For fox sake

Jenn. She/Her. 39 with the sense of humor of a 13 year old. Coffee junkie. "That's what she said" to EVERYTHING

[nowandajenn]

Jenn's MasterList

Sometimes silly, sometimes smutty, sometimes just ideas I can't get out of my silly little head. All stories are 100% mine and are 18+ unless otherwise specified.

Call On Me (One Shot)

Blue Christmas (series) Chris as a father to twin boys (request) Scare Tactics (Halloween One shot) Hard To Get (one shot) Cheers (one shot) Breathe (one shot) Every Move You Make (mini) part one part two part three

A Little Tied Up (one shot)

[holawdw]

fallin' for you

— a top gun au —

based on/inspired by TOP GUN (1986) directed by tony scott

on march 3, 1969 the united states navy established an elite school for the top one percent of its pilots. its purpose was to teach the lost art of aerial combat and to insure that the handful of men and women who graduated were the best fighter pilots in the world. they succeeded. today, the navy calls it fighter weapons school. the flyers call it: TOP GUN

meet the pilots:

steve 'wonder boy' harrington

charlie 'river' rush

their stories:

let's start at the beginning... to be continued

[hringtn]

what is it with the hendersons? — steve harrington

pairings: steve harrington x fem!henderson!reader

summary: with eddie munson in hiding and hawkins spiraling, dustin starts acting strangely protective and very jealous about you and steve. because sometimes the real conflict isn’t the monsters, it’s a jealous little brother.

warnings: drugs mentioned, situation ship final boss, not proofread!

wc: 2.2k

a/n: you can read this on its own, but if you want a bit of context, you can check out here. english isn’t my first language so let me know any mistakes!

my steve harrington masterlist!/ part two? kind of

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

hawkins was a mess. again.

if you’re wondering, chasing your brother’s drug-dealer friend was not a smart decision, especially considering the police and literally the rest of hawkins were after him for the alleged murder of chrissy cunningham. but your brother is stubborn, so he dragged everyone along.

after finding the address of some super random, middle-of-nowhere house at steve and robin’s job, you all came to the conclusion that eddie was probably hiding there. and, unsurprisingly, dustin absolutely forced everyone to come.

“okay, well that’s settled. i guess he’s not here.” steve says after dustin rings the doorbell about a thousand times.

“eddie! it’s dustin!” your brother yells like he’s expecting an answer. “look, we just wanna talk, okay? no cops, i swear, we just wanna help.” dustin keeps banging on the door like a maniac.

“great, yeah. make sure everyone knows you’re here. maybe give them our names while you’re at it, idiot.” you lightly smack the back of his neck. “he’s clearly not there, okay?” there was no way the police were taking you in over this stupidity.

“hey, guys?” max calls out, pointing at a small shed next to the house.

“are we supposed to go in there?” you say, incredulous. how do you always end up in situations like this?

and you did. of course you went in.

“hello? is anyone home?” robin slowly opens the shed door and everyone follows her inside.

“what a dump,” steve says, looking around.

“obviously. it’s a shed.” you say, deadpan, watching him turn off his flashlight and grab a wooden oar. “steve, what are you doing?” you ask, confused.

“he might be in here.” he starts hitting some bags with his new weapon.

“then take the tarp off.” your brother next to you looks seriously alarmed.

“if you’re so brave, you take the tarp off.” steve shoots back.

god, what is this? are they in first grade?

“no one is taking anything off.” you scold them. “give me that.” you snatch the oar from steve.

“no, wait!” he tries to grab it back. “i need that, okay?”

“what could you possibly need an oar for?” you try to pull it away from him. at this point, you’d probably use it on him yourself.

“considering the fact that everyone in this room has nearly died a hundred times, personally, i don’t find it funny in the slightest—” he doesn’t even get to finish.

someone bursts out from under the tarp, jumping steve and slamming into him, sending you falling backward. “whoa!” dustin starts yelling like crazy.

“wait, wait, wait!” steve tries to reason with who is apparently eddie, but (as always, steve has zero survival instinct) he gets slammed against the wall, eddie threatening to slit his throat with a broken bottle.

“whoa, whoa, whoa, eddie, no!” dustin yells as you slowly get up from the floor. “it’s me. it’s dustin. this is steve. he’s not gonna hurt you, right, steve?”

“i will.” you aim your revolver firmly at eddie, the same revolver you’d kept in your car since ’83, when you found out there were monsters under hawkins.

“hey, no! wait!” dustin yells at you.

please. you weren’t actually going to shoot anyone. you weren’t even sure it was loaded. of course, eddie didn’t know that.

“drop it. now.” you stay firm. there was no way eddie munson was about to shove a bottle into steve’s jugular, right? …right?

“what are you doing here?” eddie looks like he’s shaking, and honestly you don’t know why. fear? adrenaline? oh my god, what if he’s high?

“we were looking for you.” dustin tells him, extending his hands toward eddie like that’ll calm him down. “we’re here to help,” robin finishes.

“eddie, we’re on your side.” wow, dustin. that definitely helps.

“and we definitely won’t be if you stab him with that, okay?” you step even closer. “drop it. i’m not asking.” you make yourself clear.

eddie stares at steve. or the broken bottle in his hand. who knows. but he lets it go.

which finally lets you put your gun away.

“jesus christ—” you hear robin say, like she can finally breathe again.

“you okay?” you walk up to steve slowly and rest a hand on his shoulder.

“yeah, yeah. i’ve been worse.” he says, touching his neck. “have you ever pointed a gun at someone?” he asks, a small smile on his face.

“god, no! i didn’t even know if it was loaded, i was about to panic!” you whisper harshly, teeth clenched.

“you did great. thanks.” he says, genuinely.

“yeah, sure.” maybe you stared at him a little too long, because suddenly you felt that pull again, like a wave calling you in, like at any second it could just grab you and drown you. so you broke eye contact. focus. there was a deeply traumatized guy talking to your brother right now.

after eddie explained everything he’d seen, and after you all explained that yes, he wasn’t crazy and yes, that kind of thing absolutely happened in hawkins, you promised you’d come back the next day with a plan to get him out of this. or at least try. optimism, right?

“i can’t believe eddie the freak munson threatened you with a bottle.” max laughs as you all get into the van to leave.

“don’t call him that.” dustin says it automatically, like muscle memory. he’s probably defended eddie so many times he doesn’t even think about it anymore. max doesn’t reply.

“let’s add that to the list of messed-up things that happen to me when i get involved in this stuff.” steve says, putting the van in reverse. to be fair, steve was a pretty good driver. if anyone asked.

“i can’t believe you did that!” robin says excitedly. “it was amazing. for a second i thought you were actually gonna shoot him.” she practically bounces in her seat behind you.

“i didn’t even know if it was loaded.” you laugh softly while buckling your seatbelt in the passenger seat.

“and? that doesn’t make it any less iconic! also, it was eddie munson! on what planet would i ever see you interacting with him?” robin is fully obsessed with the idea. she loves when worlds collide, like when she almost lost her mind watching e.t. and the alien recognized yoda from the star wars universe.

“i’ve talked to him before.” you say.

“what? when?” robin sounds genuinely shocked.

“yeah, when?” apparently this is news to dustin too.

“in high school. at the homecoming dance.” you definitely know where this is going.

“yeah, eddie offered her drugs.” steve continues the story, conveniently leaving out the part where you admitted you actually tried some.

“why do you know this?” dustin asks steve, offended. “why does he know this?” now he turns to you.

“why are you making such a big deal out of it? who cares? i told him.” you roll your eyes. this was not that serious.

“you told him?” his face is pure drama. “you told him?” like you just said the funniest joke he’s ever heard.

“god, dustin, what is wrong with you? it doesn’t matter!” max snaps, annoyed enough to pull her headband headphones off.

“it’s not that deep, man.” steve tries to calm things down.

“you shut up, no one’s talking to you.” dustin rolls his eyes. “yes, it is deep. why does he know and i don’t? i’m supposed to know this stuff, especially if it involves eddie! especially because i’m your brother!” he points at you.

“i’m gonna ignore you, okay? okay.” you roll your eyes and turn to stare out the window. there was no way you were about to fight over this nonsense. nothing dustin was saying made any sense.

dustin lets out a sarcastic laugh. “oh, so there’s definitely something going on between you two, right? now steve knows all these things about your life, huh? unbelievable!”

okay. maybe there was a way you’d fight.

“how do those things even connect!?” yeah, now you were mad.

“because he knows things i don’t!” dustin snaps back.

“what the hell is wrong with you!?” you turn fully toward him, ready to go.

the thing is, you two were way too similar. you know, both physics nerds, both obsessed with chocolate pudding, both reading an unhealthy number of books per week. but the problem was… you were too similar. including the endless stubbornness and the absolute refusal to ever lose. like, ever.

which is probably why this argument had already been going on for five minutes. and counting.

“hey, guys, stop.” you hear steve say, pretty far off, completely irrelevant to your fight.

“i just don’t get why you’d even talk about that! there’s nothing there! you don’t know anything!” you yell, furious.

“guys, hey! stop!” steve’s voice gets closer.

“well apparently i don’t know a lot of things, huh?” dustin laughs sarcastically.

“are you even listening to yourself!?” you shout.

“guys! shut the fuck up!” okay, now he yelled. that finally snaps you and dustin out of your argument bubble. “what is wrong with you two? seriously!” he scolds both of you. and somehow, yeah, you do feel scolded. like when your mom used to take away your dolls because you wouldn’t come down for dinner.

“whatever.” you and your brother say at the same time, crossing your arms and sinking back into your seats.

“see what you caused, steve?” robin rolls her eyes.

“w- what?” steve looks at her through the rearview mirror, genuinely confused.

after dropping robin and max off at their houses, you finally pull up to yours. hunting down missing people was way more exhausting than anyone would think.

“see you later, man.” steve turns to say goodbye to dustin, but dustin gets out and slams the door without even looking at him.

“god, what’s his problem?” steve whispers, rolling his eyes.

you just sigh. “i— i’m sorry, okay?” you close your eyes and sink into the seat. even then, you can feel him looking at you.

“it’s fine, don’t worry about it. it’s adolescence, you know how they get.” he brushes it off easily.

you let out a small laugh. “not for that. for the… you know, the fight.” honestly, you feel a little embarrassed.

“oh, that? don’t worry about it either, okay? it doesn’t matter.” and once again, with a smile, he makes it seem like nothing.

he always does that. you never really understood it. how nothing ever seemed like a problem to him. how he lived so calmly. like he had infinite patience.

“listen… i think lately… i don’t know, he’s kind of jealous?” you try to explain.

“jealous?” he scoffs, like the idea is impossible.

“he’s my only brother. i’ve basically only ever had eyes for him my whole life, because it’s not like i’ve had a lot of friends. especially not guy friends. and you know… you and i got kind of… close these past few years. i think he’s scared you’ll replace him or something.” you explain what you think is going on.

and again, he looks understanding. always understanding. “like anyone could ever do that.” he smiles at you.

“i know…” you smile back. “but i don’t think he sees it that way.”

he looks out the window, a small smile forming, then turns back to you. “you and i got close?”

“shut up. seriously, shut up.” you roll your eyes while laughing. and for a moment, you share a few laughs.

“listen, i’ll fix it, okay?” he says, looking at you with confidence.

you look at him, confused. “fix… what exactly?”

“the dustin thing. i’ll handle it, don’t worry.” he rests his hand on your thigh and gives it a small squeeze, reassuring.

and all you can do is stare at him. his soft, brown, puppy-like eyes. the confidence behind them. how you’ve never felt alone since he walked into your life. everything his eyes seem to promise. and damn, what a promise.

you honestly had no idea what this thing between you and steve even was. it’s not like you’d kissed or confessed your love or anything dramatic like that. but there was something there. something you both knew about. something so delicate and precious that neither of you dared to touch it. maybe out of fear. maybe out of hope. either way, it stayed untouched. right there.

untouched sounds beautiful. even if it means living with uncertainty.

“thanks.” you finally say.

“no, thank you. you know, for saving my life.” he smiles.

“i don’t think he would’ve actually hurt you.” you laugh.

his hand still hasn’t left your leg. “you never know. thank god you were there with your deadly weapon.”

“alright, harrington, stop making fun of me.” you roll your eyes.

“i’m not!” yeah. he totally was.

you look at him, a little dazed, for a couple more seconds. “good night.” you lean in and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “thanks again.” then you get out of the car fast enough that he doesn’t even get the chance to form a sentence. exactly like dustin did earlier.

steve just sighs, a strange tingle lingering on his cheek.

damn it. what is it with the hendersons?

[unclejeezysblog]

Chapter 2 - Shortcake

summary

At the diner, Gator visits you and you leave him a note with his food. Later he started bothering you which escalated into an argument, furious, you poured water all over him.

content warning

teasing and arguing, sarcasm, SMUT (not Gator and reader tho), Gator has dirty thoughts, overthinking, arguing, crying.

masterlist

You heard your alarm buzzing on your nightstand. Another day, another shift at the diner. It was 7am and you could already hear chattering outside at the ranch, probably Roy scolding Gator or he has his men gathered around ordering them what to do.

You wanted to escape North Dakota and build a life somewhere remote and undisturbed. Lehigh simply didn’t feel like your future, so you took a job at a well-paying diner, saving up for your escape. It wasn’t going to be some kind of dramatic escape where you won’t tell your parents, you will tell them. But there is one person that you wont tell, Gator.

Ever since that argument 6 years ago, things between you weren’t great. After the argument you tried apologising, even though it was not your fault, Gator still argued and was mean towards you. You decided that you had enough, and ever since then you have been ignoring him.

It did hurt, you’ll admit. Thirteen years of daily closeness left you feeling empty. Even though he lived on the same ranch and you saw him every day, his absence still left a void.

You quickly got ready for work and headed downstairs to greet your parents. The sweet smell of pancakes filled the kitchen as you entered.

“Morning” you greeted them, grabbing one pancake off the plate.

“Morning sweetheart, slept well?” your mother asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Like a baby” you replied, finishing the pancake and taking a quick sip of the orange juice that was served for you.

“Aren’t you sitting down to eat?” your father asked.

“Not today, I need to go earlier”

“I think the Tillmans are heading towards the diner, you could use a ride with them” your dad suggested.

“Dad i’d rather chew glass than be stuck in a car with Gator” you said, throwing on your jacket.

Your father nodded and continued eating his breakfast.

The diner was surprisingly quiet today, only filled with familiar regulars sitting at their favourite tables. Today your manager changed up the tables you need to serve, instead from 1 to 5 you needed to serve from 6 to 10. You could use some change right?

10 minutes later, your colleague Emma said “Oh look who’s here”

You turned around and saw Gator. Stomping heavy with his dirty boots and walking like he owns the place. He then sits on table 7. You were supposed to serve him, oh dear lord.

You felt your blood boil, you knew you couldn’t get out of this since your manager hated and never allowed you two change tables with your colleagues whenever you wanted to.

Taking a deep breath in and out, trying to calm yourself down, you slowly approached his table to serve him.

“What can I get you?” You lazily said. You always greeted your customers nicely, but this customer will not be getting that treatment you thought to yourself.

“What happened to good morning, what would you like to order?” he said

“I’m not here to chit chat, if you want to do that, feel free to join the grandmas on that table” you said pointing out, that shut him up.

“That’s what I thought now order” you pulled out your little note pad to write down. You weren’t actually going to write down his order, instead you will write him a message.

“Black coffee and eggs” he said, placing down the menu and looking at you smiling. Basic you thought to yourself.

You simply turned around and walked over to the kitchen to inform the chef of your order. Meanwhile, you’d written the message on a small piece of paper and planned to hand it to him along with the food.

As the chef rang the bell signalling the food was ready, you grabbed the plate of eggs and mug of coffee and walked over to his table to serve him. You placed the food in front of Gator and then ripped off the paper from the notepad, placing it on his table.

hope you choke <3

You tried to suppress your laughter as you walked away from him. Glancing over your shoulder, you saw him clenching his jaw and staring at you. You gave him a wink, just to tease and annoy him even more.

Maybe serving him wasn’t so bad after all.

Ten minutes later he finished his meal and pointed at you with his finger, signalling you to go over his table. You rolled your eyes and made sure that he saw it.

“Roll yer eyes again maybe they’ll get stuck next time” he said with his cocky smirk.

“What do you want?” you asked.

“Is this how you treat customers here? Tsk tsk” he said, taking the last sip of his coffee “Can I pay shortcake?” he asked

“Excuse me shortcake?” where on earth did he get that nickname from. You wont lie your stomach did do a funny flip when you first heard it.

“What you don’t like it?” he chuckled, pulling out his wallet.

“No i don’t like it, in fact I hate it”

“What a shame i really do like it” he said, placing a 100$ bill on the table “Keep the change shortcake” he stood up and left the diner.

You could feel the anger in your blood.

“Wow he tipped you really nice” your colleague Emma said.

“Emma not the time” you murmured, wiping down the table.

“Why not he’s good looking, maybe he likes you” she winked and chuckled. God only if she knew the asshole he is.

(In the meantime Gator couldn’t think straight the whole entire day. His interaction with you overplayed in his head over and over again. The way you talked back to him, and god the wink. He was hard the whole day.

There was this girl—Rachel who kept on bothering him constantly. She was a pretty girl, but she wasn’t what Gator wanted. Instead of fucking his fist like he does almost every night, he decided to invite Rachel over, maybe she could help him.

Right now she’s sprawled across his bed while he roughly thrusts in and out of her entrance, Gator isn’t praising or teasing her, because his thoughts are somewhere else. On you

While he gripped her hips hard, thrusting even deeper, hitting a spot he thought he couldn’t reach, all he could think about you. His eyes were squeezed shut, imagining your wavy blonde hair, how your lips were always plump and coated with a pink gloss, your breasts, the curve of your hips. He felt himself twitch inside Rachel, he was close.

He felt guilty. He shouldn’t be using Rachel like this, but he couldn’t help it. He needed you, he wanted you. But at the same time he knew how bad he messed up, and didn’t know how to fix things.

Because he’s older now, he realised that if he keeps pushing you away you won’t disappear. You’re still there, living your life on the same ranch with him. He couldn’t stand seeing you every day, knowing that he couldn’t have you.

He decided that he had enough, he is going to get you. A few years ago he was a stupid teenager who was afraid and didn’t know how to deal with emotions. It took him long enough to realise, but he had to get you, because you were the closest female figure he ever had. And he needed you.

Gator’s mind went foggy when he felt himself finish inside Rachel. It felt like all of the blood in his brain was gone, because he couldn’t form a single sentence. Rachel knew that he was using her, but she didn’t complain, which is good because Gator probably couldn’t stand hearing all of it.)

Later that day, you decided to spend it with your horse Scarlett. Your dad had bought her for you when you were seven and you’ve been inseparable ever since. She was your safe space whenever things got tough.

She was so beautiful, her coat was fully white, that sometimes it seemed like it glowed in sunlight. You decided to brush her fur today, you haven’t done it in 4 days, and she needed it. This was your way of connecting with her.

While you were brushing her fur, Scarlett turned her head, looking behind you. You heard heavy boots walking on the gravel. There was no need to check who it was, because you already knew.

“Look who we have here” Gator said, approaching you slowly and taking a puff out of his vape. You could smell his disgusting vape from miles away.

You didn’t say anything, just continued brushing out Scarlett.

“Have ya gone nonverbal?” he asked.

“No Gator, I just don’t want to talk to you”

“Usually people can’t resist a guy like me” he chuckled, leaning with his forearm on the wood.

“Well i can” your eyes were still fixed on Scarlett, not even taking a look at Gator. Although you could feel his eyes on you the entire time.

“Back in the diner, ya shouldn’t talk to customers like that” he said

“I’ll talk however I want to”

“Careful sweetheart yer talking to a deputy” he warned you.

“Oh my I’m scared” you finally looked at him. Gator felt like he could die on the spot, he was so down bad, one look from you made him melt.

“Will you fix your behaviour one day?” he asked.

“Fix my behaviour?” you started laughing “I don’t think I’m the one that should fix my behaviour Gator”

Gator. He can’t remember the last time she had said his name.

“Ya can’t even have a normal conversation with me” he said

“Yeah? And whose fault is that? Tell me why these last 6 years we never had a normal conversation”

Gator didn’t say anything, just stood there, eyes fixed on you.

“Only If you knew how to communicate we wouldn’t be like this” you said, throwing the brush on the floor and left.

While Gator stood frozen at the farm, he knew all of this was his fault, and he is going to fix it. How? He doesn’t know yet, but he will.

Walking back to your house, you could feel your eyes filling up with tears. Your mother was at the front porch watering the flowers.

“Honey is everything alright?” she asked with a concerned look on her face.

“Not now mom, please,” you wiped a tear from your cheek with the back of your hand.

You immediately walked into your room and locked the door. Your back hit the wall sliding down to the floor. Stupid asshole you thought to yourself.

After 5 minutes you heard rocks hitting your window. Oh he can’t be for real. You wanted to do something to him, after a few moments you got an idea.

There was a bucket filled with yarns from your mother in your room. You took all of the yarns out and placed them on your bed. Then quickly you ran to your bathroom and filled it up with really cold water. In the meantime Gator still kept throwing rocks on the window.

You walked towards your window, opening the window that prick almost hit you with a rock.

“Holy shit- sorry I- listen please-“

You didn’t let him finish talking as you grabbed the bucket and poured the water. You stared down as the water dripped all over him.

“Be grateful it’s not gasoline, because with that anger of yours you’d lit yourself on fire”

You closed the window of your room and felt instant relief of what you did.

Taglist: @jas-mines-things @yailology @hexyissy @oohlillie @sweatydjoshoes @us3r4682 @keerystff @djoshairychest @kristywidget97 @drlangdonapologist @lilyflower-26 @louisbelongstome28 @st4rg1rl88 @kurtsw7rld96 @skkeletonns @entercarolina @delphinemix

[holawdw]

meet the golden boy of naval air station miramar, one of the best pilots the navy has seen in years...

steve "wonder boy" harrington

born in hawkins, indiana. takes off his hat and sunglasses when a woman walks into the room. keeps polaroids of him and his buds all over his room on base. protective, but never possessive. always thanks his instructors with a firm handshake at the end of class. never fails to call himself a "naval aviator" when he tries to score a date on the weekends. can be convinced to try the dirty dancing lift, but makes sure he's on sand first.

[djob00bies]

so i think what would be so super cool to read is gator being the one overstimulated and worked to the edge until he’s just really overwhelmed and yknow, im not saying he starts to cry but maybe a lil bit of sniffles as hes trying to keep it the fuck together :) those big doe eyes all watery and his eyelashes all sticking together but hes NOT!!!! crying!!!!!

or him just fucking reader stupid, pick your poison ! 🫪

love @keer-y on main

anything for you, queen bestie jess 👑

uhhhh…. idk what happened. i blacked out i think…

warnings for this baby include choking, unprotected sex, semi-public sex (in the car), finger sucking??? lol oops!

MDNI (18+)

in this life, there are three things that are certain: death, taxes, and you ending up in the back of gator tillman’s off duty cruiser on a saturday night.

you aren’t sure when it started, nor if it was ever going to end. but these reoccurring late night rendezvous’ with the town’s resident delinquent dipshit truly kept you on your toes.

was he a gentleman? sort of, you couldn’t really tell. he wouldn’t jump to throw his coat over a puddle but he wouldn’t dare let you make that walk of shame without making you come at least twice.

tonight was like any other — only this time, you were holding the reins. one hand of yours braced on gator’s shoulder while the other was wrapped around his neck, the sounds of slapping skin and strangled moans engulfing the backseat of gator’s poor cruiser as you rode him like a madwoman.

“mmf—fuck,” gator chokes, literally, his face melting in pleasure, thick eyelashes fluttering as those hazel irises disappeared behind his eyelids.

truthfully, you hadn’t been having the best day. work was a nightmare, your friends were terrible at making plans and god forbid anyone knew how to drive these days. was it wrong to take your stresses and anger out on the guy who waits up by the phone for you with his hand lazily stroking himself through his pants?

no, you didn’t think so. and his wracked moans as you let him buck his hips up to meet your slick pussy were proof that it wasn’t entirely ill intended

“feels— feels so fuckin’ tight ‘round me, sugar. keep— keep squeezin’ me like that p— ah, please…”

the hand of yours that choked him moved up to cup his jaw, your face mirroring his expression of pure ecstasy as his tip rammed into you and hit that sweet spot, deep within you every time. your stomach was in knots, you’d been riding him for so long that the windows of his squad car were fogged up, covered in hand prints, and fogged up again.

“gator, oh my god,” you moan, “look at me, please—” you nod when his eyes flutter open, pools of honey snapping around your features and unsure of where to focus first. your face cracks into a smile when you notice the purplish hue of his bottom lip, abused by your nibbles and kisses and slick with saliva as he practically drooled over the feeling of your cunt clenching around him.

“s’fuckin’— shit, yer’ killin’ me here.” gator whines when you stop your rhythm to grind down against him, your hips meeting his thighs, seating him all the way inside of you. he’s panting, cock straining and aching inside of you— he tries his best to hold out for as long as he can when it comes to you. he could tell you were having a shit day just by the way you simply grumbled and pulled him into your lips when he asked you about the currently unfolding drama in your friend group.

truth was, all gator wanted was to be good for you. to keep you coming back for more, even though it didn’t take much. and you rolling your hips with him fully to the hilt inside of you, your arousal leaking out of your soaked pussy onto his throbbing cock and ruining his good pair of cargos, it was all getting to be a bit much.

gator’s lip quivers when you pick up the pace, both of your hands now holding onto his shoulders for stability while his sought refuge at your waist. he wasn’t fucking you — you were fucking him. your pace and moans and tight, wet walls had rendered him utterly useless. which was something he was definitely not used to being.

“i’m— i’m so fuckin’ close na’ sugar, gonna— gon’ fill y’ up how y’ like it, yeah?” he tries his best to put on that gruff voice he knows you love, practically whimpering when you lean down and put your ear next to his mouth to hear his sounds better.

“please gator, gimme’ it all,” you moan, kissing at the mole just beneath his jaw to look back into his eyes, right as you’re about to chase your orgasm.

but when you pull away, you don’t see that cocky, self assured expression. that macho look at me, i make girls cum face that’s riddled with pride. instead, you see tear stained lashes. rosy red cheeks and teeth sunk so hard into his bottom lip, you were sure he’d draw blood.

“are— gate, are you fucking crying?”

gator shakes his head —thats a lie— he wasn’t sad, nor angry. he was simply so fucking hard and turned on that even thinking about you coming made more tears well up in his eyes.

when he doesn’t reply further, a crooked smile cracks onto your cheeks. you’re just about there as far as your orgasm went, your legs burning like lava and your stomach a cable that was just about ready to snap — gator’s eyes were still wet, a singular tear rolling down his face.

right as your orgasm crashes over you, you wipe the tear from his cheek — he groans at the action, at the feeling of you pulsing around him when you came, but not long before you’re taking that thumb you used to wipe his tears and popping it into his mouth.

“suck.”

gator does as he’s told and soon enough, he’s coming too, hips spasming as he shoots his load deep inside of you. with your thumb still enveloped by his soft, swollen lips, his eyes are wide, pupils blown, staring at you like you’d just walked on water. his cheeks are stained with tears and the only thought bouncing around in his head right now was you, you, you, you, you.

“shit, tillman,” you sigh, chuckling as his dick twitches slightly back to life inside of you at you addressing him, “you worked the hell outta’ me.”

when you pull your thumb from his mouth, you replace the heavy feeling against hips lower lip with a tender kiss. his breathing is still erratic, hands shaky down at your hips as he tries with all of his might to kiss you back.

“i ain’t ever cried over no’ damn pussy before.” he mumbles into your lips. back like he never left. “tell anyone ‘bout that n’ yer’ fuckin’ dead, y’heard?”

“why would i want any other girl in this town to know that they, too, could make a grown man cry?” you tease him, running the back of your fingers against his tear-soaked cheek, “you know i don’t like to share.”

[emqqx]

hey queen! i was wondering if you can write something about the girl (y/n) being insecure about having big boobs? i mean to the point where she’s actually considering getting a boob reduction because she hates it so much? she’s constantly comparing herself to skinnier girls and even his ex’s. i would love to see what you would write in regards to what joe might do/say.

things may get spicy too ;)

"Curves and comfort"

⋆⭒˚.⋆ Joe Keery x reader ⋆⭒˚.⋆

english is not my language please be kind and sorry if i wrote wrong :) requests are closed!

summary: You’re insecure about your big breasts, compare yourself to skinnier girls. Joe reassures you

warnings: Body image insecurity, explicit sexual content, 18+

You sat on Joe’s couch with your legs pulled in tight, the oversized hoodie you’d stolen from his closet stretched across your chest like it was trying, and failing, to make you disappear.

Rain streaked the tall windows of his apartment. City lights blurred into soft golds and reds beyond the glass. The Thai takeout containers sat half eaten on the coffee table. Your wine glass was still mostly full., yu hadn’t been able to taste much of anything all night.

And Joe noticed, he always noticed.

He’d been quiet for the last few minutes, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, thumb brushing idle circles against the fabric near your shoulder. Those soft brown eyes of his kept flicking over to you, patient, waiting.

When you finally spoke, your voice came out smaller than you meant it to.

“I think I want a reduction.”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t laugh and he didn’t rush in with some empty “you’re perfect the way you are” that would have made you want to crawl out of your skin. He just turned fully toward you, knee brushing yours, and said, low and steady,

“Okay, talk to me.”

You stared at the condensation ring your glass had left on the wood. Your hands were shaking a little inside the long sleeves of his hoodie. “I’m serious, Joe. I’m so tired of them, they’re heavy. My back hurts almost every day, everything I wear either makes me look like I’m trying to show off or like I’m drowning in fabric trying to hide... and every time I see pictures of your exes...or just… any girl who’s smaller, skinnier, the kind who can wear a tank top without looking like she’s about to tip forward...I feel like a joke, like I’m the opposite of what you’d actually want if you really thought about it long-term.”

Joe’s hand found yours, his fingers were warm, a little calloused from years of guitar strings and whatever physical work the latest role demanded. He threaded them through yours and held on.

“Look at me.”

You did, reluctantly, your eyes already felt hot.

“I have never once looked at you and thought you were too much of anything,” he said. “Not your body, not your chest, not the way you fill out a shirt or the way you try to hide under mine. You’re not a joke. You’re the person I can’t stop thinking about, the person whose laugh I can pick out in a crowded room and the person I want to come home to.”

You let out a wet, broken little laugh.

“Easy for you to say. You’re… you... and I’m over here comparing myself to girls who look like they could wear crop tops without anyone staring.”

He shifted closer until his thigh pressed fully against yours. The city lights caught in the light stubble along his jaw.

“Those girls aren’t here, you are, and I’ve seen every version of you...morning hair sticking up every which way, no makeup, post-workout sweat, dressed up for premieres and so much more...and I still choose you. Every single time.”

Your throat tightened. “But what if I do it? What if I get smaller? Would you still...”

“Yes.”

The answer came without a second of hesitation.

“If you decide that’s what you need for your body, for your comfort, for your peace of mind, I’ll drive you to every appointment. I’ll sit in the waiting room. I’ll bring you ice packs and terrible reality TV and whatever soup you want while you heal... but I need you to hear me when I say this isn’t about me wanting you different. This is about you hating something that I…” He exhaled, almost like the words cost him something. “God, I love.”

The tears came then, quiet ones. You tried to wipe them away with the sleeve of his hoodie, but he caught your wrist gently and pulled you in instead. You ended up tucked against his chest, his arms around you, chin resting on the top of your head. You could feel the steady thump of his heart under your cheek.

“I love the way you look in my shirts,” he murmured into your hair. “The way the fabric stretches just a little across your chest, I love how soft you are when I pull you against me, I love the weight of you in my hands, i love that when we’re alone and you finally stop hiding, you let me see all of you. Every curve, every place you think is too much. I don’t want less of that. I want more of you being comfortable enough to stop comparing yourself to anyone else.”

You sniffed against his shirt. “Even when I look at old photos of you with...”

“Stop.” His voice stayed soft, but there was steel under it. “I’m not with them. I’m with you, and the only body I want under my hands is yours.”

You stayed like that for a long time, listening to the rain and the quiet sounds of the city far below.

Eventually the tears slowed and your breathing evened out. Joe’s hand moved in slow, soothing strokes up and down your back, never pushing, just present.

After a while he spoke again, quieter. “Can I ask you something?”

You nodded against his chest.

“When you look at yourself… what do you actually see that you hate so much? Is it the size? The way they feel? Or is it the stories you’ve been telling yourself about what they mean?”

You thought about it, really thought.

“All of it, I guess. They’re the first thing people notice. I feel like I walk into a room and that’s all anyone sees and then I look at the girls you’ve been with before and they’re just… lighter, smaller, easier. I keep thinking maybe you’d be happier with someone who didn’t take up so much space.”

Joe pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands came up to cup your face, thumbs brushing away the last of the tears.

“You don’t take up too much space, you take up exactly the right amount. And for the record..." his mouth curved into the smallest, softest smile “I have never once wished you were lighter or smaller or easier. I like the way you feel against me. I like the way you look when you’re not trying to hide. I like waking up with my face buried in your chest because it’s warm and soft and it smells like you. I like the way you fill my hands. I like every single thing you’re trying so hard to shrink.”

Your face burned and you looked down, but he tilted your chin back up.

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t do whatever makes your body feel better,” he continued. “If the weight is hurting you, if it’s making daily life harder, then we look into it. But I need you to know that the version of you I’m in love with is the one sitting right here.”

You swallowed. “You’re really not… disappointed?”

“Disappointed?” He let out a short, incredulous breath. “Baby, come here.”

He stood, tugging you gently to your feet, and led you down the short hallway to his bedroom. The lights were low, just the warm glow of the lamp on the nightstand. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you between his knees, hands resting lightly on your hips over the hoodie.

“Can I show you?” he asked. “What I see?”

Your heart hammered, you nodded once.

Joe’s fingers found the hem of the hoodie. He looked up at you the entire time, giving you every chance to stop him. When you didn’t, he lifted it slowly, carefully, over your head and let it fall to the floor. You were left in just the soft bralette you’d worn under it, nothing fancy, just something that tried to contain everything. Your arms immediately crossed over your chest.

He caught your wrists and guided them gently back down to your sides.

“Don’t hide,” he whispered. “Not from me.”

His hands slid up your waist, slow, reverent. When they reached the undersides of your breasts he paused, then cupped them carefully, as if they were something precious instead of the heavy, inconvenient things you’d spent years resenting. His thumbs brushed over the soft fabric of the bralette. You felt yourself flush all the way down your neck.

“These,” he said, voice rough now, “are part of the body I can’t get enough of, the body I want under me, over me, against me... every night.”

He leaned in and pressed a kiss right over your heart, through the thin fabric. Then another, lower, his mouth was warm.

You shivered. “Joe...”

“I’m not done.”

He looked up at you again, eyes dark and soft at the same time. “I love how full they are, and I love that you’re mine.”

Your knees felt weak and he must have sensed it, because he stood, turned you carefully, and guided you down onto the bed. He followed, bracing himself over you on his forearms, hips settled between your thighs. The weight of him was grounding.

He kissed you then, slow, deep, the kind of kiss that felt like a promise. One hand slid under your back to unhook the bralette. You helped him slide it off, and then there was nothing between his palms and your skin. He groaned quietly against your mouth when he filled his hands with you, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened under his touch.

“See?” he murmured, trailing kisses down your throat. “Perfect, exactly like this.”

He took his time. Mouth on one breast, then the other, sucking gently, licking, nipping just enough to make your back arch. Every time you tried to turn your face away or cover yourself, he caught your hands and pinned them lightly above your head, not hard, just firm enough to make you stay present.

“Stay with me,” he said against your skin. “I want you to feel how much I want you.”

Your legs wrapped around his waist almost without thought. You could feel how hard he was through his jeans, pressing against the softest part of you. He rocked against you once, slow, and the friction made you gasp.

“Still think I’d rather have someone smaller?” he asked, voice low and a little wrecked already. He rolled his hips again, deliberate. “Still think I’d look at any of those girls the way I’m looking at you right now?”

You shook your head, eyes stinging again for a completely different reason.

“Good.”

He kissed you harder this time, deeper, while one hand slid down between your bodies to pop the button on your jeans. You lifted your hips to help him. Together you shoved the denim and your underwear down your legs until you could kick them off. His own clothes followed in a messy pile on the floor.

When he settled back between your thighs there was nothing left between you, just skin and heat and the steady press of his cock against your wetness.

He didn’t rush, he rocked against you for a long time, sliding the length of himself through your folds, coating himself in how ready you already were. Every pass of the head over your clit made your breath catch. His mouth stayed busy on your breasts, alternating between soft kisses and firmer sucks that sent sparks straight down your spine.

“Joe...please...”

“I’ve got you.”

He reached between you, guided himself to your entrance, and pushed in slow.

The stretch was familiar and overwhelming all at once. You both groaned when he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, buried as deep as he could go.

He stayed still for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. “Feel that?” he whispered. “That’s how much I want you, not a smaller version or a different version. You.”

Then he started to move.

Deep, steady strokes that dragged against every sensitive place inside you. His hands never stopped touching; cupping your breasts, squeezing gently, rolling your nipples between his fingers while he fucked you like he had all night and nowhere else to be. Every time you tried to hide your face in his neck he pulled back just enough to make you look at him.

“Stay with me,” he said again, voice rough. “I want to see you, all of you.”

You came the first time with his name broken on your lips and his mouth open against your breast, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. He didn’t stop, he just slowed, working you through it, then built the pace back up until you were shaking again underneath him.

By the time he finally let himself go, buried deep and groaning into your neck, your legs were trembling and your mind had gone quiet for the first time in weeks.

No comparisons. No mental measurements against other girls. Just the heavy, perfect weight of him on top of you and the slow, soothing circles his thumb traced over the side of your breast while you both came down.

He didn’t pull out right away, he stayed inside you, soft kisses pressed to your collarbone, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. One hand stayed cupped around the soft weight of your breast like he couldn’t quite make himself let go.

“I love these,” he murmured eventually, voice wrecked and honest. “I love every soft, heavy, perfect inch of them.. and I love you, reduction or no reduction. Whatever you decide... but don’t do it because you think I want less of you, don’t do it because you’re measuring yourself against people who aren’t here and never will be. Do it only if it’s for you.”

You turned your face into his neck and breathed him in.

The rain was still falling outside, somewhere in the city a car horn sounded, distant and unimportant.

“I’m still scared,” you admitted.

“I know.” He kissed the top of your head. “We’ll figure it out, together. But for right now…” His hand squeezed gently, possessively. “Just let me keep loving the body you already have.”

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[moonstoneandmoonlight]

I DON'T DANCE | steve harrington

Steve Harrington somehow ends up cast as one of the lead parts in the spring musical and you're tasked with teaching him how to dance.

pairing: steve harrington x reader words: 2.1k contains: high school musical au, king!steve, enemies to lovers (maybe), fluff, sexual tension, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader

author's note: request by my love @goldiwrites | this has been in my inbox for a little while and finally got an idea for it that i loved. this one is for my musical theatre girlies! also there is potential for a part two here, i have a few ideas...

to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page

The fact that Steve Harrington had been cast as your partner in the spring musical pissed you off. A lot.

From what you had heard, he had lost a bet with Tommy and auditioned for one of the lead roles as a forfeit. Everyone had thought it would be laugh—the star of the basketball trying to sing, making a fool of myself. And so, the day Steve had auditioned, the auditorium filled up, ready to laugh at King Steve’s attempt at an audition for a musical.

But no one—absolutely no one— had expected for Steve Harrington to have an incredible singing voice. Even you were impressed.

But still, you had thought that singing alone wasn’t enough to land the lead role.

Turns out, you were dead wrong.

And now you were spending your Wednesday and Thursday lunches trying to teach Steve Harrington how to dance and not trip over his own feet, as if rehearsals for the show with him every Tuesday and Friday after school weren’t already enough.

Plus the fact that the show would end with a kiss between your characters—well, you were beginning to regret auditioning for the show in the first place.

“Steve!” You snap at him one Thursday lunchtime in the dance studio for stepping on your shoes for the fifth time in the past fifteen minutes. “Look at where you’re going—”

“—you told me to stop looking down at my feet—”

“—yeah, well you need to make sure that your big clown feet don’t break a toe—”

“—clown feet?!”

It would have been comical, if arguing with Steve didn’t make you want to strangle him.

It was six weeks before the spring musical and four weeks into rehearsals and Steve Harrington had managed to steal every bit of patience that you possessed.

To his credit, he wasn’t that bad of a dancer. He just didn’t like to listen to you. Or maybe he just preferred you when you were pissed off at him for not taking the dance practices seriously. But who could blame you for getting pissed? To him—this was just a stupid little musical he didn’t really want to be in and to you? This musical could be the difference between whether or not you got into college.

So yeah, Steve’s clown feet and his inability to listen to you were a fucking problem.

“Yeah, clown feet,” you retort irritability as you step away from him, needing space before you resorted to physical violence. “Let’s take it from the top and don’t fucking step on my toes again.”

Steve looked as though he wanted to argue with you but the borderline murderous look on your face stops him.

At least he had some sense about him.

Steve manages to do a complete run through of the dance without stepping on your toes once. He was getting better, even you could see that. But you certainly weren't going to kiss his ass like everyone else in Hawkins High did.

"Good," you say by way of a compliment as Steve can't help but look pleased with himself.

"Just good?" Steve asks, a little incredulous, almost offended that you weren't fawning over the fact he did possess an ability to listen to you. "C'mon, that deserved more than a 'good'."

You very nearly roll your eyes. God, you could not stand this guy and you had six more weeks of having to tolerate him.

You say nothing, glancing down at your watch to avoid looking at him.

"What's up with you today?" Steve asks you, nudging your arm and making you grit your teeth. "You're crankier than usual."

You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, wishing more than anything that you were anywhere else in the world but here before you finally decide to look at him. "I'm fine. There's nothing up with me—"

"—is it because we're rehearsing the kiss is tomorrow?"

Your breath hitches. Everything seems to go very still, except your heart that starts trying to beat its way out of your chest. Traitorous thing.

You take perhaps five seconds to come to your senses, shaking your head before letting a loud laugh.

"Of course not," you say, despite the fact that your face had started feeling a little hot. "It's just a kiss, it's not that serious."

Steve quirks a brow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looks back at you. You can't help but notice the small step that he takes towards you.

"I think you're nervous," Steve murmurs, less than a foot away from you now as he looks at you with eyes that you find yourself being unable to look away from.

"Why would I nervous, exactly?" You ask him, trying to keep your voice even despite the way your heart was still pounding in your chest. “Are you that bad at kissing?”

Something in Steve’s expression shifts, looking amused instead of annoyed at your jabs like he usually would.

“No,” he says softly, his eyes flickering over your face as though he was studying every one of your features carefully. “I’ve been told I’m a great kisser.”

“Sure,” you say, unamused as you look anywhere but at his lips. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Harrington.”

Steve smiles and then, before you can even blink—he leans in. Until his mouth is directly next to your ear, until you can hear every breath that he takes, until you can smell his ridiculously expensive cologne he wears, one that you couldn’t help but breathe in, the warm, musky vanillary scent filling your lungs.

“You wanna know what I think?” Steve asks you, his hot breath hitting your ear and making a heat that you didn’t quite know what to do with spread through your body.

You swallow, you pray that doesn’t Steve hear it. “You can do that? Well, colour me surprised.”

Steve laughs and the sound travels through you—warm and leaving your body tingling. You were having to remind yourself of all the reasons you didn’t like him—he was arrogant, he didn’t take the thing you cared about seriously and he had been stepping on your toes for the past fucking hour.

“I think,” Steve begins, his voice low and making that heat burn a little hotter inside of you. “I think you’re nervous about kissing me.”

You blink. For a moment, you don’t say a damn word. Everything in your body feels too hot and you’re quite sure that you have even forgotten how to breathe entirely.

“I’m not,” you say flatly after a beat, ignoring the way your heart was still racing from the close proximity.

“I think you are,” Steve hums, one of his large hands planting itself on your waist and making your body feel as though you were on fire, as though flames were licking at your skin, devouring your flesh. “I think you’ve been thinking about kissing me for weeks. I think you’ve heard the rumours about me and you want a taste for yourself.”

And there it was—the arrogance. God, you wanted to slap him. You wanted to slap that smug look off his face and do it again for good measure. Because he was a prick, nothing more than a hot jock who didn’t care that you had worked your ass off to get a role lead, didn’t care that your dreams of being on stage relied on this musical, something that he thought was stupid.

“You’re so fucking full of yourself,” you snap back at him, ignoring your body’s reaction to him. You tell yourself it was just biology—a hot guy this close to you? Of course you were a little bit affected.

It was just biology.

“Yeah?” Steve asks you, the hand on your waist splaying across your back, pulling you an inch or so closer. “That so?”

He was so fucking smug and his hand on your body was making you feel things you didn’t want to. Not for him anyway.

“Yeah,” you say, moving your head slightly so that you could look right at him, reminding yourself once again who you were talking to.

Steve Harrington. King Steve. Whatever else people called him these days. The guy who had things so easy that he had landed a lead in a musical without even fucking trying.

“Because kissing you will mean nothing to me,” you tell him firmly. “And I’m gonna prove it to you.”

There was a moment, the briefest of seconds where Steve falters. You catch the way his lips part, brows furrow in confusion.

“Wait, what—”

You don’t give him any kind of explanation, nor do you give yourself even a second to question whether what you were about to do was incredibly stupid.

Your hands each up cup either side of his face, your fingers brushing against the slight stubble over his jaw before you lean in and press your lips firmly against his.

Steve seems to freeze against you, your lips moving against his and turning his insides to goo.

It was only when you began to lean back, starting to pull away from him that he finally came to his senses.

Steve pulls you toward him in by the hand that was splayed across your back, his other hand cupping the side of your neck as he presses his lips against yours. His mouth was warm, soft and insistent as his lips slide against yours, a subtle wetness there that had a syrupy warmth spreading through your gut.

It should have stopped there. You should have pulled away.

But instead, you felt your lips parting almost on instinct and Steve took the opportunity to slide his tongue into the wet heat of the mouth.

Neither of you could seem to help the noises you make at the first brush of tongues against each other. Steve groans in your mouth, his hand that was resting on the side of your neck moving to cup your jaw, titling your head back gently to deepen the kiss while you let out a small gasp, fingers trailing down to fist the front of his shirt, as if trying to pull him closer.

It wasn't sweet and it certainly wasn't pretty—it was needy. It was something akin to desperation. Both of your lips slick with spit and leaving your body thrumming for more.

It was just as Steve's hand moved to pull you closer, pull you flush against him that you finally—finally—forced yourself to pull away. And Steve Harrington—King Steve, Captain of the basketball team, the Keg Stand King—his lips chase yours, capturing them for another hungry, searing kiss. One that you feel in every nerve throughout your body, one that leaves your lips tingling. Steve dives right back in, sucking on your tongue and pulling a small whimper from you.

"Knew it," he murmurs against your mouth, "I fucking knew it."

He leans back in, ready for more but you place a hand on his chest, stopping him from doing so.

Your chest was heaving, your lips bee stung and wet with a mix of your spit but you refused to give him.

"See?" You say, a little breathless as you pull away from him fully, the distance doing little to help the warmth that had spread throughout your body. "Means nothing to me."

Steve looks back at you, his hazel eyes wide and staring at you as though seeing you in a whole new light. There was something, something there in his expression that you couldn't quite read. It made you swallow and you had to look away from him.

"Nothing?" Steve asks, trying to catch your eyes as you cross the dance studio to grab your bag. "Are you—"

"—I'm sure," you interrupt before he could finish his sentence. "That meant nothing to me."

Steve, for the first time, looks unsure of what to say. For a second, you wonder if you had hurt his feelings but then you remembered that this was Steve Harrington. He didn't need validation from a girl like you.

"I'll see you at rehearsals tomorrow," you say before Steve could even open his mouth to respond.

And then—you leave the studio with a second glance.

You miss the way Steve watches you as you leave. The way he lifts his hand to brush his fingers over his swollen lips, the way he can't bring himself to move from the spot where you had kissed him.

Because maybe, just maybe, Steve Harrington had just had the best kiss of his damn life.

And it had meant nothing to you.

Fuck, Steve thought as his stomach turned with something that felt too close to disappointment for his liking. He was fucked. He was truly and utterly fucked.

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[horsecockharrington]

[stevie-petey]

lonely hearts club

You kiss her forehead and pull Steve up from the couch, putting your jacket on and tossing him his. “Our Valentine’s day wouldn’t be the same without someone crying or throwing up. We’re going. Dinner can wait.” Steve wraps an arm around your waist. “She’s right. This is just tradition for us. A sacred thing we look forward to every year.” “You two confuse me so much.” Nancy laughs wetly, overwhelmed by your kindness.  “We get that a lot.” Steve kisses your temple. “C’mon, angelface. The lesbians need us.”

Summary: ten valentines days with steve. some years it's romantic, some years it's heartbreaking, but for better or worse, he's your forever valentine.

Rating: general, some swearing

Warnings: swearing, fem!reader, use of y/n, mentions of vomit, pregnancy, cheating (steve doesnt cheat)

Words: 11.9k

Before you swing in: happy valentines day !! is this a day late ? sure. but we're going to ignore that ! heres a cute little fic of valentines day with steve throughout the years. joe touring really influenced this because i made steve a rockstar but honestly it fit tbh. anyways, hope you enjoy !

-

Somehow it’s always Steve who you spend Valentine’s day with.

In high school it’s because of academic obligations. You’re student body president and Steve is the president of the key club. Each year when February rolls around, the two of you are responsible for hanging pink streamers in the gym and selling enough tickets to afford a decent DJ.

Thanks to the infectious Valentine’s day yearning for love and potential makeouts under the bleachers, the Lonely Hearts dance always manages to draw in a crowd. That, and Steve promises that anyone who buys a ticket is guaranteed a dance with him.

It’s gross and highly exploitative. And also quite brilliant. 

You never cash in your ticket, though. While Steve spends the night spinning around girls dressed in pinks and reds and whites, you’re manning the punch bowl to make sure no one spikes it.

Each year, Steve finds a way to sneak gin into the cherry liquid behind your back.

“I’d stop serving little Benny there that punch of yours.” Steve slides next to you, dressed in all black with a rose pinned to his ribbed vest. He reeks, a terrible concoction of every perfume worn by the girls he’s spent all night with. 

Benny, a small, frail fourteen year old with eyes too big for his comically small glasses, hiccups. His hand is extended towards you, empty cup waiting for more. His face is flushed and he sways ever so slightly.

You sigh. “How much gin did you pour in this time, Harrington?”

“An entire bottle.”

“I hate you, you know.”

Steve laughs. “Not my fault that you never catch me.”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you glare at him. “I still hate you.” Then, remembering that a severely intoxicated Benny is still waiting for his drink, you gently tap the kid’s arm. “Why don’t you go sit in a corner, buddy?”

Benny hiccups again and stumbles away. Steve snickers, but his laughter turns into a yelp of pain when you kick him in the shin. “Don’t you have girls to dance with?”

“Not if you keep kicking me like that,” he winces, rubbing his quickly bruising injury. “Jesus, are those heels made of steel?”

“Why are you still talking to me?”

“Can’t a guy talk to his most consistent girl?” 

A snort masks the reddening of your cheeks. “Real flattering, Harrington.”

“I’m serious!” Steve nudges his shoulder against yours. He’s smiling wide at you, charming as ever. “You realize this is like, our third year spending Valentine’s day together, right?”

You roll your eyes. “We’re only spending it together for a school dance.”

“Still makes you my longest running Valentine, Y/N.” He winks, smug, and you want to stain his pretty face with the cherry red of the punch before you. He’s close to you now, close enough that you can smell his expensive cologne under all the perfume that taints it.

Suddenly your mouth goes dry. You look up at him and find that he’s already staring down at you. He doesn’t move, doesn’t shy away from the proximity that only seems to be growing smaller and smaller between you.

“Steve!” Heather Morgan stomps over, the ruffles of her lilac dress swishing with her forceful steps. She stops in front of you and him, though she doesn’t bother to acknowledge you. “I thought I was guaranteed a dance?”

Three Valentine’s days with Steve Harrington, countless prom committee meetings and club organization conferences, shared lunch periods and classes, all have led to the intimate knowledge of the lines of his face and how every miniscule twinge of muscle reveals everything he’s feeling.

The forced smile that he gives Heather, eyebrows drawn together and eyes dim, is nothing like the bright and overwhelming smile he gave you only moments ago.

“You’re absolutely right.” Steve holds his hand out to the girl and walks towards her. “With all the hard work Y/N put into this dance, it’d be a shame if I let it go to waste and not abide by my promise.”

Your cheeks burn at the indirect compliment and Heather simply rolls her eyes. She yanks Steve’s arm and he gives you one last weary, yet shy and gentle, smile that’s etched alongside his freckles and moles. 

–

After graduating and moving to Chicago for college, you figure that maybe your first Valentine’s day in a big city will be spent with someone who doesn’t get freshmen drunk and dance with demanding girls. 

Then, your first week in intro to philosophy, you meet Oliver. 

He enters five minutes late, out of breath and frantic, and blindly throws himself into the first seat he finds. In his rush, he doesn’t see you until he’s thrown his jacket off and hears your quiet, “ouch.”

“Oh, my god.” His blue eyes are wide as he stares at you in horror, taking in the scene before him. He’s completely thrown his jacket on top of you. “I-I am so sorry!”

His British accent nearly sends your brain reeling. Oliver is tall, his black hair makes his skin appear almost luminescent, and there’s a dimple in his cheek that softens the harshness of his accented vowels. 

“It’s fine,” you shrug the jacket off, too shy to say much else. He’s arguably the most perfect man you’ve ever met and it’s eight in the morning and you’re not quite sure if this is a dream. “Just… caught me by surprise?”

“Christ, I’m genuinely so sorry.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I-I overslept and I only just switched into this class quite literally twelve hours ago and–”

“Top row,” your professor clears her throat, glaring at you and Oliver. “Is Aristotle really so interesting to you that you decide to interrupt my class in glee?”

You’re beet red, frozen in shame and fear, but Oliver simply laughs and ducks in head. “My apologies, Miss. Please, continue.”

Even the professor is charmed by his accent, and she shakes her head with a slight chuckle. She carries on with the lecture and Oliver is quiet next to you. You don’t speak for the rest of class, but during the last five minutes, a note slides across your desk.

Coffee? 

– Oliver (the dunce who threw his jacket on you)

A second coffee date follows the first. Then a third. A fourth. A fifth and sixth until they slowly turn into dinner dates. Sneaking into each other’s apartments when your roommates aren’t home. Kissing as you lazily study together in bed. 

Late January comes and you think that you’ve finally, finally, found someone to spend Valentine’s day with. Someone real and yours and lovely. 

Oliver tells you to meet him at his apartment at 7:30 for dinner. He’s promised you homemade roast, a recipe from his mother. Valentine’s day will be a quiet dinner with only candlelight as your company. No streamers or spiked punch; it’s everything you could’ve ever wanted.

“The potatoes need a few more minutes, then we can eat.” Oliver kisses your forehead as he wipes his hands with a towel. The kitchen is warm, the smell of herbs and garlic infiltrate the air. On the counter the beef is resting, its aroma enough to make your mouth water.

You take a sip of wine. “Thank god.”

“Hungry, are we?”

“A home cooked meal by my hot boyfriend?” You raise your glass. “Of course I’m hungry!”

Oliver laughs, kissing you again. “Well, good thing I have all night to feed you–”

The front door slams, startling the two of you, and someone calls out, “Sorry! Sorry, please ignore me!”

Your fingers tighten around the stem of your wine glass hearing their voice.

Oliver groans, “one second, babe.” He leaves your side, but you don’t follow, too afraid to face what’s waiting for you on the other side of the wall.

“I thought I told you I had the apartment tonight?” You hear Oliver hiss at the intruder.

“You did! I just-I kinda left my guitar here and Robin will kill me if I–”

“Hurry up!”

“What, your date can’t wait five seconds?” A laugh, pleased with his own joke. You close your eyes, imagining the scrunch of his nose and tilt of his lips; you haven’t forgotten the details of his face, even after months of not seeing him. 

Oliver mumbles something and you strain your ears to listen. He sounds upset, anxious, arguing with the other person in the room, and something akin to unease creeps into your stomach. 

“Relax, man. Just go finish that bizarre British dinner for Bianca.”

Silence. 

You set down the wineglass and finally walk into the living room. The click of your heels is the only evidence of life within the apartment. Oliver stands near the door. His eyes are closed, he doesn’t want to face you just yet.

Steve’s back is turned to you. His posture is relaxed, natural. He isn’t aware of what he’s just undone. 

“Long time no see, Harrington.” Your arms are crossed, shielding yourself from what’s to come. Your voice sounds more confident than you feel. “I guess you’re the roommate I never got to meet.”

He spins around quickly, almost falling over, recognizing your voice immediately. His childish stumbling tells you that he almost doesn’t want to believe it. When Steve’s eyes land on you, they soften, warm brown filling with fondness once more. 

“Y/N!” 

Steve steps forward as if to hug you, but then seems to remember where he is, what he had previously been talking about with Oliver. He stops, the fondness in his eyes diminishing to confusion, then slowly to anger. 

“You’re… not Bianca.” 

“Evidently not.” Your laugh is bitter. 

Steve narrows his eyes at Oliver. “What the hell, man? You told me you were dating some chic named Bianca.” He points a bewildered finger at you. “This is Y/N.”

“In my defense,” Oliver sighs tiredly, clapping his hands together in a defeated manner. “I didn’t think you’d know either one of them, so. This is just brilliant.”

“Are you dating them both?” Steve’s eyes bulge out of his head. If you weren’t on the brink of crying and throwing up, you’d laugh at his poor state of shock. 

“That’s how cheating works, Steve.” You say weakly.

Oliver tries to say something, but he’s drowned out by Steve’s yelling. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Steve–” He tries again.

“No! I-I was unknowingly an accomplice in your cheating?”

“I did try to hide them both from you–”

“You’re such a jackass! I thought the British were supposed to be posh and all that-that bloody bullshit!”

You touch the back of Steve’s elbow. You’re mortified and embarrassed and you really want to cry right now. No words come out. Your mouth won’t open. All you can do is hope that your touch is enough.

Immediately Steve stops yelling. He tugs you against his chest, understanding everything the touch meant. He doesn’t care that it’s been six months since he’s seen you or that you were never particularly close in the first place. He wipes the tears that have started to fall from your eyes with a tenderness you didn’t know was innate within him. 

“I’m taking you home,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Go get your things, alright?”

Weak and numb, you do as you’re told.

“Y/N, wait–” Oliver tries to reach out for you.

Steve steps between you. The look on his face is violent, almost frightening. You’ve never seen him like this. “Don’t.”

Oliver stumbles back. It’s enough of a distraction for you to quickly grab your purse and keys, vision blurry from tears as your body shakes. Every nerve, every fiber of your skeletal body is screaming at you to run. 

When you’re ready, Steve uses his body to prevent Oliver from looking at you. His hands are gentle as he guides you to his car. He whispers reassurances, rubs circles into your back, and allows you to cry the entire way home. 

It doesn’t surprise you when Steve doesn’t leave after parking in front of your apartment. It also doesn’t surprise you when he walks you to your door and lets himself in. 

“Stay here,” he all but shoves you onto the couch before making his way to your kitchen. He walks through the apartment as if he’s done so his entire life. “I’ll be right back.”

“What are you–”

“Less talking, more crying!”

You curl yourself into a small ball, too tired to argue with Steve. While you have no idea what the hell he’s doing, you’re relieved that your roommate, Jane, is out with her boyfriend for the night.

At least someone is having a happy Valentine’s day.

Steve returns with two pints of ice cream and spoons. He’s already opened one of them and hands it to you as he plops onto the couch. “Figured you’d have a stash.”

The ice cream he hands you is your favorite flavor. You don’t remember ever telling him this. “How did you–”

“This is our fourth Valentine’s day in a row, Y/N,” Steve pokes your side. “When are you gonna stop questioning my loyalty to our sacred tradition?”

Mouth cold from ice cream and face hot from crying, Steve manages to pull a laugh out of you. It’s feeble and small and more of a grimace than something joyous, but it’s more than you ever thought was possible.

Steve laughs with you, knocking his own pint of ice cream against yours. “To Valentine's day, angelface.”

“To Valentine’s day,” you sniff, laughing again. The moment is bizarre and not at all how you envisioned spending the day, but somehow it’s wonderful and reminiscent of the years before. There’s only one thing missing. “I miss the pink streamers.”

“I’ll hang some up next year.” Steve promises, winking at you as he always seems to do, falling back in familiarity. 

You rest your head against the couch, warm, and hum thoughtfully. Steve always keeps his promises, and you can almost envision the messily strewn up streamers and tacky holiday decorations he would find and insist on using. The apartment would be full of light and warmth, and the thought makes you smile.  

“I’d like that.”

– 

Inexplicably, Steve becomes your best friend.

He all but declares Oliver dead to him and refuses to step foot in their apartment unless it’s to eat or sleep. He cuts off all contact with the guy without even blinking. You try telling Steve that he doesn’t have to jeopardize his relationship with his roommate and he scoffs at you.

“I’m giving that motherfucker the coldest shoulder known to man, Y/N. Whether you like it or not.”

And there isn’t anything else to talk about, really. 

Slowly Steve starts spending all his time at your apartment to avoid his, and you find yourself actually enjoying his company. He doesn’t stray far from your room and he always brings over extra napkins from the restaurant he works at, saving you an extra five dollars a week in household supplies.

Plus, Steve introduces you to his coworker Robin, and she’s so enthralling and chaotic and vibrant that it’s only natural that when she becomes your best friend, Steve does, too. 

Spring semester ends and Jane announces that she’s moving out to live with her boyfriend come summer. The first person you call is Steve. He moves in a week later. 

“Have you looked over the sheet music yet?” Robin has her legs tossed over your lap as the two of you sit on the couch. Steve sits on the floor, leaning his head against the couch, his hair tickling the bare skin of your leg. 

You’re watching some movie that Steve had been dying to see. It’s Valentine’s day and he’s begged you to let him watch some cheesy romance movie he saw an ad for. He claims it’s to get into the holiday spirit, but you know it’s because he has a crush on Patrick Swayze.

Robin tagged along because she has a crush on Jennifer Grey.

“Hey, doofus!” She throws popcorn at Steve’s head when he doesn’t respond to her question. 

“Can you at least aim for my face?” He flicks the popcorn out of his hair, cringing. “The butter makes my hair feel gross.”

You ruffle the locks, shaking his head in the process and he swats you away, albeit without any cruelty or malice. “Could be from all that hairspray you drown it in.”

“I’m with Y/N on this one,” Robin leans forward, invading Steve’s space with ease. “Anyways, did you read the music or not? Kelly wants your opinion before our gig tonight.”

“Why does she care what I think?”

“Because you’re the lead singer?” Robin looks at you. “Do you think all that hairspray has rotted his brain?”

You shrug. “Probably.”

Steve flips the both of you off and you giggle together at his annoyance. Ever since meeting Robin, making Steve’s life as miserable as possible has become your favorite thing to do together. 

Robin then asks again about the song and she and Steve fall into a conversation about Kelly and her obsession with their other bandmate Connor and whether or not the song is actually good or if it’s just another attempt for her to win him over. 

You watch them talk with a lazy smile. They become so animated when they discuss music, and you admire how well they work together. It doesn’t surprise you that they formed a band together after only being friends for two days. They take music seriously, obsess over it in a way you don’t think you’ll ever quite understand, but that you will always admire.

“You’re coming to our gig tonight, right?” Steve suddenly turns to you, eyes pleading and hopeful. 

“Where is it again?”

“The Vexture. We go on at ten.”

Robin has turned her hopeful eyes to you as well and you shift uncomfortably. The Vexture is a grungy club that’s always packed with people looking for someone to call their own, and given the fact that it’s currently Valentine’s day, it’ll only be worse.

The thought makes you nauseous. 

Steve sees you grimace and he immediately throws himself into your lap. “No. Absolutely not. You have to come.”

“I haven’t even said anything–”

“You were going to bail!”

“I–I wasn’t!” 

Robin pinches your cheek. “You’re a terrible liar, dear.”

You try to argue but Steve covers your mouth. You thrash underneath him, completely opposed to his body weight on you and his grimy hands covering your mouth, but he’s freakishly strong and Robin is a traitor who helps him hold you down.

“Look, Y/N.” Steve’s hair falls in your face. “We all know that last year was rough.”

“Fuck Oliver!” Robin shouts, wringing her hands together as if envisioning choking him. 

“What she said. Anyways, you took a hard hit. It’s understandable. But I refuse to let you spend Valentine’s day all alone, alright? You haven’t dated anyone in months. You’re coming tonight.”

You want to bite him, to kick him off and pinch his skin, but you know he’s right. Deflating, you cross your arms and reluctantly nod. 

Steve and Robin cheer, jostling you around, and despite the annoyance and fear you’re feeling, you can’t help but laugh at their childish joy. 

“Love the enthusiasm, but can you guys get off me now?” You croak out in between laughs. 

They scramble off the couch and Robin helps you up. She fixes your hair and kisses the tip of your nose. “We have three hours to make you irresistible tonight.”

“I’m not dressing up–”

“You have no free will when it comes to me.” Robin smiles wickedly and grabs your hand, pulling you to your room, having long forgotten about the movie that’s still playing in the background.

“Can I join?” Steve calls after the two of you.

Robin slams the door in his face.

The Vexture is loud and overflowing with people by the time you get there. The lights are dimmed and Robin has to hold your hand as she guides you through the crowd. Since they’re performing, they’re allowed to cut the long lines and are able to get you the best seats in the house: backstage.

“You made it!” Kelly throws her long and lithe arms around you. She smells of vanilla and honey and her hair is tied in loose knots. Glitter adorns her eyelids and pink hearts dot her cheeks. 

“I’m being held against my will,” you shout into her ear, hugging her tightly. “But I’m here.”

Connor pats your back and chuckles. He’s matching Kelly’s heart theme with a pink heart painted on his own cheek. “Well, at least you’ll have a good time!”

Steve hands him a guitar and checks his hair in the mirror. Robin dressed him in a white button down and demanded that he leave the first four buttons undone. The exposed strip of skin from the base of his neck to the swell of his chest burns your lips. 

“We ready?” Steve pulls you by the waist, flush against him, and winks at his bandmates. 

Kelly and Robin cheer and Connor slams his drumsticks together. A cheer of your own tumbles from your lips, allowing your body to lean against Steve’s, and his fingers dig into your side as his chest rumbles with pleasure. 

The crowd erupts when they get on stage. They all get into their places. Robin with her keyboard. Kelly and the bass. Connor behind his drum set. And Steve, front and center of the stage, smiling into the mic as his fingers pick at his guitar. 

“How’s everyone doing tonight?” He’s a natural on stage. People scream his name and he plays into it with such confidence and charm. Steve smirks, knowing he has the audience in the palm of his hand. “That’s what I like to hear!”

He plays the first few notes of the song they’re starting with tonight. Easy and light. He’s setting the audience up, tempting them, leaving them wanting more. 

Steve grabs the base of the microphone and tilts his head at the crowd. “Who’s here with their Valentine tonight?”

Almost everyone cheers and whistles. Hands get thrown into the air and lovers kiss the smiles off each other’s face. 

“Hell yeah!” Steve laughs, high on the energy in the room. He plays a few more notes, turns his head away from the crowd as he does so. You watch him, curious, and find that he’s looking at you. 

When he has your attention, Steve laughs again and goes back to the mic. He’s smiling wide, cheeks pink. “You know, I’m also here with a Valentine tonight.”

The audience gasps and cheers and claps for him. Robin wolf whistles, loud and obnoxious, teasing eyes looking only at you. Kelly snickers and Connor points one of his drum sticks at you, clutching his heart dramatically.

The apples of your cheeks pinch together a glorious red and Steve can’t take his eyes off you. His eyes, soft as they always are when he looks at you, are like molten earth. He smiles into the mic again, unable to look away from you.

“This is our fifth Valentine’s day together,” he tells the crowd, smiling so much he’s almost slurring his words. “I kinda hope that this angelface will always be my Valentine.”

Robin whistles again and the roar of the Vexture is so loud now that you can’t hear anything besides the blood rushing in your head. Steve screams along with the crowd and Connor counts the band in and there’s music all around you and dancing and Steve’s sweat drips down his chest and there’s a burning deep within your stomach.

He’s beautiful. 

You hope that he’ll always be your Valentine, too.

– 

Sophia enters your life early junior year. You find her in your kitchen one morning wearing one of Steve’s old t-shirts, and you make her a cup of coffee.

She’s nice. Her hair is bronzy and she has incredible green eyes and an angelic laugh. She studies English and she’s the only other person besides your classmates who has read Plato, so you’re honestly quite fond of her, and you can see how Steve falls for her hard and fast. 

Robin, however, has other thoughts.

“I don’t trust her.” She says one day in January. Steve is at Sophia’s, so you invited Robin over to bake cookies and watch the latest episode of a show you both enjoy. 

You frown at her. “Why not? I think Sophia is nice.”

“Ever notice how the only way we can all collectively describe her as is nice?” Robin shivers. “What kind of psycho only has one personality trait?”

Well. There isn’t a lot you can argue with there. Sure, everyone who has met Sophia has liked her, but when you think about it, Robin’s right. They’ve all described her as nice, maybe quiet, but always nice.

“I think you’re just overprotective of Steve.” You try to defend. You like Sophia. She’s become a very loose, very distant, acquaintance. “Just give her some time.”

“They’ve been dating for months now, Y/N. She creeps me out.”

“Sophia isn’t some off putting creature, Robin–”

“Guys!” Steve barrels through the front door. You and Robin both scream, but he ignores your terror and throws himself at the two of you. “How much do you guys love me?”

Robin responds with, “how much money do you want?” while you reply, “depends on the day.”

Steve breathes heavily, grasping your hand. “I need you guys to please, please do me the biggest favor.”

“Did you kill someone?” You pull your hand away, weary of the scene before you.

“What? No! I just–” Steve inhales sharply. “It’s Sophia.”

“I knew it!” Robins screeches, but you jump and cover her mouth. She tries to scream through your silencing, but her words are muffled and jumbled. 

You smile at Steve awkwardly. “Don’t mind her. What’s going on with Sophia?”

“She wants to go on a double date for Valentine’s day.” You and Robin stare at him as if he’s insane, and Steve groans. “Look, I know it sounds crazy, alright? But she-uh. I guess she’s had some shitty Valentine’s days in the past and thought it’d be better if we had other people with us? As a safeguard?”

“That’s…” Concerning, you want to say, but Steve is staring at you, pleading, and you really don’t feel like dealing with his anxious monologues. “Interesting.”

He rubs his face. “It’s insane, I know, but I just… I really like this girl, you know? So if one of you could just–”

“I’m out.” Robin raises her hands and you shoot her an incredulous look. “I’m sorry, Y/N, but I actually have plans this year and I really don’t feel like spending them with Steve.”

“And you think I don’t have plans?” You ask them, offended, and Steve looks at the ground and Robin suddenly finds the tile very interesting. “Okay. At least pretend that I have some dignity.”

“I’m sure you have a lot of dignity, angelface.” Steve tries to amend. “And you’d have even more dignity if you went on a double date with me and Sophia. I’ll even find someone to be your date!”

In theory, it sounds like your worst nightmare. Spending a night with a loved up Steve and Sophia while you’re with some guy you met only hours ago. All because Steve’s girlfriend doesn’t feel comfortable enough spending Valentine’s day alone with him.

But Steve has had to hold your hand through a nasty breakup and other horrific dating exploits since then. He’s held your hair up when you’ve been sick. Makes you your favorite snacks during busy exam seasons. He cleans your room when he knows you’re exhausted. 

Steve is your best friend. The least you can do is this. 

“Fine,” you finally give in. “But the guy better be hot.”

The guy Steve finds you is, in fact, incredibly hot. His name is Max and he meets you and Steve outside the restaurant dressed in a well tailored suit. 

“Where’d you find this guy?” You whisper to Steve while Max isn’t looking.

“He knew Connor in high school.” He whispers back. “Makes a lot of money. Works in finance.”

Your mouth drops, but you quickly cover it up when Max opens the door for you and Steve. He’s a perfect gentleman and rests his hand on the small of your back. “You guys been to this restaurant before?”

“A few times together, but I don’t think my girlfriend Sophia has been here yet.” Steve sits down and grabs a menu before checking his watch. “Actually, she should be here by now.”

Max’s face twists slightly. “Her name is Sophia?”

“Max?” Sophia, rushing towards your table, stops and gasps out his name as if she’s been stabbed.

“Oh, dear.” You set down your menu. Something tells you that there won’t be any eating tonight.

“Sophia?” Max nearly falls to his knees in front of her, eyes shining at the girl as if she’s hung all the moon and stars with her delicate fingers.

They stare at one another, neither moving, and Steve looks between them with a bitter taste in his mouth. “So… you guys know each other?”

Sophia winces and Max coughs.

You grab your purse. “Steve, why don’t we head home–”

“What’s going on here?” His voice is strained. He looks at Sophia and you see the upset he tries to suppress. The clench of his jaw and the furrow of his brow. “Soph, who is this guy?”

“He’s no one, I promise–”

Max steps forward. “We dated for a few years.”

“Years?” Steve exclaims.

“Broke up on Valentine’s day last year, actually.” He looks at Sophia with a pained expression. “I… I missed you.”

Steve falls against his seat in disbelief. Sophia holds the base of her throat in a weak attempt to soothe herself.

“You’re really not helping, Max.” You glare at him, rubbing your friend’s shoulder as he sits at the table, mourning. Steve’s mouth doesn’t seem to be able to close and he’s looking at Sophia as if trying to silently plead with her to tell him that none of this is real.

Except is it, and Sophia closes her eyes. “I-I can’t do this, Steve.”

Her apology sends the chair flying back as he stands abruptly, desperately reaching for her in the crowded restaurant while you and Max remain silent. “Wait, can’t we just–”

“I should go.” She’s crying and the green of her eyes are a startling shade of brilliance. She really is quite lovely; the beauty breaks your heart. Steve calls after her as she leaves. 

You hold him back. He screams at you to let him go, but you know that this time you have to be the one to break his fall. To catch him as he caught you the year Oliver broke your heart. There are tears in his eyes and his hoarse voice begs the girl to stay, but she’s long gone. 

Max stands there in the wreckage. He doesn’t know what to do or who to follow. 

“Just go,” you tell him, pulling Steve back down to sit. He collapses into your side, too ashamed to cry and too exhausted to care. He’s weak against you and your arms encase him. Max doesn’t move, and your voice raises before you can stop it. “Go!”

He listens, and the other patrons in the restaurant watch as yet another person runs from your table. A waitress gives you a pitying smile that you don’t reciprocate.

Steve hides his face in your neck and you gently cup his cheek to make him look at you. “Hey,” you say when his eyes finally focus on you. “Let’s get you a drink, okay?”

He drops his head on the table with a defeated sigh. “Give me whatever liquor they got.”

“The stronger the better?”

“Yes.”

“Coming right up.” You wave a waiter down and order four shots and two beers. Steve doesn’t say anything while you order, but he does shift closer to you once the waiter is gone.

The buzz of the restaurant is low, though full of laughter and conversation. You sit with Steve, fingers stroking through his hair as his head remains on the table. He lost all sense of pride the moment he begged Sophia to stay, so he allows your nails to scratch his scalp.

Drinks get set on the table and Steve throws both of his shots back before you can even pick one of yours up. He wipes his mouth and cringes at the taste. You stare at him, slightly concerned. “Alright over there?”

“Need more liquor.”

You stroke his cheek. “How cute. You think I’m going to let you drink your sorrows away.”

He bats your hand away. “I don’t know if you’re all caught up, but I just got dumped on Valentine’s day, Y/N.”

“And?” You laugh at him. “That happened to me too, buddy. You’re officially a part of the lonely hearts club. How’s it feel?”

Steve drops his head back onto the table. “It feels like we’re fucking cursed.”

“I’ll drink to that,” you clink your beer against his. “Cheers.”

It’s quiet for a while. You finish your shots and sip slowly at your beer. Steve remains hidden away at the table, refusing to sit up and face the reality of heartbreak. You allow him to take all the time he needs, replenishing his drinks when he runs low. He’s quiet, but he knocks his knee against yours every time you squeeze his hand. 

I’m here.

Thank you.

The chatter in the restaurant dies down and you pay the tab and help carry Steve home. He’s significantly more drunk than you are, and you’re relieved that you chose to eat somewhere close enough to walk. He stumbles the entire way home and you have to cling onto his hand so that he doesn’t fall.

Steve drags your body onto the couch the second you open the apartment door. He collapses on top of you. His arms hold your waist and his nose presses against your neck. You bring your hands to his hair and sync your breathing with his. 

“Think it’ll always be like this?” Steve murmurs after a while. “You and me and goddamn Valentine’s day?”

Six years of sharing the holiday together. Six years of being each other’s person to spend the day with and draw cheesy cards for. Six years of laughter and tears and secret glances and inside jokes. 

Six years, and yet it still doesn’t feel like enough.

“We’re best friends, Steve.” You whisper into his ear, lips brushing skin. “Of course it’ll always be like this.”

He shivers at the sensation of your lips. Alcohol burns through his system. He finds himself upset that he drank tonight. He wonders what would’ve happened had he not met Sophia. If he had taken you to the restaurant alone and left sober.

Steve wonders if he would’ve kissed you then. If you would’ve let him.

But he had met Sophia. He’d taken you to the restaurant to have dinner with her. He got drunk tonight to forget the way she tasted. You walked him home because you couldn’t trust him to take care of himself. And now he’s too afraid to kiss you because he knows it could ruin everything he’s so carefully built with you.

He falls asleep to your heartbeat.

– 

“Who gets married on Valentine’s day?” Robin tugs at her dress in disgust. “I mean, that should just be illegal.”

You help her fix her dress and shrug. “I don’t know. I think it’s sweet.”

“That’s because Steve’s walking you down the aisle tonight. You’re biased.”

“He’s the best man and I’m the maid of honor,” you poke her stomach. “It’s quite literally tradition to walk down the aisle as a pair.”

Kelly, who has been fixing her makeup the entire conversation, peeks her head from behind the mirror. “To be honest, Connor and I did intentionally plan for Steve to walk you down the aisle.”

Your jaw drops. “Kelly!”

“The two of you are just so cute!” She laughs. “You’re two of our closest friends. We want what’s best for you, so Connor and I figured we’d just give you guys a little push.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Believe me. I’ve been trying to get them together for years now. What is this, your eighth year of being each other’s Valentine’s?”

Your head whips to her. “It’s only our seventh. And what do you mean you’ve been trying for years?”

“I’m practically the reason Steve moved in with you. He wanted to live with me months before you asked him to move in. Naturally, I’m a prophet, and I told him no. Now here you guys are, walking down the aisle together. Tada!”

“Oh my god.”

“I mean, it worked!” Robin frowns. “Well. Sort of.”

You’re speechless and Kelly takes pity on you. She walks over and rests a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Y/N, I love you. Connor and Robin love you. Steve loves you. You know that, right?”

“I…” You’d be a liar if you said the thought never crossed your mind. Especially after the breakup with Sophia. You’ve always been close with Steve, but in the last year there’s been this shift that you haven’t been able to describe.

There’s coffee waiting for you every morning. He holds your hand and strokes his thumb against your palm. Steve ends up falling asleep in your bed most nights now, wrapped around you as his breath warms your skin. His own room has slowly been turned into a makeshift studio for his music. 

Sometimes you catch Steve staring at you, and sometimes the heat of his gaze doesn’t scare you. 

But sometimes it does.

“Why are we even talking about this?” You deflect, setting your eyes on Kelly and her gorgeous veil. “You’re getting married in less than an hour. Can’t we talk about that?”

“Babe, all I’ve done for the last year is talk about this goddamn wedding. I’m the bride and right now I demand that we gossip.”

Robin laughs at you and you’re about to make up some excuse about needing to go organize the roses again when the bride’s door opens. Kelly yelps and covers her dress as you and Robin step in front of her to block the intruder’s view.

“Relax,” Steve holds his hands up. “It’s just me. Unfortunately, I’m not the groom.”

Kelly shakes his head at him fondly. “What do you want, Steve?”

“Connor sent me here because apparently I lack the ability to shut the fuck up and it was stressing him out.”

You snort and Robin hunches over as she giggles. Kelly smirks. “Yeah. I believe that.”

Steve sticks his tongue out at the three of you, and the conversation from earlier gets dropped. He helps you and Robin with the rest of Kelly’s makeup. He irons her dress, showers her with compliments, and your heart constricts every time he touches the edge of your silk dress with childlike wonder. 

“You look beautiful, Y/N.” He whispers when it’s just the two of you. The door to the aisle hasn’t opened yet. The rest of the wedding party stands behind you, waiting. 

A blush coats your cheeks. You loop your arm through his and bask in his fondness. “Thank you,” your hand rests on his chest. “You look quite handsome yourself.”

And he does. Steve is cruelly beautiful in his suit. His tie matches the lace of your dress and you want to pull the end of it and bring his lips to yours. He stares down at your lips and you wonder if he’s thinking about yours, before the music starts.

The door opens. Down the long, carpeted length of the church stands Connor. There are flowers everywhere and Steve grabs the hand that rests against his forearm. He squeezes it, takes a deep breath, and together you walk down the aisle. 

During the wedding Robin cries. The vows are exchanged and she has to cover her mouth to contain the sobs that spill from her. Steve catches your eye from across the pew and the two of you smile at your friend, your love for her forming into one. 

Sometime late into the night Steve finds you. He hands you a drink before promptly dragging you to the dancefloor. You protest, shy, but he doesn’t listen.

“I told myself I’d dance with the prettiest girl at this wedding, angelface. And it just so happens that that girl is you.”

You laugh at him, following his hands as he guides you through the motions of dancing. “Don’t let Kelly hear you, otherwise she’ll strangle you.”

“Let her,” Steve spins you, eliciting more giggles to fall from your pretty lips. “I’ll die a happy man now that I’ve danced with you.”

“That was disgusting.”

“And charming. Don’t forget charming.” He spins you again before bringing your bodies even closer together. “You know what this reminds me of?”

You gaze up at Steve. “What?”

“The Lonely Hearts dance.”

Exasperated laughter follows his confession. “You’re really thinking about our high school dance right now?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Every year I was dying to dance with you.” Steve’s thumbs stroke up and down the sides of your waist. His grip on you tightens. His voice lowers and you recognize the adoration that paints his brown eyes. The air between you stills. Steve dips his head, his forehead brushes yours. “And now I finally got that dance.”

You don’t breathe. If you do, you’re afraid that the exhale would shatter the fragility of this moment. 

“Was it worth it?” You don’t recognize your own voice and the breathy way it comes out. Your hands move up Steve’s chest and snake around his neck. His head knocks against yours, your noses centimeters apart, lips separated by inches.

You feel Steve’s smile more than you really see it. “You tell me.”

He kisses you, cradling your body as if it were made to fit into the crevices of his palms. Lips move against lips and your skin hums at the sensation of finally welcoming him home. His skin greets you with a soft tenderness and your lips coat his mouth with sugary sweetness.

“Get a room!” Robin throws a napkin at the two of you, forcing you apart, and when you come up for air you see the biggest smile on her face. 

You hide in Steve’s neck, embarrassed, though not enough to not leave small, fluttery kisses on every mole your lips can find. You’re already addicted to feeling him shiver beneath you.

“Seems we have a wedding to plan for next year!” Connor raises his beer and points at you and Steve, cackling loudly. 

Kelly is next to him and she kisses her husband’s cheek and beams at him. “It took ‘em long enough!”

“Do you guys mind?” Steve pulls you away from the dancefloor, glaring at his closest friends who all love him endlessly and whom he loves even more, and basks in your giggling as he whisks you away. “I’m trying to kiss Y/N here!”

“Use protection!” Robin calls out while Connor and Kelly whistle and cat call. 

Steve finds an empty closet and no one can find you for the rest of the night. Kelly never lets you live it down, Connor commends you for the bravery, and Robin has to wipe away her tears.

– 

Your first semester of senior year, Steve and Robin’s band gets signed. The record label is apparently legendary because they collapse onto the ground screaming when they get the phone call. Twenty minutes later, Connor and Kelly are at your apartment screaming alongside them.

Two weeks later they book tickets to New York and you help Steve pack his bags. Everything happens so quickly and it’s almost nauseating trying to keep up.

“We’re in the studio from nine to five every weekday, so I’ll call you every day at six.” Steve folds a pair of jeans and hands them for you to place in his suitcase. “Weekends I’ll call you at five so that we can eat dinner together.”

You give him an odd look. “Don’t you want to go explore the city while you’re there?”

“I mean, sure. But I can do that during the day. The moment the clock strikes five or six, it’s my girl’s time.”

“Steve…” You’re so stupidly in love with him sometimes. “I don’t want you worrying about me while you’re there. This is a huge opportunity for you.”

“Who said anything about worrying about you?” Steve walks up behind you and kisses your neck. “Angelface, I’m worried I might die after the first week without you.”

Your hands brush through his hair. “You’ll be fine, Stevie. I guarantee that in five days tops you’ll be having too much fun to miss me.”

“Wrong. I will be talking everyone’s ears off about you and will probably get banned from a lot of bars because of it.”

Sighing, you turn and face him, pressing a soft kiss to his brow. “Steve, it’s only for a few months. Each day we’re apart will be one day closer to being together.”

“How about no days apart and every day together?”

You kiss him, slowly and drawn out, as if time is on your side and you’re in excess of it. Steve hums against you, tightening his arms in a lazy hug, and you know that you’ll miss him forever.

The first few weeks are hard without Steve. You’ve never lived on your own before and you’ve never really spent a day without him since you were eighteen. Now you’re twenty-one and there’s no one to kiss you awake or make faces in the mirror with you as you brush your teeth.

What’s worse is that Robin is gone, too. And Kelly. And Connor.

Their absence makes you realize that you direly need other friends who aren’t in a literal band together. 

Steve keeps his promise and calls you every day. He always asks about how your day has been, he tells you every detail about his. He tells you that he’s started writing all his thoughts down in a notebook that he wants to tell you so that he doesn’t forget, and it makes you ache even more. 

The months pass by slowly. December drips into January and then February greets you with her winter’s kiss. There’s snow in Chicago and even more to come, and you know Steve will be excited to see it when he gets back.

Which coincidentally happens to be Valentine’s day. 

And also the day you get violent food poisoning. 

After months of being apart, the first time Steve sees you again is with your head in the toilet bowl, hacking up your lungs and dying. 

“Oh, Jesus.” He drops his bags and comes running over, immediately gathering your hair so that you don’t get it dirty as yet another wave of nausea hits you.

“Welcome home.” you say in between bouts of bile. Truly, you think this is a new low that you’ve reached. Here you are, deathly ill and incredibly sweaty, while your lovely boyfriend has just arrived home after months of missing each other. “Sorry that you have to see this.”

Steve rubs your back and sits with you on the ground. “Don’t be ridiculous. Even spilling your guts out I think you’re hot.”

“That’s sweet,” you throw up again. “Would you be a dear and kill me now?”

He laughs, massaging your tender body, and doesn’t once leave your side. He flushes the toilet for you when needed. He gets a rag and soaks it in cold water and rubs it across your forehead to help regulate your fever. He hums to you when your stomach twists in pain. 

Eventually the nausea settles enough for you to ask Steve to carry you to bed. He does, and he sets you down gently before crawling in next to you. He fits your body against his, hand on your stomach as if he himself can ease its ache. 

“I’m sorry,” your voice is raspy, the acidic bile still lingering. “I’m sure this isn’t the grand reunion and Valentine’s day that you had in mind.”

“I’m laying in bed with you and you love me.” Steve kisses your overheated forehead. “That’s all I ever want for Valentine’s day.”

Your eyes fall shut and you exhale shakily. “I just… I wanted our first Valentine’s to be special. I had it all planned out. I rented your favorite movie and bought all the ingredients to make the gnocchi you love so much, and then as I was folding the laundry I just-I died.”

“Food poisoning. America’s silent killer.” Your laugh rings in Steve’s ears and he smiles, kissing your face again and again and again. He runs his nose down your chin, brushes the hair out of your face. “Besides, this isn’t our first Valentine’s. I’m counting all the ones we spent together single and lonely whether you like it or not.”

“The fifth one wasn’t so bad,” you muse. You still remember the roar of the Vexture as Steve announced that you were his Valentine. “You were annoyingly charming that night.”

“That was me declaring my love for you, you know.”

You turn to him, startled. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Nope.” Steve clutches his chest. “There I was, telling the love of my life that I wanted her to be my Valentine forever, and then in the end she friendzones me. Truly brutal stuff.”

“But that was years ago! We were nineteen, there’s no way in hell you were actually in love with me.”

He grabs your hand and kisses it. “Y/N, I’ve been in love with you since we were fifteen. I was just waiting for you to like me back.”

The idea of Steve being in love with you since you were kids nearly sends you back to throwing up. You’re overwhelmed by it. By the idea that someone could’ve loved you for as long as he has. That he still loves you now. For nearly a decade.

“Y/N? You got all quiet over there. You alive?” Steve pokes your cheek and it’s then that you know that there was never anyone else for you. You were his from the moment he walked into student council and demanded cleaner mirrors in the men’s bathroom.

“I love you.” You tell him. They’re the only words created for what you have. 

Steve scrunches his face in an endearing manner. “I love you, too.”

“Now tell me all about New York.”

And he does.

– 

Robin tells you that tour life is romanticized and that within the first week you’ll strangle her and Steve to death, but you don’t believe her. When you see the size of the bus the five of you will be staying in for months on end, you start to second guess what she’s said. 

“It’s… cozy?”

Connor huffs at you. “That’s one way to look at it.”

“It’ll be fun, guys!” You try again to make light of the situation, though really you also don’t believe what you’re saying. “I mean, think about how much closer we’ll be after this.”

“Weren’t you a philosophy major?” Connor looks at you skeptically. “Isn’t the whole schtick of those old white dudes pessimism?” 

Steve throws an arm around you. “She graduated top of her class, actually. And yes. Those old white dudes loved being bitter bitches.”

“I think Y/N’s right.” Kelly joins in now. “We’re a family. It can’t be that bad.”

“Famous last words.” Robin mutters.

They are, in fact, famous last words. 

Connor learns that he gets car sick easily on day two. Kelly learns that she has a fear of car sickness on day three. Robin leaves her keyboard at one of the venues they play at the second week and doesn’t realize it until you’re already at the next venue an entire state away. Steve loses his voice after the sixth show and spends the entire bus ride to the next venue sulking.

You, however, are honestly having a great time. You didn’t get to travel with the band last year due to school, and now that you’ve graduated, you’re enamored with seeing places that aren’t native to Illinois or Indiana. 

“Steve, if you gargle salt water in my ear one more time, I will shave your head in your sleep.” Robin threatens during week four. Her eye is twitching and you truly do believe that she has a razor hidden somewhere.

“I have to protect my voice.” He argues, pouring more warm water into a cup before mixing salt in. “I can’t lose it again!”

“That was a pretty rough show.” Connor says from his bunk. Being nearly 6’4, he barely even fits in it. His legs hang off awkwardly and he’s been complaining about his back for weeks now.

“I thought Robin sang pretty well.” Nancy, the band’s tour photographer, says quietly from the makeshift kitchenette. She joined during the third show and you think Robin’s been in love with her since the fourth one. 

“Uh, thanks. I guess.” She squeaks out, hiding behind you in a not so subtle manner. You pat her hand, sympathetic. 

Steve gargles and spits the water into the sink. “Robin has an incredible voice, I agree. But that’s besides the point. We’re on the clock full time, even if we don’t have a show tonight.”

“And tell me, my dear wife, why we don’t have a show tonight?” Connor sings to Kelly.

“Why, my dear husband, I do believe it’s because it’s Valentine’s day and Stevie over here demanded the night off so that he can court our beloved Y/N.”

Steve rolls his eyes at them and you laugh. “In our defense, we haven’t exactly had a normal Valentine’s day together. We’re in dire need of one normal night.”

Nancy tilts her head at you. “But aren’t you guys together?” 

“Yeah, but we weren’t for a while.”

“One Valentine’s day Y/N found out her boyfriend was cheating on her, who also just so happened to be my roommate.” 

Robin throws her head back and shouts, “Fuck Oliver!” And Connor and Kelly join.

“Thanks, guys.” Steve turns back to Nancy. “Another year I made Y/N go on a blind double date with me and a girl I was dating at the time. Turns out, the guy I brought for Y/N was also the ex boyfriend of my girlfriend. So that was fun.”

“One year we actually walked down the aisle together. Before we were even dating.” Nancy’s eyes widen and you shrug at her. “We were in the same wedding party.”

“Happy anniversary, babe.” Connor blows a kiss to Kelly and she catches it, blowing him one back.

“And last year I got horrendous food poisoning and Steve had to drive me to the hospital since I was so dehydrated. He cried filling out my paperwork.”

“I did.”

Nancy looks between you and Steve. “And this year, you guys will…?”

“I’m taking Y/N out to a nice, totally normal and totally romantic dinner. I’m going to wine and dine my girl and then we’re going to cuddle in our way too small bunk bed and sleep.”

You beam at everyone. “It’s a pretty good plan.”

Except you and Steve don’t even make it to your reservation. Later that night, right before you call a taxi, Nancy bursts through the bus door with a frantic look in her eyes. You drop the phone and rush to her. “Woah, hey. What’s going on?”

“Have you seen Robin?” There are tear stains on her delicate face. 

Steve’s body tenses. “Last time we saw her was when she left with you guys, why?”

“I–” A broken sob prevents Nancy from telling him anything else, and you take her into your arms.

You soothe her, your own worry for your friend setting your body on edge. Steve shares a look with you, both wondering what the hell is happening. Robin left with Nancy and the others hours ago to go check out some local bar, and now here Nancy is, crying in your arms, with Robin nowhere to be found.

“Nance,” drying the girl’s tears, you try to get her to calm down enough to speak. “I need you to breathe with me, okay? Take a deep breath and then let it out slowly.”

You inhale, so does she, and after several seconds you exhale long and slow. Nancy’s breath stutters and her tears soak the white blouse she looks so delicate in, but still she breathes.

Steve stands over the two of you, arms crossed with his eyebrows pinched together in worry. He taps his foot and you know it’s taking everything within him not to tear down the entire town to find his best friend.

“What happened with Robin, Nance?” Steve gently asks her, crouching down to her eye level. “Is she okay? Are you okay?”

Nancy wipes her face and sniffs. She can’t look at you or Steve. Her eyes face only the ground as she picks at her nails. “We… We kissed.”

“That’s…” Steve looks at you, silently asking if he should be elated or concerned, and all you can do is shrug helplessly at him. “That’s-that’s great, right? I mean, you two were totally love at first sight. Like, Romeo and Juliet but without the, you know. Death. I mean, at least I hope there’s no death, but seeing as you’re currently crying I’m a little nervous–”

“What my boyfriend is trying to say is that we’re happy for you guys, but also a little concerned.” You interrupt Steve’s ramble. “What happened after the kiss?”

Nancy continues picking at her nails. Her crying has subsided but her face remains broken and anguished. Her eyebrows knit together and her mouth draws into a thin line. “I-I kissed her, and then she just… She ran.”

“Shit,” you sigh, dropping your head.

Steve throws his own head back and curses as well. “Another category five.”

“Yup.”

Nancy turns to you. “Category five? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You wince, grabbing her hand in hopes of quelling her sudden anger. “Look, Robin is…”

“A gem.” Steve finishes for you, and you nod at him.

“She’s my best friend, and she’s incredibly brave and charismatic and bold. I’ve seen her punch men five times her size. She always speaks her mind and never takes no for an answer, but she’s also vulnerable. She hides a lot behind her humor.”

“When I first met Robin, she was going through a pretty rough breakup.” Steve sits next to you and Nancy now. “And since then she’s become the worst person imaginable when it comes to dating. She always freaks out and leaves the relationship before they can leave her. And a category five freakout is… bad.”

“We’ve only seen it once before with some girl she met at a gig a few years back. They kissed and Robin locked herself in the bathroom and refused to leave until the girl was gone.” You tuck Nancy’s hair behind her ear. “We aren’t telling you this to scare you, we’re telling you this because you clearly love Robin, and she loves you. She’s just… she’s been hurt before.”

Nancy slouches on the couch. “But I don’t want to hurt her! I didn’t even mean to kiss her, but she looked so pretty under the purple lighting and was laughing at some stupid joke I made and-and suddenly we were kissing and it was incredible and then–”

“Category five.” Steve mimes an explosion with his hands. You glare at him.

“How about this, we’ll find Robin for you and bring her back here. I think the two of you just really need to talk about this.”

Steve raises his hand. “I personally think they just need to makeout.” You elbow his side and he groans in pain. “Yeah, okay. That was fair.”

“I can’t ask you guys to do that.” Nancy sniffs. “You were so excited for your date tonight and you’ve already done enough.”

You kiss her forehead and pull Steve up from the couch, putting your jacket on and tossing him his. “Our Valentine’s day wouldn’t be the same without someone crying or throwing up. We’re going. Dinner can wait.”

Steve wraps an arm around your waist. “She’s right. This is just tradition for us. A sacred thing we look forward to every year.”

“You two confuse me so much.” Nancy laughs wetly, overwhelmed by your kindness. 

“We get that a lot.” Steve kisses your temple. “C’mon, angelface. The lesbians need us.”

Nancy nearly chokes on her laughter and you giggle as well. The bus door closes and it’s just open road before you. You’re in the middle of Wisconsin with nothing but grass and dirt for miles ahead. Wherever Robin ended up running off to, you sincerely hope it’s close.

In the end, you and Steve end up walking nearly two miles to a nearby gas station and find Robin face deep in a pint of ice cream. Her cheeks are smeared in chocolate and her puffy eyes are red. The moment you find her, Steve throws himself into her arms and you hold them both as she starts to cry.

It takes several conversations, many tissues, and a few threats before you’re able to convince Robin to walk back to the bus with you. She freaks out the entire two miles and Steve has to fully pick her up at one point to prevent her from fleeing, but eventually you’re standing in front of the bus door with Robin’s iron grip on your hand.

“I-I can’t do this.” She chokes out, short of breath as panic sets in again. “Please don’t make me do this.”

“You can,” Steve pokes her cheek, though his hand rubs her shoulder with affection. “And you will.”

“What if she hates me now?”

You hook your chin over Robin’s shoulder, butting your head with hers. “Then we’ll be here to catch you, dummy. But we won’t need to, because Nancy is currently pacing the bus waiting to kiss your pretty face again.”

Robin’s body tenses and she gets ready to run, but Steve swoops her into his arms and you yank the door open so that he can throw her inside. She screams, but you slam the door shut and Steve helps you keep it closed as her fists pound against it.

“Let me out!” Robin screeches, throwing her body against the door.

“Kiss and make up! Those are the rules!” You scream back, clenching your teeth to keep your footing. 

Robin screams again and Steve has to throw his entire body weight back to keep her inside, but eventually her anger exhausts her and soon there’s only silence within the bus. You and Steve press your ears to the door, breaths held so as not to miss anything, and faintly, very faintly, you hear Nancy’s soft voice mixing with Robin’s embarrassed tears.

Stepping back, Steve holds his hand for you to high five, which you gladly accept. “God, we’re great.”

“The best matchmakers this town has ever seen.”

Steve tugs you against him and holds you close to his chest, inhaling your scent and humming in content. You melt into him and he holds you for a while, just the two of you, swaying softly together as the gentle February wind dances around you.

“I think year nine went pretty well.” You murmur into Steve’s skin.

He buries his face in your hair. “I have a feeling year ten will be even better.”

–

The band’s breakout album, Angelface, becomes an instant success. It tops every chart, critics praise it, fans scream along to all the songs, and Steve claims that you’re the reason for it.

“I name an album after you and suddenly it sells a million copies overnight.” He nips at your neck, humming when you writhe beneath him. “You’re my good luck charm, angelface.”

You want to tease him and call him crazy, but when his hand comes up to massage your breast through its thin fabric, your moans drown out the noise in your mind. 

Connor and Kelly buy a house with a studio built inside of it. The band rehearses there every day in preparation for their next album. Robin brings Nancy along, the two of them always giggling quietly to themselves in between sessions. Nancy becomes the band’s official photographer. All the photos are of Robin. 

Steve surprises you one day with the keys to your own home. He tells you that the second the money from Angelface was his, he went out and bought the house the next day. The home is much bigger than the apartment you once shared together, though small enough to still feel intimate. There are mahogany floors and a bay window in your bedroom and you couldn’t be more in love with it.

February comes and Steve sits you down at the kitchen table with a pen and paper in front of him. 

“Alright,” he says, setting his hands on the table with an air of authority to him. “Valentine’s day is approaching. We know what that means.”

“That disaster is ahead.” You nod solemnly, following along.

“Exactly, so here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to make you a fancy dinner without anything that can possibly get you sick. No eggs. No meat. No dairy. Nothing prone to yacking.”

“Not sure what that leaves you with, but I’m listening.”

Steve writes everything down. “There will be only electric candles because I’m now terrified that the only disaster left is a house fire, and I spent a concerning amount of money on this house.”

“I fear the same.”

“Perfect. I’ll get us some wine and a movie to rent. Our landline will be turned off so that absolutely no one can contact us. We’re going AWOL here, Y/N. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

You lean forward and place your head in your hand. “What if Robin tries calling, though?”

“I love her, but we landed her a girlfriend last year. She owes us this Valentine’s day.”

“Touché.” 

Steve looks down at his list. “Okay. Am I missing anything?”

You think for a moment. “No, I think that’s all, just don’t forget I have a doctor’s appointment that day so I won’t be home until a bit later.”

“Already accounted for that. I’ll be buying undisclosed decorations for the house to surprise you with.”

“Undisclosed? How many spy movies did you watch before this?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

True to his word, Steve does decorate the house while you’re gone. You get back from your appointment and your home is an explosion of pinks and reds. There are streamers everywhere and a small disco ball hangs from your living room ceiling. Music from your high school years plays softly in the background and the house smells of acidic tomato and garlic. 

“Steve?” You call out, breathless as you walk towards the kitchen. He’s spared no expense. The floor is littered with roses and there’s wine waiting for you on the table with small electric candles flickering in the darkness.

“Do you like it?” You turn around and find Steve holding a bouquet of roses, dressed in a familiar tuxedo. It’s all black and his ribbed vest has the same rose pinned to it that it did back when you were in high school trying to stop him from pouring gin into the punch. 

Your heart beats wildly and an overwhelming mix of emotions simmer in your stomach. “You’re…”

“The best boyfriend in the world? I know.” Steve grabs the wine and pops it open, pouring you a glass. He hands it to you with a wink, but you don’t accept the drink. He tilts his head in confusion. “I thought you loved red wine?”

“I-I do.” You’re quick to reassure him. “But after my doctor’s appointment today, I’m not so sure I should have any.”

Your heartbeat spikes again and Steve sets the glasses down immediately. He’s at your side a second later, worry for you written all over his handsome face. “You said it was just a regular checkup. Are you alright? Are you sick again? I-I can drive you to the hospital, just let me turn off the stove before we actually do have a house fire–”

“Steve,” your voice cracks with love and warmth. He looks up at you, pink lips parted in a small frown that you want to kiss better. “I can’t have wine for nine months.”

“Nine..? That’s an oddly specific number.” His lips turn downwards. “Is it like, some type of allergy now, or–?”

“No, Stevie.” You cup his face with a smile. Grabbing his hands, you bring them to your stomach. His palms lay flush against your abdomen, warm, and something in his face shifts. His eyes widen slightly, soft air escapes him, and your face burns from how wide you smile. “It isn’t an allergy.”

“You’re–?” He doesn’t want to say it, afraid that if he does, that if he’s wrong, his heart would be broken in an irrevocable way.

You nod, brushing his hair back. “I’m about ten weeks along.”

Steve sinks to his knees, dropping his head to your stomach and staring at it with an innocent gaze of love. His eyes fill with wonder, with tears. “Y/N.”

He whispers your name like a sacred prayer, lips pressing to the flesh over and over again as your fingers tangle in his hair and your joy coats his skin. 

“I know we’re young, but…” You whisper down to him. “I want this. I really, really want this.”

“I want this, too.” Steve slides his hands up your body and stands, cradling you in his arms while his face buries itself into your neck. You can feel his tears wet your skin, the slight trembling of his body. “God, I want this.”

Your lips ghost the shell of his ear, down the veins in his neck, the crest of his collarbones and the lines of his jaw. Steve pulls you, closer and closer and closer, until your skin is his and his breath is yours. 

“Happy Valentine’s day, Stevie.” 

Steve smiles down at you. His face has changed since you first met ten years ago. The lines around his eyes have deepened slightly, his boyish smile is now more charming than endearing, and his jaw has become more defined.

His eyes, however, are the same eyes you fell in love with all those years ago. The toffee brown still reminiscent of the student council meetings you always bickered in. They’re still soft when he looks at you, open and lovely as they were at the Lonely Hearts dance. 

There is still so much love that is embedded in Steve’s hand woven features for you. His hands stroke your stomach and your lips are against his. The excess of love is syrupy thick. 

All it took was ten Valentine’s days.

-

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[kassy-djomunson]

the little twirl is killing me

via rayasharmaa on tiktok

[girlfailurearchivist]

i see you (you're walking 'cross the campus)

summary: all that stands between you and your senior spring at MIT is two straight weeks of working with the most obnoxious programmer in the game design major. even worse, he's infuriatingly and undeniably hot.

pairing: college!walter 'keys' mckey x reader

rating: explicit (18+)

content warnings/tags: academic rivals to lovers, hate sex, face slapping (m receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, keys says he's sorry because he's a sweetheart deep down

word count: 8.3k

Sitting on a campus bench on a foggy October morning, warming your hands with a London Fog to pass the time before an early morning Mastering Game Mechanics class, you finally feel able to accept that fall in New England completely lives up to the hype. This was your fourth and final one at MIT, and you were committed to soaking it in as much as possible before you accepted a contract at a big, fancy West Coast developer. One last fall to breathe in the morning fog, or take day trips out to the farms that make a killing this time of year in pumpkins and apple cider doughnuts. If anything, it's a gift to have such wonderful things to miss—good friends, helpful mentors—but there's one thing you couldn't wait to shake off when you walk across the stage in May.

Being the only fucking girl in the Engine Development and Game Design Program.

Being the first to walk into orientation four years ago and seeing 20 chairs neatly arrayed in a conference room was exciting, right up until the room started to fill. You found your chair on the end of a row, and stuck on the cheesy 'Hello, My Name Is' name tag that sat waiting for you, already displaying your name in black Sharpie. The minutes ticked by and the room started to fill with a steady trickle of 18-year-old boys, the majority of them boasting summer coding program t-shirts and basketball shorts you could tell they had owned since middle school. When the boy entitled to the name tag in the chair next to you walked in, it felt a little possible that you could actually have a friend in your program for the next four years.

Your first look at Walter McKey inspired a slight, and embarrassingly awed spark of hope. At least, more hope than the current crowd of your fellow developers instilled in you. His presence once sat in the chair next to you filled the surrounding air with the scent of clean laundry, his hair looked soft and curled slightly in a charming way around his ears. The lenses of his glasses were spotless, attributed to the practiced way he would push them up if they slipped with the pad of his middle finger, right on the metal bridge. He was wearing a short sleeved button up shirt over a t-shirt, jeans that fit him nicely, not too short around the ankles as was common with the male coders you knew, and black-and-white checkered Vans, that were marked with subtle scuffs only visible if you looked too close.

You politely told him your name and stuck out your hand, which he shook with a limp hold before finally speaking.

"I'm Keys." And then he was silent for the rest of the day.

Getting to know him was impossible. He was quiet, dutifully took notes during lectures, corrected professors under his breath, his portions of group projects were done on time and flawlessly. You were never quite able to pin him for anything, not even after working with him directly for an assignment with a few other coders during your third semester. When you met up to work on it, he was near silent. Engineered his designated sections, stood up with the group to present, helped get you a good grade. It didn't matter if he seemed different at first glance—Keys wasn't interested in anything that wasn't a 95 or higher on his transcript.

It was after your fourth semester of putting up with the verbal jabs and rolling eyes that you decided to devote every second of your college career to proving him and all of the other Mountain Dew guzzlers in your major wrong. If you couldn't prove yourself in class by being as good as them, you would simply have to be better.

Progressing through semesters of having nearly every class with the same crowd of 19 fellow developers gave you the nearly scientific ability to split them in half and classify them—the gawkers, who never totally got used to having a girl in their midst. They stared with parted mouths when you presented your work, blushed and stammered when you were forced to partner up for projects. Never quite mellowed despite the now four years of being in your presence. The other half wrote you off the second they laid eyes on you during that orientation. Reddit-frequenting, girlfriend-less, snickering and whispering to each other conspiratorially when you spoke up in classes. You assumed that Keys fit firmly in the latter category. He didn't exactly laugh like the others, but he was prone to eye rolling, and definitely didn't stare at you with looks of awe and astonishment like the former.

Truthfully, and totally unbeknownst to you, Keys wasn't in either category. He didn't like you because found something in you that he didn't get from anyone else—you offered him an actual challenge.

A glance up at the clock tower tells you it's time to get on your way to class, and you sigh, steeling yourself for another two hours of stares and shit-eating smirks. Maybe it was good for you. You were always going to be in the minority in this field, and while you still hope you would end up in a company that had at least a few women on staff, the future was going to involve an uphill climb if you were committed to making games. At least the walk to the CompSci building was peaceful. Campus was still sparse, the only sounds around being the gentle rustling of red and orange leaves and your footsteps against the brick pathway. You liked being early for classes. It gave you the best chance to get moments like this, and limited the number of heads whipping around to look at you as you pushed the classroom door open.

Your usual chair sat dutifully in the front row, and you slip your backpack off of your shoulders, sliding into the seat. As you push up the screen of your laptop and start to enter your password to unlock it, the door opens behind you, and the footsteps of nearly spotless checkered Vans make their way to the front row table to your right. Keys had a similar and infuriating habit of being early.

"Morning," he mumbles as his own laptop meets the table and your spine stiffens, surprised to hear him initiate any kind of conversation, let alone one where he isn't making backhanded comments on how "approachable" your demos are.

"Someone's cheerful," you tease. "What, did new sexy elf skins drop on World of Warcraft?"

"I don't play World of Warcraft," Keys rebuttals weakly, clicking his Bluetooth mouse on and testing it with a few back and forth swipes across the table. You look over and cock an eyebrow.

"Anymore," he adds through his teeth.

"Thought so," you smirk.

He breathes hard through his nose before he speaks again.

"So, you got demo of the week last Friday," he says, attempting to seem casual. "How are things looking this week?"

Demo of the week—a sought after title given by Dr. Howell, faculty chair of the Game Design program and professor of many of its classes. Extremely tough, and very withholding of praise outside of his designations of demo of the week. You and Keys have been alternating the title on and off since August.

"I think it's as strong as last week's," you say, scanning through your files to load your entry for this Friday. "Why, you scared?"

"No," he says, far too quickly and with a defensive sharpness. "I'm just saying, enjoy your title while you still have it."

Demo showcase passes as it typically does—everyone watches each other's entries with laser focus, cringing internally at any aspects that feel unfinished, and mentally jotting down impressive tricks or assets for later. You and Keys both present, watching each other's work with scrunched brows and teeth digging into bottom lips, eager for any kind of slip-up. Yours goes well—no obvious bugs, punctuated with a nod from Dr. Howell. A nod is alright, but a smile is best, and usually indicates that you've been chosen. Today, his face is blank. Shit.

Keys follows right after you do, and infuriatingly, his work is incredible. He's obviously proud, speaking with a little more confidence than usual as he shows off that he's mastered a new movement mechanic he's been working on the past few weeks. All ten minutes of gameplay were clearly coded meticulously—polished textures, zero lag, balanced camera movement. As much as you hate to admit to yourself (and you would die before admitting this to him), it's better than yours. The room applauds politely once he finishes, and his eyes catch yours as he detaches his laptop from the cable, twinkling mischievously and squinted a little at the corners from the satisfied smirk that spreads across his face. Your head snaps nervously to Dr. Howell, who wears a similar expression, arms crossed as he stands from the empty seat at the back of the room and makes his way back to the front of the lecture hall.

"Most of you were middling," he says, finally facing the class. "A few of you were bad, I'm assuming you already know who you are." As if on cue, a sniffle from a few seats over briefly resounds through the room. He calls your name, a sharp wave of nerves crashing over you as your eyes widen.

"You were fine this week," he starts. "About as good as last week, but the purpose of this exercise is improvement. Your bar is high, I ask that you please meet it."

Your stomach churns harder as you nod, mustering a wobbly smile that you hope expresses that you're internalizing the criticism. You aren't sure what feeling turns in you faster—disappointment in yourself, or your anger towards Keys.

"Walter," Dr. Howell says, turning to face him fully. "This was strong work from you. Very dynamic, and that new trick of yours has come very far. Almost ready for a full length project. Congratulations."

Keys beams, shifting in his chair a little, as if unable to physically contain how pleased he is. His excitement would be endearing if he wasn't so fucking infuriating.

"Thanks so much, Dr. Howell," he says a little breathless, running his hand through his hair, which only causes it to flop more over his eyes and the frame of his glasses. Dr. Howell starts another round of applause, and you briefly slap your hands together lazily, biting the inside of your cheek. No matter how many times you lost your title to Keys, it stung. It felt like a step back from your mission to rise and topple the others, a concession to the staring and laughing and backhandedness. With a sigh, as the little clock in the upper corner of your screen finally ticks to 10:00 AM, you close the lid of your laptop and pack it into your backpack.

"Excuse me," Dr. Howell says in front of your table, Keys flanking his left side with his messenger bag slung onto one shoulder. "I've asked the two of you to stay because I have something of an…additional project for you both."

Your eyebrows furrow inward, gaze briefly flicking over to an equally confused Keys.

"Additional project?" You ask.

"Yes," Dr. Howell confirms, gesturing for Keys to take the empty seat next to you, and he sits rigidly, folding his hands on the table and subtly fidgeting with his thumbs.

"You two come to every class, you see these demos. I'm assuming it's no secret to you both that you're the most evolved students in my program," Dr. Howell continues, and you hear Keys's breath hitch as your heart quickens. Maybe this is working, you think. This is paying off.

"You're both seniors, and we're inching closer to the end of the semester. That means bigger and bigger projects," he says, crossing his arms again. "Instead of creating an hour long demo for the showcase in November independently, I want to see one collaborative three hour long playtest."

Fuck. Your brain fills instantly and rapidly with one, big internal monologue of fuck. You'd prefer being kicked out of the program. You'd prefer being publicly shamed for plagiarism. Honestly, you might take being burned at the stake over spending nearly every evening with Keys for the next month. Shit, finally finding a single plot concept to agree on is probably going to take up most of that time anyway.

"Dr. Howell, I really think we'd both prefer making something on our own," Keys says, his voice quick and jumpy. Finally, some common ground at least. "We're pretty different types of devs, I don't-"

"That's exactly why I want to see what you would create when working together," Dr. Howell insists, turning to you. "You're a story developer. Fleshed out characters, making connections, but your asset work isn't always the cleanest. Walter, you're a mathematician. Your code is neat as a pin, but I can tell that you're more concerned with having perfect work than engaging work. That's where you two meet. Pick up each other's slack."

"I was already kind of shaping some ideas on my own," you say, feeling your palms start to sweat a little.

"Then share them with him," Dr. Howell responds, shrugging a little as if entirely unaware of the issue. "I'm not doing this to punish either of you, in fact, I'm giving you both a look into what working on actual game looks like. 99% of things on market right now are made by teams ranging from duos like you two, up to offices of hundreds. You've done almost all of your course work on your own to this point, and I chose you two because you're my strongest designers. I suggest you both stop inventing excuses and start thinking up some actual ideas. I'm not asking."

Dr. Howell turns to pack his own computer into his briefcase, then walks with long steps up the aisle of the lecture hall. You and Keys remain frozen—a little out of shock, mostly out of dread, and both afraid to say the first word. Goddammit. Buck up, he's literally just a nerd. A nerd that just so happens to be really, really good at coding. A nerd with a stupid handsome face and stupid, sexy, big hands. A sigh in your right ear brings you back to the present.

"Are you free tonight?" Keys asks begrudgingly, still staring straight ahead at the front wall. "I don't even know why I'm asking, it's Friday. You probably have some rager to grace with your presence."

"Awe," you coo condescendingly, turning in your swiveling chair to face him. "You know, Keys, usually girls liked to be asked out with flowers, not brazen insults."

"I'm not asking you out," he scoffs, knee bumping into yours as he turns to face you. "I'd actually like to get this over with. If we marathon for the next two weeks, we can avoid any unnecessary time together until the showcase."

"That I can agree on," you huff, pulling out a pen and notebook, ripping out a piece of paper haphazardly. The jagged edges and uneven shape make Keys wince.

"Despite the popular assumption around here that I spend my weekends blacking out and fucking random Boston College guys," you say through your teeth, scribbling your phone number and address onto the paper. "I'm free through Sunday. I don't have a roommate, so we can get work done at my place without bugging anyone but each other. Come by at 8."

"Fine," he sighs, trying his best to fold the paper into a neat shape before tucking it into the front pocket of his messenger bag. This was going to be a very, very long two weeks.

"He's not ugly," Valerie says, picking up a fry from the plate you're sharing and dragging it through ketchup.

Valerie was your freshman year roommate—a funny, carefree architecture major, whose voice was sometimes your only point of reason after spending all day in your classes. Every Friday since September of your freshman year, you and Valerie met at a cafe just off campus at 6—ranting, bitching, laughing, anything either of you needed after the week.

"Ugly isn't my problem," you explain, chin in hand as you drink your iced tea, chewing on the straw a little once you're satisfied with the sip. "He's a pain in my ass, that's my problem."

"Why does he specifically piss you off, though?" She questions, leaning back a little in her chair. "Everyone in the program in a dipshit, what makes Keys so annoying?"

"Because I can ignore everyone else's weirdness," you say, taking a fry. "But his is different, I don't know."

"Is the weirdness his shiny hair and big brown eyes?" Valerie teases.

"Shut up," you say with a laugh, leaning your elbows onto the table.

"I'm just saying," she shrugs. "He's cute, not even CompSci nerd cute. Like, a normal, good-looking guy."

She's right, and you hate it. It would be easy to totally write Keys off if he was exactly like the other people in the program, but much to your chagrin, as it only made it harder to make any sense of how you felt about him, he wasn't. He was attractive, he took good care of himself (relatively, a bulk sized bottle of ibuprofen did tumble out of his messenger bag once), and he was an undeniably excellent programmer. Turning this over in your mind, you glance down at your phone, seeing it was approaching closer to 7.

"I need to get going," you lament, taking a last drink and scooting your chair away from the table. "He's coming over at 8, and I still need to shower."

"Ooo, wear something skimpy," Valerie giggles. "You can borrow one of my club dresses."

"To sit on my own couch and code?" You laugh.

"Just brainstorming."

Two sharp knocks sound on the front door of your apartment at 7:57, cutting through the soft music you had put on as you got yourself and your place ready for company, especially company as particular as Keys. You look over from the kitchen where you've been finishing clean putting dishes away (you figured tidying up would limit the amount of insult fodder available to him), and take a quick glance at yourself in the mirror. Despite Valerie's suggestion, you opted for a t-shirt, sweatpants, and fuzzy socks for tonight's session. You were in your own home after all, and Keys was decidedly not deserving of your usual routine before going out. Good enough for a little check in the mirror, though? Valerie's voice echoes in your head, so familiar to you that her commentary makes its way into your thoughts even when she isn't there. You physically shake your head, slightly damp hair whipping by your ears as you try your hardest to remove the thought from your conscience. Buck up. He's a programmer, for fuck's sake.

Keys has also dressed down for the occasion—he's traded his usual short sleeve button up for a worn, soft looking MIT sweatshirt and jeans. He steps inside and slips off his Vans before you can ask, revealing black socks covered in little stitched, colorful Tetris pieces.

"Nice of you to show," you say, locking the door behind him as he steps into your living room, taking in the atmosphere of your apartment, far cozier and more lived in than his. Furniture accumulated from years of risky Facebook Marketplace meetups and trips to thrift stores with Valerie, illuminated by string lights and a little sandalwood scented candle flickering weakly in the corner. Your music continues playing from the speaker on the coffee table.

"You know how to set the mood," Keys says, setting his messenger bag on the couch. "I'll give you that."

"Good to know it's cozier than your charging station," you tease. "Can I get you some water, or will that fry your circuit boards?"

"Let's just work, please," he sighs, pulling out his laptop. "You said you had some ideas?"

"Yeah, actually," you say, sitting on the opposite side of the couch. "I've never made a horror game before, so I was thinking of trying that out for my project back when it was still mine."

Keys rubs his eyes under the lenses of his glasses, then he takes them off, pulling up his sweatshirt a little to wipe them. The sliver of his stomach you can now see is lean and soft all at once, revealing a dark line of hair that travels from his waistband up towards his navel. Your instincts rapidly overtake your frustration with him—cheekbones stinging a little as your mouth waters, stomach starting to swirl with eagerness to see more. Keys lowers the grey fabric back over his abdomen and you snap back into focus, preferring a slow and painful death over the prospect of him catching you ogling like that.

"I actually haven't designed horror before either," he admits, his jaw tight like agreeing with you is physically painful. "It's big in the market right now, but we need an original idea."

Your tongue pokes inside your cheek, flip flopping between sharing the concepts you've been experimenting with over the last few weeks, and seeing if Keys has any competency outside of technically impressive code.

"You heard Dr. Howell, this is supposed to challenge your lack of storytelling skills," you taunt, reaching for your own laptop on the coffee table. Keys lets out a half hearted chuckle next to you, pushing up the sleeves of his sweatshirt.

"Oh, so we're actually sticking to this stupid challenge? Swapping roles and everything?" He retorts. "That's fine, I like cleaning up sloppy code anyway."

"Sloppy?" You challenge, sitting up a little straighter on the couch. "If I end up coding sloppy, it'll be because I'm working on some half-baked shooter with maybe two characters and no continuity! Plot courtesy of Walter 'Keys' McKey."

Keys's jaw clenches as he sets his laptop back on the coffee table.

"You know, on my way over here, I was actually looking forward to this a little," he says, voice gradually starting to raise, his hands starting to gesture sharply and without logic. "I thought 'her storytelling is actually decent, and maybe I have a few code tricks I can show her.' Now I see you have no interest in actually trying to grow as a developer, but I'm not too worried. I'm sure you'll make a great barista simulator someday!"

"What the fuck is your problem?" You lash out, standing abruptly to look down at him. The satisfaction of being able to do that doesn't last long, as Keys follows suit, standing face to face with hands stiffly balled at his sides.

"My problem is you," he spits. "For the most part, I really try my best to stay the fuck out of your way, which is seemingly impossible, considering you're my only actual competition! Seeing you, week after week, standing at the front of the class with that smile on your face, all of the attention on you, like you've already fucking won!"

"You're this mad because I actually like my own work sometimes?!" You shoot back, stepping closer to get in his face. "Maybe I should be just like you, Mr. Robot! I bet I could spit out perfect code too if I ran on batteries!"

"Yeah, I'm annoying about my code, but that doesn't give you the right to hate me!" Keys snaps, moving to close the distance even further, your chests nearly pressed together.

"What is it with you and the goddamn assumptions all the time, Keys?" You shout, feeling your heart thrum harder and harder against your ribs the closer you get, the more of his obnoxiously clean, stupidly charming scent filling your senses. "I don't hate you!"

"Then I would love an explanation of how you actually feel about me!"

Looking into those big brown eyes, wide and puppy-like behind his glasses, the growing flush in his cheeks, the way his chest heaves up and down, brushing against the front of your shirt as your sternum does the same, the swimming of hatred and frustration bundles and twists until it finally transforms into something else entirely—a spark. It would be easy to attribute the sudden and irrepressible urge to get into Walter McKey's pants to the fact that school had you wound tight as a vise, and you hadn't had a good hookup in over a year (let alone that the last one was bad, and seven months ago), but he's standing in front you—ridiculously cute, obviously worked up, and you want him. Before you can listen to your usually too loud voice of reason, your fingers are clenching the soft fabric of the front of his sweatshirt harshly, and your mouth is on his, eager and long overdue for a kiss.

Keys tenses for long moment before he gives into his own longing for your touch, buried and constrained beneath deadlines and code techniques—things that make sense to him. In the seconds that follow after you press your lips to his, Keys decides he's tired of making sense all the time. Soon, his lips are pliant and needy, messily reciprocating the kiss as his arms wind around your waist, closing any sliver of distance that remained between you two. He tastes clean and minty, probably now his natural state from the sheer number of Altoids he downs and sticks of gum he chews to help keep him focused. When you come up for air, both of you with warm cheeks and parted lips, Keys starts to smile, that same smirk from this morning, when he showed off his demo.

"So that's how you feel," he teases.

"You absolutely need to shut up or I change my mind," you warn, reaching down for his hand and pulling him down the hallway to your bedroom. Almost as soon as the door is open it's closed again, shutting under the pressure of your hands on Keys's chest until his back is flush to the wood.

"I have no idea why I'm doing this," you breathe before your lips are on his again, tongue swiping against the pretty dip of his Cupid's bow, the dip you now realize you've spent a good deal of time glancing at during lectures. Fuck, he's pretty.

"I knew my demo was good today," he says, words tumbling against your mouth. "I didn't know I was turning people on."

"Ugh, shut up," you huff, pulling Keys by the front of his sweatshirt over to your bed. He falls against it, bouncing a little as his back makes contact with your mattress. Your hips are on his, thighs falling to either side of his body before he can even align his head onto your pillows.

"You're so fucking annoying," you moan, as your clothed cunt makes contact with the annoyingly large bulge in his jeans, shuddering a little as his hands brace your hips.

"And yet you're here," he challenges, before pulling you down for another needy kiss. Your hips start to rock against him, the dull pressure of his body against yours only working you up more. "I should have known this would happen. I thought I saw you shifting in your seat during class. But hey, I'm flattered, really-"

Crack. The smack of your palm against his cheek echoes through your room, everything grinding to a stiff halt. In a panic, you tuck the hand that was just across his face against your chest, breathes growing shallow as you take in his bright red cheeks and his eyes, almost pitch black with pupils, big and round as planets, overwhelming the hazel.

"Fuck Keys, I'm sorry," you pant. "I don't know what I was thinking, I wasn't. Does it hurt?"

He sucks in a shaky breath through his open mouth.

"Do it again," he whimpers.

"I-what?"

"Hit me again," he pleads, fingers digging into the plush of your thighs. "Please, baby."

The same hand reaches forward, brushing over the little blotch that glows especially red against his already blushing cheeks before you draw your hand back, palm making contact again. Keys moans this time, pulling you down for another kiss when he recovers from the recoil.

"I think about you constantly," he confesses, reaching for the bottom of your shirt. Your arms lift upward on instinct, the soft skin of your torso dimpling slightly against the cool air. His hands reach up, cupping and feeling for your breasts through the cups of your bra. "You never smile in class, so I have to catch it across the library, when you're working with your friends. It's beautiful, and it drives me fucking crazy."

"So you're stalking me?" You tease, pulling his hands back to the hooks of your bra, which he manages smoother than you expected. His sweatshirt comes off soon after, finally revealing what had been cruelly teased on the couch—pretty constellations of freckles and moles all across his arms and shoulders and chest, thick hair that covers the broadest part of it, the full view of his tummy and happy trail.

"We go to the same school," he huffs, rolling his eyes. "What, you've never seen me outside of class?"

You had frequently, often enough that you picked up on the way his tongue would slightly prod the inside of his cheek when he was focused, the slight crinkle in his nose any time a bug would pop into his code lines, the constant hands in his stupid, perfect hair. But he wasn't winning this one.

"Some of us actually focus on out work and not trying to catch a girl smiling," you tease, dipping down to the long curve of his neck, kissing a trail down to his collarbone, where you gently nip and lick at the skin. Keys's back arches from his mattress slightly, little shockwaves of pleasure picking up speed in his veins.

"If I ever smiled in class, no one in class would take me seriously," you remind him, lips traveling across his collar.

"They're idiots," Keys sighs.

You lift your head from his chest, moving to be face to face again so you can quickly peck his lips. You smile sweetly as you pull away, lifting your hand to brush a stray hair from his forehead.

"So are you."

With your lips capturing his in another bruising kiss, Keys's hands grow bolder, traveling from the sides of your breasts down to the flimsy tie that holds your sweatpants around your hips, only needing a slight tug to unravel the knot.

"Can't wait to see what Pokemon you have on your underwear," you jab.

Keys lets out a huff before he pulls your chest flush to his, grunting next to your ear. In a heartbeat, he has you underneath him, glasses slipping down his nose and arms caging you in on either side of your head. Your heart beats harder than it has all night, eyes owlish and unblinking from the sheer shock of his strength, given the heaviest thing you've ever seen him carry is his ridiculous messenger bag.

"No comeback?" He taunts, tilting his head a little.

You manage to finally blink, attempting a scoff that comes out more like a measly clearing of your throat.

"You're exhausting," you say, with a little shake of your head for good measure.

"You're pretty."

The dreamy sigh that dares to escape from you is swallowed by another long kiss, Keys's hand wandering down your body from where it cupped your cheek to tug at the waistband of your sweats again, finally in the right position to tug them down. You're completely bare underneath him, thighs shifting together nervously as Keys sits back on his heels, eyes all moony again at the sight of you. He doesn't even look down at his jeans as he unbuttons them, clumsily pulling them down, leaving him in his boxer briefs. Much to your disappointment, they're just grey. You pull your lips into your mouth, biting back the giggle that threatens to escape at his lack of finesse, not that you anticipated much suaveness from him in the first place.

"You're," he breathes, kneeling between your thighs again. "I-I don't have anything stupid to say, you're so gorgeous."

"Really?" You muse, sitting up on your elbows. "I managed to silence Walter McKey. I'm taking that as a compliment of the highest caliber."

"But you are," he whines, settling on top of you again as he eagerly goes for a kiss, hand stroking tenderly at your side. You welcome his lips gladly, moaning as his tongue starts to slide against yours. Keys lowers his body further, nudging the tip of his nearly bare cock against your clit, puffy and aching for attention. His hips roll again, sending a deep and needed pulse of pleasure from your cunt to your belly, a little swell of warmth starting to build. You tap his chest a few times, needing to get out a breath, and a few (embarrassing) words. He pulls away, looking back at you eagerly.

"Despite what all of the losers in our courses like to say about me when they don't think I can hear, I haven't had sex in like, almost a year," you clarify, eyes trained on him to ensure he absorbs every word. "Disappointingly, I'm actually exactly like you guys, and I spend 99% of my Friday nights at my desk. I am under an insane amount of stress, and I feel insane for saying this to you, but I need to get fucked, Keys. At this point, you owe me that much."

He nods a little, all too eager and clearly from a place of understanding.

"It's been a while for me too," he agrees. "I'll try my best to last, really, I promise."

"You better."

The boxer briefs come off, and you no longer have the strength to pretend not to ogle. Keys is obnoxiously hung, veins prominent from the stiffness of his erection, pink tip curving upward towards his tummy, already glossy from drips of pre-cum. The hair that was teased by his happy trail is there, neatly trimmed for a guy in his demographic. You lick your lips. His cheeks go ruddy again as his weight settles on top of you again, hips slotted between your thighs, cock heavy on your lower stomach.

"See something you like?" He taunts.

"What did I say about shutting up?" Your arms wind around his shoulders, a hand traveling into the soft hair at the back of his head as you kiss him. Keys leans onto one elbow, his now free hand wrapping around the base of his cock, teasing up and down your cunt for a moment before he pushes in. The stretch is all pleasure, the curve of his cock fitting perfectly against the walls of your cunt, tip kissing just the right spot inside of you.

"Fuck," you moan, fingers digging into his shoulder as his hips grow closer to yours, cock filling you with unbelievable satisfaction. Keys lets out a precious whine as he bottoms out, head falling to your shoulder. The lenses of his glasses are cool against your skin, and probably smudging in a way that would send him spiraling under any other circumstances.

"You good?" You breathe, fingers giving his hair a gentle tug.

"Please be quiet, or I'll ruin this," he begs, voice muffled by your soft skin. "I-shit, I need a second. You feel so good."

The quip dies on your tongue as soon as it rises, and you opt instead to release the hold in your fingers, gently brushing through the strands as he adjusts. He needs this as bad as you do, after all. Keys's shoulders rise, the frame growing a little broader as he tries to calm himself down with a deep breath. He releases the air shakily against your neck, punctuating it with a kiss before his hips start rolling—slight, experimental movements to test how much he can handle.

Even with the tiniest of movements, the sheer size of him is enough to have you squirming beneath him, the warmth in your belly starting to pool even deeper, needing more motion, another kiss, something. His arms brace either side of your head, the veins in his forearms growing more prominent as he tries to keep his composure.

"I was promised a fucking," you remind him, pushing his slipping glasses up his nose with a single finger on the bridge, just as you had seen him do a thousand times.

"You can have it now or you can have it longer," Keys chides, giving another roll of his hips

"Come on, pretty boy," you taunt. "You've got good stamina for coding marathons, let's see if you succeed in other categories."

"I don't like losing," he says, finally pulling out a little more before he slides back in, a wet desperate sound from your cunt giving your true desperation away.

"Then pull it together."

Your hands fly up to his cheeks, pulling him down roughly for a kiss, disrupted by the sudden snap of his hips against yours, finally thrusting into you with his entire length.

"Shit-' you gasp,

"What, too much for you now?"

"I can't stand you," you say, voice shallow from the sudden fullness.

"Whatever you need to tell yourself," he grunts, leaning back with hands gripping onto the tops of your thighs hard, giving the right leverage for his cock to piston in and out of you at just the right rhythm.

Your orgasm starts to build embarrassingly fast, the months of last minute solo orgasms under your duvet right before you manage to sleep never quite scratching the itch that sits inside of you. The room suddenly fills with all manner of filthy sounds—the wetness of your cunt weeping at the pleasure, the slap of his hips meeting yours, desperate sounds tumbling from both of your mouths, chasing and rushing toward a once elusive satisfactory orgasm.

"Keys, baby, I'm-" you pant against his mouth, heels starting to dig against the mattress as the tightness in your belly becomes more and more taut, the once low heat now rushing hot throughout your whole body as your high comes closer and closer.

"Me too," Keys whines, the thrusts starting to stutter a little as his own orgasm creeps up on him. "Can I-fuck, um, inside?"

You nod frantically, thighs trembling as your walls start to pulse around his cock, tightness finally snapping and washing over you. Every nerve, synapse, and vein in your body filling with the pleasure you've been denied for too long. No thoughts about assets or source code rushing in you, no breaths stuttering from anxiety, just pure warmth that buzzes satisfyingly under your skin.

The high absorbs so much of your focus that you don't even notice Keys is flying on the same cloud, glasses finally dropping from his face and onto the mattress as his cock twitches against your spent walls, warmth pooling in you again from just how much cum he releases. Guess it really has been a while.

Keys's lips press to your shoulder before he lifts his head, thumb brushing at your cheekbone sweetly before he kisses your lips, a wordless thank you. He kisses again, easing the ache of him starting to pull out, releasing a little drop of your combined arousal.

"Do you have, like, tissues, or?" Keys asks, a hand fumbling next to the both of you for his glasses. You glance over and spot them, giving the lenses a wipe on the pillowcase before sliding them onto his face. He blinks a few times, smiling at the view of you beneath him, finally clear and in focus.

"Yeah," you let out, laughing softly. "In the middle drawer of the nightstand."

Keys stumbles onto his feet to pull on his underwear again, retrieving the little pack of on-the-go Kleenex before he sits on the side of the bed. He eases your thighs open sweetly, wiping the mess from your cunt as gently as he can, his other hand gently stroking your knee as you whine a little at the contact.

"I can get you clean clothes," he offers, wrapping the tissue in a clean one, then tossing it in the wastebasket next to your dresser. He points to the drawers. "Which one?"

"I'm good with just underwear," you say softly. "The top one on the left."

Keys pulls on the front, digging a little before he finds something that makes him chuckle—a pair of blue panties, covered in little red Autobot logo heads, TRANSFORMERS stitched obnoxiously loud all around the waistband.

"Those are a joke," you stutter out. "My friend Valerie, she gets me these joke gifts-"

"Is this why you haven't hooked up in so long?" Keys teases, sliding the panties up your legs as your face grows warm, arms crossing over your still bare chest. "You've been saving yourself for Optimus Prime?"

"No," you insist sharply. "I'm not a robot fucker, Keys. I have some pride."

"And yet here I am," he says, more endeared than smug as he slides into bed next to you, arms wrapping around you from behind, chest snug and comforting against your back. His lips press to the crown of your head before he tucks it under his chin.

Your eyes flutter shut with more ease than they have in months, sleep gently pulling you under as Keys never ceases the gentle stroke of his hand up and down your bicep, each brush helping to silence the usual nightly stew in the previous day's worries.

You sleep with more ease than you would ever expect with Keys's arms wrapped around you, his knees tucked too perfectly against the backs of yours until you start to stir around three a.m., turning over as your hand wanders lazily toward the side he was sleeping on. Except for you, the sheets are empty, and pool around your still naked hips as you sit up, wiping your eyes to get your bearings a little. He left, you realize as an unwelcome pang of disappointment fills your chest. He stuck around to hold you. Told you that you were beautiful. You thought about something other than programming for the first time in months because of him. And he left.

He didn't need to stay, you remind yourself, cringing at the coolness of the floor under your feet as you get out of bed. He didn't need to stay, over and over as you pull on sleep shorts and a sweatshirt. And it was true, what you and Keys had done was a mere exchange of services. A very passionate, satisfying exchange, but it didn't have to mean anything. It shouldn't. So what is the feeling swimming in your stomach right now? Not exactly regret, you did enjoy yourself, after all. Disappointment? A little closer, but not quite. Maybe a drink of water will help. Your mind is races against your heart so hard, so desperate for a single, logical answer that you don't even notice you've stepped over his jeans, still crumpled on your bedroom floor.

Keys has been sitting on the bench in front of your living room window for around an hour. He can't remember the last time he did something other than code or sleep for an hour straight, but right now, the hum of the night traffic and glow of the Boston skyline in the distance is more entertaining than any game he's played in months. Thankfully, he's the first thing you see when you step into the hallway, smiling softly with his head gently laid against the glass and one leg propped up, only in his boxers and those stupid, wonderful Tetris socks.

"You stayed," you say softly, more of a voiced thought than an attempt to start conversation.

Keys's face turns from the view out of the window to you, slight smile growing wider at the sight of you. He takes his glasses from the windowsill and puts them back on, gesturing with a relaxed hand for you to come closer.

"Did you think I was going to leave?" He asks, moving his legs from the bench to make room for you to sit, and you sink down across from him, knees tucked to your chest.

"You didn't have to stay," you shrug, picking at a loose thread on your sweatshirt cuff. "That was kind of…intense."

"It was," he agrees, his voice a little breathy with soft laughter. "I stuck around because I wanted to."

"I'm glad you did."

"Me too," Keys says, sitting up a little more. "I also realized that I'm long overdue to say something to you."

Your head tilts a little, eyebrows furrowing and signaling him to continue.

"I'm really sorry," he says sincerely. "I've been so wrapped up in trying to prove myself that I forgot you were just trying to do the same, and for you, it's a lot harder. You put up with so much shit from the guys in the program, and too much of it has been from me. And I didn't do it because you're the only girl there, I promise. It came from this awful, ugly jealousy because I didn't want to accept the truth."

A slow, grateful tear slips down your cheek as you look at him, all wide, earnest eyes and dimples impressed to his cheeks with the way he's frowning a little. You accepted a long time ago that you would never get an apology for the way you've been treated. Judgment and criticism is part of the career, Dr. Howell would say, as dismissive of your feelings as he was of the whining that came from your peers because ultimately, to him and to them, they were the same.

It's been such a long stretch of surviving—pretending you don't hear the whispering, trying to sift through whose opinions actually matter—you were starting to forget that it wasn't supposed to be like this at all. To finally hear someone say they're sorry for being apart of that pulls tears from you that you've neglected to shed for too long. You're glad they were still there, though. In your world of perfectly orchestrated numbers and impossible expectations, you were grateful for any reminder that you were still human.

"And what is the truth?" You ask, sniffling softly and wiping your cheeks with your sleeve.

Keys sighs.

"That you're better," he confesses, pushing his glasses up. "Better than all of us. And I think you always have been."

"You mean that?" You ask, voice wobbling.

"I do," Keys says, shifting a little closer to you. His hand reaches forward and softly clasps your ankle, thumb brushing from your ankle bone to your calf. "You know me, I don't say things just to say them. I'm envious of you."

"You should be," you say, letting out a watery laugh that sets Keys off too, his dimples reappearing as he chuckles with you. "Apparently I'm the best developer in my program."

"I mean it," he says, reaching to wipe the last of your tears with a brush of his knuckles. "You're good, but you're also, like, a real person. You go out, and you have so many friends. You're better than all of us without being a shut in."

"You don't have many friends?"

"Not good ones," Keys says, shrugging a little. "I don't like the guys in the program either, so I hang out with some other CompSci people, but they aren't great. They're…weirdly elitist about game design, like it's not serious work."

"That's tough," you console. "I'm lucky to have friends that pull me away from my computer."

"Maybe I'm lucky to have a friend like that now?" He asks, cheeks flushing a little.

A little giggle that you can't suppress escapes you, endeared and amused at his shyness—nervous at the thought of being friends despite the fact that you guys fucked mere hours ago, and that he was still in front of you in only his underwear.

"Yeah," you say softly. "That sounds good to me."

"I'm ready to have friends that are nice to me," Keys confesses, his own voice catching a little around the sadness in his throat.

"I'm sorry I smacked the shit out of you," you say, looking down at your lap bashfully. "That wasn't very nice."

"No, don't be," he insists, with a little dismissive wave of his hand. "I've had it coming to for a while. It was pretty hot, too."

You share another laugh with him, the shake of his freckled shoulders and wrinkle of his nose filling your chest with a long needed ease and warmth.

"The industry has been overrun by people like me for way too long," Keys muses, offering his hand with an upward palm to you, and you accept it gladly, melting at the way his thumb slides affectionately across your knuckles. "This world needs people like you, really. I can't wait to see what you make."

"You're not bad yourself, Mr. Robot," you say through a smile, gently squeezing his hand. "You made me this mad for a reason, you're good at what you do. I wouldn't mind having you look at my projects."

Keys laughs again, a little shy as his chin tips towards his chest for a moment.

"As long as I get a spot in the 'Special Thanks' once the credits roll."

His eyes meet yours again—warm, and soft, and eager for the chance at a place in your future. A future he's known would be bright as long as he's know you.

"Deal."

author's note: SMACK CAM!!! Thank you so so so much for reading :) I feel like I say this every time, but this may actually be my favorite fic I've written so far. Thank you Maya and Cat for sharing brain waves with me <3 as always, I would love to hear your thoughts! MWAH

[jinxispunk]

hii so its smutty reader also makes songs but shes not very familiar with using instruments and theyre both just chilling in the studio and joe teaches her how to play electric guitar bc shes been talking about how she wants to play for a while now andddddd it continues 😁

ahhhh thank you so much for this request 🫶

i absolutely LOVED writing it!! i got ridiculously attached to the idea of joe teaching reader guitar, and somewhere along the way it became just as much about trust and learning as it did the smut

i really hope i did your idea justice, and thank you for sending me such a great prompt in the first place!! <3

let your hand find it

Joe Keery x reader

Summary: You ask Joe to teach you guitar. Neither of you gets much practising done.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, smut, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, praise, softdom!joe, fluff (lmk if i missed anything)

W/C: 4.8k

Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]

If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!

The electric guitar rests across your thighs like a foreign object, all weight and angles and unfamiliar curves. You shift on the worn studio stool, trying to find the balance point where the instrument doesn't feel like it's about to slide off your lap and onto the floor. Your fingers find the neck, wrap around it the way you've seen him do a hundred times, but your grip feels clumsy - too tight, then too loose, the muscle memory nowhere to be found.

"Relax your wrist."

Joe's voice comes from somewhere behind you, low and easy, and you feel the words settle against your skin before you process them. You try to loosen your grip, but your thumb stays stiff, pressing into the back of the neck like you're trying to strangle the thing.

The chord you've been attempting - a G, he'd said, though it looks more like a spider has fallen asleep on the fretboard - buzzes and dies as your fingers slip off the strings. You let out a breath that's half laugh, half frustration.

"It's heavier than I thought."

"You'll get used to it." His footsteps cross the worn carpet, closer now. "The weight stops being something you carry and starts being something you lean into. Like a good coat."

You glance down at the strings, at the thin metal lines that seem to multiply when you try to press them. "A coat that fights back."

"That's the fun part." You hear the smile in his voice before you see it. "You learn to fight back too."

He moves to your side, and you catch the movement in your periphery - dark brown curls, the curve of his shoulder as he reaches for something on the amp. The hum of the studio fills the space between you, the old wiring in the walls crackling faintly like the building is breathing.

"Try again," he says. "Same shape. Index finger on the third fret of the low E. Middle on the second fret of the A. Ring on the third fret of the high E."

You reposition your fingers, pressing down with more force this time. The strings bite into your fingertips, already tender from the hour of fumbling you'd done before he'd come in. Your index finger slips, and the note buzzes.

"Too much pressure," he says. "You're strangling it again."

"I'm trying not to."

"I know. That's the problem." He steps behind you, and you feel the air shift, the heat of him arriving before his body does. "You're thinking too hard. Let your hand find it."

"My hand doesn't know where it's going."

"Then I'll show you."

Joe's chest brushes your shoulder blade as he leans in, and the contact - even through the layers of flannel and cotton - sends something through you that has nothing to do with guitar. You hold very still, your fingers frozen on the fretboard, waiting.

His left hand reaches around you, his palm hovering over yours without quite touching. "Loosen your grip. Let me see your thumb."

You lift your thumb, and he curls his fingers around yours from above, guiding your hand into a new position. His calluses scrape against your knuckles, sandpaper-rough, and you feel the heat of his palm before it settles over the curve of your neck.

"Right here," he says, pressing your thumb into a spot on the back of the fretboard. "Not the centre. The meat of it. That's where your power lives."

His chest stays against your shoulder blade, solid and warm, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing through your spine. His hand stays over yours, not pressing, just resting - a frame you're supposed to fill.

"Try now."

You press down, and the strings hold. The note rings clean, clear, and something in your chest loosens.

"There." His voice is closer now, right at your temple. "That's it. Keep that shape."

You strum with your right hand, and the chord blooms - full and round and alive. A G. You played a G. The sound fills the small studio, bouncing off the soundproofed walls, and you feel a grin crack across your face before you can stop it.

"I did it."

"You did." He doesn't pull away. His hand is still over yours, and you can feel the curve of his fingers against your knuckles, the slight pressure of his palm on the back of your hand. "Again."

You shift your fingers to find the shape again, and the notes scatter - a buzz, a dead string, the chord falling apart before it can form. You swear under your breath, and you feel his chest shake against your back. A quiet laugh.

"Again," Joe says. "Slower this time. Feel each finger land."

"I can feel them. They're not landing."

"They will. You just need to trust the shape."

His hand guides yours again, repositioning your index finger, then your middle, then your ring. His touch is patient, unhurried, each adjustment deliberate - the way he tunes a guitar, you think. Millimetre by millimetre until the resonance is right.

"There." His hand settles over yours again. "Now strum."

You do, and the chord rings clean again. This time, you let yourself feel it - the vibration travelling up your arm, the warmth of his palm against your skin, the press of his chest against your shoulder as he breathes.

"You have good hands," he says, and the words land somewhere in your chest. "They just don't know it yet."

You swallow. "They know other things."

"I know. But they don't know this." His thumb traces the edge of your hand, a slow sweep that raises the hair on your arm. "Yet."

The amplifier hums. A faint feedback loop whispers from the monitor. The room is dark except for the cone of light spilling over the mixing board, and you can see your shadows on the wall - one shape, two bodies pressed close.

"Try a different chord," he says. "C major. Index on the first fret of the B string. Middle on the second fret of the D. Ring on the third fret of the A."

You lift your fingers from the G shape, and the strings ring out as you release them. The sound hangs in the air, then fades. You try to find the new shape, your fingers fumbling across the fretboard, searching for the right spots.

"Here." His hand moves again, adjusting your index finger. "One fret. Right there."

"I thought I had it."

"Almost. Your ring finger needs to be higher. Slide it up."

You do, and the chord sounds - not as clean as the G, but close. You can hear the potential in it, the shape of something almost right.

"Better," he says. "Again."

You lift and try to find the shape again, and this time your fingers land closer. A buzz on the high E, but the rest rings true.

"Good. You're learning." Joe's hand stays over yours, and you can feel the calluses on his fingertips pressing into the spaces between your knuckles. "You feel the difference between this shape and the last one?"

"Yeah. This one's tighter. Closer together."

"Exactly. And your body feels it before your mind does. That's the instinct. You're trusting it."

The praise lands somewhere deep, and you feel your cheeks warm. You keep your eyes on the fretboard, watching your fingers - his hand a warm shadow over yours.

"Try going between them," he says. "G to C. Back and forth. Don't rush. Let your hand learn the distance."

You lift your fingers from the G shape, find the C, strum. Buzz on the high E. You adjust, try again. Clean. Back to G - your index slips, and the note dies. You find it again. C. Better. G. Almost. C. Clean.

You go back and forth, and his hand stays with yours, not pushing, just present - a steady weight that tells you you aren't alone in the motion. You can smell him now, close enough for that - something woody and clean beneath the coffee and leather of the room, a scent that belongs to the hours he's spent in this space, to the hands that have played songs you listen to on repeat in your own flat.

"You're rushing it," he says. "Breathe. The chord isn't going anywhere."

You exhale, and you feel his chest rise and fall behind you. In sync. You hadn't meant for that to happen.

"G," he says, his voice low and steady. "Find G."

You place your fingers. Clean. The chord rings out, and you hold it, letting the sound decay into the hum of the room.

"C."

You move. Clean. The note hangs in the air, and you feel his thumb trace a slow line along the inside of your wrist.

"Good," he says. "Now hold it."

You hold the C, your fingers pressing into the strings, feeling the vibration travel through your bones. His thumb keeps moving - a slow, absent stroke along the delicate skin of your inner wrist, where the veins run blue beneath the surface.

You forget to breathe.

The chord dies as your grip loosens, and you let it go. The strings buzz against the fretboard, then fall silent. The only sounds left are the hum of the amp and the soft crackle of the wiring in the walls.

Joe's hand remains over yours. His chest presses warm against your shoulder blade. You can feel his breath at your temple, slow and deliberate, as if he's waiting for something - for you to pull away, to say something, to break the silence that has settled between you like a held chord.

You don't pull away. Couldn't, even if you wanted to - and you don't want to. Your fingers stay curled under his, the strings silent beneath them, and you let yourself feel the weight of his palm, the rough texture of his calluses against your skin. The silence stretches, and you feel it press against you like a physical thing - the question he isn't asking, the answer you aren't giving.

His thumb moves again, a slow sweep across the inside of your wrist, tracing the line of a vein. You shiver, and you know Joe feels it - the slight tremor that runs through you, the way your breath catches and holds.

"Your heart's racing," he says, his voice low, almost a murmur against your temple.

"Yeah." You don't try to deny it. "It does that."

"Does it?" His thumb keeps moving, tracing slow circles now, and you feel the pulse jump under his touch. "Or is it just tonight?"

You turn your head slightly - not enough to meet his eyes, just enough to feel the shift in the air between you. "I don't know. Maybe it's the guitar."

"The guitar." A quiet laugh, warm against your skin. "You think it's the guitar making your pulse go like this?"

"Maybe." Your voice comes out thinner than you mean it to. "It's a very intense instrument."

Joe's hand slides from yours, and you feel the absence like a cold draft. But then his fingers find your chin, turning your face towards him, and you're looking at him - really looking - for the first time since he'd stepped behind you.

The lamp catches the edges of his face, the curve of his jaw, the hazel of his eyes gone dark in the low light. His curls fall forward, shadowing his brow, and there's something in his expression you haven't seen before - a stillness, a focus, like he's reading a song you didn't know you were playing.

"You want to know what I think?" he asks.

"What?"

"I think you've been waiting for an excuse to come onto me all day. And you picked the guitar because it was safe."

You open your mouth to answer, but nothing comes. Because he's right, and you know it, and the knowing sits in your chest like a stone dropped into still water.

Joe's eyes hold yours, and you feel the weight of the pause - the hum of the amp, the crackle of the wiring, the heat of his body against your back. His thumb stops at the corner of your mouth, and you feel the callus catch on your lower lip.

"Stop pretending it's the guitar," he says, and leans in.

His mouth meets yours, and it's slow - slower than you'd expected, given the tension that's been building between you all evening. His lips are warm, soft, and he kisses you like he has time, like the song can wait, like there's nothing in the world more important than the shape of your mouth against his.

You make a sound - a small, surprised thing - and he swallows it, his hand sliding from your chin to the curve of your neck, his fingers threading into the hair at your nape. The guitar shifts on your lap, forgotten, as you turn on the stool to face him, your hands finding his chest, the worn flannel warm under your palms.

He pulls back just far enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours. His breath comes slow, controlled, but you can feel the pulse in his throat under your fingers.

"That okay?" he asks.

You nod, not trusting your voice. Your hands curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding him there, and you feel the corner of his mouth lift in a smile you can feel more than see.

"Good," he says, and kisses you again.

This time, there's less patience in it. Joe's mouth opens against yours, and you feel the heat of his tongue, the scrape of stubble along your jaw. Your fingers find the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and the stool creaks beneath you as you shift, trying to find more of him.

His hand slides from your neck, down your shoulder, along your arm - leaving a trail of heat in its wake. His fingers find yours, still curled on the neck of the guitar, and he gently lifts them, setting your hand on his thigh instead.

"Focus on me," he says against your mouth. "Not the guitar."

"I am."

"You're thinking." His lips find your jaw, your cheek, the spot just below your ear that makes your breath catch. "I can feel it. You're still trying to figure out what comes next."

You are. You're already three beats ahead, trying to map the shape of the night, trying to find the right chord to play. He's right, and you hate how easily he can read you.

"Stop," he says, his voice a low command against your skin. "Just be here. With me."

You exhale, and you feel the tension leave your shoulders - a slow release, like a string unwinding. Your hand on his thigh tightens, and you turn your head, finding his mouth again.

"Okay," you whisper. "I'm here."

"Good." His hand finds the hem of your shirt, his fingers brushing the bare skin of your hip. "Then let me show you what comes next."

He kisses you. Not like the first time - not slow and searching. This is different. This is his hand sliding into your hair, his fingers curling at the nape of your neck, his mouth opening against yours like he'd been waiting for permission. You whine, and he swallows the sound, his tongue finding yours, the taste of him sharp and warm.

The guitar slides in your lap, the neck tilting, the body pressing against your stomach. You don't care. Your hand finds his thigh, the same spot as before, the muscle firm under your palm, and you feel him exhale against your mouth.

He pulls back, just barely, his forehead resting against yours. "You're still thinking."

"I know."

"Stop thinking."

"I'm trying."

"I know." He kisses you again, softer this time, a brush of his lips against yours. "I know."

You set the guitar aside - carefully, your hands finding the neck, leaning it against the amp on the ground. The movement shifts your weight, bringing you closer to him, your knee brushing his thigh. He makes a sound, low in his chest, and his hand finds your hip, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt.

"Come here," he says, and it isn't a request.

Joe guides you both over to the leather couch, and you swing your leg over his lap, straddling him, the couch creaking under the shift of weight. His hands find your waist, his thumbs pressing into the hollow of your hips, and you settle against him, your knees on either side of his thighs, your hands braced on his shoulders.

The light falls across his face - the sharp triangle of it catching the hollow of his throat, the shadow under his jaw. You can feel him beneath you, the heat of him, the steadiness of his breathing. His hands slide up your sides, under the hem of your shirt, his calloused palms dragging over your ribs, and you shiver.

"Cold?" he asks.

"No."

His mouth finds your neck, a slow, deliberate press of his lips against the curve of your throat. You feel his tongue, the warmth of his breath, the scrape of his stubble. Your fingers tighten on his shoulders, and you let your head fall back, your eyes closing.

"That's it," he murmurs against your skin. "Stop thinking."

His hands move higher, his thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your bra, the touch featherlight, not quite enough. You arch into it, a sound escaping your throat, and he makes a sound in response - a low hum of approval that vibrates against your neck.

"Joe."

"Yeah."

"I-" You don't know what you were going to say. Your mind is a blur, all the words you'd written and sung and forgotten, none of them fitting the shape of what you feel.

He pulls back, his eyes finding yours. "You don't have to say anything." His hand comes up, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, the corner of your mouth. "Just be here."

You nod, your throat too tight for words.

"I want to show you something," he says, his voice rough, scraped low.

"Show me."

His hand slides from your jaw down to your hip, his fingers pressing into the curve of your waist, and you understand. He helps you climb off him, settling onto the couch beside him, and he follows, lowering himself to his knees in front of you, his hands finding your thighs, spreading them gently.

You watch him, your breath catching in your throat. The overhead light catches the faintly sun-bleached tips of his curls, the shadow pooling under his jaw, the way his hands move over the denim of your jeans like he's memorising the shape of your legs. His thumbs trace the inside seams, dragging slow, and you feel the pressure of it through the fabric - not quite enough, but close.

"Joe."

His eyes lift to yours. Dark. Focused. "Yeah."

"I—" Your voice breaks, and once again you're at a loss for words, unsure what you intended to say, only that you need to say something, need him to know-

"I know." His hands still on your thighs. "I know." He leans forwards, his mouth pressing a kiss to your knee through the denim, then another, higher, his lips brushing the inside of your thigh. "Tell me if you need to stop."

"I won't."

"Tell me anyway."

You nod, your throat tight. His hands find the button of your jeans, and he works it open with the same patience he'd used to guide your fingers over the fretboard - slow, deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours. The zip parts, and he tugs the denim down your hips, the fabric catching on your thighs, and you lift your hips to help him. He pulls them off your ankles, drops them to the floor beside the guitar, and you're in your underwear - black, simple, the cotton damp where you've been wet for him without realising it.

His breath catches. You see it - the way his chest stops mid-rise, the way his jaw tightens. His hands settle on your bare thighs, his thumbs tracing the elastic edge of your underwear, and he presses his mouth to your hipbone, an almost reverent kiss.

"You're shaking," he murmurs against your skin.

"I know."

"Still good?"

You nod, and he pulls your underwear down, slow, the fabric sliding over your hips, your thighs, past your knees. You feel the air on your skin, cool, and then his breath, warm, and you shiver.

"Lie back," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You do. Your back meets the leather, the cushion giving under your weight, and you stare up at the ceiling - the single bulb in its metal cage, the shadows stretching across the acoustic tiles. You hear him move, feel his hands on your ankles, spreading your legs, positioning your feet flat on the edge of the couch. You're open to him, exposed, and the vulnerability of it makes your chest tighten.

You don't look down. You can't. But you feel his breath against you - warm, then hot, then the first touch of his tongue, slow and flat, dragging from your entrance to your clit.

You gasp. Your hips buck, and Joe's hands press down on your thighs, holding you still. He does it again, slower this time, his tongue circling your clit, and you hear yourself make a sound - a whimper, broken and raw. The leather is warm beneath you, the light harsh above you, and his mouth is between your legs, patient and thorough, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.

Your hand finds his hair, your fingers twisting into the curls, and he groans against you, the vibration sending a shock through your hips. He works you open with his tongue, with his lips, with the occasional press of his fingers inside you - one, then two, curling slow, finding the spot that makes you see stars behind your eyelids.

"Joe-" His name comes out strangled, a plea you don't know you're making.

He pulls his mouth away, and you feel the loss like a physical ache. His fingers stay inside you, still moving, and he looks up at you from between your thighs - his mouth slick, his eyes dark, his curls falling across his forehead. "Not yet."

You whine. You don't care. "Please."

"Not yet." He pulls his fingers out slowly, and you feel the emptiness, the clench of your cunt searching for something to hold. He wipes his hand on his thigh, then stands, his chest rising and falling. He pulls his shirt over his head, drops it on the floor, and you watch his body emerge - the lean muscle of his torso, the thick patch of hair on his chest and the trail of hair below his navel, the way his jeans sit low on his hips, strained by his erection.

You sit up, your hands finding his belt, working the buckle open with trembling fingers. He watches you, his hands at his sides, his breathing uneven. You unbutton his jeans, pull the zipper down, and push the denim over his hips. He kicks them off, and his cock springs free - thick, hard, the tip slick with precum, the skin flushed and dark.

You swap your hand around him, your fingers barely meeting around the girth, and he makes a sound - a low groan that seems to come from somewhere deep in his chest. You stroke him, slow, your thumb spreading the wetness over the head, and his hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your face to look at him.

"Lie down," he says, the words barely a command.

You let go of him and lay back, your head against the arm of the couch, your legs still open. Joe climbs over you, his knees settling on either side of your hips, his body lowering until his chest brushes yours. He's heavy, warm, the weight of him pressing you into the leather, and you feel his cock against your thigh, hot and insistent.

He looks down at you, his eyes searching your face. "Still sure?"

You reach up, your hand finding the back of his neck, pulling him down until his forehead rests against yours. "I told you. I won't change my mind."

He kisses you - soft, almost tender - and then he shifts his hips, his cock finding your entrance, nudging against your wetness. You feel the head press against you, the stretch beginning, and you hold your breath.

He pushes in.

Slow. So slow you feel every inch - the way you open for him, the way your body resists and then yields, the way the fullness spreads through you like a wave of heat. He stops when he's all the way inside, his hips pressed against yours, and he stays there, his forehead still against yours, his breath ragged.

"Fuck," he whispers, the word torn from him.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans, his hips twitching. "Move," you say, your voice a rasp you barely recognise.

Joe does. He pulls out slow, almost all the way, then pushes back in, the rhythm steady, deep, each thrust pressing him against the spot his fingers had found. The couch creaks beneath you, the leather slick with sweat, and you hear the wet sound of him moving inside you, the slap of skin against skin.

You let your head fall back, your eyes closing, your hands gripping his shoulders. He's everywhere - his weight, his heat, the smell of his sweat, the sound of his breathing, the way his mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, your nipple. He sucks your breast into his mouth, his tongue circling, and you arch into it, a moan escaping your throat.

His rhythm changes. Faster. Harder. The couch shifts beneath you, the frame knocking against the wall, and you hear the guitar shift on the floor, a string vibrating. You don't care. You're lost in it - the building pressure, the way his cock hits that spot again and again, the way his hand finds your clit, his thumb pressing tight circles in time with his thrusts.

"Come for me," he says, his voice broken. "I need to feel you."

You shatter. Your cunt clenches around him, a sharp, pulsing wave that rolls through your hips, your thighs, your spine, and you cry out - his name, a sound, nothing, everything. Joe follows, his hips slamming into yours, his groan thick and ragged, and you feel him empty inside you, hot and deep, his body shuddering against yours.

He collapses on top of you, his weight a comfort, his face buried in your neck. You feel his heart against your chest, hammering, slowing. The amplifier hums. Dust drifts in the light from the window. The guitar lies on the floor, its neck pointing towards you like an accusation.

After a long moment, Joe lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours. He looks different - younger, maybe. Softer. The tension in his jaw is gone, his mouth curved in something that isn't quite a smile.

"Okay?" he asks, his voice a rough whisper.

You nod, your throat too tight for words. You shift your hand, your ink-smudged fingertips brushing the hair from his forehead, tucking a curl behind his ear. He turns his head, pressing a kiss to your palm, his eyes never leaving yours.

"That was—" you start, but the words don't come.

"Yeah." He kisses your palm again, then your wrist, the inside of your elbow. "It was."

He pulls out slowly, and you feel the loss of him - the emptiness, the ache. He lies beside you on the narrow couch, his arm sliding under your head, his hand finding your hip, pulling you against him. You're both slick with sweat, the leather sticking to your skin, the overhead light still harsh and unforgiving.

You look at the guitar, lying on the carpet where you'd dropped it earlier. "I never got that C chord right," you say, your voice quiet, almost amused.

He laughs - a low, surprised sound that vibrates through his chest. "We'll work on it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

His hand tightens on your hip. "If you want."

You turn your head, looking at him - the sweat dampening his curls, the faint flush still on his cheeks, the way his eyes hold yours like he's memorising your face. "I want."

His thumb traces a slow circle on your hip. "Good."

Outside, the streetlight buzzes, casting its orange glow through the window. The amplifier hums its low, constant note. And somewhere in the room, a string on the guitar vibrates, a single faint tone, like a question waiting for an answer.

dividers: saradika-graphics

new taglist: @whispersoflost, @teheblue, @je33123, @eller41, @bluehexagon8, @n4ina-07, @prettyfortucker, @leahfaith, @keerymylove, @sexyvixen7, @writingforuandme, @oohlillie, @lacywithdrawal, @stoneyggirl2, @kurtsw7rld96, @jada113

[jinxispunk]

hiii idk if this is an odd fic request or not but I feel like it would be so hot to make a little at home sex tape with joe that you both can watch when he’s away I just know he would be so into the cinematography of it all 🫣 if you don’t feel comfortable writing something like that though i totally get it!!

first of all… thank you SO much for sending this request in because OH. MY. GOD. 😭 i had so much fun writing this one

i fear this is PURE filth from start to finish and i take absolutely no responsibility for the consequences 💀

i really hope i managed to do your idea justice because i ended up getting completely carried away with it... enjoy <3

for your eyes only

Joe Keery x reader

Summary: It starts with Joe setting up his phone at the end of the bed. Somehow, it becomes one of the most intimate nights you've ever shared.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, smut, sex tape, fingering, oral (m receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, filthy™, voyeuristic elements, theyre both major switches tbh, theyre also so in love its sickening, consent is sexy (lmk if i missed anything)

W/C: 7k

A/N: lmk if you enjoyed this and if you'd want a part two!! i already have a little idea floating around where joe's away on tour and they both end up watching the video separately - him in a hotel room, her back home - and neither of them can quite keep their hands to themselves… which may or may not end with a very distracting phone call. maybe. just maybe…

Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]

If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!

The phone looks small in Joe's hand. He holds it face-up, screen dark, the way he might hold a guitar pick before a show - testing its weight, turning it over once. You watch from the foot of the bed, arms crossed, the strap of your tank top slipping off one shoulder. The bedroom is dim, just the bedside lamp on the lowest setting, casting long shadows across the rumpled sheets.

"Perfect spot," he says, more to himself than to you. He sets the phone on the dresser, edges it forward a quarter inch, then back. His thumb drags along the side until the camera lens aligns exactly with the bed. He checks the angle by bending to look through the viewfinder, his curls falling forward, and you watch the way his brow furrows in concentration.

You've seen that look a hundred times - in the studio, bent over a mixing board, or on stage mid-solo, lost in the music. But this is different. This is your shared bedroom, and he's framing a shot of your shared bed.

"You're overthinking it," you say.

"I want to get the whole bed." He straightens, tilts the phone up a fraction. "And the headboard. The headboard's important."

"The headboard?"

"It's a character. Trust me." He grins at you, that boyish flash, and your stomach tightens the way it always does when he looks at you like that - like you're the only person in the world worth teasing.

He presses the red button. A soft click. Then a tiny red light appears, steady and unblinking.

The room changes. The air thickens. You feel the weight of that light like a third person in the room, watching, waiting. Your arms tighten across your chest.

There's a beat of silence. Joe stands with his back to you, hands resting on the edge of the dresser, looking at the phone. Then he takes a long breath, and you watch his shoulders drop - that exhale, the one he does before a set, before a difficult take, before he asks for what he wants.

He turns around.

The playful energy is still there, but underneath it something else has clicked into place. His hazel eyes are darker in the low light, fixed on you with an intensity that makes you forget, for a second, that the camera is even there.

"Hey," he says, soft.

"Hey."

He crosses to you. Three steps, and he's close enough that you can smell the faint cedar of his cologne, the trace of coffee still on his breath. He stops a foot away, not touching you yet, but close enough that you feel the heat coming off his body.

His hand lifts to your face. His fingers cup your jaw, thumb brushing across your lower lip - once, twice, a gesture so tender it makes your chest ache. You feel the callus on his thumbpad, the one from years of pressing down on guitar strings. It catches on the curve of your lip, and you shiver.

"Forget it's there," he murmurs, his voice low, almost a whisper. The words pool in the space between you. You want to do as he says. You try. But the red light is a pinprick in your peripheral vision, and you can feel yourself holding back, just a little - the part of you that's performing, that's aware of being watched.

Joe sees it. He always sees it.

His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and he tugs gently - just enough to tilt your head back, to make you look up at him. His eyes search yours, and you feel that familiar rush of being seen, truly seen, the way only he can see you.

"You're beautiful," he says. Not as a line. As a fact. "I want to remember this. Every second. But I don't need the camera for that."

His thumb traces your jawline, slow, deliberate. You let out a breath you didn't realise you were holding, and some of the tension unwinds from your shoulders.

"I know," you whisper. "It's just-"

"I know." He leans closer, his forehead resting against yours. "We can stop. We can erase it. We can just - be here. No camera. No nothing."

You feel the weight of the offer. The way he gives you an out, even now, even after setting it all up. That's Joe - always giving you the choice, always making sure you want this as much as he does.

And you want this. More than you've admitted, maybe more than you've let yourself feel. You want him to watch you later, alone in some hotel room, missing you. You want to watch him, later, your hand between your thighs, remembering. You want the video to exist - proof that you were here, like this, together, even when the miles stretch between you.

"I want it," you say, and your voice is steadier than you expected. "I want the camera. I want - this."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and something in his expression softens. He nods once. Then his thumb finds your lip again, pressing gently, and you part your mouth on instinct.

"Good girl," he breathes, and the words hit you somewhere low in your belly, a hot pulse. His hand slides down to your shoulder, fingertips grazing the exposed skin where the strap slipped. He traces the line of your collarbone, featherlight, and you feel the goosebumps rise in his wake.

Your hands find his waist. The worn cotton of his T-shirt, the lean muscle underneath. You pull him closer, and your fingers curl into the fabric, anchoring yourself.

Joe tips your chin up with one knuckle. The gesture is so small, so casual, but it sends a message: look at me. Only me.

You do.

The bedroom has gone quiet. The only sounds are your breathing - the soft in-and-out, the rustle of fabric as he shifts closer. Somewhere outside, the distant hum of city traffic. A train horn, muffled. The tick of the bedside clock, measuring seconds that feel like hours.

His eyes drop to your mouth. Your lips part again, anticipating, and you feel the pull of him - the gravitational drag of his body, the heat of his skin inches from yours. You can see the flecks of gold in his irises, the slight unevenness of his stubble along his jaw, the tiny scar near his eyebrow from a childhood accident he's told you about a dozen times.

You know this face. You know the way his smile starts on one side of his mouth, the way his eyes crinkle when he's genuinely happy. But right now he's not smiling. He's focused, intent, and there's a hunger in his gaze that makes your stomach flip.

"Ready?" he asks, and his voice is rougher now, threaded with want.

You nod. Don't trust your voice.

He leans in, slow. Not the rushed kiss of a man who wants to get to the end - the deliberate kiss of a man who wants to savour the start. Your eyes flutter shut. You feel the warmth of his breath, the faint scent of him, and then his mouth meets yours in a deep, silencing kiss.

His mouth moves against yours with a patience that undoes you. Not hurried, not hungry in the way that demands - hungry in the way that savours, that draws out every second like he's memorising the shape of your lips, the soft sound you make when his tongue brushes against yours. His hand stays at the nape of your neck, fingers threading deeper into your hair, holding you exactly where he wants you.

You melt into him. There's no other word for it. Your spine softens, your hips tilt forward, your hands curl into the fabric of his shirt and pull him closer until there's no space left between you. You can feel the heat of his chest through the cotton, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your palms. His other hand finds your waist, fingers splaying across the curve, and he pulls you flush against him.

The camera's red light blinks in the corner of your vision. You're aware of it, distantly, the way you're aware of an open window when you're trying to sleep - there, but not worth opening your eyes for. Joe's thumb traces the line of your jaw, tilting your head just so, and the kiss deepens. His tongue slides against yours, slow and deliberate, and you make a sound low in your throat that you didn't plan.

Joe smiles against your mouth. You feel it, the curve of his lips, and you pull back just enough to glare at him.

"You're smiling."

"I'm happy." He says it against your lips, his voice a low murmur, and kisses you again before you can respond. This one is softer, teasing, a brush of lips that says I'm not done with you yet.

Your fingers find his curls. The texture is exactly what you knew it would be - soft, with a slight wave, the strands slipping through your fingers like water. You've touched his hair a thousand times, in a thousand different ways, but this time feels different. This time you're aware of every individual strand, the way they catch on your calluses, the way he leans into your touch like a cat seeking warmth.

His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you closer, and you feel the hard line of his body against yours. The kiss turns slower, heavier, his breath warm and even against your cheek. You feel his thumb trace the curve of your hip, a lazy, possessive gesture that makes your stomach tighten.

Your hands move from his hair to his shoulders, tracing the broad line of them, the way his frame fills out the t-shirt. He's lean but solid, the kind of build that comes from years of carrying gear and playing shows, not from a gym. You can feel the muscle shift under your palms as he adjusts his stance, bringing you closer to the edge of the bed.

The mattress hits the back of your knees. You gasp softly, the surprise pulling you out of the kiss for half a second, and he uses the moment to kiss the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the sensitive spot just below your ear. His stubble scrapes against your skin, and you shiver.

"I've got you," he whispers, his lips brushing your earlobe. His hand presses against your lower back, guiding you, and you let yourself fall backwards onto the mattress. The sheets are cool against your bare arms, a contrast to the heat of his body as he follows you down, one knee landing on the bed, then the other, until he's hovering over you.

He looks down at you. The bedside lamp catches the gold in his eyes, the soft fall of his curls framing his face. He's propped on one forearm, the other hand resting on your stomach, fingers spread wide. You can feel the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of your tank top.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The only sounds are your breathing - his steady, yours shallow - and the distant hum of traffic from the street below. The camera's red light is a small, steady presence in your peripheral vision, but you're not thinking about it anymore. You're thinking about the weight of him above you, the way the lamp light shadows the hollow of his throat, the faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Hi," he says, soft.

"Hi."

Joe's thumb traces a slow circle on your stomach, just above your navel. The touch is light, almost absent, but you feel it everywhere - a line of heat spreading from his thumb through your whole body, settling low in your belly. Your hips shift beneath him, an unconscious roll, and his eyes darken.

"You're so beautiful," he says, and it's not a line. It's a confession, a quiet admission that he's saying it for himself, not for you. His thumb keeps moving, tracing lazy patterns on your skin, and you watch his face - the way his brow softens, the way his eyes trace the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breasts beneath the tank top.

"I love watching you," he continues, his voice low, almost to himself. "The way you breathe. The way your lips part. The way your hips move when you want something." His thumb presses a little harder, a little lower, and you feel the warmth pool between your legs. "I want to remember all of it."

Your hands find his waist, fingers hooking into the hem of his shirt. You tug, and he gets the message, shifting back just enough to let you pull the shirt up and over his head. It lands somewhere on the floor, and then he's above you again, bare-chested, and you let yourself look.

His chest is lean, defined in the way that comes from natural movement rather than gym repetition. A scattering of hair carpets his chest, and a sparse trail of hair leads down his stomach, disappearing below the waistband of his jeans. His shoulders are broad, his arms corded with the kind of muscle that comes from years of playing guitar - forearms that know exactly how much pressure to apply, fingers that can find the right fret blindfolded.

You reach up, your fingers tracing the line of his collarbone, the dip of his sternum, the warm skin of his chest. He shivers under your touch, a small hitch in his breath, and you feel a surge of power - the knowledge that you can undo him as easily as he undoes you.

"Your turn," he says, his voice rough. His fingers find the strap of your tank top, sliding it down your shoulder with deliberate slowness. The fabric shifts, exposing the curve of your breast, the edge of your nipple. His eyes follow the movement, and you see his throat move as he swallows.

He doesn't rush. He pulls the other strap down, then drags the fabric lower, inch by inch, until your chest is bare. The air hits your skin, cool and electric, and you arch into the sensation, your back lifting off the mattress.

His gaze is hungry. He looks at you like you're something he's been waiting to see his whole life, and the intensity of it makes your breath catch. His hand moves from your stomach to your ribs, tracing the curve, then higher, until his palm cups your breast. His thumb brushes across your nipple, once, twice, and you gasp, your hips bucking beneath him.

"That good?" he asks, and there's a tease in his voice, but it's soft, reverent. He does it again, slower, watching your face, and you bite your lip to keep from moaning.

"Don't," he says, reaching up with his free hand to brush his thumb across your lower lip, parting them. "I want to hear you."

You let the sound escape - a low, breathy moan - and Joe's eyes flare with satisfaction. He leans down, his mouth replacing his hand, and the first touch of his lips on your nipple makes your back arch off the mattress. His tongue is warm, wet, tracing a slow circle around the peak before drawing it into his mouth. You feel the suction, the gentle scrape of his teeth, and your fingers find his hair, gripping, holding him there.

He works his way across your chest, kissing, licking, tasting, until both breasts are flushed and sensitive, your nipples tight and aching. You're gasping now, your hands roaming his back, his shoulders, the warm skin of his neck. His mouth finds the hollow of your throat, then your collarbone, then the space behind your ear, and each kiss feels like a brand, claiming you, marking you as his.

You're aware of the camera, somewhere in the room, but it's faded into the background now, as distant as the traffic outside. All that exists is the weight of him above you, the heat of his mouth on your skin, the slow, deliberate way he's taking you apart, piece by piece.

His hand slides down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, and you hold your breath. His fingers find the damp fabric of your underwear, and he lets out a low sound - approval, hunger, something raw that you feel in your own chest.

"You're wet," he murmurs against your throat, and the words are a caress, a promise. His fingers press against you through the fabric, applying gentle pressure, and you moan, your hips rolling into his hand.

"Joe."

"I know." He kisses your neck, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. "I've got you."

His fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, pulling them down your hips, your thighs, past your knees. You lift your hips to help him, and the fabric slides away, leaving you in just your underwear. He sits back on his heels, looking at you, and the expression on his face is almost reverent - like he's seeing you for the first time, like he can't believe you're real.

The lamp light paints your skin in gold and shadow. You lie beneath him, bare-chested, your dark hair spread across the pillow, your lips parted, your chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. His eyes travel the length of you, from your face to your breasts to the curve of your hip, and he lets out a long, slow exhale.

"I could stay here forever," he says, and his voice is thick with want. "Just looking at you."

You shake your head slowly, your eyes finding his in the dim light. Your hand lifts, fingers brushing the curve of his jaw, and you feel the slight rasp of stubble against your palm. "Stop looking," you say, and your voice comes out lower than you expected, almost a command. "Touch me."

Something flickers in his hazel eyes - surprise, then heat, then a slow kind of reverence. He doesn't answer with words. His hand slides from your ribs down to your hip, fingers curling into the waistband of your underwear, and he tugs. The fabric drags over your skin, past your thighs, past your knees, and you lift your hips to let him take them all the way off. The air hits you, cool and sharp, and you feel the dampness between your legs, the anticipation pooling.

He doesn't look down. Not yet. He stays hovered above you, his eyes locked on yours, and the weight of his gaze is almost unbearable. "Like this?" he asks, his thumb tracing the jut of her hipbone, featherlight. "Or do you want more?"

You reach up again, this time fisting your hand in his curls, pulling his mouth down to yours. It's not a gentle kiss - it's a demand, your tongue sliding against his, your teeth catching his lower lip. He groans against your mouth, and you feel the sound vibrate through his chest, into your own. "More," you breathe against his lips. "I want more."

Joe's mouth leaves yours, trailing down your chin, your throat, the hollow between your collarbones. You arch into him, your hands roaming his back, feeling the muscle shift under his warm skin. His lips find your breast again, and this time there's no teasing - he takes your nipple into his mouth, sucks hard, and you cry out, your hips bucking off the mattress. His hand moves to your other breast, thumb rubbing circles around the peak, and the dual sensation sends a bolt of heat straight to your core.

You're aware of your own sounds now - the gasps, the moans, the way his name keeps falling from your lips like a prayer. You don't care. The camera's red light is a distant star, irrelevant, invisible. All that exists is the wet heat of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble on your sensitive skin, the way his hand slides lower, palm flat against your stomach, fingers dipping into space between her legs.

You hold your breath. His fingers find you, one slow, deliberate stroke through your slick folds, and you shudder, your hands gripping his shoulders. "God, you're wet," he murmurs against your skin, and the words are thick with want, almost reverent. He does it again, slower, watching your face, and you let your head fall back, your lips parted, your eyes half-closed.

"Don't stop," you whisper. "Please."

He doesn't. His finger circles your clit, light and teasing, and you gasp, your hips chasing his hand. He chuckles low in his throat, a sound that's part amusement, part hunger. "You're so responsive," he says, his voice rough. "I love how you move for me."

You want to say something clever, something that matches his teasing, but his finger presses harder, more insistent, and the thought dissolves into a moan. He works you slowly, deliberately, watching every reaction - the way your stomach tenses, the way your fingers dig into his shoulders, the way your breath catches when he finds the exact right rhythm.

The pressure builds, warm and electric, coiling low in your belly. You feel the edge approaching, a wave about to break, and you grip his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours. You kiss him hard, desperate, your tongue sliding against his, and you feel his finger slide inside you, one slow inch, then two, curling just so. You break the kiss with a gasp, your forehead pressed against his.

"I'm close," you breathe. "Joe, I'm-"

"I know." His voice is a low rasp against your lips. His thumb finds your clit again, pressing in tight circles while his fingers move inside you, and you're floating, falling, the wave cresting and crashing, your body shaking against his hand. You cry out, his name breaking from your lips, and he holds you through it, his forehead still pressed to yours, his breath warm and uneven.

You come back to yourself slowly, the room swimming back into focus - the lamp light, the rumpled sheets, the weight of him above you. His hand is still between your legs, gentle now, stroking you through the aftershocks. You feel the slickness on his fingers, the evidence of how much you wanted this, and the flush rises to your cheeks.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice soft. There's no teasing in it now - just care, just him checking, the way he always does.

You nod, not trusting your voice yet. Your hand finds his, lacing your fingers through his, and you squeeze. He squeezes back.

Then Joe pulls his hand away, slow, and you watch him bring his fingers to his mouth. He licks them clean, one by one, his eyes never leaving yours. The gesture is possessive, primal, and you feel a fresh wave of heat pool between your legs.

"Your turn," you say, and your voice is steadier now, threaded with something darker. You push at his chest, a firm shove, and he rolls onto his back, letting you take control. You straddle his hips, looking down at him, his curls spread across the pillow, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths.

You trace a line down his sternum with your fingertip, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your touch. His hands find your thighs, gripping, thumbs stroking circles on the inside of your knees. "What do you want?" he asks, his voice strained.

You don't answer with words. You lean down, your hair falling forward, brushing his chest, his stomach, as you move lower. You kiss his collarbone, his sternum, the trail of hair leading down his belly. He sucks in a breath when your lips reach the waistband of his jeans, and you feel his cock hard against your cheek through the denim.

Your hands find his button, his zipper, working them open with practised ease. He lifts his hips, and you pull his jeans and underwear down his thighs, past his knees, until they're lost in the sheets. You take a moment to look - his cock, hard and flushed, curving against his stomach, a bead of moisture at the tip.

You wrap your hand around him, slow, and he hisses through his teeth. His hips buck involuntarily, and you feel a surge of power, of control. You stroke him once, twice, watching his face - the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes flutter shut.

"Look at me," you say, your voice soft but commanding. His eyes open, dark and heavy-lidded, and you hold his gaze as you lean down and take him into your mouth.

His groan is low, guttural, and his hand finds your hair, not pulling, just resting there, grounding himself. You move slowly, deliberately, taking him deep, feeling the pulse of him against your tongue. You hollow your cheeks, and his hips thrust up, a small, helpless movement. You hum around him, and he curses under his breath.

You work him with your mouth and hand, alternating rhythm, watching the way his expressions shift - the furrow of his brow, the way his lips part, the flutter of his eyelids. You love this, love the power of it, love the way you can undo him with nothing but your mouth.

"Fuck," he breathes, his voice ragged. "You're going to make me-"

You pull off, just before the edge, and he lets out a frustrated groan. You crawl up his body, your mouth finding his, and you taste yourself on his lips. "Not yet," you whisper. "I want you inside me."

His hands grip your hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh. "Where?" he asks, his voice rough, almost a growl. "Where do you want me first?"

His hand slides down your body, palm flat against your stomach, fingers splayed wide, warm and heavy. The question hangs in the air, the only sound your ragged breathing, the distant hum of the city, the small red light of the camera, still blinking, still watching.

The word where doesn't fall away. It settles into the air between you, a third presence in the room now, alongside the camera. You feel it in your lungs, in the space where your next breath is waiting.

The red light blinks once. Steady. Patient. You've forgotten its exact location, know it only as a warmth at the edge of your vision, a witness that's no longer watching - just holding.

Joe's palm stays on your stomach. The heat of it seeps into your skin, spreads through you like honey through warm milk. You feel your own pulse beating against his fingers, a small, frantic bird trapped beneath your ribs.

You could say something. You could guide his hand lower, show him the answer instead of speaking it. But the question has weight, and you want to feel it a moment longer - want to let it sit in the space between you, gathering meaning.

His thumb moves. A single stroke across your skin, just below your navel. He's not rushing you. He never rushes you. Even now, with his cock hard against your thigh, with the evidence of your wanting still slick on his fingers, he waits.

The clock on the nightstand ticks. A train horn sounds in the distance, muffled by walls and windows and the heavy summer air. The sheets are tangled around your ankles, one corner hanging off the edge of the bed.

You shift beneath his hand. Your thighs press together, a reflexive clench, and you feel the wetness between them, the ache that hasn't stopped building since he first looked at you through the camera lens.

"Anywhere," you say, and your voice is a rasp, a confession. "Everywhere. I don't care. Just-" You break off, your hand finding his wrist, pressing his palm harder into your stomach. "Just fill me."

His breath catches. You feel it, the hitch of his ribs beneath your other hand. His eyes search yours, and you see the hunger there, barely leashed, waiting for your permission.

"You sure?" he asks, and it's not doubt - it's the final check, the last door before you fall through together.

You answer by pulling his mouth to yours. The kiss is deep, slow, a promise sealed with tongue and teeth and the soft sound you make when his hips press forward, his cock sliding along your wetness, finding home.

He breaks the kiss, just an inch, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, the gold flecks swallowed by pupil. "Tell me," he breathes. "Tell me where."

Your hand slips between you. You wrap your fingers around him, guiding the head to your entrance, holding him there. The pressure is maddening - the barest tip of him pressing against you, not entering, just promising.

"Right here," you whisper. You feel the word vibrate through your chest, through the air, through the point where you almost touch. "I want you right here."

You hold his gaze as you rock your hips forward, taking the head of him inside you. Just the head. Just enough to feel the stretch, the burn, the impossible fullness that's already building. You pause there, letting the sensation wash over you, letting him feel you clench around him.

Joe's exhale is a shudder, a prayer. His eyes flutter shut, then open, finding yours again. "Fuck," he breathes. "You feel-" He doesn't finish. Can't.

You know. You feel it too. The way he fits inside you, the way your body opens for him, the way the world narrows to the point where you're joined and the small, steady red light that's keeping watch.

You pull him deeper with your next breath. A slow, deliberate roll of your hips, and he slides in, inch by inch, until he's buried inside you. The fullness is a shock, a relief, a homecoming.

You stay like that for a moment. Connected. Still. The only sound is your breathing, ragged and synchronised, and the distant hum of a city that has no idea you both exist here.

"There," you say, your voice soft, almost lost against his lips. "Right there. That's where."

He moves inside you, slow and deep, and the world narrows to the point where you're joined - the slick heat of you, the way your body opens around him, the small, breathless sounds you make with each thrust. His hands find your hips, guiding, grounding, and you let yourself be moved, let yourself sink into the rhythm you're building together. The bed frame creaks beneath you, a soft, steady counterpoint to your breathing. The lamp light flickers - a bulb deciding whether to hold or falter - and settles back into its low glow.

His forehead presses against yours. His breath is warm and uneven, ghosting across your lips. You can taste yourself on him, faint and salty, and the intimacy of it makes your chest tighten. His thrusts are measured, deliberate, each one a question you answer with the roll of your hips.

You're aware of the camera, but distantly - a point of heat at the edge of your vision, like a stove burner left on in another room. You've been ignoring it, letting it fade the way he told you to. But now, with him moving inside you, with the wet sound of your bodies meeting filling the small space between breaths, you feel a pull toward it. A curiosity. A dare.

Your hand finds his chest, palm flat against his sternum, feeling the rapid thunder of his heartbeat. You push gently, and he understands, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, the gold flecks nearly swallowed. His curls hang forward, brushing your forehead.

"What?" he asks, his voice rough, barely a whisper.

You don't answer. Not with words. You hold his gaze as you turn your head, slow, deliberate, until your eyes find the phone on the dresser.

The red light is steady. Unblinking. Watching.

You feel the shift in the room - the way the air thickens, the way your pulse quickens. The camera has been there the whole time, but this is different. You're looking at it now. You're choosing it.

Your lips part. You feel his cock inside you, still, waiting. You feel the heat rising from your chest, the flush spreading across your skin. You hold the camera's gaze - the tiny, unblinking red eye - and you speak.

"Joe."

His name. Just his name. But the way you say it is different - slower, heavier, weighted with something you've never quite put into words. You say it like you're showing the camera exactly who you're with, exactly what you want, exactly how far you're willing to fall.

You turn your head back to him, your eyes finding his. The room has gone still. The only movement is the rise and fall of your chests, the slight tremor in his arms where they bracket your body.

His face has changed. The hunger is still there, but underneath it something else has surfaced - a rawness, a vulnerability, the same thing you feel blooming in your own chest. He's seen you look at the camera. He's heard you say his name that way. And he knows what it means.

"Say it again," he breathes, and his voice is broken, a plea dressed as a request.

You turn your head back to the lens. The red light catches your eye, holds you, and you let yourself be held.

"Joe," you say, and this time your voice is steadier, surer. You say it like a confession, like a promise, like a secret you're finally ready to share. You say it like you want the camera to know his name, to remember it, to carry it through the miles that are coming.

His hips press forward, a sharp, involuntary thrust, and you gasp, your hand gripping his shoulder. He's watching you, his eyes dark and intense, and you watch him watch you as you turn your head back to the lens.

You don't break the gaze this time. You hold it, steady, as he moves inside you. His rhythm is faster now, harder, driven by something that's shifted between you. You feel the change in your own body - the way you open wider, the way your hips meet his, the way the camera's red light becomes a third heartbeat in the room.

"I want you to watch this later," you say, and your voice is low, rough, meant for the lens. "I want you to see what you do to me."

His groan is guttural, broken. His hand finds your jaw, turning your face back to him, and he kisses you hard, desperate, his tongue sliding against yours. You taste the salt of his skin, the edge of his want, and you sink into the kiss, letting it carry you.

When he breaks away, his forehead is pressed to yours, his breath ragged. "Look at it again," he says, and it's not a request. "Look at the camera and tell me what you want."

You do. You turn your head, find the red light, hold it like a staring contest. Your hand slides down between you both, your fingers finding where you're joined, feeling the slick heat of him moving inside you.

You feel yourself in the frame. Not just your body - you, the whole of you, the wanting and the being wanted, the choice you keep making with every breath. Your fingers trace the slick ring where you meet, spreading the wetness across your own skin, and you watch yourself do it through the camera's eye. The gesture is for you as much as for it - proof that this is real, that you're here, that you want this enough to mark yourself with the evidence.

His pace falters. You feel the hitch in his rhythm, the way his hips stutter as he watches you watch yourself. His hand covers yours, pressing your fingers harder against yourself, and you gasp at the pressure - your own touch amplified by his, your fingers caught between your body and his, feeling him move through your hand.

"Like that," he breathes, and his voice is wrecked. "Keep your hand there."

You don't look away from the lens. Your fingers press, circle, find the spot where you need him most, and you let the camera see exactly how you touch yourself, exactly how you want to be touched. The red light blinks - once, twice - and you imagine him watching this later, alone in a hotel room, his hand moving in the same rhythm as yours. The thought sends a pulse of heat through you, a fresh wave of wetness that you feel against your fingers.

His thrusts are deeper now, harder, driven by something that's shifted between you. The camera has become a third participant, a silent witness that amplifies every touch, every sound, every shared breath. You feel the performance of it - not fake, not forced, but heightened, sharpened by the knowledge that this moment will outlast the night.

"Tell me what you see," he says, his voice low and rough against your ear. His hand stays over yours, guiding your fingers where he knows you need them. "Tell me what the camera sees."

You hold the red light in your gaze. Your lips part. Your body opens around him, a slow, deliberate clench that makes him groan.

"I see me." Your voice is steady, threaded with something raw and honest. "I see me taking you. I see how wet I am for you, how wide I open, how much I need this." You pause, your fingers pressing harder against yourself as he thrusts deeper. "I see me falling apart."

His hand leaves yours, sliding up your stomach, your ribs, until his palm cups your breast. His thumb finds your nipple, rolling it between his fingers, and you arch into the touch, your breath catching. He keeps moving inside you, steady and deep, and you keep your eyes on the lens, letting the camera see every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face.

"Look at you," he murmurs, and his voice is thick with awe. "Look at what you're doing to me."

You feel him pulse inside you, feel the tremor that runs through his thighs, and you know he's close. But you're not ready for this to end. Not yet. Not when the camera is still watching, still holding every second of you together.

You pull your hand out from between you both, bring your fingers to your mouth. You taste yourself on your tongue - salt and want and the faint musk of him - and you hold the camera's eye as you lick your fingers clean, slow and deliberate, one by one.

Joe makes a sound you've never heard from him before. Something broken and reverent, a word that might be your name but comes out as a groan. His hips lose their rhythm, his composure cracking, and you feel the shift - the moment when he stops trying to last and starts letting go.

"Joe." You say his name to the camera, your voice a command and a plea. "Look at me. Look at the camera and let it see you come."

His eyes find the lens. You watch his face as he looks at it - the way his jaw tightens, the way his pupils blow wide, the way his breath catches and holds. You watch him give himself to the camera the way you did, offering up his pleasure as proof that this is real.

He comes with a shudder, his hips pressing deep, his forehead falling to your shoulder. You feel the pulse of him inside you, hot and filling, and come right after him. You hold him through it, your hand finding his hair, your eyes still on the red light. You want the camera to see this too - the way he collapses against you, the way his breath evens out, the way you hold him through the aftershocks.

The room settles. The only sounds are your breathing, the faint hum of the city, the small, steady presence of the camera still recording.

He lifts his head, his eyes finding yours. There's something new in his gaze - a tenderness that wasn't there before, or maybe it was, maybe it's just visible now, through the lens of what you've done.

"Hi," he says, soft, the way he said it at the start.

"Hi."

He kisses you, slow and gentle, a kiss that tastes like salt and want and the beginning of something you're not ready to name. When he pulls back, his thumb traces your cheek, brushing away a strand of hair that's stuck to your skin.

"I'm going to watch that a hundred times," he says, and his voice is rough with honesty. "A thousand. Every night I'm gone."

You smile, small and private, your hand still tangled in his curls. "Good."

You turn your head back to the camera. The red light is steady, patient, still holding you both in its gaze. You look at it for a long moment - at the future version of him who will watch this, at the miles that will stretch between you, at the proof of this night that will carry through all of it.

You speak to it, your voice low and sure. "I'll be waiting."

The red light blinks once. Steady. Patient. A promise held in light and glass and the space between two people who refuse to let distance win.

dividers: saradika-graphics

new taglist: @whispersoflost, @teheblue, @je33123, @eller41, @bluehexagon8, @n4ina-07, @prettyfortucker, @leahfaith, @keerymylove, @sexyvixen7, @writingforuandme, @oohlillie, @lacywithdrawal, @stoneyggirl2, @kurtsw7rld96

[nowandajenn]

Oh my god.

I’m shook.

[girlfailurearchivist]

Ten things I think Walter ‘Keys’ McKey owns

• Costco executive membership

• A take-as-needed Xanax prescription

• Signed copy of Diary of a Wimpy Kid from middle school

• A candy jar that’s all junior mints

• Key clicker fidgets in silly shapes (dinosaurs, food, etc)

• Polaroid camera (he went through a phase)

• An at-home espresso machine he spent way too much money on and he drinks the free coffee at work everyday anyway

• An ugly Christmas sweater he wears for three hours once a year at the office holiday party

• Weighted eye mask for migraines

• Very expensive replica of the Oathkeeper sword he bought online while high and rewatching Game of Thrones

[snoopyharrington]

graceland too

summary: When your older brother, Eddie Munson, dies in a battle in the Upside Down, you don't know what to do with yourself. A few days later, Steve Harrington offers to let you move in and take care of you, because he knows what you're going through. pairing: caretaker!steve x munson!reader word count: 5.1k content/warnings: GRIEF/DEATH/MOURNING!!!!, angst to fluff/hurt comfort, happy/hopeful ending, s5 v1 canon dustin, people coping with death differently (which means not everyone coping in a way that's kind to others), max is in a coma, occurs between s4 and s5 but there may be some canon inaccuracies (sorry), TRAUMA!!!!, coping with trauma, mental health/mental health conditions, will they/won't they dynamic, lots of "friendly" touching between steve and reader, mentions of s4 final battle when eddie dies, slight uncle wayne slander (sorry), not proofread (sorry x3) title is a reference to the phoebe bridgers song ofc :)

It starts in late June.

Steve's out volunteering with Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan, which is where he plans to spend most of his time for the foreseeable future. The "earthquake" that ripped Hawkins in four — otherwise known as the interdimensional power-hungry freak named Vecna — had rocked their small town, effectively ripping lives, houses, pets, and the like away in his dirty clutches.

The thought still made Steve shudder, but he was trying to focus his efforts elsewhere — not on the fact that Max was in a coma, or that hundreds of people were posting "missing" signs for their lost loved ones, even though he knew they were never coming back. And especially not on Eddie Munson, of all people, sacrificing himself in the Upside Down.

His throat closes up slightly as the flashback plays back in his mind. He momentarily stalls, the kids size hand-me-down tee-shirt he's folding just a soft piece of fabric for him to hold on to as he remembers what happened just 72 hours ago.

And then Steve thinks of you.

You and Dustin had been unconsolable that night. Understandably so. Dustin looked up to Eddie and had big plans to take over Hellfire Club when he finally got him through to graduation. You, however... Eddie's your big brother. Was your big brother. Separated just by two years, and even though you had different dads, Eddie never treated you any differently.

In the short time that you had known Steve, he learned that you never actually met your biological dad, but Uncle Wayne and Eddie took you in all the same. From a young age, Eddie was your protector. Steve knew that just from going to the same school as you two. Even though you weren't in Hellfire, everyone at Hawkins High knew better than to fuck with Eddie Munson's little sister. That was a death wish in its own right.

"Steve? You alright?" Nancy's soft voice pulls Steve from his thoughts. He blinks, looking down at her, and quickly folds the tee-shirt in a messy heap. She glances at it and carefully redoes it.

"How do you think she's doing?"

Nancy knows immediately who he's talking about. Her lips pull in a small frown.

"I can't imagine how she's feeling," she mumbles with a shake of her head. "Dustin and Mike went to talk to their uncle and he was talking about skipping town. He said he doesn't want to stick around knowing the reputation Eddie left behind, even if he knows it wasn't true."

Steve's eyes widen at that, "What, so he's just gonna leave her?"

Nancy shrugs. "They're grieving, Steve. Wayne's been working to support them for the past, what? 20 years? He deserves to mourn the way he needs to."

"Is he taking the trailer?"

"I don't know," she says. "Mike said Dustin tried to talk to her yesterday but she wouldn't answer the door."

"Shit," Steve mutters, lifting a hand to run through his hair. "Do you think... would it be, like, overstepping if I tried checking on her? I'm... I'm really worried about her, Nance."

Nancy thinks for a moment, nibbling on her bottom lip as she distracts herself with a new pile of toddler-sized pants.

"I don't see how it could hurt," she eventually replies. "The worst she'll do is tell you to fuck off or not answer, but... I don't know. I'm worried, too."

For the entire drive over to the Forest Hills Trailer Park, Steve prays to a god he doesn't know if he believes in.

Over the past few years, he's witnessed too much tragedy for a 20 year old. He's seen too much death, cried too much, gotten too many concussions, defended his friends in ways he never thought imaginable — but now, he's depending on whatever big, universal power may or may not exist, because he needs you to still be in Hawkins.

He needs this.

A wave of relief hits him when he haphazardly parks his BMW outside the Munson trailer, but he knows he's not completely in the clear until he sees your face. He slams the driver's door shut and walks up to the door, rapping his fist against the thin metal. He has to convince himself not to press his ear up to the door and listen for footsteps or sounds of life.

But then—

Then, you answer.

You open the door, and Steve blinks, slightly shocked. Mainly because you're here, in front of him, but also...

Also, because you're still wearing the same blood-stained tee-shirt from the day of the final battle. Because the bags beneath your eyes indicate that you probably haven't even slept since then, and your eyes are so puffy and red that Steve knows you've likely spent all your time crying.

And it just kind of... clicks, in that moment, what Steve needs to do.

"Hey," he greets, his tone gentle and quiet, "Pack some stuff up. You're gonna come stay with me for a little bit, okay? I'm gonna take care of you."

Steve watches as the gears slowly start to turn in your mind. He can tell that you're moving at a weaker rate than usual, and he wonders when the last time you've had food or water is. Your lips part, but then you nod.

"Okay," you answer, voice hoarse. "Okay— can you— can you help me?"

Your eyes begin to water, and it takes everything in Steve not to pull you in and give you the biggest hug imaginable.

"Yeah, sweetheart," Steve nods. "I'm gonna help you."

July

"So, what have you guys been doing?"

The tone to Dustin's question is accusatory, as if you've been hunkering down at Steve's house to purposely hide away from the kids. Steve sighs as he leans his hip against the open doorway, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I've just been... I don't know, like, taking care of her," he says. He doesn't know how to explain it to pre-teens without making it sound weird, but he also knows he doesn't give them enough credit. That in his head, they'll maybe always exist as tiny little kids biking around Hawkins in their Ghostbusters costumes, when they've experienced more pain and trauma than most adults go through in a lifetime.

As it stands, only two of the usual gaggle is currently on his doorstep — Will's still recovering from everything with Vecna (and Joyce isn't too keen on letting him run around all willy nilly), and Lucas spends most of his free time at the hospital, waiting for Max to wake up. Mike and Dustin have really been the only two trying to hang around Steve's, bothering him to see if you're up for visitors.

"She's not, like, hurt, though." Mike points out, and Steve suppresses yet another sigh before nodding his head.

"Yeah, I know that, Wheeler, but her brother just died. It's a lot for her to deal with, okay? You heard Wayne, he wanted to leave Hawkins anyway."

Mike shrugs and adjusts his stance on his bike.

"Eddie was my friend, too. Why can't I hang out?" Dustin asks.

"Listen, Henderson, it's just different," Steve runs his hand through his hair, obviously growing exhausted of the conversation. "I know you were friends with Eddie and you were obsessed with him and whatever, but, like. Imagine Mike lost Nancy or something. It's on that scale, okay? It's fucked up, and she just needs someone. You have your mom and Mike and... Mews, I guess."

Dustin makes a sound through his teeth before kicking the brake off his bike.

"Whatever, dude. See you around."

Rolling his eyes, Steve watches as Dustin rides off the Harrington property. Mike waves goodbye, which Steve returns, and then turns around to close the door behind him, jogging quietly in his socks up to the guest room, where you've been staying for the last three weeks.

He knocks softly, then calls out: "You awake in there?"

(It doesn't matter that it's 1 o'clock in the afternoon. Steve quickly realized that, within a few days of having you stay with him, your sleep schedule was completely fucked up. You revealed to him that you hadn't slept at all since Eddie passed, because when you closed your eyes, all you could see were the demobats attacking him.)

(That first night at Steve's, you both stayed in the living room, because you confessed that you were too scared to sleep alone in the dark. Steve kept the TV on all night.)

When he doesn't hear a response, he opens the door, sighing softly when he sees your exhausted body tucked into the guest room sheets and blankets. He tip-toes to the edge of the mattress, placing a hand to your shoulder, and lightly shakes your shoulder.

"'s 1 pm, sweetheart," Steve murmurs, carefully moving some hair out of your face. "Gotta get up."

You jolt, reaching out to grab Steve's hand, and he jerks in response, nervous that he's scared you. (Nightmares have also been a common theme in the house — for both of you.) When you open your eyes a second later, retinas adjusting to the light and familiar figure in front of you, you let out a shaky breath and ease up on the tight grasp around Steve's wrist.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," you mutter, reaching up to fist at your eyes. "Did I sleep in again?"

"Don't apologize, you're okay," Steve replies easily, "But yeah, it's a bit late."

You groan. "I couldn't sleep again last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I was seeing..."

Your expression glazes over slightly, and Steve shakes his head, squeezing your arm.

"Hey, don't do that," he says. "Remember what we talked about? You can't go back there all the time. You can't blame yourself for what happened."

Your eyes instantly get watery so you sit up, then stare at your lap.

"You hungry at all? I can make you something to eat. Maybe we can go outside today or something."

You shrug your shoulders. Somehow, you're overwhelmed by his questions, even though you used to be so opinionated and sure of yourself. You wonder where that version of yourself went off to. Your stomach clenches at the thought of it dying alongside Eddie.

"Lemme make you something small," Steve murmurs. "Then maybe we can sit in the backyard and eat?"

You peer up at him, swallowing the lump in your throat. You're not sure when that got there, but it seems like it's always there these days.

"Okay," you say. "That sounds alright."

Steve smiles at you, and that feels like a reward in itself.

August

Steve wakes up to a soft knock on his bedroom door, followed by an even quieter call of his name.

He opens his eyes and searches through the darkness for the alarm clock on his nightstand. The red neon numbers blink back at him. 2:06 a.m.

"Steve?"

You call him again, this time, creaking the door open. Steve sits up, the navy blue comforter his mom picked out for him in high school falling to his waist.

"What's up, sweetheart?" he croaks out, throat dry from a few solid hours of sleep. He can't quite make out your form in the inky blue night of his room, but he hears you come closer to his bedside.

"I had a really bad nightmare," you say. Your voice is soft, the admission rolling off your tongue like it's a secret you'd only confess in the thick of night. "I'm sorry for waking you up, but can I just... can I stay in here? For tonight?"

Steve is tired. He's tired from just being woken up, which he'll never be upset with you about, but he's also tired from worrying about you, and Max, and Lucas, and El, and Will, and fuck, now even Dustin's giving him attitude because he won't let him see you.

He's exhausted, and he hasn't told you too much, but sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he, too, sees Eddie's body getting attacked by demobats.

On especially bad days, he also sees Barb's, and he blames himself for that.

But he knows he's not doing you any good by sinking into his own trauma and grief.

He knows you need someone.

Right now, you need him.

So, Steve moves over and pats an empty spot in the middle of the bed.

"Come on in," he says, fluffing a pillow for you on the side next to him. "Hope you don't mind, I'm a cuddler."

You snort at that.

Steve thinks it's the first time he's heard anything close to a laugh in months.

The next day, Robin and Nancy bully their way into Steve's house.

Steve's strong enough to stop a few pre-teen kids from getting in, but he can stave off his ex-girlfriend and his best friend for only so long. They, too, are worried about you, especially since it's officially been a month and a half since they've seen you.

Today seems to be one of your better days. After sleeping in Steve's bed, you woke up before noon (and he wasn't kidding, either — he really is a cuddler, which you'll neither deny nor admit to that helping you sleep better). You ate breakfast and changed out of pajamas, and even spent some time watching TV with Steve before the girls came over.

(Steve avoided putting any local news on, since every report was still very much about the "earthquake" and missing loved ones. Instead, you watched reruns of Press Your Luck, which seemed to be good enough for both of you.)

Nancy and Robin drag you back upstairs to the guest room, with Robin calling out some bullshit excuse about you needing "girl time". Steve doesn't know why that's relevant, but he flops down on the couch anyway, wondering how his home got to have an open door policy.

He attempts to enjoy his time alone, but really, it's pretty boring not having you around. He's gotten used to your presence, even if you're not always talking or doing something together. He puts a baseball game on and cracks open a beer, but even that feels kind of lame.

Around three hours in of your "girl time", Steve decides to (sneakily) check on you. Of course, the guest room door is closed, which makes him roll his eyes, but Robin talks loud enough for him to hear her through the walls. The TV is on — something you haven't done since you started staying here — and he nibbles on his bottom lip as he tries to listen in on what you three could possibly be talking about.

"So, do you have a crush on him?" Robin asks. Steve's eyes widen. She can't be talking to Nancy, who's been dating Jonathan since she broke up with Steve.

"Robs!" he hears Nancy scold her, followed by a loud ouch!

"What? I'm just asking!"

"No, no, it's fine," you reply, followed by some awkward laughter. "Um... I mean, he's so kind and sweet, but I feel like I've been such a burden on him. I have to get back on my feet at some point and I just don't know if now is a good time for me to figure out a romantic relationship."

Steve's chest aches a little at that. He's never thought of you as a burden, and he hates that you could ever feel that way.

"I think that's a really mature way to look at things," Nancy says. "Steve cares a lot. And when he loves, he loves with his whole heart. It can feel a little intimidating sometimes — it was for me, at least. But maybe one day it could work out for you two."

Robin's already babbling about something else, so you don't have a chance to answer. But now, Steve can't help but wonder if there's a future that exists for you, beyond the confides of these shitty, grief-filled circumstances.

Maybe that makes him selfish. Maybe that makes him hopeful.

He hasn't quite decided yet.

Mid-August

August is a hazy month.

The summer sun hangs low, humidity thick in the warm afternoons of Hawkins. Robin thinks she's about to secure jobs for her and Steve over at The Squawk, but there's also talks of the military taking up permanent residence in their little town.

Quite frankly, he also doesn't want to leave you.

As the summer crawls to a slow close, your face fills out a little bit more, your eyes less tired. You're starting to look more like your old, healthy self again, which brings Steve a lot of relief. You both know you'll never return to that version of yourself again — the person you were when Eddie was still alive — and you're struggling with that every day.

Steve can see it in your eyes, especially when you gaze off somewhere distant. You'll be sitting in the backyard together, knees tucked to your chest, and suddenly there won't be anything left to say, and he knows you're thinking about it. The cicadas are screeching, almost as loudly as winged demobats jetting low in the sky, and your fists are balled so tightly, Steve worries you're going to break skin.

"Sweetheart," he says gently, standing from his seat and kneeling down in front of you, "Come on, don't do this. You're not there. Where are you, hm? Talk to me."

You blink slowly, almost as if you're being woken up from a dream. You let Steve take your hands into his; allow him to gently flex your knuckles and fingers so they're no longer clenched.

"I'm in your backyard," you eventually answer. Steve nods encouragingly. "I'm... I'm not back there. I'm with you. I'm safe. I'm here."

"There you go," he soothes, petting over your palms. "That's good. That's really good."

You try to smile gratefully at him, but there's tears lining your eyes.

The rest of the evening is spent in the little bubble of routine you've built for yourselves.

Sometime after dinner, you and Steve will migrate to the couch. He'll put something lighthearted on, usually a sitcom or a game show, and you'll curl up into Steve's side. You never talk about the cuddling, or the fact that you never stopped sharing a bed after that night all those weeks ago. After that, he just kept asking you if you wanted to go to bed, and you never questioned it.

When you're just about to fall asleep, Steve gently guides you upstairs and forces you into the shower, even if you fight him on it. He tells you that it'll make you feel better and help you sleep, which he's somehow always right about.

You're not sure when Steve Harrington got so good at being a careful, compassionate human being, but you do notice that you sometimes share the same far away look — the one you get when you're thinking of Eddie, or how cold the Upside Down was, or the sound of Dustin sobbing.

You haven't asked Steve what else he's witnessed in that fucked up place, but you can't imagine it's anything good. You've heard Max is still in a coma, and one of the only times Steve willingly leaves the house is when Lucas calls and asks for a ride to the hospital. You've also learned that the reason Will went missing a few years ago is because he was trapped there, and Barbara Holland's mysterious disappearance was just as fatal and gruesome as Eddie's.

There are days where you're so angry with the world, and you wish you never let Eddie get involved with any of this bullshit. You want to punch walls and scream and cry and curse out anyone who so much as looks at you, because your brother got taken away from you before he even got a chance at living the life he deserved.

But Steve's usually never too far away, and his mere presence is typically enough to be a voice of reason in your brain. And so, you allow yourself to think about the events leading up to Eddie's death, and how he would've met up with Chrissy Cunningham regardless of what you said, because you would've never thought any differently.

You could've tried to drag him out of the Upside Down yourself, using all of your body's strength, but he never would have let you do it.

He would have sacrificed himself for Dustin a million times over.

And while the anger feels useless, it has to pass through anyway. At the end of it, the only thing left for you to feel is gratitude for Steve Harrington.

Because he was the one who pulled you out of the Upside Down, and he's the one who's been taking care of you for the past three months.

You can only imagine how funny Eddie would find that.

September

The days slowly start to cool down in September.

With each passing day, the heat begins to dissipate, and it feels as though summer's on its final leg. Now that the sun isn't so insistent on beating down high and angry in the afternoon, you and Steve spend more time laying in the backyard during the day.

Laying back in the grass, your hands barely touching but just a fingertip apart, is when you tell him what you've been thinking for the past few weeks:

"I think I wanna have some kind of memorial for Eddie."

Steve, somewhat groggy after eating lunch, turns his neck to look at you. You mirror him. You're surprised that he doesn't look confused or shocked.

"Yeah?" Steve asks.

"I think it would be nice for all of us to say some words and talk about him a little. I've been thinking about it a lot lately."

You watch as Steve licks his lips, then nods his head.

"I agree," he says softly. "Where would you wanna have it?"

"I hadn't really thought that far, to be honest." you admit bashfully.

"How about here?" he suggests. "Just a little something in the backyard. Somewhere everyone's comfortable."

"You wouldn't mind?"

He smiles crookedly, and you hardly notice when his pinkie brushes yours.

"Of course not."

A few days later, Steve asks when you want to hold Eddie's memorial, and you land on a date the following week. With the military officially quarantining Hawkins, everyone's schedules are mostly free, so it's just a matter of calling everybody up and inviting them over, which Steve is happy to handle. Your only ask is that anyone who attends comes with at least one thing, whether it be a memory, story, or little anecdote, to say about your brother. No one needs to wear black or show up in tears or with a giant casserole — just with the understanding that they're there to honor Eddie.

When the day arrives, you wake up feeling oddly calm. Steve is glued to your side all day, constantly checking in on you and making sure you're okay. He doesn't need to remind you that this is the first time you'll be with the group since the day Eddie passed, because you're already well aware of the circumstances.

When the anxiety does creep in, you allow yourself to tuck into Steve's side. Wordlessly, he understands; a silent conversation between two people who have been through too much too young. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you in closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. As usual, you don't acknowledge the affection between you two.

People start to show up around 2 p.m. First Nancy, Jonathan, and Robin, then Mike and Will on their bikes. Lucas comes by shortly after, straight from the hospital, you assume, and you understand El is still on strict watch under Hopper's watchful eye. Dustin, you realize, is most noticeably missing, and when you look to ask Steve about it, he's already shaking his head.

"He's not gonna make it today," he mumbles lowly, catching your ear so only you can hear him, "I'm sorry. I tried to convince him."

You nod curtly and try not to let it burn you from the inside out.

Despite everyone still looking battered down from the past few months, they're all happy to be back at Steve's house and in your presence. Everybody gives you a big hug, commending you on the idea and how glad they are to see you.

It's the most similar thing to joy you've felt in a long time.

When you all gather in the backyard, you swallow the lump already forming in your throat. You clear your throat and try to speak loudly, the same way Eddie always did.

"Thank you guys for coming today. I really appreciate you taking the time to come and honor Eddie," you start, awkwardly wringing your hands in front of your body. "I thought it would be nice if we could all just say something about him. It doesn't have to be a big thing, I know not everyone was super close with him, but just a nice way to send him off."

Your voice cracks, and from beside you, Robin grabs your hand, giving it a small squeeze.

"I'll go first," she volunteers with a smile. "I'll be honest, I didn't know jackshit about Eddie 'The Freak' Munson until he got involved with all this Upside Down mumbo jumbo, but it did the same thing to him that it did to me. It just... pulled me in, without even asking for permission. And I'm really glad I got to know Eddie before he died, because it gave me a chance to know the real him. He wasn't that crazy, heavy metal Satan worshipper everyone said he was. He was a genuinely kindhearted, incredible, sweet dude. He was a great friend, and a great brother, and we miss him so much."

The tears are already streaming down your cheeks by the end of Robin's short speech, and you send her a grateful, watery smile, which she returns with just as much sadness in her eyes.

"Eddie was actually supposed to graduate with me," Nancy says next, which makes every laugh a little. "And before he started Hellfire Club, I think he was trying to find his footing a little bit, so he tried being a writer for the Hawkins High newspaper, but he only wanted to write album reviews for heavy metal albums. I was only a freshman then so I didn't have any say, and the senior editors kept striking them down, but every week he would come in with fully written reviews on bands no one had ever heard of. It was just so... Eddie of him, and I hope I take that energy with me everywhere, for the rest of my life."

Jonathan tells a story about Eddie complimenting his photography before they knew each other, and Mike and Will both follow up with lengthy Hellfire Club anecdotes that make little sense to you, but still make you smile. Lucas, in light of his obvious exhaustion, talks about how he was terrified of Eddie because he wanted him to pick between basketball and Hellfire, but it made him realize that Eddie was just an incredibly passionate person, and he'll always admire that about him.

"Eddie Munson couldn't have been more different than from what I expected him to be," Steve admits, running a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. "He was... ridiculous and dramatic, but also selfless and funny. He saved my best friend's life and he also brought me to one of the most important people in my life. So, I'll always thank him for that, and I'll never be able to repay him enough."

You stare at Steve, taken back by his description of you (did he really just refer to you as 'one of the most important people in his life'?), but he gently elbows you, reminding you that it's your turn to go. Blinking, you pull a folded piece of paper from the pocket of your jeans, then lift your hand to haphazardly wipe away your tears.

You take a deep breath, then prepare yourself to read.

But before you do, Steve reaches out to hold your free hand.

You accept it graciously.

Now, you feel ready.

"Eddie was more than my big brother. He was my best friend, my other half, and, when I was younger, it felt like he was my North Star. He guided me through a lot of shitty situations but never really let me know just how bad they were. He cared for me in ways a kid should never have to, but there were nights I ate dinner or mornings I got to school just because he was making sure I did.

Somewhere along the way, it started feeling like I was the older sibling. I graduated high school before him, and I was trying to help him get his shit together so he could get the fuck out of here. He didn't dream of staying in Hawkins. He wanted to tour the world with his band and help people with his music and do cool shit. But I guess... I guess what Eddie never realized is that he was already kinda doing that. It wasn't on the scale he dreamt of, but he was helping people, and he was doing cool stuff and already on his way to greatness, and he died being the passionate, incredible person he always was.

I will miss my brother for as long as I live. I think my heart will always feel a little broken. But he taught me to love unconditionally and passionately, and to put everything I have into anything that feels worth it. So... thank you for that, Eddie. We miss you, and we love you so much."

When you look up from your wrinkled piece of looseleaf, eyes blurry with tears, everyone around you is crying. You swallow harshly and look to Steve, who's already bringing you in for hug.

You wrap your arms around his middle and cry into his chest, allowing yourself the love and care you desperately need in this moment. You don't know how long you stand there, crying and holding each other, but eventually your grasp loosens, and he lets you go, but not before pressing a kiss to your hair and murmuring an I love you.

When you look up at him, chin against his chest, you nod and mouth the words back to him.

Around you, a breeze gently whistles through the backyard. The shrubs and trees rustle as you sniffle, breaking away from Steve's adoring grip on your form. The group has busied themselves with hugging one another and offering their own "I love you"'s, but somewhere off in the distance, you swear you hear it—

Your brother's cackled laughter, followed by a signature sarcastic groan.

"Really, Harrington? At my memorial?"

[unclejeezysblog]

Chapter 1 - The first girl

summary

Gator shows you with new spot at a lake and gifts you something very meaningful. One day Gator skips school and when you ask him why he starts pushing you away.

content warning

fluff & angst, they’re kids and teenagers, arguing, crying, overthinking, Gator realises he has feelings for reader and is afraid.

author’s note

Im so excited to finally start writing this series🥹🥹They will be only younger in this chapter, in the upcoming ones they are 23 years old!

masterlist

There was a ranch located outside of Lehigh, North Dakota, The Tillman Ranch. It belonged to Roy Tillman, the sheriff. A preacher who believes that his position is above the law, sees himself as a righteous leader and rarely admits that he is wrong.

There were two houses and a farm. One house belonged to Roy, and the other one to your father. Roy and your father are really close friends, although you never got to know the story behind how they met. Your dad claimed that Roy saved his life, but did he?

Ever since you learned how to walk and talk, you have been together with Gator Tillman, Roy’s son. He was only 5 months older than you, both of your parents claimed that you’d make such a cute couple in the future. Yeah definitely not.

Gator was your best friend. From being the only kids on the ranch, you two always spent time together.

Gator was the complete opposite of you. He had brown hair and hazel eyes, sometimes more green than hazel. If he disliked someone he made sure to show it. He acted mean to everyone except those he loved.

You practically grew up with him, playing tag and chasing each other around the ranch, making tons of snow angels in the snow every winter, sharing your favourite snacks with him but more specifically — sitting by the big oak tree by the lake. Gator found it when both of you were 6 years old, an age where you could explore places together.

That spot was your hideout. No one knew about it except for Gator and you. The first day you two hung out there, you pinky promised not to tell anyone about the spot.

(Safe to say 17 years later it was still a secret.)

17 Years ago

“Gate where are you taking me?” you squeaked, trying to hold onto Gator’s hand while he jogged in front of you. He was taller and stronger than you, every once in a while you struggled keeping up.

Both of you held hands and ran through the meadow, that was filled with bunch of colourful flowers in the spring.

You realised that Gator was guiding you towards the lake, you knew it was here, just never visited it.

“Look!” he exclaimed, studying your reaction. Your attention was fixed on the grand oak tree with its attached swing. A wooden path ran alongside it leading to the lake.

“Wow” your hand left his grip, running towards the lake to dip your hands in it.

“It can be cold” Gator said, following you. You squatted at the end of it, admiring your reflection on the water. Gator joined you, standing right next to you.

“Look at this” he said, picking up a rock from the ground and throwing it in the lake. He showed you a trick, the rock jumped across the water three times before it finally sank in.

“How did you do that?” you asked, amazed by it.

“I will teach you” he said, and he did. Gator never made you feel left out or behind. Every time you asked for help about something, he made sure to help you.

The two of you sat on the soft grass right under the tree. Gator cracked stupid childish jokes while you couldn’t help but laugh. Butterflies and bees flying around the large field, while the sun kissed the lake perfectly, making it sparkle.

“I have this for you” he said, reaching out in his pocked for something. He pulled out a small white ring with words across it, probably made out of newspaper.

“What’s this?” you asked, taking it into your hands to get a better look. It was smaller than your hands, you held it gently, afraid to ruin it. It was beautiful, it had a heart shape at the top.

“A paper ring, my nana taught me how to make it”

Your eyes sparkled just by looking at it, you wrapped your arms around Gators shoulders, hugging him. He was not a fan of hugging, he didn’t hug you back, but he didn’t pull away either.

“Thank you I love it!” you said, sliding it on your pointer finger. It looked adorable on your small fingers.

Later at home, you were so excited so you showed your parents the ring. They exchanged a look together, but not a concerned or bad look, they smiled, by looking how your eyes sparkled while showing off the ring. They say that people can’t predict the future, but your parents already had.

10 Years ago

Gator skipped school today, which was unusual since he usually told you. As soon as you got home from school you threw your backpack across your room and left.

You made your way to the Tillman’s house. Roy was outside, leaning against his truck, talking to a policeman and taking a puff out of his cigar.

“G’day sweetheart” he greeted you, smiling. You never liked his smile. There was something that made you feel uncomfortable around him.

“Hello is um Gator home?” you asked, tucking your hands in the pocket of your jacket.

“Yes, he should be in his room, you know the way,” he said. You gave an awkward smile and made your way inside.

Walking up the stairs, you saw the door of Gators room closed. Calmly approaching it, you knocked three times “Hey Gator, it’s me”

You waited, nothing.

Knocking again “Gator I know you’re inside” you said.

“Leave me alone” He yelled from the inside of the room.

“Gator I’m coming in” You twisted the door knob and pushed the door open. Gator was still in bed, facing the wall. What on earth?

“Are you okay?” you asked, approaching him from behind. He was lying with his eyes closed, he wasn’t sleeping obviously, but why was he doing this?

“I said leave” he muttered.

“Not until you tell me what’s happening” you crossed your arms.

“Why do you want to know everything!” he raised his voice, sitting up from the bed. His eyes were red and almost slightly swollen. Was he crying?

“I- I got worried you didn’t come to school today”

“Pfft like you care, it’s nothing leave me alone” he said

“Gator of course I care! It’s not nothing, you have been crying” you said pointing out and sitting on the bed.

The moment you sat down on the bed, he froze. He then stood up, walking away from you and to the door. He then opened it and stood there “Go” he said.

“No”

“I said go”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong” you replied.

“I don’t want to tell you so go”

“Gator what’s happening? I just want to help” you walked to Gator, stopping right in front of him.

“I don’t need your help and i don’t want you here”

His words made you freeze I don’t want you here kept repeating in your head over and over again. A simple sentence made you feel like everything in your life changed it did.

“What do you mean!” you raised your voice

“Please stop being annoying and leave!” he yelled

“Oh so i’m annoying now?”

“God just leave me alone for once!” he snapped

You felt your eyes sting. Not now- you said to yourself. Something was bothering Gator, you knew it. He pushes people away when things get hard.

“Fuck you, Gator,” you shouted as you slammed the door shut behind you, causing the pictures on the wall to move. Tears welled in your eyes as you hurried to leave.

Roy saw you outside but didn’t say anything. He sensed something was wrong. You dashed home through the gravel, your beat up Converse clinging desperately to your feet. You should definitely get new ones; God it’s not the time now.

Stepping inside, the aroma of delicious food filled your nostrils. Your mother was busy cooking in the kitchen. You kicked off your shoes and made your way towards your room. Didn’t even bother saying hello to your mother.

You locked yourself in your room and lay on the bed, tears streaming down your face. You couldn’t hold it any longer.

I don’t want you here

I don’t want you here

I don’t want you here

Was it true? Did he genuinely not want you there? You kept overthinking about it, thinking that you’re not good enough for him, the way he acted towards you? He won’t hear from you anymore.

*GATOR POV*

You were in her room, she was crying. Crying because of a boy who broke her heart. Holding her hand was all of the comfort you could offer her. You wished you could break his nose, but getting into fights, your father would be pissed. You’d start eating punches for breakfast like you did as a little kid, and god you didn’t want any of that.

“Hey” you said, tucking a soft blonde hair-strand behind her ear, taking a look at her. She looked so…..beautiful? No Gator no- get yourself together. She’s your best friend.

“It’s going to be okay” you whispered, trying to make her feel better, because seeing her hurt made you feel hurt.

“You think so?” she asked, taking a look at your face with her teary blue eyes. They looked even more blue now.

“I mean— I- I can try to um make it?” you said unsure.

“How?” she asked.

Instead of telling her how, you showed her. Your hand cupped her cheek and pulled her closer, closing the gap between you. Her lips were softer than you thought, it felt like you were in heaven. Her hands caught your hair, pulling herself closer to you, until suddenly, she was straddling your lap.

The kiss slowly started getting messy, you could feel her saliva on your mouth, her tongue moving slowly against yours.

Then her hand traveled under your shirt, touching your stomach, she could feel your happy trail under her finger tips, which made them travel downwards to the waistband of your boxers.

— Then suddenly you woke up, sitting straight up on the bed. No no no no you thought to yourself. There was an unusual aching feeling in between your legs, taking the blanket off, you realised. You heard in school about boys getting boners, you never got one, not until now.

This can’t be happening, she’s your best friend. You can’t ruin the friendship with her, no. What if you get closer to her and she leaves, just like your mother? What if she sees what kind of loser you are and decides she’s done with you? What if you love her and she doesn’t love you back?

What if…

*Back to original pov*

4 years later, Gator and you didn’t have a single normal conversation. Constantly avoiding each other, if you had to talk you’d argue and bully each other. You two changed, like a lot. Puberty hit you like a freight train.

Gator grew much taller with broader shoulders. He began slicking his hair back and you hated it. He transformed into a fuck boy, bringing home a different girl each week and skipping school with another. It was revolting. This wasn’t Gator; he had changed and the sad thing was there was nothing you could do about it.

And the bad thing is that he started bullying and harassing you. The girl who helped him when he fell off his bike, the girl who was there for him when his mother left, the girl who always made him laugh no matter what; the first girl he fell in love with.

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