summary: dennis spends his free time with you and cigarettes.
content warnings/description: 18+ MDNI, AFAB reader, smoking, past self-harm/past self-inflicted cigarette burns (briefly mentioned and not described in detail), safe (relatively), sane, and consensual fire play (with cigarette ashes), masochist!dennis, familial trauma, more whump than fluff, but there is fluff, sexual tension, but no smut, whitsantos siblingism
author’s note: please heed the tags, and don’t read if anything might be too uncomfortable or triggering! i love to make dennis suffer, apparently.
It’s an awful habit Dennis has. And he should kick it. But he just can’t. It’s not even the dopamine release and the addiction to it that keeps him from putting down the cigarette, though that obviously plays a heavy role in it. No, he knows it’s bad for him. That’s why he can’t stop smoking.
Stress and worry clutch him by the throat and strangle him. He has never caught his breath and has therefore stopped chasing it. He can’t remember the last time he had an effortless intake of air. He chokes and chokes and chokes, and he wonders how he makes it through to the next day. His lungs burn as what little oxygen he can swallow combusts into flames, and it feels like this… all the time. Maybe less when he isn’t at work, but, for the most part, he is in a constant state of breathlessness.
In the mornings he wakes with invisible bruises around his neck, along with his seemingly permanent eyebags, and goes into work, where almost ninety-nine percent of everyone else there has the same bruises. Some are visible, unlike his, and more prominent than others because patients assault hospital staff—he has been extremely lucky to avoid such a fate thus far—and the expectation is that they just take it. With every drag of his cigarette, at least he’s the one in charge of stealing the air from his lungs and setting his throat on fire.
And he’s not the only one to find solace in such a nasty habit. Dana used to smoke. She has years of hospital experience under her belt as a charge nurse, and she only just retired her last pack. She knows what it’s like.
(There’s gotta be somethin’ else.
At first, he doesn’t think she’s speaking to him. But no one else is out here with them, and so she must be speaking to him. Still, he looks to his side and behind him, heavy snow coming down in thick chunks past the overhang of the emergency bay, just to be sure.
Whaddya mean?
Dana drops her cigarette to the ground and stomps it out. He knows better than to tell her not to litter.
Look at us, kid. You think we’d be out here freezin’ our asses off for a smoke if it weren’t for what’s back in there?
What’s back in there? he asks, stupidly.
Hell, Whitaker. Hell.
He hums around a drag of his cigarette, the ensuing exhale heavy in the air with both his frosty breath and the smoke. It makes sense. Hell is hot. We’re just cooling down.
She chuckles. The sound makes him smile. He hasn’t heard that from her in a while. Not since Driscoll a few months ago. He’s not good at a lot of things, but he’s good at pretending to be okay. But maybe Dana used to be good at it too.
While turning to head back inside, she says, you got me there. But you know what I mean.)
He slogs through the front door and lands face down on the living room couch, backpack still on his back, sneakers untied and still on his feet. He needs to shower. And make dinner for the both of you because you’re coming over later. And he needs to confirm with Trin if she’s staying the night at her friend’s because he doesn’t want her walking into what the two of you will get into after a day like today (and a day like yesterday and what will be a day like tomorrow).
He doesn’t do any of that, though. Not just yet. His nose fills with the familiar scent of old cigarette smoke trapped in the fibers of the couch, and he lets it steep for a bit.
When the scent molecules are no longer recognizable to his brain, he knows he’s had enough and ejects himself from the couch, pulling his phone out from his pocket to text his roommate.
>> will you be back home tonight?
<< why? is your girlfriend coming over?
>> yes. like i told you yesterday.
<< i won’t be home.
<< try not to set the place on fire while i’m out, hucks.
The shower water is scalding on his skin, just as he likes it. Back on the farm, he didn’t have the luxury of hot water at his fingertips. Sometimes it’d be ice cold, other times lukewarm at best. His family never did end up replacing that janky water heater. Maybe when he goes back to visit, he can buy them one as a gift. He can afford it now.
If he goes back. Though he has intentions of working in rural medicine, he likes Pittsburgh. He likes being away from home. He should return his mom’s calls, though. It’s the least he can do.
If Dennis stands under the water long enough, with the temperature set to its highest, his skin pinks up in scattered patches along his arms and down his legs, sensitive to touch. The effect doesn’t last long, about an hour or so after stepping out from under the water, but it’s almost as if he baked out in the sun for too long.
After a shift like today (and the shift like yesterday and what will be like the shift tomorrow), a shower like this is just what he needs.
Dinner is simple. Spaghetti and frozen meatballs and tomato sauce with that parmesan cheese that looks like dandruff. You knock on the door not too long after he turns off the burner, and he opens it to your weary but sweet, heaven-sent face.
You greet him with a simple, “hey.”
“Hey,” he says back.
You open your arms to hug, and he falls into you, your scent, warm vanilla and sweet honey, enveloping him in its own hug. The comfort you bring him feels better than a smoke ever could.
You two eat dinner in relative quiet, occasionally commenting on your cases from earlier today or something another one of your coworkers said. You tell him about your friends’ birthday party next weekend and how you’d like him to join you so you can finally introduce them to your boyfriend. He says, “sure, I’d love to go,” and means it.
What you two have is easy, like breathing air, and for him, with you, he can do it even around the familiar hand that has his windpipe in its grip.
You wipe your lips with a napkin, and it comes back red with the tomato sauce. He licks his thumb, reaches over, and swipes the corner of your mouth at the small bit that was left behind, popping it into his mouth and licking it clean.
“Thanks. Are you almost done? Do you want to…”
“Uh, yeah, I’m finished. Leave the dishes. I’ll run the dishwasher later.” He rubs the nape of his neck, stalling a bit, before reaching over and clasping your hand in his and leading you to the couch. You take a seat, and he tells you, “I’ll be right back.”
He comes back from his room to you with his pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a lighter, trepidation beading along his brows. No matter how many times you two do this or you reassure him you won’t, he always has the fear that you’ll find him disgusting or weird. Or even worse, a horrible boyfriend and person.
He takes a seat beside you, the cushion of the thrifted couch sinking low under his weight. He helped Trin, or more like did most of the heavy lifting, in getting it up to their floor and through the door into their apartment not long after he moved in. In return, she gifted him this lighter.
It’s in the shape of a hammer, and the claws act as the pusher. She thought it was in good taste, considering he had also helped her fix up a lot of the broken appliances that their landlord wouldn’t bother sending someone over for. It ran out of fluid ages ago, but he didn’t have the heart to throw it out and replace it. He refills the fluid instead, as tedious as it is.
He holds out the box of cigarettes and lighter to you, which you gently take, brushing your fingers over the back of his hand reassuringly.
You pull out a cigarette, setting the box in your lap, and flick the lighter, lighting it. You bring it to your lips and take a few puffs of it, making sure the flame is properly lit and burning evenly, before asking Dennis, “where do you want it?”
He holds out and pats his inner forearm. “Just here.”
You nod, a small smile cracking from your lips, and flick the ashes of the cigarette onto his forearm. You hold it high above both of your heads, so by the time the ash hits his skin, it’s cool enough to cause no more than a superficial burn, affecting just the surface of skin. The powdery mixture of chemicals land hot on his forearm, burning him for just a second before going cold and falling away.
When you two first slept together, you gasped in horror upon seeing the few cigarette burns on his upper left arm, over the skin of his deltoid muscle. They were long healed but clearly there, roundly scarred and a tone lighter than his natural skin color. It was a few too many for you.
Dennis, what happened here? Did someone—
—It’s not what you think. It was me. But it won’t happen again.
Didn’t it hurt?
Well, yeah. That’s kind of… why I did it.
As two doctors, you both knew the risks that came with cigarette burns. He was already smoking them. He didn’t need to chance a skin infection or sepsis on top of lung cancer. He couldn’t care less about the scars; he had many of them as the youngest of four brothers, but he knew that he had been toeing a dangerous line and had reeled himself back before he fell. Seeing how sad you were as you looked at the scars in turn made him sad.
They had been a mistake.
Later, you came to him with a safer alternative for fire play: no judgment, no lectures, just unbridled support and understanding for something he felt like no one, except Trin, maybe his mom, could ever understand.
Dennis didn’t know where the impulse came from, though he knew how they had made him feel afterward. Good, if but for a fleeting moment. But upon further reflection, it was likely born from when he was younger and watched his mom put her lit cigarettes out on herself, as if it were normal.
Don’t worry, baby. It looks scarier than it is.
Trin doesn’t like the smell of smoke in the apartment, and Dennis gets it. He’s used to it by now, but she isn’t, and he’s not going to subject her to what he knows is the foul stench of cigarette smoke. So he made sure to open the window in the kitchen before you got here—it also helped air out the smell of the spaghetti he made—and the one connected to the little porch as well as in his bedroom and filled a bowl with white vinegar to leave on the coffee table. The air filter in the corner of the living room was already turned on. She hasn’t made any complaints as of late.
The danger of something lighting aflame is always there, and really, this should be taken outside, but this is the ritual. What you two have done from the start, sitting on this couch, though admittedly stupidly. He cannot change the ritual. It’s hard to tell the ash burns from the dark colors of the couch, and he’ll vacuum the remnant ash later. No big deal. The couch came with a smell—Trin had gotten a good deal on it—and quite frankly, it is better off with a little bit of the cigarette smoke scent rubbed off on it.
You’re not a smoker, not a heavy one, at least, so once the ash from your initial few puffs has already landed on his arm, with a twist of your wrist, you hold out the cigarette to him, by the pointer and middle finger, to take a few drags. He leans his head forward just a bit, closing his lips around the end of it and inhaling. His nose and throat burn as he sucks the smoke out of the lit end of the roll of nicotine through the porous filter into his mouth, taking a breath in so it infiltrates his lungs and exhaling out, away from your face.
The nicotine hits his system immediately, giving him a light buzz, his senses heightened. It won’t last long, probably just a minute or two past once the cigarette is done, but that’s not the point of this.
You take the cigarette away, flicking more of the ash onto his forearm. The pain is like getting stabbed by the needle of a tattoo gun, only in a smaller, more fleeting dose. He’s gotten used to it; he has felt worse literally stubbing the lit end into his skin back when, but along with the head rush of the nicotine, it feels nice. Or doesn’t feel nice. Both, he supposes.
What he is sure feels nice is that you’re here with him. You don’t have to do this with him; it’s something he can do on his own, but, truth be told, he wouldn’t be able to find it in himself to. This is a him and you and a you and him thing.
He reaches the arm not currently being rained upon by ashes out to you to rest his hand on your knee, rubbing it to soothe you but also himself.
“Thank you for this,” he says. “For being here with me.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know.”
The cigarette is over halfway through, and at this point you typically hand it over to him to finish off on the porch while you wait for him in his bedroom before falling asleep together. His forearm is bright pink and irritated, but just as with the shower burns, these marks too will fade away, like nothing happened.
You surprise him tonight when you ask, “could I try?”
“Try?” he repeats, brows raising to his forehead. “This?” he holds his arm out to you in emphasis, glancing between it and you. “No. No way.”
You roll your eyes with a little huff he can’t help but find cute. “Oh, so you’re the only one who can have a pain kink? C’mon. It’ll be fine.”
He knows you know it’s not just a kink for him, but still, he can’t help the blush that spreads all over him. When you’re intimate together and you scratch your nails down his back deep enough to draw blood or bite his neck and leave ugly bruises or do as you’re doing now and use him as an ashtray… He’s turned on by it all. But that’s love, isn’t it? You bring that out of him tenfold.
“Let’s stay on topic, shall we?”
You shrug. “I’m just saying.”
Dennis sighs, squeezing your knee in an effort to refocus you to the conversation. “Where are you going with this. Why do you want to do this?”
“I just want to feel what you feel, Dennis.”
You wait for his response with pleading eyes, tugging on his heartstrings. He would never want to hurt you. Or make you believe that he would want to. But when you look at him like that, he can’t help but begrudgingly say, “fine.”
You make a little gleeful noise, adjusting yourself on the cushion and handing him the rest of the cigarette. He gently places your arm over his lap, glancing at you for your consent, which he is met with with a nod, and reignites the flame with a few puffs before tapping the ashes high over your arm.
The ashes flutter down, and when they land on your skin, you jump at the contact, hissing a bit. He already regrets this. He reaches over and sets the rest of the cigarette on the actual ashtray beside the bowl of vinegar.
“Shit, are you okay? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let you—”
You shake your head. “—I’m fine. I just wasn’t expecting it to hurt that much, I guess. I just wanted to try it once. Please don’t feel bad.”
He breathes a sigh of relief, saying, “I won’t,” but he will for a short while. He supposes this is sort of how you felt when you first saw the scars on his upper arm. Guilt-ridden and scared. “Let me finish this off, and I’ll meet you in bed.”
“Can we try one more thing?” you return your arm to your lap and sit up on the couch, bringing up your legs to sit sideways on your feet.
“What is it this time?” he asks, fear in his voice.
“Can you put it out on my tongue?”
His heart stutters for a moment before beating normally again. “Baby…” he trails off. “I really don’t think—”
“—Please?” you whine, grabbing the crook of his arm and shaking it a bit. “For me?”
He relents. Again. How could he not? Still, he sighs and says, “just this once,” in as stern a voice as he can muster.
You nod. “Just this once.”
He looks at you for a few seconds, just in case you change your mind (you do not), and then scoots closer to you, his outer thigh knocking into your knees. “Can you gather some spit for me? Pool it on the tip of your tongue.”
You do as he says, watching as he retrieves the cigarette, taps the excess ash into the ashtray, and draws the lit end closer to your mouth.
“Open,” he says, and you open your mouth and loll out your tongue.
With his free hand, he draws you even closer to him by the nape of your neck, close enough that the tips of your noses touch, smoke and warm breath mixing between you two. He places the cigarette on the saliva-wet tip of your tongue, blushing as he meets your eyes. Hot ash meets a wet tongue, a sizzling noise, and then silence with the snuffing out of the flame. He twists the roll between his fingers, thoroughly stubbing it out, and then lifts it from the wet muscle.
Though your tongue is blackened with ash, you avoided getting burned. A breath he didn’t know he was holding falls from his lips, his shoulders sagging in relief.
Never. Again.
Your tongue returns to its rightful place in your mouth when you say, “thank you for indulging me, Dennis,” with a small smirk and a gleam in your eye.
Maybe once in a while. If only to make you happy.
In a sudden movement, he places the dead cigarette on the ashtray and kisses you, hands cradling the sides of your neck and jaw, tasting the ash on your tongue. You moan into the kiss, wrapping your arms around him and scratching his nape lightly with your fingernails. The flavor of you and the ash and the bit of mint lip balm still clinging to your lips even after dinner goes straight to his cock. He would have you ride him out here if Trin hadn’t made it a rule to keep bodily fluids in their respective bedrooms. She lets him smoke out here, though, so he can’t complain too much.
He bites your lower lip and parts from you, a string of saliva connecting you both before breaking in half. He whispers against your lips, rubbing his nose against yours, “go. I’ll run the dishes and clean up a bit here.”
You nod, pecking him on the cheek. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Dennis feels a lot better now than he did when he got home. As he did last night and as he will tomorrow night because you’re here and will be there with him, taking and giving in tandem the bittersweet tang of pleasure and pain.
He rejoins you in the bed a little time later. You have changed into some of the spare clothes you leave in his closet and have fallen asleep. He wraps his arms around your middle, lightly caressing the exposed skin where your shirt has ridden up, warm and soft and all his, pressing kisses to the nape of your neck.
Every night ends like this, with you two in each other’s arms.
Ritual.
He takes a shaky breath in. Out. Fanning the collar of your shirt. He’s still not caught it; his breath still evades him, but with you by his side, the fingers loosen their hold, the pressure on his windpipe lets up, and a lungful of air is an arm’s reach away.
euthanize me. Smut warning. Saw this picture and it awoke something in me
Staying in one place with you meant that Remmick couldn’t just go around eating whoever he wanted and draining the town dry. But he couldn’t eat regular food either, so you two compromised that at night he would go out to the livestock pens where the cows slept and drink from them. With bigger bodies, the cattle wouldn’t become ill from a bit of blood here and there- especially when he rotated herds. But there was one problem.
It just wasn’t the same as human blood. It was fatty, and oily, and Remmick wasn’t too much of a fan. Plus it was less nutritious for a vampire, so he had to drink more of it for the same sense of satisfaction. It wasn’t long before you started to notice a bit of pudginess around his middle, fingers sinking into the softness where you used to feel ribs and muscle. You supposed it could also be attributed to him not moving from town to town anymore, but regardless.
He’d come back from tonight’s feeding around 1:30 AM; you were already asleep in bed. Dimly, as if still in a dream, you heard the door creak open and then felt the mattress dip under his cold weight. He smelled like damp grass and cows still, making you wrinkle your nose and shift away from him on the bed.
“Don’ go like that…” he whined in a petulant tone, shuffling against you again and nosing at the back of your neck. Even though he was technically undead, there was something undeniably human about the way his lips puffed warm, metallic air that fanned against the finer hair at your nape. “Y’shoulda stayed up f’me…”
You grumbled in reply, too lazy to open your eyes quite yet as you lightly shoved him back. He always got so sluggish and clingy after feeding, especially with this new diet.
“You been drinking all that cow blood, you’re starting to become one-“ you griped, losing resistance when he slung an arm over you.
“Mmmmm… I only do it ‘cuz y’dont want me huntin’. Cmon, tell me y’love me…” he cooed right against your ear, fangs brushing against the cartilage as he slung a heavy arm over you. It used to be such an uncanny feeling when he cuddled you since he was always cold and clammy to the touch, but with his sturdier frame now he had the illusion of warmth. Remmick wrapped around you like a koala, face pressed in the crook of your neck and inching one of his legs over yours with his abdomen pressed against your back.
“Baby, it’s too hot out for all that,” you complained, patting his arm to signal him to move.
“Tell me you love me,” he repeated, reaching over you and shifting his weight so he was practically laying on top of you. God, he could be so annoying when he got like this. Centuries of luring people had made him a master of guilting and begging to get whatever he wanted, and Remmick was positively spoiled at this point.
“I love you.” You grumbled half heartedly, turning your face and hoping he’d be satisfied with this answer. His face fell, and he made a whining noise before dipping his head to nuzzle against your neck.
“Not like that. Like y’mean it!”
You sighed, bringing a hand up around his back and looking down at him. Maybe his touchiness was annoying, but you couldn’t help the rush of heat in your stomach when you looked down his back to see that along with the rest of him, his ass had also grown a fair bit. You could appreciate that.
“I love you so much, honey,” you crooned, kissing his cheek and bringing your arms up around him to squeeze him against you. He purred affectionately in reply, nuzzling against your collarbone and pressing little kisses and nips to your skin. His face had rounded out, and you lifted one hand to teasingly pat his cheek.
“You miss when I was a wee thing, huh?” He griped, still idly mouthing along your neck and jaw.
“Not at all. You’re cute like this. Like a pet,” you replied jokingly, now mostly awake. You felt him smile against you, clawed fingers drifting to your thighs and squeezing the flesh.
“Aye, im yer pet,” he agreed, practically drooling onto your neck. “I’m good, right?”
“Mhm, very good. You’ve been behaving so well these past few weeks,” you praised, reaching behind his head to stroke the short whorls of dark brown hair. He melted into your touch, almost whimpering as he nestled himself between your legs. He really thought he was so sneaky…
“Don’t you get tired of being a pest?” You chided, although you kept lightly scratching his scalp.
“Not in the slightest. I’ll be quick about it-“ he assured you, shifting the covers to the side and pulling your nightgown above your waist, “-and I’m still hungry.”
You rolled your eyes, suppressing a fond smile as he nuzzled against your belly on his way down.
“So soft an’ warm… wish you’d let me sleep between yer legs…” he mused, pale face disappearing between your thighs to kiss and nip at the skin there. He was on all fours now, arms still gripping your thighs while his back was arched to prop his hips up. Moonlight from behind the curtain cast a silvery glow on the curve of his spine and slight dimples above his waistband.
“Alright now, don’t keep me up too long,” you warned, relaxing back against the pillows. As if sensing your sleepy impatience, he pulled your underwear down (with your help) and leaned in again to press open-mouthed kisses to your mound. You trusted him enough to mind his fangs, lightly resting a hand on his head while he made little contented noises. He stretched his jaw wide, attaching himself to your slit and licking a stripe up your pussy. He repeated the motion a few more times to open you up a bit, and upon hearing your little sighs of approval, closed his mouth around your clit to suckle on it. Remmick flattened his tongue against the swollen bud, pushing back its hood and pulling with his lips.
“Move it along, Remmick, I’m gon’ fall asleep soon-“ you griped after a few more minutes of him lazily eating.
“So mean t’me,” he whined, nuzzling his face against the crease of your hip and thigh, “-here I am, tryna be a proper gentleman, and there you go rushin’ me.” He looked up at you with those shiny, albeit uncanny reflective puppy dog eyes while lovingly stroking your hip. With a dramatic sigh, he finally pulled away after giving your clit one last peck before sitting back on his haunches to pull his pants down. His tank top had been discarded before he’d gotten into bed, pale torso on display.
“I know, I know, ‘the state a’ you’,” he huffed when he saw you ogling him, leaning back down once his flanks were exposed.
“Oh, cmon, let me see,” you snickered at his bad mimicry, pushing at his shoulders. He let out another long-suffering huff, sitting back on his heels. He looked healthier now than when he had been alone, fattened on cow blood and affection. The trail of fine dark hair on his belly led down to a length that was as stout and thick as the rest of him, shot through with bluish veins and darker pink where his tip peaked out from beneath his foreskin.
“Done inspecting me, cruel woman?” He grumbled, crawling forward until he was level with you again. Remmick settled right back into his place, fitting against you heavy and solid with his chest against yours and sloppily mouthing at the corner of your lips. “Tell me I’m good-“
You obliged, reaching around him to cuddle him against you and pat his broad back. “Mhmmmm… you’re my good boy…” you crooned, petting him like a loyal hound while he notched himself against your leaking hole. He let out a low groan in reply, nipping your ear as his arms snaked around you in a crushing bear hug. He bucked his hips a few times against you, coating himself in your slick before finally pushing himself in with a shaky whimper. You let out a little hum at the familiar stretch, letting one of your hands travel down to squeeze his ass. This seemed to set him off, starting to shallowly hump into you. He was already getting loud, moaning and whining against your neck like a wounded thing as he gripped your back. One of Remmick’s clawed hands buried itself in your hair to draw your head closer to his, the other drifting down to your ass to periodically lift your hips against his.
“Tá tú chomh hálainn- is breá liom tú-“ he groaned, starting to pull out further, back flexing. You knew that he liked to speak Gaeilge with you; it was such an intimate part of him that he reserved for these moments of closeness.
“Love you too, baby,” you grunted in reply, trying to keep up your dismissive and cool facade while digging your nails into the plump flesh of his behind and back. He just about whimpered into your mouth, kissing you feverishly as his sharp teeth scraped against yours. He wasn’t being nearly as rough as usual, hips merely twitching back and forth like he couldn’t bear to lose any measure of contact. His jaw hung limp, releasing little punched-out noises into your mouth whenever he pushed into your soft heat. You tilted your hips up so that your clit would get some more stimulation, rubbing deliciously against the patch of hair at the base of his cock.
“Mmf- oh fuck- oh, fuck me~” his whines started to grow higher-pitched, twitching inside you as his hips stuttered. Remmick could feel that coil in his belly tightening, dipping his head to your collarbone so he could nip at your skin. With the way he’d tilted your pelvis towards him, the blunt head of his dick prodded at your g-spot and made you squeeze your thighs around him.
“Awww- fuck-!” He practically squealed against the crook of your neck, opening his still-wet mouth against your skin as his eyes fluttered back. You felt him finish inside you, hot spend dripping down your thigh and making your stomach feel all warm and full. Even after he softened inside you, he still stayed wrapped around you, panting heavily against your chest. There was a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, making his dark hair curl around his ears and forehead. His teeth and claws had receded, making the vampire look rather innocent as he curled up on you.
“Are you okay, y/n? Did you like it? Was I good?” He huffed out, rubbing his face against your nightgown.
“Mhm. Just fine. You were good. Now, I’d like you to let me sleep.” You grumbled in reply, giving his back a comforting pat. He’d no doubt be sleepy with a belly full of blood, and Remmick didn’t protest; snuggling closer to you without even bothering to clean either of you. Oh, whatever. You’d make him wash up tomorrow morning.
18+ | dubcon. size difference. bully!dom and the crybaby!sub he kidnaps. bullying. rough sex. painful sex. size difference. loss of virginity.
You like to think you would know better than to follow a strange man home from the bar—
(or you should, at least. plenty of self-proclaimed girls-girls on tiktok, with nude matte lipstick and adidas snapbacks, have thoroughly educated you about the horrors of going home with men from the bar—if you're too drunk to drive, then you're too drunk to consent, bestie—)
but three—maybe six, seven (you lost count after they all started tasting the same)—sour cherry margaritas later, all of that tiktok wisdom promptly goes out the window when a big man with a terrible attitude (mean, really—he's so fucking mean; calling you stupid and dumb and who let you come here alone, baby? where are your fuckin' parents) crowds you against the peeling wall outside of the washrooms, hand heavy, hot, on your thigh, thick, veiny forearm braced against the wall above your head, each move sending a rainshower of flaking paint down over you, and asks you to come home with him.
Well—
Asking is a bit generous when what he really does is press his knuckle against the gusset of your panties and bear his teeth at the dampness he feels, barking out something that sounds less like a please do this and more like an or else. A you're coming with me—now (or else). And, as his fingers slide against the pretty silk of your panties, a bitten out: been needin' to sink my cock into somethin' sweet all week.
And it would be hot if you were in bed, reading the words in the soft blue light of your Kindle, but the way he says it sounds too ominous. Too dangerous. Like a boxer in desperate need of exercising his anger out on a punching bag—or your dad when things didn't go his way and you knew his fist was three seconds away from being buried into the cheap drywall of your apartment. Something angry. Writ in fury.
He says i need your pussy the same way people say i need to fuckin' punch somethin'.
But it's only when he's shoving you against the wall of his condo—a place much nicer than the dilapidated basement with nothing except a dirty mattress covered in suspicious stains you'd expected—that it occurs to you that you've never actually said yes. Don't even really remember him asking for consent at all during the short walk (or pull, rather: as soon as he seemed to make up his mind that he'd much rather be spending his time bullying his cock into your pussy instead of bullying you for your terrible choices outside of a bathroom that reeked of old vomit, cigarettes, and stale piss, he'd dragged you out of the bodega) to his car, parked illegally outside. Or at all during the short drive to his condo where he'd spent the time with his hand buried between your thighs, toying with your swollen clit through the lace of your panties, and you—mortifyingly enough—seemed to oscillate between drunk, slurred moans and openly weeping about your shitty night after being stood up by a tinder hookup, of all things—
You scored this really great job, you remember babbling out as he sinks his teeth into your neck—the pinching, awful sort of pain makes you gasp, makes you try to pull away, but there's nowhere to go when he's stupidly big, and his bicep alone is probably wider than your head. Trapped between the wall and a thick body; his knee kicking out until your thighs spread over the top of his—the width making your hips ache from the stretch, and you have to wonder how thigh-riding could ever be a real thing outside of smutty romance novels when you're already getting a cramp by just this much.
And he's just as mean then (did i ask? shut up and spread your legs wider for me—) as he is now (gettin' fuckin' snot all over my scrubs, crybaby), but the sight of his pristine condo cuts through the haze of too many bad decisions in one night, and it's only when you're thrown on a bed, but can still see your panties on the floor in the hallway (right next to the crumpled pile of your clothes, his trousers), does everything start to feel a little too real. Like something you might regret later. A bad decision playing out in real time—
But he's not stopping. And you can't stop panting his name long enough to say no.
Everything condensed into some amalgamation of panic and want: like being seconds from a disaster you know is going to happen, but you can't stop watching it unfold. Except your car crash is the sight of a cock being pulled out of black boxers—a cock that looks nothing like they do in porn: it's too thick, too heavy. It droops, hanging between his thighs when he lets go of it to wrench your clenched thighs apart until your hips ache anew, and it feels like your pelvis is about to be snapped.
Pre-cum beads at the tip of his fat, engorged head—the ugliest shade of purple you've ever seen, like a bruise; like something made to hurt, to ache—and dribbles down between your knees in a long, milky strand.
Everything inside of you seems to recoil at the sight of it—of that thing, that hideous monstrosity—dangling between his thighs. A warble echoes in the quiet room, sounds like a hurt mouse, and it's only in the twitch of his jaw, the slow tilt at the corner of his mouth, lips pulling up into a crooked smirk, do you realise the noise from you.
But beyond the queasy horror, the dread, is the stark realisation that, as he grips the base and shuffles forward to crowd you against pillows that have no business being so soft and comfortable in comparison the horrorshow oozing thick, milky droplets of cum, he's actually going to try to stick that thing inside of you. And, like he knows what is about to form on your numb lips, he bends down, taking your mouth in a blistering kiss—one that's more of an eating, a devouring: all teeth and tongue and deep, throaty growls used against you in a way that hurts more than it soothes—swallowing your protests as easy as he had the tentative i, i don't know that spilled out after he asked if your cunt was ready for him before dragging you into the bedroom.
Ignored—like everything else from the moment you caught that dark, brooding stare from the table near the entrance when you stood up on fawnlike legs, half-hoping to hobble into the bathroom and drown the embarrassment of being stood up by a man who spent the last week wearing you down until you said yes in the grey-tinged toilet water. Ignored, like the nervous looks you sent over your shoulder when you caught him downing his drink in a quick, heavy swallow—the shift of his throat, the flex of muscles working; shadows under his adams apple bobbing under the gauzy, warm glow of golden lights—with his eyes wide open, something that made your mouth go dry, your stomach churn; like watching a predator gulp down a torn off piece of meat. Predatory. The unease that skirted like a knife along the insides of your belly when he brought the glass down, cleared his throat, and stood up—all without taking those dark, piercing eyes off of you once. Ignored, like the stutter in your step when your body tried to react to two different instincts at once: stay put and run.
(that, too, ignored.)
It's on the tip of your tongue—both his teeth and the word wait—but he scrapes it off as easily as he parts your thighs, wedging the thick spread of his waist between when you try to snap them shut.
It feels like being pried open. Held down. You spare a silent thought, a keening apology, to all of the poor butterflies whose wings you pinched between clumsy, chubby fingers—too busy marveling at the beauty of their patterns to notice the way they flailed and kicked, unable to escape the grubby hand of a child, innocently unaware of its own cruelty, as he bears down above you, wrenching you open further. Trying to squeeze inside a space too small for him to fit.
But something has to give.
And as his cockhead bumps against your spread cunt—bruisingly hard, notching against you in a way that hurts—you know, without a doubt, that it'll be you.
(and really—how could it not be when he has almost double the muscle, the strength, behind his insistent pushes than you, with your comically small hands against the broad stretch of his chest, do with yours.)
It's a battering ram to a paper door, and you feel the give like a pop. A sharp, sudden ache in the pit of your belly as that fat, oozing head catches on the sensitive rim of your unfathomably wet hole, sinking in until the tip disappears inside of you. The glands swallowed by your swollen folds.
It's almost too horrifying to look at, and nothing at all like the porn in you've seen—zoomed in images of smooth, pale cocks; a soft, wet cunt stretching around it—or the things you've thought about. Imagined. a hard, heavy thing inside of you, thicker than the width of your finger. Longer, too. A fullness.
That's how it's always described, isn't it? Something filling. didn't know how empty i was until he was inside of me, filling me up... A delicious stretch. A good sort of hurt.
You don't feel empty at all when he grunts, pushing just that much more of his cock inside of you. You feel—
Like an open wound. Something ripped open. Torn flesh. It hurts too much for you to think about anything except the ache of it. That terrible, too full feeling in the pit of your stomach as he keeps working his hips in these insistent, merciless rolls. Breath humid, too warm on your cheeks, your temple, as he bears down over you, grunting all these ugly, awful things out between clenched teeth—things like fuck, you're too tight, gonna strangle my cock, loosen up, that's it, just like that, let me in, you know you want it, baby; gotta break in this baby cunt, don't i? never had a cock this big, huh? cunts too small for my cock, but you're gonna take it anyway, aren't you? gonna take all of it. every fuckin' inch. but i haven't even popped my fuckin' head in yet. yeah, keep crying, honey: i wanna see all those pretty fuckin' tears—
He's unrelenting. Won't give any quarter, any respite—even when you're whimpering for mercy, begging him to stop because it hurts, Brendan, it hurts so much, but you can tell from the way his eyes seem to spark in the midnight black of the room that he likes that. Likes knowing he's hurting you on the stretch of his cock. Bears down on you harder for it, giving you all of his weight until you're crushed into the mattress, smothered beneath his bulk. Everything narrowed down to the ache between your thighs, where all that you are is just a too sore, too small cunt being pried open by something as thick, as big, as your wrist.
His hands slide beneath your knees, pulling them open further before he drags them up. It changes the angle. Let's him sink just a little deeper—like a knife cutting through tendon, muscle. A white hot, pulsing pain that gets worse when he bends down, forcing your knees against your shoulders, drilling into the wide, spread split of your bared, aching cunt—seething against your jaw, let me in, fucking... let me in—until something breaks. Something gives way, and then he's sinking deeper on a low, throaty groan, pushing until his balls slap against the curve of your ass, and—
"there we go—balls deep in crybaby's pretty little pussy, huh?"
—the look on face, something hungry and primal, an animal, eclipsed in the heavy, heady greed of a man, shifts. morphs. Something like shock, like surprise, flickers across his expression, shuddering over the pointed slope of his nose, the harsh, tense line of his lips, still twisted in mocking amusement. A lock of hair falls limp across his forehead, shaken loose from the slicked back style he'd worn it in when he leans back on his haunches, lifting off of your body. He tips his chin down at the same time your reeling mind catches up with the tickle sliding down the crease of your ass.
His jaw clenches tight. A muscle jumps, ticking beneath his skin as he looks—keeps looking: dark, lidded eyes locked on the spot where he's buried inside of you, drilling into the sight where you split around the thick of him; your swollen, puffy lips stretched obscenely around his cock as buries to the hilt inside of you, grinding his hips in this heavy, aching rolls until the base of his cock is swallowed up by you, leaving nothing visible except a messy spill of wry curls sticking to your folds, dusting across your mound.
He grunts again. something dark, biting. A low, snarl that makes the nape of your neck prickle—
"Poor baby," he rasps, sounding angry. Aounding savage. Beastly. His hips work, then; jerking in tight, choppy pumps. Grinding the head of his cock into you, bullying it into something just behind your navel that pulses, aching like fingers pressed into a fresh bruise. A bone-deep hurt. A pain that makes you keen, vision blurring around the edges until he's just a smeared, hazy shadow snarling down at you.
And it's only when the pain tips into too much, when the eight (maybe mine) sour cherry margaritas catch up to you in a dizzying rush, tipping the world into a haze of drunken delirium, that you think—maybe—you made a mistake. That you might have bitten off more than you can chew.
But as the sob builds in the back of your throat, a wailing cry drumming against the walls of its esophageal prison, you catch the predatory glint of teeth before he bends down, dragging them over the skin of your jaw, scraping against flesh.
A dangerous shadow crests over the smooth topography of his face; a dawning—a dark glint, something hungry, full of flint—just before he reels back, sliding out of your sore cunt until only the fat head keeps you stretched open.
His fingers dig into your calves tight before he adjusts his hold, pinning your knee to the broad expanse of his warm, sweat-slicked chest. Letting the other slide down your leg, trailing across the back of your knee, tickling soft, sensitive skin with the scrape of a dry knuckle—his eyes, that single strand of oiled hair cutting across one of them, devouring everything in his slow, careful journey—before dragging them over your thigh, and falling, finally, to your sore, hot cunt.
Rough, calloused fingers scrape across your folds, sliding from your throbbing clit to your swollen, taut rim stretched around the thick of him, pausing there as your breath hitches in the back of your throat. Caught between a whimper and a plea when he presses down on tender flesh, letting out a deep groan when your hole clenches tight around his head, squeezing. Flexing. Somehow so fucking eager despite the pain, the burn of being forced open so wide around something so unforgiving. Just as hungry when the muscles in his stomach tense, shifting under the milky spill of moonlight through the open window. The bulk of him, the sheer expanse, doing strange things to your head, to that sore, bruised spot behind your navel. A pull; this grabbing, greedy thing—
"Fuck," he grunts, jaw ticking again as he slides his finger over your clit, feeling the flutter, the pulsing twitch of your cunt around him. His stomach shifting again; muscles flexing. It's the only warning you get before he rocks forward, sinking that fat, thick cock back into your cunt—like a knife sliding to the hilt, knicking bone. "No wonder your cunts so goddamn tight—"
It's mean, the way he says it. A cruel line slanting over his lips, teeth gleaming in the pale glow. Twisted, goading, and—
Surprised, maybe. but just for a moment. A brief second—and then he's grinning, wolfish and mean, pressing into you with his teeth bared and his muscles straining.
"Never had a cock this big before, huh, crybaby?" huh? go on, then, go on and cry about it—
And you do.
You wake up in an unfamiliar bed, nestled in thick cotton sheets that smell of sweat, sex, and loam. And beneath that, something deep, masculine—charred oakmoss, crushed black pepper, smoked leather, vetiver, damp moss, and suede—and dizzyingly familiar.
The night before is tangled in your periphery like a bad dream—your panties laying in the hallway. Clothes a discarded heap over his floor.
The him in question buzzing in the back of your head like a distant memory, a throb. Something sticky and wet between your thighs. Cum, you think. Cum, and—
It's smeared across his sheets: a deep, dark red stain the same colour as sour cherries. Fitting, you think, since that's what they call it, right? What the older man you'd been talking to for a few days called it, when you told him.
gonna let me pop that cherry, babygirl?
It was gross then, and it's gross now, thinking about it—feeling it. The ache between your thighs, in the core of you. Sore, sensitive. Hurting—like something was popped, split open. Or wrenched, more like. Pried. forced. But—
not really.
The slickness, too—which, you suppose, is more cum than blood because he didn't use a condom; didn't even bring it up—is gross. Uncomfortable. Too—too wet. Too sticky. Too...full. The sensation when you sit up, move, and can feel it dribble out—oozing—is somehow worse than the pain. The embarrassment of losing your virginity to a stranger. Then being stood up by the man who was supposed to do it instead. Then being one at your age. Caring, even, because it's just a social construct. An immaterial thing. Pointless and stupid and—
and real.
Very real. You're sitting in the aftermath of a bad choice (of another bad choice). Can feel it smeared over your thighs. Across the sheets. And there's so much of it that it makes you a little sick to look at because he didn't just pop it, did he? No he—
He butchered it.
It's stupid. You're alone in a bed with blood sheets and cum-stained thighs—feeling like a child pretending to be an adult. Thirteen going on thirty except the man waiting to catch you when you stumble in heels that don't fit isn't Mark Ruffalo but—
a stranger.
His name is drenched in sour cherry margaritas. Park, you think, feeling your head pulse. Your stomach churn. Park, he'd said. Just Park. A man who was mean, and rude, and didn't bother pretending like he was going to wait for a yes. A man who took. Takes—
You shiver, teeth chattering. Wishing suddenly you were in your own bed. But you blame it on the chill creeping in through the window where dawn waits; a bleak smear of soft lavender and turpentine across a pale blue sky. In the hazy yellow of mid-morning—early still, your alarm hasn't gone off yet—the penthouse looks bigger than it did last night. Sleek and modern. Parquet floors in a dark, rich brown. Cream coloured walls. The sparse furniture is practical. The epitome of a rich man's bachelor pad.
And with your discount panties and chipped nail polish, you realise, suddenly, that you don't belong. Don't fit. Not here—where Pittsburgh is greener than you've ever seen it, more lush and vibrant and full of trees than it is where your single bedroom apartment is cradled between crumbling bricks and dilapidated storefronts. It's a jarring dichotomy—one you want nothing more than to run from.
And so you do.
Twisting out of the cotton sheets without looking back. Hand bracing against the sleek end table as you stand, glancing around at the rest of the bedroom now that you can see it clearer in the mid-morning spill of a hazy sunrise.
All dressed up in—in Anthropologie Home, something in the back of your head fills in. Five hundred dollars for eight pieces of wood that barely reach your knees. The rest of the catalogue is already branded in your head because you baulked at the price tag of the Isla Fluted Wood collection when you saw it. Twenty four hundred (a piece) for the three dressers he has lining the walls. A two thousand dollar rug. Two hundred dollar curtains.
(three grand for the bed he fucked you in. two hundred just for the sheets you stained with blood. another three for the bedding.)
It makes you a little sick, stomach churning. Pinching in nausea. Discomfort. A feeling that grows worse when you stand on shaking legs, wincing on that first step—half from an ache in your belly, and the rest from the feel of unpolished toes touching the too soft area rug beneath your cold feet.
There's a sharp pain—one that feels too much like an open wound.
you're torn, you think, and fight the urge to reach down to feel, press shaking fingers to ripped skin. Soothe the sting. The bonedeep ache that blooms when you move. Fighting the thickening sense of shame, regret (really—how could you be so stupid?) when you hobble on sore thighs, desperate to escape. To leave—
unnoticed.
because you're not sure what you'd even say to him. thanks? how could you? your shame sits in your throat, a burning lump of coal that you can't seem to swallow around.
you're an adult—more of an adult now your friends back home might joke—and you made you a choice. A dumb one. It was just—stress, you think. Moving to a different state to finish school, struggling through the motions of keeping your head above water. And then—
got laid last weekend. kinda sucked, but whatever. he was hot.
your old coworkers at the cafe you worked part-time—only twenty and somehow more adult than you ever felt—brought it up. it like, totally helps destress, yknow? and maybe you were a little lonely. A little scared of the city you were dropped into and told to survive—somehow. Loneliness and stress and embarrassment curdling in your belly until you downloaded tinder. who cares, you thought. who fucking cares.
It doesn't matter. It's just sex. just—de-stressing. A one-night stand. A mistake.
You're already over it, aren't you?
But you still think you'd break down and cry if you saw him—if he saw you like this. Sore and sorrowful. Mouth pinched tight, jaw clenched. The worry in your eyes that if you unhinged it for just a second, you'd throw up all over his expensive rug.
You're spared the experience, slumping against the wall when you hear the hum of the shower. Light spills out beneath one of the doors you missed in the hallway, painting it a soft, gold glow. Your panties sit in the middle, illuminated by the light.
A furious pulse behind your navel kicks up when you bend down to swipe them off the floor. Holding your breath as you gingerly pull them on over sweat-slicked, cum-stained, blood-smeared skin. Gross. But—
but not.
Because you think you liked it last night. When the muscles in his arms began to twitch, when he bore down over you with a sweaty, flushed face, lips turned up into a snarl, and growled m'gonna fuckin' cum, gonna cum in this pussy, fuckin'—beg me not to cum inside your pussy, crybaby, beg me not to knock you up—
You didn't even think about that. The man you were supposed to meet wanted to do the same, didn't he? gonna pop that cherry and cum inside that sweet little cunt. but it was just—just play. He'd sent you his test results, co-signed by a colleague he worked with. clean bill of health, baby. Then, a day before he was supposed to show: you shouldn't let dirty old men fuck you bare, sweetheart. i'll bring condoms.
With a stranger’s cum leaking into the gusset of your panties, belly—and cunt—aching like an open wound, you wish, suddenly, that he'd actually shown up. That your night was spent being pampered, like a goddamn princess by daddy—gonna spoil my sugarbaby rotten, instead of being ripped apart by an animal.
One you hope never to see again as you grab your purse off the ledge above a glass partition separating the mudroom from the kitchen, and make a hurried escape out of his penthouse.
(but life has a way of snapping its jaws around what you wish for until what you get leaks down its maw instead—)
The clock reads half-past five when you slip your phone out of your bag to call a taxi.
You have a few notifications from tinder. A message. A new match. A superlike. hey gorgeous, how you doin'? but nothing from the man who stood you up.
But—
whatever, right? It's not like it matters anymore. It's just a boxed ticked off your list, and another that'll be checked in three and half hours. A few more down the line—student loans starting to be paid off (by yourself, even if the goal of meeting the man from tinder was to snag a sugardaddy who’d pay for your things instead), buy cute furniture from somewhere that isn't Walmart or Ikea, move out of your shithole apartment and into somewhere nice. it doesn't matter. You’ll do it all on your own.
You delete tinder just as the taxi turns the corner, meandering past the silent street where the bodega sits, quiet and lifeless, in the pale, lazy dawn of downtown Pittsburgh.
next time you date, you think, breathing through the ache in your stomach, between your thighs; you'll meet someone at work instead. Face to face. No chance of being stood up again.
Or going home with the wrong man.
The orthopedic ward is strangely quiet.
A fact you'd noticed when they first brought you down, dressed in a new, starched pair of blue scrubs. shiny badge gleaming in the fluorescent light—a new hire. The hospital's own orthopedic technologist. But it's not your place, really, to question why everyone seems so subdued. So hushed.
Not yet, anyway. Not when you're only an hour into your new job and about to meet the orthopedic surgeon you'll be working closely with. A man who, from the wayward glances and barely concealed grimaces from the other staff, doesn't seem like a man you want to piss off.
but—
It'll be fine.
The mistake from last night has been washed down the rusting drain of your shower, leaving nothing behind by an ache and a squirming sense of regret—and elation. Despite the experience, fucking—or maybe just fucking Park—was good for you. A first step into getting over your hangups and finally dipping your toes into the adult world (one that want confined to a college dorm, a college classroom, tests, and boys with too much body axe and don't waste it on one of these losers, baby, save it for someone who matters). With your new job, one that promises to finally let you start paying off your student loans, you could, maybe, breathe for the first time in four years.
Despite it all, despite the mix-up, things were starting to look up—
(something you wish you did, too;)
—but you don't see the broad chest, the flash of blue, until it's too late, and you end up nose-first into a man who is technically your boss. Meeting on a blinding pain rocketing through your skull—a yelp, a grunt (a low, biting Jesus Christ—) in lieu of a handshake. Greetings exchanged in another curse, a flurry of motion, and the sickening feeling of something hot, sticky dripping down your nostrils and onto starched blue—
bleeding on the man too—as if you haven't lost enough blood in the last twenty-four hours. A thrum of morbid humour making you huff on a reedy giggle, sticky and wet.
"s'rry," you slur, eyes stinging. Flooding with tears. "m's'rry—"
Another curse is bitten out into your crown. A weight—warm and firm—encases the scruff of your neck, forcing your head down. Blunt, rough fingers pinch the bridge of your nose. The pressure soothing the ache between your eyes as unseen hands grab at you—
"doesn't feel broken—despite your attempt otherwise. But c'mon. Let's get you checked out—"
You really can't handle this. The twofold embarrassment. The double hit—
but you're pulled into a room before you can make another escape. Pressed into a firm, broad chest. Protests shushed when they spill out of your sticky, blood stained lips. Things like why are you touching me like this, and hey, wait drowned in the thick, iron tang of blood. Humiliation, too, because where do you even begin trying to salvage some face after this?
A fireable offense, you're sure—for being a goddamn idiot. Left floundering, crying in front of your boss, as he dabs tissue around your nose. Prodding at sore flesh. You can't even look up, can't even begin to fathom what you're supposed to say—
"Well, you sure like making an impression, don't you, crybaby?"
crybaby. Every muscle in your body pulls tight. Only one man has called you that more times in less than twenty-four hours than anyone else in your whole life. Through the buzz of motion (are you okay? what happened? do you need anything, Dr Park—) the sound of his clicks into place. The words rough—even now, in the middle of a hospital. Goading. lemme see the damage, crybaby, c'mon—
You pry your sticky lashes open, glance up, silently hoping that you're wrong. That men in Pittsburgh are just mean. Rude. Like manhandling and calling weeping, terrified girls crybaby—
Up close, under the glaring, fluorescent lights, he's ridiculously intimidating. Broad. boxy. Utterly void of all warmth. They called him the shark when you asked about him. When you scanned your badge for the first time and turned to the woman leading you to the ward and said:
hey, what's he like?
and she blinked. who? oh, you mean Park the shark?
You can see it. The arrowhead shape of his nose. The list of his eyes—dark, gleaming; slightly beady under the cheap spill of the harsh light. His mouth, too—
cruel. flat.
His eyes narrow, lips slanting into something that might be derision, but skirts closer to sadism. A wicked sort of amusement at your expense. At meeting you here.
and—
and a hunger—
one you try not to think about.
"Couldn't just leave your blood smeared all over my cock and my sheets, huh? Had to get it all over my scrubs, too, didn't you?"
bold way to stake your claim, crybaby—
You flinch. "wh—what? i don't—" a nightmare, maybe. A dream. You reach down to pinch yourself. He scoffs when he sees it. Rolls his eyes.
"Oh, you're wide awake, don't worry. Cryin' all over yourself—" he leans in, then, and to anyone else looking, they'd just assume he was looking for damage. Assessing. Watching you with a clinical keenness and not the devastating hunger, the anger, draped over his brow that only you can see. Can feel. His fury simmering in the air until you can taste it, wet pennies, in the back of your throat. "Just like you were crying all over my cock last night."
and then you ran away. The accusation sits in the air, heavy and inescapable. You're not sure how to answer it. How to justify what you did, or why, even, you feel the need to.
"I'm—I, I thought you'd want me to be gone when you got up," you lie. Partly. A half-truth that makes him scoff. "I didn't know—"
"Took you home, didn't I?" he sneers—like it means something. "Took you home, fucked you, popped—"
You're tired of that phrase. "Don't!" your hand snaps up, lashing across his mouth, eyes-wide. burning with tears. "That's not—don't say that."
He growls against your hand—the only warning you get before his teeth sink into the meat of your palm. Words slurring around through his teeth: "I took you home, fucked your cunt—" he says fucked, but it sounds like punched. Ruined. "And you were gone when I got outta the shower, weren't you? I didn't say you could leave."
You're not sure what to say to that. What could be said. So you stay silent, unsure. Still sore and bruised and—
Bleeding on him. Your fingers, sticky with your blood, leave smears across his sharp cheekbones. His jaw. A tick throbbing beneath the tip of your finger as he bites down on your flesh again, and you know he's holding back, tempering himself. Can feel it, too.
Your flesh pulls between his teeth when you pry your hand off his maw, smarting from the bite marks he left buried in the meat of your palm. more blood, you note, staring down at the vessels he split, the way the bead up, pooling beneath your skin. Fingers, tacky with drying blood, fold over the impression of his teeth, snapping it shut in your fist.
he watches through heavy, angry eyes; gaze volleying between the trickle of dried blood smeared over your nose and lips, and the tight ball of your fist in your lap. Lips tugging into a quiet smirk. A little tip of his stained maw—more of that mordant amusement; the gaping grin of a saw-tooth shark.
"It wasn't supposed to be you," you murmur, feeling mean. Miserable. "I was supposed to meet—"
The list of his mouth flattens into a scowl. "I know—" the look on his face—the flash of irritation, the slip and fall of that cruel amusement—is almost worth the flash of blood-stained teeth, the biting squeeze of his hands—one still wrapped around your nape, the other squeezing the meat of your thigh. but it's waylaid by the slant of his mouth pressing hot, hungry, against yours. An eating more than a kiss—a punch with teeth and tongue instead of bone and cartilage; bruising. Claiming. It hurts—disturbs the sting in your nose, the cut in your nostrils.
Your fingers dig into the thick, hard stretch of his shoulders, pushing. A whimpering, wet stop spilling out against his canines; a noise he groans into, greedy.
hungry.
Something that glues in the black of his eyes when he pulls back, digging the pointed tip of his nose into the sore bridge of yours. A cruel, merciless tease. A punishment, maybe; for leaving him. Denying him—
"I know," he huffs against your kiss-bitten lips, eyes lidded. Heavy. Blunt nails digging into your flesh. Another hurt to add to the growing pile. "I know. But that doesn't matter, does it?"
It's only in that bold, raw growl that rattles your teeth that you realise the severity of what you got yourself into. A foreshadow in the smouldering heat of his heat gaze. The pinch of his fingers burrowing into your skin, possessive; a portend. Bruises in tender meat, spackled under your skin like loose tea leaves.
You could reach down, touch the flesh that aches, clutched in his knifelike hands; read it—fingers pressed against braille. Divining tasseography: the madness of his design, crushed into ash, laid bare as it smears across the palm of your hand.
But you don't.
Not yet.
The worry will come later—when you feel pieces of yourself, your resolve, being scraped off, stuck under his blunt nails. Dragged away. Tossed. Sloughed off in chunks, in pieces, because what you'll learn, what you'll always know, is that Park is not so much a man made to put things back together again, but rather one who perfected the art of taking them apart. Knows, intimately, how everything fits. So much so that reassembling the pieces is second nature to him—
Second. But never first.
No. First is a butcher who knows nothing of romance except the sweet whisper of knife kissing skin. A cartographer who knows the world, knows people, only in bisecting lines; cut marks buried in meat and bone.
You're not an exception to the rule—not even close—but you make him want to dip his fingers into topography all the same.
And—
You said you'd date a coworker, didn't you? And from the look in his eye—rapacious, brutal; wanting—you doubt you’d ever get a chance with anyone else, anyway.
A fact, a new truism born from history you can discern, that he reinforces when he leans in, mouthing along your neck, lapping at the blood drying on your chin, and growls:
Reader has the thought that she’s dying, then comes the anxiety, then comes doctor Dennis.
TW: Anxiety (specifically about health), intrusive thoughts of dying, completely self indulgent after my own episode the other night.
Word Count: 882
A/N: This is not well written and it’s not well thought out. It’s just me coping with my anxiety, OCD and intrusive thoughts through fanfiction and offering it up for anyone who might have the need or want to read it.
Dennis sat on the couch, cuddled up under a blanket with a textbook in his lap when his phone pinged.
A text from his girlfriend. His forehead wrinkled as he reached for the phone. When he’d left her shed been curled under their blanket; her eyes drooping with sleep. A text from the other room was rarely good.
I need you.
Dennis walked quickly and calmly down the hall, slowly opening their bedroom door. He found her sitting up in bed, picking at her fingers. Her eyes don’t move from her hands to look at him as he sits gently on the bed, reaching to place his hand on her crossed legs. “What is it?” He asked softly.
“I’m having some really big anxiety.”
Dennis nods, standing back up from the bed. “I’ll get you some ice water and be right back.” It’s only moments later he’s back with a cup of ice water and her crocheted blanket from the couch, handing her the cup and wrapping the blanket around her shoulders. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Her muscles are tense as she gives him a small nod. He moves to sit cross legged on the bed beside her, pulling their comforter over his lap as well. “Just some health anxiety. I have a headache and my back hurts, I’m light headed and nauseous. And it feels like my heart is racing.” Her eyes are once again trained on her hands, voice steady and breathing deep though her muscles are still tensed as she speaks. She’d been through this enough times to know how to look calm even while her mind raced, even as she panicked.
Dennis reached for her hand, stopping short of touching her until she placed her hand in his own. Eyes still not moving. “Do you need Dr. Whitaker or Dennis?” He asked, squeezing her hand.
She huffed out air, almost sounding like a laugh, eyes moving to his face. “Doctor Dennis.”
“Did you take something for the headache and back ache?” He asks already reaching for the bottle of Tylenol on his bedside table.
She shook her head. “No I was worried it’d mask something that was more serious.” Answering honestly even if the thought seemed ridiculous even to her anxiety rattled brain.
“Okay, how about we take a small dose, maybe take the edge off a little then reevaluate in a bit?” He asks, opening the bottle and handing her one of the tablets.
“Okay.”
“Do you want me to check you out a little?”
“Please.”
He smiled and nodded, moving his fingers to her wrist, finding her pulse bounding against his fingertips. “Okay, just the once. I’ll give you my strictly professional opinion.”
“Thank you.”
For the next few minutes Dennis does a quick ‘exam’ of his girlfriend. No signs of anything more serious than a headache and some major anxiety. After checking all of his mental boxes of more serious causes he smiles at her, taking both hands in his. “Alright baby. I think you’re okay and you’re right about it being anxiety. You got the headache, the thought, and then spiraled. Lightheaded, rapid but steady heart rate, nausea, all came second. Anxiety.”
“What about my back?” She questions.
“We rearranged the living room furniture this afternoon, mine aches a little too.” He reminded her, a hand gently soothing over her hair.
“Okay.” She nodded, her eyes falling back to her lap.
His shoulders dropped. “You’re having a hard time believing me?”
Again she nodded.
Again he gripped her hands tightly. “Honey, I’m not trying to diminish or brush off your feelings or symptoms but speaking as a doctor and the man who loves you more than life itself, I believe you’re safe. I can’t lose you so if I thought something serious was going on for even a second I’d be getting you down to the Pitt for a full work up. And if that’s what you want I’ll do it regardless of my opinion.”
Her hands relaxed in his own and for the first time since he came in the room she was able to look him in the eye. “Can we just sit for a few minutes and see how I feel?”
Dennis nodded. “Of course. Want to lay down and I’ll rub your back?”
Her shoulders tensed further. “If I lay down I’ll fall asleep and I’m worried if I fall asleep I’ll die.”
“Okay. We’ll sit up then. Still want back rubs?”
“Yes please.”
He brought his hand to her back, gently rubbing back and forth over her skin. Several minutes later her shoulders had begun to relax, her jaw muscles loosened and Dennis could see the physical symptoms of her anxiety slipping away. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“I think I might lay down. Maybe I’m just overtired.”
“Want me to keep rubbing your back?”
“Can we cuddle?” She asked as she laid down on her side to face him.
“Of course.” Dennis laid back, stretching out his legs and opening his arms for her to curl into his chest. Her head lying over his heart counting the beats as his arms squeezed tightly around her. “I love you baby. I’m right here if you need me.”
part two to jack x actress!reader | reader is female and a woman of colour | 2k
jack spends the next four months thinking about you. there is a space, in the back of his mind, that is reserved for you.
not in the weird, creepy sort of way, he thinks.
but you fill his conscience when his days are quiet and his shifts are slow, time passing by quicker at the thought of you. he is, more often than not, thinking of your visit to the er that night, frozen peas held to your head and that sweet, grateful smile gracing your lips. you'd come dressed in sweatpants and a stained hoodie, barefaced and messy haired but you'd been so painfully pretty he found it hard to breathe around you.
it did not help that you were kind, soft-spoken and mindful in a way that still makes him wonder what kinds of things you would say if he were to have a full conversation with you, one that exceeded a hasty midnight er trip.
jack abbot, in all his years, had never found himself so flustered around a woman the way he was around you.
it's three months, two weeks and six days after the night he meets you—but who's really counting?—that your movie finally releases, and it's joy who invites him to watch it with them.
(them being herself, javadi and santos, who, in turn had dragged along dennis, who had extended a sort of pity-invite to ogilvie.)
jack somehow ends up sandwiched between joy and javadi, the two girls whispering commentary over his lap. he doesn't mind at all though. his gaze is fixed on the cinema screen in front of him throughout the entire screening, and god, you're phenomenal, that's all he can think.
the movie's some sort of period piece, reminds him of something like pride and prejudice or little women. but he doesn't know too much about film to make a judgement other than he loves it.
you're a star.
commanding the screen in a way that demands attention, you're breathtaking and jack can't look away.
born and bred is what he'd think you were if he didn't know any better—he'd done his research, of course. had looked into you like you were nothing but a case study, a file to be examined and learned and understood. your parents were immigrants, had paved the way for you and your career. and though it didn't come without sacrifices—you'd gone and completed a college degree, under the belief your acting career wouldn't take off—you've been outspoken about savouring the fruits of your labour since.
and, to no one's surprise, it's a hit.
rakes in a profit three times its budget—which, admittedly, hadn't been that much in the first place—in the first two weeks of hitting the big screens.
(jack watches it three times. that first time with the residents, a second with robby, and again on his own. by the third time, he's able to recite most of the—your—dialogue by heart.
"and if you think you are the waves of an ocean against the cliffs, then god help me, theodore, i am nothing more than a foolish girl who will lean over the side if only to feel your mist against my cheeks.")
it's a total of three weeks after that you find your way back into his er.
in those three weeks, he spends his time watching his way through your entire filmography.
there's a shitty indie show you were in during high school; nothing special, but jack finds the excitement in your eyes hard to miss, lit up with a passion that reminds him of his own younger self—bright eyed and naive. he prays, ironically naive, that the light doesn't die out the same way his did.
you've been in a couple movies over the past few years, but you barely have any screen time that, on more than one occasion, jack forgets why he started watching them.
the stand out, in his and javadi's amateur opinion, is a tv series you were in two summers ago. something about a small-town mystery and a series of murders—a generic plot, if anything, but your acting had been so compelling that he'd been on the edge of his seat each episode. the "play next episode" button taunted him every time, though it was at javadi's insistence that he wait for her that he remained patient.
but alas, all good things must come to an end.
("you didn't tell me it got cancelled," jack hisses one evening as he walks into the pitt, cornering javadi.
her protest is weak, a little heartbroken on her end too. "i didn't know."
"fuck," he curses, feeling more like a petulant child than anything else. "i really wanted to see how the next season would go."
victoria nods fervently in agreement. "yes! what do you mean we'll never find out who killed the chief—?"
robby's voice calling out for her is the only thing that ends her tirade—and even that takes a little gentle nudging from jack in the opposite direction.)
it's sometime past midnight when a young woman, maybe early to mid-20's finds herself in north-5. she's sat on the edge of the bed, legs swung over the side—her preference, even when he told her she was welcome to lie back—as jack holds her chin steady with one hand, turning her face back and forth. there's a nasty, nasty cut on her chin, all bloody where the skin's torn open. she hisses when his gloved thumb presses at the tender skin at the edge of it.
"mind if i asked what happened?"
"i was at a party with my friends," she explains, "i was walking down the stairs and someone who was way drunker than me bumped into me. we both fell, but i hit my chin on the edge of the staircase."
"ouch," he sympathises. "any of these 'friends' come here with you?"
"one's on her way," she says, and as if on queue, lena's voice appears at the curtain, sliding it open to let someone in.
jack doesn't turn around, doesn't immediately acknowledge them the way he normally would any other friend or family member, too focused on examining her wound in the meanwhile.
not until there's a soft voice calling out his patient's name, that tone and intonation and accent all as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.
"sorry," you mumble to your friend, "got stopped on the way in."
her face falls, something close to irritation—no, protectiveness—flashing in her eyes. the fire dims a little when you place your hand on her shoulder reassuringly.
it's then—and only then—that jack turns around to face you.
god, if he thought you were beautiful bare-faced then, you're aphrodite now, all dolled up.
you look the way you do on screen, in those tiktoks and instagram reels that he watches with the accounts joy made him. (because "just because you're an old man in love with a fax machine doesn't mean you shouldn't keep up with what's going on now.")
with legs for miles on show, you're wearing a mini skirt, the kind that borders on sexy and public indecency. a sweater covers your top half, hood pulled over your head to cast a shadow over your pretty features.
"doctor abbot," you say when recognition dawns, that guarded expression on your face dropping to reveal the tender smile he's gotten used to seeing—on screen, in interviews, on the red carpet (in the back of his mind from the night he met you). you slip your hoodie down, and it's like taking a mask off, he thinks. "hi, it's good to see you again."
the corner of his mouth quirks up in an amused smirk. "i wish i could return the sentiment, but i can't exactly say that when we're in an er of all place."
you match his expression. "lucky i wasn't the one who got hurt this time, doc."
"hmm," is all he hums as he turns around, examining the tray of medical tools for what he needs. but the only thought running dirt tracks into his head is, better her than you.
it's an ugly unbidden thought, cruel in a way, but he can't imagine how he'd react if he were to have you in your friend's place—face all torn up and bloody. the thought alone makes him recoil.
behind him, he hears your friend hiss, "holy shit, he was your hot doctor?"
just as lowly, you reply, "shut up, he can hear you," but he can practically hear the blush in your voice.
for your sake, jack pretends to be oblivious when he faces your friend again. "alright, you're going to need a few stitches—nothing major, don't worry. it won't take long, you've just gotta be patient with me."
your friend nods as jack grips her chin again, a nurse slipping into the room to assist him.
quiet covers you all like a warm comforting blanket as jack stitches her up.
"take a seat," he tells you quietly a little while in.
"i'm okay."
if anything, you step closer to him—his elbow bumps yours, the cotton of your sweater soft against his bare skin. he doesn't mind it though. can't find a reason to complain, not when he can smell your perfume over the permanent scent of blood and antiseptic that clings to the hospital walls like ivy. it's something sweet but woody, goes straight to his head and to his cock.
"she's gonna be okay?" you murmur.
"i'll make sure of it," jack reassures, quick and easy.
it's an hour later before your friend is given the "all clear".
you hand her the keys to your car, tell her where you're parked so that you can linger back.
jack watches her walk away, gaze fixed on the back of her head before he tears his gaze to you. you've slipped your hood back on, just a few wisps of hair sticking out to frame your shadowed face.
"thank you," you're already saying, "for helping her. and me, last time. i still really appreciate it."
"it's my job," he deadpans. his smile gives him away though.
"i know," you huff. "doesn't mean i can't be grateful."
"i'm glad that you are," jack says honestly.
then you're shuffling back—two steps, three steps, four away from him and he's half-torn on whether he should say "i hope i get to see you soon again" (because in what world would he ever want you to return to the er, of all places?) or—
"listen..."
your name slips from his tongue, natural and right, like it's always belonged there, and your eyes widen in surprise when you realise he really does remember you—by name, rather than just memory, "i wanted to ask you this last time, but... can i—would you like to grab a drink with me sometime? maybe?"
your mouth opens then closes, brows pinched like you're deep in thought. and for a moment, jack is worried that you're about to reject him (though, it'd be pretty cool of him to say that he's been rejected by you of all people, he can't lie), only for your features to soften. you shoulder your bag. "yeah. i'd like that."
relief floods through him, the tension in his shoulders visibly leaving him as he sighs. "yeah?"
a cheesy grin splits his face when you nod. he feels seventeen again, giddy and giggly, as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. "i'll get your number, we can work out details?"
"mhm," your fingers brush against his, electric when you grab his phone to punch in your number.
"i prefer messaging," you tell him.
"shit, i'm nothing if not old," he teases, pocketing his phone once more. "calls are more my style."
your offer is immediate. "so call me." like making him comfortable is more important above anything else.
his palms suddenly feel sweaty, and his knees feel like they're about to give in, and fuck, is this what it's like to be a teenager with a crush? it's been so long that the memory of it's practically disintegrated in his mind, withered away to make room for the new.
"i will," he promises.
—
no, jack does NOT yet tell her that he knows who she is, because for all she knows he's an old man who has no idea about pop culture/trendy movies let alone her
pairing: steve harrington x reader
word count: 9.3k
warnings: cursing and alcohol use
includes: childhood friends to strangers to lovers, insane amount of mutual pining, the slowest of slow burns, asshole!steve, and drama
summary: steve harrington used to be your other half. practically bonded at the hip since you were both in diapers, but when he starts high school the steve you once knew no longer seems to exist. instead he's been replaced by an ass who only seems to care about sports, parties, girls, and his popularity. when steve starts seeing your best friend nancy you're forced to face the one thing you've been running from — how you actually feel about steve. but with the disappearance of will byers and your other best friend barbara holland, you come to find out that things are not what they seem in hawkins and steve and you are forced to face more than just how you feel about each other.
a/n: hi!!! here is chapter 1 of my steve fic. yes i know the finale is wednesday yes i plan on still writing this after the finale. this fic will start at the beginning of the series and i'm hoping to be able to stick with it and have it follow through the end of the whole series. which means this is going to be a long ass fic so i hope you all will stick around :) as always please let me know how you felt about the chapter, leave a comment, reblog, etc. knowing people enjoy our work means the world to us writers!
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Hawkins, Indiana
November 1983
The incessant beeping of your alarm clock has your eyes slowly blinking open as your hand aimlessly reaches for the torture device on your nightstand. The beeping turns off as your hand smacks down on the top of it and the bright red 6:30 a.m. stares back at you as you begin to rub the sleep from your eyes. Downstairs the house is already alive, the smell of breakfast being cooked wafts through the house, your Dad getting ready to leave for work, and your younger sister already laying claim to the bathroom first thing this morning.
You reluctantly pull the covers off of you causing a shiver to run up your spine as the chilly air hits your exposed legs. There’s a moment where you contemplate skipping school today, wanting nothing more than to crawl back under the warm covers and sleep the day away, but then you remember the test in coming up in Kaminsky’s chemistry class tomorrow and your luck he’d start teaching new material today and throw it on the test. So, you force your legs to carry you to your closet and get ready for the day.
The bathroom that you share with your little sister is a mess of brushes, hairspray bottles, and your makeup. “Julie, leave my stuff alone!’ You holler, fully knowing she’s already downstairs eating breakfast without any remorse for using your things without your permission.
When you finally make the trek downstairs and find her sitting at the table eating with what looks to be a whole can of hairspray on her hair and every makeup item you own on her face you can’t help but laugh. Your twelve year old sister looked like a clown and surely to god your Mom wasn’t about ready to let her go to school like that.
You eye your Mom as you pass by to grab your plate, giving her a look that says do you see her? but she just waves you off.
Julie sits across from you at the table, happily eating her bacon, without a care in the world. You on the other hand can’t stop staring at her. Your eyeshadow is haphazardly smeared across her eyelids and your lipgloss has somehow ended up on her cheek.
You want to say something to her so bad, but your Mom beats you to it as she leaves the table and comes back with a dishrag. “Sweetie I know you like putting on makeup, but how about you ask me or your sister to help you next time huh?” She states as she begins to wipe your sister's face. Julie squirms in her chair, pissed about all her hard work being wiped off, but good lord she’d be made fun of so badly if either of you let her go to school like that.
“And start asking before you use my stuff!” You interject. Which causes Julie to start mumbling something about how she didn’t use your stuff as your Mom wipes the lipgloss from her lips.
It’s too late to do anything with her hair, but at least she no longer looks like a clown. “Alright, off to school you two go. Have a good day!” Your Mom presses a chaste kiss to both of your heads before you’re both out the door.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
It’s a chilly November morning as you step out onto the front steps and then on cue you hear commotion coming from the house to your right– the Wheeler’s.
Mike Wheeler comes barreling towards your front yard on his bike and before you can even say a word Julie is on her bike and they’re both already on the road and heading towards the school.
“I guess I didn’t want to say bye to you anyways.” You mumble as you throw your backpack into the passenger seat of your Mustang.
Before you’ve even pulled out of the driveway you’re turning the volume dial on the radio all the way to the right and Maneater by Hall & Oates blasts through the speakers. You tap your fingers on the steering wheel along to the song as you begin your journey down the road.
The parking lot is almost full by the time you arrive, but thankfully the final bell hasn’t gone off yet. You take one last look at yourself in the rearview mirror before grabbing your bag and following the herd of your peers inside.
You spot them right away as you enter the double doors– Nancy and Barbara. They’re in too deep of conversation by Nancy’s locker to notice you coming up behind them and you show up right in the middle of Barb’s sentence.
“So did he call?” Barb asks, oblivious to you standing behind her.
“Keep your voice down-” Nancy exclaims before her voice dies as she spots you behind Barb.
“Well did he?” Barbara doubles down, still oblivious, that is until Nancy gives her a look and she quickly turns to see you standing there. They both have nervous looks on their face, like they’ve been caught talking shit about you. You’ve clearly been left in the dark by your two best friends, you can’t believe Nancy has been potentially talking to someone and you weren’t told about it– the three of you told each other everything. An uneasy feeling slowly starts to wash over you as you realize this was something they clearly didn’t want you to know about.
“Are you talking to my Dad or something Nance? Why is this the first time I’m hearing about a new beau for you?” You try to break the tension a little, try not to overthink this whole situation. Nancy and Barb share a look and now you’re worried that maybe she is talking to your Dad. “Well come on tell me.”
Barb takes a deep breath and you can see Nancy giving her a look that says don’t tell her, but if there was one thing about Barb it was that she was going to tell the truth– it was one thing you loved about her.
“It’s Steve.”
Nancy squeezes her eyes shut and turns to face her locker, wanting to be anywhere else but here right now.
You slowly blink as you stare back at Barb. “Steve…” You trail off hoping there was some other Steve you didn’t know about.
Barb looks at you like she’s about ready to tell you your dog has died and that’s when you know there’s no other Steve. “Steve Harrington– your Steve.”
For a brief moment it’s like everything around you is moving in slow motion– like you’re outside your body and watching this scene unfold in front of you. To hear someone refer to him as your Steve shouldn’t still make your heart race, but it does, and you hate it. Because Steve hadn’t really been your Steve for awhile now.
It wasn’t that Steve was ever your boyfriend or anything like that and Nancy had committed the ultimate girl code betrayal– no he was something way more than a boyfriend to you.
Steve and you had known each other since you were in diapers. Which growing up in a smallish town in Indiana, so many people knew each other since diapers, but Steve and you were truly inseparable. Your parents were friends all throughout school and when they grew up and decided to start families it was a no brainer that their children would be friends too.
Steve and you did everything together– he was your other half and you were his. Both of you parents had always teased that you two would get married and really for the longest time, even though you were a child, there wasn’t anyone else you could imagine marrying than Steve. Mainly because you couldn’t imagine anyone understanding you or knowing you as well as Steve did.
It was always Steve and you against the world and sure you both had other friends, but none of them compared to either of you.
Up until the age of 14 Steve had always been caring and compassionate especially when it came to you, but when he started high school and left you behind in middle school– things changed. He suddenly cared more about how he looked and who he hung out with and his main focus was popularity and sports. Tommy was his best friend now and Steve had turned into a grade A assshole.
You stuck it out through your freshman year, thinking that maybe once you got to high school things would be different, but you were wrong. You couldn’t stand to be around him, it was like someone had replaced the sweet boy you once knew so well. He always had some smart ass comment to make or you’d find him and Tommy being asses to someone.
Steve was never rude to you, but you couldn’t stand to be around him. So you slowly distanced yourself, which was something Steve had already been doing. The two of you never seemed to hang out anymore and you had hoped maybe that once you stopped reaching out he’d maybe realize what he was losing, but it was actually the opposite. Steve never seemed bothered about you exiting his life and it broke your heart.
When you have such a deep connection with someone for so long and then to have them act like they don’t even know who you are in the hallway is something that leaves a deep scar.
You’d known Nancy since you were also in diapers since the two of you grew up right next to each other. And while she was your closest girl friend, there was never that connection like what Steve and you had, but to hear she’s talking to him and more than likely going out with him, you couldn’t lie– it hurt.
Nancy had every right to do what she wanted, to see who she wanted, which included Steve. Steve and you didn’t necessarily end your friendship on bad terms, you just left each other's lives, but she knows first hand how much it hurt for you to distance yourself from him. And really you just can’t imagine Nancy going out with someone like Steve, or at least the Steve everyone knows now.
You don’t even realize how in your head you’ve been until Nancy’s rambling brings you back to reality. “Y/N, it’s not like what you think. I promise.”
You shake your head at her, but your face doesn’t match your tone. “It’s fine Nancy really. You can do whatever you want– it’s not like he’s my ex boyfriend. Hell, maybe you can bring back the old Steve if you try hard enough. Lord knows I couldn’t.”
There’s an awkward pause and you take it as a sign to just leave and head to first period, there wasn’t anything else that needed to be said about this topic. So, you adjust your backpack on your shoulder and give the two girls a tight lipped smile before stopping by your locker that’s catty cornered from Nancy’s.
God love Barb, but she was horrible at whispering, and you want to ignore what she’s trying to whisper to Nancy, but you can’t and you so wish you had just skipped school today.
“Don’t lie to her again Nance. You two clearly have something going on– you made out what two times already?”
The warning bell rings and you try to ignore the weird feeling in your chest as you turn on your heel and walk towards Chemistry class.
The whole day you’re distracted, not really present in the moment. You know you’re taking this news a little harder than you should be– Steve and you haven’t talked since this past May (well really there was that night in September, but you don’t like thinking about that). Plus, once again you have to remind yourself that you two were never together, just really close friends, so Nancy wanting to see him shouldn’t be a big deal. It shouldn’t— right?
Lunch arrives and you eat at one of the rusty picnic tables outside instead of your usual table in the cafeteria. You pick at your food, the school lunches were never anything to rave over, but today nothing looked edible.
Nancy nor Barb try to talk to you after this morning and honestly you’re fine with that, you know it would just be both of them trying to convince you that nothing is going on between Nancy and Steve. The whole situation really makes you wonder if Nancy felt the need to keep this from you and try and downplay it– then why is she doing it in the first place if she’s one of your closest friends?
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
You power through the rest of the day and there’s just one little thing left in the way of you going home and crawling into bed and never coming back out– last period English class.
The class that just so happens to have you, Barb, Nancy, and Steve in it.
Yes– Steve is a junior taking sophomore English. No, you don’t understand how someone can fail English class, but Steve Harrington was a walking example.
It still amazes you that the Steve you once knew no longer seemed to exist. Sure he did care more about sports than academics, but he always at least tried. He wasn’t a 4.0 GPA student, but he never failed classes until his sophomore year and now it seemed like school was just a place him came to so he could pick up girls and hear how cool he was from other people. Steve wasn’t stupid, but if you didn’t know him before high school you sure would think all he amounted to was just a pretty face and luscious hair.
Whatever the teacher is talking about is just background noise because all you can seem to focus on for the whole class period is Steve. You’re sitting at the back of the class, with Barb next to you and Nancy in front of you, while Steve is two rows over and slightly in front of Nancy. So he has to look back slightly to look at her– which he does about every five minutes.
You don’t blame Steve for getting with Nancy, she’s smart and gorgeous, has a good head on her shoulders– she’s everything a guy would want and more. You just can’t help but think why does it have to be Steve. A little part of you wonders if he’s chosen Nancy to somehow get back at you, for whatever reason you aren’t sure, considering there was never a true falling out between the two of you, but the Steve that’s sitting in this class now is someone you don’t know. So a little part of you wouldn’t put it past him.
You watch on as Steve continuously glances back to get a look at Nancy and how sometimes their eyes would meet and they’d both have smitten smiles on their faces. It makes you green with envy.
There’s still a part of you that knows that the old Steve is still there in him– even if it is deep down. And you’re proud enough to admit that Nancy might bring that out of him again and she’d get to experience the person you missed the most and it makes you jealous beyond belief.
When Steve goes to glance over at Nancy for the last time during class he realizes she isn’t looking, her face is buried in her notebook, diligently taking notes, something he should also be doing considering it’s his second year taking this class. Then for a brief second his eyes flicker to the person sitting behind her– you.
Of course you’re already looking at him. It's what you’ve been doing practically the whole class period and the moment you lock eyes it’s like the world stops for a brief moment. This was the first time in you don’t know how long you’ve actually interacted with Steve, hell he never would even give you the time of day if he passed you in the hall. So some eye contact was like having a thirty minute conversation with him.
Those big brown eyes of his seemed to stare straight into your soul and you started to recall all the times when you two were younger and all he had to do was look at you with those baby cow eyes of his and you’d fold like a cheap lawn chair and give in to whatever dumb thing he wanted to do.
Unbestowed to either you or Steve– Barb had been watching the whole interaction between the two of you. Barbara was always on the shyer and quiet side, but that meant she was observant and more in tune with how people were actually feeling. She had told Nancy that getting with Steve wasn’t a good idea, that you wouldn’t take it well, but Nancy wouldn’t listen.
Barb had always been able to tell that there was a deeper connection between Steve and you, something that doesn’t go away just because you haven’t talked in what you claim is half a year. She wasn’t going to be the one to come out and say it, mainly because it was just a hunch, but to her there was no way the two of you didn’t have romantic feelings for one another.
Just by her watching the two of you maintain eye contact for a minute she could tell there was something unresolved between you two, something hidden deep down under emotional baggage and a million other things, and she knows this whole situation may very well be the demise of your friendship group.
The staring into one another’s souls was abruptly interrupted by the dismissal bell ringing and you’re both quickly brought back to reality. Steve scrambles to get up from his seat and make his way over to Nancy while you quickly gather your things and head towards the door, but not before sneaking once last glance at Steve, who while waiting for Nancy to pack up her things was already looking at you. Your cheeks are hot when you realize he was looking at you again and you quickly tear your eyes away from him and leave the room.
You’ve stopped by your locker, grabbed your things, and are peeling out of the parking lot in what is surely record time. The radio blasts as loud as it can be to try and drown out the millions of thoughts racing through your head and by the time you get home you’re probably half deaf, but you couldn’t care less.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
As soon as you pass through the front door your Mom is hollering something from the living room, but you ignore her, heading straight upstairs and to your room. Your bookbag is thrown haphazardly onto your floor and you starfish onto your bed. You aren’t sure if you want to scream into your pillow or cry into it, but you do know that something is going on with you more than you’re willing to let on.
You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep until there’s a knock on your door followed by your Dad’s voice.
“Dinner is ready sweetheart.”
There’s drool all over your pillow and your clammy from falling asleep in your school clothes. It’s dark out already and if it wasn’t for your Dad telling you dinner was ready you would have thought you’d slept till morning. Glancing at yourself in the mirror your eyes widen at how disheveled you look and you make quick work to ditch your sweater and try and smooth out your hair before going downstairs to join your family for dinner.
The smell of your Mom’s famous spaghetti travels through the house and you’re upset because it’s so good, but your nerves are so shot that the idea of eating makes your stomach twist even more than it already is. You shuffle the pasta around your plate, trying to make it seem like you’re eating, but your Mom clocks your trick right away.
“It probably wasn’t a good night for my spaghetti was it? Seems like no one has an appetite with everything going on right now.”
You look up from your plate for the first time tonight and realize no one else has really touched their food either, especially your little sister. Your gaze travels back to your Mom and you watch as she reaches out for Julie’s hand across the table. Then you look over at your Dad who doesn’t seem as distraught as your Mom or sister, but you can still tell something is on his mind.
“Poor Joyce– I can’t even imagine what she’s going through right now. I’m going to swing by their place tomorrow and bring a casserole or something easy that she can just throw in the oven. The last thing I’d be thinking about is cooking right now.”
You are so out of the loop on what she’s talking about and you realize that you clearly should know what is going on, but you’ve been so caught up with all this Nancy and Steve stuff today that if something had been said to you or if you heard it being talked about in passing it hadn’t registered in your mind at all.
“What’s going on with Joyce?” You ask timidly.
Your Mom’s eyes widen slightly and you see her squeeze your little sister's hand before she speaks. “Honey, how do you not know? It’s all over town.” She pauses like she can’t believe what she’s about ready to say. “Will Byers went missing last night.”
You furrow your eyebrows in confusion. People in Hawkins don’t go missing, stuff like this doesn’t happen here. That kind of thing is what you see on the news happening in Indy, not Hawkins. “Missing? As in someone took him or what he got lost? I mean what are the police saying?” You question.
Your Mom shrugs. “No one knows anything yet. Only that he left the Wheeler’s last night and never made it home.”
“Oh my god.” You mumble, sinking slowly into your chair. Suddenly all your issues from today seemed minuscule to what the Byers family was going through. Jonathan was in your grade and you had a couple classes together, but you weren’t friends by any means. He mostly kept to himself and the most you had ever talked to him was when you’d both occasionally pick up your younger siblings from the arcade.
Oh god poor Julie.
You glance over at her and she’s slumped in her seat, worry written all over her face. She’s only twelve and one of her friends goes missing, you couldn’t imagine how she was feeling either. Julie could be a little shit sometimes, but you loved her more than anything and to imagine that happening to her makes your stomach churn. The legs of your chair scrape against the linoleum floor and you walk around the table to wrap her up in your arms.
“They’ll find him, Jules. Don’t worry.” Even though Julie can’t apply makeup to save her life, she’s smarter than the average 12 year old, and you know she knows you’re just telling her that to try and make her feel better, but you still tell her anyway.
Moments later you’re in the kitchen helping your Mom clean up after the dinner that no one ate. Even after hearing the news of Will’s vanishing, you can’t help but let your mind wander back to the Nancy and Steve issue as you wash the dishes. It still bothered you and you know you just need to get over it because clearly there were other things in this world that you should be worried about, but you couldn’t help it.
“I’ll finish these up. Can you take out the trash for me?” Your Mom says as she shoos you away from the sink. You wipe your soap suds covered hands on the dry dish towel and grab the full trash bag.
The neighborhood is eerily quiet as you make the trek to the trash cans at the end of the driveway. As you’re tossing the bag into the can as quickly as you can you spot something out of the corner of your eye. You do a double take, wanting to make sure your mind isn’t playing tricks on you, but unfortunately you’d recognize that car anywhere.
Not directly in front of your house, but in between your house and your neighbors to the left sits Steve’s burgundy BMW. The street light across from it lets you know he’s not in it and you begin to wonder if the universe is playing some sick joke on you. A loud noise from behind you makes you jump and you quickly turn around expecting some killer to be coming after you, but somehow it’s worse than that.
It’s not a killer, or a rabid raccoon, or even your imagination— it’s Steve Harrington.
Who looks to be trying to climb up the side of the Wheeler’s house. He’s a damn idiot who clearly has never learned how to sneak around because he’s making such a racket. You stand there watching him as he takes his second attempt and then gets caught by Mike, who seems to be sneaking out. Their voices travel and you hear Mike say something about Steve being unbelievable before he peddles away on his bike.
As Steve goes to try his third and final attempt at sneaking into Nancy’s room he turns and catches sight of you standing at the end of your driveway staring at him. It was one thing to hypothetically think about Nancy and him together, but to see him sneaking into her room has you feeling weird. This time there’s no staring at each other because you're promptly turning on your heel and marching back towards the house.
Your Dad stands on the front steps, a lit cigarette between his lips. “What’s Steve’s car doing out there?” He asks, oblivious to the storm raging in your mind right now.
“No idea.” You mumble as you push your way past him and back into the house.
He doesn’t even bother commenting on your mood, he’s learned over the years when to pick his battles, and figures it’s just the whole ordeal with the Byers boy missing, but then he hears the same racket you did. Your Dad turns his head just in time to see Steve entering Nancy’s bedroom window and he knows your mood has nothing to do with the missing kid.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
After some very detailed journaling that night and a venting session to yourself in the mirror, you woke up the next morning telling yourself that the whole Steve and Nancy thing really wasn’t any of your concern and that it didn’t need to bother you– you weren’t going to let it bother you. Life was too short too get so hung up on trivial things like your best friend dating your old best friend who was like your other half. It’s truly nothing.
Your Mom insists you take Julie to school from now on until Will is found, no more riding her bike, even if she is with Mike and Lucas. It’s not a big deal, the middle school is right next to the high school, but you feel obligated to make conversation, and really you don’t even know what to say to her right now.
“Have you talked to any of the boys? Have they heard from Will?” Julie just shakes her head no at you. “I think Mike was out looking for him last night. I saw him leave on his bike when I took out the trash.”
“Yeah. Mike, Lucas, and Dustin went out looking for him last night. They wanted me to come, but I knew Mom wouldn’t let me. She’s already being weird about me riding my bike in the daytime, let alone at night.”
There’s silence for a moment, you knew Julie was probably feeling like she was on house arrest for something she had nothing to do with, but you also know how your Mom is feeling right now too.
“Is that when you saw Steve sneaking into Nancy’s room last night?” Julie asks suddenly.
You nearly choke on your spit, totally not expecting that to come out of her mouth. “Sorry what?”
“You said you saw Mike leave, is that when Steve was trying to sneak in?”
Your hands grip the steering wheel extra tight and you glance quickly back and forth from the road back to her. “How do you know about Steve?”
Julie has a little smirk on her face as she replies. “Dad came in last night after you took out the trash, said you were in a mood because you saw Steve sneaking into Nancy’s room.”
A gasp escapes past your lips, so not only was your little sister a gossiper, but so was your Father. “First of all I was not mad because Steve was sneaking into Nancy’s room. Second of all, Dad needs to mind his business.”
“He never said you were mad, but said you were in a mood. So what I’m gathering is that you were mad then?”
You roll your eyes at her, you were not having this conversation with her right now. “I’m not doing this with you right now.”
“Not doing what? Still denying that you’re in love with Steve Harrington?”
Your head whips around to look at your little sister, who has the biggest shit eating grin on her face in your passenger seat right now. “I am not in love with Steve.”
“And I don’t get into your makeup.”
“Jules for real, knock it off. I don’t love Steve. We haven’t even spoken in half a year. He’s an asshole and I don’t want to be friends with someone like that, let alone be in love with them.” You state as you pull into the school parking lot.
“Deep down you love him and you’re never going to get rid of that, no matter how much of an asshole he is.” Julie replies as she gets out of the car.
“You're twelve, what do you know about love?” You holler over the roof of the car.
“You’re sixteen! What do you know about love?” She counters as she walks backwards towards the middle school before turning around and catching up with some of her friends.
Your plan to not care about the whole Steve and Nancy thing is foiled right in your hands after Julie does what she does best and gets under your skin. You were not in love with Steve Harrington and that is not why you felt a little bent out of shape about him being with Nancy. Sure you had love for him when you guys were close, but not in a romantic way, it was all platonic.
As you enter the double doors you have to worm your way through the sea of bodies to get to your locker— the people of Hawkins really needed to stop reproducing.
You catch sight of Barb and Nancy coming down the hall and Barb is quizzing Nancy for what you know is the test in Kaminsky’s later today.
“When alpha particles go through gold foil, they become…?” Barb rattles off.
“Unoccupied space.” You answer as you join the two of them on the journey down the hall.
They both seem surprised to see you or at least joining them and talking like yesterday didn’t happen, but you ignore their surprised expressions and act like everything is normal, because that’s how it’s going to be, it has to be.
“Next question Barb!” You exclaim as you hug your books tighter to your chest as you squeeze past a couple making out.
“Um yeah right sorry.” She stumbles on her words a little and fumbles as she flips to the next index card. “A molecule can then…” She begins, but doesn’t get to finish as you guys come towards an intersection in the hallway and the cards are promptly ripped out of her hands.
The culprit? Of course none other than Steve Harrington.
His annoying ass friends Tommy and Carol are of course in tow and you immediately regret joining Barb and Nance for their study session this morning.
“Hey!” Nancy hollers trying to get the cards back from Steve.
Steve has a slight smirk on his face as he teasingly shakes his head at her. “I don’t know, I think you’ve studied enough, Nance.”
“Steve…” She trails off.
“I’m telling you, you know, you got this. Don’t worry. Now, on to more important matters.” He pauses as he puts the index cards in his back pocket. “My Dad has left town for a conference and my Mom’s gone with him-” Steve’s eyes quickly glance over at you and you would have missed it if you weren’t already looking at him. “cause, you know, she doesn’t trust him.”
You shift your weight between your feet as you stand there uncomfortably. Of course he looks at you when he talks about his parents and it makes this whole situation that much worse for you because you know things he wouldn’t dare tell anyone else, yet you two act like strangers now.
“Good call.” Tommy says, like anyone cares to hear him speak.
“So are you in?” Steve asks directly to Nancy, like Barb and you aren’t standing there.
“In for what?” Nancy asks with a look of genuine confusion on her face.
“No parents? Big house?” Carol chimes in.
“A party?” She asks, even though she already knows she’s correct.
“Ding, ding, ding, ding!” Carol exclaims in her annoying voice.
Nancy scoffs a little, like the idea of a party on a school night is the craziest thing she’s heard lately. “It’s Tuesday.”
“It’s Tuesday! Oh my god!” Tommy mocks Nancy causing Carol and him to laugh like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
Steve ignores his jackass friends and tries to convince Nancy one more time. “Come on. It’ll be lowkey. It’ll just be us. What do you think? Are you in or are you out?”
You can see Nancy considering it and you know how tonight is going to end if she goes. It’s like that with every girl Steve has dated since he got into high school.
“Oh, God. Look.” Carol commands as everyone turns to see what she’s looking at.
“Lord, that’s depressing.” Steve states and you can’t tell if he’s saying it in a matter of fact kind of way or if he’s being an ass. Either way he’s not wrong.
You all stand there and watch as Jonathan Byers pins up a missing poster for Will and you can’t help but feel for him. You couldn’t imagine what he’s going through right now, you don’t even think you could function if Julie went missing, let alone put up missing posters.
“Should we say something?” Nancy is the first to say something.
“I don’t think he speaks.” Carol replies.
“How much you wanna bet he killed him?” Tommy asks and you want to tell him to fuck off, but Steve beats you to it, in a nicer way.
“Shut up.”
You’re taken aback by Steve actually putting Tommy somewhat in his place, you figured he’d go along with Tommy’s dumb theory, and it has you wondering if maybe the old Steve is still in there.
Suddenly Nancy walks over to Jonathan and you all watch as she talks to him. Steve, Tommy, and Carol couldn’t care less and they’ve already moved on to something else, but Barb and you watch on with genuine interest and you realize you should have gone over and talked to him too. Your sister was friends with Will too after all.
The bell rings before you can even move an inch and you watch as Nancy joins the group once again. Everyone else moves along down the hall, but you linger and watch as Jonathan secures the last push pin onto the poster. He turns and finds you still standing there staring at him– it’s awkward and you don’t know if you should say something to him or not. So you give him a sincere smile and watch as he just gives you a kert nod back before he leaves out the side door.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Later that night you’re in your room journaling when the phone rings. You don’t think anything of it and let someone else get it, that is until you hear Julie holler from downstairs.
“Y/N! Nancy is on the phone!”
You grab the blue phone from your nightstand and steady it between your shoulder and ear as you continue your journaling. “Hello?”
“Y/N. Listen I know you’re going to want to say no and it’s probably going to be awkward, but will you please come with me to Steve’s tonight.”
You scoff as you close your journal and grab ahold of the phone. “I really thought you might have hit your head when I found out about you and Steve, but now I’m thinking you really have taken a hard fall. Why would I want to go to Steve’s?”
“I don’t want to go by myself!”
You roll your eyes, this girl could not read the room. “Then ask Barb!”
“Y/N please! The more people I have around me that I’m comfortable with, then maybe it won’t be so awkward. Plus if I just bring Barb then she’s going to be there by herself.”
You twirl the phone cord around your finger, bored with this conversation already. “You really think me being there isn’t going to already make things awkward? Also, Steve clearly just invited you, not Barb, not me, not me and Barb. Just you.”
“Barb already agreed to go, so really this is all about if you care about Barb being by herself tonight or not.”
You groaned at how manipulative Nancy can be sometimes. You know Tommy and Carol are going to be there and you know how Barb is. You can hold your own against those assholes, but you aren’t about ready to let Barb just sit there and be a punching bag all night. So against your better judgement and every single thing in you telling you to not agree to doing this– you do.
“I’m doing this for Barb, not you Nancy.”
You hear her squeal and you already regret this decision. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“I’ll see you later Nance.”
After convincing your Mom to let you go to the assembly for Will and that everyone was going and it would be weird if you weren’t there. You’re in your car and on your way to Steve’s house. Your plan is almost ruined when your Mom mentions something about taking Julie with you, but she was acting stranger than you tonight, claiming she was going to Mike’s instead. Although it really didn’t matter to you what she was doing as long as she wasn’t being pawned off on you tonight.
The whole drive there you keep asking yourself what are you doing? You should have stood your ground and told Nancy no, but then you think about Barb being there by herself and you tell yourself you can suck it up for a couple of hours– for Barb.
As you pull onto Steve’s block you don’t see Barb’s car or the Wheeler’s station wagon parked on the street or in the driveway, but you do see two figures walking down the street towards you. You park your Mustang behind Steve’s Beemer and as you look in the rearview mirror you see that the two figures are now walking up the driveway and that they are Nancy and Barb.
“Did you guys freaking walk across town?” You ask as you get out of your car.
“Little miss worrywart here was too scared to park in the driveway so we parked three blocks away.” Barb states, clearly annoyed with Nancy.
“I didn’t want the neighbors to see.” Nancy mumbles as she pushes past you to get to the front door.
You can hear the music blasting from inside the house as you and Barb trail behind Nancy. Your stomach flips as Nancy rings the doorbell and when the door swings open to reveal a smug Steve you realize you made a horrible decision.
“Hello, ladies.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The Harrington household is exactly as you remember it as you walk in, granted it’s not been that long since you were here last. You remember clear as day the last time you sat foot in this house. This past September when Steve had called you late at night, he needed you, and you really thought things were going to change with him after that, but you were wrong.
Steve’s house has always been big and extravagant, but never felt homey in a sense. It was empty and never felt lived in. There were only a handful of family photos and one picture of Steve that got changed out with each year's new school photo. It had always seemed to be void of any love and well from knowing what you know, it’s no surprise.
Steve leads you three out back and that’s where you find Tommy and Carol, surely already drunk by the way he’s trying to throw her into the pool. You opt to sit in one of the lounge chairs a little further away from the action. You sit and watch as the steam rises from the pool and memories of past summers spent swimming until your skin is pruned and wrinkly replay in your mind. Who would have thought things would be so different now?
Barb sits in one of the empty chairs next to you and you can tell she’s uncomfortable, this is not her crowd whatsoever. Hell it’s not your crowd either, and it’s sure as hell not Nancy’s, but here you all are.
“The things we do for Nancy.” Barb says under her breath.
You laugh a little. “You mean the stuff I do for you. I wasn’t going to let you be the fifth wheel.”
“I was surprised when she said you were coming, hell I’m surprised you’re even talking to her.”
You shrug. “Yeah I surprise myself sometimes.”
The two of you watch on as Steve grabs a beer from the cooler, punches a hole in the side with a knife, and then proceeds to shotgun it. Nancy watches on in amusement and you can’t help but watch the scene unfold in front of you as Steve plops down on the chair next to her and puts a cigarette between his lips.
“Was that supposed to impress me?” Nancy asks.
“You’re not impressed?” Steve counters.
They’re flirting and it makes your stomach churn.
“You’re a cliche, you do realize that right?”
Steve scoffs. “You’re a cliche. What, with your grades and your band practice.” He finally lights the cigarette and you wonder when he picked up that habit.
Nancy laughs at him. “I’m so not in band.”
Steve grabs the knife back out of his pocket. “Okay, party girl.” He hands Nancy the knife. “Why don’t you just show us how it’s done then?”
“Okay.”
Barb and you share a look, fully knowing how this is going to end. Nancy is a petite little thing and the girl cannot handle her alcohol. She’s drunk after like two beers. Steve tries to tell her how to do it, but head strong Nancy ignores his advice and begins to shot gun the beer. Steve and his entourage cheer her on, coaxing her to chug the beer, while Barb and you sit there like bumps on a log.
Nancy drops the can onto the deck and relishes in the cheers. She looks over at you and Barb and you know what she’s about ready to ask.
“Barb you wanna try?”
Barb scoffs, like it’s the most ridiculous thing ever. “What? No.”
Nancy grabs a beer out of the cooler and brings it over.
“Nance, I'm good. I don’t want to.”
You hear Steve start to heckle Barb and you know Carol and Tommy will start soon enough.
Nancy shoves the beer can towards Barb. “It’s fun! Just give it a try!”
“Barb you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’m not drinking tonight either.” You try and convince Barb to stick to her guns, but she’s not as strong willed as you and she reluctantly takes the beer can and the knife from Nancy.
Barb tries her best to punch the hole in the side of the can, but the knife slips and it cuts a deep gash in her thumb. You immediately jump up from your chair and hurry to Barb.
You hear Tommy make some dumbass remark and then you hear Nancy speak up. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Barb replies, but you know she’s in shock, she hasn’t seen just how deep the knife cut her.
“Barb you’re bleeding, you’re not fine.” Nancy moves closer to Barb to try and help, but you’re already grabbing hold of her, ready to drive her to the ER.
“I said I’m fine Nancy.” Barb looks over at Steve. “Where’s your bathroom?”
Before Steve can answer you’re ushering her back towards the house, you don’t need him to tell you something you already know.
As you’re entering the house you hear Tommy mouthing off. “Oh that’s right I forgot about Y/N and you. Of course she knows where the bathroom is. Are you still in love with her Stevie? Or did you move on to Nancy cause Y/N didn’t want you?”
He’s drunk, you know that, but that still doesn’t mean his comment doesn’t affect you in any way. Though, you don’t stick around to hear Steve’s response, there’s more pressing matters at hand, like Barb’s bleeding thumb.
Nancy though, her ears perk up at Tommy’s comment, and she looks to Steve for his reaction. She pretends not to notice the way he slightly squirms at the comment and how he doesn’t come outright and deny Tommy’s claim. Or the fact that he won’t make eye contact with her and keeps glancing back at the house every five seconds. She knows he’s not worried about Barb, he’s thinking about you.
Her spiraling session doesn’t last long because Tommy pushing Carol into the pool seems to bring both Steve and Nancy back to reality and before Nancy can even give herself a fighting chance, Steve’s got his arms around her and she finds herself with the same fate as Carol.
While the other four are having a grand ole time in the pool, you’re administering first aid in the bathroom. You’ve got Barb sitting on the toilet seat lid while you’re crouched down trying to figure out what the hell to actually do with this wound. It’s quiet, neither of you have spoken a word since you’d entered the downstairs bathroom.
You search through the cabinets, knowing there’s got to be at least a first aid kit or something and on the last drawer you hit the jackpot. You grab a washcloth from the linen closet and run it under the warm water before starting to clean the wound.
“You know I told her not to go for Steve.” Barb’s voice is soft as she speaks.
You look up at her through your eyelashes and then back down at her hand as you continue working on her thumb.
“It doesn’t matter to me Barb, she can do whatever she wants.” You reply just as softly. It’s not like you’re worried about being heard, you can clearly hear them still acting like fools outside, but the idea of talking at full volume right now doesn’t seem right.
“I know she can, but that still doesn’t mean she should have.” You don’t reply for a moment as you grab more gauze from the first aid kit and Barb takes your silence as a sign to continue talking. “I told her it would make things weird between you two and it was going to put me in the middle, but she got swept up in his charm and great hair and I guess the idea of popularity.”
You give Barb a sad smile. “Happens to most girls in Hawkins. I don’t blame Nancy.” You wrap some medical tape around the gauze. “I just wish it wasn’t Steve ya know. Out of all people, why did it have to be him? The one person who meant everything to me and now he acts like I don’t exist? I think that’s what bothers me the most. I just feel a little betrayed by Nancy because she saw how much it hurt for me to lose Steve and now she’s with him? I just– wish I could tell her that without seeming like I’m jealous.”
“You want to know what I think?” Barb states.
“What do you think Barbara Holland?” You ask as you gather everything back into the first aid kit and put it back into the drawer.
“I think Steve is lost and you’re the only one that’s going to be able to bring him back to shore.”
You lean against the wooden door, a deep sigh escaping past your lips. “I tried already, that ship is going to have to sink and he’s going to have to swim to shore himself. I’m not wasting my breath on someone who doesn’t want my help anymore.”
“You really think Nancy is going to bring the old Steve back?”
You look at Barb and you know you’re both thinking the same thing, as much as it hurts to say about your mutual friend. Nancy was unfortunately going to be another stop on Steve’s campaign through Hawkins.
You throw your head back against the door, why couldn’t you just completely exile Steve from your life? “Why am I still so concerned about a guy like Steve Harrington? He’s an ass and a womanizer.”
Barb offers you a small smile. “Becuase you still hold onto the old Steve, who wasn’t like the one outside right now. You’re still holding out hope that he comes to his senses, drops Tommy and Carol, and comes back to you.”
“He’s not going to come back to me Barb, he’s with Nancy.” You say barely above a whisper.
She stands up and comes over to you, wrapping her arms around you tight, and you melt in her embrace. “He may be with Nancy, but you’d be stupid not to think his heart belongs to you.”
You pull back from the hug, your mind and heart are being pulled in 50 million directions right now. “If his heart belonged to me then he wouldn’t be out there with Nancy right now. He wouldn’t have cut contact with me. He would know how much I hate the person he’s become and he would become a better man. But this isn’t a fairytale or a romcom Barb. This is real life and Steve doesn’t care about me or love me, so why should I still waste my breath on wondering what happened and if he’s ever going to change?”
You take a deep breath as you feel the tears start to well up in your eyes. “He’s no longer in my life for a reason and every time I think maybe things might be different and that he’s coming back to me– the universe shows me that’s not the case. So I’ll support Nancy and however this whole thing with Steve ends up, because Steve isn’t any of my concern anymore. It doesn’t matter what he once was to me or if there’s a part of my heart that has been carved out for him over the years. Time heals all wounds, Barb and I think that’s just what I need.”
She looks at you with what you think is the saddest look you’ve ever seen paint itself across Barb’s face and you don’t even realize you’re crying until she wipes away your tears with her good thumb. “But you’re always going to love him aren’t you?”
Your breath catches in your throat and you don’t really know what you feel for Steve. You don’t know if it’s actually love or the feeling of nostalgia that can sometimes feel like love. When you have all these memories with a person and a connection that runs so deep that sometimes you think it’s love, but it’s not. You think you’re in love with what might be, with an alternate universe where Steve never turned into someone you don’t recognize, and things hadn’t changed between the two of you.
You don’t get to answer Barb though because you hear commotion coming from inside the house, which sounds like Tommy and Carol going upstairs. So, you wipe your tears and clean up the remainder of the mess before turning your attention back to Barb and quickly change the subject. “I tried my best to bandage you up Barb, but I really think I should take you to the ER, I think you need stitches.”
Barb shakes her head. “I’ll be fine. I’m Nancy’s ride home.”
“You really think she’s gonna need a ride home?”
Barb shrugs, knowing you’re right, but she still isn’t going to leave Nancy here alone. The two of you exit the bathroom figuring you’ll find someone making out somewhere, only to find Nancy heading up the stairs.
“Nance.” Barb calls out, but Nancy doesn’t stop. “Nancy? Where are you going?”
This time she stops and almost turns around sheepishly. “No where. Just… upstairs. To change.” She opens her towel to reveal her sopping wet clothes. “I fell in the pool.” She laughs as she wraps herself back up in the towel. You see Barb shake her head out of the corner of your eye, while you aren’t surprised one bit. “Why don’t you go ahead and go home. I’ll just… I’ll get a ride or something.”
You glance over at Barb, who genuinely seems taken aback by Nancy’s behavior. “Nance seriously?”
“Barb, I’m fine.” Nancy insists.
“This isn’t you.”
You hear a door open then close and then you see Steve standing at the railing at the top of the stairs, clearly waiting for Nancy, but his eyes lock onto yours. You forgot you’d just been crying just a minute ago and you’re sure your eyes are red and bloodshot.
“You alright?” He asks, while still looking at you and you can see his eyes soften the longer he looks at you.
“Barb’s okay, but I think she needs stitches.” You quickly reply, making it seem like Steve was asking about Barb, even though you know he wasn’t, and neither does Nancy from the way she keeps looking between Steve and you.
“Barb seriously, let Y/N take you to the ER. I’ll be fine here.”
Nancy doesn’t wait for a reply, she turns and continues walking up the stairs and follows Steve into his room.
Barb ventures back out to the pool and you sit there and beg her to let you take her to the ER, but there’s nothing you can do to convince her to leave Nancy. You know either way you aren’t staying here, so you try one last time to get Barb to leave, and when you get the same response you give up.
“Fine, you’ve stood your ground. I’m going home. I still suggest you do the same, but I’ll see you tomorrow yeah?”
“Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Barb replies.
You take one last glance at Barb before you close the back gate behind you and head out front to your car. There’s something that tells you that you shouldn’t be leaving Barb, but you can’t force her to come with you, and really you think your nerves are just shot after everything that went on tonight. So you’re sure in the morning everything will be just fine.
18+ a/n: one of the last few fics i have saved on a doc from my stranger things account i nuked in 2023 (@/eddiebaghetti) my pseudonym was soooo uggo, adah suits me way better,, enjoy !
steve who laughs the first time you get your hands on it because of that dumbfounded look you’re giving him. he knows it all too well, seen it about a hundred times.
you’re on the floor of the family video break-room kneeling between his legs. he feels like a freak with the way you’re staring at it, mouth agape, eyebrows disappearing into your hairline. god. he’s huge. thick too.
“you with me?” he asks. the question is strained, almost breathless. he knows, you realize. he knows exactly how bad you want to take it for a spin. maybe that’s why he indulges you, holding his cock by the base and feeding the thick tip into your mouth, palm fastened to the back of your head.
˚ ✧ ──
steve who doesn’t let you take him all at once the first time you have sex, placing a careful hand under your ass to keep you from sinking down all the way on not his throbbing dick.
you’re panting into his mouth, knees on either side of his thighs. you’ve been fucking yourself on his tip for 10 minutes, groaning at the stretch you feel.
steve groans when you clench down on him, eyes going wide. you want to tell him how pretty he looks, how gorgeous his lips are, all bitten and slack.
you test the waters by sinking down further, pushing past the resistance of his hand to take him halfway. a gasp forces its way past your lips. he’s huge, absolutely monstrous.
“fuckfuckfuck don’t hurt yourself.” he groans, throwing his head back against the pillow. he was losing his composure and fast. you hear none of it, bouncing harder in search of that sweet spot you need him to hit.
you want all of him, every inch, every ridge. you’d kneel between his legs all day if you could, mapping the veins of his cock with your tongue. the best part is? he’d let you.
you’re pulled out of your thoughts by a hand on your face. steve looks up at you from where his head lays sideways on the pillow, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the silky fabric.
“y’wanna take the whole thing?” he rasps, clearly defeated in the midst of your passion. “take it. fuckin’ size queen.”
the jab is laced with affection, you know that much when his hands settle around the dip of your waist. it’s not long before the room is filled with your shared whines again, the air growing thick with anticipation.
“ready?” he asks. you’re nodding before he can get the full word out, sinking down once more to finally let all of him fill you.
you aren’t even fully seated before your orgasm hits you, a wave of spasms reverberating out from your core. the sound steve let’s out is guttural, primal. a filthy precursor to the load of cum that fills you moments after.
steve apologizing the only way he knows how. (well, chooses to—because it works every time. and, it makes him horny).
(oral f!receiving, fingering, steve is a whiny munch, delicious and filthy pussy eating <3)
it’s another silly forgotten date, which you can understand easily slipped his mind with the world ending and all.
so when he comes over, it takes all of two minutes before he has you pinned to the bed, head buried between your legs. he’s hooked your legs over his shoulders, losing himself with each second. his tongue is lapping feverishly at your pussy, his nose smushed against your clit. you’re sure he’ll break you trying to get as far into your pussy as he can—but you don’t care.
“m’sorry, baby.” he coos, moving to murmur against your clit. you can hear the slick of yourself as he presses gentle kisses to it. your head is spinning, harsh gasping and panting.
he’s torturing you.
“so sorry, baby.” he repeats, and you can’t help but notice the hint of harrington coyness in his voice. you suck in your bottom lip, breath shuddering. “s’okay, steve—”
“no.” he warns, finally meeting your gaze. “it’s not okay. not okay to forget about my pretty little baby—god—” despite his efforts to conceal himself, you hear him whimper. deep down, he’s infatuated with you. he expresses it nonstop. but during sex? he’s gone.
“lemme make you cum, babydoll. yeah?” he moans softly, and it makes your eyes roll backwards.
“fuck—steve—”
“say i can. say i can let you cum, honey. please.”
“let me cum.”
and that’s it. shoving two fingers into your weeping hole, pumping in and out of you at a feverish pace. his free arm wraps around your thighs, tugging you into him with nowhere to go. you can’t move an inch even if you wanted to. you hear the mixture of his spit with your slick.
he laps at your clit, sucking it with his tongue. he can feel your skin burning up, and he can’t help it. he’s devouring you. sloppy licking, whining, and spitting on your pussy. drool connects from his tongue to your clit, continuing to plow his fingers into you.
“steve—!” you warn.
“there she is. uh-huh—cum for me, baby. c’mon.”
it sounds like he’s begging at this point, and it sends you over the edge. your fingers dive into his hair, knotting the chestnut locks as he earns a white knuckled grip from you as you finish for him. as your chest rises and falls, your throat runs raw—sucking in too much air too quickly at once.
you’re seeing stars, and you hear him moaning.
“steve..” you sigh, but he’s too busy making out with your pussy to hear you. slow and soft, you feel his tongue brush against your flesh, gently sucking your clit. it makes you twitch, stomach clenching and hips bucking.
“steve—” you repeat, but it feels..good. too good. overwhelmingly good. moans start to spill from you once more, and you can swear he acknowledges you with a soft “mm-hmm,” but you don’t know. nor do you care.
the warmth that’s nestled in the pit of your stomach grows, hearing his mouth tease your pussy. you’re soaked. steve is munching.
soft noises leave him, pressing kisses to your pussy.
the concept of catching a slightly older wiser steve harrington’s eye from across a dimly lit bar and smiling softly while dancing in the dark by bruce springsteen plays over the cheap speakers
the two of you meet when he first moves to lenora hills. he joins the yearbook committee as a photographer and is told to take some pictures of the school’s drama club during one of their dress rehearsals for the fall play. you were doing romeo & juliet, a classic tragedy, and you, of course, as the leading lady, are no other than juliet herself.
you hardly notice him at first. maybe you see the flash of his camera out of the corner of your eye as you do your monologues, but you’re mostly focused on performing. it’s not until after, when everyone else has gone back to the dressing rooms to get changed and head home, that you notice how he’s still glancing over at you, like he can’t keep his eyes off of you. you approach, asking him if there was any way you could see some of the photos he took of you before they made it into the yearbook. he says yes and you don’t catch his name before he leaves.
a few weeks later, an envelope falls out of your locker. on the back of it, in a messy pencil scrawl, “here are the photos. i’m developing some more today in the school’s dark room after school if you want to pop by. hope i captured your good side. -jonathan byers (yearbook guy)”
they’re stunning. you’ve heard from your friends and family before how great you look when on stage. you’ve seen photos of yourself in old yearbooks. but no one’s ever managed to capture you in the way jonathan has now. the stage lights frame you like you’re an angel, each photo perfectly timed to where your emotions are at their fullest before he snaps the shot. you didn’t realize how much you belonged on stage, how completely in your element you were when performing. not until now.
after school, you stop by the dark room. you find him easily, since he’s the only one in there, lit by the dim amber light in the room. he’s hanging up photos to dry, and as you approach, you can see they’re photos of your castmates. romeo and the friar. tybalt and mercutio battling it out. and you. more photos of you. in your tower, at the ball, drinking poison and stabbing yourself. even in the low lighting you can tell that they’re gorgeous.
maybe it’s the fact you can’t see each other properly that makes you more honest than usual or maybe it’s something else. whatever it is, in the quiet of the dark room, you blurt out how you think he’s really cute. jonathan is grateful for the orangey-red lighting, because it means you can’t see the bright flush that comes to his cheeks at your compliment. he manages a thanks and, after some more silence, you finally ask “are you going to ask me out now byers or have i been reading these signals wrong?”
he laughs, a slightly embarrassed sort of sound that makes you smile, and he finally, finally asks you to go out to dinner with him saturday night.
thinking about jud duplenticy with atheist!reader….
a priest in a relationship is already frowned upon, let alone with someone as firmly non believing as you. his complicated past has already damaged his reputation within the “flock” of our lady of perpetual fortitude, and this addition is nothing short of another obstacle in his mission of integration and normalcy.
you don’t show up to the mass, unable to bare being in the same room as monsignor jefferson wicks for more than two minutes, instead opting to sneak into jud’s room when the congregation was over. he kisses you like you’re his salvation, clinging to your skin like worship at an altar. a priest on his knees as he rests his weary forehead on the soft relief of your body.
the guilt was, at first, particularly difficult to handle, but eventually he overcomes it, mostly — after all, you’re not hurting anyone by being together, right?
Content Ahead: religious imagery (duh), reader confesses to lying, father Jud has to relieve them of their sins somehow, sexual acts in a church, father jud is a service switch ofc, written by an agnostic, “Child” is used in a “Child of God” manner, allusions to smut, reader has ambiguous genitalia
Synopsis: You call for a private meeting with Father Jud to confess a lie, little did you know there was more that needed to be confessed.
Word Count: 1.3k
Author’s Note: just a little blurb to get off my chest bc this man is consuming my every thought and we NEED more fics. lmk what you think :3 send requests and i will try my best to fulfill them <3! also please correct me and teach me if i get aspects of religion wrong!!! i try my best to be accurate and technical but it’s been years since i’ve practiced or gone to a church so help a guy out 🙏🏽
Image from this post by @custardhorse .
This blog is 18+ ONLY!!!! MDNI you WILL be blocked! Ageless blogs you risk being blocked too!
Father Jud is a pleaser, a giver, a service provider. His title of priesthood is one he wears daily— a servant and conduit of God and the gospel. Jud exists to serve his people who enter the double doors of his (inherited) chapel and sit in the pews to listen to His word. He exists to guide sinful souls to the path of God, so he sits in the confessional and listens to the words of the damned and attempt to guide them to salvation.
But it’s hard for Father Jud to remain unaffected by the confessions he hears. He hears so much constantly every time he wears his clerical collar— the darkest truths one can carry are spoken into his ears. He struggles daily to shoulder those truths while living; he has to do so in order to remain strong enough to carry out his acts of service, but sometimes he has a penitent confess in such a way he can’t help but want to do more than what’s expected in pastoral care. But how can he resist the need to protect his flock when he knows so much about them?
How can he resist you?
You, who is new to the town and new to the faith, as far as he knows. You have your questions and fundamental truths that the faith cannot change, which sets you far apart from the rest of the flock Father Jud has come to know and care for. He always wants to hear more from you, egging you into expanding on all of your thoughts and questions to understand you deeper. He claims it’s in order to serve you best, but you can’t help but second guess if there’s ulterior motives when noticing his eyes lingering at your lips when you speak, or your body when you stand up to leave. You’d be a liar if you said you didn’t stare at Father Jud in a similar manner. Honestly… you are a liar for saying the faith is what brought you through those cathedral doors. You entered this church with architectural interest, you just decided to stay when the way-too-attractive-to-be-a-priest showed you the sincere care and attention you’ve been deprived of for far too long.
You feared judgement from the other church goers if they learned your truth, so you’ve asked Father Jud for a private moment to confess your lie— your sin. You didn’t think your request would lead you to an empty church on a rainy night, however. Sitting in the front pew looking up at the tall cleric who’s looking down at you with big fluttering eyelashes and a giant cross in the background weighs heavy, but it’s the ideal circumstance to reveal the truth.
“So, what can I do for you my Child?”
You gulp on air at the sudden break in silence, your hands instantly getting sweaty. Why are you getting so nervous? This is by far not the worst thing you’ve confessed to the man, but the unpredictability of his reaction is what scares you. So you speak your truth, “Please, forgive me Father for I have lied to you since the moment we met. I am not one of faith, at least not one as devoted as you. I came here because I wanted to see the inside of these church walls after admiring them from the outside for so long. I didn’t mean to start regular attending but when you greeted me and invited me in, I couldn’t say no. And so I kept coming back— just for you.”
He hums in response, his hands clasped in front of him as he nods. He takes a second to contemplate his words before questioning, “Why is it that you requested a private meeting with me?”
Your eyebrows furrow. Why is that the question he asks? You take a second before responding, “I… I just wanted to confess-“
He cuts you off, “No. You’ve confessed to me before during service hours with no problem. Why did you want to meet with me privately?”
Suddenly having the man of God stare down at you feels intimidating. You could tell him your fear of confessing within proximity of devoted churchgoers, but even you know that is only a partial truth. Why did you ask for a private meeting? Your thoughts start racing along with your heart as you break eye contact with the man in front of you.
Before you can get too lost in your own head, you see Father Jud step closer and kneel before you. A hand reaches to your knee and outer upper thigh. Your eyes instantly lock into the touch, to the big hand resting on you before traveling up the sleeved arm, up his collared neck adorned with the colored tattoo, to his face with his beautiful eyes staring back. Your heart begins to race along with your thoughts— there’s a kneeling priest before you and you feel your lower body begin to match the heat of his hand on you.
You begin to stutter quietly, “Father I-” before getting cut off by Jud, “Lying is one of the most common sins, did you know? Your confession weighs little in comparison to others, but of course that’s not something you’re suppose to do either; much like how you’re not supposed to stare at a member of the clergy with such lust during service.”
Blood rushes throughout your body as your heartbeat quickens. You feel Father Jud’s hand tighten around you as you both staring into each other’s dilated eyes. You’re at a loss for words. So Father Jud continues, “I know the people of this church, this town. I know the face of a sinner when they carry their sin so heavily and so closely to the surface that it’s threatening to spill. I know the face of lust and want and need. Tell me, my Child, what is it that you need from me? Why is it that you called for this private meeting?”
Your hand lays on top of his, gripping softly, “Forgive me Father, for the lust and want ravage me. It needs- I need you.”
He smiles, “You have me, sweet angel.” He caresses your knees and thighs with two hands now, “Now tell me, where do you need me? Show me.”
You stay still for a moment as you look into his eyes for any possible signs of doubt. But when you stare into his nearly black orbs, all you see is sincerity and lust, maybe even a need to service— one you’ve seen him wear often as he performs his heavenly duties. It feels wrong to undress in front of a cleric, but you’ve never seen a man on his knees if it wasn’t out of desperation or salvation.
You lift your hips for a brief moment to pull down your bottoms before sitting back on the pew, spreading your legs before him. Father Jud stares at the center mass between your legs, his eyes and tongue watering at the sight. He can’t help the tightening of his own pants as his hands comes into contact with your bare thighs. He massages your thighs lightly as he adjusts to the warmness without fabric in the way. His eyes are locked to what is between your legs— he bites his bottom lips as he watches wetness exude from between.
His heartbeat races in excitement and in shame. He knows he will have to repent for this later. He knows you are breaking his devotion to God, but how can he tell the difference between devoting to God and devoting to you? How can he differentiate the Heaven he reads and the one he sees right in front of him?
He inches closer to your throbbing warm center. He inhales your scent deeply, saving it in his memory, before exhaling heavily. You twitch at the feeling of his warm breath so close to where you needed him most, unable to hold back the whimper and buckle of your hips towards him. Father Jud lets out a low moan at your neediness.
Before showing you mercy, he looks up at the ceiling and does the sign of the cross as he quietly prays, “Bless me Father for I am about to sin.”
Part 2 coming soon
A/N: this was just supposed to be some quick headcannons but then i was like "oh i might as well just write a little blurb" since i got carried away but, wouldn't you guess it, i got carried away again soooooo i'm splitting this into 2 parts to at least get something out there for all those starving for Jud Duplenticy fics (me). sorry to leave y'all hanging! i'll add part 2's link here once it's done. part 2 will mainly be oral sex (both receiving) and should be out soon :3 i'll make it worth it i promise!
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