sadie

22 • she/her

[comfortwriting]

six little harringtons part 12

series masterlist, navigation, request rules

summary: it’s Hope’s first birthday, Steve and her family have a party to celebrate but it all falls apart when the cake is brought out.

warnings: mention of sex, toxic/jealous/possessive Steve, mention of NICU, mention of birth trauma

A/N: alright guys, this is the last chapter before the epilogue, buckle your seatbelts. It’s a long ride. I'm sorry for the long gap in updating, I needed to go on a hiatus for my mental health and wriets block, but I'm back!

word count: 5.4k

Twenty two balloons. You had blown up and recounted twenty two white and pink balloons, decorated with tiny bows in the opposite colour before double checking Hope’s cake was still in one piece, sitting pretty in the fridge without a single smidge of frosting out of place. 

Hope was still fast asleep in her crib, looking so different than she did a year ago; inside an incubator looking like a featherless bird. You were still in disbelief that she made it, that she actually survived the odds, now with a full head of hair, a couple of teeth and able to walk around the garden sniffing at the flowers that were just as tall as her. 

Steve woke up early and got dressed early, too early. He was ready to go for hours and sat on his couch before occasionally pacing around his apartment, thinking about what he was going to say to you and how he was going to say it to finally make things better, to have you fall for him again. He didn’t care if the love was different or if things would never go back to how they were, but as long as you loved him that’s all he needed. 

He wanted you to love him for being someone other than the man who fathered your children.

Ross had woken up early too, focusing a little too hard on what he’d wear to the party. Something to impress you but nothing over the top, he wanted to show off that he could be a family man if given the chance. He picked out what he thought was a casual suit.

He bought Hope the biggest and most expensive child's dollhouse he could find and paid extra for the young woman in the toy shop to giftwrap it with fancy paper and a large silk ribbon to finish it off. 

Every mother wanted the world for their kids, you were no different, and Ross believed that this dollhouse would be the cherry on top to reel you in.

“Mom?” Rose called out, dodging the balloons, “Where do you want these going?” 

You turned to face her, “Hmm… two out the front of the house, another two by the front door, a few in here and the rest in the garden? The sand on their ribbons should hold them down good enough.”

“We can always tape them to the walls or something too,” Rose took six balloons to start with, three in each hand. 

“Do you need any help?” James asked quietly, coming up behind her. 

“No. I’m perfectly capable of doing this myself.” She snapped, walking towards the front door.

You gave James a sympathetic glance but he shrugged, reminding himself of the talk he had with his dad.

“You can't make up excuses for your behaviour or try to blame someone else. You have to own your choices, you have to think long and hard about making them because you could ruin someone's life."

“James,” you said softly, “the guests will start showing up any minute, could you finish arranging the foods and drinks on the table?”

James was deep in thought, placing the bowl of strawberries away from the deli meat and cheese platter to notice the knocking at the door at first, by the third knock he hurried to the door, the pads of his fingers a little stained from the strawberries. 

“Hello?” James furrowed his eyebrows. 

Ross was on the other side of the door, dressed in a fancy suit with his hair slicked back, carrying a massive present in both hands. 

“Good Afternoon,” Ross smiled, “I’d shake your hand but as you can see they’re quite full.”

James stared at the gift in Ross’s hands before his eyes trailed up to his face, his eyes squinting at him. James couldn’t describe the feeling hardening in his bones, but all he wanted to do was to slam the door in this man's face. 

He hated the suit, the smug expression across his face, and the large gift for a tiny one year old in his hands; this stranger was trying too hard.

James didn’t open the door further, he continued to stare at him, “You are?” 

“Oh yes! Sorry, I should’ve led with that. I’m Ross, I work with your mother. She invited me here, Hope’s birthday. I take it you’re another one from the clan?”

Clan?

We’re the fucking Harringtons.

He continued to stare at Ross, not bothering to respond until you hurried over to the door with Hope clinging to your hip, her little chubby and angelic face looking from left to right, taking in everything around her.

“James, why don’t you let,” Your eyes fell onto Ross and immediately you opened the door wider, thankful that he decided to come, “Oh, Ross! You made it!” Your eyes then dropped to the large present in his hands, “You shouldn’t have! Please come in.”

James forced himself to move out of the way, dragging his feet as this man entered his home, trailing behind you like a dog. His father had just got out of the car, making his way up the path, watching James bunch his hands into fists.

“You okay, kid?” Steve asked, ruffling his son's hair and following him into the house, the rectangular present for his daughter weighing heavy in his pocket.

James sighed, giving his dad a hug, “Mom invited her boss,” he grumbled, “I don’t like him.”

Steve had never stepped inside your Bungalow before, each step felt like he was trespassing and as he took in the details of the walls without any trace of him in the pictures or decor he had chosen for the marital home, Steve began to realise you had erased him entirely aside from the resemblance in his children’s faces. He didn’t like it at all, considering he still kept his wedding band on and your framed wedding picture beside his bed.

Steve assumed that your boss was an older man with grey hair and a walking stick, with skin decorated with age spots and wrinkles who was only invited because you were sympathetic to his loneliness, but Steve froze by the back door when you were laughing at something Ross had whispered in your ear, and his own daughter, beaming up at him, cooing.

He hadn’t heard your genuine laugh in years.

“Whose this asshole?” Steve grumbled back to his son, “And what's with the ridiculous suit?”

“That’s mom’s boss, his name is Ross, I think,” he shrugged, watching his Dad’s face drop.

She invited him to our daughter's birthday party?

She invited him.

Ross was standing entirely too close to you and Hope and Steve’s chest tightened and his heart thumped as he watched your boss stroking Hope’s cheek with his index finger, talking sweetly to her. You playfully swatted Ross’s arm and Hope stuck her tongue out at him before blowing raspberries, her tiny specks of spit flying everywhere. 

Ross’s smile softened into something deeply intimate, his eyes lingering on your lips, which Steve didn’t miss. The ugly jealousy flared up inside of him and without thinking he stormed into your backyard, ignoring the glares from your mother and father and other inlaws who were all praying he wouldn’t dare show up. 

Time slowed in front of Steve and he felt as if he had been transported back to high school when a senior student tried to make a move on you. Steve had interrupted back then and you were his ever since, if he didn’t interrupt now, he’d be giving up on everything he ever wanted.

Everything he once had. 

"Hey," Steve broke in, his voice making your laughter come to an immediate halt.

You blinked, and turned around in surprise, "Steve?" You breathed, your eyes widening as you took him in, “I didn’t expect you to come!” 

You were thankful he showed up for his daughter, even if doing so meant he’d be given shit for hours from your family; you warned him over the phone a few nights ago. 

As your gaze lingered on him, you couldn’t help but notice the effort your ex husband made, with his face clean shaven and moisturised, his clothes carefully ironed, his shoes spot cleaned. He was trying. 

Ross straightened up and his brow furrowed slightly at the sudden interruption.

"I wouldn't miss it," Steve replied, ignoring Ross staring at him and only focusing on you.

He wanted to pull you in close, kiss your lips gently and nuzzle his nose into your neck and wrap his arms around you, the way that he used to. He could’ve done so over a year ago, he wished he did it more often and regretted how many nights he spent away from home.

Ross cleared his throat, “So this must be your ex husband, Mr Harrington?” Ross asked, turning his attention to Steve, sneering at him. 

Steve clenched his jaw and reluctantly shifted his gaze to Ross, his hazel eyes hardening. 

“I’m the father of all these kids too,” he growled, stroking Hope’s hair, “I can imagine a career man like you doesn’t have time for kids.”

You wanted to step in before things could escalate but before you could, Steve spoke up again, “Ross, why don’t you get yourself a beer? If you don’t mind. I need a few minutes alone with my ex wife.”

Ross raised his eyebrows and pouted for a moment, “Sure,” his reply to Steve was cold but he returned his attention back to you before heading to the beers, “We’ll talk more later.” 

You let out a deep sigh and stared at Steve, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“You didn’t need to be so rude.” 

Steve nearly bit your head off with a fiery response but quickly stopped himself and lowered his tone, “I’m sorry, alright! I just don’t like the idea of my kids being around men I haven’t vetted.”

It wasn’t a lie but deep down you knew the reality of you knowing other men made Steve’s skin crawl. 

“Well I vetted him, okay?” You were stern, “He’s a nice guy. I work with him.” 

Yeah and I bet you’ll end up fucking him too.

Steve rolled his eyes, his patience already wearing thin. 

“A nice guy, yeah, they’re all nice guys, aren’t they.”

Hope began to squirm in your arms, her little hands reaching out for her father.

“You should know,” you shot back, “You were the nicest guy, weren’t you, Steve?”

Your response was a little louder than you meant, and the guests risked a look up from the drinks, carefully examining you and Steve, not knowing if they needed to get involved. As excited as you were for Hope’s party, you knew how painful it would be. Forced to relive the trauma of her birth, the confession from Steve, even finding out the truth on the kitchen floor. It all came back and you were drowning in it. 

Hope began to scream and leapt towards Steve, you were quick to guide her into his arms but Steve was faster. He scooped her up and she tucked her nose into his neck whilst both of her tiny fists clung to his shirt. 

“Hello my beautiful birthday girl,” he cooed, pressing a soft kiss on her head. 

You swallowed the forming lump in your throat, “Her bag is all packed for tonight,” you reminded Steve. 

He focused on hope, not looking at you, “That reminds me, because she’s old enough for overnight stays, I’d like to go over our custody arrangement, I got a new lawyer.”

Your lips parted and you felt unsteady on your feet, the room around you seemed to start spinning, whirling all around you, blending in with the voices of everyone else around you and the music from Rose’s CD Player. 

“I’m sorry, what?” 

Steve finally gave eye contact, “I got a new lawyer a few months ago, she wants me to have more custody rights with the kids. Hope staying overnight will prove that I’m more than capable and deserving of having them for longer.”

You felt like the wind had been knocked out of you.

How could he do this?!

The urge to bring up your hand and strike him across the face took everything in you not to do it because despite his unfaithfulness, Steve had every right to fight for his kids. He had every right and opportunity to see them more and for as long as he could. 

Although he was right to want more rights with his kids, it didn’t seem fair to you. You weren’t ready for the kids to decide if they wanted to live with their father instead and you were honest enough to admit that you wouldn’t want them to if they chose it for themselves.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, the memories of your first moments with Hope replaying in your mind. The blood. The NICU. Telling Steve to leave. It still felt as if it had only happened yesterday, and here you were, still stuck, unable to move on.

“Oh,” was all you could say at first before forcing yourself to be polite, “sure, I’ll get in touch with my lawyer then and we can arrange an evening where we can all come to some sort of agreement.”

Steve could see the hurt in your eyes, he saw it every time he looked at you, but this hurt was different. You were letting go of another part of a future Steve had destroyed, a part that you had enough trauma from when going through the initial court proceedings. 

“I just want to have more time with them,” he readjusted Hope, “I’m not trying to take them away from you.”

“No, No, I understand,” you replied quickly, knowing he was right, “you deserve every right to have things adjusted for you.. It must've been difficult only seeing the kids on weekends after…”

You didn’t want to mention the better days, whatever those were to Steve because they all seemed ingenuine to you when looking back after what he did in that motel room. 

“It’s been tough,” Steve admitted, “it’s like part of me has been ripped apart, like I’m missing my arm or leg.”

I know that feeling. 

I get it.

Rose tapped you on the shoulder but quickly hurried over to her dad, giving him a quick hug, dodging Hope’s attempt at grabbing a fistful of her hair. 

Since James outed Rose, she had become a lot closer to her dad and found a friend in his old co worker, Robin, who she spoke to on the phone quite often. Robin brought out a new found confidence in Rose and helped her find self acceptance as she came to terms with her sexuality at her own pace.

“I think it’s time you bring the cake out, Mom,” she spoke up, “I’ve got everyone in the garden.”

“I think you’re right,” you smiled at her, “I’ll see you guys out there.”

You slowly placed the large purple candle in the middle of the heart shaped sunshine yellow cake, the number staring back at you before you could bring yourself to light it. 

Hope had grown so quickly in such a short time, she had survived all odds, and despite still being on the smaller side, she was perfect; just like the rest of your kids who were constantly changing in front of your eyes. 

Her birthday wasn’t just a celebration of her survival but it was a painful anniversary of when your entire world collapsed. You didn’t want to be upset today, it was meant to be joyful and full of excitement, but as you reflected on where you were a year ago today, it was hard not to feel just as broken and betrayed as you did when you found out the truth. 

“Need help, sweetheart?” Your mother called out, walking over to you. 

You looked up at her and offered a smile, “I’m okay, all I have to do is light the candle.” 

She stared at you for a moment, “You’ve been through so much,” she sighed, studying the glassiness in your eyes, “I know how hard it’s been for you.”

Your bottom lip started to wobble, the tears pricking at your eyes with your throat tightening and you hated it. You hated that you were still missing what life used to be, and that you weren’t truly over your ex husband. 

“I just still,” you murmured, voice cracking, “I still don’t understand how Steve could do this to me, to us, to our kids. I keep thinking back and I can’t help but wish and imagine what life would be like right now if I didn’t know… or if he didn’t do what he did.”

Your mother placed her hand on your back slowly rubbing it, “I know, I wish things were different too.”

“I loved him so much, Mom.” You started to sob, turning away from the cake.

Steve had left the garden to see if you and your mother needed any help carrying out the cake, when he heard your cries he hid himself out of the doorway and behind the wall, concealed from sight but with an advantage to hear everything being said. 

“I still love him and it’s killing me,” you confessed, wiping away your tears, “but I can’t forgive him, I can’t understand how or why he could do this… I hate him but I’m forced to know him forever and that's what makes it so hard. I’ve always loved him and I don’t think that will ever go.”

Steve’s heart could’ve stopped hearing you still loved him, he felt like he had won the longest race in human history but the moment you followed up with being unable to forgive him and hating him, he was transported to the bottom of the ocean, strapped to a chair with his wrists and ankles bound to the wood, unable to break free and swim to the surface. 

He knew that you hated him but hearing it was something else, it was twisting the knife deeper and deeper. He knew that he deserved to be hated but it didn’t stop the aching growing in his heart. Steve covered his mouth with his hand, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a deep breath, trying to accept the settling realistation in his bones that he couldn’t win you back.

By the time the ringing in his ears subsided, the conversation between you and your mother had shifted, and it would only leave Steve feeling much worse.

“So, Ross is the one who brought that massive present? My eyes nearly burst out of my head seeing that wrapping paper and ribbon! He must’ve spent a fortune.”

You smiled instantly, the rising tears dissipating into the corners of your eyes, “Yeah, that’s him. He’s really nice, he seems to care about me and he has a lot of confidence in me at work but…”

Steve’s eyebrows pulled together and he clenched his jaw, he hated Ross yet didn’t have a real reason to. You weren’t Steve’s anymore, and that was his own doing.

“You don’t think you can trust him?”

You swallowed hard again, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to trust another man for as long as I live.”

Steve selfishly enjoyed the temporary relief, allowing his jaw to relax slightly.

Your mother removed her hand from your back, crossing her arms, “Who says you have to marry him? You don’t have to have him move in and expect the kids to call him dad. You can allow yourself to have a little bit of casual romance in your life, or even a bit of casual sex.”

Steve’s eyes shot open and he caught himself almost blowing his cover and storming into the kitchen. He didn’t want to hear anymore, he couldn’t. 

He hurried away as quietly as he could into the crowded garden, his wide eyes locking on Ross from the crowds of people. 

You’re not taking her from me.

Before he could close in on your boss and punch him in the face, he was startled by the sound of you and your mother singing Happy Birthday as you both entered the garden.

Steve turned around and joined in singing, although he was trying to contain his voice from breaking. He focused on the beautiful cake you and Rose spent hours making together, and watched as James brought Hope towards the cake, blowing out the large candle for her.

I destroyed this family.

I’m the reason I don’t get another chance.

Applause and cheers erupted in the garden and you were quick to start cutting the cake evenly and handing out the slices on the bright yellow plastic plates with the polkadot napkins. 

The twins were fighting over their pieces, Rose was happily enjoying her hard work with every bite, and James sat with your youngest son, helping him eat without clumps of cake dropping on his shorts. 

Hope was now strapped into her highchair, enjoying the cake your father had placed in front of her. Her tiny hands pulled apart the yellow icing and squelched the chocolate sponge which got underneath her delicate nails. 

“Dad,” you called out, “I’m going to get a drink, please can you keep an eye on her for a moment?” 

“You don’t need to ask me, honey, take your time!” Your father replied, not taking his eyes off his granddaughter. 

The moment that you left, Ross slowly followed behind with one of his hands shoved deeply into his pocket whilst the other kept it’s grip on the plate carrying his slice of cake, his head was bowed which made the alarm bells in Steve’s head ring out of control.

Steve slowly slipped through the crowd of your family, bringing his cake with him, and loosely tailed Ross, making sure his footsteps were light and his breathing faint despite the rage bubbling beneath the surface. 

Your glass of water was already half empty by the time Ross reached you and his shadow in the doorway made you jump. You offered a quick wave, swallowed the last of your water and placed the glass on the counter top.

“Ross! Everything okay?” You smiled, wiping away the excess water from your lips.

Ross walked over, his shoulders were dropped and he looked mellow. He always looked mellow.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, sorry,” he chuckled, getting closer to you and setting his plate down next to your glass, “can I be upfront with you?” 

Steve hovered in the doorway like he did earlier, yours and Ross’s backs were against him so he didn’t need to hide. 

“Sure,” you were a little nervous, “What is it?” 

Ross took a deep breath and sighed, “You know I’m interested in you,” he started, “and I know what you’ve been through with him… I know your most important focus is on your kids but,”

Ross placed one of his hands on your waist, the feeling made the hairs stand up on the back of your neck and rush down your back. You didn’t know how to feel; you weren’t outraged that he was holding you in what you’d once considered to be so personal and it felt nice to be wanted, but you couldn’t ignore the slight discomfort of another man claiming you without words. 

Steve couldn’t hold back anymore, his worst nightmare after losing you was unfolding right in front of him. The future slowly unravelling. You giving another man a chance, falling in love with them and rebuilding your future with them and not him, and the worst part? Your kids adoring their second dad. 

“I just want to be a positive force in your life-”

Before Ross could finish smooth talking you, Steve grabbed the handful of his cake and pelted it into the back of Ross’s hair. The chocolate sponge and icing immediately sticking to him and the crumbs falling down the back of his shirt and blazer. 

The initial contact of the cake and Ross’s head made you jump but you knew who’d done it. 

Turning around, Steve had already forced himself into your kitchen, pushing his way between you and Ross, who had by now removed his hand off your waist to pull the cake from his hair. 

“You don’t get to touch her,” Steve growled, glaring at your boss. 

“Steve!” you hissed, “Go back into the garden, now!”

Ross squeezed Steve’s cake in his hand, “Why’s that?” he teased, “Scared of a better man treating her the way she deserves?” 

“Ross, please.” You warned him, “Both of you don’t do this.”

A better man.

Steve tackled Ross onto the kitchen floor and pushed him into the tiles, punching him in the nose. Ross launched the cake into Steve’s face, and gripped at his shirt, trying to use his strength to haul your ex husband off him. 

You ran into the garden, panic completely taking over you. 

“Dad!” You were out of breath, “They’re fighting in the kitchen and I need help, I don’t think either of them will stop.”

The kids faces shot up when they heard the word fight; they had only seen fights on TV and in video games and their imaginations were running wild at the opportunity to watch it live. 

Your mother sat by Hope’s high chair and you hurried after your Dad back to the kitchen, both men still fighting, covered in chocolate sponge, yellow icing, with cuts and bruising beneath. You were too stuck in your own world to notice that all of your kids, but Hope, had piled into the kitchen, eagerly watching the men fight.

Rose turned to James, “My money is on dad,” she said, “Mom’s boss doesn’t stand a chance.” 

James couldn’t believe his sister had spoken to him outside of rejecting his help. He nervously risked a glance at her as she watched her Dad deliver another punch before their granddad began to raise his voice at both men. 

“Y-Yeah, Dad’s got this,” James quickly replied, a smile creeping up in the corners of his mouth.

The twins noticed the cake smeared in Ross’s hair and all over their dad’s shirt, and as your dad managed to pry Steve off your boss, the twins had launched their cakes at one another before stealing Ross’s cake from the countertop and launching it at James. 

“What the fuck!” James gasped with cake now in his eyes. 

Rose burst into laughter, “Now that’s a much better look than the paper bag I suggested last week.” She began to rub the cake into her brother's face, making the cake cling to his eyebrows and lashes. 

When you entered your kitchen, you were speechless. What was once an immaculate room, now had cake all over the floor, the walls, and now your kids, who were enjoying the food fight. 

Your dad was in the middle of warning both men to quit whilst they were ahead and reminded them that they were at an infants birthday party. Steve had his head down, he was ashamed and he looked it, whereas Ross was furious and wasted no time in leaving.

“I’m so sorry,” Steve murmured as you walked over, “this is all my fault, I shouldn’t have thrown that cake, I just… I’m sorry.”

The exhaustion from setting up the party, baking and decorating the cake with Rose, and making sure everything was perfect had completely caught up to you, and instead of scolding Steve, you took a calm breath and let it go. 

“You’re going to need to get yourself, this kitchen, and our kids cleaned up before you and Hope leave for the night. I’m not doing it all myself and I’m not subjecting my guests to tidying your mess.” 

The kitchen was easy for Steve to clean once the other guests had gone home and he had a shower, since living on his own he found his own rhythm for tidying up and deep cleaning in a way that was fast and effective because the longer he spent on tasks like these, the more thoughts piled up in his brain that held him accountable for what he had done to you. 

Since moving out of his parents house, he didn’t stay in contact with either of them despite his mother ringing his phone every night before she went to bed. His reflections on how he treated you also turned to how his parents treated you and the kids, and what he allowed them to get away with. If he wanted to be a better father and a more respectable ex husband, he needed to go no contact. So he did. 

It was bathing the twins that Steve struggled with, water and bubble bath got all over the floor, all over his jeans and some bubbles managed to spill onto the towels. 

“Babe!” Steve called out, quickly muttering a swear word under his breath when he realised what he called you. 

He called out again but this time using your name, and you appeared in the bathroom, your hair pushed out of your face. 

“Can I get some extra towels?” He asked, halfway through washing the taller twins' hair, “These ones are soaked, I can’t dry them with these.”

You nodded your head, “Sure, just leave the towels in the bath once it’s drained, I’ll sort them in the morning.”

Steve was thankful for the extra towels and as you passed them to him, your hands brushed for a moment, fingers grazing against each other's skin. 

You pulled away and stepped back, “I double checked Hope’s bag, everything is in there.”

Steve was rinsing the shampoo out, “Thank you,” he hesitated for a moment, “I’m so sorry about earlier, there’s no excuse, I just don’t want this to affect my custody review when we go forward with it. I’m not a danger to my kids-”

“You’re a good dad, Steve,” you reassured him, “the fight isn’t going to affect whatever arrangement is made going forward.” 

You were too tired for more things you could supply your lawyer with to strip Steve of any opportunities and freedoms with his children and you didn’t have it in you to sit through the extra paperwork and meetings that would come with it. Sure, you were angry and disappointed at what happened, but you were more worried about Ross firing you as a result of what your ex husband had done to him, and those worries could be left for another day. 

After showering the twins, he got them dressed into their pyjamas and into bed, reading with them until they were settled and ready for an early night. 

You were cuddled up with Hope on the sofa when Steve cleared his throat from behind you, pointing towards the bag, “This one?”

You stood up, “Yeah, that’s the one.” 

He slung the strap over his shoulder and walked towards the front door and opened it, stepping out before turning to face you, holding his hands out for his youngest. 

“Alright,” you were nervous to be without her overnight, but you couldn’t deny Steve from this, it was what you agreed on, “Go to daddy.”

Hope outstretched her hands and Steve held onto her tightly, nuzzling into her again. The creeping silence between you as you stood in the house and he was outside of it made you both feel sick, the transitions that sucked you both back to reality felt like you were standing on shards of glass. 

“Well,” you sighed, “Call me if there's an emergency and-”

“I know the drill,” Steve reassured you, “she’ll be fine in her crib, I promise.”

Steve pressed the button on his car keys to unlock it and as he walked away you quickly shut the door and locked it, covering your mouth again so you could sob without your other children hearing you. Sliding down the cool wood of the door, you reminded yourself that although all of this hurt and would do for a long time, you needed to stay apart because the damage had already been done and nothing could repair it.

By the time Hope was fast asleep in her crib next to Steve’s bed, and you were curled up, facing the wall unable to sleep from all of the emotions running high throughout the party, your phone buzzed repeatedly, text after text, from Steve:

God I fucking miss you so much

I’m so sorry for hurting you

I regret it so much. 

You didn’t open his texts, you couldn’t let him know you were reading them. Instead, you closed your eyes and turned over, whilst Steve began to delete everything else he had typed, leaving the most important things on his mind left unsaid.

End of Part 12

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[beasbrain]

"Boyfriend"

description: your parents are very strict and would never approve of your new college-aged boyfriend, darren. so, nancy comes up with the perfect solution: introduce them to your "boyfriend", eddie munson, first. compared to the town pariah, darren should look like prince charming... if only fake dating eddie was as easy as you thought it'd be.

pairing: "boyfriend"!eddie munson x you (fem!reader)

tags: eddie munson x you, soft! eddie munson, fake dating, fake relationship, autumn/fall vibes, friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff as fuck, holding hands and forehead kisses "for the bit", eddie is a gentleman, drive-in movie date, acts of service! eddie, matching halloween costumes, darren never stood a chance, SO FUCKING FLUFFY PREPARE FOR TEARS OF JOY :D

TW: just go ahead and make your dentist appointment now tbh

WC: 8.3k (i'm SORRY i really loved writing this one, okay!?)

A/N: AH HELLOOOO!!! It's been a while since I've had a fic that I feel this deeply for, but here we are nonetheless. I am also leaving on Sunday for a much, much, much-needed 9-day vacation, so I'm going to try to feed you all with one or two more fics. reblogs are ssososososossoooo appreciated :) <3 enjoy my loves xoxo

"It's impossible, Nancy. Utterly and completely impossible."

You let your forehead fall dramatically against the cafeteria table with a soft thunk, your tray rattling beneath the impact. Across from you, Nancy barely looked up from the sad excuse for a school lunch she was methodically picking apart. 

This wasn't the first time she'd listened to you spiral about your parents, and judging by the unimpressed look on her face, she doubted it'd be the last.

"Oh, will you stop whining?" she said, stabbing at a few peas with her plastic fork. "They cannot be that bad."

You lifted your head just enough to shoot her a look. "They're dictators."

"They're parents."

"They're prison wardens with a mortgage."

Nancy rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched into a smile. "You are so dramatic."

"Says the girl whose mother once grounded her for getting a B-plus."

"That was one time."

"And she still brings it up."

Nancy couldn't exactly argue with that. With a sigh, she abandoned the mystery meat on her tray altogether and leaned back in her seat, folding her arms as she studied you. 

You looked genuinely stressed, far more stressed than someone who'd only been dating a guy for a couple of months should've been.

"Darren's in college," you muttered, absentmindedly peeling the label off your milk carton. "He's already got one strike against him. Then there's the fact that he's older than me, which is strike two. By the time they actually meet him, they're going to have convinced themselves he's some twenty-five-year-old biker with a criminal record who's dragging me into a life of organized crime."

Nancy let out an amused snort. "You know that's not true."

"I know that's not true," you groaned. "But they don’t."

"You know what your issue is?"

You narrowed your eyes. "I've got several."

"You haven't given them anyone to compare Darren to."

"...What?"

"They've got nothing to measure him against." She gestured with her fork as if the answer were obvious. "You're terrified to introduce him because, in their minds, he's going to become the blueprint."

You blinked. "I don't follow."

Nancy leaned forward, lowering her voice despite the fact that nobody around you was paying the slightest bit of attention.

"You need to introduce them to someone worse first."

Your eyebrows knitted together. "...Worse?"

"Someone so unbelievably incompatible, so ridiculous, so catastrophically wrong for you..." A slow grin spread across her face. "That when they finally meet Darren, he'll look like the most respectable man on the planet."

You stared at her. "Nancy..."

"I'm serious."

"You want me to fake-date someone my parents would despise?"

"I want you to let them think you're dating someone they'd despise."

Silence. Then, almost against your own will, you felt the gears in your head begin to turn.

"...That's actually..."

"I know."

"...Kind of genius."

Nancy's smile widened. "I know."

Just as you were about to ask the far more important question: who on earth could possibly fit that description?...a familiar voice suddenly echoed across the cafeteria.

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

The two of you turned instinctively toward the source. "Oh, Christ," Nancy muttered.

Across the room, standing on top of one of the cafeteria benches as though he were addressing a crowd of thousands instead of a room full of teenagers trying to eat lunch, Eddie Munson threw his arms dramatically into the air.

"I would once again like to address the blatant discrimination against the Hawkins High Hellfire Club—"

You looked at Nancy, and Nancy looked at you, neither of you saying a word.

"...Him?" you asked slowly.

Nancy's grin returned. "Oh, definitely him."

“...Shit.” You mumbled under your breath. Before you could overthink it, you pushed your chair back from the table. The legs scraped loudly against the linoleum floor. 

Taking one steadying breath, you squared your shoulders and started weaving your way through the maze of lunch tables toward the growing crowd surrounding Eddie's latest performance.

"Wait—" Nancy hurried after you. "I wasn't expecting you to do it right now."

"If I don't do it now," you muttered over your shoulder, "I'm going to lose my nerve."

"Right."

By the time the two of you reached the edge of the crowd, Eddie was still going strong.

"—and furthermore, if Hawkins High truly believes forcing Hellfire to relocate every other week is somehow constitutional—"

You exchanged one last glance with Nancy, so she gave you a tiny nod. Go.

Swallowing the lump that had suddenly formed in your throat, you carefully stepped through the cluster of students until you were standing close enough to reach him.

Then, before you could second-guess yourself…you gave the sleeve of his jacket a gentle tug. The effect was immediate, causing Eddie to stop midsentence.

"...constitutional ri—" His words died in his throat. 

Slowly, almost cautiously, he looked down, and there you were. For a brief moment, he genuinely wondered if he'd imagined you. Because girls like you didn't usually interrupt his lunchtime speeches.

Hell, girls like you usually walked around him. He knew exactly who you were, of course. Everyone did.

You were one of those people whose name seemed to carry itself through the halls without any effort. Honor roll. Friends with Nancy Wheeler. Pretty enough that half the boys in school had, at one point or another, convinced themselves they had a chance before reality quickly corrected them.

You carried yourself with a quiet sort of confidence that made you seem untouchable. Not in a snobbish way, but in the way stars looked untouchable from Earth.

And now...you were standing in front of him. His brain, normally overflowing with smart remarks and sarcastic comebacks, came to a screeching halt. Eddie blinked once, then twice.

"...Uh..." He cleared his throat. "...Hi."

"Hi." You offered him a nervous smile, suddenly far less certain about marching over here than you'd been thirty seconds ago.

"Eddie," you began, tilting your head back slightly to meet his eyes. "Can we... uh... talk to you?"

His eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "...Me?"

"In private," you added quickly, gesturing toward the audience that had practically doubled in size now that the two of you had approached him. More than a few people had abandoned their lunches entirely in favor of shamelessly eavesdropping.

Eddie glanced over your shoulder at the crowd.

 "...I..." He rubbed the back of his neck, still trying to process whatever bizarre alternate universe he'd apparently wandered into. "...Yeah."

A crooked grin finally found its way onto his face. "Yeah, I think I can pencil you in."

Without another word, he hopped down from the cafeteria bench with an exaggerated flourish, dusted imaginary dirt from his jeans, and threw a dramatic glance toward the rest of Hellfire.

"Boys," he announced solemnly, "the revolution will have to wait." He shot you an almost sheepish smile as he caught up beside you.

"So..." His curiosity was practically radiating off him now. "...Lead the way."

The three of you didn't stop walking until the cafeteria noise had faded into little more than a dull echo behind you. The hallway sat blissfully empty during lunch period, save for the occasional locker slamming shut somewhere in the distance.

Eddie rocked back on the heels of his sneakers, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans before glancing between the two of you.

"So..." he drawled, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Am I being recruited into a cult, or are you guys finally here to tell me I've won some sort of popularity contest?"

Nancy snorted. "Neither."

"Damn."

She exchanged a quick look with you before deciding to rip the bandage off.

"So, uh..." she started. "Eddie... how would you feel about being a fake boyfriend?"

Eddie blinked. "...Come again?"

"A fake boyfriend."

He frowned, eyes drifting toward Nancy. "...Wait."

"Aren't you and Byers still together?" His eyebrows knitted together in genuine confusion. "I mean..." He scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck. "Sure, you're cool and all, Wheeler, but I kinda respect the guy."

Nancy stared at him for exactly half a second before letting out an exasperated groan.

"Oh, my God." She smacked his shoulder with the back of her hand. "Not for me."

Eddie rubbed his arm dramatically. "Ow."

"For her," Nancy clarified, throwing both hands toward you like a game show host revealing the grand prize.

His head snapped in your direction so quickly you were surprised he didn't give himself whiplash. "...Her?"

You gave him an awkward little wave. "Hi."

"You..." he said slowly, pointing at you as if he needed to make absolutely certain everyone was talking about the same person. "...want me to pretend to be your boyfriend?"

"I know how insane that sounds."

"No, no." He held up both hands. "I'm just making sure I didn't hit my head getting off that cafeteria bench."

Nancy folded her arms. "Well?"

Eddie's bewildered expression slowly melted into one of pure curiosity. “I’m intrigued. What does this entail?”

You sigh, rocking on your heels. “Basically, I’ve been seeing this college boy, Darren. I’ve never ever been allowed to date, so I haven’t had a boyfriend yet. And considering he’s already in college, my parents would be uber pissed and never let it happen. So Nancy came up with this plan—”

“That you go out with me, your parents think he’s the golden boy, is that it?” He interrupts.

You pause abruptly, suddenly coming to the realization of how messed up and flat-out mean this all sounds. 

“No— uh, shit, yeah, kinda. I’m sorry, this was such a bad idea. Forget I even asked—”

“Woah woah woah, I’m not saying no. I’m all for sticking it to the man or whatever. Just, what do I have to do? Movie dates and rides home?”

“I mean, yeah, kinda. We’d have to be together in every aspect. You know how people in this town love to talk. We have to sell it, y’know?”

Eddie's grin only grew wider.

"So..." He tilted his head. "We're talking the full boyfriend package."

You nodded sheepishly. "Pretty much."

He let out a low whistle. "Movie dates."

"Mhm."

"Walking you home."

"Probably."

"Holding your hand?"

You could feel warmth creeping into your cheeks. "...If people are around."

He hummed thoughtfully, stroking his chin like he was negotiating a business deal worth millions.

"...You realize," he said, unable to suppress the grin threatening to split his face in two, "if we're gonna sell this..."

He leaned in just a fraction. "...I'm gonna have to be the greatest fake boyfriend Hawkins has ever seen."

You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head. "I don't think that'll be a problem."

"Oh?" Eddie asked, feigning offense. "You underestimate my dedication to the craft."

"I think I underestimate your ego."

"That's fair."

Nancy glanced between the two of you, already regretting how well you seemed to bounce off each other.

"So..." she interjected. "When exactly were you planning on starting this little social experiment?"

You looked back at Eddie. "Tomorrow."

His eyebrows shot up. "...Tomorrow?"

"My parents drop me off every morning."

"And?"

"And tomorrow..." A small smile tugged at your lips. "They won't have to."

The next morning started like any other. Alarm at 6:30 on the dot, shower, brush your hair and teeth, do your makeup, pick an outfit, and head downstairs for breakfast.

Your mother was in her usual spot in the kitchen, making the same eggs and whole-wheat toast. Your father sat at the head of the table, glasses low on his nose as he read the newspaper, mug of coffee steaming next to him.

“Morning, Hun,” he hummed. “We have to stop at the post office before school today. I gotta mail out my case notes.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Dad.” You said nervously. “I, uh, have a ride today.”

“Oh, did Nancy finally get her car fixed?” Your mother chimed in.

“Oh, uh, yeah, but…it’s not Nancy. Eddie’s actually picking me up.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Your father slowly folded up his newspaper and placed it on the counter. “Eddie? As in, Eddie Munson, Eddie?”

You winced. "...Yeah."

Your mother blinked. "The young man with the... leather?"

You almost laughed. "I think it's denim."

"The one with the chains?"

"...Probably."

"The long hair?"

"...Yes."

"The Hellfire Club?"

"...Yes."

"The one who's in detention every other Tuesday?"

You sighed. "...That's the one."

Your father leaned back in his chair, studying you with an expression that was somehow calmer than yelling would've been.

"And..." He clasped his hands together. "...Why, exactly, is Eddie Munson picking my daughter up for school?"

Your heart hammered against your ribs. “Because we’ve been…seeing eachother.”

Absolute, unwavering silence followed. Your mother and father exchanged looks before answering in unison:

"...What?"

You cleared your throat. "Eddie and I have been... seeing each other."

Your mother's wooden spatula slipped from her fingers, clattering against the stovetop. Your father stared at you as though you'd just announced you were dropping out of school to join the circus.

"I'm sorry," he said slowly. "I must've misheard you."

You forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. "You didn't."

"Since..." your mother began carefully, "...since when?"

"A little while."

"A little while?" your father echoed.

You nodded. "Mhm."

"And you neglected to mention this because..."

"I knew you'd react like this."

"We're reacting because you just informed us that you're dating Eddie Munson."

"I know."

You opened your mouth to argue more, but before you could, a loud, unmistakable rumble echoed from outside. It sounded like someone had awakened a dying dragon in your driveway.

All three of you turned toward the front window. The familiar roar of an aging engine settled into a rattling idle.

Your father slowly stood from the table. "...Is that him?"

As if on cue: Honk. One short beep, then another.

Your eyes squeezed shut. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

From somewhere outside came a voice that carried far too well through the quiet neighborhood. "Take your time, sweetheart!"

You whipped around toward the window in horror. "Oh, my God."

Your father walked over first, carefully pulling back the curtain with two fingers. Your mother joined him a second later.

"...Harold," she whispered.

"I see him."

"He brought flowers."

Your stomach dropped. Flowers? That wasn't part of the plan. Slowly, you walked toward the window yourself, peering over your father's shoulder. There, parked halfway into the driveway in the unmistakable rust-speckled Munson van, was Eddie.

He'd traded his usual leather jacket for his battle vest over a black T-shirt, his sunglasses perched on top of his head despite it barely being eight in the morning. And, resting casually against the side of the van like he'd rehearsed it in a mirror...

...was the single ugliest bouquet of flowers you had ever seen. Half of them looked dead, one of them might've been plastic. There was definitely baby's breath sticking out at an angle it wasn't meant to.

The second your eyes met his through the window, his face lit up. He flashed the biggest, cockiest grin imaginable before lifting the bouquet high into the air with an exaggerated little flourish. Then he gave you an enthusiastic wave.

Your father slowly let the curtain fall shut, and he turned to face you. "...He's brought you funeral flowers."

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "...I think they're supposed to be carnations."

You let out a slow, defeated sigh. "...I'll be home after school."

Neither of your parents responded. Your father simply stood with his arms folded across his chest, while your mother wore the same expression she'd had ever since the words Eddie Munson had left your mouth. It was somewhere between confusion and preparing for the worst.

Grabbing your backpack from beside the front door, you slipped your shoes on and reached for the handle. "Love you," you offered hopefully.

Your mother managed a weak smile. "...Love you too."

Your father nodded once. "We'll... talk tonight."

You swallowed. "...Sounds good."

The second the front door swung open, Eddie spotted you. He straightened from where he'd been leaning against the van, tucked the pitiful excuse for a bouquet behind his back with an almost comical flourish, and plastered on the biggest smile you'd ever seen.

"There she is!"

You had to physically stop yourself from laughing. He walked toward you with the confidence of someone arriving at prom instead of a suburban driveway at seven-thirty in the morning.

"Good morning, beautiful."

Beautiful? You'd known Eddie for less than twenty-four hours, and he was already improvising.

He stopped in front of you, producing the bouquet from behind his back like a magician revealing his greatest trick.

"For my lovely lady."

You looked down. They were somehow even uglier up close. One carnation had snapped clean in half.

"...You bought these?"

"I rescued them."

"From...?"

"The clearance bucket outside Melvald's."

You bit the inside of your cheek so hard it almost hurt. 

"They were seventy-five percent off."

"How romantic."

"I know."

You accepted the bouquet, shaking your head. "They're hideous."

"I picked the worst ones."

"I can tell."

"Proud of me?"

"...A little."

His grin widened. "Excellent."

Then, before you had time to react, he reached out, brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face with surprising gentleness…and pressed a quick kiss to your forehead. It was quick, sweet, and almost innocent.

But if anyone happened to be watching from inside, it looked incredibly convincing. Your eyes widened ever so slightly. When he pulled away, he leaned in just enough to whisper: 

"...Sorry."

You blinked. "For what?"

"I panicked."

"...You panic by kissing people?"

"Apparently."

Before you could answer, the front door creaked open behind you. Both of your parents stepped onto the porch.

Eddie immediately turned, the picture of charm. "Mr. and Mrs!," he called cheerfully, raising a hand in greeting. "Pleasure to finally meet you."

Your father looked him up and down. "...Is it?"

Eddie didn't miss a beat. "It certainly is for me, sir."

"So..." your father began slowly. "You're Eddie."

"The one and only."

"I've heard... things."

Eddie rested a hand dramatically over his heart. "I'm hoping only the good ones."

"I sincerely doubt they were."

"Oh." He nodded thoughtfully. "...Probably."

You could actually see your father's brain trying to determine whether Eddie was genuinely this odd or simply putting on a performance. Spoiler alert: it was both.

"So," your father continued, "you're driving my daughter to school."

"I am."

"You'll obey the speed limit."

"Absolutely."

"No reckless driving."

"Never."

"No funny business."

Eddie frowned slightly. "...Define funny."

You closed your eyes. "Eddie..."

"What?" he asked innocently. "I'm asking for clarification."

Your father's expression remained perfectly flat. "You know exactly what I mean."

Eddie's own smile softened. "I do."

Then, for the first time since he'd arrived, he answered without a trace of sarcasm. "I'll get her there safely, sir."

The sincerity in his voice caught everyone a little off guard; hell, even your father seemed surprised. After a moment, he gave one curt nod.

"I expect you will."

"I will."

With that, Eddie walked around to the passenger side of the van and pulled the door open with an exaggerated bow. "Your chariot awaits."

You rolled your eyes. "What a gentleman."

"I have my moments."

Climbing into the passenger seat, you waited until he rounded the front of the van and slid into the driver's seat before the two of you looked at one another. There was exactly half a second of silence, then you burst into laughter.

Eddie looked over, trying and failing to suppress his own smile. "...What's so funny?"

"You."

"Me?"

"You kissed my forehead!"

"You said we had to sell it."

"I did not say before eight in the morning!"

"You never specified business hours."

You laughed harder. "And those flowers?"

He gasped dramatically. "They cost me a dollar twenty-five."

"They looked like they'd already attended a funeral."

"They did."

You stared at him. "...What?"

"I may or may not have bought them from the cemetery."

Your jaw dropped. "Eddie!"

"I'm kidding!"

"...Were you?"

"...Mostly."

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "I have made the biggest mistake of my entire life."

He shifted the van into gear, a smug grin settling onto his face. "Oh, sweetheart."

The engine rumbled to life. "We're only on day one."

The drive to school had only been the beginning. Once Eddie committed to something, it quickly became apparent that he didn't know how to do it halfway.

The second the first bell rang, he'd slung his backpack over one shoulder and casually fallen into step beside you as though the two of you had been doing it for years.

"History first?" he'd asked.

"Mhm."

"Excellent."

You'd expected him to walk you halfway there, maybe to the end of the hallway. Instead, he'd walked you all the way to your classroom, leaned casually against the doorframe while you gathered your books, and smiled down at you.

"I'll see you after second period."

"...You know my schedule?"

He'd pulled a folded piece of notebook paper from his pocket. "Made a copy."

You stared. "...When?"

"Nancy."

You looked over your shoulder at her, so Nancy simply shrugged. "He asked."

"You gave it to him?"

"He was very persuasive."

Eddie tucked the paper back into his vest. "I'm an actor, sweetheart. Continuity is everything."

Sure enough, the moment second period ended, he was already waiting outside your classroom. Then again after third. Then fourth. By lunchtime, the entire school had noticed.

Girls whispered when you walked past. Basketball players openly stared. Freshmen practically dove out of Eddie's way when he slipped an arm lazily over your shoulders while walking through the hallway.

If anyone had doubted the relationship that morning, they certainly didn't anymore. Which was exactly why you found yourself carrying your lunch tray toward the Hellfire table instead of your usual seat beside Nancy.

You stopped dead in your tracks. "...People are going to think I've lost my mind."

Eddie looked up from unwrapping his sandwich. "They already think that."

"...Helpful."

He scooted over and pulled up a chair for you. "C'mon."

With a resigned sigh, you slid in beside him. Almost immediately, the rest of Hellfire fell silent. Gareth looked at Jeff. Jeff looked at Mike. Mike looked at Dustin. Dustin's eyes darted between you and Eddie so fast you were surprised they didn't get stuck.

"...Holy shit," Gareth muttered.

"It's real," Jeff whispered.

Eddie looked offended. "You doubted me?"

"We doubted her."

You couldn't even blame them. A few minutes later, Nancy and Jonathan wandered over, trays in hand.

"Mind if we join?" Jonathan asked.

"Please do," you replied. "I need normal people."

Eddie gasped dramatically.

By the final bell, your social battery had all but evaporated. Being the center of attention all day was exhausting. You were halfway through stuffing books into your locker when Nancy appeared beside you.

"So..." she began.

You looked up.

"I think Phase One was a success."

"You think?"

"I've already heard three different people say they 'always knew' you and Eddie had chemistry."

You groaned. "People are unbelievable."

"They're bored."

"Fair."

Jonathan joined the two of you, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. "Speaking of bored..."

Nancy suddenly snapped her fingers. "Oh!"

She looked between you and Eddie. "I almost forgot."

"What?"

"The drive-in's doing a horror double feature tomorrow night."

Eddie perked up immediately. "...Seriously?"

Jonathan nodded. "I drove past this morning."

"They're showing The Evil Dead and A Nightmare on Elm Street."

Eddie's jaw practically hit the floor. "No way."

"Way."

"They never play good movies."

"I know."

Nancy smiled. "Jonathan wanted to go..."

Jonathan looked over at her. "...Did I?"

"You do now."

He chuckled. "I guess I do."

She turned back toward you and Eddie. "You guys should come."

You blinked.

"As..." She wiggled her eyebrows. "...A couple."

You looked instinctively toward Eddie.

"A public date," he mused. "Excellent for maintaining the illusion."

Nancy laughed. "See? He's getting it."

"Oh, he got it the second he showed up with cemetery flowers."

"They weren't cemetery flowers," Eddie defended.

"They were discount flowers."

"There's a difference."

Jonathan smiled, shaking his head. "So..."

He looked between the two of you. "Tomorrow night?"

You glanced at Eddie, and he gave a tiny shrug. "I'm free."

"...Yeah." You nodded. "I think we'd like that."

The following evening arrived far quicker than you would've liked. Somewhere between surviving an entire day of whispers at school and convincing your mother that, yes, you really were just going to the drive-in with "friends," the reality of the situation had begun to settle in.

You were going on your first date. Granted, it was fake. But somehow that only made your stomach twist even more.

After changing into a pair of jeans, one of your favorite sweaters, and throwing on a light coat for the chilly October air, you gave yourself one final look in the hallway mirror.

"Ready?" your mother called from downstairs.

"As I'll ever be."

The words had barely left your mouth when the doorbell rang. Your father looked up from his armchair.

"That'll be him." You exchanged a quick glance with your mother before making your way toward the front door, only for your father to beat you there. "I'll get it."

The door swung open, and standing on the porch was Eddie.

His curls had clearly been tamed…well, as much as Eddie Munson's curls could ever be tamed.

He'd swapped his usual ripped Hellfire shirt for a plain black waffle long-sleeved shirt. His jeans were still ripped, his boots still scuffed, and there were just as many rings decorating his fingers as always.

He'd made an effort, in the most Eddie way possible.

The moment he saw your father, he straightened. "Evening, sir."

Your father regarded him carefully. "...Munson."

"Eddie works."

Your father didn't smile. "I'm sure it does."

You quickly slipped between them before things could somehow become awkwarder than they already were. "Hi."

The second Eddie looked at you, his entire expression softened. "...Wow."

You felt heat creep into your cheeks. "What?"

"You..." He smiled to himself before shaking his head. "You look really nice."

"...Thanks."

Your father cleared his throat, and Eddie immediately remembered where he was. 

"Right." He clasped his hands behind his back almost like a soldier awaiting inspection. "So..." 

Your father folded his arms. "So."

"I understand we're going to the drive-in."

"We are."

"And I understand Jonathan Byers and Nancy Wheeler will be there."

"They will."

"Good."

"You'll have her home by eleven."

Eddie nodded immediately. "Absolutely."

"If plans change, she calls."

"Of course."

"If that van breaks down—"

"It won't."

Your father raised an eyebrow. "It might."

"...It might."

"And if it does?"

"I'll call."

"You won't let her walk home alone."

"I wouldn't let her walk across the parking lot alone."

Your father's posture eased... just a fraction. "Good."

He stepped aside. "You kids have fun."

"We will, sir."

As you stepped off the porch, Eddie quietly reached for your hand. You glanced down at your intertwined fingers before looking back up at him.

He leaned over just enough to murmur, "...Audience."

You looked back toward the front window, and sure enough, your parents were watching through the curtains. "...Right."

The drive itself was surprisingly easy. The windows were cracked just enough to let the cool autumn air drift through the van while some old rock station played quietly over the speakers.

You talked about school. About Gareth somehow managing to fail another chemistry quiz. About Dustin insisting he'd seen a UFO behind Family Video. By the time the glowing marquee for the Hawkins Drive-In appeared in the distance, you'd almost forgotten this wasn't real.

Eddie paid for both of your tickets before steering toward the back row.

You frowned. "...Shouldn't we park closer?"

"Nope."

"Why?"

"You'll see."

He killed the engine before hopping out of the driver's seat. "C'mere."

Curiosity getting the better of you, you followed him around to the back of the van. He swung the rear doors open with both hands.

"...Ta-da."

You stopped walking. "...Eddie."

The inside of the van looked nothing like you'd expected.

The back seats had been folded flat, replaced with what looked like every blanket he owned layered over an old mattress pad. Pillows were piled against the sides, making a little nest beneath a strand of warm white battery-powered string lights he'd somehow managed to drape across the ceiling.

There were even two lawn chairs folded neatly in the corner in case you wanted to sit outside instead.

"...What..."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "So..."

You climbed a little closer, running your hand across one of the impossibly soft blankets. "You did all this?"

He shrugged like it was no big deal. "I figured drive-ins are more fun when you're comfortable."

Your eyes wandered farther; a little cooler sat tucked against the wall. Curious, you opened it. Inside were glass bottles of Coke, your favorite cherry licorice, peanut M&M's, movie theater butter popcorn. Even the little strawberry candies you'd absentmindedly mentioned liking while sitting at lunch two days ago.

You looked back at him. "...How do you even know all of this?"

"You told Gareth those strawberry candies reminded you of your grandma."

You blinked. "...You remembered that?"

"Sure."

Still speechless, you reached into the back again.

"...Is this..." You pulled out a folded gray sweatshirt. "...Mine?"

"Nah." He laughed. "It's mine."

You looked at him, confused.

"It's supposed to get cold later."

"So?"

"So..." He looked at you like the answer was obvious. "You complained yesterday that you always underestimate how cold October gets."

"...I did."

"So I brought an extra sweatshirt."

You stared at him. "Eddie..."

For the first time since you'd met him, he actually looked a little shy. "What?"

"I thought this was supposed to be fake."

"It is."

"You didn't have to do..." You gestured helplessly toward the cozy little setup he'd somehow built in the back of the van. "...all of this."

A grin slowly spread across his face. "Oh."

He leaned casually against the open door. "...This?"

You nodded, and he shrugged. "Fake boyfriend package."

You laughed. "No."

"What?"

"This is way above the fake boyfriend package."

He feigned offense. "You wound me."

"Eddie."

"I'm serious."

He pointed into the van. "Blankets."

Another finger. "Snacks."

Another. "Emergency sweatshirt."

He spread both hands proudly. "I'm providing a premium service here."

You laughed so hard you had to grab the side of the van to steady yourself. "I'm going to have to leave you a five-star review."

"Damn right you are."

Then, quieter, his grin softening into something far less performative.  

"I just..." He looked over the little setup. "...Figured if we're pretending to date..."

His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. "...You should get at least one really good date out of it."

The drive-in ended up being surprisingly perfect. Neither of you paid much attention to the first movie.

Instead, the two of you spent most of it making sarcastic commentary under your breath, sharing popcorn, and arguing over whether The Evil Dead was genuinely terrifying or just "creative low-budget filmmaking," as Eddie insisted.

By the second feature, the October air had turned considerably colder. Without saying a word, Eddie reached behind him, grabbed the sweatshirt he'd packed, and draped it over your shoulders before you even had the chance to complain.

You'd rolled your eyes as he'd simply grinned. "Premium service."

By the time the credits rolled, your cheeks hurt from smiling.

True to his word, Eddie pulled into your driveway at exactly 10:50, ten whole minutes before your curfew. Your father was already waiting on the porch, arms crossed, watching.

Eddie climbed out first, walking around to open your door before helping you step down from the van with an exaggerated flourish. "Milady."

You curtsied dramatically. "Thank you, kind sir."

He placed a hand over his heart. "My pleasure."

Your father watched the exchange carefully as the two of you walked toward the porch. "You made good time."

Eddie nodded. "Told you I would."

Your father checked his watch. "...You're early."

"I figured ten minutes was a safe buffer."

"...Smart."

It wasn't exactly praise. But coming from your father, it was pretty damn close.

"Goodnight, sir."

"Goodnight, Eddie."

You glanced between them. "...Goodnight."

As you headed inside, you couldn't help but notice your father watching Eddie climb back into the van.

Your mother appeared beside him. "So?"

He kept his eyes on the driveway. "...He was respectful."

You nearly tripped over your own feet. Respectful? From your father? Maybe hell really had frozen over.

One fake date somehow became two, then three. Then somewhere along the line, the lines started blurring.

Eddie still picked you up for school almost every morning. He still walked you to every class. He'd started carrying your books without asking. Holding doors open. Stealing fries off your lunch tray despite insisting he "didn't want any."

You'd retaliated by drinking half his chocolate milk whenever he looked away. A silent war had begun that neither of you intended to lose.

The town, of course, ate it up. Mrs. Thompson at Melvald's gave the two of you a knowing smile every time you stopped in after school. The librarian had started saving romance novels "for the young couple." Even Principal Higgins had caught Eddie kissing the top of your head outside English one afternoon.

Instead of detention, he'd simply sighed. "Keep it appropriate, Munson."

"Always do."

The moment Higgins rounded the corner, Eddie looked down at you. "...That counted, right?"

You laughed. "I think we sold it."

"Excellent."

The phone calls hadn't been part of the plan. It started because Eddie called one evening to ask if your father had "bought the hand-holding today."

That conversation lasted fifteen minutes. The next night became thirty. By Friday, the two of you had somehow spent nearly two hours talking about everything and absolutely nothing.

Favorite movies. Childhood stories. Music. Why Garfield was objectively the funniest comic strip ever printed.

You'd started waiting for the sound of your phone ringing around nine every night. And like clockwork, you’d always answered.

Before long, pretending started feeling easy and dangerously comfortable. Sometimes you'd catch yourself laughing before Eddie even finished the joke. 

Sometimes he'd bring you your favorite soda without asking. Sometimes he'd absentmindedly reach for your hand crossing a parking lot before either of you remembered there wasn't actually anyone around to witness it.

Neither of you acknowledged those moments; you simply kept the "bit" going.

"So." Jonathan leaned back in his cafeteria chair one afternoon, looking around the table. "I heard something."

Nancy looked up from her sandwich. "...Should we be worried?"

"Probably."

Eddie nodded approvingly. "I like where this is going."

Jonathan ignored him. "My friend at community college said there's a party this Saturday."

That immediately caught everyone's attention. "A college party?" Nancy asked.

Jonathan nodded. "Apparently one of the fraternities is throwing a Halloween thing."

You, Nancy, and Eddie exchanged glances. None of you had been to a college party before. Jonathan noticed the exchange and smiled.

"I was thinking..." He pointed between the two of you. "You guys should come."

Nancy perked up immediately. "Oh my God, yes."

"It'd be fun," Jonathan continued. "Nobody there knows either of you, so there's no pressure. Just music, some booze..." He shrugged. "Besides, Darren goes there, doesn't he?"

Your stomach flipped. "...Yeah."

Jonathan smiled. "Perfect."

Nancy's eyes widened as the implications dawned on her. "Oh."

"Oh."

Nancy was the first one to put the pieces together. Her eyes widened as she looked between you and Eddie. "...Wait."

You glanced over.

"If your parents think Eddie's taking you..." She pointed toward Jonathan. "...Then they'll have absolutely no problem letting you go."

You nodded absentmindedly. "...I guess."

Jonathan shrugged. "And if Darren happens to be there..."

The name hit you like someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over your head.

Darren. Right.

For a brief, almost embarrassing moment, you'd forgotten. Not forgotten him, exactly. Just forgotten that he was the entire reason any of this had started.

Your mind flashed back to the phone call you'd had with him a few nights earlier. The conversation had been nice, comfortable even.  He'd asked how school was going. You'd told him "good." He'd told you about a biology exam. You'd wished him luck.

Then, before hanging up, you'd mentioned you couldn't talk much longer because Eddie was supposed to call in a few minutes. Only after you'd said it had you realized how naturally the words had come out.

You blinked. "...Oh."

Eddie noticed the shift in your expression almost immediately. "What?"

You looked back at the table. "...Nothing."

Jonathan continued, oblivious. "He'll probably be there somewhere."

“Yeah…” You said, sinking into your seat. "Probably."

By the time the night of the party rolled around, you were equal parts nervous and excited. The excitement, however, had very little to do with the party itself. It had everything to do with the ridiculous argument you'd had with Eddie three nights prior.

"If we're going," he'd said over the phone, "we're wearing matching costumes."

You'd laughed. "No."

"Yes."

"Absolutely not."

"We're a couple."

"A fake couple."

"A distinction with very little importance."

You'd groaned into the receiver. "Eddie..."

"We have to sell it."

"We're already selling it."

"No, sweetheart." You could practically hear the grin in his voice. "We're raising the bar."

Which explained why you were currently standing in front of your bedroom mirror wearing a black, studded mini dress layered over a fishnet top, ripped tights, and heavy combat boots. A spiked choker sat snug around your neck.

Your hair had been teased and left wild, half-pinned back with a chain clip Eddie had insisted on adding himself earlier.

“Needs more attitude,” he’d said, concentrating like he was defusing a bomb.

You’d called it ridiculous; he’d called it perfect.

A knock sounded downstairs.

"He's here!" your mother called.

You grabbed your leather jacket, shrugging it on as you hurried downstairs. The second you rounded the corner into the foyer, Eddie looked up and promptly forgot how to speak.

Gone were the ripped jeans and Hellfire tee. Instead, he wore black skinny jeans, a sleeveless band tee layered under a distressed denim vest covered in patches, and heavy boots that looked like they’d seen more than one mosh pit.

Eddie had somehow managed to style his own hair into a wild, voluminous mess of teased curls and waves, half of it pulled back with a chain and leather wrap, the rest spilling around his face like he’d stepped straight out of a metal album cover.

A few strands fell into his eyes, but he didn’t brush them away. He just stared at you.

"...Holy shit."

You smiled. "What?"

"You..." He shook his head slowly, like he couldn’t quite process it. "You actually did it."

"You look like you belong in a band."

"I do belong in a band."

"You belong in a very loud band."

He grinned, stepping closer. "You look..." His voice softened just slightly. "...Really good."

You felt heat rise in your cheeks. "You don’t look so bad yourself."

Your father chose that exact moment to clear his throat. The two of you jumped apart as though you'd been caught committing a crime.

"Evening, Eddie."

"Sir..."

Your father looked him over. "...Interesting costume."

Eddie glanced down at himself. "Thanks."

"You know..." Your father folded his arms. "...People in bands tend to make questionable life choices."

Eddie nodded seriously. "Yeah, I’ve heard that. I’m trying to keep my record clean tonight, sir."

That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of your father’s mouth.

"So," your father continued, "college party."

"Yes, sir."

"You understand there’ll be drinking."

"There probably will be."

"You won’t be."

"No, sir."

"You’ll make sure she isn’t."

"I will."

"And if anything feels off..."

"We leave." He finishes.

Your father studied him for another second before nodding. "...Midnight."

"We’ll be back before then."

He looked toward you. "Phone?"

You held it up.

"Wallet?"

You patted your pocket.

"Keys?"

Eddie jingled them.

"...Have fun."

The fraternity house was impossible to miss. Music thumped loudly enough to rattle the windows while clusters of college students spilled across the front lawn, laughing beneath strings of orange lights and fake cobwebs. The moment the four of you stepped out of the van, heads turned.

Jonathan leaned toward Nancy. "...I think they win."

Nancy smiled. "They absolutely win."

One college girl walking past pointed excitedly. "Oh, my God!" She laughed. “Sharron and Ozzie!"

Eddie immediately slid an arm around your shoulders. "See?" he murmured. "Worth it."

"...Debatable."

Inside, the house was somehow even louder. A surprising number of people in ripped band tees and eyeliner that looked suspiciously rushed. You spent the first hour simply existing.

You danced exactly once, mostly because Eddie refused to accept no for an answer.

"You have two options," he'd informed you.

"Dance..." He held out one hand. "...Or I throw a fit in this living room."

"...Those aren't good options."

"They absolutely are."

You’d taken his hand before he embarrassed both of you. Nancy had laughed so hard she’d nearly spilled her drink. You were having genuine amounts of fun, almost enough to make you forget why you were there in the first place.

"I'm gonna find the bathroom," you announced after another song ended.

Finding the bathroom proved far easier than finding your way back. You’d barely stepped into the upstairs hallway before a familiar voice stopped you in your tracks.

"...Babe?"

Your heart skipped, and slowly, you turned around. "Darren?"

He smiled, equally surprised. "I thought Jonathan said you might be coming."

"I almost didn't."

He laughed. "I didn't think I'd actually run into you."

"So..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You look nice."

You smiled politely. "Thanks. You too."

His eyes drifted over your costume. "...Metal?"

"Mhm."

"Cute."

"So..." he asked carefully. "How've you been?"

Meanwhile downstairs, Eddie checked his watch. "Huh."

Jonathan looked over. "What?"

"She's been gone a while."

Nancy frowned. "...You're right."

"I'll go find her."

"You know where the bathroom is?"

"I'll figure it out."

He checked one door, and then another.

Then, "...Oh."

His footsteps stopped because halfway down the hall stood you. Laughing, talking with a guy: college-aged, a little taller than him, and standing much closer than Eddie would've liked.

Darren. Of course. This was literally the entire reason any of this existed. 

His grip around his cup tightened as he watched Darren smile at something you said and watched you smile back. 

What had he expected? That you’d forget about the guy you’ve been trying so hard to introduce to your parents?

That this fake relationship had somehow...He cut the thought off before it finished. The cup slipped through his fingers, and it clinked softly against the floor.

Your head whipped toward the sound. "Eddie?"

Your eyes had met then, and he stared at you solemnly for a second before shaking his head and scurrying away. 

"Eddie!" 

You looked back at Darren only long enough to offer an apologetic smile. "I'm... I'm sorry. I have to go."

Before he could answer, you were already hurrying after the retreating figure, disappearing down the staircase.

“Eddie! Hey…Jesus Christ, you walk fast—Fuck, hey!”

You finally caught his wrist just as he pushed through the front door of the fraternity house; the October air hit both of you immediately.

"Eddie."

He stopped walking, and for a second, you swore he'd turn around. He didn't. Instead, he let out a slow breath through his nose, staring out at the sea of cars parked along the lawn.

"...You should go back inside."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"I was literally coming to find you."

"No." He laughed once, humorlessly. "You were talking to Darren."

"I was saying hello."

"Mhm."

"Eddie."

He finally turned around then, his eyes glossy. He wasn’t crying, not yet, but somewhere dangerously close. "You don't have to explain yourself."

"What?"

"You don't owe me an explanation."

"I wasn't trying to—"

"No." He shook his head. "Seriously."

He laughed a short and almost bitter laugh.  "You don't."

You frowned. "You're my—"

He cut you off. "Fake boyfriend. 

“You were talking to the guy you actually like." He shrugged. "I get it."

"No, you don't."

"I do."

"No—"

"I was just..." He rubbed both hands over his face before letting out another disbelieving laugh. "Jesus Christ."

His shoulders slumped. "What the hell did I think was gonna happen?"

"Eddie..."

"What?" he asked, throwing one hand into the air. "That I actually convinced myself the prettiest girl in Hawkins High was gonna wake up one morning and decide she wanted me?"

He wasn't looking at you anymore; his gaze was fixed beyond your shoulder, talking more to himself than to you.

"I'm the fucking freak."

"Eddie—"

"And somewhere along the way..." He shook his head. "I forgot."

You stepped closer. "You forgot what?"

"That this..." He gestured between the two of you. "...was never real. You know what the worst part is?"

"Eddie..."

"I started believing it. I started believing all the stupid little things."

He counted them off on his fingers. "The phone calls. The drive-in. You stealing my fries. You laughing at my dumb jokes."

He laughed again. "I started thinking..." He stopped himself. "No."

"Eddie, finish that sentence."

"I started thinking maybe..." His jaw tightened. "Maybe you actually enjoyed being around me."

"I do."

"You have to."

"No."

"You literally have to!" he exclaimed, his voice finally rising. "That's the whole deal!"

"I don't."

"You don't?"

"I don't have to."

He blinked as you took another step forward. "I call you because I want to."

He stared.

"I laugh because you're funny. I go to the record store with you because I like going. With you."

"Eddie..." You swallowed. "I would've kept talking to Darren for maybe another minute."

You gestured toward the house. "I chased after you. Like, I've barely thought about Darren this entire month."

Those words surprised both of you, mainly because you hadn't meant to say them out loud.

"I..." You frowned. "I don't know when that happened."

"Eddie..."

He looked away. "I really don't want you to say something just because you feel bad."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not."

He let out another dry laugh, shaking his head. "You don't have to spare my feelings."

"I'm not trying to spare your feelings, you idiot!"

Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you searched for the right words. "I don't know how else to say this."

"You don't have to say anything."

"Yes, I do."

"Eddie..." Your voice softened. "I like you."

He smiled sadly. "I know."

"No." You shook your head. "I don't think you do."

He frowned.

"I like you. Like..."

You let out a nervous laugh, one hand coming up to rub the back of your neck. "Like, I genuinely like you."

He froze so much so that you could almost see the sentence replaying itself in his head. "...What?"

"I like you."

"No, you don't."

"I do."

"You don't."

"I really, really do."

He stared at you as though you'd started speaking another language. "You came up with this whole fake dating thing because of Darren."

"I know."

"You wanted me to make him look better."

"I know."

"You've been trying to introduce him to your parents for weeks."

"I know."

"So..." He gave another confused laugh. "How the hell does this happen?"

You laughed through the tears threatening to form. "I don't know."

"I think..." You looked down at your shoes before meeting his eyes again.

"I think it happened somewhere between you showing up with those horrible flowers..."

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"...And remembering my favorite candy."

You smiled weakly. "And the drive-in. And the phone calls. And you walking me to every class. You remembered all the little things I said without me ever asking you to."

"You made pretending feel so easy that..." You shook your head. "...I forgot we were pretending."

His lips parted. "I almost forgot Darren existed."

The admission hung in the cool night air.

"I went the entire time without thinking about him once." You laughed softly to yourself. "And then Jonathan mentioned the college party..."

You shrugged helplessly. "...And I realized I'd spent more time wondering what costume we would wear rather than seeing Darren."

"So..." You offered him the smallest, most nervous smile he'd ever seen.

"I guess somewhere along the way..."

You reached down and gently took his hand. "...I stopped fake dating you."

He looked down at your intertwined fingers, then back up at you. "...You're serious."

You nodded. "I've never been more serious."

He smiled so wide it almost looked painful. "...Guess I'm gonna have to start putting in some real boyfriend effort now, huh?"

“Should I be afraid to find out what that entails?”

“Oh yeah. Very much so.”

me giggling and kicking my feet at how cute ts is

since ik you all far too well and love adding more projects for myself...

part 2?🫣

pls bea i beg u

no bc im lame

Voting ended onAug 14

taglist:

@midgardian-rogue @julxsxx @doomdabss @doodeesstuff @cicibananaaa @peterhollandkait @gunnersaurusrex @lisl0velettxrs @5lutforeddie @a-villain-vying-for-attention  @fapqueen @sadgirl-bee @bowie-frommars @milescrypt  @bitterestwillow @lnnn1n @youngbrokefab @ludachrissy @sisteramycatherine @izzycstairs @britttzy267 @eddiemunsonsimpp @powerpuffedbjtch @sariahs-stuff @cciessuzi @lilyquinnmunson @julxsxx @kozume-ko @obsessed-eddie @doomdabss @leelei1980 @hexqueensupreme @ches-86 @plaidamoosette @bobiverses @meadows-of-asphodel @whitakerstorm @brrrainst3w @serendipdipity01 @hypersexytoptobottom @m-art000 @walleloveseve @camsmunson101 @flavorfullsteve @peachpuffs25 @micheledawn1975 @whitakerstorm @cciessuzi @blackqueenie-18 @ggdawgg @velvetdimond @enne02  @ludachrissy @izzycstairs @abbysleftbicepp @britttzy267 @ssculker @eddiemunsonsimpp @powerpuffedbjtch @kylorensbaby @raeyas-ghost @lilyquinnmunson @this-issam @acrloved @ghoulishjewels @sespe08 @djoshairychest @foxygrrl @mortalselfprojected

[basicallydjo]

WHAT'R'YA'DOIN'ERE?

Pairings: Southern!Steve Harrington x fem!reader Summary: finally being comfortable to explore outside your church-going conformity, the last person you expected to drag you out of a bar was your towns rebellious cowboy himself. Warnings: Steve being a little protective, underage drinking, mention of fake ID, pet names (darlin') small age gap (reader is 19, Steve is 21) mention of God, praying (i am not religious, so it's brief, I do not mean to, and i hope I do not offend anybody) WC: 2.1k

⋆˖°. 𓃗 .°˖⋆

Southern!Steve

Based after this

Based before this

⋆˖°. 𓃗 .°˖⋆

⋆˖°. 𓃗 .°˖⋆

The bar was full of loud chatter and drowned out music, a type of atmosphere you weren't used to.

It wasn't your idea, though you weren't opposed, just along for the adventure, chasing the high of rebellion you couldn't get back home.

Your friends were by your side, tipsy on whatever drink they had chosen for the night, celebrating your fake IDs.

You almost didn't make it in, but you felt the guilt fade away quickly once you had had your first taste of that cold, bitter but sweet cocktail.

An hour prior

The bouncer assessed your ID, eyes flickering up at you, then back down to the card, raising it beside your face, looking back and forth.

Your friends were almost bouncing behind him, already through the doors, welcomed in.

His eyes squinted.

"Birthday?" He grumbled, giving you more of a hard time then the others in your group.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, your heart begin to race, embarrassment creeping through you as you remembered the birthday on the card.

"Eleventh of march 1964" you answered, trying to sound confident in yourself as you stood tall, flashing the man a grin.

Part of you hoped he wouldn't let you in, just so your lie wouldn't go down with big guy upstairs.

But then again you would have driven out a few towns over for nothing - cons of living in a small town, can't lie your way into a bar if the bouncer already knows who you are.

But alas, once the security guard handed your ID back and ended you in, you realised your deviation had worked, and boy were you going to have to pray tonight.

Walking in as calmly as you could, you and your girls squealed to yourselves, taking the place in, and next thing you knew, you were being dragged to the bar.

The next couple hours were kind of a blur, you made sure to stay within a limit, at most 3 drinks, but after downing them in the first 30 minutes of being there, you found yourself wobbling everywhere, being obnoxiously loud and giggly.

It was definitely unlike yourself, but the feeling of being so loose made you feel way better about it.

And it felt so much better when you saw one of the pool tables now free.

Grabbing your friends arms, you lead them over before anyone took the table.

"Guys let's play pool!" You slurred, grabbing one of the sticks on the wall, passing the other one in the direction of the girls.

Setting it up was easy, having watched your father play in the garage when his buddy's were having a drink.

It almost made you wonder what he would think of you if he saw your right now.

Almost.

You took the first shot after a while, trying to keep it still and finding the right position to hit from, which was hard cause you kept almost falling.

Once the balls spread across the green, you noted the solid that had drop dropped through the corner, now aiming for another one.

Missing, you watched your friend take her go, too drunk to realise she was going for your solid instead of her striped.

Her stick fell from in-between her fingers, jabbing into the green, making you suppress a laugh as she cursed.

You only let yourself giggle when your other friend smacked her on the arm, hushing her dramatically.

"You can't swear!"

Guess if that it was your time to go again, you positioned your stick, aiming for your green to hit your orange to go in the pocket.

But pulling your stick back slowly, you noticed when it wouldn't go back forward.

You frowned, pulling on it again just for nothing to happen.

You turned your head, jaw literally and figuratively dropping at you saw the man holding your stick firmly.

A stern look in his eye that his hat hadn't shadowed under the neon lights

You gaped, eyes blurring around his figure before focusing.

You hadn't seen him since he came into the boutique you worked at, picking out a vest for some tournament.

That had been only a week ago.

It almost made you glad to see him.

But the churn in your stomach, and the look in his eye made you nervous.

You, underage wer we in bar, visibly quite drunk, just under an hour outside of town.

You swallowed thickly, thinking about what he might do. Tell your father, tell people at church- or made you sick to your stomach at the idea of people knowing of your sins.

You almost felt nervous until his lips quirked up into a small smile.

"Harri-" he cut you off, taking the stick from your now lazy hold.

"What ar' ya doing 'ere?" He questioned, eyes darting behind you to look over your friends.

You swallowed thickly, eyes darting back towards your friends before shrugging.

"...having fun?"

His eyebrows pulled together, creasing the lines in his forehead as he pondered for a moment, looking over your frame for a beat before huffing.

"Are you even old enough to be here?" He questioned, eyes squinting suspiciously.

You nodded your head vigorously "...Yes"

You avoided his gaze as he sighed, tapping his foot on the hardwood floor, nodding over to your friends.

"Grab the stick, clearly your friend can't play pool, luckily, I can" he flashed a smile, going around the table, taking a shot while you grabbed the stick from your now pouting friend.

"Just get a few drinks" you whisper-shouted, watching them bounce clumsily to the bar until you turned around, just as one of the balls rolled effortlessly into the side pocket.

"Hey! Not fair, it was my turn" you whined, rolling your eyes at his deep chuckle.

"Fine then, I'll let you go" he waved his hand across the table, leaning the stick down on it while he shook off his denim jacket.

You stilled for a moment, eyes stuck on his figure as he threw it on the stool by the wall.

The dark blue shirt he wore was tight in all the right places, stretching over his broad chest perfectly, sleeves rolling up over his biceps as he reached up, taking his hat off before placing it over his disregarded jacket.

You focused on his hair, realising it was the first time you'd seen him without his hat.

After years of seeing him from afar, or even closer in town, those stupid hats were always there, at some point, you had assumed he glued them on, that he might have a bald patch.

But alas, his head was full of perfectly fallen locks, curling at the ends where they met the back of his neck, golden strands highlighting the mop of caramel brown.

It made you wonder if he dyed it, as you were sure his hair had never seen the light of day, but that was just another mystery of Steven Harrington.

You only snapped out of the haze until he huffed out a laugh "you gonna play or keep starin' at me?"

You shook your head, looking down at the table to raise your stick, assessing the balls to see which one is easiest, ignoring the feeling of his eyes burning into you.

Taking a shot, you groaned as it hit nothing in its path, rolling and hitting the edge, bouncing the other way.

He tsked, shaking his head in feigned pity "Shame, darlin'. I expected better"

Your face flushed in embarrassment as he prepared his next shot, eyes flickering up to you to send a subtle wink your way.

Sucking in a breath, your gaze fell naturally to his arms, observing the way they flexed under his shirt, veins pulsing with a tap of his finger.

The sound of cheers and the call of your name forced you to look away, looking down at the drinks waved in your face by your friend.

"Tequila shots!" they giggled drunkenly, taking one each, looking at you expectantly.

Unaware of the stern stare Steve was giving you behind your back as he watched, you took the small glass, downing it with a cough as droplets fell from the corners of your mouth that you had to wipe away.

Your head felt dizzy as they waved more in front of you, insisting that a few men at the bar had bought them as they downed another, and then another.

The alcohol burned your throat on the way down, going straight to your head that had forgotten about your three drink rule.

On the last shot, you took a deep breath in, tilting back your head, waiting for the liquid to pour down your throat, but your fingers slipped from the glass, the shot spilling down your shirt and smashing on the floor.

Before you could even process it, you felt a tug on your arm.

"C'mon, it's time to get you outta 'ere, missy" Steve spoke firmly with a sigh, hanging your sticks on the wall as you protested.

"What? No" you whined stupidly, whipping your head around to face him as he pulled you away.

You stood your ground, refusing to let him drag you anywhere until he turned back around.

"We're leavin'" He huffed, giving you another tug, stronger than before.

"No, we're not"

He scoffed like he didn't believe your attitude "yes we are, you shouldn't even be 'ere in the first place"

You furrowed your brows, eyes blurring around the edges of your vision, making Steve glow in a way that made him look angelic, like an angry angel sent to protect you.

"Well, I can't just leave my friends!"

"Then I'll get my buddy to drive them home, alright? How did ya'll even expect to get home?" he questioned, grabbing his hat and putting it on top of his head, throwing his jacket over his shoulder.

You hesitated, not being able to come up with an answer you and your friends definitely hadn't thought of before planning this outing.

Looking at you expectantly, the man in front of you sighed in disappointment, kissing his teeth before giving a curt nod.

"Right, I'll take ya home then, huh?" he smiled tightly, giving a wave to a man whom you recognised as one of his friends, Eddie.

"But-" you began, words cutting short as he shushed you.

"No 'buts'. Just you getting your butt in my truck, a'right?"

You huffed, trailing after him as Eddie walked over to your friends, watching them whine in protest but ultimately going with him.

You let Steve guide you outside as you stumbled, barely being able to walk straight as he led you to the parking lot.

"Ste-"

Before you could finish saying his name, he stopped, turning around to pick you up.

"Yep" he grunted, arms strong around you as he carried you across the lot to his truck.

You held your breath, your head falling off his arm to look up at the sky.

"How did you even get into this place?" he asked, softer than his questions prior.

"I told you, I'm old enough" you lied through your teeth, words slurred and elongated.

"We both know I knew that was a lie" he drawled.

"Why do you even care anyway? I've bet you've done way worse" you spat.

"You ain't me, first of all, and a young gurl like you shouldn't be this far from home as drunk as you are" he responded grumpily, rolling his eyes.

"Didn't answer my question"

He sighed deeply "cause I don't wanna see you gettin' int'a trouble, 'Kay?"

"You let me stay for a while, though" you pointed out softly, a small teasing smile on your lips.

"That I did, Darlin'. But I shouldn't have"

You whipped your head up again, groaning as your head pounded, but that didn't hurt as much as the though of him telling your town of tonight.

"You're not going to tell anybody...right?" you pouted, staring up at him.

"Nah, I won't, your secrets are safe with me, Doll, but I can't promise I won't tease ya 'bout it" he joked, sparing a glance down at you before winking.

You squinted up at him, directly at his hat, cream with a brown band around the trim.

"How many hats do you own?" you wondered aloud, reaching up to flick the brim.

He stifled a laugh, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat "I'm not sure...I'll haf' to count 'em for ya"

"How was the tournament?"

He licked his lips "Yeah, good, Dusty and I won first place in the back breaker and jumping"

"The what?!" you gasped, letting him put you down on the ground as he dug in his pockets for his keys.

He laughed, throwing his head back as he opened the passenger door for you

"I'll have to show you some time" he grinned.

"No" you chuckled dryly "I dont think I'd wanna see that"

"Then you'll be missin' out"

⋆˖°. 𓃗 .°˖⋆

[lofi-fics]

where the heart is

One ← TWO → Three

About: The day looks very different for you and Travis, as you get ready for another day at work and he is finally released from Elsworth Prison.

CW: 18+ MDNI; language, little angsty (sad Travis)

WC: 1.8k

18 Fucking Months Later

As you dice up some fruit and cut pieces of buttered toast into strips for Mikey, Travis is changing out of his prison-issued scrubs into standard-issued street attire. He no longer had the clothes he'd come into Elsworth with; those had gone with you during his first week inside, with the plan that you'd bring him a fresh going-home outfit on the Big Day.

But things don't always work out the way you'd hoped.

While you twisted your hair into a claw clip, letting several strands fall free around your face and not really caring to try and catch them all (your boss at the diner didn't really care, so long as no one complained of any hair in their food), Travis was handed a cardboard box with his effects in it - a half a pack of cigarretes, a green Zippo lighter, $5.83, and a pink, circular container of stale Bubble Tape gum. His phone was in there too, but it was, of course, completely dead.

While you dropped Mikey off with your mom, squishing her little cheeks between your fingers and blowing one more raspberry on her tummy just to have the sound of her baby giggles ringing in your ears on the way to work, Travis was riding the city bus to his mom's house where he would be staying until he got a job and back on his feet.

He knocked at the door to the double-wide and heard a smoker's coughing fit erupt from inside.

"Coming, I'm coming. Better not be sellin' more of them damn security systems, I swear to Christ I'll --" She finishes a yawn with a scowl, but her face softens through the screen door when she sees her son standing there with a box and a big, goofy grin.

"Not sellin' nothin', Ma."

"Travis! Get on in here, sugar." She flung the door open and threw her thin, stringy arms around him, surprisingly strong for a woman her size.

Travis closes his eyes and hugs her tightly back, realizing how touch-starved he had become while he was away. His mom visited occasionally, when her work schedule, health, and finances would allow, but usually it was just on major holidays. She came once for his birthday, but the second one that rolled around went forgotten.

Well, mostly. He didn't have any way of knowing, but you'd quietly blown the candle out on a cupcake for him on both of his birthdays, wishing him a peaceful night and for something good to happen to him.

While he got settled in at his mother's home, you drove to work. It wasn't a particularly busy morning at the diner, but it was only 6 AM on a Wednesday. The lunch crowd was sure to be a bit more bustling.

You cleaned up behind the counters, threw out the ratty menus, swept, mopped, refilled all the salt and pepper shakers, and brewed a fresh pot of coffee. You found that the busier you stayed, the quicker the day passed. Idle hands, and all that jazz.

You took a smoke break around 11 AM, about an hour till you were off. You call your mom to check on her and Mikey, blowing kisses to the 10-month old when she stole the phone and drooled all over the camera, babbling "mama, ma ma maaaa" like she was dishing out the hottest gossip.

Your coworker and friend, Shannon, burst through the back doors, eyes wide with what looked like some mild alarm. Did the fryers conk out again? Last time that happened, it was a real pain in the ass. It couldn't be further out of your hands, but somehow having to be the one to deliver the bad news of, "Sorry, no fries with that burger today" was enough for diners to deem you worthy of having your tips cut nearly in half.

You crush the butt of your cigarette under your shoe and tip your chin towards her.

"What's up?"

"You, uh...you got a table."

You snort a laugh, taken aback by this riveting news, and make kissy faces to Mikey on the phone one last time before hanging up with a sing-song, "Bye-byeee! I love youuu!"

Then your demeanor immediately hardens, turning serious and almost downright grave.

"Alright, now don't panic, Shan. I'm kinda used to this sorta thing by now, everything's gonna be alright."

"Oh, just go inside and see for yourself, you snarky bitch." She lights up her own smoke, thus beginning her own break. You stick your tongue out at her affectionately, and she just winks back.

You pop back into the kitchen, washing your hands and resecuring your apron around your waist. With pen and paper in hand, you push through the swinging saloon doors that lead to the front of house to greet your customer.

The guy seated at the booth is facing away from you, perusing the menu and tapping his foot nervously on the tile floor. His hair is wavy, close to shoulder-length, and bleached blonde with dark roots peeking out on his scalp. It was almost uncanny, but from behind you could almost swear it was -

"Travis," His name sneaks past your lips on an exhale when his unmistakable side profile comes into view.

You knew Mikey favored him, that was plain as day to you from the moment she was born, but as he sits here in front of you again for the first time in a year and a half, it really drives home much your daughter is really just Travis made over. The slope of their noses, their big, sweet hazel eyes, the little bow of their lips - all alike. His hair was dyed now (probably a fun little project to pass the time in prison) but you knew that without it they would even have the same mop of dark waves atop their heads.

His jaw hangs agape, twisting into a wide, happy, open-mouthed smile as he stands straight up out of the booth.

"Oh my God, hey!"

"You're...here."

He nods sheepishly, planting his hands on his hips and doing absolutely nothing to hide the absolute glee on his face from seeing you.

"Fresh out the slammer, yep. Just got my stuff settled in over at Mom's. I had no idea you worked here, no idea you'd even still be here in Atchison!"

You fold your arms across your chest, a strange warmth intermingling with an even stranger numbness settling there.

"...Where else would I be?"

Scratching the back of his neck, he mutters, "Man, I dunno. Seeing the world or somethin'?"

Seeing the world? Is that seriously what he thought you'd be doing after he dumped you from prison? After he knocked you up, went to prison, then dumped you? No yeah, I'll just take a trip to go see the Eiffel Tower about it - was he serious?

"No, my dream is to be a waitress here at the Grease Trap. Sorry, didn't I ever tell ya that? Speaking of, you gonna order somethin'?"

He smirks, nodding. "Two Cokes, one for you one for me. Come sit with me a minute?"

"Can't, Trav. I'm busy."

He quirks a brow and twists his face up in confusion, glancing around the completely empty diner. It was a little slower than usual, you'll admit. With a huff, you pour two glasses of Coke with ice and sit across from him in the booth.

"Anyone comes in, I gotta go."

"Sure, absolutely." He says coolly, but you can see that there's excitement bubbling beneath his very surface; his eyes are glittering with it.

No other customers come into the diner during your shift. It's like the city put a memo out, telling everyone to let you have lunch uninterrupted with your ex-convict/ex-boyfriend/baby daddy. How kind of them.

"So, how was prison? Everything you hoped it'd be?" You sip from your Coke and look at him with dull eyes hoping the dig landed enough to check his ego a little bit.

"Hm. Fuckin' sucked, to be honest. But I guess it coulda been worse."

You nod with a bitter chuckle, eyes glazed over as you twist the paper wrapper from your straw into wiry little figures. He reaches across the table a few inches, stopping just short of your pinkies touching. Still too close. You tuck your hands into your lap and wring them together.

"Coulda been better, though." He mutters under his breath. Now you do turn your attention to his face, fixing him with a stern look.

"Oh, so it was still boring without me anyway? What a fuckin' shame."

He looks at you like a dog that just ruined your favorite pair of slippers, and tries hopelessly to swallow the lump in his throat that simply won't go away.

"Yeah, I'm... I'm so sorry, baby. I'm a real fuckin' dumbass, I just thought... Maybe if I let you go, you'd be free and happy. Y'know? And look, you're beautiful every goddamn day of your life, don't get me wrong...but every time you came in to see me, you looked so sick, and frail. I hated what that place was doin' to ya, so I wanted to get you out of it. But I knew ya wouldn't leave on your own, cause you're hardheaded --"

"No, I wouldn't have left on my own cause I loved you. There are things worth being hardheaded about, Travis."

Your phone alarm goes off, and you curse under your breath that you let the time get away from you like this. Your shift would be over in 20 minutes, you needed to cash out and finish up for the day so you could go get Mikey.

"Shit, I gotta go."

"Wait! Um - is it okay if I still come eat here sometimes? Like, it won't bother you, will it?"

You shrug nonchalantly, even though you feel your ears starting to burn. "It's a free country."

"Yeah, sure. It is, but like, I want you to be comfortable, know what I'm sayin'? If you would rather me stay away from here, I can just like, cross it off my list or whatever. I'd rather not, but I will --"

"Tea, I have to go. I gotta..."

He nods, holding his hands up in surrender but looking away in defeat.

"My bad, I know. Motormouth. Go ahead, I'll uh - see ya around."

You exhale slowly until the last drop of air is forced from your lungs, and you hold it there, letting it burn. You tilt your head all back, neck hyperextended, waiting for whatever God was sitting around up there to tell you you're making a huge mistake, don't do it, just leave him here --

"Travis. I gotta go pick up my kid from my mom's." Your voice breaks unexpectedly at the suddenness and the relief of the confession; his shoulders sag in disbelief.

"O-oh? You - wow, you're a mom, huh? That's...well that's great, I had no idea. Always knew you'd be a great one, so yeah, no, that's...that's cool, congrats."

You roll your eyes but can't hide your faint smile at his attempt at casual indifference; you gesture for him to follow you outside.

"C'mon, meathead. You wanna go meet your daughter or what?"

Travis' heart bursts in his chest.

🎀taglist🎀

@exooojongdaeee @stabmeagainchucky @keeryhours @whispersoflost @bellastone @nowprettybbyimrunning @eller41 @skelkitty @djoaholic @beainabottleii @cozybibliophile @jajajhaahaha

[beasbrain]

We're All Alright

description: just a short and sweet fic based on 'That '70s Show '. eddie is VERY eric forman coded and i will die on this hill.

pairing: eddie munson x you (fem!reader)

tags: eddie munson x you, no y/n, eric forman coded!eddie, loverboy!eddie, donna pinciotti coded!reader, that 70's show vibe, childhood friends to lovers, best friends to lovers, friends who are basically already dating, sub (ish)!eddie, eddie is so down bad for reader it's adorable, he's also very corny but we knew that, steve is a shit stirrer, karen and ted are red and kitty, eddie has zero game but it works anyway

TW: literally fluffy as hell so schedule your dentist appointment now ig

WC: 4.2k

A/N: requested by @lisafrankensteindefender hope you enjoyyyyyyyy<3 hello, friends! long time no see. i've been trying to pull it together and write but if one more fuck ass man tests my patience i might actually scream. anywhooooooo, i hope this satiates ur cravings for now. johnny storm enemies to lovers fic coming out next, so get fucking excited >;) reblogs are always appreciated <33333 ENJOYYYYY RAHHHH!!!

Nancy Wheeler's basement had become less of a room and more of a second address for all of you sometime around freshman year. Nobody had officially decided it; it had simply happened.

Steve claimed it was because Nancy's basement had the nicest couch. Robin argued it was because Karen Wheeler inevitably wandered downstairs every hour with a plate of something she'd baked "because growing teenagers need to eat."

Jonathan insisted it was because nobody ever bothered them there. Ted, on the other hand, maintained it was because the six of you were personally plotting to drive up his electric bill.

You suspected the truth was some combination of all four. By now, the furniture had permanent indents from where everyone always sat.

Steve occupied the armchair like he paid rent. Robin had somehow claimed the carpet as her spot, despite there being plenty of seating available.

Jonathan leaned against the wood-paneled wall with a camera resting beside him, quietly watching the rest of you carry on.

Nancy was halfway through her chemistry homework, somehow capable of participating in three conversations while balancing a textbook across crossed legs.

Eddie had been draped upside down over the couch for the better part of twenty minutes, his head hanging over the edge while his hair brushed the carpet.

"I think all the blood has rushed to your brain," Robin observed.

He blinked at her from his upside-down position. "Bold of you to assume there was any in there to begin with."

Steve reached over and smacked the bottom of one of Eddie's boots. "You gonna sit like a normal human being?"

"I tried being normal once," Eddie answered dramatically. "Worst six minutes of my life."

You snorted quietly from where you sat cross-legged on the opposite end of the couch, absentmindedly flipping through one of Jonathan's photography magazines. The sound caught Eddie's attention immediately.

His head tilted just enough for him to look at you upside down. "What?"

"What, what?"

"You laughed."

"I did."

"So something I said was funny."

"I wouldn't go that far."

He gasped, clutching dramatically at his chest despite gravity making the gesture look ridiculous. "You wound me."

"You'll recover."

"I don't know..."

"You seem resilient."

"I've had seventeen near-death experiences today."

Robin didn't even glance up from painting her nails. "Existing isn't a near-death experience."

"It is when Steve Harrington keeps hitting me."

"I 'hit' your shoe."

"It could've been my face."

"It wasn't."

"It could've been."

You finally looked over the edge of the magazine. "For someone who plays a barbarian every Saturday, you complain an awful lot."

His grin spread immediately.

"What?" You scoffed, tilting your head. 

"You’re a bully."

"I am not a bully."

Nancy looked up from her homework. "You absolutely are."

"Oh, come on."

Steve pointed toward you without hesitation. "You made Eddie cry in fourth grade."

"I corrected his spelling."

"You told me," Eddie interrupted, sitting upright now, "'maybe if you spent less time drawing dragons and more time paying attention, you'd know how to spell Wednesday.'"

You frowned. "...I was right."

"You embarrassed me."

"You spelled it Wensday."

"It has too many silent letters!"

"It has one."

"Exactly."

Everyone laughed except Eddie, who looked personally victimized by the English language. "I still think that's excessive."

"You know," Jonathan added thoughtfully, "I don't think she's ever apologized."

"For being correct?"

"For making him cry."

"I didn't cry."

Steve looked at him. "You absolutely cried."

"I had allergies."

"In October?"

"There was... dust."

Robin rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't get stuck. "Dust made you cry because the pretty girl corrected your spelling."

"I was nine."

"You would've cried yesterday."

"I would've done no such thing."

You folded the magazine shut and leaned back against the couch cushions. "You definitely would've."

Eddie opened his mouth, closed it again, and pointed a finger at you. "You know what your problem is?"

"I'm sure you're about to tell me."

"You've always been mean to me."

"I've always been honest with you."

"That's somehow worse."

A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth despite yourself. "You'll live."

"I might not."

"You've survived twenty years."

"Nineteen."

"Close enough."

"You don't even know how old I am."

"I know exactly how old you are."

"Oh?"

"You remind me every August that you're older than me for two weeks."

"...That's because it's important."

"It isn't."

"It is."

"It absolutely isn't."

"It gives me seniority."

You rolled your eyes and sighed, returning to Johnathan’s magazine. The basement fell into one of those easy silences after that, everyone returning to their respective task, with small, nonsensical comments and giggles breaking the silence. 

Eddie, however, was still looking at you. He'd been doing that more lately.

You finally caught him. "What?"

"Hm?"

"You're staring."

"I wasn't."

"You are literally staring."

"I was thinking."

"Dangerous."

He ignored that. "I just..." He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking far less confident than he had thirty seconds earlier. "I don't know."

"What don't you know?"

He shrugged. "I was just thinking you're..." His eyes met yours for a split second before darting somewhere over your shoulder. "...really pretty."

The room went painfully quiet. Robin's grin was practically so wide her cheeks could explode.  Eddie himself looked like he'd only just realized the words had actually left his mouth.

"...Wow," he muttered to himself.

You stared at him. "...What?"

"I didn't..." He scratched the back of his neck harder now. "That came out way smoother in my head."

Robin made a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like she was trying not to laugh.

Steve wasn't trying. "Dude."

Eddie pointed accusingly at him. "Don't."

"You called her beautiful."

"I said pretty."

"You called her pretty."

"I know what I said!"

Nancy covered her smile behind her hand. You, meanwhile, were still looking at Eddie with an expression somewhere between amused and bewildered.

"You've seen me almost every day for fifteen years."

"I know."

"So..."

"So..." he echoed weakly.

"What changed?"

His eyes flicked toward the ceiling as though the answer might've been written there. "I don't know."

Robin completely lost it. "Oh my God," she wheezed. "He's actually malfunctioning."

"I'm not malfunctioning."

"You blue-screened."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

Before Eddie could dig himself any deeper into the hole he'd created, footsteps echoed across the kitchen upstairs. Karen Wheeler's voice floated down the basement stairs before she did.

"I made brownies! If you kids don't come eat them while they're warm, Ted certainly will."

Ted's voice followed from somewhere in the living room. "I heard that."

"It was meant for you, dear."

The entire basement erupted into motion. Steve was already halfway to the stairs as Robin shoved past him. You stood, brushing imaginary dust from your jeans before glancing back toward the couch.

Eddie was still sitting there, still looking at you, still pink around the ears. You turned to him and flashed a quick smile.

"I think you're pretty too." Then you walked upstairs.

Behind you, Steve stopped dead on the staircase. "...Did she just—"

Robin grabbed his arm before he could turn around. "Nope."

"But—"

"Nope."

"They're finally—"

"Nope."

Eddie remained frozen on the couch for another five full seconds before a grin so impossibly wide spread across his face that even Jonathan, lingering at the bottom of the stairs, couldn't help but shake his head.

"...Took you long enough," he muttered as he followed everyone upstairs. Eddie, of course, was too busy staring after you to hear him.

The walk between your house and Eddie's took approximately twenty-three seconds. Twenty-five if you stopped to pet Mrs. Henderson's cat. Thirty if Eddie had left one of his bikes in the middle of the shared side yard again. Tonight, it took twenty-seven.

You hopped over the rusted chain that separated your backyards more for tradition than necessity, cutting across the worn patch of grass that had served as your personal highway since elementary school.

Wayne's truck was already parked beside the trailer, the porch light glowing warm against the summer dusk, and through the open living room window you could hear the unmistakable sound of a baseball game playing far louder than anyone was actually watching it.

Wayne looked up from his recliner the moment you stepped inside, reading glasses perched low on his nose as he flipped through the newspaper.

"Evenin', kid."

"Hi, Wayne."

He nodded toward the hallway. "He's been pacing for twenty minutes."

"I have not!" Eddie shouted from his bedroom.

Wayne didn't even raise his voice. "You've walked a trench through my carpet."

"...Maybe a little."

You fought back a smile. "Can I?"

Wayne waved a hand toward the hallway without looking up from the paper. "You know where he is."

The bedroom door was already halfway open by the time you reached it.

Eddie was exactly where Wayne said he'd be, walking slow circles around his room with a cassette case in one hand and absolutely no idea what he was doing with it. He looked up when you leaned against the doorframe.

"Oh."

"Hi."

"...Hi."

"You pacing?"

"No."

You looked deliberately toward the floor. "Huh."

"What?"

"I could've sworn your carpet had little footprints in it."

He sighed. “Yeah, I was.”

You stepped into the room, nudging the door closed behind you with your foot before settling onto the edge of his bed like you'd done a thousand times before.

Eddie stayed standing for another few seconds before awkwardly dropping into his desk chair backward, folding his arms across the backrest.

Finally, Eddie cleared his throat. "So..."

"So."

"I'm... uh..."

"You called me pretty."

He squeezed his eyes shut. "...Yeah."

"You know everyone looked at you like you'd announced you were joining the circus."

"I noticed."

"I thought Steve was gonna choke."

"He almost did."

You looked around his room absentmindedly, taking in the same Iron Maiden poster that had hung on his wall since sophomore year, the cluttered desk covered in campaign notes, the guitar leaning in the corner.

"You know," you said eventually, "I've been thinking."

His eyebrows lifted. "...That can't be good."

"I don't think it is."

"Oh."

You folded your hands in your lap. "I like you."

He blinked. "...Okay."

"I mean..." You shrugged. "I like you."

Another blink. "...Okay."

"You don't seem surprised."

"I'm not."

"No?"

"No."

"How long have you known?"

He scratched the back of his neck. "...Couple years."

You stared at him. "...Couple years?"

"I wasn't exactly thrilled about it."

"You've liked me for years?"

"I mean..." He gestured vaguely around the room. "Have you... looked at yourself?"

You laughed. "I'm serious."

"So am I."

He looked almost embarrassed saying it. "I've liked you since... I don't know. Sophomore year? Maybe freshman year? Somewhere around there."

"And you never said anything?"

He looked at you like you'd asked the dumbest question imaginable. "I figured you knew."

"...Eddie."

"What?"

"I did not know."

"You climbed through my bedroom window at midnight because you 'couldn't sleep' after prom."

"I couldn't."

"You spent Valentine's Day watching horror movies with me."

"I hate Valentine's Day."

"You stole my jacket."

"I was cold."

"You still have it."

"It fits."

He stared at you. "You really didn't know?"

You frowned. "I thought... I don't know. I thought that's just... us."

"It was."

"...Oh."

"...Yeah."

You nodded slowly. "Huh."

"Huh?"

"I think..." You rubbed your palms over your jeans. "...I think I've liked you for a while too."

His eyes widened. "Really?"

"Mhm."

"Like..."

"A while."

"...Oh."

Then you sighed dramatically. "This is stupid."

"What is?"

You looked directly at him. "We've known each other since we were six."

"Five."

"Five."

"We've had dinner together like... a thousand times."

"Probably."

"My parents assume you're eating at our house three nights a week."

"They make really good meatloaf."

"You kissed me on the forehead when I got my wisdom teeth out."

"You were crying."

"I was drugged."

"You were really crying."

"I don't remember."

"You called me your favorite person."

"I was drugged."

"You also called me pretty."

"I was drugged."

He smiled. "I noticed a pattern."

You smiled back before shaking your head.

"My point is..." You leaned back on your hands. "...we're already basically dating."

His face scrunched. "...Are we?"

"I mean... think about it."

He did. "...Huh."

"We spend every day together."

"Mhm."

"We know each other's parents."

"Yeah."

"We've held hands."

"Accidentally."

"Not every time."

"...Fair."

"You've fallen asleep on my shoulder."

"You've fallen asleep on mine."

"I've worn your clothes."

"You steal my clothes."

"I borrow them."

"You permanently borrow them."

"So..." You lifted one shoulder. "I think we should just... finally do what everyone expects us to do."

His expression softened. "...What's that?"

"Go out."

The silence was so long you were convinced it was because his brain had completely abandoned him. 

"...Yeah."

You waited as he nodded a little too enthusiastically. "Yeah."

Another nod. "No, yeah."

"Eddie."

"No, yeah, totally."

You laughed. "I'm serious."

"I know!"

"No, you don't."

"I do!"

"You sound like you forgot how words work."

"I..." He paused. "...I might've."

"So..." he said after a moment.

"So."

"...You're my girlfriend?"

You tilted your head. "I was hoping."

His grin was immediate. "...Cool."

"...Cool?"

"I mean..." He rubbed both hands over his jeans. "Really cool."

"You've got a way with words."

"I've always said that."

"You absolutely have not."

"No."

"...No."

Then you stood, crossed the short distance between you, and reached down to take his hand. His fingers laced into yours almost immediately. You gave his hand a gentle tug toward the bedroom door.

"C'mon."

"Where are we going?"

"My house."

"...Why?"

"My dad's probably watching TV."

"...Okay?"

"I want to tell him we're dating."

Eddie's entire body stopped moving.

"...Tonight?"

"Mhm."

"...Your dad?"

"Mhm."

"...The one who owns a shotgun?"

You smiled sweetly. "Mhm."

"...Can we maybe date for, like..." He swallowed. "...Twenty-four hours first?"

You laughed so hard you had to lean against the hallway wall, and from the living room Wayne lowered his newspaper just enough to call out without even looking.

"Told you she'd scare you first."

"I am not scared!" Eddie shouted back.

Wayne hummed. "Sure, son."

By Saturday afternoon, Nancy's basement looked exactly as it always did after everyone had been there for more than an hour.

Empty soda cans littered the coffee table, someone's jacket had been abandoned on the back of the couch, and a deck of cards sat scattered across the carpet after Robin declared Go Fish "psychological warfare" and refused to finish the game. 

Steve had somehow become trapped in a debate with Jonathan over whether Bruce Springsteen was overrated, Nancy had long since stopped pretending to read the chapter open in front of her, and Eddie had claimed nearly the entire couch for himself, lying across it like a Victorian woman with the flu.

"You know," Robin said, tossing a pretzel into her mouth, "I don't think I've ever seen someone relax as aggressively as you."

"I'm conserving energy."

"For what?"

"My next nap."

Steve rolled his eyes. "You've been here three hours."

"And?"

"You've done nothing."

"I resent that."

Eddie held up the comic book resting on his chest. "I've turned at least seventeen pages."

"You've read three."

"I reread the good parts."

Nancy finally snapped her textbook shut. "My mom wants to know if we're still going into town."

Robin immediately perked up. "The record store?"

"And Family Video."

Steve nodded. "I need to return a tape before Keith starts charging me."

"You mean before he lectures you for forty-five minutes?"

"Same thing."

Jonathan stood first, stretching his arms over his head. "I'm in."

Robin was already halfway up. "Shotgun."

"There are six of us."

"I said what I said."

Everyone began collecting jackets and car keys, the room filling with the familiar shuffle of people who had spent enough time together to move like a single unit.

Everyone except Eddie. He hadn't moved, not even a little. He simply adjusted the comic book higher on his chest and sighed dramatically.

"You guys have fun."

Steve stopped. "...You're not coming?"

"Nah."

"Why?"

"I'm comfortable."

Robin blinked. "...That's your reason?"

"It's a pretty good one."

Nancy folded her arms. "Eddie."

"I'm serious."

"You've been asking to go to the record store all week."

"I was younger then."

"It was Tuesday."

"I've changed."

"You haven't changed in seventy-two hours."

"I've grown."

Robin threw one of the couch pillows at him, and it bounced harmlessly off his face. He didn't even bother catching it.

"You all go ahead," he mumbled into the cushion. "Tell the outside world I said hello."

Steve frowned. "You are unbelievably lazy."

"I'm energy efficient."

"You're impossible."

"I'm comfortable."

Steve looked toward you. "You wanna tell him?"

You'd been standing by the stairs quietly pulling your denim jacket over your shoulders, watching the exchange with an expression that suggested you'd seen this exact performance approximately four hundred times before.

You zipped the jacket halfway before looking over at Eddie. "Eddie."

He didn't answer.

"Eddie."

"...Hm?"

"We're going."

"I know."

"You are too."

He let out the most dramatic sigh anyone had ever heard before cracking one eye open. "I don't know..."

You simply stared at him, tilting your head sweetly enough to make your eyes do the thing he says could “convince any man to admit to a crime he didn’t commit.”

Eddie stared back until your chin dipped, and his eyes widened. He hopped up with extreme force. 

"Yes, ma'am."

In one fluid motion, he swung both legs off the couch, stood up, grabbed his leather jacket from the armrest, shoved his feet into his sneakers, snatched his van keys, and was standing beside you before anyone else had even processed what had happened.

"I am ready."

Robin looked between the two of you, then turned to Steve. "Did..."

Steve nodded.

"He just..."

Jonathan couldn't hide his smile.

"...Wow."

Nancy shook her head, laughing under her breath. "I've been telling you."

Eddie frowned. "What?"

Robin pointed accusingly. "I spent ten minutes trying to convince you."

"Mhm."

"Steve tried."

"Mhm."

"Nancy tried."

"Mhm."

"You ignored every single one of us."

"Mhm."

She pointed toward you. "She says two words—"

"And suddenly it's 'Yes, ma'am,' and you're putting your shoes on?"

He looked genuinely confused. "...Well..."

Robin threw both hands in the air. "Why?"

Eddie blinked. "...She asked."

Robin slowly looked back at Eddie. "I could tell you to jump off a bridge."

"I wouldn't."

Steve pointed at you. "But if she told you—"

Eddie thought about it. "...I'd at least ask how high."

The Hawkins quarry looked different in the evening.

The water reflected streaks of orange and pink from the setting sun, cicadas buzzed lazily somewhere in the trees, and the old plaid blanket beneath you had become less of somewhere to sit and more of something the two of you had gradually shoved into a tangled pile while arguing about absolutely nothing.

"...You're cheating."

Eddie looked scandalized. "I am not cheating."

"You absolutely are."

"I resent that accusation."

"You changed the rules halfway through."

"I evolved the rules."

"You lost."

"I adapted."

"You lost."

"I strategically repositioned."

"You lost."

He pointed at you. "You're impossible."

"You knew that before you asked me out."

"I thought dating you might make you nicer."

"You thought wrong."

"I did."

You grinned triumphantly before reaching over and snatching the deck of cards out of his hand.

"Hey!"

"No evidence."

"You can't just steal the cards!"

"I literally just did."

He lunged for them. You laughed, scrambling backward across the blanket as he reached over your shoulder.

"Oh, no you don't—"

His fingers brushed your wrist, so you twisted away. "Eddie!"

"Give 'em back!"

"You don't deserve them!"

"I absolutely deserve them!"

"You cheated!"

"I innovated!"

"You cheated!"

He caught your forearm, trying to pry the cards from your grip, so you immediately shoved back.

"Oh, we're wrestling now?" he laughed.

"You started it."

"I absolutely did."

You planted both hands on his shoulders and gave him one solid push. Completely caught off guard, Eddie toppled backward onto the blanket with a surprised "Whoa!"

You didn't hesitate. You followed him down, laughing the entire way before planting a knee beside his hip and pinning one of his wrists against the blanket in victory.

"There."

He blinked up at you. "...Well."

"You done cheating?"

"I wasn't cheating."

"You were."

"I disagree."

"You don't get to disagree."

He glanced down at the hand holding his wrist, then back up at you.

A slow grin spread across his face. "You know..."

Your eyes narrowed immediately. "...What?"

"I'm trying really hard to keep arguing with you..."

"But?"

"...The more you pin me down..." He tilted his head innocently. "...the harder it is to remember what we were arguing about."

You stared at him for exactly half a second before rolling your eyes so dramatically it almost hurt. "Oh, my God."

"I'm serious."

"No, you're flirting because you're losing."

"I'm multitasking."

"You are unbelievable."

"I'm resourceful."

"You are absolutely insufferable."

"And yet..." His smile softened just a little. "...you climbed into my lap anyway."

You looked down. At some point during your attempt to win the world's most pointless wrestling match, you had, in fact, ended up sitting squarely across his waist.

"...That wasn't intentional."

"Mhm."

"It wasn't."

"I totally believe you."

"I don't like your tone."

"I like yours."

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself, and finally released his wrist. The second you did, he reached up. Not to flip you over or continue the wrestling match, but simply to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"There."

"What?"

"It was bothering me."

"You've become incredibly distracting since we started dating."

He smiled. "I've actually always been distracted."

"By what?"

He looked at you like the answer was obvious. "You."

For once, you didn't have a sarcastic comeback. You just smiled, shook your head, and lightly flicked him on the forehead. "Dork."

"Takes one to know one."

"I suppose it does."

He laughed quietly before taking your hand and lacing his fingers through yours.

"...You know," he said after a moment, "I'm still counting this as a win."

You raised an eyebrow. "You were literally pinned to the ground."

"Emotionally?"

"You also lost emotionally."

"...Rude."

"Accurate."

"I liked you better when you were only mean to me as friends."

"I wasn't mean."

“Right, you weren’t.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek. "There."

"What was that for?"

"You admitted I was right."

He smiled to himself. "...Worth it."

The basement that Saturday afternoon had grown exceptionally quiet, which only left Steve’s mind to wander. A grin slowly spread across his face as he looked across the room at Eddie, who was busy trying to tune a guitar that absolutely refused to cooperate.

"...Hey, Munson."

Eddie didn't look up. "Hm?"

"You remember what you told us Tuesday?"

Silence, then, "...No."

Steve's grin widened. "Really?"

"...Should I?"

Robin looked between the two of them. "Oh no."

Jonathan sighed into his coffee. "I know that look."

Steve leaned back in his chair. "You told us you had a dream about Miss October."

Eddie froze, completely. The guitar string gave a pathetic twang.

"...Steve."

"What?"

"...Don't."

"What? It was funny."

You looked up from the book you'd been pretending to read. "...Miss October?"

Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose. "...It wasn't..."

Steve was already laughing. "Oh, it absolutely was."

You tilted your head toward Eddie. "Huh."

"...Honey."

"So, you dreaming about calendar girls now?"

"I wasn't—"

"Mhm."

"It wasn't like that."

"Mhm."

"I don't appreciate that 'mhm.'"

"I didn't say anything."

"You said everything."

You nodded thoughtfully. "So that's interesting."

Eddie looked horrified. "Interesting?"

"Mhm."

"I don't like where this is going."

"You have wandering eyes."

"I have never wandered a day in my life."

"You literally wandered into a dream."

"I can't control my subconscious!"

"You seem awfully defensive."

"I'm being attacked!"

Steve pointed at you. "She's got you there."

"I don't need added commentary anymore. Thanks, Steve."

You folded your arms, trying, and failing, not to smile. "So..."

"So?"

"Should I be worried about Miss October?"

Eddie stared at you for a long second. Then he sighed dramatically, set the guitar aside, and stood. He walked the few steps over until he was right in front of you. He pointed a finger toward Steve.

"You left out the ending."

Steve frowned. "...Did I?"

"You did."

"What ending?"

Eddie looked back at you, shaking his head with exaggerated disappointment. "I told him Miss October walked up to me."

You raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh."

"And she smiled."

"Convenient."

"And then she asked if I wanted to leave with her."

Steve blinked. "...I don't remember that part."

"'Cause you interrupted me."

Robin snorted. "Continue."

Eddie puffed out his chest with all the confidence of a man who was making this up as he went. "And I looked her dead in the eye..."

He paused for dramatic effect before casually slipping an arm around your shoulders.

"...and I said, 'Dream on, Miss October.'"

He nodded toward you. "...I'm her man."

You looked up at Eddie before shaking your head with a smile you couldn't quite hide. "...That was unbelievably corny."

He grinned. "...Did it work?"

You let him wait exactly three seconds. Then you leaned up and kissed his cheek. "It was close."

Steve groaned loudly. "Oh, come on!"

“Gross!” Robin exclaimed. 

Eddie grinned at the crowd triumphantly before kissing you once more on the cheek, then padding over to his forgotten guitar like he’d won the lottery. 

visual representation of me fighting my brain to come up with more, but I simply couldn't.

hope you all enjoyed<3333

taglist:

taglist:

@a-villain-vying-for-attention  @fapqueen @sadgirl-bee @bowie-frommars @milescrypt  @bitterestwillow @lnnn1n @youngbrokefab @ludachrissy @sisteramycatherine @izzycstairs @britttzy267 @eddiemunsonsimpp @powerpuffedbjtch @sariahs-stuff @cciessuzi @lilyquinnmunson @julxsxx @kozume-ko @obsessed-eddie @doomdabss @leelei1980 @hexqueensupreme @ches-86 @plaidamoosette @bobiverses @meadows-of-asphodel @whitakerstorm @brrrainst3w @serendipdipity01 @hypersexytoptobottom @m-art000 @walleloveseve @camsmunson101 @flavorfullsteve @peachpuffs25 @micheledawn1975 @whitakerstorm @cciessuzi @blackqueenie-18 @ggdawgg @velvetdimond @enne02  @ludachrissy @izzycstairs @abbysleftbicepp @britttzy267 @ssculker @eddiemunsonsimpp @powerpuffedbjtch @kylorensbaby @raeyas-ghost @gunnersaurusrex @mortalselfprojected @lilyquinnmunson @this-issam @acrloved @foxygrll @ghoulishjewels @sespe08

[hexyissy]

⋆˚࿔ the girl next door (is not a grandma) drabble 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

issy talks: this happened 2 months after gnd burnt herself. chapter 8 still wip, please don't hate me hehe. also, enjoy this chapter~ we unlocked a new character omg 💗💗

Joe pressed one last kiss against your forehead before slipping on his sunglasses, already dressed for what would be his final interview before taking a much-needed break for an unknown reason (who are we kidding). 

"Are you sure you'll be okay going alone?" he asked for what felt like the fifth time that morning.

You laughed softly, adjusting the oversized carrier sitting by the apartment door. Inside, Ponkan blinked lazily while Cookie was busy attacking her own tail.

"I'll be fine," you reassured him. "Besides, these two love each other now. I can just put them in one big carrier."

Joe crouched beside them anyway, scratching beneath Ponkan's chin before Cookie immediately stole the attention by trying to nibble one of his rings.

"Be nice to your mama today," Joe told them seriously. Cookie answered by biting his bracelet.

You snorted. "I think that's her way of saying no."

Joe sighed dramatically before standing, stealing another quick kiss from you. "Call me if you need anything."

"I will."

"I'm serious, honey. I don't care if I'm in the middle of an interview. I’ll answer."

You smiled, gently nudging him toward the door. "I know."

 Only then did Joe finally leave, waving one last time before disappearing down the hallway.

The veterinary visit went... surprisingly well. Well if you ignored the part where Cookie escaped her carrier the moment the veterinarian opened it. The tiny calico sprinted around the examination room after suddenly remembering an important appointment elsewhere.

"Cookie!" you laughed, chasing after her.

The poor veterinarian tried helping, only for Cookie to slip between his legs. It took seven whole minutes and two veterinary nurses to finally corner the mischievous kitten beneath a cabinet.

Meanwhile, Ponkan remained seated on the examination table with the expression of an exhausted grandfather watching children misbehave. ‘I don't know him’ his unimpressed face seemed to say.

By the time Cookie was finally caught, the veterinarian was laughing so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes.

"Well," he chuckled while checking Cookie over, "she's perfectly healthy." He glanced at the tiny kitten currently attempting to chew the stethoscope. "Extremely energetic, but healthy."

You couldn't help laughing. "What about Ponkan?"

The veterinarian smiled warmly as he gently stroked the orange cat's head. "Very healthy." He gave Ponkan another affectionate pat. "Very, very healthy orange cat."

Ponkan accepted the compliment with the same grumpy expression he'd been wearing ever since his temperature had been taken.

With fresh treats tucked inside your tote bag and two clean bills folded into your wallet, you thanked the clinic staff before heading toward the exit.

The automatic doors slid open. Warm afternoon sunlight spilled across the pavement. You had barely taken two steps.

"Miss!"

The sharp crack of a camera shutter echoed through the quiet street.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

You froze. Three photographers hurried toward you before you even had time to understand what was happening.

"Can we get one picture?"

"Is it true you and Joe are getting married?"

"Miss, look this way!"

"Did Joe come with you today?"

"How are—"

Another burst of flashes exploded.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Cookie suddenly threw herself against the mesh carrier, tiny claws scratching frantically at the sides. Ponkan's ears flattened against his head. Then came the sound that made your heart stop. A frightened little meows, followed by another.

"No..."

You instinctively stepped backward, clutching the carrier tighter against your chest. "No, no...my babies."

The questions faded into meaningless noise. All you could hear were your cats. Cookie kept pawing desperately at the carrier door while Ponkan pressed himself as far into the corner as he could.

You immediately crouched onto the pavement, wrapping both arms protectively around the carrier. "It's okay, it’s okay sweetie," you whispered shakily. 

Another flash and Cookie cried again. Your eyes almost filled with tears. You looked up at the photographers, panic made your voice tremble.

"Please...they're scared." No one answered. Another flash. You shook your head desperately. "They're indoor cats, they don't understand what's happening."

Your grip tightened around the carrier as Cookie continued scratching against the walls. "Please, stop using the flash. They’re just small animals.” Your voice cracked.

One photographer hesitated, lowering his camera slightly. Another continued taking pictures.

You swallowed hard, trying to soothe the frightened cats through the carrier door. "Please, leave them alone," you begged. 

The only thing you cared about wasn't the cameras. It was the two terrified little lives curled up against each other, wondering why the world had suddenly become so loud.

Mrs. Tillman had been visiting your café since its very first month. She knew your favorite fruit, remembered the names of your cats, and never forgot to tell you to wear a thicker cardigan whenever the weather turned cold.

The moment she stepped out of the pharmacy across the street and saw the crowd gathered around you, she didn't hesitate. She walked straight toward the photographers, placing herself between you and the cameras.

"That's enough."

Her voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. Years of quiet authority settled into those two simple words. The photographers exchanged awkward glances before lowering a few of their cameras.

Mrs. Tillman turned to you immediately. "Oh, darling" She gently squeezed your shoulder. "are you alright?"

You looked up at her, still crouched beside the carrier. "I dont–" Your voice caught. "I don't mind if they take pictures of me." You looked down at Ponkan and Cookie, both still curled tightly together. "but they scared my cats."

Mrs. Tillman's expression softened instantly. "Oh, I know." She rested a comforting hand over yours. "Come on, some people forget that kindness costs them nothing."

She helped you stand before gently guiding you away from the crowd. You nodded quietly, still holding the carrier close to your chest. The tiny meows inside hadn't stopped.

Across the city, Joe was halfway through what was supposed to be his final interview before taking a long break.

"So," the interviewer smiled, flipping through a stack of cue cards. "People have noticed your girlfriend doesn't attend many premieres with you."

Joe chuckled. "I've noticed that too."

The interviewer laughed. "Does that ever bother you?"

"Not even a little." Joe leaned back comfortably in his chair. "Come on, guys, if I wanted someone who loved going to every premiere, I'd probably date someone who loved premieres."

The crew laughed.

His smile softened. “I didn't fall in love with someone else's idea of a perfect partner. I fell in love with her. She's happiest at her café, surrounded by flowers, pastries, and two very spoiled cats. That's who she is, and I wouldn't change that for anything." 

The interviewer smiled before glancing at the next question. "Speaking of your girlfriend…" he grinned. "There's been a rumor going around online."

Joe laughed under his breath. "Oh?"

"Did you finally pop the question?"

Joe looked down, smiling despite himself. "Actually, we—"

Before he could answer, his manager hurried onto the set. The smile disappeared from Joe's face immediately. His manager leaned down, whispering something to the interviewer before silently handing Joe his phone.

"What happened?"

"Just watch." His manager swallowed.

The video began playing.

Joe only made it halfway through. He watched you kneeling on the pavement, shielding Ponkan and Cookie from the flashes, your voice shaking as you begged strangers to stop frightening them.

His jaw tightened. Without another word, he unclipped the microphone attached to his jacket. "I'm really sorry, I have to go." He stood, and before anyone could ask another question. Joe was already gone.

liked by hexyissy, djoupdates, baristagirl123, mroldman6D, and 69832 others

pop base Joe Keery's (DJO) girlfriend was spotted leaving a veterinary clinic in New York this afternoon with their cats, Ponkan and Cookie. Witnesses say she appeared visibly distressed after photographers surrounded her outside the clinic. 

view 12.2k comments

@unclejeezysblog curse y'all LEAVE HER ALONE @oohlillie y/n get behind me @keery-poynter NO BECAUSE WHY ARE THEY FLASHING THE CAMERAS AT THE CATS????? THEY'RE JUST BABIES????? mroldman6D people these days are crazy @maferin this is exactly why she never wanted to be known. 😭 @ladybuugg if i was joe i'd start barking. @helaenabugmom the fact she wasn't even worried about herself... @b1uegemz nah because i'd never recover if someone made my pets cry either I'M THROWING HANDS @you8sblog honestly... i wouldn't even blame them if they became even more private after this @i-got-the-cinema respectfully if i ever see paparazzi bothering someone at the VET????? i'm becoming a problem @stoneyggirl2girl2 if joe saw this, I KNOW HE'S MAD MAD @whoxoxovi bye i'm finding etsy witch rn @brrrainst3w joe keery when he gets home: WHO TF MADE MY CATS CRY @zuzixix this entire fandom is about to square up with three photographers

After everything that had happened, you decided to stop by the café instead of going straight home. It was closer, and more importantly, it felt safe.

Your staff rushed toward you the moment you stepped inside.

"Are you okay?" your barista asked first.

You smiled, although it barely reached your eyes. "I'm alright."

No one believed you, but no one pushed either.

Cookie slowly accepted a few treats from your youngest staff while Ponkan curled up beneath his favorite chair near the window. It took nearly thirty minutes before the two of them finally relaxed enough to fall asleep.

Only then did you check your phone. Eight missed calls and twenty-three unread messages.

Joe: honey, are you okay? Joe: did they hurt you? tell me Joe: hey, please answer your phone Joe: please be okay Joe: i'm on my way Joe: where are you? 

You: sorry, baby. i stopped by the café first 🩷 You: i'm okay. ponkan and cookie...they didn't take it very well You: i'm heading home now. mrs. tillman is walking me back

Joe: be safe Joe: i love you You: i love you too

An hour later, your apartment door quietly unlocked. Joe stepped inside, his heart sank. For the very first time, Ponkan didn’t wait for him at the door. 

He slowly walked farther inside until he found you sitting on the living room floor, watching the two cats sleep side by side on the couch. Cookie had buried her tiny face against Ponkan's side, while the older orange cat rested protectively beside him.

You looked up when you heard Joe's footsteps. He simply crossed the room and knelt beside you. The first thing he did wasn't ask about the paparazzi. It wasn't even to hug you.

His hands gently held your wrists, carefully checking your arms, your shoulders, your face, searching for any sign that someone had hurt you.

"Sweetheart, are you okay?" His voice barely came out above a whisper.

You gave him a small smile. "I'm okay." He looked unconvinced. "The appointment went well." You glanced toward the sleeping cats. "...everything after didn't."

Joe finally wrapped both arms around you, pulling you into his chest so tightly it almost hurt. "I'm so sorry."

You frowned. "Joseph—"

"I'm so sorry." His voice cracked. "If they ever hurt you, I’m going to die. I brought this into your life."

You gently cupped his face, making him look at you. "Joe." He finally met your eyes. "I knew exactly who you were when I fell in love with you."

You smiled softly. "I accepted all of it."

He shook his head. "But they scared you."

"They scared Ponkan and Cookie."

Joe swallowed hard. "I'm getting you security." He instinctively reached for his phone. "I don't care what it costs."

"Oh, God, Joe." You caught his hand before he could unlock it. "No, “ You intertwined your fingers with his. "they were in the wrong place at the wrong time." You glanced toward the couch where both cats slept peacefully now. "They frightened my babies, our babies, but they're home, we’re okay now."

Joe stared at you for a long moment before slowly lowering his phone onto the coffee table. "You really don't blame me?"

You smiled, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. "Never."

His eyes watered. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

You laughed quietly. "I ask myself the same thing every day."

That earned the smallest laugh from him. You leaned forward and kissed him gently. When you pulled away, your forehead remained resting against his.

"Your interviews are finally over."

"They are."

"We have four months until our wedding." Joe smiled. You grinned. "And I get my fiancé back."

For the first time that entire day, Joe smiled without forcing it. "I think I'd like that very much."

From the couch, Cookie let out the tiniest sleepy meow before curling even closer against Ponkan. The two of you looked over at the sound.

Joe slipped an arm around your shoulders. "They're going to be okay."

You leaned into him. "so are we."

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⋆˚࿔ the girl next door (is not a grandma) masterlist 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

dividers by @vrtualseraph

[steviaorsugar]

the modern leper, pt. 8

the alarmist // the futurist // the modern leper

Gator Tillman x f!reader

“Is that you in front of me, coming back for even more of exactly the same? You must be a masochist, to love a modern leper on his last leg.” - Frightened Rabbit

wc: 9.2k

Six years on. Stillwater, Minnesota. A bus route learned by heart, a city mapped in footsteps and degrees of cold air, a life being rebuilt one unglamorous Tuesday at a time. Gator Tillman is thirty-three years old. He’s showing up. He’s not sure yet what that means, but he’s doing it anyway. Somewhere on the Pacific Northwest coast, a woman has stopped writing letters to an email address she assumed was abandoned. She wasn’t wrong. Until she was.

Read it on AO3

I am very obviously not user: @morninglesss, but since they are no longer here and I'm their biggest fan, it felt right to continue to share their work.

I've absolutely plagiarised their posting format so that it looks familiar to you. Please subscribe to them on AO3 and leave a comment and kudos.

[chestharrington]

things can only get better || part four

Previous Parts: one || two || three

Fic Rating: Explicit (18+)

Chapter Rating: Explicit (18+)

Word Count: 16.9k

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Chapter Warnings: SMUT (sweet lovemaking, f!recieving oral, unprotected p in v sex) slow burn friends to lovers, repressed feelings, mild peril, steve breaking promises, wound tending, depictions of grief

Chapter Summary: after learning the truth about the upside down and all of the horrors that have taken place in Hawkins, you face an even scarier threat— owning up to your feelings for Steve Harrington.

Fic Summary: You and Steve can't stand to be around one another... but you have to learn to coexist and raise your goddaughter together in the face of the apocalypse.

Sophomore year, after you'd started the rumor about Stacey Cooper having chlamydia, you were called into the principal's office to say your piece and defend yourself against the ridiculous accusations.

You sat on a springy, uncomfortable couch and turned on your charm. I would never say that about Stacey, Mr. Higgins. She's a really good friend of mine. But I think if it is true… maybe she should get help before she causes a major outbreak. I would never speak badly of a friend, but she sleeps around a lot, and it could be a major health hazard for the rest of the class.

The attempt at faux concern hadn't worked, and you'd sat there getting berated about the damage that you could do to a girl's reputation and how you were lucky her parents weren't pressing charges, like that was even possible. Chief Hopper was there, just to scare you straight with a steely, exasperated glare. You walked out with a month of Saturday detentions and an order to write a written apology.

Dear Stacey, I hope you get the help you need. Sorry Steve dumped you.

It felt a little bit like that then, with all of Steve's friends staring at you, including a very alive, unamused Jim Hopper. Steve had been lectured at for nearly thirty minutes— about danger and risk and selfishness and how he just never thinks.

"Did you forget the part about the government threatening our lives?" Dustin pressed. "Tell anyone and you'll disappear doesn't mean tell your girlfriend and get a slap on the wrist, Steve."

You cleared your throat, and immediately regretted your choice to draw the room's attention to you. Even Sam, who was sitting contently on Steve's lap, looked over and gave you a gummy smile at the sound of the noise. "Okay, not that it matters, but just to be clear— I'm not Steve's girlfriend. And you know that, Dustin."

"You're right, that doesn't matter," Hopper said with an annoyed scowl. He was a lot scarier when he was living off the grid and was unbound by laws. And in that moment, he was looking at you like you were a liability. Which, to be fair, you kind of were. "What matters is that by getting involved in this, your life will constantly be in danger."

Robin sighed and gave you a sympathetic frown. "I hate to say it, but Hopper's right. This doesn't just put a target on your back if you slip up and say the wrong thing around an MP… all of the creepy, otherworldly shit out there tends to circle this group like sharks."

Max, Barbara, Billy. Eddie Munson, who you bought weed from once before a party. Mr. Newby, who fixed your Walkman when you dropped it out of the Beamer's window on the way back from a party it wouldn't stop skipping. So many people who tangentially crossed paths with the group had died. Heather and her parents. Carol and Tommy.

Maybe the pattern would keep. Maybe you'd become monster food, or have your bones snapped, or something even crazier that they'd yet to experience. Maybe a demo-thing would lay eggs inside of you and they'd come popping out like in Alien. Just your fucking luck.

You swallowed. "I feel better knowing," you insisted. "I mean, sure, my instinct was that you were selling drugs or something, and now I'm going to nightmares about freaky monsters for the rest of my life, but I'd rather know what's out there than go on thinking everything is normal, especially with Sam in the picture."

Sam squirmed, irritable, and reached over for you. With a soft smile, you pulled her into your lap and pressed a kiss onto the crown of her head. You didn't mind playing the baby card when you needed to, and you watched Jim Hopper's brow soften slightly.

You could work with that.

"Alright, can we cut it out with the third degree now?" Steve said with a sigh. "I think we all get it by now. I shouldn't have said anything, I never think, I'm hurting the sanctity of the group… can we move on?"

The group dispersed, and you could tell by the tension in Steve's shoulders that he needed an escape route. You bounced Sam on your hip for a second, watching as he combed his fingers through his hair and shook his head.

Steve didn't want to be seen as impulsive or careless, but in telling you, that's how he came across. And, sure, people would get over it and understand eventually, but it didn't make it any easier on him then.

Right then, it looked like he wanted to be as small as possible. So you nudged him gently and pulled his mind back to reality. And that reality wasn't the millions of things that could possibly go wrong and prove his friends right— it was on you and Sam, right there, safe and sound. "Hey, I think Sammie wants her dad," you said with a gentle smile. "See? I'm working on it. Nicknames, being parents… huge swings for me."

A tiny attempt at a smile twitched at the corner of his lips and he accepted her into his arms. "I'll feed Peanut, then we can hit Bradley's on the way home. Lucas said his mom managed to snag some Pringles after this morning's restock."

You widened your eyes in exaggerated excitement and gasped. "Wow… our lucky day, huh? We should buy a lotto ticket and get out of here."

Steve rolled his eyes and brushed past you, heading towards the small kitchenette where he could get Sammie's bottle warmed. You watched him fondly, then swallowed hard as you were left alone in the lion's den.

Quickly, you surveyed the room, looking for your best course of action. Robin had already grabbed a few records and closed herself into the booth with Jonathan, which left Nancy Wheeler as your only other peer.

It wasn't that you didn't like Nancy, you were just very, very intimidated by her. She was so confident and determined, which were two traits you were lacking. And at the moment, she was heads down with a series of maps, marking down some findings from their mission the night before.

The boys were all in their own little huddle, going over the details of the previous crawl. There was no real desire to interrupt them, so, instead, you sat down on the springy, uncomfortable couch and picked the last few flakes of your manicure off into your lap. The couch dipped after a few minutes, and you looked beside you to be met by curious brown eyes peering into yours.

Eleven, Jane, El. You still weren't entirely sure if there was a preference in how she should be addressed. She sat close, turning so her knees nearly pressed against yours. She wore boxy, formless clothes that you figured were boys' hand-me-downs. Her hair was a mop of thick curls, short cropped, just begging to be styled.

"I know that you are not Steve's girlfriend," she insisted. "Mike and Dustin say that you are, but you say that you are not. And you would know better than stupid boys."

A smile split your features and you nodded. "Well, Steve and I are confusing," you admitted. "He's not my boyfriend, but we live together and have a baby. Too difficult for stupid boys, I guess, but obviously not for you."

El laughed, scooting closer. "I like your hair," she said. She reached out hesitantly, and touched a curl under her fingers. It was a little sticky with hairspray and fried from consistent use of heat tools, completely different than her glossy, natural curls. "It's so pretty."

"Not as pretty as yours," you countered. "I have to pay for this, yours just grows out of your head. But if you want, I can teach you how to use hot rollers to style yours. It's super easy."

She nodded happily. "I can use the tunnels," she offered. "Will says there is a tunnel in the woods behind Steve's house, so I can come over."

A tunnel? You wracked your mind to try and remember where the tunnels had come from. You remembered, vaguely, Steve mentioning tunnels the night before. But they'd never been brought up again, so you just figured they'd collapsed, or disappeared, or something.

You nodded and shrugged. "Yeah, sure, you can come over tomorrow, if you want," you offered. "And when you do, you can take a look at my friend Carol's clothes and see if there's anything you like. You're about the same size, so you can take whatever you want."

El gave a giddy nod. "And maybe Nancy and Robin can come over too," she suggested. "Girls Night. No boys allowed." The giddy, hopeful look in her eyes was so endearing that you couldn't tell her no.

"Yeah, I'll see what I can do," you said. "It's been a while since I've had a girl's night, it'll be fun."

When she finally got up to leave with Hopper, she sent a tiny wave in your direction, which you quickly returned. And with your one companion gone, you stood and slowly approached Nancy and her maps.

"I'm hosting a girls night, apparently," you began, trying not to mess up any of the pages laid out as you brushed against the table. Her gaze snapped to yours— icy blue and intense. "For El. And she wanted me to— I wanted to— extend the invite."

She looked back at her maps and gave an absentminded, "Uh-huh… I don't know if a girls night is really what I should be focusing on right now, you know?"

You swallowed, nodding. Right. "Oh, yeah, of course. End of the world stuff, sorry," you said, stumbling over your words. "But, um, if you change your mind, it'll be tomorrow at my place— Steve's place. Our… place…"

She gave a thumbs up and a tight lipped smile, and you took the hint to walk away and lick your wounds. With a sigh, you stood against the wall and watched everyone talking and planning their days.

Everyone had their roles, even Steve. Steve was the muscle, the big brother. It was like he'd totally grown and shaped himself around what he could do for these kids and to help keep everyone safe. And you were… Steve's not-girlfriend.

Hey everyone, you wanted to say. I know I seem kind of purposeless now, but I can be super helpful! I was the one who patched Tommy up after he rode his dirt bike into a tree and got a nasty gash in his side. I can be useful to keep around!

That probably would have been more humiliating than sitting through another half-hour of being lectured at, so you swallowed your pride and accepted that, for now, you had no real place in the group dynamic. Outside of being Steve's… something.

You glanced into the kitchenette and your expression softened at the sight of Steve holding Sam in his arms and rubbing her back gently as her meal settled. He grabbed the empty bottle and diaper bag in his other hand and joined you in the sitting area.

"All good?" He asked. You eased the diaper bag from his grip and tucked the empty bottle inside as you nodded weakly. "Good. 'Cause no one is mad at you for knowing. They're just worried."

You nodded. "I'm all good," you insisted, but the itching feeling of wanting to do something crept up your spine until the words spilled out. "I just feel kind of useless, you know? I should be contributing somehow. I'm, like, the only person here who has one semester of college under their belt, and that's… y'know… something."

Steve's expression tightened, and he shook his head. "Hey, you don't need to do anything," he insisted. "I don't want you anywhere near any of this."

You sighed and crossed your arms. You find out that the world is ending, and you're expected to just… ignore it? Wasn't that crazy?

Or maybe it was that gnawing feeling of being on the outside looking in that made you want to shove yourself into the fray. To make yourself show that you were supposed to be there, and not just because of Steve.

God, that was stupid. Wanting to risk your life just to prove you fit in… but you'd never really sat well with being shoved to the side.

You exhaled and swallowed. "I'm kind of hosting a girls' night tomorrow. And you're not invited, because Eleven said it was no boys allowed."

He grinned. "You sure? I can do face masks, and paint nails, and watch John Hughes movies and all of that other girly shit," he said, nudging you with an elbow. You rolled your eyes and bit back a smile.

"God, you're a total chauvinist," you teased. He blinked a few times, brows furrowed, but eventually just shrugged. "C'mon, let's get your stupid Pringles."

He smiled and twirled his keys around his finger. Sam followed the shiny movement with an amused smile and reached out to grab at it with her soft, clumsy hands. You leaned over to kiss her forehead, which made you step even closer to Steve.

He was wearing cologne that he didn't usually wear—a soft, warm, spicy scent that made your heart flutter a little. It was nice, inviting. "Is that new?" You asked, meeting his gaze. "The cologne, I mean."

Steve's cheeks went a sheepish shade of pink, and he gave a bashful nod. "Oh, um… yeah," he stammered. "Well, not exactly brand new. I found it under my dad's sink and stole it. He probably got it as a gift and hated it and put it away. I just felt like trying something new, I guess."

He paused, eyes scanning your face as you stood back up. There was the tiniest flicker of disappointment at the distance placed between you two again, as infinitesimal as it was. "Do you like it?" He asked.

"Oh, um… yeah," you said, instinctively crossing your arms as best as you could with the diaper bag hanging from the crook of your elbow. "Yeah, it's really nice."

Steve smiled again, and gave his keys another twirl before heading out to the car. Your heart thrummed as you watched him go. He had a crewneck on, a dark color so if Sam drooled it wouldn't be too obvious. His Levi's were fitting a little tighter, clinging to his thighs and ass. Which you weren't looking at, obviously.

On your way out, you tapped on the glass to the recording booth and grabbed Robin's attention.

Come over tomorrow, you mouthed. She squinted, so you repeated it, again and again until Jonathan stepped in and translated. Once she understood what you were asking, she offered a thumbs up.

The radio station had been crowded and a little overwhelming. It wasn't usually that hard to be around Steve's friends, but the knowing threw a wrench into everything. They weren't playing pretend for your sake anymore— you saw through to the gritty reality. The planning, the worry, the desperation.

Maybe Nancy was right. Maybe the girls night was frivolous and stupid in the face of imminent danger via inter-dimensional forces beyond your comprehension. Or maybe giving them one night to put aside their fears and relax was charitable work.

Either way, you were glad to finally be in the car. Steve was driving for once, which meant you were reacquainting yourself with your old friend, the Beamer. It was hard to sit in the front seat and not think about the ever-relevant memories made in the backseat. Memories that inconveniently ruined your date the night before.

As he drove, he slung an arm around the back of your seat while his hand gripped the steering wheel. Every once in a while, he'd spare a glance at you; at a stoplight, or when he was on a long stretch of road.

This tiny, stirring look that said you were on the same team, that he was right there. Your tummy fluttered uncomfortably, and you had to turn to look out the window before your face got too hot.

Things felt different— charged. Every neuron that wasn't firing off about crazy monsters or Sam was thinking about Steve, Steve, Steve.

Earlier that morning, you woke up with your head resting against his chest and his warm arms around you. His soft breath fanning across the crown of your head, the lightest ghost of his lips there. Big, strong hands tugging you closer as you slowly woke up, like he didn't want you to pull away.

It was nice, but you were still so hesitant to let yourself give in to that feeling. Both you and Steve were so impulsive at times— so quick to feel things in big, overwhelming ways that you'd regret later. Fuck, even Steve's admission of his feelings came from you two blowing up on each other. You couldn't just let yourself do something because it felt good, you had to think about the long term— about Sam.

At the grocery store, while you bought the only decent looking lemons in the scant display, Steve juggled oranges to make Sam (and you, admittedly) laugh. He caught them all and gave a bashful smile when one of the clerks called him out for bruising the produce. You rolled your eyes and grabbed the oranges from him, biting back a smile.

"You're so annoying," you muttered with a shake of your head as you dropped them down into a little plastic bag and put them in the cart.

"You have a cute laugh," he said, and you felt that stupid, persistent flutter in your chest. "I'm just trying to impress my girls."

Oh, fuck off, you wanted to groan. He made it so impossible to be the responsible one. "Why don't you go find your precious Pringles, huh?" You asked, giving him a nudge. Like a well-trained golden retriever, he went to fetch.

The nearest entrance to the tunnel was dug inside Steve's pool shed, just narrowly missing all sorts of pipes and pumps that led to the pool. You were really glad that they had managed to avoid those when they dug up through the earth, because you thought Mr. and Mrs. Harrington would literally kill you if something happened to their precious home on your watch.

Eleven crawled up from the tunnel with bits and pieces of dirt and earth clinging to her hair and smiled happily at you. Jim Hopper kept his jaw set tight as he helped her up the ladder.

"She does not go outside, you keep the windows drawn, you do not invite anyone who wasn't at the station yesterday, and if anything happens, you radio immediately," he said firmly.

You swallowed and nodded. "She's in good hands, I promise," you insisted. "I mean, when I was her age you were busting me and my friends for underage drinking so, I feel like we could be doing much worse…" He narrowed his eyes and you nervously cleared your throat. "Um… sorry, not important. I won't be giving your underaged daughter alcohol. I'll take good care of her."

He must have believed you, parent to parent, because he nodded and let her join you in the house. He'd be back to pick her up at 9:30, no later. You listened to him muttering about the goddamn hike back to the cabin as you shut the sliding doors.

"Your house is so fancy," El said as she looked around. "It's even bigger than Mike's house."

You'd never been to the Wheeler's place, but you nodded and accepted the compliment. Since moving in, you'd done your best to warm the place up. A few framed photos, lamps, and throw pillows could work wonders… as could the constant clutter of raising a baby. It turned the Harrington mausoleum into something that felt like a home.

You led her into the bathroom— all pink tile and gold fixtures, and her eyes widened in amazement. "C'mere, sit on this stool here and I'll fix your hair." She sat on the plush pink velvet and crossed her legs beneath her.

Gently, you combed her hair with your fingers, picking out the little specs of dirt that clung to her brown curls. "Your hair is so healthy," you said, meeting her gaze in the mirror. "It's so soft and shiny. Are you sure you want me to put it on rollers? I can always just clip it back."

El shook her hair ardently. "I want to try the hot rollers, please," she insisted.

You nodded and grabbed a comb to remove any small snags and knots. "Alright, the rollers really are hot, so just tell me if I catch you with it and burn you, okay?" She nodded and you smiled. You reached over and pressed play on your cassette player, and Madonna played through the speakers. "M'kay, let's see what we can do, yeah?"

Fifteen minutes later, her hair was twisted up and pinned in the rollers, and you were sitting on the pink marble countertop so you could dust makeup over her face. "Stop squinting, hon," you chided as you swept a tiny sponge with the lavender pigment over her lid. She giggled and tried her best to relax. "So, you and Wheeler, huh? He's your boyfriend?"

She blushed, and it was only accentuated by the pink powder you'd previously dusted onto her cheeks. "Yes," she answered, and peeked her eyes open to look at you. "Do you like a boy?"

There was something endearing about her curiosity, like you were sharing secrets at a sleepover. Steve told you that he was pretty sure that she and Max had been close before she moved to California, but you wondered if she had very many girl friends in her life. But it felt like she was relying on you to provide that for her now, so you leaned in entirely.

"There's a guy, but it's complicated," you said. You pulled a frosty blue eyeshadow single from your makeup bag and swiped it onto your finger. She closed her eyes so you could dab it onto her lid.

Her brows furrowed. "Who is he?" She asked. "Steve?"

"What? No," You insisted. When you finished applying the eyeshadow, she peered up at you. "Let's just say his name is, uh… Stan."

"… Stan," she echoed.

You decided, impulsively, that she needed more blush, so you grabbed the compact and ran the fluffy brush through the startling pink. "So, let's say me and Stan have a lot of history, and it's mostly bad," you began, and swept the blush over the apples of her cheeks. "Like, I spent so long pining after him, and he rejected me constantly. Like, he was a total asshole and we got in this huge fight and didn't talk for about a year, but then we finally…" You squinted and thought for a moment, "kissed, and it was like… super exciting and could have totally been something, you know?"

El gave a tiny nod. "Kissing is good, right? It means he likes you."

You huffed. "Okay, not quite, because he totally went radio silent on me and then I went to college, and when I came back, we were suddenly…" You sighed. "Sharing this puppy. And we both love this puppy, and it's very charming to see each other interacting with this puppy, but do we really have a future, or is it just this puppy making us totally see things that aren't there? Because all of a sudden, Ste— Stan is making these, like, confessions of love and it's, like, how can I believe him if what he says is the total opposite of how he's acted before?"

El's eyes flew open. "You have a puppy?"

You dropped the blush brush on the counter and sighed. "Hypothetically." Her brow creased further and you tried a better explanation. "Um… it's like, making something up to explain. The puppy represents something else."

"You are right," she said with a frown. "Complicated."

You gave a wry laugh and grabbed a pink lipstick. "Yeah, tell me about it. " You held her chin between your fingers and gave a weak smile. "Alright, lipstick, then I'll show you my best trick for putting on mascara."

El was a perfect student; she gave every tip and demonstration her rapt attention. She let you talk color seasons, because she was totally a true autumn, and you helped her sift through some of Carol's clothes from the boxes growing dust in the garage.

Robin arrived bearing gifts not soon after El's makeover was complete. A rented tape, pizza, and Nancy Wheeler. Well, really Nancy Wheeler had arrived bearing Robin and her gifts, because Robin still couldn't drive.

Apparently, you were unable to school your expression, because Nancy gave a tight lipped smile at your confusion and offered a meager explanation. "Robin said I needed to relax and let myself think about something completely unrelated to the Upside Down," she explained as she sat on the couch. "And I love Pretty in Pink."

When you were all settled in the living room and the tape was in, you relaxed as best as you could on the sofa. It was your first girls night without Carol, and it just felt like there was this hole in the night. A blurry shape in the periphery of your vision that disappeared when you looked directly at it.

But if Carol were still here, you would have gone back to school, she would be back in her little starter home with Tommy, and you never would have spent time with any of the people under the roof. You were beginning to accept that things happened for a reason, and for whatever reason, you were supposed to be here.

The pizza wasn't incredible— quarantine meant food shortages and subpar ingredients. But, really, it was a marvel that a pizza place was even open at all. The soda that Steve had grabbed for you was the best he could do— Tab.

But El seemed so content to be participating in what you felt was a boring girls night. When the credits rolled, she turned and looked at you expectantly, like you were the final word on what to do.

"Um…" You took a sip of your soda and wrinkled your nose in discontent. "We can play truth or dare. Have you played?"

El nodded and drummed her fingers on her knees as she thought. "Nancy, truth or dare?"

Nancy took a slow sip of her Tab and gave a tiny shrug. "Uh… truth, I guess," she said, and offered El an encouraging smile.

El thought for a moment, and looked a tiny bit disappointed that Nancy hadn't chosen dare, but her eyes widened and she smiled. "Are you happy to have Jonathan back in Hawkins?"

You glanced back at Nancy, who took another long sip as she thought for a moment. "Yeah," she said finally, but you could hear a hint of hesitation. "I mean, obviously we need him and Will and Joyce back home for everything."

"And, you know, he's your boyfriend," Robin chimed in.

Nancy's cheeks went a soft pink and she nodded. "Well, yeah, of course. That's… that's a given." She shook her head like she was shaking away some secret thought and turned to Robin. "Alright, Buckley— truth or dare."

Robin smirked and sat a little straighter. "Dare."

"I dare you to do fifteen push ups."

Robin's expression twisted in annoyance. "What? You're supposed to tell me to eat something gross, or make a prank call, or go jump in the pool. This is just punishment" Nancy shrugged and nodded towards the floor.

Begrudgingly, Robin managed, but her face was pinker when she sat up. She said your name and your stomach sank in anticipation. "Truth or dare?"

You didn't want to eat something gross, or jump in the pool, or do pushups, so you took the boring route. "Truth, I guess."

Robin thought for a second and met your gaze. "What is the worst date you've ever been on?"

"Oh, god," you muttered. El sat up, eyes wide with interest. Your lips turned into a grimace as memories from your date a few nights ago flashed through your mind. "Um… okay, Friday night—"

"What? Who? The hot guy?" Robin demanded. You waved a hand in her direction and continued on.

"So I was on a date with the hot guy, and the dinner went great. I mean, he took me to Enzo's and it felt really easy. But we were making out in his car, and I said another guy's name, which totally killed the mood and ruined everything. That awkward ride home was one of the low points of my life."

Nancy's brows furrowed. "Whose name did you say? Steve's?"

You forced a laugh and shook your head. "That would be so dumb, no."

"I bet she said Stan," El supplied. "The boy she shares the hypothetical puppy with."

Robin's eyes narrowed, and the slow smile that spread across her lips made you burn with mortification. "A puppy, huh?"

You groaned and hid your face in your hands. "Okay, El, your turn— truth or dare?"

By the time Hopper arrived back in the pool shed, El had a fresh manicure, a duffel bag full of clothes, and a box of hot rollers to take back to the cabin and try out herself. "I had so much fun," she said as she climbed the rickety ladder back into the tunnel. "Thank you for the clothes, I love them."

You smiled and brushed it off like it was nothing. Really, it was comforting to know that Carol's clothes were going to this sweet girl instead of sitting in a donation bin to rot. "Hey, you're welcome any time, okay?"

Hopper gave a wave, and you thought he seemed at least a little thankful that you had included Eleven and let her have one night as a normal teenager. Even if Hawkins was in danger. Even if the world was slowly ending.

You stayed outside a little longer and watched a pond-skater glide along the surface of the pool. Glide, stop, glide, stop. It left pretty v-shaped paths as it moved along the surface. In the woods, the crickets chirped, and you could swear you heard the rustle of raccoons or opossums. With a sigh, you left the warm summer night and opened the sliding door back into the house.

Nancy and Robin waited on the couch, and you steeled yourself for the delayed interrogation as you settled onto the left cushion and tucked your legs beneath you.

"So… You said Steve's name, huh?" Robin grinned and nudged you. "You two are so insanely stubborn, you know? You should just get over your drama and get together already."

With a snort, you shook your head. She sounded so much like Carol and Tommy that it was almost laughable. You understood their shared knowing glances and exasperation in hindsight, but that was before. Things weren't as easy as just forgiving and forgetting anymore.

"It's not that simple," you said defensively. "I mean, Steve says he's interested now, and no one else is turning his head, and that's great. But who's to say how he'll feel in a few months? In a year? Maybe quarantine gets lifted, and Steve goes back to being Steve, and then I'm the bitter co-parent who hates to be around him and only talks to him in passing when we hand off Sam in a parking lot."

You hated that you could see that so clearly, because it mirrored the rest of your experience— You love Steve, Steve breaks your heart, you forgive Steve, you fuck Steve, Steve breaks your heart, you forgive Steve, you fall for Steve, Steve falls for you…

You knew what came next.

Call it cynicism, call it realism, but you couldn't risk caving to those impulses. Not when you both had a rotten track record. What was best for you, for Sam, was to remain friends, and nothing more.

"I think it's smart," Nancy insisted. "Practical. You're giving yourself time to figure out if these feelings are real, or… if you're being too hasty."

You nodded, relieved to have someone supporting a decision that felt like a form of self-punishment. It wasn't just that you were keeping yourself from being happy, it was a logical course of action. You could always change your mind, give in, decide that this is what's right.

Unless Steve changed his mind and it was already too late. A frown pulled at your lips and you sighed. "What about you and Jonathan?" You asked. "I felt a little hesitation earlier."

Nancy laughed and shook her head. "What? No." But her tone was pitchy and defensive. "Of course I'm happy he's back, but living together is an adjustment. I mean… one second he's across the country, and the next he's sleeping in my basement with his whole family. That'd be… an adjustment for anyone."

A wry smile spread across your lips. "God, tell me about it."

It turned out, you had a decent amount in common with Nancy Wheeler. Dead best friend? Check. Unfortunate living circumstances? Check. Tumultuous history with Steve Harrington? Check.

You weren't going to immediately be best friends, but it made you feel like you weren't so alone anymore. Sure, you had Steve, but that was an entirely different can of worms.

In the middle of your next movie, the front door swung open and you watched as Steve lugged himself, the diaper bag, and the baby carrier over the threshold. He dropped the carrier onto the coffee table and eased a sleeping Sam out. She stirred, expression crinkling, and nuzzled into Steve's chest.

You watched as he rocked her slowly, soothingly, and then frowned down at the crumby, smudged glass of the coffee table. "Gross, you're all animals," he huffed. "I can't believe this is the state of the house when I'm gone. I'd expect this from Henderson, but not you guys."

"Sorry, mom," Robin teased. "We'll clean up after ourselves so we don't get grounded."

Steve rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Thin ice, Rob."

His gaze fell on you and he gave you that doe-eyed, smitten look that had been driving you so crazy. You swallowed and tried to ignore the way your heart started to flutter. He bounced Sam and turned to look at her, and that buzzy feeling dissolved away like cotton candy on your tongue. "I'm gonna take Peanut up to bed and get out of your hair. I'll just make a note to vacuum in the morning."

When he was gone, Robin and Nancy gave you a look. You tried to focus on the movie.

A few days later, and neither of you had been brave enough to address the comically large, heart-eyed elephant in the room. Which was inconvenient, considering every time Steve gave you that sappy, lovey expression, the elephant just got bigger and bigger.

It was simple evasion— you knew that. The irrational, squishy part inside of you didn't want to tell Steve that you didn't trust either of you to jump into a relationship, because that same part of you was just aching to give in.

"Hey, be careful!" Steve yelped. You narrowed your eyes as you looked at Steve in the mirror, a comb in one hand, the other working through his damp hair. A smile played at your lips as you ran the comb through his hair again, which made him wince. "Ow!"

"You're so tender-headed," you said when he winced again. You parted the hair just above his left ear and your eyes went wide. "Holy shit… you have a bald spot here."

His eyes widened and he smacked your hands off. "I do not," he insisted, fingers going up to touch at the bare spot on his scalp. You pushed his hands away again and parted the hair to look at it.

"Yeah, it's a jagged little spot. Maybe it's a cowlick, or genetics, or the stress of fatherhood taking its toll," you teased, tracing the line with your fingers. He shivered at the contact, shoulders tensing.

"My dad has great hair, it's not genetics," he said defensively. He was almost pouting. He loved his hair, and that's why you were surprised he even let you attempt the quick trim over the sink. But he sat on the pink velvet stool with a fluffy towel around his neck, his hair damp and hanging in his face.

Although, teasing him about the bald spot was probably not helping his trust in you. "I think it's a scar," you said finally, squinting down at the shape of it. "Who do you think did it? The Russians or the bats?"

His expression soured. "Billy Hargrove," he said, and looked a more than a little bitter. "Fall of senior year. One second he's smashing a plate over my head… the next I'm in his car with the kids and a thirteen year old girl driving. I still can't remember much of what happened."

You parted his hair normally and the scar was covered, like it wasn't even there. It was kind of a wonder he'd never noticed it before. "Well, apparently he got his chest hole-punched by a gross gooey monster, so…" you trailed off and shrugged. "Karma. Besides, he was a total asshole and a pig and you're still here."

He huffed. "With a bald spot."

"With a scar." You grabbed the scissors from the countertop and bit your lip as you looked at his hair. Just a little trim. You could handle that. "Alright, don't move or I'll slice your ear off and give you a new scar to worry about."

You stabilized his head between your hands and tilted his head down, just slightly. You held your breath and took the scissors to the long hairs curling at the nape of his neck. For a moment, you thought that it was probably what your father felt when he performed heart surgery. Or… probably not.

By the time you were done, Steve was left with a wonky, choppy cut. He shook it out and ruffled it with his fingers, and tried not to look to alarmed. The right side of his head was cut a little shorter than the left, and overall it was a lot shorter than he'd worn it since graduating. Hell, since Junior year.

"Oh, fuck… It's bad," you said, eyes wide as you looked at the fucking hack job you'd done. "Shit, I feel awful."

"No!" He insisted. He grabbed a bit of mousse and worked it through his damp hair, but there wasn't much to be done until it grew out a little. "No, it's actually fine, I promise. I can find a good way to style it, and maybe I'll actually like it like this better."

You sighed and ran a hand through your own hair with a skeptical look. "Are you sure? You can be mad. I'd throw a bitch fit if I were you."

He just shook his head and there it was, that goddamn lovey expression that made you want to melt into a puddle. There were no defenses against it— like it was a look engineered to cut through every instinct and burrow into the vulnerable parts of your soul.

"Why don't you let me take you out to make up for it?" He suggested. "It'll be just you and me. We can, uh, do a picnic at that nice park by Loch Nora. Or, I mean, I can cook us a nice dinner at home. But I just figured you'd want to get out of the house for once."

You swallowed and felt your stomach go fluttery. "Steve," you began. A frown creased your features as you tried to find the words you wanted to say. "I just… I don't think I'm— that we're ready for that yet."

He visibly deflated, and you thought he looked even more pathetic with the awful cut you'd given his hair. "What?"

"I'm just… not entirely confident that this is the best idea right now," you said. "Like… I think we're both feeling a lot of things, like, chemically—" He tilted his head, his confusion at your words was palpable, but you pressed on. "And I feel like jumping into this when there's no real way of knowing if these feelings are real or just circumstantial is irresponsible. Especially with Sam in the mix."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Um… right," he said, but his disappointment was evident in the sullen tone of his voice. "Yeah, of course. You know Sam is the most important thing in my life. Not thing, she's a baby, but I mean— don't we owe it to her to try? And not because we have a baby and it's what we should do, but because we want to be together and it'll be good for all of us. And we can give her a home that's warmer and better than the ones we grew up in."

"Steve," you said softly. "I'm not saying never. I just have to make sure that whatever this is has staying power."

He sighed and ran a hand through his damp hair. "That's… yeah," he agreed. "Smart. You've always been the smart one between the two of us." Before you could say anything more, he kissed your forehead and went for the door.

You grabbed his hand quickly, and the flash of hope in his eyes made your heart hurt a little. "You're gonna get hair everywhere," you said softly, and eased the towel from around his neck.

He swallowed hard and gave a wry laugh. "See? Smart one."

You watched him walk out of the pink bathroom and wondered if this was how Steve had felt in the stock room of Scoops Ahoy just a year ago. It was funny, how quickly things could change.

The rest of the summer was tense. Not in a particularly bad way, really. Steve would never punish you for turning him down. But those feelings, those secret wants lingered.

Things were normal, or as close as you'd ever been, but with a new flavor of repression that tasted like you were back in high school. Bitter and full of longing.

Steve offered to move into his old room to give you space, but you didn't want space. You wanted the right answer to fall into your lap, even though it felt like whatever you chose, something would go wrong.

"He's not dating anyone," Nancy told you over the phone one day. It was meant to be a reassurance, but it made you feel a little worse, like you were holding him hostage emotionally. "I mean, you'd know if he was. The second he leaves the station, he's practically sprinting to his car to get home to you two."

Any sane person would take that as a sign— he was committed, even if you weren't. He could've been drowning his sorrows in any girl who looked his way, but he wasn't. But distrust and insecurity was rooted inside of you, rotten and unshakeable. There was some part of your brain that swore that the second you got something good, it would be ripped right out of your hands. You'd gotten used to that feeling— it had grown up alongside you.

Summer turned to fall, and Sam changed more with every day. She crawled, then she stood. Her hair was longer and had darkened into a warm auburn that you clipped on top of her head to keep out of her face. You wanted to give her a haircut but… well, you'd seen how that could go.

Steve's hair had grown out well enough, and from then on, when he needed a trim, he called Mrs. Byers, who was more than familiar with a pair of shears. In fact, he was annoyingly good looking, and seemed to look better and better every day. The comfort of domesticity softened his edges, his body, his face. It just suited him.

The routine you settled into had been simple. Steve worked the station in the morning, and he got the rest of the day with you and Sam. You divided up chores and tried to give each other a bit of time during the day to take a break, but, usually, you both wanted to spend every waking moment with Sam. Every other Friday, the military went through the gate in the square, which meant there was time for another crawl and Steve would be out all day.

"I hate you doing this," you finally said in October. They'd made it to crawl number seven, and it was beginning to feel like they were all pushing their luck. How was it that no one else seemed to feel it too?

But Steve was standing by the door, twirling his keys around his finger while you picked at your cuticles and worried. The sun was going down— honestly, he was already late— but you didn't want to let him leave. "You have a history with the lab, your name is probably on a government list, and you're driving around tracking Hopper in the world's most conspicuous van."

"I'll be fine," he insisted. "I just drive the route with Dustin and let him complain about how I'm driving, and the music I'm playing, and how annoying I am to be around. Even if we got stopped, there's nothing for them to hold us on. It's radio station business."

You swallowed hard and sighed. Sam tugged at your hair, winding a curl around her chubby hands. "Promise me you're not going to do anything stupid," you said, his expression tightened and you met his gaze as you continued. "I'm not saying you're stupid, I'm asking you not to take any unnecessary risks. Don't volunteer to go into the upside down, or… I dunno. Just don't do it."

"I won't," he said. "I'm driving a car, that's all." He stepped forward and pressed a kiss to Sam's forehead. "If you need me, I turned the walkie to the right frequency."

What choice was there but to let him go? He twirled his keys and waved to the both of you. Sam had just learned to wave back, which made him smile happily as he backed out of the drive and headed to the station.

"Just us girls, huh?" You said softly, nuzzling against her hair. "How about we practice walking… and dance to some good music… and have some butter noodles for dinner… is that a good plan?" You mimed nibbling her hand and she laughed giddily and wiggled in your grasp.

Sam had gotten pretty good at walking when she was assisted. You held onto her little hands and helped her waddle around the entire first floor of the house. She'd get tired, plop down on the floor, and crawl around while you chased her.

Her appetite was endless since she was growing up so fast. She'd eat anything you put in front of her, but was particularly fond of noodles. You wouldn't be caught dead complaining about a baby who wasn't a picky eater, especially considering your own habits as a kid. It was probably something she got from Tommy, who'd been easily convinced to eat actual dirt for five bucks.

Anyways, the night routine was easy. A quick bath and a few books in the rocking chair. You read Oh, The Places You'll Go and cried, then cheered yourself back up with Peter Rabbit. She dozed off to the sound of your voice, one hand still wrapped around your finger.

Just a few months ago, you'd felt so crushed by boredom doing this same sort of thing. But there was a comfort to it now that you relished in.

With everything awful going on, the simplicity and routine made you feel grounded in reality. You couldn't exactly stop the apocalypse from crashing down on Hawkins, and frankly, you knew it was best if you didn't try. But you could do your best to keep your promise to Carol and Tommy by taking care of your girl.

Steve got home after midnight, sneaking in like he expected the house to be sleeping. You waved at him from the bed, where you were flipping through an old Cosmo and waiting for him, and tried to stifle a yawn.

"You didn't have to stay up," he said, but the smile on his lips betrayed his gratitude. "It's late and you had Peanut all to yourself tonight."

You shook your head and dogeared the magazine. "No, it's not that late, really," you insisted. "Besides, she had a really good night. She's always having a good night. And she's getting so good at toddling around with help and cruising around the living room. I think she'll walk before her first birthday."

Steve smiled proudly at that. You watched him strip his clothes off— a bulky sweater tossed into the hamper on his side of the bed, followed by the plain white tank he always wore beneath.

The sides of his abdomen were covered in delicate, scarred skin— Bat bites, you had come to know. You could see the spots where their teeth had sunk in deep, and others where they'd just torn at the flesh.

Worst of all, you remembered seeing it when it was fresh and raw, when you had to touch the swollen stitches. Your lips turned and Steve's eyes flickered from your lips to your eyes.

"It's bad, huh?" He asked. When your head tilted in confusion, he nodded down to his body. "Yeah… Not a pretty sight."

Your eyes widened and you shook your head. "I wasn't thinking that." You swallowed and put the magazine onto your nightstand and sat up straighter. "I'm just thinking about how much it must have hurt. And how sorry I am that it happened."

Steve swallowed and glanced away. "No, it's uh… y'know… comes with the gig."

"But it can't," you said firmly. His gaze flicked back to yours and you tried to look at him as gravely as you could manage. "I— we need you home safe and sound. Okay? I want you to promise me that."

There was a flicker of hesitation… but he nodded. "I will come home safe and sound every time. I promise."

That had to count for something.

He ambled towards the en suite kicking the door shut behind him. He hummed as he brushed his teeth, a habit you'd grown quite fond of. When he came out and flopped lazily onto his side of the bed, you turned over to look at him.

"How'd it go tonight?" You asked.

He shrugged and sighed, then rolled over to meet your eyes. "Total dud," he huffed. "Hopper came up empty handed, and Dustin was being a total asshole the entire night. The good thing is, Hopper searched this neighborhood and it was totally quiet so…"

A wave of relief washed over you at that. It was reassuring to know that there weren't any demogorgon nests… or lairs… or whatever lurking on the opposite side of the covered rifts. That couldn't stop them from moving, or creating new rifts… but it meant there wasn't an imminent threat lurking and growing underneath Sam's feet.

"Well… no news is good news too, right?" You asked. "I mean, seven months ago the ground split open and there was freaky red lighting. And now… y'know… no demo-anythings, no trances, no people dying in freaky ways."

Steve sighed. "Well, Hawkins is big, he could still be out there." He swallowed and rolled over to stare at the ceiling.

The clock on your bedside ticked over to midnight. You exhaled and rolled over onto your back. Your childhood bedroom— just a small stretch of woods away— had glow stars stuck to the ceiling. They were put up when you were twelve, so you and Steve had to jump on your mattress to slap them up high enough. When you laid in your bed at home, you looked up at a galaxy of clumsily, thoughtlessly arranged stars and thought about simpler times.

You missed it then. Simpler times.

You should have known that things could only go right for so long. That eventually, your number would come up and the comfort of routine and stability would be rattled.

Crawl nine was late in November, the day after Thanksgiving. There hadn't any turkey, or macaroni and cheese, but you'd made really great mashed potatoes and Steve had roasted a chicken. You missed the fancy Thanksgivings at home— pumpkin pie, Brussels sprouts, a big juicy turkey, fresh cranberry sauce, creamy mac and cheese.

You had wondered if your parents were having that— if they'd somehow bought their way to a traditional, picture perfect meal. You called them before you ate just to wish them a happy Thanksgiving and tell them you missed them. The call was cold and strained, but, then again, so was most of your adolescence. They loved you, you knew, but there were conditions to it. And for that moment, you weren't meeting those conditions.

As for your thanksgiving, it was small and close knit. Hopper and El came over since there was nowhere else for them to go. It might have been nice… under different circumstances. A nice, happy dinner, a little football, and a really shitty batch of brownies that you and El butchered in the kitchen during halftime.

You were still sleepy and full from the big day before when Steve kissed Sam's forehead, then promised not to do anything stupid, the same promise you made him give for the past few crawls. And, really, you should have known that it was an empty promise when he couldn't meet your eye and was wearing camo, but you brushed it off.

You watched Sleeping Beauty with Sam, which really meant Sam toddled around the living room while Sleeping Beauty played on the TV. By nine, she was asleep in her crib and you were trying to follow along to the very vague instructions on making sugar cookies that Steve's Mimi had left in a recipe tin.

Later, you laid on the couch as you flipped through a "new" copy of Cosmo. It was two months outdated, and the best Bradley's could do, but it had piqued your interest on the shelf.

The articles, "why friends make the best lovers," and, "the joy of resuming an old romance," probably wouldn't solve your problems… but they couldn't hurt either. Every sign seemed to point towards just giving in— including the cheesy advice from magazines.

By the time you were crawling into bed, you'd made a too-crispy batch of cookies, finished the bodice ripper you'd borrowed from Claudia, and done all of the laundry in the house.

And even though you'd read Cosmo cover to cover, you were no less confused.

In the morning, you wanted to take Sam to the makeshift library operating out of the abandoned church on Miller Road. She'd never been before, but you could both stand to branch out your reading selection. You'd love to have a new bedtime story other than Hop on Pop, and Robin told you that Carrie was actually really good and not overrated at all.

The radio on the bedside table buzzed to life after midnight. It stirred you from a shallow rest, and you blinked the sleep from your eyes as Dustin's voice rang through the speakers.

"What's going on?" You asked sleepily. "'s everything okay?"

"Can you get to The Squawk? Soon, please?"

You sat up. "The station? Sam's already down for the night."

"Yeah, it's just... we— uh— need someone who can give stitches. And—"

"I'll be there," you said, cutting him off.

You scrambled to pull on clothes. You grabbed the first things in the dresser— an old Hawkins Basketball crewneck that may have belonged to Steve and a thick pair of flannel pajamas.

Shamefully, you felt a little excited to be looped into everything, despite Steve's warnings. But then you remembered that Hopper might have gotten seriously hurt in the crawl and forced yourself to ignore that feeling.

With your tennis shoes quickly thrown on, you hurried up the stairs to ease Sam from her crib. She wailed, angry to be roused in the middle of the night, but you couldn't exactly wait to call Claudia at this hour.

"Sorry, Peanut," you said gently as she screamed in your ear. "I'll make it up to you tomorrow, I promise."

By the time you made it to the station, Sam was red in the face and exhausted from her crying. You had a sinking feeling of dread as you approached the glass double doors with your arms full of your daughter and your bags.

Maybe being involved wasn't so great after all.

Dustin was waiting, flushed and avoidant of your gaze. Still, he opened the door and ushered you in. You bounced Sam as you walked alongside him, trying to soothe her a little. "Sorry it took so long, but I had to get Sam buckled up, get the diaper bag, pack my first aid kit— where's Hopper?"

Dustin stopped you with a hand on your arm before you could go down into the basement. "Okay, don't be mad, but—"

You pushed past him before he could finish that sentence, hurrying down the stairs as quickly as you could without jostling Sam too much.

At the bottom of the steps, you paused and exhaled sharply. Because there was Steve, bloody and bruised on the couch, surrounded by the rest of the party. He lifted a hand weekly in greeting, which only added insult to injury.

"Someone take my baby," you said, not breaking eye contact with Steve. "Right now."

El was the one to step forward and ease the crying Sam from your arms. In your periphery, she retreated back to Joyce. Hopper was nowhere to be seen but no one seemed too bothered by that, whatever the hell that meant.

You gritted your jaw and took a deep breath through your nose, then crossed the room to the little metal sink in the corner to wash your hands. "What happened?" You demanded.

At once, multiple voices rang out— Dustin, Robin, Nancy, Mike, Lucas. You shook your head and tried to keep control of your temper. Deep breath, in through your nose, out through your mouth. "No— One person."

You dried your hands and knelt at Steve's side. His shirt clung wet and sticky to his torso, which made you grimace. You lifted it and had to close your eyes at the sight of a deep slice across his ribs.

"Steve and Nancy filled in for Hopper tonight because he's sick," Robin explained, slowly, like she was trying to avoid punishment. "They were searching sector K— which are the really old, creepy houses off of Old Cherry. And we kind of figured, like, well, Vecna was in a creepy house before, so it would make sense for him to be in one now—"

Dustin sighed and spoke up. "Steve fell through the ceiling when he was searching an attic."

"Because he saw me about to step on a rotten board and pushed me out of the way," Nancy interrupted. "But he got a pretty bad cut on his side."

Steve huffed and struggled to sit up. "I'm not dead, I could have explained it myself," he muttered. He met your gaze and swallowed. You thought he looked a little guilty, which served him right. "I'm fine. Everything was going just fine, we just weren't thinking about... uh…"

"Structural instabilities," Nancy supplied.

You swallowed, because you couldn't talk to him in that moment, and pulled out your first aid kit. Everything was housed in a pink Caboodles case, which felt a little tonally inappropriate with an injured Steve bleeding beside you, but you'd been thinking this kit was going to be for scraped knees and minor kitchen accidents, not this.

You grabbed your needle and thread, and your rubbing alcohol and gauze. You closed your eyes for a moment to collect yourself, but all you could hear was Steve continuing to go on and on about how he had it handled and this was a freak accident and how could he have known—

"For the love of god, shut up, Steve," you snapped. You watched his mouth shut and his throat bob as he did exactly that. The rest of the room went deathly quiet too, save Sam, who was still weakly crying as she fought her sleep. "We'll talk later."

You uncapped the rubbing alcohol and met his gaze. Without warning, you doused the cut, which made him cry out in pain. He panted, torso rising and falling rapidly, cheeks pink. It might have made you feel something if you weren't so angry.

You used a bit of cotton gauze to clean up the area around the wound, jaw ticking as your thoughts just grew more and more bitter. He winced, glaring up at you for a moment as you dabbed at the tender skin.

"Can we have the room, please?" You snapped, glancing back at the literal crowd of people watching as you cleaned up the wound. "I've got it handled."

There were soft murmurings and the ambling shuffle of feet as the group dispersed. You exhaled slowly and met Steve's gaze. "I'll warn you before I go in," you said as you threaded the nylon thread through the needle. He swallowed and nodded, watching as you prepared the needle.

You'd never actually given a human being sutures before… but there was a first time for everything. You steeled yourself and swallowed hard… then pierced the needle through his skin.

He swore loudly and his stomach tensed at the feeling of the needle going through his skin. "What happened to warning me?" He panted.

You gave a faux sympathetic pout and pushed the needle through the other side of his skin. "Stop talking, I'm trying to focus."

Ten minutes later, the laborious process was over. You'd gone slow— partially to torture Steve, but mostly because you wanted to make sure you did everything right. He was stitched and bandaged and sulking, and you weren't feeling too cheerful either.

You grabbed a WSQK crewneck from across the room and threw it at him. "If you leave your bloody, dirty clothes on you'll get an infection. And I'm not dealing with that again."

"I'm sorry," he called after you as you climbed the stairs, but you weren't listening. It was just so like him that you should've expected it.

Upstairs, Sam was sleeping in El's arms, and everyone else just seemed to be waiting for you to come back. You dropped your caboodle and the diaper bag onto the coffee table and sighed. The adrenaline of being woken up in the middle of the night to be involved in one of their schemes had worn off, leaving you tired and frustrated.

"Don't worry, the patient survived the operation," you deadpanned, and ran a hand through your messy bedhead. No one said anything. Tough crowd. "El, do you wanna help me get Sam into her car seat? We're heading home."

She nodded and stood quickly. Dustin grabbed your things and followed you outside to your car. It was messy, and dinged up from shitty parking jobs. Someone keyed it in high school (probably Stacey), you never bothered to fix it. The paint job was scuffed at your bumper from backing into a mailbox… it was overall a great representation for how you felt lately.

As El eased Sam into the car seat, Dustin found a spot for the diaper bag and Caboodle on the floorboard, beside a winter coat, two empty purses, and a box of clothes you'd meant to donate a few weeks ago.

"You can't be mad at him over this," Dustin said as he shut the car door, gently so Sam didn't stir.

You scoffed, crossing your arms. You had a million reasons to be mad, and absolutely none to be surprised. "He promised me," you said. "This isn't just about him anymore, and he knows that. I lost my best friends to this shit without even knowing, and now—" Your voice cracked, and you felt a little mortified at how upset you really were.

How come he seemed to bear all of the scars? It wasn't just the emotional weight of it all, it was a physical toll. You hated that for him. You hated that he was all-too willing to martyr himself for the cause, even with Sam counting on him.

He wasn't stupid. He knew how you felt, how scared you were of finally getting something that you could lose just as quickly. And still…

He ambled out of the station with Robin not far behind. It was amusing, you thought, that they apparently thought he needed a bodyguard to come outside.

"Car," you snapped. "Now."

Robin's expression softened, and you watched her look guiltily between the two of you. She gave a small wave and disappeared back inside. Steve obeyed, slipping into the passenger seat with a heavy sigh. He winced as he pulled the seatbelt over his chest. Served him right.

Dustin said nothing as he went back in, but you thought he should at least understand your fears. Hadn't he just lost a best friend? Was he seriously okay with risking another?

"Bye," El said, and wrapped you in a tight hug. You sighed and hugged her back just as snugly. Over the past few months, you'd grown so fond of her. You wanted to surround her in bubble wrap and keep her from all of the bad shit going on. But, like Steve, she resisted.

They wanted to be in the thick of it, whether you liked it or not.

Inside the car, it was silent. Sam slept in her seat, her breathing slow and steady. You cranked the car and pulled out of the gravel drive, heading back towards the town center. Once the roads went from uneven deathtraps to neatly paved, Steve looked over at you. "Are you mad at me?" He asked.

You scoffed at the audacity and rolled your eyes. "Oh my god, what do you think?" The leather of the steering wheel squeaked as you readjusted and tightened your grip. You had no good reason to white-knuckle it, but you were seriously holding back from yelling with Sam sleeping in the back.

You never wanted to yell around her. Not now, not ever.

"Yeah," he said dejectedly. "You have your crinkle again."

"Oh, fuck off, Steve. I do not want to talk to you right now," you snapped. At a stop sign, you glanced over at him. "Seriously, can you just sit and think about why I might be mad right now? Silently, for the love of god."

He huffed, turning towards the window, and watched Hawkins outside. By the time you pulled into the driveway, you were still seething and he was still pouting. You grabbed Sam, he grabbed the bags, and you both walked into the house without a word.

Sam stayed asleep, even as you nestled her down in her crib. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, a silent apology for the chaos of the night. "Sleep tight, Peanut," you whispered.

You shut the door on your way out, squinting in the dark of the house as you padded your way downstairs and into the bedroom. Steve was sitting on the bed already, wringing his hands. The WSQK crewneck was stripped— vibrant blue peeking from the laundry basket. He was left bare chested, the white of his bandage visible even in the low light.

Just before he opened his mouth to speak, you gave a firm shake of your head. "Not tonight," you said sharply. "It's half past one, and I'm tired, and I'm so fucking angry at you."

"I said I'm sorry," he said weakly. He scratched the back of his neck and rubbed at the bandage on his ribs. "I mean, really sorry."

You laughed wryly as you stripped off the clothes you'd hastily thrown on so you could change back into your real pajamas. There was no need to worry about modesty when the person you were sharing a space with had literally been inside of you. "You're sorry, huh? For what? Because I have a whole list of sorrys I'm still waiting for."

"Give me a list, I'll apologize for everything," he insisted, his gaze locking on your eyes so they didn't wander. "I'm sorry for going into the Upside Down without telling you. And I'm sorry for getting myself injured."

You pulled on your discarded pajamas and rolled your eyes. "You should be sorry for doing it at all, not just keeping it from me," you groaned, annoyance and hurt coursing through your veins in equal measure. "You promised me, you asshole."

"I know," he said. His voice was earnest, his eyes so soft. It tugged at something in your chest. "I'm sorry I scared you," he said, and you exhaled shakily.

Because that's what it was, wasn't it? You were scared from the moment Dustin stopped you in the station until you tied off the sutures. Your heart still held that fluttery feeling— the rush of adrenaline fading as you accepted that he was okay.

"So don't do it again," you said, and you were embarrassed that your voice wavered. "I mean, what if this all goes on for another few years? Five? Ten? Do you just expect me to be okay with you risking your life until everything is settled? If it's ever settled? It seems like you all just assume the problem is solved, then a year later all of the nasty, evil shit comes crawling out of the woodwork."

Steve's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "I wish I didn't have to do this," he said. "But it's unfair of you to ask me to pick between what you want and what I need to do to keep you safe. Sure, Hopper's got it covered most of the time, but if you're making me choose between risking the Upside Down and putting off a crawl for another two weeks because he's benched, I'm taking the risk to keep my family safe."

The words deflated the anger— popping it like a sad party balloon. With a sigh, you sat at the foot of the bed beside him, legs tucked beneath you. Before you could react, Steve's hand was on your jaw, big and warm and rough. Part of you wanted to joke about how he needed to borrow some of the hand cream his mom left behind, but it felt like the type of moment that you shouldn't cheapen with nervous jokes. Your throat clicked as you swallowed hard and met his gaze.

A small, scared voice inside wanted to argue more and insist that he give it all up, but maybe he was right. Maybe, for the sake of everyone you cared about, you'd have to worry for a while. And maybe you'd have to let yourself trust him. Maybe you owed it to the both of you.

"Apologize again," you said weakly, nearly pouting. "I'm still mad at you for lying and going out in stupid army gear. And I'm mad I didn't even question it."

A shiver ran down your spine as he ran his thumb along your cheek, stroking gently, fondly. "I'm sorry," he said. "I felt bad lying, but if I dropped the ball and it got you or Samantha hurt… I couldn't live with that. Honest to god, that would kill me."

You closed your eyes as he brushed a curl back behind your ear. You knew that your perm was overdue for a touch up, but Steve didn't seem to notice, or even mind. The tiniest smile played on his lips, and you felt oddly shy when you noticed it.

"I'm really lucky to get to come home to you, even when you're angry at me," he said. That expression came back— that soft, affectionate one that made something tug inside of you. It didn't feel so bad anymore. "I feel sorry for all of the other chumps who don't, and I want to make sure I can keep coming home to you, and to Sam.

"So I'll stay in the van with Dustin from now on. And if there's an emergency and I have to go through the gate I'll tell you about it. I'll keep you posted on the walkie, I'll check in every two minutes, I'll even let you come with me if you w—"

He made a noise of surprise against your lips, but relaxed just as quickly. His mouth softened, parting as you pressed a slow, sweet kiss to his lips.

You'd kissed Steve on two very different occasions. Once, in the closet in Carol's basement— stiff mouths and all nerves. Then again at the wedding— desperate and hungry, full of intention. This was different, it was loving and affectionate, mournful, angry, absolutely infatuated. It was a decade of knowing each other in one kiss, and you felt the intensity of it down to your bones.

The hand on your face moved into your hair, tangling into your curls, holding you against him. Your hands would have fisted into his shirt, if he was wearing one. Instead, your palm rested on the soft hair at his chest and felt the steady thud of his heart against his ribs. If his hand moved down, if it rested at your throat, he'd feel your own heartbeat racing at his fingertips.

You pulled back, just to look at him for a moment. The line drawn between his brows, the way his lips still pursed, like they were frozen in the kiss you'd just interrupted. And his pretty eyes, dark with wanting.

"Did I do something wrong?" He asked.

A tiny smile pulled at the corners of your lips as you shook your head. "Usually? Yes. But right now? Not at all," you answered.

His head tilted to the side, and he laughed nervously. His nails scratched gently at your scalp, and he eased you forward until your lips met his again. Steadier, hungrier. His tongue eased into your mouth and you let him deepen the kiss.

A soft noise of contentment vibrated against his mouth, and he must have taken that as a sign to keep going. His free hand moved into the small of your back and pulled you closer, until your knees bracketed his thighs and you were settled on top of him.

The rational part of your brain told you to slow down. End the night with a kiss, deal with everything else later. But, for once in your life, you didn't want to be rational. You were so tired of stealing the joy from your life before you even got a chance to embrace it.

Steve was infuriating. He could be careless, and selfish and impulsive. But he was also so kind and nurturing, loving and devoted. He made you laugh, he brought a lightness to your life that felt impossible after the rifts opened and your life changed forever in ways you never knew that it could. He made you feel loved and wanted, and you wanted to give him all of that and more.

It was his turn to pull back and meet your eyes, searching. "Maybe we should slow down," he whispered, his lips brushing yours with each syllable. "Like… take a breather and just… make sure this is what we really want."

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking to your lips, briefly, before meeting your eyes again. "It's like you said before, about… staying power, or whatever. I remembered because of the Queen song, and—"

You laughed and his brows furrowed with mild offense. "Sorry, it's just… do you want to stop?" He flushed, and you heard the softest huff escape his lips as he shook his head. "I don't either. And so you know… I've been torturing myself for months by keeping myself from being with you."

A smile broke across his features, and you sighed softly as he leaned in and kissed along your jaw. "You're so stubborn," he mumbled against your skin. "Can you believe I love that about you?"

Your tummy flipped at his words, a soft, light feeling that rushed through your veins. He moved his mouth to your throat, lips brushing against the ticklish spots at the hollow of your throat. "You're so stubborn," kiss, "and smart," kiss, "and beautiful," kiss, "and stubborn."

You laughed softly as his tongue traced over a spot that gave you chills. Goosebumps pebbled the skin on your arms, and you trembled slightly. "You said that already."

"Worth repeating." He kissed his way back up to your jaw, then to your lips. You smiled into the kiss, and you laughed when his teeth knocked against yours clumsily. "God, sorry, I'm nervous."

He was nervous? You wanted to laugh. God, you were shaking with nerves and anticipation. Your palm flexed against his chest, where his heart was pounding. You leaned back, meeting his gaze, and moved his hand from your back and under your shirt.

Slowly, you slid his hand up, over your stomach, until it rested warm and steady over your heart. His fingers flexed against your overheated skin, and he swallowed hard. Your forehead knocked against his, and you planted a slow kiss to his lips.

"This is exactly what I want," you said softly. A smile spread across his lips, easy and charming. "But I'm still kind of mad at you for almost dying."

His smile fell into a pout, and you grinned as he flipped you onto your back and pinned you beneath him. His knee pressed between your thighs, and you exhaled shakily at the slightest pressure. "I didn't almost die," he insisted. Hiss mouth moved back to your throat, moving closer to the neckline of your top. "I got a scratch. It barely even hurts."

He moved his fingers to the buttons of your top, and you were suddenly really embarrassed to be wearing thick flannel jammies. His mouth pressed against your sternum, tender and sweet. He popped the top button and the pale pink fabric parted slightly, granting him access to more of your body.

Another button, another kiss. Over and over until your shirt fell open and you had to shiver at the chill of the room. His hands moved up, burning hot against your skin, just to grope at your exposed tits. You squirmed, arching to meet his touch, and he moaned soft, just above your waistband.

He sat up, squinting down at you in the dim light. "Jesus christ," he hummed— he might as well have wolf-whistled. "I didn't get to see these last time."

"Can you even see them now?" You teased. He rolled his eyes and reached over to the bedside table, and you giggled when he fumbled with putting his glasses on one-handed.

He blinked a few times and nodded. "Oh, yeah. Much better. Perfect, beautiful, gorgeous…" He lowered himself back down and moved his mouth to your breasts, worshiping the newly exposed flesh with hungry kisses. The metal of his frames knocked against you, and you thought that his lenses must've been smudged to hell.

You whined at the feel of his hot mouth sucking on your nipples, the graze of his teeth against the hard bud. He moaned against your skin as you ground up against the knee between your thighs, rocking unsubtly as your body sought friction.

"You need more?" He mumbled against you. "I'll give you anything you want, beautiful. Gotta take care of my girl."

As soon as the words left his lips, a thrill ran through you. For once, you let yourself embrace that title entirely. Steve Harrington's girl. The thing you'd dreamed about for all of your early adolescence made reality.

And, somehow, it was better than all that you'd imagined. This wasn't a meaningless high school fling, or a thoughtless hook up. There was gravity to it, a seriousness that you felt in your chest as you looked up at him and nodded.

You can take care of me, you thought as he kissed down your torso, leaving a wet trail of kisses as he went. Now, forever, as long as we can. If Hawkins broke open again tomorrow and one of the freaky monsters made you their lunch, you'd go out with one less regret.

He slid your pants down your legs, and your pulse quickened as he kissed over the cotton of your panties. A sly grin spread across his lips as he looked up at you. "These are cute," he said, running a thumb over the soft embroidered butterfly on the front.

A shiver ran through you as his attention went lower, so he rubbed over your clit through the fabric of your panties. The muscles in your thighs twitched at that tiny amount of contact, and you watched his eyes darken as his gaze moved to the saturated patch covering your core.

"Stop staring, you're embarrassing me," you huffed, only half-serious. You reached down, easing the frames from his face so he didn't mess them up somehow. He laughed weakly and muttered a soft, thanks as you placed the glasses onto your nightstand.

His thumbs hooked into the waistband and he slowly eased your panties down your thighs. "Pretty girl," he said, and you felt yourself go hot as he spread you open on his fingers, you could feel how wet and sticky you were, so you knew he could see it. "Just let me do this. Gotta show you how sorry I am."

His lips pressed against your clit once, twice… soft and sweet. Your toes curled at the sensation, and you sighed weakly as his lips wrapped around the sensitive bud and suckled. And you knew he relished in the way he pulled soft gasps and whines from your lips.

His tongue parted your folds, feasting on you. You gave a keening cry as he licked a broad stripe from your dripping entrance back to your clit. When gripping the bedsheets weren't enough, you moved your fingers into his hair. One little tug and he was a goner, eyes fluttering, moans vibrating against your cunt.

Of course guys had gone down on you before. You tried to date gentlemen, but none of them had seemed to relish in it the way that Steve did. Eyes closed like he was savoring the taste of you on his tongue. Moaning and mumbling praise against your slick flesh as he nuzzled closer and devoured everything you had to offer.

"You taste so good," he murmured, and you felt the words more than you heard them. Your head lolled back against the pillows as he eased a finger inside of you, sinking deep inside of your tight, hot center. It curled, pressing against the spongey, sensitive spot inside and you choked back a desperate moan. "That's it, just take what I'm giving you."

Every nerve in your body felt alight with desire. Your nails scratched dully against Steve's scalp as he eased a second finger alongside the first, fucking you slow and deep while he practically made out with your cunt.

It had been a while since you'd felt anything like this, and even then, your exes weren't exactly cutting it. Pleasure licked at your nerves like fire, and you felt hot all over as he brought you to the edge with his mouth and tongue. "I'm almost— god— I'm so close, Steve," you panted.

He moaned against you like he was the one seconds away from cumming, or maybe just that getting you there was the hottest thing he could imagine. Either way, his enthusiasm really did it for you. His lips sealed around your clit and he gave you just the right amount of suction as he rubbed over your g-spot. Really, you would've loved for it to have lasted longer, but you were careening towards your finish and it had been months since you'd been touched like this.

And, suddenly, the band in your stomach snapped and wave after wave of euphoria washed over you. Your thighs twitched, clamping on either side of his head as you ground against his hot, eager mouth. You felt your walls squeezing around his fingers, tightening as he gently worked you through your orgasm.

He laughed weakly when he finally pulled back, mouth slick with your release, wearing a dopey, lovey smile. He planted a sweet kiss to your inner thigh and eased his fingers from inside of you. "You know I've been dreaming about that?" He asked, and kissed his way up your body and back to your mouth, settling comfortably between your legs.

You grinned and leaned up, kissing his hungrily. You felt warm and floaty, which you partially contributed to the orgasm he'd pulled out of you, and mostly contributed to just letting yourself relish in the nice, warm feelings you felt towards him. It was a marvel, what releasing yourself from self-implemented shackles could do for your soul.

"Actually dreaming," he continued, the words mumbled against your mouth. You could taste your own release, heady on his tongue as he licked into your mouth, like he couldn't get enough of any part of you. "It makes sharing a bed with you very inconvenient."

You grinned, thinking of all of the times that you had woken up tormented by sex dreams about him. It was funny that the entire time, you'd been having the exact same problem. But, y'know, you weren't going to say that.

"Usually, I'd have offered to return the favor," you said, peering up at him. "But… you did something really reckless and thoughtless today, so I don't think you deserve it."

"That's probably for the best," he said, and he had a certain sheepishness to his expression that endeared you. "I, uh, haven't slept with anyone since before… everything."

Your brows furrowed. Because, yeah, technically that made sense— you hadn't exactly seen Steve go out and hook up with anyone. Reasonably, you knew he'd been either at home with you and Sam, running errands with the baby, or at the station.

It was almost impossible to imagine that Steve, your Steve, who seemed to have an endless line of girls begging for a chance to sleep with him, had been effectively celibate for at least eight entire months.

"Wow… call Guinness." He rolled his eyes, but there was a ruddiness to his cheeks that pulled at your very tender heartstrings. "This has to be the longest you've gone since you lost it in the first place. You're practically a virgin again."

He scoffed, but he didn't argue. "I'm just saying, like… I'm in a dry spell, and I've been wanting this so bad, I just don't want to disappoint you if I…" He swallowed hard and a wry smile spread across your lips.

"If you blow your load too fast?" You teased. "Honestly… after all of this build up, I'd be offended if you didn't."

He rolled his eyes and pressed a fleeting kiss to your lips before sitting back to undress fully. You watched with unabashed hunger as he shucked off his pants and briefs, until he was completely bare before you.

You let yourself gawk at him— at the man he'd become while you were too busy resenting him. The softness of his body that masked the strength beneath, the pale scars spotting his sides, the hair that tapered down to the part of him that your memories somehow didn't manage to do justice to.

He was bigger than you remembered. You thought that maybe your brain had to ignore how perfect his dick was so you had a chance of moving on. But, god, when you weren't crammed into the backseat of the Beamer and trying to see around the tulle, he was annoyingly perfect.

"Now you're embarrassing me," he said, as he shifted on top of you again, blocking your stare. His arms rested on either side of your head, caging you in entirely. "Keep looking at me like that and I'm not lasting a minute."

You glanced over at the night stand and frowned. "I didn't exactly plan for this. All of my condoms are at my dorm," you admitted. The flash of jealousy in his eyes sent a thrill through you that you'd have to explore later. "Do you have anything?"

He swallowed, blinking out of his thoughts. "Uh, I could go grab one from upstairs," He offered. And then the thought of him sleeping around before spring break flashed in your mind, and you were flooded with a sting of possessiveness.

You were both deeply insane people.

You shook your head. Sam just went down, and the thought of Steve accidentally waking her and setting off another wailing fit was enough to make you frown. "We'll be fine. Just try to pull out."

He groaned, burying his head in your shoulder. "Try?"

"Try," you echoed. "I mean, I'm not ovulating or anything, but better safe than pregnant."

His cheeks flushed and he nodded. "Yeah," he panted. "Yeah, okay."

His warm hands grabbed your thighs and spread them further. You wrapped them around his hips and let your ankles lock around his lower back. Your breath caught as he rocked his hips, just a bit. The head of his cock nudged at your clit, slick and hot and hard against you.

It was so different than it had been in his car. There was a certain intimacy to fucking in the bed you shared— bodies bare and warm, pressing against each other. But then his eyes met yours, soft and eager, and you knew it wasn't just fucking. It never had been.

He kissed you just as he pushed inside, nice and slow, as if either of you could take much more. You gasped into his mouth, eyes fluttering as you tried to hold his gaze. One hand grabbed onto yours, fingers tangling, squeezing.

The stretch was a dull ache, but not unpleasant. It made you think of being sore after a workout, the promise that it would get easier with time. And you had time.

When he was fully sheathed within you, he kissed you, slow and deep. His tongue tangled with yours, hungry, as his hips rocked deeper. It felt like every nerve in your body was alight, until you were overwhelmed with pleasure and with raw need. "God, Steve," you panted. "Feels so good."

His forehead knocked against yours, and your free hand grabbed at his bicep as he built up a solid rhythm. His moans vibrated against your lips, and it felt like there was no end or beginning to either of you. A stupid, cheesy feeling like you were two parts of one soul, or whatever you had read in Cosmo.

"I love you," he panted softly. In the dim light of the room, his eyes almost shone with feeling. With a strange tug of untraceable emotion, you realized he meant it. And you knew that even though you couldn't say it back, you felt a stirring of something in your chest— old and unmistakable.

So you kissed him again and hoped he could taste everything you couldn't let yourself say on your tongue. Your legs wrapped around him tighter, and you pulled him closer, forced him deeper. He groaned into your mouth and tightened his grip on your hand.

He was so deep, grinding against those sensitive spots inside with each shallow thrust. Your head was thrown back, so Steve moved his mouth to your throat, where he peppered your skin with small nips and kisses. "Jesus, you feel perfect," he whispered against your skin. "So fucking perfect."

With each thrust, you ground up to meet him, until you were both moving in perfect harmony. You moved your hand between your bodies to rub at your oversensitive clit, aching for just the tiniest push over the edge.

It overtook you like a slow burn, but completely unavoidable. Soft, choked sobs of pleasure escaped your lips as a sweet euphoria washed over you. "Steve," you panted, and he shuddered above you. You felt him give a few clumsy thrusts before he pulled out and came onto your tummy with a shaky moan.

You expected him to make an excuse to save his ego, about usually lasting longer, or his long dry spell, but he just collapsed beside you and laughed breathlessly. "God, you're perfect," he sighed. "I haven't come that hard in… like, ever. Definitely not since the wedding."

He leaned over and kissed you again, soft and slow. "I'll be right back. Don't move."

You sat up on your elbows and watched him go, leering at him as he disappeared into the en suite and grabbed one of the fancy, fluffy towels within. When he came back, he wiped the mess from your stomach and between your thighs, then placed a gentle kiss to your cheek.

"How're your stitches?" You asked, sparing a glance to the white gauze bandage.

He grimaced and glanced down. "Uh… fine? I don't feel anything bad. Must be the adrenaline, or hormones or something. I'm on cloud nine."

A fond smile played on your lips as Steve flopped onto his stomach. You reached over, playing with the ends of his hair until he got a full body shiver and groaned. He turned his face to look in your direction and his lips twitched in amusement.

You took a manicured finger and ran it along the slope of his nose, then traced along his mouth. He had a small scar on his bottom lip… and another on the bridge of his nose. A tiny one at his cheekbone… And his freckles were another thing entirely. You traced them with your nail like you were playing connect the dots, all while Steve's eyes got heavier and heavier.

You nestled into his side to sleep, and it felt like you belonged there. Maybe you always had.

You slept through Steve leaving— which you took as a sign that he had really worn you out. He'd scribbled a message on a sticky note on the fridge, which you couldn't help but smile at when you saw it.

Good morning, beautiful. Couldn't wake you up, you looked so peaceful.

In the morning, with Sam in her playpen, you worked on addressing the invites to her first birthday. You'd given Will forty bucks to design it, with little anthropomorphized peanuts dancing around a cake, and had made copies at the high school since the library and office supplies school didn't exist anymore.

It was hard to believe that in two weeks, your little peanut would be one. In a few more months, it would be a year since everything happened, since you became her mom. You took the pen to paper and addressed one invite to your parents, and wondered if they'd bother showing up. You hoped so, at least.

The phone rang in the kitchen, so you hopped up and promised Sam you'd be right back. You yawned as you leaned against the wall and grabbed the phone. It had been a very late night, and you were fucking beat.

"Harrington residence," you answered.

"You sound so hot saying that." Steve's voice rang through the line and you couldn't help but laugh. "I wanted to tell you that I'm getting to cover an hour of the radio station. Robin has to go to a lady doctor or something, I dunno actually. But I'm going to be DJ-ing starting at noon."

"That's a good time slot," you said. "Lots of ears. Are you nervous?"

He laughed softly. "Uh, no, not really," he said. "I have it all planned out. Robin gave me notes, but… I'm just gonna go for it. Will you listen?"

You always listened, even when he was just playing random sound effects or switching tapes. But there were some things you didn't need to tell him. "Mhmm, are you gonna dedicate a song to me, loverboy?" You teased. "That'd be so corny."

"Just listen. Twelve o'clock. I'm starting with Hall & Oates."

"Alright, I'll listen."

He did, in fact, dedicate a song to you. Two songs specifically, but the entire set was so corny and mushy that you felt your face go hot just listening to it.

Steve Harrington was a loverboy at heart, and now everyone you knew would know that you were together. And it wasn't that you were planning on hiding it, or changing your mind. It was the thought of him changing his mind and everyone knowing that you weren't enough that scared you.

After lunch, you put Sam in the car and drove somewhere you neither of you had been before.

Their headstone wasn't even in place yet. The Perkins' and Hagan's had picked it out together— a joint headstone with a little marble heart between their names. But there were a lot of headstones for the small funeral parlor in Hawkins to have to make, and a limited amount of materials available in quarantine. You figured your friends must have been pretty low on the list.

In its absence, their empty plot was marked by a sad plastic marker with water-spotted paper. The damage made their names nearly illegible smudges, their birth and death dates inky streaks on the cardstock. There was nothing to bury, no part of them that was particularly tethered to this plot, but there you were.

You were wrapped in a puffer jacket, and Sam was bundled up in a coat and held tight against your chest. It was the first time you'd brought her to visit them… if there was a part of them tethered to this spot at all.

"Carol Perkins, you fucking bitch," you began, with a sad smile at the inky smudge on damp paper. "I bet you'd both really be loving all of this, you know? If you were here, you'd be sharing those stupid, smug glances and playing dumb about how long you've known."

Sam babbled and nuzzled closer. The cold made her nose go an adorable shade of pink, and you thought she was the most precious thing in the world.

There was a certain comfort in talking to your friend, even if you had no way of knowing if she could hear. "I think it's what you both would want though," she said. "Steve says he loves me, and I… don't know. I mean, we've never been on a date, we're doing everything backwards…"

You sighed. "But I care about him, and I want this to last, and I want Sam to grow up in a house where she's loved, and she's surrounded by love. I want her to have what I didn't, you know?"

The wind whistled through the trees. A few yards away, the plastic wrapping of a bouquet crinkled in the wind. It felt a bit like a hug, you thought. Or maybe you just missed them so much that you'd imagine anything to feel them that close ever again.

"Tommy, you'd give Steve so much shit for his nicknames," you said with a grin. "And honestly, Peanut is sticking. Like, she kind of is our little peanut, y'know? We're having a peanut themed birthday party for her, and on Halloween she was Mr. Peanut."

You sighed. She was getting fussy from the cold, so you knew you'd have to leave soon. "Anyways… it's just been too long. I guess I thought today of all days, I needed to see you." You put your fingers to your lips, and touched that soggy marker with a wobbly smile. "I really wish you'd just told me. You know I've always been stubborn."

Steve was waiting at home with a slightly wilted bouquet and a sleeve of Oreos. You grinned and kissed his cheek fondly as he eased Samantha from your arms. When you opened the sleeve, there were already three cookies missing.

"Sorry, I got impatient," he said, bouncing your girl on his hip. "But Murray got them for you. He can get whatever you want, so… y'know. Just tell me and I'll tell him."

You couldn't help the smile that warmed your features. "Wow… this is the Steve Harrington girlfriend experience, huh? Showered with gifts and attention and song dedications."

He lit up, his smile growing. "You're my girlfriend? 'Cause I was going to ask, and it was going to be a whole thing. A nice date, more flowers, more gifts, more songs—"

You shut him up with a sweet kiss. "I think that all sounds great," you said. "I can pretend I'm not your girlfriend until then, if you want."

He shook his head insistently. "Oh, no, that's… I think girlfriend is perfect. That didn't… I mean you being my girlfriend is perfect." He scratched the back of his neck and kissed your forehead. When Sam whined at the lack of attention, he leaned down and kissed the crown of her head.

It was all so easy, you wanted it to be easy. You wanted to let yourself fall in love with Steve Harrington. But, for the time being, just this felt like what you needed.

A/N: YAYYYYYYY!!!!

Now it's Steve's turn to get walked like a dog and beg for scraps while reader works up to acknowledging their feelings!!! Everyone cheered!!

I hope you enjoyed this!! I had the best time writing this, it was truly a labor of love. I wanted to throw in a new reader friendship, so of course I had to pick my beloved angel El Hopper <3 I just felt like she needed an older mentor to take her under her wing!!

Please let me know what you think!!! I love talking to y'all about this story <3 one more chapter + epilogue left <3

[hexyissy]

Hii!! I love your my next door neighbour (is not a grandma) story. Whenever I get a notification I drop everything and lock in on the story. I have a Drabble request and it’s open ended so you can kinda do your thing with it, but I was hoping maybe you could write something about reader having some sort of medical emergency or maybe Joe gets a call while at the studio from the hospital saying reader was brought in? Thank you!!

⋆˚࿔ the girl next door (is not a grandma) drabble 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

issy talks: hiii, anon!! you're so sweet, and thank you mwa mwa hehe. i hope you'll enjoy this one 🥹🩷

cws: non-explicit 2nd-degree burn, hospitals, grief over losing a beloved hobby, emotional distress, hurt/comfort, lots and lots of fluff, joe loooves you so much. lmk if i missed some.

Joe was having one of those rare, easy afternoons in the studio.

The album was finally coming together. Wesley was arguing with Jake over a note for what had to be the tenth time, Matt was making coffee, and Javi and Dalton were telling three different stories at once. Joe leaned back in his chair, laughing so hard his stomach hurt.

Then his phone buzzed.

Wifey Honey 🍓🎀 calling...

He smiled instinctively as he answered. "Hey, honey—"

"Joe..."it was your barista. His smile disappeared instantly. "Can you please come to the hospital?"

The studio fell silent, Joe sat upright. "What happened?"

There was a shaky breath on the other end. "Just... please come. She needs you."

The line went dead. For a second, Joe simply stared at his phone. Then he was moving. He didn't say goodbye or explain. He grabbed his jacket, nearly dropped his keys, and was already halfway out the door before anyone managed to call after him.

The ride to the hospital felt endless. Every red light lasted too long. Every slow driver felt personal. By the time he arrived, his heartbeat was pounding so loudly he could barely hear himself think.

He ran inside, wrong elevator, wrong floor, wrong hallway. He apologized to a nurse after nearly crashing into her, mumbled another apology to a family sitting outside another room, then finally spotted familiar faces gathered near the end of the corridor.

Your barista looked up first, relief washed over her face. "Joe."

He didn't even stop walking. "Is she okay?"

Your barista nodded quickly. "She's okay." Those two words let him breathe for exactly one second. Then she quietly added, "...she's really upset."

Joe swallowed hard before pushing open the hospital room door. You were sitting upright on the bed. your left hand was wrapped in thick white bandages, resting carefully on your lap.

Your eyes were swollen. You looked like you'd been crying for hours. The moment you saw him, you tried to smile that lasted barely a second. Joe knew immediately it wasn't real. He crossed the room in three long strides and knelt beside your bed.

"Honey..."

His voice came out much quieter than he'd intended. He carefully reached for your forearm, terrified of hurting you. "What happened?"

You stared at your bandaged hands for a long moment before answering. "pies."

Joe frowned gently. "What?"

You blinked rapidly, trying not to cry again. "The handle..." Your voice cracked. "the handle of the pot broke." You shut your eyes. "The filling...it just splashed everywhere." A shaky breath escaped you. Your shoulders trembled. "I don't even remember what kind of pies I was making."

The words dissolved into a quiet sob. Joe immediately moved closer, wrapping one arm around your shoulders as carefully as he could. 

Your barista quietly stepped inside. "We were getting ready for the afternoon rush," she explained softly. "Everything happened so fast."

Her own eyes had started to water again. "We just heard this loud crash." Joe listened without taking his eyes off you. "When we turned around" she whispered, "...her hands were covered in mango-peach filling."

"She didn't scream." Joe's heart clenched. "She just stood there so pale like she couldn't understand what had happened. We got her hands under cold water immediately, called an ambulance..."

She reached into her tote bag and placed a small pouch in Joe's hands. "I grabbed these before we left."

Inside were your bracelets. The little rings you wore every day, your customized My-Melody bracelets, and carefully tucked into the corner, your engagement ring.

Joe looked down at it for a second before gently slipping it into his jacket pocket for safekeeping. "I'll keep it," he murmured.

A gentle knock interrupted the room. The doctor stepped inside, clipboard tucked beneath one arm. "The burns are healing well," he explained, examining your dressings. "They're second-degree burns, but fortunately they aren't deep enough to require surgery."

Joe nodded, absorbing every word. "We'll need daily dressing changes, ointment, and plenty of rest." Then came the sentence neither of you expected to hurt so much. "And absolutely no baking for at least three weeks."

The room became impossibly quiet. Your ears rang, three weeks of no kneading dough, piping frosting, rolling pastry, pulling warm pastries from the oven.

Three weeks.

Your eyes stayed fixed on your hands, one stupid accident. And suddenly, you couldn't do the one thing that had always made the world feel right. A tear slipped quietly down your cheek. You laughed once. "wh-what...I can't bake."

Your voice was barely audible. "I can't..."

Joe looked at you, and his heart shattered. You weren't crying because your hands hurt, God, you can handle any burns. You were crying because you'd lost the language you loved people in.

He gently brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Honey..."

"I can't even make your favorite cinnamon rolls." Your shoulders finally gave out. "Baby, I can't bake." The words came out like grief.

Joe didn't think he simply leaned forward until his forehead rested gently against yours. "I'm sorry."

You looked at him through tear-filled eyes. "Why are you apologizing? It’s my fault, not yours. It’s all me, I’m not careful enough."

His own voice shook. "I wasn't there, you needed me. I should've—"

You shook your head before he could finish. "No, Joe." Your forehead stayed pressed against his. "You were exactly where I wanted you to be.”

The first week wasn't easy.

The pain in your hand had dulled into something manageable. The dressings became smaller every after few days, and the doctors assured you the burns were healing beautifully, but healing wasn't the same as feeling better.

Joe noticed it almost immediately.

Every morning, you'd wander into the kitchen without thinking, only to stop in the doorway. Your eyes always found the familiar things first—the cream-colored stand mixer, the wooden rolling pin worn smooth after years of pie crusts and cinnamon rolls, the little ceramic jar where you kept your vanilla beans.

You never touched any of them. You only stood there for a few quiet seconds before walking away. It happened so often that Joe stopped pretending he didn't notice.

So he did everything else.

Breakfast was already waiting by the time you woke up, even if the pancakes came out slightly lopsided. He carefully washed your hair whenever changing the bandages became too difficult. He learned how to button your cardigans without tugging at your healing hands. The dishes never stayed in the sink long enough for you to reach them.

Ponkan and Cookie were always fed before they had the chance to complain.

Every evening, he'd gently unwrap your bandages, clean the burns exactly the way the nurse had shown him, apply the ointment with careful hands, and wrap fresh gauze around your fingers as though they were made of glass.

You thanked him every single time. He smiled and kissed you every single time.

But something was missing, your laughter. Not the polite little chuckles you gave him whenever he burned toast or accidentally seasoned scrambled eggs with far too much pepper. He missed the laugh that made your shoulders shake. The one that filled every corner of the apartment.

One quiet morning, Joe found you sitting at the kitchen island, absentmindedly watching sunlight spill across the countertop.

You looked peaceful but your eyes kept drifting back to the mixer.

He followed your gaze. You looked up as he walked toward the cupboard, pulling down a large mixing bowl. He placed it on the counter with a determined little nod. 

"Teach me again." He looked back at you with that familiar, earnest smile. "Teach me how to bake and this time..." he added with a tiny grin, "I promise I'll actually listen."

Despite yourself, the corners of your mouth lifted. "No fooling around?"

He raised his hand and crossed his heart.  "No fooling around, I promise, crossed my heart..."

You laughed softly through your nose. "That's a big promise for you."

"It is but I mean it." He rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt.

Your smile faded just a little. "Are you sure?"

"You have the album," you said quietly, absentmindedly scratching behind Ponkan's ears as he sprawled across your lap. Cookie was asleep on the couch across the living room, blissfully unaware of the heavy conversation happening above her.

"You've been spending every day taking care of me." Your eyes stayed on your cats. "I don't want to be...a burden." You hesitated.

Joe's expression softened so quickly, he crossed the kitchen and knelt beside your chair. "Honey."

He gently cupped your face. "I can always go back to the studio. The album will still be there. The band understands." He smiled sadly. "But if something happened to you again and I wasn’t here…" His voice cracked ever so slightly, he swallowed. "I don't think I'd ever forgive myself."

Your heartstrings pulled. Without thinking, you leaned forward until your noses brushed together. "I don't need you to stop your life for me."

"I'm not." He smiled. "I'm just choosing where I want to be, and you’re my life now." Silence settled between you.

Then you sighed dramatically. "Okay."

Joe's entire face lit up. "Really?"

"You get one lesson."

"I'll take it."

You slowly stood beside him. "Okay..." you began, slipping back into the familiar rhythm your body knew by heart. “Prepare the tools and ingredients!” 

“Wait wait where’s the aprons?!” 

"Measure three and a half cups of flour." Joe carefully scooped the flour, leveling each cup with complete concentration.

You couldn't help smiling. "Good, now crack four eggs."

The first one landed perfectly. The second...shell. The third...more shell. By the fourth, he looked at you with genuine panic. "Sweetheart, I think the chickens are fighting back."

You laughed, a real uncontrollable one that made him froze. He hadn't heard that sound in days. He smiled so widely his cheeks hurt. "There’s my love," he whispered.

The lesson continued. "Now cream the butter and sugar together."

Joe nodded confidently. "I've got this."

Five minutes later, you stared into the mixing bowl. "We’re doing good so far, now taste it."

He blinked. "Does it supposed to be this salty?"

Your eyes slowly drifted toward the containers lined up on the counter. Then you spotted the one he'd used. “Baby, it’s salt.” 

Joe looked at the container, looked back at the bowl. "That would explain a lot."

You burst into laughter again, Joe laughed with you until tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. For a little while, the apartment sounded like itself again.

But as the days passed, something quietly shifted. Every lesson became harder. You found yourself stopping mid-sentence. Your hands instinctively lifted to demonstrate a folding technique, only to pause halfway, pain reminding you they couldn't.

You wanted to show him how the dough should feel beneath his palms. How soft butter should look when it was perfectly creamed. How to know a pie crust was ready without even looking at it. Instead, you could only explain. It wasn't the same.

One afternoon, Joe looked up from the counter after waiting several minutes for your next instruction.

You weren't beside him anymore. You were standing in the doorway watching him in the kitchen, wearing his beautiful smile. 

Your eyes shimmered. "I know, I'm not a very good teacher.” Your voice barely rose above a whisper. God, you cannot face him, you want to teach him everything, but you just can’t. You don’t want to disappoint him. 

Before Joe could answer, you quietly turned and walked out of the kitchen. The apartment fell silent once again. Except this time, it wasn't peaceful. 

The following week, you finally asked Joe if he could stop by the café.

You truly missed everyone. Your staff checked on you almost every day—bringing flowers, soup, handwritten notes, even little trinkets they knew would make you smile.

But you still couldn't bring yourself to see them, not yet. Not while your hands were still wrapped in bandages. Not while walking into the kitchen felt like saying goodbye to a part of yourself.

The old man from 6D was already waiting in the hallway with a chessboard tucked beneath his arm. "I'll keep her company," he said with a knowing smile.

Joe smiled gratefully. He knew you, if you were left alone for even ten minutes, you'd probably wander into the kitchen and convince yourself you could frost cupcakes one-handed.

"I'll be back before dinner," he promised, kissing your forehead.

You nodded. "I'll behave." You laughed softly as he disappeared down the hallway.

The little bell above the café door chimed as Joe stepped inside. Business had slowed after lunch, but the familiar smell of coffee and fresh bread still lingered in the air. Your staff looked up almost immediately.

"Joe!" The youngest employee waved enthusiastically while your cashier was already pulling out a chair for him.

"How's she doing?" your barista asked gently.

Joe smiled. "Better…some days.” He paused.

Everyone understood exactly what he meant. After a few minutes of chatting about the café, Joe cleared his throat.

"Can you teach me how to bake?" Four heads snapped toward him.

"What?" your co-baker asked, blinking.

Joe scratched the back of his neck, suddenly looking much more nervous than he'd expected. "I don't care what it is. Cinnamon rolls. Strawberry cake. Brownies. I'll burn all of them equally."

A few quiet laughs escaped around the room.

Then his smile softened. "She's trying so hard to be okay, and I cannot sleep properly knowing she misses something while I can’t do anything about it." His eyes dropped to the wooden countertop.

Nobody interrupted.

Joe looked around the empty café before quietly admitting. He smiled sadly. “I miss our apartment smelling like home."

Your barista was the first to sniffle. Your co-baker quietly wiped beneath one eye before clapping her hands together. "Right! We're closing early."

The cashier looked at the remaining pastries. "I can sell these in thirty minutes."

The youngest employee grinned. "I'll start cleaning!"

Within minutes, everyone was moving. Not because Joe had asked, because they loved you, too. 

An hour later, the café doors were locked. The kitchen buzzed back to life.

"Apron," your co-baker ordered. Joe obediently put one on.

"Wash your hands."

"Already did."

"AGAIN! If boss was caring and soft teacher, I’m not so you better wash your hands properly while singing Happy Birthday twice."

Your barista leaned against the espresso machine. "Interesting."

Joe looked over. "What?"

"Not once have you asked me how to make coffee."

Joe shrugged. "I can survive without coffee."

"Nah," the youngest employee laughed. "If he learns coffee, you'll make him cover your shifts." Everyone burst into laughter.

The kitchen felt alive again. Flour ended up in Joe's hair within ten minutes. He cracked eggs like they personally offended him. Mistook cinnamon for cocoa once. Nearly forgot the yeast. And managed to get icing on the ceiling.

"How?" your cashier asked, genuinely impressed.

"I honestly don't know."

By the time evening arrived, Joe carefully carried a small pastry box all the way home. He opened the apartment door as quietly as he could. Before he even spoke, you smelled it. Your head lifted immediately from the couch.

He stepped into the living room with the biggest grin you'd seen in weeks. "Tada!"

He proudly opened the box. Inside sat a slightly uneven tray of cinnamon rolls. The icing had slid off one side. One roll was noticeably larger than the others. Another had somehow become square.

Joe rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "I know they're not perfect." He looked down at them. "And I'm about ninety percent sure they're safe to eat."

You didn't even glance at the cinnamon rolls. Instead, you walked straight to him. Wrapped your arms around his waist as carefully as your healing hands allowed. Buried your face against his chest.

Joe blinked. "Honey?"

Your voice came out muffled against his sweater. "I love you." He smiled immediately. "So so so much." You looked up at him, tears already gathering again. "No matter what you make, whether it's perfect or completely inedible. I will always love it."

Your eyes searched his. "I don't think I've ever told you just how lucky I feel." A tear escaped before you could stop it. "I’m so thankful that you’re the one I get to marry."

Joe's composure shattered. "Sweetheart, you cant just say things like that." He laughed through watery eyes. He carefully shifted the pastry box into one hand before wrapping his free arm tightly around you.

"I need you to hear me." His forehead rested against yours. "You are not a burden. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever."

His thumb gently brushed your cheek. "You've spent your whole life taking care of everyone else, taking care of me. Making sure I eat properly. I’m not overworked or stressed. Every single day you remind me you love me and are always waiting for me ." He smiled softly. "Now, it's my turn."

Another tear slipped down your face. Joe kissed it away before whispering, "And besides..." A tiny grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "We're getting married in six months. I take the 'in sickness and in health' part very seriously."

You let out the smallest laugh through your tears. He kissed your forehead, then your nose, and then your lips. The kiss was slow and deliberate, it tasted faintly of cinnamon and icing.

When the two of you finally pulled apart, The old man from 6D cleared his throat loudly from the dining table, where he'd somehow become completely invisible.

"I believe that’s my cue to leave." He slowly stood, taking his chessboard under one arm. You and Joe looked at each other then burst into laughter.

Life slowly found its rhythm again.

Joe never stopped taking care of you, even after the bandages became smaller and the doctor finally allowed you to use your hands a little more each day.

Some afternoons, you tagged along to the studio with Ponkan and Cookie tucked inside their little carriers. The ban lasted exactly thirty-seven minutes after Cookie discovered guitar cables were surprisingly fun to chew, while Ponkan proudly knocked three guitar picks off an amplifier before settling down for a nap on Wesley's jacket.

Your first day back at the café felt almost as emotional as opening day. The little bell above the door rang the moment you stepped inside.

Before you could even say hello, your youngest staff member threw her arms around you, carefully avoiding your still-sensitive hands. "We missed you."

"I missed you more."

Your regulars were just as excited.

Mrs.Tillman insisted on showing you pictures of her grandchildren you'd apparently missed. The college student who ordered the same latte every Monday proudly announced he'd finally passed his exams. Even the little girl who always asked for extra whipped cream had drawn you a picture of you, Ponkan, Cookie, and "Uncle Joe."

The old man from 6D never stopped inviting you to Wednesday Chess, insisting you could beat him with no hands at all. 

Almost a month passed before the doctor smiled during your follow-up appointment. "You've healed beautifully."

Just like that, you were allowed back into the kitchen. The first thing you baked wasn't for the café. It wasn't for an order. It wasn't even for Joe. It was simply because you could.

Later that evening, the two of you lay across the bed while Ella Fitzgerald drifted softly through the apartment. Your head rested against the pillows as Joe lazily traced circles along your back.

After a long moment of comfortable silence, he spoke. "So..." He turned onto his side to look at you. "when dough is kneaded properly what's it supposed to feel like?"

 Slowly, you reached over and intertwined your fingers with his. "It should feel soft, Gentle even, like it wants to spring back when you press it." Joe listened as though you were explaining the greatest secret in the world.

You laughed quietly. "You look like you want to say something"

He lifted your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss against your knuckles. "You’re so beautiful. Can the honeymoon go first before the wedding?"

You stared at him for a second. "That's not how weddings work."

Joe dramatically grin. "Who made that rule?"

"You can't honeymoon before you're married." You pouted your lips, while Joe kept himself from laughing. 

"I think we should challenge the system." Joe couldn’t resist your lips, especially when he can have this for the rest of his life. 

issy talks: this is the last drabble under chapter 7, and i can start to write chapter 8 (prep and wedding), which i also think will be the longest. thankiess a lot for the ideas, i'll try my best to include it all. i love y'all so much!! ⭐💗 AAAAAND THE REQUEST IS OPEN AGAIN FOR DRABBLES

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⋆˚࿔ the girl next door (is not a grandma) masterlist 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

dividers by @sisterlucifergraphics

[cozymoonlight18]

Keep Me Forever

Walter 'Keys' McKey x Gator Tillman x Reader

Chapter 2: Fire of My Loins

Summary: Gator is dreading this new gig he has protecting the spoiled girlfriend of some rich douchebag, but then you and Keys turn out to be nothing like he expected.

Warnings (18+ - MDNI): Gator's POV, Gator needs a hug :(, allusions to unspecified trauma (you can safely assume it has to do with Roy), Guns and gun safety mentioned, Discussion of threats of bodily harm, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism if you squint, Masturbation (m), Dom!Gator, Spanking, Handcuffs, Pussy Inspection, Fingering, Orgasm denial, Little bit of begging, Oral (m receiving), Spit kink, Protected p in v sex, Wet and messy, Sub drop & Aftercare

Author's Notes: Gator's here! 🤩 It's smut you all wanted (as well as myself lmao) and so it's smut you shall get! The scene at the end lowkey is the filthiest thing I've ever written so sorry in advance. But there is a good amount of plot beforehand too just because I can't help it…buckle in bc this is a long one!

The next few chapters will be from Reader's POV, but I thought it'd be fun to get to know her from Keys and Gator's perspectives first. Gator's backstory is largely the same as canon, with slight convergence that he was more loyal to Dot and started working with the Feds sooner to take down Roy, so all that conflict with Munch didn't happen, he's a little more redeemable, and never went to prison. Instead he's been living with Dot since 2019 and working as a bodyguard since then.

Gator watches Dot fuss over his suitcase, even though he told her twice she didn't need to do that. Deep down, he appreciates the effort anyway, her careful folding of his clothes tugging at his heart a bit. Dot reminds him a lot of his mom, despite the fact they weren't related and only spent a short amount of time together. He's glad she was able to turn out decent despite everything she had to endure.

Gator wonders if there's hope for him too.

"That should just about do it!" Dot places the last shirt neatly on top and puts her hands on her hips, examining her handiwork. "Though I didn't see a suit in there for when you gotta go to more formal events with them."

Gator scowls. "I'll just buy one when I get there. Sure they got plenty of fancy stores in Boston."

Dot looks up at him and smirks. "When's your flight again?"

"Tomorrow afternoon." Gator leans forward in the chair he's sitting in to rest his elbows there and looks around at his room that's about to be revert back to Dot's guest room.

"Indira says they're real grateful you were willing to take this job so last minute." Dot perches herself at the edge of the bed facing Gator. "But we're gonna miss you, obviously."

Gator looks down at the floor. "Figured it was time for a change."

There's a tense pause where Gator can sense Dot's frown even if he's not looking at her. She does him a solid by changing the subject.

"What do you know about your new boss so far?"

"Not a lot." Gator shrugs and looks up. "Some tech whiz that created this program I'm not gonna pretend to understand. Sounds like I ain't gonna see him much based on what his head of security said."

Dot nods and brings a knee up to her chest. "So you're stayin' with them?"

"Not by choice," Gator huffs. "Guess his girlfriend needs 'round the clock protection."

"Well, if they're rich, the living quarters are probably nice at least." Dot smiles.

"I guess." Gator stands and walks over to his desk, examining the guns he's cleaning and packing still. Dot didn't touch those, not because she couldn't handle them - she just knew he liked to do it himself. "Just hope this broad ain't gonna give me a hard time."

"Calling her a broad certainly won't do you any good." Dot chuckles. "Though your sunny disposition might do better with the crowd in Boston, their yankee sarcasm and all."

Gator looks over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. "What would you know about it? Barely ever traveled east of the Mississippi."

"Been there one or two times more than you, mister." Dot stands up and walks over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Just sayin' you might like it. Might never wanna come back."

She pats his shoulder and walks out of the room, always having a sense for when Gator doesn't want to talk about about something anymore. Gator would miss Dot probably the most, because she's the only person on this planet that can begin to understand him. But he does think she's crazy for thinking he's going to like Boston.

Dot's definitely right about one thing though: Gator never wants to come back to Minnesota. Almost as much as he never wants to go back to North Dakota.

Gator manages to sleep through most of his red eye on Sunday night thanks to the fact that these rich bozos booked him a flight in first class. Maybe this job does have its perks after all.

By six thirty in the morning on Monday, he arrives at the building that he supposes now doubles as work and home. It's a sleek high rise not too far from the water. Gator can't see it from the street but he can smell what he assumes (since he's never actually been to a coastline) is the salty ocean air.

When he climbs out of his Uber, there's a woman waiting on the curb with shiny dark hair and a very official looking pantsuit that offers him a tight smile.

"You must be Gator Tillman." She holds out her hand to him. "Amelia Donnelly, head of security for Servotech. It's great to meet you."

Gator takes her hand and shakes it. "Right, yeah. Nice to meet ya too."

She eyes the three suitcases his driver just deposited on the sidewalk. "Is that everything?"

"I'm a simple guy." Gator grabs them and rolls the smallest of the three to the front. "This one's my firearms. Sorry, I probably should have checked there's a safe first."

"Already put one in your room." Amelia reaches into her pocket and pulls out a white card. "This is your key. It gets you into the building, all the amenities, and the apartment."

"Amenities?" Gator takes the card and holds it in his hand, examining it. He's not sure what's wrong with a regular old key but supposes this is the world he lives in now.

"There's a pool, fitness center, and roof deck." She waves him towards the front door. "Come with me. I'll show you up."

Amelia leads Gator through the lobby to the elevators. It turns out the reason why the apartment doesn't have a regular key is because the elevator opens right inside the unit as this guy apparently has the whole twentieth floor.

Gator braces himself for uptight, cold, and pretentious as he walks from the elevator into the main entryway. He reminds himself that this he's good at dissociating and they'll probably act like he's not there anyway. Should be easy enough.

He and Amelia roll his bags towards the main living area. The first thing Gator notices is the smell of bacon.

Once they reach the kitchen, there's some lanky, nerdy guy standing over the stovetop and cooking a full spread of breakfast. Gator assumes he's their private chef or something, then Amelia shocks him with an introduction.

"Mr. McKey? I've got your new bodyguard here." Amelia gestures to the guy as he smiles at them, throwing a towel over his shoulder. "Gator, this is Walter McKey, founder of Servotech."

"Hey, man. You can just call me Keys." He offers Gator his hand to shake.

Gator accepts it but raises an eyebrow. "Keys huh?"

Keys laughs. "Yeah, college nickname that never went away. I've always thought it suits me better than Walter though." He points to the stove. "Hope you're hungry. We're about to have breakfast soon."

"You want me to eat with you?" Gator finds this Keys fella as strange as they come. He was expecting some hotshot in a suit or some shit, not this guy in a t-shirt and jeans with shaggy brown hair.

"Well, yeah. You live here now, gotta eat." Keys smirks and turns to Amelia. "We can probably take it from here if you need to head to the office."

She checks her watch. "I probably should get going, yeah." She looks at Gator. "Keys will brief you on everything you need to know for your first week. At some point I'll swing by to check in, but don't hesitate to call if you need me."

Gator just nods and hovers in the kitchen with his suitcases awkwardly while Keys shows Amelia out. That's when he hears footsteps come down the stairs.

"Baby, have you seen my—oh!" You freeze in the kitchen when you lock eyes with him. "You must be…Gator, right?"

Like Keys, you're nothing like what Gator expected. The first word that comes to mind when looking at you is soft. Not necessarily in how you look but just your energy as this sweet, young thing with pretty eyes and a warm smile. He also assumed the girlfriend of a rich guy would be dressed in flashy clothes, but you stood before him with a pink sweatshirt and leggings on. If he wasn't already getting paid to do so, he'd absolutely feel a strong urge to protect you.

"Yes, ma'am." He steps closer but doesn't hold out his hand, not sure if he's ready to touch you yet.

You introduce yourself and lean on the counter. "Have you been a bodyguard for a long time?"

"Not really. About six years." He prays you don't ask him about his life before that.

Lucky for him, you apparently aren't the type to pry. "Well it's nice to meet you. I'll admit I have no idea how this works, the whole concept of having a bodyguard is crazy to me still."

"Nothing you gotta worry about." Gator shrugs. "Just go about your routine and I follow you around."

Keys walks back into the kitchen. "Oh, you guys met. Awesome." He walks back to the stove and grabs some plates from a nearby cabinet. "You both ready to eat?"

Gators not sure he's ever met a man that cooks for his girl when it's not even a special occasion. Especially one that's as busy as a guy like Keys. He can't help but think you have yourself a real sweet deal getting pampered and serviced like this.

"Almost, do you know where my water bottle is?" You bite your lip and look around. "I thought I'd brought it into the room last night."

"Yeah, I filled it for you and put it on the table, sweetheart." Keys motions you to come forward and kisses your forehead when you oblige.

The quiet intimacy makes Gator's cheeks burn. He looks away, tuning out your soft spoken, sweet nothings to each other while Keys plates your food. Though his mind betrays him but continuing to visualize the way Keys' hand splayed on your back along with the dreamy, bedroom eyes you gave him in return. Only when you step out of Keys' orbit and pad over to the table does Gator turn back, Keys already piling food onto another plate.

He holds it out to Gator. "Here you go. There are condiments on the table."

"Oh, uh…thanks." Gator grabs the plate. "I could've served myself."

Keys just shrugs and turns back to the stove. Gator walks over to the dining table and sits across from you. You're already eating and put down your fork to lift your coffee mug to your lips, watching Gator as he takes a bite of the hashbrowns. Gator pauses, amazed at how good they are.

You smile. "How is it?"

"Not bad." Gator looks up as Keys sits down at the head of the table with his food.

He gives you an assessing but tender glance, watching you eat for a bit before nodding once to himself and digging into his own meal. Gator leans back in his chair, filing the moment away in his mind.

"So, Gator," Keys gestures between the two of you. "We're both working from home today to keep it easy for you. Amelia suggested letting you sweep the place and get a sense of the layout."

Gator nods. "That works." He looks at you. "What's a typical week look like for you?"

"I'm a bit of a homebody." You bite into a strip of bacon. "Outside of work and the occasional dinner out, I'm usually here."

That certainly makes his job easier. "Where do you work normally?"

"The office is about a twenty minute walk from here," you say.

Gator frowns. "Is there a car we can drive?"

"Yeah, but is that necessary?" You tilt your head, your tone more curious than stubborn.

It makes Gator want to lay out his terms more gently than he had with any other client. That and the fact that his short fuse tends to get him in trouble a lot. "Listen…" He leans forward and puts his elbows on the table. "The last thing I wanna do is disrupt your routine. In fact, we should stick to it as much as possible. But if we're out in the open on the street, it's gonna be a lot harder to keep you safe when I gotta keep a three sixty view on your surroundings."

You sigh and offer a small smile that doesn't reach your eyes. "That makes sense."

Keys grabs your hand and rubs his thumb over the back of it. "Let's finish breakfast."

The rest of the meal is quiet, though Gator doesn't find it uncomfortable which is unusual for him. He's usually always on edge. Something about yours and Keys' energy inexplicably lowers his cortisol.

After breakfast, you help Keys clean up and retreat upstairs to start your workday. Keys then takes two of Gator's suitcases and shows him to his new room. They walk down a short hallway off of the living room, on the opposite side of the room from the staircase by the kitchen.

"We have you in the guest room down here," Keys explains as he turns on the lights and leads Gator into the room. "Figured you'd want your space. I'm sure it's odd, having to move in with us."

"It is what it is." Gator takes in the space, which is simple but luxurious. There's large bed with sleek nightstands on either side and a dresser across from it with a TV mounted on the wall above. The safe in the corner by one of the windows catches his eye.

Keys follows his stare. "Oh, yeah…I wasn't sure where to put that." He shuffles his feet, somehow looking even younger than he is.

"Right there's fine." Gator picks up the small suitcase holding his firearms and places it on the bed. "Do you wanna see what I have? Just so you're aware."

"Um, no. That's okay." His cheeks turn pink and Gator stares for a beat longer than he should.

Once again, this instinct to be gentle and reassuring takes over. "You should know I've been handling these since I was a teenager. She'll be safer if I'm armed."

"Right, of course. Sorry, I promise I'm totally fine with you bringing those." He nods to the suitcase on the bed and rubs the back of his neck. "This whole thing just kinda has my head spinning."

"I get it." Gator shoves his hands into his front pockets. "Does she know what's going on?"

"She knows someone's been threatening her life to get to me and that we can't figure out who, but that's about it." Keys steps toward the desk sitting in between two large windows. Gator notices just now that there are a bunch of file folders on it. "I have all the briefings on the situation here if you want to look through them."

Gator walks over to the desk and opens the first folder, sucking in a breath at the image printed out. "Jesus."

"Yeah." Keys crosses his arms. "That was the first email I got."

If Gator hadn't just seen you alive and well in the kitchen, he'd think this picture of you cut up and bleeding out in some concrete cell was real. The only words of the email read DON'T MAKE US DO IT.

"How the fuck did they make this look so real?" Gator exhales, trying to ground himself. He'd seen plenty of violence in his day and normally didn't get worked up over it, but something about seeing these photos struck a nerve.

"It's a pretty sophisticated AI generated image, that's for sure." Keys closes the file. "I threw up the first time I saw it."

Gator's used to these sorts of people. Basically just children throwing tantrums when they aren't getting their way. It took him a long while to see that kind of behavior for what it was with the help of Dot. Granted, he just met you guys but Gator can tell already that you and Keys are harmless. It pisses Gator off that someone wants you both dead.

"Keys." Gator's hands twitch at his side. "I'm not going to let anything happen to her."

"Look, man…" Keys sighs and rubs his jaw. "I appreciate the determination, but how can you promise that?"

There's not really a way to explain it without Gator getting into a whole history he doesn't like to think about.

"You don't have to believe me yet. But let me lead the way on her security and I promise I'll prove it."

Something passes between them in that brief moment of silence while Keys searches Gator's face, something like understanding. The beginning of trust, maybe. At minimum, the mutual agreement that both of them will do whatever it takes to keep you safe.

"Okay," Keys says finally. "But can you do me a favor?"

Gator snorts. "You're my boss. You don't gotta ask."

Keys presses his mouth into a thin line but shakes his head, choosing to stay on topic. "These files…keep what's in them between us, okay?" He taps the desk with his fingers. "I honestly didn't want to tell her she was the target at all, but she could tell something was stressing me out."

"And you just told her?" Gator doesn't mean to sound like an asshole; he's just genuinely trying to wrap his head around your relationship.

"I mean, yeah." Keys laughs. "She asked. I wasn't going to lie to her."

"Sure, but you weren't keeping it from her to be malicious. You were just trying to protect her."

"Doesn't matter." Keys bites his lip, thinking for a moment. "I can't give her a reason not to trust me. Otherwise this whole…" He pauses and clears his throat. "It's just not how we do things."

"Huh." Gator puts his hands on his hips and looks out the window. "Well, I won't tell her about all this stuff. I agree she doesn't need to worry, especially if I do my job right."

Keys' eyes twinkle and he looks Gator up and down. "I'm glad you're so…eager to help." He walks towards the door. "I'll let you get settled. Lunch is at one if you want to join us."

Gator lets out a breath once he's alone again and starts unpacking his things. He tries not to think too hard about Keys' little once over look, the way you smile, or the fact that he plans on joining you guys for lunch.

Aside from breakfast, which was apparently an every morning thing that Keys did for you, Gator didn't see the guy much at all during the week. It left him alone with you often, which normally wouldn't be an issue, were it not for the fact that you seem incapable of letting him exist in the background like most of his clients did.

The first day he drove you to work, he'd opened one of the back seat doors for you and was met with a frown.

"Do I have to sit in the back?"

Gator had opened his mouth and closed it, struck dumb by the question. He wishes he could have found a logical reason to say yes, but none came to him.

"Er, I guess not." He shut the door and grabbed the front passenger seat handle. "You sure you want to sit up front with me?"

"What? Do you have some sort of contagious disease I don't know about?" You smirked and nodded to the door, not leaving room for negotiation.

Then there had been the dinner you'd had with your friends on Thursday night. On the drive over, Gator heard you calling the restaurant and changing the reservation from three to four people.

"You didn't tell me someone else was comin'." Gator frowned. "You're supposed to give me a list of names ahead of time."

"The fourth person is you," you'd said with an amused tone, not looking up from your phone.

"Wha—me?!" The very thought of sitting down with a client at a restaurant was crazy.

"Yeah, you." You looked up and raised an eyebrow at him. "Don't you want dinner too?"

"I can sit at the bar. It's what I usually do."

You scoffed and shook your head as you returned to your phone screen. "Just eat with us."

And that had been that. Once again, you inexplicably wanted to be in close proximity to Gator, and he didn't fight it. Even more surprising, he had a halfway decent time with you and your friends. He didn't want to make a habit out of it, but he'd had worse company.

So once Friday rolls around, Gator walks through the elevator doors with you and looks forward to the weekend, assuming you and Keys would want some alone time. And he hopes for this not because he doesn't like you guys. The opposite actually…you two are alright, but that's a problem. Gator doesn't do well with friends and getting close to anyone other than Dot has always ended poorly. It's better to keep you guys at arms length, though you certainly make it difficult.

"Stay here." Gator pats one of the bar stools as you guys enter the kitchen. "I gotta sweep the place."

"Yep, I know the drill." You perch on the stool and scroll on your phone while Gator leaves you to go do his rounds.

It's more a precaution than anything else, considering the building security is pretty top notch. Still, it makes Gator feel better to check every room, starting with the emergency exit by his room. The staircase is only accessible via key card, but those people had some pretty decent tech to doctor those disturbing pictures. Who knew what else they were capable of?

Gator finishes checking the upstairs and returns to the kitchen, surprised to see you're still sitting there alone.

"Keys still workin'?"

You nod and put your phone down. "He tries not to work too late on Fridays but with everything going on he'll probably be awhile." You prop your chin on your hand. "What do you want for dinner?"

Gator's not sure which is weirder…the fact that you want his input or that he's already getting used to being looped into these conversations.

"Burgers sound pretty good right now." He sits on the bar stool beside you, his body turned toward your direction.

"Oh, that does sound good." You pick up your phone and start typing. "There's a new place in Cambridge I've been wanting to try."

"Absolutely not," Gator huffs. "We can get something delivered."

"What's wrong with going out?" You swivel your chair towards him. "We went to a restaurant last night."

"Because you gave me twenty-four hour notice so I had time to scope the place out. Going to a crowded place I've never been would be an unnecessary risk."

Your mouth falls open, but the corners of your mouth are upturned slightly. "You're joking."

"Nope."

"So I have to tell you a day in advance every time I want to go somewhere new?"

"Yeah. And I still reserve the right to say no anyway if I can't clear the place."

Gator mentally prepares himself for you to flip out on him, as any client would that's gone from being able to do whatever they want to having guardrails put up.

But you don't do that. Gator watches you process what he's just said with something he could only define as intrigue, which doesn't make any fucking sense to him. Your eyes gleam with this soft, content look like getting told what to do is something you actually enjoy.

"Okay." You type on your phone. "Let me find something on Door Dash."

Gator tries to ignore his cock twitching in his jeans at how easily you give in to him. He cannot go there with you. The most obvious reason being because you're already spoken for, and while that hasn't stopped Gator before, he likes Keys. It shocks him, because the guy is a massive nerd, but he's also kinda funny and easy to talk to. For a nerd.

The second reason is that you're too delicate for someone like Gator. You probably came from a nice family in the suburbs and grew up with Christmas trees and birthday parties…a.k.a the opposite of him. Keys was perfect for you, and Gator did not want to mess that up.

No matter how nice it is talking to you. Or how kissable your lips always look. Or how badly Gator wanted to see if your submissive nature translated into other areas of your life.

The burgers arrive thirty minutes later and Gator brings everything into the living room, where the two of you usually ate dinner. You follow him with two beers in your hand and hold one out to Gator.

"Thanks," he says as he accepts the bottle.

"Of course." You sit down on the center cushion of the couch, right next to Gator who sat on one end hoping you'd take the other.

Because now he can feel the heat radiating off your body against his skin and is inhaling the sweet, candy scent of your shampoo. And he's expected to sit there like it's not driving him crazy.

Gator clears his throat and sips his beer. "Wanna put on that show we were watching? What's it called again?"

You place your beer on a coaster and start rifling through the greasy paper bag. "The Boys." You look over your shoulder at him and smile. "You're liking it?"

"Yeah, actually," Gator admits.

You'd suggested it your first night alone together and he'd just shrugged, not really caring. He doesn't watch much TV, never had the patience for it and figured he'd just end up zoning out like he did whenever Wayne talked him into watching Blue Bloods. Little did he know, he just hadn't found the right show yet.

"I'm glad. I tried watching it with Keys once but it was a little too gory for him." You grab the remote and load the episode you guys had left off on.

Gator thinks about those files still sitting on his desk. How they made Keys sick. He could understand why this violence, even if a fantasy, made him uneasy. Gator's just desensitized at this point, for better or for worse.

Watching this show with you has also become his favorite part of the day because of how little energy it required. You just sit there completely absorbed in the show and he gets to enjoy it with you in comfortable silence, save the occasional laugh or curse you guys would let out now and then.

Eventually, the burgers and fries are demolished and you grab fresh beers to replace the empty bottles you'd both drained. Gator suddenly became aware of your breathing slowing as you settle further into the cushions, the fast food and alcohol making you drowsy.

Meanwhile, his heart races. Especially when you shift in your sleep and end up horizontal with your head on his thigh. He knows he's only digging himself a deeper grave, but he can't stop staring at the hair falling into your face so he reaches down to brush it away.

It feels blasphemous with his rough fingers daring to touch your soft skin, but you hum in your sleep. Like his touch is actually something welcome, so it makes him linger a bit, combing his fingers through your hair.

The sound of the elevator dinging and the doors opening has him jerking his hand back. He panics, wanting to prop you upright again but also not wanting to wake you up. Keys arrives in the living room too quickly anyway, so Gator crosses his arms and hopes his boss doesn't get too pissed off that his girlfriend fell asleep on some other guy's lap.

When Keys takes in the sight of you two on the couch though, he just stares for a moment before smiling. "You two look cozy."

Gator swallows. "Yeah, sorry man. Just the beer and burgers I think—"

"Gator, it's fine." Keys waves him off as he walks to the couch. He crouches down in front of you, his expression tender and clearly having the same debate Gator just did on whether to wake you or let you sleep. "Thanks for taking care of her this week."

"It's what you pay me to do," Gator says even though he knows damn well having dinner and watching TV with you isn't in the job description.

Keys looks up at him and his mouth twitches, like he's half tempted to challenge Gator but knows better. "Yeah, sure." He places a hand on your arm and rubs it gently, making you stir. "I should get her to bed. Been a long week."

Gator's about to offer to carry you upstairs when Keys scoops you into his arms and lifts you off the couch. Well damn, the nerd's packing some hidden muscle after all. Gator watches Keys walk up the stairs easily and continues to think about that look he'd given him earlier. One completely devoid of any jealousy or discomfort.

You two are probably going to be the death of him, and he clearly doesn't have the balls to stop it.

Gator's eyes snap open at six a.m. like they do every morning. He's technically still on the clock today even though he expects you and Keys will be spending the day together, hopefully leaving Gator out of the equation.

Last night really fucked with his head. He's got his suspicions of what might be going on with you two, and isn't sure how to feel about it. If there's a mutual attraction to you and Gator, and Keys doesn't give a fuck…well, that's just going to make Gator's resolve grow weaker by the day.

He huffs and walks into the shower, keeping the water cold. He's not even sure why he's so fixated on you after just five days of protecting you. You're just a girl and, while maybe it's been some time since he was last intimate with another person, he doesn't get what it is about you that has him wanting to bust out of his pants like it's the junior prom.

But he is into you. That much he's willing to admit. Maybe it's your persistence on trying to make him feel at home, despite him being a virtual stranger. It could also be the general breeziness in how you carry yourself. It's almost funny because for the first couple of days, Gator wondered what exactly Keys got out of this arrangement when he was apparently the breadwinner and homemaker. After a week in close proximity, Gator understands it completely. You're almost like a human beta blocker and nothing seems to faze you, which is so unlike Gator.

He's willing to bet big money that you'd be real good for him in bed, if he were to go there. But he won't.

Gator gets dressed and ventures out into the main living area of the apartment. Keys is up too and already brewing some coffee in the kitchen when he makes eye contact with Gator.

"Hey, man. You're up early." Keys shuffles around, grabbing some mugs. "Want a coffee?"

"Yeah, thanks." Gator sits on a bar stool and accepts a mug from Keys. "What are you guys gettin' up to today?"

"Well, I actually have to head into the office so you guys are gonna be on your own." Keys leans back on the counter and sips his coffee. "She's not going to be up for a few hours though. Late riser."

"Got it." Gator drums his fingers on the counter. "Is this the normal routine for you guys?"

"Working on Saturdays? Yeah, unfortunately." Keys licks his lips and sets his mug down. "I'm probably going to have to do some traveling this week too."

"Oh." Gator rubs his jaw. "For how long?"

"Just a few days." Keys tilts his head. "Are you comfortable here, Gator?"

The air in the room shifts suddenly. "Um…yeah. Why?"

"I just, I know it's a big adjustment. Moving from Minnesota to here." Keys reaches around his chest and scratches his arm. "And last night, you just seemed a little antsy when I walked in."

Gator keeps his gaze on his mug. "I was just worried how it looked. With your girl sleeping on my lap and all." He risks a glance up, and wills himself not to shudder at the way Keys' eyes have darkened. "I promise there's no funny business going on."

"I know." Keys nods and steps forward, leaning on the counter. "That trust thing I mentioned the other day? It works both ways with us."

"Right." Gator shifts in his seat and pushes his mug around. "Trust can be broken though."

"It sure can." The corner of Keys' mouth lifts. "But I promise you nothing that may or may not happen with you guys would change anything." He looks at his watch and sighs. "I gotta get going, but I'll be back later tonight."

He exits the kitchen, leaving Gator sitting there at the kitchen island wondering what the fuck Keys had just implied.

It turns out you are a later sleeper, because Gator doesn't hear you rouse from your room until well after eleven. You don't come downstairs though, instead going straight to the office and shutting the door gently behind you.

Now, Gator's only been here a few days but he's observed enough to know that Keys probably wouldn't be too fond of you not eating anything. He pulls out some bagels and starts assembling breakfast for you, the puzzle pieces finally coming together.

At first, all the gentle commands Keys gives you had pissed Gator off. You're a beautiful, smart, capable woman…who the hell was this nerd to tell you what to do? But now, especially after last night, Gator's pretty sure he understands what's going on and why it requires so much of that trust Keys keeps mentioning.

Gator's never been a vanilla guy. He’s been indulging in kinky sex for years and loves getting rough in bed. He knew there were Doms out there that liked bringing that dynamic into non-sexual parts of the relationship too, but he’s never really seen it in action until now. There's definitely some interest on his part, and Keys has officially all but encouraged it.

And maybe this is exactly what Gator needs. He'd been avoiding sex for the last few months because it always came with a mess of emotions he didn't have the ability to handle. With you though…well you already had a boyfriend for all that stuff and wouldn't be cheating on him, apparently. Gator could truly keep this physical without the drama.

If Gator were a smart man, he'd stop thinking about everything Keys just said and eat this breakfast for himself, leaving you well enough alone. But with all these somewhat ambiguous feelers put out by your boyfriend, Gator's left wondering what you're thinking in all of this since you haven't demonstrated any desire beyond friendship. He needs to know if what he's feeling is at all reciprocated.

And Gator's never considered himself a smart man.

He knocks on the office door holding a bagel with cream cheese with fruit and a coffee.

"Come in," you say and spin around in your chair at the more pink of the two desks, holding some gaming controller when Gator walks into the room. You eye the plate of food but don't comment on it. "Good morning."

"Almost the afternoon, sweetheart." Gator puts the places your breakfast on the desk and glances at the computer. You've got some sort of bright and colorful game on the screen. "Whatcha doin'?"

You grab the coffee and take a sip. "Animal Crossing. You can watch if you want."

"I will if you eat some." Gator grabs the chair from the other desk and pulls it up next to you. "Shouldn't drink coffee on an empty stomach."

"Pretty sure you just need to keep me out of harms way." You give him a sideways look. "Feeding and watering isn't usually a bodyguard's domain."

Gator leans forward and places his elbows on his knees. "Maybe. But I'm still gonna take it on when Keys isn't around. That okay with you?"

It wouldn't be noticeable if Gator weren't watching you so closely, but he sees you inhale a short, sharp breath. "Yes."

"Alright then." Gator sits back in his chair and nods to the food. "Eat."

You lick your lips and keep your gaze on him while you reach out to grab one half of the bagel before taking a bite. "Thank you," you say after you swallow.

"You're welcome." Gator looks at the screen, which has some sort of goofy cartoon character swaying in an animated forest of sorts. "Now tell me about this game of yours."

"Basically you move to a deserted island and develop it to make it nice by decorating, planting crops, and befriending the animals. To put it simply." You pluck a strawberry from your plate and bite into it. "I just restarted it because I love the beginning when everything's all wild and overgrown."

Some red juice dribbles down your chin. Gator decides to be bold and licks his thumb before reaching out to clean it off of you. You don't flinch at all.

In fact, your eyes dip down to Gator's lips but snap back up quickly. He chuckles. "Play your game, sweet girl. How are you getting your island all pretty?"

You nod and turn back to the screen. "Right now I'm just clearing stuff out, like weeds."

Gator watches as your little cartoon character bends down repeating to pick up weeds one at a time. He raises an eyebrow. "So this is your idea of a fun time? Pullin' up virtual roots and such?"

"Yeah. It relaxes me." You tilt your head back and turn to look at him. "It's a cozy game."

"What's cozy about simulated labor?"

A bright laugh falls from your lips. "I don't know. The graphics soothe me." You pick up your coffee mug and take a sip. "Something about the repetition helps clear my head too."

"Got a lot on your mind today?" Gator props an elbow on the desk and pushes the plate towards you.

You put your controller down and pick up the half eaten bagel, turning your chair to face Gator while you nibble on it. "I'm just worried about Keys. He's been killing himself at work and now he's flying out to California tomorrow…" You take another bite. "All because of me."

"He loves you." Gator flexes his fingers and clasps his hands in front of him. "And while I get why you might be concerned he's overextendin' himself, it seems like there's nothing else he'd wanna be doin'."

"You're right." You let out a humorless laugh. "Sometimes it's just overwhelming. Even after a few years with him, I'm still getting used to that kind of love."

There's a sadness in your voice, remnants of distant memories that still cause pain every now and then. It's the same tone Dot would have whenever she talked about Roy. For Gator, the memories were close enough that he didn't want to talk about it at all. But he did want to try to reassure you.

"I understand that, believe it or not." Gator scratches the back of his neck. "You get so used to being treated one way, when something better comes along it feels unnatural."

You bring your knees to your chest and tilt your head. "Yeah. That's exactly it." Gator nods and looks down, but he can feel you continue to stare at him. "I'm really glad you're here, Gator."

He glances back up at you and the affectionate look on your face nearly brings him to his knees. "I am too. It's shocked me, but I'm glad."

"Oh?" You laugh. "Not usually one that's quick to make friends, huh?"

Gator smirks and grabs your ankles, pulling them forward to place your feet on the floor. He puts his hands on your knees, resisting the urge to wander higher. "Is that what we are? Friends?"

You scooch forward in your chair and lean in. "Is that what you wanna be?"

"Sure." He inches forward, his lips now only a few inches from yours. "I'm curious what the other options are though."

"Still figuring that out." You shift under his touch and reach out to push a strand of Gator's hair back. "Despite what it might seem like, this is new to us too."

It's all the confirmation Gator needs to give himself permission to want you fully now. "Well, when you do figure it out…you let me know, sweetheart."

Gator leaves you alone for the rest of the day, the exception being when he makes you two sandwiches for lunch and calls you downstairs. He has a feeling you both need a breather after that moment in the office. At least, he certainly did.

With everything somewhat out in the open now, Gator doesn't quite know how to act around you. He's a pretty physical guy, so his usual move with someone he likes is to get handsy. This situation is a bit different though, and earlier underneath all the desire written on your face, there was a flicker of uncertainty. He definitely had no interest in doing this with someone unless they were a hundred percent sure.

So Gator makes a vow to himself to not touch you until you make the first move. No matter how crazy it's making him right now.

It gets easier when Keys gets home for dinner. Gator uses it as an excuse to go to his room and give you guys some alone time before Keys flies out to San Francisco tomorrow. Despite the fact that he knows you'd be pissed if you knew, he passes the time by watching a few more episodes of The Boys. He only has so much self-control.

Around ten p.m., Gator steps into the now dim apartment to get some water. The quiet hum of all the various gadgets Keys' has installed in this place signals to Gator that you two went to bed, so he figures it's a good time to do the last sweep of the day.

Unlike all the previous times Gator's combed through your home to check for security threats, he did so without really paying much attention to all the personal affects. This walkthrough is different though because for whatever reason he has some strange desire to get to know you two better.

The shelves surrounding the giant TV in the living room are stuffed with books, games, and little knickknacks…most of which referencing media that Gator's never heard of. He does recognize one character figurine and pulls it off the shelf, holding the plastic Cinderella in his hand. That was one of the few non-religious kids movies that Karen would let the twins watch, and they had it on repeat. He wonders what made that cartoon special enough to you to have this thing.

Gator makes his way upstairs and checks inside the office first. He smiles to himself as he runs his fingers along your desk, the recent memory of you and your damn pixelated roots still cracking him up. He walks over to the giant windows and spends a moment taking in the view of all the golden lights twinkling in the night sky.

Down there, when he's shuttling you around town, he hates the city. Up in this penthouse though, Gator could start to see what all the fuss was about. He felt so small by comparison to the sprawling buildings before him, but in a good way. Like he could just exist without being under a microscope.

Muffled noises from down the hall pull Gator's attention from the skyline. His eyebrows thread together and he stomps out into the hall, that's when he sees that the door to the master bedroom was slightly ajar, which wasn't normal. He rushes toward it, hand on his gun in his thigh holster, but stops dead in his tracks when he hears you moaning.

"That's it, angel." Keys coos to you, his voice a bit raspy but louder than it normally is. "How's that feel?"

"So good, baby," you whimper as soft, rhythmic thuds start echoing from the room. "Don't stop."

Now at this point, Gator would normally turn around and go back downstairs to give you guys your privacy. There's a few reasons why he instead steps closer to the door and leans against the wall to keep listening to those beautiful noises Keys is drawing out of you.

In the week that Gator's lived here, he's hasn't once heard the two of you fucking. And he's pretty sure it's not because you just haven't been doing it. The door to your bedroom is also always closed when you two are in there. Keys is a smart fella that's highly observant, so Gator knows it's not likely the suddenly audible lovemaking and open door are coincidences.

Gator's confident that this was done on purpose because you and Keys want him to hear.

His cock strains against his jeans at the thought. He's dying to step inside and get eyes on what Keys is doing to you, start studying what turns you on…but he keeps his feet planted on the floor.

See, the thing is that Gator now knows that he and Keys are both dominant, but they're very different flavors of doms. Keys is without a doubt a service dom, someone who likes to take care of you and lives for bringing you pleasure, which Gator enjoys as well. But unlike Keys, Gator's not one to be gentle.

He lives for giving an experience that pushes his partner's limits. Gator often loses himself in it because of the amount of attention and care that's required for him to be tuned into her needs and darker desires. The only times he's ever felt a sense of purpose in life was creating a scene for his submissive, and he's gotten pretty damn good at it (not to toot his own horn).

Gator likes to draw things out as much as he can, so he's less willing than Keys to give into every demand of yours. You've got him wrapped around your finger already, no doubt about that, but he thinks you'd really enjoy trying things his way too.

The image of you writhing beneath him, on the verge of tears because he keeps teasing you, making you feel so good it's almost painful, has him palming himself over his jeans while he listens to Keys pounding into you.

"You want him, don't you?" Keys pants as he picks up the pace of his thrusts.

Gator pauses, his muscles tensing as he waits for your answer. He's not a genius like Keys, but he knows the two of you are talking about him.

Incoherent babbles tumble from your lips, the wet sound of skin slapping skin drowning out your muted cries.

"You can tell me, angel," Keys grunts. "Use your words."

You let out a strangled noise. "I do."

Gator exhales and unzips his pants, wrapping his hand around his rock hard length. Keys chuckles. "I know. You wanna show him what a good girl you are, don't you?"

"Oh god, yes…"

"Don't be embarrassed beautiful." There's a soft, wet smack that Gator imagines is Keys kissing you. Gator pumps himself harder, his chest heaving. "You deserve the world. We're gonna take care of you."

That apparently tips you over the edge and you cry out a string of curses and Keys' name while you come on his cock.

Gator muffles his groans with his hand as his own orgasm hits in sync with Keys'. He hears the two of you come down from your respective highs and goes back downstairs, not wanting to hear whatever pillow talk is about to ensue.

When he steps into the shower to wash the sticky mess he made on himself, Gator jerks himself off again with the sound of you saying you want him playing on a loop in his head.

The next day, Keys is already on his flight to California and Gator finds himself spending a quiet Sunday evening in with you watching TV. He sits on the couch, sprawled out and pressing into the cushions while you sit on the floor to his left, working on some sort of Lego flower bouquet on the coffee table.

Neither of you have brought up your conversation from yesterday…or confirmed what may or may not have happened last night. But your energy is different today. More sure of yourself and willing to submit to your desires. Gator's absolutely ready to indulge, but he meets every lustful look of yours with raised eyebrows, challenging you to initiate what you want from him.

If Gator had to guess, you're hoping he'll just give in first. While you're pretty irresistible, the satisfaction of watching you squirm and fidget while you pretend to be interested in your plastic flowers is enough for him to keep his hands to himself.

Some tiny piece slips out of your hand as you're trying to snap it on to another larger one. You groan and drop the legos, leaning back against the couch and watch the TV for about half a second before turning to Gator.

"I'm bored," you say. "Can we go out and do something?"

"Depends." Gator keeps his gaze on the TV, rubbing his stomach absentmindedly. "You're gonna have to be more specific."

You let out an exasperated sigh. "You'll probably just say no."

Gator sits up and leans forward on his knees. "Try me."

You bite your lip and look up, then meet his gaze. "The movies?"

"Nope." Gator snorts and flops back against the cushion, resuming his relaxed position.

"See!" You cross your arms, a ghost of a smile on your lips. "So predictable."

"Well, use your head." Gator stretches and scratches the back of his head, letting it rest there. "Why would I take you somewhere that's loud and dark where my senses are dulled?"

You narrow your eyes and shift to sit on you knees, facing Gator. "Well, is there something you wanna do?"

Gator gives you a sideways look, trying to hold back a smile. "I'm enjoying this show."

"Really?" You climb onto the couch and drape your arm over the top of the cushions, inches away from Gator has his arm laying. "There's not one single other activity you'd rather be doing?"

He knows what you're doing, so he purposefully drags his hand down his chest and watches your eyes track the movement as he stops just above his belt buckle. "Sounds like you got something in mind, sweetheart."

Your mouth falls open and you lick your lips. "I could think of a few things."

"Then be a big girl and tell me." Gator's voice is clipped and your eyes widen slightly, clearly not used to that kind of authority.

But then your gaze melts into something more lustful. Your cheeks turn pink though and you're still fighting yourself in your head. "Can I show you?"

"No." Gator shifts and leans in closer to you. "I know you know how to use your words…" He grins and inches his arm a bit so that it's barely grazing yours. "You did a good job telling Keys what you want last night."

The confirmation he heard you guys rattles you for just a moment, your pupils blown wide as you whisper, "I want you to fuck me."

Gator lets the words hang between you for a moment, enjoying the sounds of your uneven breathing. He reaches out and cradles your cheek, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip.

He loses a little bit of restraint when you stick your tongue out a bit to lick it and groans. "Come here."

You don't need to be told twice. You lunge forward and latch your mouth onto his, letting him guide you onto his lap so your legs are straddling his thighs. Gator wraps his arms around you and splays his hands on your back, slipping his tongue into your mouth as soon as your lips part slightly for him.

Your hands wrap around his neck, your thumbs grazing the stubble on his jaw. You taste just as sweet as you look and Gator moans as his tongue swirls around yours, greedily licking into your mouth while you open more for him to let him get his fill of you. You rake your fingers through his hair and tug slightly as you roll your hips against his.

"Hang on, sweet girl." Gator's hands fly to your hips and he breaks the kiss, almost losing his train of thought at the sight of his spit glistening on your lips. "You should know, I'm not soft like your boyfriend. Sure you wanna do this?"

You nod and try to grind in his lap some more. "I can handle it."

"We'll see." Gator grabs one of your hands and brings your fingers to his lips, biting down on the pads of them. "What's your safe word?"

"Strawberry," you tell him shakily.

Gator laughs and nibbles on your palm. "It should be the same word you use with Keys."

"That is." A sly smile spreading on your lips. "But why do you think it should be the same word?"

Gator smacks your ass, making you yelp and giggle, then squeezes the flesh through your leggings. "Don't play dumb. I know you want us both at the same time."

You blush but don't deny it. Gator lifts you up and hooks your legs around his waist, spanking you again before taking you to his room. You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss along his jaw, eventually pulling his earlobe in between your teeth.

Gator climbs onto the bed, still holding you, and lays you on the mattress, caging you in his arms so he can kiss you again. The movement of your mouths only get messier, the smacking sounds of wet lips filling the room. You reach down and try to grab his belt buckle to undo it, but Gator sits up out of your reach.

"Not yet." He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pants and starts tugging them down with your underwear. "You can't touch me until I say you can, understand?"

You stifle a whine and nod. "I understand."

"That's a good girl." Gator tosses your pants on the floor and works on removing your sweatshirt next, sucking in a breath once he has you completely naked in front of him.

Gator tries to slow his brain down as he thinks about everything he wants to do with you. There was plenty of time for that eventually, but first, he needed to just look at you. This is his favorite part - getting to know every inch of a woman's body and figuring out which parts were most sensitive.

He leans over you and presses a light kiss right under your jaw, working his way down your neck and smiling when he feels your throat bob as you swallow. His kisses get a little more sloppy as he trails them down your shoulder, enjoying the way you shiver under his lips.

Gator nibbles on the swell of your breast which makes you gasp and bring your hands to his hair. He sits up again and frowns. "What'd I just say, sweetheart?"

You cover your eyes with your hands. "Ugh, 'm sorry, Gator," you mumble.

Jesus, you're so sweet you're going to give him a toothache. It's no wonder Keys loves lavishing you with affection. But Gator wants to give you something different, so he climbs off the bed and opens the drawer of his nightstand to pull out his spare handcuffs.

"Gimme your hands." He motions you to him with two fingers and you comply immediately. Your lips part in awe as you watch him secure them around one of your wrists. He brings your arms up above your head and weave the chain around one of the posts before cuffing your other one. "You doin' okay?"

You nod emphatically and smile. "Want you."

"I know." Gator climbs back over your bound, naked body and picks up where he left off, sucking on the skin of your breasts. "I'll get you there, baby."

You jerk under him and he grabs your waist to pin you down to the mattress while he lets a string of spit fall to the valley between your breasts, watching it drip down your skin before he laps it up with his tongue. He kisses over to one breast, suckling on your nipple and soaking it with his saliva before giving the other the same treatment.

Gator trails down your torso, dipping his tongue in your belly button and lets more spit pool in it, watching as your stomach contract. He looks up at you and grins when he sees you staring down at him, your chest heaving. This is exactly where he wants you.

He wraps his hands under your knees and pushes your legs up, spreading your thighs apart so your cunt is on full display for him. He stares at it, his mouth watering at how it's already dripping with your arousal and fluttering around nothing.

"Gator…" you whine. He looks up and sees your cheeks have turned bright red.

"Hey." He crawls up and grabs your jaw, holding your face to keep you looking at him. "If you're uncomfortable, say your safeword and we'll stop."

"I don't wanna stop, I just…" You pull your bottom lip between your teeth. "I wasn't expecting you to look so…closely."

"Listen t'me." Gator kisses you once. "Your body is beautiful. You're beautiful. You got two guys chompin' at the bit to worship you at the same time." His thumb brushes your cheek as it turns a couple of shades darker. "So you gonna let me admire it the way I wanna?"

You press your lips together and giggle. "Okay."

"Thank you, sweetheart." Gator travels back down and situates himself back in between your legs. "Damn…wish you could how pretty your pussy is right now, baby. Already soaked and practically begging me to fill 'er up."

"Shit, Gator…" You squirm a little and Gator wraps an arm across your stomach and press down to hold you in place.

"There she goes, clenching on air at the sound of my voice." He uses his pointer finger on his free hand to gather some of the arousal spilling from you and smearing it all over your folds, careful not to get to close to your clit. "Think you like when I talk like this, sweetheart."

"Oh…I—" You stammer some incoherent words that sound a bit like denial.

Gator brushes his middle finger over your clit and teases it at your entrance. "'M not gonna give you what you want until you admit it."

You cry out as he brushes over your clit again, this time a little harder. "Fuck! You're right…I love it."

"Good girl." Gator slides his middle finger in and spits on you, painting it all over your center.

For a second, he just explores with his finger and feels each ridge, paying close attention to which spots make you clench around him. He curls his finger upward, slowly, and watches as you try to arch your back off the mattress. Gator's entranced by the way your body moves in response to him. He can't stop himself from giving you a little more and pushing his ring finger inside you too.

"Oh my god," you gasp.

"Yeah? Feel good, baby?" Gator can't take his eyes away from his fingers disappearing into your cunt.

"So good…oh!" You squeeze him when he circles your swollen clit with his thumb, finally giving you some of that friction you're desperate for.

"Shhh, I know. Just feel it, sweetheart."

Your breath hitches as he pumps his fingers faster. "Gator, can I please come?"

"Aw, what nice manners." Gator withdraws his hand suddenly. "But no, you can't."

He rises and sits on his knees, still keeping one hand pressed down on your core to pin you down. Gator brings his fingers to his lips and stuffs them into his mouth, groaning at the taste of you as he licks them clean.

You watch him and pull against the handcuffs. Gator smirks and releases his fingers with a wet pop then grabs your chin, pulling your mouth open so he can let the mixture of you two spill into it. Your eyes roll back into your head and Gator kisses you, further combining your fluids.

He snakes his hand in between your bodies and pushes his fingers back into you, swallowing each of you little whimpers. Gator breaks the kiss to watch you approach your peak again, his nose brushing yours. Your breaths pick up again into a quick rhythm, the hot air hitting his lips. Pretty soon, you're approaching a release again but Gator pulls his fingers away.

"Gator," you choke out. "Please."

"Is it too much?" Gator sits back on his heels and raises an eyebrow. "If so, you know what you need to say."

Determination settles on your features and you shake your head. "I wanna keep going."

"Okay, you're doing real good, sweetheart." Gator presses down on your pelvis and slips his fingers into you. "I promise it's gonna feel so good."

He edges you with his fingers about four more times. After each denial, he pauses and gives you a chance to end the scene, but you continue looking at him expectantly. You want to take everything he gives you, and Gator's erection strains in his jeans at the sight of you surrendering to him.

When tears start streaming down your cheeks, Gator doesn't let you come but decides you need a break. He grabs the key and uncuffs you before walking to the foot of the bed. He keeps his eyes trained on you while he strips, thoroughly enjoying how you gawk at the sight of his dick springing free from his boxers.

"Gator…" You sit up, your hair mussed and beautiful face flushed. "Can I please suck your cock?"

It's hard to say no to you when you look so perfect right now, fucked out and glowing in the lamplight. "Yes. Come here, baby."

You beam at him and crawl forward down the bed to where Gator's standing. He cradles your cheeks and kisses you. He straightens and pushes your hair back to hold it at the nape of your neck while your head dips down.

Gator moans when you wrap your lips around the tip of his cock and flick the slit with your tongue before swirling it around the head.

"Fuck, sweetheart…that's perfect." He caresses the side of your head while you lick up the length of him, coating him in your spit to better jerk him off. "Think you can take it a little deeper for me?"

"Mhm," you hum against his shaft and open your mouth wider to fit more of him in.

"God, you're amazing." Gator jerks forward a little as you bob your head, your tongue gliding along the underside of his cock.

You look up at him through thick lashes as you take him in your mouth all the way, hollowing your cheeks when he hits the back of your throat, moaning and letting him feel the vibrations from it.

"Shit! Okay, no more, sweet girl." Gator pulls himself out of your mouth, a string of spit keeping you connected to him.

Some pre-cum spills out of the corner of your mouth and Gator brings you up to him to kiss you and lick himself off of your chin. He pushes his thumb past your lips and spits onto your tongue.

Your eyes flutter shut and you swallow, letting out a content sigh. Gator feels this overwhelming need to be inside you and turns you around so your back is facing him and pushes down on your spine to bend you over.

"Beautiful…" Gator rubs your back as he examines you on your hands and knees. He reluctantly steps away to grab a condom from his nightstand and quickly repositions himself behind you again. "You ready for me, sweetheart?"

"Yes, please." You look at him over your shoulder and bite your lip as you watch him line himself up at your entrance, collecting some of the wetness that's pooled there to coat his cock with it.

Gator places his palm in between your shoulder blades. "Deep breath for me, baby."

When he feels your lungs expand with oxygen under his hand, he pushes forward and sinks into you as you exhale. Both of you let out obscene moans when your bodies connect fully, with Gator especially in awe of how amazing you feel wrapped around him.

"You can move," you mewl. "Please..."

Gator grabs your hips and starts pounding into you immediately, setting a brutal pace. You meet each of his thrusts and his fingertips dig into your flesh as your walls tighten around him. Gator is mesmerized by the way your ass bounces against him, bringing one hand to your ass cheek to squeeze it and reaching around to rub your clit.

"You've been perfect for me tonight…" Gator leans forward and drags his other hand up to your breast to grab on while he whispers in your ear. "…so I'm gonna let you come now."

"Oh god, Gator," you purr as he speeds up and applies more pressure to your clit.

"I got you. Let go for me, sweetheart." He kisses your temple and you shatter beneath him.

Your whole body shudders as waves of pleasure ripple through you, Gator's name spilling from your lips as he keeps working you through your orgasm.

When you come down from your high, he pulls out and flips you onto your back. He pushes you further up the bed and climbs back on, bringing your knees your chest. He guides himself back inside of you and leans down to kiss you once he's buried to the hilt with your legs over his shoulders.

Gator props himself back on his hands and notices your hands twitch beside your head. "You can hold me, sweet girl."

You sigh in relief and reach up to hold his face, with Gator turning to press a kiss to your palm. "You're so deep, Gator. Feels amazing."

"Yeah?" Gator's hips snap once. "You like when I fuck you like this?"

He snaps his hips again, this time setting a steady rhythm that has your head tilting back while you groan. "Love every way you fuck me."

"Only fucked you one other way so far, baby," Gator pants.

"I—oh god…" Your mouth parts and Gator kisses you, biting down on your lip. "I know I'll like all the other ways too," you manage to murmur against his lips.

"Sweet jesus, already thinking about the next time?" Gator chuckles. "You trying to wear me out?"

You giggle and pull him back down to your lips. Your soft laughs are soon replaced by more moans that Gator feels against his lips while he kisses you and fucks deeper into your slick pussy, which is already pulsing around him again.

Gator feels his own orgasm building, but tries to hold it off. "Really wanna see you come on this cock again, sweetheart." He kisses the corner of your mouth. "I know you can do it. Give it to me."

The command is enough to push you over the edge again. You cry out and spasm beneath him. Gator's rhythm falters and he presses his forehead to yours, thrusting one final time before spilling into the condom.

Both of you still completely, save for your chests heaving and Gator's cock still twitching inside you. He turns his head to kiss your cheek, surprised to taste a salty dampness there.

Gator props himself up and sure enough, discovers your face screwed up in a distraught expression. "Hey, what's wrong? Are you hurt?"

You shake your head but struggle to get the words out. "I…I don't—"

He pulls out of you as gently as he can and quickly rips the condom off so that he can sit up and pull you into his lap. "You're okay, I got you."

"I don't know what's happening." You sniffle and bury your face in his chest. "That was amazing. I swear, I loved it, Gator."

"I know, beautiful." Gator kisses the top of your head. "I think you're just having a sub drop. It's more common than you think."

"It's never happened before," you mumble against his skin. "This is so embarrassing."

"No. It's not. Can you look at me, sweetheart?" Gator smiles once you lift your head to look up at him. "You were absolutely perfect for me." He kisses your cheek and laps up the tears still falling from your eyes. "You're just coming down from an intense experience. But you're safe here in my arms, right?"

You nod and wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your lips on the skin just below his ear. Gator holds you like that for a few minutes, rubbing your back while he continues to shower you with praise. Once you've calmed down a bit, he lays you down to clean you up and get you some water before climbing into bed beside you.

Sleep pulls at the corners of Gator's mind, and he tries not to let himself think about how good you feel against him. Because this is just physical and that's all it can ever be. As much as Gator likes you, and as much as he loves fucking you, he knows you'd never want him if you got close enough to see him for who he really was.

Taglist: @bearwithegg @thoroughlymimi @louisbelongstome28 @nicherthanu @lacywithdrawal @puertoricanmami87 @entercarolina @decidessrun @oliviaharrington

Comment down below if you'd like to be added or removed! 🩵

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[hearts4steve]

requesting steve angst!! he struggled with his dad putting pressure on him to follow in his footsteps and broke up with reader but sees her around town and is torn up about it and missing her (bonus points if he sees her on a field trip with her kindergarteners 🥺😭)

i am TRYING to come back plz bear with me 😭💔this took an embarrassingly long amount of time spare me plz

the spring break of your senior year was the worst thing you’ve ever endured.

you and steve had been dating for nearly two years before he broke up with you out of the blue, using college acceptances and “getting his life together” as an excuse.

you knew that it was all bullshit. steve harrington loved you more than life itself, and to break up with you because letters were coming in? yeah, that doesn’t make any sense.

what you did know, though, was that his dad was not fond of you whatsoever. you weren’t the ideal girl for his son. you voiced your opinions, blasted music in your car so loud you could be heard from the other end of the street, and most importantly, you were dirt poor.

mr. harrington found it almost repulsing that you once came to dinner wearing a cardigan your grandma very obviously knit for you rather than a cashmere sweater that costs an arm and a leg.

ever since then, the private dinners at the harrington household consisted of mr. harrington telling steve about his business partners daughters and how good they would be for him.

steve never paid him any mind. he didn’t want them. how could he when he had you?

when steve got his very first rejection letter, his father knew there would be more. “she distracted you.” he’d blame. “i told you she was no good.”

each letter came with a rejection and steve’s fathers resentment towards you grew.

and grew.

and grew.

when his last letter came accompanied by a rejection, mr. harrington sat steve down for a talk.

“if you want me to send you off to college you better say goodbye to that good for nothing girlfriend of yours. i won’t have her mess this up for you too.”

steve was distraught.

the only reason he got through the embarrassment and wallowing that came with the rejections was you. you reassured him everything would be okay, you held him when reality hit, and you helped him preserve at least a bit of his self-worth.

but steve didn’t have any other option, and the expectations that came from the people around him were way too high for him to work at some ice cream parlor for the rest of his life. not when his father was who he was.

so he broke up with you, and now, you were both distraught.

he moved across the country for college to major in business administration, but you stayed home.

you went to community college and majored in early education, something that made steve’s father scrunch his face and down the remainder of the scotch in his glass once he found out.

the first time steve came home, you were in your great aunts farm on the outskirts of town helping around after she lost most of her mobility due to a stroke.

steve had asked his mother about your whereabouts, making sure his father wasn’t anywhere in earshot.

“her great aunt, that poor thing, had a stroke and she went to help around the farm. you know how it is over there.”

steve knew how it was because he had spent countless hot summer days in that farm. he knew how your great aunt made scrambled eggs every morning using fresh eggs, how there’s a specific cow that always gives you more milk, how much you love laying in the field after the sun went down, and most importantly, he knew how hectic it was over there.

how all the chickens somehow managed to escape their coop, how the goats got into random fights, and how the fifteen year old border collie is now practically useless and herds no sheep.

the chaos was warm when you had him to share it with. when it was almost like a glimpse into the future. when spending hours washing dishes and tending to livestock seemed less like a chore and more like moments in love.

it was safe to say that warmness was long gone.

the house no longer smelled like whatever your great aunt was baking and a faint tinge of hay. the sunlight seeping through the curtains was no more; the house was dull and gray.

you couldn’t hear your great aunt laughing from across the house, nor could you hear her record player blasting music. you couldn’t hear steve sing along to whatever 30s classic she put on either, and that hurt the most.

steve tried imagining the farm lacking the sunshine emitting from your great aunt. he tried imagining you all alone in that big house with no one’s warmth to keep you company.

“stevie? are you okay?” his mother snapped him out of his thoughts.

he blinked once, twice, then, “mhm.” he gave her a tight lipped smile, one she read right through.

“hey, how about we go to that diner you love? right around main?” his mother hummed.

“sounds good.” he nodded. “come on, i’ll drive.”

with every turn he took, he saw you. not physically, of course, but in the little things.

the bush you threw up in the first time you got drunk. the bench where you slept on his shoulder whilst waiting for his mom to pick you two up. the cinema where he took you out on your first date. the park where you had your first kiss.

his knuckle-white grip on the steering wheel didn’t go unnoticed by his mother.

she turned on the radio in hopes to lighten up the mood, but quickly tensed upon hearing the song. your song. true by spandau ballet.

steve didn’t waste a second; he immediately switched the channel.

he exhaled sharply upon hearing the third verse to the prettiest star by david bowie.

your favorite part of your favorite song.

his hands were shaking as he attempted to switch the channel again.

“steve—”

he slammed the center stack of his precious beamer, “stupid fucking—”

his mother turned off the radio and the car was silent once more, save for the sound of steve’s heavy breathing.

he was gripping the steering wheel with both hands as opposed to his usual relaxed one handed hold. his shoulders were up to his ears and his eyes were filling up with tears.

was it worth it? was his fathers approval really worth losing you?

when they got to the diner, the old waitress recognized steve instantly and took him to the booth he always sat with you.

his jaw was clenched so tight his mother thought his teeth would break.

“steve.”

“it’s fine.” he said stiffly, eyes darting around the menu, though he wasn’t doing much reading.

“steven.”

that made him look up.

he waited for her to speak, but she never did. he scoffed and looked back down. typical. what was she going to say? that his father was a dick and he should’ve never forced him to break up with you?

steve cut his trip short.

he went about his college years attempting to find something to fill the you-shaped hole in his heart and failed miserably.

you went about your college years chasing academic achievements to trick your brain into forgetting the one thing you really need.

after graduating, steve worked in his fathers LA office and you got a job in hawkins elementary teaching kindergarteners.

he’d see teenagers in love at the park and instantly get taken back to you.

you’d get an outgoing, kindhearted student and your heart would clench.

it never got any easier for either of you. you saw each other in all of the little things it drove you two to the brink of insanity.

two years later, steve’s father died and steve decided to move back home. mostly to support his mother, and partly to hold down the main office.

naturally, his mother wasn’t feeling the best. her grief counselor suggested daily walks in a nearby park.

ever since he returned to hawkins, steve had somehow managed to run away from you every time you’re in his near vicinity.

if he sees your back in the grocery store, he runs out. if he sees your car parked outside a restaurant, he switches destinations. if he smells your perfume in the movie theatre, he goes back home.

this, of course, did too not go unnoticed by his mother.

that’s why when she saw you with your group of 5 year olds in the park, she gave steve a small smile and said, “he’s not here anymore.”

steve’s throat bobbed and looked at you then back to his mother then to you again.

he saw you squinting towards his direction. he saw your eyes widening in realization and he barely caught the small civil smile you gave him.

“go.” his mother urged.

he nodded and made his way towards you. you were too preoccupied with convincing your students not to eat the grass.

“daniel, the cows on my farm eat grass because they are cows. you are not a cow.” you informed, wiping the dirt of his face with the back of your hand.

steve cleared his throat. “hey.”

you froze then slowly turned to look at him. “hi.”

“ms, is that your boyfriend?”

“what?” your head snapped to your students. “no- julianna-what?”

“you’re blushing.” julianna teased.

“am not! go play tag with your classmates, please, julianna.” you exhaled, turning to look at steve again. “i—uh—sorry about them.”

“no worries.” he waved a dismissive hand. “kids.”

“yeah.” you laughed shakily. you paused, then added, “i’m sorry about your dad. sorry i didn’t call or anything—”

“no, no, you’re good.” steve waved you off. “about time, huh?”

“he wasn’t that bad—”

“him making me break up with you is enough.”

“steve, you don’t have to—”

“no, angel, that was the worst thing i’ve ever done and i never should’ve listened to him. not a day goes by where i don’t regret breaking up with you. i seriously shouldn’t have done it.”

you nodded and kissed your teeth. “i hear you’re doing well, so can’t have been too bad.”

“what’s the point if i lost the one person i want by my side?”

your eyes softened, “steve—”

“no, i’ve avoided this for too long, and that son of a bitch isn’t here to stop me now. i was a coward and-and just so fucking stupid i never ever should’ve given you up that easily. i’d rather let my father down and make minimum wage at some record store than not be with you. we’ve been broken up for what, 6 years, and you’re still all i can think about when someone asks me about my plans for the future. i seriously can’t and won’t forgive myself, but i’ll do anything for you to just forgive me and-and maybe give me a second chance or something—”

his rambling was cut short by you pressing your lips against his.

“OOOH SO THAT IS YOUR BOYFRIEND, MISS?” julianna teased.

you rested your forehead on his and scrunched your eyes shut. “probably the worst place you could’ve done this.”

“now or never, no?”

you pulled away fully and steve had to use all his willpower not to pull you back.

“how about we talk about this properly? over coffee or something.” you suggested.

“yeah—i’d love that.” he nodded. “how about that diner on main?”

[keer-y]

Sunshine

pairing: gator tillman/f!reader wc: 3000 (oops!) MDNI//SMUT - tags/tw/cw: second chance romance, [unsafe] vaginal sex, first time (together), exes to lovers, bridesmaid/groomsman, gator's been PINING y'all, mentions of past infidelity (it's very ross geller-esque... they were "on a break"… multiple times) a/n: don’t let men (or women) treat u like this even if they look like gator. perhaps especially if they look like gator. from @bearwithegg's prompt - here. fill #3 for my 1000 follower special🩵 &&

“Please don’t kill me,” is the first thing Daisy says to you when you arrive for the rehearsal dinner.

“Why would I kill you?” you ask, half concerned and half amused.

“Because… you may not like your groomsman,” she says.

You consider this. It’s possible, but you only have to deal with him for two nights before you leave town again一and considering that you missed the bridal shower and bachelorette party because you live out of state, you’re pretty sure you don’t have a leg to stand on where this kind of thing is concerned.

“Daze, it’s fine,” you say. “It’s not like一”

At the same moment, she speaks over you, and hilariously, you both say the same three words:

“It’s Gator Tillman.”

Her expression changes to a feeble smile, clearly begging your forgiveness before the news has even sunk in, and you scowl. Big time.

To say you have history with Gator is an understatement. You were wrapped up with him since elementary school一your dad was one of his dad’s deputies, and your moms were best friends, sorority sisters who stuck to each other like glue. It was practically written in the stars that you’d be together, except your star-crossed love affair was actually birthed under a bad sign. Possibly, actually, the worst sign.

He’d been your on-again-off-again boyfriend since 8th grade. And especially in the later years of your relationship, specifically junior and senior year of high school, he’d taken a penchant to pissing you off so bad you broke up with him, so he could score some sympathy sex from [Girl of the Week], only to come crawling back to you. And you, having to hear it constantly from your parents how Gator would make such a good husband for you when you graduated, always took him back. Because technically you’d been broken up, so technically it wasn’t cheating.

You just thanked whatever lucky stars were up above you that you’d never given it up to him. You just felt sorry for the other young women he’d played even worse than he played you.

But hearing his name on your second night back in town, from your best friend, minutes before you were about to see The One Who Got Away (Thank Fuck), well一it threw you for a little bit of a loop.

“Why him?” you ask.

Daisy wrings her hands together. “Honestly?” she asks. 

You nod.

“Because he and Donny got really close at work, so that’s why he’s even a groomsman at all, and… well, when we all met for drinks to ask everyone to be in the wedding party, every single other one of my bridesmaids came up to me after and said they didn’t even want to look at Gator, much less be paired up with him.”

“So I just get the shit end of the stick?” you ask. “Because I wasn’t there?”

Daisy gives you a sympathetic look, and you sigh, because yeah, ok一that makes sense, no matter how upset you are about it. “Fine.”

“I figured一you guys have history! You can handle him.”

“I could barely handle him then,” you say, but just rub your temples. “It’s just two nights. I’ll一survive. I survived five years of him when we were in school.”

“I love you and I’m sorry,” Daisy says, grabbing you and pulling you in for a hug.

Sighing, you hug her back.

&&

He’s late to the rehearsal dinner, but only by a few minutes, which ultimately doesn’t matter, except for the fact that when you see him he absolutely clocks you, and it’s unfortunate that when he does, you’re blatantly staring.

Because it’s definitely Gator. The scowl, the slicked-back hair, the confident swagger. But what catches you is the addition of a little bit of weight around the middle and some stubble that you aren’t sure if he could ever actually grow back when you’d known him.

Once he arrives, the coordinator from the venue ushers him into the line beside you so you can practice walking down the aisle, then begins to explain the timing of your steps and where to stand once you arrive at the altar, but you don’t hear any of it because Gator is talking to you.

“Fancy seein’ you here,” he says. “Shocked yer gracin’ us with yer presence.”

“My best friend is getting married,” you scoff. “Unlike you, I give a shit about loyalty.”

He laughs, eyes bright as he looks at you, almost like he respects the venom. “I always came back.”

“Don’t fucking start with me,” you say, turning away at the exact moment that the coordinator begins gesturing for you to step up to the church doors, readying you to walk down the aisle to take your places besides the rest of the party.

“Shouldn’t I be holdin’ her arm?” Gator asks, and the coordinator just nods at the same time she waves the question away, so there’s a little bit of a struggle where Gator tries to link his arm with yours while you yank it away from him, and from two couples behind you, you hear Daisy reprimand him.

“Stop it, Gator! This is just practice.”

He relents, simply walking alongside you to the altar, then smirks at you as he takes his place at the end of the line of groomsmen. You turn to stand with the bridesmaids, thankful you couldn’t see him anymore from where you were standing.

&&

You all meet at an Italian restaurant a few minutes’ drive from the church after the rehearsal, and the tables are not assigned一thankfully一so you choose one as far away from Gator as you could.

Daisy and Donny give short speeches about how thankful they are that you’re all helping them out, being their support systems, joining them on their special day一and, of course, to enjoy the evening and company. You sidle up to the trays of catered food that have been set out for the wedding party and the bride and groom’s families, ignoring the presence at your left elbow that you know like the back of your own hand.

“You look good,” Gator says, watching as you scoop some rigatoni onto your place. “Can I have some?”

You scowl, shoving the serving spoon back into the tray, and step to the side to look at what’s in the next tray. “Help yourself.”

“Aw, come on,” Gator says. “Why ya bein’ so cold t’me? We ain’t seen each other in like, eight years ‘r some shit.”

“The best eight years of my life,” you snip, and he laughs.

“Fuck, Sunny,” Gator says, using the nickname he and the rest of your group of friends had for you in high school, “you sure turned into a fuckin’ raincloud, huh?”

“Don’t call me that,” you say, not answering his question. Your friends一Daisy included一still called you sunshine or sunny for short on occasion, but Gator, as someone who was no longer your friend, was not invited to do the same.

“I’m just sayin’,” Gator says. “It’s nice ta see ya.” You grab some of the chicken parm even though you’re starting to lose your appetite, and walk back to your table.

He doesn’t follow you, but he does say, loud enough for you and everyone in the vicinity to hear, “Nice ta see ya walk away, too!”

&&

“Now, you know I can’t not call ya Sunny in that get up,” Gator says, sounding far too amused.

It’s the next day, the day of the wedding, and you’re wearing your bridesmaid dress一light fabric, pale dandelion yellow, white sash around your waist to play off Daisy’s white dress with its yellow sash.

“You can just go ahead and not call me anything,” you say, but when you catch a glimpse of him in his three-piece suit一sans the jacket, so just the vest is currently clinging to his slight tummy一you think maybe, finding out how he scored with so many girls back in high school wouldn’t be the worst choice you could make. And then he opens his mouth and that idea flies right out of your head.

“If you’d been a little firecracker like this back in high school, I mighta just done what our parents all wanted ‘nd locked ya down,” he says, stepping closer to you.

There’s a huge crowd around you, but everyone is bustling from one place to another, and no one is paying you any mind. Bridesmaids fixing each other’s hair, applying makeup, trying to figure out how to sip water without smudging lipstick; and the groomsmen are sneaking sips of whiskey一Daisy and Donny are taking photos with the ring bearer and flowergirl, which leaves the rest of you just waiting for the ceremony to start.

“Fuck you, Gator,” you say. It’s a weak comeback, but he just smirks at you, then nods.

“If you insist,” he says, and takes his leave. 

It feels entirely too easy, but he does leave you alone for the rest of the evening. He doesn’t say shit to you when he hooks his arm with yours to lead you down the aisle, he doesn’t approach you during the cocktail hour leading to the reception, and it’s only at hour three of the reception when he finally finds you again, two drinks in hand. He places one in front of you, sitting down in the chair beside yours, even though it’s the table for the bridesmaids and he has his own assigned seat on the other side of the bride and groom.

“No, thank you,” you say, fully prepared to snub his drink.

“It’s a fuckin’ peace offering, Sunny,” he says, sipping his own. “Haven’t stopped thinkin’a ya since last night.”

“Why’s that?” you ask, still not touching the drink.

He sighs heavily, and you can tell he’s not exasperated. No一he’s horny. “You look real fuckin’ good.”

You roll your eyes.

“No, I mean it. Better’n in school. And I’m still in Stark fuckin’ County lookin’ like一well, ya got eyes.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Yer excused,” he says, joking instead of being serious一like always.

“Are you trying to say you think you look… bad?” you ask, and laugh. “In case you missed the memo, dad bods are sort of all the rage right now.”

“You think I got a fuckin’ dad bod? Fuck you right back, I ain’t got a fuckin’ dad bod.”

“I think you do, actually,” you say, smirking, and Gator scowls at you.

“Not like ya got anything t’compare it to, seein’ as how you blue balled me all the way through senior year.”

“And junior year, if I’m remembering correctly.” You are. “Crazy that you lost your virginity to Mabel Hicks about two weeks after you told me you weren’t ever gonna be serious about anyone else.”

“All right, y’know what一” he starts to say, but you cut him off.

“No, you know what?” you ask. “You should have just been patient, because I promise you, I’m the best goddamn thing you’ve never had. And you never will. Bet you’re only being such a prick because you know you lost the best thing you ever一”

He cuts you off with a kiss, his lips on yours just as eager and tender as you remember; it short-circuits you, because you didn’t expect to hook up with anyone at Daisy’s wedding, much less your first (and only) serious (ish) boyfriend. He tastes like scotch and you lick into his mouth, because now you’re the one jonesing for something you’ve never had.

Vaguely, you register his drink being set down on the table, the glass clinking against yours, and you lean further into him, hands landing on his thick thighs to push yourself to your feet, breaking the kiss but keeping eye contact.

“Where一” he starts to say, but you just hook your hand beneath his arm and pull him after you.

“Bridal suite will be empty,” you mutter, because Daisy told you it would be until they were ready to leave, and they haven’t even cut the cake yet. “It locks.”

Your footsteps hasten as you approach the suite, opening it, shoving Gator inside, and then whipping your skirt around the doorframe as you slam the door, lock it, and turn to Gator.

His chest is heaving a little, same as yours, and without another word you both start undressing each other. You slip the buttons of his vest, he reaches around behind you to unzip your dress; you shimmy out of it as he shrugs off the vest, his shirt following.

Out of his clothes you can see just how much bigger he is than in high school一he’s fully grown now, the slender waist of an 18-year-old gone, a little round pooch of stomach peeking out over the waistband of his pants.

“Quit fuckin’ starin’,” he says, trying to tug his pants up a little, and it strikes you how cute it is, how sweet, that he’s self-conscious when he’s literally never looked more appealing to you in his entire life.

“Make me,” you counter, and he looks at you properly, taking in the way you’re watching his every move, eyes roving over him. His cock twitches a little in his briefs, and there’s no way you could know that一except for how you can see him chubbing up a little, straining at the zipper of his suit pants.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, the little bite back to his tone. “Finally gonna let me inta yer holiest of holies?”

“Not if you keep talking like that, you sick fuck,” you say, but simply unclasp your bra and shove down the fuckass shapewear that you wore even though Daisy promised you didn’t need it when you’d tried on your dress.

“Keep tellin’ yerself that, Sunny,” Gator says, undoing his belt and undressing himself so you’re both naked, in the small room the venue had set aside for your best friend to prepare for the most important day of her life. You’ll just apologize for this later一better to ask for forgiveness anyway.

You refuse to get down on the floor when he suggests it, so instead you find yourself bent over the vanity, hands flat on the surface, looking up past yourself in the mirror as Gator looms behind you. You see his right arm moving as he strokes himself to hardness, and with his left he pushes your thighs apart. You spread your legs for him and he dips two fingers into your slit, playing with your cunt until you’re whimpering and coating his fingers in your arousal; and then he pushes into you, cock sinking deep within your folds, his thick length pressing against your walls as he feeds each inch into you.

Gator’s eyes meet yours in the mirror as he bottoms out, and you grip the edge of the vanity as he starts to move, fucking you with quick, deep thrusts. He folds himself over you, his stomach pressing against your back, the hair covering his chest tickling your shoulder blades as he rests his front against yours, the two of you moving in tandem as you fuck yourself back against him, meeting his hips as he pounds into you.

“Fuck, ok,” you breathe, and he wastes no time in moving one of his hands to your clit, the other coming up to rest just beneath your breasts, holding you up against him.

“Y’were一fuckin’一right,” Gator says, and you don’t question what he means, just revel in the feeling of him inside you, stretching you on his cock, his breath mingling with yours as you defile this cute little bridal suite, everything white and pink and pure.

“Gator,” you sigh, closing your eyes and letting your head dip down.

“Shoulda waited fer this,” he says, finishing his earlier thought. “Best fuckin’一pussy I ever had.”

“Gator,” you mewl, half embarrassed and half vindicated一you figure that’s the closest you’ll ever get to an apology or an admission of his guilt.

“I’m right here, Sunshine,” he says, circling your wet, throbbing clit with two fingers, making you whine his name. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere neither.”

You gasp as he spreads his legs a little further, changing the angle at which he’s moving into you, and with just another few thrusts, another few massaging touches over your clit, you feel yourself trembling in his hold as you come around his cock, cunt spasming as you do, and he lowers his forehead to the nape of your neck, the tip of his nose and his lips trailing over your heated skin.

“Fuck, that’s right,” he mumbles. “Feel ya so一good around me. Fuck, I’m一comin’, I’m fuckin’ comin’一”

“Gator,” you breathe out as he snaps his hips into you a few times, your cunt so tight it’s squeezing him; he hurriedly pulls out of you, ready to burst, and he barely strokes himself twice before he’s coming on your lower back, the hot feeling of it making you shudder. He slumps against you, your elbows locked to keep yourself一and now him一upright, and you feel his flagging cock against your ass as he rests against you.

“Ain’t… just been thinkin’ about ya since last night,” Gator says, his lips on the back of your shoulder.

“No?” you ask, voice soft, glancing at him in the mirror. But he’s not looking, his face not visible.

“No,” he admits. “Been thinkin’a ya… since ya left that last time. Fer college.”

You pause. “Eight years ago?” You crane your neck to look at him over your shoulder, not wanting to see his face in the mirror after such an admission.

“Uh huh,” he says. “Left ‘nd… took the fuckin’ sunshine with ya. ‘S back now, though.”

You spin in his hold, the hand that had been on your chest now on your back. “Is it?” you ask.

He doesn’t meet your eyes for a moment, leaning in to kiss you; but when he pulls away, he looks straight at you. “Sure feels like it is.”

&& taglist: @sunriseinhawkins @snoopyharrington @ghostlyriddles @souperbloom @sheisjoeschateau @cheugy-djobe @cpnsteverogers @nowandajenn @configurre @cecesblogg @britt-mf @harringtondarling @valentine-night @charismatickeery @charlston-chews @bearwithegg @starkleila @sommie08 @xoxocelestial @s3xytosomeone

[hexyissy]

It would be really cute if you make like an Instagram post of Girl next-door of how Joe’s band made from post animals if you look at their Instagram post like their girlfriend really cutely and like montages, it would be really cute if you like make like a post of what Joe would post if he posted like a dump Sorry I ramble too much😭😭😭

issy talks: this is a super fun and unique request hihi, some of these are from the moodboard aaaaa. to anyone who wants to be included to every cameo (im having hard time deciding if u guys want to or not and i really, really don't want to force anyone), let me know mwa mwa 💗⭐

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liked by djotime, ladybuugg, sexytosomeone, lizzygrace, hexyissy, and 212 others

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════════════════════════════════════

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

@brrrainst3w she stole his indie and he stole her pink

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[sheisjoeschateau]

I SEE FIRE

🕊️ A Stranger Things AU Fanfic from Misha’s Masterlist Library. 📚 Full Fanfic Saga & Infodump File here 📕 Book One: all chapters here

BOOK ONE: Chapter 45 (continued) -> 46 🕊️ The Capitol -> The Games -> Hawkins 🏹 Day 6 of the Games

Steve Harrington x OC!fem!reader hometown strangers to friends to lovers. ultra dark, heavy angst and hurt/comfort. alternate universe -> upside down apocalypse. high suspense, dystopian game-of-survival plot with morbidly dry humor sprinkled along the way. eventual plot-driven angsty smut (...but with hella plot). 18+

A fever dream multi-crossover au inspired by The Hunger Games and The Purge universes, merged with Stranger Things. 🏹

🏹 SUMMARY: Hopper feels as though he's balancing three broken worlds at once from his perch inside the lavish Capitol square: one world onscreen, where his tributes are surviving a death arena... one world back home in Hawkins, where his people and his town are barely surviving... and one world he never wanted to step foot in, but is forced to navigate on behalf of two young teens he's sworn to protect.

And he'll be goddamned if he doesn't get you some sort of sponsorship today, before your injured leg can sink you into eternal sleep.

Meanwhile, Powell and Callahan hold down the fort for their chief back in Hawkins. Little did they know, the hardest feat they would have to face wouldn't be any sort of monster or demo-whatever. It would be the mothers of the town, who refuse to just sit and comply.

Especially when your grandfather's life is on the line.

🌿 AUTHOR’S NOTE: 🥹 Steve and Ro have finally started putting their game plan into motion. Yes, I made sure to give them one more full day together before the tragically unthinkable happens. :(( DAMN YOU, SUZANNE COLLINS! (jk ily forever)

Sweet Ren finally gets a little bit of aid from the most unexpected sponsor, and it's absolutely a glimpse into the future because she truly does become such an idol for little girls.

Personally? My favorite part of this next wave of chapters were making Callahan and Powell the center of attention for a bit. They're out here hiding down the line lmfao.

Xx, Misha

🏹 OVERALL SERIES WARNINGS: This is my darkest fanfic series. Strong language, mature themes all around. Explores PTSD and severe trauma, past s*xual and physical abuse, graphic descriptions of violence, dystopian setting. Heavy angst/hurt/comfort (yes, there will be a hard-earned happy ending). General THG series setting + angst, plus grim themes and gore in the vein of The Purge.

Chapter Forty-Five (continued…)

12:03 PM • The Capitol [DAY 6 of the Games]

Powell’s voice had already gone thin with static by the time Hopper pinched the bridge of his nose and turned half away from the crowd.

“Alright,” he muttered into the phone, low and flat and trying like hell not to sound like a man one bad sentence away from losing his shit. “Just keep me posted—okay? I don’t care if you can’t reach me the instant somethin’ over there changes. You call, leave a message, and tell me how the hell to get ahold of you again when you do. Got it?”

Static crackled. Then Powell answered, tired and clipped and doing his best to make certainty out of shit that wasn’t certain at all.

“Got it, Chief.”

Hopper’s jaw flexed.

He stood in the middle of the Capitol square in broad daylight with polished stone under his boots — fountains throwing diamond-bright arcs into the air, and every giant screen in sight broadcasting the Games like the whole place was one big damned casino with blood in the walls. A hundred conversations blurred together around him — wealthy citizens in expensive clothes talking over each other, laughing, gasping, theorizing, drinking things with bright fruit speared onto crystal picks — while halfway across the country, Indiana was getting hauled into emergency protocol under a sky veined red.

Powell only knew so much.

That didn’t piss Hopper off.

It made sense.

The military never told anybody shit unless it absolutely had to… and even then, they couldn’t be trusted. Hopper knew that all too well by now. Powell knew that, too. Everybody who’d lived through even one supernatural breach knew that. So Hopper hadn’t wasted time trying to wring blood from a stone. He’d gotten what mattered.

Steve’s people were evacuated. Eddie, Nancy, the kids — all accounted for and under shelter. Powell had confirmed that much. And Hopper, in the same breath, had made himself real goddamn clear about the rest. Like, get ahold of Karen and Ted at the hospital. Get ahold of Joyce wherever the hell they’d moved her, make sure she and Jonathan know Will is safe with the others. If anybody gives you grief about authorization, they can call me directly, and I will make their fucking afternoon worse.

That had gotten him silence on the line for half a second.

Then Powell, tired but solid: “Already on it.”

“And the Everdeen’s,” Hopper added, low and clipped. 

“Already done,” Powell confirmed.

Now Hopper exhaled once through his nose, listening to the wind smearing  static across the call one last time, and ended it.

“Talk soon,” he murmured once.

“Yep.”

Click.

Hopper lowered the phone…

And looked back up.

On the nearest screen, Steve and Ro were moving through the woods side by side under a hard white noon, all long limbs and quiet purpose and that strange new rhythm they’d found with each other so fast it hurt to look at. A boy and a boy, one barely more than a child and the other barely more than a man — hauling brush and branches and armfuls of deadwood into another careful pile.

Not lighting it.

Not yet…

Just building.

Preparing.

The first pile had been hours ago. This one sat a good distance away from it, hidden enough from the immediate eye, obvious enough if you knew what the hell you were looking at. Another future flare point. Another lure. Another piece of their plan slotting into place… with an efficiency that made Hopper’s chest tighten with pride and dread at the exact same damn time.

Steve did the heavier work because of course he did. Bigger armfuls. Bigger branches. Bigger strides. Ro kept pace anyway, hauling what he could with that ghost-light quiet of his, slipping in and out of Steve’s shadow like he’d been built to survive in one. Every now and then Steve would say something over his shoulder. Ro would answer. Then both of them would grin — not big, not carefree, but enough.

Enough to make the square around Hopper practically melt with delight.

Caesar Flickerman’s voice boomed out from one of the lower speakers with its usual lacquered enthusiasm. “—and there they are again, Pan and his shadow—absolutely industrious this afternoon, Claudius!”

Claudius Templemith, equally delighted, purred right back, “One cannot deny the ingenuity, Caesar. It’s astonishing. Disturbing, yes—but astonishing. I mean, what a pair. And all in pursuit, one assumes, of the elusive Wendy Bird.”

That got a little chorus of pleased noises from the square around Hopper.

He ignored them.

Or tried to.

The big screens cycled through angles — Steve bending to break a branch across his knee, Ro gathering smaller twigs and tucking them just so, both of them talking low and intent. Somewhere near one of the fountains a child in a tiny pale suit pointed up at the screen and asked something too far away for Hopper to catch. His mother answered with a smile bright enough to cut.

It made Hopper’s chest pinch in a way he didn’t have a word for.

Not anger, exactly. Or not only that.

Because the kids here in the Capitol weren’t the ones he hated.

They all stood there in polished shoes and perfect little clothes eating spun sugar and watching the screens because nobody had raised them to know any better. To them this was spectacle and story and bright moving pictures bigger than life. They weren’t born monstrous. They were taught comfort in a monstrous place.

It was the adults he had a problem with.

The ones sipping champagne while teenagers starved.

The ones cooing over strategy while children bled.

The ones smiling now.

Hopper tore his eyes off the nearest family and made himself move.

Across the elite square stood some gleaming, overbuilt espresso station with a chrome body and a hovering blue touchscreen that looked like it belonged on a goddamn spaceship. Behind the counter moved two faceless service robots shaped just enough like people to be irritating. Sleek hands and blank oval faces. No eyes worth speaking of.

Hopper walked over anyway.

His mentor card hung around his neck on its lanyard, thumping once against his chest as he leaned in and jabbed the touchscreen with one thick finger.

Two bold espressos.

The machine whirred to life.

Even while he waited he kept one eye on the screen above the station now, where Steve and Ro had finished the second pile and were moving off again. Steve glanced around twice before nudging Ro onward with a little motion of his wrist. Ro darted ahead, scouting. Steve followed slower, watchful.

Good.

Smart.

Hopper hated how much he loved it.

The cups arrived in neat little white ceramic things with foam swirled artfully at the top. Of course they did. Capitol bullshit.

He grabbed both by the handles.

“Thanks,” he muttered to the robot out of plain human reflex.

The robot had already turned away.

Hopper stared after it for half a second, rolled his eyes at himself, then went back to the square carrying the drinks. He’d only made it halfway before the screens changed…

Jack.

Hopper slowed.

Then stopped entirely.

The young boy stood just outside the mouth of the cave in full sun, all skinny determination and damp hair half-dried in wild directions from the stream. At his boots sat a gathered pile — roots, berries, edible greens, two speckled eggs strange enough in color to look almost painted. He cupped his hands to his mouth and sent out two brief notes, soft and sharp.

The mockingjays caught them.

Carried them.

Then Jack ducked back inside.

The camera followed.

And Hopper just froze there in the middle of the Capitol square with two hot cups in his hands and everything inside his chest going thick.

The cave looked almost cozy now in the way survival spaces sometimes did when desperation had been lived in long enough. The sleeping bag you’d left them was spread open and rumpled by use, big enough for both kids when they tucked themselves in close. Off in one corner, out of easy scent range, sat the food stash: the cracker sleeve thinned down but not gone, the tin of peanuts and almonds, the gathered plants, the two fresh eggs now added in. Another corner held the practical things. The flashlight. The iodine. Matches. The big canteen. The extra bag of scare supplies. A few odds and ends… all salvaged and sorted so carefully it hurt to watch.

Hannah sat on the sleeping bag waiting for him, all soft blonde hair still damp at the ends, her face small and pale and watching the cave mouth like she expected an answer from it if she stared hard enough.

Jack crouched beside her and set everything down. “I sent it,” he tells her, all breathless but trying to sound normal. “I sent it, and I covered it back up— see?”

He reached over and fussed with the brush disguising part of the entrance, tucking it more firmly into place. Hannah watched his hands the whole time.

“Do you think Miss Ren is close?” she asked at last.

The question was so gentle Hopper nearly shut his eyes.

Jack didn’t.

He kept working. “Yeah,” he said, immediate as anything. “Yeah, definitely.” He shrugged. “Maybe not tonight. But soon. Real soon.”

Hannah’s mouth made a little sad shape. She nodded anyway.

He saw it, of course. So Jack pivoted hard like only a brave thirteen-year-old with terror in his ribcage could for little girls who’d stolen his heart.

“Hey. Look what I found,” he said, holding up one of the eggs with a kind of hard-won triumph. “These are weird, right? Like alien chicken weird.”

That got the tiniest smile out of her.

Hopper’s own mouth twitched before he could stop it.

All around him in the square he could hear people melting.

“Oh, look at them—”

“Poor little things—”

“How darling—”

It made him want to snap at every last one of them to shut the fuck up and let the children breathe.

Instead he stood there, still and glassy-eyed, and watched...

Jack sat down beside Hannah and began laying out all their food like he was presenting a feast instead of rationing scraps. He kept on talking. About the eggs. About which roots were probably better raw and which maybe weren’t. About how the water was still good and he’d checked it. About how they had enough. About how they were okay.

Hannah listened like each word from him was a plank beneath her feet.

There were little moments in it — tiny, weirdly ordinary moments — that hit Hopper hardest. The way Jack brushed a wet lock of hair out of his own face with his wrist because both hands were busy. The way Hannah tucked her knees up under herself and sat on them like she had at school assemblies before the world curdled. The way they kept glancing toward the cave mouth whenever the stream outside surged louder, instinctive and scared and trying not to be.

…and the way Jack lied for her comfort with such raw little courage, Hopper almost laughed and cried at once.

It got him, that did…

It got him because you had done this.

You had gotten them here. You had tucked them away with enough supplies to make hope possible. You had built a whole damn hidden life for them in the dark… and then gone back out into hell, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Stubborn, stupid, impossible girl.

A movement entered the edge of Hopper’s vision.

“Chief.”

Hopper turned.

Seeder now stood beside him with his hands in his pockets and a face gone somber in that quiet, respectful way of his. He didn’t ask anything dumb or force a joke into the wrong moment. Just held Hopper’s gaze once and saw enough there, then tilted his chin at the cup in Hopper’s left hand.

“You hanging in there, Chief?”

Hopper snorted softly. “As much as anybody is.”

He held out the espresso.

Seeder took it with a little nod. “Appreciate it.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder, both men looking up at the screen.

For a moment neither of them said anything.

Jack was handing Hannah one of the nuts from the tin like it was an offering fit for a queen. Hannah accepted it with both hands. Somewhere offscreen the stream rushed on, cold and endless.

Seeder sipped, wincing faintly. “Damn. That’s strong.”

“Thought you could handle it.”

“I can. Doesn’t mean I gotta enjoy the attack.”

That got Hopper the faintest smile. He drank his own and watched Hannah tuck a strand of hair behind her ear while Jack kept talking.

After a beat Seeder murmured, “I gotta give it to you.”

Hopper didn’t look at him. “For what.”

“For both of ’em.”

Now he did glance over.

But Seeder kept his eyes on the big screen. “Your boy was always gonna be something. Anybody with eyes could see that. But her…” He shook his head once, slowly. “Man. I still don’t even know what the hell I’m looking at half the time.”

Hopper stared at him another second, then back at the screen.

“Join the club.”

“No, really.” Seeder’s voice stayed low. Private. “I mean it. That girl looks like she oughta be walking out of a local church choir or some damn storybook painting, not running circles around a pack of killers while keeping half the arena alive behind everybody’s backs.”

Hopper huffed once through his nose because, yeah. Yeah.

“That’s about the size of it.”

Seeder smiled sadly into his cup. “Ro’s worshipping Steve, sure. But… I’ll tell you something. He talks about her like she invented magic.”

Hopper swallowed.

The screen shifted.

And both men went quiet all over again.

You sat by the stream now in hard sun with your clothes spread to dry over a broad pale boulder, washed out and dripping the last of their dampness into light. Your cargo pants. Your shirt. Socks lined beside them. What remained on you now was practical and modest and somehow made the whole thing worse, not better. The sports bra and fitted shorts left no room to ignore what the Games had already started doing to your body.

Cinna, bless him, had made sure to have your undergarments designed in a way that kept your modesty intact for anytime you’d need to wash up or strip down to lesser layers. He’d catered to your purity, your desire to not expose yourself to the entire nation for views and cheap thrills.

But modesty still didn’t hide the way you’ve begun to go frail.

You’d been slight before this.

That much Hopper knew.

Graceful. Slender. Light-boned in that almost birdlike way that made people underestimate just how much grit you could hold in one body.

Now days of near-starvation had sharpened it. You looked pale as skimmed milk beneath the harsh sun. The delicate hollows at your collarbones stood out deeper. Your ribs hinted faintly with each breath. And what softness you might once have carried… had thinned down to almost nothing. Not because you looked boyish — you didn’t. You looked heartbreakingly, unmistakably feminine. Just young. Too goddamn young. Fragile in the visual sense only, because everything else about you screamed otherwise.

The square around them had gone softer now, full of coos and murmurs and dreadful sympathy.

Hopper barely heard any of it.

Because your leg was uncovered.

The cloth strip that you’d been using was now off to the side, dark and wet from rinsing. And your shin…

Seeder’s whole face tightened.

Hopper stopped breathing for a second.

The wound looked vicious in broad daylight. No theater left in it. No flattering shadow. No distance. Just a deep, ugly gash laid open cruelly across your shin where the blade had bitten and kept biting. The skin around it had gone hot and swollen, angry red blooming outward from the cut in a cruel way that made infection feel less like a possibility… and more like something already stalking toward you. Every time the camera zoomed tighter, the damage got meaner. The depth of it. The raggedness. The way that your flesh pulled just enough to hint at something too close to bone.

When you poured water over it and grit your teeth through the sting, Seeder muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath as his gut plummeted.

Hopper didn’t say anything at all.

He couldn’t.

You still never cry for the cameras. Never performed your pain. You winced, yes. Your fingers shook once around the cloth as you slowly peeled it off… and your mouth pressed thin enough to bleach as you assessed the damage of your injury. But still, you kept cleaning it. Kept working the water over and through it as carefully as you could manage with no proper antiseptic… no clean medical wrap… no damn help.

Hopper wanted to punch every polished face in the square.

He wanted somebody—anybody!—to send something useful. 

Food. Medicine. Sterile dressings. Anything but another bullshit sentimental token to “buy you time,” before some “highly anticipated reunion.”

Instead Caesar’s syrupy voice flowed over the square.

“Oh, our poor Dove…”

Claudius added, hushed and rapturous: “Such resilience. Such unbelievable composure.”

Hopper’s hand tightened around the espresso cup hard enough that the hot ceramic threatened to complain.

Seeder saw it.

“Easy,” he murmured quietly.

“Easy my ass.”

Seeder took another sip anyway, eyes on the screen. “Plan’s still good.”

Hopper exhaled once… hard and stressed.

“Has to be.”

They both knew it now. Most of the square did, too. Nobody said it outright in blunt language, but the pieces had been visible all morning if you knew how to watch. The three fire points. The spacing. The movement. Steve and Ro setting the board and meaning to set it on fire in three directions at once. Lure the Careers off their hoard while they leave Syl at the Cornucopia by default because somebody had to guard the stockpile. Give Steve a window. One arrow. One shot. One big beautiful kaboom if luck quit screwing around and finally did something useful for once.

Then west…

Back toward the cave.

Back toward you.

…if it worked.

Across the square, over near one of the lounge clusters, the District 2 mentor stood with his giant shaved head shining in the sun… with a look on his face like he wanted to peel somebody alive. He wasn’t even trying to hide it now. Every few seconds? His stare cut toward Hopper and Seeder, all brute-force fury and impotent rage… because his tributes were about to get outsmarted and he couldn’t do one damn thing about it.

Seeder warily followed Hopper’s glance. “Baldie looks like he wants to chew concrete.”

Hopper snorted dryly. “Wouldn’t put it past him.”

“He should be grateful. Maybe it’d improve his personality.”

That got Hopper the briefest bark of a laugh. “Tall order.”

“True.”

They drank in silence for another moment, both watching you try to wrap the leg again with hands that were steadier than they had any right to be.

Then Hopper felt a tug at his pant leg.

He looked down.

A little girl in a pastel, expensive dress stood there staring up at him with one solemn hand still pinching the fabric at his knee. In her hair sat a small white feather clipped into glossy curls. Her shoes probably cost more than Wayne Munson used to make in a week.

Hopper blinked.

Then, because no part of him had ever stopped being a dad where little girls were concerned, he crouched. “Well, hey there.”

She didn’t answer at first. Just stared with huge eyes.

Up close she couldn’t have been more than six. Maybe seven if the Capitol fed its kids growth hormones and lies.

Hopper softened his voice anyway. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

She lifted her chin a little.

“Ophelia,” she said, every syllable careful as a jewel.

Hopper smiled warmly despite himself. “Well, Miss Ophelia, that’s a mighty fine name. What can I do for ya?”

Her innocent gaze flicked over his shoulder to the big screen where you still sat by the stream. Then back to him.

“I want to send the Dove a present.”

For half a second Hopper’s brain just flat-out stalled.

Seeder, beside him, went very still.

Hopper managed, “A present, huh?”

Ophelia nodded. A tiny bratty crease formed between her brows like she was already irritated at the possibility of being denied. The white feather in her hair bobbed.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Well,” Hopper said carefully, “that’s real thoughtful of you.”

Behind her, a man now hurried into view wearing the expression of someone about to apologize for his child… while not actually having much practice at parenting one.

“Ophelia, darling—oh, I am so sorry—” He reached her at last and set both hands on her little shoulders, acknowledging the mentors. “I’m terribly sorry, I hope she hasn’t been bothering you.”

Hopper rose slowly to his feet.

“No,” he said easily. “Not bothering me at all.”

The pompous man gave a laugh too polished to mean anything. “She’s quite determined, I’m afraid.”

“That so.”

Ophelia twisted halfway around in her father’s hold, looked up at him — and announced again, louder this time, “I want to send the Dove a present.”

Her father gave her the kind of exhausted smile that belonged to a bad actor. “Yes, darling, I heard you.”

“I want to now.”

“Yes.”

“Now!”

He pinched his eyes shut for one brief second.

Hopper, beside himself internally, put on the best glum-grateful face he had. “That’s kind of her,” he said. “Every little bit counts… even just the thought.”

It tasted like ash in his mouth.

Seeder went rigid with the effort not to laugh at how much Hopper’d clearly tried not to throw up in his own mouth while delivering the line.

The father now just sighed the sigh of a man tragically burdened by his own daughter’s compassion in public and crouched to her level. “Ophelia—”

“NOW!” she screeched, shrill and angry.

It was enough to startle anyone nearby, plus make her father instantly shush her with unabashedly appalled horror and disapproval. He visibly scrambled, trying to think fast before his child threw an outright tantrum.

“If I send her something,” he said in a tone that could curdle milk, “…will you please behave?”

Ophelia’s mouth fell open in betrayed offense.

Then she pouted so hard it almost circled back around into art.

“I wanna send a present.”

“Will you behave if I do?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He closed his eyes again. “Ophelia… are you sure you don’t just want some ice cream? Or a new dolly?”

His daughter’s lower lip trembled, real tears now. Hopper could’ve kissed the little menace on the forehead for her outburst and stubborn refusal.

“No, I want to help her,” she whimpered, whiny and hysterical. “Her leg is all gross and bad and she won’t make it ‘til Peter Pan finds her…”

“Okay okay okay—shhhhh…”

And that, finally, did it.

Ophelia’s father straightened with the defeated air of a man surrendering not to goodness but inconvenience. “Fine,” he said. “Fine. We’ll send something right now. Alright?”

Ophelia’s face changed instantly from wet misery to triumphant solemnity.

Hopper had to look away for half a second.

Until her father turned back toward him. “I can arrange a proper compression wrap. Sterile. Reinforced. Something that will at least cover the wound more effectively until…” His eyes flicked to the screen where Steve and Ro’s feed had returned in a corner. “…until circumstances improve.”

Hopper stared. “Sir,” he said slowly, forcing his voice not to crack from sheer fucking relief, “that would help.”

Seeder leaned in just enough to support without overstepping. “Truly would.”

The father glanced at him, then back to Hopper. “It won’t fix it, obviously.”

“No.”

“But it may help her keep the area protected. Reduce friction. Slow down any further contamination. Could even send a few simple pain killers with it. Just to subside it. Proper medication for that is a fortune.”

He says it like he does not have a fortune of his own to spare.

But even so, Hopper just nodded once. “I’ll take any edge she can get.”

Ophelia had already seized her father’s hand and was loudly tugging him in the direction of the sponsorship kiosks. “Come on—!” she insisted, high-pitched. “Now! Now, now now!”

He sighed long-sufferingly. “Yes, darling. I am, in fact, moving.”

Seeder made a small thoughtful noise into his cup.

Hopper looked at him.

“I’m startin’ to like her,” Seeder mumbled, his mouth twitching behind a sip. 

“Yeah,” Hopper muttered quietly, watching Ophelia drag her father across the square like a tiny general with expensive taste. “Me too.”

They fell in step beside them.

Around them the Capitol square glittered on in its shameless brightness. The hosts kept talking. The citizens kept watching, entirely hypnotized. Onscreen, somewhere between pain and endurance, you were still alive under the noon sun, still wrapping your own wound with hands that ought never have had to.

Ahead, the kiosk emerged sleek and shining, all chrome and glass and quiet systems ready to turn sympathy into parcels and parachutes.

And Hopper walked toward it with Seeder at one side and a little feather- haired tyrant at the other — knowing damn well a bandage was not enough, not even close… but in a world this rotten, sometimes hope arrived not as a miracle.

Sometimes it arrived in stages.

And sometimes, it arrived all because a spoiled little girl decided she wanted something badly enough to make a grown man spend the money.

12:55 PM • Hawkins [DAY 6 of the Games]

“Ma’am— ma’am, I am telling you your children are safe.”

Officer Callahan had been on the phone for exactly two minutes and forty- one seconds, and already his soul looked evacuated.

Rainfall hissed against the reinforced police station’s windows hard enough to sound like a crowd. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with that tired, sickly hum that never changed no matter how apocalyptic the world got. The same could be said about the hospital across town. Currently? That’s where his telephone line carried while on this call, connected with the receptionists.

Somewhere down the corridor, a cart rattled past. Somewhere else, a patient coughed like they were trying to bring up a lung. But right here, right now, all of Officer Phil Callahan’s personal hell existed in the form of a cream-colored rotary phone clutched too tightly in one damp hand inside of his office — and Karen Wheeler’s voice coming at him like buckshot through the receiver.

“I heard that part, Phil,” Karen snapped back immediately, not even remotely interested in the fact that he was a sworn officer of the law and technically in the middle of a statewide emergency. “What I’m asking you is where, exactly, are they being held, who is watching them—how long they’ve been there— whether they’ve eaten, whether Michael has his inhaler—”

“Honey,” Ted Wheeler tried weakly somewhere nearby, probably from his cot in their holding wing, trying to calm his wife.

Karen steamrolled right over him.

“—and why in God’s name did it take anyone this long to call me?”

“Ma’am—”

“It’s been twenty-four hours.”

“It has not been that long,” Callahan said, voice cracking on the last word. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his free fingers and glanced helplessly at the station wall clock like it might testify on his behalf. “It hasn’t even been twelve hours, ma’am.”

“Oh, for the love of—”

“It has felt like twelve years,” Sue Sinclair cut in, breathless and furious and very obviously right beside Karen — because of course she was. “Does that count?”

Callahan closed his eyes.

Wonderful.

Now there were two of them.

He could picture it without even seeing it: Karen Wheeler in full mama-bear mode with her lipstick half-worn off and her curls a little frizzed from stress, Sue Sinclair beside her with that same tired, beautiful fury mothers got when the world kept on trying to scare their children. Somewhere around them, the hospital was under hard lockdown — phones limited, hallways swarming with approved staff and security and no one getting to go absolutely anywhere — and somehow, these two women had still managed to take over the personal call made to them from the station and turn it into a hostage situation.

“Ladies,” Callahan tried, already losing ground. “Please. Please let me finish the sentence I’m saying before—”

“No,” Karen said flatly.

He blinked.

“…no?”

“No,” Karen repeated, curt. “Because every time I let a man finish a sentence during a crisis, I lose fifteen valuable minutes—and gain exactly zero useful information.”

Sue made a little sound that was suspiciously close to a laugh but also very close to tears.

Callahan stared at the receiver like it had personally betrayed him before he forced himself to continue. “Your children are secure,” he said again, trying for firm and landing somewhere around an exhausted kindergarten teacher. “Nancy and Mike Wheeler, Lucas and Erica Sinclair, Dustin Henderson, and Will Byers are all currently sheltered safely inside Steve Harrington’s private quarters inside of Building II… along with Eddie Munson. They are alive, they are accounted for, and under police and military watch. There is food, water, bedding, power, and a working television feed.”

That got him maybe half a breath of silence.

Then Karen was right back in, already catching onto something he said. “The Byers… The Byers—Phil, listen to me—get me in touch with the Byers.”

Callahan frowned. “The… Byers?”

“Joyce Byers—” Karen said, voice suddenly sharper with urgency than even panic. “Jonathan too, if he’s with her. Nancy told me they need help for Ren Everdeen’s grandfather—Burdock Everdeen. He’s in bad shape. Real bad— Nancy said Jonathan sounded terrified. They spoke yesterday— and if that boy sounds terrified, then you know. I am not being dramatic.”

Sue immediately piled on.

“Our husbands have unused comps through pharmaceuticals,” she added rapidly. “Karen and I both do too. Ted and Charles can sign off what they’re allowed to sign off, and if they can’t, then I know three nurses downstairs who owe me favors. If the man needs meds, we can move something—but I need to know what he’s on, what dosage, where he is, and whether he’s breathing okay.”

Callahan’s head tipped back toward the ceiling.

He had been given one assignment.

One.

Call the mothers. Reassure the mothers. Get off the phone.

Now he was somehow in charge of cross-referencing family medical aid for a sick old man related to one of the girls currently bleeding her way through the goddamn Hunger Games.

“Ma’am, I can pass along the message—”

“No.”

Karen again.

Somehow louder this time.

“No, absolutely not—no. Do not you dare ‘pass along the message’ me, Phil. Put me through to Joyce.”

“I can’t just patch through—”

“Then patch me through to Powell.”

Sue was right there with her now. “Yes, put us on with Powell.”

“Ladies—” Callahan nearly begging now, “—with all due respect? There is no universe in which Chief— well, Acting Officer Powell can just—”

“Put me on hold then,” Karen demanded. “I do not care if I have to listen to the world’s saddest elevator music for twenty minutes, put me on hold.”

“There’s not gonna be any elevator music, ma’am.”

“Oh, even worse!” Karen shot back. “Then I’ll have to sit here alone with my thoughts.”

For one awful second, Callahan actually almost laughed.

Then immediately didn’t.

He dragged a hand down his face, walkie clipped to his belt digging into his hip, his nerves stretched so thin he felt like cheap tape. All around him the station kept breathing its own exhausted rhythm — boots in the hall, radios crackling, someone somewhere swearing at a jammed printer, deep thunder muttering against the boarded windows like something mean and patient.

“Alright,” he said finally, in the tone of a man throwing himself onto the mercy of a firing squad. “Do not hang up.”

“Trust me. We won’t.”

Something about how quickly Karen said it made him believe she might die before relinquishing that receiver.

He jabbed the side of his walkie with a finger. “Boss?” he said, trying not to sound like he was already halfway to a stress-induced aneurysm. “Boss— you there? We got a pretty urgent situation over here…”

Across town (or… really not that far across town at all, not in Hawkins, where everything important sat too close together and all grief tended to overlap…) Officer Powell was having his own private collapse in real time.

The police station sat only yards from Shelter II now — the concrete bunker looming next door like a giant gray tooth hammered into the earth after the first supernatural earthquakes split Hawkins wide open just a few years back. Everything around both buildings had been reinforced since then — fencing, barriers, floodlights, checkpoint lanes, armed watch. It all looked very official and very sturdy and very much like something designed by men who wanted to convince themselves concrete could out-argue hell.

Inside Powell’s office, the air smelled like stale coffee, wet leather, and paper that had been handled too many times by tired hands.

He had one phone wedged to his ear.

One walkie hissing at his belt.

And one military officer currently knocking on his half-open door like this was in any way a reasonable moment for that.

On the line, Jonathan Byers was talking too fast to breathe.

“No, listen to me, you’re not getting it— he can’t just sit here and wait this all out, alright? He needs medication—needs it now, not when some goddamn form gets signed off or whenever somebody decides that his lungs are worth looking at—”

“Slow down,” Powell said, trying and failing to sound calm. “Jonathan—slow down. What exactly does he take?”

“Would tell you if I could get a whole sentence out,” Jonathan snapped back, raw and strained and nothing like his usual careful self.

That gave Powell pause.

Jonathan Byers was not a kid who raised his voice for sport.

That alone made Powell straighten a little in his chair.

In the background, he could hear Joyce too — could hear Burdock coughing somewhere farther off, deep and awful and wet enough to make something cold slide under Powell’s ribs. He could hear the crowded room around them as well: cots creaking, murmured voices, a child whining somewhere, even the sound of one of those big industrial fans turning useless air over.

On his belt, the walkie crackled again.

“Boss? Boss, you there?”

Powell shut his eyes.

The knock came again at the office door.

Louder.

For one bright, hideous second? Powell genuinely considered diving out the window.

Instead he barked, “WHAT?”

The door awkwardly eased open, hinges creaking… and on the other side, a military officer stood there in full soaked gear, expression flatter than drywall.

Not offended.

Not impressed.

Just standing there with a look that very gently suggested Powell was being kind of a bitch.

Powell stared at him.

The uniform stared right back.

Behind Powell’s eyes, the migraine he’d been outrunning all day finally made a serious bid for power.

Jonathan was still going on in his ear. “—and I’m telling you I don’t know how much longer he can keep doing this if nobody—”

“Jonathan,” Powell cut in, holding up one finger at the military officer like that would somehow stop the entire world for a second. “Hold. Your. Horses.”

Then, because apparently he hated peace and joy — and maybe living long enough to retire, he hit the side of the receiver just enough to muffle it and looked at the man in the doorway.

“What is it now?”

The officer arched one brow. “There’s an issue in Shelter Two.”

“Shocker.”

The man ignored that. “One of Harrington’s family members is now making a scene in the hall outside their private room. She is refusing to cooperate until she speaks to police directly.”

That landed.

Everything inside of Powell that had been all static and overlapping voices… suddenly clicked one ugly notch more into place.

Harrington’s family member.

A “she.”

Not Erica. Too uncharacteristically quiet when scared.

Not one of the boys. Too direct.

Nancy.

Of course it was Nancy Wheeler.

Of course Karen Wheeler had Callahan by the throat over one line, Jonathan Byers was nearly chewing through another — and Nancy Wheeler was out in the hall somewhere raising hell over the exact same thing.

For one second Powell just stood there, watching all the dots connect and deeply, deeply resenting them for it.

Callahan crackled again from the walkie.

“Boss, I’m serious, man, they will not let this go—”

On the phone, Jonathan said, “Are you even listening to me?”

Powell looked at the ceiling.

Then at the military officer.

Then down at his desk.

Then back up again.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, a decision got made.

“Bring me the girl,” he said.

The military officer’s expression shifted by maybe half an inch.

Powell met it head on. “And be nice about it.”

A beat.

Then the officer gave one tiny nod and stepped back out into the hall.

Powell huffed, then lifted the receiver again. “Jonathan—” he said, his voice roughening with resolve. “I am listening. I need you to take one breath, then give me the exact name of the medication.”

At the same time he thumbed his walkie. “Callahan.”

“Jesus, finally.”

“Keep Mrs. Wheeler on the line,” Powell said. “Tell her I’m bringing Nancy in here and we’re gonna sort this all out together.”

There was a static silence on the other end that sounded suspiciously like Callahan blinking.

“…you’re what?”

“You heard me.”

“Boss, are you sure that’s a good—”

“No,” Powell said honestly. “I’m sure it’s a decision.”

And because there was no time left in the day for anything but decisions, he clicked the walkie silent, set Jonathan on hold just long enough to keep him from talking himself hoarse, and finally sagged back in his chair.

For one whole second, the office went quiet.

Not actually quiet, not with the storm muttering outside and boots moving in the hall and radios coughing through static and his own blood thudding in his ears… but quiet enough.

Quiet enough for him to feel how tired he really was.

How much all of this had started to braid itself together.

The girl in the arena with the ruined leg.

The old man in a shelter somewhere coughing himself inside out.

The Wheeler women refusing to sit still for five goddamn minutes if there was something useful to be done.

The oldest Byers boy, finally sounding like his mother.

The little pack of Harrington kids locked up across the way and trying to stay brave.

Powell rubbed at his temples, praying to a god he refused to give up on even at the end of the world. Then — restless and suddenly needing something concrete under his hands… he yanked open the nearest file drawer.

A.

B.

C.

He flipped through the folders faster than he meant to, old papers whispering beneath his fingers.

D.

E.

Everdeen.

He stopped. 

The tab sat there plain and neat and harmless looking, which felt like bullshit. Powell drew the file out, set it on the desk… and stared at it a second before opening it.

Inside: forms, identification records, household notes, registration details, old emergency contact information, every dry little official scrap that claimed to explain a family.

None of it looked like the actual truth.

Not really.

Not the truth that mattered.

Not the truth where one granddaughter had become the only thing standing between that old man and total abandonment.

Not the truth where the wrong people kept ending up responsible for love.

Not the truth where a beautiful baker’s daughter, who ought to’ve been home kneading bread dough with flour on her wrists, was instead somewhere else, inside a televised death trap — limping through the woods while the people who loved her (people who weren’t even blood related) tried to keep her sick grandfather breathing from half a dozen separate corners of a town that had already survived too much.

Outside his office, footsteps approached.

Powell lifted his eyes from the file just as they stopped at the door.

And with the Everdeen papers open beneath his hand, he realized the whole damn town had finally done what Hawkins always did best when things got bad enough.

It had started loving somebody out loud all at once.

END OF CHAPTER 

Chapter Forty-Six

5:03 PM • The Games [DAY 6 of the Games]

“C’mon, man,” Steve muttered, already halfway through a grin as he hauled another armful of dry branches into place with one hand and used the other to point at the pile. “That one’s gotta be taller than the other two or it’s just embarrassing. We are not half-assing Operation Smooth Criminal this close to showtime.”

Ro, kneeling in the leaves with a fistful of brittle twigs and piney brush tucked against his chest, looked up at him with a face so solemn it nearly ruined the effect of the whisper-sung Michael Jackson noises he’d been making under his breath for the last twenty minutes.

He shook his head gravely.

“No,” he agreed in a tiny, deeply serious voice. “That would be humiliating.”

Steve barked out a quiet laugh through his nose. 

“Exactly. You get me.”

It was going on five in the afternoon now, maybe a little after. And the arena had gone golden in that dangerous, pretty way late-day could get when the sun started slanting lower through the trees. Bright all day. Hot all day. But now everything had softened at the edges. The light came in shafts through the branches, thick and honey-colored. Dust motes drifted through it. The bark on trees looked richer. The shadows got longer and longer underfoot, stretching out over the ground like black water.

And in the middle of all that, hidden deep on the western side of the arena with a final bonfire pile nearly complete in front of them, Steve Harrington and a nine-year-old boy were acting like two idiots at summer camp instead of tributes in a death arena.

That was the craziest part.

Not the plan. Not the mines. Not even the fact that Steve, who had spent the better part of the last year and a half with all the joy pressed out of him by force, had somehow managed to find it again up here in the woods with a kid he’d only really known for a day.

No, the craziest part was how easy it felt.

Ro dropped the twigs where Steve indicated — then immediately popped up onto the balls of his feet and did a tiny, sharp little heel-toe shuffle backward that was somewhere between a dance move and a proud retreat.

Steve stared at him for half a second.

Then, without even thinking about it, he mirrored the move.

Ro’s eyes went huge.

Steve pointed at him. “You gonna start us off this round?”

Ro grinned.

Then immediately started.

He made a little sound under his breath — ba-dum, ba-dum, da-da-da-dum — trying to mimic the bassline from Smooth Criminal, then slid one sneaker over the leaves in a shaky moonwalk that should not have worked as well as it did on uneven forest floor.

It was ridiculous.

More than that? It was perfect.

Steve lost his mind a little bit. 

“Awh, hell—” he drawled, dropping two more branches onto the bonfire pile before stepping around it and answering the challenge. “Dance break. Go.”

He hooked his thumbs briefly against the belt loops of his cargo pants, gave his shoulders a sharp little roll — then hit the same move back at Ro with a whole lot more swagger and a whole lot less balance than he would’ve liked. The leaves crunched under his boots. His bow knocked lightly against his back. The quiver of arrows shifted with him. And yet, Steve still managed the little slide, the hip hitch, the narrow-eyed look, the mischievous smolder.

Ro clapped both hands over his mouth to keep from laughing too loud.

Steve snapped his fingers at him. “That’s right, I still got it.”

His shadow was already shaking his head, delighted and horrified in equal measure. Then he planted his feet, bent his knees, and did the exaggerated forward lean again.

Steve nearly choked.

“Oh my God,” he snickered. “Alright—hold on, hold on—”

But Ro was already committed, tipping forward with all the faith in the world and absolutely none of the center of gravity required — until he had to catch himself with both palms against a tree trunk.

“Yee-hee!” Ro yeeted in his best MJ impression.

Steve doubled over, one hand on his knee, the other shoved over his mouth. His shadow wheezed laughing too, danger be damned.

For one stupid, impossible second… they were just two boys in the middle of the woods losing their shit.

And somewhere out beyond them — back in the Capitol, back in Hawkins, back in District 11, across every remaining city full of people glued to their televisions — the cameras adored it. They adored the handsome, half-feral boy with the chestnut hair and the bow over his back, hips loose with old rhythm and newer freedom, and they adored the little shadow by his side, all bright eyes and quick feet and too much courage for one body so small.

Neither Steve nor Ro knew that.

They were too busy being alive.

Steve straightened and rubbed the sweat off his upper lip with the back of his hand. “Alright,” he laughed. “Back to work before we get arrogant.”

Ro nodded with saintly seriousness.

Then, quietly, “Shamone.”

Steve squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh, you little shit…”

Ro cackled, then darted off to grab yet another deadfall branch before Steve could get him.

The third bonfire needed to count.

That was the thing.

Everything needed to count now.

The first one — south. The second — north. This one — west, opposite the eastward direction of the cave and the stream’s beginning. Come morning, the plan would finally take full flight. Steve would light Bonfire Two. Ro would light Bonfire One. Then, after enough time had passed and the sun hit the agreed spot in the sky, Ro would make his way to ignite the last one. Three separate fires. Three separate distractions. Enough smoke, enough panic… enough visual chaos to drag the Careers away from the Cornucopia and leave Syl stranded on guard.

Then Steve just needed to get one clean shot.

One arrow.

One chance to hit the mines and blow the whole stockpile of hoarded food and supplies to kingdom come.

It was smart.

It was risky as hell.

And it was also the first time that Steve had felt like he was doing something other than waiting to get his teeth kicked in by fate.

“Incoming,” Ro whispered, dragging over another armful of brush, dumping if with a huff. 

Steve crouched beside the pile, adjusting some of the heavier branches into a tepee shape, making sure there was enough tinder tucked low and enough dry fuel stacked high to catch fast tomorrow. His knife stayed clipped within reach. His backpack sat against a tree trunk nearby. His bow and arrows never left his person. Nothing in here got left to chance anymore.

Ro crouched beside him. “Like this?”

Steve glanced over.

The kid held up a handful of dried grass and brittle leaves.

“Yeah,” Steve nodded. “Yeah. Perfect. Stuff it low so it catches first.”

Ro did, careful and efficient.

Steve watched him for a second… It still got him. The way Ro moved. Quiet as a breeze. Light on his feet in a way that made the woods seem to accept him. No wasted motion. No whining. No fear in the places fear would’ve been justified. He just… kept in step. Kept learning. Kept trusting Steve in a way Steve wasn’t sure he deserved.

It made something tight and painful and good pull low in his chest.

Ro looked up, catching him staring.

“What?”

Steve blinked, then shook his head. “Nothing. Just…” He glanced at the pile, then back at him. “You’re good at this.”

Ro’s mouth twitched shyly. “You too.”

Steve smiled. “Eh. I’m older.”

“That means nothing.”

That startled a laugh out of the eldest ally.

“Well damn,” Steve murmured amusedly. “Okay.”

Ro’s shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug. “Not your fault. Growing up’s a sham.”

That, it was... Too true. Age didn’t mean much in here except more names in the sky if things went wrong, or more slips in a fishbowl on Reaping Day.

Steve didn’t say that.

He just reached over and bumped his knuckles softly against Ro’s shoulder before rising to his feet again. “C’mon, partner. Let’s admire our handiwork before we get emotional.”

Together they stepped back.

The bonfire pile stood thick and ugly and solid in the clearing. Big enough to blaze high. Dry enough to catch quick. Hidden well enough, for now, beneath the normal clutter of the woods.

Ro put both hands on his hips.

Steve did too.

They stared at it in silence.

Then Steve held out his hand, nodding at their work. Ro slapped a high five into it so hard his own little palm stung, and he immediately shook it out with a hissed laugh.

Steve grinned. “Worth it?”

Ro nodded. “Worth it.”

“Good.”

Then Steve crouched with a sly look and tapped one shoulder.

Ro’s whole face lit up.

He came over without hesitation and climbed up Steve like they’d been doing this forever, then settled onto his shoulders while Steve reached back for his backpack. He fished out a couple crackers and pieces of jerky with one hand and handed them up without even looking before shouldering the pack.

Ro took them greedily. “Thaaaaankyou.”

“Welllllllllcome.”

Steve shoved one cracker into his own mouth, rose to standing, and got both hands around the kid’s ankles. “Hang on tight.”

“I am.”

“Watch my six.”

“On it.”

Steve started walking.

Ro immediately flopped backward with complete trust, dangling upside down over Steve’s backpack against his spine while still chewing like a little goblin, humming some mangled version of Smooth Criminal through a full mouth.

Steve had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing again.

“Bro...”

Ro pointed the last of his cracker at him from upside down. “Yeah?”

“You get a head rush, that’s your own fault.”

“I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“I’m excellent. In watchin’ your six!”

Steve shook his head, grinning like a madman as he kept moving through all the trees, one hand occasionally lifting to steady Ro whenever the path got uneven. The late sunlight flashed through the leaves overhead. Somewhere far off, a bird chirped. Somewhere closer, water murmured.

And beneath it all, the beat kept going.

Ba-dum, ba-dum.

Steve took over for a second, whispering the rhythm under his breath.

Ro answered it from upside down.

Then the two of them were doing the sounds together, building the whole song out of nothing but bad percussion and whispered enthusiasm and the occasional sharp little woo! that Steve absolutely should not have been doing but did anyway.

He kept walking.

Kept swaying his shoulders.

Kept giving into the warmth of it all.

By the time they’d reached the first snare, they were both grinning like idiots again. Steve spotted the caught squirrel first and froze mid-step — then, he straightened dramatically and looked out at the invisible audience of nobody.

“Well, well, well…”

Ro lifted himself upright on Steve’s shoulders.

Steve pointed. “Would you look at that. Yahtzee.”

“Bingoooo,” Ro whisper-shouted in fake shock. 

Steve carefully crouched to let him climb off. Ro landed light and quick, then immediately padded over to the snare. Sure enough, caught clean and dead, was a fat gray squirrel.

Good. Real good.

Enough for both of them tonight.

Ro crouched by it and went still.

Steve came up behind him slower. For a second neither of them spoke. Then Ro pressed three fingers to his lips, kissed them… and lifted them toward the sky.

Steve frowned, not in disapproval… just curiosity.

He crouched beside him. “What’s that for?”

Ro glanced at him, then back at the animal. “A sign of respect,” he explained quietly. “Back home, we go it.”

Steve stayed still.

Ro’s voice stayed soft. Matter-of-fact, no performance to it. Just solemn truth and grace. “For whoever falls,” he said. “Friend or foe. Human or animal. It’s just… we acknowledge it.”

Steve looked at the squirrel.

Looked at the kid beside him.

Something in him shifted. 

He nodded once. Then, after a beat, he copied the gesture himself — three fingers to his lips, then giving them a little lift toward the air.

Ro didn’t smile about it. Didn’t make it a thing.

He just looked down and reached for the snare.

Together they got the squirrel free. Steve guided his hands through the first part of it, talked him through the rest in low, steady instructions — and Ro followed every word. Yesterday he’d watched. Today he helped. Steve didn’t rush him. Didn’t sugarcoat it either. This was gruesome work…but necessary work. Sorrowful work. The kind of survival that never stopped tasting wrong, even when you got good at it.

Ro never flinched away.

His eyes stayed glossy. Solemn. But he didn’t look sick. Didn’t panic.

Steve couldn’t decide if that relieved him or broke his heart worse.

Once the skinning was done, they buried what needed burying. Covered all signs. Scattered the disturbed leaves. Then Steve built them a small, tight little cookfire while Ro struck the match. The squirrel roasted quickly enough over the flames, the smell of hot meat making both of their stomachs twist awake in the worst and best ways.

Steve cut it down. Wrapped it carefully in two giant elephant-ear leaves that they’d found nearby. Tucked it into the smaller pouch of his backpack. Then they stamped out the fire together until not even a live ember remained.

When it was done, Steve rose, dusting off his hands on his cargo pants, and offered Ro a fist.

“Alright, partner,” he said. “You ready?”

Ro grinned up at him.

And then, instead of fist-bumping, he launched himself at Steve’s waist with a delighted little hynnnng noise.

Steve barely had time to catch him before the kid clung there like a koala.

“Well okay then,” he laughed under his breath. “That a yes?”

Ro just squeezed harder, face tipped up at him with total menace and delight sparkling in his eyes… crinkled with pure love and childlike adoration.

Steve hugged him back automatically and gave him one playful little shake. “You’re a nutcase.”

Ro nodded. “Yup.”

“Good, glad we cleared that up.”

For a minute, Steve playfully waddled with Ro wrapped around him like that. One step, two steps, three steps — all shuffled and awkward and scored by the unabashed giggles of a nine-year-old, along with the witty commentary of his noble comrade.

Then Steve scooped him up again, hauled him back onto his shoulders, and set off toward the tree they’d chosen for the night.

The forest had mellowed out into that rich, pre-sunset hush now... Not quiet exactly. Just held. Expectant. The kind of soft light that made everything look briefly kinder than it really was. Steve and Ro kept up the little whispered jam session most of the way there, not even really singing words anymore. Just music sounds. Bad rhythm. Tiny dance breaks whenever Steve had to stop and adjust his grip or check their surroundings. Every now and then… Ro would point out something ahead. Like good footing, low branches, a rabbit trail, a patch of edible greens they should remember later.

And every now and then, Steve would glance up toward the sky… and think of you.

Still out there somewhere.

Still alive, if the earlier birdcall meant anything… which it had.

He held onto that.

Had to hang onto that.

By the time they reached the big tree they’d picked out earlier, the sun was tipping lower in earnest… staining the spaces between branches amber and pink.

“Lead the way, brother,” Steve murmured, setting Ro down and letting him scramble upward first.

The kid went up the trunk like he belonged there.

Steve followed with the backpack over one shoulder, the bow secure against his back, quiver shifting lightly as he climbed. They found the same kind of gift that they’d found before: a sturdy fork of thick branches, high enough to matter, sheltered enough to work.

Ro carefully got settled while Steve hung up the backpack and accepted the little knapsack from him too — securing both within reach. He made sure the bow and arrows had their own easy notch nearby. Then he pulled out the wrapped squirrel meat, their water, and the odds and ends they’d scavenged earlier — roots, greens, a few plants Ro knew were safe.

They settled in to eat.

It wasn’t much.

Nevertheless, it felt like a feast.

Steve cut the squirrel smaller with his knife, handed over the first pieces, and pretended not to notice how carefully he kept giving Ro the better portions. Ro pretended not to notice too, which was its own kind of mercy. For a while they just chewed and drank and watched the sky change.

The colors got strange with evening. Pretty in a way that felt almost mean.

Ro squinted out at it. “Looks like peach.”

Steve followed his gaze, expression turning sly and teasing. “Mm, that’s not peach.”

“It is.”

“That is aggressively not peach.”

Ro pointed. “That part is. Right there--see?”

Steve tilted his head. “Okay, maybe that part.”

“And orange.”

“For sure.”

“And pink—like, sorbet.”

“Mm-hm,” Steve smirked, mouth watering at the mention of sorbet.

“And that weird one,” Ro pointed to another section of the sky, where a cloud swirled off into another cluster of color. “Looks like a kind of funky jam inside of a jar.”

Steve snorted. “Great description.”

“It’s weird.”

“That I agree with.”

Ro leaned a little farther out to see between branches. “Like bruised gold.”

Steve went still for a second. Then looked at him with something like surprise and something fonder. “Bruised gold, huh?”

Ro shrugged with one shoulder, chewing. “Yeah.”

Steve looked back out over the trees. “Yeah,” he murmured after a second. “Okay. Bruised gold.”

They sat with that.

Then Steve cupped his hands and sent out the four-note whistle.

The mockingjays caught it. Carried it. Carried it farther and farther through the woods.

He and Ro waited.

Maybe a minute and a half.

Then your four notes came back.

Not from you directly. From the birds. From the trees. From the whole damn arena, it felt like. The mockingjays confirmed you were still alive. Still safe.

Still out there.

Ro’s whole body eased.

Steve’s did too, even as the saddest smile graced his features.

Then Ro sent the smaller signal back — the one that meant stay put. Do not come looking yet. The plan’s in motion.

The mockingjays carried that too.

And sure enough, your two-note reverse call bounced back to them.

After they knew for certain you’d heard, they leaned back into their branches again and finished the last remnants of supper. Then, Steve pulled out a few honeysuckles from where he’d tucked them into an outer pocket earlier and  handed two to Ro, while he kept one for himself.

Ro brightened. “Dessert.”

“Damn right.”

They sucked the tiny sweetness from the flowers and let the day finally begin to wind down around them. No cliff dropped out from under the moment. No beast roared. No cannon sounded. Not yet. Just the two of them up in a tree with sticky fingers and tired limbs and a plan waiting for morning.

Below, the woods darkened.

Above, the sky bruised deeper.

And by the time the last taste of honeysuckle faded off their tongues, all that was left to do was breathe, sit shoulder to shoulder in the branches… and let the night come slow.

(continued in next post...)

⚕️

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[luveline]

𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮

You ran out on Steve almost three years ago in the middle of a sweet fling, but now you’re back in Hawkins, and there’s a little girl on your hip that looks just like him. fem, 14k

afab reader, second-chance romance, girl!dad steve, slow burn idiots, no upside down au 

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

You realise how fucked you are pretty quickly. 

It’s something in the way the kid is looking at you. He’s staring at you, not unfriendly but piercing, and his gaze keeps flicking to Leah like he’s trying to make sense of her, and his mouth is stuck obnoxiously with his tongue flat and pulled into that cruel letter ‘S’. 

You freeze up like you’ve been caught, which doesn’t help. 

And the kid spins in his Nike’s and races for the entrance, ditching a basket full of veggies and a pack of gum in the middle of the aisle. 

“Okay, Lee,” you say, sweating despite the November chill. “Let’s get going.”

Leah grins in her seat in the shopping cart. “Meemaw’s?” she asks. 

“Yeah. Let’s go make sure your meemaw had her dinner.”

Your ears ring all the way home. They don’t stop ringing. You spend the night waiting for a phone call you don’t get, awkward and clammy. There’s a certain way that rich families work in Indiana. You can see the coming hush money or the threat to leave town almost as clearly as you could see the loveless marriage years ago. You and Leah need to get out of dodge before you’re stuck having conversations you never wanted to have. 

I mean, who could’ve predicted that? One of Steve’s teenagers recognises you in the grocery store three years after your fling, how’d they even remember? 

The phone doesn’t ring, that night. 

Or the next.

Maybe Steve didn’t believe the kid. Maybe the kid had an emergency completely unrelated to Leah. Maybe Steve believed it and didn’t care. You deem yourselves safe from harm in a venture to the grocery store when your mom asks for chicken noodle soup. 

It’s there you recognise your mistake. Steve Harrington’s shiny BMW sits parked in the bay by the sign for the laundromat and the man himself sits inside with a paperback bent open on his thigh. He’s glaring at it like it killed his whole family.

You move bodily away from him with Leah clasped to your chest, wondering if you can beat him in, but then a chirp sounds near the door and you watch in slow motion as a young teenager brings a radio to his mouth and says, “Code milkshake!”

You hear a curse and can’t help looking back, right at the bimmer, where Steve is looking up through the windshield with a look of frozen trepidation on his face. 

—

So. 

How did you end up where you are? 

You aren’t one for thinking about the past. Don’t like doing it. In fact, you try your very hardest not to think of the past when you can help it. Once Leah was born, that was easy to do. Babies are demanding, they take over your entire life, and your new life in Portland was already busy to begin with. You find thinking of the past incessant and unnecessary, but. Things are happening oh so fast —you had genuinely figured you could get through your homecoming without being spotted. You figured you could leave Leah at home with your mom while you shopped, but meemaw’s stroke has affected more than her body, and you couldn’t leave Leah there in good conscience in case an accident happened. 

It’s not like you had many friends, before you left. Any, in fact. Steve was the first guy to ever show any interest in you, and as nice as he’d been in the quiet moments after, he hadn’t exactly brought you roses or promised you anything. You’re the dummy who got pregnant by the ‘washed out’ king of Hawkins High. It was probably going to be one of his peers, and it was never going to be Nancy Wheeler. 

Things were obviously more detailed at the time, but you and Steve had come together in a fling. It’s not a relationship that you’d pictured for yourself, but it’s not as though you set your sights on him and thought, yeah, I’m going to fuck him. It was more that he was friendly, and you were both at the same bar at the same time sitting by yourselves, and with a little gin and a ton of mutual loneliness, it’d felt natural to let him kiss you against the hood of his car. When he drove you home, worried you’d get stuck in the rain, you’d offered him into an empty house. Things snowballed from there. 

The sex was good. Steve was kind. He was a bit awkward from time to time and he didn’t know what to say without putting his foot in his mouth, but you liked it. Liked him. 

Then the test. Then the memory of his Harrington name, how his mom wanted him to marry a socialite and his dad was priming him to get into the family business, whatever that may be. That silly conversation about kids. “I’d never put them through it,” he’d said, naked and tracing a star into your shoulder blades through the sheets, his hair damp at the nape of his neck with sweat, “are you joking? They’d be the loneliest kid ever.” 

You remember laughing softly. You’d wanted him to say something different, but you aren’t sure what it is he could’ve said to make it right enough to stay.

In the end, you figured Leah could be part of a brand new start. You applied for a job in the classifieds and uprooted the rest of your life to go to it, and when you finally had your baby, you didn’t let yourself call Steve. What use would that have been, letting him smash the lingering, aching bit of your heart that wanted him to love you? You were smart enough then to recognise that your dream for the future was about as childish as getting knocked up at nineteen. 

It hurts now, though, as he gets out of the car, how badly you want him to want you, and how stupid you’ve always been. 

Steve shuts the door to the BMW and makes his way in a jog across the parking lot. He breathes your name. You’re nervous, not stupid. You don’t try to hide the baby. 

She grumbles on your hip. 

Steve stands in front of you. He’s remarkably not shouting at you, but he’s not smiling, either. He looks different than the last time you’d seen him for sure, fuller and broader, lip dark with stubble and his hair shorter (but not short). There’s a funny scar stretching unkindly against his throat, startlingly new to you but clearly healed. 

He stands there in quiet. 

Leah makes a fawning sound, like she’s tired and excited to see a new person. 

“Hi, Steve,” you say, to get sound out in the air. 

His eyes fall on Leah. She’s a good mix of you both. Got her dad’s eyes and her mom’s nose and a handful of his beauty marks, small dark freckles that sprouted all over her body a few weeks after she was born. 

“Is she mine?” he asks, cutting straight to the fat. 

You shift her closer to your chest. He’s impossible to read for once, not a lick of anything on his face as he waits for you to answer. The cold chaps your lips and the late-fall sunshine threatens to blind you where it’s rising from behind him. 

“You didn’t want to have a baby,” you say carefully. Each word said with less enthusiasm than the previous. 

He doesn’t speak. Leah whines at the pause, her hand spreading against your collarbone in protest. 

“I know you didn’t. You said it’d be miserable, and you’d get stuck with a woman you didn’t love to save face, and I knew that. I didn’t see any good in… in making you go through that.”

To your complete and utter surprise, his face softens. His mouth puckers in sympathy and his arm twitches like he’s going to reach for you. His hair curls into his eyes in the cold breeze. He squints against it, gaze falling once again on Leah, who he can’t get enough of. He’s full-blown gawking at her, watching her sigh and sniffle and press her hand into your neck.

“Is she mine?” Steve asks again.

You clear your throat to answer, but you can’t summon the words. Your nod is jerky and embarrassed and annoyed, all at once. Of course she’s his baby. She looks so much like him, and you never let anybody else touch you. 

Steve opens his mouth to finally speak and you cut him off. “Well, she’s mine,” you say tightly. 

He nods like he understands. He doesn’t even look mad at the insinuation. 

“Her name is Leah.” If he’d been angry with you, cruel, even agitated, which maybe he deserves to be, you’re not sure you could offer this to him now. “She… she looks a lot like you, huh?” you ask. 

Steve manages a laugh, strained as it may be. “Yeah. Yeah, she does.” He swallows harshly. “I thought if I came by the house you’d turn me away. Uh. Because I thought there must’ve been a reason you didn’t want me to know, but now we’re… here.”

You glance around the parking lot. His tattle of a child has made himself scarce. 

“Do you wanna come home with me?” you ask. Mostly for want of something to say. 

“Yeah.” 

You go to leave, but Steve makes a sound and brings you right back. Without comment, he curls an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into a half-hug, slotting his nose against your temple like he used to, even as you tense up in his embrace. 

“I thought you’d be more angry at me than this,” you say under your breath. 

“Yeah, that’s not really how I work.” He parts from you awkwardly and points to the car. “I’ll follow you?” he asks. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” He turns very suddenly and makes his way to his car. 

You meander to your own car and pop open Leah’s door. “Sorry, Lee,” you murmur, tucking her into her carseat.

“Why?” she murmurs.

“We’re gonna go to meemaw’s, okay?” If your mom could hear you calling her meemaw before her stroke she’d have knocked you up the side of the head, but it’s all Leah’s ever known her as, and meemaw doesn’t have much choice in the matter now. You’d laugh if you didn’t feel sick. 

“Okay.”

You kiss her cheek, getting stuck there with your nose in her hair, all manner of panic and awkwardness and I’d-rather-nots thrumming through you. I should’ve stayed in Portland, you think. 

Leah kisses your cheek while you’re stooped there. Your misery takes a backseat as you gather your bearings. 

You climb into your own seat, close the door, lock it, and shove the keys in the ignition. Steve’s car idles a few spaces behind, waiting for you to go. You cannot put this off much longer, but you’d pictured the moment so differently, there’s a sense of unreality now. Is this happening? Did you really spill the truth to him the very first time he asked? 

Where’s your backbone?

Where’s your common sense?

With a groan, you pull the car out of the space and begin the drive to your mom’s house. You were never close with her, as strange as it seems. She was a woman with interests and her kid happened incidentally. It doesn't bother you anymore. You came to Hawkins to take care of her. Nobody else was going to do it for you, but so far she’s been an easy patient. She needs help making dinner and she can’t walk more than the length of the hall without finding herself breathless, but she’s recovering slowly, so long as her mental faculties recoup with her body, she’ll be alright. 

You, however, have screwed the entire pooch. You look at Leah in the rearview mirror and worry you’ve ruined her entire life. 

“Chill,” you say to yourself quietly, almost missing the road to your mom’s house. Worst comes to worst and we go home to Portland, you tell yourself. Nothing has to change. 

“Mommy?”

“Mm?” you ask. 

Leah leans forward in her car seat, huffing with annoyance when the belts keep her in place. The jacket she’s wearing has bunched into a lump under her chin. “Off?” she asks. 

“Two minutes.”

“Off.”

“Let me park the car, Lee. I’ll take it off of you as soon as we get home.”

She whines long and loud.

“Sorry, sweet girl. Two minutes and we’re there.”

Leah sulks the entire way there. You park in the space in front of the house and hurry out of the car, quick enough to see Steve in the bimmer pulling onto the sidewalk. You open Leah’s door and offer her a huge smile, hoping to cull a tantrum with bubbly affection. “Hi, off?” 

“Yes!”

You laugh to yourself and bring her out, even as your heartbeat climbs up your throat. You can hear Steve getting out of his car as you unbuckle Leah from the car seat and drag her out. You sit her in the slight dip of the window and use your stomach to keep her up as your fingers search for the zipper of her coat. You pull it tight down and unzipper her, freeing her of the thing that had been irking her so bad and restoring her good mood. 

She exhales dramatically in relief, which has you laughing again. “Is that better?” you ask through it.

“Better,” she echoes. 

Leah sits up at the sound of shoes on gravel. Steve’s crossing the drive, hands shoved in his pockets. 

“Who?” she asks. 

Uhhhh.

“He’s gonna come in and have dinner with us, okay?”

“Y’okay.” 

“Yeah?”

Leah nods enthusiastically. You can see Steve grinning in your peripheral vision, and it’s so much like Leah’s smile you find your heart going haywire. 

“Okay,” you say, your full attention to Steve. “Is that cool?”

“Can we talk, first?”

You don’t blame him for asking. 

“Yeah, we’ll talk first. But… my mom, she’s not doing the best right now, so. Maybe we should talk outside?” 

“I’m not going to yell.”

“No, but. If you’re angry, I get it, but she can’t cope with that right now.” 

“Are you angry?” he asks. 

“No.”

“Then we don’t have anything to worry about,” he says, the sound of his smile palpable as Leah gives one back. “I’m not gonna yell. I promise.”

You show him into the house. It feels like walking yourself to the gallows. 

The room is narrow. The sides of your vision start to dissolve as you drop your car keys in the bowl by the door, then walk Leah to the kitchen. You hold her one handed as you palm off her shoes, dropping them and then her on the floor by the kitchen table. “Okay?” you ask her. 

She wanders off toward the living room and the sound of TV. 

Steve Harrington’s standing in your mom’s rinky dink kitchen waiting for you to talk. You’re standing there useless, taking sips of air that sting, waiting for him to cut the crap and berate you. It would make sense. If he’s upset that you didn’t tell him you were pregnant, or that you were stupid enough to keep her, to get pregnant in the first place, it wouldn’t surprise you. Men are cruel, and Steve had a reputation for popularity. It would make sense for him to be mean to you now. 

“How old is she?” he asks finally.

“She’s turning two soon.”

Steve seems to be holding his tongue. 

“Just– ask.” You try to look sorry. “Ask me whatever you want.”

“Can I–” He throws a hand out, the first sign that he’s not as genial as he appears. “Can I be her dad?”

You flinch. “What?”

“Like, I want to be her dad. A real dad. I want to be in her life, I want her to know me. Did you think I wouldn’t want that?”

“I didn’t think you wanted kids at all.”

“I want kids.” Steve crosses his arms over his chest. “I always wanted a whole team of them.”

“That’s not what you said.”

“When? When you told me you were having my baby?”

This is more what you’d been expecting. There’s a cruel pleasure in being vindicated. “When you told me you didn’t want kids, Steve. You said you didn’t want a miserable kid in a miserable marriage, what was I supposed to glean from that?” 

“Exactly, I didn’t want a miserable kid, which is exactly what I was, and I didn’t want it in an arranged marriage that my mom thought would be good for me.” His anger drains a little. “I never meant– I mean, even if I didn’t, you should’ve told me.”

“She’s my baby.”

“That’s not fair.”

“That’s totally fair, she’s literally mine.”

“It’s not fair to act like I wouldn’t have cared,” he clarifies, frowning at you. It’s so disappointed-looking it pisses you off worse, but you're trying to keep a level head. Nobody here deserves for you to blow up and say words you don’t mean. 

You bite your lip. “I’m sorry, Steve, but I wasn’t convinced that you would. I wanted what was best for me and her.” 

“I can be best for you both.”

You wait for him to hold it up. To prove what he means. 

“If she’s mine, I want to be her dad,” he says. 

“If?”

He waves a hand, like he could roll his eyes. He should thank his lucky stars he didn’t. “Not like that, I’m not saying she’s not, I just want to look after her.” 

“She’s looked after.”

“I’m not saying she’s not,” he says, uneasy now, shifting to hide a hand in his pocket. He wasn’t expecting you to be difficult, you think. “I’m not saying that. I’m not saying anything about you, I’m asking you if I can do right by you.”

“You might not actually want her, Steve.” 

“I haven’t stopped thinking about her since the kids told me. I didn’t get a good look at her, but the idea? Just the idea of her? I wanted it.”

You sigh, frustrated, and set your sights on the fridge. “Can’t believe you had kids posted up at Bradley’s to stalk me,” you murmur. 

“I needed to see her for myself.”

“Steve... You’re twenty three. We aren’t married. You don’t have to be anything to her, you don’t have to do right by me, we don’t have to play house until you’re miserable. In a couple of months we’ll go home to Portland and you don’t have to do anything. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but you don’t have to worry. You can tell everyone you tried and I said no and you’ll still look good.”

“Why are you being like this?” he asks, leaving little air between your sentence and his. “What are you talking about? I’m asking you if I can keep you guys and you’re trying to run me out?”

“Keep us?” you ask indignantly. 

“Yes!” He clears his throat. “I don’t get why you left without telling me and I am angry, but I also don’t understand what it’s like to have to make that decision, and I’m sorry you made it by yourself, and I don’t blame you for running away. Okay? Is that okay?”

He’s so loud, then, so tightly wound and upset, his voice a shade of pleading, that the protests you’d been making die on your lips. 

“Yeah,” you say quietly.

“You didn’t think I wanted a baby, and I guess I didn’t give you a reason to think that, but I do want one. I would’ve— if you’d told me, I would’ve lost my mind. I’m still losing it.”

You pull out a chair at the kitchen table to take a wobbly seat. Your heart is racing, that stupid kiddie feeling of being in trouble for hurting him clouded by a lingering sense of mistrust. You’d thought… all these years, that Steve didn’t want kids, or marriage, or anything, and– and– maybe you didn’t run away because of him, maybe it was all you, maybe— 

“Hey,” he says, a hand landing between your shoulders, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you ask, sharper than you mean to.

“I don’t know. I wanted you to stop freaking out.”

“Well,” you say, licking your lips, your breath coming short and shallow, “it didn’t work.”

Steve Harrington rubs your back. You try desperately to chill out, Leah in the other room, your mom sleeping or listening, probably already wound up from all the ruckus, and Steve, who you haven’t seen in years, who used to kiss all over your face before he’d hug you in the dark of his bedroom, waiting for you to calm down so he can say what he needs to. 

A chair pulls out next to yours after a while. Steve sits beside you, resting his hand on your knee. 

After a few minutes, you cover his hand with yours. 

“She’s beautiful,” he says. 

“Looks like her mom,” you mumble. 

“Yeah, she does. More like me though.”

You huff a weak laugh. 

“Are you gonna throw me out?” Steve asks. 

“You want to be her dad?”

For a few seconds, you worry he hasn’t heard you. But he rubs a small back and forth on your leg and says, “Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, then. I’m not letting you meet her if you’re not serious, Steve. You have to mean it.” You raise your eyes to his and all his perfect lashes. “Promise?”

He offers his pinky, which is so dumb. This whole scenario is so stupid. Too bad it’s mostly (almost entirely) your own fault. 

You shake his pinky. He keeps them tied for a long time. 

In a rush, you sniffle yourself dry and usher Leah into the room with a hand on her shoulder. She is so, so small. At least your mom missed the commotion, sleeping sat up in the armchair. 

“You promise?” you ask Steve, pausing at the table. 

Steve nods emphatically. By the looks of things, he’s all in. 

You pull your chair out opposite Steve and scoop Leah into your lap. You hold her wrist in your hand gently and lean down to talk in her ear. “Okay, Lee. I gotta tell you something, okay?”

“Y’okay.”

“This is daddy.” 

You can tell he’s not expecting such a straightforward introduction, but after a moment, he cannot hide his smile. Leah looks at him with his almond shaped eyes, all smiles in return. 

“Okay? This is daddy, and he’s gonna spend some time with us.” 

“Huh?”

You point at Steve, smiling even as your hand trembles between you both. “This is your daddy. He missed you very much and wanted to see you. Can you say hi?”

“Hi,” Leah says, her voice raspy and high. 

“Hi, Leah,” he says, ever so slightly choked up. Just barely. 

“He was my best friend,” you say, “and he wants to be your best friend, too. Do you want to play a game with daddy?” 

“Wam’ play game?” Leah asks Steve. 

“Please, I would love to play a game. What game do you like?” he asks.

“Um…” Leah places her hand in his and you could probably weep, but he’s smiling at her with so much love as he waves it up and down you never get there. She shakes her fist up and down in his, giggling when he over exaggerates her strength. 

“Woah, strong girl!” he says. “Don’t break my arm!”

Leah gives him a good shake. 

—

“I do not understand why you’re so calm. How you’re so calm. This is not how I’ve seen you react to things.”

Steve pushes the shopping cart into Robin’s hip. She squawks and thrusts it at him, the crate of kiddie water bottles he’d balanced on the bottom rung hitting him clean in the ankle. 

“How am I supposed to react?” he asks, wincing as he brings his leg up to rub at the new wound. 

“Uh, to blow the fuck up?” She tucks her hair behind her ears, staring at him. “I was expecting more whining, if I’m totally honest.”

Steve gets back to the task at hand. The aisle they’re in is pink no matter where you look, full of Barbie dolls and ballerina tutus and teddy bears with hearts in their palms. “What would you want if you were two?” he asks. 

Robin offers one of her kinder smiles. “I guess I’d want everything.”

“Well, Y/N’s not gonna like that.” 

He wants to take care of you both. He doesn’t want to make you feel like you weren’t doing that already. So. The cart is full of stuff for him mostly, things he’ll need to look after Leah should he ever be allowed to take her by himself, which he assumes he will. He’s got diapers, sippy cups, wet wipes, rash creams, a mountain of clothes he has to remember to keep the receipt for, baby snacks, a changing pad, bath toys. He has a towel like a poncho with a ladybug hood and a great big bottle of bathroom cleaner to shape things up for his baby. 

He also got you pajamas. He’s not sure why. He remembers that old pair you used to wear whenever he’d make it to your place with the pink and purple plaid, and he’d been wondering if you kept them, and a desire to see you in them again had come over him and now they’re in the cart. He’s hoping he can sort of slip them in between diapers. 

Steve doesn’t want to show you up, but he does want to prove he’s being serious, emotionally and physically —financially. Leah is his baby. Kids are expensive, and she must’ve already cost you a small fortune, and you didn’t want his help but you can bet you’ll be getting it, not singularly because he cared for you (he has to gloss it into that one word, care, things being complicated enough as it stands without remembered notions of falling and love) but because Leah is literally his baby. 

He pauses on the spot. 

Leah is his girl. He’s allowed to buy her things. It will not be an insult. 

He grabs a Barbie with a puppy dog on a leash, a box of stickle bricks, a teddy bear with a big cutesy grin, and purple bunny rabbit to be his best friend. 

Robin watches him put it all in the cart in silence. 

“Is that enough?” he asks, despite previous internal decisions. She’s his best friend. Everyone needs one. 

Robin turns on the spot to look at the shelves behind them, grabbing a box set of storybooks bound with ribbon down the spines. “These ones are from me,” she says, dumping them next to the second jumbo box of diapers.

“I’m not, like, super angry,” he says, getting behind the cart to push for the checkout. “I want kids. I want Leah. This isn’t a bad thing.”

“You kind of missed out on a lot,” Robin says. Carefully, not to be cruel, but to present it to him in case he hasn’t thought about it. Obviously he’s thought about it, but. 

“I mean, yeah. But do you remember being a baby?”

“It’s, like, a deep down thing.”

He swallows. “Sure, I don’t like that I didn’t get to be there when Leah was a baby, but… I’m finding it hard to be mad when she was protecting all of us from things we didn’t want, or, that’s what she thought.” Steve gives a jerky shrug. “I’m sure she got enough love from her without me, but I’m gonna make up for whatever she missed out on.”

“Okay. Well, when you explode, I’m literally right here.”

Steve is overcome with the urge to snuggle her in the middle of the store, but he hits her with the shopping cart again and feels the thanks get stuck in his throat. “I’m not gonna explode. I’m happy.” 

Steve is thrilled. He has a baby. He has a child. Maybe it’s not the wife and six kids he thought he wanted, but Leah is his baby. 

“She’s mine,” he says. 

“I know, dingus. You’ve said it a hundred times.”

He parks his cart at the belt behind a grandma buying cat food. “I can’t wait for you to meet her, Rob, she’s–”

“She’s beautiful,” Robin says, rolling her eyes. “We’re way too young for kids, Steven. You were supposed to go to college.”

“I’m still gonna go!”

“With what money?”

Steve will save again. It’s community college. 

Robin holds his eye. He avoids it, starts putting things on the checkout belt. “You’re doing the only thing you can do,” she says, “I don’t wanna be friends with a deadbeat, but I wanted you to go. I’m too young to be an Aunt.”

“I’ll going, Rob.” 

“Fine. I believe you.”

“Can you help?”

She pulls stuff out of the cart reluctantly. 

Together, they pack what can be bagged and take it all to the car. Steve drops Robin off at home without much of a goodbye —either she’ll call him tonight or he’ll call her, ‘cos one way or another, they’re gonna talk. Then he takes the side road to your mom’s house and parks the bimmer behind your old blue Pontiac. 

He grabs the toys and the bag of groceries. He’ll have to make another trip for the diapers, but he figures it’s best to see your reaction before he lugs it all up the driveway. 

You answer the door. Parenting has been going better than expected considering you kept the baby a secret for two whole years, and you’re already smiling when you see him. Things were awkward that first week, but he’s been coming by every single day after work if he works, bright and early if he doesn’t. He can tell you’re growing more confident in his promises. He’s not gonna realise how big this whole thing is and run. He’s well aware of how world-changing his decision was to stay, but it wasn’t a decision at all. 

“Hi, is she awake yet?” he asks. Leah naps every day at noon. 

“Mm-hm. She was asking me for daddy all morning,” you say. Secrets you may have kept, but you’re glad for both of them whenever Steve and Leah get along. “I promised you’d be here after dinner.”

“Is it cool that I’m early?”

You eye the bags in his hands. “Sure. I already told you, I’m not gonna dictate anything. You can see her when you want to… What’s that?”

“I was thinking I’d make dinner?” He shakes the lighter bag. “And this is for Leah.”

“Right. Okay.” 

You let Steve in. He, despite all things in his body that remember this song and dance and demand he kiss your cheek hello, powers through to the kitchen without making a fool of himself. 

“Brought your favourite. Thought Leah would probably like it, since you liked it so much,” he says. “And those pastries you loved.”

“You want me to go grab her?”

“Where is she?” 

“She’s sitting with my mom. Don’t think she heard the door, she would’ve come out running by now. She’s a little sleepy.”

“That’s okay. I can put all this away and I’ll go see if she’s awake.”

You cross your arms over your stomach, leaning against the counter. “You didn’t have to get stuff for me.”

“I wanted to.”

“You don’t have to, though. Leah’s your baby, but I’m…”

He feels achy in his jaw. He abandons the bag full of groceries to look at you fully. “If you’d turned up here without Leah, after two years of full radio silence, no letters and no clue where you went, if you came back, I’d want to see you. You know that, right?”

“I…”

“I asked your mom where you went, did you know that?”

“No.”

“Well, she wouldn’t tell me.”

“I don’t think she knew.”

Steve hates how much that annoys him, hates the way he relates to it. He dries his hands on his pants, not sure if he wants to hug you or tip your head with his thumb at chin, forcing you to look at him, to say the things he’s said in his head before bed a couple nights a week for years. 

Steve Harrington does not love by halves. 

“You’d tell me if you were gonna leave again, right?” he asks. 

“We are leaving.” 

“I know, I know, but. You’re not gonna disappear in the middle of the night.”

“No, Steve. I’ll tell you before we go home. I promise.”

His shoulders relax. “Okay, then, I’ll keep bringing stuff you like, too. Trade deal.”

“Mutually beneficial. I won't kidnap your baby again and you bring me raspberry turnovers.”

“Exactly.”

You surprise him with a laugh. “Okay.”

“Okay, good,” he says, grinning, wondering if he’s finally paving a path into your lap again. 

From the doorway of the kitchen comes a pleased gasp. “Daddy?” Leah asks, her eyes widening in delight, feet stomping on the spot, “Hi, daddy!” 

He was supposed to give this up for community college? Steve squats down in a half-second and holds out his hands, ready for an armful of sleepy toddler. Her hair is all puffy and her pajamas big at the neck like she’d wriggled for hours, but she’s soft, smells clean as he wraps his arms around her and she burrows into his neck. 

“Hi, Leah,” he says softly. 

Leah hums her content. 

“Good nap?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah? Did you have a good dream?”

She laughs as he strokes her back. He must’ve tickled her. “Da-ddy,” she says, a long, pulling word. 

She’s so small Steve can’t hug her properly like this, so he hooks her in one arm and stands up to his full height, catching your unreadable expression from over her shoulder. Whatever you’d been thinking fades away, your smile strengthening as Leah pulls out of his neck to wave at you. 

“Mommy,” she says, poking at Steve’s neck. “Look. Daddy’s for dinner.”

Steve laughs loudly. “I’m for dinner? You’re gonna eat me? I thought you liked me!” His head falls in a dramatic agony. “Leah wants to cook me up for dinner, I can’t believe it.” 

“No!” Leah says, giggling as she grabs his face. She pulls at his cheeks, forcing his head up. “Not eating,” she says, like he’s silly. 

Steve shifts her so she’s sitting braced on his lower belly, looking down at her. God, she’s so pretty. She’s perfect. She’s tiny, slim for her age according to you, but she isn’t weak. She holds herself up, her hands confident as they spread over his chest. Steve has to confess that this feeling is the strongest he’s ever experienced. Nothing compares to looking at this little kid who already treats him like he’s the best person she’s ever met, knowing that she’s his. He has to look after her. He gets to be loved by her without hesitation. Leah has no reason to love him, and yet here she is giggling in his arms from the excitement of seeing him. It’s like every day she likes him more, and every day, Steve gets to love her more. It’s so weird, but it's nice.

“I brought you something,” he says, shifting her again so he can cover her back with one arm, using the other to brush a stray bit of lint off of her face. “But– mommy, can she have it now?” he asks. 

You flush. Steve recognises this look on you, pleased and startled. He’s seen it on you a hundred different times. You were always that girl who didn’t expect kindness, or to be considered. He remembers how endearing it was to surprise you with a kiss to say thank-you, or picking up the bill no matter how casual dinner felt, or something as small as helping you into your pajamas after you’d both showered. It was heartbreaking, but he’s never been unfamiliar with the bare minimum. 

“Yeah, of course she can.”

“Alright,” Steve says, grinning. “Your Aunt Robin sent me with a gift for you, but daddy’s is better, so you can have mine first.” He twists for the bag it’s in and yanks it out, Barbie to him so she can’t see. “It’s only small, but I saw it and I thought you’d like it.”

“Can have?” she asks. 

“Depends. Can I have a hug first?” he asks, checking  your face to make sure he’s not being weird. 

Leah nods erratically and throws herself forward. Steve gets a big kiss right on his smooth-shaven cheek, and he can’t stop himself from beaming, his punched out sigh poorly suppressed as he turns her to give her a much gentler kiss at the very top of her cheek. “Thanks, Lee.”

Her eyes squint with a smile. “Can I have, please?”

Steve brings the box up and tosses it to flip it, brandishing it right way round to her glee. 

“Barbie!” she cries.

“With a puppy!” 

“Oh gosh.”

Steve bursts out laughing. “Gosh! Should we get the box open? Then you can gosh at the accessories. She has two pairs of shoes, Leah. Two!”

Leah squirms to be put down, hands clenched tightly on each side of the box. You’re already grabbing scissors to get it open. 

“Thank you.” You lean over Leah to start the dissection. 

“Don’t,” he says, quiet but less shame-faced. “You don’t have to say thanks.” 

You shake your head to yourself. “Yeah, well.” 

“She deserves it, and it’s not up to you to say thanks. I’m serious.” 

“It’s nice of you.” 

He doesn’t know how to prove how certain he is about staying. He decides to keep his mouth shut for now, which is hard. Almost slips up that whole evening. You don’t look happy when he doubles back before he leaves that night with the bag of snacks and the huge box of diapers, but he catches you as you and Leah stand on the stoop waving at the bimmer. You’re smiling. A real one, teeth on display for the first time since you came home. 

—

“Okay,” you say quietly, “up, baby. And another one. Good job.” 

Leah demonstrates a unique level of concentration as she climbs up the stairs with you. You’d have carried her if she didn’t insist she could do it herself with a displeased squeal. Her eyes are nearly closed, her tongue slipping between her lips and a hand thrown out for balance, the other held in your own as she manages two, then three, the few shallow steps that lead into the WSQK building. 

“Hi,” you greet a quiet man sitting at the door. “Is Steve in?” 

“Think so. Why?”

“I wanted to talk to him, if that’s okay.”

The man gives you a suspicious look that eventually metes. “Sure. Gotta knock the booth before you go in, though, they might be on the air.”

“Sure. Thank you.” 

Leah stumbles with you inside. There’s a wide wooden panelled room and smaller glass one within. You knock on it and wait for movement, too scared to look through the panels. You’ve learned that Robin has her very own radio show on the 94.5 called The Morning Squawk, and Steve, through best-friend nepotism, gets to be her sound guy. He has this WSQK van they drive around to do on the road interviews, and they’re both a hundred times happier here than they were rewinding tapes at Family Video. 

It’s a pretty firm knot of roots to lay. 

The door opens a good fifteen seconds after you’d knocked. You’re immediately greeted by a blondified Robin Buckley, her freckled cheeks slack with surprise. “Uh…”

“Hi, Robin.”

“Hi,” she says. 

The last time you saw Robin, you’d been laying on Steve’s couch in his socks and what might’ve been Robin’s own sweatshirt, the three of you arguing on what movie to watch and what candy you were gonna tip into your popcorn. You’d laid your head in Steve’s lap. 

“Leah,” you say, clearing your throat as subtly as possible, “say hi, bubby.” 

“Hi, bubby,” Leah says. 

Robin snorts. 

“This is your daddy’s best friend ever, Aunt Robin,” you say, shooting Robin a sorry look as you mouth, “Is that cool?” 

Robin culls your misery and manages a real smile. “That’s me, babe.” She bends at the waist. “Oh, you really do look like Steve. Shit, this is so cool.” Her awkwardness has melded to full-bodied delight. “You’re like his twin! Well, you do look like your mommy, duh, but this is trippy! Hey, did you get your books?”

Leah looks up at her with huge eyes. 

“Did you like your storybooks?” you ask Leah, kneeling down behind her to hold her shoulder. “Aunt Robin gave you those ones, remember, daddy read one to you about the ugly duckling?” 

“The duckies,” Leah says factually. 

“Awesome,” Robin says. “I’m so happy you liked them, sweetie. And I’m so happy to meet you.” 

You don’t question for a second that she means it. 

You pat Leah on the shoulder. “Aunt Robin is your daddy’s best friend in the whole world.” 

“Daddy’s here?” she asks Robin. 

“Uh, not right now, he had to go get lunch.” 

“Oh.”

“But you can totally come in!” she says, opening the door to the booth wide. “I can show you how the radio works! And then Steve– then dad can come back. I bet he’ll be here any second.”

“You’re not busy?” you ask. 

“I mean?” Robin laughs, nervously incredulous, “if I ever have kids they’d be her cousins. That’s pretty important. And, like, she’s Steve’s, so? I’d die for her?” Robin scratches a hand through her hair. “Come on, baby Stevie, I’ll show you the keyboard. It’s your dad’s favourite gimmick.” 

You hover in the middle of the small room as Robin slides a chair over to the desk with a keyboard and a mic balanced on top of it. She glances at you before she holds her hands out to Leah, and Leah goes into them willingly. Robin pulls her up and settles her in the chair. She can barely see the keys, but she’s already reaching for them as Robin starts to explain which ones do what, toggling a switch that you assume makes sure whatever sounds Leah plays are off air.

You sit yourself down on a loveseat by the door.

“We can play all of this stuff on the radio in the car,” Robin says, “do you listen to the radio?”

“The music, bubby,” you say. 

Leah gives a neck-breaking nod. 

“Well, me and dad choose what songs to play. Do you have a favourite song?” 

“She loves ‘Save it For Later’ by The Beat. She gets super into it,” you say. 

“Oh, we have that one! Let’s queue it up, Leah.”

Leah mashes the keyboard in a cacophony of introductions and funny sounds, then a long run of the Rockin’ Robin intro. She finds a sound bite of applause loaded up on the tape deck, hitting it over and over as she giggles. 

“Be careful, Lee, don’t break it.”

Her hitting doesn’t slow. 

“Lee,” you say more firmly, “baby, stop. You have to be nice. Don’t slap the buttons.” 

Leah throws you a glare. “Mommy,” she whines. 

“What? You have to be nice to other people’s things. Aunt Robin is letting you play with her keyboard, but it’s  important. It’s okay to try all the buttons! But with nice hands. Yeah?”

The ajar door opens fully. “Is my Leah not being nice?” Steve asks, already beaming with all his teeth as he sees her behind the keyboard. “I don’t believe that for a second!” 

Leah wiggles her excitement in the depths of the chair. Doesn’t bother calling out for him, there’s no need. Steve laughs, saying hi with a quick hand dropped on your shoulder, the gentlest squeeze anyone’s ever given with his thumb rubbing a half circle before he bends down by Leah’s chair. “Hi,” he says, your heart beating so loudly in your ears that you hardly hear him. “You’re at the radiohouse! Did Rockin’ Robin show you how to play a song? Do you wanna talk on the microphone?” 

“Hi,” Leah says. 

“Hi.”

“Hug me now?”

Steve’s like butter in the sun. He melts into nothing. “Yeah, babe, right now.”

She slinks forward and he picks her up, standing with a baby on his hip like he’s been doing it all his life. 

“I’m gonna play her a song,” Robin says. “My queues almost empty.”

“Okay, thanks,” he says, to which Robin wrinkles her nose. 

“Sure,” she says, sending you a look as she heads to her desk. Like, get a load of this idiot.

Steve presses his nose to Leah’s hair and smells her. Then he smiles, patting the small of her back. 

Leah looks straight at you and says, “Daddy’s here,” in case you weren’t aware. 

Steve blinks away a pained flutter, his brow pulling like he’d been in pain, quickly wiped away and hidden by the time Leah glances at him again. 

You think maybe, for a second, he’d wanted to cry. 

“Steve?” you ask quietly. “You okay?”

“Yeah. No, yeah.”

“You sure?” 

He tugs Leah higher on his hip. “I’m okay,” he tells you, holding your gaze, his left sclera bloodshot but his nearly-tears blinked away. “I’m great, ‘cos Leah’s here,” he adds, pressing his mouth to Leah’s cheek, “at work! She’s a working girl now, we gotta get you on the payroll.” 

It’s a little while later, sitting on the couch and waiting for Steve to ask you what it is you’re doing here, when the door opens. Leah perks up in his lap, the headphones she’d been wearing falling down around her neck in a heap that makes her cringe, giving a warbly cry as Steve offers assurances to her. 

You’re focused on the teenager standing in the door. It’s the kid. 

His eyes widen at the sight of you. 

“Lucas Sinclair,” you greet, giving him a stony look. “You ratted me out.”

“Uh– did I?” 

“I know it was you.” 

Lucas grimaces. “Are we sure it was me?”

“I saw you.”

“Steve could’ve got the information from anyone.”

You glare for a few more seconds, then relax. “I’m messing with you, Lucas. I’m not mad. Even if you are a narc.”

“I am not! I told Dustin and it was Dustin that radioed Steve. He’s the narc. I said we had to wait for proof.”

“Well, thanks for trying.”

Lucas hesitates with you, though he comes further into the room and lets the door shut behind him. “I am sorry. Kind of.”

“We’re working things out.”

Leah tugs the headphones off of her head and out of the outlet in a great show of toddler rage, Steve laughing where he holds her. He grabs the headphones before Leah can throw them at the floor. “Hey!” he admonishes through laughter, “Those aren’t mine, babe. Should we put them on the desk?”

Steve takes them from her and sets them high. He moves the chair, bumping Leah on his knee, forcing her eyes to the new figure in the room. “Look, Lee, it’s your Uncle Lucas.”

Lucas gives an awkward, endearing smile. “Hi.”

“Hi!” Leah says. 

“What’s up?” Steve asks. 

“Can I get a ride, tonight? I asked my dad but he’s going to that miniature car thing.” 

“Where to?” 

“Max’s.”

“Why are you being cagey?” Steve asks, lifting an eyebrow. 

“I’m not!” 

“You so are, dude. What’s happening at Max’s?” 

“Nothing! She doesn’t, like, know I’m going, that’s all.”

Steve leans in his chair in what would be a total act of casual derision if he weren’t also holding Leah to his front, his fingers waving patterns into her tummy affectionately. “So I’m gonna be on her shit list for whatever it is you have planned? No deal, dude.”

“I’m not in trouble. She’s not mad at me,” Lucas says.

“For once.”

“She’s not. I have a surprise planned? And it’s gonna get ruined on my bike, so.”

Steve’s suspicion wavers. “What sort of surprise?” he asks. 

His smile is nice. Doesn’t it suit him? He’s calm where he sits despite the rumble of noise coming from Robin’s booth and Leah talking to herself in his lap. The red glow of the ON AIR light makes his brown hair nearly purple at the tops but leaves his face untouched, tan fading pale in the fall, his beauty marks the darkest bit of colour to him when you aren’t looking into the well of his eyes. His irises are like wet tree bark. His lashes look long from across the room. 

And his biceps don’t look half bad when they’re wrapped around your baby. Her tiny stature emphasises the bulk he’s put on while you were in Portland. You’ve been noticing more of him lately—his weight gain, the change in his muscle, the cut of his hair, those reading glasses he keeps in the console of his car. But there are things about him that didn’t change. He’s pretty happy, as things go. He likes doing things for other people. 

Their conversation drifts into focus. “…not too much, right?”

“Nah, I think that’s appropriate. Four years of dating is a long time.” 

“Even if you’re broken up for half a year in the middle?”

Steve chuckles. Leah looks up at the sound. “I wouldn’t mention that part,” he says. “Look, I’ll come get you after I’m done here–”

“You’re not coming tonight?” you ask, entirely sincere in asking. Not a lick of judgement in it, but surprise, and a second emotion you aren’t eager to name. 

“I was– I was gonna come,” Steve says. “If that’s cool.”

“Oh, sure. Sorry. I thought you were– Yeah, it’s fine,” you say. 

Steve looks at you for a long second. “I can’t miss out on dinner,” he says, dipping down to speak in Leah’s ear, “can I? What am I making tonight, Lee, do you remember?”

“S’getti,” she says, with a vindication bordering evil. 

Steve presses his lips together. Shrugs at Lucas smugly. “S’getti,” he says. “I’ll be there at six, okay?” 

Lucas shoots an “Awesome, thank you, sorry,” over his shoulder as he leaves. 

“Thank you sorry,” Leah repeats. 

Steve has to lock into work and he doesn’t ask you to leave, moving Leah around in his arms and plugs the headphones in. She enjoys the novelty enough to sit there without complaining, bathed in attention. It’s weird to have Leah with you without having to look after her. Like, she gets uncomfortable and Steve moves her. She whines in his arm and he opens a drawer to uncover a bag of chips. He does ask if it’s alright for her to eat them, but you say yes and he doesn’t need guidance after that. He wipes her dirty face in his sleeve and twists a knob on the keyboard. 

He is startlingly capable. 

You are startlingly hot. 

You pull at your neckline, wishing you’d brought a book to read or a zip tie to garrote yourself with for thinking such stupid shitty thoughts. 

—

Steve packs his shit up at five with Leah on his hip, happy to stay with him. You’ve been quiet bordering silent and he hasn’t summoned up the bravery to ask why. He didn’t wanna look a gift horse in the mouth, ‘cos you’re here, and you brought Lee without any begging on his part. He shows her off to everyone they pass on the way out, less subtly to the smiley cleaner Cindy who loves to call him handsome in the morning. Who’s this? she asks. 

This is my baby, Leah.

The problem arises when he’s trying to pass Leah to you to part ways in the parking lot. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard something that loud,” Robin laments, blinking fast. Because, despite years and time to learn, he’s her ride home. 

Leah screams another ear-splitter. “No!” she’s shouting. “No, no!” 

She sobs. 

You try to disentangle her from Steve’s chest. He can feel your individual fingers pressing into his pecs. “Lee, come on!” you say, laughing nervously. “Daddy has stuff to do, we’ll see him for dinner!”

She sobs louder. 

Robin shakes her head as though dislodging water from her ears.

“Baby, please,” you say, apparently possessing the patience of a god, “it’s okay, I promise, it’s not long. We’ll be okay for a bit.” 

Leah sews her hands in his hair tightly, yanking until it stings. Steve flinches and you immediately stop trying to make Leah disengage. 

“Sorry, honey,” you say, and Steve realises with a full body start you’ve spoken to him, your hand resting open on his upper shoulder. It’s an obvious slip of the tongue. You lean forward with a slight stammer, “I– Leah, don’t pull, you’re hurting.”

“Not going,” Leah says. 

“Just for now!” 

“No!”

You give Steve a wide-eyed frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s going on. She doesn’t do this… usually.”

“That’s okay, it’s fine, maybe you could come with me?” 

You nibble your lip. “I gotta go check on my mom, I haven’t been home all day, I don’t know if she’s eaten yet.” 

Steve tries to pass Leah into your arms with renewed purpose. The snap of hair behind his ear gives him pause. “Uh, can she come with me?” Steve asks, loud now, his head angled against her hand. “Ow, Lee!”

Leah stops pulling his hair with a sob. 

“I’ll take her with me and I’ll drop Robin off, pick Lucas up early, and we’ll come straight to the house.”

You falter.

The thought of you not trusting him hurts his stomach, but you say, “Steve, can you deal with that? She might not get any happier for a while.”

“Sure I can, you’ve had to do it a hundred times. I’m mostly patient. If she doesn’t calm down, I won’t yell–”

“I didn’t think you would.” You pout, wrinkling your nose. “You’d have to move the car seat–”

“Yeah, I got one.”

“You got a car seat?”

“Installed it last week. Jesus Christ, Leah, not the hair!” He reaches up to force her hand as gently as he can away from his scalp. “Baby, owwww. Not the hair.” 

Leah shudders away to check he’s not angry. He can see it on her tiny face, the worry. He brings his hand to her cheek, finds his hand is too big, and has to rub her cheek with his thumb alone. “You wanna come with daddy to drop off your Aunt Robin?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” 

“Come with you,” she says, a crocodile tear rolling down her cheek. 

“But mommy has to go home, is that okay?” 

Leah shudders again. “Y’okay.”

“Okay. Give mommy a big kiss,” he says, repeating one of your favourite lines when it’s time for Steve to leave. 

You get a kiss. You’re startled, he thinks, almost expressionless in how slack you’ve gone, but Steve smiles at you and you smile in turn. “You know how to do the car seat?” you ask. 

“Sure. It’s got the two mechanisms, right? Her arm goes through each of the triangle strap thingys?” 

“Yeah. Okay. Are you sure you can manage?”

“Are you okay with me taking her?”

You shrug. He can see why Leah does it as much as she does. “I guess I am. I mean, when we go home… like, you’ll have to have her for summers, I guess?” you ask, and you’re as beautiful as you usually are, the awkward twist of you and your tired eyes don’t touch it. You were beautiful when he walked into the sound room and found you in the loveseat, beautiful when you told him you’d stay for now without saying goodbye, beautiful when he spotted you across the parking lot with his surprise on your hip. You’ve always been beautiful. He knows you don’t feel strongly about your looks, but he does, and now you made his girl? And she looks so much like the two of you? 

Steve stares at you, not even in hopes of any realisation, but he stares at you and thinks I cannot let this girl go back to Portland without me. 

He doesn’t expect you to stay. All he needs is to beg a ride. 

Because yes, Steve will become your awkward cling-on. He’ll find a shitty apartment close to you and he’ll build his life around Leah if that’s all he can have. 

But it’s not everything he wants. 

“You go take care of your mom, and we’ll meet you for dinner at 6? 6:15 at the latest?” 

“Okie dokie.”

Steve rolls his eyes to stop from kissing your cheek. “Say see you later, mommy,” he tells Leah. 

“See you later, mommy,” Leah says. 

You use his shoulder as an anchor to kiss her cheek. He swears you rub his arm as you pull away, but Robin would call that delusional thinking. “See you soon, bug.”

He watches you walk away. Every step is perfect. “Your mom’s such a bombshell,” he murmurs, “holy sugar, she’s everything.” You turn over the top of the car and give him a wave, blowing Leah a kiss. He wants to catch it. He finger waves back. 

Then he spins and finds Robin judging him hard.

It takes them twenty whole human minutes to figure out how to get Leah safely secured in her car seat. Then he spends four minutes framing her face in his hands and kissing her cheeks, enamoured beyond anything to see her in the bimmer. Robin laughs at how lame he is and he strokes a hair off of Leah’s forehead rather than feed into her ridicule. His baby laughs up a storm as he chucks her under the chin. 

“Steve, I’m gonna starve!” Robin warns.

“Right, right!” 

He kisses Leah’s small forehead and clambers out. 

Robin talks a big talk, but she bends around in the passenger seat to chatter to Leah the whole way to her neighbourhood. “And then dad got us stuck on the side of the road! It was crazy! I told him we were in trouble and he kept laughing! But nothing is that funny, Leah, nothing. I think it’s ’cos your dad has a bunch of screws loose from that time he slipped on melted ice cream at work.” 

“Don’t listen to her, Lee!” Steve protests, laughing at her rolling giggles. 

“He busted his head! Luckily I saved him, because I am very very smart and I went to camp–”

“You went to Girl Scout’s sleep away camp, that’s not real camp! You were there for a week.”

“But they taught me what to do when your dingus gets a concussion,” Robin says, in her silky radio voice that Leah’s magnetised to. “And that’s why dad only looks a bit wonky, as opposed to a lot.” 

“I’m not wonky, am I, Lee?” Steve asks, checking the rearview for her. 

“Wonky?” she asks.

“Does daddy look wonky?”

“Mm,” she says. 

“What! That is so mean! Baby, I thought you liked dad?” 

She giggles and goes all shy. Robin, bless her clumsy, alternative, mixed-up huge heart, goes soft as taffy against the seat. “We don’t like him at all, do we?” she asks, reaching out to rub Leah’s arm. Steve nearly hits a curb trying to watch. “Stinky dad. You can be my girl instead, if mom wants to share. I don’t mind your Harrington blood.” 

He drops Robin off, but her mom comes out and wants to meet Leah and that’s a whole thing. She’s squarely heartbroken when she first sees her, going, “Aw,” and “Oh,” as her eyes fill with tears. 

“Mom!” Robin says. 

“Sorry, but she’s beautiful. Well done, Stevie.” 

He murmurs a Thank you, Mrs. Buckley and gets the usual It’s Melissa, Steve.

It takes another ten minutes to get Leah in the car after her quick trip. He heads straight for Lucas’ and finds him freaking out about the bouquet he got Max —Erica told him to put salt in the water to keep them fresh. Steve drives him to the florists ten minutes before they close and they end up with two smaller bunches combined into a vibrant hodgepodge.

Steve buys a handful of daisies for Leah, tucking one behind her ear. 

Max likes her flowers, but she’s far more interested in the baby. Lucas stands behind her rubbing his mouth. 

“She does look like you,” Max says thoughtfully. 

“Right? She has my eyes.”

“Yeah.” Max leans into the car. “Hi, Steve’s baby,” she says quietly. 

“This is your Aunt Max,” Steve says. 

Leah, who has taken all these new aunts and uncles in her stride (or is too young to get what the hell is going on), offers Max a huge smile with her tiny baby teeth. “Hi Am’ Max,” she says. 

Max grins despite herself. “Hi. Are you having a good day?” 

“Yessss.”

“Yeah?” She glares at Steve momentarily before standing in front of him, like she’s annoyed he’s seen her being normal, like he doesn’t catch her in a good mood all the time. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to lie. Did you have dinner?” 

“Max, I am perfectly capable of looking after her.”

“I’m just checking!” She shakes Leah’s hand nicely. “This party had enough boys,” she says. 

Steve ruffles Max’s hair, unbound and bouncing behind her. He’s lucky he makes it to the car with his hand. 

Steve sighs when they’re on the road to your place. “Okie dokie,” he says, clenching the steering wheel to listen to the leather creak, “let’s go see your mom. It’s only–” He checks his watch. Blinks big and wide. It’s 6:37PM already, and it’s a five minute drive to your side of Hawkins. “Oh, my god. You’re mom is gonna kill me dead.” 

“Kill?”

“Kiss!” he says, cringing. “Yep, she’s gonna kiss me! No other words.” 

“Y’okay.”

“Who taught you to say that so cutely?” he asks, fully stressed now, the tightness in his voice surprising a giggle out of Leah. “Stop laughing!”

She giggles worse. 

He can’t be more anxious as he pulls up to the house. He climbs out of the car, grabs Leah from her car seat, and in his rush to get her home before you murder him, slams his head so hard into the roof of the car he sees stars. 

“Oh, fuck,” he says, holding Leah to his chest as his vision fades out. 

Your laugh sounds out from behind him. “Every parent has to do it, Steve, I’m sorry to say,” you call, jogging down the path to the car. “I was wondering where you guys went. It’s… Steve?” 

He blinks hard as he stands up, his arms around Leah shaky as his head pounds and pounds and pounds. “Sorry,” he says. 

“Steve, what’s wrong?” You rest your arm behind his shoulders to hold him. “Hey, are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”

He urges you to take Leah. 

The pain is radiating from the centre of his skull outward, into each eye and down the nape of his neck. It’s such a sudden sharpness he loses his breath, spotty vision fading in and out as he curls into himself. 

“Lee, can you go inside, baby?” he hears you ask. There are a few steps, your dark shadows on the ground drifting further away before one returns, all alone. “Steve, what happened? How hard did you hit your head?” you ask softly. 

“It’s– I got that–” Every word pulls at the nausea brewing in his stomach. “I’m gonna–”

Steve gags. He aims for the grass. Everything goes white. 

—

Steve does a valiant job of keeping himself upright long enough for you to sit him down inside, but after that, he’s useless. 

“Okay, it’s okay,” you’re saying, a ringing in your ears you can’t cope with, “it’s alright, Steve, you’re okay. Come forward, honey, let me see–”

You aren’t sure he’s conscious, but he slumps forward regardless to expose the back of his head. You feel through his hair and pull your hand out quick to check for blood on your fingertips, but they come away clean. 

“Daddy?” Leah asks, wandering into the living room with her little smile and a daisy drooping behind her ear. 

“How was meemaw, bub?” you ask. 

“Sleeping.”

“Why don’t you go snuggle with her for a minute? I’ll bring you a buppy?”

Leah hugs your leg from behind. “Buppy?”

“Yeah, do you want one?”

Leah shoots for the bedroom. You take her absence as an opportunity to pull Steve’s head up, meeting his droopy gaze. “Steve, baby,” you say, so softly it’d be a wonder if he could hear you, “are you okay?” 

He groans. “Just a migraine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Feels like one.”

“You get them a lot?”

“More since you left.”

You swallow roughly. “I’m gonna call an ambulance.”

“No.” At that, he sits up, holds his own head up to plead, “You don’t have to. I’m fine, this just happens sometimes. After I hit my head at the mall, I get these killer migraines.”

“You hit your head, though. I think you have a concussion.”

“Not my first one.”

You hold his cheek in your hand. Your thumb brushes over his beauty marks. “No?” you ask. 

“Had three.”

“You never told me.”

“I know. Didn’t want you to think I was– some loser? I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know why it was hard to be honest with you, guess I thought– it’s not like it’s ever done any good before. I always say the wrong thing.”

You get on your knees in front of him. To cope with the strain of looking up at him, but more to see him face to face. “Steve, you nearly yacked in my yard. I think we’re past appearances.”

Steve covers his mouth with a big hand. 

You tuck as much of his hair behind his ears as you can. “Can you look at me? I want to check your pupils.” 

He opens his eyes properly, pouring his gaze into yours without hesitation. You check the size of each pupil and find them normal, though the longer he looks, the bigger they become. “I think there’s something wrong, Steve. Your eyes are blown.” 

“It’s fine. It’s not ‘cos I hit my head. It’s a headache.” 

“You almost knocked yourself out. You’re throwing up. What if I don’t call the ambulance and Leah’s dad dies on my couch?”

“I don’t need an ambulance. I barely puked, it was all spit.”

“Steve.” 

“I’m serious. I didn’t even go for the first two concussions, and the third one, they said this could happen. Turns out that taking a couple of bad knocks to the head makes you fragile, I’m fine.” He cups your cheek. “Jesus, don’t feel sorry for me–” 

“I do feel sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

Seconds of stringy silence follow. He squints at you through the pain. “It’s okay,” he says, his own thumb rubbing at your veins. “I’m sorry, too.” 

You pull his hand off your face. Not without care. 

“…Can I please call an ambulance?” you ask, uneasy.

“I don’t need one.” 

“How do you know?” you whisper. 

He turns his hand in your grip to hold yours. His eyes are brown and teary with pain, but they’re so familiar. “I just do. Can you trust me, please?”

You try to stand. Steve squeezes your hand in his and makes you sit on the couch beside him as his eyes shutter closed and his head tips back, the column of his throat there and pale and working as he swallows his pain. You stare at the length of it with your hand too hot in his grip, wondering when it’s acceptable to pull your hand away, and if you’d even want to when the time came. 

You told me you didn’t want this, you think, your two joined hands rising and falling where he’s pulled them to his chest. You swear you can see his heart in his chest. The gentle bump-bump of it against skin. A miserable wife. 

“Can I get you anything?” 

He croaks a hum. “Mm, no.”

“Are you sure? I have aspirin.”

His fingers flex. “It’ll go away.”

“When?”

“It depends. It can take a few hours, sometimes, but I don’t get the worst of the pain for long.” His voice is hoarse with its quiet. 

“The other times?”

“They can last for days.”

You’d seen the physical change in Steve. He went weak and sweaty in seconds. His nausea was obviously extreme. You can feel the tremor in his hand as he talks like every word spurs pain.

“It won’t, though,” he says. “Don’t worry. I need five minutes and I can make dinner.”

“Uh, no you can’t. You can sit right here until you feel better, thanks.”

He sinks impossibly further into your mom’s old couch. “Okay. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You lower your tone. “I don’t mind. I’m sorry if you thought I would.”

“I didn’t mean to–”

“To what? Give yourself a concussion on the roof of the car? I gathered that.”

“Didn’t mean for it to become your problem,” he says. 

“You’re not a problem, Steve. I promise.” 

You fight for better judgement and lose, letting yourself caress a piece of hair away from his pale neck. 

“I think I really screwed up,” he says. “Think I made out all the wrong things. You didn’t think you could tell me about the baby–”

“We don’t have to do this again–”

“Yeah, we do. We do. Because I made you think I wouldn’t want you. I lied to protect my ego and I could’ve had everything I wanted,” —his brow pulls tight and glared, his jaw rigid— “and I hurt you.” 

“I hurt myself. You didn’t make me run away, Steve. I did it all alone. I’m good at that.” 

“I don’t want you to be alone.”

“I don’t want you to live a life that you hate.” 

“I don’t. I won’t. How could I ever hate anything about her?”

You have to give him that. But. “I didn’t tell you for a bunch of reasons, Steve,” you confess, hardly wanting to let it out. “I was scared of everything, you and your parents, making you into the reluctant husband, or– or at the least the reluctant father. I didn’t want to deal with it. And I didn’t wanna be that stupid girl who got knocked up by the prom king. I ran away and nobody had to know.” 

“It wouldn’t have been like that.”

“I realise that now.” 

His head lolls to see you. He pulls his lashes apart enough to peek through them, that dark hedging a line you’d like to count. You tip your head toward his and face him across the couch cushions, hands joined and hot as a hearth. 

“It was never messing around, to me,” he says quietly. Sweat wets the hair at his temples. 

“You don’t have to–”

“I got my heart stomped on pretty hard over and over and I stopped trying. I put all my cards on the table every time. But with you, I couldn’t do it again. I thought I couldn’t, so I acted less into you than I was.”

You remember all his kisses and tight armed hugs, his affectionate nudges, his nose lined to your temple as he bore down. It hadn’t felt like less. But you’d never thought it was more, either. 

“I pretended we were this summer fling, told you I didn’t want kids, that I wanted to live in the city and get a full time job at a firm with a company car, like that stuff mattered.” He frowns at you deeply. “I’m sorry. I wish I could change it.” 

His throat bobs. 

“S’it still hurting?” you murmur. 

“So much,” he murmurs too, holding your hand against his heart. “I can’t get it to stop.” 

“I can’t do this with you.” 

He shakes his head minutely. “M’not asking you for anything you can’t give me. I’m just sorry.” 

You want him to lean in and align his mouth to yours. You imagine it vividly, the press and taste of him, the scratch of the stubble on his upper lip and his hand slipping behind your neck, squeezing your nape gently, his thumb at the hinge of your jaw trying to open your mouth. You want him so badly it’s a palpable ache in your teeth, like he’s already kissed you harsh and quick, that clack of a collision and the subsequent metallic on your tongue. 

But you aren’t lying. You can’t do this.  

A thudding noise echoes from your mom’s room, compelling you up and away from his warm touch. Your hand sings with pins and needles as it falls out of his. 

“Lee?” you call. “Sorry. I have to go make sure she’s okay.” 

He frowns again as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s fine. I’ll be here.”

—

The bedroom throw blankets haven’t changed since you were here last. Your mom didn’t waste much time turning it into a guest room, but the sheets and blankets are the same, soft with wear in your hands as you lay them out. Leah waits for you to finish before climbing into bed, her bottle teat bitten between her teeth. It slips out of her hand with a rush of air as she slips into the pillows. You pick it up and offer it to her again, your shoulders aflame with the weight of an uncommon gaze. 

“What side do you sleep on?”

Steve, at half-mast but less obviously pained, takes his time answering. 

“Left.” 

“Left side’s all yours.”

He shuffles forward in a polo and a pair of his old sweatpants. You, in a horrible stroke of great luck, had them in the bottom of the chest of drawers. 

“Make room for me?” he asks Leah. 

She grins around her bottle. 

You’re pretty sure that if Steve can’t open his eyes for more than ten seconds at a time, he can’t drive, and you don’t want him to fall asleep at home and never wake up. Hence your impromptu sleepover. The bed is a queen and you have a shared child as a buffer, but you’re already annoyed with yourself. Your arms keep remembering what it felt like to stretch out over him whenever he ended up on his front. It is not helpful. 

You put the big light out and the nightlight on, a ladybug on a mushroom that glows a warm orange on Steve’s side of the room. In your own sweatpants and a vest, you climb into the right side of the bed and nearly fall straight back out at the lack of space. 

Steve curls an arm around Leah tentatively, encouraging her into his side to make room for you. 

“You okay?” he asks Leah quietly. 

“You okay, daddy?” she asks. 

“I’m fine, beautiful. I’m good.”

“Sleep?” she asks.

“With you, if that’s cool?”

“Cool,” she says decidedly. 

When you lie down, Leah immediately rolls out of Steve’s grip and makes herself comfortable in the curves of you, her nose digging hard in your arm, the bottle warm on your chest. 

“I’ll move her when she falls asleep,” you whisper, nodding to the foldout cot next to the bed with its padded interior. 

Sleeping in the same bed as Steve Harrington is a long gone artefact of the past. It’s odd to be face to face with him, to smell him so close, the toothpaste on his breath and the salty, earthy sting of sweat mixed with allspice. You don’t strictly mind it, but you didn’t think you’d ever be this close again. It hurries the heart. You miss him like a slap. 

Refusing to think on it is the best way forward. 

“You sure you’re okay?” you ask him under your breath. 

Leah suckles at her bottle, breaking the quiet, though it’s a monotone sort of sound. Steve doesn’t answer. You glance at him and find him dozing already, not a blanket over him nor a sheet untucked. 

“Steve.” 

He blinks to attention. “Huh?”

“Pull the blanket up over yourself.” 

He must like your tone. You’d gone soft by accident, too used to lulling Leah to sleep via sweetness and dulcet murmuring. He kicks it down and then pulls it up to his ribs, a tight white parcel with the pink throw laid over his feet. 

“It’ll be cold tonight. Does that make the migraines worse?” you ask. 

“No. I’ll be okay.”

You let him fall asleep. Leah snuggles under your chin. This isn’t the daydream. You aren’t being cuddled and coddled by warm kisses along the side of your face, his big arm around you, your baby between you. Steve keeps a good distance and he’s exhausted. 

Leah takes a lot longer to fall, but when she does it’s for keeps. You give her ten minutes tucked up on your chest but decide to move her when you feel your own eyes drifting shut. A rush of unnecessary shushing and a soft kiss later, you creep toward the bed and lay down on your side. Steve sleeps as your mirror, one cheek and eye hidden by the pillow, the sheets pulled haphazard over his hip. You yank them from under you and pull them up to cover him to the shoulder, tempted to tuck his hair behind his ear again. It’s long enough. 

“Can feel you staring,” he whispers. 

Your heart leaps in shock, though thankfully you don’t jump. “Hm?”

“Staring at me.”

“Trying to gauge whether you died in your sleep.” 

“Still ‘live.”

You do reach for him, then, stricken by how badly you want to take care of him. “I can see that.” 

He peeks down at your hand on his cheek and grins dopily. “Missed you,” he says. 

“Missed you, too.” 

You wouldn’t tell him if it weren’t dark, if he weren’t in pain. 

“You did?” he asks. 

“I always miss you,” you say. You pull your hand away like it’s him that’s said the wrong thing, annoyed at your own boldness, moving onto your back to stare at the ceiling. 

He feels at your wrist, up your arm. Steve slides his palm over your stomach and holds it there. When you’re starting to think he might’ve fallen asleep again, your breath aching in your throat to be expelled, he presses down carefully and sighs. “I wish I got to see it. Don’t know why you were alone.”

“I wasn't.” 

“Would’ve looked after you, though.” 

“Steve…”

“I would’ve.”

“I know.” You know now. You could’ve stayed here and had him look after you, but it’s not what you wanted. “I wanted… more, than that.”

He stares at you across the pillows. Your breath catches as he brings his hand up to your cheek and encourages your head toward him, as he lifts himself up off the pillows to bear down over you.

“Do you still want that?” he asks. 

You laugh, weak and weary. “Not when you’re concussed.”

He laughs in your face. It’s quiet to leave Leah sleeping, and to stop from hurting himself again, but it’s a genuine laugh of joy leaning over you. His hair falls in his face and he’s beautiful. All freckled and gold in the dim amber light sunning in from behind him. 

“I am not concussed,” he says, leaning down. 

You don’t kiss. Won’t lift your lips to his where he waits, though waiting might not be the right word. It’s like he’s alright with anything you’re about to do, or not do, sharing your breath. 

“I don’t believe you,” you tease lightly. 

He’s moved so much to be over you. It is unquestionably the position of a man who’s going to kiss you. 

You press your forehead to his chin. 

“We should sleep,” you say, because you shouldn’t kiss. 

Portland feels very, very far away as he trails his fingers down the front of you and takes a handful of your hip. 

“I’m not concussed,” he says, though it’s not asking for anything; Steve’s already pulling away. He sits up and slightly away from you, rubbing a wave into your abdomen lovingly, like you never went to Portland at all. Like it’s the sleepover after a night spent kissing slow and watching shit TV. “Get some sleep, angel,” he adds, so quietly you’d doubt he spoke if you hadn’t watched his mouth shape the words. 

—

In the morning, you wake to find Leah chest to chest with Steve, his hair like water on your pillows. 

“An’ my hand an’ my nose as my mouth,” she says factually. 

“And your ears,” he says back to her quietly, stroking a path from her shoulders to her lower back and up again. “Your eyebrows, and your hair, and your neck.”

“Yeah.”

“Your tummy, and your legs, and your little toes.”

“Am’ my toes,” she says. 

“Even your toes are pretty,” Steve agrees. “‘Cos duh. Leah’s the prettiest girl I ever met, right?” His voice drops low enough to rattle hoarsely. “Just as pretty as mommy. I didn’t know that was possible.”

You hide your face in the pillows, pretending to sleep. 

This is not going to go how you’d first thought. 

—

thank you for reading!! so excited I love steve and I know he could be bitchier and angrier here but I’ve decided to make him whipped instead cos he’s cute when he’s in love and if it’s not implied enough he’s still whipped for the reader lol. hope you enjoyed it thank you very much for reading and taking the time

[tinfoileddd]

and if i could give you the moon || s.h.

ex-husband!steve harrington x fem!reader (18+; MDNI; 3.9k words)

It's been two years since you divorced your ex-husband. You get called back to Hawkins for his father's funeral.

cw: second chance romance; angst; character death; hurt/comfort; making out at an inappropriate time; hopeful ending!!! -> thank you to @keeryspullman for letting me torture u in dms with this! follow up at some point. maybe. hehe <3

masterlist || divider by @/strangergraphics || ao3 link

You’d never expected to find yourself back in Hawkins.

Not in the two years since your divorce, not since you saw your ex-husband for the last time as the two of you left the courthouse, refusing to make eye contact or even attempt an amicable goodbye.

(To be fair, what does a person say to their newly minted ex-husband after fighting with him for years to stop working so much? To let you in? After you gave up and decided enough was enough? What do you say to a man who, even as you signed the finalized paperwork, you still weren’t sure you could live without?)

(You hadn’t managed to figure that one out in time.)

But then you got the call from Robin in the middle of the night, panicked and crying and breathless as she says, “Steve’s dad died a couple of days ago, and I know you guys haven’t talked in forever, but he’s really falling apart and I don’t know what to do and he won’t talk to me and Mr. Harrington’s funeral is today and—”

That’s all you needed to let her know that you would make the hour and a half drive up from Indy, kicking out your date that slept over the night prior and packing a bag in a massive rush, only remembering at the last minute that you’re about to attend a funeral, that you need to be dressed for a funeral, and—

And you make it back to Hawkins by ten, a black dress on and pearl earrings that Steve once gifted you hanging from your ears.

The town is the same as you left it. Still small, still aging, still quiet. Everything that you thought you hadn’t wanted in life, and everything that you found yourself yearning for once you got your apartment above a restaurant on Mass. Ave and a shiny new job at a bank downtown.

For a moment, you almost let your muscle memory take over, to guide you towards the northeast end of town to the white, two-story cottage with a fenced in backyard and hydrangea bushes spilling out everywhere in the summer. The kind of house, the realtor had said, that was perfect for raising a family, with its tall ceilings and big windows and creaky stairs, ready to withstand everything from the small pitter-patter of feet across wood floors to the slamming of doors from teenage fueled angst.

The house that you know Steve still lives in, even two years later.

But you don’t let old instinct take over. There’s enough heartbreak being back in Hawkins as it is.

The funeral home sits in the center of town, the one that Will Byers was once memorialized in before he was found alive just days later, and sits opposite of the place the MAC-Z used to sit.

(The place where Steve had been released from military custody to you, and the place where he had dropped to one knee and asked you to marry him just minutes later.)

(The place that you had said yes through your confusion and tears, because he disappeared for weeks without a word, and you’d only had a thirty minute warning from the military to come collect him.)

(Steve never told you why he had been held in custody.)

(You never asked.)

You park down the street and make your way through the well-worn sidewalks, carving out the same path that you used to take with Steve in that summer after the two of you graduated high school, hand in hand whenever he had a free moment from Scoops.

(A summer that, as you recall, had been cut short by a mall fire and grief and the three weeks you spent by his side in the hospital, worrying and fretting as you slowly watched the swelling around his eye go down. A summer where too many people died, Steve had to be kept under observation in case of a brain bleed, and in the aftermath, he became more cagey than ever.)

A sea of mourning black surrounds the pristine white funeral home as you make your way closer, the crowd surging towards the ornate double doors, and it’s only then that you spot him.

Steve.

Steve Harrington in all of his glory. His hair is a little shorter than you remember it, a little less styled, and there’s new laugh lines crinkled along his eyes. But despite the differences in the man you once knew and the man in front of you now, he’s still the same Steve he’s always been with a soft look on his face and a steadiness to his broad shoulders despite the occasion.

And like a moth to a flame, he meets your gaze through the mass of people. His brown eyes widening with recognition as his face does something funny, like he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry or both, and you can’t help but offer him a small smile.

He smiles back.

The moment is cut short when someone calls his name, and with one last, lingering look in your direction, he disappears inside.

You stand there for a moment, heart pounding, before slipping into the building after him.

You find a seat in the very back of the hall, away from the congregation of people you once knew, the people you once considered family. There will be time to greet your former mother-in-law later, when she doesn’t have Robin on one side and Steve on the other, and there’s no part of you that has any desire to run into Dustin Henderson who’s lingering near the front.

(Not after the last time you talked to him, two months after you filed and he went from begging you to not go through with it to insulting you when you told him that you unequivocally were not going to stop the proceedings.)

(Two weeks later, Steve had found out what happened and forced Dustin to apologize, but you never quite stopped nursing that wound.)

It’s a beautiful service, really. Not that you’d expect anything less from the Harringtons. Friends of Danny’s give their eulogies, colleagues talk about his business prowess, until finally, Laura and Steve step up to the dias side by side.

You can tell, even from a distance, that Laura isn’t quite holding it together the way you know she wants to. The way she needs to, really, because Laura Harrington has always prided herself in being put together and in charge, a matriarch in a family full of nothing but men for generations. You can tell that Steve notices, too, by the way he squeezes her arm and pulls a paper from his pocket, spreading it along the wooden surface of the podium.

He searches the crowd for a moment, and his eyes settle on you in your seat in the very last row. You’re not sure what he’s looking for, but whatever he derives from seeing you, it has his shoulders relaxing. And quietly, hesitantly, he glances down at the paper and begins his speech.

His voice is strong and steady as he reads, the same soothing timbre to it that he’d once used to calm you down after nightmares and hard days at work. A reassuring quality to his tone, one that could make anyone relax, as he talks about his earliest memories with his father — little league games, vacations to the Harrington beach house, morning spent snuggled between his parents — to his early twenties and learning how to navigate adulthood with his father’s guidance.

(He skips past the teenage years, the ones where you first entered Steve’s life. The arguments with his father about his future, the worries about his past, the stress that he might never amount to something. The period of time where resentment had swelled up so much between the two that it bubbled over constantly.)

He talks about the last conversation he had with his father, only a week prior, where the two of them had sat in the backyard of Steve’s house. And Danny, never a man with much to say, had clapped Steve on the shoulder and said, I’m proud of you, Steve. Truly.

You don’t miss the way Steve surreptitiously wipes his face.

“Anyone who met him would tell you that he was a complicated man,” Steve says. “But at the end of the day, no matter what other role he filled, he was my father. All I can say to that is thank you, Dad, for loving me even when I didn’t think you were, and—” He pauses, clearing his throat. “I’ll miss you, and I hope you’re resting easy now, wherever you are.”

The funeral ends and everyone is ushered to the graveyard, where Steve serves as one of the pallbearers and stands strong as Laura finally crumples into his side. 

You hang further back once again, away from the prying eyes of anyone who would ask too many questions, and you lose sight of him when the crowd migrates to the reception in a local church.

There’s part of you that wants to seek him out, to offer him your condolences and ask if there’s anything you can do, but—

Your eyes catch on Laura standing in the corner by herself, gazing at a family portrait of her and Danny and Steve from Steve’s childhood, and you cross the room without thinking, falling into place next to her with a quiet, “He was a good man.”

Laura blinks at you, though she doesn’t look surprised to see you there. Happy, maybe, but not surprised.

“Danny loved you, you know,” she says, apropos of an actual greeting, like this isn’t the first conversation you’ve had with her since you filed for divorce. “Never stopped talking about how get togethers weren’t the same without you beating him at cards.”

“I’m sure he’s having a big laugh that this is what got me back in Hawkins,” you say. Her lips twitch up. “He could’ve just asked, honestly. Spared us all the dramatics. I would’ve come for less.”

The corners of her eyes crinkle together the same way Steve’s does, and she draws you into a warm hug with shaking hands, the smell of her floral perfume overwhelming your senses. 

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers. 

You feel your throat grow tight. “I’ve missed you, too.”

You stay like that for a few moments, letting her rock you back and forth and draw whatever comfort it is that she needs from your bones, until a throat clears and you look up to see the familiar face of Robin Buckley. You pull away from Laura and offer Robin a small smile, one that she easily returns, and you know that the two of you will catch up later when she squeezes your arm. 

“Mrs. Harrington, let’s go get some food,” Robin says.

Laura rolls her eyes, but lets Robin loop their arms together. “Steve’s had her on ‘Mom watch,’” she tells you conspiratorially.

“Well, there’s worse company to be had,” you say. “Robin always has a few jokes on hand, at least.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Robin says, and you let yourself bask in the raspy warmth of her voice for a few moments before stepping out of their way. And just as she’s slipping past you, she stops to whisper in your ear, “He’s in a private room down the hall.”

You stare at her, surprised, but she only leads Laura across the room without further acknowledgement. 

You shouldn’t go. Honestly, really, it’s a bad idea as it is — meeting him surrounded by people was one thing, but a private audience with your ex-husband is—

(Your feet are moving across the floor before you can even finish the thought.)

The hallway is quiet and empty, the conversation from the reception hall only a quiet buzz compared to the pounding in your ears as you slowly and methodically check each room you come across until finally, at the end of the hall, you spot one with the door cracked open.

You press your palm flat against the wood, the hinges creaking in protest as you ease it open just a bit wider, and find Steve sitting on a couch, leaning over his knees with his face pressed into his hands.

He doesn’t move.

The door clicks shut behind you.

You settle on the couch next to him, silent and waiting for something — anything — to tell you what to do. Any cue or sign from Steve or God or anyone who will listen, because your hands are shaking and your throat is dry and Steve—

Steve. Strong, brave, kind Steve, who once held you as a doctor stitched up an ugly gash in your leg, is hiding his face as his shoulders tremble, trying to pretend like his tears aren’t catching in his throat.

“I want to be left alone, Dustin,” he mutters. “Just five minutes. Please.”

You bite down on your lip and, quietly, say, “I’m not Dustin, but I can give you space.”

He jerks up, tears still coursing down his face, and stares at you with wide-eyes, his voice little more than a whisper when he says, “Oh.”

You smile. “Hey.”

“You’re here,” he murmurs, full of wonder, as if he’s trying to figure out if you’re real or simply a mirage.

“Yeah,” you say, just as quiet. “I’m here.”

It starts with his brows pressing together, then his jaw clenching. He presses his eyes shut, his nose flares, and you pull him into your arms before the first hiccuping sob has a chance to billow out.

He doesn’t fight you, only wraps himself more firmly around your waist as he buries his face into your chest, his back heaving from unrestrained grief and everything left unsaid between the two of you. He cries and cries and cries, letting everything out until he’s stripped down to his rawest form, the image of a man held strong for far too long finally letting himself fall apart entirely.

You let him.

You smooth your hand down his back and card your fingers through his hair, comforting him in the way you only know how.

(The only way you learned how, back in those first few, fraught hours after the mall fire back in ’85. Back when you’d sat in the waiting room, leg bouncing, waiting for anyone to tell you that he was okay. Waiting for his parents to catch a flight back from their beach house in North Carolina, waiting for a nurse or a doctor to come out, waiting for a sign that your boyfriend was going to make it.)

(And when you’d finally been allowed into his hospital room, he’d grinned, all boyish charm and bloodied teeth, like it was no big deal that he’d been hurt.)

(It was the first time you’d seen him so injured.)

(It was nowhere near the last.)

“It’ll be okay,” you whisper. “I’ve got you, Steve. I got you.”

The front of your dress is completely soaked through, but you find that you don’t quite care. Not when he lets out a heart shattering, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Your entire body freezes.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Steve?” You press at his shoulders, suddenly desperate to see his face. “Steve, what are you talking about?”

He pulls back, and for a moment, he’s the eighteen year old boy who smiled at you with a swollen eye and a split lip, tutting affectionately when you sobbed into his shoulder. He’s the boy who pulled you into his strong arms, uncaring of the IV line he was surely at risk of tugging out, and said, I know, I know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, honey, I know that I scared you— 

“For everything,” he gasps out. “For keeping things from you, and — fuck, crying on you — and I know you’ve moved on, but I just — god, I’m so sorry for everything, for the divorce and the secrets and—”

(And your heart breaks all over again, because can anyone ever truly move on from Steve Harrington?)

“Steve,” you murmur, brushing a thumb down his cheek. He tilts his head just a little bit more into your palm. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” he insists. “I mean, fuck, I kept so much from you, and everyone told me not to and I drove you away and—”

“Steve.”

He falls silent.

“I forgave you a long time ago,” you say. “You don’t need to worry about me, okay?”

(It’s the same thing that he said to you before disappearing off the face of the earth for weeks. The same words that he whispered as he held you close in the doorway of your apartment, his arms trembling as he murmured all of his love and affections into your ears, like he only had one more chance to tell you. Like he wasn’t sure he’d ever see you again.)

(It’s what he said before disappearing for twenty-five days, nine hours, and three minutes, leaving you alone as the earth heaved and shook and groaned, when it felt like the entire planet was once again at risk of falling apart, and you thought that you might die without ever getting to see his face once again.)

(And it’s what he said just minutes after the military released him back to you, seconds before he dropped to his knees and desperately said, I can’t live without you, will you please, please marry me? I’ll do anything to make you happy—)

“Your father just died,” you gently say. “You’re allowed to worry about yourself for once.”

He looks like he wants to argue, like he wants to push back, but you watch the fight leave his body. He gives you a wobbly smile, you give him one back, and for a moment, you can let yourself pretend that you hadn’t thrown eight years down the drain in the matter of a single night.

(That last argument still haunts your dreams. The way your voice cracked as you begged for him to let you in, to let you understand. How his fists shook when he said, Can’t you see that I’m doing this for you? The calm resolve you felt when you realized with an icy clarity that the two of you were too stuck in your ways to change.)

(The moment, nearly a year later, when you realized that you weren’t quite sure if you wanted to change into a new person without him.)

(Looking at him now, you think he might feel the same.)

You let out a sigh and draw him closer, resting your forehead against his the way that you always did, letting the feel of stubble rough up your palm.

His breath catches.

You peek at him through your lashes to find him searching your face with barely disguised desire.

You want to laugh. Truly, you do, because if there was ever a wrong time and place to feel desire, it would be your ex-father-in-law’s funeral, but you can’t help the timeworn flame deep inside of you from flickering to life once more, a fire that’s only ever been maintained by Steve’s careful hands.

“Honey,” he says hoarsely.

You swallow, tilting your chin just a bit closer.

That’s all the encouragement that he needs.

His fingers grip your waist, dragging you across the cushions and into his lap, and it’s need that has you tangling your hands with his hair. Need to be closer, need to be with him, need to be one with him.

(Need to remember what it’s like to fall asleep with his arms wrapped around your skin, whispered promises of nothing ever hurting you, swaddling you as you drifted off.)

“Tell me to stop,” he begs, his hot breath ghosting your skin. “Tell me to stop right now, and I will. I swear, I will.”

“Don’t stop,” you say, and he surges forward, capturing your lips with his own.

It feels like coming home, in a way. Kissing him, feeling him under you. Like stepping into a soft memory, carried along by hands that have long since learned the tune of you, held by a man who had dedicated so much of his life in pursuit of the knowledge of who you were, inside and out. 

Like your body had been held in stasis for two entire years, frozen in time, only able to come back to life with the key he held in his heart.

You giggle into the kiss, suddenly elated, as his tongue swipes against your bottom lip, teasing for more.

And you give it. God, you give him more. You’d give him the world, if you could, and suddenly you’re crying, your heart twisting, because you wasted so much time, because you were so, so stupid, because—

“I’m sorry,” you gasp into his mouth. “I should’ve listened to you, I should’ve trusted—”

“Not your fault, honey,” he assures, pressing a trail of kisses down the column of your throat. “I kept so much from you — there’s so much I need to tell you, and—”

And— 

There’s a knock at the door.

“Steve?” Robin’s voice, hesitant and unsure, calls through the wood. “Are you in there?”

He drops his head against your shoulder and lets out a world weary sigh.

The doorknob turns, and you don’t even have time to gather yourself or launch yourself across the couch, to pretend like Steve doesn’t still have his body wrapped around yours, before Robin’s peaking inside.

“Oh,” she says dumbly, eyes wide as she takes the two of you in.

Your face burns with embarrassment.

“Uh, Steve,” Robin begins, clearing her throat uncomfortably. “Your mom is asking for you. What… do you want me to tell her?”

“I’ll be there in a second,” he says. “Just give me a minute, Rob.”

Robin nods, and with a lingering look towards you, shuts the door behind her.

The two of you stay frozen like that, your legs still wrapped around his hips, his forearms still pressed into the small of your back, until—

A shocked laugh escapes him.

“Fuck,” he says, releasing his hold on you to scrub at his face. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I have to go check on my mom, but later — can we talk? Later? Are you staying in Hawkins, or were you planning on going back to…?”

“I packed a bag, but I wasn’t sure what my plans were,” you say. “I can stay, though. We can talk. I think—”

I think we need to talk.

“Come over,” he says, an urgent strain to his voice. “Tonight. Please.”

“Of course,” you say, because after everything, there’s no way you can deny his request. “Of course I will, but you should—”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, already beginning to shuffle you from his lap, keeping you steady as he settles you onto the cushions once more. “I know, just — you mean it? You’ll—?”

“I’ll be there,” you say. “I promise.”

He smiles, soft and true, and presses one more chaste kiss to your lips, as though he’s leaving the promise of something more for you to chase later.

And as you watch him leave, your heart pounding against your ribs, you let hope blossom inside of you once more.

[80sfilmclub]

battle of the boyscouts.

summary on a professional level, superman respects steve rogers in a way any other hero would. on a personal level, clark would highly appreciate steve keeping away from you, his fiance. content warnings fluff. jealous!clark x meta-human!reader. steve is sweet but he loves causing drama, a habit he adopted from nat. avengers all call reader 'kid'. notes this is sososo impulsive, i don't know where i'm taking this but i hope you enjoy this 4th of july special!

—

"sweetheart, i got it."

"i know you do, honey, but the people of new york are observant. they'll either think you're another super soldier or—"

clark sets down the insane amount of luggage in his arms at your knowing gaze, arms crossed as the cab driver that had just dropped the both of you off at the cozy cabin near upstate new york gawks at your fiance.

the cab driver hedges forward. "is he...?"

you shake your head with a firm press of your lips. "nope. my fiance's just from kansas. farm boy muscles and all that." while it looks like the cabbie doesn't really believe you, you've got that edge that all new yorkers never really shed so the man nods and drives off.

with no witnesses, clark lifts all of your luggage to bring inside without breaking a sweat. you sigh as you contemplate the chaos that'll most likely ensue at the avengers compound for the fourth of july weekend.

—

a month ago, natasha romanoff had arrived in your tiny box of an apartment in metropolis without even a text of warning. it would've been something you appreciated since clark had you on your kitchen counter, gently pressing you with a hungry kiss against the overhead cabinets as dinner burned on the stove. his broad frame was settled nicely between your thighs, his lips gliding down your jaw and neck before the apartment door swings open as if the intruder had a key—

"whoops. didn't know you had company."

you gasped and peeked over clark's shoulder who instinctively tried to shield you from natasha in all her sardonic glory. "nat—?!" you had wriggled away despite clark's insistence, ducking beneath his strong arm to meet your friend in your living room. "what are you doing here? is everything okay—"

"everything's fine," nat had cut in, her sharp gaze taking in clark behind you who looks more like guard dog than protective fiance at the moment. "i just wanted to drop in. i should've called though, that was on me…"

warmth bleeds into your back when clark had stepped forward, a silent wall of support behind you. he's not unaware of your past, of your healing powers that pulled you into nick fury's orbit. while you were never made into an avenger, you were the support they all needed whether it was to be healed or just to be around someone normal. it was about a couple years ago that you finally left new york, starting fresh in metropolis as a nurse. steve had been kind enough to help the move in process a lot more smooth than it would've been alone.

"um— sorry. nat, this is clark kent, my fiance. clark, this is nat, one of my closest friends from new york although i'm rescinding that title after her break in tonight," you sigh as you wave a hand between both.

clark's still a gentleman through and through, even in the face of superspies that like to cross boundaries, and shakes nat's hand before his hand returns to your waist. "what's the occasion?"

"tony's throwing a fourth of july-slash-steve's-birthday weekend barbecue, thought our favorite nurse would like to come," nat smiles. "you can bring superman over here."

clark chokes on his spit. "i— what? i'm not— no, he's—"

you pat his chest. "honey, nat knows everything, it's literally her job. don't worry, your secret's safe with her. and i don't know, clark and i were gonna just stay in."

"sounds like fun," he cuts in and that little smile, dimple and all, knows you're about to lose this one. "i haven't gotten the chance to meet your friends, sweetheart."

every argument you have dies in the face of your fiance's eager expression and you sigh quietly to meet natasha's triumphant little grin. "yeah, okay. we'll be there. is it at the compound?"

"yeah, there's your usual room—"

"no, clark and i wouldn't wanna intrude. we'll find an airbnb or something." there's an edge to your tone that leaves no room for negotiation and natasha has enough sense to back off, nodding as she starts to head out.

when the door shuts, you groan into clark's chest who rumbles in sweet amusement as he rubs your back. "superman meeting the avengers… what can go wrong."

—

a lot of things went wrong upon entering the cabin. for one, there aren't any furniture. two, there isn't any running water. frustration begins to build but before it can erupt out of you, clark's cupping your cheek to kiss your forehead and your phone starts to ring.

"stark."

"hey, kid. don't be stubborn and bring supes on over to the compound, your room's all ready for you."

"i hate you, tony."

"no, you don't. although this confirmed my theory."

you pause. "what theory?"

"you got a thing for goody two shoes. tell me— does kent say 'language' during your rated-r rants?"

you hang up the call, cutting off tony's obnoxious laughter on the other end.

—

now that the both of you are on avengers' property, your privacy is all but secured against the general public so clark had seen no issue in just flying you and your luggage over. it's a bit unsettling to see him fly in his civilian clothes but you cling to him all the same, carried bridal style while the luggage hang from his hands. you aren't sure how he isn't losing his grip but you land in the open bay where natasha and steve is waiting to greet the both of you.

the luggage are set down first, clark still hovering and once his hands are free, his feet land with you still securely in his arms. "clark?" you prompt and your adorable, beefcake of a fiance startles as he reluctantly sets you down while nat and steve approach.

"miss romanoff," clark tips his head in polite greeting but then his voice drops slightly, taking on the 'superman' voice when he turns to steve. "captain, happy birthday."

"thank you, superman," steve greets as he offers his hand. clark takes it with a solid 'clap' and a firm shake. your eyes flitter between each of them in slight anticipation because in this moment, it isn't superman and captain america facing off.

it's clark kent and steve rogers with you caught right in the middle.

something lights up in natasha's eyes and you suddenly fear for the weekend ahead.

—

fortunately, the main living space of the compound is cleared of any superheroes in favor of setting up for the outside where the main party's happening. it leaves you and clark the space to settle in and when you step in your old room, nostalgia feels like a punch to the gut.

it's still the open space layout as before, patterned after a luxury studio apartment with your own mini kitchenette. cold and impersonal for the first few minutes of stepping in but then clark walks past you to set your luggage in, his large frame somehow bringing light to the place you could barely call home. when he turns to you, gives you that smile that you've fallen so hard for, it feels like you're back in metropolis. "what?"

you shake your head with a smile, step into clark's space and giggle at the blush that he never can tamp down when you're near, and kiss his dimple. "nothing. i just love you."

"love you too, honey."

—

after changing into something more comfortable (and doesn't smell like plane) over your bathing suits, you and clark walk hand in hand towards the noise that crests and wanes from the other side of the compound. where there had been an open field meant for training (specifically for any flight simulations or volatile powers that should not be indoors), it's been fashioned into an americana-esque backyard with an actual inlaid pool.

"what the— when did you guys install a pool?" you gape at the giant, bean-shaped pool complete with a patio and a giant cabana built above it. beside it is a familiar face manning the grill.

tony flicks his sunglasses down to peer at you above them. "a week ago. had to go all out for dear ol' cap's birthday. nice of you to join us, sweet cheeks. you gonna introduce us to your hunk of a man?"

your eyes roll but the pride in your smile is undeniable as you bring clark forward. "everyone, this is clark kent. my fiance."

an impressed whistle escapes from rhodey who tips a beer up in salute towards you. "nice rock, kid." he gives a nod to clark next. "you did good."

"gosh, thanks." clark says, rubs his neck in that sheepish way that you've found endearing every time you see it. however, it has the rest of the avengers staring in utter befuddlement. tony mouths 'gosh' in emphasis to bruce who waves his judgement away.

"cap, you got someone out for your title for boyscout," tony crows happily as he flips a patty with ease. steve, who has been lounging beneath the shade with his own lemonade, looks up from his conversation with clint and laura. when his eyes find yours then clark's, something unnameable passes through his eyes before he's striding to his feet. all six foot two of him.

clark straightens his posture. all six foot four of him.

immediately, your eyes roll. "i'm going to go say hi to the girls. you two? behave."

"honey—" clark splutters but his priority will always be you so he concedes, quietly takes the offered glass of lemonade from steve before he attempts to play nice. if he can keep civil with steve lombard at work, he can be the nicest guy in town for the super soldier that may as well be an ex with how his eyes follow you.

—

to his credit, clark gets along well with all of your friends from new york. tony's crass but he's got a heart of gold with his closest circle of friends. bruce and clint had teased him the least about his midwestern countenance while laura had been interested in his career as a journalist and as a superhero. natasha had been very impressed with his ability to juggle his secret identity on top of everything.

"so how'd she find out about your other identity?" rhodey asks later on as the two of them sit at the chaises by the pool. clark is polite but his eyes cut to you occasionally where you're splashing in the shallow end with laura and clint's kids, your laughter providing a soothing background to the chaos of tony and bruce arguing over what music to play.

"ah, well. i was fighting an imp with the justice gang, should've been an easy fight but it was evening and i'm not really at my strongest at that time. i fell on her roof and she was there reading. she… healed me." a besotted smile grows on his lips. "the day after that, she ran into me as clark but i didn't realize my biology had been something she could sense. she pulled me into an alley and just asked if i healed right."

rhodey laughs quietly. "she's a little spitfire, ain't she?"

"i wouldn't have it any other way," clark muses. the both of them turn their attention to you, nearly missing the way tony hits the top of the grill with his tongs to call out—

"soup's on!" he hollers as he gestures to the cheeseburgers laid out to the table beside him. clark gets to his feet, ready to serve you, except—

"got all your favorite fixin's," steve cuts in, that boyish half grin that's made nearly all of america swoon, as he offers you a plate. with clark's heightened vision, something ugly turns with indignance that steve did get all your favorites.

but clark will not be beat so he rushes over to the coolers, pulls out your favorite drink, and all but flies over to offer it to you. "can't forget your usual, honey," he smiles sweetly, popping the tab for you and everything. you're still halfway out the pool, one foot out and on the edge with the other still in the water, with both men offering you a plate and a drink.

"thanks, guys… mind if i dry off first?"

you carefully sidestep away from both of them, refusing to enable or participate this odd dick-measuring contest they've started. once you've dried off, you settle into an available chaise and nearly startles when steve and clark kneel on either side of you. you could barely get a word in as captain america himself carefully sets the plate down on the small table beside you and your darling fiance adds in a straw as well.

"okay, both of you shoo—" you wave them off. "seriously. i know both of you, you two can eat tony out of all of his homes so go. you must be starving."

when both men trudge off, natasha takes their place but she's got enough sense to at least wait for you to take a few bites of your food before she starts.

"you know, it's kinda cute."

"don't you start, nat."

"no, no. it is! you got america's heroes fighting for your attention like overgrown puppies. it's cute."

your eyes narrow. "… you know something."

she zips up her lips before she dives into the pool, effortless without making a splash.

you huff goodnaturedly. "show-off."

—

"come on, you two. nathan, lila, out of the pool." clint claps his hands to grab his two youngests' attention. the sun's setting behind him and even you can't deny there's a slight chill beginning to settle in.

you nod and raise your arms slightly with the intent to herd the little ones out. "you two heard your dad, let's head out. if the grown-ups say yes, we can get some s'mores started, maybe set up some lights like a campfire… what do you say?"

that gets them out and when clint gives you a thankful grin, you wave him off before padding out to clark where he's already got your towel out. "thanks, baby," you smile as he wraps it around you, bundling you into his arms to press a soft kiss to your lips.

behind your back, steve stands with a fresh towel and clark fights the urge to stick his tongue out at him. no, that'd be very immature of him.

—

despite the chill that's threatened to drive the party indoors, tony gets a bonfire started in a fire pit he had dug out from the giant warehouse storage along with some string lights from a box labeled 'christmas?'.

the kids are drawn up in a tizzy at the thought of having christmas in july, their little hands diving into the box with the sole intent of decorating the giant cabana. you're in the middle of it all, helping them all detangle the wires while tony's sent back inside to look for an extension cord of all things.

"hold on, sweetheart," you laugh as nathan tries to climb your back while you draw yourself back to your feet, watching as his little arms try to reach up and hook the lights up. in the corner of your eye, steve approaches your periphery, hands nearly raised as if he's got the intention to lift you by your hips but—

clark's hands find you first, his chest brushing against your back. "i got you, honey," he murmurs in your ear before giving nathan a little grin. you feel his strong grip brace your waist, firm but not uncomfortable, and lift you high.

then… lifts you higher.

you turn your head to see clark levitating to help you hook the lights up at eye-level. nathan gasps in excitement and nearly drops the lights in his own hand. "oops— careful, buddy," you chuckle as you hand back the wire.

"me next, me next!" lila squeals from below and you laugh as clark does as asked, nathan reluctantly set down for you to carry his older sister next while clark lifts you back up with ease.

by the time the entire cabana's decorated, the kids are returned safely to their parents.

"that was nice of you," steve hums to clark once the two of you are back on solid ground, offering two s'mores on a plate.

clark takes it, almost wary, but he sees something you don't and his spine relaxes imperceptibly. "thank you," he murmurs while he places a warm hand at the base of your spine. steve nods his head and when he turns to you, he ruffles your head.

"be good, kid," he tells you instead before he walks off.

—

although tony had intended steve's intention to be an absolute rager, it still turned out to be a family-friendly event. something that steve had been banking on.

"kid just landed," tony had remarked earlier, the both of them setting up the cabana after FRIDAY had updated him on your flight status. "you gonna say something?"

steve just chuckles to himself, readjusting the stability of the cabana's legs. "tony, i don't know how many times i have to say this. nothing ever happened between me and her."

tony's eyes roll. "i know. you two cost me $300 because of it, by the way."

"serves you right for betting on your friends' love lives, stark."

"yeah, yeah, whatever. but back to the question at hand— have you met her fiance?"

"superman? i don't know him personally, but he seems like a good man, someone good for her," steve shrugs, unsure of what tony's getting at.

"hm. sure, the media definitely paints him that way," tony says. "but as her closest friends and honestly— the closest thing she has to a family— we need to make sure he's good for her."

steve pauses for a moment, gives his friend a sidelong glance. "what do you have in mind?"

"easy." both men startle at the sudden appearance of one natasha romanoff. "make him jealous. see how he reacts when steve moves in on her, it'd be enough to see his true colors."

tony snaps his fingers. "operation: battle of the boyscouts is a go."

"… i resent that name."

—

on the morning of july fifth, the avengers compound is the ultimate postcard of serenity. sun's sitting high, a gentle breeze wafting through to carry in the scent of nature. a butterfly settles upon a blooming flower bud—

"ANTHONY EDWARD STARK."

your shrill voice cuts through the peace. the butterfly flies off.

"you tried making my fiance jealous for some inane dick-measuring contest for your own fucking entertainment—?!"

"language."

"language, sweetheart."

steve and clark share a surprised glance and right as they're about to exchange a little chuckle, maybe even bro it out with a fist bump in their matching flannel pajamas, you direct your glare to the both of them.

without a word, steve backs out with a sheepish grin while clark approaches to give you an apologetic kiss to your forehead.

"it's a habit, i'm sorry," he mutters against your hair and despite tony's stupid games, you melt in your fiance's arms. "i love you."

"i love you too, sweetie." tony takes the chance to inch away as you decompress in clark's arms but you huff against his chest. "clark, i'm gonna kill him."

"... it wouldn't be very 'superman' of me to let you get away with murder, honey."

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