ok i saw the picture and now i know CAN YOU PLEASE WRITE ME A FIC OF ILIA TALING READER TO THE YUNGBLUD CONCERT HE WAS GORGEOUS
but ofc i can boo:)
“I was made for loving you”
The lights in the arena were insane. Red and black flashes sweeping over the crowd, bass rattling through the floor so hard it felt like her heartbeat had synced with the drums.
And somehow, even with thousands of screaming people packed shoulder to shoulder around them, Ilia only had eyes for her.
Front row had been his idea.
“Front row?” she’d laughed when he surprised her with the tickets. “You realize I’m five feet away from being trampled.”
“You’ll survive,” he’d said with that cocky grin. “And if not, I catch you.”
Now she was pretty sure he was holding onto her just as much as she was holding onto him.
Yungblud was sprinting across the stage like a man possessed, sweat soaked curls flying while the crowd screamed every lyric back at him. She was jumping with everyone else, singing until her throat hurt, her hands in the air while Ilia stood behind her laughing.
Not laughing at her.
Just… happy.
He looked unfairly good tonight. Black hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms, silver chain catching the stage lights, curls messy from her constantly running her fingers through them. Every few songs he’d lean down close to her ear to say something teasing because he knew she could barely hear him over the music.
“You almost hit me in the face.”
“That girl next to you sings louder than you.”
“You’re losing your voice, babe.”
She’d shoved him after every comment while grinning like an idiot.
Then the music suddenly cut.
The crowd screamed louder.
Yungblud grabbed the mic stand, breathing hard, eyes scanning the audience before he pointed dramatically toward the barricade.
“Ayo…hold on!” he shouted.
The spotlight swung straight onto them.
Her eyes widened instantly.
Beside her, Ilia groaned. “Oh no.”
Yungblud squinted dramatically. “THE QUADGOD IS IN THE HOUSE TONIGHT!”
The arena erupted.
Ilia buried his face in her shoulder while she started laughing hysterically.
He pointed at him again. “Yeah, don’t hide now, mate. Olympic level man right there.”
Ilia looked up long enough to throw a mock salute while the crowd screamed even harder.
Yungblud grinned. “So I think it only fits that I sing this one.”
The opening chords of I Was Made For Lovin’ You started.
“Oh my god,” she whispered.
Ilia immediately pulled her backward against him.
Not casually either.
Like he needed her there.
His arms wrapped around her waist tight enough that she could feel the warmth of him through her shirt, his chin brushing her shoulder while the entire arena exploded around them.
The song kicked in.
And suddenly it felt less like a concert and more like the two of them in their own little universe.
She leaned back against him as he swayed them gently with the music, his lips brushing her bare shoulder once.
Then again.
Then slowly against the side of her neck.
Her breath caught.
“You trying to kill me?” she laughed softly.
“Mhm,” he hummed against her skin.
The bass vibrated through both of them while she turned her head enough to grin at him.
He sang the chorus and she pointed dramatically at Ilia, singing every word directly to him.
“I was made for lovin’ you babyy…”
Ilia laughed, cheeks pink from attention and adrenaline.
Then he sang the next line back to her, horribly off key on purpose.
She gasped. “That was criminal.”
“I’m emotionally expressing myself.”
“You’re emotionally tone deaf.”
He squeezed her waist tighter, laughing into her neck.
Every few moments he’d press another kiss to her shoulder or the sensitive spot right below her ear, completely distracted from the actual concert now.
At one point she tilted her head back against him and he just stared at her.
Lovingly stared.
Like he couldn’t believe she was real.
The flashing lights reflected in her eyes while she sang along breathlessly, smiling so wide her cheeks hurt.
God, he loved her.
She could feel it in the way his hands held her.
The way he kept tucking her closer.
The way his lips brushed her skin absentmindedly between lyrics.
By the end of the concert both of them were sweaty, exhausted, half deaf, and running entirely on adrenaline.
The second they got into the car she collapsed dramatically into the passenger seat.
“I think I transcended.”
Ilia snorted while starting the engine. “You screamed in my ear for two hours.”
“And I’d do it again.”
“You probably will.”
She turned toward him then, softer suddenly. “Thank you for tonight.”
Ilia looked over at her.
Really looked.
Mascara slightly smudged. Hair a mess from jumping around. Flushed cheeks. That dazed happy look she got after a genuinely good night.
He leaned across the center console and kissed her slowly.
Just warm and deep and lingering enough to make her melt into him instantly.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.
“Always, babe.”
Her smile turned playful again almost immediately. “Next concert is The Neighbourhood.”
Ilia’s eyes lit up.
“Oh, absolutely.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You only agreed that fast because you think it’ll get you laid.”
He grinned lazily. “Can you prove otherwise?”
She laughed so hard she nearly snorted.
And Ilia decided right then that concerts with her might actually become his favorite thing in the world.
Jimin holding your's face so gently in the cradle of his palms and smattering kisses all over your pretty face until you're giggling and grinning wide
Jimin has this way of looking at you like he’s just… found something.
Not discovered—found. Like you were always meant to be his, and he’s still a little in awe that you are.
You’re sitting across from him, talking about something that probably matters—but the words start to blur when you notice his attention drifting. Not away from you.
Into you.
“Jimin?” you tilt your head. “You listening?”
“Mhm,” he hums, but he’s already leaning forward.
His hands come up before you can ask anything else—soft, warm, careful as they cup your face. His palms settle against your cheeks like you’re something precious, thumbs brushing just beneath your eyes.
“Stay still,” he murmurs.
You blink, caught off guard. “Why—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
The first kiss lands just under your eye.
Soft. Barely there.
Then another on your cheek.
Then your other cheek.
Your forehead.
The corner of your mouth.
“Jimin—” you try again, but it dissolves into a surprised laugh as he keeps going, his lips warm and quick and everywhere.
“Pretty,” he mumbles between kisses. “So pretty—”
“Stop—!” you giggle, squirming in his hold, but he just tightens his grip slightly—not enough to trap you, just enough to keep you right where he wants you.
“Can’t,” he says, smiling against your skin as he presses another kiss to your jaw. “You’re too cute.”
You laugh harder now, head tipping back slightly, but his hands follow you—always gentle, always guiding you back.
“Jimin, I can’t—” you gasp, breathless from laughing, your smile already aching.
“Yes, you can,” he teases softly, pressing a lingering kiss to your nose.
You scrunch it instinctively, which only makes him grin wider.
“There it is,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling. “That face.”
“What face?” you manage, still laughing.
“This one,” he says, thumbs brushing your cheeks as your smile stretches uncontrollably. “The one that makes me lose my mind a little.”
You shake your head, but you don’t pull away. You can’t—not when he’s holding you like this, like you’re something he never wants to let go of.
“Hopeless,” you mumble.
“For you?” he says easily. “Always.”
And then, softer this time, slower—he presses one more kiss to your lips.
Just one.
Lingering.
Warm.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his hands still cradling your face like they belong there.
You’re still smiling.
Still breathless.
And he just looks at you like he did at the start—
Oh my god I love your writing could you do something based on so high school by Taylor swift and it’s about ilia and the reader being together since high school since they are both professional skaters? They are so in love and ilia is such a lover boy obsessed
So high school
Summary: glimpses of life growing up with Ilia
Warnings: suggestive moments, very YA novel cliches, author slowly going insane, prob a bit inconsistent bc I wrote everything over like a week and don’t feel like fixing that stuff
[a/n] so um. This is almost 8k words. It was supposed to be a drabble but I fear I’m insane.
I feel so high school every time I look at you
You met sophomore year.
New girl. New rink. New coach. New state.
He sat in the back of your English 10 class, eyes locking on yours the moment you walked in and took your seat in the front row.
I wanna find you in a crowd just to hide from you
It wasn’t just at school. You saw him at the rink too. He was already the prodigy everyone whispered about in the lobby, the kid with too much talent and not enough patience for anyone who couldn’t keep up.
Despite him being everywhere in your life, you never spoke. You watched each other from a distance.
His parents coached both of you, which meant sharing ice was inevitable.
After weeks of orbiting around each other, you finally had practice together.
The first time you landed your triple–triple clean in front of him, he didn’t clap.
He skated past and said, “You rotate too fast.”
Which, from Ilia, was basically a love confession.
And in a blink of a crinkling eye
It feels stupid, you think later.
Realizing you’re smiling at your phone during off-ice conditioning because Ilia Malinin sent you a blurry rink selfie with the caption: “landed it. barely. you would’ve been proud.”
I'm sinking, our fingers entwined
You start dating in the most high school way possible.
At first it’s simple: walking to your next class after English, sharing AirPods on the bus to competitions, doing homework side by side in the rink lobby. Then it grows. He skates over to help you up after a fall. His hoodie ends up permanently in your locker from the one time you got cold and he told you to keep it “just in case.”
There’s a crackling tension between you that neither of you names.
Cheeks pink in the twinkling lights
Ilia needs a homecoming date. He doesn’t care about the dance, but his mom insists he should experience some normal high school traditions.
What actually convinces him is how much you clearly care about this “stupid dance.”
You slump onto the bench at the rink, head tipped back, a dramatic sigh escaping you.
He looks up from tying his skates. “Are you okay?”
You sit up, turning to face him. “Ilia, I need you to set me up with one of your friends.”
He almost chokes. “What? Why am I doing that?”
“I need a date for homecoming, and I don’t know anyone here yet.” You’re serious.
His chest tightens at the thought of you going with one of his friends. Absolutely not. So instead of setting you up with someone, he decides he’ll take you.
A couple days later, he convinces his mom to let him leave practice a few minutes early so he can tuck flowers with a note into your locker. He tells himself it’s for you.
You come in while he’s tying his street shoes, heading to put your stuff away. He watches from the corner of his eye as you spin in your locker combination.
“Ilia.”
“Hm?”
“Are you being serious right now?”
He stands, taking a few steps closer.
“Very serious.”
Tell me 'bout the first time you saw me
Ilia has never seen you in a real dress before, because a competition costume didn’t really count. When you open your front door in your homecoming dress, he forgets how to breathe, warmth creeping up his neck.
The words leave before he can stop them.
“You’re beautiful.”
You laugh softly. “Thank you.”
You try not to linger on the fact that he says you are beautiful, not that you look beautiful.
He wouldn’t have gone to that dance if it weren’t for you, but watching you smile on the dance floor with his hands on your waist makes the whole night worth it.
I'll drink what you think, and I'm high from smoking your jokes all damn night
About a week later, you’re sprawled across his bed, split-screen Minecraft glowing on the TV, both of you laughing as your avatars fall off the same cliff for the third time.
“Seriously, how are you always dying first?” you tease.
“I’m… strategic,” he protests, but he’s distracted. His fingers hover over the buttons, thumbs frozen.
You glance over. His usual grin is gone. He’s staring at the screen like he’s not actually seeing it.
“Hey,” you say quietly. “You okay?”
He swallows. Then, without warning, he drops his controller, scoots up, and sits cross-legged in front of you, blocking the TV. His elbows rest on his knees, fingers fidgeting with the blanket.
“Uh…” he starts, eyes wide and serious. “I like you.”
You freeze, controller still in hand.
“What do you mean?” Your voice comes out thin.
Panic flashes across his face before he blurts, “Like… I like like you. I’ve liked you since you moved here.”
Your chest tightens. You don’t know whether to laugh, scream, or throw a pillow at him. The room feels too small, your ears too hot.
“I… I like you too,” you admit, a nervous grin tugging at your mouth, because on some level you already knew. You’ve been pretending not to notice how he watches you skate, how he offers help with your hardest jumps, how he laughs at every dumb joke.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years, relief washing over his face. Then he leans back, grabs his controller again like nothing monumental just happened.
“Okay,” he says, aiming for casual. “But now you have to help me build a proper base. No cheating.”
You roll your eyes, laughing, but everything feels different. The game keeps going, chaotic as ever, but there’s a new electricity in the room.
You glance sideways but he’s already looking at you.
The brink of a wrinkle in time
The next few weeks feel different. Dramatic and new. Like the world has narrowed down to blades carving ice and his fingers lacing through yours under the bleachers.
One afternoon, after practice, you’re sitting on the cold metal bleachers behind the rink. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, the freshly resurfaced ice glowing below. Everyone else is gone.
It’s just you and him.
Your hands hang between you, loosely linked, swinging off the edge.
“You skated good today,” he says, watching the ice instead of you.
“Good?” you scoff. “That’s it?”
He shrugs, but he’s smiling. “You know what I mean.”
Silence settles over you. He feels closer than usual. Or maybe you’re finally noticing.
Your knee brushes his.
Neither of you move away.
You glance over. He’s already looking at you.
His thumb traces over your knuckles. Your heart thunders.
“Are you okay?” you whisper.
“Yeah,” he says quickly. Then, more honest, “Just—”
He stops himself.
Before you can ask, he leans in.
It’s hesitant and a little clumsy, like he’s giving you every second to pull away. You don’t.
The kiss is soft and quick, more a press of lips than anything, but it feels like stepping off an edge and finding solid ground.
When he pulls back, his cheeks are pink.
“Okay,” he breathes, like he just landed a jump.
You blink. “Okay?”
He nods, nervous and proud. “Yeah. Okay.”
You laugh softly and this time you’re the one who leans in, brushing your lips against his again, more certain now.
It feels like the beginning of something that stretches past the rink, past the bleachers, past sophomore year.
Everything looks different, like someone turned the color up on your whole life.
Bittersweet sixteen suddenly
You’ve been to Ilia’s house dozens of times.
It’s not the house that makes your stomach twist now. It’s the way everything feels… shifted.
“Hey,” Ilia says quietly, bumping your shoulder as he shuts the door. “You’re doing the thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The overthinking thing.”
You exhale through your nose. “I’m not overthinking.”
“You look like my mom is about to judge your step sequence.”
You fight a smile. “She has done that before.”
“Yeah, but not tonight.” He leans in, voice softer. “Tonight you’re just… you.”
That should calm you down. It almost does.
His mom greets you warmly, but there’s a gentleness tonight that feels different — less coach, more mother. His dad asks about your birthday instead of your rotations. It’s subtle, but you feel it.
They’re not looking at you like their skater. They’re looking at you like their son’s girlfriend.
Somehow, that’s more nerve-wracking.
“Hi!”
You glance over and see Liza peeking around the corner, braver than last time.
“You came back,” she says, like she wasn’t sure you would.
“Of course I did,” you smile.
“She’s my girlfriend,” Ilia adds casually, like it’s nothing.
Like that word doesn’t make your heart stutter.
Liza’s eyes widen, like something important just clicked. Then she grabs your hand. “Come on.”
You end up on the floor surrounded by crayons, Ilia close enough that your knees keep knocking. Liza talks nonstop, explaining her drawings, assigning you roles in whatever game she’s invented.
You relax into it without realizing.
Until—
“You two are cute.”
You choke.
“Liza,” Ilia groans.
“What?” she shrugs. “You are.”
Your face burns. Suddenly you’re hyper-aware again — of his parents in the next room, of the word girlfriend echoing in your head, of how this isn’t just your coach’s house anymore.
Dinner is where it really sinks in.
You’ve sat at this table before, but now you’re woven into the conversation. His mom asks about your birthday plans. His dad tells a story about Ilia as a kid. Liza interrupts constantly.
And Ilia keeps looking at you.
Not in the quick, distracted way from the rink.
Fully. Softly. Proud.
Under the table, his hand finds yours.
You hesitate for half a second — they’re right there — then lace your fingers through his.
No one says anything.
The silence makes your chest feel warm instead of tight.
You’d never pictured this — sitting in your boyfriend’s house with his family around you, his hand brushing yours like it belongs there.
It settles gently in your chest.
Later, you’re back on the floor, leaning against the couch. Liza half-asleep beside you. Ilia’s shoulder pressed against yours.
“You were nervous,” he says quietly.
You glance at him. “Was it obvious?”
“Only to me.”
You huff. “I just didn’t know how to act.”
“Why?”
You pick at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Because they know me as their skater. And now I’m just like—” you gesture between you, “—this.”
He’s quiet for a beat, then nudges your foot with his.
“You’re both,” he says. “And they already liked you before this.”
You look at him.
“And I really like you,” he adds, softer.
You stay longer than you planned.
Long enough for the house to quiet. Long enough that it starts to feel natural again — not like stepping into a new role, but like growing into one that was always waiting.
When Ilia walks you to the door, his hand brushing yours, you realize nothing actually changed.
I'm watching American Pie with you on a Saturday night, Your friends are around, so be quiet, I'm trying to stifle my sighs
Someone puts on American Pie.
You’re not even sure which one — just that it’s loud, stupid, and way too inappropriate for how seriously everyone is pretending to watch it.
You’re squeezed onto the couch between Ilia and a mutual friend, a blanket half-draped over your legs. The room smells like popcorn and energy drinks, laughter erupting every few seconds.
Ilia’s arm stretches along the back of the couch behind you.
Casual.
Too casual.
His fingers keep brushing your shoulder like it’s an accident. It’s not.
You shift, pretending to adjust the blanket, and lean back so your head rests against his chest. His arm drops instantly, settling around your waist like it belongs there.
On screen, someone yells something absurd. The room erupts.
His breath is warm against your ear.
“You’re not even watching,” he murmurs.
“I am,” you whisper.
“You haven’t looked at the TV in like five minutes.”
You fight a smile. “Maybe it’s not that interesting.”
His thumb traces a slow line along your side. Your stomach flips.
Across the room, a friend glances over. You sit up a little.
“Your friends are around,” you murmur. “Behave.”
He huffs a quiet laugh into your hair. “I’m not doing anything.”
His hand squeezes your waist just a little.
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from reacting.
The movie keeps playing. People keep laughing.
But you’re hyper-aware of his knee against yours, his fingers drumming lightly at your hip, the steady warmth of him behind you.
You’re supposed to be focused on the screen.
Instead, you’re focused on not sighing when he rests his chin on top of your head.
“Stop,” you whisper.
“Stop what?”
“Existing like that.”
You can hear his smile. “You like it.”
You do.
Way too much.
Are you gonna marry, kiss, or kill me?
You’re both still in practice clothes, sitting on the boards after a long session. The rink is mostly empty, the ice quiet.
Ilia bumps his shoulder into yours.
“Okay,” he says, way too serious. “Important question.”
You squint. “That tone is concerning.”
“If we were in one of those stupid games,” he continues, “and the options were marry, kiss, or kill… what would you pick for me?”
You stare.
“You are such a loser.”
He grins. “Answer the question.”
You tap your chin. “Hmm. Kill.”
He gasps. “Wow. After everything I’ve done for you?”
“You ate my protein bar yesterday.”
“That was survival.”
You laugh, and he watches you like that’s the point.
“Fine,” you sigh. “Kiss. Obviously.”
“Just kiss?” he presses, eyebrows raised.
You roll your eyes. “Are you gonna marry, kiss, or kill me, Malinin?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he leans in and presses a quick, soft kiss to your lips, gentler than most of his teasing ones.
“There,” he says quietly. “That one.”
Your stomach flips.
“And?” you push.
He shrugs, pretending it’s nothing, ears pink. “I don’t need the other two options.”
You blink. “That wasn’t one of the choices.”
“Exactly.”
Your heart stumbles.
“Ilia.”
He bumps his knee against yours, suddenly shy in that way he only gets when he’s accidentally sincere.
“I’m not killing you,” he mutters. “And I’m not just kissing you.”
The implication hangs between you, too big for two teenagers sitting on the edge of a rink.
You smile softly. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Yeah,” he says, nudging your shoulder again. “But you love it.”
You do.
And the way he looks at you then — like he already knows his answer — makes your chest feel dangerously close to something that sounds like forever.
Get my car door, isn't that sweet?
Your phone buzzes.
Ilia: hey
come outside
You frown.
You: why
Three dots.
Ilia: just do it
You roll your eyes and grab the nearest hoodie — his — without thinking.
When you step outside, you stop.
He’s parked at the curb, leaning against the passenger side. The porch light hits him just right.
He nods once. “Hey.”
You walk closer, fighting a smile.
“That’s your car?”
He straightens, pulling his wallet from his pocket and flashing his license.
“Passed,” he says. “First try.”
Your face lights up. “No way.”
“Way.”
You throw your arms around him. He stumbles back a step, laughing into your hair.
When you pull away, he notices.
“The hoodie,” he says, quieter.
You glance down. “What about it?”
“That’s mine.”
“You left it.”
“I did not leave it. You stole it.”
“Semantics.”
He shakes his head, that soft smile tugging at his mouth.
“You look better in it anyway,” he mutters.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He clears his throat. “C’mon.” He pulls open the passenger door.
You arch an eyebrow.
“Oh,” you say sweetly. “Isn’t that sweet?”
He groans. “Do not.”
“You’re being such a gentleman.”
“I am a gentleman,” he insists, cheeks pink. “Get in.”
You slide into the seat, sleeves bunching around your hands. He closes the door gently.
When he gets in on his side, he pauses for a second and just looks at you — you, in his hoodie, in his passenger seat, in his car.
“You’re my first drive,” he says, trying to sound casual. “So. No pressure.”
“I feel honored,” you reply.
Music fills the car, windows down, warm night air rushing in.
At the first red light, you reach over and take his hand off the center console.
“You’re gripping everything like it’s a quad attempt.”
“Driving is serious,” he says. “It’s a machine.”
“You’re such a nerd.”
He squeezes your hand.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “But you like me.”
You look at him — really look at him — leaning against the steering wheel like this isn’t a huge deal.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “I do.”
Then pull me to the backseat
You end up in an empty playground lot, radio low, a comfortable silence between you.
You tuck your knees under you, turning toward him. He’s already looking at you.
“You’re staring,” you murmur.
“You’re wearing my hoodie,” he replies.
“You’ve mentioned.”
He exhales a small laugh, shaking his head like he’s talking himself out of something. Then he reaches over, fingers brushing your wrist.
“C’mere.”
You lean over the center console, meeting his mouth halfway. His hand slides to your jaw, thumb moving in slow strokes. You pull back slightly, smiling against his lips.
He glances toward the backseat.
Then back at you.
You raise an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly. Then, quieter, “Just… wanted to be closer.”
The backseat is cramped and ridiculous. You’re both half-laughing as you climb over the seats, shifting until you find some version of comfortable.
You end up lying on top of him, your head tucked under his chin, music humming low. His hands find the hem of the hoodie, hesitant, asking without words.
You nod before he can.
His hand slips underneath, running up and down your spine over your shirt. Outside, the world is quiet.
You shift, hovering a little over him, his hand steady on your waist. You lean down again, lips brushing his, slow and unhurried. He pulls you closer, fingers firm at your waist.
He smiles against your mouth, like he still can’t believe this is real.
You pull back just enough to whisper, “You’re such a dork.”
“Yeah,” he breathes. “But I’m your dork.”
He rests his forehead against yours, breath warm, windows fogged enough to blur the streetlights. It feels like the start of another memory you’ll replay forever.
No one's ever had me, not like you
You’re tangled in Ilia’s navy sheets after practice. Everything feels warm and heavy. Your back is pressed to his chest, your hand resting over his where it’s slipped beneath the shirt you stole, his palm spread across your stomach.
You’re drifting toward sleep when you feel him press a light kiss to the crook of your neck, lips lingering.
You sigh, body melting against his, breath slow and steady.
Ilia can’t help it. He blames the softness of it all, the way it feels domestic and inevitable.
He pulls you closer, nose nudging your shoulder, and mumbles into your skin,
“I love you.”
Truth, dare, spin bottles
The warm summer air clings to your skin. A small group of friends sprawls across a backyard under string lights, celebrating the last stretch of summer before school. Music hums from a speaker. Someone insists on playing spin the bottle truth-or-dare like it’s sacred.
You laugh, rolling your eyes. “I can’t believe you guys still do this.”
“Oh, come on,” someone protests. “It’s tradition.”
“You say that every time,” you tease, sipping your drink.
Ilia sits next to you on a blanket, leaning back on his hands, watching you more than the circle. The way your hair catches the light, the way you throw your head back when you laugh — that’s what he sees.
You catch him staring.
He freezes for a second, then pretends to adjust his sleeve.
“What?” you ask, laughing, nudging his arm.
He swallows and smiles, soft and a little shy. “Nothing, love,” he says quietly.
You laugh louder, shaking your head. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
The bottle spins. Dares, truths, and ridiculous questions fly around.
But you still feel his gaze on you.
You bump his shoulder again. “Stop staring.”
“Not staring,” he says, voice low. “Admiring.”
“Admiring?” you echo, laughing.
“Yes. Admiring,” he insists, shrugging like it’s normal to be in love with someone doing absolutely nothing.
You roll your eyes, but your smile lingers.
You know how to ball, I know Aristotle
The rink is mostly empty, just the distant scrape of blades. You’re perched on the bleachers, notebook open on your lap, pencil tapping. Ilia sprawls next to you, textbook open, hair falling into his eyes.
“I don’t get it,” he groans. “Why does Abigail even exist?”
“Motivation drives the plot,” you say, pointing to a highlighted passage. “She’s selfish and manipulative, and—”
He sits up, leaning closer until his shoulder presses into yours. “You make this sound so easy,” he murmurs.
You glance at him. “Focus, Malinin. You’re supposed to be writing an essay.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, but he doesn’t move away. “Maybe if I’m closer, I’ll understand better.”
You roll your eyes, heart skipping. “Uh-huh. Learning by proximity.”
“Exactly.” His mouth curves into a smirk, cheeks faintly pink. “Somehow you make all this make sense.”
You laugh softly, nudging him. “You’re ridiculous. Stop trying to get out of your essay.”
He lifts a shoulder, leaning that tiny bit closer. “I’m motivated,” he says quietly. “By your genius.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and tap a line in his essay. “Just expand this part. You can do it. I’m helping, not doing it for you.”
He bites back a grin, dropping his head closer to yours. “You’re really smart,” he murmurs. “And it’s… attractive.”
You blush, keeping your eyes on the page. “Focus.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I am focusing. On you.”
Even with textbooks and notes spread around you, it feels like the rink has shrunk down to just the two of you.
You knew what you wanted and boy, you got her
You’ve just landed the final jump of your free program, chest heaving, adrenaline buzzing under your skin. The arena erupts in applause as you skate off, smiling and exhausted.
Ilia has been leaning against the boards, watching every second, when he hears it — a couple of senior guys nearby whispering.
“Damn… she’s so hot.”
“How happy do you think she is with Malinin?”
His jaw clenches; his chest tightens.
When you step off the ice, eyes still bright from the performance, he doesn’t say anything. He just pulls you into a tight hug, your arm draped around his shoulders as he tucks you into his chest.
He presses a long kiss to the top of your head.
“What’s going on?” you ask, half-laughing, half-confused as you pull back a little.
He shrugs, trying to be casual. “Nothing. Just… wanted to hold you.”
You give him the look that makes him squirm.
“Okay,” he admits, voice dropping. “I overheard a couple of guys talking about you. And yeah, I got a little jealous.”
You blink, caught between rolling your eyes and smiling. “Wow. You’re really intense about this, huh?”
He presses another kiss to your temple, softer, deliberate. “Completely. You’re mine, and I’m not letting anyone think otherwise.”
As he drapes his arm around your waist and walks you toward the locker room, you bump his shoulder.
“You really don’t hold back, do you?”
“Nope,” he says, smirking, thumb brushing your side. “I’m not subtle about you. On or off the ice. Not ever.”
You laugh softly, warmth flooding your chest.
You already know, babe
You’re perched on the edge of Ilia’s bed, knees pulled up, his hoodie hanging loose around you as late afternoon light filters through the blinds.
“Do you ever… think about next year?” you ask quietly. “About everything changing?”
Ilia leans back on his elbows, eyes on you. “All the time,” he admits.
Your stomach twists. “I mean… college, training, new teams, new people. I just don’t want us to… drift.”
He sits up, sliding closer until your shoulders touch. His hand finds yours, thumb brushing your knuckles. “Hey,” he says softly. “Nothing’s changing. Not really. You know how much I love you.”
You swallow. “I know. But what if things get… harder?”
He tilts his head, brushing a strand of hair from your face like he did when you were fifteen and panicking over test skates. “Then we handle it. Together. You and me. Like always.”
Your chest loosens and you lean into him. “You really think it’ll be okay?”
His smile is soft and sure. “You already know that answer, babe.” He presses a kiss to your temple, hand tightening around yours. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.”
In that quiet room, with sunlight painting the floor and the future still miles away, you believe him.
I feel like laughing in the middle of practice, Do that impression you did of your dad again
The rink is quiet except for the swish of blades and the echo of your breathing. Worlds is days away, and every landing feels like it could tip the scales. Your jumps and spins are crisp but heavy.
You’re halfway through your program when Ilia’s voice cuts through the music, mimicking his dad perfectly:
“Why are you leaning early? You bend your knee, more power!”
It’s so accurate you break. You burst into laughter, trip out of your spin, and slide to a stop.
“Ilia, stop! You sound exactly like him!”
He grins, skating lazy circles around you. “Then maybe you should listen next time.”
“Yeah, okay, Coach Ilia,” you shoot back, still laughing.
The tension in your shoulders eases. The ice feels like home again.
“You know what we need?” he announces. “A pairs element.”
You stare. “We’ve literally never done pairs.”
“Details.”
Before you can argue, he’s holding out his hands with reckless confidence. You sigh, take them — and two seconds later you’re both crashing down in a heap of limbs and laughter, sliding halfway across the ice.
Up in the viewing gallery, Tatiana and Roman watch, amused.
“We were laughing like that when we trained for Nationals,” Tatiana says.
Roman chuckles. “Some things never change.”
On the ice, Ilia props himself up on an elbow, cheeks flushed from laughing. “Not bad for a first lift,” he says.
“You mean first crash,” you say, brushing snow from your leggings.
He smirks. “Hey, you still let me catch you.” His voice softens. “You trust me.”
The warmth of that hangs between you until he leans in and presses a quick, playful kiss to your cheek. You blink, startled, but his grin is all charm and no apology.
“Technical deduction for laughing mid-program,” he whispers.
From the gallery, Tatiana’s laugh carries. “Ilia! We can see you, you know!”
Roman shakes his head. “In my day, we waited until after practice.”
Ilia drops his face into his hands. “Oh my god.”
You’re laughing again as you skate toward the boards, cheeks burning.
“Nice technique on that lift!” Tatiana calls.
“Yeah,” Roman adds, mock-stern, “maybe keep it PG until after Worlds.”
You glance at Ilia, and both of you dissolve into laughter. The ice feels softer, the moment lighter. For the first time all week, you stop thinking about Worlds and start feeling it again.
I'm hearing voices like a madman
You step off the ice after a perfect program, hands shaking with adrenaline and joy. Nothing matters except that he’s there.
Ilia is the first person you see. Before a mic can be shoved in your face, he’s there, pulling you into a tight hug and kissing you.
The roar of the arena fades. Cameras flash, voices blur.
Later, in the quiet of your hotel room, the noise finds you again. You scroll through social media — comments questioning if you’re “good enough” for him, calling you a distraction, ignoring that you both just earned your spots on the Olympic team.
By the time you reach the bed, your chest is tight and your medal feels heavier than it did on the podium.
Ilia doesn’t leave your side. He sits you down, pulls you against him, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. You sink into him, his chest steady under your cheek.
“They’re idiots,” he murmurs. “Ignore them. You’re brilliant. Nothing they say changes that.”
You bury your face in his shoulder. “It’s so much. I thought I could handle it, but…”
“You can,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “You’ve handled everything. And I’m here. Always.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt as he brushes hair from your face. “Just voices,” he mutters. “None of them matter.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “You make everything sound so dramatic.”
“I’m dramatic,” he agrees, a small grin flickering as his thumb brushes your cheek. “But I love you, and I’m not letting them get to you.”
You breathe him in, your heartbeat slowly syncing with his. Outside, the world keeps shouting. In here, it’s quiet.
He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your hairline, whispering, “Моя девочка.”
You still.
“…You switched languages,” you murmur.
He hesitates; he’s never spoken to you like that before. “Yeah… guess I did,” he says quietly, shoulders tense.
“I like it,” you whisper.
He exhales, relaxing. “It’s just… something you call someone you care about,” he says, voice low and warm, forehead pressing to yours.
“Okay,” you murmur, fingers curling in his shirt.
Outside, the world hums with opinions.
In that quiet hotel room, tangled in sheets and each other, the world can say whatever it wants. You’re safe. You’re loved. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
And in a blink of a crinkling eye
It all happens fast. Gold medals around both your necks, the last free skates done, the arena slowly emptying as the echo of the crowd lingers. Cameras are mostly off, but a few reporters remain, catching him alone for one last interview.
“One more question, Ilia,” a reporter says. “You and [Y/N] have been together since high school. Do you think being in a relationship so young impacts your skating?”
Ilia’s gaze is steady. “Honestly? No. She’s my partner in every sense, on and off the ice. I trust her completely. Being with her only makes me better.”
The reporter tilts their head. “Some might say you’re missing out while you’re still so young. What would you say to them?”
His lips curve into a faint, wry smile. “I don’t,” he says. “Why would I? I’ve already got the best one.”
Silence. Then:
“High school sweethearts straight into Olympic gold — some might call that unusual. Any thoughts?”
Ilia shrugs lightly, calm and sure. “High school sweethearts, yeah,” he says. “And I’d do it all over again without hesitation. Some things are worth keeping.”
I'm sinking, our fingers entwined
Later, in your hotel room, you’re sprawled across the bed, still catching your breath from the whirlwind of medals and interviews. Your phone buzzes as you scroll through coverage.
You pause on an article with his quotes. The questions — young, missing out, high school sweethearts — and his answers, defending you in every line. A small smile pulls at your lips.
You roll onto your side to face him and brush your fingers against his shoulder before pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.
He blinks. “What was that for?” he asks, teasing.
You shrug, smiling. “Just letting you know I didn’t miss out on anything either.”
He exhales a quiet laugh, sliding an arm around your waist and pulling you closer. “Well,” he murmurs against your hair, “good to know we’re both winning, then.”
You laugh softly into his chest and let yourself sink into him.
Cheeks pink in the twinkling lights
The music swells through the arena, and the Team USA gala is in full swing. You’re out on the ice with the other skaters, lights glittering overhead and scattering across the ice like tiny stars.
Ilia glides up beside you, matching your pace. His fingers brush yours, a small smile curving his lips.
“Ready?” he murmurs, just for you.
You nod, cheeks warm, and slip your hand into his.
He spins you gently, laughter spilling out of both of you. The ice feels weightless under your blades. For a moment, it’s just you and him.
He pulls you a little closer in a small dip, voice low near your ear. “You make everything better out here.”
You grin against his shoulder, feeling his words sink in.
Tell me 'bout the first time you saw me
You step out of the bathroom after getting ready for some formal team USA event, silky formal dress flowing around your legs, and the air in the room shifts.
Ilia, lounging on the bed with his phone, freezes mid-scroll. His eyes lift slowly; his mouth parts.
“Wow,” he breathes.
You grin nervously, smoothing the fabric. “Don’t look so shocked,” you say lightly.
He shakes his head, eyes still on you, smile turning a little wicked. “You know… I think I should just keep you here all night.”
Your cheeks warm and you laugh, leaning against the doorframe.
“Really?”
“I mean,” he says, stepping closer, voice dropping, “it’s like homecoming all over again. First thing I said when you opened the door then? ‘You’re beautiful.’ Still true.”
You bite your lip, heart racing, and shake your head. “Ilia…”
He smirks, closing the distance, fingers brushing down your arm. “Just saying. You look… irresistible.”
You adjust the straps of your dress one last time, smoothing the front, when he steps in behind you and wraps his arms around your waist.
“Ready?” you ask, breath a little unsteady.
He doesn’t answer right away. His lips find your temple, then your cheek, then linger as he tilts your face to steal a soft kiss.
“Mm,” he murmurs, low and teasing, “don’t worry… I’ll pick this back up later.”
Your face heats, and you bite your lip to hide your smile.
He pulls back with that familiar crooked grin. “Now come on, gorgeous,” he says, giving your hand a playful tug. “Time to show the team what we’ve got.”
Your fingers linger in his as you step out, and the night already feels electric.
'Cause I feel so high school, Every time I look at you, But look at you
The apartment is quiet in a way that still feels new.
Boxes half-unpacked. A lamp casting warm light instead of harsh overhead glare. The city humming outside the windows.
And you’re here. Together.
You’re lying on your sides facing each other, legs tangled loosely under sheets that already smell like the two of you instead of cardboard.
Ilia’s hand traces lazy patterns along your waist, like he’s grounding himself.
“You realize,” he murmurs, “we have an apartment.”
You smile. “I’m aware.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes roaming your face like he’s memorizing it all over again. The low light makes them look softer, warmer.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I just keep looking at you and it feels…”
He trails off.
“Like what?” you whisper.
He shrugs, a little embarrassed. “Like we’re still those kids. Sitting in my room senior year. Or under the bleachers after practice.” He swallows, lips twitching.
Your chest tightens.
He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, gaze soft and almost disbelieving.
“But look at you,” he adds, barely above a breath. “Look at us.”
There’s something awed in his voice, like he can’t believe you made it here.
You reach up and touch his cheek. “We’re not kids anymore.”
“No,” he agrees, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “But I still get that same feeling. Like the first time I realized I liked you and had no idea what to do about it.”
You laugh softly. “You were so obvious.”
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
He rolls his eyes but pulls you closer, tucking you against his chest. His chin rests on your head, fingers splaying across your back.
“I just…” he murmurs into your hair. “I don’t ever want this to feel normal.”
“It won’t,” you say quietly.
In the stillness of your first night in your own place, it does feel like high school again — that dizzy, giddy, heart-too-big feeling.
Only this time, it’s steadier.
When you tilt your head up to look at him, he smiles like he did all those years ago.
Like he still can’t believe you’re his.
Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto
One night, after a long day of choreography run-throughs, you’re having a quiet evening in your shared apartment.
His friends are online. Headsets on. Competitive trash talk echoing through the room.
Ilia sits in his gaming chair, controller in hand, jaw set.
You wander in wearing one of his old Team USA hoodies.
He doesn’t look away from the screen when he reaches for you.
“C’mere.”
You climb into his lap sideways, back against his chest, legs draped over the arm of the chair.
On the TV, pixelated chaos explodes across a city.
In your ear, his friends yell over their mics.
You laugh softly. It’s ridiculous and perfect.
“Hey, Ilia.”
“Hm?”
“Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto,” you whisper, nudging his chin with your shoulder.
He chokes mid-game.
“Guys, hold on,” he mutters into the mic, cheeks flushing. “I’m being distracted.”
You feel his heartbeat through his t-shirt. Fast. Always fast around you.
One of his friends groans through the headset. “Malinin, focus!”
But his hands leave the controller anyway, sliding around your waist and giving you a gentle squeeze.
You tilt your head back. He kisses your temple like it’s instinct.
He freezes, cheeks pink.
“Are you quoting Taylor Swift at me right now?”
You knew what you wanted and boy, you got her
Laundry is folded at the end of the bed.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the mattress in an oversized t-shirt, rambling about something mundane, when you realize he’s not answering.
He’s just… staring.
Soft. Quiet. A little dazed.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” you laugh.
He blinks, like you’ve snapped him out of it.
“Nothing,” he says.
You narrow your eyes. “That’s not a nothing look.”
He exhales, running a hand through his hair, suddenly more nervous than you’ve seen him in years.
“Okay,” he says. “So. I was going to do this differently.”
You freeze.
“…Do what differently?”
He stands abruptly, crosses the room, and pulls open the top dresser drawer — the one he told you not to dig through because it was “just random stuff.”
Your heart starts pounding.
He turns back with a small box in his hand.
“I had a whole plan,” he admits, pacing once. “I was going to take you back to the rink. Or somewhere dramatic. Candles, a speech, the whole thing.”
“Ilia,” you breathe.
“But I can’t,” he cuts in, frustration flickering. “I can’t wait for perfect lighting or some big cinematic moment, because I’m sitting here listening to you talk about groceries and I’m so insanely in love with you that it feels stupid to wait.”
Your throat tightens.
He comes back and sits in front of you on the bed.
“I knew what I wanted,” he says softly. “Since we were kids. Since high school. Since before I even knew how to say it.”
He opens the box.
The ring catches the lamplight.
“And I got her,” he finishes, voice unsteady. “I got you. And I don’t want to wait for some perfectly planned night to ask you to stay.”
“I love you when you’re dressed up. I love you when you’re stressed about Worlds. I love you when you quote Taylor Swift at me in the middle of the night.” His mouth twitches into a small, helpless smile. “I love you when you’re sitting on our bed talking about laundry.”
A tear slips down your cheek.
“So yeah,” he says, letting out a shaky laugh, “I had a plan. It was romantic. It was impressive. But this is real. And I don’t want to wait another second to ask you.”
He looks up, completely vulnerable.
“Will you marry me?”
You don’t even try to play it cool.
“Yes,” you whisper immediately. “Yes.”
He exhales like he’s finally allowed to breathe, sliding the ring onto your finger with slightly trembling hands before standing and pulling you into his arms.
Forehead pressed to yours, both of you half-laughing, half-crying.
“I was going to do candles,” he mutters into your hair.
You laugh through your tears. “This is better.”
He squeezes you tighter.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I wasn’t waiting.”
Brand new, full-throttle
You’re sitting on the edge of the couch when Ilia asks, “Are you ready to call them?”
You nod, hands still a little shaky.
He FaceTimes his parents.
Tatiana answers.
She takes one look at your flushed, teary faces and narrows her eyes.
“…What did you do?”
Ilia lifts your hand toward the camera.
There’s a beat.
Tatiana gasps.
Roman appears almost instantly. “What happened?”
Tatiana turns the phone. “He finally did it.”
Roman goes still. Then his expression shifts to a proud look.
He nods once. “Good.”
Your chest tightens.
Tatiana is already emotional. “Come closer, let me see the ring properly. Oh, it’s beautiful. Ilia, you did well.”
“I had a whole other plan,” he mutters. “This wasn’t even—”
“You could never wait,” Roman cuts in dryly.
Ilia looks personally attacked.
From somewhere in the house, Liza screams, “Wait — WHAT happened?”
She appears in frame seconds later, sees your hand, and absolutely loses it.
“ARE YOU SERIOUS? YOU GUYS ARE ACTUALLY GETTING MARRIED? I KNEW IT. I LITERALLY KNEW IT.”
“Lower your voice,” Ilia groans.
“No.”
She squints at him. “You cried, didn’t you?”
Silence.
“That’s a yes,” she declares.
You’re laughing now, overwhelmed and glowing.
Roman clears his throat. “We are very happy,” he says simply. “You have always chosen each other. That matters.”
Tatiana nods. “This is not brand new,” she says softly. “This is years in the making.”
That’s when it really hits you.
You didn’t shock them. They’ve been watching this love story unfold since you were kids.
After that, you call your own family. More tears. More chaos. More “finally.”
Only once everyone important knows does Ilia look at you and say, “Okay. Now we can break the internet.”
You post the photo.
Simple: your hands intertwined, the ring catching the light.
Within minutes?
Phones buzzing nonstop. Sports pages reposting. Olympic highlight accounts digging up old interviews. Clips of him saying he’d never want anyone else. Clips of you saying you didn’t miss out either.
Headlines everywhere.
“OLYMPIC GOLD MEDALISTS ENGAGED.”
“High School Sweethearts Seal the Deal.”
“From Rink Bleachers to Rings.”
You’re barely keeping up when Ilia’s phone buzzes again.
It’s Liza.
He opens the message. And immediately groans.
“What?” you ask.
He turns the screen toward you.
It’s an ancient photo. You two at maybe fifteen, braces, blurry rink lighting. He’s looking at you like you hung the moon, and you’re mid-laugh.
Caption: “Told y’all. He’s been down bad since 2019.”
She posted it. Publicly.
You collapse back onto the bed laughing.
“She’s dead,” Ilia mutters.
“She’s iconic,” you correct.
His phone buzzes again. The post is already going viral.
Brand new headline. Full history attached.
Ilia drops his phone onto the mattress and pulls you into his chest, burying his face in your hair.
“This is insane,” you whisper.
“Yeah,” he says.
But he doesn’t sound overwhelmed.
He sounds sure.
His hand slides over yours, thumb brushing over the ring like he’s still anchoring himself to the reality of it.
“They can talk,” he murmurs. “They always have.”
You tilt your head up.
“But they don’t get this part,” he adds quietly. “They don’t get the real us.”
You already know, babe
The first week after the wedding is dangerous.
Not because anything is wrong.
Because Ilia has discovered two words he refuses to stop using.
My wife.
It starts small.
You’re in the kitchen, still surrounded by leftover flowers and unopened gifts, when he walks in with his phone.
“Hey,” he says casually, leaning against the counter. “My wife, have you seen my hoodie?”
You slowly turn.
“…What did you just say?”
He blinks innocently. “What?”
“You said it weird.”
“I said hoodie.”
“No. Before that.”
He fights a grin. Loses. “My wife?”
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks heat. “You’re insufferable.”
“You already know that, babe,” he says smugly, kissing your temple. “I waited years to say that.”
And he does not waste it.
At the rink?
“Oh yeah, my wife finished her run-through already.”
On the phone with Roman?
“Yeah, we’ll be there in ten. My wife is grabbing her skates.”
To the barista?
“My wife will have an iced coffee.”
You kick him under the table for that one.
It gets worse once competition season resumes.
First event back after the wedding. You both skate well. Medal ceremony done. Media zone buzzing.
A reporter smiles. “Ilia, how does it feel returning to competition as a married man?”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“It feels great,” he says. “My wife’s out here landing triples like it’s nothing, so I’ve got to keep up.”
You shoot him a look across the mixed zone.
The reporter laughs. “Has marriage changed your dynamic at all?”
Ilia shrugs, eyes flicking to you like he’s trying not to grin. “Not really. We’ve always been a team. I just get to call her my wife now.”
There it is again.
Later, backstage, you nudge him. “You are milking this.”
He pulls you closer by the waist, not even pretending to deny it. “Of course I am.”
“You’ve said it like twenty times today.”
“And?”
“And you’re dramatic.”
He leans down, brushing his lips against your hairline. He murmurs, quieter now. “I’m obsessed.”
Your heart does the same annoying flutter it’s been doing since high school.
At home that night, he scrolls through interview clips, grinning at the comments.
“He really said my wife like he won it in a raffle.”
“He’s been waiting YEARS for this.”
“This man is down catastrophically.”
You peek over his shoulder. “They’re not wrong.”
He locks his phone and turns to you, expression softening.
“Let me have this,” he says quietly. “I’ve wanted to marry you since we were kids. I’m going to say it as much as I want.”
This time, when he says it, it’s not performative or teasing.
He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing over your ring.
How do you think the Leon Eras would react if you locked him in during sex? Like legs wrapped around not letting him go till he fills you to the brim!!!
Hii Dani this is delicious and I've been thinking about it all day omgggg, you knew what to hit me with...
RE2: Cums instantly, like you pull him in closer with a whine. That it he's whimpering and whining as his cock twitches wildly inside you. There is a sense of panic at first but then he gets hard almost immediately feeling it seep out around him. Plus it gives him a chance for you to forgive him for cumming so quick
RE4R: He's the one that put your legs there. He moved them one at a time ensuring you get the picture and squeezes your thighs to ensure the hold is tight. Pants and groans in your ear and how well you are taking him and how good it feels. His grip on your thighs leaves tender spots where his fingers were, and he loves it if you squeeze them around him
Infinite Darkness: Takes it as a challenge to get himself as close to you as possible. He's like driving into you so deep that you swear he will abuse your cervix like no tomorrow, he does not give a shit. Prefer it if you tighten the grip, he might slowly squirm away just for you to trap him tighter again.
Damnation: You make him stumble and lose his rhythm, the sudden change in position doesn't help with the alcohol he drowned his sorrows with. However just because you made him lose his footing he'll use the closeness to his advantage and come back at a punishing rate. I'm talking your pelvis is hurting and your hips click when you release him...
RE6: Reaches around and actually holds the lock you have on him. Pushes his entire body weight on you trapping you into the mating press to ensure that you are completely filled to his own satisfaction
Vendetta: Freezes for a second, it's all suddenly to intimate and he feels slightly trapped. The consequences of a creampie are some he's not entirely sure he wants to face them. It's not until you arch yourself against him using the position as levage that he gets into it. The deeper connection suddenly becomes more fun and he's not longer thinking about the what ifs
Death Island: He's giving you the biggest fucking grin you have ever seen. Actually takes it as a challenge to abuse your cervix even more than he is. Giving your cunt no other option but to take his load.
Summary: After finals, Ilia’s pissed, frustrated and angry. Not that you would blame him. And you want to help him out but you aren’t really sure how.
Warnings: Somewhat long build up (I suck at going straight into it), smut. Like freaky-freaky smut little bit of softdom!ilia, couple of BDSM elements(?), oral (fem and male receiving), mentions of plan B (HAVE SAFE SEX AND BE AWARE OF WHAT SAFE SEX IS, DONT JUST DO WHAT IS MENTIONED IN THIS FIC BECAUSE YOU CAN GET PREGNANT IF THAT HAPPENS) heavily implied and outright said that they were loud enough for people to hear
Note: This song has been in my head for about 2 days.
Divider credit: @cursed-carmine
The minute you saw the free skate your heart broke.
You had already felt horrible for all of the others who fell during their programs like Yuma and Adam. But when you saw your boyfriend, Ilia, fall and basically panic through most of his program, tears welded up in your eyes uncontrollably. You felt so bad.
Not to mention the fact that you weren’t able to actually attend the event physically since your relationship was for the most part private. (Ilia had wanted to keep you away from the media since your relationship had only existed for about 5 months and the media could be vicious. Especially when it came to him.) So you had been stuck watching the finals on the TV in his room at the Olympic Village.
Your heart had sunk even more when you noticed his father’s reaction. Only offering Ilia a couple “Are you okay?”s before walking off to get his jacket. It bothered you, to say the least. And there wasn’t really much you could do besides wait for the media stuff to be over and wait for Ilia to come back to the Olympic Village.
About an hour later you heard the hotel room door unlock and the sound of footsteps. You were in the bathroom, having taken a shower and changed into your sleeping clothes. Which consisted of just a black top and panties.
“Ilia?” You called out softly while in the middle of brushing your teeth.
“Here.” He called back with a sigh. You could hear the sound of him dropping his bag onto the ground along with his skates. And footsteps as he opened the door to the bathroom. “Hey.” He muttered.
“Hey back.” You replied, finishing up brushing your teeth and washing your mouth. This was the first time since the very beginning of your relationship where you and Ilia were stuck in a genuinely awkward moment. You just didn’t know what to do. Did he want comfort? Did he want to just be alone? You didn’t really know.
You finished up and decided to just give him a hug. For a minute he went stiff but returned your hug. “We don’t have to talk about it.” You whispered. “We can just ignore it. Rot in bed all day tomorrow. Or we can go walk around Italy. Whatever you want to do.”
For a good minute Ilia said nothing, he just held onto you like a lifeline. Before he whispered back: “Thank you, Y/N.”
You pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. Yeah?” And you helped him get ready for bed.
Once you were both settled in bed in your night clothes, Ilia sat up and turned over to look at you. His face was soft but you couldn’t make out his reaction. He reached out and his hand cupped your cheek.
“Need something?” You whispered into the darkness.
“You.”
“Me? I mean I’m right here.” You replied, looking up at him.
“Not like that.” He muttered, shifting closer until he was able to straddle you. “I mean like…I need need you.” Oh. He wanted to fuck. The thought stopped you in your tracks and all you really could do was stare. The idea of having sex with him right now was very enticing, but at the same time you worried for his mental health.
“A-are you sure?” You asked, tilting your head.
“I’m sure.” He replied.
It didn’t take long for you both to just dive into it. It started with a makeout. Just him kissing you and occasionally groping your tits with his hands. Thumbs flicking over your now hard nipples, making you moan into his mouth. “Shhh, don’t want Maxim to hear us next door, do we?” He whispered, and you shook your head eagerly. After a bit his head dipped lower to mouth at your tits. Mouth wrapping around one nipple while his fingers pinched at the other. You struggled to hold back a few moans.
He bit down gently on your nipple and you let out a soft mewl. He chuckled and moved on, going lower. He pressed a soft kiss to your navel and stared up at you. “Tell me what you want.”
Your mind blanked and you couldn’t form words for a second. “Ilia please.” You whined pitifully. “I want you.” He hummed and moved down to your thighs before looking up at you.
“I have an idea.” He muttered, getting up from the bed. “Just wait for me a second.” And he crossed the room towards his suitcase, pulling out two pairs of handcuffs from it. And he turned to you with a smirk. “I want to try something tonight, you up for it?” You nodded enthusiastically, surprising yourself. “I need words, baby girl. Not just a head nod.” He moved closer. “Tell me you’re okay with this.”
“I’m okay with it.” You forced the words out excitedly. He nodded and cuffed one of your hands to the bed post before moving to cuff the other one. You squirmed around just to test the strength of the cuffs.
“Now, back to our regularly scheduled program.” He mumbled, returning to his position somewhat between your legs. His fingers found your panties and gently moved them to the side. Rubbing them through your folds. You let out a soft whine and he chuckled. The minute he pushed one of his fingers inside of you, you let out a loud moan. It felt amazing, probably because the two of you hadn’t had time to enjoy each other since he had qualified for the Olympics. “Shh, shh, baby. Can’t have anyone outside hearing us, now can we?” He cooed at you softly.
Before you could even think he nudged a second finger inside of you and began to pump them both in and out of you at a steady pace. The rhythm felt delicious and you couldn’t help the occasional sounds that would escape you even as you tried to conceal them. And it didn’t take long for you to be close to your climax, which seemed pretty clear on your face. As the second Ilia saw your eyebrows scrunching together he pulled his fingers out. “Nuh uh, you don’t get to cum just yet, baby girl.” He whispered, leaning down so that his face was level with your cunt. He pressed a soft kiss to your thigh. “Still okay?”
“I’m okay.” You replied. It didn’t take long for him to dive in. His tongue lapping at your folds eagerly like a maniac. He alternated between sloppy kisses and rough licks. Licking your folds all the way up to your clit before giving your button a little suck. And at that point you had just fully given up on trying to hold in your moans. “A-ah, Ilia! Mmmm. Don’t stop!” You cried out. One of his hands snaked up to play with your clit. Ilia ate pussy like how one would eat ice cream, an unhinged and messy little fuck.
“Ohhh baby, you taste so good…mph-fuck!” He groaned into your cunt, sending shocks up your spine. “Such a pretty girl.” He muttered, his fingers circling your clit with a bit of pressure. “You’re always so good f’me, aren’t you?” You nodded, eager to please him. “That’s my girl.” He hummed, his fingers beginning to move faster along with his tongue. “Come on, cum for me.” And you did. A white hot flash passed through you as you reached your orgasm. He sat back for a second and allowed you to catch your breath before taking off your cuffs. “Ready for more?” He asked.
“Yeah.” You replied, moving around to lay on your belly in front of him, eyes looking up at him. His fluffy blond hair, pretty blue-ish eyes, and that stupid smirk of his. It didn’t take long for Ilia to pull his cock out. And it was big, at least one of the bigger ones you’ve ever had. Around 9 inches if you had to guess. He waited for a bit, quietly stroking himself and letting you catch your breath.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
He pressed the tip of his cock up to your lips, which you eagerly wrapped your lips around, sucking slowly. He let out a soft groan. “T-that’s it.” You moved and put one of your hands on his thigh to steady yourself. Sucking at a steady rhythm while he let out all kinds of dirty loud sounds. “F-fuck! Baby, you’re so good at this!” His fingers tangled up in your hair. And you hollowed out your mouth. He let out a huge whimper at the sight of it. You stroked his thigh with your fingers to soothe him while you sucked him off. His fist tightened in your hair, tightening to a grip. “A-ah…mmmm.” He moaned. You hadn’t really expected him to be that vocal in bed. But here you both were. Honestly you wanted him to practically shove his waist in your face.
He was getting close, you could tell. His eyes were practically rolling in the back of his head with his good he was feeling. So you decided to take him in as deep as you could and hollow out your mouth, which he really enjoyed. Fit a second you felt him tug at your hair. “Hm?” You looked up at him questioningly.
“Could you uh…do that one t-trick I taught you?” He whined out while basically riding your face. You were well aware of what he was talking about. Back around the first few times the two of you had sex, he had taught you to spell his name with your tongue and spit. So you started doing it. Spelling out an I-L-I-A with your tongue and spit on his shaft. Which just about did the trick and had him cumming in no time.
After that you both took a five minute break to breathe and drink water. “Color?” Ilia asked, checking up on you. His face held no judgement. If you wanted to stop now he would stop with no questions asked. And your heart swelled at that fact.
“Green.” You replied, breath heavy and still catching it.
He nodded. “You want to just have normal sex or do you want some pound town type of action?”
You pondered that thought before replying: “Pound town.”
He nodded again. “Uh they’re out of condoms.”
“You buy me plan B at that corner store tomorrow?”
“Deal.”
“Deal.” You replied. And you both finished catching your breath before returning to your lovely activities.
He moved you face down in front of him, gently moving a pillow under your stomach to elevate you. “Comfortable?” He nodded at your reply. “Brace yourself.” He muttered softly into your hear before gently and slowly starting to push the tip of his cock into your cunt. You let out a huge moan and gripped the sheets in front of you tightly. He pushed in a little deeper until about half of him was inside of you. Then he just started going at it. Hard and fast. The bed rocking back and forth with his movements. He leaned down to be closer to you, and you could pretty much feel him grunting in your ears.
Not that you were being any quiet either. “Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh!” You moaned out. At this point the both of you had just completely fucking given up at trying to be quiet. He drilled into you. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoing off the walls. His balls slapped your ass each time.
“You’re a slut, aren’t you?” He whispered into your ear. “Such a slut for my cock.” He was going ham. And you had to admit that it felt amazing. Eventually the both of you reached your orgasms and just fell asleep in bed together.
You woke up the next morning in Ilia’s bed, hide side of said bed empty. With just a little note left there: ‘Went to buy you the plan B and breakfast for you and me, I’ll be back in a bit.’
And so you decided to open Twitter and browse the internet like a normal person. To see what internet drama and Olympics drama had been going on recently. And when you opened Twitter you saw multiple tags trending like: # Villagenoises, # Olympicscondomshortage, and # Hornyathletes.
Curiosity got the best of you, so you clicked on one of the hashtags. And you were immediately bombarded by comments like:
@-randomolympicsfan: YO WHO THE FUCK WAS GOING CRAZY LAST NIGHT IN THE OLYMPIC VILLAGE?
@-maniacstray: IKR??? I COULD HEAR THEM ALL THE WAY FROM MY HOTEL ROOM DOWN THE STREET
@-case7363: I heard it coming from Team USA’s portion of the village
@-boysbewareee: Who do you think it was? My money’s on snowboarders, crazy stamina
@-fateofachilles: Nah I think it was a figure skating pair, like the ice dancers or something. Most of them are couples aren’t they?
@-crimsonstars: Whoever it was, they were definitely celebrating hard last night
@-moonstarslover: Whoever it was I think most of their team now hates them😭🙏
@-liliesblooming: They definitely contributed to the condom shortage
@-sunshineandrainbows: First the dick enlargement drama and now this? This Olympics is genuinely frying me chat
@-vampirebite: I was just taking a walk last night and I could hear someone begging “please, god, please” and I got so scared I ran back to my hotel room only to find out today that it was just two of the athletes getting freaky😔
@-bigboysdontcry: HELPPP???? 🤣
@-artemaaaas: It could be two athletes from two completely different teams, hence why they’re sneaking around
@-broughttheheatback: Or they could just be private people🧍♂️this isn’t any of our business
Well this was an interesting turn of events. And you weren’t really sure how Ilia was going to be able to explain this to his team later. But at least it wasn’t your problem. And at least you were able to make your boyfriend feel better in the end.
Description: Jay's wife is very stubborn and hides getting injured until it's too late.
Pairings: Jay x Reader, Platonic Adam x Reader, Platonic Will Halstead x Reader
Warnings: Mentions of gunshots, mentions of blood, mentions of hospitals
This idea was submitted by @snipps08 thank you!!!
(Some of the lingo might not be exact as I have a terrible memory and can't exactly remember what they usually say so bare with me)
Y/n was on her way to talk to a witness for the upcoming trial date when a call came over the radio "All units, reports of shots fired at 51 Walbash Street, paramedics requesting police assistance".
Y/n frowned, hearing a couple of patrol officers responding, she thought for a second, making a U-turn at the soonest possible chance.
"5021 Charlie, I'm two blocks out, hold me down as responding. Let uniforms know plain clothes on scene" Y/n spoke into the radio, flicking on the lights and sirens as she pressed the gas.
Her vest is in the passenger seat, reaching over she throws it over her head as she drives with her left hand, strapping the vest in process.
"Y/n, I'm 4 minutes away, on my way" Adam's voice comes over her radio used for intelligence.
The car comes to a halt, saying a quick "copy" into her radio to let Adam know she heard him, Y/n scans the scene.
Two uniforms are parked behind the ambulance, a little ahead from where she is. Violet and Novak from firehouse 51 are crouched behind a car across the street, obviously trying to treat a man on the ground.
The shots are coming from an apartment building in front of where Y/n parked. The uniforms are returning fire.
Y/n gets out of her car, staying low as she crouches next to her car.
"Violet! Novak! You okay?" Y/n calls out to her friends.
"Yeah, I have him stable but this guy isn't going to make it if we don't get him to med soon!" Violet shouts back.
Y/n thinks for a moment, trying to figure out how to get the victim out of there safely until they can get the shooter.
"Hey, Wilson! I'll cover you, back your car up and get him into your patrol car and get him to med" Y/n instructs the officer closest to her.
The officer nods, Y/n stands returning fire to the shooter.
It's a few seconds later as she hears more sirens pulling up to the scene when she feels a sharp pain in her side. It's not something she even lets phase her as she hears the patrol car take off, the victim inside.
The shooting stops, probably realized their target was gone.
"Y/n! What's going on?" Adam asks as he comes to her side.
Y/n glances to him, nodding to the building as she crouches behind the car for a second.
"Shooter is in that building, third floor, probably a gang thing-- He stopped shooting once the victim was gone." Y/n explains, to Adam as she glances to Violet and Novak across their street.
"Alright, ready to move?" Adam asks and Y/n nods "Let's go" he pats her shoulder, to which she flinches--the sensation shooting to her side but Adam doesn't notice as they move towards the building.
"5021 Charlie, we are in pursuit of the shooter. Entering the Wake Forest apartments" Y/n rattles off into her radio.
Making their way up the stairs to the third floor, the apartment that matches where the shots were coming from has the door wide open. Adam glances back to Y/n who sends him a nod as they make their way inside.
Adam goes straight as Y/n makes her way into the kitchen, clearing the apartment as she does.
Just as they are about to give up, there's a door slamming in the hallway and foot steps running.
Y/n and Adam take off towards the noise, finding a man in a dark green hoodie running down the stairs, gun in hand.
"Hey! Chicago PD!" Adam announces, running down the steps after him, Y/n right behind him.
"5021 Charlie, Suspect is in a dark green hoodie, he is coming out of the front doors" Y/n announces into her radio to alert the uniforms outside.
When they get outside, Adam and Y/n are thankful to see Kevin holding the man down on his stomach, the gun already kicked away.
Y/n feels relief when she sees the rest of the team there.
"You two okay?" Voight asks, walking up to Adam and Y/n, looking between the two.
"Yeah, all good, Sarge" Adam responds, nodding as he holsters his gun.
Voight glances to Y/n when she doesn't answer.
It's only then, as the adrenaline wears off does she feels the white hot pain in her side. The wetness soaking through her shirt and jacket.
"Y/n? You okay? You look a little pale" Voight has a very concerned tone in his voice.
Adam looks at his partner, really looks at her and he notices how pale she is too.
"My side hurts a little" Y/n says lowly, her hand going to her side. When she takes her hand away, the two men notice the blood soaking it.
At that moment, Jay looks up from his notepad where he was writing notes down from a witness.
He can sense something is wrong in his gut and when she sees Y/n she seems to be off balance and very pale. too pale. His feet are moving before he can even think.
She feels her vision going dark and her body swaying as she hears distant shouting and then it's all blank.
--
"Twenty-eight year old female, gunshot wound to the right abdomen. No exit wound. She's lost a lot of blood, she's stable for now, coded once en route" Violet calls out as the stretcher is wheeled into the ED of Chicago Medical Center.
"Maggie?!" Will calls as he approaches them, snapping a pair of gloves on. Dr. Archer following closely.
"Baghdad's open!" Maggie answers, following to help in.
Will stops as he comes close, seeing his sister in law on the stretcher, her top soaked in blood.
"Y/n?" His voice is quiet and Marcel is already jumping into his place, helping Archer and the nurses transfer them.
Jay is barreling through the ED doors, following after his wife. Will snaps out of it when he sees Maggie trying to keep him back.
"Jay, Jay let them work. They got her, man" Will tries to give his brother a little piece of mind, tho impossible.
"We need to get her in the OR now!"
--
Jay can feel his heart in his stomach as he paces the waiting room that's full of police officers from different units.
He can't think, he can't breathe, he can't function. The rest of the intelligence team is on edge, waiting to know if their friend will pull through.
Adam, Kevin, and Kim sit in the chairs, anxiously waiting.
Adam can't stop staring at the blood on his hands from when he caught Y/n.
Y/n had been his partner on and off for the past 10 years but she was more than that, she was Mack's aunt, his best friend and Kim felt like a sister to her.
Kevin adored her, he felt like Y/n was the only person he could fully open up to all the time, someone he could trust with his siblings and with his life--which Y/n had helped with his siblings more than once over the years.
Voight viewed her like a daughter and Y/n was probably the only one, besides Trudy that had been to his house to check in on him multiple times after the really tough cases.
Jay on the other hand-- Jay was losing his mind, Y/n had been the love of his life since the first day he saw her and he doesn't remember what life was like before that.
Will approaches his brother, pulling him into a much needed hug.
"She's got this, she'll be okay. She's stubborn as hell, we both know it" the red head says quietly, holding on to Jay as he lets out the sobs.
"I can't, I can't lose her Will. I don't know how to breathe without her--what am I gonna do?" It's a serious question, what is he going to do without her?
Will frowns, holding his brother at arms length, a hand on each shoulder.
"Hey, listen to me. She's got the best doctors in there working on her. Me and you both know she is hard headed as hell. Y/n will be okay" Will says sternly, looking his brother in the eyes.
Jay nods, wiping at his eyes. He knows Will's right.
--
It's five hours later when Jay finds himself sitting next to Y/n's hospital bed, his hand gripping hers like his life depended on it.
The only thing you can hear in the room is the sound of the steady beeping from the monitor and the tapping of his foot as his leg bounces.
"She's stable, we removed the bullet, It didn't hit anything major but she'll be sore and has some broken ribs but she should wake up soon" Archer had explained to Jay when they came out of surgery.
He knew that Archer was right but he wouldn't believe she was okay until he sees it for himself.
"J-ay" It comes out broken and raspy but it gets his attention, Jay's head shooting up.
Y/n slowly blinks at him, her head feels heavy.
Jay can feel the relief lifting off his shoulder.
"Hey, hey honey. I'm here" He says softly, the tears of relief and joy slip out as he stands up, never letting her hand go as he kisses her head.
He lingers for a second--not wanting to step away.
"Don't scare me like that again" Jay's voice is desperate and Y/n nods "I won't" she says softly.
There's a knock at the doorframe, both of them turning to see Will in the doorway.
"Well, well, well, look who's awake" The red head jokes as he approaches the other side of the bed "I know you are stubborn as hell and you are independent, but how about next time you let someone know if you're hurt" Will is half teasing but half serious.
Jay raises an eyebrow at his wife, waiting for an answer.
"I promise to let someone know next time, happy Halsteads?" Y/n jokes with a smirk.
"You're a Halstead too, baby" Jay tells her with a chuckle.
"Damn" Y/n mumbles, an amused tone in her voice.
"I'll go let everyone know you're awake" Will says before leaving the room.
Jay looks back at his wife, kissing her forehead again "Thank you for coming back to me".
another random idea i had was like, joe keery doing an interview (but it’s like a cool one where the interviewer has a cute room with like a comfy couch and pillows and decor, so more like a podcast i guess) and he’s like all shy and trying to be all cool and asking questions about her and like so totally flirting with her and they spend the whole interview flirting
જ⁀➴ ♡ Off the Record
જ⁀➴ ♡ Joe Keery x Podcast Host Reader
Summary: you always create a homey atmosphere for your podcast guests - vanilla candles, velvet couches - so they’ll relax and open up to the deep questions. you’re just caught off guard when Joe Keery walks in and looks like he actually belongs there.
જ⁀➴ ♡ Lots of fluff, love a man who does his research.
A/N: so cute, he's actually such a flirt but nervous wreck at the same time. Thank you for the request!
Word Count: 3,125
The studio wasn't really a studio, it was a room, the kind that belonged in every other house that smelled liked vanilla candles and old books with the spines fading due to the sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains. Each item you'd spent time curating over two years of Sunday thrifting and careful consideration: the hunter-green velvet couch that swallows people whole, the fabric worn thin in just the right crevasse from the weight of thousands of conversations; the mismatched throw pillows in mustard yellow and rust; embroidery beginning to fray at the edges; the shelves that homed a crowded collection of ceramic frogs you've named in episodes of insomnia and the dog-eared paperbacks that crack when you open them. A vintage Persian rug settles beneath the low oak coffee table - something you'd rescued at an estate sale, it's burgundy threads uneven and faded to dried wine - two mismatched mugs rested, steam spiraling and rising in the chill of afternoon air. Chai for you, scented from extra honey. Black coffee for him, dark and bitter, the way you imagine his voice might taste if you could swallow it.
You're rearranging when the knock comes - plumping and smoothing for the third time, adjusting angles by mere millimeters back to where they were before you'd touched them the first time.
It's soft. Hesitant almost. Two quick taps against the aging oak door, the wood wrapped from a summer gone by of humidity, it's like he's already second-guessing this decision before hello's have even been uttered. The sound travelling through the room where it eventually settles somewhere low and deep in your stomach.
"Come in," you call, your voice steadier to mask the shake of your hands. You smooth them down your corduroy skirt - caramel brown, vintage, the buttons sister's not twins - and try to remind yourself how to breath normally.
The door opens with a familiar creak, the one that you swear sounds like a sigh.
Joe Keery steps through the door and immediately looks out of place - not in a bad way, far from a bad way, but in the way that oddly makes him fit in with the room. He's wearing a corduroy jacket that matches your skirt exactly - a note you'll file under ask about this later - and his hair does that impossible thing where it looks perfectly styled and like he just rolled out of bed at the same time, all dark waves and chaotic texture. He's holding a paper empty coffee cup in front of him like a shield, white knuckled, the cardboard slightly denting from the vice of his grip. That late afternoon sun catches the side of his face, lighting up the faint scatter of freckles across his cheekbones, the ones that magazine photographers seem to love airbrushing away but you find yourself wanting to catalog each of them with your fingertips.
"Hey," he says. His voice deeper than you expected, a rumble that seems to start in his chest but rolls through the room, disturbing the dust particles dancing in the sunbeams. "I'm - I'm Joe. I'm early - sorry, just, nervous."
The honestly shocks you. It's raw, stripped of the somewhat trained lines you've heard in dozens of press tours, a live wire of vulnerability that makes your fingers twitch towards the safety of your mug. "You're perfect," you say, a little more excited than you intended. "And you're not early, just.. being prepared." You gesture to the couch, hoping he doesn't notice the way your handles are fumbling slightly. "Make yourself at home, that's literally the whole vibe."
He hovers for a second, taking in the room you've created - the fairy lights that are dangling around roof like captured fireflies, the monstera plant in the corner that you've nicknamed Gerald, his leaves broad and glossy, reaching towards the window, the way the temperature is just right, soothing around him and welcoming him in. You watch as his shoulders drop finally, the tension in his jaw unclenching as he absorbs everything, that intentional coziness you've built like a fortress to protect from the world outside. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, small and private, reaching his eyes. "It's like interviewing inside a hug," he says, and his voice has changed, softened at the edges.
"That's the goal." You settle into the armchair opposite the couch he finally sinks into, tucking your legs beneath you, feeling the worn velvet beneath your thighs. You've got your questioned queued up on your tablet, a whole list carefully researched about his latest projects, his music, his processes and life balance. Professional, polished, safe. You hit record on the mic and the little red light blinks on as the only witness.
“So,” you begin, your interviewer voice sliding on like a familiar coat, “your new single - ”
“What’s your name?”
You blink. The question cuts through your prepared intro like a knife through silk. “What?”
“I mean, I know what you call yourself on the show,” he says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, paper cup abandoned for the warm ceramic you'd prepared between his palms. His eyes - hazel, flecked with amber in this light, fringed with dark lashes - are fixed on you with an intensity that makes your throat feel like sandpaper when you swallow. “My agent mentioned it. But that’s… that’s the host. That’s the performance.” He pauses, his gaze dropping to your lips, then back up, searching. “I want to know what your friends call you when you’re not recording. When you’re just… you. In this room that feels like home.”
It’s such a simple distinction, but he asks it like he’s asking for the coordinates to buried treasure, like the answer might unlock the difference between the voice that plays in peoples headphone and the actual person sitting in front of him.
“Y/N,” you say, and it comes out softer than you intended, almost a whisper the mic doesn't pick up, intimate in the small space, the answer just for his ears.
“Y/N,” he repeats, testing it. Not like he’s learning it for the first time, but like he’s finally getting permission to say it aloud. The syllables sound different in his voice - round, careful, slightly rasped, like he’s tasting them, rolling them across his tongue. “That’s pretty. Suits you. Quiet. But…” He gestures vaguely at the space around you, the organized chaos of comfort, the books stacked haphazardly, the candles burning low. “Passionate. Warm.”
You feel heat crawl up your neck, a slow bloom that starts at your collarbone and spreads up to your cheeks. The air in the room feels suddenly thinner. “Who's doing the interviewing here, Keery.”
“Joe.”
“What?”
“Call me Joe.” He grins then, sudden and crooked but real, all the shyness from earlier turning into something else - something warm and daring and electric. Something that makes your stomach flip like a coin tossed into a well. “And maybe you could interview me. But I’ve got a lot of questions about you, Y/N. Like - ” He points at the shelf behind you, his arm extending, long and slender, the cuff of his jacket riding up to reveal a hint of wrist, pale and slightly freckled. “Which one is your favorite frog?”
You twist to look, the movement pulling your sweater up slightly, exposing a sliver of hip for him. You feel his eyes track the motion like he can actually touch you. “The… the blue one. Second shelf.”
“The one with the top hat?”
“He’s a gentleman,” you defend a smirk forming, turning back to find him closer than he was, somehow, though he hasn’t moved but the room has.
“He’s weird,” Joe says, delighted, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But he's cute.”
“Are you calling my ducks cute?”
“Yeah.” He shifts on the couch, velvet rustling against corduroy, and his knee brushes the coffee table, knocking your mug. He catches it before it tips and before you also grab it - reflexes sharp, hands big and careful, fingers long and slightly calloused, your fingers linger near his hand. You can see the veins on the back, mapping blue beneath translucent skin, the faint scar on his thumb. “Sorry. I’m nervous again. You make me nervous.”
“I’m just sitting here.”
“You’re sitting there like…” He pauses adjusting the mug, searching, his gaze dragging over your face slowly, cataloging. “Like a really good song. Like the first chord that tells you the whole album’s gonna hurt. In a good way. In a devastating way.”
The microphone is still recording. You should deflect. Your meant to be asking about the tour dates, the acting gigs, the carefully prepared questions glowing on your tablet screen - abandoned. Instead, you hear yourself say, “You say things like that and you expect me to keep it professional?”
Joe’s eyes widen slightly, the pupils dilating in the dimming light. Then that grin returns, slower this time but louder, spreading across his face like honey warming in the sun, sweet and thick. “Is that what this is? Professional?”
“Yes I - ”
“You’ve got three candles burning,” he interrupts, soft, tilting his head toward the mantle. His hair flops with the movement, a dark strand curled against his forehead. “Sandalwood. Something citrus. And… lavender?”
“Vanilla, actually.” Your voice is barely above a whisper.
The air in the room feels thicker suddenly, charged with the static of uncertainty, the air taste of an approaching storm. You can hear the radiator ticking in the corner, the distant hum of the refrigerator in your kitchenette, the beat of your own pulse rushing in your ears. Joe sets his coffee down with a soft clink against the wood and sinks back into the velvet cushions, looking like he belongs there, like he’s been sitting in that spot for years waiting for you to notice him. The fabric shifts to him, inviting him further in, and you want to sink into it with him.
“I like this couch,” he announces, his voice dropping an octave, intimate.
“It’s vintage.” Your mouth is dry.
“I like vintage.” He’s looking at you, not the couch, his gaze heavy, calculated. “I like that you’re wearing socks with lemons on them.”
You tuck your feet further under you, hiding them, but you’re smiling despite yourself, the crimson flush of your cheeks becoming more prominent by the second. “Stop deflecting. I’m meant to be asking about your creative process.”
“Okay.” He spreads his arms along the back of the couch, owning the space now, spreading himself out in lazy confidence that’s fighting with the flush on his own cheeks - a pink stain that’s climbing slowly to his hairline. “Ask me.”
“What inspires you?”
“You,” he says, immediate, and then his face goes red - actually red now, a deep crimson that clashes beautifully with his dark hair, as his eyes go wide in shock. “Shit. That was - I was going for smooth. That wasn’t smooth. That was - ”
“Honest?” you supply, your heart hammering against your ribs, a trapped bird.
“Desperate,” he corrects, burying his face in his hands. His voice comes out muffled, strained with embarrassment. “Oh my god, I’m blowing this. I had a whole plan to be aloof and cool. Like, mysterious. And instead I’m telling you that I chose this jacket because it looked like something you’d own, and I’m staring at your bookshelf instead of making eye contact because if I look at you for too long I forget how the English language works, and I keep thinking about how your hair catches the light and - ”
He breaks off, groaning into his palms.
You stare at him. The corduroy jacket. The way he noticed the candles. The top-hat frog. The flush on his neck.
“You didn't tell me any of that... You planned this?” you ask quietly, your voice trembling.
He peeks through his fingers, one eye visible, dark and anxious. “I listened to forty-seven episodes of your podcast. I like the way you laugh when your guests say something stupid - not mean, just… delighted. Like you’re surprised by joy. I like that you always offer them drinks and you remember how they take it. I like…” He drops his hands, and he looks young suddenly, despite everything, despite the fame and the filters and the distance you expected someone like him to maintain. Young and terrified and brave. “I like you. And I thought, if I got in this room, on this couch, in this light that makes you look like some kind of goddess - maybe I’d have a shot at making you like me back. Even though I’m currently failing at being mysterious. Even though I’m sweating through this shirt.”
The mic is definitely still on. The little red light blinks, steady, witness to everything, to this unraveling.
You reach out and stop it.
The click is loud in the sudden silence, sharp as a breaking branch.
Joe goes still, his breathing shallow. “Was that - did I mess up the interview? I can redo it. I can be normal. I can talk about the creative processes for the album or - ”
You stand up. Cross the two steps between the armchair and the couch, the Persian rug rough beneath your lemon socks. Sink down into the velvet beside him - close enough that your lemon socks brush his ankle, close enough to see the individual freckles scattered across his nose like someone flicked a paintbrush at him, close enough to smell him: coffee and cedar and something uniquely him, clean skin and nervous sweat.
“I wanna hear your inspiration just - ” you tell him, your voice steady now, sure. “Without the mic, the real inspiration not the fake stories the PR team tells you to say.”
His eyes drop to your mouth, then back up, dark and wide. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You’re flirting now, fully, the way you’ve wanted to since he walked in looking like a deer caught in headlights and smelling like a dream. Your hand finds the couch cushion between you, your pinky finger brushing his thigh - a casual touch that feels anything but casual, electric, the shock running up your arm. “I like the way you notice things. Like the candles. Like my socks.”
“I notice everything about you,” he admits, voice dropping to a murmur that you feel in your soul more than hear, a vibration in the space between your bodies. He turns toward you on the couch, and his knee bumps yours, denim against corduroy, and neither of you pull away. The contact burns, your skin on fire under the fabric of his touch. “Like how you keep tucking your hair behind your ear even though it falls right back out. Like how you’re skirt matches your eyes in this light, with those little gold flecks. Like how you’re looking at me right now like maybe - maybe I didn’t blow this completely. Maybe there’s a chance for... something”
“You blew the interview,” you say, and your hand slides closer on the cushion, your knuckles grazing his hip. “But you nailed the…”
“The what?”
“The flirting part.”
Joe breathes out, shaky and relieved, the sound trembling between you, and his hand covers yours on the cushion - palm warm, fingers long and slightly calloused from guitar strings, pressing down with a gentle weight that anchors you both. telling you this is real. He doesn’t interlace them, not yet. but his thumb is stroking over your knuckles in a rhythm circle that matches your hammering heart.
“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks, his breath ghosting over your cheek, the smell of the coffee aftertaste creating flavours on your tongue.
“Only if it’s embarrassing.”
“It’s extremely embarrassing.” He leans in, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the slight chip in his front tooth, the way his hair settles over his forehead, begging to be touched. Close enough to see the pulse hammering in his throat. “I don’t want to talk about my acting or music. I want to know if you’ll have dinner with me. Somewhere with bad lighting so you can't see me blushing every time you smile. Somewhere I can ask you about every single book on that shelf behind you. Somewhere…”
His thumb strokes over your knuckles again, slow, deliberate, a question and an answer.
“…somewhere I can flirt with you properly. Without a microphone catching every time I say something pathetic. Without an audience.”
You look at him - the flop of hair, the corduroy jacket, the hope written all over his face like a song he’s still creating in his head, nervous and real and present. Outside, the afternoon light is fading, turning the room amber and rose, the shadows lengthening across the Persian rug. Gerald the monstera casts shadows against the wall that look like reaching hands, like possibilities of the future that haven't been written yet.
“You know,” you say, your voice steady despite your heart threatening to jump from your chest, “this couch is big enough for two people to sit on without touching.”
Joe glances down at where your hands overlap, at the minimal space between your hips on the velvet, at the way your shoulders are angled toward each other like compass points finding north. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. But you’re very… close.”
He smiles, and it’s not the practiced grin from magazine covers or the smirk from red carpets. It’s genuine and real and shy. “I’m trying to be cool about it. Is it working?”
“No,” you say, and you close the last inch of distance, your shoulder pressing against his arm draped around the back of the couch, your voice dropping to a whisper meant only for him, as your head rests slightly on his shoulder “But I like you better when you’re not cool.”
Joe Keery - actor, musician, boy currently sitting on your vintage couch looking at you like you were the moon, like you’re the only thing in the room worth looking at - exhales like you’ve just given him the keys to the city, like you’ve opened a door he’s been staring at for months. His head drops back against the cushions, and he laughs, surprised and delighted, the sound filling up every corner of the room until it feels less like a studio and more like a beginning, like the first page of something you both get to write together.
“Okay,” he says, squeezing your hand, his fingers finally threading through yours, interlacing tight as to say I'm not letting go. “Okay, good. Tell me about the frog with the top hat. Tell me everything. We’ve got time. We’ve got all night, if you want.”
And somewhere in the quiet, cozy space between the fairy lights and the candles, with the recorder off and the world outside forgotten, with his hand warm in yours and the velvet soft at your backs, you answer all his questions. You tell him about the frog and all their names, the books and their plots, and he listens like your voice is the only thing he’s ever wanted to hear, like you’re the only language he wants to learn.
Outside, the sun sets completely, painting the room in indigo and violet, but inside, wrapped in the golden glow of three candles and the warmth of his body against yours, it feels like a new dawn.
➸ warnings: timeline is confusing, but the kids are kids. nsfw, smut, unprotected sex in an established relationship, p in v, getting caught without knowing it, strong language, 3.3k word count, slight usage of 'y/n'.
➸ synopsis: In which you and Steve forget to take the kids to the movies.
Max looked at the clock. 5:56pm.
“She hasn’t answered her radio. What if she’s hurt?” El’s voice trembled with worry as Max paced her room, restless.
Max stopped pacing and thought back. Earlier, Hopper had mumbled something about you being at the mall with friends when she asked. But it wasn’t like you to go silent all day.
Max shook her head, trying to stay calm. “I doubt it. Didn’t she tell Hopper she’d be at Starcourt?”
El tilted her head, thinking. "For eight hours? We were supposed to have movie night,” El said softly, “watch The Breakfast Club and meet the boys.”
"I'm worried," El admitted. You were like her older sister and it wasn't like you to go the whole day without calling to say you're going to be late or miss it.
Hopper must've heard the commotion of Max pacing and El overthinking. "Hey, why don't you uh do your spy thingy? Just to check on her, make sure she's fine." He proposed cautiously, and Max looked at him in confusion. El looked between the two.
This must've been Joyce's influence. Usually Hopper's calling you nonstop, deadass trying to hunt you down when you're out too long, but tonight he seems in particularly calm. Which Hopper was definitely faking, but didn't wanna seem too overprotective—even though you are his little girl.
"I can spy." El confirmed with a nod. Hopper nodded back and walked out. "If she's in danger, tell me."
Max grabbed her everything she needed in a whiff. Tissue, a piece of material to use as a blindfold. She grabs the radio off the nightstand and turns it on, frowning until she finds the static.
“I think this works?”
El nods anyway and closes her eyes, sitting cross legged against the edge of her bed. And she focuses.
She walks around the empty dark space her mind puts her in until she hears your voice.
Your soft laugh catches her attention. She can't see you yet. "I can hear her," she tells Max.
From what she can hear, you're definitely with someone. Laughs muffled behind a door she doesn't recognize.
Hesitantly—she pushes the door. The sight in front of her makes her pause.
You're in a bed, under the blanket, your lower bodies blocked as your heads and shoulders are visible and bare.
Clothes are discarded all over the floor. And right on top of you is... Steve Harrington.
You're giggling as Steve places wet, sloppy kisses all over your neck. Your hands tangled in his soft brown hair. Red scratch marks going down his back.
“Steve! Don’t leave a mark, I swear I’ll kill—” you teased breathlessly.
He silenced you with a gentle kiss. “You talk too much. Tell me how you feel.”
You roll your eyes, trying your hardest to keep composure. "You're telling me to talk after telling me i talk too much? Fuck, Steve—right there," you ended with a sigh as he thrusted into you gently, too fucked out to argue further.
"That the spot?" He asked softly with a cheeky grin on his face, looking down at you with those beautiful big brown eyes. You nod with a moan escaping your lips.
El's eyes widen when she realizes that this is what Max was talking about when she was explaining 'happy screams' and what Billy does to women. This was called sex.
She freaks out—feeling as though she's imposed on your privacy, and pulls the blindfold off with shaky hands, looking at Max with widen, confused eyes. "She's with Steve." El whispered, not wanting Hopper to hear so that you don't get in trouble.
Max frowned, crossing her arms. "Steve? Steve Harrington? Are you serious?"
El nods.
"Doing what?"
"Doing that thing you told me about."
"I tell you a lot of things, El—"
"Making happy screams..."
"WHAT? I thought they hated each other!"
You and Steve have never in particularly shown any interest in each other. From what Max knew, you actually hated Steve since middle school. Always calling him a douchebag, always side-eyeing him, always avoiding being teamed with him when the demogorgon shit started up again. When had that changed?
That's what she asked El, and El decided to think back.
"Lately she's been coming home late... It's been happening for the last four weeks."
Suddenly, Max realized.
It was a late January night, a couple days before school started. You, Steve, Jonathan, Robin, and Nancy had planned a sleepover for all the kids, to hang out with them before they started freshman year—and before they had to start work. It was while Dustin and Lucas were arguing with Jonathan and Robin over what movie to watch when Max's eyes drifted to the kitchen. She saw you near the stove waiting for the popcorn to finish and Steve was next to you prepping the bowls, when you touched the hot pot by accident Steve grabbed your hand quick to make sure you hadn't gotten burnt and he even applied an antiseptic—just in case.
But it's the way you two looked at each other that caught Max's eye and the way Steve's hands lingered on yours.
But that couldn't have been when you started seeing each other if that's how Steve looked at you.
Before Max could recall any further, the knock on the front door caught everyone's attention. Hopper groaned as he got up from his chair to open, and El quickly threw away the bloodied tissue she'd used.
Opening the door with a frown, he's greeted with a grinning Dustin, a frowning Mike, a soft Lucas, and a confused Will. "Uh, is Max here?" Lucas asked politely, hoping his girlfriend is here.
"Yeah. She's with El." Hopper muttered and let them in, "i told you that's why El's radio is off," Will told Mike as Mike eased off. He missed his girlfriend so badly and Dustin knew the only way to get him to stop being grumpy, was bring him here. It was a win-win situation—considering Dustin would get to see you, Will would get to see his soon-to-be step dad, Lucas would get to see Max, and Mike would get to see El.
The three boys made their way to El's room. The girls looked up at them in confusion.
"What are you guys doing here? We're supposed to meet at the movie theatre." Max questioned as Lucas kissed her forehead.
"Mike was grumpy and wanted to see El," Lucas muttered as he looked at Mike smiling wide after El hugged him.
Dustin looked around with a smile.
But when Max told him that you weren't here, his smile turned upside down, "what do you mean she's not here! Where is she then?"
"With Steve, she hasn't been answering her radio." El whispered after letting Mike kiss her cheek. Will joined everyone in El's bedroom when Hopper went back to watching Hawaii Five-0. Lucas held onto Max from behind as Mike stayed at El's side. Will watched Dustin pace around the room from the doorway. "Why is she with Steve?" Mike questioned curiously, he didn't know you had grown fond of Steve—as you were always much closer with Jonathan rather.
"We think they're... seeing each other." Max admitted, and Dustin stopped pacing. "You 'think?' They've been together for like half a year now!" He said, making everyone turn to him, El shushed him while Will made sure Hopper didn't hear.
"How do you know?" Mike asked.
"I caught them making out in the storage room at the Squawk while Robin was working, and i told him," Lucas muttered and nodded to Dustin.
"Ew! Gross!" Mike exclaimed, "and you didn't tell us?" Max complained, "sorry! Steve threatened us." Lucas defended.
"So, why are you pacing if you knew?" Will asked, shifting the attention from you and Steve's sex life to Dustin. Bless him.
"Because they were supposed to take us to the movies tonight but it seems that they forgot because Steve hasn't been answering his radio all day and now Max is telling me that Y/N hasn't either!" Dustin whisper-yelled.
"Again, i thought we were supposed to meet you there!" Max claimed.
Will sighed as he looked at an overwhelmed El. "We're not going to the movies, are we?" She spoke, making Mike hold her tighter.
"I feel like i'm forgetting to do something," Steve muttered against your neck as his cock pounded in and out of you over and over again. You were too fucked out to even comprehend what he was saying, all that was playing in your mind was his name. You grabbed his hair and brought his lips to yours. He kissed you passionately as he fucked you gently.
The bed creaked, the blanket fell lower on his waist, the arm he had on the bed to keep him up started faltering as he started struggling to keep himself up. Your legs were locked around his waist, his other hand was pinning yours above your head as your other hand stayed in his hair.
When he started kissing your neck again that's when the dam broke. You came all over his dick as he came inside you. Painting your gummy walls with thick white ropes of cum. You moaned his name as you rode it out together. "Such a good girl 'f me, huh, baby?" He grunted as he collapsed on your chest.
Once you stopped seeing stars and your body calmed down a bit, you wiped the sweat from his head, slick brown curls stuck to his forehead. "Aw, i wore you out, didn't i?" you teased. His laugh vibrated from his chest—right onto yours. "Are you okay, honey?" he asked as he tiredly lifted his head off your heartbeat to scan your eyes and your face for any signs of uneasiness or discomfort—only to find you just lovingly looking up at him. Your pupils are no longer dilated, your breathing evened out, and the smile on your face is undeniably the most adorable thing he's ever seen.
"I'm okay, baby. Are you okay?"
"Of course 'm okay. Gonna pull out now, take a deep breath 'f me."
He pulled out of you slowly with a whimper as his dick had finally softened—and he could feel your mixed juices starting to leak out of you. He reached toward the bedside nightstand and grabbed a tissue. Gently wiping your sensitive cunt with shaking hands. You couldn't get over how in love you are with him. He's been taking such good care of you for so long now that you questioned how you could've disliked him so much in middle school.
Once he finished wiping you, he collapsed again. This time beside you so he could pull you into his side, wrap his arms around you and never let you go. Your head found his heartbeat, your hand found his abdomen, and your leg slid over his bare waist. His left hand rubbed up and down your spine, his right hand found your bare leg—holding it and anchoring it to his waist, and his lips continuously found your forehead. Placing the most gentle kisses there.
"How was your day, sweetheart?" he asked you, not wanting to not hear your voice—you moved your head slightly so you could look up at him.
"Hm—it was okay, i guess,"
You made eye contact as he listened to you tiredly speak.
"This moring Dustin wouldn't stop trying to radio me because he wanted to make sure that the cinema plans were se—oh my goodness! The kids!"
"Oh shit!" Steve exclaimed as you rushed off him and out of bed.
"They're gonna kill us!" You yelped as you moved around Steve's room to put your clothes back on.
He nearly tripped as he put his jeans back on, "Shit!Shit!Shit! What time is it?"
You find the clock in his room. 7:26pm.
"Fuck! The movie is at eight, Steve! We're not going to make it."
Both of you hurriedly got your clothes back on and frantically looked around for the radio's you abandoned earlier.
"Okay! You were supposed to bring Max and El, right? And i was supposed to take the boys?" Steve asked to make sure the plans he knew were correct as you found the radio behind your backpack that was abandoned by the front door.
"Yes!"
"Okay, i'm gonna go get the girls! If we're quick enough, we should make it. Do you want me to pick up Will and Dustin since they live closer to me?" You asked as you packed your stuff back in your bag.
"Yeah, i think that'll be quicker—you sure you're okay to drive in the dark though?" He asked as he led you to the front door, you turn to him, bag on your shoulder, lipstick smudged slightly, hair a mess. "Sweetheart," you started as his arms wrapped around your waist to give you a hug, "you're the blind one, not me," you teased, "hey! just because i wear glasses—" you cut him off with a look as your arms wrapped around his neck, "i'll see you in a bit. I love you."
He pressed a soft, loving kiss to your lips.
"Drive safe. I love you more, baby."
"Okay, so what do we do now?" Will questioned realizing that their mistake was coming to the Hopper house. "If they're not answering any of their radios they're probably not coming." Mike spoke as they all started sitting on the floor. El rested against him as Max's head found Lucas' lap. Dustin disappointedly dropped in a corner, his head falling against the wall as his elbows rested on his pulled up knees. Will sat near the doorway, watching to see if Hopper walks in.
Will looked up at all of them, "So, since we're not going to the movies, can we play dnd?"
"Seriously, Will?" Mike complained.
The front door opened and they all perked up.
You rushed in frantically after fixing yourself in your car, wiping your smudged make up, soothing down your clothes and your messy hair—Ignoring your passed out father on the couch, you go straight to El's room.
"El! I'm sooo sorry i'm late—" You pause when you see everyone on the floor, "what're you guys doing here? You're supposed to meet us at the cinema."
"Mike missed me, so they came here." El spoke.
"But Steve—"
"He hasn't been answering his radio all day."
Your eyes dart from a grumpy Dustin, to a restless El, to an annoyed Mike, a blushing Will, Max—who looks like she knows something she shouldn't, and a lovesick Lucas who won't take his eyes off Max.
You rush off to your room and grab your phone, dialling Steve's apartment hoping that he hadn't left yet.
"Harrington." He said as he answered, "Steve!" You whisper-yell.
"Oh! Hey, sweetheart. Everything okay? I was just about to leave so i can go get Wheeler and Sinclair."
"No, no. They're here, baby. They're all here. Dustin, Mike, Will, Lucas, Max. They're all so upset because we took forever. How fast can you get to the cinema?"
"Like five minutes. we have at least twenty minutes. That's if the queue isn't long."
"Okay, i'll meet you there. I love you!"
You hang up and rush back to El's room, "get your shoes on, all of you. I'm taking you to the movies, Steve's gonna meet us there."
Will's eyes perked up as he rushed to get his shoes on, the others moved slower. You went over to El to help her tie her lace.
"The queue is going to be long, Y/N. We're not going to get tickets." Dustin grumpily muttered.
"We'll make it! Hurry up and get your shoes on."
By the time you get everyone in the car—it's 7:42.
You start your car, Max is in the passenger seat, behind you is Will—which you're grateful for, knowing that he won't be an annoying little shit who constantly kicks your seat. In the middle is El, squished between Will and Mike, and Mike himself is in between Lucas and El. Dustin's behind Max.
It's a loud drive. Nonstop talking, voices overlapping each other.
By the time you pull into the parking lot—right next to Steve's beamer, it's 7:55.
You and the kids rush out and see the long queue in front of you as you make your way to the box office.
Dustin sighs. "I told you so." You turn around and see all six of them frown in disappointment.
"Hey! What're you guys doing outside? Come on, movies about to start," Steve calls out from the doorway, holding eight tickets in his hand, "Steve!" Dustin yells loudly as he runs to hug his best friend.
You smile as Max, El, and Lucas run fast behind him to get to Steve.
Mike and Will walk next to you as you make your way to them too. "Hey," Steve smiles as soon as he hears your voice.
"Hey. Uh, Lucas? Why don't you grab popcorn and whatever else you guys want?" he says—handing his wallet to the boy.
"Sure, do you guys want anything?" You and Steve both shake your heads, "no thanks, buddy. Go on before you miss the start of the movie." You say.
Lucas and Max make their way to the popcorn stall as Mike takes El, Dustin and Will to go find their seats before it gets dark.
He kisses your cheek once all the kids are out of sight. "Missed you" he mumbled against your forehead as he pulled you in for a hug, "it's been like twenty minutes, Steve!"
"'s too long."
"They don't know about us. Be careful, Harrington."
"I know, we'll tell them soon. Or let 'em figure it out."
"Come on, let's go before we lose all six of our kids."
You and Steve walked hand-in-hand into the theatre, spotting Dustin's curly hair from a mile away. You take the seats the kids left for you, you being in-between El and Steve while Steve's on the far right. On the far left is two empty seats.
"Hurry up, Lucas!" Max complained as Lucas questioned if he should get the kitkat or the pringles. "It's a tough choice!"
Eventually he asked for the pringles—and then grabbed all the snacks off the counter after handing Steve's wallet to Max so she can pay. Lucas wouldn't even let Max hold the popcorn. "I got it, okay!"
Max opened Steve's wallet, but before pulling the money out, a picture catches her eye. It's a picture of you. In the gorgeous dress you wore for the snowball when you were chaperoning with Nancy. But you're not alone. He's next to you. Kissing your cheek. There's a huge smile on your face as his hair tickles your forehead. This means you've been together for a lot longer than Dustin said. Max stopped staring and pulled out a couple bucks to pay.
Lucas looked at her knowingly as they made their way into the theatre. He caught a peek at the picture too.
After getting comfortable in their seats, Max passed down Steve's wallet so that she didn't get in the way of anyone.
She handed it to Will, who then handed it to Dustin, he gave it to Mike and when Mike passed it to El she looked at him confused.
"Give it to Y/N," he whispered in her ear.
She nodded and handed the wallet to you, you took it and gave it to Steve.
Before putting it back into his pocket—he opened it. Just to see that one picture. You caught him in your peripheral and smiled. Shifting closer so that your knees were touching. Close enough that you could put your head on his shoulder. And when you did, he was so thankful that the cinema was now dark so that no one could see how pink he was turning. He kissed your head and grabbed your hand. Not caring if now is when the kids finally figure it out.
But little did he know, Max was still smiling about the picture she had seen.
Just a little oneshot since i haven't written anything in forever, hope you guys liked it! :)
Summary: Co-presenting an award with your boyfriend Joe should be easy, but nerves and sex send your night spiraling into disaster.
Word count: 9.3k
Warnings: +18 MDNI. SMUT (unprotected p in v, riding, kinda breeding kink, sorta lovemaking), more plot than porn tbh, established relationship, basically FLUFF because joe is deeply in love with you, reader is famous af, jacob elordi being a menace to society.
Everyone was obsessed with Joe and you separately, but when you two started dating? No other couple could compare. You had been universally labeled as ‘Hollywood’s IT Couple.’
Even though the absurdly big amount of support had been a surprise, you tried to keep your privacy as much as possible. Supermarket runs were over, TikToks had to be double-checked before posting, and gossip pages were constantly trying to stir up drama. But only Joe and you knew how genuinely incredible your relationship was, and you refused to let fans or media break you apart.
So you didn’t hesitate in accepting the Golden Globes offer to present an award together. You were already nominated for Best Actress in a Television Series, and Joe would obviously be your plus one. People would probably accuse you two of milking your relationship by going to all the red carpets and events together, but after almost a year of dating, you didn’t really care about anyone’s opinion anymore.
So what if you wanted to post a picture of shirtless Joe making you breakfast right before promoting his new album? You knew people were going to run to your Instagram stories, so you might as well get some new fans for The Crux.
'They are so PR!' was the funniest comment you received. If only they knew how devoted you were to each other.
Your manager was ecstatic about the increasing popularity of the Stranger Things season 5 finale and 'End of Beginning.' She wanted you to date someone as famous as you, and even though Joe had a hundred million fewer followers than you, he was unproblematic, well-liked by the media, and growing in popularity.
You had attended the Golden Globes for the last five years, even winning two awards for Best Actress for your main role in your famous HBO tv show, Crashing Waves. Everyone loves to win, but you were feeling a bit shy of possibly winning a third time for the same show. You didn’t want your peers to resent you or think that the show’s producers had a contract with the academy.
Joe thought you were delusional. “Nobody hates you for it, babe. That’s, like, everybody’s favorite show. We all want you to win because you fucking deserve it.”
Maybe he was right, but deep down you hoped somebody else would take the award home.
After a year of constant communication, your managers had become best friends—although Joe and you were sure they were dating—and had chosen the perfect matching outfits for the event.
Joe looked incredibly handsome with a white suit, black pants, and his new blond hair, while you represented the ‘epitome of sexiness’ (Joe’s words) with your sheer black dress.
“How is this matching?” you asked your managers. “We’re wearing opposite colors.”
“Exactly!” Jane exclaimed. “Everyone loves the ‘opposites-attract’ narrative you two have going on.”
Laura, your manager, nodded. “While he looks like an angel, you look like a hot, tempting devil.” She slapped your ass playfully, making Joe glare at her. “No one would be able to look away from you, dear.”
They weren’t wrong; the dark aesthetic of your makeup and dress made you seem as if you would slap anyone who took the award from you.
“You look beautiful,” Joe mumbled on the limousine’s backseat, kissing your hand. “Like you’re gonna spank me and tell me to shut up.”
You smirked. “I don’t have to look like a Disney villain to do that.”
Joe snorted. “You don’t look like a villain at all. More like… a hot vampire.” He scooted closer and kissed your neck. “I need you, baby.”
It was barely seven o’clock, and with the entire event and after party, you’d probably be back at the hotel around three a.m.
You gently pushed him off. “Behave. I can’t have hickeys now.”
“Why not?” he whined and playfully bit your shoulder, making sure to not leave a mark. “That’ll keep the men away.”
“Your presence will be enough for that, honey.”
Joe jokingly gasped, placing a hand on his chest. “What do you mean? Are you calling me possessive?”
Your boyfriend was the least toxic man in the world. Many would even describe him as the sweetest person in any room. But whenever a man would get too close, smile too widely, or eye you a bit too much…
You sighed. “That would be an understatement.”
The red carpet was pretty chaotic, as usual, with camera flashes blinding you, interviewers begging for your attention, and fans screaming for selfies. You used to hate that part, but doing it with Joe reduced all the stress. He kept a supportive hand on your lower back all the time and constantly whispered compliments in your ear. You two had reached enough peace and shamelessness that when fans chanted ‘kiss, kiss, kiss,’ Joe pleased them with a soft, lingering peck on your lips.
“I love you,” he whispered, but everyone read his lips and screamed like crazy.
You just blushed and chuckled as your managers took you inside.
“Oh, my children,” Jane whined with a happy smile while watching the pics she had taken of you on her phone. “If you ever break up, I’ll lock you in a cabin on a remote island until you solve things.”
Joe and you froze, looking at his manager with wide eyes, but an event assistant arrived to escort you to your seats.
Most people were already in their seats, chatting with their colleagues, so there were only two chairs available on your table. Well, of course you were awkwardly sort of late…
Everyone looked up when you arrived.
Joe and you smiled politely at your show’s director, producers, and—
“Oh my god, Jacob Elordi,” you shrieked at your celebrity crush sitting right there, a few meters from you, next to the Frankenstein cast.
They all laughed, bringing you back to reality. You blushed deeply and looked embarrassed at Jacob. “I’m just— Wow. Hey, hi.”
The handsome man’s cheeks were a light shade of pink too. He shook your hand. “Nice to finally meet such a superstar.”
HE KNEW YOU?!
Joe’s squeeze of your hip unfroze you. He knew of your fangirl crush on Jacob Elordi, but having him in person, in front of you, looking a bit flushed too… It wasn’t cute or funny anymore.
You cleared your throat and sat down nervously, looking everywhere but at Jacob. For years, you had seen him from afar in every event, too shy to ask him for a picture, and now he was next to you.
“What the hell!” you mouthed to your boyfriend, discreetly pointing at Jacob. “He’s real?”
Before Joe could reply, Jacob spoke, sending a shudder down your spine. “I’m a big fan of Crashing Waves.”
Oh, you were in a dream. Joe nudged your knee, quietly reminding you to reply.
You looked at Jacob and tried to smile. “Yeah? Y-you’ve seen it?”
Jacob scoffed. “Of course. It’s my favorite. And you? Wow. Amazing performance every damn minute.”
You grasped Joe’s hand beneath the table. It wasn’t the cold air conditioner that was making you tremble.
“Hey, Y/N,” your director called across the table. “You look like a tomato.”
All eyes turned to you before they snickered softly. You covered your face, absolutely embarrassed.
Joe forced a chuckle and soothed your back. “She gets like that with compliments.”
“And how are you gonna receive that award, then?” teased Guillermo del Toro.
Guillermo del Fucking Toro was talking to you. You quickly looked up and hurriedly said, “Mr. del Toro, oh God, pleasure to meet you. Big, big fan of Pinocchio.”
He chuckled and shook your hand. “Most people say ‘Shape of Water,’ but it’s nice hearing something different.”
“We loved Frankenstein,” Joe added, also staring at the man with awe. “I—”
Jacob cut him off. “We were talking about you, actually.”
Your jaw dropped. “M-me?”
He nodded and smiled charmingly. “I was telling Guillermo that you should audition for his next movie.”
You almost stood up from the surprise. With a stoic face, you said, “It’d be the honor of my life, Mr. del Toro.”
The table guests laughed, but Joe knew you were serious. The director waved his hand. “You can just call me Guillermo, dear. Give me your number.”
As you exchanged numbers with the widely awarded man, Joe noticed Jacob’s eyes shamelessly raking all over you, lingering on your cleavage.
Was he fucking serious right now?
Joe put an arm around your shoulders and kissed your temple, trying to discreetly remind Elordi that you were his girlfriend. “Are you still nervous about the award? Because I think I just saw Ayo Edebiri gushing about you with her friends.”
You looked around for your fellow nominee, almost breaking your neck.
But it seemed Joe was invisible to Jacob as he grabbed your hand over the table and talked before you could. “Please, just between us, tell me the end of Crashing Waves.”
Your eyes widened. Jacob Elordi was touching you. Your inner fifteen-year-old, who hated The Kissing Booth saga but watched it a million times because of your favorite actor, would be crashing out right now.
Your tv show’s main producer, Gary, shook his head. “Don’t do it, Y/N. He already tried with me.”
You giggled and… didn’t move your hand away, Joe noticed.
“My contract forbids me to. Sorry,” you said. “Not even my boyfriend knows it.”
Gary snorted. “I don’t believe that one bit.”
You blushed and looked conspiratorially at Joe. “I probably would’ve told him, but he doesn’t wanna be spoiled.”
Joe nodded and took advantage of the table’s attention. “She’s always on the verge of telling me the ending in bed, in the shower, in the car, everywhere!”
Hopefully, the discreet sexual innuendo sent a clear message.
Jacob looked at him for the first time and forced a smile. “Djo, right? ‘Endings of Beginnings’ is a great song.”
Oh, Joe wanted to jump over you and choke the tall man. Every fucking person in the world knew his song. It had been number one on spotify for over two consecutive weeks. But a discreet squeeze on his thigh brought him back to the present.
You had noticed Jacob’s jab and didn’t like it one bit. The excitement about meeting your celebrity crush was gone. Your jaw tightened and your smile turned pursed.
Next to Jacob, Mia Goth chuckled. “I told you it’s ‘End of Beginning’! I played it all the time at my trailer.” She waved excitedly at you two. “While y’all were chatting, I was looking for this.”
She passed you her phone with a wide smile. Joe and you gasped at the screenshot of her Spotify Wrapped having both of you as her top two artists.
“I definitely did not beg the Golden Globes producers to put you two at our table,” she teased with a wink. “Can we take a picture at the commercial break?”
Joe and you nodded eagerly. “Of course!”
Even after years of making music and acting, meeting fans always filled your hearts, especially if they were your Hollywood colleagues.
“She’s working on her new album,” Joe pointed at you, making Mia gasp.
You chuckled and shook your head. “Not really. I’ve written, like, fifty songs but nothing concrete.”
Mia couldn’t care less about Jacob as she scooted her chair closer and grasped your hand over the table. “Is it a love album? I mean, your depressive ones are my faves, but I’m sure you’ll do great romantic songs.”
“They are,” Joe quickly said, loud enough for a certain giant man to listen.
You chuckled and squeezed Mia’s hand. “How can I not write love songs when I have such a muse?”
It was Joe’s turn to blush as everyone—except Jacob—‘aww’ed. But he wasn’t ashamed in the slightest; he was filled with joy. For a long time, he had wished for someone to love him as hard as he did, with the silly love songs and irrational, sporadic love acts.
And he finally found you, a poet wanting to be the muse of another poet. Your love languages matched and there wasn’t a paper in your apartment without a love poem written on it.
He kissed your cheek and whispered, “I love you.”
“A picture!”
A flash blinded you two. An event photographer had approached the table and was now asking the Frankenstein cast to get together for a general picture.
Joe and you scooted your chairs back to avoid appearing on the photo, finally getting a peaceful second for yourselves.
But an assistant suddenly appeared behind you with a clipboard and a pen. “Mrs. and Mr. Y/L/N, you’re the sixth presenters. I’ll come look for you in… twenty minutes. Be ready.” Then rushed to the next table.
You paled, randomly forgetting which award you were presenting for. But Joe smirked and said, “I loved that he called me ‘Mr. Y/L/N.’ I can get used to it, to be honest.”
So focused on your work, you hadn’t even noticed the assistant’s slip. You beamed and pinched his cheek. “But I want to be Mrs. Keery so bad, honey. I love your last name.”
“Okay, then you be Mrs. Keery and I’ll be Mr. Y/L/N,” he teased, causing you to chuckle.
“That defeats the whole purpose!”
Joe gasped, startling you, as his eyes found his table’s name card. He picked it up and showed it to you. “I’m ‘Joe Keery-Y/L/N,’ and you’ll address me like that from now on.”
Your jaw dropped too. What were the Golden Globes’ assistants playing at? Yours didn’t include his last name, so it had definitely been on purpose.
“This is coming home with me.” Joe kept looking at it with awe. “Take a pic of me holding it, please.”
Your cheeks hurt from how much you were smiling at his cute reaction. In another universe, your ex-boyfriend would’ve been pissed by it. You took the photos with your phone, already wanting them as your new wallpaper.
But behind Joe, in the background of the pic… You gasped and almost dropped the phone. Joe turned around confused. “What?”
“Ariana Grande looks wonderful!” you screamed in a whisper.
The singer/actress was on a faraway table, calmly chatting with Selena Gomez. Joe raised his eyebrows. “She’s brunette. Wasn’t she blonde, like, yesterday?”
You sighed and patted his back. “Just because we rewatched Wicked For Good yesterday doesn’t mean it was filmed yesterday, baby.” He rolled his eyes, but you weren’t done. “You’re the newest blondie in town. No one will take your crown.”
He looked deadpan at you but couldn’t help smiling at your joke. “Be thankful you’re cute and I love you.”
You sent him a flying kiss and looked back at your phone. “She’s nominated for a Wicked song.”
Joe leaned closer to see the list too. “Uhh, the one I like? She’ll sing it?”
Oh, you were so in love with your chronically offline boyfriend. “No, babe. Popular is from the first movie.” You scrolled down and sighed. “Forget it. Golden will definitely win.”
He frowned and naively asked, “The Harry Styles song you like?”
You stared at him quietly for half a minute, then nodded. “Yeah, his 2019 hit is so nominated.”
Joe rolled his eyes at your teasing and leaned back on his chair. “I’ll never ask you anything again ever.”
“You’re not gonna speak to me anymore?” you smirked. “Give me this, then.”
When you reached for his name card, Joe quickly shielded it from you, keeping it close to his chest. “No, no. Don’t steal the highlight of my year.”
“It’s January 12th.”
“Enough days to know that I want to marry you this year,” he joked.
But your heart stopped. A man can’t just… joke about something like that! You cleared your throat and tried to act nonchalant. “I’m busy this year. Too many projects. Try in 2027.”
Joe’s arms encircled your hips to pull you closer. He kissed your cheek and whispered in your ear, “I’ll kidnap you, then. Fuck the movie industry.”
“It’ll fall apart without me,” you shrugged, pretending to be inspecting your nails.
“Oh, so true. They’ll lose their best actress,” he mumbled between kisses. And this time, you knew he wasn’t joking, which just flustered you more.
“Hey, loverbirds!” Gary, your show’s producer, threw a balled-up napkin your way. “Shut up. Shit’s starting.”
Blushing, you two pulled apart and pretended to pay attention to the host’s speech. Yet as the woman talked and joked, Joe’s hand suddenly found its way under your dress’s crease and started caressing up your thigh. You discreetly side-glanced at him.
“Don’t…” you muttered as his thumb reached the edge of your underwear.
But he didn’t move his hand away and you didn’t want him to stop, so you clapped and smiled while presenters announced winners and they gave their speeches.
By the third award, you discreetly leaned closer to Joe and muttered with a hand covering your mouth “What the hell are you—?”
His fingers grazed your clothed clit, making you flinch. You covered it with a cough while he just smiled calmly at the stage, paying all the attention in the world.
Casually, you placed an arm on his chair and ghosted your nails across his back. It seemed like a normal, loving action, but Joe knew better. His smile wavered as he tried to push your hand away without being too obvious.
“Dont play…,” he mouthed.
You smiled innocently and looked back at the stage. He wanted to play dirty? Well so could you.
But the challenging vibe left you when he pressed your clit hard. An inevitable gasp escaped your lips, catching your table’s attention.
You forced a smile and lied, “Sorry. I just love that movie.”
Hamnet’s trailer was playing on the screens… It hadn’t even hit theaters in America. But they believed you and returned their direction to the show.
Joe quickly whispered in your ear. “You’re so wet already.”
You pushed him off instinctively, then faked a smile and squeezed his shoulder, just in case a camera was on you.
Joe smirked and tried to move your panties to the side. Alright, enough. You scooted closer to the table, grabbed his wrist, and mumbled, “I’ll murder you if—”
“Excuse me.”
You both gasped at the sudden squeaky voice, jumping away from each other as if electrified.
Standing awkwardly behind you, the assistant raised her hands and whispered, “Sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you, guys. I need to take you backstage.”
Joe discreetly wiped his fingers on the chair and nodded. You forced a smile and stood up, hoping there wasn’t a wet spot in your dress.
“What is wrong with you?!” you whispered to Joe as the woman guided the way.
He put an arm around your waist and shrugged. “I… honestly don’t know. You look so hot and fucking Elordi was hitting on you—”
“He wasn’t.”
But not even you could deny it. You smirked as your cheeks turned pink. “He so was, right?”
Joe rolled his eyes but smiled at your cuteness. “Who wouldn’t? You’re the most beautiful woman in the room.”
The second the backstage doors closed behind you, your hands found the nape of his neck as you pulled him down to a kiss. He grabbed your hips to press you closer and opened his mouth to deepen it.
“Hey, hey. Don’t mess up the makeup,” your manager appeared to ruin the moment.
Behind her, various assistants and crew were rushing around, making sure the show was running perfectly. Laura pulled out a small mirror and your lipstick. “Re-apply. Joe, don’t forget your glasses. Follow the woman; you have to be on stage in three minutes.”
Joe stared with hunger as you applied the expensive lipstick. Pretending not to notice him, you sent a kiss to the mirror and pouted. He distracted himself by focusing on the assistant leading them.
“Remember: you can drift from the teleprompter words, but not completely, okay?” she said.
You nodded and gave her your lipstick and mirror. “Can you please give this to that woman, the one that looks constipated?”
A few feet behind you, Laura mouthed, “I can hear you!”
The assistant left you two on the entrance spot behind the curtain and next to the stage. From there, you could see the Heated Rivalry actors chatting excitedly with Michael B. Jordan.
“There are only, like, six songs nominated. We could’ve listened to them,” Joe sighed.
You shrugged. “I did.”
“What?!” he gasped. “When?”
“This morning while you were showering.”
Joe feigned sadness as he shook his head. “You should’ve waited for me. Now I can’t judge the Oscar dudes that never watch all the nominated movies.”
You rolled your eyes. “Joe, we won’t choose the winning song. It’s completely different.”
Your boyfriend put an arm around your waist to pull you close and whispered, “I was joking. Laugh or I’m breaking up with you.”
You pressed your lips in a line, refusing to give in… but he started tickling you. “Stop! Joe—”
“Shh!” The assistant was back, looking a bit angrier, and gave Joe an envelope. “We’re coming back from commercials in thirty seconds. The camera is already on you. Good luck!”
You both stayed quiet until she had walked out of listening range, then looked at each other nervously.
“I’m shaking,” Joe confessed, showing you his trembling hands.
You whined, “Joe, you’re supposed to calm me!”
He put on his glasses and sighed. “We got this…”
“I love your sluttly little glasses,” you whispered in a shaky voice.
“Thanks,” he mumbled with his eyes glued to the camera. “We should’ve taken a shot before this.”
“We’re fine…” You grabbed his free hand. “Let’s enter like this instead of the elbow-holding thingy. We look like the Hunger Games tributes when they—”
“Coming to the stage,” a thundering voice came from the speakers. “you know him from Stranger Things and she’s the two-time Golden Globe winner… it’s Joe Keery and Y/N Y/L/N.”
That was your cue, of course. Joe and you walked hand in hand to the stage and towards the microphone. Everyone applauded as the chorus from End of Beginning played on the speakers. You could already imagine millions of fans shrieking excitedly at their screens.
As you mentally reminded yourself to not trip over your feet, your eyes found the teleprompter. Joe and you had already practiced two days ago in that same spot, something along “Music is an art that—”
…That wasn’t on the teleprompter. What? Joe and you stopped right behind the microphone, his eyes on you since your line was the first. Hadn’t he realized the changes?!
Oh, shit. The words were moving fast. You smiled and started, “Uhm… Showtunes, k-pop, blues, pop, rock, americana, this year’s nominees for Best Original Song are truly all over the place.”
Even though you sounded out of breath and rushed, Joe talked smoothly, “Seriously. If you show up at a party and they play all six of our nominees in a row, you'd be psyched because they are all incredible…”
You discreetly side-eyed him. Joe hadn’t even listened to them. Well, maybe he vaguely remembered the Wicked ones… although you had heard a light snore coming from him during The Girl in the Bubble.
“But you'd also have a few questions,” Joe’s line was the cue to yours.
You quickly looked back at the teleprompter just as your line went away. “Eh… Yeah, a million,” you improvised. “Like, damn, who wrote that masterpiece?”
Joe blinked, his plastered smile wavering. Your improv wasn’t really a match with the original “What are you on?” line.
He forced a chuckle and quickly saved it. “Yeah, or what are you on?”
“How much—” you started, then realized it was his line.
“...are you on?” Joe continued, trying to make it look like it had been on purpose. Oh, the cute couple are completing each other's lines!
“And can I please have some?” you finally read correctly.
Joe smiled proudly at you and said the last line, “All great questions. Now here is one more: Who is taking home the Golden Globe tonight?”
The camera’s red light disappeared as the show started displaying the nominees section. Your smiles disappeared instantly.
You grasped your boyfriend’s arm and whispered, “They changed that or am I schizophrenic?!”
“Both.” Joe tried to sound reassuring. “I mean, yeah I think they did. And it was going so fast. It wasn’t your fault, baby.”
“I never said it was…”
A three-second countdown appeared in the teleprompter. Joe squeezed your hand warningly and both of your charming, fake smiles came back.
“And the Golden Globe goes to…” you exclaimed.
Joe tried to open the envelope, but his fingers had turned sweaty from the nervousness, and it fell to the floor. You gasped dramatically at the worst case scenario happening.
Just as you leaned down to help, Joe stood up, crashing the back of his head into your collarbone.
“Ouch!”
“Sorry!”
You took a step back and collided with the microphone. “Ah!” you screamed as you quickly reached for it.
Joe winced, but managed to help you keep the mic stand straight. “Shit. I mean, oh—” He covered his mouth when one of the only curse word he was told not to say slipped out.
You leaned into the mic and yelled, “And the Oscar goes to…!”
“Golden Globe,” Joe corrected before squinting his eyes to read the envelope, “Uhm… Golden, The Hunters—”
“Kpop Demon Hunters,” you tried to correct, but the loud music and applause overshadowed your voices.
Joe gently grabbed your elbow and dragged you to the side of the stage. An assistant hesitantly looked at Joe before deciding to give you the award.
“They’re never calling us for this again,” Joe whined, rubbing the nape of his neck stressfully.
Before you could reply, the winner climbed up the stairs. You smiled widely and gave her the Golden Globe.
“Congrats!” you both exclaimed.
The woman briefly thanked you before walking to the microphone. On cue, you two rushed to the backstage.
“That was a mess. I’m not entering twitter for a week,” you whined.
Joe soothed your back. “Okay, people laughed… maybe with us and not at us?”
“Hey! Stop!”
You jumped at the desperate whisper behind you. The same assistant that had led you to the stage was running towards you.
“You have to present a second award! The best score!”
“Ohh!” Joe and you gasped as realization dawned in your faces.
You almost slapped your forehead at the collective loss of memory happening between both of you. Maybe spending too much time together was making your brain cells mix into just a big, stupid one.
“Here you go.” The woman gave Joe the result envelope.
He grimaced and shoved it into your hands. “Not doing that again.”
You stared at it as if it were a boiled potato. “But why me?!”
“Hurry up!” the woman yelled in a whisper. “Get on stage now!”
The previous winner was ending her speech in tears while you two tried to discreetly stand behind her. Applause aroused as the singer stepped away with her award, your sign to present the second nomination.
“Congratulations to Golden, Kpop Demon Hunters,” you said with a smile.
“Alright, everybody, now the award for Best Original Score Motion Picture,” Joe followed. “And the nominees are…”
You both released a breath of relief as the show switched to list the different movies and musicians.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Joe whispered.
Biting your lip, you carefully tried to open the envelope. You suddenly froze and said, “Oh my God… What if I say it wrong?”
Joe frowned, taking a quick look at the screen to make sure they weren’t on air. “What? How?”
“I don’t know! Look at the La La Land/Moonlight scandal and—”
The red dot reappeared on the camera. You two smiled again and Joe said, “And the Golden Globe goes to…”
You finally opened the envelope and forgot all professionalism as you gasped excitedly, “Ludwig Goransson from Sinners! Yeah!”
Joe applauded along with the crowd. He did remember that movie… “We went to that premiere, right?”
“Yeah, the one where my sister threw up after three margaritas.”
You received the award from an assistant and waited eagerly to give it to the artist.
The winner shook Joe’s hand before accepting the award and giving you a kiss on the cheek.
“Congrats! I love the Oppenheimer score,” you hurriedly told him.
“Oh, thanks!” He chuckled and walked to the mic.
Joe found your hand and intertwined your fingers. He squeezed it before whispering in your ear. “I think we did pretty good.”
But your manager didn’t think the same.
As the show finally went to a commercial break, Laura met you backstage with an exasperated face.
“They cut the Best Score one from the main broadcast,” she said.
You gasped. “What?! But we ate on that one!”
“Well, they only played the horrible one,” Laura grunted. “How could you forget to read the fucking teleprompter, Y/N? It’s there for a reason!”
While your manager and you bickered about the recent mess, all sound from the room vanished for Joe as he stared at you lovingly. He couldn’t get over how perfect that dress fitted you. It hugged you in all the right ways… especially your ass.
His pants were getting tighter. He mentally thanked his manager for choosing black pants that could make his hard-on barely noticeable.
Joe’s arms engulfed your waist as he pressed behind you. To anyone, it looked as if he was giving you a casual romantic hug, but you understood the message. Or, well, felt it.
You stopped fighting with Laura at the familiar feeling of your boyfriend’s big hard cock. Your cheeks turned red and you quickly looked around to see if anyone had noticed.
Laura sighed deeply as she typed on her phone. “Whatever. People think you’re funny and cute. That’s all I need. See you later.”
“Bye!” Joe exclaimed in a teasing tone only for you.
You patted his arms and muttered, “Didn’t realize the Sinners score could be so arousing for you?”
He pressed closer and whispered. “No one will notice if we disappear.”
“Uhm, literally everyone will,” you fought back as you tried to push him off. “Babe, it’s too risky. There’s always eyes on us.”
On you, Joe wanted to say. No one cares that much about him, maybe the Stranger Things fans, but he doubted most of the awarded, famous artists in that room respected his show.
You on the other hand? Joe was aware of how heads turned whenever you passed, how most artists were nervous of talking to you and wouldn’t even try most of the time.
If they only knew how approachable and down-to-earth you were. If they could see you fangirling over romance books at one in the morning in nothing but an oversize shirt of his and a skincare mask.
Although… in all honesty, Joe was glad he was the only one with the privilege to know you like the back of his hand. To know the real you, not Y/N Y/L/N the most famous young actress and singer of this century.
Joe held you tighter and kissed your cheek. “Baby… please. Look at what you’re doing to me.”
You almost moaned when he rubbed his hardness against your ass.
“But we’ll only have, like, five minutes to do anything.”
Joe’s whisper in your ear sent shivers down your spine. “You know I can make you come in less time, honey.”
Fuck… Lust was clouding your mind. Maybe no one would notice the empty spots on your table.
“Fine. Go to the second floor men’s bathroom and wait for me until the next commercial break.”
He pulled away before tenderly kissing your lips. “You’re the best.”
“I know,” you mumbled and watched him rush to the closest elevator. “Damn…” you said to yourself, entertained by his eagerness.
Joe was so pathetic for you.
— — —
It had been ten minutes with no news of you. Joe was walking around the small space anxiously with his jeans and boxers bunched down to his knees, his hand teasing his cock with short strokes.
“Where the fuck are you?” he muttered to the quiet air.
Meanwhile, in the grand salon, the winner finished his speech and the show took a commercial break. A five-minute countdown started on the screens.
You cursed internally as you ran out of the room before anyone could try speaking to you.
On all the past breaks, people had bombarded you, asking about your future projects, about your relationship, about Crashing Waves… These events were for networking, but you were sort of done with the small talk and forced chuckles.
You lowkey needed dick.
Fine, you were craving Joe, but you had tried being more discreet and patient.
Waiters and assistants were running all around the venue, taking drinks, aiding people, and making sure the show was going perfectly. They were too distracted to notice you slipping behind the bar to the elevator… except for the two young bartenders who frowned at your obvious attempt at discretion.
They wouldn’t say anything, so you paid them no mind and pressed the button marking ‘2.’ The doors closed and displayed your reflection. You sighed nervously and brushed your hair with your fingers. Why were you even doing that? It was going to get messy after your ‘activities’ with Joe.
The hallways on the second floor were quietly empty, as you had expected. Why would people go anywhere but the bar during the breaks? You took off your heels and ran to the men’s bathroom.
Your heart was thumping from the adrenaline, your pussy getting wet from the danger of it all. The last stall’s door was just closing. You smirked and put the heels on; you cleared your throat and made sure your steps sounded as you approached it.
“So naughty, so desperate, so pathetic,” you filled the silence. “You just can’t keep it in your pants, huh? Maybe a blowjob would make you behave.”
You pushed the door hard, but your smile vanished in an instant, replaced by a horrified gasp.
Kevin Hart had his hands frozen on his unbuckled belt. He looked scared until he recognized you. He raised his hands and smirked. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m happily married, dear.”
You took a step back and looked away, even if he was dressed. Your face was burning as you stumbled over your words. “Oh my— I’m so, so sorry. My boyfriend… Shit, I… This is—”
“Hey, it’s fine. I supposed you were looking for somebody else,” Kevin chuckled. “I’m glad you met me instead, to be honest. I’m a big fan of your work!”
The clock was ticking as you wondered where your boyfriend could’ve gone. You had been very clear: the second-floor men’s bathroom. How could he get confused at that? Had the horniness messed with his head?
You finally turned your eyes back to Kevin Hart and smiled nervously. “Thanks. I loved…” You couldn’t really remember any of his work. “...when you slapped Will Smith.”
He snickered and sat down on the toilet. “I know probably everyone tells you this, but, man… Crashing Waves is the best tv show in history. I have, like, ten thousand Tiktok edits on my gallery. Oh, and my family loves it. We sit together to watch every season and— Wait…” He pulled out his phone. “Can you make a short video for my daughter? She loves your music.”
Thoughts of Joe disappeared the moment he mentioned his daughter. You gasped excitedly. “Of course! What’s her name?”
After you recorded various videos saying hi to Kevin Hart’s kids (then to his siblings, cousins, and nephews), you promised him tickets to your next tour and refused his insistent offer of giving you his brother’s phone number. You could’ve just walked out, but your people-pleasing self didn’t want to seem rude.
The speakers had announced the ending of the break in thirty seconds, but you couldn’t go back without finding Joe. Kevin Hart gave you a grateful hug and finally let you escape.
The women’s bathroom was empty, so you ran downstairs and threw open the first-floor men’s bathroom. “Joe?” You were never repeating the mistake of opening stalls without asking. “Are you here?”
A hand came up from a stall. “Here!”
The second he saw your heels outside his door, Joe opened it and pulled you into a fierce kiss. “What took you so long?”
You fell back into the closed door and tried to kiss him back while talking. “I went to the bathrooms upstairs but you weren’t there.”
He frowned, pulling back. “You said second floor.”
“Yeah, and this is the first one.”
“No, it’s the second. The elevator didn’t work, so I climbed a set of stairs and…” He stopped as realization dawned on him. “And that floor was the Lobby, so this is the first, and the second is—”
“Upstairs,” you muttered. “I walked in on Kevin Hart almost taking a shit.”
But instead of laughing, Joe shut you up with another kiss. “Don’t talk about other men while I’m trying to fuck you,” he joked.
“Yeah ‘cause I was definetly gonna blow Kevin Hart.” You rolled your eyes.
Joe’s kisses dropped to your neck as his hands wandered to your butt. “I don’t know. You like slaps and kinky shit like that.”
You pushed him to the closed toilet and straddled him. “Alright, the commercial break is over, but we should make this quick anyway.”
Joe’s arms wrapped around your waist to pull you flush against him. You started to grind your hips, making him moan. “Fuck…”
He had his jeans and underwear hanging on his knees, his hard cock leaking against his tummy.
You licked your lips and stood up. After bunching up your dress, you tried to kneel, but Joe stopped you. “No, wait. I don’t want that. I need to be inside you, baby,” he pleaded.
“But I’m not prepared enough.” You pulled down your thong to show your semi-wet pussy.
If he didn’t eat you out before penetrating you, his cock would hurt you terribly. It was difficult getting used to such size.
“It’s okay.” Joe casually pulled out a condom and a small bottle of lube from his pants’ pocket.
Your jaw dropped. “Have you been carrying that all night?”
He shrugged, smirking. “After I saw you trying on that dress, I knew I wouldn’t control myself all night, sweetheart.”
You blinked, frowning, then snorted. “Joe, that could’ve fallen out of your pocket mid-presentation!”
Joe opened the condom and carefully put it on. He uncapped the bottle and poured lube on his fingers. “And? Is not as if people don’t know couples have sex.”
You caressed his blond hair. “Baby, the Golden Globes is a PG-13 show. You would’ve traumatized more than just our family.”
Joe froze and grimaced. “Can we go back to sexy talk? It’s odd thinking of our families while I’m touching my dick.”
You opened your mouth but just chuckled. “I’m sorry! Uhm…” You spat on your clit and rubbed it. “Wait, did you just say ‘sexy talk’? What are you? Fifteen?”
Joe shut you up by inserting three lubed fingers inside you. Normally, he could get you wet in seconds, but for the sake of time, lube will have to do.
You moaned as he moved them quickly, preparing you. “Fuck, Joe… Just like that.”
But he took them off, wiped them on his thigh and pulled you back to straddling his lap. Obediently and on instinct, you tried to get comfortable enough to ride him. Joe leaned back, his hands dropping to caress your thighs as he looked up at you with darkened eyes.
“You look so hot, baby,” he whispered. “Gonna ride me good?”
You grabbed his protected cock and aligned it on your prepared entrance. “Gonna give you what you want so you can shut up.”
His hips flexed slightly as his tip grazed you. “I’ll never shut up about you. You’re too beautiful. My pretty girl.”
You held onto his shoulders while sinking down on him. Joe threw his head back with a choked groan, the grasp on your hips tightening like a vise, like he needed to remind himself you were really on top of him.
“Oh, God!” you whined at the size. You were barely sitting on half of it.
Joe kissed your collarbone and soothed your hips. “It’s okay, baby. Take your time.”
“We don’t have time,” you muttered. Closing your eyes, you sank down completely. “Fuck!”
His breath turned uneven, his voice already wrecked. “Baby, I’m not lasting long. F-feels so good. Y-you feel… P-please move.”
You braced yourself and started riding him fast, ignoring the pain and focusing on your boyfriend’s pleasure. His hands slid up to your lower back, squeezing your ass hard.
“You’re so perfect. Making me insane just by just existing… I’ve needed you since we got into that limousine,” he murmured into your neck, his teeth scraping over the perfumed skin at your neck. “So good for me. Only me.”
You moaned and threw your hair back to give him more access. “Only yours, Joe. I’m yours.”
His nails were marking your skin as he helped you ride him. Joe knew he was on the verge of finishing, but he wanted you to do it first. And he knew exactly how.
Joe spanked you hard before gripping your chin and angling your face back to him. “Damn right you’re mine. This pussy was made for me.” He pressed a messy, possessive kiss to your lips, biting the lower one. “I’m not letting you go. Not even if goddamn Elordi tries to charm you again.”
You smirked and rolled your hips harder. “I knew you would get jealous about that. He was just being friendly.”
He gripped your hair and pulled you closer. “Don’t play. He was flirting with you.”
You had no patience to tease him, so you shoved down your dress straps. “I don’t care about him. He’s nothing compared to you, Joe.” You arched your back and pushed his head down to your breasts. “The only one that I want inside me, the only one that can touch me.”
Joe’s eyes turned darker before he started to press open-mouthed kisses across your chest.
“No marks,” you reminded him.
He groaned and captured one of your nipples in his mouth. His hand gripped your waist as he moved you up and down his length, his hips flexing up to meet yours.
“So pretty. So soft… Fucking obsessed with you,” he murmured against your skin.
His thumb brushed over the other nipple, delightfully watching your reactions. You gasped and moaned as your legs burned from the effort of riding him in such a small space.
You were getting close, but it wasn’t enough. Rubbing yourself wouldn’t be as pleasurable.
“Baby…” you whined. “Take off the condom.”
Joe’s entire body went still. He released your nipple and looked up at you hesitantly. “Honey—” His voice was rough, and he was trying to not show too much eagerness. “Are you sure? You aren’t on the pill.”
You were too horny to think straight. “Whatever. I’ll take a Plan B tomorrow. There’s a pharmacy in front of the hotel.”
Joe knew he had to think rationally, but it was too difficult with you half-naked on top of him, begging him for something he had dreamed of since the moment he met you.
You noticed his hesitation, so you pressed yourself closer and kissed his jaw. “I need to feel you completely, Joe. Need you to fill me up—”
You hadn’t even finished talking when Joe was already standing up with you in his arms. Who was he trying to lie to? He would always give you anything you wanted. Anything.
He pressed you against the door and pulled out. His shaky hands took off the condom, throwing it to the floor, and sank back into you.
“Holy shit,” he whimpered, his fingers digging painfully into your thighs. “Fuck— Feels great.”
Your pussy clenched at feeling him raw for the first time, welcoming him. There was no going back after this. Now, you finally belonged to each other. Your legs wrapped against him as he accelerated his thrusts.
“Fuck, Joe! Yes, yes!” you moaned loudly and shamelessly.
The door rattled behind you with each rough snap of his hips against yours. “I love you. Love you so fucking much. Moan my name again.”
You threw your head back as he buried his face against your neck. “Joe! L-love you too. Don’t s-stop, baby.”
The overwhelming feeling of your bare pussy around him was attacking all of his body. In that moment, Joe knew he never wanted to be inside anyone else ever again.
“I’ve loved you ever since I met you,” he confessed. “Ever since I saw you singing at that Christmas party, I knew I was ruined.”
He looked at you, pressing his forehead against yours as he kept fucking you.
“I’m so fucking ruined. You’re it for me, Y/N. You’re my everything,” he murmured before kissing you firmly. “My all, my world… I’m never letting you go. No point in living if I’m not loved by you.”
You were sort of taken aback by his sudden romantic words; he was usually more of a dirty talker during sex, leaving the cute poetry for his songs. But it seemed that romance was getting you closer to the edge as you clenched around him.
“Yeah? You’re obsessed with me?” you joked with a breathy moan.
“So much,” he said without hesitation. “Can’t believe every day I wake up with the prettiest, smartest, most talented woman by my side.”
You chuckled and kissed him softly. “Rub my clit, honey.”
He obeyed instantly, holding your body with an arm and finding your weakest point with his right hand. “I mean it, babe. I’m devoted to you. You have me wrapped around your finger.”
“And my pussy,” you teased before biting your lip hard.
You were on the verge… just a tiny bit more.
“Let me come inside you,” Joe whimpered in a shaky voice. His pupils were blown in lust, looking feral and drunk. His thumb was rubbing your clit with all his might. “Please… I can feel you close. Need to fill you up, baby. Need to make you mine…”
With just a brief nod from you, Joe gripped your hips hard and let himself come undone deep inside you. Feeling his cum painting your insides made you follow him over the edge. Your body trembled as a broken moan escaped your lips.
He kept you close as both tried to recover your breaths. You could feel each other's rapid heartbeats filling the quiet bathroom. Joe pressed gentle kisses on your neck and jaw.
“Don’t take the pill tomorrow,” he murmured.
You froze.
Joe slowly kissed around your face as he kept going. “I meant everything I said. I’m yours, and I wanna be yours forever. Don’t take it and let’s start a family. Together. Ours.”
When he pulled back and noticed your shocked face, he knew he had fucked up. Joe gulped and pulled out. He quickly pulled out his coat’s handkerchief and pressed it on your leaking pussy to avoid a mess on the floor.
“I, uhm… I meant that if you want to take the pill or not, it’s your choice, and I’ll be okay with whichever,” he whispered, trying to calm you or get a different reaction from you. “But it’s your choice, okay? Didn’t mean to sound like I was pressuring you or—”
“No, no. It didn’t feel like that at all,” you quickly reassured him.
“It’s just… I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind cancelling the tour to have a baby with you,” he confessed but quickly regretted it. “I’m sorry. I must be overwhelming you. I just —”
“And here are the nominees for Best Actress in a Television series,” was heard on the hallway’s speakers.
The show had continued, of course, but you hadn’t paid mind to it until now.
Joe and you paled, going still for a second, before quickly rearranging your clothes.
“Please not me, please not me,” you whispered nervously.
Joe helped you tidy your messy post-sex hair as you ran out of the bathroom. You hadn’t even taken a look at your reflection, but you were sure there was no lipstick on your lips and that your mascara had probably gotten mushy around your eyes.
“Do I look like I just got fucked?” you asked him as you ran down the last set of stairs to the main lobby.
Joe took a long glance at you and pressed his lips in a line. He lied, “No. Just…” He rubbed your under-eye nervously. “Uhm…”
“And the Golden Globe goes to…”
Joe and you grabbed each other’s hands instinctively as you stood outside the doors. He had rooted for you all season… but now he was sort of wishing for Ayo Edebiri to win.
“Y/N Y/L/N!”
“Fuck!” you both yelled.
Joe brushed your hair one last time before pushing you to the door. “Go, go!”
“I’m on it!” you groaned and hesitantly entered the theater.
There were three cameramen frantically looking for you near your table. You held the bottom of your dress up and rushed across the tables with shaky ‘excuse me’s.
“She is here!”
“Over there!”
You waved and smiled awkwardly as a camera found you and the crowd could finally applaud. People were standing up—oh wow—and patting your back as you passed by them.
“Congrats!”
“You were great!”
“So deserved!”
You thanked back and shook as many hands as you could until you reached the stage’s stairs. Why were they made of crystal? Ugh. You carefully climbed them, but at the last one, you stumbled.
Gasps filled the room. An event’s assistant ran to your side before you could fall, but you were already covering your face from the embarrassment. Well, maybe you could blame your messy state on the almost-fall.
Jason Bateman gave you the award. “Congrats! You alright?”
You forced a smile and nodded. “Yeah, thanks!”
People sat down as you finally reached the microphone. Out of habit, you brushed your hair out of your face and behind your shoulders. “Oh God… I’m never going to the bathroom mid-show again!”
Laughter ran across the place while you were internally panicking because the speech you prepared was in your purse. Time to improvise.
“Thank you, Golden Globes. I know this was a hard decision since all my fellow nominees were great. And I mean that, I watched all their shows. And uhm… Yeah. Uhm… My Crashing Waves family, thank you for the support, for trusting me with this wonderful character through every season, since I was only twenty-one and inexperienced and… a nervous mess, just like I am right now!”
On your table, your show’s producer laughed along with the crowd. Right behind him, Joe was discreetly reaching his seat.
And everything made sense again.
You smiled warmly and held the award closer to your chest. “I also wanna thank my partner of almost two years, Joe.” You sighed and looked directly at him. “This was a hard season with all the messed-up things that my character went through, and I know I wouldn’t have survived without you. You who always had pancakes and scrambled eggs ready every morning I had to go to set. You who missed many music events to be with me on set. You who helped me escape my mental monsters every night in your arms.”
Joe was looking up at you with adoration as he mouthed an ‘I love you.’
You giggled, your eyes getting tearful. “I love you more.” There were so many things you wanted to pour out of your heart, but maybe they were for your boyfriend’s ears only.
“Uhm, so yeah,” you turned back to the crowd. “Thanks to everyone I didn’t mention but knows I appreciate them. Bye!”
This time, an assistant was already ready to escort you down the stairs. You held his arm and whispered, “Sorry that I got you doing this too. I bet you have a lot to do already.”
He shook his head and smiled widely. “Having you touching my arm is the highlight of my life!”
“Oh!” you chuckled and patted his arm. “Want a selfie?”
After taking a picture with a few more assistants, you went back to your table. Gary, your show’s producer, hugged you tightly. “Oh, my darling Y/N. I’m so proud of you.”
You thanked everyone at the table and, finally, walked to your boyfriend. He was waiting for you with a smile and a rose. You frowned. “Where did you get this?”
Joe placed an arm around your waist, pulled you close, and kissed your head. “Stole it from a vase on the bar. The waiter said it was fine if it was for you… then she asked me if we were secretly married and I said yes just for fun.”
Your frown deepened, but you laughed and kissed him on the lips. “You’re an idiot.”
“Your idiot,” he corrected, murmuring against your lips. He gave you the rose and stroked your cheek with his thumb. “Congrats on the award, honey. I kinda cried with your speech.”
“I had so much more prepared!” you whined and looked for the crumbled up paper on your purse. “I was gonna thank my family, your mom, my high school art teacher, every girl around the world who dreams to be an actress, and our dog.”
Joe blinked as a smile slowly formed on his face. “Every girl who dreams to be an actress?”
“Yeah! I wanted to tell them to follow their dreams and not let men step on them,” you sighed sadly. “I’ll just put it in my Instagram post caption.”
Joe opened his mouth to speak, but he forgot everything when he noticed a very visible red mark below your jaw, at the left side of your neck. It hadn’t been noticeable while you were on stage due to the various spotlights… but on camera.
You frowned at his sudden silence. “What—?”
He covered the hickey with your hair and shook his head. “Nothing. Just… don’t move your hair from there… and we should probably skip the after-party.”
You paled as you slowly understood. Instinctively, you dove your hand in your purse for your phone. Joe stopped you. “Don’t… it’s been buzzing a lot and I’m not sure if it’s because of the award.”
Joe and you sat down as people scrambled around the place to enjoy the break. “I don’t have the patience,” you admitted and unlocked your phone.
There were over a thousand mentions on Twitter, more than five hundred messages from your friends, and a single one from your manager.
Laura: I’M STERILIZING JOE TOMORROW.
Joe sighed. “Don’t enter Twitter—” You ignored him. “Babe…”
He had deleted the app years before dating you, but screenshots sent from friends informed him how much people talked about you two.
Your jaw dropped at the first tweet that popped up. It had gotten over two hundred thousand likes in less than five minutes.
There were four attachments: one of you two on the red carpet, with Joe staring hungrily at you as you posed; another one of him grabbing your ass behind the stage while you applied your lipstick; then you two walking out of the men’s bathroom, looking incredibly messy and obvious with your dress’ straps hanging off your shoulders; and the last one… you on the stage with a red circle drawn around your neck, signalling the hickey.
On top, the tweet read: STEVE HARRINGTON LIVING MY DREAM AGHHH @ joe_keery CAN YOU FIGHT?
---
a/n: jacob elordi is my husband and joe keery is my baby daddy i love them and need them to fight over me aghh anyway i wanna write a pt.2 where she is deciding between taking the pill or not... we'll see!
summary: When your boyfriend mindlessly suggests a threesome, you oblige. But who you have in mind sends him spiraling.
pairing: Steve x girlfriend!Reader x Eddie
word count: 3.1k
warnings: Explicit smut, mentions of alcohol and drug use, oral sex (f recieving), fingering, dirty talk, threesome, pearl necklacing, creampie
note: I have never written Eddie before🙈 ahhh
It started off as a simple question.
Laying in Steve’s bed, talking about random things, his hand in your underwear, nipping at your neck.
“Would you ever want to try and have a threesome?”
Given the circumstances, you had said yes without giving any thought to it…. Then one thing lead to another and you had forgot about his question entirely.
A week later, the consequences were knocking on his front door.
Well… you were knocking. Eddie Munson was standing slightly behind you, hood up, smirk already stretched wide as if he knew he was about to give Steve a stroke.
Steve opens the door mid sip of a beer… and chokes.
His eyes jump from you, to Eddie, back to you. He doesn’t say it out loud, but you know exactly what he’s thinking. Oh my god. You didn’t.
You breeze past him like nothing is weird at all.
“Happy Friday,” you sing, brushing a kiss over his cheek.
Eddie lifts a paper bag in greeting.
“Brought treats. Some of the green variety, some of the alcohol variety. Heard we were havin’ a night.”
Steve’s still frozen in the doorway and you tug him inside by his shirt, mouth close to his ear, whispering.
“Would you relax? He’s just here to hang out. To drink. To give us weed.”
You kiss the hinge of his jaw, “not what you think.”
Steve squints at you, whispering back, “This is exactly what I think. And this is not what I meant when I asked—”
“You were fingering me at the time,” you cut in softly, smiling, “you’re lucky I remembered the question at all.”
His face turns the color of a sunburn but you pull him toward the living room before he can protest, your fingers lacing with his, your grin smug.
The three of you end up on the couch: Steve in the middle, you on his right, Eddie sprawled on the left like he owns the place.
You curl against Steve, hand on his thigh.
He tries to play it cool, but every time Eddie speaks, Steve tenses… because Eddie keeps throwing you looks. Not subtle ones. Sultry, lingering ones.
You pass the joint around and Eddie’s fingers brush yours on purpose. Steve notices and his jaw ticks.
It only takes about ten minutes more before Eddie starts stirring shit.
“So,” he says lazily, eyes flicking between you and Steve, “what is the dynamic here? You two suddenly very quiet. Very… twitchy.”
He wiggles his finger at you both, like the weirdo he is. “Like there are secrets in the air.”
Steve nearly chokes on his own inhale and youjust smile. For someone who thinks Eddie is a loser freak, he sure is uneasy around him.
“Let’s play something,” you say sweetly.
Eddie lifts a brow, “like what? Poker? Strip poker? Because I could be convinced…”
“Tempting mmm, but no,” you cut in, “truth or dare.”
Steve turns his head slowly, eyes wide.
“Absolutely not.”
Eddie claps his hands together, “absolutely yes.”
You lean in, kiss Steve’s cheek again, voice soft.
“Just fun. Not sex.”
It’s a lie and everyone in the room knows it.
First round. Eddie points at you.
“Truth or dare?”
“Dare,” you say, smirking at Steve.
Eddie leans back, gaze heavy. “Kiss Harrington like you mean it.”
Steve’s eyes shut like he’s preparing for impact.
You climb into his lap, cupping his jaw, and kiss him slow and deep, tongue sliding into his mouth. His hands lock on your hips instantly, needy, protective, possessive.
When you finally pull away, he’s dazed.
Eddie whistles at you, “well, damn.”
You wipe your lips with your thumb and smile at Steve. His pupils are huge.
Next, your turn.
“Eddie,” you say, “truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
You grin wickedly.
“Tell us something you want to do tonight.”
Eddie doesn’t hesitate.
“I want to kiss you,” he says, looking right at you. Then he turns to Steve. “If your boy here can handle that.”
Steve’s breath hitches.
“Okay, wait, no, hold on—”
But you touch his thigh, grounding him.
“We don’t do anything he doesn’t want. Right, Eddie?”
Eddie nods, “scout’s honor.”
You turn to Steve, straddling him again.
Your fingers stroke the back of his neck, soft.
“You’re in charge,” you whisper, “we stop when you say stop.”
His chest rises sharply as he looks at you, then at Eddie, then back at you.
Something loosens in his expression…. fear melts into desire, into curiosity, into a slow, undeniable yes.
“…Fine,” he mutters, “but I’m not kissing Eddie.”
Eddie laughs, “that’s not on my bucket list either, man.”
Eddie leans forward, stops just shy of touching you.
“You’re sure sure?” he asks.
He’s giving Steve a chance to shut it down.
Steve doesn’t, so you lean in.
Eddie’s mouth is soft, surprisingly sweet from the beer, and he kisses you with a slow roll of his tongue, confident, teasing. His hand cups your jaw, tilting your head exactly where he wants it.
Steve’s breath stutters beside you.
You pull back slowly, eyes half lidded.
“Jesus,” Steve whispers.
Eddie grins at him kindly, “your girl’s a good kisser.”
Steve grabs the front of your shirt and pulls you into his kiss. It’s hard. It’s posseseive. Frustrated. Needy.
Eddie laughs under his breath and the tension of it all snaps like a string.
“Bed. Now,” Steve growls in your ear.
Eddie’s hand slide between your legs.
“Why bother?” he asks, voice wicked. “She’s already soaked.”
Steve shoves him… lightly, but territorial.
“You don’t get to fuck her on the couch, out in the open like she’s some—“
But Eddie cuts him off.
“Are you jealous?”
“Not even a little,” he lies.
You grab both their hands.
“Guys,” you breathe, “just take me to the bed.”
That does it.
Steve kisses you first… deep, messy, needy, while Eddie kneels behind him, pulling your clothes off like he’s been waiting his entire life for the excuse.
When they finally have you bare between them, Eddie whistles low.
“Fuck, Harrington. You’ve been hiding this?”
Steve shoots him a look, “Touch her without permission and see what happens.”
You tug Steve’s shirt and ya k him down.
“Steve,” you say, voice shaky, “please… stop talking and fuck me.”
Eddie chuckea.
“She’s bossier than I thought.”
“Shut up,” Steve snaps, but his eyes never leave your body.
Eddie’s behind you on the bed, mouth on your neck, hands on your waist.
Steve’s in front of you, shirt off, pupils blown, breathing like he’s losing his mind.
You’re sandwiched between them, Eddie’s chest against your back, Steve’s against your front.
Steve cups your tits from the front. Eddie’s hands slide down and squeeze your hips.
“You’re sure?” Steve asks, voice rough.
You thread your fingers into his hair.
“Yes.”
Eddie’s breath is hot against your ear.
“I think she was born for this,” he mutters.
A loud groan erupts from Steve’s chest. .
Eddie’s hand slides between your thighs from behind, fingers stroking you slow and teasing.
You gasp into Steve’s mouth, gripping his shoulders.
Steve watches Eddie’s fingers disappear between your leg, his expression a mix of jealousy, fascination, and raw desire.
“She’s so wet already,” Eddie says, “lucky bastard you are.”
Steve swallows hard.
“Let me… fuck, let me touch her.”
Eddie pulls back instantly, letting Steve replace his hand.
You moan into Steve’s touch, his fingers knowing you better, moving with intent, curling exactly how he knows drives you insane.
Eddie watches.
His hands roam your sides, your hips, your thighs, squeezing, exploring.
“Christ,” Eddie whispers, “I knew you two were freaks.”
Steve doesn’t even bite back.
He’s too busy kissing you, stroking you, trying not to lose it while Eddie grinds against your backside.
Eddie shifts, guiding you to lean back against his chest.
Steve kneels between your legs on the couch cushions, eyes locked on you like you’re the only thing in existence.
“Take your shirt off,” Eddie murmurs into your ear.
You do and Steve moans again.
Eddie’s hands come around to cup your boobs, thumbs stroking your nipples while Steve’s fingers slide inside you again.
You gasp loudly and Steve leans in and licks a slow stripe up your inner thigh.
Eddie’s grip on your chest tightens.
“You’re killing him,” Eddie murmurs against your skin, “y’know that?”
Steve looks up, lips swollen.
“Move your hands,” he says, and Eddie obliges.
Steve replaces them with his mouth.
You arch, crying out, head falling against Eddie’s shoulder as he keeps your thighs spread for Steve, watching every second with dark, hungry eyes.
“That’s it,” Eddie whispers, “let him make you fall apart.”
and so you do, hard. Shaking, gasping, fingers digging into both of them.
When you come back down, Steve wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, chest heaving.
Eddie lifts your chin and kisses you slow.
“Taste yourself,” he murmurs.
Steve makes a broken sound.
And then it all dissolves into heat and mouths and
Steve is still kneeling between your thighs, breath hot against your skin, your release shining on his mouth. Eddie’s behind you, legs bracketing yours, his body a hot, solid wall at your back. You’re still trembling, thighs tight, chest rising too fast.
And both of them are looking at you like they want to ruin you. Steve wipes his mouth again but his fingers dig into your hips, hungry.
Eddie’s lips drag down your neck, agonizingly slow.
“Switch her around,” Eddie murmurs, voice thick.
“Wanna see her face when you put your dick in her.”
Steve practically drags you forward, strong hands guiding you onto your knees on the couch cushions. Eddie shifts behind, letting you lean on his chest as he pulls your hair off your shoulders.
Steve’s already unbuttoning his jeans with shaking fingers and your mouth goes dry.
He’s flushed, breathing hard, cock thick and heavy and painfully hard as it springs free.
He strokes himself once, gaze locked on you, no teasing now, no hesitation. Just raw need.
“Come here,” he says, voice shaky.
Eddie nudges you, “go on, sweetheart. Don’t make him beg.”
You crawl forward, settling on your elbows, ass still pressed back into Eddie’s lap. Steve pulls you forward onto your knees, guiding you exactly where he wants you.
Eddie moves with you, a shadow at your back, palms dragging down your sides like he’s mapping you for later. He palms your ass cheeks, spreading you a little, just to watch Steve’s pupils blow even wider.
Steve groans, low and desperate.
“Jesus Christ, Eddie, don’t, fuck…”
Eddie laughs softly and grips your hips, holding you steady like a goddamn offering.
Steve lines himself up, the head of his cock sliding through your slick folds, teasing, gathering everything he pulled out of you a minute ago. You moan, pushing back, needy and open.
Steve’s voice cracks.
“Do not do that unless you want me to cum in two seconds.”
Eddie smirks into your skin.
“She wants you to, look at her.”
Steve does and you watch his face fall apart.
He pushes into you, slow but deep, your breath shatters and a broken moan falls out of you. You grip his wrists, nails digging in.
“Oh my god, Steve!”
He fucks the last inch into you and shudders.
“Fuck, baby… you feel so good. I forgot, I always forget… fuck, how tight—”
Eddie’s mouth shuts him up.
“Quit talking and move your hips, Harrington.”
Steve pulls back, then thrusts forward, hard.
Your head drops back onto Eddie’s shoulder as a sharp cry leaves you. Eddie slides a hand to your throat, holding you upright as Steve starts working up a rhythm, hips snapping, breath stuttering with every thrust.
Your whole body jolts with each movement and Eddie groans behind you.
“You hear that? She’s dripping, making a mess on your cock already.”
Your cheeks burn and Steve’s eyes roll a little.
“Yeah, I, shit… yeah, I hear it.”
Eddie slides his free hand down, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight fast circles that make your legs shake violently.
Your body isn’t even yours anymore—you move because they guide you, push you, steady you. Steve pulls you down into his rhythm, Eddie’s hands keep you open, balanced, overwhelmed.
You’re dizzy from it: two sets of hands on you, two voices in your ear, two sets of eyes devouring you.
“Come on,” Eddie murmurs into your ear, “give him another one.”
You choke out a moan, hips jerking helplessly between the two of them.
Steve’s voice is barely a sound now.
“Eddie… stop! She’s, she’s gonna…. if you keep, oh fuck”
“Good,” Eddie growls, “that’s the point.”
Your orgasm hits like a punch. Sharp, overwhelming, your body locking up as you cry out between them.
Steve grasps your hips hard enough to bruise as you clench around him, squeezing him so tight he swears loudly and drops his forehead to your shoulder.
“Holy shit, oh fuck, fuck!”
Your vision goes white for a moment and , Eddie kisses your cheek, then your jaw.
“Good girl.”
Steve’s still buried inside you, shaking.
He pulls out slowly, trying to catch his breath.
Eddie slides his hands along your waist and lifts you back into his lap, settling you against his chest. You feel him: hard and thick, pressed against the curve of your ass.
He whispers against your ear, low and dark:
“My turn.”
Steve sits back on his heels, dazed, hair messy, lips parted.He watches as Eddie unzips his jeans behind you, freeing himself.
Steve’s voice cracks:
“Wait, new rule,” he interjects.
“No rules,” Eddie replies, “not tonight.”
He swallows hard.
“You’re gonna…?”
Eddie smirks.
“Only if she says yes.”
Both men look at you.
You’re breathless, pupils blown, body already arching back into Eddie’s touch.
“Yes,” you whisper, please..”
Steve groans like he’s about to lose his mind.
Eddie kisses your shoulder, guiding you forward onto your hands while he positions himself behind you, head of his cock sliding through your slick, teasing you open again.
You glance at Steve, he’s stroking himself slowly, watching every second, chest rising fast.
Eddie pushes into you. Deeper, thicker, stretching you until your voice catches and your arms tremble.
“That’s it,” he rasps, gripping your hips, “take all of me. Just like that.”
Steve swears under his breath, eyes locked on the spot where Eddie disappears inside you.
Eddie starts thrusting, slow at first, then harder, snapping your body forward until you’re moaning into your own arms, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity. His hand slides up your back, between your shoulder blades, pressing you down gently so he can fuck into you deeper.
“Christ, Eddie,” Steve groans.
“Slow down, she’s…. fuck.”
“She’s fine,” Eddie pants, “aren’t you, sweetheart?”
You manage a broken, “Yes, God yes… don’t stop!”
Steve shudders, stroking faster now.
Steve moves in front of you again, watching every inch of how Eddie handles you, every sound you make. He’s jealous, painfully so, but he can’t look away.
“Steve,” you breathe, reaching for him.
He takes your face in both hands and kisses you again, slower this time but deeper, dirtier. A kiss that says mine even as Eddie’s grip tightens behind you.
Eddie mutters against your shoulder, amused and low,
“Christ, Harrington. You’re feral.”
The way Steve looks at you, at Eddie’s hands on you, at the marks on your throat, his cock sliding in and out of you, he just about is.
Eddie grabs your hair, pulls your head back so you’re arched and open while he pounds into you, every thrust hitting so deep your vision blurs. You cry out, and Steve makes a strangled sound, his fist tightening around himself.
“Switch,” Steve gasps suddenly, voice desperate.
“I… I want, Jesus… I want to feel her again.”
Eddie laughs breathlessly and slows, hips grinding into you once more before pulling out.
You collapse forward with a gasp.
Steve is on you in a second, rolling you onto your back, kissing you hard, lifting your thighs over his hips as he pushes back inside you in one long, perfect stroke.
And you shamelessly scream his name. Eddie kneels beside you, stroking your cheek with inked fingers.
“Open your mouth.”
He slides his thumb inside, watching your lips wrap around it as Steve fucks you deeper and deeper, lifting your hips to meet every thrust.
Your moans are muffled around Eddie’s thumb as your thighs shake uncontrollably.
Steve is losing control fast, voice breaking:
“I’m gonna, oh fuck, Eddie, hold her….”
Eddie braces your shoulder with one hand and your thigh with the other, keeping you open for Steve as he slams into you harder, faster, breath feral.
You choke on a sob as another orgasm rips through you, shaking violently.
Steve follows immediately, burying himself deep, groaning your name into your neck as he spills inside you, grip shaking.
Eddie groans at the sight of it, rubbing himself once, twice—
—and then he shudders and cums across your chest, eyes locked on yours in a daze.
Silence.
Just breathing.
Just bodies trembling together.
The room feels too quiet after all that noise. Your breathing, their groans, the couch protesting against all three of you. When everything goes still, you’re the first to notice your legs shaking.
Steve notices next.
“Hey—” his voice is soft, wrecked, warm, “—don’t move yet. Just breathe.”
You try to sit up, but your limbs feel boneless. Eddie huffs a laugh behind you.
“She’s done for,” he says, wiping sweat from his forehead with his wrist. “Completely destroyed. Harrington, we’re carrying her to the shower.”
Steve shoots him a look. “You are not carrying her anywhere. I’ve got her.”
He slips an arm around your back, lifting you carefully, gentle in the way he only is when he’s worried he pushed you too far.
The messy evidence of all three of you is smeared across your thighs, your stomach, the sheets. Eddie whistles low at the sight.
“Well,” Eddie says, hands on his hips, “that is… a lot to clean.”
Steve mutters, “You don’t say.”
He disappears for a moment and comes back with warm, damp towels. The first touch of the heat against your skin makes your breath hitch—but it’s not sexual now. Just soft. Tender. Steve wipes you down with slow, patient strokes, murmuring small apologies when you flinch from overstimulation.
Eddie kneels beside the couch, taking over when Steve’s hands start shaking from adrenaline crash.
His touch is surprisingly careful, almost reverent.
“No offense, but you look like you got hit by a truck,” Eddie mutters, but there’s no teasing in his tone.
You lean into both of them because it feels safe.
When you’re clean enough to move, Steve wraps you in one of his big shirts, lifting it over your head and smoothing it down your hips.
He presses a kiss to your temple.
“You okay, honey?”
You nod into his chest, “perfect.”
Eddie stands, cracking his back dramatically.
“Alright, lovers. Cigarette time.”
As Eddie heads toward the door you mouth over to Steve, “I love you.”
Summary: You’re convinced Steve has a thing for Robin, but he really just has a thing for you. 5.6k wc
Warnings & What to Expect: Slight angst, a dash of hurt/comfort, set in season 4, Max is kind of a jerk (I mean she’s going through a lot ya’ll), reader is head over heels for Steve - it’s mutual, reader is oblivious tho, Dustin being a slight menace (when is he not?), happy ending (& let’s pretend Max doesn’t end up in a coma/trance 🤗)
Masterlist If Interested!
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Steve Harrington was unfairly good looking all the time. The jeans that hugged his waist just right, the polo shirts whether long or short tucked in - snug around his biceps, Nike sneakers that always seemed pristine somehow, and the perfectly styled hair.
God, his hair. You wanted to card your fingers through the soft brown locks, tugging at them, desperate to watch him fall apart at your touch.
It was so unfair that he always looked like a Greek God, but it was even more unfair when you realized you had feelings for the man.
Not only were you stuck in his orbit all the time suffering over how hopelessly attracted you were to him, but you were also pretty sure that he had a thing going on with Robin Buckley.
Now if you asked Steve and Robin that? They’d freak out, assert they were just friends, platonic with a capital P. You almost believed them sometimes; mostly when Steve would turn those puppy dog eyes on you and you almost thought you had a chance with him.
Like earlier today, when Steve had grabbed your wrist, thumb stroking delicately against your pulse point; asking how you were holding up after learning your little sister likely only had 24 hours left to live, unless your friends figured out a way to stop Vecna’s curse.
Or like last week, when you and the party had gone out to the local diner. The kids had practically scarfed down the shared fries, leaving you none and your meal hadn’t come with any.
Upon seeing the disappointed look on your face, Steve had pushed his plate of the fried goodness towards you, claiming he wasn’t hungry anymore when you knew he’d normally demolish his food whole.
There was also that time a month ago when you and Steve were in charge of getting the popcorn and snacks at the movies tor everyone. When the teens behind you in line had been a bit rambunctious and bumped into you, Steve was quick to place his hand on your lower back, guiding you just a bit closer to him. He hadn’t taken it off until you were done ordering.
There was a series of things that Steve did that would forever be ingrained into your mind; the casual compliments he’d throw your way nearly on a daily basis, how he remembered you liked Diet Coke over regular, noticing when you went quiet - always the first to check in with you, or more recently letting you cry into his arms about the fact that your sister had been snarkier to you now than ever before.
So, yeah, you could believe they weren’t secretly together when Steve treated you that way, but you mostly chalked it up to him just being a good guy - because Robin and Steve were around each other constantly, attached at the hip. Working together, hanging out together, and Steve had dragged Robin into you and your friends' world permanently.
Which, don’t you get wrong, you loved Robin. She was hilarious, insanely smart, and fiercely cared about your friends. Dustin noticed these things about her too, and was constantly pushing Steve to go for it, which always hurt you more than you cared to admit. Why didn’t Dustin think that you were good enough for Steve?
As much as Robin and Steve vehemently denied that anything was going on between them, you didn’t want to get stuck in one of those situations where the guy had to choose between his best friend or girlfriend because he was secretly harboring feelings for the best friend.
So you kept your mouth shut, feelings for Steve tucked away inside of you. You were good at pretending.
No one knew how you truly felt, not even your own sister who was the most observant person you knew and could smell desperation from a mile away.
You had always been good about pretending in front of Max because you were the older sister. You had to be strong for her.
You had to be strong and pretend like it hadn’t shattered your heart to leave your dad behind in California. You had to be strong and pretend like Neil and Billy hadn’t scared the absolute shit out of you for their aggressive behavior. You had to be strong and pretend to be positive about the move to Hawkins even though it made you full of dread. That one wasn’t just for Max, but for your mom too.
The move to Hawkins had indeed been hell on Earth like you assumed it would be.
It had been one bad thing after another. Max and you getting involved in a world of alternate realities. Billy being controlled by the Mindflayer, then sacrificing himself; dying in front of your eyes. Your stepfather up and leaving your mom afterwards, which caused her to spiral into drinking after having to get two jobs just to make ends meet. Moving into the trailer park which you knew people would judge you about. The cherry on top was finding out that this Vecna asshole had now made your baby sister his next target.
The one good thing to come out of moving to Hawkins? Steve Harrington.
It’s why it was so, so unfair that you had these feelings for him and felt like you couldn’t say anything about it to him.
Steve had become a constant in your life. He had protected you and your sister from Billy that night he came searching at the Byers house, had always given the two of you free ice cream when he worked at Scoops Ahoy, drove you to school because he knew you and Max thought the bus was disgusting.
Somewhere along the way he was no longer Steve; the guy you went to school with by day and fought monsters with by night. He became Steve; the guy you were totally hung up on; and not just because he was a total babe, but because he had this heart of gold that he didn’t boast about, and yet it shined clear as day based on his actions for you, your sister, and the rest of the party.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Steve’s currently on babysitting duty with you once again.
The two of you were watching over your sister, Lucas and Dustin while Nancy and Robin tried to figure out more about this freaky Victor Creel man, and the demon that had tormented his family years ago.
Your eyes trail over Steve, who was watching your sister like a hawk; never letting her leave his sight. His jaw was tense, a muscle there popping just slightly, brows drawn in as he watched her furiously writing at the desk across the Wheeler’s basement.
You were sitting on the couch, squished between Steve and Dustin. Your right leg and arm pressed against Steve’s left. Your heart hadn’t slowed down since he had patted the spot next to you, inviting you to take a seat by him.
You weren’t sure if Steve was making it his mission to completely invaded your personal space with the way he kept leaning into you, but you could get used to the feel of his body against yours.
You couldn’t help it when you started taking advantage of looking at his side profile, as his eyes weren’t on you. You may be good at keeping your infatuation with him a secret, but it didn’t stop you from watching him whenever you had the chance to.
You were lost in gazing at the smattering of freckles creeping up from out of the collar of his shirt and up his neck. Your eyes continued to trace the lingering few of them that reached his face. You so badly wanted to brush each of them with the tips of your fingers and lips.
You were fascinated by the length of his eyelashes at this angle, watched as they fluttered each time he blinked. You move your eyes to the slight stubble above his upper lip, his perfectly kissable plush lips that you so badly wanted a taste of.
You loved watching how protective Steve got of the kids when danger was around the corner, but you especially loved watching his concern for your sister. It tugged at your heart strings, knowing that someone other than yourself had her back without argument.
“I know you guys are staring at me,” Max suddenly shares, shoulders tensing up. It quickly snaps you back into reality that you had just been gawking at Steve.
You force your eyes away from him, not wanting to be caught by the boys or Steve himself, cheeks flooding with heat. You let out a brief hum of noise, pretending like you had just been caught staring at Max like the rest of them.
“What sorry-,” Steve replies, grabbing the stress ball off the small table in front of you and tosses it up in the air. It causes the muscle in his right arm to flex, his tongue poking out in concentration.
Your brain nearly short circuits, and you try to pretend like you were busy looking along at the book that Dustin had grabbed when Max interrupted the staring fest the boys were indeed having.
“You said you needed something,” Lucas tries to play it cool.
“Just hanging out,” Steve says, and you plead with the universe to make him stop throwing that damn ball into the air so you’re not tempted to watch him.
“How you think your eyes boring into the back of my head is protecting me from Vecna, I don’t know,” Max sighs, standing up, stacking a bunch of envelopes in her hands. You continue to pretend to be interested in the book while she starts walking towards the group of you.
“You can look at me now,” Max stops, and sighs in slight annoyance at how obvious you all are.
“Thank you,” Dustin mumbles quietly.
“Sorry-” Lucas and Steve reply, and Steve thankfully drops the ball back on the table.
“Max, what are you holding?” You ask her cautiously. You’re worried about her. She’s been coiled in on herself, like a spring ready to snap at any and all times, refusing to let any of you in.
You can see her clench her teeth, but she loses her resolve. Passing out an envelope to each of you on the couch. You stare at the letter with your name printed on it in disbelief, already realizing that it’s a goodbye.
You also realize it’s an extremely inappropriate time for your heart to tighten at the fact that Steve received a letter from her too; finally understanding that Max loved Steve like a brother despite her frequent smart ass quips to the man.
“Oh, and um, give these to Mike, El, and Will. If you can ever get a hold of them again,” She passes the rest of the letters to Lucas.
Steve and Dustin start to open up their envelopes, but yours is now crushed tightly in your hand. Head spinning over the fact that your sister thinks she’s not going to make it out of this.
“Hey, what are you doing? No don’t, that’s not for now. Don’t open it now!” Max snaps at them.
“Don’t- okay,” Dustin starts, “I’m sorry, what is this?” He finally gets out.
“Yeah Max, what is this?” You echo, voice hard, eyes narrowing at her. Steve turns his attention towards you at the change in your tone, eyes flitting back and forth between you and Max.
“It’s, um, it’s a fail safe for after. If things don’t work out,” She shrugs it off, like she hadn’t just admitted she has accepted her death. Your mouth drops open at her words, standing up from the couch to talk some sense into her.
“Wait, whoa Max things are going to work out-,” Lucas starts to plead with her.
“No! I don’t need you to reassure me and tell me it’s all gonna work out, because people have been telling me that my entire life and it’s almost never true,” She bites out, her eyes move to meet yours, her expression turning angry.
“It's never true,” She spits out at you, and you swallow hard, throat constricting at her bitter words.
Your relationship with her hadn’t been the same since Billy died. You knew she blamed herself, despite how many times you tried to convince her it wasn’t her fault.
She wasn’t the same girl anymore. No longer did she run into your room, giggling about something dorky Lucas had said to her. No longer did she ask you to braid her hair or paint her nails or watch a movie with her. No longer did she sit and talk with you for hours about anything and everything, now preferring her walkman and headphones over her older sister.
It sucked. It felt like losing your best friend, because as much as she was your sassy little sister, she was the one person you loved more than life itself.
You can remember holding her in your arms when she was born, and as you grew together, you swore you’d always shield her from the harshness of the world.
“Max,” You start, and fold your arms together, trying not to seem as upset as you are, “You’re not alone in this. We are going to come up with a plan to protect you. I don’t know how, but we will figure something out.”
Your words don’t soothe her. You didn’t really expect them too, considering she had just basically told you that your words of encouragement in the past had never meant anything to her.
“You’re always trying to protect me, but guess what? You can’t. Not this time,” Max shakes her head, her irritation growing by the second.
She’s nearly seething at this point, and you haven’t seen her this upset since she used to make her gaming name Mad Max; nicknaming herself after all the anger stored in her heart from the shitty cards life had thrown at the both of you.
Max says the cruel words before thinking, “Maybe if you weren’t so busy staring at Steve all the damn time because of your stupid schoolgirl crush on him, you’d realize I’m grown up now. I don’t believe in fairytale bullshit like you. I don’t need you to pretend to be strong for me when I know you’re not!”
Your eyes grow wide at her throwing what you thought was a secret in your face. Of course you had been naive enough to believe that she didn’t know you were into Steve. Just because she didn’t say anything, didn’t mean she didn’t notice it.
Not only had she just revealed that very private information in front of him, but she’d also just insulted your whole personality. You grit your teeth together, trying not to yell back at her, because as much as you wanted to explode on her for being a selfish brat right now, you knew that she was in so much pain mentally.
Steve watches you now, his lips parted incredulously at Max’s words about you liking him. He watches as the blow lands hard. He watches as the tears start gathering in your eyes at your sister’s sharp words.
The basement was suddenly suffocating, as you felt everyone’s eyes on you. You refused to look at Steve, worried about his reaction. You didn’t want to look at him and see him pitying you.
You needed air. You needed to get out of this situation. So you give her a short, curt nod, and then bolt up the stairs.
Steve immediately stands up, ready to follow you. Before he does, he puts his hands on his hips and gives a pointed look at Max.
“That’s,” Steve starts, shakes his head, then sighs, “That wasn’t cool, Max,” He says softly to the girl, who already had regret written all over her face.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You don’t know where to go. You didn’t visit the Wheeler’s house very often, but you knew Ted and Karen were still home with Holly somewhere, not inclined to leave the house due to the fact that they believe a serial killer on the loose in Hawkins.
You also didn’t want to get stuck having a conversation with Mrs. Wheeler, though she really was lovely.
You just couldn’t handle her bubbly persona right now when you felt like your heart had just been ripped out of your chest and stomped on by your sister.
You decide to slip out the front door before anyone sees you. You don’t want to go too far, considering how even though you were beyond pissed and hurt by what Max had said, she was still doomed by Vecna, and you should be close enough to get to her if needed.
You catch sight of Steve’s burgundy BMW parked on the street by the mailbox. You walk over to it and try the passenger door where you’ve found yourself sitting in the last couple of days because of everything going on. You pull, it’s locked; of course.
You carefully prop yourself up on the flat trunk of the car, feet resting on the lip of the bumper. You’re not too worried about Steve being upset with you over it, as you’ve seen him sit here himself quite a bit; typically when the group is trying to make a plan and decide who’s doing what.
Your head falls into your hands, finally letting the tears flow freely now that you are alone.
You were extremely embarrassed at the fact that Steve had just heard that you watched him like an absolute weirdo.
It was awful knowing that he now knew you had a crush on him, when he so clearly wasn’t into you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Unbeknownst to you, Steve had already made his way up the basement stairs, did a quick check of the main floor of the house, before realizing you must be outside.
He glanced briefly out the back, then the front and his heart jumped to his throat when he saw you perched on his Beamer.
He’s nervous as hell to go talk to you. No one but Robin and Dustin knew it, but Steve was absolutely captivated by you.
He had been for a long time now, but never had the courage to bring it up to you. Dustin loved to tease him about it, purposefully bringing up Robin in front of you, trying to pressure Steve into just being honest with you.
You sort of intimidated him; you were this strong, capable, independent woman who protected the people she loved without fail or question. He was completely enchanted by it, but he wasn’t sure if he’d measure up to you.
He didn’t think he was in the same league as you, let alone have a shot with you. He hadn’t been great at talking to girls in a while, and he didn’t want to totally screw things up with you by making a fool of himself.
He had been pretending for so long that you weren’t the girl of his dreams, but after hearing what Max had said about you being into him, he knew he needed to make a move before it was too late.
He slips out the front door of the house, briskly walking up the driveway to meet you at his car. You don’t notice him approaching because your head is still in your hands.
When he gets closer, he can hear the tell tale sign of crying by the sniffling noises you're making, shoulders shaking gently. His heart breaks over seeing you in such a state.
He’s not sure how to approach you without scaring you off, so he reaches out to your arm, fingers gently grazing over your warm skin.
“Hey,” He whispers hesitantly to you, trying to get you to look up at him.
You go still at the sound of Steve’s voice and touch, groaning inside of your head. You couldn’t catch a break could you?
You want to stay hidden in your hands, but know you need to put your big girl pants on and face what’s surely about to be the most awkward interaction you’ve ever had with him.
“Hi,” You whisper back, head lifting from your hands, quickly wiping the tears off your face. You tuck your hair behind your ears and lean back to see Steve gazing at you already.
He’s got this funny look on him. One you haven’t seen before, and it scares you that you don’t know what he’s thinking about. If you didn’t know him, you’d call it adoration, but surely that’s not the case.
“Um, can I-?” Steve doesn’t finish his sentence, but he raises his hand towards your face making your eyes go wide. You give him a slight nod, not sure what he means.
When he gently curls a piece of your hair back behind your ear that you must’ve missed just moments before, you feel the tips of your cheeks burning.
He then trails that same hand to your chin, swiping away at some of the left behind moisture you had missed. He lets his hand linger there for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” You blurt out before you can help yourself, being around him like this starts up the word vomit, “I’m sorry, about what Max said about you. It was stupid, I think she was just talking in the heat of the moment and not realizing what she was saying. I’m so sor-” Steve gently quiets you with his thumb brushing across your rambling lips.
God, what is this man doing to you?
“Is it true?” He asks quietly, leaning towards you now. It’s like magnets being drawn towards one another. His feet are planted so close to you that the tips of your knees are brushing his thighs.
“Is what true?” You ask shyly, dropping your eyes to his lips and promptly lose concentration when his tongue darts out in a quick press to wet them.
When you flick your eyes back up to meet his, you notice his are already trained on your own lips. You swallow harshly, and think you might have to pinch yourself to make sure you’re awake right now.
He’s never been this close to you before, and it’s kicking up a wild storm of butterflies in your stomach. He’s still got one hand stroking your face, and he moves the other one to drop on your hip. His hand is heavy and holds you firmly.
You involuntarily let out a little whimper at the contact, making Steve grin cockily at you. It’s the signal he needed to gain his self confidence back, nerves he was feeling before disappearing.
He needed to make sure that he didn’t leave this conversation without officially making you his.
“Oh, I like that noise coming from your lips, honey,” He playfully tells you, stepping even closer.
His leg nudges one of yours, and he settles himself fully in between your legs. Your lips part, gasping at the movement.
What in the world is happening right now? Had you somehow died and gone to Heaven without realizing it? Surely you had because the feeling of Steve’s legs between your own was devastating.
“You still haven’t answered my question, angel. I think you know what I’m talking about; is it true?” Steve repeats himself.
You stare at him, at a loss for words. Your seconds away from throwing yourself at him.
Steve waits patiently for your response, but figures he knows how to get you talking. Since you hadn’t shown him any resistance, he presses a kiss to the underside of your jaw, right below your ear.
Your eyes shut at the contact, another soft noise being pulled from you that you didn’t even realize you could make.
“Does it matter?” You stutter out, feeling like you're about to run out of oxygen.
“Why wouldn’t it, angel?” He says that damn pet name again, causing your head to swim.
Your hand reaches out to the blue bomber jacket he’s wearing, grasping onto the material to try to ground yourself in reality despite this unbelievable situation you’ve found yourself in with him.
“Because, you’re in love with Robin aren’t you?” You decide to bite the bullet and just tell him, and Steve reacts like you’ve just dumped a bucket of ice cold water over his head.
He rears back from you, eyes wide in disbelief. It would almost be comical if you weren’t waiting on an answer that could absolutely shatter you right now; if he were to say yes.
He’s gaping at you, clearly not having expected you to say that.
“W-what?!” He yelps out, squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head before continuing, “Is that a joke? Did someone tell you that?”
“No one had to tell me, Steve. It’s not a joke either. It’s pretty clear you love her,” You shrug your shoulders half heartedly.
He’s still looking at you like you’ve just opened your mouth and started to speak to him in a foreign language. He tilts his head, lips pursing, mouth opening and shutting, trying to find the right words to say.
“Okay. Okay, sure, I love Robin as a friend, but I’m not in love with her,” Steve replies, still in a state of shock at what you’ve told him.
His eyebrows are furrowed a bit, creating a small dent in the skin in the middle of them. You desperately want to reach out and smooth it over, but you’re still uncertain about where you stand with him, about what’s happening between the two of you right now.
“I can see you’re still silently debating inside that pretty little head of yours, aren’t you? Can I prove it to you?” Steve questions when he sees you're still feeling doubtful.
“Please,” You manage to choke out.
Steve doesn’t hesitate, he presses another kiss to the spot below your ear, before trailing his lips down your jawline. He’s taking his time, ravishing you with his mouth.
You tighten your hand that’s resting against his chest, fingers still curled around the fabric of his jacket. Your other hand moves to rest at the back of his neck, playing with the tufts of hair that sit there.
Steve’s lips continue down to your neck. When he reaches your exposed collarbone, he gently nips at it, causing you to tug him closer to you, if that’s even possible. His tongue presses against the skin that he just bit, and you swear you see stars.
He makes his way back up the other side of your neck that he hasn’t touched yet, then drags his nose up your jaw and finally his mouth is just inches from yours.
He presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, teasing you, before parting his lips, still hovering above yours.
“Just kiss me already, Harrington,” You whine, tipping your head closer to him, and he laughs breathily against you.
“My needy girl, you’ve been so patient haven’t you?” He quips, and before you can snap at him to stop toying with you, he finally presses his mouth to yours in a greedy kiss.
His pink lips are pressing against yours hungrily, both hands on your hips now, dragging you towards him so you become fully flush against him.
Steve knows what he’s doing, expertly swiping his tongue against your bottom lip, coaxing your mouth open so he can kiss you deeper. You’re completely gone, dizzy with want for him.
Your hand slips further into the hair at the base of his neck and you tug at the strands there the way you’ve wanted to for so long. Steve makes this irresistible noise from the back of his throat, causing him to break away for a moment.
You don’t let him get far though, eagerly pressing your lips to his again not willing to let him slip away from you yet. You grow braver at the sounds of desire coming from him, letting your tongue dip into his mouth when he gasps for air.
You could stay here with him forever, drowning in this growing need for each other, but the moment is ruined when you hear the Wheeler’s front door slam.
You and Steve jump apart, but still have a hold of one another, breathing hard, glancing to see who just came out of the house. It’s Dustin, hands on his hips like a disappointed parent.
“Hey lovebirds!” Dustin yells, “We’re giving you five more minutes to make out before you both need to get your asses back in here so we can ask you something.” He turns around to walk back into the house, closes the door behind him just as hard.
Your eyes trail to the front window, seeing Lucas and Max peeking at you and Steve from the living room window. You roll your eyes, but with no true malice, at the fact that they’re always trying to get into your business.
Your lighthearted mood starts to fade at seeing your sister, knowing that she’s the reason you had left the house in such a rush to begin with.
“That little shithead.” Steve huffs a harsh breath out.
“He’s totally gloating right now. Constantly bringing up Robin in front of you trying to - wait a second - he’s the reason you had that wild idea in your head, isn’t he? I’m gonna m-,” Steve breaks off when he turns his attention back to you.
He notices your deflated look, clearly not paying attention to what he’s saying, and thinking about the words Max had told you.
“Hey, look at me, sweetheart,” He urges you. When you do, he cups your face with both of his hands, holding you steady.
“What your sister said back there, about you believing in fairytale’s and not being strong? Don’t listen to that,” Steve starts, cutting to the chase, “She’s hurting right now. You know what they say about hurt people hurting people; not that it makes it okay.”
You bite your lip, nodding briefly, but your eyes well up with tears again at his words.
“I think it’s so, so attractive that you choose to believe in the good in this world. It doesn’t mean you're living in a fairytale, it just means you want a life that’s worth living, a life you deserve,” Steve says softly.
“And not strong?” He scoffs at the idea, “You’re the strongest person I know, having to deal with all the shit that you and Max have gone through. Despite it all, you continue to show up for her, take care of her, even when you're on the receiving side of her wrath,” He gives you that charming smile of his, trying to comfort you with his words, and you’re nearly blinded by his beauty.
“God, I’m obsessed with you, Steve,” You admit, bringing one of your own hands up to cup his jaw.
He closes his eyes at the touch and hums briefly, turns his lips to kiss the palm of your hand, before letting his head rest against your touch.
“Are you,” You swallow, “You sure you’re not in love with Robin? Because that would really, really suck for me.”
“I’m standing here, between your knees. I just had the best kiss of my life, with you, and you’re still asking me if I’m sure that I’m not in love with Robin?” He chuckles, shakes his head, and grabs your chin with his thumb and forefinger.
“Silly girl,” He chides you, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips this time around. Then his face grows serious, making sure you’re looking into his eyes before the next words come from his mouth.
“I promise you, I don’t feel that way about Robin. I can’t explain it to you, it’s not for me to share. But one day, I think Robin will tell you why it won’t ever be like that between me and her,” Steve tells you softly, eyes begging you to believe him.
You don’t really understand what he means, but you trust him, and you trust Robin, so you decide it’s enough and the last of your hesitancy dissolves
“If I knew you were gonna kiss me like that, I never would have pretended to not be carrying a torch for you. This feels so much better than pretending like I haven’t wanted you this whole time.” You laugh quietly.
Taking him in freely like this, without it needing to be a secret feels almost like love, it must be love you think; though you know you’re not quite ready to say that just yet.
“I’d say can’t you see I’ve been waiting here for you the whole time, but I’m a pretty good pretender too,” Steve shares with you.
“I’ve always wanted you, I want this, if you’ll have me,” Steve says, starting to feel love sick on you.
You answer him with another kiss, and before the two of you can get lost in one another again, there’s a clearing of someone's throat. You pull away reluctantly, and see Max standing there.
She looks uncomfortable, probably because of the position you and Steve are in against his car. He turns his head over his shoulder to see her there, and pulls away from you.
He grabs your hand to help you hop down off the car, hand sliding to your lower back to brush off the top of your jeans. Hand briefly gliding over your ass mischievously under the guise of getting the dirt off you.
“I guess our five minutes are up,” You joke, as you watch Dustin and Lucas walking up the driveway towards you.
“We’ll give you a moment,” Steve says, pressing a kiss to your temple, releasing you to usher the two boys back inside before they cause chaos.
You wait silently for Max to say something to you. She doesn’t, instead choosing to inch her way forward, before slipping her arms around you. You melt into her hug, never able to stay mad at her for too long, arms holding her tight.
“I shouldn’t have said those mean things to you. They weren’t true. It just that I’m-,” Max apologizes, and you fill in the blank for her.
“Scared?” You ask gently. She sighs, nodding against you.
“I just, I know you want to protect me. You always have. Physically or emotionally, you’ve done it since we were kids, but this feels heavier. Like the stakes are higher, and I don’t want you getting hurt. I can’t lose you,” Max confesses.
“Oh, Max,” You don’t know how to reply, knowing she’s right. The stakes do feel higher this time around, and there’s a good chance someone may not make it out of this.
“I can’t tell you the outcome of this. But I promise, no matter what happens, I’m going to be there for you. I meant it when I said you’re not alone in this,” You say after a beat of quiet. She nods silently again, holding you for just a bit longer.
“So, Steve?” She asks you once she’s pulled back, a smile forming on her face.
You roll your eyes and go to playfully pinch her cheek like you used to when she was younger. She swats your hand away from her, “I mean it looked like he was trying to swallow you whole.”
You laugh at her words, “Well I guess I have you to thank for that. You ratted out my secret! Luckily for me and you both, it turns out he feels the same way. What if he hadn’t? And how did you even know that I liked him like that?”
“You clearly don’t see the way Steve has a staring problem for you, just like you have for him. Besides, sisters always know,” She shrugs.
“So like how I know you obviously want Lucas back?” You tease, and a rare blush starts to form on her neck, confirming your suspicions.
“Shut up!” She cries out, but you see the warmth in her eyes, “And speaking of, let’s go get the boys. We’re making Steve take us on a field trip. I’m not spending what could be my last hours on earth in the armpit that is Mike Wheeler’s basement,” She shudders at the thought.
You hate that that's even a possibility, but you take her hand firmly, reminding her that you’re there, and head back inside.
Steve’s already got his car keys ready to go in his hand, eyes lighting up when he spots you and Max coming back in, clearly having solved the issue.
“You better treat her right, Harrington. I know a good lawyer,” Max points at him sternly, and Steve just smirks at the threat.
“Wouldn’t surprise me, Mayfield,” He replies, and pulls you into his side, refusing to let you go now that he has you.
“Besides, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ve been waiting a long time for her. I wouldn't dream of screwing it up,” Steve gazes at you, about to lean in to kiss you and the teens around you immediately pretend to gag.
You giggle as Steve groans in annoyance, before leaning his head towards you, whispering, “After this shit show ends, I’m taking you on a proper date.”
It’s an assurance that you’re looking forward to. You’ve waited all this time for him, a little bit more time wouldn’t hurt.
steve’s arms alone could get you off, the way they flex and strain while he holds himself above you is a sight you’d die lookin at
steve’s got you spread out beneath him on the bed, legs hooked over his forearms so he can keep you open wide. he’s braced on his elbows, chest hovering just above yours, close enough that every shallow breath brushes your skin. the pace is brutal in its slowness—long, dragging strokes that let you feel every thick inch of him sliding in and out, every ridge catching just right.
his biceps are flexed hard on either side of your head, veins popping as he holds himself steady. sweat gleams on his shoulders, that begin to trickle down. you can’t look away from the way his abs tighten and release with every roll of his hips, the sharp v of his obliques jumping every time he grinds deep.
“baby,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked, lips brushing your temple. “you’re supposed to be tellin’ me about your day. c’mon, use your words, wanna hear.”
you try—fuck, you really try—but he chooses that exact second to circle his hips, dragging the head of his cock right over that spot that makes your back arch off the mattress.
you try to work out the words of what you were previously rambling about, but it fails, “the uuhh—the—the new cafe we went to—and—and i—steve—”
he chuckles lowly against your cheek, doesn’t speed up, just keeps that torturous grind. “yeah? keep goin’. what about the cafe? tell me everything while i fuck this pretty pussy nice and slow.”
your hands scramble up his arms, nails digging into the twitching muscle of his biceps. you can feel them jump under your palms every time he pushes back in—hard, corded, trembling just a little from holding the position.
“i-i ordered the—the new latte—and jonathan was—mhmm fuckk! jonathan was there a-and—”
“jonathan?” steve’s grin is wicked now, eyes locked on yours. he pulls out almost all the way, lets you feel the drag, then sinks back in so deep you gasp. “that why you’re drippin’ all over me? thinkin’ about him while i’m stretchin’ you open?”
“no—no, i swear—stevie—your arms—” your voice cracks into a whimper when he flexes on purpose, biceps bulging under your grip, shoulders rounding as he rolls forward again. “they’re—they’re twitching—every time you—oh fuckk!”
he groans low, forehead dropping to yours. “yeah? that’s what’s got you this wet? watchin’ my muscles work while i fuck you? seein’ how hard my body’s shakin’ just to fill you up?”
you nod frantically, eyes glued to the way his chest jumps with every thrust, abs contracting in sharp, obscene lines right above you. sweat rolls down the center of his sternum, drips onto your skin. it’s too much. too close. too perfect.
“shiit baby look at you,” he breathes, voice dropping softer, almost reverent. “can’t even talk straight ‘cause you’re starin’ at my arms. at my fuckin’ abs flexin’ for you.”
“steve—stevie! please—”
“uh-uh.” he slows even more—just shallow little rocks now, enough to keep you on the edge but not enough to push you over. “not yet, baby. hold on, you’re gonna keep lookin’. watch every twitch. feel every flex while i work this tight little cunt.”
your whole body locks up—thighs trembling around his waist, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave red lines over twitching muscle.
“i-ohhh! i love it—love how your biceps—jump—when you push in—mmh a-and your chest twitches and fuuuck steve please m’gonna—”
“aw, yeah?” his voice turns to that soft, filthy coo you can’t resist. “my sweet little girl’s gonna cum just watchin’ me? just from seein’ how my body shakes for her? go on, sweetheart. let go. make a mess all over my cock ‘cause you love this so much.”
you twitch with a broken cry of his name, pulsing around him so hard your vision blurs. your hands clutch at his shoulders—feeling every jump and strain of muscle as he keeps thrusting through it, slow and deep, groaning like he’s proud.
“that’s my girl—fuck—feel that? soakin’ me ‘cause of me. all ‘cause you can’t stop starin’ at this body fuckin’ you.”
he doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, boneless, whimpering beneath him. only then does he bury himself to the hilt one last time—muscles locking up, abs jumping hard as he comes with a rough “oh fuckk baby so fuckin’ good fuck me” and spills deep inside you.
he stays there a long minute, breathing ragged against your neck, biceps still flexed and shaking where they cage you in.
then he huffs a soft, little laugh, lips brushing your jaw, “gonna have to start doin’ more pull-ups if this is what watchin’ me does to you.”
you manage a weak, breathless laugh, still fluttering around him.
hello damien nation… i’m here to feed you as well…
i think abt these pics a little too much tbh
thinking abt kisses with dames…
slow, languid movements as his hands hold your sides, one of your hands in his silver hair and the other resting on his chest…. i feel like after he comes home from work he’s so happy to see you :(( sometimes his hands will travel down and hook his fingers into the belt loops of your jeans or grab the waistband of your sweats and tug you closer
he absolutely is a SUCKER for skin-on-skin contact, he finds it so intimate and lovely
i imagine he’s always touching you in some way when you’re dating him, ofc he’s respectful in public and keeps it at minimum, but at home? he is so all over you
hands slipped under your (his) shirt, tracing small hearts on your lower back and hipbone, gazing at you like you hung the stars in the sky… god mans is so down bad for you :(( while spencer likes laying you on top of him while cuddling, damien likes to lay on you i feel
you tease him abt it all the time “taking the saying smothered with love to a new level here, babe” “… shut up”
summary: You are up for a big promotion at your job, working for DropOutTV, when you get home and tell your boyfriend, Damien that you got it, he showers you in support.
The front door clicks shut behind you, and it’s like your body finally believes it can relax. The pressure of the day, the nerves, the tightly held don’t-get-your-hopes-up mantras—it all starts to melt somewhere around the arches of your feet.
Inside, the apartment smells like whatever candle Damien lit earlier—warm vanilla and the faintest echo of something spicy, like clove or cinnamon. The lights are low, cozy, and there’s a soft hum of sound coming from the living room.
You peek around the corner and there he is—curled up on the couch, intensely focused on the screen. Headset askew, controller in hand, eyes sharp. His lips are slightly parted, fingers twitching with every on-screen movement. He’s completely locked in.
His glasses are pushed up into his hair, forgotten. A fuzzy pumpkin blanket is draped over his shoulders like a cape. You’re not even sure he realizes he's doing it, but he’s muttering to himself, narrating strategy in this low, rhythmic way that sounds like he’s casting a spell. I think it is unconscious that he does it now even when he isn't streaming.
You drop your bag as quietly as you can and lean against the wall, watching him. It's comforting, in a weirdly grounding way—coming home to Damien mid-hyperfixation. Safe. Familiar.
He catches the movement in his peripheral and turns his head sharply. Game forgotten. Controller paused.
“Wait—you're home.” His face lights up, and it’s instant. No lag between his brain and his body—just pure joy. “Give me, like, two more minutes—I’m in the middle of—” He glances back at the screen, hesitates, then drops the controller with a dramatic sigh. “Okay, nope. Forget it. I’m pausing everything. Zagreus can wait. You? Never..”
He’s already standing, the blanket falling off his shoulders as he crosses the room in quick steps, scanning your face.
“I can’t tell if you’re about to cry from stress or happiness, and I don’t wanna mess this up—so... am I about to freak out with you or for you?”
He stops just in front of you, hands hovering like he’s not sure if he should touch you yet—not until he knows what kind of moment this is. His eyes flick over your face, reading every twitch, every crease.
Then you nod, barely, and a smile breaks across your face like sun through clouds.
You got it.
Damien gasps—gasps—like he’s in a soap opera and you just told him you're secretly royalty.
“No. No, shut up—you got it?!” His whole body lights up. He doesn't wait for you to answer again. Arms wrap around you in a heartbeat, lifting you off your feet in a quick, spinning hug that makes you laugh into his hoodie.
He sets you down with care, but he doesn’t let go.
“Director of Gaming? Are you kidding me? That’s insane. That’s hot. That’s so hot.” He leans back just enough to look at you fully, hands still resting on your waist. “I’m dating a director. I need to reevaluate my wardrobe immediately. I can’t be out here in Pokémon pajama pants next to corporate excellence.”
You laugh again, and he’s completely unbothered—just keeps going.
“No seriously—do I need to call you ‘sir’ now? Because I will. Happily. Professionally. Romantically.” He tilts his head. “I’ve got range.”
You roll your eyes, but it’s hopeless—your cheeks are already warm. He sees it, and it just eggs him on.
“God, you’re incredible.” His voice softens just slightly, the awe settling in beneath the teasing.
He quiets down, just a little—like the moment catches up to him all at once. His hands slide from your waist to your forearms, thumbs brushing slow circles over your sleeves. He looks at you like he always does but it never gets old, the way he just sees you.
There’s no punchline this time. No performative dramatics. Just truth, steady and full of conviction.
“They didn’t hand it to you. You worked for it. You stayed late, you took care of people, you built something over there. I’ve watched you fight for stuff that nobody else even noticed was broken. And you still somehow came home and held space for me—for us. For your friends, and family, the cats that are running around here somewhere.”
He pauses, and his brows knit together, like he’s trying to find the exact right phrasing before he says it.
“You’re not just good at what you do,” he murmurs. “You’re the kind of good that makes other people want to be better.”
You huff a laugh, watery-eyed now, and he smiles like he just won a boss fight.
“I love you,” he says simply. “And I’m really, really proud of you.”
Your arms slide around his waist like it’s muscle memory, tucking yourself into the space under his chin. It feels like the kind of hug that should last a while—long enough to soak it in. His warmth. His words. The way his heart is beating a little faster than usual.
Then, in classic Damien fashion, he pulls back just enough to press a kiss to your forehead and immediately says, “Okay. Now that you’ve reached goddess-tier career status, I propose a celebratory feast.”
You raise an eyebrow. “A feast?”
“Yes,” he nods solemnly. “Takeout. As the gods intended.”
He’s already reaching for his phone, unlocking it with the frantic enthusiasm of a man on a mission. “I have the apps ready. I'm thinking Thai? Or sushi? No—wait—what about that place you like with the cursed noodles?”
“The noodles are not cursed.”
“They are absolutely cursed, and I will not survive the leftovers, but I would happily perish for you tonight, Director.”
You snort, dropping onto the couch while he starts scrolling, muttering restaurant names under his breath like a summoning ritual. He flops down beside you, pressing his leg against yours.
“I say we eat too much, watch something spooky, and let you bask in your well-earned glory. You pick the movie. I won’t even pretend to veto it, no matter how aggressively A24 it is.”
“You always pretend to veto it.”
“Tonight, I’m on my best behavior.” He hands you the phone. “You make the calls now. You’re in charge.”
There’s a glint in his eye, all mischief and admiration. “I mean, you have to be in charge. You’re the director.”
Dinner ends in a happy food coma. You’re tucked into the couch now, limbs tangled with Damien’s under a mountain of blankets, your mostly-empty takeout containers sitting on the coffee table next to two cans of something fizzy and lime-flavored.
The room glows with low light—string lights along the windows, the TV flickering with neon colors and jump cuts.
Onscreen, Bodies Bodies Bodies plays out in all its messy, unhinged glory.
Damien is locked in.
“This movie is so stressful,” he mutters, eyes wide, mouth full of leftover rice. “They are the worst people I’ve ever met and I can’t stop watching.”
You giggle, your cheek squished against his shoulder. “You say that every time.”
“I mean it every time.” He gestures vaguely at the screen. “If I had even one of these people in my party, I’d leave the campaign.”
“You’d romance them.”
He gasps, betrayed. “I would not.”
“You romanced Shadowheart, Damien.”
“She had depth! And a tragic backstory!”
You just look at him, smug, until he throws a pillow at your head. You duck, laughing, and he pulls you in tighter, your legs over his lap now.
By the time the credits start rolling, his head is tilted against yours, and he mumbles, “Okay. I think it’s time for Phase Two of the celebration.”
You squint up at him. “Which is?”
He wiggles out from under the blanket, disappearing into the kitchen without another word.
There’s the sound of a cabinet opening. A soft, triumphant “Ha!” And then he returns, holding a white bakery box with both hands like it’s the Holy Grail.
You blink. “Are those—?”
“Celebration treats,” he confirms, setting the box down on the table with a flourish. “From your favorite place. Got them earlier today, just in case.”
You stare at him, heart wobbling a little.
“I knew you were gonna get it,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed. “So I figured, y’know. Better be ready.”
He opens the box, revealing your favorite pastries. “They almost didn’t have these, but I told the barista my girlfriend just became Director of Gaming and she looked at me like I told her you won an Oscar. So. We got the hookup.”
You just... blink at him, eyes suspiciously glassy. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m romantic,” he says. “There’s a difference.”
He hands you a cupcake and kisses your cheek so sweetly it feels like a promise.
You’re full of sugar and warmth, wrapped in the soft lull of a perfect night. The cupcakes were gone in minutes, and you’re still pretty sure he saved the last bite of yours just so he could offer it to you with that look—the one that says he thinks you hung the damn moon.
Now the two of you are curled up in bed, limbs tangled like ivy. Damien’s shirt is soft against your cheek, worn from a hundred washes and smelling like him—cinnamon, cotton, and whatever clean soap he always uses. One of his hands is tracing lazy shapes against your hip while the other tucks behind his head, eyes on the ceiling, brain still humming.
“You know,” he says after a while, voice lower, quieter in the dark, “I wasn’t lying earlier. About how hot this is.”
You smile into his chest. “Mmm?”
“I’m serious. Like, I always knew you were smart and talented and way too good for me—don’t argue, I’m on a roll—but tonight? Seeing you come home like that? All calm and confident, and then telling me you did it?” His hand moves to your thigh, fingers squeezing gently. “It was hot. Like... deeply, unprofessionally hot.”
You laugh, a soft huff against his collarbone. “You’re a menace.”
“I’m your menace,” he says smugly.
He leans down and kisses your temple, slow and sure. Then another—your cheek, your jaw, your neck. Not rushed, not heavy. Just reverent. Like he’s reminding himself you’re real and here and his.
“You’re amazing,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin between words. “You’re so goddamn capable. And kind. And powerful. You walk into a room and people listen. And somehow you still come home and hold me like this.”
You shift to face him, hand sliding up under his shirt to rest on the warm skin of his side. His breath catches slightly.
“I’m so proud of you, Y/N,” he says. “I’d shout it from the rooftops if I didn’t think I’d fall off.”
You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and he smiles against it.
“You’re gonna be insufferably successful, aren’t you?” he murmurs.
You smile. “Thinking about breaking up with me already?”
He scoffs. “What? No. I’m thinking about how I’m gonna introduce you in public now. Like, do I say, ‘This is my girlfriend, the director,’ or go full send with ‘This is Y/N, Director of Games at DropoutTV—also my impossibly beautiful girlfriend’? Just so I can brag about you”
You hum, pleased. “Option two has a nice ring to it.”
He grins, eyes flicking down to your lips. “Say the word and I’ll make sure there’s an actual ring to go with it.”
You choke on a laugh, swatting at his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious!” he insists, dramatically offended. “You’re brilliant, powerful, devastatingly attractive—I’m barely holding it together as it is. Marrying you would just make it even better.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart is doing somersaults.
He leans in again, his voice lower now. “Just say when, babe. I’ve got ideas.”
some mild nsft (not 18+ but if the idea of a makeout session is too much then feel free to skip this post!)
cant stop imagining damien in a makeout session where u guys just kiss and kiss until tongues and teeth mesh with each other
i bet damien would enjoy slow makeouts the most, like he'll RELISH in it, making sure he's considerate and pays attention to you who would rather enjoy unrushed sessions vs ones that are too clunky and fast
you'd end up making out for what? over an hour or two? then yall will realize you must have missed dinner time/damien's stream time/time to feed the cat
