, careful and quiet about it. A necessary precaution.
He was becoming messy, keeping your legs locked tight around him every time he came, keeping your eyes trained on him as he filled you every way he could.
You found your mind was going foggy around Jimmy, that you were actually finding yourself falling for him - if that was even the right term. Love wasn't an emotion that came often in this world.
It was just clear that it wasn't desire anymore.
Just, you felt full of him in more ways than one. Full of a sharp heat and ache and the need to be with him even when sex wasn't involved.
Jimmy had you on your back in the planning room, maps and other objects thrown lazily to the floor in a heap as he buried his head between your legs.
He called you in under the guise of planning another raid - but had locked the door behind you within seconds.
You knew you weren't going to be making any new routines.
He had spread your legs wide, your dress bunched up around your waist to reveal the soft panties beneath. You thought he would just peel them to the side, tug them down to join the other items on the floor, but he left them swinging around one of your ankles instead.
He groaned, breathing shallow, jaw tight like you had just awakened something in him.
Jimmy never went down on a wife, never let them feel his lips in places he deemed worthy, but as he murmured to himself about how pretty your pussy looked like this, he couldn't think of anything else he'd rather be doing.
"All mine," He continued to murmur, kneeling between your spread thighs, so close you could feel his breath against your cunt. “Such a gift."
He licked a long wet stripe from your leaking hole to your clit, and the moan you let out was enough to have you biting into your hand. His thumb swipes over your folds, opening you up like a flower.
A low sigh in delight leaves his lips. "Heaven."
His lips wrap around your clit, sucking and licking as two fingers slowly fill you, burying to the brim and curling inwards.
It didn't take you long to cum, and Jimmy was more than pleased with himself at the way your legs shook around his head, your fingers gripping his hair and tiara, gripping anything you could gain leverage on.
He just wiped his lips with the back of his hand, pressing a kiss to your knee before helping you fix your dress.
You expected him to ask for the favour to be reciprocated, but instead he just rearranged his pants, helped you to your feet and pet you on the behind, sending you on your merry way like you hadn’t just soaked his face.
-
The power dynamic in the gymnasium had shifted so subtly. It was unnoticeable to most, but you had recognised it almost instantly.
While the majority of the other wives spent their days trapped in a cycle of crude words for you and red wine, you were still out in the mud and running with the infected.
You were still undergoing raids, killing runners and raiders left right and centre. Still took night watches, still laughed and bled alongside the other Jimmy's who trusted you implicitly now.
They deferred when you planned, followed your orders beyond the walls, listened when you instructed which raider got strung up first.
You found yourself actually enjoying it. Not the attention, but the idea of being able to keep those you cared about safe.
A leader, whether Jimmy intended it or not.
You had become more than a wife, you were the bridge between the eccentric king and the soldiers who kept him and your home alive.
In the bedroom, his desire turned into a frantic need to please you. His usual cocky demeanour would be abandoned at the door, leaving behind a man scared that you would leave him at any moment.
Sir Jimmy Crystal, a man who once demanded absolute service, was now spending hours between your legs, his blonde hair a mess, his gold necklaces clinking against your thighs as he worked to find new ways to make you lose that cool, collected composure of yours.
Your back was pressed against Jimmy's chest as you sat in his lap, the two of you watching an old movie on the tv he had in his room. He wore just his tracksuit pants and his white vest, you wearing a baggy shirt you had found in his closet.
His hands rest on your stomach, fingers running idle over the bare flesh under his shirt. It was uncharacteristically domestic, comfortable in a way you weren't used too.
"Been thinkin'," He mumbles in your ear, the low sound causing you to shiver. "I've been finding myself in a bit of a bind, you've been going out more," Jimmy's voice trails off as he tries to think of a way to speak his thoughts. "You've done enough for this place, yes? And I don't like how I feel when you're not 'ere."
He runs a hand over your waist, his thumb lingering near your hip. "So I want ye to stop, no more runs, no more raids, I want you 'ere with me, where it's safe, where I can keep an eye on you."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a hopeful whisper. "We've been spending so much time together. Surely... surely nature is taking it's course hm? You’re probably carrying me already, gotta be - The Lord knows I've been trying."
Your eyes widen at his words, immediately shaking your head. You knew the tea was working through your system and doing it's job. Cramps had riddled your stomach and lower back for the better half of the week, and you knew your period was just around the corner.
"No Jimmy, you know I like what we have going on - believe me, I really do," You say softly, resting your hands over his.
“But I'm sorry, I don't see myself stoppin' any time soon. I've told you, being out there keeps me sane - but if I stayed in here all day? I'd go proper mad."
"But in your state-"
"I'm naw pregnant Jimmy," You cut him off, turning your head so you could see him properly. His jaw was tightened, blue eyes locked on your stomach. "I know I'm not, so that's no reason to keep me locked up in here."
He hated this.
He hated even more that his utter devotion to you wasn't enough to stay by his side 24/7.
"But ye could be," He argued again, sounding almost defeated. "Been filling you up everyday, never felt like the others were worthy of something so special y'know, but you? You've already got a piece of me, I know you're worthy f'more."
He wasn't talking to you as he spoke, but your belly. His eyes were locked tight on your stomach as he continued running his hands over the skin, your shirt bunched just under your breasts. "Pretty mama."
He whispered the last part, and it was almost enough to make you feel guilty about the tea.
Almost.
"You're the only person in this world who would choose to go out there over a warm bed," He muttered as he shakes himself from his thoughts. He sighs, pulling your forehead to his lips in a frustrated kiss. "Makes me wanna lock the doors 'n never let you out."
"But ye wouldn't," You whispered against him. "Because then I would hate you, and you're far too obsessed with making me love you to risk that."
Jimmy let out a sharp, self deprecating laugh, his grip on you tightening. "Wrapped around ye finger aren’t I? Should be wearing my crown instead eh?"
He was back to his usual self almost instantly, using humour to cover his disappointment. You didn't miss the way his eyes constantly dart between your stomach and breasts. "I just want you safe."
“I am,” You replied, resting your head further into the junction between his shoulder and neck. “Out there with them, I’ve never been safer until I found you all.”
That truth unsettled him more than anything else you’d ever said.
Because love, he was learning, didn’t always come with surrender he was used too and you had never once pretended you were his to keep.
Even as you found yourself loving him as each days passed.
-
You woke to a harsh knock on your bedroom door that was anything but gentle. It startled you instantly, hand reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.
“Feral, hey,” Jimmy Ink whispers, already halfway into your room like urgency had pushed her through the door. Her face looked pale in the low light. “Ye need to get up, now. Something's going on."
She looks around the room as if someone was going to jump out, your eyes instantly find the knife in her hand, out and ready. She bounces around your room, waiting for you to get up as she checks every little door.
Your first thought was a raid. A breach. Something going wrong beyond the walls or in the outposts. "What is it? Ink? What the hells going on?"
You pulled on the nearest thing, a baggy shirt that still smelt faintly of Jimmy, a huff leaving your lips as she grabs your hand and brings you barefoot through the corridors.
The building felt wrong at this hour. Too awake. Too loud where it should’ve been quiet.
"Ink?"
"You need to be here for this, he owes you that," You didn't know what she meant, but followed her all the same, watching as the grip on her knife didn't lessen. "We don't know if they actually convinced anyone yet, s’not safe.”
You felt lost in your own home.
The cold tile of the gymnasium floor bit into your bare soles as you stepped into the main hall. The air was thick, not with the smell of faint chlorine or wax, but with a sharp, electric tension that made the hair on your arms stand up.
Jimmy Ink, your friend and near sister in arms looked scared.
Scared for you.
Jimmy sat on his bright yellow throne, Jimmy's of all ages standing around him in their riot of colour, a living mural of loyalty.
When he saw you, he looked almost pleased. You weren't supposed to be awake, but he couldn't help but nod at Ink regardless.
"Angel," He breathed. The moment his eyes landed on you barefoot and in one of his shirts, his expression whilst wild, softened into something disturbingly tender. "Come 'ere, up here with me."
You walked forward, your heart hammering against your ribs. Your eyes lose Jimmy for a second, turning to see a different sight entirely.
Josie.
Lou.
Elsie.
Isobel.
They stood clustered together at the bottom of the drained pool in the centre of the room, shaking, faces streaked with tears.
Behind them, the Jimmy's, your friends - Jimmy Jimmy, Jimmy Shite, Jimmy Fox, Jimmy Jones, stood watchful and grim, various weapons in hand.
Your walk continued as you spotted Blair perched on the edge of the pool, hands braced behind her as her legs swung back and forth, a dull and almost bored expression.
“What is going on?” You ask for what felt like the fifth time, your voice coming out quieter than you meant.
For the first time in awhile, fear threaded itself sharp and fast through your chest.
Jimmy laughed softly, delighted, and gestured for you again. He pulls you onto his lap the moment you had reached the steps towards him.
One of his large hands spread across your stomach, a possessive, protective gesture, while the other began to stroke your hair, twisting a lock around his finger.
"Jimmy? Talk to me,” You ask again with more urgency, your voice steady despite the adrenaline. "Why are they in the pool?"
Jimmy let out a low, melodic laugh, leaning his head against yours. "Quite the story actually. Sweet Blair came to me tonight with a rather interesting tale," He clicks his tongue, eye twitching. "Your lovely sisters here felt you were becoming... a bit of a problem."
The scene felt like a bizarre tableau of power and terror. The light from the overhead floodlights hit his dark expression, casting dancing glimmers across the walls. Below him, the empty, deep end of the swimming pool served as a makeshift pit that was only used for one thing.
Death.
Blair didn’t look at you, her eyes trained on the women she had turned in. Just continuously swinging her legs as she sighed.
“She said these girls," He nodded toward the pool as he nuzzles his nose against your head. "Had a plan, that you had to go. Hurt, maimed, killed even, who knows exactly - they won't talk,”
A sob broke from someone below.
Jimmy tilted his head, amused at the sound. "Was already planning on retiring them y'know? I only need you - I know that now, but I cannae have them around knowing they want my future gone, can I?"
He squeezes your stomach at this, voice dropping to a hiss. "Cannae have them touching what's mine, my bride, my pretty little mama."
Jimmy looks back at you, his eyes wide and shimmering with a terrifying, obsessive devotion as he watches you process everything.
You knew the others were upset at the way things had changed, but you didn't think they'd stoop so low.
Murder?
Most of them hadn't even been outside the walls since the virus broke out, yet they wanted to discard you like you were nothing.
But you knew Blair wouldn’t lie about such a thing, the woman had started seeing Jimmy Shite in secret and was already starting to join on supply runs.
Her time as a wife was over, and she was more than happy and willing - she had nothing to lose by protecting you.
"They’re yours now," He whispers, loud enough for the weeping women in the pit to hear. "I’ve given them to you. Your friends are waiting, we can... Cast them out, hell - have 'em kill each other, or..." He trailed his fingers down to your throat.
"Shall we let our friends deal with them? We can make sure they never breathe the same air as you again."
The hall fell into a deathly silence. Even the Jimmy's seemed to hold their breath.
In the pit, Josie looked up, her face a mask of snot and tears, her eyes pleading with you, the woman she had spent weeks plotting against unbeknownst to you.
You felt lost for words.
Death was nothing to you, but never had you been the centre of attention like this. Never had you been the one to plan an execution of people you knew.
Jimmy leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as he sees you hesitate. "Tell me, my clever, brave girl. What should we do with them? It's your choice. Your word is law tonight," He kisses your temple, affectionate, trusting. "Either way, they all will be dying tonight, one way or another."
He was testing you.
More sobs echo through the empty pool, Lou screaming about how it was all Josie's idea, Isobel nodding in quick agreement as the brunette tried to plead her case.
"Oh shut it, you lot have been plannin' this shite for weeks," Blair pipes up from her spot in the front row. "Ye wanted to push her from a watch tower, don't act dense now."
More swears are thrown the gingers way as you see the way Jimmy Jones squeezes their bat from behind Lou.
They were eager. They were hungry.
You were kind. Their friend. Their family.
Every eye in the room turned to you.
Still the words escape you, and you sit upright in Jimmy's lap, knowing there was only one choice.
"A cast out will just bring infected near us, they’ll be loud.” You murmur, just low enough for Jimmy to hear.
He nods as he listens to your judgement. You felt the shock of the betrayal leaving by the second, replacing with a burning anger.
"Aye, it would," He agrees, continuing to run his nose against your head, inhaling your scent like you weren't currently playing executioner. "Ye could do it yerself if ye like? I know ye like getting your hands dirty. Maybe we watch them kill each other, have 'em put on a show."
Truthfully, the thought did cross your mind. But you knew you were being clouded by the deception and hurt.
"Mercy," You managed to say through gritted teeth, head turning to your husband whose eyebrows furrowed at your words. "Naw like that, get the Jimmy's to do it, quick and thorough."
JImmy's mouth frowns at your choice, but he knew he did say you could decide. He's about to speak when you cut him off again.
"Wait," You peer down, calling out Blair's name. She looks instantly, still looking bored despite her whistleblowing. "Who... Who started all of this?"
Her head peers back down, eyes trained solely on Josie. "Little love here, wanted Shite to fuck up yer tea."
Shite nods at her words, looking between his woman sitting on the pools edge before back to the cowering women in front of him.
"Huh..." You huffed, and you sink further into Jimmy's lap, fury glazed over your eyes as your fists clench. "Then they can make it hurt for her then, make it quick for the rest."
Screams echoed through the hall as the Jimmy's all raise their weapons, blood splattering through the empty pool as you watched from your position on Jimmy's throne.
He just beamed from beneath you, hand playing in your hair as he murmured how he had made the right choice with you.
Your eyes never left the scene in front of you, Jimmy laughing and whispering sweet nothings into your ear as you watch the chaos beneath.
“You’re gonna stop drinking that tea of yours too,” He groans softly, rubbing himself against your behind as the screams came now from just one woman’s mouth.
They let Josie suffer, true to your order.
The Jimmy’s took their turns with their weapons as the others quietened down. “You’re gonna stop, and I’m gonna make sure it takes, s’that alright?”
Your attention was stuck too much on the carnage, fists clenched, jaw tight as you didn’t blink.
The other Jimmy’s all grinned from where they stood, some standing with streaks and splatter of blood on their suits.
“Mm, don't fret,” Jimmy pressed another kiss to your neck, pressing you even further into him.
“Gonna make sure you’re full of me, feeling me leak everyday until you’re carrying me everywhere,” He groans again, murmuring more dirty thoughts as if you both hadn’t just ordered the death and torture of a group of women you lived with merely metres from you.
A steve harrington x reader fanfiction | multi-chapter | teacher!steve harrington & teacher!reader | enemies to lovers
words: 4,555
warnings: reader matches steve's freak... meaning shes a total bitch diva. when i say enemies. actual enemies. slow burn. no pre-existing feelings. they both don't like one another. angst. eventual everything.
summary: You and Steve are not friends. You never were, and if you had it your way, never will be. You almost found it funny that, of course, your first year teaching, you're right next door to the man you hate most.
a/n: reader is so stubborn. im so sorry.
songs: psycho killer- talking heads | edge of seventeen- stevie nicks
playlist | masterlist
chapter 4
It’s Friday and you return to Hawkins High at 4:15 sharp, the sky already turning lavender, dusk creeping in fast. Your arms are loaded with two grocery bags full of snacks and drinks. Chips, pretzels, cookies, soda, a box of cheap popcorn you’d popped in the teacher’s lounge microwave.
The theatre classroom door squeaks open when you push it, and you blink at the sight waiting inside.
Dustin is onstage unrolling a massive battle map. Mike is turning on LED candles. Lucas is adjusting the weathered cardboard screen they use as a DM shield. Will is rearranging painted miniatures with intense precision.
Dustin looks up immediately, bracing a hand on the table.
His eyes narrow. “I thought you weren’t coming?”
You smile, sweet, and set the bags on the edge of the stage. Lucas and Will fist-pump the air like you’ve brought them contraband. “Who else is going to supervise?” you say lightly. “The club can’t officially meet unless a teacher is present.”
Dustin opens his mouth, “Uh—”
And then, on cue, the door bangs open.
“Okay, Wheeler,” Steve says, strolling in with casual confidence. “I got those fruit roll-ups you asked for.” He tosses the box onto the game table, knocking over two miniatures. Will gasps like someone got murdered.
Steve’s eyes cut to you. He immediately frowns.“What are you doing here?”
Hands on your hips. Defiant. “Uh, you told me to be here?”
His mouth opens, he’s ready to challenge you again, but then he notices the kids watching, all four boys practically radiating nosy energy. He points sharply at them. “Mind your business. Get back to… whatever that is.”
They comply, but not without the most obvious side eyes in the universe.
Steve steps closer, just enough so his voice stays between the two of you. “I thought you said you had a date?”
Your throat closes. Oh, right. That lie. “I, uh…”
Steve smirks. It was slow, knowing, cocky but softer than his usual bite. “I see. You didn’t have one. Did you?”
You stare straight ahead, refusing to dignify that with a response. God, Will is tall now. When did he get tall? Why is that suddenly your focal point?
“What about your date?” you fire back. “Did it ‘fall through’ again?” Your pout is exaggerated, mocking.
Steve’s eyes flick to yours. He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t dodge. He just shrugs once. “Sort of. I canceled it.”
Your head snaps toward him. “Why would you do that?”
He looks at you and his voice is quiet when he says, “I dunno. Thought I should be here.”
You go still.
Oh.
Guilt washes over you so fast it leaves you breathless. Stupid to think he’d believed your lie. Stupid to think maybe, just maybe, he’d canceled because… you don’t get to finish that thought because the door swings open again and Erica Sinclair marches inside like she owns the place.
Behind her trails Derek Turnbrow and two freshmen you vaguely recognize. The moment is over. Crushed before it could even exist.
You sit at a table on one side of the room, pulling out a stack of essays to grade. Steve lounges at the table beside you with the popcorn you’d made earlier, casually shoveling handfuls into his mouth.
The crunching is… obscene. It is infuriating. Even worse, he’s grading too. Red pen in hand. Crumbs falling onto a vocabulary quiz about communication styles. You glance at his papers, baffled.
He catches you looking. “What?”
You snap your head back to your own work, defensive. “Can you stop munching so loud?”
Steve grins. Leans in. And pours an entire mouthful of popcorn between his teeth, crunching like a cartoon villain.Your hand shoots out before your brain approves. You shove his face away. And then you laugh.A real, breathy, involuntary laugh. Your lips part without permission, teeth showing, warmth spilling into your cheeks.
Steve pauses. Blinks. And then smirks down at his papers, pretending not to steal glances at you. It is an annoying, unexpected, some kind of moment.
The room erupts when Erica rolls two nat 20s in a row, slaying a blink dog in the most dramatic fashion possible. Even the freshmen cheer. Steve leans toward you, his shoulder pressing into yours. You stiffen. But you don’t move away.
You feel his warmth seep through your sleeve. The contact makes your breath dip unevenly, your pulse misbehaves. He lowers his voice. “I really don’t get it,” he admits. “None of it is real. You’d think living it out would be enough for them.”
You shrug. “Everyone wants to be a hero. Real or not.”
His eyes drift down to your leg. The one scarred by a demogorgon’s claws. The reason for your long dresses and pants, even in summer. He doesn’t stare rudely. It’s a flicker. A glance. But it’s enough to knock something loose in your chest.
In the war against Vecna, you had fought beside them. Screamed beside them. Bled beside them. You remember Jonathan tying a makeshift tourniquet around your thigh with shaking hands, his hair falling into his eyes. You remember the hospital lights. Jonathan pacing until the nurses threatened to sedate him. Nancy and him being the first you saw when you woke up, them bickering over what radio station to play. You tug at your dress hem, suddenly cold.
“Can’t believe after saving the world they still had to go back to school,” Steve says.
You swallow, clearing your throat. “I’d rather go back to normal than gloat about the glory days.” You give him a sweet smile, too sweet. “Not you though, right?”
There it is. The venom. The return of familiar ground.
Steve raises a brow, amused and unimpressed. But he doesn’t pull away.
.-.-.-.
The Hawkins Fall Festival sits sprawled across the county fairgrounds like someone dumped a bucket of autumn on the world and let it explode. Orange and gold streamers flap from every booth. Pumpkins are carved, painted, violently glittered by small children and they line the walkways like a chaotic gourd army. The air smells like cinnamon sugar, kettle corn, hot cider, and hay… a scent potent enough to feel festive even if you spent last night grading seventy essays on The Great Gatsby.
Families wander between booths, ring toss, beanbag catapults, and the infamous “Turkey Trot Obstacle Course” currently roping in crowds of screaming children and exhausted parents.
It’s loud. It’s messy. It’s charming in a hometown-you-never-really-escaped kind of way.
And on top of that, there’s a Fall Fest competition this year for businesses, schools, or groups, and you entered Hawkins High. The winner gets a giant novelty check for $3,000, something the school could desperately use. Something Hawkins Preparatory, Hawkins’ private school, absolutely does not need, considering they have a chandelier in their music room.
So, naturally, you signed up a team of teachers for the competitions. And naturally, you’ve been in a competitive frenzy for two weeks straight.
Your team is assembled near the cake walk.It’s you, Robin, Mr. McDaniel from English, Mrs. Patel from Science, and Miss Fairbright from Art. You hand each of them a bright orange homemade shirt. It’s the kind of orange that feels violent to the eyes. Each one has a hand-stitched turkey number on the front and uneven letters on the back spelling HAWKINS HIGH FALL FIGHTERS.
Robin holds her shirt out by the sleeves like it might bite her.
“Wow,” she says slowly, eyes narrowing at the turkey applique that is absolutely cross-eyed. “Okay. This is… serious.”
“It is serious,” you say, pacing in front of them as you smear two stripes of brown and yellow face paint under your eyes like war paint. “We’re here to have fun… and to crush Hawkins Prep into the ground.” You punctuate your point by slamming your fist into your open palm.
Robin stares at you. Mr. McDaniel takes a quiet step away.
“Uh-huh,” Robin hums carefully. “A lighthearted community event. Got it.”
You’re mid–battle speech when you spot movement out of the corner of your eye. It’s Vickie waving, Nancy smiling, and trailing behind them, wearing a fitted navy sweater and track pants and eating a caramel apple like he’s starring in a movie, is Steve Harrington.
You groan loud enough that a toddler in a dragon costume looks over.
Steve spots your team shirts immediately… and he stops walking. Then he laughs. Full-bodied, can’t even pretend to hide it laughter. “Oh my god,” he wheezes, coming closer. “What… what are these?” He reaches forward and pinches the corner of the turkey on your shirt between two fingers like it’s diseased.
You slap his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
His mouth is full of caramel and apple when he adds, “This is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You scowl. “You don’t own a mirror?”
He raises his brows. “Come on. It’s god-awful.
Both Nancy and Vickie smack his arm on instinct. Nancy scolds him. “Stop it. She’s doing this for a good cause.”
“Sure,” he nods, taking another enormous bite of caramel apple. “But she doesn’t have to wear that,” he gestures vaguely at you, “monstrosity.”
You feel your eye twitch. “I worked all night on them,” you snap.
“Well,” Steve shrugs, “should’ve worked harder.”
Robin stands frozen in the middle, clutching her own shirt, looking like she’s witnessing a crime and doesn’t know who to call.
You turn to her. “Robin likes them! Don’t you, Robin?”
Robin gives the most terrified smile you’ve ever seen. “I… uh… plead the fifth?”
Steve gives you a smug little shrug, the kind that makes you want to commit actual violence. “See?” He takes another bite from his apple, eating it with satisfaction.
Something in you snaps. Without breaking eye contact, you reach over, yank the caramel apple right out of his hand, walk three steps to the nearest trash bin, and drop it in with a satisfying thud.
All while Steve watches, stunned.
“Hey!” he finally barks.
You turn back, smile sweetly, and say, “You’re welcome. That much sugar would’ve rotted your last brain cell.”
Nancy covers her mouth to hide a smile.
Robin whispers to Vickie, “Oh god, is it too late to go home?”
And with the fall sun shining, the festival buzzing, and your ridiculous homemade turkey shirt itching at the neckline, you march toward the first event with enough competitive fury to power the whole festival.
Let the games begin.
The first event is cornhole, and you gather your ragtag team of teachers in a semi-circle like a coach about to rally an underfunded football team.
“Okay,” you declare, clapping your hands. “We can do this. We will do this. We’re starting strong.”
Robin raises a hand timidly. “Do we actually know how to play this?”
“Yes,” you lie. “Because it’s simple. You throw the bag into the hole.”
The match begins, and to your immense relief, Hawkins High is actually… good. Mrs. Patel sinks three bags in a row. Robin, fueled purely by fear of Hawkins Prep’s smug stares, suddenly becomes a precision machine. Even Mr. McDaniel, who looks like he hasn’t had fun since 1978, nails a perfect shot that makes the crowd gasp.
When Hawkins High wins the first round, your team jumps, cheers, and you nearly sob into your ridiculous turkey shirt. Victory is right around the corner. Suck it Hawkins Prep. Also, suck it Steve Harrington because these shirts are the shirts of winners.
Next up, the egg toss. You pair Robin with Mrs. Patel, while Mr. McDaniel teams up with Miss Fairbright.
The game begins, and chaos is immediate. McDaniel and Fairbright panic on the third toss and their egg hits the ground with a pathetic ploop. They are out instantly. The bank’s team drops next. Then a mother-and-son duo get eliminated when the egg splatters across the boy’s hoodie. Then the Hawkins Power Plant team taps out when one of them overestimates the throw.
Before long, it’s just Hawkins High vs Hawkins Prep, and you swear you can hear triumphant violins swelling behind their team.
Final toss.
Robin’s throw is beautiful. It’s soaring in a perfect arc. Mrs. Patel leans back, arms outstretched and her heel catches on a hole in the ground. She stumbles. The egg kisses her palms, it rolls and shatters on the grass.
Hawkins Prep erupts like they just cured polio.
You grimace, swallowing your rage.
And then, “Heads up!” You turn and an egg smacks you square in the temple and breaks, dripping warm yolk down your hair and onto your cheek.
Across from you stands Steve Harrington, mid-laugh, one hand covering his mouth. Dustin Henderson stands beside him holding another egg like a smoking gun.
Steve’s smile drops when he realizes who he hit. You don’t even speak. You wipe yolk out of your hair with mechanical calm, turn on your heel, and stomp away before you do something that gets you banned from community events forever.
The relay sack race is a disaster. A full, humiliating disaster. All four of your teachers manage to finish dead last. Robin fell twice. Mr. McDaniel tripped and took Miss Fairbright down with him. Morale dips.
But things get better.
Mr. McDaniel wins the pie eating contest, standing from the table like a sugar-covered Viking champion. Miss Fairbright destroys the competition in bobbing for apples, pulling up her twelfth apple like some kind of water witch.
But then the hay maze happens.
And you learn, too late, that Mrs. Patel is allergic to hay.
Within minutes she’s wheezing, teary-eyed, and your entire team has to escort her out like a wounded soldier. Hawkins Prep wins the maze by default.
Tie game.
Hawkins High vs Hawkins Prep, both teams at the top.
It all comes down to the final event.
The crowd gathers. Sunset glows fiery orange across the fairgrounds. The announcer calls teams up to the starting line. And you turn to your group with determination.
“Okay,” you say, clapping your hands. “It’s just us now. McDaniel, Fairbright, Patel, wait, where’s Patel and Fairbright?”
“ER,” Mr. McDaniel says. Oh right, medical emergency.
So, down two. You look at the remaining members. That’s okay. It’s totally fine because the next game only needs two people. “Okay, guys,” you say, “it’s just you two for the race.”
But Mr. McDaniel shakes his head, bent over with hands on his knees. He’s sweating like he just ran a marathon. “I’m so tired,” he pants. “I… just… I think I have to sit this one out.”
You blink. “Okay… then Robin, it’s just you and me!”
Robin, who is lying back on the ground like she’s passed into the afterlife, groans. “No. No way. I can’t do anymore. I’m out. I’m finished. I’m dust. I’m a corpse. Just bury me here.”
“But Robin!” you plead. “You’re my only hope!”
She lifts a single limp hand. “Statistically, we’re bound to lose anyway. Have you seen Hawkins Prep? They move like synchronized gazelles. We’re done. Just… let the universe take this win away from us.”
Mr. McDaniel nods solemnly beside her.
You stand in the middle of your wilting team, fists on your hips, chest tight with irritation, at them, at Hawkins Prep, at how the day has gone wrong in fifty different ridiculous ways. Maybe you should just give up. It isn’t that serious. It’s just a fall festival. It’s just a silly competition. You take a deep breath, tilt your head back toward the fading sky, ready to accept defeat.
And then… you hear it. That laugh. That smug Steve Harrington laugh, carried across the fairgrounds like the crow of a rooster who thinks he owns the world. Your eyes snap open. You look across the field. He’s standing with Dustin, tossing another egg, grinning like life is perfect and he didn’t egg you in the skull less than two hours ago.
Your fingers curl into fists. Then your eyes flash with an idea.
A terrible, annoying, perfect idea.
You turn sharply to Mr. McDaniel. “Give me your shirt. Right now.”
You storm across the fairgrounds like you’re heading into battle, marching straight toward Steve Harrington with the bright orange turkey shirt clutched in your hand like a weapon. He sees you coming, of course he does, and his grin starts forming before you even reach him.
He opens his mouth.
You don’t let him get a word out.
You shove the shirt into his chest. “Put this on.”
Steve blinks, eyebrows shooting up, arms crossing defensively as he looks down at the offensively hand-stitched turkey. “No way—”
“You’re going to listen to me right now, Steve Harrington,” you snap, stepping into his space so sharply Dustin actually backs up. “I am not losing to Hawkins Prep today. I refuse. I absolutely refuse.”
Your finger jabs into his chest, punctuating every word.
“You are going to put this shirt on. Then you’re going to do the three-legged race with me. And you’re going to take it seriously because, unfortunately, you’re my only option. You’re going to do it. No excuses. So quit twirling your hair and come on.”
You stand there, breathing hard, fire in your eyes, your turkey shirt fluttering with righteous fury.
Steve just… blinks at you. Once. Twice.
Then, “I’m not wearing the shirt.”
A dangerous silence falls. You lift one eyebrow, just one, but somehow it’s more threatening than a knife.
“Yes,” you say slowly, “you are.”
And something happens. His face… changes. Something tightens. Something flickers. His eyes drop, then lift again, softer and stunned and almost… intimidated? His lip twitches like he’s trying not to smile. Then, without another word, Steve pulls off his sweater.
You freeze.
Not outwardly, because outwardly you stand straight, arms crossed, pretending nothing affects you… but inwardly?
Full system failure.
His shirt lifts and you see his bare chest for a fraction of a second. It’s warm-toned, dusted with freckles across the collarbones, that lazy line of unruly dark hair down the center, the soft pudge of his stomach that moves when he breathes, the beginning of a happy trail disappearing under his waistband.
You immediately snap your eyes up like you didn’t just have a mini existential crisis.
He takes the turkey shirt from your hands, lips twitching again, and slips it on without argument. It looks ridiculous on him. It swallows his shoulders, the sleeves too short, the turkey lopsided across his chest.
And somehow he still looks stupidly handsome.
Before he can start walking, you reach out and grab his arm, firm but not harsh, making him turn to you. You meet his eyes steadily, trying to mask the way your heart is climbing your throat.
“I mean it,” you say. “Take this seriously.”
For a moment, the fairground noise fades. He looks down at your hand on his arm, then back up at you, and something unreadable passes through his expression.
He clears his throat once. Then, with a surprising calm, he says, “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure we win.”
Your breath catches, just for a second.
But then he gives a small wink, infuriating, cocky, classic Steve, and starts walking toward the starting line. You follow beside him, both of you heads high, shoulders squared like you’re marching into a championship game.
But inside?
Inside you are screaming. Because you suddenly remember every moment that has proven the two of you are terrible at functioning in the same space, let alone functioning as one three-legged organism. This has disaster written all over it. This has Hawkins High loses because Steve Harrington tripped you written all over it. This has my pride dies tonight energy.
But you march anyway, chin high, matching his pace, the two of you looking, from a distance, like a strangely united front.
And internally?
You have a very, very bad feeling about your teamwork.
A very bad feeling indeed.
You make your way to the starting line like two soldiers being marched toward the gallows. The judges are tying teams together, parents are cheering, hay dust drifts lazily in the November air, and the smell of kettle corn mixes with autumn wind. And you, tragically realize the colossal, catastrophic mistake you’ve made.
Because when your leg is tied to Steve Harrington’s leg, you have to stand close to him. Very close. Shoulder to shoulder. Hip to hip. Arm brushing arm. It feels like leaning against a live wire.
You’re disgusted by it, obviously. Revolted. Sickened. Horrified.
At least that’s what you tell yourself as you stiffen beside him, trying to inhale air he hasn’t contaminated.
The volunteer kneels in front of you, looping the thick rope around your ankles. Of course it’s your bad leg, the one with the old scar, still tender in certain weather, still a ghost of a memory you hate thinking about. Instinctively, you rub your thigh, trying to release the tension gathering there.
Steve notices. Of course he notices.
He leans down slightly, voice low, almost gentler than you remember he’s capable of being. “You gonna be okay?”
You give him the coldest glare you can muster and turn your head away, looking at Hawkins Prep’s team stretching like Olympians.
“When we beat them,” you mutter, “I’ll be better than okay.”
Steve snorts, but not a mocking one. Something warm flickers in his eyes. Confusing. Unsettling. You immediately frown at him as if offended by the temperature of his gaze.
And then the starting gun fires. The entire field erupts into motion. Hawkins Prep is already sprinting.
Steve is still staring at you.
You jab your elbow into his ribs. “Shit, they’ve started! Go!”
You both launch forward in a tragic display of flailing limbs and zero coordination. It’s like trying to race with a malfunctioning baby deer. You hop when he lunges. He steps when you stumble. The two of you are an embarrassment to feet everywhere.
Teams are falling left and right, teachers from the middle school tumble into a bale of hay, the mailman rolls into the grass, a mother drags her son like a sandbag.
Behind you, Steve nearly trips on air.
He growls through his teeth, “This isn’t working!”
Before you can snap a retort, he reaches out, grabs your waist, and yanks you against him. It’s fast, decisive, and startling. You barely have time to process the heat of his palm or the way your chest collides with his side.
“Right!” he yells. “Now left! Right!”
You follow the rhythm, annoyed at how natural it suddenly becomes. Perfect sync. Perfect timing. Perfect… teamwork?
Gross.
But also effective, because the two of you surge forward, catching up, matching stride for stride with the Hawkins Prep duo.
The finish line looms. The two of you look at each other. Just a fraction of a second, but enough.
An agreement sparks without a word. You wrap your arm around his shoulders. He tightens his grip around your waist. You lean forward together. And you charge.
It’s neck to neck, two tied-up idiots lunging for victory, and you both throw your weight forward at the same moment. The ribbon snaps. You crash to the ground.
On top of him.
Steve’s breath leaves him in a grunt beneath you, but you’re already pushing your hair out of your face, laughing bright and breathless.
“We did it! We did it! We Won!” You look down at him, triumphant, flushed from adrenaline, and he’s giving you a look you’ve never seen before. Something open. Something soft. Something that definitely shouldn’t be directed at you.
“What?” you bark, halfway defensive.
He swallows, shakes his head, sits up with a quiet, unreadable expression.
You’re too euphoric to question it. You throw your arms around his neck without thinking. His whole body goes still, frozen, before he slowly, tentatively, hugs you back.
He chuckles so low that it vibrates your skin. And then… he presses a quick, startling kiss to your temple.
You blink.
He blinks.
You rip your arms back, clearing your throat aggressively before bending down to untie your legs. When you stand, Steve tries to rise too, only to wince sharply and drop back down.
You stare. “What now.”
“I think I might’ve rolled my ankle,” he groans, rubbing it.
You burst into laughter before you can stop yourself, clapping a hand to your chest. “Aw, is the princess hurt?”
He glares. “Shut up and go get your trophy or whatever.”
But you’re still smiling as you hold a hand out to him. He eyes it suspiciously, like he expects you to drop him. Then, with exaggerated reluctance, he places his hand in yours. You pull him upright. He winces as soon as he puts weight on the ankle.
“Come on, crybaby,” you sigh, ducking under his arm and hauling him forward. His arm slings over your shoulders, heavy, warm, too present. You did not think through the amount of touching these group events would require.
You try not to notice the shape of his muscles. Or the way he smells like sweat and caramel apple and stupid victory. “You’re all sweaty and you smell bad,” you mutter.
“You should take a sniff of yourself,” he shoots back, leaning in dramatically to sniff your shoulder.
You shove his face away, horrified. “Get off!”
He only sticks out his tongue, wets his hand, and plants it on your cheek.
“Steve!” you shriek, pushing him so hard he stumbles back into the hay, laughing like it’s the best moment of his life. “You’re a pig!” There’s an unfamiliar laugh that escapes you. One that you would rather be caught dead than let Steve hear. You’re scooping hay in both hands, grinning from ear to ear, ready to dump it on him, when a voice approaches.
“Hey…”
You turn, freezing like a cartoon character. The hay in your hand slowly drifting to the ground.
A pretty girl, long hair, nice smile. She’s from the bank’s competing team and she’s holding a cold glass bottle of Coke. And she is only looking at Steve.
He sits up, brushing hay from his ridiculous turkey shirt. His eyes flicker with instant, shameless interest.
“Hi,” she says with a shy smile.
“Hi,” he echoes, in a tone you hate immediately.
“My name’s Sarah.”
“I’m Steve.”
“Yeah,” she giggles, “I went to school with you.”
You snort loudly because of course he doesn’t remember her. Granted… you don’t either, but that’s irrelevant.
Sarah doesn’t care. She crouches down beside him, gently lifting his ankle to place the cold bottle against it. Steve actually melts a little at the relief.
“I really like your shirt,” she adds.
Steve brightens. “You do? Yeah, it’s pretty cool.”
You make a strangled noise. “Really?!”
Both of them look over.
Steve’s expression drops into a you’re still here? face. Sarah gives a polite smile. It’s the kind that says she hopes you evaporate. You feel irritation spike in your chest. Embarrassment too. Something sour and sharp.
So you leave.
You stalk away, swallowing the stupid twist in your stomach, refusing to look back.
But you do.
Just once.
Long enough to see Sarah laughing at something he said, and Steve laughing back. And then you force yourself forward, finding Robin in the crowd, pretending everything is fine when your chest feels unexpectedly, maddeningly tight.
characters mentioned: Dustin Henderson, Nancy Wheeler, Barbara Holland, Carol Perkins, Mike Wheeler, Will Byers, Billy Hargrove, Max Mayfield, Lucas Sinclair, Eleven Jane Hopper, A random guy named Jimmy Peterson.
synopsis: Best friends since childhood, you and Steve have always been there for each other through every high and low. As the Hawkins Middle Snowball dance approaches, hidden feelings bubble beneath the surface, leading to a night full of nervous confessions, tender moments, and unexpected closeness. Can the King of Hawkins finally admit what’s been in his heart all along?
"You two look like you're my parents." Dustin pointed out.
"Shut up and pay attention, Henderson." Steve shot back, causing you to stiff back a laugh.
Steve's left hand was on your lower back, his right hand holding yours, his body pressed ever so slightly to your body as you swayed gently left and right together to 'hopelessly devoted to you' by Olivia Newton-John.
The snowball dance was tomorrow, and you both knew Dustin had no idea how to dance, so, Steve had suggested that the two of you teach him.
That's how you ended up here, in the Harrington's empty house. Dustin on the couch, watching as you and Steve swayed as if you've done this a thousand times before... Well, to be fair, you have done this plenty of times before. Growing up right next door to the Harrington's it only made sense to befriend Steve at a really young age, being the one that's there when he gets stood up, or someone cheats on him, or when he needs somewhere to go when his house is too quiet from his constantly busy parents being at work. At almost every school dance you had when you were in school, Steve always stepped up as your date, you had yet to understand why.
Steve has always clung to you, always walking you to your locker, or to class, driving you anywhere and everywhere, sleeping over at your place when he feels lonely, and it makes the girls in Hawkins high go crazy because almost every girl has a crush on the infamous 'King Steve.' And the only girls that tolerated you were Nancy Wheeler, Barbara Holland and Tina. Occasionally, Carol Perkins too. Not that you liked her anyway.
Steve had become a lot clingier toward you when all the Demogorgon and upside down stuff had happened. He was scared and you knew it. You always knew it. He was scared he might not be able to protect you and the kids, terrified something horrible was gonna happen.
After hearing about Will it just got a lot worse, and he started sleeping with you a lot more frequently. Not that you minded. You only ever minded when people assumed you were dating just because you were always together. Or did you?
It didn't help that the kids constantly tried pushing the two of you together, it did give you butterflies sometimes especially when Steve looks at you as if you hung the moon, but you respected Steve and he respected you and even though there were many times you've nearly kissed, both of you never crossed the line.
"You alright?" Steve asked as he leaned down just a little bit so he could whisper softly. The two of you swayed so calmly together, and in sync, pressed so faintly close that he could feel your heartbeat.
He loved moments like this with you, the quiets ones where he was close to you like this. Like when he'd sneak into your room at midnight and just cuddle until he fell asleep. Or when you'd fall asleep in his car and he'd have to carry you inside the house. It had been like this ever since the start.
The first day you had become friends was when you both were just five years old and starting primary school. You were sitting by yourself during recess and unbeknownst to Steve, it was on purpose. He had spotted you on the swing, reading a book and you instantly caught his attention. He admired you from afar until he saw one of the older kids picking on you for reading, Steve had intervened and shoved the kid. He did in-fact get detention right after.
You felt bad for getting him in trouble, so you stayed outside the detention door until he came out. And when he walked out and saw you? That's when he realized he's in love with you.
"I'm alright, just... thinking," you replied, leaning up to whisper into his ear, and his left hand tightened on your lower back, slowly going lower but never crossing the line. Dustin continued watching the way you held each other, the way your hips swayed in sync, the way Steve was so horrible at hiding how he wanted to rest his head on yours, the way your left hand shook slightly on his shoulder as it fought hard not to tangle itself in Steve's ridiculously fluffy hair.
He knew Steve liked you, and he knew you liked Steve, and out of all of the kids, he was always the one trying the hardest to push you together.
He could see it in the way you looked at each other, the way you always gravitated naturally to each other. He could see it in the way you held Steve's head in your lap in the car when Max was driving because you and Steve were too injured from Billy to drive. He could see it in the way Steve held you tight when he'd carry you into your house because you fell asleep in his car. He could see it in the way you laughed together, shared straws, forks, spoons, drinks bites of food with no hesitation. He could see it in Steve's eyes when he'd seen Billy flirting with you. He could see it in the way you always looked disappointed whenever someone brought up Steve and Nancy's past relationship.
But unbeknownst to you, he only dated Nancy because he couldn't have you.
You were so caught up in dancing that you hadn't even realized that you were slowly starting to fall asleep, he knew instantly based on how you slowed down slightly, how your hands were becoming lighter in his, and before you both knew it, you pressed yourself harder into him without even realizing it, and your head fell right onto his chest, where his heartbeat is.
When you felt it pounding against your ear, you realized what had happened and pulled away quickly, apologetically looking at him, desperately hoping he can't see your flushed cheeks, and pink ears in the lighting. When Steve looked at you, he instantly turned red and turned to look at Dustin, who was still watching, incredibly amused by how the two of you haven't kissed yet.
Desperately trying to avoid Steve's gaze, you turn to look at Dustin, "Henderson, you wanna give it a try?" you asked, and he immediately smiled at you as he stood up, Steve took a step back to give you space.
Dustin took your hand the same way Steve did, and his left hand snaked behind you to hold your lower back, not as low as Steve's hand went though. You held his hand, as your left hand moved to his shoulder, Dustin started swaying, trying to do exactly what Steve did. And you told him to relax, to find his own rhythm, go at his own pace, and in no time, he got the hang of it.
By the time it was 10pm, the three of you were in the car, Steve was dropping you and Dustin off, your house was the first stop. Dustin tried so hard not to make any jokes because he knew when you're tired, you're not gonna hesitate to shut him up. But kept a close eye at the sight in front of him, the way your hand stayed close to Steve's on the console, how you looked out the window as if your mind was filled with millions of thoughts, how Steve glanced at you every three minutes. You two were so obviously disgustingly in love and everyone saw it but you.
Steve pulled over and brushed his finger against your hand on the console just to get your attention because you hadn't realized you were home already, "oh uh, i guess i'll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Dustin. Thank you for bringing me home, Steve, goodnight."
Dustin smiled wide at you as you opened the door, "goodnight!"
"Yeah, goodnight," Steve said, you gave him one last look before shutting the door. Your heart beat fast as you walked up to your front door, hands shaking, butterflies erupting in your tummy because you knew, he was watching you and waiting to see you get in safely before driving off.
Dustin wasted no time hopping into the front seat, "sooo, when are you gonna tell her?"
"Tell her what?" Steve asked, not taking his eyes off the door you had already walked through, his heart thumping through his chest as he could still smell your cologne, hear your laugh, and feel your hand on his.
"That you're in love with her duhhh?"
Steve turned to glare at him, not denying but not admitting either. The drive the Dustin's house wasn't much considering you and Dustin lived on the same street, Steve's house just two streets down.
Steve dropped Dustin off and as soon as he got back home, that empty feeling crept in, loneliness, sadness, plus the regret of not telling you how he feels. He was just so scared of losing you. He could handle not seeing his parents every day, but not you, never you.
The next evening came fast, you had spent the day dressing up, taking your time. You were one of the volunteers that played a significant role in bringing the dance to life. Your role wasn't too important though; you were the designated photobooth picture printer.
You wore a soft blush-pink dress with puff sleeves and a full twirl-worthy skirt, it was simple, pretty, and unfairly flattering, like it was made just for you. Steve loved this dress.
When you walked into the gym of Hawkins Middle, and you instantly spotted Lucas, Mike, Will and Max. As soon as they saw you, they smiled and ran toward you, immediately complimenting you and attempting to twirl you around but failed because they were too short. You had asked where Dustin is and Max told you that he's on his way. Butterflies erupted as you realized that you were going to see Steve soon because Steve agreed to driving Dustin.
You chatted with Max until the doors opened, and you spotted Dustin running in, smile big like the bundle of joy he is. He ran to hug you first then turned to the rest of the party, and they started talking immediately, complimenting his hair, you heard one of them ask about El, and as you turned to glance at the door he walked in through, you saw Steve in his car, already looking at you. Wearing the red knitted sweatshirt that always ends up in your closet because you love stealing it.
The chatter behind you faded as you started walking toward the door, the party noticed and smiled instantly when they realized that you're heading toward Steve.
You walked out and the December air hit your skin immediately, but you hadn't noticed as you were too busy getting into the passenger seat of Steve's car.
There wasn't a single second he took his eyes off of you.
"You look gorgeous. Uh not that you're not usually gorgeous, i mean you always look gorgeous and-"
You watched as he ranted, trying to fix his mistake nervously, letting the shyness take over him.
You shut him up by placing your hand on his over on the console, "thank you, Steve."
His ears burned red instantly at the physical contact, "Dustin looks cute, did you do his hair?"
He laughed, "yeah, i also told him not to rawr at the girls."
"Oh, he did it anyway, heard him rawr at Max,"
Steve chuckled, shaking his head, nervously adjusting his sleeves, then finally running a hand through his hair.
"Cute sweater." you observed, he looked at you. Gosh, those big beautiful brown eyes made your knees go weak instantly. "Of course you think it's cute, you steal it at least twice a month."
Finally, you build the courage to ask, "come dance with me, just one i promise?"
"I'm not exactly dressed up for a school dance, princess."
The way he called you that gave you butterflies instantly.
"I don't care, you're King Steve, i don't think anyone else is gonna care either."
Steve hesitated but could never tell you no, so with one final glance, he moved the gear so he could park his BMW. The two of you got out together and a few heads definitely turned when you walked in together, including Dustin, who was already dancing with Nancy to 'Every breath you take' by The Police. You saw Mike dancing with El, Lucas with Max, and Will with a girl you assumed is in their class.
By the time you and Steve got on the dance floor, the song started fading out, fading into 'hopelessly devoted to you' as you took Steve's hand in yours, he held your lower back with his other hand, and yours found his shoulder as it always does.
You swayed slowly together, and he sang softly into your ear as he leaned down a little bit, your faces close yet turned opposite sides. Your cheek was near his shoulder as he pressed you more into him, and you caught Dustin smiling as he watched the two of you. You mouthed a threat that only made his smile widen.
Gosh, the way Steve kept singing so softly in your ear made a shiver run down your spine.
You were so caught up in the sound of his voice, the press of his hands, the scent of his cologne, the heat of his body so close to yours, the words just slipped out before you could even stop it, "I'm so in love with you."
Steve paused, as did you, the second you realized what you said, you pulled back and he stared at you, processing the words. You turned and started walking out instantly, but Steve didn't let you get far, ''hey, hey, it's okay. come on." he said as he grabbed your hand and pulled you outside, into the parking lot and into his car. Of course, he opened the passenger door for you. Jogged back to his side, and got in, looked at you, and took your hands in his, desperately trying to calm your nerves before you freak out. You're obviously embarrassed, Steve is your best friend, and you just casually confessed your feelings in such a sloppy and awkward way.
Steve took a deep breath before making eye contact with you, "do you remember the day we met?" you nod, "obviously you remember the part where i shoved Jimmy Peterson for making fun of you, what you don't remember is that the day before that, you sat next to me in english class and handed me a pencil when i realized i left mine in my locker, you smiled at me and gosh, i thought you were the most pretty girl ever... well i still think that, i didn't mean it in past tense, sorry anyway, a few hours after that i saw you talking to Barb, comforting her because someone made her cry, and i saw you start to cry because you hated seeing Barb upset. The very next day, at recess, you were sitting on a swing, all by yourself, your hair was curly and messy, and it made you look so cute, you were reading the Lord of the rings, until Peterson started making fun of you, i got so upset, but all i wanted was to protect you so i ran up to you guys and i shoved him. In detention, Jimmy was making jokes about me having a crush on you, it was true."
He paused, but by now you had already started crying, he continued as he moved his right hand to cup your cheek and wipe a stray tear with his thumb, "then, when i finally finished my time in detention i walked out, only to see you waiting on the other side, on the floor, looking sad, i had asked you 'what's wrong?' and you said 'i'm sorry i got you in trouble, Steve' i barely processed your words because all i could think of was 'oh my gosh, she knows my name' and since then i've made it a priority to do right by you as a friend, to raise your standards so high that you think that no guy in Hawkins is going to be good enough for you, i never told you because i didn't want you getting tangled in feelings and my family drama, we were young and the last thing i ever wanted to do was hurt you or put you in the wrong position,"
You were full on sobbing and he didn't stop.
"So, i asked you to school dances before anyone else did, brought you lunch, walked you to classes, helped you study even though you've always been smarter than me. I tried dating other girls, but none of them has ever understood me the way you do, i've always known you were the one and i'm so damn tired of pretending i'm not hopelessly devoted to you, i'm done pretending i'm not in love with you, because i am, i'm so in love with you."
By the time he was done, he was out of breath, not stopping for a single second because he wanted to say it fast, like ripping a band aid off. Avoiding your eyes because he's nervous you think he's stupid for even remembering the little details, but before he can even open his mouth to say anything, you squeeze his hand before pulling away to wipe your tears, he watches you apologetically, he hadn't meant to make you cry.
When you're done, your cheeks are faintly wet and flushed, and you look back at him. Your eyes are sparkling, your lashes are wet, your breathing slightly uneven. Even after crying, you still look so insanely beautiful. The moonlight spilling through the windshield, casting a faintly glow on both of you as you look into each other's eyes, hearts beating fast, nerves spiking, hands shaking, so desperate to hold each other. Before you knew it, you leaned in over the console and he met you halfway.
Your lips met in a surprisingly soft kiss, eyes shut closed, hands moving to grab his sweatshirt to pull him even closer to you. His left hand tangled in your hair and pulled your head back so gently to deepen the kiss and as soon as his tongue met yours, you moaned into his mouth. Gosh, the way you sounded drove him crazy, he wasted no time moving his hands down to your waist so he can pull you over the console, your left leg moved over his right leg, and you landed right onto his lap.
His right hand stayed on your back, pressing you into him, and his left hand cupped your cheek, your hands were still holding onto his sweater until your left hand moved to tangle in his hair, pulling his head impossibly closer to yours. "You're so beautiful." he murmured against your lips.
The bulge in his pants hadn't gone unnoticed by both of you. He was embarrassed by how hard he was already, but you didn't mind. You showed it to him by moving your hips gently, almost hesitantly, testing the waters. When he groaned into your mouth as your tongues moved in sync, you took it as a signal to do it again, and this time his right hand drifted lower until they were holding your ass, pulling you closer.
Your hands kept fumbling with the skirt, the fabric bunching between your legs, blocking your movements—making frustration simmer under your skin, Steve noticed how annoyed you were getting when you broke the kiss and huffed as you tried getting the dress out of the way, "relax, baby. Here, let me help you," he said as he moved around to find the zipper at her back, "is this okay?" he asked, searching for signs of hesitance in your eyes and body language, he starts pulling it down slowly once you nod.
He pulls it down all the way and moves his hands so he can slide it under your dress, his hands go from you knees, to your thighs, to your bare waist. He definitely felt those lace panties of yours when crossing from your leg to lower stomach.
He pulled the dress up slowly, giving you the chance to stop him, to pull away. But you don't. And he keeps pulling until the dress lifts off over your head, it messes up your hair but Steve doesn't mind. It makes you look hotter. You throw the dress off your lap and into the backseat and Steve takes in the sight in front of him.
You're in matching pink panties and bra, and you look so breathtaking like this. In your underwear, on top of him, his arms wrapped around you. The way he looked at you made your heart skip, "you're stunning, darling." he whispered and his voice cracked slightly as if he was in disbelief you were even here. You pulled him back in for a more hungry kiss. Tongues meeting almost instantly, his arms pulling your lower against him and you started dryhumping him again.
He groans and the kiss breaks, his head falls back against the seat and the sight makes you lose your mind, your head falls onto his shoulder as your pace gets slower and then faster. He immediately lifts his head and moves his right hand to grab the side of your neck, he starts kissing right over your pulse point, sucking, biting, leaving marks. You moaned out his name softly and his hands tightened.
His left hand moving lower, first playing with the strap of your panties before he slips his hand underneath it and onto your clit. "You're so wet already, sweetheart. Such a good girl." You couldn’t get your brain to catch up with your body. Every time you closed your eyes, the same thought pulsed through you—This is Steve. Steve who grew up beside you. Steve who held your hand on your first day of middle school. Steve who’s looking at you like he’s wanted this for years.
You moan again and he starts rubbing back and forth, in circles, before slipping a finger inside you, "oh, Steve," you whisper, right in his ear before placing a wet sloppy kiss on the conch of his ear. Your heart was beating so wildly it felt like it was everywhere at once—your palms, your throat, your stomach. It was so frantic you were so sure he could ear it.
You didn’t know if you were trembling from adrenaline or from him.
Before he could use a second finger, you pulled back just a little bit to pull his sweatshirt over his head. Leaving him bare-chested right in front of you. He's such a beautiful man. The longer you took him in, the more your pussy throbbed for more.
You pulled back and he took that as a sign to slip his fingers out so he could unbuckle his belt and pull his jeans and boxers off just enough. His cock sprang free, thick and veiny, precum leaking through the tip. A sight just as beautiful as his face.
He hooked his fingers through the waistband of your panties and pulled it off, you lifted yourself slightly so he could pull it off fully. Instantly, he moved to rub his tip between your wet folds. You tried hard not to fall apart then and there, but he could already feel that your legs were giving out, so? He guided you. Held your hip with one hand, held his cock at your entrance with the other, and slowly you sank onto him.
"Oh, baby. Shh, it's okay, take your time." he cooed, knowing it hurt for you. But when you sank fully onto him you let out a whimper, he let out a moan, not expecting you to take him so well.
"You're so good, baby. Taking me so well." You moaned in response, the words spilling right into your ear. He sounded so good when he was talking you through it.
He held you close as you moved slowly, up, then down, grinding over and over again. "You feel so incredible, baby." he said breathlessly. The fact that you were making Steve Harrington feel good was unreal.
Moaning each other's names. Hand hitting the fogged window before tugging desperately on his hair. Leaving marks on each other's necks, tongues tangling in sloppy kisses, breaths mixed, heartbeats racing, yet perfectly in sync.
You kept catching the way he looked at you—like he was memorizing you, like he couldn’t believe you were real.
You didn’t understand why it made your chest tighten so painfully.
In no time, he felt you start to clench around him, "Steve, i'm close—" you managed to get out, "i know, i know, baby, me too." he said before placing a kiss on your temple.
You picked up the pace, riding his cock faster. Chasing the high. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling your face close to his to kiss you.
It amazed you how in the middle of sex, Steve still wanted your lips on his. Not wanting to be apart for a single second. You were hyper-aware of everything—his breath against your cheek, the warmth of his skin, the faint smell of his cologne still clinging to his shirt. Every sense lit up at once, flooding your system in a way you weren’t prepared for. "Please." you moaned out, "Cum for me, darling." He said softly against your lips, hands sliding back down to hold your ass. Control the pace just a little bit. Help you through it — guide you.
When you came your pace faltered, your head fell onto his shoulder tiredly, and your hands rested on his chest. He controlled the pace as he came, and with a few more thrusts, you rode it out together. Reaching the orgasm together.
Your sweaty skin stuck to his, your hair in his face as you looked out the fogged window, trying to catch your breath, his hands held you close gently, your chest pressed to his. He rubbed a finger up and down your spine, kissing your shoulder, whispering quite assurances, asking if you were okay.
You finally lifted your head, and made eye contact with him instantly. And before you could say anything, he spoke first without hesitance, "can i... can i be your boyfriend?"
You smiled tiredly as you nodded. Pulling him in for another kiss. This one was tired, a soft peck. Your arms moved behind him to get comfortable, and he held you even tighter.
"Steve?"
"Yes, baby?"
"I fell in love with you the second you shoved Jimmy Peterson."
"Good, because i've loved you since the second i saw you."
As soon as everything settled, your heartbeat finally slowing from a frantic drum to something heavy and warm, Steve tucked you against his chest. "You okay, darling?" His hand brushed slow, absent circles between your shoulder blades—maybe trying to soothe you, maybe trying to steady himself. "More than okay." you said softly, almost inaudible.
You didn’t last long.
Sleep dragged at you almost instantly, exhaustion and comfort teaming up to knock you out right there against him.
Steve felt your weight slump softly into him.
His eyes widened.
“Oh—oh shit,” he whispered under his breath, instantly stiffening like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands.
He tried sliding out from under you without waking you—failed immediately.
You whined the tiniest bit, reaching instinctively for him even unconscious.
He froze.
Then let out a tiny whisper-laugh.
“…yeah, okay. I’m not going anywhere.”
He awkwardly maneuvered both of you toward the backseat, half-carrying you, half-praying he didn’t bang your head on the roof of the BMW.
It was the clumsiest thing he’d ever done in his life.
He finally settled you on the backseat, then climbed in beside you and pulled the old emergency blanket from the trunk over both of you. The blanket you tended to use when both of you didn't wanna go home and slept in his car.
You curled into him instantly.
He swallowed hard, cheeks red in the dark.
“Yeah,” he breathed softly, brushing a thumb across your temple,
“I’m so screwed.”
And within minutes, he was out cold too.
The dance was over.
Kids were spilling out of the gym.
Dustin marched across the parking lot, head held high, ready to brag to Steve about his night.
Until he noticed the foggy windows.
“…the hell?”
He leaned closer.
Saw two tangled shapes under a blanket.
Squinted.
Saw you curled against Steve’s chest, both knocked out like dead people.
He froze.
Made a face.
Backed up slowly like he saw an actual crime.
Then he turned around and ran to Nancy.
“NANCE?!”
He grabbed her sleeve, out of breath. “I—I need a ride. Right now. STEVE. IS. BUSY.”
Warnings: Angst, fluff, King Steve days, dual pov- Steve and reader, set before the events of season 1, no use of y/n
A/N: I'm really, really sorry for this. Hope you walk out of this sane, and if you don't, I'll pay for therapy.
Summary: When Steve Harrington finds himself failing his last three Physics tests, his teacher gives him two options: take her assigned tutor or fail her subject completely. And it just so happens: you're the assigned tutor in question. You're perfect for it: smart, intelligent, a great tutor, Steve will be passing his worst subject in no time. Only issue: you're hopelessly infatuated with him.
"Steve, I'd like you to stay back for a minute, please."
Steve Harrington pauses mid-sentence, having been in the middle of recounting an incident to Tommy and Carol that reinforced how much of an asshole his dad was, but the sound of his Physics teacher, Mrs. Miller calling him back in that no-good tone made him turn.
"Oho, you're done for, man," Tommy scoffs, slapping him on the back, a shit-eating green splitting his freckled face. Beside him, Carol blew out her bubblegum with a loud, mocking pop.
"Shut up," Steve mutters, a nonchalant smile playing on his lips, but inside, his mind was racing.
"Wonder what he's in trouble for now," Carol sings, resting her chin on Tommy's shoulder while he grabbed both their bags.
"Maybe he was finally caught cheating off of that four eyes he sits next to- what was his name again? Mark? Mace?"
"Mav-"
"Okay, shut up you two, get out of here," Steve says, playfully aggressive on the outside, smacking a hand against Tommy's chest as if the whole thing was one big joke- a mere inconvenience.
But as he watched them finally saunter out along with the rest of the class, the tiny room growing quieter by the second, he allowed some of his worry to show on his face.
Physics was one of his biggest weaknesses- no surprise there considering he could barely figure out Maths and Chemistry, so Physics was naturally out of the question.
What was concerning though, was that he had failed the last three tests in a row, and he may not be good with numbers, but he could very well guess three fat zeroes could not have done his year average in the goddamned subject any favours.
"Right, Harrington," Miller suddenly began in her clipped voice, and Steve realized with a dull jolt that they were now the only two people in the room.
Steve walked over to her, wondering if any of his 'King Steve' charm would work on the stern, spectacled, grey haired woman whose glare seemed to be as lethal as her subject. He decided to give it a shot- Carol was always going on about how she slept her way to passing her classes, maybe he could try the more innocent version of that.
"Mrs. Miller?" Steve asked, flashing her his award winning smile, one that coupled with his flowy, curled hair made all the ladies swoon.
"I'll get straight to the point, Mr. Harrington. You're failing my class."
Not this lady, it seems.
"You were barely scraping by earlier, Steve," she continues, tilting her head up to look him straight in the eye, "but now it seems you're only headed further south. At this rate, I do not see you passing Physics at the end of the year."
Steve's smile vanishes instantly, an uneasy feeling settling low in his chest. This is what he was worried about. He didn't particularly care much about his grades as long as he passed, but if he didn't- let's just say his dad would be promoted from just 'asshole' to a 'Grade-A Asshole'.
"You- you wouldn't fail me, Mrs. Miller, would you?" Steve asks, a little desperately, and a little futile too, considering she'd made it very clear she did not see him passing her subject this year.
"You know I would, Steve," she says forebodingly, looking up at him through her rectangular glasses. "Which is why-," she pulls out a small notepad from inside her desk and flips through it, till she finds the page she was looking for. "I think it would be best if you got yourself a tutor."
Steve blinks. He hadn't expected that.
Miller pulls out the paper from her notepad and hands it to Steve, who takes it from her wordlessly.
On it, a single name's written in scratchy red ink, next to his own.
Something stirs faintly in the back of Steve's mind. He may have heard the name before... maybe.... maybe Carol mentioned her as one of the annoying, nerdy girls in her Biology class, who knew all the answers and wasn't afraid to show that she did.
"She's one of the top scorers in Physics, Mr. Harrington- brilliant, if I may say so. I asked her if she'd be open to tutoring you three days a week, and lucky for you, she said she'd be happy to."
Steve looks up at Miller, a little unsure of what to make of all this.
"She said she's available today from 3 to 4. You'll find her in the library, and you can take it from there."
"Right..." he mutters, mentally cancelling the coffee date he was supposed to go on with Laurie... or was it Amy?
As if reading his thoughts, Miller's gaze narrows.
"If anyone can help you, Harrington, it's her. I expect you to take this seriously- whether you pass or fail my subject depends on this, after-all. I better hear that you met her in the library promptly at three, and spent a good hour studying. Don't waste your time, or hers."
For the fifth time in the last fifteen minutes, you look up from your textbook to glance at your watch.
Five minutes to three.
Your heart makes an unusual jump in your chest, which you immediately chide yourself for.
Tutoring. You were here to tutor Steve Harrington in Physics, your favourite subject. A subject he was failing, you desperately try to remind yourself.
But it was no use.
Your heart wouldn't let up on its unusual rhythm, and your nerves refused to stay still- your entire body felt like a ball of red, nervous energy.
Nothing you did could make you forget the fact that you were about to speak, for the first time in your life, to the boy you'd had a massive crush on for nearly a year.
And how could you not? Steve Harrington was one of the most handsome men you'd ever seen in your life. With those perfectly tousled brown hair, swept to the side in the way that a single curl always fell by his left eye like the most perfect imperfection you'd ever seen. Those coffee eyes you'd only ever admired from afar, and those beautiful, beautiful lips, stretched into a gleaming smile that made you swoon whenever you saw it.
When Miller had asked you to tutor him, you could barely hold in the startled gasp that threatened to escape your lips. Spending an hour a day, three days a week with the most popular guy in the school who you happened to hopelessly admire?
You couldn't pass on the opportunity.
You'd tutored others before too- you quite liked the job, in fact. Sharing knowledge about something you loved with others always meant a fun hour spent- atleast for you. But tutoring Steve was a whole other story.
You weren't unpopular or lonely, by any means. You may be a nerd, but you had friends, those who had the same interests as you, or were, at the very atleast, sincere about what they did. You weren't the shy type- you never had been. And you never gave a shit about what others thought of you, so the ones who did have an issue with you mostly left you alone.
But there was something about Steve Harrington that flipped a switch inside you. You'd never been brave enough to speak to him.
For one, you didn't exactly trust yourself to speak like a sane human being around him.
Secondly, you were scared of what you'd find if you did interact with him. Steve Harrington's reputation and friend circle preceded him- pompous rich kids who threw around their parents' money like water, frequented parties every other day, indulged in alcohol, smoking, drugs... You hoped Steve wasn't like that, you really did. Maybe you couldn't see his true personality through the heart eyes you always seemed to get as you looked at him. Or maybe he genuinely wasn't like that....
Whatever the matter may be, you weren't willing to test either of your theories, and merely contented yourself by writing about him in your diary.
But today? Both your theories would be tested.
The sound of your name being spoken snaps you out of your trance. You startle, and your open textbook falls to the ground with a loud crash and a tangle of pages.
"Shit," you curse, scrambling off your chair and bending down to snatch your book up from the ground.
"Sorry, did I startle you?" A warm, velvety, perfectly-ordinarily-attractive masculine voice speaks from above you.
A voice you know all too well.
Coming from the lips face you know all too well.
You rise hastily, your book clutched weakly in your hand, as your eyes meet ones that have featured in way too many of your dreams.
Your insides do a funny little somersault.
But you recover quickly enough, a part of your brain still functioning enough to remind you to not make more of a fool of yourself than you already had.
"Oh- uh no... well yeah, but I'm alright," you say... casually.... letting out a tiny giggle at the end.
Steve raises his brows, a half smile spreading over his lips. "Yeah? Well I'm glad to hear I didn't scare my tutor before we even started with the Physics." His voice was low, words you could only describe as flowing like liquid honey, his eyes boring straight into yours as he extended his hand. "I'm Steve," he says, "Steve Harrington."
You breathe out your own name, your hand automatically rising to meet Steve's.
You fight the urge to combust as your fingers touch his for the first time. His warm hand-so much larger than yours- feels like a blanket carressing, enveloping your skin, a firm, confident grip that sends tingles down your arm.
The touch lingers a moment too long.
Or maybe that's just your delusion acting up, you think, as you both finally let go off each other's hand.
Steve pulls out the chair next to yours and you're quick to follow, taking your seat carefully, all too aware of yourself so you don't accidently knock over something or bump your knees into the table or screech the chair too loud and appear clumsy.
"Right," Steve says once you're both settled. "So, ma'am, you're probably aware that I'm failing Physics."
You nearly shiver at the way he addressed you. Ma'am. But you can't show how affected you are, so you simply shrug, shooting him an apologetic smile.
"That's how Miller started the conversation. But don't worry," you add quickly, a teasing glint appearing in your eyes, "you're dealing with the best in the tutoring business. You'll be getting straight As in no time. Or atleast straight Bs."
Steve chuckles, and you feel a pang of victory in your chest. You made Steve Harrington laugh.
"Alright then, miracle worker," he says lowly, mahogany eyes twinkling. "I trust you."
The simple three words send a shiver down your spine. He trusts you. You know you won't be able to mask the shock on your face, so you quickly turn to your textbook, flipping it open to the index.
"So... what is it you're currently studying?" you ask casually. You expect him to pull out his own book then, but much to your second shock of the afternoon, Steve scoots his chair closer to you, leaning his head so he can read the topics in your book.
A delicious heady scent invades your senses, a musky leather that makes your toes curl and your one of your hands clench into fists underneath the table.
"Uhh, I think Miller was going on about some nucleus... atom... thingy.... alpha beta or-"
"Ohh, modern physics, right!" You say, recognition drawning over you, and you quickly flip through the pages, tapping your palm lightly against the worn text once you've found the chapter.
"Right, okay then," you breathe out. "Before we start, I need to know you know what you're studying. What do you already know of modern physics?"
Steve blinks. "Uhh.... physics that's modern... recently discovered stuff?"
"Which entails...?"
"Uhh... spaceships?... The recent space developments? You know, cause... all these were recently... invented... modern physics..."
You know then that this was going to be a long, long afternoon.
Slanted sunlight streaked through the long, patterned windows of the school library, falling across your table in rectangular strips. Dust motes danced in the illuminated area, buzzing with energy that Steve was almost certain they had leached from him.
You were still hunched over the thick, worn textbook, your brow furrowed in concentration as you read over a paragraph you would subsequently relay to him in simpler terms.
Cause that's what the past hour had been like. Steve being absolutely clueless as to half the things mentioned in the book, which could be in Russian, for all he knew.
But you were a champ about it. Never once did you snap at him, or mock his cluelessness, which was what he'd expected you to be like based on everything Carol told him when he had told her and Tommy that you were going to be tutoring him.
An nerdy, arrogant, insufferable know-it-all who looked down upon anyone she deemed stupid.
But so far, if that's what you were really like, Steve was yet to see it.
So far, Steve had known absolutely nothing about Modern Physics- unless you counted knowing atoms, electrons and protons were words in the English language.
Honestly, Steve wouldn't have blamed you if you'd quit halfway through when he said he'd figured atoms were the size of small marbles, like the model Miller had once shown them to make them understand some molecular structure. But you didn't even laugh at him, atleast not unkindly, or in a way that made him feel as stupid as he was.
No, you'd only let out a tiny adorable chuckle that lit up your whole face- especially your eyes, that shone like little stars as you looked at him, your head tilted to the side. At that moment, Steve felt like he could make a thousand more such stupid claims if it meant you would laugh like that once more.
Steve couldn't look away after that.
He listened to every word you said, actually retaining Physics for the first time in what seemed like forever.
You had a way of explaining every topic in an idiot-proof way, repeating things again and again till they they finally made sense in his brain. It's almost like you could predict exactly what implications he would make from what was written, and cleared away any doubts before they could befuddle him.
He tried not to think of how your voice reminded him of liquid honey, a thick, sweet ripple of liquid gold cascading over his mind. He tried not to stare at your lips as you spoke, coloured a pretty, berry red shade that suited the rest of your face impossibly well.
"Okay, so basically, this part explains why Rutherford's model of the atom failed," you stated, looking up from your textbook. "Basically, just like Thompson's model, there were things even Rutherford's model couldn't explain. One major fl-"
You pause when you see Steve roll his eyes.
"Seriously? This guy's model was also a failure? What's the point of teaching it then?"
You raise a brow, a challenging glint in your eyes. "Well, unless you know how something was developed, how would you be able to understand it fully?"
"Just teach the final product, that's the correct one anyway, isn't it?" Steve shrugs, resting his chin on his hands, leaning forward on the table.
"But what that really be beneficial at the end of the day?" You ask, a faint smile playing on your lips. "Think about it, Steve. You would know what the scientist discovered, not what led him to the discovery. You'd never know how these things work then, how future discoveries could take place. We wouldn't learn from their journey, their mistakes, know how to avoid certain challenges, or how to go about anything really. The goal of Science isn't to create passive beings with just knowledge fed into them like a vending machine. It's to inspire others to do greater things, and that's the beauty of it all."
Steve couldn't do anything but stare at you spoke- stare at the pure passion in your eyes as you spoke about something you loved. Your words wash over him, and he understands, he really does. How could he not, when you spoke of it so beautifully, with so much conviction in your honeyed tone, the warm sunlight catching loose strands of hair that fell around your face, framing it in the most perfectly imperfect way he'd ever known?
Some time later, as you two packed up your things, and you smiled at Steve as you agreed to meet up the same time tomorrow, Steve realized something.
Physics was a subject he could definitely grow to like.
In a matter of a couple of weeks, you couldn't remember what it was like to feel nervous around Steve.
All your initial jitters about meeting the boy you'd had a massive crush on were merely memories of a time when you hadn't known who he really was.
Not because you didn't like him anymore. If anything, your attraction to Steve Harrington had only multiplied tenfold every hour you spent in his company.
Back then, it was only physical attraction. Now?
Now you knew how Steve had a habit of colouring in the margins when he was actually focused on his work, how he only ever used a black fountain pen to write and the ball pens you preferred made his already scratchy handwriting practically illegible. You knew the secret to his iconic hair, which you managed to somehow coax out of him in conversation before he even realized what he had revealed.
You knew one of the tiny freckles on Steve's cheeks was actually a very inconspicuous mole.
You knew how the impossible darkness of his eye colour wasn't absolute- his pupil was ringed with the faintest hazel tint, invisible until you looked close enough.
You knew the way those same eyes sometimes lingered a moment too long on yours even after you'd finished talking. Or how they'd sometimes drop to your lips as you'd explain something to him. Or how they'd watch when you were seemingly engrossed deeply in the text.
But you noticed. You noticed it all, and you tried to convince yourself this was all your delusion. It wasn't a far reach to think this was all in your head- maybe your brain wanted to make up something where there wasn't anything because God, you wanted it so much.
But instinctively? You knew.
You knew you weren't imagining things.
Steve Harrington, no matter how much he tried to conform to his 'King Steve' image, was not like the others he hung out with.
So when on a random Thursday afternoon, you got stuck in the rain- you considered it a sign from God.
It had been raining lightly since nearly 2pm, and you did not have an umbrella. It was barely a drizzle by the time you had to leave school, and you liked a little rain- after all, what damage could it do?
Turns out, a lot, if that little rainfall turned into a torrential downpour in the time it took you to walk one block: just the right amount of distance so that running back to school and running home would be equally dooming.
Just as you're contemplating all the shitty life decisions that have led you to this moment, trying to futilely shield your bag with your arms, a car pulls up beside you.
And not just any car. The latest burgundy BMW, the pride and joy of none other than...
The window drops down a few inches and a familiar face you absolutely adored peaks out through it.
... Steve Harrington.
"Ugh, sorry I'm making a mess over your floors..." you mutter, frowning as you pad over the marble flooring of Steve's bedroom, the embarrassment at leaving a trail of wet footprints and rainwater in his pristine mansion preventing you from realizing the sheer monumentality of being in Steve Harrington's bedroom.
"Don't apologize, it's not your fault," Steve says simply, closing the door behind him with a soft click, sealing you off from the rest of the empty house.
Steve's room was just as you'd expected it to be. Huge, spacious, twice the size of your own, a checked wallpaper adorning the walls- luxurious, beautiful.
"I feel bad enough that I ruined your car seats," you wince, sliding your bag- drenched despite your best (useless) efforts- to the ground, beside his rug.
"I'll.... deal with it, don't worry about it," he chuckles after a small pause. "In the meanwhile... we need to get you some warm clothes."
Steve strides over to what you presume is the door to his closet, and disappears into it. From where you're standing, you can't see into the space, save for the warm yellow light emanating from inside it, before Steve reappears a second later, holding a stack of folded clothes and a small red towel in his arms. An outwardly apologetic smile plays on his lips, but you can't deny the hint of... eagerness... teasing in his expression.
"Hope you're fond of oversised sweatshirts and sweatpants," he shrugs, extending the clothes to you.
You take it from him automatically, but inside, your brain seems to have short circuited, finally having caught on to fact that you're in Steve's bedroom.
Dripping wet.
And he's giving you his clothes.
His clothes.
"Steve," you whisper, but you don't know what you'll say after. No? You can't exactly refuse even if you didn't want to, cause you couldn't stay in your sopping wet garments without freezing to death. And you didn't want to refuse him anyway. You really, really didn't.
"You can change in the bathroom, it's right there-" Steve says, pointing to the other closed door in the wall, "-and you can put your clothes in the laundry basket when you're done, I'll get them washed and hand them over to you in school tomorrow."
You nod wordlessly, and somehow manage a tight, nervous smile, before hurrying over to the bathroom and locking the door.
Your mind is reeling. Spinning. Marvelling at how filmic all of this was.
Girl gets stranded in the rain. Boy picks her up in his car and takes her to his house because it is closer than hers and she is shivering and he doesn't want her to get sick. Boy is her hero. Boy gives her clothes. They get closer. By nightfall, those clothes are off.
You snap out of your musings with a jolt at that the last thought.
You're delusional, you think for the umpteenth time in the last two weeks, absolutely delusional with a capital.... D....
You quickly strip out of your sopping wet clothes, mentally commending your past self who decided on your cardigan as part of your outfit that morning, because underneath it, your white shirt is completely see-through, your dark bra starkly visible from underneath it.
You chuck all your clothes- cardigan, shirt, skirt- into the laundry basket, before grabbing the towel and quickly wiping yourself with it, marvelling at how soft it was.
Once you're done, you set it on the spacious washbasin counter- and then hesitate, staring at the neatly folded clothes stacked beside it. Steve's clothes.
While your thoughts earlier may have been stupid, there was still no denying how absurd this was.
Terrifying.
But a little exciting too.
You slowly pick up the plain pale blue sweatshirt and stare at it for a second. At the seamless, expensive blue material, and you find yourself imagining Steve wearing it. Casually sitting on his bed, his dark hair tousled from his usual style... and against your better judgement, you bring it to your nose, breathing in its scent. Much to your delight, it's his perfume- the same one you're all too familiar with now, and absolutely, absolutely love. The heady, musky, leathery scent invades your senses and your stomach clenches, fingers tightening around the fabric.
God, get a fucking grip.
You change into Steve's clothes as quickly as you can. The sweatshirt falls past your hips to the tops of your thighs, and you have to tighten the drawstring firmly around your waist so the pants don't fall off even as they bunch up around your ankles, but atleast you're comfortable.
And you don't look half bad either, you think, as you look at yourself in the mirror.
Your hair are drenched, but once you pat them dry with your towel and squeeze out most of the water.... you certainly don't look like a raccoon left out in the room like you would have if your mascara hadn't been waterproof.
Huh. Some investments were worth it.
Once satisfied with your appearance, you unlock the bathroom door and step back out into Steve's bedroom.
He's still there, but his back is turned to you as he stands at his desk, fiddling with books... your books?
He turns around before you can properly make out what he's doing.
"Oh hey, I was just drying ou-"
Steve breaks off mid-sentence as his eyes fall on you, standing awkwardly by the door.
His lips part, and your heart skips a beat as his eyes run down your body and back up.
He's checking you out.
Steve Harrington. Is checking. You out.
"I- I was just drying out your books," Steve finishes lamely, his eyes drifting back up to yours, but his gaze is still a little unfocused.
For some reason, the sight gives you the confidence you need to behave as you generally do around him now- normally.
"Oh, thanks Steve," you reply, your voice steady and pleasant sounding. You walk over to where he is, your gaze falling over all your textbooks that he's spread over the table, the pages curling and damp.
"Shit..." you mutter, gingerly flipping through the pages of your biology notebook, the ink slightly smudged. But it's still legible, much to your relief.
"It could've been worse," Steve says from beside you. "If you used fountain pens like I do..." he trails off, the insinuation clear.
"See? Ball pens have their charm."
"Never denied it."
You giggle, while Steve lets out a soft laugh. There's a small silence.
"Do you want something to drink?" Steve asks. "You must be cold, I can make you a coffee, if you'd like?"
"Oh... I don't really like coffee."
"You don't like coffee?.... Wow okay... uhh... tea?"
".....No."
"Is this one of those moments where you'll come out and say you prefer whiskey?"
"That would actually be really cool. But I'm going to have to pass. A hot chocolate sounds nice though, if you have cocoa powder?"
"We have every possible ingredient for a good coffee, ma'am, and lucky for you, chocolate happens to be one of them."
Normally, when you want hot chocolate, you go to a cafe. Rarely do you venture into the kitchen to make yourself something more than a simple sandwich or get a glass of milk.
Never did you think you'd be in Steve Harrington's kitchen, with Steve Harrington, stirring some milk heating on a stove while he whisked a bowl of liquified chocolate powder till he was satisfied the mixture had no lumps.
To add to it all, the soundtrack to your evening was Bryan Adams on the turntable, because Steve insisted he couldn't work without some music to listen to.
So yes, all things considered, this was absurd.
"Alright, I think the milk is warm enough," you say slowly, squinting at the liquid for a second, before turning the stove off.
"The chocolate seems to be done too," Steve remarks, rapping the whisk sharply against the bowl to get the chocolate still stuck to the spokes into the main mixture, although it remained stubbornly stuck to it.
If you were alone, you'd just lick it off, but you wonder how Steve would react to that.
You spare him a glance, and he's staring at the chocolate with a look you can only assume is similar to yours.
Your eyes meet.
And you promptly burst out laughing, knowing you're thinking the exact same thing.
"You want to do the honours or should I?" You ask, biting your lip to control the laughter threatening to bubble out of you.
"Well, I am a gentleman, so I'll let you-," he extends the whisk to you with a low bow, "-the lady, lick the chocolate off the whisk."
"Why thank you, Sir Harrington," you reply, eyebrows raised in the most pompous expression you can put on. "Your graciousness is a... delight to witness." You pluck the whisk out of his hands, and looking him straight in the eye, you flick your tongue out and run it along the thin spokes, lapping up the chocolate into your mouth.
You don't know where this new found confidence is coming from, but like before, it seems to stem from and be fueled by the fact that Steve is staring at you with that look in his eyes. You can't quite place it, but the humour vanishes from them in an instant, the dark brown appearing nearly black.
You tilt your head to the side, the atmosphere all of a sudden sober.
"Ready to assemble the hot chocolate?" You ask softly.
Steve exhales, still looking at you with that same expression before nodding.
"Yeah, yeah, of course," he says breathily, finally breaking your stare to grab two mugs from a shelf on the wall. He places them on the counter, while you lift the boiler containing the milk and pour out equal amounts in each of the cups.
"Moment of truth," you mutter, as Steve grabs the bowl of chocolate, and with a few firm taps to the counter, he tips it over one of the cups.
The viscous liquid dribbles down the side of the bowl, swirling into the milk, before Steve moves on to the next. Once he's done, you grab a spoon and scoop any remaining chocolate from it into the cups, flashing him a sheepish smile.
Steve, meanwhile, reaches for the sugar.
"Want any?" He asks, and you notice his voice is back to normal, but his eyes still hold that same darkened look. The sight thrills you more than the melted chocolate syrup had.
"Uhh I'll pass, this is gonna be sweet enough without the sugar," you chuckle.
"Looks like we won't need this then," Steve shrugs, putting it back.
"You won't take any?"
"Do I look like someone who takes a lot of sugar?" He raises his brow, sliding the sugar back into place before flashing you what you assume is a deliberate charming smile.
You laugh, a warm feeling growing in your chest. "You're an idiot, Steve Harrington."
His smile softens. "And you're beautiful," he says, followed by your name as if it's the prettiest word in the English language, and your heart skips a beat.
In the background, the old vinyl record began to play Straight from the Heart, the soft strums of the guitar filling the kitchen. You breathe out slowly.
"Steve..." you whisper, and for a second you two just stand there, staring at each other. For a second, you remember the two reasons you'd once had for never being able to speak to him. Your own nervousness was now a thing of the distant past, never to be spoken of again. And Steve's personality, that he'd be just like his friends- just as arrogant, air-headed, spoilt?
Maybe he was a little of all those things. But at that moment, as you looked into Steve's eyes, those impossibly dark brown orbs ringed with a faint hazel, you knew none of it mattered.
Because deep down, you knew none of those things defined him. If they did, you wouldn't be here right now, in his kitchen, licking chocolate off of whisks, listening to Bryan Adams, looking into his eyes and thinking of how every tutoring session with him had been some of the highlights of your week.
And maybe you always knew that. You always knew Steve Harrington was inherently good, and that's why you hadn't hesitated giving your heart to him long before you ever poured over your Physics textbook one afternoon in the library.
Within the next hour, you and Steve are seated in his living room, sipping your hot chocolates and nibbling on cookies, while the rain outside continues to patter against the huge French windows in the vast space.
"This has to be my new favourite thing to do," you mumble, wiping your face with the back of your hand to rid yourself of any residual cookie crumbs. "Drinking hot chocolate in the rain, listening to Bryan Adams...."
"In the company of Steve Harrington..." Steve adds with a wink. "Or is that not part of the 'favourite' experience?"
You pretend to think, tapping a finger against your chin in ostensible contemplation. "Hmm... let me see... Apart from the fact that this whole situation is kind of crazy," you smile at him. "Yes, maybe I do see you as part of my favourite thing to do." You realize what you've said a second after you say it, as Steve's brows rise.
Your eyes widen into saucers. "Wait no! Shit that came out wrong!" You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling your cheeks heat up. Great, just great.
"Well I'm flattered-"
"Oh, shut up!" You groan, running a hand down your face. "That just- that just come out wrong... I-I didn't mean doing you as in doing you, just as in you're part of my new favourite thing to d-... Ughhh shit-" Steve's hollering with laughter by now, and you're sure you're the colour of healthy, red tomato by now.
"I didn't mean that! As in- as in you're part of what makes this experience a favourite one! Not- not like thing to do as in conventional meaning of doing someone, because th-that would be crazy-" You're rambling now, and you don't notice Steve's calmed down by now, and he's saying your name again and again, willing you to calm down as well. You rarely get this flustered, but embarrassing yourself in front of a person you like is definitely grounds for an exception.
"I-I mean... us doing, that's... that's crazy cause like we're- we're us, from two completely different worlds. You're- you're Steve Harrington, King Steve of Hawkins High, Captain of the Swim Team and Basketball Star, and I'm- I'm me, nerdy, an unapologetic know-it-all, Captain of the Chess Club, and we're just entirely different and there's now way you'd ever be-"
Your ramblings die off abruptly, lips frozen in the ghost of your last word.
Your mind goes blank- no, it short-circuits, because it tends to do that when Steve's Harrington's face is inches from yours, body mere inches from yours where you two are on the couch, hands holding onto your arms.
He says your name again, eyes boring into your wide ones, and when he speaks, you can smell the sweet chocolate on his breath.
"I don't think it's that wild an idea."
If you'd thought you were shocked a minute ago, you don't know what you'd call this. Hearing Steve say doi- being with you was not a totally crazy idea.... Of course you'd suspected he sort of liked you judging by how he'd behave around you, but still. Thinking and hearing it out of his mouth are two very different things.
"Steve," you breathe out weakly. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean."
"But-"
His grip on your arm tightens. "Don't tell me you haven't felt it too," he says your name again, a silent conviction in his eyes. You hadn't noticed that the constant, loud pattering of the rain against the glass windows had stopped, but now, the silence is louder than the noise had been, echoing through the huge room.
"But-"
"I don't care about who you are! Tell me you don't feel it and I'll stop."
"I.... I feel it too," you whisper. You've barely got the words out before he's closing the distance between you two, and his lips are pressed against yours- warm, firm, moving against yours with an insistence that steals your breath. A hot jolt like electricity zaps straight through your body, pooling low in your belly, and before you know it, your hands are flying up to his face and pulling his mouth down into yours, kissing him back with a heat that is a product of every moment you've spent thinking about him, every feverent word you've written about him in your diary, every smile passed between you two, and every time you've looked at each other like you've always wanted something more.
You feel his tongue slide across your lower lip and you can't control the soft whimper that parts your lips. Steve takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, a low groan emanating from his throat, and you feel the vibrations against your fingers where you're clutching tightly onto him.
Steve tastes like sugar, sweet, sweet sugar as his tongue explores your mouth, while his hands slide down your body, as if mapping every inch of it. Each touch, even through the thick material of his sweatshirt, sends tingles racing through your veins, till his hands settle low on your waist, fingers gripping whatever they can find.
It's only when the pressure of his hands on your waist becomes a tug, and he's lifting you up so you're seated on his lap, does some semblance of thought finally return to your brain, and you pull apart. Immediately, you suck in a deep breath and Steve does the same. Undeniably, breathing had been the last thing on your mind just a second ago.
Your body is buzzing. Your heart is going absolutely crazy in your chest, beating wildly against your ribs, and your brain seems to have melted from the heat coursing through you.
But when Steve's hands move from their place on your waist and slip under your sweatshirt, it's like a switch flips in your head.
Suddenly, you're all too aware of the fact that you're sitting in his lap, so close his hair tickle your forehead, his warm breath on your face, his taste in your mouth.
Your thoughts from before suddenly resurface in your mind.
Girl gets stranded in the rain. Boy picks her up in his car and takes her to his house because it is closer than hers and she is shivering and he doesn't want her to get sick. Boy is her hero. Boy gives her clothes. They get closer. By nightfall, those clothes are off.
And simple as that, you panic.
One minute you're clinging onto Steve like he's your anchor, and the next you're sliding off of him, stumbling to your feet.
Steve looks so taken aback that he's not quick enough to stop you before you're already off of him.
"What-"
"The rain's stopped. I should go," you quicky mumble, unable to look Steve in the eye.
"Wait-no-" Steve starts, but you don't wait. By the time he gets to his feet, you're already running up the stairs to his room, flinging open his bedroom door and barging inside. You grab your bag- still damp, but you can't do anything about that. Eyes unfocused, you haphazardly stuff your books into your bag in a frenzy. When you're done, you zip it closed and fling it over your shoulder and rush out the door, just as Steve reaches the top of the stairs.
"Wait-" Steve calls out your name, but you just shoot him a quick apologetic smile you're sure doesn't reach your eyes. "It's getting late, Steve, my parents are probably worrying. I should go home."
You rush past him, bounding down the stairs.
"Wait, I'll drive you home-"
"No need," you call over your shoulder. "It's close enough, I'll walk."
You reach the front door, and when your hand is the knob, you suddenly pause. You turn around, finding Steve standing a few feet away, his lips parted and red, hair a bit of a mess, cheeks flushed. He's never looked more handsome to you.
"I had a great time today, Steve," you manage to say, and he blinks.
"I did too..." he murmurs, and you give him a last quick smile, before pulling the door open and bounding out, past the tall gate, and out onto the road.
You run all the way back to your place dodging puddles, never stopping once to catch your breath. And when you're home, you rush upstairs to your room after quickly letting your mom know you're home, before locking yourself in your bedroom.
Your mind swirls all evening, first from pure, unadulterated shock, then disbelief and then a giddiness that fills you up with so much energy that you jump on your bed for a few minutes, before shrieking into your pillow.
By nightfall, you're regretting ever leaving his house the way you did. Or actually leaving his house at all.
It's only before bed that you realize your Chemistry textbook is missing. You look everywhere, in your drawers, cupboards, even under your bed, before realizing you'd taken it to school. But when you check your bag, it's not there.
Maybe you left it at Steve's home. Come to think of it, he had mentioned you'd had so many books in your bag his desk couldn't accommodate them all, so he'd kept some to dry on his nightstand. In your haste while leaving his house, you'd forgotten to bring home the ones on his nightstand.
You mentally curse yourself. You spend the next fifteen minutes taking inventory of all your books. Your chemistry textbook and notes were the only one missing along with....
Your stomach drops.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Your diary.
Your diary, that contained every single one of your thoughts, that you carried around with you everywhere you went because you didn't want to let something so sensitive away from your person.
Your diary, which contained every single thing you'd ever thought about Steve. Every embarrassing story, imagination, musing....
Now at Steve's house.
But Steve wasn't like that! The diary very clearly, had your name on it, followed by the fact that it was your diary, and to keep out, in bold letters.
Steve wouldn't invade your privacy.
Right?
Right. You trusted Steve.
Steve would return it to you the next day, along with your books and clothes.
You tell yourself that as you turn your light off and get into bed.
The next morning, you wake up wanting nothing more than to kiss Steve again. To sit on his lap and have his lips against yours, his tongue in your mouth, his hair tickling your forehead, hands gripping your waist.
You don't just want him. You crave him like he's the air you need to live.
You practically skip your way to school, your mood the best it's been in a long time, a giddy, stupid smile playing on your lips the entire time.
And as you enter through the school gates into the hallways, you have only one goal in mind.
Find Steve.
Find Steve and tell him yesterday was the best kiss of your life and that you'd very much like to do it again and again everyday for the rest of your-
"Hey-" you hear an unfamiliar voice call your name and you turn, to see Chad Andrews walking over to you- a jock you vaguely remember from Home Room.
"Uhh... hi?" You say uncertainly.
"Always knew you were a nerd," he starts, "But I didn't know your true calling was romance author!"
....
Huh?
What in the- Before you can ask him what he means, he's already walking off down the hall, chuckling to himself.
Weirdo, you think to yourself, and you're about to continue to look for Steve, but before you can, you hear your name called once more.
You flip around to see Becky Willis, member of the cheerleading squad and bitch extraordinaire, walking towards you, her posse in tow, a smirk plastered on her face.
"Look, girls, it's the stalker," she says, her wide doe eyes filled with mirth as the others around her laugh.
You look over your shoulder, wondering if there's anyone else in this school with the same name as yours that you're only finding out about today.
"Aww, look how innocent she seems," Becky pouts, finally face to face with you. The other girls around her giggle once more.
You're still too confused to speak, your mind struggling to come down from the Steve-high and catch up to what was going on.
"What are you talking about?" You finally get out, your brow wrinkling in perplexity.
"Uhh... what a creep you are?" she exclaims, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I always knew nerds were just wannabe freaks, but you take it to another level."
You blink.
Was she high? You seriously consider it.
"She's got a real future as a writer too," one of the girls adds.
What WRITER? What famous writing had you done recently that everyone seems to be talking about?
You're about to voice those thoughts, your patience wearing thin, when one of the girls scrunches up her face, throwing her head back dramatically.
"His eyes, oh his eyes," she cries out. "His eyes the colour of ground coffee, and his voice, his honeyed tone falling on my ears-"
"Blessing my very existence!" another one cries out, with the same dramatic flair. "I see him across the cafeteria, talking, laughing, leaning back on his chair with that oh-so-sexy smirk!"
A cold dread begins to creep up your spine. A trickle of familiarity pours into your brain, but you try to force it out, refusing to accept that reality. You can't.
"What are you on about?" You spit out harshly. "Did you fall off the top of the pyramid while cheerleading and hit your head?"
"Oh dear diary," one of the girls continues mournfully, ignoring you, her eyebrows wound together as she cups her cheeks with her hands. "I'm having trouble sleeping tonight, sleep refuses to come to me. So naturally, as I lie here idly, he comes to mind. I think about him, his hair, his eyes, that beautiful smile, that beautiful body, and all of it just. makes me. so. wet!"
You didn't write that last part. You know you didn't. You never wrote anything remotely disturbing or disgusting. But the rest of it?
It doesn't matter whether you want to accept that reality or not. Either way, it's hitting you in the face right now.
"That ring a bell, honey?" Becky sings, her voice mockingly sweet. "Go take a look at the notice board in the hallway if you need more of a reminder."
Your legs feel weak, as if your knees could collapse any moment, but as soon as you hear 'notice board', you're pushing past the girls, running down the hallway, their laughter and shrieking following you.
"Hey, nice handwriting, Shakespeare!" Someone throws your way, but it all just translates to a buzzing in your ears. The hollering, the laughter- till you're skidding to a stop in front of the large notice board.
All the usual content it's supposed to have- flyers, pamphlets, club practice times, posters, everything's hidden.
Hidden underneath snowy white pages roughly ripped from their margins and stuck to the board with pins, over everything else.
You see it. You see loopy words and sentences written in your own steady hand as you poured your heart out about Steve Harrington. Because that's what it was. Pages upon pages of everything you'd written about him in the past year, torn from your diary.
The diary you'd left at Steve's house yesterday. The same day you'd made hot chocolate with him, worn his clothes and kissed him in his living room.
Your feet feel frozen to the ground.
But maybe it's adrenaline- the same one that's making your hands shake- that fuels you.
That forces you to move your feet down the hall and run. Far, far away from here.
You run.
A/N: Let me know your thoughts on this, I'd love to hear them, and leave a comment or ask if you'd like a Part 2, although I feel a bit evil and may just leave it here.
A gentle reminder that likes, comments, reblogs, asks, all make me realllllly reallllly happy.
And didn't think I'd have to add this but if you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all. While you may think your words are harmless, you don't know how sensitive the person reading them is or isn't. So unless I've personally harmed you or your lineage, keep your fucking negativity to yourself.
CHANGE: SOMETHING'S HAPPENING TO ME - chapter five
previous chapter | next chapter
series masterlist | read on ao3
word count: 9K
author's note: hello lovely angels! as always, comments keep me going so please leave any thoughts and feelings on this story and jennifer especially! thank you so much for reading so far :')
JENNIFER HAMMOND / STEVE HARRINGTON
TUESDAY NOVEMBER 8TH (part one)
Jennifer barely slept.
After hours of tossing and turning and trying to rid herself of the image of little Will Byers cycling away, lost in the woods, burning behind her eyelids and almost stinging them to tears - she relented sleep. The incessant pounding of the rain on the thin metal roof above her didn’t help either.
So, to keep herself distracted, Jennifer set to work organising the papers and posters and flyers. They swung by the Post last night Benny waiting in the car as she picked up the early prints. Sitting in the dark, the power out once again (not that it came back at all yet), relying on her flashlight and the slither of moonlight through her narrow blinds, she found a steadying routine. Take one paper, open it to the first page, place the ‘Have You Seen Me?’ poster inside, then the route map, then close, fold and put it in her backpack. Then repeat; so on and so on until eventually she lulled herself into exhaustion and crashed out on the carpet. Or so she assumes she did, as that is where she woke this morning, surrounded by strewn papers and leaflets.
Gently moving the small remaining pile on her lap to the side, Jennifer stretches her sore neck - aching from the awkward tilt where her head rested against her backpack on the floor. She stands, dragging her feet around the bed to turn off the ringing alarm clock, huffing as she then stretches her arms above her head. Wiping her eyes and wincing at the early cracks of winter sunlight peeping through, Jennifer changes out of her sleeping shorts into jeans and switches her ragged tee (an old shirt of Benny’s that belonged to him at her age) to a trusted knit jumper. She then heads out to the hall, taking a large step to avoid kicking the piles on the floor.
Yawning, Jennifer expects to find her uncle sitting at the kitchen table or by the stove, frying her a breakfast sandwich like usual. He’s not there. She can’t hear him moving about his room or the shower running either. A note sits scrawled on the side instead,
“Taken car. Meat. See you later. Love you.”
She’s amused, Benny never a man of many words, knowing he means he has gone to collect beef slabs from Christopher’s farm and needs the car to load it all into. Jennifer considers making herself something to eat, cook up the last egg. But the rumble of her stomach flutters to nerves as she thinks of the day ahead. She should get out there. Sooner it starts, sooner it will be over.
Nearly an hour later, she showered, packed her papers and completed her circuit of all the nearby suburbs. Passing by the Sinclairs and Wheelers, she thought to knock and ask if they have heard anything new. She lingered on the Henderson doorstep too before deciding against it. Besides, it is still so early, they have likely barely woken yet. The curtains are still drawn, streetlamps still on.
All that is left on this side of town are the bigger homes, the richer streets. Jennifer always feels unwelcome here, exposed somehow. As if anyone who looks out their window to see her walk by their pristine lawn, or passes in their fancy car knows she doesn’t belong here. It’s a small town, but streets are like borders. This community is like another world, far from Forest Hills. You could probably fit four of the trailers into one of these front yards. With all that space and the money to afford it, she doubts these people care enough to ever read about small, local matters - not concerned with anything other than themselves and their bank statements. Still, the Post is paying her to deliver and so that is what she will do, whether they read it or burn it. She just hopes they at least glance inside to see the missing posters this morning…
Passing a certain large house on the corner of a street, Jennifer recalls the incident last year when she threw a paper onto the front lawn - only to have it thrown back at her, the elderly resident yelling that she was damaging his freshly mown grass. It is still somehow green now despite the bitter air, the accusation she read from an anonymous submission to the Post last year that the old man actually has synthetic turf laid down seeming to ring true. He strongly denies it, of course, writing back in defence of his efforts. Since then, Jennifer has realised the trouble of walking to each doorstep to deliver the paper was far less than the trouble the residents were capable of causing her. Not worth the ache in her shoulder where it hit with surprising force.
She pauses when reaching a familiar house, stopping just at the end of the long driveway. Her and her mother used to visit often, sometimes twice a week if called for - equipped with cleaning supplies and often leaving with a nice wad of cash that would pay for that night’s meal. That was a long time ago. Long before she lost her mother, and even longer before her mother lost herself.
It's been a while since that door was ever open to her.
Spurred by the memory, needing to move on, Jennifer quickly moves up the long drive and throws the paper to the welcome mat before hurriedly turning away. However, before Jennifer can retreat safely down the drive to the sidewalk and exhale in relief as she usually does each morning, she hears the door behind her open - then a crumpling crunch followed by a confused hiss.
Before she is able to stop herself, Jennifer turns to see Steve Harrington crouching down to retrieve the now scuffed paper that was under his fresh white Cortez’s a moment ago.
Catching her eye as he stands on the doorstep, he frowns at the sight of her in his yard. Then, his brow eases as he makes the connection to her, the paper and the stack of copies in her arms. He has driven by her enough times on the way to school to know she does the rounds.
Looking away quickly, feeling caught despite having every right to be there as is the requirement of her job each morning, she spots a now loose piece of paper breezing down the drive. Stepping forward quickly to retrieve it before it is taken entirely by the wind, she is taken aback by Harrington moving quickly from the step to reach down and pick it up before she does.
Harrington straightens and twirls car keys on the fingers of his left hand, catching them in his palm and looking at the paper in his other hand, the newspaper now tucked under his arm.
Jennifer is unsure why she watches, perhaps a morbid curiosity of how he will react. How any of these people might react.
She sees the way his face falls slightly, moving the paper closer to his face with a squint to take in the picture of the young boy, the bold words above him. His eyes then meet hers again, “Byers’ brother?”
She nods. He turns back to the picture, a frown creasing his forehead beneath his volumed hair, perfectly styled for school.
After a moment - one Jennifer is unsure why she spends standing across from him on his driveway as he studies it - he looks up again, a strange twist of his lips that could resemble something close to sympathy if she thought him capable, “Shit, that’s…”
He shuffles, uncharacteristically unsure of himself, as he struggles to find something to say. Jennifer, curious as to what he could be wanting to, slightly raises an expectant brow. A challenge even, to prove himself.
He settles for, “That, uh, sucks.”
There’s a beat of silence.
And Jennifer wishes he hadn’t said anything.
She scoffs, repressing a roll of her eyes as she snatches the paper from his hands and turns sharply on her heel. She is unsure what she expected beyond a total lack of empathy-
“Yeah, it sucks,” she bites under her breath, though it comes out so forcefully he stumbles, dropping his keys as it hits him. His mouth drops open, his brain gratefully turning off any further attempt to speak as she storms away.
Picking up his keys, he takes a few quick steps past his car and to the end of his drive she is trying to hurry down away from him.
“Any news?” she hears him call as she nears the sidewalk. That angers her further, wishing he would just drop it.
“Nothing for you and Perkins to gossip about, no.”
Even from her several steps ahead, she hears him sigh. A defeated, regretful sound she never thought possible from the jock. It has her stopping on the sidewalk, turning so slightly back to him.
He’s retreating, head down, to his car parked (displayed) by the road - opening and closing his palm almost nervously around his keys. The slightest scuff of his sneakers against the stone as he walks.
So, perhaps she feels bad. For assuming the worst of him.
At least he looked at it, right? That's what she wanted, for people to know. To help.
Harrington is just putting the key into his drivers’ door when he hears someone clear their throat beside him. Turning, he sees Jennifer standing a few steps away, a flyer extended to him from the small distance. She chews her lower lip, as if unsure, shaking the paper a little to encourage him to take it.
She speaks as he reaches for it, not quite so bitingly but still with a tense jaw, “There’s a search party tonight from Maple, the rest of the route is drawn out. Starts at six.”
Jennifer watches as his eyes follow the red line drawn upon the map he now holds. There is a moment before he speaks, “Oh, I have swim practice from six.”
And with that, Steve Harrington has blown his second chance.
With another scoff, she storms away, not even bothering this time to snatch the paper back. She can feel him watch her go, her step hurrying to reach the corner and be out of sight.
“See you at school,” she hears him mutter, him not chasing this time, the sound of his car engine roaring to life as she turns onto the next street. She shudders, dreading it.
_
Jennifer walks the rest of the way to school, with no time to backtrack to the diner and ask Benny for the car. It probably reeks of raw meat now anyway, and she is sure her hollow, aching stomach won’t be able to ignore it.
To her irritation, she spent most of the walk thinking about the interaction with Harrington. His ignorance. Her disappointment.
What else did she really expect from that asshole?
Only when the High comes into view, and an unnervingly familiar burgundy BMW rolls past her into the lot, does she snap herself out of it. How unimportant he is as the remaining leaflets weigh heavy in her backpack. Jennifer readjusts the straps so they cut less into her shoulders through her jacket, and hardens herself.
He's not who he was, she had told Barb. It slipped out. But she meant it.
Steve Harrington forgot about her. She needs to forget about him too.
And so, she does. Or tries to, lowering her head and entering the halls. Jennifer scurries from her first period to the next, pinning posters to the boards as she passes.
She tries to focus, she really does; writing notes for herself and all that Jonathan is missing in Physics and Math. But how important can ‘quantum coupling hypotheses’ really be when your twelve-year-old brother has been missing for almost two days?
Jennifer finds herself drifting where she usually sits at the back of each class, gazing out the window rather than focussing on the board or her books. Willing to see something - Will biking past or the cops pulling up. The best and worst case scenarios. But, nothing.
She attempts to snap herself out of her head by third period, excusing her distraction as a result of her late night. But it is more than being tired. Deeper.
It is restlessness and fear and anger and guilt. Wanting to do something, scared of what could happen, frustration at others’ lack of care, and regret that she- she let him go.
More people must know by now, about Will. From the paper or the Police or, more likely, gossip at the barber's or breakfast table or canteen queue. Jennifer is almost glad to have been too lost in her own thoughts to hear them if so.
Hopefully they have opened the paper and found the flyers, seen the posters she pinned to the noticeboards during recess. But will they help? Or not care, be too concerned with selfish commitments? Excited by the opportunity to whisper and joke at expense of someone else?
Maybe, she doesn't want them to know at all.
What will they think when they know it's her fault-?
Jennifer turns herself to the window again, refusing to spiral as Benny warned and longing to have hope.
“Jennifer,” Mr Hauser calls to her as she tries to scurry by his desk and out the door as the lunch bell rings.
Other students turn their eyes to her as she stops in the doorway, shoulder barged into by others as they pass by in their own hurry to leave. Tina mutters something not-so-quietly to Heather about “extra credit”, the other girl giggling obnoxiously at the outrageous but not unfamiliar accusation. She has heard it all before.
Jennifer turns slowly, ignoring them, head down as she scuffs to his desk. The Literature professor stands by his chair, waiting for most of the class to have disappeared from the room before gesturing an arm for her to pull up a seat to sit opposite. She doesn’t, keeping her neck bent low and missing the invitation. Instead, he leans himself against the desk, watching the last student - Anna Jacobi, who has been purposely packing her backpack as slowly as possible to listen in on their conversation, eventually giving up feeling the teacher’s knowing eyes on her - leave the class, closing the door behind her at his instruction.
Mr Hauser looks her over, the way her fingers have twisted into her jacket sleeves, eyes low and unfocussed on the tiled floor. Her hair hangs in her face, lip twisted as she awaits him to explain why he has held her back.
“I just wanted to praise you for your essay last week. I had a whirlwind reading it over the weekend,” the girl glances up slightly, her eyes meeting his encouraging smile through her hair. He folds his arms and goes on, “‘The Long Walk’ is one of my favourites of recent years. Stephen King is a genius.”
Her head tips up, him seeing a slight familiar glint in her eye, “Yeah, uh, he really is.”
"So many publications in not so much time. His mind must be an interesting place to be," the professor nods with a squint, “There was another one recently, right? Something about a dog or…”
“'Pet Sematary', it was published over summer," she explains to him, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve.
“Right, yeah, that one. You read it yet?”
Jennifer shakes her head, regrettably, "Hawkins library hasn’t gotten it yet. Don’t have the time to head out of town.”
“King just doesn’t seem to stop. He must be releasing at least four books a year at this rate!”
Mr Hauser smiles again, pleased to see her broken out of the haze she seemed to be in at the back of his class. Her text had remained unopened on her desk, her eyes flitting between the clock on the wall as if watching the time go and the window that overlooked the parking lot.
Usually in class, he relies on her keenness for the subject to keep the other students’ attention, giving them some ideas to note down about the text he knows they haven’t read just for them to copy in their own essays.
But her head seems to have been somewhere else today. He called on her to give an interpretation, sure she would be eager to share her thoughts on chapter fourteen he knows she already read two weeks ahead. Barbara Holland beside her had to jut the girl’s elbow with her own, snapping Jennifer's eyes from the clock on the wall to stare widely at him, surprised. She shrugged, then turned to stare out the window again, looking out as if searching for something.
He’s curious to know what is going on with her, but knows Jennifer Anderson isn’t as enthusiastic about discussing reality as the fiction. Ms Kelley has been trying to pull her in for sessions since all that happened with her mother two years ago, lamenting over their cups of coffee in the staff room that the girl failed to attend another appointment after school. It can’t be easy for her.
So, himself and his colleague have agreed to let her come to them if she needs. Even if they doubt she will.
Yet today, that isn’t what he pulled her aside for.
“Though, it wasn't only your essay I was impressed by,” he begins, trying to keep his voice light despite his smile falling stern, “Dan Shelter wrote quite the compelling piece on ‘JAWS’. Seemed so keen he even handed it in two days before the deadline.”
He watches her face fall slightly, hair slipping back over her eyes again as she ducks her chin to her chest.
“No offence to that young man but,” Mr Hauser clicks his tongue, “I doubt he could even spell ‘circumtropical’, let alone use it in a sentence.”
The girl doesn’t chuckle along with him. Just stays quiet, cheek chewed between her teeth.
Jennifer won’t admit it. That won’t do her any favours. Besides, she has done it before and, honestly, will do it again. She needs the cash.
Shelter seemed desperate, slipping her a whole $17 compared to the usual $5 others have paid. He even offered to throw in a gum he found wrapped in his pocket, but she declined such a generous donation.
If she snitches, that would be bad for business. She doesn’t want Shelter to get into trouble and miss out on the next time he comes crawling to her locker begging for help. For word to spread, and her lose any hope of clientele; fellow students that are willing to lower themselves to needing her to save their grades.
Mr Hauser sighs at her silence, “You have a good chance, Jennifer, if you just focus on yourself. Your own grades. You could do well in your finals next year. And then college, a scholarship maybe.”
She keeps her face straight. Grades, scholarships, college - they don’t matter. She is only going to help Benny out at the diner once she graduates school anyway. Her future is pretty much set. She’s stuck here. There is nothing beyond Hawkins, not for her.
But, just to stop her teacher from looking at her so intensely, she nods. Just to appease him.
She likes Mr Hauser, one of the few at school who seems to give her any time. She’s not sure why - pity maybe? But it never feels that way.
He has offered for her to spend lunchtime in his classroom when she needs somewhere to go. She takes him up on that in the winter mostly, it too cold to sit outside by the woods or in her car without heating, sitting at the back of the warm room with a book and her packed diner-leftovers. The teacher even tried to recruit her for the school play last year, being head of the Theatre department, saying he could do with someone who actually understands the text and can pronounce half the words in the script on his cast. An attempt to bring her out of herself, it felt. She declined, of course. But his invitation to audition was kinder than most opportunities not offered to her.
“Just think about it,” Mr Hauser says, seeing he has lost her again, her eyes drifting once again out the window, “I look forward to your next own essay.”
She nods again and mumbles a goodbye, taking that as a dismissal. She reaches up to grip at her backpack strap, the papers inside weighing heavy on her shoulders once more, heading quickly out the classroom.
She wonders where to go now it is lunchtime, not daring to face the canteen or the halls or the field or anywhere, truthfully. Perhaps she could walk herself the hour home. Bunk off the fourth period. But the thought of sitting in that trailer alone, with nothing to do but think… she doesn’t want to think. She spent all night thinking about it, and this morning. And her head is hurting. Perhaps she could go to the diner. But her uncle will want to talk… she doesn’t want to talk, either.
He spared her last night, letting her slink off to her room with the papers. She thought he might knock, anticipated a talking to. But he gratefully gave her space. Her uncle knows her well enough to know when to do so.
Or, she could call the Byers again, check in with Jon. See if they have any news. But that did nothing for her nerves yesterday. If anything, it made them worse.
Her stomach decides for her, crying out as she passes the food hall, Jennifer realising she has not yet eaten which can only be worsening the headache.
She should stay. Face it. Write notes for Jonathan as she said she would. Then, swing by the diner on her way home and reward herself by taking Benny up on his promise for that banana milkshake.
There were some coins slipped into her pocket again this morning, her uncle wants her to eat. Especially if he knew she didn’t have breakfast. She wouldn't dare tell him that part.
Maybe this ache in her stomach will go away if she distracts it with food.
But, it takes only two steps into the canteen for her to regret the decision. The piercing pitch of Carol Perkins seems to have waited for her arrival.
“Think she has something to do with it?” Jennifer hears her pointed screech from a nearby table as she joins the back of the lunch queue. Trying to ignore the redhead as normal, she begins to count the change she has in her pocket to decide on what to buy. But looking over the dull sandwich selections, she can feel Carol’s cruel glare prickling at her skin as she leers, even louder, “Her and that psycho boyfriend of hers…”
She refuses to give them the satisfaction of turning around, Carol and whoever else is at the table around her. Hagan, inevitably. Harrington too, most likely.
Her suspicions are corrected as she hears Hagan’s boisterous shout, no doubt calling in the attention of half the hall, “Maybe he ran away after having to listen to them going at it!”
There are a few snickers of those callous enough to listen, as Carol continues to cackle, spurred on by the turned heads, “Well, whatever she did, she’ll get away with it, Pulling in favours with the Chief to get out of it.”
“Yeah! Just like her mother did!”
She hears the change clatter to the ground before she feels the coins slip through her now limp fingers.
Some snickers turn to vicious roars as Jennifer turns quickly on her heel to run from the hall and their derides.
She doesn’t look up. She can’t. Not even to glare. She just wants to hide.
Her eyes are prickling, daring her to cry. She won't. Not in front of them. Not ever.
Though, before she can leave the canteen entirely, her eyes catch onto the board by the door where she had pinned a poster earlier this morning during recess.
Slowing to a halt in front of it, her heart stops.
Stepping closer, Jennifer’s eyes flit over the many leaflets and cards donning the wall, trying to recall where she had placed him. Where has he gone?
Her shaking fingers lift to an unfamiliar poster for new basketball try-outs to replace their injured point guard, and beneath it she finds him; Will Byers. His small face barely peering out, now hidden by things thought more important.
Her shame and fatigue turns to fury, her fists at her sides beginning to tremble. She can feel something dark bubble in her empty stomach, rising through her chest and about to spit from her throat-
“Hammond!”
Her head snaps to her side where Eddie Munson greets her with a grin, exaggeratedly saluting as he usually does upon seeing her. She clamps her jaw shut, swallowing down the shout she was about to emit, and turns to at least nod back to him.
Though, by the time she has eased herself, he has already turned from her and to the board, reaching to the farthest corner to pin a poster of his own. As he leans back, she sees it is an advertisement for the new ‘Battle of the Bands’ contest at the Hideout next month. The paper is frayed at the edges, deep creases running through it from where it was folded impolitely in his back jean pocket. He is undoubtedly participating again this year; she has heard him hum arrangements and workshop lyrics enough on their regular walks home to Forest Hills together to know of his enthusiasm for it.
Munson looks back at her once he has surveyed his poster’s placement, concerned by the way she is staring forlornly at the wall, her fists balled tight at her sides. With a curious frown at her unusual quiet, he follows her gaze to the try-outs poster, confused by her recoil before he sees it. That missing kid Wayne read in the paper this morning. Byers’ brother barely visible beneath the poor sketch of the Tigers’ roaring mascot.
He turns sharply over his shoulder, quickly finding the Basketball team sitting in their claimed spot at the furthest table. Andy Johnson claps Steve Harrington on the shoulder, who smirks as he struts past to join Perkins and Hagan at their table in the centre. Jermaine Demario and Patrick McKinley seem to be in deep discussion of tactics or some such nothing, hands displaying different shapes and movements. Jason Carver winks across the room at Chrissy Cunningham who blushes prettily and turns back to her book. Andy Johnson spins a ball on his finger with a smirk, lapping up the applause from the cheerleaders who hover around him batting their lashes and twirling their hair.
All ignorant to what they have done. Oblivious to the distress they have caused the girl beside him. He kisses his teeth.
Jennifer blinks, taken out of her distant despair as Eddie steps in front of her and reaches for the Basketball poster, tearing it harshly from its pins. She watches in awe as he crushes it into his palm, balling it into his fist in front of her before tossing it at a close by trash can with his typical dramatic-flourish. It misses, rolling haplessly to the floor.
Munson cheers anyway, though at a whisper as to not call for any more attention than the girl has suffered already. He pumps a fist into the air and turns back to Jennifer with an encouragingly easy grin, “Think I’ll make the team?”
He is relieved to hear her huff, the closest he assumes she can muster to a laugh right now as she remains stiff. Her gaze quickly returns to the board despite his attempt, to the now visible-once-more white sheet marked ‘MISSING’ and the small, smiling face of the Byers boy.
Eddie’s mouth twists in thought as his hands fall to his hips, close to defeat. He then holds out a hand to her, she flinches at the sudden movement then twists a wondering brow at it.
“Do you have any more?”
She continues to only look at him, though raises her eyes from his hand to his face, as he explains as if it were obvious, “I’ll stick some up with mine.”
Jennifer looks between his eyes, open hand and the few folded sheets in his pocket before actually realising what he is offering. Munson stands patiently waiting for her to respond, as if it is no big deal.
But to Jennifer, this feels like the first show of kindness she has seen from anyone at this school since news got out about Will. She quickly realises she shouldn’t be surprised, about Eddie or the rest of them - Munson often proving himself everything the others wish he wasn’t. Kind, most of all.
Pulling off her backpack from her shoulders, she reaches for the small pile of posters still lying in there, pressed delicately between her books. She hands him the entire pile, only a handful, but feels incredibly lighter even so.
Eddie takes them carefully, not folding them or shoving them into his back pocket like his own, but holding them uncreased in his hand. He nods to her with a small smile, and struts off.
She watches him go, grateful, wishing her throat were not too dry as to call after him and tell him so.
_
“When alpha particles go through gold foil, they become…?”
“Unoccupied space.”
“Right!” Barb smiles encouragingly, shuffling the card to the back of the pile to read the next, “A molecule that can-”
“Oh, hey Jennifer,” Nancy cuts her off as they near their lockers in the hall before the bell, Barb also noticing the other girl at her own.
Jennifer turns to them from where she has been emptying her books into her locker, swapping them out for her next period. She offers them a nod rather than a smile and weakly returns, “Hey.”
Nancy shuffles awkwardly, sharing a quick worried glance with Barb, seeming to mistake her blunt greeting as something hostile. She tries another smile for her, trying to act undisturbed as Jennifer turns back to her locker, “Ready for Kaminsky’s test?”
Both girls watch as Jennifer somehow deflates even further, cursing under her breath and resting her head against her open locker door. She forgot.
“That’s- It’s ok!” Barb attempts with a strained smile.
“You’ve had a lot on your mind,” Nancy tries too, though seems to have yet again said the wrong thing as Jennifer tenses, gripping tighter to her locker door.
It seems word really is spreading now, even with the posters buried. She is sure they have heard about the cops talking to her yesterday too, likely listened to Perkins’ screeches about her accused involvement in all this.
Nancy looks desperately to Barb again, who also hesitates before lifting the revision cards in her hand and extending them to the other girl, “Here, take these. Nancy wrote them out!”
Jennifer looks at the cards and attempts a thankful smile, though the other girls wince at its transparency.
Neither have seen her all day. In fact, not since lunch the day before when she hurried away from them. Nancy caught a glimpse of her in the canteen earlier but it seemed she was in a hurry to head out, the Wheeler girl taking her place at the table beside Steve rather than trying to intercept her.
Her mom told her about Will last night, receiving a call from the school that the PD had stopped by and talked to Mike. She doesn't know much else, Mike storming to his room after being dropped home. Carol filled in the rest at the table, saying her mom was told from someone at the Big Buy that Jennifer was the last to see him. That's why the Police came to the school to arrest her, but she- well, Nancy doesn't want to think about the crudeness of it. Hagan spoke some words she hasn't even heard before. Steve smiled, so Nancy did too. But she doesn't believe them, of course not.
She knows Jennifer is close to her younger brother and the other boys, and is sure she is worried for Will. Just as they all are, of course. Especially being close to his older brother too. It must be hard to get her head into school and certainly Chemistry with Kaminsky.
Jennifer reaches out for the cards, hoping to retain anything she can, not wanting to lose her progress in such an infamously difficult class. She has worked so hard so far to stay on track. And now with Mr Hauser’s hopeful encouragement in mind, it would be a shame to slip up now. Even with everything going on.
But just as she is handed them-
They are snatched from her hands.
Startled, Jennifer scowls seeing Hagan grinning tauntingly at her, now shuffling the revision cards between his fingers. She scowls deeper at the inevitable appearance of Perkins beside him, flicking Barb's ear with a manicured nail before leaning against the wall, smacking her lips around the gum between her teeth. And, of course follows Harrington, who quickly moves to place his arm around Nancy’s shoulders. The Wheeler girl smiles sweetly up at him, switching herself within a second, batting her dark lashes with a pretty pink blush.
“Give them back,” Jennifer grits to Hagan, having mistakenly hoped she would not have to see him or his girlfriend for the rest of the day without any shared classes on their timetables. Had they not gotten their fill from her in the canteen? By their bared teeth, it seems not.
He holds them out, Jennifer too exhausted to not fall for it as he pulls back quickly, raising them above his head out of her reach. She stumbles forward, almost into him. Tommy steps closer then, so that his chest brushes hers and looks down over her, sneering darkly, “Why? What will you give me in return?”
Jennifer instinctively steps back, repulsed, her back hitting the locker door open behind her. His grin deepens as he places the cards in his back pocket and takes another step to be close to her again, encouraged by her cower, “Wanna show me whatever it is you do to those cops?”
She lowers her eyes as he winks, not wanting to entertain his dull games any further. She is tired, just too tired.
Jennifer turns back to her locker as Carol comes over, hitting her boyfriend in the chest with a warning glare wrongfully thrown in her direction before pulling him away to the wall with her. She continues to pretend to organise her notebooks and folders, just to avoid whatever this gathering is behind her and willing the bell to ring.
She keeps the corner of her eye on where Barb hovers uncomfortably nearby, pulling out the last of the posters from her bag and placing them inside (face down to not risk looking again). Jennifer hopes that relieves some of the weight.
Nancy watches the exchange, her glossed bottom lip twisted in her teeth.
“We need those cards,” she speaks up, turning to mostly look at Steve with wide, appealing eyes, “We have a test next period and-”
“I think you’ve studied enough, Nance,” Jennifer hears Harrington croon in reply, only having tuned back into the conversation upon hearing what almost sounded like Nancy standing up for her. Almost.
She could hear the smile as she spoke to the boy wrapped around her, the same high-pitched adulation Jennifer has had the displeasure of hearing Nancy use over the phone to him in her bedroom.
“Steve,” Wheeler giggles, though trying to sound stern, and that is enough to undeserve any gratitude Jennifer may have had if she were actually making a stand for her.
“I’m telling you, you’ve got this. Don’t worry,” Harrington’s bare reassurance seems enough for Nancy as she smiles wider at him, smitten. The boy lowers his arm from her to stand in front of the girl, “Now, onto more important matters.”
Nancy quirks a brow, intrigued, as he continues, “My dad has left town on a conference and my mom’s gone with him. ‘Cause, you know, she doesn’t trust him-”
“Good call,” Hagan beats her by a second as she bites her tongue from saying it, recalling the uneasy relationship between his parents that would have him slamming his bedroom door sometimes when she was reading on the stairs while her mother cleaned.
They didn’t shout, not like Joyce and Lonnie. Rather quiet offences and thinly veiled insults. Smiles that warned indifference.
She was a kid back then, barely understood it. She still can’t; how two people could be married but loathe each other? It started to make sense when she grew older, realised things don't work out how they do in her stories. Her soon-maturing eyes opening to the town and the expectations that run it. That is what the Harringtons have always been about, she learned the hard way; appearances.
Her mother had her issues and people had their opinions. But at least she loved her father. That was sure. That’s why she struggled so much, Jennifer supposes, without him.
“So, are you in?”
Harrington’s voice breaks her out of her head, hesitating to move another folder in her locker in disbelief at the proposal. She can hardly believe what she is hearing - yet, of course she can. These people…
“In? For what?” Nancy innocently asks.
“No parents? Big house?” Carol drawls, amused by her naivety.
The realisation hits after a moment, "A party?”
“Ding, ding, ding!”
Jennifer scoffs bitterly once it is spoken aloud, shaking her head to try and ignore it but feeling that fury rising in the hollowness of her stomach again. She reflexively glances over her shoulder as Carol continues to snicker at Nancy’s surprise, disappointed to then meet eyes with Harrington who seems to have heard her reaction and is eyeing her curiously.
She quickly snaps back to her locker, not allowing him to rise to it. She is relieved when he stays quiet, Nancy speaking and distracting him again, “But it’s Tuesday?”
“Oh my God,” Hagan chortles, turning to Steve with mocking disbelief over the girl he has chosen to pursue. Nancy catches it, now blushing a deeper pink, embarrassed.
Steve waves him off, trying to appeal to the girl further with a lower, sincere tone, “Look, it’ll be lowkey. Will just be us. So what d’you say? Are you in or out?”
Jennifer lingers for Nancy’s response, hoping for her to decline. She is better than that, better than them - she hopes. Nancy will understand, she’s smarter than to accept. To party? When there is a young boy missing? Her younger brother’s best friend, too?
It doesn’t surprise her of the rest, to be so uncaring. While it feels her world has stopped, theirs apparently keeps going; with parties and chemistry tests and swim practice-
And yet, as Nancy makes a small hum in consideration, Jennifer’s hopes are diminished.
Jennifer barely knows Nancy Wheeler anymore. Not beyond her infatuation with Harrington and the perks of popularity that come with being under his arm.
Barb turns to glance at her concernedly as she tenses, anticipating Nancy’s response.
“Oh shit, look,” Carol then intercepts before the girl can answer, her lip curling up in disgust.
Harrington follows her eye, as do the rest, and disgustedly drawls, “Oh God, that’s depressing…”
Unable to resist following their attention, Jennifer’s heart drops.
Jonathan?
He stands by the board on the hall wall, slowly pinning a poster on top of it. Unable to see his face, Jennifer is disturbed by the slumped set of his shoulders even from their distance. She can barely watch, but doesn't know what else to do, as unable to look away as the rest.
“Should we say something?” Nancy speaks for her thoughts, a similar uncertainty to her voice as to when she approached Jennifer moments ago.
“I don’t think he speaks,” Carol snipes.
Hagan, who leans against the wall with his arm raised beside her, snarls amusedly again, “How much do you wanna bet he killed him?”
Jennifer’s blood boils, her head snapping to Hagan with all the hate in her eye she can convoke despite her exhaustion. His twisted stare is too set on Jonathan to notice her, but yet again she finds Harrington catching her eye instead. His jaw slackens slightly at the heat of her glare, his hand moving from his hip to whack Tommy on his arm with nothing more than a mumbled “shut up” before turning back to her. Her glare remains the same. On him. Furious.
What, should she be grateful at his poor attempt to show a little human decency?
His eyes then flickering to Nancy tells her all she assumed anyway. He only did so to impress her, seeing how gently disturbed the girl was by Jonathan’s arrival and trying to appear just as considerate. But Steve Harrington is not so, and Jennifer cannot decide what is worse. Being ignorant and cruel, or pretending not to be.
Jennifer watches as Harrington’s eyes widen as he watches Nancy, her then realising too that the girl is moving away from them and towards where Jonathan is placing the final pin in the poster.
Encouraged by the girl’s approach and satisfied by the dumfounded fall of Steve’s brow, Jennifer slams her locker door shut and follows behind - leaving him to stare dumbly after them.
“I wanted to say, you know, um...” Jennifer hears Nancy attempt as she reaches where the girl now stands opposite Jonathan, who is watching her with cautious surprise, “I’m sorry about everything.”
Jonathan only nods, his eyes flitting to Jennifer to acknowledge her arrival. She can only nod back to him, unable to falsify a smile like the other girl tries to.
Nancy struggles for what else to say, wincing, “Everyone’s thinking about you.”
Jennifer is sure she means it encouragingly, but as Jonathan looks warily beyond her to the group still standing by the lockers, it seems it missed the mark. The girls follow his eye; Carol and Tommy are still watching with disbelieving smirks, Barb shuffling a step further away from Harrington as he quickly looks away, hands still resting on his hips as his mouth twists undoubtedly in humiliation that his current fling is talking to the school 'freak' so openly in the hallway. Jennifer is thankful for it.
As Tommy waggles his fingers in a mocking wave, she rolls her eyes and turns back. Jonathan has dropped his eyes once more to the floor, shifting his weight as if wanting to sink into it. So, she moves herself to stand blocking their view of him, folding her arms in an attempt to make herself bigger.
Nancy hesitates again as she turns back too, even less sure of her words but compelled to say more, “It- it sucks.”
Jennifer bites her tongue as she recalls Harrington saying a similar statement this morning in his driveway. It infuriated her, wishing he had said nothing at all.
However, Nancy is trying. Jennifer knows she is. Truly. A sincerity she is sure Harrington is incapable of. Though she has had her head turned by Harrington and all the royalties that come with succumbing to his ‘charms’, Jennifer is reminded of the nice girl who sat beside her on her first day of High School, talking to her about books and adventure - while Harrington continued walking down the hall when she waved, never glancing her way.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Nancy continues to offer, quiet and unsure. She shares a quick, desperate look with Jennifer.
“Will’s a smart kid,” she tries to assist, though it feels futile as Jonathan nods timidly yet continues to curl into himself.
The bell rings, cutting through any more tension that threatens to settle between them.
Nancy sees her way out and covers her relieved breath with a tight smile, “I should go. Chemistry test.”
“Good luck,” Jonathan offers, shoving his hands in his pockets as she smiles back a thanks and grips her books to her chest to go.
Yet, the girl lingers, waiting for Jennifer to come too. She seems to quickly understand she wishes to stay. Jennifer sends her a grateful nod, one that lights up Nancy’s eye a little before she walks away and back to Barb.
Harrington is quick to put his arm around her shoulders again, unnecessarily staking his claim after her disturbing display of kindness to someone so furthest away on the food chain. Barb quickly scurries behind them to get to class, giving Jen a small wave as she goes. Jennifer resists a snarl as Hagan pushes himself from the wall with another wink her way, a wicked grin still on his lips even as Perkins shrieks catching him doing so and tugs at his sleeve for him to follow her like a good boy.
Jennifer’s eyes once again follow Nancy and Harrington, respect for her tenderness flaring once again into something hot as she so easily sidles back into his side.
But, turning back to Jonathan and seeing the distance of his gaze immediately cools her.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you back here so soon,” she says, eager to break him out of whatever he is sinking into. Jennifer finds herself struggling, just as Nancy had, of what to say, “I tried to write you more notes but, uh…”
Jonathan raises his eyes from the floor to the wall. To the poster he has pinned. Jennifer can’t bear to look herself. Not again.
“Want to skip this period? Or even better, the rest of the day?” she offers, trying to keep her voice steady despite the nauseous sensation bubbling behind it, “Completely forgot about Kaminsky’s test so will flunk it anyway.”
She is grateful when he speaks, cutting off her nervous rambling about unimportant things with his low mumble, “Already planned on it. Only came to put up these.”
Jennifer nods, not wanting to tell him she has already done so. He is likely feeling as helpless and restless as her - more so - and decided this was better than doing nothing. Better than waiting, which is all they can seem to do. She also decides against telling him that she is sure she put a poster on this particular board already, and that it has likely been replaced with something more suitable like the Harvest festival donations or essay tutoring or Cheer practice-
She shakes the bitter thoughts, instead focusing on her suffering friend in front of her, “So, what is the plan?”
His nose scrunches a little, jaw clenching, “Lonnie.”
“You’re going to the city?” he nods to confirm, Jennifer sighs, "Indianapolis is two hours away.”
Jonathan only shrugs, finally turning from the board to look at her, “I have to.”
She knows, “Of course, yeah.”
Another silence falls between them as the last bell rings and the final few students rush to their classrooms. The halls are now empty. It feels like she can breathe a little better.
“Want me to come with you?”
Jonathan shakes his head, and Jennifer can’t help but feel a little relieved. A two hour drive isn’t far enough away from Lonnie Byers for her liking.
“I can drop you home?” Jonathan then offers, turning his back now from the board entirely.
Jennifer does the same. She is now already late to class and the day has taken it out of her. The fire in her stomach turns to hunger again as she considers taking Benny up on that promise of a banana milkshake. She is sure he will understand.
And, maybe, it will be good to talk.
“To the diner, please?”
_
In the car, they sit in thick quiet; the only sounds being the hum of the engine, the leaves that rattle beneath the tyres as they drive over them and the soft playing of Jonathan’s mixtape. A familiar tune begins to play, Jennifer turns to the driver's seat with a recognising smile at hearing ‘The Clash’. It falls quickly as he reaches for the controls and ejects it before she can even tap her foot. They now sit in an even thicker silence.
Jennifer can barely bare it.
“You can drop me here by the crossroad,” she suggests, seeming to startle him out of whatever thought the song had lost him in, “The diner is too far out your way, I can walk the rest.”
“You sure?”
She nods, needing the air, “Will you call? When you’re back?”
Jonathan shifts in his seat as he begins to slow the car, “I would but, uh, the phone is fried.”
“What?”
“The storm last night… must have blown the lines or something,” he shrugs.
“Damn,” Jennifer mutters, surprised. She had barely noticed the storm outside, focused on the flyer routine and crashing out.
She is about to thank him, step out the car once he has come to a stop - perhaps even wish him luck or something else sounding too simple - when Jonathan clears his throat, gripping the steering wheel tighter as if he has something more to add. She waits, curious, her hand resting on the door handle.
“It rang. Just before it was struck,” he mumbles, now frowning, “Mom says she- she heard him.”
Her hand falls from the door as she twists to him, eager, “Will? What did he say?”
Jonathan still doesn’t look at her, his frown only deepening, “He didn’t. Just- just breathed. Apparently.”
“Breathed?” she regrets repeating it as Jonathan’s grip on the wheel impossibly tightens and his eyes close, it sounding just as incredible when she says it aloud. Jennifer deflates, unsure what to make of it. Of Joyce. How she is coping - or rather, not. Jonathan doesn’t seem to know either, the tired disbelief wavering his tone.
Unsure what to say and dizzied by trying to find the words, Jennifer reaches over and lays her hand on Jonathan’s arm. He relaxes his hold on the wheel only slightly at her touch, turning slowly to look at her. His deep, glossed eyes willing her to say something. Anything.
She can’t. They both know it.
Jennifer needs air. And Jonathan needs answers.
With one more weak squeeze of his arm, Jennifer finally moves to leave the car. Once out on the empty road, she throws her backpack over her shoulders and leans down to glance at him through the window. She tries to catch his eye, say something. But it would be a hollow waste of words.
Jonathan keeps his eye forward on the road, already retreating back into his head. He puts the car into gear and determinedly drives away as she steps back and sighs.
_
“You must feel like a big city cop again, huh, Chief?”
Hopper swats away a fly, then grips tighter to his belt with a short clearing of his closing throat, “Well, I mostly dealt with strangers back then.”
He forces himself to look down again after a quick surveying of the scene. The jukebox still playing Jefferson Airplane. The burned meat sizzling on the grill. The gun on the table. The body slumped over it.
His friend.
The two other cops have the decency to stay quiet, let it settle. Though, they are soon disturbed by a commotion building outside.
Hopper quickly moves to the window, Powell and Callaghan joining his side and pulling across the blind to watch; a young girl arguing with officers by the cordon line.
He huffs, deep. Shit.
_
“But this is my uncle’s restaurant! Benny Hammond! I’m his niece. Jennifer-”
“Miss, you can’t be here.”
“-Hammond!” she frowns at the officer’s dispute, heart beat having risen with every hurried step since noticing the blue lights when walking from the crossroads, “Wh- what? Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“You need to get back, Miss,” the officer instructs, stepping forward to intimidate her into stepping back. She doesn’t. Instead, she moves to step around him.
“No, I won’t! This is my- Get off me!” she bellows as the officer’s arm reaches out for hers, pulling her back before she can reach the tape line. Jennifer shakes him off, smacking at his hand, outraged, “Don’t touch me-!”
“Daniels,” a gruff voice speaks beyond them, both turning to see Chief Hopper appear from the diner entrance. He closes the door behind himself, blocking her attempt to peer inside and figure out what the hell is even going on, as ‘Daniels’ won’t tell her!
Hopper approaches, leaning under the tape before putting his hands on his belt and gesturing with his head for the officer to leave them be. Jennifer glowers as they watch him go, joining two of his colleagues by their car nearby. She squints at the flashing lights spinning atop it, turning back to see Hopper studying her closely. A look in his eye that immediately extinguishes her brief relief at seeing him here.
“Jennifer-”
“What’s going on?” she scowls, fierce, folding her arms across herself.
Hopper drops her gaze, unable to hold her eye as he goes to speak, “We had a call.”
He then hesitates to continue, allowing her mind a moment to run to its own conclusion. Her eyes widen as she finds one, “Will? Was he here?”
The Chief shakes his head, devastated by the way her expression has lifted into something devastatingly close to hope.
“No, kid,” he forces himself to start, “From one of the regulars, Christopher-”
“Christopher?” the girl shrieks, worried, “Is he alright?”
Hopper hesitates again, her eyes moving beyond him to the closed diner door, the two officers she can see watching from the window, then notices all the other eyes on them too. Several officers linger, watching. Waiting?
Hopper notices it too, seeing her tremble despite her solid stance. He reaches out a hand, barely brushing her shoulder so as to not anger her again, yet guiding her over to his truck parked to the side. Now slightly obscured from view, Jennifer turns to him sharply.
The Chief removes his hat, running a hand through his thinning hair as he throws it through the open window to the seat. He opens the passenger door they are standing beside, a clear gesture for her to get in. She unfurls her arms to slam it back shut, then crosses them over her chest again. Defiant. Desperate.
She glowers, “Tell me. What is going-?”
“It’s your uncle.”
There is a moment.
“He’s, uh…” He doesn’t know how to say it. There is no way to say it.
It doesn’t seem he needs to as she speaks, voice somehow unwavering as she shakes her head, “No.”
Hopper wants to close his eyes, to look away from it realising on her face. Her eyes glaze dark, her hands falling limp at her sides as she begins to sway.
Before he can reach out, she runs. Still defiant. Still desperate.
“No!” Jennifer cries, ducking below the police tape and hauling herself to the diner door.
Having watched the scene unfold with morbid curiosity through the window, Powell moves quickly to meet her outside before she can reach it - grabbing at her waist to tug her back. Hopper runs to them, dodging her thrashing limbs where she hits at Powell’s hold.
“No! Let go of me! He’s not- no!”
Hopper takes over, moving Powell aside as he winces at another hit to his uniformed chest, encircling his arms around the girl’s shoulders instead. After another moment of struggle, he suddenly feels her cease.
Looking down to her in his arms, then behind him where she is staring, he sees the door open where Powell did not close it behind him. And beyond that…
“No,” she speaks again, now barely a whisper. It creaks.
The girl falls against his chest as he moves his large frame to shield her from it. From the sight at the table.
Her arms have finally given up the fight, swinging loose. Her knees buckle beneath her. It makes her easy to move, pushing the girl along with him back to the truck.
This time, she does not resist as he opens the passenger door and guides her into the seat. He winces as the door slams shut in his hurry to get her away from there, away from all the eyes. It seems she doesn’t hear it, staring ahead.
As they pull away, the neon sign of his name dimming as they go, he hears her repeat it. A whisper of despairing disbelief.
“Benny?”
Hopper steps harder on the pedal, willing to put more distance between them and the scene.
“He’s gone, kid,” he finally finds the nerve to finish.
Though, with another worried glance her way, unnerved by her stillness, he doubts she hears him too.
