18+ as i Reblog lots of nasty smut lol Late 20’s Currently obsessed with challengers! Tashi Duncan apologist 💖💖💖💖 Find my other fanfiction, fictionpress Wattpad and ao3 under the same name! reblogging all my fav fan fics , and many other imagines and social media au's here. Main acc : @thehungrybum
Warnings: Smut! MDNI 18+. Unprotected sex, Oral (M rec), some dirty talk, swearing, not proofread!
A.N: Just a lil Mikey drabble for y’all to enjoy! Makes me want a grilled cheese real bad 👀🤣
Please let me know what else you guys would like! I do have a few other fics on the back-burner (for now!) that I'll start to post soon and just let me know if you'd liked to be tagged in further works too ✨
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You rushed in out of the rain into the warmth of The Beef, fighting against a crowd of people who were doing the same.
The lunch rush was in full swing as your shoulders bumped against other hungry patrons, mumbling apologies being uttered between orders being shouted.
“Hey! There she is! The usual?” Richie snapped his fingers and pointed at you when he saw your head bob up between people.
You stuck a thumb up and Richie hollered out your order. “I’ll sit in the back, Richie!” You shouted back and fought your way through everyone, exhaling a deep sigh when you were free. You warmly smiled and greeted Neil who was frantically trying to beat the high score on one of the games.
You sat down in the back corner, your usual seat of choice whenever you had the chance to sit in and not eat your lunch back at your desk.
“Thought it was raining,” a voice captured your attention as you squeezed the ends of your wet hair. “I’m seeing nothin’ but sunshine in front of me.”
You bit down on the inside of your cheek to conceal your growing grin at the compliment. “Hi Michael…” you looked up to him as he placed your food in front of you, his whole body looming over you. “How’s things?”
“All the better for seeing you, sweetheart.” He smirked and sat down across from you, causing you to raise a brow before opening up your sandwich. That pet name he called you and only you set you alight each time he used it.
“Don’t you have a kitchen to run?” You asked, occupying yourself with your lunch in order to distract you from him.
He shrugged “I always got five minutes for my regular, best customer.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if he was about to spill secrets to you. “And the prettiest…”
You took a bite of your sandwich and froze before chewing on it along with his words. “Stop flirting with me.” You playfully warned. “I won’t tip you more.” He mock groaned and dramatically placed his head in his hands as you continued eating your lunch.
“Dammit, she saw my ulterior motive!” He joked and you chuckled.
“Can’t fool me, Berzatto.”
You’d been regularly going for lunch at the spot since you found it about a year ago, after the first few visits, Mikey instantly recognised you and remembered your usual order and often took the opportunity to have a moment with you whenever he could.
Since then you and him had sparked up a flirty friendship, never crossing the line that was always between the two of you, now it blatantly presented itself between you both on the table.
“Sweetheart, asking me to stop flirting with you is like asking me to stop breathing- simply can’t.” You laughed at that and it made him smile, a warmth spreading through his chest at the noise. It was true, but as much as he jested, he was now wanting more than the occasional flirt thrown between you both, more than the five minutes with you before he was called back to the kitchen, more than just the usual. He felt a sudden urge of confidence surge through his veins and opened his mouth, he always told himself that ‘today’s the day’ almost every day for the last year but today was the day he was going to finally ask you out. “Listen Y/N-”
“Yo Mikey! We need another set of hands man!”
You watched as his head fall when he was cut off, shaking it ever so slightly before sending you a sympathetic smile and telling you he’d be back. Your eyes lingered on him as he walked away, glancing back to you once more that almost made your heart combust. His words in that moment never to be truly known.
You paced yourself eating, waiting for him to come back and sit across from you, flirt with each other more, watch how his nose scrunched when you made him smile…to hear him finish what he was going to tell you.
But time wasn’t on your side and you had to get back to the office. You let out a deep sigh and gathered up your things as well as your trash and disposed of it. “See ya, Y/N!” Neil just about managed to speak to you before swearing and kicking the arcade game when he lost.
“Good to see you Fak,” you were about to walk out but stopped, turning back to him with a heart full of hope that he’d know. “Hey, I think Mikey was going to ask me something, would you know what?” You asked.
He looked up to you just as he placed another quarter in the machine. “Ah maybe the accounts since you’re literal a human calculator- he’s been needing someone to give him a hand.” He explained and you were deflating quicker than a pierced balloon.
“Oh…” the disappointment was seeping through into your bones, not that he noticed. You cleared your throat and attempted to compose yourself, forcing a smile and chirpier tone. “Well, I’ll be happy to help you guys out when I finish work tomorrow night, will he still be here at eight?”
“He never leaves!” Fak laughed and you figured as much.
You braced the rain again as you walked back to the office, the second you left, Mikey returned to the table to find it empty.
—•—
When eight thirty rolled around you found yourself outside The Beef, unusually quiet in comparison to your lunchtime visits. There was a light on and you saw a shadow against the wall. You pulled up your bag that was slumping down from your shoulder to the crease of your elbow and walked in.
“Hello?” You called out.
A faint shuffling came from where the light was pouring from the door. “Fuckin’ assholes didn’t lock up,” you could hear the gruff in Mikey’s voice as he ranted and it made you smirk. “Sorry we’re shut- Y/N?” His annoyed expression changed into a surprised one then to a delighted one. “What are you doing here?”
“Well it seemed like you were gonna tell me something yesterday but didn’t have the chance to, so I asked Fak and he said you might have needed some help with your accounts?” You explained.
Mikey blinked. “Right…accounts because that’s what you do- you’re an accountant.” He nodded with a tight smile, rubbing his hand over his cheek before placing it on his hip. “And Fak had said that. Right.” He inhaled a sharp gasp of breath. “Course he fuckin’ said that…” he grumbled to himself before looking back at you again, waiting patiently on the spot and swallowed hard at how you the neon lights made you glow. “Uh, c’mon through to the office.”
You walked towards him and followed him through the back of house, enduring a whole new perspective of your favourite food spot- as well as enduring Mikey without anyone else.
He led you to the office and encouraged you in first, you made note of the slightly chaotic space, books and papers everywhere on the desk as well as the floor and the sofa against the wall. He pulled in another chair for you as you settled by his desk and he joined you, your knees bumping together as he sat down. A flurry of nervous apologies thrown your way from him.
“So why don’t we start with your stuff from this month?” You suggested and he nodded, trying to gather pieces of paper for you. You noticed a photo tucked between sheets. “Is that you?” You grinned and picked it up.
“Yeah me with Sugar and Carm,” he smiled, shaking his head at the photo of the three of them, his younger brother being squashed in the middle. “Jesus, we were so young…” his voice was soft as he reminisced. You recognised the others, from the photos and stories Mikey had shared before.
You watched for a moment his features softening in the yellow-tinged light coming from the small desk lap on the far side of the desk. “How old were you?” You asked, typing numbers into your calculator and scribbling down the figure.
“Nineteen,” he replied. “Nineteen and dumb.” He chuckled and you let out a soft snort under your breath.
“Hmm, bet you were a real heartbreaker,” you nonchalantly commented. “And I think you’re spending too much on provolone- this guy is ripping you off.”
Mikey didn’t hear anything about getting ripped off, his mind still focused on the fact you called him a heartbreaker.
“Why’d you say that?” He asked.
“Well because he’s either into extortion or he’s really into his cheese markups! My Uncle’s cousins are distributors, could ask them to get a better price for you-” you rambled on whilst you wrote before he cut you off.
“No, no, no,” he spun to face you fully and you looked to him with your eyebrows furrowing. “The heartbreaker comment.”
You toyed with your pen between your fingers as your pulse began to pick up speed. “W-well it’s obviously obvious isn’t it?” You breathlessly laughed, mouth suddenly becoming dry. “You’re handsome as hell.” You told him. “You were! Back then of course.” You quickly added and then mentally slapped yourself before turning back to the task at hand.
Mikey raised a brow as he leaned back in his chair with an amused look on his face. “But not now?”
“I never said that.” You added and swore under your breath writing the wrong number, harshly crossing it out- your mind was being meddled by the man beside you. “Shouldn’t you be trying not to get bankrupted by cheese with me?” He laughed loudly and slapped his hand off the desk before hunching over it to gather up more invoices and paper for you both to sift through.
“Just so you know, Sweetheart, I wouldn’t have broke your heart.”
You stopped writing as your breath caught in your throat, your head slowly turning to face him. “Well what would you have done?” You asked with a neutral expression appearing on your face, keeping your cards close to your chest.
He shrugged a shoulder as he pursed his bottom lip out, giving it a thought as if he hadn’t thought about it almost every day since meeting you. “Made you dinner.”
“What would you have made me?”
“Anything you wanted,” he softly confessed. “Anything in the world.” Your knee bumped against his again, the world suddenly shrinking and feeling like it was beside you in the office. “You want something now? You must be starving and I got a whole ass kitchen back there just waiting to make you anything you desire. Whatcha want?”
You bit down on your lip and leaned forward a little, Mikey gulping feeling your breath dance over his face. “Put your money where your provolone is- I want the best goddamn grilled cheese I’ll ever eat in my entire life.”
He laughed and leaned back. “Alright, alright. One best goddamn grilled cheese coming up.” He stood up and walked out his office. “You joining me to see how many dollars worth of cheese is going into this thing?” You were hot on his heels following him as he gathered what he would need.
Watching him work was like you got an exclusive viewing to watch the Sistine Chapel being painted by Michelangelo himself. The way his concentration would flip from the sandwich to you in an instant, how he smirked when he caught you watching his hands.
“What made you want to do this?” You asked while resting against the counter just as he was finishing up.
You watched him plate your sandwich “Take a bite and I’ll tell you.” He replied.
You bit down on your lip to hide your excited grin as he handed you the plate full of promise. You took a bite and froze. You looked at it with wide eyes and then to him. “Holy shit!” You yelped and took another bite “What the fuck?! That’s amazing!”
Mikey laughed. “That’s what makes me want to do this.” He pointed at your smile. “That.” A warm smile reached his cheeks as he watched you enjoy what he made for you. “That gorgeous fuckin’ smile of yours.” Mikey quietly said and your smile faltered ever so slightly at his words.
You licked your lips and placed your plate down between you both, the heat of the grill now nothing in comparison from what was radiating between you both. “So you made me dinner…” you began and met his line of sight. “What’s next?”
Mikey closed the space between you both “After dinner would come dessert…” he lowly spoke and placed a his hand over yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“Oh?” You raised a brow and leaned forward ever so slightly, eyes half-hooded as he mirrored the action. “Wonder that’s on the menu…” your honeyed musings sent a shiver down his spine.
Mikey chuckled, lightly shaking his head and placed his other hand on your cheek. “You are the dessert.” He gently brought you towards his lips. The kiss was soft at first, a timid graze of skin against skin before you both pulled back and searched in each other eyes.
Searched that was alright.
Searched that this was both what you wanted.
Your smiles said it all for you both.
You somehow ended up between Mikey’s body and the countertop as his lips quickly and desperately kissed yours. His mouth moved in sync with your own, as if each of you knew each other that much that you knew what move would be next. He brushed your bottom lip with his tongue and you parted your lips enough to let him in. You moaned at the sensation, your hands flying to his hair, gripping on it as if that would help you stay upright since your legs stayed to shake.
You moaned against his lips when he grunted feeling you tug at his hair. “Do all your grilled cheeses come with this?” You playfully asked between kisses.
Mikey grinned against your skin, his lips moving from your own to kiss across your jaw and down your neck, his hand coming round to caress the back of it as he pressed it into his mouth. “Only the ones you ask for.” He kissed up the nape of your neck and found himself back at your lips again. “You did ask for the best goddamn grilled cheese, sweetheart.” You couldn’t help but laugh again with your whole chest as Mikey gently held your face in his hands like he was cupping all the precious gemstones in the world.
He was almost convinced if he kissed you enough, there would be more happiness than sadness inside of him.
“What did you want to ask me yesterday?” You softly spoke as your lips captured his own again.
“Definitely not fuckin’ accounts,” you let out an amused snort. “I wanted to ask you out…finally.” He pulled back ever so slightly “God damn finally.” Mikey said with his whole chest seeing you entwined and pressed against him.
You passionately kisses him again and he gasped feeling your teeth apply pressure to his lip, gently tugging it until he let out a shudder of a groan. His hands fell from your face to your sides, finding a gap big enough that allowed him to slip a hand under your top and let his burned, cut and calloused hands roam over your soft, warm skin. “Mikey…” you murmured “Please…”
He continued kissing you as his hand found the underwire of your bra and toyed with it. “Whatcha want, baby?”
He knew what you wanted- he wanted it just as bad.
You pressed your hips against his and began grinding against them, he let out a broken groan at the sudden contact.
“You. I want you.”
He all but growled as he grabbed your thighs and picked you up, a sudden move that caused you let out a giggle. “Less than ideal place but I just can’t wait any longer for you,” he said as he carried you back into his office and placed you down on the sofa. “Fuck, all the nights I thought of you…how I’d be with you…” he kissed you with every ounce of passion in his body. “How I wanted you, craved you…” you moaned as his hands gripped onto your top and yanked it from your body. “Aw fuck.” He bit down on his finger when he saw the lacy fabric against your skin. “Jesus, what you’ve done to me already woman!”
You proudly grinned and let your hand slowly slip to his jeans, brushing your fingertips over the hard bulge that you had caused. “Suppose I should thank you for making me dinner…” you trailed off as you undid his jean button whilst gazing into his eyes. You head him softly gulp as your fingers grazed over the hem of his boxers. “Would you like that, Mikey?” You asked, dripping with innocence that made him growl with a smile.
“You know I’d fuckin’ love that,” he kissed you hard before he groped your lace covered chest. “So perfect. Holy fuck.” He kissed over your breasts before you fell to your knees for him. He watched and raised his hips for you to pull down his jeans and boxers all in one. He watched as your eyes went wide at the sight of him, a bashful smile gracing his gorgeous face. You leaned forward, eyes locked onto his as you swiped your tongue over his length, Mikey letting out a shudder at the sudden wet, warm contact. “Shit, please don’t tease me, Y/N.”
You smirked as you took his cock in your mouth, Mikey’s head falling back on the couch as his hand cupped the space between your cheek and your hair. A wave of pleasure was drowning his organs as he sunk further into the plush cushions as your mouth sunk further down on his cock. You gently held his thighs down as your mouth sunk down on him more, taking his entire length in.The soft gags and slick sounds coming from your mouth made him grip onto your hair as he desperately tried to control himself feeling you around him, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye from the building sheer unadulterated pleasure flowing though his bones. Your tongue pressed against his shaft and he let out a strained groan, causing you to pull back and causing Mikey to whine at the sudden loss. “I’d rather have you inside me when the moment comes,” you told him while your hand gripped his length and began to stroke him. “Don’t worry, I’m on the pill.”
Mikey raised his head just enough to look at you, watch you as you pleasured him. “Course, sweetheart, whatever you want baby.” He cooed as you continued, his head falling back once more as you quickened your pace. “FUCK!” He yelled. “Good fuckin’ god!” He moaned as he quickly grabbed your wrist, stopping all motion in your hand. “You keep that up and we won’t have that chance.” He breathlessly laughed.
You couldn’t rein in your smile as you stood up, Mikey following suit to pull off his t-shirt and tossing off his jeans as he remained on the couch. You shimmied your own off, but his hands soon took over when it came to your underwear, stating that he ‘wanted to do the honours’.
His eyes slowly looked up from your feet to your face once you were completely bare in front of him, his lips parting ever so slightly and his eyes almost looking glossy in the light. “Wow…” he breathed out and placed his large hand on your hip, gently bringing you forward to sit on his lap and softly adorn you in kisses “Just…wow…” he laughed in amazement. “Did I die? Am I in heaven right now?” He asked and you playfully pushed his shoulder with a giggle. “No, sweetheart, I ain’t jokin’! I got a fuckin’ angel on my lap.” He pulled you close and kissed you again “And I’m gonna’ make her scream my name.”
“Hmm…promises, promises…” you teased and gently bit his lip, causing him to moan. He slapped your ass and you let out a yelp in delight. “Well then Michael Berzatto…you gonna made me scream?”
Mikey widely grinned and gripped onto your hips before sinking you down onto his hard length. You both let out a breathless groan, remaining stagnant for a moment. Mikey looked to you through his lashes and softly smiled. “You coming through my door was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He whispered and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. Mikey then slowly moved his hips and you moaned against his cheek as you peppered kisses over it.
Mikey’s lips ghosted over your shoulder as he held you close, grinning every so often when he heard the sweet sounds leaving your mouth. The sweet sounds that he managed to draw from your throat. The sweet sounds he had been dreaming about. You pulled back to look him in the eyes, your hands holding his face as you passionately planted a kiss on his mouth. You matched his rhythmic moving with your own hips, your tight wet heat driving him to the point of insanity. “Shit…Mikey! Yes! Fuck yes!” You erupted, your back arching in delight. You looked back to Mikey, his smile mirroring your own as the two of you increased the pace.
“Oh good fuckin’ god!” Mikey hissed as his fingers sunk into your flesh. “Y/N, baby, you’re gonna make me…” he panted as his head fell back, you pulled it back so he could look you in the eye again. “I can’t hold on much longer.”
“You wanna cum in me, Berzatto?” He groaned at your sultry use of his surname and nodded violently. “You better give me all you got,” your lips found his neck and he let out a yelp in delight feeling your teeth graze against his skin. Mikey held you as close as he possibly could, his strong arms snaking around your waist. You moved your head and met his gaze, beads of sweat forming by his hairline. “Yes Mikey! Please don’t stop! I’m gonna cum for you baby!”
“Y/N…” he let out your name in his next breath as his eyes squeezed shut as your nails pressed into his shoulders. “I wanna feel you cum on my cock, beautiful. I need it- I need you.” The two of you gazed deep into one another’s eyes, a mutual need sealed between you both with a kiss oozing in passion.
Then an eruption, the two of you bursting simultaneously as you came for him and he came in you.
He kept his promise as you screamed his name out. It made Mikey smile with pride and sheer delight.
Pants then filled the small office space, both your bodies glowing in the light. You cupped his face, the two of you smiling like lovesick teenagers as you both peppered soft kisses to one another’s lips. “That was a pretty god damn good grilled cheese Michael Berzatto…that might be my new usual order.” He let out a soft snort and left a lingering kiss against your lips as he held your body close to his, trying to remind himself this wasn’t a dream and you were here with him.
“If you think that was good, stick around and wait until I make you breakfast tomorrow morning…it’ll blow your mind.”
thinking about you and michael berzatto surprising eachother in very different ways..
aka Mikey’s idea of bringing home a surprise is hotdogs, and your idea is a whole dog
The apartment door clicks open, you hear Michael’s sneakers hitting the hardwood as he kicks them off. He calls out into the living room, “Babe, I got food.”
You put the tv lower, throwing the blanket off your legs. You got home from work a few hours ago, and after a quick “errand” you’re already fully unwound— showered, hair clean and blown out, and a Victoria’s Secret pajama set straight from the laundry basket smooth on your freshly-shaven legs. Mikey’s eyes lighten when you round the corner into his view. Take out bags hang from his grip, but he shuffles them to one hand so he can wrap a burly arm around you in a hello.
“Y’look great,” He hums, eyeing you up and down. The smile that creases your eyes is apparently too precious for him to resist drawing you into a kiss, he mutters with raised brows as he pulls away, “and y’smell good. Jesus.” He smells like cologne and musk, you breathe it in nice and deep.
Mission accomplished. Hopefully he’ll be too enamored to get mad at you when he sees what you brought home. Mikey’s thick brows are drawn like he’s forgotten what he even meant to say, so you steal a look at the bags he’s carrying. You expected it to be something from The Beef, but it’s not. “Gene’s and Jude’s? That’s completely out of the way.” Your voice comes out sweeter, more swooning than you intended it to. ‘Cause even though you’re asking why he took the Metra all the way down to River Grove and back, you know the answer, and it just melts you. It’s only because it’s your favorite. You’re why Mikey went out of his way.
And for all the compliments he showers you with, he doesn’t look so bad himself. He’s been growing out his beard lately, his dark hair lengthening. Definitely very bear-like, you once giggled to him, your hand brushing along the hair on his jaw. You remember the grin Mikey gave you, then, like it was burned into your brain. If you liked the whole grizzly look, he liked it too. not to mention the way his navy t-shirt clings just perfectly to his chest and shoulders, hugging his biceps. Maybe you were staring. Maybe you don’t care.
“I mean.. You seemed kinda stressed when I left this morning. Just thought you needed a pick me up.” Mikey shrugs like it’s no big. He follows you into the kitchen, or atleast is just about to breach the countertop that sort of sets it apart from the living room— he feels something pushing against his ankle.
“Shit—“ Your name blurts from his mouth, alarmed and already halfway to a shout. “Baby, woman, gorgeous, uh- what the fucks this?” You can’t help laughing at how freaked out Mikey is, whirling around and lifting up the bags of food to see a dachshund puppy sniffing at his jeans.
“You got a fuckin’ dog?” Your boyfriend’s chestnut eyes are blown wide when he looks up at you. He sets down the food on the counter, with this look on his face like you brought a mouse inside.
“surprise!” You lift your shoulders, smiling as broadly as you think is necessary to make Mikey let you keep the puppy. “Isn’t she cute?”
“She? fuckin’ a, right now.” Michael mumbles to himself, rubbing his forehead and watching the dog scramble around the floor. “Christ, it can’t even stand up right.”
“She’s excited,” you insist. Her claws click and scrape on the hardwood, she snuffles at his jeans and he grimaces up at you. He gestures wildly to the puppy tap dancing around his socks.
“You just.. went out and got a dog?”
“Well, I researched before.” You reach into the bag on the countertop and take out two wrapped hot dogs. He huffs, taking a hesitant step away from the dog, trying his best to not step on the damn thing. She’s making it real hard. “I wanted to surprise you! You’ll love her.”
“You’re damn lucky I love you, ‘cause.. Nevermind.” Mikey grumbles, moving and stepping on the other side of you while brushing his hands on your waist. He sighs through his nostrils, giving you a wary look. You give him your sweetest, pretty, pretty please, say yes to me smile. He looks down at the dog and shakes his head, and you know you’ve got him melted like butter. Your puppy gets to stay. “what’s her name.”
“Olive,” you coo. He sighs again.
“Fuckin’ Olive.” Mikey grumbles, maybe to himself, turning and leaning his back against the counter to look at the dog. “That why her uh, her collar’s green?”
“mmmhm!” He huffs in a mix of humor and disbelief. His roughened, oven-burned hand moves to splay over your belly, his arm winding around as rubs his palm along the material of your pajama set and clasps your waist. You turn your cheek to look at him, and you know by his expression— and experience— that you got this burly, tough man wrapped ‘round your finger. Puppy dog eyes looking at you, brows furrowed and jaw set, he’s trying to look like he’s got any authority when you ask for something.
“She ain’t sleeping in our bed.” Mikey crosses his arms over his chest, and god, does that shirt hug his biceps just perfect.
“Sure.” You shrug, unwrapping your hotdog and taking the first bite. He eyes you, lifts his brows as if to say, I’m serious on this. Sure he is.
Olive sleeps in bed, nestled in the small cranny between you and Mikey that night.
mikey and his controversially younger girlfriend who has a crazy size kink and he plays into it because he knows how wet it gets her. “look, baby, i can see the outline of my cock in your tummy. you want me to take a picture? wanna see?” he’s hovering his phone over your belly to snap a picture, turning the screen to show you the bulge of his length pressing in your belly.
“it’s too big for me to thrust, huh? gonna split you right open. maybe i can just…” his warm hand rests on top of your pelvic bone, jerking himself off by rubbing your belly. speechless, drool spilling from the corners of your lips, you can only babble incoherently as your core tightens around his shaft. you’ve never had someone who gets your size kink— who gets that you need this.
“mmm, uhh—” you mutter the sounds while gripping the bedsheets. despite trying to tell him how good it feels, the words just won’t come out.
“it’s okay, baby, you’ll learn your first word soon. say it with me, ‘dada.’ can you say ‘dada?’”
summary: farleigh start! who makes his girlfriend his entire personality.
content warning: sfw, sweet fluff all the wayyy, farleigh being down bad for reader. farleigh being sweet (rare), suggestive themes at the end but just a little bit
a/n: giggling, kicking my feet, rolling on the bed while writing this. farleigh just one chance pls
farleigh had always told himself and people around him that love’s a scam. he was taught that family are supposed to love each other. but after learning about what happened between his family and his mom, why should he believe in such thing ? after they hurt his mom in the name of love ? he refused to believe in such thing. until he felt it himself.
-ever since he’s fallen for you he’s willing to use all of the love he has on you. ever since you show up into his life its like his earth stopped orbiting the sun and started orbiting you instead. you’re his new-found love. but farleigh’s still the same old farleigh who’s too proud to say it. so he shows it instead. you understood long ago that his love language is act of service that he only does for you. anyone else that wants him to do something out of his will can fuck off. so he said.
“you’re going out again ?” you swiftly turn to face your roommate sitting on her bed, folding her clothes rather messily. she couldnt care less if theyre not stacked symmetrically, just wanted to have the mountain of unfolded clothes out of her chair. “of course, its friday night! aren’t you ?” you cheerfully say as your hands busy putting on the earrings you’d picked out earlier. “is that new ?” she asks, eyes squinting in an attempt to have a closer look before getting up to actually take a look. “-and no, i’d rather stay in. wow these are pretty- if they ever go missing best bet that’s me”. you hold still as she examines the newly bought earrings before chuckling at her joke. “yeah, farleigh saw them when he was walking around town” you hear her groan before plopping herself down onto her bed. you giggle at her response. “im sorry! i promise to not mention his name anymore” you raise both your hands to surrender before letting out a laugh.
you couldn’t blame her, you’d be annoyed too. its always farleigh this, farleigh that. farleigh bought me this, farleigh bought me that- and you love him for that. always letting you in on stuff. he tells you everything too. thanks to him, you can atleast watch out for those people he’d gossip about, so you dont get into their mess. if it wasn’t for him you wouldn’t know anything. you’re not the type to hop around searching for gossips but you love hearing about them, then fueling his gossips with your insults. in that sense you’re fit for each other, and you’re happy to have your own personal source of campus gossip. “do i look okay ?” you take one last look at your reflection in the bodysized mirror hung on the wall, smoothing out your casual dress. nothing too sexy or uncomfortable, you just wanted to chill and have some drink. “you look absolutely gorgeous like always m’darling” your roommate teases you before giggles erupt between the two of you. “where are you going anyways? need your location” she asks, not bothered to look as she’s more focused on folding a tshirt.
“the pub- like always. farle-“ his name almost slip your tongue as you receive a warning look from your roommate. you widen your eyes as you mouth an ‘okay’ before saying, “well he, who shall not be named- invited me. wants me there, he said” she rolls her eyes. “he always wants you EVERYWHERE” “bet you’re there when he goes shopping for new underwear”. she jokes. you look at her with your head cocked to the side, confused. her jaw drops as she points at you “oh my gosh, you’ve totally done that !” she gives you the most dramatic mind blown look ever “is that not normal ?” “fucks sake its not !” you shrug at her, not caring for her going ballistic. it’s not like you’re always there with him anywhere. shit, are you ?. you cant help but give it a quick thought. well you sometimes have classes buildings away from each other, so no, you think. a normal response for someone in denial. making sure you’ve put everything you need in your purse, you blow your roommate a kiss before waving her bye bye to which she jokingly shoos you away
the pub’s busier than other nights with it being the weekend and all but mostly because you and farleigh’s friendgroup members are all bunched up together tonight. courtesy of felix offering to cover every round of drinks. who would pass up on an offer like that ? you’re approaching the bar, lips letting out singsongs as your fingers play with the new earring on your right earlobe. farleigh had offered to walk you from your dorm but you declined, telling him to save you a seat instead. so he did just that. also because its just a 5-minute walk or so. the atmosphere in the pub getting thick as he’s getting antsy waiting, almost barking at his friends who tried to sit in the seat designated for you by him. “that’s for my girlfriend you dumb” he told them. as felix walks towards the table at which they’re all circled around, farleigh’s head cocks seeing the pub’s door being pushed from outside. he almost jumped out his seat seeing that it’s you. “there she is !” he exclaims, he’s quick to get you at the door. everyone else cheers seeing you walk with your hand in farleigh’s, fingers intertwined.
as soon as you’re both seated he has his hand around your waist, resting at your thigh. “how was the walk ?” he asks, his nose almost nudging yours. you lean in to give him a quick kiss before nodding, “it was nice, a little breezy” you told him without giving it a second thought. he quickly took off his knitted cardigan-like sweater to drape it over your shoulders. you giggle at his reaction, you didn’t think he’d react that way as you weren’t trying to imply that you were cold. as he is admiring your pretty face, he notices the shiny thing on your earlobe. “is that—“ his hand reach up to touch the earrings, a huge smile appears on your face before nodding. “wanted to show you. you pick the prettiest things for me. maybe i should bring you when i shop for jewelries” its been long since you last went jewelry shopping. probably since you started dating him cuz he always buy you shiny things that he’d stumble upon. he spends a lot of time looking to pick the prettiest among them. he would buy them all but he thinks that it would only show that he’s lazy. he wants you to know how much he loves you and the time he spends picking them out shows it.
farleigh would go absolutely feral whenever there’s like a bazaar on campus where students set up their businesses’ booths cuz that means there will be girls selling their handmade jewelries. he thinks they’re so pretty that it would be a waste if they’re not being worn by you. bazaars happen maybe a couple times a year and the girls already know him cuz he spends the longest time looking at their rings, necklaces and earrings trying to pick out something for you. the first time he came by the booth they thought he was gonna insult them, maybe say things like ‘aren’t you too old to be making bracelets?’ or call their handmade pieces ugly. they tried to avoid him until he picks one of them up without saying anything, taking a closer look before handing them one that caught his eyes the most. one of the girls gathered all her courage to ask him who was he thinking of buying the stuff for and he proudly said “its for my girlfriend, she loves handmade jewelries” as they nod at his answer he started going on and on talking about you, stuffs you’re interested in so they can help pick out what would suit you best. “—yeah she’s in class right now, wouldn’t want her to know im here. want to suprise her with these. she’ll go wild” a grin plastered across his face imagining your reaction. sometimes its tmi for the girls but they dont care, they think its the sweetest.
farleigh doesn’t necessarily think buying you the most expensive things is the best way to show his love, its just as long as he’s poured much thought into his gifts. he fixates on thinking whether or not you’ll love the gifts he thinks of buying you and if you probably won’t, he’ll find something else.
“they’re only pretty when you wear them. you make them look pretty” he whispers into your ear before taking your hand into his. he lean in to kiss you before pulling away just to kiss you again. and again. he rubs circles on the back of your hand with his thumb before looking back up at you. you’re getting all giddy from the attention he’s giving, your cheeks heating up. “yo guys— if you want to do romance maybe get a room” you hear one of his friends yell from across the pub. he flips him off before saying, “why were you looking at us anyways, loser ?” farleigh’s quick to rebut as the others’ reactions fill the room. he gives the guy a disgusted look before looking back at you, who is smiling. “sorry baby, would you like your usual ?” you nod before he gets up to go get your signature drink that you always have everytime you’re here. you’re not really into the heavy stuffs so he doesn’t force you to do them. he only does that to oliver.
apart from saving your seat, picking out jewelries for you and always getting you your drink to make sure it’s safe in his hands, he always want you with him everywhere he goes. just like your roommate had told you. he doesn’t care if he has to walk all the way across a field or a hallway to get to your classes, he’ll make sure he’s waiting outside for you by the time you’re finished so he could have you beside him everywhere he goes. and you dont care following him around. sometimes its just meaningless walks around campus but you’re happy as long as he’s with you. you’re his bestest friend. his home. he’d be telling you jokes as he walks, getting in front of you to make big movements to accompany his storytelling like he’d never run out of energy. like you’re his source of energy. you would give him the best reactions to his stories and gossips and he‘d fall even more in love with you if that’s even possible
he was already quite famous on campus before dating you, but now almost literally everyone knows the both of you as THE couple. he would casually mention you everywhere he goes when you’re not with him, which is probably only the times when you have different classes. and you’re always with him too. the cafeteria, the pub, the field (he loves picnics with you), his homeroom, your homeroom, the random benches along the building, the hallways. its always the two of you. somehow you never got sick of each other probably cuz he’s nice to you. sure, there are times he’d accidentally lash out on you about something that got to him but he’s quick to make it up to you. he couldn’t imagine not having you everywhere with him. his buddies have all grown accustomed to you now, unlike the first few weeks when he started dating you. they got soo annoyed everytime farleigh brought you to hang out with them. he’s always out and about telling them like, “my girlfriends coming later” or “gotta wait for my girlfriend first” before actually hanging out with them. they were irritated cuz you weren’t as fun before, back when you were just being introduced to them. bros before hoes they’d told him. farleigh made sure to let them know you’re not just some ‘hoe’ and after that they’re basically pretty chill with you as soon as they realised you’re just like farleigh, but in female form. you get along with them and their convos just as well as farleigh. so they dont mind you tagging along anymore
its becoming his whole personality, dating you. its always you before all else. sentences like, ‘cant, gotta go get my girlfriend’ or ‘my girlfriend would love this’ or ‘the other day my girlfriend-‘ and ‘did you know ? my girlfriend-‘ are converging into his daily dictionary. you, are just the same. always mentioning him in everything because you do everything with him. like it or not the story’s gonna involve him cuz he was there. or it happened to him. or he was the one who told you. the two of you set the dating standards so high that the girls only want what the both of you have when it comes to relationships. cuz the both of you made it possible, you’d become the couple everyone put their trust in love in.
you let out a laugh joining the others at something farleigh had said before taking a sip of the drink he brought you earlier. he has his one hand around your waist, grabbing your hand and the other on the table, near your drink, holding a lit ciggie in between his index and middle finger. he offers you a smoke to which you lean in. he holds the cig for you, watching you pull a puff before taking a puff himself. he closes the distance between you, leaning in to blow the smoke into your mouth, shotgunning.
the swirls of smoke mixing yours before he kisses you, deep. one of his favourite things to do with you. his hand that was holding your hand reaches into the hem of your dress, teasingly playing with it. he grins as his eyes bore into yours, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek. you giggle at his fingers dragging along your thigh, tickling you. he nudges his nose against yours before getting up, gently pulling at your hand. you follow him as you giggle, already knowing where this is going. he pulls your hand, walking towards the door before saying, “ciao everyone, and you-“ he’s pointing at the dude yelling at you guys earlier,
“-thank you for your suggestion” he chuckles as the whole room roar in mixed reactions. safe to say your poor roommate slept alone that night.
"WAIT THIS IS- WAIT we should get farleigh to fuck reader thinking he’ll get anything he wants, the whole sexgod privilege just cuz youre the one who asked for it but when hes about to cum you go “oh no no”. but farleigh turns into goo under your orders so"
OK SO I HAVE AN IDEA!! their academic rivals and have a bet going on that he gets to fuck you if he got a higher score on a test or smth?!?!? IDK I JUST HAVE A THING FOR ENEMIES FUCKING 😞😞 SUE ME
the day hath come. thank you for your request anon ! <3
—“me or you”
academic rival! farleigh start! x fem!reader
summary: when farleigh decided that your rivalry isn’t fun enough for him, he proposes a deal
warnings: 18+, enemies to lovers, academic rivals, smut in the second half of it, sub!farleigh, porn with plot, unprotected p in v (wrap it guys), sub! farleigh, soft dom! reader, size kink, whiny whimpery farleigh, praise kink, cunnilingus, blow job, teabagging, creampie, plot twist and fluff at the end
a/n: sorry if i took too long, enjoy !
academic validation is everything to you. you believe you’re nothing if not an overachiever. but for farleigh, it’s just an excuse for him to be contemptous towards you. everyone else in the class is obviously displeased with your feud with him, but it’s mostly just farleigh spewing vulgar insults at you. that’s just how he presents himself. you could go and ask around the campus about him-
most would comment on his attitude that he thinks he could get away with- just because he’s smart. academically smart. no one knows how he does it. its not like he spends his afternoons in the library or catching up on his studies in his free time. hell, he does the exact opposite of those things. the term party animal is a downgrade for him. the owner of the nearest pub knows him. the most elite parties on campus are known to be thrown by him.
weirdly enough, when it comes to tests and exams, he excels them like nobody else. whatever he has to do for the class doesn’t faze him. you’re pretty confident that he doesn’t even study yet somehow, he’s at the top of his class. you on the other hand, put a lot of effort to achieve your exceptionally high scores. seeing farleigh being absent for most of his class pains you, it reminds you of how bad you have to struggle while he get to trash himself. enjoy the uni life. what irks you even more is the fact that everytime he scores higher than you, he’ll make sure to flaunt it all over your face. every single time. you roll your eyes when you spot the dark curly headed figure towering almost everyone across the hall, a couple books in his hand. how pretentious. it’s not like he even reads them.
flashing a quick smirk towards you, he swiftly skips to get in front to hold the lecture hall door open. he gave everyone else before you a small smile, trying to convince them of the pure intention of his nice little gesture. “goodluck guys” his head tilted upwards for a bit, nodding at each of the students. you cant help but crack a little smile watching the boy. as you were about to step into the hall, he swings the door closed behind him.
“what the fuck ?” you blurt out, head tilted trying to look at him. “goodluck” he grins, eyebrows raised with a smug look on his face. “for the test” he continues. “for what else dumbass?” insufferable, you think. he winces mockingly at your words
the test. the one that is particularly of the toughest subject out of your course. one that you had studied your ass off for. one that farleigh couldn’t give a single fuck about and still gonna ace it. gifted son of a bitch. and you’re gonna have to sit through him making fun of you for the 2 marks difference. it’s been like this for a couple semesters now. you struggling to keep your scores high, while farleigh tease you about it. just because you give him a challenge for the top position everytime there’s a test. the first semester of the course, he scored the best in the class for the first assessment. that gave him extra unneeded ego for the next couple weeks until you beat him in other tests after. he’d acknowledged you since. he loves a pretty face that challenges him.
“yes whatever farleigh now move” you try to pay no attention to him, reaching out to pull the door yourself. he quickly adjusts his stance against the door “okay! okay-”his arms reach out to his sides, protecting the entrance.
“-i have a proposition for you”
“i dont have time for this farleigh” you really dont, the tests starting anytime now.
“hear me out first”. one of his arm is held up to convince you. you sigh, the most uninterested expression staring back at him. “you know how you always excel these tests and i always do better than you-?”. “if youre keeping me here just to ridicule me save it for after the test” you begin to move before he continues
“—so you admit i always do better ? i mean, who’s keeping the score anyways” he chuckles. your patience is getting thin. before you could move again he steps closer, towering over you. hot breath fanning over your face as he grabs your arm.
“why dont we make it more fun ?” he begins, emphasizing the last part, almost whispering into your ear. “if you score better, you get all the bragging rights and mocking pass until the next test” you begin to soften your expression, intrigued. you look up at him, eyes searching into his. he stares into you before leaning down to continue
“—and if i score better, i get to fuck you”
you ball your palms into fists at his stupid idea before shoving him to the side and storming into the lecture hall. your jaws clenching with your lips pursed shut. he’s getting out of hand if he thinks you’re just another bet felix can set him up upon. you hear him follow you before he settles in a seat rows away from you. you glance at him to see he’s already looking at you, grinning.
as you’re finishing up the final answers and re-checking the paper you’re brought back to farleigh’s proposition earlier. somehow you’re fueled with a newfound confidence that you’re gonna beat him. the test wasn’t that bad, you studied and all and there wasn’t any questions that you didn’t answer confidently. suddenly those bragging rights sound tempting. usually when you score higher than him you’d just keep it to yourself cuz whenever you do try to belittle him how he does you, he’s quicker with sharp insults that leaves you dumbfounded. a classmate once tried standing up for you after one of his rude remarks and got a disgusted look from him in return. his exact words were “who are you again ?” so you decided long ago not to indulge in his childish behaviour. but you’re getting sick of him. at this point you’d do anything to shut the raging ego of his. even if it means risking yourself
the loud sound of papers rustling and the creaking of the hall’s seats marks the end of the test, everyone’s getting up and walking towards the exit. you found yourself pushed into a corner by the crowd that seems to be chasing a leaving train. there’s no opening for you to squeeze yourself in so you decide to wait until they’re all gone. suddenly the crowd stopped and you feel a hand pulling you forward, safely getting you out of the exit with his body close behind yours. he brings you further to the nearest turn, making sure you’re out of the crowd. you look up at him, knowing it was him. you shoot him a serious look before saying,
“deal”
“wait-“ he scoffs in disbelief “really ?” he has a whole confused, disbelief look on his face. “yeah, there’s no way you’re gonna score higher, you’ve been doing what, coke all week ?” you say. “true, but i’ll come by. i always do” he shrugs before saying, “no take backs” you give him a small smile before starting to walk away. “you should smile more baby !” you hear him say from afar. his usual smug look entering your mind
the rest of next week is filled with him trying to get you flustered and nervous waiting for the result. there’s no actual reason for you to be this nervous, he’s got no chance against you this time. every class with him feels a lot longer than usual as he teases you about the deal every chance he could. telling jokes that centers you being smarter than him to the whole class got you rethinking about your decision. while you’re confident, he seems to be composed. in the class of the subject you guys had the test for, there’s a time when the professor brought up that the paper will be returned next week and you cant help but glance at farleigh. he smiles before bringing up a peace sign to his mouth, his tongue darting forward between his fingers before moving it in a licking motion. he chuckles at your reaction as you roll your eyes
your professor offers a smile to your classmate reaching her hand out to take the paper from him. “good job, keep it up” he steps down from the last flight of stairs with his hands clasped together. “congratulations to all of you regardless of your scores, theres still time and room for improvement so keep your chin up” he positively encouraged before dismissing the class. you look down at the paper in your hands, a proud smile forcing itself onto your lips as you beam at the circled number in red at the top of it. a whopping 98 for the toughest subject you’ve ever took. satisfied is the least you’re feeling right now as the familiar busy sound of students getting ready to hit the exit floods your ears, you hear the professor calling a name. “farleigh ? please see me after class” your eyebrows furrowed seeing him mouth a “yea” while picking up his books. thats the most plain you’ve ever seen him. no smug look thrown towards you either.
from his expressions you could assume that maybe he’s dissatisfied with his score but just how bad can it be ? knowing him he could’ve taken the test drunk and still be able to score atleast an A. your eyes follow him walking towards the exit, his messenger hanging low against his hips. you were waiting for some officialization from him, saying that you won, and that you get to mock him all you want yet you’re left with nothing. i mean, you certainly won right ? he could only beat you if he scored 99 or a 100. maybe you’ll try him tomorrow.
rubbing your eyebrows, your eyes scan the lesson material that you had just printed out for today. words stacked above another forming a paragraph that you’re hoping to find the point of. sound of footsteps entering fills the class when you feel someone tapping at the back of your seat. you turn your head back and to the front again to see farleigh walking past slowly to say, “your clock starts now nerd, next tests on the second week next month” as he points his finger at you
“heard you got a new daddy farleigh, got him to up your score ?” you’re near yelling at him who’s getting away. he pays you no attention as he flips you off. a smile appears on your face. no nasty remarks in return. so it begins. for the rest of the class you get to shut his sarcastic jokes with your own. the class is suprised to say the least that farleigh is the receiving end now. something must’ve happened they think, and most have their money on that you guys fucked. you shrug at your efforts on utitilising the mockery pass. you’d manage to catch him after class just to offer him another teasing “you know i can tutor you if you want. a one on one so maybe you can retire from being a boytoy” you beam at him. he gives you an unamused look, lips shut to hold himself from shooting a response to the joke. “maybe you should” he says, raising both his arms to quickly drop them before turning his heels and walking away. you watch him strut down the hall with a grin plastered across your face. until something hits you that the grin slowly wears off. you feel empty that he’s not shooting sarcasms back at you. you get it that this will only last until the next test and it’s part of the deal but you cant help feeling like, ‘this is it ?’. suddenly a part of you think that it would be better if he responded back. you’re used to that. you want him to banter.
so when you end up standing infront of his door you have no one else to blame but yourself.
you had asked students around the dorm halls and they all pointed to this door. sighing, you try to justify yourself for whats about to happen. “what are you doing here ?” you lower the knuckles that were about to knock, heels automatically turning to the source of the voice. he quirks an eyebrow at seeing you infront of his dorm. unfamiliar with the image cuz he’s never seen you around the building. “what are YOU doing here” youre quick to answer before realising how stupid it is. “i kinda need to be here. i live in the room just behind you” you scoff at his answer. he squints his eyes before saying, “wow, youre determined”.
“what ?”
“you came all the way here to brag about the test ?—”
“no” you stop him before continuing, “its weird that you didnt return any of my insults today” you begin. he slows down his steps, pacing around before stopping infront of you. he examines the knitted material of your cardigan, his eyes trailing to find yours. “well for one, they’re mediocre at best-“ you scoff before lightly shoving him, “fuck you”. he shrugs, eyes wandering across the hall before continuing, “—and its part of the deal sweetheart” you look down at your shoes, nodding slightly. exactly, that was the deal, you admit to yourself, ignoring the pet name. you take a deep breath as he runs his hand across the back of his neck, carefully adjusting the stray curls at the side of his head. “well if you dont have anything else, im just gonna-“ his hand moves to the side of you to grab the doorknob.
you look up at him, searching into his eyes before he notices. “unless youre here for that tutoring-“ you grab at the fabric on his chest, pulling him against you before crashing your lips onto his dark red ones. kissing at his bottom lip, he returns the kiss deeper, nose bumping against each other. he pulls away slightly, puffing hot breath before pulling you closer by your lower back. his forehead rests against yours as his mouth chases your lips, returning a deeper and more eager kiss. his hands resting low at your hips as his impatient kiss pushes you back against the door. you pull away for a moment to catch your breath when a small whine escapes his lips, his eyes still closed. he’s leaning forward trying to catch your lips to which you lean into once more. his hand move from your waist to the doorknob, twisting it before catching you from falling backwards. next thing you know you’re placed on his strangely clear study with him leaving sloppy kisses down your stomach, moving towards your clothed pussy. your cardigan and shorts lying on the floor
he looks at you through his long lashes, his large hands sprawled over your hips, smoothing over the skin. “may i ?” you nearly moan at his low voice. you nod as he mouths at your clothed cunt, nose nudging against your clit, panties almost transluscent with your wetness. you let out a breathy moan as he peppers small kisses all over the thighs caging him, slowly biting at the skin. he trails kisses until he reaches where you want him the most before pushing your panties to the side. his breath hitched as he does so, timidly licking your wet folds to have a taste. you hear him moan, your hands running through his hair to pull back the parts covering his face so you can watch him sucking at your sex. his eyes shut close savouring your taste as you hear him mumble against your folds, sending shivers down your spine. “mhm- s’good…so pretty” his hands roam from the low of your back to your stomach before trailing down to rub your clit. he pulls away for a moment to run his thumb between your folds, eyes dark as he watches your pussy clench around nothing. his bottom lip between his teeth. he dives back in with half lidded eyes before laying his tongue flat against your folds. you let out a small moan as you pull at his hair, earning a groan from him. you could feel the knot in your lower stomach getting tighter.
you push him from your pussy before getting off of his study. he follows you, getting up from the floor, cock painfully hard in his sweats forming a tent with a dark patch at the top. you curse in your head seeing the view before pushing him down onto his bed. he scoots back to lean against the wall as you climb onto his lap, pulling your shirt off you. his eyes trail downwards to look at your hardened nipples, his eyes darkened with a full blown lust before reaching up to knead at them. he kisses your nipples before putting them in his hot mouth at which you arch your back slightly, your hands pushing him forwards from the back of his head. you start to grind at his hard clothed cock as you feel the wet patch you saw earlier. he moans loudly at you grinding down especially harder on the base of his cock, sitting on his balls. steadying yourself, you grab his shoulders as you lean in to nip at his earlobes. his hand moves to grab at your hips as you rub your wet panties against his bulge while kissing at his neck, slightly biting and sucking at the skin, leaving marks. he whimpers with a slight pout when you start to slow down
“please,,”
“please what farleigh ?”
“anything- fuck! please,, take it off”
you smile at his pleas, continuing to grind on his cock, the wet patch at his tip getting bigger, spreading to the base of his cock. you arch your back slightly while moving, placing your tits at his mouth which he latches on obediently. his cock twitches as he bucks his hips upwards from the pressure. he pulls away to rest his head on your chest, head tilted downwards to watch your pussy getting his sweats wetter before throwing his head back with a long moan. “feels- feel so good- wan’ you faster” he starts stuttering words between begging you to go faster and to go slower, confused to decide what he actually wants. “does this feel good farleigh ?” you grind faster as he nods rapidly in return “dont stop- fuck, please dont stop” you could feel his cock jumping slightly and twitching, threatening to spill his load in his pants before you do just what he tells you not to. “no- baby,,” he throws his head back, strained whimper escapes his lips in defeat as you giggle. his knee buckles up involuntarily. you get off his lap, removing his hands from your hips to settle on the floor, tits pressed against the edge of the bed.
you look up at him who has the back of his hand pressed against his forehead as you graze your fingers on the outline of his cock, now completely wet with his precum and your wetness. your touches making him buck his hips, his eyes shut close as he throws his head back. you pull at his waistband slowly, pressing it down so it grazes along his achingly hard cock, earning a wince from him. “slow- slower, please,,” his hand reach yours trying to get you to be careful. you nod at him giving him what he wants, not wanting him to cum just yet. as soon as the waistband’s off his thick hard cock springs upwards, slapping his lower stomach. he’s thick, and it curves slightly upwards. placing your hand at the base, you’re suprised to see the size of him. batting your lashes at him with his cock in your hand, he gives you a smug smile
“big?”
“—average” you respond, receiving a chuckle from him
he’s the biggest you’ve had.
you swipe your thumb across his tip, collecting the precum to spread on his cock. switching hands, you begin to pump his length, your fingers barely closing around his cock. you reach down your panties with your free hand to collect your wetness before using it as lube to stroke his cock. “fuck that’s so hot-” you hear him say before letting out a loud moan when you suddenly start sucking at his tip. maintaining eye contact through your lashes, you make sure to make him watch you lay your tongue flat at the base of his length, slowly dragging it upwards. you have both your hands and your mouth working on the aching tip, slobbering his cock with your wetness, saliva and precum. stroking his cock at a steady pace you adjust your position to arch downwards, your mouth leaning into the base of his cock to lick under his balls. “ah— fuck-! mhm“ his hand fisting the sheets under him, chest heaving breathlessly. he let out a whine when you put his balls into your mouth, the warmth sending him into pure bliss. sucking at the skin, you make sure to twist at his raging red tip as you do so. you pull off with a pop to collect saliva in your mouth before spitting on his balls. just as the spit starting to trickle down you catch it with your mouth to bring it to his length. he tries to contain his moan by pursing his lips yet a weak whimper leaves his lips. he shoots you a puppy look as you continue sucking him off. you can feel his already tight balls getting tighter as his cock jumps against his lower stomach. he’s painfully hard to the point that one more lick and he’ll be cumming.
so you stop working on his cock to get on your feet. his eyes filled with tears threatening to spill down his tinted cheeks. his pretty long lashes wet from the tears pooling in his eyes, making them glossy. he looks up at you, your knees pressing against his bed before you climb onto him, your hands reaching his face to cup his cheeks. the tears in his eyes that were threatening to fall trickles down as you wipe them with your thumb. “you wanna cum farleigh ?” you ask. “yes please” “you dont look it” he blinks to clear his eyes from tears, “i want to, please- let me cum please” his hands slowly creep up your body to pull you close in his embrace. his eyes pleads into yours before you pull his head towards you letting him rest on your breast. “okay” you promise. he takes the chance to mouth at your tits. throwing your head back, you feel him suck at one of your nipple and squeezing the other with his large hand making you moan. you pull at his hair to look at him, he offers you a soft smile. probably too delirious from the pleasure to even think.
you pull him off you to quickly get off the bed, taking off your wet panties before climbing back holding it. you lean down to kiss him, his head tilted upwards to return your kiss. his sucks at your tongue until he feels your lips being replaced by a wet fabric. he moans realising that you had stuffed his mouth with your panties, aiming the wet patch directly onto his tongue before kissing the top of his head. he always has his free hands to take out the panties if he wants to. he looks down at his hard weeping cock just inches away from your pussy. he buckles his hips forward in a pathetic attempt to rub his cock against your pussy. you giggle at his action before steadying your hands on hus shoulder, looking down as you lower yourself on his cock, rubbing the tip against your clit and the length between your folds. you hear him make some mumbled sound before you pull out the panties from his mouth. strings of saliva connected to the fabric as he puffs out, catching his breath.
“just fuck me,, cant anymore-“
“you cant ?” he shakes his head
“but i thought you’re the mighty farleigh start ?” you tease him. he swallows his saliva at your words.
“not with you, no- please, just make me cum baby” the tip of his nose dusted red, his lips swollen and redder than ever. his eyes glossy with some of the remaining tears at the corner of his eyes, searching into yours as he pleads
you finally give in, grabbing his cock to position it at your sex earning a loud guttural moan from him. you let out a high pitched whine from the stretch, the slide of his cock into your pussy easy thanks to all the wetness from before. you move back and forth, grinding your clit against his pelvis before starting to ride his cock. he bites his bottom lip watching you bounce on his length, fucking yourself. the pace of your hips steady with his hands grabbing at them to guide you. farleigh throws his head back from the pleasure, his mouth hanging agape. you feel the knot in your lower stomach getting tighter, feeling waves threatening to crash down. “you close ?” he asks as he feels your pussy clench around him making it harder for him to hold back. you nod at him, trying to focus on chasing your orgasm. you feel him suddenly buckle his hips into you before you let out a high pitched moan, screaming his name. he helps you ride out your high before you hear a string of curses falling from his lips, his thrust getting sloppy. “inside, farleigh”. he looks at you to make sure he heard you right as you nod at him. you let him move your hips as he wants, using you like a fleshlight before you hear him let out a loud moan. “ah-ahh—! fuck, fuck, fuck- fuuuck,,”. the curses falling from his lips gets dragged out as you feel warm ropes of thick cum shooting inside your pussy, hitting your cervix.
he struggles to catch his breath as he carefully gets you off his lap, placing your head on his pillow before joining you. sighing, his eyes blown wife while looking up at the ceiling. he props himself on his elbow to look at you, admiring your glow. you cant help but slowly let out a laugh at what the two of you just did. he shakes his head low, also laughing before leaning down to kiss you. the kiss is more passionate and sensual, unlike before. he crawls down to look at your pussy, his cum trickling down to his sheets before he wastes no time collecting and pushing them back into you. “all good” he informs before climbing back to lie beside you as you two finish catching your breaths.
you look around, scanning his room before turning your head to look at his bedside table. you notice a familiar paper, slightly crumpled. propping yourself on your elbow, you take a closer look at it. it’s the test that makes your deal, with a circled score in red at the top of it. a 62. you quickly turn to him, he’s already looking at you, a cig in his hand and a lighter in another, ready to light it. he looks at the paper in your hand and raises his eyebrow
“what ?”
“a 62, farleigh ? seriously ?”
“yeah i purposely put the wrong answers, atleast for some part of it”
he answers you, unbothered. he purses his lips around the cig, almost lighting it as he notices that you’re still waiting for some sort of explanation. he sighs before letting his head fall back onto the pillow
“i wanted you to win” he admits. your eyebrows furrowed, clearly confused
“so you can atleast see some good in me, when im not bullying you” to which you respond,
“you could’ve just stop insulting me like a normal person”
“but then everyone will realise that i was falling for you”
your face softens at his words. his eyes roam across the ceiling, trying to avoid your eyes before he continues, “—everyone knows i dont just ‘fall’ for people” you search his face for some sort of indicator that he’s trolling you but to no avail. you both sit in silence for a moment before you lean in to kiss him. his hands reach up to your face, pushing the hair covering the side of your face away. your hand reach up to cup his face, deepening the kiss. you pull away smiling at him to which he rolls his eyes playfully.“great now you have something to tease me about”. “i like you too farleigh” you quickly cut him. he cant help the smile creeping on his face. you both continue to sit in silence drinking in each others presence.
summary: After Carmy smacks your ass your coworkers go after your secret boyfriend
a/n: felt like writing something funny
It was a regular day at The Bear. Syd and Carmy were prepping, Marcus was piping a cake, and Richie was helping you set up the place settings outside. You were off some silverware, so you made your way to the kitchen.
The skirt that you picked out today was tastefully short and didn’t go unnoticed by Carmy. He was discreet enough in his glances that nobody would’ve guessed you were anything past coworkers.
Through the bustling kitchen, you squeaked a quick, “Behind,” as you passed. A large, tattooed hand planted a light smack to your ass. It was a mindless thing that he’d done a ton of times at home whenever you’d pass him in the kitchen wearing only one of his tees. But right now, you weren’t at his apartment, and this wasn’t his kitchen. You two weren’t in the cozy atmosphere of the apartment, and everyone had just seen that.
Everyone froze, and the busy kitchen stilled. Sydney’s eyes widened, jaw hung open, as Tina crossed her arms and Marcus stood, dumbfounded.
Richie was the first one to speak up. “What the fuck, Cousin, that’s not cool.”
Carmy’s head was in his hands, face turning bright red as he tried to say, “Guys, it’s not li—”
“Not like what, Carm?” Syd asked. Tina pulled you closer to her, defensively, away from Carmy. “Because this seems an awful lot like harassment.”
Richie continued his scolding. “You’re the fuckin’ boss. What were you thinking, slapping the kid’s ass?”
Your face paled at Richie’s recollection of the event. “Guys, stop, it’s fine,” you muttered, voice cutting through the chaos. Carmy ran a hand through his hair, mouth still open.
Tina began her angry rant with a, “Jeff,” and the rest was very fast, angry Spanish.
“We’re together, alright,” you cut her off, hands up in surrender.
Moving next to an overly embarrassed Carmen, you ran a comforting hand over his forearm, watching the revelation of your relationship hit everyone.
Richie frowned, slinging an arm over Carmen’s shoulder. “Cousin finally got a girl and didn’t tell me about it.”
“We,” Carmy corrected, “didn’t tell anyone about us.”
Syd spoke up. “But, like, how long has this been going on? Because that was way too comfortable to be new.”
Speaking for the first time, Marcus narrowed his eyes, agreeing. “Yeah, how long has this been goin’ on?”
“Six months,” Carmy muttered quietly, looking down at you.
“Six months?!” Sydney’s eyes widened.
“You’ve been lying to us for six months?” Richie interjected.
“Not lying,” you answered. “Just… withholding the truth.”
Everyone took in the news before Syd raised her voice, saying that we still need to prep and to get moving.
Carmy pulled you away from the crowd into the office. “M’sorry, I didn’t mean t’do that out there,” he breathed, hands running up your sides.
“I know.” Your arms circled his neck. “They were gonna find out anyway.”
The tension dissipated from his shoulders when you pressed a soft kiss to his lips before returning to the front.
a/n :: a lot of this is just restating my tags from the richie camera roll but i got a request to make a longer post! hope you like :)
⌗ . ━ you'd just moved to chicago when you got hired at the bear. after studying somewhere abroad as a specialist (saucier, sfoglino, entremetier, etc), you decided to move in with a friend from culinary school in the area + were taking your resume around to restaurants in town when you ran into none other than syd adamu!
⌗ . ━ you're looking for a job? great! she and her partner are opening a new restaurant in a few weeks! definitely give her your resume and you'll definitely be getting a call in the next few days...
⌗ . ━ richie first sees you the day you come in to train - it's about a week till open and all the new kitchen staff have come in to familiarize themselves with the layout and the menu. carmy and syd have already hired you by now, and richie's taking it upon himself to get acquainted with all the new staff members now that he's committed to being a maître d'.
⌗ . ━ he walks away from that conversation shaking his head because god, you're gorgeous....and funny? and, wow, really good at your job. you studied in italy? holy shit. how are you moving faster than carmy in his own damn kitchen? and how do you look so good doing it? he needs to take a lap.
⌗ . ━ and okay....maybe once the bear is finally open, he's obsessively subconsciously trying to be in your line of vision as much as possible. he'd never distract you from your work, of course, but...if you're plating, he's walking your dishes. if you're on the line, he's walking the few extra steps to tell you about substitutions and exclusions personally. whispering snarky comments about carmy or annoying patrons in your ear if there's a momentary lull. being deliberate about including you in his jokes during moments to breathe, or after service, or before service, or pretty much whenever he sees you.
⌗ . ━ when he asks you out the first time, he's really trying hard to be nonchalant about it. as if he hasn't been smitten with you for weeks, and as if you haven't noticed at all (you have, obviously). he's leading with you ever been to a real chicago bar? or maybe you need someone to acquiant you with the city or something equally as cliché, but you do him the benefit of feigning surprise and agreeing to let him take you out on your next off day.
⌗ . ━ he's definitely asking you out on a second date the week after. which doesn't surprise you nearly as much as it surprises him, because richie doesn't do dates. date singular, maybe, but dates, multiple? not anymore. not for a long time. but he blinks and two dates turn into five, and now you're getting breakfast together, and he's bringing your coffee order to work with him, and holy shit he needs to make it official now because if it gets to ten dates he's gonna look like a douche and no way in hell is he fucking this up.
⌗ . ━ the first time you meet eva is purely by accident. it's a couple months into your relationship, and you haven't failed to notice that whenever you end up at his place, it's conveniently on days where tiff is in charge of eva. at first, you're a bit burned by that, but the more richie tells you about eva and his past relationship the more you realize that wow, he just really loves that girl. and he's freaked out by the idea of her not liking you, or worse, you not liking her, because then he'd probably just have to kill you and swear off women for life.
⌗ . ━ but a day comes where tiff's got a last-minute emergency and needs to drop eva off at the bear for a few hours before service since she's out of school. she's sure richie will be there when she leaves eva with syd - which he's not, currently off somewhere picking up something carmy asked for. but you are. syd introduces the two of you, and you immediately realize that this is a make-or-break moment. so you do what you know best: food.
⌗ . ━ and when richie comes back thirty minutes later to find eva sitting on the counter eating a bowl of the ice cream marcus has been workshopping while you show her all the equipment at your station? he's going through 25 emotions at once and ultimately settling on gratitude because eva loves you. he'd already thought the world of you, but now? he'll be damned if he's ever letting this shit go.
⌗ . ━ after that it's history. you're pretty much at his place 24/7 anyway, and now that eva's comfortable around you? he's bargaining with you just to get you to stay a few hours longer, or go pick eva up from school with him, or be here to surprise her when he brings her home from a friend's house. if only so he can watch you and eva interact while he stands there with the stupidest smile of all time on his face.
⌗ . ━ family pizza nights? check. late-night ice cream runs? check. you braid eva's hair while he lets her paint his nails. you teach her how to help you in the kitchen so you can surprise richie with dinner after work when your off days don't match up. he's bringing her into work on his days off just so she can say hi to you and you can make her something fun for lunch. it's pretty much everything he's ever dreamed of having for her and for himself, and he won't shut up about you to anyone who will listen.
synopsis :: richie promised eva he'd help out with her school bake sale - translation? he's completely fucked. marcus is out of the country, carmy told him to fuck off, and tiff's going to give him so much shit if she gets wind of the fact he brought store-bought shit. luckily, a supply run for the bear's renovations lands him smack in front of a cutesy little bakery, and the even cuter baker herself might give him more than he bargained for. the bear fic masterlist here!
word count :: 2.9k
warnings :: swearing, i took heavy liberties with the bakery, mostly from richie's perspective, ONE use of y/n, very vague physical description of reader, potentially ooc richie, richie lowkey being a romantic (in his head), jen writing dialogue is a warning in itself, still not proofread because... have you met me, written with the intention of a potential series
Richie Jerimovich is no idiot.
Despite what literally everyone around him may suggest - Carmy, Sydney, Tiff, even Nat- he’s not stupid. He might do stupid things, sure, but who doesn’t? Surely everyone in Chicago has also taken a shower in black mold particles at ungodly hours of the morning after sticking a broom through the ceiling.
Surely.
Okay, so he’s not a genius. No kitchen prodigy like Carm or Syd, not some gajillionaire like Tiff’s boyfriend. But he’s not dumb. Which is why he finds himself standing in front of the most cutesy, decked-out, offensively charming bakery he’s ever seen in his life.
Tiff’s been not-so-subtly pestering Richie about Eva lately. Not that Eva is ever a bother to him – if anything, she’s pretty much the only sunshine in his life these days. With The Bear’s renovations sapping all of his energy, everything he’s hearing through the grapevine about Frank, and, hell, his own conscious breathing down his neck about purpose, he takes time with Eva where he can fit it.
Which, he guesses, is basically the problem.
The past two times he’s called Tiff, she’s ribbed him about pulling his weight when it comes to Eva’s school events. He can’t pick her up from school, most days, so the responsibility falls on Tiff. Beyond that, Richie’s not sure how helping out in a first-grade classroom is exactly in his wheelhouse. But Tiff’s not backing down, and he loves his daughter, so he decides to bite the bullet and ask Eva if there’s anything going on at school she wants him there for. Beats walking back to Tiff with his tail between his legs to ask for information, he thinks.
He figures it won’t be that bad. Parent-teacher conferences? Light work. Talent show or school play? A breeze. Low risk, high-reward type shit. Because what else did six-year-olds even do at school? He’d helped Eva with spelling practice before, and that was about it.
His brain took a long moment to catch up to reality when, in response to his question, Eva excitedly told him that her class was putting on a bake sale with the rest of the elementary school in two weeks. It took him all of thirty seconds to realize how overwhelmingly fucked he was.
Every avenue his brain took turned into a dead end. His only potential savior, his knight in shining armor in the form of Marcus Brooks, is in the wind. Curse fucking Copenhagen and Marcus being a baby genius. Like everyone else around him these days, it seems like. He doesn’t even bother asking Syd and Carmy, knowing he’d only get sympathy from one and a fuck off from the other. No baked goods to save his ass from failure.
He’s so, so close to just hanging his head and telling Tiff he fucked up, or worse, asking her for help. But that option goes poof too, because the next time he’s on the phone with her, she beats him to the punch with an upbeat recounting of how overjoyed Eva is to have her dad at school soon. And now that he knows that? He’s locked in. There’s no way he’s going to let her down, not without hurting her feelings and embarrassing himself in the process.
He knows one thing for sure: he’s going to have to knock this out of the park. This means he needs to find a foolproof way to get something Eva and her friends will like for the bake sale. No box mixes - he could probably figure it out, but making enough for multiple classes of kids? More cupcakes would be burnt to a crisp than servable, he’s sure. No storebought shit, either. He just knows Tiff will somehow get wind of it and find a way to mention it one too many times in passing conversation. He simply refuses to be the dad who shows up to one singular school event and gets judged to death by the elitist moms for his Jewel-Osco cookies. It stumps him every time he tries to think about it, but Richie is committed to finding a solution.
Maybe committed is a little strong. Almost 100% of his brain power (and his patience) goes toward The Bear every day, and trying to come up with a source for Eva’s bake sale brings him nothing but additional stress the minute he ponders it for more than a second. He knows it’ll be worth it; the process is just less than ideal. And the deadline is starting to close in on him.
Which is precisely why Richie’s contemplating becoming a God-fearing Christian when the answer jumps out at him in the midst of a renovation supply run. Literally jumps out at him. He’s on his way back from the Ace Hardware ten blocks west of The Bear, walking because Carmy’s apprehended the van for god knows what yet again.
The shitty plastic bag full of spackle, caulk, and paint samples is slung over his wrist, tumbling down to settle in the crook of his bent elbow. He’s almost back to The Bear when the stupid 10-cent bag catches on something and rips wide open, sending all his supplies rolling out onto the sidewalk.
Fuck, he’s muttering under his breath (read: loud enough for the entire street to hear), fuck me, literally fuck me. Stupid fucking bag, that’s capitalism at its fucking finest-
He manages to gather the strewn renovation materials haphazardly into his arms, ready to resume his commute back to the restaurant as he looks dejectedly back at the gutted plastic bag, still blowing in the breeze from its prison on the metal curve of a sign hook. Dough Boy.
Wait a fucking minute. Richie looks up, putting two and two together as he rips the bag remnants off the sign. Creamy white paint exterior, sky blue pinstriped awning, large windows underlined by overflowing flowerboxes. The words fresh-baked daily curl across one window in pink paint. Pastels affront his vision from every angle, his senses on overdrive before he’s even stepped inside. It was like he’d just stepped into a Gilmore Girls wet dream, but right now, it was the answer to all his prayers.
It’s fate. It has to be, or at least Richie thinks so, and he’s sending a kiss up to the Big Man in heaven above just in case. Maybe he’s finally being done a solid after what seems like a never-ending cycle of wake up, work, lose his shit, sleep, repeat. He clumsily pushes the door open with his hip, refusing to let his armful of repair shit keep him from finally triumphing over the bake sale situation. A bell rings when he slips inside, tinny and high-pitched, something that would typically make him want to rip his hair out but sounds like music to his ears right now.
And damn, the minute the door closes behind him, he knows he’s made the right choice. The inside of the bakery matches it’s outside – all light colors and pretty, flowy designs. Most of the tables are filled, people of all ages talking and laughing at a volume that rises over the soft music lilting in the background. It’s precisely the type of place Eva would love, just like the “pink flower ice cream store”, an ice creamery with pink floral wallpaper she always begs him to take her to. More than all that, it smells fucking good, even from where he’s standing. Richie’s mentally floating toward the counter like the proverbial cartoon man levitating toward a pie already.
Arms still precariously balancing all the supplies, he sidles up to the counter, eyes appraising the countless types of baked goods in the case nearby. His brain is running a mile a minute, spinning with thoughts about which ones Eva would like and how looking at all this shit is making him hungry. There’s every type of thing he could imagine - breads and croissants, cookies, cupcakes, and a fuck-ton of stuff with French-looking names he can’t even pronounce in his head.
Wait, shit, he realizes suddenly, what kind of stuff do people even eat at bake sales?
“Hi! How can I help you?” A cheerful voice cuts through his internal monologue. He whips his head up, ready to explain his current dilemma, but instead finds that all semblance of coherent thought has promptly exited his head.
Your hair’s pulled back, a pink pen tucked behind one ear that wobbles a bit precariously from the force of your sweet smile. You look about Carmy’s age, but without any of the same stress signs – no frown lines dug into your cheeks or forehead. Everything about you matches the bakery to a T - milky white sweater rolled up above the elbow, a light blue apron that matches the awning outside, dusted with flour catching his eye first. There are little initials embroidered near the top hem, professional in the non-pretentious sort of way that makes him willing to bet money on the fact that you’re the top dog at this establishment. Your eyes crinkle at the corners, expression cheerful and expectant, clearly waiting for him to fill the silence with an answer.
Richie blinks a few times, as if trying to windshield-wipe his brain. Some light’s turned off up there, because all thoughts of his original mission seem locked behind some uncrackable vault. Holy fucking wow. Maybe he needs to get out more.
“Uh, yeah, um-” Jesus fucking Christ. “I, uh, hi,” The urge to parrot back your greeting overcomes him, and he’s mentally facepalming so hard when the stilted words leave his mouth. He’s suddenly keenly aware of the fact that he looks so fucking idiotic carrying all this home-improvement paraphernalia into his arms with no vessel to put it in. Fucking fuck.
You, for all his scrambling, are patient, waiting quietly for him to find the words, although he doesn’t miss the way your smile twitches wider when the returned hello tumbles its way out of his mouth. This is his own personal hell.
After what feels like years to Richie, he gets himself to utter a sentence with a decent amount of sense to it. “I’m, uh- my daughter has a bake sale at school comin’ up, and I’m looking to find something for her to bring.”
You nod as if he’d been that coherent the first time, not missing a beat. “Okay! What were you thinking? Cookies, cupcakes, or maybe an assortment–?” He’s struck by how happy you seem. Not in a fake, telemarketer sort of way, but like you genuinely really like your job. Unfortunately, that thought gives way to the fact that your question reminds him just how clueless he is about this shit.
“Uh… I don’t-” he responds clumsily, trailing off in a way he hopes conveys the sentiment help me, please. The hardware store supplies jostle in his arms as he fields the frustration of not being able to fidget with his hands.
Your smile softens a bit, like you’ve just read every single thought in his head word-for-word. “First one?” You ask knowingly, and there’s no pity there, but Richie still kind of feels like you might also think him stupid.
He finds it in himself to huff out a laugh, if only to fill some space. “Yeah,” he admits, “and I’m not exactly a whiz in the kitchen, so…” You smile wider at his laugh, which he greatly appreciates, the tension in his muscles dialing back a little.
“No worries,” you say easily, “how old’s your daughter?” He’s surprised by the question a bit. He figures it makes sense, considering a six-year-old’s palette is bound to be different than a fifteen-year-old's, but the care with which you ask takes him aback.
“She’s six.” You nod, like his answer just unlocked the secrets to the universe. You slip the pen out from behind your ear and begin to scribble things on a notepad. Richie’s eyes are glued ot your hand until your voice once again snaps him out of his thoughts.
“I could do cupcakes? Most kids never turn down a cupcake, and I can do half chocolate and half vanilla for good measure. Or, if your daughter has any favorite desserts, I can do that too.” You look up from the paper, offering another smile, and he almost hates how much more at ease you put him each time you do that. He forces himself to think about your question instead. Is there anything specific Eva would want? Her favorite sweet treat was definitely ice cream, and he was smart enough to know that it was not a bake sale food. Besides, you were right. Kids love cupcakes. Everyone loves cupcakes.
“Cupcakes’re great, thanks.” He fills in, to which you nod again, turning back to the notepad.
“How many did you want to order?” You ask, and once again, Richie’s floundering for an answer. There were twenty or so kids in Eva’s classroom, if he had to ballpark it. Probably quadruple that in the elementary school, at the very least, but every other kid was also supposed to bring an item as well. Guessing at the math was making his head hurt.
“Uh, maybe…thirty? forty? I dunno, her class is like twenty, but I guess everyone’ll want one, probably. And other kids are going.” He’s trying really hard to sound like he knows what he’s talking about. You nod again, and he’s not exactly sure if you’re just giving him the benefit of being an active listener or if you actually think his estimate has some merit.
“Three dozen feels like a good number,” you say as you continue to scribble on the notepad. He almost laughs at the way you say it – casual, with enough levity to make it feel like you’re figuring it out with him, instead of just gently guiding him toward the right conclusion. Once you’re done writing, you look up at him again. “When’s the bake sale?”
“‘Bout a week and a half from now. The 15th, I’m pretty sure.”
“Okay,”
you say, continuing to write on your little paper while maintaining eye contact in a way that’s kind of…scarily impressive. “I can just take your name and number down, and I’ll give you a call in a couple of days to confirm the order and get some payment information, and then I’ll call again 48 hours before so we can find a good time for you to come pick them up!”
Richie’s grateful for the fact you don’t ask for payment immediately – not because he can’t afford it, but because his wallet is currently buried somewhere deep in his jeans pocket and reaching for it right now would basically require him to immediately acquire the skill of juggling seven items at once. He nods, rattling off his name and number when prompted, and watches as you rip off the page from your notepad, fold it neatly, and slip it into your apron pocket.
“You’re all set!” You tell him cheerfully, and it takes Richie a couple of seconds standing there awkwardly to compute that means it’s time for him to leave.
“Thanks, uh...y/n,” he says again, your name slow on his lips as he squints to read your name tag from where he's standing, “for the help, and everything.” You smile wider, if that’s even possible, and he finds himself smiling too, a real one that stretches most of the width of his face. He’s just turning to leave when your voice pipes up once more, halting him in place.
“Richie?” You’re calling his name, and the sound of it sends a jolt of shock through him, even though he literally just gave you his name for the order. His head turns to look at you, and he’s equally as surprised to find your arm outstretched, a paper bag in your extended hand. It’s much thicker than the lucky stupid Ace Hardware one had been, and the thought makes him realize why you’re giving it to him.
“For your stuff. Figured you might need one,” you explain as he reaches the same conclusion himself. Again, there’s no sarcasm in your voice. No teasing, or judgment, or any of that, just an unfiltered attempt to help him out. After you already spoon-fed him plans for the bake sale he’s supposed to be participating in. He can feel the tips of his ears start to go warm, quickly distracting himself from the feeling by carefully dumping all the items into the bag you're holding open before taking it from your hands.
“Thanks,” he says again, his smile going a little bit sheepish. “Seriously. Wasn’t looking forward to three more blocks holding all that shit.” He internally cringes at the curse word that’s so easily integrated into his vocabulary. He doesn’t know what kind of person you are, if that’s the sort of thing that might bother you. Usually, he wouldn’t give a flying fuck – his sailor mouth is going to get him in trouble with people, stranger or not, but for some reason, the embarrassment is creeping its way back up his neck.
You take it in stride, laughing softly at his comment about carting all his unwieldy items back through the streets of Chicago. “Happy to help,” you say, and the words reverberate through his skull all the way out the door and down the street as he leaves the warmth of the bakery and resumes his walk.
There’s a bit more pep in his step after crossing off the most significant question mark on his list of to-dos, and his arms are grateful for a more efficient way to carry his purchases. He hasn’t checked his phone, but he’s sure Carmy’s going to be even more annoyed with him than usual for taking his sweet ass time to get back to The Bear. He doesn’t mind, though - he knows he’ll probably be busy replaying every word of the conversation he just had with you in his head while he gets lectured by Carm and Nat.
richie jerimovich definitely has a thing for tears. you’re so emotionally reserved, hardly ever letting your frustration or anger break through the tough exterior you’ve carefully crafted. it’s unfortunate that your anger manifests as tears, especially when it’s in front of other people. it’s something you’ve always hated because somehow angry tears are more vulnerable than actual sad tears. an accumulation of small things that finally just add up forces a prickling sensation at your waterline. with your hands balled into fists at your jaw clenched as if that would somehow stop the tears from spilling over, the hot tears spill over and dribble down your cheeks.
it’s the first time he’s seen you like this. your stance is tight, face contorting as you try to control the uncomfortable display of emotion you tried to avoid. he knows it’s a little twisted, but seeing the tears stain your cheeks and the uncomfortable flicker of your eyes makes richie’s pants tight. his dick twitches, and he knows it’s wrong for getting off on this natural display of stress. later tonight, once you’re regulated, he’s gonna make you gag on his dick just so he can see your pretty eyes get glossy again. just so he can relieve this moment.
introducing babykugo and wifey!reader !!!! messy hc dump based off of this hit | could also be seen as the near future of the (me + u)!reader (which is singer!reader if u've read it) bc i only ever stick to one sona per character HAHA
wc: a lot idfk 1.5k | cw: divorce jokes if u care, no use of ‘y/n’, petnames like ‘baby girl’ for the babykugo n ‘baby’ for the bigger baby (bkg), slight suggestiveness (dirty jokes) if u care, wife is referred to in third person n w she/her prns bc i naturally write in third person pls don't mind, wifey n bkg hv the same sense of humor. babykugo is NOT three here she is idk,, baby-aged ig 💀 this is not well-written i'm so sorry
pro-hero!katsuki whose daughter isn't very much like her parents.
katsuki was the katsuki he always had been; unapologetic in his loud, brash, and crass nature. and you'd think his wife's his opposite at first glance; softer, nicer than him by a long shot, magnetic, smiley and generous—she got the generational charisma that a real pop star had (which she was) and looking at her, no one seems to understand what bound them together besides their childhood, izuku, n trauma. except, she's just as foul-mouthed and full of attitude as he was. she was just much better at keeping up appearances. (that's izuku's twin fr.)
meanwhile, their baby turned out to be calm, quiet, and pretty much the opposite of both her parents, which confused pretty much everyone in their lives. there wasn't a single day in the bakugo household where they weren't bickering their hearts out, filling the halls with loud nonsense and stupid ‘arguments’ that meant nothing. so how in the world did his baby absorb none of that?
pro-hero!katsuki whose baby girl falls asleep to her parents' voices—more specifically, when they're bickering. and it's instantaneous. they've somehow pavlov'd their poor baby into falling asleep every time their voices were even the slightest bit fast and raised.
one of the first times they actually noticed this was back when she was still small, just a few months old. when they were having dinner and it's his turn to feed her as they ate, and his wife—who's his #1 (loving) bully—just couldn't help herself from (lovingly) annoying him.
“are you holding the spoon right?”
“'course i am, i know how to hold a f— a spoon.”
“i'm just saying,” she shrugged. “you've got big fat hands, holding baby spoons can't be easy for someone of your species.”
“‘my spe’—” he scoffed. “oh i know you aren't complainin' 'bout my hands.”
“i wasn't complaining.”
“what's this then? y'think this is flatterin'?”
“yes actually, it's— poop, she's falling asleep.”
they both reached out to hold their chubby baby's lolling head, eyes already fluttering as baby food dribbled out of her mouth.
soft fingers gently drummed on softer cheeks. “baby girl, at least finish your food first—”
“this is your fault.”
she looked up to glare at him. “i'm incapable of doing any wrong, i'm your wife.”
“that makes no fuckin' sense.”
she gasped, lowering her voice to a whisper-shout as she covered the baby's tiny ears. “don't curse in front of the baby!”
he mirrored her lower tone. “then shut up already!”
“you shut up!”
“no, you— she's fuckin' asleep.”
she glanced down to the limp head dozing off in their joined palms, and looked away to stare off into nothing. “this is fucking crazy.”
pro-hero!katsuki and his wife who, on their baby's sleepless nights, learned to stage ‘fights’ just to put her to bed. bc turns out, this baby treated her parents shenanigans as white noise.
she'd been awake for far too long and reached that state where she was too sleepy to function but somehow still couldn't sleep anyway, so she bawled her eyes out and left her parents scrambling to figure out a solution.
his wife gasped, “katsuki!”
“what, woman?” he didn't intend for it to come out so harsh, but his baby's cries were getting to him.
“fight with me.”
“pardon?”
“bicker! bickering! were you the one who ate the last slice of my cake!?”
it took a second, but then it clicked.
“and what about it? what if i did?”
they didn't have any cake in the first place, and honestly they might've gotten a little into the pretend-fighting out of stress (crying babies were so stressful) but whatever heat there was in the moment soon fizzled away with the tiniest, sleepy giggles bubbling in their baby's throat, small hands gently clapping at her parents' distress like she was watching a soap opera or something. crazy fuckin' baby, he thought, holding back an endeared laugh.
eventually, their bickering dwindled as baby's breathing finally started to slow, limbs sprawled out a la starfish as she got comfortable in her crib.
“we got a weird-ass baby.”
his wife giggled. “you think she'd sleep through our divorce?”
he snorted. “like a light.”
laughter was already raking through her body, jelly-fying her limbs enough that she linked their arms and leaned into him for support.
“fighting over custody and she's snoring.”
“she wouldn't give a shit.”
“she'd pick whoever gives her the better bed to sleep through it with.”
“me, obviously.”
she gasped and swatted at his arm. “shut the fuck up, i make more money than you do.”
“stop makin' me sound like i'm broke.” he huffed, turning away from her with the slightest pout forming on his lips. “i'm fuckin' dynamight.”
a grin stretched wide across her face as she brought a hand up to cup his jaw, pulling him in as she stood on her tippy toes to pepper kisses all over his face. “nah, i'm doing that.”
his cheeks warmed under her teasing tone. “shut up.” but he made no effort to push her away—if anything, his hands were instinctively slithering around her waist to hold her steady and closer.
“oh—” kiss. “—great explosion murder god dynamight—” kiss. “—you're so rich—” kiss. “—and hot—” kiss.
“fuck off.”
“—i love you—” kiss. kiss. “—take your pants off.”
“freak.”
pro-hero!katsuki whose household, despite all this, was still mostly quiet. both adults worked demanding jobs, and by the time they're home, they're exhausted. even if his wife had taken a small from the public eye to focus on their baby while he was out hero-ing, she still had a few meetings here and there with execs she didn't like (which meant that bakugo hated them) which wasn't anywhere near as bad in comparison but on top of taking care of the baby, shit was tiring.
“'m home.”
“hi.” she hardly shifted from where she lied on the couch, babykugo sitting on her belly as they watched cartoons together. at the sound of her papa's voice though, she perked up a little, looking over her shoulder and letting out a little whine. “i'm dead. i forgot to cook.”
“that's fine, keep dyin'.” he sighed, tucking away his shoes. “my arms're killin' me, so we'll order in. what do y'want?”
“something with dough.”
“raw dough.”
“close. pizza is okay.”
“shit's not fillin' enough.” at this point, they've honestly given up on self-censoring for the baby. they'll lock in when she really starts to form words. walking into the living room, he slowly approached the couch. “what else?”
she groaned, head thrown back against the armrest. “don't do that to yourself,” they met eyes as he stood behind the couch, leading to baby, craning her neck upwards to see her dad upside down. “every time you say that when we order in, you end up cooking a little something on the side.”
he softened at his daughter's big doe eyes blinking up at him. “hi baby girl—” looked over to wifey, “—an' a salad's not cookin'; it's puttin' shit in a bowl and givin' it a toss.”
“too much armwork for ‘not cooking’.”
“you do it too, 'm—” he looked back to baby, who was now back to being entranced by the movie like he wasn't even there. “she think 'm chopped liver or some shit?”
wifey sighed, resting her arms over her face. “i guess, yeah.”
“i'll blow up the tv.”
“your total carbon footprint is already crazy, please don't worsen it. for my sanity.”
“chooses freakin' tv over her own daddy—” oh, censorship success! “—how's this the bun i put in the oven?”
“i don't know man, you were there when she came out.” adjusting her arms, she looked up at her man. “maybe she'll like you again after you shower 'n kiss your wife.”
he hummed, relenting. as much as he'd love to be the kind of guy who kissed his wife and kid the second he got home, he's particular about outside air. it's routine for him to shower first before he's all over his girls.
“'m waitin' f'r what you want t' eat first so i can shower while we wait.” he placed his hands on his hips. “d'you actually want pizza or just the dough texture?”
“ugh, you know me too well.”
“wraps,” he suggested. “that fusion place with the fat-ass paratha burritos.”
“ooh,” she perked up at that, hands moving to her belly to play with baby's tiny fingers. “that.. yes. i want.”
“great.”
“wow baby, no wonder you're married.”
his brows furrowed as genuine confusion flashed across his face, making her cackle. “dunno how t’ respond t' that.”
baby girl suddenly broke into giggles, startling both her parents as she clapped her tiny hands and lolled around, weak with laughter. wifey was quick to support baby's weight.
the corners of his lips twitched upwards even as he huffed, too weak for his baby's giggles. “movie can't be that funny.”
wifey rolled her eyes, “go shower already.”
“yeah, yeah.”
pro-hero!katsuki who really loves his girls.
☾ — i hate how this is written jsyk. it's basically three horribly-written (for my standards for myself) oneshots in a trenchcoat n an excuse to write out bkg n wifey bickering. BUT I'M DOING MY BESTTT RAHHHH—all that matters is that i wrote it down n put it out. all that matters is that i wrote it down n put it out AUGHHH. DW GANG, i will absolutely give u a PROPER ONESHOT of papatsuki n popstar!wifey eventually. n w ur support, IT WILL BE SOONER !!! pls keep reblogging n commenting n just letting me know how u like my hcs (even if the writing not that good or cohesive) bc it truly gives me motivation to WRITE MOREEE !!!! i fr really need to write a fluff oneshot/drabble bc onfg all i ever write is angst (see also; drunken stupor) aosjsjks anyw i hope u enjoyed n loved my papatsuki, popstar!wifey, and babykugo. we need to name babykugo. my ask box is open 😍
he's smart as hell, somehow good at everything, hot as fuck and knows it, one of the best heroes alive and has never been out of japan's top 15—and to top it all off, he's the motherfucker that ended all for one at seventeen fucking years old. he's the great explosion murder god dynamight, and if he was any bit humble about it, the world would love and hate him just a little more.
but no. he's crass, foul-mouthed, short-tempered and intense with an ego that made up most of his tall, muscular stature. so even with the many outbursts of his that the world has witnessed, everyone can rest well knowing that he's still flawed. that ah, one of the greatest heroes in existence has an unfixable personality problem. thank god.
surely there's no way anyone could ever tolerate that personality enough, right? right?
pro-hero!katsuki who secretly married the love of his life not too long after graduating from ua, and quietly welcomed a daughter in his mid-twenties.
pro-hero!katsuki who is somehow the perfect husband and father, and every other person in his life is sick of it. because what do you mean this motherfucker is the one in a happy relationship? kirishima can't land someone for longer than two months, izuku's still stuck in the years-long song and dance with ochaco, most of these idiots are stuck or in and out of situationships, and don't even get anyone started on kaminari and jiro—but everyone, and i mean everyone, can't seem to get their love life right. why and how, out of all people, did katsuki bakugo get this shit right on the first try?
pro-hero!katsuki who is, unsurprisingly, class 1-a's resident relationship guru. he didn't ask for that position and he genuinely doesn't even understand why it's necessary, but every other reunion, basically everyone was taking turns on asking him love advice. like sure, as the only married parent out of the 21 alums, he has ‘tips and tricks’—but he doesn't get why these idiots need someone to tell them this shit. isn't it all obvious?
“bakugo.. i don't know how to be in a relationship and keep working.. what do i do..?” — “then don't? sort your shit out first. why are you makin' 'em deal with y'r mess that you don't even know how to deal with? jesus.”
“bakugo, the flowers i give my partner when i apologize always seems to end up in the trash even though they said they forgave me. what does that mean?” — “they're either not into flowers or y' can't communicate. either way, makes you a dickhead.”
“she says i'm not present enough.” — “y' probably aren't.”
"she said she doesn't want to be with me 'cause my job scares her.” — “valid. hero work is scary shit. y' can either handle it or y' can't, that's just how shit is. talk to her, but y' can't force her to stay if she really doesn't want to. that's fuckin' mean.”
“wait so, how's the missus okay with you and your job??” — “just win every fight and make it in time for dinner. light fuckin' work.”
this shit is so easy, why do these idiots need his hand-holding so badly.
pro-hero!katsuki who makes everyone even more annoyed because for the most part, he never intentionally shows off his perfect family. he's a pretty private guy, and he doesn't like making his marriage anyone's business outside of his close inner circle—it's unnecessary. and yet, like all things katsuki, it's still regularly rubbed in everyone's faces because turns out, he's just such a family man.
he's forced into a day of interviews on the weekend with red riot so obviously they'll have lunch together. they're in the cafeteria and kirishima was going to order something when katsuki dragged him to a table, forced him to sit, and pulls out a lunchbag out of nowhere.
“bakugo!? where the hell did you get that!?”
“shut up. here,” he opened the bag to hand him one of the two bentos and some chopsticks. “my lady and my kid made it this morning. eat it or i'll blow you up.”
kirishima didn't need to be told twice. “thank you for the food!” n he absolutely inhaled it all.
“bakugo, can you tell your wife i love her?” — “rot.”
he bumped into izuku on a walk who's bummed out, feelings crushed over something. izuku's talking about how he's not sure how he can juggle hero work, teaching, and trying this out with ochaco and he knows katsuki is listening, he does. but he could absolutely tell his head and heart wasn't fully in it, and so he stopped to ask.
“what's wrong with you?”
“hah? nothin'.” katsuki turned away, “'m fine.”
“is it work?”
just a bit more prodding later, and katsuki's hanging his whole head remorsefully, broad shoulders sagged and weak.
“..i blew up my kid's favorite dress.”
izuku was so grateful he managed to hold his laugh.
“that's.. that's horrible, kacchan.”
“she said she hates me.”
“she's three and upset, it's normal.” patted him on the back. “she doesn't actually hate you.”
“she's got her mama's heart and my temper, she absolutely fuckin' hates me.”
“well.”
“shut the fuck up.”
“i didn't even say anything.”
pro-hero!katsuki who is living the dream and everyone else are jealous extras. not his fault tho.
more on babykugo and wifey!reader here :]
☾ — do i really like how i wrote this? no.... but the idea is in my brain n i had to just put it out. i definitely hv more papatsuki hcs cooking—it's genuinely all i'm thinking abt ever since i watched buddy daddies—but i'm so sleepy rn n i want to go back to spyxfam so this is all we're getting. also I KNOW I SAID I HAD THE PARENTING DIARY IDEA, BUT PLATONIC!KIRIBAKU BUDDY DADDIES AU IS TEMPTING ME AOSOSJHDJSKSK someone save me. anyw yeah, there'll be more papatsuki. i need to get more comfortable writing hcs and simpler stuff anyw so i'm experimenting. thank u 4 reading n if u enjoyed it pls lmk and reblog and/or lmk in comments :] i lorb u gang ♡ (also i'm experimenting w my themes until i like it rn so pls don't mind)
description: when eddie munson and the infamous blackwater outfit ride into town and rob your family farm blind, you're determined to settle the score. eddie, however, loves a challenge and will settle for nothing less than winning your angry ass over.
pairing: bandit!eddie x fem!reader
tags: outlaw!eddie x fem!reader, farmers daughter!reader, western au, small frontier town, enemies to lovers asf, slow burn, flirting but make it murder attempts, 1880's domestic fluff, readers a badass, they kiss eventually i promise
TW: mentions of deceased parental figure, robbery, old-timey western dialogue
WC: 5.7k
A/N: helloooooo everyone! this was requested by @goofy-cat11 i hope you enjoy<33 request-palooza is among us, so i will be mainly prioritizing requests for the time being. HOWEVER at the request of my beloved @spacejjunk the final part of as above, so below will begin to be drafted and posted within the week. GET EXCITED! or nervous, idk.
reblogs are always appreciated my lovelies <33
enjoy!!! xoxxo
Night had settled over the valley hours ago. The kind of darkness that swallowed the prairie whole, broken only by scattered lanterns glowing in farmhouse windows.
Then, suddenly, the church bell rang three times. Not for Sunday service or for a wedding, but for them.
Immediately, the town went into lockdown mode. Lanterns were snuffed out one by one, doors bolted, and curtains drawn. Dogs that had been barking suddenly went silent, dragged inside by hurried owners.
Somewhere down the road, another bell answered the first, then another, until the whole valley echoed with warning.
Your mother didn't waste a second.
"Inside. Now."
She had already begun blowing out the oil lamps before either you or your little brother could move. The warm glow that had filled the farmhouse disappeared one room at a time until only moonlight filtered through the windows.
"Mama..." your little brother whispered, clutching the hem of her dress.
"It's alright," she lied, pulling him close. "Just stay quiet."
You had heard stories about the Blackwater Outfit bandits for as long as you could remember. Every ranching family within a hundred miles had. They rode wherever they pleased, took what they wanted, and were gone before the sheriff could gather enough men to trail them.
Some claimed they only stole from wealthy cattle barons. Others swore they'd rob anyone unlucky enough to cross their path. Whatever the truth was, no one wanted to find out firsthand.
The sound of hoofbeats grew louder with each passing second until they were just beyond the front fence. Against your better judgment, you crept toward the front window and peeled back the curtain just enough to see the lanterns.
A dozen of them, maybe more, swayed from saddle horns as riders passed through the darkness. Their faces remained hidden beneath the brims of their hats, little more than silhouettes against the pale moonlight. The only sounds were the steady rhythm of horses' hooves and men hollering.
Your hand instinctively reached for your father's Winchester, still resting above the hearth where it had remained since the day he died. Before your fingers could wrap around the stock, your mother caught your wrist.
"Don't be a fool, girl," she whispered, her grip surprisingly firm. "One rifle ain't stoppin' twenty men."
"They're on our land."
"And they'll still be on it after they bury you."
You clenched your jaw, your eyes never leaving the riders outside. Every instinct in your body screamed to do something. To scare them off or to fire a warning shot, just to prove that this farm wasn't defenseless just because your father was gone.
Your mother stepped in front of the window, forcing you to look at her instead.
"Your pa knew when to pick a fight," she said quietly. "That's why he lived as long as he did."
You swallowed hard.
"Tonight ain't one worth dyin' over."
When dawn finally broke, the sun began painting the fields in soft shades of gold that would've been beautiful under any other circumstance. The farmhouse still stood, smoke lazily curling from the chimney, and the rolling pasture stretched just as it always had.
Then you noticed the silence. No rooster announcing the morning. No impatient bleating from the goat pen. No low, familiar call from the pasture beyond the barn. You were out the front door before your mother had even finished tying her apron.
The gate to the pasture hung crooked on one hinge; the latch splintered clean in two. Deep hoofprints had churned the earth into thick mud, leading away from the property in a trail so obvious it was almost insulting.
"No..." you breathed. You broke into a sprint then. The heifer was gone, and so were both milk goats.
You rushed toward the chicken coop, throwing the door open so hard it slammed against the side of the shed. Only a handful of hens scattered at your feet, squawking in protest. The rest had simply vanished.
They hadn't taken everything, though.
The old mare remained in her stall, too lame to fetch much at market. A stubborn old rooster strutted across the yard as if nothing had happened, accompanied by a few scrawny hens they'd apparently deemed not worth the trouble.
They hadn't stolen blindly; they had taken exactly what would hurt the most.
The heifer your family had planned to sell before winter. The goats that supplied milk, butter, and cheese. Nearly every laying hen that brought in enough money each week to keep flour in the pantry and to pay taxes on time.
You crouched beside the broken gate, running your fingers through the fresh hoofprints pressed into the dirt. They hadn't just stolen livestock, no. They had stolen the coming winter.
Behind you, your mother stepped onto the porch, one hand covering her mouth as she looked across the empty pasture. She took in the empty fields, the splintered fence, the open barn doors. Everything your father had spent a lifetime building.
She didn't say a word. Her shoulders sank almost imperceptibly before she turned and walked back inside, quietly closing the door behind her.
Anger carried you into town faster than your horse ever could.
The reins were barely tied outside the sheriff's office before you were shoving through the front door, boots thudding across the worn wooden floor. Sheriff Hopper looked up from the stack of papers spread across his desk, his spectacles perched low on his nose.
He regarded you for a long moment before leaning back in his chair. "I was wonderin' when you'd come."
"You knew?"
"I knew they rode through last night."
"They cleaned us out." Your voice was tight enough to snap. "They took the heifer, both milk goats, and nearly every good hen we had."
His expression hardened, though not with surprise. "I'm sorry to hear it."
"'Sorry' doesn't put food on my family's table."
"No," he admitted. "It doesn't."
Finally, Hopper rose from his chair and wandered toward the window overlooking Main Street. "They knew your father was gone."
"They knew that the farm lost its backbone the day he died. Figured it'd be an easy mark."
Your jaw clenched. "So what're you gonna do?"
"Nothing."
"They're the Blackwater Outfit," he sighed. "Outlaws, sure. But they ain't the sort that burns towns or leaves bodies behind just because they can. They take what they're after and keep ridin'."
"They still robbed us."
"They did."
"And you're just letting them?"
Hopper met your gaze. "I've got five deputies and a town full of families I'd rather not bury."
You looked away, shaking your head. "So that's it."
"Sometimes," he said quietly, "keeping folks alive means knowing which fights not to pick."
"Where are they?"
His eyes narrowed. "I wouldn't advise it."
"Where?"
Another sigh. "They rented the rooms above McCready's Saloon. They'll likely leave come morning."
You didn't say another word. You simply turned on your heel and walked out, the door slamming behind you hard enough to rattle the windows.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, your mind had already been made up. If the sheriff wasn't willing to do anything, you would.
You stood in front of the small mirror hanging beside your bedroom window, smoothing your palms over the nicest dress you owned. It wasn't extravagant by any means, just a deep blue cotton dress reserved for Sunday services and the occasional town social. Your mother watched quietly from the doorway as you pinned your hair back.
"You're headed into town."
You nodded, fastening your father's silver necklace around your neck. "I'll be back."
"Just...come home."
By nightfall, McCready's Saloon was alive with music spilling through the open doors, piano keys carrying into the street alongside bursts of laughter and clinking glasses. Horses lined the hitching posts outside, and every window glowed warmly against the cool prairie evening.
You tied your mare outside and climbed the steps. The moment you stepped through the swinging doors, the familiar scent of whiskey, tobacco smoke, and sawdust washed over you.
"Evenin', miss."
You smiled at the bartender, an older man named Walter who'd known your family since before you were born.
"Evenin', Walt."
He looked you over, eyebrows lifting ever so slightly. "Don't think I've seen you in here dressed like that."
You offered a small shrug. "Figured I deserved a drink."
"Hell of a day for one."
"You could say that."
Walter poured your usual without asking, sliding the glass across the polished bar.
"On the house."
You thanked him quietly before letting your eyes drift across the room. It wasn't hard to find them.
They occupied nearly an entire corner of the saloon, boots propped on chairs, cards spread across a table littered with whiskey bottles and coins. Laughter came easily between them, drawing more than a few curious glances from the locals, who were careful not to linger.
And in the middle of it all sat the man you assumed was Eddie Munson. He looked nothing like you'd imagined. You'd expected someone older. Meaner.
Instead, he couldn't have been much more than a few years older than yourself, his dark curls spilling beneath a black hat as he laughed at something one of his men had said. Rings glinted beneath the lantern light as he shuffled a deck of cards with practiced ease, entirely at home in a town that had hidden from him less than twenty-four hours earlier.
As if sensing your stare, his head lifted, his eyes meeting yours from across the room. He smiled slowly, almost confidently. You looked away first, lifting your whiskey to your lips.
Walter caught the exchange immediately. "Oh, don't tell me."
You feigned innocence. "Tell you what?"
"You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one that says you're about to do something that'll have me patchin' bullet holes in the wall."
A laugh escaped you despite yourself. "I'll try not to make a mess."
"You never do."
Across the room, Eddie murmured something to the man beside him before pushing back his chair. He crossed the saloon with an easy confidence that suggested he'd never once questioned whether someone wanted him nearby.
By the time he reached the bar, you could feel Walter trying very hard to look busy polishing the same glass he'd been holding for the last minute.
Eddie rested an elbow against the bar. "Evenin'."
You took another sip before finally looking at him. "Evenin'."
"I don't reckon I've seen you around before."
"I reckon you haven't been lookin' in the right places."
That earned a grin. "No?" he asked. "Seems I've been missin' out."
"So I've heard."
He chuckled softly.
"They also tell me you've got a soft spot for pretty women."
"I've got a soft spot for interesting women."
You let the corner of your mouth twitch upward. "And which am I?"
He looked you over; not crudely, but with unmistakable interest. "I haven't decided yet."
"Well," you said, setting your empty glass on the bar, "I suppose you'll have to buy me another drink if you'd like the chance."
Walter's eyes flicked between the two of you.
Eddie smiled, already reaching for his coin satchel. "I was hopin' you'd say that."
Walter disappeared down the bar to tend to another customer, leaving the two of you alone beneath the warm glow of the hanging lamps.
Eddie slid the fresh whiskey toward you. "You always this hard to impress?"
"I haven't seen much worth impressin' me."
"Ouch."
"You asked."
"I did."
He rested one forearm against the bar, turning toward you with an easy grin that would've made most women blush.
You simply took another sip.
"So," he said. "You got a name?"
"You got enough names to remember already."
"I'll make room."
"I doubt it."
He laughed under his breath. "You've got quite the sharp tongue."
"So I've been told."
"I like it."
"I'm sure you do."
"You don't seem surprised."
"I imagine you say that to every pretty girl that walks through that door."
He pressed a hand dramatically against his chest. "You wound me."
"I was aiming lower."
That earned a genuine laugh, loud enough for a few of his men to glance over from their poker game.
"There it is," Eddie said, shaking his head. "Knew she was hidin' in there somewhere."
You looked at him flatly. "You always talk this much?"
"Only when I'm bein' ignored."
"I can fix that."
"Oh?"
"Beneath this bar..." you said quietly, keeping your eyes on your glass, "...I've got my father's Colt pointed right at your ribs."
The smile never left his face. If anything, it grew.
"I know."
Your fingers tightened around the grip beneath the counter. "What?"
"I said I know."
For the first time since he'd wandered over, Eddie's expression lost some of its teasing edge. His voice stayed low enough that only you could hear.
"I recognized you the second you walked in."
A knot formed in your stomach.
"I wasn't entirely certain at first."
His eyes drifted briefly to the silver necklace resting against your collarbone.
"Then I saw the necklace."
Your hand instinctively brushed against it.
"Your father's."
You stared.
"Folks in town talked."
"They've got nothin' better to do."
"They said there was a young woman out on the Miller place." His gaze returned to yours. "Long black hair. Pretty enough to turn heads. Mean enough to break 'em."
Despite yourself, your brow furrowed.
"They said after your pa passed, you worked that ranch like it was your own."
"It is my own."
"I stand corrected."
"You also weren't supposed to be home last night."
Your pulse skipped.
"We figured it'd just be your ma and little brother."
Rage simmered beneath your ribs. "You figured wrong."
"I reckon I did."
The music carried on around you. Glasses clinked, and someone cheered from the poker table. It felt as though the rest of the saloon had disappeared.
Finally, Eddie smiled again. "I gotta admit...You've got nerve, walkin' in here alone."
"I figured you'd appreciate it."
"Oh, I do." His grin widened. "I just didn't expect to."
Your thumb eased back the hammer beneath the bar with a soft, unmistakable click. His eyes flicked downward for only a second before meeting yours again.
"You really are pointin' that thing at me."
"I told you I was."
"I know."
"And you're still standin' here."
"Course I am."
"...Why?"
"Because," he said with a crooked smile, "you're the first woman who's ever threatened to shoot me before askin' my name."
You rolled your eyes.
"Not worth the ask."
His laugh came easily, warm enough to earn another curious glance from across the room.
"See?" He leaned in just enough that only you could hear him. "Now I'm even more interested."
The click of the hammer settling back into place was almost louder than when you'd pulled it. Slowly, you removed the revolver from beneath the bar and tucked it back beneath your skirt.
Eddie's eyes followed the movement. "Changed your mind?"
"For now."
You slid off the barstool and set a few coins beside your untouched whiskey. "I've lost my appetite."
"You just got here."
"And I've already had enough."
Without another word, you turned toward the swinging doors.
"You leavin'?"
You didn't answer.
Behind you came the scrape of Eddie's chair, then footsteps. The cool evening air hit your face as you stepped onto the boardwalk, boots carrying you down the quiet street without so much as a glance over your shoulder.
"You always walk this fast?"
You sighed. "You always this annoyin'?"
"I've been called worse."
"I can think of a few."
"I don't doubt it."
You kept walking.
"So," Eddie continued, hands tucked lazily into his pockets, "you got a habit of pointin' guns at every man who buys you a drink?"
"Only the thieves."
He laughed. "I was wonderin' when we'd get back to that."
"You robbed my family."
"I did." There wasn't an ounce of shame in his voice.
"You don't deny it?"
"What good would that do?"
You shook your head. "You're unbelievable."
"I've heard that, too."
"You ever stop talkin'?"
"I was hopin' you'd tell me more about yourself."
"I'd rather tell the undertaker where to bury you."
"You've given that some thought."
"You've earned it."
He smiled to himself. "You know...I usually have to work a little harder to keep a pretty girl thinkin' about me."
You stopped so suddenly that he nearly walked into you. "You listen here. I don't like you."
"I know."
"I don't think you're charming."
"I figured."
"I think you're a thief."
"That one ain't up for debate."
"And if you follow me another step, I'll put that Colt to better use than I did in the saloon."
For just a moment, the grin softened. "I believe you."
You turned and continued walking. He fell into step beside you anyway.
"You ain't much for discouragement, are you?"
"Nope."
"You oughta be."
"I've never been particularly good at takin' advice."
"You'll get yourself killed."
"Maybe."
"You oughta worry about yourself."
"I am."
You shot him a look.
"I'd hate for you to miss your chance to shoot me."
You groaned. "Lord, you're insufferable."
"So I've been told."
"You keep repeatin' yourself, Munson."
"I've noticed you keep listenin'."
Before you could fire back, his hand reached out, fingers closing lightly around your forearm.
"Hang on—"
You caught his wrist, twisted hard, and stepped beneath his arm, using his own momentum against him. In one smooth movement, Eddie stumbled forward until his shoulder met the hitching post with a dull thud, your hand still firmly controlling his wrist behind his back.
He blinked. "...Well."
You released him immediately, taking two steps back. "Don't."
He rolled his shoulder, more surprised than hurt. "I was just tryin' to get your attention."
"You had it."
"I can see that."
For the first time all evening, Eddie wasn't smiling while flirting; he was smiling because he was downright impressed. And a little turned on, but hey, can you blame him?
"You learn that from your old man?"
You said nothing, and that was answer enough. He rubbed his wrist absentmindedly before looking back at you.
"I've gotta say..."
You sighed. "What now?"
"I was interested before." He flashed that crooked grin again. "Now I'm downright fascinated."
You shook your head, muttering something about him being hopeless as you started back toward the road leading home.
This time, Eddie stayed where he was. He watched until you disappeared into the darkness beyond the last lantern on Main Street, grinning like a goddamn idiot.
The sun had barely cleared the horizon by the time you were already out in the barn.
The old Jersey stood patiently in her stall while you worked, her hide mottled with age and her hips more pronounced than they had been even a year ago. She'd given good milk once. Now, you were lucky to coax half a bucket from her.
It wasn't enough to keep a family afloat, not by a landslide, but it was something. You rested your forehead briefly against her side, letting out a slow breath as the steady rhythm of milk hitting the pail echoed through the quiet barn.
That was when you heard it, the sound of another horse.
You frowned. Your mare was already tied outside. The hoofbeats slowed, stopping just beyond the open barn doors.
"You know," a familiar voice called, "I was hopin' for a warmer welcome."
You closed your eyes. "...Of course."
Setting the bucket aside, you stood and turned. Eddie leaned casually against the fence, one hand resting on the reins of a chestnut heifer.
Your chestnut heifer.
Your heart lurched. "What're you doin' here?"
"Mornin' to you, too, Sweetheart."
You ignored him, brushing past to the animal instead. The heifer gave a soft, familiar low as you ran your hands over her neck, checking for injuries. She looked healthy, fed, and untouched.
"You brought her back."
"I did."
You looked up at him, suspicion settling in almost immediately. "Why?"
He shrugged one shoulder. "Felt like it."
"I don't believe that for a second."
"Didn't expect you to."
You folded your arms. "So what's the catch?"
"No catch."
"You expect me to thank you?"
"I'd settle for you not threatenin' to shoot me before breakfast."
A reluctant huff escaped your nose before you could stop it, causing Eddie's eyebrows to lift.
"What?" You snapped.
"Nothin'. Just didn't know you had it in you to laugh."
You rolled your eyes so hard they almost hurt. "You're unbearable."
"And yet..." He gestured between the two of you. "Here we are."
You shook your head, leading the heifer toward the pasture.
"You know, most folks would've sold her by now."
You paused. "What?"
"The old Jersey."
His gaze drifted toward the weathered cow still standing patiently inside the barn. "She's got maybe another season left."
Your shoulders stiffened. "My pa raised her from a calf."
"I figured."
"You don't sell family."
You reached over the fence to scratch the heifer between her ears, smiling softly when she nudged your shoulder in return. "You gave me quite the scare, didn't you?"
Your voice had lost every ounce of the sharpness you'd used on Eddie. It was quiet and gentle, almost affectionate.
The heifer bumped your hand again, causing you to laugh under your breath. Only then did you realize someone was watching.
You glanced over, and Eddie hadn't taken his eyes off you.
"What?"
He shook his head slowly. "Nothin'."
"Mhm."
"I was just thinkin'."
"Dangerous pastime."
"It can be."
A crooked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I don't think you're nearly as mean as you pretend to be."
You snorted. "Are you forgetting I had you at point-blank range a day ago?"
"You did."
"I threatened to kill you."
"You sure did."
"I still might."
"I know." He pushed himself off the fence.
"But..." he said, nodding toward the heifer happily grazing beside you, "...I've got a feelin' you've got too soft a heart to actually pull the trigger."
Your smile vanished. "You don't know a damn thing about me."
"Not yet." He tipped the brim of his hat. "But I'm workin' on it."
Before you could think of another retort, he swung easily into the saddle. "I'll see you around."
"I sincerely hope not."
His laugh carried across the pasture as he turned his horse toward the road.
Your mother and little brother had left before sunrise, the wagon loaded with fresh bread, preserves, and the few eggs your remaining hens had managed to produce. They'd make the trip to the next town over, hoping to bring home enough money to stretch another week.
You'd stayed behind to mend fencing. The morning air was cool against your skin as you knelt beside a split fence post, hammer in one hand and a fistful of nails in the other.
You heard the horse long before you looked up. You smiled to yourself despite every intention of not doing so.
"Thought you were leavin'."
Eddie guided his horse through the open gate, a crooked grin already waiting for you.
"I was."
You drove another nail into the fence. "So what happened?"
He swung down from the saddle with practiced ease, dusting off his coat. "I found a reason to stick around a little while longer."
You snorted. "I can't imagine she's very bright."
"She's stubborn as hell."
"Sounds exhausting."
"It is." He looked directly at you. "I kinda like it."
You shook your head, trying very hard not to smile as you stood and brushed the dirt from your skirt. "So."
"So."
"You just wander onto people's property whenever the mood strikes?"
"Only pretty girls'."
"You've got a death wish."
"I've been told."
"You repeat yourself."
"I've noticed."
You couldn't help the small laugh that escaped you this time. It was barely audible and so barely there, but Eddie caught it anyway.
"There it is again."
"Oh, hush."
"I knew you could smile."
"I smiled at the thought of hittin' you with this hammer."
"I'll take what I can get."
You rolled your eyes. "You're impossible."
"And yet you haven't asked me to leave."
"I've considered it."
"But?"
You looked around the farm. "You can stay awhile."
His smile softened. "I appreciate that."
The two of you wandered without much destination after that. He followed while you checked fencing, refilled the water troughs, and gathered what little produce the garden had managed to offer.
"So..." Eddie glanced toward the weathered barn. "Your pa built all this?"
You nodded. "Every bit of it."
"It shows."
You looked over at him. "What d'you mean?"
"Nothing's fancy." He reached out, running his hand along one of the fence rails. "But every board's where it's supposed to be."
"He always said if you're gonna build something, build it once."
"He sounds like a smart man."
"He was."
Eventually, you wandered farther out into the pasture, where tall grass swayed with the breeze. Eddie bent down suddenly.
"What're you doin'?"
He plucked a tiny yellow wildflower from the ground. "Hm."
"You stealin' from me again?"
"This one's legal."
"I'm fairly certain it's still my field."
"I'll pay taxes on it."
He stepped in front of you, twirling the flower between his fingers before carefully tucking it behind your ear. "There."
You stared at him. "...What?"
"It matches."
"The flower?"
"No." He smiled. "The attitude."
You shoved his shoulder. "You are so full of it."
He stumbled back dramatically. "I've been assaulted."
"You'll live."
"I don't know..." He clutched his chest. "...That one might've cracked a rib."
"It barely touched you."
"I bruise easily."
"You're an outlaw."
"And?"
"And somehow a little shove's what does you in?"
"It's tragic, I know."
A laugh burst from you before you could stop it, so loud and so very real that Eddie could help but beam at the sound.
"What?"
"Nothin'."
"Mhm."
"I was startin' to think that sound was a myth."
Heat crept into your cheeks. "You aren't funny."
"I wasn't tryin' to be."
Embarrassed, you reached up to flick the flower from behind your ear. Before you could, Eddie caught your wrist. This time...gently.
"You can leave it."
His thumb brushed absentmindedly against the back of your hand before he seemed to realize what he was doing. He let go almost immediately.
You looked down at your hands.
"So..." you said quietly. "You really oughta get goin'."
"I probably should."
"You know," Eddie said after a moment, "I don't remember the last time I stood still this long."
"That because you're always runnin' from the law?"
"Nah."
He looked out over the pasture. "...Just never had much reason to stop."
You folded your arms across your chest, eyeing him with mock suspicion. "What a charmer you are."
"I've been called worse."
"Oh, I'm sure." You nudged a loose rock with the toe of your boot. "I reckon you find a pretty girl in every town, throw around that smile, tell her she's different, then ride off before sunrise."
Eddie let out a quiet laugh. "So that's what you think of me?"
"I think you're an outlaw."
"Fair."
"And a flirt."
"Guilty."
"You've probably got women waitin' on you from here to Montana."
He scratched at the back of his neck. "...Can't say I do."
You raised an eyebrow. "Really."
"Really."
"I don't believe you."
"I know."
You started walking again, expecting him to fall into step beside you. He, in fact, did.
"I've danced with girls," he admitted after a moment. "Bought a few drinks. Shared a kiss or two."
"A kiss or two," you echoed.
"Maybe three."
You laughed through your nose. "My, aren't you the heartbreaker."
"Nah."
"No?"
He shook his head. "I don't stick around anywhere long enough."
"Hard to court somebody when you're wanted in half the territory."
"You could always stop robbin' people."
"Where's the fun in that?"
"Oh, right."
He smiled again. "Exactly."
The two of you walked in silence for another minute before he spoke again.
"I meant what I said yesterday."
"Which part?"
"'Bout you."
You looked at him.
"I don't usually notice people."
You scoffed. "I find that hard to believe."
"I notice if somebody's dangerous."
His eyes met yours.
"Or interesting."
"And I'm both?"
"I think so."
You looked away first.
"You don't know me."
"I know enough."
"Oh?"
"You work harder than anyone else on this farm."
You frowned.
"You talk to the townsfolk more than you let on."
"I listen."
He shrugged.
"They all said the same thing."
"And what's that?"
"That after your pa passed..." His gaze drifted toward the barn. "...most figured your family would sell the place."
Your jaw tightened.
"They also said you'd never let that happen."
A breeze stirred between you, carrying the scent of fresh hay.
"I saw you mendin' that fence this mornin'."
"So?"
"You didn't replace the whole rail."
"There wasn't enough lumber."
"You carved a new notch and made the old one fit."
You blinked.
"You noticed that?"
"'Course I did. I notice a lot of things."
He smiled softly. "I noticed you've got calluses on your hands."
You instinctively tucked them behind your back.
"I noticed you always look over your shoulder before you leave a room."
You swallowed.
"I noticed you still wear your pa's necklace every day."
His voice had lost every trace of teasing.
"And..." he said quietly, "...I noticed you talk to every animal on this farm like they're old friends."
Heat crept into your cheeks. "I do not."
"You called that old Jersey 'sweet girl' this morning."
"I did not."
"You scratched her behind the ear and said, 'C'mon, sweet girl. Give me just a little more.'"
"...You heard that?"
"I was standin' ten feet away."
You groaned, covering your face with one hand. "That's mortifying."
"I thought it was adorable."
"It was not adorable."
"It absolutely was."
You peeked at him through your fingers. "You really don't quit, do you?"
He smiled that crooked, lopsided smile that somehow looked more sincere than cocky this time. "Not when I find somethin' worth stayin' for."
Word had spread quickly after the Hollow Creek Gang rode in late one autumn evening, expecting an easy score. By sunrise, they had turned tail and disappeared over the state line with fewer horses than they'd arrived with.
Nobody in town had missed who chased them out. It became something of an unspoken arrangement after that.
Sheriff Hopper remained the law, collecting taxes, settling disputes, and locking up the occasional drunk who got a little too friendly after payday. But whenever strangers with bad intentions started asking too many questions about the valley, they were met with a much simpler warning.
"Munson's territory."
It wasn't official; Hopper would've rolled his eyes if anyone suggested it was, but it worked.
The Blackwater Outfit still rode where they pleased. They still robbed railroad payrolls, wealthy cattle barons who squeezed every last penny out of smaller ranchers, and the occasional card game if Eddie was feeling particularly lucky.
Funny enough, the valley never seemed to lose another cow. Your farm changed, too. Not all at once, but little by little, day by day.
A bundle of fresh lumber appeared beside the barn one morning. A week later, Eddie showed up, claiming he had "accidentally" bought too much fencing and needed somewhere to put it.
Then, he painted the new chicken coop a bright shade of blue before realizing he'd used house paint instead of barn paint.
Your mother had stopped asking questions sometime around the third delivery. Instead, she'd simply shake her head whenever Eddie rode up the lane.
"That boy's impossible."
"He is," you'd agree. Then you'd walk outside to greet him anyway.
It became just as common to see Eddie's horse tied outside your barn as it was to see your own. Sometimes he'd help mend fences.
Other days, he'd spend hours pretending to help while somehow accomplishing very little besides distracting you from your work.
"You missed a spot."
You glanced over from where you were whitewashing the side of the barn. "I ain't painted there yet."
"Oh." He nodded thoughtfully. "...Carry on."
You laughed. "I've never met a lazier man."
"Lazier?" He pressed a hand against his chest. "I am deeply offended."
"You've been sittin' on that fence for near an hour."
"I've been supervisin'."
"You've been napping."
"They're remarkably similar."
One evening, you found Eddie sitting atop the split-rail fence overlooking the pasture, lazily spinning your father's old pocketknife between his fingers.
"You know that's mine."
"I was holdin' it for you."
"You stole it."
"I borrowed it."
"You've got a funny definition of borrowing."
"I've got a funny definition of lots of things."
You climbed onto the fence beside him, and after a moment of appreciating a day's work, he cleared his throat.
"I been thinkin'."
"That sounds dangerous."
"It usually is."
He smiled to himself before growing uncharacteristically serious. "I don't much care for ridin' anymore."
You turned to look at him. "What?"
"I used to think if I stayed in one place too long..." He shrugged. "...I'd become someone easy to catch."
"And now?"
"Now..."
His eyes wandered across the fields, the barn, the farmhouse. Your mother hanging laundry across the clothesline, your little brother chasing chickens he'd never catch.
Then, they found you. "...Now I think I'd rather be easy to find."
"Eddie..."
"I ain't sayin' I'll stop bein' me."
"I wouldn't ask you to."
"I know." He reached over, absentmindedly taking your hand. "I just..."
He laughed quietly. "...I like comin' home." Home.
You looked down at your joined hands before squeezing his fingers. "I've got somethin' to tell you."
"Oh?"
"You were right."
His grin appeared instantly. "I usually am."
"I did smile in the saloon."
He laughed. "I knew it."
"But..."
You leaned over just enough to kiss him, slow and soft, sweet enough to stop every clever remark he'd been about to make.
When you pulled away, he looked genuinely speechless. "...Well."
"Speechless?"
"You might've finally managed it."
"I'll cherish the moment."
He laughed again before pulling you back for another kiss.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader x eddie munson
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.7k
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ mdni, poly!steddie, established relationship, dom!steve, soft!servicedom!eddie, sub!reader, piv sex, degradation, edging, orgasm control, hair-pulling, praise kink, also a little brat-taming i guess, check-ins (traffic light system), mean!steve but he loves u both, fluff, they’re all just sickeningly in love, eddie's pov
series masterlist
Six months.
That’s how long it’s been since Eddie Munson’s learned what it means to be loved.
Relentless in the way rain smooths stone, this love is patient and deep and thorough.
Six months since that night, when you and Steve kissed him, one on either side, lips gentle as you whispered: We can be more, if you want.
That night you said, Come home with us, and meant it.
He hadn’t known what home was until then. Now, he knows it in his bones.
He knows it in the lines of your face in the morning, soft with sleep. In the heat of Steve’s palm against the small of his back. In the smell of lavender soap and coconut sunscreen and bitter coffee grounds.
He knows it in the way Steve collects all your scribbled notes on the fridge like scripture:
don’t forget milk!
back by 9
love you ◡̈
In the way you collect pieces of time, too.
Movie stubs. A wrinkled matchbook from the Hideout where Eddie first whispered I love you. The guitar pick he gave you as an anniversary present, his initials etched on the back in a shaky scrawl.
You tuck love into the corners of your lives. You make a home out of the moments.
Eddie’s learned all the soft, tender things.
But he knows about all the filthy things, too. He’s no saint.
He knows the exact way your head tips when you’re close. That the tender patch behind your ear, where your perfume fades, is a straight line to the prettiest sound he’s ever heard.
He knows you cry a little when edged too long. That you beg so sweet when you’re made to wait. That your favorite toy is still that very first lavender vibrator; you come harder with it than anything else.
He knows Steve’s thighs twitch when he’s seconds from the edge. That he likes getting head with someone holding his hands. That there’s a small mole right at the base of his cock that makes him squirm every time Eddie kisses it.
He knows Steve gets possessive when he watches you and Eddie together, jaw tightening, eyes going dark.
She’s fucking ours, Munson.
Eddie lives for it. Needs it.
And he knows you love it, too. Being the center of their orbit, shared and indulged.
He’s addicted to all of it.
But more than all that, he’s learned himself.
He’s learned he can sit still. That he can sit on the floor between your legs, your fingers carding through his hair while Steve flips lazily through some worn issue of Cosmo, reading the dumb quizzes aloud just to make you both laugh. He can sit there for hours and not feel the itch to move or talk or fill the silence.
Because it’s not empty anymore. It’s full.
He’s learned that crying doesn’t make him weak. That he can have a nightmare and wake up with someone already there, rubbing his back, telling him he’s safe.
He knows how it feels to have both of you around him at once—your thighs around his head, Steve’s hand around his cock. Knows the heady rush of being stretched open while one of you holds him down and the other tells him he’s beautiful.
He’s learned he likes the marks. Likes the scratches down his back from your nails. The bruises on his hips where Steve grips tight. Likes waking up sore and smiling, knowing exactly where the ache came from.
He’s learned that being loved isn’t just about sex.
But god, the sex—it’s reverent and filthy and everything he never let himself want before now.
And above all else, he loves getting to feel you fall apart in his arms.
Loves even more that you let him piece you back together.
So tonight, when you pull him down onto the couch with a hushed little come here, whispering dirty promises with that half-lidded, love-drunk grin, he follows without a word.
You're laughing as you climb into his lap, fingers diving into his hair, greedy in the way he secretly adores. The TV glows soft in the corner, a rerun that’s been on since Steve left a couple hours ago for his evening shift.
He should be home by now.
The thought passes through him distantly until your thighs tighten around his hips, until your hips start to roll against his own, dragging heat through the front of his sweats. He shudders, hands slipping under your shirt on instinct.
“Baby, you—fuck—you’re gonna get yourself in trouble doing that.”
Your lips hover over his, eyes gleaming with something wicked and sweet. “What if I want to get in trouble?”
He huffs a helpless laugh, head thudding back against the couch. “Damn menace…”
“You know it.” You hum before dragging him into a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue.
Impatient fingers start to tug at his curls, gentle and then not. The rhythm of your hips becomes insistent, the couch squeaking softly beneath you, each movement punctuated by shared breaths and the quiet, hungry smacks of mouths finding each other again and again.
And then:
“I’m home!”
The soft jangle of keys hits the dish by the door, followed by the muted thud of shoes kicked off onto linoleum.
“In here, baby!” You chirp, still smiling, still perched on his lap.
Eddie, breathless, doesn’t know whether to laugh or brace himself.
“Coming!” Steve’s voice calls back, happy and sing-song.
The faint clink of the fridge door. Running water. The familiar shuffle of socked feet across hardwood.
Then Steve appears in the doorway.
Shoulder propped against the frame, arms crossed and bulging in a tight blue and white polo. Glass of water held loose in one hand, he lets his gaze drift lazily across the room, drinking in every detail.
You in Eddie’s lap. Eddie’s red mouth. His rumpled shirt. The slow, not-so-innocent grind of your hips where you haven’t quite stopped moving.
Steve grins.
You lift your chin and smile back, shameless. One arm loops around Eddie’s neck, staking claim, before you lean down to press a soft kiss to his jaw—punctuation.
Steve quirks a brow, strolls in. Sets the glass on the side table and lets his eyes linger on both of you.
“Well,” he drawls, lips curling. “This looks cozy.”
He leans down to kiss you first, quick and familiar. Then he turns, giving one to Eddie too, lips brushing his temple, fingers grazing his nape.
And Eddie—god, he still flinches a little. Not because it’s unwelcome, but because it never stops surprising him. That Steve can touch like that, can give away affection so freely. Like it costs him nothing. Like it means everything.
That it can be this easy.
It burns, sometimes. In the terrifying way. In the good way.
Steve drops onto the couch beside him in a slow sprawl, legs open, hand already resting on your thigh.
There, sitting hip to hip with Eddie, he turns his head and just... looks at you. Holds your gaze for a long, quiet beat. Like your face is a blackboard and he’s solving some wild, unspeakable equation. His eyes glow dark amber under the lamplight, edged with a curious thought.
Not math, Eddie thinks. Chemistry. Combustion.
Eventually, Steve seems to decide on a tone.
“Hi, gorgeous,” he croons, all brassy and honey-warm.
The sound of it swims through the room, thick as syrup. Steve’s fingers trail slowly up your neck, the backs of his knuckles brushing along your jaw in a gesture so gentle it makes your breath catch. They slip into your hair, threading through with the same care one might use to untangle a silk ribbon.
Until...
His grip tightens.
Hard enough to tip your chin back.
Tilt the spotlight. Isolate you.
When Steve speaks again, his voice has changed.
No more honey. It’s steel wrapped in silk.
“Were you a good girl for Eddie tonight, baby?”
Eddie blinks, heart jolting, thoughts stuttering.
That tone. A clean, whipcrack switch that cuts straight through the room.
He feels it like a shift in barometric pressure, the electric promise of a storm.
Your lashes flutter, lips parting as you try to nod, but Steve’s fingers tighten just enough to keep you still.
“Mhm,” you breathe.
From beside Eddie, Steve makes this sound. A low, guttural hum, almost a growl caught in his chest.
“I don’t know,” he starts, voice rumbling deep.
His gaze stays locked on you, the grip in your hair pinning you in place.
“What do you think, Eds? Has she been good?”
Then, even lower: “Or was she a desperate little slut, like she always is?”
Oh.
Oh, shit.
It’s about to be that kind of night.
Your jaw falls slack. Your thighs twitch around Eddie’s. He feels it, the way your body answers first, ahead of thought. That soft, desperate whimper that gets trapped in your throat when you try to swallow it down.
What if I want to get in trouble?
Eddie almost laughs. Almost.
You fucking menace.
Instead, he adjusts his grip around your waist, fingers skimming up your ribs, dragging just high enough to make your breath hitch.
He tilts his head, playing it casual. Lethal with it.
“I mean… she did start it.”
Steve huffs through his nose—a clipped, amused little exhale—and his expression hardens.
You look wrecked already: lips parted, chest heaving, eyes flicking between them like you can’t decide who you want first.
You're waiting.
You like the waiting.
Steve’s thumb brushes along your jaw, deceptively soft. “You did start it, huh?”
“Hmm,” you breathe, trying for sweet, but your voice trembles. Your lips twitch, the excitement underneath stretching taut like a wire about to snap. “Baby, I was good. Promise…”
It’s almost convincing. Almost.
Steve laughs. It’s a quiet, cruel sound. Dragged up from his chest like he’s letting you in on a joke you’re not quite smart enough to get. The hand in your hair tightens again, tugging you back a little further, baring your throat to the ceiling.
“Good, huh?” He tilts your head a fraction, studying your face like he’s remembering the exact shape of your mouth when you lie. “You sure about that?”
You make a high, helpless noise, fingers knotting in the front of Eddie’s shirt.
“Couldn’t even wait for me to get home, grinding all over Eddie.” Steve sinks deeper into the couch, thigh pressing against Eddie’s in a slow, deliberate push that sends a jolt up Eddie’s spine. “It’s kind of pathetic, you know that?”
Eddie watches, burning with awe, as you come apart in his lap.
Loved and ruined in equal measure.
This is what Steve does.
One moment, he’s light: hands like balm, lips like sunrise. And the next, he’s fire: no warmth, just heat.
Steve Harrington is the sun, radiant and merciless.
He’ll offer you his heart on a silver platter, then burn you to ash. Split you wide open, make you sob with nothing but his voice in your ear and his gaze pinning you like a blade between the ribs.
And right now? With that hunger in his eyes, with the way his tongue’s dragging over his lip like he’s savoring the taste of your ruin?
You’d be lucky to make it out of this one alive.
You whimper again, throat bobbing with a swallow. Steve’s grip is merciless now, his hand a vice, keeping your head tipped uncomfortably far back.
And then—because you’re you, because you never fold easy, because you’re wild and stubborn in the most beautiful ways—
You smile.
That wicked, glorious thing that tears Eddie in two every single time.
“We were just warming up the couch for you, Stevie,” you breathe. “Swear.”
You seal your fate with a demonstrative roll of your hips, bearing down against the bulge in Eddie’s pants.
Oh, god have mercy on you.
Steve’s eyes narrow, amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, thumb brushing softly across your cheek. “You think that’s clever?”
Then the hand in your hair tugs hard. Eddie sees it in the way you wince for real this time, breath hitching, eyes squeezing shut.
Immediately, Steve murmurs: “Color, baby.”
Your answer comes faster than Eddie can blink, breathless but sure:
“Green. So green.”
Eddie watches you both, enthralled.
Another lesson. One of a thousand he’s learned from the two of you.
What once felt awkward and uncertain, he gets now. Understands what it means when Steve color-checks in that tone, low and anchored, like a lifeline.
A reminder that no matter how rough it gets, no matter how far they take you apart, the center always holds.
Eddie swallows hard, brushing his thumb low on your waist, right where your skin is warmest. He feels the shiver ripple through you, delicate and involuntary.
God, he loves you. Loves Steve. So fucking much it fills him right to the top, threatens to spill over and crack him open.
Steve exhales through his nose, pressing a kiss into your temple with steadying warmth.
“Good girl.”
And just like that, you melt.
It’s magic, the way you do. Such a precious treat to see it like this, so up close. Watching you go liquid from two little words, eyes glazing over, lashes drooping like you’re drifting someplace sweet and far away. You’re hovering in that delicious space he knows you love most: half in penance, half in worship, trembling with the need to give more, to be better, to be theirs.
Steve dips closer, voice sliding back into that velvet-edged steel.
“You were good, huh?” He mocks. “Grinding on him like a desperate slut. That counts as good behavior now?”
Eddie almost chokes at the whiplash of it all.
But you? You only moan louder, hips bucking, thighs squeezing around him as you chase friction like it might save your life.
“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, hands tightening on your waist. His thumbs keep tracing slow, loving circles over your belly, far too gentle for how desperately you’re moving against him. “Look at you, gorgeous…”
Steve hums at that. “You love it when he talks like that, don’t you?” His eyes cut to Eddie, sharp and knowing. “Gets you all wet and needy while I’m gone.”
Your breath hitches when you try to protest. “I—”
“No.” Steve’s voice slices clean through the air. “You don’t speak unless I say.”
You swallow back the words with a small, obedient whimper.
Steve’s fingers slip from your hair, tracing the column of your throat. They settle there. Just a little weight, not hard enough to choke, but Eddie knows it’s a promise.
“You wanna show us?” Steve murmurs, leaning in until his breath fans your cheek. “Show us how good you can be?”
You nod once, pupils blown so wide your irises are nothing but a whisper of color.
“That’s my girl.” He kisses the side of your jaw. “Stay right here, baby. On Eddie.”
Steve sinks behind you onto the floor, knees against the carpet, chest pressed flush to your spine. His hands slip under Eddie’s, cupping your ribs. Four hands move as one as they lift and peel your shirt away, baring you inch by inch.
“Fuck, baby…” Eddie breathes, hands roaming your skin. “So fucking pretty.”
Steve crowds closer, lips brushing your shoulder. His touches are less careful: callused palms cupping your breasts, thumbs rolling your nipples into stiff peaks before pinching them with a sharp tug.
You whine, lashes fluttering.
“Please,” you whisper. “Want…”
“What do you want, sweetheart?” Steve croons, teeth grazing your ear. “Use your words.”
“Wanna… wanna come. Please.”
Steve snorts softly, like he’s barely impressed. “Already?”
Eddie smiles too, eyes glued to the way your body arches, the way your nipples are pebbling under Steve’s clever fingers. “So needy, aren’t you, gorgeous?”
“Greedy, more like,” Steve mutters, pinching again so hard you gasp. “Always so full of it. Mouth, cunt, attitude…”
You whimper at the words; Eddie knows how a little cruelty lights up your veins, praise and degradation mixing the same way in your blood.
You turn toward Steve, mouth parted, seeking his kiss with helpless instinct. He catches your chin, amused, before pulling you in. The kiss is filthy, hungry, his tongue sliding into your mouth in one smooth stroke to claim.
Eddie watches, struck stupid at the sight—your moans muffled against Steve’s lips, body rocking mindlessly against Eddie’s dick. He’s practically leaking under his sweats, the heat from your cunt soaking straight through the fabric.
“Can I touch you, baby?” Eddie whispers against your jaw where Steve’s still holding you in place. He knows the answer, but he needs it anyway.
You nod frantically, a slick string of spit stretching between you and Steve when he lets you pull away.
“Yes, Eddie, please, need you—”
Eddie doesn’t waste a second. He tugs your shorts aside, fingers sliding through your slick—
“Jesus christ.” He stares up at you. “Baby, you’re dripping.”
“Always is,” Steve mutters, lips against the side of your throat, sucking a mark hard enough to bruise. “Pretty slut loves to show off.”
You whine, arching back into his chest as Eddie sinks two fingers into you, slow and deep until his knuckles kiss your skin.
Your entire body bows.
“Fuck, fuck—Eds—”
He curls his fingers, rubbing against that perfect spot like he’s been practicing for months (he has). His thumb circles your clit with steady precision, and your whimpers turn into breathless little cries.
Between your moans and the wet squelch of your arousal, Eddie almost misses your next words.
“Please... wannit, want you inside...”
He pulls his fingers out slowly, watching your hips chase nothing. His cock is throbbing painfully as he pushes his sweats down.
Steve’s voice cuts in, merciless.
“Ask him nicely, slut.”
“Please,” you sob. “Please fuck me, Eddie—need your cock, wanna feel you—please—”
Eddie’s answering smile is pure warmth. “I got you, sweet girl. C’mere.”
He guides you down with both palms cupping your hips. His fingers glisten with your arousal, smearing across your skin.
Inch by careful inch, the slow sink inside you is hot and tight and buttery-smooth.
“Fuuuck…” Eddie groans, completely, devastatingly in love.“You feel so good. Take it so fucking well.”
Steve wraps his arms around you, palm splaying over your stomach.
“What do you say?”
“T-thank you,” you gasp. “Thank you, thank you—”
Every slow thrust rocks a sob out of you. A particularly well-placed grind has you mewling, clawing at Steve’s arms.
Steve cups your jaw, forcing your head back against his shoulder. “You close, sweetheart?”
You nod, frantic.
“Words.”
“Yes, yes, please—can I—”
“Not yet.”
Your cry is sharp enough to cut straight through Eddie’s heart.
“Steve,” he grunts, strained. “She’s—”
“I know.” Steve hums, maddeningly calm. His hand slides down to feel your cunt, fingers obscenely framing the place where Eddie’s stretching you open. “She can wait. Can’t you, honey?”
You shake your head in frantic, tiny motions. “P-please, can’t…”
“Breathe through it,” he says softly. “You’re not coming until I say.”
“N-no, please, I....”
“Where are your manners, baby? Eddie’s being so good to your greedy little pussy right now.”
“I’m sorry,” you sob instantly. “Sorry—thank you, Eddie, thank you—Steve, please—”
Eddie doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this. This raw honesty in you. How you become this soft, pleading, open thing in their hands. It’s beautiful, it’s mesmerizing, the way you allow yourself to beg. To come apart for them so helplessly.
And when he lifts his head, meeting Steve’s gaze over your shoulder, he knows exactly what that look means.
Steve leans in close to your ear, voice dropping to a purr, eyes still locked on Eddie’s.
“You gonna come for him? Make a mess all over his lap?”
“Yes—need to... so close...”
Eddie feels you squeeze around him, tight then tighter, knows it won’t take much more to get you to break. He’s fucking you proper now, thighs lifting off the couch, hammering against that spot until you’re choking on your own breaths.
“That’s it,” he grunts. “Good girl.”
“Please, please, I need to—I can’t—”
Steve’s fists your hair again, grounding you with a sharp tug. “Not yet.”
You nearly scream, nails digging into Steve’s forearms. “No—please! Steve, I can’t—”
“You can. You will. You’re our good girl, aren’t you?”
Even sobbing, your nod is immediate. “Yes. Yours, yours, always—good for you both, please—”
Eddie shudders, the word both hitting him in a place so deep he nearly loses his rhythm.
Steve smiles, hums a satisfied little note.
And then, finally, he nods.
“Let go, baby,” he breathes. “Come.”
And you break.
The orgasm rips through you in a violent shudder. You sob, convulsing, collapsing forward into Eddie’s chest as every muscle seizes and trembles. You’re shaking so hard he’d be worried if he didn’t know you love it like this.
Eddie cradles your head, lets his movements slow, helping you come down with shallow, gentle thrusts. “That’s it,” he whispers, voice trembling under the weight of everything he feels for you. “Ride it out, there you go, baby. So good. So fucking good. We got you.”
Steve’s lips move in a slow drag along your cheek, murmuring praises soft enough to make you cry harder.
And though you’re too far gone to notice it, Eddie sees the look on Steve’s face.
Adoration, vivid and sparkling, like sunlight fracturing through stained glass.
It lives in his gaze, his smile, the gentle crease at the corner of his eyes and the quiet strength in the set of his jaw—every warm, golden inch of the man Eddie loves.
When your shaking finally slows, your breath tapering down into little broken huffs against Eddie’s collarbone, you lift your head.
And the sight that meets him just about takes his breath away.
Eyes wide and glassy, lashes jeweled with tears. Lips parted in small, shaky breaths, swollen from bruising kisses. You look like you’re trying to speak, words catching before they form.
But you don’t need to say anything at all.
Not when that look—god, that look—says everything.
This awful, beautiful softness in your expression, gratitude and devotion and something deeper still. Something Eddie feels unworthy of, even as he’s desperate to hold onto it.
Trust.
Bare and luminous.
It wraps around Eddie’s ribs like a pair of warm hands, squeezing until he’s breathless with the weight of it.
Stripped down to nothing but faith in the people you love most, it’s a kind of vulnerability you don’t give lightly.
Eddie’s heart lurches with something too full to keep inside.
He surges forward to cup your cheek, calloused thumb grazing your skin, and brushes his lips against yours. Barely a kiss, more breath than touch.
You melt into it with a quiet, content sound.
Behind you, Steve’s voice cracks for the first time all night: the first break in his dom voice.
“Fuck me.” he whispers. “You okay? Color?”
You mumble “green” into Eddie’s mouth, smiling.
Steve’s laugh comes out shaky, relief washing over him in a visible wave. His shoulders drop, whole body softening like he’s finally allowed himself to breathe again.
And when you turn in Eddie’s lap, still wobbly, still glowing, Steve’s already there. His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, thumb stroking the soft place beneath your ear as he draws you in for a kiss that’s nothing like earlier. Slow, gentle, built entirely from affection and no less passionate.
He keeps you close for a moment longer, thumb tracing the back of your neck. When he pulls away, it’s only so he can grab the glass of water waiting on the table. He brings it to your lips with careful hands.
“Small sips, baby. Good girl.”
You drink obediently, eyes half-lidded and lashes heavy.
When you’re done, Steve lifts the glass toward Eddie without a word. Eddie rolls his eyes for form’s sake but still leans forward, cheeks warm, letting Steve tilt the glass for him. Steve makes him drain the whole thing, eyes on him the entire time.
Only when all three of you have caught your breath does Steve straighten with a grunt, knees popping loudly.
He looks deliciously wrecked: hair wild, cheeks red, shirt crooked and rucked up on one side. His Levi’s are unbuttoned, clinging hopelessly to a very obvious problem he’s ignoring.
“Alright, you little menaces,” he sighs, planting his hands on his hips. “I’ve got ice cream in the freezer.”
You blink down at the obvious situation in his jeans. “But Stevie—”
“Ah-ah.” He points toward the kitchen. “Recharge first. C’mon.”
Your face scrunches into that bratty little frown Eddie knows too well, the one that means you’re already plotting a way around this.
But he also knows you.
And he knows there’s only one thing powerful enough to override your stubborn streak:
Ice cream.
You deflate with a huff, defeated but not really. “Fine.”
Eddie bites back a grin.
You brighten a second later, eyes going big and sparkly. “Wait, did you get—?”
“Yep.” Steve smirks.
He leans down to press a fond kiss to the crown of your head. Then his gaze shifts to Eddie, softening even more.
“Got your favorite too, Eds.”
Your laugh bubbles out, breathless and sweet. You lean back against Eddie’s chest and whisper into his hair with a conspiratorial grin:
“Hey, Eds. I think he might love us or something.”
Steve snorts, shakes his head, but his eyes crinkle at the corners with a smile too wide to deny.
“I love Eddie. You? Not so sure.”
Eddie’s heart stumbles. He has to squeeze your hip the moment he hears it, has to ground himself before he launches straight off the couch.
“Yeah, he’s uh…” He clears his throat, tries to hide the wobble in it. “One big softie, huh?”
He says it to you, but his eyes never leave Steve’s.
And Steve holds that gaze, eyes steady and warm, answering a question Eddie doesn’t say out loud.
Eddie smiles, looks away first.
You continue teasing Steve from your spot in Eddie’s lap, trying to coax him back onto the couch. “...I’m just saying babe, we could eat later. You’ll be, like, the main course before dessert!”
Steve snorts and rolls his eyes, already headed for the kitchen.
“I’m gonna start without you two if you don’t hurry up!”
“What? No fair!” you shout, scrambling upright. Eddie laughs as you drag him along by the wrist.
In the kitchen, Steve scoops out meticulous portions of ice cream while still sporting a semi. You pester him about his scooping technique—this was literally your job, babe—while perched up on the counter in Eddie’s Judas Priest shirt, legs swinging off the edge. Eddie leans next to you, arms crossed, throwing in teasing quips purely to watch Steve’s ears turn pink while he tries to defend himself.
You both last exactly ten seconds before boredom takes over.
You toss a marshmallow at Eddie's open mouth, missing so catastrophically that Steve stops scooping to interject.
The bag is confiscated before you can attempt a third throw.
Not that it stops you.
Sprinkles rain across the counter like confetti. Syrup streaks in glossy trails across the marble.
Eddie gets chocolate on his chin somehow, and Steve doesn’t even hesitate—he wipes it away with his thumb, slides it between his own lips, and sucks it clean without breaking eye contact.
Eddie chokes on his own spit. You gasp, delighted.
And if things start to unravel—as they usually do—with a smear of whipped cream on your cheek, a cold spoon pressed to Steve’s stomach, and then shirts being dragged up and over heads because “you’re all sticky, babe, just take it off."
If a moment later, Eddie finds himself pinned between two warm bodies, one in front, one behind, syrup-sweet kisses trailing across his neck, sticky fingers tracing up his ribs until he can’t tell who’s gasping and who he’s gasping for…
Well.
That part’s for Eddie to keep to himself.
series masterlist
a/n: thank you to everyone who's been waiting for the series finale :) this is the last chapter, BUT if there are headcanons/ideas you’d want to see w/ these three, you can send them my way! who knows where inspiration might strike?
pairing: steve harrington x eddie munson (x reader)
summary: And somewhere out there, Steve’s girlfriend is probably clinking champagne with someone named Kimberly or Suzanne, wearing a sundress and talking about wedding colors—while Steve lounges here, in Eddie’s bed, like a fucking summer mirage.
Bare-legged, bathed in golden light, and being way too casual about it.
warnings: 18+ smut, friends to lovers, mutual pining, confessions, angst, hurt/comfort, weed/alcohol use, first kiss, m/m blowjob (first time), insecurity abt scars and ptsd (s4 canon events), period typical internalized homophobia, eddie's (high) pov, fluff, polyamory, bisexual!eddie, bisexual!steve, this is mostly just steddie reader makes a small cameo
a/n: this whole thing is my love letter to steddie and steve harrington's gym shorts™. read the last pt here. series masterlist.
“So. Wisconsin, huh?”
Steve Harrington lands on Eddie Munson’s mattress like a dropped suitcase—careless and loud, all sigh and floppy limbs. A six-pack of beer swings in his hand, catching the last bruised slant of daylight before it drops with a soft thunk onto the floor.
“Yup,” Steve pops the ‘p’ like a kid, already toeing off his sneakers, kicking them toward the corner with zero aim. “Whole weekend. Some fancy resort near Lake Geneva.”
Eddie snorts. “Wow. Peace offering for ditching her birthday?”
“Pretty much,” Steve mutters, rubbing at his face. “Nothing says ‘sorry we blew off your one special day, sweetie,’ like a luxury getaway, right?”
Then he flops back onto the mattress fully, hair bouncing as he sighs dramatically at Eddie’s ceiling.
“She’s gonna call me tonight, bet you anything.” He murmurs. “Complain about her cousins. Or that one aunt who gets drunk and starts hitting on the waiters.”
Eddie huffs a laugh, cracking his beer with a loud pshht, settling cross-legged on the floor.
“Sounds like a dream vacation.”
Steve snorts, looking down at Eddie over the bridge of his nose.
And, from where Eddie’s sitting, the view is… well.
It’s kind of devastating.
Steve’s eyes are half-lidded, warm and honey-brown in the fading light. His lashes are infuriatingly long, cheekbones catching the last of the sun like smooth, sun-warmed marble. His hair’s still damp, like he couldn’t be bothered to towel it off properly after a shower. He’s wearing a worn, gray T-shirt that’s seen better days—stretched thin, clinging soft to every line of him. There’s a tiny hole near the hem. Barely noticeable, but Eddie sees it. Sees all of it.
The outline of Steve’s collarbone. The faint dip at the center of his sternum. A flush of sunburn painting pink across his skin, freckles dusted low along his throat like scattered punctuation—freckles Eddie is definitely not counting.
And then there are the shorts.
Those shorts.
Black sports nylon. Sinfully short. The kind that ride up when he shifts and leave little to the imagination, cutting high up on his thighs and exposing an unholy amount of tanned, toned leg.
And somewhere out there, Steve’s girlfriend is probably clinking champagne with someone named Kimberly or Suzanne, wearing a sundress and talking about wedding colors—while Steve lounges here, in Eddie’s bed, like a fucking summer mirage. Bare-legged, bathed in golden light, and being way too casual about it.
“Hey, you got any of that weed left?” Steve sits up suddenly, nodding toward the half-dead joint on his bedside table.
Eddie tilts his head, hiding his smile behind his hair. “Ah. And the truth comes out. Could’ve just led with that, Harrington.”
“Oh, what—so my sparkling personality means nothing now?” Steve grins, mock-wounded, then nods toward the sweating six-pack on the floor. “I brought beer. That’s gotta count for something.”
Eddie takes a sip, then immediately grimaces, squinting at the label. “If you can call it that, Jesus. Did you pick this based on how ugly the can was?”
Steve laughs. “Hey, it was either this or something called ‘Dad’s Patio Ale.’ I panicked.”
“This tastes like someone filtered rainwater through a gym sock.”
“Okay, rude. And also? You’re drinking it.”
“Out of necessity, Harrington. Not enjoyment.”
Steve just leans back on his elbows, all loose limbs and easy grin.
“You’re such a drama queen.”
“Says the guy who uses Farrah Fawcett hairspray.” Eddie mutters, reaching for the bottom drawer of his nightstand.
He lets his hand hover there for a while, fingers brushing over nothing in particular, just rattling around nonsense: guitar picks, receipts, a broken cassette. The joint’s right on top, of course. Always was. But he lets himself fumble, rummaging through useless junk like it matters. Rearranging things that don’t need rearranging.
Truth is, he was gonna light it tonight anyway. He’d already been halfway there—flicking the lighter open and shut, foot tapping, mind running—before Steve knocked. That casual, two-finger tap-tap on his trailer door, like he belonged here at 6:18 pm on a Friday. Like they hadn’t done that thing just a couple nights ago.
The thing Eddie still wasn’t sure was real.
The kind of night that lived somewhere between a lucid dream and an out-of-body experience. One he didn’t get a damn chance to talk about afterward—because they had all slept in ‘til noon, and then you were scrambling, late for your shift at the bookstore, and Steve had to throw on yesterday’s jeans and bolt over to Family Video.
Which left Eddie alone in your too-big house, surrounded by ghosts of the night before—heat-slick skin, ragged breaths, and Steve’s half-lidded gaze locked on his like it meant something.
But now? There’s no weird tension. No loaded silences. Just the same old two taps, then Steve sprawling on Eddie’s mattress like nothing’s changed, bitching about customers and cracking open his sad excuse for beer.
Same old, same old.
And maybe nothing has changed. Maybe that’s the part Eddie resents the most.
He finally pulls the joint out and flicks it onto the bed. “There. Try not to weep with gratitude.”
Steve picks it up, grinning like sunlight off lake water—easy, warm, blinding if you look too long.
“Love ya too, man.”
Eddie swallows, feels it lodge somewhere deep in his throat.
“Yeah, yeah. Save it for the thank-you card.” He takes another sip of the garbage beer and winces like it's penance. “And bring something drinkable next time.”
...
Smoke curls like ribbon sugar between Steve’s fingers—slow, syrupy, sweet. Sabbath hums from the speakers, the volume lower than Eddie would’ve liked but loud enough to keep the silence from creeping in. Steve had lobbied for the Carpenters. Eddie had threatened bodily harm. They landed somewhere in the middle. Barely.
The six-pack’s more like a two-pack now, condensation dampening the carpet. The fan hums weakly from the corner, drowning under the heat.
They sit side by side on the mattress, backs against the wall. Steve’s ankles are crossed like he’s posing for some half-assed beer ad—sweaty and sun-drowsy, grinning to himself every now and then in these soft, spontaneous little laughs that go nowhere.
Eddie feels floaty. Limbs heavy and distant. Like his bones packed up and left, and his body just melted into the mattress without them—slipping, sinking, spreading like warm butter on toast.
God, toast sounds good.
Wait—what was he thinking about?
Oh, right. Bones.
Weird. He kind of misses them.
Everything hums low and warm around him, his brain full of static and loops—thoughts spinning but never quite landing. Just—
Steve.
Steve’s knees are stupid. That’s the thought he lands on.
Like, distractingly nice knees. Tanned and smooth and completely, unnecessarily on display in those shorts. Who even wears shorts that short?
Steve Harrington. That’s who.
Way-Too-Short-Shorts Guy is talking again.
“So, she was in these tights, right?” Steve’s voice bounces around Eddie’s skull like a pinball. “Those shiny black ones? You know the ones. And I swear to god, I lasted six seconds. The moment she took ‘em off—” he makes a whooshing sound, hand flaring like fireworks, “—done for.”
Eddie chokes on a mouthful of smoke, coughs into his sleeve. “Jesus, Harrington.”
Steve grins and steals the joint back, inhaling slow and deep. Gray ribbons drift from his lips. His lashes flutter, eyes gone glassy and warm.
“Yeah, I’m easy.” he sighs, dropping his head back against the wall. “She takes her shirt off, and it’s like—I don’t know. Hypnosis. Could walk me off a cliff and I’d probably thank her.”
Eddie’s head tips sideways against the wall, just enough to look without being obvious.
There are freckles on Steve’s face.
Not just a few—constellations.
Eddie’s not sure if he was born with them or if the sun had brought them out, coaxing them to the surface like tiny secrets. Like Steve stepped outside one afternoon and the universe just went—here, have some stars, just for being hot and oblivious—and scattered a couple galaxies across his skin.
He counts a few by his temple, near where his crow’s feet would be if Steve ever stopped smiling long enough to age. A few more trail down his profile to the edge of his jaw, and two are dotted right over his cheek—twins, close together—just to the left of his nose.
Eddie decides he wants to name them.
Harringtaurus. The Harrington Belt.
No, wait—Steveus Maximus.
That one makes him snort into his beer.
Then his mind wanders—how far do they go? Down his throat, his collarbones, his chest? Do they fade out or multiply? Maybe there’s a whole hidden mural under that soft-ass shirt. If he connected the dots, would it make a picture? And suddenly, unhelpfully, Eddie feels the urge to trace them. Not metaphorically. Like—with his actual finger. Maybe his tongue, if he ever completely loses his mind.
His gaze drifts lower, slow as honey, dripping like butter down to Steve’s mouth. The soft curve of his top lip. The little dip in the middle that tugs when he smiles—like right now, grinning about god knows what. The bottom lip’s a little chapped, with a tiny split at the corner that looks like it hurts.
Weird thought: Eddie wants to kiss it better. Like a preschooler. Real boo-boo logic.
But also… yeah. That’d be hot.
Eddie blinks, fingers twitching around his beer, the pinball machine lighting up in his brain:
Lips. Freckles. Tights. Lips. Hypnosis. Lips.
He’s one rogue neuron away from leaning over and doing something stupid when Steve chuckles—low and brassy—and passes the joint back without looking.
“There was this other time—oh, dude! Remember when we got caught at the lake house? Right after New Year’s?”
And here’s the thing about Steve Harrington on weed—a couple things, actually.
The first thing is that he talks. Guy can’t shut the hell up. He’s like a VHS tape stuck on fast-forward—too many details, switching characters mid-sentence, mimicking voices and laughing at his own jokes. He starts one story and forgets halfway through because another memory hijacked him.
Like just now, when he switched from talking about the time they all drove down to Lake Monroe to a story about a bar crawl gone sideways.
“...and then I remember running—like full-speed running through the snow, pants around my ankles, and Robin’s screaming behind me like, 'You left your wallet, dumbass!’” He laughs, head tipped back against the wall, throat exposed and glowing in the dim light.
Eddie doesn’t laugh.
He tries. Tries to focus on the words, the story, the timeline—but Steve’s neck does this thing when he laughs—cords flexing, tendons shifting, Adam’s apple bobbing—and Eddie’s thoughts start dripping between the floorboards again.
It would be so easy to lean in.
Just a little.
To reach over and press his mouth to that spot on Steve’s neck, right where the pulse flutters. See if it tastes like salt and beer and summer.
Instead, he stares down at his hands. His fingers look weird. Long. Like they’ve never held anything in their life. He closes them around the joint like it might tether him back to Earth.
Beside him, Steve shifts, stretching out his legs, slumping lower against the wall. His fingers graze the hem of his shirt, lifting the fabric a little, just enough to show a flash of skin.
And Eddie’s brain—traitorous, floaty bastard that it is—short-circuits.
There’s a freckle there. On his hip.
Just one. Small. Dark. Perfect.
Eddie wants to bite it.
Jesus Christ.
He looks away so fast his neck cracks.
And Steve just keeps talking.
Eddie’s not even pretending to listen now. Just lets Steve’s voice wash over him in gentle, rolling waves. Half the words are getting tangled in the fuzz of his brain anyway. His pulse feels like it’s coming from the center of his chest and the backs of his knees at the same time.
Steve laughs at something Eddie mumbles—something Eddie didn’t mean to say out loud—and nudges his thigh with the back of his hand.
Casual, but not accidental.
That’s the second thing about Steve getting high—he gets… touchy.
Not handsy. Not grabby. Just the casual kind of touch most people wouldn’t think twice about. Like gravity forgets its boundaries when it comes to Steve Harrington. Like his body’s just leaking affection into the space around him.
His fingers graze Eddie’s knee when he shifts. His thigh presses close and stays there. And when he passes the joint, he doesn’t just hand it over, no—he holds Eddie’s hand in the process, fingers tangling like the end of a slow dance, simply because he forgets to let go. Because he’s mid-sentence and he’s just remembered a very important thing, and—
“Oh shit, what was it—wait, wait, it was that guy at the gas station with the parrot—dude, you remember—”
Eddie nods like he remembers. He doesn’t. Not even a little. His brain is full of smoke and static and the shape of Steve’s lips as it moves.
The echo of what they might’ve tasted like if Eddie hadn’t chickened out that night.
Steve’s lips are red. Too red. Like bruised cherries.
And then the word cherries starts bouncing around the pinball machine.
Cherries. Cherries. Cherries.
Shut up.
And then—
Then it happens. The third thing.
That heavy, undeniable outline beneath Steve’s way-too-short shorts.
Steve is… yeah. Steve is hard.
No mistaking it. The fabric’s doing him zero favors, shiny nylon catching the light and making the tent impossible to ignore.
But what’s worse lies just a few inches above it.
Resting easy on the flat of his lower belly, fingers splayed wide, is Steve’s hand, moving in slow, absent-minded circles. Thoughtless rubs, casual as breathing. Just one of those idle guy things.
Like when you’re bored. Or hungry.
Or, you know… horny.
Eddie watches, paralyzed.
Watches the way Steve’s thumb catches on the hem of his shirt and pushes it a little higher. The way his palm drifts south, tracing the faint trail of hair that disappears under the waistband.
And it’s not even on purpose. That’s the part that fries Eddie the most.
Steve doesn’t mean to do it. He’s just floating—stoned and loose and not even aware of the show he’s giving.
But Eddie is.
Good lord, Eddie is.
He can feel his own heartbeat in places where it absolutely should not be. Behind his eyes. In his fingertips. Lower.
He wants to speak. Say anything. Say stop or holy shit or please do that forever. But all that comes out is a quiet, reverent:
"...dude."
Steve hums. Doesn’t even look over. Doesn’t seem to notice that Eddie’s barely breathing, pupils probably blown wide like he just saw god and god was wearing very short shorts.
“Hm?” Steve mumbles around a lazy exhale of smoke. “Oh, man, wait, did I tell you about that time Robin got locked in the walk-in freezer? It was like, Fourth of July weekend—crazy busy, line’s out the door—and she’s banging on the door with a frozen turkey leg—”
Eddie nods again, eyes still fixed on the slow motion of Steve’s hand.
Rub. Drag. Pause. Repeat.
Talk about hypnosis.
Smooth circles just below his navel.
Then a faint scratch at the skin like he’s chasing an itch that isn’t really there.
Then, briefly, the heel of his hand presses lower. Too low.
And Eddie—
Eddie is not doing well.
His heart’s going into arrest. He swears he can feel it happening—like a record skipping. Everything is louder. The fan. The music. The rustle of Steve’s shirt. The crackle of the joint burning down between his fingers.
He tears his eyes away, staring straight ahead. Except he can still see Steve in the corner of his vision, and that's worse somehow. Like, if staring directly was free-falling, this is standing on the cliff, toes curled over the edge, anticipating the drop.
It’s the kind of touch that feels terrifyingly intimate to witness, because it’s something you only do when you’re half-asleep in your own bed, safe and unobserved. The sort of thing no one else is ever meant to see.
Steve’s still talking. Something about Robin. A prank gone wrong.
And then—
He shifts.
Spreads his legs a little wider and absently adjusts himself over his shorts. Doesn’t even blink. Just lifts his hips and gives himself a casual, lazy readjust—like it’s nothing.
Like he’s not rearranging the tectonic plates of Eddie Munson’s brain with a single unconscious motion.
“Jesus Christ.” Eddie whispers. Except, again—not on purpose. More like a valve gave out and the words just escaped with the pressure.
Steve finally turns to look at him.
Eyes glassy, smile soft. “You good, man?”
Eddie blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it again.
“You look kinda—uh.” Steve makes a vague shape in the air with his hand. “Melted. In the face.”
Eddie coughs. Tries to sit up straighter. Fails.
“Y-Yeah,” he croaks. “Just... thinking about—uh, space.”
Steve grins. Leans a little closer. “Space?”
“Yup.” Eddie clears his throat. “You know. Stars. The void. Black holes and shit.”
Steve’s eyes light up, like someone just handed him a kitten. “Dude. Same. I’ve been thinking about time travel for like, twenty minutes.”
“Yeah?” Eddie says, voice pitched high and stupid.
“Yeah. Like—what if you could go back and change one thing, right? Just one. But it has to be really small. Like... I dunno. Eating a different sandwich.”
“What the fuck kind of time travel rule is that?”
“I don’t know, man!” Steve laughs, hair falling in front of his eyes. “I’m high. I’m thinking about sandwiches.”
Eddie laughs, too. Mostly because it’s either laugh or confess everything.
He grabs the joint again. Inhales deep, hoping the smoke will fill all the hollow places. Crowd out the words pressing up against his throat.
Steve leans his head back again, smiling dazedly.
“Seriously though... if you could go back and change one thing, what would it be?”
Eddie turns to look at him. Really look.
The freckles. The soft shirt. That stupid little split on his lip.
He exhales slow, smoke curling out like a secret.
“I wouldn’t have chickened out.” He hears himself say.
The room stalls.
Steve blinks. Turns toward him again.
“What?”
Eddie stares at the ceiling.
“Nothing,” he lies. “Sandwich. I meant the sandwich thing.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he can feel Steve looking at him—eyes narrowed, curious.
Eddie holds perfectly still. Doesn’t breathe.
And then—Steve lets it go.
Slides lower against the wall with a sigh, then shifts again. Arms drifting down, thighs spreading a little wider, before he adjusts himself over his shorts for the second time.
Eddie looks. Of course he does.
And instead of letting it go, Steve lingers. Palms himself with this slow, absent drag of his hand. Thumb tracing along the bulge like he’s soothing something. Like maybe it just feels good—the pressure, the warmth, the contact. Then he lets out this soft, satisfied breath through his nose, like a cat in the sun, and—
Yeah.
Nope.
Eddie launches to his feet like someone wired him to a car battery.
Steve blinks. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Eddie croaks. “Fine. Just—”
He glances down at his own chest, suddenly strangled in chainmail two sizes too small.
“Shirt feels weird.”
Steve frowns, peering. “You hot?”
“No. Yeah. Just—fabric,” Eddie mumbles, fingers tugging at the hem. It clings to him suddenly, like wet paper. Too close. Too much. The collar bites at his throat. His shoulders feel like they’re in a vise. Gotta get out, gotta—
“I’m just, I’m just gonna change.”
Eddie spins toward the dresser like it’s a lifeline, knees locking just to keep himself upright. He yanks open the top drawer with more force than necessary, the wood groaning in protest. Doesn’t matter. He needs cover. Needs distance. Something longer. Baggier. Something that’ll hide the aching pitch in his jeans.
His hands claw through the contents of the drawer—band tees, flannels, a hoodie he hasn’t worn since '81. Finally, his fingers catch on something soft and oversized, black and worn thin.
Yeah. That. That’ll work.
He yanks his shirt over his head and fumbles with the new one, trying to find the head hole, but it’s inside out. Of course it is. One sleeve’s tucked in. The bottom’s curled. His hands feel like bricks—slow and clumsy with weed and panic.
Just let me get it on, for fuck’s sake. Just need to cover up, need to get out of this skin.
And then, casual as anything, drifting across the room like a feather:
“It’s healed nicely.”
Eddie freezes. Half-dressed, one arm twisted through a sleeve, collar looped around his neck like a noose. He looks like he’s caught wrestling a ghost.
He blinks.
“What?”
Steve’s gaze isn’t on his face. It’s lower. By his side.
“Your scar. It's not all red anymore.”
Eddie blinks again. Follows the line of sight.
The scar has healed. As best as it could, anyway. But the infection made sure it wouldn’t be neat.
Crescent-shaped gouges, jagged and pink, crawl unevenly down his sides. Swollen, ropey lines twisting beneath the skin—scar tissue piled on scar tissue, like his body couldn’t figure out how to fix what was broken so it just kept trying, over and over, until it gave up.
Still, if you didn’t know better, you might mistake it for something mundane. A bad burn. A botched surgery.
But Eddie knows. Eddie remembers.
He huffs a breath through his nose, offers Steve a little half-smile: “Should’ve seen the other guy.”
Then he tugs his shirt down over it. Always down. Always fast.
Goes to sit again, but this time on the edge of the mattress, turned away with his back to Steve.
A reflex. A well-practiced bit of armor.
He’s used it so many times it barely means anything anymore.
Because even here, even now, in the quiet safety of his own room with Steve sitting soft behind him—he still can’t let the silence breathe loud enough for the thoughts to find him.
But it’s too late. The walls are whispering now.
They used to crawl above his bed after the hospital let him out. When he’d lie awake, staring at the water-stained ceiling, half-expecting that slick, black thing to tear it back open—split the aluminum and drag him under. Both hands braced hard against the gauze over his stomach, pretending the pressure could hold him together. Like if he stayed still enough, didn’t breathe too deep, he could keep it all in and not end up back there.
Yet the moment he closed his eyes, he’d be on the ground—blood soaking the dirt, lungs clawing for air, everything cold and red and endless.
Hero.
As if it were that simple. As if not dying made you brave.
As if a carved-up ribcage could rewrite a lifetime of whispers and name-calling. Brand over it with proof—that he’s real, tough, man enough.
They called it a battle wound. A badge of honor.
But to Eddie, it’s always felt more like confirmation.
An ugly, slithering, grotesque thing that runs across the softest part of him. Just under the ribs, where bone gives way to tender flesh. The place you curl around when you're scared, when you’re in pain. The part of the body that braces when the world is relentless.
And sometimes—when his trailer’s quiet and his breath won’t slow—it speaks.
There’s a monster living in Eddie Munson’s side, and it whispers to him in the dark:
Don’t you see? This is who you are.
Not a scar—a confession. A truth made visible.
Like his body finally caught up to what people have been saying about him his whole life.
You were always a freak.
This is what happens to boys like you.
And the worst part?
Sometimes, he believes it.
Sometimes, he wonders if he got bit because the world already knew. Because the monsters always find the broken ones first.
And he could’ve kept it all quiet. He has, for most of his life.
Liking girls was never the issue. He’s had his share of shitty crushes on leather jackets and dark lipstick. Stolen glances at passing cheerleaders that lasted long enough to buy time.
But boys?
Boys were a different story.
Boys were locker rooms and slurs. Boys were bruised ribs and fists that didn’t stop.
Boys were showers taken fast and silent. Eyes forward. Mouth shut.
He’s learned young that you don’t look too long. You don’t linger.
Boys were want tangled in fear, so Eddie got good at pretending he didn’t want at all.
Shoved it somewhere deep, where no light could ever reach.
Until the bats. Until the scar.
Until Steve.
Steve, who is golden.
Steve, who is good.
Steve, who is sitting just behind him right now.
The kind of boy who bends light like a prism, scattering warmth and color wherever he moves. The kind who kisses girls in the daylight and shines even brighter at night.
The kind whose own scar, nearly identical, had only made him look braver. More beautiful.
And Eddie—
Eddie wants.
He’s always wanted.
Long before it made any kind of sense. Before the scar. Before the blood and the dirt and the pain.
Since the first time Steve walked past him in the hallway and Eddie punched a locker so hard afterward it cracked the skin on his knuckles. Didn’t even know why.
He knows now.
So much has changed since then.
He’s not ashamed of it anymore. Or not in the way he used to be.
He knows what it is. Has a name for it. Doesn’t flinch when it crosses his mind.
But it’s one thing to know it. It’s another thing to live it, to show it.
To let someone like Steve—popular, beautiful, normal Steve—see it.
To believe he might want Eddie back.
Eddie wants to believe.
Always wants, and wants, and wants.
Wants to believe that when Steve looks at him and smiles, it’s more than curiosity behind his eyes.
That this isn’t something new or temporary. Not something safe to experiment with in the dark.
And that doubt—it’s ridiculous, isn’t it? After everything they’ve been through? Knowing you, knowing Steve?
But Eddie’s monster is a vicious, relentless thing.
How could he possibly want you? The way you want him?
Eddie stares down at his hands, at the hem of his shirt. Knuckles bone-white. Breath shallow.
The whispers are carving sharp and cold lines into his ribs. He’s not sure when he started holding his breath.
And then—warmth.
Just a small shift on the bed, a brush of knee to knee—and Eddie startles, blinking like he’s surfaced too fast from deep water.
Then a voice. Soft. Uneven.
“I used to hate looking at mine.” The voice says.
“Couldn’t even stand to catch a glimpse. Covered all the mirrors in the house. Showered with the lights off.”
The voice swallows, brittle and threadbare.
“Said no to like... everything. Dates, parties. Anyone who asked.”
A small sound follows. Wet. Like a laugh caught sideways in a throat.
“I mean, how do you even explain something like that, right?”
Eddie glances up.
And for a long, quiet moment, he just looks.
Steve Harrington.
King Steve. Casanova. All-American boy.
The guy who makes Farrah Fawcett hairspray look manly.
Golden. Untouchable.
Only now—there’s a mark in his side, too. Same place. Same shape.
A crack in the prism. A fracture in the light.
Steve’s eyes are rimmed red. Lashes damp. His lips tremble faintly, and he’s blinking fast, like he’s holding something in by sheer force of will.
And Eddie—he wonders what Steve’s monster is saying to him right now.
Because suddenly, Steve doesn’t look like a king. Or a knight. Or a dream drawn in perfect lines.
He just looks like a boy.
He looks just like… Eddie.
And Eddie—scar and all, want and all—moves.
His hand is on Steve’s knee. His breath is caught somewhere in his chest.
And before he can think better of it, before the monster in his side can open its mouth again—
He leans in. Closes the distance. And kisses him.
It’s not soft. Not graceful. Not anything close to cinematic.
It’s messy and desperate and made of years of want tied tight with shame.
Their teeth knock. His nose smushes into Steve’s cheek. His hand misses a shoulder entirely and ends up fisting the sleeve of Steve’s shirt.
But Steve doesn’t pull away.
Steve leans in.
Steve kisses back.
And for the first time in a long, long time, the monster in Eddie’s side goes still.
Doesn’t whisper, doesn’t mock.
Silent.
And Eddie decides he wants the last word, for once.
“I’ve wanted this,” he breathes—barely more than a whisper, soaked in disbelief, pressed against Steve’s mouth like a confession. His eyes are clenched tight. “Fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long.”
Steve breaks off with a quiet inhale. His lashes twitch as he opens his eyes, gaze wide and water-clear, pupils nearly swallowing the hazel.
“Me too,” he breathes. “I just—I didn’t know how to say it.”
That cracks something open in Eddie. Something too tender to look at directly.
A sound slips out of him—half laugh, half sob—and he presses his forehead to Steve’s, eyes squeezing shut again so he can feel the world with his skin instead of looking at it.
Steve’s hands find his sides, thumbs grazing the fabric stretched over his scars.
Eddie lifts his arms, lets Steve peel the shirt over his head.
The air hits his bare skin, and he shivers despite the thick summer heat. Steve traces the scar with his eyes before he ever touches it. And when his fingers finally land, they’re featherlight. Careful. Reverent.
Following the crescent like a path. A story. A shared legacy etched into skin.
Eddie’s breath stutters.
“Yours too?” His voice catches on the words. He means the shirt. He means the scar. He means everything.
Steve nods, just as quiet. “Yeah.”
He reaches for the hem of Steve’s shirt, and Steve lifts his arms, lets himself be unraveled. Beneath is golden skin, the soft swell of muscle, and an infinite cosmos of freckles. Eddie’s mouth goes dry, eyes tracing the down of hair on Steve’s chest to the matching scars along his side.
“Fuck,” he whispers. But there’s no sentence after it. No language for what Steve looks like—what he is. So Eddie leans in, letting his mouth speak for him. Steve meets him halfway, palms warm against Eddie’s skin, right over the place where he was broken.
Their mouths crash together again—no hesitation now. Just heat. Wet and wanting.
Then Eddie pulls back suddenly, breath hitching.
“What about, uh...”
Steve brushes a thumb along Eddie’s hip. “She’s cool with it. Told me before she left.”
Eddie swallows. Nods. The moment’s too raw for all the questions he probably should be asking. So instead, he leans in again—deeper this time, hungrier.
His hands slide up to map Steve’s back. Steve’s fingers skate along his sides. Shirtless becomes shirtless and breathless. They tug artlessly at each other’s clothes—the soft drag of denim, the slick rustle of nylon.
Down to boxers. Skin against skin. Hips nudging, breaths caught between mouths.
Steve ends up over him, one hand braced beside Eddie’s head, the other tracing the line of his waist like he’s trying to memorize every inch.
And Eddie can’t stop looking.
Steve Harrington. On top of him. Glowing with sweat, cheeks flushed, mouth red and kiss-bitten. He’s leaning down again, slow and open-mouthed, dragging his lips against Eddie’s pulse like he wants to drink from it.
Every kiss lights Eddie up like a fuse. He gasps when Steve nips the soft spot just under his jaw.
Steve grins, then kisses a slow line across his sternum before slipping lower, off the bed in one smooth motion.
The mattress is low to the ground, so Eddie’s feet dangle just over the edge, skimming the floor. The carpet’s rough beneath his heels. Every detail feels razor-sharp.
Steve sinks to his knees, lashes low. He looks up through them, lips parted, pupils like planets—wide and dark and hungry.
And fuck—Eddie’s chest pulls tight, like a fist closing around his heart.
He’s beautiful.
The words ignite in Eddie’s brain like sparks in a pinball machine—bright, dizzying, ricocheting in wild neon bursts. Clichéd. Stupid, even. But it hits with the force of something ancient and true. So sharp it hurts to hold.
Steve Harrington is fucking beautiful.
And then Steve is looking down. Down at where Eddie’s cock is straining against the damp cling of his boxers, thick and twitching beneath the fabric.
His voice is quiet, barely there. “Can I?”
Eddie nods, trembling. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
Steve’s hands come first—palms dragging slow over the insides of Eddie’s thighs, warm and steady on overheated skin. Eddie jolts at the contact, breath catching.
“I’ll stop if you want,” Steve murmurs, palm rubbing hypnotic circles. “Just tell me.”
Eddie can barely speak around the need knotting in his throat. “I won’t. I don’t want you to.”
A beat.
Then, Steve leans in.
His mouth presses hot over the front of Eddie’s boxers, lips to cotton—just breath, just contact. A pause to let the moment hum. And then a kiss, soft and deliberate through the fabric, and Eddie’s hips buck helplessly.
“Shit,” Eddie gasps, slapping a hand over his eyes like he can shut the feeling down before it eats him alive. But he doesn’t want to shut it down. Not even close.
Steve laughs, quiet and shaky, the sound vibrating right through him. It’s almost nervous—like he’s surprised he brought that out of him.
Then fingers—careful, warm—slip beneath the waistband. Ease the fabric down.
Eddie’s cock springs free, flushed dark and leaking. It smacks against his belly, twitching in the cooler air. And Steve just… looks at it for a second. Like he’s memorizing this too. Licks his lips without meaning to.
Eddie watches, barely breathing. There’s something in Steve’s eyes—not clumsy, but deliberate. Like he’s planning every moment before he approaches it.
Steve wraps a hand around the base, squeezing lightly.
A breath. A pause.
And then he dips his head, lips parted, and draws the tip into his mouth.
Eddie nearly comes on the spot.
Steve’s mouth is hot. Slick and trembling with intention. He wraps around the head of Eddie’s cock like he’s still feeling it out—how much he can take, how deep he wants to go.
Eddie bites down on his fist to keep the sounds in. His other hand grips the sheets. His hips twitch again, but Steve follows, lets it happen, tongue dragging messily along the underside. A quiet hmfh leaves Steve’s nose—pleased, maybe surprised—and Eddie doesn’t even realize he’s been whimpering until Steve hums, deep and sinful like he's proud.
That sound punches straight through Eddie’s spine. He jolts, choking on air.
“F-fuck, Steve—”
Steve hums again, starting to bob his head a little, testing it. Eyes shut now, brows furrowed in concentration. His lips stretch slick and pink around Eddie’s cock, one hand planted firm on Eddie’s thigh, the other still loose at the base. And when he sinks just a little deeper, cheeks hollowing, tongue sweeping wide—
Eddie shudders like a plucked string.
Because Steve is being so goddamn intentional. Going slow. Thinking through it. Trying things.
A swirl of tongue. A soft suck. A pause to breathe. Every movement deliberate, like he’s checking in without asking.
And Eddie’s chest swells so full it feels like it might burst.
Steve pulls back with a wet pop, eyes glassy, mouth shining.
Eddie looks down at him like he’s hallucinating. A fever dream wrapped in sun and sweat and something too big to name. His chest heaves. His thighs tremble. His feet drag against the floor, but nothing about him feels tethered anymore.
“You okay?” Steve’s voice is hoarse.
Eddie nods too fast, curls in his eyes.
“Yeah. God, yeah. Just—” He runs a shaky hand through his hair, trying to ground himself. “Didn’t expect to almost blow my load from like… five seconds of you.”
Steve’s mouth tilts, just a little. Not smug—shy. A flicker of pride beneath the sweat over his brow.
“Yeah?” he says, leaning back a little, hands still warm on Eddie’s thighs. “It's good?”
Eddie lets out a wrecked laugh, flopping onto the mattress and covering his face. “You have no idea.”
And Steve really doesn’t.
Because this thing—this whole fucking thing—is lighting Eddie up from the inside out. It’s not some porn-perfect deepthroating or practiced rhythm. It’s real. It’s Steve. Raw and gorgeous and holy. It’s the way his fingers flex against Eddie’s thighs. The way he pauses to breathe then tries again—slower, deeper, tongue pressing flat beneath the head, smiling when he catches the little twitch in Eddie’s hip.
It's the way he can tell Steve wants this to be good.
Eddie props himself up on one elbow, eyes meeting Steve’s again.
“You should put this on your resume,” he croaks. “Right under basketball and hair-grooming.”
Steve snorts, ducking his head into the crook of Eddie’s thigh like he’s hiding.
“Hardly,” he mumbles. Then quieter, against his skin: “First time.”
Eddie’s heart skips so hard he feels it in his teeth.
“Wait, wha—first?”
Steve nods against him, almost nuzzling. “With a guy, yeah.”
Eddie blinks. His brain short-circuits, any clever comeback he could ever formulate dying in his throat. There’s only heat now. And awe. And something that feels suspiciously like worship curling in his gut.
Steve Harrington. Giving his first to him.
Eddie doesn’t know what to do with that. How to hold it.
The pinball machine in his head starts up again—except it’s not chaos now. It’s wonder. Pure, strobing wonder.
He reaches out, brushes damp curls back from Steve’s temple.
“You’re unreal,” he whispers. “You know that?”
Steve doesn’t answer. Just lifts his eyes and leans back in. A kiss to the inside of Eddie’s thigh. Another just above his knee. Gentle and so fucking tender.
Then his mouth is back on Eddie’s cock—more confident this time. More knowing. Like he’s memorized the shape already. He slides down further, takes more. Eddie arches off the bed with a full-body gasp.
His hands find Steve’s hair, threading through and trying—failing—not to tug.
Steve just groans, low in his throat. Like he wants to be tugged on. Wants to be wanted.
The rhythm shifts. Steve finds it. Learns it. Wet, obscene sounds filling the room as Eddie’s cock disappears again and again into Steve’s mouth.
And Eddie’s about to lose his mind. Melt into the sheets and be reborn as a mole on Steve Harrington’s cheek.
“Jesus Christ,” he gasps, head thrown back, vision white-hot. “Fuck, I—Steve, baby, slow down—”
Baby.
It slips out, unthinking. But Steve doesn’t flinch. He moans.
And Eddie feels it.
That low, hungry sound vibrating around the base of his cock, all the way up his spine. Steve pushes faster, harder, deeper, fingers sinking into the meat of Eddie’s thighs as his cock starts ramming the soft, fleshy part at the back of Steve’s throat.
Eddie’s heart flips. His toes curl. A warning builds at the pit of his stomach, huge and inevitable.
“Gonna—fuck, Steve, I’m gonna—” he gasps, voice wrecked, hand fisting in Steve’s hair.
And Steve—god, Steve—just nods around him.
Doesn’t pull off. Doesn’t hesitate. Just presses closer, adjusting his grip on Eddie’s hips, keeping that brutal, perfect rhythm.
It hits Eddie like a freight train—a burst of white, all-consuming heat behind his eyes. His whole body bows tight, wound like a wire before it snaps. He moans into the crook of his own arm, breath hitching on every pulse as he rides it out.
Steve doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even falter. Not until Eddie’s gasping, oversensitive, hand fluttering weakly at his shoulder in a silent plea for mercy. Only then does he ease back, mouth slipping free with a soft, wet sound that’s somehow just as obscene as everything that came before.
Eddie lifts his arm, squinting down.
And there, between Eddie Munsons’s legs, Steve Harrington is a fucking vision.
Flushed pink down to his collarbones. Hair wild. Lips slick and glistening. He swipes a thumb across the corner of his mouth, sheepish, and glances up like he’s waiting for something. A reaction. Approval. Reassurance.
Eddie can barely think, let alone speak.
He just stares for a while, chest flailing, brain fried, limbs fuzzy with aftershocks.
And Steve is still there, kneeling between his thighs, looking up at Eddie like he’d just hung the goddamn moon.
“Holy shit,” Eddie finally manages, voice wrecked. “Are you… that was your first time?”
Steve gives a crooked, bashful smile. “Yep.”
Eddie drags a hand over his face, trying to gather what’s left of himself. “Jesus, Harrington. If that’s you figuring it out, I’m terrified of the sequel.”
Steve snorts, soft and self-deprecating, and settles back on his heels. His thighs flex as he adjusts, arms draped loose over Eddie’s knees like they belong there.
“I just… wanted to do it right,” He murmurs, voice still rough-edged. “For you.”
And Eddie’s heart cracks clean open.
Because that’s it. That’s the thing. Not to take or experiment—to give.
Steve wanted to give. To make it good, even with nerves and inexperience.
And it was. It was fucking perfect.
Eddie shoots upright—legs still jelly, hair wild and stuck to his cheeks with sweat—and hauls Steve up into a kiss.
Fierce and clumsy. All heat and bitter salt and desperate gratitude. Something tender and overwhelming threaded through every press of lips.
“Thank you,” he whispers against Steve’s mouth.
Steve just smiles into it, eyes dark and warm.
They stay there for a while like that—foreheads pressed, breathing the same air, sweaty and stunned and grinning like absolute idiots. Eddie hunched awkwardly on the edge of the bed, Steve kneeling in front of him like he has nowhere else he’d rather be.
Eddie’s exhausted. His head is spinning. He’s… happier than he’s ever fucking been.
And then, because he’s greedy, because he wants, he slides his fingers gently along the back of Steve’s neck and murmurs, low and teasing, “Your turn.”
But Steve goes still.
Freezes. Just for a second. His eyes dip. His jaw tenses.
Eddie’s smile slips. His hand goes still.
“Hey,” he says softly, following the line of Steve’s gaze—down—
Oh.
Oh.
There’s a stain on the front of Steve’s boxers.
Big. Wet. Obvious.
“Holy shit.” Eddie blurts.
Steve groans and covers his face with both hands. “Don’t.”
“You came in your boxers?”
“Jesus, Munson,” Steve mutters, face redder than Eddie’s ever seen it.
But Eddie’s already grinning—wolfish and slow, breathless with wonder. Awe curling sharp in his gut.
“Oh my god,” he breathes. “I didn’t even… I didn’t even touch you.”
Steve smirks at him through his fingers. “Yeah, yeah, you fucking love this, don’t you?”
“You fucking bet I do,” Eddie’s practically glowing now. “Shit, that’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
Steve tries to glare. It doesn’t stick. Not with his lips still kiss-swollen, not with that blush creeping all the way down his chest.
Eddie kisses him again—can’t not—heart full and stupid and wild. He pulls back with a grin so wide it almost hurts.
“You’re the worst, Munson.”
Eddie snorts, looping an arm around his waist. “Yeah, well—”
The shrill ring of the landline cuts through the room like a blade.
Eddie groans and drops his forehead to Steve’s shoulder, willing it to stop.
It doesn’t.
“Fuckin’ course,” he mutters, swearing under his breath as Steve chuckles.
He stumbles to his feet, jogs down the hallway still completely naked, dick wet, skin tacky with sweat. Scowls at the receiver like it’s personally offended him, then snatches it up with a resigned sigh.
And when he answers, it’s—
“That’s her, isn’t it?” Steve smirks, padding into the kitchen in nothing but his stained boxers.
Eddie just nods and holds out the phone.
Steve takes it, all smug and unbothered. “Knew it. Told you,” he says, then drops instantly into a syrupy, exaggerated tone. “Hey, baby. How’s Wisconsin?”
A soft, familiar voice crackles on the other end.
“Uh huh. Uh huh. Oh, you know… just smoking, drinking beers. Guy shit.”
Eddie rolls his eyes so hard it might cause permanent damage.
Steve’s grin only grows wider. “Okay, baby. I love you too. Call me tomorrow. Here’s Eddie.”
He thrusts the phone at Eddie, looking way too pleased with himself as he backs off with a wink.
Eddie? Eds, you there?
“Yeah,” Eddie says, still a little breathless. “Hey.”
Ugh, I miss you. You’ll be okay with Steve for a couple more days, right?
“Yeah. Uh huh.”
Thanks for keeping him company. He gets grumpy when he’s lonely.
Eddie glances back toward the living room, where Steve is lazily inspecting his mug collection, hands tucked behind his back like some kind of bored museum guest.
“Don’t worry,” Eddie says with a smile. “I’m keeping him in line.”
A soft laugh filters through the phone.
Okay, well… I’ll see you both Monday.
A beat.
Don’t have too much fun without me.
Innocent enough, but Eddie catches that sly undercurrent in your tone. His eyes flick to the back of Steve’s head, curls still messy from his earlier efforts.
“We won’t.” He lies.
Click.
Eddie hangs up the receiver, stares at it for a second, then shakes his head and pads barefoot back to the bedroom.
“She said not to have too much fun without her.” He calls over his shoulder.
Steve’s voice floats after him, laughing. “Classic.”
Eddie spins once at the doorway, arms crossed, still completely naked.
“Care to break that down for me?”
Steve bites his lip, fighting a grin.
“She, uh, asked me to keep her posted if anything… interesting goes down.”
Eddie blinks. “Interesting.”
“Yeah. Tried to convince me to bring a camcorder.”
Eddie’s jaw drops to the floor. Steve bursts out laughing, nearly doubling over as he makes his way back to the bed.
“Your face! God, you’re just too easy, Munson.”
...
The world’s gone soft around the edges.
The sun’s dipped past the treeline, and the room is bathed in the lazy amber flicker of a dollar store lamp perched crooked on the dresser. The air smells like smoke, sweat, and the faint citrus-clean scent of Steve’s deodorant.
Eddie’s slouched against the headboard, the joint nearly burned to a stub between his fingers. He hasn’t passed it in a while—kind of forgot it was even there. He feels like a different person from the one who first lit it.
“How long have you known?”
Steve’s voice cuts through the haze, low and quiet.
Eddie blinks, takes a slow drag. Holds it a beat longer than he needs to. Lets it sting.
“Since sixth grade,” he shrugs.
Steve turns toward him, brows raised. “Shit.”
“Yeah.” Eddie exhales, smoke curling from his lips. “You remember Zach Feldman?”
Steve squints. “Zach Feldman… the guy with the fingerless gloves? Gelled his hair like a porcupine?”
“One and only.”
Steve chuckles. “Dude let me copy his math homework for, like, a year.”
Eddie grins faintly. “He let me borrow his headphones once. Played me this godawful hippie band. Psychedelic kazoo nonsense.”
Steve snorts.
“I listened to that album every day for three months,” Eddie sighs, flicking ash into the little dish balanced on the nightstand. “Didn’t even realize why at the time. Just… knew it felt good. And scary.”
He drops his head back, blinking slowly.
“I was scared shitless, man. Like if I said it out loud—even just in my own head—something terrible would happen.”
Steve doesn’t fill the silence right away. He just reaches out, gently taking the joint from Eddie’s fingers. Lets his hand linger there for longer than necessary.
“Man. Guess I’ve got Feldman to thank, then, huh?”
Eddie squints up.
Steve shrugs, waving the joint in a loose circle.
“This. You. Your whole origin story. Like that, Spider-Guy or whatever. Some dude made you listen to shit music as a kid, and so you swerved in the complete opposite direction.”
Eddie barks a laugh. “Kazoo-metal, baby. I would’ve shredded.”
“Awful.” Steve says, wrinkling his nose—but he’s smiling, soft and golden. One arm draped across his knee, looking at Eddie like he never plans on looking away.
The moment stretches, not awkward—just easy. Laced with something familiar and good.
Eddie rubs a hand over his face, breathing out slow.
“What about you?”
Steve hums, tilting his head. “Dunno. Kind of recent, I guess.”
He glances down, thumb tracing slow patterns along his shin. “Always had… feelings. But I didn’t really know until I knew, you know?”
Eddie narrows his eyes, mouth twitching.
“Harrington. Are you saying I was your gay awakening?”
Steve just shrugs, flashing him that boyish grin again.
And that—that—does something fucked to Eddie’s heart. Makes it stutter real loud in his chest.
“I wanted to do more,” Steve adds suddenly, voice dipping low again. “Last weekend. But… you looked kinda freaked out already, and I didn’t wanna like, scare you off.”
Eddie blinks. His throat goes tight. There’s a heat behind his eyes now that’s got nothing to do with weed.
He clears his throat, snorts once.
“Scare me how? By coming in your pants?”
Steve chokes out a laugh, shoving at him with a weak little punch.
“You’re the worst, Munson.”
Eddie grins through the prickle in his eyes.
Then shuffles closer, and begins to count the freckles on Steve’s face all over again.
“Love ya too, man.”
a/n: oh, my sweet sweet boys 🥲🥲 hope u flagged some of the lingering steddie tension in the last part bc this is what that was for!
i love it when u guys ramble to me abt my silly little stories! ur sweet reblogs and comments keep me going :))
summary: And now his brain’s spinning out again. Swerving hard down the Steve-path.
Because you’re his girlfriend. Right?
You and Steve. That’s the rule. The boundary. The carved-in-stone given.
warnings: 18+ smut, threesome (mmf), p in v, oral (m receiving), handjob, praise kink, dirty talk, instructional, lots of check-ins, heavy pining, softdom!steve, kind of subby!eddie, bisexual!eddie, bisexual!steve (?), voyeurism, external ejaculation, light alcohol use, insecurity abt scars (s4 canon events), body worship, eddie's pov, did i mention pining, bi-panic (!), friends to lovers, angst, fluff, slow burn, polyamory
a/n: whoo. sit tight, y'all. whole thing's kind of a ride. read pt. 1 here. series masterlist
It’s after eleven when the party fizzles out.
Robin’s shouting something unintelligible by the door, buzzing from three and a half vodka slushies and a game of charades that got deeply unhinged somewhere around The Exorcist.
“The powerr of Christ... compellshh you!” she cackles, Jonathan and Nancy in tow.
“Jesus, Buckley, go home.”
“Handss off, Harrrington—I'm gay, remem’ber?”
Byye! Love ya birrthday girl!
Drive safe, you idiots.
G’night! Woah, Rob, watch out for the—
Oh my god, Robin!
Nope, I’m aaall good! Tootally fine!”
Jon I got her, go get the car.
And then—finally, blessedly—silence.
The lights are dimmed. Music low, static-thin from the stereo, one of your mixtapes playing something dreamy. There’s cake crumbs all over the floor, glitter ground into the carpet. A stack of half-drunk cans sweating onto the coffee table.
Just the three of you now.
You’re sitting on the rug with your knees folded to one side. Back against the couch, barefoot, in an oversized tee Eddie’s pretty sure used to belong to Steve.
You look… unguarded. Loose in a way people rarely are.
Steve returns to your side, slipping back into the picture of lazy confidence. His legs stretched out long and lean, one elbow slung behind your shoulders. His hair falls in that perfect mess, strands brushing his eyes, and his skin glows with the soft flush of the night—not his night, but he carries that kind of light anyway.
He looks impossibly good. Of course he does.
Asshole.
Eddie’s sitting on the floor across from you, spine slumped against your armchair. He’s absentmindedly picking at a crumpled napkin, still nursing the same beer he cracked open an hour ago.
It’s warm now, but he keeps sipping it, if only to give his hands something to do.
Then your voice floats over, light and silky, and Eddie’s head snaps up.
“This is really something, Eds,” your eyes are tracing the slim leather-bound notebook in your lap. A ribbon tie, knotted with a tiny silver guitar charm, swings lightly between your fingers.
“Seriously. Thank you."
You look up at him with that slow, dreamlike smile—one Eddie still isn’t sure he deserves.
“Sure. Figured you’d wanna keep tabs on how much we all suck.”
You laugh. The sound curls warm in his chest.
“Looks badass, babe.” Steve leans over to peek at the cover. “Look at how smooth that leather is.”
You smile. “Right?”
Steve smiles back. Not his usual shit-eating grin, either. This one’s quieter. Loose around the edges. Then, with a soft nudge against your knee, he adds:
“You’ve always loved Eddie’s gifts the best.”
Eddie freezes, fingers going still on the napkin. He blinks hard, breath stalling.
That was a coincidence. That had to be a coincidence.
His gaze flicks between you and Steve, eyes narrowed, searching for a sign, a tell. But you just nod, humming softly in agreement as you adjust your legs, hand brushing over Steve’s thigh in passing.
Casual.
Too casual.
Eddie’s just about ready to say something dumb—deflect, escape—oh gosh, look at the time!—when he notices Steve looking at him.
Not smug, or teasing.
Just watching.
Like he sees the thoughts scrambling behind Eddie’s eyes and isn’t in a rush to chase them away.
Then Steve clears his throat, unwinding his arm from behind you and reaching for the lone remaining slice of cake.
“Baby, you want this last one?” he murmurs low, fork in hand.
You shake your head, laughing softly. “I’m gonna explode.”
“Munson?” Steve turns. “You want it?”
Eddie blinks.
“What?”
Steve smiles.
“The cake, man. You want it?”
Eddie opens his mouth to decline, but for some dumb, stubborn reason his gaze falls to you instead—eyes half-lidded, chin propped on your hand, lips curled just so—unreadable yet quietly inviting.
Somehow, the ‘sure’ slips out before he can stop it.
Steve’s grin widens.
Eddie leans forward, half-expecting Steve to pass him the plate.
So when he doesn’t—just grins and says,“Gotta open wide for this one, man”—Eddie’s dumb brain short-circuits.
And he just... does it.
Opens his mouth like a complete idiot and waits.
The fork takes forever to reach him.
His neck’s craned at some dumb, uncomfortable, nearly painful angle, but it’s happening now, apparently, and he’s powerless to stop it. So he lets the fork slide past his lips. Closes around it.
Cherry frosting. Soft vanilla sponge. The taste is irrelevant.
Steve watches him chew, then leans back like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just hand-feed his friend cake in front of his girlfriend.
And you—fuck, you’re still watching. Still smiling.
Something soft and unreadable in your eyes, and it hits him low, behind his ribs, hot and unsteady. And Eddie doesn’t know what the hell to do with it. Doesn’t know what it means. Just knows it lands in his chest like a spark catching in dry tinder, slow and quiet and dangerous.
You hum, tipping your head just slightly:
“Mmm. Now I kind of want a bite.”
Casual. Lazy with sugar and vodka and whatever the hell has changed in the last two minutes.
Flirty, he dares to think.
His brain is screaming. Every nerve lit up like a switchboard, crackling with static, humming a language he doesn’t speak but somehow feels written all over his skin.
And Steve—Christ—Steve's murmuring in your ear, voice all syrup and sunshine.
“‘Course, babe, c’mere.”
And that smile—boyish, bright, sweet as pie. Beaming at you like you’d hung the fucking moon.
He’s doting now. Practically cooing while he loads the next forkful, hand cradling your jaw, might as well be making fucking airplane noises as he guides the bite to your mouth, and Eddie—
Eddie’s gonna be sick.
He’s gonna fucking combust—
And then… you moan.
Nothing loud or obscene. Just this quiet little breath—low and warm and full of satisfaction.
Still, it hits him like a brick to the sternum.
Turns his blood ice cold, even as the kindling in his gut catches fire like dry brush in a heatwave.
He nearly chokes on the last bite of cake—ends up lunging for his beer instead. His fingers fumble, he swears under his breath when the bottle almost tips, and he downs a mouthful too fast. It’s warm and flat and bitter.
Fucking gross.
He immediately takes another swig.
When he looks up, Steve’s still grinning down at you, eyes all shiny and soft.
“Yeah? That good?”
And god, the way he says it—low, teasing—and now he’s pushing his thumb past his lips to lick the leftover icing, and—
Holy shit.
Steve’s not looking at you anymore.
He’s looking up.
At Eddie.
Not you.
Eddie.
And maybe it’s nothing. Just a glance. A flicker.
But it catches Eddie off-guard, has something stuttering deep in his ribs.
You’ve always loved Eddie’s gifts the best.
And suddenly, there’s a low-grade panic humming in his bloodstream.
Because in retrospect it did sound a lot like an implication, and he’s not sure what’s worse: believing that it was, or that maybe it wasn’t.
His heart’s jackhammering, palms slick. His knee bounces once, then again, before he forces it still.
“So good, Stevie,” you sigh, syrupy-sweet, sinking back into Steve’s arms as he leans down to peck your lips, and—YEP. OK.
Eddie blinks, tearing his gaze away, feeling the weight of discomfort really sink in. Shuffles against the ground, suddenly hyper-aware of his hands, his boots, the way he’s just sort of there while you two glow golden together.
Right. Time for this third wheel to gracefully roll his ass out of here and—
“Eddie.”
His name floats over in your voice—soft, certain.
“Uh… yeah?
“Thanks for coming today. And for…”
You smile. A little crooked, a little knowing.
“…helping Steve pick out my gift.”
He freezes.
Just. Full-body lockup.
There’s a long beat of silence where his brain blanks, words floating unprocessed.
Then they hit.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Everything inside him shuts down like someone flipped a breaker.
“Uhhhh,”
It’s a sound, technically. He makes it for what feels like an hour, until Steve finally—finally—takes mercy on him.
“The toy, man. She knows.”
And just like that. It’s out.
The lavender-colored silicone elephant has officially entered the room.
Eddie stares.
“I—you…” he stammers. Fails. Tries again.
You knew. You knew this whole time, and he—
“Mhm.” You nod, as if reading his mind. Then, slower: “And I just wanted to say… it was a really thoughtful choice.”
Oh, no.
Nope.
Nope nope nope.
Definitely a sex dream. That’s what this is.
Any second now he’s gonna wake up in a pile of blankets with a dry mouth and a hard-on and a vague sense of shame.
Three, two, one—
“I kind of asked him to, you know.”
And that short-circuits everything. Because you're starting to shift a little closer now, making Eddie painfully aware of how little space there is between you.
Half-lounging on the rug, legs folded beneath you, so when you lean in—eyes all warm and glassy—it looks like you’re crawling straight into his lap.
Eddie cannot breathe.
Everything in his head just... slams to a halt.
His eyes flit desperately across your face. Then back to Steve. Then back to you.
Your knees are nearly touching his. You’re not looking away.
“You… you asked?”
You smile again. You’re on your hands and knees.
“Yeah. Told Steve to talk to you. Figured if anyone could help me out, it’d be you.”
You pause as you get closer, hands just short of grazing his leg.
His heart is doing something unsafe in his chest.
“Only if you want to, Eds. No pressure.”
Eddie’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. He’s a fucking goldfish, he knows. Can’t stop.
Not when you’re looking at him like that—like this is a normal conversation and not a total mental collapse in real time—and your fingers are now lightly tapping the floor, just inches from his leg like they’re thinking about making the jump.
Steve hasn’t said a word, so Eddie risks a quick glance over your shoulder. He finds him already looking back, and when their eyes lock, Steve gives a small nod.
Like he’s serious. Like this isn't a carefully laid sex trap, baited with silicone.
Eddie could cry. He really could.
Not even from joy—just from the sheer overload of it all. His chest goes tight, vision a little too sharp around the edges, like his body’s already pulling back.
It’s automatic, this desperate little reflex of his. The cowardly thought that if he pulls away now, he won’t have to face the possibility that it’s real.
That he hasn’t been hallucinating this strange, slow-burning orbit around the three of you, the gravitational pull he’s been quietly caught in for weeks, circling closer and closer to something that he hasn’t dared to name.
So, naturally, what comes out next is:
“Is this… is this like a joke?”
The glassy haze in your eyes clears in an instant. Your brows draw together, lips pinched tight.
“No, Eddie, we’re not… we’d never—”
And suddenly, Steve’s beside you—there in an instant, eyes locked on Eddie.
“Hey, no one’s messing with you,” His tone’s different now—quiet, level. “Swear.”
There’s weight in that word. More than just this moment. A history. A promise.
Eddie swallows, throat thick. “It’s just—fuck, this is…”
He laughs, gesturing weakly, like the motion could string the words together for him.
“Are you… are you asking me something here, or—?”
Steve exhales, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I know,” he nods. “I know it’s kinda crazy.”
And Eddie wants to open his big dumb mouth and scream yeah, you think? but chokes it down at the last second.
“To be fair, though” Steve continues slowly, mouth in a sideways grin, “we didn’t think you’d freak out this much.”
Eddie makes a noise then—half-yelp, half-laugh—that bursts free from his chest like a soda can popping under pressure.
“You fucking fed me cake, man.” His voice cracks. He can’t find it in himself to care.
Steve shrugs, mouth twitching. “You took it.”
“Because you were dangling it in my face!”
That makes you crack up—like, really laugh—and you bury your face in Steve’s shoulder.
And it hits Eddie all at once how absurd and beautiful this moment is, so vivid and overwhelming that he wants to dissolve into the floor, yet never leave this spot for anything in the world.
Steve looks down at you, affection flickering in his eyes. Eddie watches like it’s happening on a screen—slow motion, every detail amplified. Then Steve turns back, eyes steady, and nods.
“Listen. None of this is a joke. Or a setup. Okay?”
Eddie just stares at him. At both of you.
“We just… we want you to feel good about it,” He adds quietly. “If you don’t, that’s totally fine. Really.”
You look up again, cheek resting against Steve’s arm.
“We like you, Eddie.” Your smile is a radiant, wondrous thing. “Both of us.”
And god.
It’s too much.
It’s not enough.
He drags a hand down his face, trying to swallow.
“I need another beer.”
Steve grins. “You can have mine.”
Eddie’s jaw drops open. Steve Harrington has the audacity to laugh.
“Kidding, kidding! I’ll go grab you one.” Steve beams, already moving. Then, pauses for a moment, looking down at you pointedly: “You’ll behave, right?”
Eddie chokes, eyes rolling back.
You just grin, wide and shameless.
“No promises.”
...
The living room feels louder without Steve in it.
Which is stupid, honestly.
The music’s still low, lights still warm. Nothing’s changed—except for the very specific, stupidly-hot-dumbass-shaped hole in the room.
You don’t rush to fill the silence. Just shift a little more comfortably on your haunches, hands in your lap.
Your bare knees brush his jeans as you settle.
“I meant what I said, you know, about the gift.” Your voice drifts after a while, soft.
“I mean, with both gifts,” you add quietly, laughing under your breath. “It was really sweet.”
And Eddie feels weirdly… high.
Not like weed-in-the-back-of-his-van-high, or drunk-on-the-roof-at-2am high. More like, his blood's been replaced with helium. Like he’s drifting sideways through his own life, watching it unfold from just above his body.
“Yeah, well. You deserve it.” He swallows, nodding.
Your head tilts. A curious softness in the gesture, like you’re trying to see him clearer.
“Eddie.”
His eyes flick up to you like they’re tethered—pulled without question, without thought.
Your eyes are all soft light and velvet shadow. Shimmering with something he can’t name. He doesn’t want to, not right now. He’s happy just sitting in it. Letting it soak into his skin.
“I asked Steve ‘cause I knew you’d help him pick something good. Something thoughtful.”
His brain skips, like a scratched record, stuck on Steve, stuck on the gift. That gift.
It’s probably somewhere upstairs right now. Tucked away in your bedside table. And thoughtful isn’t exactly the word he would’ve used, not for that, but you’d always been generous with him in ways he never fully understood. Gentle where he braces for rough edges.
“But honestly… I just wanted an excuse to ask you without really asking you, you know?”
Your eyes are steady, but the edges of your smile are different now. Shy, unsure.
Eddie blinks. He’s pretty sure he understood maybe three of the words that just came out of your mouth. The rest are caught in the spin cycle.
“Uh huh.” He nods.
Then has to fight the sudden, almost feral urge to shake his head like a wet dog— rattle some clarity loose—and settles instead on an uneven exhale.
“Can I um… can I just ask why?”
Your brows pinch. “Why?”
He nods. Doesn’t say the rest out loud, but they thrash around in his skull, louder than ever: Me.
Why me?
But that’s not how you take it.
“Well, because you’re important to me. To us.” You start, fingers curled loosely in your lap. “And I didn’t want to scare you off. Or creep you out.”
Eddie’s throat goes painfully tight. He’d laugh if he wasn’t one minor emotional shift away from sobbing.
“And we weren’t trying to mess with you, I’m sorry if it felt that way.” You smile, lips tight with apology. Then you exhale, looking at your lap as if the next words are a little heavier.
“It’s just, it felt like we’ve been circling around something for so long, and tonight… it’s like we finally found the same rhythm. You know?”
The words land like a weight on his chest.
He nods, but finds himself unable to meet your gaze after that. Not after you’ve so eloquently given voice to something he’s always known, but never dared to name.
Eddie feels twelve again. Stuck in a grown-up conversation armed with nothing but sarcasm and the urge to fidget.
You’re speaking in full, articulate sentences. Like an adult. Emotional literacy and shit.
And he’s… uncharacteristically quiet. Frozen.
His gaze trails toward the kitchen, unbidden.
Where the fuck was Steve? Brewing the beer from scratch?
And the silence presses back in, thick and slow like fog, until:
“You don’t have to say anything right now,”
Your voice cuts instantly through the haze—soft, understanding. Always.
“We just wanted you to know.”
You shift back on your haunches, hands loose in your lap. Still close enough that he can smell your perfume—something sweet and warm and sunlit. It clings to his nose like memory.
“It’s not that I don’t want….” His hands flutter helplessly, motioning vaguely at you, at the room, at the entire charged thing that’s happened in the last ten minutes.
“Fuck, I mean—I do. Want.”
He swallows, laughing because it’s so terrifyingly obvious once the words leave his mouth.
“I just never thought, I never even let myself think….”
“No, I get it. It’s a lot.”
You nod gently.
He just nods back.
The quiet stretches again. Wide and awkward and full of implication.
Eddie steals another glance toward the kitchen.
“He’s uh… he’s been gone a while, huh?”
You don’t even look. Just smile—crooked and knowing.
“Mmm. Has he?”
And oh.
Fuck, that tone.
Eddie Munson knows he’s going to die on your living room floor tonight. He just knows it.
He clears his throat. Fumbles for the beer that does not exist because Steve still hasn’t brought it.
And now his brain’s spinning out again. Swerving hard down the Steve-path.
Because you’re his girlfriend. Right?
You and Steve. That’s the rule. The boundary. The carved-in-stone given.
But—
We like you.
Not I.
We.
Two letters. Infinite implications. It’s maddeningly simple. Boundlessly complex.
“Hey, is Steve …” he hesitates, then pushes through. “Is he like, okay with this?”
You blink, brows drawn, and for a second, he thinks he might’ve said something wrong. Crossed a line he didn't see.
But then your face shifts—eyes going soft, shoulders sinking.
You breathe, voice dipping into something almost reverent.
“Oh, Eddie, he’s—”
“—Okay!” Steve’s voice crashes into the room like a sitcom punchline, cheerful and a beat too loud. “Three beers, and a pack of Red Vines for the birthday princess.”
Eddie startles like he got caught doing something filthy with the door unlocked, distancing himself so fast he nearly topples over.
Immaculate timing, as ever.
Fucker.
There’s a shuffle—the thud of glass bottles dropping on the coffee table, the crinkle of candy being claimed. Steve’s humming something, stupid and off-key. And Eddie still can’t look up, because the sentence is just there, hovering between you like smoke that never got the chance to settle.
He’s… what? Steve’s what?
He hears the grin in Steve’s voice before he sees it. Oblivious or not, Eddie genuinely can’t tell anymore.
“What’d I miss?”
He's still reeling when you tilt your head, eyes on Steve but voice pitched like it’s meant only for Eddie:
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Steve just chuckles, unfazed, flopping down beside you on the rug.
“Alright, let’s see…” He sighs, squinting at his watch. “You’ve got another half hour of birthday immunity, give or take. What’s the plan, birthday girl?”
And for a second—just a second—you catch Eddie’s eyes.
Barely a flicker, but it lands like a live wire.
Something kicks in his chest. Hopeful. Idiotic.
And then you’re turning back to your boyfriend. All soft smiles and sunny warmth.
“Movie?”
...
The movie’s just barely started.
The Lost Boys was your pick, if you can believe it.
Yet the irony of a movie about found family and dangerous hunger and boys being seduced into joining something dark and powerful is lost on Eddie. Somewhere between the sticky heat in his chest and the echo of your voice saying, ‘We like you, Eddie. Both of us.’
Onscreen, the boardwalk is alive—neon lights and slow-moving danger. Echo & The Bunnymen warble through your TV speakers, singing about how People Are Strange, and Eddie’s thinking yeah, no shit, because he’s supposed to be watching the screen instead of cataloging the way your leg is pressed against his.
Warm, solid. Intolerably there.
The movie’s only about ten minutes in.
Not enough time for the vampires to make their move.
Plenty of time for something else to sink its teeth in.
The coastal town of Santa Carla sways onscreen—slow pans over leather jackets, sunglasses at night, a carousel bathed in red and gold. The whole place feels like it’s waiting for something awful to happen.
But all that exists somewhere far away now, muffled and distant.
Because Eddie’s brain is very, very much in the room.
And that room is warm.
Your thigh—your thigh—is pressed against his. Not brushing. Pressed.
The denim over his leg is old and worn soft and doesn’t do a damn thing to buffer the warmth bleeding through the fabric. You shift—just a little—but it’s enough to make it worse. Or better. He can’t tell.
Your couch is way too big for this much proximity to mean nothing.
He’s on one side, Steve’s on the other—you’re in the middle. And Eddie is just itching to fidget because all that tension from before has rapidly coiled up under his skin, humming like a live wire.
He gnaws religiously on the Red Vine you’d handed him a while ago. It tastes like plastic and fake raspberry, but it’s something to do with his mouth.
Somewhere to his left, Steve exhales. A long, soft breath.
And then, something shifts in Eddie’s periphery.
A motion. A shape. A hand.
He tries not to look.
Fails, spectacularly.
Because he’s been looking.
Again and again, stealing greedy little glances when he thinks neither of you are paying attention. On the slope of your neck, the way your hair’s mussed just so. The curve of your bare thighs. Your shirt—Steve’s, Eddie is sure of it now—slipping off one shoulder, collar pulled wide.
And a glint of something silver at your wrist—another one of his gifts, he’s just now realized.
A little charm bracelet Steve coaxed him into buying for last year’s Secret Santa. Elbowed his ribs at a random mall kiosk, saying ‘C’mon, man, she’ll love it. Look—tiny guitar. That’s you. It’s perfect.’
Eddie had bought it, wrapped it, forgotten it.
But now, it gleams in the TV light like a secret you’ve been carrying around this whole time.
And it hits him—like freight cars slamming into one another—
Had he really been that fucking oblivious?
His brain scrambles to piece it together, clawing through memories.
Signs. There were signs.
Too many now, in hindsight.
Like that time he came down with a brutal fever and you spent three nights straight on his crappy couch, pressing cool towels to his forehead while Wayne was at work, refusing to leave even when Eddie begged you to go home.
Like the way you just get him, sometimes, in a way no one else does. Could read him like a dog-eared book—the restless hands, the bouncing knees, the way his voice gets louder when his head gets worse. You recognize the difference between silence and withdrawal. When to ask. When to wait.
You let him steal the cherries off your milkshakes, laughing even as you cringe, always offering him the first sip.
And your hands—god, your hands—constantly on him in passing.
Playing with his rings. Tucking curls behind his bandana.
(Wrapping tight around his back that night he told you about his mom.)
Casual. Always casual. But never meaningless.
Not now—not in retrospect.
And Steve—Steve had to know.
Had to see it long before Eddie did.
The glances. The soft grins. The way he’d gently step back whenever you drifted closer to Eddie.
Like on the lake trip, when you got a headache and you asked Steve if Eddie could keep you company in the back of his van.
Or by the fire, when you slumped against Eddie’s shoulder and Steve just pulled the blanket higher around both of you.
Or that long, late-night drive to Ann Arbor, where Steve stretched out in the backseat and let the two of you talk for hours, smiling at nothing like he wasn’t even there.
And then—Christ—the vibrator.
That should’ve been the flashing neon sign.
Steve asking his help with something that personal, that intimate.
Except, no, you were the one who’d brought it up.
You'd asked.
And Eddie might’ve kept spiraling—might’ve sunk even deeper, haunted by the tone of your voice just before Steve had returned to the room—Oh, Eddie, he’s…
If not for the hand.
Steve’s hand.
Hovering over your thigh.
Fingers sketching slow, familiar circles just above your knee.
It isn’t overt. Isn’t even sexual.
It’s lived-in. Earned.
And it knocks something loose in his chest. This silent, wordless longing.
To know. To trust. To be trusted.
And god, he wants it. Wants in. Wants to be wrapped in that quiet kind of ease.
The bracelet—his bracelet—flashes again as you drift toward Steve’s hand, stroking the back of it with your thumb.
And Eddie watches.
Mouth full of sugar. Chest full of everything he never lets himself want.
It sears into him like hot iron.
He hates himself for how much he wants.
So much that he doesn’t even notice neither of you are watching the movie anymore.
He’s just about to look away, when—
“Eddie.”
Steve’s voice.
Low. Even.
His name, wrapped in velvet.
Eddie startles like he’s been caught stealing. Looks up—
Two pairs of eyes on him, steady and patient.
He blinks. “Yeah?”
Steve doesn’t move his hand from your thigh. You don’t stop stroking it.
Eddie wants to say something. Ask something. Define something. But every possible sentence feels like a trap.
Then—
“Do you want to kiss her?”
The movie plays on. Something explodes onscreen—sudden light flaring across your cheek, your lashes, your lips.
And Eddie stares.
At you. At Steve.
The question hums in the air, simple and devastating.
His chest aches.
“I—”
The pressure builds, tidal and huge. His mouth is dry. His hands are slick.
You’re looking at him now.
Smiling.
Small, steady. Like you already know the ending. Like you’ve just been waiting for him to catch up.
It knocks something loose inside him. Or maybe something collapses instead—a scaffold of doubt, years of practiced deflection. A lifetime of pretending he shouldn’t want this. Doesn’t need it.
It gives way, all at once.
He swallows.
“Yeah.”
He’s leaning in before the word’s done leaving his mouth. Falling like gravity’s shifted.
And you’re there to catch him.
With your hand tucked under his jaw, he kisses you with a desperate kind of reverence—lips trembling, hunger barely contained. Your fingers slip beneath his collar, and Eddie lets out a low, broken sound into your mouth, something wrecked and grateful.
You taste like the Red Vines—cheap raspberry and sugar—but somehow infinitely better. Sticky-sweet and artificial in a way that makes his head swim. Like carnival candy. Like frosting off your fingers. Like something he could live off of.
Heat unfurls low in his spine, his heart pounding like a kick drum.
You pull back first, just enough to breathe.
Eddie blinks. Wide-eyed. Dazed. His lips still parted.
“Okay?” you whisper.
He nods. Swallows.
“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Yeah. Fuck.”
You laugh, brushing your nose against his.
Behind you, Steve makes a sound—something like a breath, or a laugh—barely audible over the blood rushing past Eddie’s ears.
“Fuck, that was…” Eddie hears him murmur, voice rough.
But he barely has time to react before you’re leaning in again, smiling like you just can’t help it.
And Eddie—he’s gone. Absolutely, irreversibly gone.
He exhales into your mouth, dizzy with it, chasing the warmth of your lips. His hand’s resting on the hem of your shirt, curled against the fabric, not quite sure what to do with itself now that he’s here.
And then—he feels it.
Steve’s hand, sliding over his.
Not stopping. Not directing.
Just joining. Mirroring.
Two palms moving as one, gliding up your thigh, over your hips, to your waist.
Eddie shudders from the sheer presence of it.
And then, without a word, you lift your arms.
Both hands move—synchronized without meaning to—sliding your shirt up and over. Your bra slips down your shoulders, falling off easily.
Eddie pulls back, breathless, his hands back to hovering uselessly at his sides.
But you catch them. Curl your fingers around his wrists and bring him back to you.
“Here,” you murmur, guiding him up your stomach, the soft swell of your breasts, stopping just beneath your collarbone. “You don’t have to be careful.”
But he wants to be.
Wants to learn the topography of your body like a hymn. Every dip and scar, every breath you take under his hands—it’s all scripture.
Steve leans in from behind you, pressing a soft kiss to your bare shoulder. His eyes flick up, meeting Eddie’s over your skin—steady, quiet, full of something unsaid. Steve’s thumb rubs where it rests against the side of your neck, but it’s Eddie who shivers.
You lean down again, kissing him like it’s second nature now—deeper, eager to explore.
He feels you tug gently at the hem of his shirt, and he lets you, barely noticing as the fabric slips off and falls behind the couch.
Yet, when you pull back to look at him, he drops back into his body, and his gaze skitters upward, fixed on the ceiling.
Trying to escape your eyes. Trying not to brace.
Because he doesn’t have to look down to know what you’re seeing.
The uneven ridges along his sides, warped pale lines that shimmer faintly in the dim light—angry still, at certain angles. A map of old pain he sometimes wakes up tangled in, gasping, soaked in sweat and not quite sure where he is.
But you don’t pause.
You don’t recoil or pity or pretend not to see. You just lean in, lips brushing over the tender hollow above the worst of it—like it’s nothing. Like it’s yours.
Then another. And another. Slow as liturgy, your mouth dragging reverent paths along the broken terrain.
By the time your knees meet the rug and your hands bracket his thighs, his chest is flailing like he’s remembering how to breathe again.
And when his eyes flutter open, instinct drives his gaze just past you, toward Steve.
Kneeling behind you, shirtless, golden skin awash in amber lamp light.
And Eddie sees it—that faint scar curling along his friend’s side. Smaller, smoother—but the same shape.
A mirror. A matching wound. A quiet tether.
Something shared.
A knot cinches tight behind Eddie’s ribs.
You reach for his hand then, fingertips gliding over his knuckles in little figure eights.
“Eddie,” you murmur, “is this still okay?”
He swallows, nodding before his voice catches up.
“Yeah,” He breathes. “God—yeah. Please.”
You smile, mouth finding him through denim, a warm press over his thigh, then another kiss at the edge of the waistband. You work his jeans open with practiced grace, brushing over him just enough to steal his breath.
And god, he’s already so hard. Has been for a while. But under your fingers, he feels real—naked, flushed, thick and leaking as you wrap your hand around him. You stare up—mouth parted, lashes kissing your cheek—utterly serene. It’s just not fucking fair.
“So pretty,” you murmur, lips ghosting over the head of his cock.
Beside you, Steve doesn’t miss a beat.
“Told you.”
The sound Eddie makes in response is barely human.
His head hits the back of the couch with a dull thud. Curls catching on the cushions, chest stuttering like he might come from just this. He can’t even hide it—how hard he’s trying not to blow his load with just your fingers around him, hearing you and Steve talk about his cock like it’s been the subject of your weeknight dinner conversations.
You smile, soft, pleased, as you lower your mouth and take him in.
Wet heat. Slow suction. Tongue circling the tip, then dragging along the underside until his hips jump and his thighs tremble. He tries not to move—god, he tries—but your nose brushes his pelvis and he thrusts up without meaning to.
“Sorry—fuck—Jesus fucking Christ…”
Steve laughs quietly, brushing your hair off your cheeks, eyes trained on Eddie.
“Good, huh?”
Good doesn’t even begin to touch it. No word could ever come close.
This is surreal. This is ruin. This is you, and Steve, and him, in a reality that should’ve collapsed under the weight of itself.
You pull off with a soft pop, spit stringing from your lips to the flushed head of his cock. Eddie stares, undone—until you turn to the side, pressing your mouth to Steve’s.
And what follows is something so utterly carnal it knocks whatever breath is left inside him.
Steve, devouring you, in the most obscene, open-mouthed, spit-slick kiss Eddie’s ever seen in his life. All tongue and teeth and unrelenting desperation. The kind that makes his skin prickle with the shame of watching.
Steve kisses you like he’s starved. Like the only salvation is to swallow you whole.
Eddie’s heart is trying to climb out of his chest. He strokes himself helplessly, slick and twitching against his palm. His gaze slides lower, watching Steve’s fingers slip under your shorts, moving with lazy precision. You match him, palming him through the soft cotton of his boxers.
“So good, baby,” Steve murmurs against your tongue. “Looked so pretty with him in your mouth.”
You shiver at his praise, and Eddie watches something in you unravel. Eyes turning glassy as you go boneless in Steve’s arms.
Eddie’s never seen anyone melt so completely—soft and willing—as you do in that moment.
“Wanna ride him, Steve,” you whimper.
Eddie chokes on his own spit, fingers strangling the base of his cock.
Shit, not now, not yet, please, god.
Steve’s grin is wild and loving. “Yeah? Why don’t you ask him nicely.”
Your head turns, eyes wide and shining.
“Eddie… can I?”
And what the fuck is he supposed to say to that?
He’d let you carve your name into his ribs if you asked. Rip his heart out with your teeth. Hollow him out and crawl inside.
He nods so hard it rattles his brain, curls flying like rain off a dog.
“Fuck—yes. Please.”
You beam, lips shiny with spit as you go to kiss Steve again—one last, filthy, lingering thing—before you shimmy out of your shorts and climb into Eddie’s lap.
A condom. A flick of your wrist.
And then you're sinking down onto him like the world’s tilting off its axis.
Inch by inch.
Hot and tight and unrelenting.
He nearly whites out just from the way you suck him in, hands coming to grip your hips like he’s drowning.
“Holy shit,” he pants. “Fuck—fuck—”
You bottom out with a breathy moan, then start to move.
Rolling. Rocking. Deep and deliberate.
Eddie can’t think. Can’t breathe. His body’s one giant nerve ending, and you’re strumming every note.
And then the couch dips.
Steve—climbing up beside him, kneeling, one thigh brushing against Eddie’s shoulder. His cock—long, flushed, slick with arousal—hangs heavy between his legs. His hand wraps around it lazily, stroking once.
Eddie stares. Can't not.
Flushed to the root, veins thick and swollen, a pearled gleam beading at the tip as Steve’s thumb drags over the head, tracing slow circles.
Eddie’s cock jumps inside your heat.
He doesn’t even know how he’s still breathing.
Your tits are bouncing with every roll of your hips. His shaft’s locked inside your wet, perfect heat. And Steve’s cock is right there, close enough that if he just turned his head—
“Fuck. Look at her, Munson.”
Steve’s voice sounds from above, rough with worship.
Eddie looks.
You're ruinous. Damp hair clinging to your temples, lips parted, eyes glazed with heat. Every thrust wrings a ragged gasp from your lips.
You look like a vision. A dream. Like one of those cruel, too-lucid things his brain conjures up when he’s had too much sugar or not enough sleep.
“Yeah? Is that good?” Steve croons, hand sliding up to cradle your cheek.
You moan, head thrown back. “So good, Stevie.”
Eddie nearly laughs, dizzy with déjà vu—he sees the ghost of you in Steve’s lap, licking frosting off your fingers while he feeds you cake.
“Tell him, baby,” Steve murmurs. “Tell him how good he’s making that pussy feel.”
Your voice breaks into a tight cry. “So good, Eds—gonna—ah, right there, fuck!”
Then Steve’s hand finds Eddie’s, guiding him to the apex of your thighs.
Presses his fingers against your clit and murmurs close to his ear.
“She likes it soft at first,” He smiles, brushing your hair back. “Then a little faster. Yeah, that’s good. Like that.”
You sob when Eddie moves the way he’s told.
Steve palms your tits, pinching and circling your nipples until you’re screaming both their names—tangled syllables, desperate gasps, punched-out groans.
“I’m—’m close—”
Steve kisses your shoulder. “Let go, baby.”
But it’s Eddie you collapse into—body tipping forward until your forehead’s pressed into the hollow of his neck, mouth open against his skin, breaths hot and ragged.
Your hips stutter.
Erratic. Desperate.
And he feels it. The exact moment you come undone.
The way your walls clamp down on him—tight, fluttering, rhythmic—every squeeze a full-body shockwave. You pulse around his cock like you’re trying to drag him down with you, and Eddie feels everything. Every twitch. Every tremor. Every slick, perfect moment of your orgasm thrumming through you.
You’re whimpering into his neck, his name tangled in your breath—choked, half-formed.
“Ed—oh my god—Eddie—”
And he loses it.
His hips buck up helplessly—once, twice—then he’s spilling into the condom with a violent, full-body shudder. His head falls forward on a groan, curls damp against his temples, sweat stinging his eyes.
His entire world narrows to your breath against his throat, the slick heat wrapped around him, and Steve’s low murmurs filling the space in between—Yeah, just like that, come on his cock, baby. Let him have it, good girl. So fuckin’ pretty, keep going, don’t stop—all the while you’re groaning—Eddie, Eddie, Eddie—and Eddie’s body is going nova.
White heat lances through him, vision fracturing into shards of light, spinning behind his eyelids—bright and silent and dizzying.
Then everything goes weightless.
When the haze finally lifts—when the stars behind his eyes begin to fade and the world tilts gently back into place—
You’re still in his lap, chest heaving, sweat-slicked and divine, jerking Steve off with slow, sure strokes. Hand wrapped tight around the length of his cock, thumb dragging circles over the swollen head.
And Steve—
He’s bracing himself with one arm behind Eddie’s head, knuckles white where they dig into the cushion. His other hand is clenched tight by his own thigh.
He’s flushed. Glowing.
His leg presses hot and solid into Eddie’s shoulder. His breath comes in short, ragged bursts as he pants through his teeth, mouth parting in a helpless groan.
“Fuck,” He rasps. “Just like that, baby—gonna—ah, fuck—”
And then he’s coming. Twitching violently in your hand, thick ropes spilling across your chest, catching on your sternum, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts.
One long, glistening ribbon arcs lower.
Lands hot across Eddie’s stomach.
He blinks.
Something lodges in his throat. His breath stutters.
He should flinch. Should look away. Should feel something more awkward than the sharp, white-hot ache that curls in his gut.
Steve’s face is tilted skyward, jaw slack, eyes fluttering half-shut. The muscles in his neck pulled taut, cords shifting beneath gleaming skin as he pants through the aftershocks, hips rocking into your fist.
The sound he makes—a low, broken exhale, almost a whimper—burns straight through Eddie’s ribs.
There's a glow to him in the lamplight. Not soft, not like yours.
Sharper. Hard light kissing the angles of his face—the cut of his throat, the ridge of his nose, flickering at his Adam’s apple when he swallows.
His cock—ruddy and wet in your hand—twitches once more before it begins to soften.
His lashes tremble when he blinks. His lips part again.
And Eddie watches it all.
The ripple of Steve’s stomach as he exhales.
The faint tremor in his biceps as his arm drops from the cushion and ghosts down to your hip.
Watches the way Steve drags a shaky hand through his hair, messing it up, then exhales a laugh, dazed and half-lidded.
You giggle blissfully, dragging a finger through the mess on your chest without shame. Then you melt into Eddie’s side, pressing your cheek to his shoulder, hand still loosely cradling the base of Steve’s cock.
And still, Eddie doesn’t look away.
Not when Steve shifts, just slightly, thigh brushing Eddie’s arm again, hot against his skin.
Not when he feels that stripe of come on his stomach begin to cool.
Not when Steve finally glances down—face flushed, blinking unevenly—and catches Eddie staring.
He smiles.
Quiet, warm. Boyish in a way that makes Eddie’s stomach tighten.
“You alright, Munson?"
Eddie swallows. Tries for a nod. Manages something that might pass for a grin.
“Yeah,” he croaks. “Yeah, I—uh.”
His voice cracks. You laugh gently into his shoulder.
“Don’t think I’ve ever felt more alright.” He manages eventually, rough and breathless.
Steve chuckles, shifting closer. The heat of him presses almost fully along Eddie’s side.
He lifts a hand, hovering mid-air for a second before settling on Eddie’s shoulder, warm and solid. His thumb presses in as he squeezes lightly.
“Good.”
...
The room settles into a soft, weighted silence.
Breaths even out. Shared heat fades slowly from skin.
The movie plays on, muted and distant.
You're still tucked into Eddie’s side, cheek resting against his shoulder. Steve’s hand lingers low on your calf, tracing absent-minded shapes.
Eddie’s still catching up. Mind fogged, muscles aching in the sweetest way. His stomach is cooling where Steve’s come cut a clean line across him.
He feels stretched thin and overflowing all at once, vibrating from the echo of you, of Steve. The whole impossible weight of what just happened and what it might mean.
You stir softly in his lap, pressing a warm kiss to the side of his jaw.
“We should clean up.”
From beside him, Steve laughs—soft and breathless, tired in that good, muscle-deep way.
“Not sure if I can get up right now. My legs feel like fucking Jell-O.”
You snort softly, shooting back a comment about how he wasn’t even the one riding, but Eddie’s only half-listening—his gaze pulled sideways, fixed on Steve.
He’s slouched into the corner of the couch, legs sprawled wide, one elbow hooked behind him. Cock soft and flushed against his thigh. He looks completely wrecked in that slow, satisfied way.
Your thumb under Eddie's jaw brings him back, and when he looks up, you’re already watching him. All soft smiles and sunny warmth.
“You’ll stay the night, right?”
It’s soft. Uncomplicated. But it lands heavy anyway.
His mouth goes tight with I shouldn’ts. All the usual noise rushes in—jokes, escape routes, some half-formed line about overstaying his welcome—but none of it lands. It all feels too thin for this moment.
Because under the usual static of reflexive backpedaling, there’s something quieter. An ache, maybe. Or a kind of stillness he hasn’t felt in a long time. And now that it’s here, it feels impossible to ignore.
He glances between you and Steve—still close, still steady—and something in him unknots.
He lets out a shaky breath.
“Yeah.” He nods. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”
...
The shower is chaos.
Someone drops the loofah, twice. Shampoo runs into Steve’s eye. Eddie knocks a razor off the ledge with his elbow and nearly takes out your knee trying to pick it up.
And there’s something ridiculous about it—three people trying to fit into a space made for one. Maybe two, at most.
No one is smooth. No one looks particularly sexy. It’s all dripping hair and half-laughed apologies, skin slipping against skin at awkward angles.
But still—no one’s in a rush to leave.
Eddie doesn’t say much through most of it. Not withdrawn, just observant, tracing the curve of your spine as you rinse your hair, watching Steve’s profile through the fogged glass.
Because he still doesn’t know what any of this is.
Half-floating, half-splitting apart in his own head, trying to find footing in something that doesn’t come with a rulebook.
You bump his hip on the way out of the shower. Steve hands him a towel without looking.
And his mind keeps drifting. Snags on a look, a breath, the ghost of Steve’s hand against his. Things unspoken, unshaped.
No clean lines. No straight edges.
Getting into bed is barely more graceful than the shower.
You mutter something about cold sheets and dive first under the blanket, dragging the other two down with you.
There’s lots of shuffling and tangling of limbs. Steve’s arm ends up under your head. Your leg hooks over Eddie’s hip. It’s not coordinated or planned—but somehow, it fits.
The room hums with leftover warmth. Damp hair. Soft exhales. The smell of clean skin and whatever detergent you use on your sheets. Steve mutters something against the pillow and you answer without opening your eyes.
It’s all some insane, slow-dream version of a sleepover Eddie never had.
Domestic in a way that should feel foreign.
...
Eddie ends up staring at the ceiling for a long time.
His body aches in a good way. His mind aches in a different one.
Doing what it always does: turning corners, checking for exits.
Mapping the contours of this soft, strange place.
He wonders what it is you think you see when you look at him.
How Steve feels when he sees the two of you together.
He wonders if this is some beautiful, borrowed detour to an inevitable death.
Because there’s always a turn, eventually. Something waiting with teeth on the other side of the trapdoor. Eddie knows this. He’s lived too long in aftermaths to pretend otherwise.
Beside him, you’ve gone quiet against his shoulder. Breathing even, deep in sleep.
Steve isn’t—Eddie can feel it in the way his hand flexes where it rests against your waist.
Eddie turns his head, just enough. Finds soft-brown eyes on him in the dark.
Steve doesn’t say anything. Just looks. Then raises a brow, as if in question.
Eddie breathes. Offers him a small, lopsided smile.
Steve nods, eyes slipping shut, shifting to turn to the ceiling.
“’Night, Munson.”
Eddie’s lips twitch.
“’Night, Harrington.”
a/n: this was... almost too much i fear. the yearning, the bi-panic, i'm right there w/ eddie on the lucid dream thing.
i'm so curious to know what you guys think of this dynamic so far—lmk! ur sweet reblogs and comments keep me going + my inbox is always open :)
as always, thank you for reading <3
update: read pt. 3 here!
series masterlist // general masterlist
tag list: @mmmunson @micheledawn1975 @am0iur @gloomweed @yourgirlfriennd @catmomstyles3 @corrodedcorpses
pairing: steve harrington x eddie munson (x reader)
summary: “And I was thinking about… maybe getting her something, for her birthday. Just like… surprise her, y’know?”
And that. That stops Eddie cold.
Because he’s seen things—blood, rot, fangs, psychic carnage. Hell, literal Hell.
But nothing—not a single goddamn thing—could prepare him for the image of Steve Harrington wandering wide-eyed through a dingy sex shop in rural Indiana, trying to pick out a vibrator for his sweet little girlfriend.
warnings: 18+, discussions of sex toys/adult store, sexual fantasies, heavy pining, yearning, light angst, eddie's pov, period-typical internalized homophobia, bisexual!eddie, eddie's kind of a horndog in this one but still so so sweet, friends to lovers, eventual smut, eventual steddie x reader but reader is only mentioned in this one. title by berlin. series masterlist
It starts with a rumor, as most things do in Hicktown Central, Hawkins, Indiana.
Whispers turned into tales turned into legends, and before you know it, Eddie Munson can’t take a piss in the B-wing bathroom without hearing that damn story all over again.
Betty Callahan.
Now known exclusively—irrevocably—as Battery Betty.
A sophomore volleyball player with a college boyfriend and a neon scrunchie collection. Sent to the principal’s office on a random Tuesday for ‘behavior unbecoming.’ No one really knows what happened—just that it involved a locker, a hum, and some deeply repressed panic.
The rumor spreads like brush fire.
Tampon turned taser turned sex toy. Shame’s favorite game of Telephone.
By the time it reaches Eddie, the details are warped six ways to Sunday.
That a bullet vibrator buzzed to life during algebra. Fell out of her gym bag in the girls’ locker room and startled wriggling across the tile. Got lost between the bleachers and nearly gave Coach Walt another heart attack—poor bastard's already got a limp from the ’82 dodgeball incident.
Out of everything, Eddie will give that last one credit. It's got flair.
But he doesn’t dwell on it. Just tosses it to the burning pile of Hawkins-brand hysteria and moves on.
“Yeah. You know, that place with the cartoon pickle on the billboard?”
Steve Harrington’s voice floats over, casual as the breeze.
Eddie snorts, cracks open his soda with a sharp psssft.
“You mean the sex shop.”
Steve nods, sips. “Yeah. You been?”
“Couple times,” Eddie shrugs. “Used to deal to a guy who worked there. Freaky little dude with a lazy eye. Big into latex.”
Steve laughs, quiet.
“You know if he’s still there?”
Eddie lowers the can. Leans back against the railing like a cat sensing a storm front. Eyes him, slow.
“What’s this about, Harrington? You finally caving to the dark side?”
“No, just…” Steve huffs a laugh, reaches up to scratch the back of his neck—a tell.
“You uh… you hear about George Callahan’s sister?”
Oh. Oh no.
“Battery Betty?”
Steve nods. “Yeah. Just… the whole thing kinda got me thinking, you know?”
Oh, no.
Eddie lifts a delicate hand to his chest, all slow, theatrical scandal. His voice dips into velvet.
“Steven Harrington, are you propositioning me?”
He expects a laugh. Hell, wants one. Needs one. But Steve doesn’t bite. Doesn’t flinch.
Instead, he gives Eddie this look—curious, a little amused, head cocked like a golden retriever hearing jazz for the first time —and then glances away, grinning into the dirt.
“No, man. I’m serious. I’m trying to do something for my girlfriend. She heard about the whole thing and she’s been…”
Steve trails off with a half-laugh, rubbing a hand over his mouth.
Fuck, it’s too hot for this. The cicadas are screaming.
Eddie licks his lips. “Ah, caught the little perversion plague, did she?” His fingers twitch. “It’s an epidemic, y’know. First sign of the apocalypse. That and Reagan getting re-elected.”
Steve chuckles, low and private, shrugging. His hands disappear into the front pockets of his jeans—too tight, always a little too tight.
“Yeah, well. Word really got around.”
A breath.
“And I was thinking about… maybe getting her something, for her birthday. Just like… surprise her, y’know?”
And that. That stops Eddie cold.
Because he’s seen things—blood, rot, fangs, psychic carnage. Hell, literal Hell.
But nothing—not a single goddamn thing—could prepare him for the image of Steve Harrington wandering wide-eyed through a dingy sex shop in rural Indiana, trying to pick out a vibrator for his sweet little girlfriend.
And then there’s the other part. The part Eddie wishes he could ignore even harder.
You.
God, you.
You, laughing into Steve’s neck while he fumbles with a gift bag behind his back, red to the roots and trying to act tough about it.
You, sprawled across his bed like a sin-drenched cat, lips bitten, eyes sparkling.
You, flushed and wrecked, Steve’s hand splayed over your stomach while the other holds something that whirs.
Fuck.
Goddamn it.
Eddie clenches his jaw. The soda hisses in his grip.
His lungs feel full of sand—hot, dry, impossible to breathe around.
Because he shouldn’t be thinking about it. He knows that.
But he is.
And it’s not just the filth—though, Jesus, that’s definitely there, loud and detailed and stupidly cinematic.
It’s the intimacy. The effort. Steve wanting to make you feel good, caring enough to ask.
And Eddie’s curiosity turns sharp. Hungry.
“So, what are you thinking?” he hears himself say, voice a shade too low. “Like a… starter kit?”
Steve’s face lights up. “Yeah, exactly.”
His smile is wide, boyish. Eddie’s head is pounding.
“Something fun, y’know? Something she’d actually be into. And maybe, like, something we could try together.”
We.
We.
Eddie’s pulse kicks like a mule.
You. Steve. Trying things.
He clears his throat, cracks his knuckles against his thigh like that’ll knock the image out of his head.
“Wow,” He plays it cool, because of course he does. Because Eddie Munson doesn’t rattle easy, not after Hell and teeth and gates and blood. “And they say romance is dead.”
That makes Steve blush. Pink blooming up his neck, right to the tips of his ears.
And Eddie waits for that usual flicker of something—amusement, maybe— that smug little thrill when he manages to get under someone’s skin.
But it doesn’t come.
Just weight—something heavy sitting low in his chest, twisted and hard to name.
He shifts uncomfortably, kicking a pebble with his toe to watch it skitter off the trailer steps, bouncing across metal.
From beside him, Steve’s voice floats back over.
“I was thinking about checking it out. See what they have. But, uh…”
He hesitates. Rubs the back of his neck again.
“… kind of feels like uncharted territory.”
There’s a pause. Heavy. Humming.
Then Steve lifts his gaze, infuriatingly steady, a slow smirk playing at his lips.
“You really gonna make me ask, Munson?”
Eddie Munson blinks.
Once. Twice.
The cicadas keep screaming. His soda fizzes in his palm, forgotten. It’s too hot for this.
And Eddie—poor, twisted, sharp-tongued Eddie—finds himself drowning in silence.
Mouth opening then shutting, useless as a landed fish.
He takes another swig, the prickle of metallic fizz doing absolutely nothing to shut up the noise in his head.
Steve's still watching. All easy elbows and sunlit forearms and that cocky half-grin that never quite hides how earnest he really is. Hair sticking to his temple, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt.
Like he didn’t just drop a conversational landmine and go right back to sipping his soda.
You really gonna make me ask, Munson?
Eddie’s knee bounces. He wants to claw his skin off. Or maybe throw himself directly into the sun. That’d be simpler.
He could say no.
He should say no.
You’re Steve’s girl. Steve, who fought beside him. Bled beside him. Who’s seen him—like, really seen him—and somehow still keeps coming back.
And with you, well, Eddie’s already too far gone to think clearly when it comes to you. The softest laugh. Eyes so bright they nearly burn. And the biggest heart Eddie’s ever known.
He also knows, deep down, that this is playing with fire—not the kind you brag about, not lighters, or stage pyros, or matchbooks behind the gym. No, this… this is the kind that could scorch everything if he’s not careful.
He runs a tongue over his teeth. Wipes a hand down his jeans, where the sweat’s sticking fabric to skin.
He should say no.
But his voice betrays him, always does.
“You sure you want my input?”
Steve tilts his head, brows drawn, like it’s the dumbest question he’s heard all week.
“Yeah,” he nods. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Eddie barks out a laugh—short, bitter, ugly. His rings clap against denim.
“Gee, I dunno, man. Maybe ‘cause you’re shopping for a birthday vibrator for your girlfriend, and I’m...”
He waves at the air around himself, trailer-park gasoline, but he’s not even sure what it’s supposed to mean.
Steve just snorts, undeterred. “Exactly. You’re the expert.”
He says it with a grin, but there’s no malice in it. None of the shit other people layer into that word.
Just seasoned, expert freak Eddie.
“You’ve got taste,” Steve adds, a little softer now. “And you don’t weird out easy. I figured you’d be honest with me. Help me pick out something she’ll actually like.”
He shrugs. Leans back like it’s no big deal. Like he’s not burning through every frayed wire in Eddie’s brain.
“And,” Steve adds, like it’s an afterthought, “I trust you.”
And that—that’s what does him in.
Not the shop. Not the toys.
Not even the unholy image of you moaning into Steve’s mouth while he shows you what he—they, fuck—bought.
It’s the way he says that. Like it’s just a fact. Like it’s always been true.
Eddie exhales. Looks down at his shoes, at the scuffed floorboards. Anywhere but at Steve.
His voice is quiet when it comes.
“…Yeah.” A pause. A swallow. Then:
“Yeah, okay. I’m in.”
And Steve smiles—god, he beams—like Eddie just agreed to help him move his couch.
“All right, Munson.” He pushes off the railing, stretches, dusts off his hands like this is all settled now. “We’ll swing by tomorrow? After Hellfire?”
Eddie nods. Just once. Tight.
“Cool. Later, man.” Steve nudges his foot against Eddie’s like a kid saying goodbye at recess, then hops down the trailer steps, whistling something breezy as he goes.
Eddie stays where he is.
His soda’s warm now. His shirt’s stuck to his back. The air’s thick with heat and cicada song and a thousand tangled thoughts he can’t quite name.
He shouldn’t think about it. About you. About the we.
But he is.
And he knows—he knows—he won’t be able to stop anytime soon.
He smirks into the lip of his can and drains the last sip, bitter and flat and nowhere near strong enough.
“Later, man.”
...
They pull up in front of the place just after seven.
The sign above the door reads THE VELVET PICKLE—a holdover from the billboard off the highway, complete with a smug little cartoon gherkin giving a thumbs up. Half the bulbs in Pickle are dead, so it just reads VELVET PI---E, like it's trying to be coy. A cherry-shaped neon light buzzes low overhead, red and tired.
Eddie slings the van into the lopsided parking spot, gravel crunching under his tires. The sky's bleeding out golden, streaked with wisps of pink and lavender. Neither of them has said a word since they turned off the main road.
Eddie cuts the engine, glances sideways.
“You ready, big boy?” he smirks, teeth sharp, ignoring the drumbeat pounding in his throat.
The entrance looks worse up close—blackout film peeling at the corners, and a laminated red sign that blares: NO RETURNS. NO EXCEPTIONS. DON’T ASK.
Eddie swallows as he pushes the door open, stepping into the blast of recycled air and fluorescent lighting.
The smell hits first: thick, stale—something between old rubber and dollar-store strawberry. The air conditioner wheezes overhead like it’s been smoking unfiltered Camels since '72. Swampy heat clings to the walls, and the dim red glow casts a sticky haze that makes everything feel vaguely pornographic, even the welcome mat.
A cardboard cutout of a nurse with D-cups and a 7-inch ‘thermometer’ greets them at the door, dead-eyed and faded.
Eddie whistles low. “Yep. Still classy.”
Steve steps in behind him, immediately knocking his elbow into a rotating rack of fishnet stockings and crotchless panties, the metal jangling like a wind chime in a haunted house.
“Shit.”
Eddie bites the inside of his cheek, turning to watch as Steve wrestles with a tangled pair of edible underwear.
He tries not to grin too hard. “You alright there, Harrington?”
Steve shoots him a look—half sheepish, half stubborn—hand stuffed back in those too-tight Levis, eyeing the mannequins by the door like they might start swinging their riding crops.
Eddie smirks. “Welcome to the jungle, baby.”
Inside, the shop is a claustrophobic maze, shelves so packed you have to sidle through. Old VHS pornos, glitter-labeled lube bottles. A bin near the front holds a bunch of novelty junk—fuzzy handcuffs, penis-shaped pasta, and a vibrating rubber duck that’s seen better days.
Eddie tries to walk like he owns the place. Not his first rodeo. Yet his heart is pounding so loud it feels like it could rip right out of his chest.
He eyes the guy at the register—new, definitely not Latex Larry.
This one looks like someone’s half-retired uncle; flannel rolled to the elbows, a pair of readers perched low on his nose as he flips through a wrinkled copy of Popular Mechanics. Doesn’t even glance up.
“Evening. Tuesdays are ten percent off if you don’t ask any questions.”
They move slowly past a shelf marked Couple’s Play—feather ticklers, leather cuffs, two dozen plugs in every color and shape you can imagine.
Steve briefly stalls in front of a black silk blindfold, fingers brushing the fabric.
“Think she’d be into this?”
Eddie’s mouth is instantly dry.
No, he’s fine. Shut up.
He raises a brow, deadpans: “Yeah, man. You’d look hot in it.”
Steve rolls his eyes. Eddie grins at the floor and keeps walking.
Then, they hit: The Wall of Dicks.
No other name for it—just rows and rows of dildos. Neon, glittery, shockingly pink. Others disturbingly realistic, veins and all.
Steve goes still, eyebrows somewhere in his hairline.
Eddie snorts—can’t help it.
If someone had told his fifteen-year-old self that one day he’d be standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Steve Harrington, contemplating a rainbow array of synthetic dicks…
Yeah. That kid would’ve laughed himself into a coma.
Steve snorts quietly from beside him, then keeps on moving.
“Nope. Definitely not.”
Toward the back, things mellow a little. The lighting softens. Shelves are labeled Personal Massagers in soothing cursive—toys in sleek lines and pastels encased in transparent clamshells.
Eddie picks up a box and clears his throat. Drops his voice to baritone, smooth and ridiculous:
“Like a dentist,” Eddie shrugs, stone-faced. “Four out of five recommend this one in particular.”
Steve chuckles and leans in to scan the fine print, head tilted, mouth moving silently as he reads. There's a little crease between his brows that Eddie has zero business finding so endearing.
Steve flips the box over, then moves to the next shelf, picking up another toy and squinting at the label. His bottom lip catches between his teeth, and he makes this thoughtful humming noise under his breath that lodges itself squarely in Eddie’s chest.
He points something out on the packaging—something about battery life, maybe, Eddie doesn’t really hear it—then gives him this half-crooked grin, like they’re comparing crushes instead of, y'know, vibrators.
Eddie nods mutely.
His pulse is doing weird things. His mouth is dry again.
No, he is absolutely fine. Shut up.
Then Steve goes right back to browsing, eyes focused, curious. And just, comfortable in a way Eddie never quite is, even when he's trying his hardest.
His throat feels tight.
His heart’s thudding like it’s pressing up against the back of his teeth. His palms are drenched, and when he shifts, he realizes he’s been leaning in without noticing. Like gravity’s got ideas of its own.
No, he’s fine. He’s fine.
“So,” he says, too loudly, too fast, yanking himself back. “What’re we thinking, Romeo?”
Steve glances at him, then at the shelf. He rubs the back of his neck, expression gone a little soft. “Something simple, right?”
He bends slightly, scanning the lower row. Eddie’s eyes follow without permission. The denim of those too-tight jeans strains across his thighs and—yep, abort. Look away. Look literally anywhere else.
“What about uh…” Steve says, a little hesitant. His fingers turn the box over once, then back. “What about this one?”
It’s small. Lavender. Smooth silicone, soft matte finish with a gentle curve.
And the look on Steve’s face—focused, a little uncertain, lips pressed together like he’s waiting for approval—hits Eddie straight in the chest.
God, this guy.
If Eddie had a single working brain cell left, he’d say something smooth, something teasing.
Instead, he just stares, gaping like an idiot.
He clears his throat, desperate to push the air back into his lungs.
“Add it to the basket, Loverboy.”
Steve snorts and tosses him a look, bumping shoulders with him before moving past, and Eddie holds on for dear life.
On their way back, Steve lingers near the lube display. Bottles in all sizes, colors, flavors. Eddie makes the mistake of reading one labeled Glazed Donut Fantasy and physically recoils.
Steve notices and grins. “What, not a fan of dessert?”
“Not that kind,” Eddie mutters, ears going pink.
Steve picks up a cherry bottle. Holds it up between two fingers like a fine wine.
“This one’s safe, right?”
Safe. Like this is a normal, logical, harmless thing they’re doing together. Shopping. For lube.
Eddie tries to play it cool. His voice cracks: “Classic. Can’t go wrong.”
Steve nods and drops it into the basket next to the vibe.
That’s two. Two deeply compromising items in a basket that Eddie is now definitely holding more awkwardly than before.
And then—it happens.
Steve turns to look at something on a nearby shelf. Just turns. Stretches a little to reach for a different bottle, and the fabric of his polo shifts just enough to ride up over his hip, and Eddie catches the smallest flash of skin above the waistband of his jeans and—
Okay.
Okay.
He needs something.
A distraction. A shield. A miracle.
He reaches blindly and grabs the first thing within arm’s reach: a wrinkled old issue of Big Racks Quarterly with a glossy blonde on the front wearing nothing but whipped cream.
Steve turns back. Blinks.
“…Really?”
Eddie shrugs, real casual, slipping the magazine upright along the inside of the slotted basket.
“What? Research.”
“Uh-huh.”
Eddie does not—will not—explain that he needed something large, preferably eye-catching, and definitely boner-concealing between his hips and the world.
Behind the counter, Flannel Uncle is still buried in his magazine, barely lifting his eyes as they approach. When he does, it’s just a slow nod—like two guys carrying cherry lube and a vibrator and a porn mag is just business as usual.
Which, for him, it probably is.
“Need a bag?”
“Yeah,” Eddie croaks. Then, with slightly more dignity: “Please."
Steve stands beside him, hands in his pockets, bumping Eddie’s shoulder lightly as they wait for the total. Easy, casual—like someone who’s never had to hide a thing this obvious. This shameful.
Eddie doesn’t look at Steve. Can’t.
Just keeps his eyes on Steve's hands, instead, watching him slide crisp twenties across the counter. Follows the clerk’s fingers as he counts the change, like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
Outside, the heat clings thick and wet, pressing in like the air's trying to suffocate them for their sins. The paper bag under Steve’s arm rustles with every step, loud in the quiet.
And Eddie tries not to dwell on it. On any of it.
Partly for his dignity, partly for that deeply inconvenient problem growing in his pants, but mostly because… he can’t afford to.
Can’t afford to lean into it.
To mistake kindness for anything else.
Can't let himself think that he can, because hope is the thing that’ll burn right through, scorch him clean to the bone.
Like how, just before they left, the cashier winked and said, ‘Y’all have fun,’ and Steve didn’t laugh. Didn’t try to correct him, didn’t even blink. Just thanked him and moved on, and that scraped something raw and stupid in Eddie’s chest.
Or how, outside, Steve bumped his shoulder again—easy, playful—and Eddie had to light a cigarette just to keep his hands from reaching back.
Or how, once they were back in the van, windows rolled down, Eddie made some half-assed joke just to kill the silence, and Steve laughed.
A real laugh. Thrown-back-head, sun-in-his-teeth laugh.
And Eddie didn’t know what to do with the sound of it stuck in his ribs.
Didn’t know where to put it except somewhere deep where he knows it’ll bruise.
It all gets buried in the same place, eventually. Like when they ended up shoulder to shoulder at some greasy drive-through after, sharing fries from the same bag, and Steve didn’t flinch when Eddie accidentally handed him the milkshake by the straw instead of the cup—fingers sticky, too slow to let go. Just leaned in, drank deep, then made a face and declared his was better.
Like none of this shit was weird.
Normal.
And maybe it is. Maybe to Steve, it’s just another night.
Another friend. Another milkshake.
But to Eddie?
It’s a little too warm in his chest.
A little too close to something he’s not supposed to want.
So he focuses on the road, instead.
White-knuckling the greasy steering wheel, mind locked dead-ahead.
On the glow of streetlights blurring through the bug-splattered windshield. On the static-laced hum of the song on the radio, something low and clean and feel-good.
Steve probably knows it by heart.
Eddie doesn’t care for it. Never has.
Steve’s humming again—under his breath, off-key.
And Eddie keeps driving.
Tries not to turn and watch.
To let that warmth sink in too deep.
But damn if his eyes don’t keep drifting anyway.
a/n: and what started as an absolutely debauched steddie x reader idea has turned into, well... this. i hope you enjoyed. lmk ur thoughts! ur lovely comments and reblogs keep me going :)))
also, lmk if you'd want to be included on a taglist!
read pt. 2 here // series masterlist
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