description: eddie's sick of corroded coffin's current standstill. gareth heard from a friend of a friend of a distant cousin who made a deal at a crossroads and got everything they wanted, and more. eddie takes it amongst himself to make a deal, in hopes to give corroded coffin it's well-deserved fame. little does he know what's at stake to make this deal official.
pairing: virgin!eddie x demon!reader (fem!reader)
tags: eddie x demon!reader, no y/n, crossroads demon, supernatural coded as FUCK, succubus reader, sub!eddie, dom!reader (she's a demon, duh), this is basically all smut lol, inexperienced eddie, fear & desire combo, he's terrified but completely into it, power play, edging, overstimulation, "good boy" energy, horny but scared
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not interact!!, PiV, unprotected (yk me), power play asf, eddie being a good little boy
WC: 3.4k
A/N: this idea came from a mix of a request from @meowtherkat and a suggestion from @brrrainst3w... and my ass loves making anything supernatural coded if it has to do with eddie...wink wink hint hint at a potential new seriesssssss🫣 anywayys, reblogs are always appreciated<3 yk the drill by now. enjoy ;)
The instructions had been… oddly specific.
Eddie had read them ove on a crumpled page Gareth swore he found in some back corner of a used occult shop two towns over.
“Crossroads deal,” Eddie mutters under his breath, crouched in the middle of the empty stretch of road just outside Hawkins.
Midnight had come and gone, the air thick and still in that way that makes every sound feel louder than it should.
He glances around once, nothing but trees, darkness, and the faint hum of cicadas.
“Okay. Cool. Totally normal. Not insane at all.”
From a small metal box at his side, he pulls out the items one by one, checking them like he’s about to run a ritual and a D&D campaign at the same time.
Black cat bone.
Graveyard dirt.
And a torn picture of himself, taken from Hellfire's yearbook photo.
The box itself is cheap; just something he stole from Wayne’s shed—but he’d lined it carefully, exactly how the instructions said. Everything placed just right, everything meaning something.
Because this? This matters. Corroded Coffin matters.
They deserve more than playing to half-drunk crowds at The Hideout. They deserve something real. Something bigger. And if this is what it takes?
Eddie exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Alright, Munson,” he murmurs. “You wanted a big break? This is the part where you commit.”
Then he starts digging.
It’s quick, messy work; shallow, just enough to bury the box in the center of the crossroads. Dirt under his nails, knees pressing into gravel. When it’s done, he places the box inside, covers it, and presses the earth flat with his palm.
And when he stands, he winces like he’s expecting the ground to explode underneath him. Eddie blinks.
“…That’s it?” he says to absolutely no one. “No thunder? No dramatic wind? Not even, like, a creepy—”
The wind shifts just enough to make the hair on his shoulders sway sideways. Eddie freezes.
“…Okay,” he whispers, suddenly very aware of his heartbeat. “Okay, that’s new.”
“Y’know,” a voice says softly behind him, “most people at least hesitate before doing something this stupid.”
Eddie spins around so fast he nearly trips, and there you are. Leaning casually against the invisible line where the road meets the dark, like you’ve been there the whole time.
You’re not what he expected: not smoke and fire, not monstrous. No, worse. You’re beautiful, and dangerously so.
Every detail of you feels deliberate, like you were built to be looked at. Your eyes catch the low moonlight, reflecting red in a way that definitely isn't human. Your smile is slow, knowing, and just a little too sharp at the edges.
And the way you’re looking at him?
Eddie stares. “…Holy shit.”
You tilt your head, amused.
“This is usually the part where people run,” you say lightly. “Or scream. Sometimes both.”
“Yeah, well,” he says, swallowing hard but squaring his shoulders anyway, “I’ve seen worse.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Have you?”
“…Okay, not worse,” he admits. “But, like, comparable? Maybe?”
That gets a soft laugh out of you.
You push off where you’re standing and step closer. Eddie doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, actually. Because now that you’re closer, it’s worse.
The air around you feels different, like standing too close to a live wire. And there’s something else, too; something pulling at him, like gravity just shifted and decided you were the center of it.
“Eddie Munson,” you say, his name rolling off your tongue like you’ve known it forever. “Guitarist. Dreamer. Chronic bad decision maker.”
He huffs a nervous laugh. “Wow. You really did your homework.”
“I don’t have to,” you murmur, circling him slowly. “People like you? You practically ooze disappointment.”
He tracks your movement, trying not to look too affected by the way your presence wraps around him.
“Yeah?” he says. “And what exactly is ‘people like me’?”
You stop just in front of him.
Close enough that he can feel the chill of you, and the heat beneath it.
“Desperate,” you say softly. “Hungry. Willing to trade anything for a shot at being seen.”
Eddie’s jaw tightens slightly.
“…Not anything,” he says.
Your smile deepens.
“Mm,” you hum, unconvinced. “We’ll see.”
“Alright,” he says, forcing his voice steady. “You’re here. So that means this worked, right? The whole…” he gestures vaguely at the ground, “...ritual, box, crossroads thing?”
“It worked,” you confirm.
“And that means… you make deals.”
“I do.”
Eddie exhales, running a hand over the back of his neck.
“Okay. Cool. Great. Awesome.” He nods once, like he’s psyching himself up. “Then let’s uh. Let’s do this.”
You watch him, curious now. “What might your wish be?”
“I want Corroded Coffin to make it,” he says. “Like, really make it. Crowds, records, the whole thing. I want people to hear us. I want—” he cuts himself off, shakes his head. “I just want a shot.”
“And in return?” you ask.
Eddie hesitates again.
“…My soul,” he says, quieter now.
"See?” you murmur, stepping even closer, your voice dropping just enough to send something sharp and electric down his spine. “Knew you’d be willing to trade anything."
Eddie swallows.
“…So is that a yes or?”
“It’s a yes,” you say.
His breath catches. And then you lean in, close enough that your lips almost brush his ear, your voice barely above a whisper.
“But here’s the thing, Eddie…”
A pause and a smile, he can hear.
“Under normal circumstances, this type of deal would be sealed with a kiss…but a deal with a virgin? That’s like, double the paygrade down there.”
“Okay—first of all—” he pulls back, blinking at you, flustered. “You don’t know that.”
You tilt your head, amused.
“Oh?” you hum.
“Yeah,” he says quickly, a little too quickly. “I mean what, you just, what, guessing now? That’s your big demon power? Wild assumptions?”
You take a step closer, and Eddie stops talking. Because now you’re really in his space.
Close enough that he can feel the cool edge of your presence, the strange pull of it, like something in him is leaning toward you whether he wants it to or not.
You inhale softly, and your smile deepens.
“I’m not guessing,” you say.
Your gaze flicks back up to his, slow and deliberate. “You smell like it.”
Eddie chokes.
“What?" he physically recoils half a step, hands coming up like that’ll somehow defend him. “That’s not a thing. That is not a thing people can…What does that even mean?”
You just watch him spiral, clearly enjoying yourself now.
“People can't smell purity," you say lightly. "But me? You reek of it."
His face goes bright red.
“Okay, wow. Cool. Great. Love that for me,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Super glad I dug a hole in the middle of nowhere for this specifically.”
You step closer again, because the feeling of his fear feeds a hunger you can’t ignore. Eddie doesn’t move this time. Can’t, really.
“…It also means,” you add, quieter now, your voice dipping just slightly, “your soul’s… untouched.”
Your fingers brush lightly against his wrist; barely there, but enough to make him freeze.
“And those?” you murmur, eyes flicking to his. “They’re always the most interesting.”
Eddie swallows. “…Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
Eddie’s breath is shallow, his eyes wide and dark.
“So… what happens now?” he asks, voice cracking on the last word like a teenager who just realized the campaign boss has bigger teeth than expected. “You take the soul and poof? Or do we…?”
Your laugh is low, velvet-wrapped sin. “Oh, sweetheart. We seal it properly.” You slide your fingers up his wrist, over the frantic flutter of his pulse, then higher, tracing the tendon along his forearm. “A kiss for an ordinary soul. But yours?”
You lean in until your lips hover a breath from his. “Yours is untouched. Pure. And down in Hell, that kind of untouched virginity is worth double. Dark Lord's going to be praising me for it for the next century.”
Eddie makes a strangled noise, eyes darting like he's considering running.
“Focus, Eddie.” You press one finger to his lips, then let it drag down slowly, catching on the plush lower one.
“You want your band to make it? Records. Crowds. The whole screaming, sold-out dream?” Your other hand settles on his chest, right over his rabbiting heart. “Then give me what no one else has ever had.”
He stares at you for one long, reeling second; fear, want, and that stubborn Munson fire all tangled together. Then his hands find your waist like he’s been dying to touch you since the moment you appeared.
“Fuck it,” he breathes. “Take it.”
You don’t give him time to second-guess.
The grass is cool and slightly damp when you push him down, straddling his hips in one smooth motion. Eddie lands on his back with a soft “oof,” staring up at you like you’re the only star left in the sky.
You peel his vest open, then his shirt, exposing the pale stretch of his chest, the scatter of dark hair, the faint scars from the Upside Down he still carries. When you lean down and drag your tongue over one nipple, Eddie arches with a broken sound that goes straight between your legs.
“Shit—warn a guy…” he gasps, hips jerking up instinctively.
You smile against his skin. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Clothes come off in a messy rush; his jeans shoved down just enough, your dress hiked up, no patience for anything graceful.
The moment you wrap your hand around him he keens, head tipping back into the grass, throat bared like an offering.
“Easy, rockstar,” you purr, straddling his hips and pinning his wrists above his head with one hand. “You’re not rushing this. I’m going to take my time with you.”
He’s hard, leaking already, velvet and steel under your fingers. Virgin, untouched, and absolutely delicious.
Eddie’s breath hitches. “O-okay… yeah. Fuck. Whatever you want.”
You smile, sharp and wicked. “Good boy.”
You stroke him gently once, “Shit!”
You lean down, lips brushing his ear. “First rule tonight? You don’t come until I say so. Understand?”
He nods frantically, curls sticking to his forehead. “Y-yes. God, yes.”
You start slow. Teasing. Your hand works him in long, languid pulls while you rock your hips against his thigh, letting him feel how wet you already are.
Every time his breath starts to hitch and his thighs tremble, you slow down or stop completely, squeezing the base until the edge fades.
First time, it's barely two minutes in. His cock twitches desperately in your grip, pre-cum dripping over your knuckles.
“P-please—” he whines, head tossing side to side in the grass.
You click your tongue. “Already? Pathetic. And adorable.”
You lean down and drag your tongue up the side of his throat, tasting salt and desperation. “Not yet, Eddie. I want you aching for it.”
Second time: you finally sink down on him, taking him to the hilt in one smooth glide. He’s thick, stretching you perfectly, and the sound he makes is pure sin.
You ride him deep and steady, rolling your hips in filthy circles, clenching around him on every downstroke. His hands fly to your waist, fingers digging into your skin.
“Fuck—fuck, you feel— so good— I can’t—”
You stop moving the second his rhythm turns frantic.
“No,” you command softly, still fully seated on his cock. “Breathe.”
Eddie lets out a wrecked sob, hips twitching helplessly beneath you. “You’re evil, holy shit...”
You laugh, low and warm, and roll your hips once, twice, just enough to keep him throbbing inside you before you lift off completely. He whines at the loss, cock slapping wetly against his stomach.
Third time: you slide down his body and take him into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the head, suck him deep until he hits the back of your throat, then pull back with a filthy pop. You tease him like this for what feels like forever, stroking, licking, sucking just enough to keep him right on the razor’s edge.
Eddie’s a mess beneath you. Babbling. Cursing. Begging in that pretty, broken voice.
“Please, I need...I’ll give you anything. My soul, my life, fuck, just let me come—”
You crawl back up and sink onto him again, this time facing away so he has the perfect view of your ass as you ride him reverse. The new angle makes him hit deeper, brushing that spot inside you that has you moaning too.
You reach between your legs and rub your clit in tight circles while you work him mercilessly; fast, then slow, clenching around him every time he gets close.
Fourth time. Fifth. By now he’s crying, actual tears shining in his lashes and streaming down his cheeks, body shaking, skin slick with sweat, hips jerking up desperately every time you pause.
You finally turn around, facing him again, and brace your hands on his chest. Your eyes glow faintly, infernal red in the moonlight.
“Look at me, Eddie.” You say, smearing the tear down his cheek with your thumb and place it in your mouth, relishing in the salty tang of his desperation. His eyes snap to yours, glassy and desperate.
“You’ve been so good,” you whisper, starting to ride him hard now; deep, punishing strokes that make obscene wet sounds in the quiet night. “Such a sweet little thing you are.”
Eddie’s hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise. “Please, I’m so close— please let me—”
You lean down, bite his bottom lip, and growl against his mouth.
“Come.”
The command snaps something inside him. Eddie comes with a shattered cry, back arching clean off the grass as he spills deep inside you, hot, endless pulses that seem to go on forever.
His whole body convulses with it, thighs trembling, fingers digging into your skin like you’re the only real thing left in the world.
You follow right after, grinding down hard and letting your own release crash over you in sharp, pulsing waves.
For a long minute there’s only ragged breathing and the distant sound of cicadas.
Eddie lies boneless beneath you, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded and dazed. His lips are kiss-swollen, cheeks flushed dark, hair a wild mess in the grass.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasps eventually, voice completely wrecked. “I think I just died. Like, actually died. Best death ever.”
You laugh softly and brush damp curls off his forehead, pressing a surprisingly gentle kiss to his temple.
“Deal’s sealed, rockstar. Corroded Coffin is going to blow up. Sold-out tours. Records. The whole dream.” You roll your hips once more, just to feel him twitch inside you. “And every time you step on stage, you’re going to remember exactly how you paid for it.”
“…So,” he rasps, dragging a hand over his face like he’s trying to re-enter his own body. “What happens now?”
You don’t answer right away. Instead, you trace your fingers lightly along his jaw, tilting his head just enough to make him look at you.
Your smile is softer now, but somehow worse.
“Now?” you echo, almost thoughtful.
“Now you get everything you asked for.”
Eddie lets out a shaky breath, something like relief flickering across his face, until your thumb presses just slightly harder against his chin.
“And usually,” you continue, voice dropping, “there’s a timeline.”
He swallows. “…Yeah?”
“Ten years,” you say simply. “Ten years of fame, fortune, everything your little heart desires.” Your gaze drags over him, lingering just long enough to make heat creep back into his expression. “And then I come back… and collect what’s mine.”
“…Right,” he mutters.
“But you,” you murmur, leaning in just enough that your lips hover near his again, “aren’t exactly standard inventory.”
He blinks. “…I’m not?”
A quiet, amused breath leaves you.
“Untouched,” you say, softer now, but heavier. “Unclaimed. Do you have any idea how rare that is down there?”
Eddie makes a face. “I’m starting to get the impression I should be offended.”
“You should be grateful,” you correct.
A pause, then, almost lazily: “I think I’ll give you twenty.”
“…Twenty?” he repeats.
“Mhm.” You straighten slightly, studying him. “Double the time. Double the investment.”
Eddie lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Wow. So what, I should say thank you?”
You tilt your head. “You can,” you say lightly. “But it won’t change anything.”
He huffs, shaking his head a little, still trying to process all of it.
“…Will I see you again?” he asks.
That seems to amuse you most of all, and your smile turns slow.
“Oh, Eddie,” you murmur.
You lean in one last time, brushing your lips just barely against his ear.
“I have to keep a very close eye on you now.” Your voice drops, velvet-dark and threaded with something possessive. “Wouldn’t want you trying to slip out of the deal early.”
Your fingers trail down his chest, over his heart, lingering there just long enough to make his breath catch again.
“And besides…” you add, almost teasing now, “I think I’m going to enjoy watching you.”
Eddie exhales, somewhere between nervous and completely, hopelessly intrigued.
“…Yeah,” he mutters. “That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”
“See you around, rockstar.”
Then, before he can add another comment, the weight on top of him vanishes. He swings his head around too fast, neck protesting, eyes scanning the empty stretch of road.
No lingering shadow, no trace of you. Just the quiet hum of cicadas again. The crossroads. The same stupid patch of dirt he dug up an hour ago, like an absolute idiot.
Eddie blinks.
“…Okay,” he breathes.
“…Okay, that—”
He pushes himself up onto his elbows, then sits fully, running both hands through his hair like he can physically reset his brain.
“—that happened.”
His shirt is half open. His chest still feels wrong, too warm, too charged, like something’s still sitting right under his skin. His heart hasn’t slowed down yet. Doesn’t feel like it can.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “I just—”
He stands up, slowly padding over to the van and shoves the keys in the ignition. Needless to say it was a quiet and confused ride home for the future rockstar.
When he get’s back to the trailer, the phone is already ringing.
“—Eddie?!”
Gareth’s voice explodes through the line, loud and borderline frantic.
“Dude, where the hell have you been?! I’ve been trying to reach you for like twenty minutes!”
Eddie presses the phone tighter to his ear, still trying to catch his breath.
“I was, uh, busy,” he says, because what else is he supposed to say? Sorry, man, was just selling my soul at a crossroads?
“What’s wrong?” he adds quickly. “Why are you blowing up my phone?”
“…We got a call.”
Eddie freezes.
“…What?”
“The tape,” Gareth rushes, words tripping over each other. “The one we sent in? To that label in the city? They, dude, they called back.”
Eddie’s grip on the phone tightens.
“No way,” he says immediately. “No, you’re messing with me.”
“I’m not!” Gareth practically yells. “I swear to God, I’m not! They want us to come in, like, in person, man. A studio session. They wanna hear us live.”
Eddie’s heart stutters. “…When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“…Tomorrow?” Eddie repeats, voice going thin.
“Yeah, tomorrow!” Gareth says. “We have to be in New York by the afternoon. Jeff’s already freaking out, man, we don’t even know how we’re gonna—”
Eddie stops hearing the rest, because this whole ordeal feels like a dream. A sick, yet awesome dream, with a 20 year time limit. The mix of emotions swelling in his chest makes him want to puke and laugh all at once.
“…Eddie?” Gareth says. “You there?”
Eddie swallows.
“…Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“…We’ll make it,” he says finally, a little dazed.
Gareth lets out a sharp laugh. “Dude, we have to, this is it!”
Eddie huffs out a breath that almost feels like a laugh.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “This is it.”
single tear down my leg
taglist is open!!
-please let me know if i forgot anyone i do b forgetting sometimes i apologize
gotta be quiet
steve harrington x fem!reader – w.c. 2.2k
warnings/tags: 18+ smut, prev-established relationship, softdom!steve, sub!reader, afab!reader, dryhumping, thigh riding, finger sucking, biting, drooling, steve's big ass hands covering reader's mouth, praise kink, steve calls reader baby, babe, honey and good girl, whimpering and whining, just needy as hell, mentions of a handjob, family video steve cause he's fine as hell, a lot of making out, they're both 19, not proofread!
a/n: this was genuinely supposed to be a drabble but then my friends were giving me ideas and then it just kept going so yay! hope u enjoy...
–
the sound of fabric rustling beneath you follows each slow grind of your hips. quiet, quick breaths escape your lips as your body shifts. steve’s leaning back against your headboard and you’re seated in his lap.
his hands are huge, they’re warm where they’re splayed out against the skin of your hips, having slipped beneath your shirt somewhere in the middle of the last fifteen minutes of making out.
your lips are swollen, almost sore as steve’s teeth graze your bottom lip, the faintest whimper escaping from your mouth as your eyes flutter shut. with another rock of your hips you feel your clothed core connect with the growing bulge in your boyfriend’s jeans and you whimper again.
he smirks against your lips, bringing one hand up from your hip so he can cradle the back of your head as your eyes roll back and you let out a shaky gasp. steve takes the moment as an opportunity to stick his tongue back inside your mouth.
when his tongue collides with yours, slipping around the inside of your mouth as he pushes your head closer to kiss you deeper, a whine escapes your throat, right into his mouth.
“shh, baby, you gotta be quiet,” steve whispers to you, his voice husky as you grind down on his bulge again, a hum of pleasure vibrating in your throat in an attempt to agree with him. “y’don’t want your parents to come up here, do you?”
“no,” you whimper out, grinding again, just a little faster this time, your hands gripping onto steve’s shoulders for balance, his right hand still guiding your hips, trying to keep your movements at a steady pace.
“no,” he repeats, nodding and giving you a look with raised brows, then leans in to kiss the corner of your mouth, followed by several small pecks along your jaw. when his mouth then connects with your throat, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, another whine makes its way out. steve chuckles against your skin. “baby, come on.”
you’re upstairs in your bedroom. downstairs, your parents are having some party with their friends, and they had let you invite steve on the condition that you don’t bother them, and that no funny business goes on upstairs.
so the moment steve had arrived, parking his beamer in the driveway and knocking on the front door still dressed in his family video vest, you had grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him upstairs within seconds, ignoring your parents and their guests and rushing to your bedroom instead.
which leads you to now.
“steve,” it comes out in almost a moan, your arms circling his neck, fingers curling into the collar of his polo and holding on tighter as you raise your hips, then drag your clit against the seam of his jeans, this time actually moaning at the pleasure. “steve.”
then steve’s hand, the one that had been holding the back of your head, closes around your mouth a moment later.
“shh, baby, you’re gonna get us caught,” he whispers against your ear, his warm breath sending a shiver down your neck. “you gotta be quiet, or we’ll get in trouble.”
you try to reply, but your words are muffled by steve’s hand, making you whimper. his other hand slides around your lower back, pulling you against his chest.
saliva dribbles from your open mouth pressed to steve’s palm, but he doesn’t move his hand, just smirks at your hooded eyes fluttering. the next time you go to grind against him, it turns into you humping his crotch, desperately chasing a release that was still too far away to reach.
“aww, baby,” steve coos, his voice low, eyes dark and filled with lust as he looks down at you. you bat your lashes as you meet his eyes, and a deep groan escapes steve’s throat. “fuck, you’re so pretty.”
you whine at the compliment, hips rolling into his lap faster, your thighs clenching to tighten around his legs and your grip around his neck pulls steve’s head forward.
“c’mere, honey,” steve slowly removes his hand from your mouth, your drool shimmering on his palm, and cups your chin instead. he guides your mouth forward, and your lips connect once more. you hum at the contact and your eyes flutter shut, letting steve’s mouth close around your upper lip as his hand moves away from your chin and back to your hip.
the deeper you kiss, the more desperate you grow. it grows sloppier, spit coating your lips and steve’s own as your tongues slide against each other. your head tilts, allowing him access to your neck, and his lips trail downward again, sucking and biting marks into the skin. your fingers tangle in the brunette locks of his messy hair, tugging gently as you bite down on your bottom lip, teeth sinking in until you can taste blood, trying your hardest not to moan, but a few whimpers slip through the cracks anyway.
“oh, baby, y’so needy tonight, huh?” steve teases, his tongue soothing the fresh bite mark he had left by your collarbone. you nod, throwing your head back and letting your eyes roll.
“uh-h–unghh.” the strangled sound that leaves your throat is loud, and steve’s hand clamps around your mouth once more.
bubbling laughter echoes somewhere downstairs, you watch as steve turns his head toward your bedroom door, like he’s listening out for a moment, before he exhales.
“stevie,” you whisper against his hand and he turns to look at you once more. for a moment, his eyes soften and a smile appears on his face as he lowers his hand, cupping the side of your face instead and tracing your cheekbone with his thumb.
you nuzzle into the touch almost desperately, the softest little sounds leaving your mouth before you manage out just a few words.
“steve, wanna…” you grind down on his clothed cock again. “wanna fuck you.”
“baby, we can’t,” he tells you, laughing quietly, but not in a mean way. “we need to be quiet up here.”
“i can be quiet,” you tell him as his thumb brushes against your bottom lip. the look he gives you a moment later tells you he doesn’t believe you. “please, steve. baby, please.”
as your fingers wrap around his family video vest, slowly tugging it off of him, steve lets go of you and lets you throw it across your bedroom; out of sight, out of mind. but as your fingers reach for the buttons on his shirt, steve’s large hands close around your own and he shakes his head.
“steve,” you whine, putting on a pout and doing your best to plead with him, begging him with your eyes.
“shh, honey, don’t worry,” he speaks quietly, beginning to unbutton your jeans and you let out another whine. “m’gonna take care of you.”
you lift your body to help steve pull your jeans down your legs, and you caught him inhaling deeply at the sight of the wet patch on your panties.
“fuck, you’re so wet f’me, babe,” he groans, capturing your lips in another kiss as his large fingers rub against your clothed clit. you moan into his mouth, and he swallows them down eagerly. “remember, you gotta be quiet.”
his hands slide down your body until they grab ahold of your hips again, but this time he guides you off of his lap. he moves one hand from your hip to your thigh, squeezing carefully as he lifts your leg until you’re hovering above his thigh, straddling it.
when both of his hands are on your hips once more, he slowly pulls you down. the moment your clothed core makes contact with his denim-clad thigh, you whimper, and with the first grind of your lips, you’re moaning at the friction.
one hand tangles in his hair again, and the other grips onto his bicep, digging your nails into the muscle there. with each slow roll of your hips, dragging your damp panties against his jeans and leaving a wet patch behind, steve’s hands don’t leave your hips, still guiding your every move and talking to you in quiet praise.
“atta girl, doing so good for me,” he whispers, leaning forward to leave gentle kisses against your lips. you whine out his name again. “shh, i know. feels good doesn’t it?”
“mm-hmm,” you nod, squeezing your eyes shut and throwing your head back, biting down on your lip. “really good.”
but then your movements grow faster, needier, and then your moans are harder to hold back, more and more whimpers escaping your closed lips.
steve’s arm, the one you’re gripping onto for dear life, circles around your body, pulling you further up his thigh and closer to his chest, holding you there, and he raises his other hand to your face.
but instead of covering your mouth again to muffle your sounds, two of his large fingers slip into your closed mouth. your lips close around them immediately, you let out a pleased hum and tug on his hair.
your pace on steve’s thigh grows quicker, what started as slow grinds turns into messy, desperate humping while you suck on his fingers greedily, your tongue running along the undersides, like you’re trying to pull them deeper into your mouth.
occasionally, your mouth opens to take a breath, or to change angle, or to let steve push his fingers in further, and each time your lips part, more and more drool gathers around steve’s fingers and your mouth, dribbling down your chin and his hand.
“fuck, baby, you’re making a mess all over me,” he whispers, though you can hear the strain in his voice, like he’s holding himself back from flipping you over and taking you right there, party guests be damned. “such a good girl, sucking on my fingers, making yourself feel good. fuck, you look so hot like this, using me.”
“mmm,” your brain is foggy, struggling to form any real words, or a coherent sentence, and instead you just whimper and whine and moan. “unghh, ste–uh–ve… uh, uh, uh, uh.”
soft sounds still make their way out into the air around steve’s fingers, but they’re muffled and messy, and your whines grow needier the longer time passes.
then you can feel it, the tightening in your stomach, the sign that finally your release is near. you don’t stop moving, don’t change your pace, you just keep riding steve’s thigh, pulling at his hair, digging your nails into his bicep and drooling and moaning around his fingers.
“steve,” your voice comes out muffled, but his eyes stare into yours anyway. “m’gonna cum.”
“yeah? you gonna cum for me?” he speaks lowly, his grip around your waist tightening. “go on, honey, cum on my thigh. make a mess for me.”
and you do. you keep humping his thigh even as your orgasm washes over your body, riding him until it becomes too much and you’re writhing against his grip, then you fall limp against his chest. your thighs are still clamped around his, though now your panties and the denim on his thigh are both soaked and you feel too sensitive to move for a moment.
“good girl,” steve whispers, then carefully pulls his fingers from your mouth. you whine from the loss of contact, the sudden emptiness in your mouth and the lack of weight on your tongue making you frown for a moment.
a string of saliva keeps you connected to his fingers for a moment until it breaks, and you bury your face into his chest, the drool from around your mouth rubbing into the fabric of his polo.
but when you look back up, steve’s fingers are still glistening with your spit, and you watch as he brings them to his mouth. he meets your eyes as his lips close around his own fingers and he sucks them clean of your saliva.
you force yourself to look away before you end up humping his leg like a dog in heat again.
“feel better, baby?” steve asks you and you nod, nuzzling your face into his armpit and inhaling. you hum in response and he chuckles, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his chest.
“what about you?” you ask him, looking up from where your head rests against his chest and he shrugs. your palm that had been resting flat against his chest is now slowly sliding down his body, past his tummy and his happy trail that peeked out from where his polo has hiked up a little.
you palm him through his jeans and steve inhales sharply, groaning once before his fingers close around your wrist and carefully pull your hand away.
you pout at him and he sighs.
“i think…” he starts, looking down to meet your eyes. “we have two options.”
“do tell,” you say, resting your chin on his chest and looking up at him.
“either you just give me a handjob here and then we watch one of the videos i brought over,” steve gestures to the stack of tapes sitting on your nightstand. “or…”
“or…?” you raise a brow.
“we sneak out of here and go back to my place where we can be alone for the rest of the night…” he whispers, leaning down to kiss you, and you smile against his lips. “can make as much noise as we want.”
“say less, handsome. let’s get the hell out of here.”
–
a/n: i need a bf so badly holy shit kill me... family video steve come homeeeee i miss u babe anyway i love dryhumping n shit
— when your hot roommate steve harrington walks in on you masturbating on camera, he proposes an offer..
almost a year ago, you moved in with steve harrington.
you’d known him since high school, but you never got close until the two of you started working together at family video with robin. one slow shift you’d complained about needing a cheaper place, and steve casually mentioned the empty rental just a few blocks from his. it seemed perfect. what started as convenient roommates quickly turned into real friendship, late-night talks, shared shifts, inside jokes, and way too much time teasing each other.
however it wasn’t long before steve started bringing girls home.
you’d hear the giggling in the living room, the clink of beer bottles, then the soft click of his bedroom door across the hall from yours. the moans always followed. breathless, high-pitched “ohh steve… fuck, steve” that carried through the walls and kept you awake more nights than you cared to admit. in the mornings you’d smirk at him over coffee and tease him mercilessly. later you and robin would cackle about it in the back room at work, making fun of his little conquests.
but no matter how much you joked, you couldn’t deny it: steve was stupidly hot. his hair, his pretty face, his broad shoulders, oh and the way his jeans sat on his hips… it was distracting.
tonight you were home alone, a little wine-drunk and restless. you’d been cleaning when you found your old camera from that garage sale back in ’83. the wine made you bold. you propped it up on your dresser, giggling as you caught your reflection in the mirror. you looked good-really good. flushed cheeks, loose tank top slipping off one shoulder, your tiny shorts riding up your thighs.
feeling playful and horny, you carried the camera out to the living room. steve had said he’d be out for hours with his guy friends, so why not?
you settled back on the couch, legs spread, camera aimed right between them. the red light blinked steadily. you started slow, rubbing gentle circles over your clothed clit, then squeezing your tits through the thin fabric. heat pooled low in your belly as you peeled your clothes off, letting them drop to the floor.
“mmm… i’m so wet,” you murmured to the camera. you dragged two fingers through your slick folds, spreading yourself open before holding your glistening fingers up to the lens. “look what you’re making me do…”
your fingers moved lazily, teasing, drawing slow circles around your swollen clit before dipping inside. you were loud, whining, gasping, hips rolling as you chased the feeling. your mind kept drifting to steve. to the girls who moaned his name like that. was he really that good? was he big? the thought made you throb harder.
you were getting close, thighs starting to tremble.
“mhmm… so close,” you whined, eyes fluttering as your hips bucked up into your hand. “feels so fucking good-mm, fuck ‘m-”
your head tipped back, high-pitched, breathy moans spilling out as your orgasm built up.
the front door suddenly clicked open.
“hey, i got tired of the guys and figured we could just order pizza and-whoa !”
steve froze in the doorway, keys still in his hand.
your eyes flew open. a sharp gasp tore from your throat as you ripped your fingers away from your dripping pussy, heart slamming against your ribs.
“steve!” you yelped, cheeks burning crimson.
his gaze dropped straight to your naked body-spread open on the couch, pussy shiny and swollen, chest heaving, then darted away, then back again like he couldn’t help it.
“i thought-shit, i thought you weren’t coming back for hours,” you stammered, too shocked to even grab your clothes off the floor.
steve kicked the door shut behind him, set his keys on the counter, and slowly pulled off his shoes, eyes flicking back to you the whole time.
“can i finish you off?” he asked, so casually that it nearly made your body go numb.
your brain short-circuited. “huh-what?”
he glanced at the still-recording camera, the red light blinking steadily. “y’recording?”
“um-yeah… i didn’t plan on… this just kind of happened,” you mumbled, gesturing awkwardly at your naked body. “i’ll just… go to my room now-”
“nuh-uh.” he hummed, already lowering himself to his knees in front of the couch. “y’didn’t answer my question”
his large hands settled on your thighs, gently spreading them wider. he looked down at your soaked pussy with hungry eyes. you were trembling.
“said,” he murmured, leaning in so close you could feel his warm breath against your slick skin, “can i finish you off? s’only fair. i walked in, ruined your orgasm… least i can do is make it up to you.”
you just let out a shaky little whine, hips twitching forward like they had a mind of their own. you nodded eagerly, and within seconds his mouth was on you.
a broken moan ripped from your throat as steve licked a slow, broad stripe up your pussy, groaning at the taste of you. “jesus honey,” he muttered against your clit, then sucked it into his mouth, tongue flicking perfectly.
your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling in his locks as your hips jerked up. he didn’t tease for long, he devoured you. two thick fingers slid into your dripping cunt, curling just right while his tongue worked your clit in tight, relentless circles.
“oh my god- st-steve !” you cried out, the wine and the shock and the sheer skill of his mouth making everything feel ten times more intense.
he hummed against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. his fingers pumped faster, scissoring, hitting that spot that made your vision blur. you were loud, shameless now, moaning his name exactly like those other girls had.
he pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny with your arousal. “thaat’s it baby, lemme see those pretty eyes on me”
“steve fuck, stevie, m’gonna-!” your thighs clamped around his head as you came with a loud, broken cry, back arching off the couch. steve didn’t stop, he kept licking and fingering you through every pulse, drawing it out until you were shaking and whimpering.
when you finally went limp, panting, he kissed your inner thigh and sat back on his heels, bringing his fingers to his mouth to suck them clean.
the camera was still recording everything.
steve glanced at it, then back at you with a smirk that made your stomach flip.
“you gonna keep that tape?” he asked, “or should we give it something better to watch?”
your heart was still racing. you bit your lip, nodding before you could overthink it.
steve stood up, pulling his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, revealing that toned chest and the trail of hair disappearing into his jeans. he popped the button, shoving them down along with his boxers. his cock sprang free-thick and even bigger than you’d imagined from all those nights listening through the wall.
he stroked himself once, eyes locked on you. “come here.”
you sat up on shaky legs. he pulled you into his arms and kissed you deeply, the taste of you still on his tongue. then he turned you around, bending you over the arm of the couch so you were facing the camera.
“gonna fuck you now,” he murmured against your ear, rubbing the head of his cock through your soaked folds. “y’want that?”
“yesyesyes please steve”
he pushed in slowly, stretching you open with a deep groan. “mm so tight f’me honey, jeez haah yeahhh squeeze ‘round me jus’ like that”
once he bottomed out, he gave you a moment before he started moving, deep strokes that had you moaning loudly again. one hand gripped your hip, the other reached around to rub your clit as he fucked you harder.
“look at the camera, baby,” he growled, voice rough with pleasure. “let it see how pretty you look taking my cock.”
you obeyed, eyes half-lidded and mouth open as he pounded into you. the wet slap of skin and your desperate moans filled the living room.
when your vision started to drift away from the camera, steve’s hand slid up your back and tangled roughly in your hair, fingers tightening until he had a good grip. he yanked your head back, forcing you to look straight at the blinking red light of the camera again.
“s’the matter baby? don’t want everyone to see what a dumb whore my roommate is hm? hmm oh that’s it yeahh, you like when i talk t’you like this? can feel you squeezin’ haah”, his words only making your go fuzzier by the second.
steve leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, lips brushing your ear. “want you to cum f’e again, think you can do that baby?”
you whimpered a yes, too out of it to even understand what was coming out of his mouth anymore.
he fucked you through another orgasm, then pulled out, flipped you onto your back on the couch, and slid back inside in one smooth motion. this time he hooked your legs over his shoulders, driving deep while the camera captured every expression on your face.
“gonna cum inside you,” he panted, sweat dripping down his chest. “that okay?”
you nodded frantically, nails digging into his back. “yes ste-vieee please wan’it”
he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, guttural groan, hips stuttering as he filled you up. you came right after him, clenching around his cock, crying out his name one last time.
steve collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing hard, skin slick with sweat. after a moment he reached over and finally stopped the camera, then pressed a surprisingly soft kiss to your lips.
he pulled back just enough to grin at you, “so… pizza?” he asked, voice hoarse.
you laughed breathlessly, still wrapped around him. “oh yesh, yeah. pizza sounds good”
he kissed you again, “n’after that… we can watch the tape. see if we made something worth keeping.”
you and Steve finally finish courting. beyond the sea au. [9k]
cw: reader is a mermaid shapeshifter! and a virgin, is very inexperienced, praise, guidance, mild talking you through it, soft sex, heat cycle, vanilla, language barrier, mature content for 18+ readers
⋆𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔:⋆
To be fair to Dariyay, she told you this was going to happen. If you stay out of your natural form for long enough and spend that time around a suitable mate, your body will go into heat. Mermaids change for a reason. The heat was to be expected.
You weren’t expecting it to feel as it sounds. It’s a warmth from your stomach, spreading everywhere that Steve touches while you’re sitting in his lap. His hands on your hips are burning you, and Steve looks unlike himself. His head thrown back, pretty moles dotting his face to be kissed, as though he’s become as uncomfortably hot as you have.
You slide as close to his chest as you can, nosing at his throat, thinking. “Dariyay and Robin, not stay,” you say. Robin’s taken to riding to Steve’s house on her bike so that she can take it to Nancy’s after work. She’ll need a ride.
“Yeah. Yeah, I think so, honey,” Steve murmurs, sounding distinctly distracted.
“Can ask?”
“Mm-hm. Are you okay, though?” Steve peers at you through a slit of his eyelids. Pink blush climbs his neck. “Can you head upstairs by yourself while I ask? Just, you… you’re kinda looking at me like you’re about to eat me.”
You feel like you’ll die if you aren’t near him, but you don’t want Dariyay to see you like this. Not having a heat before doesn’t mean you aren’t aware of what they are, and what they do. You don’t want your sister to see you this tightly and obviously wound: the sex-talk she gave you was bad enough.
You shuffle against his hips. He hisses, and he laughs. “Honey, enough. Two minutes, let me make sure Dariyay’s gonna be alright with Robin.”
“It– it is hot–”
“I know, I can feel it. Feel you,” he says quietly.
“Please, just– upstairs with me, now, and– Robin and Dariyay go.”
“I gotta tell Robin first, she’s gonna be pissed that I’m not giving her a ride–”
“Dariyay can drive her.”
Steve tilts his head to the side. “Shit, yeah. She can take her. You’re a smart girl, you know?”
Your hips rock more insistently at the praise, even if he’s teasing. “Now, fast, kiss me and kiss more.”
Steve holds you tight by the hips to ease you back. “We’ll get caught,” he says with a big laugh. “This heat, I actually have some questions–”
“What question?” you ask, allowing the space he desires while the heat in your stomach melts like lava, slow and blistering.
“Well, you’re fucking boiling in your skin, babe, so I guess I’m wondering if it’s hurting?”
You press your hand to your tummy. “Small hurt. Lots want, lots sensitive?”
“Huh.” He’s so pink you’d think he was the one cooking in his skin.
You take his hand on your hip and begin dragging it over your tummy, but you don’t get far, interrupted by a quiet creak of the door.
“Sister?” Dariyay asks.
You both flinch. Dariyay is standing in the kitchen doorway with her empty plate, and she’s frowning, but it’s friendly for her. If she were mad, she’d be scowling.
“Oh,” she says, hesitating when she notices your position atop him, “sorry.” Then, in Mer, “I thought I heard my name. Are you okay?”
“I think it’s the heat,” you say. “It feels awful.”
She bites her lip. “Oh, okay. Do you– will you be okay, with him? You don’t have to choose a courting partner now if you’re not sure.”
Steve has a great talent for turning hot and heavy into gentle, steady. He shifts you downward and holds you close like you’re sick, not horny. It’s funny as it is assuring.
“I love him. He’s not the awful part,” you say.
Dariyay shoves her plates onto the nearest countertop. “Then it’ll be fun. Just be careful, okay?”
“He wouldn’t hurt me,” you say.
She offers a real smile. “That’s so gross. I will go, then, and play at being a human at the ray-dee-oh. Maybe I can get Eddie to come and be my entertainment.”
“He can be your courting partner.”
“I think he is destined to be my best friend,” she says, which is not a rejection. She says it like it could be a joke, or equally like Eddie might end up her husband. You’re wondering how okay with that Eddie’d be as the rattle of a bike being shoved against the front of the house echoes from the foyer.
“That’s Robin,” Steve says.
You let your embarrassment overtake the heat for a little while, forehead to Steve’s chest, listening to Dariyay scamper down the hall. She and Robin have a stilted conversation that ends with both girls laughing, and Robin shouting, “Happy for you, dingus!” down the hall.
“What say?” you ask his chest.
Steve tips your head back by the nape.
Your eyes go owlish. You’re unbelievably warm—Steve feels cold in contrast when he slips his arms under your thighs to lift you, but it’s not want or need you feel as he carries you upstairs, it’s adoring. He carries you without complaint, doesn’t huff about how heavy you are, nor the mess you leave in the kitchen. He may love to bitch but Steve’s never complained about looking after you, and doesn’t sound anything but eager as he elbows open the bedroom door, laying you out on the bottom of the bed. He’s laughing to himself. You’re inclined to feel it.
“Kiss?” you ask. “Please. Please? Please.”
Steve takes too long to lean down, but when he does the kiss is slow, his tongue working into your mouth while his hand curls behind your neck, leaning his weight into you carefully.
“Kiss,” you insist.
“This is kissing.”
You don’t know the human word for what you want, but there’s a thrumming in your chest and you know where you need his hands, his entire body. You wriggle up the bed with his shirt screwed in your gasp, forcing him to climb and follow. The kiss you take then is searching, your nose pushing against his nose until he returns the kiss.
He’s too gentle.
“Kiss,” you murmur into his mouth.
“Baby.”
“Please, kiss me.”
Steve frames your face in his paw of a hand, his eyes dark, his lashes kissing in their corners as he squints. “You remember what ow means?” he asks, which is patronising. You pinch him. He laughs. “Yeah, ow. I hurt you, you tell me no. Is that okay? Can you do that for me?”
“Yes,” you say under your breath, so hot now that it’s uncomfortable. The only place even mildly cool is the apex of your thighs, your panties moving slick against the crease of your cunt as you search for traction. “Please. Kiss me.”
You take his hand where it’s resting at your hip and pull it to your tummy, wanting to force him lower and scared to at the same time.
Steve looks between your bodies. His thumb draws a circle into your navel, flicking your shirt over your belly button to expose the heaving plane of skin there. It’s not low enough.
“Touch you?” he says, so quietly it’s almost a whisper.
“Please.”
“Yeah?” He rests his hand over the bump of your cunt. “Here?”
You squirm.
Steve laughs nicely, shaking his head, and fits another kiss against your mouth, his hand drifting up to tease the hot skin of your stomach, a frustrating diversion.
You’re mildly annoyed and overly excited, your eyes squeezing closed as Steve kisses you so fiercely you can’t breathe. It takes long seconds, maybe a whole minute of kissing before you’re wondering how much air a human boy can go without, another minute to get him panting over your mouth. You make a noise into his kissing, a pleading, beggy sigh, your hips rolling up to find him hard above you.
There’ve been many mornings where you’ve woken to find him already hard behind you without so much as a kiss, but more recently you’ve started teasing it out of him, just to hear the hitch in his breath when you touch him, all pained longing.
You feel cruel, now. This is the pained longing.
You scrabble for his hand and guide it down again. “Please,” you whisper, practically choked with wanting, “need you, I need touch.”
“Sorry,” he whispers back, resting the tip of his nose on your cheek, like he’s collecting himself, “‘m I making it worse? Is it still hurting?”
“No, feels like… like it can hurt later, not now.”
“Like it could hurt, if you don’t– if we don’t fix it?” he asks.
“Mm,” you hum.
“Well, we can’t have that,” he says, the hint of his smile on your cheek as he pulls up.
His eyes are blown, cheeks full of red and the beginnings of dampness in the hair by his ears. It’s getting warmer in here, but you don’t want to ask him to open the window or turn on the fan. You can't picture the absence of him.
“You know what this is?” he asks.
“Mm?”
“This, baby,” he says, his hand turning, fingers laying over the softness of your cunt. “You know what this is, yeah?”
You know what you have, if that’s what he’s worried about, but you’re thinking he’s asking about sex, instead. “Dariyay tell me,” you say, “told me. The heat, and the– the fit?”
“Yeah. How we go together? She explained it to you?”
“Yes. Know it.” You knew of sex before, but Dariyay had given you specifics, because she’d seen the way you looked at Steve. Coupling is not much more complicated than you’d imagined.
“And that’s what you want?” he asks, tilting your head to the side with the flat of his palm, before dragging his pinky finger along your cheek.
“Yeah, that’s what I want,” you say, softly and quietly, happy to be touched however he wants to do it.
“Yeah? We can go slow.” That pinky finger drags down your neck, where he lays his hand at the base of your throat so gently it’s a wonder you can feel his touch at all. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Do you hurt me?” you ask him.
“No, never.”
You want him to realise that this is you knowing everything you want, despite the heat, the tug inside you begging to be taken. You wanted all of him before your insides began to melt. “You don’t hurt me,” you say.
He turns his head to the side, gathering your cheek again in his big hand to hold you. “You remember what love is?” he asks.
“Inside of love. Me and you.”
“Yeah, me and you. So this is something I need your help with.”
You settle back into soft sheets. He’s so pretty. You aren’t sure what to do now beyond let him have you. “Not know how to help.”
“Just talk to me, baby. That’s all I need. Can you do that?”
“Yeah, I can talk you.”
He smiles at you strangely. Strange for Steve, so somber and measured. “I love your voice. Love your voice.” He kisses your cheek, your jaw, and your throat. “Here, your voice. It makes everything you say… It’s beautiful.”
You like this game. Exactly how it went when he kissed you that first time, the trail of kisses and praises down your wrist to your shoulder. He kisses you now, at the base of your throat and your chest despite the clothes, over your heart, his hair already a brown mess from your eagerness. You stroke it out of his eyes.
“Talk to me,” he says gently.
“Love your voice.”
“Yeah?”
“Warm, and… smooth.” You rub his back, demonstrating in the same way he had when he introduced the word. “In mornings, voice is– is not smooth. Like most.”
Steve’s hands are shaking.
You catch them, one on your tummy, one by your heart, and you hold them tightly. Can practically feel both your pulses beating in the press of your palms. “You are okay?” you ask him.
Steve breathes out suddenly. “No. I mean, yes. I mean–” He laughs. “I just want you and I’m scared I’m gonna– I’m scared you won’t know what you need, that I’m gonna hurt you, and I want you. Fuck, I want you.”
You laugh. “I am not scared,” you say.
“No?” he asks.
“No. So you– you kiss me, now? Please. And me and you, not scared. Not scary.” You squeeze his hands. “Sorry I not know how say.”
“You’re sorry? Don’t be sorry, are you kidding? You’re amazing. You’re so much– you’re more than I–” Steve giggles and tips down to rest his head on your chest. He squeezes your hands back, “I’m sorry I’m such a loser, I used to be so fucking cool and I knew how to do this, but you are really important to me, and I’m fucking so nervous.”
“Nervous word?”
“Like little scared.”
“Me?” you ask, lifting your chin, shoving at him until he’ll look at you. “Scared me?”
“Scared of me,” he says.
You laugh. “You are not scary, I say that. Listen me. You tell me talk, I talk, you do not listen.”
“Alright!” he says, laughing again, bringing your hand to his mouth to kiss. “I’m listening now. Nobody’s scared.”
“Little scared,” you say softly.
“Yeah?”
“Little.”
“Do you want me to talk you through it?”
Your lips part of their own accord. “Talk through?”
“Do you want me to tell you how we do it, before it happens? I don’t mind, baby.”
“Tell me,” you say.
Steve rubs your stomach slowly. “Sex is easy. It should be easy.” His hand sinks lower. “It’s mostly touch, yeah? And your–” He swallows around nothing, squares his expression, and lets his voice drop and droop into honey. “I can make you feel good with my hands, or my mouth, or I can fuck you. It doesn’t have to be fast, or rough, we’ll start slow. It’s just me and you in here.”
That’s the togetherness. You nod surely. “I know.”
“You do?” He licks his lips. “I figure first I’d warm you up, you can figure out what feels good and I can learn how to do it to you.” Steve laughs like it bubbles up. “Shit, I’m so fucking hard, I think you’re killing me.”
“Hard?”
Steve takes your hand and presses it to his stomach.
You laugh, but it’s all air, all breath as you feel down the solidness of his front. You’re not brave enough to touch him.
He shakes himself in front of you like he’s trying to dry off. “Alright, I’m gonna make a mess in my pants if I don’t take them off, so– so– I’m gonna take my shirt off.”
He begins pulling off his shirt and the damn breaks—you get your elbow in your shirt to yank it off, lift your hips and kick out of your skirt, searching behind yourself for the catch on your stupid bra until Steve’s taking you by the wrists. “I can do it.”
“Off?”
“Right now, let me get it.”
He lifts you up toward him, his forearms either side of you as his fingers slip under the line of your bra. It brings his face into reach again, any hesitation forgotten while you kiss his jaw, your lips parting, bottom teeth scratching upward as you bite him gently.
“Fucking thing,” he mumbles, letting the catch of your bra fall open.
“Fucking thing?”
“You. You’re such a fucking thing, you’re a nuisance, you…” Steve takes a very deep breath as he sits up and looks down at your naked chest, your bra having fallen into your lap. “You’re everything.”
Steve ducks down to kiss your chest, and you startle so hard you burst out laughing. The laughter doesn’t last, wobbling into weariness as he places half-moon kisses over your sternum, his hand just above it forcing you into the sheets. It wanders after that.
You flinch from his touch, right over your heart, then lower, and lower.
Steve doesn’t worry, but he does rest his face on your tummy and look up at you to ask, “Okay?”
“Sensitive.”
“Yeah, really sensitive. Feel good?”
“Do again?”
Steve runs his fingertips over your nipple, brushes his thumb into it roughly, smiling as you shudder. He kisses under your breast again then downward, hands swiftly following. He kisses your belly and your hip, kisses the band on your panties and rubs his nose into the fabric. You seize up, worried he’ll feel the wetness there and laugh, wanting him to be faster, wanting him to strip it away from you.
“Touch?” you ask.
He kisses your stomach with the same tenacity he’d have kissed your mouth, hand skirting around all fluttery and warm. You want him to go lower, but he doesn’t. He kisses and kisses and scratches at you with his teeth. He even eases the panties down to kiss along the line, anywhere but where you need him. You’re aching. Your heart is starting to go again, that neediness you felt at the kitchen table returned triple fold right there at the apex of your thighs.
“Gonna take these off, yeah? Give your cunt some attention,” he says quietly.
Cunt. That’s the word Dariyay had said, seceretive-like under her breath. Steve says it without shame, like it’s nothing to be ashamed of, so you don’t think as you ask, “Please, kiss?”
“Kiss you here?” he asks, hand on your thigh now, fingers slipping into the leg of your panties and hand coming up, forcing the fabric down.
You can’t help giving another giddy laugh. “Kiss me all place.”
Steve brings your underwear down to your knees and goes silent above you.
You press your legs together automatically, unsure, but Steve braces his hand on the softness of your inner thigh and eases the mere millimetres apart. Your heart lurches, but you aren’t as shy as you’d imagined. Maybe it’s Steve’s clear, rabid adoration, maybe it’s because he’s seen it before in simpler moments, maybe it’s the rampant tugging in your tummy and your cunt. It feels like you’ve needed this for hours.
“Jesus,” he murmurs, hitting at your thigh with the back of his hand, like a pat, worse when you shift your leg to the side to oblige him and feel the slickness that’s wetting you spreading over your thighs, “aw, Jesus, fuck. Fuck.”
“Fuck ow?” you murmur back. Or fuck now?
“Fuck like beautiful,” he says, his thumb ghosting up the softness of your cunt. You jump, tickled, and his eyes flash to your face. When he sees your bitten lip, he brings his thumb flat to your cunt and feels at you all over again. “You’re so wet.”
“Wet, I know,” you worry.
“No, it’s good. It’s pretty.”
“Kiss?”
“Can I?”
“Ask and ask and ask.”
Steve rolls your panties the rest of the way down your legs with some manoeuvring, kisses the inside of your knee, and suddenly pulls one leg over his shoulder, his face seeking into your cunt unabashedly.
“Ah!” you say, startled by the hot, wide press of his tongue, not sure what you were expecting as you’d begged to be kissed, but surely not this. “Steve.”
A nose pressed hard into the petal folds of you, his tongue against wetness, plushness, kisses up to the apex and then–
“Fuck!” you say, your heel digging into his naked shoulder. “Oh, no!”
“Oh no?” he asks, pulling away fast, wetness shining on his chin and cheek. “Hurt you?”
“No stop,” you say, taking his face into your hand and yanking. Don’t stop, you mean, but the words aren’t clear right now.
“Felt good?”
“Yes!”
“Don’t say oh no, you scared me.”
“What– hah–” You shiver, a burst of pleasure as he kitten licks your cunt, right against the sweet spot at the very top. “What say, honey boy?”
“You can say Steve?” He laughs, and you sigh, wondering if the pulse of wetness from you is visible to him where he’s ducked eye-level to your cunt. “Say anything. Say you like it.”
“I like it.”
“You like it?” he asks, brushing over your clit with his thumb.
You dissolve into some squirmy version of yes and discover it can feel even better than it does. Steve lays down, the entire lower half of his face to your cunt and kissing, working up to your clit to suckle until you squeal. Then he pulls away and licks at the wetness he’s spread around with his face, around your thighs and everywhere except where you need him. It’s ten times more sense than whenever you’ve touched yourself. (Not often, and never as expertly as Steve touches now, never constant, occasionally curious after he’s kissed you and disappeared to the bathroom.)
There is an exceptional Mer word for this sort of pleasure, and it slips from you in a whiny moan. He laughs into your cunt, kisses you again, the tip of his thumb at your opening now and feeling through wetness like he’s playing. It’s– it’s hotter than you’d thought. Fuck, your knee kicks in toward your chest as the pleasure gets burning and– and cresting, like it’ll hurt. You seize up and Steve pushes your leg into your tummy, murmurs, “Relax,” as the very tip of his thumb presses into you and his lips close around your clit and he sucks. He’s barely pushed into you when you’re crying out, startled, reaching for his hair to hold as the climax he’d been working you toward tenses your tummy and has your cunt pulsing over and over, weirdly tight.
It goes on for ages, has you half-crying beneath him, “Steve, oh no, oh–”
“Baby–”
“–Steve, Steve.” You cover your eyes, then immediately peek at him through your fingers, panting for air as the pleasure eases but doesn’t wane, not too fast.
He pulls away from you, his lips and chin and nose a shocking red, his thumb pulling out of your cunt with aching care. “Sorry,” he says, his eyebrows yanked together in fear, “did it hurt? I was just trying to–”
“In again,” you say, scratching at his scalp. You’re so in love with this stupid human you could shake him. “Is perfect. You are perfect.”
His lips flatten into a smug smile. “You’re perfect. Prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen. I knew… I mean, I know what you look like, but this is different.” He kisses your thigh, your tummy, then sits up and over you to bend down and kiss you on the mouth gently. “How was that? Are you feeling better? Less hot?”
“No.”
He kisses you again. “That was fast, so I guess it is about, you know, being ready for, you know...”
“I know?”
“Mating?” he asks reluctantly.
“Oh. Yes. Ready now, can you kiss me?”
“Can I kiss you? Or do you need another word? I’m starting to think you don’t mean kiss.”
You think about it for a second, chest still heaving under his hand. “Kiss me, angel,” you say.
Steve leans in and kisses you, tasting of you, smiling.
—
Steve is gonna cum in his pants like a fucking loser if he doesn’t get a hand on himself.
He unbuttons his jeans as he kisses you and shoves his hand into his boxers, squeezing around the base of his cock in a desperate bid to stop the worst thing that could ever happen from happening.
There is no word in the English language to describe how it felt to have your cunt pulsing down on his thumb. It’s not as though he could’ve entered you too deep like that, felt like a safe bet, and it sank into your heat without a problem. It felt like heaven. Steve’s pretty sure he’ll cum the second his cock even touches your cunt, but that’s a problem for Steve in five minutes or so.
That is, if you still want him to fuck you. He’s kinda shit scared he’s gonna hurt you. He hasn’t had sex with someone inexperienced in years and never with somebody so… oceanic.
You wrap your arms around his back and sigh, your face slinking down into his neck, kiss broken. Steve’s wondering if the foreplay was enough for you, if this painful heat is over, but you giggle and mumble into his chest, his ears piqued like a bloodhound at the sound.
“Together,” you say. “What word say before? Fuck like not ow… fuck me.” You’re voice is quiet and raw enough to force a bead of precum over his fingers.
“Jesus Christ,” he says.
“Please, Stevie?”
Oh my god. Steve whites out. You whine something in Mer and Steve grabs you under the arms to get your head on a pillow, you poor girl laid out in the middle of the bed this entire time. He not so expertly kicks off his jeans, and his boxers slip down his hips, his cock hard and aching as it bends up toward his stomach. Steve doesn’t wanna, like, shove it into your hand, but it might be nice for you to see it. He widens the gap between your bodies just enough to show you.
“This is how I’m gonna fuck you, honey,” he says, “I’m gonna work you open with my hand, and then I’m gonna ease into you, okay? ‘Cos you’ve never done it before, it’ll be so slow, yeah? So careful. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Take it now.”
“No, you can’t. You can’t, listen to me.”
You pout, but Steve laughs, kissing your sweaty forehead with a smack.
“Fuck me now and now, and slow, ready now,” you promise.
Steve grins at you with all the adoring he possesses, cannot express to you how much he wishes he could spread you open now and have you, but Steve’s not about to hurt you for the sake of five minutes. Maybe ten. Maybe fifteen. He entices you in for a pulling kiss, the distracting kind, head turning this way and that as he licks into your mouth and runs his hand over your hip, to your cunt, to all the slickness there.
The first finger pushes in easy. He does it slow, waits for pain. You huff a little but kiss him the same, so Steve gives a careful pump and drives in with a second finger.
That’s when you shudder.
“How’s that?” he asks, pausing.
“Fine.”
“Fine?” Steve slows the rock of his hand. “Hurting?”
“Good, just–”
“Just different, huh?” He twists his hand a little to press his thumb to your clit. “You tell me if it hurts you, honey girl,” —you melt like sugar at the name, as saccharine as it is— “I don’t wanna hurt you. You gotta talk to me, you know?”
“Not– not much talk, much, hah–”
That little hah sound has gotta be his favourite noise you’ve ever made. Like a shiver through a smile, not half as sweet as your urgent moaning with a thigh clamped around his head, it reminds him of your stupid laugh whenever you’re pleased. Totally self-indulgent.
He doesn’t try another finger for a while, isn’t sure how long, just kisses you and works into you until his wrist is aching from the upward thrust. Right toward the front, where he knows you’ll–
“Oh.” You turn into Steve, weight on your hip and torso moving into his touch to take it quicker. “Ah, Steve, touch please, touch there.”
He circles his thumb against your clit.
You flinch. Cry out a little at the pleasure and press your face into his shoulder as Steve eases that third finger into your cunt. He’s in ecstasy, his cock throbbing erratically against his stomach, head weeping and red as you whimper into his skin, his name on your tongue, your cunt dripping slick between the cleft of your ass.
“Wanna cum again?” he asks. “Say? Can you take it again?”
His thumb is dedicated now to your clit, rubbing in tight, wet circles as your thighs twitch, and twitch. You cum before Steve can hear your answer. It’s honestly faster than he meant. This heat in you is like a dial set to eleven.
This time, you’re annoyed. Laughing and angry, you shove at his chest and Steve wishes he had a camera to get your smile for keeps. “Said was ready! Tummy jump, now, you did.”
Steve kisses your nose. “Will you shut up? You liked it, didn’t you? You’re such a complainer.”
“Not complain! Ecstatic! Want Steve ecstatic, together, fix my ow.”
“You said it doesn’t hurt.”
“Need you, Steve. Please.”
How many times can a girl say please before Steve cums in his hand? Apparently, he’s got one more please left before he shoots. He has to squeeze himself especially hard to make that happen. Doesn’t have a chance in fucking hell to last, but (and he feels like a bitch even thinking it), it’s not like you’ll know he’s cumming fast. You haven’t exactly held out, here.
“Can you stay still?” he asks.
“No.”
“Okay, awesome,” he says, pinching your chin in his hand, forcing your eyes to his. “You don’t let me hurt you.”
“I love you,” you say.
Steve feels his eyes get hot and his nose burn right at the back. “Yeah?”
“Most,” you confide, wrapping yourself around him.
Steve gets his arm behind your neck, pulling you in for a kiss. It’s unbelievable, he thinks, that the crook of his elbow fits your head perfectly. That the girl he’s been searching for was waiting at the bottom of the ocean. With his free hand, he reaches down to squeeze his aching cock again, and you must know enough to lift your leg over his hip and close the gap.
“Ready?” he asks softly.
“Yeah, ready.”
Steve strokes your cheek. “I love you,” he says, “a lot.”
Your smile is especially bemused. “I know, tell me much and lots, tell me all time, do lots tell, always inside of love with me.”
“It’s true all the time,” he says with a pout.
“Steve!”
“I know, I know, I’m just making sure I tell you back.”
You nuzzle your nose into the side of his. “Tell again,” you say quietly.
“I love you,” he says, taking a wonky kiss from the corner of your lips.
Steve lines up and presses in.
You’re wet enough and relaxed enough that he could sink to the hilt, but he knows he can’t, and he won’t. He lets your chests touch but keeps your hips apart and rocks into you slowly, lets the pleasure in his stomach lick up his spine and take over every bit of sense he has left. He’s surprised it took this long to tell you he loved you plainly. It comes to the surface and lingers now, love you love you love you as you choke on a moan and hide under his jaw. Steve can’t let you stay there too long, drawing you up with murmured pleading, come back, let me see you, miss your face too much when you’re hiding, like an angel, real pretty sweetheart, tries to gauge your feelings as you take it. As he gives it, really. He feels like you’re not taking anything so much as you’re just there with him, his girl. It’s sex, messy and simple, but it’s your first time, and this is more new to you than it would be to most. All Steve wants is to make it gentle. You take it sweetly, breathing out right in his ear, your voice colouring each breath with an addictive pull. It makes it hard to last. Makes going slow the only way he’s gonna get through this.
“Okay?” he asks, when you’ve been quiet far too long, and he’s slowed to a pause inside you.
“Love,” you say, aiming for a big kiss.
Steve matches the kiss for every thrust and feels his thigh muscles go tight as violin strings as he sinks straight past any resistance to the hilt. He should not have done that, did not mean to, you’d rocked your hips down and he’s already pulling out, murmuring, “Sorry, angel, I’m sorry–” as you whisper a fervent, “Again, please.”
He checks your face.
“Again,” you say, eyebrows drawing together in pleasure.
So Steve sinks in and he fucks you slow, like a drag, a rut into heat and wet and plushness that makes him groan. Hits into resistance and feels how much you like it.
“Sound good,” you whisper.
“Can’t help it.”
“Beautiful.” You draw a hand over his abdomen. “What word?”
“Handsome?” he teases.
You reach down to his quads and pull at him, prompting another heavy thrust. Another. Steve takes a couple of kisses while he’s still breathing, but then he’s so close to heaven he has to stop.
“Okay?”
“Gonna cum,” he squeezes out.
“Cum,” you say, like you know what it means, and it doesn’t matter. Steve was too chicken shit to explain it, but he did ask you first, didn’t he? You pick up everything quickly.
“Can’t yet. Can’t. Didn’t fuck you like you wanted.”
“This what I wanted,” you say, abandoning his hip to take his face into your hand. You’re clammy and cool, now, not burning like you were. Your thumb rubs into his cheek slowly, like he’s made of glass. Like one of those Venus flower sponges from the ocean, thin and delicate as drops of ice. “Me and you. This is all what I wanted, okay? You fixed me.”
You smile at him with stars in your eyes as your hips shift and Steve has to pull out, cumming in his hand a second later, panting like his life depends on it as strings of cum line his fingers.
You stare in surprise. “Oh. Not happen to me.”
“It’s a boy thing,” he rasps out, dropping his forehead against your shoulder.
You reach between your legs to touch yourself, laughing as you do, like you’re drunk or high or something, giggly-soft as Steve tries to catch his breath.
You give up on whatever light exploring you’d desired and offer your arms for a real cuddle, hips flat together and sticky. “Hold me?” you ask.
Steve wipes his hand in the sheets with a sigh and gathers you into his arms. “Yeah.”
—
Did you know when a boy who loves you fucks you, it kind of feels like you’re the most beautiful girl who ever existed?
Steve fucked you and held you and kissed your cheeks and cuddled you to him and he never stopped asking how it felt, and if you were okay, and his hand had drifted down to your chest to touch you, to make you feel good, and all of it felt like a honeypot coil in your tummy getting tighter. ‘Mating’ or getting ‘fucked’ by someone who’s in love with you is better than all your best firsts. It’s like finding a new way to swim, like feeling the sun on your skin through the depths with a hand in your hair, raking it back. It’s like being kissed all over, all the time.
If merpeople developed the ability to change just to do this with one another, you totally get it.
Steve hugs you for a good ten minutes while you doze, tired, sated after a big meal, and then he gets up on his knees and puts his nose to your forehead without kissing you. “I’m gonna get you some water, and check that I set the alarm on the door. Do you want something to eat?”
“Do not go.”
“I’ll be fast.”
“Stay. Hold me more.”
So Steve lays down and holds you until you fall asleep.
You wake up again an indeterminable amount of time later to many different things. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand opposite you, a bowl of rice with cut slices of bright, fresh fish beside it. Steve is rolling deodorant onto his armpits in a pair of boxers sitting by your legs. You need to pee, a pain like a knife between your legs.
“Hurt,” you say softly.
Steve turns to you, his mouth puckered in worry. “Yeah, what hurts?”
“Pee.”
“Oh. That’s normal. Want me to carry you?”
“No,” you say with a laugh. “Not broken.”
“I can see that.”
You realise that he’s wiped you clean as you stand, which is oh so nice, and not at all a surprise from your kind boy, earning him a kiss behind his ear as you rush to the en-suite bathroom. You close the door but don’t lock it and do your business quick.
You’re delighted to find the extremely sensitive feeling and all your slickness is over. You wash your hands and face before opening the door some to peer at Steve through the gap. “Stevie?” you ask softly.
“What’s up, beautiful?”
You aren’t sure.
He scratches a hand through damp hair. “Come here,” he prompts when you fail to return, “come on, you can sit in my lap and eat something. You didn’t eat anything at breakfast.”
“You not eat anything. I had pancake.”
“You had a bite of pancake, that’s not enough.”
You head back to him and sit in his lap as he’s asked you, not worried about falling considering the speed with which he pulls you close. “Best bite of pancake ever. Ever. You feed me, best pancake.”
“Theyre not as good as the pancakes you made,” he says.
You shake your head, tracing along his beauty marks with a pearlescent fingernail. Thinking very hard about each word before it comes out, taking time to sew the sentence tightly, you say, “When you feed me pancakes from plate, your plate, it is important. Understand? Word, I think, like love. Mermaid feed you, mean…”
“Like a kiss?” he asks. “You kiss sometimes to share food, right?”
“Sort of like kiss, like, swear you care for me.”
“Hey, speaking of kisses, I got to thinking while you were sleeping. How come your spit doesn’t magically glue my mouth closed whenever we kiss? Isn’t it like, super strong?”
“What?” you ask.
“Your spit! You fixed your tummy with it, and my foot, but when we kiss we don’t get stuck together.”
“Only fix when hurt, duh.” You roll your eyes. “Whatever. Silly boy, not want talk to you.”
“Rude.”
You can’t fake a huff. You’re currently too heavily imbued with happy hormones to do anything besides sit here and wish he’d tell you he loved you again.
He taps at your nose with the tip of his until you lift your lips, kissing you briefly, then slotting his head over your shoulder, his hand spread and waving against your back. “So this sharing from the same plate thing, that’s important to you?”
You smile. Glad he can’t see it. He’d know you’re totally gone for him if he could. “Important for mermaid, inside of love, yeah? Many important.”
“Is that what made you… you know, excited?”
“Heat not s’posed happen but is wait happen, also? Make me, when share.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not be sorry. Not ever, please.”
“I’m not sorry about this,” he says, patting your shoulder, “just sorry I made you uncomfortable doing something I should’ve done before. We never shared before?”
“Has to be with want. Not like, uh, share foals and flounder.”
“You’re confusing me.”
“Has to be… go of love?”
“I have to do it because I love you?”
“Yes. Have to do because you love me, care me, give me.”
“Well, I’ve cared about you for a really long time, and I’ve been feeding you since we met, baby.”
You shake your head, picking gently at a mole behind his shoulder blade. Not to hurt him, only to feel it. “Plate. Feed me your plate.”
Steve leans into you with a loving sigh, smelling your neck. “I think I understand. It’s symbolic, like a tradition.”
“Tradition?”
“A tradition is something you do that has rules. You do it because it’s important, and because people have done it before you? Or, like, humans get married. You remember that from Watership Down? They say promises and exchange rings because it’s important to them. I understand it now.” His voice warms your skin. “You could’ve told me. I would’ve shared with you off of the same fork months ago.”
“Months!” You’re scandalised. You and Steve have not known each other for more than four months, you’d say.
Four months, and he is already so special to you. Just four months.
You figure you’ll explain the intention of the courting process some other time and encourage his head back instead, meeting his brown eyes, their almond shape gone soft from his long eyelashes. There are too many places on his face you’ve failed to kiss. You know you’ve never kissed above his eyebrows before, leaning up to rectify the issue quickly. “All Steve need kiss,” you say decidedly.
He offers his hand.
You kiss every finger, knuckle to tip, then his palm.
He holds your face in it when you’re done, giving your chin a little wobble.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Okay.”
“And you slept okay? Not tired?”
“Slept nice. Want you sleep and me next time.”
“Sleep with you, next time.”
“I know,” you say quietly. “Can tell something?”
“You can tell me anything. Not kidding.”
You hold your hands together against his tummy. “Feel… sad, now and before and before, when I can not… give word, right word. Feel like me and Steve, very important, and can not give words important.”
Steve draws along your face with a single fingertip. “Not give words important,” he repeats.
“All wrong word. I am sorry.”
“You don’t ever have to be sorry. Not for anything, and not for how you tell me what you need.”
“You have…” Steve deserves to hear how loved he is in perfect sentences, but you’re just not there. You understand almost every single word he offers up now, but it is so hard to recollect what joiner word to say and what order to say them in when you aren’t hearing them. “I learn more word, swear.”
“Are you kidding?” he says, shifting your legs over his lap to hold the small of your back. “I don’t know a single word in Mer that isn’t your name and you’re apologising to me? Do you hear that? You learned how to speak a new language so you could talk to me. You stay with me, you want to be here, and you think you need to be sorry about how you talk?” He tilts his head to better meet your gaze, ducking a touch, forcing your full attention. “You told me you loved me, earlier. You think that’s not good enough? That’s fucking everything. I don’t need you to say the right words, I only want you to tell me how you feel. As long as I know what you need, and you can complain, we’re fine. We don’t need anything else.”
Really? you want to say. Irony is you can’t think of the word. “You are okay?”
“Yes, beautiful, I promise you. I promise. Yes and yes and yes, you’re perfect.”
“Perfect most beautiful.”
“Most,” he says, raising his eyebrows at you.
It gets tiring, always learning. Some days Dariyay or Dustin try to teach you knew words and you cannot be bothered to ingest them, but it was worth it, in the end, to let Steve teach you. There are times like now where you’re trying hard to make sense and forgetting words you knew, and messing up the simple stuff in an attempt to use the more complicated.
You wonder why it bothers you. Steve knows every part of you, now. This is it. He has everything, and he wants you just the same.
“Need you,” you mumble, pressing your lips to his muscled shoulder. He is made up of such amazing shapes.
“Have me,” he says, rubbing a path down your spine, up again, slow as honey. “I promise, you’re everything I need like this.”
You glance at him sideways. He’s nosing down your arm, his eyes fluttered closed as though he’s forgotten where he is.
“You want share rice me?” you ask.
He smiles into your arm. “Yes. It’s important, right? From now on, me and you, we eat from the same plate. Good?”
He could lay you out right now and have you, that’s how good it is.
You wonder if he’d like that.
—
It’s a few hours later when Steve gets you into the bath.
All fucking remained gentle, yet you look like you’ve been through the ringer by the time you’re done. Steve wanted to see if he could get you to cum six times, and he achieved his arbitrary goal all too quickly.
You, while pleased, have the air of a woman who needs electrolytes. Steve gives you a glass of apple juice and you sip it in the tub, submerged to the waist in bubbles and blinking beautifully slow blinks.
Whatever it was that was making you want to be fucked so badly has certainly dissipated. You’d gone sore and achy in the middle of a second tryst so Steve had pulled out, kissing at the hurt he caused until you cried, real, big-drop tears that fourth time, and then the fifth. Steve sniffled his way through that fifth one with you, murmuring love into your skin, enchanted by the sight of you with your hands running over yourself.
The sixth was mostly accidental. Lazy, lazy kisses turned to a hickey which you’ve apparently never had, turned to you hot against his leg, your hips rolling. He didn’t have to touch you much to draw out a last climax, but the sound you made was borderline pained, so he didn’t try again.
“Are you okay?” he asks, kneeling beside the bath with his hand braces at your hairline, stroking.
“Yes.”
“Can you use a couple more words?”
“Feel full.”
Steve laughs, stroking down your cheek with the back of his hand. “Sated?”
“What mean?”
“Means you feel satisfied, like, everything is fixed. Like full, but without the feeling of, like…” Steve pets your cheek, then lets his hand fall further down. “Pressure.”
“Pressure?”
Steve squeezes your shoulder. “Like this?”
“Squeeze me.”
“Yeah, I’m applying pressure.”
“Oh.”
You take another mouthful of apple juice, but your question is loaded up before you’re done, and he can hear you swallowing as you ask, “Are you okay, angel? Did I hurt you?”
“Did you hurt me? Never, why would you think that?”
“You ask me lots times. Think if sex maybe hurt,” you say.
“It doesn’t usually hurt. Only sometimes, and most of the time by accident.”
“Oh.”
“Want me to wash your hair now?” he asks.
“Yes, please. Thank you. Best boyfriend.”
You’re not kidding, is the worst part. You close your eyes and offer your glass to him blindly with a content smile on your face, waiting for him to pour water over you and wet your hair.
He’s pretty sure you’re the first girlfriend he’s ever had to think this highly of him. He wants to earn it.
Steve taps your chin and kisses the slight bruise of a hickey, gentle, lest he hurt you twice. “You are really perfect,” he says.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He washes your hair carefully but quickly, wanting to get you out of the bath fast. He showered after your first fuck but needs to wash off again now, so he wraps you in a towel once you’re done and tells you to climb into bed, that he’ll sort everything out for you when he’s done.
He showers and dries off, returning to the bedroom with a towel around his waist and a smile. You’re cross-legged on the bed with one of your encyclopedias in the dip of your legs, the towel falling down your chest some, your written list of phonetics poking out behind the cover, but you aren’t studying. You’re tracing pictures with your finger, eyebrows lightly pinched.
“Wet hair,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Fix.”
“‘Bout to.”
“About,” you correct.
Steve chuckles to himself. “Yeah.”
“About means… same, means close, means like new word.”
“Kind of. It’s a hard word to explain.”
“About to go to bed,” you say. “Have in Mer, kind of.”
“You do?”
“Not so different.”
Steve dries your hair and does his best to fix it. Dariyay fixed it for you this morning and he wouldn’t have gotten it wet, only the sex seemed to have knocked it out of place and frizzed it to high heaven. He gives it his best shot and you trace shapes into his stomach where it stays near your hand. Steve won’t ask to fuck again, but your touch and the fresh memory of what it felt like to do that to you has his cock stirring. He wills it down. Wonders if he’s a sex pest now, or if you’re just that beautiful.
It’s funny. You’ve been pretty this whole time, but Steve can’t believe how much worse it’s gotten over time. He didn’t think you could get any prettier.
“Ecstatic,” you murmur.
He tips your head back. “You are in love with me.”
“Yes?”
“No, like. You’re a loser. You’re gone for me.”
“What is loser, gone, shush. Say mean thing, think I not know, I know.” You scowl at him. “You are loser.”
He wrinkle his nose. “Am not.”
“Yes. Much loser.”
“Wanna get dressed? I have the softest pajamas ever with your name written all over them.”
“Name all over?”
“It’s a saying. Like… if I say I’m jumping for joy, I’m not really jumping, but I could be.”
“Joy happy?”
“Yeah.”
“We jump for joy, mermaid. Swim up to surface, jump, swim down. Fun.”
“It sounds awesome.”
“My name written all over, not real, but mine, mine a lot, so. Saying.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“More saying human? Mer not have much saying. Mer more–” You pause. “Yes and yes.”
Steve takes the time to sort it through. “You guys say what you mean. Humans are funny. We have lots of sayings. We have one that goes, ‘he drinks like a fish’, which means he likes a lot of beer.”
“Fish not drink beer?” you say, laughing.
“No, they don’t. It’s stupid, it’s because people think fish drink a ton of water. Hey, should we go swimming later?” he asks, digging through the top dresser drawer until he finds the sweet blue pajamas he has hiding away. They’re for your hard days, of which you don’t have many, but the softness never fails to draw your awe. He thinks they’ll be nice for the occasion, extra comfort after a big first experience. “It’s been a while.”
“Not swim. Dariyay tell, after heat, water and me make tail.”
Steve snorts at the joke, even as he falters. “You’ll get your tail back, huh?”
“Have… what call? Foal.”
“Baby. You’d have a baby.”
“Right. Oh, forgot. Two means.”
His stomach jolts uncomfortably at the idea of you changing back. “Yeah, it’s one of those words… Shit, you’ll really get your tail again? I don’t want you to leave, yet. Dariyay said you have to go home soon, didn’t she? But there’s so much you haven’t done, I wanted to take you on a real date, and on a rollercoaster, and to the movies, take you rollerblading. There’s so much stuff. I don’t want you trapped in my pool again, but maybe I can go with you?” He can’t think of a way to stay with you. “Don’t go yet. Please.”
You give him your own rare brand of puppy dog eyes. “Not want go, Steve. Tell you. You and me tomorrow and tomorrow, and love you, and– not want. Miss tail, but miss you more,” you say, shrugging. “Get dressed now? I am cold.”
Steve gives you your pajamas and diverts the conversation from changing. He has the feeling that he is being very, very selfish, but he cannot bring himself to let you go.
The second he sits down, you get on your knees and shuffle around, pausing, shy for potentially the first time in your whole life. “Can I hold you?” you ask.
Steve lays down and you follow, interlocking on your sides like commas. You wrap your arms around him very specifically; the bottommost one looped around his matching arm, and the upper over his neck, your hand on his cheek, holding him like you’d asked.
“Best thing,” you say, turning your hand to stroke his cheek. It is such a light touch that, for a second, he wants to squirm away. He relaxes the longer you do it, coaxed into total stillness, his eyes growing heavier and heavier. “My boy.”
Your fingers tumble down to the thin line of a scar that spans across his neck.
“Hurting?” you murmur.
He closes his eyes. Lets himself melt into your chest. “Nah. Not for a long time.”
⋆𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔:⋆
thank you for reading!!! I hope you enjoyed it! I would love to know what you thought, but no pressure 🩵
jade, you are such an amazing author. the love and attention to detail in this is INCREDIBLE and i am so thankful that i get to read the stories you create. i love their communication and sweetness in this, you did a wonderful job my lovely!! 💕
hi, how are you, good evening, I have not been able to stop thinking about this all day, especially with a thick & beefy eddie a la @urhoneycombwitch's husky dreamboat.
18+ MDNI┃1.1k
cw: filth, filth, filth. just filth. no plot, no nothing. only filth.
Eddie comes over and he just…needs you.
He’s been thinking about it all day—longer than all day, he’s been thinking about it ever since he was dead asleep the night before, dreaming of being buried where he belongs between your thighs. His face, his cock, his fingers somehow all at once, feeling you every-goddamn-where.
Woke up so hard it fucking hurt.
Barely took him two full strokes before he sprayed cum all over his chest and belly, and feels almost sad amongst the euphoria because he knows it was all meant to go inside you.
He fires off a text en route to the shower, knowing you won’t get it for a couple more hours. He’s just relieved he didn’t slip in a Freudian ‘u.’
coming over 2nite.
No question mark, nothing up for interpretation. You guys talked about “maybe” doing something tonight, but he’s turned it from a vague possibility into an absolute mathematical certainty.
By the time you write back, he’s well into his day at the garage and you’re just getting up.
someone’s decisive ;)
He chuckles to himself when he reads it.
You have no idea what you’re in for.
You still don’t until he knocks on your door at 6:00 sharp and by 6:01, he’s kissing you. Kicking the door shut behind him, backing you down the hallway. Devouring your laugh and tugging at your clothes, leaving a trail of his and yours across the apartment and all the way to your bedroom.
And then he’s on top of you and pressing his lips wherever they can reach, his hands gripping and groping like he’s forgotten what you feel like. But how could he? Who could forget how smooth you are, how your flesh yields to his touch, how you fill up his palms with heat and softness that feels so right against the roughness of his skin. Built up with callouses and guitar string scars he lost count of decades ago, they shouldn’t fit with you so well but they do.
It’s like you’re clay he was born to mold, a sculpture he sees take shape a little more each time you’re together. Turning into something more beautiful than he ever imagined.
He worships you with his mouth, tastes the implumbable depths of the well at the center of you and drinks from it like it’s the fountain of youth—quenching a thirst he’s had since birth.
Your fingers weave into his curls, less to guide his movements and more to hold on for dear life. You ride out two, three highs before he even makes a move to enter you.
But god, when he does…something switches.
Some long-buried, purely animal part of his brain takes over. Some sweaty, wild, feral thing that’s only concerned with you. Feeling you, holding you, fucking you—owning you.
He’s rougher with you than he means to be, digging his fingers into your thighs to push them up and flush with your chest, squeezing your breath out of you so the only way you can tell him to keep going is by nodding as hard as you can when he looks to you with those lust blown eyes.
Wet as you are, you’re afraid he’ll slip out he’s thrusting so hard and so fast. But if he does, you don’t feel it. All you can feel is him, his arms caging you in, his biceps bulging and flexing through the layer of fat that covers them. The same fat that covers his thick thighs and his stomach and his ass and his broad, wide shoulders. The fat that makes him feel so big and solid around you, that lets him cover you like a blanket and smother you in the smell of sweat and woodsy cologne.
He huffs and grunts and groans and whines in your ear, a symphony of struggling to keep himself under control. Breathing getting heavier with every buck of his hips, the impact making his ass jiggle harder each time. Your hand like a claw clutching one cheek, the other wrapped around the back of his neck to keep his face close, safe in the little world between your jaw and collarbone.
He speaks softly, broken choked-off words just barely above a whisper. More like a sigh.
“Baby, I c-can’t—I can’t stop, m’so…mmmph—fuck…”
The words simmer in your ear, coupled with the wet slaps of skin on skin that fill the room with your moans and his, the slippery mess you’re making so noisy it’s obscene. You are gushing around him, your body pulsing and clenching trying to hold him inside as long as possible.
“M’sorry, I’m so sorry, I can’t help it, I need you so fucking bad—”
He’s coming apart at the seams. You can feel it in the way his body unspools into pleasure, the way all the tension he’s been carrying is leeched from every muscle and ligament. How his voice unfurls into this wanton plea, so loose and languid in stark contrast to the tightness of his limbs.
“S-so…so good… so nnngh, so good for me…oh shit…”
One last clench, one last powerful thrust, one last deep and resonant groan that reverberates through your chest that’s pressed so tight to his. One last desperate clutch at his crown of sweaty curls, one last gasp as you throw your head back. One last squeeze of your legs stretched as wide as they can go, ankles crossed at the small of his back to hold him close.
The last noise he makes is veneration, a final holy sacrament to his altar of you.
He stays buried inside, steeping in his own spend, feeling the slow trickle of it around the base of his cock. You should probably find it gross. You should probably take offense at being folded in half and getting pounded out like a piece of meat. And yet, you can’t find the will for either.
“Hey,” he whispers when he’s back in his body, and while he’s still in yours. “You okay?”
You just nod, sleepy and lazy and dazed, a little smile creeping across your lips he doesn’t see because he’s shaking his head, letting it hang like it’s hard to hold up all of a sudden.
“I didn’t…I didn’t mean for it to be so—”
You take his chin in your hand and turn him into a kiss. A good one. A thought-erasing one.
“I loved it,” you whisper back, and clench around him for good measure. His hand grapples at your waist, his body jerking with a violent shudder.
“Don’t you– ffffuck…”
The barely-there threat dissolves into laughter before he can even make it, his face smothered in the crook of your neck again so he can breathe in the smell of your drying sweat.
if you don't stand up for yourself enough, say, you're an inherently shy person, steve will take that power trip and run with it, convincing himself you're too shy to do anything and you need him to take control or your relationship won't progress at all.
so, any time you try to look away from a kiss because it making out with him too long always makes your head foggy, he'll use one of his huge hands to squish your face and turn it back to his so he can keep going.
or if you're tryin to reach for or open something and you just can't get it, he'll do it for you. and get everything for you in the future. also, he won't let anyone take advantage of your timid nature but him. like if you're tryng to speak in a group setting and someone talks over you, he'll call them out by name and tell them to shut up because you were talking.
it's just so validating. you feel so seen and understood around him. but sometimes that tingly feeling you get from kissing goes through the rest of your bod, and you don't know how to indicate to him you want more. so you just follow him around all day, pawing at him and dry begging for him to touch you.
this is the only time he actually wants you to use your words. shaking his head and being so mean by not just letting you have him how you usually do. but you finally suck up your pride and beg him to touch you, and when you do, he's on you instantly, pushing you onto his bed as the two've you had planned a sleepover for tonight, pushing you down and lifting your legs onto his shoulder, pushing his half hard cock right against you through both your clothes, rubbing against you slow and sloppy.
and of course you get all worked up, you've never done this or felt like this before, all folded up with nowhere to go as steve dry fucks you in his bed. any time you hide your face or whine, he'll turn it back to him, reminding you that you were the one who asked for this. when you keep getting fussy and hiding, he grabs you lightly but the throat and makes you look into his eyes and feel how his hips roll into yours, how close it feels like to actually having sex, how your crotches rub and squish against each other each time he bucks into you. why didn't you ask for this sooner?
steve is very versatile with the positons he puts you in. ⦂ 18+
"steve... mm'so good," you slur around his fingers.
you're face down, cheek smushed against a pillow with your mouth curled around two of his thick fingers. they're heavy, nearly gagging you, but he knows exactly how deep to press before your throat flutters tight in warning.
his other hand blankets your eyes, covering your vision so you can't see him, only feel him deep deep inside your guts as his hips slap crudely against your ass while he fucks you flat into the bed. "wow... you're helpless like this," he pants. you whine in response. he uses his free hand to shove your legs open as wide as they'll go so your hole is spread and accessible.
“look so fuckin' pretty like this, honey.” he coos, shallowing his thrusts for a second just to grind in slow and deep. your eyes roll back in pleasure at how good and deep he is. prone allows him to press so fucking deep into you and push his balls snugly against your ass each time he bottoms out. you swear you feel his fat tip nudge your womb. you wanna look back to see his face, or try to muster a response, but each time you try, he slips his fingers further down your mouth and rolls his fingertips over your tongue so everything comes out garbled.
“mm mm,” he tuts. “no running. y'gonna take what i give you.” steve presses his chest to your back and smothers you while his meaty cock ruts back and forth against your plushy walls. he grits his teeth each time you clamp around him when he tries to draw back. his eyes then flick down to where spit’s starting to string from your lips to his knuckles. “gosh, look at you.”
you can’t look. not with his palm still cupped over your eyes. maybe the lack of vision sharpens your senses everywhere else, because you're especially sensitive to his cock dragging thick through your soaked pussy, the sweat dripping down your back, and the tremble in your thighs from how long he’s kept you like this. you whimper and try to swallow around his fingers, but he just pushes in deeper, watching your throat bob around them as he fucks forward again, harder now.
"mmph-"
“and you keep complaining.” he huffs. “i thought you liked this. i think you like when i fold you up n’ get you dumb. like when i make it all messy for you.” his cock pulses inside you as he says it, and it makes your whole body jump. your hips jerk reflexively, trying to squirm or maybe meet his thrusts, but his hand on your face presses down firmer and he drops his weight harder over your back to hold you down like an animal.
ᥫ᭡.
your knees are bent high up by your chest, thighs spread wide and trembling, cunt laid bare and sopping with how he works his tongue against your silken folds. he’s got you in the filthiest position possible, folded up like a fucktoy, held open with no shame.
he's instructed you to hold your own legs open, which is humiliating, but his hands are busy. one is pushing down on your clit and rolling it in sharp circles, while he uses two fingers of his other hand to scissor inside your pussy while he eats you out.
he goes in nose-first, tongue sloppily dragging over your pussy while he hums something vulgar against it. as steve slurps at your clit, sucking it into his mouth just to pop off and spit again, wetness dribbles down over his chin and onto your already soaked slit.
“oh my. look at this,” he groans into you, mouth still pressed against your cunt. he removes his fingers from inside of you - you whine at the sudden loss - to spread your pussy lips enough to see your sloppy, drooling insides. it's so embarassing. “she's gushing. who made you this wet, sweetie?” you're beyond being ashamed at this point.
"you- oh fuck, you!" you moan loudly when his tongue dips lower, slides right down to your hole and fucks in just barely. he drags it back up again like he’s tracing every inch of you on purpose, then he’s mouthing over your clit again, sucking it so hard your hips jerk up off the mattress. “watch your mouth,” he scolds, his voice muffled by how deep he is between your legs. “there she is. y’feel that? feel how much she’s throbbin’ for me?”
he flicks his tongue into you and grins into your cunt when your moans climb to a louder pitch. your fingers are digging into your skin now, trying to keep yourself held up even though your limbs are shaking. his hands are tight on your thighs, thumbs spreading you further while he works his tongue in messy circles, rutting his mouth into you.
“gonna make you gush,” he groans. “y'gonna make a mess all over my face.”
you whimper again, whole body curling up tighter as he sucks harder. he watches your stomach clench and your cunt swell under his tongue like you're about to burst. "st-steve" you gasp, "steve, 'm cumming, please, ca-can i cum?" you squirm, and he shoves his tongue deep past your hole, encouraging you to let go. he gives you a hum which creates vibrations through you pussy, and that's all you need.
you cream all over his mouth, juices leaking down your ass and the sheets and his chin, and even then, he doesn’t stop. mouthing and slurping noisily at your pussy.
ᥫ᭡.
steve pushes you down hard onto the bed, chest flattening into the sheets, but the real manhandling begins when he yanks your hips up so your ass is in the air. he kneels behind you, propping one foot up beside your head, and pressing his cock into you slow and rough so you adjust to his size. when he's halfway in, he slams the rest of his fat fucking cock all the way inside you to the hilt, then drags your ass up higher so he can angle his cock in a way that makes it drag against your sweet spot with every thrust.
"mngh-! shit baby, its too big...ohmygod," you cry out, trying to squirm a little so there's not so much pressure on the softest, gummiest part of your insides, but he pushes your head down and forces you in place. "too much?" steve mocks, thrusting slow and shallow so he keeps hitting that one spot that makes you dumb and your pussy squelch and drip around him.
"yeah," you slur, trying to grab at something to anchor yourself; you land on holding his ankle with one hand while the other grips the sheets.
he keeps mimicking you, "yeah, baby? 's too big for you? y'want me to make love to you nice and slow instead?" he huffs, dragging back, back... his tip is the only part of him still inside at this point, getting gripped snugly by your slippery walls. your pussy's trying to suck him back in. then, his hips slam forward in one thrust, balls hitting your ass hard. you scream, feeling tricked by his sweet tone. your whole body arches and your walls stretch around him.
then steve starts fucking you. his cock slams into you hard and fast, pounding roughly inside you while you moan and squirm in an attempt to get away from his ruthless thrusts. his hands grip down on your hips tightly, thumbs dragging nails down your skin as his cock fucks you harder, rougher, shoving deep like he’s claiming every inch of your hole.
every brutal thrust sends a shudder through your body, your pussy throbbing around him. he leans down so his cock spears into you deeper, and breathes down your neck, low grunts slipping out as he drives you harder, fucking with no mercy. "yeah, that's it. you take it with no complaints."
your breathy whines match his own deeper sounds, and you dig your nails into his ankle. he keeps slamming in deep, hips pistoning, balls slapping your clit with each violent pull back. then, he pulls you up by your underarms unceremoniously so you're kneeling in front of him, and he fucks up into you now, then pulls your head up just enough to crush his mouth on yours in a sloppy, open mouthed kiss.
ᥫ᭡.
just a quick break from work, is what you intended when you came to visit him on the clock. you wanted to help him destress from the constant chaos he has to deal with at work, maybe sit on his lap and kiss for a few minutes, or step out to have a quick snack run; but not this.
he's standing over you in the locked printer room, his shirt tight, crisp, untouched, while you’re the mess beneath him. your makeup's a mess, your mouth sloppy and slick with saliva. your eyes and nose are leaking from his cock hitting the back of your throat.
his hands clamp down on your hair, each fist grabbing your hair into makeshift reins pigtails. he pulls your head back hard enough to crane your neck and force your mouth wide open around the girth of his cock. he guides your mouth back and forth on his cock so you slobber along his shaft noisily.
his breath comes heavy through his nose as he watches you, completely transfixed. his brows are furrowed, body leaning over you like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “look at you,” he mutters. one hand lets go of your hair just long enough to brush the back of his fingers down your cheek, dragging across the slick trails running from your eyes to your chin. “god, babe. i was gonna take you out for a coffee or something.”
his fist yanks your head up, forcing your lips to slip off the tip with a wet, sloppy pop. his cockhead glistens with your spit, leaking with your slobber and his pre that beads at the tip. you lick at his swollen, flushed cockhead, swirling it slow and then wrapping your lips around it sucking.
he pulls your head back down without warning, shoving the whole length of him back past your lips. your throat clamps around him reflexively, but his grip doesn’t loosen. he holds you there with his cock driving deep and slow. “can’t even think straight with you like this. mouth all pretty and wet and stuffed full. you’re really gonna act like this is my fault?”
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you finally work up the courage to kiss Eddie for the first time and he can’t cope (even if he claims he can). 2k words. requested here
cw fem!reserved/shy!reader, first kiss, heavy kissing, mutual pining, eddie being a hot dork
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
Some people (Steve) call Eddie your loser boyfriend, while other people (the girls at work) call him the rockstar.
You see both sides of him now.
“Sweetheart!” he calls, the passenger seat window rolled down, his voice strong where he shouts behind the wheel. The van bumps the curve, leaving a sanguine line of rust in its wake and a creak to make everybody on the sidewalk wince.
“Hello,” you call back.
The van hums. You wait for him to be at a definite stop before you approach, hands on the open window, leaning up so as to see him best. It’s not just a usual date night tonight, Eddie’s taking you to Indianapolis for a rock show, and he’s dressed the part. “Woah, you look cool,” you say, bravely, wondering if that’s the right thing to say. It’s undoubtedly true —he’s slicked his curls with mousse to define them and leave them pitch black in accordance with his eyeshadow, dark and tapped into his lash line. The top he wears is incredibly tight, carving the softer lines of his abs for anyone to see, and his black jacket is ripped in places to expose the ink of his tattoos. “Are they multiplying?”
“What?” he asks, grinning at you. “Are you getting in? It’s freezing!”
“Your tattoos,” you explain, opening the door and popping up into the van with one shoe on the step.
“Shit, you wanna see?”
You’re not scared of Eddie, you just like him. He doesn’t worry you, doesn’t pressure you, nothing nefarious about him. He’s pretty, he’s considerate, and he does stuff like this, peeling out of his jacket to flex his arm at you and show you the Saran wrapping around his bicep. “Like that one?” he asks.
He has nice arms, and they’re all the better for his painful obsession. His newest one is difficult to see well under the wrapping. He notices you squinting and moves it up, tape pulling his skin.
“Another bat?” you ask.
“Not cool?”
“So cool,” you disagree. This bat is unlike the others on his arm, which are small and simple in comparison. This one is heavily detailed and very dark, fangs in small triangles bared. The eyes aglow. The skin around it is red. “Did you get that today?”
“On a whim. Still wanna date me, or is it getting to be too much?”
You can’t answer him, and he knows that. You’re not very good at navigating intimate conversation or circumstance, though you like him, and he must know that too. Or he must really like you. Your dates have been chaste. Only last time could you work up the courage to take his hand, but when you had, he rewarded your courage with a drove of tenderness, fingers rubbing your knuckles and squeezing soft patterns for hours at the back of the movie theatre.
The drive to Indianapolis takes near enough an hour. Eddie puts you on map duty but doesn’t use it, ignoring your offer of directions on the insistence that he knows a shortcut and then rerouting when you get too lost. He tells you there are snacks for you in the centre console and laughs, endeared, when you pop the lid and smile at it all. You talk about the show, a band you’d never heard of but had wanted to see on the grounds of sharing his interests. That’s what couples do, right? They try to do things together. You have to put yourself out of your comfort zone, and you’re happy to try if it means you can do it with him.
“You nervous?” he asks, pulling into the parking garage outside of the venue, a towering, multi-story fiasco crammed with cars and motorbikes.
“No,” you say, not quite mumbling as you look down at your hands.
“Good, don’t be. I’m gonna look after you, we’re gonna have a great time. And then we can get takeout after?” You look up. He stretches his arm out to glance at his watch. “I would’ve taken you before, but good old Indianapolis keeps getting further away.” He smiles apologetically.
You laugh without meaning to. His smile ramps up a notch.
“I love when you laugh. You have such a cute laugh,” he says.
“I know you’re lying,” you say, still laughing anyways.
“I’m not lying, I love the way you laugh!” He shakes his head, curls falling away from his face as he flicks on the light on the car roof. “We have half an hour till doors open.”
“You don’t wanna line up?”
“It’s kind of overwhelming and I figured we’d stay near the back of the crowd for your first gig here, it gets pretty rowdy.” He says ‘pretty rowdy’ like a drag, nodding gently, eyes lit with mirth. You love it when he talks like that.
“We can go now, get further in. I can handle it.”
“It’s not about handling it, I want you to have a good time. Plus, they could ruin your nice dress.”
You meet his gaze all smiles like he is, but heat flickers in your chest and in your stomach, and you have to look away. It’s an impulse you’ve always given into. You’re reserved in the feelings department but trying not to be, Eddie deserves reciprocation, but it’s hard. Either way, he seems to understand this about you, and he hasn’t complained.
Still, a bedraggled silence falls. Nearly awkward, unsure of how to tread, you sit together in your separate seats listening to cars parking and doors opening, closing on either side of you, the headlights of the cars driving past glaringly bright, white flashing over your screwed palms.
“You okay?” he asks.
You’re sure Eddie wants to kiss you. Three nights ago at the movies, after an hour of languid hand holding, he’d looked at your lips no less than three times as he said good night. He told you he’d had an amazing time, and that he couldn’t wait to see you again. You’d said the same in earnest, and then he’d just walked away. All those stolen glances and he hadn’t made a move.
“Eddie… why…” You poke your tongue into your bottom lip momentarily, chewing it over. “Why haven’t we kissed yet?”
“Um–” He lets out a nervous giggle before roughly clearing his throat. You peek at him, watching intently as he takes his hair away from his face with two hands. “I’m just waiting on you, sweetheart. No pressure.” He laughs as he talks, a picture of panic, “You’re sort of shy about that stuff, you know? I didn’t wanna surprise you.”
“But you do want to kiss me?” you ask unsurely.
He puts his hand on your knee, the space between you suddenly smaller and warmer, the light like white glaze on his pupils, illuminating his finer details. He has a mole nestled under his eyelashes too small to see until now; it catches your attention. You stare at him too long.
“Of course I do,” he says, eyebrows pinching together in concern. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since I met you.”
You nod and snap your head back to your lap. Why does he have to be so nice? You wish you’d listened to Steve, even if he was joking, you shouldn’t have ever said yes to Eddie, because now you’re terrified you can’t kiss him and you’ll ruin everything…
“Hey, it’s fine. I’m not waiting for anything. You can take your time or you could never kiss me, and I won’t care. I swear. I mean, I really want you to kiss me but I’ll find a way to cope, I’m sure.” He takes his hand from your leg softly. “Do you want my jacket? It’s cold out, n’ we should probably start walking.”
You pull your head up slowly.
He reads your hesitant expression. “I’m in no rush,” he promises, head ever so slightly ducked to yours.
Okay, you think. Okay, I can do this. You hold your breath and start to lean in. He falters, a millisecond of misunderstanding, before he recognises what you’re doing and smiles. He reaches for your waist with enough care to give you a chance to change your mind, and when you’re close enough to feel his breath, his lashes shutter.
You follow suit, blind, with nothing but your intuition as you press your lips to his.
With a feeling like the hum of the engine under your hands, you bring your fingers to his soft cheek and hold him still. He breathes in harshly, touches you far from it, his palm slipping behind your back to pull you in. You lean into it; it feels natural to give in, to turn your head one way and part your lips, to have him kiss back with heat and surprising sweetness.
You feel unlike yourself in a good way, falling back to kiss forward again, a third time, trying to chase the lulling bliss of his lips. The stomach aching want. Your hand chases across his cheek and into the curls behind his ear, needing him closer but not expecting the sound it elicits. He sighs into your lips and you flinch back, startled by the sensation.
Eddie rubs your back with his index finger, unjudging as you drop your head to catch your breath.
“You okay?” he asks quietly. You can hear his affection. It’s palpable.
You nod, a dizzy weight collected in your forehead, thankful when his free hand catches your cheek and he turns your face gently to the side. “I got too hot,” you confess, only half of the truth.
“It was pretty hot.” He smiles at you like you’re the only person in the world, like you’ve a secret only he knows. “Want me to turn on the A/C?”
“No, I–” want to kiss you again, you think. You might even tell him so, but he starts to blow on your face, disrupting any thoughts you’d had earlier. He purses his lips and blows cold breath on your cheek, a tenderness in his gaze and the tip of his thumb where it rests just under your eye. “Oh.”
This might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for you. Your face feels precious in his careful hand, pretty under his longing look. You’re not scared when he encourages you back to his lips, your eyes quick to close, your hands across the gap of your seats to gather his shirt between tight fingers.
His kiss is a reflection of him. Loser, rockstar, he’s eager and his hands start to betray that, his kissing melty hot and addictive as the tip of his nose presses hard to yours. You turn your face to accommodate him better and that small action drives him crazy. He’s pulling you in, smiling into your mouth, making breathy sounds that’ll stick around in your head ten times as long as the tingles filling your chest as just kisses and kisses and doesn’t stop.
“M’sorry,” he says, pulling away, and then stealing another heavy, soft kiss like he couldn’t wait. “Sorry,” he apologises again, stroking the skin beside your eye to encourage you into opening them. “I’m not trying to get carried away. Just can’t believe you just kissed me.”
“No, it’s okay, I– I really wanted to.”
He kisses your cheek. You aren’t expecting it and you don’t know how to deal with it. It’s like kissing him has invigorated him, you’re a shot he knocked back, his excitement catching as he begs, “Close your eyes again, sweetheart, just one more–”
You raise your chin and he practically gasps, immediately pressing a last chaste kiss to your burning lips.
“I’m not always like this,” he promises, leaning away, his fingertips falling from your face to trace down your neck, your shoulder. “You’re just so fucking pretty I lost my mind. I’m on best behaviour from now on, swears.”
He raises his hand up in a scout’s honour.
You breathe out happily. “Thank you.”
“Oh my god. Quick, we better get out of this van before I lose my mind.” He shakes his head. “You’re insane. I have such a crush on you, holy fuck,” —he turns away from you and gets out of the van— “Jesus.”
You pull down the sun visor to check your reflection in the mirror. You look thoroughly kissed, eyes aglow with it.
“Fuck!” Eddie swears. You beam at yourself as he wraps on the window. “Come on, sweetheart! I have a concert to pretend to pay attention to.”
You slink out of your seat, brave enough to try for another kiss so long as it doesn’t kill him dead right here in the parking lot.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed! I love knowing what you think and it means so much to me/ inspires me to write even more!!! <3 but of course I hope you enjoyed reading regardless :D
Summary: Nancy Wheeler has always had her life carefully planned—until a quiet classroom connection pulls you into hers. Between late-night study sessions, shared laughter, and the small hands of her daughter Audrey reaching for you first, what was once temporary becomes something far deeper. As love grows alongside the routines of family, you realize you’re not just visiting—you’ve finally found a place to stay.
Word Count: 7.2k
a/n: Okay I know this is a little out of place from what I usually write BUT I've been working on this one for a MINUTE and am so excited to share it! Please be kind and lmk what you all think!!
Nancy Wheeler sits two rows ahead of you in Social Welfare Policy, back straight, hair falling in soft curls around her shoulders. Her notebook is already open before the professor begins speaking, pens laid out in a neat row—blue, black, green, and pink. Within minutes, she’s taking color-coded notes in handwriting so precise it almost looks printed.
She’s the first to raise her hand when the professor introduces a new framework.
“Could you clarify how that applies to federal oversight rather than state-level discretion?”
Her voice is steady. Polished. Thoughtful.
You haven’t been the best at note-taking; you rely more on memory than anything else, but that day, you realize you’re spending more attention memorizing something or someone else entirely.
The way her brow furrows when she concentrates. The faint freckles across her cheekbones. The way her eyes narrow slightly as she analyzes an argument.
You tried to pay attention to the lectures.
You failed.
It takes you a week to gather the courage to speak to her.
You arrive early to class; you've noticed she's usually there before anyone else. As expected, you saw she was already there flipping through the reading.
“Hey,” you say, trying to sound casual. “What made you pick social work?”
She looks up, slightly startled.
“I want to work in child welfare,” she says. “At the macro level, policy reform. There are too many systemic failures that get ignored.”
You nod, maybe a little too eagerly. “That’s… really cool.”
Before you can ask anything else, the professor walks into the room, and Nancy immediately turns, pen moving across the page with sharp efficiency.
You spend the entire class paying attention to her instead of the content.
From then on, you make it a point to arrive early, and over time, conversations come easier.
You talk about assignments, future goals, and the flaws in current child protective policies. At some point, you admit sheepishly that you still haven’t figured out how to take proper notes.
She looks almost offended on your behalf.
“That’s not sustainable,” she says firmly. “You need structure. I can show you a better system.”
You grin. “I’ll hold you to that.”
For a split second, something flickers across her face—like she hadn’t expected you to take her seriously.
A month into the semester, you arrive at your usual time and notice Nancy isn’t there. You frown, glancing at the clock. She’s never late.
You don’t have her number; you realize that suddenly. With no way to contact her, there’s nothing you can do except wait.
Your classmates begin filtering in, and soon enough, it's five minutes before class.
Then the door swings open.
Nancy walks in, breathless, hair slightly frizzed, a faint crease between her brows.
In her arms was a baby.
The baby looked to be about a year old, maybe a little older. A halo of soft curls framed her big, watchful eyes. Nancy had a carrier hooked carefully in one hand and a diaper bag slung over her shoulder, already sliding down as she hurried.
For a second, you’re quiet, taking her in like you’re fitting together pieces you didn’t know were missing.
Nancy moves quickly into the seat beside you.
She sets the carrier down with practiced care and immediately starts adjusting the straps, murmuring something soft under her breath. The baby is not cooperating. Tiny fists push stubbornly against the buckles, frustration building in sharp little whimpers that teeter into full cries. Nancy exhales through her nose, steady but tired, and tries again—gentle, patient, determined.
The professor walks in and pauses.
Nancy straightens immediately.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, voice controlled but tight. “My babysitter canceled at the last minute, and I didn’t have anyone else. I promise she won’t disrupt class.”
The professor softens. “Life happens, Nancy. You’re welcome to bring her when you need to.”
That’s when it clicks. The baby is hers.
You glance at Nancy again—at the tension in her shoulders, the way she’s trying to soothe the baby in her arms and organize her notes at the same time.
The lecture starts.
The baby doesn’t stop crying.
Nancy’s jaw tightens. She’s missing notes. Missing key points. Her pen hovers uselessly over the page.
You hesitate. Then lean closer.
“Hey,” you whisper gently. “Not to overstep… but I can hold her, if you want.”
Nancy looks at you like she forgot you were there.
“Oh—no, it’s okay,” she says quickly. “I don’t want you to miss anything. And she doesn’t usually warm up to new people.”
You give a small, reassuring smile.
“You and I both know I’m not taking notes anyway. And I’m good with babies. Worst case, she stays fussy, and you get to focus.”
The professor glances over. “Everything alright?”
Nancy hesitates—and for the first time since you’ve known her, she looks unsure.
Then she nods slowly. “Okay.”
She passes the baby to you carefully, like she’s handing over something precious.
At first, the baby just stares at you. Suspicious. Still crying softly. You make a soft face. A tiny, exaggerated gasp.
Her crying falters. Then she giggles.
Nancy freezes.
You don’t notice. You’re too busy feeling ridiculously proud of yourself.
Within thirty minutes of class, the baby is asleep against your chest. Nancy is writing her notes and contributing to the discussion. Back to being herself.
Except she keeps glancing at you. Checking in.
After class, she tries to take the baby back, but she fusses immediately.
You shift awkwardly. “Can I… I can walk you to your car?”
She hesitates—then nods.
The walk is quiet at first.
Then she says, carefully, “Her name is Audrey.”
It feels like an offering.
You talk softly as you walk. She explains that it's just her and Audrey. That Jonathan—the baby’s father—helps when he can. That she didn’t mention Audrey because she didn’t want it to define her in class.
You don’t reach for details she isn’t ready to hand over. You just listen.
At her car, you help settle Audrey into the seat.
Before leaving, you hand her your number, “If you ever need help. Or just… someone. You can call me.”
She accepts it. Studies it like it’s heavier than paper should be.
“I probably won’t,” she admits quietly.
“That’s okay. ” And it is.
Weeks pass, and things return to normal.
Except now Nancy shares her notes with you. Adds extra explanations. Sits a little closer.
You talk about Audrey sometimes. About balancing school, work, and parenting. About her exhaustion.
Then one night, as you sit at your computer working on an assignment for a different class, your phone buzzes.
It was Nancy.
You answer immediately. “Hey.”
There’s a pause.
“I'm sorry,” she says quickly. “This was stupid. Never mind.”
Before you can ask, you hear Audrey crying in the background.
You understand instantly.
Instead of calling it out, you say lightly, “Did you finish the essay? I’m kind of stuck on the theory.”
Silence.
Then, shakily, “I… no. I still need to finish it.”
You swallow. “We could work on it together?”
You hear something break on the other end, a soft sound that might be a laugh or might be a sob.
“Okay,” she whispers.
The call ends. Seconds later, she sends her address.
You grab your things and head out the door.
Because Nancy Wheeler asked for help. And you’re not about to let her face the hard night alone.
Though every instinct in you says to get to Nancy’s as fast as possible, you make a quick stop first.
She’d mentioned her favorite restaurant once, in passing, like it wasn’t important. You remembered anyway. You order her favorite and something small for yourself.
When you get to her apartment, she opens the door almost immediately—like she’d been standing there waiting.
She looks surprised that you actually came.
She's wearing sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt marked with faint stains. Hair pulled back messily, curls escaping around her face. She’s the least put-together you’ve ever seen her.
You still think she’s beautiful.
“Hey,” she says quietly. Like she’s embarrassed you’re seeing her this way.
You notice the tears in her eyes first. Then the exhaustion etched into her face. You also note Audrey’s cries from somewhere deeper in the apartment—sharp, relentless.
“Hey,” you say gently. “I hope you don’t mind. I brought food.”
Her expression crumples just slightly, like that was the last thread holding her together. She steps aside without a word, opening the door wider.
You take the hint and move inside, heading straight for a counter to set the bags down.
The apartment isn’t messy in a careless way. It’s messy in an overwhelmed way. Bottles in the sink. A folded pile of laundry abandoned on the couch. A textbook is open on the counter with a highlighter resting across the page.
When you return to the living room, Nancy is kneeling beside Audrey’s playpen. Audrey is red-faced, fists clenched, tears streaming.
Nancy looks up at you, and for a moment, she doesn’t try to compose herself.
“I can’t believe I called you,” she says, voice breaking. “She won’t—she just won’t stop crying. I’ve tried everything. I just… I didn’t have anyone else.”
You step closer, lowering your voice.
“You don’t have to be ashamed for asking for help,” you tell her gently. “I meant it. I’m here for you.”
Something in her shoulders loosens at that.
The night unfolds quietly after that.
You take turns pacing with Audrey until her cries soften into hiccups and eventually into sleep. You rock her. You hum something off-key. You let her clutch your shirt in her tiny fist.
At some point, you nudge Nancy toward the table.
“Work on your essay,” you say. “I’ve got this.”
She frowns. “You have your own to finish.”
You hesitate for half a second. Then admit, “I already turned mine in.”
She blinks at you. “You finished it?”
“Yesterday.”
There’s something like gratitude in the way she looks at you then. Something deeper than that, too.
While she types, you tidy up while trying not to overstep. Wash a few bottles. Fold the laundry. Move carefully, like you’re trying not to disturb the fragile calm settling over the apartment.
By the time Audrey is finally asleep in her crib and Nancy’s essay is submitted, the apartment feels lighter.
Nancy feels lighter.
It’s late when you step toward the door.
She walks you there, and then neither of you moves.
You stand too close. Not touching. Just aware.
“So, um…” you say, rubbing the back of your neck. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow?”
She lets out a quiet laugh. Relieved, maybe, that you broke the tension.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “Tomorrow.”
From that night on, something shifts. You’re no longer just a classmate. You’re someone she trusts.
At first, you show up every few days—always with a reason. Study sessions. Sharing notes. “I was in the area.”
Eventually, though, the excuses disappear.
You're over whenever neither of you has work. You stay for dinner. You help with bath time. You sit on the floor while Audrey crawls between you.
It gets to the point where your own apartment feels more like a storage unit.
You’re only there to sleep or shower.
The rest of the time, you’re with Nancy. With Audrey.
Before long, the semester starts winding down.
Final papers. Review sessions. Professors reminding everyone about course evaluations as if the world depends on them.
And beneath all of it, something settles into your chest.
Fear.
Because Social Welfare Policy is ending.
And with it, the one guaranteed place you see Nancy.
You tell yourself it’s ridiculous. You don’t need a class to justify being in her life anymore. You’re at her apartment more often than your own. You’ve memorized the sound of Audrey’s laugh. You know which cabinet holds the clean bottles and which drawer sticks when you pull it too hard.
But still. There was something about that class. The end of it feels like the end of something else, too.
An end to what this is. An end to what it could be.
You refuse to say any of that out loud.
Instead, you sit with Nancy studying for the final. You quiz each other on policy reform frameworks while Audrey toddles between you, clutching a stuffed rabbit.
Nancy is sprawled on the floor, highlighter in hand, hair falling into her face.
“You’re distracted,” she says suddenly, not looking up.
“I’m not.”
She lifts her eyes slowly.
You sigh. “Okay, maybe a little.”
She studies you for a moment, like she’s deciding how hard to push. “What’s going on?”
You want to brush it off, but the words are right there. Sitting at the edge of your tongue.
You swallow.
“I just,” you start, and immediately wish you hadn’t.
You look at Audrey instead, who’s babbling to herself, completely unaware she’s become the center of your universe.
“I don’t want this to be temporary,” you say finally.
Nancy stills. Your pulse roars in your ears.
“I mean—” you rush to clarify, backing away from the edge. “Not the class. Obviously. I just—I don’t want to be someone who only shows up for a semester.”
Silence stretches between you.
Nancy’s expression shifts. Not alarmed. Not distant. Just… thoughtful.
“You’re not,” she says quietly.
You let out a shaky breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“I just don’t want to lose…” You stop yourself again.
Her. This. Audrey is reaching for you without hesitation.
You drag a hand through your hair. Laugh nervously. “I don’t know. Forget it. Just the end-of-semester existential crisis.”
Nancy watches you carefully.
“You’re not temporary,” she repeats, softer this time.
Something fragile passes between you.
You could say it now.
You could tell her that you think about them when you wake up. That being alone at your apartment feels wrong. That you’ve never been more sure of anything than the fact that you want to be here.
With her.
But she’s looking at you like this is already fragile enough.
So you pull back.
“I just wanted to make sure,” you say lightly.
Nancy nods. Her hand drifts across the floor, resting just barely against yours.
Not quite holding. Just touching.
And neither of you moves away.
Mike comes down the week before finals. Nancy tells you the night before, almost casually.
“My brother’s visiting,” she says while wiping applesauce off Audrey’s face. “He wanted to see the campus.”
You nod, trying not to overthink it.
You’ve heard about Mike. The protective and observant little brother. Too smart for his own good.
When he arrives, he’s polite, though a little wary. He shakes your hand. Studies you.
You try not to squirm under it.
The three of you sit in the living room while Audrey waddles between furniture. You make her laugh. Lift her into the air. Catch her when she tips sideways.
Nancy laughs too. Not the polite one she uses in class, the real one.
And every time something happens, Audrey claps, you say something dumb, or Mike teases her, Nancy looks at you first.
Like she’s checking your reaction. Like it matters most.
Mike notices.
Of course he does.
Later, while you’re on the floor helping Audrey stack blocks, you glance up.
Nancy and Mike are in the kitchen talking quietly.
Nancy’s arms are crossed in a defensive posture. Mike’s expression is gentle but firm. At one point, Nancy shakes her head quickly, like she’s denying something.
Mike says something that makes her go still. Really still.
Then he reaches forward and squeezes her shoulder.
You look away. That wasn’t for you to know.
A few minutes later, Nancy comes back, and her eyes are slightly red.
You pretend not to notice.
That night, after Audrey is asleep, Mike lingers by the door.
“I can stay with her for a night,” he says casually. “If you want a break.”
Nancy blinks. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
His eyes flick briefly to you, then back to her.
“You deserve to figure things out, Nance.”
Your stomach flips.
Nancy doesn’t respond. But she doesn’t say no.
The next evening, Mike is on the couch with Audrey, reading dramatically from one of her books.
Nancy stands in the hallway, twisting her fingers together.
“Nancy?” you ask softly.
She inhales like she’s about to jump off something high. “Can I talk to you? Outside?”
You nod.
You step out into the hallway of the apartment building. Nancy doesn’t look at you right away.
“I don’t know what this is,” she says finally and laughs nervously. “Between us. I mean.”
You say nothing. You let her have the space.
“I’ve never…” She exhales. Starts again. “I’ve never felt this way about a girl before.”
There it is.
Soft. Fragile. Terrifying.
She looks at you now. Eyes searching for your reaction.
“I didn’t know what it meant. And that scared me. Because I already have so much in my life that feels uncertain. I didn’t want to add something else I didn’t understand.”
You take a step closer, but not enough to crowd her.
“Nancy—”
She shakes her head gently. “Let me finish.”
You nod.
“Mike reminded me that just because something is new doesn’t mean it’s wrong. And that I’ve spent most of my life doing what I thought I was supposed to do.”
Her voice softens.
“And I don’t want to lose something important just because I’m scared of it.”
Your throat tightens.
“I really like you, and I don’t know what this is yet. But I know it matters.” She swallows. “Do you—can I—”
She falters, frustrated with herself.
You wait as she steadies herself.
“Can I take you out on a date?” she asks finally. “And explore what this is? Together?”
The world goes very, very quiet.
You’ve imagined this moment a hundred times. You’ve imagined being the one to ask her. A long confession to go with it.
You step closer.
“Yes,” you say, voice softer than you expected. “I'd like that.”
Relief crashes over her face so openly it almost undoes you.
“You can take me anywhere,” you add gently. “I just… I don’t want to lose this.”
Her expression shifts at that.
“You won't,” she says firmly.
This time, when her hand finds yours, she doesn’t hesitate. And neither do you.
Inside the apartment, Audrey squeals at something Mike’s doing.
Nancy smiles.
“Friday?” she asks.
“Friday,” you agree.
Friday comes faster than you expected.
You changed outfits three times. Then went back to the first one. Then almost changed again.
You settle on something soft. Intentional but not loud. You don’t want to overwhelm her. You don’t want to look like you tried too hard.
You definitely tried too hard.
You check your phone. Ten minutes.
You pace. You sit. You stand again.
You think about that first Tuesday. How Nancy drew you in immediately. About the first time you met Audrey. How quickly she fell asleep on your chest. About how pretty Nancy looked standing in that dim hallway, asking if she could take you out.
You’ve wanted this for a while.
A knock interrupts your spiral. Your heart nearly launches out of your body.
You open the door.
Nancy stands there in a simple dress and a cardigan, hair half-pinned back. Not overly styled. Just her.
She looks nervous. Beautiful.
“Hi,” she says softly.
“Hi.”
For a second, neither of you moves.
This feels different than the days at her apartment. Different than study nights. Different than shared glances over Audrey’s head.
“You look…” You start, then swallow. “You look really nice.”
Her shoulders relax just slightly. “You do too.”
Careful. Measured. Like neither of you wants to step too far.
You notice then the chill in the air.
“I just need to grab a jacket,” you say. “Do you want to come in?”
She nods.
It’s not her first time inside, though the times before were fleeting. With Audrey and some practical reasons.
She steps in slowly.
Your space suddenly feels very revealing.
You move toward your bedroom to grab your jacket, and from the hallway, you hear her voice.
“You alphabetized your books.”
You freeze. “I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
You walk back out, caught.
She’s standing in front of your bookshelf, fingers brushing lightly over the spines.
“You organized them by genre first,” she continues, amused. “Then alphabetically.”
You cross your arms. “It reduces chaos.”
She smiles. “Of course it does.”
Her eyes drift to a framed photo on your shelf, one she didn’t notice before. It’s Audrey sitting in Nancy's lap, mid-laugh, cheeks flushed.
Her expression softens. “You printed that?”
“Yeah.”
Nancy looks at you then, eyes shining.
You suddenly feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with the apartment.
You clear your throat. “Okay. I’m ready.”
She nods, but before you open the door, she says quietly, “I like seeing this side of your life.”
Your chest tightens.
“You’re part of every side,” you say before you can overthink it.
The restaurant she picked is small.
Warm lighting. Soft music. Not crowded.
You sit across from each other at a corner table. Knees almost brushing under it.
At first, you talk about safe things.
Finals. Mike is going back home. Audrey is learning a new word.
But eventually, the air shifts.
Nancy sets her fork down.
“I don’t want you to think I’m unsure about you,” she says carefully.
You lean forward slightly. “I don’t.”
“I do like you,” she continues, more firmly now. “That part isn’t confusing.”
Relief spreads slowly through you.
“Then what is confusing?” you ask gently.
She exhales.
“I’ve always… known who I was supposed to like. Or who I thought I was supposed to like.” She gives a small, self-aware smile. “This feels different. Not wrong. Just… different.”
You nod. Letting her keep control of the conversation.
“I don’t want to rush this,” she says.
Nancy’s fingers hover near yours on the table, not quite touching.
“And I really like you,” she says again, like she needs to make sure you hear it. “I just… I don’t know what this makes me yet.”
You don’t flinch.
“It doesn’t have to make you anything,” you say. “Not until you want it to.”
She studies you warily. “You’re not… waiting for me to figure it out?”
You shake your head. “I’m not keeping track, Nancy.”
Her mouth twitches, almost a smile.
“I know how I feel,” you start, quieter now. “That part’s not confusing for me. I like you. I want this. But I’m not in a rush to label it if you’re not.”
She exhales slowly, like she’s been bracing for pressure that you would never give.
“I’m scared I’m going to mess it up,” she admits.
“You won’t,” you say automatically, then soften. “But… if you do, we’ll figure it out.”
That’s what makes her hand finally move.
She turns her palm up beside yours. You slide your fingers into hers.
No grand declaration. But it's enough.
Outside, the air is cooler than before. You almost reach for her hand, then think better of it.
At the car, Nancy rocks back on her heels, then forward again, like she’s rehearsing something in her head.
“I had a really good time,” she says quickly, like she doesn’t want to lose her nerve.
“Yeah?” you tease lightly. “Even after hearing about my very strong opinions about bad policy reform?”
She huffs a quiet laugh. “Especially that.”
Silence settles again, softer now.
Her eyes drop to your mouth, then flick away. Then back.
She looks almost annoyed with herself.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she admits.
You step a little closer. “You don’t have to know.”
She searches your face for a moment, then makes up her mind.
She leans in slowly enough that you could stop her. You rest your hands on her waist, waiting.
The kiss is gentle. A quiet question pressed to your lips. You don’t chase it. You just stay with her.
When she pulls back, her breathing is uneven, and her eyes are wide like she’s surprised by herself.
“That was…” She shakes her head, a small, disbelieving smile tugging at her lips.
“Not scary,” she finishes quietly. “I thought it would be scary.”
You can’t help smiling at that.
“Good,” you say.
She squeezes your hand.
“Slow,” she reminds you.
“Slow,” you agree.
Mike leaves two days before finals start.
Nancy walks him to his car, arms crossed against the cold, while he talks a mile a minute about campus life and how Audrey is “objectively the coolest kid he knows.” He hugs his niece dramatically, promises to call, then looks at Nancy with that particular little-brother look, equal parts teasing and perceptive.
You hang back by the door, pretending to be very interested in your phone.
He glances between the two of you.
“You know,” he says lightly, “you don’t have to overthink everything.”
Nancy glares at him. “Goodbye, Mike.”
He just grins, then gets into his car.
When Nancy comes back, her cheeks are pink from the cold, you assume.
“He thinks you’re intimidating,” she says, starting up to her apartment.
You raise an eyebrow. “Intimidating?”
“He said you look at me like you’re solving a problem.”
You follow after her. “I’m not trying to save you, Nancy.”
“I know,” she says quickly. "He meant it in a good way.”
Finals pass in a blur of late-night study sessions and half-eaten takeout containers. You fall into an easy rhythm; you quiz her on policy terms, and she edits your papers with ruthless precision.
The first time she kisses you without hesitating happens three nights before your last exam.
You’re standing in her kitchen. Audrey’s already asleep. Nancy’s explaining something about municipal funding when she just… stops.
She steps forward and kisses you. There's no pause. No visible internal debate.
It’s still gentle. But it’s progress.
You smile into it, and she huffs softly against your mouth like she knows exactly what that smile means.
“Don’t,” she mutters as she pulls back.
“I didn’t say anything,” you laugh.
“You were thinking it.”
“Maybe.”
She kisses you again.
Finals are over, and you expect things to feel different without the structure of class tying you together. Instead, something shifts in the opposite direction.
You start coming over in the mornings instead of the evenings.
Nancy makes coffee while you sit at the counter, her hair still messy from sleep. Audrey climbs into your lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Nancy watches that sometimes.
One afternoon, you’re stretched out on the couch reading when Nancy drops down beside you and tucks her legs over yours without asking.
You glance up.
“What?” she says.
“Nothing.”
She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “You’re staring.”
“You’re comfortable,” you say simply.
She shrugs, but there’s color in her cheeks. “I am.”
And she doesn’t move.
As the weeks go on, the hesitations get smaller.
She reaches for your hand in the grocery store without looking around first.
She leans into you when you’re walking, her shoulder brushing yours as if it belongs there.
One evening, while Audrey is coloring at the kitchen table, Nancy moves around the kitchen, cleaning up dinner. As she passes behind you, she leans down and presses a quick, absentminded kiss to your temple.
It’s casual. Uncalculated. You blink after her.
Nancy slows, sensing it. She turns slightly. “…What?”
“You just kissed my head,” you say.
“Yes,” she replies carefully, like this might be a trick.
You shake your head, smiling. “I liked it.”
Her expression shifts to something warm and almost shy.
“Oh.” A beat. Then, a little braver, “Good.”
Later, you’re both in pajamas. Audrey’s asleep. The TV hums quietly in the background, ignored.
Nancy is tucked into your side on the couch, closer than she used to sit weeks ago. One of her legs draped over yours. Her fingers trace idle lines along your forearm.
“I didn’t think it would feel this… normal,” she says softly.
You glance down at her. “Normal good?”
“Yeah.” She hesitates. “Not scary. Not like I’m waiting for something to go wrong.”
You let your hand settle at her waist.
“I’m glad,” you say.
She goes quiet for a moment, then shifts slightly so she can see your face.
“I really like this,” she says. Not dramatic. Just honest.
You hold her gaze. “Me too.”
She studies you for a second longer, like she’s checking for something—doubt, maybe. She doesn’t find it.
“I like us,” she adds, quieter this time.
Your chest tightens. You hesitate, searching for the right words, and glance down for a moment, trying to steady yourself.
“I… I love you,” you finally say, voice low and careful, almost a whisper. You don’t wait for her to respond. You just needed her to know.
She freezes for a second, then her expression softens. A small, warm smile spreads across her face. “I love you too,” she says, quietly, settling closer to you.
Your chest leaps a little, a rush of warmth and relief that makes your heart feel lighter than it has in months. You let the moment fill the space between you, holding her close and savoring the quiet excitement that hums under the surface.
The summer passes in a blur of routines and weekends spent together. Classes resume, and life settles into something that feels more permanent than a semester ever could. The apartment is livelier now—Audrey toddling with more confidence, Nancy juggling assignments and work with practiced ease, and you fitting seamlessly into the rhythm of their small family.
It stops feeling temporary somewhere along the way.
You stop packing an overnight bag. Your textbooks migrate to the corner of Nancy’s kitchen table. Your favorite mug lives in the cabinet above the sink. No one talks about it. It just… happens.
By the time fall semester is in full swing, you’re used to starting your mornings at their apartment and leaving from there for class. Used to Nancy pressing a distracted kiss to your cheek while flipping pancakes. Used to Audrey clinging to your leg until you promise you’ll be back later.
So sitting in your child welfare lecture feels strangely distant.
You zone in and out as your professor drones on, too busy thinking about the night before. Most of it was spent writing an essay for this class. You could have finished it earlier and could have stayed at your own place, where it was quieter. But you chose to stay at Nancy’s instead.
You wanted to be there for Audrey’s bedtime routine. For the way she insists on turning the pages herself, even though she can’t read yet. For the quiet moment afterward, when the apartment finally stills and Nancy curls into your side like she’s been waiting all day to exhale.
If you concentrate hard enough now, you can almost feel it—the soft hum of the apartment, the faint scent of baby shampoo, and the quiet reassurance of being exactly where you belong.
Your phone buzzes sharply from your desk. You glance down. Nancy is calling.
A knot forms in your stomach. She knows you’re in class and doesn’t usually call during work hours. You answer immediately.
“Hey… what’s wrong?”
Her voice trembles as she says your name. “…The babysitter just called. Audrey… she fell off the couch and won’t stop crying. I—I can’t leave right now. I’m trying to get my boss to let me go, but it’s going to take a few minutes. Can you…?”
“Yeah,” you cut in without hesitation. “I’m on my way. Don’t worry.”
You grab your bag, give a quick explanation to your professor, and rush out the door, adrenaline replacing any trace of lecture fatigue. The drive is a blur. By the time you get to Nancy’s apartment, the babysitter is hovering near the door, pale and flustered.
“She lost balance and landed off the edge of the couch,” she stammers. “She’s okay, I think—”
"It's okay, you’re okay,” you reassure, "I got her."
You step into the living room. Audrey is sitting on the floor, cheeks flushed, hugging her stuffed rabbit. Tiny sobs wrack her body, but she looks at you as if she already knows you’ll fix everything.
“Hey, Auds,” you murmur gently, bending down. “I’ve got you.”
Audrey instantly leans into you as you scoop her up. You hum softly, bouncing her a little, running your hand over her back, and checking over her. The crying softens almost immediately.
Nancy walks in a few minutes later, out of breath, just as Audrey fully calms.
“Oh my God…” Her shoulders slump in relief. “Thank you… I couldn’t leave on time.”
“You don’t need to thank me,” you say lightly. “She’s okay. Just a little tumble. Think she was more scared than hurt.”
Nancy watches you quietly, her usual composed demeanor softened into something more vulnerable.
“I… I can’t believe how much I rely on you now. Not just for Audrey—” She swallows. “For everything.”
You meet her eyes. “I don’t mind. I’m here. You know that.”
Her lips twitch into a small, exhausted smile. “I know.” She takes a breath, steadier this time. “You’ve really become a part of our family.”
Audrey leans against your shoulder, mumbling sleepily. You look down at her, then back at Nancy. Something shifts in your chest—hopeful, but careful.
Nancy steps closer before you can fill the silence, brushing a stray curl from your face. Her fingers linger there.
“This doesn’t feel temporary anymore,” she says quietly. “You’re here for everything. The hard days. The ordinary ones. You don’t just show up—you stay.”
Your throat tightens.
“I don’t want to keep pretending you’re just visiting,” she continues. “I want you here. Not as a guest. As part of this.”
Your heart stutters. “Nancy…”
“Move in,” she says plainly. “Because I want you here. With us.”
Your chest tightens with something warm and overwhelming.
“I’d like that,” you whisper. “A lot.”
She exhales like she’s been holding that breath for weeks, sliding her hand into yours.
“Good,” she murmurs. “Then come home.”
You don’t move in the next day.
Your lease has three weeks left, and you’re not reckless enough to just walk away from it. But you’re already there most nights anyway. So it becomes a quiet transition instead of a dramatic one.
You start by bringing over the things you reach for daily. A duffel bag that never goes back to your place. Your favorite sweatshirt. The textbooks you keep forgetting at Nancy’s kitchen table. When your landlord mentions they’ve got someone looking for a short-term rental, you take it as your sign and agree not to renew.
By the time the lease officially ends, there isn’t much left to move.
Boxes stack neatly by the door on a Saturday morning. Audrey insists on carrying individual socks across the living room like she’s contributing something monumental. Nancy clears space in her closet without making a ceremony of it, but you notice anyway.
Your toothbrush settles beside hers. Your name goes on the Wi-Fi bill. Your shoes line up with Nancy’s at the door.
No one says it out loud, but the apartment shifts around you the way something living does—making space because it wants to.
Life doesn’t explode into something new. It just deepens.
The way Audrey looks at you changes first. She reaches for you without checking where Nancy is. Climbs into your lap like it’s instinct. And sometimes, when Nancy watches the two of you, she pauses a little longer than she used to—like she’s quietly taking inventory of the life forming around her.
Your place here doesn’t feel borrowed anymore.
It feels settled.
Audrey turns two in early October.
It isn’t a big party—just a small cake in the kitchen, pink frosting slightly lopsided because you insisted on helping decorate it. Nancy laughs when you get icing on your sleeve. Jonathan comes by that afternoon with a wrapped present and stays long enough to take pictures.
Audrey sits in her high chair, crown slipping sideways as she smashes her hands into the cake with delighted chaos. When she looks up, frosting on her cheeks, she reaches for you first.
You don’t think about it. You just step forward automatically, wiping her hands clean while Nancy steadies the plate. The three of you end up laughing in the middle of the kitchen, frosting everywhere, camera forgotten on the counter.
Later that night, after the sugar crash and the bath and the quiet, Nancy rests her head on your shoulder and says softly, “We did good.”
Not I.
We.
Over time, Jonathan’s visits have folded into the rhythm of the apartment. He comes to pick Audrey up. He knocks once and lets himself in with the spare key Nancy gave him long before you entered the picture, staying by the door while Audrey usually rushes toward him.
Except this time, she doesn’t. She’s stubbornly tucked in your arms when Jonathan walks in.
And when Nancy says, “Okay, bug, Daddy’s here,” Audrey shakes her head violently and buries her face into your shoulder.
“Stay,” she says.
Jonathan pauses, amused. “Hey, what about me?”
“Stay,” Audrey insists, clutching tighter.
You laugh softly at first, bouncing her a little. “You’re going to have fun at Daddy’s, okay?”
“No.” A tiny hand fists into your sweater. “Stay.”
Nancy and Jonathan exchange a look—not concerned, just… amused.
“Come here, Auds,” Jonathan tries gently.
She lifts her head long enough to glare at him.
Then, very deliberately, she pats your cheek. “Stay with Mama.”
Everything stops. Nancy goes still beside you. Jonathan’s eyebrows lift, not in alarm, just surprise.
You do not move; it feels as if you’ll break something fragile if you breathe too hard.
Audrey repeats it, softer this time, like she’s clarifying. “Mama.”
Your throat tightens instantly. You gulp, but it doesn’t help how dry your mouth has become.
Jonathan exhales slowly, almost a huff of disbelief. “Well,” he mutters lightly, “guess she’s changed favorites.”
It breaks the tension just enough for everyone to breathe again.
You press your lips gently into Audrey’s hair.
“Sweet girl,” you murmur, swallowing hard. “You already have a mama.”
Audrey frowns like that; it doesn’t make sense to her. “No.”
Nancy kneels in front of you both. “Are you ready to go with Daddy, baby?”
Audrey considers this. Then shakes her head again. “Mama, come.”
Jonathan steps in gently, rubbing Audrey’s back. "She can't come, baby, but she'll be right here when you come back."
Eventually, with promises of park visits and snacks, Jonathan manages to peel her away. She reaches back toward you as he carries her out.
“Mama,” she calls again, smaller now.
You finally breathe when the door clicks closed. The air stutters into your chest, shallow and shaky. Your palms feel warm where Audrey had been, like the imprint of her is still there.
Nancy doesn’t move right away. Her hand stays on the door, head tipped down.
“I’m so sorry,” you say, voice thick. “I didn’t—I would never—I don’t want to overstep. I don’t want her to be confused or for you to think that I’m trying to—”
Nancy crosses the space between you before you can spiral any further.
“Hey,” she says firmly, hands coming up to your face. “Stop.”
You swallow hard. “I don’t ever want to take something that isn’t mine.”
“You’re not taking anything,” she says.
There’s no jealousy in her voice. No territorial edge.
“She’s two,” Nancy says gently. “You’ve been here for a year. You’re the one who knows which cup she’ll actually drink out of. You’re the one she calls for at three in the morning. You make her oatmeal the way she likes it. You sit with her until she falls back asleep.”
Your throat tightens again.
“She loves you,” Nancy says. “That’s not an overstep.”
You shake your head slightly. “But calling me ‘mama’—”
Nancy’s expression softens.
“She didn’t learn that from us,” she says quietly. “We never told her to call you that.”
You shake your head. “No, of course not.”
Nancy studies you for a second, then exhales through her nose, almost amused.
“I knew it was coming. Jonathan knew it was coming.” Her eyes flicker to yours. “I think you knew it, too.”
Your throat tightens.
“I trust you,” she adds, softer now. “With her. With me. I wouldn’t let you be this close if I didn’t.”
You let out a shaky breath. “And if something ever happened between us?”
Nancy’s jaw tightens slightly, as if the thought physically hurt her.
“Then we would handle it like adults,” she says. “But you love her. I know that. You wouldn’t just disappear.”
She’s right. You wouldn’t.
“I don’t need you to be anyone else,” Nancy says quietly. “If Audrey decides you’re another safe place… that’s enough. That’s all that matters.”
Your eyes burn.
“We’ll let her lead,” Nancy says. “She gets to decide what feels right. No pushing, no expectations.”
You nod. That feels right.
A week later, when Jonathan drops Audrey off, he lingers.
Audrey runs straight into your legs before Nancy can even get the door fully open.
“Mama!” she chirps happily.
Jonathan watches it happen, watches the way you crouch instinctively, the way Audrey melts into you.
He leans against the doorframe, thoughtful.
“She talks about you constantly,” he says after a moment.
You stiffen slightly. Nancy moves beside you.
Jonathan meets your eyes.
“With how much she says your name,” he continues, “I can tell you’re important to her. And to Nancy.”
He shrugs lightly. “I’m not interested in confusing her with a bunch of adult insecurity. If she decides you’re another mom in her world? That’s okay with me.”
“I love her so much,” you say quietly. “I just want her to feel safe… and happy.”
“Good.” Jonathan gives a small, satisfied nod.
Audrey tugs on your sleeve.
“Up,” she demands.
You lift her without thinking. When she rests her head on your shoulder and hums contentedly, it feels right.
You glance up—and find Nancy already looking at you.
She’s closer than she was a second ago, like she didn’t even notice herself moving. Her expression softens as she takes in the sight of Audrey curled against you, small hand still fisted in your shirt.
Jonathan clears his throat lightly from the doorway, a hint of a smile on his face.
“Alright,” he says. “I’ll see you guys later.”
Nancy lets out a quiet breath, nodding. “Text me when you get home.”
“Will do.” He glances at Audrey. “Bye, bug.”
Audrey barely stirs, mumbling something sleepy into your shoulder.
You press a quick kiss to her hair. “Say bye to Daddy, Auds.”
She lifts her hand just enough for a lazy wave.
Jonathan huffs a soft laugh and steps back. “Yeah, okay. See you later.”
“Bye,” you and Nancy say at the same time.
The door clicks shut.
The apartment settles into a quiet that feels familiar now.
Nancy steps closer, her hand brushing over Audrey’s back before resting at your side.
“Hey,” she murmurs.
“Hey.”
She studies you for a second, something warm in her expression, then leans in and kisses you.
It’s easy. Unhurried.
When she pulls back, she stays close, her hand still resting against you like it’s second nature.
“C’mon,” she says softly.
You follow her further inside, adjusting Audrey against your shoulder as she relaxes completely in your arms.
Nancy’s hand lingers at your side as you walk, steady and familiar.
You're too young, Steve's too broke and stupid, but love doesn't care.
This was an amazing request by @alionabudka I loved it and I fw with the age gap (because I am in my twenties and want Joe so bad) I hope I did you're request justice :) Steve is 21, reader is 18
Graduation was supposed to be monumental, a great mark in coming-of-age where gowns would be dawned, hats would be thrown and diplomas taken. There would be hugs and sorrowful goodbyes, a share of where one was going in the future and a promise that 'we'd keep in touch,'.
But nothing was ever what it was supposed to be in Hawkins.
Most the students in your year fled when the earthquake hit, parents with them. Hawkins high had more than halved in size, including your graduation year. Where they could have been eighty of you there was twenty or less.
There'd be even less in the stands you were sure as you looked at your dress. A simple black thing and ballet flats.
You slung on your green robe, looking in the cracked mirror stuck in the Wheelers basement.
Your entire family had fled in the earthquake when you were stuck in the upside down with Robin, Nancy and Steve, trying to make sure it didn't happen. They wrote to you, urging you to leave Hawkins but by then there was a lockdown in place and soldiers reading every letter in and out.
Lucky for you you had Mike to vouch for you, blowing up an air mattress in his basement and helping you move your things in with Lucas and Will's help.
"You really have to wear this thing," Mike complained as he pushed your graduation cap down on his head, eyes going crossed as he watched the tassel sway. "Woah-woah."
"Yes, I do," you snatched in from his head. "So please don't stretch it out with your fat head."
"Hey!"
You were lucky to have Mike as a friend, Lucas, Dustin and Will too. As well as everyone else. But it was Mike and Nancy that urged their mom to let you stay and Karen was obliged. So, even though it had been months, nearing a year, you still woke up early to make breakfast or help with the groceries as well as the crawls Nancy drilled you in on, and finishing high school and helping at the Squawk.
Graduation was supposed to be a time when you rejoice and think of all the free time to relax.
You only counted it as something to cross of your list.
"Hey!" Nancy called down, standing in the light from the kitchen. "There's a call for you!"
"Is it El?" Mike asked hopefully, practically jumping from his seat on the couch where he was no doubt creasing the suit his mom urged him to wear.
"Not you, doofus."
You were all too happy to shove him out the way and bounce up the stairs.
You grinned. "Thank you, Mrs Wheeler," you said and picked up the phone in the kitchen. "Hello?"
" Hey," said Steve down the other end.
You turned away from Karen so she wouldn't see your blush, your school girl like smile as Steve's voice bounced over the line. "Steve," you said as casual as possible, but he could probably hear the smile in your voice. "I've got the gown on, that black dress as well that I wore for my eighteenth, you know. What have you got on, the suit you wear to every job interview?"
There was a deep silence on the other end.
" Is everything okay?" you asked. The phone creaked under your tight grasp. Oh god, what if something had happened? If Vecna had decided today was the day to make his next move.
" Yeah, um, I just- I can't make it. To graduation."
There phone creaked again.
Your heart sank.
"Oh."
" I'm sorry, Robin's got a food bug or something-" there was noise down the other end, some sort of grumbling and under it all a female voice. " I've got to cover at the Squawk, you know."
"Yeah," you said, your voice un-naturally high, the kind of squeak one got when trying not to cry. You cleared your throat. "Yeah, no, I get it."
He huffed out a chuckle. " Yeah, I knew you would. Okay, well I got to go. I'll see you tomorrow, good luck! Don't trip!"
The phone was quickly put down on his end.
You listened to the ringing for so long it played in your head even when you put it down.
"That your parents?" Karen asked from behind you.
"Yeah," there it was, that crack again. "Yeah, they just wished me luck and, you know, wished they could've been here."
Karen cooed and then left you to it, a squeeze to your shoulder as she went to no doubt fetch Ted.
You supposed you shouldn't have been surprised that Steve cancelled to spend a morning with a date instead, after all, Steve would always pick a girl, or just about anyone over you. It had been that way for years.
And the worst part is he must have known how you felt.
You didn't look at everyone the way you did him, your eyes didn't soften to anyone else. Jesus- since you were fourteen and had first met Steve in Dustin's backyard, the both of you called to catch Dart you had been infatuated.
You offered to clean his car after you had driven it through fields.
You ate more ice cream than you ever had in your life the summer he worked at scoops ahoy.
Got dragged into the Russian plot because you wanted to help Steve translate Russian- not Dustin.
You got a part time job at Family Video just to be around him.
And Steve had always treated you like he did anyone else. He protected you like he did any of the kids, he laughed with you like he did Robin. Then sometimes- he looked at you like you'd once seen him look at Nancy. His hugs lingered like they didn't with Max and his arm was slung over your shoulder more times than not.
It was only as age and the idea of a future outside of Hawkins crept up on you that things changed.
That Steve changed.
He hung up the phone like it was on fire and banged his head on the wall next to it.
"You are an idiot," said Robin from where she lounged on his sofa. "Idiot, capitol I. A fool."
"Thank you for that!"
Steve knew he was a fool, maybe. Maybe he wasn't. A part of him really thought he was doing what was right.
Or he had thought so before he heard that squeak in your voice, the one that came before you would cry.
He'd only heard it once before, when you'd showed up on his doorstep, the realisation that your family was gone and you would be alone for however long the lockdown lasted. He'd wrapped an arm around you, leading you in and listened as you talked and tried not to cry.
It had broken his heart and when the tears started sown your cheeks he pulled you into his chest and hid his own tears in your hair.
It was wrong but that was when he realised, with a crashing weight, that he loved you.
Not the way he loved Robin, not the sort of way he loved Dustin. Almost in the way he loved Nancy, that all-consuming ache for her that seemed worse with you.
He couldn't go a day without seeing you, half the time he didn't need to. With all the time everyone spent together it was easy to claim the seat next to you, to have a casual arm over the back of the couch.
But it wasn't right.
The small rational part of him knew you were still young, maybe not quite a kid, but you weren't an adult that had to worry about groceries being brought and used up before going out of date- like he did. You had summer jobs but didn't have to worry about saving up for a car or a home.
You had a future ahead of you. You bright, brighter than him and your future was looking better than his was.
Steve was settled to never leave Hawkins and find you in every shop window, on every bench and in every memory.
Robin shifted on the couch, pulling a cushion into her lap as Steve turned, resting his back on the wall to keep him on his feet. "Tell me again why you made up some lie and inevitably break your own heart as well as hers."
Steve thought about it and knew the words would sound as stupid out loud as they did in his head. "Because..." he settled on that word, hoping Robin would drop it.
"Because...."
He flopped down on the sofa next to her, hunched over and hiding his face in his hands.
There was nothing he could say to explain himself.
Maybe Robin had opened up to him with her deepest, greatest secret but Steve's felt wrong. It wasn't wrong, he told himself, you were an adult, you were graduating high school.
But he'd seen you grow into your features, seen your smarts get you far, seen your smile go from radiant to beautiful, seen you hopes and reams become a reality.
He'd seen your small smiles and duck of the head at him become bashful blushes and lingering looks.
He'd admitted to himself what that meant, but what would others think? That it wasn't right, that he would end up holding you back from the future you'd always wanted?
The couch dipped under him and he felt Robins leg against his.
She didn't push, didn't try to pry his hands from his face. She only wrapped an arm around his back and held him as his breaths became shaky.
He'd promised he'd be there, to watch you take the stage and take the first step into the rest of your life and he feared Robin was right.
In breaking your heart Steve had broken his own.
Steve was at home, feeling sorry for himself when the phone rang- it was going on midnight. He knew it was you before he picked up the phone, anticipating your voice trying to be happy as you re-called your day. You'd no doubt linger toward the end waiting for him to tell the real reason he did not go to your graduation.
"y/n?" he asked as he picked it up.
What Steve didn't account for was the loud music down the other end.
" Steve!"
"y/n?"
" It's me," you all but sang down the phone.
Steve didn't like the exaggeration of your words or the boom of some Wham song down the other end of the phone. "What's going on? Are you- are at a party?"
You scoffed down the other end. " Relax, dad."
"Are you drunk?"
" Why didn't you come today?"
Steve sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He thought you'd shuffle around the question, that it would be awkward until he could use his charm as a weapon and distract the pair of you from the tension lingering the last year. Instead you'd got yourself to a party, had one too many maybe and had dialled his number. "You're drunk."
" Yeah, now, but I wasn't this morning and you didn't come," you said. " You didn't come."
Steve squeezed his eyes shut and held a hand to his chest, clutching at the sweater he was wearing. He was trying to shield his heart. "I told you, Robin wasn't-"
" -well, yeah, I got that, but you didn't have to lie to me just to spend time with your date."
"W-what?" his heart stuttered.
There was a crash next to you on the phone and some sound of a jostle. " I heard her. Over the phone. You could've just said you wanted some morning sex with the woman instead of lying to me."
"No, no y/n it wasn't like that I-"
" Shit!"
Steve panicked at the sound of crashes and yells from the other end. He heard some cheers after that. He knew what house parties were like, the trouble, the breaking of precious things, the drinks, the make-outs, the.... the sex.
Steve couldn't bare bringing you down if he was going to pursue this thing he knew he shouldn't, but he hated the thought of anyone else having you even more.
"Hey, what's going on? Are you okay?"
" No-"
"What's happened? What are you-"
" - you hurt me, Steve. Like really hurt me, more than any boy ever has!"
Steve knew that. He didn't need to ask to know he hurt you. "I know that, but are you okay now?"
" No, you still hurt me."
There was a heavy silence from him and a silence that was only interrupted by the music from you.
" I should go, I don't even know why I called."
"No, no, no, hey, wait, I'll pick you up we can-" but the phone was already down and he was talking to the ringing, the dreaded tone echoing around his empty head.
He'd hurt you. He hurt you.
He knew you wouldn't be happy he had to miss graduation but the confirmation in your voice and the way you called.
God, what was he doing.
Steve dialled another number on the phone, a number he was all too familiar with. "Nance? Hey- yeah everything's fine. I mean, not really. Can you put your brother on the phone?"
The walls rattled with the bounce of the music, every room hotter than the last.
You'd thought with how little there were to graduate in your year that the party would've been slim, a few people dotted around, beer, a terrible round of spin the bottle. Not a house packed, overflowing almost.
Everyone who had walked the stage with you earlier were there, drinking away anxieties, as well as others from years before that were unfortunate enough to still be left in Hawkins.
Faces blurred together as the vodka made your movements stutter and memory terrible. You had a feeling you'd been on the phone, probably to Steve but you had no idea how the phone call ended and any thought of Steve pushed you back into the kitchen, downing another drink.
Glasses were smashed on the floor, one had even smashed close to you, getting your ankle that now bled a small trail of red.
It wasn't the worst you'd got. The upside had you worse.
"Hey," said a guy you'd never spoken to, a year of two older. He had one of the Hawkins High bomber jackets on, all green and yellow. His eyes wracked up and down as he slid on the counter next to you. "You are lookin' sexy tonight."
You rolled your eyes, not drunk enough to give yourself up to his advances. "Not interested."
"Ouch."
You poured a glug of vodka into your plastic cup, searching around for a mixer.
The jock chucked a carton between his hands. "Cranberry?"
At your nod he poured enough in that it wouldn't dull the taste of the vodka.
"I'm Brad," he introduced.
You laughed, a smile that was the most genuine one you'd given of the day breaking on your cheeks. "Of course it is. Brad. Every asshole is called Brad. Or Steve."
It was like a drinking game you played with yourself. Every mention or thought of Steve had you taking a gulp.
"Well, listen," Brad went on, ignoring her. "If you find yourself in the mood, I'm next up in the master bedroom." He winked.
Your eyes rolled, scanning the room for a way out-
When suddenly you spotted Steve, standing out from the crowd. Not because he was too old to be there, there were many older than him grinding up against each other. But because he looked around frantic, his hair a mess, dishevelled even. His eyes were wide not with alcohol but worry. You'd seen it every time you were dragged into the upside down, or when the drugs from the Russians had worn off and he realised your lip was split, cheek bruised from their beatings.
Like always, he found you easily, eyes finding yours half way across the expanse of the kitchen.
Steve made his way toward you.
You didn't give yourself time to think. You grabbed Brad's wrists and dragged him away, around the island, barging past people and trying to find.... anything. Another way out. A back door or a way upstairs so you could lock yourself and Brad away, make obscene moaning noises at the door whilst not even touching the guy.
"Hey! Wait! Y/n, stop!" Steve was calling, the voices of protest following behind him.
You dragged a laughing Brad, the sound of a buckle being un-done. Was he seriously un-buckling his belt already?
Suddenly an arm wedged itself between the two of you just as you got on the first step.
"Hey, stop!" Steve practically pulled Brad away from you, voice firm with no room for arguments. But when he looked at you his eyebrows pulled together, voice dropping low. "Stop."
Any other time the puppy dog eyes would have you softening but with the fuel of the morning and the vodka cranberry it only fuelled your anger.
"Get lost, Steve."
"No," he said.
"Get lost, man," said Brad. "We're kinda into something here."
Steve looked him up and down but without the predatory gaze Brad had given to you. More with loathing. "You're not getting into anything and you-" he looked back at you. "You're drunk, c'mon, let's go home."
"No."
His brows rose. "No?"
"Yeah. No."
Brad smirked. "She said no man."
"Brad-"
"Can you leave-" the both of you and Steve said, snapping at the guy.
Brad tutted. "You know what, there's so much easier pussy to get tonight. You can have her man."
Your jaw was left agape. Not because you were offended, just because you didn't want to be left with Steve. Left without a way out.
Steve was focused on you, an arm trying to stir you away from the stairs. "Y/n, c'mon."
"I'm not drunk!" you snapped, taking the step down and throwing your hands into his chest, using all your weight to push him back.
The only result it had was him rocking on his heels. You were tipsy yes, maybe borderline drunk because every thought came with less time to think before you were saying it.
You tried to push him again.
Steve caught your hands and entwined your fingers.
It took you off guard for a minute, the warmth of Steve's hand encompassing yours. Then he was pulling and you were being dragged through the house until the cool air hit you.
His Beamer was parked up on the street, glowing.
"Steve, get off me!"
He didn't say anything, only dragging you across the lawn.
"I'm serious!"
You got your hand free and stood there.
Steve opened the passenger door, holding it open for you. He looked back to you, eyes darker as they peeked out from his hair that fell over his eyes. "Get in the car."
"No!"
His voice dropped even softer, like he was talking to a child. "Please. Please, just get in the car. Let me take you home."
Maybe that was all he saw you as, a kid.
You turned on your heel and started the walk down the street, wrapping your arms around yourself.
The door slammed shut and Steve was overwhelming you again. His scent, the jacket he wore, his trainers on the ground and keys jangling as he pocketed them.
He leapt in front of you, stumbling back as you continued on, trying to ignore the pull he had on you.
It was cruel, really. If he knew the effect and continued to abuse it anyhow.
"I know, I know you're mad at me, okay? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"Why didn't you just tell me?"
"Tell you what? Tell you what?"
"That you wanted to be at home with a girl," you said, looking at him and pausing when you were far enough from the house party for the music to be a dull thud in the air. "Be with your date instead of coming to graduation, I- I would've understood."
Steve's face fell. "No, no," he said, shaking his head enough for his hair to mess up further. "I- It wasn't like that."
"Well, Robin wasn't ill and I heard a girl in the background," you chuckled dryly. Everything blurred around you, the street lights becoming a haze of gold as tears swam in your eyes. "I just... I don't get why you wouldn't want to be there. Did I- was I forcing you to go?"
"No, no," he said, like his heart was breaking.
"Then, Steve, I don't get it!"
"I couldn't do it!" he admitted, hands clutching your forearms, eyes wide as if he was worried you would leave him on the side of the street. "I couldn't do it. I- I couldn't see you leave."
You hesitated. Had the drink got to you or did you just not understand? Nobody could leave Hawkins. Sure- you would leave the stage but you would've only gone to sit back down in the stands.
"You graduate, you go to collage, you get a degree, you get an amazing job in some firm that won't realise how lucky they are to have you. You'll tell stories about your hometown, how you never went back, maybe for a thanksgiving, a Christmas every now and then and you'll-" Steve chuckled to himself, low and dry as his head tucked into his chest. A hand ran through his hair. "And you'll meet this guy who has the same suit in five different colours and reserves Saturday night for date night and he'll.... he'll love you."
His voice broke at the word love, something that seemed so sparse as of late but never had you felt more loved than when you thought of Steve.
You shook your head in attempts to clear it. "Steve, Hawkins is in lockdown."
His gaze flickered up to yours. "You know what I mean," he uttered. "I can't watch you leave, but I can't stop you from going."
It was almost all the words you wanted to hear. In a different order than you'd thought. "Why?"
His laugh was real as his eyes sparkled. "Because it's you."
If it had come from any other guy you would've thought it was cheap, an easy way to get out of things but Steve's eyes dazzled when he looked at you, his entire body leaning with yours.
Your hand wrapped around the back of his neck and brought him into you before reason could have a say.
They were soft but sore, like he'd been biting and picking at the bottom of his lip. They were unsure how to react, as was the rest of him. His body curling into yours, his arm a ghost around your waist without settling there. His hand hovered-
Only when you'd got comfortable did he pull away.
His cheeks were flushed, lips parted as his eyes lazily dragged up to your eyes. He cocked his head, tongue running along the bottom of his lip like it was an invitation for more.
"You- you can't-"
You scoffed a laugh. "Is this the part where you tell me I'm a fool? That all these signals are mixed? Cause that's mean, Steve."
"No, no," he said, panicked clearly in losing you or having your hatred.
"You're being mean-"
Steve cringed, eyes squeezing shut. His head hung low and his jaw clenched. He was silent.
You dared reach up for more but Steve jerked away.
"You're drunk-"
"I'm not that drunk-"
Steve took your hands, clamping them in his and holding them to his chest. You could feel the race of his heart. "Don't."
It was one word but enough to sober you.
What were you doing? Throwing yourself at Steve? He already thought you were kid-ish and with this he'd see you as a damn right child, no better than Mike or Dustin, maybe even worse.
Was there anything you could do for Steve to see you as more? As something that could be his?
"Steve, I'm sorry."
His smile was saddening but his eyes wide with something like adoration as he gazed at you. "Don't be. Just... don't make that mistake again."
A mistake? Was that what he saw himself as? A mistake?
"You're not a mistake, Steve." And you meant it. You knew that without parents around, a true family it was hard to believe anything different. That everyone had not left because of you. But did he not see how the kids needed him, how you did.
He laughed, more deprecated on himself. "You're just a kid, you don't know."
You're just a kid.
A kid.
Who knew fears could be voiced in four short words.
In four words the drink settled like acid in your stomach and your palms clammed up.
You pulled your hands back, turning your back on him.
He liked you in this dress, he'd said as much when you turned eighteen- the adult official recognised age. It was all at once the worst thing you could've worn.
"Take me home, Steve," you said. If you tried to walk away he'd no doubt chase you down again. Then he'd say things you thought you wanted to hear, you'd throw yourself at him again and then every shard of your heart would be broken and one thing you could agree on... you were too young for that.
"Y/n-"
"You said you wanted to take me home so take me back to the Wheelers. Please!"
A car ride while crying in the passenger seat didn't excite you but neither did the reptition.
When you heard the keys jingle you walked to the car, steering yourself ahead to avoid his arm on your back or the careful watch of his eyes.
You pulled the door open as his hand reached for the handle.
You slid into the seat that was practically always reserved for you and looked at the window at the house party.
Steve slid into the drivers seat, closing the door gently behind him, sliding the keys in the ignition. "Just-"
"Don't worry, if I feel sick I'll throw up out the window."
Steve was quiet as he started the engine. "Your seatbelt," he said instead of chastising.
"Sorry," you said, not sorry at all as you reached for the belt, pulling it over your chest. "Guess I'm too young to know better."
The rest of the drive was in silence, a heavy weight on your chest and in your stomach. Just you. You felt like a weight, like the day that was meant to be the greatest was the worst, like you lost half your life and hopes and beliefs in a night.
When his car stopped outside the Wheelers he tried to speak, tried to reach out but you were un-doing the seatbelt and walking up the drive before the engine even cut off.
People always said it was better to have half of something or someone then not have them at all.
You disagreed.
But you'd rather not have Steve at all then only keep him as a friend.
At that moment, you didn't think you were even that.
It was only when you'd stepped inside the Wheelers, leaning on the closed door that you heard Steve's car slowly pull away.
You dragged yourself in, wiping away the tears that dared silently fall.
You slipped into the kitchen, Mike raiding the fridge.
"You're back before one then the party was lame- hey," Mike cut himself off when he saw you, his voice taking an un-characteristically tender tone. "What's wrong?"
The tears came silent and you tried to turn away, hide.
But Mike was there quick, getting you to turn to him.
You kept your head low and let your body feel as heavy as it was.
Mikes arm wrapped around you as you hugged him, falling into his chest. It was awkward, he wasn't too sure how to be there but he was, a soothing sound, a warm arm.
Steve would've known the way to hold you, the words to say.
But you couldn't run to him when the tears were his.
Ignoring Steve was harder than you thought. It was only when you were actively trying to avoid him that you understood how much of your life was him.
The sofa that was yours in the Squawk had been vacant for a week, the spot you usually laid upon on the days you had nothing else better to do growing cold in your absence. Instead, you'd made Mike's basement your sanctuary, a pile of collage pamphlets next to your blow up mattress.
Yale. NYU. Harvard. Anywhere.
The idea of staying in Hawkins sickened you. The idea of having to see Steve with a new girl on his arm while he'd continue to 'babysit' you, ruffle your hair was enough to have you making a plan to sneak out in the night.
'Hey this is your old buddy Harrington, that is Steve Harrington.'
You thought you were going crazy when you heard his voice, though staticky and hardly there. Then you looked toward the radio on the other end of the mattress.
'Sorry Robi- I mean Rockin Robin couldn't make it this morning so you're stuck with me-' there was a sound effect of some applause followed by a fart. 'Oh shoot- er-'
Another odd sound played that had Steve curse under his breath before shutting it off all together.
'Sorry folks, I'm er, i'm on my own today. Not really used to that, um-'
You grasped the radio and thought about chucking it at the wall but it wasn't yours and you didn't fancy explaining to Mrs Wheeler why the radio was in bits.
But you also couldn't bring yourself to turn it off. You'd forgotten his voice but it sounded different, not as uplifted, far more down and dark. Like he wasn't even trying for the radio.
'But don't worry I'm under strict instructions to play only the best. But this first one, it's... it's for someone special. I hope she's listening.'
You imagined all the girls lying on their beds, feet kicked up in the air, twirling their hair and listening his voice, waiting for them to play the song that could be for any girl. Maybe he'd had a few great dates and was going to ask her to be his girlfriend over radio. What a romantic gesture-
'Please be listening.'
The soft melody of The Carpenters sounded through.
Why do birds, suddenly appear. Every time, you are near,
Just like me, they long to be,
Close to you.
It must have been a coincidence. Another girl in Hawkins must have loved the Carpenters like you.
But had any other girl in Hawkins been stood up by their date at Prom, left in a red dress and a corsage you had to buy yourself to match. You remembered it, sitting on the stands and waiting for it all to be over, there was another party that girls were going to that you didn't even want to go to but you'd promised.
You wanted to go home, leave the humiliation.
"Hey."
"Steve?"
He stood in front of you, a red sweater and jeans, trainers, hair a mess.
"What are you doing here?" you looked around, girls already staring, looking Steve up and down like he was a piece of meat.
"I was picking up Robin but, seems she's already left. Thought I'd- well I- I wanted to see you," he smiled, the charming sort.
You couldn't think of anything worse then him seeing you, mascara wearing off, corsage drooped. You chuckled, slumping. "Now you've seen me."
"Hey," Steve slid onto the bench beneath you. He stretched his leg long and put his arm up next to you. "Why aren't you out on the floor? Where's your stupid date? What was his name again, Matty?"
"Matthew."
"Right, right."
Steve hadn't really been thrilled when you came in, a bouquet of flowers cradled and a date to prom. He claimed he knew Matthew's older brother and he wasn't much of a looker or a thinker.
Matthew had the looks and he clearly had the brains to concoct this plan of dumping you.
"He um, he didn't show," you said as casual as possible.
Steve's head snapped to yours. "What?"
You shrugged. "It's no bigee."
Steve was still staring at you, furrowed in his brows, jaw clenched. He looked away, tongue poking in his cheek as he laughed dryly. "No bigee- god-"
"Well you don't have to sound so annoyed-"
Steve grasped your hand and pulled you up. You stumbled on your heels as he dragged you down the stand and onto the dancefloor. There was decorations, slightly tacky in taste hanging from the ceiling. There was only a few people still dancing, others making out in corners. "We're not having your prom be a dud cause that moron didn't show."
"Steve, you don't have to," you said.
And Steve smiled at you, that winning smile as 'They long to be (close to you)' started playing. His arm went around your waist like it always belonged there, his hand large and sprawled on your back.
He looked at you like every girl wished to be looked at. "Look, we're even matching."
Your red dress. His red sweater.
His other hand took yours, holding it close to him as he gently swayed the both of you.
You blushed at the closeness, at the fact you finally could catch the cologne that was all his.
People looked, wondering what the once king of Hawkins high was doing back and dancing.
"People are staring at you," you uttered, tilting your head back to look at him.
"No. No," he said with a chuckle. "They're staring at you."
"Why? Because I got stood up?"
Steve shook his head. "Because you look beautiful."
You switched the radio off as the memory brought unwanted tears to your eyes. You'd held back from crying over him. You'd once promised yourself you wouldn't cry over a boy and you were in no mood to start.
You'd only just hidden yourself under the blankets and covers when they were yanked back off you.
Nancy loomed over you. "Crawl."
You rolled away from her.
"Crawl!"
"Go without me."
"You man the satellite."
"Get Dustin to."
"We need Dustin on look out."
You often alternated between checking the signal in the van with Steve and on look out. You figured whatever zone was being checked tonight needed Dustin on look out more than you. Any other time, you'd be have been thrilled. Hours un interrupted with Steve, snacking and talking was great.
Now, you'd rather be in the upside down.
"Hey," you sat yourself up, alight with the idea. "Why don't I go down too?"
Nancy looked at you like you'd grown a second head. "What?"
"We'd cover twice as much ground if we do more than one zone a night."
"Okay, first of all," said Nancy in that authoritative sister tone she'd started taking with you as well as Mike. "It's too dangerous and second we don't have the equipment for another van to track you."
"I wouldn't need tracking."
"Yes, you would. You have thirty seconds to get ready before I drag you out- thirty seconds!"
You spent ten seconds groaning before rushing upstairs and jumping in the car with Mike and Nancy.
"Steve! Steve! Steve!"
"Yeah!"
"Are you listening?"
"Oh yeah- yeah- totally."
Robin rolled his eyes.
He had not been listening and of course Nancy would notice.
He was teetering back on a chair, feet kicked up on the table and a pencil between his teeth, flecks of wood in his mouth as he bit down on it, watching you sit on the stairs and watch the boards. No doubt you were there cause it was furthest from him and the easiest escape.
The crawl couldn't have been a better time. What with you avoiding him and all.
Steve had called every day, three times a day in hopes of hearing your voice on the other line, even if it was a 'screw you.' But every time he got Ted or Holly, sometimes even Nancy. It was like you knew it would be him and didn't answer it.
He'd even got Robin to call once, asking for you. He heard your voice for a second before he snatched the phone, breathing out a shaky 'hey' and then the phone was put down.
Like a god damn stalker he'd drive by the Wheelers, never daring to enter as Mike had given him a telling to 'stay away from you' and 'stop breaking his sisters hearts.' But he just wanted to know you were there. Safe.
The song on the radio had been a last ditch attempt then the Crawl begun and now Steve watched, waiting eagerly to be told to go like he was waiting for class to be called.
"So you know what you're doing?"
"Yeah, Nance, I got it. Y/n catches the signal, we follow Hopper on this side-"
"-slowly-"
"Yeah, slowly and wait for him to get back. We've done it like a dozen times."
"Alright, well, if everyone knows there parts-"
Steve stood up so fast the chair fell back but you were already running up the stairs. "Hey! Wait up!"
You blew through the doors, heading to the van but he had the keys. You waited at the door, without turning back to him.
Steve took a moment behind you, brushing a hand through his hair and checking his breath. He pulled his jacket tighter around him and shook all anxiety off him. "You know you can't run from me in the van, you know?" it had supposed to be a joke but you only passed him a small look.
No glare, no smile either.
"I can try," you mumbled.
Steve un-locked the van and got into the drivers seat. "Woah, cold in here, huh?"
You only folded your arms over your chest and looked ahead.
"You, er- you want my jacket?" He was already ready to peel it away from him.
"Just drive Steve."
So he did, he followed the route marked on the van, where he'd begin the drive and where Hopper would begin, then you'd have plenty of time to try for a signal and then you could begin.
Steve killed the engine on the side of the street, tapping along the steering wheel. He counted five seconds and looked toward you but you were looking out the window into the darkness. He focused ahead then counted another five seconds and checked again.
It was about five rounds of that before you spoke.
"Can you stop that-"
"I just have to ask," said Steve at once at the sound of your voice. "What did I do?"
"What did you do?" you asked, turning to him with bewliderment.
"Er, yeah."
"What did you do?"
"Yes!" he snapped. "Okay I picked you up from a party, drunk-"
"-I wasn't drunk-"
"-after you called me, by the way, you try to kiss me, I pull away-"
"- I'm sorry-"
"-and now you hate me?"
"I'm sorry, alright," you snapped, louder over his voice. "I'm sorry for kissing you, it was stupid!"
Steve hadn't thought it was stupid. God knows how long he'd wanted to kiss you, bite your own bottom lip with his teeth and hold you the way every other guy you tried to date failed to do. He just knew that if you kissed him and told him you loved him he'd be a man on his knees, weak.
Heck, everyone knew he was weak enough around you.
He pushed away his own feelings and thought about you far away from Hawkins, happy and alive. "Yeah, yeah it was stupid," he said, dull.
You sighed. "I'm angry... I'm angry because you called me a kid. You talked about me having this great future, moving, collage, meeting a guy then called me a kid? Kids don't do that."
"I didn't mean it like that-"
"I just wished you'd see me, Steve!"
He looked back at you, your knees pulled up in the seat, hands in your hair. You looked so defeated, just like he felt.
Steve moved around in his seat, facing you. "I see you, hey, I see you," he said, stretching his arm out and resting on the back of your seat. "I see you all the time. When you're not here, when you are. If a song you like plays you're here. If the sun is shining through the trees just the way you like, I think of you. When I find- I find a sweater missing I know you've got it and I like that feeling. Knowing that I'm with you as much as you're with me."
You laughed, a real amused laugh.
Steve, who was trying to lay as much of his heart out without frightening you, didn't think it was that funny. "What?" he asked un-sure. "What's so funny?"
Did he even really want to know?
You looked at him, eyes glassy from laughter or maybe something else. "I'm in love with you. You never see that."
In love with you.
Love.
His parents had stopped saying those words when he turned ten. A man didn't need love, he needed a sturdy body, a good social status, a good foundation.
He'd forgotten what it was like. The rush of the words. The look of love.
"It's- you shouldn't."
A stray tear fell from you as you pushed your feet back on the floor, un-doing your seatbelt. "You can tell me you don't love me, Steve, but you don't have to be so mean about it."
His arm darted out as you went to climb in the back. "I didn't say I don't."
I didn't say I don't.
It was, maybe, the closest you'd get to those three little words.
Steve's arm was stretched out, the door was locked and you were stuck in the van with him and your confession in the middle of you.
You fell back into your seat. "You-you love me?"
When you fell back into you seat Steve let his arm fall. He dragged his hands down his face like he was exhausted. You had noticed the dark circles under his eyes, as much as you tried not to.
He looked at you and gave the slightest of nods. "Yeah, I do."
You couldn't help the smile even though the tears fell down. "You love me."
"But you don't understand," his hands were large as they cupped your cheeks, brushing back tears. "There's a whole wide world out there."
You didn't think so. Sure there was a world but there didn't seem anything more important then home. "But I want this."
"You've never tried anything else."
"I know what you said. About collage and a job, a boyfriend-" you caught him wince. "And about leaving and never coming back but I don't want that."
"You don't know what you want-"
"I do! I do, you can't say that. I know what I want, I want you-"
"Why?" he asked, falling back in his chair and running a hand through his hair in frustration.
You stared at him, a slow realisation that he wasn't calling you a kid because he thought you were. He didn't believe you could know what you want because you chose him.
Steve stared hard at the steering wheel like it was his enemy. "I don't plan on leaving Hawkins, alright. I like it here, in spite of all the bullshit we've been through I like the town. I'll work any job I can, small, anything that comes my way just to save up enough money to get a small crappy place of my own. I'll probably eat stupid box meals cause- well, you know I'm a terrible cook."
"Yeah, you are," you agreed in a chuckle.
Steve laughed with you. "Why would you want that? You're so intelligent, beautiful, independent, kind, wonderful. You have a chance to have a future I could never have."
"If you don't want me all you have to do is say-"
You were pulled quickly into him, only registering what was happening when his lips were against yours.
Still as soft, not as chapped but they moved against your lips quickly, catching your every protest.
His tongue rushed into your mouth, tasing that want and knowing it was the truth.
You groaned into him as a hand fell on your thigh.
He pulled away, slower than he'd kissed you.
"I shouldn't have done that," he uttered.
"Yes, yes, you should have."
"No, every time I kiss you it gets harder to stop."
You wound your hand around the back of his neck. "I don't want you to stop."
You lifted yourself off the seat, his neck craning back as you kissed him deeper, getting him to take a sharp intake of breath as his hands fell to your hips, holding you steady, thumbs digging into your skin until you were branded in a bruise that belonged to him.
He shot forward in his seat and set you back down all the while kissing you. "But-"
"Stop with the ifs, and the buts," you mumbled against his lips.
"I can't," said Steve. He pulled away enough that you could see him and the pink in his cheeks and red to his lips. "I love you. I have for longer than I care to know, baby, but I don't want to be the one holding you back."
You deflated in your seat, slightly. "Steve, why can't you see how amazing you are?"
He blushed and looked down, hand still cradling your cheek and unconsciously brushing back your hair. "I just... I want you to have everything you want in life."
You studied him a moment. "All I want is you."
You kissed him slow, only applying enough pressure that he would know you're there but giving him enough time to pull away or push you from him. Your hands stayed safe on your persons and you kept your want at bay.
Steve's entire body curled closer, leaving just enough space to have control over himself.
You pulled back and caught his gaze down on your lips. "We're stuck in a shitty town that's falling apart with another dimension underneath. We could die tonight, we could die tomorrow. Why are we worrying about the future?"
Steve's eyes were wide in adoration as he stroked your cheek. "We're not gonna die tomorrow."
"You don't know," you spoke like it was a fact. It could have been. You'd made peace with the fact that death lingered like a friend ever since you discovered the Upside Down. Death didn't scare you anymore. "Hopper could find Vecna tonight and we could all fight to our deaths."
Steve shook his head, eyes on your lips. "I wouldn't let anything happen to you."
"I know you wouldn't."
Steve kissed you again, lips sweet and desperate as his hand spread across your cheek, thumb propped enough under your chin to tilt your neck back. "Because I love you."
"I love you."
He groaned into your mouth like the words were a promise of a key to heaven should all end in flames.
"We don't-" you spoke, or tried to, against his lips as Steve dared not part. Not that you ever really wanted him to. "We don't know how any of this will end. Why worry about what could happen? Why not just...just-"
You words were all mumbled in his lips, caught in the passion.
Steve's hands trailed down your back. "Why not just keep kissing you? Like I've been dying to." he asked.
You nodded with a smirk.
And so you did, you kissed until the world collapsed, until the skies crashed and even after, you kissed when Hawkins healed, when you left for collage. You kissed him upon every return and loved him every day, sometimes more. You loved him in marriage, in children and grandchildren.
felt the stab of my heart breaking for a second there but then you healed it. amazing fic!! i love this stupid idiot man i wanna smack him for hurting my feelings for NOTHING just to love me anyways ❤️
cw - mentions of edging, rough sex, breeding kink, pet names: good girl, sweetheart, sweet thing
an: a very happy birthday to @jamdoughnutmagician 🎊 I hope you enjoy this small gift from me 🖤
You’re on your stomach, ass in the air with a pillow supporting you. You can’t remember how long you’ve been in this position, it could be minutes or hours.
Eddie teasing you over and over, bringing you to the brink and then snatching your pleasure away. Your hands grasp at the sheets, twisting, as tears fill your eyes.
“Look at you. Fuck you’re so perfect like this.” Eddie groans, as his palms touch your hips and his fingers dig into your soft skin - letting you know you can’t get away, not that you would want to.
“You gonna be a good girl for me, sweetheart?” He teases his cock against you, knowing exactly what you want but refusing to give it to you until you beg real pretty for him.
“Yes, I’m good. I’m your good girl. I’ll be so good, I just need you.” You sob out, desperation sinking in, as your need for Eddie grows.
He doesn’t give you any warning as his cock sinks into you. You practically scream with pleasure and relief, as he fills you up inch by inch.
His thrusts are quick and brutal, as his cock bullies its way inside of you. Your arms can’t keep you up and Eddie’s hands on your hips and the pillow under are the only reason you’re not lying flat, as your body gives out on you.
You can feel drool spilling out of your mouth, as you surrender to the pleasure and what Eddie is willing to give you.
You can practically see stars when he starts hitting exactly where you need him.
He leans over you, his breath hot on your already overheated skin, as he whispers sweet nothing into your ears.
“You feel me right there?” He grabs your hand and places it on your stomach where you can feel his cock. The moan you let out, as he fucks up into your hand through your stomach, is obscene, “yeah right in your guts, sweetheart.”
You can feel yourself getting closer when he says,
“I could breed you just like this. Fill you right up, would you like that my sweet birthday girl?”
Your orgasm crashes into you like a wave, legs shaking, as your eyes roll back.
You feel like you’re floating, everything feels good and you can feel Eddie chasing his release, as he tells you how good you’ve been for him.
The sudden need to have him cum inside of you has you chanting please please please.
“I know, I’ll give you what you need.” Eddie soothes you.
He thrusts into you hard and you feel warm, as he fills you up.
He slides out, hissing at the sensation and flips you over to check on you.
“Oh look at you sweet thing.” He gently rakes his fingernails across your scalp and you purr like a kitten.
“Kiss?” You look up at him with wide eyes and his face goes soft. He’d give you anything you need.
He presses his lips to yours and slides his tongue in when you let out a sigh, this is what you needed, the hard and the soft.
His tongue tangles lazily with yours before he pulls back,
“Need to get cleaned up, sweetheart, you’re leaking all over the bed.”
You look down and notice he’s right, his cum is leaking down your thighs and you can’t help but scrunch up your nose in annoyance.
“Don’t worry. Next time we’ll make sure it sticks.” He winks at you and rushes to the bathroom to get a washcloth to clean you up with.
By the time he comes back your eyes are fluttering with tiredness.
“Go to sleep. I’ll take care of you. Happy Birthday, sweetheart.” He presses a sweet kiss to your forehead and you’re out like a light.
steve and his innocent gf who wants to be put in a headlock when fucking <3
steve’s got you pinned beneath him on the mattress, one forearm braced beside your head, the other hand gripping the meat of your thigh so he can keep your leg hooked high around his waist. he’s been fucking you slow, deliberately slow, for what feels like forever, dragging the thick length of him out until just the tip nudges inside, then sliding back in so deep your breath hitches every single time.
“ohh baby,” he murmurs, “already so fucking gone and m’barely even trying”
you whine, nails digging into the flexing muscles of his back. he chuckles and rolls his hips in a lazy circle that makes your eyes flutter.
“a-ah stevieee!”
“uh-uh.” he dips his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “you don’t get to whine my name like that unless you’re gonna use your words. c’mon, honey. tell me what you want. you can do that, right? or is that pretty little head too full of cock to think straight?”
heat floods your face. he knows exactly what he’s doing, has known since the second you started squirming harder every time his bicep flexed beside your cheek.
you swallow, “i… i want-”
he pulls out almost all the way again, waits. lets the silence stretch until you’re clenching around nothing.
“want what?” he prompts, voice dripping mock sweetness. “gotta say it, sweetheart. i’m not a mind reader. well-” another slow, torturous slide back inside, “i guess i am when it comes to this greedy little cunt, huh? she’s doing all the talking for you.”
your thighs tremble. you can feel how wet you are, can hear it every time he fucks back in. embarrassing. but you’re way past caring.
“headlock,” you finally breathe. “wan’ you to-put me in a headlock. please.”
steve stills for half a second. then a filthy grin spreads across his face.
“ohhh, baby.” he sounds delighted. “you’re so fucking cute when you’re this dumb for me.”
he doesn’t tease you about it, not with words, anyway. instead he shifts his weight, plants one knee deeper into the mattress so he can get the angle right, then slides his thick forearm under the back of your neck.
“like this?” he asks, voice deceptively gentle as he starts fucking you again, deeper now, harder, using the new leverage to pull you onto his cock with every thrust. “this what my sweet little dummy wanted?”
you nod frantically. can’t speak. don’t need to. your mouth drops open on a silent moan.
he hums, pleased. “yeah, i thought so. look at you, y’drooling. can’t even keep that pretty mouth closed anymore.”
the crook of his elbow tightens, just enough, cradling your head, forcing your neck to arch so you’re looking right up at him. his bicep bulges against the side of your face; you can smell the clean sweat and the faint cedar of his cologne. it’s overwhelming. you’re surrounded by him, inside you, around you, above you.
“you like this huh? pretty lil’ cunt loves it?” he groans, pace picking up, hips snapping harder. wet, filthy sounds fill the room. “love being my stupid little thing. can’t think, can’t talk-just gotta take it. just gotta let me rearrange that tight cunt while i hold you exactly where i want you.”
you whimper. try to say his name. it comes out garbled. “st-ohh-st-t-ohh-fu-fu-mmhmphh”
“shhh, i know, baby. i know.” he leans down, lips brushing your forehead, such a sweet contrast to the way he’s pounding into you now. “you don’t have to talk. you’re doing so good just laying there and letting me fuck you stupid. that’s all you’re good for right now, huh? my perfect little cockdrunk girl.”
the pressure of his arm increases, just a fraction. your vision blurs at the edges, pleasure spiking so sharp it almost hurts. you’re shaking. clenching. so close.
“gonna cum f’me?” he coos, voice wrecked and mocking at the same time. “gonna soak my cock while i’ve got you all locked up like this? yeah you are. i can feel it. this pussy’s begging for it. c’mon give it to me. let me feel how dumb stevie makes you.”
you break with a sob, back bowing, thighs locking around him as you come so hard your ears ring. he doesn’t let up, keeps the headlock firm, keeps fucking you through it with long, punishing strokes until he’s growling low in his throat, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a muttered string of filth you can barely process.
when he finally eases his arm away, he doesn’t pull out right away. just stays there, heavy and warm on top of you, pressing soft kisses along your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
“good girl, y’did so good,” he whispers, all honey again. “took me so well.”
you’re still floating. still can’t quite string words together.
let's hear it for the boy! || steve harrington x reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: 10.9k
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Best Friend!Reader
Warnings: SMUT (solo masturbation, dry humping, f!receiving oral, handjob, premature ejaculation, p in v sex), language, sexual references, Steve is very oblivious, Steve can't get it up (unless it's for you), porn WITH plot, slow-ish burn
Summary: set before s4. steve has a problem. he can't cum unless he's thinking about you. except you're his friend and he definitely doesn't have any romantic feelings towards you. at least, that's what he tells himself.
“Seriously? Katie Frey doesn’t do it for you?” You asked, sitting atop the counter at Family Video. Steve shrugged, embarrassment welling up in his chest at your words, and the general topic of conversation.
“I was as surprised as you are now,” he said, twirling a company branded pen between his fingers and hoping the fidgeting would take his mind off of how absolutely mortified he was. “Because, like, Katie is hot.”
“Absolutely. Smokin’ hot.” Your voice was muffled around a twizzler, framed by perfectly made-up lips.
He made a face at your interruption, staring at you with narrowed eyes until you mimed zipping your mouth shut.
“And like, she’s got these great tits. Huge.” Really huge, fucking perfect tits. Not that he was a perv about it, but it was hard not to notice them. “And she’s pretty. And, you know, we were going at it at her apartment after our date and I swear I was into it. But…” He stopped twirling the pen so he could bury his face into his hands, mumbling the end of the sentence. “I couldn’t… cum, you know? I had to just fake it.”
“Fake it? Were you convincing?” you asked, brows furrowed. He peered up at you through the spaces between his fingers, at the quirk of a smile on your lips. “Maybe you should show me. I’m a visual learner.”
He threw the pen at you and groaned in frustration. “You’re an asshole, you know that right? This is serious.”
You did your best to adjust your expression and be empathetic. “Okay, well that didn’t happen with Sheryl, did it?” He shook his head. “Maybe you’re still stuck on Sheryl.”
He shrugged, letting himself relax a little. “Eh, not really. She was fun, but clingy.”
You sighed, leaning forward like a scientist observing him under a microscope. “Other than like… the finale, was the sex good?”
“Yes! And the date was perfectly fine too.” He sat up straighter, crossing his arms across his chest. He was telling the truth… mostly. It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t amazing. It was just… fine. He gave you a half-smile. “Thanks for letting me talk to you about this. Robin would be all weird about it.”
You smiled teasingly. “Oh, Robin would’ve bailed the moment you said the word cum.” You altered your voice into a shockingly accurate impression of your friend. “‘Ew, Steve! I don’t want to hear about the details of hetero sex. I faked mono during sex-ed for a reason.”
“She would’ve agreed about Katie’s tits, though,” Steve insisted. “She’d pretend to be mortified that I’m objecting women or whatever, but she’d agree.”
You laughed and shook your head at his words, and he felt a tiny tug in his chest— some sort of like, stirring, big feeling.
He didn’t get it. The two of you had been friends since Freshman year, when you moved next door to Carol and she dragged you to every hangout, big and small. He always sort of figured that Carol was trying to set you up with him, but neither of you ever made a move.
He wasn’t sure why he felt that uncomfortable ache in his chest when you smiled lately. There had never been any feelings there in all the time he’d known you, right? Sure, he thought you were hot— that’s why he had to give you dating advice all the time—but that was different.
"Maybe you just need to find the right girl, or something,” you said earnestly. “Like… maybe your dream girl is right in front of you, and even if your brain doesn’t know it, your body does.”
You tucked your permed hair behind your ear and it made his stomach drop like he was on a roller coaster. And he was confused about how such a tiny sensation could feel so overwhelming when he heard the bells above the door ring.
The girl approached the counter with big brown eyes and hair that looked a little fried by bleach and perm solution. He did love curls, though.
“I called this morning,” she said, her voice low and sultry. He liked sultry. “Some guy named Keith set aside Footloose for me? Should be under Rebecca Martin, or Becky, maybe.”
Steve smiled and turned on the charm.
Becky wasn’t the hottest thing to moan during sex, but Steve Harrington wasn’t a quitter. He’d just… avoid names in general.
Steve was a gentleman. They’d gone to dinner a few nights prior, and he’d been polite and kissed her at the front door. It had gone well enough to tell Robin about, which was saying something. He liked her sense of humor, she was sweet, and her perfume was so nice that it was practically addicting.
The second date wasn’t as formal. Movie at his place, stealing his parents’ fancy wine out of the cabinet like a high schooler. It started innocently enough that he wasn’t even sure if he should go any further, keep things cool, really see this one through this time.
But, Jesus Christ, did she have other plans. Pretty, pink manicured nails traced along his thigh, dimpling the fabric of his jeans, which were already tight enough. She played coy— eyes on the movie, a satisfied smirk on her lips as her hand paused just below where he wanted it. He squirmed, just slightly, feeling his dick stir with interest. She batted big doe-eyes at him and furrowed her brows in a very practiced manner.
“Something wrong?” She asked, and he could see the amusement in her gaze as her hand wandered up, cupping the bulge that was swelling in the front of his jeans. She sprung into action after he captured her lips in a hungry kiss, making quick work of the button and zipper so she could wiggle her hand beneath his boxers.
Her hand was deliciously soft, and he liked the soft gasp of surprise that escaped her when she took him into her hand and gave a testing stroke. It was dry, and a little uncomfortable until she spat into her hand and started over. It felt good. She felt good.
“Do you wanna go to your room?” Her words were damp against the column of his throat, no doubt leaving pink stains from her lipstick.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah. I want to.”
——
His cheeks were burning as he watched Becky redress, hurriedly tugging her panties up her legs. Her annoyance and disappointment was blatant in her features, and it made his chest ache with mortification.
“That doesn’t—“ He shook his head. That doesn’t usually happen sounded like a stupid excuse, especially considering that his last hookup had ended similarly. This time had been worse. “I don’t know why that happened.”
She shrugged, shimmying into her denim skirt. “It’s whatever, Steve.”
“No, no I mean it,” he said, trying to fight the frown on his lips, trying to seem at least a little… casual about it all. He’d gone down on her until she came apart right on his tongue, then he took his time to get her stretched out and ready for him until she couldn’t take anymore and begged for him.
He wanted to fuck her, he wanted to feel her around him, warm and tight and pliant, blinking prettily up at him while she moaned and gasped. So why wouldn’t his body let him do it?
What the fuck?
“It’s fine, really. Don’t worry about it.” As soon as he heard the pity in her voice, he nearly wanted to die. “I’m only in town to visit my aunt anyway.”
“This really never happens to me,” he insisted. The look on her face— the subtle mix of disbelief and scorn— made him feel like he was a bug under her shoe.
He didn’t bother redressing more than just tugging on his boxers as she left, and he was grateful she at least let him walk her to the door after the world’s most disastrous hookup attempt.
He groaned in annoyance as he closed the door behind him, running his hands through his mussed-up hair. He was at the phone before he even realized where he was walking, dialing the number through sheer muscle memory.
“Hello?” Your voice crackled along the line, sounding sleepy. What time was it?
“Hey,” Steve said, leaning against the wall where the phone was mounted. He didn’t need to worry about calling directly from his personal line when his parents weren’t home. Besides, he was sweating, smelled like sex, and there was something comfortable about the cool, empty room downstairs. “Am I bothering you?”
“Nuh-uh,” you hummed, and he heard something shuffle on your side of the phone. “Just painting my nails. What’s up? I thought you were busy with Becky tonight?”
His heart thumped uncomfortably and he wished he hadn’t called. “Yeah, uh, she left.”
“Oh,” you replied, and he could picture the look of soft concern you would be wearing. “You sound disappointed. Did it not go well?”
Steve scratched at his chest, the hair there still a bit tacky with sweat. “Permission to overshare?”
You paused. “Hm…” Another beat. “Uh, I guess so. Why not?”
You were quiet as Steve recounted the experience with you, right down to the horrific realization that he couldn’t stay hard and their night had to be cut short. He waited as soon as he explained Becky's departure, waiting for you to laugh or tease him.
“That’s tough, but it happens, Steve,” you said softly. “Maybe your heart wasn’t in it.”
He groaned again, pressing the heel of his hand into his forehead. “I don’t care if my heart was in it. I wanted my dick to be in it.” He paused. “That wasn’t on purpose, but you know what I mean. My heart has never been a problem before.”
“Well, stress can impact performance,” you explained. “Especially if you’re psyching yourself out about whether or not you’re going to get off. Permission for me to overshare?”
He sighed and ran a hand through his mussed hair. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Permission granted.”
“Last year when they hired me at The Gap at the mall and made me a manager for no reason, I was so fucking stressed out that I couldn’t get myself off for weeks. Like, I tried everything. You know what finally helped?”
Steve swallowed. Hard. “W-what?”
“I turned off my brain for a few hours. I just let my hands wander a bit, figured out what felt good, and explored that for a while before moving on to the next spot. Eventually, I made myself cum without even realizing what I was doing.” You paused, and he heard a nervous laugh slip past your lips. “Um, that's just, like, a suggestion.”
The mental image was enough to make his cock twitch beneath the thin material of his boxers. He swallowed, trying to block out the images of you; naked, hand between your thighs, writhing in pleasure. His length throbbed again, because despite his best efforts, the image didn’t go away.
“I’m just trying to explain that it’s super common to have issues getting off, and it’s not weird!” You said, the silence clearly making you antsy. “Did that help at all?”
“Mhmm,” he hummed. “Robin would say this is a sign from the universe that I should just be single for a while.”
“Maybe.” You paused. “Give yourself some time, alright? You’ve been through a lot, Steve. Stuff like that is bound to catch up sooner or later.”
You were waiting for him by your next shift, sneaking past Robin to pull him aside. “Did you try it?” You asked, blinking up at him.
“What?” He furrowed his brows until you mimed jerking off and his cheeks fucking burned. “Oh, no. I wasn’t up for it.” He groaned. “I didn’t mean it like that either.”
“I know, I know,” you assured, a pretty smile on your lips. “So, do you think that Becky’s not…”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be seeing her again, which blows.”
You shrugged. “Screw that. You can find someone way better, alright?” He wanted to roll his eyes as you grabbed his shoulders in your hands, making him look right at you. When he tried to look away, you repeated yourself. “Alright?”
He sighed. “Yeah, yeah, alright.” He wriggled out of your grip. “Can you just hand me the returns cart so I can shelve them?” You shrugged and passed him the cart, eager to offload your tasks if he was willing to take them.
He needed a distraction. Because you were wearing a black miniskirt with your dumb family video vest, and a fucking Star Wars shirt he would’ve found dorky if you weren’t perfectly endearing.
You were giggling and smiling, fighting with Robin over a copy of some movie you both were dying to see before the other. He sighed as he shelved a copy of A Christmas Story, wondering why someone would’ve rented that in August.
He got the cart shelved, helped a nice old lady find a Hitchcock movie she’d liked when her late husband showed her, and even reorganized the snack counter before he finally came upon a hitch in his day.
“Steve!” Your voice was barely a whisper, coming from Keith’s office. He looked around at the store, where Robin was sitting unfazed at the main counter, and slipped past the door.
Oh fuck. You were bent over Keith’s desk, legs sprawled awkwardly, tugging hopelessly at where your shirt was caught on a screw pinning it and you to the wall. He couldn’t even fathom how you’d gotten into that position— maybe reaching for something that had fallen behind the bulky desk?
Worst of all, that stupid mini skirt. Bent over the desk, he saw the baby blue cotton of your panties. His mouth went dry. He’d forgotten why he’d walked into the room in the first place.
“Steve! My shirt is stuck on one of the screws,” you explained, squirming slightly with impatience. “I got this when Empire came out, it’s irreplaceable. Just pull the desk out so I can move.”
It took a few seconds for his brain to comprehend what was asked of him. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. Easy-peasy.” He grimaced. Why the fuck did he say that?
“Steve, hurry.” He tried not to look back at your ass as he approached the desk, giving it a slight tug so you were no longer pinned. You stumbled a bit before standing and tugging your skirt down, giving him a sheepish smile. “Jesus, that was so stupid. I dropped my time card clocking in from my break. Thanks Steve.”
With the desk pulled out, you grabbed it easily and waved it in front of his face. He gave a weak heh as you patted his shoulder and sauntered back out.
He leaned against the wall, relishing in how cold it was against his weirdly hot body. He wasn’t dumb. He knew you were attractive. He thought you were fucking stunning. But you were his friend, not someone he was trying to fuck around with.
Imagine his surprise when he found himself already half-hard just from barely even a glimpse of your panties when he couldn’t even get it up for the girls he was actually trying to sleep with.
“God fucking damn it,” he muttered, adjusting himself as best as he could before stepping out of the office. As soon as he hit the floor, Robin grabbed his arm and tugged him towards a box of new releases.
“Hey, Stevie, do you mind putting out the pornos? I would but… you know. I don’t really want to.”
Better and better. “Yeah, what would Gloria Steinem think if she knew you saw a VHS sleeve that showed tits?” He raised a brow and took the new box, boasting salacious titles like— Slutty Slumber Party and Cock Fight III.
She pinched his cheek with a grin and patted his back. “You’re the best, Steve.” He rolled his eyes. He knew that already.
You caught up to him before he could pass the privacy curtain that partitioned the triple X section from the rest of the store, peering down into the box.
“Let me help you put these out,” you offered, already scooping up as many titles as you could carry from the box. It was his worst nightmare come to life— an inconvenient boner, his cute friend, and a million sets of tits and dicks everywhere the eye could see.
It was blissfully quiet as he focused intensely on alphabetizing the titles. You helped him do stuff all the time, no need for him to make it weird just because you were shelving movies like Hot Groupie Fuckfest 2.
“Maybe you should sneak one of these home,” you finally said, turning the title in your hand towards him. “It could help.”
“I don’t need tapes to get off,” he insisted, maybe a little too defensively. “I like magazines better anyway. Classier.” He swore internally, realizing he had revealed something extremely private that he hadn’t shared with anyone.
You shrugged and continued shelving. “Magazines are cool,” you replied, rather awkwardly, like you were walking on eggshells. “Very classy.”
“Nothing is wrong with me,” he finally said. His mortification had gotten the best of him and the words just came out. “I’m fine.”
“Okay…” you replied, a furrow between your brows. “I never said you weren’t, Steve. I’m just—“
“Trying to help— I know but…” he groaned, raking a hand through his hair. “Let’s drop it, alright?” You nodded in agreement and he sighed, feeling like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
The two of you stood there for a moment before you nodded back to the crate. “Okay, we’ve got, like, three dozen more to stock, so let’s just get it done.”
He hated that he’d upset you, or offended you, or made you feel any way towards him other than perfectly happy. But what was he supposed to do? The entire ordeal was utterly humiliating.
And you seemed totally unbothered as you read the back cover of some girl on girl flick, interest in your eyes. Were you into that stuff? Was that what you liked thinking about? Why was he even concerned about what you think about?
You shelved the movie and moved on— grabbing your next pile, one that took you across the room to the shelf of more taboo, kinky stuff. He stared as you got onto your knees, bending over to stock the bottom shelf. And there he was— greeted by another tiny flash of your panties under the fluorescent lights just before you tugged your skirt down.
His cock stirred with interest, toeing the line between half-hard and impossible to ignore. Jesus. Were you doing it on purpose?
“Hm? Doing what?“ you asked, glancing over your shoulder. “Because if you mean stocking the weird shit on the bottom shelf, that’s a yes. No one wants to walk in and be eye-level with Fist Fest II.”
There was something about your smile then— sweet, like you had no idea the torment you were putting him through. He wanted to cry. “I’ll be right back.”
Robin ignored him as he practically darted past her and into the back rooms. He didn’t even bother clocking out for his break before he ducked into the employee’s only bathroom and locked the door behind himself.
He wasn’t an animal. Typically, he had self control. But a week of being unable to get off combined with your obliviousness as to what you were doing to him had him ready to jump out of his skin.
He fumbled with his belt, the metal clinking echoed off of the tile walls as he practically ripped it off. He made quick work of the button and zipper of his fly, practically moaning with relief at the lack of restriction. He spat into his hand before he shoved it into his briefs, crying out in relief before he thought better of it and bit onto his fist to keep quiet.
This, he realized as he grew frustrated with the lack of mobility and pulled his dick out at work, was a new low for him. Teeth cut into the meat of his palm as he fucked his hand in earnest, muffled moans coming out strangled and desperate. There wasn’t time for teasing, for drawing it out like he usually did when he was alone. It felt like his body was a rubber band, stretched and poised to snap.
And, god help him, he was thinking about you. Of you bent over Keith’s desk, legs gangly and awkward, ass in the air, wriggling to try to free yourself before caving and asking him for help. Steve was a gentleman. He only spared one look of shock before averting his eyes. But fantasies didn’t hurt anyone.
Fantasies about you doing it on purpose— arching your back and wiggling your hips invitingly because you wanted him to see you like that. In another world, where you wanted him and he wanted you, he would’ve relished in that scenario. Of you teasing and entrapping him in some game of cat and mouse. Of fucking you over the stupid squeaky desk and covering your mouth so Robin didn’t hear. Biting into your shoulder to keep himself quiet.
He came thinking about you, a guttural, desperate moan cutting into the air despite his best efforts to stay quiet. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed a release until he was coming down, his hand sticky and warm, cum painting the tile in front of him.
“Jesus fucking— goddamn it.” His voice wavered, most of his energy sapped. He felt pathetic as he stuffed his softening length back in his briefs and tugged his pants up, wincing at the sensitivity. And he felt even more pathetic as he grabbed paper towels from the dispenser and cleaned up his spend from the bathroom wall at his fucking workplace.
A sudden loud knock sounded on the door, nearly making him yelp. “Are you okay in there, dingus?” Robin asked, her genuine concern masked by the sarcasm that dripped from her tone. “You ran past like you needed to shit, or something, so I wanted to check.”
He sunk onto the gross bathroom floor and banged his head against the wall. Dying, he decided, would have been less painful than whatever this was.
It had been days, and he had yet to cum unless you were at the top of mind. It had to be a coincidence, like he’d Pavlov-ed himself into only getting hard if he thought about you.
No. That wasn’t exactly true. He could get hard, he just couldn’t cum unless he thought about you. There was a big difference, and it meant he wasn’t totally broken after all. It meant he could fix it.
The most inconvenient thing about it was the fact that he had to jerk off before any shifts with you or he’d have to repeat that first bathroom session, which was something he really, really wanted to leave in the past.
There was a possibility that there was something to the situation at hand— that the reason for his body’s reaction to you was beyond just physical. But that was dumb, and every time that tiny voice in his brain told him to consider it, Steve just shook it off.
His phone rang at his bedside and he sighed, tossing the book he’d been trying to read for the past hour with no avail.
“Yeah?” He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He really needed some glasses, huh?
“Hey, Steve, it’s me.” Your voice was like music over the phone, and he sat up quickly, like you were there to witness his lazy, slouchy morning. “I was just calling to ask if you could cover my shift this afternoon. I know it’s a big ask since it’s so last minute, but I can totally pay you back double sometime.”
He scratched the back of his neck. Fucking Keith was on the schedule tonight, and they hated each other. Then again, it wasn’t like he had any plans. He couldn't risk another failed hookup, or word might get around that he was a limp dick loser. “Mhmm. Shouldn’t be too bad,” he lied.
You sighed with relief on the other end. “You’re a lifesaver, Steve. I thought I was gonna have to cancel my date.”
His heart stuttered for a few moments before he recovered and tried to act casual about it. “Date? I didn’t even know you were…” He trailed off, unsure of how to even finish that sentence. His voice was higher than usual, so he cleared his throat to brush it off.
You laughed. “Yeah, I know it’s been a while. I figured I should stop waiting around for something to fall into my lap and just put myself out there, or something. You know, just… casually, nothing too serious.”
Oh. He didn’t have the right to feel disappointed, and yet… He wanted to tell you not to go, to stay home like normal, and keep things like they were already. He didn’t want to imagine you with some random Hawkins asshole right now, especially when he couldn’t think of a single person in city limits who might be worthy of your time.
It was crazy. He’d set you up on plenty of dates and coached you through even more. He didn’t have any reason to feel weird about it now.
“Steve? Did I lose you?” You asked softly. “I know you’re still dealing with… you know, everything. I don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want me to. God, hearing you talk about getting laid while I was having a dry spell used to make me want to rip my hair out.”
“It’s fine,” he insisted. “Go have a good date, and don’t let him have all the fun, alright?”
You laughed, and he could picture you wrinkling your nose the way you always did when he said something dumb. “I would never. Thanks again, Steve.”
You were giddy at work the next morning, a pretty glow about you, an unusual chipper attitude that you shared with every single guest. You weren’t even being particularly snarky with him or Robin.
“Good night?” He asked, despite not really wanting to know. God, it was like there were two halves of himself constantly working against the other.
You smiled brightly, and he almost winced. “It was so good. I think you know him— Andy from Varsity baseball in ‘84. He graduated a year earlier than us and goes to Purdue. He’s living at home while he’s doing an internship for some financial firm.”
“What happened to just being casual?” Steve asked, brows furrowing as he looked at you.
You laughed in lieu of a response and grabbed the box of merchandise for the latest new releases. He stood there dumbly until Keith knocked into his shoulder.
“Back to work, Harrington,” he said in that stupid, asshole voice of his. “These returns aren’t going to shelve themselves.”
——
“You’re glowering.” Robin whispered into his ear a few days later, so close it made him jump out of his frustrated stupor and back into reality.
“I’m not, I'm just focused,” he insisted, even though his eyes were burning holes into the back of Andy’s head. He hit stop on the tape he had successfully rewound and put it back into the case, then back into the cart for shelving.
It was the sort of monotonous task that gave him time to ruminate. And to glower.
Why was Andy even there? Just to distract you from work and charm his way into your pants? Again? You’d been shelving the same tape of The Outsiders for twenty minutes, at least.
God, he sounded like Keith. Wasn’t that terrifying?
“Do you remember him from high school?” Steve finally asked, sparing a glance back at Robin. She shrugged, and he whipped his gaze back to the two of you. His hand was on your hip, dangerously close to grabbing your ass. Classless, asshole college guy. “Yeah, I figured. He graduated in ‘84. Third baseman.”
Robin snorted. “I bet.”
“Cute. Very charming, Robin,” Steve sighed, shaking his head. He stopped the tape and slipped the cover back on. “Whatever. He just doesn’t seem her type, that’s all.”
Robin rolled her eyes and grabbed his hand before he could reach for the next tape. “Steve. Andy is exactly her type. Sweet guy, athletic, charming…” She raised her brows, like she was trying to make a point. But to Steve, the only point she seemed to be making was that Andy was the total package and he was a loser.
“I’m not glowering,” he repeated, if only to prove it to himself. “I’m just trying to finish up the rewinds since we’re down an employee.” He gave a lazy gesture towards the front of the store, where you and Andy were making eyes at each other.
Not jealous. Not jealous at all. Just… sexually frustrated. That was an easy fix.
His Rolodex was filled with girls who he’d fooled around with. When he got home, he flipped through the remaining names, each eliciting vague memories.
Deanna was hot… she had a weird laugh though. Not like you. Your laugh was a nice, warm sound. He liked your laugh more than anything. As a friend. Of course.
Maybe Kelly? She was sweet, pretty. Not as pretty as you were, obviously, but who was?
He tried calling a few, but most of them wanted nothing to do with a guy who’d forgotten to call for a few months. After his third rejection, he gave up entirely. He didn’t really have it in him to lead another girl on, anyway.
Maybe there was something there he should acknowledge. That itching, stirring feeling of want that had started to fester months ago. Gnawing at the edges of each interaction he had with you. Maybe it had always been there and his dumb body was making him do something about it, just like you’d said.
He was in a mood for the next week. He hadn’t felt this pent up since after graduation, when he had to wear a sailor uniform and perform a public humiliation ritual for minimum wage.
You sidled up to him at the register at closing, where he was getting a sick sort of satisfaction in checking on all of the late charges about to hit the overdue rentals.
You were dressed like you were going to go on a date later— with one of your favorite tops and that goddamn mini skirt. Even worse, you were smiling a pretty smile like you wanted something, which made the itch of irritation claw at his tongue. “I’m not taking another one of your shifts so that you can go out with Andy,” he said sternly, with a narrowed glance at you.
Your brows raised and you gave him a look that told him he was being an asshole, which he already knew. “Okay, one, I wasn’t going to ask you to take one of my shifts, and two, who pissed in your cereal this morning?”
He just huffed. “Sorry, long day.” Long month. “I’m being a dick.”
You smiled and nodded. “Yeah, you are… but I forgive you.” You brushed your hair back and leaned imperceptibly closer. It probably wasn’t on purpose, but your arm pushed against his and you were so warm, and you smelled like the Avon perfume your mom always bought you. ”Let’s hang out tonight. I feel like I only ever see you at work lately. I’ll rent us a movie, grab some dinner on the way… it’ll be just like old times.”
The realistic part of his brain told him it was a bad idea. He’d been plagued with graphic, explicit images of you playing in his head at the worst of times. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself to be normal about hanging out at your place.
Which was absolutely ridiculous. It would be the thousandth time he’d been over, but the odds of him getting an inconvenient, persistent boner around you were frustratingly high.
But his alternative was going home to sulk alone and sink deeper into his funk, so he nodded. “Yeah, sounds fun.” It would be fine. He could persevere.
——
Your basement had always been his favorite place to hang out. Unlike his own parents who wanted input into every facet of his young life, your parents let you do whatever the hell you wanted to the space, as long as they could store their treadmill and your mom’s Tupperware stock.
It was lit with old Christmas lights and covered in tchotchkes that you had found in garage sales. Old quilts, your grandma’s macrame, needlepoint throw pillows. It was like an estate sale had crawled inside to die, and he loved it.
The couch had an uncomfortable spring that always dug into his thighs, you picked a really dumb movie, and you had slightly burned the popcorn on the stove, but he couldn’t complain. Maybe he did need this.
”So… are you still seeing Andy?” He asked when the movie hit a lull. It wasn’t that he wasn’t paying attention, it was just hard to focus.
You laughed, shaking your head. You were sprawled across the ugly floral couch, legs in his lap, curled up facing the TV. “Ew, no,” you said with an eye roll. “He was fun at first, but I was just kind of using him, you know?”
Did he know? Probably not, but he nodded like he understood anyway. He took another handful of the mildly-burnt popcorn and watched you out of his periphery (which was, admittedly, not what it used to be).
He tried to focus on the movie some more, but it was you that broke the silence next. You shifted your legs a bit to get comfortable before he felt your gaze on him. “So, how’s your problem?” You asked.
His cheeks felt hot, like his entire head had been shoved under the heat lamp in Dustin’s turtle’s tank. “Oh,“ he cleared his throat. “Fine, I guess. I don’t know, actually. I haven’t been on any dates since Becky, so…”
“Really? Why not?” You asked, brows knit.
His expression was incredulous. Why not? Oh, nothing too bad— just that I can’t get hard lately unless I’m fantasizing about you. “Why do you think? This is totally reputation killing stuff here. I’ll be lucky if the entire female population of Hawkins doesn’t think my dick doesn’t work.”
You shifted closer, but your legs were still heavy in his lap, which he was growing increasingly conscious of. “What about when you’re alone?”
His heart started to hammer as thoughts flooded his brain of the session he’d had in the shower that morning, which had been, in part, fueled by a quick perusal of his photo album from last summer and the handful of pictures of you in a remarkably high cut swimsuit.
“Uh…” His voice was higher than usual, and he tried to bring it back down to Earth before continuing. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, glancing only briefly at your lips before forcing himself to look back up at your eyes. “Normal. It’s normal.”
“So, if that's normal, what do you think about when you’re alone?”
His throat feels tight as he tries to think of something to say other than you, you, you, you. You in your stupid granny pajamas, you in the backseat of his car, you bending over to shelve DVDs… you had burrowed into his mind and totally corrupted it. He squints, like he’s considering anything else. “Um… normal things. Just… normal stuff, you know?”
You sighed out a soft huh, and there was something in your gaze that made his stomach flip. It was an expression he’d never seen you wear so plainly, especially not towards him. Pure, hungry desire, so obvious that he had to have been imagining it. “Steve,” you whispered.
He closed his eyes, swallowing. “Mhmm? Yeah?”
“You’re hard right now.”
He glanced down as you shifted your legs again and had to swallow a pathetic moan at the tiniest amount of friction. And, well, he was obviously, undeniably hard in his jeans.
“Oh, that’s just… y’know, from me remembering all of the totally normal stuff that I—“
The rest of his lame excuse was swallowed by the warm press of your lips against his. Lapped away as your tongue slipped into his mouth and took every rational thought away with it. It was slow and sweet, like you were trying your best to savor every second of it. Jesus, had you always been that good of a kisser?
When you pulled back, with spit-glossed lips and met his gaze, he felt so turned on that his head started to swim. He couldn’t find words for how he was feeling, for how he’d been feeling, so he offered a meager, “You’re really good at that.”
You rolled your eyes and laughed, and his heart did that thing again, which felt more embarrassing than the obvious bulge straining in his Levi's. For once, his body’s ability (or lack thereof) to function was the least of his worries.
“I don’t know how much more obvious I can possibly make it,” you said softly. “I’m really into you.”
His brows furrowed. For a second, he thought he might have slipped in the shower, died, and woken up in a very forgiving afterlife. “What? Since when?”
You swallowed and chewed your lip sheepishly for a moment. “Um, on and off since I’ve known you, but, like, very much on since graduation.”
It was like a fog had lifted over his memories. The lingering touches and flirty eyes across the rooms. The late nights on the phone, where it felt like talking to Steve was the only place you wanted to be. And, frankly, it had been all he wanted to do too.
Maybe he had been a total idiot this whole time. A dense, oblivious dumb ass who had been ignoring his dream girl because she was one of his best friends first.
Then his brows knit deeper, forming two parallel furrows between your brows. “But you were just dating Andy.”
You groaned and rolled your eyes. “I was trying to make you jealous, which obviously worked since Robin told me that she caught you pouting.”
Robin. “I didn’t pout,” he insisted, but he knew that lying was futile. He had just… glared in Andy’s general direction. “Okay, fine. If that was on purpose, I’m guessing your panty flashing was too.”
That seemed to make you pause. Your head tilted, brows furrowing. “I’m sorry, my what?”
He blanched, embarrassed. “You know, the time you wore this same skirt, and you got stuck on Keith’s desk. You were messing with me, obviously.”
He could see the gears turning in your mind as you thought back to when you’d gotten stuck on the desk. As soon as the grin split across your features, he wanted to melt right into the shitty couch cushions and die next to the fucked-up spring. “You think I’d risk my Empire shirt just to turn you on?” You questioned, frankly offended at the insinuation. When his face went pink with embarrassment, you looked positively giddy. “Oh my god, Harrington you perv—“
He had you pinned on your back before you could fully form the insult, planting kisses to your neck. “You’re so evil,” he mumbled into your throat, lips grazing, soft and wet against your fluttering pulse. Each kiss made you squirm beneath him, which wasn’t doing much to help him cool down. “You’ve been driving me crazy, like you’ve got some sort of witchy spell on me.”
You giggled, and the sound went straight into the warm, gooey center of himself. “Did it turn you on?” You gasped softly. He groaned as you hooked one of your legs around his thigh and pulled him closer against you, so he was grinding directly against your core.
Did it turn him on? It had led to one of the most humiliating moments of his life, of which there had been many. It was embarrassing, but the sound of your laughter was like a drug to him, so he’d throw himself into the fire for your amusement. “It turned me on so much that I had to jerk off in the employee bathrooms,” he mumbled against your throat.
That was a dumb thing to admit. A dumb, gross, creepy thing to tell one of your best friends. Your oldest friend! Stupid, stupid Steve—
“That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” you said finally. One of your hands came up and he shivered as he felt your nails combing through his hair. “But you could have just told me, dummy. We could’ve run out to my car so I could take care of it for you.”
Just the thought made his hips buck against yours, seeking sweet, sweet friction between your thighs. “Don’t say things like that,” he groaned. “If you talk like that it’ll fucking kill me, I swear.”
He pulled back, just to see the sharp, wet glint of your teeth as you smiled up at him. You drove him crazy. Before, it was just in the normal ways, like when you made him give you a ride into the city and didn’t give him gas money, or when you drank too much at a party and puked on his new sneakers.
This was new. He felt stricken by some new form of hysteria, where something as tiny as the smallest twitch in your brows made him feel overcome with intense need. Jesus, he’d never been so pent up in his life. He felt the soft pressure of your leg tugging him close again, then the slow roll of your hips against his.
"Fuck," he panted. It was embarrassing, frankly, how gone he already was. He leaned down, capturing your lips with his again, and relished in the slow drag of your tongue against his.
He'd never loved a kiss so much in his life. With you beneath him, grinding up against him and moaning against his lips. The way your tongue felt tangling with his. He got too lost in it— in the kiss, in your bodies pressing together. After a while, the kissing got lost and it was just the two of you, panting into each others mouths as you slowly ground against each other.
You pulled back first— lips kiss-swollen and slick. It took everything in him not to kiss you again.
“So…” You murmured, peering up at him. When you bit your lip sheepishly, he wanted to bury his face in your throat and groan. He watched, hypnotized, as your tongue slipped out and wet your lips. “Everything definitely feels like it's working like normal.”
He nearly whined as your other hand moved down and palmed him through his jeans. Your fingers pressed against his button, working it undone. He groaned as your hand wriggled past his waistband to grope him through his briefs.
It all felt so good, too good. Your thumb brushed over the damp fabric clinging to his weeping tip and he swore he saw stars. "Ah, just… just wait—" He choked out.
You froze, brow quirked. He could feel his cock twitching in your palm, and tried to think about horrible, disgusting things to keep from coming too soon. Demodogs, Russian torture, Tommy Hagan's gym locker, mopping random kids' puke off of the Scoops Ahoy tile. "What? Is it happening again?"
"No, no, the opposite," he panted. His eyes squeezed shut and he tried to control himself as best as he could, given the circumstances. You showed him a little bit of mercy and slipped you hand free, which he was immensely grateful for.
"So I beat the curse, huh?" You asked with a coy smile. "Becky Martin and Katie Frey can totally suck it."
Steve laughed, despite everything. "Jesus, you are the curse," he said, meeting your gaze. "For the past month, I could only get off if I was thinking about you." He swallowed, feeling vulnerable with you looking up at him. "Like I said… witchy spell."
He sat back as you pushed at his shoulders, encouraging him to sit back against the cushions. His eyes widened as you shifted into his lap, the weight of you warm and comfortable there. When he glanced down at where you sat on his lap, where your skirt rode up your thighs, he got a head rush. "You know…" You trailed off, looping your arms around his neck. "Usually, I'd never sleep with a guy who said I'm a curse."
He groaned as you tugged at the hair at the base of his neck, forcing him to tilt his head back and expose his throat. He laughed weakly, eyes half lidded as he looked at you. "Usually," he echoed.
You nodded and leaned closer, so he could feel the warm buzz of your proximity. Like every cell in his body was vibrating with the desire to just press against you. "Well, someone needs to fix that attitude of yours. You've been really bitchy for the past few weeks." He scoffed at your words, but couldn't fight the smile on his lips.
You sat back on his knees and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the toned expanse of his torso. He hummed contentedly as your fingers combed through his chest hair, just exploring the newly exposed skin.
Your hands trailed down, following the trail of dark hair on his tummy that disappeared into his briefs. He swallowed hard as you wrapped your hand around his cock, warm and tight. He wanted to see though. He wanted to look at the way your manicured hand fit around him, so he tugged his pants down and moaned at the sight.
"You must really want this," you murmured, lips twitching up in what he could only recognize as pure triumph. "You're dripping." The pad of your thumb swept over his tip, gathering slick precum to make the glide of your hand smooth.
It didn't take much. Actually, it took a mortifyingly small amount of attention. Your hand just felt so good wrapped around him, and it was the very thing he'd been fantasizing about for the past month. You, in his lap, with your hand around his pulsing cock and your lips on his throat. It couldn't have been more than three pumps of your hand, not even enough time to get a good rhythm, and he was crying out with pretty moans and shooting thick ropes of cum all over his abdomen.
His chest was heaving like he'd just run a marathon as you worked him through it. "Fuck," he panted. "Nngh— You've gotta— Ah, fuck— 's too much." You relented, like a benevolent god, and released him from your grip, so his dick twitched and softened against his stomach.
"Is that how you sounded when you faked it for Katie?" You teased.
"Oh, fuck off," he panted, a smile splitting his features.
When his mind cleared enough to have a little bit of shame, he realized how embarrassing it was that he'd finished so fast. Maybe you were into him for other things, but he didn't want to risk losing you now. So as he hastily tugged his pants back up, he stumbled through an explanation. "I'm not usually, like… I mean… I do have stamina, typically."
"I actually think it's really sweet, Steve. It's like a compliment." He was going to argue more, then you licked the cum from your fingers to clean it up and he nearly blacked out at the sight. He couldn't wait a second more, he had to have his hands on you.
"Alright, your turn," he said, and before you could say anything, he had you pinned beneath him on the couch again. He worked the buttons of your shirt quickly, until it fell open at your sides. He sat up, just to take in the sight.
"You're so goddamn pretty," he practically groaned. With your shirt undone, he relished in the sight of your tits cupped by white lace. "I don't even wanna take it off."
"Steve," you gasped as his mouth moved down your throat and sternum, until he was planting wet, hot kisses onto the plush of your breasts. He moaned against your chest, propping himself with one arm so he could grope at your tit with his free hand. You keened, arching into the attention, and he relished in your neediness. "I think you should take it off."
Your wish was his command. Not that it was such a difficult ask. He made quick work of the clasp and let you shrug it off and onto the floor. He sat back and really had to fight the urge to whistle at the sight. "Goddamn," he murmured, letting his hands roam up your body and cup your breasts.
You rolled your eyes, but he could see the tiniest bit of bashfulness in your eyes. In the back of his mind, it was kind of weird. Not bad weird, just… different. You were the person he went with to the hair salon and watched the Bulls with. It felt odd to have you pinned beneath him, moaning softly as he squeezed the plush of your tits and teased your nipples.
To your credit, you let him take his time. You let his hands wander and explore at his own pace. Your breath hitched as his hands dipped lower, until he was hiking up the fabric of your mini skirt to reveal your panties. Baby blue.
"Oh, fuck you," he groaned, meeting your gaze. "It was on purpose, you liar."
You grinned, and the smug expression you wore made him feel like his chest was going to implode. "I don't know what you're talking about, Steve. Do you really think I'd play mind games to torment you when you're pent up and needy?"
Yes, actually. He huffed and shifted down your body. He felt right at home with your thighs bracketing his head. He pressed a kiss to the soft skin of your inner thigh.
The pastel of your panties betrayed just how affected you were, much to his amusement. He ran a thumb over the damp patch at your center and felt your thighs tense on either side of him. "You must really want this," he said with a grin, echoing your previous teasing.
"Jesus, of course I do," you said, breath shuddering as he thumbed at your clit through the sodden fabric. "You're, like, my dream guy, and you're about to go down on me."
Your dream guy. Steve's pulse thrummed as he took it in. You were incredible, way too good for a Hawkins loser who spent his shifts renting video tapes. To be fair, you were also spending your days shelving video tapes, but he always felt like that was a brief stop in your life that you'd move on from.
But if you thought he was good enough to be your dream guy, maybe there was something worthwhile left in him after all.
He kissed your clit through your panties almost reverently. His tongue laved over the fabric and he groaned at the taste of you saturating the cotton. God, you were like heaven. He could have stayed like that for hours— just tasting you through your panties. Each lap over your center just soaking the fabric more, until it clung to the shape of your lips like a second skin.
It wasn't enough though, and he was too lost in his desire to be particularly patient. He wanted his tongue on you, in you, licking up every drop of your juices until he made you spill more onto his tongue. He sat up and tugged your panties down, then quickly repositioned himself between your legs with your thighs over his shoulders.
Steve's tongue darted out, wetting his lips as he took in the sight of your pussy. Slick with arousal, twitching with anticipation. He ran his thumb up the seam of you, spreading you open. He relished in the cute twitch of your clit as blew a puff of cool air over your heated, sensitive skin.
"You're really pretty," he murmured. "So wet for me. And so goddamn responsive." He grinned up at you from between your thighs, relishing in the way your tits heaved with each shuddery breath.
His tongue lapped at your center, tasting just how badly you've wanted him. You writhed beneath him, thighs tensing to clamp around his head before he finally just held them apart. He started to taste you in earnest then, lapping up your juices, stroking the bud of your clit with the flat of his tongue.
You tasted so good, practically gushing onto his tongue as he feasted on you. His tongue pressed against your entrance, just barely dipping in so he could feel the way you clenched around the intrusion.
"Fuck, Steve," you panted. Your hips bucked, practically grinding against his mouth. He moaned against you, nuzzling his nose against your clit. "That's— ah, fuck— that's really good."
He smiled against your pussy, giving a few more slow, wet kisses before he sat up. In the dim light of the basement, you could see where his face was slick and shiny with your spit and juices. "Gonna stretch you out a little for me, okay?"
You nodded, propping yourself on your elbows to see him better. He pressed another sweet kiss to your clit before he eased his middle finger into you. If he hadn't already fully recovered from his first orgasm, just the feeling of your walls clenching around his finger would have done it for him.
It took a minute for him to learn your body. Where to touch, what spots inside made your legs shake. You took two fingers easily, squirming as he pressed his fingers against a sensitive, spongy spot. Your eyes rolled back and his head thumped against the arm of the sofa, which made him grin.
"Right there, huh?" He teased. He applied a little more pressure and felt you gush around his fingers. Yeah, right there. He wrapped his lips around your your sensitive clit and sucked until your thighs trembled on either side of him.
"Steve!" You gasped, back arching. Your voice was high and breathy, he'd never heard you so desperate before. He knew you were close— he could feel your walls clenching and fluttering around his fingers. "Oh, fuck. Jesus christ, like that— Just like that—"
When you finally came around his fingers and on his tongue, he had never heard such a perfect sound before. Soft, keening moans and pretty cries of his name. Your clit twitched against his tongue, and when your sweet moans finally turned into overstimulated whimpers, he relented.
You panted, chest heaving breathlessly as you came down from your high. You propped yourself up on your elbows and giggled as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Holy shit," you gasped.
He grinned, crawling up your body to plant a slow, sweet kiss on your lips. He could feel you smiling into the kiss, until his teeth knocked with yours and he had to pull back with a sheepish laugh. "Think you can give me another one?"
You raised a brow. "I can, but do you think you can?"
He laughed. Jesus, he'd been hard since he'd gotten his hands on your tits. "I definitely can."
Your gaze was on him as he stripped the rest of his clothes off— kicking his socks, jeans and briefs into a messy pile on the floor. For the first time in a long string of hookups, Steve Harrington felt self-conscious under your scrutiny.
"You're staring," he said weakly, feeling heat flood his cheeks. Usually, the second he was undressed he had a partner ready to jump his bones, but you just took in the sight of him.
"Only because you're really hot. You're forgetting that this is the culmination of every teenage fantasy I've ever had," you finally said, shifting to sit up. He hummed contentedly as you ran your hands up his chest then traced over his broad shoulders
"How did this next part go in those fantasies, huh?" He asked.
With a tiny grin, you pushed him back onto the couch, which creaked under his weight. "Well, usually," you began, straddling his hips. "They start like this."
Oh. Steve swallowed, peering up at you with wide eyes. Your hands splayed over his chest, fingers dimpling the muscle of his pecs. He groaned as you gave a slow rock of your hips, gliding your cunt along his length.
You were so wet and warm on top of him, and the precum dribbling from his tip only added to the sticky mess. All he could do was watch, totally slack-jawed as you ground your hips against his.
Well, he could also reach up and play with your tits. So he did. His heart thrummed at the soft and pretty sound that fell past your lips as he tugged and pinched your nipples.
You didn't wait any longer, not that he would have made you. There was something so sexy about the way you took control— taking his cock in your hand so you could line him up with your entrance and begin to slowly sink onto him. His hands quickly moved down to your hips, squeezing tight as you took inch after inch.
Jesus, you were taking it like a champ. With your head tossed back and your pussy clenching around his cock, he knew you really fucking loved it. He wanted you to love every bit of it.
"That's it," Steve goaded, the tiniest hint of a smirk on his lips. "Just a little more, honey. You've got it."
You moaned, lips parted as you sunk down. Warm, wet, tight until you were fully seated. A furrow formed between your brows as you stilled, accommodating to the size of him. "Fuck," you breathed, fingers tensing on his chest.
He wanted to squirm, to buck his hips deeper, to force you to finally move. But he could behave, he could let you have this. You gave a slow roll of your hips and he groaned, squeezing your hips tighter. "You doing okay?"
A cocky smile broke across your lips, and when you laughed he felt your walls squeeze around him. "I'm doing great," you said, punctuation your words with another slow grind. "I'm just trying to make sure you can last long enough to enjoy it."
His cheeks went hot with embarrassment and arousal, the smirk faded into mild offense. "Don't be cute. I'm fine."
"Yeah?" You began to move faster, your thighs colliding with his with each bounce onto him. You took him as deep as you could, then rose up until he was just about to slip out of you, only to slam back down. In, out, in, out, in, out. "Is this what you've been thinking about every time you jerked off?"
Had he thought of this? And then some. Steve had learned that he could be very creative when he needed to be. "Something like it," He managed, eyes squeezing shut as you gave a particularly sinful swivel of your hips.
He groaned, head falling back, neck bared as you rode him within an inch of his life. At least, that's what it felt like. Pretty moans and soft ah, ah, ahs slipped past your lips like his cock was punching them out of you. He moved his hands, grabbing your ass like he had any semblance of control over what you were doing to him.
Who the fuck taught you to ride dick like this? And should he thank them or murder them?
"Fuck, Steve," you panted. "Should've known you'd feel this good. No wonder you have a fucking harem around you."
He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about another girl ever again. In one steady motion, he had you pinned to the couch. From beneath him, he relished in the way your eyes went wide with surprise. He didn't just feel good, he was good. He wanted you to know how good he was for you, how good he could make you feel.
"You feel goddamn perfect," he groaned. As soon as the compliment passed his lips, he felt you squeeze around him, pussy fluttering as he drove into you again and again. "So wet and tight, so pretty. Can't believe I've wasted my time when you've been right here."
Steve moved his mouth to your throat, licking and sucking and biting at all of the soft skin there. He wanted to leave a mark. He wanted Andy to show up to Family Video the next day so he could beg for a second chance, only to see you'd already moved on.
But he couldn't focus too much on vindictive pettiness when you were so beautiful beneath him, with your eyes wide and full of so much want. Had he ever felt so wanted before? So needed? Your legs wrapped around him, heels digging in to drive him deeper.
His thrusts slowed, until he was buried deep inside of you and grinding nice and slow, rubbing against the soft, sensitive spots inside of you that made you drip around his cock.
It was then that he pulled back, meeting your gaze as he ground into you. Your eyes fluttered, rolling until he saw the whites of them. "Jesus Christ," you gasped. "Fuck, Steve, just like that. Feels s'good."
He grinned, preening at your praise. He propped himself up on one arm, then snaked the other between your bodies, so he could rub at your clit. The second his thumb rubbed over the slick bundle of nerves, your walls squeezed around him so tight he could hardly move.
You cried out prettily, nails cutting into the meat of his back. "Just a little more, yeah?" He cooed. He moved his thumb a little faster, feeling the way your clit twitched against the pressure.
"Fuck—" You gasped. "Steve, god, don't stop, please—"
He could feel that the band was going to snap. Your gasping breaths and whiny moans were as much of an indicator as the fluttery way your walls clamped down on him.
Steve wasn't much better off. He could sense his impending orgasm like the buzz of lightning about to strike. A tightly wound spring, a dam about to burst. But, god, he wanted to feel you cum first. "C'mon, I've got you, sweetheart. Just give it to me."
It was a goddamn miracle that you came when you did— crying out nice and pretty as you clenched around him like a vise. The sound of his name falling from your lips, with your body enveloping him like you were made to… it was everything he'd been craving for the past month. Probably longer, if he was honest with himself.
He barely managed to work you through your orgasm before it all became too much. He pulled out and spilled onto your tummy with a guttural moan.
"Fuck," he panted, collapsing onto you. He should have been disgusted about the warm slickness of his cum sandwiched between your bodies, but he was so sated that he couldn't bring himself to care. "Was it okay for you?"
Steve propped himself up on his elbow so he could look at you. God, you were pretty. You'd always been pretty, but right now you looked so perfect.
You bit your lip and nodded. "Yeah, it was great," you replied. "Really great, actually. I guess it was okay for you too, considering I'm glazed with your cum right now."
He laughed sheepishly and rolled his eyes. "Shut up."
The two of you dressed in comfortable silence, mopping yourselves clean of fluids and sweat with a few towels sitting on top of the washing machine… that promptly went right back in for another clean.
You hopped on top of the machine when it was running, peering over at where Steve stood. "Penny for your thoughts?" You asked. He glanced over and his heart thrummed. Even in shitty lounge wear with your hair pulled back in a banana clip, you looked like a supermodel.
"Just thinking about work tomorrow," he confessed. Your brows knit in confusion as you looked at him. Work? Now? "I don't know how we're going to share a shift without me going absolutely crazy and wanting to get my hands on you. Especially now that I know that I can."
You grinned, and Jesus, he wanted to just jump your bones again. "Well, it's just you and me on the schedule tomorrow," you reminded him. "Maybe we close at lunch so you can help me with restocks? Just to make sure your problem is completely solved. I don't want you relapsing."
He knew there wasn't a chance in hell that he'd ever have a problem getting hard again. Not with you around, looking like the finest goddamn thing to ever set foot in Hawkins, Indiana. "Might as well," he said. "Just to be sure."
thank you so much for reading! i can't believe this has been in the works since 2023 and i FINALLY found the motivation to finish it!! i really hope you enjoyed, i had so much fun with this plotline :) let me know what you think!!
i come back to this one frequently… i need to be sedated honestly, i want a man who’s that desperate for me!!! best friend steve harrington my beloved 🥰
★ summary: you and steve never talked about the summer of 1985, but a drunken game forces you both to relieve it in graphic detail
★ pairing: steve harrington x reader
★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, alcohol usage, protected sex, p in v, porn with little plot, overstimulation, squirting, loss of virginity, size kink, big dick steve harrington
★ word count: 7.7k
★ notes: this is one of those im not sure i like but :P
Never Have I Ever was a stupid game childish, immature game, and it was only ever suggested because Robin loved to be nosey. That, and the kids had been buzzing with excitement to play drinking games with the ‘grown-ups’, finally. It had become a long-running joke: the moment the last of them turned twenty-one, they’d officially earn a seat at the table.
Now, you were all regretting it. Bottles littered your best friend’s floor, the Harrington house becoming the home base for the hangouts when everyone was in town. Four shots in, and the kids were absolutely fucking with you all. Nancy was practically sloshed, and Mike was making sure he targeted her directly. Dustin was basically force-feeding the shots down Steve’s throat while the rest of them laughed in your faces. It was mostly mundane jabs, who got dumped, and embarrassing stories coming to light. It didn’t get nasty until Lucas was quiet for a minute, an evil smirk on his face.
“My turn,” He yelled, everyone, preparing yet another shot. “Never have I ever had a one-night stand.”
“I don’t think you guys are playing this game fairly by targeting us.” You grumbled, all of the older kids slamming the shots back. You winced as the tequila burned your throat, watching Steve gag around the lime slice.
“To think, we finally let you drink with us, and this is how it is.” He grumbled, his shoulder brushing yours. Steve Harrington had been your best friend since middle school. One of the few surviving friends of his ‘King Steve’ era at Hawkins High. You survived long-distance friendship and the turmoils of life. Now here you were, sitting in his living room during the summer. Just like you were a teenager again.
“There were no rules about what we could say. You should’ve clarified.” Mike snorted, sticking his tongue out at his sister.
All she did was snarl back, “Okay. Never have I ever been caught hiding porn magazines under my bed.”
That got a howl of laughter to echo around the room, the boy hesitantly chugging back the shot. The two siblings now in a stand-off of emotional warfare.
“Never have I ever slept with Jonathan Byers.” Mike bit back.
“Whoa!” Her ex-boyfriend and current situationship yelled, not sure why he got dragged into this.
Another drink. “Never have I ever been a virgin at 19.” She bit back.
“I told you that in confidence!” He cried out, not even taking the full shot. Too busy trying not to throw it up on Steve’s rug.
“Never have I ever slept with Steve Harrington.” Mike howled.
“Oh my god, you are so ridiculous,” Nancy yelled, not even bothering to fill the glass. Content on taking a swig directly from the bottle.
Maybe if the alcohol wasn’t already pumping in your veins, you wouldn’t have done it on instinct, but you tilted your own head back. Another shot going down, leaving a burning feeling in your chest, hand rubbing your clavicle to ease the ache. And maybe you could’ve gotten away with it, had everyone not been staring at Steve, awaiting his protests for Mike’s comment.
“Wait,” Dustin shifted in his seat, now all eyes on you. “Did you just take a shot, Y/n?”
Steve was oblivious, still side-eyeing Mike for his unnecessary jabs at his sister.
You froze, fingers still gripping the empty shot glass. Eyes wide as jaws began to fall to the floor, Robin covering her face with her hands.
“Uh..” You choked out, “Yeah.”
A chorus of yells broke out, Steve’s body tensing beside yours.
“Oh my god.” Max cackled, her and Lucas falling into each other.
“Dude, I told you so!” Lucas said back.
“I knew you guys had been friends for too long not to have done something,” Dustin yelled, punching Will in the arms out of excitement. Ignoring his whines.
“Jesus Christ, don’t say that,” Will begged, reading the room unlike his tispy friend.
“This is insane.” Robin’s hands were gliding down her face, as her world had shifted on its axis. Unaware of how she didn’t know this had happened between her two best friends. It wasn’t something you and Steve talked about often, or really ever.
“Wait, really?” Nancy’s eyes were wide, shooting daggers at the two of you.
Suddenly, the room was too crowded, your shirt clinging uncomfortably to your skin. All eyes were now on you, and you were looking everywhere but at Steve.
“Wait, when did this happen?” Jonathan asked, “Are you guys like, together now?”
Too quickly, the two of you began denying it, scoffing out in unison no’s. The silence was deafening after, scoffs of disbelief and looks of confusion.
You let Steve speak, unable to form any coherent thoughts. “It was a long time ago.” He had settled on, hoping that was going to ease the nosiness. Which, of course, it did not.
“You told me you never had feelings for Steve,” Nancy said, an accusatory glance shot your way.
“And I never did. It was purely physical.” You rambled, “It was way after you guys got together, swear. God, Steve and I are just friends.”
“Just friends normally don’t have sex.” Robin pointed out, “I mean, we’ve never had sex.”
“Robin, did you wanna have sex with me?” You scoffed, her face turning into one of disgust.
“Wait, so this happened the summer after you graduated?” Max pointed out, doing calculations in her head.
Steve’s heart was pounding out of his chest, his eyes glancing at your frame every few seconds. Watching your eyes dart anywhere but his. He was silently pleading for you to look at him, just one glance.
“Yup.” You smiled awkwardly, avoiding his gaze like the plague. “Now who’s next?” Doing your best to push the game forward, or end it entirely.
“Yeah, never have I ever had sex with Y/n.” Lucas laughed, making Max push him backwards off the couch.
“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Steve winced, not even bothering to take another drink. Everyone was well past their limit anyway to continue drinking like fish. “You guys are cut off.”
“No, please-”
Steve tried to wrestle the bottles out of Dustin’s hands. The two of them ended up in a heap on the floor, playful giggles erasing the awkwardness air out of the room.
“Jesus Christ.” You sighed, about to get up and run to the bathroom, before three sets of hands were on your shoulders. All but dragging you into the garage under the guise of smoking a cigarette. Mind you, none of you smoked. Jonathan simply handed Nancy the pack. His eyes are all-knowing.
“Was wondering when the interrogation would start.” Your mouth watered at the pack in Nancy’s hand, demanding to bum one off of her.
“Only if you answer our questions.” She smirked, waving the pack above your head like a dog with a bone.
“You each get one question. Maybe two if you guys are nice.” You sighed, snatching the pack from her quickly. They were kind enough to at least give you time to light the cigarette before the questions started. They all spoke over each other, your head aching at the volume.
“One at a time, please.” You whined, opening the garage door to feel the summer night air hit your flushed skin.
“Me first,” Robin demanded, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Of course, that would bother her the most. “Honestly,” You sighed, “It happened once, and we never talked about it again. Truly. It would’ve been weird to bring it up.”
Max raised her hand like she was in school, waiting for you to point at her. “Was it a spur-of-the-moment thing? Or was there a love confession? Were you drunk?”
“Yes, no, and no. Tipsy off champagne, sure. I was a virgin, made a joke about going to college one, and Steve said ‘What if you weren’t?’ It seemed batshit to me, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I could just get it over with with someone I trusted.”
The girl's eyes were wide, staring at you like you had three heads.
“And there were no feelings? Like at all?” Nancy asked slowly, like she was scared of startling a wild animal. “Because I mean, for years, everyone thought you two would end up together. I mean, even I did. S’why I was so jealous of you.”
You shook your head, flicking the cigarette on the ground. “Nope. I mean, it was intimate, yeah, but no love confessions. Just casual sex between friends.”
“Casual. Right.” Robin nodded, clearly not believing the words coming from your mouth.
“Was it good?” Max asked, making Nancy push her shoulder playfully. “Guess I could ask you too, huh?” Max hissed back, the two of them joking around.
“It was good.” You sighed, “Probably the best sex I’ve ever had.” You admitted, “Just hasn’t been the same with anyone else.”
Nancy furrowed her brows, “He’s good. I get that, but hasn’t it been the same?”
“Y’know, men are just.” You waved your hand around. “They can do all the right things, but it’s not like they’re my best friend, so they don’t know me like Steve does, I guess.”
“What about that guy you dated for like two years?” Max asked.
“Sex was fine, just nothing special.” You shrugged. That’s what you told yourself anyway. It’s the only thing you’d let yourself believe. The thoughts resurfacing made your skin crawl.
They all made a noise, staring amongst each other like they were in on an inside joke you weren’t privy to. You tuned them out, letting the cigarette burn up in your hand, thinking back to graduation night all those years ago.
Graduating from High School didn’t feel as monumental as you thought it was supposed to. There were no grand proposals of love in your cap and gown, no dramatic football field walk-offs, no long monologues about societal expectations. It was a diploma in your hand, too many photos, and dry snack plates littered about. It didn’t feel like much of anything.
For Steve, it was worse; his parents didn’t even bother attending. Content on spending the start of their summer at their beach house. Calling it a punishment for Steve not getting early admission anywhere, like his father wanted. It was cruel. He acted like it didn’t bother him, but with years of friendship under your belt, you knew his tells. He was tugging the roots of his hair anxiously, the hairspray falling before the night was halfway through. Every time your parents spoke about how proud they were of you, there was a faraway look in his eyes.
Even when your own parents took him in their arms, a son they never had. He appreciated it, but you knew it wasn’t what he wanted. To be discarded and disregarded by his own parents cut him deeper than he’d ever show.
That’s why, after all your family retired for the night, you were sneaking into the Harrington household. Not even bothering to sneak in through the window, you opened the front door slowly. The house was dark, still. The only light was emitting from upstairs, where Steve was. You hollered out his name a few times before padding up the stairs. As soon as you spotted him, your heart fell, graduation gown lazily thrown against his chair. He sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands.
You cleared your throat before speaking, “Hello, graduating class of 1985.”
He didn’t even jump, just wiped his eyes and turned towards you. You held up the stolen bottle of champagne, a bag of food in your other hand.
“Did you think I was gonna let you celebrate your first night as a free man in this big house all by yourself?” You smirked.
His eyes lit up in a way only you could make them. His shoulders were trembling from the laugh he was trying not to let escape. “Did you break into my house?”
“Door was unlocked.” You shrugged, walking into his room as if it were your own. Which, at this point, it might as well have been. “Got your favorite and dessert. Figured we’d put on a record and talk about how terrible Tammy’s song was. And principal Higgin’s speeches.”
Steve just watched you glide around his room, entering his orbit like you always had. Rambling on as you set the food out, forcing him to pick a record from his crate.
Once the music was playing, you both ate, rambling on and on about tonight's events. It was an hour later, and you were taking turns destroying the personal-sized cake you picked up from the supermarket. Forks in hand, bitching about the upcoming Summer break.
You’d be pulling extra hours at the diner, saving up for Fall tuition. While Steve was ranting about his father letting him know he was effectively cut off financially. And how he was really worried about how it would impact his dating life, because of course he would be.
“My summer is gonna be spent at some dead-end minimum wage job before my dad allows me to get an actual job with him,” Steve rambled, “While all the hot girls are going to college. They’re gonna see all these educated hipster dudes and come back to Hawkins and not even spare me another glance.”
“At least you’re not going into college a virgin.” You shrugged, placing the icing-covered fork down. “I’m never getting laid ever at this rate. It could always be worse.”
Steve’s body stilled, brows furrowed at you. “What do you mean? Are you saying you never?”
“Thought you knew that.” You hummed, kicking your feet lazily behind you. Your head still propped up by your hand.
“But you and Tyler? Not even once? I mean, you guys dated for almost a year.” Steve was aghast, unable to comprehend a teenage boy, not wanting to go all the way.
“We did like hand stuff, but yeah, never.” You admitted. It wasn’t something you were particularly embarrassed about, but it worried you. Most of the time, people in college had already had sex; you couldn’t imagine many people would want anything to do with an almost 19-year-old virgin.
Steve made a noise of shock, sitting back on his hands. His mind is running a thousand miles a minute; any longer and smoke would be steaming out of his ears.
“God, what a loser,” he laughed, his voice barely above a whisper.
“He just didn’t seem into it, I guess? He probably just didn’t like me very much.”
“Hey,” Steve frowned, “It’s his loss. Anyone would be lucky to have you.”
You sighed, “Just gotta find some college boy that doesn’t mind screwing virgins.” You laughed, ready to swing your body off the bed to flip to vinyl over.
Steve stopped you, his hand steady on your arm. He wasn’t sure what he was about to offer you, whether it was the cheap champagne or the loneliness in his gut.
“What if you weren’t a virgin, though?” He asked gently, his eyes heavy on yours.
“What?” You laughed, sitting upright to look at him.
“Just, what if I... you know?” He stumbled on, tripping over his own words.
You were lost, unsure of what he was asking. “No offense, but I don’t trust you as a wingman-”
“No, that’s not what I mean.” He grumbled, cursing himself under his breath. “You know I love you, right? You’re my best friend in the whole world. Nothing would change that.”
“I know, Stevie. I love you too.” You smiled, covering your hand with his.
“And I don’t have any romantic feelings for you, not in that way.” He admitted, watching your face intently for your reaction.
“And I don’t for you…” You said, unsure where he was leading with this.
“But I do have eyes, and you’re very attractive.”
“Thank you?” You spoke, still confused as you watched him pick out each word carefully.
“And I’d hate for you to lose your virginity to someone who doesn’t care about you. I know teenage boys, they’re pigs.” He rambled, “It should be special. With someone who cares about you and your pleasure. Someone who makes you feel safe.”
You nodded, urging him to continue. “So, what I’m trying to say or offer is that I could take your virginity.”
The words cut through the air like a record scratch, your eyebrows furrowing.
You knew Steve had a reputation to be upheld at school. The Playboy, the man-whore of Hawkins, as you called him. He was very experienced in that department; you had overheard the rumors. The girls' bathroom whispers about him. But you never thought of him in that way; he was always just Steve. Your Steve. A weird feeling sat in your gut the more you thought about it.
You looked deep into his warm eyes. He was attractive; that much was obvious to everyone with eyes. He cared about you more than anyone ever had before. He knew you like the back of his hand. There was never a time when someone else came before you. You were two peas in a pod. Everyone knew that wherever you were, Steve was right behind.
Because he was your Steve, you knew he’d respect you. He’d never cross any lines; he’d be the perfect gentleman. And that’s when the ache started, the gentle throb between your legs. Craving the physical touch of another.
You don’t know how long you sat there in thought before speaking. Asking him one more time just to make sure you heard him correctly.
“You’re offering to have sex with me? Just to clarify?”
He nodded, “As a friend.”
It sounded silly the moment it left his lips, a smile appearing on your lips. Just one smile and all of his anxiety disappeared.
“You want us to have sex as friends?” You giggled, “Wait, I don’t want it to ruin what we have.” You paused, grabbing his hand tighter in yours.
“No, no.” He said quickly, “We don’t have to. I just want you to have that experience with someone who loves you. Nothing’s gonna change between us. I don’t have feelings for you, you don’t have feelings for me. Purely casual. No kissing, no romance. Think of it as an introduction to sex.”
“What’s in it for you?” You couldn’t help but ask.
A lazy smirk fell on his face, “Well, like I said. Saving you from a horrible first time. It’s simply a bonus that I get to have sex with a pretty girl.”
“You’re so ridiculous, Steve Harrington.” You laughed, his thumb rubbing, smoothing circles into your hand.
“We don’t have to. We can forget I ever even said anything, and I’ll blame the stolen champagne.”
“No, I think I want it to be you.” You admitted.
Your Steve. The boy who took the training wheels off your bike for you. Then kissed your bloodied knees when you crashed into the asphalt. The same boy who taught you how to drive stick, letting you get curb rash all over the Beamer's brand-new tires. The two of you had been through hell and back together; nothing would ruin your friendship. You knew it deep in your heart. There was no life you’d live without Steve.
You both took a moment, letting the words settle between you. His hands were jittery against yours, in anxiety or anticipation, you weren’t sure. Your stomach was in knots, excitement and fear rising in your chest.
“Do you wanna do it now?”
“So should we?” You both spoke at the same time, giggling.
Untangling his hands from yours, you moved the half-eaten cake to the desk. Clearing off his bed. He closed his curtains for privacy, flipping over the vinyl once more. You crawled into his bed, settling underneath his covers. You had been in his bed hundreds of times, but now your palms were sweaty. Heart nearly beating out of your chest.
“One rule,” Steve said, still standing at the edge of the bed. His eyes were dark as he watched you. “We communicate the whole time. I’ll talk you through everything. You tell me what you like, what you don’t like. We stop at any time.”
Your teeth bit down on your lower lip, nodding at him.
“Gotta say it, pretty girl.” He urged, your stomach turning with desire.
“Y-yes.” You said, “I promise.”
He smiled, slipping his socks off. Giving you time to undress. You lifted your hips, shimmying your pants off underneath the blankets. You weren’t sure why you felt the need to hide, but you blushed when he tugged his own pants down. You had seen him shirtless hundreds of times, but here he stood clad in nothing but his underwear. He looked godlike, his hair messy against his forehead.
“Should I take my shirt off?” You asked breathily, fingers fumbling with the hem.
He nodded a little too quickly, a blush forming on his cheeks. “You can leave your bra on. Whatever you feel comfortable with.”
The shirt was off in seconds, a simple, plain black thing. Having sex with your best friend wasn’t on the agenda for the night, or maybe you would have put on something cuter. But to Steve, it didn’t matter; his jaw ticked anyway. Watching intently as the flesh bounced when you lay back on the bed. He was just a man at the end of the day.
He joined you underneath the covers, leaning on his elbow to take a look at you. “You feeling okay?” He noted your breathing was heavier, limbs moving nervously.
“Nervous, but good nervous.” You smiled, his face moving close to yours.
“S’okay if I touch you?” He asked sweetly.
You went to nod but stopped yourself, shuffling under the blanket once again to slip your underwear off. Palming up the fabric in your hand and hiding it beneath your discarded pants.
Steve couldn’t help but laugh, making you glare back at him. “We’re literally about to have sex, but you don’t want me seeing your underwear?”
“Be nice to me.” You playfully frowned, falling back into position. “Okay. You can touch me now.”
He pressed his lips down to your forehead gently, letting his hand move underneath the blankets to rest on your stomach. You almost flinched at the warmth of his hands, willing your body to calm down. He took his time, slowly dragging his palm around your naval until it slid further down. You didn’t know where to look, eyes darting all over the room.
“Spread your legs for me,” Steve demanded softly, his voice deeper than you’d ever heard it before. The words went straight to your core, nearly gasping at the lust in them. It hadn't occurred to you until now that you’d both be sharing your most intimate parts. You would see him fall apart in pleasure just as much as he would you.
You obliged, your legs parting open for him. His hand traveled through your pubic bone, fingertips teasing the hair down there. Your hips jumped up when his middle and ring fingers pressed softly against your clit, with little resistance. You were wet, and now he knew it as he rubbed an experimental circle into the swollen bud.
“This okay?” He panted, breath hot against your neck. You were so lost in the moment, you didn’t realize his head was nuzzling closer.
“Yeah,” You sighed, “Y-you can add a little more pressure.”
Oh, was he good at following directions. His fingers pressed down harder, continuing his small strokes. He watched you intently, listening to your body’s cues on where exactly to press down harder, and didn’t stop until he found the right rhythm. He knew he did when you let out a small moan, then clamped your mouth shut. Your body flushes in embarrassment. The last thing he wanted was for you to silence yourself, to worry about being quiet instead of focusing on the sensation.
“You don’t have to be quiet,” He whispered, “I want you to focus on feeling good. Let me hear how good I’m making you feel.”
“J-jesus.” You stuttered, your body going hot. Every time he spoke, you could feel yourself getting wetter, craving more of him.
But you listened, letting the pathetic moans slip through your lips. He could feel your hips tilting upward, rocking against his hand for more. So more he gave, letting his fingers speed up their movements.
“O-oh, Steve. Right there.” You sighed, one of your hands grabbing his wrist tightly. “Please don’t stop.”
“M’not. Just relax. Just feel it.” He cooed, ignoring his cock twitching in his boxers. He couldn’t believe this was happening, your cunt spasming around his fingers as he drew you closer to the edge. Your chest heaved, tits bouncing out the top of your bra with each gasp that left your plump lips. He found himself staring at them, wondering what they’d feel like pressed against his.
His hips shifted towards your leg, his bulge brushing against you. Doing everything in his power not to hump you like a dog in heat. You felt it anyway, your eyes shooting over to his.
“You’re hard.” You spoke it like a fact, your voice breathy.
“Yeah?” He laughed, pressing a little harder into you. “Got a pretty girl moaning my name and cumming around my fingers. Course imma be hard.”
“God.” You moaned loudly, eyes falling back shut.
He worked you through your orgasm gently, slowing but not stopping his movements. He waited until your moans had ceased and your breathing evened out before he let his fingers glide further down.
“I’m gonna put my fingers in now. That okay?” He asked, feeling the opening of your entrance mouth against his fingers greedily.
“Y-yeah.” You sighed dreamily, and one of your hands had gone behind his head. Fingers laced in his brown locks, his head hovering just above your chest. Resisting the urge to lean down and bite the supple flesh.
He slid one finger in at a time, letting your body adjust to one before two were slipping deep into your cunt. You were soaked with your previous release and your ongoing arousal. He could feel you dripping down his hand; he was so hard he thought he was going to pass out.
He pulled his fingers out slowly, before pushing them back in with a wet squelch. The sound would have embarrassed you if not for how deeply they were prodding inside you. His fingertips are brushing a spot inside of you that no one has ever had before. It had you grasping onto him like a lifeline, body tensing.
“Hey, you okay?” He panted, stilling his movements.
You nodded, moving your hips down. Trying to fuck yourself on his fingers since he stopped. “F-feels weird. In a good way. Overwhelming. Never felt that before.”
A deep smirk appeared on his lips, curling his fingers ever so gently to the right. He knew he hit the spot again with you jumped. He let his fingers push in deeper, prodding the spot with each thrust. “Is that it?”
“Yes.” You cried, head thrown back into the pillows. “Fuck, that’s so good.”
“S’your sweet spot. It’s gonna feel so good when I’m inside you, honey.” He mumbled, his thumb coming up to rub your clit gently.
His words made you cum without warning; the sheer mention of his cock being inside you had you cumming around his fingers again. You couldn’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed as he walked you through it, the kindest, filthiest words leaving his lips.
“There we go, look so good cumming for me. It’s okay, just take it. There you go.”
Your legs slammed shut around his rest, thighs shaking around him. He took the hint and gently removed his fingers, leaning over to wipe them off on his discarded shirt. You were out of breath, watching his back muscles ripple with his movements.
“How was that?” He grinned, acting as if he didn’t just give you the two best orgasms of your life.
“No wonder half of Hawkin’s is throwing themselves at your feet.” You teased him, rubbing your face with your hand. “Jesus, I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard.”
Pride oozed off of him as he leaned forward, ready to crawl on top of you. You stopped him with a hand to his chest, letting your fingers glide through the soft patch of hair. “Will you let me..?”
“Oh, well, I was gonna-”
“Just a little, if t-that’s okay with you. Think it’s only fair.” You smiled, omitting the fact that you so desperately wanted to feel him at least once in your hands. Who was Steve to deprive his pretty best friend of anything?
He pushed his boxers down off his legs quickly, his cock slapping his pubic bone with a snap. The covers had long been pushed down beneath your knees; no point in hiding from each other at this point. All shame and embarrassment had long been out the window. You had to stifle the gasp once your eyes fell between his legs. He was huge, in a way that felt anatomically impossible. His thick bulbous tip was the prettiest shade of pink, his length long, complete with a thick vein that ran underneath.
“Steve.” You paled, mouth agape at him.
He must have been used to this reaction as your hand reached out, wrapping around his length. Your fingers barely fit around it. He had to bite his lip to avoid moaning just from the simple grab. He twitched heavily in your hand.
“I heard the rumors, but this is insane. That’s not gonna fit inside me.” You gawked, stroking him slowly.
Between your hand and the words leaving your mouth, he was doing all he could to not ruin this entire idea of his by blowing his load early.
“I’ll make it fit, pretty girl, don’t worry.” He spoke through clenched teeth, whining when you brought your other hand up. Fitting more of him in your hands. He pulled away slowly, ignoring your whines of protest. “Don’t wanna be a ten pump chump for your first time.”
You giggled at this, letting him slot himself in between your legs. He leaned over you to fumble around in his bedside drawer, pulling out a stack of condoms. You watched him open the foil with his teeth and expertly roll the latex over himself with ease. You tried not to think of just how many girls have seen him do this, ignoring the weird ache it brought in your chest.
All of that left the moment he leaned back down, his hand bracing himself next to your head. The other holding his heavy cock in his hand. You could feel the tip brushing against your entrance ever so slightly.
“Are you ready? Still okay with this?” He asked again, staring deep into your eyes for confirmation.
You had made your mind up already, spreading your legs wider for him. “Yes, please.”
He leaned down, dropping another kiss to your forehead before he lined himself up, letting his tip push past your drenched folds. He held you close to him, whispering words of encouragement as he settled inside of you. The stretch hurt, a deep ache that hurt in a good way. Your head was heavy, eyes rolled to the back of your head. Your hands were pressing deep red marks into his shoulder blade, but he didn’t care. Not while your tight cunt was barely making room for him to push in.
“Gotta relax, baby.” Steve cooed, not even a quarter of the way in. Your heart thumped widely at the nickname, letting his slip of tongue go unnoticed by him.
“Stevie, y’so big.” You cried, still urging him to continue. He pushed deeper, his hand rubbing small circles on your hip bone. Doing his best to relax you, so you’d open up wide for him. Your cunt took him in slowly, fluttering and squeezing with each inch he slowly dragged in. By the time his hips hit yours, tears were pouring down your cheeks. The stretch was too much; it felt like he was splitting you apart.
“I’m sorry, so sorry. It’s in now, baby. It’s okay, shhh. Do you wanna stop?” He whispered, smoothing down your hair, keeping you as close as possible to him.
“N-no, please don’t.” You sobbed, “Just need a minute.”
“I’ll give you all the time in the world.” He smiled, pressing small kisses into your neck. He meant it; you were warm and wet around him. So tight he had to breathe through his nose and think of anything else to calm him down.
It took a few minutes of feeling his lips on your skin, his hands roaming respectfully. One of his hands settled on your thigh, nearly gripping your ass in his hands as he held you close. The dull ache had faded, your body stretching to his size as if you were made for him. You could feel your cunt drenching around him again, the ache of needing more settling deep in your bones.
“Steve.” You breathed out, nearly startling him.
He looked down at you with his brown doe eyes, ready to give you anything you wanted. Because he always would. He’d never say no to you. Not his Y/n.
“How’s it feel?” He asked.
“Good. Really full.” You whispered, “You can move now.”
“Just tell me if it’s too much, okay?” He didn’t move until you nodded, slowly dragging his cock out of you a few inches before pushing back in.
You gasped loudly, encouraging him to keep going as he did it again. And again. Slicking up your entrance enough to gain traction, allowing him to slowly slip all the way out, and then your cunt suckling him back in.
“Oh my god.” You cried out, your head deep in the crook of his neck as you clung onto him for dear life.
His movements were careful and deep, pounding into that sweet spot he found earlier with each thrust. He was surely ruining you for all men to come, as he found a rhythm that worked for both of you. His hips slapping against yours, the lewd sounds of his wet balls slapping against your ass.
“You feel amazing, honey,” He grunted, making sure you knew this was good for him too, “So tight and wet.”
“Oh, Steve. I-I think I’m gonna cum. I feel like-” Your moans were cut off by his hands grabbing your ass, lifting your leg higher. He shifted even deeper inside of you like this, his tip slamming into your spot with each jolt.
“You’re gonna cum for me.” He spoke like a fact, his teeth digging into his bottom lip.
You melted, your body falling slack as you fell into your third orgasm of the night. “Yeah, yeah, I am.”
It was hard to keep your eyes open as your body shook with pleasure, but it was worth it to see Steve’s face. His plump lips parted, his cheek flushed as his eyes were locked on where you were connected. Watching your release soak his cock. He was beautiful.
Suddenly, all of the girls in the Hawkin’s bathroom made sense. Why they’d come to his door crying, begging for another chance. Why he walked around god-like all those years. Because with each snap of his hips into yours, Steve Harrington was fucking you into heaven. He was hitting spots inside of you that you’d never even heard of. Bringing you more orgasms in an hour than you had in your entire life.
“That’s my gorgeous girl.” He preened, and doesn’t miss the way you clench around him after he says it. He’s chasing his own high, leaning back down to press his body against yours. His thick patch of hair rubs against your clit with each roll of his hips. Your entire body was sensitive; each touch had you crying out.
No matter how much he wanted to cum, he decided he needed one more out of you. Dragging his hips even faster. If this were the first and last time this would ever happen, he’d make it last. He wanted to memorize each gasp that left your lips, the furrow of your brow when you were close. How you felt marking him as your own.
“Stevie…”
“Yes?” He panted, his eyes meeting your blissed-out ones.
“Kiss me.” Your voice was strained, face scrunched up in pleasure.
Kissing was crossing a line you hadn’t discussed; kissing made it something else. But Steve couldn’t say no to you, not while your lips were parted, begging to be kissed. Begging for him.
He didn’t hesitate to bring his lips down to yours in a crushing kiss. It wasn’t romantic; it was hot and desperate. Open mouth panting into open mouth as you both fell apart in unison. His balls were tightening as your legs shook around his waist.
“You gonna cum for me? One more time?” He asked against your lips, your head shaking.
“Yes, you can, baby. Can feel it. Just one more. You’ve done so well.”
You were crying out against him; you were overstimulated in the best way. With each drag, you could feel the coil tightening, an unusual feeling appearing in your lower belly.
“W-wait, Steve.” You panicked, pulling away from his kiss. “I feel like I have to-to you k-know”
He ignored your panic, lifting your leg higher around his waist. “Do you trust me?”
“With my life.” You nearly sobbed, the feeling only growing stronger.
“Then shhhh, just relax. I got you.” He whispered, speeding his thrusts up.
You could barely breathe, each thrust knocking the wind out of you as the pleasure swelled into something you didn’t have a name for. All it took was one more thrust, and the dam had burst, your cunt squirting around him. Your entire body is shaking in pleasure, unable to hear the pornographic wet sounds. It was music to Steve’s ears, his own body flinching in pleasure when he came undone. Spilling his seed into the condom, his hips stilling.
“Oh my god, Y/n.” He moaned in awe, shakily looking down at the now ruined sheets.
The room felt too hot, your body slick with sweat, rubbing against his own. You couldn’t look, keeping your eyes clamped shut.
“That’s so gross.” You grumbled, “M’sorry.”
“Sorry?” His jaw dropped, leaning down to cup your face in his hands. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Don’t ever apologize for your pleasure. Don’t let any of these little boys make you feel bad, or gross.”
“Yes, Captain.” You giggled, a goofy smile on your face. His forehead was damp, his hair curling and sticking to his forehead.
“Gonna pull out and clean you up, okay? Don’t move. It might sting a little.” He warned, pressing a barely there kiss to your lips before he moved. You hissed at the loss of contact, the ache coming back once he slipped out. You refused to look at the damp and bloodied sheets, simply letting him bring a cool washcloth to your legs, patting you clean. It was more intimate than the sex, letting him take care of you like this.
He gave you a t-shirt of his to slip on and an old pair of boxers. You went to the bathroom while he changed the sheets. When you looked at yourself in the mirror, you hardly recognized the girl staring back at you. Your hair was a mess, cheeks flushed. Small love bites littered your neck from where Steve got carried away. The ache he left between your legs. Your Steve.
When you walked out of the bathroom, he was sliding a movie into the VHS player, a goofy smile on his lips. “You don’t regret anything, do you?”
You shook your head, “Not at all. Now grab that cake and pour me a glass. What movie did you put in?” You hobbled over to the bed; if Steve noticed your gait off he didn’t comment on it. Content to follow your orders, as the old TV crackled to life with ‘The Breakfast Club’.
You were snuggled up in his bed, blankets pulled up to your chin, when he brought you a slice of the cake. Another red solo cup full of champagne. “For the newly no longer a virgin.”
“Oh, shut up.” You grumbled, snatching the plate from him. He ended up stealing half of your piece, your forks battling as the movie droned on. The night continued as normal, no more touches. Everything was just as it was before, as if nothing had happened. So why was it over half a decade later that the memory still made your heart race?
You avoided Steve for the rest of the night, content on blindly hoping that everyone would have forgotten it by now. But Steve was just as lost in the memory as you were, both of you zoning out, trying to forget the looks on each other's faces as you came. It wasn’t that you forgot about it over the years, more like you actively tried to. He was your friend; it was a simple act between two horny teenagers who cared for each other. Nothing more, nothing less. Right?
You should’ve known you’d have to face him eventually, his hand grasping your shoulder gently. Guiding you into the hall outside his bedroom.
“Are you okay?” He asked, his breath smelled of tequila and lime. A stark contrast to the champagne and cake from the last time his face was this close to yours.
You stilled, shifting awkwardly on your feet. “Yeah, why?”
“Just everything in there. I’m sorry that happened. They can be, well, you know.” He chuckled, his hands still sitting comfortably on your shoulders. Your body leaned into his subconsciously.
“I already got interrogated in the garage,” You admitted, “It was my fault anyway. Should’ve just lied and not done the shot.”
Steve’s brows furrowed a bit at this, “Do you?” He cleared his throat, “Do you regret it?”
You reeled back a little, shaking your head. “N-no. no.”
“Oh, okay. Good.” He nodded, the air around the two of you growing awkward. It was never awkward with you and Steve. Immediately, you hated it; it felt like your skin was crawling. He felt it too. The nagging feeling inside his chest telling him to pull you close, to bring you back to him. The silence was heavy, covering you two like a blanket. It stayed until Steve opened his mouth, the next few words tilting the world on its axis.
“I regret it.”
It took the air from your lungs, nearly staggering back if his hands weren’t holding you steady. His fingers tightened their grip, scared you’d make a run for it before he could get all the words out. He must have seen the look of horror on your face, the shame filling your chest.
“Not because of you,” he rushed, voice cracking immediately, like he’d been waiting to say this and now it was all coming out wrong. “Jesus, no-not because of you. Don’t look at me like that.”
“Then why?” Your voice was meek, almost unrecognizable.
“Because it ruined me,” he said quietly, like admitting it out loud might finally split him open. “Not because it was wrong, but because it was right. Right in a way, I never even realized until years later, I regret it because I couldn’t stop remembering it. Because every time I looked at you after that, there was this gap. This space between what we were and what we could’ve been.”
“I didn’t know…” You whispered, “I didn’t even. I didn’t let myself think about it. I thought it just wasn’t in the cards for us. You were my Steve. Wasn’t gonna ruin that.”
“I love you,” he said, finally, like it was a confession and an apology and a surrender all at once. Like he couldn’t go another second without the words leaving his chest. “I loved you before I knew it had a name. And now I do, and I don’t know how to live with it without wrecking everything.”
“Are you sure this isn’t the tequila talking?” You asked, the world still spinning on its side, as he looked down at you as if you were his whole world. Which you were to him.
“Yes, I mean it’s giving me courage, but everything I’m saying I mean. God, Y/n, I mean it.” He promised. The confession had you reeling.
“Steve…” You whispered, “I love you, too.”
“Yeah?” He smiled, his hands shaking. “Thank god, I was feeling a little nervous there.”
The tension was broken at that, laughter filling the air once again. The language the two of you knew well. You didn’t know where to put your hands, what to say next.
“It’s never been like this with us,” You said quietly, as if you said it too loud, it would jinx it.
“I know,” comes the answer right away. “That’s what’s freaking me out.”
“I’m also freaking out.” You assured him, your eyes wide. Laughs erupt from your chests, leaning towards each other from it. Your hands came up, pressing gently against his chest. You and Steve were never overly touchy-feely as friends; boundaries were upheld. Upheld for so long, it's as if each of you knew once it started, you’d never want to stop.
“I don’t know how to do this.” He admitted, his hands covering yours. You could feel his heart beating against your intertwined hands. Fast, loud, and just for you.
“Me neither, but it feels right. Don’t you think?” You smiled up at him.
He gave you that beautiful, toohy grin of his. “God, yeah, it does. Feels like there’s always been something missing.”
“All this time?” Your eyes softened, mourning the years lost. How could you miss something you never even knew you could have had?
“All this time.” He beamed, “And I don’t know what’s next. All I know is that I’m never letting you go. Ever.”
“That a promise, Harrington?” You teased, his body leaning closer into yours.
“That’s a threat, actually.” He smirked, finally crashing his lips onto yours.
And when he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed or desperate like it was before. It was warm, sure, and full of laughter, like finally coming home to something that had been waiting for you both all along.
hey so i’ve read this multiple times and it’s tearing my insides apart because I WANT THIS!!! they’re so soft and sweet with each other, i would die to have this 💕
steve harrington after giving up his “crown” never fails to make me soft. this is SUCH a worthwhile read, please check it out!! long and lovely, thank you for the meal 🙏
Just want to celebrate your happy hour and the fact that you write some of the most INCREDIBLE fanfic here!!! It’s genuinely so sweet and romantic and smutty!!! You deserve everything and more <3
Now, may I please have a Steve Harrington vodka cranberry, stirred, with a twizzler straw and a cherry? I think a lil bent paper straw would also be cute for the situation. Thank you!!!
I'm like, incredibly happy with how this turned out and LOVED writing this drink menu fic so much. I made it extra smutty and romantic for you <3
[fic masterlist]
your very real boyfriend
You only agreed to fake date him to score cheap rent above the local bakery. But a bottle of wine, a too-sweet story from your elderly landlady, and a very real game of “what would my boyfriend do next?” changes everything.
Love was never supposed to be part of the lease. But there he is.
wc: 11642
order up: steve harrington x reader, modern au strangers-to-roommates-to-lovers story with fake dating, mutual pining, smut, softness, and a sexy sweet, awkward “so… we’re real now?” kind of confession.
tw: smut (explicit), alcohol use, oral (f & m receiving), praise kink, fingering, unprotected sex, dirty talk, aftercare, domestic intimacy, body worship, awkward post-hookup humor, emotional vulnerability, very soft cockwarming, this man is so house husband coded i stg
You’re standing outside the bakery just off Main. The air is cold enough to see your breath, the kind of early October chill mixed with homemade pumpkin bread and wet leaves. Plastic skeletons hang from lampposts, a ghost made of streamers flaps in the wind. You tilt your head back to look at the apartment above the bakery, the one that could finally be yours.
For a minute, you start to picture it. Where your records would go. How you’d hang your posters so the sunlight hit them in the morning. Maybe you’d even meet some guy in a band, bring him up here, put a record on, and pretend you both have the world figured out.
Someone clears his throat beside you.
You glance over. He has good hair, the kind that looks effortless, and a nice sweater layered over a collared shirt. Jeans that probably cost more than yours, clean sneakers. The kind of guy who says “ma’am” to waitresses and holds doors for old ladies.
You, on the other hand, tried to look like the kind of person who could get approved for an apartment. Your usual band tee is swapped for a black long-sleeve top tucked into a plaid skirt, your usual leather jacket replaced with a plain denim one. You even brushed out the streak of color in your hair, though a bit still lingers near the ends. You figured you looked normal enough, but the way he gives you that slow once-over says he can still tell you’re a little offbeat.
“Are you here to show the apartment?” he asks, polite but already impatient.
You blink. “No. I’m here to rent it.”
He glances down at a folded sheet of paper in his hand, the listing printed in neat type. “I thought the showing was at nine thirty.”
“It is. For me,” you say, checking your watch.
His eyebrows draw together. “Mrs. Shaw told me nine thirty.”
“No. She told me nine thirty.”
“So one of us is wrong.”
“Yeah,” you say, crossing your arms. “You.”
He looks down at his note again, mouth twisting when he sees the small “9 AM” written in his own messy handwriting.
“Oh,” he says quietly. “Shit. Guess that’s on me.”
“Guess so.”
He looks like he’s about to argue anyway, but the bakery door swings open before he can. The smell of cinnamon and sugar rushes out, warm against the morning air.
Dorothea Shaw stands there with flour dusted across her apron, cheeks flushed from the ovens. She’s in her late sixties, with silver hair pinned up in a bun that always comes a little loose by midday and soft pink lipstick that never quite stays on the edges. There’s a kindness in her eyes that makes everyone call her “Mrs. Shaw,” even though she always insists on Dorothea.
“Oh, you must be the two I spoke to on the phone,” she says cheerfully. “I didn’t realize it would be a couple.”
You and the guy both start to talk, overlapping. “Oh, we’re not—” “No, we just—”
Dorothea laughs, waving a hand like she’s already made up her mind. “You young folks don’t have to explain yourselves to me. Come in, come in, let me show you the place.”
She ushers you through the side door of the bakery and up a narrow staircase that smells like sugar and yeast. The steps creak underfoot, the paint along the banister chipped from years of use. She keeps talking as she climbs, her voice bright over the hum of ovens below. “I’ve known Steven since he was knee-high,” she says with a fond glance at him over her shoulder. “Never thought I’d see the day he settled down.”
You raise an eyebrow. The guy (Steven, apparently) flushes pink and gives you a helpless look. “It’s, uh, not exactly like that,” he mumbles.
Dorothea just smiles knowingly. “Sure, sure. I’ve heard that before.”
The apartment opens into a cozy living room where morning light spills across faded floral wallpaper and lace curtains move with the draft. A corduroy couch sits against one wall, a crocheted blanket draped neatly over the back. There’s a short wooden shelf lined with old cookbooks and a square television with a crooked antenna. Everything feels a little worn but loved, the kind of place that’s been lived in quietly for years.
Dorothea gestures toward a small archway. “Kitchen’s through there. Gas stove still works if you’re patient with her. I left the table too, it fits right under the window.”
You peek inside. The kitchen is narrow, tiled in pale yellow, with a single sink and a fridge humming softly.
She continues down the hallway, showing two small empty bedrooms across from each other and a bathroom at the end. The fixtures are old porcelain, the mirror spotted, but everything smells like soap and lemon polish.
“There’s even a second bedroom,” she says warmly. “Perfect for when the baby comes.”
Steven coughs, nearly choking on air.
You glance at him, deadpan. “Children aren’t part of the plan yet.”
Dorothea chuckles, eyes twinkling. “Still in the honeymoon phase, then. That’s sweet. Plenty of time for that down the line.”
His head snaps up. “Please—”
She waves him off, smiling. “Oh, hush. I’m only teasing.”
Then she names the rent. The number sounds unreal, the kind of price you’d only hear from someone who values good tenants over money. You and Steve both pause, sharing your first real look of agreement.
You clear your throat. “Would it be all right if we talk about it for a minute?”
“Of course, dear,” Dorothea says, folding her flour-dusted hands. “Take your time. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
You both step out onto the landing. The air smells like fresh bread cooling below and a hint of rain outside. You can hear the old radio from the bakery drifting through the floorboards. Steven sticks his hands in his pockets, shifting awkwardly, still a little pink from the “settling down” comment. He looks over at you, sheepish.
You stay quiet for a second, both of you standing there with the soft hum of the bakery radio beneath your feet. The landing is narrow, lined with worn wallpaper and a window that looks out over Main Street. The sun is climbing higher now, catching the edges of the guy’s hair and the faint blush that still hasn’t left his face.
“So,” you say finally. “Steven.”
He looks up fast. “Just Steve.”
You nod. “Okay, ‘Just Steve’.” You give him your name, offering a quick, polite smile.
He repeats it softly, like he’s trying it out. Then he clears his throat. “So, uh, about the apartment.”
You glance back at the door. “Yeah. The price is… kind of hard to ignore.”
He nods. “It’s a good deal. Way better than anything else I’ve seen. I mean, I work at Family Video, so it’s not like I’m swimming in cash.”
You huff a small laugh. “Record store on Main. Same situation. I can pay, but it’d be easier to split it.”
Steve leans against the wall, crossing his arms. He looks thoughtful, not cautious, just measuring the idea. “There are two bedrooms. If you wanted, we could…” He hesitates, searching for the right phrasing. “We split the rent, utilities, all that.”
You tilt your head, he sounded like he had thought of this long before he messed up the showing time. “Did you already have a roommate in mind?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Sort of. I figured Robin might move in, but she’s still living at home. Doubt she’d care either way. She’ll probably be around a lot, though.”
You nod, finding it funny, the way he says the name like you should already know her. There’s a familiarity in his tone, easy and fond, the kind people use when they talk about someone who means something. You can’t help but wonder if she’s his girlfriend. You push the thought aside, keeping your tone even. “That’s fine. I’ve got friends who’ll probably hang around sometimes, too. Nothing crazy.”
He smiles, a little relieved. “So, no wild parties. Got it.”
“Same goes for you,” you say. “I’m not cleaning up after any keggers.”
He holds up both hands, mock-offended. “I’ve retired from that life. Promise.”
You talk through the practical stuff. Who’d take which bedroom. How to split the bills. That you’ll both try not to steal each other’s laundry quarters or leave dishes in the sink.
Maybe it’s the warmth from the bakery below or the way Steve’s voice softens when he agrees with you, but for a minute, it doesn’t feel like a bad idea.
When the terms are settled, you knock lightly on the doorframe and call for Dorothea.
“So?” she asks.
You glance at Steve, and he nods. “We’ll take it,” you both say at once.
Dorothea’s face brightens. “Oh, that’s just wonderful. I can have the paperwork ready this afternoon.”
She walks you through a few more details, pointing out where the spare key will hang and reminding you about the mail slot downstairs. Before she leaves, she pauses in the doorway, eyes soft. “And you two should come down for dinner sometime. Once a month, maybe. I get a little lonely in the evenings. It’d be nice to have company again.”
You start to say something, but Steve beats you to it, his smile smooth and easy. “That sounds lovely, Mrs. Shaw. We’d like that.”
Dorothea beams. “Good. I miss cooking for someone.”
When she’s gone, the apartment is quiet again, filled only with the muffled clatter of baking trays below. You and Steve stand there in the center of the living room, both realizing at the same time that you’ve just agreed to more than a lease.
He scratches the back of his neck, looking a little dazed but not unhappy. “So, guess we’re roommates,” he says finally.
You glance toward the window, then back at him. “Yeah. Guess we are.”
Sharing space takes some getting used to.
The first few weeks are a mix of small arguments and quiet adjustments. Your makeup and hair stuff slowly take over the bathroom counter, spreading across the sink like a virus. Steve leaves coffee mugs everywhere. On the counter, on the windowsill, once on top of the toilet. You tell him you’re not his maid, and he tells you he didn’t realize a person could own that many lip liners.
You meet in the middle. He keeps the mugs to one a day, and you start keeping your things in a little basket.
Dorothea still thinks you’re a couple. Every time you run into her downstairs she calls you “sweethearts.” Sometimes she sends you home with bread or pie and tells you how nice it is to have young love in the building again. You play along.
Steve’s good at it, annoyingly so, smiling and slipping an arm around your shoulder when she’s looking. The first time he calls you “babe” in front of her, you nearly choke on your croissant.
Your respective friends find the whole thing hilarious. They know it’s fake, and they don’t let either of you forget it.
Robin comes over a lot and makes herself at home, sitting cross-legged on the couch while she tells you stories about Family Video. It’s her who lets it slip that she isn’t Steve’s girlfriend, or any guy. She says it casually one night while the three of you are eating takeout, and you realize how easy she is to be around.
After that, she starts siding with you on all the roommate debates, insisting it’s weird and unsanitary for Steve to drink his coffee in the bathroom in the first place.
Your friend Eddie, who is at the record store so often you’re surprised he doesn’t work there too, drops by sometimes.
He acts like it’s the strangest thing in the world that you live with Steve Harrington of all people. You tell him you didn’t even know who that was supposed to be, and he spends half an hour filling you in on Hawkins High lore. It becomes a running joke, him calling you “Mrs. Harrington” just to watch you roll your eyes.
There are little gestures you both fall into when Dorothea’s around. Hand-holding when she’s looking. A light touch to his arm when she makes a comment about how happy you seem.
Once, she hugs you both goodbye and you kiss him on the cheek without thinking. The warmth of it lingers, and you both pretend it didn’t happen. You don’t really talk for the rest of the day.
By the end of the first month, you’ve fallen into a rhythm. He makes breakfast most mornings. You leave notes reminding him to pick up milk. Robin and Eddie still tease, Dorothea still thinks you’re in love, and neither of you has bothered to correct her. It’s easier this way.
By January, you’ve settled into a rhythm.
You and Steve move around each other like people who have lived together for years. He makes coffee in the mornings, you open the windows to let the cold air in while you get ready. You take turns doing dishes, and somehow it’s never been a fight.
He’s realized by now that the way you looked the day you met was a toned-down version. You don’t bother hiding it anymore. The pins are back on your jacket, your eyeliner a little heavier, your hair streaked again. You catch him humming along to your records sometimes, quiet and half out of tune, like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. He brings home movies from Family Video on Fridays. Horror for you, action for him, something in the middle when you compromise.
You don’t bring anyone home, and neither does he. It’s easier that way. Keeps the story with Dorothea simple, and it makes the apartment feel like yours, even if you both keep pretending it’s temporary.
You’ve had a few dinners with Dorothea since moving in, each one warm and easy. She always sends you home with something wrapped in foil and a compliment about how you remind her of herself at your age. Tonight’s dinner is at her house, a small place on Cherry Street, just past Melvald’s, where the neighborhood dips into quiet. Her living room smells like pine, and there’s a small fire crackling in the hearth.
The table is already set when you arrive, three plates, mismatched silverware, a vase of fake flowers in the middle. She insists you sit side by side, saying something about “young love keeping her warm.” Steve just smiles and thanks her for the invitation.
Dinner is cozy. Roast chicken, scalloped potatoes, something green she swears will make your skin glow. The conversation drifts from the bakery to her garden to her late husband, William. She tells stories about him, how he used to bring her pastries even though she made them herself, how he’d leave her little notes in the kitchen every morning.
“Love is all habits,” she says, folding her napkin in her lap. “You find someone who makes your life quieter, easier, and you keep them around.”
You smile without thinking. The way Steve brings you coffee at work. How he picks up horror movies without asking. How he lets you talk over the opening credits.
When you look up, he’s already watching you. Not staring, exactly, just aware. You glance away, pretending to focus on your plate, but the heat creeps up your neck.
Dorothea notices, of course. “You two are sweet,” she says softly. “Reminds me of us.”
Steve laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “We try.”
She nods, satisfied, and launches into another story about the bakery’s first year, about waking up before sunrise to bake pies for customers. You listen, caught between the rhythm of her voice and the quiet sound of Steve’s fork tapping his plate beside you.
When dessert comes, the conversation softens. The fire pops, snow starts against the window, and you think about what she said about habits, about quiet. You don’t look at Steve this time, but you know he’s thinking the same thing.
Dorothea insists on pouring you both another glass of wine before you leave. You try to decline, but she waves it off, saying it keeps you young. The bottle is nearly gone by the time you finally manage to put your coats on, cheeks flushed and stomach warm.
Steve carries the leftovers in a small paper bag tied with twine. You’re walking back toward the bakery, breath fogging in the cold air. The snow isn’t heavy, just a flurry that catches in your hair and settles on his shoulders. The streetlights glow soft against the snow, and everything feels quieter than usual.
You walk side by side, boots crunching on the pavement. The air smells faintly like wood smoke and sugar.
“Dorothea really likes you,” Steve says after a while.
You smile a little. “Pretty sure she likes you more. You’re her golden boy.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “She’s just known me too long to be impressed.”
“Still. You’re the favorite.”
He grins, tipping his head toward you. “You jealous?”
“Not even a little.”
You keep walking, the silence between you not uncomfortable, just warm. The kind that hums quietly under the sound of your steps.
Then you say it. “So, my very real boyfriend…” you tease lightly, glancing up at him.
He snorts. “Yes, my very real girlfriend?”
You both laugh, the words sounding strange but not unwelcome. It’s the kind of thing that would normally end there, just another shared joke, but something about the wine keeps you talking.
You nudge him with your elbow. “I feel kind of bad, actually. If you ever want to bring someone home, we can figure it out. You know, so you can have an actual very real girlfriend.”
He glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Thanks for the offer. I’ve been on a few dates, but nothing worth introducing to Mrs. Shaw. Or risking your wrath over.”
“Risking my wrath?” you ask, smiling.
“Yeah. You seem like you’d have rules about that kind of thing.”
“Only the important ones. No weirdos. No one who wears too much perfume.”
He laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind. Not that I’ve had much luck anyway. I definitely don’t have the appeal I did back in school.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That so?”
He shrugs, the bag shifting in his hand. “Apparently.”
You can’t help laughing. “Maybe someone out there’s into that stupid Family Video vest you have to wear.”
“Please,” he says, grinning. “Trust me, no one’s ever been into the vest.”
You laugh again, shaking your head. “Well, any dates I’ve been on weren’t exactly thrilling either. Mostly at their place. Which probably says a lot.”
He’s quiet for a second, then says softly, “Yeah. It’s weird, right? Talking about this stuff.”
“Kind of,” you say.
He looks over at you, eyes soft in the streetlight.
Home comes into view, the windows dark except for the glow of the sign in the front. He unlocks the door and holds it open for you. The smell of baked goods drifts through, familiar and warm.
You head upstairs together, the floorboards creaking under your feet, both of you still smiling like you’re not sure why.
Inside, everything feels softer. The bakery below is quiet for the night, and the only sound is the hum of the radiator and the faint wind against the windowpanes. You kick your shoes off near the door and hand him your coat without thinking. He takes it, hangs it on the hook by the door with his own, and toes off his shoes before heading toward the kitchen.
It is automatic by now. You go to the couch. He goes to find something to put on. The small rituals you have built over months slot neatly into place.
“You want another glass of wine?” he calls from the kitchen.
You blink. “We have wine?”
He laughs, the sound muffled by the clinking of glasses. “Debatably good wine. From the corner store. Classy stuff.”
You grin. “Pour me some, then.”
He comes back with two mismatched glasses and sits beside you. The movie starts up, something he must have grabbed from work. The title rolls across the screen, half horror, half comedy, a compromise you both pretend not to notice.
You sink deeper into the couch, the wine warm in your hand. It is cheap, but it is red, and you realize he must have remembered that you like it better than white. He never says anything about those little things, but you notice them. The red wine. The coasters he finally started using. The way he lets you pick the music when you clean.
For a while you both watch in comfortable silence, the kind that fills the room instead of empties it.
After a while, you speak. “You know,” you say, voice low, “I really think she buys it. Dorothea. The whole couple thing. I kind of feel bad lying to her.” You take a sip of your wine. “But it’s nice that she believes it.”
He doesn’t answer right away. The light from the television flickers against his face. He takes his own sip before setting the glass on the table. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sometimes I almost do too.”
You turn your head to look at him. The thought catches in your chest.
He’s leaning back, relaxed from the wine and the warmth, hair falling into his eyes. The yellow cable knit sweater he changed into before dinner looks soft, worn at the cuffs. There’s a faint crease at the corner of his mouth, the start of a smile he never quite lets out. He looks content, peaceful in a way that makes it hard to look away.
You have always thought of him as clean-cut, too put together for you. But sitting here now, you see something else. The faint tiredness in his eyes. The curve of his shoulders. The kind of quiet that feels steady.
You tell yourself to look back at the screen, but you don’t. The movie keeps playing, forgotten. The air between you shifts, something warm and unspoken threading through it.
Steve is the one who breaks the silence.
“What?” he says, catching you looking at him. “Do I have, like, wine mouth or something?”
You blink. “Wine mouth?”
“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his thumb across his lower lip, like he’s trying to wipe away the color. “Like when kids get that ring of juice stain around their mouth, but for adults.”
You laugh quietly, shaking your head. The motion draws your eyes right back to his mouth. The faint red tint from the wine. The way his thumb drags over his lip. You look away, smiling a little.
“No,” you say softly. “Just… nothing.”
He leans back, still watching you. “You sure?”
You glance at him again, teasing now, trying to cover the flutter in your chest. “What? Am I not allowed to look at my very real boyfriend?”
He pauses. The joke should land easily, but his voice comes out quieter. “Not like that.”
You turn toward him a little, the air suddenly thicker. “Like what?”
He hesitates, then looks at you the way people do when they decide something. “Like I actually am your very real boyfriend.”
It’s quiet after that. His arm is along the back of the couch, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him behind you. You don’t remember when he put it there. Your glasses sit on the table, half-finished.
You tilt your head, the corner of your mouth lifting. “If you were my very real boyfriend,” you say, voice lighter now, “what would you be doing right now?”
He grins, eyes still on yours. “I don’t know. Maybe I’d put my arm around you.”
You glance at his arm already stretched along the back of the couch. “Guess that one’s covered.”
He laughs softly. “Then maybe I’d tell you something sweet.”
“Like what?” you ask.
He pretends to think, his smile crooked. “Maybe that you look really pretty tonight.”
You huff a laugh, your cheeks warm. “That’s a good one. I’d probably tell you your sweater looks soft.”
He raises an eyebrow, playful. “You could always check.”
You bite your lip, pulse skipping as you press your hand lightly against his chest. The fabric is warm, softer than you expected. You can feel the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Soft.”
The air shifts. His laughter fades into something quieter. He covers your hand with his, fingers curling gently over yours. The space between you disappears inch by inch, breath mingling, eyes caught on each other.
“What now?” you whisper, still teasing but softer this time.
He smiles, almost shy. “Now I think your very real boyfriend would probably kiss you.”
You let out a soft laugh, the sound catching somewhere in your throat. “Oh yeah? Is that part of the job description?”
“Pretty sure,” he says. “You’d know if you read the fine print.”
You lean in a little, teasing. “Guess I missed that part.”
“Guess I’ll have to remind you,” he says, voice low but still smiling.
You’re both still grinning, still pretending it’s just a joke, but the space between you keeps getting smaller. The kind of slow drift that feels inevitable.
“Wouldn’t want to ruin our very real relationship,” you whisper, eyes flicking down to his mouth.
He laughs quietly, breath warm against your skin. “Yeah, that’d be a shame.”
Neither of you moves for a second, just the steady sound of the movie in the background, the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.
Then he leans in just a little more.
And you don’t stop him.
It’s slow, hesitant at first, the kind of kiss that starts with laughter still in your chests and ends with all the air gone from the room. The wine lingers between you, sweet and warm, and the world outside the window fades into the hush of snow and steady heat.
His hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing along your skin like he’s been itching to touch your face.
You didn’t even realize your fingers had curled into his sweater, gripping onto the fabric like it might keep you tethered to the moment.
He pulls back just enough to search your face, his hand still cupped at your jaw. “Is this okay?”
You nod once. “Yeah. This is… yeah.”
He kisses you again, and this time there’s nothing hesitant about it. It’s slow but sure, like he knows exactly how to pull you into it. His mouth moves with quiet confidence, patient and present. The kind of kiss that says he’s not rushing anything, not asking for more than you’ll give, but also not holding back.
When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you part them without even thinking, letting him in. There’s wine and warmth and something deeper you don’t name.
He tastes like everything he is:
Familiar.
Surprising.
Better than you expected.
You shouldn’t be surprised though, not after everything you’ve heard about from Eddie about Steve Harrington and the way he used to kiss girls behind the gym or in parked cars at Skull Rock. But this is nothing like that.
He’s not a teenage boy anymore. He’s grounded, even more sure of himself without putting on some bullshit act.
When he finally pulls away, both of you still breathless, he doesn’t let go of your hand. He lifts it from his chest like he’s realizing just now that you’d been holding him there. His eyes are soft and searching again, and the silence between you shifts.
Your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to and you sit back a little, needing space to breathe. “It’s late.”
Steve blinks like he’s coming back to earth. “Yeah...”
“I… have work in the morning.”
He gives you a crooked smile. “No, you don’t. You have Thursdays off.”
You look at him. He says it so casually, like it’s just a fact in the universe.
“You know my schedule?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. It’s our cleaning day. You sweep, I vacuum. We fight about which records get played. You always win.”
You laugh under your breath, rubbing your palm against your thigh. “Still. Sleep. Sleep is good.”
“Definitely,” he says, eyes still on you.
Eventually you move. He stands first and offers his hand to pull you up from the couch. You both walk slowly toward the hallway, the apartment dim and quiet around you. The bedrooms are across from each other, same as always, but tonight it feels different.
You both hesitate for a second, then wordlessly disappear into your own rooms.
You change into your usual sleep clothes, a big t-shirt and your favorite worn-in shorts, the kind that make you feel like yourself. Your mind keeps replaying the kiss, the way his fingers felt against your cheek, the way his mouth lingered like he didn’t want to stop at just a kiss.
You open your door at the same time he opens his. He’s in sweatpants and a white undershirt. You’re both heading toward the bathroom.
You stop in the doorway. “Sorry. I just—”
“I just need to—”
You both gesture toward the sink.
“I’ll be quick,” you say.
He leans against the doorframe instead, watching you for a second too long. Then something in his expression shifts.
Something like “fuck it.”
He steps forward, brushing your hair back before kissing you hard.
There’s no question this time. It’s not soft. Not teasing. It’s heat and need and the leftover as his hands find your waist. Yours slide up to his shoulders. The taste of wine mixes on your tongues and you don’t even care.
All you can think is that this is happening. Really happening.
And you don’t want it to stop.
You don’t know how long you’re kissing him before you both come up for air, chests rising and falling like you’ve just sprinted across Main Street. His hands stay firm on your waist, holding you there against the bathroom doorframe, and he’s watching you like he’s trying to decide if this is real.
It is.
You glance between your bedroom door and his. “My room’s… um, it’s a mess.”
Steve laughs, the kind that’s low and breathless. “Yeah. It’s always a mess.”
You start to protest, already ready to defend yourself. “Okay, no, I clean sometimes, I’m not—”
But he kisses you again before you can finish, stealing the rest of the sentence straight from your mouth. One hand slips around your back and the other finds your wrist, guiding you with him as he moves.
You barely register the few steps it takes before you’re inside his room. He doesn’t stop kissing you. He doesn’t even pause when he kicks the door shut behind you with the heel of his foot.
You feel the edge of the bed press against the backs of your knees. He gives you the smallest push and you tumble backward with a quiet laugh. The mattress creaks beneath you, protesting like it hasn’t been used for much more than sleep.
“Shit,” Steve mutters, crawling in after you. “I didn’t realize it was that loud.”
You grin up at him. “You haven’t tested it out?”
His mouth quirks. “Not like this.”
He leans over you, arms braced on either side as you settle against his pillows, and just looks for a second. Your shirt’s rumpled from where his hands touched you, your hair messy in the way that only happens when it’s been in someone else’s fingers.
His hair’s even more of a disaster than usual. You can tell he’s been running his hand through it, nervous, like he does when he’s thinking too hard.
But right now he’s not thinking. He’s just there, above you, eyes on your mouth again.
He kisses you.
Then again, slower this time, lips dragging across your cheek and down your jaw.
When his mouth brushes against your neck, your breath catches. He lingers there, warm and careful, his strong jaw against your skin in a way that sends a shiver through you. Your hands slide from his shoulders to his hair, curling your fingers into the soft mess at the nape of his neck.
“You okay?” he murmurs against your skin.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”
He smiles, a small curve of his lips against your throat before he continues, his kisses light, deliberate, exploring. He’s mapping you out. Learning the shapes of you. The space behind your ear, the sensitive spot just above the hollow of your throat.
His hands move too, one sliding under your shirt to rest flat against the small of your back, the other tracing patterns along your ribs through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. His touch isn’t rushed. It’s like he’s savoring the moment, memorizing the feel of your skin, the sound of your breath catching when he finds a place you like.
“No bra?" He says against your skin, a question that isn't really a question.
You huff a quiet laugh, pulling back enough to look at him. “I was expecting sleep...”
“Yeah,” he whispers, sliding a hand higher to cup your breast. The weight of his palm against you, the warmth of his palm makes your breath hitch. “Maybe later.” He leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth, his thumb brushing over your nipple. It stiffens instantly, a shock of pleasure.
You let out a soft gasp, arching into his touch. He’s watching you again, that same focused look, his eyes tracing your face like he’s searching for some kind of permission in your expression to take your shirt off.
“Yeah?” He doesn't stop, just continues his slow, deliberate movements under the fabric. His thumb circles your nipple, each pass sending a jolt straight through you. You can feel the heat building between your legs, a low, persistent ache that’s been there since that first kiss on the couch.
Instead of answering, you tug at the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head in one fluid motion. It’s not exactly graceful, but it’s efficient, and the cool air hits your skin, sending goosebumps everywhere. But it’s the look on his face that truly makes your breath catch. It’s not hungry, not exactly, but… reverent. Like he’s looking at something beautiful, something worth savoring.
“Wow,” he breathes, his gaze moving from your face down your body, taking you in. There’s no hesitation, no sense of him being overwhelmed. He looks like you’re the only thing in the room. "I always kind of wondered..."
"You've thought about my boobs?" You're aiming for sarcastic, but your voice comes out softer than intended, a little breathless.
His eyes snap back to yours, and he grins, a real, genuine grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Not just your boobs." He leans down, pressing a kiss to your sternum, his lips soft and warm. "I thought about the way you'd laugh if I said something stupid." Another kiss, a little lower, between your breasts. "I thought about the way your eyes get all intense when you're arguing with me about the best way to load a dishwasher."
His mouth travels lower, skimming across your ribs. "And yeah," he admits against your skin, "I thought about your boobs too."
You let out a huff of laughter that turns into a sharp gasp as his tongue traces the underside of your breast. He doesn’t go straight for your nipple, he’s taking his time, tasting you, mapping your skin. His hand that was resting on your back slides up, cradling the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair as his mouth finally, finally closes over your nipple.
"Fuck," you whisper, arching into him. The sensation is a jolt, hot and sweet, and your fingers tighten in his hair. He applies gentle suction, his tongue flicking against the hardened peak, and his other hand palming your other breast, thumb rolling over that nipple, providing a friction that is almost too much.
"To be fair..." He says, switching over to give the other breast the same attention, voice a low rumble against your skin that makes you shiver. "It's a really great pair of boobs."
You want to laugh, you want to make a witty comeback, but all that comes out is a breathy moan as his teeth scrape lightly against your sensitive skin. He's listening to you, to every sound you make, and responding, adjusting his pressure, his pace, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you squirm. He's not just doing this for himself; he’s doing this for you.
The praise, the way he's looking up at you with his lips wrapped around your nipple, has heat pooling low in your belly, an insistent warmth.
"'Boobs' is such an unsexy word..." you breathe out, more of a reflex than a real complaint. It’s the only defense you have against the way he’s making your hips roll.
He pulls back for a second, his mouth hovering just above your skin, his breath warm against you. "Yeah?" he says, a small, smug smile playing on his lips. "You want me to find a better one? Tits? Breasts?" He pauses, tracing your other nipple with a finger. His eyes meet yours, dark and serious. "Or how about... beautiful." He kisses the spot between your breasts, right over your heart. "Perfect."
The last word is whispered right before he dives back in, licking a broad stripe between your breasts and up to the hollow of your throat.
This is the most turned on you've been in a while. Your usual sarcasm feels flimsy, useless against his sincerity. It's easier to just let go.
Your hands are restless now, roving over his back, feeling the muscles shift under his thin t-shirt. It's in the way. You want to feel his skin. With a frustrated tug, you start pulling it up, he gets the message immediately, lifting his head and pulling back just enough to yank the shirt over his head in one quick motion.
He tosses it aside. It lands somewhere on the floor, probably on that pile of clean clothes he never puts away.
And there he is. Steve Harrington. Shirtless in his bedroom.
He's not what you were expecting, and you have to force yourself not to stare too openly. It's not bulky muscle. It's the kind that comes from doing things. From lugging around inventory at work and probably playing basketball in his driveway at home. He’s broad in the shoulders, with a light trail of dark hair that starts at his pecs and disappears into the waistband of his sweatpants.
A thin, silvery scar runs diagonally across his ribs. You trace it with your fingertip, a small frown pulling at your lips. "What's this from?"
He looks down, then back at you, a hint of something complicated in his eyes. "Just... from a while ago."
He doesn't elaborate, and the way his gaze shifts just slightly tells you it's not a story for tonight. You can respect that.
You don't ask, you just lean in and press a soft, lingering kiss against the scar. Your lips are warm against his skin. He closes his eyes, and when you pull back, you see his jaw is tight.
You trail your eyes down his body, and the smile that finds you is different. Softer. "Well," you murmur, your voice low. "It's a nice view from here."
He grins, the tension breaking. "Yeah?"
"Mhmm."
He shifts above you, settling his weight more comfortably. He's careful, not crushing you. He nudges his nose against yours, his breath warm. "The view's not bad from here either," he whispers. His eyes travel from your face, down your neck, across your chest and stomach.
He’s slow as he lowers his mouth, kissing the curve of your belly, soft and open-mouthed, and you feel yourself relaxing into his touch. His fingers trace the waistband of your shorts, teasing, and you instinctively lift your hips as he pulls them down.
They get caught on your ankle, a tangle of cotton. You both let out a breath of laughter, the spell of quiet intensity broken for a second as he works the fabric over your feet and tosses them aside.
“Okay,” he grins up at you from where he's kneeling between your legs. “Got it.”
And then his eyes go back to you. To you completely bare. On his bed. The smile fades.
You're used to being looked at. You're not shy. But this is different. He's not just looking; he's seeing, making you feel quiet inside.
"Impressive form," you murmur. You can't help it. It's your shield. "A little clunky, but you got there."
He chuckles, his eyes still fixed on the spot where your thighs meet. The sound is warm, and it vibrates right through you. "Oh, don't worry," he says, his hands braced on your thighs. "My form gets better."
Before you can fire back a reply, he gently spreads your legs apart.
And then he dips his head and kisses the inside of your knee.
It's a soft, deliberate kiss. And he continues from there. He mouths a path up your inner thigh, and his hands follow, warm and slightly calloused from work, gripping you gently. It's the slowest possible version of what this could be. He's not rushing toward the main event; he's taking the scenic route.
Your breath hitches when his mouth ghosts over the crease of your thigh. So close.
He hovers for a beat, and you can feel his warm breath against your pussy, already slick with arousal. The anticipation is unbearable.
"Steve," you whisper. It's half a plea, half a warning. Your bravado is evaporating under the focused heat of his attention.
He looks up at you, his mouth impossibly close, his eyes dark with something that looks like awe. "You're so pretty," he says, his voice a low murmur against your skin. It’s not a question. It's a revelation.
And then his tongue is on you.
A long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit. It's not tentative. It's knowing. The groan he lets out is for your taste. The sound vibrates through your whole body.
"Fuck," you breathe, your head falling back against his pillows.
It was very clear to you earlier that Steve really liked kissing, and that is very obviously a skillset that translates. There’s no aimless exploration. He finds your clit easily, circling it with his tongue, testing the pressure until your hips buck off the bed. He slides two fingers into you, curling them instantly against that sensitive spot inside you that makes your thighs tremble.
"God, right there," you manage to choke out, your hands fisting in his duvet.
He hums in response, a sound of deep satisfaction, and redoubles his efforts. His mouth is a perfect, relentless pressure. His fingers move in a steady, maddening rhythm. He’s watching you from between your thighs, cataloging every shudder, every hitch in your breath, and adjusting his technique accordingly.
He seems… proud. Proud that he can do this to you.
"Look at me," he says, his voice thick and muffled by you.
You force your eyes open. You’re so lost in it you had completely forgotten to be embarrassed or worried you weren't being "cool" about any of this. The sight of him, head tipped up, your wetness glistening on his chin, his pupils blown wide with desire, is the final straw.
"You're so-- fuck, you’re so intentional," you hear yourself say. It's an observation, barely a whisper, stripped of its usual bite. It's an offering.
"Yeah?" he grins, a real, genuine grin before his tongue flicks out for another taste, his fingers never ceasing their movement. "'Cause I want to get it right."
And that does it. That thought of him wanting to get something so right for you, while his mouth is wrapped around your clit, sends a bolt of pure, unadulterated heat through your center. Your back arches, a long, shuddering moan tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. It's not a quiet, polite thing; it's a full-body wave that leaves you breathless, your hand fisted in the duvet, your toes curled tight.
He doesn't stop. He works you through it, his mouth gentle now, his fingers slowing, drawing out every last spasm until you’re left twitching and boneless on his bed. When he finally lifts his head, his expression is pure, unadulterated pride.
"Jesus, Steve," you manage, your voice wrecked.
He crawls back up your body, settling his weight beside you. His grin is soft, satisfied, and when he leans in to kiss you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. You meet him with equal fervor, your hands wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer, pouring everything you can’t say into the kiss.
It’s you who deepens it, your tongue slick against his, one of your hands almost clumsy as it trails down to the waistband of his sweatpants. You’re not thinking. Not about anything but how you want to give him that same focus, that same careful consideration.
Your fingers find the line of him, hard and straining against the soft cotton. You're met with a soft gasp in your mouth, a sharp intake of breath. He freezes for just a second, surprised, before his hips press into your touch, a silent plea.
His reactions are better than words.
It’s your turn to explore. You slide your hand under the elastic of his pants and boxers, gasping softly into his mouth as your fingers wrap around him, hot and impossibly hard. You’ve spent hours next to this man, and you've never once thought about him like this, not with this intensity. He’s bigger than you expected, thick in your palm, a bead of slick already gathering at the tip. The weight of him feels like a confession, his need a tangible thing in your hand.
“Jesus,” he breathes against your lips, and then your name comes out like a genuine prayer. His body is taut, the muscles in his back bunching under your free hand.
You move your hand in a slow, steady grip, feeling him twitch in your palm. You’re not trying to get him off; you’re exploring, learning his shape, the texture of him.
When you let go he actually whimpers. It's so quiet you wouldn't have heard it if your mouths weren't so close.
He scrambles off you and pushes both layers down. His movements are a little clumsy as he kicks the last of the fabric away. You watch him, propped up on your elbows.
He doesn’t hide. He just hovers over you for a second, completely bare and more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him, letting you look your fill.
"Can you... lay on your back?" You whisper, "I just... I want to see you."
Steve blinks. For a second you think you've gone too far, asked for too much. But then his Adam's apple bobs in a slow swallow. He shifts, rolling onto his back beside you, stretching his long body out against the blue sheets of his bed. One arm goes behind his head, his other hand coming to rest on his stomach, just above where his erection lies hard and heavy against him.
The posture is casual. Open. It’s a surrender, and you feel a strange sort of power bloom in your chest. He was just in control, his head between your thighs, but now… now he’s letting you lead.
You shift, kneeling between his legs, and his eyes track your every move, dark and expectant. You lean over, places kisses on each beauty mark that dots his torso until you reach the cluster of them by his navel, where you look up.
“Is this okay?” you murmur, lips pressed lightly against the mole just under his belly button.
“Yeah,” he breathes, the word coming out strained. “More than okay.”
In response, you press an open-mouthed kiss to the base of his cock.
“Fuck.” His whole body tenses, the hand on his stomach clenching into a fist as you take him in your hand, stroking him slowly from base to tip, his pre-come smearing over your palm. The feeling of him in your hand, hot and alive and yours for the taking, is intoxicating.
You don't waste any more time. You wrap your lips around the head of his cock, and the sound he makes is a beautiful, broken thing.
Your hand settle on on his hip, the other wrapped around his shaft as you start to move.
He’s trying so, so hard to be quiet at first, the sounds catching in his throat. And sure, you remember everything that Eddie has said about the guy he used to be, the cocky jock whose voice was a loud, obnoxious thing at parties. But this is not that guy. This guy is trembling under you. This guy smells like soap and cheap wine and happiness and the heat of his own skin.
And this guy falls apart in minutes under your mouth.
His hips start to rock, small, helpless movements. His hand, previously clenched on his stomach, now comes to rest at the back of your head. He's not guiding you, not demanding, just resting it there, his fingers gently tangled in your hair as you work your tongue along the underside of his cock. He's learned, already, that you don't need to be told what to do.
Then his hips start to rock just that little bit more. That's all the permission you need.
You go lower, taking him deeper. His breath hitches as his cock hits the back of your throat and he tries, he really tries, to stop from babbling. A string of nonsense ends with a deep moan of your name as he loses the battle.
"So good... holy shit, you're so..." He breaks off into a guttural sound when you cup his balls, rolling them gently in your palm. "Fuck, don't stop, please don't..." It’s the first time he’s sounded truly desperate.
You don't intend to stop. You pull back for air before taking him deep again, faster this time, more confident. The hand in your hair tightens, not painfully, just... holding on.
"Look at you," he breathes out.
You glance up at him through your lashes. The look on his face is wrecked. All that former-cool-kid confidence completely gone, replaced with this raw, open-need. He’s watching your lips stretch around him, watching you take him, and the sight alone is enough to push him closer to the edge.
"I'm... I'm close," he manages to get out, his voice ragged. "You should... I'm gonna..." He's trying to be a gentleman. He's trying to warn you.
Instead of pulling back, you take him as deep as you can, your hand stroking what your mouth can't reach, and look him dead in the eye as you do. The silent permission, the greedy acceptance, is his undoing.
His whole body goes rigid. He calls out your name, one last, sharp, breathless cry, as he spills in your mouth. His hips stutter, his hand in your hair holding you there as you swallow him down, the taste of him salty and warm and utterly Steve.
After, you let him fall from your lips, pressing a soft, final kiss to his still-sensitive tip. You look up at him from your position between his thighs. He’s sprawled on the bed, his chest heaving, his eyes closed. He looks completely undone. A state of him you've absolutely never seen and you are the cause of it.
You feel a surge of something that's equal parts satisfaction and affection as you crawl back up his body. He gathers you into his arms the second you're in reach, pulling you flush against his side. His mouth finds yours instantly, a hungry, messy kiss that doesn't care where your mouth just was.
"You..." He breathes out as he pulls back, but he doesn't seem to have any other words. He just shakes his head, a slow, amazed movement. He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and damp against your skin. "You're..."
You trail your fingers through his hair, damp with sweat at the temples. "I think the word you're looking for is 'intentional'," you whisper, a ghost of a smile on your lips. He chuckles, his breath warm against you.
"No," he says. "The word is perfect."
His hand starts to move again, tracing slow circles on your hip. He kisses your shoulder, your collarbone, your neck. His mouth is lazy and sweet, the both of you pushed to a soft, warm exhaustion. You could stay like this all night, a tangle of limbs and warm skin. But the hand on your hip moves.
It trails down, back to the place he already wrecked. His fingers slide through your wetness, exploring your slick, oversensitive folds. You twitch, a soft sigh escaping your lips as he gently pushes two fingers back inside you.
It's a feeling of coming home. He curls his fingers, finding that same spot as before. Not enough to make you come again, not yet. Just a promise. A reminder. He moves in and out of you with a slow, deliberate rhythm. His thumb finds your clit, circling it in time with the slide of his fingers.
"You feel so good," he whispers against your ear, and his voice is soft, not heated. It's like he's not even trying to get this to lead to anything more. He just wants to feel you. His touch is confident and caring in a way you've never experienced.
You turn your head to kiss him. It's slow and sweet.
His fingers work you, slow and sweet till you cum again. It's not the sharp, bright crash of your first orgasm, it's deeper, softer. A gentle wave of pleasure rolls through you, and you let out a soft, breathy moan into his mouth. Your body shudders against his.
When it's over, you slump bonelessly against him.
He holds you while the tremors run their course, his other hand tracing soothing patterns on your back. It's as close to perfect as you can imagine. He brings his fingers to his lips to taste you, and in his eyes, you see a flicker of the same awe from before. You also see a hint of something else. Something you’ve only ever seen hints of. Pride. Pride in you and pride in the fact that you are in his bed.
You pull back a little, looking down at him. His face is bathed in the soft, moonlit glow from the window. His hair is a mess on the pillow, his lips are kiss swollen, and he has a soft, contented look on his face.
"What?" he asks, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Nothing. Can we... can we sleep? Like this?" You ask, already feeling a wave of sleepiness crash over you.
"I was hoping you'd say that." He pulls the duvet over the both of you, tucking it around your shoulders.
He pulls you into his arms again, and you rest your head on his chest. He’s warm and solid under you, and you can feel the steady, even beat of his heart against your cheek. It's a rhythm that's already starting to feel familiar, comforting.
Steve’s not a stranger anymore. He’s Steve.
Your very real Steve.
Your eyes drift closed. The last thing you hear is the quiet hum of his breathing.
You wake slowly, your mind piecing things together one at a time.
The sheets are softer than yours. The light is coming from the wrong side of the room. There is an arm draped over your waist, heavy and warm. It takes a second before it clicks. This isn’t your room.
You breathe out quietly and look around. The window is cracked just enough to let in a thin line of sunlight, catching on the framed car poster near the closet and the pile of clothes on the chair. It smells like sex and laundry detergent.
Carefully, you lift his arm from your waist. He doesn’t move. He’s out cold, flat on his stomach, hair a complete disaster, face half-buried in the pillow. You gather your oversized t-shirt from the floor and pull it over your head. Your shorts are nowhere in immediate sight, so you don’t bother looking long.
You pause at the edge of the bed and glance back at him. His back rises and falls in a steady rhythm, mouth slightly open, a small frown between his eyebrows like he’s dreaming about something frustrating. You feel something tug in your chest, and you’re not sure if it’s regret or something much worse.
The apartment is quiet when you step into the hall. The wood floors are cool under your feet. You head to the kitchen, pulling your hair out of your face with one hand while the other starts the coffee maker. The smell fills the room fast. It steadies you a little.
You pour a cup and lean against the counter, drinking it over the sink while looking out the window. Hawkins is already awake. A couple of kids are walking their bikes down Main, Joyce Byers is sweeping the front steps of Melvad’s, and a thin layer of snow dusts the street. The kind that won’t last long once the sun hits it.
The coffee burns a little going down, but it feels good. You’re trying not to think about the night before, but it keeps replaying anyway. His hands, his focus, the way he said your name like it meant something.
You don’t hear him right away, but then there’s a low, sleepy voice behind you.
“Morning.”
You turn just slightly, enough to see him out of the corner of your eye. His hair is sticking up everywhere, and he’s just in his boxers. He walks past you to the coffee pot, yawning, and pours himself a cup.
“Morning,” you say quietly.
He leans against the counter next to you, shoulders brushing as he takes a sip. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it’s heavier than it should be.
You glance at him. “I’m sorry if this ruined our dynamic as roommates.”
He looks at you over the rim of his mug, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah, it definitely ruins the roommate dynamic.”
You blink, unsure if you should laugh. “Oh.”
He sees your expression change and shakes his head quickly. “No, no, I mean—” He sets his mug down and turns to face you fully. “It definitely ruins the fake dating thing too.”
That doesn’t help. You look down into your coffee, your stomach sinking a little. “Right.”
He groans softly, rubbing a hand through his hair. “That came out wrong. I meant… it’s not fake anymore.”
You look up. His eyes are clear now, not sleepy, not joking. “I just… I figured this meant we went from ‘very real’ to actually… very real,” he says quietly.
For a second, you can’t find words.
You meet his eyes again, and the small, nervous smile that follows is enough to make your heart trip over itself.
You take a slow breath. “Oh,” you say again, but this time it’s different. Softer.
He takes a small step closer. “So… is this— us. Are we okay?”
You lean your hip against the counter, considering him. “I don’t think I’d call us ruined.”
A quiet laugh escapes him, and he steps forward until he’s right in front of you. “I'd disagree. I feel pretty ruined from that mouth of yours--"
"Shut your mouth about my mouth." You groan, cheeks warming.
He grins wider now. "No. I don't think I will."
His smile softens again. It’s disarming, the way he can swing from teasing to sincere without missing a beat.
He reaches past you for your coffee mug, taking it from your hand and setting it on the counter beside his. Then he snakes his hands around your waist. But instead of pulling you in, he steps behind you, wrapping his arms around your front and resting his chin on your shoulder. It’s a comfortable position, intimate in a way that feels new. You can feel his warm breath against your ear. You cover his hands with your own, leaning your head back against his shoulder.
“I’m really hoping you’re not going to go back to your room and pretend this didn’t happen,” he says, his voice low against your ear.
“No,” you say. “I really don’t want that.”
You don’t. The thought of going back to the carefully constructed farce you had between you feels impossible now.
"Good..." he murmurs. "But just to make sure..."
His hands move under your big shirt and settle on your hips and he nudges your thighs open with his knee, pressing himself against you. There’s no mistaking his intent, but it’s gentle, a question more than a demand.
You can feel him, half hard already, pressing against the thin fabric of his boxers. And this time, you push back, grinding your ass against him in a slow, deliberate movement.
He makes a soft, choked sound. "Okay, so... same page?" he manages, his breath hitching.
"Mhmm," you hum, turning your head to kiss his jaw. He tilts his head down to meet your mouth.
"Lean over the sink," he says, his voice low. "Please."
The 'please' is a key detail. A signpost.
You grip the edges of the counter. You can see the two of you in the small window above the sink: you, in your oversized black t-shirt; him, shirtless and strong behind you. It’s a raw, unfiltered image. You watch as he slowly, deliberately pulls down his boxers just enough, and you watch his face in the reflection.
He lines himself up. Instead of just pushing in, he traces the tip of his cock along your slick folds, back and forth, letting you feel the weight of him without rushing. He’s watching your face in the reflection, his own expression tight with control.
“Are you on…” he starts, trailing off.
You nod against the cool metal of the faucet. “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he breathes out in relief. “Good.”
He notches the head of his cock at your entrance, and for a long moment, he just stays there, a hot, firm pressure. He’s pushing in so slowly, inch by torturous inch, your knuckles are white on the counter. The stretch is immense, a deep, fulfilling ache.
He watches the whole thing in the reflection.
You don't just feel watched, you feel worshipped. It’s unnerving, it’s intoxicating. He watches his cock disappear into you like it’s the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, his breath caught in his throat.
"You okay?" he grunts out once he's fully inside you, his hands gripping your hips, his chest pressed against your back.
You can only nod again, a choked sound in your throat. Words are useless. You feel incredibly full, more connected to him than even last night. And all he’s doing is breathing.
His first withdrawal is slow too. A long, steady drag that leaves you feeling empty before he pushes back in, a deep, smooth thrust that makes your eyes roll back in your head. You feel every inch of him.
“Shit,” you whisper, pushing back to meet him.
He lets out a low groan. “Yeah?”
“Mhmm.”
“Let’s make this official, then,” he murmurs. He wraps one arm securely around your waist, pulling you back against him while his other hand slides down to find your clit. His movements are deliberate and assured.
“You feel so good around me,” he says, voice raspy and loving. "Could feel like this every day." His fingers begin to circle your clit. He starts to find his rhythm, a steady, deep rocking motion that has you bracing yourself against the counter.
You watch him in the window. The way his jaw clenches with effort, the way his biceps flex as he holds you. You watch your own face, lips parted, eyes hazy with pleasure.
The pace builds slowly. Each thrust a little harder, a little deeper, and the drag of him inside you is sending sparks of electricity up your spine. His fingers on your clit move in time, relentless, as your orgasm starts to build.
"Could be my very real girlfriend..." he whispers in your ear as his hips piston a little harder. "Could do this whenever you want..."
His voice, the raw need, the permission to have this, it's all too much. "Steve..." you manage, your voice cracking. You reach back, a hand finding his hip, nails digging into his skin as you try to hold on, to ground yourself, but he won't let you.
“Take you on dates, real ones,” he pants. “Not just fake ones for Dorothea.” His thumb presses harder, circles faster. “Go to the movies and hold your hand in the dark. Come home and do this."
Your orgasm crashes through you. It's a white-hot wave that steals your breath and makes your vision blur. You're crying out his name, a long, ragged sound that echoes in the quiet kitchen. Your legs tremble, your body going weak as the pleasure overwhelms you. The hand braced on the counter almost slips.
He holds you steady through it. He doesn't stop. His hips keep pistoning, drawing out your orgasm, milking you for every last shudder.
"You sound... so pretty when you do that," he groans, his voice thick with desire. He's close, so close. You can feel it in the erratic rhythm of his thrusts, the way his breath hitches. His grip on you tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh.
His rhythm stutters. He buries his face in your neck, his mouth hot against your skin as he lets out a string of curses. His hips jerk forward, and he’s coming with a final, deep thrust, spilling into you with a shudder. He presses his forehead between your shoulder blades and breathes you in for a minute. His body is hot and heavy against yours, a dead weight that is one of the best things you have ever felt.
Neither of you speaks. There is just the sound of your breathing, the distant hum of the city, and the quiet aftermath of it all. It’s not awkward. It’s more. It’s heavy in the best way.
Finally, he straightens up, slowly, carefully. He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder before pulling out gently, leaving you feeling suddenly empty. You stay leaning against the counter for a second, trying to find your legs.
"Hey," he says softly, his voice still a little rough. "You okay?"
You turn around to face him fully and he's reaching to grab a clean dishcloth from the drawer, hand going around you to wet it in the sink, the other hand on your hip keeping you steady. He’s gentle as he cleans you up. He’s done this before. But this is not a rehearsed performance. It's an act of reverence that makes your throat tighten.
You finally look up and meet his eyes. He looks as wrecked as you feel. "Yeah," you say, and your voice is hoarse. "I'm really okay."
He looks a little shy, as you watch him clean himself up a little with the cloth before pulling up his boxers.
"I'm going to make some more coffee," he says, clearing his throat a little. "And then... then I think I'm going to do something incredibly uncool and make you pancakes."
You laugh, surprised by the sudden domesticity of it all. "Pancakes?"
"Yeah," he says, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Pancakes. From your hopefully very real boyfriend..."
He trails off, and you decide to help him out. You step forward and wrap your arms around his bare torso, pressing your cheek against his chest. You can feel his heart beating under your ear.
"I think I'm going to be incredibly uncool too," you mumble into his skin. "And let your very real girlfriend have some."
He hugs you back, and you just stand there for a moment, wrapped around each other in the brightening kitchen. This is new territory, but it doesn't feel scary. It feels right.
He pulls back after a minute, and you can't help but admire him again. He's relaxed in a way he hasn't been before, with an easy smile on his face.
"I'm going to be really honest, though." He says, looking sheepish. "I'm not actually that good at making pancakes."
You snort, and start rummaging through a drawer, eventually pulling out a wooden spoon and a mixing bowl. "Shut up. You are not getting out of this."
He laughs, reaching for his coffee mug again. "Okay, okay. But no laughing when they're a little... lumpy."
You watch him for a minute, a real smile finally breaking through your usual guarded expression. This is it, then. The thing you’ve been dancing around for months. It's not a performance for Dorothea or a convenient solution to awkward landlord encounters. It's just Steve. You. A kitchen that smells like sex and brewing coffee. And a coming promise of slightly lumpy pancakes.
"Wouldn't dream of it, Steve," you say softly, leaning your hip against the counter and watching him gather ingredients. "Wouldn't dream of it."
[LOWKEY I WROTE THIS IN LIKE THREE HOURS BECAUSE IT MIGHT BE SOME OF MY FAVOURITE STEVE SMUT IDEAS I'VE HAD. FUCK.]
pairing: eddie munson x fem!henderson!reader word count: 10.8k summary: eddie munson never expected dustin’s older sister to become his closest friend… or the muse for the most honest song he’s ever written.
a/n: a love letter to something, somehow, someday by role model <3 this is one of my favorite things i’ve ever written, hope u love it!!
eddie munson didn't have many girl friends. mainly because his interests included things like hardcore drugs, his rock band, and countless hours of dungeons and dragons.
he didn't mind it this way. he'd rather stick with his small circle than be made fun of by the prissy girls that attended Hawkins high. besides, he'd be out of there in no time. hopefully.
eddie waited outside of the highschool for the last d&d member to arrive to their meeting- the most important meeting of the campaign, might he add. he glanced at his watch, cursing under his breath.
he was about to start pacing when a car pulled into the lot. the passenger door opened and dustin hopped out, but it wasn’t him eddie looked at first.
it was you.
you hopped out of the drivers side, pulled your jacket closer, and brushed a piece of hair out of your face. simple. nothing dramatic. but for some reason, eddie's mind went blank.
dustin waved. “sorry, man. we had to run home because I forgot my character sheets.”
you looked at eddie then, recognition settling in like you already knew who he was. “you’re eddie, right?”
eddie blinked once, then again. “yeah. that’s me.”
you smiled. “good to finally meet you. dustin talks about you all the time.”
eddie’s brain short-circuited for a moment. dustin talked about him. to you. about him. he tried not to read into that, but his chest felt strangely warm.
“all good things, I hope,” eddie said, shifting the crooked cardboard dragon head under his arm.
“depends on your definition of good,” you teased.
eddie huffed out a breath that almost counted as a laugh. he wasn’t sure why he suddenly felt nervous.
you checked the time, "well, i should let you two get to it. have fun with... whatever it is you guys do.” you ruffled your brothers hair, "see you later twerp."
eddie watched you walk back to your car. only for a second, he told himself. only long enough to make sure you didn’t slip on the ice.
dustin started walking toward the school entrance. “come on, we’re late.”
eddie snapped out of it. “right. yes. lateness. tragic.”
he followed dustin inside, trying to shake whatever strange feeling had settled between his ribs. it didn’t make sense. you were just dustin’s sister. someone normal. someone who belonged in bright hallways and perfect friend groups and warm houses that smelled like cinnamon.
still, as he walked through the doors, he found his mind drifting back to the way you said his name. casual. kind. unbothered. like knowing him wasn’t strange or surprising.
he hated how much that affected him.
he also loved it.
and for the rest of the night, even while he narrated dramatic battles and threw dice across the table, something in the back of his mind kept circling back to you standing in the cold, smiling at him like he was someone worth meeting.
the next week, just when eddie had finally forced himself to get his 60 second conversation with you out of his head, he saw you again.
it was lunchtime, the cafeteria buzzing with the usual noise, fluorescent lights flickering just enough to be annoying. eddie was at the hellfire table, half-lounging in his seat while dustin argued with mike about some rule they absolutely did not need to be arguing about.
eddie wasn’t listening.
he was stirring the lukewarm mac and cheese on his tray, trying not to think about anything that wasn’t dice or music or how many more months he had left in this place.
then the room shifted.
or maybe he did.
you walked in with nancy wheeler, robin buckley, and a couple of the effortlessly cool kids who floated from table to table like they had all the time in the world. you were laughing at something nancy said, your hand brushing lightly against her arm, your whole face bright in a way he hadn’t noticed outside the cold parking lot.
today you were wearing a soft sweater tucked into jeans that fit you perfectly, boots that clicked against the linoleum floor, and your hair looked like you actually did something to it this morning instead of just rolling out of bed. your cheeks were warm from the heat inside, your makeup subtle but intentional, and there was a shine in your eyes when you smiled.
you looked put together.
you looked happy.
you looked like someone who belonged in warm rooms and soft places.
you looked perfect.
eddie tried to tear his gaze away, but it was useless. he watched you ease into the crowd like you knew exactly where to exist, like the world made room for you without question. every gesture you made was gentle, warm, sure of itself. you listened when people spoke, nodding softly, leaning in. you laughed with your whole mouth, not the tight, polite smile he saw on so many others.
it was painfully clear that you lived in a universe he did not.
sitting at that chipped hellfire table, surrounded by dice and doodles and crumbs from dustin’s granola bar, eddie felt something in him sink a little. not jealousy. not sadness. just… reality.
there was no version of life where someone like you ended up in orbit with someone like him. the gap between your worlds wasn’t just big. it was fact.
he told himself it didn’t matter. he barely knew you. you probably didn’t remember his name.
and then you looked at him.
not in a fleeting way. not in a polite, accidental way.
your eyes searched the room, landed on him, and softened.
eddie’s heart stuttered.
dustin noticed him go oddly still. “what are you staring at? do you see a ghost? is that why you look like that?”
eddie didn’t answer. he couldn’t. you were already moving, weaving around tables and backpacks, walking straight toward them.
mike frowned. “why is she coming over here?”
lucas shrugged. “maybe dustin forgot something at home again.”
dustin lit up. “hey! my sister’s here.”
eddie swallowed hard. he tried to sit normally, but suddenly he had no idea what his hands were supposed to be doing. his ring caught on the corner of his notebook as he shoved it aside, and he forced his gaze downward like maybe, if he didn’t look directly at you, he wouldn’t humiliate himself.
you stopped at the edge of the table, your smile as warm as it had been across the room.
“hey, guys,” you said, then shifted your gaze to eddie. “hi, eddie.”
eddie felt the word hi hit somewhere low in his stomach.
“oh. uh. hey.” he cleared his throat. “you’re… here.”
smooth. perfect. excellent delivery, he thought miserably.
you laughed under your breath, the sound soft and kind, not mocking. “just grabbing lunch. saw you over here.”
dustin elbowed him without looking. “say hi back. you look like you just got hit by a bus.”
eddie kicked him under the table.
you didn’t notice their bickering. your attention stayed on him, which was enough to scramble his entire internal wiring.
“how was your meeting last week?” you asked.
for a moment, eddie forgot what meeting meant. then the cardboard dragon head flashed in his memory and he snapped back.
“oh. hellfire? yeah. good. the usual. chaos and violence.”
your smile widened. “sounds about right.”
eddie nodded too fast.
you didn’t linger long. just long enough to say hi. long enough to look at him in a way he wasn’t used to. long enough to make the room feel warmer for reasons he refused to think about.
“i’ll see you around,” you said lightly.
and then you walked back to your group, effortlessly slipping into conversation with nancy again.
eddie watched you go, even though he knew he shouldn’t.
the distance between your table and his suddenly felt larger than the whole school.
mike leaned over the table. “dude. are you okay? you look weird.”
eddie dragged a hand through his hair and reached for the nearest ridiculous distraction. “mike, everything about me looks weird.”
dustin added, “yeah, that’s just how he is.”
but eddie wasn’t listening anymore.
you remembered him.
you sought him out.
you said his name like it meant something to you.
and that was the moment eddie munson realized he had a much bigger problem than a d&d campaign to run.
the next few weeks of eddie's life seemed to be that of a dream. he didn't know how or why, but you and him became friends.
real friends.
not the kind where you wave in the hallway and forget each other exist.
the kind where you gravitate toward each other without meaning to.
it started small.
a simple “hey eddie” in the hallway.
a smile when you saw him at his locker.
a conversation started in the cafeteria that made him choke on his soda because you were actually talking to him.
then the small things became normal.
you showed up early to pick up dustin and ended up talking to eddie for fifteen straight minutes about music.
you asked him what songs he was working on with the band.
you complimented a drawing in his notebook.
after that, everything shifted.
he didn’t say it out loud, but he started timing his walks between classes so he might run into you.
and somehow, you did.
almost every day.
you’d catch him leaning against a column in the hallway, pretending to be interested in whatever mike was rambling about. but the second he saw you approaching, eddie’s whole posture changed. he straightened. tried to look casual. failed.
“morning, eddie,” you’d say.
two words. simple. soft.
they held him together for the rest of the day.
after school became its own ritual.
if you were around when dustin finished hellfire, you stayed for a bit. sometimes you sat on the steps with eddie while dustin ran inside to get something. sometimes you talked through the open door of his van while he packed up his things.
the first time you leaned into the passenger window to ask him how his day was, eddie had to grip the steering wheel with both hands to stay grounded. you smelled like vanilla and laundry detergent. clean. warm. safe.
nothing in eddie’s life had ever felt safe.
he didn’t understand why you made him feel that way.
and then there were the conversations.
you talked to him like he was normal.
not like the freak.
not like the strange metalhead who lived in a trailer.
not like the kid who failed senior year twice.
you asked him things. real things.
what he wanted to do after school.
why he liked d&d so much.
what his songs were about.
and every time he answered, you listened.
eddie wasn’t used to that.
he wasn’t used to being looked at the way you looked at him. like he had value. like he mattered.
he knew he shouldn’t get attached.
he reminded himself constantly that people like you didn’t end up with people like him.
but he couldn’t stop soaking you in.
your smile became his favorite sight.
your laugh became a sound he listened for.
your presence became something his body reacted to before his brain caught up.
and the worst part, the part that hollowed him out a little more each day, was that you were just being friendly.
nothing more.
eddie knew that.
he felt it in every second he spent beside you.
you weren’t flirting.
you weren’t hinting at anything.
you weren’t like that.
you were just kind.
and kindness, for eddie munson, was the most dangerous thing of all.
he fell in love with the little things first.
the way you tucked your feet under you when you sat on the steps.
the way you talked with your hands.
the way you laughed with your whole chest when he said something stupid.
the way you didn’t hesitate to touch his arm when you were getting his attention.
one afternoon, you reached up to brush away a curl that kept falling into his face while he was trying to explain a campaign idea.
eddie forgot what a sentence was.
his brain simply shut down.
you didn’t notice.
of course you didn’t.
the obsession arrived quietly, disguised as friendship.
he found himself thinking about you during math class.
he replayed your conversations when he was alone in his trailer.
he carried the sound of your voice with him into every room he went into.
he thought about you during hellfire. i mean, how insane was that?
and every single day, the same thought echoed through him:
he didn’t stand a chance.
you were bright and soft and hopeful.
you were the kind of person whose future stretched wide and open.
you belonged in a big house with good lighting and holiday dinners and framed photos on mantelpieces.
eddie belonged nowhere.
so he kept himself in check.
he kept his hands to himself.
he never said anything that could be taken the wrong way.
because having you as a friend was better than not having you at all.
and he would take whatever scraps of your time he could get.
he wasn’t stupid enough to imagine more.
but late at night, staring at the ceiling of his room, he let himself ache.
just a little.
he let himself imagine what it would feel like to belong to someone like you.
to touch your hand and not pull away.
to sit beside you without feeling like he needed to hide half of himself.
dreams were safer than reality.
dreams couldn’t reject him.
so eddie dreamed.
and during the day, he smiled when you smiled,
laughed when you called his name,
and convinced himself that friendship was enough.
eddie had never put this much effort into getting dressed.
he would deny it if anyone asked, but he stood in front of his mirror for a solid ten minutes before leaving the trailer.
a clean black sweater.
dark jeans without holes.
actual product in his hair.
he told himself it was because it was a holiday gathering.
it wasn’t.
it was because you would be there.
the wheelers’ house glowed like it had been dipped in gold. warmth, lights, garland, the works. eddie stepped inside and immediately felt out of place - not in the sad, familiar way, but in a new, startlingly vulnerable one.
then he saw you.
and everything in him went quiet.
you were wearing a deep red sweater that fit you perfectly, soft and warm looking. the lights caught the shine in your hair. your lips had a soft shine to them. your face glowed in a way that wasn’t even fair.
eddie forgot how to breathe.
“eddie,” you said, walking toward him, eyes lighting up when they landed on him. “you look really nice.”
eddit blinked. “oh. uh… yeah. you too. you look…” he swallowed, “…yeah.”
you laughed softly. not at him. never at him. just warm, easy laughter.
dustin was across the room, watching.
staring.
squinting.
eddie didn’t notice.
as the night went on, eddie found himself drifting in and out of conversations, never quite grounded. not when you kept moving through the rooms like sunlight. every time you laughed, he glanced up instinctively. every time he heard your voice, he felt his heart do a flip.
and every single time, dustin saw him.
he watched the way eddie angled his body when you were near.
he watched the way eddie’s eyes softened around the edges.
he watched the way eddie stopped talking mid-sentence when you came close.
he watched the way eddie tried, badly, to pretend he wasn’t watching you.
dustin’s mouth slowly fell open.
oh.
ohhhhhhhh.
how did he not see it sooner?
Eddie Munson was in love with his sister.
Dustin stared at him, stunned, as if he’d discovered some rare, tragic creature in the wild.
Eddie didn’t notice. He was too busy pretending not to stare at you.
when the crowd thinned and the music softened, you found him near the staircase, hands tucked in his pockets.
“can i steal you for a sec?” you asked.
eddie nodded immediately. “yeah. anything. I mean. not anything. just- yes, you can.”
dustin, from the couch, slapped a hand over his face.
you led him to a quiet spot near the tree, warm light spilling over both of you.
“i got you something,” you said softly, like you were nervous.
eddie blinked rapidly. “you did? why?”
“because you’re my friend. and it’s christmas. i hear that people give gifts around this time of year,” you joke, lightening the mood a little.
he grins, and his shoulders relax a little. “right, i’ve heard that too.”
you reached behind the couch and pulled a guitar case into view.
eddie froze.
“open it,” you said.
his hands shook slightly as he clicked open the latches.
inside was one of the most beautiful acoustic guitars he had ever seen. honey colored wood. crisp steel strings. perfect.
he inhaled sharply.
“do you like it?” you asked.
eddie nodded, speechless. “i- wow. I love it. you didn't have to do this."
you stepped closer, heartwarming smile on you face, "sure, but I wanted to."
dustin, halfway across the room pretending not to stare, mouthed holy shit.
eddie cleared his throat once he could speak again. “i, uh… i got you something too.”
you looked genuinely surprised. “you did?”
he pulled a small wrapped object from his pocket. nothing compared to a guitar. nothing at all. he felt embarrassment flush his neck.
but he gave it to you anyway.
you opened the paper gently. inside was a hand-painted cassette tape, decorated with tiny stars and vines, the label reading: songs that made me think of you.
your breath caught. “eddie… this is amazing.”
he rubbed the back of his neck. “it’s really not. but… i wanted you to have something.”
you smiled at him. that soft, slow smile that always killed him a little.
you stepped in without hesitation and hugged him.
eddie froze, then sank into it, arms circling you carefully like you were porcelain. your cheek pressed against his shoulder. your hair brushed his collarbone. you held him tight.
and Dustin Henderson, across the room, felt his jaw drop even further.
because Eddie wasn’t just in love.
he was utterly ruined.
you pulled back, hands lingering on his arms.
“merry christmas, eddie,” you murmured.
he swallowed. “merry christmas.”
you left to join Nancy again, cassette in your back pocket.
eddie stood there, staring after you with the softened eyes of a man who had no idea how he was supposed to survive himself.
Dustin approached slowly, cautiously, like he was approaching a wild animal.
“hey man,” he whispered, looking up at him.
eddie snapped out of his daze. “what?”
Dustin studied him for a long moment. too long.
then he whispered, half horrified, half sympathetic:
“you’re in love with her.”
eddie’s face went white.
“no i’m not,” he said immediately.
dustin blinked. “eddie. i’m not blind.”
eddie cleared his throat, ripping his gaze away from where you stood laughing with nancy.
“she’s your sister, man,” he muttered. “just drop it.”
but dustin didn’t.
because he finally saw it.
every lingering glance.
every soft smile.
every skipped breath.
and for the first time, dustin didn’t tease him.
he just whispered:
“you're done for."
eddie closed his eyes.
“yeah,” he breathed, almost too softly to hear, “i know.”
he lay on his back in the dark of his room, staring at the ceiling, hands folded on his chest, christmas lights still faintly glowing through the trailer window. he tried closing his eyes. he tried breathing slow. he even tried counting goddamn sheep.
none of it worked.
his mind kept circling back to you.
to the way you looked under the christmas tree lights.
to the way you hugged him.
to the way your voice softened when you said his name.
to the cassette tape held tightly in your hand- a gift he’d been terrified to give.
to the guitar sitting in the corner, glowing even in the dark like some impossible dream.
he rolled onto his side, exhaling sharply.
he shouldn’t feel like this.
he had no right to.
you weren’t his.
you were never going to be his.
and still, you filled every corner of his mind.
eddie groaned and sat up, running a hand through his hair. sleep wasn’t coming. not tonight. not with the memory of your arms still lingering on his skin.
his eyes drifted toward the guitar case propped against his desk.
it felt like it was calling to him.
slowly, he climbed out of bed, crossed the room barefoot, and opened it. the acoustic guitar looked even more beautiful than it had at the wheelers’ house. warm wood, smooth neck, strings untouched.
you chose this for him.
you believed he’d make something with it.
that thought alone almost knocked him over.
eddie sat on the edge of his bed, pulled the guitar into his lap, and just held it for a moment. his fingers brushed the strings lightly, almost afraid to make sound.
then he reached for a pen and the battered pad of paper he kept under his bedside table.
he didn’t intend to write anything important.
he never did.
songs usually spilled out of him without warning, messy and frantic, fueled by adrenaline or rage or noise.
this one didn’t come like that.
this one came slow.
heavy.
honest.
eddie tapped the end of the pen against the page, staring down at the blank sheet, jaw tight.
he thought of you laughing from across the room.
he thought of you leaning into him without hesitation.
he thought of the way you looked at him like he wasn’t a disappointment or a freak or a cautionary tale.
his chest ached.
he wrote the first line before he could stop himself.
well, he’s a loose cannon…
eddie paused.
his throat felt thick.
he wasn’t writing a character.
he wasn’t writing a metaphor.
he was writing himself.
and once that truth settled, the rest came easier, like the pen moved on its own.
she’s a shoe-tied, blue sky, honeymoon vacation…
he scoffed softly, shaking his head, because of course that was you.
bright. effortless. put together.
everything he wasn’t and never could be.
he kept going.
he’s a fixer-upper…
she’s a friday night…
lyrics spilled out in uneven lines, scratched out and rewritten, smudged where his hand dragged across the page. he worked through the night, guitar resting against his knee, picking out quiet melodies under his breath.
every contrast he wrote was a truth he didn’t want to face.
you were warmth. he was cold.
you were gentle. he was rough around the edges.
you were hopeful. he was trying not to drown.
you were everything bright he never thought he’d get close to.
and he kept writing anyway.
hours passed like minutes.
the sky outside turned from black to deep blue.
eddie sat hunched over his notebook, hair falling around his face, eyes tired but burning.
each line hurt.
but each line was a truth he needed to face.
and somewhere between one lyric and the next, his hand stilled. he stared down at what he’d written, heart pounding hard enough to shake him.
because this wasn’t just a song.
this was him admitting something he didn’t want to admit.
this was him saying:
i love her.
i love her so much it terrifies me.
i love her, and she will never love me back.
but god, i love her anyway.
eddie closed the notebook carefully, almost reverently, as if shutting it might quiet the ache inside him.
it didn’t.
he set the guitar aside and lay back on the bed, staring at the dim blue light slipping through the curtains.
eddie went MIA for the next two days. no school, no dealing, no anything that involved leaving his trailer of solitude. he couldn't face you. not yet.
he tried distracting himself with television, with rolling a few dice, with reorganizing a stack of tapes on his desk. but every single thing he touched reminded him of you.
your smile.
your laugh.
your hug in front of the christmas tree.
your hands on the gift he’d made you.
the soft glow on your skin as you said merry christmas, eddie.
he had written until his hand cramped. he had played until his fingertips stung. he had replayed every moment of the past few weeks until his heart felt bruised.
and he still couldn’t breathe right.
so when someone knocked, sharp and sudden, he jolted like he’d been caught doing something forbidden.
he opened the door and there you were.
hood up. cheeks pink from the cold. worry written across your face.
“hey stranger,” you said lightly, even though your eyes searched his like you were looking for injuries.
eddie stepped aside. “yeah. hey. come in.”
you walked into the trailer, shedding your coat, glancing around the cluttered space with a softness that made eddie’s throat ache.
“you okay?” you asked.
eddie nodded. then shook his head. then nodded again.
“yeah, i’m just… tired.”
you gave him a look that said you didn’t buy that for a second, but you didn’t press. you just sat on his couch and patted the cushion beside you.
“come sit.”
he did, heart hammering way too hard for something so simple.
you talked for a while about nothing. dustin. school. the wheelers’ terrible eggnog. while you spoke, eddie kept glancing at the notebook on the floor: the one filled with lyrics he never meant for you to see.
which, of course, meant you noticed.
“what’s that?” you asked, leaning forward before he could stop you.
eddie scrambled, literal panic in his chest, and grabbed the notebook so fast it made you blink.
“okay,” you said slowly, smiling, “that was dramatic.”
eddie hugged the notebook to his chest. “it’s private.”
“so is everything you hide under laundry piles.”
he swallowed. “it’s… not ready.”
“is it a song?”
eddie stared at the floor. “yeah.”
you tilted your head, studying him. “will you play it for me?”
“no.”
“why not?”
“because.”
“eddie…”
he looked up (mistake) because your expression was soft and earnest and just a little pleading. he could never deny you anything. not even this. not even the truth disguised as a melody.
he sighed, defeated. “fine. but you have to sit still. no faces. no comments.”
“i would never,” you lied sweetly.
eddie grabbed the acoustic guitar— your guitar—and sat on the edge of the couch, hunched over it like he could hide behind the wood.
his hands shook as he positioned his fingers.
the notebook sat open beside him, pages full of the words he wished he’d never written.
he didn’t look at you.
he started to play.
softly at first, then with more confidence as the chords fell into place. his voice came next, low and careful, almost trembling.
and he sang the song you gave him the lyrics for, the one he’d poured his heart into without meaning to.
your heart began to pound as the words washed over you:
“well, he's a loose cannon, foolish man who needs some medication
she's a shoe-tied, blue sky, honeymoon vacation
he's a fixer-upper, skipping supper, hates an obligation
she's a friday night
he's a bad dream, nicotine, druggie complication
she's a peace sign, tea time, drinker on occasion
he's an east coast, jeans rolled, no communication
she's a welcome sign…”
you froze.
every line was him.
every line was you.
every contrast was painfully, beautifully obvious.
eddie kept going, voice wavering at the edges:
“but i believe they're meant to be
something, somehow, someday…”
your breath caught. the realization hit you.
he wasn’t just singing a song.
he was telling you a secret.
the secret.
the one he’d been burying under jokes and distance.
your eyes lifted to him.
eddie was staring at the notebook, refusing to meet your gaze, jaw clenched so tight it shook. his fingers trembled on the guitar strings. his breathing faltered only once, when your knee brushed his.
but he kept playing.
“he’s a ford truck, door shut, runs from conversation
she’s an open ear, souvenir, reads the situation…”
you knew.
you knew.
his posture.
his shaking hands.
the way his voice cracked right before the next line.
the way he refused to look at you even once.
this wasn’t a song about two fictional opposites.
this was about you.
and him.
and everything between you he had never said.
tears stung your eyes without warning.
eddie reached the end, voice barely above a whisper:
“…something, somehow, someday.”
the last chord rang through the trailer, vibrating through the air until it faded into silence.
eddie lowered the guitar immediately, setting it aside like it burned him. he still didn’t look up. his curls fell forward, hiding half his face, but you could see the tension in every muscle.
his hands twisted together.
his knee bounced.
his breathing was uneven.
your voice came out small but certain.
“eddie… it’s about me.”
his head snapped up, eyes wide with something between panic and heartbreak.
“no,” he said too fast. “no, it’s… it’s just a song. i just wrote it when I was.. drunk, and high. it’s nothing. you’re reading into it.”
“eddie,” you repeated softly, “it’s about me.”
he froze.
the truth hung between you, electric and fragile.
you waited.
eddie swallowed hard, eyes flicking to every corner of the room except your face. “i shouldn’t have played it for you.”
“why not?”
“because,” he whispered, “you weren’t supposed to know.”
“know what?”
he pressed his lips together, chest rising and falling too quickly.
“that i… that i care about you more than i should,” he said, voice shaking. “that you’re the only thing i can think about. that i wake up and your face is already in my head. that when you hugged me at the party i felt like i was dying. that i… god, i’m so in love with you it makes me feel sick.”
the words tumbled out of him before he could stop them.
silence.
your breath caught.
eddie looked like he’d just handed you the knife to kill him with. he gave you no time to finish him off.
“i know you don’t feel that way,” he said, voice breaking. “i know i’m not… i’m not the kind of guy you want. i know i’m nothing compared to the people in your world. but i had to get it out somehow. and the song was the only way.”
you stared at him, stunned.
eddie exhaled, shaking.
“so, yeah,” he whispered. “it’s about you.”
the room was warm.
the air was still.
and your heart had never beaten harder.
silence filled the trailer. warm, heavy, almost buzzing.
you replayed everything in your mind. every moment with him. every laugh. every touch. every look. every quiet shift that now made perfect sense.
eddie watched the silence stretch and misunderstood every second of it.
your shock.
your breathlessness.
your searching eyes.
he thought it was rejection.
he stood up quickly, pain slicing through his expression even though he tried to hide it. he nodded once, already backing away.
“it's okay,” he said, voice thin and breaking. “you can go. really. i should not have said any of that.”
you looked up, startled, and grabbed his wrist before he could take another step.
“eddie.”
he froze like you had pinned him to the floor with a spell.
you tugged gently, guiding him back down. he resisted for half a heartbeat before sitting beside you again, muscles locked tight, shoulders curled inward like he was waiting for the final blow.
your hand stayed on his wrist. warm. steady. not letting him pull away.
silence returned, but now it felt different. thicker. charged. full of something unspoken that neither of you knew how to hold.
eddie stared at the floor. “please do not look at me like that. like you feel bad for me. i cannot take that.”
you didn't answer.
instead, you moved.
you shifted closer, one slow inch at a time. then your knee touched his thigh. then your abdomen brushed his forearm. then you swung one leg over his lap and settled there lightly.
eddie went perfectly still.
your hands rested on his shoulders. his breath caught somewhere high in his chest and stayed there.
he whispered, barely audible, “you do not have to do this.”
you leaned in until your forehead nearly touched his. “i know.”
your fingers traced the curve of his jaw. he flinched at the intimacy, not out of fear but disbelief. no one had ever touched him like this. like he was wanted.
you looked at him for a long moment, scanning his face as if you were memorizing it. every freckle. every scar. every piece of him he wished he could hide.
you lifted his chin gently. “eddie,” you said, voice soft but certain. “look at me.”
his eyes met yours, scared and hopeful all at once.
you held his face in both hands. “i wish you had told me sooner. i care about you so much. more than you think.”
eddie blinked, stunned. “you… do?”
“yes.” your forehead brushed his, warm and grounding. “you're so good for me. you always have been. you're kind and steady and honest. you make me feel safe. you make me laugh. you are exactly the person i want to spend time with.”
his breath shuddered, disbelief flickering across his features. “i didn't think i could be that for you.”
“you are,” you whispered. “you have been from the beginning.”
his hands rose again, hesitant but drawn to you, resting at your waist like he was afraid you might fade if he held you too tightly.
you leaned closer, your nose grazing his. “you're perfect for me, eddie. you should know that.”
his eyes softened in a way you had never seen before, like something inside him finally settled.
you felt his heartbeat under your palms.
then, quietly, almost like he was afraid to break the moment, he said, “can i ask you something.”
you nodded, your thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “anything.”
he swallowed, voice trembling but clear. “can i kiss you?”
you smiled, slow and sure, your lips inches from his.
“i was hoping you would.”
eddie kissed you like he had been waiting his entire life for permission.
slow at first. careful. reverent. his lips moved against yours with aching gentleness, as if the world might collapse if he pushed too hard. his hands tightened on your waist, not to pull you in, but to anchor himself to the moment.
you kissed him back. fully. warmly. without hesitation.
eddie made a soft sound in the back of his throat, something broken and relieved and unbelievably tender, and the kiss deepened naturally. not rushed. not frantic. just two people finding each other in the quiet.
it was everything he had imagined and nothing like it at all.
it was better.
when you finally pulled back, breaths mixing in the small space between you, eddie opened his eyes slowly, like he was afraid this was a dream he might break by moving too fast.
your hands cupped his cheeks. his curls framed your fingers. his lips were slightly pink from kissing you and he looked at you like you had rewritten his entire world.
